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godmadeaterribleerror · 7 months ago

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Chapter 22 - I Stayed In The Darkness With You

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: May I introduce everyone to my secret extra villain, bureaucratic incompetence! Chapter Title from Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine.

Word Count: 24k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sunglasses and text messages break the camels back. Usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst, pining

Read on A03!

Chapter 21 - Chapter 23

“Do you,” Ryan swallowed the food in his mouth, staring at the floor as he spoke. “Do you guys get nightmares?”

Ben didn’t know how to handle that question. He didn’t know how to handle most of Ryan’s questions that weren’t about Her or the more glamorous parts of Ben’s past. He could talk about Her for the rest of fucking time and never get tired, and it was pretty damn easy to mutter I did see Star Wars in theaters, was even at the premier of two of those shit-ass movies. Pussy characters, none of them can just get their fucking jobs done. Hero's journey bullshit, and shut your damn mouth Sunshine, you’re the one who told me about the hero's journey. Indiana Jones was a fuck ton better anyway.

He didn’t talk to anyone but Her about things like nightmares. Even She didn’t know the full extent of them, of the memories of gas and knives and sterilized needles that had plagued Ben’s sleep. Or how they’d turned to terrors of Homelander taking Her, of Ben roaring Her name into the dark and only hearing wordless screams in response, and of blood. Nightmares full of blood and fog that he’d woken up from choking on air while she was gone. Ben certainly didn’t tell Her about the nightmares where he touched her and she started clawing at his skin and sobbing, falling to the floor and not allowing Ben to pick her back up. Where she didn’t recognize him and just kept screaming.

He’d been waking up with Her screams still ringing in his ears, and hadn’t told her. He wouldn’t tell Her, because this was Ben’s fucking issue, and he’d deal with it his goddamn self. She had enough shit to deal with. She’d spent the past week working her damn ass off—combing through more and more of A-Train’s stupid fucking leads, listening to the media spout more and more bullshit lies about Her life, and training with Ben and Ryan—and her own nightmares had returned. After Ben had found Her in the shower, screaming and crying and fucking breaking apart in front of him, there hadn’t been a night were she hadn’t burst into flames and Ben hadn’t had to listen to the strangled, painful sounds that left her body. But she hadn’t stopped touching him. Linking her arm through Ben’s when they walked, pressing her thigh into his at the table and pulling his arm around her body. Running a hand through his hair before tugging his brow to hers when she crawled onto him in the dark. Holding Ben against her as the fire died out, letting him pull her back down until he was flat on his back and rubbing circles on her hips. Relaxing into his kisses on the top of her head and pressing her face into his neck as she fell back asleep.

Even now, sitting on the mat of the gym as they ate lunch with Ryan, she was touching Ben. She was leaning into his side as she sighed, watching Ryan carefully as she answered his question. Of course She’d know how to answer that question. She was fucking perfect.

“I do,” Her hand had wandered to Ben’s knee, tapping against him as she spoke. “Most of us do. I’d imagine it would be more worrying if we didn’t.”

Ryan blinked at her. “Worrying?“

“Well,” She frowned. “We’re exposed to a lot of fucked up situations. We make a lot of impossible, horrible decisions. Nightmares mean that we still care, that we’re still capable of remorse over our worse actions and haven’t given up on ourselves enough to just remain unaffected. We’re still able to feel something, even if that thing is fear.”

“But I don’t want to feel fear,” Ryan mumbled, still watching the ground. “I don’t want to be afraid of stuff anymore. My dad said that I shouldn’t be afraid of anything, that fear was a weakness.”

“Ryan,” She leaned a little further forward. “Can you look at me?”

When he listened, slowly looking up with a nervous expression, a small, sad smile crossed Her face.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Um, I don’t know.” Ryan glanced at Ben, and even though he didn’t know what the fuck She was getting at—he rarely did—he gave Ryan a sharp nod. It seemed to say what the kid had been looking for, because Ryan swallowed and continued. “My dad?”

“Fear really fucking sucks,” she whispered, and Ben’s fists tightened on his cheesesteak. “But it’s not bad. It doesn’t make you weak. We all get afraid, it’s your brain trying to tell you that you and the people you care about are in danger. And Homelander is dangerous. It’s smart to be afraid of him, Ryan, because then you’re not like him.”

“But I’ve hurt people, what if I am-“

“Homelander,” Her nails were burning on Ben’s skin. “Isn’t afraid of anything. Because he thinks he’s above fear, because he doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Just the fact that you’re afraid of Homelander tells me you’re nothing like him.”

“Are, are you afraid of anything?”

She nodded, heart picking up in her chest, and Ben moved his hand silently to her waist. Pulling Her closer without looking away from Ryan, keeping his face perfectly fucking neutral when she squeezed his knee and her breathing slowed.

“Homelander.” She took a heavy breath. “And heights.”

Ben hadn’t known that. He made a mental note to look up if you could take a boat to Rome.

Ryan nodded, looking at Ben with wide, nervous eyes. “Ben?”

He grunted, taking another bite of his cheesesteak as he waited for Ryan to continue.

“You don’t get afraid, right?”

Ben froze mid-chew. He wasn’t afraid of anything, and—if he was—it wasn’t any of Ryan’s goddamn business. It wasn’t like fear ever fucking affected him, or made him whine like a pussy, made him fucking cry like Ryan was about to-

He looked at Her. Completely fucking involuntarily, Ben looked at her and knew he was afraid of that. Afraid he’d fail her again. And maybe also gas. And small, closed spaces. Not Homelander himself—that pussy could eat Ben’s shit—but Homelander hurting Her. Hurting her in a way that made Ben lose her, taking her away where Ben couldn’t get her back. But that was a fear for Her. It was a service to Her, to share some of the weight she kept trying to carry alone. And of course Ben would be afraid of failing Her, he’d done it once and it had put her in fucking danger, so that didn’t count. Gas didn’t count either, gas had taken Ben’s who goddamn life away from him, anyone would be afraid of gas if they had half a goddamn brain. Closed spaces were a little fucking pathetic, but Ben would like to see any other pussy be kept in a box for forty years and not start to fucking hate it. But none of that was shit for Ryan to be all fucking sad about-

Ben felt Her whack his arm, and looked down to find her glaring at him. Stop being a giant fucking manchild and tell Ryan you’re afraid of something.

Ben scowled, but swallowed his food and looked back to Ryan. “Everyone’s afraid of shit, kid. As long as you’re not a fucking pathetic dickless pussy about it, you won’t be any less of a fucking man.”

Ryan nodded, something in his eyes a little lighter and a confusing fucking warm feeling inflating in Ben’s chest. “Thanks.”

“Don’t fucking-“

Her hand flew up to cover Ben’s mouth, and when he shot her a glare she just wrinkled her nose. If you ruin this nice moment, Pretty Boy, I’ll stab you.

Ben rolled his eyes, Shut the fuck up, and pulled Her hand away, kissing her knuckles before looking back to Ryan. “You done with that sandwich?”

“I’m, um, not really that hungry.“

“I’ll hold on to it for you, and you can put it in the fridge when you get home.” She pulled out from Ben’s side, reaching across the mat with her perfect fucking ass in the air to grab the rest of Ryan’s food. Ben couldn’t let himself stare at Her ass, or think about kicking Ryan out to fuck her into the floor, or sit with his legs crossed anymore. He had maybe a minute before he’d have to stand up, and he needed to get his shit together so he didn’t do it with a raging hard-on.

“You don’t have to-“

“If I don’t,” She leaned back into Ben, grinning at Ryan. “Grandpa will eat it when neither of us are looking. He’s like a dog, you can’t leave food out.”

“I am not a fucking dog-“

She sat up on her knees, giving Ben the prettiest fucking fake-pout and kissing his cheek before pulling back with a smile. A wide, bright smile where there wasn’t any pain hidden in her perfect, sharp eyes, and all Ben could bring himself to do was glare at her.

Brat.

Cunt. Go show Ryan how to punch stuff.

He kissed her once, soft and quick and so fucking simple—his hands in her hair and her body half on his lap—before pulling back to stand. Ryan scrambled up, following Ben silently to the far side of the mat, and She scooted back to the wall.

Over the week, they’d developed a habit of this shit. Ben trained Ryan for a few hours, while She sat off to the side and switched between watching them and working on the V leads. Then they’d eat lunch together, Ben and Ryan would go for another hour or so, and they’d walk Ryan back to Butcher before returning to their own apartment. It was a damn good routine, because Ryan was already a fuck ton better then when they’d started—he hit the target every time now, and had only crushed two metal plates on accident today—and She had used the time to build a fucking airtight case for the president to just give them some goddamn V.

She’d explained the whole thing to Ben twice. Once in their apartment and once during a meeting with the team. Ben didn’t remember any of the first time, because she’d looked so fucking hot—chewing her lip while she thought and glaring at the papers in front of her with sharp eyes—and he’d wanted to slam Her on top of those stupid papers and see if she could recite all that fucking smart shit with Ben buried deep inside her. He’d managed to remember the second one only because she’d said it was really important they all have a basic understanding of our argument, in case Singer decides to cold call.

“The first half,” She’d frowned at the papers as she sorted through them at the dining hall table. “Is mostly evidence of Homelander as a genuine threat to American stability, security, democracy, and like, fucking everything else. I think-”

“If Singer ain’t total fuckin brainless cunt, we shouldn’t need to show our bloody work-“

“It’s precautionary, Butcher.” She’d snapped. “And if you’d let me fucking finish, I was going to say that we could all just use personal experience for it. The second half is the important stuff. Copies of the document that says this would work, a vague outline of a plan to get the V in Homelander, a list of all the other avenues we’ve exhausted to get some V-“

“He’s not going to know I gave you guys those leads, right?” A-Train had cut Her off with frantic words. “If these get leaked or some shit, it can’t be traced back to me-“

“No,” She’d shaken her head. “We’re not saying how we got them, because that’s not important. He just needs to know that we’ve looked elsewhere, and there isn’t time to waste on continuing on wild goose chases. I’ve added hypotheticals about what could happen if we don’t act soon-“

Ben loved Her so goddamn much. He’d stopped paying attention, because he was losing his fucking mind about how much he loved her. She was so beautiful, and smart, and if everyone would just shut the fuck up and stop asking Her stupid questions Ben could get fucking lost in how perfect she was.

He’d gotten a boner. He’d been watching her talk all fucking focused and intense and pretty, and she’d grinned and bumped his shoulder with hers about something Ben couldn’t even fucking remember anymore, and he had completely given up on paying attention so he could get lost in a fantasy of bending Her over the table and fucking her until she whined and her eyes rolled back in her head.

It was becoming a fucking problem, how everywhere Ben looked was just another place he wanted to fuck her on or against, and how every word she said made him want to tell Her he loved her. He’d thought about it before, while she was gone, it was somehow worse when she was home. When she kept doing things that made him love Her more. Ben kept thinking he’d finally hit fucking capacity on how much he loved her—that loving her so much he’d move mountains and crack open the sky was the greatest type of love anyone was fucking capable of—and then She’d prove him wrong. She couldn’t just let Ben exist in goddamn peace, she had to make him and Ryan lunch everyday. She had to keep encouraging Ryan, and teasing Ben about wanting encouragement right before she’d tell him she thought he was an excellent teacher, even if he wouldn’t stop swearing at the child. She had to keep singing to herself while she moved around the apartment, and making everything around her so much fucking better than it had been before. She had to finally stop fucking apologizing, and kept curling into Ben’s body like it was the most natural thing in the fucking world. And it all made Ben feel like a fucking dumbass, because he kept being wrong. There was no limit to how much he loved Her, and every single thing she did would always make him want to just fuck her until she was happy and felt good.

But Ben wasn’t allowing himself to fuck Her. Not when he’d touched Her once and she’d shattered. They’d reached a silent agreement to not talk about the gun range and to keep kissing but never do more. Ben’s hands would wander down to her hips and her heart would pick up, so he wouldn’t go further. She’d kiss him and run fingers over his abdomen, but the moment Ben tensed in anticipation she’d freeze and drag them back to his chest. They hadn’t talked about it, but Ben knew she’d say I’m fine, and he’d insist that she wasn’t—people who are fine don’t fucking wake up in the middle of the night on fire—and she’d insist she was. They’d fight, and Ben didn’t want to fight with her. Not about something that fucking mattered like this, not when she kept kissing and smiling at him before—barely an hour later—something would suddenly shift and Her eyes would grow more and more hollow. He loved Her, and if they had a fight he’d probably yell that he fucking loved her to make her understand why it was killing him to watch Her be in pain that he wasn’t allowed to fix, and he’d lose Her. She wasn’t ready, and if Ben made this about how he loved her he’d lose her. He wouldn’t say it right, or well. He didn’t know how to talk about his goddamn feelings without sounding like a pathetic fucking pussy. He’d fuck it up and She wouldn’t understand that he loved Her so fucking much it could carve into the earth, and he’d lose Her.

She still looked at him with adoration. She still touched Ben like she wanted him, and sighed his name like it was important. But that was all she could give him right now, and Ben had to force himself to find a way to be okay with it. To let Her break and break in front of him, to keep her safe and pick up her pieces off the tile floors, then just kiss her until she gave a soft, happy sigh. To not grab her face and tell her that he loved Her. That he was so fucking worried about her because he loved her, and that he’d keep waiting. He’d wait and wait forever until she wanted him again. He’d take whatever she’d give him. He fucking loved Her, loved her in a way that would kill any other goddamn asshole to feel because it was fucking primal. It was real, raw, painful and indestructible love. Love where Ben would never be able to show it enough, never be able really make Her fucking understand how powerfully and zealously he loved her.

He could imagine it. Ben could indulge himself in these stupid fucking fantasies and drive himself mad as a punishment for being too fucking weak to know how to fix this. For being so much of a fucking pussy that the woman he loved kept breaking down and he could barely make it better, Ben started torturing himself with all the ways he’d could get this fucking right.

He’d roll Her over in their bed and kiss her breathless, before telling her that he loved Her and she was beautiful. Then he’d fuck her, gentle and long and goddamn romantic as shit, and she’d moan his name.

She’d give him one of her perfect, secret smiles over dinner and he’d tell Her in silence. Her pretty mouth would fall open, and she’d make a lame excuse to pull Ben back home. The door would barely close before she’d tackle him to the floor and ride him until she fell against his chest.

They’d be at a meeting, and Ben would just fucking yell it over the table. He’d roar I fucking love you, Sunshine, and the whole team would leave because Ben would already have her half-naked and in his lap.

Fuck, even now as She walked a pace ahead of him—smiling down at Ryan as he rambled about fucking homework and listening like She actually gave a shit, because she probably did—Ben wanted to grab Her and fuck her. He didn’t even need a wall or a bed, he’d just pick her up, rip off her pants, and slam himself into her until she felt good. But she’d fucking fall apart again after, and the pain of watching that was unspeakably worse than the ache of never touching her again.

But he would tell Her. Ben would keep fucking trying to make this better for Her, and when the shadows started to creep out of her eyes and Homelander could never fucking touch her again, Ben was going to fucking tell Her. He’d say Her name, and she’d look at him all pretty and concerned about if everything was okay, and he’d tell her. I love you. I love you so goddamn much, and it’s made me a pathetic fucking pussy, and I don’t give a fuck because I love you. You’re perfect and I love you. You’re my whole fucking world and I love you. I’ll wait for you to be ready for the rest of goddamn time, because I love you.

And she’d smile at him and say-

“Benjamin, if you don’t start walking I swear to god I’m going without you.”

They’d dropped off Ryan. Ben had given him another awkward hug before Ryan had turned to Her and they’d hugged as well. Then she’d smiled at Ben over Ryan’s head, making all of his thoughts devolve into perfect. Beautiful, perfect woman. He loved Her so fucking much, and when he told her that he was going to blow her perfect fucking mind with how fucking romantic it was, and he’d stopped paying attention.

She was walking back in the direction of the gym, and Ben frowned. “Where the fuck-“

“Mallory called a meeting, and we’re already late-“ She stopped tugging at Ben’s arm, giving him a flat look. “You forgot.”

He had forgotten. She’d told him when they’d sat down for lunch that they’d have to go straight to the dining hall after, because there were updates that apparently couldn’t just fucking wait for the daily briefing tomorrow morning. He’d nodded, taken his cheesesteak, and she’d kissed his cheek. That alone had melted his brain a little, but then she’d moved some hair out of his face and leaned against his side and Ben had started wondering if this would be it. If he lowered Her onto the gym mat and told her he loved her, it would work. If She’d pull him down to her mouth and let him kiss her until there was a dent on the floor, then mumble into his mouth that she loved him as well. That she understood, and if Ben wanted to fuck her when they got home she wouldn’t stop him.

In reality She was still glaring at him outside of Butcher’s apartment—perfect arms crossed and pretty eyes narrowed—and Ben had to act indignant. If he didn’t, she’d ask a lot of fucking questions and he’d shut her up by walking her backwards into the wall, telling her he loved her, and kissing her fucking stupid.

“Mallory calls a whole lot of fucking bullshit meeting, we don’t need to go to every single one-“

She snorted. “Yeah, we do. You just don’t want me to call you old.”

“I’m not fucking old. And I didn’t forget-“

“Ben.” She linked her arms through his, and Ben scowled at her goddamn beautiful face and bored, amused, perfect fucking voice. “You are very old. And we have to go to the meeting you forgot about, you fucking dinosaur.”

“Most of these stupid meetings are completely goddamn pointless,” Ben grumbled, even as he let her pull him down the hall. “Mallory thinks every single thing needs a whole hour to go over, and it’s never any actual fucking progress-“

“It might be, though.” She shrugged, grinning over her shoulder. “And if there is news, Kimiko will bring out the ice cream to celebrate. Don’t want to miss that.”

“We have our own ice cream, Sunshine.” He tugged Her arm just enough for her to fall back a pace, walking at his side so Ben could rest his arm over her shoulder. Keep her right against him, where she was fucking safe and smiling and there weren’t shadows across her perfect features. “We can just go the fuck home if you want ice cream.”

“We don’t have sprinkles. I want sprinkles.”

“Those things taste like fucking wax-“

“They are wax, Pretty Boy. They’re sugar wax.” Her hands had risen to hold Ben’s over her body, and he had to fucking pay attention and not spin her around, dance with her in the hall and dip her down all fucking romantic before whispering that he loved her. “I just want some colorful fucking sugar wax to go with my boring, old man vanilla ice cream.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You fucking love my old man vanilla ice cream. You eat it just as much as me.”

He caught his own error, but she didn’t jump in with a smug voice and tell him as I. And when Ben frowned down at Her, she was watching him with that expression he didn’t understand. All adoration and want, with something burning behind her eyes, and her voice soft when she spoke.

“I do love your old man vanilla ice cream.” Her smile spread, and her eyes looked a little brighter. “But I’d love it more with sprinkles.”

Ben snorted, and kissed the top of her head. “Brat.”

“Dramatic fucking cunt,” she mumbled, and Ben would have to figure out where to buy sprinkles now. There wasn’t a fucking chance in hell he was asking Mallory for that shit, but he’d figure it out and maybe it would help keep her expression light and joyful.

Everyone seemed to have finally fucking accepted that She and Ben would never be on time, because the most shit they got for being ten minutes late—again—was Mallory shooting Ben a glower and a collection of sighs when they entered the dining hall.

“Now that we’re all here,” Mallory’s words were cold, and Ben pulled Her a little further into his side on the bench. “Let’s get started. William?”

Butcher grinned around the table, a smug smirk on his face. “You cunts ready to hear the first good news you’ve gotten in a year?”

“Good news?” Hughie frowned. “Did we find some V?”

“Guess again, lad.“

The French Prick leaned across the table. “Madame Sage has made an error?”

“Sage doesn’t make errors,” A-Train muttered. “It’s probably more about Vought, a lead or some shit.“

“Still ain’t it, mate. Anyone want to take a shot-“

“Butcher,” MM grunted, running a hand over his face. “Just fucking tell them, you asshole.”

“You really take all the bloody joy out of life, MM.” Butcher hands slid in his pockets, pretending not to see MM flip him off as he continued. “The one and only cunt in charge agreed to meet with us. Said he wants us in DC by tomorrow afternoon, gave us a fuckin travel fund and everything.”

“In DC?” She narrowed her eyes at Butcher, and Ben felt her tense under his arm. “That’s a four hour drive away, and we can’t all go-“

“Most of you won’t be going,” Mallory snapped. “You and A-Train are at a security risk if you leave the compound, William has to stay with Ryan, and Campbell has some work to do.”

Hughie blinked. “I do?”

“Ah, that may be my fault petite Hughie.” Frenchie shrugged. “I requested that the A-Train provide access to Vought’s supe files. I will need your aid in retrieving them through the computers.”

Hughie nodded slowly, looking back to Mallory. “Does that mean it’s just Annie and MM?”

“Blood good deduction, Lad, but you forgot about Soldier Boy.”

Everyone looked at Ben, and he froze as Her heartbeat picked up. “The fuck you mean he forgot.”

“You’re goin’ on a field trip, Gov.” Butcher winked. “I’ll pack you some applesauce for the road, and make sure you take a piss before you get in the car.”

She swallowed, glancing between Ben and Butcher, and her words were far too fucking soft. “How long will they be gone?”

“About a day,” Annie sighed. “We’re leaving around 7am tomorrow, and after the meeting with Singer we’re going to have to wait for a transportation clearance, which probably won’t come until morning.”

“Transportation clearance?” Hughie gave Annie a confused look. “Can’t you just take Butcher’s car?”

“Nope.” MM shook his head. “Sage has got records of Butcher’s car. We’re taking an FBSA escort there, and a CIA escort back.”

“But,” She was still so fucking quiet. “Why will you have to wait for morning?”

“Route approval,” MM muttered. “Bunch of fucking security shit, and the motherfuckers at the CIA move slow. Annie’s right, it’ll probably take us a day to get there, do the meeting, and get back.”

“Why the fuck do I have to go,” Ben hissed. This was a fucking stupid idea, he didn’t need to be there. He didn’t need to be anywhere without Her, and he sure as hell wasn’t fucking leaving her. “I’m not going to be doing the actual damn pitch, and Singer can eat my fucking balls if he thinks I’m going to brownnose him to get the V-“

“He specifically requested your presence, Gov.” Butcher shrugged. “Didn’t say why, but I’m sure it’s your sparkling fuckin personality.”

“Shut the fuck up you pussy, I’m not going anywhere-“

“Was it a condition?” She was looking between Butcher and MM, fingers tapping on the table. “Did Singer request Ben, or demand him?”

MM sighed. “Demand. We don’t bring Soldier Boy, they won’t let us in the door.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “You’ve got all the information for the pitch?”

Annie and MM started rattling off all the details She’d given them about the V, and her face was so fucking tired. She wasn’t looking at Ben, but her body was all but falling into his, her eyes were far away, and her breathing was fucking mechanical again.

He squeezed her shoulder, glaring down at Her until she glanced at him. I am not fucking going to DC.

Yes. You are. She gave him a small, empty smile. You have to, Ben. Please.

He shook his head. No. I am not fucking leaving you for a day just because Singer’s a fucking pussy who thinks he can make demands.

I’ll be okay, She pressed her knee to Ben’s, and he didn’t fucking believe her. It’s only a day, Pretty Boy. I’ll survive.

She would survive. She was strong as fucking hell, and she’d survive one goddamn day without Ben. It was him that wouldn’t make it one hour away without going fucking sick with worry that she was in danger, or alone, or breaking and he wasn’t there to help. I don’t give a fuck. I’m not fucking leaving.

If you don’t, we won’t get the V. She sighed. We have phones, Pretty Boy. You can text me, and I’m not going anywhere.

Ben scowled. Swear that if you need me home you’ll tell me.

She was giving him that look again. There was something fucking confused behind her gaze, like she hadn’t understood his words. But She nodded, Promise, and turned back to the table.

Ben was going to have to go. He had not fucking interest in going, but She was asking him to, so he would. This could get them a step closer to killing Homelander—to making Her fucking safe and Ben being able to say he loved her—so he would. He spent the rest of the meeting glowering at everyone and holding Her tighter, making sure she knew he was in no way a fucking fan of this bullshit, but didn’t keep arguing.

It would be fine. He’d survive one fucking day without Her. She’d be home and safe, and he wasn’t so fucking pathetic that he’d whine and moan like a pussy without her there. Then he’d come home and kiss Her, and beat Homelander’s fucking brains in, and find them the next boat to Rome.

After the meeting, they ate dinner with the team. It was tense, with everyone a little quieter than usual and focused mostly on their food, so Ben watched Her. He’d already memorized every single fucking thing about Her, but he never got tired of just watching her. She was so fucking beautiful, smiling at Ryan when he arrived, resting her head on Ben’s shoulder when she finished eating, signing with Kimiko about something that made her giggle—light and joyful, the best fucking sound in the world—and looking up at Ben when Kimiko turned back to Hughie.

Are you ready to go?

Ben had been ready to go for a damn hour, and he didn’t waste another fucking second before nodding, pulling Her up with him, and turning to the door.

She made a small sound of surprise, and Ben waited for her to be all fucking kind and polite—bidding the team goodnight and hugging Ryan—before tugging her back to his side and out into the hall.

“Are you okay?”

He frowned down at Her as they walked back to their apartment. “What.”

“I know you don’t want to go to DC, but-“

“I’ll fucking manage,” he grunted. He wouldn’t, this was going to be fucking horrible, but She didn’t need more shit to worry about. “And you’ll text me.”

“I will,” she mumbled, pressing Her face into Ben’s side and letting him guide their steps. “Thank you for doing this.”

Ben sighed. “Don’t.” It’s for you, Sunshine. I’d fucking do anything for you.

“But I am,” he could feel Her smile into his side. “Thank you.”

He didn’t push it. She was smiling, and he fucking loved Her, so Ben just opened the door to their apartment and sighed. “TV?”

She nodded, playing with the fabric of his shirt as they sat on the couch. “Your night to pick, Pretty Boy. Can I guess?”

“You’re fucking going to anyway-“

“It’s either the documentary about the Cuban Missile Crisis we didn’t finish, or the baseball game that’s on tonight.”

Ben frowned. “How the hell do you know about the game?”

“I pay attention,” she smiled up at him, and he was going to fucking explode. “I like to know if I’ll be spending the night listening to you lose your fucking mind over some balls.”

“They’re not just some balls, Sunshine, it’s a staple of fucking America-“

“With balls.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

“No,” she reached for the remote, passing it to him with a grin. “And, for the record, my personal vote is for the game. It’s Red Sox versus Phillies, and I want to see you cry when Boston beats your ass.”

Ben snorted, and flipped through channels until he landed on the game. “Brat.”

“Cunt,” She wrapped her arms around his torso, resting her head on his chest. “I,” she sighed. “I adore you, Benjamin.”

“I adore you too,” he muttered Her name, and she gave a small, content sound, relaxing further into his body. “You’re okay.”

She hummed, looking backwards with that strange fucking warmth in her eyes. “I’m okay.”

Ben kissed Her, soft and easy, and didn’t believe a goddamn word she was saying. They did this every fucking night, and he knew how it would end. He’d spend the whole time swallowing shouts of I love you, and she’d almost fall asleep against him. So fucking beautiful, so fucking tired, and Ben would keep trying to figure out how to just fix this shit. To find something he could say to Her that would make her tell him how to make this better. He couldn’t touch Her, she’d break. He couldn’t tell Her he loved her, this wasn’t about him. But She had to be happy, and Ben wasn’t going to fucking rest until he figured out how to make her totally and completely happy.

Here, in the glow of the TV, was a place she was happy. With Ben holding Her tight and tracing patterns on her skin, her face was peaceful and her heart was steady. He was pretty fucking sure she’d been happy, in the gun range. But then She’d broken, and Ben was never going to allow it to get any worse. She was still happy, most of the time, but she wasn’t touching him. Wasn’t trying to take more.

So he’d keep waiting until he got his fucking act together and figured out a way to tell her properly, or until She told him to touch her again. Until Ben knew how to make the happiness stay, and stop it from fleeing in the dark.

Ben felt a tug on his hand, and looked down to see her turning his fingers between her own, not meeting his eyes as she spoke. “Can you-“

He didn’t wait for Her to finish. She was quiet and nervous, and she looked so fucking exhausted, and the stupid game didn’t matter even a fraction as much as she did. Ben knew what she was asking, so he picked her up and carried her upstairs to the bathroom.

She was still crying in the shower. Steam would choke the room as she turned the water up to boil—She’d refused to let Ben fix the ceiling fan, so now the whole apartment grew humid every night—and Ben had been forced to hear Her heart race, hear the quiet, choking sobs shake her body, before he’d break into the bathroom and could hold Her until she was breathing again. After three nights in a row, he’d just started showering with her. Every night Ben set her down on the bathroom floor, stripped his clothes, and pulled her carefully with him into the water. She didn’t cry when they did it like this. When Ben stood a step back while she used all her fucking hair shit, and held Her against his bare chest when she looked at him with a silent plea to do so. When she was done, he helped dry her off, then carried her to bed. Set Her down carefully, go back to the bathroom to brush his teeth—keeping an ear on her heart as she shuffled around the room—and climb into bed himself. Nothing more. Not until She was ready, and Ben couldn’t break her by touching her.

He’d developed a daydream. Ben loved Her so fucking much he’d started to fantasize, late in the night when she was content and peaceful against him—before the fire and screaming began—about if she did love him. About a perfect world where She blinked her eyes open, sat up on Ben’s chest, and smiled down at him as she held his face and played with the hair of his beard. Where she leaned down and kissed him gently, murmured that she loved him, that she was Ben’s the same way he was Her’s, and he believed Her. He looked at the joy on her face, believed that she was okay, and did everything. He’d do everything for her, to her, with her. Everything she asked or needed or wanted, Ben would do.

In the daydream, it was what Ben wanted as well. In his head he’d grin at Her, flip her on her back, and take control. Make her feel so fucking good, make her moan and writhe under him, give Her one place in her life where she didn’t have to do any work. Then they’d kill Homelander together—maybe he’d just fucking drop dead the next morning—and leave this stupid fucking life forever. He’d carry Her to Rome, and buy her a house with the money they earned from her excellent fucking escort business, and fuck her on every surface available to him. He’d tell Her he loved her every other sentence, and she’d smile at him, and Ben would ask Her to marry him. He’d just walk into the room, grab her and say I love you, Sunshine, and you should marry me. I’ll fucking treat you like a Queen, because you’re perfect and I love you. She’d giggle, and tell him that he already did treat her like a queen—because he would, no matter what Ben’s whole life after this was going to be about fucking her like she deserved and making her happy—but still agree to marry him. They wouldn’t bother with the fucking dramatics of a wedding, it would be quick fucking work with the most goddamn romanic vows in history and then a kiss that quickly turned into Ben fucking his wife stupid. He’d make sure she smiled all the goddamn time, and then—at least in the fantasy—he’d fuck her full of babies. Homelander would be dead—fucking burned or dumped in the ocean or buried a thousand feet under—and She’d tell Ben she trusted him and loved him and wanted a family with him, so he’d give her that.

It would have to wait until after Homelander was dead. Ben knew Her, he knew she’d need a little more time to be ready for that, but—in this perfect world—she one day would be. In this perfect world She’d never be afraid again, and she’d cry about whatever normal people cried about, and Ben would make her feel safe enough to have a family. Ryan would visit them, that was obvious. Annie, Hughie, Kimiko, and MM would as well, because that would make Her feel even more loved. Even Butcher had somehow worked himself into this, and was at occasional dinners when they went back to New York to visit Violet. The only people that wouldn’t be allowed near them were Mallory and her mother.

It would be fucking perfect. She’d wake up next to him, and he’d surround Her with evidence of his love for her. He’d kiss her at every chance, and tell her he loved her wherever he could work it into the conversation. He’d let her boss him around all fucking day, and the moment the door closed behind them at night Ben would lock it and drag her into their bed. He’d fuck Her stupid, and she’d give him a blissful, happy smile, and that would be their whole fucking lives. Happy. Just fucking happy.

The most Ben indulged in these thoughts was when She was truly, fully passed out. When Her breathing was slow and her heartbeat was even, Ben would tell her in the dark. When he was certain she couldn’t hear, Ben would mutter to her all the ways he’d make her happy. How much he loved her, how she was so fucking beautiful and perfect and he’d never stop waiting for Her, because if there was even a goddamn chance his stupid fucking fantasy could be real he’d take it. She was worth waiting for. Ben loved Her, and one day he’d figure out how to make himself worthy of being loved by Her.

It’s how he spent every night now. Waiting for when she woke up in flames again, holding Her until she fell back under, and tracing his hands over her face until it was peaceful and all the tears were wiped away. Usually he’d fall asleep himself, savoring in the feel of Her body against his and the sound of her heartbeat, but tonight he couldn’t. Tonight all he managed to do was fucking watch Her in his arms, and try not to think about how he wouldn’t be at her side tomorrow night.

Then, as light began to leak through the windows, Ben’s phone rang.

It was an unknown number. She’d told him not to answer those, because if it’s not spam they’ll leave a voicemail, and if it is spam you’ll be telling them you’re an active number and you’ll get more calls. He didn’t fucking understand what that meant—She’d definitely tried to explain, and Ben had definitely gotten distracted by how her tits squished together when she crossed her arms—but She was always right about this shit, so Ben ignored it.

Barely thirty seconds passed before it rang again. Ben flipped the screen over, because there wasn’t a fucking chance in hell he was letting this wake Her up.

It rang a third time. And fourth. By the fifth, Ben was going to fucking smash his phone.

He couldn’t smash his phone. He was leaving in the morning, and if he smashed his phone he wouldn’t be able to text her.

On the sixth, Ben scooted carefully to sit against the headboard, made sure she was still comfortably asleep with Her head in his lap, and picked up the goddamn call.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he hissed, keeping a careful ear on her heartbeat against him. “But if you call me one more time I’ll fine you, cut off your fingers, and shove them up your fucking asshole.”

“Charming as always, Soldier Boy.” Stan Edgar's voice was clipped and bored, barely muffled by the static of the receiver. “But I don’t believe that’s a way to talk to an old friend.”

Ben froze, and the glass of the screen cracked in his grip. “How the fuck did you get my number.”

“I have my methods, but you shouldn’t concern yourself with them. I’d imagine you have bigger things to worry about.”

Ben glanced down at Her, daylight starting to dance across her face. He didn’t have time to entertain Edgar’s weird, underhanded fucking bullshit. “If you know I have other shit to worry about, why the fuck are you calling me.”

“I’d like to catch up. Surely, even within the chaos, you have enough time to pay me a visit.”

“I’m good. Too long a drive just to talk to an old fucking asshole.”

“As far as I recall,” Edgar hummed. “I am forty years your junior. And it is not only you I wish to see, so it is not your call alone to make.”

“If you don’t stop speaking in cryptic fucking bullshit-“

Edgar said Her name, and Ben's heart stopped. For a split second there was a ringing sound in his ears, and he couldn’t fucking breathe. He missed the rest of Edgars sentence.

There was a second of silence on the phone, and Edgar cleared his throat.

“Do you care to respond-“

“You’re not getting anywhere fucking near her,” Ben’s had, unconsciously, pulled Her closer. “I don’t care about our deal, she’s staying the fuck out of it.”

“Luckily, this is not within the confines of our deal. It is simply a request for some company, along with an invitation for a plus one.”

“I know how you fucking work shit, Edgar,” Ben watched Her shift slightly, and lowered his voice. “You can shove your request right up your tiny fucking dickhole, and swallow your own fucking cum when you beat your meat to get it back.”

Edgar chuckled. “I always forget how… poetic you are, Benjamin. In a better life, you were a mediocre reality television writer.”

“Call me Benjamin again, and I’ll drive upstate just to cut out your fucking tongue.” Nobody but Her was allowed to call him Benjamin. She always said it with some sort of unyielding care, no matter how angry her tone was. She said it right, in a way Ben hadn’t known was the correct way to say it until she’d grinned at him and said Benjamin, I give a shit about you. I adore you. I want you. Edgar said it like he was scolding a fucking child. Ben wasn’t a fucking child.

Edgar might have some sort of fucking chip in Ben’s brain, because his next words were amused, confident, and exactly what Ben had been thinking about. “Ah, I’d imagine that strikes a certain nerve, given the nature of your relationship with the only other person who addresses you as such.”

“You watch your fucking mouth-“

“It amuses me how oblivious you have grown to be. It may be the old age, but you have become downright unobservant.”

Ben scowled, and She rolled over against him, burying her face in his stomach. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re implying, Edgar, but if you called just to make pussy fucking request, then my answer is no and we’re done.”

“Is she with you?”

She hummed against Ben’s body, and he ran his free hand through her hair. “No.”

“I am afraid that I don’t believe you.”

“Then that’s real fucking shitty for you-“

“Ben.”

He froze, and looked down to find Her rubbing her eyes open, a fucking adorable frown on her face as she watched him. He didn’t know how to mute the call, so Ben held the phone high above his head and lowered his voice to hardly fucking audible. “Go back to sleep, Sunshine.”

She shook her head, slowly sitting up. “What time is it?”

“Early. Lie the hell down-“

“Who are you talking to?”

“We’re fucking talking-“

She gave him a flat look. “On the phone.”

He could lie. He could say it was Annie or Hughie or Ryan or Butcher, but she wouldn’t believe him—none of them called Ben, and only Ryan really texted him—and Ben had hit a very fucking annoying point where he was physically incapable of lying to Her. “Edgar. Go to bed.”

All the lingering sleep vanished from her eyes in a second, growing sharp in a way that would turn Ben on if this wasn’t so serious. “Why the fuck is Edgar calling you.”

“I’ll tell you in the morning-“

“Tell me now.”

He glared at Her. “You need rest-“

“Benjamin,” She hissed. “I am not going to get any rest while I know Stan Edgar is on the phone. Not when you still fucking owe him. Tell me what he wants, or I’ll grab the phone and ask him myself.”

“You can listen, and I’ll tell you-“ She started half climbing up Ben’s chest to try and grab the phone, and he snorted. “Fucking Christ woman, you know I could just sit on you and you’d have to wait.”

“You won’t though,” She muttered, trying to drag Ben’s arm down to where she could reach his hand. “Pussy.”

This was serious. This was really fucking serious, because Edgar was a genuine threat and now wanted Ben to walk Her right into his fucking lair. This was goddamn serious, because Ben wasn’t going to allow his shitty fucking decisions and deals that he’d made to protect Her in the first place put her in harms way.

It was incredibly fucking serious, and Ben need to get his head out of the gutter about how her hips were wiggling on his chest and her angry Benjamin, I’m going to kick your ass face was still beautiful. He needed to stop thinking about how she was the most amazing person he’d ever met, and about how much he loved Her, because it was making him fucking pathetic.

“If I give you the damn phone,” Ben grunted, and she paused to look down at him. “You have to put it on that speaker shit and calm the hell down.”

She nodded quickly, reaching her hand down to his eye level. “Deal.”

He was supposed to shake Her hand. She wanted Ben to shake her hand. But he was using one hand to hold the phone, and his other hand had developed a mind that was governed by Ben’s impulse of love Her, touch Her, take care of Her, and had wandered up to hold her steady on her waist. She hadn’t tried to move it—she was fucking leaning back into it—so there wasn’t a chance in fucking hell Ben was taking it away himself.

Ben handed her the phone, and tried not to act too fucking in love with Her as she slid down his body, holding his gaze the whole time. She hit a button on the screen, gave him a look that said you’re learning how to do this yourself later, Pretty Boy, and took a deep breath before she spoke.

“Edgar, why the fuck are you calling us at,” She glanced down at the phone. “6am?”

“So you are here,” Edgar’s voice was delighted. Ben wanted to smash the phone. “How delightful to speak to you again, it truly has been far too long.”

“And here I was, going to ask you to never fucking speak to me again.” She drawled. “I don’t think our relationship is as serious as you thought it was.”

“I’m wounded,” Edgar said Her name, and it sounded fucking wrong. “I thought we had a connection.”

“If by connection you mean you made me fight a bunch of man-eating sheep and I didn’t manage to kill you and make it look like an accident, then yeah. Sure.”

“Ouch,” Edgar chuckled. “I’d think you have much to thank me for. Would you have ever woken up our dear Benjamin without my advice?”

Ben could see the flash of anger in Her eyes. Whatever careful game she’d been playing with Edgar ended, even as her tone remained bored. “I like to think I’d gotten there myself eventually. Tell me why you’re calling.”

“As I was telling your companion, I’m inviting you both to lunch.”

She looked up at Ben with a frown. Lunch?

Pussy didn’t mention lunch. Said he wanted us to visit, and I wasn’t promised any fucking food.

Her nose wrinkled, you are shockingly literal sometimes, Pretty Boy, and her attention turned back to the phone. “Is this an invitation to lunch, or a you owe me lunch.”

There was a brief second of silence before Edgar answered. “Interesting. I didn’t expect you to be aware of our little arrangement.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Edgar sighed through the speaker. “It is an invitation. There will be talk of the favor, but I’ve grown lonely. I think I’d enjoy the company.”

Ben scowled. “You can shove your company up your fucking ass-“

“Edgar,” She cut him off with a glare, and her voice was softer than Ben’s as she spoke, words slow and her brow drawn. “If you already have a favor picked out, why should we entertain you? Wouldn’t it be simpler to just tell us?”

She kept saying us. She kept talking about Ben as one with her, and if she didn’t stop soon he’d tell her he loved her right fucking now, with Edgar still on the phone.

“You are a truly phenomenal woman,” Edgar said Her name again, and Ben’s skin started to crawl. “There is not much that escapes you. I understand how Soldier Boy became so taken with you.”

“Yeah, I’m a real marvel of humanity.” Ben didn’t fucking love the way she said that, dry and monotone, like she fucking wasn’t. “Tell us what you want, Edgar.”

“Well, it helps if you think of this as a karmic act. If you are truly set on not making the short drive to speak in person, then I’ll cash in my IOU and that will be all. If you can find it in your heart and schedule to visit a lonely old man, then I might find myself in a better mood.”

She frowned. “A better mood? You want to be a little less of a cryptic bridge troll and a little more of a normal person?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to see me in person to see the extent of my generosity.”

“You can keep your fucking riddles in the dark, pathetic fucking hole you crawled out of-“

“Can we have a few days?”

Ben stared at Her. What the fuck are you doing.

We need to run this past the team.

We don’t need to run fucking shit past them, because we’re not going.

She sighed. I think we should. He can’t hurt us, and he knows a lot. Whatever generosity he’s talking about might help us.

“I can wait a day or two, if it would aid you in coming to the correct conclusion-“

“Great,” She cut Edgar off. “Mallory will call you. Don’t call us again.” She paused, glaring at the phone. “Bitch.” And hung up.

“There’s not a chance in fucking hell-“

“Please think about it.” She dropped his phone, holding his face between her hands. “We can wait to talk to everyone about it until after you get back home. Just really think about it.”

His answer was no. There was not a single universe where Ben was going to agree to put Her in danger like that. For something so fucking pointless, when she couldn’t fucking sleep through the night without losing her goddamn mind. The more he thought about it the more Ben was certain that this was simple fucking no. He would deal with this himself, and she’d stay far, far the fuck away from its line of fire.

But She was so pretty. She was watching him with a sharp gaze, and there was hair across her eyes that Ben wanted to move away, and her hands on his cheeks and jaw were warm. They fit fucking perfectly on his face, because She fit fucking perfectly against every part of him. Ben loved Her, and it was really making him a goddamn pushover. But it was worth it. It was really fucking worth it, because when he grunted and gave her a small nod, Her whole face lit up and she leaned in to give him one, soft, gentle kiss.

Ben was tired. Later, when he knew he was going to have to justify this to himself, he was going to remind himself over and over that he was tired. He’d been up all night worrying about Her, and so nobody could say a fucking word about it because all his resolve had been poured into care for Her, and his decsion making had been bound to take a hit. Ben was fucking exhausted, and that’s why when She squirmed slightly on his lap and teased her tongue along his lips, Ben let his control snap and flipped her over.

They’d made out since the gun range. They never stopped making out, and Ben was pretty sure that—if work and food and breathing and all that other pointless shit weren’t obstacles—he’d been happy spending the rest of goddamn time making out with Her. Pulling her up to his side on the couch, leaning over her in the hall, tugging her between his legs at the table.

This wasn’t making out. This was fucking eating each other. Ben was bruising Her mouth, biting her lips and running his tongue along her teeth, letting how her hands clawed at his back and pulled at his hair spur him on. Letting himself push her deeper into the mattress, using a free hand to grab and squeeze her ass as she wrapped her legs around his torso. She made a high, whining sound that sent something electric through Ben’s blood, so he did it again and let himself groan when she started to grind up into him. His knee ended up shoved between her legs, and when her head threw back Ben trailed his mouth across her cheek and down her neck, leaving wet open kisses and dropping his hips onto hers in an attempt to not rut against Her. It was all mindless and hungry and so fucking natural. This was where Ben was supposed to be. Above Her, against her, touching her and caring for her and taking every moan in his ear as fucking testament to how this was love. He fucking loved Her, and there was even the tiniest goddamn chance she’d love him back he’d stay right fucking here.

He stopped because he had to. Because if he kept going and She kept making perfect, musical sounds, he’d tell Her. Ben had already risen back up to her face, letting her pull his tongue between her teeth and growling into her mouth, only a second away from just telling her. From muttering I fucking love you down her throat and letting her swallow the words with another whimper. So Ben had to pull away, let her heavy breath trade with his, and just fucking pull himself together. Ignore his less than helpful dick and heart trying to control his body and only hold her gently. Trace soft, light hands over the parts of her body he was allowed to touch, and tell her he loved her like that.

“Ben,” Her voice was a whisper, and when he opened his eyes hers were still closed. Her mouth was parted and swollen—he’d fucking done that, it was evidence of how much he fucking adored her—and her hands had stilled in his hair. She was so fucking beautiful, with the morning light on her face and her whole body relaxed, it might drive Ben insane. “I,” She took a long, unsteady breath. “I really, really adore you.”

He kissed Her again, and a long sound of content hummed from her chest. Ben moved up, kissing along the bridge of her nose, between her eyes, and on her brow. “I know,” he grunted against her skin. “MM and Annie will be able to handle Singer their fucking selves, it’s not like anyone’s going to like what I have to say-“

“Please don’t tell Singer to eat his balls or suck your dick.” Her voice was bored, but when she looked up at Ben there was a light behind her eyes that made his whole body relax. “It’s not very diplomatic.”

“I don’t give a fuck about diplomacy,” he muttered. “If Singer wasn’t such a fucking uptight pussy he’d just take our fucking word and give us the V.”

“And you can tell him that after we get the V. Until then you’re going to have to pretend to not want to kill him.” She paused, voice growing soft. “Please, Ben. Just try.”

He sighed, searching Her face for any excuse. Anything that he could point to and say here’s why I should fucking stay. Here’s a goddamn solid reason that I don’t have to fucking leave you. Something you won’t be able to argue with me about, something you won’t even try to argue with me about.

There was only one. And Ben wasn’t allowed to say it. He had to swallow his only plea of let me fucking stay and care for and love you because I’m going to go fucking mad with worry, because you’re not okay and I can’t help but fuck me if I’m not going to try and nod. He had to sit in the silence, still touching her, always touching her, and keep himself from giving more. Then he had to fucking stand up, and get ready. She made him shower—Ben made her keep the door open—and when he exited the bathroom she pushed past him with a large plastic bag in her hands.

“What the fuck are you-“

“You need toiletries,” She didn’t look over to Ben, still in the door, as she gathered his toothbrush and shampoo into the bag. “And I’m not letting you anywhere near hotel hair products.”

Ben turned to look back at the bed with a frown, and there was an open suitcase on the mattress full of half-folded clothing and his supe suit, a shirt and pair of pants set out for Ben to change into. When she came up to Ben's side, her voice was nervous. “I, um, you’re not good at packing. So-“

He grinned down at Her, reaching up to grab her chin and kiss her once, sweet and easy and fuck she felt perfect against him. One of Her hands reached up to grab Ben’s wrist and keep him there, and her feet shuffled to bring her further against him, tucking into his side. When Ben pulled back her eyes were wide, and there was a little of Ben’s saliva still on her lip. When his thumb moved to swipe it away, her heartbeat stuttered slightly, and Ben loved her.

“Where the fuck did you get a suitcase from?”

“My ass.”

He snorted, and a smile started to cross Her mouth. “Brat.”

“Cunt.”

Ben leaned down, careful not to drop his towel from around his waist as his hand moved to hold the back of her head. “Thank you, beautiful.”

“I couldn’t get your shield in there,” she whispered. “Why the fuck is it so heavy.”

He chuckled. “That’s kind of the damn point. And I can just fucking carry it, I think I’ll fucking live.”

She nodded slowly, gaze dropping down to Ben’s bare chest, and he felt his hand tense against her. She was fucking gaping at him, and her heart was getting faster, and fuck if she kept looking Ben with all that thirst and want he wouldn’t make it out the door-

“You should, uh, get dressed.” Her voice was breathless, and her grip on Ben’s wrist was growing tight. “You need to go soon.”

Ben kissed her nose, and stood up. He changed as she finished packing and put on the coffee—Ben ended up with a travel mug shoved into his hand—and they walked to the elevator with Her leaning into his side and Ben’s free arm over her shoulders.

They weren’t getting a send off. MM was waiting against the wall, flipping through a binder of Her plan with a backpack at his side, and Annie was nowhere in sight.

MM looked up when they stopped in the hall, giving Ben a short nod before turning to Her. “We’ll text you after the meeting. Shoot me a message if you need to add anything to this.” He tapped the binder, and she nodded.

“Where’s Annie-“

“Downstairs with transport. I was just waiting for Soldier Boy’s slow ass so we can get moving.”

Ben scowled. “It’s 7:55, we’re not even fucking late-“

“Doesn’t change that you’re the last motherfucker here.” MM shrugged, glancing back Her and saying her name a lot fucking nicer than he ever said Soldier Boy. “I can give you a minute, if you want-“

“Yes, please.” She moved in front of Ben, watching him carefully as she spoke. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Ben, please-“

“I’ll do this, but I’m not going to pretend I fucking want to-“ Ben cut himself off as she wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing him with her face pressed against his body. Ben’s arms flew up without a thought, holding Her as close as he could, and he sat in the sound of her heartbeat.

“I’ll miss you,” She mumbled into his chest. “Be safe.”

“I haven’t left yet, I can still fucking stay-“

“No,” she sighed. “You can’t. But you’ll be home soon, and I’ll be here.”

“You’ll be here.” Ben was repeating it to remind himself. To make his body fucking listen to him, and use his goddamn sense to know that she’d be right fucking here when he got home. Still safe. Ben being gone for one fucking day wouldn’t put her in danger, she was a whole lot stronger than that. “Text me.”

She smiled against him. “You know how to text, grandpa?”

“If I don’t, you have no one to blame but your damn self, Sunshine.” Ben pulled back to look at Her, and his breath hitched a little when she smiled up at him. “I think I’ll fucking figure it out.”

“If not, you can always use text to speech-“

“He is not allowed to use text to speech,” MM snapped, having suddenly fucking appeared beside Ben. “I do not want to hear whatever horny shit this motherfucker is going to text you.”

Ben scowled. “I don’t even know what text to speech fucking is-“

“And you’re not going to learn.” MM glanced at Her. “We’ve got to go.”

She swallowed, and looked back to Ben. “Don’t kill Singer. Maybe yell at him a little, but don’t kill him. Try not to kill anyone, but if you have to don’t make a mess. I put a playlist on your phone for the drive, but if you get bored you can text me because I’m probably not going to do anything all day. Stick to my pitch, and stay safe, and be careful about what you say because I don’t really trust anyone but us. And come home, Ben, please come home as soon as you can-“

He kissed Her, long and gentle and careful, because he was starting to worry she might make herself pass out or get the bright fucking idea to come with them. “Your faith in me,” he muttered Her name, running a thumb over her cheekbone. “Is fucking astounding.”

“I do have faith in you, I’m just nervous, we need this-“

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m going to get the V, because we need it, and then I’ll fucking walk back to Jersey if I have to. I’d be faster than the damn car anyway.”

“Don’t do that,” She mumbled. “I don’t want to have to clean highway shit off your clothes.”

Ben snorted, and she smiled up at him. So fucking perfect.

I love you. Ben put it all over his face. He allowed all his adoration and affection and care for Her into his eyes, let his jaw relax and his mouth smile just enough to tell her. I fucking love you, Sunshine, and I’ll always come back. Nothing anyone does to me will ever make you lose me, because I’ll crawl out of any fucking hole or cave or lab or prison to get home to you. I love you.

She didn’t understand, because she was blinking wordlessly at him, but this was better than just fucking leaving. Ben kissed the top of her head, and—because he was fucking pathetic and wasn’t masochistic enough to resist it—brushed his lips against hers. He smiled down at Her in one last, desperate fucking bid to make her understand, and used all the fucking strength he had to pull away and follow MM into the elevator.

They weren’t taking the Pussy Mobile, because it had finally fucking kicked it after the Believe Expo and was rotting away in a government junkyard like it fucking deserved. Instead, Mallory had stuffed Annie, Ben, and MM into a goddamn minivan. Agent No-Gun was standing next to Annie when Ben and MM arrived in the garage, and was saying bunch of shit about routes and safety that Ben didn’t fucking hear, because he was throwing his shield suitcase in the back and climbing into the van. There wasn’t a goddamn chance he was going to be stuck in a middle seat, listening to Annie sigh or MM fucking fidget for the four hour ride.

To his surprise, nobody tried to stop Ben as he spread out across the back row. MM just glared at him and sat in the middle with a frown, and Annie gave him a small smile, leaning over her seat as Agent No-Gun turned on the engine.

Annie started to say a bunch of shit Ben didn’t hear—he was focused on his phone, trying to remember what the fuck a playlist was and how to access it—before mentioning Her name and making him look up with a frown.

“What the fuck are you saying?”

“Is she okay?” Annie sighed, watching Ben carefully. “She’s been a little, um, weird the past week. I’m not sure if the media is still getting to her, or something else that she doesn’t want to tell us about-“

“She’ll be okay,” Ben snapped. She wasn’t okay, but she would be. It might take a whole fucking lifetime, but Ben would stand with her the whole way. And he might not actively think of Annie as an annoying, whiny fucking bitch anymore, but she still didn’t get to know about the gun range, or the showers, or the nightmares. If She hadn’t told Annie about that shit, then Ben wouldn’t. His loyalty was with Her, and not a single goddamn place else. “I’m taking care of her.”

Annie’s voice was shockingly gentle. “I don’t think you’re not, Soldier Boy. I just wanted to know if I could help.”

Ben paused, narrowing his eyes at her. MM was still silent in his seat, and they had begun to pull out of the garage, but Annie’s eyes weren’t moving from Ben’s. Her heart was only a little above where it might usually be, and her face was genuine, so Ben grunted, “how the fuck would you help.”

Annie shrugged. “I’m asking you for a reason. You know her better than I do, I mean, you’re in love with her-“

MM slapped Annie on the shoulder, and her mouth snapped closed.

“How the fuck did you know that.” Ben hissed, body growing rigid. “I haven’t fucking told anyone-“

“Oh, you’re,” Annie blinked at him. “Sorry, I just thought you’d deny it.”

“How the fucking hell did you know-“

“It’s kind of obvious-“

“Annie,” MM grunted, glancing back at Ben. “We all fucking agreed-“

“The fuck are you talking about, you all agreed.” Ben paused, looking between Annie and MM’s tight expressions. “Who else fucking knows.”

“Hughie, Butcher-“

“Annie-“

“Come on.” Annie rolled her eyes. “Do you really want to be stuck in the car with him for four hours without answering his questions?”

MM scowled, but fell silent as Annie continued.

“Frenchie, Kimiko, and A-Train-“

“Fucking A-train-“

“He asked us what the hell was going on between you two.” MM muttered, shooting Annie a harsh look that made her sigh and nod. “And we told him.”

“Mallory doesn’t know,” Annie added. “But I think she’s guessed.”

Ben glared between them. “How.”

“You aren’t exactly subtle, asshole.” MM gave Ben another look he didn’t fucking understand. “We’d have to be fucking deaf and blind to miss it.”

“We kind of all put it together separately,” Annie’s face was weary, watching Ben like he might start ripping their heads off their bodies. It wasn’t a totally unfounded fear, not if they kept their observant shit up. “For me it was the meeting with Edgar. Hughie said he got it after Neuman.”

Ben’s head whipped to MM. “What the fuck told you.”

MM ran a hand over his face, still glaring at Ben. “When you made her call her sister.”

All that shit was fucking months ago. A goddamn lifetime had passed since all of it, and Ben had only figured it out himself after the Believe Expo. They said it was obvious, but She hadn’t seemed to get whatever memo that every other fucker on their team had. She’d have brought it up, She’d had talked to him about, because subtlety wasn’t exactly her greatest strength. She’d have told Ben if she knew.

“You pussies haven’t fucking-“

“Nobody’s told her,” MM was watching Ben carefully, and exchanged another fucking look with Annie. “That shit’s not our place.”

Ben had a lot of other fucking questions. Why nobody had decided to maybe fucking say something to Ben about this. How often they talked about it behind his goddamn back. How it wasn’t their fucking place, not by a mile, but while they were having this dumb as fuck conversation, what were their opinions on Her loving Ben-

Someone’s phone started ringing, cutting Ben from his thoughts.

“It’s Mallory,” MM muttered, giving Ben one last look. “Don’t be a fucking ass about this. We’ve observed something, against our will I might add, and she doesn’t know. That’s it.”

MM picked up—Malloy was an impatient bitch who had to ask about an ETA she could pass on to Singer—and Annie looked like she was going to say something. Her mouth opened and closed like a damn fish twice, before just shaking her head and turning back to her seat.

Ben’s phone buzzed in his hand before he could force Annie to contiune, and if his smile made him look like a fucking idiot when he saw Her face on his lockscreen, he looked downright moronic when he read the banner on the display.

When he’d gotten his phone, She’d entered her name into it. Just her name. No extra bullshit or annotations like the others, just her damn name. Ben hadn’t fucking stood for it. He’d tried to model his excellent revision after the other contacts, but the way to type a semi-colon was apparently a fucking secret that Ben wasn’t allowed to know, so he’d had to improvise. He’d deleted her name—you could wipe his memory and replace his brain, but some part of Ben would always fucking know her name, so he didn’t a fucking phone to tell him—and done the nickname and instructions.

2 messages from Sunshine, take care of.

Ben grinned, looking around the minivan to ensure nobody saw how fucking stupid he looked—although it might not matter anymore, since they were all apparently fucking invasive dickwads—and opened the messages.

You forgot your coffee.

There was a photo, a half-blurry picture of the mug She’d given Ben on their table. He wasn’t sure when it had left his hand between their apartment and the elevator, but it clearly wasn’t there now.

wut the fuckk am i sopossed to do abut it now

Ben turned his phone over, and it was a few seconds before it buzzed again.

Are you going to make any effort to spell?

He swallowed a chuckle. no

Please?

I can just not text you. That option is very much on the table.

u textd me firs

Ben paused, then added, i havnt beeen gon a fuckinh hour

Her response was immediate and Ben wasn’t sure how she typed so fucking fast. Shut up, or I’ll dye all your clothing pink and tape over all your baseball games while you’re gone.

do nut do that i havnet fuckingg watched thwm

If you make a modicum of an attempt to type in a way I can decipher, I won’t.

Ben rolled his eyes, and typed a little slower. whats a modicum. is it jizz

No, you horny ass. It means a small amount.

like modicome

That’s the exact same word, you just can’t fucking spell.

brat

You love it, cunt. And I don’t know why you even record the games, we can just stream them.

i dont trust the stream to be fucking right

Right??? About what?

game. its the principl Sunshine.

It’s a stupid principle. An old man principle. There was a pause, three tiny bubbles popping in and out of Ben’s screen, and then How’s the ride going? Has anyone killed anyone else?

Ben looked up at MM and Annie, still facing forward. no

Who’s driving?

lady suit

Ben didn’t get a response for almost a minute, and he’d just started to glare at the display when her message came through.

Do you mean Agent Cortez? The one you stole the gun from?

yes

That’s it?

u dont need two peopl to drive

I meant is that it for security.

apperently

Apparently.

shit the fuck up

Gross.

Ben snorted, and decided that this could be enough. He was happy to spend four hours in this horrible fucking minivan, because She’d still be talking to him. Her voice had stopped following him around a few days after she’d gotten home—he hadn’t heard it in over a week—but he’d had the real Her at his side. The Her he could touch and tease and grin at, and who would match everything he threw at her in stride. The Her he was allowed to look at and think I fucking love you. He might not be able to touch Her like this—through the phone and over text—but he could still imagine her bright smile with every message and pretend she was at his side, telling him about her day. About how since Ben wasn’t home to train Ryan, they were going to eat lunch together in the apartment. About how she was cleaning out the fridge—asking if he wanted another two tubs of strawberry cream cheese, because they were down to one and he tore through them in a day—and whatever TV show she was watching without him. She rarely took more than a minute to respond, and Ben never fucking looked away from his phone, so the hours passed easily.

He hadn’t even noticed they’d parked until the doors of the car opened, and it grew suspiciously quiet as MM and Annie left their seats.

“Soldier Boy?” Annie poked her head back inside, and Ben nearly threw a headrest at her on instinct. “We’re here.”

Ben looked outside the door with a frown. He’d been to the White House, and this wasn’t fucking it. This was a loading dock. “Where the hell is here.”

“Hotel,” MM called from somewhere behind Annie. “We’ve got an hour until the actual meeting, and I am not fucking leaving my clothing in the car. You better start hauling ass, or we’ll leave you in the car.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but grabbed his phone, climbed over the middle row and out past Annie, and grabbed his suitcase before following Agent Cortez through a gray door and up too goddamn many flights of stairs for there not to be a fucking elevator.

He got his own room. It had a nice rug, and a bunch of fucking shit paintings, and a large bed that Ben would not fucking be sleeping in. The sheets were too cool, and there wasn’t an imprint of Her body on one side or the smell of her shampoo on the pillows, so Ben would maybe sit on it, but that would be the extent of its function. He didn’t bother to take his shit fully out the suitcase—tossing his current clothing on the bed in exchange for his supe suit—but did plug his phone in with the stupid little white wire, reading the last text She’d sent.

Ryan wants to know your opinion on Frankenstein, if you’ve read it.

i had to read it in shcool. was ok. He paused, looking around the hotel room. we got to the hotel. fucking pussy singer is making us wait a hour.

Are you settled? Did you get to eat on the way? If not you should ask MM, he’ll probably have a plan for food.

As if he’d been fucking summoned, MM walked through the previously fucking locked door of Ben’s room.

“How the fuck did you get in-“

MM raised his hand, displaying a key card. “You settled? We want to go now, Singer might be able to see us early.”

Ben scowled. “Why do you get to just fucking walk in to my goddamn room.”

“Because I’m your fucking CO, and a hell of a lot more trustworthy. You’re only here because Singer’s nostalgic or some shit.”

“I’d go back right fucking now if you pussies don’t want me-“

“Nope.” MM looked around the room, frowning at the open suitcase before turning back to Ben. “You look fucking settled. Let’s go.”

Ben glanced back at his phone, sent her a quick text that they were going to the meeting, grabbed his shield, and followed MM back to the shitty fucking minivan.

Singer did not get them in early. They’d arrived at the White House—it looked the exact fucking same since Ben had been here last, expect with a fuck ton more computers—been sat in a random ass room with a table and paper cups of dogshit coffee, and waited for five goddamn hours. Right as Ben started to seriously consider standing up and just fucking finding Singer—they’d shoot him, he’d live, and everyone could go the fuck home—a lady in a gray skirt walked through the door and gestured for them to follow her. The did, into a room that looked the exact fucking same as the one they’d just fucking been in. The only difference was the five men and women in black suits and sunglasses, lining the walls around President Singer.

“Mr. President, Marvin Milk, Annie January, and,” the woman glanced at Ben with nervous eyes. “Soldier Boy are here.”

“I can see that Millie.” Singer sighed, gesturing to the chairs across the table. “You three sit the hell down, you’re makin me feel like a jackass.”

MM nodded, and dropped across from Singer with Annie to one side and Ben—after receiving a sharp glare—to the other.

“It’s good to see you again, Sir.” MM clasped his hands on the table, leaning forwards. “Thank you for meeting with us-“

“Don’t thank me yet.” Singer looked between them, eyes landing on Ben. “Soldier Boy, you look about how I expected.”

Ben scowled. “Why the fuck were we waiting for five hours.”

MM and Annie glared at him, MM’s mouth opening to probably tell Ben to shut the fuck up, but Singer chuckled.

“You should be lucky I’m entertaining this shit at all. Grace told me what you want, and I’ve got a few questions first.”

Annie nodded. “What do you need to know?”

Singer said Her full name, and Ben’s fists curled on the table. “She’s been making some risky fuckin gamble. Riskier than waking him,” Singer nodded to Ben. “Up. You willing to place all your bets on her willingness to play with fire?”

Ben shouldn’t talk. She’d told him to be diplomatic, and if he opened his mouth he’d tell Singer to shove his dick in his mouth and eat Ben’s fucking asshole. So MM got to answer.

“It’s all paid off before,” MM’s words were short. Neutral. “She’s the one who got Neuman out of your hair, and kept your constituents from going full fucking team Homelander.”

Singer hummed. “And what about the FBSA incident? I heard about how she got away from the tower, I’ve seen the footage of all those agents dropping down screamin. You think she’s stable enough to get back in the game?”

“She’s gotten a,” Annie paused, frowning. “Handle on her powers. She’s not a danger to anyone, and she’s doing a lot of work.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Singer leaned back in his chair, flipping his phone in his hands. “She’s managed to make a real mess of the public. We need to get some sort of direction with where to take this. Get her back in front of a camera, on the record about those Homelander accusations.” Singer shot Annie a look. “And next time, I’d like to be kept in the loop before you pull a stunt like that.”

“It was the fucking truth.” Ben’s words were hissed through teeth, and he channeled all his vulgar threats at Singer into a violent glare. “And until you actually fucking pay us, we don’t need to tell you shit.”

Singer narrowed his eyes at Ben. “She needs to fix what she broke-“

“She doesn’t need to do a goddamn thing. You put a camera in her face, I’ll break it.”

The suits around Singer were tensing, hands dropping to their guns, but Singer just shook his head. “You know, I’ve heard the rumors about you two. Didn’t think they were entirely true, sorta wanted to see for myself, but I also didn’t think I’d spend my career cleaning up media messes.”

“With all due respect, sir, Soldier Boy’s not wrong.” MM let out a long breath. “She’s not a threat, but I wouldn’t put her back into the public eye yet. There’s no telling what Sage and Homelander have ready for that, and she just underwent some real fucked up shit. She’s the reason we’ve got Homelander in a stall, it’s not fucking worth the risk of sending her right back into that motherfuckers arm for some good press.”

Ben wasn’t going to let Homelander anywhere fucking near Her, but didn’t get chance to shout that before Singer was sighing, rubbing his chin as he spoke.

“I’m willin to keep her on the bench for now, but I ain’t sure we’re going to be able to hold Homelander off much longer. I got guys in congress saying they want him as my VP replacement, and I can’t keep kickin that can down the road.”

“That’s what we’re here to talk about.” Annie glanced at MM, waiting for his small nod to continue. “I understand Mallory told you what we’re here to request, and we wouldn’t be asking if we didn’t think it would work.”

“Mr. President, you know as well as we do that Homelander’s a threat to democracy.” MM’s words were careful, slow. “All we need is one shot. Just one vial of V, and we can finish this shit for good.”

Singer scoffed. “You people keep sayin this will be our shot. That French Asshole’s weapon against Neuman was supposed to be our shot. Edgar’s farm up in Maine was supposed to be out shot. Soldier Boy was supposed to be our shot. But Homelander’s still fuckin running around. What makes this shot any different.”

“We’ve got the receipts to prove the V will put him under-“

“I’ve seen all your documents, Starlight.” Singer dismissed Annie with a hand, gaze falling to Ben. “Why ain’t you able to finish this, huh? Just fire at the laser eyed asshole, get it over with?”

“I’d like to see you do this fucking better-“

“Sir,” MM interrupted Ben with a glare, and Ben rolled his eyes. “This is a delicate situation. The V is the easiest way to get it done without any unnecessary death or destruction. It’s all we’re asking for.”

“You think I can just snap my fingers and make it appear?” Singer snorted. “It ain’t that simple. That V is fuckin miles underground, and you’re lucky I’m even saying we have it. On the record, it was destroyed three damn years ago. There’s not a chance we’re just givin you some-“

“How fucking stupid are you,” Ben drawled, deciding to fully ignore the glowers and sneers of everyone in the room, or the clicks of guns. “That you think we’d give fuck about your records or obstacles. You want Homelander out of the picture to keep your cushy fucking pussy job, this is the damn way to do it. Either that, or you can try and hold that star-spangled dickfuck down yourself while I take the shot.”

The room was silent, and Ben could fucking feel Annie and MM’s glares. Singer himself didn’t look too pleased, and Ben didn’t even bother to try and give a fuck. Not when Singer took a long breath, glancing down at his phone, and relented.

“I’ll need approval from my defense secretary,” Singer muttered, still glaring at Ben. “And some sort of collateral if you idjits can’t do your fucking jobs again.”

“Your whole fucking country is collateral, you pussy headed motherfucker.” Ben stood up, grabbing his shield from beside his seat. “We’ll do our job, you do yours and get us that fucking V.”

Ben marched out of the room, and waited just long enough for Annie and MM to scramble after him before following their previous path back to the minivan.

Nobody yelled at him about Singer. But it seemed less about Ben’s anger paying off, and more about a general distaste for the whole fucking situation. For how much of a bureaucratic ass Singer was being, not just doing what it took to kill Homelander. How all those pussies had to do was give them the V, far away from the actual fucking fight.

The ride back to the hotel was tense—Ben didn’t see why they couldn’t just fucking go home, but when he said as much all he got was a grunt about security from MM—and it was dark outside by the time they returned. When they got upstairs, Ben slammed his door with a mutter of night to Annie and MM, and dropped his shield on the floor with thoughtless clang as he stripped down.

He’d left his phone on the bed. It had made for a boring fucking five hours—he’d never fucking tell Her, but he’d read a book Annie had pulled from fucking nowhere in an attempt to entertain himself—and Ben turned on the screen the moment he crossed over to the mattress, reading 4 messages from Sunshine, take care of and swiping them open.

Good luck with Singer.

Try not to kill him.

Please tell me how it goes.

Make sure you get dinner.

Ben hadn’t eaten dinner. He’d get on MM’s ass about that later, after he texted her back.

singer is alive and talkig to cabnet for v

Her response was almost immediate. Oh, thank fuck. I’m proud of you, I really didn’t want to go on the lam.

why would u be a lamb

ON the lam, Pretty Boy. It means running from the law.

the fuck would make u run from the law

Because people aren’t just going to let you kill the president. There would be consequences.

Ben grinned at his phone. youd run from the governemnt for me

Don’t get too fucking smug. I’d beat your ass for MAKING me run from the government first.

but u wouldd

I would. Did you eat?

did u fucking eat

I did. I had dinner with everyone. It was hotdog night.

u saved me a dog

Nope. We have hotdogs in the fridge, you can microwave one when you get home.

youre so fuckigg mean to me sunshine

Fuck you. Just for that, I’m eating all the brownies Kimiko gave us.

whyd she give us brownies

Technically, she gave ME brownies. I was going to share, but you’re being an asshole.

brat

Cunt. Did YOU eat?

Ben paused, and sighed to nobody. i will

That’s a no.

i didnt fucking say no i said i will

But you didn’t.

shut the fuck up

Go eat.

you cant fukcig make me

Please eat, Ben. You need to just as much as I.

why

Because you’re a human person. Even with the V, human people need food.

ill eat the brownies when i get home

If you don’t promise me you’re going to go eat right now, there won’t be any brownies when you get home. I’ll give them to Butcher.

u woulndt

Wanna bet?

Ben scowled. i dont want to eat i want to talk

I’m going to bed, Pretty Boy. It’s late.

its ten

And I’m exhausted, we were up early and it’s been a long day.

what happpend

Worried about Edgar and Singer. Media is full of bitches.

ur oaky. Ben paused, starting to type out becaus ill come home right-

Her message came through. I’m fine. Promise me you’ll eat.

Ben glared at the phone, because he didn’t fucking believe her, but still deleted his offer and typed whatever

Ben.

swear it

Thank you. There was a beat, and then a second message. I miss you. Thank you for doing this.

i miss u ass well

Another beat. I miss your ass as well.

Ben snorted. He fucking loved Her. go sleep sunshine

I’ll see you tomorrow?

u will or ill fucking run to jersey

Just steal a car. I know you can.

i thought I wasnt supposed too

I’ll make an exception. Whatever gets you home.

ill be home toomorow. godnight beuaitufl

Ben put his phone down, fully dressing before walking down the hall to bang on MM’s door.

MM was glaring with bleary eyes when it swung open. “The hell you want?”

“Where the fuck do I get food.”

“Call hotel services, dumbass.” MM paused before closing the door, watching Ben with a tired, cautious expression. “You weren’t total fucking shit with Singer. And Mallory says they’ll have us on the road by 7am tomorrow. Be ready.”

The door closed, and Ben returned to his room to figure out how the fuck to call hotel services. It took him a whole damn hour, but Ben got shrimp, ice cream, and a real nice fucking robe that the CIA would be paying for. He picked up his phone, frowned at the banner of Message from Sunshine, take care of, and opened it up.

He thought he hadn’t read it right at first. He blinked a few times—he’d gotten wine as well because nobody appreciated him asking for coke—and crushed his phone in his hand when the words clicked. When they hit him with the force of a train.

Goodnight, Benjamin. I love you.

————————

You can’t sleep. You’d texted Ben goodnight two hours ago—you think, your brain is a little slow from exhaustion—but it’s too quiet, too cold, too dark to do anything but stare at the ceiling and drown in your own thoughts. Too lonely to do anything but worry and worry and worry about everything, and try not to cry.

You’re so tired. You’re home, you should just feel safe and easy and happy, but you’re just fucking exhausted. Your joy is still real when you smile at Ryan, and talk to Annie, and laugh with Kimiko. All your love is still so strong and eternal, circling your head and bringing your every thought back to Ben. It’s painful, how much you love him. How you can’t stop breaking, or wanting him, or missing him. He’s been gone for barely twelve hours, and you miss him. Your eyes are drooping, and your brain is foggy, and all you can do is miss him.

The exhaustion is all in your head. It’s all stemmed from the stress of what if Singer says no to the V. Ben said he was running it past his “cabnet”, but what if they say no. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep fighting Homelander forever, it’s going to kill you. This needs to be over, it needs to be over now, you can’t fucking do this anymore. You’re not strong enough to do this anymore.

Weak.

You’re home. What matters is that you’re home. You can’t feel anyone—it’s been a week of the pills, one in the morning and one in the night, hidden from Ben because you’re still not ready to tell him—or sleep a night without blood haunting your dream, or spend an hour without glancing at your phone and seeing another story about your life.

People are still putting together your “relationship” with Ben. You’d told Annie everything—at least, everything that wasn’t how Ben made you moan and how you loved him so much it made you a little bit of an idiot—and she’d relayed it all as instructed. You woke Ben up to kill Homelander. You became friends with him, and you made each other promises about never going back. You lived together, and had a complicated relationship. You’d chosen the words carefully, ignoring Butcher’s eye roll and Annie’s sigh, and reminded everyone that this was technically Annie’s point of view. This was what she could’ve observed without your input, and what she’d say. And now, all across the internet, more and more timelines and breakdowns of the Anomaly and Soldier Boy’s relationship are popping up. A lot of them are paired with timelines of you and Homelander.

All of them make you feel sick. Even if they buy Annie’s words and denounce Homelander, they still say things you don’t want to hear. You’re obsessive. In love with Soldier Boy. Soldier Boy’s in love with you. It’s a toxic relationship. You killed people for him. He was killing people for you. It was unrequited on your side. Unrequited on his side. It’s a great American love story. It’s star crossed. He’s probably going insane without you. You didn’t love him enough to go back to him. You’re not worthy of him. Even with Starlight’s claims about your powers being far greater than Vought let on, you’re still weak. Weaker than Soldier Boy. Weaker than Homelander. Your greatest advantage is your feminine allure, because you’re a whore, and you’re weak.

You’re so fucking tired.

Homelander had avoided a direct response to the stories about you and Ben. Sage had entirely denounced Annie’s claim within two days, calling them all blanket lies and propaganda meant to manipulate the public, but Homelander had just agreed. Said they were looking for you, trying to recover you, that he loved you and missed you and would kill whoever had taken you from him.

You keep having nightmares about that as well. Where the blood is splattered across your skin, and Homelander is holding Ben’s heart in gloved hands—red, maybe covered in blood, you can’t tell—and you lose him forever. You burn and burn and burn, and sometimes Homelander dies, but Ben always dies. You always lose him, and have to live for the rest of time with a hole in your head and a heart that doesn’t really beat right anymore.

When you wake up, Ben is always there. Holding you and rubbing soothing patterns onto your skin, muttering words of comfort into your skin and surrounding you with his warmth and the smell of pine. It always calms you down, seals up another crack in your body as you believe him just a little more every time. You’re home, and that’s what matters. You’re here, in Ben’s arms, and everything is going to be okay. You’re still broken, but he’s staying, and you’re all that matters.

Ben won’t touch you, but you’re going to be okay. He keeps tensing and pulling away whenever you try to give him more, but he’s still here. Still holding you in the shower, still kissing you and staying at your side, but not touching you.

You wish you could feel him. You wish you could understand why he won’t touch you. Being afraid that the hunger in him had simply had a quiet, wilting death when he saw how broken you were, and now he gives a shit about you—adores you—but doesn’t want you. He doesn’t love you, he hasn’t loved you, but now he doesn’t want you either. You don’t want to make him do anything, not if he doesn’t want to, not while he’s staying, but you wish he would just touch you.

He won’t. You’re weak and broken, and even as you’re healing you’re just so tired. You can’t control yourself, can’t finish this, and you’re fucking tired. You’re not strong, unconquerable, and zealous with anger like Ben, or Butcher, or Kimiko. But you’re not forgiving and determined like Hughie and Annie and MM. You can’t give them anything like Frenchie or A-Train, and you’re not innocent like Ryan. You’re guilty of blood sticking across your body, but you’re too tired to do anything about it, and you don’t have it in you to kill Homelander with your bare hands, but you don’t have the patience or resilience to wait longer.

You need this to be over. Homelander dying won’t set that thing still flailing in your gut back into place, or stop the nightmares forever, but you’ll stop looking for him in shadows and being a little afraid of the open sky. You’ll be able to make yourself strong enough to tell Ben you love him, and force yourself to be okay when he says no.

You’ve spent the whole day missing him. Everything keeps rounding back to how you miss him. How the bed is too big without Ben snoring on top of you, and how the sheets and pillows smell like him, and how there’s still an indent of his body on his side of the mattress. You’d led a normal day while he was gone, doing laundry and texting him and trying not to be too pathetic about how much you love him. Spending the day with Ryan and talking about Ben like a normal person, trying to clean a little and not letting your hands linger on his coffee mug or shirt, watching TV and not looking at the empty space next to you.

Trying to focus on dinner, and not worry about Singer, or why the meeting was taking so long.

“Why did they have to go to DC?” Ryan had asked you over the table, speaking through a mouthful of relish and ketchup and mustard and every other condiment in the dining hall. “Couldn’t Singer have, maybe, uh, called-“

“Ryan,” Butcher had grunted. “Chew and swallow. She ain’t goin nowhere.”

Ryan’s eyes had widened, and he’d given Butcher an apologetic look as he closed his mouth.

“I don’t know,” you’d answered, poking at your hotdog with a finger. “Singer probably wanted some evidence that we cared about this enough to make the trip. It’s not too far, and we need the V, so it’s not worth arguing about.”

“I thought, um,” Ryan had coughed slightly—he’d swallowed a little too fast—and given you a nervous frown. “I thought you got V. Hughie mentioned you were still at the tower for V. To, um, kill my dad.”

“Hughie, lad, the fuckin hell did we say about keepin it on the low-“

“I’m sorry!” Hughie had shrunken from Butcher’s glare, face growing red. “I just mentioned it, and Soldier Boy said it first-“

You’d frowned. “Ben said what?”

“He said you wouldn’t want to lie to Ryan, and he’s the one mentioned that the V would help us kill Homelander-“

“I’m not upset about it!” Ryan had jumped in as Butcher’s glare at Hughie became lethal. “I was just curious, don’t be mad at Hughie or Ben-“

“It’s okay, Ryan.” You’d sighed. It was only 7pm, too early to have a bloodbath in the dining hall. “I’m not mad. Butcher might be mad, but he’s a little bitch baby.”

“Fuckin watch it, Love-“

You’d ignored Butcher, and watched Ryan carefully as you spoke. “I was at the tower for V. But I couldn’t find the right kind, so now we need to look somewhere else.”

“The right kind?” Ryan had frowned. “What, um, what kind was there?”

“The V Ben and I have,” you’d explained with a sigh. “I don’t know what it would do to a normal supe, but it’s essentially useless in any format on Homelander.”

“You did not happen to keep it when you returned, non?” Frenchie had leaned around the table, looking at you hopefully, and you’d shaken your head.

“It got destroyed on my way back. It’s gone.”

You’d been lying. The V was still in your underwear drawer, hidden next to the suppressants and taunting you in the silence. Ben’s phantom was gone, his Thing in your chest gone with your empathy, and it was just you and thoughts of weak. You miss Ben, and you’re weak, and you need this to be over. ‘

Homelander has to die. He hasn’t earned taking up your life like this. Your life is supposed to be you and Ben, warm and safe. You keep trying to get lost in a fantasy on Ben’s hand in yours, living in a house in Rome where there’s grass outside and sunlight all around you. Laughing with him and kissing him and never thinking about Homelander again. Giving him everything you have—even if he never loves you—and just being happy. No more gods. No more wars. No more blood or dirt on your hands or under your nails. No more impossible, difficult fucking choices. Just you and Ben, together, with him grinning down at you and peace everywhere in the world.

You’re exhausted. You can’t sleep. You need this to be over. And after another few hours, it makes you sit up and cross the room, makes you open the drawer and take out the V. The small vial turns over in your hands, the text of Project Anomaly, Trial 6 slightly faded, and the green liquid within it completely useless to finish this.

Your feet carry you downstairs, and down the silent halls with the vial still in your hands. They take you to the dining hall—a few generators and appliances casting it in a low ligh— and over to the table. There are almost twenty in the whole room, but everyone had come to a silent agreement that this was the table. Where you eat with everyone, where Ben presses his thigh to yours, and where plans are made.

You have a plan. It’s not a good plan—Ben would hate it, but he’s in DC and can’t stop you—and yet it’s all you can think about in the dark. Ending this. Really, properly ending this.

It takes a little while. Thirty or forty minutes of humming into the empty room and letting pine and strawberries and vanilla fill the room with an invisible warmth, waiting to see if your guess was correct.

Then the door swings open, and Butcher freezes in the hall as your eyes meet.

“The bloody fuck are you doin’ here-”

“We need to talk.”

Butcher scowled, stepping into the dining hall but not moving across to the table. “We ain’t got shit to talk about-“

“Yes,” you sigh. “We do. Please just sit down, Butcher. It won’t take long.”

He looks you up and down, huffs, and stalks over to the bench, dropping across from you with a glare. “How’d the fuckin hell you know to find me here.”

“Ben said you don’t really sleep,” you shrug. “He said you always have terrible bags under your eyes, and your heart goes a little too fast, so his bet was, and I quote, ‘the fucking pussy is either on a bunch of drugs he’s not sharing with me, or he’s sleeping less then I do’. And I guessed you wouldn’t want to wake up Ryan, so I took a gamble. And I was right.”

“I ain’t able to believe I backed you up on wakin him when you gave your fuckin pitch.” Butcher mutters. “Shoulda killed it in the first month when you got all fuckin chummy with the cunt.”

“Yeah, I’m sure our friendship is really hard for you-“

“I don’t give a flyin fuck about your friendship,” Butcher snaps. “I’m pissed with myself for lettin it get this far, losin my teammate to being in fuckin love with Soldier Boy.”

Your mouth falls open, and you can hear the blood in your ears. “I, um, I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Save it.” Butcher rolls his eyes, giving you a bored look. “We all fuckin know, you make disgustin heart eyes at him every damn day. I’m just sayin, you twats start makin mini-supes, I am not takin responsibility for them killin their nannies.”

“What do you mean we all know?”

“All the Boys,” Butcher shrugs. “A-Train confirmed it-“

“He wasn’t supposed to say anything-“

“We already fuckin knew. And nobody’s told Soldier Boy, so keep your bloody head on your shoulders.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “He, he still doesn’t-“

“Nah, he’s a fuckin idiot. You both are fuckin idiots.”

“Hey-“

Butcher drawls your name, giving you a flat look. “I put it together at Tek Knight. We all been gettin it for far too fuckin long, and you’re real bloody stupid for someone who can fuckin feel people’s emotions.”

“I’m taking the suppressants,” you snap. “Specifically so I don’t make Ben feel what I do.” You take a long breath. “I can’t force him to love me. It’s not my call you make.”

“I don’t give a fuckin dick or tit about what you’re doin it for,” Butcher gives you a long, strange look. A frown without cruelty or bitterness, like he’s trying to figure something out. “Just don’t get all fuckin piney over him when it’s your own fault he don’t know.”

You scowl, and swallow a sneer of he doesn’t know because I can’t lose him. I love Ben more than should be physically possible, and he’s too important for me to be selfish and manipulative to make him love me. You came here for a reason, and you’re too tired to fight—really, properly yell and shout and swear at—Butcher. So you shake your head, glancing down at the V in your lap, and look back up at Butcher. “Can we please just talk about why I’m here?”

Butcher shrugs. “Floor’s all fuckin yours.”

“I,” you take a deep, heavy breath to slow your heart, and force yourself to meet Butcher’s eyes. “I want you to do it.”

“Do fuckin what-“

“I want you to kill Homelander.”

Butcher stares at you for a second, for once at a loss for words. “The bloody hell would make you want that.”

“It has to be you,” you mutter, fingers tapping faster and faster on the table. “This has to be over, and it has to be you. Ben is going to blast him, and you’re going to shoot him. Right in the head, with a normal, boring gun. He doesn’t get to have me burn him alive, have Ben or Kimiko bash his head in, or have Annie send him flying and break his spine. He doesn’t get a good death. He doesn’t get to be a martyr, or a legend. He’s going to die like a fucking person.”

“I ain’t-“

“Butcher,” you whisper, and don’t bother to hide the exhaustion and pain from your voice. You need him to do this. Butcher is a piece of shit, and has given you hell since you’ve met him, and he needs to be the one to kill Homelander. He’s the only one who might understand this. Understand why Homelander shouldn’t be killed in a way that matters. That Homelander doesn’t fucking deserve that. “I want you to do this. I want Homelander to realize he’s lost, that we beat him, and then I want you to kill him, and for this horrible fucking shit to be over.” You choke slightly. “I just want this to be over.”

You think he’s going to try and resist you. You think Butcher is going to choose to be generous at the worst possible moment, and tell you that the killing blow is yours. That you’ve suffered the most at Homelander’s hands, and should get to watch the light leave his eyes. But you don’t want to. You’re past revenge and fury and blood. You’re just tired. All you really want now is to burn in Ben’s arms, to bury your head in his chest and burn and burn and burn until you’re not afraid anymore. Until the heat has fused all your cracks back together, and Homelander’s never able to hurt you again.

But he doesn’t. Butcher just nods once, eyes never leaving yours, and grunts, “you got a deal. That it?”

“One more thing.” You hold up the V, glowing slightly in the soft light of the breaching morning. If Butcher is surprised you have it, you don’t see it on his face. “This is the V in me. The V in Ben.” You place it on the table in front of Butcher, watching him carefully. “You can use it on yourself, and become the thing you’ve loathed for years. You can use it on me, and I think it might kill me. If it does, Ben will kill you. You can use it on Ben, and make him stronger. You can do whatever the fuck you want with it, as long as you do it. As long as you, Butcher, just you, make the choice and live with the fucking consequences.”

You stand up, and leave Butcher silently in the dining hall. You’ve said what you need, and Ben will be home soon. You’ll be able to fall into his arms and sleep. Until then, you’ll just have to make yourself busy.

There’s the laundry you forgot to fold last night. Ben’s underwear and socks that you’d left in the dryer, because he’d texted you about the meeting and the relief of it going well had slammed a wall of exhaustion into your brain. You dump everything in a basket, and carry it upstairs. It’s boring, but it’s better than just waiting.

Your phone is face up on your bed when you enter the bedroom, and it lights up with a text as you close the door.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

We’re headed back, ETA around 10.

Soldier Boy broke his phone somehow btw.

And the meeting went well, just in case he didn’t get a chance to tell you.

You text back a thumbs up—you’re honestly shocked it took this long for Ben to break his phone—and leave the phone face up on the bed as you fold laundry. You manage to kill fifteen minutes with this, because while Ben has a truly abysmal amount of clothing, your brain is moving tragically slow from a lack of sleep.

Coffee. You need coffee. It will kill another five minutes, and you might actually manage to stay awake until Ben comes home. You can put on the coffee, and make a sandwich, and hum to yourself as you drink, just to practice making lights and shadows bend around you. Ten minutes.

Ben doesn’t fold his clothing. When you return upstairs and open his drawers, that much is obvious. Pants and shirts have been tossed mindlessly into drawers, and underwear and socks are mixed together without thought.

That’s another thing to do. Fold Ben’s clothing. Simple and tedious, keeping you awake and your mind on your hands instead of clinging to the silence. The feeling of you, just you, the only one to blame for how cold and tired you are, not strong enough to get through this alone, but you are alone, and you’re so tired-

Clothes. Fold all of Ben’s clothes. Take them out of the drawers—pants and shirts first, they take up the most space and the least time—fold them, and return them. Then you can pair the socks and organize his underwear, and-

You pause, frowning at the almost empty drawer. There’s three stray socks, a pair of boxers, and sunglasses. They’re not your sunglasses, they’re green and don’t have the little Soldier Boy symbols on the ear pieces, but they’re the same style. Your sunglasses had broken anyway, and these might just be Ben’s, but they’d been hidden. Ben didn’t hide his things. His razor was on the bathroom counter, his shoes were scattered around downstairs, and his mug was at the front of the cabinet. Sometimes he just left it out, because he’d fucking be using it tomorrow anyway.

And, even if Ben did hide things, an underwear drawer was an incredibly odd place for sunglasses. You’d just dismiss it as the glasses falling in the drawer, but they look carefully placed, wrapped in the boxers like they shouldn’t be seen.

They’re just sunglasses. Sunglasses that look just like the ones that had been broken when Homelander took you-

Far in the back of your head, something starts to ring in your brain. Nobody had told you that your sunglasses had broken. You hadn’t seen them since you’d gotten home, but that could’ve just been a coincidence. Sage could’ve gotten rid of them in the tower, or Ben could’ve lost them somewhere in the months where you’d been gone, but they’d been broken. Ben’s phantom had told you they’d been broken in the fight with Homelander, and you’d told him that you’d liked those sunglasses because they reminded you of him.

These ones looked the exact same as the broken once, save for the colors. Simplistic black frames—no patterns or symbols—and a dark shade of green that matched the Soldier Boy suit. Almost exactly the same hue, a slightly darker shade.

You have a theory. A weak, flimsy theory that makes you carefully place the sunglasses back in the drawer and run downstairs to your computer. It’s not really based on anything, all your evidence is speculative—Ben’s allowed to be a weirdo who hides sunglasses in his underwear drawer—but you have to check. Just so you don’t go insane, you have to check.

Between you and Ben, there’s only the one Jane Smith email account. Which means there’s one amazon account, and you can check the purchase date of the sunglasses. It takes a second—your hands have changed from going too slow to going too fast and losing efficiency in your frantic movements—but you find the receipt, and the date. Late May, nine days after the Believe Expo, which means four days before your escape. When you’d started testing your empathy on the Deep.

The same day you’d talked to Ben’s phantom about the sunglasses.

It could be a coincidence. It’s technically possible that it’s a complete, total coincidence that doesn’t mean anything, let alone what you think it might mean. What your brain is starting to draw together. That, towards the end at least, whenever you spoke to Ben’s phantom, his Thing would grow stronger. That you’d been able to feel him there, feel that extra sense in your body that told you Ben. Ben is near you. He’s across the bridge or in the bathroom or down the hall start to go haywire when you were alone in Homelander’s apartment. Where Ben couldn’t have possibly been.

You’d just missed him. You’d just driven yourself insane the torture of being trapped at Vought and the sickness of missing Ben, and the longer you were gone the more you’d needed that small escape of Ben’s voice in your head. Telling you that you would come home. That there wasn’t another option, because you were coming home because you were strong and you’d fucking get through this.

But you’d missed Ben yesterday. Geographically he’d been even further than when you’d been at Vought, and you hadn’t heard his phantom. It had grown silent, gone with his imprint in your chest. The imprint that was bombed with empathy, that grew back with it as well. The imprint that had appeared after the Believe Expo, after you’d seen Ben, held him and had your every thought reduced back to its natural pattern when he touched you. Had everything be Ben. Ben, I love you.

The phantom had grown stronger after that. Louder, more persistent, full of stranger conversations and rattling Ben’s Thing inside you when it spoke. But it had just been from missing him. You’d see him and it had made you miss him all the more. Ben’s Thing in your chest might be the empathy, but the phantom was just an echo of your love. A result of how he’d become a vital part of you, how you loved and loved him, loved talking to him and laughing with him and hearing his voice say Brat and Sunshine and fucking breathe and shut the fuck up and I love you-

The phantom had told you he loved you. The phantom had been incredibly persistent about how Ben loved you. Which was evidence that it isn’t what it might be. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you.

It doesn’t feel like a real sentence anymore. It’s running around in your head—Ben doesn’t love you, he doesn’t, he just doesn’t, Ben doesn’t love you—and it doesn’t feel right. It’s a fact—it doesn’t need to feel right, it just is—but now it’s become only noises that make your heart contract and your own love wail. You love him. You love Ben so, so much, and all it’s done is drive you mad. You just want him to love you, and the phantom is made of your want and love, so it indulged you and told you Ben loved you.

He doesn’t.

Unless this is what you think it might be, Ben doesn’t love you. If it is what you think it is, then-

You have to know. You have to know now, whoever is driving him home needs to drive faster because you might be wrong, but you might be right. And no matter which one it is, you need to know right fucking now.

There’s about two and a half hours until Ben opens the door. You spend most of that time making a list. Writing down every conversation you’ve had with the phantom, just to be sure. To go in prepared, and know what you’re looking for. You fold the socks and underwear when you’re done—twenty minutes—and decide to leave the sunglasses in the drawer. No leading questions, no steering Ben towards the possible truth. Thy hypothetical truth, that’s going to make you sound insane if you say it aloud, but that’s feeling less and less implausible as you’re forced to wait.

You don’t feel Ben when he comes home. You’re going over the list, rehearsing in your head, and you hear him. Even through the compound’s soundproof walls, you hear Ben stomping down the hall, stopping outside your door, and banging on it.

He’s shouting your name. Not yelling, shouting. Over and over again, until you stand up and let him in.

Ben almost falls on top of you, and there’s something wild in his eyes. His hair is messy, there’s slight bags under his eyes, and his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried his teeth are going to break. He’s scanning you up and down, one hand gripping your arm like you might vanish, feet planted apart and body towering over yours like he’s ready to defend you from something.

“Hi,” you whisper, and Ben’s voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“We need to fucking talk.”

You swallow. “Yeah, we do. But I’m first.”

“The fucking hell you are, I need to-“

“Ben.” Your voice is firmer than even you’ve heard it, and Ben freezes. You’d feel bad, but this is important. Ben’s home, and—as much as you want to figure out why he looks like a feral animal—you need to know if you’re right. “I’m first. Sit down.”

He scowls, but follows you to the table and drops in his usual chair, glaring up at you. “You get seven minutes, then it’s my fucking turn.”

You nod, grab the list—crinkling it between your hands with a slow, grounding breath—and start at the top. “What food do you want on your birthday?”

“Is that what’s so goddamn important-“

“Answer the question, please.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter, my birthday was last month-“

You have to push past that. Later, after you figure this out, you’ll have time to yell at Ben about his birthday and why you weren’t made aware of it. Right now, you’re on a time limit. “Benjamin, if you don’t answer the fucking question-“

“I don’t know, fucking burgers! Burgers and cake! Are you done, can I fucking talk-“

That wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped. Burgers and cake is an incredibly predictable answer for Ben to have, so you push on. “No. How many states can you name?”

“I don’t fucking know, I don’t keep track of that shit. I’m not like you and Ryan, it’s not all fucking fifty, but I can name a damn few-“

You’ve never told him you can name all fifty. Not to his face. “What does manifest destiny mean?”

Ben scoffs. “Are you giving me a fucking pop quiz-“

“Benjamin-“

“It’s the fucking nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to go west, and should exert the means to do it. Is that it? Can I say my goddamn thing-”

You have to glance at the paper to be sure, but that’s practically word for word what you’d written. What you’d told Ben’s phantom. “What type of porn does the Deep watch?”

“Tentacle, you’re the one who fucking told me-“ Ben pauses, his eyes narrowing. “Why the fuck are you asking me all these damn questions.”

It takes a long, heavy breath to get the last question out. “Have you been having nightmares again?”

“Some. Why the fuck does it matter, we both have nightmares-“

“What have they been about?”

Ben doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw ticks, and his eyes on yours start to peel you apart. “Blood. Fuck ton of blood and smoke.”

There’s more. There’s something Ben’s leaving out, but right now you don’t care. You’re past being subtle, or thinking about anything but you’re right. You’re almost definitely right, and there’s only one last question to ask.

“Why are there sunglasses in your underwear drawer?”

His scowl deepens. “Why the goddamn hell were you in my underwear drawer-“

“I was folding laundry. Why.”

“Gift.” He grunts. “For you. Replacing the old ones.”

You feel a little lightheaded. “What, what happened to the old ones?”

“Broke when Homelander took you.” Ben pauses, and you think his gaze might be burning into your skin. “If you don’t start making some fucking sense about what you want-“

“While I was gone,” the words start to vomit out of you, frantic and uncertain. “Did you ever, I don’t know, hear me? Hear my voice, talking to you? Or, I don’t know, feel me, when I wasn’t there? Like there’s no way I could’ve been there, logistically, but you were still hearing me-“

Ben snaps your name. “Maybe I did, but I fucking missed you. It’s not some big goddamn news story, and since you’ve been back I haven’t heard shit-“

“Why did you get kicked out of the dining hall?”

“What the fuck are you-“

“Benjamin.” You take a long, deep breath. “Last week, why did MM kick you out of the dining hall?”

“I told you already, I got hard and he’s a fucking uptight pussy-“

“What made you hard?”

Ben goes completely rigid in his seat. “Don’t fucking worry about-“

“Were you thinking about me? About how you’d want to fuck me?”

“How in goddamn hell-“

“Because I was thinking about it,” you whisper, forcing yourself to hold Ben’s gaze. “That morning, before you got home, I thinking about how you’d fuck me. You said you’d prep me, then missionary, then from behind, then I’d ride you, and you told me condoms don’t work on supe jizz. You told me-“

“What the fuck do you mean I told you.”

“Your voice told me. In my head, I was talking to you. I’ve been talking to you. In the tower,” you swallow. “I’d talked to you all the time. In my head. And I-“

Ben grunts your name. “Whatever you’re trying to say, say it.”

“I think I can read your mind!” The words sound stupid when you say them. You sound fucking crazy, but you’re right. “Or like, speak to you through your brain? I was doing it for a while, then it got really weird after the Believe Expo, and I think it’s because you put something in me-“

“Put something in you-“

“I don’t fucking know, Ben! I’m not a scientist, I just know that there’s been this thing in my chest, right here,” you jab a finger at the area near your heart, and Ben’s eyes widen. “And it feels like you, and it’s gone right now because the empathy is gone, but-“

“What the fuck do you mean the empathy is gone.” Ben’s words are low, and his glare is searing right through you. “It’s part of you, it can’t just up and fuck off-“

“I, um,” your nails start to dig into your arm as you hug your body, the list balled up in your hand. “I’ve been taking a suppressant. A pill. It, um, kills the empathy, so I can’t use it.”

“A suppressant.” Ben stands, eyes never leaving yours, voice rising to a shout. “Are you fucking insane?”

“I’m fine, it’s-“

“You’re not fucking fine! Nothing about this is fucking fine, that’s a part of your goddamn body! You might as well be chopping your fucking arm off-“

“My arm would grow back, just like this-“

“It would still fucking hurt you! Why the fucking hell would you do something so fucking stupid, why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me-“

“I’m fine!” You scream, and smoke begins to rise from your fingers. “I fucking fine, Ben! This is helping me! I just, I can’t fucking control it, I don’t know how-“

“I would’ve fucking helped you!” He takes a step forwards, glare rooting you in place. “I’d do what the fuck you needed to help you control it, but you didn’t fucking trust me-“

“Of course I trust you!” Ben. Ben, I love you. “I fucking trust you with my life, but this isn’t about you-“

“Then why wouldn’t you fucking tell me, I’d have told you it was fucking stupid and insane, because this is fucking stupid and insane-“

“Because I’m fine-“

“You’re not fucking fine!” Ben roars your name, and you swallow. “You’re keep waking up fucking screaming, and you can’t fucking shower alone, you’re not fucking fine, stop saying you’re fine-“

“I am!” You shake your head frantically, gaze dropping to his chest. You can’t look him in the eyes right now, you’ll break. “I’m really fine, I’m just tired-“

“Because you haven’t slept a goddamn night peacefully in a fucking week!” Ben’s voice is strained, like he’s in physical pain. “Did it occur to you, even fucking once, that maybe cutting off your arm over and fucking over would hurt you?”

“I don’t care!” Your voice is losing its anger. You’re just so fucking tired, you don’t want to fight, you want to start crying, collapse, just fucking rest. “I don’t care if it’s hurting me! I deserve it! I’m hurting everyone else-“

“Are you fucking stupid-“

“No!” You can’t really hear anything over the blood pounding in your ears, over the cold starting to climb into your lungs. It’s hard to breathe. “I’m hurting people, Ben! I’m broken and afraid and weak, I can’t control myself because I’m weak and I can’t make you weak as well-“

“You are not weak-“

“I am! I’m weak! I can’t just get fucking control over my own body, and I’m so tired, and I can’t fucking do this anymore! I can’t keep fighting Homelander and being useless. I’m not like you, I’m not strong enough to do this-“

Ben’s still a few feet away, but when he says your name it rolls through your body. Pushes past the cold and grabs your insides, forces your eyes to his. He looks like something is hurting him, the wild glint in his eyes now tangled in with something bright and furious and hot. “You are not fucking weak. You’re the furthest goddamn thing from weak. You’re fucking alive. You fucking survived. You did something idiotic and so fucking selfless and goddamn impossible, and you lived. You are fucked up and perfect and the strongest fucking person in the world.”

The snapped off thing in your gut starts to wrap around your heart. “Then why won’t you touch me?”

He pauses, mouth open and closing once before he grunts through teeth, “what the fuck are you talking about.”

“You won’t touch me, Ben.” You’re done screaming. You’re choking on something, and every word is strangled and soft. “You stopped touching me after the shower. If you don’t want me, you can just tell me-“

“Of course I fucking want you, stop being insane-“

“Then why-“

“I touched you and you fucking broke,” he snaps. He’s done yelling as well, but somehow this hurts more. Ben’s voice is low and heavy, and it’s dropping something into your lungs. “I touched you once, and you goddamn fell apart. You keep saying you’re fucking fine, that Homelander didn’t do anything, but I touched you and it hurt you-“

“You didn’t hurt me,” you breathe out, and the world is blurry. “You couldn’t hurt me, Ben. You could never hurt me. I just, I can’t feel you and I hate it. It’s horrible, but I want you to touch me. Please,” everything is far away. Your tongue, your head, your thoughts and throat and mouth are all second to Ben, across the room. So close, not close enough, never close enough. He could never be close enough, and he still doesn’t understand. “I, please, I want you to touch me, Ben. I’ve never wanted anything more that I want you, I’ve never loved anyone more than I love you-“

You don’t hear your own words until after. You don’t register what you’ve said until Ben’s closed the space between you in one step, until he’s grabbed your face with firm hands, until his mouth is crashing onto yours and it’s all Ben. Ben, I love you.

He’s everywhere. He tastes like coffee and salt, and his touch is desperate. He’s falling onto you, groaning into your mouth when your lips part, invading your mouth with his tongue and teeth and spit, angling your head back to give you more. Your hands fly to his wrists, trying to make sure he’s real. You can’t feel him, but his pulse is heavy under your grip, and he’s so warm, and even as he bites your lower lip his hands are careful and gentle on your face. You’d said it, you said it for Ben to hear, and his touch is still reverent. He’s still holding you like you’re holy, confusing every part of your body as he deepens to kiss into something almost brutal—unrelenting and fervorish, devouring and starved with swallows of every sound that leaves you and his tongue in your throat—but his hands on your face remains adoring and gentle. Fingers tangling in your hair, a thumb tracing over your cheek while the other drops to carefully tilt your head back further.

When he pulls back, Ben’s forehead falls to yours, and you’re both silent. Trading ragged breaths and he traces over your swollen mouth with a light touch and his eyes, and you watch him. When Ben’s eyes finally meet yours they’re blown out and almost feral.

“Don’t take the fucking meds again,” he mutters, gaze stripping you apart before he adds, “please.”

You’d missed this morning’s pill. Thirteen hours would be up soon. And Ben is real and sounds like he’s pleading, so it’s easy to give in. “I won’t.”

Ben nods, and pulls back. “You need to sleep,” he holds your gaze, even as he draws back up to his full height. “You’re tired.”

This is the worst possible time for your body to listen to Ben more than it listens to you, but the world starts to fuzz with exhaustion, even as you protest. “Ben, we need to talk-“

“We will. After you get some goddamn sleep.”

“It’s only eleven-“

“Did you sleep last night?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Did you fucking sleep, Benjamin?”

“No. So I want some rest, and I’m not doing it without you next to me.”

“But-“

“Trust me,” he grunts. “Just fucking trust me. We will talk about it, I fucking swear, but you need to rest first.”

You take a long breath, and nod. Ben doesn’t wait for you to open your mouth before he’s picking you up, marching up the stairs and into the bedroom, laying you carefully on the mattress before climbing over you and tugging you into his chest. Sleep is crawling into your head—the warmth of Ben and the steady rise and fall of his chest making your head quiet and everything easy—but it’s still too bright to close your eyes, so you roll over and bury your head in Ben’s body.

“What was your thing?” You mumble into his skin, still just a little too wired from the fight to fall under. “We didn’t get to it before I, um…”

Ben’s chuckle makes your whole body grow loose. “You texted me.”

You frown. “I texted you all day, Pretty Boy-“

“You texted me that you love me.” He mutters, and a hand starts to run through your hair, soothing your brain and keeping you against him as your face flushes.

“Oh.” You try to pull yourself closer to his body, hoping you can fully hide the soft nerves in your voice. “I, um, I was tired. I must’ve typed it and, uh, sent it without thinking.”

“Did,” he pauses, voice low and tense. “Did you mean it.”

“Both times?”

He snorts, and you smile against him. “Yeah, both fucking times.”

“Yes,” your voice is a breath, words muffled against him, but you know Ben hears because his hands on your skin freeze. “When, in our heads, when you said it-“

“I meant it.” He mutters. “I’ll always fucking mean it.”

You nod, hands curling into his shirt. “Okay. Good.”

“How long until that stupid fucking pill-“

“Soon,” you whisper. “I don’t know why we can’t just-“

Ben grunts your name, his hand on your back starting to rub small circles that drag you further down. “Trust me. Get some sleep.”

He’s lucky you love him. If you didn’t, you’d get a little closer to murdering him every time your body elects to override your brain for Ben’s words. But he says sleep, everything fades into pine and warmth, the sound of Ben’s heartbeat near your head lulling you easily into sleep.

Blood. So much blood. All there is in the world is blood, filling up your lungs and overwhelming your heart. You don’t know where it’s coming from—don’t know how to stop it—and it’s sweeping over you like a hurricane. Blood on your hands, in your throat, metal on your tongue and red in your vision. You can’t breathe, and you’re screaming for Ben but there’s a smoke far, far above you that’s keeping him away. You can hear him roaring your name, see his figure somewhere around you in the liminal world you’ve been trapped in, but when he reaches for you the blood drags you further down. No matter how much you struggle and flail and scream, it’s just blood.

Blood, parting away as something cold and blue starts to walk towards you. Grabs you by the neck and yanks you up to watch it. Evil and cruel and no. No. No no no-

You’re screaming when you wake up. There’s something around you—not the blood, this is warm and safe and right—but you can’t really hear what the deep sounds echoing through your head are trying to tell you. It hurts, it all hurts. Your head is cracking open, your heart is aching, your mouth feels like sandpaper, your muscles are sore and your skin is itching and your blood is trying to leave your body because this hurts, this is all so painfully cold save for the pounding of something warm in your chest. Something grounding you and keeping all the fear and screams of unfair, so fucking unfair in your body. It’s full of ardor and it’s bloody, but not the blood that chokes you. Blood that feels like yours. That feels devoted and sharp and furious, that’s made of adoration and hunger and love.

It’s everything. This thing is powerful and focused and wrathful, aimed and attuned to every single part of you. It’s making the world sharper, and everything feels like it has a purpose. There’s nothing that doesn’t exist to aid what the thing serves, and everything glows when the thing is fed. It’s starving, it will never not be starving, it will only grow more and more hungry, but the hunger isn’t fed by taking. It’s fed by giving, by working and worshiping and caring for something perfect. All that matters is the perfect thing—it fits so well with the beat of the powerful thing—because it infects everything with light. Nothing is ever dark when the perfect thing is tended to, and it’s not easy to tend to, but it’s fucking worth it. The powertful thing lives in your chest, and it’s not yours, but it belongs there. It’s content and happy there, and it riots when you make a small sound. A set of words that you don’t really understand right now, but you need to say. Everything is still coming back to you as your blood returns into your body, but you need to keep saying the words.

The ringing in your ears finally fades, and you can make them out.

Ben. Ben, I love you.

“I love you too, Sunshine.” A deep voice—it might be the only one in the world that matters—rolls from the warmth around you into your chest. “Sleep.”

It’s Ben. Ben’s around you, holding you like you’re sacred, and you’re still so tired, but you can feel him. His Thing is alive in your chest, and you know what it is. Ben’s love. Raw and obvious and everything. Burning in you, with you, for you. Ben loves you.

“Ben,“ you mumbled, and his Thing hums. “I’m-“

If you say sorry, I’m not fucking you in the morning.

Rude.

You love it.

I do. You sigh against his skin. I love you.

I love you as well. Ben’s voice, inside your body and everywhere around you, is right. This is right. Ben loves you, and you love him, and nothing has ever made more sense.

And, right before you tuck yourself further into his chest, right before you fall back into peaceful, restful, safe sleep, you can breathe.

End Note: We have officially completed the slow burn. I welcome you to the rest of the story: a goddamn wildfire. They’re about to fuck so nasty, you guys don’t even know. Call them Tinashe the way they’re about to freak.

Thank you for reading!! If you like this story, reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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thefeverburningalive · 3 months ago

Text

ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ 𝖳𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖨 𝖧𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖠𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖸𝗈𝗎.

billie eilish x fem! reader

chapter two | ch1

summary: due to the recent new rule given to your sister by your father, some meddling parties decide the easiest way to get you to date is by paying somebody to take you out. who better to do so then the hot mysterious delinquent?

a/n: part two is here! thank you SO MUCH for the love on the first part<3 sorry this one took so long to write but i really wanted to put my all into it! if you haven’t read the first part then please do before you read this one! requests are open so feel free to send them in:) please like, reblog, and share if you can <3

genre: slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, enemies(ish) to lovers, lowk fboy billie but not actually, eventual topics of drinking & high school parties

warnings: teenage partying (underage drinking), foul language

word count: 3.7k

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

“nice ride, vintage fenders. i dig it.” you’re met with the sound of billie’s voice and the scene of her leaning up against your car as you walk out of the small vintage shop. “are you following me?” billie laughs at your annoyance as she gets up and takes a smaller step closer to you. this time she’s wearing some black jeans, slightly less baggy than the ones she wore yesterday, along with a plain white tshirt and a black leather jacket. her hair was down this time with a little pair of dainty glasses decorating her face. “i was at the laundry mat across the street. i recognized your car from yesterday so i came to say hi.” the tone at which she spoke was unreadable, something you also noticed from yesterday, it was hard for you to analyze the true intention of her words. she looks at you like she’s anticipating a response, so with an eye roll you give her one. “hi.” you then swiftly try to enter your car. “not much of a talker, huh?” billie, just as swift, slides her frame between you and the car door- making it impossible for you to close said door. “depends on the topic. didn’t seem like there was much to discuss.” she tilts her head slightly at you, almost like she was confused yet amused. you raise her eyebrow at her and she continues to speak. “you’re really not afraid of me, are you?” billie seemed genuinely intrigued. her question perplexed you, as did she. “why would i be afraid of you?” you say, speaking more genuine then you have been with her. she simply shrugs, tugging her hands into her jacket pockets. “well- most people are.” it’s then your turn to give a slight chuckle. “well- im not most people.” you where pleased with your own response. not that you’re interested in talking to her, but it was fun to sass someone who wasn’t on your usual list. with that billie steps aside while putting her arm out in an ‘after you’ gesture, referring to you entering your own car. you roll your eyes and start the car- but not before noticing the wink billie throws your way. you make sure she catches your scoff before pulling out of the spot to drive home.

later that day, billie’s leaning up against her own car, smoking a cigarette once again while waiting for zoe to come out of the store. “we know what you’re trying to do- with y/n stratford.” billie turns her focus to see cameron and micheal standing beside her. “yeah? and what’re gonna do about it?” billie gives them a dead stare as she speaks. the two boys start to get nervous as they continue to speak. “w-we’re here to help out!” the boys then go on to explain how it was them who planned the whole ordeal. they also proceed to tell her about the information about you they had gotten from bianca, things like your favorite bands, favorite foods, along with the fact that you hated people who smoke. “so how exactly do you expect me to charm a girl who won’t even give me the time of day?” as billie speaks- she starts to get slightly annoyed. despite most people being afraid of her, she’s still always good with the ladies. not being able to get you into her charm was a challenge she’s getting frustrated with. “let’s start with friday night. there’s gonnna be a huge party. it’s the perfect opportunity.” the two seem pretty adamant about this party, but it’s not really billie’s scene. at this point billie notices zoe leave the store with a bag in hand. they give each other a look as zoe entered the passengers seat. “i gotta go. i’ll think about it.” cameron and micheal took a step back as billie entered her car. she starts it with a loud roar and headed off. “god i hope this works.” cameron says to micheal as micheal pats his back.

using the information she just obtained- billie found out that one of your favorite bands, the sleeping, would be playing at one of the local clubs that night. with much dismay billie sat herself at the bar of the club- the last place she’d want to be. “i need water!” you yell to your friend from on the dance floor before approaching the bar. as you order you notice billie sitting there, beer in hand. “you know, if you plan on asking me out again, you better just get it over with.” you say- mostly shout- to billie. she glances up then take a sip of her drink. “would you mind? you’re kind of ruining the music for me.” this makes you actually laugh. “you’re not surrounded by your usual smoke cloud.” you state the observation, actually holding conversation with the girl. “i know. i quit. they’re apparently bad for you.” billie has a hint of sarcasm in her voice as she remains seated, looking up at you. “you know, these guys are no jimmy eat world or taking back sunday, but they’re not bad.” she speaks once more, keeping her attention on the stage at the other end of the large room. “you know who taking back sunday is?!” you choke down the smile that dares to spread across your face, although for once billie is able to see through you. this makes her grin before continuing. “why? you don’t? y’know i was watching you out there before,, never seen you look so sexy mamas.” billie throws a wink your way as you cringe at the nickname. you take note that this isn’t the first time she’s called you that. the persistent girl then finally notices the amount of people watching her, realizing they all heard her call you sexy. she scratches the back of her neck slightly embarrassed of the attention and this makes you smirk as you cross your arms. “come to the party with me y/n.” that’s the first time she’s called you by your name. “you don’t give up, do you billie?” you seemed it only fitting to use her name in turn. “was that a yes?” billie now stands up infront of you. “no.” you state as you start to walk away from billie and towards your friends. “well, was that a no?!” billie shouts to you, cupping her hands around her mouth so her words reach you. “no!” you shout back over your shoulder, an unmistakable smile lightly displayed across your face.

friday night

as you walk down the stairs, you hear bianca and your father bicker. she’s begging him to let her and her friend go to the party. “daddy everyone expects me there!!” she shouts with her usual annoying whine-coated tone. “do you know about any party y/n?” your father turns his attention to you now. you simply shrug your shoulders, you knew about this party and how much it meant to bianca. as much as you two didn’t always get along she was still your sister, so you didn’t want to ruin her shot of going with your opinions. “bianca you’re not going unless your sister goes.” your fathers words make the both of your jaws drop. bianca turns to you and puts her hands on your shoulders. “can you please, just for one night, forget that you’re completely wretched and just be my sister? please y/n?? please do this for me!” even with her insults you could tell bianca was sincere. you closed your eyes and sighed. “fine. i’ll make an appearance i guess.” you gave in, and it makes both bianca and her friend start to jump up and down and scream with joy. your dad starts to give the two a lecture so you use the opportunity to slip back upstairs so you could change out of your lounge clothes. you settle on a pair of dark blue wash flair miss me jeans, along with an off the shoulder slightly baggy black long sleeved shirt. you slip into your beat up vans and head back downstairs. the three of you go to head out the door, but standing outside- mid knock in motion- is billie. “what are you doing here??” billie’s wearing a matching baggy tshirt and short set with some knee high socks, black shoes and bandana around her head. “it’s friday. im here to take you to the party.” you scoff and slide past her. “whatever. im driving.” and with that all four of you where off to the party. the second you arrive you’re met with loud music and drunken imbeciles. bianca and her friend immediately dissapeared, leaving you with just billie. “ayyyy look who crawled her way out of hell! lookin good tonight y/n!” joey stands infront of you, his friends whistling behind him. “fuck off joey. you’re too close, i can see your receding hairline.” you cross your arms and walk away, at this point you even lost billie. “aw cmon where you goin’?” joey jogs up to you and keeps your pace. “away.” you try to ignore him, but he doesn’t quit. “your sister here?” this makes you stop dead in your tracks. “you stay away from my sister.” you lean in close, your pointer finger pushing against his chest. he laughs and throws his arm up. “oh i’ll stay away from your sister, but i cannot guarantee she’ll stay away from me.” the cockiness and mockery that smothered his voice makes your blood boil. he seems satisfied firing you up and heads off in the direction of a bunch of guys chugging beer kegs. “oh fuck this.” giving in, you grab a red solo cup and fill it with whatever vile liquor was in the large kitchen. within thirty five minutes you’re already drunk.

billie had absolutely no idea where you went. one minute she was following behind you, and the next you’re completely out of her sight. just as she was about to give up she notices you over by a kitchen island, taking a shot, and pouring yourself another. “what’re you doing? ‘ve been lookin all over the place for you.” there’s a rosey hue that covers your cheeks due to the alcohol consumption, your guard and attitude are down as well. “psh i’m getting trashed man. isnt that what you’re supposed to do at a party?” you’re actually smiling as you speak. billie’s never seen anyone so.. pretty. maybe it was just the alcohol talking, for the both of you, but there was something about you that stood out to her. you then pushed past billie, letting her catch a wiff of your pistachio and vanilla perfume, and grabbed another drink. billie sighed and came to stand directly in front of you to take the drink. “hey hey, how ‘bout you let me have this one, huh?” you swerve your arm before she could take the bottle from you. “no! this one’s mine!” you make a quick run for it and leave billie stranded in the kitchen. she honestly wasn’t sure what to do. she thought about letting you get drunk and let loose- but apart of her knew that you’d be extremely unhappy by the morning. the sound of the cheering of your name and whistling pulls billie out of her thoughts. as she looked up she saw you standing on a coffee table, dancing and singing to whatever awful song is playing. more and more people gathered to watch as you sway your hips and run your fingers through your hair. billie pushed people out of her way to stand right beside the table, making sure not to take her eyes off of you as you stumble and dance. when you finally notice billie you attempt to say something to her, but before you can, you trip over your shoelaces. you prepared yourself to hit the ground but you’re met with strong, soft, arms. billie had caught you. all you could do was stare at her face. you’d never really looked that closely at it. from this angle, you could see all the soft freckles that decorated her face. her lips where a soft pink- just like her cheeks. her eyes where light blue yet somehow so deep, almost hypnotizing. “are you okay mamas?” billie held genuine concern for you, you could tell. what are you thinking? getting all soft. you should know better. don’t be weak. you then pushed billie away as you stood up. “ ‘m fine.” you attempt to walk away but you stumble and are forced to put a hand on billie’s shoulder to balance yourself. “you’re not fine. cmon.” billie puts your arm fully around her while placing her own around your waist. the taller girl starts to lead you through the crowded house, heading to the back door. “js needta.. sit.” was all you said- a pitiful attempt of a protest. billie says nothing in response while continuing to lead you now that you’re out in the backyard.

“cmon, here, sit down.” billie places you carefully onto a swing seat- but not before you slip and fall on your back. “jesus y/n- the last thing you need is a concussion.” billie gets you up and guides you back to the swing. she holds it while you plop yourself down, insuring that you don’t fall off. you get annoyed at her holding you up. “ugh you’re so patronizing.” billie laughs as she slowly lets you go. she places herself on the swing next to you but still turns her body to face you. “leave it up to you to use big words when you’re fucked up.” a silence falls over you two. for the first time neither of you know what to say next. every interaction that took place between the two of you had always had some sort of comment, rebuttal, question or answer. but now there was only silence. it was killing you now that some of the alcohol was wearing off, enough to make you aware but yet still tipsy enough to be lose. “why are you doing this?” you broke the silence. you wanted answers so you broke the silence. “well, you could get sick.. plus i gotta make sure you didn’t hit your head hard enough to do some damage.” billie’s answer wasn’t exactly what you wanted to hear. sure, that may be why she’s currently doing what she’s doing, but that didn’t answer what you actually wanted to know. “you wouldn’t care if i never woke up.” you crossed your right leg over your left, letting the other bounce up and down. “sure i would.” you give her a look that makes her laugh, and it’s almost contagious. almost. “if you didn’t wake up then i’d have to start taking out girls who actually like me.” billie responded while leaning her body the slightest bit closer to you. you rolled your eyes and looked away. “like you could find one.” billie lets out a smaller, shorter, laugh now. “see! that there. who needs affection when i have blind hatred?” you couldn’t lie, that made you laugh a little. you sighed with a slight smile. “i don’t really know you.” you say as you look up at the sky, admiring some of its stars. billie pauses for a moment, debating on what to say next. “then again you don’t really know me either.” after adding that part in, you brought your focus back to billie. her expression softens, she looks down at her own hands, before looking back at you, then back at her hands. “eilish. uh- my middle name is eilish. i always thought my last name was silly so i started introducing myself with my middle name when i was a kid.” even though she wasn’t looking at you, you where looking at her. “billie eilish. hm. has a nice ring to it.” your response gets her to lock eyes with you, noticing that you have a smile plastered on your face. this time you weren’t trying to hide it. “i can’t believe i drank so muchhh im so dumb.” you change the topic with a whine and put your head in your hands while leaning on your knees. “yeaaah i definitely didn’t picture you to be the party type.” billie didn’t want to push to ask why, but almost as if you could read her mind, you started to speak. “i let him get to me.” picking your head up with a sigh, you look back at her. “why though?” this time billie allows herself to push just the slightest bit. “i hate him.” you both pause, looking at each other, and then break out into a small fit of laughter. “well you’ve chosen the perfect revenge. tequila.” her small dig made you roll your eyes. “yeah yeah. no need to remind me eilish.” this was your first time giving her a nick name instead of the other way around. you didn’t notice, but this caused a small blush to creep across her face. “mhm. well i told you something about me, so do i get to hear something about you?” billie speaks with a slight nervous tone, almost like she’s unsure if she’s saying the right thing. you think for a few seconds, unsure of what you should or shouldn’t share. “i play the guitar. nothing fancy, im self taught, but it’s something i enjoy doing in solitude.” once again silence falls over you.

billie goes to say something but notices you leaning against the swings chain with your eyes closed. “y/n?” no response. she leans a little closer. “y/n??” once again no response. she quickly gets up and knees in front of you, bringing her hand to your face as she softly taps over and over again on your cheek. “hey, hey, hey- shit fuck- no no, y/n wake up- y/n can you hear me??” this makes you blink your eyes open and lean into her touch. your faces merely inches apart. “hey.. im up.. ‘js tired.” neither of you move. “y’know.. your eyes are so pretty.” you say just barley above a whisper. billie sighs with a smile, and also relief. she realizes her hand is still cupping your face, so she quickly pulls away. like clockwork a wave of nausea hits you. you turn your body around in the seat and start to throw up. it wasn’t a lot- but enough to make you audibly groan. “aaaand on that note, let’s get you home.” she pats your back and lets you finish up before helping you up and walks you to the car. billie of course took your keys the second she caught you from falling, so naturally she gets in the drivers seat. you didn’t even question it. you sip on some water as billie turns on the radio before she starts to drive you home. the sound of one of your favorite songs causes you to slightly turn up the volume. “god i love no doubt. such a good band.” billie only hums in response. “i should do this.” you say as billie then takes a quick look at you before bringing her attention back to the road. “do what?” she had no idea what you where talking about. “this!” you point to the radio. “start a band?” her question makes you scoff. “no become a car stereo. yes start a band! my father would looove that.” you lean your head against the back of the seat and start to look out the window. a part of you dreads going back home. “you don’t strike me as the type that would ask your father for permission.” billie doesn’t look at you, but it takes everything in her not to. “oh so you think you know me?” you turn your body in the passengers seat to face her a little more. billie chuckles and steals a quick look at you before leaning her right elbow on the center console and using her left hand to steer the car. “i’m gettin there.” billie says as she stops at a red light. “the only thing people know about me is that i’m ‘scary’ and a bitch.” you use finger quotes when saying the word scary while emphasizing the description others gave you. “yeah well i’m not a picnic either.” she looks at you after speaking, coincidentally at the same time you look at her- almost like the two of you are sharing a moment of connection before billie sees the light turn green from her peripheral vision. she turns back to the road and continues to drive. it gets quiet once more so billie begins to talk again. “so, what’s up with your dad? is he a pain in the ass?” you could tell billie’s question was genuine. “no not really, he just wants me to be someone i’m not.” after responding you notice the two of you are approaching your house. “who?” billie asks while putting the car into park. “bianca.” the question and answer was cut and dry. “ah bianca.. no offense or anything, i know everyone digs your sister, but uhm.. i think you’re the better stratford sister.” billie’s now turned towards you, leaning back in her seat. you start to stare at her, a little bit of new found admiration fills your chest. “you know, you’re not as vile as i thought you where.” you where now leaning in to her. inching closer and closer, lips parting, the want to kiss her taking over your whole body. you thought this is what you wanted, what she wanted, what you both wanted. but before your lips could connect with hers, she slightly pulls back and clears her throat before speaking. “maybe we should uh- do this another time.” you couldn’t even describe the intense emotions you felt. anger. disappointment. embarrassment. nothing was said before you stormed out of the car, slamming it shut.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

tag list <3 : @emilyshortcake

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salmonballsss · 10 days ago

Text

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 13)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word count: 10k

Warnings: none

The rest of the night passed quietly.

No more questions. No more revelations.

Agatha didn’t ask if you were okay. She didn’t try to dig into your feelings or pry open your fears. She just… stayed nearby. Present.

At some point, she walked you to the guest room with slow, unspoken steps. You didn’t talk. You didn’t need to. She lingered at the door for a few seconds longer than necessary, then left with a small nod and not another word.

You lay in bed for a long time, listening to the house creak and settle around you, the memory of her lips on your temple still pressed into your skin like heat. Eventually, you drifted off.

And for once, your dreams didn’t chase you.

Now, you stand in the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, getting ready for your day out with Agatha.

As you scrub, you glance at yourself in the mirror. Your hair’s still a little damp from your shower earlier, curling slightly at the ends. You look halfway human again.

Your brain, however, is in full chaos mode. You think of everything you and Agatha could do today. The town isn’t big, but it’s still something. Coffee shops, bookstores, maybe just walking through the streets and not feeling like the world is haunted.

And suddenly a thought creeps in.

Wait.

Was this… like… a date?

Your cheeks flush instantly. You shake your head hard, spitting into the sink and rinsing it down with cold water from the faucet like that’ll somehow flush the thought away, too.

No way it’s a date. Right?

I mean—yesterday you had a full on breakdown . You vented about how trapped you felt. You got emotional and messy and completely real.

But she was so… surprisingly nice about it.

She didn’t pull away. She didn’t make you feel dumb. She held you. And kissed your temple. You look up into the mirror again and catch your own expression—eyes wide, lips twitching—

God.

You have a giddy little smile on your face. You quickly rinse your toothbrush, flick the water off your hands, and march back to the guest room before your brain can combust.

At your duffle bag, you dig through options, settling on something simple. Nothing too dramatic—you did make a scene yesterday, and you still have that hickey and bite mark from your little… incident.

Jeans. A fitted Tshirt. A jacket layered on top—Hollow Wood’s air is way nippier than Washington’s, and you're not about to freeze trying to look cute.

Still… cute wasn’t off the table. You tug the shirt over your head, smoothing it down, then pause.

If Agatha hugged you… If she kissed your temple… Maybe she was starting to like you?

Well, hell. You two made out like crazy the other night.

Sure, she used the wine as an excuse, but… she never said it was a mistake .Your fingers slow on the zipper of your jacket.

You let out a small hum.

She never said it was a mistake…

A grin pulls at your lips—slow, smug. You sit on the edge of the bed, slipping your socks on like you’re the chillest person alive. Like you’re not absolutely spiraling inside.

Shoes next. You tie them quickly, then sit back and glance around the room, your eyes catching on the paintings hung above the dresser. You stare for a moment, letting your thoughts drift.

That night was just so… weird.

You haven’t had any hallucinations since. Maybe the plantain leaf helped? Maybe it actually did something, warded it off for a bit.

Then there was the kissing. And the flashes. God. Those flashes . Each one burned into your brain. Like film burned too close to the projector bulb. Always distorted. Always feverish.

And always Agatha. Looking at you with those violet eyes. You could say it was a coincidence. Just hallucinations. But the way she said she knew you ?

Not this you. Not this body.

There’s no way she could’ve known you… unless she somehow stalked your tiny, barely followed blog about early colonial court records. And even that wouldn’t explain the certainty. The pull.

You rake a hand through your now-drying hair and sigh. You try to think back—try to reconstruct the night, though the wine blurred it. Just little moments come through.

The kiss. The heat. Her breath brushing your jaw. And then—

She leaned in closer. So close you could feel the heat rolling off her skin. So close you could taste the wine on her breath.

"I can't lose you again," she whispered.

Wait.

Your eyes fly open. Your pulse spikes. Your mind finally catches up.

Again?

Again?!

You shoot up from the bed like you’ve been electrocuted. Pacing. Chewing your thumbnail. Eyebrows drawn together in a sharp, panicked knot.

“Okay, okay, okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Holy shit. ”

Did she mean that? Or was it just the wine—some drunken, overly passionate nonsense? But… who the hell says that while kissing?

“I can’t lose you again.”

Not “I Want you.” Not “You’re so hot.”

Again.

Meaning—

Your stomach twists.

Meaning those flashes—those fragmented images you keep brushing off as hallucinations—could actually be something . Not just a trauma response. Not just your brain glitching under stress. But maybe… a memory . A story. A thread leading somewhere.

You stop pacing mid step, heart thudding wildly. But your spiral is immediately, violently interrupted by a knock on the door. Three firm, composed raps. Your spine straightens like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

You scramble to look normal. “Uh—Y-yeah?” you call out, trying to sound casual. Like you weren’t just pacing in a death grip over the phrase I can’t lose you again.

Your voice cracks slightly anyway. You wince. Smooth. So smooth.

The door creaks open, and there she is. Agatha stands in the hallway like she owns it. Which—fair, she does. But still.

She’s in a Tan puffer jacket, sharp slacks, and a soft charcoal sweater that does unspeakable things to your brain. A black purse slung across her body. Her hair’s down today, messy but intentional. Effortless. Cool. A little intimidating.

Her eyes flick over you—up, down, amused. “You planning to overthink our outing to death or are you coming?” she says, voice dry.

But the corners of her mouth twitch. The tease is there. Light. Easy. You blink. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’m—uh—just finishing up.”

Agatha leans on the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over her chest. “Don’t rush on my account. It’s only a small town. Doubt it’ll implode before noon.”

You nod mutely, scrambling to your little duffle bag mirror and makeup pouch. She’s still standing there. Watching.

So you pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you as you swipe a bit of tinted balm across your lips, dab under your eyes with concealer, and brush through your lashes.

Then you pause. Your gaze drops to your neck. To the mark. Faint, but definitely there. Still dark. Still shaped by her. You stare at it. One hand hovers over your concealer.

And then slowly… you lower it.

You don’t cover it. You don’t even try. Just to see what she’ll do. Just to see how far you can push… this.

Behind you, you swear you catch a shift in the air. Like Agatha noticed. But she says nothing. You cap your concealer, slide it back into your bag, and stand. “All done.”

She raises a brow. “You sure?” she says. “You didn’t even look in the mirror after.”

You shrug. “Didn’t need to.”

Agatha’s lips twitch again. Like she’s impressed. Or amused. Or maybe both. “Cocky,” she mutters, and turns on her heel.

You follow.

Back when you were still holed up in that little hotel, desperate to kill time and chase leads, you walked these same streets. Took notes. Peered into shop windows. Hollow Wood was small, yes—but it had its charm.

But now?

Now you were walking through it with Agatha.

She stops at the purple door, turning to look at you over her shoulder. “Okay. Stay close to me. No straying, no wandering. If you do wander, I want to see where you are.”

Her tone is firm. Final. And despite how annoying that should be, it sets a small, shameful pool of arousal between your legs.

Which is super inconvenient, because you literally just put on clean underwear. You grumble. “Yeah, yeah, fine.” You wave her off and reach for the doorknob, but Agatha catches your wrist—fast and unyielding.

“Let me check first.” You scoff quietly. But when you meet her eyes, she gives you a look . One of those Agatha looks. The kind that shuts you up instantly.

She steps outside, her boots crunching lightly on the porch. Her head turns slowly, listening. Watching. Still.

You swear she’s listening past the trees. Past the birdsong. Past the wind.

Then, deep in the woods, a crow caws. Agatha tilts her head. Nods once. Like she understands it.

Then she turns back to you. “Okay, let’s go, hon.”

Hon.

Your cheeks a small pink. You follow her out the door, heart thudding slightly faster. Your steps get a little more pep in them as you trail after her down the porch steps. Jacket zipped, boots scuffing the gravel path. The air is sharp and cold, but not unpleasant.

This time it feels different. Because this time it’s not research. Not work. Not survival. This time… it’s her. And yeah, you might be overthinking it. But it feels a little like something close to a date.

You glance at her back as she walks ahead of you—tall, sharp, completely composed. Her coat moves just enough to hint at the way her hips sway when she walks.

Agatha’s lived here for a while, right? She bought the house in 2022, according to the county records you found during one of your more intense sleuthing spirals.

That part checks out. But still… She doesn’t walk like someone who moved in two years ago. She walks like she’s always belonged here. Like she remembers the bones beneath the town. The dirt. The secrets tucked behind every shuttered window.

Like she’s memorized every crack in the sidewalk, every crooked branch hanging over the path.

You jog a few steps to catch up. “Hey,” you say casually, pretending not to examine the way the sunlight catches on her jawline. “So… any plans for where we’re going first?”

Agatha glances sideways, eyes flicking over you before returning forward.

“That depends,” she says, lips curving slightly. “How public are you willing to make your crimes?”

You blink. “What?”

She smirks. “You let the crow inside. That’s at least a misdemeanor.”

Your face burns. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” You don’t answer. Because she’s right.

Especially considering the dumb little smile threatening your face and the way you’re biting your cheek to keep from giggling like an idiot . You even try to walk with a little more purpose, a little more academic detachment—but Agatha’s smirk makes that impossible.

She knows what she’s doing.

You shoot her a look. “That wasn’t even a real crime.”

She hums. “Breaking and entering with a feathered accomplice? Sounds pretty criminal to me.”

“Okay, first of all , the crow broke in. I was only being nice and feeding him.”

“Mm.” She tilts her head. “I don’t remember the feeding part, just where you shoved him up your shirt to hide your crimes.”

You groan and swat at her arm, but she easily sidesteps you, smug and untouchable as always.

The two of you fall into step as youwalk.

You cross the familiar wooden bridge, worn down at the center from years of use, its rails smooth under your fingers. The stream below burbles lazily beneath your shoes.

Then comes the willow lined path—one you’ve taken before, but never like this. The branches sway gently in the breeze, brushing across the dirt like ghostly fingers. You catch Agatha glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. You don’t say anything. Neither does she.

When you reach the cobblestone bridge—the one with the cracked edge and the ivy curling along the sides—she turns right without hesitation.

You follow, your shoes clacking softly on the uneven stones. “You really do know every inch of this place, huh?” you ask.

Agatha doesn’t slow. “Like the back of my hand,” she replies. Then, after a beat “Sometimes I forget how much it’s changed. Sometimes I forget how much hasn’t. ”

You glance at her. Her tone isn’t heavy. Just… distant. Like she was talking to herself more than to you.

You want to ask more. But you don’t.

Instead, you quietly match her stride, the soft click of your shoes falling in time with hers, the quiet stretching out between you again—comfortable this time.

Almost peaceful.

Once you reach the town’s main road, you stop leading and just… follow. You let her set the pace. Let her choose the path.

Your eyes scan the familiar storefronts as you walk—quiet, small- own charming. The coffee shop you frequented during your hotel days comes into view, tucked between a florist and a used bookstore. The one with the slightly crooked sign and the smell of fresh ground beans wafting out the door.

Your steps slow a little as you spot it.

You glance at Agatha—and find her already looking at you. Her eyes catch yours. Blue and unreadable. You offer a small smile. “Uh… while I stayed in the hotel, I went to that coffee shop,” you say, nodding toward it. “It’s pretty cool. The lady who made the coffees even remembered my order after, like, two visits. Made me feel like a regular.”

Agatha’s gaze flicks toward the shop, then back to you. “She probably thought you were cute,” she says dryly.

Your brain short circuited. You blink. “Wait—what?” Agatha’s mouth twitches, but she says nothing else. Just keeps walking.

You scramble to follow, face warming under your jacket collar.

“Okay well that’s one theory,” you mutter.

“She’s not wrong,” comes Agatha’s lazy reply. You almost trip over a crack in the sidewalk. The smugness radiating off her is illegal.

You side eye her. “Did you have caffeine this morning or are you always like this?”

“I’m just in a good mood,” she says.

You raise a brow. “Because I’m suffering?”

“Exactly.”

You snort, shaking your head, but there’s a flutter in your chest. A lightness you hadn’t felt in days.

Not because things are suddenly easy.

But because—for once—they almost feel normal.

“So you take pleasure in my own suffering? What are you, a sadist?” you sass, walking alongside her, hands tucked in your jacket pockets.

Agatha just gives you a look. That look. The kind of smirk that wasn’t her usual teasing curl—it was slower, sharper, and sinister in a way that made your eyes widen for a second.

“Oh my god,” you say. “You are. ”

She shrugs, noncommittal. “Only when the company’s good.”

You blink. You almost trip again. “Okay.” Your voice comes out higher than intended. You pretend that didn’t happen. Agatha—mercifully—pretends not to notice.

The two of you round the corner, the coffee shop’s purple awning coming into view again. That same little bell above the door. The same chalkboard menu still advertising pumpkin spice.

Agatha slows slightly, glancing at the place with an unreadable expression. “You want to go in?” she asks, voice casual—but there’s a slant to it. Like she’s curious what you’ll choose now that she’s here too.

You nod. “Yeah. I kinda want coffee… and I skipped breakfast.” She nods once, like she expected that answer, and reaches for the door handle before you can.

You almost point out that you can open your own doors, thank you very much, but then she holds it open for you without a word.

Oh. Okay. You step past her, and the smell of roasted beans, sugar, and warm pastries hits you like a blanket.

It’s cozy in here. Soft jazz hums from the corner. The lights are warm. You feel the tension in your shoulders start to ease again.

That is—until the barista looks up. Her smile freezes. Just for a second. Like she’d seen something—or someone —she wasn’t expecting. You glance at Agatha.

“Welcome in,” the barista says after a beat, her tone recovering, the forced brightness snapping back into place like a rubber band. She looks at you—grateful for the familiar face. “Oh hey, you’re back! Do you want your usual?”

“Oh! Yes please!” you say quickly, offering a friendly smile.

You step up to the counter like everything’s normal, like there isn’t a woman with eldritch energy and cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood standing half an inch behind you.

The barista’s eyes flick to Agatha again—quick, uncertain. You pretend not to notice. “I’ll get that started,” she says, turning away a little too fast.

You can feel Agatha’s gaze on the back of your head. You look over your shoulder. “What?”

Agatha leans slightly closer, not enough to make a scene—but enough to send a thrill down your spine. Her voice is low, amused. “Popular, aren’t you?”

You shoot her a look. “You’re one to talk.” She just hums, eyes lazily scanning the chalkboard specials as if she’s not making your heart pound.

You move to the side while she orders—something black, no sugar, no sweetness. Of course. The barista tries to smile through it, but her voice is thinner this time. She keeps glancing at Agatha’s face like she’s trying to place her.

You and Agatha take your spot at the pickup end after Agathas pays. It’s quieter here. You can feel the warmth of the espresso machine, hear the milk being frothed, but still—your eyes drift to Agatha.

She’s still looking around the shop, cool as ever. Observing. Cataloguing.

“So… you lived in town for a bit now. Have you ever been here?” You say off handedly making small talk with her.

Agatha just hums. “A couple years back when it opened.” You nod softly, letting the answer hang between you.

When your coffees and bagel are finally ready, you grab yours and—this time—you take the lead. You head straight to the corner table. Your table. The one you always picked when you stayed in town.

Agatha follows without a word. Once you both sit, she takes a slow sip of her drink, eyes flicking briefly toward the other patrons before settling on you.

“Secluded, are we?” she asks, voice mild but knowing.

You smile a little, already unwrapping your bagel. “Yeah. I’ve always preferred it. Plus, you can people watch.”

You wiggle your eyebrows and take a bite, talking around a smirk. Agatha gives you a small smile in return. Barely there.

But it wrecks you.

Your eyes drop to her lips instantly. The curve of them. The way that smile softens just the barest edge of her usual sharpness. Like she’s letting herself settle. Just for a moment.

And God—you wish you could lean in.

Just lean across the table and steal her lips for your own, warm and quiet and slow, like the other night. Your stomach twists. It wouldn’t take much. She’s sitting right there.

You swallow the bite in your mouth a little too hard and force yourself to look away, suddenly far too you focused on your bagel.

Your eyes flicker to hers, and her lips curve slowly.

“Staring’s considered impolite, you know,” she says, voice warm and teasing.

You blink. “I was not.”

She lifts a brow. “You were practically tracing my smile with your eyes.”

You feel your face go hot. “Was not.”

Agatha takes another sip of her coffee, her smirk deepening behind the rim. “You keep telling yourself that.”

You grumble into your bagel. “I hate you.”

“You’re very repetitive this morning.”

You shoot her a look, and she laughs—soft, genuine, low in her throat. It hits you harder than it should.

Conversation flows easily after that. The kind of quiet, natural rhythm you weren’t expecting from someone like her. She doesn’t press, doesn’t interrogate. She listens. She asks just enough.

You talk about your thesis for a while—how you were drawn to the social dynamics of the Salem Witch Trials, but also broader periods of religious panic and mass hysteria.

“You know,” you say between sips of coffee, “people always treat Salem like a one off, but there were so many other examples. Europe was a disaster for centuries. And the American trials weren’t even the most deadly.”

Agatha nods, fingers absently circling her coffee lid. “Bamberg. Würzburg. Trier. The Germanic states were brutal. Entire towns purged.”

You blink. “Exactly.” She smiles slightly, like she’s pleased you caught on.

You shift in your chair, growing more animated. “But even outside the trials—there’s so much overlap with political transitions. Even something like the discovery of the Gokstad ship changed the way people understood Viking history.”

Agatha tilts her head. "Mm. Norway. 1880."

You pause, brow lifting. “You know it?”

She lifts her eyes to yours, amused. “The first Viking ship burial fully excavated. Almost perfectly preserved. Found in a burial mound. Oak planks, overlapping like fish scales. Two dozen shields lined the sides.”

You gape slightly. “Okay, show off.”

Agatha shrugs, feigning modesty. “You brought it up.”

You laugh, cheeks flushed. “Most people haven’t even heard of the Gokstad ship.”

“Most people aren’t very curious.”

You lean in, elbows on the table now, energized. “Did you know they found a gaming board inside? Like a precursor to chess? And a sled?”

Agatha’s lips twitch. “And remnants of silk. Which means the Vikings were trading further east than people assumed at the time.”

You gape again. “Okay, seriously. Are you just… a walking textbook?”

“I prefer the term well read,” she replies dryly.

You narrow your eyes. “Alright then, Ms. Well Read—who was buried in it?”

“An elite male,” she says without missing a beat. “Possibly a chieftain. Around 40 to 50 years old when he died. Bones were missing by the time they uncovered it—grave robbers, probably.”

You blink. “Okay. Yeah. Fine. You win.”

Agatha’s smile is smug, but there’s something soft in it, too. Like she’s enjoying this. You sit back, sipping your coffee again, heart still thudding faintly in your chest.

She’s looking at you now—not amused, not calculating. Just… quietly fond.

But she’s still smiling as she sips her coffee. And under the table, her foot brushes yours.

“You're insufferable,” you whisper, unable to stop your grin.

“Yet you keep finding excuses to be around me.”

You wave your hand dismissively and change the subject, desperate to reclaim a shred of dignity.

“So,” you say, setting your drink down, “do you have a favorite era of history?”

Agatha tilts her head, thinking. “Depends on the century. The 16th was chaos. The 12th? More interesting than people realize. The early modern period had its charms, if you could ignore the plagues.”

You grin. “That’s vague.”

She shrugs. “History is layered. You can’t pick a favorite when every piece connects to another.”

You hum in agreement. “I always liked the Tang dynasty. Poetry, philosophy, science… It felt like an explosion of culture.”

Agatha nods. “The Dunhuang manuscripts. Discovered in the early 1900s. Hidden for almost a thousand years. A goldmine of everything from medicine to math to religious texts.”

You stare. “You’re unreal.”

She shrugs again, but her eyes are brighter now.

You don’t notice how long you’ve been sitting there. How natural it feels. How rare it is for you to click like this with someone. But Agatha—she challenges you. Matches you. Softens you.

And when you glance up from your empty coffee cup, she’s already watching you. Soft eyed. Slightly amused. You wonder, not for the first time, who she really is. And why every moment with her feels like you’re remembering something you haven’t lived yet.

Your lips part, about to say something more to Agatha—maybe something stupid, maybe something brave—when you're cut off by a voice like a firecracker:

“ Agatha Harkness. ”

Both your heads whip around.

There, standing just inside the coffee shop, wrapped in a burgundy knit shawl and holding a mismatched purse, is Irene.

You light up. “Irene!”

“I see you finally crawled out of your bat cave,” she says, eyes twinkling, “with a pretty girl , no less.”

She turns from Agatha to you and winks.

Agatha goes very still. “Hi,” you say, already laughing. “What are you doing here?”

“I come here every Thursday. You think I live off ghost stories and black licorice?” She eyes your bagel. “And apparently someone forgot to bring me one.”

You scoot over instantly. “Sit! Please.”

She doesn’t need to be asked twice. Irene slides into the booth beside you, purse dropping to the floor, shawl unraveling slightly over her lap.

Agatha hasn’t moved.

“Well,” Irene says, settling in, “you two look cozy. I hope you’re not letting this one boss you around too much.” She jerks a thumb at Agatha.

You smother a laugh. “Only when she’s feeling particularly feral.”

“Oh, so hourly.”

Agatha levels a look at her. “Irene.”

Irene waves her off. “Don’t give me that tone. I’ve survived worse. Married Harry, didn’t I?”

Agatha’s lips twitch—almost a smile—but it’s brief.

You glance between them. “So you guys were… friends?” Sure you knew that they know each other but you didn't think of them as friends… just acquaintances.

Irene smiles, soft for just a moment. “Oh, we go way back. Though Agatha aged a hell of a lot better than I did.”

Agatha’s expression sharpens. “Irene,” she warns.

Irene lifts her eyebrows, grinning wide. “Oh, so you haven’t told her yet. Okayyy, Agatha. ”

Your head tilts. “Told me what?”

Agatha drinks her coffee in a way that says I will throw this cup across the room.

You watch her. Irene watches you watching her. Then, with zero shame, Irene pats your hand and says, “Well, at least one of you’s finally getting laid. Progress!”

You choke on your latte.

Agatha blinks. Then mutters, “Oh my god.”

“You love it,” Irene says smugly.

You’re bright red, caught between laughing and hiding under the table.

Agatha doesn’t deny it. After a moment, Irene leans back with a sigh, her voice softening just a little. “I remember when this one used to actually have fun. We’d sit on the back porch, drink rosé, and she’d mock every man that looked at me sideways.”

“She flirted with the mailman for six months,” Agatha deadpans.

“He had arms. ” Irene shrugs. “And good pension.”

You grin, watching them. It’s the first time you’ve seen Agatha like this—with someone who remembers her from another lifetime. A glimpse behind the curtain.

But there’s still so much you don’t know. And so much she’s not saying. Yet.

Irene turns to you with a conspiratorial look. “So what’s your deal, sweetheart? You doing okay in that big creaky house of hers?”

You blink. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Mostly. It’s… definitely not what I expected, but it’s fine. Quiet.”

“Quiet?” Irene cackles. “Not how I remember it. Back when Harry and I used to visit, it sounded like a damn séance was happening upstairs half the time.”

Agatha sips her coffee very pointedly. You frown. “Séance?”

Irene waves it off. “Oh, you know. Books slamming, weird music, candles lit all over the place. Agatha’s always been theatrical. It was cute back then. A little spooky now, maybe.” She glances at Agatha. “You still hoarding candles like they’re going out of style?”

“Some of us believe in ambience,” Agatha says dryly.

Irene grins, pleased. You shoot Agatha a mock glare. “You do have… a lot of candles.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to leave in the dark, if you’d prefer.”

You blink. She’s teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A flicker of something you can’t quite place. Irene’s eyes flick between the two of you, and then, after a moment, she shifts the tone. “Remember when we went to that antique fair outside Concord?” Irene says to Agatha, like she’s pulling something up from the bottom of a drawer.

Agatha exhales like she’s been caught off guard. “Vaguely.”

Irene huffs. “You mean vividly . We got caught snooping behind the tents, and that one guy—what was his name? Redhead, beard like a Brillo pad—he tried to sell you that old compass that didn’t work?”

“Because it wasn’t a compass,” Agatha mutters. “It was a paperweight with delusions of grandeur.”

You laugh.

Irene’s delighted now, leaning into the memory. “You scared him off so fast. What did you say again?”

Agatha takes a slow sip of her coffee. “I told him it was cursed.”

Your smile falters just slightly. She says it like a joke. But doesn’t look like she’s joking. Irene doesn’t catch it. “Right! And he tripped over his own feet getting away from you.” She sighs. “God, we were a menace.”

Agatha’s expression softens faintly. “You were the menace. I was the adult supervision.”

“Please,” Irene scoffs. “You just had better boots.”

You glance between them again, trying to picture it. Younger Agatha. Younger Irene. The idea tugs at something in your chest. Something warm and… off.

“How long have you guys known each other?” you ask.

Irene answers before Agatha can cut in. “Oh, God. Long time. Too long, if you ask her.” She winks. “Harry introduced us. Said she was the only person in town who knew what the hell he was talking about.”

You nod slowly. You already knew that—knew about the notebooks, the strange references. The whispers of what Harry and Agatha studied together before he died.

Still, it feels heavier hearing it spoken aloud. Like putting another puzzle piece in place.

Agatha stays quiet. She’s looking at Irene now—not irritated, just… watchful. Irene doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

She pats your knee lightly. “Just be careful with this one, sweetheart. She’s got more history in her than most textbooks.” Then she leans closer, stage whispers, “And she’s about as forthcoming as a locked drawer.”

Agatha exhales sharply through her nose. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Always have been.”

You smile softly, watching them. And you file every word away. Because something about this whole exchange only confirms what you already suspect.

Agatha’s older than she says. Way older. And if Irene’s right, she might just be full of stories you’re not supposed to hear.

Irene then leans in, patting your shoulder with affection. “Well! I have to get going. Workout class at one—gotta stay sharp, you know. Even if it’s full of old grannies like me.”

She throws a playful glance at Agatha, then back at you. You smile warmly, already missing her chaotic energy. “And hey,” Irene adds, rifling through her purse like a woman on a mission, “I’ve got a few more documents for you from Harry’s study.”

You practically light up. “Really?! Okay—okay, I’ll text you!”

She gives your arm a light squeeze. “Don’t wait too long. I’m not immortal, you know.”

You grin. “Don’t say that.” She just winks. Then, as if she can’t resist one last jab, she looks at Agatha— smirking —and says

“Bye, Agnes. ”

Then turns and waddles off like a woman who knows she’s just thrown a lit match into a gas leak.

You sit there, blinking. It takes you a full three seconds before you whip your head around to Agatha. “ Oh my god. ” You gape. “ Agnes? ”

Agatha doesn’t even flinch. She picks up her coffee with the slow, unbothered grace of someone who’s had centuries to master deadpan denial .

You stare at her like she’s grown a second head. “You went by Agnes?! That’s adorable. No— insane. I—how did I not know this?”

Agatha sighs. “It was a name. That’s all.”

“Oh no no no,” you say, leaning forward with a grin. “You don’t get to shrug this off. Agnes? What, did you wear bonnets too? Was there a rocking chair? Please tell me there was a rocking chair.”

She levels a flat look at you over the rim of her cup.

You giggle— actually giggle —then lean back, still grinning. “God,” you murmur. “You’re such a mystery. First you know everything about the Viking age, then you’re friends with Irene, now you’ve got a secret nickname—what’s next? A secret child? A cursed painting in your attic?”

Agatha scoffs, rolling her eyes—but you can see it. The tiny twitch at the corner of her lips. The smile she’s trying not to let you see.

You take a victorious final bite of your bagel, still giggling, and brush the crumbs from your fingers with a sigh. “You know, you could just admit you’re kind of fascinating. Would save me a lot of theorizing.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow, gathering what’s left of her coffee cup and standing. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You follow suit, As you step around the table, you feel it. Her hand—light but steady—pressing to the small of your back. Guiding you. You blink.

It’s casual. Thoughtless, maybe. But it sends a flicker of heat down your spine. She doesn't pull away, not right away. Just lets it rest there, warm through your jacket, as you both make your way to the door.

The bell chimes overhead as you step out into the cold.

You glance at her, trying to read her face, but Agatha’s back to her usual self—cool, composed, unreadable. Except her eyes linger on you a little longer than necessary before flicking to the road ahead.

You breathe in the crisp air, trying to calm your suddenly too fast heart. And then, quietly—playfully—you say, “Thanks for the coffee… Agnes. ”

She doesn’t stop walking. But her fingers press just a little firmer into your back.

Just enough to make your breath hitch. And that almost smile is back. “Irene’s going to regret that.”

You laugh again—light, free—and fall into step beside her, your shoulder brushing hers as you both walk

You tug your coat tighter as the two of you start down the sidewalk again, the air crisp against your cheeks.

“Sooo,” you drawl, falling into step beside her, “what should we do next?”

Agatha arches a brow, clearly about to answer, but you cut her off with a dramatic gasp, grabbing her arm and leaning in close. “Unless…” you whisper, eyes wide with mock fear, “the beast is going to eat me alive! Oh, the horror!”

You clutch her arm like a damsel in distress, then giggle.

Agatha sighs. Loudly.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You beam. “You think I’m cute.”

“I know you’re a menace.”

You loop your arm through hers anyway, grinning like the problem you are.

The two of you walk like that—side by side, quietly brushing shoulders—as you drift through town. The wind rustles through the trees, tugging at shop signs and fluttering scarves in window displays.

You stop at a little antique shop tucked between a bookstore and a bakery. Agatha pauses outside it with a look that reads almost… nostalgic? “What’s this?” you ask, peeking in through the frosted glass.

“Nothing,” she says quickly.

Which is absolutely the most suspicious response you’ve ever heard.

You drag her inside.

It’s cramped and warm, the air thick with the scent of cedarwood, old paper, and incense. You poke through stacks of strange trinkets while Agatha casually avoids everything with a cross or Latin engraving.

At one point you hold up a framed oil painting of a goat and whisper, “Does this scream ‘doomed romance’ or ‘please summon Satan in my hallway’?”

Agatha doesn’t even look up. “Both.”

You pass through a few more shops—one with mismatched tea cups that you end up buying just because Agatha mutters “typical” under her breath, and another that sells used records, where you catch her tapping her fingers to a Fleetwood Mac song and pretend not to notice how hot that is.

By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, your hands are full of a paper bag and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Agatha’s walking a little closer now. Just enough that your arms brush. She hasn’t said much in the past few minutes. As you walk, the path curves slightly—and you realize where you’re headed.

The ranger park.

The same trailhead you'd taken to get to the old cemetery. Back when you were doing “field work.” God, it already felt like a lifetime ago. But the hike had been fun. Kind of exhilarating. Even with the looming spookiness, it had felt real —tangible.

And maybe… once you figure out how to stop the beast. Once the black vein infection was handled— if it could be handled—you could go exploring again. The right way. Safely. With Agatha.

You smile a little to yourself at the thought. Her pointing out old trees and hidden paths. Maybe even a picnic.

Today had been… really fun. But the sun was dipping low now, bleeding through the trees in long streaks of gold and rose. Thanks to the season, it was only 5PM—but the shadows were stretching longer and the temperature was beginning to drop.

You glance sideways.

Agatha’s gaze has drifted away again. She’s watching the tree line, sharp and still. Throughout the day, you’d noticed the way people kept glancing at her—subtle, but present. Like they knew her. Or thought they did.

Like they weren’t sure if they were seeing a ghost or a legend. You clear your throat. “Uh… wanna stop by the ranger park?”

Agatha doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps staring into the distance. Then her eyes slide to you. “We have to get back before dark.” Her tone is even, but the warning coiled in it makes your brows furrow.

“Come on ,” you huff, nudging her arm. “Just for a bit.”

Agatha exhales through her nose. It sounds like she’s about to argue. But instead she mutters, dryly, “Okay… it’s your funeral.”

You snort. “Wow. Comforting.” She doesn’t answer. But she follows you anyway.

As you walk through the park, your eyes sweep over the people scattered along the cliffs and trails—some teens laughing too loud near the edge, a few old couples holding hands as they watch the sun sink into the horizon. The light paints everything in gold. Like a picture. Almost too perfect.

You smile and drop down onto the grass with a soft oof , setting your paper bags down beside you. The ground is cool under your hands, a little damp. You glance up.

Agatha’s still standing. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Her silhouette rimmed with sunlight like something out of a gothic novel. “Get your ass down here,” you say with a giggle, patting the ground next to you.

She gives you a long, unimpressed look. “I won’t dirty my clothes to sit in the grass with a 24 year old.”

You roll your eyes and flop backward dramatically. “I think you’re just too old and you’re afraid your knees will snap.” There's a pause. Just the wind. Some birds. The faint sound of teenagers screaming about god knows what.

And then— thump.

Agatha plops down beside you with a theatrical huff , muttering, “So stupid.” You grin wide, eyes still on the horizon.

The air smells like sea salt and cold pine. It reminds you of when you first arrived here—nervous, eager, carrying too many books and not enough answers. You had so many ambitions then. Prove something. Discover something. Become Something .

And… well. You’ve done a few of those things.

Even met Agatha.

You sneak a glance at her. She’s leaned back on her hands now, staring out at the sea with that same distant focus she always gets when she’s quiet too long. Like she’s not just watching the sun set, but remembering every time it ever has.

It makes something twist in your chest.

But before you can spiral too hard, your gaze shifts to your right—where a couple teens are currently devouring each other’s faces under a tree like it’s the end of the world.

You make a loud , exaggerated sound of disgust. “Ugh. Get a room.”

Agatha snorts. “You’re one to talk.”

You whip your head toward her, eyes wide. “ Excuse me? ”

Her lips twitch, just slightly. “You didn't seem to have many complaints when I was doing it to you”

Your jaw drops. “Oh my god. I was emotionally processing trauma and alcohol!”

“Mmhm.”

“Not the same!”

“You moaned.”

“I did not! ”

Agatha leans back further in the grass, completely unbothered. “You definitely moaned.”

You groan and cover your face with your hands. “That’s because you bit me!”

You peek through your fingers, already half laughing—until you see the look on her face. Agatha is watching you. But not with amusement.

Her gaze drifts, slow and sharp, down to your throat. To the same marks you very purposefully didn’t cover this morning. The bruise dark just beneath your jaw. The one shaped almost obscenely like her mouth.

You watch her eyes trace it. And something in her expression shifts. “Mmm,” she hums, low and unapologetic. “That I did.” Your breath catches. The way she says it— like a promise, not a memory —sends heat pooling between your legs, molten and immediate.

You open your mouth. Maybe to joke, maybe to challenge her. Maybe to say do it again . But she’s already moving.

Agatha leans in, one hand still braced behind her, the other lifting slow. Her thumb presses lightly to the hickey—right where it throbs under your skin.

Not hard. Not soft. Just enough to make your pulse stutter. You freeze. Her eyes flick up to yours, unreadable. “You’re not very good at hiding things,” she murmurs, voice low, almost lazy.

You blink, trying not to fall into whatever this is. “I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“No,” she says softly. “You weren’t.”

Her thumb stays there, and for a second, neither of you speak. Your heart is pounding. Her scent hits you with the breeze, curling around you like a spell.

You swallow hard. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

Agatha’s smile is slow, dangerous. Her thumb is still on your neck, and her eyes haven’t left yours. The sun is setting behind her like the sky’s on fire—and honestly, you might be too.

You stay like that for a moment, eyes locked, your breathing quickening. You’re not drunk this time. You feel everything. The warmth of her hand. The weight of her gaze. The electricity rising in the space between your bodies like a wire pulled too tight.

Your fingers curl gently around her wrist. Not pulling her closer. Just… touching. Your lips part—your breath catching softly in your throat—and her gaze flickers down. To your mouth. Slowly. Deliberately. And something flashes across her face—something hungry.

Your heart is thudding so loud it drowns out the wind. And then—déjà vu. It slams into you like a wave.

This moment. Her eyes. The way the air feels. You've been here. Not here here—but somewhere. With her . Like this. Like always.

You barely register the word before it slips from your lips. A whisper. “Agatha—” She exhales, just once. Like hearing her name from your mouth knocked the breath out of her.

Her hand tightens slightly around your throat—not rough, just anchoring . Like she doesn’t trust the ground to hold steady without you. “Don’t,” she says. Quiet. Frayed.

But you can’t help it. “Don’t what?”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t look at me like you remember.”

You blink.

Like you remember?

Your brows pull together, confusion swirling, but then your eyes meet hers—and like always , you feel it. That pull. That magnetic, impossible thread that’s been tugging at you since day one. Your voice is barely audible. But it’s steady. “I’ll remember… if that’s what it takes.”

You don’t even know what you’re saying. Not really. But it feels true. Like your heart knows something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

Agatha’s eyes widen—just a fraction—but it’s enough. Her breath hitches, her lips part, and you swear the air between you shifts. Thickens. Your gaze drops to her mouth. That mouth. And the hand still wrapped around her wrist?

It tugs.

Softly.

You lean in. So slow. So careful. Like if you move too fast, you’ll break whatever this moment is made of. Agatha doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Her eyes are locked on yours—open, almost vulnerable—and in that second, she looks nothing like the sharp, composed woman who teased you in bookstores and corrected your historical citations.

She looks like something older. Something aching. Something waiting. Your noses almost brush. Your lips barely a breath apart. She doesn’t kiss you. But she doesn’t stop you either. And the silence? It’s not empty. It’s loud —with everything unsaid, everything denied, everything you’re both trying not to feel.

Then—very quietly—her voice breaks through, husky and almost wrecked. “If you remember… you won’t look at me like this.” Your heart twists. And you don't know what she means. But the way she says it— You know it hurts her.

Your eyes flick up to hers, and she’s still right there , her breath ghosting against your lips. the world narrows to just this—her, you, and the heavy thrum of whatever’s pulling you together.

You can’t even hear the waves anymore. Or the teens laughing. Or the wind. Just the way Agatha looks right now. Like a goddess worn down by memory. Like a woman who’s been waiting too long to be seen. You breathe in. Soft. Steady.

And then, gently—without teasing or bravado—you murmur “Then show me who you really are.”

Her lips part. Just barely. Her eyes search yours like she’s trying to find the lie—but there isn’t one.

There’s only you. Holding her wrist. Waiting. Still here. That’s what breaks her. Her hand slides up to your jaw, slow and hesitant, like she still doesn’t believe you’ll let her.

But you do. You lean in the rest of the way, your forehead brushing hers, and then— Finally— Her mouth finds yours. Soft. Intentional. Like she’s memorizing the shape of you.

this kiss isn’t like the other night. It isn’t drunk or frantic. It’s not about impulse or hiding. It’s slow. Steady. A dance of lips and breath and restraint that trembles at the edges. Your hand slips from her wrist and rises to her shoulders, settling there as you pull her closer. She exhales against your mouth, a sound so quiet you barely catch it—but you feel it.

Agatha tilts her head, brushing her tongue gently across your bottom lip. You gasp. And that’s all the invitation she needs. She deepens the kiss—deliberate now—as her tongue slips into your mouth, tasting, teasing, claiming in a way that sends heat ripping down your spine.

Her left hand drifts to your waist, tugging you closer with slow, confident pressure. You groan into her mouth, your hands sliding up into her coat, fisting in the fabric like you can’t stand to be apart for even a second.

The kiss turns messier by the second. Controlled fire giving way to something wetter, hungrier, your tongues stroking together as her teeth catch gently on your lip and your hips shift closer without meaning to.

Your knees brush. Her thigh presses against yours.

You suck in a breath through your nose, chest rising to meet hers. That low simmering ache that’s been pulsing in your gut all day flares hot—sharp, needy —settling thick between your thighs.

Her scent floods your senses and You’re dizzy with it. Drunk on her. And still—neither of you rushes. Because this? This feels like the beginning of something neither of you have had in a very, very long time.

Her lips part just enough to let out a soft noise—low, quiet, but unmistakably a sound of pleasure.

You feel it vibrate through her mouth, through her chest, straight down to your spine. And it spurs you on.

You kiss her deeper, more urgently now, your hand sliding up the curve of her neck and threading into her hair. Agatha groans again, muffled into your mouth, and her grip on your waist tightens.

The world around you disappears. There’s no park, no cliffside, no teens probably watching this unfold like a live action forbidden romance.

Just her.

Just this.

Your hand drifts lower, then slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips skating up warm skin— smooth and real and somehow still too much and not enough. Agatha pulls back suddenly with a low, breathless chuckle, her lips pink and kiss swollen.

You chase her mouth instinctively with a needy whine, barely registering how desperate you sound. She catches your face in her hands with a smirk that should not be that devastating.

“Needy little thing,” she purrs, voice honeyed and smug. You pout up at her, panting, still trying to catch your breath. She’s not much better off.

Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rising and falling fast beneath her coat, lips slightly parted like she’s only just reining herself back in.

And then she rasps, “We’re still in public.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, shit. ”

You both glance toward the tree line and throughout the park, where it’s not clear if anyone saw anything… but someone definitely heard something.

You duck your head into her shoulder, face burning.

Agatha laughs softly, her hand rubbing a slow circle against your back. “Come on,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Let’s get home before you start dry humping me in front of the retirees.”

“ Agatha! ” you hiss, but you’re already half laughing, half melting.

You swat at her, flustered and laughing, but Agatha catches your wrist easily—her grip warm, steady.

Then she tugs you forward, and before you can blink, she leans down and presses a firm , dizzying kiss to your mouth.

Not drawn out. Not messy. Just certain. When she pulls back, you’re left there blinking, breath shallow, lips tingling, and entirely undone. She stands, brushing off her coat like she didn’t just kiss the soul out of your body.

You stay where you are for a moment—still planted in the grass, cheeks hot, lips swollen, panting softly as you look up at her like you’re trying to figure out which century you’re in.

The sun is nearly gone now, dipped fully beneath the horizon, leaving behind a wash of deep purples and fading rose.

Agatha’s silhouette cuts sharp against the sky, framed by the darkening trees. “You coming?” she asks, glancing down at you with a brow raised, voice deceptively casual—like she didn’t just press you into the earth and kiss you like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

You swallow thickly, rising slowly to your feet and brushing off your jeans, trying to compose yourself like anything about you is composed right now.

“Barely,” you mutter under your breath.

She smirks.

You and Agatha walk side by side, boots clicking softly on the cooling pavement. Every few steps, your shoulder brushes hers.

You keep glancing over—like you can’t help it. Like your body is still on fire and your brain hasn’t caught up. You don’t know if you want to hold her hand… or push her against the nearest tree and pick up where you left off.

But something starts to shift. Subtle.

The sun is nearly gone now, just faint smudges of gold at the edge of the sky. The streetlamps buzz faintly to life, casting long shadows on the brick walls and empty sidewalks.

And Agatha?

She starts glancing around more often. Not at people. Not at you. At the edges. The dark corners between shops. The stretch of woods beyond the town square. The alley behind the diner. Her eyes move with sharp calculation, scanning like she’s reading the shadows.

Her hand flexes once at her side. Then again. Tensing. You frown. “You okay?” She hums in response, but her lips are pursed, the muscle in her jaw twitching faintly. “Agatha,” you press, softer. “What is it?”

She exhales through her nose. “Nothing.” But her voice is tight. Flat. You slow a little as you walk, your heart rate picking up—not from the kiss this time. Not from her smirk or her touch.

From the look on her face. Like she’s hearing something you can’t. Like she’s waiting for it.

You’d usually spiral. You’d assume you did something wrong—that maybe the kiss was a mistake. That maybe she regretted it, that this silence meant distance.

But this time… it’s different. Because your side starts to pulse. That dull, familiar ache. Hot and sharp all at once. Your heart—finally calmed from the haze of her mouth on yours—begins to race again. Not from arousal.

From instinct. The kind that says run. The hair on the back of your neck prickles. Goosebumps rise on your arms.

Something’s wrong. You inhale sharply, your breath shuddering. “Shit—”

Your head throbs suddenly, like something’s pressing against the inside of your skull, and you let out a soft groan, stumbling a half step.

Agatha’s eyes snap to you. She’s at your side in an instant. “Hey,” she says, voice low and sharp. Her hand catches your arm, steadying you. “What’s wrong? What do you feel?”

You blink hard, vision swimming slightly. “My side. It’s—” you grit your teeth. “It’s burning again. And my head. Fuck. It’s like before—.”

Her jaw tightens. Her hand slips from your arm to hover over your ribs— not touching, just… there. As if she’s trying to feel something without revealing how. She curses under her breath—something clipped and ancient. You look up at her, breathing fast. “Is it the beast? Is it— something out here?”

Agatha doesn’t speak. But you see it in her face. The shift. The calculation. Her jaw tightens, eyes flicking toward the woods at the edge of town—narrowing, watching. Like something just moved .

Then— The wind picks up. But it’s wrong. It’s not cold—it’s wet. Heavy. Like it crawled out from underground and wrapped its fingers around your throat.

You freeze. Shadows stretch unnaturally across the pavement, pooling like liquid from places no light should cast them. Curling at the edges. Breathing.

You smell it before you see anything else.

Blood.

Rot.

Like something spoiled and deep and old. Like wet soil and iron and something dead. “Agatha,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Agatha—what the fuck is happening?” She doesn’t answer.

She’s staring at the treeline now, expression stone still—but her entire body has gone rigid. Her coat flutters in the wrong direction. Her hands curl slowly into fists. Then— A crow.

It screeches— loud , unhinged, sharp enough to slice through your eardrums—and dives from the trees above, wings slashing the air in erratic arcs. It lands hard on the road a few feet away, hopping and cawing like mad, feathers ruffled and wild, beak snapping like it’s trying to warn you.

Agatha flinches. That’s what scares you most. Because Agatha doesn’t flinch. Ever. She grabs your hand. Tight. Too tight. And that’s when you know. Something is here.

“Don’t look at it,” she says, voice low, teeth clenched. “Just walk. Now.”

“But what is it—”

“Move.”

She doesn’t wait. She drags you forward, fast and silent, her grip vice like and shaking. Behind you, the shadows pulse. The crow screams again. And the woods exhale something that smells like death.

Agatha yanks you forward, pace brutal, grip bruising.

The world around you is dimming—like the sun dropped too fast, or someone turned the saturation all the way down. The streetlamps flicker above you like they’re struggling to hold back the dark.

And then—

The growl.

Low. Guttural. Wrong.

It rumbles through the trees, the pavement, your bones. It doesn’t sound like anything with a throat—it sounds made , constructed from every nightmare that ever lived under your bed.

You gasp and stumble, twisting around toward the sound—toward the edge of the woods just past the sidewalk—and that’s when it hits.

The hallucinations.

Again.

Just like before.

Only worse.

The trees start to move. Not in the wind. They twist. Bark buckles, limbs stretching like they’re reaching for you. Roots tear through the soil and pulse like veins, snaking toward the road.

Your vision warps—edges rippling, shadows folding inward like the world is collapsing on itself.

You blink.

And Agatha’s face is changing.

Flickering.

Not disappearing—but layering.

A woman in black, her hair streaked silver, blood on her lips.

Then—

A vision of her in a 1600s gown, pale hands outstretched, voice echoing in a language you don’t understand.

Then—

A burn mark across her cheek, firelight behind her eyes.

Then—

Agatha again.

Modern. Real.

Her mouth is moving but you can't hear her anymore.

Everything’s shifting. Your side pulses hard—like something in the wound is feeding off this. Like it wants you to see this.

You stagger backward. “I—I can’t—”

Agatha’s eyes widen. “Fuck—no—no no no—” She yanks you forward so hard you nearly fall. “Don’t look at it!” But it’s too late. The woods are alive. Faces in the trees—warped, eyeless. The air hums with static. The crows scream like they’re dying.

You see a flash—yourself. But not yourself. In a dress. Crying. Screaming for someone. Agatha’s voice rips through the static. “You’re not there. You’re HERE. With me. Keep walking.”

Your breath catches. You can’t even feel your feet anymore—you’re floating, falling, burning from the inside out. Agatha grabs your face, yanks it toward hers, forcing your eyes on hers. “I know what this is. I’ve got you. You have to hold on, understand?” You nod—barely.

She pulls you again, faster. The growling follows. The hallucinations claw at the edge of your vision. The wind howls like it wants your name. And Agatha just keeps going—furious, terrified, dragging you through hell itself—because she knows what’s hunting you. And she knows what’s waking up inside you.

Branches scrape at your arms—no, fingers, they feel like fingers—and the path beneath your feet is warping, bending, laughing.

You trip again, body jerking as the ground tilts sideways, as the roots reach up like hands to grab you. Your ribs are burning— screaming. The black veins feel like they’re alive again, writhing under your skin, hungry.

“Make it stop—” you gasp, voice cracking as another wave of nausea crashes over you.

“Almost there,” Agatha spits, practically dragging you now. One of your feet barely touches the trail anymore.

You don’t even see the trail anymore. The woods have become something else. Every tree has a mouth. Every shadow whispers your name. And Agatha’s face keeps shifting —one second her eyes are glowing violet, the next she’s the woman from your visions again, then suddenly she’s skeletal, face hollowed out, her voice a thousand whispers layered on top of each other—

“No,” you whimper, shaking your head, trying to cling to the real version of her. “You’re not—you're not her—you’re not real—”

She curses under her breath— harder this time—and pulls you so forcefully you slam into her side. “Don’t look at me,” she snarls—not cruel, but desperate . “Don’t listen to it. None of it’s real. I’m real. I'm real. Stay with me. ”

You sob into her shoulder, stumbling as your vision goes white for a second. You think you see fire. A noose. A woman screaming.

Your voice screaming. The next thing you know, your knees are giving out, and Agatha scoops you up like you weigh nothing—arm under your knees, the other braced behind your back.

The smell of rot follows you. So does the growling.

Something howls deep in the woods behind you—and the crows explode from the trees, screaming, spiraling above. You don’t even register the door until she kicks it open with a grunt and slams it behind you both— hard —the sound echoing like a gunshot.

There’s a flash—something glows briefly at the corners of the door, and you hear her muttering something under her breath, in that language again.

And then… Silence. The hallucinations snap off like a switch. Your body collapses into hers, shaking, drenched in sweat, breath coming in jagged gasps. Your eyes sting. Your ribs ache. Your voice is shredded.

But the silence holds. The house is safe. You’re safe. Or at least you think.

Agatha doesn’t let go. Not yet. She just holds you there, arms still around you like she's trying to keep all your pieces from falling apart.

She doesn’t speak as she carries you to the couch. The old green one in the living room. Now it feels like the only solid thing in the world.

Agatha lowers you down gently, her hands firm but careful as if you’ll shatter if she lets go too fast. The fabric creaks beneath you. Your chest is still rising and falling too quickly, every breath like glass. Your skin damp. Your limbs shaking.

You don’t even blink. You just stare at her. Like you’re memorizing her face. Like you're making sure it’s her—this version, the real one—not the flickering images burned into your brain from the woods.

Agatha kneels in front of you. Hands moving slow, measured. She reaches for the hem of your shirt. “Can I?” You nod—barely. She begins to lift it, inch by inch, her fingertips brushing the skin just above your hips. Her touch is warm. Steady. Real.

You watch her the whole time. Eyes fixed on her face like if you look away, she might change again—morph into another nightmare.

She notices. She doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t tease. Her gaze meets yours, unblinking. “I’m real,” she says softly, fingers still at the hem of your shirt. “Right here.”

Your lip trembles, but you nod again. She keeps going, pulling the fabric higher until your ribs are exposed. And then she sees it. The veins.

Worse now. Black, branching lines like smoke under your skin, radiating from the old wound along your side.

They pulse faintly. Alive. Agatha’s jaw tightens.

You can tell she’s trying not to let her expression change. But you see it anyway—the flicker of fear. Of recognition. She places a hand lightly beside the mark, careful not to touch it directly.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s spreading.”

You swallow, throat raw. “I thought—I thought it was getting better.”

“It was. Until the thing outside started calling to it again.”

You blink, tears gathering without permission. “So I’m still—”

“You’re not lost.” Her voice is firmer now. “I’m not letting that happen.”

You study her. Every line of her face. The crease between her brows. The way her hair has slipped loose near her cheek. The little shadow of exhaustion behind her eyes she tries so hard to hide.

Everything that makes her her. Your chest still rises too fast. Your fingers tremble where they’ve curled weakly in your lap. You feel like you’re going to shake apart again—but then— Agatha leans in, one hand sliding gently to cup your cheek, her other still resting lightly by your ribs, anchoring you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s too much. But then— Warm lips press to your forehead.

You gasp quietly, eyes fluttering open. “I’m here,” she murmurs, voice barely above a breath. “It’s just me, hm?”

She takes your hands—delicate, slow—and guides them up. You don’t even resist. Just let her move you until your palms are resting on either side of her face. You stare up at her, and the panic starts to lose its grip.

Her skin is warm. Her breath brushes your face. Her eyes, blue and steady, are watching you like she’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. And maybe she is. Your chest rises—then falls.

A little slower. “That’s it…” she whispers, smiling softly as your breathing steadies. “Good girl.”

You nod slowly, the praise curling like heat in your belly—gentle, comforting, not teasing this time. Just real. A shaky smile pulls at your lips.

Your fingers curl more firmly against her cheeks. And you breathe. Finally.

Agatha watches you, something soft flickering across her features—something almost vulnerable. Like she’s proud of you. Like maybe she needed this moment too. And then—quietly, tentatively—you tug her forward.

She lets you. She leans in. And your lips meet in a small, fragile kiss. No hunger. No tension. Just a silent, sacred press of mouths that says, you’re okay.

When you part, barely, she rests her forehead against yours.

“It’s just us, pet,” she murmurs.

And in that moment?

You believe her.

Next Chapter

Taglist- @morgananyx

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marilynthornhilllover · 10 months ago

Text

I know that you love me, you don't need to remind me,

Emily. P x Jennifer. J x Fem!Reader

Warning: talk of drug consumption, reader is high, mood swings, use of guns (weed) , bad flirting, mommy kink, praise kink, teasing, cringe kiss etc .

A/n: I saw that new jennifer and emily episode where Emily was high and they were so cute! Had to make a fic😌

It was that quite long awaited time of the year where criminal agents are given two weeks off from work. You were beyond exhausted but nevertheless was very happy to finally be able to take off your FBI vest and feeling relieved that you won't have to be picking it up for another week or so.

You soon realized that you literally didn't have plans arranged for the upcoming two weeks ahead, or even tonight. Everyone was pairing up as they packed up their office stuff and headed out. Spencer and Derek laughed and gave eachother a high five as they made their way downstairs to sign out while Emily and jj were already giggling about some random joke as they continued to pack up.

You nervously decided to walk up to them standing in the corridor like a shadow making sure not to seem creepy— but maybe you were doing the opposite. Ever since you joined the team, yes you did make friends but no one ever went the extra mile to offer to hang out with you. Only Emily would now and then eat lunch with you at her desk.

Jennifer wasn't bad either, she did offer to help you with a case file once, you went over to her house which you complimented her for the cozy interior, and yes the boys were also good to you but on a employee holiday like this no one was paying any attention whatsoever to you. They already plans of their own.

You on the other hand, had none, all you were gonna do was shower, eat, sleep and repeat for the next week or so. Nothing productive, not as if you had anything to do either. Prentiss and Mantegna had insisted that someone help you with case files so its not as if you have a major cade to crack over the holiday.

You were as free as a bird and your energetic self needed something to reinforce that energy into. If you could have went on a cruise for two weeks you definitely would have.

Emily scoffed at Jennifer's joke before turning around and spotting you cuddled up in the corner like a little mouse. She tilted her head to the side before approaching you with a warm smile.

" hey hon, you got any plans for the holiday?" She asked chewing a piece of gum that she had been for the entire day — somtimes you wonder if any flavour at all is still existence in it.

" uhh nope, but I'll sure my couch has plans for me though" you said sarcastically and of course she laughed, because Emily laughs at anything and everything which you did find cute. Emily always made sure that she kept everyone at a level where they felt at their absolute best when around her.

She was never mean to anyone really. Always funny, ambitious, smart and talented she was everything. Sometimes her aura was just too high, but she was always still approachable and not prideful.

Emily was like one of those drugs that you couldn't stop using because it feels too good, and when you do take it, it altars with your entire brain function and chemistry.

And speaking of chemistry, that was something you and Emily had alot of. Everytime her eyes made contact with yours, you felt as if your body was thrown into the deepest pits of hell. You'd get shivers everytime she passed you or called you a pet name. You'd go completely weak in your knees when she made the littlest amount of psychical contact with your skin — it was absolutely ridiculous just how easily she could get under your skin.

Or the time when you were making coffee in the kitchen and she needed to grab something from the top shelf and she moved you by putting her hands on your hips, with her chest pressed so closely against your back with face by your neck.

Emily made you question things. You knew you always had a thing for older women, always, since highschool and it never seemed to go away. And Emily was exactly your type, you just weren't sure if she felt the same way in return and you didn't wanna ruin the amazing friendship you both had by letting your stupid emotions and hormones get the best of yourself.

" well I'm sure you'll find something to entertain yourself, JJ and I are hooking up at her place tonight for snacks and a movie" she placed hands on her hips are she turned to look at jj who was texting away on her phone before turning back to you. You gaved her a akward smile, before a breathy nervous laugh escaped your mouth.

" hooking up huh" you saw as her eye brows quirked before a sly smile came into evidence on her face and quickly glanced at Jennifer who was now angrily texting before taking a step closer towards you, closing the the last gap space that was there. Her body heat and perfume over took your senses making your breath hitch.

You pressed your palm against her chest sneaking a quick glance at jj and the camera above. Emily was looking at you with a teasing smirk, she leaned down besides your ear and whispered.

" do wanna hook up with me as well?" She pulled back to see the reaction on your face and just as she imagined it was absolutely priceless. She chuckled before pulling away completely.

" oh my God emily would you leave poor y/n alone, let's go already" Jennifer said with a tint of exhaustion and annoyance her voice. Emily chuckled before gently caressing your cheek. The both women waved you goodbye before departing and going their way.

You sighed before picking up your bag and leaving, you locked your office door and went home. You did decided to walk with a few case files home and evidence objects to keep yourself busy during the holiday to stop yourself from going insane from the intense boredom you were prone to have.

— — — —

Emily and Jennifer had just sat down and were about to enjoy their late afternoon with wine and salt and vinegar chips when a continuation of loud knocking could be heard on jj's front door. Both women looked at eachother with utter confusion on their faces — the weren't expecting anyone. Jennifer decided to get up and go check the door, Emily following closely behind with her hand placed tightly on her gun.

The door bell soon started ringing along with the knocks which triggered Jennifer even more. Unlocking the door Jennifer threw it open, not caring what stood on the opposite side of it, after all emily was ready to protect her best friend at all cost, even if it meant shooting someone in their foor.

" if I had my way I swear I would—" as soon as she saw you she stopped talking, her eye brows quirked as she squinted her eyes to make a better appearance of your face in the dim moon light. Emily let out a soft sigh when she saw you but quickly went back into a state of worry at the same time.

Now you had both women wondering what you were doing at their house.

" y/n? I didn't know you were coming over, did Emily invite you?" Jennifer turned around hoping to get a confirmation nod from Emily but she shook her head and pursed her lips, letting her know she was just as confused as her.

" Well aren't you guys a bit rude, aren't you gonna invite me in?" You muttered but before they could react you let yourself in. You carefully walked down the long fancy corridor switching off some lights on your way because they made your eyes burn, making your way to the living room area, having knowing your way around jj's house since the last two times you were there.

You stumbled over the coffee table and landed right onto the sofa, face first with a soft groan. You dropped the ziplock bag of cheese puffs you had brought onto the floor.

She walked up to you and you and sat beside you on the couch, she picked you up by both your forearms and made you look at her.

Both women side eyed eachother, both in desperate need to know what on God's green earth was going on. Jennifer leaned against the wall to further scrutinize you. Emily on the other hand was just worried how you got here on your own with no car or phone.

" hey y/n sweetie are you..... drunk?" Her voice sounded like when water got into a phone speaker and you tried to play a song— you couldn't understand it. You rubbed your eyes and glanced at the table to which your face instantly lit up when you saw the salt and vinegar lays chips.

You grabbed them ferociously then took out some chopsticks you had stuffed in the back pocket of your jeans and started eating the chips. At this point both women were flabbergasted, mouths open, jaws dropped. Jennifer took a deep breath before she turned around and went to her fridge to grab you a drink to help you sober up because it was crystal clear that you were beyond drunk, drunk was an understatement.

" what time is it?" You suddenly asked putting the chips down and dusting off your hands.

" time for some hydration, here you go" Jennifer said as she passed you a bottle of cold cranberry juice. Once again your face lit up like a child on Christmas day.

" ohhhh, it's got what plants crave!" You exclaimed. The look on Jennifer's face when you said that was priceless as Emily silently continued to look at you with a completely blanket stare.

You placed the bottle of juice at the side of your head as if it was an ice pack and burped. You cleared your throat before speaking up again.

" have you guys seen that movie! Idiot city!.... wait city Idiot... wait... yeah" it's like your body was replaced with a child's and this called for huge concern. Emily sighed heavily and took the bottle from your hand.

" Idiocracy?" Jennifer whispered and you nodded.

" I knew I liked you! Ohhh, I and on my way here I saw a cat jumping off your house roof then it turned into a dog and flew away as a mosquito" you said before the loudest laugh took you over that you almost started crying.

Emily whispered " oh good lord" before she shook her head, Jennifer was still completely and totally lost for words. Jennifer had a feeling that being drunk would not cause someone to behave like this— well of course she knew, she's a profiler. She had a feeling you were high, but she didn't want you to act out and she would need proof for Emily because knowing her she wouldn't believe for a minute you would do drugs.

" umm y/n what's in the bag?" Jennifer asked and your eyebrows quirked, you placed your finger at you ear urging her to repeat even though she was so damn close to you.

" What's in the bag" she repeated as she dragged her words this time. You shrugged.

" I don't know what time the supermarket closes" emily stood up and walked towards to kitchen to grab her phone, you had the agent stressed. Jennifer just took it upon herself to grab the bag of " cheese puffs" before she walked towards emily.

" look I know you may not believe but I have a pretty good feeling that, that girl right there is literally the profound definition of what we call high" emily scoffed.

" Oh come on, she probably had too much wine I mean weren't we just about to drink wine as well?" She restated trying to convince Jennifer, but honestly to this rate she just couldn't, Jennifer was already convinced from her own opinion.

" emily elizabeth prentiss which wine do you know makes someone this drunk?" Jennifer asked, emphasizing on the last two words of her sentence. Emily shrugged before looking back at you, who was now sniffing the air every two seconds like a curious dog. Jennifer rolled her eyes before opening the bag of cheese puffs and taking a sniff.

She gaged before pulling away quickly.

" this smells like straight up weed!" She swiftly turned to let Emily have a sniff, to which Emily pulled away as well. Jennifer closed the bag and turned it around where there was writing in black. " DO NOT OPEN, CONTAINS CASE 101 EVIDENCE".

" you ate the case evidence! Oh my god!" Jennifer looked like she was going to erupt like a volcano and her high pitched tone of voice was making your head hurt and ears ring.

" I was hungry, and I didn't know that they were edibles" you whispered as you squinted your eyes since it was getting harder to see. Jennifer looked at you in disbelief as she turned to Emily for back up. Before Emily could utter a word Jennifer was already furious.

" Emily, don't even! She basically ate the entire bag!" She shouted. She saided pacing the room with her fingers gently massaging her temple to calm her.

" what are we gonna tell hotch, or even worst David" Jennifer covered her face with her both her hands before leaning over the kitchen counter.

" Well I mean, she probably just ate the backup stash, it should be fine, we should really be worrying about is her health" emily muttered scratching her head. Jennifer looked up at emily as her jaw dropped.

" your defending her?!" Emily raised her hands in defense but before she could reply Jennifer took the chance.

" I seriously cannot believe you right now!" Jennifer once again, started pacing the room, this time even more quicker.

" Oh come on jj, what are the odds that people make silly mistakes like these?" Jennifer stopped, and looked at emily with wide eyes.

" Well with the odds as high as her I'd say zero!" She said angrily before picking up her phone.

Emily sighed before looking over at you who was now eating the chips and gnawing your teeth wildly making crumbs fall all over the place. In a way Emily felt bad for you, mostly pity because she knew what you did was down right stupid but Jennifer was being a tadbit too harsh on you in your current position — knowing you couldn't properly comprehend the situation or what was going on.

" ok I'll take her home and we can speak to the team about this tomorrow when y/n is a better state of mind, ok?" Emily said in a reassuring voice. Jennifer sighed in frustration before biting her lip and nodding approvingly.

Emily carefully picked you up off the couch and wrapped her arm around your waist as she insisted to take you home safely. Her body warmth was comforting and her perfume was like a lullaby putting you to sleep this time. You melted in her embrace as she took you outside.

Your vision was blurred and the cold air on your skin — although you had a jacket on, was making you shiver. Seeing this emily hugged you tighter. She opened the door to her wagon and assisted you into the passenger seat and putting on your seat belt for you. You looked at her, she looked like one of those ancient paintings,the ones you can't withdraw your eyes from, the Renaissance ones.

You weren't sure if maybe it was the drugs or the hormones that came after taking the drugs but you felt the need to kiss emily, your eyes flicked down to her lips that were slightly parted as she concentrated on getting the seatbelt to adjust to your liking. Her smooth skin and wrinkled lines that ran across her forehead and eye line area, her little cute eye bags from all the hard work she does.

You couldn't resist the urge, she was a drug, she was your drug. You licked your lips and leaned in. Your lips connected with hers in a slow soft kiss. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to enjoy the moment. Emily didn't pull away, she was surprised yes, but she didn't pull away. Emily couldn't cover up the feeling she felt for you but she also didn't want to take advantage of your drunken state.

Taking it that she was enjoying it as much as you, you tried to force your tongue into her mouth but that's when she pulled away. Your brows furrowed and for a moment the drugs may have returned your common sense and you realized what you did — what you were trying to do. And soon the embarrassment and cringe settled in.

" sorry, oh God I'm so stupid!" You whispered as you fought back tears, you covered your face with both hands and started sobbing. Emily sprinted around to the drivers seat to comfort you. She gently peeled your hands away from your face, holding your palms in hers she caressed them with her knuckles softly. You sniffed and shook your head in denial before looking out the window.

" hey, sweetheart look at me please" her voice was as soft as an angel and so gentle as if you were something valuable that could be broken, that's something you loved about emily, she was so comforting in all circumstances, no matter what. She placed her hand under your jaw and turned you to look at her. She stared at you with her cute Bambi eyes so filled of love, and she so badly wanted to say " I love you" but she knew you wouldn't be able to comprehend them.

" look y/n, i wanna— kiss you back but I can't. That doesn't mean I don't want to, I just want you to be able to give me your full sober concent." She spoke as slowly and clearly as possible so you won't misinterpret anything.

" and your not stupid, we all make mistakes my love. Once I accidentally— well I got drunk the morning of my Law exams and failed them, and that did set me at a disadvantage for my career but I still made it into this job" she continued to rub your knuckles and wip every tear that fell from your eyes.

" and this joke takes y/n, but it also gives.... it gave—" she took a deep breath before exhaling heavily. " it gave me you." Hearing these words made your heart flutter souly. Your little smile came across your face which emily mirrored.

" now, my sweet girl, my I take you home?" She spoke in a old French accent waving her hand a fancy motion, You both laughed until you were out of air. after the laughter died down She chuckled and placed a hand on your thigh squeezing the tender flesh which made your breath hitch.

The drive home was long but certainly not quiet at all, you and Emily blasted high 2000s music all the way until she arrived at your home. You knew there was gonna be alot to discuss the next day but you should be fine once you have emily by your side.

#law and order svu #criminal minds #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #fypシ゚viral #fanfic #love #tw drugs #smut fanfiction #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #billie eilish #slow burn #kisses

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r04dk1llx2 · 1 year ago

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Begging For It *ੈ✩‧₊˚

This came to me suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, so enjoy it.

Pairing: Clapton Davis x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: You get to peg Clapton Davis. That’s it. That’s the story.

Tags: GN!reader (use of ‘mommy’ is the only gendered term), Dom!reader, Sub!Clapton, pegging, strap-on penetration, anal, nipple clamps, vibrating cock ring, whiny Clapton (as usual), premature ejaculation (he’s touch starved and horny be nice to him), praise, degradation, overstimulation, thigh-highs, very brief choking, average early 2000s teenager room setup, don’t talk about the fact that Ayesha didn’t produce music in that timeframe…

The harsh moonlight from your open window shines along his skin, illuminating the thin sheen of sweat covering his toned body. You were balls deep in Clapton Davis, the schools resident jackass.

“f-fuuuuck—! don’t stop-!” Your room is entirely filled with his moans, even drowning out the sound of the Ayesha Erotica track that he had playing on your speaker. Clapton was never one to be quiet.. being in bed with him was no different.

You thrust slowly, holding his hips as he groans into the fuzzy pink pillow beneath him. He looked entirely fucked out, his hair messy and stuck to his forehead, his necklaces tangled and his shirt pulled up to expose his chest, not to mention the black thigh highs you convinced him to wear for you. You gently pull at his hair, forcing him to look back at you.

He’s already drooling, long eyelashes fluttering as he looks back at you with a dumb grin, the chain connecting the nipple clamps you had put on him earlier jingling each time you push into him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, pretty boy?” You purr, his hole clenching around you as soon as he hears that nickname. He nods frantically, lips parted slightly as he lets out a sharp whimper.

You pick up the pace, causing him to loose balance as you slam into him. He’s panting, a total mess beneath you as you bring your hand to hold his head down against the bed, your other hand reaching down to pump his painfully hard cock.

He yelps, hips bucking into your fist as soon as you make contact with his length. His thighs tense, his muscles showing under those sheer black thigh highs.

“Ghh—! m-mommy—!” He sobs, babbling incoherently, completely dumbed down by your dick. He whines loudly, eyes rolling back as you slam into his prostate.

It only takes a few more thrusts against his sweet spot for him to moan, his dick twitching hard in your hand before immediately shooting a load out against his stomach, coating your zebra print sheets in the process. He was never one to last long, got himself too excited and worked up.

He cries out, panting hard as you continue to move, only slowing down enough for him to catch his breath. He’s insatiable.

“Already cumming so soon, baby?”

“M’sorry—“ He pants, still rocking his hips back against you. “Please- keep going— need it-“

You nod, slipping your cock out as you turn him onto his back. He looks.. embarrassed, completely flushed, but turned on.

“Good boy… think you can cum again for me? Make your mommy proud?”

He nods pathetically, his hips rolling against the air, desperate for contact again. You grin down at him, reaching down to grab the chain connecting his clamps, tugging at it, watching his expression contort in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“Fucking whore. Of course you’d be more than happy to cum again.” You spit, snapping the elastic of his thigh highs against his skin. He lets out a choked sob, tears pricking in his eyes from the overstimulation. “Stay there.”

You briefly get up, rummaging around the bedside drawer before pulling out a bright pink ring. You hold it up, waving it teasingly infront of his face as you climb back ontop of him, kneeling between his thighs.

“You know what this is, don’t you, baby?” You hum, watching his pupils dilate.

“u-uhm… a cock ring..?” Clapton stammers, nervously biting his lip. His cock twitches from the thought of you using it on him alone.

“Mhm.. that’s right. This one vibrates, it’s gonna keep you nice and hard while I fuck you.” You murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his thigh, slowly slipping the cock ring onto his hardening dick. He whimpers, cock twitching at the sensation, a small bead of precum already forming at his slit.

“God, you’re such a slut…” You scoff, grabbing the bottle of lube that had been set aside on the end of the bed, pumping a generous amount on your hand before stroking yourself. Once you’re fully coated and lubed up, you guide his hips up and press back against his ass, feeling it immediately take you in.

He groans once you slide back in, knowing you hadn’t turned on the vibrating function to his cock ring just yet. His gaze meets yours, full of lust and a twinge of anticipation in those big puppy eyes.

“Mommy…?”

“F-fuck- what? you want that turned on already? are you that desperate to cum again?” You grunt, slowly pumping in and out of him, sweat already forming on your brow. He nods, looking a little embarrassed.

You sigh, a small smirk escaping your lips before you press the side button of the ring, feeling it vibrate to life. Clapton whines, hips bucking again as you hold his thighs, thrusting harder. He already looked close.

With how loud he is, you can barely register the music that’s still filling your bedroom, as if you could even think of anything aside from Clapton at this point. He looks so pretty… lips soft and puffy from earlier, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, a deep blush covering his freckled cheeks.

“Fuck me harder- p-please-! feels s’good—“

He’s begging again, how cute. You oblige, ramming deeper and deeper into his ass, the bright pink of the dildo connected to your strap-on sliding in and out of his pretty little hole, how he managed to take this much up the ass? No clue, but you weren’t one to judge.

After a few moments of listening to him babble incoherently, you turn up the vibrations on his cock ring, causing him to sob out in pleasure. His cock looked pathetic, all red and overstimulated, but still rock hard and leaking everywhere. As if he didn’t already leak all over this bed, you’ve got to wash those sheets later..

You reach down to grab his throat, applying just enough pressure to make him see stars as you fuck him, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. You feel his legs wrap around your torso, the sensation of his thigh highs rubbing against your sides as he pulls you in closer.

“Cmon, Clapton… cum for me, be a good boy and cum” You pant, leaning in to kiss him, darting your tongue out to wet his painfully chapped lips. He almost instantly complies, parting his lips so you could deepen the kiss, letting your tongues dance as you thrust harder and harder into him.

He whimpers and moans into your mouth, stifling himself as he wraps his arms around your shoulders. You hear his voice go up an octave, and his legs begin to tremble, his nails digging into your back as you feel a sudden sensation shoot up against your stomach.

You pull back, a string of saliva connecting your lips as you hear him panting heavily under you, his eyes shut a his mouth still slightly open.

“Good boy… Such a good boy..” You whisper, peppering soft kisses along his jaw, slowly moving down to his shoulders. You let the ring continue to vibrate, but pull yourself out slowly, eliciting a high pitched whine from the pretty boy underneath you.

“mmhh- fuck— t-thank you, mommy—“ He breathes out, slowly opening his eyes, a mess of sweat and tears covering his soft skin. You wipe his cheeks, smiling softly down at him.

“mm-hmm.. of course, baby, I love yo—“

Knock. Knock.

“Y/N?? Did Clapton come over? You know we don’t want your friends over this late at night!”

Suddenly, a knock on your bedroom door, accompanied by the voice of.. who you could only assume was your parents, of course it was your parents, you haven’t moved out yet. You stare down at Clapton, his eyes were wide, and frankly, so were yours. You can barely make out the words over the mix of music and the vibrating of Claptons cock ring..

“oh fuck-“

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dazedandconfused-15 · 10 months ago

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Heaven's in your eyes (Part 3)

If you guys like it, I would greatly appreciate a reblog, it helps spread this fanfic around🫶

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Female Reader

Summary: Life in Hawkins is dull and lonely, especially after your mom abandoned your family, leaving you even more isolated amidst school rumors. Already shy and with few friends, you find solace in your solitude—until Billy Hargrove, the intriguing new boy from California, comes into the picture. To your surprise, Billy seems to seek you out, finding ways to talk to you despite the odds. Never in a million years would you have imagined forming such an unexpected bond with someone.

Link to: Part 1, Part 2 and Part 4

@tatumrileyslover @littlenosoul @nocturnest Part 3 is here!!

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You weren't sure how things would go with Billy after that night. Technically, you still owe him for the day at the museum, There are parts of Hawkins he hadn’t seen yet. Plus, you hadn’t talked about when or if you’d see each other again outside of school. So, it's a surprise when the following week, as you're grabbing books from your locker, you feel a presence behind you—the warmth of someone's body lightly brushing against your back. You look up and see a hand resting on your locker. Turning around, you met his curious and slightly amused eyes.

"Oh! Hey, you scared me…”

"I saw that," he replies. "Am I that ugly?"

You stay still, feeling the cold metal of the locker against your back, aware that some students are probably watching you. But Billy doesn't seem bothered by this; if anything, he seems indifferent. He's wearing the same black leather jacket he lent you the other night, over a partially unbuttoned black shirt. He knows he’s not ugly, and you know he’s teasing you. But his closeness throws you off, and you can’t find the words to play along. You stumble over a nonsensical and incomplete sentence. Meanwhile, he takes the books from your hands and moves his hand away from the locker, finally giving you space, and it feels like you can breathe again.

"Physics?" he asks, looking at the first book on the pile in his hands.

"Uh, yeah." You turn to close your locker, taking the opportunity to pull yourself together. "It's my first class, actually."

"Sweet. I'll walk you there."

"Oh, okay. Thanks." You struggle to hide your astonishment as you walk toward the classroom with him beside you.

And during the following days, he does the same. He makes it seem so natural that it slowly becomes routine for you. In history class, he sits next to you. During lunch break, you sit at the table at the back of the cafeteria. He always sits at a table next to Jason Carver, Chrissy Cunningham, and other popular jocks, but between bites of food, he always gives you a look. Eventually, at the end of the meal, he always gets up from their table and comes over to sit beside you. In history class, he always sits next to you. Strangely, Tommy Hagan makes no comment. After the first few times, the rest of the class seems to get used to it.

When the history teacher assigns the paired presentation on "The Role of Propaganda in World War II," the teacher lets you choose your partner. Billy and you are already sitting next to each other, so it’s automatic that you’ll work together. Part of you doubt he would choose to work with you if he wasn’t sitting next to you, but you decide not to think about it too much. You don’t mind the idea of working with him on the project. He offers to work on it at his place the following Saturday, as his dad and stepmom are in California for family matters.

It takes you twenty minutes to reach Cherry Lane. Billy’s house is about halfway there. His navy blue Camaro is parked out front, and as you approach, you see him on the opposite side of the car, rubbing a sponge against the back window. It’s warmer than usual, and he’s wearing a white tank top with basketball shorts. He notices you approaching and greets you with a nod, a cigarette clutched between his lips.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you greet back. You see a young red-haired girl walking past Billy. She has a skateboard under her arm, baggy jeans, and a short-sleeved T-shirt. She sees you, momentarily startled, and slows down, her blue eyes scanning you with detachment. Billy walks in the open garage, leaving you alone with her. You greet her with a hesitant wave of your hand, introducing yourself.

“I’m Max,” she replies. She must be Billy’s stepsister. He mentioned her a couple of times.

“Did you bring the books?” Billy returns with a bucket of water, setting it down beside the car.

You lift your linen shoulder bag slightly, indicating that your books are in there.

You feel Max’s eyes on you. Her blue eyes soften slightly, and she seems to recognize something. “You’re the girl who called last week, right?”

"Yes, that's me," you nod with a small smile.

Max nods in acknowledgment, silently. She then sets the skater down on the ground. “You’re the first one who comes over to actually study.”

An embarrassed smile breaks out on your face at her innuendo and you look away, feeling your cheeks heat up. The image of Billy with a girl while...no, you can't think about it.

“Piss off, Max,” Billy grumbles around his cigarette as he squeezes the sponge over the bucket, then jostles it twice to get rid of the water before scrubbing the windshield.

Max rolls her eyes, but steps on her skateboard. She gives you a small smile. “See you.”

“Bye, Max.” you watch her skate away along the road.

“And don’t go too far,” Billy calls over the roof of the Camaro.

For a moment you get lost watching how the muscles of his back move under the tank top as he rubs the side of the car sponge.

“Almost done.” he calls over his shoulder.

“You’re taking good care of it.” you observe as you approach the car, your hands tucked into your back pockets.

“You bet your sweet life I do. This baby cost me a good amount of money.”

“When did you buy it?” you lean against the tree near the uneven stone steps leading up to the entrance of his house.

Billy takes the cigarette from between his lips, puffing some smoke into the air. “I was sixteen. Worked at a garage near my house for a couple of years before that. The owner found her after being on the hunt for months. She had roughly 10,000 miles on her already and was a little banged up. So, I had to use my savings and kept working there for a few months to pay for the repairs.”

He puts the cigarette back between his lips and pours the bucket of water over the car, washing off the soap. Then he takes a few steps backward until he’s next to you as he takes in the newly washed car.

“Not bad, huh?”

“She’s really pretty.” you confirm with a nod.

You've never been particularly enthused with cars, but you must admit that Billy's Camaro stands out in Hawkins. Moreover, the care he takes of it only enhances its shiny navy blue colour.

“Just like you.”

You turn toward him, caught by surprise by his comment. As you do, he’s just taking the cigarette from his mouth after another drag, his eyes revealing a faint warmth that’s hard to perceive, blurred by the seemingly bored look his long lashes give him. But you see it. Even if for a second, you see it. The smoke curls lazily around him.

He luckily saves you from any clumsy answer, jerking his chin toward the house. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

You hum while nodding in obligement, walking toward the house so he can avoid your flustered expression. Billy follows closely behind you, resting his hand on the back of your neck as you walk up the stone steps. He’s been doing that quite a few times. It’s nothing crazy, not an open hug or anything, but to you, his touch makes your heart glow and fills you with a comforting warmth. The house has a front screened porch, where two plants in a pot rest on the floor. You spot a grey rocking chair on the right side.

“I like it.” you say. You wish you had a porch.

“Yeah, sometimes Max sits over there to read.”

It’s a simple house, you notice, with modest furnishings. You both walk into Billy’s room, and you take in your surroundings. It’s a simple room. Apart from his bed, a few pieces of furniture, a mirror, and a wardrobe, there are things distinctly him that give the room character and warmth. Hanging on the wall are posters of bands like Metallica and Mötley Crüe. You also notice a stereo with two speakers. On the fireplace, there are some books.

“You brought it with you?” you ask with a smile, pointing to a yellow surfboard fading to green, leaning against the wall.

Billy sits on the bed, leaning his back against the wall. “Yes. It was out of the question for me to leave it in Cali.” with a wave of his hand, he invites you to come and sit next to him.

You sit gingerly on the bed, books on your lap as he pops a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and offers you one. You take it, thanking him. Sitting so close, the warmth of his body seems to transfer directly from his thigh to yours.

“Are you gonna go back?” you ask, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. You pull your pencil case and a notepad out of your bag.

Billy snorts. “Hell yeah. I’m not staying here.”

It shouldn’t, but his statement stings a little. At the end of the school year, he will leave. After all, it was a foregone conclusion. There’s nothing to keep him here; his home is in California. He never told you specifically why he moved here. You had asked, jokingly, if his parents wanted "a change of air," and he had replied, ‘Something like that,’ without adding any explanation. So you had not pressed the issue any further. You learned that about certain things, Billy did not feel like talking. He clams up even more. If he wants to, you decide, he will open up to you.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Might work during the summer to save some money, though.”

“There’s a garage downtown.” you offer, remembering what he said earlier.

“I was thinking more about the pool. Heard they pay very well.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. Heather works there during summers,” he says, grabbing the history book from his bedside table and putting it on his lap.

“Heather Holloway?”’ you ask, your finger lingering along the edge of your notepad.

There is only one Heather at school. Billy must be talking about her. She’s a pretty girl who comes from a good family. Her dad owns the Hawkins Post. She’s got it all.

“Yeah, you know her?”

“Oh, not directly. But yes, I know her. Her dad is pretty respected in town.” you bite your lip, fighting the urge to ask how he knows her. Are they friends? Did he date her? Is he still dating her?

You conclude it's none of your business, and thinking about it makes you feel weird. So you change the subject, finally opening the book and proposing to start working on the project. In between, you see Max walking past his room from the open door, her skateboard under her arm. After an hour of working, Billy stretches and a yawn escapes you. He lights a cigarette, inspiring a long puff of smoke, and titls his head up, looking at the ceiling. When he exhales, he also seems to sigh with relief. You realize how much smoking seems to be a way for him to relax, a need.

“When did you start smoking?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Then immediately rush on adding “If you don’t mind me asking”.

“Must’ve been fourteen.” he says, “A friend of mine, Wayne, had been smoking for a year or so. Tried from his cig’ once, never went a day without smoking from there.”

You hum pensively.

Billy lolls his head to the side, a lazy smile plastered on his face. “You must think I’m fucking up my health, huh?”

“No, no.” you shake your head. Then you reconsider. “I mean…yes,” at which Billy starts laughing, a low gravelly laugh. “But, I know it must be hard to stop too, once you start. I can’t know, I’ve never tried.”

A second later, his cigarette appears in front of your eyes. He arches an eyebrow at you, looking at you expectantly.

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Ah, come on. It’s not like you’re gonna get addicted after one drag. Live a little.” he gently nudges your thigh with his.

You look at the cigarette with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. You've always wanted to try it, not because you want to start smoking, but just to confirm if it tastes bad so you can put the thought to rest.

“Okay. Just once, though.” you gingerly take the cigarette from between his fingers, holding it awkwardly and feeling as if it might fall off any second. You bring it to your lips, feeling his eyes on you.

“Take it slow.”

It’s easier said than done. As soon as you breathe in the smoke, the end of the cigarette burning bright orange wildly, your lungs get filled with an unbearably burning sensation. You feel on fire. You can’t breathe. You start coughing non-repeatedly, your vision going blurred.

Billy laughs again, taking the cigarette from your fingers as you try to fill your lungs with air. “Jesus, I said to take it slow.”

Your face turns red from the effort, and your eyes water. You can't help but glare at him briefly as tears escape, your nose scrunching in disgust. He reaches out with his other hand, cups the side of your face, and gently brushes your tears away with his thumb.

“Breathe, now,” he says between chuckles.

“I don’t like it. It’s gross.”

You say it both because you mean it and because it keeps you grounded under his touch. When he settles back against the wall, your heart keeps hammering against your ribcage.

"You're cute," he says before taking a drag, as if he's talking about the weather, and it only makes your flush an impossibly darker shade of red.

After he finishes his cigarette, Billy asks if you're hungry. You both head into the kitchen, and you sit at the table while he makes tuna sandwiches. He tells you it was the first thing he learned to make for himself when he was younger, back when his father used to work late before marrying Max's mother. He had to fend for himself. Over time, he learned to cook more dishes, especially when his father and stepmother were away for the weekend or running errands. A few years ago, he started weightlifting, which motivated him to learn even more about cooking. Despite all that, he still enjoys tuna sandwiches. Billy puts the sandwiches in the toaster and serves them to you on plates. As you take a bite, the taste of pickles and mayonnaise gives it an extra kick. It's delicious.

“Hey, can you make me one too?” Max emerges from the hallway, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

Billy looks up from the cutting board he’s chopping pickles on as he makes his own sandwich, scowling at her. “Make it yourself.”

“Come on, you know I’m not good at this.”

“Well, you better learn how to make it. It’s a fucking tuna sandwich, not rocket science.”

Max sighs, almost exasperated. "Fine, you stubborn ass. I’ll make it myself, but don’t cry to me when your precious pickles are all gone."

Billy looks up, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Hey! Language," he chides, pointing the knife in her direction, as if he hadn't sworn himself just a moment ago. He then gestures toward the empty chair beside you. "And sit down, if you want me to do it.”

Max quietly sits down next to you, a cheeky smile plastered on her face. Billy mutters under his breath, resuming chopping down the pickles.

“With loads of mayo, please.”

You’ve never seen Billy in a step-brother role before, and the dynamic between them is intriguing. You're suddenly curious about their relationship and how it has evolved since they first met.

“You’re lucky I’m even making this for you,” he grumbles, spreading the mayo generously on the bread.

“This is really good.” you say, pointing at your sandwich.

“Yeah, Billy’s tuna sandwiches are rad.” Maxine approves. Then she shrugs. “He's an asshole, but if there's one thing he's good at, it's cooking.”

“Woah, thanks Maxine.” he ironically says. “Really portraying me well here.”

You chuckle softly under your breath as Max ignores him, carrying on. “Can I go to Family Video later? I need to give back the movies.”

“Later when?” he asks as he assembles her sandwich. “We gotta work on the school project.”

“Like, in an hour?”

“You’ll have to wait ‘till I drop her home.”

Max huffs. “C’mon, Billy. I can skate there, it’s mid afternoon.”

“Ain’t no way I’m letting you go there on your own. It’s on my ass that Neil will be then.”

“I’ll be back before they’re home!” she tries again. “And I’ll bring back some good stuff.”

You watch as Billy sighs heavily, walking in silence over to the table and setting Max’s dish in front of her. Then he points his finger at her, looking at her hard. “I’m warning you. If you’re not back here by four we’re gonna have a serious problem.”

Max mutters something along the lines of “Yeah, jeez, okay” as Billy walks back toward the counter.

He shoots a mildly warning look over his shoulder, his eyes glinting sharply. “And you better bring back some good stuff this time.”

Max gasps in outragement. “It wasn’t that bad!”

“It was crap.”

Max turns toward you. “Have you watched Children of the Corn?”

“I don’t think I have.” you say. “What’s it about?”

“It’s a horror movie.”

“Oh. I don’t really watch horror movies.” you smile sheepishly. “Too scary, I can’t sleep for months then. I’m more into comedies or romances.”

“Those aren’t bad once in a while.” Max agrees. “We mostly watch horrors, but sometimes we happen to watch romances too.”

“You watch rom-coms,” Billy stresses out, as he adds the tuna-mayonnaise mix to his toast.

“Please. How many times did you stay on the couch until the end?

“That’s because the NBA played later at night.”

Max arches an eyebrow in disbelief. “Oh, really? And what about all those times you pretended to get a snack from the fridge, and I caught you hanging around in the hallway, peeking at the screen?"

“Are you eating or not?” Billy cuts her, “Tic tac, shitbird. You better hurry to the videostore before I change my mind.”

It’s hard for you to hold your laugh. You look down at your plate at your half-eaten sandwich, hearing him approaching with his plate.

Max huffs loudly, standing and grabbing her plate. “Whatever. See you.”

She waves at you before disappearing in the hallway.

“See you, Max.”

Billy sits down beside you with a sigh, taking the spot where Max was just sitting. He immediately starts eating his sandwich, and you notice he eats much faster than you. You try not to let your eyes linger on his biceps as he leans forward to take another big bite, crumbs falling onto his plate. You repeat to him that his sandwich is really good, mentioning that when you make it at home, it’s usually dry and tasteless. You just don’t know how to combine the right things, and it gets boring.

“She seems to care about you a lot,” you observe as you both finish eating, referring to Max.

Billy rubs the back of his neck, a sigh leaving his lips. Then he leans back on the chair. “Yeah. Things weren’t, ah…things are better now.”

“You didn’t get along at first?” you tentatively ask.

“Yeah, not really. Moving together was tough. But I was a dick back then.”

“You?”

You can kind of see it, but the person he’s shown to you is the opposite of what he’s describing.

“Believe me, sweetheart.” he shakes his head, a rueful smirk on his face. "I'm no saint now, but you're lucky we didn't meet when I was younger.”

“I’m sure you didn’t have it easy.” you offer.

“Well, Max didn’t either. Her dad doesn’t give a crap about her, her mom only dated assholes before my old man. Then she meets him, thinks she hit the jackpot, turns out he can compete against all of the previous ones together. They really found each other.”

“Is she bad?”

Billy shrugs. “Nah, just weak. And Neil has his way easy with weak people. He found the right woman to mold between his hands like he wants to.”

You listen to him attentively, your hand supporting your head as you rest your elbow on the table, facing him. Neil must be his dad. There’s always some distance, and coldness in the way he speaks about him. He never once referred to him as his dad.

“It must’ve been hard for her…” you recognize. “Especially being that young.”

Billy stands, grabbing the three dishes as he grimaces. “Yeah, I was so wrapped up in my own anger that I completely overlooked that,” he says as he drops them in the sink, and then starts washing them. You stand up and bring him the two empty glasses. “Just didn’t want any of that crap. Moving in with these people I’ve barely seen a couple of times and act like a happy little family. Fuck that.”

“Then the move…” you supply.

"Then the move. Blamed her for all of it. Especially for the move, when in reality the whole thing was my fault. But yeah."

Your eyes fall on his hand, noticing the harsh way he’s scrubbing the glasses with the sponge. You wonder what happened. What caused the move? What could Billy have done? You don’t want to press on it further, realizing how you could easily touch a sensitive nerve.

“Well, you seem to take good care of her. And I see how she looks at you.”

You could swear for a moment he's caught off guard, almost uncomfortable. Then he sniffs, drying his hands with a towel, his eyes wandering outside the kitchen window. "Yeah, trying to make up for all of it. It’s best to stick together in this crazy house."

There is something about all of this that puts you on edge, makes your skin prickle. Something unsettling is happening in this family. There are subtle but numerous hints you pick up on in your interactions with Billy. It's a month later that you uncover the ugly truth.

------------------------------------------------------------

A couple of weeks later May finally arrives, bringing longer days and warmer weather. You can already breathe in the summer air. The trailer park seems a little less gloomy now, with trees in bloom and green grass. In the evening, you hear crickets singing from the open hayloft in the kitchen or your room. On clear, sunny weekends, you and Billy go to Lovers Lake. It's not warm enough to swim yet, but you lie on the shore or on one of the deserted docks. You often do your homework or read while Billy smokes a cigarette or dozes. Your relationship has progressed; you feel much more comfortable around him. Though you don't know each other completely yet, you've gone out enough times to welcome the occasional silence, which no longer frightens you. Slowly, you feel yourself shedding layers of your shell. You think you can consider yourselves friends.

You were supposed to hang out that morning. He was meant to come over to study at your place before heading to Lovers Lake as planned. However, today, the familiar rumble of the Camaro doesn't show up. After a few hours of hesitation, you try calling his house. A man answers, presumably Billy's dad, and informs you that Billy is not home. The rest of the day passes in anxious waiting, but Billy never arrives. You try to push away thoughts of the worst-case scenario, but as the hours drag on, those fears keep creeping back. By Sunday, still no word from him. Billy has always been the opposite of what you expected—he never ignored you at school, never stood you up. Yet now, your fear seems to be materializing. Perhaps he's grown tired of you and found more captivating company. You wonder what you could possibly offer him. You're not as interesting or outgoing as his basketball team friends, nor do you provide the same entertainment as the high school girls he's dated, or might still be dating. Perhaps he's realized that after delving beneath the surface, there's nothing particularly captivating about you.

At dinner, your dad notices something is bothering you and asks what's wrong. You barely touch your plate, feeling like an amoeba. But he's dead tired from his factory shift, and you don't want to burden him with your worries, so you lie and tell him that you're not feeling well. Later, he rises from the sofa, gives you a kiss on the head, and advises you not to stay up too late before retiring to his room. Despite the sound of the TV in the background, you feel lonelier than ever, and the resignation settling over you is almost worse than the whirlwind of emotions you've experienced all day. Hours pass, and you start to doze off curled up on the sofa, the movie you started barely catching your attention. Then, you're jolted awake by the roar of a familiar engine outside the trailer. It's as if a shot of adrenaline has pierced through your lethargy. You sit up abruptly, heart racing, straining your ears to confirm what you've heard. The noise ceases, prompting you to hurry to the door, moving slowly to avoid disturbing your sleeping dad. Your heart skips a beat when, through the window, you spot Billy's familiar silhouette in the dim light cast by the bulb outside.

When you open the door, Billy seems momentarily surprised to see you. As if he didn't expect you to open it so promptly. But then that expression is washed away by his usual smirk.

“You sure were waiting for me, huh?”

You stifle a gasp of horror at the sight of his bruised and battered face, instinctively bringing your hands to your mouth to muffle any sound that might wake your father. To say he's in a bad state would be an understatement.

"Oh my God, Billy."

Closing the front door softly behind you, you step out into the night air, standing in front of him, your concern palpable.

"Good to see you too," he jokes, but his playful expression fades as he realizes his attempt to lighten the mood isn't working.

"Oh God..."

You draw closer, taking in his state. There’s an angry bruise around his left eye, dark purple and almost black, with hints of red and blue around the edges, swollen and puffy. Traces of dried blood linger around his nostrils, and his nose is swollen, the bridge as purple as the area under his eye.

"It's fine," he says.

"Sorry... can I just..." setting aside your shyness, you gently take his face in your hands, tilting his head slightly backward. You won’t fail to notice his small wince as you do so. His lip is cut and swollen. "Does it hurt a lot?"

“Nah. It’s okay.”

"What happened?" you ask softly as you brush his chin with your thumb, almost afraid of causing him further pain.

Billy doesn't seem concerned at all, contrasting with your likely alarmed expression. He looks almost unfazed, the corners of his eyes crinkling into his usual amused expression.

"Got into a fight with a guy. He was just drunk, and I was there."

You frown in confusion. "Were you... at a bar or something?"

"Yeah, I uh...at the pub downtown. Just happened to cross paths with him. He thought I was looking at his girl or something."

"A major dick," you mutter under your breath, your eyes still scanning his cut. It looks deep, like the blood struggled to stop flowing. There's still some dried blood on his chin.

Billy chuckles, then after a moment, he speaks quietly, "Yeah, a major dick. Got him good, though."

“You didn’t clean it. It’s going to get infected, I’ll quickly get…”

“S’fine, really.” while exhaling a sigh through his nose, his hand encircles your wrists, prying yours gently away.

You lower your gaze to his hands to examine the damage there. But that’s when you notice it. His knuckles are completely fine. There isn’t a single cut on them.

“Billy…” you hold his hands, then look at him.

He seems to pick up on what you’re thinking because he pulls his hands away, scratching his nose with his knuckles, acting as nonchalant as ever. You notice how his hands seem to twitch, like he’s got this nervousness he can’t shake off. As if he’s itching for something. Itching for a smoke.

“I’m gonna clean it when I get home. Wanna go to the quarry? I’ve got some sweets Max forgot in the car earlier,” he suggests, nodding towards the Camaro parked behind him at the beginning of the trailer park. It's likely he didn’t want to wake anyone, especially your dad, given how late it is.

“But…”

“Sweetheart. Please,” he cuts you off. You freeze in place at the harsher tone of his last word. Billy sighs, running a hand through his curls. “M’sorry. Can we just not talk about it?” he looks tired, but not physically tired—mentally tired. You can sense the exhaustion in his gaze, a silent plea underlying his question.

A twist forms in your stomach as the reality sinks in. It confirms that something very wrong, something dark, is happening in his life. You begin to reflect on how you might have overlooked the signs. You feel the urge to ask him if the person causing him harm is who you suspect. You want to help him. But you push down those thoughts and emotions.

“Okay. Okay, of course,” you softly say. “Can I just go and grab the first-aid kit before we leave? Please.”

Billy clenches his jaw and looks away. You can see how hard this must be for him, and the last thing you want is for him to feel like he can't be vulnerable around you.

“All right.” he finally says.

After quietly retrieving the first aid kit, you get into the car with Billy. You’re not too worried about your father waking up since he sleeps like a rock, and it’s a Friday night after all. The car ride to the quarry is unusually silent. You try to break the ice by asking Billy how the basketball game went a few days ago or how Max liked the movie you recommended the last time you saw her. However, Billy responds with noncommittal short answers, clearly not fully present in the moment. Something must be weighing heavily on his mind. Sensing his mood, you decide to fill the silence by sharing what you’ve been up to lately. You mention that your father's co-worker, Wayne Munson, who lives in the trailer right across the street, came over for coffee the other day. Wayne has a son who’s a year or two older than you. You’ve never really talked to him, as he tends to keep to himself, but he seems nice enough. Now that the weather is warmer, you often see him sitting on the porch of his trailer, either smoking or reading a book. He always greets you when you walk by or take out the trash. You know he struggled in school, having flunked twice in his senior year, but he graduated last year and now works as a mechanic downtown. Talking about the mechanic job seems to catch Billy’s interest. You remind him of the conversation you had a while back when he mentioned wanting to work as a mechanic during the summer. Billy starts to loosen up and tells you that he plans to stop by the car shop in the next few days.

On this warm night, the air is balmy and filled with the earthy scent of blooming wildflowers and fresh foliage. As he has a couple of times before, Billy parks the car near the edge of the quarry, just where the thick line of trees begins. Gravel crunches softly under the tires, the only sound of the quiet evening.

The towering trees cast shadows blurred in the moonlight, their leaves rustling softly in the warm breeze. Before he can say anything, you open the first-aid kit on your lap and gently shush him when he objects. As you gently clean the dried blood around his nostrils and the cut on his lip with an antiseptic wipe, Billy winces slightly but doesn’t pull away. You then apply a bit of the antibiotic ointment to the wounds to prevent infection. Finally, you use a gauze pad to gently dab at the bruised areas, careful not to press too hard. Throughout the process, Billy remains mostly silent, his eyes closed, occasionally taking a deep breath. The temperature feels good outside, so once you’re finished you both get out of the car. Billy rounds the car and sits on the ground with a wince, resting his back against the side of the car. So you do the same. You stand in front of the quarry. Under the pale light of the crescent moon, the quarry walls loom like ancient sentinels, their rough surfaces casting long, mysterious shadows. The water at the bottom of the quarry is a dark, mirror-like expanse, reflecting the twinkling stars above.

"Here," Billy says, holding up some green candy canes along with a pack of cigarettes. It looks different from his usual pack of Marlboro Reds, but you don’t think much of it initially.

"What flavor is it?" you ask, taking one of the candies from the packet.

"Must be sour apple."

As you begin to chew, the taste of apple indeed invades your taste buds. From the corner of your eye, you see Billy pull a cigarette out of the pack, then hear him swear.

"Shit." Billy curses. "That's a candy. Didn’t even notice it."

You see the candy cigarette between Billy's fingers and an amused chuckle escapes your lips.

"Don't worry, it's an easy mistake. Guess even tough guys can mix up their vices sometimes."

That makes him snort a quiet laugh, and even if it’s without a real smile and it’s short-lived, you managed to make him laugh a bit.

Billy leans his head against the metal of the Camaro, his hand holding the lighter dropping to his thigh. "They must be in the car."

He must be referring to his cigarettes. You remain silent for a few seconds, contemplating whether to offer to go get them for him. You look at his tired profile: eyes closed, head resting against the car, throat exposed, Adam's apple slightly prominent. Looking at his bruised face makes your stomach twist with concern, your heart sinking. At least his wounds are clean now. You feel the urge to reach out and brush aside the curl that falls over his eye. But you don’t. Instead, your gaze shifts to the quarry.

“You’ve been really smoking a lot, Billy.”

Your words slip out quietly, as if afraid of disrupting the fragile balance of the evening. You’ve observed Billy smoking ever since you met him. Lately, though, you’ve noticed how his fingers are more often occupied by a cigarette than free of it. You’ve seen his nervous fidgeting in class—how he jitters his knee, taps the rubber end of his pencil on the desk, scratches his stubble with his knuckles, and frequently shifts position in his chair. And now, whenever you’re together, he’s pulling one out from his pack at least once.

Billy opens his eyes slightly, glancing at you. He sighs and looks away, his expression hardening a bit. "Yeah, well, it helps," he says gruffly, but there's a hint of something softer in his voice. "Don't worry about it. I'll cut back... someday."

He sees the probably worried look on your face. He’s so young, and he smokes already this much. You don’t even realize how you’re worrying at your lip.

“I’ll try and slow down, alright?”

You nod hesitantly as he offers you a cigarette candy that you take.

“Just ‘cause you can't stand the smell of smoke.” he teases you, his eyes sleepy and slightly amused.

“What? I…that wasn’t…” you stutter, feeling embarrassed he caught you. “That’s not why I think you should stop! It’s for your health…”

“But it bothers you too,” a grin forms on his face as he reaches out, and before you can stop you he pinches right above your knee, making you jump and squeal in surprise. He’s learned how ticklish he makes you, and he’s never stopped teasing you with it ever since. l “I know you do.”

“Stop! Stop it!”

“You alway scrunch up your nose like it’s the most disgusting thing in the world.”

“Stop it, okay!” you try to free your leg with a high-pitched laugh as he tries to pinch you again. “You’re right, I hate it! Hands off, now.”

You push his hand away as he finally relents, trying to catch your breath. Billy shakes his head in amusement. He tugs at his candy stick with his teeth.

“Knew it,” he says.

You simply take another candy from his hands, avoiding his gaze as he chews on his. You’re hyper-aware of how flushed you are now, embarrassed that he noticed. You didn't want him to realize that his smoking bothered you.

“I haven’t even realized I do that…” you then say, breaking through the quiet.

“It’s kinda cute.”

His comment makes your heart race and your face flush even more. You glance down, fiddling with the wrapper of the candy in your hand. “Thanks”, you mumble softly, barely audible.

“You sure as hell would make a good nurse.” he mumbles then, shifting his position, wincing a bit and you notice how he brushes his hand over his left side. “All caring and everything. You took care of my wounds pretty well.”

If it wasn’t for what he just said, you would ask him if he got hurt there as well. You try to mask your embarrassment with a casual shrug. "I don't think I'd like being a nurse," you say, managing to keep your voice steady. "Too much pressure and responsibility."

Billy nods, taking your words in stride. "Fair enough," he says. "Then what would you like to be?”

You let out a soft sigh, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the question. "I don't know," you admit, staring down at your hands. "It's hard to figure out."

"Tell you what, it’s pretty simple," Billy says. "What do you like?”

You lift your eyes from your hands, a bit surprised by his question. “What do you mean?”

Billy pops another candy in his mouth. “See, I like cars and I’m pretty good at working on them. So, I know I’m gonna be a mechanic.” he lazily gestures at himself, then at you. “What do you like?”

You ponder his question for a moment, thinking about the things that bring you joy. "I like to take pictures," you say finally. "Especially portraits of people. Capturing their expressions, their emotions... it feels special."

"Then you should be a photographer," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You smile at his straightforwardness, feeling a warmth spread through you. "Maybe," you say, considering the possibility.

Billy leans his head back against the car. "You know, the guy I was working for in San Diego once told me something," he says. "He said that at the end of the day, it's simple. You need to find something you like and you're really good at, then make it your job. That's how you'll make it in life."

His words resonate with you, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. "That makes sense," you say softly.

Photography has always been your favorite hobby. Until recent dramatic events, you used to do it a lot. You have a lot of pictures in the drawer of your desk. Billy tells you he wants you to show them to him sometime. He also says it’s a shame you stopped and that you should start doing it again. You haven’t spoken specifically about your mom leaving yet. You’ve noticed he’s very sensitive about it, careful not to push your boundaries. He’s never asked questions. However, tonight he simply tells you that if photography makes you happy, it’s important to not give up on it, as passions have a way of pulling us through hard times. You realize how Billy has a way of making things simpler, of helping you see what's important. And in that moment, you feel a deep sense of gratitude for his presence in your life.

You stay at the quarry until two am, and it’s when you start yawning repeatedly that Billy says it’s time to go. Sitting in the car, despite the warm weather, feels good as the night has gotten chilly. You feel sleepy, but nonetheless, you continue to think about the current situation. You don’t want Billy to go home, there’s something that makes you feel on the edge, you want to talk about it with him so bad but don’t even know how to approach the subject. Despite that, sleep starts to take over you, but once halfway through the ride to the trailer park, a brownish silhouette crosses the road in front of you.

“The fuck.” Billy floors both the clutch and the brakes, and you’re thankful for having your seatbelt on. Your body slams forward and back again, and you hit your head against the headrest for the impact.

A deer, froze into place a few seconds before, rushes toward the the other side of the road, running wildly and disappearing through the trees.

“Ouch.”

Billy heaves a loud sigh. “God…frickin’ stupid forest.”

Your heartbeats slow down as you recover from the surprise, your hand feeling the back of your head.

“Yeah, we have lots of them here,” you mumble.

“Jesus.” he looks then at you. “You alright?”

His hand comes up, touching yours so you drop it. He gently rests it on the back of your head where it still throbs. It’s warm and big. He literally could crush you if he wanted to. But his touch is soft.

“It’s fine.” you squeak, the sudden touch making you burn.

“Hurts a lot?” he mutters’, his thumb petting the skin at the nape of your neck.

“A little bit. It’s gonna pass.”

“Alright.” he relents after a few seconds, then pushes on the gas again.

The remainder of the car journey passes in silence. Billy stops exactly where he had stopped before, the headlights briefly illuminating the 'Forest Hills' panel before he switches off the engine. Darkness envelops you, blending with the night's silence and the quiet of the car. You're not quite sure what to say. You're uncertain how to bid him farewell. Truth be told, you have no desire to say goodbye to him. The last thing you want is to let him go, sensing that he will likely return to danger as soon as you step into the house.

"I'm sorry," he says, breaking through the quiet.

You turn toward him, confusion and surprise evident in your expression. "For what?"

"For standing you up."

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not though.” you can see him shake his head from the corner of your eye. “That was a dick move. Could’ve at least called you.”

Turning your whole body towards him, you lean against the passenger seat. Now that a couple of hours have passed, his eye is swollen and darker.

"Billy, it's okay. Really. I know you..." you hesitate, then look down at your hands, feeling the weight of his gaze on you. You try to find the right words, careful not to touch the subject again, especially not to delve into details. "I know you weren't at the pub earlier."

At these words, Billy turns his head and looks away, towards the window. Sensing his discomfort, you hurriedly continue speaking. "And that's alright. I don't need you to explain yourself to me. I get it. I just want you to know that I know.

Tentatively, you extend your hand towards his, resting on the shift gear. Holding your breath, you anticipate a possible rejection.

“And I understand."

Billy doesn't shoo you away but remains as still as a statue, his elbow resting against the window, his knuckles against his mouth. Your heart tightens as you imagine the pain hidden beneath the shield he wears, the horrors he must have endured so far. Just as you begin to release the pressure on his hand, preparing to withdraw, Billy sighs and turns his hand palm up, slipping his fingers between yours and squeezing. His touch is warm, sending an electric signal throughout your body, causing your heart to leap. Reassured by his welcoming touch, your thumb caresses the back of his hand.

“I know we haven’t known each other for long,” you say softly, careful not to disrupt the fragile connection between you. “But I care about you. And I’m here for you. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Billy rests his head against the headrest, his eyes closed. He squeezes your hand. “Thanks, sweetheart.” his voice is low and gravelly, as quiet as yours.

You stay like this for a moment, perhaps him relishing in the weight lifted by your confession, and you in his acceptance of your attempt to bridge the gap between you.

“I should go now.” you whisper, glancing at the house, though that’s the last thing you want to do.

Billy releases his hand from your grip and then reaches for his pack of cigarettes in the center console, his gaze avoiding. “Yeah, it’s late.”

“Will you be okay?” you ask him.

“Yeah, don’t sweat it.”

Even as you look at him, Billy avoids making eye contact with you. He takes a cigarette, lighting it up, the flame piercing through the darkness and briefly illuminating his bruised face. It's as if he's peeled back one layer too many for his liking. You understand this, though it leaves you feeling distant from him. You miss the warmth he usually radiates. Quietly accepting the situation, you purse your lips and reach for the door handle.

You glance back at him, failing to lock eyes with him as he exhales the smoke whilst tilting his head back. “Try to rest. And…uhm, call me if you need it. Please.”

Billy merely nods. “Yeah. Night.”

As you walk toward your house, the chilly night air envelops you, and you try to shake off the feeling of helplessness and emptiness that grips you. You're still trying to wrap your head around it, to accept the extent of his condition. It's kind of a shock.

As you hear his car door slam, you turn back to him.

"Did you forget something?" you ask, keeping your voice low as he approaches, the cigarette dangling between his fingers.

You don't understand his actions as he draws closer and closer, and for a second your body tenses, until he reaches out and pulls you toward him. It’s only when you’re pressed against his body that you realize he has his arms wrapped around you. Speechless, you allow your arms to encircle his neck, his face nuzzling into your neck, his breath mingling with your hair. You can sense the weight of unspoken words in the fierceness of his embrace, his forearms pressing against your back. Standing on your tiptoes to meet him, you ease the strain as he's slightly bent over you due to his height. But it doesn’t last long, so you simply allow yourself to be engulfed by his tall figure. You hope he can't feel how fast your heart is pounding against your chest, but at the same time, you find yourself not caring. Relief washes over you as the distance he had put between you earlier dissipates into the night air. And it feels good. You could easily get used to all of this. The butterflies in your stomach, the profound happiness as he’s everywhere, around you, against you. You realize that you could stay like this forever, and the thought scares you.

After what feels like an eternity, yet somehow not enough, he finally pulls away. Your hair is tangled with his, and with a gentle touch, he first separates his from yours. Then, with the same hand, he carefully sweeps your hair behind one of your shoulders. With his other arm releasing you, he taps the cigarette with his finger to release the ashes. His eyes carry a sleepy gaze, and this time you're certain they're sleepy in every sense of the word. Nonetheless, they bore into yours with the same overwhelming intensity.

“You sleep tight, okay?”

You nod a couple of times, still speechless and unable to function by his proximity.

As you watch his retreating form and assured stride, you feel your heartstrings pulling more strongly towards him with each step he takes, as if he's carrying your heart with him.

#billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x oc #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove x you #stranger things smut #dacryphilia #slow burn #stranger things fic #billy hargove x reader #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove fluff #eddie munson #80s #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove x female reader #billy stranger things

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xcherryerim · 10 months ago

Text

˖⁺ ⊹୨ Love Across Time ୧⊹ ⁺˖

Assistant Josh x (gn) Teacher reader

There's so much trauma in my life. I've been so cold to the ones who loved me, baby. — Out of Time by The weeknd

SMUT ONE SHOT | MDNI | +18

Backstory: Josh, a time traveler and savior of the world, has found himself stuck in the early 2000s and has become a teacher's assistant. Despite his best efforts to keep his distance from you, the teacher he is assisting, Josh finds himself irresistibly drawn to you. leading Josh on a journey of self-discovery and romance as he tries to navigate this new timeline.

The classroom was filled with the sound of students chattering. The hum of conversation and your voice fills the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of papers and the shuffling of chairs. A faint scent of coffee and ink permeates the room, mingling with the soft glow of fluorescent lights overhead.

You were In front of the board, carefully going over the lecture, trying not to leave any detail behind. Next to you, there was your assistant, Josh, seated on the desk.

As usual, he paid attention to the lesson as if he was one of the students. He bit into the base of his pen, eyes scanning the board and its content, eventually landing in your hands. Admiring the softness and delicate moves they made.

Consumed by his pent-up desires, Josh's mind drifted, painting vivid scenarios where your skilled hands explored his body, tracing the contours and caressing every inch he craved.

Is not that Josh didn’t have game, on the contrary, multiple staff members and students flirted with him from time to time, but he fully decided to be celibate.

Did he hate it? Of course, years, or to better say, centuries ago, he was a sex god in ‘Heven’, and now he is forcing himself to not have any type of intercourse. He didn’t want to get attached to someone.

It would be hard to explain the traumas and adventures he gained from saving the world with Wolf and Tiger. He didn’t even attempt to make friends, he was too scared to slip up things from the future to a person living in the year 2002. He was way too fearful of the repercussions. What if he ends up in those TV shows about crazy people, or even worse, a mental institute?

So, he found comfort in spacing out, imagining a retro (to himself at least) suburbian life with you, never daring to get too close.

He shifted his head, the motion accompanied by a deep groan, the weight of his unfulfilled desires bearing down on him. An innocent student's gaze caught him off guard, snapping him out of his reverie, a reminder that the world continued without regard for his internal struggles.

‘Did he notice? Did he… read my mind? Well, that’s embarrassing.’ He thought.

With an awkward cough, Josh stood straight and adjusted his gray polo, trying to remain calm. His eyes drifted to the white clock on the wall and gave you the subtle signal that it was time to end the class.

“Alright class please remember, this is our last lesson. The final is tomorrow, so I beg each of you to study so you can pass the class.”

At your final announcement, you turned your head to the side, seeing Josh’s cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink as some of your students approached him with gifts. Some students handed him letters, and gift bags, while others brought food and candy.

The assistant mumbled his thanks, feeling a mixture of gratitude and self-consciousness as he accepted each gift. His body language was noticeably reserved, with his shoulders hunched and eyes darting around the room as if wishing to disappear into the background. Despite his shyness, he managed a small smile for each student who approached him, clearly touched by the gesture.

As the last student handed over a small gift and bid farewell, you found yourself walking up to your assistant. Your eyes lingered on the array of gift bags, specifically the soft pink one with a bow. A bitter taste filled your mouth as you tried to mask the annoyance you felt.

"Looks like you're quite popular," you quipped, forcing a smile.

“Oh no. They were just being nice.” Josh's index finger tapped into the bag you had your eyes on, filling in the awkward silence as he bit his lip.

Josh wanted to say more, but he couldn't find the words. His dirty mind conjured up fantasies of what he could do to you, right there in the classroom, but he quickly dismissed them. He was just an assistant, after all. Yet, he couldn't stop his eyes from trailing up and down your body, taking in every curve and every inch.

“Well.” You said, “Let’s go to my office.” With that, you cleaned the board, before gathering your things and walked right next to your assistant.

Once you entered your office, he shut the door behind you, the sound echoing in his ears. He couldn't help but notice how the room felt like a shrine dedicated to you. Pictures, certificates, and awards decorated the walls while your desk was clean and organized.

Seated across from you, fidgeting in his chair, the tension in the room clear. A wicked grin spread across his face as he imagined sliding his hands up your thighs, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath the material of your underwear. The thought made his pulse race, and he couldn't help but shift in his seat to adjust himself discreetly.

Professional decorum clashed with the urge to act on his fantasies, but for now, he managed to keep up the ruse. He began grading the papers, nodding to himself as he read through the work.

Ever since the work party he was forced to go to, things have been awkward between you both. That night was the most he ever spoke to you, his drunk self slipping stuff he probably shouldn't have said, but he was lucky enough that both of you were out of your minds that night.

So out of your minds that, you almost kissed before Josh pulled away. Yes, it was bad, and he felt like an asshole, but it was for the better, and you knew that too. However, Josh still holds onto the thought you might like him back, and he's happy with that.

Your gaze lingered on the bags of gifts, trying to guess what they had inside. His eyes followed yours, smirking before you spoke.

“What’s in the bag anyways?”

"Oh, just the usual," he replied nonchalantly, reaching for the pink ribboned bag.

He pulled out a small box, the sweet aroma of strawberries and chocolate wafting through the air. "Strawberries," he began, lifting the lid to reveal the fruit coated in chocolate.

“At that point whoever gave you that should just confess to you already.”

You knew how your comment came across as that wasn’t your intention but who gives a gift like that to an assistant? No one unless they have ulterior motives.

Your snicker and roll of your eyes piqued his interest, and when you suggested that the students could just confess to him, he couldn't help but feel flushed with excitement. Your reactions hinted at something more than just the silent professional interest agreed upon, and he couldn't help but hope that you were feeling something akin to his desires. That this was meant to be, that maybe, just maybe, he will get his happy ending after all.

Josh's confidence soared as he plucked a strawberry from the box, savoring its sweetness, and allowing the chocolate to melt on his tongue. He relished the moment, exaggerating his sounds of pleasure, intentionally teasing you with the sensual display.

As his lips wrapped around the fruit, you couldn't help but feel a surge of heat spreading through your body, your ears reddening with each tantalizing moan. The way he held your gaze, a mischievous glint in his shiny brown eyes, only served to grow your desire.

Leaning closer to your desk, Josh held another strawberry out to you, beckoning you with a grin, "C'mon, you deserve it.”

You hesitated for a moment, shaking your head, the lingering resentment and unease preventing you from accepting the strawberry.

Josh, undeterred, approached you, his steps confident as he took a position directly in front of you. One arm rested casually on your desk, while the other extended the strawberry tantalizingly close to your lips.

His proximity left you feeling uneasy, a mixture of nerves and arousal warring within you. As he offered you the fruit once more, he repeated his invitation, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Enjoy the fruits of your labor," he whispered, his voice a seductive caress.

Your body trembled under the weight of his gaze, the challenge he laid before you clear as day.

"Josh..." You mumbled under your breath, your gaze meeting his, and you could see the hunger in his eyes. It mirrored your internal turmoil, the pull towards him growing stronger by the second.

Your indecision was evident, and Josh could sense your struggle. “C’mon,” Josh smirked, drawing even closer, the chocolate-coated fruit dancing on your lips. "Be good and take it for me."

You swallowed hard, a wave of nerves washing over you, before opening your mouth obediently to accept the offering. You nibbled at the strawberry, trying to eat it slowly and maintain your composure, avoiding direct eye contact.

However, Josh was having none of that. He grasped your chin firmly, tilting it upwards, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"That's it." He encouraged the satisfaction in his voice. His eyes lingered on you, committing the scene to memory, as the evidence of his arousal strained against his pants.

With bated breath, you slowly withdrew your lips from the strawberry, the lingering taste of sweet fruit coating your tongue. A pang of jealousy flared within you, knowing that this delight was originally meant for Josh.

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, both of you unsure of how to proceed. In Josh's mind, he wrestled with the turmoil of his desires, the allure of crossing this boundary he made for himself proving too powerful to resist.

Closing the gap between you, he pressed his lips to yours, the kiss gentle, sweet, and innocent. As your lips parted, you could taste the remnants of the strawberry and chocolate within, a sensory delight that left you breathless.

Josh's hand cradled the side of your face, his touch both comforting and arousing. Simultaneously, he unzipped his pants, his arousal apparent and urgent. The realization of his intentions sent a shiver down your spine.

Just as you began to contemplate what would come next, Josh nipped at your bottom lip, causing a startled, wanton moan to escape your lips. His mouth trailed along your jawline, sending shivers rippling through your body like wildfire.

With trembling hands, you pushed Josh away, your voice wavering as you stammered, "Josh, this is wrong."

His expression blank, he tilted his head, clearly surprised by your refusal. "Because...", you hesitated, exhaling deeply, "we're coworkers and you're my assistant."

Undeterred, Josh leaned even closer, resting his hand on the desk. His doe-eyed gaze bore into you, pleading and disarming.

"I understand that, but...", he began, "there's only a one-year age difference between us. You started teaching here two… or three years ago, and I joined the training program a little over a year ago. It's not a significant gap."

His intensity increased as he brought his face nearer to yours, his hand tracing the collar of your shirt. His gaze flickered between your neck and your lips, laden with a potent mixture of desire and determination.

"And I really want this."

As if reading your indecision, Josh offered a tempting proposition, "You know, since your students think I was so helpful and even gave me gifts... don't you think I also deserve a gift from the teacher?"

Feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin, you were unable to ignore the raw appeal of his pleading gaze. A crippling combination of logic and desire, acknowledging that you were both consenting adults, threatened to break down your defenses.

Despite the fear and accelerating adrenaline coursing through your veins, you found yourself nodding, giving the green light. With unwavering resolve, Josh seized the moment, his lips seeking out the vulnerable expanse of your neck, nibbling hungrily.

As his hands deftly unbuttoned your blouse, you held tightly to the armrests of your chair, feeling the faint sting of the impending. You allowed him to indulge in his desires, silently acknowledging that he had harbored these feelings for quite some time by the way he was acting.

Lost in the spell of Josh's nearness, you were only vaguely aware of the commotion as papers and pens met the floor, the sound eclipsed by the tempest of emotions coursing through you.

Josh's movements, purposeful yet controlled, lifted you gently, depositing you on the desktop with a tenderness that matched the fervor in his eyes.

He stepped back, the hunger in his gaze unapologetic, as if you were the rarest gem in existence, a treasure coveted above all others.

“You are so beautiful.” He breathed out.

Licking his lips nervously, Josh closed the gap between you, his kiss tracing the curve of your shoulder as his hand continued to explore your body. Moving downward, his lips trailed along your chest, and ribcage, and finally reached to your thighs.

Meeting your gaze with a smug, self-satisfied smirk, Josh murmured, "You know... you deserve a good treat too."

His hand trembled as it snaked its way to your waistband, hesitating for a brief moment before liberating you from the confines of your garment. All that remained now was your underwear, a thin barrier between you and the intense desire simmering between you.

A pulse of anxiety shot through your veins. Was this right? The thought of having your hot assistant intimately nestled between your thighs seemed both appealing and alarming.

“You don’t—“

Before you could voice your uncertainty, Josh preempted your concern. "I want to," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

"I want to so... so badly," he confessed, his lips dampening the fabric of your undergarments, betraying his eagerness.

You felt the vibrations of Josh's soft chuckle reverberate against your skin through the thin, damp fabric, causing your back to arch involuntarily.

“Stay still, alright?" he ordered, gripping your hips firmly. His teeth nipped at the edge of your underwear, sliding it down your legs with ease.

The overwhelming combination of pleasure and nerves left your body trembling, an involuntary reaction to the intensity of the situation.

Letting go of you, Josh moved to one of the desk cabinets, retrieving a ruler. He lifted the object, bringing it to eye-level with you.

"Told you not to move. Let's try that again, okay?" His commanding tone, paired with the unconventional implement, caught you off guard.

What had once been a modest, shy coworker now stood before you transformed into an irresistible embodiment of sexual desire. Your mind reeled at the sudden transformation, struggling to process how this turn of events came to pass.

"Okay... sorry," you stammered, your voice betrayed by the turbulent mix of excitement and nervousness.

Josh's reassuring words washed over you, "Shhh, it's okay." His lips found their way to the warm expanse between your thighs, trailing soft, wet kisses. The tender intimacy of his actions sent shivers coursing through your body.

Anxiety crept into his voice as he hesitated, "I—," his confession hung heavy in the air. "I haven't done this in decades... I mean years!" He cursed himself under his breath, eyes meeting yours with pleading vulnerability.

"Sorry if I'm not as good as you'll want me to be," he apologized sheepishly before resuming his exploration, his mouth filled with the taste of you.

Arching your back, you reveled in the pleasure of his skilled ministrations. Winding your fingers in his damp hair, you gently tugged, and a moan escaped his lips. Encouraged by his response, you pulled harder, grinning wickedly.

"Mmh, yes, please! Fuck. Pull my fucking hair, please."

The sound of footsteps in the corridor startled you, a surge of panic sending shivers down your spine. Frantic, you forced Josh's head further between your legs, the urgent need for silence overriding any other considerations.

"Shhh, shh!" you hissed, glancing towards the door, pleading for divine intervention to conceal your transgression.

Josh's focus, however, was entirely on the task at hand. His muffled words were swallowed by a fervent desire to savor the taste of you. A trail of saliva clung to his chin, a testament to his relentless enthusiasm. His mouth, lips, and tongue worshiped you with the desperation of a man starved for affection.

His whimpering, praises, and wet, slurping sounds filled the room, each moment amplifying the crescendo of pleasure. The realization of his prolonged abstinence did little to quell the heat emanating from your core.

On the brink of ecstasy, your legs trembled with the strain of resisting the imminent climax.

"J...Josh?" you called out, gently tugging his hair to draw his attention away from his task. His face, glistening with perspiration and droplets of saliva, met your gaze, his eyes gleaming with an intensity borne from devotion.

At that moment, you found yourself smitten by his earnestness. "Can we try something different?" you asked, unable to resist the curiosity kindling in your psyche.

A smirk spread across Josh's face, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he nodded in affirmation.

Positioning you, he laid your back against the wooden surface of the desk, your fingers fidgeting nervously as you watched him hastily attempt to remove his pants. The task proved more arduous than anticipated, eliciting a small chuckle from you.

Josh's breath hitched, "You're so hot, fuck," he muttered, his hand stroking himself as his lips pressed a searing kiss to your entrance.

Teasing you mercilessly, he moved his hips, the tip of his erection teasing your slick opening. You whimpered in frustration.

"Stop being a tease," you demanded, annoyed and embarrassed by his playful torment.

"You're right, sorry," he admitted, flushing a deep shade of red. "I've, I—" He groaned, cursing under his breath. "Fuck."

Josh's gaze held yours, sincerity etched into his features. "I like you. I don't think I ever liked someone like this before. You're so hot and smart, I love your voice, how you explain stuff to me without making me feel like an idiot and your humor." His smile was tender, genuine.

"I love your laugh too, even if you hate it. And, fuck, I've been... I imagined us like this but not, not like this, like this, you know?"

His brow furrowed, lips biting into his bottom lip. "I ruined it, didn't I?" Concern lurked beneath his words.

You chuckled, reaching out to trace your fingertips along his cheek, "Yeah, and you were so good at keeping the dominant role earlier." Admittedly, you found his vulnerability endearing.

"I like you, and I've thought of this too," you confessed, your heart pounding in your chest with every whispered syllable.

Your tone shifted, growing more serious, "To be honest, that gift pissed me off."

Josh's reaction to your accusation was immediate, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "The strawberries? Yeah, I could tell."

His admission confirmed your suspicions, and with a playful scoff, you retorted, "Asshole."

You beat his shoulder lightly with feigned aggression, laughter echoing through the room.

"Out of all the gifts I’ve gotten tonight, no, out of all the gifts I’ve had, ever," Josh began, "you're the best one.” He said before thinking deeply. “Well, no, you're the second. The first one was when I got a signed DVD of Star Wars, Episode Seven: The Force Awakens."

Confusion clouded your expression, "Episode seven?"

Josh stammered, realizing you wouldn't comprehend the reference to a film that, for you, was lightyears ahead.

"Uhm... forget it. I was joking since you know." A nervous laugh followed his retreat. "Anyways, where were we? Oh, yeah, fucking! Uhm.”

Time to reveal he was from the future, his adventures, saving the world, and landing in 2000—it was a story better suited for the future.

Josh seized the moment, thrusting into you with urgency. The distraction worked, the sudden invasion of his sizable girth stealing your breath.

It took a moment for both of you to adjust to the sensation, the newfound closeness offering a liberating sense of.

"You're tight," Josh reed with unbridled pride, his hands capturing your wrists in a firm grip. "I'll start," he promised, granting you a brief moment of surrender.

A nod from you signaled your consent, allowing him to begin the rhythmic thrusts that filled you with his length. Pain, sharp and undeniable, punctuated the sensations, but the pleasure outweighed the discomfort.

"Fuck," you cried out, teary eyes meeting his.

"Hold onto me," Josh commanded, his voice raw and insistent. Your nails dug into his skin with a vengeance, and the resulting grunt of satisfaction was the only response he needed.

The intensity of the act, coupled with the nearness of your bodies, left you at a loss for words. "Like that?" he inquired, and though the question seemed redundant, the sensation of his cock stretching you open left you incapable of verbal acknowledgment.

The room was suffused with the erotic symphony of skin slapping against skin, heavy breathing, and the occasional grunt or moan. In this dance of passion, the unspoken understanding between the two of you spoke volumes, every thrust cementing the bond between you.

"Let me go faster, please," Josh whined, craving the release that only complete surrender could offer.

You whimpered, uncertainty lacing your response, "I don't... I don't think I can handle that, Josh." The creaking of the desk mirrored the strain of the moment.

Desperation colored his voice as he pleaded, "Please, please. I'll be good, you'll like it. Please."

In response, you groaned, "Fine. Just because we need to finish grading." Despite the flimsy excuse, the promise of gratification following the completion of your task hung in the air.

A triumphant grin spread across Josh's face, "After that, you can have me as much as you want," he promised, holding you firmly as he thrust deeper, his cock filling and emptying you in a rhythm of pleasure and longing.

The edge of climax ebbed closer, winding its way through your veins. You found yourself pressing your head into his neck, biting him unintentionally.

"Mmh, gonna cum," Josh warned, his orgasm imminent. With a powerful surge, he filled you, the warmth of his release enveloping you.

Exhausted, the two of you stood there, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. Disheveled and sweat-drenched, you looked at each other, the weight of the moments heavy in the air.

Recovering enough to speak, you fumbled for the right words, "Let's uhm..." Your voice trailed off, replaced by an awkward suggestion, "Let's get grading, shall we?"

You climbed off the desk and started gathering your clothes from the floor, Josh following suit as he laughed softly. Dressing hurriedly, you both resumed your roles as teacher and assistant, submitting to the mundane task before you.

…

The day of the final exam dawned, and as you explained the rules and addressed student queries, your concentration wavered. Two students, oblivious to your displeasure, engaged in hushed conversation while you spoke.

In a moment of synchronized understanding, you locked eyes with Josh, who wasted no time in addressing the situation.

He strode towards the offending students, leaning casually on their table. "Guys, please keep it down," he requested softly, the authority in his tone leaving no room for argument. With a single nod, he continued to monitor other students.

Once he moved away, the culprits exchanged glances, one of them whispering, "Did you see the hickey or am I crazy?"

The other nodded, unable to deny the evidence of their own eyes, replying, "I saw it."

The students' curiosity piqued, and their gazes shifted between you and Josh, zeroing in on your choice of clothing: turtlenecks on an otherwise scorching day. The unspoken implications danced in their minds.

“They slept together!?”

Crossing your arms, you fixed your gaze on the offenders, your voice dripping with sarcasm, "Care to share with everyone?"

Embarrassed, they quickly retracted, "No. Sorry." Giggles threatened to escape, but they struggled to suppress them, the cat now firmly out of the bag.

One student voiced her thoughts aloud, "Why does the class get interesting on the last day?" A sentiment echoed in the covert smiles and furtive glances shared by those around her.

#I haven’t wrote anything over 2 months give me a break pls #josh futturman #josh futterman x reader #josh futturman x reader #josh future man #josh futturman smut #josh futturman x gn!reader #josh futturman x you #josh futturman headcannons #mike schmidt #derek danforth #derek danforth smut #mike schmidt smut #clapton davis smut #billy burn smut #josh hutcherson #jhutch #jhutch1992 #mike schimdt x reader

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joshs-big-toe · 1 year ago

Note

you HAVE to write a fic of billy from burn, i beg youusdjfsudfjskdksad

A Quickie to Relax

Heyyyyyy. Again, sorry this took so long. My winter break kinda sucked and I just had no motivation to do anything. I am finally back at it, and have more motivation and yeah thank you for being patient with me! I have another fic coming after this as a little present, so be ready for a Derek Danforth fic! There is going to be an overflow of those coming. Anyways, I love you all who support me and I hope this story lives up to some of my others!

CW: smut, f!reader, oral sex (fem receiving), p in v, dom!billy, semi-rough sex, mentions of firearms(promise that aspect has nothing to do with the sex)

Word Count: 1,505

“Come on Billy, I don't think this is a good idea,” you mumbled as he parked outside of what seemed like an abandoned gas station. The night was cold, an eerie tone filled the air as rain sprinkled down from the cloud-ridden sky. Billy turned to you, setting his jaw in place.

“Y/N, you know the shit I’m in? You said you would do this with me, why are you backing out now?”

“I just…” you hesitated for a moment, thinking before you spoke next. “I just think we may be… Lowballing it with a gas station that looks abandoned.” His face lit up from headlights of a car pulling into the closest gas pump. His eyes showed an emotion you weren’t able to quite put your finger on. You out your hand on his cheek, running your thumb along his cheek bone. “I love you, Billy, but this is fucking stupid. Why can’t we just get out of here, run away and forget about those stupid bikers?” He turned his head away from your touch, a visible frustration setting into his expression.

“You… You don’t get it, y/n. They’ll kill me if I dont get them that money, you fucking understand that right?” He stared at the front doors of the gas station. “I can’t not do this,” he turned his head to look at you. You stared back into his eyes, wavering concern covering your face. He shook his head. “y/n-”

“Billy, I can’t do this. I think we should just drive and start over-”

“No, y/n, no!” he shouted, hitting the steering wheel. You jumped, his eyes darting toward you, seeing the obvious discomfort that him shouting gave you. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He grumbled.

You hesitantly lean over the seat, pulling his chin to look at you. “Let me,” you mumble, bringing him closer, your lips grazing against his as you spoke. “Let me help you out there, Billy, maybe clear your mind a little?” You felt him shift in his seat, sighing against your lips before you pressed yours against his. Your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling of his hand resting on the back of your head taking you by surprise. His tongue pushed into your mouth, you groaning at the sensation. He deepened the kiss, pulling you closer to him, his breathing becoming more erratic as the seconds passed. You groaned as his free hand groped over your tits, the heat filling your core with arousal.

“Get in the back,” he growled. “Now.” You didn’t hesitate, stumbling over the center console and falling onto the back seat. You giggled as he followed suit, landing on top of you, crashing his lips into yours again. His mouth parted slightly, giving you the chance to push your tongue into his mouth, making him groan against you. He pulled you down to where your back was laying against the back seat. “I need,” he panted, fumbling with your jeans. “Need to get this shit off.” You bit your lip as you watched him unzip your jeans, swiftly slipping them off. He looked at you with a hungry expression. You smirked, opening your legs wider for him. “I can see,” he mumbled as he got lower down, his hot breath touching your core. You shuddered as he hooked his finger around your panties, pulling them to the side. “I can see how wet you already are.” His tongue attached to your clit, a low groan escaping his lips. Your back arched as he moved his tongue into your opening, tongue-fucking you. You grabbed his hair, tugging at it softly. A soft moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back, bumping against the door.

“Fuck, Billy,” you managed out. His actions became quicker. He grabbed at your thighs, running his nails down them. You moaned, pushing himself onto as much as you could, pushing your thighs against the side of his head. You felt the heat building in your lower belly as Billy attached his tongue to your clit again, relentlessly sucking and nipping on it. His hands grabbed at your hips, borderline suffocating himself as he pushed you further onto his face. He pressed his lips against your clit, sending you over the edge, your body jolting as waves of pleasure ripped from you. Billy did not wait long before sitting up in the seat, unzipping his jeans and pulling them down enough for him to take his cock out, spitting on his hand and stroking himself a couple times before pulling you onto him. His grip on your hips tightened as he pushed into you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. A hit of frustration hit your mind at the lack of being able to see him, not to mention sucking his dick. You moan as he stretched you out, your head falling onto his shoulder. He began to rock your hips against him. Tremors of pleasure ran through you with the friction of your clit rubbing on his pubic bone.

“Fucking so wet for me,” Billy mumbled into your ear. “You know just how to take care of me when I get worked up, huh?” He was breathless, but did not stop his own movements of pushing his hips up onto you. You whined at the aggression that was hidden in his movements, but fuck you loved seeing this side of him. He removed a hand from your hip, bringing it up to hair, pulling you back to you could look at him. His nose and cheeks were a shade of red and his mouth was slightly open. “Look at you, all fucked out already and I haven’t even gotten to cum.” You began to speed up your movements, making him suck in a breath of air before letting out a loud groan as he leaned his head back onto the seat.

“B-Billy-” you moaned out. His movements were sloppy as he trailed sloppy kisses down your neck.

“Y/n, oh fuck y/n youre so fucking good,” he breathed out. “You take my cock so fucking well, such a good fucking girl.” Heat rose up in you again as you felt his dick twitch inside you, telling you he was close too. He pulled your head back by your hair as you grinded on him, attaching his lips to your neck and sucking at a sensitive spot that send you over the edge. You didnt get much chance to ride your orgasm out before he pushed you off of him. “Fuck,” he groaned, grabbing his cock squeezing it. “Put that pretty mouth of yours to use, now wouldja?” You contorted your body to where you were holding onto him. He grabbed your hair, turning it into a makeshift ponytail, pushing you down onto him. He threw his head back as he stuffed your mouth, thrusting up into you, abusing your throat. You groaned onto him, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. He was so fucking big, but you liked the rough treatment he had with you. Without warning, he held you down onto his cock, the tip pushing against your throat making you gag. He groaned, body confusing as you felt him cum. You took it all, not wanting any to escape your mouth. You pulled off of him, gasping for air. He grabbed your face in his hands, looking you over for a moment. He wiped the tears that fell from your eyes. “Was that too much?” His aggression had turned to concern in an instant. You shook your head, getting your breathing back to mostly normal.

“H-hot,” you managed out. He smiled, grabbing your jeans off the floor of the back seat, helping you back into them before planting a kiss on your forehead. You watched him pull his jeans back up, buttoning them before reaching into the front seat and grabbing his backpack.

“Are you ready?” He smiled, clearly less stressed than he was before.

“You are positive that this is going to be okay?” He reached into the bag, pulling out a gun and tossing it over to you. You looked at him, eyes wide. “What the fuck is this, Billy?”

“It’s not loaded, don't worry. If they feel threatened, they are more likely to comply. You groan, stepping out of the car and tucking the gun into the back of your jeans. You threw your jacket on, thankfully covering the bulk of the gun. You shook your head, looking at Billy over the hood of his car.

“You are literally so stupid for this, you know.”

“It’s life or death.”

“Or 5 years in prison.”

“Well, I guess.” He shrugged, shutting the car door and walking behind the car, planting a kiss on your cheek when he approached you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You took a deep breath, putting your hands in your jacket pockets as you closely trailed Billy, following him into the gas station to go through with your plan.

#josh hutcherson #josh futterman #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt imagine #josh hutcherson fanfic #josh hutcherson smut #billy burn #billy burn x reader #derek danforth #derek danforth smut #peeta x reader #thg peeta #josh futturman smut #josh hutcherson x reader

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freak-accident419 · 1 year ago

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Strange Honey

Billy (Burn 2019) x GN!Reader

Summary: One night at a bar, you meet a very mysterious man with a burn on the side of his face. As the tense and strained person you see him as, you decide to offer him some ease, giving the wannabe cowboy one hell of a ride.

Word Count: 2.4k

Content: 18+ Smut, MDNI, gender neutral reader, Billy the wannabe cowboy, penetration (unspecified genitals for reader), oral (male and reader receiving), swearing, reader being referred to as ‘pretty’ and ‘slut’, unprotected sex, drinking

(A/n: PLEASE PLEASE listen to this song, it’s not only by small, indie band but it’s also just so fitting!!: 60s western cowboy vibe and horniness, it’s an amazing fit—just trust me!! Also I want it to be implied that the Melinda SA scene never happened prior in this fic, otherwise Billy would have some sort of PTSD that would probably not make him ready for anything sexual for a long time :( nevertheless, i hope you enjoy!!)

The moment he walked in through those doors, he instantly became a mystery. Someone you have easily became infatuated with by just the mere sight of him.

Sure, his getup was quite tasteless—the denim on denim and subtle cowboy boots that screamed ‘wannabe cowboy’—but that wasn’t what really captivated you, despite the additional charm of his pretty eyes and lips; it was the red, tender burn occupying an area of skin on the right side of his face.

He lets out a gruff sigh of exhaustion as he sat one stool away from you at the bar, incoherently grumbling his order to the bartender. You observe him for a while, before getting his attention by whistling softly at him. When he turned to look at you, it allowed you to see him from a closer distance from before, and your eyes slightly widened at the clearer sight of his burn.

“Holy shit, man. You look like hell,” you scoff, raising your glass of liquor to your lips, taking a short, yet calculated sip. “The fuck happened to you?”

He looked at you with a displeased scowl, probably offended by your reaction. “I don’t wanna fucking talk about it,” he replied bitterly in a low mutter.

Only amused, you chuckle playfully. “Rough night?”

He nods quietly in agreement as the bartender gave him his drink. Bourbon, you assumed. “Alright,” you begin. “So what’s a handsome thing like you doing in a shithole like this?”

You finally saw a smile—or perhaps a smirk—creep onto the corner of his lips. You could tell he was quite flattered by the ‘handsome’ comment. And that smile only reinforced it, proving your point even more—he was incredibly attractive. “To drink,” he answered, finally looking up at you. He was exceptional at keeping eye contact. The way his brown eyes bore into yours enhanced your intrigue for him.

“To forget?” You assume, raising an eyebrow. He nodded a yes, offering an amused and knowing grin. He liked you. “Well… Bourbon’s not gonna do shit for you in this case.”

You call over the bartender. “Another firewater, please, for the gentleman,” you tell, then looking back at the man with an alluring smirk. “On me,” you wink. “I’m Y/n, by the way.”

“Billy.” He let out a pleased chuckle, already fascinated by you. “Sorry, ‘firewater’?” He asked with a curious, blank face.

“It’s just liquor.” You scoff playfully, “And you call yourself a cowboy?”

“I never—”

“C’mon,” you snicker teasingly. “The jacket? The shirt? The jeans? And the fuckin’—fuckin’ cowboy boots?” You scoff as you look at him up and down. Checking him out, almost. “The belt buckle, however, is very impressive.”

The charming, brown-haired man grinned with a self-satisfied huff under his breath. He looked to the bartender as he abruptly gives him the drink you ordered him, then looked back at you, the slight curl of his lips still intact. “So what’s your whole deal then, hm? What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in this very shithole?” He asks, referencing back to your cheeky question.

“I’m, uh… I’m also here to forget,” you pursed your lips then smirked as you answer him. The man shrugs in response and grabs his drink.

“Well, then. To the shitty events that led us to this shitty bar,” he raised his glass and then you raised yours.

“Cheers,” you mutter amusedly, and the two of you take a swig of your drinks.

Billy nearly choked on it as he scowled immediately, looking down at his glass with humorous contempt. “What the fuck is this shit?”

You felt your throat burn acidly, yet also gratifyingly as you gulp down your liquor, giggling at the sight of him. “Firewater,” you replied as you heard him mutter swears of complaints to himself.

“Yeah, no shit,” he retorted scornfully, “It’s strong as fuck.”

You raise an eyebrow, preparing to tease him. “You sure you’re a real cowboy?” You scoff with an endearing grin.

“Seriously? You’re still on about that?” He says in disbelief, yet he enjoyed the conversation nonetheless. “What, do I need a red bandana and a cowboy hat—”

“You definitely need a cowboy hat,” you chuckle. “That’s exactly what you’re missing.”

“So I need the whole getup?” He raises an eyebrow. You nod. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He was so attracted to your smile.

“Okay, so like… even a lasso?”

You laugh. “Of course. You can’t just be all hat and no cattle.”

He snickered under his breath. “I’m guessing I’m gonna need a horse as well?”

You pursed your lips, laughing once more. And he was addicted to it. “Hmm, a horse? Yeah, not so much,” you reply dismissively.

“Oh yeah? Isn’t that, like, standard cowboy criteria?” He huffs, staring into your eyes curiously, which reminded you again of his immaculate eye contact. “Why not?”

You take a confident swig of your firewater, feeling the burning sensation in your throat linger, licking your lips and returning his gaze…

“I know something else you can ride.”

* * *

He pushes you against the wall, hands under your shirt moving up and down your sides frantically as his his lips move roughly with yours. The confined atmosphere of the motel room was extremely hot, and you weren’t sure if it was from all the friction that you and Billy produced or the shitty, cheap air-conditioning. After all, you two were in a rush, drunk from arousal, and desperate for each other’s bodies. And because a dirty bathroom in a shitty bar deemed to be too unsanitary for your taste, you found the nearest motel.

“Hell,” you mutter into Billy’s lips hotly. You felt him grip onto your hips and start to grind on you, using the wall as a leverage as he rolled his hips onto yours. He muttered a curse as the friction of his jeans against yours had satisfyingly aggravated you both. The two of you whined from the grinding until you pushed him off of yourself, shoving him hard against the wall and going down onto your knees.

You begin to unbuckle the belt that you earlier regarded as impressive, due to its authentically cowboy-like quality, then unbuttoned and unzipped his tight, light-wash jeans, dragging it down to his ankles as well as his boxers. His cock sprang out immediately after you pulled down the cloth, and you held in a moan, admiring the sight.

“Fuck, Billy,” you breathe in awe, helping him step out of the clothes that were previously sitting at his ankles. You look up at him once—again, he was graceful at eye contact, and you could easily read his desperation.

You began to smear his precum around his slit, bringing out a small whimper from him. You start to hear him panting once your hand is around his dick, pumping at a slow pace. Then, his eyes rolled up to the back of his head in pleasure, letting out a sigh of arousal as the tempo of your hand increased.

You kept your hand at the base of his cock as you started to leave kitten licks on his sensitive pink tip, Billy eliciting sensual hums until your mouth eagerly welcomes in his head. He lets out a soft groan as your lips are around him, sucking the head as your hand moves up and down to stroke his shaft, your other hand resting on his thigh for support.

He bites back a moan as he choked out your name, and you feel his hands on your head once you move your mouth further down as far as you could. Now, you let both of your hands grip onto his porcelain hips for better control, your head bobbing up and down his girthy cock.

“M-mm, fuck, Y/n, you’re s-so fucking good for me, fuck,” he rasped, gripping onto your hair, letting his fingers tangle in the messy strands. Your cheeks flush as you increase your suction around him, finally hearing him moan, his vocals echoing in the empty motel room. “That’s it… yeah… fuck…” His volume increases once you fondle his balls, caressing him with your palm.

You feel yourself lose control of the entire situation as his hold on your hair tightened, him beginning to thrust his cock into your mouth, practically fucking your throat. Tears begin to well up in your eyes as you look up at him, nearly gagging on his dick.

“G-god,” he mumbled, using both hands on your head to practically use you as if your mouth was his own personal fleshlight. His moans began to increase in volume as you heard pathetic whines of desperation—but you couldn’t say anything, of course; you were the one spurring muffled moans, choking around his cock.

“Shit… Shit—I’m—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he breathed heavily, increasing his pace until he came, spilling his white, bitter fluid in your mouth, choking on his seed as you struggled to swallow it all—but you did.

Without giving either of you time to catch your breaths, Billy manhandled you, grabbing onto you and throwing you down on the squeaky, cheap mattress that the motel had to offer. He nearly ripped off your pants and your underwear along with it, moving his head between your legs and holding your thighs onto his shoulders. You felt the cold metal of his golden ring on your skin as his hands squeezed your thighs. You moaned out his name as you felt his tongue work on you, sucking and licking at your flesh.

“Ah—f-fuck—Billy!”

Your hips jolted at the sensation of his mouth pleasuring you, your knuckles turning pale as you grip tightly onto the sheets below you. His tongue moved down to prod at your hole, wetting it before his tongue would enter, making you release a prolonged, high-pitched whine. Almost instantly, he replaces it with a finger, pushing the digit in and out steadily, not hesitating to add another, the pace of the thrusts increasing until he finally pulled them out, watching you whimper from the loss of touch.

He quickly removes your shirt, lifting it off from above, and after taking off his jacket and throwing it to the side, you frantically unbuttoned his shirt, getting him out of the sleeves until the two of you were both completely naked.

He held you down once more on your back aggressively, sitting on his knees with his hands on the mattress between your head, a thin, silver necklace dangling above your face that hung from Billy’s neck. Your cheeks were flushed red and you panted as he lined up his body with yours, and finally eased his cock through your entrance. And once he was perfectly in, that was his signal.

He thrusted his hips quickly into yours, shoving his dick inside of you deeper with every snap of his hips, abusing your hole. His loud grunts easily transitioned into whimpers to full-on moans, hearing a couple of ‘fuck’’s and ‘oh god’’s. But you—you were even worse. You were under him, being fucked into the mattress, crying, screaming, and babbling. You were sure that the other guests of this motel could hear you from the thin walls, alongside the noisy bed creaking.

“Love how you’re taking my cock… Just look at you,” he muttered before letting out a high-pitched whimper and continuing his movements. “Feel so fucking good around me.”

His hands move down to your hips, digging his nails into your skin as he pulled you to his dick, thrusting even faster and deeper than before. Your soft whines were rhythmic, synced with each motion that his hips gave. You enjoyed the delicious sensation of him stretching you and your walls, tightening around him flawlessly. His shiny, silver necklace continued to sway above you, swinging with each rapid, harsh thrust.

You abruptly yank onto that thin chain, pulling him down to meet your lips. He moved his soft, wet lips with yours passionately and fervently, your tongue exploring his mouth, dancing with his. His thrusts never faltered as he kissed down to your jaw then to your neck, even nibbling and sucking in areas to give you hickeys.

You breathe heavily as you felt your body being flipped, Billy using his strong hands to move you onto your stomach, the side of your face being pressed onto the pillow. Then he pushed into your hole once again, one hand on your hip and the other on the top of the wooden bed frame, gripping it tight as he began to move. The bed squeaked again, its sounds mirroring the motion that took place on it. You were afraid he was going to fucking break it.

“O-oh! F-fuck! Don’t—Don’t fucking stop!” You cry desperately in between heavy breaths.

You were nearly drooling on the pillow as you moan loudly, Billy pounding you forcefully from behind, on top of you as if you were a fucking horse—he was a cowboy, alright.

“You like that? Hm? You like having my cock inside of you like this? Fucking slut…”

You began to feel his rhythm falter, his body gradually giving out with stuttered hips and abrupt, deep jerks inside you, panting and moaning heavily, his face flushed and sweaty.

“Fuck, baby, I’m close,” he groans, the erotic sound of skin slapping against skin only increasing as his nails begin to dig deeper into the bed frame, fucking into you as if you were a lifeless sex doll, practically using you. But he had respect for you, of course, feeling pleasured entirely by your body and noises.

“M-me too,” you whine, clenching onto the white bedsheets beneath you, feeling a knot in your stomach slowly begin to unravel.

Billy persisted to slam his hips vigorously against your ass, ramming his thick cock inside of you as the two of you moaned desperately, your vocals arousing each other as well.

“I-I’m—I’m gonna cum,” he mutters.

“Fuck—me too—I-I’m—”

“Fuck!” He whines.

And finally, with one last, strong thrust of his hips, he came deeply and heavily inside you, his warm, white fluids painting your walls, spurting selfishly yet generously deep inside of you. A loud, lewd moan escaped his pretty lips as his eyes shut tight, focusing on all the pleasure and release that he just received.

And not even a second later, you followed, crying out his name and cumming around his length, clutching the blankets and feeling full and filled completely with his semen.

Billy collapsed beside you, and the two of you laid there, panting heavily and catching each other’s breaths, all fucked out.

“Well, yee-haw, motherfucker,” you mumble amusedly to yourself, retrieving your pants to grab a cigarette from its pocket.

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billys-slutcherson · 1 year ago

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Thank you for the love and interactions on my Billy fic! I have been so busy today, it is so nice to see people sharing!! 🫶

#burn 2019 #josh hutcherson #billy burn x reader smut #billy burn 2019 #billy burn x you

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joshfutturman · 10 months ago

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"like you were made for me" 18+

oneshot - soft dom josh tries his best to talk you through it, but he can't stop whimpering and moaning. (1.9k words) pairing - josh futturman (future man) + gn!reader tags: porn with no plot, doggystyle, soft!dom josh, pre-established relationship, gender neutral reader, penetration, kissing, no use of y/n, dirty talk, pre dick swap ig lmao, whimpering and whining, praising, creampie, petnames.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

he slips inside of you and lets out something between a moan and a whine, his firm grip on your hips tightening. you're splayed out on his bed, ass up, face down in his blue sheets. you watch eagerly over your shoulder as he pushes inside of you with a slow thrust. his eyes are on you, mouth forming an 'o' shape as he tries to steady his breathing.

your brows knit together, feeling him ease in, letting a moan slip of your own as he fills you so perfectly. "fuck, baby. . ." you whisper through another moan, trying not to clench around him - you know he won't last if you do.

josh mutters something under his breath, a small pep talk to himself as he loses himself in the feeling of you so tightly wrapped around him. "you feel s-so good. . ."

he eases out, and then back in, slow thrusts that have your back arching in the hopes of him going impossibly deeper inside of you. josh continues his sluggish pace, trailing a hand from your hip to the small of your back, pressing his palm down on your warm skin.

"t. . . takin' it s. . . so wel- fuuuuck. . ." josh melts against you. with each thrust he loses himself deeper into you, his throbbing cock begging for release. . . begging for more of you. he's so hard he swears it almost hurts.

and you smirk, knowing he can't even form complete sentences because of how good you're making him feel. "what was that, babe?" you chirp.

he gasps, furrowing his brow with his eyes tightly closed, "you're such- such a good- oh fuck. . ." swallowing thickly, he tries again, "you're- mhfff..." a whimper cuts him off, that sweet, sweet whimper of his. you could listen to it all day - the way it drips from his lips like honey.

you know he's trying to talk you through it, desperate to praise you and lavish you with sweet words but he just. . . can't. something about the way you feel, the intoxicating feeling of being inside of you, his cock pumping in and out at a lazy pace, he's falling apart already. just as he always does.

"keep talkin' to me, baby. . ." you whisper encouragingly, propping yourself up on your elbows as you keep your eyes on him, completely mesmerised by the intricate shift in his facial expression with every thrust.

he nods, josh would do anything you asked, anything. "mhm, you. . . you like that?" he hums, trying his absolute best. opening his eyes, he notices you looking back at him and another whimper falls from his lips as he locks eyes with you.

slowly, you nod - and then he picks up the pace in response, making you flinch a little at the sudden increase of pleasure. but you keep your gaze locked on his, silently encouraging him.

"you take me so. . . so well. my cock- hhhhf. . . fits perfectly inside of you," he whines, the words coming out before he even has a chance to think about what he's saying. both of his hands return to your hips, "oh fuck, j. . . just like that. . ." josh's eyes trail down to watch himself disappear inside of you.

you moan, eyes closing over as he attempts to form sentences. it's so hot, so cute, how he completely falls apart for you as soon as he slips inside your tight hole. he wants to make sure you feel good, that you feel taken care of, even if he can't even form one complete sentence.

"that's it. . . t-takin' my cock like a good- mhhhhf!" josh groans, head tilting back as his mouth falls open. he huffs into the air, his grasp on your hips growing tighter as his fingers dig into your flesh, "holy fuck!" he cries out.

biting your lip, you tense up, holding back any praises of your own - you want to make him feel like he's the one in charge, the one guiding this, even if you both secretly know that he's a mess at being in control most of the time. the praising can come later when he's pumped you full of his cum and is falling asleep on your chest.

you feel it pooling in your belly, that familiar urge, the overwhelming pleasure threatening to wash over you. the way josh's face is trembling, you can tell he's close too.

he feels almost feverish, his temperature rising as his dick glides in and out of you faster and harder. he doesn't just want you, he needs you, and he feels this every time you fuck. he can't think straight, mind focused on the sensation of his dick throbbing against your tight walls. small praises tumble from his lips, calling you pretty pet names as thoughts of you cumming around him clouds his entire being.

the intensity of his thrusts increases, causing his bedside table to shake, and his collection of precious figurines threatens to topple to the ground. but he doesn't care. he's too lost in you to care. how can he care when you're taking him so good like that, making all those sweet noises and looking over your shoulder at him the way you are?

"y. . .you gonna cum for me?" he gasps suddenly, attempting to sound dominant, and failing, his voice high-pitched and shaky.

but fuck, it still gets you. it's hotter that he's trying and failing. that boy is a loser, and that's what makes you want him so fucking badly.

"yes. . ." you groan with a nod, gripping his sheets as he pushes you forward with every thrust, his bed creaking under the pressure.

josh grins a little, mouth half open as he struggles to keep his breathing steady. he's feeling brave. hesitating for a few moments, he finally speaks, "say please."

your eyes snap open, looking up at him over your shoulder in surprise. his words cause you to clench around him, fluttering at his attempt at a commanding tone.

shit, that was kind of hot.

". . .what?" you blurt out.

he swallows hard, "i-i said, say please. . . and. . . i'll let you cum," josh bites his lip. it's too much. he can't stay upright anymore. his body hunches over yours, wrapping an arm around your stomach as he pistons into you with renewed vigour, one hand planted onto the bed for support.

"holy shit, josh," you whisper, praising him with your tone of voice alone, "please. . ."

"oh fuck. . ." he whispers into your ear, feeling his dick twitch at your pleading. he plants small kisses behind your ear, sloppily. "that's it, you're so. . . hhhf- so good for me. . . takin' my dick so well. . ."

his words combined with the way he's quickly thrusting into you has you close, so fucking close. he's pressing down against you, hardly able to keep himself upright as he fights back his own release. at this angle, he's sliding deeper, going harder.

"you're so. . ah, tight," josh pants, breath ragged in your ear, "keep. . . keep moaning for me."

and you do, body lowering until you're flush against his sheets, cries dripping from your lips over and over. "baby, i-"

"shhh, i know," josh coos, breath hitching, "just c- ah. . . fuck. just cum for me. . ." his tongue hangs from his mouth in concentration, tilting his head down to suck and lick against your neck messily.

the combined sensation of his wet tongue lapping desperately against your neck and fucking you like it's the last time he'll ever see you has you seeing stars. you claw at the sheets, gripping them into bundles in your fists, knuckles turning white. you can't hold on much longer, and neither can he.

you try to hold back, you really do, but suddenly he's whispering into your ear again.

"gonna take- hhhmmf. . . gonna take my cum baby? nice and deep?"

holy fuck it sends you spiralling over the edge, taking him by surprise. you're moaning and writhing, hips rolling backwards in an unsteady rhythm in an attempt to meet his faltering thrusts as you spasm around his hard cock.

his moans pick up, higher pitched, more a whimper than a moan, practically crying into your neck as he feels you clench around him over and over. he tries to speak, but more pathetic little noises roll off his tongue instead, sending you further into your orgasm.

"you- f. . . feel so fucking-. . . ah, ah, fuck!"

and you feel him - his dick twitching inside of you, cum coating your insides as he continues to thrust in a fading rhythm, desperate to fill you, to give you every last drop. you can hardly take it, the sensation bringing your pleasure to a whole new level as you squirm.

those pretty little noises he's making against your neck, they're heavenly. he always sounds so pretty when he cums, a symphony of whimpers and pleadings and gasps. it makes you want to make him cum over. . . and over. . . and over. . .

as his thrusts eventually begin to stall to a halt, he peppers sloppy wet kisses along your neck and shoulders, a silent thank you. his breath comes out in puffs against your skin, pressing his forehead to your back as he reluctantly pulls himself out of you with a hiss, eliciting a short whine from you.

josh sits up, trailing fingers through his now damp hair, his messy curls falling gently onto his forehead. he admires you below him, shoulders rising and falling with each breath you take. he traces his fingers along your spine, a soft, loving smile falling upon his lips.

you open your eyes, finding his as you turn over onto your back, placing your hands on his plush thighs on top of you. "well . . ." you begin to say.

"did i do good?" he perks up, smiling as he leans down, inches from your lips. his eyes sparkle, seeking praise as his eyes dance across your features.

you can't help but let a soft chuckle escape you, "so good, better than good."

he mirrors your chuckle, inching forward to capture your lips in a deep kiss as he giggles. you wrap your arms around him, relishing the way he desperately steals the kiss from you after you cum, every time you have sex.

"so. . ." he mumbles in between kisses, a smirk evident in his voice, "the. . . best?"

if your eyes were open, he'd see you roll them, "yes," you smirk, "the best."

josh basks in silent victory and you can feel the way his smirk widens through the kiss.

pulling back, you speak up, "but if you ever make me say 'please' to cum again, i'll kill you," you smirk, a joking tone.

his eyes lock with yours, a cheeky grin on his lips. "as if you didn't love it. . ."

"fuck you," you grin back.

josh can't help but laugh, raising an eyebrow, ". . . again?"

you pause, "this time, i'm on top."

his eyes widen, practically twinkling. he nods so hard and so fast that you worry he might hurt his neck. "yes." josh replies quickly, "please."

fuck, how was he so fucking cute? even better too, that he looks even cuter when you fuck his brains out while on top.

"roll over then." you command.

he salutes you and rolls over onto his back obediently, "aye-aye captain."

what a fucking dork. you love him so much.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

‧₊˚ dedicated tags: @helen-on-earth @fatinhadesiners06 @boonam @sun-spider13 @laurrrelise @sammygirlism @sleepyhutcherson‧₊˚ ily all sm!! thank you!

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

508 notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 10 months ago

Text

Chapter 6 - I've Been Searching for a Fortified Defense

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: As we begin our first 5-digit word count chapter (I can’t be stopped, someone take away my keyboard) and I find a stride of about two chapters per week, I want to say that: A) I fully intend on finishing this story. I plotted out the whole thing before I started, have made a few adjustments given the pacing I’ve done so far, and with how it’s broken down right now we’ll reach the end in 2-3 months. B) Thank y’all from the bottom of my heart for reading! If you have theories or thoughts or feedback please don’t hesitate to share them! I love hearing what you think of the plot and the characters, and every interaction means the world to me. Whether you’re only reading or leaving comments as well, thank you so damn much. I’ll see you next chapter (it’s gonna be a doozy) <3

Chapter Title from Bells in Santa Fe by Halsey.

Word Count: 11.2k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You throw a punch, and Phase One: Operation Quick and Bald goes. Not well, but it goes. Contains usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst

Read on A03!

Chapter 5 - Chapter 7

Taglist: @lordofthunderthr @kritara

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

Ben dodged the third punch in a row, grinning widely right up until the fourth one landed on his face.

“Ha!” She yelled, drawing back to shake her first out. “Take that, you weirdly fast man.”

Ben rolled his eyes, rubbing his face lightly. It hadn’t hurt—he’d barely even felt it—but She was being real fucking smug for someone who’d only just landed a hit after a damn week of attempting to do so.

“Yeah, sure, Sunshine. Keep it the fuck up, and at this rate it’ll only take you another couple thousand years to surpass Muhammad Ali.”

She raised her brows at Ben, pausing with a tilt of her head. “You were a fan of Muhammad Ali?”

He nodded, giving her a scrunched look of annoyance. “I’m a fucking American, and there ain’t nothing more red-blooded American than punching commies like that son of a bitch did.”

“What?”

“When he fought the Russian, and won. That’s fucking American.”

“Ben, you’re thinking of the plot of Rocky IV.”

“No, Muhammad Ali fought that Russian pussy and kicked his fucking ass.”

“No, Sylvester Stallone fought the Russian pussy and kicked his fucking ass. In a movie.” She laughed to herself. “I’m shocked you even saw Rocky IV, let alone were so impacted by it to let the plot override your knowledge of a real life person.”

“Shut up,” Ben grunted, moving his hands back to a defensive stance. She fucking always won these stupid arguments, and Ben couldn’t actually prove it, but he knew She was changing the fucking internet she loved so damn much to match her claims. “Go again.”

“Someone missed nap time.” She muttered under her breath, even though she knew Ben could fucking hear her, but put her fists up anyways. “Can this be the last one? I’m hungry.”

Instead of answering, Ben just launched himself at her, and She jumped to the side with a yelp.

“What the fuck, Ben!”

He turned and threw another punch, feeling pleased at the smooth way she ducked away and met it with a punch of her own. Her face had lost the pissy shock, laser-sharp concentration replacing it. Her eyes were narrowed, darting across Ben as he moved, her bobbing and weaving wasn’t entirely shit, and her heart was controlled with her breathing. She landed her second punch, this one on his shoulder, and Ben laughed, delivering one of his own.

“Christ, Sunshine, you’re fucking weak.” He laughed, examining Her carefully for any loss of control.

“I’ll kill you with my bare hands, Bitch.” She growled, lunging forward and grunting in frustration as Ben dodged with ease.

“That’s my line.” He taunted. “And you couldn’t even kill a man with an assault rifle if he was a fucking foot away from you.”

“Blow me.”

“I’ve been fucking trying- Fuck!” She landed her third punch, and it burned. Ben reached to touch where she’d hit and felt the skin mending across his jaw.

She was grinning in a wide, toothy, satisfied way. “Suck on that, cunt.”

“Bitch,” he muttered, looking down at his hand to see it raw and red from the contact with his face, with some of his fucking hair stuck to it.

“Did you burn off my fucking beard!” His head shot up to see a half-sheepish, half-amused look on her face, lips curled and eyes wide.

“Oops.”

He yelled her name, and she had the fucking nerve to giggle. “We said no fucking powers!”

“I forgot.” She said lamely, her face less and less apologetic by the second, giggling again as she offered some of the most insincere comfort Ben had ever heard. “It’s not even that noticeable! You look just as good as before!”

His anger faded, and he gave Her a cocky smirk, raising his brows. “You think I look good, Sunshine?”

“I’m being nice. Don’t ruin it.” She muttered, her face adorably flushed, and Ben didn’t miss the skip of her heart.

“Whatever keeps you up at night.”

“That’s not the phrase.”

He winked. “I know.”

She scoffed and turned away, but not before Ben could see the slight smile on her lips. “I’m going to shower, I’ll meet you in the living room in fifteen. If you’re not there, with food, I’m eating the TV.”

Ben frowned, calling after Her figure moving down the hall. “Has the TV been edible this whole fucking time and you didn’t fucking tell me?!”

Her laughter echoed back down the hall. "You're real fucking gullible, grampa!"

“You know I can’t fucking tell when you’re joking about that shit, you bitch!”

“Fourteen minutes, cunt!”

“How the fuck am I supposed to make food in fourteen minutes?!”

“You’re a big boy, you’ll figure it out!”

Grumbling a string of cusses Ben hoped She could fucking feel, Ben grabbed a cup of instant noodles and threw them in the microwave, wondering if She would notice if he spit in hers. After pulling them out, grabbing two spoons from the counter that he almost immediately bent, spilling one of the cups as he noticed the damaged utensils, spilling the other when he noticed the first spill, and having to start the whole damned fucking thing over, Ben made his way to drop on the couch next to where She sat, wet hair clinging to her pretty face.

“Heard a lot of swearing, Pretty Boy, everything ok?”

He grunted, shoving Her noodles against her chest and letting go, not giving a fuck if she had a grip on them. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Just asking a question,” he could hear her shit-eating grin. “Thought it was a free country. Thought a patriot like you would appreciate me exercising my first amendment right.”

“That protects you from the government, not me.” Ben parroted back the words She had yelled at him after he’d made the apparently fucking fatal mistake of saying “first amendment right” in her presence.

She chuckled, her voice teasing. “Didn’t know you were capable of retaining information about something other than yourself.”

“Well, your tits were looking great while you were bitching. It helped.” He grabbed the remote, raising it to the TV. “I made food. I’m picking what we watch.”

“If you pick Game of Thrones so you can watch the sex scenes again, I’m figuring out a way to kill myself and doing it on your bed.”

“Whatever gets you in my bed, Sunshine.” He winked. “And I’m invested in the fucking plot, it’s not just the sex scenes.”

“It’s mostly the sex scenes.” She said, not even flinching at his flirtation. “Just go watch porn. See how fast you can break the fleshlights. If you do all three in ten minutes, Butcher owes me twenty dollars.”

Ben scowled, not enjoying that She’d apparently been making fucking bets with Butcher about his masturbation. “I can last longer than ten fucking minutes, I’m not a fucking pussy.”

“Prove it.”

He grinned widely at Her as her face flushed adorably, her own phrasing catching up with her head. “I’d be honored, Sunshine.”

“You’re like a fucking rabbit in heat.” She muttered. “And if you do last longer than ten, Hughie gets the money, so keep that in mind when you’re jerking it to dragon boobs after I go to bed.”

“The dragons don’t have any fucking boobs, dumbass, the fucking hot lady queens do.” Ben said smugly, ignoring her eye roll. “And I would ‘jerk it’ in the privacy of my room, but someone won’t give me a fucking phone.”

“Yeah, the CIA. I’d actually back you up with Mallory, Pretty Boy. I think giving you a phone would be really entertaining.”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” He snapped, and she laughed.

“Can’t rely on just a handsome face to convince her that you somehow deserve the internet.”

“Handsome face?” He grinned at her, and only the slight stutter of her heart told Ben she heard him.

She made a mock face of thought. “Maybe if we suggested parental controls…”

“I’ll kill you, bitch.”

“I’ll make you the most useless and sad eunuch to ever grace this sorry planet, cunt.”

Ben glared at Her, and she reached over his arm to press play on the remote.

Most of the days since the failed Sister Sage mission had been like this. She and Ben got up, trained, ate, trained more, and then watched TV with dinner until She retreated to her room and Ben fought sleep for the rest of the night, alone. Neither of them mentioned how he’d saved her, or how She had started a habit of slapping Ben awake—he was pretty fucking certain that at this point she had figured out another way to break through the nightmares but was purposely choosing to fucking hit him instead—before she’d sit next to him for an hour or two after. Ben liked this unspoken arrangement, and liked even more how She had silently agreed to it. Just because he didn’t actively hate Her right now didn’t mean he was about become a sniveling pussy mess about feelings. Even if the lack of active hatred had morphed into something pulsing in his chest that he didn’t understand, and didn't fucking want to. Making Her instant noodles and not killing her when she lied to him for fun or called him “Pretty Boy” was as far as Ben would bend.

It had been mostly radio silence from the Boys, though Butcher and Cocksucker had visited two days after they’d dropped Her and Ben back at the safe house, as Cocksucker had managed to break his arm. There had been a long, incredibly boring and poorly told story as to how the injury had occurred, involving a supe, Nikola Tesla and something called a Cybertruck, but Ben had pretty much tuned out the entire fucking conversation once he realized they weren’t here for him at all. The only thing that had kept him from retreating to his room for the duration of the visit was the small falter in Her heart when she touched Cocksucker, her jaw clenched as Ben and Butcher watched Cocksucker’s arm heal into place in a fucking disgusting manner.

When She’d let go, she’d given Ben a weird fucking look with tight lips and sad eyes that he'd only seen before on Cocksucker. It had passed quickly, her face returning to apathetic and bored, her eyes regaining the sharp amusement they usually held, but fuck it had confused him. She and Butcher had started talking about missions and planning and other mind-numbing shit, Cocksucker shaking out his arm as if he didn’t trust that it was healed, and Ben had needed to piss and gone to do just that. Before he’d left, he’d caught Her a look of where the hell are you’d going, he’d grinned back with a wink of why, you want to join me?, and she’d rolled her eyes and returned her attention to Butcher. When he’d returned, Butcher and Cocksucker had left and She was glaring at him, arms across her chest.

“Are you an idiot, or just a dick?” She’d snapped.

He’d frowned at Her, trying to figure out what had made her all fucking bitchy. As far as Ben was concerned, he’d been fucking amazing, only calling Butcher a pussy twice and managing to refrain from talking to Cocksucker at all. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Butcher told me we’re moving on operation Quick and Bald soon. He told me you knew. Why didn’t you fucking tell me?!”

“Oh,” Ben had rolled his eyes. “I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

He’d shrugged. “Well, you fucking know now, so get over it. And what kind of fucking shit codename is Quick and Bald?”

“Fuck you, it’s an accurate and descriptive name.”

“How the fuck could that be ‘accurate and descriptive’?”

“Because two key factors of this phase of my plan are the quick and the bald.”

“Your plan?”

“Yeah, my fucking plan. That I fucking deserved to know the status of.” She’d scowled. “Butcher says it’s almost ready. He’ll get us in two days once it’s in place.”

That had been five days ago. Starlight and Cocksucker had dropped in after two days, full of apologies and updates that Ben didn’t give a fuck about, and when he’d asked Her for more information about the plan, she’d told him to “suck her dick and shove his questions up his ass until they reached his brain.”

So Ben still had no fucking clue what Quick and Bald was about.

Aside from Her lingering anger at him for apparently having the fucking nerve to ask questions about the jobs he had to do—an opinion he had made the mistake of voicing, leading the unwelcome lesson on the first amendment—She was being impossibly easy to talk to, and Ben was getting dangerously close to not only enjoying her company, but finding her comfortable. Part of him was hoping she’d say something very, very soon that would allow him to grip onto hatred, or at least indifference, for the rest of his time in this stupid fucking situation.

Instead, in a way that made Ben think God himself was out to fucking get him, he’d started to tell her things. Fucking voluntarily.

One of those nights where sleep had gripped his head and pulled him under, struggling and roaring, he’d woken up once more from only the force and sting of her hand across his face. She’d sat next to him again, and he’d asked her more questions about before, all of which she’d answered with a faraway, insufferably sad look in her eyes.

“How many siblings did you fucking have again?” He’d pressed once.

“Four,” She’d responded, a wistful smile on her face. “Two brothers, two sisters. All younger.”

“Your parents had four more kids after you? What, were you that fucking annoying they needed to try again four fucking times?”

“No, I was just so adorable they needed to try and recreate my perfection. Once they realized that was impossible, they gave up.” She’d smirked, and Ben hated that somehow he didn’t doubt her words. “Well,” she’d mused to herself. “That and they fell violently out of love with each other.”

“Violently?” He’d made a face, and she’d nodded solemnly.

“I shielded my siblings from a lot of flying plates.”

Ben found another thing to hate. Her parents, and how fucking sad she looked. “You miss them?”

“My parents?” She’d snorted. “I miss my dad. I hope my mom gets her head popped.”

He’d coughed to cover a laugh. “No, you fucking smartass. Your siblings.”

Her answer was quick and soft. “Every fucking day.”

Ben had grunted, watching the distance return to her face, and before he could stop himself, he was talking. “I didn’t have any siblings.”

Before he could curse himself out and try to distract Her with something else, she had been looking back at him with wide, focused eyes. “Do you wish you did?”

“I never thought about it,” he’d muttered. “My father was such a fucking dick I’m surprised he even got my mother to marry him, let alone fucking have one kid. I think he hated me enough to never fucking risk it again.”

“Risk it?” She’d kept her voice impossibly gentle as she’d asked, and it made his skin crawl all weird.

“I was the biggest fucking regret of his life. If he could go back and stop me from happening in the first place, make my mother flush me out, he wouldn’t have fucking hesitated.”

She’d paused, and a very fucking stupid part of Ben had thought she was going to let the conversation go. Of course, he should’ve fucking known by now that She damn well wouldn’t.

“What was your mom like?”

He hadn’t fucking expected that, and it had shocked him enough to answer. “Kind. Too kind for my father, he saw it as fucking weakness and told her all the fucking time. But she was so fucking kind.” He took a heavy breath. “She was full of love, and I have no fucking clue how. It was fucking stupid, all her love, even for my piece of shit father. He’d yell at her and threaten her and mock her, but she still fucking loved him. She fucking loved everything.”

Her voice was still gentle from beside him. “Like what?”

“Animals. Cats specifically. My father had all these fucking hunting dogs he loved more than anything, certainly more than me, and the only good thing he ever fucking did was trade one to get her a cat. It was massive, fluffy and gray, and it was a fucking asshole to everyone but her. It ate like a fucking elephant, shed like a whore in summer, but she loved it so fucking much.” At this point Ben had really wished he would shut the fuck up, but he couldn’t, and he was going to have to figure out a way to blame Her for that later. “She loved art. Painting. She tried to get me to love it too, even though I could barely draw a fucking worm. But I’d try, and she’d frame all my stupid, shitty drawings and hang them around the house until my father saw them and threw them in the trash. She loved music but couldn’t carry a tune if her life fucking depended on it. They’d go to the opera because my father would donate a ton for the publicity, and she’d come back all damn giddy. I’d wait up, just because she was fucking contagious when she was that happy. Even my father felt it, enough to just go straight to bed and not kick my ass for still being awake. She was fucking smart, too. Real fucking smart. My father would joke he wished she was a man, because then her brain would be useful. She would’ve fucking jumped for joy if she saw the world now. Met a fucking woman doctor.” He paused, looking back down at Her beside him. She hadn’t looked away from him, and there was none of the pity he’d expected to see on her face. It was just open, listening intently to his words with no malice or trickery behind her eyes.

“She sounds amazing.” She’d said softly, a small smile he didn’t understand on her face. “And your dad sounds like a fucking cunt.”

Ben had chuckled in surprise. “Fucking understatement of the damn year, Sunshine. That pussy would’ve tried to pry your degree from your fucking hands.”

“Let him try, I’d burn his fucking face off and laugh while I did it.”

“What were you even going to fucking do with a PhD in archeology?" He’d asked, and she’d huffed a small laugh.

“Anthropology, Pretty Boy. But nice guess.” She corrected. “And I’m honestly not sure. I’d quite literarily only just actually received the degree before everything… changed.” She’d sighed. “I had a few job offers, but mostly in academia and business. What I wanted was to work with nonprofits to help people.”

“Help people?” He’d given her a disbelieving stare. “With a prissy fucking degree?”

“Yeah, dickwad. Help people. I was a cultural anthropologist. I specialized in the evolution of cultures and ways to combat systemic cultural oppression.”

He’d stared at Her blankly. “You’re going to have to take down the fucking fancy talk by seven, Sunshine.”

“I studied how the government and culture is mean to people on purpose, and how to make them stop being mean.” She’d said flatly.

“Oh.” He’d rolled his eyes at the dirty look she was giving him. “Oh, fuck off. It wasn’t that painful to say.”

“Yes, it was.” She’d mumbled, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

“What’s there to fucking argue about?”

“I just called your beloved country an ‘oppressive system’.” She’d watched him wearily, but her heart remained steady. “Doesn’t it mar your refined American nationalism?”

“Do you fucking want me to be mad?” Ben had asked, raising his brows at her. “I can definitely find it in me, that’s not a fucking issue. But usually when we fight about this shit, you get all bitchy and don’t talk to me for way too fucking long.”

“I mean, no, I don’t want you to get mad…” She’d frowned, examining him with yet another fucking confusing look. “Does it really bother you when I ignore you?”

“No.” He’d snapped quickly. “It’s just annoying, and I don’t like having to fucking deal with it.”

She’d hummed with an amused smile on her face, and the conversation had moved on to something else. Ben had shoved down the way it had been so easy to talk about his mother with her, until it was somewhere in his gut and he didn’t have to think about the way the feeling rolled around inside him.

And he refused to even acknowledge how when She would smile now, he’d have to fight himself to not do the same.

———-

It had been a week since the Sage incident, a week since Ben had saved your life—you'd locked everything about that particular action from what you thought of it to how it made you feel somewhere deep in your chest—and you were starting to lose your mind a little bit. When Annie and Hughie had stopped by with nervous words about delays in your meticulously prepared and incredibly well-detailed plan, you’d been willing to wait another day, maybe two, before executing operation Quick and Bald. Now it had been three days, burgeoning on four, and you were worryingly close to leaving the safe house just to yell at Butcher. Ben could stay here, or follow you and help you beat Butcher up for all you cared. Which was, admittedly, worrying within itself. Especially because the whole point of operation Quick and Bald was to take preventative measures against Ben’s needless brutality.

Over a month ago, right after you’d moved into the safe house and when you had been ready to throttle Ben’s neck every waking moment—an urge that hadn’t entirely waned, but was now undercut with a weirder, stronger urge to be near him without any murderous intent—you’d spent the hours quarantined in your room perfecting your plan to get Ryan Butcher the fuck out of dodge. When they’d come to pick you and Ben up for the whole Neuman test, you’d left it in the van for Butcher to find, and had been waiting since for him to set up the dominoes so you could knock them over.

At this point, you’d be happy with not even “dominos to knock over” and just “one singular domino to throw at someone." You had begun to develop a habit of staring down the hall from the living room, trying to will someone to appear with at least a fucking update. So far this strategy was not working, and had apparently started to garner attention.

Sitting on the couch, the TV white noise in the background and noodles in your hand cold and forgotten, you felt a foreign rush of oddly tight concern run through your body. You frowned, heard your name from next to you, and turned to find that Ben had been poking your arm.

“Are you fucking alive?” He grunted, watching you with a frown.

“Literally? Yes.” You answered with a tight smile. “You have noodles on your face.”

He reached up to feel for them, not looking away from you. “What the fuck do you mean literally? How can you be fucking metaphorically alive?”

“Mind-body problem, Pretty Boy. And it’s not metaphorically, it’s philosophically.” You lean back, grinning.

“You’re a real fucking pretentious bitch sometimes.” He grumbled, still trying to find the food stuck to his beard.

“If you made me a shirt that said that, I’d wear it.”

“I’m not going to fucking make you a shirt, Sunshine. You couldn’t make me learn to fucking sow with a gun to my head.”

“Because the gun wouldn’t affect you at all?” You pointed to your own chin, mirroring where the noodle was caught.

He sneered. “Because I’m not a pussy.” His hand found the stray piece of his dinner, and he pulled it from his jaw.

“Big words from the man who took two tries to make me instant ramen- hey!” A wet noodle hits you in the face.

“Ramen your ungrateful ass didn’t even fucking eat.” Ben gave a pointed look at the abandoned cup in your hands, the food inside having long lost any heat. “Don’t fucking test me, or I’ll actually spit in your food next time.”

“Drama queen,” you muttered, peeking back at the door. “Like you don’t already do that.”

“I fight the urge to be a fucking bitch, unlike certain women.”

You nod absentmindedly. “Butcher.”

Ben snorted behind you, and a smile you hoped he didn’t see crept onto your face.

“Yeah, sure Sunshine.” His attention returned to the TV, and you did your best to not stare down the hall, trying to ignore the hope that the door now shrouded in darkness would open.

A successful effort that made you jump out of your seat when it did just that with an aggressive bang.

Ben was faster than you, practically launching himself over the sofa and bolting down the hall, a dangerous look of alarm the last thing you saw on his face before he was gone from the room.

“Shit, no! It’s me!” You heard a high-pitched shout from the shadows of the entrance. “It’s Hughie!”

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” You heard Ben’s growl of a response.

Butcher’s voice drawled from the shadows. “Oi, take a deep fucking breath and put the bloody kid down.”

“Someone fucking answer me first.”

“Put him down, Soldier Boy, before we knock your ancient ass the fuck out.” The impatient, clipped words of MM responded, almost drowned out by Frenchie's shout.

“Can someone turn on the fucking lights? It is as dark as Monsieur Butcher’s heart and asshole!”

“I- I don’t feel good.” Hughie’s voice stuttered.

“Ben!” You flicked on the hallway sconces, illuminating a scene of Ben’s full body weight pressing Hughie to the wall, Butcher and MM trying with practically negative success to pry him off, and Kimiko gripping one of Frenchie’s arms as his other groped around for direction. You let out a very long, very loud sigh. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s fucking late,” he snapped, not letting Hughie go. “They shouldn’t be here so fucking late.”

“This ain’t your real house, Mate.” Butcher grunted, still trying to move Ben. “We can be here whenever we bloody well please.”

Hughie wheezed out your name in a pleading tone. “Your plan is ready. We’re here to- fuck- we’re here to get you.”

That got you moving, crossing to the end of the hall in quick, frantic steps. “It’s ready? Are you sure?” Hughie gave a weak nod, and you rolled your eyes, shoving Ben shoulder. “Put him down, dumbass. He’s not a threat, and honestly, probably the worst one to have gone after. Just, like, strategically.”

Ben glared at you, but let go. He glanced at where MM and Butcher were still grabbing him, and gave them a venomous look that got them both to let go and take hasty steps back. He shot a glowering look of they could’ve fucking waited until the morning in your direction.

You wrinkled your nose at him. No. Shut the fuck up. You turned to Hughie, not even bothering to hide the desperation you felt in your imploring stare. “It’s all ready? All of it? A-Train agreed to help? We’re sure Ashley has the information? We’re sure neither one is going to tell Homelander, and we’re not about to walk into a fucking trap?”

“Yes, yes, yes, kind of, and yes.” Butcher counted off on his fingers as he answered. “But we’ve got to go right fucking now.”

“Kind of?” Anxious energy rushed through you—that still-strange feeling lighting under your skin—and you ignored the weird look Ben shot you as it did. “What do you mean, kind of? If you fucked this up, Butcher, I swear to God-"

“Calm the fuck down, Love.” Butcher snapped. “It’s going to be fine, we’ll explain on the way. But we need to go fucking now if you want this to work.”

You gave a sharp nod, starting to pull on your boot, glancing up with a pause when you heard Hughie say your name behind you.

“Do you, uh, do you want to get dressed first?” His voice was still slightly weak as he recovered from Ben’s force.

You glanced down at your body, and decided that the oversized shirt and cloth shorts would be fine. They were from the CIA spring fire-proof collection, and that was more than enough. “Nope. Let’s fucking move.”

You were halfway to the door when a crash sounded behind you, and you whirled around to see MM firmly blocking Ben’s path, the crash seeming to have been Hughie stumbling into the wall in an attempt to get away from the standoff.

“You’re not coming, Soldier Boy. This is a goddamn delicate operation, and you’re the fucking reason we have to do it in the first place. We can’t afford you throwing a tantrum and screwing us.”

“I’m fucking coming, and it’s not up for fucking debate.”

Off to the side, Frenchie snickered as Kimiko signed how many times do you think he’s said that before?

Ben shot them an annoyed look, his fists clenching. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“Nothing,” Frenchie snickered, and his tone was so remarkably unconvincing that even if you hadn’t understood Kimiko, you wouldn’t have believed him.

Ben grunted and tried to move past MM, again to no avail.

He glared down at the firmly planted man, a familiar violent glint in his eyes. “You better fucking move now, before I make you.”

“Do your fucking worst, we’ll put you right back in the box. You’re not coming with us.”

“MM,” you said firmly, watching Ben's fists clench as the dangerous glint returns to his eyes. “We need to go.”

MM looks back at you, but remains in his place. “Are you fucking serious? You’re siding with him?”

“I’m not siding with him.” You keep your voice level, ignoring Ben’s smug face and grin. “We can’t leave him. The I go where he goes thing unfortunately goes both ways.”

“The safe house will hold him for five hours.” MM pushed, and before you could even shake your head, Ben cut in.=

"No, it won’t.”

You shoot him a look that says you’re being unhelpful, and he just returns it with his own of fuck off, you know you fucking want me there.

“Please, MM. He’ll stay quiet in the background, or I’ll burn his dick off. Right?” You direct your last words at Ben, giving him a pointed agree with me or I’m knocking you out and leaving you here look.

“Yeah, whatever. But I’m not staying in the fucking van like a pussy. And you’d better explain what the fuck is happening on the way, Sunshine.”

“Deal. But first they,” You narrowed your eyes at Butcher. “Have some explaining of their own to do.”

“Don’t lose your bloody mind, Love, it’s all in order.” Butcher said breezily, shoving past you to open the door. He gave a dramatic wave of his arm for you to exit, and with a look of doubt, you did.

The car ride was already poised to be uncomfortable. Butcher’s car was not equipped for seven people, let alone seven people where three were very large men, three were supes, and nobody wanted to have physical contact with two. As such, Butcher drove, MM sat in the front, you found yourself squished against one window with Ben between you and a remarkably uncomfortable Hughie, as Kimiko sat, slightly elevated onto their laps, between Frenchie at the other window, and Hughie. It was overall an unideal situation, made worse as your own frustration was amplified by Ben’s, and by Hughie revealing that it was, in fact, not all in order.

Your phase one, the original operation Quick and Bald had called for Ashley Barrett’s complete cooperation. You’d even painstakingly outlined all the potential ways to flip her—most involving something along the lines of hey, wouldn’t a job that didn’t make you so stressed you rip out all your hair and have to buy a bunch of wigs be nice?—and different ways to keep Homelander from finding out about her betrayal—Spain was lovely this time of year, and had a thriving BDSM community Ashley would love. While MM had managed to take care of your instructions for A-Train, the half of the plan you’d incorrectly anticipated to be more difficult, the Ashley situation was, in Butcher’s words, very fucking delicate, but we’ve adapted and everything will be bloody fine, so trust me and don’t be a fucking cunt about it.

You did not trust him. I didn’t help that you’d asked for any other possible details, and he’d pretended he couldn’t hear you. This suspicion was confirmed when, despite your incredible clarity that you would never step foot there again, Butcher seemed to be driving right to Vought Tower.

Your eyes had been steadily widening, panic starting to run through you the closer and closer you got, and you flinched when you felt Ben’s roughly shoulder nudge your own.

“What’s fucking wrong with you?” He’d asked in a low voice, barely audible over Hughie’s rambling explanation.

“You should listen,” you mutter back, trying to shut out the confusing concern he always seemed to feel at you, how it felt remarkably genuine, but was laced with anger that felt like it was trying to push out of your body. “Hughie’s explaining the plan.”

“Yeah, but all I have to fucking do is stay quiet, and I get to keep my dick. You’re being fucking twitchy and silent, and your heart is beating faster than it has all damn day, so don’t even try to fucking lie and tell me it’s fine.”

“It is fine, I’m fine-“ You paused as his words sank in. “Wait, what do you mean my heart-“

“Alright, here we go.” Butcher cut off both you and Hughie with a clap of his hands. “Everyone bloody out, let’s get this shitshow on the road.”

“Butcher,” you said, looking around to see you’d parked directly across from the tower entrance. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

“We’re meeting them right there.” MM answered for Butcher, pointing out of his window to something you couldn’t see. “It’s almost midnight, and Annie’s been making sure nobody gets inside but us.”

“But why?” You protest, even as MM leaves the car. “This,” you give a wide, general wave that hits Ben in the nose. “Cannot be the only option.”

“Both of them still have their trackers,” Hughie leans forward with an apologetic look as Frenchie and Kimiko exit the car. “This will look like they’re just getting a midnight snack, and hopefully Homelander won’t get suspicious.”

“Hopefully?!” You feel a rush of anger—not yours—and a twist of fear deep within your gut—absolutely yours. “Hopefully fucking Homelander won’t get suspicious?!”

Hughie gave an uncertain nod before very quickly scrambling to get out of the car. You take a long, deep breath, trying to steel yourself. A rush of what was becoming a familiar fuming and brittle concern ran through you. You look at Ben, to find his eyes locked firmly onto yours.

“Sorry about hitting-“

“I know how to hot-wire a car.”

You blink at him, taken aback by the firmness of his voice. “What?”

His hand moved to grip your thigh, his gaze not wavering. “I know how to hot-wire a car.”

You give him a flat look. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Why are you telling me that?”

His frustration leaked into you. “Because say the word, I’ll steal Butcher’s car, and we’ll fucking leave.”

“What? Are you insane?”

“You look like you’re either going to start fucking crying or burst into flames, and this is a stupid fucking idea.”

“This was my plan.” You snap. “And I’m not stealing Butcher’s car. Why do you even know how to hot-wire a car anyway?”

Ben’s grip tightened. “No, your plan was stupidly well fucking thought out.”

“That’s an oxymoron.” You mutter, and he ignores you.

“And even if they haven’t completely fucking blown the execution, they completely squashed any chance of safety.”

“It’ll be fine,” you say, the words sounding fake even as you say them. “It’s late. He’s probably asleep.”

“What if he’s not?” His concern was starting to move to your throat, and there was something else, something sitting far deeper in your chest, beating and beating against you. Against you.

“Ben.” You place your hand over his. “I’ve worked too hard on this. This is the only way, and it will be fine.” You say the last words firmly and clearly, trying to make them sink into you. “Now take your fucking hand off of me, and get out of the damn car.”

He pulls himself from you, and even as his touch leaves, the concern and beat linger until he’s gone from the car. You drag yourself across the seats and ignore Hughie’s offer of a hand as you duck out of the car and onto the curb. You notice the 24 hour diner MM must have been pointing out almost immediately, half because—aside from an incredibly sketchy looking deli a few doors down—it’s the only building with its lights still on, and half because two very flustered teenagers are sulking away from the entrance, where Annie stands with her arms crossed. She’s already spotted your group, and has angeled her head in a signal to join her.

“You’re late.” She chides as you approach.

“Well, Starlight, I’d apologize, but it was those two fuckheads,” Ben and MM both receive a jabbed thumb over Butcher’s shoulder. “Who decided to draw out the bloody carpool process.”

“I told you not to call me Starlight anymore, Butcher.” Annie snaps, not giving him a chance to respond before she turns to you. “A-Train is, somehow, running behind as well. Hopefully Ashley’s just being resistant to getting food with him, but they’ll be here.”

“Isn’t running that pussy’s whole fucking thing?” Ben muttered, quiet enough for only you to hear. You step as hard as you can on his foot.

“Shut it, Pretty Boy.” You whisper over his grunt of what probably is more emotional pain than physical.

“Bitch.” He hisses back.

“Cunt.” You raise your voice so the others can hear you. “We should go inside, it’s risky to just… stand here.”

With nervous looks around and stuttered agreements, you all make your way into the diner. The lights are flickering, and it’s eerily empty with only a very nervous-looking blonde waitress at the counter. She makes a very big show of asking how many are in your party, leading you to a large, round table, and laying out the menus with shaky hands. Kimiko, Hughie, Annie, and MM try and offer her comforting smiles, though MM’s is strained as he keeps a vigilant glare on Ben. The waitress is staring at Ben herself, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, glacing back as she leaves to get your and Butcher’s coffee, Annie and MM’s tea, Kimiko and Hughie’s milkshakes, and Ben and Frenchie’s orders of “the strongest alcohol you’ve fucking got.” Your personal bet was it was going to just be very old beer.

“Why is she fucking staring at me?” Ben muttered to you, watching the waitress as she walked away. “Did you fuck up my beard that bad?”

“Your beard looks literally the same.” You dismiss. “And it’s because, as far as the public knows, Maeve killed you in a heroic act of self-sacrifice to stop your evil, anti-American attacks. That, or she wants to fuck you.”

“Hm,” he looks back at you, settling down into his seat. “Am I allowed to bring guests into the safe house?”

“No.” You say, a little more curtly than you intended. Seeing his wide, cocky grin, you clairfy. “It’s a breach of security. She would need to pass a CIA vetting and be approved by, like, twenty people. I don’t think she’d do that just to fuck you.”

Ben shrugs, his smirk only growing. “You did.”

“I’m going to cut off your balls and feed them to you-“

“Hey,” MM cuts you off, saying your name in a brisk, hard tone from across the table. “They’re here.”

You snap your head to the door, where A-Train is practically pushing Ashley into the diner.

You hear her voice clearly over the recession pop humming from the speakers. “Why can’t we just go to the fucking deli? They make these amazing meatball subs and supes eat free, so you could order for both of us- oh fuck no.”

“Oh, shit.” MM mutters, jumping to his feet with Butcher and Annie as Ashley notices them, and promptly tries to dash for the exit.

You don’t entirely blame her. You’d probably do the same. You had done the same, an unhelpful voice reminds you.

“I- Am- Not-“ Ashley is trying to get past A-Train, who hasn’t given up trying to herd her further into the diner. “Fuck- this-“

“Ashley, just listen to them, I fucking swear-“

“Why should I trust you?!” Ashley doubles over, out of breath. “You fucking tricked me! Midnight snack my fucking ass- Fuck no!” She raises a crooked finger at Annie, who has stopped in front of her. “Get the fuck away from me, you bitch.”

“Ashley, please listen to A-Train-“

“No! Just leave me the fuck alone! I don’t want to be a part of your weird fucking eye for an eye justice shit-“

“You kind of already are.” MM says as he locks the door behind her. “You work for Vought, your it’s motherfucking CEO. That makes you a part of this, like it or not.”

“Not!” Ashley shouts. “I don’t care what you have to say! Homelander’s going to fucking kill me, oh my god.” She starts to hyperventilate. “If he finds out I was here, he’ll kill you-“ She points a shaky finger at A-Train. “And then make me go on fucking TV to explain why you’re missing, and then fucking kill me-“

Butcher scoffs. “Bloody hell, lady. Calm the fuck down, Homelander ain’t gonna find out.”

“You don’t know that!” She shrieked. “He knows fucking everything! Especially since fucking Sage joined!” She spins around frantically, and her wild eyes lock onto yours. “He knows about them!” A shaking finger jumps between you and Ben. “Fuck! He’s supposed to be fucking asleep and now he’s fucking not! And he was so fucking angry about her, I’ve never seen him so fucking angry-“

Whatever else Ashley stutters about Homelander’s anger is lost to you as the world freezes. The feeling isn’t just under your skin, it’s up your spine, in your blood, circling around your brain. It’s fucking everywhere and you can’t fucking breathe, her words looping around you.

He knows. He’s angry. He fucking knows. He’s fucking angry. He fucking knows and he’s fucking angry and he fucking knows and he’s fucking angry and-

A white hot, impossibly calm feeling crashes over you. It’s angry, hungry and angry, but it’s grounding, sharpening everything around you. Suddenly the world is back in complete focus, Ashley’s shrill rambling scraping at your ears, and in the distance that weird fucking rhythm is sounding. As the feeling in your body returns fully, you realize Ben’s hand is back on your thigh. You bounce it, looking up to give him a glare, and find he’s not even looking at you. Instead, his eyes are trained on Ashley, narrowed and cold. You give a small cough, and when he glances down at you, the feeling of anger stutters with something lighter, though only for a second.

You give another bounce of your leg, a look of move your damn hand or lose it taking over your face.

No, not until you calm the fuck down his scowl responds.

You huff, standing abruptly, and his hand falls off at the force of your movement. Suddenly you feel a lot less solid, but reason that your legs are shaky from the Homelander of it all, and if any situation calls for fractured nerves, it’s this one.

“Ashley.” You call across the diner, trying not to stutter or chew off your lip as her protests falters and attention turns to you. “If you know who I am, you know I wouldn’t be anywhere near here if we weren’t certain it was safe. Just have some food with us, listen, and then you can go.”

Ashley gives you a scowl that might surpass Ben’s but nods tightly, yanking her arm from where A-Train had been trying to hold her in place. You sit back down as the group at the door returns to their seats, the poor waitress pressing herself against the bar as they pass. Letting out a shaky, unsteady breath, you try and still yourself as you look out the diner window. City lights. Music.

City lights.

Music.

It was safe. He knows and he’s angry but was safe and there were city lights and music.

Your breathing was no longer coming in short, distressed bursts, but getting air in and out of yourself still felt like an act of labor, and you needed to get it the fuck together before Ashley sat down.

City lights. Music.

You can’t hear the song the diner is playing, instead letting your whole mind turn inward, allowing the ghost of music you can no longer sing to wash over you.

Ashley sits across from you right when you regain control, and from the corner of your eye, you see Ben pulling his hand from where it had been inching towards yours.

Her eyes flit, nerves poorly hidden, from you to Ben to Butcher to Annie and back to you, and her voice is high and shaky when she speaks. “Well?”

“Ashley, we need your help.” Annie leans forward, palms flat on the table.

“Well, then we’re done. I can’t help you. They don’t tell me anything, not really.” Ashley tries to stand, but her arm is caught by A-Train. “Really?” A-Train hisses as he pulls her back into her seat beside him. “They don’t tell you anything my ass, we sit in on all the same meetings. And I pulled these files-“ He pulls out a thumb drive from absolutely nowhere and drops it on the table. “Using your name, so you clearly have access to them.”

“What?!” Ashley looks at the thumb drive like it’s going to either explode or start jizzing on her blouse. “Why would you fucking do that?”

“Insurance.” A-Train answers smugly, the thumbdrive clearly having his intended. “I can’t open it, so you’re going to tell them how, and then I’ll erase the records of you taking the files from the system.”

Ashley looks around at your group, shaking her head. “No.”

“Sorry, Mate. We ain’t really asking.” Butcher leans across A-Train, shoving the thumb drive closer to Ashley. “Do us this solid, and A-Train won’t go right up to Homelander and tell him about how he saw you also cuddly and tight with me, Soldier Boy, and his favorite missing person.”

Your heart jumps right into your throat. City lights. Music.

Suddenly, Ben’s elbow is planted against yours, and you’re pulled back down to earth just in time to hear Ashley yell, “This is fucking blackmail! I’ll fucking sue!”

“You cannot sue government officials, madame.” Frenchie says smugly, and Hughie shakes his head.

“That’s- Frenchie, that’s not even kind of true.”

“You’re also not a government official.” Annie adds.

Frenchie looks genuinely perplexed at this and gives Kimiko a confused frown, receiving a shrug in return.

“But,” you pipe up, your voice somehow bored and casual. “I’m legally dead. He’s-“ You jab Ben in the chest, and Ashley’s eyes widen. “Legally dead and an enemy of the state. You can’t sue either of us, not without admitting some Vought secrets that will be very bad PR.” You give her a twisted smile, leering across the table. “Help us, or, even if Homelander believes you, which we both know he won’t, you’ll get fired. And I’m sure they’ll be very understanding and normal about how they do it.”

You feel a flash of weird pride and realize you can see Ben fighting a smile in your periphery.

Ashley has a fearful expression, looking at where your elbow is still connected with Ben’s. “What- what's even on it?”

“Becca Butcher files.” You say, not taking your gaze from her, but you didn’t need to look around to see the sudden, rigidness with which everyone sat. You even felt Ben’s own shock run through you.

You’d be lying if you said hiding the exact contents of the file hadn’t been a very purposeful choice that you and Butcher had made. He’d cornered you, demanding to know what you planned on doing should Soldier Boy go after Ryan, and you’d told him that it wouldn’t be an issue. Ryan looked up to Homelander, that was why he stayed. He’d lost his mother, he didn’t trust Butcher, all the poor kid had was his insane, sociopathic father. Some part of you—small and sad and tired, still sitting on a staircase in Boston—understood that. But with Becca gone, gone forever, Ryan didn’t have a place to run like you’d had. Homelander was the default, and just kind enough to his son that Ryan could force himself to forgive Homelander again and again. Homelander was safe for Ryan.

You were going to make sure Ryan never saw Homelander as safe again. And that started with Becca Butcher and would end with you. So you and Butcher had agreed with a tight handshaked that he'd ripped his hand from right after, everyone was only going to know what they needed to. That was the only way it would work.

“Becca Butcher files?” MM repeats in a slow, incredulous tone. “You,” he turns with a look of shock to Butcher. “You knew about this? You’re fuckin okay with this?”

“I’m doing what has to be done, Mate.” Butcher answers flatly, then says your name. “Tell ‘em the plan, Love.”

“We need to get Ryan away from Homelander. Ryan needs to know about his mother.”

“No,” Ashley was emerging from the shock to try and stand from the table, but A-Train’s arm shot out, pulling her back down once more. “No,” she says again, looking around desperately. “Ryan, Ryan is all he has. All he cares about. You take Ryan he’ll lose his mind-“

“He’s already lost his mind.” Something snaps in your chest—a cruel feeling waking up as you watch Ashley fret about Homelander. “And I couldn’t give less fucks about what he cares about.” The feeling is crawling across your skin. “If this hurts him, good. It could never hurt him enough to make it right.” You hear drums and still can’t place where they’re coming from. “Now listen to the last fucking strand of your morality on your scalp and fucking help us.”

Ashley shakes her head again, this time with less certainty. “It’s- no- He-“ she pulls in a deep, unsteady breath. “He won’t stop until he gets Ryan back. He already is going insane about you and him and how he needs to get you back safe and put him back down, and if Ryan goes to then nothing will stop him-“

The drums are loud now, and something that’s usually there on Ben’s face is missing. Your own body doesn’t feel entirely normal anymore, but it’s not paralyzed or running. You can feel something in Ben caving, falling inward in a growing rhythm, moving in time as something in you grows. It's not in you now, it’s across you, coating your skin and singing with glee.

“Ashley,” the sound of your voice is a little far away, but you can hear it echo through you. It’s wired, hot, a warning.

“I- I can’t.”

“Yes, you fucking can.” You sneer. “You’re just too much of a pussy to do it.” Ben coughs in the way that you know means he wants to laugh, just as the drums stutter and move farther away.

“Please, I don’t-“

“Do not make me stab you.”

Ashley falters, looking you up and down. “You won’t.”

“Trust me, she will.” Ben smirks, giving you a nudge. “She’s surprisingly violent.”

“I, I won’t. I can’t. He’ll kill me-“

“You think we won’t?” Ben growls, any amusement in him gone as you feel something unbreakable and resolved through your body.

Ashley tries to run again, this time actually managing to get up from the table, but is knocked flat on her ass by A-Train before she can take two steps. You stand and give the itch, now under your tongue and your nails, a small scratch.

“Oh, fuck no.” You hear scrambling as you walk around the table and stop, staring down at Ashley.

She’s crawling back from you, back from the fire curling from your whole body, and disgust curls in your gut. For the first time you feel anger—insatiable and gory anger—all of your own. No city lights flash around you, no hollow music dances around your head. You don’t fear Ashley. She’s weak and spineless. She’s willing to cover her hands in Ryan’s blood, in your blood, to keep herself safe from Homelander. She’s staring at you, terrified, and you don’t need to touch her to know it isn’t even a fraction of all the fear you felt in that white room. That white room she knows about, may have seen, and is still trying to keep Homelander happy.

You bend down, letting all your hatred for Vought, for her, cover your features. When you speak, your words are clear and low.

“You are going to tell Butcher how to access the thumbdrive. A-Train and you are going to take some food with you, and walk back to the tower. You aren’t going to tell Homelander about this, and if he asks, offer him some leftovers. A-Train will erase your activity from the files, and you’re going to pretend the whole night never happened. If you tell Homelander about either me or Be-“ You correct yourself smoothly. “Soldier Boy, the last thing I will do before he locks me away again is kill you. Do I make myself clear?”

Ashley nods frantically, flinching when you raise your hand.

“Say it. Say that I made myself clear.”

“You-“ Ashley stutters, hiccuping. “You made yourself clear.”

You draw yourself back up. “Good. Butcher, I’m leaving. You can drive me and come back, or Ben can steal your car, but I’m leaving.”

When you turn, when you see the looks on your team’s face, all the anger is gone, and suddenly there is a crushing, painful weight of shame on your chest. They’re looking at you like Ashley had been, like you’re no better than Homelander. Like maybe you should go back in the room, it would be safer for them, it would be safer for everyone if you were far, far away-

“You heard the lady.” Ben is standing, walking around to your side. “It’s late. We’re leaving. Sunshine?” He offers you his arm, and you stare between it and your own, still covered in flame. Looking up, his face looks bored, as if this is just another Tuesday, and he offers his arm to women who are actively ablaze on a regular basis.

Your face feels slack, and all you can manage is to blink at him. I’ll burn you, Pretty Boy. It’ll hurt.

His brows subtly knit, and he doesn’t move. I’ll live, Sunshine. Don’t let them see you break. We’re going home.

You look back at your team, a wide circle of berth having formed around you and Ben. Butcher is looking between the two of you, and you recognize that glint in his eyes. You’d seen it before, but it’s only been really, truly directed at you once. In a graveyard in Boston, gravestones and bushes around you burning in the dead of winter, holding a bucket of ice that steamed off your skin. Under it, fear begins to creep back into you, exhaustion pushing it forward. Butcher reaches behind him, and your knees feel weak.

But you don’t fall. Zealous anger, strong and raw, spreads through you and Butcher’s movements still. You look down and find Ben’s arm unflinchingly looped through yours, his body at its full height as his eyes rake coldly over Butcher.

The silence hangs in the air, cut through only by Ashley’s quick, sobbed breaths. For a second you think the smoke seeping from you will overtake the room before anyone moves, but Butcher slowly reaches into his pockets, eyes not leaving Ben’s, and throws the keys at Hughie.

“Drop them off, Mate, then come right back. No bloody detours.”

Hughie stares at the keys, looking like he’s going to protest, but Kimiko grabs them before he can.

She turns to you, completely composed, no fear wavering as she locks your eyes with hers. I’ll take you.

Before you can thank her, Frenchie steps forward, signing as he speaks. “Mon Coeur, you cannot drive.”

She frowns. Yes I can.

“No, Mon Coeur, not legally.” Frenchie says, exasperated, and you have a feeling this is not first time they've had this debate.

Kimiko rolls her eyes at you. Fine. She signs back at Frenchie, throwing the keys at him. You’ll do it.

Frenchie stumbles as he catches them, giving Kimiko a shocked look, which she pretends not to see as she walks to the door, signing at you as she passes.

Let’s go before Butcher’s brain starts working.

A small smile threatens your face, and you move, tugging Ben’s arm only once before he falls into pace with you, Frenchie scrambling behind you both.

The car ride back feels longer. The moment you’d stepped out of the diner, your body had extinguished, and you had a worrying sense that the only thing keeping you from collapsing on the sidewalk was Ben’s arm firm through yours. No words were said for the entirety of the drive, you and Ben in the backseat as Frenchie drove and Kimiko lounged in shotgun, and your brain raced. Ben hadn’t let go, and the drums were fading in and out of your chest as he stared ahead into the night.

You arrived at the safe house, only a street lamp casting a dull glow across the street. The chill of the wind cutting against you as Kimiko walked you to the door, Frenchie mumbling something about keeping the car safe from Hooligans. Ben made to step inside, but halted, still not releasing your arm, as you stayed at the doorstep.

At his questioning glare, you tried to wiggle his arm from yours. “Go inside, Ben. I’ll be right there.”

He looked down at where he was still connected with you, and you felt reluctance in time with the drums, but he let go with a scowl. “Be fast,” he grunted, and stomped into the house.

You watched until he’d disappeared fully down the hall, turning to Kimiko only once his back was shrouded in the darkness of the house.

“Thank you,” you give her a soft smile, signing as you speak. “I- I don’t know what happened, I just-“

She shakes her head, and you trail off. I understand. I get angry too. She pauses, hands hovering for only a second. We are not like them. She points down the street, in the direction of the tower, and then past you, into the house. We get to be angry.

“I don’t want to be angry.” You say softly. “He wins when I get angry.”

Kimiko gives you a sad look, placing a hand on your arm. Her own frustration, her fear of Homelander, all the anger at the world, sinks into you. She holds your gaze for a second before drawing back to sign once more. He doesn’t win when you’re angry. He wins when you’re scared. You’re not Soldier Boy. Your anger is good.

You glance back into the house. “I think he- Ben- Soldier Boy- is scared. Or something. His emotions are really fucking confusing.”

You let him touch you. She signs. Does he know?

“He said he didn’t care, because he’s, and I quote, ‘not a pussy with something to hide’.”

But he’s scared? She gives you a questioning frown. Do you think it’s because of Russia? Could you fix it, like you offered for me?

“I’m not sure, but-“ you’re cut off as Frenchie honks the horn, leaning out the window.

“Mon Coeur!” His odd position makes his signing almost unintelligible, which he seems to realize, and raises his voice. “Monsieur Butcher says to get back ‘like a hare with a bomb up it’s arse'.”

Kimiko rolls her eyes at you, but signs a goodbye, giving your hand a small squeeze before returning to the car. As the engine rumbles, Frenchie pulling out the driveway, Kimiko’s calm faith lingers in you, and you walk back into the house, shutting the door behind you.

Almost all the lamps and ceiling lights of the house are off, the TV glowing from where you had abandoned it several hours ago. From the bottom of the stairs, you can see the upstairs hall is washed in a soft yellow, and when you reach the top Ben’s door is open, the light from within filling the hall. You stop at the entrance to his room, his back to you as he pulls a cotton shirt over his head.

You let out a small cough in a weak attempt to alert him to your presence.

“You’re allowed to just come in, Sunshine.” He grunts, still facing away. “I’m not a shy little virgin you need to pussyfoot around.”

You let out a small hum, walking over the threshold and stopping a few feet behind him. “Thank you.” You say softly, and he turns around to look at you.

His eyes are tired. Pained. Something looks like it’s pulling at him and it scares you. You’ve seen that expression before, when you’d woken him up that first day, at the Neuman mission, when you pulled him from nightmares with sharp hits, but never just there. It was always with something. This was like an island, just him and you, nothing pulling it out of him.

“Don’t thank me.” He says gruffly. Even his voice is drained. “You mostly held your own.”

“But-“

“And stop feeling bad about that Ashley bitch. She fucking deserved it.”

You stare at him. “You really believe that?”

He lets out a hollow laugh. “She was fucking pathetic. A fucking pussy. Fucking eating out Homelander’s fucking hand, brown-nosing him until he fucking cums and pays her, letting him take you-“ His jaw clenches. “I fucking meant it when I said we’re not going back Sunshine. I’m not a goddamn pussy liar.”

“I didn’t think you were. But, you…” Your voice fades as you try to find the words. “I could feel you. At the diner.”

“I fucking know, that was the goddamn point. I wasn’t going to let you start crying in front of those self-righteous pussies.”

“No, Ben.” You shake your head. “I could feel you. I could feel it.” You place a hand over your chest. “It was building. There was something beating against you, inside you. And you looked…” You watch him carefully. “Scared.”

“Fucking watch it.” He growls. “I don’t get fucking scared. I’m not-“

“A fucking pussy. I know.” You sigh. “I don’t want to, I can’t, fight right now. I’m so fucking tired. You can scream at me in the morning, but not right now, please.”

He stares at you, and just when you think he’s going to start yelling, he nods. “You’re…” He sounds strange. “You’re ok.”

Just like the last time he said it, the words aren’t phrased like a question. They don’t feel like a question. It feels like he’s just telling you again. But there’s something under it this time, something that makes his words almost unsure. Something that makes up your mind faster than you thought you would.

“Are you?” You ask quietly.

“Of course I fucking am.”

“Ben.” You tilt your head at him. “I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to respond now.”

“You’re being fucking weird, Sunshine.”

“Please.”

He relents with a grunt. “Fucking fine. What.”

“I can fix it.” It’s so hard to keep his gaze as you speak. “It will take time, but I can fix it.”

“Fix what.” He scowls. “There’s nothing to fucking fix.”

“Your PTSD.”

“I don’t fucking have-“

“Ben, I could feel it. It’s dangerous. I could fix it.” You take a deep breath. “I can fix internal injuries as well. I offered to fix Kimiko’s muteness, but she didn’t want me to do it.”

“Then what fucking makes you think-“

“Muteness isn’t dangerous. And it would’ve been harder for me, I might have ended up mute myself. You’re dangerous like this. You can’t fucking control it, and don’t try and lie and say it’s under control. Ashley mentioned putting you back under, and you looked like someone was drowning you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sunshine.” He leers at you. “You don’t fucking know me, know what it was like-“

“I do. You know I do.” You whisper, and the anger on his face breaks. “More than anyone else, I know. I can fix it, but you’ll have to let me. Just-“ You search his eyes, not sure what you’re looking for. “Just think about it. I won’t mention it again, I won’t even touch you, but my offer will stay on the table. Please, just think about it.”

Before you can leave, he grabs your hand. A rush of painful exhaustion runs through you, and there’s anger, but it’s not full of the fervor you’ve come to expect from him. It’s not even at you. It’s wide and almost consuming, leaving room for only a small kernel of something fragile and warm.

“I don’t care if you keep touching me, Sunshine. I've go nothing to hide from you, and that’s not going to change. But there’s nothing in me you need to fucking fix, so don’t fucking bother.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, Ben,” You murmur. "But remember, you burn, I burn. Please don't burn." Your last words are soft, and the kernel pulses.

“Good,” he grunts, releasing your arm. A small smirk crawls onto his face. “Now I don’t care if it’s here or in your room, Sunshine, but you need to go the fuck to bed. You look like shit.”

Just as he says it, the full weight of your fatigue hits you. You give a mumbled acknowledgement of his words, and try to leave the room, but all the adrenaline is gone from your system and nothing is left to stop the failure of your legs or droop of your eyes. The last thing you feel is something pulling you up before your knees hit the carpet, the last thing you see is green eyes on your own, and you hear an amused snort from above you.

“Goodnight, Sunshine. Try not to dream about me.”

You try to object, but sleep pulls you under before you can even remember why you need to.

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urmomahahahaha · 1 year ago

Text

I’m sorry but whenever I see Josh Hutcherson smut where the characters like rough asf I js remember he’s a 5’5 silly guy that looks like the sweetest guy on earth and you guys are making him call you a dirty whore

#josh hutcherson #josh hutcherson smut #josh hutcherson x reader #Derek danforth #peeta mellark #mike schmidt #fnaf movie #mike Schmidt x reader #derek danforth x reader #billy burn #josh futturman #josh futterman x reader #josh futturman smut #mike schmidt smut #peeta mallark x reader #peeta mellark smut

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salmonballsss · 13 days ago

Text

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 12)

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: None.

Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting right across your face. You groan and shift, immediately regretting it. Your head is pounding. Nausea coils deep in your gut. And your body—god—it feels like it’s been dragged ten miles through wet cement.

You try to sit up, but your limbs are lead. Even your eyes refuse to cooperate. Heavy. Dry. Almost… crusted at the edges. You roll fully onto your back, trying to breathe through the dizziness, when you feel it— Something cold. Wet. Pressed up against your ribs.

What the fuck?

Frowning, you rub your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to get them to open fully. You’re groggy. Disoriented. You don’t even remember getting into bed last night. Your hand slides down your torso—tentative, searching—and slips beneath your shirt. Your fingers brush something. Wet and Slimy. You recoil.

“What the hell—?” Yanking your shirt up, you blink down at your side, and— A leaf? No. A fucking plantain leaf? It’s dark green and glossy and tucked like a compress right over your ribs, soaked through with something sticky and bitter smelling.

You sniff once and instantly regret it. “What the hell is that—?” You sit up a little too fast and the room lurches around you. The headache surges. You brace yourself on the mattress, breathing hard, squinting toward the dim outline of the guest room furniture.

You swear your skin smells like incense and moss.

You tug the leaf away, wincing at the strange suction it makes as it peels from your side. Beneath it, were your stitches yes— but the black veins seemed to have gone down. Meaning the leaf was there on purpose and only one person couldve done that.

Agatha.

You press your palm to your forehead and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to piece it all together. The wine. The fireplace. The way her eyes shimmered in the dark. And then— Her lips. On yours.

Crushing. Hungry. Familiar in a way they shouldn’t be.

“I know you… just not this body.”

You swallow hard. Your mouth’s dry. Your stomach churns. No. No, that didn’t happen. You dreamt that. That wasn’t real. Except your lips still feel bruised. And your neck—god—your neck stings.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and almost fall flat on your face. It takes everything in you to stand. Your knees are trembling. Your arms ache. Your heart’s going way too fast for someone who just woke up.

The hallway is quiet when you step out, clutching the doorframe. No footsteps. No voices. No hum of activity. Just you. The creak of wood beneath your feet. The distant sigh of wind through the windows.

You stumble into the bathroom. The light above the mirror flickers when you flick it on, buzzing faintly like it resents being used. You squint at your reflection.

Jesus.

There, on your neck— You lean closer. Pull your shirt collar down. A hickey. Dark. Purple red. Right above your collarbone. And next to it, lower, angling toward the curve of your throat— A bite mark. Two little indents. Not deep enough to break skin. But unmistakable.

Your stomach drops. No. No, no, no. What the fuck happened last night? You grip the edges of the sink and try to breathe. Okay. Okay. You kissed.

You definitely kissed. You remember her hands—rough and shaking—and your own grabbing fistfuls of her sweater, yanking it up, desperate for skin.

But the bite?

The hickey?

The Leaf?

Her eyes. Violet. Burning like candles in the dark.

“I know you... just not this body.” You whisper it aloud, and the sound of your voice makes your skin crawl. She said that. Didn’t she? It wasn’t a dream.

You reach up and touch your lips like maybe you’ll feel it again—her mouth, her warmth, the way she practically devoured you against the wall.

You flush all over. Then cringe. Then flush again.

Fuck.

You can’t go downstairs.

There’s no way in hell you’re going down there and facing her—not after this. Not after the bite, or the kiss, or the goddamn plant medicine pressed to your ribs like a ritual. You look in the mirror again and your own eyes look unfamiliar. Wide. Haunted. You press your back to the bathroom door, chest heaving, brain scrambled.

Outside the window, a crow caws once. Loud. Sharp. Close. You don’t move. Downstairs, somewhere deep in the house, you think you hear something shift. A floorboard creaking. Slow. Deliberate.

But it doesn’t come closer. She’s giving you space. Or avoiding you. Or—worst of all—pretending like it didn’t happen at all.

You groan into your hands, dragging your fingers down your face. Did she hate it? Were you a bad kisser? Oh god. You insulted her. You might’ve said something about choking on her own lies??

“Shit, shit, shit,” you mutter. “Okay. Calm down. You’re fine. It’s fine. You’re—” Oh god, what if she hates you now? What if she wants to kick you out? Let the beast finish the job? You stare at the bathroom floor for a long second.

She wouldn’t do that. Right?

If she wanted you dead, she would've let you wander off into the woods last night. You were drunk. You were vulnerable. You were asking questions no sane woman would answer. She could’ve just… let you go. So what, then? What now?

You square your shoulders in the mirror, staring yourself down like your reflection might have the guts you don’t.

“Okay,” you breathe. “You’re going to go downstairs. You’re going to act normal. Like a functioning adult. You're going to make some tea or whatever. Smile. Say thank you. Pretend you don’t remember trying to climb her like a tree.”

You give your reflection a weak thumbs up.

She loooks unconvinced.

You draw in a breath. Hold it. Let it out slow. Then do it again. You adjust your shirt so it hides the hickey. Mostly. You tug at your sleeves. Finger comb your hair. And for good measure, slap your cheeks once. Not hard. Just enough to feel something real.

“Okay,” you say again, quieter this time. “Okay.” The hallway outside is still quiet. Oppressively so. Every floorboard creaks louder than it should under your feet. Every shadow feels like it’s watching.

The house is quiet as you step down the stairs, the wood creaking under your bare feet. Each step makes your stomach flip a little—not just from the lingering nausea but from sheer, unfiltered dread. Your mouth’s dry. Your palms are sweating. Your entire body feels like a crime scene.

You catch sight of her in the kitchen.

Agatha.

Standing at the stove. Stirring something slowly in a black cast iron pot, like she wasn’t just a human hurricane twenty four hours ago. Agatha was wearing her hair up in a loose pony with strands pulled out. A grey button up with a delicious amount of chest showing, and a pair of jeans that hugged her oh so perfectly. She hasn’t noticed you yet.

You swallow. Your legs nearly turn you around and send you sprinting back upstairs. But she hears you. “Morning,” she says, without turning. Her voice is casual. Too casual.

You pause “…Hi.” She glances over her shoulder, just once. Her eyes flick to yours. A beat passes. Then another.

Her gaze lingers a second too long before she turns back to the stove. You drift closer, arms crossed. You feel twelve years old. You feel like the room’s gotten smaller somehow.

“What’s that?” you ask, motioning to the pot.

“Tea.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Silence.

She stirs. You rock on your heels. She still hasn’t met your eyes again.

God, this is awful.

“I—um—thanks,” you say suddenly. “For the... leaf compress situation. Very witch doctor chic of you.” That gets a flicker of a smirk from her. Barely there, but real.

“Your black veining,” she says, still not looking up. “I researched ways…to help.”

“Right, okay… thanks”

More silence.

Then she clears her throat. “I left you some toast. On the table.” You turn—and sure enough, there’s a plate with toast. Buttered. Cut diagonally. Of course. You blink at it. She’s being nice. Which might be worse than her being mean.

You sit. The toast smells good. You don’t touch it.

Agatha finally turns off the stove and walks over, setting down a mug of whatever she made in front of you. She moves to the other side of the table and sits across from you. A safe, polite distance. You both stare at your respective mugs like they hold the secrets to the universe.

Then—

“About last night—”

You both stop. Blink. A flicker of something passes between you. She looks away first. You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “I... don’t remember everything,” you say quietly. “It’s kind of a blur.”

Her jaw tightens. “You had too much wine.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“You didn’t look like you wanted to be stopped.”

You freeze. She exhales. Leans back in her chair, eyes trained on the window now. “I should’ve,” she says. “You were injured. You were vulnerable. I—”

She stops herself. You wait. But she doesn’t finish the sentence. Your throat feels tight. Your heart’s pounding. “So it was a mistake?”

Agatha’s eyes snap back to yours. There’s a long, loaded pause. She doesn’t answer. But her gaze drifts again—slow, deliberate—to your neck. You feel the air shift between you. Her cheekbones flush with the faintest, pinkest tint.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her blush before, well except for last night. You guys were all over each other like some hormonal teens.

She swallows. “You should eat.” Then she gets up. Just like that. Disappears into the living room like the conversation didn’t happen. And you’re left sitting there. Still not sure if the kiss meant anything. Still not sure if she wants it to.

You try not to think about it as you take a bite of toast.

You really, really try.

But then your brain helpfully reminds you, she had pinned you against the door. Her mouth hot and hungry, dragging along your jaw. Her teeth—actual teeth—at your throat. You can feel the ghost of it now. The bruise. The bite. The way she’d sucked a hickey into your skin like she wanted to claim you.

You chew slowly. Stare at the plate like it’s personally offended you.

God.

Your stomach still simmers with leftover arousal, low and traitorous. How are you supposed to sit here and eat breakfast like a normal person when that happened? You press your thighs together under the table and sigh through your nose.

You should probably tell Billy.

Or… maybe not. He’d just laugh. Call you a disaster. Make fun og you for your tragic taste in women. Not to mention you still haven't told him about the whole beast summoning incident, or the things Irene showed you, or the fact that you’ve almost died multiple times in the past five days.

And that the only reason you haven’t is Agatha fucking Harkness. Your head drops into your hand. What the hell are you doing here? You blink yourself back to reality and force down another bite of toast. The crust crunches loudly in your mouth.

You clear your throat. “Don’t you have to eat too?” you call out, half loud, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

There’s a beat of quiet from the other room. Then the soft clink of something being set down. Agatha reappears a second later, lingering in the doorway to the kitchen. She leans against the frame, arms crossed, one eyebrow slightly raised. “I don’t really eat breakfast,” she says.

“Right,” you mutter. “Of course you don’t. Too immortal for toast.” Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile. But close.

But she doesn’t correct you?

You watch her watching you, and for a moment you swear the air hums between you again. Tense. Curious. Like neither of you knows what happens next. You reach for your tea, hands suddenly a little too shaky.

You sip your tea even though it’s gone lukewarm. It tastes like mint and something earthy, something slightly bitter that lingers at the back of your tongue. Not bad. Just… unfamiliar. You wonder if she made it for herself and then gave it to you instead.

Agatha still hasn’t moved from the doorway. She’s watching you like you’re a puzzle she doesn’t remember how to solve. You risk another glance at her and regret it immediately. Because she’s doing that thing again.

That thing where her eyes go distant—like she’s not really looking at you, just through you. Like there’s something she’s thinking about, but she’ll never say it out loud. You shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of how tight the kitchen feels.

She pushes off the doorframe finally, arms dropping to her sides. “I’m going out today,” she says, her voice a little too casual.

You blink. “Oh.”

“For… errands.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Errands?” She nods. No further explanation. You stare at her. She stares back. A full beat passes. Then another. You squint at her slightly. “You know, most people specify when they say ‘errands.’ Like, groceries. Post office. Dry cleaning. Human things.”

Agatha lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m not most people.”

You snort under your breath. “No shit.”

She doesn’t laugh, God, this is unbearable. You finish chewing, swallow, and say, “So... when can I leave?”

Her gaze snaps back to yours. “Leave?”

You nod, not bothering to mask the awkward edge in your tone. “Yeah. As in, leave the house. I’ve kinda been… cooped up here. Like, not even allowed to step outside without getting attacked by a hellbeast, or so you say.” Agatha presses her lips together. She doesn’t answer. You push your plate slightly away. “I have a flight back home in two days. Bought the ticket before—well, before everything. Am I even allowed to leave for that?”

You mean it as a joke. Sort of. But it comes out too sharp. Too real.

Agatha’s face goes unreadable again. That neutral, careful mask she puts on when she doesn’t want you to see what she’s really thinking. “You’re still healing,” she says. “The infection’s not completely gone.”

Right. The veins. The black, spreading horror that had nearly consumed your side. At least what agatha did helped them reel it back.

But even so. “I can’t stay here forever,” you say, trying to keep your voice level. “I have a thesis. A life. People who’ll wonder where I went.”

Her fingers drum lightly on the back of a kitchen chair. Not impatient—more like calculating. “I know,” she says eventually. You wait for more. You don’t get it. The silence stretches out again. Uncomfortable. Fidgety. She doesn’t sit down. She doesn’t say Don’t go or You’re safe here or even I’ll miss you when you leave.

She just… nods. Like she’s already made peace with it. Or like she knew this was coming all along. You pick at a crumb on your plate and bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m not saying I want to run away,” you add, softer now. “Just—some clarity would be nice.”

Agatha’s eyes meet yours again, and something in her expression softens. Barely. “I’ll make sure you’re able to go,” she says. “If that’s still what you want in two days.”

If. Not when. You don’t know what to do with that. You open your mouth to say something—anything—but she straightens before you can. “I’ll be back later,” she says, already halfway turned toward the front hallway. “Don’t go near the woods.”

You stare after her. “Yeah, thanks, figured that one out.”

She pauses, hand on the edge of the doorframe. “Keep the crow out of the house,” she adds, like it’s a normal thing to say.

Then she’s gone. Just like that. The door shuts quietly behind her, and the house feels even more suffocating in her absence. You stare at your half eaten toast.

The cold tea. The empty chair across from you. And you wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do now.

---

It’s been two hours since Agatha left.

You’ve been working on your thesis. Or trying to, anyway.

Your laptop sits open on the dining room table, the cursor blinking back at you in silent judgment. You’ve written maybe… two paragraphs? Half of which are riddled with typos and half baked thoughts. Your notes are scattered across the table—scribbled margins, highlighter stains, printouts of seventeenth-century court records you promised yourself you’d organize weeks ago, even when you were stillin Washington.

The words don’t want to come. Every time you try to focus, your mind drifts back to her . The way she said “errands” like it was a threat. The way her eyes kept drifting to your neck. The way she flushed when she saw the bruise she left behind.

The way she didn’t stop you from kissing her. The way she didn’t regret it, not really. But didn’t say otherwise either. You rub your hands down your face.

Ugh.

This is ridiculous. You’re not here for her. You’re here for research. Salem. The witch trials. The strange pattern of names and events that somehow keep circling back to Agatha fucking Harkness —who may or may not be 43, may or may not be an actual person from the 1600s, and may or may not have supernatural healing knowledge and weird, unexplainable birds that follow her around.

You glance at the crow perched just outside the dining room window. It’s there. Staring at you. Pecking the glass like it’s trying to get your attention.

You don’t flinch. Not really. You just wave it off like, Yeah, yeah, I see you. Freak.

You push back from the table and stretch, arms aching from being hunched forward too long. Your side still hurts, but it’s… better. Whatever that weird leaf ritual was, it worked. The veins went down a bit. Your skin just feels sore now. Raw, like something inside you’s been burned out.

The crow pecks again.

You flinch.

Then groan.

“Can you not?” you mutter, turning your head slowly toward the back door window like you’re in a horror film and not just trying to write about 1690s Puritan hysteria. “You’ve been at it for thirty minutes, dude. I will literally lose my mind.”

It cocks its head at you through one of the nine little glass panes in the back door.

Pecks the glass again.

Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Like it’s trying to set off your anxiety on purpose.

“Swear to god…”

You’re still slouched at the dining room table, your laptop screen dark from inactivity, your tea stone cold, and your notes a sad pile of barely elgible half thoughts. The crow has been pecking in random, infuriating intervals like it’s programmed to break your concentration.

You don’t know if it’s the same one from the cemetery. Or the one from the hotel. Or the one that Scratched the shit out of you when you saw the shadow figure in the woods. But something deep in your gut says: yeah. It is.

And at this point, it’s less a bird and more of a feathered stalker with boundary issues.

You sigh, sitting back in your chair.

“Do you want something?” you ask the bird, voice rising. “Or is psychological warfare just your thing?” The crow tilts its head, deadpan. Then—because of course—pecks the glass again. Louder. You glare at it. And then… you remember.

The bird feed. From Agatha’s study.

The wooden box. Low shelf. Half hidden like it wasn’t meant to be found. You’d opened it on a whim, expecting Anything that would help figuring out Agatha, and instead: bird feed. Neatly bagged. Labeled in handwriting that was Agatha’s. Specialty mix. For crows.

At the time, you thought: Weird. Now? Now the crow is staring at you like you forgot to pay child support. You groan. “Fine.”

You push back from the table, stand, and stretch until your back cracks. “I’ll give you a snack, you needy little forest demon.”

The crow hops along the railing of the back porch as you trudge upstairs.

Upstairs, the guest room is too still, the air heavy with silence and faint lavender. You pass it and turn into the hall where Agatha’s study door stands open—just a crack. You hesitate.

If she were home, you'd never risk it. But she’s not. She's out doing “errands.” The kind you don’t ask about.

You step inside. Your eyes flick to the shelf immediately. You remember exactly where it is.

You crouch low. Reach toward the box. Lift the lid. Still there. Tiny, sealed bags. Shiny black seeds. A weird, molasses smell. You grab one, stuff it into your coat pocket, and whisper, “You better appreciate this, you chaotic little winged bastard.”

You creep back out, carefully shutting the study door behind you like that’ll erase the fact you were in there at all. Downstairs, the crow’s now flapping dramatically along the edge of the porch. You squint through the nine paned door at the yard. It looks still.

Too still.

The garden. The one just outside this door. The one where you hallucinated vines crawling up to the second story window like something out of a fever dream and then ran to Agatha like a lost puppy. Pathetic. Unwell. Haunted.

You tug your coat tighter around you and mutter, “This is so stupid.” Then you press your ear against the door like you're trying to listen for Satan himself. No snarling. No beast breath. No blood. That’s… promising.

You crack the door open. Slowly. Just a sliver. Still nothing. You step out. Cool air nips at your ankles. The yard is quiet, the trees still bare. Morning frost still clings to the garden like a ghost that won’t fully melt.

The crow lets out a ca-caw like, Finally. You roll your eyes. “Keep your feathers on.”

You crouch near the edge of the porch, tearing open the little bag of feed. The smell is stronger now. Sweet and herbal. You make a face, but toss a handful toward the crow anyway.

It lands. Starts pecking immediately. No hesitation. Like it knew this was coming.

You watch. Then blink. Then… smile. “Well. That’s kind of cute.” You sit down on the porch steps, arms around your knees, watching the bird fluff up as it eats. The sun warms the wood beneath you. Your breath curls in the cold. And for the first time in… days? Hours? Lifetimes? You don’t feel like something’s chasing you.

Just a girl. On a porch. With a crow. You toss more feed. The bird hops closer. “So,” you say, “what are you? A wild pet? A spy? Her personal crow butler?”

The bird just stares. Beady eyed. Mysterious. You snort. “Cool.” You lean back on your elbows. “Do you think she regrets it?” you ask softly. “The kiss. The… whatever it was. Maybe she didn’t mean to. Maybe it was just the wine.”

The bird blinks.

“You’d probably know,” you mutter. “I bet you’ve seen more than I have. Bet you know what she does when she thinks no one’s watching. What she really is. Because something’s off. I’m not crazy. She’s weird .”

The crow flutters its wings and hops up to your foot, pecking lightly at the toe of your boot.

“Rude.”

You toss another small handful.

It eats.

You tilt your head. “She’s not a historian. We both know that. She talks like she’s lived it. I ask about 1693 and she doesn’t Google it—she remembers it.” The crow says nothing. You sigh. “God, I’m losing it.” You don’t move. Not yet. Just sit there. Breathing. Letting your thoughts quiet for once.

Eventually, you push yourself up and brush off your jeans. You look around one more time—no beast in the bushes, no vines clawing their way up the house.

Yet.

You turn back toward the door, reach for the handle— Flap. You freeze.

“No.”

FLAP.

You turn just in time to see a black blur dart past your head and into the goddamn dining room. “NO—hey! HEY!” You scramble after it, slamming the door shut behind you.

The crow is now perched proudly on top of your laptop like it owns the place.

You stare at it. It stares back. “You’re not supposed to be in here.” It blinks. “You heard her! She said—and I quote—‘Don’t let the crow in the house.’” The crow looks at you. Then pecks the spacebar. Your laptop wakes up with a chirp.

You blink. “Oh, you little shit.”

You approach slowly, hands raised like you’re trying not to startle a feral toddler. “Okay. We’re gonna do this the easy way. You fly out. I pretend this didn’t happen. We both win.”

The crow ruffles its feathers and hops sideways. And that’s when you see it. Under its wing. A faint smear of color—just for a second as it shifts. The feathers part and catch the light.

Purple. Not blood. Not bruising. Marking. A thin, sharp symbol etched against the base of its wing. Almost glowing. Almost like— You stop. “Okay.” You point at the bird. “You’re haunted.”

The crow says nothing. Doesn’t move. Just lifts one claw and scratches its beak like it’s bored. You stare at it, brain absolutely refusing to deal with this today. “Do you even care that I almost died this week? That Agatha had to do witchy first aid with a leaf on my ribs ? No? Nothing?”

The crow preens. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You walk around the table slowly, trying to herd it toward the back door.

“You had your snack. You pecked your glass. You violated the one house rule that was clearly about you . Let’s wrap it up.”

The crow doesn’t move. “Out,” you say, pointing. The crow hops to the floor. You open the door again. Cold air rushes in. You look back and— It’s gone. “Wha—”

You whirl around. The crow is now in the living room. On Agatha’s armchair.

Feet dug into the fabric like it was made for it. “Oh my god. I’m going to be cursed.” It blinks at you innocently.

You stare at it, hand still gripping the door. “Do you want to die? Is that it? Do you want to die ? Because when she gets home and sees you on her chair—” The crow fluffs up. And settles. Like it’s not going anywhere.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “Seriously! You’re not supposed to—” You stop. Your heart rate spikes.

Keys. In the door.

Agatha was home.

You do the only thing your panic scrambled brain can think of. You launch yourself across the living room and crash into the armchair like you’ve been shot out of a cannon. You scoop the bird up with both hands— It caws. Loudly.

“Shhh—shhh—shut up!” you whisper, frantic. The doorknob turns. You glance around for anywhere— anywhere —to hide the damn thing.

Nothing.

You let out a high pitched, whispered “ fuck! ” and don’t even think before shoving it under your shirt. It struggles immediately. Claws scrape lightly against your stomach. You wheeze.

“Be cool,” you hiss through gritted teeth. “This is a team effort.”

Your shirt bulges awkwardly around your midsection. Like you’re smuggling a very round, very confused baby ostrich. You hunch. Shuffle.

Okay. Okay. You’ve got this.

Agatha’s keys jingle. Her coat rustles. You hear the soft thud of a grocery bag hitting the floor. You straighten. Sort of. And summon your most casual, non suspicious voice.

“Hey!” you call out, way too brightly. “Welcome back! How were the… errands?”

A pause. Then her voice cool, curious, edged. “Fine. What are you doing?” You’re already halfway to the kitchen.

“Just—uh—nothing. Stretching. Trying to get steps in. You know how it is.” You wave a hand vaguely behind you, like that explains anything.

You hit tile. Your boots squeak. Okay. Get the crow out of your damn shirt. Open the window. Fast. Would she be mad you opened a window? With the whole beast thing?

Or—well, shit , you already went outside . She’ll yell at you as it is. Now a bird in your shirt ? The same one she specifically told you not to let in?

Great.

You scramble to the nearest window, trying to pry it open one handed while the other cradles your stomach like you’re actually pregnant. Behind you, you hear her step into the kitchen.

Then—she stops. “…Why are you opening windows?” she says. “I thought I said not to.”

You freeze. Clear your throat. One hand on your hip, the other protectively on your… crow filled shirt. “Pft. I’m not opening windows…” You fake a laugh. “I’m admiring the outdoors. You know—Hollow Wood reminds me of Washington. Same weather. Same trees.”

You whirl around with a smile you hope doesn’t look like a cry for help.

“Say, have you ever been to washington? Its great— really— especially in the summertime! You should go! Maybe I could give you a tourrr!” You draw and sing out tour like an idiot.

Agatha’s standing by the fridge, one eyebrow arched, grocery bag hanging lazily from her wrist. Her eyes flick down—briefly—to the rounded hunch under your sweatshirt.

Her brows knit. “…What’s under your shirt?”

Your eyes widen. Just for a beat. Then you let out a breathy, totally fake laugh and wave her off like she’s ridiculous. “Nothing! Just my shirt under the jacket. Bunches up sometimes, you know?”

You offer her a smile. A bad one. Her head tilts.

“Really.”

“Yep!”

Agatha squints at you for a long, tense second. Then she turns and sets the bag on the counter. You think you’re off the hook. Until she turns right back around and steps toward you.

You instantly step back, smile still plastered on your face like a bad sticker. “Uh—well! I should get back to my thesis!”

You try to move toward the dining room. She strides forward before you can escape. Your back hits the counter. Hard.

Cornered.

Her eyes drag across your face. Slow. Assessing. Your stomach clenches—not from nerves, but because the bird under your shirt is doing a tiny, evil tap dance. Agatha steps in closer. Way too close.

Her scent hits you first—lavender, cedarwood, a trace of smoke and warmth. It clouds your thoughts. She plants both hands on either side of you, caging you in. Her body is barely an inch from yours.

Her voice drops. “What are you hiding?”

You swallow. “Nothing.”

“You said that already.”

“Consistency builds trust.”

Her right hand slides to your hip and—god—you have to fight not to buckle completely. Her left slides slowly up the hem of your shirt. Her touch deliberate. Warm. A little cocky. She leans in, lips brushing your ear. Whispers, “Are you sure?”

Drawn out. Dangerous.

You want to melt. Sink. Die. Cling to her. You forget the crow. Forget the windows. Forget your name. You inhale sharply. Her hand keeps sliding higher. “No—well—yes, but—”

Her palm presses flat against your stomach.

The bird squawks.

Agatha freezes.

You freeze.

The crow shifts violently. One wing juts out under your sweatshirt like a misshapen tumor.

Silence.

Then Agatha pulls back just slightly. Her hand grabs the hem of your shirt. And lifts. And there it is. The crow. Pressed against your ribs like a smug little bastard. Its head pops out. Beady eyes. Direct eye contact.

Agatha blinks.

You blink.

The crow caws. Loudly.

You scramble. “It followed me! I didn’t mean to let it in—I just—I fed it and then it was on the laptop and then the chair and then you came back and I panicked and now it’s in my shirt and—”

She holds up a hand.

You stop talking instantly. Her lips twitch. Just barely. Then she exhales. Straightens. And pulls the crow out from under your shirt like this is the most exhausting task she’s faced all day. She holds it in one hand. It doesn’t resist. Of course not.

Traitor.

You tug your shirt back down with a grumble. Agatha lifts her arm slightly, letting the crow climb up to her shoulder like it was born for this. She looks at you with a faint, knowing smile. And just… shakes her head. “So…” she says, her tone dry, “care to explain how exactly it got inside ?”

You feel like a kid caught red handed. Cookie jar, hand in , crumbs everywhere. But no. She’s not done. “Better yet,” she adds, brow raising, “what did you feed it with?”

Your eyes widen. You open your mouth. Close it. Panic. “Uh—well! You see—” Your voice cracks. You turn and point dramatically to the bird like a snitchy little sibling. “That damn thing kept pecking the window and I couldn’t focus! So then I, uh—”

You stop.

You cannot say you went into her study. That would just make everything worse. “I had some leftover bread! From this morning!” You nod quickly. “And I thought… maybe if I fed the crow… it’d shut up!”

The crow caws at you again. You glare at it. It sits smugly on Agatha’s shoulder like a smug, smug bastard. Agatha clicks her tongue. A quiet tsk that makes you flinch more than it should. Then, slowly—measuredly—she says: “So… you opened the back door?”

You blink. “Technically.”

Her eyes narrow. “Technically?”

You shift your weight like it’ll help your lie land better. “It was cracked. Briefly. For air. Bird didn’t ask for permission, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Agatha’s gaze sharpens. “You disobeyed me,” she says, voice soft but firm. “I told you not to open the door. Not with what’s still out there.”

You hold up your hands. “Okay. Yes. But I did a full inspection! Very thorough. I even did the horror movie thing where I pressed my ear to the wood like a complete idiot.”

She stares. “And,” you continue, “there were no snarls, no growls, no cursed wind effects. It was a very beast free experience.” Agatha doesn’t say anything. Just tilts her head slightly, eyes unreadable.

God, she’s unreadable. You’re starting to think she was born just to make other people feel stupid. “I just wanted to feed it,” you mumble. “It kept pecking the glass. It was like—I don’t know, Morse code for ‘bitch, I’m hungry.’”

She exhales through her nose, slow. You hate that it makes your pulse jump. “Next time,” she says carefully, “you ask. You don’t wander outside on your own. You don’t open the doors. And you certainly don’t let strange animals into my house.”

You snort. “It’s a crow, not a hellhound.”

Her smile is small. Dangerous. “You’d be surprised.”

Your face scrunches. “That’s not ominous at all.” She steps closer again, just enough that your breath catches before you realize it.

“I don’t give warnings lightly,” she says. “There are things in these woods that would tear through this house to get to you. That crow is the least of your problems.”

You should roll your eyes. You should.

But she’s looking at you like she knows something you don’t. Like the world’s already tilted and she’s just letting you pretend it hasn’t. You swallow. “Okay. Noted. No doors. No wildlife. No more recreational smuggling.”

She hums. Then, like the devil herself, she adds, “And no more lying.” You open your mouth. She raises a brow. You close it. The crow lets out a smug little caw on her shoulder. Agatha lifts a hand and strokes its head absentmindedly

A beat passes of silence.

“It’s just…” you sigh, rubbing your face before finally meeting Agatha’s eyes—clear, sharp, impossibly blue. “It was nice to go back outside again... you know?”

Your voice is quieter this time. Thinner. “I feel cooped up in here. And I’m missing home. My friends. Billy… hell, even my parents.” You let out a short, embarrassed laugh as you run a hand through your hair, blinking away the heaviness behind your eyes. Your gaze drifts to the floor.

“The whole point of coming to Hollow Wood was... well, mostly for my thesis. I wanted to research. To do actual fieldwork. To learn something real—something alive. I didn’t want to just write about dead people from behind a laptop screen ina library, or even my apartment.”

You glance at her, hesitating. Then keep going.

“And sure… I came because of you , too. I mean, you wrote the most detailed, unsparing book on the Salem Witch Trials I’ve ever read. So yeah, that helped make up my mind. I thought—maybe if I found you, I’d find the truth.” You stop. And sigh again, shaking your head. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

Somehow, this feels harder than kissing her. Agatha hasn’t said a word. But you can feel her eyes on you—still. Steady. Not judging. Just... watching. Like she’s reading you and you’re letting her.

She lets out a quiet sigh. Then turns to the window. You don’t expect what happens next.

She opens it—just a few inches—and murmurs something under her breath. It’s soft. Foreign. The words roll like smoke—beautiful and old and definitely not English.

Latin?

The crow squawks once and immediately launches from her shoulder, out the window like it understands her perfectly. She closes the window. Then turns back to you. And waits.

You awkwardly look back up. And all at once, you just feel… stupid. No, worse—you feel lost. You don’t even know what you’re doing anymore.

She kissed you. You kissed her back. And neither of you have talked about it. Not really.

She said she knew you. Not in some metaphorical way. She looked at you like she meant it. Like she'd met you before. And you’ve done everything to pretend that didn’t knock the wind out of you.

But it’s not just that. It’s everything.

The weird shit you’ve seen since coming to Hollow Wood—the beast, the shadowy figure outside her house, the crow that saved you , somehow. The feeling like the trees were alive. The wind that whispered your name. The hallucination—or whatever the hell it was—of vines crawling up the second story wall.

Agatha’s eyes glowing violet, just Last night. You haven’t even begun to process half of it. You almost died. Like— died. And no one’s talked about that either.

Not even you. You’ve just been… surviving. Moving from one strange, terrifying moment to the next without stopping to actually breathe. And standing here now, with Agatha watching you like she’s still waiting for something, you finally feel it. You're not just exhausted. You're drained.

Empty in a way you don't even have words for. You open your mouth—start to speak—but nothing comes out. Your throat’s too tight. Your thoughts too messy.

You look down, jaw clenched, hands flexing slightly at your sides. “I’m just tired,” you finally mutter. “Tired of feeling like I’m not… in control. Like I’m in someone else’s story, and I don’t know how to get out of it.”

You breathe in, then out, shaky. “I haven’t had a single second to catch up. Everything’s been so—”

“I mean, the beast. The shadowy thing at the House. The crow. The dreams. Your eyes—”

You stop again.No. Not that. Not now. You blink hard and look away, shaking your head. “And I know I sound crazy. I feel crazy. But none of this feels normal anymore. And I don’t even know what counts as normal.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “I almost died and then just… got back up. Like nothing happened.” You look at her then. Agatha hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked away. Her expression is unreadable—but her eyes are sharp. Watching.

Waiting. You want her to say something. Anything.

But she doesn’t. And the silence, the weight of it, finally breaks something in you.

You exhale and shake your head. “Forget it,” you say, voice flat. You turn to go. Back to the guest room. Back to something quiet. Alone.

But before you can take more than two steps—

Her hand closes around your wrist.

You stop.

The grip isn’t hard. Just firm. Enough to say don’t go without needing words. You don’t turn. Your pulse spikes in your neck, sharp and painful. Her skin is warm. Her fingers wrap your wrist like she knows exactly how much pressure to use—how much not to use.

You swallow, eyes locked on the hallway in front of you. And then softly— “Don’t,” Agatha says. Just that. Low. Quiet. Almost… unsure. But it’s enough to make you freeze.

“Don’t what?” Your voice is low, tired.

You turn slowly. Agatha’s hand is still around your wrist. Warm. Unmoving. You look up at her—eyes burning, not with tears, but with clarity. “Don’t act like every part of me is just now realizing how fucked up Hollow Wood is?”

You laugh once, bitter. “Because yeah. I am just realizing it. All of it.” You tilt your head slightly, meeting her gaze like a dare.

“Don’t act like it hasn’t been weird since the second I got here. Like I didn’t almost die More than once. Like you didn’t show up at the exact moment I needed you. Like things aren’t… wrong.”

Your wrist tugs gently in her hold. She doesn’t let go.

“And don’t look at me like I’m imagining it. Like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and pretend none of this is real.” You exhale, shoulders sagging slightly.

“I’m not asking for answers. I’m not even sure I want them. But I’m not crazy. And I’m not stupid.” The air between you thickens. And for the first time in hours, Agatha doesn’t look unreadable. She looks… something. Tense. Wary. Like a storm is pressing against her ribs and she’s trying not to let it out.

You can feel it. She still doesn’t let go. Agatha’s quiet. Too quiet.

Her fingers twitch around your wrist like she wants to say something, but the words are taking their sweet time arriving.

Then finally, she murmurs, “You’re not crazy.” Her voice is even, but a little stiff. Like the words don’t come naturally. Like she’s not used to saying them out loud.

You stare at her. That’s it? You yank your wrist gently from her grip, suddenly hot all over. “Wow,” you say, bitter. “Great. Good to know I’m not crazy .”

Agatha’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s not—wait, no, that’s not what I meant—” You step back, arms wrapping tight around yourself.

“I don’t need you to diagnose me , Agatha. I need—” You stop. Your throat clenches.

Your next words are sharper than intended. “I need a break. I want—God—I just want to breathe. I’m so sick and fucking tired of—of being scared.” Your voice cracks right there, and you bite it down, blinking hard.

Agatha doesn’t move. You go on. “I love history,” you whisper, “I came here to learn . To dig up stories and names and—God, I wanted to research . I didn’t sign up for… whatever this is.”

You spit the word out like it burned your tongue. “Supernatural.” It feels poisoned. Like it doesn’t belong in your mouth, and maybe it never did.

You don’t notice Agatha flinch. Not at first. But she does. Just a tiny flicker in her jaw. Barely visible. Like you hit something—nerve, bone, memory.

She exhales, long and quiet. And for a second, just a second, she looks… lost too. Then something shifts. She steps forward, slower this time, and reaches out—not grabbing, just touching. Her hand brushes your upper arm like she can’t help it. “I know this isn’t what you came for,” she says. Her voice is softer now, still rough around the edges. “And I’m not great at this. At… talking. Comforting.”

You glance at her. She meets your eyes. “But I’m trying.” That stops you. You inhale, sharp and shaky. Your hands tremble slightly at your sides.

She notices. You know she does. “I can’t change what’s here,” she says. “I can’t make it go away. But I can make it safer. If you still want to go outside… we’ll do it on one condition.”

You blink at her, not sure where this is going. Her eyes are steady now. “You don’t go alone.” Silence stretches between you, filled with everything neither of you knows how to say.

You nod once. Slowly. Agatha’s hand lingers for a beat longer before pulling back. “And…” she adds, voice lower, like she’s saying something she doesn’t entirely want to admit, “I want to know where you are. I want to keep you safe.”

You should be annoyed by that. But you’re too tired to pretend. You just nod again, this time a little smaller. “I’m not going to lock you inside,” she says quietly. “But I’m not going to let anything happen to you, either.”

You don’t answer. You’re still trying to keep the tears from slipping. Not because of fear. Just… because of everything. Agatha doesn’t push. She just stands there. And for once, neither of you moves away first.

You let our a shaky breath half a sigh and half stress adn you just lean forward and press your forehead to agathas shoulder there was something so natural about it… Like a pull.

Like your body knew it needed something soft before your brain could argue. Agatha tenses slightly beneath you before slowly she brings a hand to your back just holding it there.

Neither of you speaks for a moment.

You stay like that, pressed against her, your arms tucked in, your breath shaky as you try to calm the wild rhythm in your chest. Agatha shifts slightly, like she’s not sure if she should say something or just… let you stay like this.

Finally, her voice comes, low and deliberate. “You’ve been through more than you think.”

You nod once, forehead still resting against her shoulder. She doesn’t say I’m sorry. You’re not sure she knows how to. But she adds, quieter “I should’ve explained more. I just didn’t know how.”

You let out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a breath. Her voice rumbles in her chest. “I don’t always know what’s safe to say. Or what you’re ready to hear.”

You mumble, “Try me.”

She’s quiet again, and for a second you think she won’t answer. But then she murmurs, “There are things I’ve lived through that… shape the way I protect people.” Agatha’s thumb brushes lightly at the back of your Jacket. A fidget, almost.

“People always come to hollow wood chasing some type of answer, Ive told you that before. And im sure Irene said the same,” she says. “But you’re the only one who’s made it this far without running.”

You swallow hard, eyes still closed. Your voice is soft. “Should I have run?” She hesitates.

Then “I wouldn’t have let you.”

You huff. “That’s comforting.” Her hand presses slightly firmer to your back, not quite pulling you in—but not letting go either.

She’s warm. Stable. The kind of solid that feels like it doesn’t shift unless it chooses to. You murmur, voice hoarse, “I just wanted this to be simple.”

“I know.”

It’s barely more than a whisper. But the way she says it—like it’s an apology she doesn’t know how to give—hits deeper than anything else has. And then, slowly—almost hesitantly—you let yourself fold into her. Your arms come up and wrap around her waist, and your face presses in closer, shifting until it rests at the curve of her neck.

She’s warm. So warm.

Like real, living warmth. Like sunlight through old curtains. Like the first time you finally exhale after holding your breath too long.

You sigh into her shoulder. And your shoulders—tight for what feels like days —finally, finally untangle. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t say anything.

She just holds you.

Quiet. Careful. Solid.

For a moment, the silence is safe. It doesn’t feel like avoidance anymore. It feels like reprieve. You close your eyes, breathing her in—lavender, cedarwood, that faint smoky scent that always clings to her like it’s part of her blood. You don’t want to analyze it. You don’t want to overthink anything for once.

You just want this.

You pause, cheek still resting against her neck. “Can we go to town?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. “Tomorrow?”

There’s a beat.

Agatha doesn’t answer right away. And when she does, her voice is low, close to your ear. “…If you really want to.”

“I do.” You feel her exhale against your temple. A soft, slow breath.

“Then we’ll go.” She rubs her hand gently along your back once, a single sweeping motion that makes your eyes sting more than anything else has tonight.

You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t cry. But it’s close. She holds you tighter. You feel her shift—subtle, almost hesitant. Then Agatha leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple. Warm. Barely there. And yet somehow it lands like a promise.

Your breath catches. Your arms tighten just slightly around her middle.

She doesn’t pull away.

Not yet.

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