#Around the corner chapter 13

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 13)

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You could just tell him. 

You consider it at least once a day, particularly in the mornings when John sits up on his side of the bed and hesitates briefly before rising to his feet and going downstairs to start breakfast. You can feel the way he wants to lean over and touch you, and the way he holds himself back. The way he pulls his hand back at the last second from where it hovers over your prone body.

He leaves you in bed with an ache in your stomach so deep that you swear it’ll swallow you whole. But you have no choice but to sigh and sit up as he shuffles around downstairs, the morning well on its way in. There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The atmosphere in the house is tense. You walk on eggshells around each other, unsure of how to bridge the divide. The eggs jump in the pan and brown at the edges, and outside the feather reed sways in the breeze. You’re weary of each other and yet hardly capable of being apart.

Maybe that’s just on your end. 

You’ve taken to watching him from afar in recent days. In the absence of his physical touch, which comes sparingly now, his hands always curled into fists like he’s holding himself back from reaching out and touching you, you’ve resorted to the only thing left to you: the visual realm. That’s what you glut yourself on now, and while it doesn’t fill the hole in you, it soothes the ache. 

You watch him with the horses in the paddock, always confident and sure-footed with them. Suspenders straining against the muscle of his back and his shoulders, sweat running in rivulets down his back, the sun golden on his face. At dinner, he collapses into his chair, exhaustion written into every corner of his being, and you drag your eyes over the jut of his stomach, the layer of fat over his muscled core. Hairy forearms braced against the table while he eats (no manners, that one). 

Any thought of bolting in the night now seems unwise. Your previous aspirations of freedom seem foolhardy in the light of day. You give it some consideration. Say you had succeeded in escaping—now where would you be? Alone wandering the mountains, parched and starving? Drinking from the ravine? Eating poisonous berries and hawthorn leaves in desperation to have something in your belly? Or hogtied in some bandit’s tent, enduring a fate worse than starvation or death? 

You shudder to think of it. 

In the days since John brought you home, you haven’t seen hide nor hair of Graves, nor anyone else in pursuit of a woman from back east. No bounty hunters, no officers of the law, no rogue agents. It’s as if they came, found nothing, and simply wandered on through.

You should’ve just waited them out. It’s clear now, what you should’ve done, but who can argue with the past? You’re sick of telling yourself that there might’ve been another way. It doesn’t change the way things are now. 

There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The routine is the same. You head into town every morning and try to say as few words to each other as possible. You glance at each other when the other isn’t looking. The glances grow longer with the days, the stubborn sun refusing to set until well into the evening hours, and your own eyes refusing to part from his form. When you catch him watching you in turn, his eyes are always heady, filled with something like longing.

Outside, the sky is cornflower blue; clouds bulge and drift away. 

Life returns to some degree of normalcy, despite the sense of something unresolved hovering in the air. John’s deputies come over again for supper, and with them they bring better table manners this time. At least Soap doesn’t belch at the dinner table and Kyle leaves his hat at the door. Simon is taciturn as always, but that comes now as a comfort.

The men play cards in the living room until even the fireflies go to sleep, until the night is a thin paste spread over the world, the sharp edge of the knife scraping over the craggy limestone peaks and ridges and spreading it evenly. You go to bed alone, the bedroom door cracked open enough to see the flicker of lamplight against the wall, their shadows weaving in and out of it. 

He must come to bed at some point because his side of the bed is warm when you wake up the next morning. You put your hand there to soak up his warmth until you can’t excuse lying in bed any longer. Breakfast is, again, quiet, but you feel the compulsion to break the silence bubbling up in your chest. You think if he stares at you even a moment longer, you’ll have no choice but to belt it out. 

The brittle morning is interrupted by the arrival of one of John’s deputies. When Simon rips open the door and barges into the house, you nearly scream, watching with wide eyes as he charges towards the back, looking for John. You flit over to the window to watch him go. He finds John out back mucking the stalls in the stable and there’s a brief moment of intense conversation before you watch as John throws the pitchfork against the wall and hurriedly shuts the stables up, following Simon back towards the house. 

It’s a flurry of motion after that, John throwing on his clothes haphazardly, not even bothering to properly button up his shirt. You unconsciously follow him up the stairs to the bedroom.

“John?” you ask, uncertainly. 

He doesn’t answer you right away. The tension creeps up the length of your back the longer he goes without responding, his mouth set in a flat line. 

“John?” you repeat, more force behind your words this time. “What’s wrong?” 

“Passenger train up east is about to be robbed,” John finally grunts out in reply, checking his rifle to see if it’s loaded. “Simon got word.”

“How’d he know before it even happened?” you ask, stuck on conversation because you unconsciously want to delay the inevitable. Your heart pounds hard in your chest, images of gunfire and bloodbaths searing the backs of your eyelids. 

“Informant. He’s got ‘em all over the county.”

Not once does he slow down or pause to take a breath. You follow him back downstairs and through the house, watching anxiously as he loads his gun and tightens the belt of bullets around his waist. He plucks his hat from where it sits hung up beside the door and then exits out of the house, you trailing along helplessly behind him. The porch creaks ominously under his feet as he makes his way down the stairs towards the horses, where Simon already has John’s other horse saddled up and ready to go.

“When will you—” You can’t finish it. It hangs uselessly in your mouth. He doesn’t answer you. 

You follow him to the horses but stumble to a halt when he reaches them first, taking over from Simon and fixing the straps in place. Simon gives you a curt nod when your eyes meet before turning to his horse and heaving himself up onto it briskly, obviously in a rush to get going. 

John turns to you when the straps are fixed in place and he has one foot in the stirrups, brows furrowed deep enough to accentuate all the lines in his forehead. He gestures warningly at you with a finger. “You stay here, you hear me?”

Your brows furrow, affronted at the command. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t fancy havin’ to chase after you for a second time, but I will if you try anything funny while I’m gone.”

“Well, you just see here now—”

“You heard me, darlin’—”

“Price,” Simon growls, cutting him off, and it takes you by surprise to see his usual phlegmatic disposition traded in for something choleric. He’s never been one to talk back or act insubordinately, more of a guard dog than a deputy sometimes. His mouth is set in a hard line though, betraying the tension coiled in his bones. 

John nods and hauls himself up onto his horse.

“You be good while I’m gone,” John says, casting you one last parting glance.

You screw your lips into a scowl. “Don’t you dare die out there.”

That somehow gets a laugh out of him, as jagged as it is. It makes your stomach twist, the goodbye stagnant on your lips. You refuse to say it.

John’s horse whinnies when he pulls on the reins. He gives a sharp whistle, jolting it into motion, and you watch as he circles around and follows Simon down the path, their horses kicking up dust behind them. 

You stand there until their horses disappear over the horizon. Then you linger a little longer.

It dawns on you that John hadn’t said goodbye either. That has to count for something.

Still, you dwell on it over the next hour, hardly able to keep your breakfast down. Any lingering frustration melts away into dread the longer you think about John confronting a train full of armed robbers, his deputies accompanying him or not. The shotguns loaded and strapped to their backs told you enough about what they expected to encounter. The thought makes you shudder.

You try to distract yourself with chores, but that hardly helps. All you can think about when scrubbing the floors is whether someone will have to do the same on the train. You know how hard it is to clean up blood.  

Kate comes over later that morning while you’re still pinning the bed sheets and linens to the clothesline. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt elicits your attention first, and when you look down the dirt path leading into town, you see her riding towards you on horseback. A dapple grey gelding, bigger than Buttercup but leaner than the horse that John had chased you down on.

“Morning!” she shouts, still far enough away for it to be necessary. Your hand goes up slowly in a wave, half-shielding your eyes from the sun.

She comes up the path quickly, dismounting before her horse has even come to a standstill. It speaks to an element of comfort on a horse that you haven't acquired yet. Jealousy licks a hot tongue up your innards. 

“Morning,” you greet tentatively. “Not that I don’t appreciate spending time with you, but don’t you have a store to run?”

Kate shrugs her shoulders, sauntering up the walkway. “Folks chip in when they have to—I’ve got plenty of people in town willing to watch the shop for me. Besides, what’s the point of owning a business if you can’t take a day off every now and then?”

You frown, looking at Kate a bit suspiciously. “Did he tell you to come babysit me?” 

You don’t specify who, but it’s obvious enough.

Her lips flatten. “I offered.”

All that does is stoke the flames of your ire. “They seemed in a hurry to leave. Didn’t think John would have time to stop by and ask you to watch his wayward wife.” 

“John didn’t do anything. Simon mentioned that he was coming here to get your man.”

“My man,” you mumble a bit sardonically. Still, her words make you let go of some of your anger. “So he didn’t ask you to come?”

Kate shakes her head, lips finally curling up into a half-grin. “No, ma’am. Thought I’d just get Miles to mind the shop and come give you some company.”

Your frown keeps getting deeper. “Don’t ma’am me, Kate. And I don’t need your company if you’ve just come to make fun of me.”

“Hand to heart—I came only to make sure you were alright.” Her smile grows directly inverse to your frown. “Give me a minute to put the horses in the paddock and I’ll be right back.”

You could almost kiss her for that though. You’d been dreading the thought of having to bring Buttercup out into the paddock on your own, but the thought of leaving her in the stables all day had also felt immeasurably cruel. Since getting lost with her in the mountains, you haven’t felt confident enough to be around her on your own. At least Kate’s presence takes some of that stress away. 

Not all of it though. Stress eats away at you as the day goes on. You can’t seem to go long without returning to the thought of John being shot or stabbed by one of the bandits on the train. Your mind keeps turning to the image of him lying lifeless on the floor, blood seeping out of a wound in his chest, eyes glazed over and far away. 

You chew on your nails until they tear. Kate smacks your hands when she notices.

It’s well past dark by the time John comes home. You notice his arrival first as a flicker of light when you happen to glance out the window. You’d long ago pulled up a chair to settle down beside the window and wait, Kate in a chair on the other side of the room near the oil lamp, flicking through her book, and with the waiting had come a knot in your chest tighter than a fist. A cancerous lump metastasising in your belly, spreading out into every corner of you. 

And then someone riding up the path towards the house holds up a lamp that swings with the rhythm of their approach. Your heart all but stops in your chest, fingers halting in the middle of knitting. It beats a furious frenzy now, alert again, alive in your chest. The needles clatter to the floor when you rise to your feet, dashing over to the door to swing it wide open.

“I suppose he’s—” Kate says, but you don’t hear the rest, already gathering up your skirt to hustle down the porch steps and meet him halfway, heart lodged in your throat. 

When he notices you hurrying out the door and down the path towards him, John brings his horse to a standstill. 

Shadows engulf his form until you get close enough for the lamplight to slash across John’s face, illuminating the deep, sunken troughs under his eyes. He looks exhausted. The top button of his shirt is missing, perhaps ripped out in whatever altercation he’d gone to stop. Your eyes flit over him, looking for any sign of blood or injury, and you find it along the grooves of his knuckles, the skin there torn and bloodied. He hadn’t even bothered to wrap his hands in gauze before coming home. 

John smiles down at you. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

That’s almost enough to make you sway on your feet, lightheaded. You hadn’t realized the toll his sudden absence had taken on you, or the worry that’d been festering in your belly, but as it drains out of you, it almost brings you to your knees. 

“Are you well?” you ask, throat tight. 

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he shifts his weight and swings his leg over his horse to dismount, eyes on you the whole time. You can hardly pull your eyes off him, not even for a second. His horse, well-trained enough to not wander off without its rider astride it, huffs out a breath but otherwise remains in place while John walks towards you. 

Your heart jumps in your chest when he lifts a hand to cup your cheek and drops a firm kiss to the center of your forehead, the heat of his kiss suffusing through you. The hairs on your arms and the back of your neck lift. Your arms erupt in gooseflesh.

“Never better,” he says when he pulls back. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your forehead when he speaks. It makes everything from your collarbone up go hot.

You hear the door open again. “Hi John,” Kate calls from the door.

“Hi Laswell,” John calls back to her, but his eyes never leave yours.

A heavy silence pregnant with meaning passes. You’re not sure what to read into it, but reading’s never been your strong suit. 

“I’ll see myself out then,” Kate says. “Leave you two lovebirds to it.” Her words make you bristle, but even that isn’t enough to pull your eyes off your husband. 

“Don’t look so put out—Soap’s just down the path waiting to take you home,” John scoffs. Sure enough, when you peek around him, you notice the slight flicker of light that burns at about the height of a man sitting astride a horse.

Kate rolls her eyes. “So chivalry’s not dead. Thank the Lord for small mercies.”

You don’t hear her go around the side of the house, but she must because she comes back a few minutes later with her horse, lead in hand. Her goodbye goes unnoticed by you or John, barely audible over the sound of the crickets in the bushes. You come back to yourself only when her horse takes off down the path towards Soap, and by then your voice is too faint, the words evaporating off your tongue. 

The moment finally bursts when John shifts his weight and winces. You frown. “You’re hurt.”

He huffs. “Just a sore rib. Nothing worth fussin’ over.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Your eyes flick down to his bloodied knuckles. “Your hands need tending to anyway. We should get inside.”

John nods. “I’ll put Chiron away and then come in.”

“Chiron?”

“This boy here.” His horse chuffs when John pats his neck lightly, smoothing a hand down the length. It slots into your mind—another piece of this place assimilated into your being. Another name you’ll never be able to shake. 

You hurry back inside while he takes Chiron around the side of the house towards the stables, the lamp still swinging from his hand. It’s how you track him from the window. It’s too late now for them, but you remember staring off into the distance earlier, watching the fireflies flicker in and out of view, gold will-o-wisps hovering over the fields. Now it’s quiet, and nothing outside moves. Even the moon hides behind dark clouds. 

You wait by the window until you see John come out of the stables, headed back towards the house. Only then do you exhale. 

He sits at a chair in the living room and spreads his legs, forcing you to step between them to get close enough to treat him. You bandage his torn knuckles under the light of the oil lamp in the corner of the room. John doesn’t so much as flinch when you clean them, gently inspecting the wounds to remove any debris that might’ve gotten in. He’s a good patient; hardly makes a sound as you wrap the gauze around his knuckles. 

“Do you want me to call the doctor in the morning?” you ask, then start a bit at the sound of your own voice, inexplicably loud in the relative silence of the room. 

John shakes his head. “Don’t bother. Wasn’t anything too serious.”

You frown. “Are you sure? I don’t want to risk it getting infected—”

He turns his hands over in your loose hold, curling his fingers around yours. You blink at the stark contrast between his and your hands. His fingers are thicker than yours, swollen at the joints, and the skin of his palms is calloused, rough to the touch. You’ve felt them over every part of you—loose at your waist, gripping the nape of your neck, prying your thighs apart. Holding your hand. Sunk deep into your quim. 

You can recall the feel of his touch from memory now. 

“It’s not that bad, darlin’,” he rasps, dragging his thumb back and forth over your fingers. “Y’did a good job fixin’ me up. You’re a good little nurse.”

“I’m no substitute for proper medical care,” you snip, still frowning. 

“Ah, if I die, I die.”

“That’s not funny,” you snap, abruptly incensed, and the joking twist of his lips unfurls at that, the creases around his eyes smoothing out. He looks at you like there’s something new writ large on your face.

There’s a tremble in your lower lip and a tremor in your hands that you hadn’t noticed until now. Once you notice it, it’s impossible to shake; your lip wobbles when you have to pinch back your tears. A stubborn one nearly leaks out until you sniff and blink it away. 

“Now where’s this all coming from?” John asks, voice pitched low and intimate, just for the two of you. 

His voice laps over your bones like bourbon on the rocks, glistening amber in the setting sun. Except it’s dark now and there’s not a drink in the world that could dilute the emotions welling up in you. You’d be a blubbery drunk anyway; you’ve always been something of a sad sack. 

“I thought you might come back hurt,” you whisper. “And you did.” 

His thumb strokes over your unblemished knuckles and he lifts your hands to his mouth to kiss the very same spot he just brushed. “I’m sorry to make you worry, darlin’. I meant nothing by my words. We’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

The bur of his beard tickles the back of your hand. His acquiescence brings some of your candor back. “Well, only if you want to.”

“Don’t get smart with me, wife—”

He stops short when you giggle, his eyes widening infinitesimally. You wonder if it’s the first time he’s ever heard you laugh. It’s not something you can help though. The joy spills up from you unbidden. 

John sighs. “We’ve been making a right mess of things, haven’t we?”

You go to say something, but all that comes out is a soft hum of agreement. 

It’s in front of you again. An opportunity to tell him everything, to make things right. To land in the soft sediment of truth and come out unscathed and better for it. All you need do is open your mouth and say it; say that there was a man back east that tried something untoward and you did what you had to in order to protect yourself. You think on some level John would understand that. 

Again you open your mouth. Again nothing comes out.

There’s love and then there’s thinness, words preserved in amber. He takes your whole world in his hands and you want to say, is it safe here? Can I call this a home?

There's love and then there's a heaving mass of recollection. It is an ancient thought: to love and be loved in verity, in one's own sphere of understanding. You don’t yet know if that’s possible for you, but you’re starting to think that maybe here is something close to that. Something gentle like wildflowers springing up from beside train tracks, the sprawling emptiness of the plains on either side. 

Still, it is not enough to make you tell the truth. Maybe now the consequences are different. You think less of a jail cell and more of being deprived of this man that holds your hands tenderly and looks up at you with such clear affection. 

If love has a way of speaking, it is marbles in the mouth; it masticates its own words. It chokes them back out of fear, out of longing to keep things right. 

So instead, you ask, “Can we just put it behind us and move on?”

John lifts a hand and slides it around the back of your neck, drawing you in for a kiss that makes your heart melt in your chest, caramel-rich. You moan into his mouth when his tongue traces over your lips, hands dropping to sink into the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer to you.

When he pulls back, the folds around his eyes are crinkled, lips pulled up into a fond smile. “Already forgotten.” 

You exhale. This is reconciliation. It comes home limping and bruised, but it comes home to you. 

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 13: Piece Me Back Together

Summary: Your pack deals with the aftermath of your heat.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader, Ghost x Soap

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, handjobs, anal fingering, anal sex, unprotected sex (please practice safe sex irl), spanking (it’s like once), choking (kind of), light Dom/sub dynamics, Johnny's praise kink, excessive use of the word cock, heat cycles, mating cycles, brief mention of blood, brief medical stuff, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, and of course a little fluff

A/N: Well folks, we've made it past the heat portion of the fic. Now things can really start moving. Lots of aftercare, some world building, and of course a little spice at the end for you all to enjoy (as if the last chapter wasn't enough lol). I tried to catch all the possible tags for this one but as always, let me know if I missed one. The smut happens in the very last scene, so if you'd prefer not to read it, then skip that last little bit. You won't really miss much. Also, there's a lot of jumping around in time in this one so I tried to mark when things are happening relative to the present moment in the fic.

Want early access to chapters, as well as other bonus content? Consider supporting me on Patreon.

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6 Days Ago

“Looks comfortable.” 

Kyle glances up as Johnny closes the door to his room, blanket and pillow in hand. “Slept on worse.” He shrugs, glancing down at the cot set up in the hallway before looking back up at Johnny. “Moving out?” 

“Camping in Si’s office for the next week. Keep our distance.” He nods at the closed door. 

“Probably for the best.” Kyle says. “Have fun!” 

“Don’t enjoy yourself too much.” Johnny winks at him before making his way down the hallway and disappearing around the corner. 

Kyle shakes his head, starting to sort through the many bags of supplies they’ve stocked up on in preparation for their omega’s heat. They’re well prepared, all of them, for the next week, Kyle especially. He’s spent the last few days reading up on what to expect, how to best help and support his alpha and omega, and what to look out for in case things start going wrong. He doesn’t think they will. He has a lot of faith in Price and he knows Price will take good care of their omega. 

Still, he can’t help but feel a bit nervous. He has a big job to do, even though there’s not much to do until after the heat is over with. He just has to ensure Price doesn’t hurt you accidentally, or maul you to death. He doesn’t think that’s likely to happen, but then again, one can never know. 

Kyle lets out a shaky breath, grabbing the bags with the electrolytes and nutrient bars before heading for your door. 

It’s going to be a long week. 

Present Day

It’s quiet. Has been for almost an hour now. Kyle rises from the cot, slipping his phone into his pocket. He slowly approaches the door, leaning in to listen for a moment before putting his hand on the knob. He lets out a breath before pushing the door open slowly, slipping in and closing the door quietly. The smells in the room are worse than they had been last night, a toxic mix of omega, alpha, sex, and sweat. He takes a moment to breathe, adjusting to the scent. 

You and Price are spooned together on the bed, asleep, or at least you are. Price had pulled the blankets up around you, tucking you in. Kyle approaches slowly, not wanting to accidentally step on a wrapper and startle either of you and risk you getting scared or Price getting territorial. He brushes the damp strands of hair from your face, your body temperature significantly lower than it had been even last night. He pulls the forehead thermometer from his pocket, taking your temperature quickly before sending a text to Dr. Keller. 

He carefully lifts the blankets, checking beneath. You’re still locked together as he expected, and he lowers the blankets back down, tucking you both in again. He unplugs Price’s phone from the charging cord that he’d plugged in last night, rotating it to your phone. He knew the chances of either of you being aware enough to use a phone for anything would be low, but just in case, he kept them both charged. 

He tiptoes through the mess of wrappers and bottles, grabbing the bag of trash that he had started a couple days ago. He picks up the mess on the floor, cleaning off the nightstand as well before setting out a new bottle of electrolytes and a couple nutrient bars. There’s still quite a few left, but those could be saved for your next heat. 

Price stirs a bit as Kyle sets the bag of trash off to the side next to the bag of things that would have to go to the wash. He hurries over, gently keeping Price from moving too much. 

“Easy. You’re still knotted.” He says, putting a hand on Price’s shoulder as you let out a quiet sound. His skin is warm and sticky from sweat, and probably other things. 

Price rubs his eyes before blinking up at Kyle. “What day is it?” 

“Morning of the sixth day.” He answers, passing Price the bottle of electrolytes. “I think it’s over. Her temperature’s back to normal. Just waiting on Dr. Keller’s opinion.” 

Price hums, unscrewing the cap from the bottle before taking a long drink. “Feel like shit.” 

Kyle grins. “Been a long week for you, Cap. How do you feel?” 

Price screws the cap back on the bottle before leaning over you to place it on the nightstand. “Like I got hit by a truck and rolled down a hill.” 

“Speaking from experience, sir?” Kyle smirks. 

Price gives him a look before closing his eyes again, relaxing against your back. He lets out a groan as his knot deflates, his cock slipping from your folds. “Christ, that's going to hurt later.”

“Let me get the bath started.” Kyle says, going into your bathroom. 

He starts the water, making sure it’s warm enough before he grabs the epsom salt off the counter and adds some in. He leaves the water running as he moves back to the bedroom, helping Price off the bed first. The alpha groans as he stands, leaning heavily against Kyle’s side. Kyle wraps his arm around his shoulders, supporting Price as they make their way to the bathroom. 

“I’ve been beaten, tortured, shot. I’ve jumped out of moving cars, been in helicopter crashes.” Price says, grunting as Kyle helps him down into the bath. “This might be the worst I’ve ever felt.” 

“Not quite as spry as you used to be, old man?” Kyle teases, making sure he’s comfortable. 

“Plenty spry, but god I forgot how energetic omegas can be.” Price leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. 

“Just relax.” Kyle says, turning off the water. “I’ll bring her in.” 

He heads back into your room, approaching the bed. You’re shivering, eyes squeezed closed and eyebrows pinched. Kyle kneels down next to the bed, placing a gentle hand on your arm. You start a bit at the touch, a quiet whimper leaving your lips. 

“Shh, easy love.” Kyle tries to soothe you as you shake. “You’re alright.” 

You let out a whine, seeking out your alpha in your disoriented state. The bathwater splashes as Price shifts in response to your call, his own instincts still on high alert. 

“Let’s get you into the bath.” Kyle says before gently slipping his arms under you and lifting you up. 

You let out a whine in protest, your body sore and aching from the last six days. Kyle quickly carries you to the bath, easing you into the water between Price’s legs. You’re trembling, quiet whines leaving your lips as he eases you back against Price’s chest. The alpha wraps his arms around you, a quiet rumble sounding from his chest as he tries to ease your disorientation and discomfort. 

Kyle leaves you and Price there to soak as he heads back to the room to strip the sheets and start the laundry. Most of your pillows and stuffed animals are stacked in the corner of the room by your desk, spared from the mess that the bed has turned into. The sheets are still wet with a concoction of fluids, and he knows they’ll need to soak for a while. He stuffs them into the bag with your clothes, along with your blankets, before he heads down the hall to the laundry room. 

He checks on you and Price when he returns, both of you content still in the bath. He can’t help but smile as he watches the two of you, pride swelling in his chest at the sight of his alpha taking care of their omega. 

Their omega. 

It seems almost strange to think now. They’d gone so long without an omega, and thought they wouldn’t be getting one. Now, six weeks later, they’ve all fallen head over heels for a little omega none of them even knew they needed. He can’t imagine life without an omega now, how well you fit into their pack, how well you fit with all of them, how you’ve only served to make them stronger and more efficient. 

He hates to admit that perhaps Laswell was right. 

Maybe they did need you after all. 

Kyle bags up the plastic mattress protector, glad to see it did its job. He replaces the sheets and blankets for now, knowing you’ll want to nest once you’re more aware. He checks his phone before heading back into the bathroom, kneeling down next to the tub. Your shaking has subsided, reduced to a shudder here and there as you’ve slowly relaxed in the hot water. 

Kyle grabs a cloth and your body wash, starting to gently clean your skin, or at least get the sweat and other fluids off. Bruises litter your skin and the claiming mark on your shoulder is scabbed and angry. Kyle carefully washes it, not wanting to apply too much pressure as he cleans off the dried blood still stuck to your skin. He knows it’s going to hurt for a while. 

“What did Dr. Keller say?” Price asks as he helps ease you up so Kyle can wash your back. 

“Said if her temperature is normal then the worst is over.” Kyle answers. “She wants to do a check up soon, make sure everything’s alright. Said she’d come here to do it, if that’s alright.” 

Price grunts quietly as Kyle starts to wash his chest. “That’s fine. Easier than going all the way to the medical building. Simon and Johnny?” 

“Fine.” Kyle answers. “Been keeping busy running drills and stuff. Johnny’s been keeping Simon occupied.” 

Price hums, letting his eyes close as Kyle washes his neck and shoulders. “Good.” 

Kyle makes sure to get all of the soap rinsed off before pulling the plug on the water, carefully lifting you up to stand. He lets you lean against him, grabbing one of the towels to dry you off as best he can. Price gets himself standing, drying himself off as Kyle helps you back to bed. Price joins you, wrapping his arms around you tight as Kyle tucks the blankets up around you both. 

“Can I get you anything?” Kyle asks as he sets a new bottle of electrolytes on the nightstand. “Real food maybe?” 

“I’d kill for some bangers and mash, maybe a pint.” Price says, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” Kyle says, glancing at you one last time before he leaves the room. 

Your body aches. There’s a deep soreness in your muscles, and a painful throb between your legs. Your skin feels raw and tight, and there's a steady pulse behind your eyes. A quiet sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, the sound cracking and broken from your raw throat. There's a desert in your mouth again, your tongue dry and heavy in your mouth.

Your thoughts are dragged away from the agony in your body as a quiet rumbling starts somewhere in front of you, your brain going quiet except for the need to seek it out. You press yourself closer to it, meeting warm skin as you try to get closer and closer. You want to bury yourself in it, seep into its depths until you can feel the vibrations of it in your bones. Arms wrap around you, pulling you in closer until you're squished against a bare chest. 

You press your face against the soft skin, trying to get closer to the rumbling purr vibrating from deep within. You let out another sound, body going lax as the purr lulls you into a relaxed state. The tension leaves your body, easing the ache in your muscles a bit. Not much, but enough to pull a relieved sigh from your lips. 

“Easy, love.” A quiet voice says, another hand touching your back. 

You tense slightly at the intrusion on your safe space, but quickly relax as the hand stills on your skin. The calming scent of beta overtakes you, easing your mind to a quiet hum as your alpha and beta work to calm you. You feel a bit disoriented as reality slowly begins to return, seeping back into your brain. 

You went into heat. 

You remember waking up with the blistering inferno burning hot within you, the insatiable need pulsing between your legs. You remember Kyle being there, the soft scent of him as he helped you prepare, pulling off your clothes and making you drink some of the electrolytes. You remember John entering the room, the way his scent made your brain feel like mush. You remember him sinking his teeth into your shoulder, his knot forcing you open before everything went dark. 

Everything else is a dark blur, wiped from your memory after your instincts took over. 

You shift against the body you’re pressed close to, a deep ache rippling through you. It hurts, everything hurts. Your hips are sore, your shoulder is throbbing, every muscle feels like you just did a triathlon with no training, and there’s a sharp throbbing between your thighs. 

You’re crying before you even realize it, the tears uncontrollable as they slide down your cheeks, the quiet sniffles and sobs aggravating your already aching body. The arms around you tighten, the purring getting louder, but you can’t stop the onslaught of tears. 

You flinch as something tickles the skin of your forehead, chapped lips pressing a soft kiss to your hairline. You let out a whine as you continue to cry, your mind a swirl of confusion and disorientation as you try to come to terms with everything that’s happened. You don’t know how long it’s been, what day it is. You don’t even know what happened to you in the last week. 

You continue to cry, oblivious to the conversation happening over you, the gentle purring in your ears lulling you into a dazed state as you float in and out of consciousness. The pain of being moved momentarily brings you back before you settle again, laying back against a chest. A baggy shirt is pulled over your head, smelling of your alpha. The fabric feels different than it had days ago when you’d woken up in the throes of your heat. It’s soft, not offending, and it offers you warmth and comfort. 

You don’t want to move, you don’t want to do anything. Exhaustion pulls at the edges of your mind as you lay there, the tears still streaming down your cheeks.

He hasn’t stopped purring since you woke up. The low rumble in his chest hasn’t stopped, and neither has the ache blooming there since you started crying. Even in your dazed, half asleep state, the tears still roll down your cheeks, quiet shaky breaths catching every so often. He’s not sure what to do, how to help. He’s never been with an omega that’s cried before. Not like this. 

His purring kicks up in volume as you startle awake when the door opens, letting out a broken whimper as your space suddenly gets invaded. He tries to soothe you, his arms tightening around you to try and ground you in his presence. 

“Hi, honey.” Dr. Keller says, kneeling down next to the bed, her voice soft and the scent of beta thick in the air. “Still a bit out of it, huh?” 

“She hasn’t stopped crying since she woke up.” He says, rubbing gentle circles on your arm with his thumb. 

“That’s not unusual.” Dr. Keller says, digging through her bag to pull out a thermometer. “There’s a lot going on right now for her. Besides the exhaustion and the confusion and the pain, there’s a lot of rapid hormonal changes happening. Some omegas can just wake up and hop out of it immediately and be just fine.” 

John frees one of your arms so Dr. Keller can take your pulse and blood pressure. 

“Others might struggle a bit more.” She continues. “Purebred omegas especially have a hard time coming out of it. They’re more sensitive to those instincts and the sudden cut off of them is rather jarring.” She puts her equipment back in her bag. “Her vitals look good, which makes me confident to hold off on any further examinations until she’s more alert and aware.” 

“Are there things we should look out for?” Kyle asks. 

“She’s going to be drowsy and fatigued for a while, but if you can’t wake her at all, call me. If her breathing gets shallow or her pulse weakens or she starts developing a fever again, call me. Also check for blood the next time she uses the bathroom. Her vitals aren’t showing any indication of internal injuries, though, so I think she’ll be just fine.” She pulls a pill bottle from her bag. “I’ve prescribed some muscle relaxers for her. There’s a week’s worth in there. It’ll help with the pain and discomfort, but they will make her sleepy. The best thing she can do right now is rest and recover. Once she’s more aware, you can try some soft foods and lots of liquids. If she’s really struggling, I can set up an IV and get some fluids into her, perk her up a bit.” 

“Thank you.” John says, shifting you slightly so Dr. Keller can look at the bite mark on your shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” She asks him, pulling out a disinfectant wipe.

“Sore.” John huffs out a laugh. “Nothing I can’t handle, though.” 

Dr. Keller hums as she cleans the wound on your shoulder. “I know I’m not here to give you medical advice, but as your omega’s doctor I feel the need to remind you not to ignore your own symptoms. She needs you right now, more than ever. So don’t try to macho man your way through anything. You need to rest just as much as she does.” 

“Yes, doctor.” He grumbles, adjusting your shirt once she’s done. 

Dr. Keller gives him a smile. “You did a good job.” She turns to Kyle. “Both of you. Don’t hesitate to call me. It’s what I’m here for.” 

A smile tugs at John’s lips as Kyle practically beams from Dr. Keller’s praise. He did do a good job. You’re both still breathing after all. 

3 Days Ago

“I cannae take anymore.” Johnny pants, his breaths near wheezes as he rests his hands on his knees. “Ye said you'd go easy on me.”

“I never promised anything, Johnny.” Simon says, standing behind him. 

“Hell's bells, L.T.” Johnny groans, dropping to his hands and knees. “Gonna kill me at this rate.”

“Don't be dramatic. C'mon, again.” 

“Uh uh.” Johnny says, flopping onto his side on the ground. “Am pure done in! ‘S almost lunch anyway.” He rolls onto his back, looking in the direction of the barracks as he wipes the sweat from his brow. “Think they're havin’ fun?”

Simon looks down at him, looming over him like a shadow. “Probably seems like it right now. Be a different story when it’s done.”

“Sometimes I wish I knew what it was like.” Johnny says, turning his gaze up to Simon's face. He can't see much under the mask, and right now is one of those moments when he wishes he could. 

“You really don't. It's messy and gory.” Simon offers him a hand, helping Johnny to his feet. “Gotta be prepared to pick up the pieces afterwards.” Simon turns, heading in the direction of the barracks. 

“That why you've never taken an omega?” Johnny asks, following him.

Simon stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at Johnny. Johnny's back straightens at the look in Simon's eyes. No, not Simon. Ghost. He's looking at Ghost again. 

“Drop it. Or I'll make you do another lap.” Ghost says, his voice taking on the low rasp he gets when he's shifted into the laser focused headspace of the Lieutenant. 

“Yes, sir.” Johnny says, following after Ghost as they head back towards the barracks. 

Ghost slips into the showers once they enter, Johnny heading to the corner to peek down the hallway towards their rooms. It's quiet now. It hadn't been when they left earlier. He could hear it as they passed the hall to go out the door, the distant sound of moans and the bedframe knocking against the wall. He had fought the erection threatening to tent his shorts all the way to the field. He knows heats are no light matter, but the mental image he's drawn up of you blissed out, mouth open as you moan, back arching in pleasure has been plaguing him for nearly two weeks. He's desperate, practically chomping at the bit to get a chance to see it himself first hand, to see the real thing putting his mental image to shame. 

He makes his way down the hallway, keeping a respectful distance between himself and your room. Kyle looks up from his spot on the bed where he'd been scrolling on his phone.

“How're they doin’?” Johnny asks, wiping the sweat from his face. 

“Alright. Sleeping for the moment.” Kyle answers. Johnny can only imagine the torture of having to sit and listen to nonstop fucking for the last three days. 

“We're gonna grab lunch soon. Want us tae bring ye somethin’?” 

Kyle nods. “Sure. That'd be great.” 

“Ye got it.” Johnny nods, passing a glance at your door before looking back to Kyle. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, mate.” Kyle says, watching his fellow beta walk back down the hall. 

Johnny glances up from his phone as Simon huffs out what's the tenth sigh in the last three minutes. The alpha is seated at his desk, clicking away at something on his computer and occasionally mashing away at the keyboard rather harshly. Johnny's surprised he hasn't cracked a key yet, or just thrown the whole thing out the window. The beta can see how tightly his alpha is wrung by the tenseness in his shoulders, the hard set of his brow, the set line of his lips, the occasional tick of his jaw. 

“What's got ye all riled up?” Johnny finally breaks the silence, setting his phone aside. 

“Nothing.” Simon grumbles, ignoring Johnny's gaze.

Johnny’s brow furrows and he pushes himself to stand, moving over to Simon’s side. “Doesnae seem like nothin’ to me.” He puts his hands on Simon’s broad shoulders, squeezing them, feeling the tension in his muscles. “Awful tense, Si.” 

“Leave it, Johnny.” Simon grumbles, trying to swat the beta away, but he’s insistent. 

“Wouldnae be a little omega getting you so tense, would it?” Johnny teases. 

Simon turns to him, his eyes darkening. His jaw clenches, hands closing into fists where they sit on the armrests of his chair. “Don’t push it, Johnny.” His voice has that deep rumble to it, the threat of his alpha coming through. 

Johnny stares at him, feeling the danger prickling at the back of his neck, but at the same time, he wants to push that boundary. He wants to see just how far he can push his alpha until he finally gives in. 

“I don’t know why ye keep torturing yourself like this, Si. Ye know ye like her. She’d be more’n willing-” 

“That’s the problem.” Simon snaps, pushing himself up from his seat, forcing Johnny to take a step back. “She’s not doing this because she wants to. She’s only doing this because she’s been told to do it.” 

“She’s an omega. Her whole life was going tae be people tellin’ her what to do and forcin’ her tae do things, even if she didn’t want to. Ye think things would have been different if she’d been put with a different pack?” Johnny doesn’t back down from Simon’s glare, having been on the receiving end of it enough times now he’s almost immune to it. “Things could have been a lot worse for her. She might not have wanted to be here, but she is. Ye can’t change that, Si. No matter how badly you might want to.” 

Johnny can tell by the slow fall to Simon’s tense shoulders that he’s struck home. The situation wasn’t ideal, but it’s what they were dealt. You’re here with them, and he’s going to make sure you feel as comfortable as possible. 

Simon lets out another sigh, turning away from Johnny to crawl into their makeshift bed. He lays down with a huff, closing his eyes. Johnny smirks, slowly crawling onto the two cots pushed together, laying down right next to Simon. He rests his hand on Simon’s thigh, feeling the powerful muscle flex under his hand. He slowly begins to drag it higher, Simon’s eyes opening again. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Simon rasps, but he doesn’t move, even as Johnny reaches the junction of his hip and thigh. 

“Yer all worked up, big guy.” Johnny says, leaning his head on his hand, slowly moving his hand over Simon’s very prominent bulge. “Thought I’d help ye.” 

“What makes you think I want your help?” Simon says, still laying still. 

Johnny lifts his brows, slowly rubbing Simon through his pants. “This looks rather painful, and I seem to be the only option to help, since everyone else is rather occupied-” 

Johnny’s words are cut off as he finds himself suddenly on his back, Simon’s hand around his throat. The alpha is leaning over him, a deep rumble vibrating through his chest. “You talk too much, Johnny.” Simon rumbles, leaning close to the beta’s face. 

“I’ve been told tha’ before.” Johnny says, leaning up to try and kiss his alpha, but Simon backs away before he can make contact. “By you if I remember correctly.” 

Simon’s fingers flex around his throat, a moan spilling from his lips as Simon grinds his hips against Johnny’s. His cock is hard in his pants, has been for a while. He’s not sure if it’s from the lewd thoughts that have been plaguing his mind since you first kissed him, weeks ago, or if it’s just a response to the knowledge that you’re currently fucking their pack alpha like your life depends on it. 

Johnny lets out a whimper, bucking up against Simon desperately. Simon tuts at him, pressing against his throat to keep him still on the bed as he sits himself up on top of the beta. 

“Naughty little thing.” Simon says, staring down into his blue eyes. “Know you’ve been thinking about sinking your cock into the new little omega for weeks.” Johnny lets out a whine, his cock twitching in his pants. “I don’t think you’ll even make it that long, will you pup?” Simon chuckles. “Gonna cum in your pants as soon as you see her tits, huh?” Simon presses down, putting more pressure against his cock as he rubs it through his pants. “Gonna cum in your pants just thinking about it.” 

Johnny holds his breath, trying to focus anywhere except for Simon’s hand. He squeezes his eyes closed as Simon undoes the button on his cargo pants, releasing his throat to tug the fabric down around his knees. 

“Bloody hell.” Simon says, wrapping a hand around Johnny’s hard cock. “Prettiest cock I’ve ever seen.” 

“I thought Kyle’s was the prettiest.” Johnny says, opening his eyes to glance down at his alpha. 

“Kyle’s just pretty.” Simon says, slowly stroking Johnny’s cock. “You have the prettiest cock.” 

“Christ...” Johnny breathes as Simon continues to jerk his cock, his hips bucking as he can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge. 

A pathetic whimper leaves Johnny’s lips as Simon pulls his hand away, sitting up on his knees over his beta. He undoes his belt, tossing it to the floor before undoing his pants, pulling them and his briefs down to release his own throbbing cock. Johnny licks his lips as Simon fists his own cock, slowly stroking it. 

“Turn around. Let me see that pretty ass.” Simon says. 

“Yes, sir.” Johnny smirks, wiggling himself until he’s flat on his stomach, pushing his ass into the air as best he can with his legs trapped between Simon’s. 

Simon purrs quietly at Johnny’s response, running his hands over his beta’s pert cheeks. “Prettiest ass too.” He murmurs, gently spreading his cheeks. 

“I’m startin’ to think I might be the prettiest.” Johnny says, gasping quietly as a glob of warm spit hits his hole. 

“Give me a night with Kyle and I’ll get back to you on that.” Simon says, pressing a finger into Johnny’s ass. 

Johnny groans, pressing his face into the pillow. “Fucking Christ.” 

“You can take it.” Simon soothes him, reaching down to fish the lube out of the bag he’d tossed it in last night. He squirts some on his finger before pressing further in, spreading Johnny’s ass open. “Good boy.” 

Johnny nearly melts into the cot, letting out a pathetic sound as Simon adds a second finger. He’s still sore from the last three days, but his drive to please his alpha pushes away any sensitivity he’s feeling. That, and the lust burning hot in him. Betas don’t have heat cycles, but he might as well be in the middle of one with how horny he’s been these last few days. He knows part of it is Simon being worked up by the knowledge that there’s an omega in heat nearby, and his own body reacting to his alpha. He’s never been around an omega in heat, and he doesn’t think Simon has either. 

He’s not sure Simon has ever been with an omega at all before. 

More cold lube hits his hole, a second finger pressing in. He gasps at the stretch, squeezing around Simon’s thick fingers. Simon’s other hand trails up his back, pushing his shirt up as he goes. Johnny pushes himself up slightly, tugging the fabric over his head before he relaxes back down against the blankets. 

Simon presses a third finger in, working Johnny open with what still won’t be enough, but Johnny won’t complain. He’s taken his alpha before. He’ll do it gladly again. 

“Fuck, Johnny.” Simon grunts as Johnny squeezes around his fingers again. 

“Cannae help it.” Johnny whines. “Feels too good.” 

“Didn’t say you could cum yet.” Simon says, removing his fingers. “Naughty pup.” 

Johnny lets out a pathetic sounding whimper, pressing his ass up to try and chase Simon’s fingers. He yelps as Simon’s hand meets his skin, his hips dropping back to the bed at the force of Simon’s spank. 

“Stay still.” Simon growls, the cap of the lube popping open again. 

Johnny does as he’s told, keeping himself still as Simon prepares himself. He groans as the tip of Simon’s cock presses against his hole, his hands fisting the sheets at the stretch. Simon’s hand rubs his back, trying to get him to relax. Johnny breathes, forcing himself to go lax, letting Simon slip in further. 

“Good boy.” Simon groans, bracing himself on the bed as he presses further and further into Johnny’s tight hole. “That’s my good boy. You can take it.” 

“Fuck!” Johnny groans, practically preening from the praise. 

“That’s it.” Simon groans, pressing in until his hips are flush with Johnny’s ass. “Bloody fucking hell.” 

Johnny’s mind goes blank as he’s filled, all thoughts leaving at the feeling of his alpha inside of him. He’s panting already, stretched open around his alpha’s cock. Simon begins to move, rocking his hips slowly, drawing his cock out before pushing it back in. Johnny whines, pushing back against Simon, needing more. 

“Please...” Johnny begs. “Please alpha!”

“Fuck.” Simon grunts, bracing himself further before snapping his hips against Johnny. “Like that? That what you want, pup?”

Johnny almost yelps at the sensation, hands fisting the blankets as his body rocks forward on the cot. “Fuck, yes!” 

Simon sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against Johnny’s ass. Pleasure numbs Johnny’s mind as the sensation of Simon inside of him. His cock is trapped between his body and the cot, dragging against the blankets with every thrust. He’s going to cum soon, he knows that. He won’t be able to hold it, not with how sensitive he already is. 

“Gonna cum, can’t hold it!” He whines, pushing back against Simon’s thrusts for more friction. “Fuck, alpha!” 

Johnny cums quickly with a groan, the blankets getting damp under him as he shakes in his release. Simon doesn’t stop, undeterred by Johnny’s clenching around him in his orgasm. He’s going to ring a few more out of Johnny before he’s done. 

They’re both in for a long night. 

NEXT ->

Taglist:

@bobaprint @ashy-kit @anunintentionalwriter @mockerycrow @hayleybarnesx @protokosmonaut @fruitymoonbeams-blog @blue-blue0 @hindi-si-ikay @thatonepupkai @redwites @kattiieee @141trash @lothiriel9 @dillybuggg @beebeechaos @konigsmissedbeltloop @kaoyamamegami @idkkkkkkk8363 @wallwriterstuff @smile-child-13 @anomiatartle @dangerkittenclaws @bless-my-demons @mystic60 @evolutionarry @red-hydra @lunaetiicsaystuff @linaangel @codsunshine @thriving-n-jiving @slayerx147 @ferns-fics @spicyspicyliving @cityoffallencrows @ttsbaby01 @heeheehoohoohahahihi @sleepyoriana @ihatethinkingofnames10 @cassiecasluciluce @darling006 @sheep-from-rad @ohgodthebogisback @willow-sages @scythemood @daniblogs164 @mirzamsaiph 

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt.13

Word Count: 18.2k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw if u have tokophobia, some smut, masturbation, forced orgasm, pet names like kitten, sweetie, honey, xavier appears, gunshot, slight bloodshed, attempted murder

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti , @m0onlustre , @ve1vet-cake, @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leiaglmela @connorsui, @iluvmewwwww75, @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer, @mysssticc, @babygirl-panda19, @someone-somewheres-stuff, @zaynesjasmine1, @honnylemontea, @altariasu, @the-slytherin-poet, @sorryimakira, @pearlymel, @emidpsandia , @angel-jupiter, @hwangintakswifey, @webmvie, @housesortinghat, @fading-twinkle, @shoruio, @gojos1ut, @solomonlover, @cheesenjam, @elegantnightblaze, @mavphorias, @babylavendersblog, @burntoutfrogacademic, @sinstae, @certainduckanchor, @ladyackermanisdead, @sh4nn, @milkandstarlight, @lilyadora, @depressedwhore, @nyumin, @kiwookse, @anisha24-blog1, @weepingluminarytale, @xxhayashixx, @hesperisms, @adraxsteia, @hargun-s @cayraeley, @xxfaithlynxx

AN: This is on A03! Sorry this took so long yall, I had a lot going on in my personal life! You guys get to find out the baby’s gender in this chapter so buckle up <33

“Why?” you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible. “Why would you show me something like this?” His gaze softens, and he leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “Because I love you,” he says simply. “And I’ll never let anything take you from me. Nothing, not even death can keep us apart.”

Read Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6 Pt.7 Pt.8 Pt.9 Pt.10 Pt.11 Pt.12

“You cheater!” Luke’s voice rang out, his mock outrage echoing through the living room.

“I am not! You just don’t know how to bluff!” Kieran shot back, motioning smugly as he held up his cards.

Their playful bickering was punctuated by the sound of your laughter, bright and unrestrained. “Oh, come on, Luke. Even I could see that bluff coming a mile away,” you teased, playfully nudging his arm.

From his office, Sylus heard every word through Mephisto’s watchful feed. The robotic crow perched unnoticed in the corner, its camera lens fixed on the lively scene. Sylus barely glanced at the open laptop on his desk, his attention locked on the display showing you sitting on the couch, basically sandwiched between his two henchmen.

He should have been reading the stack of files in front of him. Instead, he found himself captivated—and annoyed—by the scene unfolding in his living room. His grip tightened on the edge of his desk as he watched you laugh again, this time leaning closer to Luke.

His jaw clenched. That laugh. The one you’d been so stingy with around him lately. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t logical. But it stung to hear it so freely given to anyone else.

What was this feeling gnawing at him? Jealousy? Sylus almost scoffed at the thought. How absurd. How ridiculous. To feel envious of his own henchmen? Of Luke, who couldn’t bluff his way out of a paper bag, or Kieran, who treated life like one endless game? And yet, when he saw Luke’s body shift ever so close to yours as he dealt another hand, Sylus felt a flare of irritation that was hard to ignore.

Then you laughed again, harder this time, doubling over and putting a hand on Luke’s shoulder as he said something undoubtedly stupid. Sylus didn’t even hear the joke. He didn’t care. The sight of your hand lingering there for just a second too long made his chest tighten.

With a sharp motion, he snapped his laptop shut, the sound echoing through the quiet of his office. He couldn’t watch this anymore. His thoughts swirled as he rose from his chair, straightening his cuffs and adjusting his tie.

It wasn’t as though he distrusted Luke or Kieran. They were loyal, dependable—idiots, perhaps, but loyal ones. This wasn’t about them. No, this was about you. The way you laughed so easily with them. The way your guard seemed to drop just a little in their presence. The genuineness of your laugh.

Why did you never look at him like that?

He didn’t want to be thinking this way. He didn’t want to feel this irrational, suffocating jealousy. But the ache in his chest, the bitterness that twisted his thoughts, refused to be ignored.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Sylus made his way to the living room.

The energy in the room shifted the moment Sylus entered. His presence was a tangible thing, heavy and commanding, cutting through the casual warmth like a knife. Luke and Kieran stiffened immediately, their playful banter dying on their lips. Kieran subtly adjusted his posture, sitting up straighter, while Luke avoided Sylus’s gaze altogether, pretending to be very interested in his cards.

And you? You froze for just a fraction of a second, your smile fading as your eyes flicked to him. Then, as if remembering the role you were supposed to play, you quickly plastered on a fake smile and greeted him, “Sylus. I didn’t hear you come in.”

The sound of your voice, so polite, so calculated, made his chest ache. He hated the mask you wore around him. Hated that you still felt the need to pretend. And yet, seeing your fleeting moment of unease just before the mask slipped into place was enough to soothe his earlier jealousy—if only slightly.

Sylus’s gaze swept over the room, landing on Luke and Kieran, who were doing a poor job of hiding their discomfort. He couldn’t blame them. They weren’t stupid. They knew when they’d crossed an invisible line.

“Luke. Kieran.” His tone was calm, but the undercurrent of authority was unmistakable. “There’s something I need you to take care of for me. Now.”

Luke glanced at Kieran, and the two exchanged a silent look before nodding in unison. “Of course, boss,” Luke said quickly, already rising from the couch.

“What is it?” Kieran asked, his usual bravado tempered by the tension in the air.

Sylus didn’t elaborate. He simply fixed them with a pointed look, one that said, You don’t need to know. Just go. They got the message loud and clear.

Luke hesitated for half a second, glancing at you as if to say goodbye, but a sharp glance from Sylus sent him scurrying after Kieran. As the door closed behind them, Sylus felt a faint sense of satisfaction. The air in the room was quieter now, calmer.

It was just the two of you.

You leaned back on the couch, crossing your arms as you looked at him. “That seemed urgent,” you said, your tone light, but he could hear the faint edge beneath it.

Sylus tilted his head, studying you with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You seemed to be having fun.”

“I was,” you said simply, your expression unreadable.

Sylus’s gaze flickered to you as you shifted on the couch, adjusting the hem of your dress absentmindedly. The soft fabric stretched over the faint swell of your belly, a small but undeniable reminder of the life growing inside you—his child. His chest swelled with a mixture of pride and possessiveness as his eyes lingered on you. You were around 14 weeks now, well into the second trimester, and the subtle changes in your body were impossible to miss.

Yet, your next words snapped him out of his thoughts.

“When do you think Luke and Kieran will be back?” you asked casually, your tone light and conversational, but it struck Sylus like a slap. He kept his expression neutral, but inside, irritation flared.

Oh? So you’re eager for their company again? Why?

The question churned in his mind, and despite the years of self-control he’d mastered, it took effort to keep his irritation from showing. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with a small, unreadable smile. “I’m not sure,” he replied smoothly. “Why? Missing them already?”

The way you hesitated, your eyes darting to the side before giving a half-hearted shrug, only added fuel to the quiet storm brewing inside him. “They’re fun to be around,” you said, your voice nonchalant, but Sylus didn’t miss the faint trace of genuine fondness in your tone. It made his blood simmer, though he kept his composure.

Fun to be around? Was he not enough? Sylus’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as he kept his gaze steady on you. Had he been spending too much time away? Between overseeing Onychinus operations and ensuring your comfort, had he let too much distance form between you?

He exhaled slowly, keeping the irritation buried deep as he considered the past few weeks. Yes, he’d been away from you for longer stretches, monitoring operations and handling things you didn’t need to be involved in. But that was for your safety, for your comfort. And yet…was this the result? You sitting here, glowing in a dress he bought, carrying his child, but asking about them?

He’d seen it in the way you laughed with them, the way your walls seemed to come down just a little when they were around. They were playful, easygoing—no doubt filling some gap you felt in this new life. But you didn’t need them. You wanted a playmate? He was all you needed. And he’d make sure of it.

His gaze drifted back to the small curve of your belly, visible now even when you sat. The sight grounded him, softened the sharp edge of his irritation. There was no denying that he wanted to be closer to you. That he needed to be closer to you. Perhaps he hadn’t been as attentive as he should’ve been lately. Perhaps he needed to show you that you didn’t need anyone else.

“I see,” he said finally, his tone light but carrying an undertone of finality. “Well, I’ll make sure they’re not gone too long. But perhaps…” He paused, allowing himself a small smile as he leaned against the armrest of the couch, his gaze locking onto yours. “We should spend more time together, too. You and I.”

Your head tilted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your features before you masked it with a polite smile. “Sure,” you said softly, though your tone lacked the warmth he’d been hoping for. Still, it didn’t matter.

He waited, expecting you to say more, but when you didn’t, the silence between you grew heavier. Finally, Sylus broke it. “You spend a lot of time with them,” he said casually, though his voice was carefully controlled. “You never ask to spend time with me like that.”

You hesitated, glancing away. “Oh, well…” You trailed off, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who plays card games, I guess.”

Sylus chuckled at that, a low sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that what you think of me?” he asked, his tone almost amused, though there was a distinct sharpness to it.

When you didn’t respond immediately, he let the silence stretch, studying you. The way your gaze flicked downward, your subtle shift in posture—every movement spoke volumes to him. You weren’t oblivious to the tension.

“I think,” he said finally, his voice dipping lower, “that you’re underestimating me, kitten.”

For a moment, you didn’t respond, your gaze fixed on a random spot on the floor. Then, you forced a small smile and looked up at him. “Maybe I am,” you said softly. "I just...know you get busy with running Onychinus. The twins are good company."

Sylus’s thoughts solidified as he watched you shift uncomfortably, his irritation fading into a calm resolve. Yes, you wanted company. He could give you that. He would give you everything you needed and more. Luke and Kieran’s involvement? That would be limited. They had their roles to play, but you were his. They didn’t belong in this picture the way he did.

His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out, to feel the baby growing inside you, to remind you that no one could provide for you the way he could. But instead, he straightened and adjusted his cuffs, his smile never faltering.

“You don’t need them,” he said, his voice soft and low, more to himself than to you. “I’m all you need.”

And he would make sure you believed it.

Sylus sat across from you, his gaze sharp, unwavering. He didn’t miss the irritation in your posture, the way your arms crossed defensively, or how you deliberately avoided looking at him. He let it slide, deciding to wait until the right moment to address it—or ignore it entirely. He reached into his pocket, retrieving a small bottle of pills. The sound of the capsules rattling against the plastic broke the tension in the room.

He watched as your eyes flicked to the bottle, curiosity sparking in your expression. "What’s that?" you asked, your tone laced with suspicion.

Sylus allowed a small, knowing smirk to tug at the corner of his lips. He raised the bottle slightly, watching your reaction as he spoke. "Prenatal vitamins," he said plainly, enjoying the flicker of confusion that crossed your face.

Your brows furrowed as you processed his words, and you reached for the bottle. Sylus, of course, pulled it back just out of your reach, a subtle power play he couldn’t help but indulge in. "Prenatals?" you repeated, your tone sharpening. "Shouldn’t I have been taking those a lot sooner?"

Sylus nodded, his expression softening. "Yes, you should have," he admitted, surprising even himself with the hint of vulnerability in his voice. “I didn’t want you taking any pills without being absolutely sure they were safe."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locking onto yours. "I made sure everything you needed was in your meals instead," he continued, his voice calm but firm. He didn’t add how much work had gone into ensuring every bite you took was perfectly tailored for the baby’s growth. That wasn’t the point.

The point was that now it was time to adjust.

Your reaction was predictable. Annoyance flickered in your eyes, quickly replaced by a restrained sort of frustration as you processed his words. He could almost see you weighing your response, debating whether to argue or let it go.

Before you could choose, Sylus shifted in his seat, his voice lowering as he let the full weight of his authority settle into his tone. "From now on, you’re going to take these. Non-negotiable. Same rules as your meals."

He saw the moment you realized what he was about to say, the slight stiffening of your shoulders, the tightening of your jaw. Still, he said it anyway. "If you don’t, Xavier-."

"Stop," you snapped, cutting him off before he could elaborate. Your voice was sharp, laced with anger, and for a moment, Sylus was struck by how fierce you looked. Your hands were trembling slightly, but your glare was unwavering. "I don't want to hear about that."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment before leaning back, his expression unreadable. "Then don’t make it an issue," he said quietly, his tone lacking the edge it had held moments ago. He didn’t particularly enjoy making you upset, but he wouldn’t hesitate to do so if it meant ensuring the health of the baby.

You stared at him for a long moment, your emotions flashing across your face in quick succession—anger, frustration, and something softer, something he couldn’t quite place. Finally, you snatched the bottle from his hand, muttering a begrudging

"Okay."

Sylus tilted his head slightly, studying you as you turned away. He could see the tension in your shoulders, the way you gripped the bottle tightly in your hand as though it was the last thing in the world you wanted to hold. He could feel your resentment radiating off of you, and it hurt him a little. it wouldn't always be like this.

You'd eventually come to understand his strictness for the sake of the baby.

Sylus watched as you curled up on your side, facing away from him, clearly making a pointed effort to ignore him. His lips curved into a faint smile. It was...endearing, in its own way—this little display of attitude. He leaned back against the couch, his arms resting casually on the cushions. He could chalk it up to your hormones, or perhaps just a passing mood, but either way, it didn’t bother him as much as it intrigued him. You were becoming bolder these days, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether to find it amusing or concerning.

His gaze softened slightly, taking in the sight of your belly against the fabric of your dress. The sight tempered his initial urge to tease you further. He leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but firm.

"Now that that's out of the way, what do you want for lunch?"

You didn’t answer, your silence deliberate and pointed. Sylus arched an eyebrow, watching the way your body tensed as if bracing for some unseen battle. A flicker of amusement played across his features. It was like you were daring him to push harder, to pry the answer from you.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, studying you. Then, leaning back into the couch, he crossed one leg over the other, his tone softening as he tried again.

"Sweetie," he said, his voice low and coaxing, "don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. I asked you a question."

You shifted slightly, and for a moment, it seemed like you might continue ignoring him. But then you turned over abruptly, fixing him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

"What?!" you snapped, your tone edged with irritation.

Sylus arched his eyebrow higher, his expression cool and measured as he held your gaze. His silence was deliberate, calculated—a quiet reminder for you to rethink your tone. He didn’t need to say anything. The weight of his gaze was enough.

You faltered almost immediately, your defiance softening as you glanced away, your face tinged with frustration and what might have been embarrassment.

"Sorry," you muttered, the apology reluctant but still sincere enough to pacify him.

Sylus let the moment linger before nodding, his expression easing as he leaned forward slightly. "It’s okay," he said, his voice gentle now. "Just tell me what you want to eat."

You sighed, curling in on yourself a bit more, your knees pulled closer to your chest. Well...as much as you could anyway. Your hand absently moved to your stomach, a gesture that caught Sylus’s attention. He watched the way your fingers brushed over the curve, your touch almost absentminded but protective.

"Something light," you murmured finally, your voice quieter now, almost tentative. "My stomach hurts...French onion soup. And the chai tea the chef made last time."

Sylus considered your request for a moment, taking in the way you avoided his gaze, the subtle downturn of your lips. You were still moody, clearly uncomfortable, but there was something vulnerable about the way you were curled up like that. He felt the faintest pang of sympathy—or perhaps fondness.

Reaching out, he brushed his fingers gently over your shoulder, the touch brief but deliberate. "French onion soup and chai tea," he repeated, his tone soft and warm. "I’ll let the chef know."

He straightened, standing to his full height, and smoothed the front of his shirt with practiced ease. "Just rest, kitten. I'll handle it." His voice held a note of authority, but the underlying affection was unmistakable.

As he moved toward the kitchen to speak to the chef, he glanced back at you once more. You’d turned away again, but this time, your movements seemed less defiant, more resigned. The corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. Your moods were a puzzle, but they were a puzzle he was growing fond of solving.

You glanced at him briefly, a flicker of something grateful passing across your face before you looked away again. Sylus allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, feeling the odd mix of protectiveness and amusement that you often stirred in him.

Your moodiness didn't surprise him though, in fact, he quite enjoyed being on the other end of your feistiness. You reminded him of a kitten hissing at its owner only to ask for pets and food right after. You could snap, glare, even ignore him, but in the end, you still depended on him. He would always ensure you had what you needed, no matter how stubborn or sullen you became.

His steps slowed again as he noticed your figure slumped slightly, your head resting against the plush cushions. You had fallen asleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest confirming that another wave of pregnancy-induced exhaustion had overtaken you.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. You’d been napping more and more lately, another symptom of the life growing inside you. It was amusing in a way—how quickly you could go from irritated to fast asleep. He made a mental note to wake you up before the food was ready. He didn’t want your soup going cold.

Going back over to you, he grabbed a blanket from the armchair of the couch, and gently covered you before making his leave.

As he entered the kitchen, Sylus gave the chef specific instructions on your meal, detailing everything from the flavor of the chai tea to the amount of sodium in the soup. He wasn’t one for micromanaging in most cases, but when it came to your comfort, he left nothing to chance.

Satisfied, Sylus made his way down the hall to meet with Luke and Kieran. The twins were waiting in the den, their expressions shifting the moment he walked in. Luke scratched the back of his head, his usual easy demeanor replaced with something sheepish, while Kieran gripped his hands together as though he was ready to say something but hadn’t quite mustered the courage.

Sylus arched an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Something on your minds?”

Luke cleared his throat, shuffling slightly. “Uh, boss...about earlier...” He avoided eye contact, his voice lower than usual. “I wanted to apologize for...getting too close.”

Sylus’s gaze narrowed slightly, studying Luke’s awkward stance. He knew exactly what the man was referring to, and while Sylus appreciated the apology, it didn’t erase the irritation that lingered in the back of his mind.

Kieran stepped in, his tone more matter-of-fact. “And, uh, we’ve got an update. Finally caught a lead on the guy we’ve been tracking.”

Sylus’s expression shifted at the mention, his focus sharpening instantly. During his two-week trip, he’d been following every scrap of information about the human trafficking ring, determined to see it dismantled. Exterminated every pest involved possible. But the ringleader had proved elusive, vanishing without a single trace after Reese’s death.

“And?” Sylus prompted, his tone calm but expectant.

Kieran exchanged a glance with Luke before continuing. “We traced a connection back to Reese. Turns out, the bastard’s father isn’t happy about his son dying. He’s been sniffing around, looking for answers.”

Sylus let out a short laugh, the sound cold and humorless. “His father, huh? Funny. Didn’t seem to care much about his precious son when he left him to rot in that old house surrounded by crack.”

The twins didn’t respond immediately, though Kieran’s let out a faint laugh at Sylus’s remark. Luke shifted uncomfortably, his hands tucked into his pockets as if unsure whether to laugh or remain serious.

Sylus crossed his arms, his mind churning through the implications. So, the ringleader wasn’t completely off the grid after all. His son’s death had stirred him into action, but whether out of vengeance or a twisted sense of pride, Sylus didn’t care. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that this lead could be the break they’d been waiting for.

“Do we have a possible location?” Sylus asked, his voice sharp with intent. "Any information on the woman?"

“No location,” Kieran admitted, his tone tinged with frustration. “But it’s only a matter of time. We’ve got eyes on his usual contacts. The woman responsible for the blood draws...her name is Serene Grey. Twenty six years old, originally from Snowcrest. Father is Adam Grey, former chief medical officer of Asko Hospital. Has a brother that works at Asko as well by the name of Noah Grey."

"Upon digging for more info on Noah, we discovered he actually works for E.V.E.R as...head researcher."

Sylus nodded, the gears turning in his mind as he considered the next steps. Reese had been an obstacle, an annoyance at best. His father would likely prove more challenging—but Sylus welcomed the opportunity. If the man was bold enough to seek revenge, he would find nothing but destruction waiting for him.

As for the woman....this was getting interesting.

“We'll pay a visit to her old man soon,” Sylus instructed, his tone firm. “And Luke?”

“Yeah, boss?” Luke replied, his shoulders stiffening slightly.

Sylus fixed him with a pointed look. “Don't let it happen again.”

Luke nodded quickly, muttering a hasty, “Got it.”

They further discussed some details and with that, Sylus dismissed them, his thoughts already shifting back to you. As he made his way back toward the living room, he glanced at his watch. The food would be ready soon, and he wanted to wake you gently. You might not realize it yet, but your comfort and safety were his top priorities—and he would ensure they stayed that way.

When Sylus stepped back into the living room, you were still curled on the couch where he’d left you, your figure bundled into a loose throw blanket, your breathing slow and even as you napped. His chest tightened as he paused to look at you, taking in the subtle changes in your form—the swell of your belly, the softness in your expression as you slept.

It was almost too peaceful to disturb, but he knew the chef would soon be done with the food. You needed to eat, and he wouldn’t let your soup grow cold, not when you’d been struggling to keep anything down for weeks prior.

He knelt beside the couch, his hand reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. “Honey” he murmured softly, his tone low and coaxing. “It’s time to wake up.”

A faint groan escaped you, your brows furrowing as you shifted under the blanket. Your eyes fluttered open halfway, barely registering him as you burrowed deeper into the cushions, your face half-hidden.

“Go away,” you mumbled, your voice muffled and thick with sleep.

Sylus smirked, resting his arm along the edge of the couch as he leaned closer. “Come on, kitten. You’ve been asleep for a while. The food’s almost ready.”

“Don’t want food anymore,” you muttered, turning your head away from him. “I want to sleep.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and indulgent. “Well I'm sure the little one wants food. You'll be irritated later too if you don't eat now.”

You huffed, clutching the edge of the blanket like a shield. “I’m not a baby, Sylus. I can decide if I’m hungry or not.”

“Mm, not a baby, but you sure whine like one when you’re woken up,” he teased, his hand lightly stroking your arm through the blanket. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, you know.”

You cracked one eye open, glaring at him with as much annoyance as you could muster in your half-asleep state. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re adorable,” he replied, his voice softening as he leaned closer. “Now, come on. Sit up for me. Let’s not make a fuss.”

You sighed dramatically, but ultimately shift to a sitting position. With a groan, you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping down your shoulders as you blinked groggily at him.

“See? Not so bad,” he said, his tone soothing as his hand found the small of your back, steadying you. “You’re doing so well, kitten. I’m proud of you.”

The words seemingly caught you off guard, your sleep-fogged mind taking a moment to process them. You gave him a half-hearted glare, though the obvious nervousness in your demeanor gave you away.

“Don’t patronize me,” you mumbled, brushing your hair out of your face.

“I’m not,” he said, his expression softening further. “You're growing a baby, its a lot of stress on the body. It’s okay to need rest, but you need to eat too. Let me take care of you.”

His words, though tender, only seemed to add to your frustration. You didn’t want to need him, didn’t want to rely on his care. That much was obvious. But he hoped you were going to start realizing how much you needed him as time passed and your body grew heavier.

“Fine,” you muttered, folding your arms over your chest as you leaned back against the couch. “Not like I have much choice.”

His lips quirked into a small smile as he brushed his fingers against your cheek, his touch gentle and reassuring. “I’ll take that as a thank you.”

You rolled your eyes, but Sylus didn't miss the tiniest of smiles that appeared on your lips before it disappeared just as quickly. He felt his heart flutter at the sight of it. Was it genuine? Did he actually manage to make you smile genuinely?

“Wait here,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll bring the food over when it’s ready. Don’t fall back asleep on me, alright?”

Sylus glanced back over his shoulder as he stepped into the kitchen, his sharp eyes catching the way you shifted on the couch. You hadn’t quite settled back under the blanket, but you looked like you were contemplating it, your hand absently brushing over the soft fabric.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. You could be stubborn, but there was something about these moments—the quiet vulnerability you tried so hard to mask—that softened him in ways he didn’t expect.

“She’s exhausted,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else as he reached for the tray the chef had prepared. “And moody as hell.”

But even as he said it, there was no trace of annoyance in his voice. If anything, there was a quiet fondness, an odd warmth that settled in his chest. He didn’t mind your little barbs, your occasional defiance. It kept things interesting, kept him on his toes.

What bothered him more than your sharp tongue was the exhaustion he’d seen in your eyes, the weight you carried despite his efforts to make things easier for you. He knew he couldn’t fix everything—not all at once—but he could do this much. He could make sure you ate, rested, and had everything you needed.

Carrying the tray back into the living room, he found you still sitting upright, albeit reluctantly, your gaze flicking toward him as he approached.

“There we go,” he said, setting the tray down on the table in front of you. “Just like you asked—French onion soup and chai tea. All exactly how you like it.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your expression a mix of irritation and reluctant gratitude as you reached for the tea.

Sylus knelt beside the couch, his hand resting on the armrest as he looked up at you, his tone softening into a laugh. “You’ll feel less moody once you eat.”

He meant it, not just about the food, but about everything. He would keep at it, keep working to wear down the walls you’d put up between you. He had time, after all.

"Yeah yeah...whatever...".

As he watched you take your first tentative sip of tea, a quiet determination settled in him. He didn’t necessarily need your approval—not yet, anyway—but he wanted it. He would earn it. Slowly, steadily, he would prove to you that this wasn’t just about the baby.

This was about you too.

The days had started blending together, each one marked by the strange chaos your body seemed determined to throw your way. For the most part, the nausea had subsided—thank God for that small mercy—but other symptoms had eagerly taken its place. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so achy, so irritable, so out of control. Your body didn’t feel like yours anymore, and the thought made your chest tighten if you lingered on it for too long.

The bump was the worst reminder. It wasn’t big yet, not obvious to anyone but you and Sylus, but every time you caught your reflection or brushed your hand against your stomach, it was there. An unignorable swell that seemed to grow more pronounced with each passing day.

Is it too early for this? you wondered earlier that evening, turning sideways in the bathroom mirror. You’d stared at the slight curve with a mixture of denial and disbelief. Shouldn’t I be smaller at sixteen weeks? The idea that your body might be working faster than normal made your stomach churn, but you shoved the thought aside. You couldn’t afford to let paranoia swallow you whole.

Still, the changes were hard to ignore. Your moods swung like a pendulum, flipping between cranky, melancholic, and just plain tired. And then there was the neediness—a subtle, insidious thing that snuck up on you when you weren’t expecting it. It wasn’t just the way you barked orders at Sylus, demanding more tea or a specific meal; it was how much you found yourself leaning on him, sometimes without even realizing it. He seemed to thrive on it, which only made it worse.

Sometimes you caught yourself bossing him around just to test the limits of his patience. But when he didn’t snap, when he indulged your whims with that strange mixture of love and affection, you hated how grateful you felt. It was annoying. Frustrating. And a little comforting, though you’d never admit it to him.

“This tea is cold,” you say flatly, setting the cup down on the table in front of you with a soft clink.

Sylus glances up from his seat across the room, where he’s casually flipping through files. He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Cold already? Didn’t I just bring that to you?”

You cross your arms, leaning back against the couch cushions. “And yet, here we are. Cold tea.”

He chuckles under his breath, setting the files aside and standing. “Since when did I become your butler?”

“Blame your baby,” you say, giving him a tired but pointed look. “I didn’t ask to feel like this, you know. The least you can do is keep my tea warm.”

He smirks, picking up the cup and holding it up as if weighing it. “You know, I could just let you drink it as is. Room temperature isn’t so bad.”

You glare at him, narrowing your eyes. “Sylus...”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he laughs softly, shaking his head as he heads to the kitchen. “Anything for you, sweetie,” he says over his shoulder, his tone dripping with smugness.

When he returns with the reheated tea, he hands it to you, his gaze lingering on your face. “Better?”

You take a sip, giving a small nod. “For now.”

“For now?” he repeats, amusement flickering in his voice.

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I might need a refill later.”

Sylus leans against the arm of the couch, watching you with an almost infuriatingly amused expression. “Anything else, kitten? Or are you just going to keep ordering me around all day?”

“Well…” you pause, shifting slightly and pretending to mull it over. “A pillow for my back wouldn’t hurt.”

He doesn’t move at first, just stares at you with a grin that’s both indulgent and teasing. “You’ve got quite the list it seems.”

“I’m pregnant, remember?” you reply sharply, looking him square in the eye. “That was your idea. So now you get to deal with it.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head as he grabs a pillow from the other chair and places it behind your back with surprising gentleness.

“There,” he says, his tone mockingly sweet. “Anything else, or am I allowed to sit down now?”

You smirk, taking another sip of tea. “I’ll let you know.”

Sylus leans down, his lips curling into a smirk just inches from your ear. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re like this,” he murmurs, before straightening and sitting back in his chair, his smugness still palpable.

“And you're lucky my tea is warm now” you quip again, enjoying the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes before he bursts into quiet laughter.

For now, you’ve won this small battle—and it feels pretty good.

Tonight, though, that confidence was nowhere to be found. You woke up drenched in sweat, your back aching as you tried to stretch out against the mattress. The room felt stifling, like the air was pressing down on you, and your throat was parched, so dry it felt like sandpaper. Your breasts, now twice the size they normally were, ached. Your back didn't feel any better. Your stomach felt like it was on fire. You groaned, reaching blindly for the glass of water on the nightstand, only to find it empty.

“Ugh, seriously?” you muttered, rolling over to look across the room. Sylus was there, sitting in his usual chair with a book in his lap. He looked calm, almost serene in the dim light, and for a moment you hated him for it.

“Sylus,” you called weakly, your voice hoarse. He glanced up, his eyes softening when they met yours.

“Hmm?”

“Water. I need more water,” you said, your voice bordering on a whine.

“I’ll get it in a bit, sweetie,” he replied, not moving from his seat.

You blinked at him, disbelief turning quickly to anger. “Please do it now. I feel like I’m gonna die of thirst!” you snapped, your voice breaking slightly as frustration bubbled up inside you.

Sylus raised an eyebrow but still didn’t move, clearly not taking your outburst too seriously. “You’re not going to die,” he said with a faint chuckle.

That did it. Hot tears welled up in your eyes before you could stop them, spilling over as a sob broke from your throat. “You don’t get it! I’m fucking thirsty, and I’m sweating like crazy, and my back hurts, and—”

Your voice cracked, and you covered your face with your hands, tears spilling between your fingers as you sob. Sylus was on his feet immediately, crossing the room to kneel beside you.

“Okay, okay,” he said softly, his hands brushing yours aside to reveal your tear-streaked face. “I’m sorry. I’ll get your water right now, alright?”

You sniffled, nodding miserably as he stroked your cheek with surprising tenderness. He really was being more lenient with you. He stood and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, returning moments later with a freshly filled glass.

“Here,” he said, handing it to you as you struggled to sit up. “Drink slowly.”

You did as he said, the cool water soothing your throat and easing some of the heat in your chest. When you handed the glass back, Sylus sat beside you, his gaze warm and amused.

“You’re being extra fussy tonight, kitten” he teased gently, brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, turning your face into the pillow to hide your embarrassment. You hate him. You hate him. You hate him. Stupid pregnancy hormones.

He chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay to be fussy,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to feel however you need to feel. I'm here, and I promise I'll move faster.”

You didn’t respond, your exhaustion pulling you back toward sleep. But as you drifted off, you couldn’t help but feel a small, grudging sense of gratitude for him. The situation was still awful...but at the very least he was helpful more often than not.

As the days drag on...something else begins to get harder and harder to ignore. It starts in your chest, spreading lower like a slow burn, and you shift in your seat, trying to shake the feeling off. There’s no reason for this. You’re just tired, emotional—pregnancy hormones doing what they do best. And yet, the ache persists, coiling in your stomach, a dull and relentless reminder of something you don’t want to acknowledge.

You curl your legs beneath you, drawing your arms around your knees as if the action alone could protect you from the thoughts creeping into your mind. Thoughts of warmth. Of touch.

It’s pathetic, really. You’ve spent every waking moment fighting against Sylus’s suffocating presence, building walls to keep yourself sane, and now your own body is betraying you. A part of you craves the very thing you swore you’d never ask for.

The realization hits you hard, and your fists clench against your knees. You’re horny. There’s no other way to describe it. The longing has burrowed into your core, gnawing at your resolve, and it’s almost unbearable.

Your lips press into a thin line as an image flashes in your mind—Sylus’s broad chest, the toned muscle beneath his shirts that you’ve tried so hard to ignore. The memory of his deep voice rumbles in your ears, soothing and infuriating all at once. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force the image away, but it lingers, like an unwelcome guest taking up residence in your thoughts.

You shake your head violently, gripping the pillow behind you as though it’s a lifeline. No. Absolutely not. You’re not doing this. You’re not going there. You won’t let yourself fall into this trap, no matter how loud the ache screams inside you.

Sylus is attractive. Objectively, maddeningly so. That fact you can’t deny, but it doesn’t erase the monster he is. The outside may look like something out of a magazine—perfectly crafted to draw you in—but the inside? That’s where the truth lies. Beneath that chiseled exterior is someone who has taken everything from you, someone who thrives on control, who manipulates and twists and owns every space he inhabits.

And yet…

Your hands shake slightly as you rub at your temples, the guilt swelling alongside the ache. How could you even entertain this? How could you feel something—anything—that even bordered on desire for him? It feels like a betrayal of yourself, of everything you’ve endured.

You glance toward the other side of the room, where Sylus sits, his long legs stretched out as he reads something on his tablet. He'd been oddly quiet this morning. He’s entirely unaware of the storm raging inside you, his calm, confident aura infuriatingly unshaken.

You can’t do this. You can’t let this get the better of you. Whatever this feeling is, it’s nothing more than hormones. You’ll fight it, like you fight everything else. Because no matter how tempting his warmth might seem in this moment, you know better.

The outside may be beautiful, but the inside is rotten. And you refuse to let yourself forget that.

Fighting it proved to be harder than you thought though. You found yourself drifting into indecent thoughts about Sylus despite how hard you were trying to distract yourself. And while it seemed he was none the wiser, you couldn't let yourself be caught. So...you come up with a plan. Its simple. Just wait for him to leave for awhile. Then you can find relief. No doubt he'll end up taking Mephisto with him, and the twins never enter without knocking first.

Yes. Simple...

With finally Sylus gone on one of his many business endeavors, the silence of the room beckons you, offering a rare moment to chase the relief you crave. You lie back on the bed, your breath shallow, heart racing with anticipation and desperation. Your hands move with a familiar urgency to your heat, seeking to quell the storm of emotions raging inside you.

You close your eyes, trying to summon the faces from the flickering screens of porn you once watched, fantasies that used to bring you to blissful release. Yet now, they feel hollow, like echoes in a cavernous void.

Xavier's face appears unbidden, a ghostly specter that twists your heart with longing and pain. You shove the image aside, unwilling to let it linger, to let it hurt you more than it already has. The more you fight against it, the more the ache in your core swells, an insatiable beast that refuses to be tamed.

Your fingers move against your aching clit with increasing urgency, but the pleasure you seek dances just out of reach, a cruel mirage. Frustration mounts, your body tense with the effort of chasing a release that remains elusive. Each attempt feels more futile than the last, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you strain against the confines of your own mind.

It feels as if your body has turned traitor, mocking you with its stubborn refusal to yield. The need is a fire burning inside, consuming you from the inside out, leaving you raw and exposed. A low, guttural cry escapes your lips, a sound echoing in the empty room, testament to your solitary struggle.

Your hand falls away, defeated, your body still thrumming with that desperate ache. It remains, a relentless reminder of your captivity, both within these walls and within yourself.

Why can't you finish? This should be easy...is it nerves? Maybe the trauma you've been through is making this difficult? It has to be. No way in hell that bastard stole your ability to orgasm. You try and try for what seems like forever, growing increasingly frustrated with each failed attempt at reaching bliss.

Come on, just… just relax. It's just your body. Don't think about it. Don't think about him. Don't think about why you're even in this situation. Just…

Red eyes. Sharp jaw. Deep voice. Chiseled abs. Your mind begins to swim with him and you hate it. You hate it so much and yet as if your fingers have a mind of their own you begin to actually feel immense satisfaction at the thought of his face.

How did it come to this? A prisoner in your own body, at the mercy of a monster. And now, this…this ache that refuses to subside ? It's like your body is betraying you, craving touch, any touch, even as your mind screams in revolt.

"You could've just asked for my help."

You snap up, pulse quickening as Sylus comes into view in the doorway, watching as if he just caught a mouse in a trap. A small smile plastered on his face as he takes in the disheveled state of your body.

His voice is smooth, dripping with a confidence that makes your skin crawl even as it sends a shiver down your spine. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him, the air charged with his presence.

"Get out," you snap, trying to muster defiance, but your voice betrays you, laced with a tremor of desperation. You snap your legs together as he draws closer to the bed.

Sylus chuckles softly, moving closer with a predator's grace. "Stressing yourself isn't good for the baby, honey" he murmurs, as if offering a kindness. He sits beside you, his gaze assessing, the weight of his attention a tangible force.

"Open your legs. Let me help you."

Your heart races, every nerve in your body on edge as he reaches out, brushing your hand aside with a gentle insistence. His touch ignites a war within you, your mind screaming in protest even as your traitorous body responds with a shiver of anticipation.

He gently but firmly pushes your legs furthur apart and slides down to circle your clit with his thumb.

You loathe him, despise the power he holds over you, yet the heat of his fingers against your sensitive clit sends a jolt of pleasure through you, sharp and undeniable. His touch is maddening, a mix of precision and pressure that leaves you gasping, your back arching involuntarily against the thin mattress.

"Stop," you breathe, a plea tangled with a moan, your body at odds with your will. But he ignores you, his fingers moving with a practiced expertise that draws reluctant cries of pleasure from your lips.

"Ah! Mghn..."

You hate this. But your body loves it. You try and push yourself back against the headboard, further away from his hand but he just follows, even going as far to take his free hand and pin you down by your chest, ceasing any further struggle to get away.

No. No. No. No.

Sylus's touch is gentle, yet insistent, coaxing a response from your body. You try to resist, to will yourself into numbness, but it's no use. Your clit pulses under his fingers, the sensation building, growing, until you're on the cusp of orgasm.

"You're fighting it, kitten" he whispers, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Let go."

The words are a dark caress, and despite the hatred simmering beneath your skin, the relentless pleasure he coaxes from you drags you towards a precipice you can't deny. Tension coils in your belly, tighter and tighter, until it snaps, a white-hot explosion of sensation that leaves you trembling and breathless.

You lay there, shattered and whole, the aftermath of your climax a bittersweet balm against the reality of your captivity. Sylus withdraws his hand, leaving you bereft and aching, a reminder of your betrayal by your own desires.

Sylus watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet piercing as he strokes your cheek with deliberate tenderness. His fingers brush away the stray tears slipping down your face, and his voice drops to a near whisper, low and soothing as he leans in close.

“That feels better, doesn’t it, sweetie?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours in the gentlest of kisses.

Your breath catches, shame clawing at your chest like a vice. A fresh wave of tears wells in your eyes, spilling over as his words echo in your ears. How could you let this happen again?

You nod.

The warmth of his arms encircles you, his presence overwhelming yet inescapable. Every part of you screams to push him away, to reclaim some piece of yourself, but you can’t move. You’re frozen in his hold, trapped between the comfort he offers and the revulsion that churns in your stomach.

Sylus shifts slightly, his hands moving with care as he adjusts your clothes, ensuring every part of you is covered once again. His touch is meticulous, deliberate, as though he’s putting the pieces back together, though you know he’s the one who broke them in the first place.

You don’t resist. You don’t say a word. The tears flow silently as he presses a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there for a moment too long.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, cradling you closer, his voice laced with something you can’t quite decipher—satisfaction, maybe, or perhaps something deeper. “Just let it out.”

And you do. Because there’s no one else. No one else to turn to. No one else to hold you in this moment, no matter how much you wish it weren’t him.

Sylus’s arms tighten around you, his steady heartbeat pressing against your own, a cruel reminder of how much power he holds over you. He reaches down and caresses the now very obvious curve of your pregnant belly. This is what he wants. The realization strikes you like a blow to the gut, but it doesn’t change the reality.

He’s made it very clear: there’s no one else.

The tears continue to fall, the weight of your shame and helplessness crashing over you. The relief, the longing to hold him close, the urge to shove him away. It all swirls in your head and escapes in the form of wet tears. And Sylus holds you through it all, his presence consuming, suffocating, and maddeningly inescapable.

The days following that night are...strange. You can’t quite put your finger on it. There’s no anger bubbling beneath the surface, no fire demanding you lash out or rebel in some small, insignificant way. You just feel...drained. Exhausted. It’s as though the pregnancy has drained you of everything, leaving you with only enough energy to exist in this fragile limbo.

You avoid Sylus more than usual, though it’s impossible to fully escape him. He notices, of course—he always does. His eyes track your every movement, his brow furrowing in concern each time you pass him with barely a word.

“Are you feeling sick again?” he asks one evening, leaning against the doorway of the library where you’ve buried yourself in a pile of books you aren’t even reading. His voice is softer than usual, tinged with something almost like worry. “Do you want anything?”

You shake your head quickly, not looking up. “No. I’m fine. The pregnancy’s just...taking its toll, that’s all.”

It’s a half-truth. Physically, the changes to your body are draining—your back aches constantly, your feet swell more than you’d like to admit, and your appetite has become a ravenous, insatiable beast. But none of that is what’s really bothering you. No, what keeps you quiet and withdrawn is something you can’t even begin to say aloud.

You’re scared.

Scared of the way your heart stutters when Sylus brushes past you. Scared of the way your pulse quickens when his hand lingers on your lower back or brushes your cheek. Scared of the heat that rushes to your face when you see him changing, his toned chest and sharp features invading your thoughts in ways you don’t want them to.

Why is this happening? You hate him. You hate what he’s done, how he’s stolen everything from you. So why does your stomach flutter when he smiles at you? Why do you find yourself leaning into his touches before you even realize it?

It’s confusing, maddening, and you can’t let yourself dwell on it. So you don’t. You shove those feelings down, deep enough that they can’t reach you.

Instead, you turn to food. It’s one of the only things that makes sense anymore, one of the few sources of comfort that doesn’t terrify you. But tonight, nothing in the house appeals to you. Not the chef’s carefully crafted meals, not the endless trays of snacks Sylus insists on having ready for you. No, you want something specific—something from a bakery back in Linkon. Its a craving that's been bothering you for awhile.

You sit on the couch, fidgeting with the hem of your dress, working up the courage to ask. It feels ridiculous, but eventually, you can’t help yourself.

“Sylus?” you say softly, glancing over at him.

He looks up immediately, his piercing gaze locking onto you. “Yes, sweetie?”

You hesitate for a moment before blurting it out. “I...I want a dessert. From a bakery in Linkon.”

His brows furrow slightly, a mix of suspicion and curiosity playing on his face. “Why there? The chef can make you anything you want.”

“It’s...it won’t be the same,” you insist, trying to sound casual. “The baby wants that specific one.”

At that, Sylus chuckles, the deep sound sending an irritating warmth through you. “The baby wants it? Or you?”

You bite your lip, refusing to meet his gaze. “Both.”

He smiles slightly, studying you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “Alright. I’ll get it for you soon. I think I have an idea of which one you're talking about”

The words catch you off guard, and before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “Thank you.”

Sylus smiles, clearly pleased with your response, but you can’t help the heavy feeling in your chest. Thanking him...for a danish. The irony isn’t lost on you. This man has stolen everything from you—your freedom, your life as you knew it—and yet here you are, expressing gratitude over something as trivial as a pastry.

It didn't shock you that he already knew the bakery you were talking about. He had stalked you for quite awhile. Of course he knew.

Nothing was a secret with him. He always knew.

You turn your face away, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach as Sylus leans back in his chair, content. And once again, you’re left alone with your thoughts, spiraling in the confusion and bitterness of it all.

Later that day, Sylus presents you with the danish you’d requested, the golden pastry nestled neatly on a small plate. Its flaky layers glisten under the soft light, and the smell alone—warm, buttery, and slightly tangy—makes your mouth water. You can tell he’s proud of himself, standing there as if awaiting praise.

“A lemon-raspberry danish,” he says with a slight grin, watching as you reach for it.

You hesitantly pick it up, the texture soft under your fingers, and take a cautious bite. The tangy sweetness of the raspberry filling bursts against your tongue, perfectly balanced by the buttery flakiness of the pastry and the sharp zest of lemon. It’s exactly how you remembered it—nostalgic, comforting, and bittersweet all at once.

The flavors transport you to a memory you hadn’t revisited in a long time. You and Tara sitting on the steps outside that very bakery in Linkon, sharing a box of pastries. It was a sunny afternoon, the kind that made the city feel alive in the best way. Tara had just finished a long rant about some guy who ghosted her after three dates, her dramatic hand gestures making you laugh so hard you nearly choked on your own danish.

“Seriously, if he’s not texting back, it’s his loss. You’re too good for him anyway,” you’d said between bites, nudging her with your shoulder.

“Oh, stop. You’re only saying that because I shared my last danish with you,” Tara teased, swiping at a smudge of powdered sugar on her lip.

The two of you had laughed until your sides hurt, the world feeling light and uncomplicated in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

But as the memory fades, your smile falters. No doubt Sylus had been watching then too—stalking, waiting. His shadow had been there even in your happiest moments, lurking unseen, ready to strike when you least expected it. A wave of nausea creeps up your spine as the realization settles in. Your grip on the danish tightens for a moment, then slackens as tears prick at your eyes.

Just as you’re about to take another bite, something strange happens. A sudden flutter in your stomach, light and quick like a butterfly’s wings. You gasp audibly, your fingers losing their hold on the danish, sending it tumbling to the floor.

Sylus’s brows knit together in confusion as he steps closer. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You press a trembling hand to your stomach, your heart racing as you feel it again—another flutter, faint but undeniable. “I—I think…the baby moved,” you whisper, barely able to process the words as they leave your mouth.

Sylus’s eyes widen, his gaze immediately dropping to your bump. The softness in his expression surprises you, and when he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “Can I feel?” he asks, his hand hovering uncertainly over your stomach, not quite touching.

You hesitate, your mind a chaotic mix of emotions. Do you even have a choice? You swallow hard, nodding slowly. “Yes…sure. Go ahead.”

His large hand presses carefully against the curve of your belly, warm and steady. The room falls silent, the air thick with anticipation as neither of you move, waiting for something to happen. Then, there it is again—a faint, fleeting flutter, like the soft brush of a feather.

Sylus’s face lights up with unmistakable joy, his grin wide and unguarded. For a brief moment, he looks almost boyish, overcome with awe and excitement. “Did you feel that?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might scare the baby away.

You nod, still in shock, your hand joining his on your bump instinctively. “I did,” you murmur, your thoughts a whirlwind. It feels so surreal, this moment of connection with the life growing inside you.

“It’s the sugar,” Sylus explains, his tone light and filled with a wonder you’d never seen in him before. “I read somewhere that babies tend to move more when their mothers eat something sweet. It must’ve gotten a rush from that danish.”

You glance up at him, his eyes still glued to your stomach, and for a moment, you see nothing but pure, unfiltered happiness. It leaves you feeling...confused. While Sylus basks in the moment, your own feelings remain a tangled mess of shock, fear, and something you don’t dare name.

The words tumbled out of your mouth almost unconsciously:

"That’s cool."

Cool? Cool was not the word. It wasn’t even close. You were reeling, overwhelmed by the undeniable reality. It’s alive. It’s real. The bump you’d been trying to push out of your thoughts, the changes to your body, the way your emotions and cravings had pulled you in so many directions—it all had culminated in this undeniable moment. The baby moved. The life growing inside you, something you’d been pretending didn’t truly exist, had just made itself known in the most undeniable way.

Your hand lingered on your stomach, frozen there as if pressing harder might help you process it. Your breaths quickened. Your chest felt tight. This was happening. It was all happening. There was no pretending anymore. No amount of denial or mental gymnastics could take this away now. You were going to be a mom. And the weight of that realization hit you like a wave crashing over your head, pulling you under, leaving you gasping for air.

Your vision blurred, the edges of the room spinning. “I need to sit down,” you murmured, your voice shaky and uneven.

Sylus was by your side in an instant, guiding you gently toward the couch. His hands were steady on your arms, his voice soft and soothing as he helped you ease down onto the cushions. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he said, his tone reassuring but filled with a concern that only made the knot in your chest tighten further.

The moment your head hit the couch, the tears started. Quiet at first, a few strangled hiccups that escaped before you could stop them. Then the floodgates opened, and sobs wracked your body, shaking you to your very core. You didn’t even know why you were apologizing as the words slipped out between gasps for air. “I'm-I'm sorry...I’m just-hic-scared…I’m not ready to be a mom. I don't know what to do with a baby.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, the raw emotion pouring out of you. Anger, fear, sadness—they all collided, creating a storm in your chest that you couldn’t contain. This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. You hadn’t asked for this. You hadn’t wanted this. And yet here you were, forced to face a future you weren’t ready for, a responsibility you couldn’t escape.

Sylus knelt beside you, his expression filled with a tenderness that only made the ache in your heart worse. He didn’t look angry or frustrated, didn’t seem irritated by your outburst. Instead, he cupped your tear-streaked face, his thumb gently brushing away the dampness on your cheeks. “I know,” he murmured, his voice calm, steady. “I know it’s a lot, sweetie. And I know you’re scared.”

You shook your head weakly, wanting to protest, wanting to shout, to blame him for all of it. But the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was cry as his touch stayed constant, grounding you in a way you didn’t want to admit you needed. His presence, his warmth, the way he was handling you like something fragile—it was infuriating and comforting all at once.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Sylus continued, his voice low, almost a whisper now. “I’m right here. Let me worry about everything else. All you have to do is focus on the baby. Just focus on staying healthy, on taking care of yourself. That’s all I want. You’re not alone, I promise.”

His words wrapped around you like a blanket, both suffocating and oddly reassuring. You didn’t want to be comforted by him. You didn’t want to feel like he was on your side, like he cared about you. But the way he was looking at you—his eyes soft, his touch gentle—made it harder to resist the crack in your armor.

The sobs quieted, your breathing slowing as his hands moved to gently rub your back. “It’s okay,” he whispered again, his tone as soothing as the repetitive motion of his hand. “You’re okay.”

But were you? You didn’t feel okay. You felt trapped, lost, like the world was crumbling around you. And yet, there was this flicker of something in your chest. A tiny, almost imperceptible spark of hope that maybe…just maybe…you could survive this. You didn’t know if you’d ever be okay, but for now, you let yourself lean into his touch, your body too drained to push him away.

You felt his hand move to your stomach again, resting there lightly. “You’re doing so good,” he said softly, his voice laced with something that sounded almost like awe. “Better than you think.”

Sylus's hand lingered on your stomach, his thumb gently tracing slow circles over the fabric of your dress as if he could soothe you through the small gesture. His gaze flickered between your face and your bump, his expression an almost unreadable mixture of tenderness and determination.

“You know,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet, “in just a week, we’ll find out if it’s a boy or a girl.”

The words hit you like a second wave. A week. Seven days. The thought of knowing felt surreal, overwhelming. Another tangible piece of this puzzle that had forced its way into your life. You didn’t respond immediately, your mind swimming with the implications. Finding out the gender would make it feel even more real.

Sylus’s lips curved into a small, warm smile as if he were savoring the thought himself. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he continued, his voice low and steady. “What they might be like, who they’ll look like more…you or me.”

His eyes softened further as he looked down at you. “I’m hoping they’ll have your kindness, your strength. But maybe with my stubbornness,” he teased gently, as if trying to coax a smile from you.

You said nothing, too caught in the tidal wave of emotions crashing over you. A baby. A week from now, you’d know more about the life growing inside you, and there was no running from it. The warmth of his hand against your stomach, his voice filled with quiet excitement—it was too much. It felt suffocating and yet oddly comforting, as if a small, rebellious part of you wanted to hold onto that warmth even as the rest of you wanted to push him away.

Sylus must have noticed your silence because his hand moved from your stomach to your cheek again, gently cupping it. “I know this is a lot,” he murmured, his voice soft. “But you’re doing so well. Just one step at a time, okay?”

You swallowed hard, nodding slightly even as fresh tears welled in your eyes. You hated that you couldn’t hold it together, hated how easily he could break through your defenses with his touch and his words. But as the exhaustion weighed you down, you found yourself leaning into his hand, too drained to fight back any longer.

“A week,” you echoed weakly, the word barely a whisper. Your voice cracked, betraying the emotion bubbling just under the surface.

“A week,” Sylus repeated, his tone full of quiet promise. “And no matter what, I’ll be right here with you.”

Dr. Merrill's voice was calm and measured, a steady rhythm that filled the small, sterile room. “So far, everything looks fantastic,” he said, his gaze fixed on the screen as he maneuvered the ultrasound wand over your belly. The cool gel smeared across your skin sent shivers up your spine, but it was nothing compared to the anxiety tightening in your chest.

“The baby is progressing much faster than anticipated. Based on the measurements, it appears that your 19 almost 20 weeks despite being only 18 weeks currently."

Your stomach clenched, your mind latching onto his words like barbed wire. Faster than anticipated? How could that even be possible? What did that mean? Was there something wrong? A flurry of questions raced through your mind, fear bubbling up and threatening to overwhelm you.

Dr. Merrill seemed to sense your panic because he glanced at you, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he said quickly. “The growth is steady and healthy, which is what matters. Every pregnancy is unique, especially in cases like yours. The baby’s just growing a little ahead of schedule.”

You nodded faintly, but his words did little to ease the knot in your stomach. Your eyes flicked to Sylus, who sat beside you, his gaze unwavering on the monitor. He looked calm, composed, but there was an intensity in his eyes that made your skin prickle. This was his doing, wasn’t it? Whatever...abnormality he had passed on to the baby was now manifesting, and you were the one who had to carry it.

“Are you both still wanting to know the baby’s gender?” Dr. Merrill asked, breaking through your spiraling thoughts.

Before you could even open your mouth, Sylus responded. “Yes,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for debate.

You blinked, your throat tightening. Of course, he wanted to know. Of course, he would make the decision without asking you. You wanted to feel angry about it, but the truth was, you weren’t sure if you wanted to know. The idea of knowing made it all so much more real, more permanent, and you weren’t ready for that.

Dr. Merrill hummed, turning back to the screen. “Let me get a clearer image here,” he said, adjusting the wand slightly. “Sometimes they like to get in weird positions, and it can be hard to tell.”

The room fell silent, save for the rhythmic whooshing of the baby’s heartbeat echoing through the monitor. Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at the screen, watching the grainy, shadowy outline of the baby move. It was surreal, seeing the small, growing life inside you, knowing it was real, that it was happening.

“Ah,” Dr. Merrill said, his face lighting up with a smile. “There we go. Congratulations—it’s a girl.”

A girl.

The words hit you like a freight train. A girl. Your whole world tilted, the ground beneath you crumbling as a rush of emotions surged through you. You didn’t know how to feel, didn’t know how to process the news. A girl. An innocent, fragile little girl.

Your chest tightened painfully as the reality of it sank in. Sylus was going to be her father. This little girl, this pure and precious life, would grow up with him as her role model, her protector. The thought made your stomach churn. He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve the chance to shape her, to mold her.

He didn't deserve a girl. Or any child for that matter.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, and you had to fight to keep them from falling. You couldn’t cry here, not in front of him. But the overwhelming wave of despair was suffocating, threatening to pull you under. Despite the conflicting feelings of having this child, you still felt this innate need to protect an innocent life. But how could you, when you were trapped, powerless yourself?

Sylus’s voice cut through the haze, soft and filled with a soft tenderness. “A girl…” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the screen. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile, and for a moment, he looked almost human. Almost. “She’s perfect.”

You had to clench your fists to keep from glaring at him. Perfect? How dare he call her that? How dare he speak about her as if he had any right to feel pride, to feel joy? The tears threatened to spill over, and you bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay composed.

“She is,” Dr. Merrill agreed with a smile. “Everything looks great. Strong heartbeat, good development. You’re doing a wonderful job.”

You couldn’t respond. Your throat felt too tight, your chest too heavy. A girl. The word echoed in your mind, over and over, until it was all you could hear. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything to release the storm raging inside you. But you couldn’t. All you could do was sit there, nodding faintly, as if everything was fine.

The words "It's a girl" echoed in your mind, even as the room fell back into a quieter rhythm. Dr. Merrill continued his commentary, pointing out the baby’s developing features, but his voice faded into the background. A girl. Your world felt like it was spinning, the weight of the revelation pressing on your chest. Your hands instinctively moved to your stomach, palm resting on the faint bump that seemed more real than ever before.

As Sylus’s gaze remained fixed on the screen, a smile softening his features, you felt a chill run down your spine. Would he hurt her? Would he hurt you again? The thought struck like lightning, sharp and unwelcome, jolting you back into a reality you thought you had begun to adjust to. Sylus had always been unpredictable—dangerously calm, calculated. He claimed to love you, but that love came with chains, both literal and metaphorical.

Your pulse quickened, fear worming its way through you, coiling tightly around your heart. You thought about the punishment weeks ago, the cold detachment in his eyes even as he had cooed reassurances afterward. He had meant to teach you a lesson, or so he said. Was there a limit to what he would do? What if his twisted vision of love clashed with the reality of raising a child? Would he lash out? Would he expect you to be the perfect mother, the perfect partner, and punish you if you weren’t?

Your fingers dug into your dress, clutching the fabric as a wave of nausea swept over you—not the kind brought on by pregnancy, but the kind born of dread. You glanced at Sylus out of the corner of your eye. He looked so…tender, so impossibly gentle as he studied the ultrasound image of the baby. It was jarring, a dissonance you couldn’t reconcile. How could someone so dangerous appear so human in moments like this?

You tried to push the fear away, reminding yourself of the past few weeks. He’d been softer, more attentive, letting you get away with small defiance here and there. But was it guilt? Or manipulation? Was he lulling you into a false sense of security, only to remind you later who held the power?

The thoughts swirled, relentless, until you couldn’t take it anymore. You turned your gaze back to the screen, focusing on the tiny outline of your daughter. The tears you had fought earlier pricked your eyes again, and you blinked rapidly, willing them away. You couldn’t cry, not now. Not in front of Sylus.

“Are you okay?” His voice broke through your spiral, soft and tinged with concern.

Your throat tightened as you looked at him, his expression gentle but expectant. You forced a smile, a weak, hollow thing that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

Sylus reached out, his hand brushing yours as he gave it a small squeeze. “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” he said softly. "You’re not alone. I’m here.”

The words should have been comforting, but they only made the fear twist deeper. You managed a small nod, not trusting yourself to speak. As Dr. Merrill continued, explaining the next steps in the pregnancy and when your next appointment would be, your mind kept drifting back to the same question.

Would he hurt you again? Would he hurt her?

You weren’t sure you wanted to know the answer.

The dim light of the hospital room flickered softly, casting a pale glow over Xavier’s prone figure. The IV line in his arm fed him a steady drip of the experimental treatment Dr. Grey had promised would revolutionize recovery. The liquid in the IV bag shimmered faintly, almost unnaturally, as if alive. Xavier had been staring at it for hours now, unwilling or unable to look away.

Pain wracked his body. His bones ached, deep and constant, as though the marrow itself was burning. His broken ribs throbbed with every breath, his arm screamed with a phantom intensity, and his leg...He grit his teeth against the agony that threatened to drown him entirely. This was what he had agreed to—this hellish, unrelenting torment.

He had to keep reminding himself why.

You.

The image of your face swam before his closed eyes, your smile now tinged with shadows of fear and sadness. It was the only thing keeping him grounded as his body betrayed him. The treatment worked fast, Dr. Grey had said. But it didn’t work gently.

The first sign of its effects had come on the second day. His bruises, deep and grotesque, began to fade with alarming speed, mottled greens and yellows overtaking purples and blacks. But with that strange acceleration came a new kind of pain. The kind that started from the inside. It felt as if his bones were knitting together too quickly, the cells regenerating faster than his body could handle. His skin itched and burned around the fractures, and he found himself clawing at his casts in a desperate attempt to relieve it.

By the third day, he was writhing in his bed. A low, guttural groan escaped him as his body contorted, trying to find a position that would ease the agony. Every movement felt like needles piercing his skin, his muscles spasming involuntarily. The nurse came in once, her face pale, clearly unsure of how to handle what she was seeing.

"Mr. Xavier, should I—should I call Dr. Grey?" she stammered, her fingers hovering over the emergency button.

"No," Xavier growled through clenched teeth. His voice was hoarse, guttural, almost feral. "I can handle it."

He had to handle it. There was no choice.

By the end of the first week, the pain began to transform. It didn’t lessen exactly, but it shifted, becoming a deeper, heavier pressure. His body felt foreign, as though it was no longer his own. He stared at his hand one night, flexing the fingers that had been nearly useless days before. The movement was smoother, stronger, almost unnervingly precise.

The dreams began soon after.

They started as whispers in the dark, strange, disjointed voices calling his name. They spoke in languages he didn’t understand, yet somehow the meaning seeped into his mind. Images followed—the deep, glowing eyes of something monstrous, endless fields of bone and ash, and your voice, soft and distant, calling for him to save you. He’d wake drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest, the pain in his ribs a dull echo compared to the terror in his mind.

Dr. Grey visited him on the tenth day, his expression equal parts excitement and curiosity as he examined Xavier.

“Remarkable,” Grey murmured, his gloved hands tracing over the edges of Xavier’s still-healing ribs. “The calcification is nearly complete. The rate at which your body is mending itself is unprecedented.”

“It doesn’t feel remarkable,” Xavier muttered, his voice gravelly. He shifted in bed, wincing as a sharp jolt ran down his leg.

Dr. Grey chuckled softly. “Yes, I imagine it doesn’t. Pain is a natural byproduct of accelerated cellular regeneration. Your body is essentially rewriting itself. Old cells are being discarded, new ones are forming, stronger, more efficient. It’s fascinating.”

“Fascinating,” Xavier bit out. “Tell me this is worth it.”

Dr. Grey’s gaze met his, and for the first time, there was something almost reverent in the doctor’s expression. “Oh, it’s worth it. You’re not just healing, Mr. Xavier. You’re becoming...something more. You’re going to feel it soon.”

“Feel what?” Xavier demanded, but Grey only smiled.

By the twelfth day, he felt it.

Strength. Pure, raw strength coursing through his veins like fire. His muscles no longer felt weak and atrophied, but alive, buzzing with energy. He tested it hesitantly, clenching his hand into a fist. The simple motion made the metal frame of the hospital bed groan.

“What the hell…” he muttered, staring at his hand in disbelief.

The dreams grew more vivid that night. This time, it wasn’t just whispers and shadows—it was you. You stood before him, your hand outstretched, your eyes filled with fear and longing. But before he could reach you, Sylus appeared, his form larger than life, his presence suffocating. His laugh echoed around Xavier like a taunt.

He regularly woke up gasping, his entire body drenched in sweat.

By the two-week mark, Dr. Grey returned for another check-in, this time bringing a portable scanner to examine Xavier’s progress.

“The bone density is incredible,” Grey said, almost giddy. “You’ve surpassed even my most optimistic projections. Tell me, how does it feel?”

“Like I’m being ripped apart and stitched back together,” Xavier said flatly, though there was a hint of awe in his voice. “But…I feel stronger.”

Grey nodded, his eyes gleaming. “You are stronger. Faster, too, I imagine. Your body is adapting to a level of efficiency most humans could only dream of.”

Xavier clenched his fists, testing the strength he could feel bubbling just beneath the surface. He looked at Grey, his expression hard. “I need this to work. I need to be ready.”

“It’s working,” Grey assured him. “You’re already becoming something extraordinary.”

Xavier’s jaw tightened as he looked out the window, his resolve hardening. He would endure whatever it took. The pain, the dreams, the uncertainty—none of it mattered if it meant he could stand against Sylus and win.

And bring you back where you belonged.

The hospital room was no longer a place of recovery—it had become a crucible. Xavier sat on the edge of the bed, his posture rigid, his face etched with exhaustion and determination. His body felt alien, heavier, more robust. Each breath he took was deeper, his lungs expanding with a power he hadn’t felt in years. The IV, once a lifeline, had been removed days ago, though the marks on his arm remained, faint reminders of the transformation he was enduring.

He flexed his fingers, watching as veins bulged beneath his skin. His hand felt like it could crush steel. His leg, the one that had been shattered, now supported him with ease. He stood, testing his weight experimentally, and the floor beneath him groaned faintly. The pain, once constant and unrelenting, was now gone, replaced by an intense, simmering energy that coursed through his veins like electricity.

But this wasn’t just healing.

This was something else.

The night before, the dreams had taken a dark turn. You weren’t in them this time—Sylus was. His face loomed larger than life, his voice a haunting echo in Xavier’s mind.

“You still think you can save her?” Sylus’s laugh was sharp and cruel.

“You’re weak. I’m not.”

The dream shifted, and Xavier was in a room of mirrors. His reflection stared back at him—at first. Then it began to change, the features warping into something unrecognizable. His body grew monstrous, his skin taking on a faint shimmer, his veins glowing faintly beneath the surface. His own voice boomed, low and guttural.

“You can’t win by becoming me.”

Xavier had woken up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. But the worst part wasn’t the dream—it was the lingering sense of truth in Sylus’s words.

What even is he?

Dr. Grey entered the room now, his presence a sharp interruption to Xavier’s spiraling thoughts. The doctor’s face was alight with excitement, a clipboard in hand as he approached with brisk steps.

“Xavier,” Grey began, his voice almost reverent, “you’re beyond what I could have imagined. Your scans are perfect—better than perfect. Your bones, your muscles, even your cardiovascular system have all strengthened exponentially. You’re no longer recovering—you’re evolving.”

Xavier looked up, his expression unreadable. “What exactly am I evolving into?”

Grey hesitated, his professional composure faltering. “Something better.”

“That’s not an answer,” Xavier said, his voice low and dangerous. His hands clenched into fists, and the sound of his knuckles cracking echoed ominously in the room.

Grey took a step back, holding his clipboard defensively. “We’re still learning. But Xavier, this isn’t a curse—it’s a gift. You’re stronger, faster, more resilient than any hunter we’ve seen. And this is just the beginning.”

Xavier’s jaw tightened as he processed the words. A gift? It felt more like a curse. His body was different, yes, but his mind… his mind felt fractured. The dreams, the voices, the way he could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears—it didn't seem human. And that terrified him.

Later that night, the pain returned. It wasn’t the sharp, acute agony of before—it was deeper, more primal. His body burned from the inside out, the energy coursing through him reaching a boiling point. He doubled over, gasping for air, sweat pouring from his body as he collapsed to the floor.

“What’s…happening…” he groaned, his voice barely audible.

Dr. Grey burst into the room moments later, his expression a mixture of fascination and concern. “It’s the final phase,” he said, almost breathless. “Your body is adjusting. You need to ride it out.”

“Ride it out?” Xavier snarled, his voice laced with anger and desperation. “It feels like I’m dying.”

“You’re not,” Grey assured him, though his wide eyes betrayed his own uncertainty. “Your body is adapting to the new cellular structure. This is the turning point.”

Xavier growled, his fingers digging into the tiled floor as he fought against the searing heat that consumed him. His veins pulsed visibly beneath his skin, glowing faintly as the transformation reached its peak. He let out a guttural roar, his entire body convulsing as the energy erupted within him.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Xavier collapsed onto the floor, his chest heaving, his body drenched in sweat. He looked himself over. He still looked the same. Nothing had really changed in appearance. But he felt it—a new strength, raw and untamed, thrumming through every fiber of his being. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, the floor cracking beneath his weight as he moved.

Grey approached cautiously, his eyes wide with awe. “How do you feel?”

Xavier looked up, his eyes meeting Grey’s with a piercing intensity. “Stronger,” he said simply, his voice low and steady.

Grey nodded, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. “It worked...it fucking worked. After all this time".

Xavier stood slowly, testing his new body. He felt…unstoppable. The fear, the pain, the weakness—all of it was gone, replaced by an unshakable resolve. He clenched his fists, turning to the doctor.

"Explain what the hell just happened to me. Now".

The nursery was almost done. The soft pastel colors you’d chosen covered the walls, delicate stenciled clouds floating above the crib. The rocking chair you’d insisted on was placed just right near the window, and Sylus had made sure every little touch met your exact specifications. It should have filled you with pride—or at least contentment—but instead, your chest felt heavy. Each item in the room was a reminder of the life being built here. One you weren’t sure you could ever truly belong to.

The past month had been...interesting. For one, everything hurt. Boobs, back, legs, feet. The cravings had been intense too. Sylus had been more than happy to indulge you of course, and he never complained when you would be up all night eating snacks in bed. Your need for touch and attention had been getting...intense. You refused to have Sylus touch you in that way again though. Thankfully he had backed off. You had gotten noticeably bigger and it seemed as though was trying to be careful.

It still clawed at the back of your mind though. An unknown, festering longing. But you shoved it down.

Sylus had even gotten a custom pregnancy pillow made for you, curved just for your shape. It was incredible. And the best part, was now you had an excuse not to be so close to him in bed now. He had even joked that the pillow might replace him. If you didn't know any better you'd say that things had gotten...normal. Everyday was a internal battle in your head but on the outside? You were just his pregnant fiancé.

Nothing more.

You stood in the middle of the room, admiring the handiwork. So much time had passed. How many weeks had it been now? You had to be at least six months. A life so distant from your own, yet you’d molded yourself into the role so well. Too well. You could feel Sylus’s presence behind you, a constant weight at your back, as if he were as much a part of this space as the furniture. His gaze was heavy, observing your every move.

You masked your true feelings with a small smile, directing Luke on where to place the stuffed animals and instructing Kieran to adjust the curtains for the hundredth time.

“They’re not even, Kieran. Please fix it.”

"Yes m'aam!"

The twins didn’t protest. They simply obeyed, accustomed to your meticulous demands over the past few weeks. Sylus stood at the doorway, his sharp gaze following every movement. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, but you could feel his eyes on you like a brand.

“Actually,” you said after a moment, turning toward Sylus, “don’t you think they deserve a break? They’ve been working hard.”

Sylus raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking slightly as if amused by your suggestion. “A break? You think they need a break?”

You nodded, feigning innocence. “Of course. They’ve done a lot, and we’re almost done here. I think they’ve earned it.”

The room went silent for a moment, the tension thick as Sylus studied you. You held your breath, wondering if you had pushed too far. But then, to your surprise, he nodded.

“Fine,” he said, his voice calm but laced with suspicion. “Luke, Kieran, take an hour. Go.”

The twins didn’t need to be told twice. They quickly gathered their things and left, exchanging another glance as they passed you, their steps echoing down the hall. The silence they left behind was deafening.

You let out a small sigh, your gaze drifting to the room. It was beautiful, almost surreal. So much time had passed since you started this charade, and yet it felt like no time at all. You’d molded yourself into this role so well it almost scared you.

“This is nice,” you murmured, running your fingers along the edge of the crib. “Really nice.”

You had gotten really used to lying through your teeth.

“It is,” he replied smoothly. “Thanks to you.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you focused on the closet, noting the empty shelves waiting to be filled. That gave you an idea—a reckless one. “We should go to Linkon,” you said suddenly, turning to look at him. “There’s so much more we need. Baby supplies, clothes, toys. It’d be nice to pick some things out myself. Linkon has some really nice stores.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Sylus’s eyes darkened slightly, his brow arching as he studied you. “Linkon?” he repeated, his voice calm but laced with suspicion. “And why, exactly, would you want to go to Linkon? So you can run and take my baby to your ex-lover?”

The accusation hit you like a blow, and for a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he onto you? Had it been that obvious?"

“Seriously?” you snapped, unable to keep the frustration from bubbling over. “Do you have to see ulterior motives in everything I do? I just want to pick out some things for the baby. Linkon is my birthplace. Of course I'd want to get my own daughter's stuff from there. That’s all.”

Sylus stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. The heat of his body seemed to surround you as he gazed down at you, unblinking. “Don’t lie to me,” he said softly, but his tone was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Don’t think for a second that I actually believe you’ve accepted this.”

You felt your heart pounding in your chest, anger and fear battling for dominance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, feigning innocence, but your voice wavered.

He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “You’ve gotten good at lying, I’ll give you that. But not good enough.”

Your pulse raced as he leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming. You could feel the walls closing in, the nursery that had felt so spacious moments ago now suffocating. Your mind scrambled for something—anything—to diffuse the tension.

“I just thought it would be nice,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “To pick out a few things out for the baby myself. Isn’t that normal? Isn’t that what you want? For me to be...invested in this?”

"Are you truly invested though? “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re really thinking?” he says, his tone soft but firm, each word cutting deeper than the last.

"Lets end this little game of ours, kitten".

Your pulse quickened and you felt like your heart just dropped in your stomach. Fuck. Fuck. He had known the entire time?? The entire time?

You step back instinctively, your shoulders brushing against the wall as he closes the space between you. His presence is overwhelming, his gaze pinning you in place. “Sylus, I don’t—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice low and commanding. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I’ve given you everything. I played along. Don’t think for a second I'd be dumb enough to think you've accepted all of this the second I propose.”

Your mind races as you scramble to regain control of the situation. “Sylus, no,” you say, your voice trembling with false sincerity.

“I want to be with you,” you blurted out, the words bitter on your tongue. They felt like shards of glass cutting through your throat as you forced them out. You hated yourself for saying them, but you hated him more for putting you in this position.

He stares at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours as if he’s weighing your words. Then, slowly, he reaches for your hand, his fingers closing around yours with deliberate care. “Prove it,” he whispers, pulling your hand to his chest. “Resonate with me.”

“What?” you whisper, your breath hitching.

“I know all about your Aethor core,” he says, his voice steady but laced with a quiet intensity. “It’s controlled by your heart, isn’t it? If you want to be with me, truly, then you should have no problem resonating with me.”

The words felt like a trap closing in around you. Where did he even get information like that? Your mind raced, your chest tightening as the weight of his demand pressed down on you. His hand held yours firmly against his chest, and you could feel the faint flicker of energy radiating from him. The room seemed to shimmer, faint bursts of light and energy sparking between you as his Evol intertwined with yours.

But nothing happened.

The flickers of energy faded, the room falling into silence once more, leaving only the sound of your labored breathing and the thundering of your heart. Nothing. There was nothing.

Sylus’s jaw tightened, his fingers slowly releasing your hand as the weight of the failure settled between you. His eyes darkened, the cold edge of disappointment cutting through the air like a blade. “I knew it,” he muttered, his voice low and heavy with something deeper than anger—hurt.

“Sylus, please,” you started, but he stepped back, his expression a storm of emotion that left you reeling. Hurt. Anger. Sadness. It all seemed to blur together in the lines of his face.

“I wanted to believe you,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with bitterness. “I wanted to believe that you were finally…” He trailed off, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he turned away from you.

The weight of his disappointment crushed you, but fear and anger burned hotter in your chest. “What do you want from me, Sylus?” you snapped, your voice breaking. “You think I can just forget everything you’ve done? Everything you’ve taken from me?”

He turned back to you, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “I’ve given you everything you could ever need,” he said, his voice rising. “I’ve protected you. I’ve provided for you. All I’ve asked is for you to let go of the past and accept what’s here, what’s now. You can’t even give me that.”

You feel your own emotions boiling over, the weight of his accusations too much to bear. “Well maybe if you weren't a fucking freak who kidnaps girls off the street and impregnates them, maybe you'd have someone that loves you!” you say tears streaming down your face.

There's nothing but silence. Sylus says nothing, unmoving. You can feel his irritation radiating off of him but he stays still.

"Is that how you really feel?"

"Yes. There hasn't been a day where I haven't hated you. I hate you. All want to do is murder you right now."

Sylus’s movements were slow and deliberate, each step toward you carrying a weight that made your breath catch in your throat. His expression remained unreadable, his eyes locked onto yours with a calmness that only made your panic worse. Then, to your utter horror, he reached to his side and pulled out a sleek, black gun, holding it firmly in his hand.

Your heart slammed against your ribcage as he extended it toward you, pressing the cool metal into your trembling hands. "W-what are you—" you stammered, your voice breaking as you stared at the weapon.

His voice was low, steady, almost too calm. “You said you wanted to murder me,” he said, his gaze never wavering from yours. “Here’s your chance.”

Your heart pounds erratically in your chest, your entire body trembling as you grip the weapon tighter. “Sylus…” you whisper, your voice breaking.

His hands come up slowly, his movements deliberate as he guides yours, positioning your finger over the trigger. “I’ll make it easy for you,” he murmurs, his gaze steady and calm, but his words are laced with an unsettling challenge. “End it. If you hate me that much, take your shot.”

“What...!” you cry, shaking your head as tears stream freely down your face. “Sylus, stop!” But his grip on your hands is iron, unyielding, as he guides the barrel steadily to his chest.

“This is what you wanted,” he says softly, his voice carrying a mix of defiance and something heartbreakingly tender. “To kill me, isn’t it?”

The room feels like it’s spinning. Your chest tightens, your breath shallow and erratic as his words twist deeper into your mind.

Do I hate him? Do I really want this?

Your thoughts clash violently, a storm of anger, fear, and confusion tearing through you.

“You’re fucking crazy,” you sob, your voice cracking. “I hate you. I fucking hate you!” The words leave your mouth like venom, but even as you say them, a flicker of doubt lurks in the back of your mind.

Do I hate him enough for this?

Sylus doesn’t flinch. His gaze is steady, his eyes locked onto yours, filled with an unnerving combination of determination and something heartbreakingly tender. He presses the barrel harder against his chest, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Then prove it. Pull the trigger."

“I...wait,” you choke, shaking your head as sobs rack your body. The gun feels impossibly heavy in your hands, like it’s tethered to the weight of the entire world. “No, I can’t...I can’t do this.”

“Why not?” he challenges, his grip firm but not forceful, his words cutting deep. “You’ve said it over and over—how much you hate me, how much you want me gone. Do it. End it.”

Your mind is in chaos. You see flashes of everything—his cruelty, his control, his moments of tenderness. You hate him. You hate him. Don’t you?

But then why does your hand tremble so much? Why does your heart ache as you look into his eyes, calm and accepting? He deserves this. He deserves this, doesn’t he?

"Do you want some help?" he asks, seemingly unaffected by your tears.

“Sylus,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, shaking your head. “Please…stop.”

He ignores you and simply gives you a small smile, his eyes boring into yours. "I'd rather die by your hands anyways".

Before you can process his words, his finger joins yours on the trigger, and in a single, horrifying moment, he pulls it. The deafening crack of the gunshot echoes in the room, reverberating in your ears as Sylus staggers back.

The recoil jolts through your arms, and the force sends the gun clattering to the floor. Sylus staggers back a step, his hand clutching his chest where the bullet tore through him. Blood blooms against his shirt, dark and stark against the fabric, spreading rapidly.

Your knees hit the floor as a strangled scream rips from your throat. “No! No, no, no…Sylus!” you cry, crawling toward him, your hands reaching out instinctively. “You can’t die…You can’t die!” Your voice cracks with desperation as you press your palms to his chest, trying to stop the flow of blood. “Are you fucking crazy?!”

His breathing is shallow, his body warm as blood pulses out of him. You feel your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, your vision blurring as you sob uncontrollably. “Sylus, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking as you clutch at him. “I didn’t mean it… I didn’t mean what I said…I'm sorry. Please I'm sorry.”

And then, just as your hands grow slick with his blood, something impossible happens. The wound begins to close. Slowly, impossibly, the torn flesh knits itself back together, the blood retreating as if drawn back into his body. The hole in his chest seals completely, leaving only unbroken, unmarred skin.

Your mouth drops in horror, your mind spinning, every rational thought crumbling under the weight of what you’ve just witnessed. “Wh-what…what are you?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Sylus sits up slowly, brushing your hands aside with a faint smile. “Yours,” he says softly, as if the answer should have been obvious.

You scramble back, your body trembling as you struggle to process what you’ve just witnessed. “No…no, this isn’t possible,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You can’t… you shouldn’t…”

“Does this show you,” he murmurs, leaning closer as his voice drops to a soothing tone. “That I’m not going anywhere? No matter how much you fight me, no matter how much you think you hate me. I’m here. Always. You wanted to take my life, now you've taken it.”

"I-I...you're alive? After getting shot...?"

You sink even lower to the ground, beginning to tremble on your side. Relief, confusion, distress all encompass your mind. Your hands fly to your face, trembling as you try to block out the sight of him, the impossibility of what just happened. Hot tears spill freely, soaking your palms, and the sound of your ragged breathing fills the suffocating silence of the room.

What are you?

The words burn in your mind, a question you can’t force past your lips. You shake your head, trying to push away the horror of his unbroken gaze, his calm acceptance of the bullet meant to end him. The very same man who pressed a gun to his own chest and showed you the futility of your anger.

He's actually a monster...? A real monster...?

The tears come harder, your body shaking as the truth of your situation sinks in deeper than ever before. You’re trapped with a man who defies the very laws of life and death. You can’t fight him, can’t win, can’t escape. And now…now you carry his child.

Your hands drift to your belly, the slight curve that has grown over the past weeks now feeling heavier than it ever has. A new wave of anguish wells up in you as your mind spirals. What kind of child has he put inside you? Is this baby even human?

The thought fills you with dread, and you cry harder, burying your face in your hands as the room blurs around you. You can still feel Sylus’s presence, his eyes on you, unwavering. But you can’t look at him. You can’t bear to see the man who holds you captive, the man who claims to love you, the man who just proved he’s more than a simple man.

The sound of his steady breath fills the room, a sharp contrast to your sobbing. But then, as you finally look up through tear-blurred eyes, you see it—his chest, the place where the bullet tore through, now whole. The blood remains on his shirt, a stark, visceral reminder, but the flesh beneath is unbroken, smooth. Impossible.

Your breath hitches, and a new wave of sobs wracks your body. What kind of monster is he? What kind of thing are you trapped with? You shake your head, trembling, as you bury your face in your hands again.

You don’t hear him approach, but then you feel it—his hands, warm and steady, gently cupping your shoulders to lift you up onto your feet. His touch doesn’t feel cold or monstrous. It feels human, tender even, and it only makes your sobs harder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice low and thick with emotion. “I had to show you. I had to…” There’s something fragile in his tone, almost pleading, as if he’s begging for you to understand.

His hands slide down your arms, wrapping around you as he pulls you close. You stiffen instinctively, your mind screaming at you to pull away, but your body is weak, wrung out from the flood of emotions and the unbearable reality pressing down on you.

“You’re scared,” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. “I know. But you don’t have to be. You’ll never have to be afraid of me harming you, sweetie. Not ever.” His arms tighten around you, his warmth radiating through your shaking form. “I’ll protect you. I’ll protect her.”

His words break through the storm of your sobs, a reminder of the life growing inside you—the child he forced upon you, the child who’s part of him. The tears don’t stop, but they shift, mingling with a deep, guttural dread.

He pulls back slightly, his hands moving to cup your tear-streaked face. His thumbs brush softly against your cheeks, wiping away the tears. “I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “I know I scared you, but I needed you to see that no matter what you do, I’ll always come back to you.”

You stare at him, your mind a swirling storm of emotions—fear, relief, anger, confusion, and, beneath it all, something you don’t want to name. Something terrifying.

“Why?” you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible. “Why would you show me something like this?”

His gaze softens, and he leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “Because I love you,” he says simply. “And I’ll never let anything take you from me. Nothing, not even death can keep us apart.”

You feel the weight of his words, their suffocating finality, and you squeeze your eyes shut, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. You hate him. You hate him so much. But in this moment, with his hands so steady and his voice so soothing, you feel yourself falling apart, breaking into pieces in the arms of the man who shattered your life.

You cry against him until your chest aches, until the tears won’t come anymore, until you’re left hollow and trembling in his arms. Your breaths slow, but your heart still pounds, fear and confusion swirling in your mind.

And then you feel it.

A small, sudden flutter in your stomach, faint but unmistakable. Your breath catches, your body freezing as the sensation repeats, soft yet insistent, like a tiny whisper from within.

Your hand flies instinctively to your belly, fingers trembling as they press against the fabric of your dress. The baby kicks again, stronger this time, as if responding directly to your overwhelming emotions. The realization crashes over you like a tidal wave, and fresh tears pour down your face, your vision blurring under the weight of this new reality.

She can feel it.

Your baby—this innocent life inside of you—is aware. Aware of your turmoil, your anguish, your fear. She’s not even born yet, and already she’s being touched by the chaos swirling around you. The thought steals the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping in the stillness of the room.

She can feel everything.

The truth sears through you, sharp and unrelenting. You feel your body quaking, your hand pressing harder against your stomach as though you can shield her, protect her from the storm you’ve unwittingly pulled her into. You can’t let her feel this. You can’t let her suffer for your despair.

You close your eyes tightly, willing yourself to take deep, even breaths. It’s okay. You’re okay.

The words echo in your mind like a mantra, shaky but desperate, as you fight to calm your racing heart. You try to project it outward, to send a wave of reassurance down to her, to let her know she’s safe, even if you don’t fully believe it yourself. You don’t know how to love this baby yet, not completely, not with everything you’re carrying. But if there’s one thing you can do, one thing you have the strength for, it’s this: you can at least let her feel that everything is okay.

She deserves that much.

But as your breathing steadies and the kicking subsides, replaced by a faint, comforting stillness, the weight of the same question slams into you once more. Your mind spirals with questions, each one darker and heavier than the last. But one in particular prevails.

What kind of monstrosity is he?

Your gaze shifts toward Sylus, who’s gazing down at you, his face a mixture of concern and an unsettling calm. He’s too much—too strong, too powerful, too inhuman. His very presence warps reality, bends it around him in ways that leave you gasping for air. He isn’t a man, not really. He’s something else entirely, something that defies everything you thought you knew about the world.

“Sylus…what are you?”

The question echos unanswered in the stillness of the room, their weight pressing down on you as the last shreds of your hope slip further from reach.

[zara-renata]

Hi, I write fanfiction about Love and Deepspace. Currently Sylus-dominant (heh), although I love and appreciate most of the LIs. Full summaries and tags are in each link.

The Sylus series

Part 1 Alike and cornered beast, Sylus's POV | ao3

I was desperate for Sylus's point of view during the first time that MC meets him in the Alike and Cornered Beast chapters of Long-Awaited Revelry. I wanted to know why he touches MC so reverently but also quite brutally, so I spent a lot of time thinking about possibilities and this is the result.

Part 2 Roleplay, undercurrents, and rising curtain, Sylus's POV | ao3

MC has PTSD from chapter 4 (you know the one), and no one can convince me otherwise, so I re-wrote the auction bits from Sylus's POV to fix this grievous oversight, because I am also firmly convinced he is a champ at handling MC's trauma.

Part 3 No way out, revised | ao3

I thought that MC was too mean to Sylus in his 4 star No Way Out card, and I didn't like it, so I fixed it. I mean, I rewrote how it went like a proper rabid fan.

Part 4 Datura tea, or how all you want is to get some sleep | ao3

You're suffering from insomnia due to untreated PTSD (probably, I don't know, I'm not a doctor or a therapist) from your family getting, well, exploded, and the longer this goes on, the sloppier you become in combat and just existing, and a bad idea is born.

Part 5 Sylus gets a headache | ao3

Sylus has secured the promise from you that he can use your place as a safe house if he's in the area and needs it. Sylus's definition of "need", it turns out, might be different than your own, as illustrated by the first time he shows up unannounced at your door.

Part 6 Wine time with Sylus | ao3

Sylus invites himself over, helps himself to your first aid kit and your kitchen, manipulates you into tasting wine with him, discusses his latest business venture, and gifts you more than one present before he's good and ready to finally leave.

Part 7 Sylus's guide to hiring, or Wine time with Sylus: his POV | ao3

Sylus mulls over all the data he has managed to collect regarding his sweet little hunter so far, and spends some time considering mistakes he's made and his plans for the future. He also hires a new employee and is required to teach the twins to mind their manners in front of guests he's trying to intimidate.

Part 8 Not my type | ao3

Sylus pesters you on your day off while you're at the arcade until you agree to "lend your talents" to him for the evening. So of course you show up at the designated location only to discover it's a nightclub, and you're dressed for a murder, but not on the dance floor.

Part 9 Sylus makes a deal | ao3

Sylus answers some questions, receives dating advice from a dubious source, makes a deal you can't refuse, receives a birthday invitation, and plans to take you home for the night.

Part 10 Even the rocks on the roadside in the N109 Zone could tell | ao3

Sylus makes one final miscalculation. You wake up from a nightmare in a place you weren't ready to revisit. Sylus has to reckon with the inevitable consequences of how he treated you when you first met him, but you're paying the higher price.

Part 11 Even the rocks on the roadside - Sylus's POV | ao3

Sylus tries to get some paperwork done in his office while you sleep. He receives a call that turns his night upside down and makes him regret some strategic choices he's made up until this point in conquering your heart.

Part 12 Q&A with Sylus Qin | ao3

Sylus cares for your injuries and feeds you a meal. After he shows you a part of his home that you didn't know existed, you finally ask him why he was so cruel to you when you first met him. Sylus does his best to answer with as much honesty as he can right now.

Part 13 How you learned to stop worrying and embrace Sylus Qin | ao3

Sylus reveals his latest little plot and makes you an offer that you ultimately can't refuse. More lying around talking in different beds with Sylus Qin.

Part 14 The dream, the tie, the tour, the dream | ao3

You have a good dream, get a guided tour of Onychinus's base by the chaos twins, talk yourself into being sad again, and then have another good dream

Part 15 The right hand, the left hand, the heart of Sylus Qin | ao3

Sylus meets with his legal counsel while the twins give you a tour of the base, you wake up from a dream, Sylus wastes some eggs, you attempt to get to know Sylus better, and you have your first 'date' with Sylus Qin.

Part 16 The pool | ao3

You dream, you do some art, you go for a swim, Sylus destroys part of his office, you discover the hot tub, you're close to catching a clue. A 'morning' in the life at Onychinus HQ.

Part 17 And everything that is now already existed then | ao3

Sylus shows you his favorite parts of his house, you are haunted by a strange feeling of familiarity, you spend some time with the twins and Noah, you learn about the bet they had going.

Part 18 Before you came, things were as they should be | ao3

You spend a lot of time wrestling with questions of morality, there's more poetry because the author has no self control, you may or may not burn out Mephisto's eye optics with your antics trying to provoke Sylus, Noah and the twins drag you to the club.

Sylus standalones

Control: a Sylus series interlude | ao3

You are feeling a bit depressed after completing a mission that didn't go 100% the way you wanted. Mephisto, and then Sylus, pay you a visit to cheer you up.

Creature Feature with Sylus Qin | ao3

You and Sylus dress up for a Halloween gala. This is a short little Sylus series interlude, occurring after these idiots finally get together.

Goodcat code, or how you learned to care for your catboy | ao3

Your crimelord boyfriend disappears for a week, you make yourself sad listening to breakup songs, you learn that he got turned into a catboy, you get assigned a mission on the worst cruise ship ever, undercover shenanigans ensue.

Would you love me if I were a worm drabble

Xavier

Sleepy time with Xavier | ao3

You suffer from chronic fatigue and worry that Xavier is only placating you when he says it's fine on the occasions you're too exhausted to follow through on plans together. On one such bad day, he reassures you in a way that you can no longer doubt.

[novaursa]

Valyrian Bride (Continuation)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon. 

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: Final Chapter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

Cregan Stark walked with the dragon princess by his side, feeling the eyes of his men and household upon them. There was a sense of pride that welled up inside him as they entered Winterfell’s stone halls. Not pride in himself, but in the fact that this fierce, regal woman—this vision of Old Valyria—was now his betrothed. It was no small thing to command the presence of such a creature, both her and the dragon she rode. The weight of that responsibility settled on his shoulders, but rather than burden him, it gave him a sense of purpose.

As they crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, the murmurs of those gathered inside came to a halt. Servants, bannermen, and even the most hardened of his household retainers stared openly. They weren’t accustomed to such grandeur, and even in a land where strength was admired, there was something otherworldly about the princess. Her silver-gold hair, the grace of her movements, and the quiet power that seemed to radiate from her drew their eyes like moths to flame.

The warmth of the hearthfire flickered against the cold stone walls, but in the presence of the dragon princess, it felt as though the heat came from her. She walked beside Cregan with an ease that belied her strength, her violet eyes scanning the hall as if she were already its lady, its queen.

Cregan couldn’t help but glance at her from the corner of his eye, watching as she moved like liquid fire, confident and unyielding. He could see the tension in the shoulders of his bannermen, the uncertainty in the eyes of the women who served the household. They were all taken aback, and Cregan couldn’t blame them. He had lived his whole life without seeing anyone like her, and he knew, without doubt, that no one here had ever stood before the true blood of Old Valyria until now.

She was a flame in the middle of a winter storm, a vivid contrast to the world of stone and snow that surrounded her.

“I trust the halls of Winterfell meet your expectations, my lady?” Cregan asked, his voice low but carrying in the stillness of the hall. He wanted to draw her into conversation, not only to ease his own nerves but to learn more of this woman who would soon be his wife.

She turned her gaze to him, a small smile curling on her lips, though it was hard to read the full depth of her thoughts. “It is as grand as the tales say, Lord Stark. A stronghold of honor and tradition.”

Her voice was steady, yet it held an edge to it, as if there was always something more behind her words. It was as though she was measuring everything, assessing him, the people around her, and the place she would soon call home.

“I trust it will serve as more than just a stronghold for you, my lady,” Cregan replied, his eyes meeting hers directly, a subtle challenge of his own. “Winterfell is now your home, and you are its future lady.”

The princess didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Winterfell will be my home, but I have a home in the sky as well. I belong to both land and air, Lord Stark. Do not forget that.” There was a softness to her words, but it was clear. She may belong to the North by marriage, but her heart would always be tied to the skies, to her dragon.

Cregan inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I doubt anyone will forget, least of all after the sight of Vaetrix in our skies," he said, and then added, more softly, "She is a magnificent creature."

The princess's expression shifted slightly, pride mingled with affection as she spoke of her dragon. “Vaetrix is the daughter of Meleys, the Red Queen herself. Her lineage is one of fire and might. She carries the blood of dragons who have seen empires rise and fall, just as I do.”

Cregan’s brows raised slightly at the mention of Meleys. He had heard of the Red Queen, the swift and powerful dragon that had once belonged to Princess Rhaenys. Her reputation was legendary. To think that Vaetrix was her offspring made the connection between the princess and her dragon even more profound. "The Red Queen," Cregan murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "Your bond with her must be strong, then. I imagine not just any rider could command such a lineage."

Her eyes gleamed in response, as if the conversation about Vaetrix sparked something deeper within her. "A dragon and their rider are bound by more than blood, Lord Stark. We share a soul, a heart. Vaetrix and I have flown together since I was a girl. She is my closest companion, my fiercest ally."

There was a tenderness in her tone now, something almost protective. It made Cregan understand, even more clearly, the depth of the bond between her and the dragon. In a way, it reminded him of the wolves of his house—loyal, fierce, and bound by an unspoken connection. But this bond was greater, stronger, and far more dangerous. He respected it, even admired it.

“Then she will be an ally to the North as well,” Cregan said, his voice filled with conviction. "As you will be."

The princess turned her eyes back to him, her gaze sharp and knowing. "The North has been promised my fire, my lord. And I keep my promises."

Her words were more than just a vow—they were a reminder of the power she wielded, the power she had been born with. Cregan nodded in response, feeling a strange comfort in that certainty. He knew, without question, that she was someone who would fight with all her strength, for her family, her dragon, and soon, for the North.

They continued walking, Cregan leading her deeper into Winterfell’s great halls, where more of his household waited in silent anticipation. Every eye was upon them as they passed, but the princess seemed unbothered by the attention, as if she had long since grown used to the weight of expectation. Cregan noticed the way people parted in her presence, not out of fear, but out of reverence. She was the embodiment of fire, and all knew they were in the presence of something greater than themselves.

As they reached the heart of Winterfell, Cregan paused, turning to face her fully. “There will be a feast tonight in your honor. A celebration of our alliance.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “It will be modest compared to what you may be accustomed to, but we take pride in what the North can offer.”

The princess’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of warmth in her eyes. “The North has already offered me more than I expected. I look forward to seeing its hospitality, Lord Stark.”

There was no mockery in her voice, no hint of the condescension he might have expected from someone raised in the splendor of court life. Instead, there was a genuine respect, a willingness to embrace the new life she was entering. Cregan nodded, feeling that strange mix of pride and anticipation once more.

As the evening drew near, Cregan knew the feast would be only the beginning. He had secured an alliance, but in the dragon princess, he had gained something far more—a partner of equal strength, whose fire would one day burn alongside his own.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the low hum of voices as the feast unfolded, the hearths were burning high to accommodate a dragon princess in it. Platters of roasted meats and winter greens filled the long tables, while horns of ale and wine passed freely from hand to hand. The air was thick with the scent of food and the crackle of the great fires, but despite the bustle of the hall, all eyes kept drifting toward the high table, where Lord Cregan Stark and his betrothed sat in full view of his bannermen, retainers, and household.

Cregan himself sat straighter than usual, though his posture seemed almost relaxed, as if he were entirely at ease in this moment. His eyes often flicked to the princess seated beside him, watching her as she navigated the curious gazes of the Northmen with the same grace she had displayed all day. There was something undeniably striking about her here, amidst the rustic grandeur of Winterfell’s Great Hall—her silver-gold hair gleaming in the firelight, her violet eyes calm yet ever watchful.

When the time came for toasts, the hall fell into a deep silence as Cregan stood, his horn of ale in hand. The attention of every man, woman, and servant shifted to him, their lord. His voice, strong and sure, carried through the hall.

“Tonight,” he began, “we honor more than just a union between two houses. We honor the blood of dragons and the fire that has joined with the winter.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on the princess beside him. “The daughter of Princess Rhaenyra, the only daughter of House Targaryen, has come to the North. She is now our guest, and soon, she will be my wife.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, but it was tempered by the awe that still hung in the air. Many had never seen a woman like her, let alone one of royal Valyrian descent. To them, she was more legend than flesh and blood.

Cregan raised his horn higher, his eyes never leaving hers. “To the Lady of Fire,” he said, his voice full of pride. “To the daughter of Rhaenyra!”

The hall erupted in cheers, the echo of voices bouncing off the ancient stone walls. Horns were raised, clashing together in raucous celebration as the Northmen embraced their lord’s words. And yet, even amidst the noise, Cregan saw the way his men stole glances at the princess, admiration clear in their eyes.

The princess raised her own horn in response, a subtle smile playing on her lips as she inclined her head toward Cregan. "To the North," she said, her voice soft but carrying through the hall with a clarity that commanded attention. "And to the strength of its people."

The words were simple, but they carried weight. The hall seemed to settle after that, the conversations resuming with renewed vigor as the feast carried on. Yet Cregan’s focus remained fixed on her.

As the noise of the hall filled the space around them, Cregan leaned slightly toward her, his voice low so that their conversation would remain private. “You’ve impressed them already,” he remarked, his eyes glinting with a rare hint of amusement. “It takes much to win the respect of Northmen, but I see it in their eyes.”

The princess turned to him, her violet gaze meeting his with a certain calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity there too. “I hadn’t expected to win their respect so soon,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “But I do not think it is me they respect so much as the idea of the alliance—of what we represent.”

Cregan considered her words, his brow furrowing slightly as he mulled them over. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but it’s more than just an alliance. They see you, a dragon’s daughter, and they understand the power that you carry. You’re no simple marriage prize.”

Her lips curved upward, just a fraction. “Is that how you see me, Cregan Stark? A symbol of power?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low in his throat. “I see you as many things, princess. Power is just one of them.”

Her smile grew more visible now, and there was something lighter in her expression, as if she were pleased by his words, even if she did not show it openly. “And what else do you see, my lord?”

Cregan leaned in just a fraction more, his voice dropping. “I see a woman with a mind as sharp as the blade she wears. I see a rider whose bond with her dragon makes her stronger than any queen. And,” his eyes softened, the faintest glimmer of admiration in them, “I see someone who will stand beside me, not behind me.”

She studied him for a moment, as if weighing the truth of his words, and then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good,” she said, her tone firm but carrying an edge of warmth. “Because I have no intention of standing behind anyone.”

Cregan allowed himself a smile then, something rare and unguarded. It felt easy, natural in her presence, something he hadn’t anticipated. She wasn’t just a symbol of fire and dragons—she was alive, filled with strength and grace in equal measure, and with each passing moment, Cregan found himself looking forward to what the future might bring with her at his side.

For the rest of the evening, Cregan’s mood remained light, his smiles more frequent than anyone could remember seeing before. The hall, filled with food, laughter, and music, felt brighter somehow, as if the fire she had brought with her from the skies had seeped into Winterfell itself. There was a warmth there that was new, a change carried on dragon’s wings.

Years later, when scholars and storytellers recalled that night, they would write about how Lord Cregan Stark, known for his stoic nature, had smiled more during that feast than any had seen before, save for two other occasions—on his wedding day, and when the first child of the Dragon Princess was born in the cold halls of Winterfell. But for now, the legend was only beginning.

As the feast wore on, Cregan turned to her again, unable to resist asking, “Do you think Vaetrix feels at ease here in the cold North? It’s far from the warmth of Dragonstone.”

She tilted her head, her silver-gold hair catching the firelight once more. “Vaetrix is not concerned with warmth or cold,” she replied. “She is her mother’s daughter, bred for strength and flight, and the North’s cold will not trouble her. Besides,” her smile grew, more playful this time, “she knows I will not be far from her.”

Cregan nodded. “She is a creature of legend, like her rider,” he said softly.

The princess turned her eyes to him, the faintest flush of warmth in her cheeks. For a moment, the fire of her Valyrian blood met the unyielding strength of the North in Cregan’s gaze, and in that shared moment, both knew their bond would be one of legend.

The fire had come to Winterfell, and it would burn for generations to come.

[sl-vega]

💌 PROJECT: LOVE LIASON!

🌷 - a highschool social media au ll scaramouche x fem! reader -🌷

𝜗𝜚 SYNOPSIS: you're head over heels in love with childe, and scaramouche is (begrudingly) smitten with his "rival" mona. and, by sheer divine coincidence, you both happen to be the best friends of each other's objects of affection, so you strike a deal with each other. if scaramouche helps you ask out childe, you'll set him up with mona. so with the annual spring formal right around the corner, the two of you vow to be each other's wingmans so you can end your junior year on a high note (and maybe even kick off your senior year with a new relationship!). between, scheming, planning, and researching, you and scaramouche find yourselves developing a new relationship via helping each other out. now the real question is whether this friendship will remain as a pure platonic bond, or blossom into something more?

genre: strangers to friends to lovers, friends/classmates to lovers, pair the suitors, smau, high school au, modern au, social media au, crack, comedy

warnings: swearing, crude humour, potentially ooc, keys/kms jokes, suggestive/sensitive content, pictures used are not meant to depict y/n's physical appearance

status: ongoing

side ships: navia x chlorinde

additional notes:

this smau is heavily inspired by toradora (finished it recently and I adored it)

this will get more frequently updated (once the first chapter drops) as I have already made several chapters in advance

taglist is open! as per usual, just send me an ask or comment if you want to be tagged!

💌 means that the chapter contains written material!

dividers by @cafekitsune a + @anitalenia

ᥫ᭡ STARRING:

0.1; retired theater kids // 0.2 abandonment issues personified

PROJECT LOVE LIASON IS IN ACTION!

00-PROLOGUE; fate hates me

ACT ONE; we wing-manning?

01; we need to stop meeting like this - [💌] // 02; stalker! // 03; tag along squad! // 04; next door nuisance - [💌] // 05; mixed signals // 06; girl talk! - [💌] // 07; smitten schemers // 08; operation: first (study) date! - [💌] // 09; mission failed successfully // 10; repaying the favour - [💌] // 11; it's not stupid if it works // 12; progress! // 13; wiki how to flirt with your crush - [💌] // 14; it's giving wattpad // 15; recon + some reconciliation // 16; free vacation?!

ACT TWO; cuz baby, you're a firework!!

17; simulanka! // 18; packing while procrastinating // 19; plotting coincidence // 20; fancy meeting you here - [💌] // 21; abort mission! - [💌] // 22; on board! // 23; taking flight // 24; injustice on air // 25; falling for you (literally) - [💌] // 26; crappy sky-fi // 27; (arguably) safe landing - [💌] // 28; checking in + checking out // 29; the most magical place on earth!™ - [💌] // 30; consumerism core!!! // 31; how do you talk to your crush? (asking for a friend) - [💌] // 32; mentally preparing // 33; kill me now - [💌] // 34; I owe you one // 35; foiled plans - [💌] // 36; - // 37; -

ACT THREE; pair the suitors

[MORE TBA]

🎀 - taglist!;

@agaygothicmushroom @035814 @freyao7, @sketcheeee @tsukimara @shyentsmissingink @peachystea @aries-afk @lxkeeeee @sakiimeo @sugxryratz @shutingstar @lalaloveallmydays @bellflower1257 @haruumei @kichiyosh1 @littlemisssatanist @dee-zbignuts @candyescapism @crimxeorcremeexistspeacefully @h3ll0-kitty-4lly @franaby @la-cursii @heusalettle @automaticpatroltragedy, @c4ttheart, @meigalaxy @misswetty @introvertaku02, @daiyunjin @trulyylee @lily-lmao @kazumiku @kunikuzushis-darling @vitanye @livelaughlovekuni @imnotyizhuo @akagi0021 @rook-kisser @mitsuribe @scaraenthusiast1 @chemiru @193i3 @matolka @tamikahoshiko @jayzioxx @samyayaya @dontmindtheevie @v3ntis-lyr3

[xan-izme]

Dubble Life 12 (ATSV x Reader x Batfam)

A/n: Just a chapter full of fluff for now(Or is it 🤡)

Part 11, Part 13

You stared at the therapist with a blank expression. Irritation was clear in your eyes. Your defining silence and small glare did not affect the therapist.

"I was told by your father, that this isn't your first session with a therapist." The therapist, Mrs. Dean spoke with a firm yet soft tone. She very beautiful. Maybe in her early to mid 30's. Her hair up in a neat bun, but some curls managed to poke out in a graceful way.

". . . yeah." You gave a short response.

"Well, you already know the drill. So, I'll dive right in. You originally lived in New York. How are you adjusting to Gotham." Mrs. Dean crossed one leg over the other while waiting for your response.

"It's okay." Your eyes seemed to be more interested in looking around the office.

Mrs. Dean nods and intertwined her fingers while letting her hands lay on her lap. "And school? I've heard your practically a genius."

"I guess." You spot a hand drawn picture on Mrs. Deans desk along with a little teddy bear. There was a small corner that looked like it was for kids. It had dolls. Other types of toys. A small table for kids.

Mrs. Dean noticed you looking at her little kid corner. "I work with a lot of kids that your age and younger. It helps the younger kids feel more comfortable."

You nod and let out a small thoughtful hum and focused your eyes back on Mrs. Dean.

Mrs. Dean gives you a small smile. "Back to you."

Bruce had put you into therapy. Which you were not happy about of course. You didn't need therapy. It made you feel weak, and it's not like you can tell your therapist everything. Most of your trauma was due to your life as Spiderwoman.

You got back from your session. Walking into the manor your hit with the smell of fresh baked sweets. You get curious and walked into the kitchen where you see Alfred baking and Damian doing his homework on the counter.

"Hmm. Smells good." You spoke as you walked into the kitchen.

"Sister!" Damian spoke up. His tone with slight excitement. You walked over and ruffled Damians head. "Hey cupcake." You mumbled with a small soft smile. Damian turned his head up to you as you wrapped your arm around the youngers shoulder.

"Ah, Ms. Y/n. How was your therapy session?" Alfred spoke as he pulled out the first batch of cookies from the oven.

"Oh, it was great. Had a wonderful time." Your tone was clear with sarcasm.

"Seriously?" Damian piped up, seemingly not taking your sarcasm into note. You chuckled as you smiled down at Damian. "Your funny cupcake." You ruffled his head once more and smuggled him with a hug and kisses.

"Ugh- stop!" Damian struggled to push you away. You were surprisingly strong. (He wasn't actually even trying)

Alfred watched the sweet scene in front of him with s fond smile upon his face.

Jason walked in. Looking like he just woke up with messy hair while wearing boxers.

"Where's my kisses?" Jason spoke up while staring at you and Damian. You and Damian frown at the sight of Jason.

"I can punch you." You gave the older man a "sweet" smile as you held Damian close to you.

Jason flipped you off while Alfred had his backed turned. Which you and Damian returned by flipping him off together.

You and Damian were watching a drama show while eating popcorn. It was fairly silent. Damian had his head on your shoulder while you had your head on his.

". . .Sister." Damian spoke up in a quite tone while you two kept your eyes on the tv. You let out a small hum of acknowledgement.

"Do you hate it here?"

Damians question made you pause. You lean your head away from his to look at him. Your brows furrowed. "Why would you think that cupcake?''

Damian stared up at you, his expression a little sad but mainly conflicted. Wondering if he should tell you what was on his mind. Worried if he does say what was on his mind, whatever you respond with might confirm with what he asked. "Well. . . I overheard the argument you and father had."

You let out a sigh while turning your head away, clenching your jaw. "Right. That."

Damian frowns and held his head down. You turn your head back to stare down at Damian with small frown. ". . . Hey. Look at me."

Damian slowly looks up at you. Expecting some sort of deep frown or a sad look on your face. But he's greeted with your usual soft smile.

"What I said to Bruce was. . . wrong. I didn't mean it. But most importantly. I don't want you thinking I hate being here. I got you here with me, what's to hate?" You pinched his nose and hugged him. Damian hugs back while letting out a small sigh of relief.

While hugging Damian, you glanced down and see a bruise underneath back of his shirt. You frown and lean away from the hug to tug on the shirt and get a better look at the bruise.

"What is this?" Your tone turned protective. Damian was quick to pull away.

"Nothing! . . . I bumped into a bookshelf pretty hard in the library yesterday."

"Oh. . . Okay." You still had a small doubtful look on your face. A still a little worried.

A week goes by and your back in Ms. Deans office.

"So, do you have any friends?" Mrs. Deans asked with a small smile.

You were seated across from Mrs. Dean. "Yeah."

Mrs. Dean nods. "You don't talk much about them."

"They don't live here in Gotham. But we keep in contact." You were referring to your friends in the Society. It was a lie about keeping in contact part. Of course, you knew you were the problem for that.

"I see. Have you tried to make friends here in Gotham? In school or outside of school?"

You shook your head with a small bitter smile. "A lot of people already know I'm Bruce's daughter. Hard to make friends who, actually want to be friends. You know?"

Mrs. Dean nods in understanding before asking another question. "I'm sure there are a lot of pros to being Bruce Wayne's daughter."

You let out a chuckle. "Yeah. I got a little brother. A dad. Money. I was broke as hell."

Mrs. Dean chuckled at the last part.

"Anything I want I could ask for. I can get it. . . But sometimes I want go to the past."

Mrs. Dean's brow raised at your words. "Now why is that."

You paused for a moment. You had a faraway look on your face as you spoke. "Everything before. . ." You sighed as your mind wondered back to her.

"Never mind." You mumbled as you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. Mrs. Dean seems to already know what you were about to say. But she doesn't press you about it. Not yet at least.

"You mentioned your brother?" Mrs. Dean thankfully changed the subject. She watches your uneasy expression turn into a fond smile. "Damian. Yeah. He's a tough one. He acts so tough and mature, but in truth he's just a little baby. We weren't close at first. . . he actually hated me."

You chuckled to yourself as you thought back to your first encounter with Damian.

"What changed?" Mrs. Dean tilted her head.

You seem to think deeply about her question. ". . . I guess I kind of saw myself in him."

Mrs. Dean became more interested by your words.

"I used to do that too when I was younger. I acted like an adult. Thought if I did that people on the streets would take me more seriously. No one would mess with me if I acted tough." You had that faraway look on your face again. Thinking back to the past.

"I never really got to act like a kid. Felt like that was the only way to be taken seriously by others. To be trusted to do things on your own. I saw that In Damian. But that's not how a kid should act or worry about." You held your head high and gave Mrs. Dean a confident look.

"I don't want him to worry about stuff a 12 your old shouldn't even worry about. I know I probably can't give him what he already has. But I got my love. And that should be enough. . . right?"

Mrs. Dean smiled. "Yes. I'm sure your love is enough."

"Ugh, why the hell is this level so hard." You grumbled as you set down the controller. Getting frustrated over a game and a certain level you couldn't pass.

Tim chucked as he watched you stress over it. Jason right behind him reading a book. "How long have you been stuck on this level?"

"A week." You mumbled as you turn to look at Tim. Catching Jason make an amused face at your frustration.

"Shut up Jason." You glared at the older.

"Wha- I didn't even say anything!" Jason looked offended.

"Your stupid face did." You huffed in annoyance. Tim laughed and hopped over the couch and sat next to you. "Can I help?"

Your eyes lit up with hope. "Oh my gosh really?" Tim gave you a smile and nods. "Yes! please help."

Since Tim already played this game and finished it. He showed you multiple ways to beat this level. You had fun with Tim. You and Jason would argue here and there. But overall, it was fun.

As it got dark. Tim and Jason suddenly got an Alert on their phones. "Sorry Y/n. Me and Jason have to go. But I'll play with you next week."

You were a little sad. And confused at the sudden rush, but you understood. "Oh, okay. Bye."

Jason ruffled your head as he followed behind Tim. "Hey!"

Jason quickly ran out the room as you threw a pillow towards him.

"Do you ever feel left out?" Mrs. Dean asked as she watched you play with a small ball you picked out from the kids corner.

"Left out? No not really." You tossed the ball up in the air and caught it.

"How about I sum out the question. Do you feel left out in your family? With the Waynes I mean."

You hum as you thought about it. "Sometimes, I guess. Everyone treats me good. But I kind of feel like, an outsider sometimes."

"Do you think it's because of the way you were raised that you assume that. Suddenly living one life then now to this." Mrs. Dean watched as you let her words sink in.

"Yeah. I guess so. They knew each other longer and stuff. So that's probably why I feel that way. . . but. It kind of feels like something more."

Mrs. Dean's Brow raised "Why do you think that?"

You shrugged as you fumbled with the small ball in your hands. "It's like they all have this, thing. Like a bond with each other that I probably won't understand. . ." You seemed to think about it before shrugging "Maybe because they are all guys? I heard fathers have deeper connections with their sons."

Mrs. Dean hums and leans back into her chair. "Well, that can be some cases. Do you think Mr. Wayne doesn't pay much attention to you than your brothers?"

You shook your head. "No, he gives me attention. He's. . . a good man. He wouldn't neglect any of his kids. He's also a busy guy. So, if he's not around much I don't hold it against him."

Mrs. Dean nods. "You seem to be a very open-minded person."

It was late in the night when you had awoken from a nightmare. You tried to go back to sleep. But your mind betrayed you. Keeping you up and refusing you sleep for what felt like hours.

So, you wondered downstairs. In hopes of getting something that could make you fall asleep. You slowly enter the kitchen that was engulfed in darkness. Before you could reach for the light switch. The light was turned on by another.

"Ms. Y/n."

It was Alfred.

"Hey Alfred. Sorry I just came for something to drink." You mumbled as you approached the fridge.

"A nightmare?" Alfreds question caused you to pause. "How did you-"

"I know the look of a child who has come out from a bad dream Ms. Y/n." Alfred shooed you to sit at the counter as he made you a warm drink.

You just sat in silence as Alfred spoke.

"Do you usually get nightmares?" Alfred still has his back turned to you as he made your drink. ". . . Sometimes. Nothing too bad. Just need to lay off the horror films I guess." You let out a small chuckle.

"I see. Your father had a lot of nightmares as well when he was around master Dameon's age." Alfred slides the cup to you. You take the warm cup into your cold hands. The warmth sending a sort of satiation through you.

"Bruce?" You took a sip from the warm drink as you eyed the Butler. Alfred nods as he turns to clean up. "Especially after Master Bruce's parents passed."

Your expression dropped slightly. Both parents at such a young age.

"Must have been hard." You mumbled as you thought to yourself.

Alfred glanced to your slight glum expression.

"Yes. Same for Master Dick, and Master Tim. Along with Master Jason. All boys lost their parents at young ages. Master Damians mother left him with Bruce after the death of his grandfather. It took him awhile to move on after that."

You stayed silent as Alfred spoke.

". . . Why are you telling me this." You were lean back against your chair as you stared up at Alfred with slight confusion.

Alfred turned back around and handed you a treat.

"Everyone here has lost someone. Your brothers and Master Bruce will understand your pain. You don't need to hide it."

And with that the butler walked off back to where he had come from. Leaving you to let his words sink in.

"You have trust issues."

You couldn't help but let out a chuckle at Mrs. Dean's words. "Whoa, I just got here. And I'm very trusting. I'm here talking to you. I tell you my feelings and thoughts."

"Yes. But you don't tell me the full truth. Which I don't expect you to. But having trust issues doesn't mean you don't trust someone when it comes to talking about your feelings and thoughts. Trusting someone with yourself is different with trusting yourself with another. You, Y/n don't trust yourself."

"What are you going on about." You lean back into the chair as you gave Mrs. Dean a look of confusion.

"You don't trust that you would do the right thing. You don't trust yourself when it comes to situations that involve you being needed. You make yourself look bad, but not too bad to the point where others don't trust you." Mrs. Dean flips a page from her clip bored.

"You always talked about others in a good honest light. I ask a question about you, and you would either answer in short answers or divert the conversation about another."

"Come on now. It's not like that." You chuckled a little with a lazy smile. Mrs. Dean narrows at how nonchalant you're acting. You're acting. You're a good actor. And she sees it.

And you know she knows.

You are acting smug about it. But why. Why are you playing around like this-

Mrs. Dean catches you glancing to the teddy bear on her desk with a knowing look.

You smirked as you see realization creep upon Mrs. Dean.

There was a nanny-cam in that toy bear. You spotted it on day one. Yet you didn't say anything. You spoke about your thoughts and feelings to her. Most of it was true as well. You were yourself in the sessions you had with her.

You did all that while knowing of the nanny-cam.

"How did you. . ." Mrs. Dean spoke in a low tone. Almost like a whisper as she stared at you with wide eyes.

You simply smiled. "Like you said. I'm practically a genius."

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---

@huening-ly, @mariadvorak @superherosdystopiafreak @chelluv, @houseissofine, @esposadomd, @greyeyedmockingbird, @1-800-daisy, @c0c0-puffsxxx @arthurswife @h0rr0r-10ver-69 @josiepapen @natashanice165 @amber-content @mahbeanz @azurewisteria @seraph101 @skepvids @lara20aral @iwasveronica @jackrabbitem @nickey-diano @idonthaveanameforthisacc @sekidekiboombeki @masters-blog

[kamiversee]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 13 || The Unexpected

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language, sexual tension, & smut.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 5.5k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——YOU RUSH OUT OF THE building completely flustered with an embarrassed expression written all over your face.

Perhaps after dealing with men who so easily compliment you and fell for your flirtatious traps you'd grown accustomed to not being turned down. Getting dismissed by a man like Toji Fushiguro isn't exactly something you planned for.

It won't stop you from showing up next week and trying again but it will leave you embarrassed and shamefully horny.

You strolled down the campus pathway, heading toward where your car was with your head stuck on what had just happened. The man seriously just told you to get out. You thought you had managed to seduce him at least a little but now you guess you were wrong.

So distracted with your thoughts of what just happened, you nearly miss as a familiar voice calls your name. Your lashes flutter as you blink a few times and look around the area to spot the man who'd called your name.

Your brows push together when you don't see anyone. Okay, now you're hearing things-

"Right here, gorgeous." Geto suddenly whispers into your left ear.

The sudden sound makes you jump and you move your hand to smack his chest for scaring you. He chuckles at your reaction and you give him an annoyed scowl.

"Suguru, don't scare me like that!" You huff.

Geto snickers at you, "Sorry."

A pout takes over your expression and the sight furthers his amusement.

"You're so cute," He hums, raising a hand to pinch your cheek. You immediately smack him off. "Oh c'mon, don't be like that. You didn't even send me a text after our date... How do you think that makes me feel?" He says with a sudden frown.

You blink. "Uh..."

"That's not nice, y'know. Leaving me all high and dry." Geto continues as he shakes his head at you.

"I just thought..." You trail off for a second and the man leans toward your face suddenly.

The words you were going to say fall off your tongue completely as Geto abruptly begins to study your facial expression.

"You alright?" He asks.

You try leaning away, "Yes, why?"

"You look..." His eyes narrow, "I dunno, horny?"

"H-Huh?" Your heartbeat spikes in alarm. If he can tell, does that mean Mr. Fushiguro was able to see that as well? "How the hell can you notice something like that?!" You question the man.

"Darling, I spent an entire night seeing you with that exact same facial expression. I don't think I'll be forgetting it anytime soon." Geto reminds you.

You grit your teeth slightly, "Is it... Is it that obvious?" You mumble.

The man in front of you grows surprised, eyebrows raising and a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "I mean, to me, yes. Though, I wasn't expecting you to admit it so truthfully."

You freeze. Shit, you just told on yourself. "Uh.."

"No need to try lying about it now." Get said with a shrug. He then stands straight up, "What-, actually, who got you all worked up?"

"Uhm..." Your eyes dart off to the side. Why the hell would you tell him anything-

"Was it Mr. Fushiguro?" Geto guesses. He was going based on the building you just left and who was likely to be in there.

Your eyes fly right back over to the man, "How the fuck-"

"Did you forget that I know about the list...?" He reminds you with a slight chuckle.

"You..." A sudden thought rushes to your mind. "Holy shit, you do, don't you?"

"Yeah, so-"

"Shouldn't I be pissed with you right now?" You ask as you remember that Gojo said Geto had videoed you the night of your date.

He scoffs. "What for?"

"Didn't you record me??" You question.

For a moment, Geto stares at you as if he's contemplating something. Then he swallows, "Uh, no."

"No?? But Gojo said-"

"He lied."

"He..." Your head cocks back in surprise, "He what?"

"He lied. I never recorded you." Geto says honestly.

You scowl at the male, "Bullshit."

"When would I have had time to do that?" He scoffs, "I could hardly think straight with the way you were sucking my-"

You move a hand over his mouth and look to your left and right. "Shut up," You snap at the man. "No need to put our business out there like that..."

Geto chuckles beneath your palm before lightly taking hold of your wrist and pulling your hand away. "My bad. But seriously, when would I have recorded you? And if you want," He moves to pull his phone out, "You can check my phone."

You stare up at him, glance down at his phone for a second, then look back up at him. "You could've sent it to Gojo and then deleted it from your phone." You point out.

"True but, I didn't," Geto says.

You fold your arms, "And how am I supposed to believe you?"

"What reason would I have to lie?"

"I don't know."

"And what good would blackmailing you do me? I'm not Satoru." Geto tells you.

He has a point, but you're still unsure if you want to trust him. "You're his best friend though."

"We're two different people. Completely opposite of each other." He hums.

"Okay..." You say, batting your eyelashes at him. "That doesn't prove anything or make me want to believe you any more."

"Alright," Geto sighs, "What if I offer you comfort?"

"Comfort...?"

"I can only imagine how alone you feel in your situation."

Fuck, he's right. You swallow, "I..."

"You can't tell Shoko because you feel embarrassed, can't talk to Satoru because you 'hate' him, and I'm not sure if you know anyone else that you'd comfortably want to talk to about this." Geto points out flawlessly.

You simply stare at the man with hardly any response to that. He's right, after all, you have been feeling ridiculously alone in your predicament.

"I obviously can't make you believe me about not recording you but, you can trust me." He claims.

You remain unconvinced, "How do I know you're not trying to manipulate me like Gojo?"

"Because if I was trying to manipulate you, I would've done it already."

"Uhuh, sure you would've."

"I'm serious. I only approached you today because I wanted to talk to you about this."

"Yeah right."

"I don't know what Satoru has going on in that head of his but even a blind man could see that what he's doing isn't right."

Your eyes suddenly light up, "Are you saying you're going to help me out of this?"

"No."

"But... you could if you wanted to," You say as you raise a brow, "Couldn't you?"

Of course he could. All Geto has to do is tell you the truth about the situation. "What makes you think that?" He asks.

"Suguru..." Your eyes narrow and you lean closer to him accusingly, "You know something that could get me out of this, don't you?"

"N-No." Geto stammers.

"Liar."

"Alright, let's say hypothetically I did... I wouldn't be able to help you out without fucking myself over."

You blink. "Huh, how?"

"Do you really think Satoru is going to be happy with me ruining his fucked up little plan?"

"Well, probably not... But you're his best friend!" You emphasize, "He'll forgive you."

"Perhaps." Geto hums, "But I don't think you realize, you're not the only one Satoru's willing to blackmail."

"...He'd blackmail you too?"

"Maybe. And if not, he'd probably go out and tell people things about me I never intended on sharing..."

"Kinda like how you're a dirty little pervert?" You blurt out teasingly.

The man halts for a second, then he snickers. "Yes... Like that."

"Speaking of which... Do you still have my panties?"

"I do," He smirks and moves as if he were about to pull something out of his pocket, "Want em' back?"

"Y-You don't just walk around with them, do you?"

He laughs at your facial expression, "No."

You sigh, "Thank god. A-And yes I want them back."

"Come over one day and take em' from me." Geto taunts.

"Not happening."

"That's what I thought," He chuckles. "Anyways, back to what I was saying, you can trust me. I can't help you out of your situation directly but maybe I can help you through it."

"Really? You'd do that?" You ask, smiling at him slightly.

He stares at your expression, "Sure."

"Wait... in exchange for what?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying." Geto sighs, "Here, I can even suggest something for you."

"What?"

"Satoru's paying you right?"

"...Yeah?"

"Ask him if he'll pay you for each time you sleep with someone," Geto suggests.

"You mean like," An eyebrow raises, "If I sleep with someone more than once?"

"Mhm." He hums.

"But why would I sleep with someone twice...?"

He shrugs innocently, "I mean, right now you're horny and I'm standing right here..."

"I..." You blink, "Suguru do you want to have sex again? Is that why you're trying to help me?"

"Okay, no. That's not why I want to help you, though the sex would be a nice bonus... I've been thinking about how you probably feel." Geto says. You can feel the genuine care in his voice but you're still wary of trusting him.

"So, what, you wanna be my therapist?" You reply with a playful scoff.

He chuckles, "You sound just like him, y'know."

"Don't compare me to that asshole."

"Sorry. But if that's what you wanna call me, sure. I can be your therapist." He shrugs. "Now," Geto moves to toss an arm over your shoulder and pull you close to his side. He then tips his head down to your ear, "Tell me what has you so aroused right now?"

Steadily, the two of you begin walking together.

You swallow, "You want the details...?"

"Sure, why not?" He responds rhetorically.

"Pervert."

"C'mon, what happened in that classroom?"

With a roll of your eyes, you give in, "The professor is fucking hot, that's what."

Geto scoffs, "Yet I'm the perv."

"You are."

"But... you're the one fantasizing about a teacher fucking you..."

"I-I wasn't..."

"Really?" He smirks, "You weren't thinking about getting on your knees and being like 'please sir, just the ti-"

Heat rushes to your face, "Stop it."

Geto starts laughing at you, "Shit, I'm right aren't I? That's one of your dirty little fantasies, isn't it?"

"It's not."

"You can be honest with me, I won't judge."

"...Okay, so what if it is..."

He pauses his words for a second. The man's eyes are all over the side of your face as you keep your gaze forward. "I personally think that's hot," Geto tells you.

"Of course you do." You chuckle.

"What do you mean of course??"

"Slut."

He frowns, "That's your second time calling me that."

"You like it."

He falls silent.

"See? Can't even say you don't."

Geto abruptly whispers your name into the crown of your ear, his voice lower than you expected it to be. "Careful now, darling."

You scoff, "Why?"

"Cause, you're turning me on."

You swallow. Your lower lip gets caught between your teeth at his sudden claim and you can't ignore the fact that your arousal has yet to go away.

"You uh... Do you think Gojo will actually pay me for sleeping with someone twice?" You question, slowly turning your head to look at the man.

Geto meets your eyes and both of you have the same exact thing in mind. The tension was so very obvious.

He didn't need to say anything and neither did you.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

This was unexpected. You have no idea how you let yourself get in this position. Damn Geto and his way of convincing you to trust him.

Well, it's not a bad thing that you're trusting him. He made some very valid points, especially the one about him being the only one who knows about your situation and won't judge you for it.

Yet, none of that would've made you think you'd end up in the back seat of his car with his head in between your legs and his tongue deep in your cunt. Good god, the man eats you out like he'd be waiting to do so.

"Fuck Sugu," You breathed out.

The loud sounds of him sucking and slurping on your folds filled the car air. His tongue moved so sloppily over you, lapping up every drop of your wetness like there's no tomorrow.

It was all too much and too little at the same time.

"Tastes so fuckin' good," Geto groans, his voice vibrating against your clit and making your back arch off the seat slightly.

You've got your fingers tangled in that beautiful head of hair of his, unconsciously tugging at it every now and then. The way he'd wrap his lips around your sensitive bud has your lip quivering with moans pouring from your mouth.

Geto flicked his tongue over it and then shifted slightly to swirl the tip of his tongue around your clit. Those large hands over his were tightly gripping onto the underside of your thighs, keeping your legs spread no matter how much you squirmed beneath him.

He pulled his jaw back slightly and peeked up at you for a second before sticking his tongue out and pressing it flat against your wet cunt. Geto slides one of his hands up along your thigh while slurping your taste into his mouth.

Pulling away from your pussy with a loud pop, you hear him swallow. "You've gotta let me get these off you," Geto pleads, referring to the pretty lace stockings you had on.

"W-Why," You stammer as he moves to kiss over your sex.

"Mgh," He moans into you. "I n-need em'" Geto tells you, his voice desperate.

You were unaware but the man's cock was bulging against his pants and he'd been dry humping his car seat to get some kind of friction as he ate you out. You gasp as he moved to rub his thumb over your clit and his mouth focuses on your insides.

A breathy chuckle leaves you, "Need em' f-for what...?" You voice out in between a moan.

The man couldn't even respond to you as he needily worked to please you. Geto's tongue was buried so deep inside your pussy that you think you were starting to see stars. Along with his thumb, you felt his nose brush up against your clit as he pressed his face into your sex.

An arm draped over your mouth, "Y-You're makin' a mess... ngh, Sugu... hah..." You moaned out to the man.

You could feel the way he smiled at your words. The hand that's still on your thigh slides up and one of your stockings is suddenly stripped from you in an instant.

"Mmmgh... I know," He whispers. His face was so wet from you but he didn't care, simply shoving his tongue into your sopping hole regardless.

Confusion takes over your expression for a second but when Geto pulls away and spits on your cunt to further the sloppiness of it all, your brain fades to mush.

That one stocking of yours is soon used for the male to relieve himself. Another loud popping sound is heard as he pries his lips from you and lifts his head. His eyes are so low and lustful, his tongue hangs slightly out of his mouth, and the bottom of his face is coated in your slick.

Geto licks his lips, "Hah... I have class soon," He hums before sitting up.

Two of his fingers slot into you abruptly to make up for the lack of his mouth. "Hnngh... A-Ah, then why'd you w-want to..." Your words fade into a whine as he curls his digits up into your g-spot.

His other hand hastily works to free his cock from his clothes and you hazily watch him hold your stocking in his mouth for a second. After his dick is freed from restrictions, your cunt clenched around him at the sight of Geto using those stockings of yours to jerk off-- shamelessly moaning at the contact of the soft fabric to his shaft.

Your jaw drops at the sight, "You're so... f-fuckin' dirty," You say meanly, words going straight to the man's cock.

Geto tosses his head back, one hand working to please you and the other moving to relieve himself simultaneously. "F-Fuck, mgh... keep, shit, keep talkin' to me like that." He requests.

The fingers thrusting inside you increase in pace and you feel a thumb swat over your clit. "Ha-ah, you're so nasty Sugu..."

"Yeah?" He flashes a smile, "Fuck, 'm gonna cum if you keep degrading me like that."

"Mm-mmh... look at you, ngh-, getting off with my stocking..." Your eyes roll back a little, "So filthy-, fuck." You squeak out as your climax approaches.

"Agh," Geto groans, the jerking motion of his hand growing faster as his precum smears along his length.

The situation was so lewd-- Geto jerking off with a clothing item that'd just been wrapped around your leg for hours and his free hand eagerly fingering you as he did so. Your legs steadily drew together while the squelching sound of his two thick fingers plunging into you hit your ears.

It sounded so messy and sloppy. Your moaning and Geto's groaning were filling the car and fogging up his already tinted windows.

Your orgasm crashed over you when the male swiveled his digits around inside you. His eyes were on yours as you did so, large hand pumping his cock with vigor at the sight of you.

"Oh f-fuck," Geto moaned, his voice slightly pitched.

Your eyes were glossy as your orgasm died down but you clearly saw as the man slid his fingers out of you and brought them up to his mouth. You watch those pretty eyes of his rollback once your taste is on his tongue again and he groans against his fingers as he too reaches his peak.

Geto sucks your slick off his own fingers and cums hard into his hand and all over your stockings. The sight of his body shuddering slightly and a string of saliva connecting from his fingertips to his lower lip as he pulls his hand away from his mouth is something you drink in entirely.

You carefully shut your legs and innocently stare at the mess the man has made of himself. "You're gross..." You say teasingly.

"Hah," He pants slightly and glances over to you, "Am I?"

"You just came all over my stocking..." You say with a scoff, "Perv."

"S'that your new nickname for me or something?" Geto asks.

"Yeah, it is." You say with a sigh. After which you shut your eyes and grin, "Gojo better pay me for this or you're in trouble."

"I'm sure he will." He responds simply.

"If he doesn't..." You begin moving to sit up, "You'll owe me."

"Oh, so you're a full-time whore then?"

"N-No but... I need the money," You mumble.

Geto looks down at the nasty mess he's made of himself and chuckles, "I'll pay you if you come clean me up."

You blink, "Are you serious...?"

"Maybe."

You think about it for a second but when you look down at the pitiful sight of your cum covered stocking wrapped around his length, you frown.

"Nah, I'm good." You say simply.

Geto rolls his eyes, "You're no fun."

And with that, the two of you respectively begin to clean yourselves up. You ended up texting Gojo and asking him that question of yours. To which he responded with a bunch of follow-up questions regarding if you had just slept with his best friend again.

When you told him yes, he ended up leaving you on read and simply sending you more money. A smile had grown on your face when you realized that fact bothered him to the point where he couldn't even respond to you.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Knowing that you could hook up with anyone on the list more than once and still get paid for it was something that oddly made you quite happy.

Over the course of the next few weeks, you did two things. First, you and Geto ended up talking more than you expected to. He'd give you decent advice on how to seduce Toji and you used every bit of it.

Secondly, you attended that one class and endured a private lesson every Monday while getting riskier and riskier with your flirting.

Each lesson ended relatively the same nonetheless, Toji would say that it's been enough time the very second you had this certain look in your eyes. He learned to steal himself for the way you look at him or the questions you may ask and ever since that one time, he's never allowed you to tempt him again.

You used every ounce of advice that Geto continuously gave you-- maintain your posture, give him bedroom eyes, respond in ways that make the man feel like he's in control, etc. Surprisingly, Geto's advice was really good.

You notice subtle changes every time you use his suggestions and you're pretty sure it was all working. Slowly but surely, Toji was growing closer and closer to crossing that line with you.

After that spontaneous hook-up you had with Geto, you found yourself doing it a few times actually. It was always random and sometimes you didn't even bother to ask Gojo for money because having a fuck buddy was kinda fun.

And no, you didn't forget about the walking green flag that is Choso Kamo. The two of you went from texting every few days and a few phone calls to texting every single day and multiple phone calls. Although you couldn't tell him about the list, you were growing very close to him in terms of friendship.

In your mind, you had Geto to rant to about the list and Choso to talk to about anything else. You had started to feel comfortable in your situation. Well, to a certain extent of course.

There was always this little voice in the back of your mind screaming every time you flirted with Mr. Fushiguro but aside from that, you were slowly getting more and more into this role of yours.

You still actively ignored Gojo unless it was about the list, Geto was a good fuck every now and then and he'd listen to you complain whenever you needed to, Choso was just this little ball of sunshine who you wanted to avoid hurting at all costs, and Toji was...

Okay well, the man was completely fine up until the fourth week of your lessons with him.

It was the first and only time you had arrived late. You missed the entire lecture and arrived at his classroom just as the man seemed to be packing up to leave.

Toji was standing at his desk grabbing a few things but he paused when you came rushing into his classroom. Your breathing was heavy, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to regain oxygen in your lungs.

Your eyes were noticeably low, your face flushed with emotions, and your top was noticeably undone. With your hands on your knees and your body hunched over slightly, you panted heavily to catch your breath.

"M-Mr. Fushiguro, I... hah, I'm sorry I'm l-late." You huffed out.

The man was quiet as he stared at you. Slowly, you stood straight up and began to fan yourself off.

"Fuck," You curse. "Sir it's so hot in here."

Toji blinked at the sight of you slightly sweaty and still out of breath. With a scoff and a light shake of his head, he turns and takes a seat at his desk. "Did you run here or somethin'?" He asks, voice deep and husk like always.

You nod your head, "Y-Yeah."

Was that entirely true? No, but, you weren't going to tell him that.

As you look at the older man you notice that his gaze is slowly trailing down your body. That little stockings and skirt combo is hugging your body again and you don't miss the way Toji oggles the sight of you.

As his gaze rises back up, it comes to a pause at your chest and he raises an eyebrow at you. You blink and look down at yourself, noticing you've got more buttons undone than intended to.

"Shit," You whisper while raising your hands to fix yourself, "Sorry Sir."

"You're fine." The man says. "Sure you still wanna' interview me today?" He asks.

You nod your head again and glance up to look at him as your fingers work against your shirt, "Yes. I know I came late but I'm here now."

Toji moves to rest his elbow on his desk, propping his arm up and resting his cheek against his knuckles. "Care to explain why you were late?" He questions.

You freeze. "U-Uhm."

How are you supposed to tell him that you were late because you were too busy sucking Geto off in his car and almost completely forgot about these lessons of yours?

"Uhm?" Toji mocks, raising an eyebrow.

"Traffic." You result in telling him before looking back down at your shirt.

You began to struggle with one of the buttons and it was starting to frustrate you, especially since you left Geto completely untouched and now you're all hot, horny, and frustrated.

Toji's eyes narrow in on the messy state of your shirt. You looked more disheveled than you realized. "Traffic, huh?" He hums.

"Mhm."

"Traffic's got you all messed up like that?" The man quizzes further.

Again, your body freezes. Your sights slowly rise back up and over to him, "Y-Yes Sir..."

He scoffs and you watch his hand raise. Toji beckons you over to him with two fingers. At first, you don't move. Then, after the slight stutter in your brain, you carefully walk over to him.

Toji's seated comfortably in his chair and peers up at you in front of him. He tilts his head to the side and nods his chin at your chest, "Need some help?" He offers.

You're not sure why his words make you shift around where you're standing. "U-Uh... yes." You murmur.

"Yes, what?" He taunts.

The words slip out of your mouth faster than you wanted them to, "Yes please."

Toji smirks and then sits up. It's so slow and teasing how his large hands rise up along your body, just barely grazing you before he reaches your chest. The man stares for a second and then flicks his gaze up to you.

You watch his fingers latch onto the buttons and he too struggles to fix your shirt properly. Something in your head tells you that he's struggling because of the angle he's at so, your body moves before you think about it.

You take another step forward and move so that one leg is planted in between his larger ones. The upper half of your body leans forward into the man's touch and you place a hand on the armrest of the chair to hold yourself up.

Then, to take it further, you lift the leg in between his and push your knee into the chair. You grow dangerously close to his crotch but you pretend not to notice it.

Toji bats his eyes at the sight of you over him. Your tits are practically in his face and he can smell the freshly sprayed perfume oozing off your body. The fingers he had on those buttons of yours slip off of you and he sits back in his chair.

You swallow, "S-Sorry is this..." You start moving back.

Toji licks his lips before saying, "Did I tell you to move?"

Your body halts all movement in an instant. He smirks at your sudden obedience. The man weighs his head to the side while looking up at you.

Those seemingly hazel eyes of his narrow at you, "Let's do somethin' a little different today." Toji suggests.

You remain over him, "Different l-like what?"

His legs spread further apart and you don't miss the way his hips roll upward as he adjusts himself in his chair. The sight alone makes the annoying throb in your core continue. Toji doesn't lay a finger on you just yet, simply gazing up at you.

"I want you to tell me about yourself today."

"H-Huh?"

"It's been four weeks and I've hardly learned anything about the woman interviewing me," Toji points out. He then tilts his head, "How's that fair?"

You blink dumbfoundedly, "Well... I didn't think it was uh, necessary for you to learn much about me."

"It's probably not but," A slow hand rises slightly and his fingertips graze the end of your skirt playfully. "I am curious."

"Why?" You ask, chuckling nervously.

His eyes drop down to where his hand is and you feel two of his fingers move to pinch the fabric of your skirt. "Every week you show up in a similar outfit and ask me all kinds of questions. And the one thing I've noticed is that somehow," Deep colored eyes snap back up to your face, "The questions always turn into something sexual."

"Well I've said it before Mr. Fushiguro, those questions-"

"Make your project better, yeah, yeah, I know." He cuts off. "But if that's the case, why don't you just find out the answer to some of those questions yourself?"

You swallow, "What do you mean...?"

"Last week you asked me about my kinks." Toji recalls casually, "Why don't I demonstrate one on you?"

Your whole body is hot and needy at the very idea of what he's suggesting. The look in your eyes is unavoidably lustful and the man could clearly see from the moment you'd walked in that you were unusually flustered.

"D-Demonstrate?" You repeat innocently.

"Yeah, how's that sound?" Toji asks, looking for your consent. "You can tell me no if I'm misinterpreting all those looks you've been giving me-"

"No, no," You cut off, "I wanna do it, sir."

Toji's cock twitches at the sultry sound of your voice and the words you just uttered.

That painfully attractive smirk of his appears, "Yeah?"

You nod your head, "Mhm."

Okay, this is not how you intended things to go today. It was supposed to be another day of you flirting and asking more suggestive questions but, this works out for you anyways. Not only are you shamefully wet because of the way Geto was moaning and praising you not too long ago but you also can't help but feel so very needy for the touch of Toji Fushiguro.

His hands are so large and veiny, you want them all over your body. You crave for this professor to manhandle you and fuck you til' you can't think straight.

"Alright then," Toji sighs, sitting back in his seat. His eyes then focus on your own with complete seriousness, "Sit."

You hesitate. Glancing around the area, you wonder if he was referring to a nearby seat or something.

Toji chuckles at the clear confusion in your eyes but then he bobs his leg one good time to gesture where he was talking about. "Right here, pretty girl." He directs.

You slowly look down at his large leg in between yours, "O-On your leg, Mr. Fushiguro?"

"My thigh. Sit." He orders.

Embarrassment was coursing through you. Surely if you sat on his thigh, he'd feel the mess you are in your underwear.

You swallow, "Why...?"

Toji snickers at your hesitance. "I wanna watch you get off on my thigh."

You think you feel your cunt throb as his words hit your ears. The thought alone is dizzying.

"So," He continues, moving a hand to your lower back and lightly tapping you. "Sit."

Finally, you do just as he's instructed. As you seat yourself on his thigh, you feel so jittery and nervous. You're soaked right now and you just know he can feel it.

When Toji sees you've made yourself comfortable, he moves his hand to your chin and grabs a light hold of it, "Good girl." He praises.

You think you had to bite back the moan that wanted to escape you in reaction to the praise alone.

The leg in between yours suddenly lifts into you slightly, making your lips part and a breathy noise leaves you. "Now," Toji takes his hand off you and stares at the full sight of your smaller body resting atop his thigh. "Go on, lemme watch you fuck yourself on me."

GOJO SATORU ✔︎

GETO SUGURU ✔︎

TOJI FUSHIGURO ☐

KAMO CHOSO ☐

NANAMI KENTO ☐

??? SUKUNA ☐

??? NAOYA ☐

mlist || previous chapt || next chpt

[smusherina]

yard work - chapter 16 [final chapter] (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

warning(s): talk of past drug use and withdrawal symptoms.

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 7 / chapter 8 / chapter 9 / chapter 10 / chapter 11 / chapter 12 / chapter 13 / chapter 14 / chapter 15

[love renée but fuck am i getting sick of this gif. been looking at it for sixteen goshdarned chapters. finally i am freed.]

You woke up first. Naturally. Every time, every single morning that you'd had sleepovers, you'd been the first to wake up. The sun was shining through the blinds in a pleasant, warm yellow tone. Still morning but not unreasonably early.

You shifted to a more upright position, looking down at the girl still snoozing, whose hand was holding onto your forearm. She was all sprawled out, starfished as much as one could be on a couch. Her body was taking up the shorter end of the L-shape, one knee curled up towards her body, just barely on the couch, while the other stretched well beyond the end of the divan. You were situated much the same, except the other way around. You laid on the longer end so that your heads had almost met in the corner.

Her arms reached out towards you, one around your pillow and the other holding onto you. You knew you'd fallen asleep with much more distance between you, but you couldn't say you minded her having drifted.

Did you, though? You sighed and grumbled as you got up. Might as well do something while you contemplated reality, or something. Mrs George had insisted on some classic American breakfast ingredients, such as bacon and pancake mix. You didn't feel like causing a fire hazard, so pancakes were a no-go, at least for now. Eggs and bacon you could do.

What did you even, like, want? Realistically, actually, no, unrealistically what did you want? There was no sense in trying to make your base wants and desires realistic because at that point was any of that yours anymore? Likely not.

You wanted nights spent with Regina, talking and eating take-out, laughing until your tummy hurt and looking at her glowing in the blue light of whatever Adult Swim show was on at the time. You wanted grocery trips with Mrs George and to go to Kylie's games. You wanted people at school to just, simply not be jerks. You wanted Janis to find peace. You wanted Cady to wake up.

You wanted yesterday to not have happened. You wanted Thanksgiving dinner at the Georges' to never have happened. You wanted for your dad to be different, for Mr George to be different. You wanted your mom to not have died.

Looking at the bacon sizzling in the pan, you chewed on your lips and thought about that. You wanted many things. So many things, mostly for things to not have happened or to have happened differently. It was all wildly unrealistic. You were not a wizard, a time-traveller, or some other mystic being. You were a teenager.

You cracked the eggs into the mix. God, it smelled divine. You pulled a salt and pepper shaker from the spice rack and sprinkled a reasonable amount on there. You groaned out loud and threw your head back when you remembered there was sriracha in the fridge. Mrs George had seen you eyeing the bottle and had not taken a no for an answer, despite your abundant protestations.

"Spare your kitchen utensils the horror and go masturbate in your room like a normal person!" Regina hollered from the living room.

"Oh! Spatula! Harder! Harder!" You cried, moaning like you were receiving the blowie of your life. "If you want breakfast you're gonna have to witness this sordid affair." You called back, giggling. You leaned back from the stove, bending back at the waist. Regina was leaning her chin on the armrest, still more or less sprawled on your couch. There was a pout on her lips and a light flush to her cheeks.

"I'll show you sordid, nerd." She grouched before getting up. You straightened your posture, turning back to the stove, and probed the eggs in the pan with the spatula with a satisfied grin on your face.

You wanted this and more, above all. Was that something you were allowed to want? More importantly, was that something you were allowed to ask for?

Regina came up behind you, hand coming to rest on the small of your back. You didn't jump, much, which you were proud of.

"Looks yummy." She pointed out.

You hummed in agreement. "Can you put toast in the toaster?"

"Sure."

Then, as if no time at all passed, you were sitting down. Then eating and chatting. There was toast, eggs and bacon, and you'd made yourself a bowl of oatmeal. Mrs George had splurged on some blueberries and local honey. Regina refused to make eye contact when you were chewing, citing that your O-face was hard to look at. You only moaned louder and made more faces at her.

Then, just as you were heading to the couch to digest the meal as god intended, lying down, Regina yanked you to the foyer. Still in your jammies and everything, she insisted you bundle up and go for that walk she was talking about yesterday.

You'd hoped she would've forgotten. Sure, the weather was nice for once but if you didn't have to go outside then why would you? It was below freezing!

Much like her mother, she would not budge. You were going on a walk.

"What am I? A dog?" You muttered as you wrapped your scarf around your neck.

"If you were a dog, you'd be a... A Doberman." She was already dressed. It was odd for your roles to have switched like this. Usually, you were the one waiting for her to get ready. She had on a thick, white parka and a cute beanie. She also had on black leggings sure to insulate absolutely nothing and bulky, also black, fur boots.

"What? 'Cause I'm big and scary?" You preened at that, smiling widely.

"Nope." She tilted her head, examining you. "Gloves."

"Geez, okay, mom." You grabbed some mittens from the hat rack. "Why Doberman?"

"They wouldn't look so scary if they didn't have their ears clipped, y'know?" She said. You just looked at her weirdly, not catching her meaning. Your ears were not clipped. "Anyway, let's go."

"Aye aye," With that, you were out of the door.

You walked the block and down to the street. The sidewalk stopped so you went by the side of the road. She was walking ahead of you. It was cold out but not too windy, so it didn't feel so bad.

The sidewalk started again eventually. There, you walked side by side. You were just looking at a bird perched on a wire when you felt her grab your hand. Thinking she had something to say, you turned to look at her. She was still facing forward, the other hand in her pocket, walking along. She was just holding your hand.

Oh. Oh. She was holding your hand. Out in public. Not a lot of people were out at this hour, not even cars since it was a weekend. There was a woman with a stroller. A psychopathic man out on a jog. A dog walker. Still, it was outside where anyone who walked by could see.

You arrived at the park, hands clasped together. You stopped by a bench.

"I don't think we should sit." You said, observing the coating of snow piled on top.

"Let's go over there." Regina pointed to a tree a little ways away.

You went obediently, following the tug of her hand in yours. She was holding your hand. You felt all warm in your chest, like you were full of warm water.

You stopped by the tree. She looked around, trying to spot if anybody was nearby. Then, like she had a secret to tell you, she motioned for you to bend down closer. You did. Her hand squeezed at your fingers as the other came up to your neck, pulling you down the rest of the way.

The warmth you'd felt became hot, like an oil fire erupting in the foil-covered saucepan that was your heart, kernels and half-popped popcorn sputtering out as she kissed you. Your eyes just barely got to shutter closed before she pulled away. Instinctively, your body so starved of affection and touch, you chased her and found her lips again.

She smiled against your mouth. It felt like a secret of the utmost importance being shared, like a pinkie finger wrapped around your own in the corner of the room during a sleepover, giggled promises and childish adoration. She tasted vaguely like breakfast, and maybe egg-breath should've been nasty, but it wasn't.

Cold seeping in, the anxious feeling like you were soon going to be caught taking hold, you pulled away. You didn't lean away entirely, crowding her against the tree. When you'd gotten so close, pinned her, you weren't sure.

"Do..." What were you supposed to say post-kiss? "Do you like it sloppy?"

"What?" Her brows furrowed and the smile on her face turned sharper. What to say post-kiss: Not That.

"Uh, I mean, I just- uh..." You swallowed. "I don't know how to, like, I don't have technique. I dunno. Was that good? I saw Aaron was doing it differently..."

Regina rolled her eyes, head thumping lightly against the tree as her neck lolled back. "You would bring up Aaron now." She sighed. "It's fine. It's- it's good."

"Okay." You swallowed again. A slow smile crept up to your face. "It was good?"

"Ugh, yes, shut up." She shoved you away, but you just allowed the momentum to swing you back to her. "I... I don't think I'm good at words."

You chuckled at that. "No, you're not." She glared. You shrugged. "But, hey, you know me. I'm Chatty Kathy."

"No," She huffed through her nose, seemingly in frustration. "I wish I could say to you what I mean. What I feel. But I just... It's... It's not supposed to be but it's embarrassing."

Looking at her, hunched in on herself like a girl her age was supposed to be at times, so different from how she was most of the time, made your chest feel tight. You figured a person having been raised like she was, having turned out the way she had, would find being vulnerable uncomfortable. Or, as she said it, embarrassing.

Then again, it wasn't your place nor your duty to psycho-analyze her.

"Reg, I..." You hesitated. "I'm tired of, like, sitting in the passenger seat while you bulldoze everyone. I'm tired of feeling like if I do something you don't like you'll push me under too." You pulled away from her, hands getting sore from leaning your weight against the rough bark. "And then there's this whole thing." You gestured around you at the empty park. "Even if we were the best couple ever in terms of, I dunno, vibes or something, we're still..."

"Lesbians." She finished for you. "I'm a lesbian, Jorts." A sentence you never thought you'd hear from Regina George. "I know. For me, it felt justified for a long time, keeping them in their place, but since we started talking again, doing all that stuff just started to seem... Unimportant. And stupid." She fiddled with her fingers, eyes glued to the space between you. "It hasn't gone away. I still want to, I guess, hurt people because it does make me feel better even if it's, like, fucked up. But I want something else more than I want that."

"What's that?" You couldn't help but ask, hope stuck in your throat. Choking hazard.

"You, obviously." She said it so flippantly as if those words didn't just send your heart into the Milky Way. "I want you. I'll stop doing that stuff for you. I know we can't be out yet, but I... I have good grades."

You looked at her, puzzled. She huffed and continued. "I'll go to college. Major in, uh, I dunno, some sorta politics and I'll change the law. Maybe a law degree would work better for that, actually." She seemed to think about it for a moment before returning to her point. "Whichever one would be best in getting gay marriage legalized."

"You..." You had to laugh at that, disbelieving as well as delighted. "You're gonna change the world for me?"

"If that's what it takes." She said, determination shining so bright it made your eyes water.

"Wow, okay." You licked your lips, trying to will the stupid grin off your face. You had some important questions still. "If I moved away, would you still stop?"

She paused at that. Took a moment to really look at you, like she hadn't considered that to be a real possibility.

"Yes." She sounded so sure you believed her. "I just don't have... What it takes anymore. I guess. I don't know if there's something wrong with me that I... I want to be mean, sometimes. It's funny. For me." She glanced down and then looked somewhere over your shoulder. "It took a lot of work to get to what Regina George is now. I don't want to put in all that next year."

"Y'know what they say. New year, new me." You quipped, looking down at her. You were quite sure your pupils had morphed into heart shapes, despite your valiant efforts to have this meaningful conversation without seeming like a love-drunk idiot.

(She kissed you. You kissed her. It was a beautiful morning, you were on a walk and you'd held hands and then you'd kissed under a barren willow tree. It was the first day of Christmas break and you were spending it with Regina George.)

"Does that mean I can be a raging bitch till January 1st?" She asked, eyebrow notching.

You laughed. "Only if you..." You bit your bottom lip, getting nervous. "Only if I get a kiss for every mean thing you say."

"Deal." She offered her hand to you, a cheesy smile on her face.

You pulled your glove off and spit on your hand, then made to take hers.

"Ew! That's disgusting!" She flinched away from you, violently shoving herself back against the tree. "Don't- no! Not near me! Don't touch me with that!"

She bolted and you ran after her, cackling maniacally. You waved your spat-on hand at her as you chased her around the park, her shrieking and you laughing.

"I'm serious, J!" She looked at you over her shoulder as she ran. "Stop chasing me!"

"Stop running away from me!"

"You're just gonna smear your spit on me, you- you fiend!"

"Pinky swear I won't!"

"I won't pinky-swear with your disgusting paws, you-"

With a yelp, Regina tripped over something, probably a root, and fell to the ground. You, having been closing in on her, put the brakes on, windmilled your arms, and tried to stop, but soon followed her into the snow.

"Ouf!" The breath wooshed out of her as you fell on her. She wheezed as you rolled off of her, half-heartedly punching in your direction. You giggled and dodged to the best of your ability, not even minding the snow seeping through your pyjama pants.

Giving some time for her to recover, you laid on your back and looked up at the sky. Clear blue with some thick, greyish clouds looming in the peripheral, morning was turning to day fast. Soon, the park would surely get some more traffic. Kids and their adults, mostly. There was a sizeable play area in the centre. You were pretty much on the outskirts of the park.

It was a familiar spot. You and the guys used to meet your other friends here all the time. Those times it'd been night, too dark to see the faces of the guys with big gym bags, filled to bursting with little plastic baggies and glass bottles.

You turned your head to look at her once her breathing had quieted down.

"You bitch," She hissed at you, the usual venom in her voice gone, replaced by exhaustion. You could only smile, somewhat sheepish but mostly just happy.

"It'd be a lot harder to resist if we were still in school, y'know." You said, turning back to watch the sky. "You can't change the law until we graduate. Until then, we're stuck here. And then, let's say you do change the law and it's passed, it's gonna take some time for people to accept that."

"Yeah," Regina agreed, folding her arms under her chin to lean on.

"And you can say that you'll change a hundred times easily, but actually doing it is different."

"When did you get so wise?"

"When I was all alone for years and did some stupid stuff."

"Like what?" You could tell she wouldn't be expecting what you said next. Even you weren't expecting it.

"You know how I sell drugs and alcohol, right? Where do you think I get the stuff from? I got to know some people while we weren't talking." You sighed. Remembering those times, the worst of them, still so fresh despite it having been years, wasn't nice. "Vandalism, underage drinking, shoplifting, driving without a licence... Did some harder drugs than weed... Stupid shit. I stopped most of it when I got caught the last time and almost went to juvie. Dad got me out, somehow. Probably threw money at people."

You turned your head to look at Regina. She was already paying keen attention to you. "I told my mandated therapist I was gonna change. I said I wasn't going to ever do anything like that ever again. I lied, of course."

"When did you actually stop, then?" She asked.

"Months after the mandated therapy was over." You put your hands in your pockets, getting cold. "I wanted to do it before then. I wanted to just, not be that. A druggie fifteen-year-old spraypainting some dilapidated trailer, hanging around guys that were way too old to be hanging around me. I didn't want to be that but at the same time being anything else was terrifying. I don't think highly of myself, but that was low even for me. Then, Mrs George found me one time."

"Mom?" The question was more out of shock than actual inquiry.

"Yeah." You blinked a couple of times. "I was in a bad state. Withdrawals. I made her promise she wouldn't tell my dad if I allowed her to take me home. She was talking the whole ride from downtown to mine, trying to keep me awake. I just lost it. I don't remember what I said or exactly what I did, but she had to pull over and restrain me." You gulped. "It was awful. Then she offered that I could mow your lawn for some money. I used it the first couple of times to get a new dose. She used to ask what I'd be spending it on and those times I had some bullshit excuse, but the first time I said I was probably gonna get some McDonalds', she cried. Cried real actual tears." You didn't feel like looking at Regina, but you could feel her eyes on the side of your head. "After that it just... It wasn't worth it."

"You never told me." Regina breathed out, still sounding shocked.

"I didn't want to." You turned onto your side, body facing her. "I was- am ashamed."

You didn't feel shame now, though. You undoubtedly would later, tomorrow perhaps, but not now. You were glad for it. You regretted it, wished you hadn't gone down that road, but lying there in the cold snow there was only indifference. That had happened. You had done that.

"Me too." She whispered. "Obviously, it's not the same, but-"

"I know what you mean. And it could be more similar than you think. Quitting an addiction is hard, but I wouldn't say quitting a behaviour is easy."

"It's stupid to compare drug addiction to being a bitch." Regina huffed, a frown on her face. "It's incomparable."

"Well, then let's not compare. Both can be hard in their own way without diminishing the other. What I'm trying to point out is that," You thought for a moment. "We're both trying to get over a bad, toxic habit that feels safe and good and like the only option, without seeing the merit or the other supposedly better option first. It's scary."

"Are you still trying to get over it?"

"I haven't been on drugs since, no. But it's not something that goes away. Not ever."

"And you're still kinda in it." She said, remembering your hustle around the school.

"Yeah. I can't expect you to be all buddy-buddy with everybody suddenly. That'd be hypocritical."

"So what do we do?"

What a question. One that you did not have the answer to. You didn't feel unsettled by the confusion. You hadn't told anyone of your dark past (gosh, could you be any more emo?) since those that knew had just kind of stumbled across it, so telling somebody felt... Good. You'd just sort of blurted it all out without thinking about it too much.

"Can we go back home? I wanna..." You stopped, realizing I wanna make out with you on the couch sounded awfully crude.

A lecherous grin spread Regina's cheeks. "Oh, I see. You just want me for my body."

"No!" You denied, indignant. "I would never."

"You would never want me for my body." She reiterated, purposefully misconstruing what you said. "Wow. Just wow."

"Regina, c'mon, I just mean..."

"Say what you were gonna say." She rolled away and up, towering above you with a twinkling smile pointed down at your prone body.

"Let's just go," You said and tried to get up. Like some bondage dominatrix, she pushed you back down with a shoe on your chest.

You hated how that sort of got to you. Your heart beat faster against her Ugg. Hopefully, she didn't feel it through the thick sole.

"Nuh-uh. Say it."

"I... I wanna make..." You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. "I wanna go home and make out with you on the couch."

"Oh, that wasn't so hard, now was it, baby? Let's go."

It was only once you'd made it back, chucked your wet clothes into the hamper, and spent a considerable amount of time in liplock, that either of you thought to circle back.

"Hey," Regina said, adjusting her weight to not be leaning on you so heavily. Your lips smacked apart and, gosh, now you were the gross ones. "I just now realized,"

"What are you realizing while you're supposed to be kissing me?" You pouted, falling onto your side and away from her. Your hand went over your eyes like you were a swooning maiden. Regina just patted your leg in mock consolation.

"You have your drug thing-" Only she would refer to your past addiction as your drug thing. "but I was, like, the only one doing anything actually wrong. Actively. You know what I mean." You craned your neck to look at her. Your double chin was probably epic.

"I lied to you by omission. I was really mean to you on Thanksgiving."

"Okay, lying by omission was bad and never do that again," She paused, waiting for you to affirm. You nodded solemnly. "But you were only mean after I was mean first. So, both forgiven. Anyway, I'm talking, like... I don't know how to say it."

You blinked. You didn't know what she meant so you couldn't really help. Regina huffed, nails scratching absent-mindedly on your calves.

"You made it sound like we were both wrong for how things exploded." She eventually said. "That was all me."

"I shouldn't have been such a doormat. I let you walk all over me and I never said anything about how I really felt."

"I don't think you can be in the wrong for that."

"I think I can be. At least the way that I was. I could've said something."

"And what would that've achieved? Me cutting you off and nothing changing?"

You clambered up to your elbows. "And now we're here." You smiled, one side a little crooked with how gleeful you were. "Look, we can hash everything out during the break, now just... Let's focus on other things."

Regina, still looking conflicted, caressed a hand up your leg. You shivered. You were in just a hoodie and loose briefs. Regina was more covered up than you, but still in just your old basketball shorts and a big band tee.

"Reggie, I'm getting used to asking for things I shouldn't want. Amuse me." You turned onto your back and hooked your legs around Regina. She fell forward, hands braced on either side of your torso. "Kiss me."

"I just don't want to mess up and have all this go away." She swallowed, a worried crease between her eyebrows.

"I think we're gonna mess up plenty of times. It's a possibility you'll find some justification to make somebody's life hell for a time. I could relapse." You pulled her closer with your legs, arms coming up to cross your fingers behind her neck. "A lot of the time we're not gonna want to admit it, we might not even know it. So, we can lay out a few... Promises, or something."

"Okay," Regina said, gazing down at you like you never imagined. Like you meant things to her. Important things.

"Promise me that you'll listen. Even if you disagree, please hear me out." She nodded seriously. "And, in turn, I promise to speak my mind. When I don't like something, or just like something, I'll say so." Again, she nodded. You loosened your hold on her neck and rubbed your thumbs on her cheeks. Getting to touch her like this, having her literally between your legs, was more than you ever thought you'd get.

Even if this ended in a similar fashion to the Thanksgiving kiss, or even much, much worse, you'd have regretted not taking the chance for the rest of your life.

"And... This is the most important one... Come closer."

Regina shifted closer, bending down, her elbows coming to rest next to your chest as she turned her ear towards you.

You whispered conspiratorially, like this was top-secret: "Still let me do your yard work."

Notes: Fucking christ. I wrote this all in one sitting. 4.3k words. That's like two chapters. I've written long chapters before, longer than this, but I got so used to the 2k on average pace that this felt huge.

Also! Don't be spooked by the [final chapter] marking! This is the last chapter in the story, yes, but we'll be hearing more from Reggie and Jorts still! I have a couple of epilogue sequences I want to write. Would y'all be interested in a poll as to what order those should be published? As in, chronological. Do we start from 10 Years Later... or something more like, idk, next summer? Lmk in the comments :)

This might be counterintuitive to add, and if my lovely amazing readers have exercised their reading comprehension during this series they might get why on a more nuanced level, revenge on Gretchen was left out purposefully. This will not be the last we hear of her, I have some plans for her in some of the epilogues, but yes. That plot point was left open on purpose.

The name. A lot of people like it! I was feeling insecure about my lack of foresight and impulsive naming, but hey, as it turns out it's not that deep! To add, it went really nicely with the end there I think :) No changes will be happening.

This note is getting so long. I just wanna thank everybody that's been along for the ride so far. I read every single comment and check my notifications way too often for new ones. I'm pretty used to writing for quite dead/inactive fandoms on AO3, and I love that site it's my origin, but it's very different to Tumblr. I just feel like people on here are much more open to sharing their thoughts. Everybody who's bore witness to my grief with the taglist, thank you for your patience. And thank you so much for wanting to be on it. I cannot believe people wanted that. For little ole me? Oh, you shouldn't have...

If there are spelling errors or grammatical weirdness, shhh. I'm not reading all that again at 1am. Toodles!

Taglist will be posted separately! Comment on that post if you want to be added to be notified when the epilogies are published!

[delicrieux]

…TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS ! ⋆｡°✩

⋆⭒˚.⋆ chapter summary. he's more sensitive than he looks.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader warnings for this chapter. swearing wc. 3.5k author’s note. just wanna say a big thank u to everyone that stuck w this story and loved it along w me. there's still one chapter left, so here's some mini angst before our little happy ever after. also, i've recently realized that nothing actually happens in this story. there's no plot. you just hang out with gojo and the rest. that's it. no great fights or conflict or anything. just spending time with him.

ੈ ✩‧₊˚

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | twny masterlist | < back | next >

CHAPTER 13: the hakone incident

you wake up smothered in an embrace, which isn't uncommon.

what is slightly more uncommon is that gojo is wound around you so tightly that even his dumb, big paw has got your breast held hostage. not much there to sink his claws in, yet sunk they are, still. you wiggle and grasp and dig, trying to extricate yourself from this prison, but the soft fabric that rubs against his crotch with every small movement has him hissing in your ear.

“sa-”

“mine,” is the first thing he mumbles, words laced with sleep. he cradles you tighter, hides his face in your hair. you pat his arm, ignoring his sleep-addled state.

some sort of half-coherent mumble is slurred into your pillow as a response.

“not gonna bother translating that,” you utter under your breath – it’s too early to be irritated with him, and he doesn’t deserve it also, since he is much too cute. however, “lemme go? i need to go to the bathroom.”

“no,” he stubbornly refuses.

“don't be like that.”

a soft groan, then a kiss to the exposed curve of your neck, and one more to the edge of your ear. his fingers twitch at the flesh, kneading and tickling, “fine, i need to go too. let's go together.”

“you wanna hold hands while i'm in the stall or something?”

“yes.”

he is unreasonable, but that’s hardly a surprise.

you disentangle your legs from his, untying his arms from your torso, then turning to sit up properly. instantly, your stomach flips. in the bleak, early sunlight, gojo is the first thing you focus on, sleep-dazed and smiling lovingly in your direction. cheeks creased and swollen with grogginess, hair a complete mess, eyes still crusted. you wipe a drop of drool from the corner of his mouth with your thumb.

once, he told you that he always sleeps the best when you’re sleeping next to him. maybe that’s why he’s so clingy, “morning.”

“yeah?” he mutters. one hazy eye blinks, then the other, and you can’t help grinning at the sight, “hi. hello. good morning, how are you? ‘m just the guy you're looking for, can i be of service?”

you try so hard to press your lips into a thin line, but instead they stretch more and more, “c'mon, up. long day ahead.”

*

you had expected to take the morning train to hakone, but instead, with your bags dutifully carried by a lanky idiot, you are led to sleek, black car parked inconspicuously close to jujutsu technical. suspiciously, you eye the tinted windows of the driver’s seat, expecting a personal chauffer – which would be way too much, but also quintessential gojo. when the car keys jingle in his hand, you blink stupidly, smothered under the sunlight.

“you have a license?” you blurt.

“yeah,” gojo says smugly, opening the trunk and dumping the bags inside, “to kill.”

“the circus must be missing their clown,” you state sharply, though you feel a bit silly for not knowing such a thing about the man you have spent 3 years hating and a few months liking enough to be willingly glued to his side.

he snorts, fixing his glasses and shutting the trunk. all suave and cool, he opens the passenger’s door for you, “got any red lipstick in that little purse of yours? could kiss my nose a bunch of times, see if it honks after.”

the urge to shove your elbow into his stomach and watch how he doubles over in pain is almost too tempting, but you resist. after all, you do have the mind to enjoy the view of his flexing arms as you enter the vehicle, the sight disappearing as he circles around to enter from the other side.

the interior smells nice and new – it’s definitely expensive, but your knowledge of cars begins and ends in that they have four wheels and roll fast when you press a pedal. you can practically feel the self-satisfaction radiating off his person, especially as his hand glides along the steering wheel. it takes a few moments of useless fiddling and some gears shifting until he begins driving. his hand seats itself upon your thigh, as though it had always been its intention.

“seatbelt,” he reminds, easily maneuvering out of the parking lot.

you slide the black band across your chest, buckling the lock, “thanks,” he mutters, palming your leg for good measure, “safe and sound.”

then, he slams the accelerator so quick and hard you're thrown back into the plush seat. the car screeches like a furious beast wrongfully insulted, engine purring loudly as its owner cackles. oh no.

here is where you learn that gojo is a terrible driver, as the speed limit is more of a loose guideline and traffic laws do not exist. he speeds past red lights that have you clutching the handlebar for your dear life, and he seems to delight in your mortified expression each time his eyes stray from the road, which is too much to be considered safe.

miraculously, you make it past the confusing and intricate tokyo streets in one piece and breathe a little easier. that is until you get to the highway, and he zooms between lanes like he’s playing a video game, jumping between cars and testing the limits of your patience to a level so extreme that you can hardly take it.

“could you slow down a little?” your voice has acquired a tremble, and you must be paler than you have been when you awoke. you think he’ll ignore you over the music, but he doesn’t.

he eases up just a little, and you remove your hand from the handlebar. it’s numb and tingly and aches from holding so tightly.

“i have some cds in the back,” he says, pinching your thigh. you think he doesn’t deserve to touch you like this, but unfortunately, it’s comforting, so you allow it. if you crash, you decide you will grab him and shield yourself with his body – his infinity will stop the impact, and you’ll probably live.

you twist and dig around, and once the cds are safely in your lap, your brows shoot up, “kat-tun?”

his lips stretch into a cheeky smile, and all of his grievances are forgiven with that, “they have a few good songs.”

“all of their songs are good!” you defend hotly. still, today is proving to be one surprise after the other – did he seriously listen to their whole discography because it’s your favorite band? if yes, that is very sweet. if he’s lying, well, you will not fight for the truth, because this has made you happy.

you change the music with barely contained enthusiasm and hum along. your initial impression must’ve been wrong, because gojo knows what he’s doing. he always does, and you reward him with a sweet smile for all of his efforts, which inspires him to lean for a kiss that nearly steers you both off the highway.

*

the first place you visit in hakone is not the hotel room gojo has rented, but the mall. you locate an expensive-looking restaurant and order your lunch – you, something modest and normal, and he enough to feed a family of seven. it’s always mildly fascinating to watch him chow down like his life depends on it, if not a bit off-putting.

“no one’s gonna take it from you,” you tell him when he slurps a noodle and almost chokes.

he glares at you over his shades, “shut up, ‘m hungry.”

you try to steal a piece from his bowl but he jabs your hand with chopsticks seemingly with the intention to break through skin. you yelp and shy away, wounded and afraid. he doesn’t even seem sorry.

he makes it up to you by treating you to coffee and a slice of cake, which he devours after you had a tiny bite. this is becoming a problem, but he looks very happy and doesn’t let go of your hand, planting quick, small kisses on the place he hurt, so you, once again, forgive him, as is the standard of your relationship.

shopping is next, and he steers you to each and every boutique that even marginally catches your attention. you pile everything you like on his arms, as though he was your personal assistant, and he, surprisingly, doesn’t complain. for the first half of you maxing out his card, he was stood outside the dressing room like a guard dog, shuffling back and forth, back and forth, waiting for you to pull back the curtain and reveal yourself so he could supply you with a verdict, which was always, without fault, “we’re buying that.”

he grew bored, though, and started whining that his feet hurt. invited himself inside and sat on the small chair in the very corner of the cramped space, very attentive when you changed in and out of your clothes. he even helped with the zippers and the buttons, and eventually, he got a boner from all this touching, so you had to stay for another good 10 minutes till he calmed down.

the blaring white lights, and you sweating. you stare at him, disappointed. he looks mildly uncomfortable, squirming in his seat and trying not to look at you, the mountain of clothes you discarded heaped on his lap.

“what am i gonna do with you?” you wonder aloud with a small sigh.

“i can’t help it. you’re hot.”

by the end of it all, you have acquired new perfume, a new set of luxurious makeup, and too many clothes to know what to do with. he carries your bags without you having to ask and leads you to get new underwear, but you make him wait outside the shop for that since you’re not risking another incident again.

*

when evening dwindles into night, he suggest a car ride around the city. the ocean breeze ruffles your hair when you roll down the window to admire the watercolor sights around you – the buildings, the people, the greenery, the mountain peak pitch black against the backdrop of the sky. you drive around aimlessly, and he's more subdued and mindful of the signs and the blinking traffic lights, his hand leaving your body only when he needs to switch gears. it always comes back with a little knead, and it always makes you smile.

“look, they're preparing for the festival,” you tell him as you pass by a closed off street of decorated stalls and convenience stores that look like they have been closed for the night, with two police men stationed across the entrance.

“you've ever been to lake ashinoko?” he questions idly.

“nope,” you turn another corner, the streets a little quieter, “it has the big torii gate, right?”

“yeah,” gojo hums, “we'll go there to watch the fireworks,” he seems distracted, “pretty stuff.”

“looking forward to it,” you reply, too interested in a display of colorful confectionary and sweets to decipher the tone of his voice, “where are we heading to?”

“dunno,” he mutters, knuckles slowly relaxing, “just around. you wanna head back?”

“nah,” you glance at him, a brow arched in curiosity. he looks oddly flushed. “you seem a little tired. wanna stop?”

“always worried about me,” he clicks his tongue, “’m a big boy.”

you pause for a moment. getou's words spring to mind, and you feel a bit nervous.

he's more sensitive than he looks.

maybe now's not the best time to bring up the clearly crumbling state of his best friend, but uncomfortable conversations don't have the luxury of waiting, nor do they ever fit into the right moment. you chew on your bottom lip in thought, as if the words would make themselves known without any effort from your part, but you find yourself no longer stuck on getou's haunting look but rather the way gojo seems a bit off his usual cheeky and snarky self.

you want to be a good friend. you care about both of them, and it hurts, in an odd, dull ache somewhere in your chest, when neither want your help.

is it so wrong to worry about gojo? you have come to terms with the idea that you like him, like him so much that sometimes, you feel half-crazy with a need to be by his side, constantly and without interruption, like today, like, hopefully, for many more days to come.

still, you are aware of the many walls and barriers he has erected to guard himself. and you, the person that likes him the most and has his attention almost at every given moment, still understand very little of who he is. you don't want to linger on the question if you ever will.

you must take example of haibara's endless positivity. step by step. even slow progress is still progress.

“i worry about everyone,” you eventually offer, more somber than you originally intended. still, it gets a faint snicker from him, and your cheeks puff with a mixture of amusement and relief. “you're not special, you know.”

“i hope that isn't true. i'd be crushed,” he teases back.

there it is. the little deflection that always makes you smile, despite how obviously it diverts from what's truly on his mind. it's a defense mechanism, you reckon. that said, you are not unaware that he has offered you little hints here and there, things he would only disclose in the dead of the night in the hush between soft laughs and your pillows.

without staring at him, you take a deep breath. heart light and fingers threaded against the seam of your shirt. here it goes, you tell yourself.

“i didn't used to worry so much, to be honest,” you confess, hoping he will at least listen before undoubtedly cutting you off, “but, i guess recently, i’m starting to see things from new perspectives. i know you don’t need it, but i still—”

he makes a sharp turn that doesn't seem coordinated enough, and suddenly, a stop-street opens to the left, overlooking a rocky beach and calm waters of the vast stretch of hakone's inlet. gojo parks dangerously close to the edge of the cliff and lets the air settle.

“honesty hour?” his smile is familiar to you, perhaps a bit too bitter to your liking. “alright. if we're playing this game, then i'd say that worrying is dumb, especially if it’s me you’re worried about. really stupid, actually. i don’t see the point in getting emotional over shit like that.”

“well, it’s not being emotional, it’s just—”

“no, shush,” he squeezes the length of your leg. you blink down at where he's touching you, and you look up when you realize he means to have the attention for just this. “look, what i'm saying is, i’m me, yeah? you can call me conceited all you want, but it’s the truth. i mean, i, okay, fine, fuck it,” he sighs, like he's annoyed, and you're just as grateful you can't fully see his expression as he likely is of yours, “a weak heart is not something to particularly proud of. i'm not someone that requires babysitting.”

this is likely the first time he has ever been so upfront about anything in his life, ever. maybe getou has seen this side of him, but even if that was the case, you'd never know for certain. you don't, however, appreciate the slight anger in his tone.

“no one's babysitting you,” you placate, careful to test his reaction before continuing, “we spend almost all of our time together, how is this surprising? and i don't think anyone would make an argument against you being the strongest, but you're still a person.”

you wonder when his hand slipped from your knee. he doesn't react for a good few seconds, as though gathering his thoughts, though you suspect, whether he was or not, this is not something he intended to dig deep enough to expose.

“well, yeah, duh,” he responds obtusely, but he offers nothing more.

this has gone about as well as you've expected, which is to say it has gone terribly, and it’s all his fault, because you were intending to go in a completely different direction.

“still a person,” he utters, and now he definitely sounds irritated, “the hell's that supposed to mean? you think i'm gonna roll over and let some curse get me or something? are you stupid?”

your stomach lurches like he has landed a heavy blow on it, and you need a moment to swallow past the ugly burn in your throat that your entire face stings with. somehow, what irks you the most is that you are hurt he would assume that you, of all people, would ever force something he doesn’t want onto him, as though the thought itself has made you a villain in his eyes.

as though stating a simple fact that he is human too is somehow insulting, somehow a threat to his title as gojo satoru and each and every connotation that comes with that honored name.

you have never asked him of anything. he's the one that started picking on you first, physically imposing himself into your life. he's the one that changed over the years and started showing new sides, he's the one that begs you to go on trips with him and buys you things and likes to hold you as he sleeps and complains that you make him horny even in situations that really call for tender affection instead of sexual advances.

you don't even ask him to like you like you like him, since you know that it would be met with harsh rejection. he would take it as a demand, no doubt, to be on your level – someone weak-hearted. his emotions have proven to be more volatile than his actions, and perhaps you’ve accidentally stumbled into something a bit out of your level of expertise. you can't brush it off with a snide, vaguely amusing remark like you usually would, nor do you want to.

you’ve changed, too.

still.

his hand is back as a vice around your knee. your jaw clenches.

that was uncalled for.

“you're being mean,” you mumble, your words hanging stale between you.

he sighs after what feels like an eternity, sounding long-suffering and tired,  “sorry. that came out wrong.”

“you've just started a fight for no reason.”

“what, you crying? tough luck, maybe try being—”

“fine,” you don’t let him finish, unbuckling your seatbelt, “sorry for getting so emotional. see you at the hotel.”

“what?” he snaps, head swerving in your direction with a new, searing glare, “no. jesus. just. no. what?”

“i’m heading back,” you insist, but you are stilled in your attempts at fleeing by his hold. it'll bruise if you really want to test how badly he's going to grip you, probably, but this unexpected argument has really shaken you. he's only ever been this prickly at the start of year two, when the sight of you invoked some long-simmering resentment that he showed by cowing at you from each and every corner, like some hellish echo, “let me go, please.”

“hold on,” his fingers dig, and despite how you try to swat at him, he doesn't budge, “there's no need for this. i'm sorry, okay? don't get out the fucking car, for fuck's sake, i'm serious.”

“satoru,”

“no,” he snarls, the sound sudden and vicious that you flinch from its force, “i said, no. i don't—you're not going anywhere. i'm sorry, okay, i'm sorry, i'm an asshole, i know, but just, just listen for a sec.”

you slump against your seat, lips pursed and arms tightly crossed in a way you know he finds childish but that, unfortunately for him, is a legitimate response to his infuriating behavior. to further throw him off, you make it very clear he does not have your attention, and that even if he did, it wouldn't do him any good.

you feel him slowly relax and tremble before petting at the little scratches he has accidentally carved in your skin in a way that lets you know he’s truly sorry. he lets out an uneasy sigh, fingers twitching every few seconds.

stillness. finally, silence, except for the wind that howls and the crash of the ocean below.

“i was talking bullshit,” he begins, the effort of it wearing him down to a barely audible, pathetic volume. “it's just, i can't... i don't know how, okay? that's the truth.”

“can't what?”

“you know,” he gestures ambiguously with the hand he isn't restraining you with, “there are certain expectations i gotta meet. i can't disappoint everyone. i mean, they wouldn't, i don't think, but... look, i'm sure you understand.”

“no, i don't, actually,” you snip, “i don't even understand what we're fighting about anymore.”

“i, just, it's, okay, whatever, fuck,” he thumps his head back against his seat, and the next words leave him in one big, excruciating spill, “i'm just not very good with feelings. this is all fucking crazy.”

like most secrets, they're out before he can reel them back. his lips slam shut so quickly that it turns into a tense line. you watch him, he watches you, and his face melts into something shameful. his eyes dart to the steering wheel and back, and you really hope he isn't planning on smashing the accelerator again to head face first into the rocks to escape whatever the hell is happening in this car.

“i'm not good at this,” he repeats slowly, painfully, as though you’re speaking different languages, “i don't want you to cry.”

“i'm not crying. i'm pissed off and i want to go home.”

“don't go home,” he rushes to say, “don't go anywhere. i'm not even sure where we are exactly, so just, calm down.”

“i can find my way,” you sniff irritably, and he suddenly looks utterly miserable, which you think is very unfair.

“christ, you couldn't even find the fucking bathroom in the mall, do you seriously think i'm gonna let you walk around alone at night cuz you're a bit angry with me?”

gojo really has a talent of saying the wrong things at the most right of times.

you scowl, “that's because i was following you!” yes, perhaps you did turn off your brain and mindlessly waddle after him, trusting him to deliver you to your desired location. is it a crime to be caught in the spell that is gojo satoru's enigmatic appeal? that should be considered a blessing instead of an inconvenience, surely, “don't patronize me. and if you don't quit being shitty, you'll be watching the fireworks alone, cuz i'm taking my ass to the first train and heading the hell back to tokyo.”

“sorry,” he bows his head, forehead softly smacking against your shoulder, “please don't go. i'm sorry.”

“sorry you went super shit on me?” you demand, still sulking, “or sorry you snapped?”

“sorry for... all of it, alright? i'll make it up to you. do you want new jewelry? you didn't get any. like earrings, or something. i'll get nice ones, okay?”

your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “huh? stop freaking me out. i sincerely hope you realize i don't hang around you to get free stuff. that's so shallow. do you even know me?”

“god,” he exhales heavily, like he's very, very close to banging his head against the wheel out of sheer exasperation. “i'm trying, you know. cut me some slack here.”

yes, you see he's trying his utmost best, and that's why you're already softening. but the sting still lingers. you will be gracious and assume that his attempt at buying back your affection was borne out of panic and is, overall, a genuine mistake, or maybe a show of something beneath the layers – who is he if not gojo satoru, the strongest, the richest, the prodigal son, the untouchable, unapproachable sorcerer? gojo doesn't deal with his mistakes gracefully. he overcompensates. he hides, and this time, he has failed to hide from you.

“and i don't want you to pay back the ice cream, either,” you finally mumble, tentatively reaching up to pet the mess of his fluffy hair as a show of good faith. an olive branch, because apparently, you will always possess a clearer mind than him.

he’s immobile for a second, and then he burrows even deeper into the material of your shirt, as though hoping to somehow melt away from it, and a heavy breath collapses out of him, “this is bad for my ego. don't ever take that control away from me. it's wrong. feels wrong.”

“fine. whatever. you win. happy? nothing happened, yada yada. friends,” you grumble.

“gross,” he groans, despite the clear warmth in his voice that makes your stomach flutter, “being a friend sounds a bit lame. but yeah. friends. and we're watching the fireworks tomorrow, yes? say yes.”

“okay,” you acquiesce, despite your reservations, “maybe.”

“yes,” he insists, stubbornly holding his position on your shoulder. he does, however, pout, and that lightens your mood significantly. “we are. right?”

“you have to be less annoying.”

“fine.”

“fine, and,” you start. you don't want to be cold with him, but you don't quite feel ready to let this go, “i want to sleep in a different room.”

he startles away from you like you’ve slapped him, “no. bad idea. forget it, it's not happening.”

“don't fight me on this, satoru,” you say, and his eyes widen slightly. “it's really not up for debate.”

“are you mad?”

“yeah,” you tell him, and it's true. “i'm not... mad-mad, but like. i need a little space.”

“okay,” he swallows thickly, like he doesn't like the thought of you so much as existing further than a ten meter radius from him, “got it. no problem.”

that must've hurt.

“just for today,” you assure him, “promise.”

he nods slowly. then, “can i… can i at least kiss you?”

you shake your head. no, not now. not yet.

“right, okay, of course,” he mutters emptily and sits back. with some space in between you again, you find his lack of warmth much more pronounced, not to mention the distance he puts there. for the first time today, when starts the car and shifts gears, the edge of his fingers doesn't brush your skin.

the drive back to the hotel is agonizingly silent.

additional author's note: i think dating gojo would be very difficult since he's so emotionally stunted that he can't express himself and he's too afraid to try. i think he would also have significant trouble being on the same level as someone he considers weaker than him (not in a bad way). the only reason he even formed a connection with suguru was because suguru, at one point, was also the strongest, and he was the only person that understood him on that level. reader isn't the strongest, and the connection she offers is really different than what he's used to. he lashes out, but he still apologizes sincerely. i also thinks he takes her for granted, much like he takes getou. he's supposed to be in control because he's the strongest, and he's likely troubled about his own feelings, that's why he's so frustrated.

don't be too angry with him, he's really trying :(

but anyway, stan kami-chan because she is a baddie and if a baddie threatened to leave me i'd be clawing at her begging her to stay too

tags (bold couldn't tag!). @shokosbunny , @jotarohat , @alygator77 , @fortunatelyfurrygiver , @finnydraws , @mastermasterlist1p1 , @eolivy , @letsmyy , @staruus , @k0z3me , @damnshorty , @kaeyakaikai , @n4melesspers0n , @midnightwriter21 , @sillymercury , @byakuya61085 , @stillnotherapy , @mydearchoso , @plutoisaghoul , @byerno6 , @bqvz , @harryzcherry , @noira-l , @your-sleeparalysisdem0n , @satoryaa , @cccandynecklaces , @stuffeddeer , @cherriee-ee ,

[madamechrissy]

Dirty Little Secret

ꕥ Pairings: Toji Fushiguro x Fem Reader

ꕥ Warnings- MDNI-explicit sexual content, dirty talk, Toji calls reader 'doll, ma, slut (Toji and Doll just work lol) Age gap- reader is 21, Toji is 39. - Soft Toji!! This chapter-fluffy cuteness, spitting, rough sex, oral (both reveiving) Toji is freaky till the end lol, mommy/daddy kink

ꕥ Word Count- this chap- 4k

ꕥ Summary- Toji Fushiguro is your dad Shiu's best friend for years. You've known him most your life. You come home for spring break to relax, and who pops up at the fucking doorstep? Toji. He's nasty, annoying, perverted and... Sexy. Hot. Built. And makes you think, maybe your first time shouldn't be with some college boy? But with this buff dude who can tie a cherry stem with his tongue and a scar on his damn lip.

Chapter 13 - Masterlist - Playlist

Final Chapter- Chapter 14

Three Years Later

“I punch daddy!” Your three year old little girl Mio is currently punching Toji Fushiguro, he’s on the floor on his back, pretending her punches are as powerful as any anime character surely. You’re giggling as you hold your other little girl, Mai, who was almost two now. Toji really knocked you up back to back.

“Dada, Dada, save Dada!” She whines now, and you giggle and let her down, as she fights to save her dad from Mio’s evil clutches.

“Yes Mai, save Dada please!” He pleads, as Mio is kicking him with her little feet playfully, giggling, and Mai is pulling on his hands. “Your sister, she’s so evil! Just like her Mama!”

“Hey now!” You flip him off, sticking your tongue out, and he chuckles at you, as Mai ‘helps’ him up. “No, Mai, punch daddy too.”

“No, love Dada!” Mai jumps up and down and Toji scoops her up, blowing raspberries on her tummy, you melt as you always do watching him with them. Mio is jumping up as well, so Toji snatches them each up in his arms, walking to you then, big grin on his handsome face.

“Love mama too though, hmm?” He says to Mai, and she reaches for you with her little hand, you give both girls kisses, then kiss Toji softly, giggling at them.

“Love mama!” They both shout.

“Are you all excited for Gumi coming over?” You ask them, and they squeal, especially Mio, she just adores Megumi.

“I’m excited for it.” Toji says as he puts them down and they are running around, pulling you against him, his tone dropping. You are blushing now, as he sinks his hands into your hips, much wider after your kids then before, but Toji loves them. Toji loves everything about you.

“I’m excited too.” You admit with a whisper, since Megumi and his girlfriend were coming to pick the girls up for the weekend. “It’s been so long since we’ve had any alone time.”

“I know doll, shit don’t I know. Wish I could knock you up again.” He whispers in your ear and you gasp.

“Thank god you can’t, two is plenty!”

“Mmm, wanted a boy.”

“You have one, and you named him a girl name.”

“Hey now!” You’re both laughing softly, as he pecks little kisses on your cheeks. “I’ll go get them ready for the weekend! I’m gonna miss them.”

“I know, me too, but I also really wanna be alone.”

“Old perv.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks, his dark green eyes glinting and crinkling at the corners.

“You’re not so young now, old lady. My old lady.”

“The fuck I am!” You shove at him and he smacks and grabs your ass as you run by, and Toji’s phone rings.

“What’s up Dad.” You hear Shiu screaming over the phone, and you snort in laughter then. “Fine, fine. They’re great, Megs is snatching em up for the weekend. You still coming for Thanksgiving?”

Shiu and Toji were friends, after a few years of constant side remarks, though Shiu still has some in his arsenal you think. “Tell Dad I love him!” You shout, as you pick up Mai, holding your hand for Mio. “Let’s go get ready, lovely girls!”

“My baby girl says she loves you, Shiu- she is my baby girl- it’s not perverted, heh well maybe it is- now you don’t have to say that!” Toji is shouting out, and you roll your eyes, some things don’t really change.

“Gumi, Gumi!” Mio keeps shouting, and Megumi and his pretty girlfriend walk in, hugging you tightly, as they then hug the girls.

“Brudder, brudder!” Mai says, and he’s chuckling, his usually serious side melts away around them.

“Gumi missed you babies. Ugh c’mere.” He hugs them tightly, and then they go and hug his girlfriend, who you notice has a ring, gasping.

“Fiance!?” You ask, and she blushes, nodding.

“He asked me just the other day, we haven’t shared with many people just yet.” She says softly, holding her hand out for you to look at the ring, as Toji walks out and looks now.

“Holy shit, Megs you gettin’ married kid?” Megumi’s cheeks flush a bit, and he pops a kiss on her cheek.

“I am, not just yet of course, we’re thinking about next year.”

“Holy fuck I’m so happy for you!” You squeal out, you love his girlfriend, Megumi has gotten so soft for her it’s fucking adorable, though he’s still very much Megumi.

“Thank you.” He pops a kiss on your head, smiling.

“Damn, you’re gonna be a grandma soon.” Toji says to you, and you gasp, smacking at his big strong chest. “Step Grandma?”

“Fuck you, Toji! Ugh!”

“The children, language, brat.” He huffs, as you scowl up at him, and Megumi snorts and rolls his eyes.

“You two clearly need this break. Oh, and she’s not my step mom, I don’t care if you’re married. Still not.”

“Exactly!”

“But as for kids, maybe.” His fiance says, and you squeal at that.

“Maybe.” He agrees quietly.

“Holy shit I’m gonna be a grandpa soon.” Toji comes and smacks Megumi in the back, you suppose that’s their affection, ruffling Megumi’s perfect spikes, making him smack his dad’s hand in disgust. You giggle at them.

“Yeah, yeah. Not just yet. So, are you girls ready to have some fun?” He asks then, as you’re carrying their bags to the car. “That’s way too much shit for a weekend, jesus.”

“She overdoes everything.” Toji mutters behind you, earning your tongue sticking out and his smirk.

“If you all need anything you can bring them back, you all can call me any time. Really if it’s too much I-”

Megumi puts his hands on your shoulders then. “Hey, take a breath, they’re my little sisters, I’ve got it.”

You exhale then, emotional as you watch them giggling with Megumi’s girl, she is strapping them into their carseats carefully. She smiles back at you. “I am looking forward to this, I love these little girls.”

“Ugh, I love you all. I’m not used to this much time away.”

“You all clearly need it.” He says with a snort, as Toji comes behind you and wraps his big strong arms on your waist. You sink into the embrace as Megumi slides in his car, and waves at you two, as you wave back.

“Love you guys! Love you babies!” You shout, and when they drive off you look to Toji, and see it in his eyes, his desire for you, as you brush your hand down his cheek, where he’s clearly shaved this morning, a little nick on his tanned skin. “Did you shave just for me, Daddy?” You tease.

“Sure did, wonder if you shaved f’me, brat.” You giggle, biting your lower lip a bit then.

“Maybe I did, gotta catch me to find out!” You giggle, running into the house then, and he chases after you quickly with his long ass legs, as you’re dodging side to side, ducking every time he tries to catch you. “Getting slow old man?’

“Slow? I’ll show you slow, brat.” He huffs, then he’s lept across the table to snatch you up in his arms, throwing you over his shoulder and smack your ass. You gasp breathlessly at that, as you’re up too high, and he’s smacking your ass hard, making it sting. “Got you, lil mama.”

“Oh, fuck let me down!” You shout, punching at his strong back, but he’s setting you on the dining room table, and you squeal when he’s yanking your shorts off. “On the table!?”

“Of course, fine dining you know. Gonna eat at the table like a gentleman.” You can’t help but buck your hips up when he’s sitting down at the chair and spreading your thighs, looking at you hungrily. “Fuck your pussy is so pretty.”

“Need you, please.” You whine out, because it’s been a while since you all had any energy to do anything with the kids, and Toji does work a lot to take care of you all, you miss him so bad. He licks his lower lip, smirking.

“Ya begging, Ma?”

“I can, shit. Please, please…”

“Please what Ma?” He kisses up your thighs, nipping your inner thigh, and you’re whining out at it, hands in his silky dark hair which he’s just got the cutest undercut on.

“Please let me cum on your handsome face, Toji Fushiguro.” You whisper, and then cry out as he swipes his tongue up your slit.

“Good girl, asking the right way.” He says, then he’s devouring your pussy, spreading your lips and shoving his tongue in your entrance, that long tongue sliding in past your gummy little walls, and you’re trembling everywhere, throbbing around the wet muscle fucking you so good.

“Toji!” You cry out, and he moans against you, nose bumping your sensitive clit, his eyes dilated as they look up at you under his dark lashes, his hands digging into the flesh of your thighs, brutal in that grip. You feel your body react violently to it, to him going so hard, when he’s been so sweet lately.

You all always had to be quiet, and though the sex was freaky you couldn’t ever let go like this, and fuck it feels good, your screams echoing in the quiet cabin you all call home. Your ring is glinting as you tug at his hair, grinding your hips up for more and more of his tongue, of his mouth, of his teeth. Toji’s moaning against you, vibrating your clit as he moves his mouth to your clit.

Toji slides two thick fingers inside your soppy little entrance, and you scream out then, shaking and trembling as he’s sucking your clit in his mouth, and your pussy is drooling down his mouth, as he fucks you with his fingers over and over so quick. You’re falling apart on the table, clinging to his hair so hard you’re yanking it, and Toji’s drinking you up, the sounds so obscene in the quiet house.

“Oh my… c-cumming, cumming!” Your words are breathy, barely audible, then you shatter as you cum so good, and he’s moaning louder against your pussy, squishing sounds loud as his fingers work in easier and easier. “Toji!”

“Mmm, good girl. Cum s’good f’me, don’t ya?” Toji’s leaned up, face covered in you, and your tummy trembles when he’s sliding your shirt up. “Lemme see you, take the fuckin’ shirt off.”

You giggle then, as you take off your top, your breasts bouncing out, and he exhales as he looks at you, hand sliding up your tummy to grip a breast, squishing it and making you whine out in pleasure at his big, rough hands on you. Then he’s slid three fingers inside you, and you gasp at it, too full with his thick fingers, you’re wriggling but he holds you down with a smirk.

“Can’t take three fingers, fuckin brat?”

“Fuck you, Toji. Ah!” He shoves them in then, scowling at you and leaning over you, smacking your face gently with his hand, only serving to make you bite your lip as you’re cumming all over his fingers again, eyes rolling back.

“Ya never fixed this goddamn attitude, over four years of this shit.” His voice is gruff, and you giggle, earning a deeper scowl on his handsome features. “And ya can laugh? I need to fix that.”

Suddenly he’s bent you over the table, spreading your thighs, and dropping down his sweats, shoving his thick length in your pussy to the hilt. You scream as you cling to the table, but he’s got both your arms behind you in a flash, grabbing your wrists and pressing them up your back. Your breasts are pressed against the cold wood table as he presses in deeper.

“F-fuck, too much, too much!” You’re whimpering, and he chuckles, leaning over you and kissing between your shoulder blades, as you’re helpless to him, as he’s pumping in and out and stretching you so deliciously.

“All that talk today, can’t back it up huh? Can’t take dick?”

“Your dick is huge, fucking… dick! Ow!” Toji smacks your ass harder than before, leaving a handprint that’s bruising, and the cool air hits it, making you shake and whine as you get wetter.

“You never learn your fuckin lesson, do ya doll?” He whispers, leaning forward as your legs dangle off the damn table so he can fuck you properly, your wrists captured in his big grip, you’re just helpless to him.

“Need… need lots of lessons, daddy.” Your words are broken by moans as Toji rails your little pussy, pushing his tip against your g spot over and over, as you’re blinded by how good it feels, face against his table as he fucks you over and over.

“Drooling all over huh, doll? All over the table, where's your manners?” He’s huffing as his free hand swipes the drool pooling from your lips, cupping you under your chin, and you can’t form a word, you’re too overwhelmed by how good it feels. How rough he’s being as he lets your wrists go, numb from his grip, and he’s turning you to face him, tilting your chin up.

Your eyes lock, and it’s not just how good the sex feels that hits you, it’s how much you love him, how much he loves you, how much he wants you every fucking day, even when you’re such a mess with the kids. Even when you’re in pajamas and a messy bun, even with little stretchies, he loves them. In fact, his hands are sliding up them even now.

“Beautiful fuckin’ brat.” He says, and you can’t stop your grin as you slide your hands up his chest, still in that tight white shirt, wrapping around his neck as he lifts your ass on the table, kissing you so deeply. “Ya gonna take dick right or not?”

“I can do it!” He snorts then, but he’s gentle when he’s pressing back in, and your thighs are wrapped around his lithe hips, as he pushes back past that tight ring of muscles, and your walls flutter around him. “Oh my god…”

“Fuck…” You both moan the words at the same time, and now Toji is cupping your face in a big hand, thumb trailing across your lower lip. “Pretty little brat.”

“Handsome old man.” He shoves in harder then, and you gasp out, head falling back as he’s rocking in so deep, pressing his tip into your cervix, and you’re shaking as you cling to him.

“Old man this, old man that. You love cummin on this dick, don’t ya?” You nod desperately, as he picks you up again, and shoves you against the kitchen wall, you cling to him helplessly, watching him with vision fading in and out as he’s fucking you against it now. “Cum f’me, now lil brat.”

“Fuck.” You’re screaming as you do, as you’re dripping down his length, down to the fucking floor beneath you both, and he’s taking you over, one hand bracing against the wall and the other on your ass, pumping in and out. “Toji, Toji… love you, love you, fuck…”

“Love you, bitchy ass brat.” You giggle a bit breathless, sticking your tongue out, only to get fucked harder, but you’re craving it, falling apart in his hold, he makes you feel so goddamn good, so tiny in his big arms, as he takes over everything you are. You both kiss desperate and hungry.

“Mmm, mmm!” You’re whining into his mouth now, and soon you’re rocking your hips against him, until he’s carried you to the couch, and has you on top of him, looking up at you, as you’re weakly moving.

“Fuck, perfect body, ma. So sexy riding me.” His words urge your weak legs along, his moans are like some fuel for your energy, as he’s sucking on your nipples, taking them into his hot mouth, and you’re clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in, making him hiss. “Cunt so tight around me, how are you still so tight?”

“Mmm.” You can’t answer his question, not when you feel him throbbing in your pussy, feel his tip thickening as you’re grinding right on it, so deep, so full you feel him everywhere. He’s kissing and squeezing and biting every bit of your lush breasts, leaving red marks everywhere, as his eyes drink your body in.

“So sexy, look at you. Pretty lil doll.” He whispers, your back is arching, pressing your breasts further towards his face, he’s devouring them, finding your clit then with the rough pad of one of his thumbs, you’re screaming out, unable to function. “Cum with me, lemme feel that tight lil cunt on me.”

“Fuck, Toji!! Too much, shit…”

“You can do it, don’t tap out.” He takes over then, fucking up into you, and your tits are bouncing as your hair is falling down your back, and you’re cumming with him, as he fills you up, groaning sexy from the back of his throat, yanking you against him. Your tongues are messy and desperate as they work against each other, as he’s pumping you so full.

“Yes, yes, fill me Daddy.” You whine out, making him shove you down by your hips even more, as your cum and his is dripping out down his length.

“F-fuck… Fuck you feel s’good, mama.” He whispers, kissing your throat as you’re rocking against him gently, riding the aftershocks of your climax, shivering in his arms as he strokes you back with his hand, pulling you against him.

“Mnh, I’m not used to getting fucked like that lately. Shit.”

“If ya could keep quiet we could, loud ass.”

“Hey, you’re loud!”

“Uh-uh, that’s you.” You giggle, sighing as he eases out, leaving you dripping all over. “Fuck, look at this mess you made!? Gonna clean it up housewife?”

“I work too, but… fuck yeah I’ll clean it up.” You get on your knees eagerly, between his spread thighs, Toji is caressing your face as you slip your tongue up his cock, tracing the wrapping veins, watching his cheeks flush, his lips parting.

“So slutty still, huh?” He is brushing your hair back as you suck him now, swirling your tongue on his tip, tasting all his cum and yours mixed together.

“We taste so good together.”

“Yeah, come spit it in my mouth.” You blush, Toji’s freakiness was always a lot to handle. “Getting shy, huh?”

“No, but I haven’t done that. You spit in my mouth.”

“Switch it up, ol’ lady.”

“Old my ass.” You suck him up again, then he’s yanking you up, and you’re shoving your tongue in his mouth, full of both of you, and he’s groaning, as you share your cum and his between your tongues. “There.”

“Sexy ass. Fuck.” He’s picked you up again, and this time taking you to your bed, Toji’s stamina had not faded one bit, and in fact yours had kicked up to match, though at some points you couldn’t even keep up. “I’m gonna fuck you all goddamn weekend, till ya can’t walk straight.”

“Toji we said we’d go out tonight!”

“We’ll get there. Gonna be dripping cum.” He’s between your thighs again, lapping his cum out of your pussy, sore and beat up already.

“Fuck! Sensitive!” He chuckles, scooping out the remnants of his cum and yours, leaning over you and spitting it in a slow trail of saliva in your mouth. You’re already throbbing with need again, as he’s pressing your legs up, and you gasp. “Baby factory closed, Toji!”

He’s kissing your toes, your ankles, licking up your calves as his hard cock is pressing against you, tip on your clit that’s twitching under it, as you’re slicker and wetter, then when he presses in you’re cumming so hard you’re squirting all over him, making a mess. He groans at the sight, watching your pussy suck his cock in as your legs shake.

“Messy, messy girl, just f’me hmm?” You nod weakly, and he’s playing with the wetness, gasping then when he pulls out and pushes back in. “You get too tight after, fuck… gonna make me cum quick.”

“Can’t handle it, huh Daddy?” You tease, earning his glare that you love so much, you love him owning you, you love making him angry, to get fucked so goddamn good, over and over, you love being his little brat, his mama to his babies, love being his damn wife.

“You give me high blood pressure.” He huffs out, leaning down and pressing his heavy weight on you, and you laugh softly. He’s cupping your face, gently rocking in, as your ankles are over his shoulders, and you’re a whimpering mess under him.

“Worth it though?” You ask softly, and he eases your legs down, kissing you softer now, and you’re rolling your hips up to meet his, feeling so many emotions when he looks at you like that, when he’s brushing your hair back gently, exhaling.

“You’re worth everything, doll.” He says softly, and you feel tears well up at that, he blinks a bit, gulping as he studies you, taking a shaky breath. “Everything and more, fucking love you, so much. Don’t know how much I love you.”

“You don’t know how - ah- much I do.” You whisper, trembling as he’s kissing you again, his hands all over your body, rocking even more gently inside you. “Love you s’much… you’re worth everything.”

“Was worth every punch from your dad.” He teases now, making you laugh through your tears, as your hands trail down his back, and you’re gasping, as he’s bringing you higher and higher.

“Deserved em all, pervert.”

“Sure fuckin did. But look at what I got, fuck.” He’s gripping a tit now, sucking on it as he looks at you, and your head falls back into the bed in pleasure. “And I get you forever, don’t I?”

“Forever and ever.” You whisper back, dragging his lips up to yours, your husband, your love, your baby daddy, your perverted old ass Toji.

And you couldn’t be happier.

The End

A/N: Thanks everyone who read this, I hope you had fun with my soft freaky ass Toji aha <3 Kofi Link if you wanna buy me a coffee <3

Taglist: @queendessi24 @iheartsuya @bbnbhm @jjknanamin @snapcracklen @getoisinnocent @certifiedcrybabyyy @hicallmeveronica @pm777am @desscries @angie420 @seeing-stars-alt @ttojiswhore @makingtimemine

Kofi link if you wanna support 💗

[fangswbenefits]

The Arrangement (13) - Tempest

Chapter summary: A much needed conversation takes place... as well as a realisation that might change everything.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: Mentions of trauma.

Word count: 4.6k

Series masterlist . AO3

There was a crack on the ceiling.

A deep scowl settled on your face as you lay sprawled along the large bed, staring at the lightning-like fissure that had caught your attention.

How deep did it run? Had it been there all along? You wouldn't know. After all, you seldom spent time in this room.

His room.

Astarion had never shown interest in moving in with you and the others. He kept to himself and rushed to find accommodation at The Blushing Mermaid. You couldn't really fault him for wanting to keep to himself.

But you still kept this room vacant just in case he changed his mind.

He never did.

Little did you know that it would be a myriad of unfortunate events that had hurled him into this very room.

Until a few nights ago.

He left before you could convince him otherwise. 

Guilt had been boiling in the pit of your stomach ever since, but you had come to accept that some things were out of your control.

The house confinement had been lifted after much insistence on Wyll's part. It no longer seemed appropriate, yet he promised to keep Fists nearby just in case.

Still, Astarion was now free to do as he saw fit.

Wyll had met up with him and he was seemingly doing well.

Seemingly.

The events of that night kept on flashing in your mind, as you sought to find a rational explanation to what could have caused him to stare at you the way he had.

Revulsion.

Disgust.

Had you taken it too far? Maybe you should have suggested for him to feed on you. Maybe you shouldn't have been brought up that night.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…

You could go on forever, going over countless possibilities, but you were not inside his head.

Only he had the answers to your questions.

This was the logical side of you urging your mind to make peace with what is out of your control.

But your heart still clenched and ached and hurt.

Your feelings had been severed from all logic.

You still felt the need to go through that event, desperate to find solace.

That maybe this, too, would pass.

Maybe.

And just as always, a tear detached from the corner of your eye and streamed downwards, leaving a familiar wet trail in its wake.

Glancing around, you could still see so much of him everywhere.

His embroidery set, his books, his shirts, some of his vials of poison.

Even his scent lingered.

You hadn't even bothered drawing the curtains and letting the sun or moon in.

It was as if he was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

You heaved a deep sigh as you mustered the strength and will to shift your focus on what you could control.

The crack on the ceiling stared at you and you stared back at it, eventually deciding you should do something about it.

Pushing yourself off the bed, you placed both hands on your hips with newfound determination.

This you could fix.

Maybe.

The door was open, and you yelped in surprise as you saw movement in the corner of your eye.

Wyll was leaning against the doorframe with folded arms and the same kind and soft expression he always held around you.

“I didn't mean to scare you.”

You ran your hands along the silky fabric of the nightdress to adjust it before slipping into your robe, tying it snugly around your waist.

“Oh, I was simply distracted.” you blurted out, hurriedly wiping the wetness from your face.

An understanding smile curved his lips. “I knew I'd find you in his room.”

“It's not his room,” you immediately said. “Well – not really,” you added, fearing you had come across as too harsh.

He arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

Your gaze landed on the ceiling once more. “There's a crack on the ceiling.”

He slowly joined your side and followed your line of sight. “So there is.”

“I need to fix it.”

“You? Now? Do you think the ceiling is giving in?”

You stared at him, perplexed. “What?”

“Do you think it poses danger?” he asked, his eyes on you. “It is quite small.”

There was an argument to be made that the size of things seldom mattered.

Tiny cracks could make way to bigger ones.

Tiny cracks could still hurt.

They could still inflict damage.

You felt a hand on your shoulder, and you flinched. “Are you well?”

“Yes. Quite.”

An obvious lie you hadn't bothered to flesh out.

He didn't look convinced in the slightest, but didn't press things further.

You enjoyed that about Wyll. He knew exactly when silence was the best and more adequate answer. Sometimes, words just weren't enough.

Eventually, you cleared your throat. “I assume you're not here just visiting.”

“You caught me,” he said playfully, hands laced behind his back. “I come bearing news.”

From the way his face had faintly dropped, you could immediately tell your mood was about to shift in an unwanted direction.

“Ava?”

He nodded. “We still haven't been able to tie her to anything as of yet.”

You felt your stomach clench with dread. “It can't be… she has to be involved somehow.”

“I agree. I have the finest inquisitors trying to break through her facade – if she has one.”

There had to be something.

She had to be responsible.

“What about Rob Sorel? Surely he can be of help.”

A scowl twisted his face. “Nothing as of yet. He has a solid alibi that he insists on roping her into. Besides, he's an established patriar of the city, there is only so much pressure we can apply before tensions rise amongst the noblemen.”

A shaky sigh rushed past your lips. 

Wyll was stuck between a rock and hard place, no doubt. On one hand, he sought to act dutifully and according to his moral code. On the other hand, he was far from being impartial in the matter, and his friendship towards both you and Astarion could be seen as a compromising factor.

“How much time do we have until you have to set them free?”

“Maybe one more day,” he said. “Rob Sorel is the tricky part here. Ava has no power, but he does. He has connections that extend far beyond our reach, and if they take notice that he's imprisoned, it might trigger unforeseeable consequences.”

You began pacing around the room, urged by your nervousness and frustration.

“What of Waterdeep?”

Wyll followed your every move with his eyes. “Gale has yet to encounter anything suspicious that could be tied to her.”

You slumped into a nearby chair and pressed your face into the palms of your hands, letting out a growl. “I am not wrong about this,” you said almost pleadingly, lips quivering. “Wyll. I am not wrong. She – there is something wrong with her. Astarion…”

Your voice trailed off at the mention of his name in your mouth.

It hurt.

A painful jab in your chest rendered you silent, and you lowered your face, anticipating tears of frustration.

Wyll rushed to your side, placing a comforting hand atop your head, patting it gently.

“We will figure this out. You have my word.”

His word held weight. You knew of this. If there was anyone in Baldur's Gate whose word was worth gold, it was Wyll's.

But… “It is not fair. It is not fair that now he doesn't want to pursue this anymore… because of her.”

Wyll dropped to one knee, eye-levelling with you. “Astarion is stronger than we give him credit for, and he is free to choose his own path.”

“What if it's the wrong one?”

“You can't decide that for him,” Wyll reasoned, taking your hand in his. “All we can do now is give him time and respect that.”

Astarion needed time and you needed to find a way to make that realisation less agonising. 

You wanted nothing more than to be a comforting presence to him, but surely not at the expense of his well-being.

Breaking into a sob, you managed to stare into his eyes. “How is he doing?”

Wyll offered the warmest smile. “I believe he is doing well – within reason, that is. He was spotted hunting in the outskirts of the city before I got here.”

That should have put your mind at ease, but it only seemed to make matters worse.

“It's not enough… boars and deers and carrion cannot satiate him as thinking creatures do.”

His hand tightened around yours and his face was firm. “Are you referring to yourself?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I do not mean to pry on your relationship with him, but you're a dear friend of mine,” he began. “I am aware you want to help him get through his hunger, but you don't have to.”

Immediately, you pulled your hand from his grasp as if burned.

You didn’t need to be scolded on this.

“Don’t. Do not do this.”

Wyll fell silent, but there was a hint of sadness sprawled across his features.

Then it quickly dawned on you how unfair you were being towards him. 

“I apologise… you mean well, I know.”

Ever courteous, Wyll shook his head. “I overstepped a line. You care deeply for him and the bond you two share is foreign to me.”

This time, you took his hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Wyll also possessed a heart of gold that few could rival with. He never hesitated to take a step back if he believed to be in the wrong.

And he wasn't.

“No, you're right. You're merely looking out for a friend.”

“For both of you, actually,” he promptly corrected. “I care for both of you and I would detest for you to part ways unless as a last resort.”

You inhaled sharply. “We'll figure things out… hopefully.”

Were you trying to convince Wyll or yourself?

He rose to his full height, pulling you up with him. “If there is someone who can figure things out, it's you.”

How you wished that was so, but you accepted his words with a sincere smile.

“Do not fight me on this,” he said, playfully jabbing a finger into your shoulder. “You brought us all together

“It was only possible because of everyone's commitment,” you said truthfully. “Do not fight me on this.”

Wyll chuckled as you used his words against him, raising both hands. “Very well, very well.”

You looped your arm around his, allowing yourself to feel lighter and push the fear and concern aside even if just for a moment.

“It's quite late. You can stay over,” you offered kindly as the two of you headed downstairs.

He patted your hand. “Ah, I would gladly take up that offer, but duty calls.”

“At this hour?”

“The city never sleeps, my dear friend.”

It had to be an exhausting job more often than not, especially with all the unpredictability that came with it.

As you reached the kitchen, you were greeted by a couple of flickering candle lights spread across the room, providing just enough clarity for you to reach the front door.

Your arm slipped from his and you pulled him into a hug, which he reciprocated.

“Take care,” he said, patting your back lovingly. “We'll stay in touch.”

You nodded, fighting back the tears that had begun to prickle at your eyes.

When he finally pulled away, you realised that if Astarion had been there, he would have teased you to death about Wyll.

Alas…

With a final nod, he went out into the cool night, categorically greeted by two Fists that awaited him outside, ready to escort him back.

Just as you were about to close the door shut, Shadowheart's low voice was heard.

“Are you well? Was it a nightmare?”

You turned to face her. “Oh, no. Wyll dropped by to say that they might not be able to hold Ava as a prisoner for much longer.”

It was interesting that despite the abrupt departure from Astarion, you had been able to sleep undisturbed. Not a single nightmare or bizarre dream had plagued your subconscious ever since.

Granted, you had been using the lavender oil Shadowheart had gifted you, but its effectiveness was still debatable.

She grimaced, adjusting her own robes, as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Snivelling little cockroach,” she said with a hiss. “There must be a way to catch her in a lie.”

It was far too late and you were far too exhausted to pursue this matter once again.

You needed to step out and catch some fresh air.

“I'll be in the backyard.”

Shadowheart's quick steps drew near. “Do you want some company?”

“I'd rather be by myself, if that's alright.”

She nodded, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. “Of course.”

Slipping past the open door, you made your way around the house and towards the back garden that Gale took pride in keeping luscious and vibrant.

You hadn't told any of them what had happened between you and Astarion a few nights ago.

They knew something had happened, but didn't press you for details, which you were thankful for. They assumed he had parted from the group again because of the whole Ava ordeal and that he needed to process things.

But you knew it was related to you. You knew deep inside you that something within him had been triggered and it made your heart clench knowing you were probably the root cause of it.

The gentle night breeze rushed past your cheeks, as you hurried along, barefoot and with only a thin robe to keep any semblance of heat close to your body.

The grass crunched softly under your feet and you only came to a halt once you found yourself surrounded by countless flowerbeds of all shapes and sizes.

You took a deep breath, calmness filling your lungs as the soothing scent of grass and pollen wafted around you.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough for now.

The crickets were in full force tonight which only added to the magical ambiance.

For the first time in what seemed like too long, you smiled widely.

You wrapped the robe around you tightly as you sat on the wooden bench by the impressive row of night orchids.

Mindlessly, your hand reached down and you plucked a wilted flower bud that had certainly gone past its time.

It was still as radiant as ever in hues of dark blue and purple.

You twirled the stem in between your fingers as you glanced up to admire the glinting stars high up above, sprawled across the sky.

Bathed in moonlight and surrounded by calm and quiet, you pulled your legs up and pressed them against your chest, resting your chin on your knees.

You vaguely wished you could freeze this moment in time and take in all the beauty that surrounded all of you.

“It's quite a sight.”

You jolted in your seat at the sound of a velvety voice.

Astarion.

Your eyes found his crimson ones in the dark of night, and an overwhelming urge to bolt straight into his arms nearly took over.

But your mind held you back, rooting you in place as you watched him approach.

“The stars, I mean,” he added with a purr, glancing upwards at the starry night sky.

The playful jab didn't go amiss and you felt a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He had uttered that same remark many moons ago, teasing you for entering his field of vision.

And now here he was, entering yours and capturing your attention like he had the first time.

It was as if the very sight of him was a force of nature that slammed mercilessly against your chest, robbing you of air.

Your heart was thumping so hard you could hear each heavy beat in your ears.

You leaned back, taking in the full sight of him.

He looked… well.

He looked fed.

He looked like himself.

But there was this aura about the way he slowly moved that indicated something was amiss.

Silently, he sat next to you, far enough that your heart skipped a fleeting beat.

Should you say something? Ask something? Should you wait for him? 

Astarion eventually turned to stare at you. “It's quite cold tonight yet you're out here wearing nothing but your paper-thin nightdress and an equally useless robe.”

You opened your mouth, but you just couldn't speak.

He slipped the thick cloak off his shoulders and draped it over yours with a click of his tongue.

“You were never one to properly look after yourself, but, darling… do not get sick on me,” he finished with what seemed to be a genuine teasing smile.

Words were stuck in your throat. The fear and dread that you might utter something wrong completely froze you in place.

He looked and talked like your Astarion.

But was he truly being himself?

His gaze dropped to the flower in your hand and he tugged it free from your grip, inspecting it closely.

“Ah, flowers… beautiful, but–”

“–they make for lousy poisons,” you completed, voice coming out raspy.

Another genuine smile ghosted his lips. “Yet it would look even more beautiful on you,” he said, his hand reaching out to tuck the stem behind your ear. “As most things do.”

“Astarion…” you said, swallowing hard.

“I meant every word.”

He was overcompensating and deflecting.

Your heart sank.

It wasn’t that he didn’t mean what he was saying, but you could tell this was an attempt at mending things between you without quite addressing the issue.

And he clearly realised you had seen right through him as he sighed. “Alright, alright… we do need to talk, don't we?”

You nodded silently.

A shiver ran through your body and it wasn't due to the cold breeze.

It was the gripping fear that whatever came next might break your spirit.

He fixed his stare somewhere in the distance before speaking again, “I apologise for leaving so hurriedly that night. I… supposed I got carried away and it felt rather overwhelming.”

Your mouth had dried up. “What did I do wrong?”

This time, he turned his head to fully face you, a sliver of confusion twisting his pleasant features. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me – my head – that got in the way.”

You didn’t believe him.

“You were talking to me and suddenly it was as if I had said something horrifying,” you whispered, doing your best to keep your tone steady. “It was me… it was something I said.”

He paused for a moment. “It is not your fault that this happens. I need you to understand that. Please.”

A lump formed in your throat but you swallowed it right away, not wanting to be bound to silence.

This conversation was long overdue.

“Can I be honest?”

He quickly nodded. “I would expect nothing less from you.”

You collected yourself and your heart. “I don't know how to help you… I don't know what to do…” you said truthfully, lacing your fingers together and unable to face his piercing eyes. “I don't want to be too much… I don't want to trigger you. I do–”

Astarion cut you off immediately. “Look at me. Please.”

He waited for you to do so and only then did he proceed. “There was a time I cursed from having a wriggling worm inside my head. Little did I know that that was the least of my problems. And this is my problem. Not yours.”

You had to bite down on your lower lip to keep it from quivering.

He suddenly looked weary, running a hand along his face. “I am tired – exhausted to have my mind holding my body back. There are times when I can go through with it… and it's mostly thanks to you and your patience.”

There was a part of you that was relieved that he wasn't upset with you.

But a more vicious part of you rose a voice inside your head, telling you he was merely doing damage control.

That he just wanted you for your blood.

“What's that look on your face?” he asked, sounding hurt. “You do not believe me?”

You pushed the mocking voice away and blinked. “No – I just… Astarion… I don't know what to do. I don't. I want to be here for you, but I keep fearing we're pushing it.”

He pressed his lips into a fine line, brows knitted together.

Your legs dropped and you straightened yourself with a sigh, the sudden movement causing the orchid to drop from behind your ear and onto the ground.

“What can I do? How can I help?”

He looked almost offended for a brief moment, but his features eased before he spoke, “I don't want you to treat me like a glasshouse. I don't want pity or mercy. I want whatever you are willing to give me.”

Your heart was beating faster than ever. “And what do you need?”

Silence.

Astarion kept mixing want with need and it often landed him in less than ideal situations.

“To finally be free. I believed facing Cazador and destroying him would grant me freedom, but there is no worse cage than your own mind.”

Now, that was an answer that made your eyes widen. 

Ava had once uttered similar words.

In truth, you expected him to make it all about you, but his words lifted a weight off your shoulders.

But there was still doubt in your mind.

“I can and will be here for you,” you said firmly. “But I need you to promise me something.”

He nodded.

“Please let me know whenever I say or do something that hurts you. That night–”

He held one hand up,  effectively silencing you. “That night was different. It was the timing of it all that caused me to…”

His voice faltered.

You waited for him to find it again.

And he did. “I don't want our relationship to revolve around some silly arrangement to keep me in line. As much as I crave your blood more than anything else, I do not wish for this to feel like a transaction.”

“I've always made it clear that I more than willingly give it to you.”

“Yet my mind tells me I am using you.”

It was as if someone had thrusted a knife into your heart. “Astarion – what? You… you're not.”

The mocking voice inside your head laughed loudly, making your shudder.

“Then don't offer me your blood,” he said. “Feeding on you has become tainted. For now… I can't do it.”

He's a liar. He's used you before and he's playing mind games again.

“You can feed again whenever you're ready,” you said, finding a way to voice your thoughts in the midst of the negativity that had such a tight hold on you. “I know wildlife isn't enough.”

Astarion’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you.”

You nodded.

He didn't know how close you were to breaking into tears. Not from what he was saying, but from the vitriol that your own mind was spewing in regards to him.

He wasn't inside your head, but you were.

And it was awful.

Still, you fought through it. You had to. “I'm here for you.”

You felt his cool fingers brush against yours.

“You don't have to be.”

One by one, your fingers laced with his and you realised your hand was freezing from the cool night air.

But you could still feel his touch.

You could still feel him.

“We can stay as friends.”

Astarion let out a growl of sheer frustration. “Why must you insist on this? Does it truly matter if we are friends or lovers or whatever other social construct you think we should fall under?”

His grip tightened around you, in a silent plea. 

“We're… us. No one is like us,” he went on. “We don't need labels or to follow any relationship rules that some drunkard shoved into a book.”

His last remark earned a chuckle from you, but mostly because he was so right.

“We're us.” you repeated.

“Yes. Whatever that entails. As long as you're comfortable with me, we're us.” 

Slowly but surely, your heartbeat slowed down, falling into a steady rhythm.

“I want you to be comfortable with me, too,” you said. “Just promise to let me in. If you need time and space, I will respect that, just… don't vanish.”

Silly girl, he'll break your heart again, the voice mocked.

“I promise.”

The two of you leaned back against the wooden bench, still quite far apart, but not letting go of each other's hands.

You felt so light it was almost if the faintest of breezes could carry you away, floating across the field of flowers.

But even if it were so, you doubted he'd let go of your hand.

You'd remain anchored to him.

For better or for worse.

You'd either float or sink with him.

You liked the options, because now they existed. Before this conversation, all you had was the impending feeling that the tiniest of cracks would tear through your relationship, and that it would sink.

Now, you had hope.

After a while, you spoke again, “What now?”

His thumb caressed yourse absentmindedly. “What do you mean?”

“We're at a standstill. The Ava situation… finding a way for you to walk in the sun. We're rooted in place, it seems.”

Somehow, he managed a chuckle. “You and I made progress, did we not? Even at the expense of everything else. Isn't that worth something?”

You found him staring at you with those crimson eyes of his and that genuine smirk that always got to you.

“I suppose. You're right… yet I can't help but feel sorry that you seem to be the one with much more to lose.”

He squeezed your hand playfully, earning a gasp from you. “Darling, you don't get it, do you? I've spent hundreds of years unable to form a single bond with anyone that didn't feel tainted or doomed. Until you came along. You and that bleeding heart of yours. If there is a price to be paid for a single meaningful relationship, I'll pay it.”

Your heart clenched and the first tears began to stream down your face.

You adored him.

In that moment, you wished to melt into his embrace.

“Besides, nothing is over yet. We're quite terrific at turning the impossible into possible.”

You chuckled, eyes welling up with more tears. He shifted closer to you, letting go of your hand and brushing both thumbs across your cheeks to wipe them clean.

“There is one regret I have, though.”

A jab of fear poked at you. “What is it?”

He cradled your face in his hands. “You're so cold right now and I cannot warm you up.”

You felt as though you might melt into his touch.

“Is that your only regret?” you asked playfully.

He shook his head. “I suppose not. Striking a deal with Ava might top this.”

Your face dropped instantaneously.

“Oh, I've ruined the moment, haven't I?”

“Maybe,” you said softly as he pulled back. “But we'll get through this. Whether you decide to pursue the Wish spell or not, I am here for you. We are here for you.”

He looked peaceful.

You hadn't seen that expression in a while.

“I remember Ava once saying that pursuing the Wish spell was folly. That I either wished to be cured from vampirism altogether, or that I'd end up some weirdly washed out version of a vampire spawn.”

Oh.

And then your heart plummeted as realisation hit you.

How did you not see this before?

“Astarion?”

“Hmm? What?”

Once again, your heart raced in your chest. “Astarion… who would benefit from you not having your vampirism meddled with?”

He arched an eyebrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Dread took over you and flinched away from his grip, bolting to your feet. “By preventing you from getting access to the Wish spell, you remain a spawn… untouched… your blood…”

Astarion's eyes widened.

“Shit.”

TBC

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Love That Burns ~ 13

LOVE THAT BURNS MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 1,940ish

Summary: The team goes to the Statue of Liberty to stop Magneto.

Warnings: violence, injuries

Notes: I know that I've been updating this a lot. I hope that it's okay!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks! (I’m now including this as its own section because people keep not reading it in the notes.)

When you and Logan went back inside, you found out that Jean had tried to use Cerebro after finding out that Charles had been poisoned. She ended up finding out where Magneto had taken Rogue, but it had taken a good deal of strength from her. The team gathered in the briefing room to come up with a plan. You had noticed that Logan was sticking close to you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you knew he was there. You were all surrounding the pin table, allowing Scott to take the lead and use the table to show information.

“Magneto is here,” Scott said as the table changed to show the location. “Liberty Island. Presumably his objective is to mutate the world leaders at the U.N. Summit on Ellis Island.” 

“He doesn’t know his machine kills,” Ororo said, “and judging from what the Professor saw, if Magneto gave Rogue enough power—“

"He could wipe out everyone in New York City,” Jean finished.

“All right,” Scott said, “we can insert here at the George Washington Bridge. Come around the bank, just off of Manhattan. We land on the far side of Liberty Island. Here.”

“What about harbor patrol?” Logan asked. “Radar?”

“Magneto would have already dealt with most of the harbor control,” you replied. “Besides, if they have anything that can pick up our jet, they deserve to catch us.”

“Suit up,” Scott ordered. “I want to be in the sky in ten.”

You headed out to grab your suit, with Logan following. He had left his suit on the floor when the two of you found Charles. You stripped yourself of your clothes, leaving you in shorts and a sports bra, before pulling the suit on. Logan stepped around the corner in his suit as you pulled the leather up. 

“Here,” he mumbled, coming closer. 

He carefully unfolded some of the leather and zipped up the back of your suit. You inhaled sharply as Logan’s fingers grazed your skin.

“Thanks,” you told him.

Logan gave you a nod before following you to the jet. He zipped up the front of his suit as he sat down and tugged at the collar before slipping gloves over his hands. You could tell that this whole situation was uncomfortable to him.

“You actually go outside in these things?” He wondered.

“What would you prefer?” Scott retorted, as he prepared the jet for take off. “Yellow spandex?”

Logan gave you an unamused look with you giving him a small smile in return. The engines revved and Scott began to fly the jet.

“Whoa!” Logan exclaimed, closing his eyes briefly.

Remembering Logan’s thoughts on flying, you reached across the small isle, holding out your hand. He looked at it before shaking his head. You hated how your heart ached at the rejection. As you began to pull your hand away, the jet jostled and Logan quickly took ahold of your hand. You gave his hand a simple squeeze in acknowledgement, trying not to make a big deal out of it for both his sake and your heart’s.

The flight was short and before you knew it, the jet was above New York City. Logan let go of your hand and released his claws, causing them to form openings in the leather gloves he had on.

“There’s the bridge,” Scott stated. “I”m takin’ her down. Storm, some cover, please.”

Storm’s eyes went white and fog filled the sky. Scott flew over to Liberty Island and hand the jet land in the water with a thud.

“Sorry,” he apologized.

“You call that a landing?” Asked Logan.

“Let’s please save the fighting boys,” you said as you got up and opened the top of the jet.

The team followed you out of the jet and onto the island. It was normal for you to take the lead on missions, so no one put up a fight.

“They’re going to be in the torch,” you said, glancing at Logan. “Come on.”

Entering the building, you realized that the security had already been handle. The only sound was from a small television about the Summit happening nearby. You walked through the metal detector, not even thinking about it. Suddenly, the alarm wailed and you spun around to see Logan cutting down the detector. He looked over at the rest of you, leaving his middle claw up. You rolled your eyes and continued carefully through the room.

Logan paused next to you, sniffing. “There’s someone here,” he said.

“Where?” Scott asked, looking around.

“I don’t know. Keep your eye open.” Then he continued walking forward.

“Logan,” you called, put his hand signaled for you to stop while he kept going. “Damn it.”

“Anything?” Scott asked.

You looked over to see that Logan had returned, but from a different direction. Taking a step back, you began warming up your hands.

“There’s someone here,” Logan responded. “I just can’t see ‘em.”

He released his claws and before he could attack Scott, another Logan had tackled him to the ground. The two began fighting. Scott stepped up to use his lasers, while flames covered your hands.

“Wait!” Both Logan’s shouted. One of the Logan’s quickly hit a cord that shut a door between you and them.

“All right, back up, back up,” Scott ordered.

Before he could do anything, another mutant made their entrance. Their tongue attached to a pipe, they came swinging in, kicking Scott down between doing the same to Jean and Ororo.

“We’ve got him!” Jean shouted at you. “Find Rogue and Logan.”

You nodded, running off. You quickly found stairs and began heading up them. Hearing footsteps behind you, you spun around, throwing a fire ball.

“Hey!” Logan shouted, ducking before he could get hit. “It’s me!”

You readied another fire ball. “Prove it.”

He reached down his suit and pulled out two sets of dog tags. “I have yours with me.”

You nodded, calming down your flames. “Alright.” Logan came up the steps to meet you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Though he didn’t ask if you were okay, you could see Logan’s eyes studying you for any signs of injury. “Let’s go.”

You and Logan made it to the head of the Statue of Liberty with the others not too far behind. There was a hole at the top that allowed you a view of the torch. 

“Everybody get out of here,” Logan suddenly said.

“What is it?” You asked, moving to stand beside him.

“I can’t move.”

Suddenly, Logan went flying to the wall. You were next, the two of you facing each other as metal bands kept you there. Ororo was secured on a wall by herself while Scott and Jean found themselves in a similar situation as you and Logan. Magneto lowered himself into room.

“Ah, my brothers,” he greeted. “Welcome.” Magneto turned to face Logan. “And you, just point those claws of yours in a safer direction.” Though Logan tried to resist, his fists were placed on your chest. If his claws released, it could kill you. Magneto smirked as Sabretooth entered the room and took Scott’s glasses. “You better close your eyes.”

“Storm, fry ‘em,” Scott ordered.

“Oh, yes. A bolt of lightning into a huge copper conductor. I thought you lived at a school.” Magneto placed his hand on the commutation device in his ear. “Mystique? Mystique!”

“I’ve seen Senator Kelly,” Jean told him.

“So, the good Senator survived his fall. And the swim to shore. He’s become even more powerful than I imagined.”

“He’s dead.”

“It’s true,” Ororo confirmed. “I saw him die. Like those people down there will die.”

“Are you sure you saw what you saw? Why do none of you understand what I’m trying to do? Those people down there control our fate and the fate of every other mutant! Well, soon our fate will be theirs.”

“Help!” Rogue shouted from above. “Please help me!”

“You’re so full of shit,” Logan spat, anger evident. “If you were really so righteous, it’d be you in that thing.”

“Help! Somebody help me!”

Magneto floated up without saying another word. Logan suddenly groaned, sweat collecting on his forehead. You could feel Logan’s claws pricking at your skin.

“It’s okay,” you told him. 

“I’m trying—“ Logan was clearly struggling. “I don’t want to—“

“I know. It’s going to get hot real soon and you’re going to let it happen.”

“What? Y/N, are you—“

The metal around Logan gave way, having been heated up. Before Logan knew it, he was falling to the ground, his claws scratching you all the way down.

“Y/N!” Jean exclaimed as you cried out.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Logan was quickly on his feet, examining you. His claws had cut through the metal, allowing him to grab you and carefully move you to the ground. “Y/N, I am so sorry… why did you do that?”

“I’ll be fine,” you told him. “I’m healing.” Logan looked and could see your skin healing together into scars. You could tell that it wasn’t enough for Logan. “Logan, I’m fine.” Sabertooth growled, reminding you all of his presence. “Deal with him, I’ll free the others.”

Logan nodded, turning around and quickly started a fight with the other mutant. Their fight soon took them on top of the Statue of Liberty, allowing you to free the others by heating up the metal. Jean quickly gave Scott his glasses back while Ororo came to your side, helping you up. Sabertooth suddenly jumped back into the room and you blasted him out with your fire. You stumbled back, still weak. Logan jumped down and quickly steadied you. Your heads all snapped to look up when Rogue screamed again. Magneto had started up the machine.

“We gotta get her outta there,” Logan stated. “Cyclops, can you hit it?”

“The rings are moving too fast,” Scott replied.

“Just shoot it!”

“I’ll kill her! Storm, can you get me up there?”

“I can’t control it like that,” Storm said. “You could fly right over the torch.”

“I’ll go,” you said.

“Oh, hell no,” Logan shook his head. “I’ll go. If I don’t make it, at least you can still blast the damn thing.”

“You have a metal skeleton, Logan! Magneto can stop you. I’m going.”

“You won’t heal if Rogue touches you!”

“Yes, I will!” 

Before another argument could break out, you used your flames to shoot you up. You could hear the call of your name from below, but you didn’t care. It was too risky for anyone else to stop the machine and Magneto. You landed on the torch, beside Magneto. The radiation from the machine began to travel outward. Magneto raised his had to try to stop you, but soon found that there wasn’t enough metal on you. You threw some flames his way, causing him to stumble backwards and fall down. 

“Ah!” Rogue cried out, part of her hair turning white.

“I’ve got you, Rogue,” you told her. 

You set your hands on the machine and began focusing your energy into it. The machine melted, causing the radiation to suddenly stop and Rogue to fall forward. You caught her, realizing that she wasn’t breathing.

“Come on,” you whispered, trying to get Rouge to wake.

“Y/N!” Logan shouted. He knew what you were going to do. “Don’t!”

You placed your hand on her head and she began to take your power from you. Your wounds opened up on your chest and you began bleeding out. Rogue gasped as she came to and pushed you away from her. You fell back, unconscious.

next chapter >

[athenamikaelson]

Written in the Stars Ch. 13

Klaus Mikaelson x Soulmate!Reader x Elijah Mikaelson

Word Count- 2.6k

Warnings- Swearing, Karen’s

A/N- This is just a TINY chapter to get something out to you guys. Being in college SUCKS but we must prevail or whatever I guess. Anyway, I’ll get working on an actual canon chapter as soon as I can.

“If I have to bring this plate back to the cooks one more time because it is, quote on quote, “Too cold,” I’m actually going to quit,” I gesture to the plated steak in my hands as I put it on the metal counter for one of the cooks to take. Adrian our resident chef gives me an, “Are you serious” look and I shrug my shoulders at him.

“Hasn’t that been the 2nd time she’s sent it back,” Alastair questions me as he looks over to the blonde Karen across The Grill.

I rub a hand over my face in exhaustion, “Fourth, actually. Twenty bucks say she’s going to ask for the steak on the house,” I raise an eyebrow at my friend who smirks.

“I’ll take that action,” He reaches his hand out and we shake on it. 

I hear the ding of a bell behind me and turn to see the chef with the heated-up steak and if I weren’t pissed off as well I’d laugh at the annoyed look on his face. With a thank you, I grab the plate and walk it over to the blonde woman. I place the plate on her table and without a thank you or even an acknowledgement she pokes the steak and then huffs as she throws it back on the plate.

“It’s still cold. I want this taken off my bill,” I fight back an eye roll at her words.

“You didn’t even take a bite, Miss,” I try to reason with her and she dares to roll her eyes at me.

“I didn’t need to, to know that it’s cold. Either refund me or get the manager,” She turns around in her seat and crosses her arms like an actual child.

“Listen lady you can’t just-”

“Good evening,” Matt cuts me off from the start of my rant, “What seems to be the issue here?”

I whip around to look at Matt who shoots me a look and leans down to me, “I got this, don’t need you fighting the customers,” He jokes and I shoot him back a look as I huff and walk back to Alastair who was watching the whole interaction with a smirk.

“You owe me $20,” I hold out my hand and he huffs and pulls out a $20 bill from his black slacks. Even though he’s a bartender, he chooses to wear Versace and other designer brands to work. 

“Thank you,” I smile as I pocket the bill and shoot my friend a smile. 

We stand together and watch the dumpster fire, that is Matt trying to reason with the Karen. 

“So… what are your plans for after work,” Alastair asks me as he looks at his nails. 

“Why? Want to hang out,” I question.

“Uh…ya! But first I have to make a quick stop,” He says absentmindedly.

“That’s no problem.”

—

“Why are we at Elena’s house? You guys aren’t friends,” I question Alastair as he gets out of the driver’s side of his Porsche and comes over to open my door. 

“We could be…”

I look at my friend suspiciously and then back to the quiet house in front of us and I feel my shoulders instantly tense up.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Alastair stops moving and looks down at me wearily and shyly smiles.

“I’m going to kill you if this is a surprise party,” I threaten him and he grabs me by my shoulders and drags me up to the front door.

“Smile wide, babe.”

—

“Happy Birthday!”

I try to push a smile onto my face as I stare at my friends as they jump out from random corners of the Gilbert living room as I enter. 

Caroline, Elena, and Jenna all wear birthday hats and big smiles as they look at me. Ric stands behind Jenna with a small smile on his face and Tyler stands behind Caroline. Damon is currently scowling in the corner and surprisingly my little brother, who got back from camp 2 days ago, and Jeremy are standing next to each other looking like they just got done wrestling. 

“Are you surprised,” Caroline exclaims as she runs over to me and pulls me into her embrace. I shoot a look over to Alastair who smirks.

“Sooooo surprised.”

Caroline seems to believe me as her smile gets bigger and Elena moves around her to hug me too.

“Happy late birthday, Y/N.”

“Thank you, Lena.”

Both Jenna and Ric come over to wish me a late happy birthday, and then they lead me to sit down in the living room that is fully decorated with every kind of birthday decoration ever. From streamers, balloons, banners, and anything else sparkly Caroline could get her hands on. I find myself smiling at the fact that this must have taken some time to set up, even though I dislike my birthday and celebrating it, it’s nice to know that I have friends who would do this for me. 

“Happy birthday Y/n,” Jeremy says to me as he and my brother start arm wrestling. 

“I called her on her actual birthday and said happy birthday to her so,” Theo said absentmindedly as he focused on beating his friend. 

“Thank you, Jeremy,” I shoot a glare at my little brother who smirks back. 

“Damon aren’t you going to say something,” Elena questions the brooding vampire who raises an eyebrow as he downs the rest of his wine. 

“You’re forgetting up until yesterday she lived with me. I already celebrated her birthday before you children,” I tense up slightly as I shoot a look over to Theo who looks confused at the mention of me living with Damon.

“Ya! He did! Since I spent the summer at the Salvatore house for my tiny vacation and all,” I try to cover it up and Theo has an unsure look on his face but Jeremy starts tugging back on his arm and they go back to arm wrestling one another. Since Theo doesn’t know about anything that has happened this summer I don’t really want to drop that bomb now or anytime soon, to be honest.

—

For the next hour, we all eat snacks prepared by Jenna and Elena, and then watch Theo and Jeremy challenge each other in anything they could possibly challenge one another with and I had to stand awkwardly as everyone sang happy birthday to me. Now I’m seated in a rocking chair in the living room with everyone watching me as I open up presents. I can practically feel my hands shaking as I feel everyone’s attention on me.

The first thing I open is a small card with a cute cat on the front, inside is a slip of paper that reads, “One free assignment,” I frown in confusion but when I look up Ric is shyly smiling at me.

“I didn’t really know what to give you, I’m kind of horrible with gift giving but I thought with how hectic everything is, and with Senior year coming up, you could use that to skip out on any assignment this year I give you.”

I nod and smile at him gratefully, “Thank you, Ric, that is really nice. I’ll definitely be using that,” I whisper out the last part.

“Open mine next,” Caroline exclaims as she hands me a big garment box with a big pink bow on it. I shoot her a raised eyebrow and she just rolls her eyes, “Open it hoe!’’

I sigh and undo the pretty bow, pick up the top of the white box, and look inside to find a beautiful silk blue dress. I grab the dress and hold it up, the light satiny fabric feels like heaven in my fingers. What has me blushing though, is the rather deep neckline.

“Caroline…”

“What! You’ll look beautiful in it! It goes with your complexion!”

I look back at the dress and as much as I want to give her back, the clearly expensive dress, a bigger part of me doesn’t want to part with it. 

“Thank you Care, it’s beautiful.”

Caroline smiles to herself proudly and saunters back to stand next to Tyler who makes me frown as I watch him reach into his pocket pull out a 100-dollar bill and hand it to me.

“Tyler I’m not accepting that,” I scowl at him and he places it on the table in front of me.

“Either you take it right now or I’ll just come to your work tomorrow and tip you it,” He smirks and taps the bill, “Happy Birthday!”

I groan as Jenna rushes over to me and hands me a little gift box, I smile up at her as she looks like a child on Christmas, “You didn’t have to Jenna.”

“You shush you! Open it,” She excitedly says as she gestures to the box in my hands.

I smile and shake my head as I open the box to find a small silver bracelet with a Y/B/S gem in the center. My mouth goes slack as I look at the beautiful piece of jewelry.

“Jenna, it’s beautiful,” I say and she quickly takes it from me and unclasps the latch so she can put it on me. 

“I saw it and thought of you,” At the older woman’s words I have to swallow the lump in my throat and fight back the tears in my eyes. Choosing to focus on the cold metal that is now gracing my left wrist. 

“Thank you. I love it.”

“I guess that leaves me.”

I look up to see my best friend pull a big dark blue birthday bag out from behind the couch she was sitting on. The size of it takes me by surprise. 

“Elena…”

“Shush,” She says as she places the huge bag in my lap. I have to reach my hand in without looking to grab whatever is in it. My fingers instantly touch what I believe to be leather. I pull the thing out, push the blue bag away, and place it on the floor. When I look back at the leather thing in my lap I realize it’s a messenger bag. A rather expensive messenger bag by the look of the dark brown leather and the silver clasps.

“It even has your initials,” Elena says shyly as she points to the engraving on the corner of the bag. My smile slightly drops when I see, Y/f/n Y/m/n Y/l/n. Mostly because of the last name part. 

“You don’t like it… I knew it was too much. I should’ve gotten you the books I picked out,” Elena mumbles to herself and I’m quick to stop her.

“No! No, I love it. Truly Elena, thank you so much. I’m going to use it for school,” I smile up to her and I’m happy to see the dimples making their way back onto my friend's face as she smiles back at me. 

“Thank you all so much. This is really too much and I can’t thank you enough.”

They all say things like how I deserve it or don’t worry about it and such. Except Damon who hasn’t moved from his spot. 

“Wait,” Caroline whips around to Alastair, “What did you get her?”

Alastair smirks and then glances at the clothes I’m wearing, “Theo let me into her room earlier. I dropped my presents off there.”

I scowl at my little brother who is fighting back a laugh.

“The bag is also from me,” Jeremy says and Elena shoves him and tells him to shut it. 

— 

The night goes on with playing games and talking until one by one everyone files out of the Gilbert house. I make sure to thank Elena, Jenna, and Ric for everything as Alastair leads me outside to his car. Theo opted out of the ride home and decided to spend the night and play video games with Jeremy since they hadn’t gotten to all summer. 

After waving goodbye, Alastair pulls out of the driveway and starts driving me home.

“So what is it,” I ask him as I play with the bracelet on my wrist.

“What is what,” He asks but from his tone I know he’s messing with me.

“Don’t be a dick. You know what. My present from you. What is it?”

Alastair smirks to himself and just shrugs as he continues winding down the dark streets. It’s not long before we’re pulling up to my dark unlit house. Making me assume my mother’s not home. Thankfully. She hasn’t been around at all these past two days since I moved back. I didn’t even want to but with Theo moving back I didn’t want him asking too many questions on why I wasn’t living at home anymore.

Alastair gets out of the car walks over to my side opens my door and helps me out. We grab all the bags with my presents and then we walk to the front door.

“Thanks for tonight…I guess. It wasn’t that horrible.”

Alastair smirks at my comment and squeezes my upper arm, “Happy late birthday babe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I open my front door and hear Alastair walk to his car. I haven’t even fully shut my door before I hear him peeling out of my driveway.

I sigh to myself as I turn on my hallway light and try to carry my bags to my room. I kick open my door and stop when I see the horde of shopping bags that are sitting on my bed. Various designer brands sit on my bed and I can’t fight the way my jaw completely drops as I rummage through just a fraction of some of them. There has to be at least 10,000 dollars worth of designer purses, shoes, and clothes here. 

If Alastair can afford this then why the actual fuck is he working a entry-level bartending job?!?!?

I’m about to pull out my phone and bitch my friend out when I hear my doorbell ring. 

“Alastair if that’s you, you have a lot of explaining to do,” I yell as I walk down the hall and fling open the front door and yet I’m met with nothing. 

I’m about to close my door because this reminds me of every horror movie ever but when I look down a small box catches my eye. I peek out my door careful not the pass the threshold but there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. I cautiously lean down pick up the small black box and look at the tiny tag on the top. The only thing written on it is my name which pulls a frown on my lips. 

I quickly grab the box, shut the door, lock it, and slightly run to my room. As soon as I get to my room I eye the box in my hands momentarily before slowly opening it as if inside there was a bomb or some shit. I freeze when I see what’s inside though. A wolf. 

A small wolf pendant on a silver chain sits in the box. As creepy as this whole thing is I have to admit, the necklace is beautiful. The little wolf appears to be mid-howl and at closer inspection the eye of the wolf I think is some kind of gem. My fingers caress the wolf debating on what to do and after a moment I throw it onto my desk. 

I turn around to go organize the mess that is all these bags, but I feel an itch in my spine and I groan as I turn back to the necklace and roughly pick it up unclasp the chain, and put it on around my neck. As soon as I do a sense of familiarity and comfort almost seems to wash over me. I walk over to my bathroom mirror and look at the wolf in the mirror. And for a split second, I could’ve sworn its gemmed eye glowed.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 12 - While My Blood's Still Flowing

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Oh geez, my loves, we're really in it now. Chapter Title from Help I'm Alive By Metric.

Word Count: 18.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Ben has a plan. Usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst, pining

Read on A03!

Chapter 11 - Chapter 13

He hadn’t let you go. In the van, when he’d been snapping at your team in low words your brain didn’t have the energy to fully process, Ben had kept you tucked into his chest. When you’d returned to the safe house he’d picked you up in a smooth and effortless movement and carried you across the threshold, up the stairs, and into your room. You waited, in a world of dread, for the fury to hit him. For Ben to pull back, dropping you on the stairs or couch or floor of the bedroom and demand answers. Tell he wasn’t forgiving you this time. But all he seemed to feel—pushing through you where your arms were wrapped around his neck—was stoned resolve and something that was itching against his ribs and running into his fingers. And he didn’t drop you, and he didn’t leave. Ben lowered you both onto the edge of the mattress and let you cling to the firm warmth of his body until you were able to pull your head back and meet his eyes. 

“It’s late,” Ben spoke first, voice gravelly and low. “You need sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” you whisper. It was the truth, every part of your body was wired and alert. You kept your eyes locked to Ben’s because if you looked away you’d start searching for Homelander in shadows and corners. You kept your hand gripped to his shirt because if you let go, they’d start to smoke and turn over every surface to make sure it was only you and Ben in the house.

Ben only grunts, still watching you. It’s silent for another moment, only your breaths filling the space in an even time with each other. He’s just watching you, barely even blinking, and you can only feel him. Safe and strong and right there. Still right there. He’s not gone yet, yet, and there’s still no hot fury. No questions. There wasn’t apathy either, and you’re grateful because that might have destroyed you. The idea that he just didn’t care enough to fight anymore and was just going to let it go until you wouldn’t break down, then he’d leave forever. There was only the resolve and itch and a third thing. So deep down, you couldn’t feel it in passing. Constricting against him, pushing into his jaw and making everything almost fuzzy.

It might be betrayal, that third thing. The final straw, the last lie, breaking whatever this strange thing you’d managed to build together was. You might never have to say all those explanations you’d been putting together in your head, about why you’d hidden the sensory manipulation when you’d had every opportunity to tell him. About how you couldn’t control what happened, and had been so terrified that Homelander would use that against you. About how you didn’t want to talk about the performance because Ben would either touch you and not mean it or just not touch you at all, and you didn’t know which was worse. This wasn’t much better, though. Sitting against him in the dark, him being the only thing keeping you from imploding, and having to wait for it to be over forever.

He wouldn’t look away from you. You wished he would. You never wanted him to leave, you needed to stay right here—in this moment where he didn’t hate you—forever, but the longer he looked at you, the larger the dread grew. Because when time passed, as it always cruelly did, and the anger found its way from him into you, it would be worse if he just kept looking at you. You were searching his eyes for a hint, a sign of an oncoming storm, but all you saw was a look you didn’t understand. You knew all of his looks, and that introduced a new thread of fear into you. You dropped your head forward, back into his chest, trying to hide the tears falling from all of it—the night and the performance and Homelander and your team and the knowledge that Ben was going to hate you so soon—and trying hopelessly to pull Ben closer. Keep him tangible against you, maybe make him a part of you before it was over.

But he still didn’t leave.

Your hands start to fidget with the collar of his shirt. It was white earlier in the afternoon—crisp and pressed when Frenchie had brought it from the van—but you could see stains of blood and filth spread across the fabric, small tears in the seams, and charred holes where you’d been pressed against him as you burned. That breaks you more.

“I’m sor-“

“Shut the fuck up,” Ben cuts off your mumbled apology, following your gaze down to one of the scorch marks. “Stop apologizing.”

“But your shirt,” you look back up at him, hand flattening against his chest. “And the mission, and my powers, and Homelander, and you had to carry me-“

You choke on your own words as one of Ben’s hands moves from your hips to your cheeks, cupping it gently and keeping your eyes on his. “Stop.” 

“But-“

He says your name, grip tightening slightly as his thumb brushes a tear from your eyes. “Fucking stop. I don’t want your apologies, so fucking stop.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and it’s painful. You don’t look away, because he doesn’t want you, and once you do that becomes real.

Ben’s eyes narrow, scanning your face closely, and you can feel the itch turn into almost a burn. His mouth opens—just slightly—and closes a few times, and your body begins to brace against your will. This is it, and you’ll find a way to be fine with that. You’ve survived a lot worse, and this will not break you. This will not break you. You’ll figure out what to do with yourself, alone once more, when this is all over. When you’re immortal, incapable of being around the world, and Ben is millions of miles away with no one to blame for that but yourself, you will be fine because you have to be. You’re a lot fucking stronger than being broken by something like this-

“I’m not mad at you, Sunshine.”

You blink, Ben’s words almost jolting through you. You can feel them, coming deep from his chest, and everything is suddenly very big and blurry.

“What?”

“You think I’m mad at you.” He says it flatly, still holding your face so lightly. “You’re doing the thing with your face. Your heart beats faster every time I talk. I’m not mad at you, so calm the fuck down.”

“Why?” You don’t believe him. You want to believe him, but you’d be mad at you. You’d hate you, and so you don’t believe him. “You should be, I hid something from you again, and I blew our cover, and my powers-“ The words die in your throat, because you don’t want to talk about that. You’re not ready to have that conversation, where the whole world will end because he’ll say the thing you know. The thing you don’t even want to think.

“I know.” Ben’s voice doesn’t waver as he speaks, even though he frowns. “But I’m not.”

“Why?” You’re repeating yourself, trapped in a loop. You won’t leave it until you understand, until the dread is gone. You need it to be concrete, that he’s staying, and you’ll be stuck right here until he either leaves or makes you understand. “Why? Ben, why-“

“Because.” He swallows heavily, and you watch the bob of his throat, waiting for him to continue. “I’m just not.”

“Please, just tell me why-“

“I fucking can’t.” He snaps your names. “But stop being so goddamn afraid that I am. I’m not, so just please fucking stop.”

“But you will be-“

“No, I won’t.” His voice raises, but you don’t flinch. Your hand flies to where his own rests on your face, holding it there so he won’t pull away. Ben tenses at the movement, but only takes a heavy breath. “I won’t be mad. I’m not now, I won’t be later, and that’s fucking it. Stop being afraid of me.”

You feel the odd, implacable feeling pulse and grow just so slightly stronger. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Ben. I’m just,” you hold his hand tighter as his eyes stay on yours. He doesn’t believe you, you can feel it. See it painted across his face. “I just, I don’t-“

“I know,” he mutters, moving his hand from your face to fold it into yours. “Me neither.” 

You know what you mean. That you aren’t—couldn’t—be afraid of him, because he’s Ben. He’s safe and you, for some godforsaken reason, trust him more than anyone. With every part of you, all you have for him is faith and-

You know what you mean. And though you feel it—that strange thing deep in him that you’re afraid to try and name—you still don’t know what he means. You still need it to be solid, though. Even if you don’t have a clue what it is.

“Promise?”

“Fucking swear it.”

You nod, and words begin to push out of you.

“It’s him.” You say it so quietly, because you’re almost afraid that it’ll be heard, somehow, by anyone but Ben. That all the way in Vought Tower, cruel and twisted ears will pick up your voice and find you. But Ben needs to know. He can’t think that you’re afraid of him, because that might be worse. “I didn’t tell you because of him, not because of you, not because I don’t trust you or I’m afraid of you or am trying to lie-“

He says your name, but you barrel forward.

“Please, please believe me. I trust you, I do, I promise, and I’m all out of lies. That was it, and nobody knew. Not him, not Butcher, not Annie or Hughie or Kimiko or Mallory-“

Ben’s hand in yours tugs you forward, and you fall right into his chest. You feel your eyes start to sting, tears falling into your mouth, clinging to your tongue as your words turn muffled and choked.

“I couldn’t tell anybody, I can’t control it, he would’ve used it, hurt me, hurt people I love, I couldn’t, nobody could know, please-“

“Breathe,” is all Ben says, and his voice moves from his chest into yours. He starts to rub small circles against where he’s holding you, and your words fall into strangled sobs. “You’re okay. You’re here, and I’m not mad. You trust me?” You make another weak sound of affirmation, and he hums. “Then fucking believe me when I say I’m not mad, and I won’t be." 

You nod into him, the heat of his body spreading through you. Your heart and brain slow as Ben just holds you. Still not moving, just waiting, still tracing soft, firm patterns against your skin until your breathing slows. You pull back, reaching up to wipe the lingering tears away from your eyes, but he catches your face before you can. Cupping your jaw with one hand, the other leaves your waist, crossing your cheeks with warm, calloused fingers.

He’s lingering. There are no tears left, no new ones falling, but Ben’s still holding your face. Watching you. Not moving—not leaving—as your breaths fall back in time. One hand has tangled in your hair, and his thumb has moved to your chin. Brushing slightly against your lips, and your mouth falls open against your will.

You look at him. Really, fully look at him for the first time since the mission. You’d been right to want to see him in a suit. Even with his tie loosened and cock-eyed, with the dried blood and dirt marking his shirt and his jacket hanging by threads, he’s everything. Safe and warm and firm and Ben. His own mouth is in a slight pout, his eyes are so pretty, and he smells almost impossibly good. It’s surrounding you, wrapping around you with the strength of his arms. Every time he breathes you can feel the muscles move under his shirt, and there’s a strand of hair falling across his eyes. He’s not letting go of you to move it, leaving it loose and taunting you. Right now, between the feel of him everywhere and the way that he’s everything, you’re not strong enough to fight yourself from brushing it away. You reach up through Ben’s arms, moving it back into place slowly, carefully, in case he wants to stop you. He doesn’t, only glancing at your hand before looking back at you, unblinking and silent. Your hand drops to his arm, and even though it tenses under your hold, he doesn’t shrug it away. He just watches you. And stays.

The feeling you couldn’t understand is gone—flickered out completely—and the burn in his chest doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s bigger, stronger, consuming and so powerful it’s carving into you. It’s hungry, so hungry you’re shocked it’s not painful, but it isn't at all. It’s in your blood and through your spine and sitting heavy in your gut and it feels good.

It’s the lust, but stronger. It’s more than the club, where it felt like it could be cured. This is insatiable, and infinite, and nothing in Ben seems to be frustrated by it. All you feel is the hunger and it’s making everything inside you hot and aching. It’s amplifying your own need for him, for Ben to stay here with you forever and drown you in everything and want you. Really, really want you.

And it’s so easy to pretend he does. When his eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second. When his arms don’t leave their place around you and his hands are so gentle against your face. Not touching you like you’re delicate or breakable, but as if you’re something more than just you. Something important and holy and irreplaceable. Something like him.

It’s such a perfect world to exist in, where that’s just the truth, and not an easy and comfortable illusion. If Ben were to move—to finally close the space between you and touch you—there’s not a universe where you’re strong enough to stop him. You want him, you need him, and when he’s making it so easy to stay here forever you can’t prevent yourself from giving everything to him. Even if he doesn’t need you, even if it’s fleeting and might leave you shattered later.

For one of the first times in your life, your mind is almost blank. It’s just the same harmony of Ben, Ben, Ben and everything else is only need. Electric and burning need. The world is only you in Ben’s lap, and Ben’s hands on your face, and the breaths you seem to be trading. It’s only his eyes, watching you like he’s trying to dissect you. It’s different this time, not like the beginning. He’s trying to find something specific, and you can’t say what it is. What he’s looking for. 

You do know you’d give it to him. Whatever he’s looking for, you’d find a way to give it to him. Right now, if he asked for the moon, you’d pull it from the sky. If he asked for your heart, you’d tear it out of your chest. That should terrify you, how that idea seems so easy and natural. How it’s the truth, and there’s no way around it. But it doesn’t. Because it’s Ben. And he’s not mad, and he’s still here, and he’s everything, and if your heart in his hands is the thing that would make him keep holding you like this forever then so be it. You’d grow a new one anyways, and he could have that one too, and the next one, and the one after that.

“What did you mean?” When Ben finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “When you said you wouldn’t need saving?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question when you can still feel his hunger. “What?”

“After my meeting. After our fight. The next morning, you said if I wasn’t immortal, you wouldn’t need saving.”

“Oh,” you’d forgotten about that entirely. You remembered seeing Ben sleep peacefully for the first time, feeling him content and secure above you. You remember having to wake him up, because you’d been able to feel your bladder, but still felt real guilty about it. You remember trying to push him out the door unsuccessfully, and him throwing you onto the bed and storming out, and having to force yourself not to chase after him. You remember how sturdy his body had felt against yours and how stupidly handsome he’d somehow looked in the early morning, but everything else was just a blur of how it had made you thirsty. You’re shocked Ben remembered, because you’d dismissed your own comment after you’d decided it wasn’t worth explaining.

But Ben was frowning, and you could feel the severity of his question through where he touched you. This, for some reason, mattered to him. And he was waiting for you to answer, brows knit and gaze urgent. The lust isn’t gone, but the undecipherable feeling has blossomed back in you, in Ben. You can even see it on his face, because it’s tight and grave in the same way.

You chose your words carefully, because this feels much more vital than it reasonably should.

“Do you, do you know what the butterfly effect is?” You ask, and Ben’s frown deepens.

“No.”

At his grumbled words, the strange feeling twitches, and for a second it’s sour. You make yourself keep speaking, because you can’t stop to read into every bit and scrap you get from him. You’ve already driven yourself mad just having to feel them, trying to find a pattern or meaning would lock you in a cycle of confusion and desperation forever.

“It’s this idea in Chaos Theory, that every small action could balloon to cause larger consequences. A butterfly flaps its wings in Asia, and a hurricane occurs in the Caribbean. What about the domino effect, do you know about that?”

“Yeah, one thing happens so all the other things do too, why-“

“You get injected with the V in the 1940s, and something about how it interacts with your DNA makes you develop immortality. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s experimental, a form a V they haven’t used since. But other volunteers combust, and something about you makes it work. You help build Vought for over forty years, now you’re sixty, and you still look twenty. Dr. Jonah Vogalbaum asks you to jerk off into a cup so he can study your un-aging DNA, and you don’t think twice because why would you? You’re immortal, nobody can hurt you, and so you don’t think twice. A little more time passes, and you’re impossible and a liability and nobody likes you.” At the flash of that odd feeling, in perfect synchronization with the look of what might be hurt on his face, you pause to squeeze your hand against his bicep. “They were right to, you’re an asshole,” you offer him a soft smile. “You’re guarded and unbelievably masculine to the point of detriment. But people can change. And I, for some stupid fucking reason, still care about you. And I trust you and I give a shit about you, even though you’re a dick and a cunt.” 

“I know,” Ben grunts, and despite the indifferent annoyance of his tone, you can feel the odd feeling grow into a static hum once more. “Keep talking.”

“Okay,” you take a deep breath. “Vought used that DNA you handed to them to make-“ you swallow, pushing the name out into the air from where it catches in your throat. “Homelander, and he’s strong enough that they feel comfortable replacing you. They cut the a deal with the Russians to get you out of the picture, and Homelander is the new big thing. But he’s so strong nobody will say ‘no’ to him, not if they want to keep their life, and he becomes an entitled, psychotic monster. He just wants a family, but doesn’t care enough or know how to build one like a normal, non-sociopathic person. So he decides to force it, and I’m the person he chooses. That’s not your fault, it’s just what happened, but um-“ You feel guilty, because none of this is really Ben’s fault, not really. He didn’t lock you up, he wouldn’t, and he didn’t force Homelander to do anything. But he asked, and you’re done lying to him. Forever. “When you come back, because the Russians couldn’t kill you, nothing can, Homelander’s angry. You’re immortal and it’s unfair that he’s not. He deserves to be, he should be, but when he asks a bunch of Vought scientists about it, they all say the same thing. Soldier Boy’s V hasn’t been made since he was created, and they destroyed the formula a long time ago. If we tried to duplicate it, we would need to test it before injecting it into you. Test it on a human. And that wouldn’t be legal. Lucky Homelander, lucky scientists, they have a human that nobody gives a shit about just lying around. And they inject her with V and even though the first shot did it, she’s immortal, they still want to make sure it’s stable and that it won’t hurt Homelander. So they do it, again, and again, and again until she explodes because that last shot proved too much. But I didn’t explode. I got out, and made a bunch of insane choices that led to me living here, and led to you saving me, all the time. That’s the domino effect, the butterfly effect. You get injected with V in the 1940s and I explode a warehouse in the 2020s. That’s it.” 

Ben’s silent. You hate it. You need him to say something, anything, because what if that was the final straw. What if he thinks you’re blaming him and hates you for it. You don’t feel hatred or anger—just that strange tension—but you need him to say it. That he still doesn’t hate you, that he’s staying-

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

He might as well have punched you, the way the world stills and the air is knocked from your lungs. He’s apologized before, once, and the words had been strained. This isn’t strained, this sounds like it’s falling out of him. And the feeling is moving around inside of him, twisting his guts with the drums. They’re so loud and sudden and furious. But he doesn’t hate you. He’s sorry.

“Ben-“

“Jesus fucking Christ, how didn’t you kill me the first day we met?”

“I mean, I couldn’t-“

“You should’ve fucking tried harder!” His voice is rising, words rolling into rambles, and he’s still holding you. “I would’ve fucking killed me! I wouldn’t have rested until I was dead! Fuck, I tracked down every pussy headed asshole who turned me over to Russia, and you just fucking lived with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

That makes you frown. “Nothing’s wrong with me-“

“Fucking damn it, that’s not what I meant. I just-“ Ben’s pulling you up slightly, like he’s trying to look for a different angle of you, to find a button he can push to understand something. “Fuck, you- I don’t get it. You’re so-“ He trails off, eyes finding your face once more. He looks angry, but it’s only a lining along that confusing thing.

“I’m what?” You ask softly, and he shakes his head.

“You don’t make fucking sense.” He says your name like a plea. “You should hate me.”

“Probably,” you breathe. “Logically, on paper, yeah. I should. But I don’t. Hate you, or blame you, or want to kill you.”

“Fucking why.”

You smile weakly. “Because. I just don’t.”

It’s amusing, how you can see the exact moment the words click in Ben’s head. You don’t have to feel the indignant disbelief spark in his chest to see the way his frown becomes more annoyed than angry, or hear his huff of exasperation.

“Brat.” He mutters, and your smile becomes just a little easier.

“What’s wrong, Pretty Boy? Is that not a satisfying answer?”

He rolls his eyes, and the drums begin to fade into the background. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“And yet, you manage to put up with me.”

“Yeah,” Ben’s lips tug upwards ever so slightly, and the world feels lighter. “I’m a real hero.”

Your grin is real, toothless but full. “Well, that’s what the Soldier Boy Voughtland show says, so it must be true.”

He snorts, but there’s still something straining inside him. “You really don’t blame me, do you.”

You wish he would stop doing that thing—where he says something that should be a question in a way that makes it sound like fact—because every time he’s right and you can’t stop yourself from proving so. 

“I blame Homelander. I blame Vogelbaum and Vought and Edgar and everyone who made the choice to put me there and not try and get me out. But I don’t blame you.”

“And you don’t hate me?”

You shake your head. “Couldn’t if I tried. And I have.”

A shadow passes over Ben’s face as the odd feeling leaves, and it’s replaced in a violent rush by something that’s forceful and pushing against his ribs and up his throat. 

“Fucking promise?”

“Swear it.” You feel the force become bloody and warm in your body, Ben’s body. “You burn, I burn.”

“You burn, I burn.” He echoes, and this time when you smile at him, Ben smiles back. It’s not as unrestrained as yours, but it’s real. He’s real. And that’s enough.

Your exhaustion hits you like a bomb. You can almost feel the last bit of adrenaline leave your body, and here—where you still exist in a reality where Ben is warm and real and safe—the heavy, free-falling and airy feeling that makes your head feel faded and the world blur in and out is easy to give into.

Ben picks up on it quickly, and you see his smirk cross his dizzily attractive face the second before he speaks. “We finally tired, beautiful?”

He can’t keep calling you that, not when your tongue is growing loose from sleep and you were being literal when you called his face “dizzying”. You don’t know if it’s the sleep deprivation or just Ben, but you’re pretty sure he’s hypnotized you. All you can manage to say is, “You’re tired.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I fucking am. So can we please get your ass to bed so I can sleep?”

You hum, and he apparently takes that as a yes. Dropping his hands from where they’ve been glued to your face, he picks you up bridal style, carrying you to your side of the bed.

“Clothes,” you mumble into his shirt, because the smell of grime and bodily fluids is just managing to push through the smell of him. “Ben, clothes.”

“What about them.”

“Gross.”

“We’ll change the sheets in the morning.”

“You’ll change the sheets in the morning.”

He chuckles, and you feel it everywhere. “Fine, Sunshine. I’ll change the damn sheets in the morning.”

You give a hum of content that turns into a very embarrassing sound from your throat when Ben pulls away. Your eyes have already fallen closed, so you grope the air around you aimlessly to try and pull him back.

Ben’s hand catches your wrist, and his smug amusement takes root through your body. “I’m taking a piss, I’ll be one fucking minute. Think you can survive?”

His words are taunting. Not malicious, but taunting all the same, so you only give him disgruntled, “cunt,” and burrow yourself under the covers.

You hear him snort, and then he’s gone. You’re half aware of him shuffling around, the bathroom closing behind him, but it feels far away. You’re so tired, yet your consciousness is clinging to your head, keeping you in its hold as the toilet flushes, and the door creaks back open.

You wish you were more surprised when the moment Ben’s weight hits the bed—heat radiating from his body as it dips his side of the mattress—sleep grabs you.

 You’re on your knees. You were dancing in the kitchen to a pop song Ben said he would hate, and you said he was wrong. You know it by heart, so you started singing because at this point, really, what’s the worst that could happen. Pink, glittery clouds were all that filled the room after a handful of seconds, so you’d just spun around—singing and dancing—right up until Ben kissed you. He’d caught you, pulled you right into him, and kissed you so powerfully you were almost afraid you’d conjured Fake Ben again. But you could feel him, feel that hunger for you, just for you, and knew it was Real Ben. Kissing the air out of your lungs, wrapping his arms around you, groaning into your mouth as your hands pulled slightly at his hair. It was the best sound you’d ever heard, so you did it again, just to hear that sound of pleasure leave Ben’s mouth and feel it move into yours. Deciding to try something, you dropped one hand between your bodies, pressing it flat against his bulge, and this time he fucking growled.

So you’re on your knees.

He’s not wearing jeans, but the slacks from his disguise at Tek Knight’s club. When you look up at him, you realize he’s in a clean version of that suit, the tie askew from you pulling at it and his hair messy from your hands. Looking up proves to be, overall, a mistake though, because now you’re looking at Ben’s face. His mouth is hanging open and his face is reverent as he watches you. It’s everything, he’s everything, and he’s looking at you like that.

It’s impressive how fast you get his pants off, more impressive that you don’t moan yourself when you see all of him, pressing against his boxers and big. You’ll never be thirsty again, because you’re salivating enough to flood a desert. When you touch him to pull his cock out, hands bordering on frantic, he leans back with another amazing groan. One hand fists in your hair, angling your face to look at him once more.

Ben says your name, and you press your legs together because just that makes you ache. “Are you-“

“Yes,” you breathe. “If you-" 

“Fuck yes.”

You smile softly. “Okay then.”

So you set to work.

When your mouth covers Ben, taking all of his cock into your mouth in one swift movement that bumps him against the back of his throat, he moans. And it’s the best one yet, it’s like a drug, so you pull almost all the way off of him and do it again. Sloppier, faster, wetter, over and over until his moans turn into your name and you’re grinding against air. One hand is steadying you, digging into Ben’s thighs, and the other is cupping and squeezing his balls, making him louder. The ache is becoming painful, but if you let go of Ben’s leg, you’ll fall, and if you let go of his balls, he won’t say your name like that. So you push through, because the sounds he's making are worth it. You might get off on them alone, moving hopelessly against the air.

Ben tenses above you, and you hear him choke out your name. “Where-" 

You suck, long and firm, and the coil in his gut springs forward into you. The sounds he keeps making are musical, and you let him buck into your throat through his orgasm, swallowing every last drop of his cum.

You’ve hardly pulled off of his softening cock, when he’s yanking you up, kissing you long and rough. You whine into his mouth, and he pulls back with a cocky wink. 

“I think you might have a problem I can fix, beautiful.” His eyes drop to where you’re still moving desperately against nothing. “Would you like me to?”

The dream is ripped from you with sleep, and when your eyes tear open you can see Ben on the other side of the bed, back to you as he thrashes in the dark. His chest is glowing, casting long shadows around the bedroom and building—brighter and brighter—by the second.

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself, reaching over Ben’s body, trying to twist him onto his back.

You lurch back when you touch him, because he’s in pain. Whatever is setting the bomb off is hurting him, prying his brain apart and making his lungs like lead in his chest.

“Ben,” you raise your voice, grabbing the discarded sheets from the end of the mattress. “Ben! Wake the fuck up!”

It’s not enough—you knew it wouldn’t be—so you wrap the blankets around your fists like gloves, still yelling one last time. “Benjamin, wake up!” Nothing still, and you take a deep breath. “Sorry,” you mumble to nothing, and punch Ben in the face.

Your form is significantly better than the last time you did this, and Ben’s eyes shoot open with a bellowing, unintelligible sound. There’s a borderline feral look on his face, and he grabs you and flips you onto your back. One hand is pinning yours down, the other is squeezing your jaw, and the bomb is still building. You see the recognition flash in his eyes the very second before the drums fall into time, and you don’t get a warning before he’s throwing you off the bed. Ben detonates, light and heat flashing through the room, and falls back into the bed, panting.

Standing, you walk carefully back to the bed and scoot into his side. “Better?” You ask softly, and the face Ben makes when he looks at you is haunting. 

He grunts, watching you with a clenched jaw and heavy gaze. “Did I hurt-”

“No,” your voice is firm. “But you didn’t need to throw me. I can survive that.” You poke his chest gently, and feel a rush of that impossible and tight feeling.

“I know,” Ben mutters. “Just fucking instinct.”

You thank the dark of the room for covering the flush of your face. “I get it. Do you-“ you fidget with the sheets tangled around you nervously, dropping your eyes to Ben’s chest. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” He snaps, and even though you didn’t expect a yes, it still hurts.

“Okay.” You shrug. “I’m here if you do.”

Ben sighs loudly, leaning forward until you’re right against each other, and when you look up, he’s watching you with an apprehensive look. “You’re here?” He asks lowly, and you nod.

“Obviously.” You mumble, unsure what he’s aiming for. “And I’m not really going anywhere.”

“Hm,” he’s picking you apart again, and you don’t mind in the slightest. Because his knee is pressed into yours, and even as you can feel that tense pull, you can also feel something soft and aching. You’d stay here forever if it never went away, if he kept looking at you like a painting he can’t figure out, but doesn’t really want to. “You’re sure?”

You blink, having gotten lost in him. “Sure?”

“That you’re not going anywhere.”

“Are you? Going anywhere?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then me neither.”

You feel the soft thing roll around in Ben’s chest. “Good,” he mutters. “Do you…” he trails off, swallowing roughly, and it’s unbelievably confusing how hot it is when you’re still washed with concern. “The performance."

“Oh.” You stumble over words, having sort of hoped he’d just forget about that in the grand scheme of the night. “I, um, it’s- I, you-“ 

Ben catches your shaking head between his hands, and that doesn’t help anything at all. Because you don’t feel any disgust or apprehension, only the rumble of piercing heat in his chest. “Calm the fuck down.” He tells you, and it’s not great how fast your body responds, following the order until you've stilled in his arms. “You don’t owe me shit, but I-“ His hand trace your cheekbones lightly. “Tell me. Eventually. When we’re not trying to keep you safe or get that stupid fucking kid away from Homelander, tell me.”

He makes it sound easy, like you can just say well, Ben, against all odds you’ve become the most important person in my life, and annoyingly I don’t think that’s going to change. I want to fuck you so bad it’s becoming a problem, but I also really want to just keep you with me whenever I can, so if all you want from me is to fuck me then it might kill me. Because it’s a little more than that for me, and I’m so sorry about that. I’m sorry about a lot of this. But I’m not sorry for wanting you, for- 

“It’s complicated,” you breathe. “I don’t-“

“Later,” he says, voice low and rough. “We’ll talk about it later.”

You don’t really want to talk about it later. You certainly don’t have any interest in talking about it now, but later feels worse. “Ben-“

“It’s too early to get up,” he cuts you off, still touching you carefully. So carefully, like you're almost holy. “Too early to deal with any of this fucking shit, so sleep. Don’t get in your own damn head, Sunshine, and sleep.”

He lays you down on your back, and no part of you protests. Not as he buries his head in your collarbone, warmer than any blanket, and his hands—tracing circles against your skin—lull you back into a peaceful, empty daze. You thread your fingers mindlessly through Ben’s hair, his breaths fan against your neck. It’s safe, and easy, and Ben.

You fall back into sleep quickly, your heart in rhythm with his. The last emotion you feel is a gentle, strong, scratch of your heart against your ribs, singing the same song over and over. It doesn’t have words, but you know what it wants.

This, forever.

————

Ben knew what they had to do. He, for once, had a fucking plan. A solid, good, and impenetrable plan. Tek Knight had said there was cam footage, and it had been deleted by Sage. But there was one sticky-handed asshole who had fingers and eyes everywhere at Vought. One conniving fucking pussy who would have something. Some sort of evidence or proof that they could use.

Last night—in the van as She’d been curled into Ben’s lap—he’d told the Pussy Brigade exactly what they had to do, and made it clear as the goddamn day that he wasn’t asking.

“I want to meet with Edgar,” Ben’s words had been rough, not aimed at anyone in particular. She was awake against him, but her heart was still rapid, and Ben would bet a good amount of money she wasn’t listening. He'd tell Her later, when she wasn't picking up pieces of herself in his arms.

“The fuck are you talking about?” MM had glowered at Ben in the dark of the van.

“Stan Edgar. I want to meet with him. Make it happen.”

Starlight had given him a confused look. “Why?”

“He’ll have something for us.” Ben had said coldly, glaring around the van. “Something for her.”

Starlight had glanced down at Her, still holding tightly to Ben. “He’s told us he didn’t have any clue about what Homelander was doing-“

“And the motherfucker’s in jail,” MM had snapped, and Starlight had nodded.

“And that.”

“He’s lying,” Ben had growled. “He knew fucking everything when I was at Vought. The bastard didn’t let anything slip past him. There’s not a fucking chance he’d have missed this.”

“You were able to get him out for Maine,” Cocksucker had said nervously, looking around the van. “A meeting wouldn’t be hard-“

“No.” MM had crossed his arms, words harsh and firm. “He’s got a fucking angle, Kid, there’s not a chance in hell we’re doing that.”

“I don’t have an angle,” Ben’s hiss, cold and furious, had been pair with a dirty look around the van at these high-and-mighty fuckers who were too weak to actually do something and help Her. “Edgar will have something, she won’t kill herself for you pathetic fucking pussies, and Butcher will get his damn brat back.”

“Careful, you twat-“

Ben had cut off Butcher useless fucking threat with another sneer. “Get me the meeting with Edgar. Bring a barrel of that fucking knockout gas with us if you want to, but get me the fucking meeting.”

Starlight had nodded slowly. “We’ll, we’ll see what we can do-“

“Don’t see what you can do. Fucking do it. Not for me, for her. If you have even a fucking sliver of the mortality you’re all always bitching about, fucking do it.”

He didn’t fucking get Her, or how she put up with these pussies. She was too fucking good for them, too fucking good for most anyone. Ben had known that, it had grown so goddamn obvious to him the longer he knew her, really knew Her. That she was too good, too kind and beautiful and insane and impossible. Ben hadn’t understood it, decided he wasn’t supposed to because She didn’t need him to, and then he’d made the mistake. He’d asked Her what she’d meant by it, those words that had been rattling around in his head since she’d said them. That the Thing had been trying to pick apart for weeks.

And now he knew that She really was too good for anyone. She was the first fucking person in history that was too perfect, and nobody fucking deserved Her. No one. Not even Ben.

He felt terrible. Like a fucking pussy asshole that had hurt Her. Ben didn’t have a fucking clue how people just existed like this, it was going to kill him. She shouldn’t forgive him, and it was awe-inspiring that She ever even let him yell at her or treat her like he had in the beginning when Ben had done that to her. When he’d been the stupid fucking butterfly in her weird analogy that led to Her curled in his arms, shaking and sobbing and screaming and tearing the Thing apart inside him. She was fucking impossible, this perfect and insane woman who deserved the fucking world but was still putting up with Ben. That kept promising to burn with him when nothing should ever be allowed to burn Her, and when that included Ben. That kept smiling and apologizing when She should be allowed to raze every single fucking bastard in her path.

When Ben had climbed into bed that night, he hadn’t let himself touch Her. For the first time in his long life, he didn’t feel like he deserved it. She’d said she didn’t blame him, promised that she didn’t hate him, and he really did fucking believe Her. But that didn’t make any of this shit better.

The Thing hated not touching Her—whining pathetically in Ben’s chest as he had turned his back to her—but right now Ben was stronger than the Thing. Right now it, Ben, shouldn’t be allowed to touch Her. She should stay peaceful and safe forever, be able to go wherever the fucking hell she wanted without fear of being hurt. And Ben had hurt Her, made her look at him with dread that he’d be mad at Her for the most stupid bullshit in the world, so he should be on the list of things not allowed to touch Her. It had been a lot harder to fall asleep—hearing Her breaths across the bed and the small sounds she kept making in her sleep—but he’d fucking manage. Ben had slept thousands of nights without Her. He’d survive one fucking more.

Ben followed Her heartbeat to the performance storage room. But this time he couldn’t open the door. No matter how hard he pushed, pulled, punched or kicked, it stayed locked between them. And it was transparent. Ben could see Her, on the other side, knocked out on the floor. Tek Knight wasn’t strangely frozen against her, but leering above her body with a cold smirk. She wasn’t opening her eyes, the only sign of life was Her unsteady heart, and Ben couldn’t fucking get to Her.

Homelander stepped out from the shadows, watching Her with a wide, toothy, empty grin. Walking over to her body. And Ben still couldn’t fucking open the goddamn door.

“Good work, Robert. I mean, you got her.” Homelander laughed, and it was a terrible, bone-chilling sound. “I can’t believe you, of all fucking people, got her.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tek Knight took in the praise with a puffed chest. “What, uh, what do you want me to do with her?”

“That’s not your problem. Go jerk off to a robot.” When Tek Knight didn’t move, Homelander shot him a cold glare. “Fucking now.”

Tek Knight seemed to disappear into thin air, and it was just Her and Homelander and Ben. Still locked out, trying, trying so fucking hard to get in the room.

Homelander said Her name, and Ben hated the way it sounded in his mouth. Nobody should be allowed to say it like that, in a way that made it sound small and weak. So unsuited to Her. “I found you,” Homelander reached down, pulling her roughly off the ground. “I fucking told you I would.”

Ben was roaring, even if he couldn’t hear it himself. He had to get to Her, had to fucking help her, but this fucking door wouldn’t open.

“Don’t think I’m letting you go this time,” Homelander yanked Her face up to his. “I know you’re awake, stop playing pretend.”

Her eyes opened slowly, and they were glazed and afraid, smoke rising off her body. But Homelander only laughed.

“You see that?” Ben froze as Homelander turned Her face to the door, as Her eyes widened. She could see him. “Soldier Boy won’t fucking save you, won’t help you. He doesn’t give a shit about you, not like I do.”

She shook her head, but still didn’t speak. The fear was growing, Ben needed to help her, but he couldn’t get in the fucking room-

“I care about you,” Homelander hissed to Her, and she was still watching Ben. “I’m perfect for you. We’re fucking gods together, and you’re never getting away from me again.”

A choked sob left Her, and Ben watch—fucking helpless—as she scraped at Homelander. Flames still wouldn’t come, Ben still couldn’t get to her, and Homelander’s laugh was echoing all around.

“I love you.” He said her name again. “Like no one ever has. Like no one ever will. And I’d rather you fucking burn than live without you.”

She screamed Ben’s name, and he roared hers back. The door wouldn’t budge, and She was screaming, and nothing was okay. Not as Homelander pulled Her against him and Ben could stop it. Not as Homelander shot up into the sky, and they were both gone, but the sounds of Her pleas for Ben were still ringing around him. He hadn’t kept her safe, She was gone, she was in danger, she’d hate him forever, and she was fucking gone and he hadn’t kept her safe. The one thing he’d promised and meant in his whole fucking life, and he’d failed-

She had woken Ben up, and he’d had to hear Her say it. That she wasn’t going anywhere. Not because he wouldn’t let Her leave if she wanted to—Ben didn’t think he’d survive it, but he’d promised to keep Her safe, and being away from him was safe he’d let Her go and let it kill him—but because he needed to know she was there. That he wasn’t still dreaming and She was real. Still there, with him.

And he’d made himself ask about the performance, because his control was pathetically fucking weak in that moment and he couldn’t stop himself. He needed a fucking hint, what She wanted from him. What she needed him to give her. What he needed to do for Her to keep forgiving him. Even if he was willing to let Her go, if that’s what it came to, he was going to fight tooth and nail and bullets and blood to keep her real and at his side.

The Thing had wanted to fall asleep with Her. Ben had obliged, because fuck him if he was ever depriving himself of her again. He might lose Her one day, the very idea made the Thing ache and roll, so every single chance Ben had he’d sleep against Her. Touch Her in whatever way she asks him to, whatever way she lets him.

She fit against him like he’d been made for it. Like his face had been designed to rest on Her neck, and his legs had been carved to tangle in hers. She was perfect, too fucking perfect, and sleep was so easy against Her that Ben didn’t realize it had even caught him until he blinked and there was light through the curtains.

He’d been torn, because the Thing wanted to stay there, with Her peaceful and perfect against Ben’s body. But Ben wanted to do something. For Her.

Like a fucking pussy.

Ben decided that, between two impossibly pathetic and whipped options, the doing something one was just a tiny bit less fucking awful. He could pretend it wasn’t about Her a lot easier, say it to himself over and over until—when She asked—he would be able to convince Her that this wasn’t about her.

It took Ben almost twenty minutes—after slowly leaving the bedroom and putting on the coffee—to find a good recipe. The breakfast section of their cookbook was goddamn abysmal, filled with recipes that either sounded like healthy fucking dogshit or just looked straight up impossible to actually make. Ben would rather drink gasoline than make Her a frittata, and he was pretty sure a lemon scone was outside of his skill range, so he settled on pancakes. Easy, simple, classic fucking pancakes with syrup and butter.

He'd burnt the first batch. The second tasted like shit. The third exploded—Ben wasn’t entirely sure how he’d even managed that—and he used salt where he should've used sugar on the fourth, but the fifth was fucking phenomenal. He was a goddamn genius. A cooking savant. They should give him one of those stupid shows She’d put on in the background when she was reading. Because fuck, these pancakes were good. The kitchen was filled with smoke and covered in baking powder and egg shells, but he’d fucking done it. Right on time, as well, because She entered the room with puffy lips and sleepy eyes that widened as she took in the kitchen around her.

“What the hell happened in here?”

“Breakfast,” Ben grunted, pushing the plate across the counter for Her to see.

She blinked, looking between him and the pancakes. “You made those? For me?”

“I made some for me as well.” He grumbled, nodding roughly to his own helping. But Her eyes were bright as she looked at him, and she looked so fucking perfect, Ben couldn’t stop himself saying, “But yeah. For you.”

Goddamnit, Her smile was so fucking happy and easy and wide it was going to eat him alive. The Thing was going to overtake him, and he didn’t know what he could fucking do to stop it. He didn’t really care to know, or fucking want to.

“Thank you,” She walked around the counter, dropping into her place at his side. She gave a soft hum as she poked at them with her fork, and Ben frowned.

“What-“

“How many tries?” She looked up at him with a teasing smile, and he scowled. When he didn’t answer, she started to guess.

“Three? Four? Five?”

“Fuck you.”

She giggled, and the Thing made a satisfied sound. “It’s five, isn’t it.”

“Pancakes are fucking hard to make, Sunshine, and these are goddamn delicious, you’d know if you’d actually fucking eat-“

She took a large bite, raising her brows at Ben as he fell silent, watching her chew and swallow. He was fucking entranced, he needed to know what She thought, if she liked them or hated them or just wasn’t a pancake person. Fuck, what if she just wasn’t a pancake person-

“Jesus, Ben.” She took another bite, covering her mouth with a hand as she spoke through the food. “These are actually good.”

“You’re fucking welcome,” he muttered, trying to push down the wave of relief in his body.

“Are you sure you made these? Because they’re really good-“

“Shut the fuck up,” he nudged Her leg with his, rolling his eyes. “Can’t just let me have a compliment, can you.”

“Nope,” She laughed. “That’d be too easy, Pretty Boy.”

He snorted, and started to inhale his own plate. She always ate a little slower than Ben did, but he’d gotten used to it. He’d even started—at first unconsciously—to time when he began eating his food so that they’d finish together. When he’d first noticed, Ben had cursed himself for how he’d allowed it become a habit. But then he’d noticed how she’d stopped glancing at him, nervously asking if he wanted to go do something while she finished, and the Thing had damn loved it. It was comfortable and nice and now he couldn’t fucking stop. He’d gotten good at it, too. Proven by his last wolfing bite being in perfect sync with Her final swallow.

She was tapping on the counter, not looking at Ben, and he could practically hear Her the gears turning in her head. He open his mouth to tell her to just fucking spit it out, but just before he could-

“Now what?” She finally met Ben’s eyes, and hers were clouded and glossy. “Tek Knight was a dead end, and that was all we had. What, where, just-“ She sighed shakily, and Ben pressed his knee against hers, waiting for her heart to slow. “What do we do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Ben said gruffly, pushing on as She shook her head. “Yes, we fucking will.”

“But-“

“I am not trading you,” Ben said Her name firmly, because she somehow still didn’t understand. That there was one thing in the world he would never, ever fucking let her do. One promise he was never going to go back on or break, let alone let Her go back on it for him. He had a fucking plan, so he wasn’t letting Her break his promise. “You matter just a much as that kid, and I’m not letting climb on the bullshit sacrifice train your pussy fucking team keeps trying to board. It never works, and it’s not like Homelander’s torturing Butcher’s brat. The sooner you get that through your pretty head, the sooner we can go on with a plan that isn’t fucking stupid.”

Her heart fluttered slightly, but she still whispered. “I could try and fight him, this time. I’d be fine-“

Ben scoffed. “No. You freeze and panic at the very damn thought of him.”

“I’ve gotten better-“

“No,” he snapped. “You fucking haven’t. You didn’t even explode last time. You’re the most powerful supe in the world, and that pussy makes you fucking useless.”

“But we need to get Ryan out,” She protested. “He’s just a kid, Ben. He doesn’t deserve this-“

“I know. I’d-“ Ben sighed. “I’d tell the Pussy Brigade I won’t hit the little fucker, but they wouldn’t believe me. But you are not fucking turning yourself over-“

“You’d do that?” She said softly over Ben, grabbing onto the wrong damn part of the sentence. “You’d work to not hit Ryan?”

“If it’d stop you going through with the dumbest plan I’ve heard in my goddamn life, sure.”

“Ben-“

“You’re not doing it. Tell me you’ve fucking got that, that you’re not doing that bullshit.”

“I’ve got it,” she gave him a smile, and the Thing pushed against Ben, trying to get to Her, touch her.

“Good.”

Her smile became smug, and the infinite amusement returned to her voice. “Most powerful supe, huh?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“You said it, not me,” She leaned forward, further into him. Ben might not be able to stop himself from throwing her on the table and fucking her stupid is she kept look at him like that. Her face so open and perfect, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered to her.

“Don’t make me fucking regret it.” He muttered, and her smile only grew.

“But you meant it, didn’t you.”

“Yeah, I’m not a fucking pussy liar-“ Ben frowned at Her as she said the last words with him, her voice dropped into that overly-deep impression of him. “Shut-“

“The fuck up, brat?” She finished his sentence, wrinkling her nose at him. “Be careful, Benjamin. I’m the most powerful supe in the world, I’ll kick your ass.”

“No you won’t. You like my ass.”

Her perfect face flushed. “Doesn’t mean I won’t kick it,” she mumbled. “Could if I wanted to.”

Ben winked at Her. “I know, that’s why I’m so nice to you.”

“Oh, blow me,” She snorted.

“If you want.” Ben lowered him to Her eye level, and the flush grew stronger as her heartbeat sped up. He’d made similar offers before—almost in those exact words—but this was different. This time she wasn’t looking away, and Her mouth was parted with heavy breaths. This time she was still leaning into him, looking at him with pretty, slightly glazed eyes, and they were so fucking close-

The door of the safe house swung open with a bang, and She pulled back from Ben—knees still together but breaths no longer shared—to look up as Starlight, Cocksucker, and Butcher bustled into the kitchen. All three of them looked like shit, eyes hung with bags and faces sallowed, and they weren’t smelling much fucking better either.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Ben snapped, and sort of wanted to kill them for cutting whatever that had been short. The Thing was whining inside him, and he felt so goddamn starved now, and it was all their fucking fault.

Butcher looked between, and mocking smirk playing on his lips. “We ain’t interrupting anything, are we?”

“Fuck you-“

She spoke over Ben’s sneer, brows furrowing as she looked between Butcher, Starlight, and Cocksucker cautiously. “What’s going on? It’s like, 10am, and last night was a disaster, you should be re-grouping.”

“We’re here to collect Soldier Boy, take him off your hands for a day.” Butcher winked at Her, and she frowned.

“Take him off my hands? Take him where?” She glanced at Ben, and the Thing stuttered in him that she might think he’d lied to Her again. He’d forgotten—so caught up in making sure She knew that they would have a plan that didn’t involve giving her to Homelander—to mention that they did have a plan. And now she was going to fucking hate him-

Butcher answered lazily before Ben could even open his mouth. “We’re goin upstate, payin the haughty twat Stan Edgar a visit. Soldier Boy thinks he might have something for us.”

“He’ll know something.” Ben said shortly, giving a quick glower to Butcher before turning back to Her. “About you, about Homelander.”

“Edgar told me he didn’t know anything.” Her words were careful, and she was squinting slightly around the room, as if trying to find reason on the walls or her team's faces.

“You believed him?” Ben asked, and Her eyes fell to him.

“Not at all.”

“Then let’s go get the fucking truth.”

“Yeah well,” She looked at her team apprehensively. “Sounds like this is another you meeting.”

“You’re fucking coming with us,” Ben said Her name with a frown. “This isn’t in the city, we’re not just leaving you-“

“Actually, uh.” Starlight’s entire face was guilty and drawn with anxiety. “It is just you, Soldier Boy.”

The Thing pressed against Ben’s lungs. “There’s no fucking way I’m going without her. We could be gone for the whole fucking day.”

“Edgar wants just you. Was very insistent about it. Said we could drop by anytime this weekend.” Butcher drawled.

“So we should fucking bring her, we don’t know what kind of two-faced shit that bastard is plotting-“

“It’s Monday.” She said softly, and Ben stopped his rant to give Her a confused frown. “He said this weekend, and it’s Monday.” She looked at Butcher, who was smirking widely. “You want to get the jump on him, before he can pull anything.”

“Right on the money, Love.” Butcher said appreciatively. “Now call off your bloody guard dog.”

Ben pushed further, trying to make Her see fucking reason. “He won’t be able to pull anything, jump or not, if you just fucking come with us-“

“He won’t see us both. If he was insistent, he won’t take the meeting if we’re both there.”

“Well then he also won’t take the damn meeting if we go today,” Ben snapped. 

“No,” She shook her head. “If Edgar agreed to this, he’ll see it through. He’ll probably want something, but that’s why he’ll see it through. So if you show up and say this is his only chance, he’ll grab it. He’s not stupid, and you won’t be bluffing. But if I’m there he can call foul, say you’re not meeting his demands.”

Ben said Her name, hating how fucking desperate he sounded. But he wasn’t fucking leaving Her alone, not for a whole day, not when they knew Homelander had started looking for her. “You’re coming with us. Or I’m not going.”

“Oh my God,” Starlight rolled her eyes. “I did not get up at 4am to get you this meeting just for you to throw a temper tantrum about it. Can we please just go.”

“Annie,” She raised her palm, giving Starlight a small shake of Her head. “Just, give us one second.”

Starlight sighed with a frown, but nodded, and Butcher scoffed.

“If you cunts are going to get all fucking cheesy and fuck on the table, can you just tell us to I call Frenchie for the eye bleach?”

She ignored Butcher’s mocking words, locking eyes with Ben, words firm as she spoke. “Ben, I will be fine. And if Edgar has the information, as you clearly think he does, we need it. So please just go get it.”

And in the slight widening of Her eyes, Ben heard the rest of Her words. I’ll be right here when you get back. Now stop being an ass and play nice for one day.

Ben scowled at Her. Fine, but you owe me.

Her face looked a little lighter as she sighed. Thank you. Then, aloud, She said. “You should go now. Before Neuman has time to find out.”

Cocksucker shook his head. “We’re in the clear on that, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko are keeping eyes on her.”

“Why would the Head-Popper give a shit about this?”

Butcher chuckled like Ben’s question was fucking insane, “Head-Popper’s Edgars kid. She keeps tabs on dear ol’ dad’s prison activity, especially after our last visit.”

“Edgar had a kid?”

“Adopted,” Cocksucker said sheepishly. “But yeah.”

“Neuman did kind of shadow work for Edgar,” She explained to Ben with a shrug. “Made sure the feds stayed off his back. Eventually Homelander flipped her, gave her V to protect her daughter. Edgar seems to still love her though, her and Zoe.”

“Who the fuck-“

“Neuman’s daughter.”

“She also a supe?”

“Uh…” She looked over at Cocksucker, who had a pouting, sad little frown on his face.

“Vicki injected Zoe with the V last year,” he supplied nervously. “Little after the whole, um, tower thing.”

“Gave the kid gross fucking face tentacles,” Butcher shook his head with a grimace. “Hideous. She ain’t gettin bloody asked to the prom ever with those fuckers.”

“Edgar was pretty mad about it in November,” She added thoughtfully, but narrowed Her eyes at him. Stop stalling, Pretty Boy.

Ben glared at Her. Brat. "Head-popped doesn't know?"

"Um, not yet," Cocksucker answered, and Ben stood from the counter.

“Then let's get a fucking move on.”

“That’s it?” Cocksucker looked between them, annoyingly fucking bewildered. “You’re just going?”

“You got a fucking problem with it?” Ben gave Cocksucker a cold death glare as he walked to the doorframe, and the pussy shook his head frantically.

“No, I’m good.”

“Then let’s fucking go.”

“You heard him, Lad, go start the van.” Butcher tossed Cocksucker the key, and for a second it looked like he was about to clap Ben on the back, but wisely thought better of it.

Ben looked back once, and saw Her watching him. He could hear the chewing of Her lip, and tapping of her fingers, so he gave her a small, tight nod. I’ll see you soon. 

She blinked at him. Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.

Ben allowed himself to smile slightly, giving Her a wink. No promises. And followed Butcher out the door.

Every single time Ben stepped foot in this shitty fucking van, he found another damn reason to hate it. This time, it was the way its engine screeched and grinded like chalk in his ears. There weren’t any gas canisters—maybe the Pussies had forgotten, or just finally grown some damn balls—but Starlight flinched every time Ben shifted in his seat, and Butcher had a rocket launcher lying on the passenger's side. Their heart were all so fucking unsteady, and in an off-rhythm pound with that horrible fucking engine.

“Are you sure this shit-Mobile will get us upstate?” Ben grumbled after an hour of tuning out Starlight and Cocksucker’s whispers and Butcher shooting him dirty looks in the mirror.

“Yes.”

“As long as we don’t take highways,” Cocksucker's mumbled addition to Butcher’s words was met with an eye roll from the latter.

“Lucky for us, we ain’t. All backroads to get where we’re going.”

Ben grunted, and Starlight asked, “How long is the drive?”

“Three hours,” Cocksucker answered for Butcher. “But there’s probably no traffic.”

“Awesome,” Starlight sighed, again, and Ben was getting really fucking sick of that sound. “Three hours stuck between Racist Uncle Sam and Evil Robin Hood.”

“Oi!” Butcher snapped, at the same time Ben said, “Fuck you.”

“Oh shit,” Cocksucker muttered, and Butcher kept going as Ben glared daggers at Starlight.

“I ain’t Evil Robin Hood, and you wouldn’t catch me bloody dead in tights.”

“And I’m not Racist Uncle Sam,” Ben grunted.

Starlight scoffed. “Sure.”

“Can we please not do this-“

Starlight spoke over Cocksucker, still glaring at Ben as she said Her name. “Might have been pulled into your shit, but we’re not convinced.” Starlight leaned forward. “I don’t trust you, and whatever game you're trying to play here-“

“You don’t fucking know me at all, bitch.” Ben growled. “My game is doing all your goddamn jobs for you. My game is being the only person here, despite all your perfect moral compasses, who’s not willing to turn Homelander’s victim back over to him in exchange for anything “

“We didn’t let her and Butcher go through with that,” Cocksucker frowned. “She’s our friend, our teammate-“

“Really?” Ben sneered. “What about last night? When she was fucking begging you to trust her and you decided exploiting her was easier.”

“And she turned out to be lying,” Butcher said coldly from the front as Cocksucker’s eyes fell to the floor. “So we were fucking right-“

“In all you shit for brains infinite goddamn wisdom, did it never occur to you that she might have had a damn good reason not to tell you the truth? That maybe when you treat her like a fucking shiny weapon, she’s not going to be jumping for joy at the first chance to sing goddamn Kumbaya with you pussies?”

“That’s not fair-“

Ben laughed mockingly at Starlight’s words. “Fair doesn’t have anything to do with this fucking shit. Thinking that it does is your first mistake.” Ben’s jaw clenched, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m a lot more ready than any of you pussies to do whatever it takes to get to Homelander, but I’m not throwing the only person who doesn’t deserve any of this goddamn mess you assholes made in the line of fire.”

“Aren’t you a fucking hypocrite, Gov.” Butcher’s tone was mocking and bored, but Ben could hear to pound of his heart. “Pretty lady gives you a smile and suddenly she’s worth more than a fucking kid.”

She's not just pretty, the Thing screamed inside of him. She’s perfect.

Ben shut the Thing deep down inside of him as he said, “I’d rather be a hypocrite than a pathetic, weak fucking excuse for a man who’s willing to let Homelander have everything he wants for my bottom line.”

Butcher’s grip tensed on the wheel, but he didn’t respond. Starlight fell silent as well, Cocksucker still watching Ben wearily, and the remainder of the ride was lined in frigid, tense silence. When it became clear to Ben that he had successfully shut their mouth from bitching and whining, he began to run through his plan. He hadn’t really exactly had a shit ton of time to figure out what he actually needed to say to Edgar. Ben had, although he would never say it out loud, expected Her help with that part. The stupid song and dance around each other that was fucking pointless in most any scenario, but required in this one. Ben really wished She was here to help him, or at least just here. She’d wrinkle her stupid, perfect nose at Ben and tell him it’s actually really simple, dumb-dumb. People don’t respond to threats or torture, because they’ll say or do anything to make it stop.

That’s fucking idiotic. He’d tell her. Torture works wonders.

Yeah, I mean, I don’t know about you but after my personal experience with it I was really compliant and chill about everything-

Fuck you.

Just offer him something he wants, Ben. And if he’s an ass, one or two threats won’t hurt. Maybe cut off his dick, that one’s a classic.

It was incredibly annoying that, even as a voice in Ben’s head, She was always right. He didn’t know what Edgar would want, but he’d find it in the moment. He’d figure it out. He had to.

When the godawful fucking engine finally shut off, Butcher’s words were tight.

“He don’t know we’re coming, so the guard might fire on Soldier Boy. We aren’t in the business of drawing attention to ourselves, so me and Hughie will go ahead first and text you to follow.”

Ben did not want to be left alone with Starlight. He didn’t want her judgmental fucking looks, or whining about morality. But Butcher was right, and once he and Cocksucker left the van, Ben stared blankly at the wall and tried to ignore the scratch of Starlight’s breath and heart against his brain.

“You really care about her, huh?” Ben’s eyes shot to Starlight, whose face was contorted in confusion as she continued. “It’s not just sex.”

“We haven’t fucked,” Ben grunted, ignoring how bitter the Thing felt about that.

“But you care about her.”

Yes, the Thing howled. She’s perfect, how could you not fucking care about Her?

Ben just huffed, looking back at the wall. He had no interest in talking about his fucking feelings with goddamn Starlight.

“I don’t like doing those things to her, just so you know.” Starlight said carefully, still watching Ben. “It’s just complicated-“

“No, it’s not,” Ben snapped, still staring ahead.

“Well-“

“You can whine and bitch about moral gray areas and complex situations, but this one’s real fucking simple,” Ben looked at Starlight, allowing the unbridled fury he carried for Her—because she wouldn’t fucking let herself do it—to show on his face. “You’ve been part of the Vought machine your whole fucking life, Butcher’s an asshole dick-face who’s just as revenge fueled as I am, as all of you pussies are.”

Ben could hear Her voice in his head. Wow, look who’s feeling reflective. Dare I say, self-aware.

“Not Hughie,” Starlight protested. “He’s a good person. He doesn’t compromise his morals-“

“And how would you feel,” Ben hissed. “If Hughie volunteered to trade himself to Homelander for Butcher’s damn kid. Volunteered to torture himself for the sake of a plan.”

“I’d, I mean I’d hate it. But that’s not the same-“

“You’re right. Because Hughie still made choices to be here.” Ben said Her name, holding Starlight’s gaze as his fists clenched at his side. “Well, she’s only here because of you and your stupid fucking team. Because after Homelander kidnapped and raped and experimented on her, all she got for it was you. She’d do anything, just like the rest of you, but it’s not for her. It’s never for her. Nothing’s ever for her. So fuck me for being the first person ever to do something about that.”

Starlight was staring at Ben, stunned into silence, and the phone buzzed in her hands.

“It’s Hughie,” she mumbled, glancing at the van door. “He says we’re good to go. That the guards have been told to turn a blind eye, so we can just walk in.”

Ben snorted to himself. “Yeah, you fuckers are real beacons of righteousness, bribing fucking prison guards.”

Starlight frowned, but followed Ben out the van and into the prison, not saying a word.

Starlight directed them down several halls and around way too many fucking corners, and after what felt like a damn hour of tightly spoken directions and grunts they finally found Butcher and Cocksucker. Standing in front of a steel door, with Grace Mallory.

“Soldier Boy,” she greeted him coldly. “I had to get up at 5am to drive here for your plan. It better be well damn worth it.”

“I didn’t make you fucking do that shit,” Ben snapped, and Cocksucker jumped to explain.

“She needs to be here if you make any official deals.”

“It’s all bureaucratic horse-shit,” Butcher drawled. “Don’t waste what little brain power you have on it, Gov, not when Edgar’s waiting for you.”

Giving them all one last hateful glare—Starlight was still looking at him like he’d sprouted a damn second head—Ben opened the door they had gathered around.

Stan Edgar was, in fact, waiting for him. Handcuffed to a table and statue-like, humming to himself. The man didn’t look up, or even fucking acknowledge Ben until they were seated across from each other.

“You look old.” Ben said by way of greeting, and Edgar laughed dryly.

“And you have not aged a day. As lovely as it is to see you, I wasn’t expecting Butcher and company until Friday at least.”

“I’d apologize, but I don’t give a fuck about what you expecting.”

“I wasn’t trying to trick anyone. I simply had the weekend open. My crochet class got canceled, and our movie night is a screening of something horrible called Penguins of Madagascar.”

“Still don’t give a fuck. Stop being a fucking bastard and talk.”

“It’s been forty years, and I’m seeing my friend for the first time since he left America. Do not blame me for small talk.”

“We weren’t friends-”

“Yes, friends is a tad unprofessional. Amicable colleagues, perhaps? Forgive me for asking, but how was Russia? I’ve never been, and I hear the potato-based meals are to die for.”

The drums sounded, but they were distant, and Ben pushed them away. “Shut the fuck up, you fucking backstabbing dick.”

“I do apologize for that, but you were a tad unstable-“

“You can apologize,” Ben snapped. “By not being a two-faced, scheming ass for once and giving me what I came here for.”

Edgar sighed. “I guess we’re getting right into business then. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you want my help with the Anomaly problem.”

Ben scowled. “Don’t call her that.”

“Hm,” Edgar blinked. “I’ve been told you two have become quite… attached.”

“By who, Butcher?” Ben scoffed.

“No, Grace Mallory. According to her, one Marvin Milk has been trying to stop this little operation since it began, and has begun to worry that she’s not going to let go of you easily once this is over.”

The Thing rolled at that, because Ben wasn’t about to let go of Her easily either, not if she wanted to fucking stay with him for some damn reason. “That bastard doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“I must say, this is not exactly what I expected when I spoke to her in November. I thought she might actually fight Homelander, not outsource to you.”

“Yeah, well she’s unpredictable and doesn’t like being told what to do,” Ben muttered. “They’re two of her more annoying qualities.”

“I am rarely surprised anymore, Benjamin. It is impressive you both have managed to completely render me befuddled at your… Situation.”

The Thing twinged at that. Ben’s full name. He hated the way it sounded from Edgar now more than the 80s, because now he knew what it sounded like when She said it. Perfect.

“Are you going to give me some fucking answers, or just talk like a damn bridge troll all day.”

Edgar huffed a laugh at Ben’s question. “I am unsure how I can help in this scenario. As I have previously told Butcher, Mallory, Starlight, and the Anomaly- my apologies,” Edgar said Her name at Ben’s deep, angry scowl. “I was not privy to Homelander’s little pursuit for a family, let alone his less than ideal methods.”

“I’ve heard,”  Ben leaned across the table. “And I don’t fucking believe you. So I’m here to make you an offer, sweeten your damn pot.”

Edgar’s brows raised slightly. “Though it will not change my answer, because as much as I’d like to I cannot turn back time and learn about it sooner, you have my attention.”

Ben smirked. “I heard you’ve got a kid.”

“If you are about to attempt to blackmail me with my daughter, it will not go the way you anticipate.” 

“Because she’s a supe, right? Head-Popper.”

Edgar blinked slowly. “Did you learn this from Butcher?”

“Don’t fucking bother yourself with that shit. Do you want to know what else I heard?”

“I have a feeling you will just tell me regardless-“

“That Head-Popper has a kid. You’ve got a damn granddaughter.” Edgar's face remained stone-like, but his heart stuttered. Ben smirked, and continued. “Who recently got injected with V.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, I know all of this.” Edgar said curtly. “What, exactly, is your offer?”

“You don’t want the girl to have V, and I can get rid of V.” Ben said, not bothering to fake warmth in his grin. “You get me solid fucking proof of what Homelander did, and I’ll do you a favor and turn the kid from a tentacle-face back to your sweet little granddaughter. And, just because I’m feeing real fucking generous, I’ll back you to Vought when the time comes. Get your dogshit, slimy fucking job back. If you get me the proof.”

Ben waited for Edgars response, but the longer the room was silent, Edgar remaining unreadable, the thinner Ben’s patience wore. He didn’t have any fucking time for this, for Edgar to try and twist and play with Ben’s head. He just wanted to fucking go home, back to-

“If, hypothetically, this was a viable deal, what type of evidence would you wish to be shown? Is the word of the victim not enough?”

The Thing roared in Ben, but he kept his face cool and unbroken. “Fucking files, photos, record, whatever shit you have stashed away.” He wouldn’t even fucking acknowledge Edgar’s jab at her word. It was enough, and that was the fucking problem. It couldn’t be, not if Ben wanted to keep Her from Homelander. Not if she was going to be safe. 

“Tragically, I don’t have anything stashed away,” Edgar sighed, and Ben had to physically stop himself slamming the table. People don’t respond to threats, Benjamin. Stop being a baby.

“That’s fucking bullshit-“ 

“But,” Edgar continued. “I have a lot of houses. Some with several attics, and all of them are filled with memorabilia from my time at Vought. I could have missed something, and I’d be willing to look again, if,” Edgar sat—somehow—straighter in his chair. “You were to cure Victoria as well.”

“Neuman?” 

Edgar nodded. “Cleanse Zoe and Victoria, and I will see what I can do. You can keep your offer about Vought, however. I have no interest in returning, and if I did I would be aided by the word of an American traitor.” 

“That’s fucking it?”

 “Essentially, yes.”

“Deal,” Ben grunted. “But if you don’t have anything for me, if you’re trying to fucking use me or trick me, I’ll cut out your eyes and replace them with your castrated fucking balls.”

It was an effective threat. Edgar’s heartbeat grew a little faster, and he even fucking blinked at Ben’s words. For that bastard, he might as well have screamed. Of course it was effective though. It was one of Ben’s favorites from the assortments She’d shouted at him during their first month together.

The door swung open, and Mallory walked with clipped steps into the room, looking between Ben and Edgar. “I wish you had run this past me first, Soldier Boy, considering that Victoria is currently the Vice President of the United States.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Ben snapped. Neuman could be the fucking Queen of the whole damn world and his offer to Edgar would be the same.

“Grace,” as Edgar addressed Mallory, his gaze remained on Ben. “If you wish for my help, these are my demands. And I recommend you thank that there aren’t more, because you seem to be at quite the dead end.”

Mallory’s lips became a thin line. “We hit Neuman after you come through.”

“You hit Victoria before, as well as Zoe, and can add twenty years to my sentence if I fail to deliver. Do not underestimate the advantaged my demands give you. Ridding Homelander of an ally, keeping President Singer safe, likely undermine whatever Ms. Jessica Bradley is planning-“

“Who the hell-“

“Sister Sage,” Mallory snapped at Ben, watching Edgar closely. “Twenty-three years.”

“Make it a cleaner twenty-five.”

“You’d sign on it?”

“If I must.”

“Campbell!” Mallory called over her shoulder, and Cocksucker poked his head into the room. “Go get the paperwork.”

“Oh, ok,” Cocksucker vanished for a second, only to immediately re-appear. “Um, I don’t know where it is?”

“Ask Butcher.”

“Butcher-“

“How the bloody hell would I know?” Butcher’s voice echoed into the room, and his head appeared next to Cocksuckers. “Do it your fucking self, Grace, the man’s chained to a table. He ain’t going anywhere.”

Mallory gave a labored sigh, and turned around to leave Ben and Edgar alone once more.

After a beat, when they could no longer hear voices and shuffling outside the door, Edgar coughed lightly. He was still fucking watching Ben.

“The fuck do you want.”

“Me?” Edgar said with awful, fake innocence. “Officially, I have everything I want.”

“Officially?”

“Yes.”

Ben scowled. If he met one more fucker that didn’t just speak plainly and fucking truthfully with him, he was going to loose his goddamn mind.

“Unofficially, though,” Edgar continued. “There is one thing.”

“Then fucking spit it out.”

“You care about her,” Edgar said slowly, adding Her name at Ben’s glare. It wasn’t one of confusion—there was no one else Edgar could possibly be referring to—but Ben didn’t fucking love where this was going.

“Shut the hell up.”

“You seem to be willing to do quite a lot to help her. Keep her away from Homelander.”

“I’m fucking warning you, Edgar.” Ben leaned across the table. “Be very fucking careful with what you’re saying.”

Edgar hummed. “If I were to say, with certainty, I could make certain documents, pay stubs, and maybe even footage appear, but only with one last thing, what would you do, Benjamin?”

“Say what you fucking mean, before I rip your arms off.” Playing nice, Ben decided, was no longer fucking worth it.

“I would like you to give me an IOU.”

“An IOU,” Ben repeated through gritted teeth.

A small, snake-like smile crossed Edgar’s face. “Just one. From you. Off the books, of course, but shaken on. Just one IOU, for whatever I want, to be implemented whenever I want. You give me this, and I can say with absolute certainty I’ll find what you want.”

“You’ll get twenty-five extra years if you fucking don’t find what I want,” Ben clenched his fists under the table. “Why the fuck should I-“

“Twenty-five years is nothing. I quite like it here, murderers and thieves make easy company after my career. You should do this, because otherwise I might fail and you’ll both be dead in the water. One IOU. That’s all.”

He could just fucking lie. Ben could shake on it, cross his finger in his head, and that would be that. He might break through his damn jaw, with how he was grinding his teeth, trying to figure out what the fuck Edgar was trying to do. He didn’t trust it, didn’t like it, and it was shit, suspicious, underhanded idea. “You’d swear on your family's fucking life you could find the evidence?”

“If you would swear on hers that, when the time came, you’d come through.”

“She can’t die.”

“As you know, there are things worse than death.”

“I could just fucking kill you after-“

“I promise, that would not go well for you. Mallory will return soon,” Edgar angled his hand in an awkward motion. “Do we have a second deal?”

He was right, Ben could hear footsteps and heartbeats approaching. “You better fucking swear-“

“The swear is implied in my handshake,” Edgar said smoothly, and Ben didn’t miss the silent implication. As is yours.

They’d be dead in the water, Edgar wasn’t fucking wrong. They didn’t have any other ideas, any other leads, and Homelander was looking for her, with an ally in the White House. With Sage planning something and this needed to be over-

Ben shook Edgar’s hand—harsh and curt in his movements with the hope he’d break the bastard’s hand—just before Mallory returned with an unfathomable amount of loose-leaf papers in her boney hands.

Edgar frowned as it was slammed down before him. “If you don’t mind, Grace, I’d like to have my legal counsel take a look before I sign.”

“Of course you fucking do,” Mallory muttered. “I tell the guards to give them a call, try and get them here today.”

Mallory and Edgar devolved into to speaking in a bunch of legal, boring jargon Ben couldn’t be fucked to pay attention to, so he stood and stalked into the hall. Butcher, Cocksucker, and Starlight were grouped outside the door, all looking at Ben like he’d risen from the dead a third time.

“The fuck are you pussies looking at.”

“Nothing-“

“Soldier Boy,“ Mallory exited the room—cutting off Cocksucker’s words—with Her eyes on Ben. “I’d like a word before you return to the city.”

Ben didn’t give a shit what words Mallory had for him. He was done here. “If you’re asking, the answer is a big fucking no-“

“I’ll rephrase-“ Mallory snapped. “We’re going to have a word, and you will not be returning until we do. As you may have noticed, you were separated from the Anomaly without any gas.”

“Did you finally figure out that it wouldn’t do a damn fucking thing-“

“No. We’ve decided that there are better, easier approaches to ensure your cooperation.”

“Say what you fucking mean.” 

It was Butcher that drawled Her name. “You two have become peas in a damn fucking pod. Risking your necks for each other, always touching,” Butcher’s lips were in a crude, leering smile. “You get on Starlight’s ass about how we been treating her, and even if you claim you ain’t fucked her, she still seems to really want to fuck you.”

“Fucking watch it-“

“We don’t trust you,” Mallory said coldly. “But she doesn’t seem to be compromised, even with her odd affection towards you boar of a man.” 

“If you fucking hurt-“

“We won’t,” Starlight spoke, voice urgent for the first time. “They’re not being as diplomatic,” she scowled at Butcher. “As they should be.”

“The bastard don’t deserve diplomacy-“

It was Cocksucker who cut Butcher off this time. “We’re not threatening her, Butcher. We agreed on that, you promised.” Butcher rolled his eyes, and Cocksucker continued, attention turning to Ben. “We, um, we don’t trust you. That’s true. They’re just trying to tell you that, as long as you don’t go nuclear, we’ll keep her safe. Stop throwing her in places that put her in danger.”

“But,” Mallory added coldly. “Only if you stay in line. If you don’t, we’ll put you right back under. Regardless of her plan, or our deal. Understood?”

Ben’s fists clenched as the Thing roared and the drums sounded, “you fucking bitch-“

“Understood?” Mallory repeated, not flinching.

“Fuck you.” Ben growled, and Mallory rolled her eyes.

“If you want to return to the city anytime today, say you understand.”

The city. Her. Fucking alone with Homelander looking for her. The drums, though distant, grew strong as Ben made himself speak. The words were forced, hateful, and tasted like shit on Ben’s tongue. “Understood.”

Mallory nodded, and returned through the door to Edgar. Ben didn’t fucking bother to address the Pussy Brigade before he turned and walked in long, controlled and loud steps back to the van. He could hear them fucking following anyway.

The awful engine started, and Ben’s mind was twisting around in time with the Thing.

Her safety wasn’t a bargaining chip, She wasn’t a bargaining chip, and Ben wasn’t a fucking dog or toy for them to just use. But Ben wasn’t going back under, and She wasn’t going back to Homelander. And there was no fucking doubt that if She failed him, Butcher wouldn’t hesitate to bring her back to their dogshit, horrid fucking plan. 

And She wouldn’t fail him. That was the most insufferable fucking part. She was too fucking good. She was too easily self-sacrificing, too tunnel visioned with no goddamn regard for Herself or how her steamroller-like need to tear herself apart for an ungrateful world still destroyed everything in her path. How it would fucking destroy Ben if She managed to kill herself for the most pathetic collection of people in the world. And it was—apparently—fucking noticeable. How She made him weak, how easily she was weaponized against him. 

What was worse, though, was that Ben didn’t fucking care. The time to destroy the Thing had long passed, and now it was just Her. Making him weak and fucking happy. And he couldn’t bring himself to care. Because She would smile at him and it was perfect. Because She trusted him, and promised that she wasn’t going anywhere, and didn’t hate him.  He’d hit a strange point with the Thing. Where it felt vital and more powerful and indestructible than any other part of Ben. Where it needed Her. Where Ben needed Her. To sleep, to be safe, to keep fucking smiling forever. And he fucking hated himself for it, but he couldn’t hate Her. He couldn’t. And She said she couldn’t hate him. And Ben trusted Her, with fucking everything he had.

She needed to fucking know that. She needed to know he wasn’t going anywhere. She didn’t need to know she made him weak, or how he couldn’t hate her. That would make it all just so much goddamn worse and difficult. But she needed to know that Ben wasn’t going to fail her. That there was one person She could trust and never, ever need to fear. 

She needed to understand that, no matter what, Ben would burn with Her.

————

The first two hours, alone in the house, was mind-numbingly boring. You’d read all the books, didn’t really want to watch TV without Ben—he’d probably kill you if you did—and didn’t have your phone. Maybe all those dumb articles about technology dependance being dangerous were right, because you were antsy and tense and so bored. You did laundry, changed the sheets—easier now that it was just one set, or you’d still make Ben do it when he got back—organized the fridge, and deep cleaned the whole house. You were now able to say with complete certainty that the battered cookbook in the kitchen was the only one you had, that Ben went through a horrendous amount of toilet paper—your now-shared bathroom was already down to one roll—and that you were bored.

You missed Ben. It was easier to admit this time around. The house was really quiet, and way too big, and you missed Ben. It was making you restless, making you irritable at nothing, your skin crawling and head spinning because usually, over the past few months, you’d yell at Ben about this. How you didn’t trust this Edgar thing, and were still being clawed at by the thoughts of Homelander looking for you, and you missed him, so could he please hurry up because this was annoying.

You wanted to talk to him, to tell him you’d seen six-year-olds use less toilet paper for their mummy costumes. You wanted to tell him about how the CIA had apparently given you all four Twilight books, hidden in the guest bedroom. You think that the plot of them might break his brain, and you really wanted to see that. You wanted to make tacos with him and throw guacamole at his stupidly handsome face when he pronounced tortilla tort-il-ah. Then wipe it off his beard while he grumbled. But you made tacos alone, sitting at the counter and trying not to stare at the empty chair where Ben usually was.

You were going to lose your mind. You were going to kill Ben when he got back, and then you were going to lose your mind. The walls were closing in on you a little, because it wasn’t just the lack of Ben that was rattling around inside you. Homelander was looking for you. You kept pushing the thought away, and it kept crawling back up. Homelander is looking for you. He knows about your sensory manipulation. He’s invincible and he’s going to see you soon.

He’d told you, a long time ago, that you weren’t leaving him. And in nightmares and moments or haunting and lonely silence like this, you’d still hear his voice.

Homelander pulled on his gloves as he spoke. “He doesn’t know about you, of course. He wouldn’t get it, not yet.”

Ryan. He was talking about Ryan. He did that a lot, and though it was mostly about how annoying his mother had been or how cruel someone named William was being, keeping Ryan from him, sometimes it was this. Sometimes he’d tell you about how—when you finally did your job—he was excited for Ryan to meet you. Excited for the family you were going to give him.

“I think we’ll do homeschooling. You’re smart, you’ve got that PhD in sociology.”

Anthropology. You can’t correct him, you never can because then he’ll-

You can’t think about that, because then you start breaking and Homelander doesn’t get to see that.

But it was anthropology.

Homelander continued. “You’ll be a great teacher. Great mother.” He laughed, and it hurt your ears. “What can’t you do?”

You don’t answer him, not really thinking it was a question. Mistake.

“I asked,” he gripped your jaw, making you look at him. “What can’t you do?”

“Leave you,” your tone was flat and empty as you parroted back the script you’d given yourself. What you knew he wanted to hear. “I can’t leave you, I would rather die.”

“Thank you,” he smiled, and released your face. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

That was the biggest reason you hated Ben being gone. It was quiet so those memories grew into you, and you felt alone. It was easy to stare at the door or the ceiling and fear Homelander crashing through them. You felt safe with Ben. You weren’t alone with Ben, and it certainly wasn’t quiet with Ben. If he was here you could touch him, just his arm, and everything would feel certain and steady. You wouldn’t remember the cold of the white room because Ben was so warm.

And you missed him.

The groceries were dropped off around noon. The groceries, and a small box with a note taped to the top.

The note was written in curvy, thin letters.

Don’t lose this one. And please write down the passcode for Soldier Boy’s - Grace Mallory.

You frowned at it for a second before opening the box, and stared in wide-eyed surprise at its contents.

Phones. Two identical phones. One for you, and one—if Mallory’s note was any indicator—for Ben.

So now you were here, on the couch, distracting yourself with setting up Ben’s phone.

The passcode was 696969, because he’d remember it and it made you giggle, but you didn’t write it down. The CIA had likely bugged it anyway, and what was he going to do with it, look at porn? Watch cat videos and get into pointless online debates? He was dangerous enough as just Ben, so monitoring a phone—that he didn’t really even know how to use—was not something you found to be a top priority.

Mallory had included another note with everyone’s numbers, so after you’d put them in your own phone you started entering them into Ben’s. Butcher was labeled William Butcher; asshole, bother as much as possible. Annie was Annie January; Starlight, don’t be a dick. Hughie was Hughie Campbell; Cocksucker, don’t be a cunt. Frenchie; French Prick don’t ask for drugs, and Kimiko; Emergencies only. You left MM out for reasons that felt pretty obvious, and entered your own name with no extra instructions. You didn’t want to do that to yourself, try and figure out what you would need to put there for him. You’d spend the rest of your life trying to figure out what would make Ben snort or glare or smile at, if it was about you.  So you just moved on, and started to look for wallpapers. 

You absorb yourself in setting up the phones entirely. You manage to tune out the thoughts of Homelander, you manage to miss Ben a little less, and the hours pass just a little faster.

It’s dark when the door finally opens, and Ben calls your name as he returns.

“In the living room!” You call back.

You hear his grunt, and glance up as he enters the room. Something’s wrong. His jaw is clenched, he’s standing too-tall, and his fists are in balls at his side. “Did you-“

“What happened?” You say, voice low but tone insistent, because he looks like he’s about to erupt. “Did Edgar not have anything?”

“No, he did.” Ben’s voice is tight, and he’s staring at you. “We made a deal.”

“A deal?”

“I’m blasting Head-Popper and her kid.” 

You blink. “Neuman and Zoe? That’s all Edgar wanted?” 

“No.” 

“What else?” You ask nervously. Ben is frowning, fists flexing like he’s fighting himself, and he won’t move from the doorway. You drop the phones on the couch and stand, raising your voice. “Ben-“ 

Each word of Ben’s answer is clipped, and sounds pushed through teeth. “An IOU. From me. Off the books.”

You swallow, because something painful feels stuck in your throat. “What.”

“He wanted a favor,” Ben’s still staring at you. “One favor, for anything."

“And you said no,” you narrow your eyes at him. “You fucking said no, right?”

“We shook on it.”

Your mouth falls open, and the walls start to close in again. “Are you insane?”

Ben says your name in a tense grunt, but you keep going.

“You gave Stan Edgar an IOU? For anything he wants? What if he wants you to kill the president? Or rejoin Vought? Or take the fall for a crime or join one of his schemes?” 

“I don’t give a shit-“

“I do! I give a shit!” You’re almost screaming. “There’s no way to know what he wants that IOU for, what he’ll make you do or do to you! You stopped me from selling myself to Homelander for a ’stupid plan’, only to turn around and make a stupider fucking plan where you sell yourself to Stan Edgar!”

“That’s not the fucking same!” Ben roars, finally moving from the door, stalking around the couch to stand above you. “I can fucking handle Edgar, he’s just another fucking pussy Vought asshole. Homelander wants to-“

“I am plenty fucking aware of what Homelander wants to do to me,” you hiss. “And it is not your job to protect me from it, Ben.” 

“Someone fucking has to!” 

“No!” You’re definitely screaming now, pushing at his chest as smoke fills the room. “No they don’t! I can take care of myself, I don’t need anyone else to, I never asked anyone else to! I never asked you!”

“Yes, you fucking did.” Ben doesn’t budge, glowering down at you. “You told me not to let you go back there. Not be locked up again. And I won’t. You can fucking hate me for it, but I’d trade my fucking soul to Stan Edgar if I had to.”

“Why?!” You’re almost sobbing now, the world blurry and your words choked. “I didn’t ask you to do that! I’m not fucking worth that!”

He’s still letting you push him, steady in front of you. “Yes, you are.” He says your name, and it makes you break.

“No I’m not!” You scream as fire starts to spread through the room. “I’m fucking not! My plan would’ve worked, Ben! And then you made me stop, and told me you wouldn’t let me do this to myself, just to pull this fucking shit!” Tears are evaporating on your face. “You can’t do this to me! You can’t promise that we’ll burn together and that you’re not going anywhere, just to do this!” 

Ben catches your hand, and everything is sharp again. The fire starts to turn to smoke as the world becomes sharp and bloody and clear. His words come out in a rough growl, “I”m not fucking going anywhere.”

You shake your head, still breaking. “You can’t promise that anymore, Ben. Not when you owe Stan Edgar.” 

“Sunshine, there is no place that Edgar could make me go where I wouldn’t get back to you,” Ben’s grip on your hand is iron. 

“But you’d still leave me alone. I don’t want you to leave me alone-“ 

Your words find an easy death in your throat, because Ben kisses you. He used his grip on your hand to pull you right against him, and kisses you. Hard and long and desperate, smashing his mouth against you like he’s to trying to leave an imprint on you. You’re frozen in place, unable to think anything outside Ben, and he pulls back.

“I am not fucking leav-“ 

“Shut up,” you breathe out, and—with all the strength in your body—yank Ben back to you.

You’ve never been struck by lightning, but you imagine this is what it feels like. Hot and electric and everything is just Ben. This time you don’t freeze. This time you kiss him with everything you have, dragging your hand through his hair as his arms wrap around you, pulling you up to meet him. He’s violent with his mouth, pushing with his tongue into yours with his and biting at your lips with a fervor. But his hands are touching you so carefully, tracing circles on your skin as they wander everywhere. Up to rest on the back of your neck, around every dip and curve of your back. Holding you firmly against him, as if you’re a cloud he’s trying to keep in his hands. He’s leaving fire on the path he’s drawing across you, and he’s big and warm and Ben. Through him, through his reverent touch against your skin, you can feel something wrathful and powerful consuming you, running through your blood and making you feel alive.

Your mouth grows slack, open fully into his, and it spurs him on. He’s dragging you down to the couch—mouth never leaving yours because breathing doesn’t really feel that important right now—and sits you right on his lap. You’re leaning forward, hands still in Ben’s hair, trying to get him closer and make him a part of you. Trying to touch and kiss him enough to pull just a little piece of him into you, that’s yours an no one else's.

“Ben,” you moan into his mouth, and he makes a sound from deep in his chest.

He growls your name back into you, tugging just a little forward until you can feel him. Feel his cock, pressed right against one of your thighs. It’s big, and hard, and he’s everything.

You actually whine. “Please, I- fuck.” He’s pulling back from your mouth, kissing aggressively along your jaw and neck. “Ben-“

“I’m right here,” he grunts, slightly muffled because he won’t stop sucking and nipping at your skin. You only moan again in response, pulling at his hair as you grind down on him, trying to tell him what you need like that, because words are too much right now. It’s just Ben, you just need him.

“Ben-“

You make a high, breathy noise as he flips you, caging you between his body and the couch. His mouth is back on yours, and you’re leaning up to try and be somehow closer. His hair is soft under your fingers, and he tastes like maple syrup and salt, and you feel him moving above you everywhere. His weight is braced by his arms above you, but they’re still pressed to your sides and you can feel them flex every time he re-angles his mouth. His nose keeps bumping yours and his beard scratched against your skin, but it reminds you he’s real. He’s real and there and you can feel the strength of his desire that’s for you. This is all for you.

He groans your name, and you whine as he pulls back. “How far?”

“How far?” You manage to repeat his words through the daze his face—lust-blown eyes and puffy lips and messy hair—is putting you in.

“Do you want to go.”

You blink, and what you want to say is all the way. Every way. Whatever way you’ll give me, just don’t stop. Never stop and never leave me and if you want I’ll go wherever you want.

But that’s too much. Too far.

So you make yourself say, “I think just here for now.”

Disappointment stabs you somewhere around your ribs, quick and painful. Because he wanted to go further.

But not everywhere, a cruel and small voice reminds you. Not everywhere.

You’ll be ok with here then. Hopefully he’ll never stop giving you here.

Ben nods slowly. “Are you going to listen to me now, then?”

You can’t stop your snort. “Benjamin, did you kiss me just so I’d listen to you?”

“No,” he snaps. “I kissed you because I wanted to, and because you needed to fucking listen.”

“You wanted to?” You tease. “How bad did you want to kiss me?”

“Fuck off, you kissed me the second time.”

You hum. “You can’t prove that.”

“Brat,” Ben mutters, and you feel something spark through him because this time when he calls you that he can feel you squeeze your legs under him.

His face curves into a smirk, and you roll your eyes as your face flushes. “Don’t start, not when I can feel how hard you are.”

“I knew you fucking liked me calling you that,” Ben grins at you, wide and easy, and you have to fight letting that make the ache worse as well. “Didn’t know you liked it that much though.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, and his laugh rolls through you.

“Brat.”

“I hate you.”

“I can fucking tell.”

“Are you going to make me listen or just keep being a dick?”

Ben leans a little further into you, only a breath apart, and you can feel him again. He said your name, and his voice is low and moves into your bones. “I’m not going fucking anywhere. Nobody’s taking me away, not if I have a goddamn breath in my body. You got that, Sunshine?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.” And it’s the truth. It might be how he’s looking at you, or touching you, or saying your name, but you’ve never believed anyone more in your life.

“Good,” he grunts, but doesn’t move away. His eyes fall slightly to your lips, and you feel your breath become ragged again. It’s an effort to speak, and not just let him fall back onto you. 

“Ben,” you say softly. “The performance-“

“I don’t think we need to talk about that shit anymore,” he says dryly, and you scoff.

“It’s your turn to listen, Pretty Boy.” You take a deep breath, “I don’t, I can’t do more than this right now. Not because I don’t-“

“Want me?” He interrupts with a cocky grin, and you knee his thigh.

“Shut up. But uh, yeah. It’s just, it’s complicated.”

He examines you for a second “Do you want this?”

“Wha-“

Ben leans forward, kissing you so softly, running his tongue along your teeth before pulling back. “That.”

“Yeah,” you nod, feeling a little lightheaded. “Yes please.”

“Good. Bed?”

You frown. “I just said-“

“To sleep, you fucking pervert.”

“Fuck yo-“

He winks, pulling you up with him as he stands. “Whenever you’re fucking ready, I’ll be fucking there.”

You just huff, pouting as Ben holds you in his arms, carrying you up the stairs. “I have fucking feet, Ben. I can walk by myself.”

“No. And if you ask again I’ll fucking drop you.”

“What a gentleman.”

“You seem to like it.”

He’s better at this than you are—shutting you up while making you both embarrassed and horny—and you both hate it and hope it keeps happening forever.

Ben pauses at the door to your room, scanning it with a frown. “Did you fucking clean?”

“You don’t have to sound so shocked,” you mumble against his chest, and his chuckle makes your face warmer. “It’s fucking rude.”

“You’re not exactly a book on manners either,” He sits down on the bed. “You throw shit at me every fucking day.”

“You deserve shit thrown at you, because you’re fucking rude-“

Ben kisses you as he lays you fully onto your back, looking a little too smug when he pulls back and you chase his mouth until your neck can’t go further. “Goodnight, Sunshine.”

He starts to move to his side of the bed, but you catch him by his shirt first. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Of course you fucking are,” Ben grunts, but there’s only some sort of rough affection running through him.

“And if Edgar ends up screwing us over-“

“He won’t.”

“But if he does-“

“He fucking won’t-“

“Ben-“

He kisses you again and it’s only feeling better each time. Your whole body relaxes against your will, and your hand grows slack on his shirt. 

You still manage to glare at him. “Don’t think you can just shut me up like that now. I’ll bite your tongue off.”

“I know,” Ben moves to gently, softly kiss the top of your head as he wraps an arm around your waist. “I’m fucking counting on it, beautiful.”

He’s too good at this, because you can’t remember any other words or sounds that aren’t Ben calling you beautiful with the same mouth he’d just been kissing you with.

Ben pulls you onto his chest as he falls onto his back, and within what must be only minutes his snores are filling the room, echoing into your chest. Making you so safe and relaxed, and slowing the race of your mind against him.

And you know you’ve made a mistake.

There’s no going back now. You’ve touched Ben, really touched him, and now you’ll never be able to not touch him. Not as long as he’s near you and makes you feel safe. You’ve made a mistake because you’d been fine with the deep need and want for Ben sitting under skin with the fire. But now you’d released it and it couldn’t be pulled back in. You’d made a mistake, because if you lost Ben he wouldn’t just take security and ease and warmth. He’d take the rest of your mind. But there was no going back.

And honesty, you wouldn’t if you could. Not as long as you were here, with Ben holding you, knowing what he tasted like.

You’d be fine. As long as Ben stayed right here, you’d be really, truly and completely, fine.

End Note: Hehehehe.

If you haven’t yet, please vote in my poll about what aspect of the internet would blow Ben’s mind the most. Thank you for reading, always leave a comment if you want to, with any and all your thoughts or feedback! They feed me, and y’all are funnier than I am <3

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[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Summary: A trip to the thrift store becomes overwhelming for Harris, and you and Eddie have to work as a team. But the real test of your relationship's strength is the crisis that unfolds days later.

Warnings: financial insecurity, school lock-in, missing child, police presence, mention of kidnapping, mention of drug addiction, blood (no gore)

WC: 8.5k

Chapter 19/20

Divider credit to @saradika

Eddie has already been awake for two hours when the phone rings. One part of parenthood that he hadn’t anticipated is that children do not understand the concept of weekends. Harris had flung himself out of his racecar bed promptly at 6:30 in the morning, crawling under Eddie’s sheets and poking his nose until he woke up.

“Har, go back to sleep,” Eddie had grumbled, the last word extended in a whine. One cheek was smushed against his pillow, muffling his complaint. “It’s Saturday; you don’t have school.”

In response, Harris pursed his lips into a perfect pout and used his thumb to peel Eddie’s eyelid open, getting as close to his face as possible. His morning breath was tinged with the scent of chocolate; Eddie groggily made a mental note to better supervise his nighttime teeth brushing routine. 

“‘M hungry.”

That’s how Eddie finds himself pouring his third cup of coffee while his son keeps his eyes glued to the TV screen, watching Doug stutter and stammer in front of Patti. Eddie smiles, a blush creeping into his cheeks when he realizes that that’s probably what he looks like around you.

“‘Lo?” He cradles the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, wincing as he clumsily clinks the carafe into place. There isn’t enough coffee left to slosh over the side, a small miracle in and of itself, although he’ll have to brew some more if the caffeine doesn’t kick in soon.

“Hey, baby.” Your voice is sleepy yet sweet, smoothing all the creases of the morning. “Did I wake you up?”

Eddie laughs and takes a sip from his favorite mug, the one that proudly declares #1 Dad. It’s stained and chipped, but he’ll never throw it out. Wayne had bought it for him on his very first Father’s Day; ironically, Eddie had bought him a #1 Grandpa mug that year, probably from the same kiosk at the mall.

“Not even close,” he says, tongue flicking to the corner of his lip to catch the drip of coffee that’s pooled in the crevice. “Someone was up bright and early this morning.” His gaze flits over to the bowl of Cheerios snug between Harris’s criss-crossed legs, mostly uneaten despite his earlier protests that would make an outsider believe he was starving. “How was your sleep?” he asks, swinging back to your conversation.

You switch the phone from one ear to the other. “It was good. Would’ve been better if you were next to me, though,” you add, twirling the cord around your forefinger. If you could, you would capture the safety of his embrace and bottle it, releasing a bit each time you craved his gentle touch. “I might’ve even let you be the little spoon.”

He balks at this with a playful scoff, nearly spilling his coffee with the sudden movement. “Yeah, right,” he chuckles, licking the side of the mug before the bitter liquid can slide off and hit the ground. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Admittedly, his skepticism is rooted in truth; whenever you do get the chance to cuddle in bed, he’s always the one wrapping his arm around your waist, often taking the opportunity to snake a hand up your shirt and let the pads of his fingers brush over your breasts. It isn’t always a display of sexuality or desire–though you can’t say you mind that–but a connection, a way of ensuring that you stay close. 

“Just a few more weeks until we get to find out for ourselves,” you tease, though he needs no reminding. Only sixteen days remain until you officially move in together, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he’s counting down. “Speaking of which,” you continue, glancing at the clock, “I was wondering if you and Harris wanted to do some furniture shopping for his new room.” You knew that he would be keeping his racecar bed; it’s unlikely he’ll part with it until he’s outgrown it completely. “Y’know, a new dresser or nightstand or something.”

There’s an extended pause on Eddie’s side of the line. You think the call dropped and are about to hang up and redial when you hear him say,  “I, um…I don’t get paid until next week…” He nervously scratches the countertop with one fingernail. 

“Oh.” You grapple with a response, trying to strike a balance of empathy without condescension. “Well, I was going to surprise you, but I sold some of Grandma’s old—”

“No way,” Eddie interjects, firmly but not harshly. “I’m not having you spend your money on me. We can just wait until payday.”

“I want to buy this for Harris. I…I probably should have cleared out Grandma’s room months ago, but I couldn’t. I mean, I could, but it felt wrong because I had nothing to put in its place.” You don’t care that you’re babbling on, forging ahead with your impromptu monologue. “It would’ve been too empty, but with you and Harris here, it won’t be empty anymore.”

Eddie tucks his thumbnail between his teeth. “Are you sure?” he prods, not wanting to sound ungrateful. 

“Positive.” You’re much more assured in your reply. “If she knew Harris before she got sick, she would’ve spoiled the hell out of him, anyway.” The moment she saw him happily digging into the Oreos, she would have ensured that the cupboard remained stocked with Double Stuf. “In a way, s’like she gets to spoil him now.”

You can sense Eddie’s resistance tempering with an audible exhale. “He’s an easy kid to love, that’s for sure,” he muses, buying time to process the influx of emotions flooding his body. There’s the obvious gratitude that you’re so eager to take care of his son, but it’s cut with the insecurity of him not being able to do so. If you’re going to buy Harris furniture, it should be because you want to, not because he can’t. What if you hold this against him? What if, in the future, there’s an argument and you fire back with a retort about his shortcomings as a father?

Except…you have never done that. Ever. Not that night in the emergency room, or when you’d found out about the CPS report filed that evening. Not even when Eddie had made it his personal mission to tear you down, pulling insults from the depths and hurling them at you with reckless abandon. 

You hadn’t brought up the way he’d helplessly panicked when confronted with the possibility of Harris’s learning disability, or how he’d let anxiety overtake him when he officially received a classification. With everything the two of you had endured, you’d never once echoed his anxieties about his parenting abilities; it was quite the opposite. With you by his side, he feels as though he can take on whatever challenge life chucks at him. 

“Eds? Is everything okay?” Your tone is thick with concern; Eddie realizes that you probably think you’ve upset him. “We don’t have to go—we can do something else, or—”

“Sweet girl,” he says in one exhale, both to reassure you and to remind himself that you’re his, and he’s yours. Love surges through the phone lines when he speaks. “We can pick you up in an hour, if that works? I should be able to wrangle Harris by then.”

“Y’sure?” And, Christ, how his heart sinks when you shrink inward, reflexively making yourself smaller when you’re worried that you’ve offended someone.

Eddie doesn’t answer you directly, instead, calls out his son’s name. “Hey, Harris?” He frowns when Harris completely ignores him in favor of watching the cartoon. Using his free hand, he cups his mouth in a makeshift megaphone, amplifying his voice. “Harris Wayne Munson!”

The sudden sound jolts him out of his TV-induced stupor. “Huh?” 

“Go get dressed and brush your teeth; we’re gonna go shopping with Ms. Sweetheart!” Eddie grins as Harris turns to him with a wide smile of his own. “C’mon, let’s go!” 

Harris jumps up without further hesitation, inadvertently tossing his bowl from the makeshift table of his legs. Milk splatters, instantly soaking into the carpet, and the Cheerios topple out and land in a soggy pile. “Nooo, my bref-ist!” His big eyes well up with tears. “Daddy, you made me drop my bref-ist!”

“You, uh, wanna deal with that?” You can’t hide your amusement at the usual Munson chaos. 

“Probably should, huh?” Eddie jokes back, stretching the phone cord as far as he can and reaching for the paper towel roll. “I love you, babe. See you in a bit.”

“I love you, Eds,” you tell him. “And Harris, too, of course.”

Some more static and shuffling; then, an energetic voice greets you. “Hi Ms. Sweetheart! Daddy made me drop my bref-ist,” the little boy reports. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Har.” You’ve perfected the art of mustering up sympathy for children’s not-soearth-shattering issues, a skill that every preschool teacher must possess. “Why don’t you help him clean up? That way, I can see you even faster.”

Harris pauses, mulling over his options. “Yeah, okay! Gotta go! Bye!”

You hear the clunk of him struggling to replace the phone on the hook, followed by Eddie saying, “Let me say good-bye before you hang—” click. 

Pulling your own receiver from your ear, you stare at it with mild amusement. Never a dull moment with my boys. 

Your boys drive up to your building just over an hour later. You stand up from the bench outside the entrance and smooth down your shorts where they’ve creased. 

“Hey, Sweetheart.” Eddie lets the pet name roll off of his tongue. He wants to kiss you as you slide into the passenger seat, but he withholds his affection for Harris’s sake. It seems silly, considering you’ll all be living together, but he doesn’t know how his son will react to the romance aspect of it. Will he be happy? Excited? Disgusted by any display of affection?

You give his hand a subtle squeeze, turning around to greet Harris. “Ready to shop till we drop?”

“Till we drop?” Harris wrinkles his nose, glancing between you and his dad. “Why would we drop?”

“It’s just an expression,” you explain, catching a glimpse of the smile tugging at the corners of Eddie’s mouth. “Just means that we’re going to shop until we’re too tired to shop anymore.”

“I never get tired,” Harris declares, sticking his legs straight out so his flexed feet push up against the back of the driver’s seat, nudging Eddie slightly forward. “Grampa Wayne calls me an ‘Energizer Bunny.’” He bounces up and down in his booster seat to prove his point.

Eddie reaches his right arm around, keeping his left firmly gripping the wheel, as he moves Harris’s feet from where they’re planted into his lower back. “So, Har,” he starts, easing his weight onto the brake as he approaches a red light, “we’re gonna look for a new dresser for you, and maybe a nightstand.” He takes a deep breath as he delivers the news: “That means we’re not making any pit stops for toys. Got it?”

You want to interject, to let Eddie know that you don’t mind splurging on a small treat for Harris, but you bite it back. Whether or not you have the spare funds is irrelevant: this is the boundary he’s set for his son, and you have to respect it, regardless of your desire to spoil him.

Harris, however, does not accept the announcement as readily. “Not even, like, a little one?” he presses, holding his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “Even if I’m really, really good?” He gives a hopeful smile, eyes blinking expectantly.

Eddie looks at you, serving as your cue to provide your input. You nod your approval, trying to hide your delight in being asked to make a parenting decision, regardless of how menial it may seem. He peers up through the rearview mirror at his son’s waiting face. “If you’re really, really good,” he acquiesces, features pinching into a grimace when Harris’s exuberant squeal echoes through the sedan. “You have to use your inside voice and stay next to us the whole time. Deal?”

“Deal,” Harris confirms. “Deal, Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Deal.” Laughter bubbles up inside you and you let it spill out uninhibited. You know that telling a child he can get a toy is an easy part of parenthood, but you silently swear to never take for granted being included in that choice. Harris joins you, though he’s not quite sure why he’s laughing, but your joy is contagious. 

You lean your head against the car window, listening to the buzz of the radio filling the silence. Harris hums along, more on-key than the average five-year-old, which you can safely attribute to him having a musician for a dad.

“I’m not getting a new bed, right?” Harris says with sudden urgency. “Because I wanna keep my racecar bed.”

“Mhm,” you affirm, smiling when Harris relaxes back against the headrest. “Your racecar bed will be in your new room, don’t you worry.”

“Okay.” That response satisfies him until he thinks up another question. “An’ you’re bringing your bed, Daddy?”

Eddie chuckles as he pulls into the Goodwill parking lot. He picks a spot close to the store, right next to a green Ford with a faded “Clinton ‘96” bumper sticker. “Um, no. I’m not bringing my bed.” 

“So are you getting a new bed?” His eyes dart from side to side as he assesses the size of the car. “Where’s it gonna fit?”

“I’m, uh, not buying a new bed, either.” Eddie kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, swiveling to face Harris, who is more confused than ever. “Ms. Sweetheart and I are going to share her bed.”

Harris kicks his feet, processing this new information. “But you didn’t get married yet,” he points out, “so how can you share a bed?”

You rest your palm on Eddie’s forearm in quiet reassurance. “Some people share a bed before they get married,” you explain simply, knowing that less is often more when talking to young children.

“When are you gonna get married?” he asks, more curious than meddling. “Because it’s taking forever. My friends’ mommies and daddies are already married.”

Eddie doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Harris essentially referred to you as his mommy; instead, he slowly exhales. “I’d like to marry Ms. Sweetheart someday, and I think she’d like to marry me, too.” He looks over at you with a sheepish grin, and you give his hand an agreeing squeeze. “But, for now, we’re just going to try out living together. How does that sound?”

“I guess that’s okay.” Harris isn’t completely thrilled with his dad’s response, but he relents anyway.

“While, we’re, uh, on the subject,” Eddie continues, the tips of his ears flushing pink as he carefully considers his words. He chews on the inside of his lower lip. Is he really doing this? Is he opening his son up to this relationship? “You know that Ms. Sweetheart and I love each other very much, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Sometimes,” Eddie continues with only some trepidation, “sometimes, when grown-ups love each other a lot, they hold hands o-or kiss. Would that be weird for you? If Ms. Sweetheart and I held hands, or kissed?”

You avert your gaze, partly from bashfulness but mostly so Harris doesn’t feel any pressure from either of you. 

The little boy looks at the car’s ceiling, centering his focus on the overhead lighting. Finally, with utmost certainty, he declares, “just no tongue-kissing.”

You snort out a laugh while Eddie goes bright red and sputters, “where did you learn about that?”

“Young and Restless,” Harris reports nonchalantly. 

Eddie rubs his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his lids until his vision blurs. “Remind me to tell Wayne to stop letting him watch the soaps,” he grumbles to you, turning back to his son. “Yeah, no tongue-kissing.”

You easily lace your fingers with Eddie’s as you walk through the front doors of the Goodwill. Harris starts making a beeline for the toys, but Eddie uses his free hand to pivot him in the direction of the furniture department. Harris huffs but complies, trudging alongside you. 

There’s a bright blue nightstand on display that immediately catches his eye. “Look!” he points, smiling so wide that all of his baby teeth are on display, “can I get it? Please?”

Eddie smiles warily, flipping over the white tag hanging from one silver drawer handle. He breathes a small sigh of relief when he sees the price is within the range of what he’d like to spend; rather, what he’d be comfortable asking you to spend. 

“Looks like we’ve got a winner,” he says, posture straightening with the announcement. He runs his fingertips over the surface, checking for any chipping paint or splintering wood, but the finish appears to be intact. “I’ll go tell someone to set it aside for us.”

He sets off in search of an employee, leaving you alone with Harris. You swallow the nervousness building in your throat. You spend nearly every day taking care of children, but you’re suddenly inundated with the memory of losing him at the flea market. Those few minutes when you couldn’t locate him were some of the scariest of your life. 

And yet, it hadn’t prevented Eddie from giving you another chance.

“Are you excited to move in with me, Har?” you ask, reaching out to ruffle his curls.

He nods, then looks straight up at you so that you’re staring at his nostrils. “Ms. Sweetheart?” The position of his neck changes his voice’s pitch so it’s froggy. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Can you marry my daddy?” His eyes shine with potential. “And then you can be my mommy for real?”

You crouch down to his height, heart melting at his request. “Harris, I love your daddy very, very much. And I love you very, very much, too.” You poke his nose gently, and he giggles. “Being married is a big responsibility—”

“‘Sponsibility?”

“Mhm. Responsibility. It means a really important job.” You slide your heart pendant across the chain on your neck anxiously. “And your daddy and I want to make sure that we’re ready for that kind of responsibility before we do anything, okay?”

Harris nods, but you can tell from his crinkled nose and furrowed brows that he doesn’t fully understand. You can’t blame him; it’s an abstract concept, one that even you often have trouble comprehending. “But I can tell you one thing: whenever your daddy wants to propose, I’ll say ‘yes.’” You smile at the thought of Eddie asking you to be his wife. 

“Is that where he gets down on one knee and asks ‘Will you marry me?’” You’re about to respond when he adds, “and then someone runs in and yells about being their long-lost ‘dentical twin?”

Yeah, no more soap operas for Harris. 

Finding a dresser proves to be a much more difficult task than picking out the nightstand. Everything that Harris likes is out of budget, and everything within budget is too worn down or small. There’s one that’s in good condition and isn’t too pricey, but it’s covered in hand-painted unicorns. 

“That’s for girls!” Harris groans, stomping his feet. The last word is stretched in a whine. “I can’t have girl stuff!”

“We can paint over it. Whatever color you want,” you quickly jump in, trying to avoid a meltdown, but your efforts are fruitless. Fat tears stream down his cheeks; he’s already determined that the dresser is tainted. 

“No! No, no, no!” he howls, throwing himself on the floor. He smacks down on his tailbone, fanning his tantrum’s flames. He quiets for a moment, too shocked to cry, but then he’s screaming louder than before. 

It’s as though he’s lost control of his body, arms and legs knocking into the lower shelves without care. You can’t block him in time before he knocks over a lamp—a Nickelodeon-themed one that would have been perfect in his new room, ironically—and it shatters on the ground. Ceramic splinters, scattering across the linoleum like roaches in the light. 

People start to stare, some with sympathetic looks, and some glare angrily at the child daring to interrupt their shopping. Eddie’s face blazes, vision swimming as he wracks his brain for a solution. 

You’re faster, slapping a few bills into Eddie’s palm and jolting him from his thoughts. He watches you scoop Harris off of the floor, trying to avoid his flailing limbs. 

“Go get the nightstand and pay for the lamp,” you tell him, straightforward and precise. “I’ll get him to the car and calm him down. Keys?”

Eddie blinks, the information swirling around him but not quite penetrating the surface. It’s when you hoist Harris onto one hip and balance his weight in one hand, using the other to make a ‘gimme’ motion that it registers. 

“Y-Yeah, sorry.” Eddie fumbles for the car keys and tosses them to you, the two of you working in tandem. A well-oiled machine. You nod gratefully, wincing as Harris’s foot makes contact with your thigh. “I’ll be right out.”

You’re able to bring him to the car, struggling to unlock it and hold on to Harris. After a few failed attempts, you manage to open the passenger door and sit him on the seat. 

“Harris, hey, Harris?” you start, keeping your voice soft and even while trying to pull his attention. His sobs are slowing down but he’s definitely breathing too rapidly for your comfort. “Hey, bud. You’re okay, all right?” You extend your hand and he tentatively places his own palm on top of it. “You wanna give my hand a squeeze?”

He does it, the motion grounding him enough that he can focus on your body in front of him. You don’t want to touch him, knowing that his senses are already overstimulated from the tantrum. Instead, you relax as his squeezing grows stronger and his breaths gradually even out. 

“There ya go, Har. Just like that.” You smile warmly. “That was a really big feeling, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” His voice shakes and hiccups. He swipes at the tears on his cheeks, smudging them into his skin. 

You reach into the center console and grab a tissue, wiping the mucus from his nose and lips. “Good as new.” With no trashcan nearby, you shove the used Kleenex into your pants pocket. “Can you tell me what made you so mad in there?”

“D-Don’t want girl…girl st-stuff,” he stutters through ragged breaths. 

There’s a time and place to discuss the optics of categorizing interests into ‘boy’ and ‘girl,’ but you know better than to have that conversation now. “Oof, that’s why you were angry! That’s a lot to handle.” You gingerly tuck a curl behind his ear. “But, Harris, did you see what happened when you started hitting and kicking?” He shakes his head. “Well, you knocked over a lamp and it broke. You could have gotten hurt, or someone else could have gotten hurt.” 

Harris’s face falls as you speak, absorbing what you’re explaining. “I-I didn’t mean to,” he sniffles. “‘M sorry.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you sigh, “sometimes, when we have big feelings like getting angry, we do things we shouldn’t without even realizing.” You pause for a moment, biting your lip as you consider your words. “Do you want to hear what helps me when I have really big feelings and I can’t scream and cry?”

“Mhm.” He nods again, little tongue peeking out to swipe up the tears above his mouth. 

“I take a deep breath and close my eyes,” you start, demonstrating both actions. Inhale for three, exhale for three, and repeat. “And then I picture myself being in my favorite place in the world.” You smile at him, blinking back the sadness that comes with memories of holidays at Grandma’s. “Wanna try it together?”

Harris responds by closing his eyes and breathing in slowly. “Good job, Har,” you softly praise him. “Now breathe out; make sure you’re thinking of your favorite place, okay?”

“Thinkin’ about the zoo,” he whispers, voice raspy from shrieking for so long. “Daddy taked me there and we saw so much animals.”

“Zoos are a lot of fun,” you agree with a laugh. “I’ve never been to the one in Hawkins. Maybe we can go over the summer?”

“Yeah! I wanna show you the flamingos!” His grin stretches across his cheeks “Do you like flamingos?”

Like most people, you don’t have a strong opinion on flamingos, but you respond with an enthusiastic, “I love them!”

“Love who?” Eddie’s voice breaks into the conversation. He’s rolling out the nightstand in a cart, keeping one hand on top of it to hold it steady. “Me?”

You laugh, opening up the back door so he can wedge the furniture next to Harris’s booster seat. “Yes, Eddie. I love you very much, don’t worry,” you tease, seizing the opportunity to inconspicuously check him out. His biceps flex as he maneuvers the nightstand, and you have to tear your gaze from his denim-clad ass when he stands up and triumphantly wipes his hands on his pants. 

“C’mere.” He pulls you in, pursing his lips in an exaggerated pout and planting a smacking kiss on you. 

While you giggle, Harris is not as amused. He claps his hands over his eyes and groans. 

“No tongue-kissing!”

You’re wrapping up storytime, your students fidgeting with their shoelaces—some fidgeting with their friend’s shoelaces—eager to move onto the corresponding art activity Will has planned. 

“Okay, we’re going to use our walking—” Your announcement is cut short by Principal Sinclair’s voice coming over the loudspeaker. Her tone is typically warm and excited, but the way she speaks so sternly sends chills through your entire body. 

“This is a lock-in. All staff and students must remain in their classrooms until notified. I repeat, all staff and students must remain in their classrooms until notified.”

You breathe out, though you’re still concerned about the cause of the lock-in. It’s usually some kind of medical issue that requires emergency services to have unblocked access through the halls. You hope that whatever it is isn’t life-threatening. 

Will locks the door wordlessly, and you repeat your directions to the class. The kids walk to their seats, asking non-stop about what a lock-in means. 

“We just have to stay in the classroom,” you find yourself repeating, losing patience with each iteration. You’re thankful for small miracles; your class has already gone out for recess, which means you don’t have to break that news to them. 

Will is helping the kids glue multicolored strands of crepe paper in the shape of a rainbow, complete with cotton ball clouds. You’re unclogging a bottle of Elmer’s when the classroom phone rings, startling you. You place the glue bottle on the table, promising Joshua that you’ll be right back, and answer it. 

“Hello?”

“We need you to come to the office immediately,” the secretary’s clipped voice informs you. “Bring your personal items. We’ll send someone to assist Will.”

Stupidly, you nod before remembering she can’t see you. “Y-Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” You hang up, tell Will the plan, and bolt out the door. 

What the hell is going on? Why are they having me break the lock-in to go to the office? You hike your purse higher up your shoulder, trying to ignore the dread pooling in your stomach and creeping up your throat. 

Something is wrong. Something is really, really wrong. 

Your feet can’t carry you fast enough. You nearly stop breathing when you see Eddie pacing in the lobby, Marion and Paula standing off to the side and speaking with Chief Hopper. The two teachers wear matching worried expressions. 

As soon as Eddie spots you, he’s charging over. “Oh, thank God,” he murmurs, throwing his arms around you and hugging you tight. You can feel the tears falling from his eyes, wetting the crook of your neck. His hands squeeze against your back and your shoulder blades as his body is wracked with sobs. 

You weave your fingers through his hair, holding him as close as you can. You’re desperate to know what’s going on, but you doubt he could explain if he tried. Instead, you continue comforting him while Principal Sinclair walks over. 

Her strides are long and purposeful, and she meets your own terrified gaze with her own. “Harris went missing during recess,” she says quietly, “and Mr. Munson let us know that you might be an asset in locating him.”

Harris went missing. Bile inches up your esophagus and you swallow it, wincing at its burn. “Why would he—” You stop mid-sentence; his motive is not important right now. All of your focus needs to be on finding him. 

Chief Hopper approaches you and Eddie, tapping your boyfriend on the shoulder with two fingers. Eddie looks up, wipes his face with the heel of his palm, and clears his throat, but a fresh batch of tears threatens to spill over anyway. 

“We’ve just collected statements from his teachers,” Hopper reports, looking down at his notepad. “They said that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, that Harris was just playing with his friends one moment and then gone the next.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head. “No, something had to have happened.” Harris had wandered off plenty of times, like at the flea market. The difference was that he was easily found. “If you haven’t found him, then he’s either hiding, or someone…” The thought is too painful to finish. 

Hopper looks over at the principal. “You’re certain that the playground is secure?” He asks her, not accusing, but waiting for confirmation. 

“Yes, absolutely secure,” she affirms, nodding her head. “The gate can only be opened from the inside, so no one can access it off of the street.”

You know this, of course, but it doesn't bring you closer to finding Harris. 

“We’ve taped off the playground,” Hopper continues, “and we’ve got a search squad going now. Considering that Harris has been diagnosed with a disability, we’re beginning this investigation right away.”

“Mr. Munson,” a second officer chimes in, “is there anyone who would be inclined to take your son? Perhaps a non-custodial parent or an estranged relative?”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. “His mom, um, isn’t in the picture. Never has been.”

Hopper cocks one brow. “Never?” he asks disbelievingly. “How soon after he was born did she relinquish her rights?”

“She, um,” Eddie swallows, rubbing his nose in embarrassment, “she never did. Never relinquished her rights, I mean. She just kinda split.”

“So there was no formal agreement that she could no longer be involved in Harris’s life?”

“N-No,” he stammers, shame seeping from every pore. He’d always meant to start the legal proceedings, but that takes time and money…and maybe a small part of him had always hoped she’d come around and do the right thing. 

He looks over at you now, the way you’ve stepped into a mothering role like a puzzle piece. Like any parent, you’d made some mistakes, but you’re also the most compassionate person Eddie has ever known. 

He thinks of the times he’d tried to make his ex get clean, to want to get clean, and to be there for Harris. The weight of disappointment caused his chest to ache every time she’d mumble, “I’m gonna, but not right now” or “I don’t need help.”

Perhaps it’s unfair to compare the two of you; after all, you hadn’t struggled with addiction. But Eddie can’t help himself. You’d loved Harris before you’d even loved him, he realizes. And he’d never had to ask you to. 

“Do you have any contact information for her?” Hopper taps his pen against his notepad. “Nine out of ten times in these situations, the child is with someone they know.”

What about the ‘one’ time? What happens then? Heat pulses in Eddie’s cheeks, sweat beading on his forehead. He doesn’t need Hopper to answer the question; he already knows what that means. 

“It’s from five years ago, so I don’t know if it’s still accurate.” He stumbles over his words, thinking about the last time he’d called her; it was the invitation to Harris’s birthday. “I don’t know it by heart, but I have it in my address book at home.”

Hopper gives a brusque nod to his colleague and to your boss. “We’ll give you a lift. And, uh, it’ll be good to set up your place as a home base.”

“Yeah, yeah, right,” Eddie mumbles, simply going through the motions without processing them. He’s on autopilot, a robotic version of himself. If he was able to fully absorb his surroundings, he would note the irony of him sitting in the back of the cop car because they’re helping him instead of escorting him to the county jail. 

You don’t let go of his hand the entire ride there, your thumb rubbing the soft hairs on his knuckles. “We’re gonna find him,” you whisper reassuringly, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. 

But Eddie is too embroiled in his own thoughts, imagining every possible tragedy that could have befallen his son. As soon as Hopper pulls up to the apartment complex, Eddie is flying up the stairs, two at a time, unlocking the door as fast as he can. You run in behind him, watching as he flings loose papers and pens from a kitchen drawer. He’s kicked over the boxes he’s already packed; clothes and some of Harris’s toys are scattered across the floor like a poorly-designed booby-trap. 

He holds up the tattered black book, flipping through it until he lands on the right page. “Here. Right here.” He frantically points to an entry at the top, fingertip jabbing into it over and over. 

Hopper takes the book from him, careful not to rip the already weathered materials. He dials the digits and frowns when he’s greeted by the automated we’re sorry, this number is no longer in service, far too chipper for the circumstances. He tries once more in case he dialed incorrectly, but he gets the same message. 

“Disconnected,” he says gruffly, hanging the receiver with a clank. “Is there anyone else?”

Eddie can only shake his head somberly. If Wayne got Harris from school early, he would have told him. He wasn’t even sure how much of Harris’s maternal family knew of his existence, let alone his location. If someone took his son, it was more than likely a complete stranger. 

Hopper’s walkie crackles with static; you and Eddie stiffen with anticipation. “Hey, Chief?” comes from the garbled voice on the other end. 

“I’m here.”

“We’ve got a kid here at the school who says he spoke with Harris Munson right before he went missing today.”

Eddie stands up, walking closer to Hopper. Part of you expects him to grab the walkie and try talking straight to the other officer, but he doesn’t. 

Hopper presses the small black button and speaks. “Copy. Does he know where we might locate him?”

There’s a deafening silence for a few moments; no more than ten seconds pass, but it feels like a lifetime. Finally, there’s some information: “No known location; just says that Harris told him he was having ‘big feelings’ and needed to go to his favorite place.’”

“The zoo,” you murmur aloud, drawing confused looks from both men in the room. “When he got upset on Saturday—at Goodwill—I taught him to do some deep breathing and picture being in his favorite place, and he told me it was the zoo. But I…” you swallow, furrowing your brows, “I told him to picture it, not actually go there.”

“Zoo’s too far for him to walk, and no bus driver is going to let a kid that young ride by himself,” the chief points out. 

You nod, biting your lower lip. “He might not be at the zoo, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to get there.”

Hopper thanks the other officer and turns to you and Eddie. My guys are deploying the search party as we speak.” He takes a deep breath and makes direct eye contact with you and Eddie. “We’ll do everything we can to bring your son back safely.”

Eddie buries his head in his hands, collapsing back against the living room wall and sliding down to the floor. 

You look over at the police chief. “Can we help? Join the search…or something?” Anything besides sitting around and waiting for answers. 

“Absolutely. We’ll keep an officer stationed here in case Harris comes home.” 

You nudge your foot against Eddie’s. “C’mon, babe.” You try to keep strength behind your words, to be what Eddie needs right now, but it gets harder with each passing second. “We’re gonna go look for him.” He looks up and notices that you’ve extended your hand, and he takes it, pulling himself up. 

He doesn’t say a word, but he follows you and Hopper out the door. He’s gnawing on his lips so violently that some skin peels off between his teeth; flecks of blood dotting his usually perfect mouth. 

“We’ve got some time before sunset, so that’s on our side,” Hopper says as he drives back the way he came. “We’ll start in the woods near the school, and we’ll move from there.” He peers back at the two of you through the rearview mirror with a determined gaze.

“My uncle,” Eddie says suddenly, no certain expression on his face. He’s practically catatonic when he talks. “I want Wayne to wait at the apartment. I need to tell him…” If Harris does return home first and sees police officers surrounding the place, he might get scared and run off again.

Hopper scratches at his beard. “We’ll let him know, all right? Don’t worry about that.” He radios the instructions to a colleague, who confirms them and signs off, before pulling into a grassy area and killing the engine. “Let’s go. If Harris is going to come out for anyone, it’ll be you two.” He slams his door and then helps you and Eddie out of the backseat. 

Before you can even begin, you hear a group of people shouting Eddie’s name. You look over to see Jeff, Jess, and Robin waving and walking towards you. 

“We came as soon as we heard,” Robin says, giving you and Eddie a hug. “We’re gonna help you, and we’re not leaving until we find him.”

Jeff offers a tight smile, one hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “We’re here for you man,” he promises, sincerity in its purest form. “Viv is gonna stop by later and I’ll take care of Ettie.”

It’s a kind gesture, but Eddie’s stomach sours at the thought of still searching later. He needs to know that his son is safe now. 

Harris’s name is echoed over and over, bouncing off of trees and shaking the leaves as you and your friends call out for him. 

“Harris!” you cry out, throat raw from your constant shouting. “Harris, it’s Ms. Sweetheart!”

“Harris!” Eddie’s voice is even louder than yours; the power behind it is palpable. “Harris, it’s Daddy! Please come out! You’re not in trouble!” he adds, cognizant of the little boy’s fear of making people mad. 

Every squirrel that darts across the forest floor has you whipping your head around, heart leaping at the prospect of Harris emerging from where he’s hiding. 

He has to be hiding; your mind won’t let you imagine what could happen if the wrong person saw him walking by himself, determined to get to the zoo…

“Harris, Aunt Robin and I will buy you any toy you want!” Jess yells. “And all the ice cream you can eat!”

The five of you take turns making promises to nobody; they’re secrets shared with the wind. Each unanswered call leaves you feeling more defeated, especially with the sun hanging lower in the sky. It will be dark soon, leaving Harris even more vulnerable than he already is.

Will joins the group a few moments later, bringing granola bars, water, and flashlights. You can only stomach about a quarter of your snack, having completely lost your appetite. Eddie doesn’t even bother to eat, fueled by adrenaline rather than food.

“Principal Sinclair is also looking,” Will tells you and Eddie. “She’s with Lucas and Erica over at Merrill Wright’s farm. It’s closer than the zoo, but he’s got some animals, so they wanted to check there.” He pauses, casting his eyes down for a second before looking at Eddie. “Everyone’s helping out with this. They all want to find Harris.”

Tears well up along Eddie’s lash line; he blinks them away to keep his vision clear. “Thanks, man.” He coughs to clear his throat, emotions forcing their way through. “That means a lot.” For a moment, he sees Will as he was when they first met: an overwhelmed little freshman, unsure of his place in high school, let alone in the world.

What if Harris never gets the chance to find himself? What if he doesn’t get to grow up and learn new things, make his own mistakes, figure out who he is?

You put an arm around Eddie, unknowingly pulling him from his intrusive thoughts. “Can you try to drink some water? Please?” You know better than to nag him about eating right now, but the last thing he needs is to get dehydrated.

He cracks open the bottle and takes a few sips, not realizing how thirsty he was until the liquid covers his tongue. He downs it all without taking a breath, the plastic crinkling as he siphons out every last drop of water.

“Take mine,” you tell him, offering it with the best smile you can possibly muster, but he shakes his head.

“You need it, too.” He’s not wrong, but you have no issue letting him drink from your bottle if he’s still thirsty.

You take a sip and pass it to him. “We’ll share.”

Another hour passes, the pink and orange hues becoming deeper purples and reds as the sky darkens with night. Some people start to call it quits, returning home to their own children, breathing secret sighs of relief that they have children to return home to. Your group remains intact; no one is even considering leaving until they physically cannot move any longer.

With just overworked flashlight bulbs illuminating your path, you continue trudging through the woods. Hopper’s shift was over hours ago, but he’s steadfast in his pursuit to find Harris.

Eddie’s exhausted physically and emotionally, feeling like every part of him has been drained and can never be replenished. His son is missing; he might have been kidnapped, and he doesn’t know if or when he’ll see him again. All he wants is to hold him again, to hear his little laugh as he tells a cheesy joke he learned at school, to watch him sound out new words or draw a picture or just fall asleep in his own bed.

Hopper’s walkie crackles; he clutches it tight and holds it so he can hear it clearly.

“Chief, we may have a sighting.”

A light flickers behind Eddie’s eyes; he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he can’t help himself. He listens intently as the other officer relays the information.

“Doris Driscoll just went outside to let her cats in for the night, and when they didn’t go inside, she went looking. Found them behind a bush, eating crackers out of a little boy’s hands. He told her his name is Harris. Matches the descriptions the father provided.”

Eddie grabs your hand, gripping it with whatever strength he has left. You feel a surge course through your veins as Hopper motions for you to follow him to his car. He turns on his siren and guns it down the road, swerving in and out of traffic to get to the old woman’s house as fast as he can.

Please, please let him be here, you silently pray, subconsciously screwing your eyes shut and holding your breath. The only thing worse than not knowing where he is might just be a false alarm that he’s been found. 

Hopper slams on the brakes behind an ambulance parked in front of the Driscoll residence, their open doors allowing the fluorescent lights to stream through. Eddie watches, wide-eyed, as an EMT wheels a stretcher over to it. 

A stretcher carrying Harris. 

“Harris!” Eddie cries in simultaneous relief, exuberance, and fear. He instinctively reaches for a door handle, quickly remembering that he’s in a cop car and had to wait for Hopper to let him out from the outside. 

You’re already crying; everything you’d been holding back to maintain a solid resolve for Eddie is crumbling as soon as you’d seen his son. You scramble out of the car, right behind him, and run to where the emergency technicians are treating Harris. 

He’s awake and alert, and he spots the two of you right away. “Daddy! Ms. Sweetheart!” He tries sitting up, but a technician gently guides him to lay down again. “No, that’s my daddy and my almost-mommy!” he protests. “I gotta see them!”

You and Eddie reach him at the same time. He’s covered in dirt; it’s smudge along his cheeks, his arms, and his legs. He’s even managed to get some on the tip of his nose. Some blood is smeared on his right knee where he’s seemed to have scraped it, and the EMTs spray some antiseptic on it and apply a bandage before he can even feel the sting.

“Oh, thank God.” The words rush out of Eddie’s mouth, and he puts his palms on his son’s cheeks and presses kisses all over his face. “You’re okay, you’re okay…” He turns to the technicians, worry pinching his brows together. “He’s okay, right? There’s nothing wrong?” He pushes some of Harris’s damp curls from his forehead. There aren’t any visible bumps or bruises on his face, which eases a bit of his nerves.

One technician nods. “Right now, it seems like he’s just got some minor lacerations, but we’ll run the gamut of tests to rule out more severe injuries.” She looks over at the police chief, who stands a few yards behind you. “We’ll take it from here.”

Hopper gives a small, sad smile; it’s then that you remember that his own child had passed away nearly twenty years ago. She was only a little older than Harris is now. 

Eddie follows your gaze with red-rimmed eyes, the realization setting in for him, too. “Thanks, Chief,” he says, just loud enough so Hopper can hear him. Hopper nods, placing his hat atop his head before walking away.

The EMTs check for any broken or sprained bones, shine lights into Harris’s pupils, and ask him a few simple questions to assess for a concussion. “We’ll have to take him to the hospital, just to be sure,” they say to you and Eddie, “but barring any extenuating circumstances, you should be able to bring him back home tonight.”

“Okay, yeah, okay,” Eddie breathes, crouching down a bit so he’s eye-level with his son. “Har, can you tell us why you ran away from school? You’re not in trouble; I promise.”

Harris looks down at the blanket draped across his lap. “I had really big feelings, and I tried thinking about the zoo like you told me,” he glances at you, “but then the feelings didn’t go away, so I decided to go there.”

You take his small hand in yours. “What were the big feelings?” you ask gently, free of judgment and filled with concern.

He thinks for a second, then states matter-of-factly, “Mad and sad.”

“Mad and sad?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, wiping at his nose with his free hand. “‘Cause of Ms. Marion and Ms. Paula.”

You freeze, trying to regain your composure before Harris can pick up on your uncertainty. “What happened with your teachers, Har?”

“They were saying mean things about you and Daddy, and it made me mad and sad.”

At the sound of his title, Eddie speaks up. “Mean things about us?”

“Yeah, like, that Ms. Sweetheart is probably teaching you how to read, too,” Harris explains, “and I said that they’re lying, that you’re really smart and read to me all the time. And that Ms. Sweetheart isn’t your teacher; she’s my almost-mommy.”

Eddie clenches his fists, veins prominent as his body goes stiff. His anger isn’t at the insult, but at the way they could speak so brazenly about a child’s family, disregarding the hurt it causes. He doesn’t care what those women think of him, but he’s furious that they upset Harris.

“They keeped laughing and telled me to go play,” Harris continues, getting choked up at the memory. “I tried to do my breathing and my favorite place remembering with Charlie, but it didn’t work. And I got lost going to the zoo–the real zoo, not the one in my imagination–so I hided with the cats until the nice lady found me.”

You and Eddie share heartbroken looks, pushing aside your respective emotions as you tend to the little boy laying in front of you. “Get some rest, Har Bear,” you murmur, kissing the top of his head. “You had a long day.”

He falls asleep after a few minutes, constantly checking to make sure that the two of you are still by his side. As soon as his breathing steadies and his eyes remain closed, Eddie turns to you, exhausted and running on fumes. Wet brown doe eyes pleadingly gaze at you, lids heavy with sleep. You wrap your arms around him, unable to get close enough. He moves slowly, every action a delayed reaction, but he gradually embraces you, too.

“Stay. Please.” The words are muffled by the way his mouth is mashed into your scalp, but you hear them perfectly fine. “And if we get to go home tonight, come back with us. I need you both close to me.”

“Of course.” Your own lips press against his perspiration-soaked shirt collar. “I’ll stay as long as you need me to.” You pull back ever-so-slightly, brushing tears from his cheeks. “He’s safe. He’s safe, and he’s here, and we get to keep spoiling and loving him.”

Eddie absorbs this as best as he can, mind still spinning as the adrenaline crash hits. There’s so much he wants to say, but for right now, he just carves out space in his body for yours. Your light whisper keeps him grounded, pulling hi away from the spiraling that usually overtakes him in times of crisis.

“I’ve got you.”

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