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myownwholewildworld · 2 months ago

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THE RIGHT KIND OF WRONG ― dbf!mechanic!joel oneshot

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: dbf!mechanic!joel x f!reader. summary: your car breaks down and you make a deal with your dad's best friend, joel, who happens to be the best mechanic in town. you'll work for him over the summer holidays to pay your debt back, but maybe you can find a pleasant shortcut to it? a/n: well, well, well... what can i say? this whole uniformed!joel shit is giving me proper brain rot. i don't know what came over me while writing this but i just rolled with it. i do appreciate any notes you may wanna leave to keep me motivated hehe. enjoy! x edit: forgot to mention this oneshot was prompted by this ask! warnings: 18+, mdni. no outbreak AU. juicy age gap (reader is 21, joel is 48). rough, ABSOLUTE filth & i'm not even sorry. some edging. semi-public groping? masturbation (f and m receiving). oral (f and m receiving). pussy pronouns (she/her). unprotected piv. mouth fucking. very mild brat taming kink. transactional sex. alternating pov. reader is female but that's about it. w/c: ~8.9k of pure filth. divider by @cafekitsune

“Ugh, not again, c’mon!”

Your cranky little car did not have it in it anymore. It was almost fifteen years old now, having passed down from your older brother to you when you turned sixteen five years ago. Out of pure frustration, you hit the steering wheel with the palm of your hand and let out a raspy grunt.

The check engine light had lit up on the dash, which was what caused your fit. And then, as if orchestrated by the universe, the engine made a loud, clicking noise. You flattened your forehead against the wheel, your fingers curling around the rubbery texture with a tight grip.

“You stupid car!”, you screamed at it as if it was a sentient being. “I’m broke, you cannot die on me like this!”

You were on the parking lot of a café. Early that afternoon you had met with some friends to celebrate the beginning of summer and the end of the academic year. One more and you would be done with your degree ― it looked so damn far away, but you still had this summer to look forward to.

Rummaging through your purse, you finally located your cellphone and quickly dialled your dad.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, dad. I’m at Betty’s. The fucking light has come on again?!”

“Watch your mouth!”, he reprimanded you from the other side of the line. You could hear him huff and puff with disapproval. “I think your car is on its last legs, gonna have to think about buying one.”

“You know I can’t afford that, all my savings are going into my degree. I’ll just have to get it fixed for now.”

“Take it to Joel’s then. See what he thinks.”

“But it’s a Sunday, you think he’ll be open?”

“That man is a workaholic, you bet his business is open today.”

“Alright, you reckon he’ll do it for free?”

“For free?” He laughed; you could imagine him shaking his head. “I doubt it, but maybe he’ll give you a discount. Gotta go, little bug. I’ll see you at dinner. If you can make it, obviously.” He mocked you.

“Ha, ha… So funny. Talk to you later.” And you hung up.

The drive to Joel’s garage was a fucking torture. Every time the engine made a squealing noise, your heart would jolt to your throat. You tried to encourage it, whispering sweet nothings in the hopes it would get appeased and make it to Joel’s repair shop.

You also got distracted by your filthy mind. Joel had been in your DILF radar since you were nineteen. Three years ago, your dad celebrated his 45th birthday with a barbecue in the middle of summer. Joel had turned up in a white tee shirt, khaki shorts and flipflops, with untamed silvery curls and a crate of beer under his arm.

When the Texan heat became unbearable, he had stripped himself of his clothes, fashioning a pair of short swim trunks that had left you breathless and wet. When you watched him get out of the water later that afternoon, you could have sworn that the tip of his dick had shown briefly before he discreetly tucked it away. That image had been burnt into your retinas and haunted you since then.

Unconsciously you licked your bottom lip, your core molten with slick, as the car came to a halt. You had arrived at your destination.

There was an old Ford at the front of the garage, someone working under the hood. When the driver’s door of your car slammed against the frame, Joel peeked up from the engine he was working on.

His eyes flickered with recognition. He grabbed an old rag to clean his big, veiny hands of grease and oil. You wondered what else would be big and veiny. Stop it, you dirty fucker, you told yourself.

“Hey, Joel!” You waved at him with a smile.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

You rolled your eyes at him, the grin staying on your plump lips.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Joel. Have not been for a long time now, y’know.” You punctuated, unsure of what you were trying to achieve with that comment. Well, you knew, but did not want to admit it to yourself.

“Oh, I know”, he husked, his voice suddenly gruff.

Tilting your head to one side, you looked at him with question marks in your pupils. Why had he accentuated that “know”? And why all the sudden was your cunt gushing? How could he make you wet with three simple words? You were going to need to request a booty call that night from your friend with benefits.

“Uh, uhmm”, you laughed nervously. “The engine light on my car has come on for the third time this week and the motor is making weird noises, could you check it out for me, please?”

“Sure thing, lemme see.” He took the keys from your hand, electricity cracking between you.

You pursed your lips, a gesture he did not pick up on. Joel walked to the driver’s side, activated something and then the hood popped open. He walked around to the front of the car and propped the hood up with the metal rod that was inside.

As Joel was inspecting the motor with his broad hands, you put one foot in front of the other in a vain attempt to rub your knees together and cause some friction in your needy cunt. You squeezed your thighs some more as you watched him work with his hands, and you imagined what it would feel like if he was working you instead.

Oof! Take it down a notch, girl, you thought to yourself when your clit twitched in desperation.

Then Joel turned around to look at you.

“When was the last time you changed the timing belt?”

“The... what now?” Your mind was hazy with lust, but even if you had been at your full mental capacity, you wouldn’t have known what he was talking about.

“The timing belt. In the engine. What ensures that the camshaft and crankshaft rotate in sync?” He looked at you with a cocked brow, cleaning his hands again on that old rag.

Oh, I would pay big bucks to be that rag.

“Are you even speaking English?”, you replied back, partially because you really had no idea what he was talking about, partially because your brain was all mushy with desire.

“I’ll take that as a ‘never’ then. You should really get it replaced, seems like that’s your problem. Have you had trouble starting the car?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, this very morning.”

“Yeah, sounds like it. You need to change it asap, if it breaks while you’re driving it would be bad, very bad. You could have an accident. Also trying to fix it after it’s broken will cost you even more.”

“So… will I need to break the bank?” You asked, already flinching at the idea.

Joel seemed to take a second to consider your options, leaning against the passenger’s door and scratching his scruffy beard.

“It’ll be $800.”

Your heart almost stopped, your mouth agape.

“Eight fucking hundred?” He nodded. “Well, can I― Can you not give me a bit of a discount here? You are best friends with my dad. Pretty please?” You laced your fingers together in a prayer and batted your eyelashes at him.

With a low grunt, he straightened his back and folded arms at his chest.

“I’m already giving you one. I would usually charge $1100. You’re already getting a bargain.”

“Well, what about $300?” You counteroffered.

Joel’s brows knitted together and then loudly scoffed.

“What? You think I’m a fucking charity? No, kiddo. $800 and that’s it. If I go any lower, I’d be losing money. Got a business to run here.”

You really did not have $800 bucks to spare. In fact, you barely had five hundred bucks to your name. Asking your family for money was not an option either ― not because you were proud (you were), but because money was tight. Your parents already had enough struggles as it was, you did not want to add to the pile.

You visibly pouted and stumped one foot against the gravel, vexed. A loud sigh slipped through your lips as you pressed the heel of your hands against your eye sockets. You needed the car.

Dropping your hands to your sides, you looked at Joel with puppy eyes, covering the distance that was between you. Pleading, you palmed his strong forearm, your fingers wrapping around the girth of his muscles.

For a brief second, you wondered if you would be able to fully grip his erection. Would your fingertips be able to touch your thumb? Or would he be so thick you would need both hands to handle him?

“Joel, pl―please?”, you stammered, your arousal playing games with your vocal cords.

Unwillingly, he scanned your body up and down ― slowly, taking his time, pondering his options.

Joel had wanted to fuck you for three years now, since your lustful eyes widened at the sight of only his tip on that dreadful summer day. He could vividly remember the way you had chewed your bottom lip as you watched him slide his cock back in his swim trunks, shamelessly, without blinking. You only stopped devouring him when someone talked to you, snapping out of your trance.

That night, when he got home, he had jerked himself off with you in his mind. He had imagined your plump lips sealed around his glans, the tip of your tongue playfully caressing the slit ― your sparkly eyes looking up at him, dreamy and teary, imploring. He had taken his sweet time, rejoicing in his fantasy, until he had spilled in the palm of his hand, as if he was a hormonal teenager. And every time he would fuck someone to find relief, he would visualize your cunt sheathing him, clamping down on his dick like a beartrap.

Ever since then, every time his eyes landed on you, his blood would boil and his cock would harden. Just like now, dick pounding against his boxers, begging to be paid due attention. With the eyes of his imagination, he saw himself letting go and throwing you into the back of your car, drilling your pussy relentlessly until you came wailing, asking for more.

Joel sucked in his breath ― he needed to calm down, distract himself with something else. You were his best friend’s daughter. He shouldn’t be daydreaming about fucking you stupid. He had seen you grow since you were a babe.

Never thought of you any other way until that fateful barbeque, when he realised you were a full grown ass woman. Suddenly he had seen you for what you were: a fuckable brat who could get his cock rock-hard with the simple lick a of a lip.

An idea formed as you begged him. You looked desperate ― desperate enough to him at least.

Joel cracked his tongue, his expression unwavering. But if you could see, you would know his cock was throbbing already.

“Well. I do have an idea.” His words dragged, his erection making him feel uncomfortable.

“You do? I’m all ears!” You exclaimed with a lopsided grin, your delicate fingers tighter around his forearm.

His head snapped to his right, pointing to a sign that read “Hand Car Wash”.

“If you help out all summer handwashing cars, I’ll consider part of your debt paid”, he explained, looking down at your hand touching him.

“In full?” You eyed him as if he was your goddamn saviour and that unsettled him.

“I said part of it, kiddo. I’ll leave it at $300.”

You batted your eyelashes at him. Did you know that your suggestiveness was wreaking havoc?

“Anything I can do so the $300 reduces to zero?”

“I’ll think about it”, he reluctantly conceded. Joel had a few ideas in mind, but none of them were precisely appropriate. Not for a twenty-one year old to do with a forty-eight year old at least, that was for sure. “Be here tomorrow at 9 AM, sharp. The team works from nine to twelve, Mondays to Fridays.”

You frantically nodded, almost squealing in excitement. The noise you made forced his cock to twitch. He could make you squeal too, only if you would let him.

“I’ll be here! Thanks, Joel.”

Before he could think, you let go of his forearm and hugged him close to your chest. To your round breasts. Those two meaty globes he wanted to palm so badly. He could swear your nipples were stabbing at him. You embraced him so close to your body, his bulge pressed gently against your lower belly, and he wondered if you could feel him.

And then you stepped back. Quickly, too quickly for his liking.

“You’ll need to leave your car here, don’t want you driving back in that junk. I’ll have a look at it tomorrow. I’ll give you a lift back”, he offered. “Lemme close first and I’ll be right back in five minutes.”

“No probs, take your time.” You smiled at him as you went back to your car to grab your things.

Soon you were on the passenger’s seat of Joel’s pickup truck. It was dusking on the horizon, the light scattering through the windshield. Joel put down the visor so he wouldn’t get blinded by the sun.

“So how’s college going?” His attempt at small talk made you smile.

“It’s good, hard but good. The first year was really bad though. I didn’t know anyone there, so had to make friends and everything.” You mentioned, shrugging, while mindlessly playing with your seatbelt.

“I’m sure you had no problems making friends”, Joel said distractedly, checking all the mirrors before turning at the streetlight.

You placed your elbow on the window frame, the back of your head resting on your palm, and you turned to look at him.

“How are you so sure?” You asked, curious to see what his take on you was. The man was like a brick wall.

“You’re so vivacious and talkative. You’re not the shy kind either, always were part of the popular group in high school, weren’t you?” You nodded, but he didn’t see you, all focused on the road ahead. “Bet’cha you have all the boys running after you.”

Well, that was unexpected. For both you and him, because you saw how his jaw clenched. It was almost imperceptible, but you were so aware of his every move, your body so in tune with his, you couldn’t have missed it.

Had he noticed you? Like, actually? Was it possible that Joel fucking Miller, your freaking dad’s best friend, could look at you with other than paternal eyes? Why would he make hat comment otherwise?

Your cunt, still wet from your previous innocent interaction, fluttered. You had no butterflies in your stomach ― they were actually clapping their fragile wings in between your legs. This man was a fucking menace to your senses, and he seemed oblivious to the effect he had on you. Or did he? Time to find out.

You giggled at his question and patted his upper thigh a couple of times, as if he had cracked the best joke you had ever heard. The pad of your fingers almost caressed his groin, that sweet dip where his thigh met his pelvis. The denim under your touch suddenly stretched as Joel flexed his leg, trying to release the tension that had rapidly built up.

You bit your bottom lip as he peered at you askance, your hand still too close to his crotch.

“I actually do, but none of them seem good enough, y’know? I want a man, not a boy”, you ventured, your top teeth sinking further in the soft pillow of your bottom lip.

You saw Joel sucking in his breath ― and the grin in your face grew. He was definitely not immune to you, at least not as much as you had originally thought. He looked so unattainable, always so distant, you had wondered if, in his eyes, you had never grown up.

“Do you now, kiddo?” He asked between gritted teeth, tone throaty.

His brown eyes drifted down for one second, watching the tips of your fingers rubbing the denim of his jeans slightly, and then he locked them back on the road. You heard a low grunt vibrating in his throat, although he tried his best to suppress it.

“Yeah. I’m sick and tired of stupid childish boys. They are just boring now, they lack― well, you know.” You let him brew with your unfinished sentence and removed your hand from his lap.

You could tell Joel finally was able to breathe again as his chest expanded slowly. His reaction to you left a prickling sensation in your pussy ― wet, throbbing, needy. You pressed your knees together, but what you really wanted was for him to reach for you and dunk his thick fingers in your slit.

“Your dad’s there.” He stated, succinct, after clearing his throat.

You looked over your shoulder and through the window to realise that, in fact, you had arrived home. Your father was already waiting for you on the porch, probably because he recognised the noise of Joel’s truck’s exhaust pipe. And then he started walking towards you.

You suppressed a pouting grimace ― you wanted just a few more minutes alone with Joel. A few more moves and, who knew? Maybe you would have him fingering the shit out of you. But thanks to your father, you would never find out.

Your father knocked on the passenger’s window and you rolled it down, smiling. Although what you really wanted to do was smack him for interrupting.

“Hey, dad.”

“Hey, sweetie. How’s the car?”

“Well…” You looked at Joel ― you had already forgotten what was it that needed replacing.

“The timing belt is going. Bit expensive but your daughter and I have reached an agreement. Will reduce the price for her but she’s gotta come work on the hand-wash business”, he explained, matter-of-factly.

“Sounds ‘bout right. Get your first taste of what the real world is like.” Your dad laughed at his own occurrence, while your mind drifted far, very far.

“I’d love to get a taste.” You answered feigning innocence, turning your face to Joel with a very wide smile painted on your mouth.

His eyes darkened, transfixed on yours. Oh, he knew exactly what you meant. He subtly stirred on his seat and you wanted to giggle so bad, but refrained.

“Hey, Joel. There’s a game on tomorrow night. You wanna come over? Can have something to eat, few beers, will be fun. I need the company, God knows this lady over here just complains while scrolling through her social media”, he pointed towards you with his thumb and you simply rolled your eyes at him.

Watching football with your old man was as boring as it got. However, if Joel Miller was there, he would have your undivided attention. Well, not him, the screen, obviously. Duh.

Your eyes shot to his, expectant. Your cunt was even more anticipative of his answer.

“Yeah, why not?”

Famous last words. That was Joel’s only thought as soon as he entered his best friend’s home. You greeted him at the door, all smiley and welcoming, ignoring the fact that you had been trying to get him hard the. whole. fucking. day.

You had come to work with some very short jeans ― every time you bent down to rub the sponge on the car’s bodywork, the bottom part of your perfectly round ass cheeks would show beneath the denim. Did you even wear any underwear? He thought not.

And then that white crop top was the fucking end of him. You had gotten it all wet when a loaded sponge dripped all over your front while you were talking to him about some trivial thing he could no longer remember. You had tittered and apologised while you scrunched it to get as much water out as possible. And the only thing he had been able to focus on were your pointy nipples, staring right at him, screaming for his caress.

After that, he had been at full mast the whole damn shift.

“Hi, Joel, come in!” You greeted him excitedly, swinging the door open.

He had taken a cold shower before coming over, but maybe what he needed was a fucking ice bath. Because the moment you batted your eyelashes at him, his cock twitched again. Joel had fisted his dick while showering, in the hopes that emptying his nuts before seeing you again would placate his lust for you.

Nope, hadn’t worked. Not one bit. This was probably a bad idea.

“Hey, kiddo.” He greeted you, emphasizing the last word.

He could literally be your fucking father, but that did not seem to deter you. If anything, it spurred you on. Had you no shame? Had he no shame? Because he should have stopped you the moment you started to be suggestive. Instead, he had let you go on, enjoying every single second of it.

Joel walked in and made his way to the kitchen, with you on his heels, where your father was lathering up some ribs with his secret sauce recipe.

“Hey, Joel. Let me get that from you”, he said before cleaning his hands on a kitchen towel and grabbing the beer crate from him.

Feeling they were still cold, his best friend cracked two open and handed him one. Joel lifted the can to his lips and saw you looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“Want one?” he asked, since you were of legal drinking age.

You shook your head no, wrinkling your nose in disgust.

“Eww, nah. I hate beer”, you sniggered and his dick spasmed some more.

“‘Course you do”, said your father before he could reply. “You only drink― What’s that crap again?”

“Gin and tonic, dad. It’s literally gin and tonic mixed. It’s not that fancy.” You huffed and puffed, shaking your head.

“This youth mixing everything because they can’t have proper alcohol. What’s next? Mixing beer with lemonade or something like that?”

“Well, that’s actually a thing. It’s called a shandy. Don’t be so old.”

Joel let you two have a go at each other. Observing the exchange, he sat down on one of the stools in front of the island, knees slightly bent.

“What?! You listening to this, Joel?” You father exclaimed with a joking tone. “Is Sarah like this too?”

“Yeah, exactly like this. Thinks beer is disgusting and everything. Thought I raised her better than that, but apparently not.” He jested, sipping from the tin can.

“How’s she doing?” His friend asked.

“She’s fine. She’s turning twenty-four in a couple of weeks. She moved out two months ago, gone to Houston for her new job.” He couldn’t help but be proud of his Sarah. She had accomplished so much. “She’s supposed to be here for her birthday, but we’ll see. She’s always so busy, don’t really know with what.”

“Aren’t they all? I barely see this one over here and she still lives under my roof.”

You folded arms, rolling your eyes again, while you sat down beside Joel on another stool.

“Sorry for having a social life? Like, what do you want me to do? Stay here with you watching football? Got better things to do, dad.”

“So you ain’t staying tonight then?” Your dad asked.

Joel turned to study you, interested in your answer. Could he have some reprieve tonight?

“Of course I’m stayin’. Would be rude not to when we have guests over, right, Joel?” And as the last words abandoned your mouth, you placed your left hand on his right thigh under the counter.

God have mercy.

Joel’s muscles stiffened, one in particular more than the others. His thighs were tense as he gripped the beer can with more strength than what was necessary. He kept his eyes to the front, taming his breathing.

He should have done something, slapping your hand away from his lap for instance. But he didn’t. And you took that as an invitation, because soon enough you were kneading his bulge under the kitchen island. Your palm rubbed harshly against the denim, and he saw you chewing your bottom lip.

Your father busied himself with seasoning the ribs and the French fries, oblivious to what was happening just a few meters away from him. This feels fucking wrong, but so fucking good, Joel thought to himself, your hand frisking his groin brazenly.

His cock was thudding with desire under his clothing, begging to be freed from its prison. You sensed his desperation, because you quickly tried to clasp your hand around it. Feeling your frustration at the inability of fisting him properly, Joel parted his legs to give you better access. If that was not an open invitation, nothing was.

I’m already going to hell. Joel had to stop himself of sucking his breath in when you started to unzip his jeans. His eyes slightly widened, but that was his only tell.

“So who do you reckon is going to win tonight?” Your father asked as your fingers dipped underneath his boxers.

Your warm skin against his beating cock dulled his senses. Then you took his dick out of his boxers and attempted to circle his girth while working him. Joel had to drink from his beer to shut himself up.

“Not sure, but I’d like for the Longhorns to win”, he spat the words out as best he could given the circumstances.

“Yeah, would be nice seeing our hometown win something this season”, your father continued with the small talk.

Joel’s thighs flexed when you started pumping him decisively. Fuck. He briefly looked down at his erection. It felt too damn good, your tiny fingers gripping him hard as you slowly moved your hand up and down on his lap. The tip of his cock was glistening with precum and you expertly rubbed it on his foreskin with your thumb.

As your father turned around to put everything in the oven, Joel took the chance to look at you. With your gaze averted, you pretended there was something interesting in the wall in front of you, while your right hand was buried underneath your slutty denim shorts. Joel could swear he could hear the squelching sounds your pussy was making while you played with yourself.

“Right, I think this is it. Gotta wait for an hour until everything’s properly cooked. Wanna move to the family room in the meantime?” He happily chattered as he walked around the kitchen island.

You reacted quickly and let go of his shaft. With his lap right under the kitchen counter, Joel hoped to hell his friend would not see anything out of the ordinary.

“Yeah”, he said with a coarse voice. “Need to go to the bathroom first.”

Your father just nodded as he sauntered towards the living room and Joel almost let go a sigh of relief. You simply chortled as you put your left thumb in your mouth, making it obvious that you were tasting his precum.

Joel’s cock jerked on his lap as he whispered a blasphemy. Quickly he tucked away his painful dick back in his boxers and zipped his jeans as he stood up. Then he retreated to the bathroom, needing a fucking moment to find his composure again.

Until he heard you.

“Gonna go get my phone charger, be back in a jiffy!”

Before Joel could close the door behind him, you slipped your hand in the door gap to stop him from shutting it. You caught him off guard, because he stepped back, brows knitting when he saw you under the door frame.

“What’cha doing?”, he questioned you.

You could feel the rigidity radiating from him. You entered the small bathroom and silently closed the door behind you, both of your hands holding onto the doorknob on your back.

“I came to finish what I started.”

You didn’t give him time to think ― if you did, you knew he would put an end to this. You were too turned on, your cunt beating every time your heart did. Your pussy lips were all wet and puffy ― you could feel your slick trapped between your folds, almost seeping into your panties. You had unleashed the beast and wanted it all for yourself.

So you threw yourself into Joel’s chest, your teeth softly scratching his Adam’s apple as one of your hands found its way back to his cock. He tilted his chin up and groaned at your touch. His pounding dick felt warm and velvety against your palm, so hard from working him under the kitchen counter a minute before.

Once he opened his eyes again, he looked down at you as you gripped his erection with both hands. Slowly you jerked him off, feeling powerful with him on the palm of your hands. Every time you pumped him, your clit would twitch in response. He had not touched you yet and your pussy was already palpitating for him. You could not wait to feel him inside you, stuffing you full.

“We shouldn’t, your father is right there―”

You could not care less. And to make it evident, you sunk to your knees in front of him, still holding his cock, now at eye level.

Your tongue darted out and you leaned his dick forward until the tip rested flat against your tongue, your hands still working his veiny shaft.

“You were saying?” You asked before briefly pecking his glans.

“Fuck”, was the only thing he managed to mumble.

That was your cue to give free rein to your lust. You nudged his column with the tip of your nose as your mouth drifted down to kiss his balls. Then your tongue slid out in its full extension, and you flattened it against the underside of his cock, slowly lapping at it until you reached the top and sealed your lips around his mushroom head.

Glancing up at him, you saw pleasure softening his features as you took him in further and further down, until his cock reached the natural resistance at the end of your throat. When his tip bottomed out in your mouth, Joel’s eyes found yours. His jaw visibly clenched at the sight of you kneeling in front of him, cock burrowed in between your lips, tears gathering on your bottom eyelids because of how his dick was outstretching you.

You moaned as Joel pulled his hips back, his shaft leaving your wet cavity, now full of precum and saliva. You swallowed to make room as you avidly tipped your head towards him, your lips hunting down his dick again. Slurping so you wouldn’t drown in fluids, you ate his cock like if it was the last edible thing on earth.

At that moment, something shifted in the air. As if Joel, finally, let go of his prejudices and accepted what you were giving him: your mouth to use as he pleased. His fingers hovered over your temples and then they clamped down on your skull as he held you in place.

“Stay still”, he commanded, and you nodded, his cock sitting snugly in your mouth.

His hips moved back and then forward, rocking his dick in and out of your lips. First slow, then picking up a pace. You stayed put throughout while he fucked your mouth mercilessly, palms against your knees like the good girl you were. Then his glans breached your uvula and you inevitably gagged at the intrusion.

He forced you to remain still as he tried to go further down, but there was nowhere for him to go. Your eyes welled up while you fought back the need to cough, almost unable to breathe.

Joel snapped his hips back and your mouth became free. You started panting while trying to catch a breath. Joel cupped your chin up so you would look at him. His sly grin told you he was enjoying himself a bit too much.

“Can tell you’ve not eaten many cocks, have you? Despite pretending to be this slutty brat in front of everyone, hm?” He asked, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“Well, I―” He didn’t let you finish the sentence because as soon as you opened your mouth, he slotted his dick back in between your plump lips.

“I actually don’t wanna hear it.”

Inevitably your cunt gushed at his roughness. He was right though ― you had only given head to two guys before and their cocks did not measure up to his. Your jaw had actually started to hurt now due to the effort you were making to house his dick in your mouth.

Joel quickly resumed his pounding, fucking your mouth relentlessly ― his hips swaying back and forth in front of you.

“Sweetie! Can you bring my charger too please?” Your father’s question forced both of you to snap out of the sexual haziness you both were feeling.

You two froze in place, Joel’s cock still in your mouth.

“Or I can come get it.” Then you heard his booted steps coming up the corridor.

In a panic, Joel stumbled back and you sprang to your feet, eyes widened with fear.

“No! Don’t worry! I’m coming!” You shouted back, hoping that your voice sounded far away enough to him.

The steps stopped and you both listened to him walking back to the living room. “Thank you, sweetie!”

You turned to look at Joel, who had grabbed a bunch of toilet roll to clean off the mess on his still throbbing cock.

“Joel, I’m sorry, b―”

“Just go before he changes his mind and comes looking for you”, his voice was strained with effort. His erection had to be painful by now without any relief.

But he was right. You couldn’t risk it. Neither of you could. So with apologetic eyes, you slithered out the bathroom door and ran to your room to snatch a couple of phone chargers.

Fucking torture that was.

Joel had never been in a worse position than that. Sat on the couch with you, your father on the recliner just a couple of meters away ― and his dick still pulsating, his balls full of unspent cum. His cock would writhe in his boxers, asking for a relief that never came. He was in excruciating pain and was not able to concentrate at all. All the small talk your father did went over his head, didn’t pay attention to the TV’s commentary either.

From time to time, you would graze his thigh lightly ― and on one occasion you slid your naughty hand towards his groin. Luckily the living room was dark, the TV being the only source of light, so your father didn’t pay much attention to your provocations. You quietly kneaded his bulge, curling your fingers around his erection underneath, and it got to a point where Joel had to force your hand away, because he was too close to coming.

So, when he waved you both goodbye and got into his truck, he could literally not wait to get home. Under the dim light of the lampposts that filtered through the windows into the truck’s cabin, Joel freed his aching dick and fisted it from the base. With his head tilted back against the headrest, he furiously jerked off ― fast and with no measure, to the point it was almost hurting. Tension built up from his nuts upwards and when Joel finally got relief, he groaned audibly as his cum spurted out in white, thick streaks.

With a heavy sigh and some laboured breathing, he opened his eyes, looking for some tissues to clean the mess on his lap. As he was putting his cock back in his boxers, something caught his attention.

The darkness camouflaged you well, but he spotted you on the window of your room, watching him eagerly with half-lidded eyes and chewing your bottom lip. Then your head leaned forward, your chin almost touching your chest, and Joel suddenly understood what was happening. You had been touching yourself while observing him do the same thing, until you orgasmed too.

Your eyes locked on each other’s through the blackness, something dark and perverted floating in the atmosphere. The whole thing felt wrong. The right kind of wrong.

The next week had been a continuous dance between the two of you. You too suggestive, him too evasive. After you had seen him wanking in his car, you had thought you had him under your spell. He had looked like a damn teenager chasing his release, unable to contain it much longer.

But you couldn’t blame him ― you had had him on edge for almost five hours. First touching him under the counter, then sucking his dick in the bathroom, and finally kneading him on the couch with your dad only two meters away.

It all had affected you too, because as soon as you had scurried away to your room and had looked out the window, you fingered yourself with your eyes locked on him. You came so hard, that you had to steady yourself on the windowsill, trembling knees and all. And once the orgasm softened its grip on you, you had realised he had been watching you as you rode the last wave of your climax.

So yes, for a week you tried to seduce him again, because you needed to know how it all ended. Having him burrowed down to your guts was a necessity now. However, it got to a point where you almost gave up ― it was draining having to follow him around like a bitch in heat. You still had one ace up your sleeve though. One that you hoped to play this afternoon. Because if you didn’t fuck him today, you were going to lose your shit.

You focused on your task, which was rubbing the soaked sponge on the bodywork of the car. Two other people were doing the same thing on the back, while you were slightly bent over the hood trying to reach the middle. Your breasts brushed against the metalwork, your white tank top completely wet with soapy water, almost transparent now. The coldness was refreshing in the asphyxiating Texan heat and your nipples especially welcomed it, wrinkling tightly and showing through the fabric.

When you straightened, you caught a glimpse of Joel eyeing you intently. But you pretended you didn’t ― maybe you needed to play difficult, show him no interest. Reverse psychology. So for the rest of your shift you just ignored him, fully conscious of how his sight followed you at all times. Let him brew.

Joel didn’t say a word though, didn’t come close to you either. But you heard him wicker while you were openly teasing one of your teammates. Were you trying to make him jealous? Absolutely. So, you giggled and played with your hair at the tasteless joke your colleague told you. It wasn’t funny, but you wanted Joel to listen to your flirting.

Midday came around and the other two people working on the hand wash business said their goodbyes. Joel employed a father and son in the shop too, who left the garage to go home for lunch. And then it was only you and Joel left. Just as you had planned.

“Joel? Can you help me with this, please?” You politely asked him after lifting a bucket full of water up to your chest.

You took a couple of steps forward and the water spilt all over, soaking your shirt completely.

“Shit”, you heard him say under his breath, jogging towards you.

He slipped his arms underneath the bucket to release you from its weight and then placed it back down between both of you.

“What are you doing? You’re gonna hurt your back with such terrible manual handling.” He reprimanded you, tutting.

“Something hurts and it’s not my back, Joel.” You muttered, your fingers wrapping around his wrist to haul him closer to you.

You were done with subtlety. You guided his hand to your pussy and pressed it gently.

“Hurts right here.” The low, needy mumble poured from your lips like honey.

Joel’s eyes squinted just a tad, and his nostrils flared. You saw the inner battle in his chocolate eyes, and you fucking hoped he lost.

Soon you had the answer you had been looking for. The palm of his hand flattened against your crotch, holding you possessively, and pulled you against his broad chest. You couldn’t help but moan when your breasts pressed against him, your taut nipples aching with sensitivity.

“You’re so fucking nasty, kiddo. Been watching you all week, trying to get me hard all over again, haven’t you?” You shyly nodded, biting down your bottom lip as you glanced up at him, his palm rubbing your cunt with determination. “Of course you have, you’re so cock drunk. You loved sucking me, didn’t you?”

You shook your head yes, holding onto the waistband of his jeans. You whimpered when his thumb burrowed in your pants, trying to find your slit over all that clothing unsuccessfully.

“Joel, please.” You begged for mercy, for relief, for something ― anything he could give you, you would take.

“You want me to fuck you, kiddo?” His free hand cupped your chin, tilting your head up, while his thumb kept nudging your damp slit. His mouth hovered over yours as you simply nodded again. “Hm? You want me to destroy your pussy?”

“Yes, yes, YES.” You were already gushing at his dirty talk.

With no more prodding, Joel bowed down and sunk his tongue in your mouth, darting in with the ferocity only a man on the edge could feel. He swept your entire cavity in an open-mouth kiss that left your knees shaking and your pussy throbbing. You moaned into his breath and your tongue lapped at his, the span on his fingers gently covering your neck and squeezing lightly.

Joel’s hand between your legs moved to your ass, pressing you into him. His swollen lump poked at your lower belly intimately and you couldn’t resist the urge to dip your hand in his boxers. He audibly groaned as you attempted to circle his whole girth and failed. Just like a week before, you would need both of your hands around his shaft to properly grip him. You pumped him once, very slow, your hand gliding down till it found his balls.

Joel grunted in the middle of the sloppy kiss and pushed you to go backwards until your body met the back of his pickup truck, which was parked at the end of the driveway. Out of prying eyes, you hoped. Not that you cared that much at this precise moment, anyway.

His beard scratched the skin on your cheek as his lips drifted down to your neck. You looked up to the clear sky before you closed your eyes, giving his pulsing cock a light squeeze that snatched a moan out of him.

Without warning, Joel broke the messy kiss and knelt before you, his hands tugging at the waistband of your shorts with no difficulty. Soon your pants were around your ankles, your panties quickly following, leaving you naked from the waist down. Joel helped you take them off but left your tennis on.

Still on his knees, he peeked up with a devilish smile, then leaned forward and lapped at your mound. A heavy sigh slipped from your lips as your fingers raked his salt and pepper curls. The tip of his tongue brushed the point where your slit started and then licked upwards, his tongue skidding through your skin until it reached your belly button.

You pursed your lips, wanting him to go down, not up. In fact, you pushed him down ever so slightly and the cold of his breath against your wet skin when he laughed made you look down, frustrated.

He kissed the beginning of your slit again and when you thought he was going in, he stopped. You whimpered, thwarted, as he got back up to his feet and towered above you.

“You want me to touch you where it hurts, hm?” He questioned with his lips ghosting yours. “Your pussy? That’s where?”

Not waiting for your reply, his index dunked in your pearly furrow and traced it in its entirety, from your quivering hole to your thumping clit. And then he did it again, for good measure.

“You’re soaking, kiddo. I’ve barely touched you and you’re already dripping.” To emphasize his words, Joel suddenly dived his finger in your opening, a squelching sound making it obvious that you were, in fact, dripping. “You hear that?” He forced his finger out and then back in, the wet, sucking noise even louder this time.

You frantically nodded as he fingered you, his thumb caressing your begging clit as he did. You mewled into his chest, eyes shut, trying to calm the fluttering of your inner walls around his lonely finger. Lonely not for long, because Joel then introduced a second. You held onto his sides, his tee shirt scrunching in your fists, the orgasm building up.

“C’mon, squeeze your cunt for me. Show me how tight you are”, he whispered in your ear as his relentless fingering picked up a faster pace between your legs.

You happily obliged and squashed your walls together around his fingers as he dextrously stroked your g-spot. All of a sudden, a firing sensation built in your clit without warning and the haziness of pleasure took over your senses abruptly. You came hard, very hard, wailing his name as he kept on fingering you until the last wave of your climax washed over you.

What the actual fuck? You thought to yourself, amazed. You rested your forehead against his chest, catching a breath and feeling your arousal wetting your inner thighs.

Still recovering from your unexpected orgasm, Joel picked you up and settled you down on the edge of his truck’s cargo bed. Your feet dangled in front of you, and you parted your legs to make room for him while you wrapped his neck with your arms and licked into his mouth.

“Now I’m gonna eat you raw, kiddo. Give you some of your own medicine.” His hoarse tone gave you goosebumps. Palming both of your breasts over your wet tank top, he pushed you down until your back met the floor of the cargo bed, your legs hanging freely from your knees down. “Is that what you want? This old man feasting on your pussy, on her? ‘S she gonna like it?”

“Joel, please, just― Yes, eat my pussy. Eat her, eat me, please.” You begged with a small voice while you pinched your nipples over your shirt, eyes closed.

And finally, he did. With his hands on your knees to keep them apart, Joel lapped at your cunt in one sweet sweep. Your body trembled with elation, shivers firing down your spine. His tongue caressed all the crevices in your shiny slit, lips puffy and reddened. His thumb found your clit as the tip of his tongue played with your leaking hole, going in and out a few times ― fucking you with his tongue.

You were not able to take it for much longer ― with Joel’s tongue lodged in your creamy fold and your fingers playing with your nipples, you were done for. Soon you came undone, tension growing in your lower belly and molten lava finding its way out. You howled his name, your knees pressing against his head, holding him in place as you came in his mouth. Joel sipped from your fountain, leaving not even one drop behind, your pussy licked clean of your own discharge.

His turn to find relief.

Even though Joel had been fisting himself while eating you raw, the roughness of his palm could not compare to your warmth. He just knew your pussy would hug his cock just right. And he was dying to find out.

Pushing his work jeans and boxers down to his ankles, he kicked his feet until they came off. Soon his security shoes and socks were kicked to the side too. With renewed energy, Joel jumped on to the cargo bed. You propped your torso up with the help of your elbows to study his erection, wetting your lips unknowingly.

Your eyes lingered on his cock for too damn long and it twitched on his hand.

“Spread your legs, kiddo.”

And so you did without complaints. You stretched your legs, Joel having a perfect view of your glistening pussy. You were so horny, he could literally see your cunt palpitating from this angle. Knelt between your legs, he leaned forward until the tip of his dick brushed against your slit, so damp again it just slid off. Jerking himself off, he nudged your soaked entrance with his mushroom head and your mouth opened, shaping a perfect O.

“So needy, isn’t she? Aren’t you? Playing difficult to catch today, trying to make me jealous with that stupid boy, but in reality, you’re just a desperate brat wanting to get her pussy drilled by her dad’s best friend.” His dirty talk did not stop while he pushed in, your flesh parting to house him until he bottomed out.

Joel moaned, sweat gathering on his brow, his hands on either side of your head. He stood still for a long minute while your cunt fluttered around him, sheathing his whole length. He could feel your inner muscles adjusting to him.

You were so cockstruck you didn’t even reply.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, so take it well, kiddo.” He warned before tilting his hips back and abruptly back in.

You wailed loudly at the first thrust, and Joel had to muffle your screams by covering your mouth with his hand. You licked his palm, but he didn’t let go. He did not want you to alert the neighbours around the garage. His hips bucked against yours and then, after a few teasing shoves, Joel started jackhammering you fast and viciously hard.

You draped your legs around his waist, the heels of your white tennis pushing on his ass cheeks, encouraging to go deeper and quicker. And so he did, uncovering your mouth to replace it with his.

Joel fucked you mercilessly, filthily. He drove his dick in and out of you in quick succession, drilling your tacky pussy. And he knew you were loving every single second of it. Your soft sobs only spurred him on and when your moist pussy clutched around his drumming cock announcing your orgasm, he couldn’t restraint himself for much longer.

He stoically let you come while riding your own climax. His balls tightened and his belly muscles strained, signalling his own relief.

“Where?”, was the only word that he managed to whisper.

Your eyes were still closed, a languid smile lingering on your lips, all blissful and satisfied while he was still fucking suffering.

“In my mouth.” Your reply was almost his undoing.

Joel snapped his hips back, his hard, throbbing cock slipping out. He dragged his body across yours until his thick, hairy thighs were on each side of your head and his nuts were resting on your chin, his ass hanging over your breasts.

“Open”, he husked, raspy and throaty.

Still with your eyes closed, you parted your lips, and Joel shoved his beating cock down your throat unceremoniously. He leaned forward over you ― his hands holding his weight off you, flat against the cargo bed’s floor. And then Joel started fucking your mouth mindlessly, as if it was your cunt ― his testicles slapping against your chin and your eyes welling up.

He could feel your head almost rocking up and down below him with the strength of his thrusts. You only stopped swaying underneath him when your hands grabbed his buttocks, your fingers sinking in his flesh.

With a guttural growl, Joel came undone and his thick cum filled your mouth. You stayed still while the last white ropes spurted out the slit on his tip, finally reaching the bliss he had been chasing for a week.

Joel lifted his hips off your face and his dick came out of your mouth with a pop.

“Eat it, kiddo.” He requested of you, towering above you.

From this angle, flat on your back and with Joel almost sat on your face, you saw first his balls and then his soft cock hovering over your eyes. What had just happened was filthy, and you loved it, even though you were sure that your throat would hurt tomorrow.

“It’s $300 if I swallow”, you kidded out of nowhere, almost gargling with his cum as your mouth was full of it.

Joel chuckled as he came off you, sitting down on your left.

“Deal”, he agreed.

And so you gulped his cum down, letting it slip down your throat until it landed in your belly. You smiled at him before opening your mouth to show him it was empty.

Joel’s chest rumbled with satisfaction.

“Good girl.”

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leconcombrerit · 1 month ago

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This thing had been rotting in my files for a year (minus three weeks but that's basically a year). It was a redraw of one of my first ever pieces for this fandom, and I still find it quite okay if a little stiff in places, so I thought I might as well share it since I don't draw that much anymore.

And then I had second thoughts, which obviously led to me posting it anyway, as you can see, but I realized I've almost made it a point not to draw anything related to Sasi anymore. As in at all. I can't, and I don't want to, and even sharing old art feels a bit 'meh'. It's too directly linked to my long going art block.

What I mean by that is that if I took all the followers I have out there and asked them what they know me or initially followed me for, you might have a fair amount of Lis 2 and the occasional Desert Bluffs afficionados, but you'd get an overwhelming majority of Sanders Sides. Sanders Sides fashion posts even. I was by no means famous for it or anything, but at my small artist scale, it was the biggest success I had.

And it makes it much harder to go back to it at all now. One, because I don't give a damn about the show anymore. Two, because I haven't been properly obsessing over anything in a while (there was a series early this year but given the actual emotional distress I get thinking about it I'm ruling it out). I haven't had real engagement from my own brain, nor real engagement from a broad audience -which makes sense, I'm not posting for anything that will reach a broad audience. But it takes its toll regardless.

Even when I finally finished writing a long fic, I couldn't help but feel 'all this for what ? Ten people or so and two hundreds have dropped it ?'. Which is a bad way to think about stuff you write for your own enjoyment but, you know, the brain gets happy with external validation even if you pretend really hard you don't care.

And so it feels tempting to go back to the golden goose just the time to get the creative juice pumping back, and I try, and I always end up frustrated and angry and feeling even less like making art that before. I'm not having fun with Sasi. Like an old friend you have nothing to say to and yet you have so much to say otherwise, so you get a bit frustrated, you know ? Not sure I'm making much sense, but that's how it feels. I want to have something like that again, but it won't be with Sanders Sides, and I somehow just want if off my radar.

It was left hanging, then lost its spark, and then I stopped caring altogether and I most likely won't even watch the finale when it does come out. I'm over it. I wish I wasn't though, because it does feel like the artistic spark won't come back all on its own this time, and the buzzing community made it so much easier to bounce back and do shit when your brain got wired all wrong.

It sounds like I'm just bawling after love and likes and stuff, and I guess that's part of it, in a way ? Like I'm in no place to do things for myself, and seeing the one thing I used to use to get back in the flow giving me a bored sense of dread doesn't feel too great.

Yet this drawing is still good ! I find it good ! I don't remember everything, but I can tell from the looks of it that I spent a while on it ! It's nice ! I should celebrate that. So I'm sharing it. I think it will be the last piece of Sasi I ever share, though. I'm not watching the finale when it comes out. I don't care about it. I'll just keep doodling my OCs and characters from cool books every once in a while. I'll write little things.

I just really, really need to stop trying to go back to it when it's clearly not working and not even for good reasons. It was a fun ride though ! So yeah. Basically. A whole ass rant for a one year old piece of art. I'm in my bi-annual depresso mood, nothing too surprising there.

#I don't know how to put it into smart words really #it's just. yeah it's like that.#there's a lack of sharing for me I guess #bouncing off people's ideas and all #I consume quite a bit still #but it's not the same #Sasi was my golden age in that matter and it's been years #end result I lowkey hate it now #sanders sides #you can reblog it btw the rant isn't the most personal thing #it's more of a thing about sharing and art and community and engagement I guess

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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 14 - Choke on Sun

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: I’m really hoping you guys still like the long and fluffy chapters, because this is the longest and fluffiest chapter yet. Call this a calm before the storm, but the calm is tooth-rotting fluff and the storm is... a secret. Chapter Title from Welcome Home, Son by Radical Face

Word Count: 23.3k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Everyone goes into lockdown, waiting for Stand Edgar to come through. Usual warnings.

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 13 - Chapter 15

It wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. You were burning and burning and burning, and Homelander was laughing. Holding you by your neck to make you watch as Neuman and Zoe and Hughie burned. Crushed under falling bricks, unable to escape Homelander, escape you. The longer you looked, the more people appeared. All burning. Butcher and Annie and MM and Frenchie and your sisters and brothers and father and-

You couldn’t find Ben. Where was Ben. He didn’t leave you, he wouldn’t leave you, so where was Ben. You must have groaned his name, called for him, because Homelander yanks you back further, hissing in your ear.

“Soldier Boy won’t save you, because you don’t need to be saved. You belong here, with me. I love you, not him. He left, and I’m still fucking here.”

You shook your head. Ben wouldn’t leave you. Homelander must have found a way to kill him because Ben wouldn’t leave you.

“Are you sure about that,” Homelander sneered. “Because I don’t see him anywhere. But maybe I missed him. Here.” He lasered through the bodies and stone, guts and blood flying through the air and turning to ash. “Hm, nope. Still no Soldier Boy.”

You start to scream, and everything is just fire. Ben didn’t leave. He was somewhere, in pain, and you couldn’t find him. He couldn’t find you. And you were burning everything as Homelander laughed, because that’s what you were for. Homelander’s amusement, to help him burn the world, and you couldn’t find Ben-

Your sweat is cold, and evaporating around you. Scorching heat is drowning the air of the room, and the only thing that isn’t uncertain—isn’t melting or only drifting away in smoke—is something strong and powerful around you. Something grounding you in a world where your screams are becoming sobs, everything is hot but not burning, and Ben is there. He’s the thing around you, caging you against him as the dream faded and reality became sharp once more. It hadn’t been real. This was real. Ben was real.

He’s humming, and you can feel the sound in your bones. His voice really is terrible—he’s off key and offbeat and for someone who speaks in such a natural baritone his voice sure does crack a lot—but it’s more than enough. It rolls through you, and you don’t care how awful a rendition of Moon River this is, it’s Ben doing it. And that’s what brings you back down. It’s Ben who's humming, Ben whose hand is against your head, combing fingers through your hair. Ben who you can feel the warmth of as your fire dies out, and Ben who you can smell all around you. Pine and salt and gunpowder, not blood and barbecued flesh. Ben.

You pull back slowly and meet his eyes. His mouth is tight, jaw clenched, and he’s waiting for you to speak first. It takes a second, and your voice is hoarse from the screaming, but you find breath and croak, “How long was I out?”

“Almost thirteen hours. It’s 3am.”

“Did I wake yo-“

“No,” Ben grunts. “I was up. Working.”

You blink at him. “Working?”

“Making myself damn useful.”

You tilt your head at Ben, eyes quickly scanning to room for what he could mean. All the drawers and dressers are open, clothes are scattered in heaps that seem patternless across the floor, and Ben’s shield has been moved to the bedroom. The answer clicks, pushing through the exhausted haze of your brain, and you look back at him.

“Were you packing?”

Ben nodded curtly. “Starlight said they could keep Neuman in temporary lockdown, but they’ll be here in the morning to move us out.”

“Do you need help?”

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Ben detangles from where he’s holding you, pulling the blanket up over you as he stands. “Rest.”

“I just slept for thirteen hours.” You say with a flat look, pushing the blankets away, and Ben glares down at you.

“And you’ll sleep for thirteen more.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” you snap. “I want to help. I want to be useful-“

“You can be useful, and fucking rest,” Ben retorted, not budging. “I can pack my damn self.”

“Can you?” You look around the room again, at how he’s tried to sort everything into piles that you couldn’t make sense of if you tried. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you threw everything onto the floor and called it a day.”

He scowls. “I have a system.”

“Well, teach it to me, and I’ll help.”

“No.”

“Ben, please, I want to help. I need to help.” Any anger is quickly flooded by fear. Fear that you’re not useful, a burden, he’s not letting you help because you’ll just fuck it up and blow everything up-

“I told you, you’ll be helpful by fucking resting.” Ben leans down, holding your face gently between his hands. “You just took on a nuclear blast alone. Even for you that’s a shit ton of power, and you need damn rest. You're tired.”

He's right, you are tired. Your whole body is aching, and your eyes are heavy. Everything is heavy. But you still shake your head weakly.

“I just need to help,” you reach up to hold his arm and squeeze. “I’ll sleep in the van, and when we get to Jersey. Please.”

Ben sighs, and kisses your forehead. When he meets your gaze again, he’s searching your face for something, lips drawn in a frown. For a terrible moment you think he’s going to tell you just to sleep. That he’ll take care of it and that you’d be of more use asleep than helping him-

“If you stay in bed,” his voice is low and quiet. “I’ll be your arms and you can sort things your own stupid way.”

“Oh,” you nod, his hands still against your cheeks and jaw. “Yeah. Deal.”

He grunts, standing once more and walking to the center of the room. He turns, giving you an expectant look, and you survey his mess.

“So was there a method to your madness? Or were you just talking out of your ass when you said you had a system.”

“There was a goddamn system,” Ben grumbles, and you raise your brows at him. He sighs. “I can’t fucking remember what it was.”

You feel your mouth tug upwards. “Old man-"

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re no fun,” you’re smiling a little more, and he rolls his eyes. “We’ll start with two piles. Stuff that's yours and stuff that's mine.”

“How will I be able to fucking tell-"

“Do you wear bras, Benjamin?” You drawl, and he huffs.

“Brat.”

“I’m not the one who doesn’t know what his own clothing looks like. Two piles.”

Ben starts to shuffle through the room, throwing your things onto the bed and his next to his shield. You watch him move silently, hands fidgeting in your lap, and thank the universe that both of your wardrobes have been designed to withstand nukes. The way Ben is ripping everything from the floor and chucking them to their place he’d have probably torn everything he’s touched otherwise. At some point you realize that you’re wearing the same jeans and shirt from yesterday, and though they’re still technically intact the fabric is thin. One wrong movement from tearing.

You start to stand, and Ben’s head snaps up from where he's been glowering at a pile of his boxers, your shirts, and mismatched socks. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“Going to the bathroom?” You give him a flat glare. “Am I allowed to do that, your highness?”

He grunts, attention returning to the pile. “Be fast.”

“I’m going to take the longest shit you’ve ever seen in your fucking life.”

You take several, slightly unsteady steps, and suddenly Ben’s arm is wrapped around your torso.

“I can walk-“

“I have fucking eyes,” he snaps. “You almost fell over.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

“No, it’s not,” Ben scans over you, then around the complete mess of your room. “I’m going to carry you to the bathroom, you’re going to shit, and then you’re going right back to the fucking bed.”

He doesn’t leave time for argument, dropping down to hook his free arm under your legs and pulling you upwards.

“You know, I think you carry me more places than I walk at this point.” You mutter, and Ben rolls his eyes.

“I don’t see you fucking complaining about it.”

You shrug, “it doesn’t feel like a battle worth the effort.”

“Because you like it.”

“No, because it’s a stupid fight to have.”

Ben nods, winking as he lowers you onto the toilet. “And you like it.”

You glare at him as stands. “Fuck you.”

He chuckles, leaning down to quickly kiss you, and you lean forward into it. When Ben pulls away with a long suck of your lip, he’s smirking again. “Not until after you shit.”

“Wait,” you grab his arm as he moves to leave. “Can you get me some clothes?”

“Clothes?” Ben frowns. “For what?”

“Wearing?” You giggle at his scowl. “I need to change, these feel like they’re about to fall off my body.”

“I don’t see the issue with that.”

You whack his shoulder, pushing him out of your grip and back to the bedroom. “Shut up, you horny old man. Get me clothes.”

Ben leaves the bathroom with a grunt, closing the door behind him. You listen to him move around the room, tapping your foot in restless bounces, and right when you’re flushing a knock sounds on the door.

You stand, your legs a little steadier than before, and open the door. Ben is holding a large pile of shirts, pants, and underwear, still frowning as he looks down at you.

“This shit smelled clean,” he grumbles, thrusting the clothing forward. “Take what you want.”

Humming, you sort through your options. Ben seems determined not to let go of anything you don’t explicitly request, making this a little difficult, but you manage to turn through the pile without removing things from his arms. Most of the underwear is lacy and thin—you didn’t even know you owned anything like this—and you give him an amused look.

“I am almost positive I have clean underwear that isn’t lingerie.”

“You might,” he winks. “But I seemed to have missed it.”

“What if I just don’t wear underwear?” You tease, and Ben’s whole body stiffens. “Because I am not wearing,” you hold up a black pair made from the most itchy fabric you’ve ever felt, lined with bows. “These.”

“Promise?” He growls, staring at you with a gaze that’s far too intense for this early in the morning. You throw the underwear at his face, and he doesn’t even flinch.

You giggle, and he glares at you through the sheer material. Returning to the pile, you pull out a large, white t-shirt. “This is yours.”

“You’d look better in it.” Ben snaps his head forward, causing the underwear to fall back to the pile, and grins at you. “And just it.”

“Uh huh,” you wrinkle your nose at him, but still take the shirt anyway. “Pants?”

Ben nods at a single pair of shorts, and you glare at him.

“It’s the middle of February.”

“And? You’re a damn living furnace.”

“I can still feel cold.”

“We’ll get you a fucking blanket. You’re resting on the ride anyways.”

You sigh, but take the shorts, along with one of the slightly less lewd underwear options. “I’m never trusting you with clothing again.”

“Thank fuck.” Ben looks at the clothing in your hands. “You done?”

At your nod you think he’s going to close the door, but instead he drops all the clothing to the floor and reaches up to grab your face, pulling you towards him. You let out a small squeak of surprise, and he chuckles as your mouths meet.

It’s a long, gentle, lazy kiss. Sloppy and all tongue, one of Ben’s hands gliding into your hair as the other drops to wrap around you. He keeps going and going until you’re all but falling into him, and the moment your moans become his name he’s gone. Leaning back, smirking down at you as you try to catch your breath. You can feel him, all of him, the powerful thing in his chest and the hunger in his blood. It’s so painfully familiar, and it’s everything.

“Cunt,” you mutter through your teeth, and he laughs.

“Get changed, then get your ass back in bed.” He moves back down to kiss the scrunch of your nose, and then closes the door with a wink.

You flip him off through the wood, and hope he feels it. You have to lean against the wall of the bathroom to change—something you will never tell Ben—but you manage, and when you return to the bedroom it’s a little cleaner. Ben’s succeeded in separating the clothing into piles, and is glaring at your pile like it’s just insulted his mother.

“What’s wrong with you?” You ask, walking up behind him.

He doesn’t look away from the clothing. “You have too much fucking shit.”

“I’d say I have a pretty average amount of shit.” You hum, glancing at Ben’s own, much smaller pile. “It’s just a lot in comparison to your shit.”

Ben follows your gaze. “I have exactly as much as I damn need.”

You shrug. “As long as you’re happy with it. But don’t shit on my parade just because yours is tiny and pathetic.”

“As you’re aware,” Ben says your name with a smirk, arm slinging around your shoulders and tugging you into his side. “Nothing about me is tiny or pathetic.”

“I don’t think I am aware,” you meet his eyes, letting your challenge show across your face. “I think you need to prove it.”

He makes a deep sound that moves from somewhere in his chest to yours, and the lust almost explodes inside him. Inside you. Ben picks you up—your legs scrambling to wrap around him—and kisses your neck, then your jaw, then tugs at your ear with his teeth. He’s everywhere, crossing almost every part of your face with his mouth, holding you with one arm as the other roams your body. The only place he isn’t is where you need him the most, against your lips, pressing your tongue, inside you in the only way you can allow without completely shattering for him.

You fall back onto the bed, sinking into the mattress as Ben all but eats you alive, and your hands start to scrape at his back, up his neck, trying to leave some sort of impossible mark that proves he was here. That he did this to you, so the world will know that at some point he wanted you half as much as you need him. He still won’t just kiss you, biting and sucking and licking every single inch of your face except your mouth. If you could control yourself a little more, you’d stop moaning and whining his name to tell him to just kiss you.

“Ben,” you try to hiss or snap at him, but it’s just a breathless whimper against his ear. You’re starting to grind up into his body, and the groan that leaves his throat only spurs you on. “Fuck, Ben, you di-“

That does it. His mouth crashes into yours, burying you between the bed and him, just Ben, Ben, Ben, tasting like coffee and bruising you with his hands and the hunger and strength of everything in him. You think you scream his name into his mouth—you can hear a needy and loud sound but can’t really tell what’s happening to you save for the thirst and fervor for Ben—but he just keeps going, pressing his hips down until you’re pinned beneath him. You could live like this, you decide. Safe and desired under Ben’s body, nothing to worry about except trying to show him that he’s everything, no pain to feel except the ache all over you for him.

When Ben sits up, grinning down at you, he might be glowing. It might just be the haze and feverish heat he’s planted in your head, but you could swear he’s glowing. You try and pull him back down, but he just hangs above you, not ever moving an inch.

“Get your ass back down here, Benjamin,” it’s supposed to be a firm order, but even to your own ears it sounds like a plea. “You can’t just fucking do that-“

“Do what?” His voice is mockingly innocent, especially given the feral look in his eyes and the rumble of want you can feel from his chest. “You’re gonna have to be a little more fucking specific, Sunshine.”

“Fuck you.”

He doesn’t take the bait this time, remaining right above you but still too far away. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ben leans down so he’s whispering in your ear. “All you have to do is fucking ask.”

You almost do. You almost beg, give in, tell Ben to do whatever he fucking wants to you as long as he’s doing something. Anything. Everything. Just as long as it’s him. But that cruel voice that lives in the back of your head creeps forward, reminding you the truth. Too much. That’s too much. This will have to be enough because if you go any further you just fall into Ben forever. You’ll give him everything, because he’s everything, and when this is over you’ll have nothing. So you can’t give him all of you, and he doesn’t want it anyways.

You’re silent for a second too long, and you feel something confusing and rough pierce in your ribs from Ben’s body. But he just leans down, giving you one last gentle kiss before standing. Leaving the air around you cold and empty without him. He’s gone from view, and when you sit up you find him hauling out boxes from the hallway.

“Where did those come from?” You ask, still a little breathless, and Ben shrugs.

“The French Prick and Kimiko dropped them off around midnight. Said to use them for transporting shit.” Ben looks up at you. “The French Prick said Kimiko wants you to text her when you’re awake.”

“Oh,” you smile slightly, looking around the room. “Where’s my phone?”

“Left it in your jacket,” Ben jerks his head to the dresser. When you start to stand, he drops the boxes and shoots you a glare, stomping over to your jacket. “Sit the fuck down,” he grumbles, fumbling through the pockets. “I’m the fucking arms.”

“You need to pack, I can get my phone myself-“

“No,” Ben pulls your phone out, stalking to your side. “You need to sit there, be beautiful, tell me what to do, and stop fucking moving.”

You snatch the phone from his hand, sticking your tongue out at him even as your face heats. “I’m helping you unpack in Jersey, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“We’ll fucking see,” he grumbles. “Fucking Jersey.”

You snort as he returns to the boxes, watching him kick them across the floor. “What’s your agenda against Jersey? What did it ever do to you?”

“It’s a shit state for fucking pussies.”

“You say that about every state that isn’t New York or Pennsylvania.”

“That’s because those states are fucking worth something.”

“I thought your whole thing was loving America,” you cross your arms, tilting your head at him. “Only liking 4% of it isn’t very patriotic of you, Soldier Boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ben grunts, attention still on the boxes. “And I don’t only like 4% of America.”

You hum. “If we go by state, 2 out of 50 is 4%. If we go by population, you might be just breaching 10%.”

“I like more than two states.”

“Really,” you give him a bored, disbelieving look. “Name one more state you like.”

“Massachusetts,” he looks up and winks. “It gave me you.”

“Kiss ass,” you mutter, and Ben chuckles.

“Yep.”

“Name one more,” you lean forwards a little, watching him hunch down to the clothing. “And divide them into smaller piles.”

“What?”

“The clothes, divide them into smaller piles. Pants with pants, shirts with shirts, etcetera.”

Ben shoots you an exasperated look, but starts to chuck his clothes around into slowly building bundles on the floor. “Fucking bossy,” he grumbles, and you scoff.

“You told me to be,” your tone is annoyed, but you can feel the smile stretching your face. “Name another state. California? That will get you a big population grab.”

“I fucking despise California,” Ben mutters. “Bunch of fake pussies with plastic tits taking boner pills.”

“What about Washington? First state to legalize weed. You love weed.”

Ben snorts. “Weed not being legal never fucking stopped me before.” He looks up at you with a frown. “MM said we could order shit now, right?”

“Yeah?” Ben opens his mouth, and you cut him off. “We are not ordering you drugs.”

He scowls. “Why the fuck not.”

“Because we’re literally moving to a federal building. We’re going to be living in the FBSA Headquarters. They’ll notice if you DoorDash cocaine.”

“What the hell is DoorDash.”

“Food delivery service,” you watch Ben start to throw clothing into the bins. “Are you not going to fold them first?”

“We don’t have time to fucking fold them.” He mutters, and you blink.

“Ben,” you say slowly. “What time are they coming by to pick us up?”

“Five.”

You look down at your phone, the clock reading 4:45, and look back up at Ben. “Benjamin-“

“I got fucking distracted,” he grunts. “You’re just as much to blame as me.”

“As I,” you correct, and he rolls his eyes. “And if you had told me-“

“You would’ve tried to help, and passed out on the floor.” Ben snaps, slamming the lid over the first box. “And we’ll be fine. We’ve got time.”

“But-“

Ben moves back to the bed, dragging the remaining boxes behind him. “I can fucking handle this. Text Kimiko.”

You glare at him, but open up your phone and poke through your messages. There’s one from MM—telling you about the van coming at 5am—two from Butcher that you don’t look at, and one from Mallory, asking you to clean the house before you leave. You would’ve, or at least tried to, if you’d gotten more than a day’s evacuation notice. So you send her an apology, and move onto the last unread message.

Kimiko: Second Hottest Person on the Team

Are you ok?

I told Soldier Boy to make sure, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention

You glance up at Ben, who’s violently throwing your clothes into different piles.

“Can you please not rip my clothing,” you watch as he chucks a bra across the mattress.

“Your shit is built to withstand the goddamn sun. It won’t fucking rip,” Ben grumbles, but does throw the shirt in his hands less like he’s trying to pitch a fastball.

You look back down at your phone, responding to Kimiko.

I’m okay. Just tired.

You pause, watching Ben pick up the pile of pants at your side and dump them in the bin.

And Ben did tell me. He just has a resting bitch face.

The response comes almost immediately.

Kimiko: Second Hottest Person on the Team

Good

I’ll see you at the apartments

You blink at your screen, about to text back and ask why she’ll see you—because the team should be laying low after Neuman—and what she means by apartments plural, but Ben’s head shoots up, looking out the door and down the hall.

“Wha-“

Ben raises his hand, and you fall silent with a frown. His jaw clenches, dropping a pair of your jeans back into the bin, and says through gritted teeth, “There’s someone downstairs.”

“Ben-“ He’s walking out the door, and you hiss in a hushed tone after him. “Ben, it’s probably just Butcher-“

He glares back at you. “No it’s not. I know what Butcher fucking sounds like. Stay here and be quiet.”

“Benjamin-“

He’s gone, and your finger starts to tap anxiously. He said to stay here. And you trust him. But he’s also a paranoid ass, and might be about to attack Butcher or Hughie or MM because of it. But he said to stay here, and it might not be just one of your team members-

An unfamiliar voice shrieks from downstairs, and you don’t even think before you sprint out of the bed and down the stairs, skidding to a halt when you see Ben pointing a gun at an unfamiliar woman. She’s frozen in fear, shaking as Ben shouts at her.

“Who the fuck are you! Who do you wor-“ Ben looks up at you with a scowl, snapping your name. “I told you to fucking stay upstairs.”

“What the hell-“

“Take, take a step back and put your hands up,” a shaky voice interrupts you, and you look up to see another man—dressed in the same black suit as the woman—pointing a gun at you with a shaky hand. “Your behavior is hostile, and I will, I’ll shoot. I’ll do it.”

You sigh, realizing what’s happening. “Oh my god-“

“You shoot her and I’ll rip your fucking spine out and shove it up your goddamn asshole,” Ben roars, and the woman on the barrel end of his gun makes a weak sound.

“That’s, that’s a crime sir-“

“See if I give a single goddamn fuck-“

“Holy fucking shit,” you shout, raising your hands up. “Everyone calm the hell down, now.”

“Ma’am, I have been authorized to use force-“

“Fucking Butcher,” you mutter, before raising your voice and giving the man a glare. “I bet you have been. But shooting me will only make him,” you point to Ben. “Angry.”

“He, uh, he already seems pretty angry-“

“Angrier. Just put the gun down. That means you-“ you turn to Ben with a glare. “As well.”

“Not until they tell us who fucking sent them-“

“The FBSA, dumb dumb. They’re here to transport us, not try and kill us.”

Ben returns your glare. “You don’t fucking know that-“

“Yeah, I do.” You cross the room, over to the shaking man. His gun raises a little higher, aiming at your forehead, but he lowers it when he sees your bored expression. You stop in front of him, stepping to the side to give Ben a better view, and jab a finger at the man’s jacket. At the clearly displayed Agent Moore, FBSA badge pinned to it.

Ben scoffs, and lowers his gun. “How the fuck was I supposed to see that.”

“With your genetically enhanced vision?” You snap, and give the woman an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about him, he’s not house trained.”

“Shut up,” Ben grumbles, and you stick your tongue out at him as you return to his side. “They could’ve damn knocked.”

“And you could’ve asked questions first and shot later.”

“I fucking did. Do either of them look dead?”

You look between the agents, both trembling in fear but very much alive. “No.”

Ben gives you a smug grin. “Who’s unobservant now?”

“Still you.”

“Um,” the woman—squinting at her chest you can make out Agent Cortez on her badge—looks between you and Ben nervously. “We’ve been told by Director Grace Mallory and William Butcher to collect you both and bring you to the FBSA headquarters.”

“We’ve fucking figured that out-“

“We,” you raise your brows at Ben. “Who’s we?”

“Christ on a cross,” Ben mutters, only loud enough for you to hear, and you smile sweetly at him. “She,” Ben gives you a pointed glare. “Figured that out.”

“Will you, will you be compliant?” The man—Agent Moore—fidgets with his gun, and you feel Ben tense against you.

“Yes, we will be.” You elbow Ben. “Right?”

“Whatever.”

You roll your eyes, and look back at the agents with a close-lipped smile. “He’s grumpy.”

“Stop calling me fucking grumpy-“

“Stop being grumpy. And give the agent her gun back.”

Ben scowls. “No.”

“Ben-“

“I’ll be compliant,” his face twists at the word, lips curling like it’s disgusting on his tongue. “But I keep the fucking gun.”

You sigh. “Fine. Do you need help with the clothes-“

“No.” Ben shoves the gun between his pants and body and glares at the FBSA agents. “Wait here. And if they try anything-”

“They literally can’t hurt me. I’ll be fine.” You give him a slight pout. “But if you’re really worried, I’m sure I could come with you and help-“

Ben snorts, and turns to climb back up the stairs. “Nice try, brat.”

“Cunt!” You call after him, flipping off his back.

His laugh echoes through the house, and vanishes into your bedroom.

You glare at the spot he vanished, and turn back to the living room and to see the agents watching you with wide eyes and pale faces.

“Uh, I’m really sorry about that. But he’s kind of…” you sigh. “Vigilant. And I think we were both expecting someone from our team-“

“Is it true that you’re more powerful than Homelander?” Agent Moore blurts, and your blood turns cold.

“I, uh, I don’t-“

“Jerry,” Agent Cortez hisses at Moore, still looking at you wearily. “Director Mallory said not to talk to them-“

“But you saw her file!” Moore whispers back, also not looking away from you. “And we watched the Firecracker videos together-“

“Shut up,” Cortez snaps, voice dropping to an almost panicked, hushed tone. “We’re just supposed to get them and go. Not ask questions about their powers.”

“But her powers are confusing! She has like a million!” Moore wrings his hands, gun waving in the air. You should probably be worried about that, but you’re more annoyed with the whole conversation. You can understand why Ben was so whiny about this in December. It is annoying having people talk about you, in front of you, like you’re not there. And you do not have a million powers. You have—if you count the whole immortality thing—five.

“And there’s the whole weird thing with Homelander saying Soldier Boy kidnapped her!” Moore continues, still practicing terrible firearms safety. “But she doesn’t look kidnapped-“

“Shut up! Soldier Boy has super hearing!”

“But she doesn’t! This is weird, Lily! Yesterday the news is saying that Soldier Boy forced her to kill Vice President Neuman and Homelander arrived too late save them, then we’re getting a text at 1am saying to take them to HQ, and now-“

“I can hear you, you know,” you sigh. “And Ben didn’t kidnap me. You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV.”

Both freeze, watching you like you’re about to attack them. Cortez stutters out, “We’re sorry, we didn’t-“

She’s interrupted by Ben shouting your name down the stairs. “Where the fuck is your phone!”

“In my hand!” You call back. “Are you almost done?”

“Can you ask the FSBI pussies if they have blankets?!”

You frown. “Blankets?!”

“For the ride!” Ben’s face pokes out of the door, drawn in a stupidly handsome glare. “You’re fucking napping on the way to Jersey, Sunshine.”

“Oh, piss off.” You wrinkle your nose at him. “You can’t make me nap, I’m not a child-“

“I won’t have to make you, you’re going to sit down and pass out right the fuck out. You always pass out.”

“I don’t always pass out.”

“How many times have I carried you into the house?” Ben drawls, and you scowl.

“Fuck you.”

Ben winks, not with company over, Sunshine. You’ll make them deaf with all your damn screaming.

I’m going to fucking strangle you. You glower, and he chuckles, vanishing back into your room.

“Ask about the fucking blankets!” He yells, and you turn back to the agents with a sigh.

“We don’t have blankets,” Agent Cortez says nervously, looking past you, up the stairs. “Is he going to be mad?”

“He’ll whine like a little bitch,” you raise your voice to make sure Ben hears you. “But he won’t hurt you.”

“I am not a little bitch.” Ben appears back at the top of the stairs, somehow carrying three of the four large bins at once.

“But you whine like one.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles, descending back into the living room. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re comfortable, is that a damn crime?”

“Not on its own, but if you murder a bunch of FBSA agents about it, yes.”

Ben drops the boxes on the floor, glaring at the agents. “You pussies think you can handle carrying these outside?”

“Um,” Cortez blinks at him. “That will restrict our view, and we’re not supposed to let you out of our sights.”

“Well, you already fucking failed there.” Ben snaps, and you stomp on his foot. “What?”

“Don’t be a dick, they’re doing their best.”

“If this is their fucking best, I’d hate to see their damn worst.”

You ignore him, turning back to the agents. “Can you please help us bring our stuff out to the car?”

“I guess…” Moore mumbles, and Ben nods sharply.

“Good,” Ben grunts, marching back up the stairs. “And if she tries to help you, shoot her.”

You sigh. “Please do not shoot me.”

“Then don’t try and fucking help!” Ben’s voice carries down the hall, and you roll your eyes.

“I’m not made of glass, you asshole! I can carry a box!”

“Maybe,” Ben appears once more, holding the last bin and his shield, your jacket tossed over his shoulder. “But you shouldn’t goddamn have to.”

“I don’t have to,” you snap. “I want to help. I’m wide awake right now, and I feel fine. I’ll use a favor, Benjamin, don’t test me.”

“Fine. One box. The suits can carry the other two.”

You smile at him, wide and easy, and he just grunts. As Cortez and Moore awkwardly pick up their boxes you pull your jacket off of Ben and shrug it on. He doesn’t stop watching you—lips pulling down as you pick up your box—knuckles white on his own box.

You nudge Ben’s shoulder with yours as you walk to his side. “No sentimental goodbyes?”

“Goodbyes?” Ben’s voice is sharp, and you feel something contract in his chest. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“No, goodbyes to the house.” You blink at him, following the agents to the front door. “I’m going with you.”

“Good.” The thing loosens, and you could swear you hear Ben let out a small huff of relief. “And I’m not saying goodbye to a fucking house.”

“What, no emotional attachment to the sofa or the stove?” You tease, and Ben gives you a glare.

“Those are just fucking things. I don’t give a shit about a sofa. I can get a sofa anywhere.”

You hum. “Not at a McDonalds. Or a Sephora.”

“What the fucking hell is a Sephora.”

“You have a phone now,” you grin up at him. “Google it.”

“Why would I do that when you can just fucking tell me.”

“Because I won’t get to laugh at you trying to spell Sephora.” Ben scoffs, and you examine his bored, neutral face. Whenever your arms brush you can feel something that’s lazy and warm rooted in his chest, so it’s not like he’s bored of you-

Yet, the bitter voice reminds you. Bored of you yet.

“You really don’t give a shit that we’re leaving?” You ask softly, a little afraid of the answer. Afraid that he doesn’t give a shit about the house because it’s meant nothing to him. That’s he’s happy with this—with you—because of the lust, or because kissing you is just easier than trying to kill you. But he hasn’t been trying to kill you for a while, and the kissing only just started. But maybe that’s less about you and more about the convenience. He’s horny and you’re there. But he hasn’t pushed you, and if it was just about the convenience he would’ve fucked Drug Boobs at Frenchie’s weird club. Why didn’t he fuck Drug Boobs? If it’s about convenience why did he leave Drug Boobs? To find you, before the kissing had even started? Why did he go out of his way to get you home? Not home anymore, and why doesn’t he care about that? That it’s not home anymore? He doesn’t have to care, but why doesn’t he? Why doesn’t he care-

“It’s just a fucking house. We can get another.” Ben’s grumble pulls you from your spiral, and you frown up at him.

“But-“

“You’re coming with me.” Ben says your name, voice firm as he exits through the door. “That’s all I give a fuck about.”

Your whole body becomes warm, even as you follow him into the chill of the winter dark and wind. “Okay,” you whisper, and Ben looks down at you. His face is cast in shadows, and golden light of the street lamps makes him glow. It’s not just the haze of your thirst from before. He’s shining.

“Are you going to get fucking mad at me if I kiss you?” he grunts, and the shake of your head feels frantic.

“Never-“

Ben doesn’t waste any time, dropping his bin and shield and crashing into you. His warm hands holding your face, calluses rough against your skin, making you feel holy. Making you feel so safe under the wide night, because all of the sky and its stars could fall and collapse onto you and it would still just be Ben. The gravity of him would keep you close, and he’d hold the sky, and you’d worship him for it. Give him everything you have and more for making you feel this. For touching you like you’re not broken and shattered and missing pieces that are covered in ash and blood somewhere in upstate New York. For holding you like he could fill the cracks lining your head with gold and fire and him. That’s what makes you drop your own bin—your hands shooting up to sink into his hair and rest on his beard as his own arms drop to circle you—and push back into him with every single part of you that’s still worth something. Worth half as much as the zealous way he’s touching you, worth a quarter of the enormous and consuming ardor that’s climbing from Ben into you. Making every part of you beat against your body, telling you to maybe just carve your soul out of wherever you keep it and give it to him.

When you’re both breathless—your body alert and electric and that powerful thing in Ben like thunder—you separate in unison. Ben rests his head against yours for a second, one arm tight around you as its opposite moves a hand to your face, tracing your cheekbones lightly. He’s watching you, you’re locked into him. His eyes and smell and body and Ben. It’s when his hand moves a lock of your hair, plastered to your forehead from sweat, that you feel the weight of it crash into you. This is everything. This is the whole world, this is more than the whole world. This is you and Ben, and you-

One of the agents coughs, and Ben’s head snaps any from you, jaw clenched with his arm around you. “What the fuck do you want.”

“Um,” when you manage to look away from Ben, you see Moore looking between you with a blush. “Mr. Butcher just asked us to please hurry up.”

“Butcher said that?” You frown, and Moore scratches the back of his head.

“He used some other words too. And didn’t say please.”

“Other words, as well,” Ben corrects, and you feel a rush of pride through him. Through you—something dangerous and close to breaking out of your body swelling—even as you sigh.

“I’ve created a monster.”

“And that’s your fucking cross to bear, Sunshine.” Ben presses a kiss to the top of your head and peels himself away. Picking up his shield, his box, and your box. “Now get your beautiful ass in the car.”

“Give me back my box-“

“I can’t hear you,” Ben starts to walk away and you can hear the cocky smirk on his face as he says your name.

“Yes you fucking can. Don’t play dumb with me, Pretty Boy-“

Ben drops his shield and the boxes in the trunk of the agent’s SUV. “You’re tired.”

Your whole body suddenly feels like there's a weight on it, your head falling to a sleepy daze. “Stop fucking doing that.”

“Doing what?” Ben’s face is a picture of mock innocence as he returns to your side. “I didn’t do a damn thing.”

“Fucking cunt-“

“Brat.” Ben scoops you into his arms, carrying you into the car. The concrete, unyielding care and protection of Ben wraps through you, dragging sleep closer.

“I could’ve walked,” you mumble against his skin, your head buried in his neck.

“But you fucking didn’t, so here we are.”

You hum a muffled, faint insult—even you don’t know what it’s supposed to be—Ben chuckles. It rumbles through your guts and sits comfortably somewhere in your hips, and Ben’s grip loosens just enough for you to slide down his body as he sits. You can feel his warmth, smell the pine and gunpowder of him, and he’s humming again and god it’s terrible, but it’s somehow the best sound you’ve heard in your life. His hands start to trace patterns against where he’s holding you, and your whole body goes limp as your mind clears to Ben.

You don’t even know where you are. You could be buried in the sand of a desert, or floating through somewhere far in space, or dropped in the middle of the arctic circle, but it wouldn’t matter. Because Ben is touching you, kissing you until you can’t think about stupid things like where you are. It’s just Ben, it’s just you, and everything else is temporary. This is sacred, and could destroy the universe if you wanted it to. And when everything else was gone, it would still just be you and Ben.

He’s everything beautiful that’s ever existed. He’s the ocean in the summer, vast and consuming and the more you look the more you realize there’s no end. He’s the stars you prayed to as a child, so rare and peaceful when the city's blaring car horns and glowing billboards always drowned out the sky, such a small solace to see from the roof when your eyes were blurred with tears. He’s the songs you loved to sing when it was easy and uncomplicated—in the car and in the shower and into a microphone until drunk frat boys bought you a drink—making you feel like a little more than just a heart in a wide world, making you feel like there’s something you can shape with your will as your voice called like a siren to passers by. He’s every drop of sugar that’s ever hit your tongue, every soft patch of grass under your feet, every single smile and laugh and victory.

He’s above you, and kissing you, and touching you on every part of your body and in some spaces between. He’s growling filth into your ear, but it’s all just a blur of deep sounds that fall in time with your moans. Grinding against you and sucking your upper lip. Nose bumping yours and strong hands kneading your skin and ass and breasts. Knee pushing between your legs and tongue tracing your teeth. It’s all just Ben, and he’s yours. He’s not leaving you to rot in this fever. He’s grown something in you and you’ve grown something in him and now they need each other. You need each other to keep them alive. These wrathful and bloody and forgiving and luminescent things inside you. That you could survive without, but don’t want to. You have them now, and if you have any sort of power over your life you’ll use it to keep them. Keep Ben.

Your eyes blink open, and the first thing you hear is a too happy, over-saturated ding. There’s the rumble of the engine, the beat of Ben’s heart where your head rests against him, and another ding. You raise your head up—rubbing your face and letting your eyes adjust a focus in the dark car—and Ben squeezes your hips where he’s still holding on his lap.

“Go back to sleep,” he grunts your name, and you look up at him through bleary eyes. “We’re almost there.”

“How do you know that?” You mumble, and he shrugs.

“We’ve been driving for a million fucking years, we have to be close.”

You twist around slightly to see the front of the car and raise your voice for the agents to hear. “Excuse me-“

“Soldier Boy is correct, ma’am,” Cortez answers you before you can even ask the question, and you feel the smug satisfaction run from Ben into you. “We have approximately seven minutes until arrival.”

“Thank you,” you turn back to Ben, and are met with his smirk and overly pleased expression.

“Fucking told you.”

“Shut up,” you hit his arm, wriggling around so your back is pressed to his chest, using him as a very large, annoying chair. “And don’t tell me to go back to sleep.”

Ben scoffs at the drop of your tone and grunted words at the end, and you grin into the air. “Your impression of me is fucking terrible.”

“No, it’s not. I think I could’ve made it as a Soldier Boy impersonator at Voughtland if college fell through.”

“You would’ve been the worst fucking Voughtland impersonator in the world, Sunshine,” Ben’s chin drops to rest on your head, and you can feel every word he says through your blood.

“Why, because I’m a lady?”

He snorts. “You are not a fucking lady.”

“Fuck you,” you grumble, and a flash of hunger carves into your lower stomach. “And if they painted a beard on me, put a banana in my pants, and gave me a stupid helmet nobody would’ve known the difference. I’d have thrived.”

“They would’ve given you their shit corporate script to memorize and you’d have quit on the spot. No swearing,” Ben says your name mockingly. “You’d have exploded.”

You shrug, tapping your fingers where his arms wrap around you. “You seemed to manage. And you swear a lot more than I do.”

“I have better self control than you.”

That makes you snort. He has no idea how good your self control is. Every single second you’re in his presence alone you’re restraining every single instinct to just fuck him. To ride him or let him bury inside you, to damn every single piece of you that will never be able to recover from it. “Oh, fuck you.”

“When we get there, I’d be more than happy to.” Ben’s mouth is pressed into your ear as he taunts you, and he’s actively proving himself wrong. His deep voice is rolling through your body, his lips are taunting your skin, and you’re exercising godly amounts of self control to not jump his stupid bones. “I’d even be willing to do it here, but I didn’t take you to be an exhibitionist-“

The car stops with a jerk, and Ben’s hold you tightens as you slide forward against his legs.

“We’re here,” Moore’s looks at you in the rearview mirror, and you can see him fidget with his gun. “We’ve just been told to drop you off and move your belongings inside. Mr. Butcher will show you your…” He trails off, eyes flicking between you and Ben. Folded into each other, almost every part of you touching. “Apartment?”

Ben doesn’t think twice about Moore’s anxious guess—nothing in him twisting with disgust or annoyance—and starts to adjust your body so he can carry you out of the car.

“I can walk inside,” you slap Ben’s arm, squirming away from him. “You don’t have to carry me everywhere.”

“But I can-“

“But you don’t.” You roll off his body, and he scowls down at you.

“Just let me fucking help-“

“Ben,” you reach up to hold his face from where you’ve landed, head in his lap and feet hanging off the back seats. He stills completely, still glaring, something bloody and desperate running around inside him. “I am a grown woman. I will tell you if I need your help with anything, and right now I don’t.”

He’s still frowning. “Fucking swear it.”

“I promise I don’t need help walking the ten yards to the building.”

Ben’s scanning your face, something building taut against his chest. “If you even fucking stumble-“

“Then you can carry me everywhere for the rest of time and lord it over my head.” Your words are meant to be sarcastic and bored, but they come out a little too breathy, a little too hopeful. That Ben would be there for the rest of time, insufferable and annoying and right at your side. The bloody thing coursing through him becomes forceful—pushing up into his brain—and his hands cover yours.

“Deal.”

Ben pulls you upwards without a warning, and the small sound of the surprise that escapes you is swallowed into his mouth. He rolls you over in seconds, pressing you deep into the seats, and you really hope that the agents left the car at some point. Because nobody should have to witness the way he’s making you unravel, hear all the wet and lewd sounds from just the way Ben kisses you. With tongue and teeth with his body strong against yours and your legs hooked around him-

“Well, good bloody morning to both you twats.”

You start a little, Butcher’s sneer barely pushing into your brain enough to take you away from Ben’s mouth sucking against yours. Ben draws back first, looking over his shoulder to where Butcher’s voice came from. He’s blocking Butcher from view, not shoving you away from him, and one arm even pulls you a little off the seat so your head buries into his chest.

“Couldn’t fucking pick us up yourself, you pussy?” Ben drawls, and you hear Butcher’s laugh.

“Well, I’m sure as shit regretting that now. Could’ve gotten a front row seat to the sex show.” Butcher’s twisted smile appears in your vision as he ducks down. “Ready to admit you’re fucking him now, Love?”

Ben answers before you can. “She’s not a fucking liar. She hasn’t.”

“I just caught you two snogging like rabbits-“

“Well, we haven’t fucked.” Ben’s words are harsh and cold—the sour feeling returned—and the only thing that stops you from being overtaken with guilt is the stronger, almost overpowering steel like care that pulsing through him.

Butcher doesn’t seem worried or off put by Ben’s angry, defensive words, but you don’t think Butcher is capable of being worried or off put by anything. The only sign that he understands the unspoken, violent promise of Ben’s tone is that he raises his hands, palms up, and stands back out of your sight.

“Bit touchy, ain’t we,” Ben tenses against you, and you can hear Butcher’s scoff. “Well, you can keep not fucking later. Let’s get a bloody move on.”

He grunts, and starts to pull you up with him, but you whack his shoulder, dropping your legs to the floor of the car.

“I’m walking.”

Ben glares at you, and removes his arm from around you slowly. He doesn’t leave though, just looks down at you with none of that steel waning from inside him. Like he’s waiting for you to tell him to go.

You smile at him. “You should haul ass before one of the agents touches your shield.”

“They wouldn’t fucking dare,” he grumbles, but moves off you all the same. You grin after him, and avoid meeting Butcher’s eyes as you scoot out of the car.

The FBSA building is more or less what you expected. Tall, broad, black steel and long windows that reflect the rise of the sun. You’re parked around the back at what looks like a shipping dock, and Ben was, in fact, just in time to stop Moore from trying to pick up his shield. You see the chronically nervous man jump back as Ben rounds the car to the truck, his hands raising up shakily as Ben glares at him. You start to follow—if Ben tries to stop you from carrying a box he’ll get one thrown at his face—but Butcher shoots out an arm, stopping you in your path.

“Someone took their job of looking after Soldier Boy very seriously, didn’t she?” Butcher says lowly, and you glare at him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him. “You don’t get to pull any sort of morality card on me, Butcher. I know what I’m doing, and it’s not your business.”

“It’s my fucking business if you’re compromised.” Butcher hisses. “If you’d choose him over the mission, because you’ve got a bloody school girl crush on the fucker.”

You wouldn’t choose Ben over the mission. You wouldn’t let it come to that. You’d make sure that, at the end of the day, what needed to be done was done.

What if it did come to that? Something small and fearful whispers in your ear. What if it was Ben or the mission? And there wasn’t a trick or a move out of it? What would you do then?

It’s terrifying how quickly and against your will the entirety of you goes Ben. You’d choose Ben. It wouldn’t ever matter, because you’d fight tooth and nail to make sure you got both, but if it came to it, Ben. Every time you’d choose him. He might not choose you, but you burn the world to keep him awake and smiling with casual ease. You’d promised, and for some reason that’s more than just a school girl crush, that’s what matters. You trust him, he would keep you safe, keep you free, and so you’d always choose Ben.

But Butcher doesn’t get to know that, so you just say, “Fuck off, you dickwad. I’m not fucking compromised.”

“What are you going to do when he leaves?” Butcher growls. “When we’ve knocked Homelander off the map, and he’s shipped off to the fucking edge of the world? You think he’ll write you letters? Sweet little sonnets?”

No, because he’d said you could go with him. But Butcher doesn’t get to know that. “That’s not your fucking problem.”

“I’m just reminding you, Sunshine.” You loathe the way Butcher says that. Cold and angry, harsh in his mouth and screeching against your ears. “He’s not a bloody white knight, swooping in and saving the princess from the evil Vought Tower and the Homelander dragon. He’s just another, older, bigger fucking monster collecting a prize to keep on his shelf.”

Fury might blind you. Might eat you alive. The world becomes all bright white, closing in on you, pressing on your chest until it snaps.

“Butcher,” you say slowly, clearly. “I let you say a lot of fucking shit to me. I let you mock me and throw me to the wolves for the sake of the mission you claim I don’t care about. But if you ever-“ you spit the word, letting a bit of the fire that lives under your skin turn to smoke in the air. “Tell me how to fucking feel or think about something again, I will burn you alive. You don’t know anything about what it was like. What Homelander did to me.”

“Fucking tread lightly,” Butcher’s jaw is clenched, teeth gritted. “Becca-“

“Was the one he hurt,” you snap. “He hurt Becca. Not you. And he hurt me the same fucking way he hurt her. For years. But you only remember that when it’s convenient for you.”

“You better shut your mouth-“

“Or what?” You take a step forward, and Butcher flinches back. You hate it, it makes your skin crawl at how fast he retreats, but you don’t care that you hate it. The words are rocketing out of you, and you have no desire to stop them. “You can’t kill me. You can’t even fucking hurt me. You can’t do anything to me that won’t break me more than Homelander already has.” Something is wrapping around your throat, and your words become choked. “He fucking broke me. He broke Becca. And you might have gotten hurt in the fallout, but that’s fucking nothing compared to being the one that he actually hurt. On purpose. So never fucking tell me what to feel again.”

Butcher’s silent, staring at you with an expression you’ve never seen on him before. You don’t get time to read it—to try and figure out if he just started plotting your disappearance or might be feeling remorse for the first time in his life—because Butcher starts to speak again in clipped, frosted words.

“It's the twenty-first floor,” he chucks a lanyard at you, a badge with the name Jane Smith at the end. “Go left, then right, and you’ll be in one long hallway. You’re the last door when you go left. You’ll be expected in the dining hall at 7pm. Don’t be fucking late.”

With that he whips around, and stomps into the building. You’re stuck in place, watching him walk away as the world starts to spin around you. Everything feels big and hollow and you’re afraid. You’d blown up, and they already didn’t trust you. They barely even liked you. And you’d just threatened Butcher when he already thought you were dangerous. And you were dangerous. He was right. You were a walking volcano, a living hurricane, more powerful than Ben, more powerful than Homelander. You were the dragon, you were the monster-

You’re pulled back to the ground when Ben’s arm slings around your shoulders, and when the world becomes clear again you look up to see him glaring at where Butcher had slammed the door into the building. “About fucking time.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That Butcher gets his ass handed to him,” Ben looks down at you. “Don’t you fucking think about apologizing to that pussy. I’ll put tape over your mouth.”

“You’ll what?!”

“You’re going to feel damn guilty, and you’ll try to tell Butcher you’re sorry, and I’ll fucking gag you so you don’t.” The bloody steel is back inside of you—inside of Ben—and his words are simple and firm. “The asshole deserved that. He’s no fucking better than me, and he’s not ever goddamn close to being better than you.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, and you don’t know if it’s yours or Ben’s. It’s familiar—like it belongs there—where others' emotions usually feel foreign and strange. But the line between you and Ben has started to blur, might have been blurred for a while, and you can’t always tell anymore. But the warmth makes the world lighter, and Ben’s arm around you makes the fear that Butcher will toss you to the curb seem less daunting. He couldn’t touch you, because Ben was here. He must see the look on your face—the gentle way you can feel it relax as a small smile crawls over your mouth—because he pulls you a little closer into him.

“Got your shield?” You ask softly, and Ben jerks his head back to the car.

“The FASI chucklefucks are bringing everything else up.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re refusing to say FBSA on purpose.”

“They should come up with a better goddamn acronym,” he mutters. “Maybe then I’ll be fucked to learn it.”

You laugh, and try to shrug him off your shoulders. “Go get your shield, Pretty Boy. I want to go inside.”

He didn’t move away, remaining heavy around you, and when you look up at him expectantly he’s watching you carefully, studying your face. “You’re not mad about Butcher seeing us in the car.”

“I wish you’d ask questions like a normal person,” you mutter, and he rolls his eyes.

“Sunshine-“

That sounds better. The way Ben says Sunshine—long and low, lined with some sort of care even when he’s glaring at you—makes time slow a little and your heart flutters in your chest. “I’m not mad,” you tell him, and it’s easy to do so. It’s the truth, and Ben makes the truth simple. “He would’ve seen it eventually. And he was going to be pissed off no matter what.”

Ben nods slowly, and something wired scratches under your jaw. “And if I kiss you in front of the rest of them?”

“As long as you’re not gross about it-“

His hand draped near your neck grabs your jaw, holding you still as he leans down. He kisses you so lazily, as if time is something he could pull to a halt or simply didn’t matter. Time could turn and the world could go with it, but Ben would stay here and keep kissing you. In the light of the morning, with both of you wearing casual clothes, with Ben’s arm wrapped around you, with the air clean and cold, this feels like it could be normal. Like if someone passed you on the street they wouldn’t think twice about it, because there’s nothing strange or violent or complicated about two people kissing like this. About one of them holding onto the other’s shirt to pull them closer, or the other tangling their hand in the hair of the first, because why wouldn’t they? Nothing’s odd or notable about you chasing Ben’s mouth when he starts to move away, nothing’s remarkable or worrying about him laughing when you do and giving you just that little more you wanted.

When Ben eventually does pull back he’s smiling, and everything in him and around him is comfortable.

“Ben?” You whisper, and he raises his brows at you.

He hums your name, and you can feel the warmth of his breath when it leaves his mouth. He says it in a teasing, drawn out manner, and you smile at him.

“If you ever put a gag on my mouth, I’ll burn it off and bite you.”

Ben laughed, that big chest laugh he does when there’s nothing to stop him, and it carries away into the wind. “Is that a promise?”

“Fuck you.”

“If you want,” Ben winks, starting to guide you over to his shield, arm never dropping from your shoulders. “I’d let you bite me without all the trouble of a gag.”

“Cunt.”

“Brat.” He picks up the shield, and glances back to the building. “Let’s get a move on before Butcher finds his excuse for balls.”

Getting into the building is worryingly easy. Ben pushes through the steel doors that hopefully will just lock behind you, and there’s nobody waiting when you walk inside. There’s an elevator next to the stairwell, but the stairwell says floors B-20, no roof access, so you step into the elevator and pray. There’s no 21st floor button, but there is a scanner that you press the Jane Smith badge against, and the elevator starts to move.

Ben leans over you, frowning at the badge. “Who the hell is Jane.”

“It’s a movie reference,” you frown at the photo Butcher chose for you, because you recognize it as your school id photo and can’t imagine how he got his hands on it. “They can’t put my real name there.”

“Because you’re dead.”

“Legally dead,” you grin at him as the elevator slows. “As you well know, I’m very much alive.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to fuck you if you weren’t,” Ben grumbles as you walk off the elevator. “I’m into some kinky shit, but that’s just fucking disgusting.”

Your face heats, now plagued with thoughts of the kinky shit Ben might be into, a spiral not aided by the words want to fuck you playing on repeat in your head. In order to distract yourself, you focus entirely on finding the apartment. “Butcher said to take a left-“

“I heard him,” Ben starts to herd you down the hall, and you let him. “He practically fucking screamed it.”

“That might just be your super hearing, Ben.”

“Or Butcher’s a loud fucking ass.”

You snort, and let Ben continue to move you until you stop in front of a tall, metal door with no handle or visible lock.

“How the fuck are we supposed to get in,” Ben grunts. “Dumbasses forgot to add a doorknob.”

“You know, it’s really amazing you were able to get anywhere when you left Russia, let alone to America,” you hum, raising the badge for Ben to see. “You’d really be lost without me holding your hand through the maze of the modern world.”

“I keep you around for a lot of fucking reasons, beautiful.” He mutters, squeezing your arm. “But the modern world isn’t one of them.”

“Okay,” you shrug. “Tell me what I’m going to do with this.”

Ben’s brows knit, eyes darting between the badge in your hand and the sleek door, eventually finding the scanner. “Put it there.”

“And would you have been able to figure that out if I hadn’t done the same thing in the elevator?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You laugh, and scan the badge. The door slides into the wall with a pleasant whirring sound. Opening up to the apartment. Your apartment. With Ben. It hits you hard, right in the chest, that this is your apartment with Ben. Not a safe house that you’ve been locked into for the sake of a plan. This is purposefully for you and Ben, with one bedroom and one bathroom for you to share. With Ben.

It’s nice. Almost empty—completely devoid of the generic suburban decorations of the safe house—but nice. Really nice. High ceilings, large windows, polished floors. The type of apartment you used to dream of having, that would cost a small fortune if you were actually paying for it. From the door you can see a small kitchen area, fireplace, a flatscreen TV, and a staircase. There’s a staircase. That goes up to a loft strip.

That spurs you into action. You grab Ben’s hand and pull him through the door behind you, gaping around you.

“Jesus fucking Christ woman, slow the hell down-“

“Holy shit.” You breathe. “This place is fucking awesome.”

“It’s okay-“

“No, Ben, it’s fucking awesome.” You point up at the loft strip that leads to a single door. “Look at that shit. That’s awesome.”

“It’s a normal fucking apartment-“

“Maybe for you, rich boy.” You say, nudging him lightly, a wide smile still on your face. “Some of us lived with rats and radioactive mold for most of their lives.”

“Radioactive mold?”

You shrug. “That’s what the inspector said.”

“Why wouldn’t you just fucking move?” Ben sounds genuinely confused, like he can’t possibly fathom why you wouldn’t just leave. You can feel it, as well. The almost naïve confusion. “Go somewhere that doesn’t have radioactive fucking mold.”

“I have terrible news for you about how much an apartment in New York costs and how much the average waitress gets paid.”

“Waitress? When were you a fucking waitress?”

“I have more terrible news about how expensive college tuition is,” you shrug. “It’s like this for most people, Ben. So can you please acknowledge that this is fucking awesome?”

He’s watching you, his jaw clenched, and you can feel something rolling around in him, pushing into his throat before dropping to his stomach and bouncing all the way up into his brain. It takes root there, and he swallows heavily.

“This is fucking awesome.” His tone is bored, but when you grin at him you can see his face soften in time with something against his ribs.

“Thank you.” Ben only grunts, and you tug at his hand. “If you put down your shield we can go look at the bedroom.”

The shield has barely crashed to the ground when Ben is picking you up, getting a steady grip under your legs as he makes beeline for the stairs. He climbs them two at a time—your nails digging into his shoulder less for grip and just because you can—and kicks the door at the end of the strip open.

You’ll look around the bedroom later. Right now it’s all Ben, kissing you before he’s sat on the bed with an already open mouth, running his tongue over the roof of your mouth. Releasing your legs so you can use them to drag your body closer to his, using his now free hand to drop around your hips and rub the skin of your thigh. Releasing you for only a second to pull your jacket off to touch your bare arms and drop a hand under your shirt—his shirt—to rub your back. But not higher, or lower. Right where you’ve asked him to stay.

It gets harder to keep him there every time. When he’s groaning and growling into you and taking every single moan and whine you give him like he’s starving. When you can feel that he is starving. You can feel the hunger growing larger after every moment like this one, feel the rough and consuming thing that’s devout and savage push closer to the surface. It’s harder to pretend it’s not everything when it is, when you can feel every part of him against and around you. To pretend you don’t also want him inside you, making your head empty and the world just Ben. It’s harder to remind yourself that you can’t give all the way in, because fuck it would be so easy. Easier than pretending you’ll be fine like this. Easy to worship him and make him burn and burn with him.

After what might have been only a second or a whole decade, Ben leaves you for breath, dragging you up the bed with him to rest at the headboard. He seats you between his legs, your face against his neck, and just holds you. For another year—or what feels like one—Ben just holds you as you drift in and out of the rest of the world. Eventually you tilt your head up to look at him, and he’s staring at you, mouth slightly parted and inches from yours.

“What time is it?” You ask quietly, some part of you afraid that you’ll speak too loudly and wake up from this dream.

Ben’s voice is steadier than yours, but still low. “Noon.”

You press your face back into his collarbone. “We should probably do something.”

“Like hell we should,” Ben mutters. “I think we’ve earned one goddamn day not doing everyone’s jobs for them.”

“But-“

“One day, Sunshine. You can panic and plan all you want tomorrow, but today you’re not doing jack fucking shit.” He glares down at you, and you’re melting into him. Into the sturdiness of him, into the smell of him, into the feeling of his determination on your shoulders. “You can do whatever the hell you want, as long as it’s pointless.”

You glance nervously around the bedroom. Just like the rest of the apartment, it’s nice, but in a bland catalog way. The sheets are gray and cotton, the walls are eggshell white, and there’s a very sad plastic plant in the corner of the room. “What about a list for Mallory?”

Ben narrows his eyes at you. “A list for what?”

“Our apartment. Things we need or want.”

He tenses, and for a second you think he’s going to throw you off his body and run. That the word our made him catch a hint of your need for him, and he doesn’t want to deal with it. The only thing that keeps apologies and backtracking rationalization from falling out of your mouth is the content in him growing. Merging with the hunger.

“Fine,” he grunts. “But you stay in bed.”

You nod, craning your neck away from him. “Where’d you put my jacket?”

“Probably on the floor.” His grip on your tightens. “Why.”

“It has my phone in it.” You start to stand, but Ben keeps you against his chest. Kissing you one last, quick time before relaxing. He doesn’t fully let you go until you’re out of his reach, and watches you intently until you’ve grabbed your jack and returned to his side.

You empty the contents of your pockets—Ben hand resting easily on your hip as he watches silently—which ends up being the blue sunglasses, your phone, and a tube of lip gloss that had appeared out of thin air. You set the sunglasses carefully off to the side, leave the lip gloss thoughtlessly on the mattress, and pick up your phone to set to work.

You kill six hours like this. Leaning against Ben, who silently watches and holds you the whole time, and typing up a list for Mallory. You start simple, obvious. Basic groceries, with extra strawberry cream cheese and malt vanilla ice cream. A few durable cookbooks. Shampoo and conditioner, whatever’s cheap for you and a very specific brand you go out of your way to look up for Ben. Lots of toilet paper, a spare fire extinguisher, and a coffee machine. Maybe a laptop. You like sitting like this—In bed with Ben all around you and both of your bodies relaxed and spread out—but you also like watching TV. And you just saved the president, if you speak in very broad and hypothetical terms. You think you’ve earned a laptop. Then you start to have fun with it. With asking Ben stupid questions about colors that he entertains with one word answers—you don’t bother to ask about green or blue because you already know the answers will a yes and no respectively—and trying to find decorations get any sort of reaction other than a bored grunt. So far you’ve only garnered reactions of disgust, courtesy of a Deep life size cardboard cutout, a truly horrible leopard print bed set, and limited edition Soldier Boy set of china with his smiling face printed on every plate and cup.

“If you buy those, I’ll smash them.” He growls against your ear, and you look back at him with amusement.

“I’d have thought things with your face on them would’ve earned a resounding yes from you, Pretty Boy.”

“You get my face for free every fucking day,” he snaps. “Vought can suck my dick, turning a profit after they fucking stabbed me in the back.”

You pout at him, “but they’re collectibles.”

Ben snorts. “If you just want to eat off my damn face, all you have to do is ask.”

You slap his arm against you, attention returning to your phone. After several more attempts that prove fruitless, Ben squeezes your thigh.

“That,” he grunts, pointing at the screen. “Get that.”

It’s a carpet, dark green and fluffy. It’s so simple, such a common thing to see in any house that Ben’s concrete focus on it throws you.

“The carpet?” You clarify, and he nods with a low sound of affirmation. “Okay.”

His eyes shoot to you from where he’d been staring at the carpet. “If you don’t want it, just fucking say that-“

“No, I want it,” you stop him quickly. “If we want to give a shit about aesthetics I’ll have to change a few things, but that doesn’t really matter.”

“I’ll fucking live if you hate it-“

“Ben, this is the first thing you haven’t been either apathetic about or actively hated. I’ll live if I have to change the color of a pillow or some shit.”

He pauses, then gives a rough nod. “Fine.”

You give him a small smile. “Fine.”

When 6:45 hits, it takes a lot of work to get Ben to please just come to dinner. What eventually gets him is telling him that you’re going, with or without his ass, and he can either sulk like a child about it or just fucking go with you. Then, even as he glares at you, Ben hauls himself out of bed and follows you out of the bedroom. At some point the agents had dropped off the bins, along with Annie’s Nightmare Makeup collection and the same toiletries from the safe house. Half-empty bottles of shampoo, your body wash, and Ben’s stiff toothbrush. If you had more time you’d start sorting through the bins—you have very little faith in Ben’s ability to have properly organized them—but dinner. And you’ll have time later. Lots of time, here, with Ben, to throw clothing at his stupid handsome face and yell at him about pointless things. All the time in the world.

It takes a while to find the dining hall. There’s not a map of the floor or building, or a large neon sign pointing in the right direction. Ben drags you around for about eight minutes of attempts to just figure it out our fucking selves, and you’re a second away from caving and texting Kimiko when Ben stops abruptly and you slam into his back.

“What the hell-“

“Found it,” he grins down at you, gesturing to a door with a plaque by the side that reads Dining Hall. “I fucking told you I could.”

“Yeah, we’re only,” you glance at the time on your phone. “Ten minutes? Fuck, Ben,” he doesn’t budge as you slap his chest with a glare. “We’re late. Butcher said not to be late-“

“Butcher can suck my fucking dick until I get off,” Ben mutters, pulling you forward by your hand. “If the pussies were so fucking worried about us being late they should’ve done something about it.”

You’re going to protest, but Ben pushes the door open roughly to reveal a room that qualifies less as a dining hall and more as a middle school cafeteria. Tile floors and basic kitchen appliances, an unattended food service area, and low tables with benches. The only people in the room aside from you and Ben are grouped around one of those tables in a deep conversation. You can see almost everyone. Butcher is standing at the head of the table, and doesn’t look up or acknowledge you as you enter. Annie and Hughie are sitting on one bench with their backs to you, and Kimiko and Frenchie are across from them as they all poke at plates of varying food in front of them. You walk across the room slowly, Ben trailing behind you, and when Kimiko sees you she smiles and gives you a wave.

Did you see the rooms? She signs with a grin. They’re huge!

You laugh, and pull your hand from Ben’s hold. Does yours have stairs as well?

And a rain shower! She nods. We should’ve moved here months ago.

Before you can respond, we moved echoing in your head, Butcher’s voice cuts through the air. “Glad you could be fucked to join us, Love.”

“You didn’t tell us where to go, you ass,” you mutter. “We had to find it.”

“Sure you weren’t just too busy fucking-“

“Can we not do this over dinner, Butcher?” Annie sighs. “It’s late, and it’s been a long week. I just want to do the briefing and go to bed.”

Butcher scoffs, and glares at you. “Sit the bloody hell down so we can get this over with.”

You flip him off, and round the table to sit beside Kimiko. Ben follows, dropping with a grunt beside you and placing a hand on your thigh, and you glance around the table.

“Where’s MM?”

“Getting dinner,” Hughie points to the empty food service bars. “You have to go all the way back into the kitchen, everything won’t be fully operational for a while.”

“So we’re all living here?” You ask with a frown. “Everyone gets their own apartments?”

“Well, me and Annie are together,” Hughie looks nervously at Ben, silent and stiff at your side. “Like, uh, you guys. Butcher and MM each have their own, and Kimiko and Frenchie have a two bedroom.”

“How did the FBSA even get the budget for this?” Annie wonders. “What could they possibly plan on doing with it after?”

MM appears behind Butcher, a tray in his hand. Not looking at you. “It’s going to be for supes who want to jump off the Vought ship.”

Hughie nods. “I sat in on the pitch when it happened. The idea is that maybe if we protect them, house them, we could contract the less, uh, violent supes. For better stuff.”

“Better stuff,” Butcher snorts. “Ain’t no supes doing better stuff.”

Ben’s hand tightens against you, and you feel your own body tense. At your side, Kimiko glowers at Butcher, and across from you Hughie pulls Annie a little tighter against him.

“Butcher,” MM says with a glare, dropping at Annie’s side. “Read the fucking room, asshole.”

“I can’t believe I let go this fuckin far,” Butcher mutters, surveying the team with a scowl. “Bloody one to one ratio.”

“Yeah,” Annie rolls her eyes. “Because going up against Vought with just four random guys was going really well for you at the beginning.”

“At least I didn’t have to put up with a bunch of whining, overpowered cunts-“

“Butcher,” MM snaps. “Can we just get this shit over with without anyone shooting or punching anyone else?”

“Whatever, but Starlight fucking started it-“

“No I didn’t you dick-“

Butcher raises his voice over Annie. “We’re waitin on Stan Edgar to come through, and until then we’re on lockdown. No quick trips to a bodega, no walks around the block, no nothin. Vought’s on high alert, the government's on high alert, you two twats-“ He points at you and Ben. “Got your faces all over the news. There’s a damn man-hunt, hashtags about freeing Homelander’s girl from Soldier Boy and avenging VP Neuman.”

“Avenging?” Frenchie asks with a frown. “Madame Neuman is alive, no?”

“Not to the public,” MM shrugs. “Easiest spin, fastest way out, was to make it seem like Bonnie and Clyde nuked her. Fits in with the whole terrorist narrative.”

“So why do we all have to be on lockdown,” Annie crossed her arms. “If it’s just them taking the fall?”

“Because Homelander’s about to go on a bloody rampage,” Butcher drawled, and everything becomes cold inside you. “He just lost a major ally, missed the Anomaly and Soldier Boy by a hair, and is feeling the pressure. So until Stan Edgar comes through, Mallory’s benched us.”

“What do we do if he finds us?” You ask softly, blood pounding in your ears, fire scratching at your skin. “If someone tells him where we are?”

“Nobody knows except us, Mallory, and some agents Mallory handpicked.” MM says firmly, still not fully looking at you. “This place is designed to protect people from him. We’ll be fine.”

“And we’re just supposed to sit around on our fucking asses until Edgar makes good?” Ben glares around the table. “Jacking each other off and pretending everything’s just dandy?”

“I’m not happy about it either, Gov.” Butcher sneers. “I’d like nothing more than to fucking rip Vought a new one while they’re in crisis. But unless you’re willing to go nuclear and flag Homelander down for a bloody one on one, we’re waiting.”

You can hear Ben’s jaw grind, and his grip on you is like iron. Hot and violent anger is flooding through him, and his voice is cold. “Fucking watch it.”

“You fucking watch it, Soldier Boy,” MM hisses. “We’re all stuck here because of the deal you made. Don’t act like you’re some sort of victim or hostage. You can leave whenever you fucking want, and we won’t stop you.”

Ben stands suddenly, and Hughie flinches backwards across the table. Annie catches him from falling, and MM doesn’t even twitch.

“I’m not fucking going anywhere,” Ben hisses. “And that deal is the only thing that will help you with Homelander. So fucking watch it.”

MM doesn’t back down, holding Ben’s glare, and you grab Ben’s arm. Holding him at your side. “Is that it, Butcher?” You ask, leaning slightly over to meet Butcher’s cold gaze. “We’re waiting for Edgar, no leaving?”

“Yep,” Butcher drawls. “Now call your dog off.”

You ignore him, tugging at Ben’s arm slightly so he looks down at you. Can we just go?

Ben examines your face—his anger not fading, but becoming wrapped in the stone resolve—and nods. Whatever.

You address no one in particular. “Is there anything we have to do while we wait?”

“I was thinking we could do dinners together,” Hughie mumbles, voice a little unsteady as he looks between Ben’s braced stance and MM’s expression of twisted anger. “But, uh, that seems like a bad idea now.”

“No, it’s good. Team building,” you stand slowly. “Good idea. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

You start to drag Ben away from the table, away from the violent tension building in the air.

“I am not doing fucking team building with those pussies.” Ben mutters in your ear as you walk back down the hall.

“It’s just dinner, Ben.” You sigh. “You’ll only have to sit, brood, and not kill anyone.”

He grunts, but drops it, moving his hand into yours. He’s silent as you return to the apartment, dragging you up to the bedroom before you can start to unpack.

“We’re not going fucking anywhere for a while.” He snaps when you start to protest. “You can unpack in the morning.”

And he’s right. That’s what makes it so easy to leave the bins downstairs and just go to bed. You aren’t going anywhere for a while. You’re going to be here, with Ben and his stupid fluffy rug you’re going to ensure Mallory buys. You’ll spend the days with Ben the same way it’s grown to be, easy and simple and good. He’ll hold you at night, make sure the nightmares don’t come, and keep touching you. He won’t leave. You won’t leave. And the bins will be there in the morning.

The days blur together. Unpacking only takes one morning, and things from the list start to appear in the hall outside your door. In only three days, you have almost everything, and the apartment feels like yours. Yours and Ben’s.

The time is filled without thought. Training your fire and singing, holding Ben’s head in your hands as he grumbles about not needing this—though he’s stopping saying he never fucking had shell shock in the first place—and teaching him everything about the internet. By the end of the week he sort of understands social media but thinks it’s fucking stupid, and can passably navigate a browser by himself. You don’t stop trying to get him to play Candy Crush, but every time you try and grab his phone Ben shoves it in his pants, giving you a glare that says I fucking dare you, Sunshine.

You always flip him off, because you won’t cross that line. You’ll touch him everywhere he lets you, but not there. Not unless you want to explode. The more days pass, the more Ben touches you everywhere but there, the more that becomes certain. If you let him do more than kiss you, more than have you grind on him in silent desperation as he grows hard against you, both of you never finding relief together, you’d turn into a beacon of fire and undying desire. You’ll never recover. So you don’t cross the line, and try to pretend you can’t feel his own strain for you whenever you’re touching him. Because it’s not the same as yours. Maybe more than lust, you can admit, but not the same.

You’re getting stronger. Ben is still pushing you, albeit with more underhanded, horny tactics that leave you aching when he pulls away with a mocking grin, but it works. Because you’re stronger. You still can’t fully control the illusions, but they’re never hazy anymore. And you can make things happen. If it’s a sad song you can’t stop the rain, but you can make it blend with sunlight until a rainbow mist fills the room. A bubblegum pop song will still be over-saturated and feverish, but you can choose to add something more concrete than just a strobing flash of lights. Moon River still opens the sky and brings in cooling wind, but the room is covered in blooming strawberry flowers. And your fire is powerful. Becoming less like an uncontrollable parasite and more like a muscle. A phantom limb you can move in time with the rest of your body. It’s no longer a part of you that you wish you could remove. It sits under your skin, humming softly, and only comes out when you tell it to.

Dinners are weird. Every night everyone slowly gathers in the dining hall, exchanging small talk and discussing everything except the looming threat of Homelander and Vought and the possibility that Edgar could fail. Ben silently sticks to your side and rarely engages in conversation, but nobody makes any attempts to make him do more than that. It’s the only time you see MM and Butcher, but some afternoons you’ll watch TV with Kimiko while Ben sulks upstairs. Then Ben calls Hughie his name instead of Cocksucker during dinner, and the whole table falls silent. Staring at him with wide eyes and frozen faces.

“What the fuck are you pussies looking at?” He grumbled, poking at the broccoli you’d dumped onto his plate.

Annie blinks a few times before speaking. “You just-“

“Nothing!” Hughie yelps, and you have a feeling he doesn’t want to call attention to it and cause Ben to backtrack.

“It’s clearly fucking something-“

You cut him off with a swift kick to the shin, shooting him a look of I’ll tell you later. Just let it go.

No, they’re being fucking weird. He scowls, and you roll your eyes.

If you don’t drop it, you’ll be sleeping on the couch.

You’re bluffing, because if Ben sleeps on the couch you’ll wake up screaming and alone, but you sell your glare well enough that Ben scoffs, this is fucking blackmail, and doesn’t say anything else.

After that, Annie and Hughie will text you to eat lunch. Then Annie stops looking at Ben judgmentally after another week, because she stops by to collect you and Ben answers the door before you can.

“I’m not here for you,” she snaps, and Ben glares at her, but steps aside. Revealing you, in shorts and one of Ben’s shirts. You’ve started to develop a habit of just taking them, and if Ben’s noticed he hasn’t stopped you. You think he might have started to leave them out on purpose, because every time you wear one he coughs and walks very quickly into the bathroom.

“Sorry.” You’re shuffling around the room, turning over pillows and crouching down to look under furniture. “I lost my phone-“

“It’s upstairs,” Ben grunts. “It died. I plugged it in.”

You nod, and start to move to the stairs, but Ben’s legs are longer and he gets there first. Stomping up to your room without a word, and returning with your phone. When you and Annie leave—Ben grumbling a goodbye and kissing the top of your head—Annie coughs as you walk down the hall.

“Um,” you look at Annie, who’s watching you carefully. “You two seem comfortable.”

“We are,” you say softly, and Annie nods.

“And you’re really not fucking?”

“Despite Butcher’s constant bitching, no.”

“Why?”

That makes you gape at her. “Annie?”

“You’re wearing his shirt,” she says your name slowly. “He seems like maybe 10% less of a violent ass. It’s not my business, but, I don’t know. He called Hughie his name. I’d have been comfortable betting you two were fucking like a month ago. Now it feels insane that you aren’t.”

“It’s complicated,” you sigh. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

She nods, and drops it. That night, she still doesn’t talk to Ben, but also passes him salt when he asks you for it. Two days later, she brings Hughie with her to your apartment, and suggests you eat there instead.

“Is that okay, Ben-“

“I don’t give a shit,” he grumbles. “It’s your fucking apartment as well. Do what you want.”

“Will you eat with us?”

Ben looks between Annie and Hughie, still in the doorway. “Fine.”

It’s a slightly awkward meal, Ben sitting next to you, only answering questions with one worded snaps. But nobody explodes, or makes cruel comments, so you count it as a victory.

They still don’t let you touch them, but Ben touches you more than enough to make up for it. Butcher is still crude, making snide comments about you and Ben, but it’s been almost two weeks of this and he hasn’t mentioned your outburst. His remarks remain in the realm of mocking and vulgar, but there’s no mention of you being compromised, or Homelander. MM still won’t fully meet your eyes, and you don’t blame him. You try not to think about it, but something small keeps gnawing at you. It grows quiet when Ben holds you, because he does it so carefully and gently. And you tell yourself that this Ben isn’t that Ben. That was Soldier Boy. Ben won’t even let you say Soldier Boy anymore.

Would he still do that? The small thing asks, and you don’t really have an answer. In December you would’ve said yes. In December you would’ve pictured the callous, sadistic man you threw a knife at and not hesitated to say yes. Now you picture him smiling at you, calming you after a nightmare, holding you tightly when the cracks Homelander left on you start to open. And that Ben wouldn’t. Your Ben wouldn’t. And what scares you more than the certain faith in that statement is the your part. How smoothly your brain calls him your Ben. Like he’s as much of a part of you as the fire has become. How even when you try to double back and correct yourself, reminding you he’s not your anything, every part of you just goes no. Your Ben.

That’s a thought that will have to wait a while to fight. Until after this is over. Hopefully you can keep pushing it down until this is over.

It’s something that starts to creep over everyone. That if Edgar comes through, if everything somehow falls into place, this could be over. By the end of March, this could be over. Flowers could start to bloom and the sun could start to herald spring in a world without Homelander. This could all be over.

“I miss my drugs,” Frenchie grumbles over dinner. “When we finally are allowed outside, I am getting all my drugs back from Madame Mallory and having a very good day.”

Ben doesn’t say anything, but gives you a look of I’ve been missing drugs from fucking months. Don’t see me whining about it.

You literally do nothing but whine about it, Benjamin. You wrinkle your nose at him. After one week in the safe house you’d started asking me for drugs every day. We weren’t even friends.

He rolls his eyes, and tugs you a little closer into his side. We’re friends now. Can I have drugs.

No. You elbow him, and your attention returns to the group.

“I think I’m going to eat a whole donut shop,” Annie is saying. “I miss donut shops.”

“I’ll second that,” Hughie nods. “And I’m never wearing a hoodie again. Or a baseball cap. Or anything that covers my face.”

Frenchie nods. “Oui. No more covering up. I’m going to streak in the park.”

“That’s not what I meant-“

“We ain’t out of the woods yet, cunts.” Butcher snaps over Hughie. “I wouldn’t start celebrating and bloody daydreaming before Edgar even comes through.”

“It’s good for morale, Butcher.” Annie shrugs. “Gives us something to look forward to.” Butcher grunts, and Annie looks at you. “What about you? Will you go back to Boston?”

You pause, because you don’t know. You don’t have anything, really, in Boston. Or New York. Even if Mallory gets you declared alive, you’ll have to spend a lot of job interviews explaining the three year gap in your resume. Your old friends might not be able to talk to you without pity or morbid fascination. You could go with Ben. A very large, hard to ignore part of you really wants to go with Ben. But you haven’t told anyone about that offer, and now doesn’t feel like a great time to breach the topic. Not when you haven’t even decided yourself.

Ben speaks before you can answer Annie. “Is your sister in Boston?”

“What?” You blink at him.

“Your sister.” He repeats through a mouthful of food. “She in New York, or Boston?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t really matter-“

Ben shoots you a glare, you said you’d stop saying things don’t fucking matter, Sunshine, and says aloud, “you need to talk to her.”

“No, I don’t.” You snap. “I’m not bringing her into this. Fucking drop it, Benjamin.”

“You said you’d think about it-“

“And I did, and I won’t. So drop it.” You turn back to the table, which has fallen into nervous silence. The conversation picks back up slowly, and Ben is filled with that sour tight feeling against you. You tap his leg lightly and he looks at you with a frown.

What.

Are you mad? You blink at him, and he rolls his eyes.

Don’t be fucking stupid. His face relaxes a little. You can’t start to rely just on your looks, beautiful.

You smile lightly at him. Worked for you.

Ben snorts into a cough. Brat.

Cunt, you’re grinning fully now, and when you glance at MM he’s watching you with a frown.

That night there’s a knock on your door while Ben is in the shower, and you gape in surprise when you open it to see MM on the other side.

“Soldier Boy was right,” he grunts, and you stare at him.

“What?”

“You need to talk to your sister.”

You sigh. “MM, it’s really complicated-“

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. Rocket science is complicated. This is real simple. That motherfucker isn’t right about almost anything, but he’s right about this. You need to tell your sister you’re alive.”

“Please don’t-“

“A second chance at shit like this is real rare,” MM says your name firmly. “I’d kill for it. Butcher would kill for it. Almost all of us would do real dark things to get another shot at family. Don’t waste yours, not when it’s being offered.”

“What if she gets hurt?” You whisper. “What if I bring her into this and it gets her killed.”

“Well, considering she was still calling the Starlight Fund every day before the number went out of service, I’d bet that’s still a fucking danger right now.” MM shrugs. “At least now she wouldn’t be in the dark.”

“She kept calling?” you feel the blood drain from your body, your skin starts to itch. There’s no smoke, and the fire is secure inside you, but you’re still staring with a tight face at MM. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t think you’d listen to me.” He mutters. “But for some fucking reason you might listen to him.” MM jerks his head up to the loft strip. “I’ll text you her number, it’s still in my phone.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

MM nods tightly, and starts to leave. You almost reach out to stop him but jerk back at the last second. You can’t touch him. The movement still catches his eye, though, because he turns back around. “What?”

“I’m,” you take a deep breath. “MM, I’m really, really sorry about-“

“You don’t owe me shit.” He stops you with a raised hand. “But remember that you don’t owe him shit either.”

“I know. I’m still sorry.”

MM sighs, looking you up and down. “Just, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

The words echo around in your head as MM walks away.

You know what you’re doing. Butcher said you don’t, MM says he hopes you do. You do. You’re walking upstairs, and you know why. To wait for Ben.

Your phone buzzes only a minute later, and you stare at the number MM texted you. Violet’s one tap of a screen away. Right there, just a centimeter from your thumb, is the ability to hear your sister’s voice for the first time in years.

The shower turns off, and Ben enters the bedroom in only sweatpants. On almost any other night you’d be fully distracted by it, his bare chest and damp hair and the smell of his drifting around in the air, but you’re still staring at the phone.

He notices. “What’s wrong with you.”

You watch him as he drops on the bed. “I need your help.”

“With what.” Ben’s whole body grows rigid, his hands fisting as his eyes start to dart across you, around the room. “Who the fuck-“

“I’m fine,” you reach out to place a hand on his knee, and the consuming paranoia in his body hits you in the chest. You make your words a little more firm. “I’m really fine. I,” you take a heavy breath. “MM gave me my sister’s number. I’m going to call her.”

“Oh,” Ben relaxes slightly, but is still frowning at you. “The fuck do you need me for.”

You shrug. “Emotional support?”

“Emotional support?”

“Like if I need to hit someone. Or cry.”

“Oh,” he nods, looking you up and down. “Fine. Go.”

“Now?” You chew at your tongue, head shaking slightly. “I can do it tomorrow, it’s late, she might not even pick up-“

“Now,” Ben scoots a little closer to you, holding your eyes with his. “Or I’m not doing that support shit.”

The world starts to spin, and it must show on your face because Ben’s hand covers where yours still rests on his body. He’s silent, warm and real against you, and everything feels sharper. You take another large, long breath and Ben nods slightly, looking down at the phone number displayed in blue light on your phone. Waiting for you.

Your thumb presses it, and the ringing echoes through your room. The only thing that keeps air moving in and out of your body is Ben. Still touching you, making the tight anxiety around your throat loosen just enough to keep breathing.

The ringing stops suddenly, and a static hum fills the room for a second before a voice replaces it.

“Hello?”

Her voice sounds the same. It’s a little deeper, and a little more tired than you’d heard it before, but she still breathes the heh in hello. There’s still the slight hint of a Boston accent in her tone—because she’s the only one of you and your siblings who got that trait from your father—sitting in an odd combination with the slight southern lilt she’d given herself from watching old cowboy movies.

“Violet?” You breathe out, because that’s all you can manage.

“Who is this?”

You swallow, glancing at Ben as you say your name. He’s watching you, completely still save for his thumb, rubbing a circle on your hand. The line is silent for just long enough to think it dropped.

“That’s not funny,” Violet finally hisses. “I don’t know who this is, but screw you. I don’t know what the hell your problem is, or why you’re doing this, but screw you.”

“No!” You yell, voice high and panicked. If she hangs up, you’ll lose her. She won’t pick up a call from your number. You can’t lose her again. “It’s me! I swear, Violet, it’s me. I’m alive. You were right, I’m alive.”

“This is just cruel-“

“Please, please just-“ You scramble for some sort of proof, something that will convince her. “You were five. You were five and I was thirteen, and we were at one of Mom’s parties. I sang Tommy Dorsey, and my dress gave me a rash. You did a ballet routine, and Mom made you wear a tutu, and you gave it to the senator’s dog to eat the next day.”

The line is silent again, and you’re staring at Ben with wide fearful eyes. What if that didn’t work?

He shakes his head. It fucking will.

He’s right. Violet breathes your name through the phone. “If this is you,” her voice is cautious, but still there. Still on the line. “What was the last thing you said to me? Before you disappeared.”

“We were on the phone,” you say frantically. “I told you that if I got my PhD tomorrow I’d break you out of mom’s house, drive you to the Cape, and we’d spend a week getting drunk on the beach. You told me you were sixteen, and I said I’d pavlov you into thinking you were drunk. Then I said it probably wouldn’t happen anyways, because I’d only been working on my PhD for three years and normally it takes at least six, and you told me being normal never stopped me before.” You take a strangled breath, and wait.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Where the shit have you been? What happened? You just completely vanished,” she says your name, voice growing louder and louder. “You disappeared off the face of the earth for like two years and then you’re all over the news with a different last name and you’re Homelander’s girlfriend. People are saying Soldier Boy mighta kidnapped you and nobody will give me a single straight answer-“

“It’s complicated,” you say, feeling Ben’s tense. “Where are you?”

“In New York, I’ve been crashing with a friend. What the shit is going on?“

“I can’t say much over the phone. If you text the address to this number, I can send someone to get you. I might take a few days-“

Violet shouts your name, crackling over the speaker. “Someone to get me?! Where are you?”

“I can’t say that either.”

“Well, what can you say?”

Ben snorts, and you glare at him. “It’s-“

“Is someone else there?” Violet interrupts you. “Who else is there? Are you in danger? What’s going on-“

“I’m safe,” you don’t hesitate to say it, even as you scowl at Ben. “I’m fine. Violet-“

“Who was that, then?”

“Ben,” your words are half answer, half a hiss at the man himself. Because Ben is grinning at you and being very distracting as he starts to move closer.

You wanted me here, he winks, and you hit him.

“Who the hell is Ben.”

“Uh, Soldier Boy.”

“Soldier Boy?!” You wince at the volume, and Ben laughs again. “What do you mean Soldier Boy?! He’s there?! Right now?!”

You take Violet off speaker, even though you know Ben will still be able to hear her. It’s about the principle. “I really can’t explain over the phone. Soldier Boy didn’t kidnap me, I’m safe, and I can send someone to get you. Please.”

“Fine, but I want answers.”

“And I’ll give them to you. In person.”

“Good.” There’s a beat of silence, and Violet says your name softly. “I’m real happy you’re alive.”

“Yeah, I am as well.” You smile softly, because that’s the truth. “Thank you for not hanging up.”

“Is Soldier Boy really even hotter in pers-“

“I’ll see you soon,” you say loudly, because Ben definitely heard that. He’s smirking at you, and you can feel his smugness through where his leg is now pressed against yours. “Text me the address. I love you.”

You can hear Violet huff. “I love you too. Killjoy.”

The line drops, and Ben leans forward.

“Well? Am I hotter in person?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Fucking rude,” Ben drawls your name. “After all I did to help you.”

You scoff. “You just sat there, Pretty Boy. I did all the talking.”

He shrugs. “And you did a damn good job. I’m proud of you.”

The thing you’ve shoved deep, deep into you, the bigger thing you keep trying to ignore, flashes bright and hot through your body. “Thank you,” you whisper, and Ben grunts. “Do you, would you be okay if she came here?”

“Of course I would be.” He frowns. “I’m not going to get on your ass about this and pussy out when you finally fucking do it.”

“Would you stay here? Or go wherever we have to go to meet her?”

Ben pulls you fully against him, kissing the space between your eyes. “I’ll go wherever the hell you want me to, beautiful.”

It’s so difficult to just gently pull his mouth down to yours in thanks, and not climb on top of him and let him bring you the one place you need him to go. Into you, and against you, and with you forever.

But you manage to keep your senses, and smile against his lips. “Even Florida?”

“Don’t fucking push it,” he mutters, and you laugh. He lowers you onto the bed, keeping you tight between his body and the mattress, and you’ve never felt so calm and safe. Every time he does this, it somehow gets better. Every time he chuckles and it echoes through you, every time you can feel the hunger—now indistinguishable from the affection and what you’re afraid to call devotion—and every time his beard scrapes against your skin, rough and real, it gets better.

Butcher had been right. Ben isn’t a white knight. But you didn’t need a white knight. You didn’t want a white knight. A white knight would just put you in another, more golden cage. Would try and make you smile like you hadn’t been locked in a tower with a dragon. A white knight would try and save you, make you better. Ben didn’t need you to be better. Ben just made you better, in his own fucked up little way. You smile because he’s there, not because he told you. You scream and he screams with you. You need him and he doesn’t leave because it’s inconvenient. You burn and he burns with you. And he would never put you in a cage. He’d—if you were lucky—keep holding you like this and making everything better.

And that was just another reason, another thought, that made the thing you’ve pushed away rise to the surface. Closer and closer to breaking out. Flooding everything.

Ben made things better.

————

She was a live wire. Scrambling around Ben, waking him up in the middle of the night to ask him how she was supposed to face her sister after everything. She’d given Mallory the address the same night of the call at Ben’s insistence—waiting until morning was fucking insane—and hadn’t stopped tapping Her hands or climbing up the walls since. It was making Ben wired. He could almost feel Her fucking anxiety, and he wasn’t even that annoyed by it. He was more pissed at the FBSI, because why the fuck couldn’t they just go faster? After all She’d done for them, asking for too fucking little in return, they could at least pretend to give a shit about her. Mallory had told them two days, and if forty eight hours passed by even a single extra second, Ben was using the gun he’d stashed under their bed to break out and go get Her sister. Anything to make Her stop asking stupid damn questions and looking so nervous.

“What if she doesn’t like me anymore?” She asked him as he entered the bedroom, foot tapping as she sat crossed-legged on the bed. “What if I tell her everything and she doesn’t understand?”

“That’s the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever said,” Ben crossed the room, saying Her name. “You’re too fucking smart to be saying something so damn stupid.”

“But-“

Ben leaned down and kissed Her, holding her perfect face gently with his hands. It was an easy, effective, mutually beneficial way to shut Her up when she started to go into overdrive, when Ben could hear the gears of her brain start to grind and still not manage to move faster than her impressively quick mouth. She always let him, too, because Ben had worked out when She was mad at him for something fucking stupid—like when he’d kept carrying Her around and she’d yelled about treating her like a fucking doll—and when She was mad at Her.

The former She was always, annoyingly, fucking right. Ben had been treating Her like she was delicate, when she might be the least delicate person he’d ever met. But he’d wanted to help her. Give her one fucking thing that she didn’t have to do for herself. And it was so easy to carry Her, because Ben was doing something for her and he got to touch her. Hold her against him. He hadn’t told Her that, because he wasn’t an emotional pussy, but he’d settled for asking before he picked her up and letting her rant at him about modern media and how to navigate the internet. It always made Her look alive as she’d spiral adorably into the most off-topic, complicated rant about something Ben had never heard of and didn’t need to know. But that was something he was doing for Her, and she’d smile at him the whole time. So he let her.

The latter, She was always wrong. When she was mad at Herself it was always over some sort of stupid shit that she seemed to know was stupid, because she’d let Ben swallow her words and make a small sound when he pulled back.

“She’ll understand,” Ben grunted, still holding Her face. “And you’re impossible not to like, it’s one of the worst damn things about you.”

A smile tugged Her lips, but she still looked so fucking sad. “I hurt people. I killed people-“

“They all fucking had it coming. And I would rather you kill a million people and get back to me than keep your hands clean and I never see you again. I’m sure your goddamn sister would feel the same.”

“Yeah,” She’d finally relaxed a little, leaning forward as she held Ben’s wrists. Heart beating a little faster, but not in panic. “But that’s because you’re insane, Benjamin.”

“You like it.”

She laughed—full and light and the best sound Ben had heard in his life—and leaned up to kiss him again. Ben crawled over Her, pushing her further into the mattress with his mouth and hands, and practicing fucking astronomical amounts of control to keep it that way. To not fuck Her stupid until the bed broke, to not worship her until she proved his theory that the only sound better than her laugh in the whole world was his name, moaned from Her lips as she came.

The Thing was quiet lately. Such a normal part of everything, so deeply ingrained into Ben that at this point he’d accepted it wasn’t going away. As long as She was alive, somewhere in the world with her heart beating, the Thing would sit in Ben and try to keep her safe. If She left him he’d still let her, because he’d always let her. But the Thing would never stop clawing at him to get back to Her. And Ben was going to have to find a way to live with that.

He’d started to take photos of Her wherever he could get them and not be caught. He was fucking good at it now too, and he wanted to show Her. The only thing that stopped him was that she’d ask questions about it, and he’d be exposing the Thing to the air, so he didn’t. But he’d filled up his whole camera with Her. He’d filled up his fucking life with her. Stupid songs were more beautiful because She liked them. Food tasted better because She’d given it to him. Movies Ben would’ve hated even a year ago were better because She’d mouth the lines and tell Ben pointless facts about the production. Mamma Mia wasn’t annoying because she knew all the awful songs by heart, and Kung Fu Panda 2 was, in fact, the best movie ever made because she said so. She’d explained shit about art and allegories and doomed narratives the whole way through, and even though Ben didn’t remember a single thing she’d said he’d never forgot the way she’d smiled. Looking between him and the screen with frightening intent, her words too big and her tone too fucking serious with such a wide grin on her perfect face. Even the stupid off-brand Soldier Boy sunglasses she wouldn’t just throw in the fucking trash made blue a not completely dogshit color. Because She wore them.

And as Ben stood with Her in the elevator the next morning—watching Her taps and gnaw into herself—she was so fucking perfect it might be killing him. She had barely slept—rolling around above Ben until he’d locked his arms around her and kissed Her until she was tired—and it had given her bags under her eyes and a manic look across her face. Her hair was messy and she was wearing his shirt again and she smelled like flowers. Ben had never seen something so fucking beautiful in his goddamn life. That was true every single time he saw her. She managed to outdo herself every fucking time.

He wrapped an arm around Her, and the Thing hummed softly in Ben as she stilled quickly and leaned into him. Her hand shot up to hold his, and her whole body relaxed when he kissed the top of her head. Ben held Her steady as she took a sharp inhale at the elevator’s ding, and her nails dug into his hand as the doors opened.

The similarities between Her and the woman that steps into the hall are immediate. The woman is a little shorter, and She has slightly sharper features, but their noses are almost identical, and their hair has the exact same texture and color. The woman walked the same way too, long and careful steps off the elevator. Staring at Her.

The woman said Her name softly, and her voice was a little higher than it had been over the phone. But Ben liked the name the woman says Her name. Long, clear, and with the care that should be used to say it.

“Violet.” She breathed, taking an unsteady step forward.

They just stared at each other for another second, and it occurred to Ben somewhere from the back of his brain that She might not touch her sister. That it might have been ingrained into Her not to touch people so deeply that she wouldn’t touch anyone but Ben. He was about to tell to just damn do it because if Ben wasn’t able to touch her for a fucking week—let alone three whole years—he’d lose his mind, but before he could She made a choking sob, ran at the woman—Violet—and pulled her into a hug.

They both just stood there, Violet started crying too after barely a second, and Ben started to feel like he should maybe go. She could handle this—She could handle anything—and maybe she’d want a moment alone with her sister. Ben would rather shoot himself than interrupt this, so he was going to just back away and text Her that he’d be in their room.

Ben took a single step back, and Violet’s head shot up to meet his eyes. “Oh my god, that’s Soldier Boy.”

He nodded curtly, frozen as he waited for Her to explain it, because he sure as shit didn’t know how. Ben had no fucking clue how to explain what was going on, between them or with the whole fucking shit show their lives were. He would let Her, because she loved talking and explaining shit—she real was fucking good at it—and it wasn’t Ben’s story to tell.

“Yeah, it is.” She pulled back with a sigh, looking at Ben over her shoulders with a small smile. Her eyes scanned over him, brows raising slightly. Going somewhere, Benjamin?

Ben scowled. No. Shut up.

“What the shit is going on?” Violet gaped at Ben as they detached, and he felt a little bit like a fucking zoo animal. “You promised answers,” Violet said Her name again, giving her a glare. “I want them now.”

“You would like them now, please, Vi.” She grinned, tone teasing. “I’m gone for three years and suddenly you’re forgetting all your fucking manners. Not very lady-like of you.”

“Wow, you’re exactly the same, you sarcastic cunt.” Violet muttered, and She laughed.

“Cunt isn’t a very polite word-“

“You taught it to me,” Violet grumbled. “Give me my explanation now, please. You bitch.”

“Fine, but first.” She pulled Violet back into another tight, long hug, and Ben waited until She spoke again. “I really fucking missed you.”

Violet smiled, and Ben watched her squeeze Her back. “I missed you as well.”

They returned to Her and Ben’s apartment silently, Ben didn’t miss any of the confused looks Violet kept shooting him as he trailed after them. When they reached the door and She scanned the badge, Violet shook her head but still didn’t speak, and when they entered their apartment, Violet gaped around as she was led to the sofa. It was a little less wide-eyed awe than Her gape had been, and more completely confused.

Violet turned around, and gave Ben one last look before she spoke, “can you start talking very soon? Because this is crazy. Batshit crazy.”

“You might, uh,” She sighed, looking back at Ben nervously. “You might want to sit down. It’s a long story.”

“Is he,” Violet nodded at Ben. “Gonna be here the whole time?”

“Yes,” Her answer is immediate, and Ben is filled with stupid goddamn pussy warmth at the firmness of her tone. He was going to be here, because She wanted him here. The whole fucking time.

“Fine.” Violet dropped onto the sofa, and looked at Her expectantly. “Go.”

“Okay,” She sat down slowly, voice a little hoarse, and Ben didn’t even think as he crossed the room. Sat silently at Her side, pressed his leg against Hers. He ignored the baffled look from Violet, because nothing was more fucking important than the way She had let out a steady breath once Ben was touching her.

She glanced at him with a small nod. Thank you. Before she turned to fully face Violet. “Ready?”

Violet nodded, and She took one last long breath.

“I guess I’ll start at the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Violet frowned. “Like your suicide?”

“I didn’t commit suicide. I mean, obviously, but I didn’t try to either. I got kidnapped.”

Violet glanced at Ben. “Kidnapped?” She repeated slowly. “By-“

“Not by Ben. He’s still in Russia at this point. And I kind of kidnapped him a lot more than he kidnapped me.”

“You kidnapped Soldier Boy?!”

“Nobody fucking kidnapped me,” Ben grumbled at the same time Violet shouted, and She gave him a flat look.

“You are not being helpful.” She shoved him slightly with her thigh. “And it’s complicated Violet. We’ll get there, but I have to actually tell the fucking story.”

Violet nods, and She continues.

“Homelander. Homelander kidnapped me. He kept me in a dungeon for two years, and um,” She swallowed, staring at the floor, and leaned back slightly into Ben. “Hurt me. He’d just found out he had a son, Ryan Butcher, and he wanted more. So he hurt me. Then he wanted to be immortal, so he started testing a new compound V variation on me. He moved me into a lab for the scientists and they tested the V on me. I escaped, and the CIA kind of recruited me. William Butcher, you’ve heard of him?” She stopped, glancing at Violet, who nodded.

“He’s the dude who killed Madeline Stillwell. The same night you vanished.”

“Yeah, well, kind of. I think technically Homelander did that. But you’ve got the right guy. He’s the one who recruited me to his team, to kill Homelander. It’s Butcher, Starlight, Starlight’s boyfriend Hughie, this French dude who’s pretty chill, Kimiko, who’s mute but super sweet, and um, MM. Big guy, probably OCD but a really good dude. And me.”

“Cause you’re a supe now,” Violet says slowly. “You got shot with V.”

“Four times, yeah.”

“What powers did you get?”

She stared a little more intently at the floor. “I’m immortal. I don’t have invulnerable skin like him,” she nodded at Ben. “Or Homelander. But I have a regenerative healing factor that’s really powerful. I can survive being hit with a nuke. It helps with my healing power.”

“Healing power?”

“I can transfer wounds from others onto myself. I have a theory that it’s less about the wounds and more about the biology, though, because I can do mental stuff as well.”

Ben tensed at that. Because it made more fucking sense, sure, but She hadn’t mentioned that to him. That Her healing his alleged shell shock might just be biology manipulation. She’d said she was fine though, and it had been a few months-

“Is that it?” Violet asked, pulling Ben’s attention. “Can you explain Soldier Boy now?”

She gave a small, huffed laugh. “No. Not even close. Each shot of V added something, immortality and healing was just the first. The second was, um, empathy.” Her hands started to tap in Her lap. “I can feel people’s emotions when I touch them. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you first-“

“I don’t care,” Violet snapped, and Ben decided he liked her. “Keep talking. Second shot was empathy. Third shot?”

“Sensory manipulation. But I’m kind of terrible at controlling it, and it only happens when I sing.”

“You’ve gotten a lot damn better though.” Ben muttered, and She shot him a dirty look. “You fucking have, Sunshine. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Fine, I can control it a little. But not completely.”

Ben nodded with satisfaction, and Violet gave him another confused frown before looking back at Her. “Fourth shot?”

“Pyrokinesis. Really strong pyrokinesis.”

“How strong?”

She answered slowly. “It alone makes me stronger than Homelander.”

“Oh,” Violet’s eyes widened. “That explains the CIA.”

“Yeah, and him.” She pointed to Ben, and Violet’s eyes followed. “I’m stronger than tall, dark, and stupid here. So I made the genius pitch to wake him up and use him against Homelander.”

Ben scowls. “It was a genius pitch. And I’ve been a fucking delight.”

She grins at him. Don’t be a baby. I’m teasing you, Pretty Boy.

He rolled his eyes. Shut the fuck up.

Make me. She stuck her tongue out at him, and turned back to Violet as the Thing pushed inside of Ben. “We lived in a safe house for a while, and after Neuman we’re here. The FBSA’s new supe compound. That’s it.”

She’d glossed over a lot of shit, but the explanation seemed to satisfy Violet. She nodded slowly, looking between them, and asked. “You’re friends? You and Soldier Boy?”

“Um,” She looked at Ben, and he shrugged. Whatever She said he’d take. He’d take and let it feed the Thing, because at least it was something. “Yes. We’re friends. Good friends.”

“Good friends,” Violet repeated slowly. “And you live together.”

She narrowed her eyes at Violet, and the room was silent for a second. Ben felt like he was missing something, especially when Violet just sighed and moved on.

“Just to recap,” she said slowly. “You’re a supe now. You’re more powerful than Homelander and Soldier Boy. You’ve been working with the CIA to kill Homelander. Soldier Boy didn’t kidnap you, you’re friends with him,” Ben didn’t like the way Violet said the word friends, like it was a fucking lie or joke. “And you can’t leave this place, which is a government supe compound.”

She nodded. “I know it’s scary and dangerous, but I can ask my boss Mallory to keep an eye on you. I don’t know if it will be better or worse to put a detail on you-“

Violet says Her name firmly. “I’m gonna be fine. I don’t need a detail, that’s crazy. Just,” she smiled sadly. “Can you not do the fix it thing for only two hours so I can talk to my sister?”

“I don’t do a fix it thing,” She muttered, and Violet gave Her a flat, bored stare that was uncannily similar to the one She always gave Ben.

“Uh huh. Do they feed you here? Is there a bell to ring?”

“We have a kitchen, Vi.” She snapped, gesturing over the couch. “I can make something.”

“I’m not tryin to die-“

“I can fucking cook now, bitch.” She said proudly, and Ben felt the Thing hum again. “So I’m going to make something, and you’re going to eat it, and then apologize for being fucking rude.”

Violet scoffed, but followed Her when she stood and walked to the kitchen.

Ben trailed after them and watched. Watched Her, completely at ease, with someone that wasn’t him. Laughing about Her childhood, telling stupid stories, still brushing against Ben comfortably whenever she passed him. Letting him see this piece of Her from before. Still fucking wanting him there, with her, when it wasn’t about death and violence and the dark. Still fucking perfect, casually telling Ben to get the stuff he’d put on a shelf too high for Her to reach. Sitting across from him as they ate but keeping Her foot pressed against his. Talking to Violet about movies Ben hadn’t seen—but She gave him a look that promised they would watch them—their mother still being a bitch, and Violet’s life in the past three years. She was, apparently, a dancer. Going to some fancy fucking school for it.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing that as a career,” She said, shaking her head. “Ballet?”

“Of course.” Violet shrugged. “I want to use my talent. Unlike someone.”

She laughed. “I didn’t need lessons for my talent like you did. It’s not my fault I’m just a fucking natural.”

“At least I can carry a tune. Kid me blindfolded could dance better than you now.”

“You don’t know that,” She muttered. “It’s been three years. Maybe I’ve gotten better.”

“Have you?”

She scowled at her plate, and Violet laughed.

“You can dance,” Ben frowned at Her. She could definitely fucking dance. The memory of it was carved into his brain. “I’ve seen you dance.”

Don’t help me, Benjamin. You’ll make it worse. She glared at him Violet snorted.

“Did you see her dance at a club or something?”

Ben looked between Her and Violet, deciding the numb feeling of Her kicking him under the table would be well worth some fucking answers. “Yes.”

“Ah, that’s not the same.” Violet grinned, and her voice turned to the haughty, mocking impression of their mother they'd been doing all morning. “She can dance like a slut, not a lady.”

“Fuck off,” She snapped at her sister before turning her glare to Ben. “And not a single word from you.” She didn’t kick him, but threw a crumpled napkin at his face. Ben caught it and winked at her.

I like that you’re not a lady, beautiful.

She scoffed. You would.

Violet hummed, looking between them, and She sighed. “What?”

“I’ve never seen you do that with someone who’s not family.”

“Shut up,” She muttered, but Ben leaned forward.

“Do what?” He grunted, because if he didn’t find out what the fuck Violet was talking about he might explode.

“That silent communication thingy she does. I’ve only seen her do it with me and our siblings. And a few of her closest friends.”

“Violet-“

“It’s a creepy talent.” Violet ignored Her, still addressing Ben. “Me and my brother tried to recreate it together once, but it only works with her.”

“My brother and I,” She corrected without missing a beat. “And it’s not a talent. It just happens.”

“But I’ve only seen it happen with people you-“ Violet was cut off as She threw another napkin.

Her face was tight, glaring at Her sister, and before Ben could demand more answers for what the fuck Violet was talking about, the door slid open, revealing the one pussy agents from their move.

“I’ve um,” the agent, it was the woman—the one Ben had taken the gun from too easily—looking at Ben, Her, and Violet grouped at the table. “I’ve been told to escort your guest out the front. For her safety.”

“It’s been three hours?” She asked with a small, sad frown that made the Thing riot.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Fuck,” She swore, standing slowly. Ben remained in his seat as Violet did the same, but moved his hand to the back of Her leg when she rounded the table. So he could just fucking touch Her. So She looked a little less like the damn world was spinning and her heart slowed just a little.

She paused a foot from Violet, arms tense at her side. “I don’t know if you want me to-“

“Can it,” Violet closed the distance, pulling Her into a tight hug. “I just want to hug you.”

Ben liked how fast She gave in. Comfortably, easily, muscles relaxing further where Ben’s hand rested. Because there was at least one other goddamn person on earth who saw that She was perfect, and just wanted Her. Not quite as much as Ben wanted Her, because that was simply fucking impossible. But still just wanted Her.

“You can’t visit frequently,” Ben heard Her say softly. “We can write off once, say you were just looking for more answers. But you can’t keep coming, or tell anyone, or really call, or text-“

“I know you’re not dead.” Violet squeezed Her. “I know I’m not crazy. Everything else is good by me.”

She looked over Violet’s head to Agent No-Gun. “Make sure she’s safe, please.”

Agent No-Gun nodded. “Of course, Ma’am.”

The hug lasted a minute longer before Violet pulled back, and gave Her one last smile. “Kick Homelander’s whole butt.”

When the door closed behind Agent No-Gun, She was swaying slightly. Her heart faster, her eyes glued on the door like it might open, or explode.

“Are you going to cry.” Ben asked, because if She was he needed to be ready. Figure out a game plan now.

She just sighed. “I’m not going to cry. I’m just. I didn’t-“

Ben stood and pulled Her into his chest. She’d stay there until her heart became even again. He’d hold her until she made him stop.

When She pulled back to look at Ben she wasn’t smiling. But her features weren’t too controlled, like something was being held barely fucking together inside her. She was looking at him, with a wide, open, soft, perfect face.

“Thank you,” She said softly, and Ben blinked.

“I didn’t fucking do anything-“

“You were here.” She buried her head back against him. “I’m just really fucking glad you’re here.”

“I’m not going a goddamn place without you,” he muttered, scowling at the air. “That’s that. So don’t fucking thank me.”

“Good luck stopping me, Benjamin.” Her words were muffled against Ben’s body, and he could feel her smiling into his chest. “Thank you.”

“Brat.”

She relaxed even further into him, and it made Ben smile like a fucking pussy into the air. She tilted her head up, staring at him with a gentle, simple perfect fucking smile. Looking at Ben like he was something she wanted.

“Cunt,” She whispered. And kissed him. She wasn’t horny, or mad, and Ben wasn’t doing anything except fucking standing there. Ben hadn’t asked, or initiated it because he was being mauled inside by not touching her. She kissed him, slow and so fucking easily. When She pulled back her whole perfect face was lighter, her smile bigger, and Ben returned it. Because why the hell wouldn’t he, when She was looking at him like that.

“You can’t fucking dance,” Ben drawled Her name, because he needed her to laugh a little. Be a little brighter.

She shoved at his chest, but didn’t try to get away from him. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I could teach you,” he leaned down a little, bringing his eyes to Hers. “I’m a goddamn king of waltzing.”

“Wow,” She wrinkled her nose at him. “That is such fucking bullshit.”

“I fucking am.”

“You’re going to kill us both.”

Ben scoffed. “With dancing?”

“You’d find a way,” She shrugged, but was still smiling. “It’s one of your many skills.”

Ben started adjusting Her in his arms, dropping one hand to her lower back and moving the other into her own hand. “Sing.”

“Sing?”

“Something slow. No fast shit.”

She gaped at him. “You’re being serious.”

“Of course I am, I’m not a-“

“Pussy fucking liar,” She stuck her tongue out at Ben’s glare. “If you drop me-“

“I’m not going to drop you.” Ben snapped. He’d listen to Butcher talk for fifty straight years before he fucking dropped Her. “Sing.”

She watched him a little more apprehensively than Ben liked, but did. A slow song that sounded like wind and sunlight, with guitar and gentle symbols. Ben recognized it, he wasn’t sure from where but he was positive he did. He’d ask Her later, but right now it was about this. About holding Her like she deserved to be held, spinning her around and making her smile. Guiding her legs as he moved into the four-step waltz his mother had taught him, that had only been used for stupid fucking Vought parties or boring galas with pointless themes he’d hated attending. Making Her keep looking at him like that. Her perfect lips parted slightly, eyes clouded with something that wasn’t panic or lack of control. Just staring at Ben, touching him, wanting him there. Her voice was making the world fill with sunlight, making her somehow more beautiful, making an ocean breeze carry through the world and everything become just them. Together.

The song ended too soon, and She didn’t move away. She rested her head back against him, and Her heart was uneven again. Ben couldn’t figure out why, why the fuck was her heart like that when she looked so peaceful, but when She looked back up at him she was smiling. So he let it go.

“Thank you.”

Ben didn’t tell Her to shut up this time. She never fucking listened anyway. So he just kissed Her. Made her open for him as far as she could go, made her moan into his mouth. He’d mastered using every part of her body he was allowed to touch, worked out how to get her happy and wrecked in his hands from just kissing her. He’d stay here forever. As long as She was doing whatever fucking thing turned Ben into a weak fucking pussy that was consumed by just Her, he’d stay right here. He’d ask Her to sing again, because she sounded like a fucking angel, and he’d learn every way to keep Her there. With him. If She told him she’d go with him, when this was over, there wasn’t a single fucking thing that would keep him away. Mallory could threaten him, Edgar could call in his favor, Butcher could mock and hunt him, but Ben would stay with Her.

He’d follow Her anywhere, and listen to her rants, and put up with all Her insane shit because she was fucking perfect. Because She did the same, for him, for almost everyone, and there wasn’t a goddamn person who deserved the world more than she did. So, if She let him, Ben would give it to Her. The world was fucking shit, but every part of it was more beautiful when she was around.

So he’d find a way, bombs and fists and blood and gunpowder, to give it to Her.

End Note: I can’t believe I Avengers Tower 2013ed the Boys. Also for everyone going “gross where did the plot go” do NOT worry. It is coming. It is very much coming. We're about to CRAZY.

If you want to, leave a comment! Every single one makes my day and fuels my soul, so if you have any thoughts at all, share them!

Taglist

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@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

@fghj18 @n-o-p-e-never @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @marisha-3 @stvrniolo

@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf @ciuguapa @ilyaasansaif @whimsicalcherry

@sadpods

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bunniwords · 4 months ago

Text

໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ ALIBI 🌀

part xv - masterlist - part xvii xvi. prettiest girl

︶︶　 ˚ ᡴꪫ synopsis — you are known for your brain rot anime content on twitter. so much so that you caught the attention of txt’s soobin on his secret stan account and became mutuals. what will become of this new friendship?

bunni speaks — WE BACK and with partial written chapters! i'm not great at writing fluff so bare with me... also i have a bit of writer’s block… so please be kind to me… i’ve wrote this like last week but was really beating myself over it but i decided to just post it…

ONE MONTH.

just one more month before soobin was going to see you in new york. was he ready for it? not exactly. probably far from it actually, but one thing was for sure is that he wanted to see you.

there isn't really a day that goes by without him calling and messaging you. the two of you actually started this thing where you'd each send a series of random photos taken throughout the day while the other was sleeping and it’s not helping him calm down his feelings for you at all. he saved every single one of those photos and put it in an album on his phone to look back at on. he loved imagining you taking each picture with him in mind.

now, this new routine has him developing a bad habit of looking at his phone first thing in the morning. soobin knows he read some sort of article about looking at your phone first thing in the morning isn't really good for you but science didn't account for the feeling of waking up to twenty notifications from the girl you like. waking up to your messages gave soobin profound excitement for the day. his eyes could barely open but his first instinct now was to look at his phone and see what photos you took. his favorites were the ones where you'd take your outfit of the day in your full length mirror in your bedroom or maybe the ones of you posing with your food.

you’ve asked him about his great face reveal and soobin felt bad about not showing his face because you actually asked him a lot about it... to the point where you concluded that he was ugly as a joke. a joke he finds no joy in hearing as he defended his good looks to wits ends.

but you were too deep in your feelings that you were pretty sure you would be okay with however he looked.

i mean, if he was a total predator... you'd definitely reevaluate, but soo was not that. you think.

"are you working from home today?" soo asked you over the voice call.

"yup! i just made breakfast. wanna see?" you asked as you wiggled your bowl in front of the camera.

god, you were so cute.

"let's see. let's see."

"it's just cereal," you laughed, "they had the txt cereal at the store so i grabbed it for funsies since i'm seeing them next month."

"oh, right. haha."

every time txt came up in your conversation, soobin definitely started thinking about revealing the truth and the guilt that came with that. he still isn't sure how you'd react. would you feel betrayed that he didn't tell you? or would you be happy? what if you just leave the restaurant after finding out? or start blackmailing him for having a fan account?

okay, that last thought went a little wild side, because you wouldn't do that. he knows you wouldn't, but his mind definitely wondering about what you’d think about any of this. thinking about you being mad at him and leaving him was probably the worst scenario he could think of. he could already feel someone digging into his chest with a tight grip on his heart from the thought of you hating him.

"damn, okay. i know it wasn't that funny but you could've reacted a little," you joked.

"ha. ha. ha.”

" you’re so annoying…”

soobin laughed with a quick apology and lame excuse saying he was distracted.

you rolled your eyes but accepted his apology anyway. “well, how was your day? you're in japan right?"

yes, txt was doing their japanese comeback before the start of their world tour. but to you, soo was simply on a work trip.

"yeah, i am!"

"how is it?" you said before taking in a spoonful of cereal.

"busy... but fun. my team had a few work events today and i'm so tired," he said.

he was really downplaying his 'work events'. he had a group interview, magazine solo interview, a photoshoot, and to top it all off, there was the music show and fan interaction at the end of the day. he was beyond exhausted but still wanted to talk to you by the end of all of it. although, he didn’t really want to talk to you about work.

"did you want to turn in early? we can always talk in the morning for you," you offered, but you could already hear him grumbling.

"no, just another hour... i couldn’t even talk to you this morning."

oh, were you weak. you weren't going to say no. absolutely, not. you know, he didn’t say that he needed to talk to you everyday, but for him to basically imply that he couldn’t go to bed without talking to you once today almost sent you into a coma.

"oh, uh, yeah, okay, one more hour and then you go to sleep,” you stuttered, thinking you really played that one off.

"right before i forget… japan. did you want anything from here?"

and immediately, your ears perked up.

"oh, yes if i can ask you to look for a few things! i have a list," you bursted out into a fit of giggles from the thought of you being able to get your hands onto anything you got on this anime list.

"you... have a list?" he sounded as if he was judging you.

"hey... it's not as accessible here in america," you pouted, "leave me alone. you want my list or not?"

"give me the list," soobin smiled and you could hear the endearment in his voice.

"also, with all due respect, shut up. i know you got a list. you just wanted to judge me," you fussed.

"hey! that's not true!"

it most definitely was true (to both him having a list and him judging you).

that's alright though because while you were forging your annoyance, you were trying to calm your heart down from imagining this man scouring through the streets of tokyo in search for your most wanted anime merchandise.

TAG LIST: @hoonatic @paegesoobin @lun4kazumii @noraimp @isa942572 @yourenzoo @soobjvn @besciitos @sakiimeo @kumabeom @yyeonzi @bunnisoobin @girlz4jaem @msorriluv @wonderstrucktae @thing89 @dreeener @arep4con-qu3sp @otblous @luvvvash @huethusiasm @starryeyedluv @304files @kang-ulzzang @thisrandombitch @nocturnal-lanturn @bbeomgyucafe @virgo-and-libra @mumeimei @jinostooth @gy0th-yawnzzn @pinkhor1zon @film-sea @daechwitonguetech @jakesbubu @pagetammgyu @hanniemylovelyquokka @s0urcherry @bee-the-loser @sol3chu

#soobin x reader #txt x reader #soobin smau #soobin x y/n #soobin x you #txt imagines #txt smau #txt x you #soobin fic #txt x y/n

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overseer-picard · 7 months ago

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I have to talk about "I, Borg" for a moment. I get so exasperated by people saying Picard was stupid or weak for not using Hugh to cause genocide. I get it, Hollywood neural rot tells us we should always kill the bad guys but... come on, watch the episode with your brain wrinkles open.

Picard was chomping at the bit to use Hugh to infect the Borg, his staff were the ones telling him to slow down and think about things but he turned a deliberate blind eye to them for most of the episode. It was deeply out of character for him, but his actions were underpinned with a simmering rage that made it all make sense (especially considering he had been assimilated just two years prior).

He lashes out at Guinan, "It's not a person, damn it, it's a Borg!", he tells Geordi to "unattach himself" from the "lab animal", and he even makes Beverly do a double take when she says "You're making it sound like a virus." and he says, his eyes colder than we've ever seen, "And if all goes well, a terminal one."

(Cold Eye Picard ^ very scary, do not approach. He even gives a flicker of a sadistic smile here, which might be the only time in the whole series we see that.)

But my main point is that Picard wanted to go through with the plan more than anyone else on the ship. So much so that the lust for revenge was splitting him open at the seams and making him abandon his core morals. Even Guinan, whose entire world was destroyed by the Borg, tells him he needs to calm down and reconsider.

And that moment towards the end, the climax of the episode, when Picard is tapping into Hugh's recognition of Locutus, trying to do a hail mary to prove that this is still nothing but a mindless drone, and Hugh says "No, I am Hugh". BAM. Picard's entire demeanor shifts as he realizes there's no way he can murder this innocent individual.

And this moment-

-as Picard is saying goodbye to Hugh, you see his smile fall and doubt pull at him. Perhaps he's questioning if he did the right thing, or maybe wondering just how furious Command will be with him, but either way, it's a poignant moment that completes his arc because he was true to his moral center, and that is true to his character.

In my opinion, if Picard had chosen to push through with the plan, to kill Hugh and the possible (there was a chance it wouldn't work) millions of other Borg drones who were just as innocent and capable of rescue and rehabilitation as Hugh (and himself), it would've been a failing of writing and too far removed from Picard's character to be believable.

It's an incredible episode, and Patrick Stewart's performance is astoundingly nuanced, so it drives me a little crazy when people completely miss the entire point. If I wanted an action based thriller about the Good Guys coming up with cool ways of killing evil space zombies, I wouldn't be watching Star Trek.

^ the face of character growth

#star trek the next generation #jean luc picard #i borg #episode analysis

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koishua · 5 months ago

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i feel like this is going to turn into a mini series, but i can't stop thinking about being on video calls with yeonjun, your closest companion and most beloved person. no matter what kind of relationship, be it platonic or romantic, i just feel like having yeonjun in your life would make it a whole lot more bearable. finding those moments in your day to ring him up and update him on your latest endeavour... he'd shoo his members away and make the time to specifically spend time with you even if he's far away or you're off somewhere else :( it would be so special. at times, you'd refer to him as "healing" and he'd melt and he's just happy to be that person for you :(( no matter what happens in life, he's your priority and he makes sure that you know that you're his priority as well :((

don't want to get too angsty all the damn time, so i'll keep it mellow and nice, but my point is he's just a ball of comfort you can snuggle up against to escape from reality's often harsh reminders. his energy is infectious, frequently bringing life back to you. even on lagging calls, you'd somehow feel replenished and ready to take on the day/night hehe. once, he was forced to rest because of an injury and he'd called you in shambles, feeling the guilt eating him up and he'd sought after your presence next to him, but you were out of country and it was honestly a terribly emotional day for you and him :( so you'd opened a movie and shared your screen to watch it face to face and when the members were back at the dorm, they found him knocked out on his bed with his laptop screen on full brightness haha and they wanted to put it away to let him properly sleep and they saw you doing what seemed like important work on camera, keeping a dozing yeonjun company, so they waved you a hello and left the laptop back in its original place ahahhaha they were so cute like they were struggling not to make any noise bc it's not often they'd get to see you without having a mad yeonjun chasing them away bc how dare they take away your precious time together dhdhdhhs im smitten. this idea rots my brain and comforts me on a daily basis. or should i say nightly.

yeonjun would notice the slightest frown and softest sniffle and the moment he asks what's wrong, you'd break down and all your walls would crumble because it's just him. it's just yeonjun. your healing. your piece of peace. he'd be able to pick up on all of your minute and miniscule cues, letting you know that he's here should you ever need him. not everyone is as lucky as you. you found your soulmate in the body of someone named yeonjun. even in silence, your hearts would converse. knowing that he's there is what keeps you motivated to do your best in life, because he works his absolute hardest every single day as well :(((

#txt fluff #txt x reader #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun fluff #txt headcanons #txt imagines #txt yeonjun scenarios #choi yeonjun #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun angst #yeonjun comfort #txt comfort

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padfootagain · 1 month ago

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Love in Verses (XIX)

Chapter 19: ‘I knew winter cold like the nuzzle of fjords at my thighs’

Hi! Here is new chapter! Today's chapter contains... an update on Saoirse and Sean, a man a little controlling in the kitchen, poetry, and our best boy Elwood!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3119

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Bog Queen

I lay waiting between turf-face and demesne wall, between heathery levels and glass-toothed stone. My body was braille for the creeping influences: dawn suns groped over my head and cooled at my feet, through my fabrics and skins the seeps of winter digested me, the illiterate roots pondered and died in the cavings of stomach and socket. I lay waiting on the gravel bottom, my brain darkening, a jar of spawn fermenting underground dreams of Baltic amber. Bruised berries under my nails, the vital hoard reducing in the crock of the pelvis. My diadem grew carious, gemstones dropped in the peat floe like the bearings of history. My sash was a black glacier wrinkling, dyed weaves and phoenician stitchwork retted on my breasts' soft moraines. I knew winter cold like the nuzzle of fjords at my thighs– the soaked fledge, the heavy swaddle of hides. My skull hibernated in the west nest of my hair.

Which they robbed. I was barbered and stripped by a turfcutter’s spade

who veiled me again and packed coomb softly between the stone jambs at my head and my feet.

Till a peer’s wife bribed hil. The plait of my hair, a slimy birth-cord of bog, had been cut

and I rose from the dark, hacked bone, skull-ware, frayed stitches, tufts, small gleams on the bank.

Seamus Heaney, North, 1975

Saoirse reckoned that at this stage, there was more caffeine in her organism than blood, or water, or any other normal component of her body. She was made of cheap coffee, her brain buzzing with chemicals and lack of sleep. At this point, her entire body was trembling…

By her side, Sean wasn’t much better. He had been procrastinating, and now he was paying the price with too much to be done in too little time.

Damn, exam season was something else… A new kind of hell, no doubt…

The library was about to close, that was how late it was. They gathered their stuff five minutes before closing time, and headed for the night. The cold burned Saoirse’s cheeks, although for once it wasn’t raining. It was snowing, instead… how great… she could get frozen and wet…

“Christ’s sake, don’t tell me it’s fucking raining again,” Sean complained behind her.

“It’s snowing.”

“No better. God, my feet are gonna be soaked.”

She looked down at his old boots, the leather visibly tired.

He heaved a sigh.

“Want to eat something before we go to our dorms?”

“A burger. Something that will give me diabetes and cholesterol just by looking at it.”

“Fuck yeah… extra fries too.”

“Of course!”

She almost slipped as they climbed down the few steps leading to the library, and Sean held her hand to steady her. They were both wearing gloves, and yet she felt warmth spread through her fingers as he held her. At the bottom of the steps, they didn’t let go, merely walked across the campus in silence, their feet making the thin layer of white snow crack under each of their steps. It was late, barely anyone was around anymore. Streetlights were tainting the snow a yellowish white, and the world was quieter than usual. It was a special power of the snow to make the world slow down, to make everything quiet. Saoirse was thinking about her exams though, about the book she had to finish for your class, about the notes she had to read again about Yeat’s poetry, and there was this essay she had to finish…

Both of them looked up when a voice rose over the stillness of the night.

“ANDY! LOOK! IT’S FUCKING SNOWING!”

Saoirse recognised you instantly, you were hurrying out of a building, arms spread open and face up to meet the falling snowflakes. You were laughing.

And then another silhouette came out of the same building as you, so tall it was easy to recognise Pr. H-B. He was laughing too, watching you enjoy the snow, his deep voice rumbling through the night.

“I see that,” he nodded, readjusting his man bun under his beanie.

“I hope it won’t melt too fast,” you pouted, looking at the white that covered the grounds, the leaves of the bushes, the empty branches of the trees, the wooden benches. “I want to make a snowman. And a proper one!”

“I want to send a snowball right into your face.”

You exploded with laughter, and he broke into a teasing grin.

“And I thought you were a peaceful lad!” you teased, reaching up to pinch his side, which made him giggle more like a boy than a grown man.

“Never said that I was!”

“You softy…”

You shook your head at him, let the snow fall on your cheeks and your closed eyelids again. Nor you nor Andrew seemed to have noticed Saoirse and Sean though, as they slowly kept on walking across the grounds, looking at their professors’ silly behaviour from afar.

“Christ, I’m freezing… let’s go! I’m starving.”

“So, you’re really going to cook for me tonight?”

“Yeah, I can make you something decent,” Andrew nodded, already turning in the direction of the carpark.

He groaned.

“God, I have to take Elwood for a walk. Fuck…”

“We can go together! It’ll be fun!”

“It’ll be fun to freeze our arses outside? Don’t worry, I’ll do it. You’ll catch your death.”

Saoirse saw you bending over a bench to gather snow in your hand. Not much, but a handful. You crept behind Andrew, went on your tiptoes before pulling on his scarf and pressing the snow against the back of his neck. He yelped, jumping in surprise and cursing like a sailor while he wiggled to get as much snow out of his scarf as he could, while you laughed so hard you were bending over and losing your balance.

“Fuck you!” he groaned, and yet there was a breathy laughter in his voice. “I’ll pay you back for that…”

He hurried towards the nearest bench, gathered some snow as well, but you were running off already, laughing. He ran after you, laughing as well, and managed to throw his snow ball to hit the back of your head. You yelped and doubled with laughter at the contact, but then you slipped, were falling on the icy ground.

Saoirse and Sean both gasped as they saw you falling, but heaved a relieved sigh when Andrew bent down and managed to catch you before you would hit the ground.

“Christ! You’re okay?” he asked with genuine worry, and you looked up at him as he pulled you upright again.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” you mumbled as you found back your footing. “That was a nice shot, by the way.”

“One of my many talents, I’m a killer in snowball fights.”

“Your tall arse also must make for a very good target.”

“Depends, I can easily disappear. I just pretend to be a scarecrow, nobody notices me.”

You laughed at that, and so he smiled.

“Let’s go home,” he spoke in a softer tone.

Saoirse noticed that he was still holding onto your arms, she noticed the longing that appeared across his features for a moment when you pulled away, the way he stared at you as you started walking again, babbling about dinner and hoping he wouldn’t poison you. And then he blinked, seemed to find back the use of his muscles, and followed you.

Saoirse stared at the pair of you walking away, a smile forming on her lips.

“What are you thinking about?” Sean asked, noticing mischief in her eyes.

“He likes her.”

“What?”

“H-B. He has a crush on Y/L/N.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you seen what just happened? The longing?!”

But Sean blinked, and she heaved a sigh as she pulled him further across the grounds, aiming for the large portal and the busy street of Dublin.

“Men…” she mumbled, shaking her head.

“ELWOOD!”

You had barely passed the door that you knelt to greet Andrew’s dog, generously petting him and complimenting him for no other reason than the fact that he was an incredibly good boy.

You didn’t see the grin on Andrew’s features as he looked at you, the warmth that made his cheeks turn a brighter shade of pink.

“Yes! I’m so happy to see you too! It’s been weeks! I’ve missed you!” you cooed, scratching him behind his ears, and Elwood happily wiggled his tail.

He excitedly licked your hands and cheeks, making you laugh.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Andrew chuckled, bending to scratch his dog’s head as well, diverting his attention so you could stand again.

You made a mental note to buy Elwood a toy, next time you would come over. He was too adorable, deserved all the treats and gifts…

“Alright, I’ll go cook us something.”

“What have you planned?”

“Erm… I can do a decent pasta dish if you want. Like… with a sauce and everything.”

“Hmm… sounds nice!”

You followed him inside, but he stopped as you were ready to enter his kitchen, and turned to you with a serious look on his face.

“I have a rule though. You stay away from the kitchen.”

“What?”

“I don’t like it when people cook with me.”

“Oh… so you are a control freak,” you teased, but he seemed more offended than you had anticipated.

“Of course, not… just… don’t cook with me.”

“So, you’re a control freak, but specifically in the kitchen, then…”

He rolled his eyes, but yielded.

“Alright, maybe I’m a little controlling in the kitchen. I just… like things to be done a certain way. Or maybe I simply have terrible friends when it comes to cooking. You should see the look of those poor vegetables after Alex had ‘cut them’. An outrage, really.”

“I have a special skill though. It’s my superpower.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“I can cut fruits and vegetables in perfectly even pieces.”

“What?”

“Like… if I cut an apple in half, it’s almost perfect!”

“So… your superpower is decently chopping fruits and veggies?”

“It is,” you nodded with fake pride, making him laugh.

“I mean… at least, it’s a useful skill!”

“What’s your hidden skill?”

He looked at you for a moment. You could see that he was hesitating, you gave him an encouraging nod. He blushed as he spoke again, his voice growing quiet.

“I can sing.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I already know that! I know you used to write music, I know you still like it. You’ve told me you used to sing in a choir too.”

“I sang at Trinity. Anúna.”

“Really? That’s high-level stuff!”

“I still play gigs sometimes.”

Your eyes widened. You couldn’t control your brain as you imagined Andrew standing on stage, singing, looking hot…

You pushed the thought away. Reminded yourself that you were colleagues, friends, and nothing more and this was out of line…

“That’s awesome!”

“Hmm… yeah… I’m playing a gig on Saint Patrick’s day, in fact,” he added, growing increasingly nervous as he went on, he actually turned away from you and started picking up plates and knifes and vegetables throughout his kitchen. “With Alex and the old gang. Erm… and it’s also my birthday, so we’re having a little party about that, nothing fancy, just… a barbecue if the weather allows. You… you could come, if you want to.”

Your heart felt warm at his words, at the thought that he wanted to share this passion of his with you, that he wanted to spend his birthday with you too. You tried to hide how excited you truly were, refusing to look too much like some kind of creep…

“I’d love to come!”

He froze, threw you a side glance, but there was a hopeful smile tugging at his lips.

“Really?” he asked, voice almost a whisper.

“Of course! Sounds like a way to get free beer and get hammered at your expense. Sign me up!”

He laughed at that, but the grateful look he gave you let you know that he wasn’t fooled by your joke.

“Also… are we going to mention that you were born on Saint Patrick’s Day? Like… that is disgustingly patriotic of you,” you teased, leaning your back against the sink so you could stand next to Andrew and look at him.

“Hey, it’s not that bad! Always a day off work, everybody is available, and if they’re not, then they’re just lying gobshites,” he beamed up as you laughed. “Also, my dad pretended the parades were for my birthday as a child.”

“Ha… that explains the size of your current ego…”

He laughed at that, washing tomatoes and stepping closer to you to do so. You didn’t budge though. You tried to ignore that you kind of longed for that sudden proximity…

“Right… I bet I’m insufferable.”

“I mean… you are… just not because of an ego problem,” you smiled at him.

“Because of what kind of problem then?”

You noticed a shift in his tone, and you hated it. You knew he was kind of serious now, that he was growing anxious. You saw it in the way his shoulders bent, how he tried to look smaller than he truly was. You gave him a mischievous grin, made sure he knew you were still joking around.

“You won’t let me show you my unbelievable skill!” you answered, dissolving any trace of stress that was left in the room.

He laughed, standing straighter again, before handing you a knife.

“Alright, show me.”

You made a show at placing the knife on the nearest tomato, and Andrew stared at you with glee, highly entertained by your antics.

“AND…”

You cut the tomato in two fairly even pieces, and Andrew dramatically inspected the fruit. You tried hard not to laugh, but quickly failed.

“Not too bad,” he admitted, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

You threw your fist in the air in victory.

“So… does that mean that I can cook…?”

“Nope!”

You laughed at him, finished cutting the tomato you were still holding. Andrew eyed you for a moment, before sliding some vegetables your way.

You gave him a cheeky grin in return, one that coloured his cheeks with red.

Andrew shooed you out of the kitchen after all the ingredients had been cut though, claiming that you didn’t have a special skill in cooking, but only in cutting, and you yielded after some further teasing; you set up the table, then aimed for his living room while he busied himself with his food, claiming it was almost done. You played with Elwood for a bit, then busied yourself with a meticulous inspection of Andrew’s bookshelves.

A tender smile formed on your lips at his extensive collection of Heaney’s poetry. You picked up North, the collection you had been reading lately. You were not surprised to find traces of many reads on its cover and alongside the pages, with sticky notes here and there. You were not surprised to find the extensive notes slipped between the pages enclosing ‘Come to the Bower’ all through to ‘Strange Fruit’.

“It’s ready!” Andrew called after you, stepping into his living room to bring you back to reality while your eyes travelled through the first verses of the ‘Bog Queen’.

You looked up at him while he approached, tilting his head to the side. There was no animosity in his voice when he spoke, it was soft and warm, on the contrary.

“It’s impolite to snoop around.”

“I’m only assessing your taste.”

“And? Your conclusion?”

You smiled up at him.

“Not too bad.”

He chuckled, but there was something tender in his gaze. Something that made your heart skip a beat.

He bent a little to see what book you were still holding, he hummed as he nodded.

“I do love Heaney a lot,” he admitted.

“I know. I’ve started reading his poetry again, you know?”

“Really? What made you pick it up again?”

“You.”

His relaxed smile faltered, and for a moment, you cursed yourself, thinking you had been too direct, that you had spoiled everything. But then you noticed that he was blinking, saw his eyes shining a little while he averted his gaze.

When he spoke, his voice was so soft you could barely hear it, deeper than usual too, it made your heart beat faster, shook your frame with a shiver.

“That’s… that’s really fucking nice, Y/N. That… that you did that.”

“I saw the books sitting on my shelf the other day, and I know how much you love these poems. It made me think of you. So… I’ve started reading them again.”

Slowly, Andrew nodded, before he would clear his throat.

“Thank you,” he repeated, although you weren’t too sure of what he was thanking you for. It seemed natural to you.

“I see you have a lot to say about bog bodies, and I am not surprised,” you added, showing the pieces of paper tugged safely between the pages.

Andrew chuckled, rubbing at his neck as he grew a little uncomfortable.

“Right… yeah… I do love those an awful lot.”

“Hmmm… I had guessed. Actually… we should discuss them! That would be fun!”

It was your time to avert your eyes now, though, to grow uncomfortable. Fun? To you, perhaps, but Frank had showed you time and time again that nobody else was interested in talking about these things…

“God! Yes! What do you want to talk about? Like… the macabre aspect of it? The political side? The mythical side?”

When you looked up at Andrew, he was grinning, excited like a little child in a candy store. His hand was slightly shaking when he pushed his glasses up his nose again.

“Oh, and… you know, I’ve bought the Divine Comedy too!”

“What?” you asked, taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

“Yeah, I just… I… saw it at the bookstore the other day, and you love it, so I wanted to give it another try, and we have so many points to discuss! I’m almost done, not quite though, but there are so many elements that I want to go through with you… Like…”

He stopped his rambling as you blinked up at him. You must have looked stupid, while you tried to register what Andrew meant.

He had bought that book to read it… because you loved it. Just so he could… talk about it with you… without you recommending it to him or lending him the book, he just… He saw it. Thought of you. Bought it simply because of you. Read it because of you. And now he wanted to discuss it with you…

You blinked tears away. It was ridiculously simple and yet… no one had ever done that. Frank had definitely never done that for you…

“I… I’d love to talk about that with you,” you spoke in a softer voice, a grin slowly forming across your lips.

You were staring at each other for a moment, your hands still holding one of his favourite books, his eyes fixed on yours. God, his eyes… the green that dominated the brown tonight, like leaves on a summer afternoon, vivid and bathed with gold… you couldn’t look at anything else in the room, in the world, in your life…

You noticed that the space between your faces was slowly diminishing. You noticed that Andrew wasn’t that tall anymore, or rather, that he was bending closer. Closer. Closer…

You felt something bump hard into your leg, making you lose your balance for a second, although you recovered almost instantly. When you looked down, Elwood was staring up at you, waiting for your attention.

You laughed, scratching his head.

“The food is going to get cold,” Andrew mumbled under his breath, and you tried to ignore how much he was blushing now. You carried the book in the kitchen as you followed him, Elwood in toe.

God, had you dreamt this? Had Andrew tried to kiss you? Were you… were you ready to let him?

#andrew hozier byrne #hozier #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier x fem!reader #hozier au #hozier professor au #professor au #hozier fanfiction #hozier fanfic #hozier series #fanfic #fanfiction #series #writing

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evanchantingpeters · 7 months ago

Text

How I met Evan Peters (Fanfic - Part 1)

Pairings ─ Evan Peters x Y/N (fem reader)

Genre ─ Smut/fluff, Romance

Summary ─ Y/N is fresh in East Hollywood, LA. After a major life overhaul, she’s ready to dive into a new chapter. So, when she hits the town for a night out with friends, she unexpectedly crosses paths with none other than actor Evan Peters. Y/N tries to keep her cool and act all nonchalant, but damn, Evan’s interest throws her for a loop. Their first meeting? Total tension and flirtation, hinting at an evening full of surprises.

Disclaimer ─ In Part 1 of the series, the main characters are introduced, setting the stage for the encounter of Evan and Y/N to unfold and the sexual energy between them to build up. Things get super steamy and smutty in Part 2.

Warnings (for Part 2) ─ Obscene language, semi-public, dry humping, oral (both receiving), fingering, overstimulation, handjob, nudes, handjob, nipple teasing, spanking, vaginal sex, rough sex, extra smutty—you guys know the drill :)

Word count ─ 3.8K

18+ > If you’re a minor, do NOT read!

You step out of the shower, steam stirring around you as you wrap your hair turban-style in a towel. The anticipation of a proper night-out since you made the bold move to quit your job in Europe and pursue another life in the US tingles in your veins. It feels like forever since you’ve let loose, and tonight promises to be nothing short of epic.

Plopping down onto your bed, you grab your go-to jar of coconut body butter from the dresser. You squeeze a generous dollop onto your palm and rub your hands together. The creamy texture blends in as you work it onto your skin, leaving it smooth and oh-so-soft.

As you immerse yourself in your ritual, you hear the familiar buzz of a FaceTime call. Glancing over at your bedside table, you see “Ad💗,” your friend’s name (Adria for full) glowing on the screen. You pick up your phone, still coated in moisturiser, and her face pops up. A look of desperation is written all over her features.

“Hey, girl! What’s up?” you chirp, propping the phone on your desk to finish off your pampering session.

She lets out a dramatic groan. “Send help,” she whines, her voice tinged with panic. “I’m having a meltdown over here. I swear, I got nothing to wear.”

You can’t help but giggle at her faux-crisis. “First-world problems, brain rot,” you tease, sneaking a peek at the heap of clothes behind her. “I see you’ve got quite a selection to pick from.”

Adria pouts, swatting playfully at the camera. “Nah, these don’t count. I need everyone to be ‘she ate and left no crumbs.’ What’re going for tonight? I need some inspo!”

You chuckle sympathetically, holding the phone aloft as you pivot to show her your fit for tonight laid out on your bed. “I’m going for less is more—my thrifted mini satin dress and racing black leather jacket with my military boots and white tube socks for a touch of sass.”

She gives you a strained smile as she takes in your outfit. “Ahh, you pull off that casual vibe effortlessly, babe.”

You flip the camera back to you, shrugging nonchalantly, “I’m casual and proud!”

Adria rolls her eyes with a teasing glint. “Okay, but what about makeup? You gotta glam it up… you know the LA sparkle! That’s how we do it in East Hollywood, at least!”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Nah, I’m feeling the au naturel look. You know I suck with makeup big time—I’d probably end up looking like Pennywise.”

Rather than rehashing your “Why makeup should be banned” manifesto, you choose to dig further into the evening’s plans. “So, who else’s joining us tonight, Ad?”

She rattles off a list of names, both female and male—some known, others unknown—and you nod along. “Gotcha. I’ll be ready by 10.”

“Perf. I’ll swing by to pick you up then. Buckle up for a wild night, biyyyatch!” she exclaims, wiggling her brows at you.

You let out a choked laugh as you observe her grimacing. “Alrighty, catch you soon!”

Once you hang up, you slip into your outfit and let your hair fall loose, fluffing it up for a bit of volume. No need for fancy blowouts tonight—you’re all about that breezy, air-dried look.

With a spritz of perfume and a final check in the mirror, you grab your essentials and head out into the dazzling city lights.

As you strut into the club with your gang, the uplifting beats hit you like a wave of energy. The nostalgic tunes of early 2000’s R&B thump in your chest, urging you to groove with every step. You all weave through the sea of nightclubbers, the party mode building up inside you like a pressure cooker ready to explode.

“Let’s hit the bar!” Tommy, one of the guys and Adria’s boyfriend, shouts over Missy Elliot. You all nod in agreement, eager to keep the high spirits flowing with some booze.

You slither through more partygoers who dance erratically, all while juggling their drinks. Some move smoothly to the rhythm, while others simply jiggle around out of tune.

Neon lights flash and strobe, casting an electric glow over the bartender as he polishes a row of whiskey glasses with cool confidence. A cheeky smile plays on his lips as you hop onto an empty stool before him.

“What can I get you started?” he roars over the music, his voice cutting through the din.

“Coronas all around,” you holler, matching his tone with equal fervour. You hand him a wad of cash chipped in by everyone.

“Coming right up.” With a flick of his wrist, he expertly pops the cap off the bottle, sliding them your way with a wink.

“Thanks,” you mouth, shooting him a grin before heading back to your friends with a tray.

You take a long, satisfying gulp, the crisp taste of beer quenching your thirst. With your beverage in hand, you pace to the dance floor, your friends in tow only metres away.

Your hips swing in harmony with the melody, and your feet glide effortlessly across the ground. Heads turn and whispers follow your path. Some even reach out, uttering unintelligible words, or brush against your shoulder as you pass by.

Ignoring the distractions, you grab Adria and Jasmine, dragging them into the heart of the dance floor while the rest of the group forms a circle around you. The music engulfs you, momentarily sweeping away the grim memories of your pre-relocation life.

With each song that blares through the speakers, your body twists and twirls with fluid grace, each move perfectly timed to the tempo of the music. In that moment, you feel more alive, more liberated than ever before.

As time trickles by, the music continues to pump and the lights swirl around you. You notice Joseph, the lone blond dude in the squad, inching closer and closer to you as the night stretches on.

“Heyo, Y/N! How’s it going?” he greets you with a tap on the shoulder, his voice rumbling near your ear.

“Hey! All good now. How’s you?” you retort with a tight-lipped smile, bringing your Corona to your lips for another sip.

“Now that I’m chatting with you, much better!” he quips back, a hint of mischief in his tone. “How are you liking the States?”

Just as you’re about to respond, joyous screams erupt from Adria and a couple of other girls from your group, catching your attention. Before you can fully process what’s happening, Adria dashes toward you and jumps into your arms, nearly knocking you off balance.

“Girl! Are you on Molly or something? What’s going on?” you mock, smoothing out your dress on the cleavage before you start flashing whoever’s at close vicinity.

“Omg, you won’t believe it!” Adria squeaks, frantically clapping her hands.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Try me.”

“Ahh, my fangirling is through the roof right now! Evan Peters is here,” she cries out, bouncing up and down, squeezing your hand tightly.

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. “Who?”

“Evan Peters, Y/N! The hottie from American Horror Story… Kai Anderson, Cult? Kit Walker, Asylum? Seriously, don’t these ring any bells? Umm… Dahmer? Come on—you’ve watched that series!” she insists, her voice pitch rising as she tries to jog your memory.

A flicker of recognition crosses your face as your friend’s description sinks in. “Oh, right, Evan Peters,” you concede with a faint smile. “I remember now…And?”

Adria’s eyes widen, her mouth falling open in disbelief. “And?? He’s in the same space as us, breathing the same oxygen, Y/N!”

You shake your head, trying to inject a dose of reality into her Hollywood-induced haze. “Okay, but let’s be real here. He’s a mega star, so totally out of league. I mean, we’ve got about as much chance with him as a blue whale does with climbing Mount Everest,” you quip and fold your arms, narrowing your eyes at her. “And you’ve got a boyfriend, in case you forgot.”

Adria’s enthusiasm deflates slightly as she’s reminded of Tommy. “It’s not the same,” she protests sheepishly, fiddling with her bracelet. “You know how celebrity crushes work. How can I not crave Evan when he’s graced the world with his Tate Langdon role?”

You can’t help but laugh at her delirium. “Ugh, Adria, it’s giving obsession and borderline restraining order from Peters if you keep this up. Let’s just focus on having a blast tonight and drop the celebrity fantasies, okay?”

A couple of hours melt away, and the energy of the dance floor begins to wane. Most of your friends retreat to a nearby table to freshen up. But not you. With two others by your side, you’re on a mission to keep the party alive, letting the music guide your body with a fierce determination.

Mid-twirl, though, your eyes snag on something unexpected—a figure lingering at the fringes of the dance floor, his attractive gaze burning into you like a laser beam, sending a bolt of lightning down your back. It takes a moment for you to register who it is, but when you do, your heart kicks into overdrive.

Evan Peters.

You try to play it cool, biting down on the inside of your cheek to stifle the grin that’s itching to break free. You try to pass it off as just a coincidence, a trick of the light or a delulu figment of your imagination, but when you steal another glance in his direction, you find his eyes still trained on you. This time around, he offers a timid smile.

Your throat feels like it’s swallowed a golf ball as you sense his eyes fixed on you. Desperate to shake off the sudden self-consciousness, you rummage through your tiny shoulder bag for your phone. Your fingers jitter as you feign interest in your screen, scrolling aimlessly through your main menu or typing out gibberish in your notes app.

But even as you try to stay composed, his stare weighs on you like a ton of bricks. Are you tripping? Feeling more awkward and exposed than ever (you don’t have Evan Peters laying eyes on you every day), you motion to your friends that you’re heading to the restroom. Anything to escape the spotlight, even if it’s only for a sec.

This time, you bulldoze through the crowd, head low, with the toilets being your last glimmer of hope for salvation. Or so you think. Just as you’re about to slip away, a warm, soft hand gently closes around your wrist, halting you in your tracks.

Every muscle in your body tenses as you slowly turn to confront the person obstructing your way. And there he is, Evan Peters in the flesh, standing before you with an enigmatic grin playing at the corners of his lips.

Your heart leaps into your throat when you face him, every nerve in your body suddenly on high alert. Your mind races a mile a minute—Is this real life? Did you manifest this? Is Evan Peters actually in front of you?

Fuck, Adria’s right. He’s hot as hell, you ruminate, feeling your breath clutching in your throat.

Before you can even gather your thoughts, he greets you with a seductive rasp. “Hey.” His eyes seal with yours in a way that makes your knees turn into jelly.

I just saw you and heard you in person, Evan! Scrap everything I said to Adria. Forget the restraining order. Just slap the handcuffs on me, and do whatever you want... Erhm, I mean, take me into custody cause staring at you should definitely be illegal.

You freeze, unable to tear your eyes away from his handsome dark brown (almost black) eyes and silky tousled curls. A feeble “Hi” is all you manage, your voice barely above a whisper as a nervous flutter stomps onto your stomach.

“Having a good time?” he checks in, his smile widening by the second.

“The asphyxiation I feel right now must be a sure sign that I’m enjoying myself, right?” you reply, fanning your hand in front of your face for dramatic effect.

His throaty laughter bubbles up from deep within him, the sound instantly cranking up your heartbeat. It’s genuine and infectious, like he’s letting down his guard and inviting you into his world, flashing those perfect teeth like they’re on a billboard.

“If you’re suffocating from excitement, then you must be doing something right. But don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye out on you. If you turn purple, I’ll dial 911,” he teases, gently lifting your chin with his index finger and giving you a full inspection with feigned seriousness. “Nope, we’re good. So far, all I see is beauty, no signs of death.”

You can feel your cheeks heating up with embarrassment, so you instinctively lower your head, hoping to hide your rose-tinted face.

You battle to keep it together, but the fact that his hand hasn’t budged from your wrist since your eyes met screams, ‘fainting spell incoming.’ As if that’s enough, his thumb traces soft circles on your skin, sending goosebumps up your arm. “You make me cringe, do it again,” you joke, and you both share a laugh.

“Alright, let’s see what card I should pull next. Here it comes, drumroll—on behalf of everyone in here, I testify to your: ‘I got some serious moves and conquered the dance floor, but I need a breather now.’” he rambles and raises his free hand in mock ovation, his grin laced with mischief.

You chuckle, a surge of confidence brewing within you. “Well, it takes the greatest of them all to verify this. A lifetime of dancing lessons didn’t go down the drain, I guess. I appreciate your testament, sir, and the panel’s verdict,” you coo, bowing theatrically.

Once again, his laughter fills the space between you, warm and hearty.

After a few minutes of silence and a staring contest that makes it agonising for you to breathe, you finally utter, “I said this would be my night, and, apparently, I meant that,” discreetly eyeing him from head to toe, semi-drooling.

“Yeah? Any highlights of the night?” he inquires, his tone dripping with curiosity, and you can’t resist playing along after letting your thoughts slip out loud.

“Nothing yet. But I’m counting on your highlighter to illuminate my way,” you spill out, playfully tilting your head to the side. A sly grin spreads across your lips as you throw the bait, hoping he’ll keep up with your pun game.

His “strike” is immediate as he edges closer to you. “Believe it or not, I’ve got one on me that can change your night from the inside out,” he shoots back, his smile growing, clearly on the same innuendo-laden wavelength as you. You’re a match made in flirtatious banter heaven, true that.

“I need some inside work, that’s for sure. Glad you’re volunteering,” you reply, feeling a rush of heat flood through you at his words. Then, you quickly transition, turning his wrist stroking into a handshake as you introduce yourself.

He hums, gently taking your hand in his, his smile stretching wide enough to reveal his adorable dimples that only add to his charm. “Evan.”

“I know,” you admit, unable to contain your broad smile. “But just an FYI, I haven’t binged-read your fanfics or analysed our astrology charts to see if we’re soulmates. I’ve gone as far as watching Dahmer. Stellar performance, by the way,” you blurt out, still shaking his hand.

He rolls his lips into his mouth to suppress another giggle. “Okay, chill. No need to prove you’re not a psycho. Wanna grab a drink to cool off?”

“No need to ask,” you fire back with equal enthusiasm, both of you grinning like kids in a candy store. Without hesitation, you just follow his lead, diving headfirst into the moment with a reckless abandon, thinking, ‘I’m all in, no matter what crazy idea you’ve got up your sleeve, baby boy.’

He cups your hand in his, his palm firm and reassuring, as he guides you through the throngs of people toward a quieter bar setup located upstairs in the club. The touch makes your head spin, feeling the familiar sensation of heat pooling between your thighs, leaving your undies all moist. You’ve felt sparks like this before, but never quite so intensely, and certainly not so quickly with anyone else.

As you trail behind him, you can’t help but lightly graze the back of his hand, mapping the pathways of his veins with your fingertips. You love a baby face paired with strong arms—he’s exactly your kind of man.

“Maybe it’s better…” he begins once you reach the bar, but the music swells out of the blue, drowning out the remainder of his sentence.

You involuntarily scrunch up your nose and squint, struggling to concentrate and hear him over the blasting tunes. “Come again, sorry?”

Before you can react, he draws closer to you. His breath is warm and tickly against your ear, causing a tremor through your entire body. Not to mention his voice: husky and velvety, making your cunt pulsate for him already.

Damn, things are moving at lightning speed, and you’re struggling to keep pace.

As Evan gets nearer, you catch a subtle yet alluring whiff of cinnamon and cologne. But, actually, it’s the natural scent exuding from his body that has a chokehold over you. Those pheromones he unleashes are like full-blown intoxication, making you lightheaded, your pulse thudding.

You lean in to mimic his gesture and whisper to his ear, but you’re pleasantly surprised when he gently clasps your hand, signalling for you to hold on. As he removes his earplugs, he explains, “Sorry I’ve got very sensitive ears.”

You chuckle, a wicked spark in your eye as you lift a tuft of hair to reveal your own ear protectors. “Great minds think alike,” you cheer.

“No, you didn’t,” he exclaims, eyes widened as you burst out laughing in sync.

As your laughter subsides, Evan’s expression shifts. His eyes bore into yours with a smouldering intensity as if he’s on the verge of revealing a long-held secret or daring to make a move.

But before you can form coherent thoughts or pluck up the courage to speak, Evan blinks fast, breaking the spell. “Shall we get those drinks at last? What’d you like?”

You clear your throat, trying to snap out of your nasty thoughts with Evan being the main character. “I’m down for another Corona, thanks.”

He flashes a quick two-finger salute to the bartender before turning back to you, his lips curving up in a cute, crooked smile. “So, who are you here with tonight?”

“Just some friends,” you confess, your voice trailing off as he raises his bottle to clink it against yours in a toast. His eyes remain glued on yours as he takes a sip, his defined jawline and slender neck at full display begging for your kisses. The intensity of his gaze makes your legs all wobbly. “A-and yourself?” you stammer, breaking eye contact to nervously trace a circular pattern on the rim of the bottle glass with your fingers.

“Same, I came to visit friends during my break. I’m flying back to Vancouver in ten days to carry on filming Tron.”

Your grip tightens around the cool glass of your drink as Evan drops the bombshell. You feel the liquid catch in your throat as you choke, a sudden surge of panic hitting your chest. You cough, the sound harsh and uncontrolled, your body reacting instinctively to the news.

“Canada?” you manage to croak out between coughs, your voice hoarse. You struggle to swallow past the lump, your throat raw and constricted. Your chest heaves as you fight to regain control.

“Y/N, are you okay?” he asks with a sense of urgency, his forehead creased with deep lines of worry. Leaning in, his eyes search yours for any sign of distress. His hand reaches out to steady you, giving you comforting back rubs.

You nod weakly, your eyes watering from the effort of suppressing another coughing fit.

“Let me fetch some water for you,” he offers, his voice soft and soothing. He sprints to the bar, returning seconds later with a glass of water and a concerned frown etched on his forehead.

“Thanks,” you mumble, accepting the glass with a trembling hand, keeping the bottle of beer in your other hand. The cool water soothes your parched throat, and you feel a sense of relief wash over you as Evan tenderly ruffles your hair and massages your scalp to calm you down. Hint: his hands on you work wonders.

“I’m okay,” you assure him, looking up to meet his gaze again, your heart hammering. Everything else fades away, leaving only the reassuring presence of Evan before you.

You can practically sense the sexual tension between you. His stare flickers between your lips and eyes, his own mouth slightly parted. It’s like a silent invitation that hangs between you like a charged wire ready to ignite, daring you to take a plunge and smother his face with kisses. And then suck his dick so hard that his stomach caves in like a Caprisun.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve just met; he has you at hello and you’d spread your legs for this man without a second thought…

You gulp as you realise he’s almost inches away from you. You shudder when his fresh breath—an irresistible blend of mint and alcohol—wafts into my mouth, blowing stray strands of hair off your face. “You’re leaving in ten days?” you sigh, puckering your lips and giving him a puppy-eyed look.

“Yes, but I’m still here,” he whispers, his eyes fixed on your lips as he leans into your stool. With a single knee, he slowly splits your legs and slides in between them.

“You’re here now. Wanna be at my place next?” you suggest, and he stares back at your eyes with a crooked smirk, his lips curled mischievously.

Without warning, his lips brushed against yours, throwing your arousal off the chart. The torturously slow pace that his lips slide along yours makes your sex leap, pop, and drip. Soft moans escape your bodies as he grabs your ass to pull you in, squeezing it along the way as his chest cushions firmly against your breasts.

He smiles against your lips as you tangle your fingers in his hair and part your mouth, giving him the green light to roughen the kiss. His hard rock boner already presses against your wet centre when his tongue invades your mouth with primitive force, swirling and twirling with yours in a passionate dance.

“How long to get to yours?” he grunts out of breath, wincing from the uncomfortable angle his stiff cock has now taken in his trousers.

“It’s roughly a ten-minute ride, give or take,” you pant, adjusting the hem of your dress.

“Off we go.”

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scarletwinterxx · 1 year ago

Text

got me confused, got me satisfied - jaehyun imagine

hellooooo. currently on my jaehyun brain rot era😶😶‍🌫️ this is the bit different from what i usually write... hope you like it😅

if you have a request or scenario you want me to do, just send me a message I'll see what I can do😊💌

For my other works you can check them out here, and for my other story series’ you can check them out here.

: a bit suggestive, fluff, whipped jaehyun

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

"What do you give a man who has everything?"

"For Jaehyun? Damn girl, i don't know. What about a good dicking down" Joy says nonchanlantly like you're not having brunch at the moment.

"Sounds tempting" you mumble

"Your presence is a present enough, if he don't want that then I know a list of guys ready to take his place"

You chuckle at your friends words, "I like him though, I like his face, I like his hugs, I like that he likes me"

"You like all of him, it's not so bad too that his secret dream is to be a sugardaddy. Specifically yours"

"That doesn't make me a sugarbaby... does it?" you look over at her

"Girl, you are the definition of a sugarbaby, the lavish dates, the expensive gifts, out of town trips on his private yatch? what would you call that then?" Joy asks back

That got you quiet. Thinking about what you would call your relationship with Jaehyun.

You don't like being confused, it frustrates you. He frustrates you but there's no other man you would run to but him. No man can make you think like him. Here you are slowly losing your mind over finding a simple gift for him.

Smirking as an idea pop in your mind, "I think I got it" you mumble. Getting your bag to go the the mall and get what you need

"Where are you going?!" Joy shouts

"I'm going to make a man cry tonight, see you at the party" you shout back as you walk across the street, Joy just chuckles after you. Whatever it was you had planned, Jaehyun is definitely in for a surprise.

A few swipes of your card, and a couple of hours getting ready you finally make your way to the party. It was already packed by the time you got there, some faces you recognize but more you've never met before. Probably just here to have a good time.

You easily spot Joy amongst the crowd, happily belting out the song with a very drunk looking Jungwoo.

"You're hereeeee" she squeals when she spots you, pulling you by the arm and making you do a quick spin. Your little black dress and the cute matching black ribbon on your hair,

"You look hot babe! Is this Jaehyun's gift tonight?" she teases you, pulling playfully on the ribbon. She's not far off if you're being honest. Shrugging at her question teasingly, you excuse yourself to find the man of the hour.

He wasn't on the dance floor, in the main room or outside. You do find Yuta while you trying to find Jaehyun.

"Here for the birthday boy?" he asks, a beer in hand

"Yep, have you seen him?"

"He's been sulking all night, Joy and Jungwoo kept saying you weren't coming cause you were out on a date" he laughs

"They're evil, it's his birthday" you joke, laughing along with him.

"Go find your boyfriend before he finds you here, don't forget to use protection this house isn't baby proofed!" he shouts, earning a few glances but you pay no attention to them. Making your way back inside the house, you finally see the familiar tuff of dark hair, fair skin and those arms you loved having wrapped around you.

Confidently making your way over to him, he's still looking at the other side of the room where the door was. Like he was waiting for someone to walk through at any moment,

"Waiting for someone?" you ask, catching his attention

He turns his head so fast, you let out a giggle. At that moment Jaehyun didn't care if he looked like he cared too much. He didn't care if his friends were teasing him all night saying shit like you went out on a date and found someone better.

Who the fuck is better. He thought to himself earlier.

This arrangement he has with you is definitely a confusing one, but for you he'd ignore all the warning signs. Heck you could've been the biggest red flag and he'd still happily chase after you like a mad bull.

It's not like you're leading him on, he knows you like him. And he likes you. The two of you like the way you are right now, not exactly boyfriend and girlfriend but you do all the things that comes with being in a relationship. From the cute nicknames, to him driving you anywhere and everywhere, even having weekly movie nights in his room or yours (depends if all the guys are home). No man knows your body the way he does. And if he's completely honest, he would like to keep it that way.

In a way the two of you are lowkey, but nothing about the way you scream his name some nights says lowkey AT ALL.

You catch the way his face lights up, fighting the smile instead showing you a smirk. But you know him enough, he's happy you're here. You're happy you're here.

His eyes rakes over your body, head to toe. He tucks a few loose strands of hair behind your ear, "You look cute" he tells you, noting your wearing that damn ribbon he loves seeing on you. It makes you look innocent but he knows you well enough.

"Happy birthday" you tell him, throwing your arms around his neck to intertwine them. Dragging your nose along his jaw, kissing the shell of his ear knowing exactly what it'll do to him.

You smile when you pull back and see his ears turning red. A rather unimpressed look on his face, you want nothing but to kiss him but you hold back. For now.

"Thought you weren't going to make it" He tries to act nonchalant but his body was on autopilot. His arms are already around your waist, pulling you so close leaving no space between your bodies. If it was up to him, there's still too many places he's not close enough.

For example he wanted to just bury his face on your neck and mark you up for the world to see, let them wonder just who did that to you. He wanted to have your legs wrapped around him, like vice grips every time he pleases you.

"And you look like you're thinking about something else" you tease him, "I got you something" you add

"Told you, you didn't have to get me anything" he mumbles but you just shake your head at him

"Shhh, just this once let me buy you something. Tomorrow you can go back to living your dream of being my sugardaddy"

"Call me that again, I'm carrying you out of this kitchen and go upstairs" he tells you, leaning closer to you until your lips were centimeters away.

"Okay, daddy" you smirk, feeling his arms tighten around you before he lets you go. Confusion written across your face before you see him crouching down, feeling his hands behind your knees he throws you over his shoulder as gently as he could. One hand on your legs holding you while the other hand rest right were your dress stops.

"Hey! You guys! Come back here, we're doing shots" you hear Jungwoo scream but Jaehyun paid him no mind. It's like he's a man on a mission. Mission to ruin you.

He walks down the familiar hallway until he reaches the last door, punching in the code before walking inside. He doesn't let you down, again gently throwing you on his bed.

You laugh, like literally laugh out loud. Jaehyun watches you carefully, waiting for you to say something. He knows you know exactly how to rile him up.

"Now that I got you here, time for your present" you tell him, standing up to get a small paper bag on his table. You probably put it there before finding him downstairs earlier.

"Was this your masterplan?" he asks you

"Kinda, I have a few more lines to use but either way they will all end up with us locked here in your room" you giggle, how can you sound so angelic yet so devilish he will never understand.

"Here, even if you don't like it just pretend you do. For me" you tell him jokingly, taking the bag from you he opens it up to see a box. Inside it was a simple chain necklace. Anything from you is a prized possession to him.

That mug you made him on your second date? his favorite to have his coffee in the morning.

That tshirt you bought him because it had peaches all over it? his favorite shirt to wear at home.

That candle you bought for him to use in his room? still sitting on his bedside table, lighting it whenever you're over or when he misses you.

"Your style right?"

"You saw me looking at this when we went to the mall, was that why you told me not to buy it?" he asks, taking it out of the box to put it on. You watch happily as he finishes putting it on.

And god damn you were right, he looked good wearing it.

If taking gifts makes you this happy maybe, just maybe, he'll let you shop for him more. But in this relationship, he likes spending more on you. From dinners to quick coffee runs to shopping sprees, he's always the one to swipe his black card. He's so damn hot while doing it, you thought.

"Just imagined that hanging over my face, I had to buy it" He chuckles at your reasoning. You saying that so casually as if it was a very normal scenario.

"Is this a gift for me or for you?" he raises a brow at you, he does love the gift. He loves it even more now knowing why you bought it. He already know how this night will end up, making mental note to make that imagination of yours into reality.

"Well that's first part of your gift, close your eyes"

You wait for him to do so, guiding him to sit on his bed. He hears some rustling, tempted to take a peak but he knows you'll scold him.

After a few moment he feels your hands holding his arms, guiding him to stand again. "Keep them closed until I tell you to open okay, I'm serious Jae"

He chuckles when he hears the nickname, it always sounds so cute when it comes from you.

"Okay now open" you tell him.

And when he did, his jaw nearly dropped on the floor. Cute is not the word to describe you right now. Divine, heavenly maybe because he's about to take all his time to worship you.

He should've known there was a reason you wore that damn ribbon. He loved seeing you with it, he knows you know he loves it.

And now here you are, on his bed with nothing but that black silk ribbon in your hair. He will never look at it the same again, he might just end up with a boner everytime he sees you with it.

"You don't like your gift?" tilting your head to the side, hooking your foot around his leg to pull him closer.

"Goddamit, woman. Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" he breathes out, leaning down so he's face to face with you. Your arms automatically going around him, he can feel you warmth against him.

Is it because he's still all dressed up that why the room just got hotter or because the girl of his dream and reality is lying naked underneath him?

The latter. Definitely the latter.

"Satisfied with your second gift?" you ask him, leaving a trail of kisses from him jaw down his neck then back up until your noses were touching.

"If you wanted this damn necklace hanging over you that much, all you had to do was ask" he teases you, you can feel his hand on your body. It feels like he's leaving a trail of fire with the way your body is burning.

"This is a bad idea, now every time I see you with that necklace I'm afraid I'm going to jump you" he chuckles, finally leaning further down to capture your lips with his. Getting lost in each others kisses, at first you tried to fight for some control but Jaehyun is never one to back down. Not when it comes to you.

That got you giving up, like you always do, letting him explore all there is to explore. It wasn't new to you or him, but his kisses still felt like a man chasing after air.

When the two of you broke apart, you can see already how swollen his lips are. And the two of you haven't even started yet.

"You know what's a worse idea? that ribbon. Now everytime I see you wearing that, this is exactly where you'll end up"

You chuckle, pulling him down for another heated kiss, "Then plan succeeded"

#nct #story #tags #fic #nct fic #nct fluff #nct smut #nct imagine #nct scenario #nct au #nct jaehyun #jaehyun au #jaehyun scenario #jaehyun smut #jaehyun oneshot #jaehyun imagine

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helios-the-stan · 8 days ago

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So me and my partner came up with something after the last episode of Wild Life and I’ve been brain rotting about it ever since so I figured I might as well share about it here.

So we saw in Limited Life that the Watchers have started to… take more direct control so to speak. The return of the Boogeyman sometimes with multiple rolls in one session. The poem after Martyn’s glass death. Martyn’s finale betrayal and the heavy implication he wasn’t entirely there for it. Me and my partner have head canoned since that finale that Martyn, while originally a vessel of contact for the Listeners within the life series, has since been… corrupted so to speak. Spending so much time inside the games fighting to win every time made him lose his way a bit and let the Watchers start to seep in and try to take over as a way of fighting back against the Listeners. And with Limited Life they succeeded.

And then came Secret Life. The Watchers were celebrating and so sure they’d won they started getting cocky. Interfering further even as their control slipped elsewhere. Both a grab for further power and a way of showing off their success with Martyn. They sent the Secret Keeper to watch more directly. To give out orders and pull the strings on the drama from within it better than their rebellious little winner Grian ever did. After all the biggest enemy against him and them in general was now theirs right? Except he wasn’t. Not really. Sure part of him had been changed. Corrupted by the Watchers influence. He was more unhinged, more violent, more hungry for a win than ever. But he wasn’t lost for good. The Listeners could still fight through him. And they were determined to make it count now too. They guided him to Jimmy. Knew if he had a canary to fight for and have fun with it might soothe him. Bring him down to them again. Maybe he could even break the curse. That safeguard the Watchers had put on the weaker of the Listener influences in the world to keep their strength weakened with his early exits before the Listeners could really make things count, or so the Watchers believed anyway.

But the Listeners were more patient than that. And while Martyn was reckless he was having fun with Jimmy. Lighthearted playful fun in between the chaos he wrought on others. Like he’d used to have, back when Ren was around to have it with. Double Life had been a bigger toll on both Ren and Martyn than either let on. Perhaps the weakness that let the Watchers get to Martyn, though perhaps that was just a matter of time too ironically. And while the Listeners could not risk taking their vessel out… they could save Ren for a time. Take their vessel’s favorite out for a bit so he could relax and heal like they’d later do for Pearl and Cleo. It was a risk. But one they knew would pay off eventually. If they just played their cards right.

And then Jimmy died. It wasn’t first. The Watchers got cocky and pushed Lizzie down expecting Jimmy to die to Grian’s antics just as they had planned just a bit sooner than he did. Grian delayed just a bit too long by Mumbo. By the very tasks the Secret Keeper, one of their own, had given out. So Lizzie floated in the void as punishment. And Jimmy was soon out too. And the Watchers were pissed. So they grabbed their new toy and flung it at a wall, metaphorically speaking. Martyn snapped. Jimmy was dead and he was just as pissed as the Watchers for it, if for very different reasons. But deep down? He wasn’t really mad. He was sad. Heartbroken. He’d teamed with Scott in Limited Life to avoid this very thing. Scott was a winner and he was damn good at the game. It was as much him and his sacrifices and team playing that got Martyn his win as it was himself and the Watchers need for drama. Martyn hadn’t wanted to lose again. Hadn’t wanted to bet on a losing dog again even if he’d always be drawn to the people he was close to more than the people who would get a win. He never really lived up to what the Watchers tried to get out of him after that. Because the Listeners had guided him to heartbreak over wrath if just for a time.

And then Martyn was gone and we got to watch and listen as Scott once again made a sacrifice for his team only to for once have it not be the final step to his or his teammate’s success. The patterns were breaking. The curses and boons faltering. The Watchers were losing control more than they’d realized in their moment of cockiness. Now it was winner versus non winner and they couldn’t let Pearl win again. So despite their desires for a villain in Scar she was struck down and Scar was declared the winner. The hero of the story. All with no friends to his name. At least he thought so. But the Listeners knew better. Several people had been guided to him throughout the sessions. To try and make friends. They were always rebuffed. The Watchers wanted a different path for Scar. But the Listeners did not care. For they knew it was the thought that mattered. That would guide Scar’s heart in the future. Scar was punished for his victory. Trapped in that world with nothing but a girl trapped in the endless void he did not know existed for company. But loneliness would only further cement the path the Listeners wanted for him later. They knew it. Even if the Watchers were too impulsive to see how they were playing right into their hands.

And finally we get to Wild Life. Where no alliance is truly secure and the teams can barely even come up with names for themselves. Where every session is a new fresh hell for the players concocted seemingly at random with no rhyme or reason or ties to what came before. Each week a new torture as everything around them starts to fracture. Their minds and their hearts. The challenges they face. Their connections to others. Everything is exaggerated ten fold as the Watchers drum up as much food as they can forcing things much more extremely than ever before. They know they need the power though. Oblivious to the fact that by overfeeding they are shattering their food source apart. Turning what once was hearty steak into spun cotton candy sugar. Sweet. But entirely innutritious.

Ren was brought back with the explicit goal whispered into his ears to bring Martyn back to the Listeners. To warm his chaotic corrupted heart back to how it had once been when they were king and hand. More playful than violent even if that play had bred violence when Grian and the other Watchers demanded it. He was gifted back to the Listener’s vessel on a silver platter and he was hungry for it. Jumped to be back with him in a new form. Ready to steal victory for Ren like he’d failed to do so many times before. He was a winner now after all. Stronger. Fiercer. Violent. Feared. Wild. It was perfect wasn’t it? The wild card of the winners dragging the former king to his throne? But the Watcher corruption was strong as the world started to shatter. Ren’s attempts at plans and soothing were targeted so that corruption could be maintained and Martyn was set loose to cause problems for everyone even more so than the Grian or the Watcher vessels Pearl and BigB did. And yet still Martyn stays intently loyal to the man despite the betrayals everywhere else, because that’s his losing dog, and he will make him king again.

Meanwhile Scar was gifted two new friends for his new team. Two friends as clumsy and seemingly harmless as him. Jimmy and the one who had broken Jimmy’s curse. Surely he would be harmless too now. Would no longer get in the Watchers way like he had so many times before in seemingly every game. He was a winner now too. Surely he would back off. But if anything it just made him fight harder. Because he was lonely. And he was gifted friends. And he refused to be lonely again now that he had them.

Jimmy was always a Listener vessel. From the very start he’d been guided by them. But Lizzie was a bit of a unique case. Because the Listeners could not send one of their own the way the Watchers did with Grian they instead took two special cases to add to the fray when they needed it most. Not vessels, but simply untouched parties who had not had chunks taken from them like the other players, who when they played could be easily drawn back to the Listeners arms to be healed and comforted. Lizzie was one of these players, Mumbo being the other. And so while Lizzie had no guidance she was still very much a spy of sorts for the Listeners. A piece they knew the Watchers would ignore even if they shouldn’t. Disregarded as unimportant for their weakness and lack of strong food but strong in exactly the ways the Listeners needed them to be so that the other players could one day be like them. She had already served that role once before in unknowingly encouraging the Watchers to prompt her early death and breaking of their own curse on Jimmy, and perhaps even before in distracting her husband and stealing his wrath whenever she was on the field whether in her own body or not, and now she would play it again in helping to keep the boys alive and granting them the gentle love and care they required to heal from the unique punishments dealt to them.

Meanwhile Mumbo had a different task. While Lizzie was like the ocean, gentle on the surface but with the power to be all consuming when they needed her to be, cleaning and distracting with her presence around someone, Mumbo was rather the opposite. He was a cloud of smoke. Coal dust filling the air. Blocking out the eyes that sought to watch so intently. Drawing attention with his anxiety but never quite making strong enough moves to feed. Hiding what the Watchers should’ve been focused on instead with the drama he imposed in his own head but rarely held tightly to amongst others. Rarely doing more than a few paranoid words and always following those with stronger convictions than his own even when they countered the words he’d just spoken. So Mumbo was given to Grian. Half a peace offering considering the Watcher’s unique obsession with the man. And half a distraction for him. Something to steal away his attention so his fellows couldn’t try to force his rebellious spirit to serve them regardless of his wants. A poison in the already chaotic world to break it down further by keeping the one with the most direct control over the chaos focused on someone who clearly needed and wanted his attention.

And that was their goal. Poison this world. This cycle the Watchers had created. It would be painful for the players yes. But the Listeners knew it was what needed to be done. If they did not make the game unable to be repeated the Watchers would just start another one. And another. And another. Until the players themselves were so broken they were little more than puppets. At least this form of chaos had them causing it of their own free will. A painful free will none of them truly wanted to follow. But a free will nonetheless. One that hopefully could break them free so they could be healed piece by piece and allowed to return to the lives they deserved to live outside of all this turmoil.

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whatdoeseverybodywant · 5 months ago

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Rebuild & Restore - Chapter 10

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤

All OC Characters belong to me

All Falls Down (Prequel)

Series Masterlist

Thank you to my friend @paigereeder for helping me through my brain rot!!

“Josh!” Kiyanna called out, struggling to keep up with his long strides. Kaiden was also struggling so she let go of Josh’s hand to pick him up. “Slow down!”

“He put his damn hands on you, Key! He lucky he not a patient in this damn hospital!.” He gruffed out as they made it to his truck with Joe trailing behind them with the stroller. “Come on, get in the car.” He muttered as he took Kaiden from her and placed him in his booster seat before grabbing Kairo out of his stroller and placing him in his carseat and turning the car on. Kiyana shook her head as she looked at her watch for the time. Josh beating Elijah’s ass had damn near taken up her whole lunch break.

“Josh, I have to go back to work.” Josh snapped his head towards her and looked at her incredulously.

“Key, you ain’t going back to that damn hospital. Not while he in there.” Kiyana arched one of her eyebrows and opened her mouth to most definitely curse him out but Debra and Arin running up to them stopped her.

“Oh my god! Are you okay?!” Debra asked her, grabbing Key cheeks in her hands turning her face side to side to inspect it.

“Debra, I’m fine.”

“We heard what happened, Dr. Daniels is on the L&D floor trying to get you fired and press charges.” Arin spoke up, nibbing her bottom lip in worry. She hadn’t been working at Pensacola Memorial for long but Debra and Kiyana were the only nurses who actually helped her and took their time training and teaching her. It would suck if Kiyana lost her job over this. Arin’s eyes quickly shifted over to the behemoth of a man standing to the side of Kiyana and the other man. She quickly looked away when he looked towards her and smiled, feeling her heart stutter in her chest.

Hearing that Elijah was trying to get Key fired, sent Josh into another fit of rage. “Getchu’ fired for what?!” Josh grunted out, face all balled up as his eyes narrowed on the hospital. “He put his hands on you! His ass should be fired.”

“Josh, please calm down.” Kiyana calmly said as she moved out of Debra’s grasp and moved closer to Josh, taking his face in her hands, making him look her in her eyes. “I am fine. Please calm down.” Josh nodded his head and took a deep breath, staring into her eyes trying to calm himself down.

“Ohh, that’s Josh.” She heard Debra whisper but Kiyana paid her no mind.

“Key, look at the damn bruise he left on you. You are not fine.” Josh said as he gently took her arm to inspect the bruise. “What he do this for anyway.?”

“I found out about his wife, his pregnant wife.” Key whispered and Josh froze, flickering his eyes up to heres. “His wife is my patient and she asked me to call him to the L&D floor. When I told him I was gonna go tell her the truth , he snapped and threatened me.”

“Key..” Josh trailed off in a whisper.

“Ironic huh?” She muttered back, flinching when he reached his hand up to wipe her tears away. She quickly gathered herself, wiping her own tears and leaning into the car. “Mommy has to go back to work okay.” She said to Kaiden, plastering a smile on her face, that didn’t reach her eyes.

“But, we didn’t eat yet.” He said softly, tears filling his eyes as he wrapped his arms around his mothers neck tightly. “I don’t want you to go back in there with the bad man.”

Debra, who overheard, gently placed a hand on Kiyana’s lower back. “Take the rest of the day and tomorrow off. I’ll go talk to Chuck and report what happened for you.”

“Okay.” Kiyana nodded her head with a deep sigh.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday. “ Debra smiled at her before doing the same to the two men before walking back towards the hospital with Arin following her.

“I can just take them home with me.” Kiyana muttered, wanting to get as far away from Josh and Joe.

“What? No. I said I was gonna take y’all to lunch and that’s what I’m gonna do before we have to go pick up Kamari from school.” Not in the mood to argue, Kiyana nodded her head in agreement before shifting her eyes to Joe.

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Joe spoke up. “I don’t have to go to lunch with y’all.” Kiyana looked at Josh who nodded and got in the car leaving the two of them alone.

“Wassup Joe?” Kiyana muttered as she crossed her arms over her chest. Joe put the stroller into the trunk before turning to face Kiyana, his expression a mixture of regret and guilt.

“I just wanted to apologize.” Kiyana arched her eyebrow at him, waiting for him to continue. “I fucked up. I was selfish and -”

“It’s fine Joe.” Kiyana interrupted him with a slight shake of her head. “You weren’t the only one at fault. I wanted to get back at Josh and you were there. I’m in the wrong just as much as you are.”

“I shoulda never called him though. I was being petty and vindictive.” Kiyana shrugged,

‘Look, it was a fucked up thing to do but I don’t need the apology, Josh does. You’re his blood and I'm just some girl y’all met twenty-something years ago. I should be the one apologizing to y’all. I feel like a slut for messing up y’alls relationship.” Josh, who was definitely eavesdropping, called out

“Bullshit.” at the same time Joe said,

“You ain’t just some girl we met in highschool. You our family now and forever. Whether or not you and Josh get back together we will always look at you like family. I already apologized to Josh but I still feel like shit and imma do everything to make it up to you and him.”

“I mean, I wouldn't mind using the P.J whenever I feel like it.” Josh called out to them from the window he just rolled down making Joe and Kiyana laugh.

“I’m still hungry.” Kaiden called out and Kiyana laughed again.

“Alright I won’t take up more of y’alls time. I wouldn’t want Kai to start eating his toes.” Joe said, reaching into the window to tickle his nephew. He then opened the passenger side door for Kiyana, who gave him a smile as she slid in and shut the door behind her. Joe and Josh stared at each other before Joe broke the silence. “I love you Uce.” Josh nodded and started up the car before driving away.

author's note~ : kinda a short chapter. I wanted this to be a filler with Joe's "apology". Next chapter Josh will try his hardest to get his family back.

What did y'all think if Joe's apology though?? Hopefully it came off how i wanted it too 👀

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agent-cupcake · 11 months ago

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Flashbang

Chapter 1 - Puppet Loosely Strung

Spotify Playlist / All Chapters / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /Chapter 7/ Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 pt.1 / Chapter 9 pt.2 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f! Reader

Synopsis: Running away to join the circus doesn’t go exactly as you hoped it would.

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, murder, generally dark content

Word Count: 13.9k

Disclaimer: I don’t read the manga or watch the anime. This is based solely on OPLA Buggy because Jeff Ward.

Some quick notes before we start: This is what I've been working on this since October. Originally it was going to be one really big one-shot posted at the same time, but it's big enough that I can justify posting it as a series. I'll add warnings as I go, but this is not a happy story and there will be explicit content later on. The reader character might not be somebody you see yourself in, I had a very specific image of what character I had in mind while writing. To me, reader fic is more of a sort of play acting rather than "oh that's literally me" but I know that's not everybody's cup of tea. A lot of this is cope fic and it shows. When times get rough the porn gets rougher, right?

I had help writing this from an individual who is very dear to me. Flashbang wouldn't exist without her, especially since she was the one who gave me the clown brain rot. And then there has been the hours of brainstorming and spitballing and watching Jeff Ward shows/movies as she continued to feed my addiction. Thank you, my love, and also damn you because this wasn't what I needed.

New chapter every Sunday. Enjoy~

“Let me put myself in your shoes

As a puppet loosely strung

Around you, they were so confused

That a faulty man could have so much fun”

All it took was a little doubt. Through logic or confusion or wishful thinking, you could be convinced that the insignificant person who had parasitically driven you around for the past however many years was a stranger, and now they were gone. Everything that had ever happened fell into incomprehensible dust, and every thought you ever had belonged to somebody else. A cycle of a million memories you didn’t recognize spun through this foggy place, none of them real, none of them familiar.

Logic, confusion, wishful thinking, or unconsciousness. An endless dream of nothing at all. But as soon as you became aware, it was awareness that those thoughts happened in the past tense, crushed inward by the unrelenting force of existence, and you were shoved back into a body. You—not the real you, the stranger you, the one made of heat and fury and pain, the one you couldn’t recognize—were gasping and thrashing in ignorant confusion, coughing out the sickening taste of blood in your throat.

Everything, all of it, hurt. And that was all that existed.

Until it wasn’t.

Your panicked thrashing made you realize that you were upright, your body straining painfully against the various chains keeping you pinned against the wall in an X. The position put nearly all of your weight on your shoulders and left your head to sag heavily to the side, making the terrible, dizzying headache that much worse. Having suffered more than your fair share of them, you knew that this headache was from more than an uncomfortable position or your old injury. A hot throbbing pain radiated out from the back of your head, shooting little sparks down your spine. It hurt bad enough that nausea formed a tight, heavy ball in your stomach. Gritting your teeth, you forced your eye open, fighting the urge to cringe away from the light as it rolled this way and that. Colors and lights were nothing more than a nauseating smear, but at least you could see.

Little by little, you became aware of yourself. From far away, you had a vague recollection of leaving, of nerves, excitement, and then of danger. But… no, why weren’t you at home? Doom settled in its rightful place as you realized exactly how little you remembered or knew, slotting into the spot of coherence and reason. Despite the pain, you fought against the shackles holding you in the uncomfortable position, irrationally desperate to be free of them.

“There she is! Finally,” somebody said from your left. His voice hit like a hammer to the back of your aching head. You strained to look at the speaker, he sounded close, but you couldn’t turn your head far enough to make up for your limited vision.

Luckily, he didn’t stay out of sight for long. The man’s boots were loud and deliberate as he slowly moved out of your literal blind spot. To your ill-adjusting eye, he was not much more than a blur of white and red and blue, his big smile smudged as you rapidly blinked to focus. A little shock of meaningless recognition in your brain saw the makeup and red nose and said ‘clown’, but the sheer ridiculousness of that made you even more sure that this wasn’t real.

“Not a fun way to wake up, is it?” he asked. “Keep breathing, let it drain back and cough it out. Trust me, it’s over quicker that way.”

The question you tried to form was, “Who are you?” but all you could manage was a heavy groan followed by a fit of painful coughs, wheezing raggedly in between. Each desperate convulsion rattled the chains and caused the wood to creak, but did nothing to free your bound limbs. The man seemed bored by it, annoyed he had to wait for you to get ahold of yourself.

Since he hadn’t immediately helped you down, you could only assume that he was the one who shackled you in the first place. Strung you up against a wooden board of some kind in a room you didn’t know. Cramped and windowless, it reeked of paint and sweat and sawdust and sweet salty rot—a unique smell that didn’t help your nausea. Clutter stacked up against the walls. Dense, humid air pressed against you like a heavy coat, paradoxically chilling. Probably because of the fever burning beneath your skin, slicking you up with sweat, soaking into your clothes and the bandana you kept wrapped around your head over the left eye.

Breathe. You focused on your breathing. Panic wouldn’t help you.

“You done?” he asked. Without any other choices, you turned your head to shamefully wipe your face off on your sleeve before nodding. “Great. Well, now that you’re awake… Welcome!” He threw out his arms with the flamboyant manner of a showman with the greeting, but they wilted right after, his big smile dropping a bit. “Or, at least, that’s what I would say if you hadn’t let yourself in and stolen the opportunity from me.”

That was bad. Very, very bad. You jerked in an awkward, uncoordinated burst, physically reacting to the danger he presented.

“No, no, don’t leave on my account,” he said, waving his hands and getting closer as if to stop you. “Oh wait, you can’t! Hah! Yeah, ‘cause of the chains.” He smiled affably, like it was a harmless joke, standing close enough for his gloved fingers to skim along the chain wrapped around your neck. “I guess you’re not going anywhere, huh?”

You didn’t respond, barely daring to breathe when he was so close. Smiles and melodrama aside, his blue eyes were oddly dead, fixed on you without the slightest bit of humor. And then it finally came back to you, the vital thing that you should have known, that you would have known if you weren’t strung up and suffering such a crippling headache. The makeup, the nose, the hat—

“You’re,” you began to say, but your voice was hoarse and weak, you could barely get it out when he was looking at you so closely, so intently. You cleared your throat, wincing at the metallic taste. “You’re the-that pirate captain Buggy, like on the-the poster?” Right! The clown guy, the red-nosed pirate. You were looking for him. So this was… good, wasn’t it?

He gave you a flat look, clearly not sharing your weak enthusiasm. “Yes. I am that pirate captain. Buggy, the Genius Jester? The most feared pirate captain in all the East Blue?” He turned with a dramatic flick of his coat, messing with something that had to flash silver before you realized it was a knife. “The man destined to find the One Piece and become King of the Pirates. Yes. I am that pirate captain. And,” he paused, checking to make sure you were paying attention, “a very busy, very important man. I’ve got, oh, ten minutes or so for you to decide how this is gonna go. So let’s get straight to it.” He turned back, pointing the knife at you. “Who are you, and what are you after?”

The accusatory tone of his voice took you aback. “Nothing… I’m not anybody,” you stammered out. “And this… this isn’t what it looks like, I swear.”

Buggy, to your surprise, relented after a second of considering your appeal, nodding understandingly.

There was no transition from his look of sympathy to raising the knife and aiming it at you. By the time you realized he meant to throw it, you barely had a chance to yelp. The blade took a loud, thumping bite into the wood beside you. On your left side, of course. Where you couldn’t see it. You could feel it, though. The air displacement ruffled the fine hairs around your ear. If you had flinched in that direction, it probably would be in your skull. With your dizzy head aching and confused, you had no regulation to your fear or discomfort, your breathing dangerously unsteady and tears pricking the corner of your eyes.

“Let me try a different question,” Buggy said before you could collect yourself, pulling out another knife. “Who else knows about this place?”

“Nobody! I swear, nobody else. I was just…” You didn’t know what to say. It was all you could do to breathe the thick, heavy air and fight down the tide of nausea.

“Just what?” Buggy asked, leaning in with raised eyebrows to show that he was listening intently. You opened and closed your mouth, unable to come up with the right words. Thoughts churned through the thick sludge in your head, getting stuck or lost or confused.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, the stumbling apology coming out more naturally than anything else, an attempt to buy time while you organized your thoughts. “Please doh-don’t…. I’m so ss-sorry.”

Buggy sighed, standing up straight and raising his hand to aim.

“Nonono, please d-” You yelped louder this time, flinching away as the knife streaked through the air and stuck not even an inch away from your right cheek. You exhaled a pathetic little sob, whatever you were bound to shaking with your body.

“Listen, honey buns,” Buggy said. “Drop the act. Stop the whining. I caught you, red handed, sneaking into my lair.” He pulled something out of his pocket. Not another knife, but a piece of paper which he unfolded, holding it up for you to see. His wanted poster, creased into sixths from the way you folded it to keep it close, to keep it hidden. “I found this in your bag. You know who I am, and you know where you are. You have to, so let’s do away with all the theatrics, okay?”

You swallowed hard, nodding quickly in the hope that it would appease him.

“Right now, this is a conversation,” Buggy said, gesturing between the two of you. “A light interrogation, really. But if you keep being uncooperative and wasting my time, it’s gonna go from being interrogate-y to being torture-y real quick. You don’t want that, right?” Although he was unmistakably threatening you, Buggy’s tone was more natural than before. There was a bluntness to it, an honesty. Men like him didn’t idly use words like torture.

You sniffed, trying very hard to calm yourself down. This was a misunderstanding, so you just had to convince him. Simple as that. He would understand. You would make him understand.

“Right,” you agreed.

“Fantastic. So,” he loudly clapped his hands together, “who else knows about this place?”

“Nobody, I promise… I’m really sorry I broke in,” you told him, speaking slowly so your words didn’t catch. “I just wanted to meet with you.”

Buggy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, the hair hanging out from the sides of his hat swaying as his head tilted curiously. “You’re a fan?” he clarified. “That explains why you’re so pathetic. Well I hate to break it to you, but there’s a reason I only hold meet and greets after shows.”

“No, that’s not why! I-I want to join your crew,” you said. “I came to ask you to let me join your crew.”

He blinked twice, staring at you with obvious disbelief. “Excuse me, what?”

“I want to be a pirate,” you told him, louder. “Please. Please let me join your crew.”

Buggy’s expression didn’t change, but you could see the rippling shift of incredulity, befuddlement, skepticism, and then amusement in his eyes. That emotion burst outward into a loud laugh, making you flinch. “That’s the best you can do?” he asked. “Ask to join my crew?” He looked at you again, laughing even harder. “I don’t know what’s funnier—that anybody would send you to spy on me, or that you’d think I would consider hiring you.”

“I mean it!” you argued, humiliation and desperation seeping into the thousand other discomforts of your position. This wasn’t at all how you wanted this to go.

“Sweetheart,” Buggy said condescendingly, “even assuming I believe you, this is a pirate crew, not an afterschool club.”

“I know. I know what pirates do, I know what you do,” you told him. “I’ll do anything, whatever you want. Please, please, just give me a chance.”

He nodded, turning to pace as he thought about it.

“Okay, let’s say that I buy this… this act of yours,” Buggy said. “Do you have any experience? Maintaining ships, reading maps, loading cannons. You know, basic stuff.”

There was a line you had prepared to answer this question, one that would paint you in the most charitable light. You remembered that, but you couldn’t remember the line. All you could give was the truth. “A little.”

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Thought so. What about specialties? Unique skills? Any sort of talent that I can use in my show—anything at all. I mean other than,” he gestured vaguely in your direction, “that. We don’t need another one eyed midget. They’re surprisingly common.”

“I’m not a midget,” you told him, nerves fading to incredulity.

Buggy stepped back to size you up before seemingly conceding the point with a shrug. “And the eye?” He covered his left eye to illustrate. “Is that for a bit or something?”

Your stomach twisted with a familiar lurch. Disgust. Shame. Phantom light in the dark. “It’s not.”

“How’d you lose it?”

“I didn’t… lose it.”

“It’s still in there?” he asked excitedly, stepping forward and reaching to remove the bandana. “I have got to see this.”

“No, please—please don’t,” you begged, trying to wriggle away from his hand. Pinned to the board with your hands bound above your head, there was nowhere to go. “Please don’t, please-”

“Come on,” Buggy said, indifferent to your pleas as he pulled the sweat soaked fabric off of your left eye. “How bad could it be—AH!” He yelled in horror, jumping away as if you’d bitten him.

The bandana hit the floor, leaving your ruined eye and its jagged scar exposed. You couldn’t hide. All you could do was flinch back, turning your head away. “I’m sorry,” you said, ready to continue apologizing before you realized that his shock had immediately dissolved into raucous laughter. “Why are you… why are you laughing?” you asked, pulling desperately against the chains.

“I got you good,” Buggy said, his laughter subsiding. “The way you reacted, I thought that you’d be completely deformed. A real sideshow. But this…” He grabbed your chin, forcing it to the side so he could get a better look. “I couldn’t charge for this.”

“Please stop,” you begged, shaking off his grip and staring hard at his shoulder.

“Ohhh. You’re really embarrassed about it.”

You didn’t say anything, focusing mostly on fighting the tears.

“Okay, alright, yeah,” Buggy said, stepping back. “I think I’m starting to get why you would risk life and limb to beg me for a job. You grew up as a cute girl in a shithole town like this. A big fish in a little pond, as they say. Then, suddenly, BAM, you’re deformed, and, sure, they all say that it was tragic, but the truth is that they can’t stand to look at you. Even the people who loved you, the people you trusted, think you’re a freak. They abandoned you. So, without any other options, you come to me, pleading for me to give you a place amidst your fellow freaks. That about it?”

You didn’t say anything—what could you say to that?— which Buggy seemed to take as confirmation, nodding thoughtfully.

“Well, go big or go home, right? As far as a starlet’s breakout role, you couldn’t go any bigger. Thing is, I’m not really looking for new acts. Not to mention your abysmal audition.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth, looking you up and down again.

You could feel your chance slipping away. Just like that. Go big or go home, that’s what he said.

“Please, Captain Buggy,” you begged, staring him in the eye despite how disquieting it was, despite how your skin crawled from exposing your left eye to somebody. Addressing him properly, at the very least, got his attention. “I promise that you won’t regret it. I’ll learn, I want to learn how to be a pirate, how to perform, all of it, everything. And if I can’t, I’ll do laundry and clean and cook, I have lots of experience with that. I don’t care what you ask me to do, if you let me join your crew, I’ll happily serve you for the rest of my life.”

Buggy didn’t respond right away. You thought—hoped—that it meant he understood how serious you were, but his expression gave you nothing. There wasn’t much light in the room in the first place, but somehow he found enough to shine unnervingly in his pale blue eyes. Somebody with a bright red clown nose shouldn’t have been able to look so intimidating, but the way he studied you burned with an uncomfortable intensity. It had been a while since anybody looked at you so frankly, so openly, without disgust or pity.

“Why?” he finally asked.

“Why…?” you repeated, confused.

“I get that you want to leave this place, and I even buy into your whole wanting to be a pirate thing, but, you know, aside from the obvious,” he gestured to himself, “why should I believe that you really want to serve me? You’re young and cute…ish, don’t you want freedom and empowerment and all those other things girls go on and on about?”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Why would I?”

A moment of quiet that wasn’t quite silence but twice as heavy passed before a slow smile began to spread over Buggy’s face, and then—of all the bizarre, uncomfortable responses he could have—he laughed. “Oh, you’re broken, aren’t you?” he asked, clearly overjoyed by the revelation. “Well, I’m sold. I’ll have to start you on probation just in case you’re secretly up to no good. But, after that, you can audition for real. I’m sure I can find something you’ll be useful for.”

His reaction gave you whiplash. The word ‘broken’ was obviously bad, but everything else was good. You had succeeded. Only, you didn’t know why. You were still trying to decide if being called cute-ish was a compliment or not.

“Hey, just one more thing, okay?” Buggy asked, tapping your cheek. Standing mere inches away, he smiled a rictus grin. It wrinkled his eyes, but they were without life or pity or mercy. “If you’re lying to me about anything, I’ll carve some symmetry into your cute little face. You’ll thank me for it too. You won’t want to see what the guys will do to you after I toss you out there.”

“I’m not lying,” you said softly, shrinking back. “I promise.”

“Great!” Buggy said, his demeanor immediately cheering up. “Let’s get you down.” He walked behind the board you were strung up on, and you let out a shaky exhale. “Brace yourself,” he called. You had no idea what that meant, or how you were supposed to brace yourself when there was nothing for you to brace yourself on. “Three… two…”

He undid the lock, and the chains keeping you bound to the board went slack. You dropped hard, your limbs as heavy as lead. Luckily, your head was too light to feel anything when you hit the ground with a dull thump and the loud cacophony of rattling chains, spinning and blank and utterly empty. There was a suspended moment of floating, lighter than air itself. And then you were blinking rapidly and nauseous, pain shooting up your arms and knees.

Buggy dropped a key in front of you, metal bouncing on the old concrete.

“Unfortunately we didn’t bring any real props with us, so I had to improvise,” he said. With numb fingers, you grabbed the key and worked it into the locked cuff around your wrist. “You lucked out, if this were the real Wheel of Death, you’d be blowing chunks!” He paused, looking down at you. “Can you hurry this up?”

“Sorry,” you said. Your shaking hands kept missing the keyholes, but you finally got the last lock on your ankle open. The cuffs hadn’t broken skin, but your wrists and ankles were rubbed raw, ugly bruises already developing. You’d had worse.

“Alright, upsy daisy,” Buggy said, crouching down to take the key away and grab the only chain you hadn’t gotten out of—the one around your neck.

It acted as a noose, giving you no other choice but to lurch upward with an unappealing choking sound, your head spinning all over again, the weightless itch tingling all the way down to the base of your spine. You stumbled forward, unintentionally falling against him.

“Holy shit,” Buggy exclaimed, helping you stand up straight with a hand on your shoulder. “I didn’t know girls came in fun size. Legally, at least. Are you sure you’re not just like… the maxiest midget?”

“‘m dizzy,” you muttered, swaying despite his support.

“That’s not really… Ah, whatever. Hey, at least if you fall, you don’t have that far to go.”

“I’m… I’m okay,” you finally said, which was mostly true. Breathing slow, steady breaths helped, and then you shook your head a little. The bump on the back of it throbbed painfully, and you’d have bruises on your knees the size of apples, but you would survive. You were still trying to get control over your body. It was heavy and unwieldy, although part of that must have been the exhaustion.

“If you need to vomit, make sure to aim away from me,” he said. That was about all the warning you got before he decided it was time to go, dragging you along behind him like a dog on a leash.

You realized you were leaving your bandana behind, your left eye uncovered, and reared back, trying to stop him. “Wait, I have to grab my-”

“No time,” he said, talking over you and tugging again at the chain.

There was nothing you could do but stumble over your own feet to keep up with him as he led you through the cluttered and dark storage area. You felt a tiny bit of relief that you were still in the familiar decaying buildings northside. The old warehouses were dark, dank, and dingy. Easily defended and difficult to navigate, perfect for criminals to hide out in. You knew them very well, and that helped orient you.

"As I’m sure you noticed, I’m running a bit of a skeleton crew here. The rest aren’t coming ‘til the grand finale,” Buggy said, leading you into the main warehouse space by the chain around your neck like it was completely normal. The awful smell of rot and decay was only compounded by a sickly sweet, chalky scent you didn’t recognize. Gray sunshine flooded in through the broken windows around the high ceilings, piercingly bright. “And after that, we’re gonna blow this town.”

You didn’t respond, growing even more skittish. The two of you drew the attention of the people scattered around. Some were lounging, others were training. All of them turned to look at you, watching with the dark, focused stare of hungry dogs. Colorfully dressed, very dangerous dogs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have an introduction to make!” Buggy called in a loud enough voice to fill the large space. “Crew, new girl. New girl, crew. Make sure to give her a nice, warm welcome." None of them spoke or reacted, watching you with varying degrees of hostility. Buggy pulled you forward a few steps so he could whisper to you. “See that guy?” he asked, pointing to a bald man with square features and an especially dark glare. “That’s Ivo. He was the one who caught you. To be completely honest, I think he’s still a little angry that he didn't get to keep you. If I were you, I’d try to stay on his good side.”

“How?” you asked, your uneasy stomach sinking further, but Buggy was already preoccupied with something else.

“Oh, hey-” he called, flagging down a woman who was leaning against one of the steel supports. You stumbled behind him, holding the chain around your neck to ease the pressure. “Crina, I have got a very important job for you.”

The woman slowly looked from Buggy to you, giving you a weighty once-over with dark, kohl-lined eyes. Her clothes were different from the rest, draped with beads and loose and layered in shades of purple. Beneath the mystique, however, you felt the same hardness you recognized in all the pirate’s faces. “You want me to look after the little rat,” she said with an accent you didn’t recognize.

"God, it’s like you can read minds or something,” Buggy said, laughing. “Anyway, yes. Make sure she doesn’t get up to anything naughty while I’m gone. In fact, don’t let her out of your sight.”

“With all due respect,” Crina said, “why not just kill her?”

“Because I don’t want her dead,” Buggy snapped, suddenly irritated. If Crina was surprised or off put by the abrupt change of his mood, she didn’t show it.

“Of course, captain.”

“I thought I saw some cages over there,” Buggy said, gesturing vaguely and forcing the chain into Crina’s hand. “Stick her in one of those. In the back, away from any prying eyes.”

“A cage?” you asked.

“As fun as it is to see you all chained up,” Buggy said. “I worry that it might send the wrong message. Out of sight, out of mind—I don’t need you distracting my crew. They’re planning a very big surprise party. If you behave, I might be able to find some time for you later. Sound good?”

You nodded, almost surprised by how good that sounded. He ruffled your hair before turning away, barking orders to some of the men.

“Let’s go,” Crina said, pulling your attention back to her. “We have our orders.”

The cage Crina put you in, one out of several bolted to the floor in the corner out of the way from the main space, had just enough room for you to sit slouched, or lay curled on your side, meant for big dogs or small humans. There was a market for both, and you knew that this warehouse had likely housed both.

The old, dilapidated buildings had been out of use for a long time, as long as you could remember. Barley Village had been originally built to be close to the mineral deposits, but as those dried up and industry trended towards the water, southward expansion left all of the old buildings empty and rotting. There was always talk about tearing them down, but it was only ever talk. One time you were told that some people wanted to keep the buildings available to people who wished for some privacy. But when you asked your dad if that was true, he got angry, telling you that was a lie, that he would never let that happen. He said it would just be too expensive to take them down, and that there was really no point in it.

But he also told you to never, ever spend time northside. Of all of the rules he gave you, that was the only one you ever truly disobeyed. You had no idea how many times you had gotten in trouble for playing here, climbing up rusted stairs and crossing the support beams up by the ceiling, using rocks to knock out the jagged edges of broken glass from the windows so you could go onto the rooftops. Your health problems made it difficult, and sometimes impossible, but you were patient. Plus, that had been before the accident, when your coordination was still good.

Back then, you didn’t worry about the many dangers that lurked here, and you certainly didn’t believe you could be hurt. You were too entranced by the world you created for yourself. The only thing you worried about was the beatings you earned when you got caught. Dad used to tell you that if you kept disobeying him by going northside, you’d wind up locked in one of these cages—or worse. It took you a while to think of the word, because it wasn’t funny, but it also was. Ironic. It was ironic.

You couldn’t even imagine what kind of reaction he would have to what you had done now, what punishment you would earn. It would be bad. You knew it would be very bad.

Better not to think about it. Falling unconscious after being hit on the head was the most you had slept for the previous two days. It was the level of exhaustion that you could be staring down the business end of a sword with indifferent, sleepy eyes. Being locked up was bad, very bad, but you were content to lay listlessly on your side.

At some point, you must have fallen asleep because you weren’t entirely conscious when somebody kicked the front of your cage. “Hey, wake up.” Your physical response was to startle, jolting you awake enough to flinch away from the violence. But it was only Crina who crouched in front of the cage. “I have food for you. And medicine for the headache. I’m going let you out, and I suggest you don’t try to run. If the guys get a hold of you, I won’t stop them.”

“I won’t run,” you told her, your voice hoarse, your eyes fixed on what she had brought. A bowl of something that looked like stew and a bottle. More than food, you wanted water. Crina undid the lock and you shuffled out of the cage. Your head spun just as badly as it had when you dropped onto the floor earlier, your vision crawling with darkness and stomach heaving unhappily. She was right about the headache. It wasn’t a pain you ever got used to, no matter how many days you spent laid out from one. After an uneasy moment, you sat on the floor, grabbing the water and eagerly uncapping it.

“Hand,” Crina said, holding out a glass bottle. You allowed her to shake two capsules into your palm, tossing them into your mouth before taking in a blessedly wet mouthful of water. It soothed your tongue and throat like a salve, although you knew your stomach wouldn’t be quite so happy to receive anything. The stew’s scent alone made your stomach clench and churn with equal parts hunger and nausea. Slow. You had to take it slow.

“Thank you,” you told her, picking up the bowl. She’d brought a wrapped sailor’s biscuit to eat it with. Not very appetizing, but you hadn’t eaten much more than you slept. It could have been saw dust and you would have been grateful.

“I have your bag,” she said to fill the silence as you ate, pushing the limp canvas towards you. “They took anything that looked valuable, but your clothes are all there. They need to be washed. I’ll lend you something to wear in the meantime.”

Since your mouth was full, you nodded your thanks.

“While you eat, I’m going to talk. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Crina said. “You don’t strike me as the talkative type.”

She didn’t say that in an accusatory tone, but it still caused your heart to skip with anxiety. The fear had to be irrational, it wasn’t as if you had lied to Captain Buggy, so what did you have to worry about? Besides, only the guilty feared scrutiny, that was a favored line of your dad’s.

“There’s a man in town asking if anyone has seen a girl. Petite. Missing an eye. Mentally unwell. He’s concerned that she might have gotten lost somewhere,” Crina told you. “From what I gather, her father is a pillar of the community. They’re all very worried.”

You averted your gaze, anxiously pulling your hair to cover your left eye. Of course Randall would be looking for you, although you had hoped you would have more time before he noticed your absence. It didn’t matter that you left in such a way to raise as little suspicion as possible, or that you were an adult, or that you didn’t want to be found. Your dad asked him to be your keeper while he was gone, and Randall did as your father said. Everybody did.

“Finish your food,” Crina prompted. “It’s worse when it’s cold.”

Right. You started eating again, your movements mechanical. She said nothing, and you had nothing to say.

“Everybody has their reasons for turning to piracy, and they’re not always pleasant,” Crina suddenly said. “Unless it interferes with my own business, I don’t care about who you were and why you ran away. It was a stupid choice, I think you know that. I won’t try and convince you to leave. Buggy seems to like you, so you wouldn’t be able to go anyway. But you need to understand that there will be consequences. The life you had before, no matter how terrible, did not prepare you for the life you’ve thrown yourself into.”

You stared hard at the bowl, thinking about that. It was true, you had to accept that you had blindly stumbled into a world you knew nothing about. But what choice did you have? The things that led you to this point were arranged like the rusty, creaky rungs of a ladder scaling the side of a building. Climbing up had always been the easy part, it was the inevitable descent that gave you trouble. You had to go slow, one rung at a time, blindly feeling with your toes, holding on with sweaty fingers, not looking up and not looking down because once you were on the ladder, you could only keep going. The first rung was spotting the Buggy Pirates, which you only did because you were sulking around the docks after seeing your father off on his trip. You only recognized the crew because your dad kept track of pirate captains with significant bounties. You only had the courage to sneak away from your house because dad was too far away to stop you. You only had the ability to scope out Buggy’s temporary hideout because of how much time you spent northside when you were younger. Those things all connected and followed so naturally and you didn’t know if fate existed, but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t have wound up here on your own volition. It wasn’t a choice you made, it was the only way to get down from the roof that you had been stranded on for so long.

“I’ll give you some advice,” Crina continued, her tone lighter, “and I suggest you listen. You’re young and pretty, and you wouldn’t be the first to try and use that to get an advantage. It might work for a while, but men will get bored and your looks will fade. Before long you’ll be spat out into a cheap whorehouse with a couple of children you can’t afford and a hell of a rash.”

The whiplash from your thoughts to the conclusion she had drawn made your stomach twist with disgust. “No,” you said. Was that what she thought of you? Even if the idea was utterly ridiculous, shame rolled uncomfortable through you. “I would never—I could never ever do that.”

“Don’t be naive,” Crina said, rolling her eyes. “The boys you’re used to are disgusted by that scar, but the kind of men you’ll meet from now on won’t be. If your low self-esteem dictates who you let between your legs, you’ll find yourself in the gutter. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t sleep with men to get an advantage if that’s an option, only that you must be smart about it.”

You pulled your hair forward again, shaking your head clear of what she was saying. She didn’t understand. It wasn’t the assumption that men would be repulsed by your scar—which they would be, you knew that—but that you didn’t have it in you to invite or manipulate male attention. In so many ways you were already ruined, but to stoop down to letting other men touch you would be too far, it would destroy you.

“Assuming you live past tomorrow night,” Crina continued, “get a knife and figure out how to use it. The men aren’t going to accept you as a member of the crew until you prove yourself. So if anybody gets too close, you prove yourself with blood.”

“Do you think they’ll try to hurt me?”

“I think you look like an easy target,” she said. “And I know you have no concept of self preservation or defense.”

“Yes, I do,” you said, frowning. You had made it this far, after all. That was more than anybody would have thought of you.

“You don’t,” she said plainly. “The tablets I gave you are for treating pain, but imagine if they weren’t. You didn’t so much as ask me to clarify what they were.”

You opened your mouth to argue, and closed it, shame squeezing your throat. You hadn’t even thought about that.

“It might not matter anyway,” she said, “depending on Buggy’s reasons for keeping you.”

“What do you mean?”

Crina gave you a long, pitying look and you could tell there was something she wanted to say, something she was holding back. Eventually she shrugged. “That is between the two of you.”

You wanted to push for more, confused by the cryptic answer, but you didn’t. You could tell by the hard look on her face that she wouldn’t tell you anyway.

“One more thing. The most important thing,” Crina told you, leaning close so she could whisper. “Never, ever mention the captain’s nose. In fact, never mention noses at all.”

“His nose?” you repeated softly. “Is it… is it real?”

“What did I just say?” she asked sharply. “He killed a few of the last new recruits for saying something that sounded like nose while he was in a bad mood.”

“He… killed them?” you asked.

“Buggy is a very temperamental man,” she said, leaning back. “Try not to get on his bad side.”

“It sounds like you don’t like him.”

“I do, actually. God knows why. Are you finished?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Come on then,” Crina told you, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. “There’s running water on the other side. I’ll keep watch so you can clean up.”

Although birds called and the breeze carried all sorts of noises from Barley Village, none of it really reached the northside. A solemn graveyard hush settled heavy between the wreckage of ruined buildings, drafty even in broad daylight. No ghosts hid in the shadows, no historical tragedy marred its name, but there remained the haunted imprint of people who were no longer around.

Before setting you on your task of the day, Crina had given you a dress of hers to wear while your own clothes dried in the sun. You swam in it, but a sash at the waist made the fit look somewhat intentional and the long sleeves hid the ugly bruises cuffing your wrists. That, combined with having slept the previous night and most of the day, left you feeling oddly refreshed. Sure, all of the sleep had been in a cage and the only ‘bath’ you had was a couple of minutes alone with a spout that spat freezing water and a washcloth, but it was better than yesterday. Better than the day before that too, save for the bruises and big goose egg bump on the back of your head.

Despite the headache, you were glad to be given something to do. The task wasn’t difficult. Busywork that kept you out of the way. Checking to ensure that everything which would be loaded on the ship was documented, organized, and ready for transport. It wasn’t entirely unlike what you had done in the past and, you imagined, would be doing in the future. It was, however, the opposite way around. The goods were obviously looted, you were creating a list to know exactly what and how much of it had been stolen.

Vinegar, oil, wax.

You used the end of the pen to scratch beneath your bandana, which Crina had kindly retrieved for you. Sometimes the scar got itchy, like it had when it was healing.

Twine, needles, thread.

There was a particular smell to supply crates like these. Something to do with the place they were stored, or where they were made. Even now, years since you had been on a ship, it was overwhelmingly familiar. It made your stomach ache and chest clench, although you weren’t sure which quality of the scent was so unsettling.

You scratched the scar again.

Vinegar, oil-

Wait, you had already done that. Annoyed, you crossed out those words and crouched down to get into the next crate. Rope. It was coiled in tight loops like a huge snake, coarse beneath your fingers. Anything that was strong enough to endure the fury of the sea had to be coarse. Good rope was vital on a ship, you knew that even with your limited experience. Touching it reminded you of the time your dad tried to show you how to tie knots, and then subsequently had to treat your rope burn.

What would he think when he returned? Retired Marine or not, he was deeply involved with northside business and law. Missing supplies, missing daughter. Sometimes you felt an acidic sort of pleasure when imagining his reaction to your absence, but usually it was just dread.

Or worse. Prickling paranoia. You could run, for a time. But that was all it was. Running. He used to be a Marine, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find you. When you were younger, the thought gave you comfort.

But you didn’t want to think about that. Not at all. Not ever again. You stared very hard at the rope, desperate to put those thoughts out of your mind.

You stared and stared and stared and-

Somebody grabbed you around the bicep, dragging you to your feet and forcing you back to reality. Yelping in fear, you were nearly knocked back down from the bloodrush dizziness of standing up too fast, saved only by the crates.

“Good god, girl,” the unfamiliar man said, taking a step back, clearly put off by your reaction. “Are you deaf or something? I hollered at you three or four times. Were you sleeping?”

Putting a hand to your racing heart, you looked from him to the still open crate and the notepad you had abandoned mid-task. You had no idea how long you had been sitting there. Long enough for your foot to go numb, prickling with pins and needles now that you were standing up.

“I’m sorry,” you told him.

“The captain wants to see you. It’s urgent,” he said. When you didn’t immediately respond, still orienting yourself, he sighed impatiently and grabbed your elbow, physically dragging you away. You stumbled to keep up, trying very hard to avoid falling. “If Buggy asks why you took so long, you better tell him it was your fault.”

“I will,” you said to appease him, attempting to shake off his hand before realizing that it was pointless. “Please slow down.”

“Not my fault you’ve got stumpy legs,” he said. “Keep up.”

The unfairness of that stung, but you didn’t have much choice. You had a feeling that he’d keep on pulling you along even if it meant dragging you across the ground.

“Where are we going?” you asked, embarrassingly out of breath.

“There,” he said, nodding to one of the waterfront buildings. At least it was close. You never strayed so close to the water, the buildings were too squat to make for fun exploration and too exposed to give cover.

The pirate released you when you got to the door, leaving you winded and scared. You adjusted your bandana and tried to catch your breath. “Don’t forget to tell him it was your fault it took so long, not mine,” he said, opening the door.

“I won’t,” you promised, the words papery thin on your dry tongue.

You were in trouble. You had no idea what you might have done, but there had to be something. Why would you be summoned like this otherwise? A very bad feeling pressed against your sternum, but you forced yourself to walk forward. The door shut behind you. Inside, the air was dark and cool and wet, sending a little shiver down your spine.

Buggy stood in the middle of the room, the only place where the sun found its way between the mangled teeth of glass and steel that used to be windows, his own little spotlight amidst the ruins. There were three other men on the edges of the light, their backs to you. One of them was bound. You did not like this.

“There she is!” Buggy exclaimed, inviting you forward with his arms spread wide. “Come on, don’t be shy. Especially not after keeping us waiting so long. Your friend over here could hardly handle the suspense.

Rocks and broken glass crunched beneath your feet as you approached them. Once you got close enough, finally, you could see the faces of the other men. One was the square-featured, angry man Buggy called Ivo. Another, a man you didn’t know. And the third, the one bound with a busted lip and developing black eye—

Randall called your name, trying to escape and rush to your side. Ivo grabbed him, pressing the blade of his knife against his throat.

“See, I told you, they’re working together,” Ivo said, glaring at you. “She tipped him off. No doubt this place will be swarming with the law before long.”

You stood completely still, staring at Randall with the steadily rising tide of panic sloshing in your stomach. After everything you had done to misdirect him, the note you left to beg he didn’t follow, the trouble you had put yourself through to keep from being seen, he was still here.

“Are you okay?” Randall asked, looking you up and down frantically, concerned in a way he never had looked before. “Did they hurt you?”

“I told you, she’s fine,” Buggy said with a grin. “I mean, yeah, Ivo over there did give her a little knock on the ole noggin—a love tap, really—but the eye was already like that when we found her.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Randall said, glaring at Buggy.

“Shut up,” Ivo said, pressing the knife close enough to Randall’s throat that it broke skin.

“No, no, let him go,” Buggy ordered casually, waving his hand. “He’s not gonna do anything stupid.” He threw an arm around your shoulder. “Not when I’ve got her.”

Ivo reluctantly complied, releasing Randall. He watched you intently, and you knew what he was thinking. How could he save you?

“Ivo over there thinks that the two of you are working together,” Buggy told you, smiling. His arm was heavy around your shoulders, oppressively so. “He thinks that we should kill you both.”

“I’m not—I wouldn’t,” you told him.

“And see, I wanna believe you. I really do. But he’s not talking, and,” Buggy ran his finger over your right cheek, reminding you of his threat from yesterday, “I’m starting to worry you’ve been lying to me.”

“I’m not,” you said, ice cold dread dripping into your veins a drop at a time. You fought your discomfort and forced yourself to meet his eyes, hoping he could see your sincerity. “I promise I’m not.”

“Then how did he find this place?”

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

“She used to hide here when we were kids,” Randall answered. “I thought she ran away, not that you freaks had kidnapped her. If I had known I’d find pirates here, I would have come armed.”

“Is that true?” Buggy asked you, pulling you even closer. Close enough to be embarrassing, to give the wrong impression, especially when he was stroking your cheek with a sort of affection that didn’t mesh with the danger in his blue eyes.

“I told you it is. Let her go, clown!” Randall shouted. His voice was loud enough to echo, and harsh enough to make you wince. That sort of rage wasn’t one you expected from him, but it was familiar all the same.

“Oh, wow,” Buggy said with a laugh, looking up at him. “Is that jealousy I hear? She didn’t tell me she was leaving behind a boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said softly, your insides twisting at the thought.

“Really?” Buggy asked. He shrugged, and looked at Randall. “If you’re not doing this because you want to have sex with her, why are you here?”

“I am a dear friend—both to her and her dad,” Randall answered. “He asked me to look after her because she… She’s not in a sound state of mind. And she’s the only family he has left. Without her, he’ll have nothing.” He grit his teeth. “Take me, kill me if you’re that thirsty for blood, but let her go. Please.”

“You’re a real knight in shining armor. Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but she came here all on her own,” Buggy said, releasing you to approach him instead. “She begged to join my crew, got down on her knees and told me that she would be happy to serve me for the rest of her life. It was the most adorable thing.”

“No,” Randall said, his face twisting with disgust. “You’re lying. She wouldn’t do that.”

“Ask her yourself,” Buggy invited, stepping aside and sweeping out his arm. All eyes landed on you like a spotlight. Blood rushed in your ears, and you felt dizzy with it, ready to pass out on the spot. When you looked at Buggy, he smiled and nodded encouragingly.

“It’s true,” you said.

“No. That is impossible,” Randall said. “This is insane. You are mad, you cannot make decisions like this for yourself.” You stared at his feet, your hands balled into fists. You were not crazy. You were not. That had to be true. “Whatever hysterics brought you here, give it up. These are pirates.”

“I’m a pirate too,” you declared, your hands forming fists at your sides. You weren’t crazy, or mad. You were thinking very clearly, more than you had in a while.

“No, you are your father’s daughter,” Randall insisted, loud enough to make you flinch. “Can you imagine the agony he would feel hearing you say that?”

Your breathing was too fast, rapid enough to make your head spin. You kept shaking your head, tears flying off of your cheek, but you couldn’t recall when you had begun to cry. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t care…? This bastard has already gotten into your head,” Randall said. “He has poisoned your broken mind with his lies and manipulations, please don’t let this go any further.”

You shook your head again, but there was nothing you could think of to say. You didn’t want to talk anymore, you just wanted this to be over.

“Believe me, as much as I would love to claim otherwise, I had nothing to do with this,” Buggy said, raising his hands innocently. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Think about what would drive a girl like this into the arms of a pirate. A broken heart, maybe? Was that your doing, lover boy? Did you break her heart? Make her feel like she wasn’t good enough?”

“Keep your big goddamned nose out of our business, clown,” Randall said.

The other pirates audibly gasped, and you could feel the sudden zap of tension in the air. Buggy’s taunting smile froze in place, his posture icing over like a statue. And then, a second later, he was rushing at Randall, burying his fist in the other man’s stomach. Randall crumpled onto his knees with a heavy grunt and you waited for something else, something worse. Crina said that Buggy had killed over jokes about his nose, and, right then, you believed it.

Nothing happened. You watched, frozen, as Buggy breathed in deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with it, and then he raised a hand.

“New girl,” he called, snapping to beckon you closer. You obliged, rushing to his side. He didn’t look angry, not like you feared he would. Instead, he smiled. It was a mean smile, a frightening one. But a smile all the same. “Are you ready for your big moment?”

“What?”

“Your audition! I thought of the perfect act for you. Kill him.”

You looked down at Randall, he was clearly still in pain, his eyes watering as he looked up at you. “I can’t,” you whispered, shaking your head again.

“You can and will. Assuming you want to remain on my crew. Otherwise I’ll kill him and you’ll have to explain to daddy why prince charming was here in the first place.” He held out his hand towards Ivo. “Knife.” When he got it, Buggy flipped the knife handle first, holding it to you with a flourish. “You’re up, babydoll.”

“She won’t do it, clown,” Randall said through grit teeth.

“Of course she will,” Buggy said. “For me.”

As if moving through the dusky haze of a dream, you took the knife, wrapping your sweaty hand around the grip. The way Buggy smiled in response made your heart flutter, something to cling to amidst the horror and disgust. It didn’t feel real anymore. How could it be real?

“I don’t know what to do.” Were those your words? Your voice?

Buggy laughed. “Of course you don’t,” he said, circling behind Randall. “C’mere, I’ll help you.”

Randall was shouting and pleading, but Buggy had grabbed a fistfull of his hair to keep him from escaping.

“You’ve gotta hold him still,” Buggy told you. “Like this, see?”

“-don’t do this, please. You can’t… I love you!”

You got a fistful of Randall’s hair, making him cry out in pain. There was no pleasure in the sound, only a roiling sense of disgust. It would be better when he was dead, and then he wouldn’t be in pain.

“God you’re short,” Buggy said as he adjusted you into place, right between him and Randall. “You’ll be better off going for their ankles.” He wrapped his hand around yours, getting a good grip on the knife and holding it still.

“-when he gets bored of fucking you. That’s all pirates do, rape and murder. You’ll never be one of them, you’ll just-”

“Start on one side and move to the other, easy as that,” Buggy said comfortingly, resting his chin against the side of your head.

“-he doesn’t kill you, your dad will. Do you really think you’ll ever be able to hide from him?”

Moving slowly, through a dream, you put the knife on the left side of Randall’s neck. It was no different from what a butcher did, really.

Breath in. Pull. You instinctively locked up at the sound of Randall’s screams and the resistance of his flesh, but Buggy forced your hand, pulling the blade deep into his neck and then fast to the side. The knife got caught part way through, stuck in something hard. You tried to saw through it and Randall made an inhuman noise of agony. Buggy had to help you unstick it, to follow through until the knife slashed that horrifying scream short and then there was just a sort of gurgling sound and you didn’t know if it was because he was still alive or if it was an automatic process.

There was so much blood, and it was hot, burning you. For some reason, you hadn’t anticipated the messy scarlet spray. From the deep slice came more blood. More, and more still. Randall’s heavy, limp body dropped onto the floor into a puddle of it, although you weren’t sure when you let go of his hair. Buggy released your hand, but you didn’t drop the knife, holding it in a death grip as blood streamed like red veins down your hand and wrist, down the blade and all the way to its tip before dripping to the dirty floor. The tang of iron filled your lungs. You shook all over, all the way down inside, your bones and organs shivering. It was your heart. It pounded frantically, like butterfly wings. And your breathing. Wheezing, gasping, gurgling like Randall’s had before he fell.

Your mouth opened to exhale, but there was nothing there. No air, no words. Nothing. Your cold gaze turned to look at Buggy, confused as to what you were supposed to do next. He had led you this far, but now you were lost. He smiled, and laughed, and took the knife away from you, tossing it to the side where it clanged and slid away.

And then he folded you into his arms, your head pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was firm and steady, and he was so warm. He smelled of gunpowder and salty sea air and greasepaint and the natural warm scent of his skin. You clung to that, breathing in deep to excise the scent of blood.

“Congratulations, babydoll,” Buggy told you. “Looks like you just got the part.”

The first firecracker went off not long after the sun had gone down, kicking off the surprise party with an especially loud zip and then a bang and a bursting sizzle. “It’s a surprise party,” Buggy told you, his face illuminated by the flash of red. “As in, the people who live here are going to be so surprised by the party I’m throwing for my crew. Get it?”

A chain of firecrackers followed the first, a show that the pirates set off amidst a barrage of explosions, lighting up the sky with brilliant colors and smoke, making the earth tremble beneath your feet. They acted as distraction and lure, drawing people further into the town and inviting the ship that had been lurking nearby to enter the harbor.

And after that came the chaos.

Many things happened that you were aware of, if only passively. Leaving the northside and then Barley Village, waiting at the dock, and then boarding the ship as men and women in colorful attire flooded the yard, overtaking the few armed guards. You were told to sit on the deck and wait, so you did. Aware of it all—noxious sulfur and smoke filling the air, thunderous claps of explosives, popping gunshots, screaming voices, roaring fires—but uninvolved. There was a sense of great quiet. Not outside where things were loud and violent and scary, but inside. You were very quiet on the inside. Far away from everything and everyone else.

Blood flaked off of your skin, caking beneath the nails when you scratched your arm. It would have been nice to wash it off, but you didn’t know where you would go for that, and you didn’t want to get up.

“Yoo-hoo, is anybody in there?”

A gloved hand waved in front of your face.

You let out a hoarse scream, nearly tipping backwards from how violently you startled. It didn’t take long for you to realize how overblown the reaction was, Buggy’s laughter made the point quite clearly.

“What was that?” he asked, almost laughing too hard to get the words out. He stood above you without his coat and hat, although he kept the striped headscarf, and a bottle tucked under his arm.

“You scared me,” you told him, a hand on your racing heart.

“That noise you just made though,” he said, still laughing. “It sounded like one of those scream-y fireworks.”

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“Your fault, not mine. I was trying to talk to you, but you just sat there. I thought it was your eye that didn’t work, not your ears.”

“I guess I… zoned out a little.”

“No shit. Ah, that was good,” Buggy said as his laughter subsided. “I had no idea human beings could even make sounds like that.” Letting out a big breath to settle himself, he sat down next to you. Very close, far closer than you would have, almost touching. “Kinda makes me wonder what other kinds of sounds you can make.”

“I know, it’s annoying,” you said, staring hard at the deck. “I’m sorry.”

Buggy laughed at that too, shaking his head. “You really have no clue, do you?” he asked. “Is it weird that I’m into it?”

“Into what?” you asked. “I’m sorry, I… don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t, and that’s okay,” he said with a mocking sort of indulgence, patting your head. “Anyway, I had a little business in town and snagged this from some rich guy’s house.” He held up a bottle by the neck and swished its contents a little for effect. “We’re going to celebrate.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be out there?” you asked, the first coherent question that came to your mind as it scrambled to make sense of what he had just said.

“Between you and me, this,” Buggy said with a confidential hush, gesturing to your burning town, “isn’t my thing. It’s a reward for my freaks, gives ‘em an outlet to express themselves artistically. I prefer a more… performative platform. True art deserves a spotlight and an audience.” He waved that away, smiling. “But this isn’t about me, it’s about you.”

“Me?”

“You really impressed me earlier. I mean, yeah, your technique needs polish, and you’ve got no stage presence to speak of, but you displayed raw talent. I really think you have a shot at success, sweetheart. Stick with me, and I’ll make something out of you yet.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, shying away from thinking about earlier. The praise though, that was heady. That made you feel warm.

Buggy popped the cork off the bottle, taking a drink straight from it and smacking his lips appreciatively. “You like sweet things, right?”

“I-”

“You’ll love this then. Here, try it.”

You eyed the bottle he was proffering to you warily. Alcohol was something you were familiar with, but you could count on your fingers the number of times you had actually tasted it. “I don’t know…” you said, trying to think of ways to reject drinking without seeming ungrateful.

“You’re a pirate now, so you’ve gotta learn to drink like one,” Buggy told you, pushing it into your hand. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

You sniffed the open lip, surprised by the sweetness. It didn’t smell as strongly of alcohol as you feared. Not like what your father drank. Maybe it would be okay. Trying to avoid embarrassing yourself, you tipped the bottle back just like he had. That was a mistake. It didn’t smell like alcohol, but you could taste it—feel it, even. Panicked by your body’s natural response to expel it, you swallowed as much as you could, coughing out the rest. Red liquid drooled down your chin, staining the dress that was already ruined with dried blood. Buggy laughed. A little at first, and then a lot.

Flushing, you wiped your mouth.

“Oh, don’t be like that. That was hilarious,” Buggy told you. You looked away, even more embarrassed. “Your face was priceless. You threw that back with the confidence of a real fire-hazard, saggy skinned, dead eyed alcoholic. You were so serious about it too, and then… Good lord.”

“I didn’t know!” you said, trying and failing not to sound shrill.

“It’s okay, you’ve got me to help you now. Try it again, but don’t be so greedy. Baby sips.”

“No, thank you,” you said, holding the bottle back to him.

“Drink. That’s an order,” he said, pushing it back to you.

That gave you pause. “Do you mean that?” you asked.

He nodded, urging you on.

Your shoulders drooped in defeat. Trepidatiously, you took a small sip. At least you didn’t hack it back up this time. While the taste was sweet, the burn was not. It rose up like smoke into your head, you could feel it.

“What if I get drunk?” you asked.

“Oh, you’re going to get drunk, captain’s orders,” Buggy said with a grin. “I can’t stand watching you sit around moping about killing that guy. Besides, you’re a pirate now.”

The little ball of anxiety deep in your gut doubled. This was wrong, you knew it was. Or maybe you were wrong, and Buggy was right. You didn’t know.

“I don’t want to embarrass myself,” you muttered.

“As long as you don’t jump into the water or shit yourself, you’ll be fine…” You looked at him, horrified. “Joking! C’mon, I’ve taken good care of you so far, haven’t I? You’ll be fine.”

The way he laughed made you want to believe him. He was your captain now. You nodded seriously and, steeling yourself, took another drink. And another.

“See? It’s good, right?” Buggy asked, holding out his hand for the bottle.

You licked your lips, cleaning up the lingering sweetness. “It is. Thank you,” you said, unable to keep yourself from admiring the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the view unfortunately obscured by his cravat.

The perverse thought took you by surprise. Was it the alcohol? Already, your head was spinning, your thoughts a little more disorganized. It wasn’t like the quiet, empty feeling of before. It was warm and distant, it made your shoulders relax, the anxiety and uncertainty of before fading. This was a good idea, you already felt so much better. When he passed the bottle back, you didn’t have to be prompted to imbibe, chasing that feeling.

“I don’t mean to pry, but when that guy back there mentioned your dad, it really seemed to get to you,” Buggy said. “What, did daddy not love you? Or maybe he loved you a little too much.”

You didn’t want to talk about that. You didn’t want to think about it. You took another big drink.

On the horizon, the town was utterly ablaze. As the night grew darker, the flames rose higher. Which building was burning so brightly? It belched thick, black smoke into the night sky. Who was in it? Anybody you knew?

“Don’t wanna talk about it, hm? That’s fine,” Buggy said, stealing the bottle back. “With any luck, my freaks’ll kill him tonight, eh? Then you’ll really be free.”

“He’s gone right now,” you said, your words soft and slurring together. “Out of town.” What would he think of the smoldering ashes? Would he believe you had perished in the flame? Somehow, you doubted that. He would know what you had done. There was no chance of freedom, not for you.

“That’s even better,” Buggy said.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you turned to him, both in confusion and disbelief. “How?”

“Because, babydoll,” Buggy told you, shaking your shoulder to make sure you were paying attention. “It’s good to have somebody to hate—somebody to prove wrong. He tried to convince you that you’re crazy, he tried to keep you from ever being yourself. That pain and anger made you weak. But you’re not weak anymore. Tonight, I showed you how to be strong. It’s not enough to tell those assholes that they’re wrong, you have to prove it to them. That’s what tonight was about, right? You proved to your dad, to everybody, that you’re stronger than they thought. And, hey, you proved it to me, too. I wasn’t sure about you at first, but I changed my mind.” He threw an arm around you, pulling you close. “I like you, kiddo. A lot.”

“I like you too,” you said, relaxing into the little side hug, very aware of every place his bare arm met your bare shoulders and neck. The alcohol had stoked a nice blaze in your stomach and chest, making your head spin in a way you didn’t mind that much. Smoothing the colors, softening the air, making you want to lean into his touch, made you crave more of it.

Buggy pulled away, leaving the bottle in your hands. You felt a little cold without him.

“You know,” he said, smiling at you. The far off flames glinted mischievously in his eyes. The flaring reds and oranges highlighted his cheekbones too, defined the sharpness of his jaw. You were caught off guard by how viscerally you reacted to the thought that he was handsome, your filterless mind caught in an endless loop of focusing on the fact. “Burning down this shithole is nothing compared to what I will do. The towns I’ll raze to the ground, the treasure I’ll steal, the shows I’ll put on. Now that I’ve got a crew, I’m gonna put on a show like nobody’s ever seen. The biggest, flashiest, greatest show ever. Everybody will be screaming my name, recognize my face. I’ll shine so bright that they’ll have no choice but to love me. ”

Buggy’s intensity made you smile, you couldn’t help it. Alcohol had created a cloudy burst of affection within you, or maybe it was just the floodgates of tension finally collapsing, letting out something that would have otherwise been smothered. Either way, it was as intoxicating as the drink itself.

“Are you laughing at me?” Buggy asked, his tone filled with steel. You looked to see his dark expression, his narrowed eyes.

“I’m not,” you said, confused by his rapid shift in demeanor. “I’m… I’m happy. I’ll do anything to help you.”

He relaxed. “Well, you’d better start working on your act.”

That made you laugh, a dizzy, bubbly sound. “I can’t do an act. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“There has to be something. Let me think… Can you sing?”

“I used to, a little. But not for a really long time.”

“Come on, let me hear it.”

You were drunk, you knew that for a fact because in no state of sobriety would you offer to sing in front of another person. But, right then, bubbling with alcohol and protected by the darkness of the smoky night sky, you felt invincible.

“Oh, what do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor, early in the morning? Slash his…um… something, something, captain’s daughter. Toss him in… to… the dirty water…” Whatever coherence you held onto unraveled into a fit of drunken laughter at the awful rhyme. “I’m sorry, I think… I think I forgot some of the words.”

“Seems like you forgot the tune too,” Buggy said, wincing dramatically. All that did was make you laugh harder. “Hold on a second, let me wipe the blood out of my ears.”

You swatted his shoulder, although your attempted indignance probably wasn’t very convincing when you were still smiling. “Don’t be mean!”

“That’s a bold way to treat your captain,” he told you, but he was smiling too.

“Please don’t be mean to me, Captain Buggy,” you said, speaking slowly to emphasize how serious you were.

“Beg me again.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, waving it off in a way that made you think he was making fun of you. “Anyway, I’m being nice right now, especially after that performance. The critics would eat you alive for that one. So, singing is out. Clearly. What else have you got?”

“Oh! I know a, um, a rhyme. A joke.”

He looked at you skeptically. “Really?”

“What is that s’posed to mean?” you asked.

“You don’t strike me as somebody with… How should I put this… A sense of humor?”

You frowned.

“Alright, alright, quit pouting and tell me,” Buggy said impatiently, waving you to continue.

You cleared your throat very theatrically, sitting up as straight as you could manage.

“There was a young lass who thought

Very little but thought it a lot.

Then at long last she knew

What she wanted to do,

But before she could start, she forgot.”

Deflating, you laughed, surprised at how clearly you had delivered the words. Especially considering how long it had been since you heard them.

Buggy didn’t look nearly as impressed. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a clean limerick before,” he said. “And now I know why. I mean, what’s the point of limerick without the ick.”

You blew a raspberry at him. “Fine, you do one.”

“Okay, but you have to prepare yourself,” Buggy said. You nodded encouragingly.

“There was a young plumber named Lee

Who was plumbing his girl by the sea.

She said, ‘Stop your plumbing,

There's somebody coming’

Said the plumber, still plumbing, ‘It's me.’"

Belatedly, you gasped, your hands covering your mouth. That shock dissolved into giggles. “That’s, oh, that’s… that’s dirty.”

“Aw, was it too much for your delicate sensibilities? Now that you’re a pirate, you’re gonna hear a lot worse than that. A looooooooot worse. I hope your unspoiled ears can handle it.”

“I can!” you insisted, taking a big drink to steel yourself before setting the bottle aside. If you were going to be a pirate, you had to stop getting so flustered. “More. Please.”

“Okay, okay…” Buggy cleared his throat. “A hooker roaming the East Blue,

Once filled her vagina with glue,

She said, with a grin, ‘Well, they paid to get in,

And they’ll damn sure pay to get out, too.’”

You laughed loudly, as much at the joke as the taboo nature of it. You laughed, and then giggled in a bubbly, drunken way that you knew was too loud and embarrassing. “That is icky,” you told him. “Jeez, that’s…” Your faux seriousness dissolved into a fit of giggles again and you leaned against him for stability. “What would you even do?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. It sounds like a sticky situation,” he said, nudging you with his elbow. That, of course, sent you into another fit of giggles.

“I’m sorry, I’m…” you said. “I think I’m drunk.” You looked behind yourself at the town, the glittery haze of joy buzzing in your head fading at the sight. It was horrific, wasn’t it? And here you were, laughing like a fool. You couldn’t really comprehend the magnitude of it all, even if you could acknowledge that it was terrible. “Is it okay?” you asked, looking back at him imploringly. “Everything that happened tonight… I thought I would feel very different after, but I don’t. It almost feels like it’s not even real. You ever get that? When things happen but they feel so impossible that you get confused?”

“If you can think that clearly,” Buggy said, “then you’re not drunk enough. Bottoms up, babydoll.” You smiled at his use of the pet name and the fluttery feeling it gave you. What else could you do but oblige, tipping the bottle back like before. Only, unlike before, you kept it all down. There wasn’t any real burn, just more sweetness, more warmth.

And then there was nothing left.

“Woah,” you said, lowering the empty bottle and wiping your mouth. “‘s all gone.”

“And how do you feel?” he asked.

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a dizzy sort of laugh. “I dunno…” you said, closing your eye, trying to collect your thoughts. “I’m…” Already things were getting even more fuzzy and foggy. Fabric stuck to your flushed skin, the salty air drying across your chest and cheeks. “I feel… very…”

Making an upset noise in the back of your throat, you pushed your hair back, catching the bandana and pulling it off so you could feel the breeze on your whole face. That helped. Drawing in a deep breath, you looked at him, trying to focus. Only, the second you saw him, all you could do was smile. His eyes were greedy about the light, sparkling with it. Even with the nose, Buggy was handsome. That was not something you could tell him though, not at all ever. Unfortunately you had forgotten what you were saying in the first place.

“Very… what?” Buggy asked. “‘Cause if you keep trying to be a buzzkill, I’ll give you something to laugh about.”

Were you a buzzkill? You couldn’t remember what you had said or done to earn that title. It was hard enough to comprehend what was happening in the moment. “Like what?” you asked.

“Like… this!” Buggy said, using the sash around your waist to pull you closer so he could tickle your sides. You jumped and squealed, the bottle rolling out of your hands as you tried to fight him off.

“No no no, don’t,” you cried, trying to escape. You were being too loud, moving too much, acting like an idiot, but you didn’t have enough control to stop.

“Why not?” he asked. “You’re laughing, aren’t you?”

It was true, you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, letting it out in panicked little bursts. Time had a bizarre elasticity to it, everything hitting you at once and fading just as fast. Laughing, sobbing, begging him to stop. It was easy to catch and hold onto one of his hands, but that left the other one free. And if you tried to catch that one instead, you had to release the first. There must have been a better way to do it, but you felt as if, bit by bit, particle by particle, the world was separating, the hot and humid air splitting, your limbs becoming loose, your capacity for rational thought dissipating like mist.

Lacking any sort of control and with a completely undeserved sense of invulnerability, you tackled him. Buggy let it happen, still laughing. At least he had stopped.

“God, it’s like being attacked by a drunk, one-eyed toddler,” he said. “What are you gonna do, whine me into submission?”

“Don’t be mean,” you said seriously, your words ruined by something wavering between a laugh and a sob, or maybe it was just the drunken slur.

“You attacked me. If anything, I'm the victim here.”

“No! You started it!”

“Hold on, are you… crying?” Buggy asked incredulously. “Aw, you poor thing. I mean, you were laughing so much, how could I have known you didn’t like it?”

“I don’t!” you insisted.

“To be clear,” he said. “You don’t like this?” He attacked your sides, not tickling so much as just teasing, but to the same effect. You yelped and sat up squirm away, swatting at his hands.

Rather than laugh like before, Buggy groaned, his hips bucking up against you. A loud, harsh gasp left your mouth, your entire body going rigid from the liquid heat of friction, your thighs squeezing around him. At some point, your skirt had ridden up, your panties being the only barrier left. You didn’t think you had ever been as acutely aware of how achingly empty, electrically tingly, as you were right then.

Bad. Very bad.

“Oh, there’s another fun noise,” Buggy said, laughing as he propped himself upright with his arms. “I can’t believe that got you.”

“No,” you said quickly, dizzy from the intensity of your reaction and how close the two of you were. You could smell him, the sweat, the musk, the salt, the greasepaint, the gunpowder. You could see the glitter in his makeup, the fire catching in his eyes. “It jus’... surprised me.”

“Is that why you’re shaking?” Buggy asked, rubbing your exposed thigh, the fabric of his glove catching the sensitive skin.

“I’m… um…” Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to organize the drunken slush of your brain. Being so close to him, feeling his body against yours, sent deviously tantalizing tingling sparks through you. And guilt. It was wrong, he wasn’t doing anything to invite those feelings, you were just being weird and drunk and embarrassing and you couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. You’d have to tilt your head a lot, although the stubble would be more hazardous than his nose. The last time you kissed someone, you were both young enough that you didn’t have to navigate facial hair. And then there was the matter of the makeup. You tried to imagine what you might look like after, the slash of red and imprint of white. Maybe they’d mix into pink. You tried to force yourself to focus on something else, but you couldn’t meet his eyes either. Nervous and confused and filled with a million different feelings you had no name for, you squirmed again, thoughtlessly adding to the anxious feedback loop of heat and need and intoxicated emptiness.

“You know, sweetheart, this reminds me,” Buggy said, “there’s still the matter of your physical. It’s standard procedure for new crew. We could get that over and done with while you’re… lubricated.”

“What’re you… talking about?”

“I’ve gotta make sure you’re fit, healthy… Clean of anything you could pass on to the forty or so people you’re gonna be stuck with in an enclosed space for weeks at a time.”

“How d’you do that?”

“You’ve been to a doctor, right? It’s kinda like that. I know it can feel a little invasive, so it might be better to do it while you’re drunk.”

“What…” you started to ask, but then Buggy shifted, his hips pushing up against you. The fresh wash of warmth it sent into your core scattered your mind, and you lost the already tenuous thread of thought. Your eyelashes fluttered, although you weren’t sure when you had closed your eye. “Umm…”

“Well, first,” he said, answering the question you hadn’t asked, “you’d have to take off your clothes. Then relax while I have a little look-see. It’s important that you stay as still as possible. I’ll have a hard time finishing if you can’t stop squirming around the whole time.”

“Do you really have to?” you asked, your brow furrowing. It sounded embarrassing. But maybe if it was him, you didn’t mind? Your dad did all of your past medical check-ups so it wasn’t inherently wrong. But the thought of Buggy seeing you without clothes wasn’t exactly nice, you could only imagine his disgust. That was bad.

“Depends on if you’re serious about being a pirate or not,” Buggy said.

“I am serious!” you exclaimed. Your hands went to the sash around your waist to pull the bow free. If you did it quickly, you wouldn’t be as embarrassed.

“Woah, wait. Holy shit,” Buggy said, “are you seriously—” He cracked up laughing, making you freeze. “I didn’t think you’d actually fall for that.”

“You’re… laughing,” you said, your fingers falling with the slow sink of humiliation.

“You really were going to strip for me, out in the open and everything.” Buggy laughed harder, rocking forward. “I didn’t expect you to be so eager. Hey, if you really wanna get naked, I’m not going to stop you.”

“I don’t, I just… I thought…” you said, pulling away from him and trying to get onto your feet to get away, embarrassment lighting the worst sort of fire within you.

“Woah, calm down, it was just a joke,” Buggy said, his laughter fading. “You’re absolutely plastered, if you stand up, you’re gonna fall right back down.” You didn’t stop, resolute to get onto your feet and put some distance between you and him. “I won’t catch you.”

“’m fine,” you told him.

You finally got your footing and braced against your knee to lurch upright. For a second, you were standing up and weightless. And then you were nothing.

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