#It would be such a good enemies to lovers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedgito · 3 days ago

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𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | Lucien De Leon x reader

summary | it was never a favor, allowing him to take up space in your apartment. but, time after time, he finds his way back and somehow, it brings an unexpected normalcy to your life.

author's note | in my heart, it's still flores. but canonically its de leon. i had the opportunity to watch the movie and hot take, it was...alright. but pedro's character made me just as feral as i expected. so here's this absolute monster for no reason other than, well, me ovulating.

content warning | 18+ mdni, the uninvited spoilers, set post-movie, roommates to lovers, enemies to lovers, reader works in the film industry, financial hardship, shitty living situations, lucien is a schmooze and a drunk, but also a sweetheart, angst, feelings, reader has shit luck with dating, there's also smut in here somewhere i swear (oral, couch sex, unprotected piv, all the good stuff)

word count — 11k (sorry lmfao)

“Lucien?” You grumble around the chewy granola bar you’ve snatched from the craft table, “Lucien De Leon?”

The agent, Lucien’s agent—James, also working for a few of the on-set cast, looked hopeless.

He nods, squeezing tight at the phone in his hand, one more inconvenience text from snapping it in half.

“No,” You refuse, chewing at the sweet and sticky granola, “why—why me? My tiny apartment?”

“He’s exhausted any other chance,” The agent explains vaguely—yeah, real convincing, this guy, “listen—I like you, you’ve helped me in plenty of binds. It’ll be two weeks before he’s leaving for work, I just need somewhere to keep him for a while.”

“You’re making it seem like I’d be dog sitting or something,” You retort, watching as the agent glanced down at his phone, notifications spilling in, “this is Lucien—controversy magnet, and he’s rude—”

“You’ve gotta get to know him—”

“The one set I’ve worked on with him he spilled my coffee on me and acted like I made him do it. Fuck him, tell him to sleep on a bench.”

“I’ll pay you,” He scrambles, “Just—please?”

You pause, narrowing your gaze. Being a production assistant hadn’t been the life of luxury, minimal pay in an overpriced city in a shitty apartment with barely decent and affordable rent was nothing short of miserable.

“How much?”

“A thousand,” He offers—a shrug of uncertainty follows.

Silence stretches.

“Two thousand? Come on–that’s a thousand for each week.”

“Make it three and you’ve got a deal.”

The agent is quiet for a few seconds before he caves, sighing heavily, “Fuck, fine. Three. Can I drop him off tonight?”

“Tonight?” You balk, “You know, you’re actually the worst.”

His hands grip your shoulders, shaking you with far too much force than needed, “You’re a lifesaver, thank you.”

He’s long gone and buried in a phone call before you grumble a disgruntled, “You’re welcome.”

You consider later that evening that disclosing the recent…activities around your apartment complex would have been a good idea, especially with someone as high profile as Lucien taking up space in your one bedroom apartment.

Three break-ins in the past two weeks, noisy and unruly neighbors both above and sandwiching you—it wasn’t exactly peaceful or safe, but it was something.

You wait with a creeping anxiety as you tap your chopsticks against the homemade ramen you’ve made for yourself, one true moment of happiness in the day as you’re finally sitting down to relax, feet aching terribly.

It was coffee runs and constant back and forths over forgotten supplies or paperwork—it was the perfect job to keep you active and on your toes, never sure when someone might blow up on you for whatever reason it may be—you were nothing special, helpful, but when it came down to it, you were more or less in the way, so you often made yourself small out of habit.

The knock that startles you is hurried, like a panic. It sends your heart rate skyrocketing but your name echoes on the other side of the door, scrambling to open the door, you’re faced with two men.

The agent, James, a decent man despite his unorganized and erratic personality—and Lucien, a piss poor disguise covering his face.

You snort, addressing the ball cap and sunglasses with an amused expression, it was doing nothing to cover the instantly recognizable wispy brown hair of his and aquiline nose—the upcoming king of stage and screen. It was a wonder he even made it here in one piece.

“A natural chameleon,” You joke, widening your door to let them inside—the apartment was clean, thankfully. You’d scramble to get home after work and pick up, given you didn’t have much time to actually prepare, “seriously—get inside before someone clocks you.”

The agent stays though, like his feet were planted.

“He’s all yours,” He tells you, “you’ve got my number—don’t let him leave. I’ll check in when I can. Keep an eye out for paps.”

“Hey, no—” You interject, watching as the agent turned on his heels and departed, “we didn’t agree to—”, turning the corner with a shout of a long, helpless, “that!”

You sigh with a deep frown, turning over your shoulder to find Lucien with a chopstick in hand, noodle dangling from the utensil with a curious face, sniffing it cautiously.

“Hey!” You chastise, plucking the chopstick from his fingers, “Stop that.”

He looks at you curiously, obviously taken aback by your tone of voice and lack of intimidation by him, like a startled cat.

Jesus, okay.

You force a calming breath through your nose and look up at him, “Would you like some?”

“Is it gluten free?” Lucien inquires, peering over your shoulder at the still steaming hot bowl of soup.

“Actually, yeah,” Your brow furrows, “it—it is.”

“Sure,” He shrugs, beginning to remove his cap and glasses, along with his jacket, resting them haphazardly on the kitchen island as he takes a seat on the only other unoccupied barstool in your kitchen.

“Oh no,” You swiftly rectify his actions, “we’re not doing this—there’s a coat rack for a reason and a shelf by the door for things like,” You walk toward the front door, hand circling the object like a cherished belonging, “keys—sunglasses, hats,” You stress the final two words and point at the items before jutting your thumb frustratingly at the door, “—if you don’t mind, while I make your dinner.”

It was clear he’s spent most of the past several years with people ready and waiting on him, never questioning or ordering around, but it was basic human decency, you weren’t going to allow him to be amiss to it.

He obliges quietly, a surprise to you. You hide the satisfied smirk as you pour the broth into the bowl along with the noodles before placing the bowl on his side of the island, placing another dish near him, scattered with different toppings.

Lucien looks silently intrigued, the ends of his mouth curling down in interest as he sprinkles various toppings over his food, beginning to eat silently as you return to your own meal.

After a long enough silence and Lucien’s occasional slurping you decide to set a hard boundary, given the various personalities you’ve dealt with in the industry, it was you being proactive out of habit.

“Let me be clear, I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” You inform him, locking eyes with his intense stare, something you hadn’t forgotten, not since the on-set incident, “This is still my home. Don’t be an asshole about it.”

“James said you were a firecracker,” Lucien smirks slightly, resting his chopsticks along the top of the bowl, “and a little bit of a bitch, but—”

“Good, he hasn’t lost his mind then.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional at this shit now. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Highly unlikely, you think.

He even makes a point by grabbing his bowl and emptying it before placing it in the sink before extending his hand out to your own bowl. You watch him wash the dishes, something that looks unnatural, but you aren’t going to complain.

“You always cook like that?” Lucien asks curiously over the running water, head turning over his shoulder briefly.

“No, only Friday. I never have time otherwise, work is…busy,” A generous way to describe it, but Lucien doesn’t seem to care or question, drying off the last dish before extending his hands out by his side in a grand gesture.

Maybe he was expecting a roaring applause, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. You offer him a genuine thank you but it doesn’t extend beyond that before you’re trailing a few feet over toward the living room, a clean pillow and blanket draped over the couch, along with a fitted sheet if he felt like using it. It was all unmade, allowing him to set it up himself.

“Also,” You clasp your hands together at your front, “James didn’t mention this because I didn’t tell him but we’ve had a string of break-ins for a while now, so—always keep the deadbolt locked. Please.”

His eyes widen, looking around the apartment for the quickest escape. You were on the seventh floor, the only other escape option was a less than reliable balcony that you barely used.

“I have a bat,” You tell him, before pointing toward the door beside the entrance, “in the shoe closet, but I think we’re okay.”

“Think?”

You shrug, “It hasn’t happened yet, but the police have shit response time around here.”

Lucien looks overwhelmed, but nods.

“Oh, and the neighbors like to have really loud sex—walls are thin. Have fun.”

“No puedo creer esta mierda—” He mumbles under his breath as you turn your back, a sharp flap of a sheet, and a short laugh from you follows.

“Blame your agent, Lucien.”

He didn’t think you’d understand him, but your astute hearing proved otherwise.

Lucien was putting on an act with his gesture, clearly.

He doesn’t respond, pouting his way through the process of setting up his new bed for the next couple weeks in silence, ignoring the soft click to your door as you turn in for the night, the creeping and soft city noises filtering in through the thin apartment walls.

It wouldn’t be an easy night but he's never really liked big, empty houses anyways.

—

The weekend is uneventful; you fear it might be a dream, too good to be true, a complete fluke.

Maybe he had a change of heart overnight, but Lucien is overly polite.

He deconstructs his bed both mornings, packing it away in a corner of the living room, listening to the television at a reasonable volume with fresh coffee in the coffee pot, he cleans up his dishes and leaves a marginal mess.

The real kicker—he has the ability to keep the toilet seat down with your now shared bathroom attached to your bedroom, a real…gentleman.

You eyed him suspiciously most of the day, when he’s unaware and preoccupied, wondering when the facade would drop. Does he even remember the coffee incident?

He had to, right?

He approaches with a silent gesture of his emptied cup as you fill your own.

Fine—you pull the cup from his grip and fill it to the brim, sliding it back over carefully.

He sips gingerly as he raises it to his lip before speaking, “S’good coffee.”

“Thanks,” You answer nonchalantly, pouring a generous amount of sugar and cream into your coffee and stirring, watching as the dark black lightened into a soft brown, “are you a coffee guy?”

“I’m an anything guy,” Lucien responds, “but—good, it’s good. I’m impressed.”

“Why?” You ask with a little more bark than needed, a flippant tone rounding out your morning irritation as you readied for work. “Are you—you really don’t remember, do you?”

Lucien raised his eyebrows in question, expectant.

“Your last job, up in Hollywood Hills. You spilled coffee all over me, blamed me, then got me suspended for a week, because of your outburst. I barely managed rent that month”

His eyes narrow, recollecting the thought like he’d been stricken with temporary amnesia.

“You’re all so much of the same, y’know?” You continue, sipping generously from your cup as his face relaxes, following your movements with a casual glance. “Cocky, egotistical, little dicked men. Without me you wouldn’t have that ridiculous fifteen dollar hyper whateverthefuck water you insisted you needed in your trailer, or your dry cleaning? God forbid. Seriously, fuck you.”

“Wait—” Lucien staunches, hold his hand up in pause, “hold on—”

You wait for approximately half a second before you roll your eyes, pushing beyond him to gather your bag and keys, “You know, I don’t need a disingenuous apology. I’m not doing this as a favor. I’m being paid.”

James had lied to him, that much he was figuring out as he processed the situation. You weren’t someone offering up free charity, a helping hand for a starving actor in need—except that wasn’t the case for him. Despite his team's careful guidance; he was a repeat offender of bad choices and money management, a part-time alcoholic, and a serial flirt. He knew how to play his hand and he was good at it, but with you—it was clear that you were a challenge.

But, it was only a couple weeks. He could survive that. He was a people person first and foremost and he’d charm the hell out of you if given the opportunity.

“James said he’d be by in an hour to pick you up for your meetings today—lock the door when you leave. Please.”

Still speechless, he watches you leave with a stiff, crisp shut of the door.

He couldn’t remember, racking his brain for one incident after another. His own fair share made him cringe in hindsight, but he…couldn’t remember. He’d almost hoped you were a fresh face, leaving him free of judgment, but it was clear that this situation was about pure survival.

“You did do that,” James confirmed to him as they left the first brand meeting that morning, “It was the morning of the big awards show—you remember?” He doesn’t wait for Lucien’s response, continuing, “Poor kid got her ass chewed out and had to take a trip to the clinic for the burns. It was…a mess. Never cried, though. I’ll give her that.”

And, like a strike of a match, it floods back. You’re shocked expression, mouth slightly agape as the sting of pain settled in, bracing for the impact of Lucien’s wrath because you knew. A man allergic to accountability, oozing power, it was almost too easy.

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Apologies seem pointless now, but it could help. But…be genuine.”

“I’m genuine.”

James gives him a certain look, one that argues otherwise.

“I am.”

Only time would tell, really.

By the end of your work day, it was with great relief as you stepped through the door of your apartment until you remembered one fine detail you had told Lucien more than once.

Lock the door.

The eeriness hits you as the door clicks shut behind you, the place falling into a dead silence for a brief moment, your bag hitting the counter as you maneuvered your keys between your fingers, ready to take on what you could with what little strength you had to offer.

Just maul their face off, that seemed like the best option.

You count the seconds in your head, breath held tight and constricted in your chest. You quickly check the available pathways—living room, kitchen, before slipping down the hall, left with the only room to flee if not away from your apartment.

Bedroom light off, not a thing out of place, pristine even—but your eyes track toward the bathroom light seeping underneath the gap in the door. With careful, measured movements you approach the door although you haven’t thought through the actual process of what you wanted to do.

But, before you can react the door is swinging open as the bathroom is plunged into darkness, revealing a sopping wet Lucien, towel tied tight around his waist as he slings a smaller one over his shoulders, completely relaxed until he spots you.

Both of you scream—you out of anger and fear, Lucien at the incoming hand that he snatches by the wrist, your eyes landing on each other, your nostrils flaring in frustration.

“You’re insane!” Lucien shouts, shoving your hand away, “You nearly tore my face off.”

“I thought you were an intruder,” You seethe, “—what kind of maniac showers with the front door unlocked while home alone?”

“You said you had a bat,” Lucien excuses, “I could have defended myself.”

You sigh, plucking the keys from your grip before you toss them on your bed, stepping away from Lucien and away from the radiating heat of his body as it glistened, obnoxiously.

“Get out,” You snap, “get out—go—”

“I was just gonna…grab my clothes and come change in,” He weakly gestures toward the bathroom, earning a sharp look of distaste in his direction, “alright—alright, Jesus.”

He pauses for a moment, though. Before the lightbulb clicks on and he’s scrambling into the living room and back in record time, shoving a small white envelope into your hands.

“What is this?” You ask tensely, blindly ripping at the seal as you stare at him.

“It’s uh—what I owe you, for the coffee thing. I…I remember now. Figured I could pay you for the work I made you miss…is that about right?”

You peer at the wad of cash. It was indeed, enough.

“You’re unbelievable,” You reply, shaking your head.

It gives him false hope, wondering if it was all going to be brushed under the rug and that he could continue the rest of his stay in a somewhat semblance of peace, but then your expression flips and oh…that’s not…

“Are you physically incapable of saying the words “I’m sorry”—would it kill you? Allergic to accountability? God, you know what, I’m gonna call James and tell him I just can’t do—”

“No,” Lucien panics, hand around your bicep as you attempt to push past him, immediately recognizing the fierceness of his grip he loosens it, calms himself, “no—please, listen…I…I didn’t think you’d care enough to hear it. I do remember now and I was a dick, I was trying to offer a gesture of good faith. Peace, even?”

“Is this even your money?” You ask curiously, brow furrowed as you help up the envelope.

“Yeah, yeah—I pulled it out of my savings. Why? Do you…not want it?”

You quickly snatch the envelope away, “No, I’ll take it. But, words mean a lot. Like calling me an ignorant little bitch.”

“Okay, okay. I am sorry. I had a lot going on and I know that isn’t an excuse either, but I am.”

You tilt your head in examination, peering through the raw emotion on his face, whether he was putting on a masterclass in acting or not, it was believable enough. You could remain bitter, even if it meant suffering in silence, but you liked the peace just as much as he, so you compromise.

“You still have to get out,” You inform him, walking your fingers tauntingly toward the door, “and I swear, Lucien, if you used all the hot water—”

Lucien was insistent about rehearsing at least five hours a day, even on weekends. Luckily, most of those days you were spared, but when you’re barricaded away in your bedroom, sound travels. And Lucien doesn't care much to stifle his performance, maybe it was a weapon to backfire at your inconsiderate neighbors, but it was driving you insane.

He’s stuck on one scene, clearly a building tension that explodes and apparently he can’t nail, having heard the lines a hundred times over through the muffled walls—your first instinct was to complain, tell him take it elsewhere, but you remember your deal with James. Lucien just needed a place to stay for a while and this was his job.

Eventually, you poke your head through your bedroom door with a cautious expression, watching Lucien examine his face in the mirror, filing through various emotions before he finally gives up, tossing the script against the counter.

He spots you as he turns, already gearing up to apologize or maybe even excuse—but instead, you speak.

“Is it for an audition?”

“How’d you know?”

“The yelling, the emotion—I guess? I help on set with self tapes from time to time. I’ve learned to spot the difference between just memorizing lines and trying to feel the script.”

Lucien pushes his lips out in thought, tongue rolling over his teeth as his hands settle against his hips, pushing the sweatpants lower on his hips as he stands, deliberating.

“Just ask,” You tell him.

“You any good?”

It was a genuine question, not meant to attack your own ego. Besides, it makes you laugh.

“I’ll get your good side,” You promise him, surfacing from your room as you beckon for his phone with your hand, getting straight to work.

It only takes a few minutes to find a solid place to set up, against one of your cream colored walls, pictureless and plain, but with ample lighting from inside and out, it highlighted the wispy grays in Lucien’s untamed curls hanging over his forehead, the wrinkles creasing there as he looked down at the script and examined the text.

“Do you have them memorized?”

Lucien nods absently, his finger trailing down the side of the paper until it was suddenly gone, snatched from his hands with a smile on your face as you pointed for him to slide into frame. You take a step back, watching the screen with a careful eye before motioning with a finger for him to move a few centimeters to the left, “There. Perfect.”

You flatten out the creased paper as you speak, “From the top?”

Lucien smiles halfheartedly—the stress washing from his face for a moment—and nods.

–

You could keep up, that much was obvious.

Lucien is used to the monotone voice on the other side of the camera during auditions, forced tones and half-cocked emotion, it was hard to act against and with, but he’s learned to push through for the sake of a role.

It was an emotional scene, almost a requirement to have that intensity to act against and Lucien caught your eye line at one point, face buried in the script as you uttered the lines with teary eyes, letting your own emotion fill you to the brim and flow out, giving him a real and authentic reaction to act against.

He watched it back with a grin, mostly out of his own cocky admiration for himself but the secret you’ve been hoarding, a welcome surprise.

“Have you never considered acting?” Lucien asks curiously, emailing the video off to his agent.

“Cameras are daunting,” You shrug, folding and filing away some freshly washed towels as Lucien reclined on your couch, “I prefer being behind them.”

“You’re a natural,” He offers honestly, “that’s really rare.”

You shake your head in amusement as you riffled through the unfolded laundry, separating in different piles until you come across a no longer white blouse, stained a soft pink—and of course, Lucien. It was Lucien who offered to take laundry down the night prior, needing a moment away from being cooped up in the apartment, swearing he had it under control.

“I told you not to put this in the wash load with the colors! Look at this—” You held up the obviously stained blouse, crumpling up the fabric and tossing it to the couch with a frustrated huff.

“To be fair, it’s been years since I did my own laundry,” Lucien responds casually, “—don’t worry, I’ll have James buy you another.”

Your face twitches, actually twitches.

“No, no—it…it’s fine. It’s only a shirt,” You tuck a loose hair behind your ear as you heave the towels into your arm, “just—whites and colors, always separate them.”

And while living with Lucien had mellowed out some, it was still tumultuous at times.

Fighting over the bathroom was a regular occurrence, both of you guilty. But, that could be worked through, it wasn’t the end of the world. Occasionally it was the lights, a bad habit of Lucien’s to leave them lingering in his wait, lamps and fixtures, nothing was safe. Opened cabinets, items forgotten and out of place. It was all tedious and frustrating, picking and choosing your battles as they came, brushing far too much under the rub for the sake of peace.

You knew it was almost over, enjoying a quiet night to yourself while Lucien was apparently out at dinner—you weren’t sure, you didn’t really care, but you enjoyed the glimpse of what was to return to you, tucked away on the couch while half-dressed, hand stuffed into a freshly popped bowl of popcorn.

It was Friday and your neighbors never failed to come home from a rowdy night of partying with everything but sleeping on their mind, getting straight to business and your grab for the remote was immediate, turning up the volume to drown out the obnoxious moans and groans of drunk sex happening on the other side of the wall.

Lucien arrives back somewhere near the middle of the movie, the soft laughs from you pulling his attention to the couch as he clocked the nineties rom-com on the television, your cheek resting against your balled up fist, placing his wallet against the counter to signal his entrance.

“Loud enough for you?” Lucien jokes, approaching the singular piece of furniture in your living room, fingertips pressing against the arm of the couch as he takes in your appearance, shirt barely reaching beyond mid-thigh, thick socks keeping you warm as you curled in on yourself, careless that Lucien was definitely looking you make a noise in question, the words processing in a delayed manner.

You reach for the remote, pausing the movie briefly to reveal the reason; the insistent thump of wood against cheap sheetrock and moans, squealy and high-pitched, forcing a raised eyebrow from Lucien that needed no words.

“Nevermind,” He concedes,hands thrown up in defeat with a chuckle hidden behind his teeth, walking closer to examine the screen, filing through his internal rolodex of films and drawing a blank.

“Are you going to keep standing there like a total weirdo or are you going to watch the movie?” You ask with a joking tone, tucking your feet underneath you as you made room, glancing down at your phone as a notification brought the screen to life.

Lucien catches the faint tug of a smile on your face as you type away, clicking the phone into sleep mode a few moments later before continuing the movie without a word.

You’re not sure which one of you succumbs to sleep first, but it didn’t matter, finding that you both aligned together easily as you slept, covered with a blanket that Lucien must have snatched somewhere near without disturbing you—and when you wake in the middle of the night, complex quiet throughout, you can’t even find it in you to move.

–

Lucien’s length of stay was diminishing quickly and you were relieved, only a few more days and things would be back to normal, you’d be three thousand dollars richer, and you wouldn’t have to confront the fact that Lucien wasn’t entirely as bad as he seemed, temper aside.

You’re both on your way out the door on a weekday morning when you spot him, navy blue hoodie draping his body, one you favored because of its size and comfortability.

“That’s mine,” You utter as you’re fisting your keys into your hand and tucking a makeup applicator away in your bag, “that’s…mine—why is it on your body?”

Lucien looks down, perplexed. He could’ve swore…

“It’s mine, I swear,” You’re peering over his shoulder and pulling at the collar, examining the tag by his neck, or lack thereof—you always cut them out, hated the feeling against your skin.

“It’s mine,” You say with finality, “But, it’s fine. I’ve been meaning to replace it anyways. And now that you’ve worn it, definitely.”

“Ouch,” Lucien chuckles, shaking his head at your bluntness, “I guess I deserve that. I did think it was mine, though. Swear. Must’ve gotten mixed up somehow.”

“Oh, well, just burn it now—oh, shit, before I forget,” You point your finger at his chest, stopping him in his tracks, “I’ve got a date tonight. I’ll more than likely be gone when you get back here. I’m leaving a key under the mat, you know the deal. Respect it…protect it like you give a shit if anything happens, it’s all I have.”

“Date?” Lucien teases, “Sounds—”

“We’re not doing this,” You cut him short, finger raising higher in reprimand, “don’t do that.”

Again, Lucien values his well-being, so he admits defeat.

It was difficult for him, his eagerness to please and charm, to command the conversation and impress—but with you, it was impossible. Truly, it was mesmerizing to him.

It was several hours later when Lucien arrived at the apartment, pointedly locking the door behind him as you had reminded him several times—he wasn’t completely aloof.

His orders takeout on a whim, disguised under a fake name and the careful directions to leave at the door, having practiced the art of subtly when it came to laying low, enjoying a couple beers from a pack James had bought him as a small celebration for a week of good, decent meetings.

Things had been looking up recently and it made Lucien unsettled in a way, but thankful nonetheless, sipping at the beer generously and relaxing well into the night, dusk turning to black skies and few twinkling star lights, drowned out by the thick smog of city pollution. It started raining eventually, a soft pattern picking up gradually and he, for natural reasoning, is slightly concerned. So, he stays up despite some lingering exhaustion, barely hitting a quarter beyond eight o’clock when the door handle rattles, soft curses on the other side of the door that send him to his feet, peering through the peephole to spot a sufficiently blurry outline of you.

And what he opens the door to is not what he’s expecting, although, he wasn’t even sure what he was expecting in the first place, but this…it wasn’t it.

You were wet, clothes dripping and rain water pooling at your feet, everything sticking to you like an uncomfortable glue, cold and shivering, your bottom lip trembling.

Without thinking, Lucien shifts into action.

He doesn’t ask a single question, not at first. Silently pulling the items off of you as you allow him; keys and purse first, clanging against the counter before he’s pulling your coat of, blouse, even kneeling down to remove your shoes before he’s carrying the clothes to the bathroom with you in tow, turning on the shower until it was steaming up the mirrors, heat radiating through the room as you pulled at the button of your jeans weakly, fumbling with cold and feeble hands.

He holds his hands up, careful not to approach in a way that would startle you or force you into attack mode, which seemed unlikely with the disheartened look on your face and he asks quietly, “Do you need help?”

You’re quiet for a long, tense moment before you nod, trying to quell the full body shivers as he assists you in stripping down to your underwear, also soaked. He pulls the curtain back and helps you over the side of the tub with the solid weight of his hand and speaks again despite your silence, “I’ll wait in your room—do you need anything?”

It doesn’t take a genius to piece things together as Lucien settles against the edge of the bed and it angers him for some forlorn reason, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a long time. When the shower cuts off, he straightens, hesitates—should he leave?

You’d want privacy, right? Yeah. No, definitely.

He rises to his feet without another thought, his awful timing sending you straight into his chest as you swung the door open, towel snug around your body and smelling sharply of fresh, citrus body wash.

“S-sorry,” You stammer out, “you don’t—you don’t have to wait around, Lucien. Or give a shit, either. I don’t expect you to and I don’t care—”

It was unusually cold. He’s become familiar with your snark, that sharp and cunning personality, but this was different. This was a push, a defense of hard and impenetrable walls building up before his eyes and he speaks without thinking, hoping that it slips through the cracks.

“Regardless, I’ll listen,” Lucien provides—it wasn’t an overwhelming expression of fake, forced care or, god forbid, love. But, it was a raw enough response that it grabs your attention, “—if you want me to.”

—

He cranked up the heat while you dressed, flipped open his leftover takeout, and listened. You weren’t used to this and for a while, you were half-expecting him to find a way to turn the situation on himself, a sob story for a sob story. But, he doesn’t.

“This sushi…” You savor the taste, eyes falling closed.

“Good, isn’t it?” Lucien smirks, popping another into his mouth with careful precision, chopsticks in hand.

You could cry, it was such a strong and startling feeling that it caught you off-guard, “Yeah, really good.”

You clear your throat, tears shoved aside, “Have you ever ditched a date before?”

Lucien shakes his head with a subtle frown.

“Right, Lucien De Leon,” You respond jokingly, that magical emphasis around his name, “any woman would be dying for all of….this,” You gesture to him lazily with a faux disgust that couldn’t even be forced, both of you divulging into a laugh.

“Hey, you said it,” Lucien shrugs with a pointed wink that you shouldn’t find so attractive, but the natural charm he emits makes it impossible, “—but, no. Can’t say I have.”

“Even the ones who wouldn’t put out?”

“At the risk of sounding like an asshole—“ Lucien begins, but you follow the rhythm of the conversation and it isn’t long before the lightbulb strikes on and you’re nodding.

“Right, you probably don’t have an issue in that department. Stupid question, sorry.”

You pluck the last piece of sushi off the styrofoam and chew, speaking behind your hand, “I should’ve known that dude was a prick, only stared at my tits the entire date.”

Out of reflex, his eyes drag to your chest and you click the movement in an instant, “Not helping,” You warn him lightly, “I guess I was too blunt, he kept…touching me. I told him I didn’t feel comfortable going back to his place, he made some excuse to go to the bathroom and I waited for a half hour. Until the server came by with the bill—so, not only did he ditch me, I paid a hundred dollar tab and I didn’t even eat my food.”

Even in Lucien’s wild days, he couldn’t imagine doing that. Not when he was drinking more heavily, partying, hooking up on a daily basis—before his first failed marriage, it was foreign to him.

“You could’ve called me, or James, shit—an uber.”

“Phone died,” You shrug lamely, “it doesn’t matter, anyways. And don’t get me wrong, casual sex—it’s fine, but I got too hopeful, I guess. All men are the same.”

“Come on,” Lucien jests, “that’s not fair.”

“Fine, enlighten me, then.”

“You can’t expect fairytale shit—I mean, I’m one failed marriage and plenty of missteps in my life. Do you think I’m a bad guy?”

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

Lucien sighs in defeat, scratching at his mused hair as he tosses the empty food container aside.

“I’m fucking with you,” You offer in a quieter tone—even if you weren’t friends with him, he didn’t have to put in the effort to help or listen, but he was, “I’m—just, thank you.”

“I’m in good graces now?” Lucien asks curiously, that playful mischief gracing his face with a smile.

You make a motion with your hand from your head as you grab, like pulling a thought and throwing it away, “Coffee incident? Forgotten—unless you pull some heinous shit.”

“You know, I might actually miss this,” His finger does a swirling motion, encompassing your living room, “you—eh,” a shaky hand motion that earns a jab to his thigh from your foot, “shit, ouch—that was a joke.”

“I know,” You concede with a smirk, “—I won’t, though. I want my couch back. And my bathroom.”

“If it makes you feel better, I think you’re a catch,” He tells you, “although, I do like the ones that bite, so—“

You reach forward this time, swatting playful at his chest with the back of your hand, but his fast reflexes beat you, your fingers smacking into solid rings.

He snickers softly and examines the grimace on your face as you pull back, “Pobrecita,” He coos mockingly, reaching for your hand and pressing a gentle kiss against the skin, “see what I mean?”

You ignore the heat that strikes through your body like a freshly lit match, pulling your hand away with a distinct eye roll.

He’d be gone soon and this would all be a ridiculous memory to think back on.

There was no room for newly evolving feelings, or worse, infatuation.

—

The three months you spend falling back into your normal routine is monotonous, safe, but the kind of security that has you itching for change. You find yourself checking on Lucien more often than you should, regular social media checks, the occasional subtle question to James when you happened to catch him on set. It wasn’t healthy, but you couldn’t help yourself.

He did seem more erratic, often coming across other quick clips and social media stories of him at the club during waking hours, pure reckless abandon, he was having the time of his life—you couldn’t blame him, but it was…slightly alarming.

It was a Saturday night when all hell broke loose, police sirens raining down the street as you raced to your open window, peering down at the obscured face of a man in cuffs as he was roughly shoved into a police car before there’s a pounding knock at the door, your heart nearly bursting out of your chest at the sound.

Turning on your heels and swinging the door open, you can’t help but find yourself speechless at the sight.

“Think they caught your burglar,” Lucien notes under his baseball cap, eyes catching the cascading red and blue lights outside your window, duffel bag at his feet and a regretful look on James’ face.

You tilt your head at the discovery, your brain working overtime before your eyes widen.

“Just hear him out,” He pleads with prayer like hands, phone sandwiched between two begging palms, “Lucien—go,”

Lucien seems to stutter-step in his mind, not expecting to be the one leading this proposition as he side-eyes James, “I…need a place to stay…again,” Lucien squints his eyes and stares up at the ceiling, looking almost embarrassed, “for the next six months.”

“No,” You nearly shout out incredulously, “the first time wasn’t a trial run.”

There’s a long moment of tense eye contact and uncertainty.

An underlying worry in your gut at the sight of Lucien, a little worse for wear but still mostly himself, gripping tightly at his carry-on bag in his hand, thumb rubbing nervously at the leather strap.

Goddammit.

–

He’s paying the entire six months of rent he planned on staying there while he filmed for a movie they were shooting a short ten minute drive from your complex, a quaint little studio gracious enough to let the crew film free of charge—he’d given you the whole spiel, in one ear and out the other still wondering how you’ve tangled yourself in this web again.

“Can I just ask you one thing?” You inquire, helping him file away some of his clothes in a drawer you had emptied out for him like this was normal. He makes a soft noise of acknowledgment with his lips pursed together, tired sunken eyes staring back at you, “Why not get your own apartment? A house? I mean, you’ve got the money?”

Lucien clears his throat, scratching at his neck where it jostles his chains, fingers slipping under the silk fabric of his shirt, “I, uh—feel weird…livingalone,” He rushes out, quickly turning to grab more clothes as you stand, hand placed against the top of your dresser as your brow furrows, feeling like you’d just fallen deaf.

“Come again?”

A small huff as Lucien passes a stack of expensive shirts, material that had to be ethically sourced or…some bullshit like that, he’s told you the story before in passing.

“I don’t like living alone, ‘s why I float,” He offers lamely, tossing the empty duffel into the corner of your room—you’d pick it up later, it didn’t matter, “I left all my old stuff to my ex-wife, it was easier that way.”

Often you had to remind yourself that Lucien was older, nearing his late forties while you were still managing through your late twenties, a big thirty on the horizon.

It dawns on you then that you don’t know much about Lucien at all outside of tabloids and gossip sites, the rumor mills running through Hollywood—you often find yourself reminding you of the fact he was still a person, with troubles, clearer now more than ever.

“It wasn’t always like this,” He assures you, “I’m a fuckin’ mess, I already know.”

“I think we’re beyond judgment, Lucien,” You assure him, “You saw me sobbing and nearly naked—just keep this place clean, like you give a shit about it, alright?”

Lucien nods dutifully, “Yes, ma’am.”

–

You learn quickly that his long term stay meant that little quirks were beginning to surface—always organizing your things out on the sink opposite of his own, a small gesture that didn’t go unnoticed when you were rushing out the door on days he wasn’t given a call time. Or how he always made sure there was food waiting when he arrived before you—takeout or not. He wasn’t a great cook, but he could manage.

In turn, you tried to cook more often. And he loved to hover, but not with a homey, warm feeling that made you feel safe, rather like a curious dog nipping at your ankles. And more so, he would finish his own plate before looking cautiously at your own before you nod, allowing him to pick from your plate with a greediness that made you giggle under your breath.

“My ex-wife never cooked,” He had told you once, “I mean, she tried—but she was terrible. And this,” His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek as he steps at the homemade ravioli, “is there anything you can’t do?”

“Say no, apparently,” You gave him a solid once-over, a look from head to toe—he’s never offended anymore, taking the playful jest in stride, it had already been a month and it was beginning to feel like normal, again, having him there.

Your conflicting schedules meant a lot of time away from each other, which wasn’t bad. It almost helped more than you expected and while your apartment wasn’t well-fit for a roommate, Lucien made the place feel less empty.

You couldn’t say it out loud, but you were starting to understand the charm. You could see beyond the facade and the persona—a troubled man with ambition, purpose, but a mountain of struggles. The drinking wasn’t a surprise, nor his uptick in smoking. He always smoked out the window so the smell wouldn’t permeate, but the drinking started to become…an issue.

It wasn’t that Lucien couldn’t handle himself when he drank, but he often did it to fill the dead time—so he said—when you were still at work, fighting with his own demons in his mind. He always ended up on your bed those nights, curled up in a fetal position at the wrong end and you couldn’t find it in yourself to move him, draping a blanket over him before you decided to spend the night on the couch. It was a weekly occurrence after a while, slowly growing in frequency.

He always apologizes, tells you he won’t do it again, but eventually you find yourself melding around him, sleeping in a way that keeps you comfortable and doesn’t disturb him. You don’t judge him, don’t think any lower of him—but there was concern and Lucien could see it growing with every passing conversation as the weeks dragged along.

By the third month, the dam breaks.

You don’t sugarcoat anything for him either.

“Do you need rehab?” You ask bluntly, watching him peel the gold-flaked under eye patches from his face, shoulder leaned against the doorframe, “Or, like, therapy?”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” He defends, washing his hands under the warm water, “I can get sober if I wanna, but it helps with the stress, you know?”

“No,” You respond honestly, but softly, “I don’t. Unless this is just some big excuse for you to sleep in my bed, which if it is—”

Lucien chuckles, toweling his hands dry, “You caught me.”

“You would tell me if it was getting bad, wouldn’t you?”

It seemed like the least he could do, considering how greatly you were carrying the burden for him by allowing him to stay in the comfort of your own home, treating him like a human. You ignored the tabloids anymore, always negative and nefarious toward him, like he wasn’t allowed to make a few mistakes along the way. He had to be perfect, given his troubling start in the industry. DUIs, cheating, eventually settling down to marry but that didn’t work out great for him either—you’d done some research lately, out of pure curiosity to understand what he wasn’t always willing to share, but you preferred to hear it from him.

Lucien squeezes at your chin in a comforting manner that makes you grimace in feigned disgust, forcing a gentle laugh through your nose as he answers, “Yes, I would.”

–

When he should, he doesn’t.

Award season was approaching and work was hectic, Lucien had wrapped on his next project and his previous one was gearing for a big release and line of promos, which meant Lucien had to be on his game.

The lamp in your living was broken, a shattered glass bottle on the floor beside it, a trail of clothes following to your room and a heat in the apartment that was sweltering in a way that had you stripping down immediately to the thinnest layer you could manage without getting to your underwear, jeans and a thin strapped top as you walked barefoot toward your room.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting or hoping for, but it isn’t this.

He’s naked, completely bare, save for the blanket draping his groin to save his modesty, out cold but skin obviously clammy, reeking of alcohol and sweat and you can’t help scrambling to the floor, unable to form any type of tangible sound. You check for a pulse, fearing that you might have just found yourself in an inescapable scandal, but it was there. That soft thump, thump, thump under your fingertips before you press the back of your hand to his skin and despite the sweat, he’s cold. He must have sweat out most of the alcohol in his system, your eyes dragging to the forgotten bottle on the ground.

You sigh, eyes falling closed as you gather your thoughts. You devise a plan, slow and methodical—first was to clean, grabbing the clothes and broken glass from the ground, leaving no trace of his mayhew before you’re returning to your room and straight for the bathroom, immediately turning on the cold water, the stream forceful as it pushed through the showerhead.

“Fuck,” You curse to yourself as you glance at Lucien who is mostly dead-weight, struggling to understand how you can get him from one point to another—with another quiet huff you approach him, shifting until you can get your arms under his armpits and heave him up, blanket falling from his waist as you yelp, eyes shooting toward the ceiling as you continue to drag his slumped body toward the tub, “okay—god, Lucien, you fucking owe me.”

It takes some maneuvering and the unbelievability that you are so incredibly close to his bare ass and dick in a way that most would fall over backwards for, regardless of the situation—it felt wrong, seeing him in such a manner and so completely helpless, but you shove the thought aside as you finally get him in the tub, the cold water waking him almost immediately.

It starts with a gasp, a sharp tug of the curtain and coarse, “Shit,” that assures you he was alive and well, coherent, even. A small smile tugs at your lips as you hear him let out a string of curses before he finally settles.

“There’s a bottle of water and some Advil on the counter—take it,” You instruct behind the curtain, “I’m going to grab dinner—try not to hurt yourself, please.”

He doesn’t acknowledge you, not that you expected it. And it doesn’t take long to grab the food either, calling it in and driving there and back in about twenty minutes, finding Lucien freshly showered and sitting on the stool near the counter, eyes telling a story of exhaustion but his insistently bouncing leg telling another.

“Chicken or steak?” You ask nonchalantly, holding the styrofoam containers in both hands.

He takes a moment to answer, unsettled by your calmness, “...steak.”

You hand it over without a question, grabbing a couple drinks before you’re digging in, standing opposite of him rather than sitting, eating in a silence that grows, thickens.

“It’s quiet,” You note the obvious before you scroll through your phone, searching for a soft tune to play through your speakers, something to fill the air, “better—how’s the food?”

“I like it,” Lucien responds with a full mouth, somehow endearing as he swallows and sips at the second water you offered him, attempting to help keep him hydrated, even if it was still annoyingly hot in your apartment, “—I…I think I broke your AC.”

“You did. I’ll put in a work order for it to get fixed,” You answer, a solution to the problem, “are you okay?”

If Lucien was being honest with himself, he can’t remember the last time anyone has asked him that—not genuinely, anyways. He falls silently, biting at his bottom lip in deep thought as his eyes squint, poking quietly at his food.

Talking was hard, you understood that. But, you hoped there was some trust built between you in the past few months, that you hadn’t laid your vulnerabilities out bare the night you came home rain soaked without the ability for him to share too. Plus, he’d broken your favorite lamp.

“It’s complicated,” Lucien diverts, but that doesn’t stop you, eyes lying in wait as you laid your utensil down to listen, “—I’ve got two kids. One, he’s eighteen…awesome, awesome kid. His name is Raynor. I didn’t meet him until a few years back, I’ve been tryin’ take make up for that. We even went on a roadtrip a couple summers back.”

Lucien fiddles with the cap on the water bottle idly, speaking further, “I, the other, my daughter, she’s a couple years old—it was a crazy night with a co-star,” You clock the information immediately, knowing who he was talking about without the confession, and he knew too—it wasn’t exactly a well kept secret in Hollywood as Delia was now married, to another co-star, raising that child, “a long story for another time, but we’re going through this nasty court battle.”

It would explain his financial situation a little, his willingness to take roles as he could, but the growing stress on his face as weeks passed, the tendency to hide or ignore the situation rather than face it—you understood, to a degree.

“So, all the drinking? The transiency?”

“It just helps,” He shrugs—helps him forget, temporarily, before it all comes barreling back at him, “she wants to revoke shared custody—she’s got her more anyways, with my work and everything, but she wants to deem me unfit, make it—” Lucien’s throat tightens, exactly why he wanted to avoid this conversation entirely, “she wants to erase me and the moment the press gets wind—”

All hell would break loose.

“Lucien, I don’t think it works that way,” You assure him, even if your knowledge was slim, “there’s…that's your right, she’s your child.”

“Given my history, the judge could consider it,” Lucien replies lackluster, ashamed, “look—I’m sorry to dump this shit on you, I fucked up your apartment, I can find another place to stay and I’ll pay out the rest of the rent like I promised.”

You look at him with a gentle expression, tilting your head until his eyes finally rise, “I asked,” You remind him, “and I hated that lamp anyways, so you did me a favor,” It was a lie, but given his emotional state it was acceptable, watching as he forced a weak laugh, “I’m not kicking you out either, if the media publishes anything about it, you hunker down here. I can deal with a few paps, you know? We do work in the same industry, after all. I may not understand the full scope but I do understand, Lucien.”

He returns a look with sad, red-rimmed eyes as you reach to clean up your shared dinner, before approaching him with a careful few steps, a hand gliding over his bicep and your fingers rubbing at the small dip in the back of neck, your first real initiation of genuine touch. He was a touchy person himself and seemed at ease by the feeling, your lips coming to press a soft kiss against his cheek. Kind, friendly, you pat at his back.

Something changes between that touch and the look he gives you as he turns, eyes flicking toward your lips out of desire, silently he pushes logic aside and leans forward, pulling your chin into his hand like he has before, a familiar touch followed by a foreign one, plush lips against your own that has you swimming in a mix of emotions, eyes falling shut briefly before you realize what was happening, lips parting slightly as the tip of his tongue touches your own before you’re ripping away, eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” You utter out, wishing the words had stayed inside of your head, “I, uh–I’m—”

You stutter relentlessly before you’re scrambling toward your room, door falling shut with a soft click as you sink into your sheets, heart racing uncontrollably and your hands covering your face, unable to face what you had just escaped from as a knock comes a few minutes later on your bedroom door.

You couldn’t face him. You couldn’t.

Eventually, he leaves. Slow footsteps that eventually lead toward another door that closes too, unsure of where he was wandering off to, but you couldn’t think about that, not with the conflicting, battling emotions in your head and chest, a startling yearning coming from just a simple touch.

He was everything you despised—somehow finding level ground, adoring him, caring about him, it was never supposed to go this far. He started as an inconvenience, a disruption to your life…and now, you weren’t sure you could imagine it without him there, in some form.

It takes a couple hours, already deep into your slumber, but the dip of weight in your bed startles you for a moment before the movements stop, the strong press of a back against yours, and an unspoken security that pulls you both under quickly.

He’d gone out drinking again, but at this point, you couldn’t blame him.

–

He awakes to a sweet smell, distinct and fresh. And air, cool air. It can’t be dawn, the sun is too far in the sky to be early morning. Lucien rises with a heavy grogginess, rubbing at his eyes as he finds his footing and walks toward the living room of your apartment, finding your back turned to him as you fiddled with the buttons on your AC as you bid someone goodbye, a man carrying a toolbox descending toward the hallway.

He gears up for an apology, the words balancing on the tip of his tongue.

Suddenly, you’re in front of him, two filled mugs in hand, coffee just the way he liked.

And Lucien doesn’t know when or why the feeling overtakes him, but he kisses you again. It isn’t a simple peck. It was full, all-consuming, feet lifting off the ground type of kiss.

No, literally—you rise to your tiptoes as the cups jostle in your grip as two large, warm hands curl around your back and his lips melt against your own, earning a starling gasp that slips through slightly parted lips, followed by his name after a moment too long.

“Coffee, coffee,” You mumbled quickly, “hot—burning, my toes,” Lucien pulled away quickly at the words, watching as the tan liquid pooled at your feet before he rushed to clean up the mess.

You watch with an amused expression before you finally hand the cup of coffee over, “Good morning to you too, I guess,” You smirk, biting down on your cheek to stifle the laugh that was fighting it’s way out, “please don’t tell me you’re still drunk.”

“I need to apologize,” Lucien tells you, “...again—I’m—I’m sorry for kissing you—again, like that, assuming that was something you wanted. I got pulled into the moment—”

You’ve had all night and morning to think it over, mulling over the emotions and feelings, still not quite sure, but you couldn’t help the swirling feeling of nervousness that had grown more frequent in Lucien’s presence, his looks, his flirtatious nature and touches. You were under his spell completely.

And if you didn’t want to kiss him, you would have stopped him.

Besides, you didn’t want to be the bearer of more bad news after his terrible night, having been let go from your job position that morning, no notice—you were still reeling, but didn’t want to burden Lucien with the news.

You needed something else to occupy your mind.

“Drink,” You instruct, taking a seat on the couch as you sip at your coffee in silence, watching as Lucien mirrored your actions and sat at the opposite end, legs out-stretched and his chest on display, tanned skin with neatly trimmed chest hair, soft tummy leading into the charcoaled, stretchy lounge pants leaving little to imagination as he fidgeted in his seat.

“Where’d you go last night?”

Lucien’s face immediately flushes with guilt, “The—a bar. I didn’t drink. I swear, I—”

He makes a small noise of frustration and closes his eyes, “I did something stupid, I needed a distraction, alright? I shouldn’t have kissed you, that’s not what you wanted, I know that.”

With a silent reservation, you press the coffee cup into the table in front of you before slowly make your way toward him on your knees before you pluck the half-empty mug from his grip and return it to a similar spot, feeling a surge of bravery as you climb onto his lap—there’s some underlying stupidity there, you think. But, fuck it.

“You don’t know what I want,” You assure him, fingers dragging along the top of his head before you’re tugging at the stands to tilt his head back, kissing him soundly, sweet dark roast on your shared breaths as you lick into his mouth, the opposite hand pressed flat against his bare chest. It takes a while, but eventually his brain catches up, along with his movements, and his hands curl around your bare thighs, fingertips grazing the silk shorts you wore to bed the night prior, like butter against your soft skin as his fingers climb and dig, pressing into your skin as you continue to discover every inch of him he had to offer—mouth, tongue, neck, chest.

It was a dormant hunger that had awoken after careful thought and pure primal need, tired of waiting things out for perfection when you had something tangible in front of you.

He’s mumbling your name softly as you lean into him, the bottom of your lip dragging against the tip of his nose as he pulls you away, strong hands encompassing your face as he looks at you, searching your glazed over eyes, “What are you doing?” He asks, apparent concern.

“Distracting you,” You tell him, immediately diving back in to kiss him, nipping at his chin playfully, a shaking sigh falling from his lips, “are you distracted?”

He chuckles weakly, “What happened to me being a cocky, egotistical, little dicked man?”

“I can go back to hating you if you want,” You respond, nipping at his ear before you pull back to look at him, so close you can feel his breath against your lips, “If you’re into that sorta thing.”

He could see in your eyes that you needed this too, a way to shut your brain off for a while, months of failed dates you’ve told him all about, in detail, he can’t help but chuckle at your eagerness, stifling a groan as you core grinds against him, cock stiffening with the movement.

“Maybe,” He’s undecided, “we’ll see how this goes.”

You smile wide, feeling a surge of pride as he returns the kiss more fully, a hand twisting around the back of your neck as he kisses you fully, all wet and uncoordinated but it makes your heart flutter in excitement.

“Let me taste you,” He begs, clawing at your top in an attempt to get his hands on your skin, pushing up the fabric as you follow his movements, top off, stripping your shorts down along with your underwear, an eager Lucien gripping at your hips to maneuver you down into the cushion as he hastily shoves the table away with his feet to make room for him on the floor, no reprieve as he hooks your legs over his shoulder and splits his tongue through your folds, licking up the center.

A man of his word, he tastes. Noisily he licks and prods, tongue dipping inside of along with wandering fingers, sucking gently at your clit until you’re yanking at his hair, hand curling over the back of his scalp, fingernails digging into the top of his back, moans spilling from your lips like a flowing river, the rapids rushing through, walls clenching around nothing but cool air as Lucien parts from you, admires.

He’s got two hands on your thighs to keep you open, “Wider,” He coaxes, your breath quickening as he squeezes at your thighs, “right there, don’t move.”

He shoves his pants down his hips, the heel of his palm rubbing down his shaft as he wraps his fingers around his cock, jerking himself off at the sight of you, glistening and eager, your fingers digging into the cushion fabric—you’ve seen him before, naked, in starkly different context.

But, he had nothing to be ashamed of, your eyes counting the faint splattering of freckles on his chest as his hand glides over his cock, tugs, thumb sliding over the tip to spread the precum down his shaft and you don’t hear him calling your name until his hand touches your skin, gliding over your knee as he taps, coming to with a weak, “Huh?”

Lucien laughs under his breath before he’s beckoning you closer, pushing up with your palms as he cups his hand under your chin and asks—no, demands, “Spit,” He tells you, following his order without missing a beat, the saliva dripping into his hands as you push it past your lips and he moves closer, knees settled on the plush rug in your living room, guiding you until your ass was nearly hanging off the couch and using your saliva to aid the tug of his cock.

“No condom,” You quickly interject, slightly out of breath. His mouth opens like he wants to respond but you quickly shush him, “we can avoid the spiel, I’m on the pill.”

Lucien shrugs with a cocked smile, “Just checking. You alright?”

You nod eagerly, dying for a reason to shut your mind off.

It was the perfect angle, his hips just level enough with your hips that he slid in with ease, adding his own string of spit into the mix as rubbed it down your cunt and pushed his cock inside—deeper, deeper, the head of his cock sliding against your folds teasingly as he rocks his hips until he’s fully flush inside of you.

Your anxious hands are taken hold by him, curling around his wrists instinctively before they’re being shoved over your head and against the back of the couch, his towering frame leaning over you as his hips piston you at a bruising pace, deep enough that it aches. It’s been long, so long and you feel pathetic for already wanting it so bad, core pulsating with an insatiable need.

His breath is hot, wet against your skin as his teeth graze against your breast, sucking the skin between his teeth as you gasp, “Louder,” Lucien coaxes, “let ‘em hear you. Think they deserve it after all they’ve put us through.”

You laugh at that, full-body and airy, eyes falling shut as Lucien plants a foot against the floor, changing up the angle to an intense degree, his cock slipping out briefly as he adjusts, catching glimpse of the string of shiny slick that connects you both before the thick head of his cock pushes back in, a soft squelch of admittance, a tell-tale sign of your obvious enjoyment.

If he knew this would shut you up, he would’ve tried seducing you months ago—though, he had a feeling the attempts would be futile, he was floating on his own cloud of disbelief that after all his wrong-doings, his missteps, it hadn’t pushed you away.

“Show me—huh, show me what you like,” Lucien pleads through baited breath, hair sticking to his forehead from the sheen of sweat, his own hands leaving yours with the silent promise that you wouldn’t move them, finding purchase underneath your thighs and pushing them up toward your chest, your fingers gripping around the back of the couch in desperation, “touch—touch yourself, show me.”

The drag of your hand is slow, but eventually your fingers hover over your cunt, pressing against your sensitive clit as you circle, slow and intentional movement that rips a loud moan from your chest matched with his pointed thrusts, feeling his stamina weaning as he watches, hips stuttering.

“You’re a fucking dream,” Lucien admires, “makin’ a damn mess, too. You hear that?”

He slows down on purpose, partially for his own benefit but he’s proving his point, that sticky squelch of arousal, his faint grunts mixed with your quickly rising moans.

“Does it make you nervous when I stare?” He asks curiously, eyes locked on your pussy, watching his cock split you open, gripping him and pulling him back in eagerly with every thrust, “Look at me—answer me, baby.”

There’s something so distinct in the way he says it, laced with an addictive drug.

Your eyes peel open, bleary behind near tears and you shake your head.

“Do you wish it did?” You counter, earning a subtle head shake from Lucien as he pulls out.

A moan of disappointment leaves your mouth before he’s quickly jostling your around, chest against the couch, his hand spreading wide over your back as he bends you over, fisting his cock as he feeds it back into your greedy cunt, the swollen head making you gasp as it pushes through your over-sensitive folds.

He uses the leverage as his hand climbs, gripping at your shoulder to pull you up, bracketing your body into the couch with a knee at your side, pressing you tight into his chest, his hand sliding around to your chin and turning your face to his, lips parting as he fucks you with a newfound ferocity, eyes rolling back so deep you aren’t expecting the fingers that find your clit, circling the senstive nerves until you’re tipping over the edge, soft encouraging words pulling you through your orgasm like a gentle wave, his fingers slowing down as you resurface.

He comes soon after, his hips stuttering out of pace again as you lean forward, feeling him pull out at the last possible moment before he’s painting thick strips of come against your lower back, the fingers of his left hand digging into your skin as he grabs you tight, the tip of his cock sliding against your ass.

You collapse with a content laugh, oblivious to Lucien searching frantically for something to clean you up before settling on one of the kitchen towels, your body slumped lazily against the couch and sighing when you feel his warm touch, the words slipping out on their own accord, “I got fired.”

“What?”

He tosses the dirty towel aside and passes over your clothes, pulling his own lounge pants back up his hips, sans underwear—and it makes you curious how often he does that normally, comfortable as he takes a seat, legs spread wide as he settles into the cushion.

“They called this morning,” You explain easily, pulling your top over your head and maneuvering your panties and shorts back on, “wouldn’t give me a reason, but it doesn’t matter.”

Lucien’s brow furrows in thought, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips out of habit.

“Is this one of those situations where you’re gonna ask if I’ll sign an NDA?” You half-joke.

He shakes his head almost immediately. He doesn’t seem to find it amusing, almost slightly concerned—or wounded?

“Come work for me,” He insists, “I’ve been needing an assistant.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” You ask him, staring at his flush chest and mused hair, evidence of rigorous sex all over his face, it was almost enough to have you confessing some unspoken feelings, but you weren’t that easily broken down.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Are you just trying to find a reason to stick around longer?” You tease him, a smile peeking out behind your tired expression, “Because it won’t work.”

“No—I’m serious about getting my shit together,” Lucien promises, “I might need a little help…but I want to.”

“Can I think about it?”

Lucien nods, hands dropping to his lap as he fiddles with a ring on his finger, eventually trailing toward the chains around his neck before his head is popping up, a quizzical look on his face.

“Wait—was that because you were having a bad morning?”

The sex, he means.

A smile breaks out on your face, “Nothing an orgasm won’t fix.”

He can sense it isn’t the full truth, but he doesn’t pry.

“Damn straight,” He chuckles, both of you falling into a comfortable silence.

–

Your answer doesn’t come for a solid week, thinking over the pros and cons. It was complicated, indeed bound to be messy if you allowed it, but Lucien was promising to double your pay, no undermining, no hovering—it seemed too good to be true.

But, you were taking the risk.

Lucien was still awaiting the imminent release of the court documents, the storm of press, but when you were secured in the safety of your apartment, hidden under the blankets as Lucien clung to you, head buried in your chest and his cock still buried inside of you, a slow and lazy day was what he needed, but he also craved you—and he was addicting, impossible to deny.

“We can’t keep doing this when I start working for you,” You remind him.

“Who says we can’t?” Lucien asks curiously, adjusting his hips as he slides deep inside of your cunt, peering up at you with soft eyes, “We keep it casual, if we decide we wanna stop. We stop. It won’t affect your job. I’m not that much of a dick, baby.”

“Well, for starters, you can’t call me baby at work.”

Lucien nods dutifully, listening to you divulge into a long lists of hardset rules, eventually pulling your focus back to him, his hips moving at a slow but gradual pace until you can’t focus any longer, giggling loudly as he buries his face into your neck, a sufficient end to the conversation.

The rest could be figured out later.

dividers: @/saradika-graphics

#lucien flores #lucien de leon #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #lucien de leon x reader #lucien de leon x you #lucien flores smut #the uninvited #the uninvited fic #lucien de leon smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #my writing

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nickynclark · 2 days ago

Text

The Psychology of Love and Loathing

Spencer Reid x F!Reader

Enemies to lovers!

Word count: 7,584

Warnings: no use of y/n, reader goes by 'bunny', discussion of a case (nothing too far from usual Criminal Minds gore), reader has three PhD's (bet you didn't know that), briefly mentions readers mother committing su!cide, mentions of toxic parents, alcohol consumption, jealous! Reader, jealous! Reid, pet names (good girl, silly girl, baby, sweetheart, sweet thing), degradation, oral f! Receiving, like one line of oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v (pls wrap it before you tap it), no mention of reader being on birth control, anal play, overstimulation, after care. If i missed anything let me know!

Author’s note: i’m so sorry im ovulating. This is porn w a shit ton of plot. We’re talkin WORLD BUILDING

MDNI BELOW THE CUT

You blink at the papers in front of you, checking once, twice, double checking three times to make sure what you're seeing is correct.

You were on a case in Texas, called in by local police after four bodies, two wealthy couples, were found shot execution-style and posed on different park benches throughout Amarillo. While at first, it seemed as though it was your average serial killer, the autopsy report showed that the gunshot wound was done post-mortem- all four victims were murdered by being forced to drink household bleach.

You looked down at the papers one more time, noticing that one man, Adam Gilman, cleaned houses of the wealthy, and he purchased a lot of bleach. Way more than needed to clean a few bathrooms.

You quickly dial Garcia, and she answers within the first ring.

"Ask and you shall receive."

"Garcia, what can you find out about Adam Gilman?"

You hear typing from the other end of the line before spewing information, "35-year-old white male, he grew up super rich until his dad pulled his college funding his senior year when his sister went to school to be a doctor. He started paying for her," She suddenly sucked in a breath, "It looks like he had to drop out. He was at Harvard Law. Spiraled downhill from there, sending you the files and address now."

"Thanks, Garcia!"

You rush into the room where the rest of the team is and run up to Hotch.

"Look at this! He fits the profile to a t!"

Hotch looks down at his tablet, and you feel eyes glance over to you, about to speak, but Spencer Reid bursts through the doors.

"Guys our unsub is Adam Gilman! He lives five minutes from here, and his job is on the way."

Hotch nods at you, acknowledging that you have the same information but Reid said it louder, "Let's go."

Since you joined the Bureau last year, Spencer Reid has been competing with you. Whereas he was thirty-three with three PhDs, you were twenty-five with the same amount. Of course, he got his when he was much younger, but he still seemed to overcompensate.

He was intimidated by you.

This wasn't the first time a situation like this had happened. It's almost like he had a radar for when you made a big break, and he wanted to steal the spotlight.

And not to mention he hates you for some reason.

Ever since your first week in the BAU, Dr. Reid has acted indifferent to you. You understand that change can be uncomfortable, but you have done nothing to deserve this cold shoulder.

On your first day, you strutted into the office dressed in a pair of black slacks, a black, v-neck blouse, and some hot pink pumps; being honest, you looked like you owned the place.

When Aaron introduced you to the team, you shook everyone's hand except Reid's.

"The number of pathogens passed through a handshake is staggering," he stated mater-of-factly while staring at your hand, "it's actually safer to kiss."

You laugh and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, "Although I appreciate the concern, a handshake is actually a sign of peaceful intentions. Soldiers would cover their swords on their left side and shake their right hand to show they mean no harm," you shrug, "but I understand the mysophobia."

He nodded at you, a glare suddenly hardening his features, "interesting."

He has refused to hold conversation with you, maintain eye contact with you, or be in the same room with you for an extended amount of time ever since.

He hates it the most when you're right.

After arresting Adam, the team desperately needed to interrogate him. He was denying all claims despite all the evidence against him. In fact, all he has said has been denials. Besides that, he didn't speak. He hadn't asked for a lawyer, hadn't shown any recognition to the couples, and hadn't said anything besides I've never seen those people before.

"We need to make him uncomfortable," Morgan says, "he's running this whole show. We gotta flip the tide."

Emily looks up from her Chinese takeout, laughing, "Let's throw Bun and Reid in there."

Your eyes widen, and you are suddenly incredibly red. Your face is on fire, and you start looking around panicked.

The team started referring to you as 'Bun' over the summer when you all went to a bar together. You accidentally had one too many drinks, and Derek said you were bouncing up and down the whole time.

"She's like a Bunny."

"Don't call me a Bunny!" You slur, "I'm mean. And vicious."

Penelope laughs at you, throwing an arm around your shoulder, "Alright, Bun. Let's go dance!"

Ever since that night, the nickname 'bun' stuck.

Although Emily suggested you and Reid distracting Adam as a joke, Rossi's lips pull into a smile, "That just might work."

Emily sets her food down, suddenly aware that she presented the first good idea so far, "we could dress them up some, make them look like a wealthy couple, and have them ask Adam some questions. It might make him mad enough to break."

Aaron looks at you and you gulp subtly, then he looks to Reid, "It's up to you."

You look at your feet, frowning, "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get this guy in jail."

Reid simply nods.

"Okay," Aaron says, "we'll go get the stuff."

You and Spencer remain in the small room while the others rush out to get the things you require for your transformation.

"Hi." Your voice comes out quiet.

"Hello." He responds blandly.

You suddenly realize this is the first time you and Reid have been in a room alone together, so you take the opportunity.

"What have I done to you?"

Reid's eyebrows shoot up at the confrontation "Huh?"

You roll your eyes, "ever since my first day you've avoided me. What did I do?"

He scoffs, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." You sigh and run a hand through your hair, "I'm the only person on the team you practically refuse to talk to."

"I'm talking to you right now," he says as if that's a counterargument, "I talk to you all the time."

"Yeah, when you're forced to!" You say exasperatedly, "You know everyone on the team's birthdays, all except mine. You know their family situation because you've asked."

He shrugs, "I know plenty about you."

"How old am I?"

He looks into your eyes calmly, "You're twenty-eight."

"I'm twenty-five."

Emily suddenly bursts into the room, "There isn't anything for you guys in lost and found. You have to go on a shopping trip. Strauss said a 300 dollar limit."

You nod, "I assume that's just for clothes?"

"Yes," She answers, "Reid is going to wear Rossi's watch and a wedding band JJ's going to pick up. Both of you will wear a ring." She then looks to you, "We have a lot of jewelry for you to pick through."

You nod, standing and Reid rises next to you.

Emily tosses you some keys, "be back in an hour."

***

The ride to the mall was quiet. You didn't bother talking to Spencer as you drove, and he didn't bother speaking to you.

He also kept turning down the radio when you tried to turn it up. It was painfully awkward.

Once at the mall, you and Reid split up incredibly fast.

He ran to some men's warehouse, and you rushed to the women's section of a department store.

You quickly pick up a pair of black pinstriped slacks that hug your curves and a tight, white blouse. You finally grab a black, pinstriped blazer, and you head to check out.

On your way, though, a pair of stunning, emerald heels grabs your attention.

You walk closer to study them, and god do they look lavish.

If you weren't here for work, you would grab them in a heartbeat, but you were, and you had already met your price cap.

"Buy them."

You hear Spencer's voice from behind you, and you jump, grabbing your chest in fright.

"What?"

"Get them," he shrugs, "it's obvious you want to."

You laugh shyly, and he stuffs his hands into his jean pockets, his bag of clothes hanging around his wrist.

"I've already met my limit."

"Okay?"

You frown, studying him. He looks calm and relaxed. You tilt your head slightly, and he matches your movement.

No, that can't be right.

You cross your arms in a silent stare down, and he does, too.

"You're mimicking me."

He scoffs, "God, Bun, not everything I do is to spite you!"

Your eyes widen and you suddenly point at him, "You!"

"What?"

"You just called me Bun!"

His eyes barely widen, but he catches himself, staring straight ahead.

His foot stops tapping, "you're hearing things."

"And that's your tell!" You point at his foot, "You just mimicked me, called me 'Bun', and then lied about it!"

He rolls his eyes, "what size are you?"

"You're avoiding the question!"

"You didn't ask a question." He gestures to the heels, "What size?"

"Why?"

"Answer the question, Bunny."

His tone is stern, and you freeze under his stare.

"Nine."

He nods and grabs a box in that size.

"No!" You protest, "Don't!"

"I still had a hundred bucks left over, it's on the company's card."

You blink twice, confused as to why he's being so nice to you.

"Okay. I need to pay and I'm done."

He nods to you, and you both check out. He hands you the heels and you let out a quiet thanks while headed to the car.

***

When you got back to the station, the turnaround was dizzying.

You were shoved into a room to change, as was Reid.

After you changed, JJ came in and whistled.

"Sheesh, Bun, you look good!"

You laugh and straighten out your jacket, slipping on the heels Spencer bought you today.

"Are those new?"

You nod, "yeah, Spencer said he had some left in his budget."

She shook her head, "Reid must've bought those with his own money."

Your eyes widen, and she laughs, "C'mon, Bun. You need to look at jewelry."

You picked out a pair of dainty, diamond earrings, a matching necklace, and several expensive bracelets that had to be physically screwed onto your wrists.

Once standing in front of Hotch, Emily gave you the wedding bands JJ had picked up.

Yours was a gorgeous gold band with an emerald-cut diamond on top. It was simple, but, God, was it stunning.

You slipped it onto your finger and Reid slipped the simple golden band over his, his hands looking all that much better with the ring on it. It makes your mouth water just thinking about his fingers.

You quickly shake your head. No. You hate Spencer Reid. Nothing will change that.

Hotch gives you and Reid strict instructions on how to talk to Adam, and then he's sending you in.

"Sell it," Aaron says, "this might be our only shot."

You give him a curt nod, linking your arm with Reid and smiling as you walk into the interrogation room.

Spencer looks down at you with a look of passion you've never seen before. One that you aren't convinced could be fake.

As soon as you looked at Adam, you could tell there was something off. He was picking at the skin around his nails and chewing on the skin of his lips where they looked raw and painful.

As you sat down in front of him, Spencer was the first to speak.

"Who is this guy again, babe?"

You held back the shock in your face at the pet name as he put a hand on your thigh. You made a point to twist the wedding ring on your finger before opening the files in front of you.

"Adam?" You look up at the man in front of you, "are you Adam?" He nods, and you hum, "Who are you, exactly?"

Reid smiles and looks to you, "Play nice." He slides the files over to him, "Harvard law, that's impressive. Did you apply or did your father buy your way in?"

Adam's eyes narrowed, "I applied and got accepted. I was a prodigy."

You smile subtly, knowing you and Reid have already gotten him to show more of himself than he had to anyone else.

You look at your fake husband and laugh, "I don't think you can decide that you're a prodigy." You look Adam up and down, "my husband, here," you place your hand on Spencer's shoulder, looking at him as if he hung the moon and stars, "he is a prodigy. How old were you when you got your first PhD?"

"Seventeen," he laughed humbly, looking at you, "you flatter me."

You smile softly as Reid squeezes your thigh, something Adam could not see and, therefore, was unnecessary. You look at Spencer, but he refuses to meet your eyes.

You turn back to Adam, pulling out the photos of the four bodies and showing them to him, "have you met these people before?"

He shakes his head, "I've never seen those people before."

"Really?" You ask calmly, "You've never, ever, seen Andrea Haskins?"

Adam shakes his head.

"Never, not once, seen her husband, Kent Haskins, either?"

He shakes his head again.

Reid sits up straighter, linking his hands together on the table in front of him, "you received a pretty generous amount of money from him every month since... August?"

You mentally thank Garcia for that information, and mentally thank Reid for remembering it.

Adam sits up straight, too, but falling shorter than Reid, "I clean their house for them, don't mean I've ever met 'em."

You hum, "I wouldn't let a stranger into our home, would you?"

Reid shakes his head, and Adam gets visibly upset at your interactions. His hands clench to the table ledge, knees bouncing, eyes narrowed.

"Say, Adam," you perk up, "how much bleach do you use per house you clean, about?"

Adam's eyes trained on me, "you're a smart girl," he then looked to Reid, "with an even smarter husband." He spits the words as if they are poison on his tongue, "You do the math."

You stand, smiling softly, "So, not 10 gallons per week?"

Adam shrugs, "If that's your calculation."

You walk closer to the man, sitting on the table next to him and leaning down to him, "And I assume you also have never met the Coleman's?"

He shakes his head.

"Never met anyone in the Coleman family?"

"No. God, you people suck at your job."

"That's actually interesting considering we have video footage of your picking up Lacey Coleman from school last Monday. A family doesn't let a stranger house cleaner pick up their child from school."

Adam's eyes widen, and you know you have him cornered.

"How long had your sister been friends with the Colemans?" Reid interjects.

"Don't you dare talk about her."

"Why not?" Reid asks simply, "Does she bother you?"

"I was going to be a Lawyer, I was going to be successful and make my dad proud of me. Until she ruined it all with her perfect schooling and perfect husband," Adam spits.

"Halley is a pretty successful neurosurgeon, huh? She gets all of daddy's special attention, doesn't she?" You say.

"Get your wife on a leash," Adam says to Reid.

"All you wanted was to feel loved, to hear your dad say he's proud of you," you keep talking, "and you were going to kill him because he wouldn't say it."

"Shut the hell up, bitch!"

"You were getting ready to kill your mom and dad because, hey, why not go straight to the source? Why not kill who made you like this?"

"What if your family pulled your funds for a sibling, huh?" He yells to you and Reid, "How would you feel?"

The room goes silent and Reid allows you to keep talking, keep getting on his nerves.

"His daddy left him when his mom got sick, and my mommy killed herself when I was seven. We worked for our degrees, and we worked even harder for the scholarships that paid for our three PhDs." You hiss, "I would've worked harder to get what I want instead of just expecting it."

"You're a bitch," Adam spit in my face.

"I could be worse. I could take away a little girl's family. I could kill four innocent people out of my frustration and failure."

Reid finally stepped in, grabbing your hand softly and pulling you back to your side of the table.

"I didn't kill those people."

"That's not what your body is telling us, Adam." Reid states simply, "You are hurt and still are hurting, I understand that. But now so is Lacey. That's on you."

Adam's lip quivers, "I didn't hurt Lacey! Lacey was at her friend's house!"

Reid rises, grabs your hand gently, and walks to the door, and you follow.

"Hey!" Adam screams, "where are you going? Get back here!"

As soon as the door shuts behind you, you let go of Reid's hand. He turns to you and watches your expression shift.

"Good work, Bun."

You nod, and he looks like he's about to say something else, mouth opening, but then Hotchner walks in.

"Great work.”

You smile at Aaron, and Reid stares at you with something dark behind his eyes. He looks nervous, and hungry, and concerned, and certain.

"We'll be heading back in 30. Wrap up. Great job, Doctors."

***

On the plane, you and Reid are still in your "Rich Couple" personas, not having enough time to change out.

You sit near the back of the plane, headphones in, and reading Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience by William Blake.

"Little Lamb who made thee, Dost though know who made thee?"

You hear the words of "The Lamb" spoken, causing you to take out your headphones and look to the source: Spencer Reid.

He sits across from you as you ask, "You read Blake?"

"Blake to Poe to Plath, I don't mind."

You narrow your eyes at him, "what do you want?"

"Really?" He asks, "We can't just have a nice moment?"

You raise your eyebrows at him, "Not you and me. We don't have nice moments."

His facial features soften, and he sighs, "I'm sorry for acting so harsh toward you. You didn't deserve that."

You're shocked by his statement, "Pardon me?"

He runs a hand through his hair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, "I was scared, Bun. I was the smart one. I convinced myself that was all I could be," his breath hitches and his eyes connect with mine, "I thought if there was someone smarter, more sociable, and nicer than me, they wouldn't need me anymore."

"Spence..." you start, and you realize it's the first time you've called him his nickname.

He notices it, too, eyes shifting from one of concern to one of understanding, "You're incredibly smart. You're kind, and you're fun to be around. I'm sorry it took me so long to notice that."

You nodded, "thank you."

He nods and goes to stand.

"Wait." You quickly speak up and he freezes, "What's... um..." you stutter, "what's your favorite Poe?"

Reid smiles, sitting back down, "Annabel Lee."

You smile, "Gold-Bug."

He laughs, "Really?"

And you nod.

****

"Let's go get drinks!" Garcia announces as you and the team wrap up your paperwork, and you laugh.

"I don't think so," you smile, "not tonight."

"C'mon, Bun," Garcia whines "It'll be fun!"

Reid suddenly looked at you, eyes darker, eyes that held you tight in a grip, "Yeah, c'mon, Bun." He says the name with a sensuality you had never heard before. It sent a shiver down your spine, "it'll be fun."

You look at him, taking in a shaky breath, "I.. uh, don't have a ride."

"I'll drive you," Reid says simply, and the rest of the team just stares at the interaction.

Things have changed since the interrogation room, you know that, but did you want to be alone with him already?

You look at him, his messy hair, his stubble, and chocolate brown eyes, and your pussy clenches around nothing.

You find yourself nodding, mouth too dry to speak.

"Good," he smiles, "follow me."

Your team watches with uncertainty as you walk off with Spencer, and it's almost like they've seen the change, too.

No, they're profilers. They know Reid had you wrapped around his finger while reciting Blake.

They also knew Spencer had been pining after you since you wore those hot pink heels on the first day of work. But they didn't need to tell you that.

Reid guides you to the elevator, and you comply silently. Once the door closes and it's just you two, you turn to Spencer.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" He responds simply.

You turn to face him, "why are you being so nice to me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Bun."

You roll your eyes, "yeah right."

The elevator doors open, and he walks you to his car, opening the door for you.

"Thank you," you smile cautiously, and he nods.

He sits down in the driver's seat and pulls out of his parking spot. One of his hands rests on the wheel, the other placed on the gearshift. His eyes focus on the road, but they occasionally slide over to you. The silence- although comfortable- practically kills you.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

He glances over at you, and he smirks, "I want to."

You look at him, "why?"

He shrugs, "spent too long not doing it."

You nod and glance out the window, just as Spencer puts the car in park.

As you step out of the car, you hear Derek and Emily from behind you, making a show of letting you know they are also here.

You walked over to Morgan and hugged him.

"Hey, Bunny," he smiles and kisses your forehead, "first rounds on me tonight, sweetheart."

You laugh, "thank god! Need a handsome man to buy me some drinks!"

Reid scoffs from behind you, but you shrug it off, assuming it was about something Emily had said.

It wasn't.

As you walk into the bar with Derek's arm around your shoulder, you quickly make your way to the table with Garcia and Rossi.

"What are you drinking?" You ask Garcia, gesturing to her hot pink drink in front of her, garnished with cotton candy, strawberries on sticks, and a big, twisty straw.

Gracia's eyes widen, "oh my gosh! You've never been here before??" You shake your head, and she squeals with excitement, "Okay, so, it's called the Cotton Candy Chameleon. It's basically strawberry vodka and coconut rum with strawberry soda! Look!" She picks up the cotton candy and places it into the liquid, watching as it rapidly dissolves, "did you see that?!"

"That's why it's called a Chameleon," Derek laughs, arm still around you, "want me to get you one?"

You nod happily, "and a shot of Titos? I'll pay you back!"

Morgan winks at you, "It's on me, Bun."

As he walks toward the bar, you and Garcia continue to chat about anything and everything, her childhood cat, where you grew up, and how Garcia got put on the team.

"You were so good at being bad," you laugh, swirling your third Cotton Candy Chameleon that Morgan brought over to you, "that the FBI gave you a job instead of jail time?"

She nodded, giggling, "Pretty much. Are you going to take that shot?" She points to the round Rossi had bought for the table.

You laugh, quickly picking it up and downing it, "god!"

"Woah!" Morgan laughs, hands catching your hips to keep you steady, "careful, Bunny."

You feel eyes glaring into you, and you trace them to Reid sitting at the bar. He has his elbow on the bar, leaning into his hand as he watches you with a look of unhappiness.

You roll your eyes, finishing the final chug of your drink, and placing a hand on Morgan's chest.

"You're warm," you say with a goofy smile, and Derek laughs.

"Oh, really, sweetheart?"

You nod, leaning further into him as his hands rest on your hips.

You make eye contact with him before you smirk and push away, "I'm going to get another drink."

"Hey, Bun!" You turn around to Rossi, his empty glass raised to you, "Get me another old fashioned."

You nod, smiling at the older man, and waltzing to the bar, right next to Reid.

"You having fun, Bunny?" He asks, voice low.

"Yes, sir." You smile, waiting for the bartender to walk over.

He sucks in a breath at the title, "You sure are touchy with Morgan," he grits out, staring at you, not quite your eyes, but something a little bit lower.

You scoff, "What's it to you?"

"Nothing." He spits, eyes connecting with yours, pupils taking over the brown of his eyes.

The bartender finally comes up to you, a cute girl in a black, low-cut tank top and some black, short shorts. She has short blonde hair, barely reaching her shoulders and it's curled up and pinned back so her hair is framing her face.

She was gorgeous, actually.

"What can I do for ya?" She asks, shaking a drink before breaking the seal and pouring it into a glass.

You tell her your order, and that it's on David Rossi's tab, and she nods.

Then she turns to Spencer, "What about you handsome?" She says it sultry like she's trying to seduce him, "Need another? I'd be happy to get you somethin' else."

Your eyes narrow on her, a deep, red-hot feeling forming in your gut. She doesn't see your stare though, completely focused on Spencer, leaning over the counter so her cleavage is on full display, biting her lip and twirling her hair.

You decided then and there that you hated her.

Reid tells her that he's okay, water if she insists, and when she comes back with his water, she hands him a napkin with ink scribbled on it, "I get off in 45 if you're interested."

"He's not."

The words come out of your lips faster than you could think, your brain taking longer to catch up with your mouth.

"Pardon?" She asks you, calm and calculating, "Didn't know you could decide that for him."

You laugh cockily, "Oh?" You act fast pulling yourself into Reid's lap before he can protest, but his hands wrap around you, trapping you where you sat, "I think I can."

Reid looked at the bartender, then his eyes trailed back to you, "Sorry, Brooklyn, I'm spoken for," his eyes darkened, a sly smile rising on his lips.

The bartender walks away to work on your drinks, and you turn all the way to face Reid.

"What are you doing, Bun?" He asks, voice low. You shift your hips and he hums, grabbing your waist to stop the movement, "Stop that. Talk to me."

You whimper, leaning into his chest, "You were really going to choose some bottle blonde over me?" Your words come out harsh, but it's also the first time you've said what's truly on your mind in front of Reid.

His eyes land back on Brooklyn, and he smirks, "She's pretty, I'll give her that," he looks down at you, right as the bartender places the drinks in front of you, "But you? You're on a whole different level, Bun."

You blush and shake your head, just as Brooklyn walks back over to hand you your drinks.

As she sets them down she says, "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you two were a thing."

You quickly shake your head, "Don't worry about it," you smile, "neither did he."

"In my defense," Spencer laughs, his lips close to your ear, "I didn't know you were an option. If I had, there wouldn't have been a competition."

You shiver when you feel his breath on your neck, "yeah, right. You've hated me since I joined the BAU."

His eyes widened, "Hated you?"

You nod softly, a little confused by the question.

"Hated isn't the word I would use," He laughed.

"What is?" You ask quietly.

He leans his head side to side, as if pondering the best way to answer, "obsessed? Intimidated?" He looked at you, a small smirk playing on his lips, "Lusted?"

Your eyes widened, "what?"

He shrugs, a hand falling to your thigh, thumb drawing circles, "The way you are entrances me. The way you walk, the way you talk, the way you exist." He leans his head down so his eyes meet yours, "I knew I couldn't do anything about that, so I stayed away. I guess it came off as hatred."

The hand that wasn't on your leg reached up to pluck the cotton candy off of your drink, opening his mouth and letting the sugar melt on his tongue.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes still locked with yours, "so sweet, Bun."

Your jaw dropped slightly, thighs clenching, and he grips your flesh, "Nuh, uh. What's wrong?" He chuckles as you whine against him, "Use your words."

You sit up, straightening and sliding off of his lap, "You're a sick freak, Spencer Reid."

He licked his lips, eyes trailing down your body, "I'll bring Rossi his drink, wait by the door."

You cross your arms over your chest, but your heart is pounding so loudly you can hear it in your ears, "what makes you think I listen to you?"

"Oh, Bunny," his finger lifts your chin, "I'm a profiler. Absolutely everything tells me that you'll listen to me."

You roll your eyes and scoff, "And if they ask where we're going?"

A devilish smirk flashes across his lips, and he leans toward your ear, and you can feel his breath on your skin, "you already told them you're tired," he pauses, "I'm going to fuck you to sleep, Doctor."

You suck in a shuddering breath, eyes glazing over as he chuckles, pulling away from you.

You take a step back, mumbling, "Hurry back."

He smiles widely, pupils practically taking over his chocolate eyes, "good girl."

You suck in a breath as he turns on his heel, walking over to the team as you wait by the door. Penelope frowns at you, waving, and Emily blows you a kiss.

Rossi looks at you calmly, and Derek raises a smooth eyebrow with a smirk.

Spencer walks back to you, grabbing your arm as you walk to the car.

Once you get back to his black Dodge Challenger, he presses you against the door, “How drunk are you right now?”

“From one to ten?” You ask, voice quiet, Reid looking at you like you’re a meal.

He nods, hands gripping your hips, “Goddamn it, Bun,” he hisses, “Yes, one to ten.”

“Four,” you answer, and his lips slam into yours in a frenzy.

It’s all tongue and teeth like he couldn’t wait a single second longer to taste you. Like it would kill him.

Your chest arches into his, hands going to his shoulders, holding on for life in the bruising kiss.

He pulls away, his eyes nearly black, eyes filled with an undeniable hunger, and it makes you shiver.

A smirk comes over his face as he steps away from you, opening your door, “get in.”

You don’t have to be told twice, stepping into the car, carefully so you don’t fall in the emerald heels he bought you.

With his own money.

“Spencer?”

He turns on the car and pulls out of the parking spot, “Yeah?”

You look at him, studying how you are both still dressed like a posh-rich couple, “You bought me these heels.”

He nods, chuckling and placing his hand on your thigh, “Excellent observation.”

You shudder at the contact, “with your own money.”

He smirks, “Who told you that?”

“JJ?”

“Ah,” he laughs, “Yeah, green’s your color.”

You raise an eyebrow, “How did you decide that?”

“A few weeks ago you wore this emerald green sweater,” he says, “It looked so goddamn good on you.”

You recall the memory, smiling softly, “Is that why you were avoiding me? You thought I looked pretty?”

His voice gets stern, face serious when he looks over at you, “Stop talking, Bun.”

A belly laugh escapes your mouth, head thrown back as you cackle, “I thought I pissed you off somehow!”

He gives your thigh a sharp squeeze, “I don’t think I’ve ever been genuinely angry with you.”

You sit dumbfounded, a quiet oh slipping past your closed lips.

He looks at you and parks the car, “I’ve been upset, frustrated, and God have I been irritated with you,” he turns to look at you, pulling his hand away from your leg, “But I have never been angry with you.”

He unbuckles quickly as you stare at him in surprise, and he gets out of the car, rushing around to open your door, “hurry up.”

You stumble out of the car, and he puts a hand on the small of your back, ushering you into his apartment.

You don’t get a chance to fully appreciate the chaotic charm of Spencer Reid’s place. As soon as you notice the books piled up everywhere, he spins you around, pressing your back against the door and capturing your lips in another kiss. This kiss is slower and more controlled, with his hands sliding up your sides to your back, one hand tangling in the hair at the base of your neck. You ball his shirt into your hands, pulling him impossibly closer.

“God, Bun, your fucking intoxicating,” he sighs against your lips, hands slipping under your shirt to rest on your bare hips, and you sigh at the contact.

He smirks, trailing wet kisses down your neck, gently grazing his teeth over your pulse point, and you moan, “there she is,” he mumbles, “been wanting to hear you make those pretty little sounds for a while.”

You whimper, “Shut up.”

He laughs, tugging you away from the door, and guiding you into his bedroom.

You shed off your suit jacket, and he rips your shirt over your head before pushing you down on his mattress. You gasp as you fall, Spencer's hands quickly move to your slacks, unbuttoning them and looking up at you with eyes so fiery you feel your whole body set aflame.

“Yes,” you say, noticing the silent question Spencer is asking you, “please, yes.”

He smirks, kissing the skin just above the waistline of your pants before tugging them down, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off.

He throws the items into the corner of his room, sitting up and looking at you: dressed in nothing but a black bra and matching panties, his eyes darken. He slides his hands down your body, and he practically growls when he feels your sopping wet cunt.

“God dammit, you’re so wet Bunny,” he says, his finger sliding over the soaked fabric of your panties, “such a silly girl, thinking I could want anyone but you.”

You whimper at the comment, and he leans down to kiss your upper thigh, slowly spreading your legs apart with the palms of his hands. Your legs widen as he settles in, kissing slowly up and around them, licking, sucking, and biting until you’re littered with heart-shaped marks.

“Gonna show you how much I wanted you,” he hisses, his hot breath fanning over your covered pussy, “gotta let you know how dumb you are for thinking I was anyone’s but yours.”

You whimper shamelessly at the comment, your legs trying to close, desperate for any kind of friction.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you, Bunny?” he laughs, looking up at you from between your thighs, “You like it when I tell you just how stupid you are? How fuckin’ useless that little brain of yours is?”

You nod rapidly, and Spencer licks a thick stripe over your clothed core. You let out a loud gasp, your head lolling to the side at the much-appreciated attention. He pushes your underwear to the side, diving into your pussy like a man starved. Spencer kitten licks your clit before pulling it into his mouth and sucking harshly, and your back arches from the bed.

“Fuck, Spence,” you moan, hands shooting into his hair, “so fuckin good, feels so good.”

“Mmm, there you go, baby,” he says, his index finger circling your entrance, “let me know how good I’m doing,” and his finger slowly pushes into you as his mouth reconnects to your hot skin.

Spencer Reid was talented with his tongue, but, god, his fingers were a whole other story.

He curled his finger toward him, finding that sweet, gummy spot inside you almost immediately, abusing it before inserting another and scissoring his fingers.

“You’re so tight,” he mumbles against your cunt, and a loud moan slips from your lips, your hands tangling into his hair as you desperately try to grind against his tongue, but he puts a hand over your stomach, holding you down.

He continues his torment, fingers working you open and his tongue moving rapidly through your folds. His fingers drag down your front wall slowly, and you can’t help his name slipping off of your tongue.

He smirks, looking up at you, “Atta girl, Bunny. Let everyone know who’s making you feel this good.”

You moan loudly as he continues his torment. Your legs start to shake, his tongue swirling circles around your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and one of your hands grabs your breast to ground you. Your breathing gets ragged, and it’s all you can do to stop yourself from screaming.

“You gonna cum for me, Bunny?” He asks, voice low, “Gonna cum all over my fingers?”

You nod, and he tsk’s.

“Without asking?” He says, a smirk on his perfect lips, slowing his fingers down and moving to kiss the insides of your thighs, “Not even going to ask after I’ve worked so hard for you?”

You throw your head back with a groan, “Please, Spencer!”

“Please what?”

You consider slapping him, telling him to stop treating you like some desperate slut, but in your current state? You might as well be.

“Please let me cum! I’ve been so good for you, Spence, I’ll be so good!”

“Yeah? You going to be my good girl?” he asks, eyes locking with yours, eyebrows raised, as he speeds up his fingers inside of your spasming pussy, “You promise?”

“Promise! Please, Spence, let me cum for you!”

He pauses for a second like he’s thinking, the smirk on his face growing, “cum for me, Bunny,” and he watches your face, jaw dropped as you orgasm around his fingers, your slick coating his palm and dripping onto the sheets below you as he works you through your bliss.

Once you come down, though, his fingers don't stop moving, his thumb moving to rub tight circles on your pulsing clit, “You’ve got another one in you,” he says as you bite your lip and your eyes water slightly, “C’mon, baby, you can give me another, right?”

You nod your head, your lip tugged between your teeth, your legs still shaking. He doesn’t give you time to breathe, just continues to suck and lick on your clit like it’s what he was made for, and, before you know it, your eyes clench shut as you rapidly approach another orgasm.

Little whimpers leave your lips, and Spencer chuckles slightly, “My poor girl, so desperate for me. I can tell you’re getting close again, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, and he speeds up his pace, your jaw dropping into a silent ‘o’.

He kisses your stomach, holding your shaking legs with his free hand, “Give it to me, Bun.”

And you release with reckless ambition, thighs flung open and a hand gripping the sheets for your life as a string of moans leaves your lips. Spencer removes his fingers and moves down to lick up your come, and you have no choice but to whimper. He smirks and pulls away from your cunt, placing his lips hot on your own, and you taste yourself.

“You’re so sweet, Bunny. Sweeter than candy,” he sighs, hands sliding down your chest.

You whimper, forcing your hands into his hair in another soul-crushing kiss, and he chuckles into it.

“Desperate for something?”

And you nod, one hand trailing down the front of his body, grabbing his dick covered by his pants and he groans.

“You want this cock, Baby?” He lifts off of you, sitting with his knees on either side of your body while he quickly undoes the top two buttons of his shirt before deeming it useless and pulling it over his head while your hands make quick work of his pants, pulling off his belt and tugging his pants and boxers down enough to free his aching cock.

You moan at the sight, immediately leaning forward to kiss his tip, before he pushes you back onto the bed.

“Another time, Bun,” he grumbles, “need to feel you around me.”

You moan, nodding and lining him up with your quivering pussy, and he pushes forward just slightly, enough for his tip to pop inside of you, and the groan that leaves his lips is pornographic.

“She’s so fuckin’ tight, baby, can feel her squeezing me.”

You whimper, “please! More!”

He chuckles darkly at your request, “yeah? You need something?”

You roll your hips forward, pushing him in a little further before he slaps the outside of your thigh harshly.

“Nuh uh, sweetheart. I’m gonna take my time with you.”

He emphasizes his words by pulling out slightly, and pushing back in, fucking you with just his tip, and a desperate gasp leaves your lips.

“Look at you,” he groans, continuing his torturous motions, “so desperate for my cock. Such a nasty little thing.”

And the thrusts harshly, abruptly sheathing his whole cock inside of you, and your head throws back.

He has the audacity to laugh at you, quickening his pace, each thrust hitting causing him to hit your cervix in a blissfully painful way, your eyes rolling back, begging for something. You're not quite sure what, though.

“So fucked out you can't think straight?” He coos, his pace never slowing, “if I knew this was all it took to shut you up I’d have done it a long time ago.”

And you whine at the thought.

He raises an eyebrow, “You like that idea, don't you, Bunny?” And you nod.

Suddenly, he pulls out completely, slapping your thigh again, “Roll over. Hands and knees.”

You quickly comply, supporting yourself on shaky arms and legs, and he trails a hand up your spine before pushing down, forcing your chest to the bed below you.

He groans as you arch your back, quickly pushing himself back inside your sopping cunt.,

“Such pretty holes you got here, baby,” he whispers, spitting onto your asshole as one of his thumbs spreads out the lubricant, causing your breath to hitch.

“Wanna fill both of them for you, can I do that?”

And you nod recklessly, your head bouncing against the pillows at the speed and power of his thrusts, and he takes your permission to push his thumb into your virgin ass, and the moan that rips through your throat is almost humiliating.

“You like being so full of me, don't you, Bunny?”

And you groan out, “yes! Fuck, I’m so close, Spencer!”

He laughs as your cunt starts quivering around his cock, his tip bullying that sweet spot inside of you.

“I know sweet thing, give it to me. Cum around my cock.”

With permission, you release around him, your pussy clenched around his dick and your ass squeezing his thumb, but he keeps fucking you through it.

His free hand laces through your hair, pulling your head back as you whimper in overstimulation.

“Take it,” he groans, mumbling more to himself as his cock twitches inside of you, “come on, take it like the dirty whore you are. Love having me fill both your nasty holes, fuck.”

His rhythm falters, and he thrusts one or two more times before spilling inside of you, fucking his seed deeper inside of you.

Once he calms down, he slowly removes his thumb before carefully pulling out of your pussy, and you whimper at the empty feeling.

“Stay here,” he whispers, kissing your hip before scrambling to the bathroom for a warm, damp washcloth.

He gently wipes you off, murmuring about how good you did for him, saying he’s proud of you before he helps you roll over onto your back.

He chuckles at the goofy smile on your lips, eyes tired and droopy, and he pushes the hair that had matted to your skin with sweat out of your face.

“You okay?” He asks, voice low, and you nod happily.

“‘M perfect.”

“Good,” he smiles, pulling the comforter over you and cuddling up to your spent body.

You lay in silence for a moment, happy and relaxed in his arms, before you speak up.

“So, you never hated me?”

“Jesus Christ, Bun,” he sighs exasperatedly, “go to sleep.”

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut

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hauntedfictionland · 2 days ago

Text

❝a storm to remember❞

☾︎✰❛❀ Aemond Targaryen x Fem! Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: As the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and the heir to the iron throne, you are sent to stormlands as your brother to Winterfell, to create allies when you are met with him. Aemond Targaryen, your childhood enemy.

𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of violence and threats, kissing, childhood friends to enemies to lovers trope, minor injuries and blood.

🪐𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: He is my guilty pleasure, man who serves face while doing the shittiest things ever aka killing. This is my first Aemond fic ever, so I hope it's not too bad, and I would love writing advices or tips in my asks or messages, so feel free to send any.

The winds were soothing, although getting heavier as Stormlands grew closer. Your one hand on the rope, and the other touching along your dragon's raspy and rather itchy skin. You sighed, as the thought of having to negotiate with Borris Baratheon, who didn't hold a single regard for your mother or any woman for that matter.

You remember your mother's words; no fighting. No bloodshed. It had made you feel strange, as though there could be a need for it. You bit your lip as the dark castle came into view, with dark clouds forming already. You did not have a good feeling about this. But you couldn't disappoint your mother either, as the heir no less. You had to fight for your birthright, which Aegon took.

A strain coming to your head at the tactics of your dragon, who wanted to fly into circles as you had taught her. She wanted to have fun, not knowing this might be the most crucial occasion of your life. When you tried calling out to her, telling her to get down to some place where you could land, she refused. She was being erratic. With a few attempts at pulling the rope, she finally complied.

“Lykiri, Tessarion.” you say, as your dragon flies lower to the ground, to make a decent landing. You smiled as she grunted, in some annoyance. She always was stubborn, and it took some time to command her.

You wondered how much time it would take Jace to reach Winterfell, a part of you was envious. You wanted to be the one to see the North, yet he was the one who got to truly see it. ‘Borros was harder to convince’, as your mother said, how she needed someone with experience in that area. How it was your job as the eldest. Sometimes you felt it was a burden rather than a privilege, being heir to the iron throne. You don't know if you even deserve it, considering who your father is; your blood father. Laenor will always be your only father to you, the one who taught you how to sit on a dragon, or the great sea snake stories.

Hate, was what you used to feel when those rumours started reaching your ears. Of your parentage. Of your mother's king's guard, ser Harwin Strong. You did whatever you could to get away from those, from him. You didn't like it, he acted much closer to your mother than a mere guard should. And jace and luke being young, didn't see it as a problem. Even looked up to him. But you didn't. You felt so humiliated, that such low born could be your father, you—the heir, you, ser Laenor's true born daughter, as you tried convincing yourself again and again.

You didn't want to be a mutt, a bastard.

Harwin Strong tried connecting with you on many levels, but you denied all of them. You didn't even want to be near him, let alone speak with him. Flaunting your power and acting very rudely whenever he wanted to make conversation. You still remember the sadness in his eyes, as you told your king's guard to take him out of your sight. A filth, you called him. All out of insecurity.

That was the last time you saw him.

And now, all you had was Jacaerys's fond memories of him, nothing more. You wonder if you had cared to hear him out even once, what would he have said?

Shaking off the terrifying thought, you open your locks on the belt on your waist, slowly getting down. The storm had prevailed, with rain pouring down your black and red polish coat. You squint your eyes, trying to see better amidst the heavy rainfall. Tessarion let out a wail of joy, she loved rain. Given her so very nickname, the blue queen. After her blue scales and orange wings. That's when you heard a growl, a heavy one. That could only come out of a large dragon.

Your eyes widened, seeing the sight of that dragon.

Vhagar.

Which could only mean he was here.

“A letter from the queen.” you say, hesitantly as still processing the fact who you were to face very soon. The men guarding the castle nodded, letting you in. It felt like a dark cloud over you, as you entered. The black walls and steel throne, with Lord Borros sitting quite comfortably. You knew he was there, swiftly standing with a smirk, you didn't even want to face him.

“Princess Y/N Velaryon” one of the guards announced, “daughter of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

You gulp, “Lord Borros, I have brought you a message.” you make sure to add, “from the queen.” he raises his eyebrows, “Yet earlier this day I received an envoy from the king. Which is it, king or queen?”

Your skin shivered as you felt Aemond's eyes constantly on you—not once did his gaze move. You remember when there was a time, a good time, in childhood, when Aemond was your closest companion. You both were around the same age, both quiet, wise, and mature. And you both lacked a dragon at the age all Targaryen children have one. You used to always defend him against the teasing of Aegon and your siblings, scolding Jace and Luke whenever they hurt Aemond's feelings. You remember how you pushed a hair out of Aemond's eyes, after the pig prank, kissing his cheek gently, promising him that he won't go without a dragon in his lifetime. How you had seen that for him.

Alas, after the driftmark incident, you didn't know who to defend, your brothers, or his taken eye. All you knew was that after you had moved to dragonstone, all talked bad of him, and with time, you started believing them.

“The house of the dragon doesn't seem to know who rules it.” Lord Borros sneered mockingly, as you clenched your fists. This was not at all how you planned it. “What's your mother's message, girl?”

You handed the envoy to one of his guards wordlessly, as Lord Borros—unable to read, called for his Mastor. Aemond Targaryen, wasn't a person you once remembered, you once loved. In a way your family would never approve. And you fear you still hold those feelings after all this time. You wonder what your mother would say, your brothers? if they knew the ways of your heart.

“Remind me? of my father's oath?” he says, sounding very offended.

At the corner of your eye, you could see Aemond smirking, as if he already won the bid. It infuriated you, as your hands curled up around your sword tightly.

“King Aegon at least came with an offer! my swords and banners for a marriage pact.” he continues, as you close your eyes in contrast to stop Aemond's winning stare on you, “now if I do as your mother bids, which one of my daughters will your brothers marry?”

Before you could answer, he speaks again, “—or which one of my sons will you marry?”

Your mouth gaped, as his voice sounded so excited and thrilled, as if he was already imagining having Targaryen grand children. Especially when they could be potentially heirs to the iron throne. You grimaced, a picture of his sons, same as him, fat, bearded and a wild lust, came into your mind and it disgusted you. Aemond looked surprised, straying away from his smirking face. His lips had fallen down to a glare, fist tightening.

You cleared your throat, “My brothers are not available to marry my lord, they're already betrothed to another.”

He nodded as if uninterested, looking for a different answer. Eager to know about you. His head peaked forward in question, a one you didn't want to answer; whether you'll bore his sons children or not. You were just seventeen, and even if westeros considered that to be a grown woman—you were still a young girl. And believed to be as well.

“As for me” you took a breath, “I will have to discuss it with the queen. She shall consider your offer.”

“Hmm” you heard Aemond's voice, glancing at him just for a second. This was wrong, this was so wrong. Not at all how you envisioned. He had to ruin everything, didn't he? now you had to go home with a rejection, while Jace would come with more support of armies.

Everything was a mess.

“So you come with empty hands?” Borros says, angered. You sighed, ready to mount back on your dragon and fly the rest of the way in self pity. “Go home, pup. And tell your mother that the lord of storm's end is not some dog that she can whistle up in need to set against her foes.”

Your jaw clenches, in disappointment “I shall take your answer to the queen, my lord.”

This was indeed, a failure. You failed to prove as the heir to the iron throne that you were capable. Especially because you are a girl. You needed to show it, to your mother and to everyone else, that you can take on that responsibility as well as any king. All because of him. It was his fault, and he sure looked proud. You hated this, hated his cunning smile, his swift posture, his one purple eye and oh, him. Everything you hoped you could achieve, he destroyed it for you.

He sure hated you; that was evident.

“Wait”

You hear Aemond, as you halt in your steps while turning back to the gates, “My lady strong.”

Your eyes widen, “What did you say?” he knew it, how to get in your skin. The dinner, with insults about your heritage, calling your brothers strong that resulted in a fight. It was exhausting, what did he want now? after all this time.

“You heard me.” he tilts his head, “did you really think, you could fly around the realm, trying to steal my brother's throne at no cost?”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, which makes him furrow his eyebrows. “Your brother's throne? or rather, Aegon the usurper's?”

“I would mind my tongue if I were you, my lady.”

You bit your lip, his audacity, after all he had done, to remind you of your place. As if he ranked higher than you? A beat passed by, tension thick in the air. Neither of you were looking at each other, waiting for the other to make the move. As if it was a chess board, with the winner taking all. A verbal battle. Aemond finally broke the silence.

“So you're here to usurp my brother's throne then?” he spoke with a calming chill, seeing as your eyes turned into anger, “Traitors.” he mumbled in his breath.

You control every urge to grab his collar and hit him across his face, “I am in haste. Is there something you want from me, prince Aemond?”

His head lies low and a dangerous glint comes in his eyes. You gulped, unknowing where he was about to go with this. He had changed ever since Luke had done it. Taken his eye. Somewhere, you didn't blame him. It was true that none of your brothers ever got punished for what happened, a result of your mother being the obviously favoured child. He was angry, at Luke—at you, that nothing happened. Everything was complicated; but, not unsalvagable. After you returned to king's landing, you tried everything to be nice with Aemond, to be civil, for the least. Alas, he denied all of them.

“Yes, there is something I want.” he looks up, eyes cold, “something that was stolen from me not long ago.”

A hitch escapes your lips, “Aemond—”

“You know..” he cuts you off, stepping a little forward towards your direction, “I always wished for your brother to know, what it feels like, to experience such a pain. To have your eye carved out by Valaryan steel, hmm. Unfortunately, now that he isn't here, I'll have to make him learn some other way. What it feels to have an eye cut out, or rather, a loved one's eye cut out.”

There was just the slightest bit of emotion flash in his eyes, pool of stars, in agony yet so beautiful. Your breathing becomes heavy, as you start to fear for your life. Your hands slowly pulled out your sword.

“I will not fight you.”

You intended to sound harsh, but your voice came out more of a tremble. Aemond and your relationship had gone down the drain, you knew that. Yet, was he really willing and capable of wanting to cripple you? had he started to hold such hatred for you? did he truly forget all the best memories he and you made together. He was acting like you were a stranger to him, that he did not care for your being. Even the mere thought of that sends a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Fight would be little challenge.�� his voice is hoarse and cold, “No. I want you to put out your eye.”

A small gasp leaves your mouth when he pulls out his eye patch, a blue emerald stone in the place of his lost eye. He looked so very, beautiful, you thought. Majestic and soft. As even after such an attack on his face, he was born to look gorgeous, no matter what. For a moment you became oblivious to what he was demanding, staring in a trance like state. He was the epitome of Targaryen beauty, tall and long haired, pale skin with features that could start wars between great houses. Your heart fluttered and your throat became dry, unable to form any kind of answer. Aemond did not seem to notice, as he only held a sour and blank look in his eyes.

You only snapped back when he spoke again, “As a payment for mine.”

“No, I will not.” your voice is low, but clearly he heard it since something changed in his expression. He was angry. An emotion he hardly showed ever since the accident.

“Then you are a coward as well as a traitor.”

“You can't be serious ab—”

“Give me your eye!” he shouts all of a sudden and starts to walk towards you with rage, “or I will take it!”

You frantically back away, pulling out your sword on impulse. The guards coming in to shield you, as lord Borros stands up, saying something about wanting to have no such ‘bloodshed’ beneath his roof. You barely hear him over your own beating heart, fear taking over every one of your survival instincts. He orders for you to be escorted back to your dragon, as Aemond watches you exit the doomed castle. The rain has worsened, your clothes, that had been a little dried up, now went back to being wet again. You push your hair out of your eyes, raising a hand to itch your neck. Your hair was long, so it irritated your skin whenever they were soaked with rain or water.

But all you could think about was what had happened inside, his eyes, his face, all his hatred for you. Did he really want to send you harm? or was he faking? your gaze turned to the side, expecting the giant green beast yet, Vhagar was nowhere to be seen. You started to panic, if Aemond had already flown away, it could only mean two possibilities. He went back to king's landing, or he was awaiting to do something much worse. The latter scared you.

You walked towards Tessarion, her dark and orange eyes bored into your figure, wings flapping in excitement. You sigh, slowly getting on top of her and adjusting your straps.

“Sōvēs, Tessarion.”

She hears your command and swiftly takes out into the sky. She was futile and fast, if you were careful enough, you both would be able to make it to dragonstone with no harm done. Besides, rain, was her element of sheer power. You squint your eyes, rubbing water out of them as a few minutes had passed by, the storm nowhere to be stopping anytime soon. All you could hear was the flapping of her wings and the heavy rainfall that held out the dark clouds. It didn't matter anymore of Lord Borros's rejection, he couldn't be any more reliable than he already is. Besides, if you could reach your home safely, without the presence of a one eyed prince, that would be more than victory enough.

However wrong had the universe been out there to prove you.

As you were about to loosen your tight ropes, with a newfound relief—a snarl disrupts you. You looked back to see the giant mouth of the big monster in the name of a dragon, coming up towards you. Instantly you yelped, pulling the ropes sideways to avoid getting eaten. You can hear Aemond's malicious laughs, he was enjoying this. You let out a cry for help, struggling to keep hold of your now panicked dragon, as Vhagar flew around you, mouth wide open.

The rain was making it quite difficult to see, as Aemond chased you down.

Vhagar's giant claws kept trying to cut you and Tessarion, as Aemond began to mumble things in high valaryan, something you could not hear due to your panic and wanting to steer away from him and his beast. You tugged on the leash, pulling her away to the left. You knew Vhagar had a hard time with turning around, and it would buy you some time. His laugh, so cruel and emotionless, he was out to kill you. That was unquestionable. You had to get away from them, instead of processing how your childhood best friend, and the man you loved, could become the reason for your death.

A cannon appeared in your sight, and you quickly flew into the narrow path in between it. Aemond could only follow you from the above, waiting for you to come out.

“Jemēla gēlȳni enkā! Taobi!” You hear him shout, an unexpected emotion and anger in his voice. You owe a debt? No, you didn't. You did not take his eye, or tease and bully him all those years ago. In fact, you were the one who defended him. And he thinks you are the reason for his lost eye?

“For the god's sake stop this Aemond!” you shout, a whimper coming out of you. Tears running down, “please.”

Somehow, at that Aemond's demeanor softened. It looked like he was over playing with you. But your dragon wasn't done with him, instead, Tessarion disobeyed your own commands, flew out the cannon and let out a massive fire at Vhagar's face. Something that didn't do much damage. You cursed, as she shrieked in pain when you harshened the ropes to make her listen. Aemond was going through the same situation, yelling out every command in high valaryan to stop, but his dragon was angered. That's when you were remembered of your grandfather's words, the idea that we control the dragons, is an illusion.

“No Vhagar! No!” was the last thing you heard from him, before his dragon grabbed your coat with its claws, losing the balance off the seat, you screamed as you fell off. The height was above the clouds, and in nowhere will you be to survive.

Until the ocean hit your body, and you blacked out.

Rain droplets on your eyes irritated you, as you could still feel it was raining. Not as hard as before, but still. Slowly blinking, you open your eyes. You found yourself laying on top of some concrete—more over rocks and tiny stones.

A sharp pain hits you, as you realise you were having a hard time getting up.

“Ouch!” you hiss, as blood comes out of your forehead and possibly from your ribcage. With minor cuts and bruises on the tip of your fingers and lips. You were too focused on your injuries, without noticing the very familiar presence by your side. “Don't get up, or it will make whatever injuries you have received worse.”

You gasp as his voice speaks out, swiftly turning and locking your eyes with the very man who was at fault for you being here in the first place. Aemond stood a few feet away, with Vhagar a little further up. An alarm went inside you, what was he doing here? was he here to finish what he started? give you a slow and painful death? and moreover, where was your dragon?

“T—Tessarion?” you manage to whisper, the pain worsening at that. Frantically looking around. Aemond reassured, “That bundle of blue is fine, probably lurking around and searching for you.”

He tries to get closer to you, to which you quickly shift away, wincing in pain at the rocks grazing your bloodied back. “Get the fuck away from me!” you say, as you pull out your sword. Hands shakily holding it.

His eyes weakened, as if a guilt was forming in his throat. His lips parted, but nothing came out. You heard your dragon's roars, she was close somewhere. You bit your lip to suppress the pain, refusing to cry in front of him. The rain didn't leave mercy on you, as it continued to fall. You were soaked, both from the storm and possible blood by scars and fractures. If you didn't get help, you could die in a very slow way, taking around seven to nine days. Perhaps faster by starvation or dehydration—or by his very sword. You didn't know which was worse.

“Y/N..” Aemond breathes out, “I—I didn't intend to cause this.”

That was the first time in years, he spoke your name. Only your name, no titles or formality. It was raw. You didn't answer, not knowing what to make of the whole ordeal. At first he was chasing you around like a mad man, and the next minute he was apologizing for almost killing you. You tried getting back up your feet, but winced at the sheer pain that came with it.

“Let me help you or—”

“No!” you immediately shake your head, pointing your sword further towards him.

In no world will you weaken your guard, let him get close to your body only for him to deceive you and strangle you to death. Or cut your throat with that small knife of his. You didn't know why he hadn't done that already? you were blacked out for almost ten minutes, he could have easily killed you with no difficulty. What did he even want? if not to kill you then why did he do all this?

“Y/N, let me help. Falling into the ocean at such speed is the same as falling in concrete ground. If not worse.”

“You tried to kill me! why would I ever trust you?”

He falls silent at that. Unexpectedly so. You bit your lip, struggling to keep up the strong facade with all the pain masking behind it. You didn't know how much longer you would be able to keep your sword pointed at him. Your dragon is far away and no one is here to possibly protect you against Aemond and his giant beast.

“I didn't want to kill you,” he says, his voice faltering from the rain that had now soaked his entire clothes and hair, “Only scare you.”

“Well you did more than that” you bite back, a bitterness in your tone. He scoffs, “Maybe, if your young and wild dragon hadn't leashed fire on mine, this wouldn't have happened.”

A baffled scoff of your own comes out of you, in disbelief, “Oh so this is—this is my fault?”

“Precisely.”

“Fuck you!” you spat, your throat burning up at the yell. Your condition was getting worse by the minute, and Aemond noticed that. He inhaled a deep breath, preparing himself before matching up to you. You yelped as he reached over you, pulling your arms in order to get you up, but struggling as you put up a fight. You wince at the pain of getting on your feet, eventually giving up as he held on to you firmly, his hands of your waist.

You sigh, so tired like all the blood and mass from your body was being drained. You feel his eyes on you, worried as his breath was ragged. If you weren't on the brink of death, you might have realised you liked this feeling. But that moment is gone as soon as it came, you push Aemond away, roughly. This is your enemy. Not your protector.

“Y/N—”

“What do you want?!” you interrupted him, shouting amidst the heavy rainfall soaking both your breaths. “You threaten me, almost kill me, and then help me when it was you who put me in this position in the first place. I don't understand why you are here if you don't want to kill me! what other reason is there for you to do what you have done ever since I landed here?”

Aemond becomes silent, any words he could speak refused to come out. He looks at you hard, before taking his eyes off you, his jaw clenched. You were frustrated now, you wanted the answer. You needed it. He can't just ignore you after all this.

“Tell me. Why?” you inquire, again. When he doesn't answer, you furiously walk towards him, pushing his chest as he stumbles back a bit. “Why—”

“Because you didn't do anything!” he finally breaks, his voice was surprisingly inflamed with a touch of vulnerability.

You blink your eyes, taken aback, “what?”

“You...” Aemond breathes, willing himself to say those words he never wanted to say, jaw clenching, “You were my friend. My dearest one. Yet, when your brother took my eye and I was the one condemned for it, you didn't say anything. You just stood there, in pure silence. I—”

He stops himself, taking a deep breath, “I thought you would always defend me.”

You were speechless. It was true. What he said. You didn't say anything because you didn't know what happened. You weren't there. And being overwhelmed by all the shouting and bruises on your little brothers faces, you didn't know what to think. But you believed your mother. You couldn't defend yourself, he was saying the truth. You didn't have his back and that's what broke what the two of you shared. You went numb to the pain you had, or the seemingly hatred you had for him. This, this was the Aemond you remember. And you weren't about to let him go.

“I'm sorry.” you say, “I'm sorry, okay?”

But it wasn't enough. You knew it wasn't when his face fell, shaking his head and turning around to walk away from you and this. You weren't about to let that happen. “Aemond!” you called out to him, but he didn't stop. The pain was excruciating, but you needed to make this right. “Aemond!” when he doesn't listen, you take all the best strength you had left and catch up to him, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around.

“Aemond I'm sorry!” you yell, wanting him to feel how much guilt you felt, “But I'm in a lot of pain here, okay? it feels like my body is cut by a thousand bolts of lightning, I can't even feel my back and my throat is burning. But still, I'm sorry I didn't say anything. I did not understand what was happening—we were both children for god's sake! but even then, if I hurt you, which evidently now that I have I mean we wouldn't be in this situation if I hadn't, I'm so sorry.”

You don't know if you made it better or worse looking at the stoic expression on his face. But you had tried. The rain had soaked all his emotions, but even then you could see just the little bit of stars in his pupils you once saw as kids. You cross your arms, feeling the cold embrace you as you shudder in your injuries and pain. He gulped, unknowingly laying his head low to avoid looking in your eyes.

“I apologize, for this. For everything. I lost my temper today. It won't happen again.”

Your eyes soften at his words, as if a wall had risen between you two again. You hated it. You wanted to break it. So you did. In a few fraction of seconds, you didn't realise what you were about to do before you walked closer to him, too close. His breath hitches as your face comes in between his wet hair, his hair touching your cheeks just slightly.

“Y/N—”

He was only able to mumble out these words before your lips were on his. So barely. He inhaled a sharp breath, hands coming up but not knowing where to go. You close your eyes and just for one moment, forget the war, the families, the armies. Just you and him. Before you pull away, Aemond finally found his senses and comes up to cup your cheeks. Kissing you back softly but with an unspoken passion. He was careful not to hurt you.

Your hands find his waist, carefully tugging at the black belts that were wrapped around it. It felt like this was what you both had craved all these years. This. All the fight left out of him the moment you kissed him. Like the sun finally just glanced one look at his star. The one closest to it. You were his sun. And he was your favourite star. You only pull away when the growl of your dragon reaches your ears, Tessarion was here. Just a few rocks away. Your foreheads were touching, and Aemond places a small kiss at your head.

“Get home safe.” he whispers, his thumb tracing down your lips.

You didn't know if you would get a moment like this again. But you were happy. That you finally got to have one taste of heaven. Your heaven. Your Targaryen. Your Aemond.

𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑚:) 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛!

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goldfades · 2 days ago

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★ 'cause she's watching him with those eyes / and she's loving him with that body, i just know it / and he's holding her in his arms late, late at night / you know, i wish that i had jessie's girl / i wish that i had jessie's girl / where can i find a woman like that? ───JB⁹

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18k (a lot more than i expected...)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a college student navigates her complicated feelings for her charming yet infuriating neighbor, joe burrow, while dating the seemingly perfect linebacker. after a series of missteps, flirtatious teasing, and an unexpected kiss, she finds herself caught in a whirlwind of tension, confusion, and unexpected sparks, all while trying to avoid the loud, chaotic presence of joe and his ever-constant parade of girls.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited (sorry... i got lazy), NSFW (with lots... and lots... AND LOTS of plot), unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it, kids) praise, teasing, lots of kissing/foreplay, p in v, uhhh.. descriptions of big dick joe??? enemies to lovers, roommates, mentions of drinking/alcohol, cheating (not on reader), joe being an asshole, cocky joe, lots of fighting, heated arguments.

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this has been in my drafts for a good 2 months and finally decided to finish it up on the sunday before american thanksgiving! so... yaya! please let me know your thoughts!

The muffled sound of Ja’Marr Chase’s bass-heavy playlist seeps through the thin walls of your apartment, rattling the picture frames you swore you hung up straight last week. The tiny LSU apartment complex, with its peeling beige paint and eternally broken elevator, has its charms—like the way the front door doesn’t lock unless you kick it just right or how the air conditioner only works when it’s below 70 degrees outside.

But Joe Burrow? He’s not one of those charms.

No, Joe Burrow is the bane of your existence, the human equivalent of a pothole on a road you have to take every day. His name alone makes your best friend, Ella, roll her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. “Just ignore him,” she says every time you come storming through the door, ranting about whatever fresh annoyance he’s cooked up that day. “He only bothers you because you’re fun to mess with.”

Right. Like that’s supposed to make it better.

Living next door to Joe and Ja’Marr was tolerable at first. Sure, they were loud, occasionally messy, and probably violating a dozen lease terms, but it wasn’t personal. Then, you had one small misunderstanding—okay, so maybe you yelled at Joe for leaving his bike in front of your door after you tripped over it—and now it’s like he’s made it his life’s mission to drive you insane.

Sometimes, it’s harmless: an obnoxious smirk when you cross paths on the way to class or his sarcastic comments about how you always seem to be spilling coffee on your shirt. Other times, it’s borderline infuriating: stealing your parking spot, taking the last box of cinnamon rolls at the grocery store, or claiming the shared apartment complex grill for “official game day business” every single Saturday.

Still, there’s something annoyingly magnetic about him, even when you want to wring his neck. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing at his own jokes. The stupid mop of curls he somehow manages to pull off. The effortless confidence that borders on cocky, though you’d never say it out loud because that’s exactly the kind of thing that would go straight to his head.

Ella always jokes that you two are like an old married couple, constantly bickering but secretly loving it. You disagree. Mostly because Joe already has enough people falling at his feet—like the swarm of girls in purple-and-gold jerseys who show up at the apartment complex every other week, giggling like they’re auditioning for a reality show.

You sigh, brushing a stray crumb off the countertop as Ella flops onto the couch behind you, textbook in hand. And if his stupid grin when he sees you on your balcony later tonight is any indication, he’s already got something planned.

You just don’t know it yet.

The parking lot outside your apartment complex is a war zone at 11 p.m., with far too many cars crammed into a space that was clearly designed with only half the residents in mind. You circle the lot for the third time, your headlights cutting through the dark like a searchlight on some hopeless mission. After eight grueling hours at the campus library helping undergrads figure out why their printers are possessed, your brain feels like oatmeal, and all you want is to collapse into your bed.

But, of course, tonight isn’t going to be that simple.

Because there he is. Joe freaking Burrow.

He’s in his Jeep—windows down, music playing softly, and, naturally, there’s a blonde perched in the passenger seat laughing at something he said. Of course, he found the last available spot. Except—it’s not his spot, because you saw it first. Your blinker’s been on since the beginning of time (or at least the last 30 seconds), and you refuse to back down now.

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as he slowly starts to reverse into the spot, like he hasn’t noticed your very obvious claim to it. Heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and indignation, you tap your horn. Just once. Polite, but firm. He stops, glances in his rearview mirror, and then—of course—he smirks.

Oh, hell no.

You roll down your window and lean out. “Hey, Burrow! I was waiting for that spot.”

He leans his elbow casually against the window frame, his curls catching the faint glow of the streetlight. “Were you? Didn’t see your name on it.” His voice is slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to be a pain in your ass.

You glare at him, barely suppressing the urge to snap. “I was here first.”

“And I started reversing first,” he counters, raising an eyebrow like it’s a debate class and not a parking lot at nearly midnight. The blonde giggles beside him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Just let me have it. You look like you could use the exercise.”

Oh, he’s done it now.

“Excuse me?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you’re too far gone to care. “I’ve been on my feet for eight hours dealing with entitled freshmen, and if you think I’m about to let you—”

“Alright, alright,” Joe interrupts, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m not trying to ruin your night.” He throws the Jeep into drive, and with a dramatic sigh, he pulls away, leaving the spot open for you. But not without one last parting comment. “Don’t scratch the paint when you park. Oh, wait—you’re really close to that pole—”

You park with excessive precision, throwing your car into park before leaning out the window to call after him. “I didn’t ask for your help, Joe!”

His laugh echoes across the parking lot, carefree and infuriating. You slam your door shut a little harder than necessary, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you trudge toward the building. Finally, peace.

Or so you think.

Because just as you reach the elevator, its ding announcing its arrival, you hear the telltale sound of sneakers scuffing against concrete and—because your luck is absolute trash—Joe freaking Burrow strolls in behind you, Blonde Giggles McGee still glued to his side.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says casually, stepping into the elevator with you like he didn’t just steal and relinquish a parking spot out of sheer pettiness. The blonde gives you a wide, vaguely clueless smile, her gum snapping between her teeth.

You press the button for the third floor with a pointed jab and cross your arms, leaning against the elevator wall as Joe and his date take their sweet time figuring out which floor they’re going to. The door finally slides shut, and the tension in the small space is unbearable.

“So,” the blonde says brightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “you guys, like, live here? That’s so fun! Like, neighbors and stuff. Wow.”

Your lips press into a tight smile, trying to avoid eye contact with Joe, who you can feel grinning at you like this is the highlight of his week. “Yep. Fun,” you reply curtly, forcing the word out like it’s laced with acid.

Joe’s shoulders shake slightly, and you realize he’s laughing. He glances at you, and there’s that damn smirk again, like he knows exactly how close you are to losing it. “She’s real talkative tonight,” he says, tilting his head toward you. “Usually, she’s got more to say.”

You turn to him with a withering glare. “Don’t you have something else to do, Burrow?”

Before he can reply, the elevator lurches slightly as it comes to a stop on your floor. You step out quickly, muttering a polite “Good night” that is entirely devoid of warmth. Joe follows, his pace annoyingly casual as he throws one last look over his shoulder.

“See you around, neighbor,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You don’t look back.

The smell of cheap ramen hits you the moment you open the door to your apartment. It’s comforting, in a way—familiar, like Ella’s answer to every late-night craving or bad day. She’s in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, barefoot and wearing the oversized LSU sweatshirt you’d bought together during freshman year.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up, her voice light with mock reproach. “Was the library on fire, or did you stop to fight Burrow in the parking lot again?”

You kick off your shoes with a sigh, tossing your bag onto the couch. “Option B. Obviously.”

That gets her attention. She turns, spoon in hand, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? It’s, like, midnight. You two are going to give each other aneurysms before graduation.”

You slump into one of the kitchen chairs, letting your forehead hit the table dramatically. “He stole my parking spot. Had the audacity to smirk about it, too. And then—get this—I got stuck in the elevator with him and some girl who wouldn’t stop talking about how ‘fun’ it is to have neighbors.” You lift your head to glare at Ella, who is now struggling to hold back a laugh. “I’m cursed. That man is my curse.”

Ella snorts, pouring the ramen into two mismatched bowls. “He’s not your curse. He’s just a guy with too much charm and not enough common sense. And clearly, you’re living rent-free in his head, which, honestly, is kind of impressive considering he’s got a playbook in there.”

You accept the bowl she slides across the table, your stomach growling despite your lingering irritation. “I don’t want to live in his head. I want him to stop being so… so Joe all the time.”

Ella sits across from you, propping her chin in her hand with a sly grin. “Are you sure? You seem to spend a lot of time talking about him.”

You glare at her over a mouthful of noodles. “Don’t start.”

But she’s already started, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, it’s giving sexual tension.”

You nearly choke, coughing as you wave her off. “Nope. Absolutely not. There’s no tension. Only irritation. And rage. And an overwhelming desire to see him move to a different apartment complex.”

Ella laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Whatever you say, babe. But for the record, I think you secretly enjoy it.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can form a retort, there’s a knock at the door. Both of you freeze, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights.

“You expecting someone?” Ella whispers, her tone suddenly conspiratorial.

“No,” you whisper back, your heart sinking as a horrible suspicion creeps over you.

Ella gestures for you to check, and with a deep, resigned breath, you shuffle to the door, bowl still in hand. You crack it open just enough to see who’s on the other side, and—because the universe apparently hates you—there he is. Joe Burrow, in all his smug, infuriating glory, holding a box of cinnamon rolls.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says, his grin infuriatingly wide. “Figured I owed you something for stealing your spot.”

You stare at him, speechless, for a moment. Then, finally, you manage, “It’s 11:30 at night.”

He shrugs, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable time for a peace offering. “Better late than never, right?”

From behind you, Ella’s voice rings out, barely containing her amusement. “Is that Joe? Invite him in!”

You turn to glare at her, silently vowing revenge, but when you look back at Joe, he’s already stepping inside like he owns the place.

“Nice place,” he says, glancing around before holding up the box. “So… cinnamon roll?”

You sigh, shutting the door behind him. It’s going to be a long night.

Joe leans casually against the counter, still holding the box of cinnamon rolls like he’s been invited to stay for a late-night hangout. You narrow your eyes at him, folding your arms. “So, what’s this about, really? Cinnamon rolls aren’t exactly your style.”

“Wow, judgmental much?” he says with a mock-wounded expression. “What if I just wanted to be neighborly?”

Ella snickers softly behind you, spooning up her ramen as she watches the exchange like it’s prime-time TV.

Joe grins, ignoring your skepticism. “Actually,” he says, setting the box on the counter with a little too much flourish, “I’m out of sugar. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

You blink at him, incredulous. “Sugar? You came over at almost midnight to borrow sugar?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the “p” for emphasis, completely unbothered by your glare.

Ella, ever the peacemaker—or enabler, depending on the situation—sets her bowl down and gets up to rummage through the cabinets. “We’ve got some,” she says reluctantly, pulling out a small bag. She walks over and places it in Joe’s outstretched hand, but not without narrowing her eyes at him. “You better bring this back, Burrow. Or at least repay us with something better than cinnamon rolls.”

“Noted,” he says with a charming smile, tucking the bag under his arm. He turns to you, his grin softening into something almost teasing. “Thanks, neighbor. You’re a real lifesaver.”

You don’t bother replying, instead stepping aside so he can leave. He makes his way to the door, pausing for a moment. “Oh, and don’t forget to check your parking job in the morning,” he says with a wink before slipping out into the hallway.

The second the door clicks shut, you groan, slumping against the counter. Ella bursts into laughter, practically doubling over as she grabs her bowl again. “You two are ridiculous,” she says between bites.

“I’m moving out,” you mutter, dragging yourself to the couch. “I don’t care if it’s to a cardboard box in the quad. It’ll be quieter than this.”

You think that’s the end of it—Joe’s random sugar-borrowing adventure, Ella’s endless teasing—but of course, you’re wrong. Because a few hours later, just as you’re finally starting to drift off in the tiny bedroom you call your sanctuary, you hear it.

A muffled giggle. A low, rumbling voice you’d recognize anywhere. Then, unmistakably, the rhythmic creak of a bed frame against the wall.

Your eyes snap open, and for a moment, you pray you’re imagining things. Maybe it’s a nightmare—a cruel joke your overtired brain is playing on you. But then you hear it again, louder this time, followed by a very enthusiastic “Oh my God, Joey!”

You groan, grabbing your pillow and pressing it over your ears.

From the other side of the wall, Ella’s muffled voice reaches you through the darkness. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” you hiss, your voice barely audible through the pillow. “It’s him.”

She snorts, and you can hear her shifting in her bed. “Well, at least he’s getting good use out of that sugar.”

You let out a strangled laugh, torn between exhaustion and disbelief. “I swear, if this goes on all night—”

As if on cue, there’s another creak, louder this time, followed by more giggling and exaggerated moaning.

Ella sighs. “Thin walls, huh?”

“Apparently,” you mutter, rolling onto your side and glaring at the wall like it’s personally offended you.

The noises continue—giggles, muffled moans, the occasional thud that makes you wince. You bury your face in your pillow, silently cursing Joe Burrow and his audacity.

It’s going to be a very, very long night.

The next morning comes too soon. Despite the symphony of creaks, giggles, and thuds that plagued the night, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed and cranky. The coffee pot sputters as you pour yourself a life-saving cup, muttering curses at your neighbor under your breath. Ella, still in her pajamas, watches you from the couch with an amused smirk.

“You look alive,” she teases, spooning cereal into her mouth. “Barely.”

“I hate him,” you say flatly, taking a long sip of coffee.

“Sure you do,” she singsongs.

You don’t dignify her with a response, grabbing your bag and heading out the door.

As luck—or fate—would have it, the universe isn’t done with you yet. Because just as you’re locking your apartment door, you hear the unmistakable sound of high heels clicking down the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it.

There she is. Last night’s Blonde of the Hour, strutting toward the elevator with a walk of shame so confident it might as well be a victory lap. She’s wearing Joe’s oversized LSU hoodie, paired with last night’s skirt and heels. Her hair is tousled, but she doesn’t seem to care.

And because the universe apparently has a sense of humor, she notices you at the same time you notice her.

“Morning!” she chirps, her voice way too chipper for someone who clearly didn’t sleep much.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing, nodding in acknowledgment. “Morning.”

The two of you step into the elevator together, the silence stretching awkwardly between you. You steal a glance at her from the corner of your eye, wondering if she has any idea that her night of “fun” ruined yours. But then she sighs and adjusts the sleeves of Joe’s hoodie, completely unbothered, and you realize she probably doesn’t care.

The doors slide open to the lobby, and you step out first, your pace brisk as you make a beeline for the exit. But as you push through the glass doors into the bright morning sunlight, you nearly collide with none other than Joe Burrow himself.

He’s leaning against his car, coffee cup in hand, looking far too put together for someone who should be as tired as you. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, then flick over to the blonde trailing behind.

“Morning, neighbor,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.

“Morning,” you reply dryly, brushing past him toward your car.

But of course, he can’t just let it go. “Sleep well?”

You stop dead in your tracks, turning to glare at him. His smirk is infuriatingly smug, and you can’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless or just messing with you.

“Thin walls,” you say pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

His smirk falters for half a second before he recovers, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Noted.”

The blonde, oblivious to the tension, giggles. “Joe, you didn’t tell me your neighbors were so fun!”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead unlocking your car with more force than necessary. “Oh, we’re a blast,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the driver’s seat.

As you pull out of the parking lot, you catch a glimpse of Joe in your rearview mirror, still leaning against his car, watching you leave. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or curiosity—but you don’t have the energy to figure it out.

Later that afternoon, when you’re back in your apartment trying to catch up on work, Ella pops her head into the living room with a mischievous grin.

“Guess who I ran into at the coffee shop?”

You glance up warily. “Who?”

“Joe,” she says, plopping down on the couch. “He said he’s planning a little ‘building mixer’ this weekend. Invited everyone on the floor. Including us.”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the couch. “No. Absolutely not. I am not going to some Burrow-hosted mixer.”

“Oh, come on,” Ella says, nudging you with her foot. “It could be fun. Free food, free drinks… awkward encounters with your mortal enemy…”

You glare at her, but she just laughs. “You’re going,” she says firmly. “I already RSVP’d for us.”

And just like that, you realize your week is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Saturday night rolls around faster than you’d like, and with it comes the so-called “mixer” that Joe Burrow somehow convinced Ella you had to attend. You’d held onto the slim hope that it would be a small, quiet gathering of your neighbors in the building, with maybe some snacks, polite small talk, and an early exit for you.

Instead, you step off the elevator into what can only be described as chaos. The hallway is packed with people, the distant thrum of music vibrating through the walls. Someone’s yelling about finding the keg, and the faint scent of spilled beer and cologne wafts toward you.

“This is not a mixer,” you mutter to Ella as you both navigate your way through the crowd.

Ella, of course, looks thrilled. She’s dolled up in a crop top and high-waisted jeans, her hair and makeup perfectly done. “Relax,” she says, looping her arm through yours. “It’s just a party. Have a drink, let loose. Who knows? You might even have fun.”

You highly doubt that, but before you can argue, she spots Ja’Marr Chase leaning against the doorway to Joe’s apartment and perks up immediately. “I’ll catch up with you later!” she says, already untangling herself from your arm and heading toward him.

“Ella!” you call after her, but she’s too busy tossing a flirty smile Ja’Marr’s way to notice.

Great. Now you’re alone in the middle of a party that feels like half of LSU showed up to, surrounded by strangers and sticky floors. You push your way toward the kitchen, hoping to grab a drink and then find a corner to blend into until Ella decides it’s time to leave.

But, because the universe apparently loves messing with you, you hear his voice before you see him.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

You groan internally and turn to see Joe leaning against the counter, a Solo cup in hand and that ever-present smirk on his face. He’s dressed casually in a fitted t-shirt and jeans, but somehow still manages to look like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

“I’m only here because Ella dragged me,” you say, crossing your arms. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Joe chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Come on, admit it. You’re having the time of your life.”

“Yeah, sure,” you deadpan. “Sticky floors and loud music are exactly my idea of fun.”

He grins, clearly enjoying your irritation. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with me so badly, you could’ve just asked. No need to pretend Ella dragged you here.”

“I—” You stop yourself, realizing there’s no point in arguing. It’s exactly what he wants. Instead, you grab a bottle of water from the counter and turn to leave.

“Hey, hold up,” he says, stepping in front of you. “You’re not just gonna drink water all night, are you?”

“Yes, Joe, I am,” you say, trying to sidestep him, but he moves to block you.

“At least let me get you a real drink,” he says, gesturing toward the makeshift bar someone set up on the other side of the room. “I make a mean rum and Coke.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, stepping aside, but not before adding, “But you’re missing out. My bartending skills are unmatched.”

You roll your eyes and head toward the living room, finding a spot near the wall where you can observe without being dragged into the chaos. You sip your water and watch as Joe works the room, effortlessly charming everyone he talks to.

About an hour later, you’re starting to regret not leaving when Ella abandoned you. You’ve been stuck making awkward small talk with strangers, and the music is only getting louder.

Then Ella appears out of nowhere, grabbing your arm with a giggle. “Come with me,” she says, pulling you toward the corner where Joe and some of his teammates are lounging on a worn-out sectional.

“Why?” you ask, resisting her tug.

“Because Ja’Marr wants to introduce me to his friends, and I don’t want to go alone!”

You sigh, reluctantly following her over. Ja’Marr greets Ella with a grin, and she practically melts under his attention. You, on the other hand, find yourself stuck sitting next to Joe, who looks far too pleased about the arrangement.

“Miss me already?” he asks, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.

“Not even a little,” you reply, glaring at him.

He chuckles, clearly unbothered. “You’re really bad at hiding how much you enjoy my company, you know that?”

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, one of his teammates interrupts. “Yo, Burrow, who’s this?”

“This,” Joe says, gesturing toward you with a dramatic flourish, “is my lovely neighbor.”

“Neighbor, huh?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. “You two seem… close.”

You snort. “Not even remotely.”

Joe grins, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind you. “Don’t listen to her,” he says. “She’s just shy.”

You shoot him a withering look, but he only laughs, clearly enjoying himself.

As the night drags on, Joe makes it his personal mission to annoy you. Every time you try to leave, he finds a way to pull you back into the conversation, teasing you relentlessly. His teammates, to their credit, seem amused by the dynamic, occasionally chiming in with their own jokes.

By the time Ella finally decides she’s ready to leave, you’re exhausted—physically and emotionally. You practically sprint for the door, eager to escape Joe’s smirk and the endless teasing.

As you step into the hallway, he calls after you, “See you around, neighbor!”

You don’t bother responding, instead dragging Ella toward the elevator. But as you press the button for your floor, you can’t help but feel like you haven’t seen the last of Joe Burrow tonight—or any night, for that matter.

The next week at LSU passes like any other, but somehow, Joe Burrow has managed to worm his way into your daily routine. It starts small—running into him at the mailboxes, hearing his muffled laughter through the thin walls at ungodly hours, and the occasional “good morning, neighbor!” shouted across the courtyard when you’re clearly not in the mood.

It’s maddening, really, the way he seems to delight in being everywhere you don’t want him to be. And yet, despite your annoyance, you can’t deny that his presence makes life just a little more… interesting.

FRIDAY NIGHT

Ella bursts through the apartment door, her face lit up with excitement. You’re sprawled on the couch, flipping through lecture notes and wishing the week would end already.

“Guess what!” she exclaims, tossing her bag onto the counter.

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Ja’Marr invited you to another party?”

“Close,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Ja’Marr and Joe are throwing a tailgate tomorrow before the game, and we’re invited.”

You groan, already dreading the idea of spending yet another afternoon dodging Joe’s incessant teasing. “I’m busy,” you lie.

“You’re coming,” Ella insists, plopping down next to you. “It’s practically a campus tradition, and besides, you could use a little fun.”

“Fun,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling being forced to socialize with half of LSU now?”

Ella rolls her eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Food, drinks, and—” she grins mischievously—“a chance to hang out with your favorite quarterback.”

You glare at her. “Joe Burrow is not my favorite anything.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing you. “Wear something cute. We’re leaving at noon.”

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The tailgate is, unsurprisingly, a spectacle. Rows of tents stretch across the field, decked out in purple and gold, with grills smoking and music blasting. Students and alumni alike mill about, laughing and chatting as they gear up for the game.

You follow Ella through the crowd, clutching a plastic cup of soda and trying to blend in. She, of course, makes a beeline for Ja’Marr, who’s manning the grill with an ease that suggests he’s done this a thousand times.

And where there’s Ja’Marr, there’s Joe.

He spots you almost immediately, his trademark smirk spreading across his face as he waves you over. “Hey, neighbor! Glad you could make it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but he’s already stepping closer, his easy confidence making it impossible to ignore him.

“What, no hug?” he teases, holding his arms out dramatically.

“Not in this lifetime,” you reply, sidestepping him.

Ella, now fully engrossed in a conversation with Ja’Marr, leaves you to fend for yourself. You glance around, debating whether to make a run for it, but Joe blocks your path, clearly amused by your discomfort.

“You’re really bad at this whole socializing thing, aren’t you?” he says, leaning casually against the nearest table.

“Maybe I just don’t enjoy your company,” you retort, taking a sip of your drink.

He grins. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”

Before you can respond, one of his teammates calls his name, distracting him long enough for you to slip away. You find a quieter spot near the edge of the field, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background.

But, of course, Joe finds you again.

“Thought you’d try to escape, huh?” he says, appearing at your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I wasn’t escaping,” you lie, crossing your arms.

“Sure you weren’t.” He pauses, glancing at the crowd. “Not a fan of tailgates?”

“Not a fan of crowds,” you admit.

He nods, surprisingly serious for once. “Fair enough. They’re not for everyone.”

You glance at him, caught off guard by the genuine tone in his voice. It’s a rare moment of sincerity from someone who seems to live for getting under your skin.

And then, just as quickly, the moment passes.

“Still,” he says, his smirk returning, “you’ve got to admit, the food’s pretty good. Ja’Marr’s burgers? Best on campus.”

The party stretched well into the night, turning the once-bustling tailgate into a dimly lit, hazy scene of music, laughter, and scattered conversations. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated these kinds of events. The air was warm, the smell of grilled food and spilled beer thick, but for once, you weren’t faking a smile just to survive.

Instead, you were leaning against a folding chair near the makeshift DJ booth, chatting with a guy named Wes. He was a linebacker for LSU, though, by his own admission, mostly a benchwarmer. Shy, soft-spoken, and refreshingly normal, Wes wasn’t at all what you expected to find at a party like this.

“You’re telling me you’ve never been to Mike’s cage?” he asked, his voice slightly raised to be heard over the music.

You laughed. “I don’t know, it just never seemed like a big deal to me. It’s a tiger.”

His eyes widened in mock offense. “It’s not just a tiger. It’s our tiger.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’ll check it out sometime,” you said, grinning at his enthusiasm.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement, and instinctively, you glanced over. There, leaning against the bar table, was Joe.

His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on you and Wes.

The sight of his uncharacteristically cold expression sent a jolt through you. Was he annoyed? No, that didn’t make sense. He didn’t care about you, not really.

Wes was saying something about the tiger habitat, but your attention flickered back to Joe. His knuckles whitened around the edge of his red Solo cup, and he seemed to be muttering something to Ja’Marr, who only shrugged in response.

“Everything okay?” Wes asked, his brow furrowed as he followed your gaze.

You blinked, forcing yourself to refocus. “Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

Joe, however, was impossible to ignore. At one point, he stormed past your little corner of the party, brushing close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm against yours.

Wes had just finished telling a story about his first LSU practice, his nervous laughter making you smile, when Joe’s voice cut through the conversation like a jagged knife.

“Nice to see you making friends,” he said, his tone just sharp enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

You turned to find Joe standing a few feet away, his trademark smirk forced and strained. He wasn’t looking at you but at Wes, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, Burrow,” Wes said, his voice even but noticeably quieter.

Joe stepped closer, ignoring you entirely as he clapped Wes on the shoulder. “Wesley Evans, right? Linebacker extraordinaire.” His words were light, almost teasing, but there was a strange undertone to them.

“Uh, yeah,” Wes said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though ‘extraordinaire’ might be a bit of a stretch.”

Joe chuckled, his laugh cold. “Oh, come on. Don’t sell yourself short. I mean, someone’s got to keep the bench warm, right?”

The group went silent.

You froze, your stomach dropping as the words settled over the conversation like a wet blanket. Wes’s easygoing demeanor faltered for just a moment—just long enough for you to catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But he recovered quickly, letting out a forced laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.”

“Joe,” Ja’Marr said sharply, stepping forward. “That was uncalled for.”

Joe raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk faltering. “What? I was just joking.”

“No, you weren’t,” Ja’Marr said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You stared at Joe, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and confusion. What was his problem? You’d seen him tease people before, but this was something else. This was cruel.

Joe’s eyes finally flicked to yours, and for a brief second, something like regret flashed across his face. But just as quickly, he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before stalking off into the crowd.

The group stood in awkward silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said softly, turning to Wes.

He shook his head, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

But you could see the way his shoulders sagged, the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his cup.

Ja’Marr sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not usually like that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, still staring at the spot where Joe had disappeared.

Ja’Marr shot you a look but said nothing. The group eventually dispersed, the easy energy of the night soured by the encounter.

And as you followed Ella home later, you couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head, trying to piece together why Joe Burrow seemed so determined to ruin the night—not just for you, but for Wes, too.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the faint buzz of crickets and distant party music filling the air as you and Ella navigated the dimly lit sidewalks. The night had been long, and your head was still spinning from Joe’s earlier outburst. You’d always known him to be annoying, maybe even a little infuriating, but tonight was different. There was a sharpness to him, an edge that left you unsettled.

Ella broke the silence first, her voice soft. “What do you think that was about? With Joe, I mean.”

You shrugged, kicking a loose pebble down the pavement. “Who knows? Maybe he ran out of people to torture and decided to branch out.”

Ella laughed lightly but didn’t press further. By the time you reached your apartment complex, the cool night air had started to seep into your skin, making you shiver. All you could think about was collapsing into bed and forgetting this day ever happened.

But, of course, Joe Burrow had other plans.

There he was, right in front of your door, pressed up against yet another blonde, her manicured nails tangled in his hair as they made out like the world was ending.

You stopped dead in your tracks, Ella nearly bumping into you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

At the sound of your voice, Joe broke away from his hookup, turning to face you with a smirk that was equal parts shameless and infuriating.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Wes not invite you over for a post-party study session?”

Your jaw tightened. “Get out of the way, Burrow.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “What’s the rush? You don’t want to hang out? I can introduce you to…uh…” He glanced at the girl beside him, snapping his fingers as if trying to remember her name.

The blonde giggled, clearly unbothered. “Stephanie,” she offered, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Right. Stephanie,” Joe said, his grin widening.

Ella groaned softly beside you, crossing her arms. “Joe, move. We’re tired.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping aside but not before leaning casually against the doorframe, effectively blocking your path again. “But seriously, where’s Wes? Thought you two were hitting it off. Or is he back on the bench already?”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, finally losing the last shred of patience you had left.

Joe straightened up, clearly surprised by the sudden bite in your tone. “What? I’m just messing around.”

“No, you’re being a jerk,” you shot back. “First, you humiliate Wes at the party, and now you’re standing here, rubbing it in like it’s some kind of joke. What’s your problem?”

Stephanie shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between you and Joe. “Uh, maybe we should—”

“Not now,” Joe cut her off, his tone sharper than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t even look at her, his eyes locked on yours.

Stephanie’s mouth fell open in shock. “Excuse me?”

“Just go,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm.

For a moment, the three of you stood frozen, the tension hanging thick in the air. Then, with an indignant huff, Stephanie grabbed her purse and stormed off, her heels clicking angrily against the pavement.

Ella’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Wow,” she muttered under her breath.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply before turning back to you. “Happy now?”

“No,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re still here.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re acting like I committed some crime. I was just joking, okay? It’s not my fault you can’t take a little teasing.”

“Teasing?” you repeated, incredulous. “Joe, you embarrassed Wes in front of everyone tonight. And for what? To make yourself feel better? To prove you’re the big man on campus?”

His jaw clenched, the cocky facade cracking ever so slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then enlighten me,” you challenged, taking a step closer. “Why do you always have to be such an ass?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and tense. “Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting like a punch to the gut. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his door slamming echoing through the quiet hallway.

Ella let out a low whistle. “Well, that was…something.”

You stared after him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Something.”

“Did he just…?” Ella’s voice was barely a whisper beside you.

You swallowed hard, not trusting yourself to speak. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It wasn’t like Joe to be vulnerable—hell, he practically lived to get under your skin. And yet, there it was, hanging in the air: the truth you never asked for, wrapped up in all his stupid teasing and annoying antics.

“Forget it,” you finally muttered, fumbling with your keys as you moved to unlock the door. “He’s just trying to mess with me.”

“Uh-huh,” Ella said slowly, following you inside. “Because, you know, the guy who just ditched a hot blonde to argue with you at midnight clearly doesn’t care.”

You shot her a glare, unwilling to entertain the idea. “I’m going to bed.”

Ella raised her hands in surrender, smirking knowingly as she headed for her room. “Okay, but don’t act surprised when he shows up tomorrow. He’s not exactly the type to let things go.”

“Goodnight, Ella,” you said firmly, shutting your bedroom door behind you.

But as you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t get his words out of your head. Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention. Was he serious? Or was this just another game to him, a way to throw you off-balance and make you question everything?

With a frustrated sigh, you rolled over, punching your pillow as if it was somehow Joe’s fault that you couldn’t sleep. Whatever his deal was, you weren’t going to let him get under your skin any more than he already had.

But deep down, you knew it was too late. Because whether you liked it or not, Joe Burrow had already wormed his way into your thoughts—and no amount of denial was going to change that.

The next morning, you woke up to a series of loud knocks on your door, far too early for any sane person to be awake. Groaning, you pulled the covers over your head, but the knocking continued, persistent and unrelenting.

“Go away!” you yelled, but the noise didn’t stop.

With a huff, you threw off the blankets and stumbled out of bed, yanking open the door with every intention of giving whoever it was a piece of your mind.

But, of course, it was Joe.

He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just woken you up at the crack of dawn, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Morning, neighbor.”

You stared at him, too stunned and too tired to muster a response.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” he said, his tone annoyingly chipper.

“I wasn’t,” you snapped, rubbing your eyes. “What the hell do you want?”

His smile widened, and he held up a to-go coffee cup, the LSU logo bright against the paper sleeve. “Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

You blinked at the cup, then at him, suspicion rising. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said, still holding it out. “Just coffee. Truce?”

You hesitated, the words from last night still lingering between you. But, against your better judgment, you reached for the cup, your fingers brushing his for a brief second. “Fine. Truce. For now.”

His eyes gleamed, like he’d just won some kind of invisible battle. “I’ll take it.” He turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way—I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing in the doorway with a coffee cup in hand and the distinct feeling that, somehow, things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Things between you and Wes have been going really well. You’ve been texting each other daily since that first meeting in the quad, and his messages always seem to bring a smile to your face. Some days, you talk about classes and the usual college chaos—complaining about professors who seem to thrive on assigning last-minute papers, laughing over campus gossip, or sharing music recommendations.

Other days, the conversations drift into deeper topics: family, future dreams, and the things you never thought you’d share with someone you’d barely known a few weeks ago. It's easy, effortless, and you feel like you've known him forever. There's a connection that grows stronger with each passing day, his texts becoming a constant you look forward to amid the swirl of college life.

When game days roll around, you make sure to watch, even if football has never been your thing. You learn enough of the basics to text him encouragement before each game and tease him when his team makes a stupid play. And every single time he wins, you get a photo of him in his jersey, sweaty and glowing with victory, his smile so wide you can feel it through the screen.

One crisp Saturday evening after a particularly big game—a win that had the entire stadium roaring and chanting for more—your phone buzzes. It’s Wes, as expected, but this time the message is different.

Wes: Big win tonight. You should come out to celebrate—party at the house. It'll be fun, promise.

You hesitate for a moment. Frat parties aren’t usually your scene, but the idea of seeing Wes in person after weeks of building up this text-based connection makes your heart beat a little faster. It feels like the right time to finally break out of the comfort of your phone screen. You don’t want to overthink it, so you respond quickly.

You: Okay, I’ll come! What time? Wes: Perfect. Starts at 9, but I’ll be there around 10. Meet me out front? I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.

You can’t help but laugh at that—his protective side has become more apparent lately, and you find it kind of endearing. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of anticipation. You try on half your wardrobe, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness that makes your stomach flutter. After way too much deliberation, you settle on something that’s cute but comfortable—a black crop top, jeans that fit just right, and your favorite sneakers. Casual, but you don’t want to come off like you’re trying too hard.

The party was in full swing by the time you and Wes went in, the familiar buzz of laughter and music filling the air. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders as you made your way through the packed house, a red solo cup already in his hand. It was a typical LSU post-game celebration—teammates hyped up from their win, students eager for a reason to cut loose, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

Wes, ever the golden retriever type, was all smiles as he greeted his teammates. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as you plastered on your own smile. Wes was great—sweet, thoughtful, and good-looking to boot—but there was something missing. Conversations with him always felt a little too polished, like he was sticking to a script.

Still, you weren’t going to let your wandering thoughts ruin the night. As he led you toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen, you decided to let loose a little, leaning into his world for the evening.

You were two drinks in when you felt it—a shift in the air that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Glancing across the room, your eyes locked with Joe’s. He was leaning casually against the wall, his cup dangling from his fingers as he laughed at something Ja’Marr said. But his focus wasn’t on his teammate—it was on you.

That look.

You’d seen it before, the one that screamed I’m up to something. Your stomach twisted as his lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“What’s wrong?” Wes asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

Wes didn’t notice your distraction, too busy rambling about the game. You nodded along, but your attention kept drifting back to Joe. He was still watching, and now he was moving.

Straight toward you.

“Wesley,” Joe said, his voice louder than necessary as he clapped a hand on Wes’s shoulder. “Man of the hour! Hell of a game tonight.”

Wes beamed, his chest puffing out a little. “Thanks, Burrow. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Joe said smoothly, his grin sharpening. “You’re really making a name for yourself out there.” He paused, his tone dipping just enough to make the compliment feel off. “You’ve got a solid five minutes of playing time this season, right?”

Wes laughed, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Yeah, Coach says I’m improving every week.”

Joe nodded, his expression the picture of sincerity. “No doubt. You’re an inspiration, man. Really showing the bench how it’s done.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back the urge to step in. Wes didn’t deserve to be Joe’s verbal punching bag, even if he was too oblivious to notice.

Then Joe shifted his focus.

“And this,” he said, gesturing toward you with his cup, “is the girl everyone’s been talking about?”

You stiffened, already bracing yourself.

“She’s great, right?” Wes said proudly, tightening his arm around your waist.

“Absolutely,” Joe said, his eyes locking on yours. “Smart, pretty, patient.” His lips twitched as he added, “Definitely one of a kind.”

The room felt hotter, smaller. You knew what he was doing, and you refused to let him win.

“Wow, Joe,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “That’s almost a compliment. Are you feeling okay?”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy.”

Wes chuckled awkwardly, clearly missing the tension simmering between the two of you. But the people around you weren’t as oblivious. Conversations around the kitchen began to quiet, heads subtly turning in your direction.

Joe leaned in slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Though I gotta say, Wes, you’ve got your hands full. She seems like the type to keep you on your toes. Always ready with a snappy comeback.”

You took a step forward, your jaw tightening. “Maybe because some people deserve it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re talking about me,” Joe said, his smirk widening. “But hey, you’ve got to admit, I keep things interesting.”

“Interesting?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You mean infuriating.”

By now, you were toe-to-toe, the space between you charged with unspoken words and something else you refused to acknowledge.

Joe’s eyes flicked down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he smiled again, softer this time. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you were certain everyone in the room could see the way your cheeks flushed, the way your chest rose and fell faster than it should have.

Joe straightened, patting Wes on the back. “You’ve got a good one here, man. Don’t screw it up.”

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing back into the crowd with that stupid smirk still on his face.

Wes turned to you, oblivious as ever. “Man, Joe’s great, isn’t he?”

You didn’t answer, too busy trying to calm the storm raging inside you. Because as much as you hated to admit it, Joe Burrow had just gotten under your skin again. And this time, you weren’t sure you could shake him off.

The days blur together after the party, each one bleeding into the next with a heavy quiet you can’t shake. Joe hasn’t teased you, hasn’t made any more snide comments in passing. It’s almost like he’s disappeared entirely, and the silence he’s left behind feels suffocating.

But it's not the kind of peace you wanted—it's the kind that echoes, that bounces around inside your skull, replaying the things he said over and over again until you can’t ignore them anymore. You try to focus on Wes, try to let his easygoing, good-natured attitude soothe the irritation that keeps curling under your skin, but the more you think about Joe’s words, the more they fester. Suddenly, everything about Wes feels too soft, too careful. He’s kind, yes, but there's a blandness to it, a safe predictability that only makes you itch for something sharper.

Then, days later, you find yourself in the apartment lobby, bundled up against the late autumn chill, glaring at a maintenance form on the wall. The hot water’s been out for days, and you’re halfway through filling out a complaint when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is—the shift in the air is enough.

"Wow, fancy meeting you here," comes Joe’s voice, smooth and mocking, with just enough bite to make your spine stiffen. You don’t turn around, don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you keep writing, the pen pressing hard enough against the paper that it almost tears.

"Cold water bothering you too?" he continues when you don’t respond, his tone amused. You can feel him looming behind you, a little too close, and you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stay calm.

"Just trying to get it fixed," you reply curtly, finally turning around and catching the cocky smirk tugging at his lips. You’re not in the mood for whatever game he’s about to play, but of course, he’s not about to let you off that easy. His gaze slides from the form in your hand back up to your face, one eyebrow quirking up in that infuriating way that always makes you want to wipe the smugness off his face.

"Surprised you’re handling it yourself," Joe drawls, his eyes bright with something almost like delight. "Thought you'd get your little boyfriend to do it for you."

Your fingers tighten around the pen, and you force yourself to take a breath, ignoring the way your pulse quickens. "Not everything revolves around Wes," you shoot back, but your voice wavers just enough to make Joe’s smirk widen. His eyes flick over your face, and you hate the way he seems to read every expression, every crack in the mask you’re struggling to hold up.

"Really?" he says, the word heavy with skepticism. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall like he’s settling in for a show. "Could’ve fooled me. He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, huh? I bet you’re the perfect, supportive girlfriend." His voice drips with sarcasm, and something inside you snaps.

"Shut up, Joe," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. You turn back to the form, determined to ignore him, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he leans in closer, his breath warm on your ear.

"Why?" he murmurs, his voice soft but taunting, like he’s got all the time in the world. "Hit a nerve?"

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because the truth is, he did hit a nerve. And he knows it.

"Come on," he pushes, a note of genuine curiosity in his tone now. "Don’t you ever get tired of it? Playing nice, doing everything right, sticking with someone who’s… I dunno, safe?"

You spin around, eyes blazing, and Joe’s face lights up with triumph. "You don’t know anything about him," you snap, but there’s a waver in your voice that makes Joe’s eyes narrow with interest. "Wes is kind, and he’s decent, and he actually cares about people, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you."

Joe’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it only grows wider, almost wolfish, and you hate that it sends a thrill through you, a charge that leaves your heart racing. "Yeah," he says, his tone almost pitying, "he’s safe. Boring. He’s exactly the kind of guy who’d never get in your way, never challenge you, never push back. And you’re happy with that? Really?"

You glare at him, your blood boiling, but you can’t look away. Because some part of you—the part you’ve been trying to silence for days—knows he’s right, and it makes you want to scream. "What the hell is your problem, Joe?" you demand, your voice shaking with anger. "Why do you even care? What does it matter to you if I’m with him or not?"

For a moment, something flickers in Joe’s eyes, something you can’t quite read, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that infuriating smirk. "I don’t care," he says, too quickly, his voice a little too smooth. "I just think it’s funny, that’s all. Watching you pretend like he’s enough for you."

You step closer without realizing it, your fists clenched at your sides. "You don’t know what you’re talking about," you insist, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. Joe’s gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and you feel a jolt of something hot and dangerous twist in your stomach.

"Don’t I?" he murmurs, and suddenly, you’re standing toe-to-toe, your breath mingling with his, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his smirk softens just enough to be dangerous.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

There’s a beat, a moment suspended in time where it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of you, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air. Then, suddenly, Joe’s expression shifts, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face as he leans back, breaking the spell. He claps you on the shoulder, his touch light but lingering.

"Good talk," he says, his tone infuriatingly cheerful as he pushes past you towards the elevator, leaving you standing there, breathless and rattled.

"Have fun with Wes," he throws over his shoulder, and the door slides shut behind him before you can find the words to reply. You’re left staring at the closed elevator doors, your chest heaving and your hands still trembling around the pen, the echoes of Joe’s taunting voice ricocheting in your mind.

And for the first time in days, the silence feels even louder.

The days drag by, and every one of them feels heavier, weighed down by Joe's words. They hang over you, echoing whenever you try to ignore them, seeping into your thoughts when you're with Wes. The way he holds your hand, the way he smiles politely at your jokes, the way he never raises his voice or teases you too hard—it’s all safe. It’s what you thought you wanted. But now, thanks to Joe, it’s all starting to feel empty, like a shell with nothing inside.

As if to make matters worse, Joe's been louder, more present, and more irritating than ever. He’s upped his game, bringing a new girl home almost every night, the kind who giggle just a little too loud in the stairwell, whose heels click sharply against the tile floors, waking you and Ella up in the middle of the night. You hear them laughing through the paper-thin walls, their voices carrying long after you wish they’d shut up. Ella throws a pillow at the wall one night, groaning in frustration, but you just lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, the annoyance mixing with something else—something you refuse to name.

And then Wes’s birthday sneaks up on you, like a storm you’d been pretending not to see on the horizon. Everyone's talking about it—the party of the semester, hosted at his parents’ mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. You know it’s a big deal. Wes’s parents are the kind who throw events instead of parties, the kind where everyone’s wearing their best, and you’d feel out of place if you weren’t on Wes’s arm. You spend way too long picking out your dress, ignoring Ella’s teasing smile as you change twice and then settle on something classy, something you think Wes’s parents will approve of.

The mansion is even more extravagant than you expected. Tall, stately, and glowing with warm light spilling from every window. A string quartet plays softly near the entrance, and there’s enough champagne to drown in. It’s a perfect picture of Southern elegance, the kind of party where everyone’s on their best behavior and no one dares spill a drink on the white marble floors.

You’re almost able to relax, standing with Wes as he introduces you to old friends and relatives, his arm around your waist like you’re some kind of prize. But then, from across the room, you catch sight of someone familiar stepping through the grand double doors, and the air goes still.

Joe. And he’s not alone.

On his arm is a girl who looks like she’s stepped straight out of a beauty magazine—perfect curls cascading down her back, a dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, and a pageant smile that could light up the whole room. She’s everything you’re not: polished, pristine, and undeniably beautiful. And Joe’s leaning in close to her, whispering something that makes her laugh, the sound light and carefree, echoing above the music.

Your heart sinks. You should have known he’d be here. You should have known he’d show up with someone like her.

The moment he walks in, it’s like the temperature drops. You feel him scan the room, his gaze sliding over the crowd until it lands on you. There’s a flicker of recognition, a half-smile that tugs at his lips, and for a second, you swear he’s going to make a beeline for you, but then he turns to his date, all easy charm and confidence.

You look away quickly, swallowing down the hot, bitter twinge of jealousy that rises in your chest. Beside you, Wes is oblivious, laughing with some cousin or another, completely unaware of the storm that’s building in your mind.

The party moves on, but you can't shake the weight in your chest. Every time you turn around, Joe is there—always in your peripheral, laughing with his date or effortlessly sliding into conversations with people he’s never met, commanding attention without even trying. And it’s driving you mad. You hate that he’s here, hate the way his presence seems to seep into every corner of the room, hate that you can’t stop looking for him, even when you don’t mean to.

Wes’s parents announce dinner, and you find yourself at a long table, perfectly set with silverware that you don’t even know how to use properly. Wes is on your left, chatting away, and you force yourself to smile and nod at the right moments, though your gaze keeps drifting over his shoulder. Joe is at the far end of the table, but his eyes meet yours—bright and full of something that feels like a challenge. He raises his glass in your direction, and you don’t miss the way his date practically glows under his attention, leaning into his side.

You grit your teeth, focusing on Wes, who’s completely unaware of the way your stomach is twisting. He’s sweet, attentive, a perfect gentleman, and you wish you could ignore the itch under your skin, the restlessness that grows with each passing minute. But it’s there, burning hotter every time you catch sight of Joe, laughing too loud or leaning in too close to whisper in his date's ear.

By the time dessert is served, you’re practically vibrating with frustration, and Wes’s voice is starting to blur into the background. He’s telling some long-winded story about his summer at the family lake house, but all you can think about is how easy it would be to just walk over to the other end of the table and—

“Hey, you alright?” Wes’s voice breaks through your thoughts, and you force yourself to focus on him, pasting on a smile that feels hollow.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, reaching for your glass of champagne and taking a sip that burns all the way down. He seems satisfied, squeezing your hand gently under the table, but his touch feels distant, almost suffocating.

And when you glance back at Joe, he’s watching you, his smile sharper than you remember. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes your skin prickle, like he’s waiting for something, like he knows exactly what kind of game he’s playing. His date is still chattering away, oblivious to the way his gaze keeps flicking back to you, like a tether he can’t quite cut loose.

You look away, your face heating, and try to drown out the feeling with another sip of champagne. But it's no use. The night has only just begun, and you already know—it’s going to be a long one.

You escape upstairs, the noise of the party fading as you climb the grand, spiraling staircase. It’s quieter up here, with the muted sound of conversation and laughter drifting up from below, and you can finally breathe a little easier. You’re not even sure what you’re doing—just that you need a break from the suffocating conversation, the polished smiles, and the feeling of being watched. Wes is deep in conversation with a teammate, and it was easy enough to slip away unnoticed. You tell yourself you're only going to the bathroom, but you don’t even bother finding one. You just wander down the hall, hoping to collect yourself, to calm the thudding in your chest.

But then, of course, you see him.

Joe, leaning lazily against the wall at the end of the hallway, like he’s been waiting for you. There’s no sign of his date—she’s probably downstairs, lost in the crowd—but Joe’s here, and he looks too damn comfortable, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He gives you that infuriating half-smirk the second your eyes meet, like he’s been expecting you. Like he knows you’re going to stop.

“Lost?” he drawls, his voice a low, lazy tease, and you freeze, every muscle in your body going tense.

“No,” you snap, hating the way your heart skips when he pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. “Just getting some air.”

“From Wes?” he asks, eyebrows raising, and you can hear the taunt in his tone, the way he draws out the name like it’s a joke. “Or from this whole perfect little party of his?”

“None of your business,” you shoot back, but he’s closer now, and you hate how your breath catches, how the air between you feels thick and electric. He’s looking at you like he’s stripping away all the layers you’ve put up—the polite smiles, the careful charm—and seeing straight through to the part of you that’s restless and hungry for a fight.

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate. “Or if you’re just playing the role of ‘good girlfriend’ to make everyone happy.”

“Shut up, Joe,” you warn, but your voice is weaker than you want it to be, and he notices. Of course he notices. He takes another step, and suddenly he’s way too close, the heat of him radiating into the space between you, making it harder to breathe.

“Or is it that Wes is just…too boring for you?” he presses, and something snaps. You step forward, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble back a step, anger flaring white-hot in your chest.

“Why do you care?” you demand, your voice rising. “Why do you always have to ruin everything? You can’t stand seeing me happy, can you? You always have to get in the way—”

“Oh, please,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp with irritation. “Don’t act like I’m the one ruining things. You’re the one who can’t stop looking at me. You’re the one who’s pretending this perfect little relationship is enough for you.”

You don’t even think. You just react, stepping closer, your chest heaving with the force of your anger, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You don’t know anything about me!” you shout, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them. “You don’t know what I want or what I need, so stop pretending like you have me all figured out!”

He’s laughing now, a low, mocking sound that sets your teeth on edge, and you want to hit him, to scream, to do something to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face. But then he’s had enough. Suddenly, he moves, quick as a flash, and before you can even blink, he’s grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you up as if you weigh nothing, throwing you over his shoulder in one swift, effortless motion.

“Put me down!” you shout, struggling against him, but he just tightens his grip, carrying you down the hall like you’re some kind of rag doll. Your fists beat uselessly against his back, and you’re half-cursing, half-panicking as he ignores you, kicking open the nearest door and stepping inside.

The door slams shut behind him, and you barely register the darkened room—a guest bedroom, dimly lit by the moonlight streaming through the curtains—before he’s setting you down, pressing you up against the wall with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. You’re too stunned to move, your back hitting the cold plaster, and suddenly his body is pinning you there, his hands on either side of your face, caging you in.

“Finally shut you up,” he mutters, his voice rough, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the way his breath brushes your cheek, hot and fast. His eyes are dark, burning with something you’ve never seen before, and the space between you feels like it’s crackling, alive with an energy that makes your skin prickle and your pulse race.

“Why do you have to be such a—” you start, but he cuts you off, leaning in closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his chest pressing against yours. His mouth is inches from yours, his lips twisting into a wicked smile.

“Go on,” he taunts, his voice low and dangerous. “Say it. Tell me what you really think.”

You’re breathing hard, your anger warring with something hotter, something that’s been building between you for months, and you can’t stop yourself. “You’re an asshole,” you spit, your hands coming up to shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. He just leans in, his nose brushing against yours, the air between you thick and suffocating.

“And you,” he says softly, his voice almost gentle, “are a liar.”

You don’t know who moves first—whether it’s him closing the distance or you surging up to meet him—but suddenly his mouth is on yours, hard and desperate, and you’re kissing him back like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted. The kiss is furious, full of all the things you can’t say, all the frustration and the longing and the anger that’s been building up for so long it feels like it’s going to explode. His hands are in your hair, his grip almost painful, and you’re clinging to him, pulling him closer, gasping into his mouth as he presses you harder against the wall.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispers against your lips, his breath ragged, and you shake your head, too far gone to think, to lie, to do anything but pull him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shut up,” you breathe, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he kisses you again, deeper this time, slower, like he’s savoring the taste of your surrender. The room feels too small, the air too thick, and you know you should stop, you know this is wrong, but you can’t, not when his hands are sliding down your sides, not when his body is pressing into yours, not when he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

And then, suddenly, it’s too much. You push him away, your breath coming in short, harsh gasps, and he lets you go, stepping back with a grin that’s all arrogance and triumph. Your lips feel swollen, your face flushed, and you hate that you can’t stop looking at him, that you want more even though you know you shouldn’t.

“See?” he says softly, his voice maddeningly smug. “I do know you.”

The words barely have time to leave his mouth before you’re on him again, shoving him away from you, your hands hitting his chest with more force than you intend. He stumbles back a step, a flash of surprise crossing his face before his eyes harden, that infuriating grin vanishing. You’re both breathing hard, the air between you heavy with everything unspoken, with all the sharp words that have been building up since the day you met.

“You don’t know anything!” you snap, your voice cracking, and he just laughs, a short, humorless sound that makes your blood boil.

“You keep saying that,” he shoots back, his voice low and dangerous, “but here you are. Every time, it’s the same thing. You want me to stop? Then say it. Tell me to leave.”

You open your mouth to say exactly that, to tell him to go to hell and stay out of your life, but the words won’t come. They catch in your throat, tangled up with the truth you can’t face, and he sees it. He always sees it. His gaze softens, something like understanding flickering in those dark eyes, and it pisses you off more than anything.

“See?” he murmurs, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You can’t. Because you don’t want me to.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but it’s too late—he’s already crowding into your space, his hand curling around the back of your neck, tilting your face up to his. You hate him for the way he’s looking at you, like he’s unraveling you with a single glance, like he knows exactly how to break you down, and before you can stop yourself, you’re surging up, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him again, harder this time, angrier.

His arms come around you instantly, pulling you closer, and you hate that it feels good, that it feels right, even as you’re pushing against him, your nails digging into his shoulders. It’s a mess of teeth and tongues, the kiss desperate and furious, and you’re drowning in it, in the heat of him, in the way his fingers are tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

Then the door swings open, and you both jerk apart, your breaths coming in ragged, uneven pants. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you see Ja’Marr standing there, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. He looks at you, then at Joe, and lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

“Really, Joe?” he says, his voice laced with disappointment. “In the middle of Wes’s birthday party? Do you have a death wish or something?”

“Calm down,” Joe says coolly, like he’s not the least bit bothered, his gaze still fixed on you, as if daring you to run. “We were just talking.”

“Yeah,” Ja’Marr scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Talking, right. Because making out with your teammate’s girl is totally a normal conversation.”

You feel your cheeks burn, and you step back, smoothing down your clothes like you can erase what just happened. “This—this was nothing,” you stammer, trying to ignore the way Joe’s lips curl into a smirk at your flustered tone. “We’re done here.”

Joe just gives you a lazy, almost triumphant smile, like he’s won some unspoken battle, and turns to Ja’Marr with a shrug. “She’s got a mind of her own, you know,” he says, and you want to punch him, to scream, but Ja’Marr just shakes his head, looking equal parts disappointed and resigned.

“Whatever,” Ja’Marr mutters, grabbing Joe’s arm and pulling him out into the hallway. “You need to get your act together. Wes is going to notice if you keep pulling this crap.”

Joe’s eyes flick to you one last time, something unreadable in his expression, before he lets Ja’Marr drag him away. The door clicks shut behind them, and you’re left alone in the darkened room, your heart racing and your thoughts spinning out of control. You know you should follow them, that you should go back downstairs and pretend like nothing happened, but your knees feel weak, and it takes you a long moment to gather yourself, to steady your breathing.

By the time you make your way back down to the party, your face feels numb, and you’ve forced on the brightest smile you can muster. Joe is already back in the thick of things, his arm slung casually around his date’s waist, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. You want to be angry, to hate him for making it look so easy, but then Wes catches sight of you, his eyes lighting up as he excuses himself from his conversation.

“Hey, there you are!” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. You try to smile, but it feels fake, like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore. “Where’d you disappear to?”

“Just needed a minute,” you say, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. You’re about to say something else, anything to fill the awkward silence, when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

Joe’s watching you, his gaze flicking from your face to your mouth, and that’s when you realize—his lips are still stained with the faintest trace of your lipstick, a dark, telltale smear at the corner of his mouth.

Wes follows your gaze, and his smile falters, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Joe, what’s on your—”

But Joe cuts in smoothly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin widening as if he finds the whole thing hilarious. “Guess I got a little carried away,” he says, his voice dripping with mock innocence, and you feel the ground sway beneath you as Wes’s arm tightens around your shoulders, his confusion shifting to suspicion.

“What’s he talking about?” Wes asks, his eyes narrowing, and you open your mouth to respond, to deny, to do something—but nothing comes out. Your voice has abandoned you, and all you can do is stand there, frozen, as Joe’s smirk deepens and he lifts his drink in a mocking toast, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Good party,” Joe says casually, his tone almost friendly. “Really enjoyed myself.”

You don’t remember what happens next—just the blur of faces, the noise of the party swelling around you, and the hollow ache settling deep in your chest as Joe turns away, laughing with someone else, like he hasn’t just blown everything to pieces.

Wes's smile is strained when he pulls you aside, away from the music and the crowd. There’s a tightness around his eyes you haven’t seen before, something almost defeated, and for the first time that night, you feel a genuine pang of guilt. This is the part you were dreading—the confrontation, the disappointment in his eyes. But instead of yelling, instead of demanding an explanation, he just looks... tired.

“Hey,” he starts softly, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t wanna make a scene, okay? But I think... I think maybe you should go.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat. There’s no anger in his voice, just resignation, like he already knows the answer before you can even try to lie. You can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.

“Wes, I—” you begin, but he holds up a hand, a weak, defeated smile pulling at his lips.

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, and there’s something achingly kind in his voice, which somehow makes it hurt more. “I think we both know this... isn’t what you want. Not really.”

You feel relief flood your chest so suddenly that it’s almost nauseating, and that’s how you know he’s right. Because instead of being devastated, instead of scrambling to explain yourself, you just feel lighter. Like a weight you didn’t realize you were carrying has finally been lifted.

You reach out to touch his arm, but he steps back, shaking his head. “Don’t,” he says quietly, and you let your hand drop, nodding numbly. There’s nothing left to say. You don’t try to apologize; you don’t try to make excuses. You just turn and leave, the buzz of the party fading behind you as you slip out the front door, the cold night air hitting you like a slap.

The walk back to the apartment feels like a blur, your mind whirling with everything that just happened, everything you don’t want to think about. You don’t know if it’s the relief of being free from something you never truly wanted, or the shame of how it all went down, but by the time you reach your building, your hands are trembling and your breath is hitching.

You let yourself into the apartment, your eyes already burning with unshed tears, and you find Ella curled up on the couch, half-asleep in front of the TV. The moment she sees your face, though, she sits up, worry creasing her brow.

“Whoa, what happened?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, but you don’t even know where to begin.

“Everything,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and then it all spills out. You tell her everything—about Joe, about the kiss, about Wes’s sad, tired smile and the way he let you go without a fight. You’re talking so fast you’re stumbling over your words, your emotions a chaotic tangle of regret and relief and frustration, and by the time you’re finished, you feel completely wrung out.

Ella listens without interrupting, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief to sympathy as you pour your heart out. When you finally go quiet, she just sighs and pulls you into a hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and you don’t realize how much you needed to hear that until the tears start falling. She doesn’t tell you that you screwed up, she doesn’t lecture you about Joe, she just holds you while you cry, rubbing soothing circles on your back until the tears run dry.

By the time you pull away, your throat is raw, and you’re exhausted. Ella doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look that says she understands, that she’s on your side no matter what, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.

But then, just as you’re wiping your eyes and trying to compose yourself, you hear it—a loud burst of laughter echoing through the thin wall you share with Joe’s apartment. It’s followed by the high-pitched giggle of a girl, and your stomach twists. Of course. Of course.

Ella catches the look on your face and scowls. “He’s such an ass,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You want me to go bang on the wall and tell them to shut up?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s... it’s fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

You don’t even believe yourself, but you can’t deal with Joe right now, not after everything. So you go to your room, shut the door, and try to block out the noise. You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself it’s over. But sleep doesn’t come easily, and all you can hear is Joe’s voice in your head, his mocking words echoing long after the sounds from next door have finally gone quiet.

Over the next few days, you try to fall back into a routine, but everything feels off-kilter. Wes doesn’t text you, and you don’t reach out, letting the silence stretch between you until it feels like a mutual understanding—something that was always going to happen. Ella hovers, supportive but careful not to push, and you appreciate that. You just need space, time to sort through everything.

Joe, however, is a different story.

You barely see him around the complex, but when you do, it’s impossible to ignore him. He’s still bringing home girls—more than ever, it seems—and they’re always loud, obnoxiously so, like he’s doing it on purpose, like he’s rubbing it in your face. And maybe he is. Maybe this is his way of proving a point, of showing you that he doesn’t care, that he never cared, and the worst part is... you don’t know if you care either. Or maybe you care too much.

One night, after a particularly sleepless stretch of listening to laughter and footsteps pounding through the walls, Ella finds you staring blankly at the ceiling, dark circles smudged beneath your eyes.

“He’s doing this on purpose, you know,” she says bluntly, her tone halfway between irritation and pity. “He’s trying to get to you.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, rolling over to face the wall. “It’s working.”

Wes’s birthday party fades into memory, and a few weeks pass. It’s easier to pretend you don’t care when you don’t have to face the fallout. You focus on classes, avoid places where you might run into Joe, and try to ignore the way your heart sinks every time you hear his voice next door.

Then, one Friday night, there’s a knock on your door. You’re half expecting Ella’s latest Tinder date or a package, but instead, you find Joe leaning against the doorframe, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. There’s something almost hesitant about the way he looks at you, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.

“Hey,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, and it catches you off guard.

“What do you want?” you ask, and you hate how defensive you sound, how you can’t help but put a wall between you.

Joe’s eyes flicker, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing down the hallway before he looks back at you. “Can we talk?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s asking because he wants to or because he thinks he has to. “Please?”

You hesitate, every part of you screaming to slam the door in his face, to tell him to go to hell. “Talk?” you echo, as though the very idea is laughable. “What’s there to talk about, Joe?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his hands still deep in his pockets. “I just—” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. For once, he doesn’t look cocky or composed. He looks tired. “I screwed up, okay? I know that. And I just… I want to make things right.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Now you care about making things right? Weeks later? Where was this when you were busy humiliating me in front of everyone at Wes’s party?”

Joe flinches, and the sight of it sends a small, mean thrill through you. You want him to feel every ounce of the anger and hurt that’s been simmering inside you since that night.

“I was drunk,” he mutters, like it’s an excuse. “You know I didn’t mean half the shit I said.”

“Oh, so you only mean half of it?” Your voice rises despite yourself, and you take a step closer. “Which half, Joe? The part where you said Wes was too good for me? Or the part where you implied I’m some kind of charity case?”

Joe groans, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s not what I meant! You’re twisting it—”

“I’m twisting it?” Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “No, Joe. I’m finally calling you out on your crap. You think you can just waltz in here, throw out a half-assed apology, and I’m supposed to forget how you treated me? Newsflash: I’m done being your punching bag.”

“Punching bag?” His voice spikes, and you can see his patience starting to fray. “Are you kidding me? You think I don’t care about you? That I’d say that stuff to hurt you on purpose?”

“Then why did you say it?” you snap, stepping closer until you’re almost toe to toe. “Why, Joe? If you care so much, why do you always find a way to make me feel like I’m not enough?”

He stares at you, his jaw tightening, his chest rising and falling as he tries to keep his temper in check. But then he snaps, his voice loud enough to make you flinch. “Because you drive me crazy, alright? You’re in my head all the damn time, and it’s like I can’t think straight when I’m around you!”

You’re stunned into silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with something electric, something you can’t name but can feel in every nerve of your body.

Joe’s eyes are blazing, his chest heaving as he takes a step closer. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to feel like this about you? I didn’t, okay? But I do. And it scares the hell out of me.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “Joe…”

He shakes his head, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m sorry, alright? For all of it. I just—I didn’t know how to deal with this, with you.”

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you is gone. Joe’s hands are on your arms, his grip firm but not rough, and you’re looking up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

Joe doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let the anger rise again. He stays close, his hands still resting on your arms, his grip grounding and firm. His gaze softens, something vulnerable breaking through the tension in his voice.

“You think I like being the guy who gets under your skin?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s no bite to it now. Only honesty. “You think I enjoy pissing you off just for fun?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift, the rawness in his tone. “Don’t you?”

Joe lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “No. That’s just the only way you ever seem to notice me.” His words hit like a punch to the gut, and your breath hitches. “If I’m not in your face, annoying the hell out of you, it’s like I don’t even exist to you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He’s too quick, too honest, and you don’t have a defense ready for the truth.

“That’s why I invite them over,” he continues, and there’s no cockiness in the admission. Just exhaustion. “Those girls, the loud music, the stupid games—it’s not because I want them. It’s because I’m trying to get you to see me. To pay attention. Even if it’s just so you can yell at me.”

Your stomach twists, a lump forming in your throat. You want to stay mad, to cling to your anger like a shield, but it’s slipping through your fingers. Joe doesn’t stop; he steps closer, so close now that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“I don’t know how else to get through to you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tired, okay? I’m tired of pretending like I don’t care when I do. So much more than I should.”

Your breath catches, and your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. You don’t know what to say, what to feel. Joe watches you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, his hesitation palpable. And then, before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.

It’s not rough or demanding like you might have expected. It’s soft, tentative, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His hands slide from your arms to your waist, anchoring you gently, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds back.

For a moment, you freeze, torn between the urge to push him away and the overwhelming need to lean into him. But then your walls crack, and you kiss him back, your hands clutching at the front of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Joe pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. His breathing is unsteady, his expression a mix of relief and something deeper. Without a word, he steps forward, his hands tightening around your waist as he gently pushes you through the door.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then sweeps you off your feet in one swift, effortless motion. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you down the hall toward your bedroom.

“Joe…” you begin, but he silences you with a look—a look so tender, so unlike the Joe you thought you knew, that your words die on your lips.

By the time he lays you down on the bed, the anger and frustration from moments ago have evaporated, replaced by something else entirely. Something that hums between you like a live wire.

He hovers over you, his weight supported by his arms on either side of your head. His eyes search yours, silently asking for permission, for understanding. And when you nod, so small and uncertain, he dips his head to kiss you again, this time deeper, more sure of himself.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging gently as he trails his lips down your jaw, your neck, every touch making your pulse race. He’s careful, almost reverent, as if afraid to break the fragile moment you’re sharing.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—Joe Burrow isn’t the selfish, cocky guy you thought he was. Maybe, behind all the bravado, he’s just a boy who wanted you to see him. And now, you finally do.

Joe’s lips trail along the curve of your neck, leaving a warm, electric path in their wake. He takes his time, his breath hot against your skin, and every deliberate touch makes your pulse thunder louder in your ears.

His hands glide over your waist, fingers pressing lightly, almost teasing as they trace the hem of your shirt. You feel his smile against your neck when you squirm slightly beneath him, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “No more yelling? No smart remarks?”

You swallow hard, trying to find some semblance of control, but the way his hands move, the way his lips hover so close yet don’t quite touch, leaves you breathless. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say to you right now,” you shoot back, though your voice wavers.

Joe chuckles, lifting his head to look at you, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his thumb brushing over the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’ve always got something to say to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off.”

You glare at him, but it’s half-hearted, your resolve crumbling as he dips his head again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I like it when you get all fired up,” he whispers, his tone teasing. “But I think I like this quiet side of you even more.”

You huff, trying to ignore the way your body betrays you, leaning into him despite yourself. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Joe smirks, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand slides under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin, and you shiver at the contact. “Maybe,” he admits, his tone smug, “but you’re still here, aren’t you?”

You want to retort, to wipe that cocky grin off his face, but before you can, he shifts his weight, his lips capturing yours again. This time, the kiss is slower, deeper, and you feel the teasing edge in his movements as he kisses you until you forget whatever comeback you had planned.

His fingers inch higher, tracing light patterns on your stomach, deliberately avoiding the places where you want him most. It’s infuriating, how easily he has you unraveling, and when he pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, you let out an exasperated groan.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, tugging at his shirt in frustration.

Joe leans down, his nose brushing against yours, his lips curling into a playful grin. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

He shifts again, his hands sliding up to frame your face as he kisses you once more. His lips are soft but insistent, drawing you in until all you can focus on is him—his weight pressing you into the mattress, the warmth of his skin, the way his touch sets every nerve in your body alight.

“Say the word,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft but laced with a challenge. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You stare up at him, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. But the word never comes. Instead, you pull him down again, your fingers threading through his hair as you kiss him with all the pent-up frustration, anger, and longing that’s been building between you for weeks.

Joe groans softly, his hands sliding down your sides, his teasing touch giving way to something more intentional. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your lips, his tone smug but laced with something warmer, something that makes your stomach flip.

Joe's lips find yours again, the kiss deepening as his teasing facade begins to slip. His hands roam your body with more purpose now, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s memorizing every curve. He nips lightly at your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Still hate me?” he whispers, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. He moves back slowly, before pulling off your leggings, his eyes never leaving yours.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you pull him closer, your nails grazing the back of his neck, and the quiet groan he lets out is enough to make your pulse race.

The leggings are long forgotten now, leaving you exposed in your underwear. Joe chuckles softly, his breath fanning against your lips as he trails kisses along your jaw, then lower, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck. His tongue follows, soothing the faint sting, and the combination has your hands fisting in his shirt.

“You’re not as tough as you act, you know,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. His hands slide beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your bare skin as he pushes the fabric up slowly. “I think you like this way more than you’re letting on.”

“You talk too much,” you manage to gasp, but your retort loses its bite when his thumb grazes just beneath your ribs, sending a rush of heat through your body.

Joe pulls back just enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He takes a moment to look at you, his blue eyes dark and filled with something you can’t quite name, and for a second, the teasing smirk is gone, replaced by something softer.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard.

Your breath hitches, and you feel your cheeks flush under his gaze. Before you can overthink it, his lips are on you again, softer this time but no less insistent. His hands trace slow, deliberate patterns along your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra, and you arch into his touch without meaning to.

Joe grins against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower as he presses kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and then to the edge of the fabric.

He pauses, glancing up at you as his fingers toy with the clasp, his expression both playful and questioning. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says again, his tone softer now, without the usual cockiness.

But stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. Instead, you pull him down to you, your lips crashing into his with a fervor that answers his unspoken question.

Joe groans against your mouth, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising ease, and you feel the shift in his demeanor as his teasing gives way to something more raw, more urgent. His lips trail lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake, and every deliberate touch has your body humming with anticipation.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, his voice rough and teasing, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as he looks up at you.

You reach for him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. “Shut up, Joe,” you whisper, your voice breathless but firm, and for once, he listens.

Joe's smirk returns, but it’s softer now, laced with something warmer than his usual arrogance. He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and full of disbelief, as if he can’t quite believe where the night has led. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he lets his lips and hands do the talking, his touch reverent but still filled with that undeniable fire that seems to burn between you.

He slowly pulls away, looking up at you with a small smirk before he gets up. Before you could start questioning him, he takes off his shirt and sweats swiftly, your eyes widening at his body.

Joe’s smirk deepens as he catches the way your eyes widen, lingering on his toned frame. His confidence seems to grow with every second you stay silent, your gaze betraying the sharp tongue you usually use to deflect him. He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to drink him in.

“You’re staring,” he teases, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes burn with something more primal. “I knew you liked looking at me, but this is a new level.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat rushing to your cheeks gives you away. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice wavers slightly, betraying the effect he has on you.

Joe chuckles, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of you, his face inches from yours. “Too late for that,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’ve already done it for me.”

Before you can fire back, he trails his hand down your side, fingers skimming over your waist and hip with maddening slowness. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your chest, each one softer than the last, as if he’s savoring the way you shiver beneath his touch.

You can feel his hardened bulge against your stomach, and you're just about done with his teasing. You need him, now. “Joe,” you whined as he pulls back with a smirk.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he says, his voice low and raw. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours again, his kiss stealing whatever snarky comeback you might have had. His hands move with purpose, sliding over every inch of bare skin, and the slow, deliberate way he touches you has your body aching for more.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, the words a quiet challenge. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with all the frustration and longing you’ve been holding back for weeks. Joe groans, the sound vibrating against your lips as his teasing slips away entirely, replaced by something deeper, more desperate.

“God, you’re impossible,” he mutters, his voice laced with both exasperation and awe. But his actions betray the truth—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He finally pulls away, breathless as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with adoration and lust. “I'm gonna fuck you, alright?” he mutters before leaning closer. “And for all those times you pissed me off, and annoyed me, I'll forget about all of that if I can just... hear you.”

You're caught off by the request and you almost think he's joking, but you're mistaken. He's dead serious. All you could was nod slowly in response and Joe leans away, pleased.

Joe’s control starts to slip, and it’s evident in the way his kisses grow hungrier, more urgent. His hands tremble slightly as they trail over your body, mapping out every curve like he’s afraid this moment will disappear. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his breathing uneven.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice raw, the cocky edge completely gone. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”

Then finally, he slowly peels off his briefs, and his large, hardened cock falls out.

Joe lets out a small groan as his head falls back, relief in his expression. His pink tip is already leaking with pre-cum. You practically faint at the sight, you couldn't help but let out a whimper. His hands find his cock before he slowly begins to pump it, his eyes finding yours again.

He spreads your legs open before leaning in, his lips finding yours as his hands lead his cock to your cunt. His forehead falls against yours as he slowly begins to insert himself, a heavenly groan leaving his lips at the feeling of your warm, tight walls.

You felt like you were being split in half, in the best way possible. You can't even describe how good his cock felt, he wasn't even a quarter inside of you, but you still felt like you were filled to the brim.

“O-oh, fuck, Joey,” you moaned as your swollen lips form an O, your head falling back onto the plush pillows. Now you understood why the girls in his apartment were so loud—they definitely weren't exaggerating.

His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you closer as if he wasn't inside of you already. His lips crash against yours again, the kiss filled with desperation, like he’s trying to pour every suppressed emotion into it. It’s intoxicating, the way his need for you feels almost overwhelming, and you find yourself clutching at his shoulders, wanting to be as close as possible.

He bottoms you out slowly, and he tries to give you a second to adjust—he really, really tried. He just couldn't. He slowly started thrusting in and out of you, and before you could even process the change in speed, he was rocking his hips against yours like the world depended on it.

The bed was creaking loudly underneath the two of you, the only sounds that could be heard was your loud moans, his grunts of pleasure, and the sound of skin against skin.

His cock was dizzying, to say the least. It hit all the spots you swore nobody had ever reached, making you question all your previous partners. You couldn't even form a singular thought about anything else except for Joe's huge cock and the way he was making you feel.

“Joe!” You manage to gasp as he begins to pound into you impossibly harder, but he cuts you off with another kiss, groaning softly against your lips.

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice husky and edged with desperation. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you gasp as his hands spread your legs wider, pinning you to the mattress.

Before you can respond, his lips are on yours again, his kisses growing more frantic, more needy. His hands are everywhere, exploring, worshipping, as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. The way he touches you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, leaves you utterly undone.

His words make your head spin, and you can’t find a response. You're too caught up in the way he was pounding into you, like a fucking animal.

But Joe doesn’t seem to care; he’s too caught up in you, his hips moving faster and faster until you're practically crying out loud. His hands roam your body as if he’s memorizing every curve, every inch of skin. There’s no pretense now, no games—just raw, unfiltered desire.

You begin to feel the knot in your stomach begin to form, tight and persistent. You begin to grip his shoulders even tighter, your head falling back into the pillow as you moaned.

“O-oh, fuck! I'm gonna cum, please.” You began rambling as your legs wrapped around his waist, his hips not faltering one bit—if anything, he began going faster.

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He grunted out, his own impending orgasm. “Cum for me, baby.”

That was all you needed. The knot in your stomach snapped violently, your whole body spasming as you cried out in utter pleasure. The orgasm washed over you perfectly as Joe's hips began to falter, and a few moments later, his cum spilled into you.

You both lie there, tangled in the sheets, your breathing ragged and your hearts racing as the room settles into a heavy, satisfied silence. Joe’s arm is draped lazily across your stomach, his fingers tracing light, absentminded patterns on your skin. The intimacy feels different now—softer, quieter, as if the storm that had built between you for so long had finally passed.

He exhales deeply, his chest still rising and falling against your side. “Well,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, “that was... long overdue.”

You glance over at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile despite yourself. “You think?” you reply dryly, the lingering warmth of the moment making it hard to muster the sharp edge your tone usually carries with him.

Joe turns his head to look at you, his hair mussed and sticking out in every direction, his cheeks still flushed. There’s that cocky grin of his, but it’s softer now, tinged with something you don’t think you’ve seen before—contentment, maybe. “Yeah,” he says, chuckling lightly. “So overdue I’m almost mad at us for waiting this long.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. His grin widens as he props himself up on one elbow, leaning over you. His gaze flicks across your face, and he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “But hey,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, “now that I’ve finally got you right where I want you, I think it’s time to make this official.”

Your brow furrows slightly as you tilt your head at him. “Official?”

Joe nods solemnly, though the sparkle in his eyes gives him away. “Yup. A real date. No fighting, no yelling, no storming off. Just you, me, and a public setting where we try very hard not to tear each other’s clothes off.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Oh, is that so?”

“That’s so,” he replies with a grin, catching your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze softening. “Come on, let me take you out. I’ll even behave. Swear.”

You arch a skeptical brow, though the warmth in your chest betrays you. “Behave? You? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Joe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Guess you’ll just have to say yes and find out,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but undeniably sincere.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Fine,” you say, trying to sound reluctant but failing miserably. “One date. But if you embarrass me, it’s the last one.”

Joe’s grin is blinding as he flops back down beside you, pulling you against his chest. “Deal,” he says, his voice full of triumph. “You won’t regret it. Best date of your life, guaranteed.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he counters, his tone smug as his hand tightens around yours.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

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girlfromflor · 2 days ago

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56 DAYS (sjy) | PART TWO (FINAL)

pairing: enemie!jake x fem!reader | read the prequel and part one

summary: after your best friend jay made you share an apartment with jake – “the guy you don’t like” –, you have to decide whether you should or not give into the feelings he makes you experience, something possibly pleasant and definitely memorable.

genres: "enemies" (reader is in denial) to lovers, accidental roommates, summer love, also has a bit of angst, smut

warnings: read the first parts otherwise the story won't make much sense, swearing, cliché guys i’m sorry, this is very domestic, they act like an old married couple, jake is in love y’all, lots of tension, some crying, reader likes to be alone, they tease the fuck out of each other (not sexually), they thirst over each other a lot (very, very sexually), they bond over music and food, mentions of two piece bikini, its implied that jake is taller than reader, they overthink a bit, but mostly just lots of fluff, and smut (so MDNI) that includes: sex dream mentions, dirty talk, sub!reader, dom!jake, unprotected sex (y’all know better, this is fiction), praising, biting, slapping, pain kink?, slight degradation, begging, marking, spitting, brief fingering, hair pulling and choking

wc: 15.273 | playlist: 56 days.

a/n: can't believe this is finally out, it took me so long omfg. each part is named after a song in the playlist. anyways, hope you guys like it<3 | taglist: @manuosorioh @tunafishyfishylike

DAY 1 - Do You Like Me?

56 days. it was too much. that was no way you could both get out of this whole thing alive, everyone knew that. you will end up killing jake and then yourself. jay always said that it was going to be fine, because he knew you enough to be aware that the strongest thing between you just wasn’t mutual dislike. when he bid you two goodbye earlier this morning he just asked – really affectionately – for you to be nice to each other, with a knowing look and a teasing smile. you reminisced the moment already missing him and jake, as he drove you two back to your apartment, thought the same.

the ride back home was very quiet, jake didn’t say a word about how you both were going to be very alone together for the next few weeks and you didn’t either. you thought it was best to keep at least some of the good mood of jay’s constant yapper as much as you could, since soon enough all you two would have is each other's company – and that’s a big no-no for you. jake thought – in all his honesty – that no time alone with you was enough. he just couldn’t wait to have you all to himself and, as soon as you step inside the comforting surroundings of your home, jake doesn’t shut up. he spends all day talking your ear off about every single thing there is to talk about, anything he could use as an excuse to chat with you – he even went so far as to chase you around the house so you’d keep listening to his yapping.

it’s day one without jay and you’re already arguing. over what? you didn’t even know anymore. it kind of started because he didn't leave you alone since eight in the morning when you two got home, then he didn’t clean the mess he made in the kitchen while cooking and then he accused you of taking forever to shower – which shouldn’t really matter because he has his own fucking bathroom –, and now you’re just competing over who’s choosing the movie you're gonna watch.

“i got here first, i’ll choose it.” he says, shoving you on the other end of the couch, his big hand locking you in place by your shoulder. he’s trying really hard not to laugh to keep a serious facade, but it’s almost impossible with the way you're so shamelessly throwing a tantrum right now – he wouldn’t imagine you’d actually want to watch a movie with him.

“but you’ll choose something i won't like, on purpose,” you reply, pouting. giving up on trying to sit up and just comically laying there, your arms falling from the cushion – and jake thought you never looked cuter. you didn’t even want to fight, but it seemed like getting on your nerves was his goal for the evening.

“now, that’s simply not true. don’t you like horror movies?” he asks as he skips all netflix suggestions to search for a specific movie he heard you talk one too many times with jay, finally letting go of your arm, alternating his glance between you and the tv as he watched you switch positions and rest your back on the couch’s backrest.

“i do, but–” you pause, there was no way he knew that from you, so how did he know you're fond of horror movies anyways? you ignored your traitor thoughts – the ones that told you he paid true attention to you –, choosing to keep talking, “yes, but i still feel kinda scared sometimes.”

he cooed, like you were a cute child. “well, nothing to worry about then,” he says, and leans a bit closer, arm resting on the couch's backrest right behind you. as he winks at you, flirty ways never quite leaving him, he completes “i’m right by your side.”

you huff, sinking further into the couch, knowing him, there's no way you’d win this fight anyway. but your attitude did nothing to distract him from your flustered face and shy demeanor. “whatever, jake. just choose it already,” you mutter, arms crossed and knees to your chest making it all very entertaining for jake to watch.

the movie he chose was coincidentally your favorite horror movie. you loved it because, even though you knew it all by heart, you couldn’t help but flinch at most jumpscares. it was just so good you always got in a trance while watching it. still, it seemed like it wasn't going to happen tonight. you’d catch jake looking at you side eyed and it both intrigued and angered you. you always asked “what?” genuinely curious to know why he couldn’t just focus on the damn movie, but he brushed you off everytime, making it seem like you were just overthinking.

being completely unaware that jake have paid the movie little to no attention, you keep your eyes on the screen. jake uses this moment to appreciate your presence a little. making an effort to not look at you and distract you from your favorite horror show yet again, he becomes more aware of your presence. he then realizes you didn’t move away from him when he put his arm to rest behind you. you were just sitting there, so naturally – like it happens all the time. does this mean you’re comfortable? it has to be it, right? the thought itself catches him off guard, and he doesn’t want to move even for an inch, if that means you won’t move either. by the time the movie ends his body is a bit sore from trying so hard to stay in the same position – he thought it was kind of ridiculous, but that’s just how love is.

not wanting it all to end just yet he asks you, “do you want to watch another one? we can make popcorn this time…” his eyes pleading, almost like it would physically sting him if you said no.

you look at him with a puzzled look, but nod in agreement regardless. it’s summer break, you don’t have class tomorrow and nothing else to worry about – also, the night sky outside is just begging for another round of spine-chilling story. making your way to the kitchen to make some popcorn for you two, you say “i’ll make popcorn, do you want to choose the next movie too?” giving him the opportunity to do it felt slightly out of character for you, but you can’t deny that his first one was a good choice – not that you’d let him know that, of course.

“no, you can choose now, pretty girl,” he winks at you as he answers, “but thanks, that’s sweet of you.”

you roll your eyes, thinking you shouldn’t have said anything. “shut up, jake,” is your reply and you feel a bit disappointed by the fact that you couldn’t think of something else – mind unfocusing, wrapped around the way he had just called you a pretty girl. you try to shake it off and once the popcorn is ready you come back to the living room, settling down on the couch’s end by jake’s left side and pressing play in a thriller you’ve been dying to watch.

he silently hates that you’re not by his side anymore, but he focuses on the movie. mid-way through it jake’s already on edge, his whole body tense as the movie goes on. he hates the suspense more, he thinks. nevertheless, as soon as he looks at you he almost completely forgets about it, mesmerized by how pretty you look right now – just like always. your hair is not covering your face, so he can see all of it – marvel at all of it. but what really catches his attention is the single piece of popcorn you are holding against your lips – that are slightly parted to accommodate it –, probably too lost in the movie’s story to notice you’re still holding it. your eyes are wide and almost puppy-like while looking at the screen and he wonders just how much inner strength he’s using right now to keep himself from kissing you. because, god, you look so kissable and you’re not even doing anything. it’s insufferable. he shakes his head and gets back to watching the movie, trying to get rid of the tension in his body – one that was not really from the thriller’s suspense anymore.

you sense him shifting on the other end of the couch and decide to look over, only to be greeted by a frown and a clenched jaw. he’s not looking at you – must be entranced by the film’s plot and is caught up in stress from wanting it to come to an end, you think –, but he’s looking way too good for your liking. the slight frown in his brows makes you want to soothe it somehow. maybe with a kiss, while you hold his clenched jaw until it’s not there anymore. your eyes snap back to the screen, what are you thinking?

the rest of the movie is pure torture, for both of you. the tension that fills both your bodies starts to overflow, spilling all over the living room. it’s nearly tangible, really. it forms a dense atmosphere between you, that has nothing to do with the movie and when it is finally over none of you make comments on it – since you both lost the most important parts while exchanging sneaky looks – just whispering goodnight to each other swiftly, before going to bed. once you’re both in your designated rooms, you take a deep breath – may this be the last time you feel so goddamn tempted by him.

DAY 5 - Rock Your Body

as much as you felt like it would never happen again, it did. it’s been 4 days since your movie night and today was supposed to be the day you’d peacefully deep clean your apartment, according to your schedule. but neither you nor jake wanted to face each other, opting to not live the awkward tension all over again. you did it because you didn’t want to even entertain the idea of getting that close to jake ever, he did it because it was all too much for his poor in love heart to handle.

today was hot, to say the least. the blue sky had no clouds to shield you from the sun’s unforgivable brightness and even though you and jake are in the comfort of your home, the white walls of your apartment do nothing to suppress the impending heat that clings into your bodies. you thanked summer for its magical vibes, sure, but not really when you’re trapped at home doing house chores all morning. cleaning your apartment is usually fun since you used the time to just distract your mind from your current problems and just tidy everything up. but it’d be impossible to do it normally, since your major problem of the moment had a first name, last name and lived in the same place as you.

though it would be an annoying task, jake decided to use the day to try and bring his antics to a stop – just for one day – and, as a way to wave a white flag for you, he started by cleaning his own room, and you took the opportunity to clean yours. but as you finished and went for the next spot you both realized that you’d end up together at some point. ignoring that thought, you just kept doing your designated house chores and everything else you needed to, until you both found yourselves in the kitchen. you had already cleaned everything else, the only things missing were the dishes from breakfast and cleaning the counter – both which were completely simple. you took the dishes, while jake was supposed to clean the counter. but he couldn’t concentrate if his life depended on it.

jake freaked out the minute he saw you walk in. why would you choose to wear such revealing clothes today, he couldn’t take his eyes from you – which he tried, because he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. the way your shorts hugged your thighs was a sin itself, but your basically see-through white shirt was what made him fold, the fact that even then his imagination couldn’t possibly feel accurate in the slightest made him weak, he wanted more than just the hint of what’s underneath the fabric. he felt like he needed to do something to leave the losing side – he was feeling like he was falling deeper in a world he wouldn’t survive by himself. so he uses the roasting summer day as an excuse to take his shirt off, wondering why he didn’t do it sooner. the relief was immediate, of course, the sweat that enveloped his skin didn’t have nowhere to stick anymore, and it was a pleasant sensation. but he loved the moment especially because, as soon as he took off his shirt, he heard a cup slide from your hands and hit the sink, softly like you tried really hard to keep it from falling. the smile that adorned his lips was involuntary, but filled with a sense of confidence that extended itself to every other move he made.

you feel all the words that you could possibly say turn into mush at the sight. your mind would be completely empty, if it wasn’t already filled to the brim with thoughts of jake – shirtless, sweaty and fucking hot. he was always handsome, you knew that much, and with his constant work out routine you would imagine that his body was somewhat nicely built, but you fooled yourself into thinking that he’d be average looking. you couldn’t help but stare, completely forgetting your task at hand. why did he take his shirt off?

you didn’t want him to notice you ogling him so you decided to say something, anything. “ew, jake. put your shirt back on,” was all you could think of, but you didn’t really want him to. the urge to rub your thighs together was getting harder to ignore, so you decided to get back to doing the dishes. jake, on the other hand, was completely amused by your lack of effort in trying to be discreet with your staring, catching you side-eyeing him every five seconds – or maybe, he thought, maybe you just couldn’t help it. the idea of having this kind of effect on you makes him feel like he was responsible for the summer day, the heat spreading on his body and gathering in his abdomen, the sensation just as if he had several butterflies moving in his stomach.

“oh yeah, ‘cause you really want me to cover up, right?” he laughs and turns on his back to resume his own task, but still talking, “pretend all you want, i know that you’d love me walking around shirtless all day.”

“oh my god, you just never know when to shut up, do you?” you say, annoyed that he was pointing it out so matter-of-factly. to remain at least a bit of your composure you decide to put your earphones on and ignore his existence. though, nothing could take you away from the fact that he was you getting all hot and bothered and he was only standing there and looking good – much more than he should, for his own fucking good.

but jake’s unable to let you grasp the peace of mind you crave so much, and decides to throw through the window all thoughts he had earlier about ‘bringing his antics to a stop’, “what are you listening to?” he asks, actually curious. to know what’s your taste in music is to know you better, and he is all for it

“justin timberlake…” you saying, trying to keep your distance. you were already half-way done with your task, doing it as quickly as you could to go to your room. you’re in much need of a shower to cool the fuck down.

“are you serious?” he chuckles, what kind of person listens to JT to clean the house? he doesn’t ask that though, instead he asks, “which song?” pointing to your earphones. “take them off, so i can judge you properly.”

“what makes you think i’m gonna let you talk shit about my music choices?” but you were already taking it off your ears and disconnecting it from your phone – nonchalantly like you weren’t just contracting him –, replaying the song so he could listen to it from the start. your body moving automatically, the desire to please him taking over.

“really? ‘rock your body’?” he shakes his head, but even you could see that he was joking. he loved the song, he had danced to it many times with a drunk jay in their parties. but, instead of dropping the act, he uses it to tease you more, “i would understand if it were ‘mirrors’ or something, but ‘rock your body’ is just a biased choice, really.”

you can’t hold your laughter to save your life. “what the fuck? what does that even mean?” and when you turn to him, you lose it. he had a serious expression on his face and his lips were pressed in a thin line, like it was the most serious topic on the earth. you really don’t know if it is the sum of everything or if he’s just really funny, but your laughter increases. you bend over the sink slightly, trying to find the balance you lost from your cackles. jake tries his best to keep a straight face but then he sees you and gives in, laughing too – it was impossible not to, you looked so chill at the moment he didn’t want to miss it. and it stays like that for what feels like many minutes, you two laughing and trying your hardest to catch your breath – but failing miserably.

once you calm down, a small smile on both your faces and your chest heaving from the lack of oxygen, you resume your tasks. almost forgetting that you were thirsting over each other just moments ago, the silence that falls between you two is comfortable. but jake didn’t want to keep it that way, so he sighs comically and says, “didn’t know it was that easy to have you laughing like that.”

“it’s not easy, you’re just a complete idiot and i can’t help but find it amusing,” you say, chuckling softly.

as he finishes cleaning the counter, which really shouldn't have taken this long, he smirks at you sentence. “oh, so i amuse you, huh?” his eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

you had just finished the dishes as well and were drying your hands in the dishtowel, but the moment you heard his words you threw it at jake’s direction with no second thought. he catches it effortlessly and starts to walk in your direction. “you should really learn when to be quiet…” you say, and you meant it to be harsh, but your voice is wavering. his tall and broad frame was closer than you were used to and the fact that he was still shirtless wasn’t helping your situation at all. suddenly, you were hyperconscious of the extremely hot day and how it made you body warm – and possibly his too, and you wanted very much to know just how much –, the way lips parted as he looked at you, the way he towered over you and the way his eyes seemed darker now, up close – the way his chest stuttered when he finally trapped you in your position, leaning in the sink counter.

“you always say that, but i never see you make any effort to shut me up,” he says, but his voice is low, like he’s sharing a secret – a dark and seductive one. “isn’t that what you want, princess? to shut me up?”

your heart is racing, but your mind is rather calm. even though you want to deny it, you know what he was hinting at, and you want it. you crave it. “yes…” you say, voice just like a whisper, a plea.

“yeah?” he says, and closes the distance between you, clearly affected by your small, but important, confession. his warm body – warmer than yours, you notice – presses into yours ever so slightly, like he didn’t want to startle you – like you were in a dream and neither of you wanted to wake up. his right hand moved to cup your cheek, holding your face with all the worship he has ever known in life, eyes filled – overflowing – with yearning. “you can do it, baby. ”

but he wasn’t proposing, it wasn’t a suggestion. he was encouraging you to do it – egging you to go ahead and fucking kiss him, challenging you to give in. your pout comes involuntarily, the movement small but attracting his eyes to your lips – your pretty and really fucking temptable lips. knowing you can’t refuse it – knowing you don’t want to –, you tilt your head up. his reply comes immediately, coming down to brush your lips together eagerly. your voice can barely be called a whisper when you speak, “shit, jake… you know i want to.”

the way his name leaves your lips so beautifully – so appealing – makes his knees buckle. he suppresses a moan, mind going overdrive at the fact you just so openly confessed your wish – because he knew what it meant, how much it meant. then his left hand pulls you closer by your waist, as he does it he swears you can listen to the way his heart beats desperately in his chest. and you are so engrossed in the moment, so wrapped up in the suffocating tension between you that when your phone buzzes and starts ringing on the counter next to you, you both jolt. the sound sharp, cutting through whatever you two were just sharing and it takes you a moment to come to your senses.

picking your phone up, you hardly have the strength to talk, but you voice it regardless, “it’s jay…” and jake only nods, saving all words of disappointment for when he gets his turn to talk to jay, privately. you pick the video call up and wait for jay to greet you, not bothering to go to your room. jake barely moves an inch, he wants to know if you’ll try to push him away once jay sees you two. oddly enough, you don’t do it.

“hey! how’re you doing? is that jake next to you? great, i wanted to talk with you both! have you had lunch yet?” jay’s voice sounds like a rap song. he was so excited to talk to you after four whole days of not listening to your voice.

and as the conversation goes on and both you and jake catch up with a very observant jay, you come to terms that maybe – just maybe – you were eager for the next opportunity you’d get to have jake so close – maybe to finally kiss him, even if you’re interrupted.

DAY 11 - Baby Blue Movie

you didn't think this day would come, but you couldn't wait to get home. ever since the day you almost kissed jake, you decided to go out more – alone preferably. but not even then you could escape him completely. sometimes he was a better company than people you were related to. after spending an afternoon at your mother's house, your energy was completely drained. sure, you loved your family, but you can't ignore disrespect. your mother's childhood was completely different from yours and it's obvious that it would have repercussions in your adulthood, considering that she always voiced that she knew – within maternal standards – what was best for you. and it gets tiring, you lost count of how many times you tried to make her understand your point of view and now you just ignored her complaints – usually successfully, but today it unfortunately didn’t happen.

as you unlock the door, you pray that jake isn't in his playful mode. it would be extremely hard to deal with it today, but when you enter the house and take off your shoes, you can't fool yourself. he was already leaning against the wall that separated the entrance of the house from the living room, a tiny smile on his face and a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue. you mentally prepare yourself not to explode at him. after all, he wasn't to blame for anything – he couldn’t possibly be aware of the horrible day you just had. you don’t even greet him as you try to make your way to your room. but he doesn’t move an inch. with lack of something else in mind, you stop in front of him, waiting for him to say whatever lame joke he thought, already thinking of a possible retort. the whole time he watches you – your pretty face contorted in a serious expression he's not usually used to – he thinks that, maybe, you’re mad at him, but he can’t think of something he could have done to make you angry like that. he doesn’t want to overthink anything, so he decides to break the silence. "did… something happen?" voice silent, soothing, like you would bleed if he sounded hostile – or even indifferent, actually.

and, god, you wanted to yell at him. scream with all the pent up stress you endured all day, because how dare he speak to you like that? like you are fragile, like you need to be taken care of – like he needs to take care of you. the thought of being the object of his tenderness infuriates you. to be seem like you lack affection to the point you’d accept his nice words and gentle eyes. because you would never do that, no. you wouldn’t just give in because he was being kind to you for the first time since you met. but, god, did you want to. with jay’s absence you had no one else – which was kind of depressing, but you didn’t really mind – and with jake’s constant attempts in making you open up to him, it got increasingly harder to not let your guard down. because god knows how hard you’ve been trying to keep your distance, but after today’s stressful events you just wanted some sort of display of affection – something to remind you that you matter and that you are deserving of love just like anyone else is – and the fact that you received it with no second thought apparent from jake made you weak. it made you want to fight him to remain some sort of composure but also apologize for ever misjudging him – apologize for thinking he wouldn’t comfort you at all. but you didn’t do either of those. instead, you look down at your feet taking a deep, shaky breath, murmuring an almost inaudible “yeah… it did, actually.”

nothing could have prepared him for that. he genuinely thought you would brush him off and go to your room. he could have even been fine if a mean, snarky remark came out of your mouth, like it usually happens. but, you didn’t – why didn’t you? why would you answer him honestly and looking so goddamn helpless, like you were in much need of a hug. and for a second, that was precisely what he went to do. however, giving in to those impulses felt like overstepping a boundary, and that was the last thing he wanted to do, especially now that you were letting him see you vulnerable – even if it’s barely. so he tried to not look so terrified of this new territory and went with what felt most secure, wanting to reassure you somehow. “do you want to talk about it?” his voice is casual and steady, like it happens every week and he can perfectly deal with it – except it doesn’t and he can’t, the thought of you allowing him any close to you emotionally makes him dizzy, eager and feeling rather protective.

“shit…” you chuckle inevitably. he was supposed to drop the subject and yet here he is, still trying to get to you. but you try to keep yourself grounded, all your anger and stress has dissipated into pure sadness so far, if he pushes any further you’ll cry. and as you look for a way to put out what is going on in your mind, he wonders what had happened, considering he never saw you like that before. he was ready to hunt down to the gates of hell whoever dragged you to that state. “uh, no,” you sigh. “actually, it would be– yeah. well– ” you stumble over words, another frustrated sigh leaves your mouth and your hands come to face, hiding the obvious emotion written all over it. when you look back at him your eyes are already teary, your hands shake a little as you bring them down, your lips wobbly. you manage to let out a broken “i don’t know, jake…” but by the time you sniffle, about to let your tears stream down your face, jake is right on you.

his left arm circling your middle pulling you towards him, his right hand on the back of your head tucking your face in his chest and, as he tightly hugs you for a few seconds, he keeps on saying “it’s fine, okay? it doesn’t matter, princess.” so lovingly, it does the job of distracting you from your little meltdown. you notice the way the hug feels so intimate, like it was a forbidden thing to do and you two created a bubble to hide from the world and savour the moment. and it made sense you felt that way, because jake was actually hugging you right now. and you were crying. you were crying in front of jake sim – being comforted by him – and you didn’t care at all. actually, now that you have done all the things you said you weren’t going to, what’s another one, right? that’s what’s in your mind as your arms come to his waist, not to push him away but to further drown yourself in his embrace, taking in his scent.

and as you two stand there, the dream-like golden beams of light due to the sunset passing through the curtain’s delicate material, your arms around him so willingly and your crying coming down to a halt, jake doesn’t think he could be more content. his heart hurting in his chest knowing that you’re not okay, but also beating as fast as ever before since you’re right there. just so, so close to him, in a way he never thought you'd allow him to. and then he laughs, just a bit, but he can’t help it. and you laugh too, wholeheartedly. because you cannot deny yourself the fact that you too felt content, even though you’re crying and he’s doing that just for the sake of comforting you. but that's precisely what makes it so important – is his effort in doing so the best way he can.

DAY 18 - WA-R-R

you woke up feeling great. it has been so nice to actually have a full break from college, you have time to do all the things you like without worrying about anything. well, almost anything. it’s been a week since the crying incident happened and you two never brought it up again. jake was okay with it. he thought you didn’t want to talk about any of it, since once you felt lighter you just quietly apologized for crying on him like you did and went to your room. but you didn’t know that, and you were starting to feel like a burden. you needed to properly thank him for comforting you, but you had no idea how.

it was currently a quarter past three in the afternoon and you were boiling on your couch from the heat. jake had left for the gym right after lunch and you had nothing to do, beginning to feel unsettled from the boredom. deciding on doing something productive, you take a shower and get dressed to go to the supermarket. you were out of a few things and it would be nice to leave the house and enjoy the weather, despite the fact that you’d much rather go to the beach. once ready, you go to the kitchen to check if you weren’t forgetting anything so you could add to the list, that’s when you hear the front door opening. jake walks in just a few seconds later, eyes roaming over your figure as he immediately catches the scent of your favorite perfume – are you going somewhere?

his black fit – sleeveless compression shirt and loose dri-fit shorts – knocked the air out of your lungs, but you didn’t have time for that. “i’m going grocery shopping, do you want something?” you ask, pretending to still check the cupboards.

“yeah, actually. but i think it’s best if i go with you…” he says casually, like he wasn’t dying to have a domestic day with you – going to the market, choosing what you’re going to do for dinner, helping you carry the grocery bags. “you know…? so you won’t buy anything wrong.”

you scoff, turning to look at him. “you’re projecting, you know i wouldn’t mistake your protein bars or whatever,” you say, rolling your eyes and propping yourself on the counter. you glance at him for a moment, taking in his appearance. faking a mix of disgust and judgment on your face, you point towards his clothes. “are you going like that?”

he checks himself, like he didn’t know what could be wrong with his outfit, and with a confused look on his face he says, “well, yes. why wouldn’t i?”

you arch your brows mockingly, shrugging. “i don’t know. you tell me, jake,” and then you chuckle from your teasing.

he rolls his eyes, feeling dumb for not realizing sooner that you were just messing with him – like always. “you’re so annoying, what the hell…” he murmurs, suppressing an amused laugh and completes, “come on, let’s go in my car.”

his car smelled like him, the woody perfume he would usually wear was everywhere – you failed to notice that the first time you rode with him. as you put the seatbelt on and he starts the car, he says “do you want to put some music on?” giving you his phone and driving off your apartment’s garage.

“sure, what do you wanna listen to?” you ask, rolling through his playlist. the ride to the store was actually short, but a little music is always nice to have.

“whatever, you can press play on random,” he answers, eyes locked on the streets ahead. just as he finished speaking, he heard the soft beat of a korean r&b melody starting to play very lowly. he went to turn up the volume, only for his hand to bump into yours – you were going to turn the volume up a bit as well, after resting his phone on your thighs.

a beat of awkward silence passes by and you two sneak a glance between each other. after laughing a bit embarrassed you softly say, “sorry, i was just gonna turn it up a bit.” moving your hand back to your lap.

he chuckles, without really knowing what to do he turns the volume up himself, saying “no, it’s okay. i was going to do the same.”

the song takes over the silence, its nicely tuned vocals filling the space, and you can’t help but share, “i love this song…” your voice is peaceful as you speak.

jake loves the comment, loves that you’re the one starting the small talk. “really? i thought you were more of a 2000s pop type of girl…” he says, bringing back that fact that you were listening to justin timberlake a few days ago.

you smile, “yeah, that too. but there’s nothing quite like korean r&b,” you reply, shrugging your shoulders. and it felt so nice to be comfortable around him, to talk like you do with jay – like you’ve known him for years.

“i mean, you’re right. but i’m suspicious, i was born in korea, so…” he trails off, and as you two feed the conversation more and more with small details of your life, he can only thank his complete genius idea of following you everywhere – it in fact did pay off, eventually.

when you get to the supermarket, the whole shopping process is actually very quick, you buy the essentials and all the things that were in your list, jake buys a lot of barley tea bottles and you two decide that italian food was the best option for dinner today, so you buy everything you need to make pasta – you also have to decide which bottle of wine you were going to buy and that itself takes most of your time, both finding joy in fake disagreeing with each other. after getting to the checkout and paying for your purchases, you and jake walk back to the car and settle everything to ride back home.

once at home you ask jake to put some music on the TV so you could unpack the groceries and start cooking dinner. surprised that you were offering to make dinner – knowing that usually he’s the one to make dinner and you make lunch – he asks, “why are you so willing saying that you’re gonna make our dinner today?” his voice accusing and wary, like you about to prank him. approaching you after putting on the same playlist that was playing in the car, he starts to help you unpack the grocery bags that were scattered on the counter.

“can’t a girl feel like cooking twice in a day?” you say, purely to tease him, because after letting out a little laugh you add up almost instantly, “i just wanted to, i don’t know, thank you for being so nice to me the other day.”

“the other day? which day?” he was confused, it was pretty visible by his frown and inquiring voice.

you sigh, not wanting to extend the subject, but clarifying anyway, mumbling “the day that i cried in front of you…”

his realization comes quickly, a soft “ah!” leaving his lips. nevertheless, he didn’t want you to think that it was anything other than the bare minimum – you didn’t have to make him a meal just because you felt like you needed to pay him back. both of you knew that he had no second intentions when he comforted you. “you know, you don’t have to–” he starts, but you interrupt him.

“i know, i know. but i really want to,” you say, voice steady like you practiced the speech all week – which you did, but that was nothing but a small detail, he didn’t have to know. “i want to show that i’m grateful somehow, so just let me.”

he just nods, pleased that your communication was improving. dinner time was really nice, you two shared a bottle of wine, talked a lot about how your music taste was actually similar and how cooking can be a fun activity once you grow comfortable with it – you were both kind of tipsy at that point.

as he helps you tidy up the kitchen, he cherished the evening you had. it was nice to know that you started to share a bond now, even if you still tried to keep your distance somehow. “thanks, for the dinner,” he says, cheeks flushed both from the alcohol and from the way you were so close to him, drying the dishes as he washed them.

you hummed, feeling sleepy from the alcohol and tired from the day. you lay your head on his shoulder – as much as you can with the height difference – and answer, “it was nice, right? we should do it again some day.”

jake can only laugh as he shakes his head – you were just too cute. “yeah… we should.”

DAY 23 - Let Go

you couldn’t be happier, today was finally the day you were going to the beach. as you got your things ready, you talked to jake about how dumb it was for you to have delayed this for so many days. jake has the idea of making some snacks and you help him do everything. throughout all the time that it takes for you and jake to make sandwiches and pack your beach bag and his backpack with everything you were going to need, you were talking nonstop. it was inevitable with the way you started to get along the past few days since your dinner together, honestly. you were also much more at ease in his presence, so you started to share a few more wholesome moments. still, he judges your choices for two piece bikinis and you say it was best if he didn’t take his shirt off – to save people’s sanity – and you fight over which snacks you were going to take in your little trip. it was all really fun, you could never try to deny that. once everything was ready, you two got ready to go.

the ride to the beach was rather calm. the music in the background was soothing and the beach you chose to go to wasn't far from your place, so jake drove you there and in less than an hour you were in the sand, sitting on your beach mat. the day was summery just like the others that have passed, only this time you could sunbathe and swim – a perfect day, you would say. jake was sitting by your side, watching you put on sunscreen – admiring you, that was more like it.

when you’re done, he points towards the sunscreen bottle on your hand and doesn't think twice before asking, “can you do my face and back?” he watches your concentrated face, but it doesn't change a bit, you stay expressionless. he tries again, “please…?”

you grimace, and move to sit face to face with him. “what? you can’t do it?” you ask, but it’s not really a criticism.

he laughs, and flicks your forehead. “of course i can, you brat. it’s just better if you do it,” he says, like it’s so obvious and you fake a look of disgust. he adds, “i can’t miss a chance to have your hands all over me, baby,” and winks.

you roll your eyes, but start to apply some sunscreen on his face, answering, “shut up and close your eyes, loverboy.” you use the moment to take in his appearance, closed eyes and parted lips from his talking. he was always so beautiful for you, you wished you could let him know in a way that didn’t felt like you were putting your heart in his hands – which was impossible, because that was the only kind of fondness you knew with him, devotion.

he does what you tell him, closing his eyes, but he keeps on talking – a smile on his face all throughout it. “you can’t push me away, princess. i know how your mind works by now,” his voice filled with enjoyment.

“yeah, yeah. i know, jake, you say that everyday,” you reply, but you're smiling too. finding joy in his words, but oblivious to how evident his feelings were. “okay, face done. now i’m gonna put it on your back, turn around for me, please.”

he turns around, his eyes glinting with unmistakable affection from your disponibility to do it for him – the way you ask him ‘please’ sticks to his mind a little more than it's considered healthy. once you’re done he gets up on his feet and holds your hand. “come on, we’re going in the sea.”

“woah there, loverboy. i know you need me to do everything with you, but at least wait until the sunscreen soaks in.” you say, and use the fact that he was still holding your hand to push him down to sit by your side once again.

he complies, his thigh brushing against your as he settles down next to you. you both take in the view. the sea is rather calm, the waves seem to crash slowly. the sun is unforgiving, but in a pleasant way, and the eventual breeze that hits your bodies is a nice way to recover from the heat. you don’t realize that you’re still holding hands, but jake is very aware of the act. so much so he fights the urge to stroke his thumb along your hand, so that you won’t grow annoyed from his display of affection. it’s not until an old lady passes by, selling handmade bracelets, that you notice just how close you guys are to each other.

the woman stops by you two and asks, very fondly, “oh, hello, young man. would you want to buy a bracelet for your girlfriend?” she’s pointing at you, and oddly enough you don’t feel like correcting her. in fact, you don’t say anything, you just smile at the lady and turn to look at jake, waiting to see what he’ll do.

“oh, yes! do you have matching ones?” he asks her, paying you no attention. his response comes immediately, and you’re caught off guard at just how natural it came to him – like you were actually boyfriend and girlfriend, like it wasn’t even a thing to consider in the first place.

they get into a conversation about her process of making the bracelets and how much they cost, eventually he buys two – only then he lets go of hand, because he needed to pay the old woman – and she thanks your attention as both of you wave her goodbye.

your head snaps in his direction. giving him a quizzed look, you don’t even have to say anything for him to speak, “look, it wasn’t going to change anything in her life if we said we weren’t together. if anything we’d just make her ashamed of her mistake…” his voice is quiet, like you’d argue with him for what he did.

but you don’t. in fact, you just say, “i’m surprised by how easily you played along, but i’m not gonna kill you. relax,” you’re chuckling, and you add “i didn’t get to see which ones you bought…”

he stares at you, dumbfounded. “what?” he asks, wondering if he heard you wrong. were you just letting that slide? like he just didn’t pretend you were his girlfriend to a total stranger? weren’t you the one who refused to let him close? “did you enjoy being my girlfriend, is that it?” he teases, but he’s not joking. he actually wants to know this time, he needs the rest it’ll provide him.

you cough, choking a bit. what should you do? did you enjoy it? you’re not sure, but for some reason you didn’t want him to think you didn’t. not only because upsetting him felt so mean of you, but because you realized that you weren’t opposed to the idea of dating him. “god, don’t make it weird and let me see the bracelets…” you say, changing the subject. but decided to mumble in addition, “if i didn’t say anything, it means that i didn’t mind.”

he smiles, and it outshines the sun. jake wasn’t one to be pessimistic, but he often opted for a more realistic approach when it came to you, so to see you opening up like that – letting him genuinely see you and understand you – made his body shiver with anticipation of what you’d share next. he senses your will to not deep dive into the matter so he gives into your wishes to see the bracelets. “here, give me your hand so i can put it on you…” he says, but he can barely control his excitement. he ties the bracelet in your wrist and asks for you to do the same for him, both of you admiring the colorful object that now was a reminder of a thing only you two shared. you fall into a nice, comfortable silence. the unspoken feelings surrounding you but not in a scary way, the sounds of the waves crashing doing nothing to drown your rapid heartbeats. in moments like these you question just how much you should try to keep jake away, only for you to choose not to do it at all – you were just letting it flow, it would pain you more to pretend you didn’t like what was growing between you.

and that’s just how the day goes. you swim in the sea and share your snacks, it truly feels like a beach episode from your favorite anime. once you get back home, the tiredness from the long day – even though it was fun and uplifting – sinks in. after you and jake have straightened things up and showered, you both decide to settle on the couch.

you were hardly registering the movie that was playing on the screen. jake had his hand on your head, fingers mindlessly scratching your scalp, a loving gesture that only pushed you closer to sleep. as you started to drift off, your head found its way to jake’s shoulder, face hiding on his neck. jake gasped at the proximity, but after a few seconds he adjusted you on his body, hugging your waist. before either of you could realize, the two of you had already fallen asleep.

DAY 35 - All Mine

when jake wakes up, he’s a mess. he feels his hair sticking on his forehead due to his sweat. his legs feel shaky, his boxers sticky and his heart is hammering in his ribcage. it takes him a few moments to realize that he’s laying in his bed, having fallen asleep with you the night before while you two played cards late at night. the next thing he realizes is that you’re no longer with him. he checks his phone, it’s half past eight in the morning. he slumps back on the mattress, right hand coming down to palm the evident erection on his sleeping shorts, cock still hard despite the fact that he had clearly cummed during his sleep. he had woken up from a very messy, very erotic dream, his breath was calming down as he took in his surroundings, but his mind was still in a haze from the vivid memories from his dream – where you and him did all the things he craved to do to you. his right hand’s grip tightens around his clothed girth, his arousal growing while he feeds his imagination, thinking just how cute you’d look with your eyes tight such and your mouth hanging open as your lips let out the most beautiful sounds of his name, while he’s buried inside–.

he sits up, instantly. he couldn’t act like he lived alone, and even though he very much wanted to get off right now, he wouldn’t want to have you walk in on him – well, he wouldn’t mind if he felt like you would be okay with it, but he couldn’t know if that was the case. the past few days were wonderful, he loved every second of it. you and him were growing closer and closer, to the point you did everything together. after the day you spent on the beach, both of you decided to start hanging out more often. you did all sorts of things – you even did go back to the beach, going to a drive-in that was happening nearby – and it was starting to get hard to avoid the inevitable. jake was beginning to break, the time you’ve been spending together only further pushing him to his darkest, most lust-filled thoughts. he wondered if you felt the same, or if he was just another homie to you. if you want him the way he wants you it shouldn’t be hard to notice, right? he thinks that he should pay more attention to your body language, to see if you give him any opening to tumble over the edge of the hanging tension. but then he wonders, where are you anyway? intrigued, he leaves his room to look for you, only to find an empty house. you weren’t anywhere to be found, neither in the kitchen nor in your room. he sits on the couch, and as he was about to text you to know your whereabouts he hears the clicking of the keys on the front door. he sits back, checking his bulge briefly – that had subsided considerably – and waits for you to show up, fingers interlaced, his hands resting on his lap.

you had woken up pretty early and decided to buy strawberry cheesecake for breakfast at a bakery nearby and some coffee at your favorite coffee shop, choosing to not text jake because you thought you’d be back before he woke up – which clearly did not happen. when you see him sitting on the couch you stop, standing comically – awkwardly – at the hall that separates the living room from the kitchen.

“hi, you’re up,” you state, looking at him – eyes roaming over his figure, he seemed sus. not waiting for his answer you turn left, walking towards the kitchen counter to settle what you bought for breakfast.

jake is hot on your tail, replying, “where have you been, huh?” his tone is playful, but you can tell he’s actually curious to know.

“uh… i don’t see how it concerns you?” you answer, teasingly. your smile the most genuine it could ever be, since jake with his ‘recently woken up’ look was the cutest. then you add, “i bought coffee, and cheesecake.”

“oh god, yes! love me some sweets in the morning,” he says, settling down at the counter while eyeing your figure – the fabric of your jeans shorts seemingly sinfully pretty around your thighs, your baby blue crop top making him want to ogle your breasts. were you always this hot? “uh, thanks for bringing coffee for me too…”

“don’t mention it,” you say, at last. sitting down on his side you two start to eat, then you remember something. “hey, how did you sleep? i woke up in the middle of the night and went to my room. sorry, if i woke you.”

jake feels relief wash over his entire figure to know you weren’t there if he made any suggestive sounds during his sleep. “actually, i’m a heavy sleeper, so you wouldn’t wake me like that,” he answers and after pausing for a few seconds he finishes, “i slept ok, without crazy dreams or whatever.”

you laugh, his words seeming rushed for you and oddly explanatory, which was out of character of him – especially since he was so slow in the mornings. was he nervous? “ok, jake. if you say so…” you say, just for the sake of getting on his nerves – and maybe to get him to say something about what really happened.

“yah! what are you suggesting? i slept like a baby, ok? with baby dreams…” he states, defensively. and you laugh harder, your hand coming to cover your mouth in an attempt to muffle at least some of it – which didn’t happen.

in between your gasps for air, you say, “oh, so you dreamed of unicorns and princesses then.” your teasing sentence only half well delivered, since you were still trying to recover from your fit of laughter.

jake’s mind was racing while he nervously tried to change the subject. however, in between his thoughts of his not exactly baby-like dream, he lets out the first thing that comes to his mind, “if you’d call yourself princess, then i guess you could say that, yeah…” he says, his voice sounding playful. you stall, confusion written all over your face.

“wait, does that mean you- did you dream about me?” you ask, incredulous. you brows coming together to emphasize the chaos that was your mind at his statement. he laughs, shaking his head, truly amazed at how easily he gave himself in. knowing that there was no denying what he said just now, he only nods, taking yet another slice of the cheesecake you were sharing. but you had long forgotten how to eat, in fact you don’t think you can do anything else at the moment.

letting your curiosity speak louder you decide to try your luck. “what… did you dream about?” you ask, voice small despite its certainty. you decide to not look at him, eyeing the plate in front of you as he ate the last piece of the cheesecake. you take a sip of your coffee.

“you, duh,” he says matter-of-factly, and laughs like you weren’t dying from not knowing. “why do you want to know, anyway? does it matter that much, princess?” his tongue brushes the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress the smirk threatening to take place in his lips. the situation’s much more entertaining than he initially thought it would be.

“oh my god, you’re so annoying,” you huff and get up, making your way to the sink to wash the dishes you just used. he stares at you, amused at the tantrum your throwing over something he thought you’d just brush off, probably just making a comment about how in love he’s in with you – jokingly, of course.

“okay, okay. i’ll tell you, alright?” he says, bringing his hands up as if surrendering to you. you stop what you’re doing just to turn your head to him slightly. you eye him, an unreadable expression in your face and he chuckles a bit – he really does like you. at last, he says “i dreamed i got hurt in a zombie apocalypse and you left me behind…” his voice is obviously playful, but you fail to realize he was being ironic.

so you only sigh, your lips forming an involuntary pout as you hummed in acknowledgement, turning back to dry your hands after you finished your task. his answer breaks your expectations, leaving you confused as to why you thought he’d say something else – why you wanted him to say something else. maybe it was the way he was staring at you since you arrived, or the way he seemed so nervous talking about his dream, you thought maybe it meant he saw you in a way that wasn’t just ‘his roommate’. but, maybe it was all in your head anyways.

he comes behind, not touching you whatsoever, his hands finding their place at the counter in front of you the same time you finish your task – and he realizes he’s feeling oddly familiar with the situation, like a deja vu. he whispers then, voice seductive and full of intentions, “did you want me to say that i had a erotic dream?” his question catches you off guard, you use your now free hands to support yourself at the edge of the sink. you head falls to your shoulder, eyes closing as a sigh passes your lips. fuck, why is he dirty talking to you all of sudden? why do you like it? you decide that all your doubts and worries are for the future you to deal with, right now you just want to know how far this can go. still, you can help the nervousness that gets a hold of your demeanor. shaking your head, you start, “n-no, that’s not it, why would you–”

but jake was not having it. he cuts you off mid-sentence, face coming closer to your ear, lips brushing over it ever so slightly while he whispers lowly – as if you were in a room filled with people and he only wanted you to hear –, “are you really going to lie to me like that, baby?” and just like that you’re speechless, but that doesn’t matter one bit, because jake keeps on talking, “i dreamed you were underneath me doing all sort of cute noises while i fucked you on my bed. is that what you expected me to say? or was that pout on your pretty lips for another reason, princess?”

“w-what…?” you utter, confused. he’s getting to you too damn fast for your liking – your panties growing damp at the thought of him having a wet dream about you. you speak your mind, “what the fuck, jake? how can you say things like that…”

“like what? so directly? you know i’m not one to play games, princess,” he says and uses the little switch of topic to spin you around. his hands find your waist to urge you to face him and you comply, but you don’t look into his eyes yet, embarrassment having a tight grip around you. so his right hand comes to your face and you barely feel his fingers as he tilts your chin up softly, bringing you to face him so he can lock eyes with you, his hand falling to your waist a second after. his gaze is intense, filled with emotion – one you’re yet to allow yourself to admit aloud you reciprocate. the silence starts to grow bothersome so you decide to voice your thoughts once again, not really expecting this moment to turn into a heart to heart conversation – but honestly, you love that jake provides this for you.

“i know. but, you’re making me nervous,” you confide in a mumble, fidgeting fingers on your back but you don’t break eye contact – your puppy eyes fucking jake’s mind up. he knows what you mean, you’ve talked about this before. you’re not one to let people in, so to have him so casually stripping you out of your comfort zone can be really stressing – it doesn’t mean you don’t want him to, though.

jake cuckles, he does think you’re adorable from time to time – everyday – and he’s determined to make you comfortable with what you want – well, that being him – so he makes a point of saying, “that’s cute, princess. you’re only nervous because you keep refraining yourself from doing what you want…” he says, almost melodically. “and i know very well that you want me.”

there’s a knowing glint in his eyes and you know he knows, that’s what your relationship was always about – he’s been obvious about his desires, you were the one who poorly attempted to deny it. so you sigh defeated, as you watch his pretty eyes and easy smile. you touch his arms, hands traveling up to his cheeks where you leave a soft squeeze with your palms, squishing them together. you both let out a giggle, then your fingers intertwin on his nape, your body closing the distance between you and him.

jake is not surprised that you took the initiative, but he couldn’t believe that it was actually happening. his heart is beating unforgivingly in his chest, it aches the best kind of pain and he lets out a sound of relief, pleasure and pure fulfillment. his hands grips your waist harder trying to ground himself, but nothing is enough – he is losing all self control and he couldn’t care less. because your hands were on his neck, nails scratching lovingly the back of his head, your chest pressed on his and your lips passionately kissing him – having you on his hands for him to touch and hold was messing with his head. the kiss that takes place is outstanding, it makes both you and him breathless way too quickly. you pull away first, your teeth prodding your bottom lip for a moment before jake is on you again.

this kiss is much more devastating than the first one, when your tongues meet you can hardly contain the whine that tries to leave your lips, but maybe it’s the way jake shoves you against the counter behind you that knocks the air out of your lungs. none of you know how long you stay making out, your fingers interlace on jake’s locks and he anticipates the moment you will pull it, but you don’t. he grows impatient, hands sliding from your waist to your hips, where he squeezes hard, then he pushes himself from you, interrupting the kiss in the middle. you’re panting, chest heaving and lips red and swollen from the kissing, the sight making heat spread all over his body and his arousal only increases, the bulge on his pants begging to be simulated and he wonders how affected you are by all of this. despite the hot feeling of your hasty breath, nothing really gives away your inner state. and you try to keep it that way, but your mind is foggy and you can barely form coherent thoughts aside from the burning lust, that’s all you can discern. you thought you could be stronger when it came to your sexual desires, but jake fucks up all your attempts in keeping a composed attitude. because you wanted nothing more than to let go and be led, to allow him to do whatever he wanted to. that’s how much you trusted him, how much you craved him.

you’re so lost in your submissive reverie that you fail to realize that jake actually said something. it isn’t until his hands cups your cheeks that your attention turns to him.

“hm…?” you hum and it’s supposed to be a question, but you can really say something else. he understands, though, slowly catching on to what your behaviour meant.

testing the waters, he asks “do you want to go upstairs, baby?” softly, trying not to sound like you had to. you nod, eagerly so, making him smile, tilting his head to the side. “you’re much too quiet, princess,” he says, his smile fading to a smirk as continued, “go on, use your words.”

the way he says it is borderline condescending. the patronizing superiority twists your insides and your heart rate speeds up, a familiar feeling making its way to your stomach like butterflies. you curse every cell in your body for being so responsive. you focus on the fact that it’s a simple question, one he already knows the answer to. “yes…” you voice out, not without stuttering and jake is amazed.

he pushes further, wanting to strip every layer of this newfound trait of yours. “huh? yes what, princess?” and it’s a trap, because he’s not expecting anything specific, you may or may not know what to answer, it doesn’t matter because jake is doing it with the sole purpose of teasing you.

but you don’t know that, and even if everything in you is telling you to address him with a respectful honorific, you also don’t want to give him the satisfaction of winning that so easily, so you do what’s best, you play innocent. “yes, i wanna go upstairs,” your voice sounding much more controlled and with barely any sides of your emerging submissiveness.

jake laughs at your answer, eyes scanning you with unmistaken amusement. he shakes his head, grabbing your hand as he speaks, “you’re impossible.”

he uses your intertwined fingers to pull you with him, all the way until you’re passing through his bedroom door. once inside, he sits on the end of his bed, hands coming to your hips as he looks up at you. that’s when everything sinks in. nothing could’ve prepared you for the devastating reality that you’re a moment away from letting jake undress you – letting him fuck you. his alluring presence drowns your senses, you want nothing else than to please him.

he sees it in your eyes, so he feels obligated to act on it. “come sit, princess,” he says and pulls you to his lap. you fall right after, thighs finding their place on his sides as your hands touch his chest. “you’re so pretty,” his hands are caressing your waist under the fabric of your shirt. “so, so pretty,” he adds, placing kisses on your cheeks, and then your neck. “makes me want to ruin you all the time,” he pulls you even closer, the motion making your hips collide with his. his dick impossibly hard underneath you, you fists his shirt at the feeling. he started to leave hickeys on your skin, his path well marked as he love bites his way to the valley of your breasts. you can feel the smirk on his lips as he trails kisses on your skin, but you are engrossed in the intoxicating feeling of his hands traveling up your body. when you realize, he’s already taking your top off, eyes shamelessly falling to your naked torso. “you always leave the house without a bra on?” he asks, not really accusing you of anything, his hands instantly coming to grope them, thumbs tenderly flicking your nipples and your response is almost embarrassingly quick. you’re taken by surprise, a soft moan slips past your lips and your hips grind on him. he appreciates the sound, his dick twitching in his sleeping shorts as he squeezes your boobs harder.

you answer him, voice coming weaker than you expected as you speak, “no… not really.” you have your hands sliding under his shirt, pulling the fabric with you as you feel the warm skin of his chest on your palms, you want to see him too. “can you… take your shirt off too?”

“look at you, being so well mannered…” he says and you roll your eyes, his praise makes your panties grow wetter by the minute. he keeps talking though, making no move to remove his shirt just yet. “although, i think that there’s one word missing, princess…”

you understand him immediately, the words coming out easily, “please…? can you take your shirt off, please?” you rephrase, and jake’s mind goes over drive. he already wants you begging for him.

is almost funny, to know that you two are living the moment he has been anticipating ever since he was first trapped with you in that bathroom in a random college party. he’s lightheaded from the unceasing sensations he experiences with you and his smile is the perfect display of it, breathtaking and contagious. he lifts his arms for you to finish taking the shirt off his torso, you drop it on the floor. his hands settle back on you, falling on your thighs with a smack on which one, as he gets back to trailing kisses down your neck, until his tongue envelops your nipple. he’s still smiling when you moan from the sudden stimulation, but he moans with you after you grind down on him at a specific hard bite he delivers. “you’re into pain or something?” he asks you, moving to your other boob, teeth grazing the skin before he bites it, softer than he wanted, just to test his theory.

you right hand tangles in his hair, fingers gripping the locks but not really pulling at it – which he really wants you to –, your left hand splayed on his chest, nails threatening to dig on his skin. he laughs in disbelief, biting harder – not enough to leave a mark, yet – and your hips move involuntarily on his, humping his throbbing dick, desperate for a real form of stimulation between your legs. “oh god, you are into it.” he states, and delivers another slap on your thigh.

you bite your lip, and say “you do realize how sadistic this makes you look, right?” in defiance, but your affected tone makes no effect whatsoever.

his answer is instant, “and you do realize how much of a masochist i think you are now, right?” his mocking tone getting to your and further wetting your panties, that must be completely destroyed by now. he continues his assault in your chest, that already has some red and purple marks blooming here and there.

“i-i’m not…” you start, both hips and voice stuttering from his movements, the fabric of your jeans starting to make you uncomfortable as you rub yourself harder on his erection, jake’s hands groping your skin from the stimulation, the rhythm of your movements torturously slow for his liking. “i’m not a masochist,” you manage to say, and jake laughs from your little act.

“no, just a painslut...” he says, and your muffled whine is enough of an answer for him. “but don’t worry, baby. you make such a pretty slut for me.”

“fuck…” is all you can mumble, pussy clenching around nothing as you keep grinding on his bulge, dry humping him for all your worth. but jake had enough of that, he wants more – he needs more. so he grabs one of your thighs’ underside with one hand, the other going to your waist as he moves you on the bed. in a second you're laying on your back on the mattress, but you don’t have time to be surprised. jake touches your knee in an attempt to get you to open your legs and you comply, slowly moving them apart to accommodate his hips.

his hands travel to undo the button of your shorts, fingers pulling the zipper down all the way but he doesn’t slide the fabric off your legs. instead, he stuffs his hand inside of it, fingers gliding over your dripping wet slit. “shit, you’re fucking soaked, princess…” he almost growls, forehead resting on your shoulder. “want to fuck you till we pass out,” it’s just a harmless confession, one he doesn’t truly mean, but you don’t care.

“so do it,” you sound desperate, his index and middle finger teasing your entrance while his thumb presses on your clit. he wasn’t moving, and it was driving you insane. you thrust your hips forward, trying to get him to do something, but he doesn’t.

he chuckles, his smirk hidden from your eyes, but you could feel it when he pressed his lips to your ear, leaving an openmouthed kiss in it. “so soon? where’s the fun in that?” he says rhetorically, he has been dying to bury himself inside you, but he still wants to play with you some more. “need to prep you first, baby.”

your moan is music to his ears when he inserts his fingers in you with a quick motion, pleasure running through your veins. but it wasn’t enough. you didn’t want that, you wanted his dick inside you. “f-fuck, jake… jake, please,” is the first glimpse of a plea, and jake is relishing on it. he quickens his movements, fingers working on your walls like magic. he brings his thumb back to your clit, drawing little imaginary circles in it and your head falls back, back arching as you push your hips forward again. “jake, j-jake… please, fuck me. wanna cum on your cock.”

although he really wanted to, he couldn’t resist your plea. he doesn’t need to be told twice, taking his fingers out slowly and helping you out of your shorts and underwear. he takes his shorts off along his boxers right after, his dick slapping his stomach as he does so.

once he’s between your thighs there isn’t much to be said, he’s already guiding his dick to your entrance when your legs wrap around his waist. you both moan at the intrusion, the stretch making your mind go blank as your head falls to the side, right hand finding support on his back as your left hands tangled on his locks. you’re both panting and you barely started, his thrusts are sharp, he reaches so deep in you. your closed eyes and open mouth are better to watch than jake could ever imagine, he wishes he could have this everyday. “oh my god, fuck–” he swears, hand gripping you jaw to give you a kiss. it’s messy, your tongues meet more outside than inside your mouths. when he pulls away there’s a string of saliva connecting you two. his weight is supported on his forearms as he moves to mark your neck mumbling, “y-you feel so good princess, so goddamn good.”

the room smells like sex, your hands try desperately to somehow steady yourself in that moment that didn't seem like reality at all. jake pressed his hips into yours harder and harder with each kiss he left on your neck, his mouth brought you little by little closer to heaven and you let a specific loud whine escape your lips. you could feel his smile as he raised his head so he could kiss your mouth with unquestionable desire once again. you use your legs to pull him closer and his eyes roll back under his eyelids. you arch your back slightly, your chest pressing against his and your fingers – finally – pulling on his strands. jake brokes the kiss to moan and looks at you in that surrendered way he always does. he just couldn't help himself, he needed to ruin you just a little bit more.

“so beautiful, my princess.” his possessive tone making you clench around him, his hand moves from your side to your neck, where he gives it a light squeeze, and then he grabs your cheeks with one hand. not too hard, but enough to make you lift your face. “open your mouth for me, love.” and you comply. your mouth parted slightly and your eyes glued to his, but he’s too lost watching you run the tip of your tongue between your lips to notice. he uses his thumb to open your mouth even wider, naturally salivating at the thought of what he would do next.

when his spit meets your tongue and you swallow without protest, he is gone. the moan he fails to contain comes out muffled as he presses his face back into your neck. the hand that was previously on your cheek goes down to your thigh where he delivers a harsh squeeze. “fuck…” he whispers, inevitably moving his hips to fuck you harder, faster. he was too lost in the feeling, and so were you.

the intoxication sensation of your orgasm comes quickly, and it’s devastating. jake takes notice of the way your nails run down his back, the other pulling on his hair and your legs impossibly tight around his waist. “would look at that– ah–, you’re going to cum, baby?” he asks, voice low and wavering, “are you?”

you hum, your moans impossible to suppress. you drool on the fabric of the mattress – you were so, so close. jake has other plans, though. “oh, c-come on now, princess… we’ve– ah– talked about it a-already,” he says, hand coming to your neck, adding some pressure – just enough for your eyes to roll back on your closed eyelids. he loves to watch it, his own release coming fast and unforgiving. “use your words.”

“i– fuck– can i cum, jake? p-please…” you start, eyes opening to lock with his as best as you can. “please! jake, ah– i can’t hold it a-anymore…” you cry out, head lolling back once more. “f-feels so good, so good.”

jake can’t hold it back any longer too, hips unrelenting at your begging. “go ahead, baby. cum for me.” he whispers, and it feels like you fall over the edge immediately. the unceasing clenching of your walls only pushing him to his orgasm too, thick ropes painting your inner thigh as he pulls out. the wave of pleasure that overtakes you both is devastatingly good, you can barely discern what's happening as whispered “thank you’s” fall from your lips. when you both fall back to reality you’re sweaty and breathless. he drops his weight on you, arms caging your body as his head finds the comfort of your chest. you giggle and hug his shoulders, eyes too heavy from tiredness to keep them open. you fall asleep before the both of you can say anything. jake senses your calming breath, choosing to clean himself and you up before giving into the temptation of sleep as well. he dresses you on his shirt that was on the floor after putting on his boxers, hugging you from behind whispering sweet nothings to you, lulling himself to sleep.

DAY 37 - Fool For You

you’ve never been one to give in to awkwardness. you pride yourself on being quite a light presence, always funny or trying to make everyone feel comfortable. but it wasn’t until you had sex with jake that it changed. because, sadly, now you’re just always nervous around him. it had been two days since he claimed you for himself – two days and you still haven’t really faced him. what could you do, really? pretend it never happened? act like the big deal it was and possibly ruin everything? acknowledge what happened but act like it's not going to destroy every single wall you've built around yourself?

you felt hopeless and you missed him – so much. because after what you two shared, there was no room for doubt, no room for hiding the undeniable truth. you were deeply, madly and uncontrollably in love with jake. so much so it hurted you. so much so you could tell everyone and you would never feel ashamed of it. but, what about him? how could you ask him if you didn’t even know how to allow yourself to be vulnerable like that? to let him in like he was always there – although it felt like he had always been part of you, you also couldn’t help but overthink it. you felt like he understood you even if no words were spoken, but would it really be enough for him to know that you loved him? would you be enough for him? did he feel the same? god, did he even like you at all? and as you torture yourself – feeling like you could actually feel a physical discomfort from all the thinking and loving and wanting you had trapped inside you –, jake was losing his mind.

he was in complete despair, like he’ll never have you. all of the time it took for him to get to know you, to get close to you – it felt meaningless –, and now you were slipping right through his fingers all over again. it wasn’t fair. he knew you felt something for him. and it was driving him insane, because if you felt even just a little bit of what he feels, then it was enough for forever. even if you feel just five percent of what he feels for you, you would make it until the end of the world. but it didn't matter, because you hadn’t talked to him yet. he was feeling like he was left to die of starvation, your absence making him hallucinate. making him question just how much he wouldn’t do for you – only so he could finally have you. because he was feeling like he could do it all, but he needed you to come to him. to allow him to truly see you, to truly feel you. so he decided to wait. wait for you to come to terms with the reality you seemed so against living and then he’d do everything – anything to keep you by his side.

even if you weren’t sure about how things would turn out, you know it was you who had to make the first move and when you decide to get your shit together, you walk straight to his room. looking calm on the exterior, but completely wrecked on the inside, yet it’s kinda funny for you. you have nothing to fear anyway, expect for, well, a rejection – but it wasn't really going to stop you. when you get to his door you take a few deep breaths, gathering the courage that was just a few seconds ago all over you but seemed to suddenly vanish. you grow eager, as if it was all coming to realization. it feels so fucking right you could cry, you decide to knock before it all becomes too much. doing it softly, you wait for him to answer, cleaning your sweaty palms on the sides of your sleeping shorts.

jake’s listening to some random “songs for studying” playlist on youtube while scrolling through his media when he hears the soft knock on his door. he freezes, what was happening? he jumps out of bed, looking around checking if anything needed replacing. when he sees everything’s fine he walks to the door, but remembers he had changed into his sleeping clothes, so he goes back to check himself in the mirror, only for him to run a hand through his hair and get right back to the door. once there he doesn’t think twice, swinging the door open. “hi!”

you get startled by the sudden movement. jake looks like he has the energy to run a marathon and is hardly holding himself from doing so. it’s cute. you look at his puppy-like eyes, his lips slightly parted and his hair falling in his brows. you almost say right then and there, but you hold it – waiting for a more appropriate moment. instead, you say “uh, hi.” and then you giggle, looking down to your feet and then back at him. “what are you doing right now?”

he lets out a giggle himself, a bit more at ease now that he knows you’re not there bringing bad news. then he answers, “honestly? nothing,” and he laughs at his own sentence.

“good, can i come in then?” you ask, but before he could even answer you’re already explaining yourself, “it’s just– uh, i want to talk to you…”

he smiles nervously, stepping aside so you can come in. after you walk in, he guides you to his bed by your shoulder and then he lays on his side, propped on his left arm. “tell me all about it, baby.”

the nickname makes goosebumps raise all over your body, but maybe it was the fact that you had acknowledged you want this whole thing so much – maybe it was burning in you all along just waiting for an excuse to be freed. “i… so, i wanted to–” you stutter, growing a bit nervous.

“hey,” he grabs your hands that were in your lap. “relax! you’re kinda freaking me out, you know?” he says, trying to lighten the mood. he could see what you wanted to say was serious but he also didn’t want you to get anxious over it. “i feel like you’re gonna say you're a murderer or something.”

you can only laugh, because he’s such a fucking idiot and you love him so bad it’s kind of pathetic. “god, that’s such an idiotic thing to say…” you pause, looking at him playing with your bracelet mindlessly. then you realized there was no way he went for all the trouble to fuck you if he didn’t have any feelings for you. it was so dumb of you to assume that in the first place. and it felt so right in that moment – almost dream-like –, you didn’t want to waste it. the words left your mouth by impulse, but they all fell so naturally out of it too, it barely felt like it was the first time you were saying them, “i love you, jake.”

jake feels his whole world stop. what did you just say? he couldn’t voice it out better, muttering, “what?”

“yep…” you say comically popping the ‘p’, head nodding dramatically, lips pressed in a thin line and brows furrowed in fake apprehension. because, deep down, you’re sure it was going to work out just fine. “guess that’s worse than a murder, huh?”

jake’s going crazy, he wasn’t expecting you to ever say it like that, so easily. “do–” he gasped, choking a bit. he was a mess by this point, his hands pulling you closer by your wrists until your face was close enough, to the point he could feel your warm breath on his nose. his voice cracking with obvious emotion, but he really couldn’t care less, “do you really?”

and your eyes water, voice faltering just as much, “of course i do, jake… ” you press your forehead to his, eyes closing but you can feel his hands shaking where they hold you and you wanted nothing but to make him feel all of the love he made you feel.

“oh my god,” he uttered, voice completely drowned in emotion as his breath hitches and he sobs, but that doesn't stop him from keep talking, “oh my god, baby, i love you too,” he states, like it wasn’t obvious by the way the tears left his eyes and stained your shirt. he’s a blabbering mess, but you love it. “i love you so much.”

and there, in between tears, smiles and sweet words, jake’s certain that he’d do everything all over again, just to have you. and you know you found the one.

DAY 38 - Apocalypse

you wake up in your bed with a startle, out of breath and with tears blurring your vision, threatening to fall from your eyes. your heart was filled with so much love you could never possibly keep to yourself only, so look to the side to reach jake. only, he isn’t there. you sit up, confusion knocks on your poor sleepy brain and you stumble out of bed. you remember very vividly you had fallen asleep with jake the night before, after you so happily declared your love for each other. as you reach for your doorknob you pause, what if it was a dream? because you remember you were in jake's room last night, not yours. were you so sleep drunk you couldn’t tell if it all happened or not? you rush to open the door and walk towards jake’s room, but he wasn’t there either. so you decide to go to the kitchen, not yet ready to give up, even if your heart was squeezing like you had lost the only love you ever had known.

as you reach the kitchen you hear some noises and your body fills with excitement as you eye jake’s broad figure – but, wait. is that a Seattle Mariners shirt?

“oh my god, jake. why are you wearing jay’s shirt?” your voice competing with your laughter, trying to imagine what would be jay’s reaction if he saw his favorite shirt in jake’s body – his very nice, very doable body. “i’ll tell jay.”

“don’t you dare, pretty,” he says, like it’s a threat – that has no effect, whatsoever – as he drops whatever he was doing to come hug you. “it isn’t jay’s, he gave me this one on my birthday last year,” he gave your forehead a kiss, then the top of your head and kept going, “how did you sleep? i put you in your room ‘cause mine’s closer to the kitchen and i wanted to make breakfast. did i wake you?” but you almost don’t hear it, his voice being drowned since he talked while his lips were pressed to the top of your head.

“you didn’t wake me, love,” and the way you say it makes jake’s heart melt. “but i woke up crying and for some weird reason i thought yesterday was a dream…” you add, hugging him back and taking in his scent.

“i left for 15 minutes and you were already crying from missing me? that’s cute, princess,” he laughs after speaking, moving you to sit at the counter. “well, it’s good it wasn’t a dream then, huh?”

you give an disgusted look to his little joke, but you’re smiling when you brush your lips to his, “i don’t know… i’m starting to regret it.”

“you’re so mean,” he replies, but he’s also smiling. he gives you a brief kiss on the lips, then one on your cheek. he looks at you for a bit and says, “i think i should make us breakfast…”

you both laugh, knowing what he’s hinting at. you get off the counter and help him, being so filled with contentment and love as you watch him make a mess in the kitchen just like always,

“i love you.”

a/n: it was supposed to be all a dream in the end, bit i couldn't do it. let me know what you think<33

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jayparked · 13 hours ago

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85 and 92 with jake pleasseeeee 😩😩

loud moans push past your lips despite how hard you try to suppress them. you hate being in this position, hate how easily he gets you here, and hate how much you like it. the only good thing about jake sim is that he was somehow blessed by the finger banging sex gods. the way his digits piston in and out of your aching cunt has your thighs shaking, hands grasping onto him for some sort of leverage. it pisses you off that you even have to hold onto him, or look at him for that matter. but dammit he just makes you feel so, so good.

"try not to be so noisy, yeah?" chuckles jake, a little too smugly.

"shut up, jake. we agreed no talking," you bite back.

he leans closer to you, lips brushing against your ear as he drops his voice down to a coy, sultry murmur, "aw, c'mon. you don't want me to whisper sweet nothings in your ear while you get off on my fingers?"

fuck. fuck fuck fuck. that should not turn you on more. that should not have you shutting your eyes tight to avoid them from rolling back. which you're able to resist from doing. every part of your body is under your control. that is, except where it matters most.

"oh, baby look at you clenching around me. you like that? do you like the sound of my voice?"

"shut. up." you say through gritted teeth. you're half tempted to knee him in the dick. but that would mean acknowledging the very obvious tent he's sporting and if you think about that- fuck. you're already thinking about it. how girthy he is, the way you can feel his veins against your walls as he pushes his mushroom tip to the deepest parts of yourself

"c'mon, sweetheart. drop the spiteful act just this once. you can pretend we're not enemies just this once, can't you? for me?"

you consider it for a moment. just a moment.

"nice try but i'm not falling for it. just hurry up and make me come so we can go our separate ways like always."

your eyebrows furrow together as jake pouts, fingers slowing to a stop inside of you.

accepting that things are ending here, you grab your bag and pull your pants back up to your hips, swallowing how annoyed you are as you walk away from him.

"wait! y/n!" jake runs after you and grabs your arm, turning you back to face him.

"get used to the view, sim. i look best when i'm walking away from you.

"actually, i think you'd look even better under me. please let me properly fuck you. i'll show you i'm not a waste of time."

"if that's what it takes to get you to stop begging." you laugh softly, trying hard to ignore the feelings of endearment and flattery that are bubbling up to your chest.

"oh baby i'll beg for you all day if that's what you like. just say the words i'll be on my knees." and without hesitating, jake is on his knees, hands clasped together and shaking back and forth. those puppy eyes are impossible to resist, you can't deny it. so you laugh nervously instead, looking around you to make sure no one is seeing this pathetic sight.

"what happened to being enemies?" you say with a smile you just can't mask.

jake gets to his feet, brushing his hands on his clothes before looking at you with a wide, dorky smile.

"i'd like to skip to the lovers part. if that's okay with you."

for part of my 1k follower celebration send me a member and a number from this list and i'll write a short drabble about it ♡ masterlist

#something about this one....#jayparked 1k drabble event #jake smut #jake hard thoughts #jake hard hours #enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #sim jaeyun smut #jake x reader #jake x you #enhypen x you #enhypen x reader #jaeyun x you #jaeyun x reader

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merlucide · 11 hours ago

Text

Prayers in Silk

pairings 𓇼 Highschool!Satoru x Fem!Reader (enemies to lovers type)

synopsis 𓇼 it was new years in 2006, and as the year changes, so do the hearts of two people. At the shrine on the cold new years morning, you and Satoru make your wishes, unaware that the prayer he holds is far more significant than you realize.

warnings 𓇼 light cursing, cheesy bit at the end

word-count 𓇼 2.6k

“Ehhh?! You’re seriously wearing a kimono?! In this weather!?” Gojo bafflingly exclaimed, pointing at your satin yellow kimono. “Uhh? You aren’t dressed up?!” You glare at his comment, crossing your arms. He was wearing his grey sweatpants and a his navy blue jacket, quite boring compared to your glamorous look. It was New Year’s Day and you were going to Hatsumode, which is the first shrine visit of the new year. You wanted to look nice in the presence of the Kami’s, is there something so wrong with that?

To Gojo Satoru, apparently it was. “Too much effort, and like, it’s freezing,” He retorted stuffing his hands back into his jacket. It wasn’t actively snowing, but ice ice glazed the sidewalks, and frost dusted the bamboo, creating a picturesque—albeit chilly—path to the shrine. You had originally made plans with Shoko to go to the shrines, that somehow turned into an invitation for Gojo and Geto as well. And you had no problem with that, except Gojo. He was insufferable—loud, smug, and annoyingly good at getting under your skin, and unfortunately he liked getting under yours the best.

You let out a dry sigh and rub your hands together, “Where’s Geto?” You ask, looking around for the black-haired boy. those two are like one in the same, it’s odd to catch one without the other. “They needed him for an emergency mission or something,” He answered nonchalantly. You hummed in acknowledgement, a few minutes later a ‘ding!’ went off and you pulled out your phone. A notification from ‘Shoko-tan<3’. you opened the message.

‘Hey sorry can’t meet- they dragged me in on an emergency mission. Sorry again (*´Д｀*)’

You sighed deeply through your nose and closed the lid, sliding it back into your kimono’s obi securely. Gojo’s brow raised at you slightly, an amused glint in his eyes as if he was about to comment on how “traditional” you looked, but he bit back the remark with a smirk.

You clapped your hands against your red cheeks and turned towards the frozen stone steps. “Shoko can’t come, I’m going now,” you firmly state, not sparing a glance at the snow-haired boy as you make your ways into the bamboo enclosed path. Gojo blinks a few times and trails behind eyeing you. The path to the shrine was filled of red and black torii above your heads. “Sooo, whatcha gonna ask for eh?” He drawls, blowing air into his hands. You sigh, “I don’t know yet.” “You should pray for a boyfriend, you probably won’t get one otherwise,” He smirks, head tilted towards the sky, avoiding your gaze.

You abruptly turn “Excuse me?!” You scoff, “Well for your information I was asked out multiple times in the past few months!” You glare at him, which he just sticks his tongue out tauntingly. Your dating life has always been amusing to Gojo for some reason. Always poking fun at you for not having a boyfriend yet or how you’ll end up alone or whatever nonsense he can come up with to elicit a reaction from you.

You sharply exhale and continue down the path, it was a bit busy as expected, but not nearly as busy as you thought it would be. You also went much earlier to avoid the crowd. “Well then, what are you going to ask for, hm?” You spare a quick glance to him. “Meh, I don’t care, maybe a free ticket to America. Never been,” you stare at him baffled, ‘seriously?’ you think. “..You’re going to ask… for a plane ticket?” You echo. “Yeah, never been sounds cool, besides the chicks there are super hot,” he exclaimed on the last bit. “A plane ticket? Are you serious?” You exasperatedly ask. “What? It’s a wish, isn’t it?” He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll send you a postcard.”

“You know this is the time to ask about like— health and happiness right?”

“Duuuh, I did grow up ‘tradish’ y’know,” he replies mockingly, adjusting his glasses up. You just shrug and turn your gaze to the shrines entrance. You step underneath the temizuya, the water basin had ice on the sides of the walls, the temple keepers had already cleared the ice out, no doubt it was freezing. You took your right hand and took the ladle, scooping it and pouring the water into your left hand. ‘Oh it was freezing!’ You shudder, “You’d think they’d have like, a heater or something, ugh,” you groan, switching the ladle to your left hand and pouring it on your right. This was the purification process, it’s how you show respect and properly participate in the ritual. And as much as you want to make the Kami’s proud and honor them, this sucked ass.

You poured a little bit of water into your left, holding it up to your lips and rinse your mouth. Now’s not the time to think of germs. You swish it around a few times, then spit it to the side of the basin. Gojo chuckles behind you about who knows what, “Oh hush, it’ll be your turn soon,” you tilt the ladle upright, watching the water trickle back down into basin. Then you hand it to Gojo, who takes it and steals your place. He repeats the process with a little more complaints than you, ‘THIS IS FUCKING COLD.’ You just snicker watching him, then you continue into the shrine.

“Seriously, that sucked,” Gojo moans, stuffing his wet cold hands back into his jacket. “Shush already, be caaaaalm,” you mock, both of you walking on the side of the path, nodding at those leaving. You make it to the main shrine, it was brown and red, like most temples. this one wasn’t very big, since you didn’t go to the cities shrine, figuring that would be much more busier. It was small and modest. The concrete torii stood in front of the shrine, moss growing on the top, little komainu stood next to it, and there was little circle candles on both sides of the shrine.

You stood in front of the offering box and dropped in your five yen. Gojo repeated the action, flipping it off his thumb. You both faced the shrine, and bow deeply twice. Then clapped your hands twice, in sync, then you both tilted your head down in prayer.

You had thought deeply a few days prior of what you would ask for. Your life wasn’t perfect, but you were happy—that wasn’t what you wanted to ask for. You weren’t poor, nor were you rich, but that was fine too. What you wanted wasn’t something material. Maybe it was love, maybe it was clarity, or maybe it was just the strength to navigate the path ahead. Man, this was hard. As a jujutsu sorcerer, tomorrow is never promised. You accepted that, you knew one day you would probably die against a curse. That hit harder after your kouhai died. You don’t want anyone around you to have the same fate. You bowed your head slightly and pressed your hands tighter together. “Please let those I care about have a long and happy life… and maybe let me figure out my own along the way.”

You open you eyes and stand up, Gojo was already standing, waiting for you. You bow deeply once more and turn to face him. “So what did you end up asking for?” He asks, piercing blue eyes peeking behind his slipping glasses. You shrugged softly, “For those around me to live their lives to the fullest,” you reply, dusting off your kimono. Gojo snickers, “Gosh you really are so selfless,” He praises mockingly. You click your tongue, “Well then, what did you end up asking for, hm?” “Tickets,” “Are you serious?!” You exclaim. You seriously thought he was joking, how stupid is he. You shake your head. ‘unbelievable’.

He just gives his cheeky boyish grin he always gives you, oh how you hated that smile. You both left the main shrine, making your way to the shop booth to buy omamori. You figured you’d get one for Shoko since she couldn’t make it. You looked at the colorful options, picking up a blue omamori with written kanji, ‘protection’. You looked for one for yourself, you already asked for protection and guidance, so what charm should you get?

“Hey, what are you getting?” You ask, turning to the lanky boy. “Gotta guarantee that I stay number one,” Gojo smirks, dangling a yellow omamori, kanji reading as ‘success’. “Meh, I’ll get Suguru a ‘protection from bad luck’, sounds good enough.”

Your fingers ghosted over the pink one, lifting it up and brushing your finger pads over the lettering.

You paid for both of you, because Gojo apparently ‘forgot his wallet’, ironic since he’s fucking loaded. You put yours and Shoko’s omamori into your obi, the tassels sticking out ever so slightly. You both begin the journey out of the shrine grounds. The sun had begun to melt the frost, it hadn’t warmed up much but it still felt warmer. That was when you came face to face with the crowd, oh it’s a wonderful thing you went earlier. It was kind of ridiculous just how many people went to the shrine for Hatsumode. Gojo bends down to the shell of your ear, lowly speaking, “Good thing we got here when we did.” Groups of family and friends pooled in, squeezing against each other. You and Gojo were pushed to the very edge of the path due to the crowd, a girl passed you in a lavender and pink kimono. “See, I’m not the only person dressed up,” you boast, smirking at the boy who was wordlessly mocking your comment.

You and Gojo squeezed your way through the narrowing path, the weight of the crowd pressing in from all sides. People were pushing and shoving, their chatter creating a constant buzz in the air, but it felt oddly isolating. You were still too aware of Gojo standing just a few inches behind you, his presence impossible to ignore. You could feel the heat of his body just behind you, his breath warm against the back of your neck. It was an oddly intimate feeling, and you refused to acknowledge it.

But just as you turned to throw a glance back at him, to make sure he was still with you, someone bumped into your shoulder, pushing you backward into Gojo. You stumbled slightly, surprised by the force of the collision, but before you could step away, you realized something was different.

Gojo hadn’t moved.

In fact, his hands—his hands were now firmly holding your arms, steadying you.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a split second, everything felt oddly still. Gojo’s hands held onto your forearms, and the usual barrier,—the feeling that he was untouchable, inaccessible—had melted away. His Infinity, his usual shield, was absent in that moment.

You didn’t know if he meant to lower it, or if it was a slip-up, but his fingers lingered a little longer than necessary before he quickly pulled back, his usual smirk sliding back into place as though nothing had happened. “You fallin’ for me too?” he said nonchalantly, his tone teasing, but there was something else in his eyes—something fleeting, almost imperceptible.

You cleared your throat, trying to hide the rush of warmth in your cheeks. “Watch where you’re going, dummy,” “YOU BUMPED INTO ME?!” You rolled your eyes and continued pushing through the mess of people.

The moment passed, but it left an unspoken question hanging in the air between you two. ‘he’s so annoying’ you thought, that’s definitely what you thought.

The crowd was finally thinning out, and with a sigh of relief, you stepped through the last few groups of people, Gojo following at your side. The shrine’s path grounds were gradually clearing, and the chill in the air didn’t feel quite so biting anymore. You adjusted the fabric of your kimono, a subtle movement that caught Gojo’s eye as you did. A small piece of pink caught his attention from the edge of your obi—the tassel of your omamori peeking out.

Gojo didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual. That pink hue—he knew exactly what it meant. Love. The omamori meant for romance, for heart’s desires. It was so clearly sentimental that it almost made him roll his eyes. He quickly shifted his gaze away, though, as if he hadn’t seen it at all. You were probably the type to hope for something soft, something you could hold onto. He wasn’t the type to believe in things like that.

It wasn’t hard to imagine why you’d chosen it, though the thought of you wishing for something like that… It stirred something strange in him. You’d picked something soft, hopeful. Did you even realize what that said about you? You acted so tough, sharp edges and biting remarks, but this? This was something else entirely.

As you turned ahead, tucking the tassel back into the folds of your kimono, Gojo’s smirk returned, casual, but with an undercurrent of something else. His gaze softened for just a split second before he looked away again. His hands found their way into his jacket pockets, the silence stretching between you both.

“Guess we’re headed in different directions now,” Gojo said, his voice low, almost as if the words didn’t fully match the thoughts behind them. “Good luck with that wish of yours. Cya at school.”

You didn’t quite catch the weight behind his words, brushing them off as just another one of his teasing remarks. You nodded, walking ahead without a second glance.

As your figure retreated, Gojo lingered behind for a moment longer, standing at the edge of the steps, watching you as you walked away. His hand brushed against the omamori in his pocket, the action so subtle it could’ve been missed by anyone else. But to Gojo, it was something more. It was a reminder of the prayer he made, the charm he chose.

Success, yes. But there was more to it than that. The charm was supposed to symbolize the strength to keep going, to push forward. But what Gojo had truly wished for, what he had really prayed for, was simpler than that.

—He’d lied, of course—he hadn’t wished for plane tickets. That was just a convenient story to cover up the truth. He’d stood at the shrine, hands clasped loosely, head bowed just enough to make it look like he cared about decorum. But his mind had only been on one thing. On you.

He had wished for you. Not in the way your omamori was about love, no, not that. But he had prayed for the strength to keep you safe, to give you the life you deserved—the life where you didn’t have to fear the world or what it might take from you.

He had prayed for the kind of strength that would allow him to be by your side, to protect you, to ensure that no curse would ever hurt you. Maybe you didn’t realize it, but Gojo saw the way your smile lit up even in the darkest moments, the way you kept going despite everything. And he couldn’t stand the idea of you ever losing that light.

So, he held his omamori tight, fingers curling around the small charm, as a quiet breath slipped past his lips. He didn’t need to tell you what he’d really wished for. You wouldn’t understand. But in that moment, Gojo made a promise to himself: he would do whatever it took to make sure your life, your happiness, was something that could never be taken from you.

You may have prayed for the happiness of others, but Gojo? He prayed for yours—and for the chance to be the one who made it possible.

I have 4 things to say:

This rlly tested my Japanese culture knowledge 😭🙏

I got excited writing this bc there’s a chance u can go back to Japan in a year or two!!

this was mostly proofread but shut probably doesn’t make all sense 😭

oh my gosh editing the colors took forever HELPP

feedback + Reblogs appreciated pls! :)

made November 27th 2024 (I’m excited for Christmas season okay??)

109 notes · View notes

oimitocat · 2 days ago

Text

IN A MOMENT U & I | OS

lee minho x m!reader

super hero au! + mind control + death themes + blood + crying + hurt/comfort + angst + fluff [ s/n = superhero name]

a/n; this sure did take me a while…. lots of minho love here lol (black widow minho won’t leave my head)

“where are we going? it’s hot, i’m sweaty and my feet hurt,” he whines.

his smile is wide- wait, who’s smiling at him?

“you can’t resist this, lee know. everything went my way when you just had to be stubborn and prove yourself!” someone cackles, “my mission will be completed once you get rid of s/n.”

minho growls, trying to get out of the restraints. that’s right… he had separated from the group and went ahead and-

there’s a snap. he doesn’t know if it came from inside his head or outside. suddenly, all he hears is static.

“what’s so cool about this place? it’s too quiet…”

“don’t you like peace and quiet?” he snickers. “look around, take in the place.”

with a small pout, he looks around. it’s eerily quiet, yes he does like peace and quiet but something’s off about this. it’s an unsettling peace. the waves roar as they crash into the sand. he looks away when an unsettling feeling sinks to the bottom of his stomach. he turns around to face-

“minho?” there’s disdain in your voice.

good.

“minho! WAIT!”

there’s a loud resounding crack when he slams down his batons into your arm. you don’t want to hurt him, this isn’t lee know. this isn’t your minho. you won’t hurt him. you could never bring yourself to do so.

“kind of hard to fight someone you’re so in love with, right?” a voice booms over the platform.

you and the rest of the group had located minho and the enemy to be here in a shipyard. it’s not abandoned, chan and felix had to evacuate the workers and any bystanders. jeongin and jisung were busy fending off the stupid robots fighting them off to come for minho. you had managed to sneak past, giving the green by chan.

you didn’t think minho would be-

“min! you’re being mind controlled!”

“he won’t hear you! all he hears are my orders!”

you growl, sliding away from minho before he slams his batons down on your head. he had activated the weapon’s electricity discharge and if you got hit by them you’d be out for a bit. you hop off the floor, groaning when you use your arms to push yourself off the cold, wet floor.

“hey, ji! could you try to figure out where the guy controlling minho is?” you ask into your in ear as you run down the hollow shipping containers.

“huh? he’s being mind controlled?”

minho connects his batons to make a long staff, extending it for facility. you groan, knowing you’re about to get your ass kicked.

“me and jeongin just defeated these shitty robots!” jisung announces, “we’ll try to find the guy, i’ll move to seungmin okay? don’t get your ass beat!”

“kinda hard when you know minho is my weakness-“ you jump minho slides to kick your feet.

you pant, landing a bit farther from him as he spins and gets on his feet swiftly. any other time you’d be enamored at how easily his limbs move during a fight. you’d be captivated by his acrobatic attacks, except you’re the prey this time. his feline like eyes are aimed at you with the intent to kill.

he charges right at you and you refuse to strike back every time he aims a blow at you. minho’s attacks are fast. he has fast combinations and you have no choice but to take out your sheaths to keep up with blocking and redirecting.

your own weapons are shattered when he slams down his staff. he has brute strength, sends you to the ground. with minho you have to be quick- so you grab his staff and slam it down the side, taking him unguarded for a second enough to leave from under him. however, your back is faced towards him and he takes little to no time to slam the hilt of his staff into your lower back. you groan out in agony and fall forward.

“s/n~,” the loud voice booms again, “how does it feel to have your lover kill you?”

you grunt when minho crawls on top of your face. at the sound of disassembly, you realize he had transformed his long staff back to his two batons. you can’t apply any force on your left arm- it’s probably broken. you think fast, pulling out your own baton from it’s strap on your thigh. slamming it’s edge to the floor, you pressed a button and the baton extends to something twice its side. it send you flying to the side, minho falling off of you. with ease, he slide to his feet. you stagger, eyeing him.

“i think your main mistake was flaunting your little relationship in a fight between that last villain you took out a few weeks ago.” the voice is crazy loud, where the hell is jisung? “rumors spread you know.”

you fall to the ground when minho jumps off the floor, using his staff again as grounding to side kick your head. good thing you saw it coming, using your left arm again to block the attack. as his feet touch the floor, his arm is already swinging his staff into your rib.

“ah, people in love make me sick… but seeing you two dance around like that makes me wish i had someone.”

“piece of shit,” you grunt as you hug your side and dash off again.

minho is a fast runner, not faster than chan but for sure faster than you. him jumping off the boxes and tired laying out in the ground wasn’t helping your case. he throws a baton at you from a short distance, it electrocutes you at the touch. with a cry of agony, you fall to the floor.

his soft but heavy footsteps draw close to you.

“i don’t really like walking down the beach, the sand feels weird,” he says as he turns to the other person, hoping they get the gist and take him somewhere else. yet, as he looks at them, he notices that not only can he not see their face, but they’re kneeling before him.

“minho…”

“minho,” you gasp between his blows.

he has one hand holding you down by the neck. his strength there isn’t enough to cut off circulation or even try, but it’s strong enough to keep you pinned in your weakened state. his other hand is holding the baton and bashing it to the side of your face. one of your hands is gripping his hand on your neck and the other trying to hold off his other hand.

“s/n you’re one of the most strongest heroes out there and yet you’re dying in lee know’s hands? how embarrassing for you. one single punch could have him disadvantaged easily.” the voice booms again.

your ears are ringing. with minho’s body sitting on top of you, your breathing is harder. your rib hurts, his pressure isn’t helping. your bleeding from your mouth and your nose.

“will you really die at his hands?” he scoffs, “you could have at least made this more entertaining-“

the voice cuts off.

“WE FOUND HIM! S/N, JUST HOLD ON A LITTLE LONGER!”

“about time!” you groan, yet your arm weakens and he slides out his hand to hit you once more.

“it’s about time we move forward in our relationship, don’t you think?” they say with a smile.

you use all your energy to lift up your legs and flatted your feet on the ground. your going to pass pass out if you don’t do something. you can’t die, minho’s grief will eat him alive. you have to hold off as much as you can until jisung and jeongin defeat the villain. you thrust upward, quickly pivoting off the ground once he’s off you for a split second. he falls forwards, hands pushing him up and helping him land on his feet after a cartwheel.

you stare at him through one eye. the other shut closed from the blood that dripped from your temple down.

“KILL HIM!” the voice booms.

minho charges at you again, but before your feet move, he throws takes out something from his pocket and throws it at your feet. you get electrocuted again. in the few seconds that your body is shaking from the electricity, you knocks you down with a kick to the stomach.

“IF THEY GET RID OF ME I NEED TO MAKE SURE S/N IS GONE BEFORE THAT.”

“s/n hold on!” jeongin yells through your in ear.

you can’t really hear him. agony is taking over, your losing consciousness.

“min…ho,” you cough as he gets on top of you again.

“don’t you think, minho?” the man smiles, he thinks it’s a pretty smile.

he can’t even enjoy it though, the waves are roaring louder, he wants to leave. he lowers his hand despite it, eyes shimmering at the sight of the ring. this is a beautiful moment… but what’s wrong?

“MINHO!”

he freezes.

he snaps his head to the side, seeing chan charge straight towards him. what the hell? he feels lightheaded. actually, his head is pounding. he tries to stand up but when he looks down to hoist himself, he sees you.

bloody.

his blood runs cold. his hands tremble and when he sees that he’s holding one of his baton’s- which is dripping with blood- he can’t breathe. did- did he-

“minho-“, chan tries, panting when he reaches you two.

“nonononono,” minho gets out, frantic when he takes in your bloody face and your closed eyes. he grabs your face as he sobs, trying to shake you to get you to open your eyes. “y/n-“

“minho, y/n is-“

“NO SHUT UP!” minho screams, sobbing. he can’t bear to hear it.

he keeps shaking you, begging you to open your eyes.

“hey i need backup here! chan can you come?”

chan hesitates before stepping away.

minho gasps, letting go of you when you don't open your eyes. "no, no, no!" he screams, scrubbing his face with his bloody hands.

what is going to do? this is- "ALL MY FAULT," he sobs.

he's busy crying into your hands when you finally do open your eyes. one of them burns, probably from the blood that had dripped into it. still, you use your energy to put your hands on his hips,

"baby…" you croak out. "i'm not dead-"

"YOU PIECE OF SHIT," he sobs, throwing himself on you to cry into the crook of your neck, "I'M SORRY!"

you groan, screwing your eyes shut. "ack- min- babe- get off- i can't breathe. i gotta broken rib or something-"

minho doesn't stop crying. he quickly scrambles off of you, begging for forgiveness and asking if you're okay.

"hey, hey," you wheeze out, "it's okay. i'm glad they handles it before you really did kill me."

and minho cries harder.

it takes a while for seungmin and felix to come. seungmin uses his powers to facilitate moving you to the ship without putting you in more pain. minho doesn't leave your side even when you're back at the base getting checked and undergoing surgery.

he can't forgive himself for- "being so careless. i should have listened to you when you said something was off about the hideout. i should have waited-"

"hey, shut up," you tease, squeezing his hand. "i was just happy to know you were safe. you being mind controlled was better than finding you dead."

he swallows, looking at your patched up figure. "at least you held me off pretty long…"

"you saying i can't handle you?" you pout.

"if you put it like that…"

"get out."

"no! you're my responsibility-"

"i'm your fiancé."

"exactly." minho eyes you down before smiling. "i really wouldn't have known what to do if you were really dead…"

"probably go even more insane." you tease, which earns you a slap on the arm and you groan.

"SORRY!" he winces.

“give me a kiss and i’ll forgive you,” you say.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

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xxsquiddkiddxx · 15 hours ago

Text

Heels ~ Viktor x Reader

Pronouns for reader: She/Her

Relationship type: Platonic, romantic feelings, slight enemies to lovers if you unfocus your eyes a bit

General Idea: Viktor used to hate the sound of those damn boots of hers, but now he's grown to find an odd sense of comfort in the noise. Along with... a series of other feelings.

Content Warnings: Fluff, swearing, Viktor being sassy, s1 Viktor, Takes place between S1E3~E4, Viktor's kinda down bad but in a denial way, Viktor also isn't good at realizing he has feelings for the reader, Jayce needs a 32hr nap

A/N: My Viktor headcanons got a LOT more love than I thought they would... so I decided to write some more Viktor XD

(Nobody's POV, but it's mostly told. through Viktor's thoughts)

~☆~

The lab was pretty much silent. The only sounds heard were the sounds of Viktor tinkering with a Hextech device and the occasional flipping of pages as (Y/N) read some notes that Jayce had written. It was late, definetly past midnight as the two worked.

"(Y/N)," Viktor says, breaking the silence. The girl's head pops up at the sound of her name. "Come here for a second? I need a second pair of hands."

"Be right there." She says, finishing the page she was on. She stands up and walks towards him, the sound of her boots hitting the tile as she walks.

Clack

Click

Clack

Viktor used to hate the sound of her boots. "Those damn boots are so annoying," He had complained to Jayce during the first week of (Y/N) working as a part-time assistant. "Click clack click clack, drives me insane!" He had mocked before sighing.

"Viktor... don't both your boots AND your cane make that noise as well?"Jayce had responded, raising an eyebrow with a teasing smile. This made Viktor at a loss for words.

"Well... It's annoying when she does it!" He had sassed back in response, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

That was 3 years ago. Now, he found a weird sense of comfort in hearing the sound of her boots hit the floor. He couldn't explain why, enjoyment of familiarity maybe?

"What's up?" (Y/N) says, standing behind Viktor. The smell of her perfume was almost overwhelming to him, overloading his senses. Which was weird, seeings as it must've been almost 13 hours since she'd last applied perfume. And that doesn't last long... was he delusional? Or maybe just tired? Whatever. It doesn't matter.

"Yeah, I just need you to hold this in place." Viktor says, not even looking up from what he's doing. He gestures to a little piece of metal he's holding. (Y/N) leans over Viktor and holds the piece in place as requested. The scientist trys his best to ignore the feeling of her closeness and the racing of his heart... holy crap was it warm in here? It must've been. Although it seemed strange to him that it was magically warm in here all of a sudden. This spirals him into a memory, a memory that took place a little less than a week prior to now.

Viktor sat at his desk, for once not to work on Hextech, but to run his hands through his hair and stay deep in thought.

"Viktor?" Jayce asked. "Are you OK? You haven't been as focused as you normally are today. Did something happen?"

"I think... I think there's something genuinely wrong with me." Viktor says. "Like... maybe I'm coming down with something?? I don't know." Viktor stands up, leaning on his cane slightly for support.

"Oh?" Jayce asks, raising an eyebrow. "Could you, uh, possibly elaborate on that?"

"Well, for one everytime Ms.(L/N) comes near me I about have a damn heart attack." Viktor says, his cane clacking softly on the floor as he paces. "Like yesterday, perfect example. She accidently brushed my hand when she was passing me a paper and I actually thought I was dying."

Jayce suppresses a smile, trying not to laugh. Was Viktor really getting THIS worked up... over a little crush? "Oh?" Jayce says, still suppressing a smile. "Is that it?"

"Whenever she's near me, I swear to the gods that I become hyperaware of... like... everything." Viktor says. "Like the room feels warmer, her perfume or her shampoo is ALL I can smell, I'm almost convinced I know every single speckle of color in her eyes... I think I might actually be going crazy." Viktor says, stopping his pacing. "I'm positive. I've actually hit the breaking point and am decending into insanity."

Jayce now can't help but laugh. Maybe it was his lack of sleep from working on Hextech for days on end, maybe it was the seriousness in Viktor's voice about his "decent to madness." Jayce's laughter came out as almost wheezes due to how hard he was laughing.

Viktor throws his hands up in exasperatedness. "Jayce!" Viktor scolds. "This ISN'T funny! There's-"

This just makes Jayce laugh more and more. "Yes it is, Viktor." Jayce manages to say through wheezes. He's holding onto the desk for support as he laughs. It gets to the point where passersby become mildly concerned for the scientist's wellbeing. "I assure you you're not decending to madness."

"Then what the hell is going on????" Viktor exclaims, collapsing into his chair.

"Relax you just have a little crush, it's fine." Jayce says, wiping the tears of laughter away as he tries to steady his breathing.

"Viktor?" The sound of his name snaps him out of the memory. "You good? I think I said your name like five times." (Y/N) says with a chuckle. Viktor shakes his head slightly.

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine." Viktor says, continuing what he was doing. He tried to ignore the slight shake in his hands, the side of his own hand pressed against Ms. (L/N)'s own hand. When he's done. He about throws the screwdriver down. "Thank you for your assistance." Viktor says, the weight off his shoulders earning a little sigh of relief.

"Was that all you needed?" (Y/N) asks.

"I'm pretty sure, yeah." Viktor says. (Y/N) hums in response, walking over to her desk. Click, clack, click, clack. Her boots echo in the room. She grabs her coat and walks towards Viktor again.

"I'm gonna head out then." She says. Click, clack, click, clack. The sound of her boots ring in Viktor's head, a haunting sound that he didn't actually mind having on replay in his brain. "You should too soon." She says, her voice kind and soft.

Viktor's stomach feels like it's about to leap out of his body. Even though it was scientifically impossible, he couldn't help but worry about it. "I will soon." He says, the softness in his voice actually shocking him. Normally he'd just lie out his teeth and sleep in the lab, or not sleep at all. However, when he said that he would... he truly meant it. His eyes move away from the project and to (Y/N). "I'm just gonna finish this little bit up."

(Y/N) smiles, it's tired and small, but it's still a smile nonetheless. Seeing her smile along made the corners of his lips feel like they were moving on their own. He suppresses a smile the best he can, but it still shows on his face. "Goodnight, Viktor." She says, her voice still soft. She didn't speak full volume, and that for some reason made Viktor's heart rate skyrocket.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)." He says, the same tone and volume as (Y/N). She turns and walks out of the room. Click, clack, click, clack. He listens to the sound of her shoes until they completely fade out.

"Relax you just have a little crush, it's fine."

Viktor didn't have a crush on (Y/N)... did he?

~☆~

For more fics: my masterlist

Feel free to request fics!!!

~Squeed

#hyperfixation #fanfic #fanfiction #arcane fanfiction #arcane #arcane leauge of legends #arcane lol #viktor #viktor arcane #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #viktor x you #viktor x reader #viktor fanfiction #i love my pretty princess

141 notes · View notes

wonuilu · 1 day ago

Text

WONWOO FIC RECS ‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

MDNI,18+ CONTENT.

“pincushion” by @pasteidolons

Pairings: tailor!jeon Wonwoo x bookbinder!reader (W.C:19.9k)

Summary: when a newly appointed tailor stops into your shop one autumn morning,you’re unaware the impact he would have on your life better or for worse.

“Sibilance” by @starlightxsvt

Pairing: lawyer fem!reader x rich bad boy (W.C:4.9k)

Summary: he is always getting in trouble and it is your job to get him out each time. The problem is, the more time spend with him, the bigger trouble it becomes for your heart. In the end,who will get you out?

“Bucket of happiness” by @thedensworld

Pairing: Businessman! Wonwoo x reader ft. Mingyu

Summary: After the divorce settled, you immediately moved to Canada for your treatment. Meanwhile, Wonwoo has to run away from his parents who couldn't stop forcing him to get married.

“Of shy smiles and misunderstandings” by @icyminghao

Pairing: Wonwoo x gn!reader (W.C:1.8k)

Summary: Wonwoo sees you at the library almost every day and falls head over heels for you. only, you seem to be avoiding him for annoyingly unknown reasons.

“Catnaps” by @wheeboo

Pairings: jeon wonwoo x gn.reader (W.C:8.6k)

Summary: In which you volunteer at the local cat shelter with your crush.

“Catnaps with you” by @wheeboo

Pairing: jeon wonwoo x gn!reader (W.C:10.1k)

Summary: In which you revisit the cat shelter with wonwoo during autumn break.

“W boyfriend” by @hvllevator

Pairing: streamer gamer bf!wonwoo x afab!reader (W.C:2.4K)

Summary: watching wonwoo play video games is so hot.

“Blindside” by @ylangelegy

Pairing: fem!reader x office worker!wonwoo (W.C:2.7k)

Summary: inspired by THE business proposal scene.

(Or: The three times Wonwoo keeps his glasses on, and the one time he doesn't.)

“Us,again” by @vitaminkyeom

Pairing: Wonwoo x Female Reader (W.C:11.3k)

Summary: If crush at first sight was a thing then you were a fine example of it. How you were heads over heels with a man you had just met was beyond you but you all you knew was Jeon Wonwoo had occupied every bit of your mind and heart. But when you and him finally began dating, little did the two of you expect a your relationships to turn out this way.

Or, in which, you and Wonwoo unfortunately have a happily never after ending.

“Enchanted” by @heechwe

Pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader (W.C:6.1k)

Summary: Life as the housemaid and an inconvenience to your family is not what you wished for, but Wonwoo brings a new, royal perspective that turns your world around.

“new beginnings” by @etherealyoungk

Pairing: husband!wonwoo x fem!reader. (W.C:2.1k)

Summary: in which a certain someone starts getting extra clingy to you, leading you to find out you're pregnant.

“for the books” by @trblsvt

Pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader (W.C:2.2k)

Summary: wonwoo's students seemed intent on matching him up with a fellow teacher. he didn't really want to stop them, it was too funny for him to break up their fun. plus, he didn't mind the certain someone he was being "set up" with.

“Nerd” by @smileysuh

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x afab!Reader (W.C:3.9k)

Summary: Look up at me for a moment, gorgeous," Wonwoo commands, and you do as you're told. He meets your gaze, his skin flushed from your mouth suctioning on his cock. "Just need to get your eyes right for your character," he explains, threading his fingers through your hair and aiding you up and down on his throbbing length.

"Such pretty eyes. You look so good staring up at me with your mouth stuffed full, baby."

“By line” by @wonwussy

Pairing: ceo!wonwoo x reporter!afab reader (W.C:5.3k)

Genre: enemies to lovers, smut, dramatic af, angst

“And it was all yellow” by @sunhoures

Pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader (W.C:5.7k)

Summary: wonwoo doesn't believe in love at first sight, but he finds himself falling for you a lot sooner than he thought possible

“You’re my tomorrow” by @hongcherry

Pairing: customer!Wonwoo x cafeOwner!Reader (W.C:5k)

Summary: At first, you didn't think anything of it.

Jeon Wonwoo was just a customer.

However, his daily visits to your bookstore café started to become the highlight of your days. The little conversations here and there made you happy. It's because of him that you always look forward to tomorrow.

“fuck the neighbors” by @sluttywonwoo

Pairing: jeon wonwoo x f reader (W.C:3.3k)

Summary: curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back- at least, that's what they say.

“Her” by @chocosvt

Pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader (series) (W.C:140k)

Summary: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you.

unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can't see this going well. at all.

“The bore next door” by @ncteez

Pairing: wonwoo x afab reader

Summary: Jeon Wonwoo is not dull, nor is he the clean and polite neighbor that your mother assumed he was when she set you up on this awful date.

or the one where wonwoo takes you home on the first date and renders you unable to walk, hoping to god that you don't expose him to your parents.

── .✦ these are some of the fics which I love a lot! The authors/writers have done such a great job, so please show them loads of love! Like and reblog their posts!

Ps: this is my very first time posting something on tumblr, so I apologise if I’ve done something wrong.

#jeon wonwoo #seventeen #jeon wonwoo x reader #seventeen smut #wonwoo fanfic #wonwoo smut #svt smau #jeon wonwoo smut #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo #svt wonwoo #seventeen wonwoo #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo headcanons #wonwooxreader

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hotteokyu · 3 days ago

Text

Ice on her Lips

Synopsis ~ Gifted with the curse of immortality, you are the northern princess that each kingdom desires to grasp. You hide within the northern army as an infamous general, fighting for your kingdom's treasure with ease... until a soldier from the east kingdom, whom you can never overpower, discovers your identity. The water is warm, but his lips are warmer, and you suddenly never want to return home. Even if you give your greatest enemy your sacred gift, you wish to stay in his enchanting hold.

Pairing ~ enemy!seonghwa x enemy!princess!reader

Word count ~ 5.3k

Genre / warnings ~ historical-ish, fantasy, romance, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, enemies-to-lovers, violence, war, blood, suffering, reader has white hair for plot, kissing, outdoor / semi-public sex, underwater play (?), the cave makes his soft noises really loud, he tries to gain control but he's a mess, unprotected sex, they almost get caught, oral sex (female receiving), hand job (hardly), he cums on his own, he cums untouched once, they're very mean (´‸`), desperate sex, just read it

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ! ! !

a/n ~ please enjoy! mwa ᯓᡣ𐭩

You fight for your kingdom. You fight for its treasure which thousands have fallen to protect. You fight for your precious life, and that is why you are regarded with the highest rank and greatest respect.

Because you fight for the kingdom’s treasure.

Because you are the kingdom’s treasure.

Your men don’t know you’re the princess that they are meant to die for. Your enemies don’t know you are not the general they desire to kill with every fiber of their being and dignity as a soldier.

It is your greatest amusement, watching your enemies fall at your feet with such hatred in their glare at the one thing they desire so greatly.

You are the princess of the northern kingdom. Your skin is cold as frostbite, but warm blood streams healthily throughout their vessels. Your hair is white as the snow leopard which hides deep within your icy soul. You are a beauty, and you have the one thing all men wish to obtain. Immortality.

Although that term is very misleading, it is more or less true. You are gifted with everlasting youth and health until you die by a sword to your frozen heart. You have the ability to give any one being your gift.

Your northern kingdom wishes to let you live as any princess would until you pass peacefully. They believe immortality should not be brought upon any man or woman. Again, they do not realize it isn’t quite immortality. Nonetheless, the four kingdoms are at constant war, fighting to obtain the princess or protect the princess from the wrong hands.

“Where are your men?”

You don’t turn your head, your eyes focused on pulling your warm gloves over your bruised hands. You recognize his voice, the man whom you happen to come across at least once a week in battle. He’s a general from the east, dressed in complete black from his long, bunned hair to his horse.

“I’m on vacation today,” you say softly, leaning back on your hands as you peek over at him. “Didn’t you hear? The princess died. Fight’s over.”

He huffs a laugh, smiling as he glances over at the entrance to the cave you’re resting in, sitting atop your beautiful white horse.

“Your men are missing as well,” you point out, eyeing the entrance. There’s no commotion or presence. He’s alone.

“I came here to rest,” he says.

“I doubt that,” you sigh. “Did you follow me here? Think I’d undress? Per-”

“I think it’s time one of us dies,” he interrupts. “Men are falling at our sides and yet here we stand unharmed. We must fall alone for the sake of what will come of this war.”

You tilt your head. How virtuous. “And what if you fall?”

“So be it,” he answers confidently. “But I will not.”

“I don’t think you understand why I’m so good at what I do, Park Seonghwa,” you whisper. Your tiny voice echoes throughout the cave, and your footsteps bounce from the walls as you dismount your horse.

He comes down to your level, his boots clacking softly against the wet rock. He towers over you, but he doesn’t look so intimidating off of his stallion. He reaches out and taps your helmet curiously.

“Is it this?” he asks. “You hiding something under there?”

You smile softly. “Let’s fight to the death,” you say. “Then we’ll find out.”

Seonghwa overpowers you with his pure strength, but you have an immaculate technique to counter. He’s good with his sword, but he’s so predictable. It’d almost be boring if not for his constantly trying to run at you and put you down. What kind of strategy is that? It’s pathetic. I guess he’s trying to use your weakness, but, really, let’s be serious.

But brute strength and better technique do balance out a little more than you’d like. It’s been hours of back-and-forth jabs and deep slices, and you’re both bleeding puddles onto the rocky cave ground. You’re panting, bent over as you clutch your trembling arm. You’ve lost your sword at this point, your fist curled tight as if you could deal a punch on this man while you weren’t about to pass out.

Seonghwa isn’t much better, but he’s standing tall, his sword snapped in two at his feet. He’s dripping streams of blood from his limbs, but he puffs his chest out in a laugh. He takes a trembling step forward, his expression remaining calm despite the tremors of his limbs. He reaches out slowly, and you can’t find it in you to stop him.

As your helmet crashes to the floor, the metal clanking and echoing aggressively until it rolls to a stop, your hair falls into its natural place, covering your face from his faltering gaze. His fingers gently touch a strand, slowly following it to its tip without disturbing its soft delicacy.

“You understand now?” you choke out, trying to hide your fear. Seeing what you desire most practically in your hands could drive a man mad. Fuck technique, he could take you right now, and you won’t be able to stop him. It’ll all be over.

“I understand,” he says quietly. You lift your head in choppy, trembling movements. “Your kingdom does not understand your gift’s beauty, so they have thrown you to the one place where you can die.”

You clench your jaw. He’s hardly holding your hair between his fingers with any determination, but it feels like a tight leash. You can’t back away. “You don’t understand, then,” you say.

“Princess.”

Your leg shoots up to his face, and he grabs your calf, a deep scowl running over his soft features. He pushes your leg away, but you push harder until he slams into the ground. He grips your hair, pulling you with him with a harsh tug, and you immediately slam your hands into his throat, sitting your knees on the deep slashes on his arms. You dig your broken fingers into his neck, his eyes wide and arms useless. He grits his teeth, desperate to breathe as he squirms under you. His eyes never leave yours, his pupils contracted to thin slits of livid warning. As you eye the shards of his sword, preparing to end this once and for all, you hear a roar of footsteps coming from outside the cave.

You grunt, throwing yourself away from him and sprinting further into the cave. You hear him cough and gasp, stumbling pathetically behind you as you escape into the darkness.

You’ve been hiding behind a waterfall for hours. It’s cold, your clothes soaked in blood and mist from the splash of the water. You’re far from the cave, having found a small hole to escape from. You’re hidden carefully where no one should find you.

And you don’t know what to do.

You’re cold and hungry. You’re too cautious to go out to find food. You’re too injured to move much anyway. You’ve wrapped up your cuts with strips of fabric from your clothes, but that’s all you can do. Your satchel is back with your horse. You think you should call for help. But… What if Seonghwa was right? Your kingdom had always expressed their hatred for your gift. You had wanted to be a soldier since you were young, but… normally kingdoms don’t let their princesses go to war, do they?

You sigh, resting your head against the damp rock behind you. “I don’t know,” you mumble, gazing out through the gentle stream of water at the entrance to the cave.

You hardly hear the gentle rustling of the flowers beside the pond, but you quickly scoot yourself deeper into the darkness when you see two black boots appear. It’s Seonghwa.

“Are you kidding me?” you say through tightly gritted teeth.

He’s standing there, but he doesn’t look like he sees you. He looks calm, eyes gazing at the soft ripples of the water. His hair rests gently against his neck, wavy and thick, almost reaching his shoulders. He runs his rough fingers through the top, ruffling it lightly. He won’t see you. He’s off guard now. He’s alone.

You sit up slightly. He’s alone, off guard. You should kill him. You look around with your eyes without making any sudden movement. There’s hardly anything around you. No loose rocks or sticks. It’s all just… You spot a sharp rock from you. He’ll definitely see you. There’s no way you can reach it without him seeing you. Anyway, there’s no way you could muster the strength to crawl over there. You’re involuntarily limp. You should just pray he leaves. Don’t get into a fight.

But you eye him and start to panic when you spot him dipping his bare feet in the water, his shirt gone, and his hands working at the strings of his pants. How did he get undressed so quickly?? Is he seriously going to bathe in the middle of his enemy’s land??

He pauses, though, and you nearly breathe a sigh of relief, your shoulders releasing their tension slowly. His muscles and scars flex as he turns slightly, his head tilting back into a small roll, stretching his stiff neck. He looks tired, his lips parted softly, eyes closed gently. He’s certainly doing better than you, but you definitely made him too weak to fight for a while. He lets out a soft sigh, and your ears perk up at the sound, the slight vocalization of his low voice rumbling gently through his chest.

“Princess…”

Your ears fall, your expression blank. You don’t breathe, don’t think.

“Let me treat your wounds,” he says, tilting his head forward as he eyes the stream of water protecting you from his view. Or perhaps not.

But you remain still. Why would you go out? Even if it’s petty, you won’t give up. Even if it’s useless, you shouldn’t just hand yourself over.

“Or will you watch me undress and bathe like a pervert?” he asks, and it gains him a scurry of trembling legs against the slippery cave floor.

You’re not just giving yourself to him… He’s going to heal you, and then you’ll run away. You won’t fight him. You won’t let him take you. You’ll run far…

You can hardly climb down onto the soft grass, and you land harshly on your hands. Your arms fail to prop you up, so your face lies against the fluff of the damp green. He’s slow and cool as he walks over to you, kneeling beside you. He doesn’t touch you or say anything. He gazes at you for a second, your white locks stained by the puddles of your blood. Your bandages have done nothing to stop your bleeding.

His fingers graze your hair before he lifts your head slightly. You groan, your head pounding as he lays it atop a soft fabric.

“Just lay here,” he says quietly. “I will take care of your wounds.”

His touch is so delicate. As much as you want to push him away, you want to pull him closer and have him caress your poor body like this forever. As much as you want to run away, you want to sink into the grass and fall asleep to his gentle breaths.

Your eyes open drowsily, hardly able to roll back into place, as you’re surrounded by warm, gentle water. The lake envelops your stinging limbs, and it numbs the feeling that you’re so used to. It should enhance the pain, and yet you feel weightless, skinless, boundless, yet still calm and sleepy.

“I used an ointment from the east,” he says below his breath, so quietly. “It’s very efficient,” he takes a soft breath, “and it’s lovely.” His voice is beside your ear, and you know his body is touching yours in familiar, intimate ways. But his voice is enchanting, lulling you to a hazy clarity of calm. “Are you hungry, princess?” he asks.

One of his arms wraps around your waist, which is bare, as his skin directly slides along yours. Your cushion is his lap, but that is clothed as it should be. As he reaches for a basket along the grass beside the water, his chest leans further against your back. You gaze down with a warm, slow breath. Your chest is covered. He’s a kind monster at least.

“Here,” he says, holding a container of fresh water up for you to take. Your hands tremble but can hardly move. Your head tilts to the side in a weak frustration. Your head is so fuzzy. It doesn’t hurt any longer, but you can’t seem to take control of any of your movements. Perhaps you’ve lost far too much blood. “Princess,” he whispers, and you hum in weak acknowledgment. With a sigh, he brings the container to your lips, but you can hardly form any shape with them, and the water flows quickly to the pond beneath the target. He takes it away with a soft grumble. Then, he brings it to his own lips, takes a small sip, and his other hand lifts your chin gently.

His lips barely touch yours, just slightly to open your wide enough for the water to pass through. When he leans away, his fingers close your jaw, and you swallow weakly, your brows knitted together in relief as your horrible thirst is finally starting to be quenched.

He takes another sip and repeats, his head tilting slightly in something you would hardly call a kiss. But as you swallow, the sharp pain in your throat begging for more, your useless fingers claw gently at his side, and he pauses in his tracks, his eyes searching for what’s wrong. You can’t speak. You need more. He needs to hurry.

Your head trembles as you lift it slightly. “M-more,” you mumble. You should just drink it yourself. Fuck, you need more.

He hurries to take another sip, and you meet him in the middle, smashing your lips against his. His body lifts a little as you push forward. You swallow the water quickly, and he tries to go away, but he’s going too fucking slow. Your lips move desperately against his, your throat burning with need.

“P-Princess,” he gasps, turning his head away quickly. He grabs the container and takes a larger sip, bringing it back, and you’re on top of him before he can turn completely. Your wounds are healing fast with this lovely ointment, and your hands can finally move as you grab the back of his neck and pull his lips down onto yours. There’s more this time, and you swallow hard, pushing your tongue into his mouth to find whatever you can before he has to leave again. “There’s-” he gasps, “no- more-”

Your fingers slide through his damp hair, soft and thick against your rough hands. He’s curled over you, your back arched as you pull him desperately closer. Fuck, you’re hardly even thirsty anymore. His taste, his gasps, his vulnerability, and his kindness. You need more. As your fingers slide through his hair, he groans softly. It probably feels good. Someone like him has never felt such love, such care and affection. You want to give it to him so bad. You should repay him for his kindness.

You break away, panting and flushed. His eyes are hooded, his lips puffy as he leans toward you. His cheeks are a light pink, hair disheveled. What a beautiful sight.

Your lips find his jaw, feeling it clench as you trail soft pecks down to his neck. His skin is soft here, untouched. You nibble lightly on the skin and listen to his gentle shiver as you give kitten licks to ease the sting. You graze your teeth against him as you open wider, teasing the skin as you press lightly down. His hands slide across your thighs, squeezing them as he lifts his chin a little more, giving you more access.

Thumping footsteps make both of you jump, and a deep, obnoxious voice calls out, “Seonghwa!” He pushes your head harshly under the surface, and everything else is muffled for you. His hands quickly gather your hair and hold your strands tightly so they won’t float everywhere.

You open your eyes slowly, listening intently to the voices above. Seonghwa is looking behind him, speaking, but you can’t make anything out. You won’t die or anything, but, if you run out of air, you’ll pass out. You really don’t want to deal with that right now.

Pressing your lips together tightly, you lower your eyes to his body to occupy your mind while you wait. Fuck, his bare, hard chest and defined stomach sitting right in front of you... He should really thank you for this body. Fuck, he’s beautiful. Really, it’s because of you he’s had to train so hard.

His… oh…? You raise a brow as your eyes land on his crotch. He’s wearing black briefs, his thighs thick and hard, but not harder than his cock. The bulge is big and hard to miss, straining against the fabric. It doesn’t leave much of anything to the imagination. The tip is outlined, the shape of him defined in detail just for you. How is he so worked up from a few innocent kisses?

You glance up, and he’s taking his sweet time talking to those men. You’re going to run out of air soon, but this fucker doesn’t care, does he? He thinks because you’re immortal you can just sit under water like it’s nothing.

You huff, a small bubble of air floating to the surface, and you grab his cock. He jumps, his hand tightening around your hair and pulling lightly in warning. But you don’t let go. He’ll get them out of here, or his dick is gonna fall off.

It’s heavy in your hand, though still covered by the fabric. You wonder how thick it’d feel out of the water, just resting in your hand. You wonder how he’d sound if you gripped it hard and stroked him until he came with a pathetic whine. You swallowed hard, feeling it pulse in your grip.

Feeling newly frustrated, you look up, and he’s still talking. What the fuck is there to even say? You grit your teeth and grab the band of his briefs, pulling them down until his cock slowly comes out, floating to hit against his stomach. He pulls more harshly on your hair, and you groan. It doesn’t hurt underwater. Everything feels numb and weightless. It just tickles a little. Maybe it’s because you’re losing air, and your head is feeling foggy, but you want to push him further. You want him to hurry, but you also want to torture him just a bit.

You wrap your hand around him, your fingers almost able to touch but not quite. He’s so hard, twitching in your hold and shivering as you slowly glide your hand up to the tip. You watch his stomach tense up at every subtle movement. He sinks a bit further into the water as your thumb brushes over the slit. He’s throbbing at this point. Maybe being watched is getting him off. Maybe he likes the thrill of possibly getting caught.

You stroke him slowly, feeling every vein and unique shape, mesmerized by how his entire body shudders when you do something he likes. Fuck, you want to hear him. He’s so stern and confident, but, look at him, he’s trembling just for you.

You stroke him a little faster, your air running thin quicker and quicker and time moves fast. He grabs your wrist, and suddenly, you’re lifted from the water.

You gasp for air, coughing and taking long, deep breaths. He pats your back as you grasp his shoulders, wiping at your eyes as you try to see again. Fuck, your head hurts. That was close. You really thought you would pass out there.

“Fuck, Seo-” He grabs your body and lifts you over his shoulder. Your upper body hands against his back as he holds you there by your thighs. Your wet hair dangles into the water, floating along the surface like a spider’s web. “What are you-!”

He grabs the waistband of your pants and pulls them down, discarding them somewhere, and suddenly your ass feels very fucking cold. You squeak pathetically as his hand digs into your flesh, his fingers slipping slightly into the wetness of your core.

“Since you seem to like games like this, we should keep playing, right?” he practically growls. You feel a thick finger slowly slide through your slick, and you shiver. It slips through your soaked lips and teases your hole before moving away completely. “Who knows who might come and see us, princess?” he says, his voice low and thick with anger.

You try to spout something back, but he slams two fingers into your hole, and a long, pathetic moan is all you can utter. Your legs try to spread wider, but they can’t move, and it makes everything so tight. Fuck, he’s ramming his fingers against your walls, and you tremble, your moans airy as you struggle to breathe and absorb the pleasure at the same time.

“Someone could be watching right now,” he says. “Maybe it’s your men. They’ll watch their great general cum on their enemy’s fingers.”

His teeth graze your side before biting down on your flesh. You whimper, his every word and- No, no, what the fuck are you doing? You let him have his way as soon as he gave you something good. You groan as you reach into the water and search until you find his cock. You grab it tightly, and his pace falters.

“Princess,” he warns, but both of you stop as soon as you hear a slight rustling in the woods.

Your body is slammed into the water, and he follows right behind this time. He urges you to swim toward the waterfall, and you get there before him, pulling him to the surface quickly, and his hand wraps around your mouth as you go to say something.

“I swear I saw her come this way!” a young man shouts. “Look! She must have been here!” He must be pointing to Seonghwa’s bag, which was beside the river.

Seonghwa is pressed against you, your back to the rock path which you had been resting on before he found you. The cave is dark and silent as you both listen intently.

“She’s most certainly been captured,” a deep, nasty voice declares. You know that voice all too fucking well, and your eyes grow wide. The king. “Follow the river to the northern kingdom. It is where she must be!”

There are too many footsteps to count as his army does as they’re told. Everything goes silent again, and you release the breath you didn’t realize you’ve been holding. You should have called out for them, but it hardly even crossed your mind. Why?

Turning back to Seonghwa here, you don’t even care about going home.

Neither of you even question it. You don’t care.

He lifts you onto the rock and spreads your legs, your hips right against the edge. His warm breath fans over your thighs as he gazes into your eyes. Your cheeks are so hot despite the cool air against your wet skin, and you lean back onto your hands with a soft sigh. You watch as his gaze fixes on your pussy, a low groan tingling your ears.

One of your hands comes to his head, your fingers tangling in his hair as he kisses your inner thigh softly. His lips press against your slick, and you whimper, biting your lip as his brows lift at the taste of you. His eyes roll to a close, his tongue licking a thick strip from your hole to your clit, and you tremble, your ears twitching as the wet sounds of him against you are enhanced by the cave walls.

His hands grip your thighs as he sighs, his lips moving like a kiss against your pussy, his tongue flicking your clit and tasting your sweet slick desperately.

“Fuck ngh~” you whine, your hips grinding against his tongue. “S-Seonghwa, Seonghwa~” Your words are airy and slurred, your eyes shaking as they roll to the back of your head with every suck and lick against your clit. His breathing is getting heavier, and you notice the lack of one of his hands on you. “Seonghwa, Seonghwa, sstop, I’ll h-hellp yoou,” you mumble, pushing his head away, but he doesn’t move. His lips move faster, his tongue burying deep in your hole, and your back falls to the rock, your legs trembling as he fucks your soaked hole with his tongue. “Hhwa, Seonghwa mm~ Hwa, llet me, pleease,” you beg, feeling his rhythm pick up, the heat and pleasure building quickly. “No, no,” you whine, a tear slipping down your burning cheek. “I’m gonna cum, fuck, Seonghwa.” You grind your pussy against his lips as your body trembles in pure ecstasy. You let out a desperate moan as he flicks his tongue over your clit, riding out your orgasm until you’re limp, shaking under him.

“Good girl,” he mumbles, leaving a peck on you as he backs away.

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl, grabbing his hair. You sit up, closing your legs with a huff. “Fuck me. Right now.” His eyes grow a little wide, and you quirk a brow. “What’s wrong? Did you already cum?” He doesn’t answer, and you tug on his hair harder. “All on your own?” You laugh in disbelief. “Get out of the water.”

He climbs onto the rock, and you push him onto his back, straddling his lap. Suddenly he’s so quiet. Suddenly his dick isn’t a hard, throbbing mess. You scoff, gripping him and pressing your pussy against him. He groans, his brows furrowed as you grind slowly.

“That wasn’t very nice of you, Seonghwa,” you spit, humming softly at the little bits of pleasure your clit gets. “Especially toward a princess.” You feel him growing harder in your grip, and you smile. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

He’s silent, his soft breaths the only answer.

“Of course, not,” you say. “Cumming all on your own. I didn’t even get to see your pretty face.” You reach out and push back the little hairs covering his eyes. You grab his chin harshly and pull him toward you. You smash your lips against his, grinding your hips harder as you feel him grow stiff. He whimpers against your mouth, his hands grabbing your hips and trying to still you, so you drop him with a huff. He groans as his head hits the floor, but before he can recover, you're lining his dick up to your hole.

“P-Princess,” he whimpers, his eyes rolling back as you sink onto his thick cock. Your lips puff out as you stifle a moan, his tip rubbing just the right spot, so deep inside you. You place your hands on his chest, your head hanging as you get used to the stretch.

“Y/n,” you whisper, afraid your voice will fail you if you try to speak. “Say my name,” you whine, “please, say my name, fuck ngh~”

His cock twitches as he suppresses the need to thrust into your tight, soaked hole. “Y/n,” he gasps as you lift your hips slowly and drop back down. “Y/n, y/n, princess, do that again, fuck~”

As you lift your hips again and slam them back down, you collapse onto his chest with a soft cry. You let your hips do the work, your mouth devouring his as you fuck yourself on his cock. His hands grip your hips, pushing you down faster when you lift up. He wants to melt into you, this feeling making his entire body shudder with pleasure. His cock rubs against your walls and hits you just right, and you’re literally drooling into his mouth as you moan his name.

“Y/n, Y/n! Y/n, baby, you’re so tight,” he moans. “Are you gonna cream on my cock for me, princess? Come on, I know you’re close.” He plants his feet and grabs your hips, thrusting up into your pussy as you slam down. He picks up the pace and your head falls to his chest, your body limp as he fucks you desperately. “Come on,” he begs. “I’m gonna cum~” He hiccups. “Together, baby, come on, please~” He bites your shoulder as he tries to stop his moans, but his voice only gets louder as his thick, warm cum fills your pussy. Your eyes roll back as you feel him stuff you full, but it’s just not enough to make you cum. You can’t see his beautiful face.

So you lift off of his cock, his cum spilling out of you quickly, and you straddle his head, sitting your pussy against his lips. You watch his hazy eyes spill soft tears as he laps at you, drinking his own cum and your sweet slick. It doesn’t take much as he fucks you on his tired tongue, your pussy grinding on him at your own pace, for you to cum, whimpering and gasping as your body shakes with bliss. You watch him tremble as his cock spurts again, his face contorting beautifully just like you’d wanted to see.

You sit beside him and admire his beauty, completely limp on the rocky floor. He’s wet with tears and cum, and his stomach is messy with his release.

You lean down and lick from his stomach to his soft cock, cleaning his cum off of his body. He shivers gently until you’re done, and you lay beside him.

Your clothes have all dried, the sun warm against your skin as you both lay in the grass. There’s a comfortable yet questioning silence in the air. What now?

“I don’t think I want to go home,” you say, gazing at the thin clouds and gentle sway of the trees.

Your answer is obvious. You want to live freely. But you know there’s no possibility of that ever happening. You know, whether you go home, where you’re resented for your gift, or go with Seonghwa, where you are desired for your gift, you will never be free.

“You were right. What you said when we had our duel.” He quirks a brow. “They sent me out to die.”

“Shall we just kill the northern king, then?”

You whip your head toward him, his smile teasing as he gazes at you.

“You’re joking,” you sigh, turning away.

“I’m not.” He sits up with a small grunt. “Let’s take over the northern kingdom.”

“Hell no,” you spit, propping yourself up on your hands. “Seonghwa, you're an eastern general. I’m not starting shit with you.”

“So what do you want?”

He looks at you silently. There isn’t a word in his eyes, and it forces you to think. What the fuck have you been doing your whole life besides killing to protect your fucking immortal gift? And the northern king refuses to use it. He wants you and your gift dead, but… what do you want?

“I want the fighting to stop,” you say. “I want men to stop dying for their greed.”

“What do you want, princess?” he asks again. “Forget your gift. What do you want?”

You glance down at your clothes, dirty and old. A man’s clothes which you never really wanted to wear. The thrill of the battlefield is what keeps you moving, but you’ve always desired what could’ve been without your immortality.

“Shall we?” you mumble, gazing up at Seonghwa. “Shall we just kill him?”

a/n ~ thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you thoughttt~ ू(ʚ̴̶̷́ .̠ ʚ̴̶̷̥̀ ू)

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readerstories · 3 days ago

Text

When You Touch Me - Wolverine x male reader x Deadpool 8/?

A little shorter one, but it felt right. Next one is definitely going to be longer. Still on vacation, so I got no idea when the next chapter will be, but it will be longer. Hope y'all are having a good time! (AO3) (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7)

Warnings/tags: male reader, canon-typical violence, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn

Wordcount: 797

Summary: You’ve heard many stories about how people met their soulmates. Everyone crazier than the last, ranging from typical meet cutes, meeting with one of them at death's door, in war, meeting at your soulmate's wedding to another, and everything in between and outside of that. You had just never expected to add yours to the crazy list, meeting yours in a fight, only realizing after trying to kill each other for at least half an hour. And you certainly don’t expect to have another.

This time you get two weeks of what is blessed silence to your mind, but torture on your body before you see either of them again.

Yet again it's an unexpected location, though a slightly less strange one. You are finally back in the gym, after Evelyn giving you the go ahead. Dave had agreed to spar with you after calling her, just being a good friend, but you are working out frustration of not being able to do much training for weeks.

Your body hurts and aches, but you hope getting to move and use it will soften it up somehow.

It can’t hurt too much to at least try.

You need to keep yourself strong and able. You steadfastly ignore the hurt in your shoulders and upper back, the pain so constant now that you have gotten used to it.

You are just done with warming up, slowly and carefully, and manage to get your boxing gloves on and hit Dave’s sparring gloves all of three times before you are interrupted.

“You put on a show like this for anyone pookie?” You freeze mid-punch as you hear a familiar voice. Turning around, just outside the mats you are currently standing on, is Wade. He’s dressed in his full Deadpool suit, weapons and all.

“Dave, let's take a break, give me like ten minutes.” You address your sparring partner as you glare at Wade.

“Uh sure. You going to be okay?” You look over your shoulder, and see him eyeing Wade’s guns.

“Yeah, nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He nods, taking off his sparring pads before walking away and leaving the two of you alone.

“What are you doing here?” You take one glove off, dropping it on the floor in favor of grabbing your water bottle and taking a swig. Wade watches you, tilting his head as he speaks, and you swear you can hear the grin on his face.

“I was just in the neighborhood, and happened to see you through the windows, putting on the most titillating show.” You eye the windows, which are pushed high up in the ceiling of the gym. You take off your other glove and put your water down, hands on your hip as you glare at him.

“Sure, right..... Now, since you were just in the neighborhood, you have no reason to stay.”

“Seeing you, sweaty and panting, canceling your inner ‘Real Steel’? I think that’s a good enough reason.” He steps onto the mats, raising his hands. “I’m no Atom, but I can shadow box well enough.” He raises his fists up in a loose guard, making a come hither motion with one fist. You sweep your leg out, catching one of his, making him fall on his back with a yelp and smack of the mats. A second later one of his guns is no longer in its holster, instead it's pointing at his chest, while your knee on his stomach and your hand around his throat keeps pins him down.

“If there weren’t people around, I would shoot you right now.” You know people keep to themselves here, but you think if you actually shot Wade they would pay attention. His voice is breathier than normal as you press down on his throat as he answers.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. Besides, there are much more fun things you can do with me if we were alone.” You roll your eyes, ignoring how you’re actually feeling better by the second. For a fleeting moment the thought of getting your hands on skin instead of his suit goes through your head, but you shake it away.

“There isn’t.” You let go of his throat to take the magazine out of his gun, dropping it and the gun on his chest as you get up, standing next to his hip. He tilts his head, staying quiet long enough that you are able to talk again.

“I’m going to go take a piss, I expect you to be gone when I get back. If you’re not, I’m going to use your own damn blades to start cutting limbs off, audience be damned.”

“I think the audience would like that, the freaks (affectionate).” He winks somewhere off to his left, towards a weight rack.

“Wade.” You are sure the irritation rolls of you in waves, even without the bond between you both.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist, I’ll get out of your lovely hair.” You roll your eyes again, but turn your back on him and walk away.

—--

When you get back from the bathroom, Wade is gone. But, he has carved a heart with ”pookie” inside into one of the mats, making you curse his goddamn name under your breath.

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dustysalmon · 2 days ago

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Eye of the Storm - Chapter 3

Pairing: Silco x Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings/Tags: graphic depiction of violence; slow burn; enemies to lovers, enforcer!reader Word count: 4.2k

Summary: After a chain of unexpected events, Jinx is arrested, and you find yourself in possession of the gemstone. On top of it all, you are forced into a reluctant alliance with Silco. What else could possibly go wrong?

Takes up at the end of episode 7.

Read on ao3 ⎜ Previous chapter

The air is wrong, heavy and oppressive, pressing against your chest like a weight. It reeks of iron, sharp and metallic, clinging to the back of your throat until you can taste it. The ground shifts beneath you, unstable. There is chatter everywhere all at once, voices raging you on, they echo like a vicious prayer, going on and on. You don’t catch the words, not all of them, but one cuts through the noise.

"Do it."

The sound of a broken bottle shattering in the street jolts you awake from your regenerative slumber. You run a hand through your hair and glance at the old pendulum clock. Shit, you’ve been asleep for nearly three hours. You sigh. When does a nap become not a nap anymore? The coffee you’d made before slipping into unconsciousness still sits on your desk. As expected, it’s cold as rain, but you drink a sip regardless. It tastes just as bad as it sounds, and by the time you’re halfway through the third gulp, you regret it. You’ve never really liked coffee. Too bitter and burnt. Too ashy. You know that taste, breathed it in and consumed it for years working in the mines. Of all the memories you have from that time, this is one you’d rather do without. But the drink certainly provides you a with a much needed kick, though, so occasionally, you give in.

You put the cup down next to your folded uniform with a sound of disgust. You fidget with the golden epaulettes, wondering if showing up in full gear at what is likely the heart of the undercity is a judicious idea. Enforcers have never been particularly welcome in these parts. Save for the industrial district, they don’t really venture these streets anymore unless some unexpected event arises, or the Council explicitly demands it. Walking the streets is not inherently dangerous, but showing up like this at the Eye of Zaun’s doorstep could easily be taken as provocation.

No vest, you decide, and definitely not that ridiculous helmet. You put on your uniform pants, secure your thigh holster tightly, and slide your weapon into place. For good measure, you tuck a sizeable dagger into your boot. Your badge is a little worn out, scratched and not as shiny as it once was. Good thing they’ll be giving you a brand new one soon. You snap it onto your belt and take a breath.

Before falling asleep, you had the time to think about how you would approach this. But as it’s time to go now, you’re not so sure of your decision anymore. The Gemstone still lays intact in its nest of straw and cotton. Bringing it with you had seemed like a reasonable idea a few hours ago, but now that you’re well-rested, it just sounds dangerous. Even so, you take it out and carefully place it in one of your utility pouches.

It’s an insanely risky move, you realise that, but it’s not like you have much else to show for. If there is one chance to get Silco to hear you out, then the Gemstone has to be it. The man dealt with Marcus after all—there must have been some kind of exchange or agreement between them. That means he’s not entirely opposed to working with enforcers. If anything it’s simply a calculated move on his part.

Piltover and the undercity are not mutually exclusive, despite all the disagreements and conflicts that oppose them. And while it is common knowledge that many Zaunites want its independence, from a purely economical standpoint, it seems unrealistic to pull out completely from topside’s economy. Virtually all exports go there—chemtech, Shimmer, food. And needless to say that underground food is already not too popular. Shimmer, though frowned upon in Piltover, plays vastly different roles depending on where you are. For most Pilties, it’s just a recreational drug. But for Zaunites, it’s often a desperate means of survival, a lifeline—one as brutal as it is short-lived. Most in the undercity can’t even afford it, and those who can tend to die quickly, whether from overdoses or the craving that comes afterward.

The undercity cannot sustain itself completely with the way things are at the moment, shutting down the export would be the final nail in the coffin. Merchants are visibly suffering from the recent blockade, and it’s only been a couple of days. If tensions don’t subside soon, the damage would be irreparable. Maybe you could get a word in with Warren now that he is in charge—the thought makes you uncomfortable— but you doubt he would lift the blockade. He’s always looked at the undergrounds with nothing but disdain and contempt. Lots to think about, you sigh, and lock the door behind you.

You take one of the city elevators to get to the upper levels. If there is a thing that works in the undercity, it’s those massive moving platforms. They’re essential to everyone who lives or works in the undergrounds. Whenever one of them breaks down, maintenance workers know better than to delay repairs—unless they want to risk being "encouraged" to act faster in a dark back alley. Before heading to your final destination, you stop by a scrap workshop to send a memo through the pneumatic tube systems. The riskiness of the situation isn’t lost on you, so…contingencies.

The Lanes are a much more pleasant district than where you come from—by undercity standards. If your mom weren't so stubborn about clinging to her old house, you would have moved there with her. The area is buzzing with bars, fighting pits, brothels and enough entertainment for a lifetime. This part of town never truly sleeps. And situated right in the heart of it is the Last Drop. It is some kind of an institution—the place where Zaunites come to meet, drink, and brawl. It’s definitely not as family-friendly as it once was, but you would argue it kept its charm.

The building certainly stands out, a large neon green eye on its front, overlooking the streets, watching and monitoring like an invisible hand. Loud muffled music fills your ears even though the entrance is still a couple feet away. Two drunkards are being unceremoniously tossed out by a bouncer that is twice the size of any human you’ve ever seen. The pair keep swinging at each other outside, bottles in hand, emptying a little more at each movement. Frankly, the wind has more to fear than anyone else. While the bouncer is still busy keeping them away from the establishment, you sleep in through the unmistakable asymmetric door.

The bass thrums through the floorboards, making the place vibrate, you can feel each beat in your core. The air is filled with sweat and burnt ozone. Smoke from cheap cigars curls lazily beneath the neon lights buzzing overhead, plunging the room in vibrant greens, blues, and reds.

People chatter and shout at the bar, desperately trying to compete with the music. Good thing most of the occupations you see don’t require much talking. In the back, a pool game unfolds with a small crowd pressing close, exploding with cheers and groans whenever the cue ball cracks against its target. Coins fly from all parts, clattering onto the felt as bets are settled. Closer to you, a drinking game is in full swing, the two participants slamming their fists in time with the chanting onlookers. Other tables host quieter contests like cards games, dice rolls, the opponents faces locked in concentration despite the noise.

Your enforcer instincts can’t help but zero in on the plethora of illicit activities taking place in the not-so-discreet booths lining the edges of the venue. In one of them, an older man with a clockwork monocle sits alone, a small stack of coins and a ledger in front of him. He adjusts the monocle with a twitch of his hand as he counts. People come and go from his table in quick exchanges, sliding small bags of coins or slips of paper across to him, always leaving with a vial or two of chem-fluids—you can’t exactly tell which one. And then of course, there’s Shimmer—everywhere. You’re in the belly of the beast after all.

In another booth, a trio is enjoying the product in all its forms. One of them, a woman with a mechanical hand, uncaps a vial with a twist, the purple liquid inside glows faintly, very distinctive. She pours a drop onto her tongue, her eyes dilate instantly as she leans back with an exhale. One of her companions breathes in the product directly from a mask, and the man sitting across from them seems to be injecting himself directly via a makeshift IV device. All is well in the heart of the undercity: ugly, loud, and oddly energetic. Maybe you should go out more often.

You make your way through the raucous crowd, some rare customers are sober enough to recognise the badge hanging from your belt. If they feel offended or even slightly threatened by your presence, they make no show of it. Having worked quite a bit around the industrial district, you recognise a few of Smeech’s goons. They’re hard to miss with the outrageous body augments—unsurprising, given that it’s their boss’s area of expertise. They make sure to flaunt it every chance they get.

It is no secret that they take a lot of pride working for the chem-barons, whichever one it may be. It’s a sign of status that is rather difficult to achieve in these streets. Chem-barons quite simply represent the ruling class among Zaunites. They reign supreme over their respective districts with an iron hand, always dancing on the questionable edge of order and terror. Most topsiders are incapable of admitting that the undercity is anything more than a giant disorganised cesspool, a realm of anarchy. But those who call it home know that this couldn’t be further from the truth. Within the city lies a cleverly constructed hierarchy with distinct branches, loosely implemented laws, and, ironically, even a council. It’s perfectly imperfect, but it’s been holding the undercity together for as long as you can remember—no mere fit. you suspect that the man you’re here to meet tonight, should he be so inclined, is at least partially responsible for that.

A set of stairs and balcony hover above the bar, which you guess lead directly to the lair of the Eye of Zaun, but as you expected, two bouncers are blocking the way, arms crossed and menacing faces on display. You nod politely to both of them, not that you believe manners will get you anywhere here. They look you up and down, eyes stopping briefly on the gun resting at your hips.

"I’m here to see your boss." You shout over the music, unsure if they can hear you at all. By their shared expression, you can tell that they do—they’ve adapted to this cacophony long ago.

"He’s not expecting," says the man on the left, though you have to read it on his lips as he doesn’t bother to speak up.

You press your luck. "It’s very important that I speak with him," you insist.

You try to plead your case, but they don’t seem very inclined to let you pass. Fuck, you didn’t think this through at all. And who’s idea was it to come at this hour, with this racket all around you. The last thing you want to do is make a scene in front of an audience. You go for the usual techniques, asking them to imagine what would happen if their boss found out they prevented crucial information from reaching him. But they remain unmoved.

"Is there a problem here?" a voice asks from the side. You turn around and crane your neck up about sixty degrees to look at the imposing woman towering over you. Silco’s right hand, Sevika, if you’re not mistaken. A no-nonsense type for certain. People know better than to fuck about when she’s around. You decide to be straightforward this time.

"It’s about the girl." Her eyes widen, if only briefly. Clearly you should have started with that. No wonder you weren’t appointed to the crisis negotiation unit. Like the bouncers before her, she glances at your weapon, and holds out her hand. Without a fuss, you hand it over, which seems to surprise her in a good way. With a tilt from her head, she motions for you to move ahead. You do as instructed climbing the stairs and following a long corridor until you reach a weathered wooden door. Sevika opens it without a word, or knock, and gestures for you to step inside, moving behind you like a shadow.

And there he is, sitting in a large armchair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, and a cigar smouldering between his long fingers. He doesn’t greet you or offer any pretence of civility—you expected nothing less. He does look at you intently however, his good eye fixed on you, sharp and calculating, while the other glows faintly in the dim light of the room. It’s not shocking, not when you are from the undercity, but it is striking. Unavoidable. For a fleeting second, something flickers in his expression. Recognition. He doesn’t bother to hide it, but his face remains composed. Your pulse quickens, heart drumming in your ears, feeling even louder than the music downstairs. There’s no hostility in his gaze, just that unsettling calm that feels more dangerous than any overt threat.

His outfit catches your attention. A crimson shirt, freshly pressed, with intricate golden embroidery on the cuffs; a sophisticated waistcoat adorned with elaborate patterns, straps and polished gold buttons; and a white silk tie, knotted in a cafe style. The spitting image of a Piltovian gentleman if you ignore the venue. Curious.

For what feels like an eternity, he doesn’t speak, and neither do you. The room is filled only with the muffled music coming from the bar. Impressive walls, you think to yourself. Must be nice. You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch or look away, even as his lips curl into the faintest suggestion of a smirk. You get the exact same feeling you got when you saw him first on the bridge. This inexplicable gravitas, this pull. It’s in the way he carries himself, as if the room, the city, the world itself bends around him without him even needing to try.

He takes a slow drag from his cigar, the ember flaring, before blowing the smoke aside in a cloud. You square your shoulders and lift your chin, matching his stare with one of your own. Unfortunately, you’ve never been good at this game, and start clearing your throat.

Subtly, Silco eyes’s drift to Sevika, and before you can figure out the meaning of that minuscule gesture, the woman’s mechanical arm comes swinging at you with great speed. The only reason you successfully dodge it is because you heard the metal clinking a little too close to your face. She sneers at you, her grey eyes glinting. She is incredibly fast, inhumanly so. She grips one of your wrists in her large hand and twists your arm around and behind your back. It hurts like hell but you’re not about to fold so quickly. You throw your head back and hit her square in the nose. This actually seems to hurt her a little, given the way she groans, and lets go of you.

From the comfort of his armchair, Silco is looking very irritated, mostly with himself. Perhaps he should have heard you out right away, and spared himself this spectacle. Well, it’s too late for that now. With great efforts, you land a couple of blows to Sevika’s stomach and thigh, but she seems utterly unphased. Meanwhile, you feel the energy quickly draining from you. One moment of inattention, and you are flipped around and forcefully dropped to the ground. She has you this time. One harsh movement and you may end up with a dislocated shoulder, perhaps worse, considering the woman’s strength.

Finally, Silco puts out his cigar and rises from his chair. He goes to stand by the window, looking away from you and Sevika.

"Whatever you have for me, it better be worth my time." His voice is smooth but low and menacing, like the gentle press of a knife against your throat. You turn your head as much as you can to address Sevika.

"Utility pouch on the right side." You groan, your arm is starting to seriously hurt. With one hand, Sevika pokes around, making sure to keep the mechanical one firmly on you. You can’t really see what’s going on but by the way she suddenly stops moving and releases her grip completely, you can guess that she has found what you wanted her to find.

Silco’s mask finally wavers, his eyes fixed on the blue glowing orb, as if hypnotised. He shifts his gaze between you and the shiny object. He looks perplexed. On a good day, he reads his associates and foes like an open book, that’s always been his strength. It’s much easier to control people if you know what they want, and what they are ready to lose in order to get it. But you, he completely misread you. And that angers him on many levels.

"It was bold, coming here alone. I could simply order Sevika to take the gemstone from you, and dump your body in a dark alley." An empty threat, probably. You’ve always imagined the Eye of Zaun to be unapologetically ruthless, but not unreasonable. No one makes it to the very top and keeps their seat for so long without compromising. But now that he is overtly threatening your life, with intent, you are tempted to reconsider.

"We both know you have no use for it. Not until you’ve figured out how to exploit it."

"What makes you think I haven’t?" He asks, shifting his head towards you as you rise to your feet.

"I figured if you wanted to use the stone you would have done it already." Silco easily hears the doubt in your voice.

"But you don’t know that for certain. You came here on a hunch."

"Listen, if this wasn’t obvious, I don’t know where I’m going with this," you say, a mix of panic and irritation overtaking you. "But there are people in topside who are hellbent on using Hextech technology to ends you don’t wanna find out. I came here in good faith. I came to you first."

"What is it that you want from me?" He asks, walking around the desk towards Sevika.

"For the meantime, I am asking you—" that gets you a raised eyebrow from both Silco and Sevika. "—to not attempt any retaliation. It’ll only convince them to strike back even harder." Silco’s brain stops on that particular word, "retaliation". Does that lady enforcer have it all figured out already? What Jinx is to him? He could have sworn he’d been more careful than that. His eyes meet Sevika’s, and her message is clear. She’s warned him multiple times about his carelessness lately, and now it’s coming back to bite him in the ass.

Sevika drops the gemstone in the palm of his hand. He rolls it around slowly, reminiscing about the day Jinx brought it back to him, then turns to you. In truth, he had hoped you would have been the one to bring her up first. Him being the one doing it, that might as well be a confession. That makes him vulnerable, he’s aware, but when it comes to Jinx, he simply can’t help it. He grabs the whisky glass that’s been sitting on the desk, and downs it in a single gulp. A hopeless attempt at displaying disinterest that is not as convincing as he thinks.

"How is she?" About time, you think to yourself. He looked about ready to burn the bridge down to get to that blue-haired girl the other day. You have yet to discover what that was all about, but you have your theories. Although it’s difficult to picture the big bad kingpin of the undercity as a father figure, it’s not as far-fetched as it seems. Or maybe Jinx is simply that good, not expandable. Something you wouldn't argue against, given the trouble she’s given you and your colleagues lately.

"Still in recovery. You’re probably already planning some kind of extraction." You pause in the hopes of getting a hint of a confirmation, but he’s giving you nothing. "Don’t bother. For now, her best chances are with Piltover’s doctors. It’s probably more than she deserves."

Silco slams his now empty glass on the desk. You continue before he gets a chance to spit his venom towards you. "A lot of men died yesterday."

"Forgive me if I don’t collapse in a heap of grief on their behalf." You lower your head, a bitter smile adorning your face.

"She will be transferred to Stillwater once they’re done with her. I need your word." He stays silent, weighing his options. "The Council doesn’t know I’m in possession of the Gemstone. Or anybody else, for that matter. Only the people in this room. I intend to keep it that way."

"I’m sure you understand that I cannot just take your word for it." He is right, as much as you loathe it. It only takes him a couple of seconds to come up with his terms. "I want regular updates on her condition, and a physician’s report, just to make sure you’re playing fair. It’s always…difficult to tell with enforcers."

"You want me to steal documents from the medical facility?"

"I need a guarantee." He says matter-of-factly, and deep inside, you know it is a perfectly justified request, but still.

"What’s my guarantee?" You shoot back.

"You get to walk out of here alive. It’s probably more than you deserve." He says nonchalantly, purely to spite you, and you don’t know whether you’re supposed to laugh, or strangle him. You realise that you can’t haggle your way out of this. The Gemstone was your only bargaining chip, and you used it from the get go. You don’t have any other offers to make, or any additional information to share regarding Jinx. Either you take the deal, or find out what happens when you rile up the Eye of Zaun.

"I’ll see what I can do." You say with a sigh, feeling beaten. Silco didn’t expect an enthusiastic response, but he is used to it. Something you learn when you’re accustomed to getting the better end of every deal—a skill he is not hitching to let go of.

Satisfied, he leans against the edge of the desk after handing you back the stone, scrutinising you with narrowed eyes.

"You're not from topside, are you?"

You raise an eyebrow, a bit wary. "What gave me away?" Silco shrugs, tilting his head to the side.

"You came to me." He says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Yes, because that is what all Zaunites usually do at the end of the day, they turn to him. Not matter his reputation or the gruesome tales surrounding him. He has always been considered the voice of the people of the undercity, and that counts for a lot. "And also," he adds, a sly smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "You lack that air of superiority they all have. Not quite high and mighty enough." He crosses his arms. "But the way you talk—the way you hold yourself. Almost as if you think you belong up there." You frown slightly, a hint defensive, but decide not to respond.

Sevika hands you your weapon, and you recognise it as your sign to take your leave. Neither you or Silco set a time or place for an eventual new meeting. That’s alright. He knows you know where to find him, you think to yourself before leaving.

Sevika waits for the door to shut completely before turning to her boss.

"That’s unlike you. Swinging before talking." She says, picking up a rag somewhere to properly clean her bloody nose.

"I was right to do so, apparently. You almost made a fool of yourself there." He taunts, and Sevika scoffs, only mildly offended. Although she recognises that the little brawl shouldn’t have lasted as long as it did. She would never admit it, though.

"I wasn’t trying."

They proceed to talk about the day, as they always do, and Silco purposely avoids the topic of the most recent meeting. It’s still too fresh in his head, and he knows that whenever Jinx is in the picture, he and Sevika can only disagree. So he asks her about the Firelights, Shimmer sales, anything to get his mind off that new deal he just made, if he can call it that.

Suddenly, there’s an insistent knock at the door, and as soon as Sevika opens it, one of the bouncers barges in breathless, sweat covering his forehead.

"There was an attack, sir," he says, a hand resting on his pounding chest. "It’s one of the Shimmer factories."

Thank you for reading!

Let me know if you would like a taglist :)

Chapter 1 ⎜ Chapter 2

#silco #silco x reader #arcane #dusty writes

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mrfancyfoot · 2 days ago

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I headcanon that Raphael is all about cheesy, romantic things (for better or worse). Being the visage of a perfect gentleman. Swooping in as the gallant, princely savior. Being chosen over other suitors.

He'd shower you in roses and gifts. He'd set up scenarios for himself to be the hero. He'd meticulously take note of little things he notices about you through direct interaction or spying to exploit later. Obsessively writing about you in his little diary from bed while giddily kicking his feet.

Those gifts might be finery (perhaps taken from some unfortunate soul), questionable poetry, and the heart of your enemy, but any way you cut it, everything is about showing off his prowess, his status, his ability to provide, and why he's better. He likes his complex games and the slow pursuit.

I think he'd be pretty devoted if only to maintain that image of being perfect. At least while his focus is on you. He might have some dumpster fires behind curtains, don't look there.

The mortal part of him may even crave true affection, devotion, and a coy, storybook courtship. Very much a "only soft for" vibe. That he can slowly corrupt. He'd love someone who could match a lot of his energy and ambition. Someone he can show off and have on his arm.

It could also explain why he (at least publicly) dresses more conservatively and akin to a human noble instead of like many other cambions and devils. While it probably helps disarm his targets to look more like a human noble when they first meet him, he could also enjoy the romantics it allows (he's into a lot of mortal things despite his denial of his own mortal blood). I have a related pet theory that his comfort with mortals/mortal things may come from being raised or forced to live in the Material Plane for at least a time. He really likes lullabies.

Would he be a good lover in bed? That is up to anyone's interpretation but I personally think it's likely that there isn't much love between him and Haarlep and not many probably match up to the standards of an experienced incubus (one of these days I'll go on my spiel about Haarlep). Haarlep's a cheeky devil themself. At the very least, Raphael probably thinks himself fantastic in bed and a perfectly giving lover (even if he's not).

He'd be the big, evil devil guarding the gilded cage he's put his beloved in from do-gooders and the covetous.

#Totally the HC that birthed Plots & Prosody #Based a bit off of some of the things known about his obsession with Hope #any relationship with him needs to have an air of absurdity IMO #Gotta keep him a silly devil #Raphael the Cambion #Raphael Headcanon #bg3 Raphael #raphael x tav #raphael x oc #baldur's gate 3 raphael #plots & prosody #fancy's grumblings

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godmadeaterribleerror · 24 hours ago

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Chapter 29 - All My Bets On You

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Think of reading things I write like a scavenger hunt where only I know what you're looking for. <3

Chapter Title from Nothing Matters by The Last Dinner Party.

Word Count: 26.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Ben return home, and it's time to work. Usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, fluff, angst, established relationship

Read on A03!

Chapter 28 - Chapter 30

Ben didn’t like having to hide Her.

He didn’t like keeping Her fucking secret. She shouldn’t be secret. Ben should be able to hold Her high to the sun, so she can be in a warm, clear, unwavering light that didn’t flicker or wash out a single feature of her perfect face. The lights of the airplane cabin and airport were too fucking blue, flickering and making everything have a sense of being artificial. None of this shit should be artificial, because this was the realest thing in Ben’s life, and he wanted to tell the sky and stars and every space between about it.

Ben should be able to stand up and fucking roar that She wanted him. That they were going to get married, and there wasn’t a single goddamn thing any pussy fucker could do about it, because She’d chosen him. She was wearing the ring Ben had bought her, and holding his hand, and sleeping against his chest. There was a little drool falling out of her perfect mouth and staining Ben’s shirt, and her arms were wrapped around his torso, and her completely relaxed face was pressed into his body. Because She’d fucking chosen Ben. He kept her safe, and happy, and made her feel loved like she deserved to be, so She’d chosen Ben.

And he wanted to fucking scream that. That the most perfect, beautiful woman to ever grace this stupid fucking planet wanted him. That every fucking way, She wanted Ben. And now Her beauty was everyone’s to see, but only Ben’s to hold. To care for and adore. Only Ben got to see Her wild, glossy eyes and her parted, swollen lips when he fucked her. Only Ben got to touch the softest, most vulnerable and delicate pieces of her heart and mind, because she trusted him to tend to them and sooth them over. And only She got to see the parts of Ben nobody had been ever meant to witness. The storm that she’d coaxed out of him, that would sweep over his body and make him momentarily so fucking weak, and that she’d wait out with him until it passed. She’d let Ben rest his head near Her heart—where he could be a little more certain she was real—and sing to him until there wasn’t a swell in his throat and the world wasn’t blurred around him. Until he stopped making wrathful, pathetic fucking sounds he muffled in Her skin, and then could stay there a long while after.

Forever. She was going to be able to hold Ben like that for fucking ever. She’d have likely done that anyway—Ben was never going to let that piece of Her, alive inside him, wither and crack and shatter—but now he’d be able to walk into a stupid, disgusting gas station and know that everyone could see She’d chosen him. Ben could pick her a million flowers, plant Her a goddamn garden—have MM plant Her a garden, Ben didn’t actually know how to do that—and if people tried so say something he could shout that it was for his wife. He was allowed to do whatever the fuck he wanted for his wife. Whatever She asked of him, Ben would do.

Because She’d still give all Her beauty away to whoever asked for it—She’d cut herself open and offer kindness to assholes who didn’t deserve it and motherfucking pussies who wasted it, wasted Her—but Ben would throw it right back into her. He’d give Her all the good things he had to offer, because he still didn’t really deserve her, but he did fucking love her, and Christ, he had to make that worth something. Make it worth what She was, which was everything. She was fucking perfect, and she was Ben’s, just as he was Her’s. Ben had Her, he’d always have her, and he would never have to be alone and hated again, because She’d looked at him and decided that he was worth loving a little more than she loved everything else.

A lot more. Ben was pretty fucking certain She loved him a lot more than everything else. That when She’d cling to his arm like he might drift away, or kissing over his beard with soft lips and mumbled words of affection that made Ben’s whole fucking body even more of a tool for her to use, it was because she loved him a lot more than anything else.

And now Ben had a hacked and carved out path ahead of them where he could keep loving Her until the world burned out. And everyone should fucking know. Everyone should understand that Ben loved Her, and She loved him, and that was that.

But he had to hide Her. Ben had to keep himself angled to block her from view, keep his own baseball cap tilted down to hide his face from view. To hide from every television in the Airport, all playing the same fucking lie, all with Sage’s eyes seeming to track them through the screens.

The news had broken while they were still in the air. They weren’t even halfway over the Atlantic when She froze at Ben’s side, and he started to feel cold and sick. He’d turned to press for what the fuck was wrong—why her heart was set to a pace that kicked his own up and made blood pound in his ears—and she’d passed him the phone without a word.

On the screen was a photo of Sage standing at a news podium—her expression grim and dramatically pained—and a headline that made Ben’s teeth almost crack.

Sister Sage Accuses the Anomaly of Treason.

The article itself was long and pointlessly detailed. Half of it was just a useless and incorrect timeline of everything about Her, and it took Ben almost two fucking minutes to find what Sage had actually goddamn said.

She was a terrorist. She had been behind the Believe Expo attack, and Tek Knight massacre, and deaths of Black Noir and A-Train. She was responsible for destruction of numerous properties—Vought, Government, and private owned alike—was a Deep state leader, and had been the mastermind behind the assassinations of Victoria Neuman and Grace Mallory in order to clear the path to the White House. She’d been intending to help her stepfather, Secretary Todd Muller—Sage had implied some truly fucking disgusting things about their relationship that made Ben see red—gain the VP slot, and Her next victim would likely have been President Robert Singer himself if Sage hadn’t outsmarted her and blocked Her plan.

But now Secretary Muller was out of the running—and under federal investigation for co-conspiracy—so Homelander was in contention for the position. And the only way to keep America safe was to appoint him to the White House, because She was evil and powerful, and wanted to take away American liberties.

Sage had apologized for keeping this information secret, but claimed that she’d been trying to prevent public distress or panic. That Vought had been working on a private operation to apprehend Her and bring her to justice following her betrayal of America and Homelander, but had decided She was too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely and without fear of consequence.

Ben was mentioned. She’d run away with Soldier Boy, and turned America’s Son and former greatest patriot into a socialist with the same manipulation tactics she’d used on Homelander. Gotten Soldier Boy to fall in love with her when She’d decided Homelander wasn’t enough for her, and was now trying to use him to fuel her fascist overtaking of the government. She’d gotten Soldier Boy to kidnap Ryan, and he was willing to work with the very people who’d betrayed him in the first place because She’d just sunken her claws that deep.

That last part wasn’t entirely a fucking lie. Ben was working with Butcher and MM and Annie, but Christ, he’d accepted that was his life a long fucking time ago. They weren’t going to put him back in the box, they didn’t even really seem to hate him anymore, and Ben didn’t really hate them anymore. They made Her happy, and that was what fucking mattered.

So She did, in a way, have Her claws in him. Ben would fucking burn the world for Her—he’d do anything for her—so he might have spared Sage’s words a moment of thought if they weren’t fucking stupid. Of course Ben would do anything for Her. She’d do anything for Ben. It wasn’t like she’d just smiled at him once and he’d become a pathetic fucking lapdog.

She’d been something angry and wrapped in fire and smoke, all of it turning Her hollowed and scarred and broken inside, and Ben had been atomic and vigilant and wrapped in blood and wrath, serving him like a shield that kept every pussy who’d try to use him out.

And She’d seen the rotten, furious and bitter parts of him, and not walked away. And Ben had touched Her fire and not flinched. Ben wasn’t worried that he’d ever start to burn without Her there, because he was more fucking worried She’d try to burn without him.

Sage hadn’t put that in her fucking speech. Sage hadn’t mentioned that She was kind, and hilarious, and perfect. That She was self-sacrificial and intelligent, and didn’t manipulate people because She loved people. Sage didn’t mention that She hadn’t stolen Ryan so much as offered the kid some fucking care and affection, or that She hadn’t gotten Ben to fall in love with Her so much as existed near Ben, and been too fucking perfect to not fall in love with.

But Sage hadn’t mention most of the truth. Truth didn’t seem to be something Sage was at all fucking concerned with. Sage alleged that She demanded Homelander give her the V, and only grown more power-hungry after. Sage still didn’t fucking admit that She was stronger than Homelander—who hadn’t been seen since Boston—only saying that She was “dangerous, unstable, and if seen in public should not be approached.”

All of which meant Ben couldn’t fucking tell everyone he was marrying Her. They were wanted terrorists—fucking again—so it wouldn’t be the smartest move to tell everyone in this parking lot that Ben loved with Her and was going to make sure everyone knew that forever.

The team would hear about it, when they got home. They’d probably want to talk about the current, pressing disaster, but they’d have to also hear about how She and Ben were getting married. It would take two goddamn seconds, and if Ben didn’t tell someone by the end of the day, he’d explode.

He’d grumbled that to Her in the car, somewhere on the tree-lined highway, and She’d giggled.

“You know we’ll still be engaged after we deal with this? It’s not something that’s going to expire.”

“When we’re finished with this,” Ben had grunted, squeezing Her thigh under his hand. “We’re getting married. Immediately. And I don’t want to deal with Hughie’s fucking bitching about not getting to be a bridesmaid with Annie on the day.”

“Huh,” She’d still been grinning, and titled her head in mock thought. “I thought you were going to take Annie. She looks good in a suit, and I think her best man speech would be really funny. But if you’d prefer Butcher-“

“Butcher is not my best man.” He’d muttered, shooting Her a glare. “I’ll eat a fucking bomb first-“

“Well he has to go somewhere. My personal vote is flower girl, but I think he’d be a little bitch about it-“

Ben had snorted, and tried not to get too fucking lost in this. How She was talking about it like it was real, and they’d actually have to figure out what to do about Butcher at their wedding, because they would. Ben got to live in a world where he’d have to have William fucking Butcher at his wedding, but he’d be getting married to Her, so it was still goddamn worth it.

And when they parked at Edgar’s farm, he’d kept his hold on Her firm, waiting for her to meet his eyes before he spoke.

“I’m going to tell them.”

She sighed. “I mean, I’m not going to stop you, but I promise you’ll still be able to do that when there isn’t a possible government coup to prevent.“

“I don’t care.” He grunted. “We’re getting married, and they should fucking know that.”

“They will know that, Ben, but it’s not the most pressing issue right now-“

“Yes, it is.” Ben scowled, leaning down to hold Her gaze with his, trying to fucking show her how serious this was to him. “I love you, and I’m going to make it everyone’s problem, Sunshine. Right goddamn now.”

She flushed, mouth falling slightly open, and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

Ben hummed in triumph, pressing a small, soft kiss to her lips. “Good. Now let’s-“

He had to cut himself off with a groan, because Her hands shot into his hair as she began to try and climb onto him, deepening the kiss. Ben reacted immediately—grabbing her waist and hauling her onto his lap—and let her grind onto him as he matching every roll of her hips with a grunt and thrust until they were dry humping like teenagers.

And he didn’t fucking care. Every breathless sound and gasp of his name was more fucking proof that they belonged to each other. This could be sloppy and uncoordinated and made of pure fucking need and want, because it felt fucking good, and every touch of Her skin—in any fucking form—got Ben high and fueled his love into a roar in his chest he never wanted to silence.

Then Ben heard something crunch on the grass outside, and pulled Her tight into his chest. Sat up with her caged safely in his arms, his body blocking fucking anything that might try to hurt them. Ben might not have a gun, but he had himself. He had this strange new feeling of fucking harmony is his body, where the nuke didn’t feel like a parasite, and the drums didn’t pound and invade his head, but it was just a hum and rush of power. White-hot, blinding fucking power that was hanging off his ribs and alight in his veins.

She’d been instant they should train more, back here in Maine. Where if Ben blew something up, it would just be a tree and not a fucking house or city. And he was ready to get started right fucking now, if whatever was coming dared to even look at Her wrong.

There was a rapping sound on the window, Ben’s fury and instinct of care for Her. Protect Her and love Her and keep her safe prepared itself to shatter the glass and grab the threat by the throat, then immediately faded into the background as he saw Kimiko and Frenchie staring down at them. Kimiko waved and Frenchie tried to hide his rocket launcher behind his back, and Ben sighed.

Ben, who-

Kimiko and Frenchie.

She pushed off Ben’s chest with a whack of his arm, and twisted in his hold to sign at Kimiko with an apologetic expression. Kimiko signed back, pausing halfway through a gesture with an open mouth, and began to sign in fast, frantic movements.

Ben heard Her heartbeat pick up as she and Kimono continued their silent conversation—Frenchie mostly just looking between them and Ben—and frowned.

What the fuck is going on.

She didn’t look away from Kimiko’s movements as She responded in Ben’s head. Frenchie set some silent alarms around the property, we set one off and-

No, Ben grunted Her name in the silence, and Her flush deepened. Why the fuck does Kimiko look like she’s just been hit by a damn car.

She might have seen the ring.

The smug, wide grin that crossed Ben’s face—born from how fucking beautiful she was, and how stupidly goddamn alight his whole body was—could’ve powered a fucking country. It was all energy, all fucking love and visceral goddamn joy. It must have been contagious or something as well, because it made Her whole body relax in Ben’s arms, even as her heart picked up and she made a small, airy, needy sound that only Ben got to hear.

He started to stand, keeping Her carefully against his body and pushing the door open slowly enough for Kimiko and Frenchie to step backward, Kimiko’s gestures coming to a halt and her attention turning to Ben.

“Where the fuck is everyone else.” He grunted, stepping out onto the dirt road. “We’ve got news.”

She rolled Her eyes, Kimiko gave Ben an almost dry look, and Frenchie was very fucking obviously trying not to look at Her hand.

“Ah, we are up there by quite a bit.” Frenchie pointed further down the road, frowning at the tree line. “It is a little bit of a walk-“

“We’ve been sitting for like, fourteen hours,” She squirmed out of Ben’s hold, but still pulled his arm over her shoulder, holding him against Her. “I could go for a walk.”

“Bien, and the car, Madame-“

“We’ve got bags in it,” She frowned at their stolen Honda, Her fingers tapping over Ben’s. “And they have some, uh, important stuff. So we probably shouldn’t just leave it-“

Kimiko’s hand shot up, and she made a quick gesture with a bright smile.

Frenchie shook his head, his voice tense and apologetic. “Mon Coeur, you cannot drive-“

“It’s not like there’s anyone else on the road.” She gave Kimiko grin and shrug, reaching into Ben’s pocket to pull out the keys. “She can go five miles per hour for all I care. As long as she doesn’t drive into the river, she’ll be fine.”

Kimiko nodded eagerly, gave Frenchie a smug look, and moved into the driver’s seat.

“I’ve got my fucking clothing in there-“

She cut Ben off with a wrinkle of her nose. “So have I, Benjamin. It’ll be fine, and you can either be a baby about it here, or come with me and tell everyone that we’re engaged.”

Ben scowled down at Her, and all She did was smile up at him, making his mouth twitch and that radiant feeling grow nuclear in his chest. It was golden, and simple, and so raw and natural Ben couldn’t remember what it was like to have it not living in his body. It was like a star that flared a little brighter under Her attention and love, and it was older and more powerful than any pussy fucking star could dream of.

“Brat,” he muttered, and even his voice sounded like it was crafted from pure goddamn adoration. Like Ben had taken every furious and rough part of himself and turned it into something better. Fury that wasn’t born of hatred, but love and a resolve to keep that love. Of a jagged, stone-like feeling in his mouth and throat that had existed from the start, but had been eroded and found an exception. Ben was wrathful and immovable, but he couldn’t be mad at Her. She giggled, leaning into his side, and Ben moved for Her. He took careful, measured steps that She could always keep up with, and never once let her think she needed to be anywhere but here. With Ben, going to tell their friends that they were going to get fucking married.

Ben had been ready for it to be the first words out of his mouth. To push open the screen door to Edgar’s rickety old farmhouse and yell we’re married, you asshole pussies, so come and tell Her you’re happy for her—They weren’t married yet, but that was just fucking semantics—but he hadn’t accounted for Ryan. The kid was bouncing on the stone stairs, his whole face lighting up when She and Ben came into view, and running at a slightly alarming speed to greet them.

“You’re back!” Ryan slammed into Her first, wrapping her in a hug that had to be a little fucking painful, but only made her smile and squeeze Ryan tighter.

This was very fucking dangerous to Ben. Watching Her smile at Ryan—running her hands through the kid’s hair and hum a soft song that made the whole world seem like it was glowing—made it feel like a real option to drop off the V, tell Butcher to get his shit together, grow some fucking balls, and kill Homelander himself so She, Ben, and Ryan could catch the next flight back to Rome. They could fix up the house more, Ryan could get first choice of a bedroom, and Ben could use retirement to fill up the rest of the house with happy kids that She could sing to.

But Butcher had also been trying to kill Homelander for more than a decade, and hadn’t gotten goddamn close until She and Ben came along. Mostly Her, but Ben had gotten pretty fucking close himself. Butcher, really fucking annoyingly, needed them to help, and the pussy wouldn’t even thank them, but Ben didn’t need his thanks. He needed Butcher to do his goddamn job, so Ben’s whole life could be watching Her and Ryan be happy, and giving them more reasons to be happy.

The rest of the team was starting to walk down the old road to join them, with varying levels of welcoming expressions on their faces. Ryan moved to hug Ben—the radiant feeling in Ben’s body flashing and making his skin feel clean and his chest feel prideful—as She moved a few steps forward to meet Annie’s hug, Hughie waiting sheepishly off to the side until She gestured for him to join them.

“How was Rome? MM said the villa wasn’t a trap, but was it, you know,” Annie pulled out of the hug with a tight expression. “Livable?”

“It should have been. Stan kept all his properties in condition, even the one’s he never visited.”

Ben head shot up at the even, cool voice of Victoria Neuman, and felt his arms tense around Ryan as he leaned forward in an attempt to get just a little fucking closer to Her. Neuman wasn’t a real threat anymore, but he still didn’t fucking trust her, and didn’t want her anywhere goddamn near his family. Ben could certainly fucking feel the wired, taut feeling in Her body as she took Neuman in, and hear the stumble of Her heart in her chest.

“Um, hi.” She pried Herself away from Annie, taking a small step back. Closer to Ben. “What are you doing here?”

“They did an evac operation.” Neuman shrugged. “While you were off in Rome getting engaged, we had to deal with the Mallory fallout. You guys never think about the wider consequences of all your various murders, so now everything is compromised, and the safe house isn’t an exception.”

“Meant to tell you before you got back, but shit got-“ MM cut his tired words off, turning to frown at Neuman. “What did you just say?”

“You idiots don’t have the foresight to be in the business of meddling with politics-“

“Nah, Head-Popper.” Butcher snapped, eyes narrowed and back stiff. “I heard that shit too. The bloody fuckin hell did you say about America’s horniest twats.”

Neuman let out a long, labored sigh. “I’ve told you not to call me head-popper, Butcher, it’s not even true anymore-“

“Right then, Vicky. The fuck you mean gettin engaged-“

“I mean that they got engaged. Does engaged have a different meaning in Britain that I’m not aware of? I mean,” Neuman looked around the group with a surprised expression, attention landing on Her. “You’re wearing a ring. You don’t wear jewelry, and that looks expensive, but you’re wearing it anyway.”

It had been expensive. It had cost a small goddamn fortune, and while there was a flash of satisfied, bright pride that Neuman had noticed, Ben was also going to fucking kill her. Neuman was not meant to be the one that told everyone about this. It was either supposed to be Ben or Her, and because Ben knew his wife—more importantly, because he knew that the only place words seemed to ever fail Her was in relation to Ben—it was supposed to be him. Now everyone fucking knew, and they were gaping like idiots, and Neuman was going to fucking die.

“I, um,” She took another step back as she spoke, directly blocking Ben’s warpath and keeping Her attention on Neuman. “I don’t wear jewelry because it will probably melt. And actually,” She looked to Frenchie, and Ben saw the flash of the metal as she pulled the ring off. “Can you work your magic and make this fireproof? I really don’t want to lose it and we might have already had a,” She cleared her throat, and Ben smirked at her pretty flush. “Close call.”

Her voice had been soft, when Frenchie nodded Her heartbeat slowed, and it made something in Ben yield his wrath. He couldn’t kill Neuman. He probably hadn’t actually been going to kill Neuman—mauling or terrifying had still been on the table—but now She seemed mostly just happy, and that’s all that Ben fucking wanted.

Annie’s eyes moved to the ring—now in Frenchie’s hands—and she nodded slowly. “Wow. I mean congratulations, but also-“

“Wow.” Hughie echoed, offering Her a close-lipped, anxious smile. “Good job? Is that something I should say good job to? I don’t, uh, I’m not really sure.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” She said, kicking Ben’s shin as he opened his mouth to say it was a damn good job. Not the time, Benjamin.

They should be saying shit. Why the fuck do they all just look like dumb fucking pussies who’ve never heard of marriage before-

They’re probably just surprised-

Why the hell would they be surprised. Ben glared around the group, speaking with low, gruff words before She had a chance to stop him. “Are any of you fuckers surprised.”

A resounding, annoyed no echoed through the woods and fields around them, and Ben shot the back of Her head a smug grin that She must have felt, because he got flipped off a second later.

Not a word, Benjamin, unless you want to lose my favorite part of you.

Ben chuckled, his grin spreading. I fucking knew it was your favorite-

I was talking about your tongue, Pretty Boy. She took another backwards step, stopping at Ben side and looking up at him with a fake-sweet smile. What were you talking about?

Brat.

Cunt. Her gaze turned back to their friends, and there was a small, pretty frown tugging on her lips. “You guys aren’t surprised at all?”

“Nah, Love,” Butcher shrugged, shooting Her a wink. “I was in the hotel room next to you twats in DC. I’m mostly just fuckin shocked you came back from your sex vacation.”

“It was not a sex vacation, Butcher-“

Frenchie nodded in agreement, cutting Her off with a bright tone. “Oui, Madame, you do not need a vacation for sex. Sex can happen anywhere-“

“Like in my fucking gun range.” MM muttered, and Her face flushed.

“How did you, um, how did you know about that?”

“I told him,” Hughie mumbled, scratching the back of his neck as he gave Her an apologetic look. “I mean, not that you had sex, but that you were in the gun range and being kind of weird.”

“We were not being weird-“

MM scoffed. “I saw the security footage,” he said Her name with a pointed expression, She looked down at the floor, and Ben thought it looked a little like a father scolding his daughter for sneaking out of the house. “You motherfuckers were being incredibly weird. I almost threw up before you even started blowing him, and I had to clean my eyes with goddamn bleach after. And I only saw the first three seconds.”

“That’s,” She sighed, tapping her fingers against her palm. “Fair. Sorry.”

“Well, let’s fuckin hope you got it all fucked and out of your bloody systems,” Butcher’s grin becomes a little colder, more set and tight on his face. “Cause this place ain’t soundproof, and if you wake me up with your disgustin fuckin sex, someone’s gettin shot.”

“It’ll probably be you, Butcher.” She said, voice dry and bored. “I don’t think interrupting my husband while he’s balls deep in me is going to end well for anyone.”

Ben tried not to get lost in how fucking good everything felt. How the radiance in his body felt atomic, and might actually fucking be atomic. It felt in time with the nuke, like everything had a goddamn glow that Ben could reach out and grab and use to serve Her. Shield Her and fight for Her and bleed for Her. Protect his wife with, because at this point it was just a fucking formality that they weren’t married. If She was going to call Ben her fucking husband, he’d call Her his wife and never goddamn apologize for it. He’d fucking glow and burn and explode for Her, and then kiss her stupid and moaning after. Make her burst into flames below him and never flinch because the glow in him was for Her, and couldn’t be deterred by stupid shit like fire-

“Are you,” Ryan was looking between Her and Ben with wide eyes, and Ben almost missed his quiet, nervous tone. “Are you already married?”

“No, but husband is easier than fiancé.” She offered Ryan a smile, the kid’s whole expression relaxed, and Ben was going to fucking die. “Don’t worry, Ry,” Her voice dropped to a mock whisper, and suddenly nobody else was in the world but Her, Ben, and Ryan. “Ben isn’t going to let it be a secret wedding. Expect something very stupid and dramatic.”

Shut the fuck up, Sunshine-

No. She stuck her tongue out at him, Ben felt fucking high on how beautiful She was in front of him, and how bright she was inside him, and if Annie hadn’t started talking right then, he probably would’ve started fucking Her on the grass.

“Do you have plans?” Annie looked between them, her voice a little fucking weak, but still genuine. “For the wedding?“

“It’ll be after all this,” She gave a vague gesture to the air, Her beautiful face falling slightly. “Is done. I don’t want to get in the way of the mission-“

“Are we going to talk about the mission?” Neuman cut in with a dry, flat voice. “Or just keep standing here and talking about sex and weddings?”

MM let out a low, tired huff, and looked at Her with a weary expression. “Neuman’s right, we’ll have time for all the damn marriage talk after. Right now, we’ve got some heavy shit to go over. Let’s,” MM paused, looking around the sprawling farm grounds with a frown. “Where the fuck is your stuff.”

She sighed, looking down the road with a hesitant expression. “In the car, with Kimiko.”

“Kimiko ain’t able to drive, Love-“

“It’ll be fine,” She dismissed Butcher with a wave of Her hand, but Ben could still sense the anxiety around Her throat, constricting over his own lungs. “I can talk without props. Ryan,” Her gaze turned down, growing warm and soft as she reached out, holding Ryan’s face with a gentle hand. “Ben and I will find you after, but you can’t be in the meeting with us.”

Ryan’s eyes fell to the ground as he nodded, and She sighed.

“We trust you,” She whispered, offering Ryan a small smile. “But this isn’t something for you to worry about. If you have questions, I’ll answer them, but after. Okay?”

“Okay.” Ryan mumbled, glancing back to Ben—he gave a firm nod, that always seemed to help the kid’s anxiety—and sighed. “We can talk after.”

“After.” She said, and that was the voice She used when she made promises she intended on keeping. “You can ask whatever you want, and we have some stuff to give you-“

“Some stuff?” Ryan frowned, looking back to Ben with an uncertain gaze. “I don’t need anything-“

“They’re gifts.” Ben grunted, the radiance in him growing at how fucking adoring Her smile was, and how open and bright Ryan’s eyes were. “Go with Frenchie, kid. We’ll find you when we’re done.”

Frenchie nodded at Ben’s implied order, gesturing for Ryan to join him. As they both walked away—Frenchie rambling to a wide-eyed Ryan about fireproof alloy infusion—Ben wrapped his arm around Her waist and pulled her fully against him, kissing the top of her head as he glared around the group.

“Are we going to go the fuck inside, or just stand out here like idiots.”

Butcher snorted. “We been waitin on you, Soldier Boy, and your fucking emotional shit-“

“Inside.” MM cut Butcher off with a glare as Ben’s eyes narrowed, his hand clenching over Her stomach. “Let’s not murder each other before we even get to Homelander.”

Ben could agree with that. He would kill Butcher later—Ben was allowed to be fucking careful and gentle with his family, and Butcher should be real fucking grateful he was even allowed to witness their goddamn happiness, the bitter fucking pussy—but right now, killing Homelander was more important. Killing Homelander meant She and Ryan would be safe and She and Ben could get married without any fucking secrecy, so nothing was more important than killing Homelander.

Ben guided Her into Edgar’s rickety, piece of shit farmhouse, sitting tall at Her side around the well-worn, wooden table, and kept his hand on Her thigh as everyone settled down and the briefing began.

“The villa wasn’t lived in, and it didn’t look touched,” She started, tapping her fingers on the table as she spoke. “But it was clean. You said Edgar kept all his properties clean?”

Neuman nodded. “He might have had a crew come in just to make sure it didn’t fall to ruin.”

“That’s what we saw. A lot of things looked like they’d been dusted, but hadn’t been moved in, well, my lifetime. Most of our lifetimes.”

“Not Soldier Boy’s,” Butcher muttered, and She shot him a glare.

“Or yours, dickfuck.”

“I ain’t the one marryin you-“

“Watch it.” Ben hissed, and the radiant feeling becoming hot. Vigilant and loud, waiting for a reason to launch out of Ben with a boom and spread over the world.

MM sighed, running his hand over his face. “Can you motherfuckers try to keep it civil and not antagonize each other?”

She hummed in agreement, continuing before Butcher had a chance to make another jab or Ben could split Butcher’s head open on the table. “Butcher, I’m a big girl. I’m well aware of the age thing, and it’s probably the least fucked up thing about our relationship. Also, I think it’s hot, so you can shove it up your ass.”

Ben smirked, sitting up a little straighter, and squeezed his hand against her. I fucking knew it-

I already admitted that, Pretty Boy. And I’m mostly trying to shut Butcher up, so don’t get too smug.

Ben didn’t care what She’d been trying to do, because not only was everyone’s reaction more than he could’ve hoped for—red faces, surprised coughs, and picked up heart rates—but her words set off sparks in his gut and made something bloom around his heart. It was his usual, completely fucking unbreakable and wrathfully attentive love for Her, but also a raw and strange glow that was getting harder and harder to ignore. It was hidden under the radiance, and Ben didn’t want to glow—he wasn’t a pathetic fucking pussy who did things like glowing—but it was almost painful to pretend he couldn’t feel it at this point. That it wasn’t created and fed by how She was just as biting and avenging when someone stood against Ben as he was for Her, and She was fucking marrying him, and She adored him, and nothing could take that away from him. No one would ever be able to call Ben worthless again, because She’d kill them. Just like he’d kill people who called Her weak.

She looked like she was about to start talking again, but the door banged open and everyone started in their seats, guns clicking and raising, bodies bracing to fight whoever the fuck had just interrupted their meeting-

“You assholes are paranoid as shit, huh.” A-Train muttered, walking over to the table with a fearful Ashely a few paces behind him. “And thanks for telling us we were having a meeting.”

Annie scoffed at A-Train’s obvious, dripping contempt, crossing her arms as he and Ashley sat down. “We didn’t know where you were, and this is time sensitive. We didn’t have time to look.”

A-Train rolled his eyes, and Hughie cleared his throat with a shaky cough.

“Where, uh,” he swallowed, words sounding forced out of his mouth. “Where were you guys?”

“On a walk.”

Hughie blinked at A-Train’s flat answer. “Oh. Why?”

“None of your business, Hughie-“

“Can we please focus.” Neuman leaned back in her chair with a dramatic sigh, throwing her hands in the air. “We can all do group therapy after Homelander is dead.”

A-Train didn’t stop glaring at Hughie, but nobody pushed anything, so She took the cue to keep talking.

“Right, um,” She shook Her head, the tapping on the table picking up tempo. “The villa was in good shape, and we found Dr. Vought’s old study. Like I told MM, there was a large stash of compound V, which we brought about twenty vials of back-“

Hughie frowned. “How did you get V through security-“

“We didn’t go through security.” She said, looking around the table with a vaguely bored expression. “I mean, there was no world where we’d get through legally, V or no V. We’re walking weapons who don’t have passports. Sneaking onto a plane isn’t even in the top ten crimes we’ve committed, I think it will be fine.”

“But you’ve got it?” Annie asked, leaning forward on the table. “You’ve got the V here?”

“It’s in our bags.”

“Shit.” Annie turned to MM. “Has Frenchie told you when the drill will be ready?”

“What drill-“

“Frenchie’s been working on a needle drill or some shit,” MM told Her, and she nodded slowly. “Get the V into Homelander in one shot. He said a week, but I don’t think we’ve got a whole fucking week-“

“We don’t.” She muttered, and there was a faraway, set on Her face Ben recognized to be an idea. The final moment of Her clever fucking brain turning and clicking things into a pattern Ben never understood, but—usually—fucking worked in their favor. “If Homelander really is being tapped by Singer for the VP spot, from congressional pressure or not, we can’t wait for him to even get a confirmation hearing. But,” She swallowed, and whatever fucking insane thing she was planning settled in Her head, and all Ben could do was wait for Her to say it. “We need that drill. All we have to do is delay Homelander, and buy Frenchie enough time to get it right.”

Ben knew where this was going. Her breathing was falling into a mechanical rhythm, and the tapping of her fingers had started to leave marks on the table as curling smoke rose from her hands, Ben knew where the fuck this was headed.

You don’t fucking have to do that-

I do, my love. She gave him a small, sad smile, dropping Her searing hand over Ben’s. It didn’t fucking hurt at all—even when it might have before—so when She realized what she’d done and tried to pull away, Ben caught Her wrist with a scowl. Ben-

Doesn’t hurt. He searched Her beautiful, impossibly perfect and exhausted face for whatever words he could use to talk Her out of this, and couldn’t find a single goddamn one. Sunshine-

I’ll be okay. And it’s long overdue. She looked back to their slightly watching team, all wearing similar expression of blank confusion. “I need to come out of hiding. For good.”

There was a beat of silence as everyone stared at Her, and before they had a chance to erupt with stupid fucking opinions, She continued.

“I can do it here. We can find a blank, unidentifiable wall to film in front of, and I’ll say all of it. What Annie said, a little more, and what’s happened since. It will be a clear, obvious accusation of assault, abuse, and torture, and it will at least slow everything down.” She took a long, deep breath, her voice dropping to a whisper only Ben could hear. “It has to slow things down.”

MM was frowning, but he seemed mostly concerned. “It’s not a guarantee,” he muttered Her name, scanning over Her face with a firm, slow gaze. “And there will be a massive fallout. Fuck, Annie had a fallout, and that wasn’t a formal story. And Sage literarily just said her shit, people might call bullshit just on that-“

“People were always going to call bullshit.” Everything in Her—in Ben—felt exhausted and sick. Twisting and rotting in Ben’s chest as Her words became slightly choked and he had to just wait. He couldn’t kick everyone out to hold Her and remind Her she was safe, he had to fucking wait. “There was never a time or place I could say my piece, and have a perfect success rate. If there was, none of this would be a problem to begin with. And I can acknowledge Sage. I can admit that I am related to Muller, but also point out that he kicked me out and we hadn’t spoken for thirteen years. I can talk about everything. I don’t have careful moves to make like Sage does, I don’t have anyone I need to lie about or steer public attention away from. But,” She paused, a flash of panic shooting through Ben’s veins and up his spine as Her heartbeat sped up. “I want to get my siblings out. If I’m saying everything, standing in direct opposition of Vought and Singer, they’ll need to hide. Fuck, they probably should’ve already been hidden-“

“We can take care of that.” MM cut off Her spiraling, and Ben shot him a curt, appreciative nod, pulling Her a little close against him and rubbing patterns on her leg as MM continued. “Butcher and I got some contacts we trust with that shit, we can hide them. And Frenchie-“

“Oui?” Frenchie pushed open the door like he’d been fucking summoned, Kimiko right behind him. “What about moi are we discussing?”

“Frenchie,” She said carefully, eyes narrowed. “Where’s Ryan-“

“With the little Neuman.” Frenchie reassured Her, Kimiko nodding behind him with a kind smile. “They get on quite well, do not worry. What news have we missed?”

Butcher said to Her name, his smirk more tense than cruel. “Found a way to buy you time, Mate. Got the V, just need that fuckin drill.”

Frenchie gave Her a grateful nod before turning back to MM. “Is that all?”

“We’re gonna need to get her family out first,” MM grunted, and Frenchie seemed to understand in an immediate fucking second.

“Ah, operation Harrison Ford. Easy as a cakewalk, Madame,” Frenchie said Her name with a grin, and she blinked.

“We have an operation Harrison Ford?” Hughie looked around the table with an almost indignant expression. “Why didn’t anyone tell me we had an operation Harrison Ford?”

“You ain’t ever been a fugitive, Mate. Didn’t need it.”

Hughie gaped at Butcher. “I have definitely been a fugitive! Like, five fucking times! I’m a fugitive right now!“

“It’s for when we haven’t got anyone but each other.” MM explained, his tone slightly apologetic. “Last time we got people into hiding before we were wanted. Operation Harrison Ford is for when there’s no CIA to fall back on.”

Hughie looked almost crestfallen—Annie giving him a pat on the shoulder that was severely fucking undercut by her amused expression—and She cleared Her throat, pushing on.

“Do I need to do anything for operation Harrison Ford?”

MM nodded. “Get them all together and pass them on to me. We want this done sooner rather than later, though, so if you can round them all up-“

“They’ll be at my mom’s.” She muttered. “It’s just past the 4th, they always stay with her in July. We can go tonight-“

“Tomorrow.” Ben snapped, making his words stern and final, because She needed fucking rest. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

She sighed. Ben-

We promised Ryan, he grunted Her name between their heads, and Her tight expression faltered. It’s less than 24 fucking hours, we’ll be fine.

She nodded slowly—for once just letting Ben be right—and returned Her attention to MM. “We’ll go tomorrow afternoon. Anything else we need to deal with?”

MM frowned, his voice slow. “Maybe. You told me there might be the V formula there as well, you manage to confirm it?”

“No,” A brief glint of red appeared and dried on Her lips as she chewed them with her words. “But it would explain what Sage is after. If all she knows is the Cornucopia as an idea, she wouldn’t think it has multiple things. She’s after the formula.”

“Wouldn’t Sage know the formula?” Hughie asked, sounding doubtful his own question. “Her whole thing is smart, she could probably replicate it-“

Frenchie shook his head. “It is not that simple, Petite Hughie. Compound V is remarkably complex. There is a reason it took Vought so long, with so much money and testing, to perfect. My attempt was weak itself, and I am still not sure what I did wrong.”

“Well, no offense Mate, but you ain’t Sage-“

“Non, I am not.” Frenchie shrugged, seemingly unbothered by Butcher’s words. “But Sage is lacking the unethical testing Vought was granted by the Holocaust. And his first batch was, ah, famously unstable.” He shot Her and Ben apologetic expressions, words slowing. “It is not outside the realm of possibility that even Sage can be stumped. She may have hit a wall, or Vought may have done something odd enough to drive her cuckoo-“

“Sage doesn’t go cuckoo.” A-Train muttered. “She’s a vindictive fucking robot-“

“I’ve confused her.” Everyone’s attention turned to Her, and Ben’s could feel the sick feeling returning as she spoke. “She doesn’t follow things that aren’t in logical line. She doesn’t understand, um, love all that well, because it’s irrational.”

Butcher scoffed. “That’s bloody sad for the ice bitch, what’s that got to do with the fuckin V.“

“I’m not sure.” She sighed. “My point is more if there are things Sage doesn’t understand, things she can’t predict, and it’s usually things related to emotions. So,” She paused, frowning into the air, and turned to Ashley. “Who made the V at Vought? I’d imagine they had an NDA, but Sage and Homelander would be able to make them talk-“

“Nobody knew the whole recipe.” Ashely’s voice was unsteady, watching Her like the wrong word might end in blood. “When I got the CEO job they explained that it was manufactured in random patterns and parts, specifically so nobody could duplicate it. I think they even had fake factories and steps, just to throw people off.”

She nodded, fingers sitting suddenly as she turned to Frenchie. “I need the suppressant back. Soon.”

“Of course Madame, but I cannot recommend you, ah,” Frenchie glanced at Ben’s violent glare. “Continue with it-“

“It’s still not for me.” She squeezed Ben’s hand on Her leg in silent reassurance, and he felt his grip on her loosen. “Trust me. Please.”

Those words were mostly for Ben. They were Her asking him not to push back on her with this, pair with an implicit promise that she wouldn’t hurt herself like that again. So Ben slightly pressed his knee against Hers, holding Frenchie’s anxious expression, and gave a curt nod.

Frenchie nodded slowly, looking back to Her. “Oui. I will put it in the room.”

“The room? What room-“

“We’re stuck here indefinitely, Love.” Butcher drawled. “Lucky us, Edgar was a rich prick with a huge fuckin house, but we still gotta fit thirteen cunts in five bedrooms. You twats are bunkin with Ryan and I.”

Ben scowled. “Sleep on the fucking couch, you cockhead-“

“Nah, Gov. But if I wake up to you two humpin near my virgin ears-“

“We’re not going to hump in a shared space. With a child in the room.” She hissed at Butcher, and he shrugged.

“Caught you fuckin the bathroom before, shared bedroom ain’t a stretch-“

“Yes, it fucking is-“

“Hey!” MM hit the table, and her mouth closed with one last glower at Butcher. “Time limit, motherfuckers. You,” MM grunted Her name, glaring between her and Ben. “And your asshole get the day, then we’re driving to go get your family tomorrow morning. Frenchie, work on the drill, and the rest of you.” MM’s jaw tensed, his face somehow growing more fucking grim. “Get ready to fight. Once we’ve got it all out in the open, Homelander’s not going to take it down easy. And if Sage is after the formula, we don’t know why, and we certainly don’t have a goddamn clue how she’ll retaliate. So look alive, we’re going to have some work to do.”

They did. In the fucking morning—and not a moment sooner—She and Ben would have a lot of work to do. But until then they could spend the night however they fucking wanted.

“If we do want to fuck,” Ben lowered down to whisper in Her ear, well aware he could just use their brain connection, but enjoying the slight shiver of her spine and flutter of her heart too much to bother. “I’m sure we could find a spot in all these damn trees to do it.”

“Forests aren’t for sex.” She muttered, giving him a flat glare, and he winked right back.

“I’d fuck you anywhere, beautiful. I’d fuck you in a parking lot, or a shitfuck subway, or in the middle of a goddamn earthquake.”

She hummed, giving it fake thought with a tilt of her head. “I feel like the earthquake would actually help. With the tremors.”

Ben snorted. “How about a dumpster.”

“That’s disgusting, Benjamin.”

“And that’s my damn point.” He kissed the top of Her head, smirking against her hair. “I love you enough to fuck you in a dumpster.”

“Romantic.” She guided them up the stairs, looking up and down the halls with a frown. “As much as I’d love to have forest sex, we do need to find Ryan-“

Ben nodded—he’d find a place for them to fuck later, when everyone else was distracted and Butcher couldn’t be a massive fucking ass about Ben having sex with his goddamn wife—and latched onto the distant sounds of everyone’s moving about the house. It didn’t take long to find Ryan’s—another floor up and a little down the hall—and when Ben started to walk, She let him guide their path without a single step of hesitation. Just watching Ben with wide-eyes and clinging to his arm around Her shoulders, every feature on her perfect face relaxed and fucking adoring. Ben had a feeling they could be walking to goddamn hell and not just a bedroom, and she’d still let him lead the way.

And he had to keep fucking earning that. It wasn’t a task or trial that would ever be done, because Ben had created so many fucking messes that he could throw himself at her feet to be used as weapon and he still wouldn’t have fully earned Her. Worse, She wouldn’t accept that offer. She’d frown at him and ask what the fuck he was doing. Tell him that She didn’t want him to be a weapon, just to be hers.

He already was. There was nothing fucking better than it, than being hers. All She asked of Ben was to stay and listen, and those were the easiest things to do in the goddamn universe. All She wanted from his wasn’t glory or blood, but love and effort. Two things that should have been horrible and trying to give, but weren’t. It wasn’t work, to love Her—it was fucking natural and impossible to remember what anything had been before he’d loved her—and all his effort was poured into figuring out a way to fucking deserve this. Deserve the most beautiful, perfect woman being alive with him, choosing to be near him, choosing to love him, choosing to fucking marry him.

It could come in blood. There would be times where it needed to be blood on Ben’s hands and skin under his nails, brutally clawing and beating and bruising to keep Her safe. But it would more likely be things like this. Like hugging Ryan when the kid jumped up to great them—it was also easy to hug Ryan, it made Ben’s whole goddamn body feel prideful and his heart feel right in his chest—and meeting Her soft, happy gaze with a grin of his own. Listening to Her and Ryan talk about all the history shit in Rome as he sorted through their bags—trying to hide all Her soon to be destroyed lingerie from Ryan, and the semi all his ideas were giving him from both of them—and pulled out their gifts. Stuffed fucking animals, so simple and goddamn stupid, and entirely goddamn worth it from the surprised look of pure goddamn happiest on Ryan’s face as She passed him the lobster and lion. Happiness that somehow grew stronger when She made Ben show him the other lion and Her tiger. It leaked into the air of the room like helium, making everything higher and nothing in danger of coming down.

“Do you,” Ryan looked between them with a nervous expression, his words quiet and uncertain. “Do you think I could come visit you? When you go?”

She froze—her face sad and gentle and soft, full of something that looked like grief and felt like a warm ache in Ben’s body—and Ben answered for Her.

“We’re not going, kid. And if we do, you’re coming with us.”

Ryan’s mouth parted, and he still looked so goddamn nervous. As if Ben would ever fucking lie to him. “I am?”

“If you want.” She offered Ryan a sweet, loving smile, and Ben was in fucking danger again. “And if not, we’ll stay here.”

“With,” Ryan swallowed. “With me?”

“We’re not sticking around for fucking Butcher-“

She threw a pillow at Ben’s head, her attention held on Ryan. “Of course with you. We’re not leaving you.”

“Would I, um, why?” Ryan looked almost confused, like this was a trick. Like She and Ben were measuring his reaction, and this was some sort of fucking test. “You don’t have to, if you want to go to Rome, just for me-“

“We don’t have to. But we want to.”

“You want to.” Ryan repeated Her words slowly, still looking fucking lost and nervous. “That’s it?”

She looked over at Ben, and he nodded. He wasn’t even really fucking certain what he was agreeing with—he was too fucking lost in how beautiful She was and how good this was, how everything in him felt peaceful and content and nothing wanted to explode out of his chest—but She was easy around his head and always fucking right, so Ben trusted her to say what he didn’t have words for. That he wouldn’t say properly, say in a way that really helped Ryan. Ben didn’t know how to explain that this radiance in his body was about not feeling like he had to go. That it wanted—Ben wanted—to stay right here, and keep watching the two people who were goddamn worth anything be happy. Wanted to keep them happy. Wanted to let their happiness crawl into him and keep making him a weak fucking pussy who had a stuffed lion because his wife insisted he should get it for their son.

So when She started talking again, Ben knew she’d understand all that shit, and get Ryan to understand it as well.

“That’s it.” She echoed without any caution or reservations in her voice. “You’re a cool kid, Ry. I like you and so does Ben.” She dropped her voice to a mock whisper, leaning forward to Ryan like her words were a secret. “The lobster was his idea, but don’t tell him I told you.” She gave Ben a sharp, bright and sweet expression, and he rolled his eyes as her voice raised. “We’re staying with you, because we want to, and we like being around you. Simple as that.”

“Around me?” Ryan stared down at the floor even as he leaned a little further forward. Closer to Her. “But I mess up-“

“We all fucking mess up, kid.” Ben grunted. “There’s not a single damn person in this house that hasn’t fucked something up. You never tried to hurt people, Homelander was just a weak fucking pussy who didn’t know how to teach you shit.”

“But I messed up in Boston too-“

“Boston as well,” She gave Ryan a gentle smile with the correction, and somehow it made him look more comfortable. Ben didn’t get that, but it did. “And none of us were perfect that day. You wanted to help, and you couldn’t have been expected to know Homelander would follow you. At least you didn’t take a dangerous, volatile drug, unlike certain people.”

Ben got a pointed glare with no real anger behind it, and rolled his eyes. This wasn’t a real argument, it was meant to distract Ryan, and Ben could play along easily.

“Don’t act like I didn’t save your fucking ass with that, Sunshine. And now I’m fireproof, I should be getting twice the goddamn thanks.”

She gave him a teasing smile. “Why is that, Pretty Boy?”

Ben opened his mouth to snap because now when I fuck you, I can get you to burst into flames and nobody gets hurt but the pussy fucking mattress, realized he couldn’t say that in front of Ryan, and scowled. “Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re fireproof?” Ryan looked at Ben with fucking awe, and Ben felt his body grow a little easier to exisit in. “Is that your new power?”

Ben looked to Her for explanation, and she wrinkled Her nose at him.

Really, Ben-

You’re the brains, he grinned, saying Her name between their heads. Use them.

Cunt. She turned to Ryan, her expression immediately becoming sweet and gentle as she met his curious gaze. “It seems to be one of them. Or at least a higher resistance to the heat and flame. We mostly think it’s the nuke, in here,” She tapped Ben’s chest. “Fusing fully into his body.”

Ryan nodded slowly, looking over to Ben. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Ben grunted. “Taking the V felt like shit, but I lived. Now it just feels normal.”

He’d probably have to give more detailed answers to MM and Annie later, for stupid fucking team purposes, but that was enough for Ryan, whose expression became eager.

“Are we going to train together? Can I help you with practicing stuff? If you want help, obviously, I just think I could throw targets, and be a target-“

“I’m not making you a fucking target, Ryan.” Ben made his voice stern, because this was the same fucking nuke that wiped out V and Ryan shouldn’t be anywhere goddamn near it. “But we’ll keep training.”

Any crestfallen defeat at the first half of Ben’s words were wiped off Ryan’s face by the second half, and the kids face lit up again. “Really? Even after my dad is gone?”

“As long as you fucking need and want it. Like she said, kid, we’re sticking around.”

Ryan got it. A small, nervous smile crossed his face, the conversation moved on, and Ben knew that—even if they were liars, which they weren’t—they’d keep this promise. Ryan would always have Her and Ben, and that wasn’t any fucking labor either. None of the things Ben had to do for Her or Ryan ever felt like labor. Doing things for them didn’t require thought or work, because it was simple and fucking right. Acts of retribution that were so small and fucking worthless alone, but build up and up and up until Ben was closer to their easy warmth. Never being afraid they’d toss him out or sneer at his offerings, because they weren’t like that. That was what the callous, greedy people Ben had surrounded himself with had done. Had never let it be enough, had made it obvious that acts of care were for the weak, and worth was won from spat words and traded blows.

But this worth—good worth, that was glowing and alight and content along Ben’s ribcage—was born from these small acts of service. From going to the strange, odd dinner with the team and sitting with his hand on Her thigh and his food offered silently to Ryan when they didn’t have enough for seconds. From playing the stupid fucking card game Hughie suggesting, and helping Her cheat because he’d help Her do anything. Taking Her and Ryan’s dishes to the sink and trying not to lose his fucking mind when She followed him without question, just to stay at his side.

Moving to the living room with most everyone else—Ashley and A-Train leaving to go do whatever the fuck they did, and Neuman muttering about getting a headache, but telling Zoe to just be in bed before midnight—and sitting in watchful, easy silence as She and Kimiko had a conversation made of giggles and smiles, and She moved herself into Ben’s lap, holding his arm over her stomach and sighing happily when he kissed Her neck. Listening to Ryan and Zoe tell them about how Neuman had lined up their curriculums, and now Ryan could learn to play the piano.

“I played the piano,” Ben grunted, and was met with shocked gapes he did not fucking appreciate.

“You did?” She leaned back on his chest, looking up at Ben with a sharp amusement dancing in Her pretty eyes . “Did you also play the trumpet?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up-“

“Make me-“

Ben’s own grin grew to something that felt a little feral, and Butcher scowled.

“Don’t you fuckin dare make her, or you horny dumbasses are sleepin outside.”

She stuck Her tongue out, wiggling further into Ben’s hold and not fucking helping him at all. “You’re just bitter you can’t play the piano, Butcher. You can’t even keep a beat.”

“Fuck off, Love, you ain’t better than me-“

“On this I am,” She shrugged, a smug smile on Her face that made Ben’s own body start to flood with pride. “I can’t play the piano, but I can sing.”

“Singin from the V don’t count-“

“I could sing before the V, asshole.”

“You can sing?” Ryan’s face was covered in wonder, and Ben understood that. His face whenever he looked at her likely looked wide and a fucking dumbstruck as well, but also probably a lot less innocent.

She nodded with a soft, slightly tense hum. “Yeah. I don’t a lot, because things will, um, happen. If I do.”

Ben didn’t have to look around at the team to know that they were either flushed or grimacing at the memory of the illusion of Ben, dancing on the stage with Her in a way that friends or coworkers certainly weren’t supposed to. Ben was fond of that memory, because it was the first time he’d been fucking certain that if he tore through the crowd, picked Her up, and slammed his mouth to Her’s in a brutal and demanding kiss, She’d match every single touch and moan until they were fucking on the floor of that stupid club. He could also get that their friends might not have the same almost liberating light painted across their thoughts of it, just because nobody ever seemed to appreciate that She was a lot more of a horny fucking brat than they gave her credit for. Any jabs at Ben’s constant innuendos and hard-ons when She would so much as smiled at him would never really land the way anyone wanted them to, because She was worse.

Even right fucking now, as the conversation continued, She was squirming in Ben’s lap. Her heartbeat had picked up as he kissed a gentle, careful pattern over her jaw and kneaded at the skin of Her thigh, and Ben got a weak slap on his knee as Ryan pressed on with his questions.

“Like what?”

“Illusions, essentially.” She shrugged. “As far as I’ve understood it, I can let off a pheromone that warps everyone’s senses within its radius. It happens when I sing, and, um,” She flushed, fingers starting to tap on Ben’s forearm. “Get excited.”

Fortunately for fucking everyone, Ryan didn’t press about what excited meant. He just swallowed, watching Her with a hesitant, hopeful expression. “Could you sing for us? If you, um, if you want-“

“I could.” She looked around the room, her heart picking up to a nervous, stumbling pattern. “If that’s okay with everyone-“

“Long as nothing happens like last time,” MM mutters. “I don’t give a shit.”

There was a low chorus of agreements, and she cleared Her throat, leaning further into Ben as she began.

It was a slow, sweet song that filled the room with golden light and an overwhelming smell of pine and vanilla and coffee. Her voice was just as beautiful as every other time She’d let Ben hear it—if anything it only grew stronger, steadier and more certain as she eased into the music—and Ben didn’t ever want to fucking leave this place. Didn’t want to stop feeling the perfect warmth she was creating around and inside him, or move from this place where the world was made of illusions, but She was still fucking real. Where Ben could hear Her voice echo and fill the room—sounding like everything good he’d ever known—and feel Her heart fall into a controlled but natural pattern with every breath and note. Where he could bury his face in Her hair and still manage to smell flowers and smoke and apples.

They had to move eventually. When the song finished, Ben could grin at Her and bask in how her own, cautious smile grew full and toothy as everyone offered her the praise and admiration she goddamn deserved. But then he had to carry Her to bed—She let him, resting her head on his shoulder and falling asleep before they’d reached the top of the goddamn stairs—and spend a restless night carefully covering her body like a shield. Keep Her safe from the creaking of the summer breeze and buzz of the night, kissing her brow when she rolled to face him and carefully wrapping his arms around her to hold Her in the dark. Ben knew every threat to Her was nothing but eyes blinking open and lost sleep before a long day, but it still felt right to be here. To keep Her peaceful, relaxed and content body from Butcher’s view, even if the pussy didn’t look at them as he shuffled into the room. To know that when She woke up, the first thing She’d know was that Ben was here, with Her.

At some point the sound of Her heart must have lulled Ben into rest, because when he dragged his eyes open after what felt like only a second there was cool, morning light past the blinds and climbing into the room, and She was watching him with an open, adoring expression.

Hi, Sunshine.

A small smile crept over Her face, and Her voice in Ben’s head was so full of love it was going to goddamn knock him out. Hi, Benjamin, my love.

He leaned down to kiss to space between Her eyes, letting his lips linger against her skin. What time is it.

Early.

What time do we have to go.

I don’t know. She chewed on Her lips, and Ben watched to run his tongue over them to soothe and slow her movements. MM didn’t actually tell us, he just said ‘in the morning’.

What the fuck are we supposed to do, then.

Can you hear him? Is he awake?

Ben paused, moving his attention to the sounds of the house. Slow heartbeats and low breathes, soft shifting sounds as people tossed and turned, and-

Someone’s awake, he looked back to her, raising his brows. Don’t know who.

She sighed, giving Ben almost a pout. We should probably get up, then.

Ben grunted an agreement, and neither of them moved. It was like that for a long while, Her and Ben the only two people in the universe, sitting in each other and not really caring to do much else. Only when Ben heard a second heartbeat pick up to a waking pace, closely followed by a second pair of footsteps beginning to move around the house, did he kiss Her on her brow and guide her out bed. They grabbed their clothing and moved to the bathroom, getting ready in silence and slow, deliberate movement so as to not wake Ryan or Butcher.

When they were dressed and—mostly—awake, Ben reached out his hand and She took it with a smile. Kept it in hers down the stairs and into the paint-peeling, gas oven kitchen, smiling when Ben kissed Her knuckles before rising up to kiss his cheek.

MM re-entered the kitchen, seemed to immediately understand their silent ritual, and gave them both short nods. There were four thermoses on the counter that MM filled with coffee—She frowned at them, then at Ben, and all he could do was shrug—and Ben grabbed two for them each, following Her out to the driveway.

The likely owner of the fourth thermos was waiting for them next to Butcher’s car, greeting Her with a bright smile and wave, and Ben with a nod that didn’t look like an effort.

She signed to Kimiko with a smile of her own, translating their conversation into Ben’s head.

Kimiko’s coming for operation Harrison Ford, as MM’s muscle. Once we get my siblings on board you and I will have to come back here to get the ball rolling against Sage, and she and MM will go through with the operation.

Got it. Ben frowned. What the fuck is the operation.

She gestured to Kimiko, who gestured back with what seemed to be careful, thought-out movements, and She nodded.

She says it’s mostly just hiding them in a really complex way. They’re going to take one of my families cars, swap it halfway, take the bus, change directions in a stolen car, and get them to some people MM trusts. She sighed, leaning Her head onto Ben’s arm. Overall, just get them somewhere safe so I can do my speech.

Ben grunted, looping his arm around Her waist to keep her steady. I’m driving back.

The fuck you are-

I’m driving. Ben smirked down at Her, tracing pattens on her hips. Or I’m not talking to you the whole ride so you can goddamn focus and not get us into a fucking crash.

She snorted. That’s a worse threat than withholding sex, you talk more than I do.

That’s fucking bullshit-

To me. She corrected herself with smile, leaning back to bump her nose against his jaw. You always talk to me. You wouldn’t last two hours without talking to me, or trying to get me to talk to you.

You willing to bet on that, Sunshine?

Feels like a pretty boring bet-

Whoever talks first gets head from the loser.

She gave him a flat look. Where. Because I am not fucking in the house-

Winner gets to choose where. He winked, kissing the corner of Her mouth. Get ready to give a blowjob in the forest, beautiful, I’m going to knock this shit out of the fucking park.

Ben knew that would do it. Her eyes narrowed, determination flashed—wild and sharp—over her pretty face, and she was on board.

Rules. She scanned over Ben’s face with an almost frightening focus, fingers tapping on his arm. Mission stuff doesn’t count. If we’re in a group we can talk, but it has to be relevant. No inside jokes or innuendos, and no nicknames. Nothing we wouldn’t say to each other as co-workers.

He nodded, dropping his mouth to Her neck. Touching?

She shrugged, even as her hand moved to grip at his bicep and Her voice in his head became breath. Long as you don’t talk about it.

What about this. Ben pressed his brow to the side of Her head, and she smirked at him, her voice becoming mock innocence.

What about what? Is there a name for what you’re referring to, Benjamin?

He rolled his eyes. Shut the fuck up-

That’s the idea.

Brat.

Cunt. Say it.

Ben scowled, and grumbled the word between their heads, doing his best to make it sound painful. Ben’o’phone.

She hummed, eyes dancing with a joy Ben could feel behind his eyes and along his spine. No talking on the Ben’o’phone.

Any other shit?

Nope. You’ve got a deal, Pretty Boy. She twisted out of his hold, extending her hand for Ben to shake. Get ready to never speak to me again.

He laughed, because there wasn’t a goddamn chance he’d let that happen. And Ben knew his wife. He knew that as stubborn as he was himself, She was worse, and was more than capable be a spiteful pain in his ass. If they got back to the farm from Boston and She still hadn’t said a word, Ben knew he’d end it. There were damn well worse fates than eating out a perfect woman who he loved, and one of them was never hearing Her voice again.

But this made the four hours stuck in the car with MM and Kimiko a fuck ton more interesting. MM had given the mission orders before they took off—this is a delicate motherfucking operation, so no murder, don’t be idiots, and listen when I tell you shit—and Ben had felt Her start to tug away from him, making a play to grab shotgun and keep herself physically detached from Ben.

Physical shit was Ben’s one fucking advantage. She could outwit and outlast Ben all she damn pleased, but She’d crumble if he touched her right. Turned Her into a soft, hazy-eyed mess in his arms, played with Her perfect fucking body until she caved and started begging him to just plain fuck Her.

So he’d kept Her body firm in his hold, and chuckled when she shoved his chest and stomped to the backseat as Kimiko dropped into shotgun. When Ben followed Her—scooting along the bench until their bodies were pressed together—she plain refused to look at him, and he started to run his hand up and down Her thigh. Rubbing Her skin until her breathing became ragged, but neither of them caved.

Most of the car ride was like that. Ben teasing Her in silence, Her pretending he simply didn’t fucking exist, and both of them pretending they weren’t constant goddamn seconds from caving. Ben knew for a fact that every smile he caught on Her lips and every flutter of her heart sent him barreling closer to asking what the fuck she and Kimiko were talking about and why she’d pointed at him. He wanted to know what the hell She was planning on telling her siblings, what She was planning on telling the fucking world, to drawl to Her about all the ways he wanted to fuck her with his new powers, because he’d been brainstorming, and he has some pretty goddamn amazing ideas.

And he was sure she’d want to hear them. Given that he could almost fucking feel Her own will bending and dissolving—warm in his gut and soft in his head as he teased and squeezed Her skin, moved his hand to just rest at the apex of her thighs—and her heart had reached a rhythm he usually heard during sex, Ben would call it a safe fucking bet that she was just as close to giving in as he was.

But neither of them did. And when MM cleared his throat, they’d made it three whole hours without saying a word.

MM grunted Her name, and she looked over to him with a frown.

“Yeah?’

“I still had Violet’s number from March, and I gave her a call last night.” MM glanced up to Her in the rearview mirror. “Gave her a quick brief, she sounded a little pissed you faked dead again, but understood. She’s bringing one of your brothers, but says the other one and your sister aren’t in Boston with your mom.”

“Where are we meeting them?”

“Coffee shop. Had croissants, and God knows I could use something like that right now.”

“Did she say which brother she’s bringing?”

“Got a name, don’t remember-“

“Henry or Sterling.”

MM paused. “Sterling.”

“Okay.” She sighed, slumping down into Her seat, into Ben. “What did you tell her, exactly?”

“We got you back around late May. Had you since, but couldn’t let anyone outside of our immediate team and contacts know for security. You’ve made a complete physical recovery, and are mentally stable enough for fieldwork. We’ve seen Sage’s propaganda, none of it is true, and we’re making a play against her and Homelander soon, so we’re putting them in hiding until this is done.”

She nodded with a small frown and slow words. “What about, um,” Her eyes flicked to Ben—just enough to make him really fucking regret this bet, because she hadn’t looked at him in hours and Christ, she was beautiful—and she swallowed. “Ben and I? I know Sage has said some stuff-“

“Violet asked. I told her you were together but I didn’t mention the engagement. That shit’s not my place.”

“And um, what did she say about that?”

Ben wanted to grab Her perfect face between his hands and tell her that there wasn’t a goddamn chance this was going to be an issue. If Violet had some sort of fucking opinion about it, Ben would do everything in his power to prove that he was serious about this shit. About Her. There was nothing bitter in him about it—he didn’t deserve Her, and he knew that Violet’s acceptance of this probably meant something to Her—but it still made Ben’s whole body strain. Scratch and twist to give up on this stupid bet and just pull every part of Her back to the ground so he could take care of them. Take care of Her.

It was real fucking lucky MM answered Her quickly, or Ben would’ve lost.

“She just asked when it had been official, I said a few weeks after we got you back, and that was it.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Mentioned that she was surprised it wasn’t before all the shit in April, but that’s it.”

“Surprised-“

MM said Her name in a flat voice, eyes fixed on the road. “I still don’t think you fucking idiots understand that you were the last people to know you were dating. I’d bet Mallory’s agents knew before you did.”

“Oh.” She flushed, her hand wandering to hold Ben’s, and he wasn’t even damn certain she knew she was moving it. “Sorry.”

Ben’s jaw clenched, and MM did his work for him.

“Stupid thing to be sorry for. We’re all adults, we knew how to handle your lovesick bullshit without killing you.”

“I don’t,” She frowned, almost fucking pouting. “I don’t think it was that bad.“

MM scoffed. “You were oblivious. We had to pretend we couldn’t see you eye fucking each other over dinner.”

“But-“

“No but,” MM shook his head, and Ben saw his frown flash in the mirror. “What’s important is that you did figure your shit out, and that no matter what the fuck Violet thinks now or thought before, she’ll come around on it.” He let out a labored, slow breath, his voice dropping to a hushed, pushed-through-teeth tone. “I did.”

Her mouth fell open a little, her hand squeezing tight over Ben’s, and her words became soft as she whispered, “you did? Really?”

“He’s still a fucking dick man-baby, but his old ass heart seems to be beating. You’re not a shell of a person with him,” MM muttered Her name, looking between Her and the road. “It’s good to see. Even when it makes me want to throw up, which is all the goddamn time.”

Her body relaxed with her pretty features, she made a small, happy noise of content, and Ben couldn’t even be mad MM had called him a dick man-baby or old, because She was happy.

Ben tangled Her fingers between his, and—still in complete silence—she fully curled into him as he kissed the top of Her head. Ben didn’t bother with taunting, riling touched for the remainder of the car ride, because She looked so goddamn peaceful at his side and this silence didn’t feel like part of their bet. It felt like sitting half inside of each other, easily and comfortably fused against each other without the need for a single other goddamn thing. It was one of the moments where Ben could really fucking feel Her within him out of just an instinct. Feel Her—just so fucking clearly Her—inside his body. Alive and bright, lining Ben’s skull and burrowed so deeply into his whole goddamn world that She flickered in perfect harmony with everything Ben could see or hear or touch. She hummed inside his blood when Ben trailed patterns on Her skin, settling over his bones when he dropped his head to rest against hers, and grew sharp and colorful behind his eyes when she looked up at him a soft smile.

It wasn’t a smile that said anything expect I love you, but not in their old silent words. It told Ben She loved him because it made every piece of Her in his body sing. Ring like church bells announcing something that didn’t need to be announced, reaching further and further into Ben’s body that he didn’t know where his own joy stopped and Her own—built of a million things jammed and melded together that reflected around Ben’s mind like stained glass—began.

And Ben realized that She may feel him like this all the time. That there might never be a moment where Ben—and however the fuck he felt to Her—wasn’t tangible and natural in Her body.

He hoped She did. As almost fucking mind-numbingly consuming as She was inside of him—making it hard to concentrate on the trees blurring past into brick buildings and sidewalks—Ben hoped She felt him all the goddamn time. It would mean that She really, fully understood that Ben started and stopped with Her. That there wasn’t a single fucking moment where he wasn’t tracking the sound of Her heartbeat, or studying her face to try and figure out her insane, maddening, perfect mind. That he was never angry he couldn’t figure Her out, because it was simply another excuse to keep looking at Her beautiful face.

She knew that Ben loved Her—because apparently fucking everyone did—but he still needed Her to know it more. To understand that when he moved to help Her out of the car it was because he’d dedicated himself to knowing how She moved and paced and shifted so as to best leave small offerings of actions and service for his worth.

That learning Her had been the only thing that had ever come easy. The only thing he’d ever learned and never wanted to stop learning. That Ben picked up every strange, seemingly useless piece of information and trivia that fell from Her pretty mouth and used them to keep building his alter to Her. A large, careful place to worship Her that kept this piece of Her inside him safe, made it feel loved.

And Ben really fucking hoped She could feel that, for Ben, she lived every reflection of sunlight on the puddles, gathered on the pavement near the gutter. That She felt how Ben looked at Her—tucked at his side and tapping on his arm—and knew that his love could never be pried or ripped from him, because it was more important to keep than his own fucking hands.

His hands were already Her’s anyway. Brushing hair from Her face and lingering on her cheek. Holding Her own as they walked after MM, along the street to the coffee shop. Opening the door and guiding her inside. Ben needed Her to fucking feel that too.

Needed Her to feel how something in Ben grew wrathful and bloody when she froze at his side barely a step through the door—Her face washing in fear and her nails digging into his skin—and how everything in him narrowed to Her. What’s making Her cave in with hollow eyes and shallow breaths, and what did he need to do for Her to smile again.

The area was mostly empty. A barista with some of the pinkest hair Ben had ever goddamn seen, an old woman with a dog that was too fucking tiny to be useful, and Violet, near the back with two other people Ben didn’t recognize.

One had to be Her brother. Sitting next to Violet, with Violet’s softer features, a slightly different nose from them both, and Her sharp, infinitely amused eyes. They even widened the same way Her’s did, when she was in true, genuine shock, making their whole faces open and animated, lips parted with a gleam that said they didn’t fully trust what they saw.

But Ben didn’t have a fucking clue who the woman was. There was gray in Her hair—so probably fucking old—and her back to the door was rigid and straight, giving off a feeling that she thought she was better. That whoever the fuck this lady was, she was above everything around her, above everyone. That even the damn chair wasn’t worthy of her sitting on it. The whole fucking air of it reminded Ben of his father. Made him taste cocktails that were still sour because he’d been so young, and hear nothing but a ticking clock in a long, empty hall this father didn’t care to grace with his presence.

The person Ben had ever met who deserved to look down at everything was Her, and She was never fucking like that. Ben had called Her art before—beautiful in a way that extended beyond just what Ben could see, sinking into his skin and stirring his whole body with things only She knew how to pry out—but art wasn’t supposed to be touched. And Ben really fucking loved touching Her, the same way She loved touching everything. Settling in wherever she sat, tapping and running her hands over every surface available to Her, holding Ryan in Her arms and letting Ben hold Her in his. Letting Ben touch Her everywhere, and touching him right back. Fingers in his hair, and brows pressed together, a hand holding his arm over Her shoulder’s and legs tangled together under sheets.

Everything Ben had seen his father touch had been with movements of vague disgust, as if the lesser object or person would infect him. It was the same way this woman was keeping her fingers light and raised off the table, only moving in a rhythm Ben recognized. A rhythm that he’d learned to recognize anywhere, just one off-beat from the pattern being tapped on his hand on Her hips.

The woman turned in her chair as it clicked in Ben’s head, and fucking hell, She looked just like her mother. It was the almost same face Ben loved and could look at for a million years without ever feeling the need to stray his gaze or move, but with something inverted. Something so imperceivable that was altered between them, that made Ben feel like there was bile filling up his lungs and something churning in his gut.

Because the longer Ben looked—the whole room heavy and wired, time seeming to slow as they all stared at each other—the more he realized there was nothing alike about them at all. It might be the same face—a goddamn duplicate, everything from skin to eyes to lips to hair right where it was supposed to be—but there was something fucking off about Her mother’s. It wasn’t something obvious, like the fact that Her’s was trapped in youth and Her mother’s was lined with age. It was deeper. Something fundamental on Her that Ben adored and devoted himself to caring for, that was just wasn’t fucking there on Her mother. Not missing, not a hole or hollow Her mother had never filled. Just not there, something wrong where it was supposed to be.

It lived in their eyes. Ben knew Her face better than he’d ever known fucking anything, and her eyes were sharp but filled with light. When She was being herself and not falling or breaking, there was always something magnetic in them that spread over her every other feature, and made Ben want to get as close to her as he possibly fucking could. Reach out to hold Her, to sit in any warmth and life she offered him, to just fucking love her and love her and hope that, though she shined on everything, in the end she was really just alight for Ben. That for all the love She held, her love for Ben was different, because the light in Her eyes burst and flared and turned to pure flame for him and only him. That she’d never deprive the rest of the world of this kind beauty, but She’d also allow Ben to touch her and serve her, in a way no other pussy fucker got it.

Her mother shouldn’t be touched or cared for. There wasn’t anything in Her mother’s eyes that called Ben forward, because they were like a wasteland. They weren’t sharp, but they were still cutting. Invasive and so fucking horrible to look into. And where She was something strange and sacred, Her mother felt like a statue. Something that had been designed to be elegant, to be perfect and idolized, but hadn’t fucking earned it. It was only cold, too clean stone that had never crawled through mud or remained beautiful through trial and torture. Everything about Her mother seemed to demand everything bend for her will, but Ben had no fucking desire to do anything for this bitch.

The only goddamn thing she’d get from Ben was hatred. Cold, furious loathing while every warm thing he had to offer was pushed into Her. His hand held Her steady, his whole body tensed and half-wrapped over Her’s, fucking ready for whatever the hell came next.

They’d all silently agreed not to make the first move. She seemed frozen in place, Ben wouldn’t fucking leave Her side, and MM had muttered a low shit that told Ben he’d realized what was going on. Violet just looked sad and fucking guilty— eyes locked onto Her’s with shifting expression’s Ben couldn’t understand—and their brother looked just as frozen as She was, everyone seeming to just be fucking waiting for what Her mother would do.

Ben was only seconds from just fucking stomping over the room—keeping his body a pace before Her’s—and getting everything moving so this could be done, but then Her mother said Her name, and it was the worst way Ben had ever heard it. This had a scolding familiarity to it that felt practiced and deliberate. The Bitch said Her name like she was a fucking dog. Even fucking Homelander had mostly said it like She was a person. The wrong person—a hateful and fake idea of Her that held her face but nothing that made Her her—but a person all the same. Her mother said Her name as if She was a doll, and worse, it fucking worked. She folded back into Ben, Her heart racing and her nails digging into his skin, and Ben had to just hold Her.

Until he got the clear to start breaking spines and shedding blood over the tiled floors, Ben had to just hold Her.

The Bitch said Her name again, and Ben was going to rip out the bitch’s tongue and feed it to her. “Come sit down. I’m sure,” The Bitch’s gaze drifted to Ben, MM, and Kimiko, all silent and rigid behind Her. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

Ben squeezed Her hand, and it seemed to spark her into action. She nodded and moved to the table, tugging Ben after Her.

What the fuck is your mother doing here. Ben muttered between their heads, and if She was surprised he’d made the connection himself, she didn’t show it.

Violet says she got tricked. They said they were going out to get lunch, but Mom told them she wanted to come. They agreed with the plan to just drop her off and run, knowing she’d be fine, but then when they all got out Mom moved to the driver’s seat and said she knew they were going to see me. They had to bring her, or they wouldn’t get here themselves. No murder, let me do the talking.

Fine. Ben kept his eyes narrowed on the Bitch as they dropped at the table. But if she fucking tries anything-

I’m serious, Ben. No murder-

They were snapped out of their silent words by the Bitch, clearing her throat as MM and Kimiko joined them.

“It’s good to see you. You look quite healthy for being dead.”

She shook Her head slowly, taking a long breath before speaking soft words that didn’t sound right from her mouth. “What are you doing here, Mom? Why did you make Vi and Sterling bring you.”

“You’re my daughter, of course I wanted to see you-“

“We both know that’s not true.” She muttered, her voice rising slightly. “Please just tell me what I’m supposed to do, so I can get it over with.”

“There’s no need to be rude.” The Bitch sighed Her name like a wounded fucking animal. “We’re in no rush, and you haven’t even introduced us to your, ah, companions.”

“MM, Kimiko,” She pointed to them as she spoke—MM giving a cold, curt nod Ben appreciated, and Kimiko offering a nervous wave—before looking up at Ben with a slightly softer expression, made of something calm. “And Ben. Now can we-“

“Ben.” The Bitch repeated, and Her heart picked up pace. “How exactly did you meet Ben?”

“I kidnapped him. Mom, this is really important-“

“You kidnapped him?” The Bitch laughed, like She was some sort of fucking child. “You can’t kidnap Soldier Boy, sweetie.”

“She did,” Violet mumbled, still shooting them apologetic, anxious looks. “She’s a supe now, Mom. She’s strong.”

“I am well aware of that, Violet, but all she can do is party tricks. That isn’t enough to kidnap the world’s strongest man-“

MM snorted at that. “It’s not just party tricks.”

“Excuse me-“

“Sorry, ma’am.” MM shrugged, not flinching under the Bitch’s glare. “But I’ve seen her blow up buildings and make a whole building of agents collapse. Your daughter can do a hell of a lot more damage than party tricks. And she’s certainly stronger than this asshole.”

The Bitch followed MM’s gesture to Ben, and made another disbelieving sound. “I know my daughter, and it is incredibly unlikely she’d be stronger than Soldier Boy-“

“She is.” Ben snapped, barely thinking about the words as they left his mouth. “She’s stronger than fucking Homelander. So watch it.”

“Watch it.” The Bitch smiled, looking Ben up and down, and he didn’t bother to hide the disgust on his face. “You seem to be quite close with her, Ben-“

“Don’t call him that.” She leaned forward over the table, Her voice finally regaining to hot venom Ben fucking loved, and knew to mean she wouldn’t pull punches or dance around words. “Don’t talk to him, Mom. Just tell me what the fuck you want.”

Something shifted in the Bitch, and any formal, fake fucking niceties vanished. “I am here for answers. I am here for the reason you have put your father and I-“

“He’s not my father-“

“He is your family. And you have put him, put us, through hell these last few months. Media harassment, airing out all our misunderstandings like dirty laundry, painting yourself to be a victim when all you have done is behave like a child. You’ve hurt us,” The Bitch said Her name mock, cold disappointment. “You’ve been incredibly selfish, and I want to know why you’re now trying to take my children away from me.”

She gaped slightly, shaking her head. “I’m not trying to take anything from you, they’re in real danger-“

“Danger you created. There would be nothing to worry about if you could just bite your tongue and keep a good, strong head on your shoulders. But no, you have to turn this into some sort of spectacle-“

“I didn’t fucking do anything-“

“You most certainly did.” The Bitch sneered. “Just in the past month you’ve peddled manipulative lies, murdered that poor woman in cold blood, embarrassed Todd at work, and threatened him with, your loyal little guard dog. You’ve ruined everything, and have seen yourself fit to drag this strong, powerful man down your level. If you had just listened to me, none of this would’ve happened you know. You’d be taken care of, even if you were still just a weak little girl-“

The wooden table splintered as Ben hit it, shutting the Bitch up with a bloodless face.

“Last fucking warning,” he hissed, leaning forward so the Bitch could hopefully fucking feel the wrath and hate starting to bang around Ben’s chest in an even rhythm, trying to get out and protect Her. “I couldn’t give a goddamn fly pig’s ballsack that you’re her mother, if you say another word about my wife, I’ll fucking kill you.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Ben only realized his exact words after he’d said them. When MM muttered fuck, and She stared at him a wide, half adoring and amused, half pissed off expression.

Wife?

What.

Don’t play dumb, Pretty Boy, you’re bad at it-

I’m not going to fucking take it back-

I’m not going to tell you to take it back, but now I have to answer questions-

Almost on perfect fucking cue, Violet coughed.

“Are you, um, did you get married-“

“No. But someone,” She shot Ben a pointed glare, and he winked back. “Is a huge fucking dumb dumb with a big mouth.”

A big mouth you love-

A big mouth that’s going to get punched later-

“So you’re,” Sterling finally fucking spoke, and his voice sounded more like Her’s than Violet’s. With an accent that wasn’t placeable, but just them. Impossibly distinct, with every goddamn word they said sounding smart. “You’re not married to Soldier Boy.”

“Yet.” Ben grunted, and the looks on Her family’s faces were more than worth the heated slap to his leg.

“What exactly,” the Bitch said, her voice weighted and low. “Do you mean by yet.”

She gave Ben one last daggered glare before meeting the Bitch’s eyes, Her perfect face turning into something almost fucking prideful. “He means we’re engaged.”

Something flashed across the Bitch’s face that Ben didn’t understand. “To be wed.”

“That’s what engaged usually does mean, Mom-“

“Hell.” The Bitch shook her head, but she didn’t sound or look angry. She mostly just seemed inconvenienced. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to that woman.”

She, MM, Ben, and Kimiko exchanged similar what the fuck is she talking about looks, and Her words were careful and slow.

“What woman.”

“That haughty, annoying one with Vought. Sister Sage.” The Bitch waved her hand, frowning into the air. “I didn’t think you’d manage to surprise me and pull this off yourself, but you did, and if I wasn’t going to give her a piece of my mind before-“

“Mom,” She said, leaning across the table with a sharp, silent wrath in her eyes. “What the fuck did you do.”

“It’s what she did, dear. Breaching on our deal, turning against me just because of Homelander gaining what she called sense, but I call temporary cold feet-“

“Deal?” There wasn’t anything fucking hollow or nervous in Her voice. It was urgent, dangerous, and would be fucking hot if Ben wasn’t putting together all the pieces to reach a conclusion She already seemed to have. “What deal did you make with Sage.”

“Well, there’s no need to take that tone. And I didn’t think you’d be able to do this yourself-“

“Mom-“

“And it was a deal. We made a promise, a commitment, and there’s never a valid reason to go back on that. And especially not to throw us under the bus for their mistakes-“

“Ma’am.” MM jumped in, his face holding an equal anger Ben could feel in his body. “It is incredibly important you tell us exactly what Sage promised you, and what you promised her.”

The Bitch rolled her eyes, but huffed, “It was a handshake deal. I’d use Todd to make sure she got what she needed from the defense department and government, provide some chemicals she said were annoying to make or whatever, and she’d ensure your marriage to Homelander, which is all I’ve ever wanted for you! There’s no higher status than Homelander’s wife, but then they backed out, and Todd lost the VP slot! I never wouldn’t made it if I’d known she’d betray us like that, if I’d known your relationship with Solider Boy was real!”

Ben’s vision was lined with red, and he might break his own fists. That golden feeling over his ribs—atomic and wrathful and dedicated to fucking protecting Her all the goddamn time—was beating against him, trying to burst out and reduce the Bitch to just a fucking imprint on the wall.

But Her hand squeezed on Ben’s knee, and Her voice in his head was cold and steady I’ve got this. No murder.

Ben grunted an affirmation—not caring if it was aloud or between their heads—and She took a labored breath Ben could feel the fury of before speaking.

“Are you insane.” She hissed. “You sold your soul to the fucking devil, and all you can think is that, if you’d known I was going to get married anyway, you might not have?”

The Bitch’s eyes narrowed. “I was doing what’s best for you. Even when you’ve been cruel to me, I’ve only wanted what’s best for you-“

“And you think that’s what’s best for me is marrying the man who kidnapped, raped, and experimented on me? And selling out the whole fucking country in the process?”

“Don’t be dramatic-“

“I am not being fucking dramatic. Because of what you did, stopping us from getting the federal supply of V, we had to get creative. Getting creative killed Grace Mallory, which lost Todd the VP slot, and now Singer might give it to fucking Homelander. Who is, in case we’re not clear, a fucking monster.”

“Please,” the Bitch gave Her a pointed look, and Ben wondered why he hadn’t already pulled out her tongue. “It’s not like Soldier Boy is an angel either, I’ve read the official Starlight reports-“

“Do not speak about him like that.” She leaned forward, her words almost spitting out of her mouth. “He makes me happy. He loves me, and takes good care of me, and doesn’t fucking try to lock me up and control me. He likes my temperament, he thinks it’s hot because he’s fucking insane, and I love him, and after I kill Homelander I’m going to marry him, and you’re never going to be part of our lives. You’re going to go with Violet and Sterling, and let MM hide you so the very people you sold your fucking daughter to don’t kill you, and then I’m never going to see your fucking face again. Violet-“

“We’ll go with him,” Violet said quickly, glancing at the Bitch—who looked like a gaping and cruel idiot—before looking back to Her. “But Mom-“

“She agrees to go with you, or she sticks around and dies.” She stood up, and Ben followed without a fucking thought as she continued, looking between her siblings. “I love you, and you’re going to be okay. I promise you’re going to be okay. I’m so, so sorry-“

Her voice cracked slightly, and Violet shot up, rounding the table and pulling Her into a tight hug. Sterling was close behind, and Ben kept a close fucking eye on the Bitch, in case she tried to interrupt this. But she just looked at her children, still in shock, and they pulled apart on their own time.

“You’ll be safe,” She whispered again, and when she took a shaking step back, Ben caught her and held her up. “I swear you’ll be safe. And when this is over, I’ll explain everything. But right now-“

“You have to go,” Sterling nodded, and he didn’t sound angry. “Violet told me what she knows, and we get it. You have to go.”

She nodded, giving them a soft, sad smile, and let Ben guide Her onto the street. MM and Kimiko didn’t need goodbyes—they’d see them again by fucking tomorrow anyway—and the Bitch looked like she wanted to say something, but was smart enough not to.

The Bitch should count herself lucky, that Ben cared about how he was beginning to feel sick and empty and cold—which meant that She was in pain, and needed him—a fuck ton more than he cared about wasting time on vengeance.

Right now, nothing mattered more than Her. Then getting Her into the car, and far, far away from what Ben couldn’t even fully fucking comprehend. Keeping his hand against Her thigh, trying to tide over the cracks he could feel beginning to lines his vision and the horrible sense of dread and wrong living in his blood.

Then, when She made a small, choked sound, pulling Butcher’s car off the highway and helping her climb into his lap. Letting Her bury her head in his chest and shatter there, where she’d be safe. Where Ben could hold Her in silence as she fell apart, then do whatever needed to be done for this to become fucking bearable.

Ben, I- Her words were almost fucking inaudible between their minds, Her gasps and strangled tears muffled against Ben’s body. I don’t know what to do. What do I do.

He didn’t know. Ben didn’t have a goddamn clue what to do with what they’d just learned. But he’d be damned if he just let Her break further than she needed to.

Whatever you have to. Tell Butcher, include it in your address, keep it a secret for the rest of goddamn time. Whatever makes this shit livable.

She sold me, Her sob wracked her whole body, and Ben almost broke his fucking teeth. She fucking sold me to Homelander, and I’m not even sure when she did it. It could’ve been months ago. It could’ve been when I first resurfaced, or right before the tower, or when I first fucking met Sage-

I know. Ben grunted in the silence, drawing circles on Her back. I know, Sunshine. I know.

She nodded against him, and Her breathing, slowly, began to ease. Her heartbeat became what it was supposed to be, and they stayed there until this she let out a soft, breathy laugh, turning the fabric of Ben’s shirt between her fingers.

“I’m not,” She shook Her head in Ben’s chest. “I’m not sure who lost. The bet.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “We could call it even and just fucking start over-“

“No.” Her answer was frantic but hushed, her face shooting up to look at Ben with wide eyes. “I don’t want to not talk to you. Not now. Please.”

He nodded, leaning down to kiss the space between Her eyes. “Okay, Sunshine. It’s off.”

She hummed, her hands moving to hold Ben’s face. “I could, maybe I could still give you a blowjob?”

“Do you want to give me a fucking blowjob?”

“Um.” She swallowed, flushing slightly. “Yes.”

“Do I get to eat you out?”

“Yes, please.”

Ben snorted, muttering an agreement, and he still wasn’t fucking sure how he’d gotten here. Having to pull his perfect fucking wife off his lap—but keeping their hands tangled together and resting on his thigh—so he could drive her home. Bring Her somewhere safer than here, so he could hold her right and clear her head while he still had the time. Whisper promises in Her ear that he’d die to keep, about how he’d give her better than that. About how, whatever came after, Ben would keep holding her and loving her, in a way that felt almost fucking pure.

Twisted and scarred and forged somewhere dark and burning, but still pure. Incapable of ruin, incapable of being tainted or broken, just fucking love. Just a future that was brighter than what was behind them, and a life where She’d always feel safe enough to break, and always be able to get back up after.

A future Ben really damn wanted, where Her and Ryan’s smiles were never in danger of being wiped from their faces.

Where Ben just kept loving them, and they felt it, and that was the whole fucking world.

—————————

There’s only one light, flashing from Hughie’s hand as he begins the recording, but it’s still blinding and cold.

You take five deep breaths, one for every good thing that you want to do this for. Everything you want to hold onto when after comes.

Ryan. Music. Stuffed Lions. Gardens. Ben.

Hughie gives you a thumbs up—a signal to begin—and you look to Ben. A step behind Hughie, watching you carefully with a grim, set expression. Everything between your bodies is straining to make you stand and move to fall against him, but you have to do this alone. Not fully alone, never fully alone again, but standing alone. With Ben inside you—rolling around the top of your chest and rumbling in a rhythm that feels like your name—but still too far to touch. To seek the comfort of him warmth and solid certainty.

But you can still feel his love and devotion. You’re wearing the ring again—twisting it on your finger as you take one last, long, steadying breath—and it’s just another way in millions to know Ben is her, and loves you, and will burn with you. No matter how this goes, Ben will burn with you.

So you can fucking do this. You have the slightly crumpled paper in your hands with everything you need to say, and now all you have to do is talk.

You start with your name, just for clarity and the fuck of it, and begin. “You know me as the Anomaly. And I am, but not by choice. I am the Anomaly because Homelander decided I should be. Because, four years ago, he kidnapped me, faked my death, and held me hostage on, likely, Vought property. I spent first two years in complete isolation, only seeing Homelander when he visited me to rape me.” Something starts to taste vile in the back of your mouth, but you have to keep talking. If you stop now, you won’t get through this, and you’ve barely even started. “I was kept locked up for the intention of breeding, like fucking cattle. Then, after Soldier Boy returned to America, Homelander became obsessed with immortality and I was moved to a Vought lab, and experimented on by Vought scientists in order to recreate the original formula of compound V, which slowed the aging process.

“It was a successful experiment. I was given my super name, the Anomaly, because I was injected with V four times, and developed four completely isolated powers. The pyrokenesis I am known for, which I used to escape captivity, a healing factor that has made me unkillable, empathy, and sensory manipulation. I am stronger than Solider Boy. I am stronger than Homelander. For the past year since my escape, I have been fighting Vought alongside Starlight and William Butcher, but have not stood in direct opposition to Homelander due to the former volatility of my powers. I was afraid of the man who spent four years sexually, emotionally, and medically abusing me. I am not afraid anymore, and I am ready to corroborate every accusation Starlight has made against Homelander, Sage, and Vought, and talk. These are my words. I wrote them, I am saying them, and nobody is making me. So, please, listen.

“I have been working with Butcher, Starlight, and their former CIA funded team, the Boys, since June of last year. In November, after we failed to locate a possible bio-weapon against Homelander, I pitched to then President elect Robert Singer and former Deputy Director of the CIA, Grace Mallory, that Soldier Boy be woken up and used as a weapon. My plan was approved, and he was woken up in early December. Per the plan, was to I live with him in a CIA safe-house and keep him in line until Ryan Butcher was removed from Vought Tower and we had a direct, clean shot at Homelander. Soldier Boy would remove his powers with the V-wiping bomb in his chest, and then be pardoned and sent off American soil to live in exile. Nothing went…” you trail off, glancing at the continually formal speech in your hands, and give up on it. It matters that this sounds real, and none of these words sound real.

Ben is real. You’re real. This pain is real, and so is your love.

So you crumple the paper up, and look back directly into the camera.

“Nothing went as we intended it to. I fell in love with Soldier Boy. He fell in love with me. My original plan to extract Ryan Butcher went to shit, and I had to make another. That one worked, but I ended up back in Homelander’s captivity. My team found a way to safely kill Homleander, but Sage destroyed it all at the Believe Expo, which, for the record, was not a terrorist attack. It might have technically been a robbery, but it became a play to fake A-Train’s death, and help him escape. I remained with Vought to find an alternative location of our weapon, but failed to, and escaped. Once I was safe, I didn’t want to be in the public eye. I was broken, and weak, and too fucking tired to face this myself. I helped Starlight plan and write her address in June, and it was my idea to remain away from the public eye.

But more things kept going wrong. When we found another avenue to get our hands on the weapon, we were blocked by Singer and Secretary Muller, who, As Sage has said, is my step-father. I had not spoken to him in thirteen fucking years, and he has been in direct collaboration with Sage. She has tried to paint him as a villain, and he is a terrible man, but he’s also an idiot. I would never want him in a position as powerful as Vice President of the United States, and neither would Sage, which is why she has turned on him and paved the way for Homelander to take federal office.

“Homelander cannot be allowed to take federal office. He cannot be allowed within a hundred fucking miles of the White House. He is a monster. Since both my and Ryan Butcher’s escapes, he has not stopped trying to take us back, and has been willing to kill everyone we care about to do it. And I have not been fucking innocent in this. I destroyed the rec center at Victoria Neuman’s rally. I killed Firecracker. I did not commit the Tek Night massacre in New Jersey, and I did not kill Black Noir or Grace Mallory, but I was in immediate proximity to both events. Because of Homelander. Because I have been trying to save people from him, but I have cared, and he has not. He wants to control me, control you, and kill everyone who stands in his way. But we can stop him. We found our weapon. So, Vought workers, around the world, this is for you. Get out. Jump shipwhile you still can. If you have anyone you love, anything you care about, run. Now. If you take anything away from my speech, make it this.

“Almost every plan we made got fucked. Almost everything I said I’d never do, I did. And we’ve kept going. It didn’t matter what our public image was, or has been, or will be after this. The world will not be safe until Homelander is dead. And there will be work to do after, but right now, that’s all that matters. That’s what’s coming. And Homelander,” you narrow your eyes at the camera, leaning forward. “Ben and I are ready for you. None of us are martyrs or heroes, but this is it. I’m stronger. Ben’s stronger. And we both have something to live for, and something to die for. You don’t have either. You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me, and this is it.” You raise your chin high, staring Homelander down without seeing him. “You turned me into the Anomaly. You drove Ben and I together. If you weren’t such a narcissistic sociopath, I’d probably be halfway across the world, writing academic papers and dating some foreign, normal guy. But now I’m going to kill you, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” Your face curls into a twisted smirk, born from something like liberation. Like a million pieces falling into place as you turn your attention to Ben—pounding and rioting in your body—and see your expression mirrored on his face. “I’ll see you soon, Homelander.” You look back to the camera. “We both will.”

The light of the camera turns off, the video finishes, and that’s it. You’d done what you could, said what you needed to, and now all that was to finish it. To actually, really, kill Homelander.

Hughie’s talking about how he’s going to watch the video over and upload it. Butcher’s muttering that it wasn’t half bad, and Annie’s giving you a tentative thumbs up and saying words that are probably reassuring praise.

You can’t hear any of them. All you can hear is an off-key ringing in your ears, and the pounding of your own heart as your eyes start to blur and your head starts to turn faster than you can follow. You’d missed things. You don’t really remember anything you said, but there’s so way you got everything. The speech was too short, because you’d missed things that you probably couldn’t afford to miss. No, it was too long, because you’d spent time on semantics and details that didn’t matter. It was okay to mention A-Train was alive, you’d cleared it with him first, but you hadn’t mentioned Neuman. But Neuman wasn’t a supe, and she couldn’t defend herself. And she has a kid, A-Train doesn’t have a kid. But you also hadn’t mentioned Ashley, but she’s not that importance really, but she could be. She could provide key testimony when this is done, and you need that testimony, but you’ll also need A-Train’s testimony.

You didn’t think long term. None of this had been thought in the long term. You just accused Singer of something, by saying he’d blocked the V, and he’s still going to be president after this. You should’ve mentioned the Boys more, try to exonerate them of some of their crimes, so Singer wouldn’t turn on them as well. On you. You’d just confessed to murder. Multiple murders. There’s blood on your hands and there’s a crack that’s reaching down your spine and now there’s nothing left to stop Homelander from hurting people you love.

You’d confessed to loving Ben. You’d told the world you loved Ben. And you did. And you wouldn’t take it back. Everything is cold and you can’t really breathe, but you won’t take it back. You can fight Homelander now, but it still comes in waves, and you’re still afraid. You’d said you weren’t afraid.

It was a lie. You’re so cold and tired and afraid, and you strong but not strong enough for this, and you’d just said everything and now you can’t control what happens. You’d just strung up your guts and organs and skin for all the world to see, and they may not be as careful with them as Ben is. As you need right now.

Nothing is in focus, and everything feels like it’s being knocked out of and away from you, and there’s no more light here. There’s something good that’s touching you—rubbing circles on your cheeks, holding your face between big, warm hands—and something that sounds right saying your name, but you still can’t hear anything but the blood.

Blood. So much blood on your hands and this ringing is get a key off from something that’s haunting you, and you don’t feel broken but you’re still weak. Weak and covered in blood-

You hear your name in your own head, like a thought that you didn’t create, and things start to come down as it’s repeated. Over and over like a prayer until you begin to down to earth and you’re staring at a green that you know belongs to Ben.

Ben-

You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fucking fine. It’s an order. He’s telling you that you’re not fine right now, but you will be. That, eventually, you will be fine, because there’s not another option. Ben won’t let there be another option. I’m here. I am right goddamn here, Sunshine, and you’re going fucking fine.

You nod, and drop your brow to Ben’s because it’s the only thing you know how to do. You’re still figuring out how to breathe—it helps to listen to Ben do it, because he does everything in such a firm and certain manner it has to be correct—and you can’t remember how to stand, so all you can do is fall into Ben. Stay here until your chest is falling into a pattern with his, and fold against him as he moves your head to his shoulder—pressing a soft, reverent kiss on your brow as he does—and pulls you into his arms. Let him stand up, cling to him like a lifeline, and listen to the grumbled exchanges around you.

“Is she-“

“She needs a minute.” Ben grumbles, his voice rolling through your body as he cuts Annie off. “You pussies do the plan, and we can hear it after.”

Your hands curl on Ben’s neck as you shake your head, finding to will and strength to move your head and meet his gaze.

I’m okay. You aren’t convinced by your own words, but you push on all the same. I’m really okay. We need to do this.

Ben scowls, and you can feel his ardor concentrate into something that’s coating over his ribs and trying to wrap over your skin. You are not fucking okay. You went fucking catatonic, that’s not goddamn okay-

I was not catatonic, you dramatic cunt. And I can make it through a meeting.

You can. You’re pulling yourself together. Wrinkling your nose at Ben—trading sharp words that have no edge with him—is something that you’ll always know how to do. That, somehow, grounds you just as well as Ben’s own stone resolve. You think it’s because it’s certain. You will always tease and mock each other, and Ben will always roll his eyes and glower, and you will always stick out your tongue and pout at him. And no matter what, he won’t go, and neither will you. There won’t be any lines for what you can and can’t say, because you both know it would probably kill you to hurt each other.

So you’re coming back to yourself, and it’s because Ben is scowling, and alive and loud in your chest.

I could fucking feel you, he growls your name in the heavy silence of the room, his hold on your body tightens. You need to rest-

I’ll rest after the meeting-

Or you could rest right fucking now-

Or I could rest after the meeting. Your hands move to hold his face, running his beard between your fingers as you offer him a sad but easy smile. We’re so close, Ben. We’re really, really close, and I need to do this. You can carry me upstairs and pin me to the bed to make me rest, after, but it has to be after. Please.

Swear it. Swear you’ll rest.

I’ll rest. I promise.

Ben’s jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he’ll break it, but you get a stiff nod as he sits down. Keeping you in his lap as he looks up, glaring at something over your head.

“Go get the rest of the fucking dumbass pussies. You get ten minutes before we fucking leave.”

“Ain’t you gonna say please, Gov-“

“No.”

You hear Butcher’s huff, and twist in Ben’s arms just in time to see him stomping away.

It doesn’t take long to gather everyone. Annie, Hughie, and Frenchie are already here, Neuman, Ashley, and A-Train had just been waiting in the kitchen, and MM and Kimiko are still with your family, so within three minutes you’re all settled the living room, watching each other in a weary silence.

You do really want to just go rest with Ben, for all of this to be done, so you speak first.

“I have a plan-“

“Ain’t that a surprise-“

“Shove it up your ass, Butcher.” You flip him off without looking, and continue. “I’ve had a plan. It’s, it has kind of adapted to the cards we have, but it will work all the same. You guys,” your attention turns to Ashley, A-Train, and Neuman. “Need to make me a promise first, though.”

Neuman frowns, sitting up a little straighter. “What kind of promise could you need from us-“

“Mostly one about honor. Keeping your word.”

“That is so fucking vague-“

“It’s meant to be vague, Ashley.” A-Train mutters, glaring at you in a way that feels more cautious than hateful. “She’s trying to feel out how likely we are to agree.”

Ashley looks to you with wide eyes, and you sigh.

“I am.” Your words gaining a more urgent edge, because this is important. “But forgive me for not fully trusting you-“

“You tell us what sort of promise you need,” A-Train snaps over you, foot bouncing in his seat. “And as long as it’s not something really shitty, we’ll make it.”

You examine him, and he seems genuine. He mostly just looks tired. Done with all of this. You understand that, you can feel it in your bones and muscles, so you keep talking.

“I want your word that, when this is over, you’ll stay on our side. Go on the record and say everything you’ve seen and witnessed, about Vought and the government and Homelander and anything else. All the Red River shit, how you,” you nod to Neuman. “Were the Head Popper, and anything Sage ever told you. Say it again, under oath if necessary.”

Neuman’s eyes narrow. “And why would I possibly want to admit to be the Head Popper. Why would any of us want to admit anything-“

“Because this farm is about to be a war zone.” You keep your words casual and bored, but your gaze sharp. “And if you agree to work with us after, we’ll keep you out of danger and make sure your families,” you look to A-Train. “All your families, aren’t caught in the crossfire. We can negotiate your pardons and deals before we bring you out of hiding, or we can testify about all the crimes we know you committed and you just get locked up.”

“That’s not fair!” Ashley’s words are frantic. Panicked. “You’re trying to fucking blackmail us, that’s a fucking crime-“

“All of this is a crime.” You snap, giving Ashley a daggered glare. “But we’re about to be the people that killed Homelander. You can either work with us, or not. It’s up to you.”

There’s a moment of heavy, painful silence, and you’re not sure if they’re trying to call your bluff, but there isn’t one. You’re past bluffs, here. Now it’s just about survival, and knowing if you can trust them with anything.

Finally A-Train coughs, and something like lead dissipates in your blood.

“Fine. Deal.”

His tired, flat voice spurs Neuman and Ashley into action, and you get two more reluctant agreements. There will be more time for details later. What deals you can cut and what you’ll need them to take the stand on can wait, because now you have to talk about the plan. It’s immediate and so fucking fragile, and you finally have your shot. You can’t waste valuable time before you take it.

“Good.” You look around the room, tapping your fingers on Ben’s arm as you calculate every word, every risk, everything that could go wrong and everything that will go wrong, and still know that this is your best bet. This is what has to be done. “We’ll get them to a safe house with Zoe until this is over, and Homelander will come to us. It’s empty up here, and Edgar won’t miss this place if it gets destroyed in the fight. All his livestock died in November, and he’s not getting out of prison anytime soon, so I’m comfortable making this collateral. We’ll lure him, booby-trap the fuck out of the grounds, and disorient him enough for someone to get the drill into him. Frenchie-“

“It will be ready tomorrow. A projectile, and I can make many.” Frenchie looks around the group with a grim expression. “One shot. A single hit, and it will if my work is correct, wedge in his skin, and the V will be shot into his system by a trigger.”

Butcher frowns. “We got enough of this shit for mass production-“

“Oui.” Frenchie gives one, firm nod. “A small amount, a micro-dose, will be more than effective. Just one,” Frenchie makes a sound, miming a syringe. “And the fucker will go down like it is nap time, and he is having a sugar crash.”

“Awesome,” you chew on your tongue, squeezing your hand on Ben. “Then all that we’ll have to do-“

We. Ben grunts in your head, and you can feel something in him grow powerful and bloody. You’re not getting fucking near that Star-caped pussy-

It was the royal we, Benjamin. You twist in his lap, giving him a pointed glare. And I can fight Homelander. I’m stronger-

I fucking know that. I am not worried about how fucking strong you are, I’m worried about you-

“You twats care to involve us in your little fuckin spat?” Butcher drawls, and you turn to see him looking more annoyed than angry. “Cause if it’s ‘bout the bloody mission we’re all riskin our asses for, we should put it up for vote-“

“None of your goddamn business-“

“You don’t want her near the fight, Gov, ain’t that it?” Butcher smirks, but there’s something hollow behind it. “Worried she may get hurt when Homelander decides he ain’t playin nice? That you might lose ‘er because she’ll make some stupid fuckin sacrifice and you ain’t gonna have nothin left to live for?”

You think Ben is going to murder Butcher. And you might have let him, is you couldn’t feel the powerful and bloody thing start to rot. To twist and cave in on itself, and swing back and forth between a fury that’s pushing around his chest and out of his body, and a molding, aching pain that’s climbing up his spine and into his heart.

Ben. Is Butcher, you pause, waiting for Ben’s violet glare to turn to you and soften slightly. Is he right.

He’s tearing himself apart. There’s something like a tornado or hurricane in Ben’s body, and you can almost hear how it’s hurting him in his grunted, Yes.

I’ll be okay, Ben. I can’t die-

I fucking know that. It’s not- His scowl becomes mostly lines on his face, and his whole body is only made of the aching storm. I am not losing you.

You won’t lose me-

And I fucking know, and I don’t fucking care. He’s not yelling between your heads, but his voice is loud, and almost fucking hopeless in a way that breaks your heart. You’re more than damn stronger enough to fight him, and I don’t fucking want you to. You are goddamn capable and brilliant and strong, and I don’t want you anywhere fucking near this shit. You can’t start fucking breaking again and expect me to just be fine with throwing my wife into a goddamn fight with Homelander. A cowardly fucking pussy psychopath who’s not going pull punches, who’s going to try and take away the only two people I give a fuck about, the only people I’ve ever fucking loved, and if I lose them it will be my own goddamn fault for letting them get hurt when I should’ve fucking kept them safe-

You can’t let him keep doing this to himself, because you understand. You and Ryan are all Ben has, and he’s not going allow himself to put you in harm’s way. You can fight him on this, and probably win, and if something does, somehow, go wrong, Ben won’t ever forgive himself. He still hasn’t forgiven himself for the first time, and the second time would destroy him, the same way your second time had broken you.

And you’d stay with him. When you found your way back to Ben, you’d stay with him until the storm passed, even if it took a hundred years. He’d grow paranoid and wake you up with explosions of golden light from his chest, but he’d still be Ben, the same way you’re still you.

But if you can do anything for him, offer him anything that’s truly vital, it’s sparing him that pain. It’s bending, just for this, because you know Ben will fight with a clear, determined, focused wrath if he knows Ryan is safe with you, and you’re both far away from Homelander.

You don’t really want to see Homelander die anyway. There’s nothing sadistic or bloodthirsty in your body, because you’re so tired of pain and sick of blood on your hands. Hearing the words Homelander’s dead, seeing his small husk of a body, and marrying Ben in a world where Homelander will never hurt anyone again will be all you need.

So you kiss Ben in a soft, gentle way that makes his hands on your body relax and the mold in his body start to fade as the glow grows, and look back to your team. Waiting silently for you and Ben to finish.

“I’ll take Ryan. He and I will go with them,” you nod to Neuman, Ashley, and A-Train. “And hide until the mission is done. You’ll get the V into Homelander, Ben will blast him, and Butcher will shoot him. And that will be it.”

There are small, nervous nods, and Hughie clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck.

“What about, um, what about Sage-“

“I’ll take care of it. I just need a day.” You lean back into Ben’s body, looking around the room with your most firm, immovable expression. You might have copied Ben’s—a set jaw, deep lines on your face, and an unspoken glint in your eyes that says I know what the fuck I’m doing—but it does the trick all the same. Nobody pushes you, and that’s it.

You have a fucking plan.

Everyone shuffles off to eat or talk or pretend that Homelander won’t be here in before the week is over. That everything isn’t either going to have crumbled or begin to grow again, and it all rides on getting this right. On not missing, or fucking up, and having each other’s backs.

It would be easy to spiral again. To drown in what’s coming, and every way I could go wrong. But Ben doesn’t waste any time, and before your brain can invite the doubt or panic knocking against your skull to be explored, he’s moving. Carrying you upstairs to your bedroom, kicking the door closed behind you, locking it without a word, and lowering you both carefully onto the stiff mattressed, itchy blanket bed that’s still comfortable, because Ben is here with you. Warm and strong under your touch, muscles flexing whenever he breathes, and the only thing you might ever really need.

Neither of you look to move, or go further. All that feels necessary right now is to have Ben. To feel to drum of his heart when you rest your head on his chest, and the soft hair of his beard when your fingers drift over his face. To smell pine and coffee and strawberries and know that he’s here. That he’s safe and solid, and nothing is going to take this instinct of Ben away from you.

You think it’s all he wants as well. His hands are moving over your body, but the only heat they leave is made of affection and care. Ben’s touch always makes you feel loved, but this makes you feel needed. Like there’s a direct line from Ben’s fingers tracing up your spine and over your hips into your nerves, and it shoots every single piece of his love right into your brain. Assures you that Ben is as natural as breathing, and he loves you, and every beat of his heart belongs to you because every turn of your head belongs to him. That, no matter what comes, you really will be safe, because there’s no other option when you’re loved like this.

It’s silent for a long while—only the sound of bird-song out the window and Ben’s breath near your ear—and you’re not sure how much time has passed when Ben’s low, rough voice sounds in your head.

You find a way to get yourself fucking killed with this, and I’ll leave you, Sunshine.

You let out a soft laugh, propping your chin on Ben’s chest to meet his attentive, wrathful, painfully in love gaze. No, you won’t.

The fuck I won’t-

You won’t. You’ll get all angry and violent and sad and kill a bunch of people about it, and then get even sadder and angrier because you’ll remember I would’ve been pissed at you for doing that, and then you’ll go cry at my grave for the third time that day. You’ll be the mean, old, handsome graveyard coke-snorter, right up until the inevitable heat death of the universe finally gets your ass.

Ben scowls, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Everything in his eyes is made of that bitter feeling, but under it you can still feel the glow. Shining out and rushing through your body, making everything inside you soft and restful, but still alive. More alive than you’ve ever really been before Ben, and as alive as you plan to feel for the rest of time.

Nobody’s given me any fucking coke. He grumbles in your head, and you know he’s trying to change the topic. That the bitter feeling is born from the thought of your death, no matter how impossible that is, and you’re more than willing to abandon that conversation. You’d think for a bunch of goddamn criminals, these pussies would’ve found some coke-

I bet Frenchie has some. You smile at him, kissing a gentle line over his jaw. And if you asked very, very nicely, he might share with you.

Ben grunts, and hand moving to your hair to guide your face up, hovering right over his. “When this shit is over, I’ll get that coke, and we’re doing it together.”

“I love you, Benjamin, but I am not doing cocaine-“

He cuts you off with a soft, long, easy kiss, chuckling at how fast you fall onto him. How easy it is for him to touch your right and make you fold without any struggle, and how you have no desire to fight against that.

“It won’t do a damn thing to you, Sunshine, you’ve got a higher tolerance than I do.” He presses another, almost sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, muttering against your skin. “And if it does, I’ll get to see you all fucked up again.”

You flush, dropping your face into his neck. Can we please forget that happened-

Not a damn chance. You can feel his smile as he kisses the side of your head, hear his amusement in the silence. Fucked up you was very open with me. She told me I was beautiful.

You are beautiful. You mumble into his head, tangling your fingers into his hair. So shut up.

I’m hot as fuck, darling. He chuckles, tracing patterns on your back. But you’re more beautiful. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever goddamn seen.

Ben-

You are. Don’t get all fucking modest on me-

You rise back up, holding Ben’s face between your hands and studying his face. You already have it memorized, every deep line and rugged feature and bright color, but you’ll never get tired of looking at it. Of looking at him.

I’m not modest. You kiss the tip of his nose, and Ben’s hands on your body still. I get to marry a very grumpy man who’s the most attractive cunt in the universe, and who’s willing to share his cocaine with me. Why would I be modest about that?

A low growl rumbles from Ben’s chest, and he flips you onto your back with a yelp. Caging you between the bed and his body, kissing everywhere he can reach on your face and neck and collarbone, grinning as you let out a high, needy sound and tilts you head back to grant him any access he wants.

Such a fucking brat, beautiful. He moves his knee between your legs, groaning as you start to grind against him. I love you so goddamn much, you drive me fucking insane-

“Ben.” You try to pull his face back to yours, your voice a breathless, pleading gasp. “No sex in the house-“

He crashes back up, his kiss bruising and turning your body into something molten and desperate for more. Singing just for Ben, Ben, Ben, who cares if Butcher walks in because Ben will shield you and you’re unraveling under him and you’ve never felt safer-

“You owe me a blowjob in the forest,” he mutters against you. “And I get to eat you out wherever the fuck you want-“

You gather all your will through your haze of Ben, and shake your head weakly. “Not here. Not now. But later, Ben, please, please fuck me, please-“

He pulls back, grinning down at your likely ruined and lustful expression, his love made of an awe you can see on his face and a devotion you can feel in his chest.

“Christ,” he says your name, and it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard. “You’re confusing your fucking self. You want me to fuck you, yes or no.”

You whine, and his grin grows, even as his tone becomes stern.

“Words-“

“I,” you pause, reaching up to just touch him, and shake your head. “Not now. After.”

He nods, and catches your wrist, moving your hand to his mouth and kissing over your knuckles. Where.

Can I think about it?

Ben laughs, and drops down to kiss you in an easy, slow way that doesn’t need to be more. You’re fucking going to anyway.

You will. Later, you’ll dedicate a whole hour to figuring out where you want to see Ben’s head between your legs, and where you want to scream his name. You already have some ideas, but it will need your full attention, which is something you can’t quite spare today. Because—once Ben decides you’re fully rested, and removes his weight from over your body—you have work to do.

Your speech hadn’t been a bait for Sage, but it would function as a lure. Something for her to latch onto, and want answers for. And sure enough, when MM and Kimiko return, it’s with news that Sage had called and demanded a meeting. Just you and her, on neutral ground, with terms of no Homelander, no Ben.

“There is not a fucking chance-“

You squeeze Ben’s hand, giving him a sharp but gentle glare. “I can handle this, my love.”

“I’m not worries about you handling it,” he hisses. “Sage is a manipulative bitch, and we don’t know what the hell she wants-“

“It won’t matter what she wants.” You shrug, looking back to MM. “Find somewhere quiet, maybe in Vermont, and tell her to meet me there.”

Ben growls your name, and you ignore him.

“I’m not stupid enough to fully go alone, so I’ll drive, drop you and my very grumpy, overprotective husband off somewhere close but not obvious for backup, and pick you up after.”

Everything in Ben stumbles and bursts into a consuming, bloody glow, and you know you’ve won. The moment you called him your husband you’d felt all of Ben’s will and fight dissolve, and you’re going to have to figure out a way to actually marry him by the end of the month, because his face might be the best one you’ve ever seen, this feeling the best one you’ve ever experienced. All you ever want to experience again.

It only takes a day for MM and Sage to make arrangements. Sage keeps insisting to speak with you directly, MM keeps refusing, and eventually Sage relents with the condition that she gets to choose the location.

A little roadside diner in upstate New York, right off of a postcard and shielded from the sky by a green, overgrown forest that makes your breathing a little easier. The air is warm and a little humid from a storm that had left puddles in the parking lot and glittering drops on water on the windows, and when you park the stolen car—Ben and MM waiting at a gas station about ten minutes away and, hopefully, not killing each other—you take a long breath.

You have everything you need. You know everything you need to say. This will be hard, and then it will be over. All you have to do is move.

When you push the door of the diner open, small bell rings and the diner is mostly empty. You didn’t expected Sage to be here, you arrived an hour early in the very hope she wouldn’t be, so you sit at a corner booth that faces the door, and mostly just wait.

When Sage does arrive, she sees you immediately. A cold smile crosses her face as she drops down across from you, examining the table carefully.

“There’s no trap.” You say, keeping your voice bored and neutral. “It’s just a table.”

Sage looks up, her smile becoming snake-like.

“I’d apologize, but both you yourself and the company you keep hasn’t been known to be honorable. I’d have to be stupid to discount you putting a bomb under a public table, and I’m not stupid.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Big talk about honor, when I know the deal you made with my fucking mother.”

“I won’t apologize for taking an open opportunity-“

“Because you’re a fucking bitch.” You shrug, holding her gaze with your own, tired, flat one, tapping your fingers on the sugar shaker. “We both know you’re not sorry about any of this, and we both know that you’re a heartless cartoon supervillain, so what do you want.”

Sage’s lips curl into what might be the only real grin you’ve ever seen on her hateful face. “I really do like you,” she says your name, and you believe her. “I think, if you’d become a supe when you were a baby, we’d have been friends.”

“I like to think I’d still have a soul if that happened-“

“We all like to think things that like. But we’re just animals. Well, they’re just animals. You’re just an animal.”

You tilt your head, flagging down the waitress for two coffees. “And you’re not? You’re a god, like Homelander?”

“No.” Sage’s sounds almost amused. “Gods are still dependent on humans. To be created, maintained, remembered. I don’t care for that. What I care for is perfection. Something far better than humanity, something free of their selfish ignorance-“

“With the V.” You can’t stop your whisper as you put it together, watching Sage with a sharp, careful attention. “That’s why you want the V formula. To make more, and finish Vought’s plan with it.”

“Not Vought’s exact plan. He was caught in the primitive, pointless ideology of race supremacy. But this is about species supremacy. About human’s being ungrateful for what they’ve been given, and needing to be eradicated like the disease to the world that they are. But nobody is meant to know that yet. You…” she trails off, and her face curls into something that chills your bones. “You found the Cornucopia.”

Your silence is her answer, and she lets out a laugh that makes your skin crawl.

“I must say, you’ve managed to surprise me again. Putting that together yourself, and that video.” She shakes her head, looking you up and down. “That was one of the smarter moves you’ve made. I’m impressed.”

You hum, holding her gaze. “But?”

“But it was still reckless. I’d already planned for it, and although you said things I’d counted out, such as admitting to your affair with Soldier Boy, or to killing Firecracker, but I’ll adapt, and you’ll still lose.”

“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you hum, frowning at the sugar shaker. “I’d call it falling in love.”

Sage makes a sound of amusement. “Love isn’t permanent. As I’ve tried to tell you, Soldier Boy will be a violent, angry man for the rest of his life. You’re the most powerful supe alive. You have the public in the palm of your hand, and you could spend all eternity making something perfect. You could go play house,” she gives the ring on your finger a pointed look. “With Solider Boy and the son of your rapist, or you could see what you can really do. Create a world without pain, create a world with only pain, fix human’s messes for the rest of time or finally give up on them. I could cleanse you of your little pestilence of a team, hiding like roaches in Maine, and you could fight Homelander one on one. Give him the gruesome death we both know he more than deserves. You could even keep Soldier Boy as a pet, and still be-“

“If you say interesting.” You drawl. “I’ll punch you again. And Ben isn’t my pet, and Ryan isn’t just Homelander’s son.” You lean over the table, narrowing your eyes. “They’re my family. All of them. I don’t really want to see what I can do, Sage. I think I just want this to be done.”

“You truly do believe your love for Soldier Boy is an exception, don’t you. That it’s not just a temporary chemical reaction, that can be manufactured just as easily as a spoon, or diaper?”

You sit a little taller in your seat, staring down the obvious disgust on Sage’s face. “I think that you were right. That by all logical sense, I shouldn’t have ever loved Ben. But I do. And I will, long after this over. So speak very carefully when you talk about him, because I’m very forgiving of things you say about me,” you drop your voice to a hiss, letting a little bit of fire light up in your eyes. “But I will not be forgiving of things you say about him.”

“And that’s the thing, isn’t it.” Sage looks you up and down, and her voice almost sounds disappointed. “In the end you’re still too human. Too emotional. A worthy opponent, but still just a little too weak.”

Love hasn’t made you weak. If anything, love might be the only thing you’re certain makes you strong. Pulls you apart before putting you back together, just a little better and sturdier than you’d been before.

So you don’t break. You take your coffee from the waitress, and look back to Sage with your best, innocently curious expression.

“Can I ask you a question?”

If Sage is surprised by your pivot, she doesn’t show it, only nodding for you to continue.

“How smart do you think you’d have been?” You watch her carefully, leaning back as you add sugar to your mug. “If they hadn’t given you the V?”

Sage only shrugs, taking the sugar as you set it back onto the table. “That doesn’t matter, because we can trade hypotheticals all day, but in the end, I am smarter. Better. In the end, I’ll win. I’ll work out how to get rid of you when you become more of an annoyance than interesting, and you be dirt in the ground with your precious Soldier Boy. Just as love says you should be.”

“Or,” you watch as Sage pours the sugar into her cup, and look up at her with a wide smile. “I could marry him. And like an impossibly long, incredibly interesting life with someone who I love. I’d never be bored, but I would be happy.” You pause, looking Sage over with your best gentle concern. “Are you happy?”

Sage almost scoffs. “I am not concerned about happiness-“

“You should be.” You shrug, stirring a small spoon in your mug. “I’m happy. There are long, horrible moments where I’m afraid and in pain, but then I’m happy again. And I wasn’t ever sure I’d get that. A life where I get love someone like this, and they love me back, and, I mean, have you seen the Princess Bride?”

Sage’s mouth tics, and you know she’s noticed you’re running the conversation. “I don’t watch many movies. They’re pointless, and I have more important issues-“

“It’s a great movie. It was put into failed production several times before 1987, but the key was you couldn’t take it too seriously. It’s a love story, but it’s also an outright ridiculous drama-“

You’re cut off as Sage sneers your name, but you don’t drop your easy, blissful smile. “I know we both enjoy speaking, but I do have a company to get back to. Work to do. So if we could move on to discussing your video-“

“Just one second.” You keep your voice sweet and dreamy as you continue to ramble. “I got Ben to watch the Princess Bride. I think he might have already seen it, because he wasn’t paying attention, but he never pays attention. He mostly just stares at me and tries to pretend he doesn’t have a boner. I love him so much.”

Sage snaps your name, you ignore her, and she dumps half the canister of sugar into her mug.

“See, he thinks the whole pirate thing is cool. He told me that he’d make the best fucking pirate, and come right back to me. There wasn’t a damn reason to stay away for five fucking years.And I’ve told him that I agree. He’s fast and skilled enough to win the duel, and strong enough to beat the giant, and he already has the drug tolerance for iocane powder. He has the drug tolerance for most anything. There are actually only two things he can’t tolerate. Your gas, and my empathy suppressant. Nobody can tolerate my empathy suppressant except for me. Frenchie said it makes brains leak out of ears.”

Sage hums, looking vaguely interested. “An empathy suppressant? Does it severe the limbic system-“

“Bombs it. Entirely.”

“Which you would obviously survive.” She muses, taking a long, slow sip of her coffee. “But I would likely survive as well, given my targeted healing factor.”

“Maybe.” You prop your elbows on the table, your bright smile dropping to a crude grin. “Let’s find out.”

You see the moment it hits her. Just a second after the words leave your mouth, her eyes widen and she starts to cough. To try and push the coffee out of her system, her entire face covered in hatred and angry and fear—real, primal fear like a deer in headlights or a child who’s had a nightmare—and then nothing at all.

Frenchie had been right. It was instant, and something red was leaking out of Sage’s ears as she slumped forward, onto the table.

It hadn’t been fool-proof, your plan. You’d made Ben crushed up the suppressant with a knife—he was good at that, and you liked watching his arms flex as he worked—and filled up one of Edgar’s saltshakers. Swapped it onto the table, and prayed that Sage wouldn’t think you were that stupid. That if she thought you were going to kill her, that’s you’d be more calculated and careful about it. That she didn’t believe you’d do something so obvious and blatant, that you’d want more information out of her, that this whole thing was a genuine meeting and not an assassination.

Her brain shouldn’t regenerate, there’s none of it left, but you’re not going to take any risks. You drag Sage out of the booth—ignoring the silent, petrified attention of every other person in the diner and taking the sugar dispenser with you—and into the parking lot, finding a spot with no cars, no grass, and no wood before dropped her onto the pavement. You spare the sugar dispenser, and the suppressant inside it, only one look before they’re tossed onto Sage’s body, and you send both up into flames.

You can still feel Ben. You won’t be able to soon, you’d drank the suppressant as well, but you can know. He’s silently furious and made of a zealous, focused care that’s been bouncing around your chest since you’d separated.

I’m done. You mutter down your line, letting the flames move to your feet, letting people crowd at the windows and only focusing on how there is one less thing to be afraid of, and how Ben flashes through your blood as you speak. I’ll be there soon.

Did you-

She’s dead.

Good. Ben’s voice grunts in your head, and you can almost feel him. Over the smoke you can smell pine, and feel something warm that isn’t born from you, but still a part of you. Fucking bitch.

You let out a small, easy laugh. She was, wasn’t she.

Damn right she was. There’s a pause, and then, I love you. I really fucking love you, and I am ready for this to be fucking over. We’re going to kill Homelander, and never hear the word Vought again. Deal?

You probably look insane. You’re standing over Sage’s twisted and brunt corpse and letting the flames climb back over your body, sink back into your skin, and turn your clothing to scorched ash as you smile. A wide smile that covers your whole face as you live only inside your body, with Ben. In all his love, and how certain he sounds that, by next week, Homelander will only be a body with empty, cold eyes and you will live a long, happy, perfect life with Ben.

Deal.

End Note: Sage your funeral will be the most pathetic one in history mark my words. Also someone let Ben yell about getting married he's gonna lose it.

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