#Warning; hideous face under the read more

[pedge-page]

Mother Who Indulges

Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Joel’s found other means to get his favorite snack. But he’s bad at hiding the evidence taking form on his own body.

Can be read as sequel to Mother Who Provides or on its own.

Warnings: Fat!Joel, Sub! Joel, breastfeeding, lactation kink, feedee/feeder, burping, belly worship, belly button licking, gluttony, riding, vaginial fingering, m! Masturbation, forced feeding, hands free ejaculation, unprotected sex, breeding kink, cream pie, switch dynamic at the end, Mommy and brief Daddy kink, nipple play for Joel, derogatory names such as cow or hog (towards Joel)

18+ ONLY

- - - -

Your husband was never a closet eater. 

Joel was someone who enjoyed food in the company of others. Never saw it as anything more than fuel for the body, only ate when he needed it. Sure, he wouldn’t turn down a soda and a bag of chips every blue moon, but the amount of physical labor he does at his job always combats any minimal amount of snacking he does. He’s always been in perfect, lovable shape. Not shredded abs by any means, but he had just the right strength to carry you bridal style, just the right softness to cuddle up against him like a warm pillow.

Or at least, he used to.

You started to notice it after the 6 month mark of brining your baby home. As you very slowly lost a few pounds of post partum weight, Joel seemingly started to gain them—a couple dozen of them. And it was … odd. 

He didn’t go out to eat—the man preferred a home cook meal and saving a few bucks where he could. There also weren’t any suspicious amounts of extra processed snacks coming into the house. And it’s not like Joel was slacking off on the construction site by any means. And yet, you noticed it when he started huffing just to get his once baggy jeans over his thickened belly. Or the way his shirts stretched a little tighter over his chest. Or the extra grunts after any regular amount of food. 

The only real change was that 10-month old Sarah had started refusing pre-bagged bottle milk. The little thing ONLY wanted mama’s nana’s straight from the tap. And that meant Joel’s little breastfeeding habits had to go on pause so that your baby would actually eat.

“Picky little thing,” he grumbled with folded arms as your baby sucked away happily at your breasts, all wrapped up snugly in your arms. You could see the distain in his face—the idea that Sarah was no longer going to “share” your perky tits and even more delectable breastmilk. You were a full blown cow utter live and on demand when Sarah needed it.

You only laugh. “It’s all meant for the baby anyway. Besides, you got more than enough fill, right?”

He didn’t exactly answer you that night. Just grunted and walked away. You thought that was the end of it.

Until one night: half asleep and feeling an incredibly soreness in your breasts. It felt hot, wet, and heavy like a sack of potatoes sitting atop your chest, with a leach on the end of it. Though, you did notice they gradually felt lighter, which is strange. You always filled with milk over night. Groaning, your nipples felt twisty, sore as hell. Groggily you reach under the covers—God, why are they so hard and big? I can’t even feel it … oh, oh no. why it is hairy? And there’s growling coming from below.

 Panic ensures, fear that you’re turning into some hairy wolf beast stuck in a dream, becoming misshaped and hideous and—

You wake up fully and toss the covers off, revealing your husband who’s latched on to your tit, suckling the milk like in second heaven.

You stare down at him disappointingly. Joel only just realizes he’s been caught, your nip falling from his mouth with suctioned pop, as cream pours from his lips. Caught red handed.

“Um….sorry. Was hungry.”

You wack his head hard several times, enunciating, “That-is-for-the-baby!”

“Okay okay!”

“Do you do this often when I’m asleep?”

Joel shifts up slightly, staring down at your teeth ridden mounds. He clears his throat guiltily. “…No...”

He got an earful, and you were careful to make sure he didn’t try sneaking Sarah’s breakfast off of you in the early morning again. 

And that seemed like the end of it. He never brought it up or complained again.

And yet, the man was still gaining weight like nobody’s business…

-

Joel doesn’t like sneaking around his wife. 

Realistically, he should have been losing weight, what with the extra snack of your milk each night he could enjoy now entirely off the menu. He should have not been too indulgent either, as you may have noticed his... physical difference. In fact, he was surprised it didn’t really dawn on you, where all those extra pounds on your hubby are coming from.

Joel tiptoes down to the kitchen in the late night, far after you’re lightly snoring. He makes sure not to hit the pressure sensitive creaky floorboards too. Honestly, even with the extra weight, he’s pretty good at slinky-ing around. 

But his eagerness is getting the best of him. Rumbling through his body despite the slowness in his pace. He waits all day for this moment and can’t rush it now.

He cracks open the fridge, the light illuminating the dark kitchen as he briefly scans behind him again for any signs of movement. When the area is secure, he turn back. He’s so excited, goosebumps riveting his skin. Bubbles gurgling in his stomach. He’s become gluttonous, no doubt. But when you get that high, it’s hard to just quit cold turkey. 

Reaching behind the beer bottles, carefully laid under a foil wrap of steak, is his most prized possession of the late night endeavors: that extra sum of frozen baggies of your breastmilk in the freezer that you gracious kept saved and that his even more gracious baby now refuses to drink. To his luck, you must have mentally completely forgotten about them. He always pulls three each night and lets them thaw in their hidden place in the refrigerator, waiting all day for this exact moment.

His obtuse stomach rumbles. Joel typically wears a buttoned sleep shirt as of late since it was the only thing that fit him to bed. But now the bottom few buttons had torn off, leaving his fat gut rounded and hanging out. 

The hungry man licks his lips as he tears open the first buoyant bag of cream, his lips quivering when that first scent hits his nose. “Ah—oh fuck yeah. That’s the good stuff,” he groans, but quickly softens his voice again, remembering he can’t get caught on his indulgence.

He hastily dips a fat finger into the milk and swirls it before pushing past his lips. Joel closes his eyes, humming loudly as the taste of your fine breastmilk invade his buds, travel through his electrical signals to his brain that then releases pleasure throughout his entire body. He moans around his digit, sucking every little drop until he’s close to gnawing his finger off. Then he releases with a pop and grins, dipping two more fingers and scooping it out messily. Tilting back to drink the second helping. It drips down his palm, and he’s quick to suckle it up. None can be wasted.

He suppresses a slight burp. His large stomach screaming for more, for what he came he for. Joel tilts the baggie back over his head, leaning back and drinks the entire contents. Audible gulp after gulp, the sweet taste of milk fills his tongue and travels to his happy belly. All while his other wondering hand roams over the thick, stretched flesh, right over his belly button, jiggling the heavy underside of lard. God he feels so good like this. Getting gorged out on your milk, feeling so full and fulfilled from it. 

He wags the bag once the last few drops are struggling to pour, sticking his tongue out like a dog. Heat spreads from his core down to his loins. Joel grips his hardened length over his soft pj shorts. He can’t help it. He once had prime seat to your lap, drinking straight from your tits whenever he felt like it while you jerked him off. Now reduced to palming his hard-on while lapping at your bagged milk by himself in the dark late of night.

 The first bag never lasts. He makes sure to lick any remnant on his lips, squeezing his belly and groan with a pathetic whimper. He needs more. He always needs more. Thankfully there are two more bags for tonight, but fuck he could drink 300 right now and still never be full. 

His shirt stretches tightly over his chest, and he decides to unbutton the top few stained buttons. His puffy chest bursts through the fabric like a damn. Now fully free, the silk material hanging forgotten and obscured by his massive figure, Joel can now take more enjoyment out of tearing into the next bag and downing it even faster than the first.

He huffs out, breathing for the first time after slurping the entire bag in one go. Rubbing faster up and down his stiff cock. Shit, he’s gonna cum. Feels so euphoric having his tip bump against the lower hang of his pooch. The fat tip meeting his even fatter tummy. 

And your taste. That’s what sends him over every night. Has him cumming in his sleep shorts by the time he’s finished the third bag. Joel grunts, lifting his stomach from the underside so his other hand can palm his swollen dick. “Momma’s got the best milk,” he hums to himself, eyes closed in bliss. “Oh fuck fuck fuck, fuck yeah, I’m—I’m gonna—!”

“So!”

Joel swings around, crashing his body into the open refrigerator door, spilling his precious milk all over his tits and belly. Only to be met with you, your arms folded over your  chest, spaghetti silk nightgown adorning your figure and a knowing smirk on your face.

“So this is where you’ve been getting your little extra snacks.”

He’s speechless, caught and cornered with no where to go. His mouth opens, but no words leave, like a gaping fish out of water.

“Nothing to say, Joel?” You ask with a tilt of your head.

“I—its—“ he casts down at his belly sadly. God, he looks pathetic now. Cock rock hard and stabbing through his pants, and belly flush out like a pig at a buffet. You must think he’s disgusting like this. “I…I missed your milk, baby,” he says solemnly. “Got carried away, I guess.” 

Instead of the scolding he expects, you walk up to him quietly and bring his eyes to yours. Taking the bag of half drank breastmilk, he acquiesces and lets you. 

To his surprise, you hold it up slightly to mouth level for him. “Looks like you’re not finished yet, honey.” 

Joel stares at you, confused. But when you start palming his erection, gliding your hand up and around his belly with a swirling ticklish finger before brushing back down to his dick, he doesn’t have any braincells left. You push the bag forward and his jaw drops open once again, feeding him. With you at the control, he gulps quickly, afraid to lose any as you pour the entire contents at once. He sputters a moment when the bag is empty, too caught up on the pleasurable heat spreading in his crotch and core again. You kiss his lips, the sweet taste making you realize how difficult it must have been for him to give something so delightful up.

“Mmmm, that’s better?”

“Ah—oh—oh-yeah-so good baby-shit-“ he groans as you continue your ministrations on his member. With two hands, you hoist the underside of his enlarged middle, bouncing it up and down. 

“Oh, Joel,” you tsk. “So light. So empty! We’re not done yet big boy. Not even close.”

-

 They say there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing.

But as for Joel, stripped naked and sitting his fat ass on the couch, gorging on the funneled tube that’s been cascading a mix of whole and breastmilk into his stomach, he can confidently say that saying doesn’t apply here.

His finishes a big gulp before pulling the nozzle away, letting out a massive burp. As he grips the side of his belly, the rolls on his side multiplying before his vary eyes and skin stretching like a taught balloon, he’s never felt so full in his life. 

And it feels fucking amazing. 

He’s never felt so guilt-free, so perfectly enlightened and fully allowing himself to feel pleasure like to this level. 

“You full yet?” You coo. You’re standing next to him by the cough, a gallon of mixed milk partially full in one hand as you check on your gluttonous husband.

He shakes his head, devious and energized. “Hit me again, baby!” He puts the nozzle back in his mouth and rests the back of his head on the couch headrest again.

You chuckle but does as he says, pouring the jug into the large funnel. He can’t wait fast enough for the milk to force its way through the tube and finally squirts onto his tongue again.

“That’s my good boy. Mommy loves filling you up with her milk. No need to hide it from me any more baby. You keep drinking and drinking until you’re full.”

With one hand splayed over his belly button, physically feeling his gut fill past its maximum, he gets a quick glance at you. The way you giddily grin, eyeing him up and down in his fattened state like a delicious piece of steak. He’s never felt so sexy in his life.

His cock feels it too. Reddened and swollen beyond belief. curved against the swell of his belly leaving a sticky trail where his precum keeps nudging along. Though, with how much he’s packing into his stomach, he’s struggling more and more to be able to fully grasp his cock and jerk it with the mean pumps he usually does. Joel was the type of masturbator to grip his base with one hand while the other beats his meat like a car engine. His arms still retained their muscled strength, but everywhere else was starting to fill in. Now, he can only get one hand down there to gently tug on it. 

“Poor baby, got you so fat you can basely touch that little dick?” You tease. Though at the sheer size of him, Joel Miller’s cock is anything but ‘little.’ In fact, it’s even more imposing now, like somehow he added a few extra pounds onto his mini me as well to keep the proportions the same. 

“S’not little. I can—oh fuck—still reach jus’ fine.”

Another burp billows up his throat, and he just gets the tube out of his mouth to let it out. Hell, he can barely move. The amount of effort just to sit upright again makes him bounce his whole body, the fat moving at a slower pace. Fuck, even when he can’t fully jerk his cock like he used to, the pressure of his belly on top of his tip, smushing his balls into the couch feels heavenly. Especially when he bounces and rocks back and forth slightly. Friction doing its thing and grinding his sack between his big thighs. 

“Baby,” he gasps. “M so full of you.” He peers up to you with heart, drunken full pupils as he jiggles his belly. “M’ so packed tight. So much Mommy’s milk.�� One finger trails up the fold under his pec, now swollen like a breast himself, before pinching and rolling his nips between his calloused fingers.

“Yeah? Let Mommy feel.” You press your palm over his chest, down to his belly that protrudes so far out. Despite being squishy earlier this night, his stomach is indeed bursting to its limit. Hardened just as yours was right before giving birth. 

“Aww, oh Joel…” you squeeze your thumb into his belly button and grip the lower half before jiggling it roughly. He gasps and pushes him belly out further for you, rocking his hips best he can into the air. “You really are full baby, huh? Greedy greedy piggy.”

“Mhm,” he hums with a pout, licking his lips. “Momma’s fat fuckin’ gluttonous hog. ‘At’s me.”

You prop the funnel up on a coat hook before sliding down to your knees in front of your husband. He leans as far forward as possible to be able to see all over you between his chunky legs, parted to let you breathe against his tummy that’s right up against your face.

You gently caress his sides along the rounded shape, holding his middle in your hands. You’re so soft against him, so loving and careful. He feels no different right now than when he used to be able to lie on your lap and feed from your tit. It’s been so long since then, and he realizes now this is the feeling he’d been chasing bag after bag all this time.

Your soft cheek presses into his skin there, making him sigh relaxed. 

He’s getting lost in the feeling of you on him, but you need to keep him on track.

“Keep drinking. You’ve got 2 more gallons.” You point towards the table where more mixed milk sits, and Joel settles up and begins gulping his cream again.

He moans, cock twitching against your chest as your tongue swirls around his belly button, dipping inside slightly. The hairs around his happy trail feel soft as you stroke along his naval. You can hear the little sloshing of liquid inside him each time you plant a wet kiss against his skin, making out with his gorged stomach. 

The weeping end of his length bobs painfully each time you brush it. You notice he’s glancing down at you playing with him, while he continues to swallow big batches down his throat. “You want me to take care of your little problem?”

He nods pitifully. 

“Not until you’re done.” You smile, standing up and gripping his belly harshly. He grunts but doesn’t release the bottled end, sucking more milk as you slap his belly repeatedly. Watching it wobble from the sheer effort and taking a moment to settle before you slap it again. Each time he whimpers but pushes it out more, asking for another.

“Greedy“—slap—“fat“—slap—“Milk hungry“—slap—“whore.”

You squeeze his plush tit, no bigger than an A cup but still, the man had nothing there before. He grunts and eyes you, dark and pleading. “Holy fuck, You’ve even got such cute cow titties Joel.” You giggle, rolling his perked nipples under you thumb while cupping the rest of the fat pooling there. “Wouldn’t that be something? Squeezing milk from your own tits?” You place your mouth on his pecs and begin suckling like the tip of his cock. Joel tosses his head back, milk spilling from his cheeks as he howls in pleasure. 

“Oh fuck Momma that’s it—keep sucking my fat tits—christ. Fuck—fuckFUCK!” One hand caresses your hair as he whines, “I Love you.”

“I love you too. How are we doing?” You gesture to the funnel.

He tilts it upside down. “All out,” he says with a grimace.

“Good. On your knees.”

You grab his chubby hands and hoist him up, the two of you laughing when he fails after the first attempt.

When he does get to his feet, you cup his face with both hands and kiss him. “You look so fucking sexy, Joel Miller.” 

You brush his fingers under your thigh, between your slit. “Oh—shit—so fuckin’ wet,” he whispers, rubbing your slicked walls with his meaty fingers.

 Pressing your cunt against his crotch, your belly collides with his, creating the perfect friction on your clit. “I want you bigger than me when you knock me up with twins next.”

He grits his teeth and hisses against your lips. The mental image doing a whirlwind on him. You chuck two pillows to the ground for him comfort. With a big thud, he gets to one knee on the plush, then the other, arms flailing forward and hands plastered on the ground to hold his weight. His belly sags so heavily, causing him to groan. the compressed tip is damn near toughing the floorboards even as he holds cow position. 

He stares up back up at you, soft big moo moo eyes getting eager when you grab the funnel and uncap another jug.

 He used to marvel at how much pregnancy changed you. At how he changed you. Your body growing round with child, a child he put inside you, and then your tits swelling up with milk, all because of him.

And now he’s changing physically because of you too. His body filling with fat, engorged from your abundant lactation that you’re feeding him.

He sticks his tongue out without a single word, sucking in the nozzle and guzzling the milk funneling through again. 

He downs this one fast and hard, pushing away with a big sigh. “Christ, I can’t do it. MN’gonna fuckin’ explode.”

You crouch down to see his convex stomach. It’s perfectly rounded and bulging like a moon. 

He shivers when you cup the underside and glide up along, feeling how smoothed over from so much filling him. “Touch it, please touch it baby. Gonna go crazy if ya don’t.”

You watch as his eyes squeeze shut, his swaying back and forth like he’s trying to get his belly to hump his dick, or maybe the other way around. He’s helpless in this position by his own doing. 

“Aww, has my big boy had enough? No more Mommy’s milk?”

He shakes his head painfully. “More,” he croaks. God, his body is screaming no. he’s never felt so ready to turn into an atom bomb, and yet his intoxicated brain knows if he can’t down the last of this gallon, you’ll never give him the full on tap again.

Joel snatches the tunnel again, balancing on one hand briefly as he wraps his tongue around and drinks yet again. Gulp after gulp, the sweet liquid bulges in his esophagus before traveling down to his mighty belly. You kiss his cheek and hold the nozzle to his face, forcing it to stay. “Almost there, Joel, drink it to the last drop, and then you’ll get your reward…” you not so subtly squeeze your breasts together, and that does it for him.

He spits out the nozzle and falls head first to the ground, back arched as much as possible as his tummy smushes into the hardwood. With a howl, his hips jerk forward into his fat middle, suffocating the tip and he starts cumming untouched. “Oh-ah-ahaugghhh-yeah—yeah!” He hums, cheek pressed into the ground and drool and milk spilling from those sinful lips along with a litany of sexy, satisfied noises. 

All the while you praise him with kisses and gentle curls of his hair, telling him how good he’s been for you. The funnel rolls around the floor, having been drained into Joel’s gut just a moment before he gave in. 

And you’d think he was done, out for the count, needing a fat coma nap. Instead, just as you help him up to his bum, Joel snatches your waist. “Get on my lap Momma,” he slurs, licking his lips once again. You half climb, half are hoisted up to his lap, his cream coated cock still raging hard and sitting between the two of you. “Show me what those bouncing titties can do. “He slaps your breasts with little slapslapslaps. The tight grip he has on your hips forces you to begin rolling, your neglected cunt beautifully nudged against his sack with his belly and cock brushing your clit.

“Hop on Pop,” he chuckles. 

Gripping one of his shoulders, you align his cock along your soaked folds and sink down on him, the two of you sighing heavily. His sticky cum coated length needed no prep to enter you, filling your womb to the brim with his Daddy sized dick. “Gonna pump you full now, little Momma. Gonna get ya bred in no time.” Joel dips his head down and latches your tit between his jaws.

You gasp and grip his hair as he begins suckling out your warm breastmilk. It’s like all this time, he wasn’t truly even full. Like he had a separate storage in this lard living planet between you just for your hot fresh pure milk. 

“J-Joel,” you moan, eyes rolling. He’s always been good at sex. Always had a great body, but this…this is different. You can feel all of him pressing against you. Burrying your nub and hitting it so deliciously from the outside as he pummels you from the inside. You fee like a little doll, being used like a flashlight up and down along his thick cock

“That’s it, Mommy, ride me. Ride my fat cock. Ride it till ya swollen here—“ he pokes at your stomach “—as big as mine, like ya said.” You grin, biting your teeth. “B-bigger.”

He smiles. “Bigger.” His beefy hands wrap around your back and pull you as close to him as you can physically manage. “Let Daddy do all the work on that one. Just gotta take my cream, at’s all. I drink yours—n’ you take mine.”

“Mmfff--fuck—fuckyes Daddy fill me up—fill me with your cream! Ah! oh shit I’m cumming! Make me a Mommy again!”

You spasm, convulsing around Joel’s base just as he stills and ruts his second load inside you, grunting into your tits like a pained beast. You feel each pulse overwhelming your walls, yet having nowhere else to go but inside. The man has never cum so much in a second orgasm in his life, and you start to wonder if any of this is your own milk having traveled to his balls and deposited safely inside you again.

As the two of you come down, breathing in and holding one another tightly, Joel pecks at your jaw with feather kisses.

“You know…I won’t be lactating forever.” You twirl some of his curly brown hair out of his sweaty temple. “It’s going to end eventually.”

He only shrugs. 

Gasping as his dick twitches to life inside you once again, he presses his lips to yours and begins shallowly thrusting again. “Guess I’m just gonna have to keep knocking you up.”

- - - -

Notes: I have plans for more Fat!Joel content in a variety of flavors...not just subby and breastfeeding. Will be different characters and have other independent requests so stay tuned!

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[imorynn]

⋆✩ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 ( l. calderu)

⋆✩ pairings : lilia calderu • fem!reader

⋆✩ warnings / mentions : depictions of mental health struggles, burnout, anxiety, emotional distress, comfort, mentions of nudity, baths, angst, fluff, lilia taking care of you! please prioritize your well-being

⋆✩ word count : 3k+

⋆✩ tags : @madamspellmans-met-tet

⋆✩ a/n : Please remember to be kind to yourself. Take breaks if you need to, allow yourself to feel, and seek comfort in the things that bring you joy and peace. You are never alone in your struggles, and your feelings — whatever they may be — are valid, you matter. This was a little heavy to write, but I hope this brings you a bit of comfort and joy <3

The room languished in dimness, its edges tendered by the reluctant swaddle of twilight, as another indistinct day bled into obscurity. A disarray of papers sprawled across the desk — half-filled notebooks, annotated drafts, and squashed failures that harbored the scars of fleeting inspiration turned sour. Shards of fractured thoughts clung to the edge of a ceramic mug, long abandoned, its contents a cold, bitter leftover of former comfort. Amidst the disorder, a slight, rhythmic clacking emanated from the keyboard, the cadence uneven — hesitant, then rushed — each keystroke could carve coherence from the warren of your mind.

Your body had betrayed you weeks ago. Sleep came in fits and bursts, cruel in its inadequacy, leaving you more fatigued upon waking than when you had closed your eyes. Standing for longer than a few moments brought on vertigo, the world tilting like a ship caught in a storm. Your legs trembled under you; your limbs would not stop from racketing.

Even sitting upright had become an exercise in endurance, your focus slipping like grains of sand through tightened fists.

Your day-to-day flow was unmoored, the concept of time fractured into pieces of light and shadow that no longer adhered to the clock. You could not help but feel hideous, an empty shell of the person you used to be.

Even your brain, once sharp and unyielding, has turned against you. It demands stimulation, then recoils at the slightest effort, leaving you stultified and overwhelmed in equal measure. The cruel paradox is almost laughable, but you can’t even summon the energy for that.

Your posture betrayed the toll; shoulders curved under an invisible yoke, neck stiffened by hours of neglect, digits quivering with a fatigued urgency as they alternated between scrawling ink onto paper and translating disoriented thoughts onto the sterile glow of the monitor. The screen’s light painted your face in stark relief, illuminating knitted brows and eyes ringed with exhaustion.

Each line you wrote — whether traced by pen or clacked with desperate precision — felt both like a purge and a plea, a futile effort to wrest order from the chaos that churned within you. The words blurred together as you read and reread them, dissecting each syllable, cataloging for meaning in the spaces where meaning seemed to slip away.

The soft hum of the computer blended with the shift of cushions beneath you and the whisper of paper beneath your hand, a symphony of toil that bore the weight of an unrelenting inner storm. And still, you could not stop. Could not stop chasing the fleeting promise that, perhaps, the next word might finally bring clarity — or at least silence— to the tempest.

Lilia had been patient — that is, at the beginning. Truth be told, she always harbored such grand patience when it came to you. She had tried coaxing you to bed with the tenderness of a woman who had weathered storms far greater than this, easing the pen from your clutch with soft murmurs that sought to bind you in reason. But reason, elusive and foreign, had long since slipped from your grasp.

The days had obscured, each one bleeding into the next, and with them, so had her forbearance. What began as gentle encouragement turned to silent insistence, her words firmer, her gaze heavier, until tonight, she stood at the precipice of your unraveling.

Her figure filled the doorway, the tender light casting shadows across her features, etching worry into every delicate line. The ends of her maroon-painted mouth, once so immediate in baring into the warmest and sweetest smile for you, were clasped with exasperation, and her dark irises brimmed with something more profound than concern — a spiraled cord of frustration, sorrow, and love she could no longer conceal.

She found you hunched on the couch, a blanket snarled around your clammy frame, lazily draping over your dense shoulders. You did not even regard her at first, too engrossed in the haze of your own misery.

Finally, she inched forward, her footsteps measured and unhurried like the passing of time itself. Her shadow enveloped you before her voice, low and lilting with its natural timbre, sliced through the oppressive silence.

“Enough.” The utter was a soft command, steady but resolute.

You did not turn. Could not. Your gaze remained fixated on the page before you, though the words had long since dissolved into meaningless smudges. Ink bled into the fibers like a wound reopened again and again, staining your fingertips and every letter typed over, your palms, your very thoughts. “I can’t,” you rasped, barely audible, tone hollow and stretched thin. “I’m almost done.”

Her sigh was soft yet audible, a weight in the room that you couldn’t ignore. She moved closer, the ends of her skirt fluttering against the floor before her silhouette draped over your curved form in caution. “No you’re not. You’re grinding yourself into dust, darling.”

The truth in her words landed heavily, a stone descending into still water, the ripples quaking through your chest. Yet still, you refused to meet her eyes, refused to acknowledge her underlying honesty. “I said I can’t stop,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone cracking under its own weight. “Don’t you get it, Lilia? If I stop, everything— everything, just for one second — it all falls apart. I fall apart.”

“And you think this is holding it together?” she retorted, her voice cutting, each remark peeling back another layer of your defiance. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself. Do you even remember the last time you slept? Ate something that wasn’t cold coffee or a stale bag of chips?”

The coolness of her rings bit into her digits when they tightened their hold over the cushions, trembling faintly as if she were holding back something fiercer. “I can comprehend that all those things aren’t easy for you, but you’re killing yourself, piece by piece, and for what? To prove you’re enough? To push until there’s nothing left of you?”

The room seemed to diminish in size, her words closing in around you. The dull pain in your chest spasmed, a visceral reaction to the veracity you attempted so hard in brushing aside even if it lingered, it floated, it haunted. For only a second, the sole sound was the faint hum of the computer and the shallow rasp of your breath, the silence all consuming.

Anger and despair warred for control when your arms came up to push against the table in front of you causing her to slightly step back. “You don’t understand! — You don’t know what it’s like to feel this… this useless. To not even recognize your own body, your own mind. To fail at the one thing you’ve always been good at.”

Lilia’s expression softened, the sharp brinks of her frustration giving way to something deeper, sadder. What Lilia saw brought nothing but ache and pain to her poor heart. You were unwell, eyes ringed red, and bags beneath them practically the size of a quarter. While your complexion still carried its hue, it lacked the depth the sun and proper rest brought upon you.

She moved closer, her movements deliberate but unthreatening, until she stood beside you, one of her hands grappling with wanting to reach out to still your trembling ones.

“I understand more than you think,” she declared quietly, carrying the weight of centuries you could not begin to fathom. “But this… this isn’t strength.” Her hand gestured to the mess, to your body curled in on itself, to the dark hollows beneath your eyes.

“I’m not asking you to stop because I don’t understand,” she gently spoke now but no less wavering. “I’m asking because I do. I’ve been there, trying to outrun the weight of your mind, thinking you can carry it all alone. But you can’t. No one can. And if you keep going like this…” Her voice faltered, saddened. “If you keep going like this, then I’m afraid there won’t be anything left of the woman I love to save.”

Her words maintained a weight, a force a mirror held too close — forcing you to confront the reflection of your spiraling. Your exhale clawed its way up your throat, and your hands finally went still when Lilia’s came in contact with them. The pen fell from your grip, rolling to the edge of the desk before coming to a halt.

You wanted to argue at the beginning, to push her away and retreat yourself into abyss, but the fight had been wiped out of you. The tears came all too fast, unpredictable, hot, cascading down your cheeks. “I don’t know h-how to stop,” you uttered in softness, words barely coherent over the sound of your sobs. One of your hands came up to bury into your tangled hair, defiance slipping into a broken plea. “I don’t know how.”

The space between her shoulders welcomed your exhausted physique, arms encircling to swaddle you just right because gosh, you needed this. Your head bowed into her chest as she drew you into her shawl, her heat, her strength, her homely fragrance. She did not shush you, feed you with false hopes or tell you it would be okay now; she did the simple act of holding you, her hand brushing your hair despite its matted and disheveled state, her presence grounding you, painful and necessary.

The sobs came in hash waves, wracking your body with a ferocity that left you gasping for oxygen. Lilia held you with the cradle of handling something precious, palms cradling you with the utmost care, her lips falling over your forehead in murmured reassurances.

“Come, my love,” She reached down and she coaxed you gently to your feet. She wrapped an arm around your waist and you wrapped yours around her neck for stability.

She guided you into the bathroom, positioning your body over the closed toilet seat. “Sit here while I draw you a bath. ”

You sat down with a sigh, tipping your head back against the wall behind the toilet and letting your eyelids flutter shut for a moment, trying to ignore the pounding of your temples. And although your eyes were closed, your brow remained quirked. As if even in your thoughts you came face to face with the problems you were trying to avoid.

You heard the pause of movements before a soft kiss was met with your forehead, somewhat easing all the tightness you were undergoing, and that little smile of yours was enough for her to resume her actions.

You heard the streams of water pouring, followed by the grazing shuffles of Lilia’s movements; she worked with quiet and deft efficiency, adding a few drops of oil that released a grounding aroma in the air.

Steam rose around you and lazily bent at the shape of the corners in the room with gentle swirls, carrying the fragrance of herbs and oils — lavender, chamomile, a hint of rosemary. All serene and soothing within your aching lungs as you inhaled deeply. The tinge of citrine within the atmosphere made you open your eyes, already sensing your lover hovering over you.

Lilia’s chocolate browns swirled softly with compassion and love, leaking reassurance before she crouched between your legs. “Let me help you, my heart.” Her graceful fingers worked methodically to unbutton your shirt, to slip it from your shoulders with such a tenderness that made your throat tighten, blinking back tears at the nickname she tended to call you, your head dipping down.

Her touch never lingered too long, never straying from what was necessary. When you were exposed before her, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with nudity, she does not gaze at you with pity or repugnance. Only love. Fierce, unyielding love.

She stood from between your legs and held her hands out for you to take, which you obliged. You delicately placed your hands in hers and stood up. She untangled the strewn string of your pants and slid them down your lower body as you stepped out of them.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she husked when your forehead nuzzled a bit against her temple, her fingers moving to tuck a damp curl behind your ear.

You did not resist as she helped you into the water, the damp heat enveloping your coolness. A soreness took over, yet you welcomed the capacity of it, the tension in your muscles unwinding in increments as the heat seeped into your aching joints. “I’ll go get you a towel and set out some fresh clothes.”

You trembled from its temperature, and while the act somewhat alleviated your body’s ache, it did not reach or thaw the hollow coldness concealed in your chest. You sat in the center of the tub, knees drawn to your bare chest, shoulders hunched like a battered bird too afraid to unfold its wings. The water glimmered faintly, lavender-scented and calm, a direct contrast to the tempest inside you. You stared blandly at the surface but could not bring yourself to move.

Lilia returned back into the bathroom and was met with your expression. The light pranced across her features — those soft laugh lines, her sharp cheekbones, and her ever-watchful gaze that had always seemed to see you, truly see you. You could not bring yourself to meet those eyes now.

“I don’t know why you bother,” your whisper was as fragile as a dried leaf, barely holding itself together in the cold season of your tone. You brought your knees tighter into your abdomen, your gaze intended downward as though the clear dampness of it might envelop you entirely. “This isn’t me. I'm not going to stop — I’m not… that version of a person. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

She tilted her head, silver locks framing her features in similar shape to a halo, but her eyes blazed with something sharper than sympathy — resolve. “You’re still you, y/n.”

You shook your head vehemently, tears glazing your eyes as you attempted to form the words that gnawed at your chest. “No, Lilia, I’m not. I’m not the person you fell in love with anymore.” The words spewed out, ragged and raw and shameful. “I’m nothing. I stand here, right before the debris of everything I was, and there’s nothing left — I’m nothing. I don’t even know how… how or why am I still existing.”

Her shawl was discarded, kneeling beside you as her hands, holding a washcloth, dipped into the water and wrung it before shuffling closer. “Tilt your head back for me,” she instructed softly. It was neither commanded nor meek — it was a simple request, spoken with the intimacy of someone who knew how to speak to you when words felt unbearable.

You obeyed, streams of warm water dampening your head. You groaned softly at the feel of warm water on your scalp, slowly letting yourself melt against her touch. Grabbing a bottle of shampoo, she poured a generous amount upon her palm before finding its way to your hair. Discarded from her signature rings, her fingers followed and worked through the unkempt tangles with infinite patience, scrubbing away the residue of neglect, her touch both practical and reverent.

“I know it’s hard to stop,” she began, her hands moving in leisured, circular motions. “You think if you stop, everything will fall apart. That there’s no time to rest. But your body is telling you otherwise. You need to learn and listen. You are wrong, you aren't debris. You are not a ruin.”

A dry and bitter laugh emerged, and you glanced at her finally, your tears uniting with the water droplets pelting your skin, not even sparing a care if the burn of suds collided with your vision.

“Look at me,” you croaked. “Look at me, Lilia. I can barely stand without falling over. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. My body is falling apart, my mind’s barely hanging on, my heart — the very heart you say that’s yours and that you love isn’t good! You're right, there's nothing left to save! And I don’t — I don’t know how to put it all back together.”

Your breath hitched as a sob tore through you. “I don’t know why you’re still here. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t … if you didn’t love me anymore.”

“How dare you.”

You blinked, taken aback, oxygen cutting off as you completely met her gaze. Her orbs were moistened, yet they were fierce, unfaltering in their intensity.

“How dare you think so little of my love,” she spoke firmly and loudly and hurt laced every utterance. Foamed fingers wounded around your shoulders and turnt you towards her in one smooth motion. “Do you think my love is conditional? That it’s so fragile, so shallow, that it would shatter because you are struggling? You, who have shown and given me everything — every piece of yourself, every ounce of your light, your soul, who has taught me to find my way back. Do you think I would abandon you now, when you need me most?”

Her words demolished you, the sheer force of them tearing through the walls you had built around your remorse and despair. Streaks of tears once more down your drenched cheeks, her thumbs stroking them away, her fingers swiftly swatting back the mingled water and soap from your eyes as she tipped your chin up and lightly kissed your forehead.

“My darling girl, let me continue helping you. Let me take care of you. You do not have to endure this all alone.”

With a soft nod from you and another kiss from her, this time directed to your lips, she gently turned you around and proceeded to wash your hair, thoroughly swilling every bit.

She then gathered a washcloth and preferred body wash, dipped it into the water, and rubbed it together to get it foamed. She washed you with exact loving care, moving the immersed rag over your tired muscles, cleansing away the grime and the heaviness of the past weeks. She hummed softly under her breath — a melody you do not recognize but find comforting in the velvet brittle of her octave nonetheless — and you close your eyes, surrendering to her ministrations.

"Your hand?" As she uprose fully, without wasting a second you gave her your fingers to hold, and she steadied you onto your feet as you stepped out. She huddled you out of the tub and bundled you in the fuzziest towel you loved. One palm cradled the curve of your cheek while the other steadied upon your covered waist. "let's get you dressed, my love."

You sat at the hem of the bed, partaking in drying yourself up — though she wouldn't allow it — as she smoothed your lotion over your parched skin, gingerly taking in the way the ointment dissolved across your shoulders that was ensued with a soft kiss.

"You are not debris," she repeated as she slid your limbs into fresh and comfy clothes, aware of the way your eyes brimmed with tears. "You are not a ruin, and you most certainly are not 'nothing'." Her movements were unhurried, as though time itself had decelerated and permitted her this moment to care for you.

She does not allow you to lift a finger, guiding you to the bed with a patience that feels endless. The sheets were warm, the pillows plumped just so, and she tucked you beneath the blankets before nestling in beside you.

Those cinnamon brown pools engulfed you in their safety assisted with the loving strokes of her fingers upon the side of your face. "If you fall, then I will be there to catch you. And If you cannot sleep, then I will hold you. If you cannot think, then allow me to hold those thoughts for you. If you fall apart, and your mind is barely grasping onto reality, I am going to help build you up again, and again, and again. Every version of you, I love and will continue to love. You are here right now, and that is all that matters to me."

Her arms embraced you in a way that left no ounce for uncertainty —you are hers, and she will care for you, no matter how broken you feel. The pads of her fingers continue soothing patterns on your back, her lips landing in tender kisses on your temple, the crown of your head, your soaked cheeks. “You are not a burden,” The warmth of her words bristled through your shaggy tresses. “You are my love. My heart, do you understand? Let me hold you.”

And so you do. You give her the privilege to hold you, relinquishing to her love. It does obliterate the chaos or untangle the knots within you— it simply cannot, unfortunately. Though in her arms, the compressing load you have carried alone for so long felt just a fraction lighter. The tightness in your chest allayed, the burn in your throat simmered down, and the tears you had been swallowing for the past days ebbed. You nestled your head in the hollow of her neck, her heartbeat lulled your aching joints, your segmented soul, your tender flesh, and you let those fatigued eyes of yours droop shut with the feel of her lips touching your forehead.

[vicocaaisha]

All Mine

Baek Harin x Reader Fic.

Sypnosis: Having friends is not your top priority; therefore, you kept rejecting Harin's advances. Not until she got jealous when you found yourself a new friend.

Warnings: SMUT, mature scenes, choking, virgin!reader, possesive!Harin, bottom!reader, top!harin, stalking, read at your own risk!

Requested by: @imurcherie1

“Y/N-ah, do you want to hang out later after school?”

“Harin wants us to eat later together at lunch, can you sit with us?”

“Can you join our group for the school project? We can do it after school!”

“Hey, Y/N, can you teach me how to play chess? Help me beat Harin!”

Typical Wooyi, always asking you for help. You think it’s just an excuse to make you hang out or spend time together with Harin, which for you is a waste of time because you have other things you want to do than doing friendly stuff that you’re not interested in.

“Sorry, unnie. I have other things to do! Maybe next time.” is the response you always answer to Wooyi.

You sometimes wish that you are in the lower grade, like in grade C so that no one won’t bother you and leave you alone. Being family friends with Harin means you’re also powerful inside your classroom, that’s why your classmates are always clinging to your side because they think that you’ll favour them or something.

But you didn’t care. All you care about is your studies, not the recognitions but the information you learn. Such a nerd thing to say but deep inside you really love studying, learning so many topics fascinates you.

You are smarter than Doah, but you don’t even participate in school competitions. You’re just focused on gaining skills.

“You look pretty having your hair up in a bun, Y/N” Harin greeted you.

“Yes, you do! Can you teach me how to do that later at lunch, please, Y/N.” Wooyi practically begged.

Here we go again, Harin’s group always bothers you to join them during lunch. You don’t have an interest in being friends with them even though your families are good friends. You’re just not that fond of being friends with someone, you like being alone more. Plus, Wooyi enjoys to torture your classmate, which is like a redflag to you because how can you enjoy on tormenting someone?

“I’m sorry, guys. I actually have a thesis report that I’m finishing. You know, I make money doing these things for other students.” You replied.

Harin only scoffed and started to walk away from you. She knows that you’ll just reject their invitation to hang out with them. Harin can’t do anything about it. She can’t blackmail you into being friends with her because there’s nothing hideous about you or even a secret.

Harin could only stare at you from afar. She likes you– no–, she wants you to be hers.

She’s so glad that you being preoccupied with your hobbies means you’re less aware of what's happening in your surroundings. Harin could easily stalk you and you won’t even notice that some of your things from your room are missing.

“I read somewhere that the new season of Jujutsu Kaisen is airing next week.” Jaeun said as she sat beside you.

How did she find you? You’re sitting under a tree that’s far away from your classroom’s building.

“How do you even know I watch that?” You scoffed as you read your book. Does she need something? She’s usually on her own or with Suji. What does she want now?

“Oh, you don’t? I was actually giving this Geto plushie for free.” Jaeun waved the plushie doll on your face.

“Oh my! He’s my favourite!” You were shocked, you can’t find any Jujutsu Kaisen merchandise here in South Korea, and Geto is your favourite, “Can I have it, please? Where’d you get this?” you asked as you grabbed the plushie.

“Oh, umm…” Jauen was stammering. She didn't know how to handle this kind of situation. She’s scared that she might fuck it up after having your attention.

“He’s so cute! What do you want in return, can I please have him?” You begged her. This is the first time that your classmate sees that you’re capable of showing feelings, too.

“O-of course, uhh… I just want to be friends with you, can you join me during lunch?” You were too happy from the plushie you received that you accepted her offer without thinking about it.

And that’s how you ended up being with Jaeun. She always follows you around and you were too happy that one of your classmates watches your favourite anime. When you’re with her, you are too talkative about your favourite anime, Jauen doesn’t care though; she’s satisfied that she finally is on your good side.

Harin noticed that you finally are friends with someone, and that someone is the person who she despised the most. She was angry, she wanted to harm Jaeun but it’s impossible because of Suji always rescues Jaeun whenever she corners the tall girl.

Jaeun introduced you to Suji and Se-eun. You were awkward when you met them, you don’t really like social gatherings; you can only handle one person at a time.

So here you are, on the rooftop with them. Suji introduced you to their plan once they figured that you’re trusty enough. You rejected their proposal though.

“Sorry, Suji. I don’t have an interest in being a hero here. I know, call me selfish or whatever. Do you know who you’re provoking?” You asked them genuinely.

Suji still tried to convince you. You just rejected it again and excused yourself. Do they know what they’re doing? Are they high? Harin is so dangerous. Even if you want to end this game yourself, deep inside you still value Harin.

You’ve known Harin ever since the both of you were younger. You secretly had a crush on her, when you saw her performing a dance. You were in a trance, you befriended her. You thought at first you wanted to be just like her but as your friendship progresses, your feelings also progresses. You tried to ignore it but can’t help it.

Although, as the both of you were growing older, she started to change. Sometimes you think that she turned into a monster but still, you cared for her so much even if you don’t show it.

You wanted to be away from her because you realized being in love with a girl is rather unusual. You’re scared that she might notice that you’re in love with her and betray you. Harin is unpredictable, you’ve seen it yourself.

“Y/N!” Wooyi runs into you as she sees you walking down the corridor.

“Wooyi, I’m sorry, but I’m not in the mood right now. My head aches so badly.” You tried to make an excuse before she could ask another invitation to hang out with them.

You tried to walk faster, “The chairman wants to talk to you right now, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Wooyi said as she tried to catch up with your fast pace.

“What? She could have texted me beforehand. She has my number, ugh. I don’t even look presentable right now.” You mumbled to yourself, Wooyi seemed to hear that.

“Oh, don’t humble yourself. You’re always pretty! You should spray some perfume, bet she’ll go crazy over you!” Wooyi said, which she regretted saying afterwards because it confused you. The chairman going crazy over your perfume?

“Oh, I’ll head to the classroom now. Gotta find them bootlickers!” Wooyi suddenly parted ways, you didn’t even get the chance to ask what she was talking about.

You sighed. Usually if the chairman, Harin’s mother, wants to meet you, she’ll schedule a meeting or she’ll text you and your parents about it. Also, you never had a meeting inside the school because she said once that it feels unprofessional meeting inside the school. What could be the problem now?

You are now in front of the chairman’s office, spraying perfume over your uniform. You took a big breath before opening the door, you were nervous that you might be in trouble, especially after hearing Suji’s crazy plan.

“Hello, Mrs. Baek. I’m sorry if I took too long, I was at the–” you stopped what you were trying to say when Harin revealed herself by turning around her chair.

“Uhm… Where’s your mother, Harin? She asked for me, didn’t she?” You tried to ask to make the awkward atmosphere out of the room.

“That would be for another time, Y/N-ah.” Harin said and stood up from her chair; walking towards you.

“You’re smoking again, I told you that’s not good for you.” You tried to lecture Harin. You are now currently in the middle of the room.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Harin said as she took another puff of her cig and she continued walking after passing you. Where is she going?

“Okay then, I better get going now if your mother is not here.” You rolled your eyes.

You heard a click. Harin locked the door behind you, trapping you inside the chairman’s office.

You began to feel nervous, you haven’t been in a room alone with Harin for the longest time. You tried to avoid this kind of encounter because you can’t contain your feelings. When talking with Harin alone, you will start to stutter.

“I wanted you here.” Harin dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. She’s aware that you dislike the smell of cigarette.

“Ohh, can we make it faster, please?” You were trying your best not to stutter because she’ll sense that you’re nervous.

“Enjoying being friends with Jaeun?” Harin started to walk towards you, which made you walk backwards as well. You were like a prey in her eyes, anytime she might devour you.

Oh shit. You thought to yourself. You forgot that Jaeun and Harin had a history before, she talked to you about this before! How could you forget it! It’s because of that damn plushie, you got too excited over that.

“H-harin, I’m so sorry. I forgot, I’m really sorry. It’s because she gave me the plushie, I got too distracted over that. I don’t mean to offend you, I swear–” You stopped your rumbling when your back hit the table. She got you very cornered this time.

You didn’t have the space anymore to move back and she still is walking forward slowly as if she’s stalking a prey. You’re very scared now, hell, you even are sweating too much for your liking. Note that this room is air conditioned.

Harin giggled to herself, “Y/N, why are you trembling so hard?”

She is now in front of you.

She tugged on your school necktie, which made you lean towards her. Since she is taller, you are looking up at her.

“Tell me, Y/N. Whom do you like to kiss?” She’s taunting you and all you could do is look at her doe eyes.

“Do you like Jaeun?” She asked you with a mischievous smile.

“I don’t like her, I don’t even have an i-interest to date a-anyone.” You stuttered, fuck you really are nervous.

“You’re lying, Y/N/N.” That nickname she used to call you when the both of you were younger.

“You’re stuttering, Y/N, it means you’re lying. Which one is it, hmm?” Her face is inches away from yours. Even if you haven't talked to her for years, she still knows your mannerisms.

Before you could even reply, she suddenly kissed you.

It felt passionate for a short time, not until she bit your lip that caused you to whimper and she immediately inserted her tongue. Did she practice with other girls before? How come is she so good with kissing? You felt jealous...

Your thoughts got cut off short when she stopped kissing you and started to undo your blouse.

“Harin, we s-shouldn’t be doing this.” She got tired of your mindless comments, so Harin pulled your necktie tighter that made you choke.

“Did I tell you to talk?” Harin only smiled when she saw you struggling. You were just gripping her clothes and whimpering because of the restriction of the air in your lungs.

Once she was satisfied, she stopped pulling your necktie and continued removing the articles of your clothes.

You were now left in your school blouse that is open, and your skirt; no bra nor panty. You suddenly felt insecure about your body when Harin was staring at your body up and down. Your first instinct was to cover up your body, but Harin beat you to it and held your wrists before you could even move them.

“H-harin” You can’t understand what’s happening between the two of you. Is she toying you?

“Stop talking, Y/N! God, you made me wait for so long, and then Jaeun easily caught your attention?!” Harin felt insatiable over you.

She then started kissing your neck, leaving marks all over your neck. You can’t even move and too scared to protest but deep inside you’re really liking this.

“You’re mine, Y/N/N.” Harin whispered, hunger laced on her voice.

“Hnng–, H-harin!” You yelped when you felt Harin’s long, slim fingers toy your clit.

Yes, you’ve touched yourself before but Harin massaging your clit felt so amazing. You can’t contain your moans anymore. You tried to shush yourself by putting your free arm on your mouth. Harin noticed this and…

She inserted two fingers, you aren’t ready for it, and it’s definitely your first time. It hurts like hell. You were struggling below her, and all you could do was to let out a shameless moan.

“A-hh, it hurts. It hurts, Ha-rin! Hnng!” She only removed your arms that were blocking your mouth and continued fingering you even if you're hurting.

Pain soon starts to feel pleasure soon enough. Harin is still putting hickeys on your chest area. She then started to look at your face, your fucked up face. Looking at you with adoration, you look so good even if you’re being fucked, Harin thought to herself.

“Baby, you look so good.” Harin whispered seductively, she couldn’t even explain how turned on she is right now. The stoic and nerdy, L/N Y/N, is being fucked out like this.

“You’re mine, Y/N. I don’t want you seeing anybody but me, you get that?” Harin starts to get rougher on you, hitting that one spot makes you struggle to respond to her. Because of that, she slapped you, thinking to herself that it might knock you to your senses.

“Mhhmm– sorry! Ahh– Fuck!” was all you could blur out during that time.

Harin only chuckled as she pressed down her thumb to your clit. Fingering you and massaging your clit at the same time feels like you’re going to climax soon.

“I f–eel, ahh! Like I’m gonna p–EE!” You gripped onto her shirt more.

“Say you’re mine, Y/N, then you can let go.” Harin teased you. She then started to suck on your breasts, which added to your stimulation more.

“I’m y–yours! Harin–nng. I lov–e you for so long, Fuck!” You didn’t even realize that you accidentally confessed your love towards her because of the pleasure you are feeling. Harin felt over the moon when she heard your confession, which drove her even more very crazy and continued to get rougher on you.

As you trembled against her holds, you couldn't contain yourself anymore; you tried to let go of the pressure you were feeling, and instead, you squirted.

Harin continued to finger you until you rode out your high. You didn’t even realize the mess you created on her uniform because you were still trying to calm down. So many thoughts were running to your mind that time and one of those is that you just fucked your long time crush.

“Baby, are you okay?” Harin asked you with softness evident in her voice. She brushed your baby hairs out of your face with her dry hand. You look so exhausted, and your face is very flushed. You just nodded weakly, too tired to say anything.

You were laid against the table, and Harin decided to take you on the couch so that you could rest comfortably. You’re too tired to even care about your appearance at that time. You just let Harin help you wear your panty and your bra.

Maybe you could rest for a bit, so you decided to close your eyes.

“I love you.” Harin whispered as she was doing after care to you. She must have thought you were asleep.

“You do?”

“Yes, so much. I was trying so hard to reconnect our friendship again.” Harin kissed you passionately and with love this time.

“You’re wet?” You asked sheepishly as you felt her clothes.

“Oh, you squirted.” Harin smiled at you.

“What? No, I did not!” Harin laughed at your response. You’re still stubborn as you were before when both of you were younger. Harin only stared at you blankly. You can’t seem to read what her thoughts are, so you decided to break the awkward silence.

“So, is Mrs. Baek really asking for me?” You asked.

“No, it’s my last resort,” she confessed, “I can’t seem to get you all alone for myself, why are you avoiding me?” Harin asked you as she caressed your face.

You avoided her gaze, “It’s because… I’m scared that I have feelings for you, more than friends.”

There was silence again, when you looked up at her, she looked as if she were in a daze; lost in your beautiness. She was still caressing your face that time. You leaned up and kissed her with all the strength you had. The both of you kissed that you felt like it lasted for hours.

You stopped kissing her because it might lead the both of you to another round, and you still have classes to attend to.

You are fixing yourself, trying to look presentable after Harin fucked you out. Hickeys all over your neck, your hair is tangled mess, your clothes crumpled. Suddenly, Harin hugged you from your back, and you felt the wet spot on her clothes.

“Harin, go change your clothes. It’s disgusting!” You tried to wiggle out of her embrace and then laugh when she kissed your neck.

“It’s your fault, you peed on me!” Harin protested.

Let’s just say she never lived that day down when you squirted and always teased you that you peed on her.

I've read your requests. Sorry if I didn't get to reply, but I'll be working on those soon!

I'll also go back to school tomorrow, so it might take me a while to post again. Sorry!

If you have any requests, dont hesitate to send them^^

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 28 - Something That I'm Supposed to Be

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: As we’re in the home stretch, I offer some sweet fluff and nasty smut to pad the absolute violence on the horizon.

Chapter Title from Rainbow Connection by Kermit.

Word Count: 29.1k (sorry)

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Ben take a trip. Usual warnings, with a extra smut.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, very big fluff, p in v sex, oral (m and f reciving), established relationship

Read on A03!

Chapter 27 - Chapter 29

When the sun starts to rise, the ocean isn’t blue or green. It’s black and gold, almost like oil. It swallows Mallory’s burnt and mangled body in an instant, and the shattered pieces of Ben’s shield even faster.

You’d told him it was fixable. That it had broken the first time around, but still been sealed back into one, solid piece. He’d just shaken his head, his hand on your waist tracing soft patterns in a stark contrast with the grave expression on his face, and tossed the larger pieces into the harbor. The smaller ones were either burnt, scattered across the wreckage, or buried under rubble.

It didn’t really matter. Not right now, as everyone stood in a silent vigil, watching the sun slowly break over the horizon until the water was blue, and you had to exchange bleak, heavy looks of now what.

Ryan was still shaking. Butcher keeps a firm grip on his shoulder as you walked back to his car—somehow spared from the wrath of the fight—but he turns and shuffles to you as soon as the whole team settles into a circle. His head presses into your chest, his arms wrapping around you in the same clinging, fearful manner as before, and his whole body relaxing when you hug him back. And when your hand moves to his head—petting his hair as you sway Ryan back and forth—the world-blurring terror and heart-numbing grief and head-eating guilt in Ryan’s body begins to wane.

Ben stands at your side, tall and watchful, full of that painful, aching glow that feels like both a hurricane and it’s refuge. Ripping him apart inside, and sewing him back together in the very same second. And you’re not much better, mostly just so tired, but still with a lump in your throat and something cold over your skin that’s warming with the sun and under Ben’s firm, reverent touch.

Nobody is looking well for wear. There are various levels of bruising and blood over everyone’s bodies, and you’re barely wearing any clothing. Ben had pulled off his boxers for you before you’d returned to the group—carrying you in his arms and folded over your body to shield you from view—Butcher had scrounged up a hideous Hawaiian shirt from his car to cover your bloody tits and keep Soldier Boy from carvin out our fuckin eyes, you’d manage not to vomit as you pulled on Mallory’s blood covered pants, and your jacket survived the chaos. It’s not exactly fashionable, but it is incredibly suspicious.

You can’t linger here. In the devastation of the fight with Homelander—emergency services and government investigators will be here soon, and you can’t afford to be seen when they arrive—or the weight of this unforgiving knowledge of how you have so few paths left. Homelander got away, and you’re still here, but the last supply of V is gone. You could just try to fight him, but he’s gone back to Sage. She’ll take one look at his now hideous, scarred and burned features, and refuse to let him anywhere you. You don’t know how much gas they have, and you need the V if you want to just knock him down and finish this. For any ending that doesn’t involve blood turning the water and earth red once more, you need the V.

You think you have one, very last chance. A gamble that’s more likely to fail than pay off, but is still the only option you really have.

So you take a long, deep breath—keeping Ryan steady against your body, and your body steady against Ben’s—and place your shot in the dark out on the table for debate.

“The Cornucopia is a villa. In Rome. Built by Fredrick Vought.” You look around at their frowns of confusion, and continue. “He gave it to me. And Sage is after it, so-“

“It’s important.” MM mutters, running a hand over his face. “If Sage is still after it this late in the game, it might be real fucking important.”

You nod, letting out a soft sigh. “Important enough for her to look for, and for her to offer Ben and I help getting out in exchange for it.”

Butcher’s eyes flare. “Sage offered what-“

“We turned it down, asshole.” Ben grunts, a flash of something hot and bitter in his veins as he tugs you closer. “You pussies can’t get rid of us that easy.”

“I ain’t worried about that, you twats are like a cancer in my fuckin taint, but Sage don’t seem like the offerin type-“

“Offer was the wrong word,” you mutter. “It was a deal. Ben and I get to leave, she makes sure Homelander never finds us, and when we find the Cornucopia we give it to her instead of Edgar.”

Hughie frowns. “When you find it? Didn’t we already-“

“We did.” You cross your arms, looking around at your team as they begin to connect the dots. “And Sage doesn’t know that. She also doesn’t seem to know what it is, just that Edgar has it, and she wants it. Which means-“

“It might be a weapon.” Annie finishes your sentence, her eyes wide. “If it’s just a name to her, and, you said Fredrick Vought owned it, right?”

“Yeah. Edgar said he built the place himself.” 

“And that he met with a bunch of other fucking science pussies there,” Ben adds, voice gruff and low. “For extra eyes.”

Your free hand drift to Ben’s—covering your hips—and you squeeze it gently. You love him, and next time anyone dares to think of this remarkably observant and aggressively perceptive man as stupid, you’ll punch them.

“Exactly.” You nod, continuing to address the group as Ben’s fingers tangle in yours. “So the chance that there’s at least something there is-“

“High.” MM grunts. “Real damn high. But I don’t know what the fuck we can do about it, if the villa’s all the way in Rome-“

You swallow, pushing the solution out of your throat. “We’re only twenty minutes from an international airport. Our CIA credit cards probably haven’t been frozen yet, so Ben and I can get a flight-“

“But the Homelander is very famous for taking down many, many planes.” Frenchie interjects, his words and expression painted with nerves. “It would not be safe to fly-“

“I, I know.” You sigh, and a biting memory of wind that pierced through your skin and turned your body into something sick flashes through your head. “But if we’re fast, he’ll have no way to figure out what we’re doing. And he won’t be going out in public until his face fixes itself.”

Annie blinks at you. “His face-“

“I burned him. Worse than the tower.”

“How fuckin bad did the cunt get it?” There’s a twisted glee in Butcher’s voice, and you keep your voice level and bored as you answer.

“Bad enough that he’s not going to want anyone to see.”

Butcher scowls—obviously about to push for a more descriptive answer—but MM cuts him off with a firm, slow words and a grave expression.

“If you two motherfuckers jet off the Rome, to get on top of this Cornucopia shit, that still leaves us high and dry until you get some answers.”

It’s a question, phrased as a statement. What do the Boys do while you’re gone. You can’t all go to Rome, that’s expensive and likely not very productive—just you and Ben together will be difficult enough to keep disguised—but the compound probably won’t be secure very, very soon.

But not yet. Right now you probably have half a day until the federal government catches up with this mess, so you take that and fucking run with it.

“You can go back to Jersey.” You look around the group, not wasting time to think out your words as you say them. You can revise as you go. “Get all our stuff out while you still can. Pick up A-Train, grab clothing and supplies, then lay low. Find somewhere safe and stay there until Ben and I get back. Don’t bother with damage control, because we don’t know what Sage or Singer will say about this. We might be about to be public enemies, and we can’t risk giving the media any possible extra information. So right now, all we can do is hide.”

“We could return to the Renegade Room-“

You cut off Frenchie’s suggestion with a shake of your head. “No. It has to be somewhere with absolutely no Vought association, and no chance that Sage…” You pause, trailing off and narrowing your eyes at the air. “Scratch that. Vought association might be good. Sage won’t look for you in her own territory, because that’s a stupid move and it might not even occur to her. Go to Edgar’s farm. It’s far enough removed that no one will just recognize you, and close enough that you can get back if you really need to. Stop at Neuman’s and pick up Ashley, then fucking book it to Maine.”

Everyone is silent for a second, thinking over your words, and you feel Ryan’s grip on you start to bruise your skin. You look down at him with a soft frown, and find his eyes wide and anxious and pleading in a way that makes your whole body ache. He’s not really afraid anymore—at least not in a way that’s paralyzing to either of you—but he is nervous. Hopeless. Filled with a slight mold that reminds you of Ben’s, and the pound of his weighted despair visceral is in your blood and muscles.

“Ryan, what’s-“

He leans up, words hushed like he’s afraid the sky might hear. “I don’t want you to go.”

You choke on something soft and painful, and force a small, sad close-lipped smile onto your face. “I know.” You whisper, pulling your hand from Ben’s to cup Ryan’s face. “But we’ll be back.”

“But what if my dad comes back-“

“He won’t hurt you.” You raise your voice, just enough to ensure your team hears to unspoken order in your words. That, above all else, they need to keep Ryan safe from Homelander. “A-Train will get you far away, and Butcher will protect you, or you can go hide with Neuman. But Homelander won’t get to you, I promise.”

Ryan nods slowly, eyes drifting over to Ben. “And you’ll, you’ll be safe-“

“We’re going to be fine, kid.” Ben grunts. “Don’t worry about us, we’ll be back before you even damn blink.”

“Are you,” Ryan blinks at Ben, his expression wide and open, and something rolling around in his gut like worry. “Are you okay? With the V?”

Ben looks like someone punched him, and you can feel the shock slam into his body like a bomb. It’s not bad, he’s not angry, but it’s like lightning through his heart and lungs. Like he’s in disbelief that Ryan would even be fucked to worry about him at all. Before he gets a chance to respond, though, MM cuts in with tense words.

“What V?”

You take this one, because Ben looks like he needs another second. “We kind of, um, found some extra original formula V. And Ben shot it up during the fight.”

Annie’s mouth falls open. “But that’s so dangerous, isn’t that V really fucking unstable-“

“I’m fine.” Ben snaps through gritted teeth. “Didn’t even fucking feel it-“

Liar. You glare up at him. I felt it, Benjamin. And I thought I was dying.

Ben’s gaze whips to you, and his grip on your body tightens. What the fuck do you mean, you felt it.

You sigh, because you’d been hoping to have this conversation later. I literally felt it. Like it was happening to me as well. With the V, and the fight with Homelander. I think it’s the brain connection, I’ll ask Frenchie-

“Frenchie.” Ben grunts, aloud. “Could the brain connection shit mean that she feels my fucking pain.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, muttering dramatic man-child down your connection, but turn to look at Frenchie all the same.

“It could, hypothetically. If Her brain became deep enough that it hit your nervous systems-“

“Well why the fuck didn’t we catch it before-“

“We haven’t been in combat,” you turn back to Ben, chewing on your lips. “So there wasn’t really anything to catch before. But I, um-“ You glance down at Ryan—still in your arms and looking between you and Ben with a curious, nervous expression—and decide to move the conversation into your heads. I’ve felt your orgasms, Ben. And it happened before the connection, so I thought it was just the empathy. But maybe it was because I was physically touching you during it, I just don’t have to now. And it’s just the more intense feelings that get through.

Ben scans over your face. I haven’t felt your orgasms. He frowns. I’m pretty damn sure I haven’t.

Well, we’ll figure it out later. You look back to the group, making your voice measured and settled, no room for debate. Ben will still have new powers to fight with everyone about later, and you and Ben will still be just as—if not more—connected when you return from Rome. Right now is not the time to linger and pick apart anything, not when your fate is in an hourglass that’s running out by the second. “I know it’s a lot, but we have to move. Right now my best estimate is that Ben’s new powers are some sort of energy or nuclear manipulation, but we don’t have the time for semantics. Ben and I will figure it out later, and we’ll keep in contact with you on the phone Annie got me. Let us know when you get to Maine, we’ll tell you when we get to Rome, and please, stay safe.” Your gaze falls back to Ryan, and you give him a gentle smile. “We’ll be back soon. Listen to Butcher, and ask him to call me if you need to, okay?”

Ryan nods, but doesn’t move away from you. He dives fully into your hug, squeezing you in a way that might snap your ribs, and you try and use your fire to make your body as warm as possible. Keeping your hold on Ryan steady as Ben takes over in addressing the team, the humming glow in his body passing between you both.

“You assholes take the car, I can get us to the airport myself. Watch the kid with your fucking life, and if I he tells me even one of you pussies so much as looked at him wrong-“

“We got it, Gov.” Butcher mutters, reaching his arms out to Ryan. “Let’s move, kid. She ain’t gonna vanish if you let go of her.”

Ryan nods, peeling himself from your body, and has barely started to turn back to Butcher before he’s twisting back around and a crashing into Ben.

You wish this was easier. That you could smile at how Ben didn’t hesitate to return Ryan’s hug—it takes him a moment to relax, but his arms had shot up before Ryan had even fully leaned into him—with it only being sweet on your tongue, instead of mixed with something bitter on your teeth. You can still meet Ben’s eyes when he glances at you over Ryan’s head, and squeeze his bicep in silent thanks, but you can’t stay here and savor this moment.

You have to go.

Ryan walks back to Butcher with a low head and one last quiet look of anxiety on his face, and you give him a soft, gentle smile. You’ll be okay, Ryan. You’re strong, and Butcher will take care of you.

He nods the uneasy look in his eyes relaxing slightly, but his features remain lined with uncertainty. Promise me you’ll come back?

You think you might be choking on something so, so heavy, yet still only a mist. I promise. 

Butcher guides Ryan back to the car with a borderline respectful nod and grunt of don’t fuckin die at you and Ben, and Ben stands tall and watchful at your side as Annie and Hughie give you tight hugs—their bodies filled with worry and fear and an ill feeling of doubt, but never hesitating or flinching away at your touch—and offer Ben nods.

“Um, Ben,” Hughie swallows at his own use of Ben’s real name, but doesn’t take it back as he reached into his jacket. “Annie got you a phone too, we didn’t figure Mallory was going to give you another.”

Ben looks between Hughie outstretched hand and his cautious but unafraid expression, and makes a low, gruff sound as he takes the phone. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Annie says, leaning past Hughie to say your name. “Don’t let him use it for anything weird-“

“Don’t worry.” Your lips tug up, your voice teasing as you nudge Ben’s shoulder. “When I set it up, I’ll put parental locks on it. No porn for you, Pretty Boy-“

Ben pulls you back under his arm, kissing you in a long, rough way that makes your knees a little weak. Don’t need porn. Got you.

Oh. Your brain is going a little numb under Ben’s unyielding touch and the way he seems to be everywhere against you, so you just fall a little further into him with a breathy sigh. Okay then.

Someone clears their throat, and when Ben pulls away from you—sucking on your lip before rising back up—you barely get a chance to ground yourself before Kimiko is tackling you in a tight hug.

“We both hope your flight is safe.” You hear Frenchie tell Ben, your own eyes closed as you sit in Kimiko’s care and determination, shockingly similar to Ben’s and coursing through your body. “Is there anything you would like retrieved from the compound-“

“Yes.” You look up, and Kimiko pulls away with a small nod at Ben. “Ben’s suit, and the rest of the suppressants. Not for me,” you give Ben a pointed look, and his mouth snaps shut with a glower. “But just to keep it away from the government. It’s in my underwear drawer, just take it with you to Maine. Please.”

Frenchie blinks, but hums an agreement. He shakes your hand—and Ben’s, but with a little less enthusiasm—and when he and Kimiko turn to the car, it’s just you, Ben, and MM left outside.

MM’s arms are crossed, and he’s watching you with an expression you can’t fully read.

“Stay safe.” You mumble, extending your hand for him to shake. “I’ll give you updates on what we find-“

MM lets out a sound that’s half a grunt and half a scoff, and fully ignores your hand as he pulls you into a hug. It’s not long like your hugs with the others, but it’s solid. And all you feel from him is conviction and will. Nothing lined with resent, or hatred, or disgust. Just a steadfast feeling like a tidal wave. Washing over you with the undeniable knowledge that MM trusts you. That if he ever found your love for Ben to be revolting, if he ever loathed you for it, he doesn’t now.

“Found this shit in the car, looks like it’s yours.” MM hands Ben his hat, and your sunglasses. “Don’t be stupid.” He moves back, holding your gaze with a hand on your free shoulder. “Keep that motherfucker,” his head jerks to Ben. “In line, and take care of yourself.”

“I will.” You whisper. “Thank you.”

MM and Ben shake hands—fast and almost brutal, but without any malice—and then it’s just you and Ben in the rubble. The engine on Butcher’s car starts with a slight sputter, dust kicking up in its wake as they pull out of the harbor yard, and you bury your head in Ben’s chest. You’ll have to move, soon, but for one second longer you just take in Ben’s warmth and inhale the scent of pine and salt and gunpowder that tells you you’ll be okay. Ben is here, so you’ll be okay.

When you pull away, looking up to see Ben already watching you—always watching you, always like you’re holy—and you smile at him as you speak between your heads. Logan Airport isn’t far, but you’ll probably need to steal us a car.

Ben’s mouth twitches slightly, but his gaze keeps pulling you apart. Searching for something on your face that you don’t know how to find for him, but Ben knows you, so he seems to find it himself. You’re afraid of fucking heights. I am not putting you in a situation where you’re going to lose your damn mind.

It’s a little late for that, Pretty Boy. You give him a flat look, and he scowls. And I’ll be fine. You’ll be there.

Something melts in his expression, and any of that aching, rotting feeling that had been eating at Ben’s heart is obliterated by the glow. It becomes overgrown and wild through his body—lighting up his spine and molten in his gut—as his gaze softens, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.

“I love you,” he mutters your name, and you feel that broken, writhing thing in your gut die an easy, peaceful death. “And I’ve fucking got you.”

“I love you too, Benjamin.” Your hands move up to hold his face, his beard soft under your touch and his body seeming to be made only of an ardor that makes the world a blur, but what matters sharp. “You burn, I burn.”

Ben nods, one of his hands dropping to hold yours. There’s a moment longer—just you and Ben, the rest of the world only pointless sounds and colors—and then you have to move.

It’s easy to find a car. The streets outside the harbor are lined with them, and you manage to push down any guilt by finding one that has some truly disgusting bumper stickers. Ben hot wires it while you stand guard, and when Ben draws up, you manage to drop into the driver’s seat before he can stop you.

He leans down to your eye level, scanning over your bright, smug smile and grunting your name. “Get the fuck out of my seat.”

Your smile widens. “Make me.”

He could. Ben could very easily pick you up, or push you over the console. He could kiss you until you whine and melt forward into his body, then draw back up and get all fucking cocky as you jump to your feet to chase his mouth.

But he doesn’t. He just rolls his eyes, grumbles beautiful fucking brat, and stomps around the car to sit shotgun.

Because of that, you make the twenty-minute drive to the airport in fifteen minutes flat. You probably would’ve made it in thirteen, but you’d passed Ben your phone around the seven-minute mark, told him to buy the tickets, and learned very, very quickly that he had no idea how to do that.

“You could pull the goddamn car over and do it yourself-“

“Not a chance, Pretty Boy.” You’d wrinkled your nose at him, switching lanes in a manner that can only be described as life risking. “You’ll kick me out of my seat.”

“Then we’re not getting anywhere, because I can’t do this shit myself-“

He could. You’d walked him through it—tap that button. Don’t do that airline, it’s shit. No, we don’t need any check-ons, we don’t have any property—and had to slow down to think and talk.

By the time you park, Ben has managed to buy two tickets on a one-way trip to Rome, and presents the confirmation screen to you with a wide grin and swelling, heated light in his chest.

“And you put in the right email-“

“I typed what you told me.” He grunts, passing the phone into your hands. “But I didn’t get us economy, fuck that, we’re riding first goddamn class.”

“Ben, first class is like a thousand dollars-“

“Not our money,” he shrugs, and you can feel his eyes on you as you read over the tickets. “And if the CIA pussies have a problem with it, then they can eat my fucking ass.”

“Gross. Even I don’t eat your ass.”

“And you fucking won’t.” Ben pauses, and you look up to see him frowning at you. “Unless you-“

“I do not want to eat your ass, Benjamin.” You don’t bother to push down the giggle at how incredibly serious he is, brow furrowed and looking you over with a frown. “That is very far down on the list of things I want to do with you.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and you feel your face heat before the smirk is even on his face. “You have a fucking list, Sunshine?”

“I mean, I have a vague outline?” You mumble, and this isn’t a battle you’ll win. You not even sure why you started it, because it has and always will end with you pinned under Ben’s strong body, coming apart as he touches and kisses and teases you. “I don’t know, we need to get through security, shut up and move your ass-“

“No.” Ben’s hands grab your hips, and he pulls you onto his lap without any effort. “Our flight isn’t for five fucking hours, darling. I know, because I booked the goddamn tickets. And you’re going to tell me about this vague fucking outline of yours, now.”

“I, um-“ You swallow, because he’s so close to you, and so handsome, and kneading on your skin and big and warm and Ben-

“Words-“

“Shut up-“

“Do you want to ride me, right here? Make you squirt all over my cock, fuck you so stupid you can’t remember how to walk?”

“We don’t have extra clothing.” You say, your voice already a little dumb and far away. “Or a shower. If you get cum on me, people will notice.”

“I think I’ll be able to fucking live with that.” Ben winks, his voice dropping to a deep drawl you can feel everywhere in your body. “I’d love to get you so wet and filled up that the whole goddamn plane smells how good I fuck my-“

You fall into him, kissing Ben until every inch and fiber of your love is wrapped around his head, and he groans in a way that makes you grind down onto him. His grip on you tenses, and you have to force yourself away, or he’ll flip you over and you won’t leave the car for another two hours.

“Ben,” you try to make your voice firm, a command for him to follow, but it comes out breathy and desperate, and he just growls and drops his mouth to that one spot on your neck. “God, fuck, we need to go-“

Five hours, Sunshine, we’ve got a goddamn shitload of time-

No, Ben, we- He bites you, not enough to break skin but enough to make you a little dizzy, and you moan. Security, we need to get through security-

Security will take ten minutes, it’s just a fucking metal detector-

That gives you enough strength to tug on his hair and move his gaze back to yours. It’s not easy—Ben’s eyes are blown out, his chest is rising and falling in a ragged, uneven pattern, and you can feel how hard he is, right against your thigh—but you manage to look at him with an amused, dry expression.

“Airport security will not take ten minutes, and it’s a lot more than a metal detector, you dinosaur.”

Ben frowns, and your fingers start to lightly trace over the lines of his face on pure instinct. “What the hell else is there, it’s a plane-“

“Has nobody told you about 9/11? And like, airports? Didn’t you take a plane back from Russia?”

“I snuck on that plane, and it was real fucking easy-“

“Comforting.” You mumble, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t have time to explain 9/11 to you, but we’re going to have to wait in a very long line, and-“ You pause, dropping your head into his chest. “Fuck. We don’t have passports, and you’re a walking bomb, and I’m a living sun, there’s no way we’re going to make it through the gate, fuck-“

“We’ll make it.” Ben’s hand tangles in your hair, his voice rolling through your body. “You think you can do the invisible shit on me?”

You blink against him, your words muffled in his shirt. “Maybe? I wouldn’t want to bet on it though-“

“I’ll fucking bet on it.” Ben hauls you further up his body, forcing you to his eye level. “You’ve got this. We’ll walk right through the door, and no one will know the goddamn difference.”

“But-“

“No. You’re strong, Sunshine. You’re going to do this.”

You have a feeling that if Ben told you actually, Sunshine, you can fucking breathe underwater, you’d figure out a way to do it. Because he looks at you with such certainty, and says all his words like they’re purely fact, and you can feel the hot, focused power of his love in your chest, so you can do this. It’s going to be really, really easy to do this.

Ben helps you out of the car, his hand folded in yours, and you take the shuttle bus to the airport in an easy silence. Your disguises are dogshit—Ben’s hat not even fully covering his face, your sunglasses not looking very casual in the darkness of the bus, and you’re still wearing incredibly questionable outfits—but nobody really spares you a glance, so you arrive at the airport without a single issue.

Ben pulls you into a family restroom, and his voice is gruff in your head. You’ve fucking got this. We’re going to walk past the lines, past the detectors, and get on that fucking plane.

You nod, searching his face and trying to let his concrete resolve fully destroy your own skin-crawling and stomach-turning anxiety. We won’t be able to see each other-

So don’t let go. Ben squeezes your hand in his. And even if we do get separated, I can just fucking pigeon back to you.

Your mouth twitches. You said pigeon.

Shut the fuck up. Ben presses a kiss to your brow, and you know he called it that on purpose. That you’re smiling a little more now, and he’s standing a little less rigid, and breathing is a little easier for you both, because Ben knew that would do it.

I love you, Benjamin.

I love you too, he mutters your name in the silence of the airport bathroom, his gaze stringing you up like he’s trying to find an extra piece of you for his love to touch. Let’s do this.

It’s shockingly easy. You really do think it’s because Ben said it would be, and your body knows that he’d never hurt you or lead you astray, so now it is easy. Now you can sing in a soft, almost inaudible voice, and watch Ben vanish before your eyes. You can still feel him—both stroking his thumb over the back of your hand and alight and easy in your chest—and smell pine, but he’s nowhere in sight, so you start to walk before you can miss even a single note.

You duck and weave your way through the crowd, right up to the departure doors, then through them. The guards don’t blink, a million alarms don’t sound, and nobody stops and shouts Soldier Boy and the Anomaly, so you did it. You find another empty bathroom, stop singing, and watch a grinning, smug Ben materialize right in front of you.

“I fucking told you-“

“Shut up.” Despite your words, you’re still rising up to kiss his cheek, and tugging his arm around your waist. “Are you ready to experience the wonders of modern airports, Benjamin?”

“It’s a fucking airport.” He mutters. “I’ve seen a goddamn airport before, they’re all boring as shit.”

You hum, shaking your head with a grin. “Wrong. They’re like malls now. There’s a food court, and shops, and a million Dunkin Donuts because we’re in Boston. I think we should start with some clothing that doesn’t make us look like we just returned from war, but if you’re hungry-“

“Are you hungry.”

“I,” you pause, trying to figure out when you’d actually last eaten. Or slept. Or sat down just for the sake of resting. Your voice drops to a whisper, and you scan over Ben’s stoic features with a soft gaze. “I could eat. But I would really like to change into something that doesn’t belong to Butcher or a dead lady. And we should probably get you some underwear.”

“I’m fucking fine,” Ben grunts your name, and you cut him off with a slight shove of his shoulder.

“See, if I told you that, you’d get all grumpy and tell me to shut up-“

Ben scowls. “Because it’s not the same damn thing-“

“It’s exactly the same thing. I like to take of you as well, Benjamin, my love.” You run your hand over his brow, pushing ash covered hair away from his eyes. “You just did something very fucking stupid, and we don’t even really know what your new powers are, or how they might hurt you-“

“They won’t hurt me.” Ben grumbles, but he’s leaning into your touch. His hands on your body have gone a little slack, the patterns on your hips looser, and you can feel the glow in his body softening something that’s embedded so deep that it feels a little raw. “It’s just V, and I barely even fucking felt it-“

His words fade off before you can even give him a pointed look, and there’s something sore over his heart, his voice a little hoarse when he speaks again.

“You felt it.”

“I did.” You mumble, your fingers curling slightly against his beard. “All of it.”

Ben’s jaw clenches, and his hand shoots up to catch your wrist. “I, fucking Christ-“

“It’s okay. I was,” you take a long breath, and offer him a small, soft smile you hope he can feel. “I was mostly just afraid. For you. And Ryan.”

“I know, but you shouldn’t have fucking had to be-“

“But it’s also done.” You counter, twisting your hand in Ben’s hold to tangle your fingers together. “All that we can do now is figure out what your powers are, and try and work with them.”

He’s scanning over your face, his grip like iron, and you think he’s trying to find a single part of you that’s still in pain. Any evidence that Ben’s own toil had rooted or left a depression in your body, even if he can no longer feel it himself.

He doesn’t find it. Every ache and sore and stab and sting has faded, and the most distress your body can feel is a crawl of grime over your skin and a slight strain in your lungs from the pressure of how this has to work.

“You want new clothing.”

It’s not a question, but you nod anyway. “We passed a burger place earlier,” you whisper, leaning a little further into Ben’s chest. “We can buy some clothing, change, and eat?”

Ben presses a kiss to the top of your head with a low grunt of affirmation, and keeps his hand locked in yours as you exit the bathroom.

You get a few strange looks as Ben tugs you through the terminal, but nobody’s eyes linger for more than a second, so you’re not that worried about being made. Right now you and Ben are just a horribly dressed couple, walking around an airport convenience store and grabbing city-themed merchandise that’s going to cost the CIA over a hundred dollars.

I need a hoodie. You mumble to Ben’s head, pushing through a rack of men’s shirts. Sunglasses are really suspicious indoors.

Ben grunts, kissing the side of your head before shuffling away. You find him the simplest top you can—with absolutely no sports associations he might be a massive baby about—and he returns to your side with a bright pink hoodie and bag of chocolates.

For you. He passes both into your hands, taking the shirt and looking it over with a frown. They don’t have men’s underwear. Or jeans. Got sweatpants.

You frown. What about women’s underwear? I can give you your boxers back-

Nothing. He looks back to you with a wink. You can give me back my underwear if you want, though. One of us is going commando, and I won’t complain if it’s you.

You wrinkle your nose at him. Horny old man.

Of course I’m damn horny, I have a hot fucking wi- Ben cuts himself off in your head, his hands tightening on the shirt, and you blink at him.

Are you-

Let’s pay for this shit and get you some food. Ben’s arm loops through yours, and he starts to pull you to the checkout counter. And if you want to keep wearing my underwear, I’m not going to complain.

Ben, what was- This time you cut yourself off, eyes landing on a small, stuffed lobster, and you try to tug your arm from Ben’s hold. Wait.

He freezes, but doesn’t let you go as he turns back around. What.

You gesture to the lobster, looking up at Ben with your best, sweetest, most pleading expression. Can we get that? For Ryan?

Something flares on Ben’s face, and it’s in perfect time with the glow, as well as a feeling that’s rioting and bellowing through his whole body. Crafted from his love, but set with something bigger. Something that’s almost sensitive and tender, with less wrath and sitting near his love for you, but extending a little further into the world.

Ben reaches over you, grabbing the lobster without a word, and pauses before grabbing a second one.

When you get to the cashier—Ben dropping everything on the counter with a glower that kills any attempted small talk before it starts—you tug on his arm.

We only have one Ryan, my love, we don’t need two-

Second one is for you. He keeps his gaze vigilantly scanning over the shop, but pulls you a little further into his side. I promised you a lobster, and that’s a fucking lobster.

You can’t start crying in the airport. But you also can’t climb up Ben’s chest or tackle him to the floor, then beg him to fuck you in broad daylight. It’s leaving you with very few options as the whole world becomes Ben, and your whole body seems to only care about kissing him and touching him and telling him in every way you can that fuck you love him. He’s so good to you—so silently and grumpily adorable and handsome and strong and big and Ben—and you need to show him that every single time he does something like this, your whole body lights up with adoration and a sense of being cared for you’d never felt before him. Won’t ever feel after him, and won’t need to worry about not feeling, because he’s permanent and loves you and you’ll never not be amazed by that. Ben loves you, and you don’t want for anything anymore because he’s everything, and gives you more, and the least you can do is find a quiet corner to drop to your knees and give him something back.

I’m not fucking you in the airport, Sunshine.

You blink at him, and realize you’ve half fallen into his body. He’s still not fully looking at you, but you can see the cocky, smug smirk on his stupid, handsome face, and it takes a lot of effort to scoff between your heads and stick your tongue out at him, instead of kissing all over his jaw and neck and beard until he groans. Until he feels just as worshipped and tended to as you always feel under his attention.

I wasn’t going to ask you to-

He snorts. You were making begging eyes at me, and you’re goddamn seconds from trying to fuck the air.

I am not going to try and fuck the air-

Ben grunts your name, light and joy and love that makes your knees a little weak dancing over his every feature as he glances down at you. I can fucking smell how wet you are. Christ, I can feel how desperate you are for my cock. He leans down to your flushed face, voice deep and taunting. I’ll fuck you real good later, but you need to pull yourself the hell together, or we’re going to get a public indecency charge.

You, You swallow, your eyes wide on his. You can just not fuck me-

He chuckles, kissing the space between your eyes. We both know that’s not true.

Ben pulls away, his arm around your waist holding you steady, but you’re still sitting in a lustful, warm, airy daze of Ben. Alive and powerful in your body and all around you, guiding you back to a family restroom to change into your newly acquired, filth and blood free clothing, and sitting you carefully on the toilet so he can strip.

You glare at him as he pulls off his shirt, just a pace out of your reach. “You’re such an asshole.”

He just grins, shooting you a wink as he pulls his new shirt over his head, his muscles rippling and his arms flexing and fuck he’s so pretty and strong and all yours-

“Next time Butcher or MM accuse me of being unable to keep it in my pants,” Ben drawls, shaking out his hair slightly and starting to undo his belt. “I’m going to get real goddamn specific about how you beg me to fuck you every twenty minutes.”

You pull your gaze away from Ben’s hands—broad and rough and pulling down his jeans—and give him a pout. “Shut up, you’re no better than I am.”

He shrugs, and now you have to pretend you can’t see his half hard cock, only a few feet and small movement from being in your mouth. “No, but everyone seems to think you’re some sort of fucking innocent little thing I’ve corrupted, when you’re the horniest woman I’ve ever fucking met.” He scans over you with a darkened gaze, his grin widening into something hungry you can feel pooling in your lower stomach. “You’re fucking drooling, Sunshine.”

“Fuck you-“

You know what you’re doing, because at this point telling Ben fuck you is just as much begging him as scratching at his back and moaning his name and squirming under him are. And you’re never disappointed in its return rate, because worst case you get a lewd promise that he fulfills within the day, and best case is he groans and fucks you on the spot, until you’re screaming and so cock-drunk all you can do is smile at him and mold into his body.

This time, it’s closer to the latter. Ben’s eyes flash, and he closes the space between you with one long step.

“You’re such a fucking brat.” he growls, his expression filled with an awe that makes you start to rub your thighs together. “So goddamn needy for me, so fucking beautiful and desperate for my cock-“ 

“Ben-“

“You want me in that pretty mouth of yours?” He’s slowly stroking his dick, now fully erect and coated with pre-cum, and you’re going to fall over. He raises himself to press against your lower lip in a silent question, and you open for him without thought. Running your tongue over his throbbing, red tip, moaning around him as he pushes further in.

Your hands brace on his thighs—Ben’s grunts mixing in with the wet sounds of him slowly fucking your mouth—and you whimper when his hand tangles in your hair, moving you up and down in a steady rhythm.

“Christ, you’re a miracle. Such a good girl, fucking made to suck my cock, goddamnit, you’re perfect-“

Ben’s word falter as you swallow slightly when he bumps the back of your throat, his head throwing back and his muscles tensing under your hands.

“Fuck,” he groans your name, and you moan around him. “You’re, fuck, so good, so fucking beautiful, I, fuck-“

You’ve started to graze your teeth over him, your hand moving up to play with his balls, and you let every lewd and wanting noise fall out of your body and around his cock. He’s twitching in your mouth, rutting against you and tugging at your hair, and his foul words and praise start to slur.

“Fucking Christ, you’re going to kill me.” His free hand is braced on the wall, and when you look up and him under your lashes, his hips jerk. “Want to cum on your tits, fucking mark you, let everyone know how fucking good you take my cock, how you’re fucking mine-“

You oblige, pulling off of him with a long suck and flicking your tongue against him right before you squeeze his balls and press a kiss to his abdomen. Cum on me, Ben, show everyone that I’m yours-

He makes the lowest, most feral and deep noise you’ve ever heard, and you find your own release as his orgasm crashes into your body. You’re covered in him, painted white from his cum and smelling like heat and sex and salt and Ben, and you’d have probably fallen off the toilet if Ben didn’t dive down, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his torso before kissing you with spit and teeth and a brutal passion that sends you over the edge again.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, and you realize you’ve sent himinto another orgasm, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re, fuck.”

“I know,” you mumble, writhing slightly in his arms as your body grows hypersensitive, his every touch feeling like the best type of torture on your skin. “We, um, we should probably change and leave before they kick us out.”

“They can fucking try,” Ben grumbles, kissing the tip of your nose and sliding you down his body. “Some pussy with a taser can’t do shit to us-“

You let out a loud, pleading sound as his cock brushes over your clit, and Ben stares down at you, his jaw clenched and his body filled with such overwhelming love and reverence you might cum again.

“Christ on a cross,” he mutters, and you whine again at the pure adoration and practical wonder in his voice. “You’re, holy fuck, you’re so fucking perfect. You already need me to fuck you again-“

“You didn’t fuck me,” you protest weakly, your arms wrapped around his neck to prevent your legs from giving out. You think Ben can sense that, because even as he smirks at the whine of your words, his arm braces against you, keeping you upright. “And we haven’t fucked in like, a day-“

Ben lets out a loud, full laugh, and you bury your flushed face in his chest.

“Shut up-“

“No.” Ben kisses the top your head, letting you cling to him as he starts to move around the bathroom, pulling on his sweatpants and starting to peel off your own clothing. “You’re so fucking need, beautiful, so responsive and pretty when I worship you like you deserve, I fucking love you. But you’re going have to hold on a little longer,” He mutters your name against your hair, and you grind into him with a downright pathetic sound. “Because I want to fucking try something, and I’m not doing it in a goddamn airport bathroom.”

You’re pouting, but you still manage to nod and ignore that—even after you’re in your new clothing, Butcher’s cum-covered shirt if the trash—you smell like Ben. He’s dried on your skin—salt mixed with something strong and earthy and bitter that’s purely Ben—and you try to wash him off in the sink, but the asshole himself walks up behind you and starts kissing your neck, so the most you mange is anything obviously visible.

In a true, genuine, moment of genius and foresight, Ben had bought a backpack for you to keep the lobsters, chocolate, and sunglasses in. He insists on carrying in it—grumbling about you work too fucking hard, and he’s stronger—and any fight you put up is hollow, because Ben’s rugged face and huge body looks downright ridiculous wearing a backpack that was probably meant for a child, and you can’t stop smiling at the sight.

You find a restaurant with a half-decent menu—Ben’s hat low on his face and your hoodie shadowing over your features—and eat in a comfortable silence. Ben’s knee stays pressed against yours under the table through the meal, his eyes following your every movement, and it becomes downright torture with how your pussy is still aching and squeezing around nothing.

“Have you,” you glance up at him from your plate, your fingers tapping on the table as you try to distract yourself from thoughts of jumping over the table and riding him right here. “Have you been to Rome before? I know we’ve talked about it, but you’ve never actually said-“

“Once.” His words are slightly muffled by his mouthful of burger, and a little sauce gets stuck to his lip. “After the war.”

“Oh, so a million years ago.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, brat, I am not old-“

“You literally just said after the war, Benjamin.” You reach over the table with an easy smile, swiping the sauce away with your thumb. “That’s something old people say.”

“There are plenty of fucking wars, I could be talking about any damn one of them-“

You shrug, sucking the sauce off your fingers, and grinning at Ben’s hunger pounding against your ribs. “But you’re not. You’re talking about World War II, because you’re old.”

“You love it,” he mutters, and you’re not lucid enough stop your hum of agreement. It’s not like he doesn’t already know it, but it still makes you flush when his eyes start to sear through your body, a smirk creeping back over his face.

“Where did you go in Rome-“

Your attempt to reign in the conversation fails massively, and Ben chuckles as he leans across the table, placing his big, warm hand over yours. “You do fucking love it. It gets you real damn wet, how old I am-“

“Shut up,” you mutter, unable to tear your gaze away from him. “I do not get turned on by how old you are-“

“Yes, you do-“

“No I don’t-“

“From where I’m fucking sitting, you do-“

“I get turned on by you,” you blurt, the words falling out of your mouth as Ben’s hand over yours tenses. “It’s just you, I’m not into all old men-“

“I know that,” He grins as he says your name, tone mocking but full of such affection it makes you gape. “But you love me, and you love teaching me shit, and how I’m so experienced I can make you fucking soaked in two seconds, and that I’m a goddamn gentleman-“

“That’s just you, though.” You protest. “I love you. Not that you’re old-“

“If I admit that I’m old,” Ben drawls, fingers folding into yours. “Will you admit that it turns you on?”

You swallow, but nod cautiously, and his grin lights up his whole face. Like you’ve just offered him ice cream and sex as a reward for good behavior, and now he gets to have both. It’s downright adorable, and you don’t think you know how to even pretend to be annoyed with him anymore. Not when he looks so happy, and it’s all directed at you.

“Say it.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, but push the words out. “I get turned on by how old you are. But, it’s because-“

“Nope.” Ben shakes his head, pulling your hand up to kiss your knuckles. “I’m old, and you fucking love it. And I,” he lowers your hand back down, holding your gaze. “Love you. And we’re going to find a butterfly garden for you in Rome, and see some buildings that are older than I am, and go wherever the hell else you want us to.”

“We have a job to do-“

“After the job. We’ll have one fucking day where it’s just us.” Ben’s voice is firm, and his love is setting you ablaze, and you’d follow him anywhere, so you can only watch him speak with soft eyes and a slight gape. “When I went there were these stupid fucking stone pillars they made me take pictures with, and I-“

“The Roman forum?” You interrupt him with quick words, and his smile somehow grows as he huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, that shit. You want to see them?”

Your nod is eager, and you feel a flash of pride and hot satisfaction through Ben’s body.

“Good,” he says, scanning over your features with an intensity that makes you squirm. Like if you move your body just right under his attention, Ben might stand, pick you up, slam you down on the table, and fuck you right here. “We’re going to have one real day where we’re not doing anyone’s goddamn job, and I’m going show off you off to all of Europe. Show the whole goddamn world how I have the best fucking wi-“ Ben’s jaw ticks sightly, his hand flexing in yours, and there’s a slight stutter to his words that makes you blink. “Woman in the world, and how I treat you right.”

You decide to brush off his odd words and just smile at him, squeezing his hand in yours. “You do.” You say the words simply, because he does treat you so good, it makes the glow in him become white-hot. “And we can see something you want to see as well-“

“I don’t give a fuck what we see.” Ben shrugs, taking a last large bite of his burger. “I’ll go wherever the hell you go.”

“Oh.” Your voice drops to a whisper—he’d said those words so passively, like it was as inherent as breathing, and it’s making your brain a little numb—and Ben pauses between bites to stare at you with a slight frown.

He grunts your name in the noise of the restaurant, and his eyes are so green and pretty and Ben that it takes you a moment to realize you need to respond to him.

I’m good. I’m really good. You don’t trust your voice to not be only a needy, breathy noise, so you smile at Ben until his features relax. 

I have to take a piss, Sunshine, so we’re going to pay the bill, go to the bathroom, and then you’ll tell me all the things you want to do in Rome. Deal?

Deal. You extend your hand over the table, and Ben scoffs at it, standing up out of his seat and walking around the table to kneel at your side. Ben-

I love you, his eyes are making you a little dizzy, and you’re shocked you haven’t exploded from the strength and fervor of Ben inside you. A fuck ton. And I’m going to prove it-

You don’t have to prove it, you drop your brow to Ben’s, tracing a hand over his jaw. I know you love me. I never, ever doubt that, Ben. I can feel it, you poke his chest. Here. I can feel you everywhere. And I love you too.

Ben nods slowly—rising back up with a kiss to the top of your head—and glowers around the restaurant. “Where the fuck did the waiter go-“

“Just go to the bathroom, I can take care of the bill-“

“I am not leaving you-“

You sigh, wrapping your hand around his forearm and pulling him back to your eye level. “It’s not leaving me, my love. I’ll pay, go to the gate, wait for you, and be in one complete piece when you get back. We can’t always be right next to each other, and it’s literally physically impossible for you to lose me.”

He frowns—the ache and mold over his lungs making you think he’s going to protest—and his words are grumbled and stiff. “Do you need anything.”

“I’m okay right now. We should get snacks before the flight, airplane food is famously bad-“

“What type of snacks.”

You shrug. “Road trip snacks, I guess. But it can wait-“

Ben gives you a rough nod, a deep, heavy kiss that makes toes curl, and stomps off to find a bathroom. 

It takes you a second to fully regain control of your body, but when you do, you’re quick to flag down a waiter and pay the bill. It’s easy to find the gate, and it’s not too from where you can sense Ben, so you drop down in your seat and send MM a quick update. You’re at the airport, no delays or risk of being burned or identified, your flight is in two hours, boarding in one, and you’ll call after you get to the vila. MM responds quickly—they just got back to the compound, their keycards still work, and they’ll be in Maine when you land—and now you have nothing to do but wait.

Your attention wanders around the crowd—suits and tourists and sleeping solo travelers—and lands on a family. A tired looking mother and father, a baby, and three bouncing children, and it pulls on something soft and delicate in your chest. You want that. You really want something so painfully domestic and simple with Ben more than you might have ever wanted anything. You’d meant those words to Homelander, that—when he’s long dead and buried, only a ghost that crawls over your skin and makes the cracks inside you a little more visible—you’ll marry Ben. And it doesn’t really feel like that big of a decision, because you’re alive inside of him and he’ll go wherever you go. It would be more so you can have a ring to twist on your finger that displays that Ben loves you, and no men at gas stations will try to take what you only offer to Ben, and everyone who walks past you will know that you’re married. That you’re loved by the strongest, safest, most impossibly grumpy and handsome and caring man in the world.

You’d meant the other part as well. That somewhere in the future, if Ben wanted it as well, you’d want kids. It wouldn’t be even similar to how Homelander wanted your children, because he didn’t want you. He’d wanted a body that he deemed fit to serve him, but Ben serves you every waking moment. He carries you in his arms, and mutters words of gruff comfort, and does small things—like picking you flowers and buying you a stuffed lobster—that make it so easy to be his. So children with Ben would be yours, and you’d never have to protect them from their father, because he’d be a great dad. He might actually be the most dad dad you could ask for, because between how he grumbles supportive words and protects you and Ryan like it’s all that matters and the WWII documentaries and pancakes and baseball, he’s straight out of a dad factory.

And it would be amazing. To have a life like that family’s, where you’re curled into Ben’s side like you always have been and his arm is over your shoulder like it always is, but you’re cradling a baby that pouts at you like Ben does when you leave him alone, and he’s locked in a deeply serious conversation with a toddler that looks just like you. Where there’s another child asleep on his lap—which you’d understand, Ben’s lap is the best place to be in the world—that looks like someone melded you and Ben together, and a fourth one that looks like someone photocopied Ben—right down to the deep glare—watching him talk and hanging off his leg. Ryan could be with you, talking to you in a hushed voice about school, and that could be your whole world. The name Homelander would never mean anything to your children, and it would only be spoken on darker nights where you, Ben, or Ryan woke up in a cold, hollow pain.

You have to pull your attention away from the family—you’re staring, and if you keep looking at them you might start crying with something that’s made of longing and a very faint hope—and lean back in your seat with closed eyes. You don’t want to watch the news—playing on high mounted televisions around the terminal—because it will make you sad, so you drift through a world where Homelander is only dirt and you’re only loved, right until you feel Ben stir in your chest. When you open your eyes, they’re drawn to him in the crowd like he’s gravity. Marching out of the bathroom and finding to you after barely a beat, a grin crossing his face as he shoves through the crowd to returns to you.

“Hi, Sunshine.”

The smile on your face might make you look downright stupid, but you don’t care. “Hi, Benjamin.”

He drops at your side, tugs you half onto his lap, and rests his chin on the top of your head as you bury your face in his chest, humming as you tap your fingers against him.

What’s the plan. He grunts in your head, his hands starting to rub patterns on your hips. In Rome.

You let out a long, slow breath. I don’t know how long we’ll be there-

We’re going to have at least two days. Call it one for all the fucking work we need to do, and one for us.

Okay. You gnaw on your lower lip, thinking out every word between your heads. The work is pretty simple. Find the villa, look for whatever Sage is after, and brief the team. If it’s not in a highly populated area, we might want to use some time to figure out what the fuck is up with your new powers-

It’s the nuke.

You lean up to examine him, and he looks solemn, his whole body wrapped in something grim and definite. Are you positive-

I’m pretty goddamn certain. His brow furrows. Fucking feels like it.

What does it feel like?

Energy.

And…?

Power.

Benjamin, I swear to god-

It feels like the fucking nuke, okay? It- Ben lets out a heavy breath, the scowl on his face turning in on his body, and his skin lining with a hot frustration that isn’t directed at you, but leaking out of something that’s almost stuck in his body. I don’t know how to fucking describe it, it just is the nuke.

Okay. You raise your hand to his face, running your hands through his beard until the taut thing wrapping around his throat and pulling his face into a frown loosens. I believe you. I still want to test it, so we know what you can do, but I believe you.

Good. I- Ben’s jaw twitches, but nothing tearing or molding grows on his heart. With Homelander. I didn’t want to lose you, and it just damn appeared. It doesn’t hurt anymore, and it feels a whole lot fucking easier to control. Does that-

That’s helpful. Thank you.

Ben just grunts. Any other shit for us to do?

I’d like to figure out the whole pain thing. If it was just high adrenaline or something more consistent, if it’s only severe pain, if you can feel it when I’m in pain-

Do you ever feel sick.

You blink at him. What-

When you’re afraid. Ben mutters in your head, scanning over your face. Or sad. Do you feel sick.

Yeah, sometimes. I, I vomit when it’s really bad. Like at the tower. Why-

I can feel it. When you’re in pain.

Oh.

I didn’t fucking think it was a big deal-

No, it’s okay. You sigh, dropping your brow to rest on his shoulder. It’s good to know, and it knocks off another thing. We’ll just need to search the villa, call the team, and test your powers a little.

Good. And for us. What do you want to do for us.

I, you take a long, steading breath, just to try and come down a little further into the sense of Ben, everywhere around you. I like the butterfly garden idea. You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. I think it would be really funny to see you in it. You’re going to be so grumpy-

Shut up-

No. I love you, and you’re going to hate it, but I’ll let you fuck me after as a reward for doing something so stupid-

It’s not fucking stupid. He grumbles in your head. If you like it, it’s not stupid.

You might melt right here, in public, inhaling pine and salt and coffee and Ben, lightheaded from the unbreaking feeling of his love inside you. Oh. Thank you.

Don’t. What else.

Um, I’d like to see more gardens, and the Roman Forum would be cool. I might not shut up the whole time, but-

I think I’ll fucking live. Ben drawls in the noise of the crowd around you. That it?

No. Your voice is a little more confident now, as you fall a little further into Ben’s body. We should see some fountains, and the Sistine Chapel, go shopping while we still have CIA credit cards, and go to the Colosseum. You’ll love the Colosseum, Pretty Boy, you’d have been an excellent gladiator.

Damn right, I would have. Ben’s arms squeeze around your body, the glow inside him becoming prideful. I’d have kicked fucking ass.

You giggle softly, tracing your fingers over his chest. I know.

Ben’s hand moves to your chin, tilting it up with a reverent touch so he can kiss you slowly. Snacks.

You understand the half-question, half-request for Ben to be given something to do, and hum. Yes, please.

The kiss lasts another long minute before Ben draws up, letting his fingers linger against your lips, before grunting stay here in your head, and stomping off. You pass the time he’s gone people watching and keeping an eye on the flight attendants—shuffling around the desk and calling for last minute bag-checks—and Ben is just slow enough to return right as they begin boarding.

“What the hell is-“

“They’re filling up the plane.” You take in his armful of gummies and cookies and chocolates, and snort. “You have the appetite of a toddler, my love-“

“This shit is for you,” he winks as he dumps the majority of the snacks into your backpack. “I’ll eat whatever you don’t, but you eat first.”

“Such a good boyfriend,” you tease, taking his hand as you move to your feet. “Taking good care of his girl-“

“My wi-“ Ben’s mouth twitches, and he tugs you closer to his body as he continues with a too casual drawl for how his whole world seems to be electric ardor and something loud and blinding he’s pushing down. “My woman, Sunshine. You’re a fucking woman.”

You giggle again, kissing him on the cheek and deciding to let the strange moment go, but keep an eye out for more like it, given this is the third time he’s stumbled over words, and Ben never stumbles over words. “A true feminist, Benjamin. I’m not a girl, I’m a woman-“

“You are a woman.” He grumbles, slinging his arm over your shoulders and grabbing the bag. “You’re a beautiful goddamn menace, and you’re my fucking woman.”

There’s a smug pride to how he says that, and it makes it impossible to do anything but bury your head in his side and sigh. I am, you asshole. I’m yours.

Good. You feel the glow almost explode across his skin and organs, and he starts to guide you both into the line for boarding. How the fuck does this shit work now-

You lean away from him with an eye roll and mumble of old fucking man you know he hears—though all you get is deep lines on his face and a fake glower—to take the lead on getting you onto the plane.

It’s easy. Showing the woman your tickets and giving a ditzy giggle about how you’re so excited for your vacation is easy. It’s made easier because she’s barely looking at you and Ben is half wrapped over your body, and you always feel a little lightheaded and dumb when he climbs over and into your every sense. It’s easy to smile at him, easy to stay pressed against him as you enter the cabin, and easy to find your impossibly fancy seats and let Ben help you into them.

It’s easy to not think about how you’re going to fly—in the cold air, high above the ground where Homelander could reach you and send you plummeting to the ground—when Ben keeps one hand on your leg and shifts in his seat to block his own face and your body from the view of other passengers. And even if you do get recognized now, as the doors close and the plane begins to move onto the runway, there’s not much for anyone to do about it. You’re out of American jurisdiction, and you’re certain Homelander won’t want to be in public until his face heals—which could take a week, buying you extra time—so if someone sees you, you’ll handle it. You’ll handle any of this, because you have Ben.

The flight is eight hours. The engine begins to build to a roar, and you can make it eight hours. You’ll watch stupid movies to pass time, and cling to Ben’s body until you’re safe from the sky and on sturdy ground again.

And it might be the way Ben’s rubbing circles on your skin, or humming a low, off-key tune you both know by heart, or filled with such an attentive care to your every breath and hitched breath, but you feel a peaceful darkness wash over you, and fall asleep with ease.

When you wake up—your sleep dreamless and restful—Ben’s chest is rumbling with snores, his lips brushing your forehead, and he’s holding you tight against his chest. The cabin is darkened, the flight trajectory says you have a little more than four hours left, and you know that if you startle Ben awake he might accidentally break something or someone, so you slowly twist yourself in his arms and pull out your phone.

Airplane wifi is slow and shitty, but good enough to pass time. To set up the basics of Ben’s phone, but this time including MM’s number and letting Ben decide the contact names. To look out the window at an ocean of clouds and golden, blinding sunlight. To listen to music on static, thin, wired earbuds and rest against Ben’s sleeping body, doing nothing but waste time because you finally have time to waste.

Ben’s hand moves before he’s fully awake, rubbing up and down your leg and kneading at your skin as he lets out a low grunt that you can feel deep in a place nobody but he gets to touch.

He mutters your name as his eyes open, and for a long second you just look at each other. Then he sighs, pulls your head into his chest, and that’s it. You’re happy being gently touched and kept safe right here, against him, until the plane lands, so the last two hours pass in barely a minute. The last hour passes even faster, because Ben gets the bright idea to let his hand wander between your legs and rub his palm against your still sensitive pussy until you’re biting on his shoulder to stifle your moans and squirming in your seat as he pulls you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

You can’t look anyone in the eye after that—out of fear they might read my boyfriend just made me cum on your face—and when you reach the land Ben keeps a pace ahead of you, letting you hide yourself in his back as he pulls you through the airport.

“We need to find a taxi.” Your words are quiet, but you know he hears them. “I googled the address Edgar gave us, it’s about twenty minutes away-“

“Villa will still be there in thirty minutes.” Ben snaps, leading you past a sign that very obviously leads to transportation. “What we need is some fucking money.”

Your mouth falls open slightly. “Fuck, you’re right, we don’t have euros-“

“We’ll get them, don’t lose your damn mind. We need somewhere that won’t check for any ID, or ask stupid fucking question. Can you,” Ben looks at you over his shoulder, tugging you under his arm to match his pace. “Does the internet tell you how much our money is to theirs?”

It’s quick to check, and when you tell him you’re unable to hide the slight awe and sheer amusement in your voice at how he’s disturbingly good at this, but do manage to keep to yourself how much that’s turning you on. Making your knees a little weak, trying to override your will and move your body to jump into his arms .

Ben nods at the number, jaw clenched as he stomps through the crowd. “Good. We should withdraw a lot, so we can beat Muller and Singer to the fucking draw. Get their money before they freeze our credit line.”

“Have you,” you squeeze his arm, drawing his attention enough for his steel-like gaze to drop to yours. “Have you fled a country before, Pretty Boy?”

“No.” He grunts. “I just know what the fuck to do in a crisis. I’m not a fucking idiot-“

“I know that, Ben, I’ve told you I know that. But you’re like, ready for this.”

“Shut up-“

“It’s good, it’s really good.” the words fall out of your mouth, and you might be pleading just a little for him to grin at you and understand that you love this. You love him, and you love that he’s helping, and that he’s keeping you steady as you speed walk and shove through the bustling movement of the airport, and he’s everything, and somehow still surprising you with how much he cares. How good he is to you—getting you snacks you love, and picking you flowers, and offering to look at old buildings because he thinks you’ll like them—and how you’re never actually that shocked, because if anything is real, this is. Ben is real, in every movement and grumble and frown and beat of his heart in your chest.

He mutters your name, gaze peeling you apart and stringing you up for only him to really see. “It’s not that big a fucking deal-“

“Yes, it is,” you whisper, ducking out from under his hold—but keeping your hand on his arm—as you reach an exchange ATM. “I like it. It’s hot.”

His movements don’t falter on the ATM, but his love and hunger strain in your chest, and his voice is a gravely in a way you feel spark in your gut. “It’s hot.”

You flush at the deep, teasing drawl of his voice. “Yeah,” you mumble. “I like it.”

“You already said that, Sunshine.” Ben grins down at you, waiting for the money to be fed out of the machine. “What do you like about it?”

“That you’re helping,” you shouldn’t look him in the eyes—your legs are going to give out, and you keep this up you might smell like sex for the next fifty years—but he’s locked his bright, devout gaze against yours, and you’re not cruel enough to pull it away. “I, I like that you’re taking control. To help. Me. You always help me, but I, I really like that you’re doing something for me, when it’s something I can do, but you’re doing it, and I love you, and it’s hot that you’re so focused and handsome and hot and focused-“

Ben takes mercy on you, and dives down to turn your ramblings into a long, easy sigh of his name. When he pulls away, his smile is open and cocky, his hand cupping your jaw as his whole body becomes insatiable need and adoration, trying to flood the world with a riot of something so wrathfully, unforgivingly powerful and loving that you might fall over.

“Christ,” he says your name with a reverence, thumb pressing slightly on your lower lip. “Thought I fucking broke you. You get real damn scrambled when we talk about fucking, don’t you.” At some point, one of you should grab the money from the ATM, but you couldn’t care less now because Ben is backing you into a wall, and he’s everything. “Makes that smart, clever brain of yours go dumb, when I tell you that I love you. Make you tell me how hot you find my hands, and my mouth, and my cock, and when I fucking help you. When I pick you up and fix things for you, when I take control and make you feel good-“

You’re half slumped against the wall, knees shaking, and Ben’s arm shoots out to wrap around your waist the moment he notices. “Ben-“

“Going to make you feel fucking good, darling, I’ve got too many damn things to do to you, so I might start simple.” His mouth lowers to suck on your neck, and you don’t care if anyone hears your high whine. “Have you ride my cock, maybe tie you up and tease that perfect body and pussy until you’re begging me. Eat you out until you’re fucking suffocating me, put my cock in that pretty mouth until you’re dripping-“

“Ben,” your protest is weak—you don’t even mean it—and your shove at his chest is pathetic. “Money. Need to get the money-“

He hums against you, drawing back up with a gentle, sweet kiss on your lips. “When the job is done,” Ben hand traces over where his mouth had just been, and you shiver at the promise in his voice. “I’ve got countless things to do to you, Sunshine. But,” he kisses your brow, tangling his hand back in yours. “I still have a real damn good plan, so I might just stick to that. I’ll have all the time I need after to do everything I want with you.”

You swallow, watching as he takes the money and letting him lead you back in the direction of transportation, and you allow the feeling of almost blissful joy sink into your body. You will have all the time. Right now you’re following Ben and hanging off his arm as he flags down a taxi, and you’re going to find a way to have all the time. No matter what the Cornucopia has—or doesn’t have—for you, you will force there to be a way for you to have all the time after, with Ben.

He’s still shielding you with his body through the taxi ride. It’s short and tense, the driver making the mistake asking about your lives, where you’re visiting Rome from, and mentioning he’s been to America once and liked baseball—specifically the Mets—which launches Ben into a long, passionate rant. When you’re dropped off outside a high, wrought-iron fence, you pay quickly with an apologetic expression, and hit Ben’s chest with a glare as the taxi drives off.

“That was very rude, Benjamin-“

“He shouldn’t ask so many fucking questions,” he grumbles, looking over the bars with a furrowed brow. “Got him to stop damn pushing, didn’t I?”

“You did. But you could’ve also just ignored him-“

“He should talk about what he doesn’t fucking know-“

“I don’t know about Baseball, and I talk about it with you-“

“Not the same. I love you, and you’re hot when you get all fucking flustered and eager about shit. He’s just some cuckhead.” Ben doesn’t look at you as he speaks, voice flat and deep and obvious, and he points to a break in the seemingly gate less fence. “There. Keyhole.”

You lean forward, squinting slightly for what he’s trying to show you. “I don’t- Oh. I see it.”

“You got the-“

You stick your tongue out at him as you reach into your pocket, pulling out the keys and dangling them in front of him. “Of course I have the key, Pretty Boy. We’d be fucked if it didn’t, because I would not do two more flights to go get it”

Ben winks with a shrug. “You certainly seemed to enjoy that first fucking flight, with the goddamn mess you made-“

“And I’ll be able to make plenty of bigger messes, here, in private.” You lean up to whisper in his ear, running your hand over his chest. “Where I can scream and moan and whine and beg-“

There’s a deep, almost primal growl that leaves Ben’s body, and suddenly he’s bending down, slamming his lips to yours, and hauling you up his body until your legs wrap around his torso. A high, airy sound escapes you as you drop the keys, scraping at Ben’s neck and shoulders as he goes and goes and goes until you grind against him, and he leans back with a smirk.

“I think,” Ben nips on your lower lip and squeezes his hold on your ass, everything inside him alight and coursing through you like lightning. “I can do better than just screaming and begging. I think I can fuck you until every sound you make is just-“

He stops his own words, kissing you so deep and rough that it makes you start to try and climb up his chest, squirming against his body as he only drops you lower, pressing your clothed pussy right over his hard-on, and fuck he’s still not wearing underwear-

You make a sound that might be the most animalistic noise that’s ever left your body—desperate and pleading and breathless—and Ben pulls back. His brow presses to yours as he starts to take deep breaths, and the hunger in him takes a comfortable and white-hot root in your stomach and over your hands, giving them an itch that feels like touching Ben would aid. You start to comb your fingers gently through his hair, just to feel him a little more, and he makes a low, rumbling sound as he tightens his grip on your body. When you chance a look at him, his eyes are closed and his lips are parted, and this might make you cum all by itself. You’re still playing with his hair, he’s still making that sound—his breath hot and fanning over your mouth, his beard brushing your cheek, and his cock twitching against your inner thigh—and you have a job to do, but right now it doesn’t feel that important.

Suddenly Ben freezes, his eyes shooting open and locking onto yours, and there’s something wild in them you can feel over his lungs. It’s vigilant and taut, growing stronger as the content want in his body shoves deep down to somewhere behind his ribs that’s harder to feel.

He grunts your name, and you let one hand drift to cup his jaw, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

I love you, Ben. You’re not sure why he looks like someone just kicked him in the gut, but telling him that never fails to make something in him soften. Did you not like- 

I did. He catches your hand, holding his against his face. I fucking loved that. I don’t- His hold on you tightens, and the sore, hot feeling of embarrassment creeps over his skin. Don’t worry about it, Sunshine.  

You frown. Well, now I’m absolutely going to worry about it-

Fucking don’t-

Benjamin. Your fingers curl into his, and you let your blood leak into his, waiting until his throat bobs and eyes narrow to continue. Tell me now. Please.

The soreness in him becomes an itch, and his voice is gruff and quiet in your head when he speaks. Felt good. Real good. Relaxing. Never had someone do that.

So you liked it?

Yes.

Is that bad-

I was fucking purring, he grumbles your name, and the soreness becomes heated. That’s fucking dumb-

I liked it. You shrug in his hold, risking another slight scratch of his head and fighting the smile at his groan. I liked doing it.

His eyes narrow on yours. You did.

I did. It’s not bad to like something that’s a little stupid, Benjamin. I get wet when you pick me up, or when we dance.

That manages to make something ease inside him, and light flashes in his eyes. I know that, brat. I can smell it.

So can you admit that you like it when I pet you?

Whatever.

Ben-

He scowls. I like it.

Okay. You smile, kissing the outer corner of his lip. Was that so hard?

Shut the fuck up. Ben turns his head to fully capture your lips against his, smirking at your small gasp. Grab the keys, darling, we’ve got some fucking work to do.

You wrinkle your nose at him as he lowers you back to the ground to pick up the keys, keeping one careful arm around your waist. After we do the work, do you want me to do that again-

No. Not until I’m done with you.

Benjamin, my love, you lean against him, looking up at his darkened eyes with a pout. After you fuck me, can I please suck your cock and pet your hair?

Ben’s body is rigid, and he looks you up and down in a way that might make you just fall against him and burn off all your clothing just to see what he does about it. Fucking Christ, Sunshine.

That’s not a no-

We’ll see. He kisses the side of your head, spinning you to face the fence. Open the gate, and maybe I’ll put my cock between those pretty lips when we’ve got the time.

You huff in disappointment that’s only half-performative, and Ben’s chuckle rolls through your body as you put the keys in the slightly hidden lock, waiting for a click before turning them, and tilt your head back to meet Ben’s eyes. He gives you a short nod, and you push the gate open. 

In the sunlight and clear sky of Rome, the dark, high fence had looked out of place. Gothic and foreboding in the sunlight, clashing with the green of the overgrown bushes and vines. But the driveway is long—made of carful mock-stone patterns of red and brown brick—and before you even see the house, you see the gardens. It’s not just the plants around the gates that had flourished in the years of unattendance. The grounds—not sprawling, but by no means small—are filled with flowers and moss and life. The path under your feet may be cracked, and the iron of the gates may have been dulled, but this place is filled with life.

And that’s a house. When you and Ben reach the end of the path—even his eyes and chest sparking with slight disbelief at the scene around you—your mouth falls open, because that is a real house. It’s not high, two floors at best, but it’s long. There’s low-step dais leading up to a door that’s really just unreasonably large, and two, large trees on either side of the entrance. You stop at the base of the stairs, giving yourself a long second to breathe and look around the rest of the grounds. There are trees in a clearly deliberate line to act as a second gate, a few more paths leading around to the back of the villa, and large circle drive around an algae filled reflecting pool that Ben had guided you carefully past.

It’s a little too much, and you’re not even inside yet. Ben’s hold on you doesn’t waver, but you feel his own tension—untrusting of the world and land around you, everything in him on edge and vigilant again an invisible threat—as his lips drop down to mutter in your ear.

“We don’t have to do this shit-“

“Yeah.” You turn your head to give him a soft smile. “We do. You know we do. And it’s just a house-“

“It’s a huge fucking house.” Ben corrects with a glare up at the building. “And damn near anything could be inside it.”

You shake your head, moving his arm down to hold you over your stomach. “We’re the two most powerful supes in the world, Benjamin. Whatever is in there should be afraid of us.”

He snorts, and doesn’t push. Just stands with you in the sounds of light breezes and bird song you’ve never heard before, waiting for you to be ready.

When you lean forward, Ben releases you enough to take the lead, and walks a steady pace behind you. You put the key in the door when he stops at your side—giving his stoic expression you a nervous smile, and receiving a squeeze of your hand in return—and open it with a slight grimace at the creak of the hinges.

While Edgar clearly hadn’t been having anyone tend to the grounds, the house itself is clean. You bump Ben’s shoulder when you sense his body tense, and when you look up at him, he’s scanning over the clean furniture and floor with a sharp glare.

Do you hear anyone?

Just you. He gives you a glance that’s almost gentle, but his jaw remains set. What now.

You blink, looking back around the entrance hall with wide eyes. Despite the more unruly, older Mediterranean architecture of the villa itself, the floor is glossy marble brick and there are column arches almost wherever you look. There’s a large, curled staircase leading to a second-floor walkway, and a single step down to a sunken living area with spotless white couches and a fireplace. You don’t bother to count the wooden doors, but there’s a lot of them, and two long halls that lead away from you on either side.

And this is your house.It’s really just becoming real now—as you stand in it—that this whole place belongs to you. Edgar hadn’t given you a deed, but when you’d tried to google any property records during the flight, none had come up, and it doesn’t seem unreasonable that this place might be a little less than legal. You can hound Edgar about specifics when this is over, though, because right now this is, in name, your house. The furniture is a little ugly—Edgar obviously never redecorated from Dr. Vought—but the building is beautiful, the grounds are beautiful, and it’s yours.

“We,” you swallow, and your voice echoes around the room. “We should look around. See how big it is, look for something that Sage might be after.”

“What the fuck might Sage be after.”

“I don’t know, Ben, otherwise I’d say look for the secret weapon Sage doesn’t want us to find.”

He rolls his eyes. “Smartass.”

You hum, resting your head against his arm. “You love it. Should we split up-“

“There is not a chance in fucking hell we’re splitting up.” Ben grunts, still eyeing everything around you with a distrust like they might start singing show tunes and try to murder you. “We don’t have a floor plan, or a goddamn clue what we’re looking for, so we’re goddamn sticking together.”

That’s true. The villa could be five to six very, very large rooms like this one, or twenty to thirty tiny, closet-like rooms. Based on the paths there might be a backyard, and you have no way to know if there’s a cellar or basement, or anything else that’s slightly more nefarious.

“Okay. Top floor and work our way down, or find a corner and work our way up?“

“I don’t fucking care.” Ben grunts, and you wrinkle your nose at him.

“That’s very helpful, Benjamin, I appreciate it-“

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben rolls his eyes, but his affection in your body only gains sharper, more jagged lines that wrap around you like a barbed wire. Not to hurt you, never to hurt you, but to keep you safe from whatever comes. Wires that you could easily slip past, but chose to stay surrounded by, because nothing else has ever been bloody and protective for you. So you tangle your hand in Ben’s and give him a wide, unrestrained grin.

“Top and work down, Pretty Boy. Let’s go.”

You start up the stairs, and Ben marches behind you in rough, pounding steps. It’s easy to take stock of the upper floor, because it’s all bedrooms and bathrooms and balconies—you were right, there is a backyard, and it has a fucking pool—along with a small library and a handful of mostly empty linen closets.

“I counted seven bedrooms and eight bathrooms so far.” You move from the library side-table—drawer empty save for an inkless fountain pen and some loose money that you pocket—to Ben’s side, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing the line of his jaw. “You?”

Ben frowns, his hands dropping holding you by your hips. “I got seven bedrooms and seven bathrooms, you’re fucking terrible at counting.”

“No I’m not. Maybe you’re wrong, asshole-“

“You counted the conjoined bathroom twice.”

You flush slightly as you run back through the floor plan you’d been building in your head, and realize he’s right. “Fuck.”

“I goddamn told you-“

“Fuck you.” You whack Ben’s arm, and push off his chest. “There’s too fucking much to keep track of, who the hell needs seven bedrooms-“

“You.” Ben catches you by your wrist, amusement building in his chest, in perfect time with his love like summer storm. “Us. We’ve got seven annoying fucking assholes to house, and they’re probably falling apart without us. And-“ he tugs to right back to his chest, every low word making his lips brush against yours. “You might wish we had a few more rooms, darling, when I’m done with you. When I’ve fucked you and filled you so good it goddamn sticks.”

There’s a slight stutter in his usually confident, smooth cockiness when he teases you, and he’s studying your expression so carefully you realize he thinks he might have crossed a line.

You don’t really have lines with Ben anymore. You probably should, it would probably be healthier, but they seem pointless. You can feel him all the time, and he can feel you in the same way. He—apparently—can feel it when your body turn in on itself from pain and emotional suffering, and you’ve literally experienced his orgasms. Every line you have doesn’t feel that important, because they’re things you know Ben would never do. They’re things like don’t hand me back to Vought or Homelander, and don’t lock me up, and don’t treat me like I’m weak and useless, because then I’ll shatter, and Ben never even strays close to them. They remain unspoken because they simply don’t need to be said aloud for Ben to know. Just as you understand that you can never ask Ben to stop fully protecting you, or send him back to Russia, or put him back in the box.

And you’ll die before you do that to him. The idea of anyone doing those things to him makes your whole body feel wrong, and it’s the same for Ben with you, so lines don’t matter. A line like that—the hypothetical future of who will occupy those bedrooms���feels almost ridiculous, because it’s more comforting than off-putting. That Ben would want that, and there’s a life he seems to have thought about at least a little where it’s you and Ben and the team, and he gives you more. You’d always want more of Ben, because you feel as if you’ve been in a drought for a million years, only to be offered water and told you never had to go back to the way it was before.

That’s why it’s easy to close the inch between your faces and give Ben a soft, gentle kiss. Sweet and long and almost innocent, melting into him and promising that he hasn’t shaken or cracked you.

I’d like that. You hum against him, drawing back and starting to pull him out of the library. But after. We have a whole other floor to search.

Ben nods, and follows you back down to the ground floor. Down one hall there’s a kitchen, a half-bath, a dining room, a pantry, and a fucking wine cellar. You find another bedroom—with another bathroom and its own exit outside—before you turn to go down the other side.

Your steps falter slightly around the house entrance, and Ben silently follows you as your turn, walking into the living area and staring out the almost floor-to-ceiling windows.

There’s a patio, and pool, and large yard that looks a little more kept than the front.

“This is weird.” You whisper, and hear Ben grunt in agreement from behind you. “Like, really weird, Ben. This is our house, and it’s huge and fancy and probably worth more than I could’ve ever earned in a lifetime. Fuck,” you shake your head, starting to drown yourself in hypotheticals. “Are we going to have to pay property taxes? How much even are property taxes in Rome? We don’t have a lot of money, shit, we don’t have any money, and if we live here we’ll need jobs, and I’ve been mostly joking about escorts but I don’t speak Italian and you don’t have a college degree, so we might as well-“

Ben kisses your neck, his body humming with amusement and care behind you. “Calm the fuck down, Sunshine.” He mutters against your skin. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Right now you have a house, and that’s that. No losing your mind over shit we can’t solve today.”

You nod slowly, looking around the outdoor area one last time. “Do you think that water is safe to swim in?”

“Who gives a fuck.” Ben shrugs around you. “Neither of us can get sick, it could be filled with sewer water and it wouldn’t make a goddamn difference.”

“I think it would make a difference,” you tilt your head back, giving Ben an upside-down smile. “Just like, psychologically.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but still plants a small kiss on the tip of your nose. “One last area to search, brat. Let’s move.”

The other side of the main floor seems to just be one more sitting area and bathroom, until you push through a the very last door, and stop in your tracks.

Ben almost slams into you with a disgruntled noise, catching himself on the frame of the door over your head. “What-“

“Found the master bedroom,” you mumble, and he stiffens behind you as he sees it. The sprawling space before you, with a soft looking carpet, walk-in closet, a bed that’s unreasonably large—even for Ben, which is impressive—and two extra doors, one ajar and leading to a master bath and the other closed and leading to… something else.

“Holy fuck.” Ben says, half leaning on your body. “This is fucking bigger than our damn living room and kitchen back home.”

You hum an agreement, your eyes still locked on the extra door. “It’s probably just a closet, right?”

Ben frowns down at you. “What the fuck are you talking about-“

“The door.” You nod in the direction of where your attention has been trapped. “It probably just opens to a closet.”

Ben moves in front of you, stone resolve wrapping around his body as he keeps his hand in yours. “Let’s find the fuck out.”

You reach around him, unlocking the door, and he opens it with a less-than-quiet kick, and you peak over his shoulder to see a study.

Dr. Vought’s study, seemingly entirely untouched by whatever cleaner Edgar had coming through. There’s a fancy wooden desk, and some military medals that you’re going to have to burn later, and a very large, chest resting against a wall with German words carved on its top.

You dunk under Ben’s arm, kneeling before the chest, and scan over the words before looking over to Ben with a sigh. “I don’t speak German-“

“I fucking don’t either-“

“But,” you look back to the writing. “I think it’s a safe guess that Projekt Chloe, 1956, means Project Chloe, 1956.”

Ben scowls. “Who the fuck is Chloe.”

“Vought’s daughter, I think. And,” your fingers tap on the chest as you let out an uncertain breath. “I can only think of one famous Dr. Vought project. That he might have perfected around 1956.”

You turn to him with an open, uncertain gaze, and see Ben’s fists curled at his side.

“Should I-“

“I’ll do it.” He drops at your side within a second, grabbing at chest with rough hands before pausing, and frowning at you. “Ready.” “Ready.“ You take a long breath. “Do it.”

Ben rips the top of its hinges, and a cloud of dust billows up into the air. Your eyes recover a little faster than Ben’s, and you swallow as you take in the contents of the chest.

V.

The chest is full of little green vials of V. And when you look around the room, scanning over the papers and books, they’re all journals.

Edgar said Vought came here to get extra eyes on his work. And you’d bet almost anything that, somewhere in this room, is the secret formula for compound V.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and Ben echoes your sentiment with a grumbled sound as he looks into the chest.

“Is that all fucking-“

“Yeah. We need-“

“You call them,” Ben places the top back on the chest, helping you rise back to your feet. “They won’t know my number.” 

You nod, and pulling out your phone as Ben guides you outside, helping you lower onto the large steps of the back patio and sitting tall at your side as you tap through your phone to MM’s contact, figuring out how to dial internationally.

He picks up on the second ring, and you hear a slight banging sound before says your name. “You landed?”

“And got to the villa.” You flinch slightly as there’s another crash. “Are you guys okay?”

“Got to Maine a few hours ago,” MM lets out a long, groaning sigh. “Been cleaning up from the mess last year and trying to move shit around. Flight fine?”

“Nobody died.”

Ben coughs at your side, and MM huffs a dry laugh. “And the villa? No kind of trap or some other shit for us to worry about-“

“No, um.” You lean into Ben’s body, tugging his arm over your shoulders. “Actually, it’s good. We’ve got something.”

There’s a second of static as you take a deep breath and MM waits, and you look over to Ben—grounding yourself in his touch and smell and deep, boundless, pretty eyes—before continuing.

“V. There’s a whole stash of it. And, I think, maybe the formula? I haven’t checked yet.”

“The formula-“

“For V.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” MM sighs into the speaker. “You think you’ll be able to get us some pre-made V back? Because I can give Frenchie a shot at the formula-“

“No, there’s more than plenty. We’ll get it back soon.” You glance up at Ben, your words becoming slightly softer. “I know we’re in crisis mode right now, and we need to be getting ready to finish this, but Ben and I were wondering if we could have an extra day-“

“Take a week.”

You blink, Ben’s own rush of shock matching yours. “A week?”

MM grunts, and you can picture him nodding over the phone. “We’re all safe here. Homelander hasn’t been seen in public since your fight, Frenchie’s trapping the grounds for Sage, and you-“ MM pauses, his voice weary when he speaks again. “You shouldn’t be home right now.”

Something in Ben becomes alert and bloody, and your whole body feels wound tight. “Why?”

“Shit’s in chaos.” MM mutters. “They haven’t found Mallory’s body, but they know she’s dead.”

“How-“

“Sage. Homelander must have fucking told her, and she came out with a statement accusing Muller of political violence against Mallory. He’s facing a whole lot of backlash, even if they don’t have proof anyone’s dead yet. He might be out of the VP race.”

“But.” You frown into the air, your fingers tapping on Ben’s knee. “That doesn’t make any sense. Muller was the leak, Sage should’ve been trying to get him in as a puppet, throwing him under the bus loses her a political ally and an opportunity to scapegoat us-“

“Well it’s what’s happening.” MM’s voice becomes concerned. “And you’re going to need to be careful, even in Rome. Vought’s looking like it’s going to turn on you.”

“What.” Ben’s words are pushed through his teeth, and you don’t even think he knows how close he’s pulled you. “The fuck you mean, turn on her.”

MM’s tone becomes short over the speaker “I mean Hughie noticed they deleted all the Anomaly and Homelander propaganda on their social media. And the merch is having a buy one, get four free sale. They’re wiping you off the slate.”

“Fuck. I-“ Your vision isn’t blurring, but you have to measure every breath and word, because this matters. “I need to come back. Into the public eye. Sage is going to try to manipulate the narrative, and we can’t let her, I need to make a statement, and-“

Ben squeezes your arm, muttering breathe in your head, before grunting to MM, “think we got a week before everything gets fully fucked?”

“Everything’s already fully fucked.” MM mutters, and you think it’s meant to be under his breath. “But one week might look better. Let Sage spew her bullshit, and know what you need to say. We’re fine here, we can start working on how to get the V actually into Homelander.” MM snaps your name, and you make a small sound so he knows you’re listening. “We can hold down the fort. Take a week with your ancient dick of a boyfriend then come back with the V, and we’ll be ready for you.”

There’s a lump in your throat that’s made of something gentle but aching, and your voice is shaking. “Thank you, MM.”

“No problem. Tell me when you get the flights back, don’t be idiots, and, is the asshole still there-“

“Yeah,” you look up at Ben’s scowl, a smile pulling at your lips just from the sight of him.

“Good. You, motherfucker.” There’s a pause in the static, and MM’s words are clipped. “Earn it.”

You don’t know what that means, but Ben seems to, because his jaw clenches and his grunt is firm. There’s no anger in his body, though. Only resolve, and that permanent care that always takes root near your heart and wraps you in a stone feeling of safe.

When the line clicks, the world is nothing but you, Ben, and the wind.

And you have a week. You get a whole week in Rome, just you and Ben for more than a moment or night or long, taxing day.

You look over at him with a tentative smile. “Now what?”

“Now we fucking relax.” Ben hauls you onto his lap, turning you so you’re straddling his lap. “Have a goddamn vacation, Sunshine. No work, no death, no fucking dumbass pussies trying to tell us what to do.” He kneads on your thighs, his face growing into a wide grin. “A whole week where we’re eating and fucking.”

“That’s just a normal week for us, Benjamin-“

“No.” Ben’s face falls into a practical pout as he grumbles. “Someone’s always trying to stop us, or give us orders, or fucking kill us. This week, we’re only eating and fucking.”

You press your face into his neck, giving a soft hum of content. “I could live with that. But now what. Specifically right now, what do we do?”

“What do you want to do.”

“Maybe just,” you lean back to look up at the house, chewing on your tongue. “Make this place feel more us, and less former Nazi in the 20th century?”

The glow might be everything inside of Ben. It’s all you can feel—the truly devout and immovable wrath of his love for you, the way that every single piece of him seems to be alive in a way that’s easy—and when you look at his face, he looks like someone struck him with lightning.

“Ben-“

“What does us look like.” His voice is a little hoarse, and the itching, sore embarrassment on his skin feels like it’s trying to twist into something else. So you take his face in your hands, smile at him with everything you can offer, and scoot further up his lap until his body might as well be yours too.

“Whatever we want it to be.” You whisper, bumping your nose with his. “As long as there’s nothing blue.”

Ben gives you a rough nod, low chuckle, and stands in one fluid movement, carrying you in his arms back inside the house. “Whatever you want, beautiful, we’ll make it happen.” He kisses your brow as he walks, and the embarrassment turns into something sacred and made of ardor, feeding something that’s starving in Ben’s body, but doesn’t seem to be painful at all.

You start with the master bedroom. Namely, you start by absolutely destroying the master bedroom. Ben drags a bookshelf in front of the study door—just so you don’t have to think about it every moment you spend in the room—and you start two piles for most everything else. Memorabilia and war medals and books that you’ll pass onto historians, or something, go into the first pile, and regular household items that are flat out hideous and you simply don’t want are carefully burned and dropped in the second pile as ash.

As Ben starts to carry the horrible, cream colored and floral pattern couch out to the burn pile, you frown at the bed. It’s a nice bed, and when you push down on the mattress with a flat had it’s not really that different from your mattress back at the compound, but it’s still Fredrick Vought’s mattress.

Ben walks up behind you, wrapping his arm around your stomach and leaning down to mutter in your ear. “What’s wrong.”

“Bed.” You push down on it again, shaking your head sightly. “It’s not a bad bed, but it feels weird to maybe sleep on the same mattress Vought and Stormfront-“ Your lip curls in disgust at that realization, and you sigh. “Fuck.”

“Do you want a new bed.”

“I mean, yeah, but-“

“Then we’ll get one.” Ben grunts, pressing a kiss to that one spot on your neck and grumbling against your skin. “We can sleep on the floor.”

You hum an agreement, a smile creeping back over your features. “Won’t that be bad for your back, old man-“

Ben spins you around, more devouring you than kissing you, and walks you backwards until your knees hit the bed frame and you let out a high whine.

Fucking brat- he groans down your throat as you move a hand down to palm his bulge though his sweatpants, and pulls back to look at you with a wonder you can feel feeding the glow in his body. “Christ, Sunshine, you’re a fucking marvel.”

You nod frantically, not really listening to his actual words because his voice is deep and rough and he’s huge under your hand and his touch is so soft on your body for how he’s started to suck and bite on your throat and neck-

Can’t fuck you now. He picks you up, never removing his mouth from your skin. But when we get the bed, we’re taking a goddamn day in it. Got it?

You whimper as his knee moves between your legs, and your voice is airy in the silence. Got it. Fuck, Ben, please-

You get us a proper bed, he mutters your name between your heads, letting you grind down against him. And nothing will stop me from fucking you good and stupid, darling. But I am not fucking you on the damn floor-

Ben grunts against you as you tug on his hair, trying to get his face up to yours. “Ben, we can go get a bed now-“

He chuckles, and the sound of his voice makes you keen on his leg. “That fucking desperate for my cock, Sunshine? Need me so bad you’re going to find a bed from fuck knows were-“

“Mattress store,” you press your face against the side of his head, trying to ignore how Ben’s hand on your ass has started to drift closer to where you can feel yourself dripping for him. “We’ll find one at a mattress store-“

Ben draws back without warning, grinning down at your likely wrecked expression. “Let’s find a fucking mattress store then.”

He sets you carefully against a wall to search on your phone, and you manage to find a mall with an Ikea. Ben has cleared the room of all the larger furniture items—the room now just a bed frame and empty bookshelves—but this specific trip needs to be about getting a mattress and some groceries. Navigating an Italian Ikea once with an aggressive, grumpy Ben is going to prove to be an effort, so you’ll live without a couch for a while.

The taxi ride to the mall is mostly silent—this driver less interested in small talk, and Ben’s hostile, protective expression and hold on you isn’t exactly screaming talk to me about the weather—and the mall itself isn’t that much different. You pull Ben behind you, find a mattress, and buy it with Ben’s seemingly infinite supply of Euros.

“What do we do when we run out of money?” You mumble to him at the cashier, and he shrugs, writing down the address you’d given him for the mattress’ delivery.

We won’t.

Ben-

There was cash in the library. And study. Far as I’m concerned, it’s our fucking money now.

You gape at him slightly, shoving his chest. You didn’t think to tell me that, dumbass- 

You were about to spiral, I wasn’t going to add any extra shit for you to deal with. And I’m telling you now, aren’t I?

Yeah, but… You can’t think of a proper argument, and Ben smirks down at you.

Going to admit I didn’t fuck up? Maybe fucking thank me? 

You stuck your tongue out at him. You’re such a fucking dick. 

I know. He kisses the top of your head, guiding you out of the store. You love it.

Shut up. How much money is there?

Ben just grins at you, and you quickly learn that the answer is a lot. There’s a lot of money. When you get back from the mall—Ben carrying the groceries and looking very grumpy about it, despite you explicitly offering to help and him refusing—you go up to the library and count the cash.

Holy fuck.

You feel Ben stir in your chest from downstairs. What. Are you- 

I’m fine. You stare at the last stack of Euros in your hand, swallowing. I’m good. We’re good. Ben, this is really fucking good. 

What.

We’re rich. Vought was a paranoid, anti-bank asshole, and now we’re rich.

There’s a moment of silence as your instinct of Ben grows stronger and stronger, and then he’s bursting into the library, dropping on his knees at your side. “What the fuck do you mean we’re rich.”

“I mean Vought was rich.” You pass the cash into his hands with a grin. “And everything in this house is ours now, and I’m not above taking his blood money. He’s not using it, and he would’ve hated me, so this feels more like vengeance than anything else.”

Ben frowns. “How-“

“We’re going to use this money make his house ours.” You crawl forward until you’re on Ben’s lap, your hands moving up to hold his jaw. “We’re going to get rid of all this old, ugly furniture, and make this somewhere for us to live after we destroy his company. We’ll donate some of it to causes he’d have hated, and the rest will be for us to live happily after he’s just a fucking stain on history.”

Ben surges forward, kissing you down to the ground, grinning against your mouth. I think I can fucking live with that.

Good. You nip at his lower lip, scratching over his back. Because that’s the plan.

Because he’s an asshole, Ben doesn’t fuck you on the floor of the library. Or in the kitchen as you finally finish putting away groceries, or on one of the itchy, garish couches as you try to make a list of what you’ll need to get before you can fully lean into relaxing.

“We need clothing,” you mumble, titling your head at your writing. “It should probably be prioritized under toilet paper, but over extra sheets-“

“There were a fuck ton of shops at that mall,” Ben says into your ear, his arms wrapped around your waist as he holds you against his chest. “We can go tomorrow.”

Somehow—before the list is even properly done—you end up with Ben’s boner pressed into your ass and your head thrown back as he kisses across your neck and shoulders. But he still doesn’t fuck you, only growling and groaning as he turns you to a mess in his arms, teasing you with low words and praise, and been an annoying fucking gentleman who’s suddenly too good to have sex anywhere but a bed.

You’re only a few more muttered good girls and so fucking perfects from losing your mind and killing this insufferable man you’ve chose to love when your phone buzzes with an alert that the mattress is here.

You probably could’ve gotten more things done today. But Ben gets the mattress to the bedroom and suddenly shopping and decorating and taking stock seems really fucking dumb, because he’s looking at you with a hungry, feral gaze, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, and throwing you onto the mattress with promising growl of going to fuck you dumb, Sunshine.

And this is your vacation. So if your handsome, sex god of a boyfriend wants to fuck you until you’re screaming and ruined and numb with pleasure, who are you to stop him?

It’s almost three days of just that. Just this strange, perfect life you’ve somehow stumbled into, where you have someone who you love more than the universe, and who loves you like you are the universe. A life you’d only dreamed of before, and hadn’t dared to really, fully hope for after.

But it is your life. It’s you and Ben, doing whatever you want. Cooking together in a fancy, old kitchen before you’re somehow pinned to the counter and moaning as Ben eats you out, his beard tickling your inner thighs and his hands leaving bruises that fade in seconds on your hips. Trying to get more renovations done, but ending up slammed into the wall as you grind onto strong, broad fingers, or on your knees, choking on Ben’s cock as he fucks your mouth at a slow pace that tortures you both.

You only leave the house once in those first few days, because you need clothing that isn’t Boston themed and covered in cum. Ben lets you take the lead as you walk through the mall, only giving grumbled opinions about what he wants—mostly jeans, sweatpants, and solid color shirts—and hovering over you as you pick out things for yourself.

“If you buy that,” he nods to the dark green lingerie you’re turning between your fingers, his voice almost a growl. “You’ll need to goddamn save it, because I will rip it off your perfect fucking body.”

You giggle, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Promise?”

He groans, squeezing his hand on your waist, and you’re not strong enough to not buy the lingerie. By the end of the shopping trip you have a truly disgusting number of bags that Ben insists on carrying himself, and you justify it with the fact that you were technically out all your clothing, and you deserve a few nice things in your life. You might not need underwear and dresses that you can only describe as slutty, or makeup that you’d managed to finagle Ben into letting you buy with the clothing—by finagle, you mean asking him very sweetly with a pout, and him dragging you into the store—but the sheer love and hunger you feel in Ben’s body when you dress up for your first real venture outside the house justifies your shopping spree tenfold.

“Let’s stay here.” He pulls you forward, lowering his head so your eyes are level and his breath fans over your mouth. “The beach will still fucking be there tomorrow, and I have a lot of damn ideas for what to do with this.”

His hand brushes up your thigh, under your swimsuit, and presses his palm over your already aching pussy. You make a high, needy sound, and use all the will in your body to grab his wrist and shake your head.

“This,” you roll your hips against him, and his eyes flare with the coil in his gut. “Will also still be here tomorrow. And you can do whatever you want with it, after we do something fun and stupid and touristy.”

Ben scowls, but moves his hand up to tangle in your hair and gives you a soft kiss. “Fine. But when we get home-“

“All yours.” You smile onto his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Always yours.”

He nods, letting you pull on a dress and lead him out the door, and you end up regretting your words almost the exact moment you arrive at the beach.

Ben shouldn’t be allowed to be shirtless, let alone in broad daylight. Where the sun can make his skin look golden, and his eyes somehow greener, and his whole, stupid, handsome face illuminated with life. His skin is warmer, and you can see every ripple of his muscle as he moves, and he’s everything, and suddenly you’re possessive.

You’ve never been possessive before. It’s always felt pointless, because if you’re with someone and they need to be kept in line, you don’t want to be with them. And Ben would never stray or be disloyal—he’s not even looking anywhere but at you—but that’s not what this feeling is about. He’s the most attractive man alive, and he’s yours, and he’s keeping himself against you all the time, and if you catch one more person staring at him, you’re going to burn their eyes out. Ben won’t entertain them, he probably hasn’t even noticed them, but he’s still yours. You can ogle and objectify him all you want, but that’s because you love him, and know he’s a lot more than just a walking work of art.

These cunts only think he’s a slab of meat to stare at. They don’t understand that he’s the most caring, loyal, honorable, adorably grumpy and impossible gentleman in history. That he’d die and kill and suffer for you, and you’d do all the same for him.

And when your glowering pout deepen as a pretty, model-like girl walks past you for the fifth time—her strut growing more and more provocative with every pass—Ben chuckles, his amusement flashing in your ribs.

“Someone’s getting real fucking territorial.” His words are low and taunting, spoken into your ear and sending a shiver up your spine. “Over something that’s already hers.”

“Fuck you-“

“I could.” He kisses behind your ear, open hand to shameless grope at your tits. “I could fuck your right here, prove to everyone that my dick belongs you to.”

You flush, half-heartedly swatting his hand away. “Shut up. We’re trying to lay low, Pretty Boy. That means no sex in public-“

Ben moves so fast you barely have time to process it, standing you both up and gathering your items in an earnest haste.

“What are you-“

“No sex in public.” He repeats your words, looking up at you with a heavy, wanting gaze that takes apart your whole body for him to have. “So let’s go the fuck home.”

That’s another reason it was sensible to get so much clothing. Because at the rate Ben is tearing everything you wear off your body—you hardly make it back through the property gate before your sundress is tossed into the gardens, and you’re only just through the door when your swimsuit is just cloth in Ben’s hand—you’ll be back to owning nothing before the week is even over. You’re saving some money by sleeping naked—every evening ends with him buried inside you, groaning your name and pounding into your cunt until you feel his orgasm, cresting in time with your own—but you still have to change the sheets again when his cum leaks down your thighs.

On fourth day, you put your foot down. You’re going to go see some old buildings, Ben’s not going to try to fuck you in an alleyway or bathroom, and you’re not going to glare at everyone who looks at him.

“People fucking look at you as well,” he tells you as you get dressed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “And you don’t see me ripping off heads.”

“I haven’t ripped off heads-“

Ben says your name in a dry tone, his brows raised. “I can see your fucking face. You want to kill every lady that even glances at me.”

There’s an odd sense of bright, satisfied pride in his body at his words, and you scoff.

“I remember the guy at the gas station, Benjamin. You literally asked me if you could kill him.”

“And you should’ve fucking let me-“

“Maybe.” You give him a teasing, sweet smile, moving to stand between his legs. “But my point is that you’re no better than I am.”

“Never said I was. But,” he takes your hand, kissing your knuckles with a wink. “It’s a lot fucking hotter when you do it.”

It’s a miracle you make it out the door, because Ben pulls you down to the mattress—laying flat on his back and watching you with a pious awe as you whine above him, letting him drill up into you until you’re lightheaded and dizzy—and you have to find the willpower to move when his cum is still sticky on your skin and everything around you smells like salt and pine and Ben.

But from there, you make it almost the whole day. There are moments—in the taxi, and on the streets of downtown Rome, and staring at ancient stone ruins—where you’re in danger of damning any social consequences and just taking what you’re aways thirsty for. But you push it down, coasting on the knowledge that Ben is yours forever and later, when you drop to your knees for him in the doorway of your house, there’s no world where he doesn’t press his cock between your lips and let you worship him until he cums in your mouth.

It’s still difficult to get through, though. Because when you’re ranting about historical facts—several groups of tourists very obviously eavesdropping on your various lectures about Roman cultic practices and social conventions—and look over at Ben to see him staring at you like you’re holy. His love is roaring between your bodies, his attention is unraveling you without touch, and his dick very obviously straining in his pants as you ramble.

You get through it, promising you both soon. You also get through him buying you a large chocolate cake, and the way he groans when you lick your fingers clean. You get through his boyish, proud, happy expression when you fully explain gladiators and why he’d be amazing as one, and his body pressed right against yours as you wander through the Roman Forum.

What gets you is something impossibly stupid. Ben pulls you off to the side of the street, his eyes scanning over the crowds as he speaks into your head.

You want to learn something?

You blink at him with a small frown. Like what?

Pickpocketing.

Benjamin-

He glances down at you with a taunting grin. It’s a useful fucking skill, Sunshine. Don’t tell me you’re too good for it-

You know I’m not, you dick. You swat at his arm. But we don’t need the money, and I don’t want to steal from random people-

We won’t pick a random target.

What-

We’ll pick a someone who’s richer than we are now, and who’s a fucking asscuck pussy.

How will we-

Him. Ben jerks his head in the direction of a greasy looking, suit-wearing man. He’s here with his family, and on the phone with his mistress.

You narrow your eyes at the man, glancing back to Ben. Are you sure-

Fucking positive. He turns back to you with raised brows. Ready?

You sigh, but nod, and Ben talks you through it. It takes longer than it maybe should have—his lips are very distracting when they move and the determination in his voice is making your ache for it to be turned on you—but you get it eventually, and walk out into the crowd with your head high and expression neutral, bumping into the man with a fake-nervous apology, and returning to Ben’s side with his wallet.

“I did it.” You throw him your prize, and he grins at you with teeth and a smug pride you feel everywhere.

Ben pulls you under his arms, kissing the side of your head. “Fucking told you that you could. Not that damn hard, is it-“

“For you.” You give him a fake glare, even as your blood leaks with love into his. “Because you’re a delinquent, Benjamin. And it’s very hot, but if you ever teach our kids about this, I’ll kick your ass.”

He freezes, and you think you might have broken him. The words had fallen out of your mouth before you could think them through, and now Ben is gaping at you. Everything in him is rioting, and you can’t pick out a single emotion to focus on, so you speak softly, a little afraid to spook him.

“Ben-“

He picks you up—stolen wallet entirely forgotten—and kissing is too light a word for what he’s doing. Ben’s eating you, his mouth demanding against yours, the groans leaving his body animalistic, and his hands are everywhere on your body but where you’re beginning to ache for them as all the confusion and clashing inside him fuses into love. Raw, powerful, indestructible love that sweeps through you like a storm.

Home. He grunts in your head, voice gravelly and the lowest you’ve ever heard. Need to get you home.

And that does it. You’ve seen enough old buildings today, and Ben’s more important than anything else, so you nod and whimper and let him take you home.

The rest of the day is spent on the floor, or in bed, or in the shower. You could probably spend the rest of the week like that as well, but you only have three days left, and there are things you really want to do before this bubble is popped. You talk Ben into testing his powers just a little, enough to know what to expect when you get back to America and in an environment where nothing is that urgent. 

“We can go shopping after,” you promise him, kissing along his jaw and chest in bed. “And do more decorating, and have more sex. I’ll even let you fuck me in the Vatican tomorrow. But I really want to get this over with-“

“Fine.” He grumbles, sitting up carefully, holding your gaze. “You get three hours.”

“Six.”

Ben’s eyes narrow, even as amusement flashes over his ribs. “Three.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Deal.” Your smile is bright and pleased, because four is more than enough to get this done.

You use the time well, and work out that he’d been right. Ben’s new powers seemed to be very simply the nuke, now fully fused and natural in his body. He can make force fields—like the one that had protected you and Ryan—and create blasts that completely destroy a tree in the backyard, but—at least for now—they’re not as powerful as the full force of the drums.

“I think,” you examine the rubble of the tree, chewing on your lips. “It’s stronger when it’s directly from you. The further the energy is away from your body, the weaker it is. The special sauce explodes right out of you, but this,” you gesture back to the splintered logs. “And the shields emit from you. Like you’re throwing it out into the air and then focusing it, instead of focusing it then throwing it out. Does that make sense?”

“No.” Ben grunts, crossing over to your side in long steps. “But I believe you.”

“Oh-“

“I don’t understand any of this shit, Sunshine.” He slings his arm around your shoulders, watching you with a careful intensity. “You do. You say it’s right, it’s right. Now let’s go shopping.”

You sigh and nod, because Ben has been shockingly eager to go shopping, and you’ve gotten what you need. This trip is mostly about decorations—furniture and rugs and painting and more sheets and pillows—which means that Ben’s contributions are as useless as ever, but about halfway through he asks if you want food, you tell him yes, and he proceeds to vanish for almost an hour. He’s still in the mall, you can sense him near the cafe you’d passed earlier, but when he comes back he’s only carrying two coffees and the pastry you’d asked for.

“Long wait,” he mutters, handing you the pasty and your coffee with a stiff arm. “Eat.”

It’s odd, but he’s not tense or angry. Ben’s stumbling slightly in your chest, wrapped in a new feeling that’s electric and almost addictive—so strangely hungry and wanting, bursting along his stomach and heart and ribs and trying to climb out his body—but he’s not saying anything, so you don’t either. You trust him, and despite that fact that you’re irreversibly in love with and tied to him, you know that you still don’t fully understand this strong, wrathful, powerful man in front of you.

It doesn’t fade, though. The rest of this day passes with laughter and ease and a happiness settled in your bones that would feel naïve if it wasn’t so genuine, but that new feeling in Ben only becomes stronger. With every smile and shove of his shoulder, every teasing word and pout and squeeze of his hand in yours, the sensation grows more and more feral and loud. It’s there when you wake up the next morning as well—Ben’s body flopped over yours, his morning wood quickly finding its way inside of you and your mouth falling open with gasps of his name as he rolls your clit between rough, expert fingers—and by the end of the day you might pass out from it.

You should ask him, but you don’t even know what you’d say. Ben doesn’t lie to you, or keep secrets—this doesn’t feel like either of those things, though, it feels somehow more important—and he doesn’t care that you can always feel him, but this seems like something you shouldn’t feel. This feels like something building and banging inside of Ben, that’s doomed to explode from him but he’s trying to savor and time correctly. And more intense it becomes, the more it feels like yours. It’s almost undeniably for you—it hums inside of you like Ben’s love, and softens the closer you are to his body—but he’s still containing it within himself. You’re pulling him through Vatican City, explaining the Sistine Chapel and why these maps are important and this tomb is so interesting, and Ben is looking at you like you’re a star that’s landed in his hands and made a home in his head, but the feeling just silently growing.

You’ll give it one more day. You’ll use this time—in the sun and green world of the Borghese Gardens—to let Ben try to deal with whatever that feeling is himself, and then you’ll pull his head down to your eye level and demand he tell you what the fuck is going on. You’ll run around the zoo with his grumpy, handsome ass, pretending that he’s not having fun when you can feel his joy, living in time with and just under that strange feeling. That when you point out the lions, his eyes don’t flash with interest and awe.

He stops you as you wander the gift shop, not looking for anything in particular, and points to a stuffed white tiger with a glower.

“Get that.”

You stare at him for a second before you speak, hearing the slight uncertainty in your own voice. “What?”

“For Ryan.” He pauses, the lines of his brow deepening. “And one for you.”

“Oh.” You hum, titling your head as you tap on Ben’s arm. “What about you?”

“What about me-“

“Will you get one?” You give him a fake pout and the sweetest eyes you can manage. “Please?”

“I don’t fucking need one-“

“Nobody needs one, Benjamin, they’re fun. Look.” You tug him over to the shelf, grabbing two stuffed lions and hold them up dramatically. “For you and Ryan. And,” you pass the lions into Ben’s arms—he takes them without thinking, then proceeds to glare down at them—and pick up one of the white tigers. “For me.”

“Why aren’t you a lion.”

“Because I’m not related to you and Ryan. I’d thank God for that, but,“ you smile at him, passing the white tiger into his arms. “It does mean I chose to be here. I’m not a lion, but I’m still part of this for some reason.”

“You’re here because you love us.”

“I am here because I love you.”

Ben’s glare at the white tiger softens slightly, and the strange feeling might be about to break and seal his whole body in the same second. “Good.”

You have to keep letting it go, even as the day crawls on and that feeling in Ben starts to bellow and thrash. You have to get ice cream and smile at him the same, bright way you always do and swallow the question of what’s happening, Ben. I love you and I trust you and this doesn’t feel poisonous, but it still feels critical. Finish your ice cream, you old cunt, and tell me what’s wrong.

He says your name with a clear his throat late that night, and you turn over in arms to watch his set, stoic expression as he speaks. “Tomorrow,” he mutters. “I’m in charge.”

“You’re-“

“In charge.” Ben’s eyes keep boring into you like it’s dangerous to look at you, but he can’t stand to look away. “I’ve got shit for us to do.”

“What-“

“Trust me.” He pulls you impossibly closer, kissing the space between your eyes before dropping down your nose, finally hovering his lips right over yours as he speaks. “Please.”

“Okay.” You whisper, because you can count on one hand the amount of times Ben has said please. “I trust you.”

He nods slowly, and kisses you long and soft and slow until you’re melting and falling against him, and nothing—even as that feeling’s brief moment of rest and peace ends—has ever been as good as this.

Ben doesn’t wake you up—he never does, and you think his bladder is made of steel—but the moment your eyes flutter open, he’s sucking and nipping at your throat, every part of him alight with ardor and devotion and love, and rushing with something you don’t have a name for.

It takes you two hours to get out of bed. Ben ends up being the one who draws away—although it does come with a low groan, and long kiss that he has to pry himself away from—before helping you up, tossing you his shirt to wear, and carrying you to the kitchen for breakfast.

Three, very large pancakes and a blowjob later, he’s placing you down on the bed and towering over you in a way that can’tbe productive for anyone involved.

“We’re going out. Don’t dress fancy yet, but do whatever you want with the makeup shit.”

Ben’s words sound almost rehearsed for how simple they are, and you frown up at him, trying to ignore the slight bob of his throat. “Where are we going?”

His jaw clenches, and he mutters through his teeth, “butterfly garden.”

“Oh-“

“If you hate it-“

“I won’t hate it.” Your voice is hushed, and you reach up to grab Ben’s face between your hands. He’ll too high up, but hunches down to meet you, and it makes you melt even more. “I’ll love it,” you whisper, running his beard between your fingers. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he kisses you quickly, fucking tenderly, before drawing back up and taking a rough pace back. “Change.”

You follow his orders, his eyes tracking your every movement, and when you move to the mirror moves to stand directly behind you, a hand gliding over your stomach.

“Hi, my love.” You smile at him through the reflection, and his lips twitch and he rests his head over yours.

“Hi, Sunshine. Done?”

You hum an agreement, and Ben leaves one last sloppy kiss on your skin, before picking you up and carrying you outside.

Despite the fact that a butterfly garden was entirely Ben’s idea, he looks remarkably angry to be here. Everything around you is soft and colorful—greens and pinks and yellows and reds, flowers and mist and gentle rushing water—but Ben is vigilantly silent at your side. Eyeing every other patron, which consists of primarily children, as if they might try and throw little metal water bottles or tell him something mean.

They won’t, but when they do pay you attention, they mostly just look a little awestruck. A handful of little kids are staring at Ben with wide eyes, he’s glaring right back, and you have to bury your face in his side to prevent yourself from giggling.

Why the fuck are they looking at me. Do they know I’m Soldier Boy-

They’re a bunch of Italian children, Ben. They don’t know you’re Soldier Boy.

So why the goddamn hell.

You’re staring at them. You prop your chin on his shoulder, grinning at his scowl. You’re a big, scary, grumpy man, and you’re looking at them like they’re going to try and steal your lunch money.

His arm tightens around your waist as he rolls his eyes. Shut the fuck up, I am not grumpy.

You look grumpy. Are you, you pause, letting a little bit of your worry cross your face. Are you okay?

That odd feeling flares inside of him, and you get a short nod and kiss on the tip of your nose. “I’m good.” He mutters, raising his head to look around the garden. “Got you.”

He means it. Ben very obviously means it, because from there he lets you lead him around the garden, almost clinging to your body and only glaring and half-pouting when a black and green butterfly lands on his head.

You don’t bother to pretend it’s not the most amazing, hilarious thing you’ve ever seen. Ben’s jaw clenched and brow furrowed, his back a tall, rigid line, but still not moving or shaking it off.

Three more land on him, and he stares at you with slightly wide eyes. Get them the fuck off of me-

You get them off of you, Benjamin.

He doesn’t, the lines of his face only deepening as another two land. Why are they even goddamn on me. I’m not a fucking tree-

I think they like you. You take a step out of his grip to survey the scene before you with a smile. I get it.

You take a picture, and Ben has a glint in his eyes that would promise violence for anyone else, but you know that—directed at you—it just means he’s going to fuck you with teasing words and an unforgiving pace once you’re alone.

It’s amazing how predictable he is. Because when you’re done at the garden—your photo roll now filled to brim with pictures of your handsome, stoic boyfriend covered in butterflies—you wander the streets into the evening, until Ben insists you go home to get ready. When the door closes behind you, you don’t even get a chance to ask what are we getting ready for before he’s slamming you against the wall and fucking you in a way that might be dangerous to the foundation of the house.

When you’re done, he insists you shower, and tells you to dress fancy.

You do—wearing the type of dress you haven’t worn just for fun in four years—and when Ben takes you in with a slow, sweeping look, you’re in genuine danger of never leaving the house.

His eyes are heavy and dark, and you can feel the hunger growing savage in his body, but Ben only reaches a hand out for you to take with a cocky grin, and kisses the top of your head when you reach his side.

“You look beautiful,” he mutters your name against your hair, and you let out an airy breath at the everything of him. The smell of pine and coffee and strawberry and vanilla, the warmth of his body against yours, and how he should not be allowed to wear formal wear, because it’s a threat to your cognitive function. Ben is inhumanly attractive on a bad day, and with his hair mussed just right, his beard trimmed carefully, and his muscles straining at his button up shirt and jacket, he’s reducing your whole brain to that songs of Ben. Ben Ben Ben, handsome and big and strong and for you, he’s for you, you’re for him and Ben is all for you-

“You,” you swallow, supporting yourself against his chest with a fist curled into his shirt. “You’re also beautiful.”

He chuckles, and guides you out the door. “You need to keep it together, darling, or this is going to be a long fucking night.”

You manage to get a grip—using the time in the cab to remind yourself that Ben’s always hot, and he’ll still look like that when you get home and fucking him is an option that’s on the table—but the night is long anyways. Ben’s taking you to dinner, a fancy dinner with food that’s too expensive and wine that gets neither of you even slightly buzzed, but is still fun to drink. His knee stays pressed to yours as you tease him, and he glares at you and calls you a brat, and you talk about the future like it’s simple. Like it’s not a risky, uncertain if, but a promise of after.

“I knew it,” he tells you, his grin wide and smug. “I fucking knew it-“

“Fuck you, Benjamin.” You nudge his shin with your foot with a wrinkle of your nose. “I never tried to hide that I like when you cum inside me-”

“You’re all on my ass about my,” he coughs, and a slight soreness crawl over his skin. “Breeding kink. But you fucking love it-“

“I love you-“ 

“And you love when I fuck you, when I fill you up and tell everyone that you’re mine-“

“I am yours.” You shrug, leaning back in your chair. “And, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you’re really good at sex, Pretty Boy-“

His whole face lights up, and it would look innocent if his voice wasn’t so deep and rough. “I am, but you still fucking love me pumping you full of my cum, kissing you until you’re stupid and screaming my name, telling you you’re beautiful and good, and that I fucking love you-“

Your thighs are squeezed together, your face flushed from his words, but you push through it to weakly jab back, “shut up, Ben-“

“No, you want me, you fucking love me when I fuck you dumb and pretty with my cock-“

“I do.” You mumble, focusing your attention on a glint of wine caught in his beard. “But I mostly just love you. I like you. You’re my best friend, and I’ve always wanted you more than anything else.”

He’s suddenly silent across the table, that odd feeling growing ravenous. “What do you want after.”

You hum, with a soft frown. “What?”

“You made me tell you what I wanted, in DC. What do you want.”

“I,” you chew on your low lip, and realize you don’t have to think these words out. “I want to move. Not here, not until Ryan is done with school at least, but just, away from New York. We could come here on summers, but I think I want a home still in America. We could get on in Philly, or Boston, or somewhere else, but I’d like to stay in a city. And I want to help with the post-Vought and Homelander clean up, but I don’t want to fight again. I can testify and help with plans, but I don’t want blood. I just want you, and Ryan, and our friends and maybe more, eventually.”

There’s a moment of silence, and the feeling snaps in Ben’s body. When you risk meeting his eyes, they’re blown out and adoring, and his voice when he speaks is hoarse.

“We’re going home.”

You nod, a little smaller and more timid than you’d like, but Ben’s everything and you feel like he’s about to consume you in the best way possible. “Okay.”

The ride home is silent, Ben’s hand resting on your thigh and the feeling rushing in and around and between every part of his body, and you have to ask him. Before he throws you on your mattress, you need to knowwhatthis feeling is.

But he doesn’t bring you to the bedroom. Ben carries you to the backyard, pulling off his shoes and waiting for you to follow suit before moving to the pool and sitting down with his feet in the water. You lower yourself at his side, leaning your head on his shoulder, and for a second you almost forget your concern. Ben’s arm wraps around your shoulders, and you can feel every rise and fall of his chest, and you could stay like this for the rest of time.

But you have to go home tomorrow. This is your last night like this, and you’re not afraid—not cold or hollow or broken—but you’re scared. You have something so good now, and if you lose it, you know you won’t recover. You won’t lose Ben, he won’t let you lose him, but he can still be taken away from you. And you’d burn the whole world to get him back, but you’d rather just be like this. Peaceful.

Happy.

He clears his throat, and when you look up at him, he’s already staring at you. “Do you want to dance.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and you know he can feel it too. How this feels so vital in a way you don’t understand yet, that you do something simple and romantic like this. “I can sing-“

“Just,” he sighs, helping you to your feet. “I’ve got it. Follow my lead.”

You nod slowly, and you’ll follow him to hell and back, so you let Ben hold you against him with a careful, steady arm around your waist, and guide your movements with another hand tangled in yours.

You might have been here for a million years, dancing in a slow, easy way, your head resting on Ben’s chest, every off-key hum rolling through your body and settling in your bones with a sense of permanence. He’s so bad at singing, but you don’t care, because you love him, and love is making your judgment a little hazy. He’s touching you like you’re holy, and his body over and around yours is everything, so even as that feeling builds and builds and passes some point of no return, it’s still just Ben. It’s still just another strange part of this man you love, who has done so much wrong, but still is everything right.

You smile at him up at him, and you know it’s your wide, toothy, lovestruck smile that makes you look a little stupid, but you don’t care. Ben is warm and solid against you and in you and everywhere around you, and he’s yours, so he deserves the dumbest, most pathetic sounds and expressions you have to offer. He deserves everything you have to offer, even if it’s just a beating heart in his hands and a cracked skull to press his brow against. If all you can give Ben is a happy sigh of his name and your hands cupping his face, then you’ll offer it a thousand times over.

He’s offered you more. Everything Ben gives you is so blatantly, obviously worship. It’s how you see people treat Queens in old, historically inaccurate movies. How he kisses you at every possible moment, in the only way that’s somehow correct. How he’s started to buy the pine shampoo himself, because he knows you like it, and always leaves his shirt casually out for you to wear, replacing it with a clean one if he deems it too dirty. How he’s leading you in a dance, his whole face relaxed and his whole body adapting so quickly to your every misstep and stumble. How his body feels like just as much yours as yours has become his, and nothing about that feels wrong.

How he tells you I love you every second like he’s worried you’ve somehow forgotten. How he’s like a barrier between you and everything wrong and cruel, just because he’s so good and caring in his tending to every part of you.

Ben tends to you so well.

It’s something nobody but Ben seems to do so easily, without any labor or resentment, like these offerings he leaves you aren’t to protect himself from your wrath, but to try and get you to just look at him.

And it’s almost worryingly natural to look at Ben. He’s bigger and stronger and more infinite than the dark, star splattered sky above you. You’d try to justify yourself out of saying he looks like an angel in the night—almost glowing in moonlight, shadows casting over his handsome features like they’d rehearsed it—but you’re past that.

For you, and just you, Ben is an angel. Not a soft, baby angel they show in churches and bible studies and cartoons, but a biblical angel. Bloody and consuming and loud and zealous, with eyes that burn through you and wrath that’s focused to serve their god.

You might be his god. And you’d say it’s not a fair trade, but Ben is your everything. You may love the world and every piece of beauty it has to offer, but you also have a favorite thing, and it’s Ben. Without a single doubt, Ben is your favorite. And you’ll never choose anything over him. You could be a god, and create a whole world, and you’d still chose Ben as the sun set and mean it every time.

He mutters your name, that feeling inside him on edge, and stops your slow, mostly swaying movements in the grass.

“Benjamin.” You whisper in return, and his grip against you tightens and he continues in a low voice.

“I love you.” He searches over your face, and every part of you is already open for him to take, but you loosen your features slightly. Just to try and ease that roar inside him. “You know I love you.”

“I do.”

“And we’re,” he lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Fuck-buddy-brain-connected.”

Your smile starts to strain at your cheeks. “We are.”

“And if you want just that, for the rest of time, I’m more than damn okay with it. But,” he’s standing tall and watching you cautiously, his words slower than you’ve ever heard them. “I want to get married. To you.”

The world might have ended. Everything could be flooding and trumpets could be sounding and the oxygen could be being pulled from your lungs, but you wouldn’t know the difference. Unless it was Ben doing it, you wouldn’t have a fucking clue.

He’s still talking. For some reason, the sentence didn’t stop when your heart did, and Ben’s still saying stuff.

“We could do it now. Or after. Or in fifty fucking years. But I want to marry you, Sunshine, I fucking love you and if they threw me back in the box in an hour it would’ve still been fucking worth it because I got to have you.” He reaches into his pants, pulls out a ring with an iridescent opal set into the band, and glares at it like it might ruin this for him. “This is for you. It’s got all the fucking colors, and I can find some asshole to fit it better, or change it. If you want it. If you want me-“

That’s enough of that. The very prospect that you might not always want Ben springs you into action, and you crash into him with a fervor in your blood and nervous system that you’ve never felt before Ben, and will never have to worry about not feeling after. He catches you, raising you up off the ground as he deepens the kiss, and it’s only when you’re both forced away to breathe that you realize you haven’t actually answered.

“Yes.” You press your brow to Ben’s and if your smile was dumb before, it’s flat out idiotic now. “I’d like to marry you, Benjamin. I love you, and I’d really like to marry you.”

The odd feeling is gone, and all that’s left is love. Powerful and eternal love that’s all yours and Ben’s, and you could spend a lifetime describing how it’s everything—brutal and soft and unstoppable and immovable and made of fire and light but so sharp and embedded in your very soul that nothing else feels quite as real—but you’d rather spend that lifetime with Ben. In his arms and at his side and never, ever afraid because you have him, and he won’t let you burn without burning at your side.

“Good.” He grunts, glancing back down to the ring. “Do you want it now.”

You nod, offering out your hand, and he slides it on your finger carefully, looking up at you with a grin when he’s done.

“Do you…” Your words stray off as you start to get a little high off his gentle touch and boundless eyes on yours. “Do you want to have sex?”

He laughs—a loud echoing laugh that starts in his chest and moves into your heart—and picks you up with a wide grin.

“That is a stupid fucking question,” he starts to walk you back inside, holding your gaze the whole way. “I always want to fuck you, Sunshine. I’d fuck you in a hurricane, or tornado, or in the middle the goddamn world ending. What I want to know,” he lowers his face to yours, eyes alight and warming every part of your body. “Is how you want me to fuck you.”

“I,” you take a shaky breath, trying to force yourself not to drool or whimper under his attention. “I trust you. Whatever you want.”

You can’t look at him right now. You can feel him growing so hungry and strong in your body that it’s going to knock you out, make you cum on the spot, burst into flames, or all three at once, and holding Ben’s gaze will only make that worse.

It’s bad enough to hear his voice, low and rumbling and gravely, say your name like it’s a prayer. “Whatever I want.”

You hum, because you don’t trust your voice not to just be a breathless plea of his name.

“Words-“

Whatever you want.

You can see Ben nod in your periphery as he kicks the door open. He lowers you onto your bed slowly and carefully before crawling over you and pushing you onto your back, and when you finally gather yourself enough to meet his eyes, he looks feral. He feels feral inside you—beating against your ribs and hungry in every place of you he’s allowed to touch, which is all of them—and he’s hard against your thigh, making it really, really hard to focus on anything but Ben. Caging you against his body, only watching you and not really doing anything but making you sit in Ben. Starving for you and looking at you like you’re holy, loving you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

Ben- 

Whatever I want. He’s repeating it one last time, giving you one last chance to take it back. But the growl of his voice in your head tells you that he knows exactly what he wants, and if this is another thing you can give him, then he’ll get it. It won’t be gentle.

Okay. You drag one hand down his chest, palming at his bulge until he groans, his head dropping to the crook of your neck. I can take it-

He grabs your hand against him, his grip rough and bruising as he moves your hand on your head, and picks his head up to scan over your slack, desperate expression. No touching me. He starts to trace small circles on your wrist with his thumb, and it’s sending small electric shocks through your body. I touch you. And be loud. Be real fucking loud. Got it?

You nod, and it’s a little pathetic. Yes. Got it. What are you-

Ben rips off your stupid fancy dress in one movement, and leaves wet, sloppy, open mouth kisses over your lip, down your throat, over your collarbone and tits and stomach and down, down, down until his tongue flattens on your clit, and a low groan leaves him as two, broad fingers trace up and down your pussy.

So fucking wet for me, Sunshine. Always so goddamn wet, soaking through your panties like a fucking brat, tasting like fucking heaven-

“Ben,” you gasp as his tongue start to drag down, teasing and flicking at your fluttering pussy but never going in, both his hands moving to knead at your ass as he angles you up. “Fuck, please. Please-“

His tongue pushes into you, and your words turn into a choked and high whimper that only makes him go faster.

Fucking perfect, darling, soaking my fucking face. You’re like fucking crack, I could goddamn die here. His beard starts to tickle and burn at your skin, and you grind up into his face. Christ, you’re fucking desperate. You want my cock, don’t you. You want me to make you feel fucking good, ruin you and split you open-

You can’t touch him. Your hands are fisted in the sheet because you can’t touch Ben. He’s spewing filth in your head and eating you in a way that make his nose bump your clit and his hands pull and squeeze your skin, his tongue occasionally just licking a long, rough stripe up your cunt and making you scream, but you can’t touch him.

“God, I need you, now, Ben, need you now-“

You’re right on the edge, Ben’s tongue starting to just plunge in and out of you, and he’s not bothering to hold you down. You bucking and keening off the mattress, your arms starting to wrap around your own body to just touch something, and Ben grins, chuckling right against your pussy.

So fucking good. Goddamn perfect, and beautiful, and real needy. All wet and begging, just for me-

“Just for you, only for you,” you gasp, kicking against the bed as Ben’s mouth moves back to suck and nip at your swollen clit in a pattern that’s holding pleasure just out of your reach, but still makes you scream. “God, Benjamin, you cunt, please-“

Hold it, Sunshine. Take it and keep fucking talking, and maybe I’ll let you cum.

I can’t-

You can. His tongue starts to flick torturously, and you fucking squeal. It would be embarrassing if it didn’t spur Ben on, his voice dropping to an octave you’ve never even heard before. Good girl, taking it so well. Talk to me, darling, tell me what you want-

I want you, Benjamin. I want your cock, I want you to make me cum-

Aloud.

“Fuck!” You scream, writhing and rolling your hips squeezing your tits like you can force your own relief. “You asshole, please let me cum, fuck, please, need it, need you-“

He starts to circle his tongue over your clit in slow, painfully good motions, and you whine.

“Please,” your legs lock around his head, trying to force him deeper into your cunt. “God, fuck, Ben-“

The last shout of his name is almost a protest, because he unhooks your legs without effort, and rises up to look at you. He looks proud, and in love, and it’s all for you and you’re going to explode-

“I said no touching.” His voice is stern, but one hand has snaked over your abdomen, lingering with teasing fingers and a soft touch. “You want to cum?”

“Yes, please.” You spread your legs as wide as you can, giving Ben a pout that usually gets snaps him and makes his cock drive into you with an abandon.

This time, though, he just smirks, and drops his hand between your legs. Resting it right over your cunt, holding his balance on your knees as his other hand press down on your stomach to still your squirms. “Going to be fucking good for me, Sunshine? Let me do whatever I want to this perfect pussy?”

He slaps his hand against you, and your mouth falls open. All you can do is whine stupidly and make soft, breathless noises that are supposed to be his name.

“Talk to me,” he grunts your name, and hits your cunt again, this time a little harsher. It’s not painful, but it stings and sends a rush through your whole body, spurring your voice into borderline incoherent pleas.

“Ben, fuck, please. Please, I want you, need you, fuck-“ Another slap of your pussy, another strangled scream. “Need to cum, need you to make me cum, Ben-“

He starts to makes smaller, slightly circulars patterns with his hits, dragging you right up to the edge, and you can’t really think outside of Ben, Ben, Ben, who let him learn how to play you like an instrument and who made him smell like an aphrodisiac and who decided he could be big and handsome and strong and rough but still touch you like you’re sacred and look at you like nothing else is worth looking at-

“Let go for me, Sunshine.” He mutters, and you feel him alive and roaring inside of you. “Cum.”

Your body almost flies off the bed as it obeys. For almost a whole minute your existence is almost only pleasure and warmth and something wet pouring out of you, all in a perfect harmony with Ben. You might be shouting it, or calling it into his head, or just keeping him all in yourself, but it’s all Ben. Still rubbing larger, softer circles over your pussy as you come down, staring at you as the world comes back into focus with a devotion and care and love that sends one last, smaller orgasm shuttering through your body.

“Ben-“

Your whisper has barely left your mouth when his eyes flash and darken further, and he’s moving. Grabbing you by your hips and flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your ass up into the air and running his broad forefinger right between the lips of your dripping, overly sensitive pussy.

He leans over your body, his lips brushing your ear, and you’re not lucid enough to stop the moan from leaving your mouth at the low, deep, hoarse sound of his voice.

“Cum all you want,” he growls your name, and your whole body shivers. “But don’t stop saying my name.” 

You nod, pressing your ass further back into where his cock is still trapped in his pants. “Ben, please, need it-“

“I know you do, darling.” He kisses your neck, squeezing your hips and hissing his words through teeth as you wiggle against him. “Fuck, you need to stop that-“

It’s almost automatic, how your body listens to him, and you fall forward onto the mattress with a whimper, curling your fingers into the sheets. “Ben. Ben, please-“

“Good girl,” Ben smirks on your skin, rutting against your bare pussy as you let out a long, hopeful moan. “Don’t move.”

You couldn’t if you tried. You can hear and feel Ben moving around behind you—rising back onto his knees and tearing at cloth—and nothing in you wants to move. Your brain is in an easy harmony of Ben, and you’re warm and wrapped in a haze of pine, so you’re really good right here.

If you moved, you wouldn’t get to feel Ben’s hands knead and pull at your ass, yanking you back up into the air before pressing his thumb right over your clit and rubbing once, twice, a third time until you’re gasping and pleading his name, gathering all your strength to push up onto your knees and offer yourself as easily as you can.

Ben. Please, Benjamin, please-

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, one, thick finger pushing into you and pumping slowly. “Never seen anything as fucking perfect as you, Sunshine. I fucking love you, I’m going to marry the fuck out of you.”

You let out a soft, airy giggle. “Romantic-“

Ben’s fingers are yanked out of you without warning—leaving you squeezing around nothing and making a loud, needy noise—and his cock replaces them so fast it knocks the air out you and sends a rush of lightning-like pleasure though your body. 

“Fucking brat,” Ben pulls in and out once, and you can’t do anything but moan and feel smoke start to curl from your hands. “Such a smart fucking mouth, you’re-“ he groans, starting to move faster, building up and up, his balls slapping against your clit as his hands bruise into your hips. “Christ, so fucking good, darling, fucking love you, going to drive me goddamn mad-“ You’re too high to hold onto his words anymore. He’d wrapped an arm around you waist and trailed big, warm fingers down your stomach until they’re pinching and rolling your clit, and when your orgasm crashes over you it’s not a wave, but a storm. It washes over you again and again, only growing stronger as Ben reaches an unrelenting pace, drilling into you and growling praise you can’t hear, but that still sends spasms through your body and more and more wetness out of your cunt. You’re squeezing and fluttering around his cock, and he’s saying words that sound like hymns, but you can’t decipher outside of good. Ben and good. You’re burning but it’s fine because you won’t fade out and Ben’s right here with you.

His hips jerk, his body falling over yours, and you feel something hot spread over your gut and down your thigh when Ben’s orgasm slams into you it’s unforgiving. You’re nothing but a shaking, whimpering, soft mess when his beard brushes on the skin of your back, and you let out a happy sigh when he starts to kiss up and down your spine. He’s still buried into you, and he’s so simply and contently alive in everything that’s inside and around you that you don’t realize that the bed is blackened and scorched under your body.

“Ben,” you whisper, running some ash between your fingers. “Did I-“

“You did.” His mouth moves back to your neck, and you can feel his grin against your skin. “You’re a marvel, Sunshine. That was fucking hot.”

“Literally,” you mumble, and he chuckles.

“Smartass.”

You hum, smiling like a fool and carefully moving your hand up to reach behind you and run his hair between your fingers, “I love you, Benjamin. And I’d marry you now, but I think you’d like to be dramatic about it.”

“I’ve got a hot fucking wife,” he grumbles, arms wrapping around your waist. “I’ll be as dramatic as I want, beautiful.”

You laugh, and tomorrow you’ll have to go home, but tonight you don’t have to go anywhere. You can sleep easy with Ben over you like a weight that’s not a trial to carry, and dream of sunlight and laughter and a hollow thing that’s finally full, and the light that’s leaking out of it.

End Note: If you wanted more of them in Rome, do not worry. There will be many, many one-shots from things that we didn’t have space for in the chapter. There's even been a secret one already in the Bonus Footage. See you guys for the shit hitting the fan <3.

Thank you for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

@fghj18 @n-o-p-e-never @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @marisha-3 @stvrniolo

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[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

Story Masterlist

Chapter 14

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Arranged marriage AU

Interact with this post to be on the tag list. Read DNI/BYF first.

NOTE: I think we can all agree that Dion deserves to suffer at least a bit <3  (Just a bit <3)

Warnings: toxic marriage/relationship, general yandere themes, obsessive and possessive themes/behavior, jealousy, anxiety, implied/mentioned past child abuse/neglect, mention of murder, implied murder, slight blood, mention of drugs (sleeping pills), mention of past alcohol consumption, mention of alcohol poisoning. Please tell me if I missed any.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS ACTIONS AND/OR BEHAVIORS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY TOXIC AND DANGEROUS.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACT WITH OR REBLOG FANDOM RELATED THINGS (FICS, ART, ECT.) DNI. 

= = =

It’s been two days since Dion Agriche indirectly told you that you’re his and that nothing will ever change that fact.

His proclamations only serve to make you feel like a possession. A pretty little songbird locked in a gilded cage, her ‘master’ unwilling to set her free. And the reason? To hear her sing until her last breath, voice hoarse and throat bleeding.

Sighing, you lean against the railing on the terrace, the light breeze flowing through your hair. The soft glow of the moonlight casts over the area, dark blue sky filled with twinkling stars. It’s peaceful. 

The heavy smell of outside and iron fills your senses, a quick frown tugging at your lips before forcing it away.

“You’re still awake.” 

Well, it was peaceful until a certain sadistic and horrible man draped a coat over your shoulders. You didn’t even hear the doors open, too lost in thought. Dion towers over you easily, and his presence is a nuisance. Unwanted.

He left for a mission earlier today yet he’s already back…

The warmth from the coat only makes you shiver, the blasted thing a ‘gift’ given to you by Maria on your wedding day. You frown when the man gathers your hair and brings it out from under the coat's collar, letting it float down over the material. His gentleness makes you sick.

“And you’re back,” you complain rather than state in a trembling whisper. You’ll never get used to this, to him. His gaze burns, and you’re unable to turn around to properly greet him. Not that you want to - everything about the man was repulsive - his face, his voice, his height, his name, even the color of his hair and eyes.

He makes you sick.

Another soft breeze as crickets chirp into the night. Below you, two servants walk, their hideous uniforms proudly worn. They look young - most likely in their early to mid twenties. One with dark brown hair and the other dark grey-ish. 

Your husband’s stare burns harsher the longer you look at the two young men. Even so, you don’t look away, even when he moves to stand to your right side, fingers brushing against yours. Like a puppy asking for attention. Despite horror filling your entire being, you don’t tear your gaze away from the two men below you, nor do you stop yourself from moving your hand away from him.

Maybe it was a small act of defiance - aka, showing Dion that you would rather look at any man that wasn’t him. Of course, you’ll come to regret this in the morning, but right now, you crave to interrupt his peace as he had done to yours. Even as your legs begin to buck under your weight.

Ignoring the pressure building in your temples and silencing your gulps, you hope that Dion doesn’t see through you immediately. Your mother would have a heart attack had she been here, witnessing her married daughter give more attention to  nameless men and not her arranged husband. 

Perhaps feeling eyes on them, both men look up, surprised to see as you smile oh so sweetly at them and wave. Ignoring the rapidly forming panic pulling at your heart strings, you watch as they blink before bowing, flustered as light pink spreads across the apples of their cheeks. 

Just two normal men.

“Good evening, My Lady!” They shout in unison. However, when they raise their heads, their cheeks go from pink to pale as their expressions twist into ones of terror. The reason is obvious, your husband wrapping an unwanted arm around your shoulders, gloved hand gripping the side of the left one tighter than necessary. You can only imagine the look he’s giving them.

They scamper off immediately, knowing better than to stay longer than necessary, knowing that greeting the Young Master would only aggravate him more, as the servants would get to look at you, his pretty wife, his possession, for longer.  

You feel bad now, forgetting for a moment that your husband is possessive.

“I’m right here yet you’d rather look at them?” His voice does a complete 180 -  voice once calm now filled with jealousy you can’t begin nor want to understand. You don’t answer. You look ahead of you, scared shitless once the reality of what you just had done hits you in full.

Am I trying to kill myself!?

The air feels colder, goosebumps forming on your skin. Despite the coat, you shiver. And while his stare burns hot, your blood runs cold. So close to curling into yourself, you blame the breeze for your trembling body.

It seems that cold sweats are a permanent thing for you now, biting the inside of your cheek as you break out into one. One hand gripping the front of the coat to hold it tighter against you, your fingers twitch as his gloved hand moves from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, and then up to the base of your head, fingers tangling themselves in your tresses. 

Soft and gentle, it reminds you of the scene where he asked Roxana the location of Cassis’ hiding place.

The memory quickly fades into the background as Dion leans down just enough to whisper in your ear. He’s very fond of doing so, apparently. So fond of it, that whenever the opportunity arises, he’ll take it.

And your body is becoming accustomed to his hot breath, lying to itself, saying it feels good just so you won’t break out into another panic attack. However, you can start to hear the blood rush in your ears, a small built up tear catching in your lashes. Is this all you’re capable of doing? Crying?

“You never look or smile at me so sweetly.” 

There is some resentment in his voice, but his tone doesn’t drip with it. “But you smiled at two random men who aren’t your husband?” His next sentence almost sounds betrayed, and it’s funny seeing how your husband had never done a thing to earn your sweetness. 

You can’t find your voice. 

You can’t force yourself to please him, either.

Nor can you turn away and walk into the room, throwing the coat to the floor. 

The only thing you can do is endure. 

And even then, you’re barely holding up.

“Even now you’re trying your best to ignore me.” He sounds tired - he should go to sleep. Go to sleep and leave you alone, like he should, but two days ago he imprinted himself fully onto you. In the most horribly way possible, nightmares slowly become reality as he refuses to set his eyes on another. 

“I never imagined that my wife could be so cruel,” he teases, lips almost touching your ear. You blink once, twice, before leaning your head away, unable to stand his body heat for much longer. Unable to endure his ‘affection’ for a second longer, shrugging off his arm and the tall male lets you go. Not without an emotion you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint as it flashes in his eyes before he blinks it away had you seen it.

“I never imagined that my husband would be so horrible,” you blurt out without meaning to, wincing once your own words register in your brain after it’s too late. Your heart speeds up. Right hand forming a shaking fist, your nails break skin, the action not enough to distract you. 

You made a horrible and dangerous mistake. But it’s too late to take it back, sweat running down your temples. 

There’s a sting in your thumb and a crave for flesh in your mouth. Your toes curl in your soft slippers. The seconds feel like hours, waiting for his response, be it physical or verbal.

“You’re right - not that it changes anything.” He doesn’t waste a breath in agreeing with you.

Without another word, your husband guides you back into the room. He’s behind you, and curiosity has always killed the cat, which is why despite your fear, your shivering figure, you look over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of Dion Agriche.

His scarlet eyes glow, the dark circles under them worse than they were two days ago, inky black hair that small clunks of dirt cling to, and smeared crimson blood across his face. When your gaze travels down, there’s also dirt and small specks of blood on his cloak, the article of clothing wrinkled.

He didn’t even bother to wash up.

Like the first thing he wanted to do - no need to do was see you. 

The sentiment is lost and ignored as you turn back around. Husband or not, you refuse to see Dion Agriche as anything else but a threat. That’s the only thing you know him as.

Had you looked back, you would have noticed Dion reaching into his pocket only to pull it back out after a thought. He watches as you remove the coat from your shoulders and hang it back up in the closet - out of sight, out of mind.

He hums.

Pointer finger taping against his pocket, he mulls over whether to give you the small jewelry piece in a little blue box he brought back, knowing it would look pretty on you. He decides not to in the end, knowing you wouldn’t accept it.

That’s usually how it starts.

- - -

“- it’s fine, really. No, no, it’s okay. I don’t mind looking after her for a few more days… Hm? Of course she behaves - (Name) is always a good girl.”

Your grandmother’s voice travels from the living room into the kitchen where you’re doing your homework. Pencil in hand, you keep rereading the question, only to repeat the process as the printed words look blurred and jumbled together. The grandfather clock goes off, telling you that it’s midnight. 

Your grandmother ends the call without asking if you wanted to speak to your dad.

Not that it matters - he always texts you a ‘good morning,’ at seven-am on the dot. Never failing to do it once, it always brings a smile to your face.

As it should.

Your grandmother doesn’t say anything as she heads up the stairs, leaving you to your own devices. And you do the same. A mutual agreement between grandmother and granddaughter. Love and affection were a curious and complicated subject.

Regardless, you stay in the kitchen, hearing dogs bark outside and beer bottles thrown to the ground, on an average ‘Saturday night’. You scribble something on the paper before erasing it only to repeat it again and again. By the time you solve the third question out of ten, the sun has come up, Sunday morning greeting you.

- - -

“Thank you for inviting me, mother-in-law.”

Maria had invited you for tea in her room, far from any prying eyes. Hana is right at your side, ready to receive any orders that either you or your mother-in-law may give her. Her expression is stern, not an ounce of emotion in those eyes of hers. 

So unlike the Hana that helped you get ready for the dinner with Dion and Lant three days ago. The Hana who showed some level of concern for you, who scolded two other maids while keeping her head leveled and not punishing them, assuming she had the power to do so.

“Oh, it’s no problem - as in-laws, we should bond and spend time together.” Her smile is far too bright and sweet for that… eccentric personality of hers. She continues, “besides, I heard that you were sick after the dinner with Lant. Was it food poisoning?” 

She genuinely looks concerned as she questions you, but it’s Maria; a snake that coils itself around its prey once the opportunity arises. And you’re already on that list, right behind Sierra in terms of ‘affection’ which your mother-in-law confuses for ‘mental torture.’ 

How aware the brunette is of this, you’re not sure. 

“O-oh… I just drank a little too much…,” your chuckle is awkward, eyes landing on your tea cup. Your smile feels strained.

 She startles you with a sharp gasp.

“So it was alcohol poisoning? (Name), dear, are you alright?” She hurries to your side like a loving mother, her gloved hands gently placing themselves on your shoulders. She doesn’t squeeze them, unlike her son. She doesn’t look at you with a need to own your entire being, either.

“O-oh, I’m fine now, I promise, mother-in-law.” Despite your practiced smile, her uneasy expression doesn’t leave her pretty and soft facial features. Her reaction reminds you of your mother’s the one time you accidentally ate a poisonous plant… wait, no, her reaction was much worse than this. 

“That Lant-!” You’re caught off guard when she curses her own husband, leaving her ‘unlovable’ son out of it. Like that dreadful sociopath wasn’t there.

You blink, unable to form words, watching as her expression morphe into one of frustration only to soften almost immediately when she locks eyes with you. Sweetly smiling at you, she threads her fingers through your hair. 

It feels like she’s trying to replace your mother.

The thought makes you sick.

“I’m sorry for acting out like that. Lant is usually careful with handing out alcohol - and while Dion can be…careless, he’s not used to drinking with others.” Pigs are flying in your old world, they have to be, because how and why is Maria standing up for the son she never wanted?

“It’s - it’s fine… it’s my fault for going past my limit.” You’re not lying, you really were careless about your intake of the bitter wine. You learned your lesson - you want to avoid waking up with a hangover again…

You want to avoid Dion ‘comforting’ and touching you.

“Still, he should have seen the tell-tell signs,” she sighs before turning to Hana. “What was your name again?” She questions your aide. Your heart drops.

Wait, didn’t she ask that same question to a maid she killed right after…?

“It’s Hana, my Lady.” She bows without a single change in her expression. No twitch of the eyebrow or lips. Her face remains stoic.

“Hana. What a pretty name. Now tell me, where were you when your Master got drunk?” Her voice is sweet but the question is threatening. Like the weakling you are, all you do is sit, hopelessly praying that Maria won’t lay a hand or harm Hana in any way or form.

“I was fixing up her room on Young Master’s Dion’s orders.” Her answer is direct, not once breaking eye contact with your extremely dangerous mother-in-law. 

“I see. Is Dion your Master?” 

“No, my Lady. I was put under Lady (Name) a bit after she arrived here.”

The interrogation goes on, and every second feels like an hour. The room must be hot since you’re almost drowning in sweat. You gulp as Maria continues.

“By who?”

“Young Master Dion, my Lady.”

While her answer should confirm some things, you’re too focused on her safety to soak in the information. Too worried that her head will roll right off her shoulders.

“Dion? I see. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he carelessly gave my precious daughter-in-law such an incompetent maid.” 

SCREECHED!

“Mother-in-law, believe it or not, but Hana has been very helpful. It’s because of her that I’m adapting so well so quickly. You help too, of course.” 

You don’t remember getting up. You don’t remember gently grabbing Maria’s shoulders like a daughter showing  affection to her mother. You don’t remember smiling so brightly that it looks genuine, enough so that your personal maid looks surprised, already knowing how much you hate being here.

“She’s always at my beck and call - ready to serve me in the dead of the night, regardless if I dismissed her for the day. While one could say she went against my orders, personally, I see it as an act of loyalty.” Your words flow out smoothly, like you weren’t on the verge of breaking down sobbing.

You don’t know why you’re standing up for a maid who’s possibly spying on you for either Dion or Lant. A maid you barely know, much less considered as a ‘friend.’ A maid you have only known for a few weeks.

Most likely it’s because you don’t want to be introduced to a new one - it would be a waste of time, really. Hana already knows your habits with her keen eyes and senses. She knows what clothes and hairstyles look best on you. Her tea is delicious. Her excuses worked in your favor.

It would be a waste to replace her with a maid who might not even know what to do. 

That’s all it is.

“So please, don’t blame her - she thought she was doing the best for me, her Master.”

You don’t let go of her shoulders even when you’re scared shitless, worried you crossed a boundary even though she always crosses yours. You wait with baited breath for her response, hoping you didn’t fuck up big time.

“Well,” Maria turns around to face you, removing your hands from her person to hold them instead. “I suppose I can give her another chance. I only want the best for you.” 

After hearing her words, you can only think of and pity your husband. She cares more for a stranger than her own flesh and blood - a child she neglected and left in the hands of one of the worst people in existence. 

Pushing the thought away, your body relaxes a bit. “Thank you. I’m really grateful for you, mother-in-law.” It’s a lie but as she strokes your hair with tenderness you weren’t aware she could show to anyone aside from Sierra, you almost forget how crazy and brutal she is.

You almost forgot that this woman did not tend to her growing, lonely son as she should have.

“Anytime, (Name), anytime.” 

Your gut tells you that you only entangled yourself with this crazed woman more. 

- - -

“Hana, can you fetch me some sleeping pills? I think I’ll need them…” 

“Yes, My Lady. I’ll be back in a moment.” The events that transpired an hour ago aren’t mentioned, both parties silently and mutually deciding that it wasn’t worth it. Which is why Hana didn’t question you once you left Maria’s room an hour later, despite her curious gaze. 

Honestly, you’re still not sure why or how you did it.

With a sigh you kick off your heels once you reach the bed, head low, finding that lifting it would take too much effort. Last night you had to deal with Dion - today, it was Maria. The worst part was that the day hadn't ended yet, but you know for a fact if you didn’t request sleeping pills now you wouldn’t remember until Dion is ‘sleeping’ on your shared bed.

Landing on your stomach, your body lightly bounces on the comfortable bed. The scent of bergamot oranges soothes your nerves. Relieved, you nuzzle your head into your pillow, finally having a beautiful peaceful moment all to yourself in this fucking psychward.

 The ‘sugary’ voice of Maria is gone, anxiety about accidentally catching sight of one of her ‘dolls’ is out of mind. Dread that you might run into another one of your in-laws faded away the moment Hana opened the bedroom doors. Also, the fact you didn’t see Lant at all lifts your mood.

Not to mention that your horrible, frightful, perverted, annoying husband was nowhere in sight -

“You seem to be in a good mood.” A boyish voice fills the silence. 

…huh…?

Lifting yourself into a sitting position, legs hanging off the bed, you look towards the doors. You think you’re dreaming, for one, this person just waltzed into the room like nothing, clearly sneaking in right after Hana. The other reason is because the boy with leaves and goo in his hair is -

“Jeremy?”

= = =

Tag list: @tiny-mimi @pix-stuff @umi-adxhira @queenofspades403 @darkumbreon92 @manitscold @puggyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[ramblingoak]

Care Package

Papa Emeritus IV x GN Reader ~ You take care of Copia after he gets sick at the end of the tour

Warnings: Copia being dramatic while sick, fluff, sfw, 1k words, not proofread forgive me

“I’m dying.”

Here we go.  It was a good thing your back was turned because Copia would pitch a fit if he saw you rolling your eyes.  You sighed and continued to pick up all of the used tissues that were littering the floor.  When he let out a pitiful sigh you groaned, turning your head to glare at him.

“Copia, you’re fine.”

“No, no this is it.  I can feel it.”  You bit your lip to stifle the laugh that wanted to bubble out.  Copia was endlessly dramatic whenever he was under the weather.  “It’s near.”

“What’s near?”

“Death.”

“Oh Lucifer, you’re not going to die from a cold.”  He started to respond but was immediately interrupted by a series of violent sneezes, the whole bed shaking from the force of them.  You turned back to the dirty tissues, shoving them into a trash bag while he recovered.  The sound of him blowing his nose filled the room and right when you were turning to check on him again a wet, balled up tissue hit you right in the face.  “Son of a fuck!  Copia!”

“Eh?”  His adorably confused look stopped you from leaping onto the bed and strangling him, but just barely.  The sight of his red, watery eyes made your irritation disappear.  His face was flushed from the fever and sweaty locks of hair had fallen across his forehead.  When Copia realized you were staring at him he groaned and threw his arm over his face.  “You shouldn’t see me like this.”

“Like what?”  You dropped the trash bag and grabbed another box of tissues, slowly walking around the bed to sit by his hip.  He whined when you tugged on his arm so you could see his face.  “Hey, like what?”

“Pathetic.”  You cooed at him, reaching out to brush his hair back.  He sighed when you placed your cool hand on his forehead.  “Weak and old.  Hideous.” 

“Well, this is all true bu–”

“Dolcezza!”  Copia’s voice broke while he whined and he was overcome with a fit of coughing.  You helped turn him so he was coughing away from you, rubbing his back as they came to an end.  “Ugh, why are you here?”

“Someone has to take care of you.”

“You’re going to get sick too.”  He rolled back over on his back with a groan.  “I don’t want you to catch this.”

“I’ll just have to risk it.”  You smoothed his hair out again, giving him a soft smile when he met your eyes.  “I want to take care of you, Copia.”

“Fine, fine.  Twist my arm.”  He managed a weak smile and you resisted the urge to lean down and kiss him.  “Thank you, amore.”

“You’re welcome, Papa.”  You reached towards his night stand and grabbed the damp cloth you had set there earlier.  Copia let out a relieved sigh when you wiped the sweat off his face.  “Now, I’m going to clean you up a bit and then you’ll need to eat something before you take any more medicine.”

“I couldn’t possib–”

“It's homemade chicken noodle soup.”

You laughed when he grabbed your hand, his eyes lighting up at your words.

“Did Secondo make it?”

“Yes, your brothers gave me a care package for you.”  Copia sniffled a bit and you let him pretend it was from his cold.  You got up to grab the laundry basket Terzo had given you and brought it over to the bed, setting it at Copia’s feet so you could show him everything inside.  “Your ghouls also added a few things.”

“Anything good?”

“Primo gave me a salve I’m supposed to rub on your chest.”  You shook her head at him when he waggled his eyebrows.  Even when feverish he couldn’t help himself.  “And Terzo added a book and these penis shaped hard candies for your throat.”

“Where does he find this stuff?”  Copia made grabby hands for the candies and you tossed them over.  He opened the bag quickly, popping one into his mouth and smiling around it.  “These aren’t bad though, what book is it?” 

“The Hobbit.”  His eyes immediately started watering and you frowned.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing.  He used to read that to me when we were kids.”  Copia cleared his throat and smiled.  “What did the ghouls send?”

“Um, Phantom knit you a sweater but he ran out of yarn so it’s missing a sleeve.”  You held up the bright blue monstrosity that the quintessence ghoul had proudly shoved into your hands that morning.  “Other than that you got some eucalyptus candles and tea, a few crossword puzzle books and Aurora is letting you borrow her box set of all the Halloween movies.”

Copia’s face lit up at the last item, both he and the ghoulette had bonded over an intense love for slasher movies.  You laid the sweater over his chest and handed him the dvd’s then busied yourself putting the basket away and setting the candles around the room while you both pretended he wasn’t crying.  After he blew his nose a few times you wandered back over, the book from Terzo in your hands.  Copia yawned and settled back into his pillows while you fussed over him, helping him get comfortable.

“Will you read to me, amore?”  You wanted to get him to eat some soup first, but rest would be good for him as well.  As carefully as possible you got up on the bed and sat next to him, smiling when he scooted closer and rested his head against your thigh.  “Just until I fall asleep.”

“Whatever you need, Copia.  I’ll be right here.”  His breath was already evening out, his body going limp as you ran your fingers through his hair.  You quietly opened the book in your lap, taking a few seconds to watch him before you started to read.  “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…” 

If you'd like to be added/removed from the tag list (or if I accidentally left your name off) of this fic or any of my others please leave a comment or send me a dm! Thank you! Also if you'd prefer to only be tagged in my reader insert stuff that's ok! Feel free to let me know!

My Masterlist ~ My Archive of our Own ~ My Ko-Fi Tip Jar

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

helloooo!! I absolutely adore your works puts me to sleep with a great bag ass smile on my face! Can you please write about the moon boys where the reader is a complete bimbo/ fashion fanatic showing off her newly bought clothes and accessories to them

I hope this is okay! I'm not so good with bimbo reader, so this is a lot more like reader that likes fashion. <3

Moon Boys x gn!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? • ask-travaganza masterlist •

Warnings: Fluff, silliness, a little mention of masturbating in (semi)public, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 712

Steven Grant

Is super interested in your love of fashion because you are interested in it. Literally loves to listen to you talk about it for hours and will not get bored. Asks lots of questions and gets so happy when you excitedly tell him the answers. 

Loves going shopping with you, will give you his honest opinion on everything, even if he disagrees. “That’s awful love.” “I like it.” “Well then get it, of course, it’ll look beautiful on you, but it is hideous.” Pulls faces to make you laugh. The only thing he’ll really grumble about is if you wear clothing that feels bad (sensory wise) for him, but he’ll do it in a jokey way.

“You know where this would look better, love?” “On your bedroom floor?” “No, in the bin.” 

Is happy for you to suggest some clothing choices for him, but he won’t change his style/comfort, he’s very content to be himself. However, he does adore it when you buy him clothing because you always make sure it’s something he would like and it makes his heart so full that you put in so much time and consideration for him. (When he expresses this and you tell him, ‘duh, of course, I love you silly!’ you are getting 1000 kisses. No other option.) 

Really likes it when you try on sexy outfits in changing rooms and send him photos. (This has led to him asking you to touch yourself and send him a video while you do it.)

Marc Spector

Gets a little nervous sometimes if he comes with you shopping in person, this depends on if the shop is very busy/the lights are really bright and overwhelming. It’s difficult to let when he gets overstimulated, because Marc masks a lot and has done so for a very long time. Plus, even if you’ve told him you want him to tell you, he doesn’t want to ruin your fun. 

Also likes it when you buy him clothes, always washes them before he wears them and usually asks you to wear them/lay on them before he puts them on so that they smell like you.

Don’t tell you if he hates something, tries to be so polite, but you can tell because he does a little ‘oh’ face with raised eyebrows before he gets his expression back under control. 

Surprisingly, really loves bright colours. Doesn’t tend to wear them much himself, but is always drawn to them. Really loves whatever personal style you have (bright or dark colours, he doesn’t care, you look amazing no matter what.) and will try really hard to point things out/show you what he thinks you’ll like/fits with your vibe.

Really likes watching shows about fashion with you, gets very invested in The Great British Sewing Bee.

Jake Lockley

Has so much fun going clothes shopping (in person or online) with you and having a massive try on montage. Literally flings the curtains open so dramatically. Will try on anything for the thrill of it. 

Quite often you both have a silly day where you try to dress as each other, this has led to some very realistic interpretations and some utterly chaotic ones. 

If he’s annoyed with you he will find the most eye watering outfit in the universe and wear it, saying ‘It’s the height of fashion’. 

His favourite t-shirt to sleep in is one with grammatically incorrect spanish on it that he found in a charity shop and thought it was hilarious. You cannot get him to part with it for love or money, even though it is falling apart and he has fixed it many times. (You don’t actually want him to get rid of it, but it’s become a fun little teasing game both of you play with each other.)

I’ve said many times that I headcanon Jake as a knitter, (because he is (joking)), I think he would happily knit with you/teach you if you wanted/didn’t know how to. He’ll also happily make you lots of clothes and accessories as gifts. However, it took him a long, long time to ever make and give you a jumper because of the knitter's curse and he just got so paranoid about it.

Thank you for reading!

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[clawsdevour]

hellooooooo! can u write an imagine in which reader is inscure about their pimples and Tsukishima comforts reader? thank youuuuuuu (i love ur imagines)

the way you are

wc: 1.2k content warning: fluff, angst, tsukishima x reader who's insecure about their pimples, not proofread, shitty writing

note: THANK U SO MUCH FOR READING AND LOVING MY IMAGINES I RLLY HOPE THIS LIVES UP TO WHAT U HAD IN MIND. IT FEELS GOOD KNOWING U LOVE MY IMAGINES <333

₊ˑ༄ؘ

Hearing the doorbell ring, you know who’s waiting out there waiting for you to open up for him. Giving him a few minutes to wait outside, wiping away your overflowing tears as you try to look calm down. You’ve recently been terribly breaking out, pimples kept emerging on your face the moment you wake up. Your confidence grew thinner each time you had to cover them up with concealer in the mirror. The bright red, pimples about to burst with every touch you give them.

Earlier you invited your boyfriend, Tsukishima, to your house to hang for the day. Getting ready, you can’t help but feel just plain ugly with your face filled by zits. You wanted to hide them from the person you loved the most, thinking he’d start to believe that your looks aren’t good enough for him. You felt your throat close up at the thought, starting to sniffle while blinking back your incoming tears. I can’t cry, it’s gonna ruin my makeup and he’s almost here, you thought to yourself while grabbing a tissue. Looking back at your reflection on the verge of breaking down, you can’t help but feel like the most hideous person Tsukishima’s ever gonna see once he walks in.

The sound your doorbell makes caught your attention, you’re so anxious you can’t help yourself but squeeze your eyes shut to prevent more tears from ruining your makeup. Hurriedly you tried to fix your melting foundation through the blurriness that stained your eyes. You gave up, you were in a complete state of utter despair. I can’t let Tsukishima see me like this.. Maybe I should just tell him to leave. Overthinking to yourself, down the hall you heard the door creak open. In horror, you heard the loud footsteps draw closer to your bedroom door.

“Hello? You in there?” Tsukishima knocks once, silence, twice, you ignored him. You’re quivering in your seat, biting your lip as you pray he doesn’t open the door to see you quietly sobbing at your vanity.

“If you’re really not in there, then I’m coming in..!” Swinging open the door, you make eye contact with Tsukishima’s stunned face. He’s looking at your messed up makeup in complete shock. Your black mascara ran down your warm wet cheeks that your foundation had melted off due to the amount of tears you produced, revealing your red bumpy pimples. He rushes towards your side in sincere concern, on his knees looking up at you as you bite down on your lower lip.

“Hey.. hey, you can talk to me. What happened?” His eyes widen seeing how much you cried before he came in, the tears glistened on your face as the light from your mirror stared back at you. His hand was shaking your arm, waiting for you to respond.

“Stop Tsukki! Don’t look at me.. I-I’m hideous..!!” Turning your face away from him, seeing your tears start to fog your vision again. Your face is blazing red hot under your makeup that was peeling off. Your lashes were wet with your warm tears, eyes a shade of pink from crying.

“What are you saying.. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” Tsukki’s trying to look at you while you continued to sob. Grabbing a tissue from your vanity, he tried to tilt your head to face him as you resisted. Looking at him from the corner of your eye, he was genuinely hurt knowing how you feel about your physical appearance. Overall, he loved you for you, not the way you look. 

“You’re a liar! You’re bluffing like you always do…” failing to withstand his large hand that turned your head towards him, you’re meeting straight face to face with him, completely feeling humiliated while his still eyes examined your face. Feeling a pat on your cheek, he’s wiping away the trail of tears lingering on your face when a few more trickle down from your glossy eyes.

“No, I’m not and I’m serious. Why makes you think I’d lie to someone I actually love? Genuinely, you’re the first girl who I ever thought was gorgeous. You’re the first person I always look for whenever my volleyball match is over. The first person who I’m comfortable showing you my most vulnerable part of me.. And the first girl to ever win over my heart.” Tsukishima’s words too, touched your own withering heart. Knowing how he’s somewhat spiteful and sometimes a bit annoying with his antics you never knew these words could pop out of his mouth. He’s never told you how he felt about you all this time ever since you started dating. Okay well, besides when he confessed his love to you and asked you to be his girlfriend. But hearing his raw and authentic self speaking to you from the bottom of his heart, a big part of you was relieved. 

“I never knew you thought like that Tsukki..” your voice was hoarse due to crying, croaking at him. His expressions shifted in confusion, not understanding what you meant by that.

“What do you mean?” He’s blinking at you through his lenses as you stare back at him with a slight smile starting to appear back on your face.

“Well like.. About, how I made you feel..” Obviously you started to feel better, knowing that he really didn’t care if your face started to break out or not. He loved you as you are. He loved the way you care for him, putting up with his devious acts, and just being able to call you his girlfriend. Knowing that was enough to make you happy. Smiling through your slightly puffy eyes, his finger’s caressing your cheek, tracing circles to comfort you.

“Well duh..! Of course I care and love you. You’re like  the love of my life. A few pimples popping up on your face shouldn’t make you feel uglier when I’m around.. Or well, just making you feel less confident in yourself. I like you and your pimples. Nothing could change the growing love that I have for you,” Your eyes widen with surprise as he’s confessing once more how much he loves you. It started to sink in that nothing was going to get in the way of your relationship with Tsukishima. At this point you’re so content, you were grinning from ear to ear.

“I.. I love you too, Tsukki. I’m sorry for all this.. I didn’t mean to make a big fuss over this.”

He’s smiling at your cheerful face, seeing you regain your self esteem. You launch at him to give him the tightest hug ever, he’s chuckling at how adorable you can be. Patting your back, feeling the smile on his face grow.

“There’s no reason to be sorry,” pulling you off him for a moment, his eyes were observing your puffy red eyes that were tear stained. Your makeup was half wiped off, the tissue he used did nothing. Parting his mouth open to say one more thing as he holds you in his arms.

��Alright so… where’s your makeup remover? I want to see your bare face, plus you might break out again if you leave it on.”

masterlist here

[leifygreeens]

🎄 Secret Santa Fic Exchange 🎄

@nebraskashouse I hope you enjoy this, as belated as it is—and don't fret, the second part of this lovely little fic is on its way.

@loverboykirstein and @snailmail444 also posted some very delicious fics of their own for the season, you can find them here and here. Minors, do not interact with either of them, thank you. And as always, thanks to @lendelleaves for being my best friend and editor in chief. I would not be nearly as in love with this if it weren't for him.

Warnings: 2300~ words, Harvey/Fem!Farmer, SoftDom!Harvey, praise kink

Enjoy <3

The Farmer stands just a few feet away, readjusting the ornaments and tucking garlands higher or lower within the branches of their tree. She steps away with a sigh, clearly frustrated, and props her hands on her hips.

Harvey watches quietly for a moment, admiring the soft slope of the Farmer’s back beneath the hideous Christmas sweater she’d picked out for herself. It's a prickly woolen fabric, with the word ‘Naughty’ sprawled across the chest in an even pricklier red tinsel, made to match his much softer and more pleasant sweater, which reads ‘Nice’ in a perfectly comfortable embroidery thread. Then he sets his #1 Doctor mug on the coffee table with a soft thunk. 

He gets up from the couch with a grunt, too quiet to catch her attention when she’s so preoccupied, and he takes advantage of her focus being elsewhere to slip his arms around her waist.

She sinks into him immediately, and he presses a kiss against her head, just behind her ear. The wool scratches against Harvey's wrists, but he doesn’t move.

“Dear, if you keep glaring at the tree like that you’re going to set it on fire,” he whispers.

“Sorry,” she mutters, curling her warm palms over his forearms and squeezing. He shakes his head and pulls her closer.

“Talk to me.” He bumps his nose against the curve of her jaw, just above her pulse point, and smiles when she shivers at the brush of his facial hair against her skin. “Tell me what's bothering you.”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, and Harvey frowns. “It’s just—it’s dumb.”

He watches the side of her face intently, studying the curve of her cheek, the swoop of her eyelashes, and the downturn of her mouth. He knows she knows that he’s watching, but she won’t meet his eyes. Harvey thinks that’s probably okay. He can still work with that.

He pulls back and presses a lingering kiss to her shoulder, just above the collar of her sweater. “You know I’ll never get tired of listening to you.”

“Careful… too much encouragement and I might start waxing poetic about the fermentation process for wine,” she jokes, and Harvey laughs, because he is a weak, weak man.

He hums, his smile turning soft. “Don’t go threatening me with a good time.”

“Well, if you insist,” she starts, taking a big breath, and Harvey spins her around before she can launch into a lecture on the intricacies of sugar and its effect on alcohol content.

The Farmer tastes like gingerbread and espresso.

Kissing her is easy, is comfortable. It always has been, even the first time when he was five hundred feet in the air and his heart was threatening to jump out of his chest and crash back to earth without him. She makes him feel brave, and his feet are on the ground right now, but he might as well be floating among the stars with how light his chest feels.

The Farmer wraps her arms over his shoulders with a contented sigh, and he follows her lead easily, dropping his hands down to her waist. The fabric is rough against his palms, and he wrinkles his nose.

“You really don’t like the sweater, huh?” she asks, grinning—and forcing him to pull away, lest he kiss her teeth.

“Of course I do.” Harvey bunches the horrendous fabric in his fists, and yanks her right up against him. His smile turns wolfish at her gentle yelp. “I love everything you wear.”

“Oh, you’re so full of shit.” She smirks as he shoves his hands under the fabric to grab at her waist properly.

“Language, dear,” Harvey whispers, and then he kisses her deeply. The warmth of her skin burns him alive. She makes a tiny sound, barely perceptible in the depth of her chest, and Harvey breathes in harshly through his nose before pulling a hair’s breadth away. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Funny,” she says, carding her fingertips through the baby hairs on his nape. “I thought that was what you were trying to do.” 

She tugs him down for another kiss, and Harvey groans, squeezing the Farmer’s sweet waist and—focus, damn it.

“Tell me what’s bothering you, honey. Please.” Harvey tugs himself away only to press their foreheads back together. She frowns through half-lidded eyes, and then sighs heavily. 

“It feels like something is missing,” she mumbles, turning to face the tree. He follows her gaze to it.

Glittering garlands swoop through the branches, and sparkly plastic ornaments peek through the pine needles, flickering with the reflections of warm white lights. The tree skirt is a deep red velvet flecked with gold embroidery—a gift from Emily. It’s a good height, and the branches are full and green, green, green.

By all standards, it’s the perfect Christmas tree.

Harvey’s eyes flick to the very top, and—ah.

Harvey smiles fondly, amusement coloring his voice as he whispers against the shell of her ear: “I think I might know what’s missing.” 

“Are you laughing at me? In my time of need?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at him and doing a very good job of pretending to be outraged. Harvey chuckles low in his chest and kisses her cheek.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harvey promises, gently lifting her chin upward with the first knuckle of his index finger. “I was just thinking of how silly Santa would look without his hat.”

She goes still as she takes in the top of the Christmas tree. 

It is perfectly barren—not a star in sight—and Harvey grins as she drops her head back against his shoulder with a groan. “I knew I forgot something!”

Harvey chuckles heartily, and turns her face toward him so he can kiss the disappointed pout off of her lips.

“It’s a lovely tree nonetheless, honey,” Harvey says. “But I’m sure there’s something in the house that you could use instead of a star, if you wanted.”

“Will you help me look?” She asks, blinking her pretty eyes up at him, and his chest floods with warmth.

“Anything for you,” he promises, leaning down to press a long kiss to her cheek. “I’ll check the bedroom.”

Then he steps away, (albeit regretfully,) and makes his way down the hall.

The smell of cinnamon and sugar are thick even in here, and Harvey takes a deep breath in before crossing their plush rug and tugging open their closet. They may not have stars, but he has bow-ties and regular ties and he knows for certain that there’s ribbon leftover from when they were wrapping presents earlier that week.

Lo and behold, it doesn’t take him more than a minute before he’s walking back with several different options in his hands, all just as festive as the tree itself. He almost cringes at the patterns, actually. It’s a miracle the Farmer thought he was attractive when he was wearing such goofy-looking ties all the time.

“Honey, I think I found a couple things that could work!” He calls down the hall. He stops in the threshold a moment later to find her dragging the kitchen stool in front of the tree.

“So did I,” she says, holding up a pair of reindeer antler clips. “What do you think?”

“A reindeer tree?” He drops the ribbons and ties on the coffee table as he crosses the room. “Sure, why not?”

“Is that okay?” Her voice turns small, and Harvey presses a reassuring kiss to the top of her head.

“It’s adorable, and I love it. Do you want help putting them on?” 

“Could you hold me?” She steps up onto the stool. “I don’t know how sturdy this thing is.”

Harvey settles his hands low on her hips.

She carefully clips one antler around a branch, making sure it sits upright, and then attaches the second one on the opposite side. The antlers are a good size, not too heavy but not too small, and she pulls her hands away to admire her handiwork. 

Then her smile turns sharp.

“What are you scheming now, you little devil?” Harvey asks, fond, but maybe scared, maybe just a little.  He'd count himself a fool if he wasn't.

She peers down at the tree, and he pays her rapt attention as she points at the lower branches. “Could you give me that ornament, down there? The bright red one?”

He nods and reaches for the glittering bauble.

Harvey pauses. Looks up at her.

“You’re not.”

Her grin widens. “Give it to me and find out.”

He shakes his head and slides the ornament off of the branch, careful not to break any needles with the metal hook, and places it in her waiting palm. She gives him a satisfied nod, and then hooks it around the tree, just under the antlers.

“Perfect.” She adjusts the ornament again, though he can't see why. “What do you think?”

“Rudolph the red-nosed Christmas tree.” Harvey squeezes her hip. “Cute.”

The reflections of the lights dance in her eyes, smoldering, like embers in a fireplace. Harvey licks his lips; he doesn’t fight the smile that spreads over his face, when she tracks the movement with catlike attention.

“Well,” she says, barely more than a breath. “As long as you like it.”

Foolish of her to think he could do anything else. He’s obsessed: every thought, every movement, every word out of her mouth is like a gentle caress against his soul. 

He reminds her of this quietly. “I love everything you do.”

“Do you, now?” she asks, and the words are teasing while her tone is anything but. Harvey’s fingers twitch against the waistline of her plush pajama pants. The soft white fabric would look so lovely crumpled on the floor…or dangling from her ankles. He’s not picky.

“You don’t believe me?” Harvey drags one palm down her thigh, and squeezes the muscle there. It's a question, too.

The Farmer steadies herself on his shoulder and bends down to press a long kiss against his brow bone. The hunger in him simmers, and he closes his eyes to lean into the warmth.

“I believe you,” the Farmer’s lips brush against his skin, featherlight and tickling his hairline as she moves to whisper in his ear: “But could you prove it to me again?”

Gladly.

She huffs a laugh, and he wonders if he’d said it out loud.

“Go to the bedroom,” Harvey says, pitching his voice low, and gravelly, just the way she likes it.

Her breath catches, shivering against the shell of his ear and making his hair stand on end. She listens, pulling away slowly and stepping down from the stool. Only when her feet meet the carpet does she look up at him again, her eyes desperate and eager and not at all like those she fixed on him a mere two minutes ago.

He knows that look.

“Meet me on the bed. Keep everything on.” Harvey curls his hand over the back of her neck and drags her up into a heated kiss. He pulls away, sooner than he'd like to, feeling hungry, almost starving.

She swallows harshly, the blush on her cheeks sending jolts through him. “Am I allowed to touch myself?”

Fuck, what a question. “Do you think you could last that long?”

A pause.

“No,” she whispers, and Harvey brushes his thumb over the swell of her bottom lip.

“Would you rather come on your own fingers? Do you think that would satisfy you?”

“No,” she hisses, her hands flying up to grab his wrist. Her voice is just as firm when she repeats, “No.”

Harvey chuckles and pats her ass, encouraging. “Go, then. I’ll be quick.”

She disappears down the hall in a blur of color and quick footsteps, and Harvey gets to work immediately. He doesn’t want to keep her waiting, lest she actually shove a hand down the front of her panties to find some semblance of relief. 

Or maybe she would just rub her pretty little thighs together, and she would never get enough of anything for it to matter—

His mouth goes bone dry, and he sets off for the kitchen with their empty mugs hooked on his fingers. He doesn’t bother washing them, just fills them both to the brim with scalding water to soak, and returns to the living area. The throw pillows on the couches are deflated, but he doesn’t bother fluffing them back up like he ordinarily would. He yanks the plug for the tree lights out of the socket, plunging the room into near darkness, and then marches down the hall.

The Farmer is at the edge of their bed, still fully clothed and white-knuckling the sheets on either side of her hips like a lifeline. So much restraint in those lovely eyes of hers, trying so hard to be good, to be patient. Harvey bites down on a noise that would have come out pained, and closes the door behind him.

“Beautiful,” he says, loud enough for her to hear. She shivers, a tempting blush blazing over her cheeks and the tips of her ears. The effect is near-instant, and Harvey almost laughs. He already knows the answer, but: “You didn’t touch yourself.”

She shakes her head quickly. “I didn’t want to… not without you.”

Harvey pushes off the door, and he thinks he must be going a little mad. He stops in front of her, right between the V of her legs where she’d spread them in anticipation. She cranes her neck back to look him in the eye, and Harvey cups her jaw. “Safe word?”

She sighs into his skin, and turns to kiss the heel of his palm. “Espresso.”

They’ve never needed it before, but he asks—reminds—her every time. Just in case.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, and leans down to give her what she's asked for.

[murciafire]

Lady Lazarus

Jason Todd Angst

Summary: “You don’t get to die and be reborn the same. You come back, but you come back wrong. This is the price you pay for resurrection” – Nathaniel Orion

Warnings: angst, the poem is about Plath's attempts but nothing explicit

Words: >1000

Notes: The thought of Jason dying and then being resurrected often led me to think of “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath. I find that it’s even more appropriate considering that Jason’s died twice now (1988, 2024 – please let me know if I have it wrong). Since we all know that Jason reads classics, I felt that his thoughts might as well be as dramatic and poetic as seen in classic lit.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

I have done it again.

There was a chipped tile in the corner of the wall where it met the smooth surface of the bathtub. My eyes would always catch it on the days I found myself lying in the bathtub, but it was so indiscernible that I didn’t think anyone else would remark it. (Not that I would care if anyone did, nor did anyone visit me, nor did I want anyone to). It was like a scar hidden under a chin that wouldn’t be evident until you tilted your face to where God should be (but perhaps in His absence, you could stare at the sun and the rays would make the sliver of cut skin silver, brilliant and hideous).

But such a break, where it was so insignificant, would bother no one unless you knew where to look for such fractures. And I, being that I am, often find myself wandering in an agonizing game of self-loathing where I’m drawn to discovering broken things like me. Which is why I think—and when I do think these thoughts, they’re often coupled with a heaving dry chuckle—I must cover the bathroom mirror. This game, or perhaps self-torment, is one that I often lose even when I win.

I put out my cigarette on the side of the tub—I had forgotten I had lit it. My nerves were so frayed that I didn’t think nicotine could absolve me any more than drowning myself in this bathtub hoping that a self-made baptism could bring me any closer to my father. I sighed, closing my eyes while dropping the crumpled cigarette on the floor beside me. My heart beat steadily in my chest, but I was already limp like I had given up. I felt a smile curl my lips into something cruel because here I was, in rose water which I wasn’t holy enough for, but damned enough that I was swimming in my own blood.

The bathroom, I thought, was a state of purgatory where all my thoughts merged into a state of expiatory purification.  Because I was alive and somehow—“One year in every ten I manage it—”

I groaned as my bones creaked and my muscles strained as I leaned over to pull the stopper. My eyes fixated on the swirling water, taking my blood with it. I blinked a few times, looking at my hands, no longer stained but very still. As if silence was a word to describe a motion—I wasn’t sure I was breathing. But I was.

And again I find myself moving, peeling myself off the floor of the tub, stepping over the edge. A sort of walking miracle, my skin bright as a Nazi lampshade, my right foot a paperweight.

I stood in front of the mirror and in my hesitancy, I found some courage, or as if reality took form and guided my hand to rip off the towel I hung over it, so I had to face what I saw in that tile: something broken. My face a featureless, fine Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin, O my enemy. Do I terrify?—

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh the grave cave ate will be at home on me.

I smiled, my laugh hollow as I wiped my face, continuing to recite Plath. “And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty and like the cat, I have nine times to die.”

I tossed the towel onto a hook on the wall before gripping the sink to stare at myself. “This is Number Three. What a trash to annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd shoves in to see them unwrap me hand and foot—the big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies—” I pushed off the sink, throwing my hands over my face. “These are my hands. My knees. I may be skin and bone, nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.”

I slid down to my knees, my chest heaving. “The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant to last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut as a seashell. They had to call and call and pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.”

I shut my eyes, feeling my body crumple to the floor and curl into itself. Silence, I decided, was a word to describe action. Because here I was, living silently.

“Dying,” I whispered, “is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.”

 

I rubbed my arm with my hand, my fingers brushing over scars—new and old. My body was littered with wounds, but no one could ever see the scar under my chin. Or perhaps, the one I wanted most to notice was the crack in my heart that shattered my soul.

“It’s easy enough to do it in a cell,” I muttered. “It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical. Comeback in broad day to the same place, the same face, the same brute amused shout: ‘A miracle!’”

I laughed or cried; I wasn’t sure. But air came out of my lungs and clawed at my throat to make some sort of sound so I knew I was still here, lying on the bathroom floor very much still alive. But it’s a miracle that I am, isn’t it?  That knocks me out.

There is charge. For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge. For the hearing of my heart—

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge for a word or a touch or a bit of blood or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus, I am your valuable, the pure gold baby that melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—

A cake of soap, a wedding ring, a gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer  

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

[skywlker-sluvtt]

hi theree im on my period and i was thinking about period sex with anakin would be good rn 🤭 i was wondering if youre comfortable with it you could write something for it?

no pressure haha

HIIIII YOU'RE MY FIRST REQUEST SO THANK YOUU!!!! We're twinning cause I'm on mine too and the cramps are crazy. I wrote a lil one shot thingy and I'm not superrrr proud of it but I tried so lmk what you think. feedback is always appreciated and this is just a bunch of my weird thoughts poorly written out 😘

Warnings: Period sex lmao so 18+!!! Smutty stuff be warned, poorly edited

Word count: 1.1k

┌─── ∘°❉°∘ ───┐

You stifle a small groan shifting uncomfortably into fetal position to try and prevent the cramping and aching in your lower back and abdomen. Waking up with your period had to be one of the worse things in this galaxy. Another wave of pressure ripped through your stomach and you winced. Even after a warm shower the pain never subsided it got even worse. Anakin had been stirring in his sleep slightly before he rolled to his side pressing his body against yours and resting his hand on your belly sensing the built-up tension resting there. Lazily you cover his hand with your own and pressed it into your abdomen to relieve the pain. “What’s wrong love?” He mumbled. Anakin’s morning voice was deep and scratchy just listening to it might alleviate the pain you felt. “My period” You mumbled curling into a tighter ball.

His warm hand slipped under your thin singlet to rub where it hurt the most. “I’ll get you your hot water bottle” Anakin said slowly getting up. “Please?” You smile a little as he pressed a kiss to your cheek and got out of your shared bed. You watched with a little smile as he yawned and rolled his shoulders all the muscles in his back rippled as he exited the room. He’s so pretty. The smile on your face only lasted a second before another pang of pain hit you making you let out a groan and press on your stomach harder. Anakin returned after a few minutes with the bottle wrapped in a towel and he helped you tuck it tight against your body before returning behind you to give you emotional support. “Love you so much” You whispered. “I love you more” He grinned kissing the shell of your ear.

“Y’know I read about something that’s meant to greatly help period pains” He mentioned squeezing your hips. “What?” “Sex” He smirked. You giggled a little at the thought. “Anakin first of all that’s disgusting. Two I think you made that up and three I look hideous right now I’m sure you wouldn’t want to put yourself through that” You teased. Anakin sat up slightly and rested his head in the palm of his robotic hand before gently guiding your face to look at him. “I happen to think you look gorgeous in the morning” He grinned. “I happen to think you’re a dirty liar” He chuckled at your words and kissed you. “Let me try, I think it would relieve both of us” Anakin continued. “M’just trying to help baby, I wanna pull the pain out of your uterus with my dick” He teased making you giggle at his dumb analogy. “You’re weird Anakin,” You told him rolling your eyes.

“It might help Y/N we can just try” Anakin shrugged biting down on his bottom lip ever so softly telling you how much he wanted to do it. It might actually take away some of the pain and help your hormones release or something like that. “Fine but if it gets too bloody and gross I’m done” You replied. A smile grew across his face and you returned a similar grin. “Promise I’ll make you feel so good” He whispered leaning down to kiss you more passionately. You reached up to slide your fingers through his messy hair and rolled on your back. After a few minutes, Anakin pulled back to get you naked. He slid your panties down your thighs giving them a firm squish. “Good girl, lift your hips” He guided, you did as he asked feeling more and more aroused by the second. Anakin took the towel off the water bottle and folded it neatly underneath you then positioned himself between your thighs.

“Ani please” You sighed as he leaned back down to kiss you caging you between his arms. Another ache racked your stomach and you bucked your hips toward his. “Anakin please it hurts” You whispered. “Yeah yeah, sorry baby” He grinned. “Just wanna go straight to it?” He asked. “Please yeah” You nodded wanting to reduce the pain as fast as possible. He sat up and lined himself up with your entrance with a delighted smile and slowly pushed in leaning down to kiss you in the process. You both let out little gasps at the feeling, it felt extra sensitive you could almost feel every ridge and curve on his hard dick. You moved your hands across his back and he sighed. “How is it?” He asked. “Really good” You confirmed before he started moving, starting steady and long thrusts.

Your pain slowly subsided feeling as though his cock was able to massage the pain from inside of you. “Ani” You moaned, you’re whole body felt sensitive as he ran his hands from your tits down to your waist guiding your body to move with his. “Stars Y/N why didn’t we do this sooner?” He smirked looking down at the mess you’d both created. It made him harder to see the blood on the towel below both of you. Anakin focused on deepening his strokes taking his time to make the pain disappear. The cramps were replaced with pleasure as you felt the familiar knot grow making you clench tighter around him squeezing your eyes shut. “You look so sexy when you do that” Anakin groaned. “Kiss me” You whimpered.

Anakin gladly did pressing his lips to yours in a hot sloppy kiss. “Faster” You whispered to him. As he sped up he continued to whisper things against your lips. “God baby we’re gonna do this every single day you’re bleeding” He smirked. “Please Ani c-close,” You said arching your hips closer to his no longer feeling any cramping. “Maker, I’m gonna stuff you so full of my cum it’ll be the only thing coming out of you” He continued leaning back to grip your hips with one hand and fuck you harder. Anakin began to play with your clit rubbing it in tight circles. The sound of your high-pitched whines made him twitch inside of you before long moans spilled from both your lips and his cum coated your insides. He continued to try and fuck you through it his thrusts becoming sloppy he slowed.

Your chest moved up and down quickly as you recovered from your huge orgasm. Anakin hung his head low against your shoulder rubbing circles on your hip. “Did that help?” He asked softly. “More than helped shit” You sighed now rubbing his scalp he smiled wide and sat up to look at you and press a gentle kiss to your wet lips. “How messy is it?” You grinned. “Just a bit” He lied glancing down at the red pooling between your thighs with a little smirk.

[thebelladonnaofbuffoonery]

❀ BANDAGES ❀

i HATE reading angst but oh lord do i LOVE writing it -especially for dazai.

CONTENT: one shot, dazai x reader, 902 words, hurt-comfort, canon relevant self harm, insecurity about said sh, real men cry, slightly ooc

you’d never spent much time wondering what dazai looked like without his bandages. admittedly, earlier on in your acquaintanceship, you had thought about it but quickly felt ashamed at how intrigued you were about something so personal to him -about someone you barely knew.

though you didn’t “barely know” him anymore, your intrigue had not resurfaced, but a desire for him to understand that you still cared about him grew daily. he shied away from your touch if the bandages were loose, had anyone but you dress his wounds after a fight, ran you countless baths but always sat on the cold hard floor beside it… you were starting to worry he might never trust you enough to relax completely around you.

“dazai,” you asked softly, one day as you’re laying against his chest while he’s tracing your palm.

“hm?”

“you know you can trust me, right?”

he chuckled and nuzzled his face into your neck, “why, i trust you with my life, my darling! honestly, i’m offended you need reassurance.”

you smiled, a warmth growing in your chest, “it’s just, i want you to know… well i feel like you don’t, sometimes. not with everything.”

he sighed, his patterns on your skin slowing to a halt, “is this about my bandages?”

“well, yes, but i don’t want you to think i’m saying this because i need you to take them off in front of me–”

“no, i understand that,” he said, returning to drawing in your palm with his slender finger. “in truth, i am a horrid beast underneath it all, i might turn you to stone if you saw my true form.”

you huffed, but couldn’t fight the smile he brought to your face, “dazai.”

“no it’s true!” he insisted.

“nothing about you could be so horrid,” you reasoned.

“you’d be surprised.”

it fell into a comfortable silence once more between you before you finally suggested what you’d been yearning to ask for months.

“let’s have a shower.”

“...together?”

“yeah.”

“i didn’t know my mere presence turned you on that much.”

“not like that,” you clarified, rolling your eyes at his playful nature, “just… come on.”

and he let you. he let you get off of him and pull him to stand, your gentle force guiding him to the bathroom.

“you don’t have to do this, if you really don’t want to,” you said, meeting his eyes as you shily took off your shirt. they softened under your gaze. he brought his large hand to the back of your head and pushed your forehead to his lips.

“i must warn you,” he said, drawing back and beginning to unbutton his shirt, “i’m a ghastly looking bastard.”

you merely rolled your eyes and helped him finish unbuttoning, meeting him halfway and allowing the garment to fall away. his bandages ran from his palms all the way to his chest and up his neck, held together at various points by elastic clips.

you took a step back, allowing him to undress them himself, one by one placing the little metal hooks on the bench and loosening the bandages.

he met your eyes only once, a shaky glace before the white fabric began to slip away.

underneath it all was nothing you hadn’t already expected; various types of burns, cut scars and marred skin. the amount of damage littered across his skin did surprise you a little, knowing dazai as someone without a tolerance for pain.

“hideous i know. most are from a time where i cared little for my comfort,” he said softly. you didn’t know how to respond, what else could be said that was not either glaringly obvious or out of touch at best? instead, you just continued to undress, taking garment after garment which soon dazai followed with.

wordlessly, you turned on the water and gently pulled him in with you until your back was pressed against the tiles and you could see him, all of him, in front of you.

“you’re handsome, dazai,” you told him softly, letting go of one of his hands to push his dampening hair from his eyes.

“i know,” he said deflective with his charming smile.

“you’re handsome,” you repeated.

“i know,” he said again.

“all of you,” you said.

he looked down at you, watching your eyes rake over him and sighed. he leaned into your touch, arching to rest his head on top of yours as your hands made their way up his back, fingers gently dragging over his damp skin.

you turned your cheek to place delicate little kisses over whatever skin you could in your position, his chest, his collarbone, his neck… painting his skin in a layer of affection. his hands squeezed your shoulders tighter and his body shuddered as you continued to place kisses against him, until finally he relaxed under your touch, and his arms dropped to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

his body shuddered again and you realised, much to your dismay, he was crying. you tried to pull back but he just clung to you tighter. so instead of questioning it, you welcomed his hold, your hands continuing their motion across his back, running over his skin in soothing movements as he silently cried into you. the two of you stood in each other's arms for what felt like forever until dazai muttered in a deep, quiet voice,

“thank you.”

a/n: i was so worried this would turn saviour-complexy so i really hope it didn’t come off that way. i just tried to think about how i would respond if someone did what the reader did, hopefully that was sensitive enough.

[goldenfigtree]

OMG THAT WAS ONLY PART 1 OF THE FIC ????? HELP I NEED MORE I NEED TO SEE MORE OF THIS

Raise A Glass

Summary: Part 2 of 3, After your passionate moment with Leon in the garden, you feel even more conflicted than you were before.

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x FemReader

Warning: Fluff

A/N: Ask and you shall receive! Part one is below if you've yet to read it :)

Part one

Bright and luminous, the moon hangs from its invisible string, blissfully unaware of its glow shining through your windows and onto your face. The sounds of Will’s snores were the only sound throughout your home while you laid in bed without a blink of sleep, fingers intertwined together and thumbs twiddling. 

This was unlike you, especially with the rehearsal dinner coming soon this evening and the wedding another day later. Most days that consisted of wedding planning left you in shambles, collapsing onto your plush mattress with a pitiful whine into your pillows and soon after, sleep swooping you under its wing. This new stressful yet effective routine had helped you gain all the hours of sleep you purposely lost before. But not this time, not when your mind was captivated with guilt, confusion, and stress. Ever since that moment in the garden, your mind has been an utter mess. 

You thought you were in a moment of distress before, hell, now you really knew what distress was after leaving Leon in such a state. 

You let out a sharp exhale through your teeth, brows furrowed as Leon’s face flashed into your mind, your lipstick residue on his lips, over and over again. And those eyes, God, those ocean blue irises watching you run away. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

The antique grandfather clock Will refused to throw out, despite your visible distaste for it, mocked you with its consistent clicking. Only reminding you that you needed to decide what road to take, now that there were two. Sliding your hands underneath the pillow lying under your head, you bring the sides to your ears in hopes the ticking and clicking will go away. 

God, you always hated that clock, you didn’t care if it was a family heirloom. It was as hideous as it is noisy, but Will insisted. Just like how he insisted on having yellow as one of the colors of the wedding theme, forgetting how much you despised the color. You really wished time travel was a thing so you could stop yourself from fighting with him about how little effort and input he had put into the wedding. Maybe while you were at it, you could stop yourself from kissing those soft plump lips at the garden fountain. . 

No, you couldn’t even if you tried. 

You wouldn’t admit it to anyone but that man had always been the apple of your eye. One mission with you and him as partners was all that it took for the both of you to hit it off. It was hard to not get along with Leon Kennedy. Someone so humble, kind, and loyal to his comrades. You always knew, if all else fails, Leon Kennedy was there to save the day. Which was also why he was overly worked. Everyone knew the way Leon Kennedy executed missions and pushed himself was on a different level. A level so many competitive and envious agents tried to achieve and so many other smitten agents oggled at. He was practically a celebrity to anyone working with the government. So, you didn’t look twice at the possibility of him perceiving you in any other light that wasn’t friendly, much less romantic. With all the options he had, certainly not. 

And yet, He kissed you.

Subconsciously, your bottom lip traps itself between your teeth. Being so good at everything, you didn’t expect him to be a good kisser too. What couldn’t that man do?

 Jesus Christ. How heartless can I be?

You think to yourself, turning to your soon-to-be husband, snoring away, blissfully unaware of the mess you were at the moment. At this point, sleep was a lost cause and you needed some fresh air. Swinging your legs to the edge of the bed, you slowly get up and walk out of the bedroom. Arms crossed, in your silk nightgown, you walk silently to your kitchen and make a beeline to the coffee maker. Call it self-sabotage, but you desperately need a friend. And since you kissed the only person you could talk to, coffee would have to suffice for now. Making it just the way you like, you walk outside and sit on one of the patio chairs, bathing in twilight as you take a comforting sip. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

There it was again, that blasted ticking of the grandfather clock– or was it just your head? It���s midnight and you’re exhausted from your mental turmoil so with another sip you decide to ignore it. However, one thought loomed over you like a stormy cloud, no matter the effort to fan it away,

You are getting married in two days. 

“What am I going to do?” You murmur to yourself, eyes pressed shut as you run a hand through your hair. Then you remembered, you do have someone you can talk to about this. Pulling your phone out from you pajama pants pocket, you dial the number quickly, “C’mon pick up. I know you’re awake” you whisper urgently to yourself as you hold up your phone to your ear. With two dials, a voice answers, 

“Can’t sleep either huh?” Claire wittedly greets over the line. Your lips curve into a smile of relief, 

“Nope” You perkily reply, earning a chuckle on the other end, “Do you have time to talk? I’m not bothering you, am I?” 

“No, what’s up?” 

There’s a pause between you that’s almost hesitant, hesitant enough for Claire to press, 

“Is everything okay?” With a sheepish chuckle, you shake your head, 

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine. I just need someone to talk to about… Leon” There’s another pause, 

“Oh!” Claire cheerily replies, almost too cheerful you noticed. 

“Yeah, did you see Leon at the engagement party a few days ago at all?” 

“Yeah, I bumped into him on the way to getting your engagement present. But after that, I didn’t see him for the rest of the evening”  

Your heart dropped, he must have left shortly after you ran away. You couldn’t blame him, but the thought of Leon being upset or hurt by you was slowly killing you inside. 

“Did.. something happen?” Claire gingerly asks. Squeezing your eyes shut, you let out a long sigh, 

“Yeah, I.. kissed him. At the engagement party” One hand holding the phone to your ear, you use the other to pinch the bridge of your nose as you continue, “I know Claire, I know” 

“Well, how was it?” You eyes flutter open in shock, 

“Huh?” 

“You heard me, how was it?” With a nervous chuckle, you try to find someway to word it, but your words were utterly failing you at the moment, 

“It was… awesome” Claire’s laughter erupts the phone as you wince at your choice of words, 

“Really?” Claire says teasingly,

“Shut up” 

“Any specific reason why you decided to kiss Leon at your engagement party?” 

“Well you, of all people, you know I’ve always had feelings for Leon. And then I met Will..” 

“Uhuh” Claire beckons you to go on,

“And Will’s just so nice and safe. Not something I’m particularly used to so I jumped into this relationship and now we’re getting married in two days and those feelings I have for Leon, they’re still there.” You ramble, voice trembling, your foot anxiously tapping on the floor as you look out to your freshly cut green lawn. 

“Sounds to me that you’re conflicted” 

“You think?” You mutter under your breath, anxious for some answers, some directions of which road to take,

“You mentioned you like Will because he’s safe right?” 

“Yeah, I mean he’s a teacher, so my work schedule won’t be hard if we start a family. And he makes me laugh. He’s just all around just a nice guy” 

“That’s nice n’ all but people usually get married for love not convenience” Claire bluntly comments, “Look, I know you, you’re not one to take risks, which can be good at times but to marry someone because they don’t challenge you is not safe” 

“So, should I run to Leon then?” 

“I don’t know, that’s for you to decide” Claire responds, earning another dramatic groan from you, “I know I know, but I’m not going to make life choices for you. Need help deciding whether to drink decaf or not, then I’ll have an answer for you” 

The both of you share a laugh as you feel the distress you were feeling a few minutes before slightly lift off. 

–

10 more minutes. 10 more minutes until everyone would arrive for the rehearsal dinner. You couldn’t help but repeat everything Claire had said in your head as you put on your earrings, 

“Safety or love, safety or love” you whispered to yourself, not realizing Will walking right past you, 

“You say something honey?” Avoiding his gaze, you try your best to focus on the application of your makeup as Will approaches you, pressing down the panic in your chest as you feel his presence closing in, 

“No, just focused on my makeup. Want it to be just right for tonight” Resting his hands on your shoulders, he looks at you through the bathroom mirror, his green eyes glowing from the bright bathroom light along with his shimmering golden blonde hair,

“You look great babe” He reassured pressing a kiss on the back of your neck. It took a second to realize that he did because what you felt was nothing, absolutely nothing, “Your family is on their way, Claire is going to be a little late” 

“Is Leon coming?” the green eyes in the reflection that once glowed with their usual uppity, darkened almost immediately, 

“I don’t know, why?” Averting his eyes you resume applying lipstick onto your lips. The air was so thick with tension it could be sliced through with a knife,

“Just wondering babe” you say as nonchalant as possible, earning a scoff from Will,

“You know he showed up late and left early at our engagement party? For someone that’s a close friend of yours, he sure doesn’t seem supportive” Will comments resentfully,

You could feel a coiling in your stomach at his words, your tongue suddenly having a mind of its own, 

“He’s very busy, Will. Him showing up for our engagement party and our rehearsal dinner is supportive enough” 

“That’s right, how could I forget? Leon Brown-Noser Kennedy can do no wrong in anyone’s eyes, especially yours” Will quips viciously, tightening the knot of his tie in the long mirror. The coil in your stomach tightened even more as you looked back at him through the bathroom mirror, pupils shrinking,

“What’s your problem?” You ask, glaring at him as you twist the cap of your mascara back in place. 

Will doesn’t look at you, only scoffs once more as he straightens his blazer, “what’s my problem?” with one last look in the mirror, he doesn’t look at you as he walks out of the room, only muttering one word in passing, “Nothing” 

You flinch at the sudden sound of him slamming the door, the sound alone preparing you, for what you already knew, was going to be a long night. But, you knew that you had to keep on with this search for what you wanted. And tonight, Leon was the one bearing the answers you so desperately needed. You wondered what he was thinking now, did he regret the kiss? Knowing him, you assumed he would want answers, answers you didn’t have yourself. Your rather gaudy engagement ring sparkles in the mirror aggressively, almost like the high beams of a car at night. Bringing it closer to your face, the memories stored in its jagged cuts and silver band dance around your head like a carousel. It was truly a beautiful moment, Will practically in tears as he professes his love to you on one knee, everyone around you at the pier looking at the both of you with awe and joy, the sun setting just for the two of you. It was truly breathtaking, but was it you? You had your wedding planned practically since birth, you knew exactly what type of cut of gemstone you wanted, the color scheme, the venue, the dress, absolutely everything. Was this massive rock on your finger what you admired in the wedding magazines as a kid? Was a public proposal always something you longed for when watching cheesy rom-coms? 

The answer was no and you knew it. But Will loved you, maybe not in the ways you wished he would but he loved you. Leon on the other hand, you had no idea how he felt and that alone was more terrifying than any biohazard monstrosity you’ve seen. One moment of passion wasn’t enough to throw this safety net away. You needed confirmation. You needed reciprocation. With a huff of a breath you look at yourself in the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your snowy white strapless dress. You were ready for this, you had to be for the sake of what lies ahead. 

Walking down the stairs, your can’t help but look around at who arrived, looking for a certain someone. It seemed that everyone noticed you make your entrance and looked up at you as you gazed down at them, gripping the stair railing to make sure you didn’t trip and fall to your death. You receive some greetings, some singing jokingly “here comes the bride”, but the only person you seemed to notice was him. 

He was there, gazing at you, pupils billowing, invading his blue irises. You almost forgot to breathe as you made your way down the stairs, step by step. Making it to the bottom, you make your way to him, eyes fixated at him with such determination that the crowd parted as you neared them. Finally, you meet him where he stands, 

“Can we talk?” You ask quietly, so no one else could hear. You try your hardest not to glance down at his lips but it seemed that Leon didn’t hesitate to look down at yours before nodding. The tension between the two of you dissolving by the clearing of the throat by Will, 

“Better dig in before the food gets cold, you coming sweetheart?” Will asks expectantly, lending a hand for you to take. Your heart drops at the sight of it, you hoped to get your answers before dinner. Before Leon decided to briskly sneak away back to the comfort of his home like last time. But, with one last longing look, you take Will’s hand and let him lead you to the dining room. 

The dining room was centered with a long glossy wood table, golden candleholders held the tall waxy candles in place as they dripped along the rims. Food trays and bowls lined and scattered along the table. The candlelight made the food and atmosphere all the more alluring enough for everyone to quickly sit down and be ready to serve themselves. 

The small talk with in-laws alone was thinning your patience, only the few glances at Leon talking to Claire keeping you sane. Sometimes Leon would make eye contact with you and smile, you couldn’t help but smile back before noticing the squeezing of your hand by Will’s. After a bit of eating and socializing, Will taps his champagne glass with his spoon to quiet down your guests, 

“First of all, I just want to thank all of you for coming to support our union. I hope your full bellies are evident enough of our gratitude” polite laughter briefly rises at his words before he continues on, “It’s an Allen family tradition to have a few people make a toast to the soon-to-be wed couple, care to start us off Leon?” 

Everyone at the table immediately snaps their necks to look at him for his reaction. It was safe to say this wasn’t expected. Your stomach dropped as you looked up at Will, eyebrows turned up in worry as you glanced back at him apologetically. Leon, being Leon, only gives you a reassuring smile before standing up and lifting his glass with him, 

“First, I’d like to say congratulations to the lovely couple” both your family and Will’s nod in approval, 

“Choosing the person you want to spend your life with, is the most important decision in our lives. It should be with someone that knows you, challenges you, sees all the good in you that you don’t see in yourself. And I have to say William, you have found that someone in her.” 

While he says this, his eyes slowly trail to you, giving you a warm feeling in your chest, “The moment I saw you, I knew there was something special about you. Then once I got to meet you, I found out I was right. You carry yourself with so much strength but also with so much love to give. And I’m so grateful to be one of the receptors of it. I think I might have taken it for granted. But I need you to know now and forever, no matter where you are, no matter who you’re married to, I will always love you” 

Your heart skips a beat as your eyes drip with tears, yet never straying away from his, deafening silence fills the dining hall as relatives and friends glance at one another in shock and confusion. This was it, the confirmation you were looking for, brought to your feet.  

“Like a brother to his sister, cheers to the Bride and Groom” He adds to save face before lifting his glass higher, the rest of the table following suit before gulping down their champagne.

[armoredtitanmistress]

𝙖 𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙡𝙤𝙦𝙪𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙬𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙙 | ᴛᴏᴊɪ ꜰᴜꜱʜɪɢᴜʀᴏ| first times (18+ MDNI)

pairings: toji fushiguro x gojo!reader, toji zenin x gojo!reader

summary: the first time you were close enough to see the stars.

tags/genre: toji x gojo!reader, gojo’s older sister, pre-star plasma vessel arc/star plasma vessel arc, Shiu Kong cameo, suggestive language (thanks to Toji, of course), explicit language, SMUT (if that makes you uncomfortable please do not read this), symbolism (?), satoru being a little brat (are we surprised?), sibling bonding, strangers to friends to ?, fluff, 2nd person point of view, the first person point of view switches are intentional!

warnings: 8.5k word count, rated M (18+) for language and sexual scenes, male masturbation, allusion to female masturbation, vaginal sex, male dom, fem sub, virginity kink (if you squint), praise kink, breath play, brat themes (barely), handjob (fingering), oral (fem rec.), teasing (this is toji were are talking about), sweet talk, dirty talk, pet names (doll and pretty girl are the extent of it), semi-edging, missionary, safe-sex (they used a condom), titty sucking.

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Your first time was in the garden underneath the blazing lights of the stars and the judgmental gaze of the moon with the man you loved most.

That’s how you retold it to me when I became a teenager and told you I was interested in dating. You stretched the importance of communication in a relationship. Your exact words were, “Make sure they know it’s a relationship! A lot of people assume things! Oh, and use protection!”

But that wasn’t the truth. At least, not the way that Yuki told me about it.

You lost it in a dingy apartment in Shinjuku with the night sky hardly peaking through the openings of the blinds. The man you lost it to, well, I can’t speak on that. 

He was an impatiently patient man. He had texted you his address soon after your date and added a few suggestive words to truly hone in on his desire to see you again but under an unrestrained environment. He left it at that and let the waiting game begin. His mind was filled with the chances of winning but in a small subsection (that’s as much as he’d ever admit to a living soul) of all that, he questioned what you’d be doing in your part of your world.

He would be lying if he didn’t have you as a constant in his mind since that day; to be more specific, your body had been getting him hard at just the thought of it. The silhouette of your body in the dress alone would have left an impactful impression on him but the opportunity to see you nearly naked and have the images he had fantasized about be confirmed. 

He envisioned you stuck in a circle of Elders dictating the state of their society and you idly listening in. They’d mention your role in their hierarchy as the face of the “New Era” and implant their belief systems into you through innuendos. You’d play the attentive archetype but secretly rather be in your garden or seeing that you enjoy spending time with your sibling, you’d think about taking Satoru to eat at his favorite place because who were you without trying to appease someone who wasn’t yourself? 

He also foresaw that after all of your tasks, you’d decompress in your garden. You’d be trying to do your daily routine of inspecting for weeds and checking what didn’t and did need watering. In between that routine, you’d somehow get reminded of him while taking in his failed attempt of carving out a snake in one of the hedges due to his reckless craftsmanship. You’d stifle a smile but you and those petunias that circled the surrounding area knew that you found amusement in it and though in the moment you cursed him to hell for trying to create something so hideous you never urged him to fix it. 

Afterward, you’d get frustrated thinking about him and believe that the frustration that needs to be released is through training. You’d have no one around to train with and take out your frustrations on the nearby trees surrounding the training ground. After attempting to release variations of Red and Blue on the trees you’d come to grow even more frustrated at your countless failed attempts at being able to use it continuously. So you’d switch the practice to something you were good at, fighting close range. This would need the help of a helpless punching bag and you’d try to exhaust all of your frustrations in a concoction of varying different punches and kicks. 

You’d take a shower to wash away the incessant thoughts of his presence. Your hands would massage in the shampoo to provide relief but it would remind you of the times he’d brush through your hair to find a strand to tug on. A tug, just one tug. That’s what you’d start with when you tug on one of your white strands. It wouldn’t feel the same as when he’d do it and that notion would certainly irk you. You’d continue your routine of washing your body but you’d make the mistake of closing your eyes when you brushed over your pebbled nipples. Curiously you’d grope them with the image of his exposed body in the pond cemented into the forefront of your mind making it easy to imagine his hands instead of your own. The hand that wasn’t busy with your breast would wander down to give attention to your needy clit that had been giving you clues as to what the target of your frustration had been. 

This is the scenario that Toji found himself jerking off to late at night in his bedroom after fighting the urge to take home a woman from the bar he had been at. He cursed you for this. If you hadn’t made the sole rule be not fucking anyone else, he’d be having his dick blown right now. You’d have no problem with that rule. That rule was a test and Toji was one boner away from breaking it. 

It was pathetic how he was holding out for someone who he hadn’t even felt yet. 

It had been a few days since he had last seen you and his body was not reacting to it well. He thought you would’ve been crawling to him by now. He pumped his shaft faster in frustration that the scenario he had imagined wasn’t even a probability for you. You had gone your whole life without sex, what would be a couple of days, weeks, or months added on of not experiencing it? 

He let out a few pumps before he came and let his other arm fall over his eyes while he tried to even out his breath. The pleasure that should’ve come along with it was nonexistent. Instead, he made the mistake of letting his mind flash an image of you again. 

He would spend the rest of his night restless and sore.

The next day he had to clear his mind through means that keep him sane.

There he was in a gambling pub in Shinjuku trying to make use of his money by trying to expand on it. It was also his unhealthy way of killing time as he anticipated your call. His gambling feats were enough to forget about all the other times he had lost money. He had placed his bet for the horse race that was the gamble of the day and ordered himself some takoyaki. The pub was situated on the outskirts of Shinjuku and was a hole-in-the-wall place. The pub was littered with all walks of life – a salaryman that is using gambling as a salvation, a group of construction workers who were there for lunch and had bet the lowest amount possible as they treated it as a game, a pair of middle-aged men that didn’t want to go home to their wife and kids, and then the majority were questionable characters that were stereotypical to the environment.

If Toji were to choose between the aforementioned list he would say he was a mix of them all. This information was based on observation and had a high possibility of it all being false but Toji didn’t plan on finding out. No, he is going to take his profiling as gospel and allow himself to be right. They were the least of his worries after all. The horse he bet on was advancing and the money he put in looked like a sure win. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the pub open and knew from the suit and the stench of cigarettes that approached him who it was. Sipping on his fountain drink of choice, he huffs out a laugh and announces,  “Was under the impression you were embarrassed by me, Shiu. You always restrict our meetings to over the phone so what’s with the sudden appearance?” 

Shiu Kong, a 24-year-old Korean national and former detective somehow found himself in Japan as a handler for mercenaries. Toji met him at a pub similar to the one they were in 2 years ago but not by coincidence. Shiu had seen him a few times before approaching him but observing him get into a bar fight and his blatant disregard for others made him approach him with the offer of becoming a mercenary. 

“Unfortunately, you’re hard to miss.” The man lamented referring to the window that was directly in front of him and the man’s large silhouette. He walked closer to the table and spectated the horse race that was projected on the screen and made his bet with himself that Toji would lose. The gamble was that if Toji lost he’d reward himself another pack of parliaments and if he won he’d quit smoking.  

“Plenty embarrassed of you but I just happened to be in the area and saw you through the window. Decided to cut out the middleman and fill you in on the job in person.” He explained while he searched one of his pockets for a staple of his image, a cigarette, and a lighter. Digging out both he exhaled, “Might find some entertainment watching you blow a shit load of cash in one go.”

“You’re wasting your time. I might not even bother with the job after I win this one. Bet 8 million on that Bronco and heard from one of the guys here that he’s a sure win.” Toji assured, offhandedly directing his chopsticks toward a sleazy-looking bald man across the pub.

“Yeah?” he asked in disbelief as he pulled out a seat next to his delusional client, “Should you be taking advice from a man who’s betting against you?”

No, he shouldn’t but he could always leave the man a generous message if he did decide to play dirty. Regardless if the man had “reassured” him that his bet was solid, Toji felt confident in his bet. He contributed his confidence to the outlook of his week. He was hoping that the biggest star in the sky was as much in favor of him as it had been on that date. Again, your image manifested in his mind causing him to try to remain neutral and adjust himself discreetly under the table. 

He returned his gaze to the TV while he was picking up his set of chopsticks when he saw the announcement that his horse had lost. Out of frustration, he had cracked them with the emotion that had manifested in the force he held them in. He stood up from his seat and scoured the pub for the man with his eyes. He focused his eyes on where had been earlier and saw only the food he had been eating left.

“Coward”, he mumbled as he plopped himself back on the stool and pulled out another set of chopsticks from the canister on the table, he grumbled, “How much is it and when do I have to do it?”

Puffing out the smoke, he taunted thoroughly amused with how the situation worked out for him, “Trying to make another quick buck after this? Employers are going to start paying you a salary with how frequently you are asking for jobs.” 

“If it’s anything short of a million they can shove that salary offer up their ass. I have to force you to negotiate to even get half the amount the jobs are worth.” He swallowed and drank from the fountain drink that he had refilled multiple times with no plans of paying the refill fee. His most recent job payout was a rare one, usually, the payout for his jobs is between 10-50k. The employers never understood the value or cost of a life. Why would they? If they were never the ones doing it. Rich people had money to blow but not the faintest idea what it’s worth was.

Pulling a seat next to the enormous man, he lets a chuckle escape, “God forbid, a 22-year-old survives on a million a month. Your gambling is going to leave you on the street eventually and don’t expect as your handler I’m going to offer you my house to crash at.”

Plopping another takoyaki ball in his mouth as he watched the horse he betted on in the lead, he jauntily answered, “As long as the jobs roll in we are both in the clear of that ever happening.”

Call Toji any negative adjective (trust, I have some of my own) but he was diligent with his work. He was the highest mercenary in demand in all of Japan with how efficient he was with his commissions. Employers appreciated that all he asked was the lump sum and the general details of the job. Morals were not a driving force in any particular aspect of being a mercenary, at least that’s how Toji perceived his career path. 

Shiu nodded and vaguely detailed, “All these people want is for it to be done by the end of the month.” 

While Shiu began to debrief him vaguely on the job, Toji felt a beep in the pocket of his jeans. His contact list consisted of the man in front of him and the woman he had eagerly anticipated to be inside of. He could’ve groaned out of relief at this revelation. From briefly listening in on the job description, it seemed like a pretty standard job.

Finishing the last sips of his drink and chewing on the last ball of takoyaki, he grunted as he stood up from his seat, “Got it. Forward me the details in a text or something.”

“You’ve been in a rush the past couple of days, Zenin. What other unhealthy habit of yours have you been indulging in?” He asked to take a draw from his cigarette while stuffing one of his hands in his pocket. With how long they’ve known each other, he’s hardly ever seen him rushing to places. Toji lived on the ideology that he had all the time in the world and he didn’t care much for how he spent it. Now comparing this ideology with how he had been acting lately, the former detective’s interest had peaked.

“Nothing that you would care about.” He replied as he put on his jacket. He threw some cash on the table and patted his handlers back as he made his way out of the pub. 

“Thanks for that restaurant recommendation, by the way.”

Shiu watched as his associate walked through the doors of the establishment and smirked to himself. Getting up from his seat and throwing away the trash Toji had left behind he makes his way to a nearby smoke shop with his head held high and mentally thanking him for his misgivings.

No, thank you, Shiu thought as he handed the cashier his money.

———————————————————-----------------------------------------------------------------

Weeds are grown out.

[image attached]

The text alongside him reaching the garden to see you fully clothed, in baggy jeans and an even bigger knit sweater with an annoyingly yellow garden apron on top of it all with that brat of a brother beside you, well, color his disappointment.

Irony befell him as he found himself going back to his old routine of trying to go unnoticed by you guys. He must’ve been rusty because it didn’t take long for your blue eyes to find his hiding spot. You nodded your head in acknowledgment before turning your attention back to the miniature version of you that was inches away from terrorizing a flower. If he hadn’t known he was your brother, he could have passed off Satoru as your son. 

You slapped his wrist away causing him to yelp in pain and sheepishly grin at being caught. You looked at him unamused and demonstrated how to properly pluck a flower.

“You are too rough on such delicate organisms, ‘Toru. You have to treat them with care and love–” He brought his hands up mimicking your speech and guessed the next words you were going to say, “Because they feel it too blah blah blah.” 

He stared boredly at how you plucked the flower from the stem rather than from the root and didn’t notice how your method was any better than his.

“Feel stuff, my butt. Why care for something so weak? They don’t even do anything.”  You heard him mutter and were growing irritated at his attitude. Normally, you’d hear complaints about his attitude from his retainer and any other unlucky person who crossed his path. You’d reprimand him but his behavior never was bad when he was with you. He’d be whiny and pouty but that was the extent of it. This was unusual.

“Why do you care for the teddy bear that I gifted you? Why do you care for the toys that you play with?” You asked, placing the flower you had plucked in the pocket of your apron.

He answered as if it were obvious, “Because you got them for me.”

“But they don’t do anything, so what value do they bring you? You wouldn’t care if I threw them away, right?” 

“I wouldn’t care. You could buy me new ones.” This kid was audacious as he stared up at you with the cheekiest grin. 

This kid knew his strengths and Toji could applaud you for resisting the urge to enforce corporal punishment. 

You scoffed, “I would? What gave you that idea?”

Satoru wrapped his arms around your waist and snuggled into the embrace he had created. “Look at this face! You can’t say no to this!” He cooed, shining his eyes to yours that dulled in comparison.

You shook your head with a laugh, warming up to his antics, before creating some distance. You plucked two flowers out from nearby; hyssop and heliotrope. 

Crouching down to his height, you explained, “You don’t know the meaning now but I hope once you find this interesting enough that one day you’ll understand.” You threaded the flowers in the crevice behind his ear, brushing a few strands of hair out of the way to properly display them.

Smiling at your work, you confessed, “You are annoyingly cute and sometimes I wish you didn’t know that but that’s not why I buy you those things.”

Pointing to the flowers behind his ear you said, “Those flowers are important because they have meaning.”

“Huh?” Your brother's face contorted in visual confusion, unable to grasp the point you were trying to make.

“Satoru means “to know.” Your name has meaning and lets people know how to address you. It reveals to people the kind of person you are from that alone. It’s what makes you a person.” You recall fondly on the day you were given the honor to name him. Your parents were so preoccupied with the revelation of birthing a user of the Six Eyes that they had forgotten to give him a name. The responsibility then had been passed to you. His birth came before you had thought of baby names for your hypothetical future child but keeping in line with your unoriginality Satoru was the first name to come to mind.

“These flowers may look weak based on appearance but many hold toxic properties that could kill something based on impact or consumption. Assuming that something is weak makes you the weak one in a situation and inevitably leaves you at a greater disadvantage. It could lead to your death.” You explained as you pointed to a patch of lantana, bitter nightshade, and mountain laurel; flowers with beautiful exteriors but poisonous compositions. 

Satoru groaned but made no effort to take out the flowers you’d given him, “If I wanted a life lesson, I would’ve stayed with Yoichi.”

Being compared to his retainer made you recoil. You hadn’t meant to turn a sibling bonding day into a day of lectures. The world after the ignorant closings of childhood is nothing but continuous put-to-use life lessons. You’d rather give him insight into his destiny as the strongest than further inflate the propagated ego that the masses had given the boy that convinced him that he was invincible. 

“You are welcome to go back to him if this bores you so much.” You are met with silence and that only elicits a sigh from you. You announced, “Let’s call it a day. I have some matters to attend to and Yoichi is most likely searching for you.”

In truth Satoru wasn’t bored, he just wanted you to spend time with him. Without the lessons, without being at home, and without anything or anyone else to worry about. You were his moral compass and anything you’d say he’d follow. His attitude was directed toward the retainer he had been trying to dodge all day

Satoru’s voice called out behind you, “It’s not boring! Tell me about those! They look kinda funky, what do they mean?”

You turned around to see him pointing at a patch of weeds. You giggled walking over to him and ruffling his hair, “Those are called weeds and they mean that I need to pluck them out in order for the other flowers to stay alive.”

“Can I help you with that one day?” He asked, unknowingly robbing Toji of his side hustle.

“Of course.” You smiled when you leaned down to place a kiss on his head, “You can go ahead of me. I’ll see you later.”

“Be nice to Yoichi!”

“I’m always nice!” He stuck his tongue out as he ran off passing the tree Toji had been hiding behind. He walked out once the kid was outside of earshot and made his way to an expectant you.

“To what do I owe the displeasure, Zenin?” You asked, patting your hands onto your apron.

Gesturing his head to the fading body of your body, he confronts, “Was here to clock in but instead saw you interviewing someone for my job. Did I mention that I work better alone?” 

You laughed, “Guessing that I was interviewing for a new worker rather than a replacement is audacious. I’ve been giving you warnings about how you handled my hedges and you never seem to listen.”

“I express artistic freedom.” He shrugged, “What do they say? Art is in the eye of the beholder.” 

You chuckled then teased.“As I’ve said time and time again, you need better eyes.” 

Walking up the array of hedges that had been brutalized by Toji’s craftsmanship, you inquire, “Alright, what is this one supposed to be?”

What you had been pointing to were two hedges that you had thought looked like either a yin and yang figure or– actually, no that was your only guess. None of his pieces have ever looked easy to understand. You suppose he could make the argument that’s the point of art so instead of voicing that you let it remain a thought.

“Obviously that’s supposed to be a lion fighting a tiger.” He claimed with certainty.

You raised a brow, “They have stories?”

You didn’t think Toji had the capability to be creative or thoughtful. His life was based on thoughtless behavior, it was the basis of your friendship. Sure, the portrayal he was going for was violent but the thought did render you temporarily speechless. Thinking about it more, what kind of hobbies did Toji have? What kind of things does he like? Does he listen to music?

“You’ve said it yourself. Everything has meaning. Isn’t that what you were trying to tell that brat?” If you had been familiar with his bashful tells, you would’ve noticed how he refused to make eye contact with you when he answered and the tips of his ears went red.

“By the way, if that’s how you talk during sex too I might have to rethink our deal. Unless you're moaning during it then by all means continue.” He mocked, naturally reminding you of the agreement you had made almost a week ago that had been constantly replaying in your mind.

You rolled your eyes, feeling the incessant jabs at you today to be unfair, “You’d be able to get those sounds from me? I’d like to see you try.” 

His hands found their respective places at each side of your waist, pulling your ass into the outline of his hardened member as he breathed into the shell of your ear, “You could find out. We still haven’t put the point of this deal to trial yet.” 

“You’re vetoing my analogies during sex but that proves otherwise.” You rebuke, restraining the noise that wanted to come out from the impact. Remaining in his hold any longer, you would have let him take you right then and there. When you did get out of his touch, you heard him groan and felt the effects of it go straight to your core.

“I also remember mentioning that I don’t plan on losing it in the garden.” You calmly remind, trying hard to deny the throb in between your legs.

“I haven’t fucked anyone in a week. I’ve been maintaining my end of the deal. It’s now your turn to maintain yours. I was under the impression that you’d be one of the better pussy I’ve been in.”  He said in annoyance, growing tired of your game.

You didn’t necessarily have any proof to prove that he had been lying but you also had no proof that he had been telling the truth. You shrugged, not understanding how that had anything to do with you, “Whether I am or not, that’ll be up to you to decide.”

“Yeah, and when is that gonna be? It’s been nearly a week, doll. My patience is running out.” 

And it truly was. After jerking off to an imaginary scenario and sporting one to the thought of you, he could only endure so much. An ironic predicament for a man who has a Heavenly Pact that enhances his senses and his physical strength.

It must be your Gojo instincts because you felt pleasure in having something over the outcasted Zenin. 

“Tomorrow. I’ll give myself to you tomorrow.” You stated, making it seem like a less than thought out decision when in actuality you had this decided from the moment you had sent that text. 

“In the meantime, if you want to keep your job.” You handed him the hedge clippers, “Fix my hedges."

The rest of the time, it was a comfortable quiet with the noise of your collective pensive with the thoughts of tomorrow above all else.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The address in his text led you to a wear-for-tear apartment complex on the outskirts of Tokyo nearing Shinjuku. It was enveloped with nearby liquor stores, gambling pubs, drunkards, and arguing couples. It worried your driver to leave you alone in such a place so much that he had asked to wait for you out of concern for your safety but you waved him off without a second thought. The excuse you had used was that you were meeting up with an old colleague on work matters. He had been hesitant but he obeyed and drove off leaving you in front of the disarray. The environment is very well aligned with where you had imagined Toji would live. Given the amount of money that Toji was given in his jobs, he must’ve spent it all on a continuous streak of failed gambling bets and couldn’t afford to pay rent in a better place. You couldn’t even imagine the structure or the furniture he had in his apartment. You felt that it could have been the affluent possessions or black-and-white essentials. 

You let those thoughts linger as you made your way up the flight of stairs to his apartment. Each step was louder and more concerning than the last. The noise of cars passing by and various sirens were heard clearly throughout the motel-style infrastructure of the apartment.

When you arrived at his door, you felt the reality of the situation sink in. Your virginity wasn’t something sacred to you. As a teenager, you weren’t interested in any guy that much to want to lose it to them. You wished you had caved and just lost it to one of the many guys Yuki had sent your way. Due to your high standards, you’ve landed yourself in a situation that was more than you bargained for. You’re stuck with the option of Toji Zenin, the embodiment of sex.

You let your knuckles graze the door believing if you left them there for a while it would give you the courage to knock. The meandering thoughts were pushed aside once you lifted your knuckles to knock and felt your stomach twisted up into knots. You vaguely heard thuds and things opening and closing from the interior and felt the knots in your stomach tighten. 

He opened the door with relatively the same image that you had engraved in your mind; nothing but a towel around his neck and low hanging plaid red and black pajama pants that visibly displayed his defined v-line. Your blue eyes knew not to linger and went to search for his but found them fixated on your mouth. You’d have to address that habit of his eventually. You took that as your cue to speak.

“H-Hey.” 

Pathetic, you thought to yourself. It had only been a few hours ago that you held the power in the situation. Seeing a preview and what you’d be seeing soon, you forfeited any semblance of power that you had left. Pushing your way through the door, you reiterate, “Where’s your bedroom?”

Entering his apartment, your suspicions of what it would look like were semi-confirmed. There were no luxurious items but it was filled with household essentials like a couch and TV. It was also barren of any personality aside from a bar cart that had looked to be untouched.  

“Straight to the point? I appreciate taking into account how cruel you’ve been towards me.” He grinned at your flustered state. 

“Shut up, asshat. I just want to get this over with.” You barked back, walking aimlessly in his apartment aiming to find the door that led to his bedroom.

“It’s the first door to the left. You can wait there for me. I’ll be out soon” He called out as he made his way back into the bathroom to continue his night routine that you undoubtedly disrupted.

You entered the bedroom and were surprised to find that it was cleaner than you had imagined it to be. Much like the living room, it only held the essential furniture needed to distinguish its purpose. After assessing the room for what it was, you situated yourself on the bed with your hands gripping the skirt of your kimono. 

“You still have your clothes on?” You could hear the disappointment from his voice and as you turned to see him his face matched the tone of his voice. His body leaned against the doorframe, his appearance the same as it had been when he had opened the door.

You groaned, “At least try to pretend to not be disappointed.” 

“You preach that speaking the truth is important to your brother but when I do it you draw the line.” He said, referring to the day you had acknowledged his existence for the first time. He sits next to you, leaving a good distance in between, but the scent of his shampoo is so intoxicating that he might as well have been millimeters away.

“For someone who partakes in sex as often as you do, you should know that talking about relatives beforehand is a serious turn-off and not a form of sex talk.” You chastised with no merit to your words.

He looked thoroughly unimpressed by your comment and rebuked it, “We haven’t even started and you’re already questioning my skills.”

The foundation of your knowledge of sex came from sources like porn and Yuki that were classified as the same; dramatized and romanticized. Another source was Toji but the thought of him having been with other women doesn’t entirely sit right with you at the moment. 

“So how do you do this?” You asked, not entirely aware of how to initiate it. 

He loathed verbal communication if it wasn’t necessary. He was a firm believer that people can understand from physical cues alone. Therefore, he used his movements as a response. One of his hands maneuvers its way to the small of your waist, pulling you to where your knees touch. Having you secured where he wanted you, he reached his vacant hand to cup the underside of your jaw and licked his lips before consuming yours. Similarly to the first kiss you shared at the park, it was short and sweet. He pulled away before you could even reciprocate finding your lips searching for him.

He smirked and guided, “We’ll start with this and then we can work your way up to it.” 

Your lips hovering his and the scent of your strawberry chapstick lingering was not going to do it, he had to taste them again. So he did, working his mouth against yours and licking away the temptation of the strawberry chapstick. Unlike the first time, you had managed to catch on faster. You situated your hands on his shoulders to stabilize yourself but still felt unsteady. It wasn’t until you threaded your fingers into his hair that you felt secure.

He tugged on your lower lip to gain access but you weren’t one to back down easily. You weren’t the first to deny him and he had learned how to bypass brats like you. With his hand that had still been on the small of your back, he moved it lower to give your ass a quick tap causing you to gasp and for his tongue to claim your mouth.

Trying to win a battle of strength with Toji was a pathetic effort and after what felt like forever but was only a few seconds, you had given up on trying to win. 

“What am I supposed to do?” You whispered in earnest but the delicacy in your voice had translated in his head to something sensual in his ear. He withheld the groan that was threatening to leave his throat and opted to busy himself by placing one of his palms on the underside of your jaw to have you facing him as he brushed pieces of hair from your face. 

He brushed his lips over your own as he spoke breathlessly,  “You don’t gotta do anything, doll.”

He kissed you one final time before descending towards the valley on your neck and collarbones. His impatience waned with each descending kiss he’d leave on your body. Some parts earn attention while other parts yearn for it. The marks he left left him satisfied until he encountered the hemline of your kimono blocking the visage of your breast. 

“Sit up.” He instructed, helping guide you up while also loosening the obi from your waist in the process allowing your body to be exposed for him to see.

He had been complaining about you essentially blue balling him for over a week but he had no intention of having you work. Not tonight. Tonight was all about you and he was going to let you know that. 

Understanding what he was trying to do, you attempted to cover yourself with the fabric with your face flushing in the process. However, your attempt to fall lackluster in execution with your breast is now enhanced by your crossed arms. 

“Don’t just stare.” You muttered, suddenly feeling small – a feeling that did not come naturally to you.

“You’re just s’pretty. Hard not to.” The effects of his praise manifested differently, your upper half illuminating your cheeks in bright pink while the lower half hiding in your core.

Your pose and your expression had him experience a sexual high he had never been able to achieve with any other woman. A sculptor like Brancusi could feel,see, and anatomically understand your body but he could never be able to sculpt it in a manner that remained faithful to your essence. 

He took hold of your clothes and tossed them in the same direction he had your panties. You were fully bare but unlike earlier, you felt a surge of confidence at his dark green eyes morphing away from its former greed hue.

“Come on, now’s not the time to get shy with me.” He laughed before latching his mouth onto your breast bringing out a moan that had yet to be released from you. His tongue lapped, swirled, and tugged on your nipple with expertise while his other hand replicated his tongue's movement effortlessly. You tried covering your mouth in an attempt to muffle the noises that were fighting to come out but Toji took quick notice and moved it to situate back into his terrain of hair..

“I wanna hear those sweet noises of yours, doll. Let them out. You can try covering up how I’m making you feel but I know.” He urged you on before taking the hand that had been toying with your nipple and using one of his fingers to hook onto your panties and move them aside to rub across your slit and in doing so pick up how wet you had become from just from touch. Your lips were sealed shut but your hips bucked against his touch, trying to catch the sensation again. 

Slipping his fingers inside his mouth to suck up you up. He stuck his tongue out to give you a visual of his tongue churning on his finger. Pleased by your reaction, he kissed your lips in reward for your submission, permitting you to taste yourself. He mumbles in between kisses, “Your body makes it so obvious for me.”

“Do something.” You uttered between battered breaths.

He lowered himself between your thighs and raised your legs to rest on either side of his shoulder after he had skillfully taken off your panties in the process, tossing them aside without haste. Coming in contact with your pussy, he breathed haughtily against your folds. You had to have the prettiest pussy he had ever seen. It was dripping and anxiously awaiting his touch but he had to contain himself. 

“Demanding me? To do what exactly?” He used his breath to an advantage, drawing in and out of the vicinity of your pussy but never too close or too far. His antics are the source of the shiver that overtook your body.  

“Touch me.” You said in an obvious tone.

“Where? Here?” He asked coyly, grazing his tongue throughout your inner thigh barely reaching the meeting point of your thigh and your vagina. Deciding to be generous, he presses a kiss onto your swollen clit. You could’ve slapped yourself with the whimper you had let out.

You gritted out in between moans, knowing what he was doing, “Fuck you know where shit, you are such an asshole.” 

He rolled his eyes at the nickname but decided that since it was your first time he should save the edging for another day. 

Without warning, you feel a slow swirl on your clit before he commits to seeking refuge with his lips. He ate you out as if you contained ambrosia and the only way to fully attain it was by ruining you.

“You’ve got such a pretty clit, doll. Looks so cute and swollen.” He teased as he swirled a finger over it before giving it a little tug. You glanced down to see his hungry eyes drawn to your panting and moaning figure. You quickly looked away and he retracted his fingers from your clit at the same time. You whined out at the loss.

“Eyes on me.” 

You couldn’t find yourself to disobey. 

“Want you to remember this.” You heard him whisper in between sucks as he descended again. Occasionally he would groan into your cunt shocking you closer to an orgasm. The bed sheets weren’t even a contender for places to latch on. Your eyes were only on Toji. It was an automatic response to thread your fingers through his hair and guide his head closer to you. 

His name is left broken on your lips while your orgasm is on his. He gave you a second to compose yourself before asking, “Think you can handle more?”

More? Before you could ask, you had your words caught in your throat.

“All that from just my mouth.” He lapped up everything that had been seeping out of you. “Need to prep you before you take the whole thing. Wanna see how much you can take when I add one in.” He murmurs to himself more than to you. 

“Inflating your ego during sex, you’re such- fuck Toji!”  You cut yourself off at his finger slotting inside your cunt without any resistance or warning. 

“So loose. I’m sure you can take one more.” He mumbled against your ear.

He pumped in and out while his mouth met yours allowing you to taste yourself. Originally the thought had repulsed you but with the assaults on your cunt and an impending second orgasm, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. The kiss was sloppy. You would break away each time his fingers hit the right spot. 

Toji was right. Sex was a stress reliever. You couldn’t think of the documents on your desk that you needed to sign, missions that you had lined up for the week, or the brunch your mother had asked you to attend. That damn brunch was the least of your concerns. None of that mattered, not with how his fingers were slamming in and out of you at an inhuman pace that no other man could achieve. 

You felt that you were close but so did he. His lips left yours at the same time his fingers did and you anxiously anticipated their return but they never came. You turned to face him but noticed him get up off the bed.

“Why’d you stop?” You asked panting, lifting yourself using your elbows. Had you done something wrong? Before you could ask, he lifted a hand signaling you to remain still.

“Like I said, I was prepping you. Want you to cum on something else.” He informed, swiftly removing his remaining clothes leaving him fully nude.

Your imagination didn’t do it justice. At this point, nothing you had envisioned this to go to had been beyond your comprehension. That night at the pond was proving to be a preview. You had no dicks for reference to go off but based on the assumption you knew he was beyond average in girth and length. It had to be his Heavenly Pact at work because no normal human would be able to have been blessed like that.

“Are you ready? We can stop.” He asked with a kindness you had never thought was possible from a mercenary. His eyes remind you of an exploding nebula. You had never seen that sort of emotion from him in all your years of knowing him. 

Momentarily shocked you stared gapingly at him and you shook your head.

“I want you.” You softly whispered, though it had sounded different in your head.Not given enough time to backtrack on the implications, your body had already been lifted and settled onto a few pillows with your back against the headboard of his bed. 

Those were the words he imagined you saying when he’d touch himself to the thought of you. When he needed something to get him off while he was with a woman who wasn’t doing it for him.

Staring at your figure, you were stunning. Pieces of your white hair sticking to your body due to the sweat that could mimic a blizzard. Your boobs moving to an unsteady and erratic rhythm, Your thighs rubbing against each other to release tension, Then those eyes of yours that might as well have been the six-eyes with how alluring they were, tempting him to dare to ruin you, taint you, take you.

“What.” You mumble, suddenly the confidence you had felt earlier converting into self-conscious.

He places his thighs on either side of your legs, hovering over you before closing in on your face. “Been waiting years for you to admit that. Give me some time to soak it in.” He breathes, stealing another breathtaking kiss.

“I’m here now. Do what you want.” Your words draw out when he departs from the kiss. 

He shook his head while he fluttered his lips against your jaw, “You’re not ready for what I want. You’d fall right apart.”

Your left arm latched onto his shoulder to keep him close and hummed at his words.

“Try me.”

You felt the chuckle he let out on your collarbone, “You don’t ride a stallion without riding a mule first.”

“You do if you dare to try.” 

He stopped his advances and again laughed at your audacity before snaking a hand behind you to give your ass a playful tap.

“Offering to ride me? I’m sure you could but that’s gonna have to be another day.” He promised and you were inclined to believe without any further information.

You weren’t thinking. You couldn’t think knowing that his dick was so close but so far away. That you were about to lose it to Toji, the man who has been in your life for as long as you’ve been sentient. 

He must’ve sensed your nerves because he smiled–not one of those condescending Zenin smiles– but a smile that was unique to Toji.

“I got you.” He assured you with words but his green eyes were the first thing to register in your mind. 

He reached to the side of his nightstand and unwrapped the condom wrapper. He saw you watching with curious eyes.

“Wanna put it on?” He asked and you could only nod as he handed over to you. 

It seemed pretty straightforward. All you had to do was slip it on him. As you were about to make contact with his dick was when you realized what you were doing but let the thoughts die out. As you slipped it on fully, you let your fingers graze the part of his dick that wasn’t covered by the condom out of curiosity. His hand caught your wrist and you thought you did something wrong.

“Not today.” He tried to remain assertive but his wavering voice begged to differ. However, you didn’t notice.

“I’m going to put it in.” He said and you nodded. When he did you could only describe the sensation as foreign – more foreign than a kiss but not unwelcome— and you felt that you’d never hold leverage over him again.

This was too intimate. He was handling you with the care of a flower. Ironic, given how he went about tending your garden. You had hardly been allowed to do anything because he wouldn’t let you. He was partly in, with a little more than half of his dick inside of you, inching in slowly so as to not overwhelm you. 

“You can move.” 

“With pleasure.” He started off slow like he did when he first put it in – in the haze of your impatience you’d consider it a snail's pace– however, the way he rolled his hips into yours to make up for it. You observed as his eyes found a new fixation on his dick disappearing into your cunt. No matter how he tried to make up for it, you needed more and you were passed not wanting to beg.

“Faster, you can go faster.” You encouraged and he didn’t need to be told twice. He wrapped your legs around his waist and the angle immediately caused a knot to form in your stomach. The snail's pace was overtaken by a speed that you could compare to a jackrabbit. Your jaw lolled and began moaning and yelling profanities mixed in with his name that hazed out in your head to sound the same. It must’ve been a mantra because he joined in too.

“You’re doin’ so fuckin good, pretty girl. Takin’ it so well.” He praised before groaning out your name causing you to clench around him involuntarily. 

“Fu-uck you’re killing me here, doll. How does it feel getting ruined by me.” He growled, drawing out of you before ramming back into your cunt. The crescendo of your bodies resonating through the walls. 

“S’good! S’good!” He laughed at how gone you were. You were his dream incarnate. As he pushed into you, he let the thought of the long wait you put him through be worth it.

He kissed you, branding your hips with his hands and using the momentum to rut further into you, as he said, “Want to feel you cum. I know you got one more in ya, pretty.”  In such a short amount of time, he had already memorized your body’s cues.

You gasped at the increase in pace and knew that you would be reaching the end soon.

“To-oh-ji! Toji! Toji! Fuuh-uck!” You had officially lost all sense. Your hips rutted into his, a failed attempt at matching his pace. 

His mouth latched onto your boob, sucking harshing on your nipple, and occasionally biting onto it. Rather than giving your other boob the same attention, his other hand traveled into your valley and made a home abusing your clit that was pulsing from the overstimulation.

“I’m close.” You warned and his actions weren’t what unraveled you. It was his words.

Unlatching from your boob, he smirked against your lips, “You're there, baby. Let go.” 

His blinds were closed all the way, not allowing a speck of light to permeate through the bedroom but you were seeing stars. You may have seen Cassiopeia amongst them all. 

His mouth caught your moans but his pace didn’t relent just yet. His movements were not as precise as they had been, stuttering between strokes, and he had begun to be vocal. He was near his end and you had to repay him for his work by clenching around his dick and tugging at his hair. 

He rammed into your cunt one final time before you felt his cum spurt inside you. This is by far the most he had cum in– no, he had never cum this much before. His body fell slack onto yours and for a while, all you felt was your chest beat in unison. He stayed inside you for a while and when he did eventually take it out, you felt your cunt clench on air at the loss.

He tossed the condom into the nearby trash can and let himself fall beside yours. It was awkward for a while but you knew that you needed to leave. You started to get up from the bed, preparing to find your clothes that had been scattered throughout the room, his hand lying on top.

Turning to face him, you saw his pose embodied a sculpture of Hercules to a tee– naked with his sheet draping over the parts you had met a few minutes prior. 

“You don’t have to leave” If you didn’t know any better you could confuse his tone with his pleading.

“It’s already so late and my driver will definitely grow suspicious if I don’t return home tonight.”

“You had a driver bring you here?” He asked unimpressed. For someone as calculated as you, the rookie mistake of having a driver bring you here was laughable.

“How else would I get here? You didn’t necessarily offer me a ride.” You reminded him while you found your phone and texted your driver 

“No but you did.” He smirked and you felt your cheeks heat up.

“Consider the offer off the table.” Though it was a threat, he found the pout etched on your face too cute to hold your threat at a value. 

You made your way out of the apartment complex to see your driver waiting for you. 

“I surmise the meeting went well.” Your driver asked as he opened the door for you. 

Meeting? What meeting? Oh, that.

Clearing your throat, you ascertain, “I don’t believe those matters concern you.”

“R-Right, my apologies ma’am.” He stuttered out. Once you had entered the car, he dashed towards the driver's seat. You saw him stumble over his feet and wipe a few nervous sweat beads from his forehead before entering the car himself. 

Your hand was hovering over the privacy divider button when he spoke again.

“Your mother asked me to remind you of the brunch you have tomorrow with your father.” 

Your heart froze.

“Noted. Can we get going now? I’d like to wake up on time tomorrow.” You assumed he had replied after but could never know for certain because you had already drawn the divider up.

Staring out of the window you notice a light turned on inside of the apartment and a shadow briefly before it was overtaken by the bustling streets of Shinjuku.

It was odd to stare at the stars knowing how they felt for the first time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: sorry for the two month break! honestly had a lot of trouble writing this chapter. I've never written smut before so I hope I was able to do the genre and toji justice. Also, after seeing Toji in the anime recently (do not speak to me about the Megumi scene or I will cry) felt like I missed writing about my man.

italicized references:

cassiopeia: a queen in ancient Greek mythology and constellation.

hyssop and heliotrope: flowers

tag list:

@cococola-cocaine @justtnat @softvgold @missroro

comment to let me know if you want to join the tag list for future updates!

make sure to reblog, like, and comment! they really help me know what you guys like and don't like!

[wannaeatramyeon]

More Gun content pleaseeeeeeeeee! If not, it's fine! Love your works, love your style, love your writings, well I, JUST love you! (YOU! For making lookism characters even more likeable even outside the manhwa!)

This is the FORTH time I asked and counting!

So people start having a nickname or whatever you call it when they ask or just say something. So I think I'll have to make my own...

I don't have any idea right now. Sadddddd!

Well I think that's all for now. Have good morning, noon, afternoon, evening and night sweetie, take careeeeeee!

"If not, it's fine!". Like I could say no. Thanks for asking unnamed anon and honestly thank you so much for your kind words! I'm still ill and feeling like I have less and less to say these days outside of just banging some writing out but this is just so face meltingly SWEET. You take care too!

Gun Park x Reader: Just moved in

Gun doesn't know what to make of this.

Those are your clothes all over his bedroom, no, your shared bedroom floor.

Somewhere under there was a pristine floor. Not that he ever cared much for the floor, but now that he can't see it, he cares about it an awful lot.

And it's not like he doesn't have enough space, or hasn't given you space. In his walk-in wardrobe he has allocated an entire wall for you yet most of your clothes just fit in these 2 drawers - you proved your point by cramming them in haphazardly with a grin.

That should have been a warning sign.

Gun bends down to pick up a few items of clothing, lamenting how it felt like only yesterday he was picking up someone's teeth after knocking them out, and now this is what he's doing.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices a flash of colour.

Ah, he's forgotten about that.

The ugly purple plushie sitting on your pillow. Sort of shaped like a rabbit, sort of shaped like a bear, definitely shaped like a monster.

He really regrets winning you that on an earlier date. You had grown far too attached and sentimental, and with anyone else that thing would have gone in the bin. Maybe even burned.

Yet with you... and to add insult to injury, that monstrosity now lives on the bed.

On top of all that, Gun thinks as he searches the penthouse for you to have a word about your disorganisation, the hideous plushie best left for another day, he thinks about your words to him the other day.

"You're using the knife wrong!"

Not professing to be a weapon expert, that's Goo Kim's territory, but Gun damn well knows how to use a chef's knife. For fucking dinner prep of all things.

Then you had the audacity to pluck it out his hand, and cut up the onion quicker and more efficiently. It still grates him to think about-

"Fuck!" Gun stumbles over a particularly large plant pot. Where the fuck-? Oh, of course. You and your fucking plants too. You must have about a million of them and now they are taking over the entire goddamn place.

"Y/N-" he starts, but the rest of his words die on his tongue when he sees you reading in the living room. Some music that absolutely is not his taste, but is completely yours playing.

The whole place feels a little warmer. With you. Less clinical than it used to be.

You glance up and give him that soft smile of yours, "Hey," and Gun realises he is totally done for.

Completely smittened and besotted. You can keep your ugly plushie, and your stupid plants and teach him how to use a knife properly.

In a handful of steps, Gun crosses the room to you, pressing a kiss on your lips. He cups the back of your head, and deepens it until you are leaning in and chasing for more.

He's wrong. There are no warning signs. Only constant signals since the day you met how well you would fit together. Sure there are minor cracks, but that is normal with any couples moving in together for the first time.

Normal. That's a first for Gun Park too.

Gun breaks away with a smirk on his face. Your pupils are completely blown, and cheeks flushed. Clearly you want more...

You need to earn it first.

"Clean up your fucking clothes." Gun says as you jolt in shock at his words.

True, he's utterly enamoured with you, but a man's gotta have standards.

[anyabathory-blog]

Between Realms — chapter 1.

Ukraininan ver.(ao3) Word count: 9.8k.

Synopsis: The story takes place before GOW:Ragnarök and covers the events from the point of view of the Aesir. At the whim of Fate, Liv is heading to the City of the Gods. A/N: special thanks to @engardeitsme for reading all over and over again and helping me with the text ♡. I hope you will enjoy it.

Thoughts are marked in italics. Could be swearing, ass kicking and Heimdall. You're warned, yey.✨

The meeting

It had been naive of her to think that the screams in the middle of the rocks could have come from a child. Nobody went to places like that, and they were even less likely to be found. But Liv wouldn't have been able to forgive herself if she hadn't checked. Which, of course, she regretted almost immediately. She hadn't even taken a dozen steps, elbowing her way through the narrow, zigzagging passage, when she fell and landed on her back. Deep enough that she couldn't go back the way she came, but not high enough to break her spine.

The white-green patch in front of her eyes began to form outlines – white light and brown shadow and then gained depth.

The girl was lying in the middle of the cave, listening to the itching in her muscles. Under her back, moss grew like a furry carpet. It smacked with a sigh when Liv sat up, lifting her head up. There was a sudden noise in her temples, a buzzing that blinded her for a moment, but then she blinked it away and was able to look around.

A white beam of light, illuminating the damp ceiling was coming through the hole above, which must have been the passage through which she had fallen earlier. Apart from the moss that hung like a green sheet from the ceiling, the spots of sunlight and the dancing shadows, she was surrounded by silence.

The girl casually began to shake off the dirt and moss pieces when the light played between the uneven walls again. But this time it was accompanied by a damp, champing sound, more like a cuttlefish than a fussy bird that might have flown past the hole from above.

Liv narrowed her eyes, trying to make out something in the patch of light, but all she could see were rays of sunlight darting from one cave tooth to the next, failing to reveal the source of the hideous 'chomp'.

Instantly, her senses stung and she recoiled, startled by the sudden adrenaline rush and the way the gust of air ruffled her hair. She looked down at the spot where she had just been standing and noticed movement in the shadows, which then scurried away with a familiar sniffle.

Liv's calves immediately tensed and she barely squatted. Even though she couldn't see the creature, she could definitely sense the presence of it. The Instinct never let her down. Chomp, chomp, chomp.

Closer.

Closer. The ground next to her foot crumpled slightly, and something invisible started chomping in front of her face. Liv pretended not to notice, staring at the blurred halo of light on the floor as she slowly moved a little lower, reaching for her scabbard on the floor. The sound followed her accordingly.

It was close, revealed only by the breeze on her face and the sound echoing in the air. Chomp, chomp, chomp.

As her fingers caught the ribbed hilt of the sabre, a wave of goosebumps ran down her spine – the familiar tension in her body. Liv felt like a taut arrow, waiting for the moment to strike.

"What are you waiting for, Liv?" Logain's voice was quiet, hissing between the walls, seeming both near and far away, "Go on, pull out your weapon. Do what you know how to do, what you've always done. Kill again. Kill me.”

The girl twitched. Her face twitched too. But she didn't speak. Logain had been feeding the worms in the ground for a long time.

Chomp, chomp, chomp. Something wet slid down her boot, and his voice grew louder.

"Why hesitate? Have you forgotten Mercia? Have you forgotten Vesex?" The air around her face stirred again as something that felt like a wet rope began to squeeze her ankle. Chomp, chomp.

“So much dirt and meat in the armour that the sky was black with crows and the stench squeezed out the tears, remember? Do you remember how I begged you to stay out?”

She smiled slightly out of the corner of her mouth, but the tension in her body did not ease. Logain's voice grew louder, filling her head, and squeezing the skull. She could almost imagine him moving his wrist to the side, making an imaginary six, and pressing his thin lips together in an overly dramatic way, lecturing her. He loved to lecture, although he was younger. Lagain had made mistakes in his life that it was a sin not to embellish with eloquent details, telling them over a mug of mead that had barely fermented in the flask. Fermented, but still tasted better than anything.

Liv closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memories flood back into her mind as the creature kept speaking in a familiar voice.

The flames flicker, the smell of pine and ash blows away all anxiety. Here is Logain baring his teeth, white as 32 pearls, shamelessly exaggerating his achievements, here is Eilbe smiling shyly as he taps her on the shoulder. Chomp, chomp, chomp.

"Doesn't matter, now it doesn't matter..."

The girl sighed, no longer listening. It seemed to start listing names. Names, titles, their roles in her life, how they had left, how she had made sure they left before they perished.

The list went on. Chomp, chomp.

"Now."

Liv slashed from the elbow and with a whistle her sabre flew out like a bottle cork into the blurred space in front of the girl's face.

A shuddering screech ripped through the cave, finally ending the pretentious 'Logain' monologue. The blade sliced softly through the air and snapped as Liv twisted the handle, plunging it deeper. The point seemed to disappear into nowhere, but was still piercing an invisible belly.

The shapeless fetters began to wrap around the girl's waist, squeezing her in a vain attempt to throw her off, but she ignored the creature's scream and hovered steadfastly above it. As the sabre sliced into space, disappearing almost to the level of the crossguard, another sound joined the shriek, which vibrated in a dozen different tones (the creature was still trying to mimic a voice). It was the sound of soft muscles tearing. This was followed by a characteristic stench with a metallic flavour – of blood.

But the blurry blob of air in front of her was not going to give up without a fight. The creature, still screaming, pulled her forward, and she swore when she felt her boot slip on the moss. Liv pressed harder, hoping to pin the shapeless creature to the ground. She miscalculated.

For a moment, the world blurred back into a white and green stain, accompanied by a cacophony of different voices, but eventually, she found herself on her back. The moss crunched softly under her spine.

"Blood! Blood!" The creature, as torning between Logain's voice and an almost childlike falsetto, pinned the girl down harder. "So much blood! It's no use! Do you hear..." Liv struggled, blindly trying to kick the invisible creature so that it would finally shut its mouth, but she missed - it only roared louder, not relenting. Plasma began to drip into her face in thick threads of green mucus, mixing with moss and dirt.

The girl, clutching the handle with stiff fingers, kicked again, this time at the point where the mucus was coming from. She seemed to hit it - the weight above her barely shifted.

The air instantly shook with an inhuman screech, and then there was silence. Silence.

Liv froze and blinked uneasily, looking at what was pinning her down. She could see it now. Her sabre was hilted into a glassy eye that was still trying to convulsively close its heavy eyelids, and orange insides were stretching out in ribbons down to her torso. Slowly unclenching her fingers, Liv shook her shoulder and then again, carefully pushing the motionless nightmare away from her.

"Beastliness, shit, and filth" swearing softly in a couple more languages, Liv shrugged one last time and sat up, looking disgustedly at the creature and then at her clothes, which were stained with green mucus now.

Slowly standing up, she kicked at the rounded belly with its unmoving tentacles. It stirred but did not move or cry out. It was dead. It was quiet.

Nightmares were usual beasts in her travels, but what never stopped to amaze her was the number of varieties. Some could blind her, others spat ice, some spat flames, and some only got closer and exploded for no known reason. But the fact that this creature could turn invisible was a first for her. "They must adapt differently to each realm," Liv mentally summarised, kicking the eye-shaped monstrosity as her sabre unyieldingly twitched between the entrails and chitinized plates of the creature.

As she struggled with the blade, her face was gently touched by the soft breezes swaying through the cave's walls. Separating the weapon away from the body with a kick, Liv turned around and stood to listen.

After taking a few steps, she heard the wind whistle stronger, seeping through the cracks of the cave, as something crunched dryly under her boot. Looking down she noticed bones. The skull, the back of which was cracked open like an eggshell, was small, childlike.

***

Eventually the wind carried her out of the cave and onto the flat, sun-drenched surface. Hrimthur's Wall, the famous Asgardian wall wrapped in a collar of mist, rose up for who knew how many metres and fell down for just as many. Liv's fingers itched at the thought of how much further she had to climb. Not without disgust, she wiped the green mucus from the blade with the edge of her shirt and sighed.

The girl spent the next hour alone with her thoughts, which accompanied her all the way up the wall, along with the scraping of stones under her fingernails, the whistling of the wind, and the clinking of the sheath against her belt. She kept her eyes level with the basalt surface, not wanting to look down, sometimes throwing her head up and grabbing onto ledges, sometimes diving into crevices between grotesquely huge nails that had been embedded in the rock, sometimes pressing her body against the Wall as startled birds flew out of their nests. Once she almost slipped on a rotten apple that someone must have dropped from above(who does that?). When she reached the top, she was covered in dust and sweat.

The Wall clawed into the ground, holding a crescent-shaped lake of buildings and roads that lay beneath the clouds. Asgard had isolated itself not only from uninvited guests, but also from the permanent frost that had frozen Midgard in a deadly grip for so many years. The City of the Gods was lulled into an eternal summer, safe from worry behind high walls. But the Wall of Hrimthur was never left unguarded.

Something had pushed the girl between her shoulder blades. In a moment, the ground slipped away from under her feet, and the green valley opened its mouth wider, looking less picturesque and even lower than she had imagined. Liv gasped for air as her stomach twisted into a knot and squinted, already vividly imagining her fall. However, other than the pounding of her heart and the soft shuffling of the ground beneath her, she heard no wind whistling or bones crunching. Her feet still felt the unsteady ground, and the fabric of her shirt cut into her skin as someone behind her, holding her by the shirt's collar, sighed with pretentious exhaustion.

Liv didn't hurry to look back, seeing the toes of her boots peeking over the edge of the Wall, but she did catch a glimpse of another pair of feet. 

"Well, let's skip the greetings part and save each other’s time, shall we?" The voice was male and young, but despite its hostility, it sounded somewhat ingratiating. Meanwhile, his grip on her collar tightened defiantly, bordering on strangulation. "So, who are you, what do you want, and, most importantly, how did you get here?" Even without seeing the face of the interlocutor, though rather the extortionist, she could feel the mocking smile in his voice. "Although, never mind. How about you only answer the very last question before I let go of you."

Liv made a careful movement to the side, trying to straighten up, but a voice behind her hissed softly.

"I don't recommend it." And then the weightlessness hit her again for a moment. The collar of her shirt was pulled down just below her chin "And I won't repeat myself."

Her breathing quickened, and an animalistic fear prevented her from thinking coldly and composedly, so she chose sincerity. Sincerity is a minority virtue, but it is surprisingly appropriate in most cases when you are promised to fly down.

"I want to help."

There was a pause, though it was not an empty one, full of tension and Liv's futile attempts to catch her breath. This pause was also surprisingly short, as it was interrupted by the quiet laughter of the man behind her.

"Help?" the stranger burst into another laugh. "You're barely able to help yourself, vagrant. So who do you want to help again?”

"Odin, the gods, mortals," the girl pursed her lips, barely inhaling the air, "myself.”

"Oh, I believe in the latter willingly, in the former barely, and in the first two, I don't believe at all. But okay. That's more honest than usual." The air licked Liv's cheek before she hit the ground with her back. Almost instantly, she scrambled to her feet and straightened up. Straightened up as best she could after the climb and the undeniably warm greeting.

  The stranger's shimmering eyes narrowed as she looked down at him. Something told her he didn't like being shorter than her. So the two purple lights stared with a mute question, stared with a certain insolence, as Liv caught her breath, wheezing sounds escaping her throat.

"I don't recall your name on the guest list, vagrant." The man, or rather more a blond lad, looked at her with his shoulders squared.

He was in a good mood for an ordinary guard, too good even, and better dressed than any guard Liv had ever seen. His entire appearance betrayed a nobleman proud of his ancestry, from the golden cuff on his ear to the tips of his boots. This curved her lips into a faint half-smile. 

But the stranger did not comment – he was probably waiting for an answer, the question of who she was hanging in the air. Taking a breath, Liv finally decided to answer:

"Of course, of course," she said, sucking in another breath, but her voice sounded a little strangled, "My name is Liv Rolandsdatter, nice to meet you." her mouth corner twitched ironically to the last part, but soon her face regained its calm expression.

  The stranger nodded, letting out a small laugh, and it was hard to tell what he found more amusing – her name or the fact that she pretended not to know who he was. The horn on his gold-embroidered belt jiggled slightly as the god put his hands at his sides and spoke:

"My name is Heimdall," he paused, and before continuing, he pursed his lips in an unnatural smile "I am the Herald of Ragnarök and the Guardian of the Aesir. Now, Liv, please give me at least one reason not to throw you off the Wall."

"The gods are very friendly people, I see," she thought ironically. Surprisingly, right after that, Heimdall cackled with a familiar laugh.

"I think," as she began, something predatory glinting in those strange eyes, "that you already know the answer to that, lord Heimdall.”

Politeness is another virtue peculiar to the minority, but surprisingly appropriate when you are facing a god from whom you expect anything but  pleasantness.

He tilted his head to the side and smiled, no longer hiding his golden teeth, as it turned out. It was a shitty smile, the kind that usually makes people lose their heads. Literally.

"Clever girl. What good would you be to the Allfather, the King of the Aesir? I think the Allfather has enough warriors already," his tone grew more and more unpleasant with each word, and for a moment Liv thought a bruise under his white cheekbone would have suited him well, "I doubt a frail lassie like you, vagrant Liv, would be more useful than any einherjar."

   Her fingers ran lightly over the hilt of the sabre, scratching the top with her fingernail almost tenderly. The metal cooled her hand and mind soothingly. Heimdall reminded her exactly of the type of person with whom every verbal battle ends with a face in a bowl: a stew of your own blood and teeth.

"Perceptive." Liv licked her lips as her blood pulsed in her temples. "I'm from Skadi*," she said, unexpectedly, mockery evident in her voice, "I think that's enough for Odin himself to accept even a 'frail lassie' like me."

Unfortunately, of all the virtues, Liv lacked politeness the most. As well as patience.

"Skadi..." Heimdall tilted his head to the side as if he had heard the name for the first time, "Jotun, the traitor to two nations at once: her own and mine... No, no." He paused and made a careless gesture with his hand. The purple gaze measured her for a moment before the god continued, "No. You are here only for yourself.”

 Crossing her arms over her chest, Liv tucked her chin up, looking down at the young god.

"What a fascinating story, really. A little more guesswork about me, pompous speeches and introductions or–"

It swirled. Before she could say anything else, she fell to her knees. Her stomach twisted and she was paralyzed with throbbing pain from a hit, but she quickly recovered. A familiar impulse hit her brain, dulling the pain and fatigue, leaving only one thing behind – the desire to hurt back. Liv threw her head up, waiting for him to approach.

"Once again" He snorted through his teeth as he sat down on his toes as well. God's tone smoothly turned into an irritatingly flattering one. "Why should I allow someone like you to come into my home and meet with the Allfather?" Liv's upper lip quivered irritably as she felt a touch on her head. "Then, for example, to string your red haired head on a stick? Perhaps then this endless stream of uninvited guests will end, since the enormous Wall in front of their noses is not enough, huh?"

  He had the nerve to pat her on the head in a fatherly, no, rather mistressly way, as if Liv were some kind of naughty puppy. It was annoying, drowning out the last echo of reason. Liv didn't feel pain anymore and there was an evil glint in her eyes.

  Suddenly, Heimdall giggled gutturally, looking her in the eye with his purple lights. That was the last straw. With a short snarl, Liv lunged forward, intent on slamming her forehead into the smug face, but the attempt failed and her knees skidded on the stone as she lost her balance again. He was already standing away.

"Did you really want to hit me?" Heimdall said cheerfully, with an expression as if he had just heard a very funny joke.

"Yes, a bruise would make your pale face more attractive," Liv snapped, finally raising to her feet.

The way the young god's face contorted made her smile wickedly. But her pleasure did not last long, for he came toward her, quickly. Very quickly, even the sound of his footsteps seemed to come with a delay as his face was close again. But Liv still managed to free her sword from its silver-embroidered scabbard.

"Whoa, the lassie can fight," he said with a hoot as he saw the blade pointing at his impudent face, "Careful, don't cut yourself..."

  Sparks sliced through the air between them, the enchanted metal of her sabre glowing white in an instant. Heimdall suppressed his surprise and easily dodged the lunge, but the subtle surprise that slipped into his eyes made Liv want to thank Skadi for the sword for the first time.

  She tried to grab his collar, but before she could, the god stepped back again and unhooked the scabbard from his belt. The air seemed to become liquid as he moved, sounds disappearing for that brief moment as the step backwards became two feet, then four, then ten.

"How is he doing that?" Liv's eyebrow shot up for a moment as he voiced the same thought that had just flashed through her brain. Heimdall giggled again and made a gesture with his hand, causing the air to ripple again like an agitated sea, distorting space. “Showing off.”

A moment and he was closer again. Closer than she expected, closer than she could see. However, it was enough for her to feel it, her Instinct, prickling her fingertips, ordered her to move away. A deep breath, a half-turn, a step, a parry, and an exhale – this dance was as clear as the last time, as years ago, as centuries before. The young god didn't even bother to pull out his sword, apparently expecting to punch her between the eyes with the golden tip of the scabbard, but it met her sabre with a loud clang. The lilac eyes looked at her now with anger as she drew back, kicking up dust, but she stood her ground.

  The sound of metal hitting metal still echoed in the air as the two stared each other in the face, a pair of purple eyes and yellow-like sulphur ones. The longer Liv held back the pressure, the heavier the sword became in her hands, its silver blade sparkling with runes (perhaps that was the only reason it hadn't shattered like glass) was still trembling in her hands. Heimdall smiled and nudged her again, breaking the contact between the weapons.

"Very well, maybe you deserve to have me draw my sword..." Stretching his shoulder, the young god threw the scabbard aside. The black metal glistened in the sun with a bloodthirsty growl. Even the engraving on the ricasso had some gilding.

"Vain asshole." Liv's upper lip twitched irritably again, and the scar on it stabbed treacherously. With every word he said, she was getting angrier and angrier, losing control, which was not good. She was on her own in this situation, in the thick of it, and if Heimdall hadn't attacked first, she would have been out of here by now, but damn life had other plans for her. It always does.

"Oh, come up with something more interesting," Heimdall sighed theatrically, making an inviting gesture for her to strike. At least to try.

"Shut up."

  She spat out those words, until the sword sparkled more strongly, resembling a torch rather than a blade. The "invitation" was accepted with all the passion she could muster – in two leaps she closed the distance between them and brought the blow down from above, drawing a figure eight in the air. The sabre whistled, stretching the empty space, while a kick flew into her back. Liv staggered forward on inertia, barely keeping her balance. Glancing over the edge of Hrimtur's wall for a moment, she swallowed, looking down into the gaping maw of the valley that descended through the fog. "High. Damn high."

But the Instinct stung her again, returning her mind to a state of battle and the adrenaline surged through her muscles. Liv managed to fight back with a half-turn, sinking her blade into the black metal, but felt her feet wobbling unsteadily at the edge of the wall.

  These pirouettes, trying to catch the god who was slipping through her fingers like sand, were beginning to tire her out, and he could see it. Moreover, it amused him.

Heimdall was stronger, much stronger, and he could push her back again without breaking a sweat, so, cursing foully, she darted to the side, trying to get behind him and away from the edge as far as possible. The young god, of course, expected her move and counterattacked, pushing Liv aside. The blade slipped and her arm burned treacherously, aching from elbow to shoulder, as she stepped back again without making a single cut. With a jerk, the sabre drew a crescent in the air, aiming for Heimdall's wrist.

“Mmmm. No” he swung to the side, avoiding the blow again. Boredom crept into his gaze. "You've had enough of my attention for today.”

With a sigh, the god straightened up and stepped closer, without any haste or hesitation when the blade was pointed directly at his chest. Diving behind Liv's back, he yanked her by the shirt's collar, dragging the girl again like a naughty puppy. She squirmed, grabbed his leg, twisted, arched, and pushed her body forward to knock him to the ground. If Liv was happy about anything right now, it was that no one else saw how idiotic it looked. Before she could make out his expression, something quickly slipped past her eyes, and the world around her instantly turned white. It was the scabbard that finally cracked her on the forehead. “Oh, shit”.

“Bye-bye...“ Before she fainted, Liv saw the god lean down and flash his golden teeth. His voice echoed through her brain, mingling with the croaking of a raven, turning into one hideous ringing in her ears.

  Then the abyss covered her, sucking in all sensations and sounds. The fatigue became unbearable.

***

When she woke up, Liv lay there for a while with her eyes closed and her muscles spreading over the surface. The place where she had been hit burned too much for a dead person, and the space around her was too soft and dry for a prisoner. So. She was alive and not in a prison. That was good.

  For a moment, she was tempted to try to sleep, because the fatigue was still with her, if not for the creaking of the floorboards and the scuffling of what seemed to be a chair on the floor.

  Lazily, the girl opened her eyes, tilting her head to the side. There was a pillow under her. It seemed to be taffeta. It was too refined for someone who had been slapped between the eyes, too good for a stranger. Liv squinted as the sleepy veil fell from her eyes, and then she could see where she was. And more importantly, with whom?

  The stone walls were decorated with tapestries and weaponry, and the furniture was made by good craftsmen – a striking difference from the last time someone had managed to make her faint. Only back then it had not been so easy. And back then she had been lying in a room with no windows.

  She couldn't help but roll her eyes as she noticed a familiar face in the shadow. Her bruised forehead throbbed even more when her gaze crossed with a purple one.

  But besides Heimdall, there was another man here. He was sitting next to the bed, his elbows relaxed on the handles of the faldstool. He was an old man, carrying neither a sword nor armour, only a stick, a green hood framing his wrinkled neck, hiding a celestial-blue caftan with a golden thread underneath. He looked more friendly than Heimdall, but his blue eyes, or rather one single eye, looked at Liv with a cold, sharp insight that made it chilly. His gaze was not clouded by the weight of his years or by marasmus. His right eye socket was covered with a leather eyepatch. As the girl recovered, she sat up, and looked at the man, who was obviously Odin. He coughed and spoke:

  "Good morning," his voice was quiet and hoarse, with notes of dry humour. They only intensified when the girl glanced up at the inlaid window, checking how long her "sleep" had lasted. It was late afternoon... "So. Young lady, how do you know Skadi and why were you so eager to see me that you got into a fight with my guard?"

  Liv cleared her throat and shook her head slightly, still reeling from the pain, and met a familiar pair of eyes. Heimdall, leaning back against the stone wall, stared at her silently, waiting for an explanation. The purple lights flickered even more strongly in the shadows. She grimaced slightly and turned her head to Odin. "My name is Liv Rolandsdatter, Allfather. And Skadi she is..." She winced as her voice echoed through the walls of her skull, but massaging between her eyebrows, she continued, "She is my mother."

  There was a pause during which Liv could see Heimdall's face go blank, for he never seemed to be at a loss for words, but now he was without comment. The old man, meanwhile, ran his finger over the carvings of the chair and answered with much more enthusiasm in his voice:

"So, she managed to keep you."

"She did?"

"Yes, yes, don't fidget, I'll do better" his fingers once again scratched the carving before resting on her forehead. This small touch enveloped her in a warmth that spread throughout her body, and in another moment, she would have probably fallen into his arms. The pain was gone.

"Thank you, I really feel better."

"You're welcome," he nodded slightly and removed his hand from her face. "To tell you the truth, I was waiting for you to show up."

"And that's why I was hit in the stomach in the first place?

"Heimdall," Odin said coldly, not even giving his son a glance, it was a short order.

  The lad sighed, snorting like a cat in the dust, and stepped back from the wall. After that, he spoke dryly, without an ounce of conscience or remorse, of course:

"I'm sorry."

  Yeah, that was all he could think to say after he'd hit Liv (not even just once). It was just funny, so she laughed. Shortly and cheekily. The young god twitched his eyebrows and pursed his lips, but said nothing, although she could see that there was plenty of what he wanted to let out. Perhaps even too much of it, but the presence of the Allfather made him hold back a bit, it seems.

Odin just shook his head.

"You are forgiven, prince," she sighed and turned her head to Odin, saying the last word through her teeth. Meanwhile, Heimdall's face was a mixture of confusion and irritation.

"Sjá hvat**..." The old man's lips curled in a half-smile and then he stood up, slapping his knees lightly "Well, then. Now that we have settled all the issues, it is time, Liv Skadisdatter, for you to meet the rest of your family."

  Now Liv shared Heimdall's embarrassment, and their eyes were the size of Sceat coins.

"What?"

***

  Liv looked into the abyss.

  As she plunged into the white mist, the wooden platform under her feet shook, momentarily throwing her off balance. Stepping back from the edge, she glanced over the city that lay below them: along the grey roads that snaked between buildings, flowing down the moat, passing carved gates and coming together in a semicircle before the square where black specks of people bustled about their business; she was looking at the ribbons of canals and mill ponds, that wove around the city as veins, the fluffy clouds that rose above the sharp roofs, and the valkyries that flapped their huge wings like golden birds as they flew past the ropeway. The longer they descended, the more Asgard resembled a green lake in the palm of a rocky giant whose wrist replaced the sharp slope on one side of the half-walled city. Liv huffed at the ironic association, remembering the Aesir people's intense dislike of giants, and turned her gaze to a pair of boots with intricate patterns on the tanned leather. Heimdall had kept his eyes on her since they left Himinbjörg***, and the girl had been trying to pretend that he, the young god, did not exist. So, swaying slightly to the right again because of the unpleasant feeling of weightlessness in her legs, she turned her gaze to the Allfather.

  From the side, he looked like a vulture searching for a field mouse, contemplating Asgard with his blue eye. His hooked nose, like a beak, twitched slightly with a smile as he noticed Liv watching. Something about that little emotion was uncomfortably familiar, but she didn't know what it was. Yet.

After a moment, Odin met her eyes, with the same slightly smiling expression. Now the "vulture" was looking at Liv. However, she did not shrink back, looking down, but straightened up, put her hands on her waist, and slightly clasped her sides. "It's all too simple. There are too few details."

"What did you mean by saying Skadi 'managed to keep' me?" she said on an exhale. No, that wasn't what she wanted to ask, but her curiosity overcame her. Liv had never been close to her famous mother, but also she did not believe she would ever have the opportunity to ask again.

  The old man chuckled. Laughter, that's what she didn't like. It was the same as Heimdall's, only this one sounded sincere. Odin, meanwhile, leaned on a carved stick, looking at Liv with a piercing gaze.

"Oh, you know how it is, a scandal, a couple dozen broken plates and faces..." the god hummed, still smiling and seeing that Liv did not share his humour, "You were not supposed to happen. Njord and, frankly, me too, insisted that Skadi get rid of you."

  The girl tilted her head slightly to the side and nodded silently, hinting for him to continue. The Allfather sighed, and the stick, or something in it, hissed quietly.

"She obviously didn't," he slapped his stomach lightly, "She walked around with her belly protruding as if to mock everyone. Until she disappeared, so that none of my ravens or her husband could find her, and when she came back, she pretended nothing had happened."

"Of course she did. She just got rid of a burden and then 'suddenly' remembered her responsibilities as a goddess."

"So that's how it is... My mother is not only a traitor to the nations but also unfaithful in her marriage and full of arrogance that even touches the gods." Liv slightly curled her lips in an ironic smile. She heard nothing new in this. Almost. "However, you haven't answered my question, lord, and you still haven't explained why you're letting me into your home so easily."

  Liv could see out of the corner of her eye that Heimdall was shifting impatiently from foot to foot, apparently wanting to add something of his own, but he remained silent. She couldn't help but glare at him, although she quickly turned her head back to Odin, who was still smiling.

"Women are so inquisitive..."

"Yes, I am a woman, but please don't take me for an idiot," the girl crossed her arms over her chest, "The raven on the standard. It was you, wasn't it? Otherwise, I wouldn't have been allowed to cross the threshold, let alone be ‘gallantly’ stabbed between the eyes with a scabbard. You were watching…”

  Suddenly, the platform stopped, and Liv swayed slightly on the inertia and whispered a curse under her breath. But in the meantime, the weightlessness in her legs had passed, flowing down her feet into the solid ground, so she breathed out a sigh of relief. Odin stepped forward without delay, leaving Liv to contemplate Heimdall's frown for a moment. The girl was not too impressed by this sight and instead looked around.

On the sides were green fields fenced with thin levadas, where distant figures could be seen, some still digging in the ground, and others with sticks chasing chickens, geese, turkeys, and horned stock – all this action crowded in front of the carved gate that led into the city. Light shone in the cracks of the houses, their sharp roofs peeking out beyond the wall, and the long shadows of the Hrimthur's wall were cut by the slowly setting orange sun. Liv could hardly deny that the evening in Asgard, even if she hadn't yet stepped outside the walls, was somewhat mesmerising, and the lights outside the gates were at least alluring. But she still had questions. A whole lot of questions.

  Meanwhile, Heimdall tore his glittering eyes away from her and followed the Allfather, who was already waiting for them at the closed gate. Liv shrugged with her shoulder and in a couple of steps passed the distance separating her from Odin and his son. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a golden-green blur, steadily growing larger, jumping through the levadas and pushing people around. Soon enough, the "spot" took shape and a name.

"Gulltoppr!" At first, Liv did not realise that it was Heimdall's sonorous voice, but her attention quickly shifted to the snow-white grappling gradungr, which had passed the wooden fence in two quick leaps and, kicking up a cloud of dust, began to caress its owner's arm like a normal cat. A cat the size of a barn and with a head framed by a pair of curved horns. The girl had heard of gradungs before, but this was the first time she had seen this creature in person.

A dwarf shopkeeper she knew had once told her about these creatures, that they lived mainly in Vanaheim and, according to his description, had four horns, not two, and three heads – a lion's, a goat's, and a dragon's. But she could not remember which one he thought was "the thinkin’ ass one". Liv had been sceptical of such a colourful description even then, but now she saw with her own eyes that the words were a clear exaggeration from the mouth of a drunk. Also, the dwarf had been telling her about the time he was in a gang with six other dwarves and a lady with white skin like bone and lips the colour of hawthorn, but Liv hadn't been listening any further. By that point, she had seemed to be drunk too.

  But she still found the proportions of the so-called Gulltoppr most amusing, and even more so their relation to Heimdall. For someone who showed so much audacity, the god was undersized, and compared to his riding "kitten" he seemed tiny and clumsy.

As soon as the thought crossed Liv's mind, she felt a purple gaze slide over the young god's shoulder and bore into her forehead. The white gradungr also turned its triangular head and shook its horns like a goat that was about  to charge. For a moment, the girl really thought it was going to do so, so her calves tensed slightly. But she was wrong.

  The animal quickly went back to nuzzling at the god's side, puffing loudly with its big velvet nose, while Heimdall pulled the gold-embroidered reins from the saddle's bow.

"No, you will walk, Heimdall." Odin, standing at the gate, tapped his stick lightly. Something metallic hissed in it again. "It must be a blade."

  The young god whispered softly, Liv did not know what, and lightly patted Gulltoppr on the side, pushing him away. The "cat" responded with a dissatisfied grunt and flicked its pink tongue against Heimdall's cheek (the god jerked at this), but pulled away.

  Liv let out a small laugh through her nostrils and shook her head, deliberately looking past Heimdall and his mount as if fascinated by a clay jug that stood alone on a wooden levada. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she was still looking at the gradungr and his yellow and white fur, which he was licking diligently, cat-like.

Odin spoke first:

"Yes, I have been watching you, and yes, I have been waiting for you, Skadisdatter. But I do not take you for an idiot or a fool. At most, I think you're lost and that I can show you the Way."

Liv crossed her arms over her chest.

"The way?" Liv arched an eyebrow and shook her head slightly, "My name is Liv Rolandsdatter. Not Skadisdatter, please."

The Allfather smiled slightly out of the corner of his eye, which was wrapped by wrinkles like a spider's web.

"Yes. But a mortal named Roland is insignificant and uninteresting, unlike your mother."

"So is it all a matter of blood? Or is it simply the Asgardian benevolence?"

"Partly both."

"Then please don't pretend that you're doing me a favour, that you need me for some reason and therefore have the right to ask questions, lord."

"Hmm. Right. The only difference is that we both need each other, Skadisdatter," the gate slowly opened in front of them, its metal hinges groaning, "and I am still doing you a favour by letting you into my kingdom."

Asgard was flooded with evening light, which reddened and glistened on the sharp roofs, the purple shadows gave the city a certain charm. All cities looked charming at this time, despite the number of vermin and rats that might inhabit them, but Asgard was obviously different. And it wasn't even that it was a city of gods, heroes, and generally those whose bright faces and shining armour the skalds were so fond of singing about – Asgard was clean. As Liv walked down the street, she didn't see a single puddle or piece of trash, which is so common in large settlements, especially those surrounded by walls. Even the Anglo-Saxons, who were so fond of accusing the Danes of being untidy, could have envied the absence of mud and sewage stains. Although, perhaps, they would have been most upset by the fact that the theory of the "All-Powerful One God" turned out to be false.

But like all cities at this time, Asgard was falling asleep, and the closer the evening shadows approached the cobblestone streets, the more lethargic its inhabitants became. People in brightly coloured clothes embroidered with golden thread (apparently the Aesir were very fond of this material), slowly walked the streets, tired from the early rising, the lunch and dinner fuss and ready for evening rest, but all of them were certainly interested in one person. The person who obviously does not belong here is Liv. Some tried to tactfully hide their interest, glancing as if in passing, some suddenly looked around like a goat that had mistakenly bumped into a fortress wall with its horns, some leaned over the balcony, excessively straightening the laundry that was hanging down, some even seemed to have choked on the contents of a mug. The more gawking Asgardians Liv counted, the more she was convinced of her guess - guests were at least rare, at most a curiosity. Especially in such high-profile company as the Allfather and Heimdall.

  However, Liv was cold to the extra attention, and in fact, she was somewhat annoyed by it, which would make it harder for her to escape if the opportunity came up.

  "She would have loved and hated this city, like so many other things," she thought. Liv hummed, lightly twirling her braid with a black strand woven into it as they walked down the street under the watchful eye of the locals: Odin tapping his heels and wooden stick on the cobblestones, the girl following him, stealing glances and reading the golden lettering on the bracketed signs, Heimdall was the last to go, but she could hear him steadily following her step by step.

  The last time someone had kept up with Liv's pace like that, this someone had tried to steal the pouch that was attached to her scabbard belt, so almost instinctively she smoothed the strap with the edge of her hand, but she never found the small goatskin pouch. Liv whispered a curse, figuring that she'd lost it before they'd even reached the city and that it must have been left lying on the Wall somewhere.

  "Damn it to Hell. There's no going back now." she thought, and when she heard a soft laugh under a breath, looked around. Ignoring Heimdall was harder than she had expected.

“So you can really read minds?" She let out, again, asking questions that hardly made sense, but to think that even her thoughts were not completely hers now was at least uncomfortable, at most disgustingly disturbing.

"So you really are Skadi's daughter?" Heimdall answered quietly, but that didn't lessen the irony in his voice. It seemed that Odin, who had been cutting through the street with a surprisingly brisk pace, accompanied by the tapping of his stick and the hissing of the blade hidden in it, had distanced himself from them enough for the young god to regain his talkativeness and insolence.

  However, she was interested.

"Yes, hers." She twisted a smile that made the scar on her upper lip prickle again, "Do you think the Allfather would lie?

"I think you would lie if you had to."

“How apt," Liv agreed with feigned ease, "but you, the 'god of foresight', seem to be able to sense lies, so your question is meaningless.”

Heimdall huffed, still only a step behind her.

"Then it seems you're wasting your time asking me, too, when you know I can 'sense a lie'.”

“I know this only from the stories of mortals, and they are known to exaggerate the virtues of others and their own.”

“What else have mortals told you about us? I'm very curious to hear.”

“They also told me that you are wise and terse, Heimdall.”

His pace seems to have slowed slightly.

"How quickly we moved on to exchanging compliments," the god sighed theatrically, "I'm impressed, truly. And then you wonder why you get hit in the forehead.”

“What I'm not surprised about is that every conversation with you ends in this way, annoyingly often, if not always.”

“Something tells me you're speaking from a rich experience.”

  Liv flinched when she heard the voice a little closer than she had expected and thought of pushing Heimdall away while turning, but her hand only touched the air when the god had already moved away. For a few moments, she stood in the middle of the square, silently measuring the Aesir with her eyes, trying to understand how he did it.

  Involuntarily, Liv smoothed the coloured shawl around her waist again, that was hiding a part of her belt and often her leather purse, but her palm gently passed over her thigh, never coming across the mound of coins. It was such an involuntary movement that she didn't realise at first what it looked like from the side when she was staring the god straight in the eye. Her face barely seemed to flush as Heimdall gave her perhaps the most arrogant smile he could muster. She was wrong.

  A moment later, his lips curled even more as he moved his shoulder slightly, bringing his right hand behind his back. Liv clutched the hilt of her sabre, waiting, but the god seemed to hold out his palm to her without noticing. And something in it, too.

"I don't need to read minds to know who you are, Skadisdatter" he flashed his teeth and gave his wrist a slight flick, drawing the girl's attention to the leather pouch in his hand.

"I think this is yours. Take it before I change my mind because your fidgeting is getting on my nerves."

 Liv nodded slowly in gratitude and took the pouch in her hand, her fingers lightly touching the rough palm. She pressed her lips together, shook her head and said something like "thank you" as she exhaled, but the god was no longer listening. He walked on, joining Odin, who was leaning on a stick, waiting for them in front of a house with a sloping roof. It differed from the other buildings only in its more elaborate carvings and its location on a steep slope, the only part of the city not surrounded by a high wall and still bathed in the setting sun, its red disc now barely peeking over the wall.

Her fingers seemed to feel the distinctive obverse and her fingernail pecked at the sharp edge of the coin, so she fastened the pouch to her belt under her shawl and followed. As soon as she stepped closer, her foot slammed into a puddle with a cold smack. "No mud, eh?" Or perhaps she didn't want to notice it at first, as often happens. "Even a puddle that glistens with gold, reflecting the sky, is still a puddle."

  Liv slid her muddy boot on the cobblestones and levelled herself with the Allfather and Heimdall. Odin almost solemnly, somewhat theatrically, it seems to run in the family to be somewhat theatrical, spreaded his arms:

"Welcome to the Great Lodge, Skadisdatter."

***

The room smelled of dust. Many tomes and scrolls, yellowed and worn, were crammed together in batteries on the shelves, some were leaning against the carved columns, green with old copper on their rods, among the candles with long strands of wax extending from them. Some tomes, which must have been worth a fortune, were scattered haphazardly or sometimes stacked in pyramids according to size and covered with cobweb patterns - the names of only a few of them were known to Liv, and even fewer were written in languages she was familiar with. The cabinet was not lacking in other curiosities, however, such as a wind chime from faraway Asia, a large Persian amphora made of green earthenware and covered with small runes whose meaning could only be guessed at, or a silk standard with a unicorn and a naked woman sitting on it, which Liv assumed had been woven somewhere in Northumbria. There was no shortage of weapons, as there had been in Himinbjörg, but they were given much less space and therefore less attention, although the An Creite shield with its white and red colours caught Liv's eye immediately. She wanted to pick it up, to trace her finger around the splinters at the centre, which could have been struck by a buzdugan, but despite herself, she did not. She quickly turned her gaze to Odin, who had already sat down in a high chair with carved arms. He caught her eye and tilted his head to the side:

“Do you like it?”

Liv moved her shoulder, feigning indifference, but they both knew it was a lie. Heimdall, who leaned back against the wall again, seemingly finding some comfort in the shadows, just huffed. "So just stand there and pretend you're part of the interior."

"An impressive collection." the girl nodded, but her eyes darted around again, taking in the new relics that had been collected from all nine realms, "To put it modestly."

The Allfather answered with a short laugh, leaning against the surface of the oak table, which was also covered with books.

Eventually, she came over and crouched down beside the white and red shield. Liv could feel Heimdall's cold, weighing gaze, which slightly curled his lips, and Odin's somewhat sharp one, which remained unchanged in his facial expression, while she kept talking.

"Every time you see one of these, you involuntarily start thinking about the former owners." Her finger touched the cracks in the shield, immediately getting smeared with a thick layer of dust. "No, it's not a buzdugan. Perhaps it was struck from above and was of superhuman strength. But the one who held it stood up, while the shield was simply crumpled from the core. If it wasn't a buzdigan, then it must have been a hammer?" The girl thought as she measured the old shield in her hands. "You involuntarily start thinking, did they give up their belongings willingly, or were they asked for them very politely? Does it even happen that the gods ask?"

Mortals talked a lot about the gods, whether Greenlanders, Danes, or Swedes – everyone had their own interpretation and vision of the powers, achievements, and, of course, the Aesir's lineage, but never, in any of legends and interpretations, was the Allfather inherent in restraint. The blood of the Aesir was hot, and the blood of the Odinsons was hotter than heated iron.

“Let us be prudent, Skadisdatter.”

“So let us be prudent, Allfather. Unless prudence is not talking about art or half-heartedly making hints," Liv straightened up, the light from the candles flickered as if from a breeze that had slipped through the door behind her (which she believed to be tightly closed). "What do you want from me?"

Odin did not pause, he answered suddenly, and his words surprised her no less, embarrassing her for a moment:

"You are much alike Skadi. A striking resemblance indeed," the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth deepened into a half-smile, "She too came to me for help at first. Even when she was unable to set conditions or ask questions, she was still defiant, and then when she received an offer from my son Baldur*, she refused. I wonder where the similarities end.” The Allfather tilted his head expectantly to one side.

"Probably on the lack of interest in morganatic marriages* and the need for help."

The old god laughed briefly and shook his head.

"No, I'm not proposing any marriage to you. I'm just saying that out of respect for your mother, I don't want to turn our relationship into a boring exchange of favours."

"For some reason, our conversations always turn to my mother. But I'm listening."

"I'm asking you to be my factotum."

It took Liv a few seconds to recall the word, which was spoken in exactly the same tone as when an accountant lends you money.

"In human terms, 'run errands for you' ".

Heimdall snorted indignantly, but Odin stopped him with a wave of his hand. This was enough to silence the young man.

"I would have been more economical with snarky responses, but I am happy to answer your questions and remarks, Skadisdatter.”

"That's the thing, you're not answering them, you're dodging them." Liv crossed her arms over her chest, but then her fingers reached for a small braid where a strand of hair was weaved. She started rubbing it gently, twisting it around her finger, "Besides, how did you know I was coming?

"The children of the gods always come. Sooner or later."

“I wonder why? Does your generosity with golden apples and magic rings* have something to do with it?”

"Partly." Odin intertwined his fingers, each one sparkling with a golden ring. He wasn't smiling, but his blue eye still twinkled with amusement. "Whether out of a realisation that they do not belong among mortals or after they have flirted with their power, because their wounds heal faster and their hands can bend swords at unusual angles, they end up at best, dying in their sleep with a knife in their throat, cut by yesterday's allies or being pierced by arrows like a hedgehog with needles, dying a nasty and slow death. Unless, of course, their own blood kills them before they reach adulthood," the corner of Liv's mouth twitched slightly as the image of dirty, sticky with sweat sheets came to mind. Her nostrils tickled with the ephemeral echoes of verbena and incense. She hadn't known back then that her sickness was neither a jinx nor a god’s trail – Liv was simply unlucky enough to be another mistake between a mortal and a goddess. But the memory quickly faded and lost its colour as Odin continued, lightly twirling the ring on his index finger. If the girl hadn't been trying so hard to hide her slight trembling, she might have noticed a certain smugness in the Allfather's tone. "Sometimes demigods are characterised by sacrifice, heroism, and occasionally death in their beds without the burdensome knowledge of their origins. However, no matter what the whim of Fate, they end up here. Alive or dead.”

“Very well. Then, in the end, what kind of demi-god am I?”

“One of those who realise that strength alone is not enough before their naïvety and impulsiveness become their undoing. Skadi offered herself to balance the relationship between gods and giants, but she did so on her own terms.”

Liv pressed her lips together, knowing full well that she was hardly in a position to make any conditions. She ran her finger over the pouch, but Odin silently put something on the table. And without a word, he pushed it forward. The perfect edge, the distinctive features of the hook-nosed profile, and the smooth surface of the Asgardian coin was surprisingly similar to the one she had recently fingered in her leather bag. Heimdall tilted his head slightly to side, curling his lips in that same cocky smile – "Of course, he's managed to replace it. After all, he takes me for an idiot."

"The magic of giants is always fascinating, although it probably makes even less sense than the magic of dwarves. I assume, like the sword, it was a gift from Skadi, right?"

"Yes." Liv lied. But quickly. Too quickly.

Odin smiled slightly, pretending to believe it, and Heimdall's face twitched slightly as if he had just been bitten between the eyebrows. The Allfather spun the ring around his finger once more and pushed the coin aside with a sigh, it quickly disappeared among the papers and books on his table.

"I am only concerned that someone else might be able to slip into my kingdom like a thief through a crack in the door, Skadisdatter.”

"No thief is ever expected, no thief is ever welcomed with open arms into one's home, and even less often is a thief ever hired."

Odin leaned back into the chair easily and intertwined his fingers across his chest, a smile still playing on the old god's lips.

"And almost always, thieves lie. You claimed to want to help me when you first came, and now you're lying to my face. What do you really want, Skadisdatter? Do you want me to trust a liar?"

Liv blinked uneasily and answered with a little bit of a shudder. She tried to be more sincere this time.

"I'm sick of watching Midgard snow for years in a row, covered in frost, as people are dying and I'm sick of my inaction and powerlessness. I want to help stop it, if possible."

"However, this is not a self-interest, but an altruistic one. That's why I don't believe in it." The Allfather glanced slightly at the young god, who hadn't revealed his presence with anything but angry snorts before.

A purple gaze flickered from under the lad's furrowed brow, and he stood frozen for a few moments, looking at Liv, who in turn stood still as well. Then he rolled his eyes and nodded.

“She believes in it. Wants to believe.”

*End of the chapter* whew