#Mind The A03 TAGS!

[jewel-shard]

Fall

Written for @inukag-week 9th Edition

Artwork: @classysassy9791

Hi beautiful humans. This is my first Inuyasha fanfiction. I am posting a chapter a day for inukag-week. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Yearning for you

Kagome's head rolled to the left, dust filling her nose and mouth.

He was there, she could feel him as the miasma thickened.

She sensed the streaks of power resonate out as the roar of the demon hoard grew.

It almost overwhelmed the ringing in her ears. Opening her eyes seemed like so much work. It felt like the weight of the settling dust on her skin was crushing her.

Warmth brushed her cheek, the grace of a claw on her lips. As her mind was consumed by darkness, her thoughts were of him; yearning for his touch.

Inuyasha.

^.^

He saw her fall. It was an impossible height. With the immense power of the hit, her piece of the jewel shard had shattered, and she had fallen off the edge of the steep canyon wall.

Demons scrambled around her, fighting over fragments as she tumbled. He saw only her. A cry of her name rang through the air as she found ground, landing with crushing speed.

Seconds felt like hours and it was lifetimes until he finally arrived at her side. The hoard swirled as he reached for her.

Kagome.

-.-

He had fucked up.

Again.

He watched her hair whip around her face.

He screamed her name; heard her bones crack against the earth.

He failed.

Her.

He had been so confident.

Said ‘shut up and let me protect you, stupid.’

Like he always did.

Her eyes shone with trust as she watched him leap down into the dry canyon.

He had seen only fear in her gaze as she fell.

He tried to reach for her.

Desperately using his claws to rip at the purple tendrils surrounding him. He had finally broken free just as Kagome's body was being lifted off the ground before she became consumed by a bright glow as it blinded him.

But not before he saw him.

Naraku.

[lightandheatao3]

The Bunker - Criminal Minds

Chapter 1: The Bunker

Summary: Spencer Reid wakes up in a locked bunker to find half the current BAU and two of its departed members unconscious on the floor. The old team is back together but the reunion is not what any of them would have wished for. An Unsub from their past has decided it's time they all stop keeping secrets, even if it means exposing them by force.

Hotch and Derek have been pulled back into a world they tried to escape. Emily, Rossi, and JJ are doing their best to keep it together. Spencer is falling apart.

AKA a found family is reunited and forced to go through the most nightmarish version of family therapy imaginable.

Set months after the end of Criminal Minds: Evolution. Evolution referenced, but not necessary to understand the story.

Read chapter 1 on AO3 or under the cut. All comments and reblogs are so appreciated <3

Chapter 2 link

Spencer cracked his eyes open, flinching from the white fluorescent light and blinking hard against the groggy, dull ache in his head.

His mouth was dry, body heavy. A familiar wake up. He reached his hand out blindly for the relief waiting on his bedside table.

No- wait.  

His lights are all yellow toned filament bulbs, not white fluorescents.

The smell was wrong. The dull electrical buzz in the air was louder, pitched higher.

His eyes shot open wide and he scrambled to his feet.

This wasn’t home.

He surveyed his surroundings, fighting the wave of dizziness that came with standing too abruptly.

“Oh no,” he said out loud. “Nonononono…”

The room was large and square and made entirely of concrete. Up the top a small vent, too high to reach and too small for a person to fit into. A heavy door with a double walled chamber for someone to put things into without having to interact with the person on the other side. The kind you would find in a maximum-security prison cell. The whole room felt like a prison cell, a place he’d hoped to never be again. At the back of the room a small en-suit that was completely stripped bare but for a metal toilet with no seat and a sink that was bolted into the wall. There was a door that could be shut, but there was a gap under it and a hole where a doorknob had clearly been removed.

A camera. There on the roof, drilled in and protected by a plexiglass dome, blinking its little red light at him. He stared at it for a moment, then closed his eyes.

He slowed his breathing. Now was not the time to fall apart. Not now. Not yet.

Not when there were 5 of his friends prone on the ground around him, unconscious as he had been only moments ago.

Each was laid out on a thin foam mattress, the kind with no seams or springs that could be fashioned into tools.

His first stop was the door. He knew before he tried it that it wasn’t going to open, but he had to make sure. As soon as that was confirmed, he turned his attention to the people in the room with him.

He rushed over to Emily first, rolling her onto her side and checking her pulse. It was slow, but steady. He looked around at the rest of them, noting the gentle rise and fall of their chests. All alive. He sighed audibly, clasping his hands together in thanks and relief for a split second before turning back to Emily.

He gently shook her, putting his hand on her cheek in what he hoped was a comforting way. His hands were shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline or the comedown. “Emily," he said gently. “Emily, it’s me, Spencer. Wake up Emily.”

After a few more repetitions her eyes fluttered, then opened. She looked up at him hazily. “Spencer?”

“Hi,” he said sadly, knowing there were only a second left until she realized the danger they were in and wanting to let her experience that second in peace.

She glanced behind him where JJ lay unconscious. He looked at her pupils. They were constricted, confirming his suspicions.

“Oh my god,” Emily gasped, her hand reaching up to clutch his shoulder. She leveraged herself against him to drag her way up into a sitting position. She rubbed at her eyes blearily, then opened them again and cast them around the entire room. “Fuck,” she breathed.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Her eyes snapped back to him. “Are you alright?” she asked urgently, looking him over. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “And I don’t know. I woke up a minute ago. I don’t remember how I got here. I think we were all drugged.”

She hummed in agreement. “Last thing I remember I was outside my apartment on the way home from the gym. I still feel a little out of it. God, Spencer, you look awful,” she said, putting a hand over his. “What did they do to you?”

“Same thing as you, most likely.” He looked away. “Emily, that’s Hotch over there,” he deflected. “And Derek.”

Emily looked to where he was pointing. Her expression was solemn, professionalism kicking in even in these dire circumstances. “Yeah. And no sign of Tara, Matt, or Luke. And no Penelope, thank God. Whoever did this, they’ve got a grudge against us that predates the others joining the BAU. Someone who met all of us but never had direct interaction with Penelope. This is good. If the others are free, they’ll find us.”

Spencer nodded in agreement. “This is someone with the skill to find Hotch in witness protection. If he wasn’t dead, I would have said it was Scratch. The logistics of kidnapping 6 highly trained federal agents takes an enormous amount of planning and ability. There are only handful of people we’ve encountered with the capacity to pull something like this off.”

She rubbed at her temples. Her eyes were losing the glassy sheen as the adrenaline counteracted the effects of the drugs. “I assume you tried the door?” He nodded. “I guess we should wake the others.”

No sooner than she said it, JJ stirred. They both crawled over to her. Her wake up process went much the same as Emily’s, but for the fact that the first thing she asked about was if her children were safe, before she’d come to enough to realize they had no way of knowing.

“Whoever this is likely targeted you while you were alone,” Spencer assured her. “It’s much safer to take a victim without witnesses, especially a victim who is trained to defend themselves and needs to be physically incapacitated.”

Next, they woke Rossi, who responded immediately by swearing up a storm and threatening to rip the head off whoever was responsible for this.

“Hey, Dave, it’s okay,” said JJ in a calming voice, even as she looked about to cry. “There’s nobody in here but us.”

He breathed. He nodded. He cursed again. He nodded again.

“At least I’m not alone this time,” he said with a world weariness that Spencer felt in his gut.

They had all been in situations like this before, but Rossi was barely recovered from the last time only a few months ago. Spencer still regret so deeply that he wasn’t there to help with Elias Voit.

“No, you’re not alone,” agreed Emily emphatically. “On that note, look who else is here,” she said.

“God fucking dammit,” cursed Rossi as his eyes swept over Derek and landed on Hotch.

Seeing Derek there was upsetting, but it wasn’t as jarring as Hotch’s presence. Derek still came along to the occasional social event, though less and less recently, as he was busy with the birth of his second child. Spencer personally still saw him once a month or so, though the past year their contact had been more limited to phone calls. They were all dreading having to watch him learn he’d been pulled into this nightmare, but if nothing else they could offer him the comfort of familiarity and camaraderie.

But Hotch… none of them had heard so much as a whisper from him in years. When he disappeared, he did so completely. It’s the kind of thing that would have wounded Spencer deeply under any other circumstances, but after everything Daniel Lewis aka Mr Scratch had put him through, he only ever hoped that Hotch had found every semblance of peace that life could give him. He’d missed him badly at times, but he would have rather they never meet again than have to meet like this.

They decided to wake Derek first.           

Rossi nearly got a fist in the face before Derek pieced together what was happening. Then, he put a fist directly into a concrete wall instead.

“I’m going to regret that when the drugs wear off,” he said sheepishly once he’d calmed down just a bit. “Whatever they dosed us with, they did not skimp. The comedown is gonna suck,” he said, side eyeing Spencer, who pretended not to notice.

The question and answer was the same as with the others. Do you remember anything about who took you? No. Has anyone tried the door? Yes. Derek threw a shoe at the camera for good measure, but of course it just bounced off the plexiglass and landed pathetically on the floor.

The bang of it hitting the concrete was enough to make Hotch finally stir. They all turned to face him, staring helplessly.

His hair was longer than Spencer had ever seen it. Still short, but more relaxed, skimming the bottom of his ears and starting to curl a little at the base of his neck. He was still lean, but some of the muscle had been replaced by fat. He looked just a little softer. Healthier. His face was peaceful. Spencer always remembered him looking tense, even in his sleep. His hair was streaked with grey but somehow this was the youngest Spencer had ever seen him look.

He stirred a little more, blinking at last.

Ah, there was the familiar tension creeping its way back across his face.

Rossi was the one who finally knelt down beside him. “Aaron? I’m so sorry my friend,” he said sadly as recognition flashed in Hotch’s eyes.

“I’m dreaming,” came the familiar voice. Spencer had missed that voice more than he'd known.

Hotch closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. He looked past Rossi at the rest of them. Spencer raised his hand in a polite greeting, then immediately felt like an idiot for doing so.

“I’m not dreaming,” he said, no trace of emotion in his voice.

“I’m afraid not,” Rossi confirmed.

Hotch fixed his eyes on Rossi again, pushing himself up so he was sitting against the wall. He looked like he was staring at a ghost, trying to figure where the projector was. “When did you get so old?” he said, reaching out a hand to Rossi’s face and poking at it.

Rossi grabbed the offending hand and clasped it between both of his. “Careful. You’re no spring chicken yourself,” he joked.

“No,” said Hotch, still expressionless. “Peter Lewis is dead. This isn’t my life anymore. He’s dead. They told me he died. I saw photos of the body.”

Spencer didn’t know that, but judging by Rossi’s lack of surprise, he pieced together that the older man had likely made sure the witness protection people had passed the photos along.

“Scratch is dead,” Rossi confirmed. “Whoever did this, it’s not him.”

“This. Isn’t. Real,” Hotch insisted, the first sign of emotion entering his voice in the form of hysteria as he pulled his hand away from Rossi and scrambled to his feet. “All of you stay away from me!” he yelled, looking at each of them in turn.

JJ grabbed onto Spencer’s arm. He flinched at first, then put an arm around her and gave what he hoped was a comforting squeeze. Derek took a step towards Hotch, but Emily held him back.

Hotch backed into the corner, looking at them like a caged animal. They were all caged animals now, Spencer supposed. An unfortunately familiar role.

“Hotch,” Spencer said, surprising himself by speaking. They all turned to look at him. He couldn’t back away now. “This is real. I’m so sorry this is happening to you, but Penelope and the rest of our team aren’t here, which means they are out there looking for us. I know it doesn’t feel real. We have all been drugged and you are probably still feeling the effects. I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t real, but it is,” Spencer said kindly but emphatically.

“We’ll get out of this together,” said Emily. “It’s going to be okay.”

Hotch’s eyes were looking just a little clearer.

“Listen man, I know what you’re feeling. I got out, too, remember? I have a family and I don’t know if they’re alright. I’m right here with you. We’re all on your side. Do you believe me?” asked Derek, and this time Emily let him take a step forward.

 Hotch looked around at all of them again. He assessed them carefully. Then, he turned to the corner, putting his back to them and his hand over his face. It was the closest thing he could get to privacy and Spencer was suddenly grateful to have woken up first to process all of this without being watched.

Well, except for the camera.

They all looked at the floor and did their best to give Hotch space. It was almost a full minute before he finally tuned back around.

There was that stoic expression that Spencer remembered. All that youth and peace was gone from his face in an instant. Spencer hoped so badly that it wasn’t gone for good.

“What do we know?” asked Hotch, crossing his arms.

A moment of silence passed and Spencer wondered if the rest of them felt their hearts breaking into pieces at this cruel facsimile of a reunion.

“Why don’t we start with the last thing each of us remembers?” said Emily, stepping up beside Hotch and looking back at the rest of the room, two natural leaders doing what they do best.

Each of them recounted the details they knew before they woke up in this room.

They had been going about their lives, nothing special. The only common thread they could find was that each of them was alone when their memories stopped.

Derek had been at a picnic with his family and the last thing he remembered was leaving to use the park bathroom. Emily on her way back from the gym. JJ heading out to get groceries. Rossi walking home late from a bar.

“I was driving to work,” said Hotch shortly.

“We’re going to need more detail than that if we want to put together a timeline,” prompted Rossi. "Where do you work?"

Hotch pursed his lips. Spencer could see him strategizing in his head. He wasn’t back in their lives by choice. Spencer understood.

He didn’t get it back when Gideon left, but he got it now. Once you let people in the door, it can be impossible to fully extricate them. Hotch’s old life was filled with trauma he was trying to leave behind and the team were living representations of that past. Spencer couldn’t bring himself to be hurt by the other man’s reticence.

“A legal consultancy in a small town in Kentucky,” he said reluctantly, like divulging the smallest part of his personal life meant inviting the entire FBI right back into it.

“That’s an 8 hour drive,” said Derek. “No wonder you were so out of it compared to the rest of us. You must have been dosed multiple times to keep you under that long.”

“I think you’re right,” he said. “I’m still a bit foggy, if I’m being honest,” he admitted quietly. “What about you, Reid?”

Spencer blinked. “I feel fine.”

“No, I mean what’s the last thing you remember?”

Oh. Right. “I went to sleep in my apartment, then I woke up here,” he said honestly. It wasn’t important what he was doing before he went to sleep.

“Since we can be fairly confident whoever this is took Hotch first,” said Emily, “That probably means they got to you last, Spence. They hit all of us in one day. They must have known the BAU had a day off after closing the last case. They would have had to hit us quick to avoid raising alarms.”

“And the fact that we were all grabbed at different times indicates we’re likely dealing with a single Unsub. Someone highly organized and familiar with each of our routines.”

“The Unsub must have been planning this for a long time. Finding someone in witness protection, especially a former profiler, would take an incredible amount of skill or resources,” said Spence. “They stalked us, learned our routines, then used blitz attacks to stop us from being able to fight back.”

It didn’t take long for them to get into the flow. He felt his panic slipping away as his brain shifted into work mode. At some point they all went from standing to sitting in a circle on the floor.

It felt ridiculous to think about, but Spencer couldn't help but be mildly self conscious being the only one of them in his pajamas, as he was taken in his sleep. He was just glad it was a cold night so he'd been wearing nice, full length ones and not boxers and a shirt or something to that affect. Derek, Emily and JJ were all dressed in comfortable day wear. Rossi and Hotch in suits. Hotch was interesting, though. Spencer had rarely seen him outside of a crisp black suit characteristic of an FBI agent. The one he wore now was navy with a striped tie. It looked good on him.

They put together a more detailed timeline and looked back on the past few months of their lives to discuss anything that could have possibly been out of the ordinary.

The more they talked, the less cagey Hotch was about his life. It was strange to learn more about the day to day he had been living in the years since they’d seen him.

None of them talked about their kids or partners beyond a simple acknowledgement of their existence. They were all acutely aware of the camera on the roof. Whoever was doing this didn’t need to know any more about their families than they already did.

Their phones had been taken and none of them had anything to write with, so they were relying on Spencer to catalogue and compile the information in his brain. He did just that, and after a couple hours they had what was likely a fairly reliable timeline, including geographical information.

Whoever was doing this, they were extremely organized, meticulous, and quick. Not one of them saw it coming. None of them could point to any strange interactions they had over the past months, any red flags, any signs of being followed.

When it came time for Spencer to recount the details of the last months of his life, the others stared at him intently. “I haven’t seen you in person in months,” said Derek. “You don’t look so great, pretty boy.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but the bunker we’re currently locked in isn’t making the rest of you look at your healthiest, either.”

“You know what I mean,” said Derek with an affectionate eyeroll.

“You know I was doing some classified work for the bureau. That’s why I couldn’t be there for what happened with Voit,” he said with an apologetic look to Rossi, who waved his hand dismissively. They had already been over this when Spencer first got back. He noticed Hotch raise a curious eyebrow. “I can’t talk about the work since we’re currently being recorded,” he said, nodding up at the camera. “Emily knows the details. It was nothing bad, just research that kept me out off the grid for a while. But if the Unsub could find Hotch in witness protection, then it’s possible they could have been tailing me for that long.”

“That finished months ago,” pointed out Emily. “What have you been doing while you’re on sabbatical?”

“A few guest lecture series at Virginia Tech and spending time with my mom, mostly. I just needed a break. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much. I guess I’ve been a bit distracted. I haven’t seen or experienced anything unusual, though.”

“I hope your mom’s doing okay,” said JJ comfortingly, prompting the rest of them to nod sympathetically.

He just nodded back. She was doing fine, honestly, not that he’d been visiting as often as he should. Easier to let them assume she was the reason he had been absent.

“Why are you doing this?” said Hotch, standing up and looking directly at the camera once they realized none of them had any more details to share at this point. “What do you want from us? Tell us what it is and maybe we can give it to you.”

The camera blinked its red light at them, showing no care for their presence.

Hotch sighed. He looked down at them all helplessly. His eyes stopped short on Derek. He knelt down, staring at something on the side of his head. “What?” asked Derek, leaning away in concern at Hotch’s suddenly very close face.

“Hold still,” said Hotch. He waved Emily over, who shuffled round to his side. “Right… there,” he said, hovering a finger just behind Derek’s ear.

Her eyes widened. Hotch looked at her questioningly, then turned his own head and tucked his hair away so that she could see behind his ear.

“You have it too,” she said. She did the same as him and he checked her over. They looked at each other again and he nodded.

They all stared at them expectantly, though Spencer was pretty sure he knew what they were seeing.

“Puncture marks at the top of the neck, just behind the ear,” Emily explained. “That’s where we were injected.”

Spencer, Rossi and JJ all checked each other. Sure enough, same thing.

“That means we were likely attacked from behind,” said Derek.

“Do we know what we were drugged with?” said Hotch, shooting an almost imperceptible glance in Spencer’s direction.

His skin crawled at the way none of them wanted to look at him, to just come right out and say it. He didn’t particularly want to talk about it. Not really. But they always acted like the subject was poison and it made him feel like he had to walk on eggshells too. Like the reality of his life was harder for them to hear than it was for him to live.

“I am fairly confident it was some kind of opioid,” he said, careful to keep the irritation out of his voice.

JJ put her hand on his and he felt the irritation dissipate.

They cared about him. He knew that. It’s not as if they were wrong to worry. They had talked about it a little over the years, but not enough that it had stopped being awkward every time it came up.

“Are you certain?” asked Rossi. “Could have been a tranquilizer.”

“I’m certain,” said Spencer. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”

Derek reached a foot across the circle and bumped it against Spencer’s knee in a supportive gesture, like saying ‘I’m here with you.’ Emily smiled at him softly, reassuringly.

“It could have been cut with something,” pointed out Hotch.

“The totality of the blackout indicates it may have been cut with a sedative of some kind, as a high enough dose of opioids to include that kind of memory loss reliably could be unsafe and none of us are suffering significant enough side effects to indicate that’s the case. Whoever did this knew exactly what dosage to use,” he explained. “But… I am quite sure it was predominantly an opioid.”

Of course he was sure.

“Jesus,” said JJ. “I’m sorry, Spence.”

“I don’t believe in fate but the universe does seem to have a strange way of conspiring to get you high,” deadpanned Emily.

Derek shot her a harsh look, but Spencer cracked a smile. “I think ‘an Unsub made me do it’ is going to start sounding like ‘a dog ate my homework’ to my sponsor,” he joked back, relief washing over him that they weren’t going to dance around it the entire time they were in here. Not that he’d spoken to his sponsor in more than a year. They didn’t need to know that.

The others smiled too. “You’ll be alright, kid,” said Rossi. “If you kept it together after Mexico, you’ll get through this.”

That would have been a comforting statement if not for the fact that it was completely false. It didn’t matter anyway. Penelope and the rest of the team would find them and get them out before any of this became an issue.

Or they wouldn’t. But he couldn’t think about that yet.

A crease sat deep between Hotch’s eyebrows. “Mexico?”

“You don’t know?” said Emily. “I just assumed you were across everything to do with the Scratch case.”

“No,” said Hotch. “I accepted proof of his death and told the liaison I didn’t want to know anything else.”

“It’s complicated,” said Rossi. “There were other players involved, but the short version is Reid was drugged and framed for murder. It wasn’t pretty.”

“We don’t need to go into the details,” said Spencer, oddly embarrassed at the idea of Hotch knowing just how prone to being victimized he apparently still is. He knew it wasn’t rational, given the things that had happened to Hotch and the fact that all of them were in this locked room as victims together.

Hotch looked at him. Spencer couldn’t read his expression at all. Eventually he just nodded and let it drop.

Before any of them could say another word, there was a banging at the door. The hatch on the other side of the door chamber opened.

Derek got to the door first, trying to rip the hatch on their side open. He shouted at the door “What do you want?! Talk to me! Just tell us what you want!”

There was no response.

The only thing they could see was a hand covered in a thick leather glove sliding a piece of paper in. It was a smaller hand than expected.

He continued pulling but the panel didn’t budge until the other one had closed completely. Derek stumbled backwards as the panel suddenly released.

“It’s soundproof,” Spencer said, despairing. “There was no sound of footsteps on the other side.”

Emily grabbed the note from the chamber. They all whipped around to watch her as she read the words aloud.

“Hello, old friends,” she started, all of them frozen in place and hanging off her every word. “I know you are wondering why you are here. It is simple. You dragged my secrets into the light and then put me in a cage. At first I wanted to get revenge. Then I watched you for a long time and I learned all about you and I learned that we are the same. I saw how you are suffering. How you are scared. All hiding. I remember when I had to hide. For so long I hid even from myself. Now, because of you, I am free. Even when I was in a cage, I was free, because I had no secrets anymore.

I want to give you the freedom you gave to me. Soon, you will not have secrets. You will see that in this room you cannot hide and that when there is nothing left to hide, you will be free.”

Emily looked up from the letter, meeting all of their eyes in turn. There was a painful lump in Spencer’s throat.

If he was being honest with himself, he knew it as soon as he woke up in this room and saw them all there. He knew they weren’t going to make it out in time. He knew the Unsub must have watched him closely enough to know what was going on with him. He knew he wasn’t making it out of this without all of them seeing him for exactly who he is.

Now, he thought, might be the time to fall apart.

[mercyannmay]

My Wani point - chapter 4 update

So happy to have finally posted this for all the Dragodile enjoyers 💚 please mind the tags, part of the fic is NSFW and not for minors! 🔞

[extravalgant]

'for the dead are changless' aka the wizdyv fluff i always promised but never followed up on. UNTIL NOW summary: He could still feel the ghostly imprints of your fingers on his skin, kissed by the warmth of your body. You were checking his pulse. You were checking his pulse. words: 2144 warnings: no warnings. free range wizdyv fluff babey. except maybe some ooc-ness. please mind that 🛐

read on a03

"What does shadow magic feel like?" 

You can tell Dyvim is curious—just by the way his voice tilts in a certain way. He's not afraid, no; just cautious of what is to come. You avoid his gaze anyways, swallowing down the hard lump of guilt that suddenly manifests in your throat.

You've been avoiding his gaze for days by this point. You think yourself clever, but you know Dyvim; you know that this is his way of getting you to open up. You two had not spoken about what had happened at the Queen's hive, of what you two had lost and subsequently regained, but the relief of his return is palpable in the air. 

He would be a fool not to have noticed the way your fingers curl underneath his jaw, light as the morning's dew, and press gently against the pulse along his neck. You do this when you think he's sleeping, but he's a light sleeper, now—awake even at the slightest snap of a branch, at the mere suggestion that something may be moving in the dark. 

The first time you had done it had been after his revival—when you had taken the first shift, when he slowly fell into a dreamless sleep. He didn't know what to expect, but the sensation of your hand had not been one of them. 

Your fingers were warm against the jugular of his throat, and something in his chest squeezed at the thought; of the implications your actions held. His pulse was warm and hearty, thrumming strongly against the pads of your fingertips, and after a few beats of silence, he felt your hand slide away. 

He could still feel the ghostly imprints of your fingers on his skin, kissed by the warmth of your body. You were checking his pulse. You were checking his pulse. 

The affection he had been careful to tuck underneath his armor, between the smooth, metal ridges, suddenly can't help but bloom without warning. 

"It's different from other magic,” you say, bringing Dyvim back to this moment in time. He hadn't even realized the two of you had fallen silent until you had spoken. Your voice was soft, as it always was with him, as you shuffle your spell cards. They make a soft, satisfying hiss as they slide against one another, glittering low in the light. It reflects off of your face, washing your plaintive expression in a wash of bright, warm gold. 

“In what way?” he asks, his eyes round with genuine interest. Magic was never his strong suit, and it seemed so… finicky at times. It was hard to rely on something that had the possibility of failing you in the most crucial of moments. 

“It's colder than light magic,” you said, tucking the cards back into your deck, before slotting it onto your side. You slot your fingers together, resting your elbows on your thighs, before leaning forward. 

Yes, your hands had felt cold, hadn't they? He could feel it the other night, when you had done your usual rounds. Watched him breathe long and slow, like he savored every breath. 

“It is?” He blinks. “I had no idea magic was warm.” 

“Not… necessarily,” you reply, and allow the tendrils of magic to dance across your skin. To the denizens of this world, magic was a wonder to behold; a weapon wielded against darkness. The responsibility you have is not lost on you. “Light magic doesn't feel like anything, its just… shadow magic that feels colder in comparison. It feels like… cracking an egg over your head.” 

Dyvim smiles, a laugh passing through his lips without a second thought. He didn't expect a metaphor like that, but it made it easier to imagine. 

“Does it?” He says, with a hint of a smile tracing the edges of his words. His eyes crinkle with amusement. “I don't believe you.” 

“We could always get an egg and find out,” you suggest with a tease, until the soft warmth of your conversations silts through the silence, and you go back to being you. Not ‘The Wizard’—but you. 

His spellbinder—the one with the sad eyes and the kind smile. Everything about you is so kind, he thinks. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” he muses gently, and the smiles he receives in reply is enough to make his heart squeeze in his chest. 

He watches the firelight dance across your face. It dips wonderfully into all your crevices—the softness of your cheeks, curving underneath your eyes, against the slope of your face. 

But in your eyes, something lingers. Something that’s been there long before Dyvim had shown up. He wasn’t one to pry—you two had not known each other for long, and he felt it would be rude to ask about things that weren’t his business. He understood it, in a way. He’d rather not linger on things that happened in the past, not when their future finally seemed so bright. 

And not when the reason for that brightness was sitting right next to him.

“I’m sorry.”

Crack. 

The flame splits the kindle once more. It sways and dances, making the shadows dance along the ground in a graceful dance. Dyvim blinks, surprised at the sudden apology. “Sorry? What for?” 

“I got you killed,” you reply, your voice raspy with raw emotion. Like the words were sandpaper, and you were dragging them out of your throat. 

Ah, his… death. It’s with a shameful flush that he realizes, that the wizard must have been worried about him. 

“I knew full well what I was getting into, spellbinder.” Dyvim soothes. “Rather—it’s me who should be apologizing to you. I hadn’t meant to worry you like that.”

You suck in a soft breath, and let it exhale slow and gently from your mouth. His words release the knot of tension that had been lingering in your chest, unraveling it into fine, thin strands. 

“You’re alive,” you whisper. You resist the urge to reach out, to grab his hand and intertwine it with yours. To feel the thrum of his pulse fluttering underneath your palm. “And that’s all that matters.” 

The smile comes to him easily—something he felt only you were capable of bringing out of him, in these times of war. 

The guilt lessens, but not by a whole lot. It was true that you had felt guilty for a long time after his death, unable to even listen to your superiors without a scathing retort ready at the handle. They deserved every bit of it, and thensome. 

Dyvim didn’t. Dyvim didn’t deserve anything that happened to him. 

“I-I’m sorry, too, for—” The words spill out of your mouth, clumsy and awkward. “—For learning shadow magic.” 

The words hang in the air, amidst the quiet ambience of their camp for the evening. It’s not the sort of thing Dyvim was expecting, leading him to blink slowly, silently, at the wizard.

He… doesn’t know how to respond to that, frankly. It’s true that the wizard’s spells look different, feel different, but he had never thought of it anything beyond that. The fact that they were apologizing meant that they felt they did something wrong. 

But, there it is—the shine of guilt, lingering in your eyes. Glossing over the whites of your eyes, making them shimmer like glass. Dyvim feels his shoulders sag, just slightly, as his voice softens—only for you. “Oh, spellbinder…” 

And you? You can’t take that. With only two words, he’s knocked down your walls completely. Your eyes burn, nose stinging, as you reach up to blink away the tears. 

You can feel it—his pulse, lingering with yours, as his hand circles your wrist; he gently tugs it downwards, and you let him, allowing him to see the fruits of your labor. Your lower lashline, dotted with tears, and quiet little sobs that break his heart. 

“I didn’t mean,” you gasp out, the words stilted and disjointed. “to disappoint you. To disappoint—everyone.” 

“Where did you get that idea?” Dyvim whispers back, running a thumb gently over the seam of your wrist, where your heartbeat flutters underneath his touch. 

“It’s forbidden,” you say, your voice gravely. The words grate in your throat, uncovering the shame and guilt you had been carrying all this time, on your own. “Shadow magic is forbidden, and it’s caused… so much grief and sorrow. To you, to—to everyone else—” 

“Spellbinder,” Dyvim says, softly, and your body shudders in response. How could he say your name with such softness? You were not soft at all. You were hard at the edges, tightly coiled and ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Ready to defend the spiral. 

He doesn’t say anything else, but allows you to cry if need be. Had this been several weeks ago, a part of you would have been mortified at the idea of crying so openly in front of another person. But weeks ago Dyvim wasn’t alive—he was still encased in amber by that point, lost to the world, and you had been forced to pick up the scattered pieces and run. 

“I’m not angry at you, spellbinder,” Dyvim says, the lilt of his tone warm and gentle, voice dipping down into a soothing hush. “And I do not blame you for learning shadow magic.” 

When he reaches out, this time, it’s to take your hands gently into his own. The contrast in temperatures surprises you, the warmth of his palms seeping into your skin. The shadow had taken that from you, as well—the warmth of your own body. 

"Morganthe has done a lot to hurt my people," He says, and his voice trembles with an anger, a despair, that you recognize. The unfairness of it all, the dawning realization that you lost; that for the moment, evil had triumphed over good. Dyvim’s voice softens as he brushes his thumbs over your knuckles. "But you… you have done nothing wrong."

I have, you think, almost helplessly. Dyvim looks at you like you’ve personally hung the stars—and for him, you might. 

"You have undone some of the hurt that has been inflicted upon us for centuries, and, for the first time, I feel… hopeful."

Dyvim looks into your eyes as he says this, eyes pooling with an adoration you hadn't seen in a long, long time. A small, bitter part of you says you don't deserve it. You swallow it down, letting it drop into your stomach like a stone.

"You make me feel hopeful, spellbinder."

Truly, you don’t know what to make of that. You’re no saint, you know this—but he’s so earnest, it’s hard to disagree with him. You open your mouth to reply, but when it’s clear that nothing is going to come out, you close it. You can feel his hands squeezing yours gently, as if saying, take your time.

So you cry. 

Your face warms as you cry, letting the thick globs of tears track down your face, sniffling with each sob that leaves your lips. You don’t remember the last time you’ve cried, but it had to have been a while ago, because you can’t stop. And when one of your hands pulls away from his, to reach up to wipe away the tears with the back of your hand, his arm reaches out to circle your shoulders, and tuck you against his armor. 

“You’re safe here, spellbinder,” he whispers. “Let it all out.” 

He tells you to mind all the cold, metal parts of his armor, but you don’t care. You tuck your face against his shoulder, and let the sobs shudder through your body. Your tears twinkle like stars as they quietly plop onto his armor, as his other hand dips up and down your back in a gentle, soothing motion. 

Frankly, it’s one of the best hugs you have ever received. It’s probably one of the only hugs you have ever received, since you had stepped foot in the spiral.

"I'm sorry you had to see me like this," your voice crackles, choking on the emotion lodged in your throat.. "I know how much everyone looks up to me. I don't want to seem weak…"

"Allowing yourself to be comforted is not weak, spellbinder." Dyvim chastises lightly, for your own good. "I feel honored you were even willing to divulge this side of vulnerability to me."

"You're special," you reply, not even attempting to hide your favoritism towards him. 

For some reason, this surprises him. “Am I?” He asks. “More special than anyone else?” 

You nod. “More special than anyone else.” 

You feel him tuck his cheek against the top of your head, and feel the soft inhale and exhale of his breath. 

“In all of the spiral?” He asks, his voice quieter. 

“In all of the spiral.” 

[elenasharemofmikaelsons]

Member Fic: Mind Fuck (or, The Art of Letting Go)

A brand new fic shared on behalf of Elena's Harem of Mikaelsons Discord author @jonathansnightflight

Title: Mind Fuck (or, The Art of Letting Go) (Note: Explicit, 18+, Mind the Tags, Dead Dove) Author: JonathansNightFlight | @jonathansnightflight Posted: October 26, 2024 Chapters: 1/1 | Words: 2,002

Summary: Have you ever wished you could just stop thinking, Elena? In which Klaus helps Elena with her constant sense of guilt.

I don't know how else to say this: Klaus fucks Elena's brain, literally. If you don't think this is for you... please practise self care and skip this one <3

[smoothsayer]

Did a fill for this great Baldur’s Kink prompt! Check it out if you like, heads up that it’s dubcon.

•••

"'Come now, Gale, don’t play at innocence. Is it so strange that I wish to indulge as the Gods do? Something about you piqued the interest of Mystra herself. Color me intrigued. Intrigued enough to spare a potion in your time of need.' Raphael looks at Gale appraisingly, as if considering an oil painting or a nice vintage.

'I’m not some, some common prostitute to sell myself to you for-' Gale’s immediate shock and fury dies on his tongue as he realizes what he’s said, what he was about to say. He shoots an aggrieved glance towards Astarion. 'For-' he starts again, trying to finish the sentence, but he can’t seem to find the right words."

[mangotortoise]

A03 Wrapped

Works Published: 6

Words Written: 33,305

Bookmarks: My Works were bookmarked 256 times. I left 62 bookmarks.

Most Hits: Dead on Arrival (5,393)

Most Popular (by Kudos): Dead on Arrival with 478 (I'm still shooketh by that one.)

Longest: Dead on Arrival (17,536 words)

Shortest: I'm a Stranger Here (Just Like You) at 2,517

Most comments: Dead on Arrival (158.) The Danny Phantom Fandom (aka The Phandom) has been unbelievably supportive of my nonsense, every single comment I've received on this fic has made me maniacally giggle.

Fic that made me cry: Two stories:

>Of Nightmares and Sweet Dreams by a_little_chai (still floored that I actually have a non-canon ship I care about…this is, in fact, a new one for me.)

>Harborage by Knickynoo. Absolute gold, 10/10

Also, all the Moreid Fics written by transperalta

Fic that made me smile: Legit everything written by The Back to the Future Fandom (note: this does not include mammet related works…I ain't reading that shit.) Y'all are super amazing.

See also:

portals are really tricky things huh by Lunaraven0 (one of the neatest mashups I've ever seen)

And:

Twist of the Knife by Illxmination (another DPxCM Crossover...what can I say? I'm biased.)

Gifts: I wrote one gift for @nemmet featuring their adorable OC, April McFly (Have You Ever Seen the Rain?) I have another gift in the works for a BttF Secret Santa

Collaborations: Back to the Future: Discord with @jayisnotdrawing @nemmet @alexalithuanian @bg-sparrow @odddelorean @whosmurphy @fiddlstyx @daryfromthefuture (edit: lmk if I missed anyone)

Events: None because I put the "pro" in "procrastination." Watch me fulfill 2022's McFly July next April. Just watch me.

[ghosts-and-blue-sweaters]

Hitting On 16 is so darn good.

[jewel-shard]

Fall - Day 4: Seasons / Cherry Blossoms

Written for @inukag-week 9th Edition

Chapter 4: Pink petals

Mind the tags😘

It was infuriating. His vexation grew as he stared into hate-filled pools of brown. He saw many emotions - hatred, disdain, pain - each a banquet in their own right when served in such an appetizing vessel. But not the main course he was hoping to devour. 

Full chapter on ao3

[koushirouizumi]

DigiTwit: "Oh, by the way, here's another interview mention where Kakudou again confirmed Koushiro and Taichi were meant to be seen as the '{best} friends'"--- M E: COOL now can people LEAVE ME + KOUxTAI FAN SIDE ALONE ABOUT IT?????

[fantasticbluebirdfan]

@paanmoxi I have a small list and I can't choose I don't know what trop your looking for but here's some mind the tags before you read them tho

A different kind of mask matt and peter talk themselves out of getting arested

Peter makes vigilante friends tony doesn aprove

Can't remember what happens besides peter worms his way into Matt's life

Matt scolds the avengers on behalf of peter

A 41 story collection of team red being their is angst in some of the one shots

There's one called technicolor but I can't remember who wrote it

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 3

Word Count: 9k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, noncon, dubcon, drugging, kidnapping, obedience training, mentions of suicide, forced breeding, forced pregnancy, stalking, pet names like kitten, sweetie, pretty, ownership, manipulation

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti , @m0onlustre , @ve1vet-cake @letgobro @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leialmela

AN: It seems like these chapters just get longer and longer xDD. Hope yall don't mind! This is also on my A03 if you feel its too long to read on tumblr. Please heed the warnings and don't read this if you're sensitive to the subjects. Also! Reader has no specific skin tone, I just use images I think represent the chapter well, you can imagine her however you want! If you want to be added to the taglist please let me know, also please make sure your tumblr settings allow you to be tagged! <3

"I hate you," you whisper, your voice barely audible, muffled by his chest. The words come out broken, hollow, lacking the fire they once carried. But it’s all you can manage, the last flicker of resistance in a sea of overwhelming fatigue. "I know," Sylus replies, his voice soft and almost indulgent, as though your hatred is just another part of the game to him. He holds you tighter, his hand continuing to caress your hair. "But it doesn’t matter, sweetie. You’re mine now. Hate me all you want, I’ll still take care of you."

Read Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 4

You ease yourself into the bath, the water just a touch hotter than you'd like, enveloping your skin in a near-burning sensation. It’s almost too much, the heat prickling at your body, but you stay still, letting the warmth slowly settle around you. Steam rises in soft, curling tendrils, and you can feel the tension in your muscles begin to release, even as the heat clings to you, almost suffocating in its intensity. Your breath catches for a moment, but soon you adjust, your body reluctantly surrendering to the soothing, yet overwhelming, embrace of the water.

Despite the searing heat, you slowly begin to lose yourself in thought. When was the last time you'd allowed yourself to truly relax since this whole nightmare began? As much as you hated to admit it, the water felt good—comforting even—offering a fleeting sense of escape. For once, your worries seemed to dissolve into the bathwater, sinking like stones to the bottom. No thoughts of impending doom, no fear lurking at the edges of your mind. Just you, the gentle bubbles, and the soft, soothing scent of cherry shampoo drifting in the steam.

And no Sylus.

Your face twists into a scowl at the very thought of him. No. This was supposed to be your time, a moment for yourself. You can’t let him invade this too. Don’t think about him, you urge yourself. Focus on the bath. Focus on the warmth. Desperate to banish any trace of him from your mind, you sink lower into the water, leaving only your nose and eyes above the surface, your breath shallow as you try to disappear beneath the heat.

But it doesn’t work. His presence lingers in your thoughts like a shadow you can't shake—the memory of his touch, his voice, the sickly sweet promises he’d whisper after those twisted "sessions."

Before you can stop yourself, you plunge fully beneath the water, submerging yourself entirely, as if you could drown his memory along with your thoughts—perhaps even drown yourself if that’s what it takes to make it all stop.

The deafening roar of water fills your ears, muffling the world around you. Instinct keeps your breath held tight, but a dark thought persisted—what would happen if you really… let go? Sylus has made it clear he has no intention of releasing you. Maybe this, right here, is your only way out.

A tightness coils in your chest as your body begins its primal fight for air. The burning need to breathe claws at your lungs, but there’s no panic—just a calm, almost eerie resolve. Slowly, deliberately, you part your lips, ready to let the water rush in. This is it. Your escape. The only freedom Sylus can't take from you.

Death.

You wonder what kind of face he would make when he would discover your barely warm body bobbing in the bath water, having escaped the clutches of his captivity in a way he could not undo.

You wished you'd be around to see it.

Just as the warm sensation of water touches the back of your throat, a sharp tingling prickles across your scalp. A second later, you're violently yanked from the water, gasping for air as the bathroom floods back into focus. You blink wildly, clearing the stinging bathwater from your eyes, only to be met by a familiar face.

"Why willingly subject yourself to waterboarding?" Sylus asks, his tone laced with disappointment, as if you’ve failed some unspoken test. You glare at him angrily, grabbing at the grip he has on your hair.

"Don't tell me I'll have to supervise your baths too?"

"Let go!" you shout, clawing at his fingers, desperately trying to free your hair from his grip. To your surprise, he does, and you quickly retreat to the far edge of the tub, pressing your back against the cool porcelain. Water clings to your skin, dripping down your face as you try to steady your breath. His eyes roam over you, calculating, as if taking in every detail. Suddenly self conscious of your naked figure, you hug your arms around your breasts. You notice, for the first time, the shopping bags dangling from his other hand. He sets them down with unnerving care before casually crossing the bathroom to grab a stool.

You watch warily as he pulls it up beside the tub, seating himself directly across from you, his eyes never leaving your face.

"I wasn’t trying to kill myself," you snap, your voice sharp as you avoid his gaze. "I’d rather not give you more reasons to watch me."

Sylus chuckles softly, clearly unfazed by your defiance, as if your words barely register. Without another glance at you, he begins rummaging through the bags at his feet, his movements methodical and unhurried. After a moment, he pulls out a small white box, and you narrow your eyes, watching as he carefully peels away the packaging. Something small and silver tumbles into his palm, catching the light.

"Nail clippers?" you ask, disbelief creeping into your voice.

He nods, then casually tugs down the collar of his shirt, revealing the jagged red scratches you had raked across his skin during the last time he had forced himself on you. The sight of them makes you smirk—small, uneven lines, but they’re there, vivid reminders that you hadn’t gone down without a fight. You can almost feel your nails digging into him again, that brief moment of satisfaction before he'd pinned you, your resistance crushed beneath his weight.

"The first step in taming an angry kitten," he muses with a grin, "is taking her claws." His voice is disturbingly light, almost playful, as he reaches out toward you.

You hesitate, staring at his outstretched hand. Your instincts scream at you to pull away, but what choice do you have? Reluctantly, you slip your hand into his, your fingers trembling ever so slightly as he curls his hand around yours. His grip is firm but not harsh, his skin warm against your own, the casual dominance in his touch making your stomach churn. He watches you closely, his gaze never wavering, as if daring you to resist.

"Isn't that called declawing?" you mutter bitterly, trying to keep your voice steady as you avert your eyes. You watch instead as he presses the clippers to your nails, the metal cool against your fingertips. The soft snip of each nail being cut echoes in the quiet bathroom, a steady, unnerving rhythm.

Sylus smirks, tilting his head as he replies, "Oh?" His tone is amused, almost mocking. "Would you rather I pull them out instead?" His voice remains calm, and you're unsure if he's joking or not.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. Each clip of the clippers feels more invasive than the last, stripping away not just your nails, but a part of yourself—your small weapon of defiance.

It struck you as odd. Just yesterday, the two of you had been locked in a bitter struggle on his bed—panting, groaning, bodies slick with sweat, fighting for entirely different goals. For him, dominance. For you, escape. And now here he was, calmly and methodically clipping your nails, the act almost tender, as if you were lovers sharing an intimate moment.

Neither of you speaks until he finishes. Sylus turns your hands over slowly, inspecting his work with the same detached precision, ensuring he’s clipped them short enough. Finally satisfied, he releases your hand, letting the clippers fall from his grasp with a metallic clatter against the bathroom floor. You frown down at the newly cut length of your nails, feeling stripped of yet another small defense.

Before you can dwell on the thought, he leans over the bath, his face inching dangerously close to yours. There's hardly any space to retreat, and you’re forced to face him, your breath catching in your throat as his presence looms over you. His lips find the soft skin of your neck, leaving light, deliberate kisses that send a shiver of tension through your body.

Sensing your stiffness, he chuckles under his breath, the sound low and familiar, before cupping your face in his hand. His fingers are firm, cradling your jaw with unnerving gentleness.

"Relax..." he whispers, brushing his lips against yours in a soft, almost teasing kiss. "I won’t do anything now. Didn’t I promise you a break?"

His words echo in your mind, bringing with them the memory of his promise from this morning. Instead of threatening you for obedience, he’d dangled a twisted form of kindness—a reward, rather than punishment. A carrot, not a stick.

Promising that if you didn't put up a fight this morning, that would be the only time he would be inside you that day.

You would have been an idiot to refuse such an offer. Almost daily assaults had left you feeling sore and exhausted. Sure, you knew he was offering you crumbs of kindness as a way to train you into obedience but you were much stronger than that. He wouldn't break you so easily.

You simply hummed and nodded in agreement, giving him a small kiss back. You had come to learn that the quicker you returned his affection, the sooner he would relent. It worked, as he almost immediately smiled and leaned back on the stool. He suddenly reaches is arm up and looks at the watch on his wrist.

"Come on out. I bought a few things for you, sweetie," Sylus says softly, his eyes drifting back to your still-exposed body. You tense instinctively, sinking lower into the water as if it could shield you from his gaze. His words may be gentle, but the weight of his attention feels oppressive, suffocating.

Sensing your discomfort, he lets out a quiet laugh. "I’ll turn around. Just don’t try drowning yourself again," he chuckles, as though reading your mind. True to his word, he turns his back to you, but the tension in the room remains thick, your heart pounding in your chest. You wish, more than anything, that he would just leave, give you a moment of peace, but you know better than to ask.

With a deep breath, you grip the edge of the tub, steadying yourself as you rise from the water. The cool air hits your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the bath, and your wet feet make a quiet slap against the cold tile as you step out. Quickly, you reach for the white towel resting on the sink and begin to dry yourself, moving with an urgency spurred by your skepticism that Sylus will stay turned away for long.

As you dry yourself, you notice something unexpected—when you reach between your legs, your hand freezes. A slight gasp escapes your lips as you spot it: crimson streaks, trailing down your inner thigh. For a moment, you stare in disbelief, watching the droplets of blood slowly slide down your leg. Then, reality hits, and you frantically press the towel to your skin, catching the blood before it can reach the floor.

"What's wrong?" Sylus asks, his voice suddenly alert as he turns his head, catching your gasp. His eyes lock onto the bloodstained towel, his posture shifting as he steps toward you, concern etched across his face. "Are you hurt?"

You swallow hard, a strange mixture of emotions flooding through you. "My period..." you say softly, almost under your breath, but then, a smile creeps onto your face, one you can't suppress.

Relief crashes over you like a tidal wave. You’ve never been so happy to see blood in your life.

You aren’t pregnant. You aren’t pregnant.

Your mind races, the implications still sinking in. It’s not over, but for now, you’re safe. Your hands shake as you pull your gaze from the red stain, your breath coming in short, shaky bursts. Then, a creeping awareness settles in—you aren’t alone.

Sylus is standing behind you. You feel his presence before you see him, the weight of his silence pressing against you. You quickly wipe the smile from your face, the relief vanishing as you turn slowly to face him.

"My period... it’s just my period," you whisper, your voice trembling, barely able to hold steady. You try to read his face, desperate for any sign of how he’s reacting. His expression shifts—concern morphs into a frown, and then... nothing. His face goes blank, like a mask slipping into place. You search frantically for any flicker of emotion—anger, frustration, relief—but it’s as though he’s walled himself off, unreachable.

Was he angry? Disappointed? You couldn’t tell, and that terrified you. Your stomach twists in knots, anxiety bubbling up again. The relief you felt moments ago is quickly replaced by a new dread. One disaster averted, but what now?

"Right," he says calmly, his voice devoid of any warmth, as though this is just another mundane detail in his well-controlled world. He reaches for the bloodied towel in your hands, his movements smooth and deliberate, like nothing about this situation surprises him. "Don’t worry about this. Just finish dressing."

He leans down, pulling open the cabinet under the sink. Your heart skips a beat as he sets several packages of pads and tampons on the counter, each one the exact brand and size you regularly use. A cold chill runs down your spine. How long had he been watching you before bringing you here? How much does he already know? The intimate knowledge of your life, right down to your feminine products, feels like another layer of control—a calculated invasion disguised as care.

"If you don’t want to use these, I’ll have Luke and Kieran get different ones," he says, his tone disturbingly casual, as though this conversation is perfectly normal.

Your throat tightens. "No, these are fine... thank you."

He gives a slight nod, but it’s mechanical, his face still unreadable, and he turns to leave, collecting the rest of your discarded clothes from the bathroom floor. His steps are quick but unhurried, a man always in control of his actions, of everything around him. He leaves you standing there, shaken, and once again, you feel small under his gaze. Whatever he’s feeling, he’s locked it away. You’ll never know unless he decides to let you.

The door closes behind him, and you’re left alone with your thoughts—and the creeping realization that you may never be truly alone again.

After gathering enough courage to leave the bathroom, you cautiously crack open the bedroom door. You peer out, spotting Sylus lounging on the leather sofa, his eyes glued to his phone. His posture is relaxed, casual, as if nothing unusual has happened. But the moment you step into the room, he looks up—his gaze sharp, as though he’s been waiting for you.

"Took you long enough," he says, a smirk playing at his lips, amusement evident in his voice. The cold, distant air he had in the bathroom has vanished, replaced with the easy confidence you’ve come to expect. He’s back to being the Sylus you recognize, the one who shifts between charm and control like flipping a switch.

You force a smile, trying to match his casual tone. "Yeah, well, drowning myself was starting to seem tempting again," you quip, keeping your voice light. You move past him toward the bed, wanting nothing more than to put some distance between the two of you. But before you can get far, his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist with a gentle but firm grip. The sudden contact sends a jolt through you, freezing you in place.

His touch isn’t rough, but there’s something in it that holds you captive, a subtle reminder of the power he holds. You glance down at his hand, then back up at him, unsure whether to pull away or let him guide the moment.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, his voice soft now, almost concerned. But the question hangs in the air, heavier than it should be.

"Oh! Uh... yeah?" you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. As much as you wanted to ignore him and crawl into bed, the thought of food was too tempting to resist. Sylus stands, his grip on your wrist still firm, tugging you toward the bedroom door.

Your heart skips a beat as you watch him press his finger against the scanner beside the door. Why is he letting you this close? The lock hums and with a soft click, the door swings open. You stare at it, a thousand questions racing through your mind.

He turns back to you, his playful demeanor from moments ago evaporating in an instant, replaced by something darker, colder. His eyes lock onto yours, and suddenly, the atmosphere feels suffocating.

"Behave," he says, his voice low and serious. "Don’t wander off without me, and if you try anything... you won’t leave this room or the bed for weeks. Understood?"

The threat in his words chills you to your core. You're frozen in place, trying to process what’s happening. Is this real? Are you dreaming? Why now? The door stands open before you, a symbol of freedom, but it feels more like a trap, a carefully laid test. The air between you crackles with tension. One wrong move, and you know there will be consequences.

You shake your head quickly, pushing aside any fleeting thoughts of rebellion. Not now. Not yet.

Trying to break the moment, you turn your gaze toward the unopened bags still sitting in the corner of the room. "Didn’t you say you bought me some stuff?" you ask, your voice tentative, eyes flicking toward the bags. "I’m curious about what’s in them."

Anything to steer the conversation away from the potential threat.

"It’s okay, you can look at them later" Sylus says, his voice smooth and reassuring as he swings the door open wider. The invitation seems casual, but there’s something unsettling about how easily he offers it. His hand loosens slightly around your wrist, though he doesn’t let go completely, as if to remind you that the freedom he's offering has limits.

Your eyes flick from the open door to his face, searching for any hint of what’s really going on. His expression is calm, almost too calm, as if he’s in complete control of the situation, confident that you won’t dare make a move without his permission. The open door, the promise of something beyond this room, suddenly feels less like an escape and more like a stage he's set for you.

Every instinct in your body screams that this isn’t as simple as it looks. It’s a test, another subtle power play to remind you where you stand. The reassurance in his voice only deepens the pit in your stomach. He’s letting you out, but on his terms.

You force a nod, trying to swallow the growing unease. "Okay," you murmur, though the word feels foreign in your mouth, like you’re agreeing to something you don’t fully understand.

Sylus smiles—a small, practiced curve of his lips, but his eyes remain unreadable. He steps aside, making room for you to pass, yet the tension in the air doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, wrapping itself around you like a noose tightening with every step you take toward the door.

As you step cautiously past the threshold, the hallway beyond the door reveals a world of striking opulence. The air feels cooler, heavier, carrying the scent of leather and polished stone. Beneath your bare feet, the floor is a dark, sleek tile, almost black, with a high gloss that catches the low light and reflects distorted, shadowy images of the surroundings. Each step echoes slightly, the subtle tap of your feet magnified by the smooth surface, giving the space a cavernous, eerie quality.

The walls are a deep, charcoal black, lined with intricately carved molding that runs up to the high, coffered ceilings. Elegant sconces along the walls cast pools of soft, amber light, their glow bouncing off the glossy tiles, adding an extra layer of depth to the room. The lighting is deliberately dim, creating an atmosphere of perpetual twilight, where shadows stretch and warp across the dark floor, leaving certain corners cloaked in deeper darkness.

To your left, a grand staircase spirals down, its wrought iron railings twisting in elaborate, almost gothic designs. The banister is polished ebony, gleaming faintly in the soft light, while the steps are lined with a deep, crimson runner that stands in stark contrast to the black tiles, offering a rare touch of softness amid the cold, hard surfaces. The staircase seems to descend endlessly, vanishing into shadows that hint at more hidden secrets below.

Expensive art lines the walls—large, dark oil paintings that seem impossibly old, their subjects watching with melancholy or judgment. The frames are thick, gilded with gold, though their luster is muted with age. Between the paintings, mirrors with heavy, ornate frames reflect fragments of the space, but never enough to give you a full view—only glimpses, distorted by the interplay of light and shadow.

Despite the mansions undeniable beauty, there’s a coldness that seeps through the dark tile, a chill that seems to rise from the floor itself. Every detail, from the smooth tile to the velvet drapes, feels curated and perfect, yet it lacks any warmth or comfort. The space feels like a cage disguised in luxury—beautiful, yes, but suffocating in its grandiosity.

"Kitchen is downstairs" Sylus says, nodding in their direction. You quietly make a mental note of everything as you descend. This is your chance to map out the house, make a potential escape route. Even if Sylus was close behind, you shouldn't waste this opportunity gawking at everything. So he's filthy rich, so what?

Your eyes flit from the deep shadows that pool in the corners of the hall to the heavy drapery that conceals what’s outside. Every window, every door, every hallway could be a potential escape route if you ever get the chance. You tell yourself to remember where they are, how the house is laid out. A plan begins to form in the back of your mind, hazy but determined. One way or another, you’ll need to know this place inside and out.

Each step down the staircase feels like a test, a countdown of sorts. The further you go, the deeper you descend into Sylus’s world. The weight of his gaze makes it hard to breathe, but you know you can’t falter now. You keep your pace steady, your face expressionless, pretending that this is just a simple walk down the stairs, but inside, your thoughts race. Every second counts, and you’re not going to let this moment slip away unnoticed.

The rich, savory smell of roasted chicken invades your senses as you reach the last step, filling the air with an unexpected warmth. The faint crackle of fire and the clattering of pans echo from the nearby kitchen, the sounds weaving into the dark, quiet luxury of the house. It’s a stark contrast to the cold, empty grandeur surrounding you—this small slice of normalcy, of life. But the moment feels fragile, like it could break at any second.

Your foot barely touches the last step when Sylus’s hands clamp down on your shoulders. The sudden contact sends a jolt of fear through your body, your heart lurching as you instinctively jump.

"You’re jumpy," he says softly, his voice smooth but carrying a hint of amusement, as though your fear is entertaining to him. The warmth of the kitchen clashes with the cold tension between you, and the contrast makes the moment feel surreal.

Sylus guides you away from the comforting noises of the kitchen, leading you into a room that exudes the same dark, expensive elegance as the rest of the house. The atmosphere shifts as you step into the space—less intimate, more like a showpiece designed to impress rather than to live in. It’s reminiscent of a living room, though everything feels just a little too perfect, too polished.

Your eyes widen as a massive flatscreen TV comes into view, its size nearly absurd against the backdrop of rich, dark wood paneling and plush furniture. "Huh? I didn’t know they made TVs this big..." you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The screen is so large, it feels more like a home theater than a living room—something you’d only expect to see in movies or magazines. While the Hunter's Association paid you well, this level of luxury was foreign to you, something you'd never even considered owning.

Sylus follows your gaze to the screen, his expression unreadable. "Is something wrong with it? Too big? I can have it downsized," he offers casually, though his eyes search yours intently, as if he’s genuinely concerned about your comfort. His suggestion catches you off guard, and you cock your head in confusion. Why would he even suggest such a thing?

"No! It’s fine," you say quickly, shaking your head, still baffled by his willingness to adjust even something so extravagant for you. "I’ve just never seen one this huge."

Sylus nods, seemingly satisfied with your response, and motions toward the sofa. "Sit," he says, his tone soft but commanding. The sofa is deep, covered in smooth leather, and it practically swallows you when you lower yourself onto it.

He wastes no time sitting next to you, checking his watch again. You fiddle nervously beside him, feeling out of place in such a space. First he lets you out of his room for the very first time in weeks, and now the both of you are sitting on the couch casually as if this was routine.

You desperately wished you could tell what he was thinking.

"Chef should be done in a few minutes" Sylus said, interrupting your anxious thoughts. He tenderly intertwines his fingers with yours, lifting your hand up to press a soft kiss against your knuckles. His gaze is unwavering as he looks at you.

Your gaze shifts, briefly breaking away from his piercing eyes, and lands on a shelf in the corner of the room behind him. Something there catches your attention—an old, meticulously cared-for record player. Its polished surface gleams in the low light, a relic of a different time. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, standing out against the modern opulence surrounding it. You wonder briefly about its significance. Why something so old in a house filled with the latest luxuries?

But the question fades as Sylus’s thumb gently strokes your hand, pulling your focus back to him. He's being tender right now, and feeling bold, you start talking.

"I didn't think the leader of Onychinus would live in such a grand place" you say calmly, eyeing his reaction. Instead of anger of irritation, he simply smiles as if he already realized you had figured out his identity.

"Oh? What were you thinking then?"

"Well...I figured you would be in hiding" you say plainly, gritting your teeth a bit. "This place is pretty easy to spot. Lots of hiding places too."

Sylus chuckles as if you just told him something funny. "Sweetie nothing gets in or out of this place without me knowing, that's hardly a worry"

You mentally curse yourself. Of course he has cameras. Why wouldn’t he? A man like Sylus would never leave anything to chance, especially not in a place like this. Escaping wouldn’t be as simple as memorizing the layout of the house. You’d have to make it past the cameras, the eyes constantly watching, recording every move. The realization makes your stomach sink. Even your thoughts of escape feel smaller, less attainable now.

The air grows thick with the scent of steam and roasted chicken as a figure appears around the corner. The chef, an older man with deep-set lines in his face, moves with quiet precision. He says nothing as he places an exquisite spread of chicken and side dishes on the table in front of you. Everything looks impossibly perfect—the golden-brown skin of the chicken, the vibrant vegetables, the delicately arranged plates. It’s the kind of meal you might see in a restaurant you could never afford, yet it feels out of place here, too refined and elegant for the suffocating tension in the room.

The chef doesn’t speak, not a word, but he gives a small nod in Sylus’s direction before quietly retreating from the room. His presence, brief and silent, only adds to the strange, controlled atmosphere. You find yourself wondering if he knows—if he’s aware of the twisted dynamic at play here—or if he’s just another piece of the puzzle that makes up Sylus’s meticulously crafted world.

For a moment, you think about the cameras again. They’re watching, just like Sylus. Always watching. You force yourself to focus on the meal, trying not to give away the panic bubbling beneath your calm exterior. You smile faintly, but your mind races with the next hurdle: it’s not just about getting out of the house, it’s about getting out unseen.

Sylus glances at you, his hand still resting on yours. "Eat," he says softly, his voice smooth but with an edge of command beneath it. The invitation sounds pleasant, but you know better. This isn’t a request.

You nod, swallowing hard, a knot of anxiety tightening in your throat. You start with the green beans, methodically chewing, your mind already strategizing. Green beans—protein and energy for running. Every bite, every move from here on out has to be deliberate, with purpose. Escaping this place was never going to be easy, but now it feels even more impossible. Still, you cling to the idea that preparation is key. You’ll need your strength for when the time comes.

As you chew, you glance at Sylus and notice something unsettling. He hasn’t touched his plate. His gaze is fixed on you, watching, as if he’s waiting for something. The unease that had been simmering beneath the surface now starts to bubble up. You meet his eyes, silently questioning why he’s not eating. He smiles tenderly.

"I’ll be tracking your ovulation window from now on," he says casually, as though he were discussing the weather. "Since you’ve gotten your first period since staying here, now would be a good time to start."

The words hit you like ice water, chilling you to the core. You freeze, your fork halting mid-air as the meaning of what he said sinks in. The casualness of his tone, the way he drops such a personal, invasive statement into the conversation as if it’s nothing, leaves you reeling. He’s watching you, gauging your reaction, his smile lingering in the same unsettling way.

The room, with all its lavish furnishings and exquisite food, suddenly feels more like a cage than ever. It’s not just about being physically trapped anymore—it’s the knowledge that even your body is under his control. He’s tracking you, monitoring the most intimate parts of your life. Any illusion of autonomy shatters, leaving only the cold reality of how deeply he intends to dominate every aspect of your existence.

You force yourself to swallow the bite in your mouth, your heart pounding in your chest. Stay calm, you tell yourself. Don’t react. Not yet.

"That won't guarantee a baby" you retort, trying your best to hide a scowl. You know you’re pushing him, testing the boundaries, but the words slip out before you can stop them. The shift in his expression is immediate. The amusement that once danced in his eyes evaporates, replaced by something darker, more calculated.

His face contorts into a deep frown, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he processes your defiance. For a moment, he says nothing, and the air between you feels charged, thick with unspoken tension.

"Maybe not the first time," he starts slowly, his voice dropping a notch, finally picking up his own fork. His tone is calm, but there’s a cold edge to it, like he’s already several steps ahead in whatever twisted game he’s playing. "Or the second time."

He takes a deliberate bite, chewing slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as if daring you to interrupt. After what feels like an eternity, he swallows and leans back against the sofa, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

"But it will eventually."

The words hang in the air, a dark promise. His voice is measured, controlled, but beneath the surface, you can feel the underlying threat. Sylus isn’t just talking about biology; he’s making it clear that he will keep trying, over and over again, until he gets what he wants. The casual way he says it, as if it’s inevitable, sends a shiver down your spine.

The words settle in your mind, their dark implications unfurling like a slow, creeping poison. You can’t take it anymore—the calm, the control, the endless power games. Something inside you snaps. The fear, the careful restraint you’ve held onto for weeks, crumbles all at once. Before you can stop yourself, you slam your fist down onto the table, the sharp clatter of silverware echoing through the room.

"Do you even hear yourself?" you shout, your voice shaking with rage. "You think this is some sick game? You can’t just… you can’t control my body like that! You can't just—" Your voice breaks, the dam of emotions bursting wide open. "You think you can force this? That you can just keep me here, like I’m some… some breeding stock? Like I don’t have a say in my own life?"

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts, your heart pounding in your ears. The words are spilling out now, unstoppable. "You think tracking my ovulation, making your plans—doing whatever sick family fantasy thing you have in mind—is going to work? You have no right! No right to decide what happens to me, no right to decide my future for your delusions!"

Sylus's fork clatters back onto his plate, his face blank at first, but the tension in the air is palpable. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches as you lose control, like he’s waiting for something—maybe for you to exhaust yourself, maybe for you to break down entirely. But you don’t care anymore.

"You’re insane!" you spit, your voice cracking as the emotions surge, unstoppable now. "This whole place—this whole twisted world of yours—it’s a prison. Do you even get that? It doesn’t matter how much money you throw at it, how many things you control, it’ll never make you anything but a monster!"

The words hang in the air, trembling with the rawness of your outburst. Your chest heaves, your hands shaking uncontrollably. You’re on the verge of tears, but you refuse to let them fall. Not in front of him. Not now.

"I'll kill myself before any child of yours ever calls me mom" you say, your words ringing through the still and quiet mansion.

Sylus’s expression shifts, the mask of calm slipping ever so slightly. His eyes narrow, and his lips press into a thin, tight line. For a moment, the room feels like it’s holding its breath. Then, as if something in him cracks open, he smiles. A slow, unnerving grin spreads across his face, the darkness in his eyes momentarily replaced by something even more disturbing—amusement.

You stare at him, dumbfounded, trying to process the sudden shift in his demeanor. The anger you had expected never comes. Instead, a low chuckle rumbles from his chest, growing louder, filling the room with an eerie echo that makes your skin crawl.

"Are you done with your little tantrum, kitten?" he coos, his voice dripping with condescension. The way he says "kitten" sends a shiver down your spine, the pet name laced with eerie sweetness. Without warning, he reaches out, gripping your wrist with an unsettling gentleness, pulling you toward him with ease.

Before you can react, he yanks you down onto his lap, forcing you to straddle him. Your body stiffens, the weight of him beneath you both unsettling and humiliating. You feel trapped, like prey ensnared in a hunter’s grasp. His arm wraps around your waist, locking you in place. You try to pull away, but his hold is unyielding.

"Poor thing," he murmurs, his voice soft but taunting as his fingers trail lazily up your back, "you’re just a little ball of anger, aren’t you?" His smile widens as his hand slides into your hair, gently tugging it, controlling even the smallest movements. You feel the tension in your body spike, but any resistance you try to muster is immediately swallowed by the cold reality of his control.

"You know," he continues, his tone light, almost playful, as if you weren’t just screaming at him moments ago, "I could let you keep fighting me. Let you wear yourself out like a kitten clawing at something it can’t catch." He chuckles again, his fingers tightening in your hair, forcing your head to tilt just enough so that you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His eyes, dark and unreadable, lock onto yours with a frightening intensity.

"But we both know how this ends, don’t we?" he whispers, his voice dropping into something dangerously low. His smile never fades, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens into something cruel. "You’ll tire yourself out. You always do."

A whimper escapes your lips as his grip tightens in your hair, the pressure mounting to the point where it’s impossible to hold back any longer. The tears you’ve fought so desperately to contain now spill freely, streaking down your cheeks. Your body trembles as the emotional dam breaks, the fear, frustration, and helplessness flooding out all at once.

Sylus notices. His expression shifts, softening in a way that feels strange. The cruel amusement that once gleamed in his eyes fades, replaced by something disturbingly gentle. He loosens his grip on your hair, letting his fingers glide down to your cheek. His thumb brushes away the hot tears, wiping them tenderly.

"Don’t cry pretty girl," he murmurs, his voice a quiet coo. The gentleness in his tone feels like a strange juxtaposition to the fear still gripping your chest. His other hand slides down to cradle your face, keeping you close, but no longer with the same force. "It’s okay. I promised I’d take care of you, didn’t I?"

He presses soft kisses on your lips as they tremble and you just let him, the weight of the situation crashing on you. "Just take my cum and have my baby, I'll take care of everything else. Doesn't that sound easy?"

You jerk your head away from him at the mere thought of him impregnating you.

He turns your head back towards him, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your tear-streaked cheek, the touch almost reverent. The sensation makes your skin crawl, the tenderness a cruel mockery of the power he so clearly holds over you. You want to pull away, but his hands keep you there, gently holding you in place as if to soothe the very tears he caused.

His lips move to your hand, kissing your tear-stained fist, as though he’s trying to console you after making you break down. The gesture feels wrong, every soft touch an extension of his control masquerading as care. He’s not only comforting you out of kindness and love but he’s reminding you that even your pain belongs to him, that he can take you to the brink of despair and then pull you back whenever he pleases.

"You can scream, you can break my things, you can throw tantrums, but in the end..." His voice lowers, chillingly calm. "You’re still mine. You still belong to me. Your anger? It’s nothing. It won’t change anything."

The room feels smaller now, his words wrapping around you like a vice, tightening with every breath. You can’t breathe, can’t think, the weight of the situation crashing down on you all over again.

"And as for your outburst..." he says, his lips curling into a faint smile. "It will have consequences."

Your body trembles as his thumb brushes away another tear, his touch tender, almost soothing. And despite the revulsion that twists in your stomach, despite every fiber of your being screaming at you to push him away, you don’t.

You can’t.

You’re just so exhausted.

Without even realizing it, you lean into him, your body betraying your mind. The weight of your exhaustion is unbearable, and the fight you’ve held onto for so long begins to slip through your fingers like sand. Your head rests against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing providing a sick sort of comfort that you hate yourself for needing.

He holds you gently, his arm wrapping around your waist, securing you against him as though he’s protecting you. The irony is suffocating. This man, who has twisted your world into a living nightmare, is now the one offering you comfort. And as much as you despise him for it, for the control he wields over you, you sink deeper into his embrace, desperate for the warmth and the momentary relief from your own anguish.

"There you go," he murmurs softly, his fingers stroking your hair in long, calming motions. "See? It’s not so bad, is it?"

The words cut, each one a reminder of the power he holds over you, but you’re too drained to care anymore. The anger, the defiance, the hatred—it’s all still there, burning under the surface, but right now, the only thing you can feel is the weight of your own exhaustion pulling you down, dragging you into a state of reluctant surrender.

"I hate you," you whisper, your voice barely audible, muffled by his chest. The words come out broken, hollow, lacking the fire they once carried. But it’s all you can manage, the last flicker of resistance in a sea of overwhelming fatigue.

"I know," Sylus replies, his voice soft and almost indulgent, as though your hatred is just another part of the game to him. He holds you tighter, his hand continuing to caress your hair.

"But it doesn’t matter, sweetie. You’re mine now. Hate me all you want, I’ll still take care of you."

You hate him for saying it. You hate him for making you feel like you need him. But in this moment, you’re too tired to fight him. You allow yourself to collapse into the illusion of safety, just for a little while, even though you know it’s a trap.

You wake to the sensation of being moved, cradled like you’re something fragile. It’s disorienting at first, and for a brief, blissful moment, you don’t remember where you are. But then the cold reality slams into you.

Sylus.

Your eyes flicker open, and through the haze of sleep, you realize he’s carrying you. His arms are steady, but the feel of his hold sends a chill down your spine. You try to shake off the drowsiness, to push yourself upright, but your limbs feel weak and uncooperative.

"Shh," he whispers, his voice gentle, though it only makes the situation worse. "Go back to sleep. You’re safe."

Safe. The word rings hollow in your mind. You know better. Even though his touch is soft and careful, even though his voice is low and comforting, you know exactly where you are—exactly who holds you.

Your heart sinks as you hear the faint whirr of a door opening. He’s taking you back to the room, the one where you’ve spent so many weeks locked away, trapped. A lump forms in your throat as you realize what’s happening, but you’re too weak to fight it. You had a brief taste of freedom, even if it was a twisted version of it, but now he’s putting you back in your cage.

Sylus steps into his room, the dim light casting long shadows over the dark, lavish space. He moves with deliberate care, like he’s handling something precious, lowering you onto the bed with a gentleness that feels grotesque in its contrast to what he’s actually doing.

Your body sinks into the mattress, your limbs too heavy to lift. You manage a weak protest, a soft whimper of resistance, but he shushes you again, his hand brushing the side of your face with infuriating tenderness.

"Sleep, kitten. You need your rest."

He moves to the door, and you hear the unmistakable sound of the lock. The finality of it sends a fresh wave of despair through you. You’re back in the same room, the same prison, despite the moments of fragile comfort you had shared. It all meant nothing. You’re still his prisoner.

You turn your face into the pillow, tears pricking at your eyes once more, but you’re too drained to cry again. Your body aches, your mind is foggy, and sleep still tugs at you, relentless in its pull. You hate that you find any sense of comfort in the bed, in the quiet, but there’s no fight left in you tonight.

With the sound of the lock still echoing in your mind, you close your eyes and let yourself slip back into unconsciousness, knowing that tomorrow, nothing will have changed.

You wake suddenly, gasping for air, your skin slick with sweat. The sheets are tangled around your legs, suffocatingly warm. For a moment, you think it's just another nightmare—the kind that leaves you feeling claustrophobic and panicked—but the heat in the room is real, heavy, and stifling.

You sit up slowly, blinking in the darkness, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Something feels off. The usual low hum of electricity, the steady whir of the ceiling fan, the soft glow of electronics—they’re all gone. Silence presses down around you, and the air in the room feels thick and still, almost oppressive.

The power’s out.

It hits you slowly at first, like a distant thought struggling to surface. The heat, the silence... no fan, no lights. And then it clicks. The power’s out. The fingerprint scanner.

Your heart skips a beat, adrenaline spiking through your veins. No power means the security system that’s kept you locked in this room—trapped and helpless—is down. The scanner on the door, the one that’s monitored your every movement, is dead. It has to be.

This could be your only chance.

You stumble out of bed, your legs shaky, still groggy from sleep but jolted awake by the rush of adrenaline. Your hands tremble as you feel your way to the door in the dark, the oppressive heat clinging to your skin. The room is suffocating, the air too thick to breathe, but none of that matters now.

You press your thumb against the scanner, holding your breath. Nothing happens. The small screen remains black, unresponsive. It’s not working.

A flicker of hope flares in your chest. The lock isn’t powered. You press your palm against the door and push, feeling it give under your hand. Slowly, carefully, you ease the door open just a crack and peer out into the hallway.

The corridor is bathed in shadow, darker than when you last saw it. The ambient lights, the security monitors, everything is dead. The house is eerily still, the silence even more unnerving than before. You step into the hallway, your heart racing as you move forward, each step deliberate and cautious.

For a brief, terrifying moment, you expect to hear Sylus’s voice, or the sound of footsteps approaching from behind, but the house remains quiet. You know he has Luke and Kieran stationed somewhere, but for now, the way seems clear.

You make your way toward the grand staircase, remembering some parts of the house from earlier. The front door is just ahead, at the bottom of the stairs. The hallway stretches before you, dark and endless, but your pulse quickens with the possibility of freedom.

You take a breath and descend the stairs as quietly as possible, gripping the banister for balance. Each creak of the wood beneath your feet feels deafening in the stillness. Your eyes dart around the hallway, searching the shadows for any sign of movement.

Finally, you reach the bottom of the stairs. The front door looms ahead, and you move toward it, the air growing cooler as you get closer. Your hand reaches for the door handle, and just as your fingers brush the cool metal, you freeze.

Voices.

You hear them—low, muffled voices coming from outside the door. Sylus’s men.

"Shit, powers out. We gotta start the generators."

Your heart sinks. They're right outside. You cant go this way without immediately being manhandled.

You glance around frantically, your mind racing for another way out. The house is massive, full of rooms and corridors, but you have no idea where the other exits lead. Still, you can’t afford to stand here and think—you need to move.

Then you remember. The kitchen. Maybe there's a way out there?

It’s a long shot, but you don’t have any other options. You turn quickly, darting down the hallway, your footsteps light and deliberate on the smooth, black tile. The shadows seem to stretch and twist around you, and every small creak feels like it’s echoing through the silence. You try to keep calm, but the fear of being caught wraps tighter around your chest with every passing second.

You reach the kitchen, and the oppressive heat of the house seems to lessen as you step inside. The room is large and dark, no light to be seen through the windows. The scent of stale food lingers in the air, remnants of a meal long forgotten, but you barely notice it. Your eyes dart to the side door.

It’s small, barely noticeable in the corner of the room, half-concealed behind shelves and cabinets. The door leads out to the horse racing track—you remember Sylus mentioning it in conversation once.

You rush toward the door, your pulse thundering in your ears. You reach for the handle, your hand trembling as it wraps around the cool metal. For a brief moment, you fear it’ll be locked, that this last chance at freedom will slip through your fingers.

Thankfully, with a twist and a click it opens.

The space beyond the kitchen is nothing like you expected—no trees, no breeze, just the harsh, cold landscape of the N109 zone. The dark, black midnight sky looms over you like an oppressive blanket, thick and unwelcoming. No stars, no moonlight, just an endless void stretching above you. The air is still and stale, a reflection of the lifelessness surrounding you.

But you have no time to process any of it. You can’t stop now. You have to keep moving.

Your feet press into the cracked, uneven ground as you forge ahead, your breath shallow and quick. As you walk, the outline of several horse stables comes into view. The structures are dark, the animals inside unmoving, their silhouettes barely visible in the low light. Thankfully, the horses are all asleep. None stir as you pass by quietly, your body tense and ready to bolt at the slightest sound. The only thing you hear is the quiet crunch of your own footsteps on the rough surface beneath you.

Ahead, a tall fence looms in the distance, a final obstacle standing between you and the outer edges of the N109 zone. You approach it cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest as you study its height. It’s rusted and worn, but still sturdy enough to make the climb difficult. You don’t have time to think—you have to act.

Gripping the cold metal tightly, you heave yourself up, your muscles straining with each movement. Your hands slip slightly, the rough texture of the fence biting into your palms as you scramble to find footing. Panic flares briefly in your chest, but you grit your teeth and push through the fear. You can’t stop now.

Just as you manage to get a decent grip, you hear it—the unmistakable hum of power returning. Behind you, Sylus’s mansion springs to life. Lights flicker on in the distance, illuminating the cold, empty halls that only moments ago were shrouded in darkness. The power’s back. It won’t be long before they notice you’re gone. They’ll be coming for you.

It’s now or never.

With a final burst of strength, you haul yourself up the last few feet of the fence, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The metal digs into your skin, but you don’t care. You pull yourself over the top, balancing precariously for a moment before launching yourself over.

You crash onto the other side, landing face-first on the hard, unforgiving ground. Pain shoots through your body as your knees and elbows scrape against the jagged surface, but you don’t let it stop you. You’ve come too far to be caught now.

For a moment, you lie there, dazed and gasping for breath, the shock of the impact making your head spin. The cold ground beneath you feels like both a punishment and a reminder that you’re not free yet. Behind you, you can hear the faint sounds of activity from the mansion—the twins moving, footsteps echoing in the distance.

They know.

Ignoring the pain, you force yourself to your feet, your body protesting with every movement. The fence looms behind you like a dark sentinel, separating you from the life you’re fleeing. You don’t dare look back at the mansion, don’t give yourself the chance to second-guess your next move.

You start running.

The landscape ahead is bleak and dark, with nothing but cold, cracked streets in every direction. There’s no breeze, no noise apart from your labored breathing and the pounding of your feet against the ground. A few tall and bleak buildings reminiscent of a part of a city come into view. You start making your way there.

You’re outside. You’re running. And for the first time in what feels like forever, the possibility of freedom is real, even if it’s still far out of reach.

In the distance, perched on a dead landline, a mechanical crow preens its feathers. Its head jerks toward a running girl, its red eyes locking onto her figure. Without warning, it spreads its metal wings and takes off in her direction, gears whirring as it follows from above.

[elenasharemofmikaelsons]

Member Fic: Bitter is the Wind (Chapter 3)

A brand new chapter of a multi-chapter fic shared on behalf of Elena's Harem of Mikaelsons Discord author @sunless-garden

Title: Bitter is the Wind (Chapter 3) (Note: Explicit, 18+, Mind the Tags, Dead Dove) Author: sunless_garden | @sunless-garden Posted: October 25, 2024 Chapters: 3/4 | Words: 3,922/10,740

Summary: The wolf is gone. The man is no less dangerous.

[twilightangel83]

Hello and good day to all my fellow Legend of Zelda fans!

As you may or may not be aware we in the Legend of Zelda fandom have been having some troubles when it comes to tagging on A03. Mostly that the only tags that seem to be available to tag various Links with was the Linked Universe specific tags. Which led to writers either trying to make their own tags (which no one knew how to find) or inaccurately using Linked Universe Tags. Neither of which were fair to creators writing outside of Linked Universe, or fair to the Linked Universe community (let alone JoJo herself!).

People trying to tag their non-Linked Universe fics were either scrambling to be found or blending their words in with Linked Universe works. And Linked Universe fans who were searching for Linked Universe fics ended up stumbling across fics they weren’t looking for.

So, with that in mind, I reached out to the A03 team in search of a solution. And they have gotten back to me! I am going to post a picture of their reply under the cut, but I will summarize it first.

There (now? I’m not clear if they’ve all existed before) are tags we can use for most of our various Links that aren't Linked Universe. They’re just not tags that go in the “Character” box. Instead, you put Link (Legend of Zelda) in the character box and then one (or more) of these tags into the “Additional Tags” box. The tags are ‘Link from X game’. So, for example: Link from Breath of the Wild/Tears of the Kingdom (Legend of Zelda) or Link from Twilight Princess (Legend of Zelda). If you try to put a specific Link in and they don’t exist already you’ll just have to fill it in unfortunately. And the more people use that tag the sooner it will be made into one that’s canonized.

Mind you! These tags should NOT be used for Linked Universe fanfictions. JoJo has explicitly asked that Linked Universe fanworks NOT be tagged with general Legend of Zelda tags. And that is what these are. So please leave these tags for those of us writing outside of Linked Universe.

I did a little experimenting and there seems to be a tag for every game EXCEPT;

“Link from Four Swords Adventures (Legend of Zelda)”,

"Link from Triforce Heroes (Legend of Zelda)",

“Link from The Legend of Zelda (Legend of Zelda)”,

“Link from The Adventures of Link (Legend of Zelda)”, and

“Link from Age of Calamity (Legend of Zelda)”.

There is also no tag for:

“The Hero of Men (Legend of Zelda)” (or whatever title could be used for the hero before Link from The Minish Cap)

But there are Character tags for “Ancient Hero (Legend of Zelda)” and “Hylia’s Chosen Hero (Legend of Zelda)” (who I believe is the First Hero).

The more we, as a fandom, use these tags (especially the ones that aren’t currently searchable) the more readily usable they will be.

[myfictionaldreams]

~ Mafia!Stucky Mastlist⍟✪ 📚~

Hello lovely, I hope you’re having a great day. I thought it was about time I made a list dedicated to my favourite boys, so welcome to my Mafia!Stucky masterlit!I love to write in my spare time, and the fiction I create is for 18+ readers ONLY. Also, everything is character x fem!reader, and please, read the tags carefully before continuing.

Masterlists ♥ A03 ♥ Tags  ♥ Question? ♥ latest works ♥

you're mine (smut, angst, dark)

Steve loves showing off what’s his, you. What does eh do when he sees someone staring at what is his?

i need more (fluff, smut)

You’d been off all day and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Steve. He’d do anything to make you feel better so when you started begging him to help you have some release, he didn’t hold back.

ruined orgasm - kinktober (smut)

He had given you one rule: do not interrupt the meeting. So, of course you had to walk straight into the meeting that had all of America’s most noterious gangsters

steve's birthday wish (P.1) (fluff, smut, angst)

It was approaching Steve’s birthday and you had no idea what to get him. Bucky suggests just asking the Mafia boss what he would like, but would you regret your decision when you hear what Steve truly wants.

When Two Become Three (P.2) (fluff, smut)

It has been a few weeks since Steve sat back and watched your be pleasured by his best friend Bucky, and you couldn’t stop thinking about it. Especially, the part where Steve confessed his fantasy to have a threesome, but would you ever agree to it?

one more meeting (fluff, smut, angst, dark)

For all of the years that you had known Steve and Bucky, you had never seen them lose control of their anger. All of the murder and violence always being calculated, calm, and dangerous. But today, that all changed and for the first time in years, you were truly scared of the boys you loved.

repeat after me(fluff, smut, angst)

It wasn’t often that you had to attend a party with your boyfriends but today, you found yourself at one, filling you with anxiety and dread. How will the boys react when they find you close to a panic attack and starting to doubt their love for you?

how many?(fluff, smut)

Steve had finally found time to take you and Bucky on holiday. What he doesn’t tell you however is that today, he wanted to see just how many times he and Bucky could get you to orgasm.

i can’t lose you (fluff, smut, angst, dark)

Being the girlfriend of the Mafia leader and his second in command had its dangers but for years, you'd never had to experience this. Until now. How will the boys react when you're put in danger?

no touching (fluff, smut, angst)

You blatantly ignored their instructions and now you had to suffer the repercussions for your actions.

i don’t care (fluff, smut)  

'The reader having a menstrual cycle, this one just a little worse than others, and Steve and Bucky worrying and helping her through it.'

the one weakness (fluff, smut, angst) 

It wasn't often you were by yourself so when you quickly go to the coffee shop, what happens when the enemy is watching and waiting nearby.

overwhelming (fluff)

It had been your birthday a few days ago and both Steve and Bucky had made it their mission to give you the most lavish party followed by intense, long nighttime activities. However as you lay in bed on Monday morning, something just didn't feel quite right.

the fun game  (fluff, smut)

Steve and Bucky had forgotten about your date, leaving you waiting for two hours in the restaurant. How will they react when you decide to play your own little game as payback and, how far can you go before they finally snap?

harder, please  (fluff, smut, angst)

Your mind was clouded with lust and pleasure, as you begged repeatedly for more from Bucky but, what happens when you get hurt in the process?

protect and forget  (fluff, smut, angst) 

Life as the girlfriend of the Mafia boss and his second-in-command was not always smooth sailing, everything did not always go to plan. Two weeks before your birthday, a threat was made to your life. What happens when Steve and Bucky begin to push you away as they search for the threat?

All Eyes On You  (smut)  

“Do you know what we would have done if we had turned up to that restaurant and seen you all dolled up like that? We would have bent you over the table in front of everyone and shown them exactly who you belonged to". - Steve Rogers

you belong to me  (fluff, smut, angst)

These girls knew you were dating Steve and Bucky, so why is it that they thought it was ok to have their hands all over them?

dont fall asleep  (fluff, smut, angst)

It was supposed to be a normal day, but not in fate's eyes as you and Sam are hit by a drunk driver. How will Steve and Bucky react when they hear their girls been hurt?

rule number one.  (fluff, smut, angst)

It was Bucky's birthday but even a surprise party won't stop Steve and Bucky from punishing you for not looking after yourself.

Last Hope (CH. 1) (CH. 2)  (fluff, smut, angst, dark)

Before dating Steve and Bucky, your life felt like a steel cage that you couldn't escape from because of your family business. There was no happiness or hope but, what happens when the infamously heartless mafia leader, Steve Rogers, finds you alone?

our little bean  (fluff, angst)    

You stared unblinking at the Doctor who had just told you the news you couldn't quite comprehend. You were on birth control, so why is the test in his hands saying that you're pregnant?  Accidents happened but is this a happy one? (Yes it is).

the limit  (fluff, smut, angst)

Everyone has a limit, this includes Steve and Bucky. What happens in different situations where each of you felt compelled to use your safewords?

sick day (fluff)

Bucky had warned you that dancing in that rain without a coat would lead you to be ill, maybe you should have listened more to his warning.

accident’s happen (fluff, smut, angst) 

You were visiting a friend when you were accidentally hit in the face, leaving behind a cut across your cheekbone. How will Steve and Bucky react when they see their girl injured?

everyone is breakable  (fluff, smut, angst)

Steve and Bucky were invincible in your eyes. They'd never been injured or in a situation where you thought they weren't the ones in control. That is until one day Bucky doesn't return from meeting with a client.

winter soup  (fluff, smut, angst)

There was no better feeling than a bowl of hot soup when you're feeling unwell and, what's even better is when it's delivered to your door every day by your new guard. It tasted amazing and you could always trust everyone in the Mafia... right?

something new   (smut)

The mafia leader was known to be possessive and enjoy showing off his girl but what happens when he wants to do this by being intimate in front of his gang?

pegging - kinktober  (smut)

Steve had once instructed bucky how to pleasure you but what happens when you’re the one being given the instructions?

cockwarming - kinktober (smut)

You’re feeling needy and restless so Steve offers you something to suck on, much to Bucky’s amusement.

double penetration in one hole - kinktober  (smut)

You were adament to prove Steve wrong and do something you’ve never done before.

fear play - kinktober (smut, dark)

You woke up to darkness, your phone was missing and, all you could was silence echoing around the house but, you knew you weren’t alone.

role reversal - kinktober  (smut)

For once, you were the one shouting at the enemy, demanding that they leave your office. Steve and Bucky were in awe so you tried to keep up this confidence and burn off some energy with them.

Duke, Duchess and Knights  (fluff, angst)

You get so lost in the fantasy dream that when it turns into a nightmare, you're not sure what reality is when you wake up screaming.

Merry Christmas (fluff, smut)

It was a simple question: Have you been naughty or nice this year?

Safety Measures (Angst, Smut, Fluff)

It was the anniversary of Steve and Bucky saving you from your sadistic brother. Usually, it was a time of celebration for you, but this year, you couldn't help but feel paranoid and unsafe.

Drabbles

The first to give their jacket when reader is cold

Mad & Sad moments

Saying the wrong thing

TikTok trend: no kissing

Who is more protective?

safe space in your new home

Halloween Costumes

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 23 - Wherever You're Going

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: We made it, squad. It only took 400k words, but here we are. THE PORN CHAPTER. Also, if you're going to tell me that the gif is technically just Jensen Ackles, consider this. I don't care. It's in the spirits of the chapter (horny as fuck). Chapter Title from Moon River by Frank Sinatra.

Word Count: 22k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Ben have a lot of stuff to do. Smut. All of it. It's here, it's huge, it's horny and emotional. Usual warnings, plus so much fucking smut.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, heavy smut, fluff, love confessions

Read on A03!

Chapter 22 - Chapter 24

You can feel Ben before you’re fully awake. Your face is still pressed to his chest, one hand fisted in his shirt as the other rests near his neck, and his legs are tangled with yours, but you feel him first. Sitting inside your chest, alive and powerful and burning in a steady beat with your heart. Made entirely of love. For you.

Ben loves you.

Everything is warm and safe. When you take a long breath you can smell pine, and when you shift in Ben’s arms—wrapped around your body, holding you carefully like you might vanish—he presses a kiss to the top of your head. He’s here. Ben knows you love him, and you didn’t lose him. He loves you. He loves you and you can feel it everywhere. Even half asleep, you can still feel Ben’s love in your body, focused and devoted and growing brighter when you push your head deeper against his chest.

“I know you’re awake,” Ben’s words are low, deep—rolling from him into your bones and blood—and muttered against your ear. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

“My heart is always beating.” You grumble, words muffled in his shirt. “That’s not proof I’m awake.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, muscles flexing around you, and you make an undignified, mumbling sound, trying to tug him closer by his shirt. “Got you to fucking talk though. That’s some damn proof you’re awake.”

Your eyes are still closed, but you can see his smug grin as your arms wrap around his neck and your grumble against his skin. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Ben hums, something inside him starting to glow. “You fucking love me.”

“I do. I really do.” You sigh. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Ben snorts, and when your arms tighten around him, a hand moving up into his hair, his love starts to spread through you. Furious and consuming, waking you up and draining any exhaustion from your body or mind. This is what matters, Ben is what matters, and there’s no need to be tired when he’s here. When he loves you. You blink up at him, and he’s already watching you. He’s so handsome, face cast in the golden light of the sunset, leaking through the windows, and when you smile at him all his love bursts along your ribs.

“Hi.”

A hand drops to your ass, squeezing and pushing you further up his body, and he chuckles when you let out a downright pathetic whine. “Hi, Sunshine.”

It’s not really important who moves first, because you’ll end up right here every time. With Ben’s mouth on yours, his body rolling on top of yours as he kisses you into the mattress, and your hands tugging at his hair when he bites your lip. He tastes like Ben. There’s the coffee and salt, but it’s mostly just him. Strong hands kneading gently at your skin, dropping his tongue and teeth to your neck and leaving sloppy, wet kisses across your collarbone before returning to your face, groaning down your throat when you drop a hand between your bodies and palm his cock, straining through his jeans.

Fucking damnit, Ben’s voice is in your head, rough and low as he lets out another groan. Trying to fucking kill me.

You smile, and squeeze your hand around him. You shouldn’t have worn jeans to bed, Pretty Boy. That’s on you.

Ben freezes, and pushes up on his arms to glare at you. “We’re going to need to figure out how this mind reading shit works. I am not letting you hear every single fucking thought I have.”

Lining all the love and affection in his body is that hot, prickly and sore feeling of embarrassment, and you tilt your head at him. “What are you thinking that I shouldn’t hear, Benjamin?”

“It’s about fucking privacy-“

You wrinkle your nose at him. “No, it’s not. Try again.”

“What makes you so damn sure,“ he grumbles. “It could be.”

“Nope. When you’re dodging a question, you get deeper lines right here.” You reach a hand up to his face, tracing the outer corners of his eyes. “Because you’re trying not to glare more. Tell me what you don’t want me to hear.”

Ben rolls his eyes, catching your hand in his and kissing your knuckles. “It’s not fucking important, we have better things to do-“

“We’re not fucking until you answer my question.”

It’s a lie. Right now, when you can feel his hunger and love all around you—making you more and more alive the longer you’re touching and talking to Ben—it would be very easy for him to ignore your question, shove a hand down your pants, and make you forget completely about this whole conversation. And Ben knows it’s a lie, because he grinds down once, his dick pressing into your thigh and making you swallow a moan, and grins at you.

But he doesn’t keep going. He moves your hand—still tangled in his—to rest beside your head and drops to brush his lips with yours, muttering into your open mouth.

“See, beautiful, half the damn thoughts I have are about you. Touching you and kissing you and fucking you until you make a perfect, pretty mess on my cock. I think about all the ways I want you, about how fucking smart and funny you are, about how I love you so much that it’s made me a fucking pussy. That I don’t care, because I’m going to make you feel so fucking good, and you’re going to forget every word except my name when you cum around me. I think about how it’s a goddamn miracle I get fucking anything done when you’re sitting next to me, smiling all fucking perfect, because all I want to do is bend you over or pin you down and show you how much I love you.” Ben pulls back to watch you with a cocky smirk, squeezing your hand in his and running a thumb over your lower lip. “And one of us has to keep being productive, so if you can always hear how I’m trying not to fuck you during one of Mallory’s stupid meetings, not a goddamn thing will ever get done.”

The fact that he’s just talking to you—looking at you with dark eyes that keep dropping to your lips—and your brain has already gone a little numb doesn’t bode well for him actually, finally, fucking you. All you can do is let out a breathless moan and nod frantically, not really sure what exactly you’re agreeing to, and feel his want and adoration flash through you.

“Words-“

We’ll figure it out. You think as hard as you can, staring at him and hoping he hears. Better things to do.

He pauses, and nods. “You’re okay.”

That brings your words and speech back. Ben needs to understand that you’re okay. You’re warm and happy and safe, and Ben’s everything and yours, so you’ve never been better. “I’m okay. Promise.”

Something in Ben that had been tight around his lungs goes loose, and you know he believes you. “Good.”

“Also,” you frown up at him. “I don’t think it’s mind reading. I think it’s more about my empathy, or something, because it’s not always happening, and I can feel you sort of spike in here,” you poke your free hand at your own chest. “When we’re thinking about each other. So my guess-“ You cut yourself off with a sigh, because he’s not paying attention anymore. Ben’s hunger is roaring around inside him, and his gaze is entirely fixed on where you’d pointed. On your tits. “Benjamin.”

He looks back up at you with a scowl. “What.”

“Stop looking at my boobs, I’m talking to you.”

“I can listen to you talk and look at your boobs, it’s called fucking multitasking-“

“What did I say?”

Ben pauses, and grunts, “mind reading.”

“What about mind reading.”

“Shut up.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “I was saying that it’s not mind reading. It’s probably more about my empathy, and how I love you enough-“

Something flares inside you, inside Ben, and your words die in your throat as Ben drops his mouth back to yours in a brutal, demanding kiss that bruises your lips and makes your hands scrape at his back, makes your every thought turn to Ben. Ben, I love you.

I fucking love you too.

You moan into his mouth, loud and long, and Ben grins, his knee pushes up between your thighs.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he mutters your name, and you start to grind into him. “You can’t keep goddamn saying you love me, beautiful, you’re going to make me go insane.”

Fuck, Ben, please-

He pulls back, and you let out a high, desperate sound as he watches you. His dick, fully hard, is pressing right against your abdomen, and he’s so hungry, and handsome, and you love him-

“You want me,” he growls, and it’s all you can do not to just burn all your clothes off and beg him to fuck you.

“Ben-“

He lowers back down to your neck, leaves a wet, heavy kiss on that one spot, and wraps his arm around your waist. “Say it.”

“I want you,” your words are breathless, and he grunts against your skin. “Please, Ben, I want you, now-“

“Beg.”

“I did fucking beg, you asshole-“

He’s back on your mouth, sucking on your lips and running his tongue along your teeth, and you can feel him. Pounding against your chest, full of devotion and desire and love, he loves you, and if he doesn’t fuck you now you’re going to kill him-

Ben sits up, fully sits up, and pulls you with him until your head falls on his chest, his arms almost pinning you against him to stop you grinding down onto his legs. 

“We’re getting you some food.” Ben’s words are a low rumble in his chest, and you look up at him with wide-eyes.

“But-“

“You need the energy.” He grunts your name, eyes never leaving yours as his hand traces over the hem of your shorts. “I’m going to fuck you stupid, Sunshine, and you’re going to need to keep up.”

You swallow, trying not to drown in your own drool from how he’s watching you with a heavy lust that you can almost taste. How his hands are tracing light, gentle patterns on your skin, and how you can feel the weight of his love in every touch. He looks like an angel again. Your own love for him must be some sort of brain altering drug, because this same man has been covered in blood and guts and grime and the ashes empires he burned. His hands—holding you against him with such a tender care—have snapped necks and punched people through walls, but, still, in the golden light and shadows of dusk, and haze of how much you love him, he just really looks like an angel. Wholly and entirely the avenging, furious protector you know him to be now, and never again the blindly violent and crude man he’d become as Soldier Boy.

His eyes are so green. You’ve called him vain for how it’s his favorite color, told him what would you have done if your eyes were blue, Pretty Boy? Would green be the pussy color? But you’re no better. You love him, and suddenly the whole world is contained in Ben’s eyes. How they’re dark and pretty and his lashes are so long and you love him. His mouth is moving, but you don’t hear anything except how deep his voice is, because your eyes drop to his lips and now that’s the whole world. You want to kiss him. Kiss Ben’s whole stupid face that makes you wet just from seeing it, and make sure he really understands how much you love him. He really shouldn’t be allowed to be that handsome, it’s making you forget everything that isn’t Ben. Ben, I love you.

A big, warm hand grabs your chin, and when you blink up at Ben—cognitive function slowly returning—he’s smirking. “Who’s not fucking paying attention now?”

You scowl at him. “Cunt.”

“Brat.” Ben kisses the top of your head, moving his hand to cup the back of your head. “Hold on.”

“What-“

“Food, Sunshine.” He grins against your hair. “Then we fuck.”

You scoff, and wrap your arms back around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Romantic.”

Ben hauls you up his body, holding you with steady arms, and winks at you. “Only the best for my woman.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, burying your face in his shoulder to hide the flush of your face, and you feel the glow in him become brighter, fueled by amusement and affection and love. Focused, blinding love that makes your heart beat a little faster. It’s everything, Ben is everything, and you need to tell him that. You’ve said that you love him, he knows and he’s here and he loves you, but he might not get it. How infinite and sacred and unstoppable your love from him was. How it exists everywhere in you, everywhere in the world, how it’s as much a part of you as your lungs and heart, how it sits in your head and will remain there forever. How it feels like it’s always been there, like loving Ben was something you were supposed to do.

“You are my woman.” Ben’s words are slow, and you feel a flash of something stuttering in his chest. “I’ll never fucking lock you up, or keep you from doing anything because I love you, and I couldn’t if I damn tried, but you’re my woman.” He pauses, and you feel the bob of his throat against your arm. “If you, uh, if that’s what you fucking want.”

You smile, leaning back to look at him. His eyes are locked ahead, focused on the wall as he carries downstairs. “Ben.”

He grunts, still staring ahead.

“Benjamin.”

This time he glances down at you, stopping at the foot of the stairs, and when he mutters your name your whole body is washed in warmth. It always sounds right when Ben says your name, the way his tone and voice and cadence make you feel important, valuable, loved.

“I’ve been your woman for a while,” you whisper, still smiling softly. “Because I really, really, love you, and I’ve really, really loved you for a while.”

He nods slowly. “Good.”

“Besides,” your smile turns into a grin, broad and teasing. “Your dick is mine, so it’s only fair.”

Ben’s face splits into a grin of his own—full of teeth and joy that you can feel under your skin—and he starts to move to the dining room table. “My dick is yours, beautiful.” His hunger rushes through you, alight with fervor and so hot it makes your toes curl and your heart stumble. “And I’m going to fuck you with it until you scream.”

“You keep saying that,” you grumble as he sets you down at the table. “But I haven’t gotten fucked yet.”

“Someone’s real impatient,” he mutters—sharp affection spreading across your stomach and through your blood—and gives you one, quick kiss on your cheek before drawing back up. “All you have to do is sit there and look pretty while I get you the damn food, and then you’ll get fucked senseless. Deal?” 

You nod, and start to stand. “Deal.” 

Ben scowls, not budging from in front of you as you rise, leaving you stuck between his body and the edge of the table. “Did you not fucking hear the sit there part-“

“I have to pee, Ben.”

He pauses, looking you up and down, and steps to the side with a grunt. “Fine.”

“Why thank you, your majesty, I’m so glad you’ve deemed me worthy of taking piss-“

Ben rolls his eyes as you try to push past him, catching you by the elbow and spinning you back into his arms, kissing you fast and heavy and wet, until your knees are weak and your head is spinning. Going and going and going until you whine and start to try and climb up his body, pulling back with a smug grin and drawl. “Not in a huge damn rush to leave now, are you.”

You glare at him, shoving back on his chest as he laughs. “You’re such a fucking dick, Benjamin-“

He kisses you one last time, gentle and so painfully sweet for how much of an absolute fucking asshole he is, for how much you want him to pick you up, slam you onto the table, and fuck you. But—because he’s an asshole—Ben steps back, leaving you staring at him with an open mouth and an ache between your legs.

“Go take your fucking piss, Sunshine.” He turns, walking into the kitchen, and calls over his shoulder, “but be fucking quick about it.”

You flip off his back, and climb up the stairs in quick steps before half-running down the hallway to the bathroom.

Even with a floor and two separate doors between you and Ben, you can still feel him. Feel Ben’s imprint in your chest, humming and rolling around in content, alight with love. Ben loves you. He’s said it, he keeps saying it, and you keep believing him. All your blood is still in your body, and Ben loves you. It’s making you a little dizzy, and it still doesn’t fully feel real. You keep repeating it to yourself, trying to convince some part of you that’s still vigilant and guarded and afraid, that it’s real. It might be a little too good to be real, a little too perfect to not be a dream, but you can feel Ben and everything in the world is sharp and clear, so this is real. Ben loves you, and it’s real.

When you return to the kitchen, you find him holding a wooden spoon like it’s a weapon, beating ingredients around in a bowl with an almost violent glare.

You stop at his side, looking between Ben’s drawn, concentrated scowl and his egg and flour victim, and grin. “I think you’re winning.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles, and you giggle, leaning your head against his arm. He slows his movements, and glances at you. “Go sit down.” 

“What are you making?” You ignore his order, frowning at the batter. “Can I guess?”

“No. Go fucking sit-“

“Is it pancakes? Are you making me pancakes?”

Ben drops the spoon, turning to fully face you with a glower. “It was supposed to be a fucking surprise-”

You stand on your toes, grabbing Ben’s face between your hands and kissing his cheek, smiling against his beard as you linger. “Grumpy-“

He turns his head, moving you into a full, long kiss and walking you backwards until you’re bumping against the counter. “Fucking brat,” He mutters, something sparking in his chest as his hands drop to your thighs, a wildfire spreading through your body as he picks you up and sets you down on the counter. He glides his hands up your legs, finding a firm hold on your hips, and pulls back with a half-smirk. “You’re lucky I want to fuck you all goddamn night and need you to eat, or I’d fuck you right here, on the goddamn floor.”

“I don’t think that’s luck,” you mumble, leaning forwards until your brow is against Ben’s chest. “I think it’s mean. Some might call it blackmail.”

“How the hell is it-“

“If I don’t listen to you and eat,” you look up at him with a fake pout. “You won’t fuck me.”

He snorts. “You never fucking listen to me. And,” he squeezes your hips, kissing the space between your eyes and growling onto your skin. “Not a single goddamn thing in the world is going to stop me from fucking you. If Butcher or Mallory walk through the door to try and get us to another stupid dogshit meeting, they can shove it up their asses and wait until morning.”

“Hm.” You wrinkle your nose, even as your hands fist in his shirt. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I’ve fucking told you, we’re getting some food in you first-“ 

“I know,” you lean back, grinning at him. “You’re taking very good care of me, Benjamin. That doesn’t mean I don’t want you to just fuck me.”

Ben rolls his eyes—but you can feel the glow inside of him start to burn—and pushes off the counter before pointing at you with a glare. “Stay.”

You frown. “I am not a dog-“

“You want me to fuck you?” He growls your name, the hunger rioting between your heart and lungs, and you swallow.

“Yes please.”

“Then stay there while I make you fucking pancakes because I love you and I’m a goddamn gentleman, and I’ll fuck you however you want.”

You nod, pressing your thighs together and hoping Ben doesn’t notice the movement. “Okay.”

Ben looks you up and down, gives a sharp nod, and turns back to his bowl. It’s silent for a second as he continues to cook and you try to regain control over your breath.

“Should,” you clear your throat, watching his back carefully. “Should we, uh, talk about it?”

“Talk about what.”

“The whole, um, love thing.”

He pauses, just the smallest stutter in your chest and falter of his movements as he pours the batter into the pan, and grunts, “the hell is there to talk about. I love you, you love me. It’s fucking simple.”

You flush, and your fingers start to tap against your leg. “I mean, I guess. But there’s the whole, um, suppressant thing-“

Ben says your name, turning to glare at you, and you almost bite through the skin of your mouth. “I don’t need you to fucking explain your horrible fuckin choice to me-“

“Hey-“

“Because,” Ben’s eyes narrow on yours, and your protests falter. “I trust you. And I fucking know you,” he grunts your name, and you swallow. “You were probably doing it for some dumb, goddamn sacrificial reason that I’d call stupid-“

“I love you!” You blurt out, and Ben frowns.

“I fucking know that.”

“No,” you shake your head, gaze dropping to where Ben’s grip on his spoon has started to split the wood. “I love you. And I, I didn’t think you loved me, and sometimes when I get, um, excited-“ 

“Excited-“

“Horny,” you mumble. “When I get horny, or emotional, or I think just any emotion that’s really, really overwhelming, the empathy gets away from me.”

“Gets away from you how.” Ben’s words are so calm and steady, even as you can feel him clawing at your chest from across the room. “And the fuck does it have to do with you loving me.” 

“Ben,” you sigh, staring at his hands. “When I get horny, it escapes my body. Just like when I got home, but, um, because of sex or love. I was, I,” you take a long, slow breath, fingers moving faster against your skin. “I was worried I’d make you love me. I didn’t want to make you love me.”

He grunts your name, and you give a small nod. “Look at me.” Ben falls silent until you pull your eyes up to his face, and when you do his jaw is clenched and his eyes on yours are alight. “You trust me.”

“Of course I do-“ 

“Then trust when I say that I fucking love you. I love you now, I loved you when you were gone, and I probably loved you for a long fucking time before that. You are not damn making me love you.” 

“I know,” you whisper. “I love you too. A lot.”

Ben’s love starts to roar in his chest, and he glances back at the pancakes. “Syrup?”

“And strawberries, please.”

He nods, marching over to the fridge, and you follow his every movement. Rough and calculated steps, big, strong hands grabbing out the toppings before glancing at you and holding them up for approval. When you nod he sets them at your side, grabs out a plate, and turns back to the oven, dumping both of the finished pancakes out of the pan and presenting the plate to you with an adorable glare and powerful, resolved care running through his body. 

“Eat.”

You frown at the food. “What about you?”

“What about me.”

“You need to eat as well, Ben.” You cross your arms, refusing to take the plate. “We’re sharing, or you’re making more.”

He scowls, and you know he won’t make more. You can feel Ben’s hunger and desire and need in your body, running up your spine and sitting in your lower stomach. It’s just as strong as your own thirst, just as desperate, and so he won’t take the time to make more. Instead he grabs another plate, moves the larger pancake onto it, and narrows his eyes at you as he holds it out. “Take the fucking plate.”

You smile and let him pass it into your hands. Ben stands between your legs—he’d loaded his up with twice as much strawberries and half the bottle of syrup, but is still somehow managing to match your pace perfectly—and you’re watching each other as you eat. His eyes on yours are intent, stripping you apart and full of reverence, and you pause right before you’re done—mid bite—to frown at him.

Ben swallows so fast it looks painful. “What the fuck is wrong-“

“I love you,” your voice is quiet, tense, but you’re worried he still doesn’t get it. That Ben loves you but still doesn’t quite understand how much you love him. He needs to know how much you love him. “I love you, Ben. So, so much. I love you so much it makes me insane and stupid and reckless, but I don’t care because it makes me feel alive.” You put your plate down, freeing your hands to hold Ben’s face between them, forcing his eyes to stay on yours. “You make me feel alive, Ben. You make me so fucking happy and alive, you make me feel safe and you make me laugh and you’re such a fucking asshole, and I love you. Tell me you understand that I love you, please.”

“I understand,” his voice is low and gruff, and you smile at him. He lets out a slow, long breath, and shakes his head. “Fuck it.”

You hear his plate drop onto the counter, and before you know what’s happening Ben has one hand on your waist and the other tangled in your hair. He pauses, eyes dark and burning into you, and his thumb moves to trace over your lower lip.

“Tell me what you want.” He mutters, and it’s so easy to answer. 

“You-“ 

It’s all he needs. The words barely leave your mouth before Ben crashes forwards, kissing you like it will kill him if he doesn’t. It might. You can feel his hunger, feel how vast and consuming it is, how even as he sucks on your lips and pulls your tongue between his teeth, Ben’s still starved. His hand is dropping lower and lower, across your stomach and trailing onto your thighs, drawing patterns with rough, careful fingers that leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and when you legs move up to wrap around his waist—tugging him closer until the only thing between your bodies are the fabric of your clothes—he growls. It rumbles in his chest, pushing out of his throat and vibrating through your bones, and makes your hands curl against his face, trying to bring him further into you. Telling him to take more, take everything.

He groans your name when you drop to his jaw—biting and sucking along its sharp line and his soft beard—and pulls your head back with a gentle yank of your hair. “I’m first,” he mutters, eyes flicking between your dazed expression and swollen lips. “I touch you first.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and Ben falls down to your neck, his hand starting to move far too fucking slowly up your leg. “Ben-“

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, nipping at the soft skin your throat. “I’ve never seen anyone,” he pauses, chuckling to himself and rubbing small circles on your inner thigh. “Never seen anything, as beautiful as you are. And I’ve seen a lot of fucking shit.”

“You’re,” your words fall into a long, breathless sound of need when Ben’s hand lands right over your center, warm and just resting there as his mouth attacks your collarbone. “You’re so, fuck, Ben, you’re handsome as well, you cunt-“

He grins, rising back up to meet your eyes. “You’re so fucking mean to me, Sunshine. Calling me a cunt when I’m telling you how beautiful you are-“

“You,” a strangled moan escapes your body as Ben’s hand starts to move, rubbing up and down over your shorts. “Ben, please-“

“You should be real fucking thankful I love you,” he drawls, hand tracing up your abdomen, over your stomach and up to your breasts. Squeezing one before pinching at your nipple, smirking as your back arches and you whine. “I love you so much it drives me fucking mad. You’re so beautiful it’s fucking blinding, and the sounds you make,” he leans to mutter in your ear, rolling your nipple between his fingers. “Fucking music. Would fucking live off of them, if I could. I’m going to touch you,” he growls your name, hand falling back to grab at the fabric of your shorts. “And you need to let me fucking hear how good I’m making you feel.”

You nod, hands scraping at his neck, trying not to drown in how much you love him, how much he loves you, how he’s everywhere around you and big and warm and strong and Ben.

“Words-“

“Touch me,” you hiss, and let a little bit of the blood trying to run from your body into his out. Let Ben feel your own unending love and need for him, savoring the way his hand fist in your hair and his cock starts to poke at your thigh. “Fucking touch me, Benjamin, now-”

He rips off your shorts, taking your underwear with then, and runs a finger between the lips of your pussy, holding your gaze as your mouth falls open and your head clears to Ben. Handsome and warm and safe and touching you-

“So fucking wet,” he grins, flicking at your clit and chuckling when you whimper. “Always fucking soaked for me. You love me that much, beautiful? Love me so damn much I can just do this,” he flicks you again, and presses his thumb against you until your hips start to grind into him. “And you’ll be ready for me? Take my cock nice and easy, let me fuck you right here?”

Ben-

“Aloud,” he grunts, starting to rub slow, torturous circles on your clit. ���We’ll have all the fucking time in the world to have fun with the fucking mind shit later. Right now I want to hear you.”

“Ben,” you take a ragged breath, and he hums, his middle finger dropping to trace right over your aching pussy, around and over but never in. “Please-“

“Real pretty begging,” Ben’s eyes still haven’t left yours, and his cock twitches against you. “But I think I want to hear you say it again.”

The heat in his eyes is making your body melt into him, and his own love is raw and bloody, pushing up your throat and making you lightheaded. You know what he wants to hear, and it’s so easy to say it.

“I love you,” your voice is firm, louder than you’d thought it would be. But this is the most natural thing to say, and it’s the only thing that every part of your body and mind are telling you. “I love you, Ben. I love you.”

He grins, and one broad finger pushes into you, painfully slow and pausing when you clench around him. “I love you too,” Ben drops his head, eyes locked on yours, breath fanning across your mouth and lips brushing yours when he speaks. “You’re my whole fucking world,” he grunts your name, and draws his finger out before plunging another one back in with it. “And we’re going to go upstairs so I can fuck you on our bed.”

You nod, staring at him in an unfocused daze of Ben, and you’re not sure if you’re agreeing to him loving you or being his whole world or going upstairs, but they all feel equally important. Ben grins, and kisses you again, long and deep with his tongue down your throat, pumping his fingers at a brutal, unrelenting pace that makes you start to squirm, trying to give him a better angle, trying to get him to swallow your every whine and moan, make him stay against that one spot inside of you that he keeps brushing against but never just presses-

He stops. Ben’s fingers pull all the way out and he draws back, looking down to where he’s still rubbing over you, and his jaw clenches when he sees your hips jerk, your pussy squeeze on nothing as you let out a high, pained whine.

“You,” you gasp as he pushes back in once, twisting his fingers before fully removing them once more. “Asshole-“

“Impatient,” Ben smirks at you, raising his hand between your bodies, leaning back down to your ear to hiss, “and so fucking needy, beautiful. I could live off all your pretty sounds, how you beg for me and say my name, or I could just do this.”

He pulls back, using his hand on the back of your head to hold your eyes on his, and licks his fingers clean. His fingers that had been in you, that are covered in you, that made you feel like you were going to burst into flames-

Ben looks like he’s going to say something. When his fingers leave his mouth, he’s probably about to tell you so fucking good or I fucking love you or want you on my face, and if he gets a single word out you’ll cum on the counter. A single low grunt had left his chest when he’d tasted you on his hand and it had made you buck up on his chest, so there’s no way you’ll survive him actually saying something. His mouth opens, his fingers starting to move back down, and you won’t fucking stand for it. You catch his hand, squeeze it once, and use it to tug his mouth back down to yours.

It’s a shockingly gentle kiss, but when you taste yourself—mixed in with strawberry and salt and coffee and Ben—on his tongue, you bite his lip and he groans. It echoes around in your head and runs through your blood, and you fall forwards, breaking your mouths apart as you gain balance on your feet.

“What are you-“ 

You’re pressed between Ben’s body and the counter, and you can feel his dick, rock hard and straining through his pants, so you need a second before you can move. Your hand moves from his neck to cover his mouth, your brow buried in his chest, and you take a careful, long breath before you speak.

“Bed,” you mumble, squeezing his hand again. “Bed, please. Now.”

He grunts, and when you look back up he’s watching you with a set jaw and pure, bright affection in his eyes. An adoration that blooms your gut and spreads through your body, making your knees shake just from the strength of Ben’s care. His love, for you.

He’s definitely going to say something. He’s not allowed to say something right now—not while the sound of his deep voice alone will still make you fall over—so you push on his chest, just enough for him to take a step back, and start to drag him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. You’re barely up two steps when Ben tugs your hand in his, spinning you back around to face him and kissing you breathless. You’re falling over him, grabbing at his shoulders for balance as his arm wraps around you and he starts to walk you backwards, up the stairs. His mouth isn’t ever leaving yours, the kiss growing deeper and your nails digging into his skin for a better grip, and you’re only halfway up when his hand starts to trace up from your knee, to your thigh, to cup right over your pussy.

“You’re fucking dripping on the stairs,” he mutters your name in your mouth, and you whine, trying to grind onto his hand and pull him faster up the steps. “I can fix it, make you cum right here on my hand, but you have to fucking say it.”

“Ben-“ He starts to rub back and forth in rhythm with the roll of your hips, and your arms wrap around his neck in an attempt to keep your footing. “Fuck, Ben-“

“I know,” he’s grinning, the cunt, and one finger starts to tease along your slit. “Say the word and I’ll-“

“Please,” you break the kiss, dropping your head onto his shoulder. “Ben, please, you fucking-“

He moves you another step up, and the finger pushes in, pumping slowly as he rubs circles on your back. “So fucking good, Sunshine, so fucking tight and,” you start to suck and bite at his neck, and he groans. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.“ A second finger pushes in with another step, and you start to straddle the air in a desperate attempt to get him deeper.

“I,” you gasp, shaking your head as you lean further forward. “I, fuck, Ben, I need to-“

Both fingers press against that hidden, aching part of you, and your legs give out. Ben catches you before you even stumble—his smug, lust-driven pride roaring in your chest—and he lowers you gently to rest on the steps, fingers scissoring and twisting inside you, so rough and good and he’s kissing along your jaw, groaning as you whimper in his ear, going deeper-

He pulls back, eyes fixed on where his fingers are pushed inside you—moving in and out, faster and faster until your eyes start to blur—and that focused glint in his eyes makes your hand drop to his jaw to turn him up to you. Make Ben look at you, make all that intensity and unending care run through you as he pulls you apart on his hand.

When your eyes meet—affection rolling around in your body, Ben’s body—he grins. “You want to cum, beautiful?”

“Yes-“ 

His fingers pause, drawing almost all the way out, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream when he adds a third. 

“Ben, I’m-“ 

“Hold it,” he grunts, and his hand reaches up to grab yours on his face, watching you carefully. “Don’t stop looking at me.”

You nod, and Ben starts to move. He’s unforgiving, fingers moving in and out of you so fast you can’t keep up, can’t grind against him or speak or think anywhere outside of Ben. Watching you and moving inside you, and he keeps crooking his fingers for just a second before pulling out and leaving you squeezing around nothing, and you’re so close, you’re fucking drooling and making pathetic, desperate sounds, but fuck this is so good, he’s looking at you like you’re holy and his hands are so big and firm and his muscles keep flexing and you feel so good-

“I’m,” you fall backward when Ben’s hand drops to your abdomen, pressing you further into the floor, stilling the jerks and squirming of your hips. “Ben, I’m close, please-“

He hums, and twists inside you. “Look at me.”

It takes effort. It takes all the will and strength in your body to crane your neck, using your hold on his jaw to anchor yourself and meet his eyes, but fuck it’s worth it. Ben’s eyes become borderline feral, his free hand dropping to press against your clit and rub in furious, large circles, and when he hooks his fingers inside you everything explodes. You can hear the wet sounds of Ben’s movements against you and your own moans, but it’s all distant, barely breaching the haze of your orgasm. You’re bucking into his hand, grabbing at his wrist and closing your legs as your whole body shakes, and he won’t stop looking at you. He’s starving, his face is still wild with desire as he pulls you up and grabs your arms, wrapping them around his neck.

“You have no fucking idea how beautiful you are,” he growls into your ear, and you gasp as he starts to stand, keeping you steady in his arms. “Just fucking watching you cum almost made me lose it. Feeling you squeeze my fucking fingers, seeing how pretty you look when I touch you, fuck, if you look half that good cumming on my cock, it might damn kill me.” You hear the door open, and peak over Ben’s shoulder to see him kick it closed behind you.

He sets you down on the bed, hands moving up to cup your face and hold you upright as he pulls you into a long, sloppy kiss that makes you start to melt into his touch. When Ben stands back up—thumb running over where he’d bitten on your lower lip—his voice is gravely, and you can see the outline of him pushing against his pants.

“Stay here,” he mutters, eyes scanning over your body in the dark. “Need to see you.” 

You want to touch him. You want him to feel that same blissful high he’s made you feel, want to feel the weight of his cock on your tongue and to taste him cum down your throat. You want to ensure he really gets it. Gets that he’s everything, and that you love him, and that fuck you want him. You need him. You might need Ben more than you need oxygen, need to hear him groan when you take him in your mouth, hear him say your name when you suck his dick and feel his hand in your hair, feel all his love and desire for you burn you alive from the inside.

He’s moved away from you—stalked away from the bed to flip on a light—and you can see the ripple of his muscles on his back. You slide off the bed, taking a half-step before falling to your knees and waiting for him. Watching him move in the dark and not bothering to pretend he’s not the most important thing in the world. That—if he’d let you—you’d stay on your knees for Ben for the rest of your fucking life.

The switch flips, illuminating the room in a low, warm light, and Ben turns. His eyes fall right to yours, and you swallow. Hungry is becoming too light a word for how Ben’s watching you, because it’s deeper, bigger, and far more important. He’s looking at you like you’re a star that’s fallen right into his hands, and now he gets to hold you and keep the light in you burning. Like you’ve climbed out the hollows of the earth just to see him, and he’d be a fool to deny you what you’re asking. His imprint in your chest is rioting—bellowing and scraping at your ribs like it’s trying to climb out of you, out of Ben—and he’s looking at you like he loves you.

“Hi,” you whisper, and Ben nostrils flare. 

He grunts your name, and you have to press your thighs together to stop yourself from ruining the carpet. “I fucking told you I was first-“ 

“You did go first,” you start to crawl towards him, eyes still on his, and he lets out a deep, lustful sound that sends a shiver of want down your spine. “This is a two way road, Pretty Boy. I want to suck your cock,” you rise back to your knees, looking up at him with a sweet smile as you trace a hand up his leg. “May I?”

Ben’s throat bobs, one hand steadying him on the wall as the other runs through your hair. “I’m supposed to fuck you-“

“You still can,” you shrug, palming him over his jeans. “But this way you get to cum in me twice.”

“Fuck,” Ben’s hand curls on your head into a fist, pulling your head back a little further as his chest rises in uneven movements. “You’re, fucking Christ, I,” you squeeze him, and he lets out a rough hiss. “You want to suck my fucking cock?”

You nod, hands moving up his belt. “If you want-“ 

Ben rips his jeans off, and you try not to salivate when you see how hard he is. When his hand returns to your hair, angling you further back—so you’re looking up at him through your eyelashes and your mouth is perfectly level with the red, weeping head of him—you smile at him, and he groans.

“You’re so fucking-“

“Ben,” you whisper, savoring the way he shudders when your lips brush over his dick. “I’m doing the work.”

He swallows, eyes flashing. “When I fuck you, I get to cum in you.”

“You were already going to cum in me-“ 

“And,” his eyes narrow. “I get to do all the work.” 

You give him a flat look. “Any other demands for me to suck your cock, Benjamin?” 

He pauses, actually thinking about it, and mutters, “shirt off.” 

“What-“ 

“Take your shirt off. I want to see your pretty fucking tits bounce.” 

“Oh, well,” you drop your hands down to the hem of your shirt, muttering under your breath. “Since you asked so nicely-“ 

“Brat.” 

You stick your tongue out at him, letting it brush on the underside of his cock, and pull your shirt over your head. The flash of want in Ben becomes so powerful you almost give up on your whole bright I do the work idea, but your own need to touch him still triumphs. Ben’s moved his dick to rest against your lips, pressing it down against them in an inpatient, silent request that makes you grind onto the air, and you smile up at him again. His jaw is set, and he’s looking at you like you’re some sort of twisted salvation.

I love you, you feel him twitch against you, and part your lips just enough for Ben to push himself between them. Your hands fly up, one holding his thigh to steady yourself and the other prying his fingers around his cock away, replacing them with your own. I love you, Ben. Now relax and let me suck your dick.

Something fevered and bloody and starved rushes through Ben’s body into yours, and you don’t wait to hear his response—verbal or in your head—before you start moving. You take all of him in one movement, letting him bump the back of your throat, sucking as your teeth scrape lightly and your hand moves to play with his balls, then pull back as slow as you can manage. You do that a few times, feeling his muscles tense and rubbing your thighs together in a poor attempt to relieve yourself even a bit, before Ben growls your name and you have to pull yourself slightly back to blink at him.

“If you don’t stop taking your sweet goddamn time,” his jaw is clenched, his words through teeth as he throbs in your mouth. “I’m going to throw you on the bed and fuck-“ 

You suck as hard as you can, teasing his head with your tongue, and your hand starts to pump over what’s not in your mouth as you grin at him. Better? 

He groans, a vein twitching in his neck as he throws his head back, and you don’t think you’ve ever really lived before this. It’s an odd thought to have right now, when you’ve started to move your head up and down his cock, and you're getting so wet you can feel it running down your leg, but you’ve never felt alive like this, in a way that’s not a task or some sort of trial. But now you’re alive in a way that’s for you. He looks like a fucking god, and tastes like salt and earth and Ben, and the sounds you’re pulling out of his chest are so primal. It’s making you feel powerful, how this immovable man, made of steel and gunpowder and his own pure will, is saying your name like it’s a prayer. You feel alive, and perfect, and beautiful, and whatever other Ben deems you in the vulgar praise falling from his mouth.

“Fucking, god, fuck you’re perfect,” his hips have started to rut into you, and you adjust to account for them, squeezing his balls to make the movements bigger and swallowing on him when he starts to pull back. “You’re so fucking good and perfect and you look so fucking beautiful, sucking my cock all good and pretty, so warm and fuck.” His hips stutter, and you know he’s close. “You’re a goddamn miracle, Sunshine, it’s, goddamnit, I fucking love you,” his gaze drops back down to yours and you whine around him. “I love you, fuck, you have no fucking idea how much I love you-“

You pull almost all the way off, swirling your tongue over his top, and plunge back down with a moan and hollow of your cheeks. When your nose bumps against his muscled abdomen you suck on him, forgoing pointless things like breathing, and Ben makes a deep, feral noise that’s half your name and half a swear when he cums. You have to close your eyes to focus on not gagging, letting him shoot down your throat and taking as much of it as you can, but there's more than the other times you’ve done this, and you’re a little dizzy from the way his orgasm is crashing over your body and overwhelming force of his love bursting in your chest, so a fair amount gets away from you.

You’ve barely pulled off of his dick when Ben’s hauling you off the ground, kissing you with a passion and fury that sets your blood on fire, and grinning against your mouth.

“You’re too fucking good at that,” he mutters your name, and you start to squirm against him, trying chase release with the sound of Ben’s voice. “I swear to fucking Christ, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Ben-“ 

He pulls away from you, tossing you onto the bed and letting out a gruff, satisfied sound at your whimper. “I need a minute, beautiful. I got a hell of a lot more stamina than any other fucking pussy you’ve been with, but I still need to be properly goddamn hard to fuck you like you deserve.” 

“Please, fuck, Ben,” you lift your hips off the mattress, trying to show him how you might implode if he doesn’t touch you right fucking now. “Need you, I need you now-“ 

Your words fall into a heavy moan as Ben reaches out, running his middle finger up your core, pressing on your clit for only a second and smirking when you keen against him. “You need me? Need me to take good fucking care of you, beautiful? Need me to fucking ruin you with how good I fuck you, take you so fucking well it wrecks you, make you moan my name every time you just fucking sit down?”

“Yes, I, Ben, please-“ 

“Say it.”

“Ben, I love you, I need you, I want you so fucking much it’s,” his hand pulls away, and you whine. “Benjamin, you fucking asshole-“ 

“I said I need a fucking minute,” he snaps, pulling his shirt off and crawling between your legs. “But I also love you, brat, so I’m going to help you fix your horny, messy fucking problem. Get you good and well damn ready for me.” His arms wrap around your legs, hooking your knee over his shoulders and holding you still as his breath warms your center. He looks between where you’re wiggling under his hold and your wide, pleading eyes on his, and frowns. “Relax,” he mutters your name, and you pull at his hair. “I’ve got you. Always fucking got you.”

You nod, taking a long breath and dropping your head back as Ben squeezes your thighs. 

“Good,” he’s so full of devotion, his voice is so deep and easy, it washes over you and relaxes your body in his hold. “Really fucking good, Sunshine. Hold on.”

It’s all the warning you get before Ben dives between your legs, licking a long, heavy strip up your cunt and sucking on your clit until you’re panting, grinding onto his face. He chuckles at the pathetic, incoherent pleas leaving your mouth as he nips at you and drops back to tongue at your pussy, and you feel high. He’s so good at this, he knows to kiss your clit to make you roll your hips and to bump his nose against you when he plunges his tongue into your body. His beard is tickling and scratching at your inner thighs, and his grip on your body is firm and bruising and it’s so fucking hot, how he squeezes your ass every time he flicks your clit with a too light lick and he pull you further against him when he starts to tonuge-fuck you.

“Ben,” you’re breathless, one hand pulling at his hair while the other tangles in the sheets. “Fuck, slow down, I’m-“

You cut yourself off in a desperate whine, and he even though he doesn’t pause, his voice in your head is gruff. You’re okay?

He’s actually asking. There’s no order in the words, no demand for you to let him keep going. He’s just checking on you, and fuck you love him.

I’m okay. About to cum, though-

Ben yanks you up, pulling your hips off the mattress, and goes faster. He’s savage against you, growling onto your wet heat and eating you alive, making your head spin and heart beat out of your chest, so close, so fucking close to letting go, to the coil in your stomach snapping and launching you into pure fucking bliss-

Ben. Ben, I love you. I love you, please, Ben-

I love you too, beautiful, he bites your clit lightly, flattening his tongue over you before dropping back to where you need him so bad it’s almost painful. Cum for me.

You think you scream. Your whole body contracts as you hit the edge, Ben groans into you, and your orgasm hits you like a train. You’re rolling around in his grip, not sure if you’re trying to get away from how he’s setting your whole body alight or push further into him as he keeps going. Ben’s still going, kissing and licking and sucking at you until you’re clawing at his scalp, your thighs are crushing his head, and you’re so sensitive it’s almost painful.

“Fuck, God, fuck-“ you gasp, and Ben grins against you.

Had enough, Sunshine?

You glare down at him, your elbows wobbling as you try to support yourself. Get up here and fuck me, Benjamin, or you’ll lose the privilege.

He rises up, looking at you with an almost drunken haze in his eyes. “You taste like fucking heaven,” he says your name with a smirk, and one rough, warm hand snakes over your stomach to rub your still fluttering pussy. “You think you’re ready for me? Think you’re going to be able to take all of me?” 

It might kill you. He’s hard again, you can see his cock pressing against the mattress, and it’s really only hitting you now how big he is. Ben’s huge and thick, you might end up split open on him, but there are worse ways to go. For one, dying of how much you love him. How thirsty you are for Ben to just fuck you, to fill you up and make you scream, would be a lot less enjoyable death.

“Words-“

“Fuck me,” you look back up at him, and don’t care if he hears how desperate you are. “Now, Benjamin. Fuck me now.” 

The glow inside his chest erupts, and your body shakes from the sheer force of it, of Ben. 

“Do you know,” he drawls from above you, and he’s going to be a cocky asshole about this. You wouldn’t have him any other way, but if he doesn’t hurry up you might go out of your mind before he’s even inside you. “Exactly how long I’ve wanted to fuck you, Sunshine? Fuck you right? Fuck you senseless until you’re just a wrecked, hot fucking mess, until you cum so hard you see fucking stars?”

“Ben-“

“Months,” he hisses, eyes tracing over every curve of your body like he’s trying to memorize it. “You have no goddamn idea how many times I came in my hand to just the fucking thought of you, of how beautiful you’d look beneath me like this. You fucking haunted me,” he growls your name, pressing you down into the mattress as you squirm against his hand. “There isn’t a single thing I haven’t thought about doing to you, a single way I haven’t pictured fucking you like the perfect brat you always are. But,” his eyes move back to yours and he smirks. “This is beyond fucking anything I managed to dream up. You’re all fucking sweaty and horny, so goddamn wet and desperate for my cock, already got my cum on your perfect fucking tits, already so fucking wet. I’m going to fuck you dumb, Sunshine. I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

“Please,” you gasp when his hand leaves its spot between your thighs, and you can’t look away from him as he spits on his hand. “Just, fuck, Ben, just do it-“

He slaps your pussy, and you fall flat on your back from the sheer force of his love, in your body, numbing your every thought to Ben. Ben, I love you. I love you so fucking much, but if you don’t fuck me right now I’m going to kill you-

Ben laughs—rumbling his chest as he crawls over you and echoing through the room—and it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard. His hands start to trace small patterns on your hips, and when he’s hovering above you his smile is so wide. Cocky and adoring and bright, and your mouth goes slack just from the sight of it. You love him. It’s actually going to kill you how much you love him, how safe and cared for you feel under him, how he’s caging you naked between his broad chest and mattress but you’ve never felt more free.

His hand traces down your body, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers before moving lower, and you couldn’t look away from him if you tried. He’s handsome, he’s always handsome, but this is different. In the high of all the pleasure and bliss he’s pulled from your body, he’s melting and molding you against him with just the sight of him. Chiseled features and distinguished jawline, boundless, pretty eyes that are blown out with love and lust but still have a ring of that green that will follow you for the rest of your life. Full lips that you get to bite and kiss, perfect lines that draw and contract in a silent language you’ve memorized and will never forget, and dark hair that’s falling over his brow. He looks like someone designed him. Like a statue of a god whose only job is to worship. Some sort of ironic deity who’s dedicated to caring for whoever loves them, whoever really, truly, purely loves them the way you love Ben.

Your hand rises up, brushing away the hair from his eyes because you can. Because Ben is yours, and you love him, and you feel a little infinite when his muscles flex around you and the love in his body flickers with something soft. Your eyes move slowly back down from his forehead to meet his gaze, and you don’t think anyone’s ever looked at you like that. With such a burning, wrathful, devout and world-ending reverence. Your hand moves to rest against his beard, and you try not to be too smug about how he leans into it.

“Hi, Benjamin.” You whisper, and when he grins at you, you can’t stop your smile from overtaking your face.

“Hi, Sunshine.” His head drops to your neck, and his words are muffled on your skin. “Ready?”

You nod, swallowing when he twitches again your thigh. “I love you.” You mumble, spreading your legs as Ben lines himself up against you and leaves an open-mouthed, adoring kiss on your pulse point. “I really fucking love you, Ben. You have no idea-“

His mouth crashes up into yours, and you moan as he kisses you breathless and dizzy into the mattress. “I have some fucking idea,” he mutters, and his imprint in your chest becomes consuming. Rushing your body with focused, primal, raw and bloody ardor and love. Ben loves you, loves you so much it shakes the earth, and you make a happy, easy sigh when he draws back, brow pressed to yours and his voice is hoarse. “I love you too. A fuck ton.”

You give a small smile, hands playing with his hair between your fingers. “A fuck ton, huh? That’s a whole lot, Pretty Boy, are you sure?” 

He snorts, “brat,” and pushes into you.

There’s no resistance. In the wake of Ben touching and tasting you, of saying every foul and teasing thing under the sun all while mixing it with small reminders that he loves you, you’re so wet you could probably solve a drought in a small country. But he’s still going slow. Ben’s moving into you so slow that you can feel every single inch of him, filling you up and making your legs shake before he’s even halfway to bottoming out.

You squirm slightly, trying to adjust to accommodate him further, and he hisses in your ear. “Stop moving.” 

“Stop going so slow-“ 

He swallows your protests with his mouth over yours, and shoves the remainder of him into you with one movement that makes you gasp, your hands curling in his hair as he hits that one spot, then goes further. Ben’s in you, just resting in you without any relief or movement, his head still resting against yours. It’s the only boundary left between you now, skin and muscle, because Ben’s imprint in your chest has spread to cover every inch of your body and make it impossible to know if all the love when your legs move up to lock around him is his or yours. It’s Ben and you, the same in every way that matters, with your breathing in a matched, ragged rhythm and your whole body aware that this is it. This is everything. Ben’s whole body is pressed to yours, his arms tensed over you, and when you squeeze around him once, just to see what happens, he makes a low groan that sets your blood on fire.

He grunts your name, watching you with that awe in his eyes mixed with starvation, and this time the squeeze is involuntary. “I told you to stop fucking moving.”

“I’m not moving-“

Ben gives you a look that almost melts your body, because it’s so dry and grumpy and adoring and hungry, and fuck you love him. “You are moving.” He thrusts once in the smallest, most painfully good movement you’ve ever felt, and your mouth falls open. “I can fucking feel you moving, Sunshine. I can feel you everywhere,” his words are being muttered against your slack lips, and there’s a light dancing in his eyes on yours that makes you a little dazed. “You’re so fucking tight, taking me so fucking good, so perfect under me, fucking full of me.”

He rolls his hips once, and you moan, trying to grind up into him. “Ben, please-“

“I do the work,” he grunts, voice strained and something molten running around in your gut. Ben’s gut. Fuck, it really doesn’t matter because he’s talking again, and his voice has never been so low and demanding, sending a shiver up your spine. “You lay here and let me fuck you until your smart fucking mouth is screaming my name and your pretty eyes are rolling back in your head.”

Please-

“Words,” he snaps, eyes narrowing. “Need to fucking hear how stupid I fuck you, beautiful. Hear what I do to you.”

You swallow, pulling the words from some far corner of your brain that’s been pushed away by the song of Ben in your body, and almost lose them again when he makes another small, torturous movement inside of you. “Fuck, Ben, please-“

“There it is,” he grins, voice teasing and a hand moving to cup your cheek. “Was that so fucking hard.”

“I’m,” you take a long, strangled breath as he tilts your head back, kissing across your face but never on your mouth. “God, fuck, I’m not the hard one-“

He chuckles, pulling back to watch you with that reverence, and you’re alive and love him and if he doesn’t do something about that soon you’re going to murder him. “Such a fucking brat,” he mutters, pulling himself out in one, smooth motion and watching your eyes widen. “So fucking beautiful, fucking needy, and I haven’t even really fucked you yet-“

“Benjamin-“

“Say it like that,” he grunts through his teeth, only the head of his cock still pressed inside you. “Keep fucking saying it like that.” His hand moves back to tangle in your hair, and you wiggle under him, trying to bring him back into you. “God, you’re so fucking good-“

“You’re such a fucking dick-“

“You love me.” Ben grins, pushing in just enough to make you whine. “And you love my fucking dick.” His eyes scan your face, and his words lose the taunting, playful tone. “I fucking love you, Sunshine. Look at me.” You blink at him, and he kisses you once, moving just a little further back in. “I love you so much it’s going to be the fucking death of me. Makes me lose my goddamn mind, how much I love you.” He rises back up, and everything in him is devotion. You can feel it, somewhere so deep in your chest and wrapped around your body, that Ben’s love for you might be the most powerful force in the universe. That it’s fitting so perfectly with your own love, you can barely tell the difference.

“Ben-” 

“I love you,” he says your name, gaze dropping to watch himself push all the way in, a low groan leaving his body when he pulls out with the most sinfully wet sound you’ve ever heard. “You’re the love of my fucking life, and you were goddamn made for this.”

“Just,” he pushes back in, and your head falls back. “God, just fuck me-“

He pushes your head up, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Don’t stop looking at me.“

“Ben-“

His face cracks into a grin, his hand carefully moving your brow so he can give it a gentle, deceptively sweet kiss, and a low grunt leaving him when you make small, wanting noise. He draws himself back above you, and he’s everything. He’s firm and strong and wrapped around you, twitching inside you and running through your body, and all your words have devolved into desperate, pathetic moans.

His voice is low, eyes never leaving yours as he leans down, lips brushing with yours. “And fucking beg.”

You’re past dignity. Ben’s stretching you open around him, hitting every single spot inside your body that makes your head spin, and the warmth of his body, his touch, the feeling of his love, is making your brain fall into a natural, easy pattern of Ben. “Please,” you whisper, your stomach tensing and heartbeat picking up just from the unyielding attention of Ben’s gaze, peeling you apart for him to know and care for and love. “Please, Ben. I love you, but please fuck me before I lose it.”

You can feel his mouth curl into a smirk, feel him leave your body again, and any protests or pleas or curses die in your throat when he speaks, muttering against your lips and squeezing waist.

“Good girl.”

Something hot and wrathful shoots through your blood, your whole world going blurry with the ache and need for him, and Ben finally starts to move. Slow, with long, deep thrusts that make your mouth slack and a little drool run over your lips, his warm, firm weight over your body pinning you down and stopping any attempts to grind on him and take more.

“Already so fucking wrecked beautiful.” Ben’s lips are still brushing yours, and he grunts when your tongue darts out to try and lick him. “But you need to look at me.” 

Your eyes shoot open, and you swallow when you see how close he is. His nose is bumping yours, breaths trading between lungs, and his jaw is clenched as he starts to angle his hips to hit you deeper, a powerful, craving fervor shooting between your bodies when you clench around him.

“There you are,” he kisses you once, soft and gentle, and you whimper as his pace starts to pick up. Finding a steady beat where he doesn’t pull out quite as far, but still ruts back into you and slams against your cervix. “Christ, you’re tight. Goddamn perfect, fucking squeezing me like that, so fucking good-“

You moan, your hands tugging at his hair and your arms wrapping around his back, the muscles of them flexing with every movement and god he’s so warm, you feel so full-

“Fucking knew how good you’d be, under me all pretty and dumb from my cock. Fucking soaking me, driving me fucking insane with how wet and tight and perfect you are, could spend a fucking lifetime here-“

“Ben, please-“

“You want that, Sunshine? Want to spend forever fucking impaled on my cock?” His tone is taunting again, but you’re too far gone to care. His big, calloused hand is rubbing firm patterns on your waist, and he keeps bumping against a part of you that you hadn’t been aware of before. A soft, spongy and sensitive place in your body that’s making your whole pussy contract around him, driving any sort of coherent thought out of your brain as it all fades to Ben. Deep words that you only half-understand, ripping you open and apart without even trying, ardor and passion and furious love coursing through your every nerve and making your blood electric.

You whimper, scraping at his neck and unable to unlock your gaze from his. Ben.

“Fucking words.” He rolls his hips with this movement, and you moan. “Say my fucking name, beautiful. Tell me how fucking bad you want me.”

“Want you,” you whine, trying to chase his mouth and squirm in his hold. Get just a little more friction. “Fuck, Ben, I want you so bad, I need you-“

He hums, and grins at you. “Say you love me.”

“I love you, Ben, please, more-“

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Good, so fucking good, you’re so big and, fuck, it’s so good, need more-“

He grunts your name, and when you fall back enough to earth to really study his face, it’s serious. “Say that you know I love you.”

“You love me,” you whisper, he starts to move faster. Slamming in and out of you with an abandon, his hand on your waist kneading and pulling at your skin in a perfect fucking pain. “You love me, Ben, I know you love me-“

You’re high. Ben kisses you, devouring every single moan and scream of his name, chewing them with teeth on your lips and running his tongue over the roof of your mouth, and you’ve never felt this good. He won’t stop moving now, the bed is creaking under his brutal and almost feral movements, and he’s everything. You can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but claw at the rippling muscle of his back, grind up into him, and gasp when his hand traces over your abdomen to your clit, giving you feather light, teasing flicks as he rams into your body.

“Please,” you gasp, and the pad of his finger presses against you just as he rips back into you. “Benjamin, please-“

“So good,” he mutters, lips still never fully leaving yours. “You’re so fucking good, Sunshine, fucking Christ you take me perfect. Fuck, I love you, you’re so fucking hot all wrecked on my cock, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen-“

Every word of his filthy, foul praise is setting you on fire. Ben thinks you’re good, and you’re molded against him perfectly, and fuck, Ben-

It would be overwhelming if it wasn’t the closest thing you’ve felt to heaven. How Ben’s so deep in you—feels so right snapping his hips against you and driving his dick inside you—that you’re not sure how you’ll fare once he pulls out. How this is ruining you, because you feel fucking alive and Ben is worshiping you in way that makes you think he has some sort of guide to your body. How to run a thumb over your nipple when he wants you to spasm under him, how to time it with every ripple of his muscle so that your whole body goes limp in his arms. How to kiss you deeper when he’s pulling out, and suck on your lower lip when you start to whimper for more friction. How all his ministrations and effort and love for you is making your blood start to burst out of your body, how you trust him so much you don’t care to try and hold it back.

Ben’s movement stutters inside you, and he moans. His finger on your clit jerks as his whole body tenses, and kisses become brutal. Sloppy and desperate, the sounds he’s making causing your legs to spread wider, your hands to rake up and down his back like you can make him move faster.

“Close,” you manage to push the words out, and Ben’s movements grow more and more uneven. “Close, Ben, fuck-“

“Think you can cum with me?" He growls, and you nod frantically as his finger on your clit starts to rub fast circles that set your pussy on fire. “Think you can be a good fucking girl for me, Sunshine, and fucking drench my cock? Let me fill you up like you deserve?”

“Yes, Ben-“

“Cum,” he orders, saying your name down your throat, and your whole body lights up. Your release, wet and warm, falls out of you, and you’re too fucked out to even care that you forgot to warn him. It’s all pleasure, racking through your body and the world grows fuzzy everywhere but Ben. Still jerking inside you as his hot cum shoots into you your pussy, spreading a kind of blissful ease and sense of belonging through you, groaning your name between your parted lips, muscled, strong arms wrapping around you and rough, big hands touching your with a soothing reverence as you burn.

You’re burning, and Ben’s right there with you. Inside you. His own orgasm is doubling the force of yours, and he’s everything good in the world around you.

But you’re not actually on fire. There’s light and smoke all over your body, but the sheets are still soft under your bare skin, and Ben’s hair and skin between your fingers isn’t being scorched and twisted. Ben is still all around you, movements stilled and making deep sounds that roll through your bones as he finishes inside you, but it’s not just that. Your bodies are still both salty with sweat and cum, and the taste of coffee and strawberries should be long gone from Ben’s mouth, but all your senses are invaded with pine. Ben and pine and vanilla and strawberry. When you blink up at him, he’s glowing. It’s a misty haze of Ben, and it’s the whole world. The whole room is cast in a green light, like you’re under the ocean or in depths of the forest, and the whole world is Ben.

As you come down, Ben’s brow falling to yours and your whole body relaxing in his arms, the light fades, and you’re left with every nerve in your body ablaze and your every thought addled with Benjamin. I love you, really love you. Please do that again, I need you to do that to me again, that was good. Really good. You’re really fucking good, Ben, and I love you.

But things like words are still far away from your brain, so when you keen against him all you can do is make a loud and choked sound that you don’t fully understand, but Ben somehow manages to.

“I know, my love, I’ve got you. Always fucking got you.”

That’s new. My love is new, and god it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He loves you. Ben loves you, and you’re his, and he’s got you. It kickstarts your brain, and you smile, fully smile, up at him. Handsome and proud and watching you with a devotion you can feel in your blood. Your blood, all yours and twice as strong with Ben mixing with it.

“I love you.” It’s so natural to say. You’re supposed to say it, and he’s the only one who’s really meant to hear it. There’s so much love for him, tearing through your body and igniting your head, and nobody but Ben would have to resolve and will to take it all and throw it back to you. “Benjamin,” you mumble, your hand gliding up his neck to tangle in his hair. “You’re, I love you.” 

He nods, head dropping lower to press against your neck as he settles above you, just holding you. Tracing gentle patterns on your skin and touching you in that reverent, careful way. “I love you too, Sunshine. You’re the goddamn light of my life, and I love you so goddamn much.”

You hum, and your smile feels right. All of this feels right.

You make real fucking good sounds when you cum on me, as well. Squeeze me like a goddamn vice. A pause, and then, are you a fucking squirter?

You glance down between your bodies, and shrug. Sometimes. That was kind of a small one though. I’ve been known to cause plumbing issues.

His hands still on your body. Are you fucking with me. 

No. I do squirt. Not always, but sometimes. I know it’s messy, I should’ve told you-

You’re going to do that again. I’ll fucking kill someone to get you to do that again.

You giggle, slowly combing fingers through his hair, basking in the weight of Ben above you, the heat of his body relaxing your every muscle. Horny old man.

I just fucked my woman, I’m allowed to be as fucking horny as I want. There’s a pause, and his head moves up, chin resting on your chest as he glares at you. And I’m not old.

I’m your woman, you grin at him, and a sharp flash of something prideful and insatiable runs over your skin. You’re not sure if it’s yours or Ben’s, and you don’t think you care to know anymore. I’m allowed to call you old all I want. Should’ve chosen a nicer girl if you didn’t want to be reminded that you’re a fucking dinosaur.

Don’t want a nicer girl. He wink. I love my bratty, mean fucking pain in the ass.

That shouldn’t make you almost cry, but it does. You blink at him, and even in your head your voice is soft. I love you, Benjamin. You’re a grumpy man-child, and I love you.

He swallows, kisses your cheek, and starts to rise away from you.

You scramble up on your forearms, watching him with wide eyes. “Come back-“ 

“Unless you want to sleep covered in fucking cum,” Ben drawls, glaring down at you in a way that’s not going help any argument to let him leave the bed. “I have to go to the bathroom so we can clean you up.”

“I don’t care.” You reach to his shoulders, trying to pull him back fully over you. “We can shower in the morning-“

Ben’s face splits into a cocky grin. “We?”

“Yes, Ben, we-“

“No tears,” his eyes narrow, scanning over your naked body with a gaze that’s meant to be purely analytical, but still makes you press your slightly sore thighs together. “You’re okay.”

You smile at him when his eyes find yours again, your whole body wrapped in his stone concern. “I’m okay. I just want you here-“

That’s all it takes for Ben to fall back onto you, and your hand moves up to trace the defined muscles of his shoulder, only for him to catch it and kiss your knuckles.

I’m here.

Something in you melts, and you lean up to kiss his cheek. Thank you.

Don’t.

No. Thank you, Benjamin, you cunt.

He grins at you, and squeezes your hand. Brat.

“Can I ask you something,” you say aloud, and Ben gives a small nod for you to continue. “How long have you, um, known? That you love me?”

“Few weeks,” he mutters, watching you carefully. “Loved you longer, though.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t fucking matter-“

Benjamin. You give him a flat look, and he sighs, the prickly, sore feeling of embarrassment on his skin returning.

“I’ve never, fuck,” he pushes the words through teeth, hand tight around yours. “I’ve never loved a damn person like I love you. I didn’t get it. I’d do fucking anything for you,” he snaps your name, and you’re almost amused by how annoyed he sounds. “And I know you probably fucking got it right away, but I’ve never been in real love, fucking apparently, so-“

“Ben,” you whisper, words gentle but firm, just enough to make him stop ranting. “I have been in love before, and this does feel different. It took me a while to get as well.”

His jaw is still clenched, but something loosen in his gut. “How long.”

“I don’t actually know,” you shrug. “I realized a few months ago, and it felt like I’d always been in love with you. I, um,” you swallow, squirming a little under the intensity of Ben’s gaze. “I just didn’t really care how long I’d actually loved you. It’s something that felt like a part of me, so I wouldn’t even really know where to start figuring out where it came from. I know that I love you, and that’s it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me,” he mutters, eyes scanning over your face. “If it’s been goddamn months, why didn’t you just fucking say something.”

“I didn’t think you’d love me,” you mumble, staring at Ben’s jaw, unable to fully meet his eyes. “And I don’t, um, I couldn’t risk losing you if you didn’t want me like that.”

“Don’t be fucking insane,” he snaps, and you swallow. “Even if I was so much of an idiot fucking pussy not to love you, I’d never fucking leave you. As long as you want me here, I’m going to be right at your goddamn side. You burn, I burn,” he grunts your name, and you smile. “That’s fucking that.”

“You burn, I burn,” you whisper. “And I do want you here, Ben. You’re my best friend, and I like having you here.”

“Good,” he mutters, dropping his brow back to your body. “I like fucking being here. You should get some sleep.”

“We just spent all day sleeping-“

Wrong. His voice is stern and low in your head, his arms wrapping around your waist. We just spent all night fucking. MM said we’ve got a meeting with the team in the morning, Sunshine. And you still need the rest.

You sigh. But-

I’ll be right fucking here. Sleep.

Overall, you’re going to have to figure out how to combat that particular effect he has on your body. How to use it selectively, like when he’s telling you to cum. But, right now—with Ben sprawled naked and warm above you, his hands kneading and rubbing on your skin—you let the hum of Ben’s love in your chest wash a comfortable, easy sleep over your mind. 

You don’t have nightmares, or dreams. It's a restful, calm sleep that you wake up from in what feels like a blink, that makes your every thought clear and your body feel fresh as you watch the light of dawn break. Ben’s still above you, his snores filling the room, and you smile. This is right where you’re supposed to be. In a bed that smells like pine and belongs to you, with a warm, handsome man you love so much it will kill you, having tangled your legs with his in sleep and holding you so tight you’re trapped beneath him. You could burn him, or poke him, or slap him to wake him up, but you don’t really want to. Ben looks so peaceful, so content and comfortable, and you love him too much to wake him up.

And then he shifts around you, his fully hard cock poking into your upper thigh, and he needs to wake up now. He’ll have a lifetime, several of them, to sleep all lazy and content above you, but right now you’re still sensitive from last night—still aching for him and desperate for him everywhere—and you’re not doing this again. His breath on your neck is starting to pick up, he’s started to rut against you, and when the low, grumbled sounds of hunger start to leave his mouth, that’s it.

“Ben,” you hiss, leaning down to speak in his ear, and his hips jerk, almost drawing a whine from your throat. “Benjamin, wake up.” 

He mutters your name, and you start to push him up, off of you. You can feel your pussy start to contract around nothing—he’s not doing you any favors by pressing his tip of him against you in his sleep—and you at least need him off of you so you can take care of yourself.

“I swear to fucking god, you cunt,” you forgo a soft, quiet tone, and your voice rises to a loud snap. “If you don’t get your huge fucking ass off of me, I’ll-“

Ben’s eyes shoot open, finding yours in a second, and your words turn into a squeal as he sits up, pulling you onto his lap in one, fluid motion.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he mutters, voice gruff and heavy with sleep, and you can still feel him pressed against your ass. “What’s so fucking important you had to wake me up from my very good dream about you?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “You were on top of me.”

“I’m always on top of you,” he winks, and your body is very traitorous, letting that movement—combined with how his chest is still bare, and his lips are a little swollen from sleep, and’s the most attractive man alive whom you love very much—send a spark through your body, right into your pussy. “What’s wrong.”

It’s easier to show him, so you grind down on Ben once and his hands tighten on your hips.

“You have a problem, Pretty Boy.” You give him a too sweet smile and heat flashes between your cores. “Couldn’t let you deal with it yourself.”

His nostrils flare, and he bucks up into you once, making you almost collapse of his chest. “Don’t think I’m the only one with the fucking problem, beautiful. Think we can help each other?”

“Maybe,” you lean down to speak against his lips, and Ben slides you further up his lap. “How would you want to help me?”

“Right here,” he grunts, eyes dropping down to your tits—pressed against his chest—and where you’re straddling him. “Fuck up into you. See if you can take me going slow this time. If I can make you so fucking dizzy I need to carry you to the dining hall.”

“Oh, shit,” you mumble, starting to twist in Ben’s lap. “The meeting-“

“We’ve got time,” Ben’s hands hold you firm above him, and when you turn around to frown at him, his eyes are narrowed. “Plenty of fucking time, my love. All the damn time in the world for me to fuck you, take real good care of you, and get you in a hot shower before Mallory starts being a fucking bitch about how we’re late.”

You stay against him because he called you my love again, and it’s doing something to your brain that makes the world bright and happy. You still manage to glare at him, though, and snap, “how long.”

“Two hours.” He grins, pushing slightly up into you. “Two long fucking hours for me to make you moan.”

If you were a stronger woman, if you weren’t so blinded by love and lust and thirst and Ben, you have him and he loves you and you can feel it and fuck anyone who tries to take that away from you, you’d have rolled off of him, given him a sharp glare, and said Benjamin, we have work to do, you can fuck me later.

You are not a stronger woman. But Ben’s cock is pressed right against you, his hips are rocking just enough for him to slide easily between your folds, and he’s watching you with a drunken, high look in his eyes, so you think you’ll be able to find peace with that. All your love is spreading between Ben and your minds and bodies, and it’s making him look a little feral, so you think you’ll survive being susceptible to his low voice and handsome face.

You fall onto him, pressing your lips against his in a heavy, long, deep kiss, and you grin. Prove it.

He’s not bothering to prep you this time, but you’re so wet you can hear it when he shifts you into a better position, so it won’t really matter. Ben runs one finger between your pussy lips, spreading them open as he slowly pumps his cock, and when he guides himself to line up against you, he pauses.

“Gonna go slow, Sunshine,” he grunts, and you nod. “Arms on my neck.”

You listen to him mindlessly, wrapping yourself around his body, and it only takes one, deep thrust for Ben to push himself up into you.

He lets you move on him. His head is falling to your chest, one big, rough hand palming at your tits, and when you roll your body above him he just takes a sharp breath and lets you move. You start to bounce on him, your mouth pressed against his brow and his hold on your waist growing bruising, and when he starts to suck on your throat with a fervor you almost scream. He yanks you down, stilling your motions as he throbs inside you, and he bites at your pulse point with a flick of your nipple.

Slow, his voice rumbles in your head, and your breath hitches. One more chance, beautiful, then I’m taking over.

You nod, and his thumb soothes the hurt on your breast as you start to grind down onto him. You let every whimper and moan and sigh leave your throat, savoring the way it always makes Ben jerk inside you. He’s still touching you—slow and gentle and leaving goosebumps whenever his hands ghost over a new area of skin—but the most he does is a groan against your collarbone that rolls through your body, or a buck of his hips when you clench around him.

“Real fucking good,” he grunts your name, voice muffled on your body. “So good, riding my cock all pretty and sweet. Making all those perfect fucking sounds for me, Christ-“

His hand on your hips has moved up, pulling you so close your heartbeats are in time and your teeth are brushing against his ear when you moan. You make a choked gasp when you roll your hips on a circle, feeling every twitch of him inside you, and every single word Ben says is making a hazed pleasure spread through your body, making you squirm above him.

“Let me fucking hear you,” he rubs your nipple between two careful, broad fingers, and you give him and loud, deseperate, pleading, moan. “Good girl, so fucking good.”

Please, Ben, more- You gasp when he switches his attention to your other breast, and Ben chuckles.

“You like that, Sunshine? Like me inside you, like feeling how perfect you fit over me, how, fuck,” you’ve started to rock back and forth, and his hand drops from your tits to brush over your stomach, down to your clit. “You feel so fucking good, so good and fucking beautiful, I fucking love you, love how good you take me, how you say my fucking name-“

Ben-

“Just like that, fuck, you’re so fucking good, fucking, Christ, you need, fuck-“ 

Suddenly you're still, Ben’s hand moving around to press on your lower back, and realized you’d started to ride him again. Fast and rough, lost in his words and how he was saying your name like a prayer, how Ben is everything, you should give him everything-

“I told you we were going slow,” he mutters in your ear, and you can’t stop your breathless moan when he starts to fuck, up, into you, and his groan sending electricity through your body as you squeeze around him. “You didn’t fucking listen, brat, so now it’s my turn.”

He’d tricked you. The fucking asshole had known what all the praise would do to you—it was like he’d studied just what say to wreck you with only his words—and had baited you into it. Called you good girl and pretty and said it in that way that echoed in your ribs like a drum, that made you crave more, to make you move faster on him. You know Ben, you can feel how smug and prideful he is, how the glow is being hounded by a cocky, massive sense of triumph. He’s grinning against your shoulder, and you’re going to give him hell for it.

Later. You’ll shove his chest and slap his arm later.

Right now you can’t really dwell on how much of a dickhead he is, because he’s holding you tight against his body and splitting you open on his cock. It’s so slow, he’s set and unrelenting pace of torture when he knocks against the deepest part of you, rolls his hips, and pulls almost fully out before driving back up in a lazy, unhurried, and careful thrust.

You’re going to kill him. You make empty threats like this all the time, but this one you mean. He’s such a smug bastard, and this feels so fucking good, and you’re so full, he’s holding your with such care and love and your name is falling from his lips like it’s holy, but you’re going to kill him. He’s dragged you right to the edge, but won’t just push you over it.

“Benjamin,” you hiss, the needy and high tone of your voice not selling how genuine close you are to punching me. “I need you to go faster, I’m so close-“

“I want to fucking feel you,” he grunts your name, and you shake your head and tug at his hair. “You feel so good, you just need to wait. Patience is a virtue, beautiful, you just have to hold on and wait.”

You whine, and his hand moves back to trace around your clit, but never right over it. “Ben, please-“

“Almost,” he mutters, running his thumb over you for a split second, making your whole body shiver. “So good. I fucking love you, Sunshine, want you to cum with me.”

“Please-“

Ben’s last thrust, powerful and rough as he pinches your clit, sends your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. He’d pulled a little further out, sucking on your neck as you shake in his arms, and you can feel his cum dribble out of you, running down your thighs. As your moans and curses fall into slow breaths and whimpers, Ben leaves gentle, reverent kisses up your jaw and across your check. Your head tilts down on instinct to catch his mouth, and he hums as your tongue runs over his lips.

You’re caged against Ben’s body, his arms flexing around you as he holds you, and you’ve never felt safer. This is where you belong. All your blood pouring out your body with love, and Ben’s own love so demandingly devout it makes you rest against him without any fear. Only love.

You love Ben, he loves you, and he’s where you belong.

——————

Ben was pretty sure that, at Vought Tower with Butcher and Maeve and Homelander and Annie, he’d actually just fucking died. Someone had figured out how to kill him, an awful misjudgment or error had been made, and he’d ended up in heaven. Or some sort of fucking purgatory, testing him to see if he’d be worthy. If Ben would stand at Her side, wait for her, do what she told him and only sometimes bitch about it. Love Her like she fucking deserved. Earn paradise, prove that he wasn’t a disgraceful, undeserving piece of shit, prove that—if this was heaven—he’d tend to it and care for it and worship it for the rest of his goddamn life.

Of all the possible options for why She loved him, it was the made the most fucking sense. Everything else, in comparison, seemed pretty fucking stupid. This was heaven. She loved Ben, he’d gotten to hear her say it, gotten to fucking feel her around him, and he hadn’t died at Vought she’d certainly fucking killed him there. Squeezing him, moaning his name and scratching his back and Her heart racing in her chest from what Ben did to her, loving Ben and letting him feel it.

It had hit him again. Buried deep inside Her, that high, infinite feeling had crashed through his body, and he’d almost fucking lost it. It had been Her love, for fucking Ben, everywhere around him and making the whole world better.

He’d almost cum just from that alone. He’d never stop being in awe of Her for a whole lot of goddamn reasons, and being able to just fucking live like that was now one of them.

Ben had, in a truly futile effort, tried to convince Her to just stay in bed for the whole goddamn day. The team could take care of it. This might be their problem, but they deserved at least one fucking break. One day for Ben to see if there were in fact limits to their supe stamina, if She’d look just as perfect as she came when she was riding him. Pressed against the wall. Bent over the couch or sitting in a chair, slammed against the floor or squirming against him in the shower or bent over a table-

It hadn’t worked. He’d been very descriptive of all his ideas, very open to suggestions as well, but after many minutes of Her shooting down all his arguments with good fucking points and smart fucking words, she’d crawled away from him, rolling off the bed, and he’d had to follow her into the bathroom for his promised shower.

He’d moved around Her, turning on the water, and she’d glared up at him.

“We’re already going to be late, Benjamin-“

“And who do you have to blame for that, Sunshine?” He’d grinned at Her, and she’d wrinkled her nose at him.

“You’re the one who hid my phone under the pillow,” She’d snapped, crossing her arms and pushing her pretty tits up to fucking taunt him. “That’s sabotage, you cunt. You’re not allowed in my shower.”

“Our shower-“

“Shut the fuck up, Pretty Boy.” She’d pushed his arm lightly, and Ben hadn’t even swayed. “If I let you in here, you’ll just try to fuck me and we’ll be even more late.”

Ben shrugged. He would do that. He’d been planning to do exactly that, but he’d also be damned if he was ashamed for wanting to show Her how much he loved her at any given opportunity. “I will, but you can just fucking tell me no. I’ll stop, and we can have a boring, sex-free shower.”

She’d flushed. “No. Stay out here.”

He’d grinned. She was almost pouting at him, but had stopped trying to shove him away, and her pretty eyes were blown out. “You want me to fuck you in the shower-“

“Fuck you-“

“I know,” his voice had been gleeful, his smile almost straining his face. “You never have a problem telling me. You don’t fucking want to tell me no.”

“Shut up-“

“Here’s the deal, beautiful.” He’d leaned over Her, watching her swallow and smirking at the slack, thirsty expression on her face. “I won’t try to fuck you. Won’t even damn mention it, because I’m a fucking gentleman and I love you. But I get to shower with you, and I’m putting an offer of fucking you on the table. Say the word and I’ll do whatever the fuck you want. But you have to start it. Clear?”

She’d nodded, and let Ben herd her into the steam.

He’d kept his hands to himself. Ben had only thought about how he wanted to push her into the wall and crack the tiles—in a way that he was pretty sure she couldn’t hear—and even tried to stop his semi-hard dick from brushing against her.

Then he’d—fucking innocently—reached over Her to grab his shampoo, and she’d snatched his hand out of the air and brought it down to her center, grinding back into him and will whining pleas.

He’d have been fucking insane to say no. To not rub and flick and play with her perfect fucking pussy until she came, shaking on his hand with her head thrown back against his chest. Ben would’ve had to have lost his goddamn mind.

So now they were twenty minutes late to the meeting. Ben’s hand was folded in Hers, and she was pulling him down the hallway with long, clipped steps that made him want to pick Her up and fuck her.

I love you-

Shut your fucking mouth, Benjamin. You loving me is what made us late in the first place.

He snorted. My mouth is shut, brat.

Shut it more, cunt.

Right before She could push through the dining hall doors, Ben spun her around into his chest, and cupped her face with a light hand. “Let’s go home.”

“We are home.” She smiled at him, hands curling in his shirt, and Ben wasn’t capable of arguing with that foolproof logical when she was so stupid fucking beautiful. “Can you keep it in your pants for the meeting?”

“No.”

“Benjamin-“

He rolled his eyes, and pressed one gentle, soft kiss onto her lips. “Whatever,” he muttered against her, and she let out a breathless sound that was going to give him a fucking seizure from want. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

It was like a fucking damn had broken inside him. Ben couldn’t fucking stop telling Her that he loved her. Even as he slung an arm over her shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, he wanted to scream it for the whole fucking building to hear. She needed to know, to never fucking forget, and he needed to keep her right fucking there all the time. At his side, leaning into him, squeezing his hand around Her as they entered the dining hall.

Since Mallory wasn’t in attendance, the most shit they got for the late arrival with a few glares and several sighs. They dropped onto the bench, and Ben heard Her heartbeat pick up as the team gaped at them. They looked fucking normal, as far as Ben knew. They’d washed off all the dried cum, put on clothing that wasn’t torn, their hair wasn’t really that fucking out of place. It couldn’t be how they were sitting, because they always sat like this. With Her pressed into his side, leaning her weight into his body, and his body half over hers.

But everyone’s heart was a little faster than normal. And none of them were just fucking speaking. Ben was about to open his mouth and demand some fucking answer, but Butcher broke the silence before he could.

“How very fuckin nice of you two cunts to finally join us,” he drawled, glaring between Her and Ben. “First skippin dinner, then almost playin hooky on the bloody meetin? You got a more rebellious streak than I thought, Love-“

“We were fucking busy,” She snapped, matching Butcher’s glare with one twice as violent. Christ, She was fucking perfect. “Our whole lives don’t revolve around you, Butcher. We’re allowed to miss dinner.”

“And the meeting?” MM muttered, and Her glare turned to him as he raised his hands up. “It’s not out of character, but the Singer shit was your idea. We weren’t able to start without you motherfuckers here.”

“And you ain’t got lives outside of this,” Butcher added with a scoff. “So unless you’re running a secret fuckin drug ring, in which case I’d like in, you shoulda bloody been here.”

 She sighed. “It’s none of your business, Butcher.“

“What, were you bloody twats fuckin all night-“

“Yes.” Ben grunted, glowering at Butcher. “Like she said, our fucking business.”

The whole room fell into silence, and Her voice rang in Ben’s ears.

What the fuck, Benjamin.

Sorry, his voice sounded insincere in his fucking brain, because he didn’t fucking mean it in the slightest. This shouldn’t be a fucking secret. People should know that Ben was fucking Her, that they fucking loved each other, and that not a single fucking force in the universe would take them away from each other.

She wasn’t that fucking angry, anyway, because all she did was slap his leg under the table, wrinkling her nose in a way that told Ben they both knew he’d probably do that again, and turn to watch the amusingly varied expressions of shock on their teams faces. 

Hughie—with a red fucking face and stuttered words—spoke first. “Um, last night? This last night?” 

“And this morning,” Ben winked at him, and She sighed, half burying her face in his chest. “I got good fucking stamina, Hughie, you need some tips I’d be happy to help-“ 

Her hand shot up to cover his mouth, and when Ben looked down she was giving him a flat look. Do not give Hughie sex tips, please.

You know how fucking good I am, would be damn cruel to deprive the world of what’s yours-

She flushed, but Her glare didn’t waver. Yeah, you’re a real Samaritan, Pretty Boy. And Hughie coughed.

“Um, was this, I guess a new thing? Like the first time-“

Ben scowled. “We haven’t been fucking lying to you pussies about not fucking-“

“It was,” She elbowed Ben in the gut, don’t be mean, and frowned at Hughie. “But I don’t know why that’s important-“

“Sorry, I’m just trying to, uh, put this shit together, I guess.” Hughie swallowed, the rest of the team watching them with a weird fucking intensity. “I, uh, what happened-“

“We fucked, Hughie.” Ben scowled. “It is not my goddamn job to explain fucking to you-“

“No,” Hughie’s heart was going to pound out of his chest like a damn cartoon. “I mean, I know what fucking is. It’s just kind of, uh, sudden? I’m wondering what changed-“ 

“She told me she loves me,” Ben didn’t bother to hide the smug pride in his voice, or the puff of his chest, and She’d seemingly completely given up on intervening in the conversation. Her face was fully squished against him, and Ben rubbed small circles on her shoulder as he smirked at Hughie. “And I said it back. And we fucked.”

“You just, um, went right into fucking, or-“

“I fingered her first,” Ben shrugged, and She sighed into him. “And then she sucked my cock, and-“

“Hughie-“ MM’s words were a low warning. “That’s all you should fucking need, I do not want a play by play of their sex-“

Her head peaked up, leaning around Ben to frown at MM. “What do you mean, what he should need?” Her gaze turned to Hughie, and the kid flinched. “Hughie. Why do you need to know that stuff.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, giving Her an apologetic grimace before running a hand over his face and looking around the table. “What day is it?” 

“June 9th,” Annie’s answer was quick, and she was watching Hughie carefully. “Little over three months.”

She looked up at Ben with a frown as Hughie started to frown to himself, narrowing his eyes at the air.

What are they talking about?

Fuck if I know, Ben shrugged, looking back at Hughie. I can make him tell us.

I’ll keep that in mind, but for now no torture-

Hughie’s eyes refocused and he sighed. “That’s twenty-five to MM for having three and half months on sex, twenty to Annie for exactly three on feelings, and twenty-five to Kimiko for sex immediately after feelings.”

As everyone groaned and began to pull out wallets, Annie frowned.

“Why do I only get twenty-“

Hughie scratched the back of his neck, giving Annie a sheepish look. “You said he’d confess feelings first, but she did, so you don’t, uh, get the bonus. And we put more on the order and distance-“

At Ben’s side, She was gaping around the table with an indigent glare. “Were you guys betting on us-“ 

“Sorry,” MM said Her name with a shrug. “But we all got tired of your fucking pining shit, needed to do something with it.”

“You did not need to-“

“You forgot to ask about the positions, Petite Hughie,” The French Prick interrupted Her with a frown, and Hughie sighed.

“We vetoed that one, remember? Nobody bet on it-“

“Nah, Lad, I got fifty riding on who was on top.” Butcher wiggled his eyebrows at Her and Ben. “Think you twats can say the right shit and make Frenchie pay me what he fuckin owes?”

“Butcher,” She snapped, squeezing Ben’s leg in a silent order to keep quiet. “I am not telling you who was on top-“

“Was Soldier Boy, wasn’t it?” Her face flushed, and Butcher gave The French Prick triumphant smirk. “Fuckin told you, Frenchie-“

“She did not say it, I will not pay-“

“You bloody owe me, Mate, don’t make me fucking take it-“

“Holy fuck,” she mumbled, giving Ben an eye roll, idiots, and ignoring his snort as she raised Her voice. “Frenchie, pay him.”

“Non, you must say it-“

“He was on top!” She snapped, and Ben didn’t miss the way her thighs squeezed until the table, where only he could see. “Pay Butcher, and if either of you ever bring this up again, I’ll fucking kill you. Now can we please just do our jobs?” 

“Well,” Butcher began, slowly counting the money Frenchie had passed him. “Ain’t that much to update you lot on. Singer’s still got his fuckin head up his ass, blockin us from makin any progress on the V, so we’ve found ourself in a bit of a fuckin stalemate until the president gets off his ass.”

She frowned. “Then why was this so urgent-“

“Because, Love,” Butcher’s sharp gaze rose up, scowling between Her and Ben. “I got some really fuckin interesting news from Mallory yesterday morning, about how Stan Edgar called her sayin Soldier Boy and the Anomaly still ain’t given an answer to his offer. And I’m real fuckin curious what he could be talkin about.”

Ben tensed, pulling Her closer into him, and glared at Butcher as She answered.

“Edgar kind of,” She sighed, fingers tapping on Ben’s knee. “He called us. And, um, asked us to visit him.”

“Why the hell would he want you two to visit him,” MM frowned. “He and Soldier Boy aren’t exactly on good fucking terms, and he’s only met you,” he gave Her a small nod. “Once.”

She glanced up at Ben. Can I tell them? About your IOU?

He didn’t want to tell them—mostly because they’d all fucking yell at him, and he couldn’t kiss them to make them shut up—but after failing think of a single good reason to say no, he shrugged. If you fucking need to, fine.

She nodded, and took a deep breath as she turned back to the team. “I need everyone to promise not to lose their shit, and that they’ll let me finish talking before they jump in.”

“I ain’t makin no fuckin promises-“

“Butcher,” Annie snapped, glaring over Hughie’s still-red face. “Just shut up.”

Butcher scowled, but didn’t say anything more, and Annie gave Her an encouraging nod to continue.

“Okay.” She sighed. “First of all, I’ve already yelled at Ben a lot for this, so you guys don’t have to. It was stupid, and reckless, and lacked any critical thinking skill or obvious foresight-“

You better be fucking going somewhere-

“But,” She kicked Ben’s shin, ignoring his glare. “We were desperate, and I understand why he did it. Even if it was fucking dumb.”

MM frowned. “Are you going to keep vamping for a thousand fucking years, or tell us what this motherfucker did-“

“Ben made a deal with Stan Edgar, and now we,” She gestured between Ben and herself. “Owe him.”

She tensed at Ben’s side as everyone stared at them—mostly Ben, and he probably needed to pretend he actually gave a fuck about the consequence of the IOU, but also She was curled into him and happy and safe so Ben decided he could be fucked—and they waited for the bitching to begin.

“And,” MM ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. “And you didn’t think that would be important fucking information to share with us?”

“No.” She mumbled. “I mean, I know I should’ve, but everyone was still at each other’s throat about Ben and I, and I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.”

“This ain’t about your bloody relationship drama, Love, this could fuck our asses raw with Soldier Boy’s dumb fuckin-“

“It wasn’t dumb,” She snapped, and Butcher was smart enough to shut up under her glare. It was likely more of a survival instinct, because Ben had been on the receiving end of that specific glare—where She looked like she already had a plan to kill you, there was nothing you could do to prevent it, and your body wouldn’t ever be found—and even he had been a little worried. Less worried than Butcher, because he wasn’t a fucking pussy and that glare was also fucking hot on Her, with curled lips and sharp eyes and Christ she was pretty, but worried all the same. Fuck, even Her voice was hot, firm and venomous. “And I didn’t hide it because of us,” She gestured between herself and Ben, and he needed to get it the fuck together and pay attention to thoughts that weren’t if I fucked Her on the table, how annoying would everyone be about it. “I hid it because I don’t think you can honestly tell me that, if I had told you, you wouldn’t have tried to kill us both.”

“I ain’t able to kill you, I’ve fuckin looked into it-“

“I know that,” She cut off Butcher’s muttering with a scowl. “But my point is that you didn’t trust us. This isn’t something I could share when you didn’t trust us. Got it? Can we talk about the actual issue on the table?”

Butcher rolled his eyes, but nodded.

“Thank you.” She turned back to the rest of the team, frowning into the air as she ran through her thoughts aloud. “Edgar says he has the favor picked out, but wants Ben and I to visit him. We don’t know why I need to be there yet, but we do know that he’ll be ‘in a better mood’ if I do. Whatever that means.”

“And if you do not visit him?” The French Prick watched Her carefully. “Will there be, ah, alternative actions?”

“I don’t know,” She pulled her lips between her teeth, chewing them with such force Ben was worried she’d break skin. “He’s not asking us to bring him anything. Just to keep him company, have lunch with him. He already knows what he wants Ben to do, and he said he’s willing to just cash in the IOU over the phone and that’ll be it. But he still wants us to visit.”

“It might be a, like a trap?” Hughie mumbled, looking around the table with an anxious face. “I mean, Edgar’s never been trustworthy, and he’s kind of the fucking worst-“ 

She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a trap. Edgar wouldn’t realign himself with Homelander, and he’s too smart to let Sage pull his strings. I,” She took a long breath. “I want to go. Edgar might be cryptic and an annoying fucking dickhead, but he doesn’t play games that are unwinnable. He’s got some sort of endgame, and I think we should see what it is.”

“No.” Ben didn’t wait for the rest of the team to chime in with their stupid fucking opinions. There wasn’t a single fucking chance he was taking Her out of the compound, upstate, in goddamn public—where Homelander could find Her—for a lunch with Stan Edgar. “I’ll deal with this my goddamn self, we’re not entertaining Edgar’s fucking shit.”

“Ben-“

“I’m with Soldier Boy on this.” MM interjected, and Her eyes widened. “Edgar’s a slippery fucking bastard. No telling what the hell he wants from you, and it’s real goddamn suspicious he’s making it an option. It feels like a fucking trap.” 

“It would be a stupid trap,” She crossed her arms, glaring around the table. “It’s way too obvious. And it’s not like we’re helpless if he does try to pull something-“

“But we can’t risk it right now.” Annie sighed, giving Her a close-lipped smile. “I mean, the IOU will be cashed in no matter what, right? Why should we play Edgar’s game when he’s already gotten what he wants?”

Butcher scoffed. “And that, Starlight, is why you never fuckin win on poker nights. Sometimes you gotta take the gamble, bloody live a little and let it pay off. I think the cunts should go, I’m all fuckin in on it.”

“Of course you would be, you asshole-“

“Kimiko and I are also on team go.” The French Prick gave Annie an apologetic look as he cut her off. “Kimiko says that she trusts the judgment of Madame,” the French Prick nodded at Her, and Ben realized he’d fully dropped saying either Anomaly or her name. He could fucking appreciate that, even if Frenchie was making to dogshit fucking choice of siding with Her dumb as fuck plan. “And I trust the judgment of Kimiko.” 

She nodded, and all eyes turned to Hughie.

“I, uh, why is everyone-“

“You’re the last fucking vote, Kid.” MM shrugged. “Yay or nay on Edgar, all on you.”

“Do not let the pressure get to your head, petite Hughie.” Frenchie added, and Hughie swallowed. “I am sure neither will kill you if you do not vote their way.”

She might not. She was kind like that. Ben wasn’t.

Hughie must have known that Ben’s glare wasn’t a fucking empty threat, because he mumbled, “It’s, um, probably not worth it. Nay, I guess.”

Ben gave Her a smug grin, I fucking win, and she completely ignored him.

“Edgar’s literally locked up, he’s not a threat right now-“

MM said Her name flatly. “You know just as well as the rest of us that Edgar’s always a fucking threat. You’re still being hunted by Vought, there’s no way it’s worth taking such a goddamn risk for his,” MM pointed a sharp finger at Ben, and didn’t get it snapped off only because they were on the same side of this shit. “Stupid choices. It’s too far a fucking drive, and we can’t know what the hell Edgar’s got waiting for you. You’re outvoted on this. Back down.”

“Technically I’m not, we’re tied-“ 

“A stalemate is a no.” MM grunted with a shrug. “And we’re not flipping. That’s it.”

She narrowed her eyes, and Ben could hear Her brain moving.

You lost, Sunshine. It happens to all of us, and now you know how I feel all the goddamn time-

I did not lose.

Yes, you did. An don’t say something fucking insane to try and get around it-

Shut the fuck up. “What if Edgar comes to us?” She didn’t even look at Ben’s glower, looking around the table. “Home field advantage, no way for him to set something up.”

“We ain’t lettin that cunt in the house,” Butcher grunted. “I’m still on your side, Love, but we’re on strict fuckin lockdown. Not a chance in bloody hell we’ll convince Mallory to give Edgar a day pass.”

“First of all, this isn’t a house,” She shrugged, finger drumming against Ben’s leg as she frowned. “But we could bring him to a house.”

Hughie blinked. “None of us have a house-“

“But the CIA does,” She grinned. “And it’s fucking impenetrable.”

“Oh, shit.” Hughie’s eyes widened. “The safe house.”

She nodded. “Where Edgar’s family is. He won’t risk Neuman, or Zoe. We can meet him there, no risk, and hear what he wants.”

“That’s,” Annie sighed. “Yeah, okay. I’ll switch my vote.”

She bumped Ben’s shoulder, a smug fucking smirk on her pretty face. Suck on that, Benjamin. Five to three, I win.

He scowled. Brat.

You love it.

He did. And, fuck him, Ben couldn’t figure out a single good argument to flip Annie back. It was a genius fucking idea. It was safe, they’d be giving Edgar extra by letting him see Neuman, and they’d get whatever fucking generosity the pussy had promised them. And when MM and Hughie agreed to Her idea—MM making it clear that it was only on the terms of the safe house he was siding with Her—Ben gave up. She was too fucking smart, and he was too fucking stupidly in love with Her and her happy, pleased smile to keep arguing. Especially not when, as Butcher grunted they’d need four day and everyone started to disperse, Ben had several fucking plans to drag Her home and win his own game. To tease and touch and fuck Her until she was a wet, fucked out mess beneath him, take advantage of how Her heart picked up every time he called her my love, and maybe he’d get Her to squirt again-

“Frenchie?”

Ben blinked at Her nervous voice, and realized it was just them, Frenchie, and Kimiko left in the dining hall. She was leaning over the table, tilting her head at Frenchie as she spoke slow, measured words.

“You, um, you know a little about how my powers work, right? The empathy specifically?”

“I, ah,” Frenchie glanced at Ben with nervous fucking pussy words. “I do, oui. But I am not sure-“

“He knows about the suppressant,” She said with a sigh. “I’m not taking it anymore, by the way, I can give the rest back-“ 

“Non, they are yours. A gift.” Frenchie frowned. “Why do you bring up your empathy if not for the pills?”

“I have,” She swallowed, glancing up at Ben. “We have a few questions about it.” 

Who the fuck is we, Sunshine. 

You and I. She shot him a quick glare. He might know what the whole mind reading shit is, Pretty Boy. Don’t be an ass.

Ben rolled his eyes, but turned his glare to Frenchie’s confused face.

“What questions would you like answered, Madame?”

“You said my empathy is my limbic system going beyond my own self.” She frowned. “Right?”

“Oui,” Frenchie nodded, looking Her up and down. “The V, ah, causes you to connect your brain with others. Ties their emotions in with your own.”

Ben didn’t understand what the fuck Frenchie was talking about, but She seemed satisfied with that weird answer, and continued. “But it’s temporary, not a long term bond.”

Frenchie blinked at Her. “It should be. Your brain is still your own, it would be fucking exhausting for you if it was not. Why do you-”

“I think I did something to Ben.” She mumbled, staring at the table, and he scoffed.

Shut the fuck up, Sunshine, it’s not like this is torture for me. Don’t get all fucking sad about it-

But I- 

“We can read each other’s damn minds,” Ben said aloud, because She wasn’t allowed to blame herself for this, so he wouldn’t entertain any protests about it. “And you’re going to tell us why.” 

“Please.” She added, and Ben rolled his eyes. “And I think it’s something about the empathy because I can feel him. He’s just kind of in me-“ 

“He does not look to be in you right now-“

Kimiko whacked Frenchie’s arm, and sighed something that made him frown and turn back to Her.

“Are you speaking in metaphor?”

“No, but I’m also not talking about his dick, Frenchie.” She sighed. “I can feel him when he’s not touching me. Or anywhere near me, really. It’s kind of like just a thing in my chest that is Ben. It’s hard to explain, but I know it’s him. And it vanished with the suppressant, so I think it’s related to the empathy.”

Later, Ben would have to ask Her what the fuck she meant by it was him. What he felt like, why She was so goddamn certain of it. But Frenchie was nodding slowly, looking between them, so Ben had to pay attention. 

“And you, ah,” Frenchie paused, glancing at Kimiko before turning back to Her. “Can you hear our thoughts?”

“No. And it’s not hearing his thoughts, it’s more selective than that-“

“Selective my balls,” Ben muttered, and She wrinkled her nose at him.

Fuck off, Pretty Boy. We’re still learning how to use it, it’s going to be touch and go. “It is selective, he’s just a dramatic fucking man child.” Ben scowled, but let Her continue. He kind of wanted some damn answers as well. “It’s like we’re talking to each other, but in our heads.” 

Kimiko signed something, and She shook her head. 

“No, not like the,” She sighed. “Heart eyes. That’s just reading expressions, and I can do it with my family as well. This is like some sort of mental bond, but I don’t know why we have it.” 

Frenchie titled his head at Her. “Did it begin after you fucked?” 

“Um,” She flushed, heart fluttering. “No. The Ben Thing in me was kind of in and out for a while, then got cemented at the Believe Expo, when we met in the bathroom.” 

“And you did not fuck in the bathroom?” 

“No-“ 

“I fingered you,” Ben supplied, and gave Her exasperated glare a wink. “And ate you out.” He glanced at Frenchie. “Does that shit count.”

Frenchie sighed. “It does. Can you, Soldier Boy, feel her?”

Ben frowned. “Fucking once and a while, yeah.”

“Really?” She blinked up at him. “When?”

“When you escaped,” he shrugged. “When you got drunk. When I fucked you-“

“And you didn’t tell me-“ 

“I only just fucked you, and how the fuck was I supposed to know it was you-“

“I don’t know, I figured it out myself-“

“After fucking months-“

Frenchie coughed, and they both turned to glare at him.

“I, ah, you may continue, but I have a theory for what has happened.”

“Fucking wait-“

She covered Ben’s mouth, and nodded to Frenchie. “What is it?”

“You,” Frenchie nodded at Her, saying Her name carefully. “Have, hypothetically, planted yourself in Soldier Boy.”

Ben dragged Her hand away from him with a firm, careful grip. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

“As her powers have grown, and you two developed a, ah, connection, it may have led to her brain, the V of it, reaching into your brain and not removing itself, even after contact had ended.”

“But that doesn’t explain the mind reading.“ She frowned, and Ben smirked.

You called it mind reading. 

Fuck you, Benjamin-

“It is just an idea,” Frenchie shrugged. “But if your empathy felt safe within the environment of Soldier Boy’s body, it might have been capable of tying into him. Making you a physical part of him, perhaps deep enough for thoughts to be traded. And the piece of him within you is the piece of your brain within him, sending you signals of his own mind and body.” 

“If it’s my brain putting my empathy in Ben,” She said carefully. “Is it something I have to worry about happening again?” 

Frenchie shook his head. “It is very unlikely. Just once is an astronomical fucking shock, and you would have to recreate the exact events for it to even possibly happen again.” 

Ben scowled. “The fuck you mean a shock-“

“I mean it is batshit that her literal fucking brain could grow within you. It required much physical contact, a, ah, profound emotional connection, and for your own body to not view her as a parasite and terminate her within you.”

She tilted Her head. “Is it because we have the same V? Like a biological thing?”

“It may have helped,” Frenchie sighed. “But I cannot truly tell without tests.”

Do you want to test it? She glanced up at Ben, scanning his face. I mean, I don’t really think it matters-

It fucking doesn’t. And he is not damn poking us with needles just give us the exact same fucking answer. Ben glared at Frenchie. “Her brain is in me? That's it?”

Frenchie swallowed. “Oui, I imagine so.”

Ben nodded. Got all the shit you want?

I guess. Not much else I can ask. She gave Frenchie a smile. “Thank you, that helps.”

“Would you want any of the tests-“

“Fuck no,” Ben snapped, and started to stand, pulling Her with him. “No science shit.”

She glared at him, and turned back to Frenchie. Ben didn’t actually pay attention what She was saying—probably just fucking goodbyes or some sentimental shit—because he was just staring at Her. He kept staring at Her, as they left the dining hall and returned to their apartment.

She was fucking perfect. He loved Her—he’d never stop saying it, nobody could make him stop fucking saying it—and She was his whole life. She loved him, and now Ben got to give Her everything. They’d kill Homelander, and move to Rome, and get married. He’d fuck Her forever, and care for Her the same way she did for him—staying at his side, defending him with words and plans and faith the same way he defended her with his hands and body and sheer fucking will—and that would be it. She’d be it. She was it. She was a fucking part of Ben, and he’d never fucking lose Her. She loved him, and she was never fucking wrong, and Ben would spend the rest of his life ensuring he was worthy of being central in Her orbit, that he was deserving of being part of Her.

He’d always make sure was worthy of keeping that part of Her in him safe. He’d tend to it and care for Her and love Her, he fucking swore on the world she loved so much, and this was it. They, together, were it.

End Note: They really did not last two weeks before they were fucking and shouting about how much they love each other. Two most unserious people.

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