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foreverisntenough · 3 days

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‘Act II’

Summary: Attraction is like a gravitational pull that is undefinable and unavoidable. Unbeknownst to you, Jude had been keeping an eye on you since he caught a glimpse on his best friend’s girlfriend’s Instagram but he’s been loving his single life. You always were independent and know how to swim on your own but maybe you have been just treading water. Could the tides change on a holiday in Greece when you finally meet? It might get a little rocky but maybe you could be his paradise.

Index

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series! ‘Act II’ is interconnected to the 'You’re Mine' and 'Ours' Series but can read it independently.

Chapter 11 - 'Go | ‘Act II’

word count - 11.3k

When the clock neared 7 AM in Madrid, Jude knew it would be late for you in New York, and although he didn’t know you weren’t there he couldn’t wait any longer. You were laying imagining him this same morning, seeing him, grumbling at his alarm, refusing to get out of bed. But then you imagined his usual routine—how he’d eventually get up, stretch his muscular frame, and peel off his clothes before stepping into the shower. The thought made you sigh, your emotions a mix of longing and frustration. Jude was imagining you stepping out of a shower of your own. How you used to wind down for the night, leaning over his vanity in tiny shorts, your ass out, as you applied your skincare. You’d turn around and wink at him with a coquettish laugh that was haunting him. The smell of you filling the room. It was a scent now he wished he could’ve bottled. Unable to resist any longer, he reached for his phone. His fingers hovered over your contact, his heart was racing with both fear and hope. What if you didn’t want to see him? But what if you did? He took a deep breath and began typing, his heart pounding in your chest.

‘I’m coming to see you’

He stared at the message, his mind stilling as the familiarity of it all washed over him. He was commanding because he’d had enough. He needed you back. The anxiety, the excitement, the undeniable connection you shared—it was all there, in those few simple words. He hit send. The message pinged on your phone, the sound breaking the early morning silence. You reached for it groggily, assuming it’d be anyone but Jude, your heart skipping a beat when you saw who it was from. Your stomach dropping. As you read his message, a slow, relieved smile spread across your face. Your heart pounded in your chest as you read the message. For the first time in weeks, you felt something other than the dull ache that had been plaguing you since you left. The possibility of him wanting to come to New York brought a flicker of hope, though it was tangled with nerves. What did it mean? Was he coming to make things right, or just to say goodbye?

To say Jude been in a terrible funk ever since you left would’ve been an understatement. Nights had become endless stretches of sleeplessness, and his performance on the pitch had suffered as a result. His frustration boiled over in ways that were unfamiliar and uncomfortable. He’d even snapped at his mum a few times, something he hadn’t done since he was a teenager. Jude knew he needed to talk to someone about what was going on, but the idea made him cringe. He didn’t want to admit how deeply you had gotten under his skin. He knew if he opened up to someone like Trent, he’d undoubtedly tell him to fix it, or to Toby, who’d probably suggest he forget about you altogether. Neither of those options felt right. But the silence in his room at night was getting too loud. He’d spend hours just staring at pictures of you, writing in his notebook, the memories only making the emptiness worse. Eventually, it got to the point where he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and the tears came—tears he never thought he’d shed over anyone, let alone a girl. Jude wasn’t the type to cry. He didn’t let himself get that vulnerable. But with you, everything was different. He was different and it was time he grew up. One evening as you were helping Whitney put Teddy down for sleep, Trent got an unforeseen but not unexpected call from Jude. He didn’t tell Jude you were down the hall, he kept it to himself, figuring it wasn’t his place to meddle. But he had been watching Jude struggle, not just on the pitch but in everything. His mate wasn’t himself, and Trent knew why, even if Jude wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Tonight they were casually chatting about football as they always did. Jude was unusually quiet, which wasn’t like him. Normally, he’d be cracking jokes amidst tactics, but this time, he contributed little.

"You’ve been off lately, mate." Trent, noticing, finally broke the awkwardness, his tone light but deliberate. Jude had clearly called for Trent’s comfort but was hiding behind the guise of football.

“Just tired, I guess. Football's been... rough. I’ve been rough.” Jude shrugged, trying to play it off. Trent raised an eyebrow to himself, seeing though the deflection.

“Come on, we all get tired, it’s mid season but this isn’t just that. You’re not playing like yourself. You’re not acting like yourself.” Trent hesitantly called him out. Jude rubbed the back of his neck, looking down as if he could avoid Trent through his phone that way.

“Yeah, well, I’m working through it.” The conversation drifted for a few more minutes, Jude trying to focus on tactics, on form, on anything but the real issue at hand. But Trent wasn’t going to let it go that easily, not after he’d seen how this was affecting you.

“This is about her. It’s because you’re missing her.” After a pause, his voice softer but more direct, Trent bluntly told him. Jude froze at the mention of you. He hadn’t expected Trent to go there, even though, deep down, he knew Trent saw right through him. Jude’s jaw clenched as he stared at his feet, his chest tightening. He didn’t want to admit it, not because it wasn’t true, but because saying it out loud felt like tearing open a wound he hadn’t yet figured out how to heal. Trent waited patiently, not pushing too hard but not letting it go either. It was time. They’d talk about relationships here and there but you’d become less of a conversation since things turned sour and Jude needed to face the music because now people were getting hurt. Trent wasn’t going to have you come to his house crying and let Jude get away with it. “You’ve been a mess since she left, man,” Trent continued, his tone gentle but firm. “And I know you don’t want to talk about it, but it’s why you’re struggling, it’s why she’s hurting, you know it as well and maybe it’s time you face it.” Jude’s hands were gripping his knees now, his mind racing. He didn’t know how to express what he was feeling. The regret. The love. The guilt. It all tangled together into a knot that sat heavy in his chest, impossible to untangle.

“I… I’m in love with her.” Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. The admission hung in the air. Jude had said it, the words that had been building inside him for so long. “I know I’ve been in love with her.” Jude whispered again, almost silent. His words came out raw, as if he hadn’t meant to let them slip, but there they were, impossible to take back now.

“There he is. Good lad. Finally,” Trent said, his voice filled with a quiet pride. Trent smiled softly, almost able to hear the weight shift off his friend’s shoulders.

“I know. I know. You were right but bro….” Jude admitted that Trent had been right but it was through gritted teeth. Jude didn’t want to hear Trent’s cockiness right now. “Nothing feels right without her,” Jude admitted, his voice strained. “I can’t function. Every day... it’s like I’m half here, half somewhere else. She’s always in my head.” Jude vented, Trent leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly.

“That’s because you’re in love with her, mate. It’s not supposed to be easy when you’re apart or in a riff. But here’s the thing: you don’t just let it sit there and eat at you. You have to do something about it.” Trent had a sly smile pulling on his lips.

“I fucked up. Badly. I don’t even know how to fix it.” Jude sighed, running a hand over his hair.

“You can’t fix everything overnight,” Trent said wisely. “But at least you're finally being honest about it, finally admitting something you’ve known for ages… I’ve known for ages.” Trent softly laughed. “Bro. you love her… it’s about time you owned up to it but I’m not the one you should be telling.” Jude sat quietly for a moment, letting the conversation sink in. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be in a long time. But at the same time, there was a strange sense of relief in saying the truth out loud, in finally admitting that everything about you—about the relationship, about the love he tried to deny—was real and important.

“Do you think it’s too late?” Jude asked, his voice barely audible. Trent smiled knowing, calm.

“It’s not too late if you mean it. She should know, mate. But you can’t just say it, Jude. You have to show her. You fucked up and you gotta accept that. You have to prove it. She deserves that, doesn’t she?” Jude nodded to himself, his throat tight with emotion. “I know a girl like Y/N and she’s not just going to forget the fact that you’ve been a right ass to her.” Trent laughed a little. You and Whitney weren’t that alike but you both were similar in the way you were going to let someone treat you like shit, probably you more than Whitney, and Trent needed Jude to be prepared for that.

“I know…. But yeah, she does. She deserves everything.” Jude muttered hating himself a bit more for the circumstances he’s put you in. Trent knew you were in love with Jude and so he was encouraging to him but he didn’t want Jude to think this was all resolved by him admitting that. Frankly that bit was just long overdue and probably the easiest bit.

“Then give her everything. Don’t half-ass it. If you want her back, you have to show her you’re all in.” Jude took a deep breath, feeling the gravity of what Trent was saying. He knew his friend was right. You were everything he wanted, and it was time to stop running from that truth. It was time to stop being afraid.

“Do you think…” Jude began to hesitantly ask Trent a question.

“Go.” Trent told him, cutting him off. Jude didn’t need to finish his sentence. Trent knew what he would be asking. Jude stood up, feeling lighter than he had in months, even though he knew the real work was still ahead of him. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was ready to face it. Ready to face you.

And the next morning, this morning, was the time. The warmth that spread through your chest when you saw his message was something you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was like a light had been switched back on, and you realized just how much you’d missed that feeling. The idea that he wanted to come to New York made your heart ache with a mix of hope and fear, but most of all, it made you feel alive again. Jude's thoughts had swirled as he clutched his phone, his chest tightening with the realization that he couldn’t ask you to come to him anymore. You weren’t just anyone—you were someone who truly mattered to him, in ways he was still trying to understand. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that you deserved more than just a half-hearted gesture. You deserved everything, and he wanted to be the one to give it to you. As the minutes ticked by, Jude sat on the bed, staring anxiously at his phone. He prayed for a response, something to tell him that reaching out hadn’t been a mistake. But as the clock inched closer to 7:30, the silence on the other end felt like a rejection. Jude’s heart sank, and before he knew it, tears were building on his lash line. He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the covers over his head in a futile attempt to shut out the growing despair. Maybe you weren’t going to respond. Then, in the darkness, his phone vibrated. He almost didn’t believe it at first, thinking he’d imagined it in his desperation. But the vibration happened once more, and with trembling hands, he reached for his phone. The brightness of the screen burned his eyes.

‘Please.’

That’s all you could say but it was potent. In that moment, everything you both had been feeling—the fear, the doubt, the heartbreak—melted away, replaced by a surge of emotions neither of you could barely contain. Albeit digital, but a bridge had been formed. He was coming to you. You started to cry. The tears that had been primarily of despair now flowed with something else entirely—relief, hope, but most of all… love. You didn't fully understand the weight behind Jude’s text, but your emotions surged all at once, blending tears with laughter. You sprang out of bed, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you began frantically throwing your things into your luggage. The excitement propelled you up the stairs of the massive house, and without hesitation, you barged into Whitney and Trent’s room. You landed on their bed like a child, your energy infectious.

"Good morning." Whitney greeted you with a sleepy laugh and a warm smile.

"He texted me!" You blurted out, your voice tinged with a mix of relief and exhilaration. As you explained your plan to leave immediately and get back to New York before Jude arrived, Whitney's eyes lit up with excitement for you. You chatted excitedly, Whitney offering encouragement and support and a bit of caution while you rambled about not wanting to reveal that you'd been staying with them. A smug smile curled on Trent’s lips, still half-asleep. As you continued to ramble to Whitney, it suddenly dawned on you that both Whitney and Trent were naked under the blankets. You couldn't resist teasing them with a playful grin. "Sorry for barging in on you two," you quipped, eyes twinkling as you got up to make your way back downstairs to finish packing. With each step, your excitement grew. You were going back to New York, and Jude was coming to you. It felt like the beginning of something important, something you weren’t ready to let go of.

“Took him fucking long enough.” Trent yawned with a stretch pulling Whitney into him. Whitney giggled, laying her head onto his chest.

Jude hesitated in the hallway, his phone still in his hand remembering Trent’s quiet, but powerful ‘go.’ Trent’s words hung in the air, echoing in Jude’s head, as if they were the push he needed, the final nudge over the edge. He stared down at the phone, the weight of the moment settling over him like a blanket. He wasn’t sure if he could fix it, if you would even want to hear him out, but Trent’s simple word, his unspoken encouragement, gave him the clarity he had been chasing for weeks. Taking a deep breath, Jude slipped his phone into his pocket and headed towards the kitchen, where his mum, Denise, was finishing her morning tea. She glanced up when he entered, her expression soft and warm, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of concern. She had sensed that things had been off with Jude lately, though he hadn’t said much. She smiled at him softly, almost as if she knew exactly what was on his mind without him having to say a word. Jude stood there for a moment, shifting awkwardly, unsure how to broach the topic.

“Mum…” he began, his voice lower than usual, almost timid. “I need a favor.” He muttered.

“What is it, love?” Denise set her cup down and looked at him, her eyes patient, waiting. Jude swallowed hard, his heart pounding. He had been running from this for too long, burying his feelings, and now it was all spilling out.

“Could you drive me to the airport?” The question hung in the air for a moment, and Denise’s eyes softened, understanding immediately what this was about. She took a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing as if the tension she’d been holding for her son was finally easing.

“Finally,” she said with a sigh of relief, her voice gentle but filled with a knowing warmth. She had been waiting for him to take this step, to stop avoiding what was clearly breaking his heart. Jude blinked, slightly taken aback by her reaction, but also relieved. It felt like a weight had been lifted, like he wasn’t carrying the burden of uncertainty alone anymore. Denise stood up and walked over to him, wrapping him in a hug. “It’s about time, Jude.” He hugged her back, his chest tightening. He didn’t know what would happen when he got to England, but for the first time in a while, he felt like he was doing the right thing. Finally facing what he’d been running from. “Go get your things, I’ll drive you.” As they pulled apart, Denise gave him a reassuring smile. Jude nodded, feeling a sense of urgency settle in his bones. This was it. It was time to fight for what mattered most. He turned and headed towards his room to grab his things, his mind racing with the thought of seeing you, of finally telling you everything he should have said long ago. He knew he was late. But at least he was on his way now.

You knew Jude was planning to come to New York, but everything felt so uncertain. You had an idea of when he might show up, but no concrete details. So, when there was a knock at your apartment door, your heart raced. You froze, a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside of you. Could it be him? Suddenly, a wave of nervous energy hit you, and you bolted to your bedroom. You threw on a tank top, one that accentuated your curves just enough, and adjusted the straps hastily. Running your hands over the fabric, you tugged it down a little lower, exposing more of your cleavage. Your heart was pounding in your chest, and with every second that passed, you felt the anticipation grow. You could hear another knock at the door. Before answering, you stopped at the mirror in the hallway, frantically fixing your hair. You adjusted a stray strand, trying to look effortlessly composed. Slowly, you approached the door, your pulse quickening with each step. When you opened it, you felt like your legs might buckle beneath you—but then your heart shattered.

It wasn’t Jude.

It was a delivery man, holding a massive bouquet of flowers. You stood there, blinking in confusion as a lump formed in your throat. The delivery man smiled politely, handing you the flowers. ‘For you,’ he said simply. You barely managed a thank you, feeling the weight of disappointment crash over you. You took the flowers, and as soon as you shut the door behind you, the tears welled up. You sat down on the couch, trembling, bracing yourself to read a note from Jude. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe this was a goodbye wrapped in beautiful blooms. The uncertainty gnawed at you, and as you hesitantly reached for the card nestled among the flowers, your breath hitched. You feared the worst, and the tears that had been brimming finally spilled over, blurring your vision as you prepared yourself for whatever words were written inside. Your fingers trembled as they pulled the note from the delicate bouquet. The flowers were beautiful, but all you could focus on was that small, fragile piece of paper nestled between the blooms. You felt sick to your stomach as you slid it free, your hands shaking uncontrollably. Everything seemed to hang in the balance of what was written on that card. You had been bracing yourself for a goodbye, or worse, an apology that would tear at your already raw heart. But when you unfolded the note, what you saw wasn’t anything you’d expected.

‘I know I’m late but I’m here now. Please let me in, Angel.’

Just a couple words. So simple, but they hit you harder than anything you had prepared for. Your breath caught in your throat, the tears that had been quietly lingering in your eyes now rolling down your cheeks without permission. You blinked, brushing the tears away, staring at the words again as if reading them a second time would make them change. But they didn’t. They were as real as the ache deep in your chest. You set the flowers down, your hands still trembling, and stared at the door. You felt frozen in place, as if opening it meant opening something much deeper inside you. You didn’t know if you were ready. How could you be? Everything between you had been broken, shattered in a way you didn’t think could be pieced back together. But then again, you assumed, there he was, outside that door, asking to be let in. You glanced at yourself in the mirror. You took a shaky breath and pushed some strands of hair back, fixing the edges of your appearance, as if that would somehow prepare you for the emotional storm that was about to blow through your life again. As you stepped toward the door, each step felt heavy with anticipation, your heart thudding louder with every inch closer. You stopped in front of it, your hand hovering over the handle, taking in one last shaky breath. You could practically feel his presence on the other side. Your chest felt tight, and for a moment, you wondered if you could actually go through with this. Your mind was racing with memories — all the good times, the heartbreak, the questions left unanswered. But you couldn’t deny that you wanted this moment, that you needed to see him again, no matter how much it scared you. With trembling hands, you finally unlocked the door and slowly, ever so carefully, opened it. And there he was. Jude stood in the doorway, tall and familiar, his face looking more vulnerable than you had ever seen it before. His dark eyes locked onto yours instantly, and in that moment, you felt the ground drop from beneath you. It was the same Jude you had known, the one who had held you, loved you, and then left you. The boy who had broken your heart. And yet, seeing him there, standing so close, you were overwhelmed by how much you still loved him. The air felt thick between you, the silence stretching out. Neither of you spoke for what felt like forever. You just stood there, frozen, taking each other in, hearts racing but words caught somewhere in your throats. Jude’s expression softened, and he took a small step forward, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Angel," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. The word itself was enough to make your knees weak, your heart breaking all over again, but in a different way this time. Tears filled your eyes again, but you didn’t brush them away this time. You couldn’t. The weight of all the feelings you’d kept inside for so long was crashing over you like a wave. You wanted to be angry, you wanted to tell him how much he had hurt you. But all you could feel in that moment, staring at him, was how much you still loved him. Despite everything. He took another step toward you, his hand reaching out, hesitant but gentle. His fingers brushed against your cheek, and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch, despite the ache it brought. You closed your eyes for a second, letting the warmth of his hand on your skin ground you. “I’m here,” Jude whispered, his voice soft but full of meaning. And in that moment, it felt like enough. Like that was all you had ever wanted to hear. Your lip trembled as you tried to find words, but nothing came out. It was all too much. The feelings, the memories, the love, and the pain. It was overwhelming.

“You’re here," you finally choked out, the words barely a whisper, but they hung in the air between you. Jude’s eyes softened even more, his thumb gently brushing a stray tear away from your cheek.

“I fucking missed you so much,” he said, his voice low and filled with regret. “I’m so sorry, Angel.” You shook your head slightly, not wanting to hear the apology, not yet. All you wanted was him. His presence. His warmth. But then reality set in. Like a rubber band to the back of your neck. You stepped a bit away from him. His hands dropping from your face. The tension going thick in the air. Your body went cold to him. You looked at him on the verge of a sob. Here he was, standing in front of you, his presence filling the room like a storm about to break. He looked different—more tired, more raw. His eyes locked on yours the second he stepped in, as if you were the only thing he’d been searching for. You froze, heart racing, unsure of what was going to happen next. Jude’s brow furrowed. He could feel the shift. Almost as if you were going to slam the metaphorical door shut to your heart. “Nah, enough of all this, alright?” Without wasting another second, he spoke again, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence. His tone was more harsh than you expected now, and it startled you. “I’m done getting my feelings hurt.” He stepped closer, and despite the towering stature he usually carried with such ease, you scoffed. Your eyes, hardened from weeks of silence and heartache, met his.

“You’re getting your feelings hurt?” you asked, mocking him as the words felt absurd coming from someone like him. Jude, always in control, always untouchable, now standing here telling you he was the one hurting. But Jude was quick—he closed the distance between you with another short stride. His hands were on your face again before you could even register it, his touch both gentle and firm as he tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. His fingers dug lightly into your skin, but it wasn’t the pressure that made your breath hitch—it was the look in his eyes. You’d never seen him like this. His gaze bore into you, unwavering, filled with something deeper, something almost desperate.

“Yes, my feelings hurt because being apart from you has been the worst experience of my life. I’m done with it,” he said, his voice cracking at the edges. “I’m done pretending. I’m done with all this bullshit. I’m done with hurting you, with hurting myself.” You tried to pull away, tried to come up with something to say, something to protect yourself, but he wouldn’t let you. His grip on your face tightened, his eyes glistening with a vulnerability that left you speechless. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out.

“Jude.” You tried to caution him. You were suddenly filled with fear of hearing or maybe not hearing the three words that had defined the past. It felt like your emotions were a pendulum swinging back and forth. You couldn’t control them.

“I love you, Y/N.” Jude said, the words falling from his lips like they’d been trapped inside him for far too long. The world stopped for a second, your heart skipping a beat as you stared at him. “I love you. And I’ve been in love with you.” Jude took a deep breath as his eyes glazed with emotion.Your breath hitched. For a second, you felt paralyzed. You’d waited so long to hear those words, but now they felt too heavy to bear. You wanted to be angry, to remind him of all the times he hurt you, but the moment he said it, something shifted inside you. “I’ve been too much of a coward to admit it to your face but I’ve known.” Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, Jude continued, his voice rough with feeling. “I’ve been an idiot, okay? I know I have. I’ve been selfish, and I’ve done things I shouldn’t have. I’ve hurt you—God, I know I’ve hurt you and seeing you hurt was the most painful thing. But none of them mattered. None of them were you. No one is you.” You shook your head, disbelief flooding your chest.

“Then why?” you managed to get out, your voice trembling. You had to know. “Why did you sleep with other people if it was always me? Why did you entertain them like I was nothing? Why was I nothing?” Your voice wavered and almost faded into silence as the weight of it all hit you, the pain of months, maybe years of uncertainty collapsing in on you. But his eyes—they were locked on yours, and for the first time, you saw it. The fear, the regret, the love.

“You were never nothing. You were exactly the opposite. You were everything and it was terrifying. You once told me that I made you weak but it couldn’t be more on the contrary. It felt like I was losing control and that was the only way to hold onto the old me. But I’m not that person. I haven’t been that person for a long time. I’ve never been good at telling people how I feel but you made me, not want, but need to try. I need you to know I love you.” Jude admitted, his voice hoarse, like the confession was tearing him apart. “I was scared. I was trying to hold onto some stupid idea of who I thought I needed to be. I was running from what I was feeling because I didn’t know how to handle it. But I can’t anymore, you don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who loves how all consuming loving you is. Who embraces that you fill my every thought.” His words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Your chest tightened, your anger wavering, giving way to something else—something softer. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours as he spoke again, quieter this time, almost as if he was scared of the weight of the truth. “I’m so madly, stupidly in love with you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “It’s always been you. It’s only ever been you since I first met you, angel.” Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you stood there, frozen in his arms, your heart pounding in your chest. You’d never seen him like this, so vulnerable, so open. His confession hit you like a wave, knocking down all the walls you had built to protect yourself from him. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice trembling, the words slipping out between shaky breaths. “I don’t want to be without you. I can’t.” You were both crying now, silent tears streaming down your face as you tried to catch your breath. The moment felt surreal, like you were floating in some bizarre, euphoric haze but everything was clear but you couldn’t respond, nothing would come out so Jude kept talking. “If you want me to go… If you don’t want to be with me, I understand. I know I hurt you. Hurt you more than you ever deserve to be. I just needed you to know, I needed to look into your eyes and tell you how much I love you. To apologize and thank you. Y/N, thank you for letting me know you. It’s been the greatest privilege of my life to matter to you and I’m sorry I didn’t show you that before…” Jude tried to keep talking but you grabbed his face and pulled him into a desperate kiss.

When Jude arrived in New York, his nerves were shot. He had played in front of tens of thousands of people, faced the pressure of the world watching his every move, but this—this was different. He had never felt more determined or more terrified in his life. Every step up to your apartment door felt like it was carrying the weight of all the mistakes, all the missed chances, all the words he should’ve said. But he had to do this. He had to make things right. It wasn’t the reunion either of you had imagined, but it was real. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could feel the weight of his presence, and every emotion—anger, sadness, love—rushed to the surface all at once.

“I’m so sorry, angel” Jude pulled away from the kiss with a serious expression, his voice low and steady. “But I’m not here for sorry. I’m here to tell you I love you. You need to know how much I love you. I should’ve said that a long time ago.” Your bottom lip quivered. His eyes searching yours. “I love you so much.” Jude cooed. "God I fucking I love you more than I can manage," he repeated, more forcefully this time. Jude watched your face fill with sadness. Like it hurt to hear all of this. He didn’t want you to be hurt anymore. “Come here.” Without waiting for you to respond, he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe. But it wasn’t suffocating—it was grounding. For the first time, it felt like Jude was holding on to you like he never intended to let go. Your walls crumbled. Completely. You collapsed against his chest, the sobs coming hard and fast. It wasn’t just crying—it was every emotion you’d suppressed since Madrid pouring out. The betrayal, the insecurity, the hope, the love. It all flooded out as you buried your face into his shirt, your fingers clutching the fabric like it was your lifeline. “I’ve been so wrong,” Jude murmured against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “So wrong about everything. But you don’t have to show me how wrong I was anymore. I see it. I know it. You have me now, alright? You have all of me. I don’t want anything else.” His words hit you like a tidal wave, crashing through the remnants of your resistance. His arms were still around you, tight and secure in a way they had never been before. You weren’t afraid of him slipping away. You weren’t afraid of losing him in the noise of his life. He was here, and he was real. You pulled back slightly, enough to look up at him through tear-stained eyes.

“Please don’t hurt me anymore,” you choked out, your voice breaking as more tears spilled down your cheeks. “Promise me you won’t hurt me anymore.” you whimpered. Jude cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away your tears. His own eyes were glassy now, filled with the sincerity of someone who had finally realized what they stood to lose. “

“I promise,” he whispered, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “I won’t ever hurt you. Not again. Never again.” You nodded, but the tears kept coming. It was as if all the pain and heartache of the past months were being released in this one moment, and you couldn’t stop it. You didn’t want to. Jude kissed the top of your head, his grip on you still tight. “It’s done,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “All the back and forth, it’s over. You have me, all of me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to lose you again.” His words echoed in your mind as you stood there, wrapped in his embrace, both of you crying. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t some magical fix. But it was real. For the first time, it felt like you were both standing on solid ground. Together. And in that moment, as your tears began to slow and your heart settled into the rhythm of his, you believed him. You believed his promise. You believed in the love you had for him and the love he was finally ready to give you back.

After the entryway reunion, the relief you felt was both overwhelming and terrifying. After everything—the heartache, the distance, the uncertainty—it was all hitting you at once. But despite the rush of emotions, you let him inside, past the threshold of your apartment for the first time since your reconciliation. Jude stood there for a moment, taking in the space with a soft smile on his lips. His eyes held a tenderness, one that made you feel like you had nothing to hide, even though everything between you had been so complicated.

“Can I have a tour?” Jude asked, his voice warm and playful.

“It’s just an apartment, Jude. There’s only so much to see.” You giggled, feeling a bit self-conscious. Sure, it was larger than your average but nevertheless an apartment. He pulled you into his arms, swaying the both of you back and forth.

“I want to see every inch,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “Every. Single. Inch.” His words, punctuated by soft kisses, melted away the nerves you’d been holding onto. So, you agreed, guiding him through the space that had become your sanctuary in New York. First was the living room, a space that screamed you. Personal touches were everywhere: your favorite books stacked on the coffee table, a throw blanket in a color Jude remembered you loved, and a few plants that surprisingly looked healthy. Next, you led him to the kitchen. Jude chuckled when he saw it—pristine, untouched, as if it had never been used.

“I order in. You know this.” He raised an eyebrow at you, but you just shrugged with a laugh. Then came your office, which was flooded with sunlight. The space was cozy, but it had an energy about it, like it was where you were most creative. Jude admired the space, taking in the little details—the organized chaos of your desk, the art on the walls, your notebooks scattered around. It felt like he was seeing a new side of you, one that had grown and flourished while you were apart. You continued the tour, leading him to your walk-in wardrobe that was bursting at the seams with clothes. Jude smiled seeing your Louis duffel but then raised an amused brow, muttering something about how you hadn’t changed a bit, making you roll your eyes in jest. Finally, you reached your bedroom. The moment you opened the door, Jude stilled in the doorway. His breath hitched, his usual confidence faltering as he stared into the room. The atmosphere shifted—it wasn’t just another part of your apartment. It was different. This space felt sacred, personal. He stood there, as if frozen in place, his hand gripping the doorframe. It was as if stepping inside would make this all real, make everything you had been through with him undeniable. Like he could contaminate it and he wanted to be sure you wanted him there. He knew that if he crossed the threshold, there would be no going back. No more walls, no more pretending. Jude looked at you, his eyes filled with something raw and vulnerable. He wanted to be part of this—your space, your life—but he also knew that with it came a weight of responsibility. He took a deep breath and, without saying a word, finally stepped into the room. In that moment, it felt like a shift, as if the two of you were crossing into something new. Something deeper. Jude turned to you, gently pulling you into his arms again, but this time his embrace was more serious, more intentional.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered against your hair, his voice soft but firm. And for the first time, you believed him.

After your short tour had ended you smiled down at him, feeling a strange mix of joy and disbelief as Jude sat on your bed. There was a brief moment of hesitation-your usual concern about keeping your bed clean of outside germs-but you let it go. This was different. It was Jude. Your Jude, in your bed, and that fact alone outweighed any fleeting worries. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist, gently pulling you closer to stand between his legs. His grip was warm and familiar, like everything had finally fallen back into place. You gazed down at him, cupping his face tenderly. The feel of his skin beneath your fingers made your heart swell.

"Are you even allowed to be here?" you asked, a soft laugh escaping your lips. Jude smirked, dropping his hands lower, resting them comfortably on your ass. He squeezed slightly, looking up at you with that mischievous glint in his eye.

"No," he admitted, the corner of his mouth curling up. "Probably not but no one was stopping me. I've stayed away way longer than I ever wanted." The reality of what he was saying hit you. Jude was in the middle of the season, and you knew there were rules, restrictions, things that could get him in trouble. But here he was, breaking them for you. Choosing you over everything. The weight of that choice settled in, and it filled you with an indescribable warmth.

"Jude." You took a deep breath, calling his name softly, your voice full of emotion. He hummed in response, his lips pressing soft kisses to your stomach as if he couldn't stop himself from touching you, from reminding you that he was here. Really here. You hesitated for a moment, the question heavy on your heart. "Am I worth the risk?” Jude stilled. He looked up at you, his eyes serious, the playful smile fading into something more profound. His hands gently moved to your hips, holding you with care, as if the weight of your question mattered more than anything else in the world.

"You're not a risk," he said quietly, his voice full of certainty. "You're the greatest reward. I'd risk everything for you. And I'm sorry... I'm sorry I didn't show that sooner. But I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel like a risk again." His words pierced straight through your heart, filling the empty spaces that had been left by doubt and fear. You knew, in that moment, that Jude meant every single word. He wasn't just here to fix things—he was here because he had chosen you, and nothing else mattered more than that.

Since he arrived, you refused to let go of Jude, clinging to him as if any distance between you would break the fragile spell of your reunion. That evening, instead of going out, you decided to stay in. The only light in the room came from the city beyond your windows and a single candle flickering on the table. You were both tucked together on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine resting nearby. You lay curled into him, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat—a comforting, steady rhythm that grounded you. Jude's arm was wrapped around you protectively, his fingers occasionally brushing through your hair. Every so often, he would whisper soft words into your ear—sweet compliments and quiet ‘I love yous,’ each one filling the room with warmth. But beneath Jude's affection, there was a quiet ache in his chest. He hadn’t expected this—the fact that you hadn’t said those three words back. He told himself to be patient, that you just needed time. Still, it hurt more than he wanted to admit. After all, he had flown across the ocean, bared his heart to you, and put everything on the line. He had hoped to hear you say it, to feel the reassurance that you still loved him as much as he loved you. You knew you hadn’t said it. Not yet. It wasn’t that you didn’t love him. You did. God, you did. But the past few months had left you raw and bruised, and the weight of the hurt had made you cautious. You needed to be sure—sure that Jude meant every word, that he was here for good, that you wouldn’t lose yourself again in the pain of being let down. Jude shifted beneath you, his fingers pausing in your hair. He pressed his lips against your forehead, lingering there as though waiting for something, for a sign, for you to say something back.

“You okay, angel?” he asked softly, his voice gentle, but you could hear the uncertainty creeping in. He spoke barely above a whisper, as though he was afraid to break the fragile moment hanging in the air. You lifted your head slightly, meeting his eyes. There was a vulnerability there, a quiet plea for reassurance, and it tugged at your heart. You nodded, but it wasn’t enough—not for either of you. Jude gently lifted your chin, his eyes searching yours with a quiet intensity, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. His thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen. You swallowed hard, feeling the lump in your throat as your chest tightened. You were tangled up in a mess of emotions—relief, love, fear—all swirling around inside you. “Is it okay if I love you?” Jude asked with a sly smile, his voice trembling ever so slightly. It wasn’t his usual confident tone; it was laced with uncertainty, a vulnerability you rarely saw in him.You nodded, unable to speak at first, because the truth was, you wanted this. You wanted him. But the fear was there too, gnawing at the edges of your heart.

“Yeah. I want you too. I’m just…I’m scared,” you finally whispered, the words barely making it past your lips. You looked down, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what might happen if you fully let him in again. Afraid of the pain that came with loving someone this much. Jude didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as though he could soothe all the pain and worry away.

"You're safe with me," he murmured, his voice steady, comforting. He tucked you closer into his chest, like he was trying to shield you from the world, from all the things that had hurt you both. “I promise.” You closed your eyes, letting yourself breathe him in, feeling the warmth of his arms wrapped tightly around you. In that moment, everything else faded away—the doubts, the hurt, the time apart. It was just you and him, right there, and you felt your walls slowly crumbling.

“Jude…” you began, your voice wavering. You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I want you to know… I…” You began to stutter through your words. You didn’t think this would be so hard so you took a deep breath trying to reset. “I love you... It’s just… I don’t know” You trailed off, struggling to explain. Jude looked at you, waiting patiently. Taking another deep breath, you finally let yourself say the words that had been sitting on your heart for so long with a bit more certainty. "I’m in love with you. I have been… for a long time." Your voice wavered, and you felt the weight of the confession lift, but at the same time, you were terrified of what came next. Jude’s eyes widened for a second before his face broke into a soft, almost shy sly smile. He ducked his head in an exaggerated, bashful manner, making you laugh through your tears. It was so ridiculous and yet so perfectly him. “Stop!” You giggled. Your nerves draining. “Don’t act like you didn’t already know,” you teased, poking him in the chest with a playful glare. “You knew I loved you.” He grinned, the familiar spark of confidence returning to his eyes, but there was a tenderness there that hadn’t always been so apparent.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a small shrug. “But hearing you say it, finally hearing those words…” He trailed off, his voice catching for a moment. “From you. It’s perfect.” The way he looked at you—like you were his entire world, like everything in his life had been leading up to this moment—made your heart ache in the best way. You could feel the tears welling up again, but this time they were happy tears, tears of release, of finally letting go of the fear that had been holding you back. You kissed him then, slowly, tenderly, pouring every ounce of love and emotion you had into that kiss. It wasn’t rushed or desperate like the last time you’d been together. It was steady, reassuring, like you were both saying, we’re here, we made it, and we’re not going anywhere this time. When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together, your breathing heavy, but the moment felt so light. Jude looked at you, his thumb tracing your jawline, and for the first time in a long time, you saw peace in his eyes. He nodded, his expression softening even though the pain was still there. “I know. I hurt you. And I’m so sorry, angel. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that I mean what I said.” You swallowed the lump in your throat, your heart aching because you knew he meant it, but part of you was still scared.

“I just need time,” you whispered. “I need to be sure.” Jude nodded again, pulling you back into his chest, holding you even tighter.

“I will make you sure of me but you can take all the time you need. I’ll prove it to you day after day,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.” And as the city lights flickered outside, you lay there in the safety of his arms, both of you knowing that love was there, even if fear was still lingering. It would go in time. You just needed to heal first. "I love you," he whispered again, like it was the only thing that mattered, like he needed to keep saying it just to make sure you knew it was true. "And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you. I’m not letting you go again. Ever." Your heart swelled, the weight of everything you’d both been through finally lifting. You felt it then—certainty. Not the fear that had been clouding your mind for months, but a deep, unwavering certainty that this, right here, was where you were meant to be. Where you both were meant to be.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice thick with emotion. “I’ve always loved you.” Jude closed his eyes for a moment, letting your words sink in, and when he opened them again, he was smiling, a quiet, content smile that spoke volumes. He wrapped his arms around you tighter, pulling you into his lap, and buried his face in your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours, just holding each other, the weight of the past few months finally melting away. The fear, the doubts, the distance—it was all gone, replaced by a love that felt stronger than ever before. And in that moment, you knew—this was it. You had found your home in each other. And while you felt a comfort and a stillness in his arms there was different part of you that was feeling energized, eager, and desperate to be with him in a different way.

When you finally made it to bed that night, everything felt like a dream. You were together and it was as if all the tension, the distance, and the heartache between you had evaporated. You lay wrapped in his arms, your back snug against his chest, the rhythm of his breathing calming your racing thoughts. For the first time in weeks, everything just felt...right. When your phone rang, you hesitated for a moment before picking it up. It was Whitney, of course. You smiled, feeling a little giddy as her name flashed on the screen. As you answered, her familiar, teasing voice greeted you almost instantly.

"Why do I see a certain Jude Bellingham is in New York on Find My Friends?" she asked, her tone playful. You could hear her giggling through the phone. You opened your mouth to respond, but Jude had already started placing soft kisses along your neck. At first, it was gentle-just enough to send a shiver down your spine-but then the kisses grew more persistent, and his hands started to roam. You felt him pull the fabric of your top up slightly, his warm hand brushing over your stomach in slow, teasing strokes. Whitney was still talking, probably cracking jokes, but you could hardly focus on her words. Jude's touch was making it hard to concentrate, his kisses and his fingertips creating a warmth that made everything else fade into the background. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a laugh or a moan-you weren't sure which would come out-but you knew you were losing the battle. Jude smirked against your skin, clearly sensing your distraction. Without a word, he reached over and took the phone from your hand. He held it up to his ear with a casual confidence, still kissing you, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke into the phone.

"She's busy," Jude said, his voice low and smooth. "You'll have to call her back later. She’s got someone in her bed who loves her." Whitney screamed on the other end of the line, a dramatic and over-the-top shriek that made both you and Jude laugh. You could practically hear her laughing as she tried to compose herself, probably throwing some humorous, exaggerated reaction your way. Jude ended the call with a quick, "Goodnight, Whit," before tossing your phone gently onto the nightstand. He turned his attention back to you, a playful grin spreading across his face as his hand settled once again on your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"You really didn't have to do that," you whispered, trying to sound annoyed, but the truth was, you loved every second of it. His possessiveness, his confidence-it was intoxicating.

"Oh, I did. I'm not sharing you tonight." Jude pressed his lips to your ear, his voice a soft murmur. His hands reached to pull you on top of him. The covers fell from your body, the cold air hitting your exposed skin.

“Did I say thank you for coming.” You cooed looking at Jude with sincerity in your eyes. You rolled your bottom lip with a bit of a pout.

“I wanted to come, angel.” Jude told you with mischief flickering in his eyes. He sat up a little as you straddled his lap. His big hands gripped your waist pushing you down onto his hardening cock beneath you. “And I want you to come for me now.” Jude whispered and you felt a shiver run up your spine. His hands slid from your hips up to knead your tits. You whimpered, not used to his hands back on your body. “So sensitive. Did you think about this, baby? My hands on you again? Been so long.” He mused in a tone that had your skin on fire. You nodded with a desperate pout. Your hips rocked against his cock. His hands were attempting to touch as much of you as he possibly could. Jude missed you, missed your relationship, but obviously a massive part of him missed having sex with you. Right now you could feel something massive beneath you that you wanted just as much as he wanted to give it to you. His big hands traveled the planes of your body. No one could convince him there was a better place on earth right here in this moment. He grabbed your hips again, rocking his hips up into yours. You moaned, arching your back. His hands ran over your body exactly where he knew and remembered would elicit the reaction he so desperately had been craving to hear from you. He wasn’t hasty though. He wanted to savor this. There was no rush to his movements. They were slow, and more caring than anything else. He sat up right and began peppering your soft and sensitive skin with kisses. You ran your hands over his shoulders, glided up them around his neck up to his jaw, holding him to you. Until you fell into a rare bliss that only Jude could give you and you gripped his hair needing more of it. You could feel his teeth softly graze your neck, threatening to sink into your skin at any moment, but he never even nipped at your flesh. His fingers tracing the lace edging of your lingerie teasingly.

“Jude I missed your hands… I missed your lips. I missed you. I need more.” You moaned. It took Jude moments less than a second Jude had your lingerie peeled off you. Your brain was short circulating you almost forgot how smooth he was.

“I’ll give you more, baby. I’m all yours tonight.” He whispered to you as he kissed down your exposed chest, his lips grazing your sensitive nipple and taking it gently into his mouth, leaving the teeth tucked away for another night. “Forever.” He muffled against your skin. It was as if your time apart had made it all the more clear that Jude had never felt this way about anyone, he was absolutely and completely whipped for you, and there is no way he will ever let you forget it. “Tell me you love me, angel.” It almost felt like he was pleading to hear it but you weren’t going to hesitate. He never needed to ask, you’d do anything for him, you’d especially do anything for him in bed and he knew that.

“I love you Jude. I always will,” you whimpered back to him, before quietly repeating ‘I love you.’ again and again. Your words and the sounds of his lips on you echoing in the space of your bedroom, along the limited space between your bodies.

“God, I fucking love you.” Jude muttered, breathing you in, inhaling you in before he rolled you over onto your back as he hovered above you. He picked up your wrists and pinned them above your head. His eyes darkened with lust as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. His mouth is demanding, yet tender, and you respond eagerly, your tongues dancing in a familiar rhythm. His hands roam over your body, exploring the curves he knows so well, and you arch into his touch, moaning softly into his mouth. It didn’t matter how many times you had been in this exact position, as Jude’s fingers traced down your body and down the front of your panties he could feel his handiwork. You had drenched the fabric and Jude was just as excited as he was the first time he ever felt you get wet for him. “Is this all for me?” There was an almost boyish grin plastered to his face as he traced his fingers through your folds, the tip of his finger gently circling the entrance to your wet heat, threatening to slip inside of you any second. Breaking the kiss, Jude began a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sending shivers down your spine. He worshiped your body with his lips and tongue, leaving a path of fire in his wake. His hands slid up you, cupping your tits once more, thumbs brushing over your hardening nipples. You gasp, your head falling back as pleasure surges through you.

"Jude," you pleaded, your voice breathy and urgent. "Please, I’m serious, I need you." You couldn’t wait any longer. You didn’t want to be teased. He smiled against your skin, his warm breath sending goosebumps along your neck.

"Patience, angel. I’m getting there," he teased, before taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing it with his tongue. You squirm beneath him, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on. His other hand travels lower, sliding between your thighs, and he groans at the wetness he encounters. With slow, deliberate strokes, he teases your clit, making you writhe and beg for more.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me," he growls, his voice filled with satisfaction. He plunged a teasing finger into you. Your back arched immediately in response. He slowly worked his fingers, working you over just the way you loved, craved for him to touch you. It was like a game and he had fucking cheat codes. His thumb grazed over your clit, rubbing harsh deliberate circles. Jude was needy for you, for your touch, for your attention. Jude adds another finger, stretching you, filling you, and you match his rhythm, your body moving in sync with his hand. His thumb continues to circle your clit, and you feel your orgasm building, an intense coil of pleasure in your core. You felt like you were seeing stars over and over again. You couldn’t barely even register that he had you cumming on his fingers until you were shaking in the aftershock. “That’s it, angel. Cum f’me.” He encouraged you. “Cum f’me. Gonna make you cum so many times tonight” He greedily whispered, desperate to see you cum for him. You whined, your hips bucked against his hand as his fingers worked you through the high. “Yeah you like the sound of that angel?” You nodded deliriously, your inhibitions gone as the pleasure consumed you. Your body trembles as the waves of pleasure wash over you, and Jude continues to stroke and caress you through the climax, murmuring words of love and adoration. “It’s really such a shame you can’t see how beautiful you look when you cum.” He beamed, giddy after getting you to cum after so much time apart. As your breathing slowed, Jude gently removed his fingers, leaving you feeling deliciously empty. He kisses you softly. He licked them clean, savoring the taste of you on his skin. “Or how fucking good you taste.” He greedily smiled. "Baby… I want to be inside you, now, yeah?" He whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. His own arousal evident in his boxers, his hard cock tenting and straining against the fabric.

“Jude please, baby. I need you inside me…” He positions himself between your thighs, his hands under your knees, lifting your legs and spreading you wide. “Now Jude.” You desperately begged. You simultaneously moaned as he pushed into you, only dipping into you a couple of inches. He rocked his hips against yours so you get used to the feeling of his big cock. Slowly fucking himself further into you. With one swift thrust, he filled you, his cock sliding deep into your welcoming heat. His face fell into your neck groaning at the feeling of you wrapping around him. The sensation of being joined together after so long is almost overwhelming. Jude began to move, his hips pumping in a primal rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of your slick pussy. He moved slowly but precisely, able to find the spot you loved instantly. Your nails dug into his back as he kissed your skin. Each stroke loving and thoughtful. He picked up his pace though lost in the feeling.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he grunts, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding back. "So tight, so wet. Soaking my cock.” He grunted, hooking your leg over his arm, pushing your thigh up further to your side, hitting deeper inside you. The grip of his fingers on you dug into your soft thigh. The way he held you made it felt as if they’d leave permanent indents on your hips. You matched his pace, your hands gripping his firm ass, urging him deeper with each thrust. The bed creaks beneath you as Jude pounds into you, his balls slapping against your ass, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the room. “Need to make up for all this lost time. Gonna have to fuck you for days. Can’t believe I havent been able to fuck the love of my life for so long.” Jude told you. His words combined with the slow, tantalizing thrusts he was giving you made you gasp with a whine. “Like that, angel? You like being the love of my life?” He asked and you moaned in response, hearing the name once more. “You are. Don’t fucking forget that.” The weight of his body on top of yours feeling like nothing compared to the weight lifting off you two. Your orgasm approached faster and faster, minute after minute. He bit onto your earlobe and tugged, grabbing your attention.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" you chant, your voice hoarse with passion. "Please. Harder, Jude, fuck me harder!" You begger and he obliged happily, driving into you with abandon, his cock hitting your sweet spot with every stroke. A spot only he knew. “Oh my god. I missed you.” You whined. You could feel another orgasm building, your pussy tightening around him. Your nails digging into his biceps, your legs wrapping around him, dragging your heel down his muscular back.

“I know, baby. Doing so good. F’me. Just hold it. Let me cum with you. I wanna cum with you this time.” All you could do in response was nod, the feeling in your stomach driving you wild as you try to hold it off for a while longer. You whimpered. His mahogany eyes poured back into yours. He felt his heart skip a beat when you pulled him back down into a kiss. He fucked you harder with a harsh grunt juxtaposed by the sweetest kiss. Jude picked up his pace beginning to chase his own orgasm. Frankly Jude had been fighting his own release since he got his hands on you, it wasn’t that big of a feat to get there now. His fingers snaked between your bodies finding your clit once again, teetering to keep you on your edge. The sound of sex and love hung in the air of your room, his skin slapping against yours, the sound of your squelching pussy, and your voices soaked in pleasure mixing.

“Jude…” You whined. You couldn’t hold on any longer. Your bodies move as one, a frenzied dance of passion and desire. You climax in unison, your pussy milking his cock. You collapse in a sweaty, satisfied heap, Jude's weight pinning you to the bed, his heart pounding against yours.

“Yeah, angel? You gonna cum on my cock? Let me see how pretty you look cumming on my cock.” He purred. You didn’t need any more encouragement than that before you were slipping over your edge. The knot in your stomach tightened. It only took a few more mind numbing thrusts before Jude’s head dropped into your neck. Your climax erupting inside of you, your vision going white. His cock throbbed inside of you, beginning to paint your walls. You moaned ‘I love yous’ simultaneously. You felt him pouring into you. Waves upon waves of pleasure coursing through both of you. You hid your face against him. "I love you, Y/N," he whispered, his breath ragged in your ear. You smiled, your eyes glistening with happiness. After the intense and emotional reconnection, you lay in Jude's arms, your bodies still intertwined in the warmth of the moment. The room was filled with a comfortable silence, save for the occasional soft breath and the rhythmic beating of Jude's heart beneath your cheek.

🪩🫶❤️‍🔥🍹🌞🍒 Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter 🍒🌞🍹❤️‍🔥🫶🪩

Next part - Chapter 12 - Like Your Home xx

#jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #jude bellingham x you

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lovelookspretty · 19 hours

Text

lies for lunch

rafe cameron x reader

— in which y/n returns to her hometown, the outer banks, to work as ward cameron’s assistant at cameron development, but living under his roof for the summer leads to unexpected tension with his son, rafe.

warnings: animosity, rafes daddy issues, safe !!

authors note: for the sake of the story i need y/n or you or whatever to have a person of familiarity whos hung back in obx to act like you’ve known each other for years, SO U HAVE A FICTIONAL BROTHER 😭

for the past ten months, you’ve been working at cameron development, helping ward negotiate deals and obtain permits. it’s been almost like being his assistant through everything. what started as an internship turned into a full-time job with actual pay after all this time.

they were right—hard work and determination can really pay off. you just didn’t expect to get so lucky with how quickly things moved. after a series of private meetings where ward discussed traveling back to north carolina to work in his hometown, he suggested you come along.

the relationship isn’t weird or inappropriate. you’re one of the few employees ward genuinely appreciates, which is more than he can say about the burnouts that float through the company. since you’re from the outer banks yourself, ward thinks it makes sense to bring you along to continue working for him and the company for as long as possible.

but anyway, you’re absolutely thrilled to be back in the outer banks. it’s more than just a job opportunity—it’s a chance to reconnect with everything familiar, everything that’s been tugging at your heart since you left.

the occasional visits have been fine, enough to keep the homesickness at bay for a while, but that constant, quiet longing for the place you grew up never really goes away. but now? now you’re staying in obx for the summer. no more fleeting weekends, no more rushed goodbyes. you’ll have time to breathe, to soak it all in. to be home.

the airport air is still fresh in your lungs when you slide into the backseat of the car, your bags dumped beside you. before the door even clicks shut, your fingers are already scrolling through your contacts. there’s only one person you want to talk to right now—your brother.

“hey,” you say, stretching out the word, a grin tugging at your lips as you hear the familiar click of him picking up.

“hey,” comes his easy, laid-back reply, his voice filling the small space around you like it always does. like home. “did you land?”

you bounce slightly in your seat as the car hits a bump, your grip tightening on your phone for a second. “yeah,” you confirm, digging through your bag absentmindedly. “i’m about twenty minutes from figure 8, so i’ll be there around noon. are mom and dad home?”

there’s a slight pause on his end, the sound of him shifting around, probably sprawling lazily on the couch back home. “nah, they’re not,” he finally says. “i swung by to check, but i guess mom’s out at lunch with her friends, and dad’s working today.”

you let out an involuntary groan, the disappointment settling in your chest. of course, it would work out like this. “this is what i get for trying to surprise them.”

his voice comes back, laced with mild amusement. “it’s your fault for not announcing you’re coming a day earlier.”

he’s right, but you don’t want to admit it. instead, you plow forward. “look, can you at least call mom and ask if she can be home soon? ward wants me to head straight to him as soon as i land, but i really wanna stop by as soon as i can. i can’t be there later than two.”

on the other end, you can almost hear the exaggerated sigh that you know is coming. the kind that’s loaded with all the typical dramatics. he’s probably rolling his eyes too, even though you can’t see him. “yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mutters, clearly unable to resist playing up his irritation. “i’ll take care of it. just text me when you’re on your way. still can’t believe you’re working for wc.”

with that, the call ends abruptly, and you pull the phone away from your ear, blinking down at the screen in mild confusion. wc? who calls him wc? you furrow your brow, lips tugging into a slight frown as you shoot off a quick text to your brother.

‘ 1st, nobody calls him wc. and 2nd, what??? ’

your phone buzzes again. his reply is as cryptic as ever.

‘ just a coincidence that in ny u ended up working for someone from obx still. don’t u remember him growing up? ’

you stare at the message, trying to piece together what he’s talking about, until another text follows almost immediately.

‘ he has like 3 kids. rafe, sarah, wheezie. i saw rafe down at the pier a few weeks ago. we used to see them at parties when we were younger. ’

rafe? sarah? wheezie? none of those names ring a bell. you rack your brain, searching for some kind of recognition, but you come up empty. a soft laugh escapes you as you quickly type back, ‘idk who that is lmao sorry’ and lock your phone, leaning back in the seat with a sigh.

ward cameron has three kids. it’s a strange thing to realize, that the man you’ve been working for these past couple of years has an entire family you’ve never heard of. but then again, work was always work. personal details were rarely exchanged unless necessary. and now, you can’t help but think—would you meet them? would they be anything like ward?

your brother mentioned seeing one of them recently, so you can assume at least one of ward’s children still live here. you wonder if the rest do too.

your thoughts wander as the car turns down another road, bringing you closer to the heart of figure 8. it’s been a long time since you’ve been back here, long enough for some of the details to feel fuzzy, but the feeling of the place—that never changes. the salty air, the warmth of the sun filtering through the car windows, the sense of familiarity that sits low in your chest, almost like relief.

you try to imagine what the next few months will be like. working for ward in the outer banks is worlds apart from working for him in new york. for one, the pace is different—slower, more laid-back. and for another, you won’t be disappearing into a faceless crowd when the workday ends. you’ll be here, surrounded by people who might actually know your name. or at least remember your face.

the car slows down, the gravel beneath the tires crunching softly as you near the cameron estate.

“thank you!” you call out, waving as the driver pulls away, leaving you standing on the driveway with your bags at your feet. for a moment, you just stand there, taking it all in. the cameron house looms in front of you.

you bend down, grabbing the straps of your bags and hauling them up, careful not to drag them across the grass. even though this isn’t your home, there’s an odd comfort in the way it feels.

you’ve been here before—well, not here exactly, but close enough. working summer jobs in figure 8 as a teenager had given you a glimpse of this world. a world where you were always on the outside, always temporary. back then, you were just a girl from the cut, doing what you had to do to get by.

no one looked at you twice. but now? now you’re here for something more. wanted, even.

the thought of it makes your stomach twist with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. you adjust the weight of your bags on your shoulder and step up to the door, knocking firmly before dropping your things to the floor with a soft thud.

a small sigh of relief escapes your lips as you straighten up, rolling your shoulders to shake off the stiffness from the journey. you’ve been lugging these bags around for hours, and your arms are starting to feel like lead.

as you wait, you take a moment to fix your hair, fingers smoothing back stray strands that have fallen into your face. it’s only then that you hear a rustle in the bushes to your left. your heart skips a beat, and you freeze, mid-motion, your eyes flicking toward the sound. you stretch your neck slightly, peering over your shoulder, but there’s nothing. just silence. your pulse settles again, and you let out a quiet laugh at yourself.

the door suddenly swings open, and you drop your hands to your sides, your face breaking into a smile. standing in the doorway is a girl, and instantly, you’re struck by how put together she looks.

her long blonde hair cascades down her back, and she’s dressed in a cozy white knit sweater paired with shorts. it’s casual, effortless, but there’s something about it that screams figure 8 wealth. but what really catches your attention are her socks—brightly colored, with little monster faces peeking out from the tops.

you smile a little wider at the sight. you’re starting to like her already.

“hey, i’m y/n,” you introduce yourself, stepping forward and extending your hand.

“it’s so nice to meet you! i’m sarah,” she replies, her smile just as warm as she reaches out to shake your hand. her grip is firm but friendly, and before you know it, she’s ushering you inside with a wave of her hand. “come on in! my dad isn’t here right now, but i can actually show you to our guest room. it’s, like, right next to mine. it’s so homey. you’ll love it.”

her energy is almost overwhelming, but in a good way. she’s excited, and you can’t help but feel a little relieved.

“i mean, yeah, sure,” you say, bending down to grab your bags again. but before you can get a good grip, sarah is already stepping in to help, lifting one of the bags with ease. you follow her inside, the door clicking shut behind you as you enter the home.

it’s everything you expected and more—bright, airy, with high ceilings and tasteful decor. it’s the kind of place that feels almost untouchable, like something out of a magazine.

as you make your way toward the stairs, you can’t help but glance around, taking it all in. the house smells faintly of lemon and clean linens, and the soft hum of the air conditioner is the only sound that breaks the quiet. it’s beautiful, but it’s also a little intimidating.

“so, is there anyone else home that i should worry about if i, like, wanted to shower?” you ask as you follow sarah up the steps.

sarah shoots you a smile over her shoulder as she leads the way. “i think you’re good. my brother and sister are here, but they won’t bother you. wheezie’s doing her homework, and rafe . . . well, he’s probably not even home.”

her tone is casual, like she’s talking about the weather, but you can’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity. you remember your brother mentioning a rafe in his text earlier, but the name still doesn’t mean much to you. maybe you’ll meet him later, maybe not. either way, it’s not something you’re too concerned about right now.

you reach the guest room door, and sarah twists the knob, pushing it open with a flourish. “here! this is your room for the summer.”

you step inside, and your breath catches in your throat. it’s . . . gorgeous. simple, but elegant, with soft cream-colored walls and wide windows that let in streams of natural light. the bed is large, with crisp white sheets that look impossibly inviting, and there’s a small sitting area in the corner with a plush chair and a side table. it’s more than you ever expected.

“wow,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping over the room. “this is . . . really nice.”

sarah grins, setting your bag down on the chair. “told you! if you’re gonna shower, i’ll leave you to it. but if you need anything, my room’s right next to yours.” she gestures vaguely toward the door. “the bathroom’s across the hall from mine. my dad will probably be home in, like, half an hour? him and rose just ran out to do something before you got here.”

you nod, but your mind snags on the name—rose. ward’s wife. it’s funny, now that you think about it, how little you actually know about ward’s personal life. you’ve worked with him for years, but he’s always kept things strictly professional. it’s only now, standing in his home, that you’re realizing just how much of his life is a mystery to you.

sarah gives you one last smile before slipping out of the room, closing the door behind her. and just like that, you’re alone. you let out a long, slow breath, your fingers absentmindedly twisting the rings on your fingers as you take a moment to center yourself. it feels surreal, being here. like stepping into someone else’s life for a while.

you cross the room and pull back the curtains, revealing a stunning view of the island and for a moment, all your worries melt away. it’s beautiful here. peaceful. maybe this summer won’t be so bad after all.

you grab your bathroom bag and a fresh set of clothes, the weight of the morning starting to press on your shoulders as you make your way to the bathroom. you pause outside the door, hearing the muffled laughter of sarah and wheezie from across the hall.

their lighthearted chatter pulls a soft smile onto your lips, a sense of warmth in this house. it's comforting, in a strange way, to be surrounded by family—even if it's not your own.

the bathroom is sleek, modern, almost too luxurious compared to what you're used to. you lock the door behind you and let out a long, relieved breath. the hot water feels like an escape, like it's rinsing away the tension of the trip, the awkwardness of being in someone else’s home, and the nerves tangled in your chest about what comes next.

as the minutes pass, you try to calm the buzz in your mind. you know you need to hurry—the last thing you want is to be caught mid-shower when ward and rose return. you quickly towel off, pulling on your new clothes with an urgency that betrays your attempt to stay calm.

you grab your bag off the counter, unlock the bathroom door, and step back into the hallway. as you cross toward your room, you stop abruptly. there, by the door, are three guys, clearly in the middle of something. confusion furrows your brow—who are they? why are they here?

one of them has his back to you, looking into the room, while the others glance in your direction, the closest one nudging the other to signal your arrival. great. more people.

the one in the doorway catches your eye. his hand is rubbing his jaw, his stance casual, like he owns the place. for all you know, he does. his other hand is stuffed in his pocket, his expression unreadable as he turns toward you.

you can feel the weight of their stares, but you offer a polite smile, trying to act unbothered even though you feel a little out of place. honestly, the house is big enough for all of them, and you're too new to figure out who’s who just yet. you’re not even sure who lives here or if they’re just guests like you.

before any introductions can be made, ward’s voice booms from the front of the house, pulling you from the awkwardness of the moment. “is she here?”

you move past the tall boy, dropping your bag off in the guest room, and make your way downstairs. your heart leaps when you spot ward and rose. the grin that stretches across your face feels genuine, a relief after navigating the uncertainty of the last few hours.

“hey,” you say, stepping off the last stair to shake their hands. “thank you for letting me stay in your home, by the way. i met sarah. she’s great.”

ward gives you a friendly nod, his demeanor warm but business-like—he's already familiar with your work ethic and you know that he expects the same here.

“yeah, wait ‘til you meet rafe and wheezie, though,” he says, glancing at rose, who’s already inching away, clearly not interested in small talk, and it stings more than you’d care to admit. but you brush it off, focusing on the fact that you’re here for work, not approval.

“did sarah show you your room?” ward asks, guiding you toward the kitchen.

“yeah, she did!” you nod, falling into step beside him. “it’s really nice. i also used the shower, honestly. also super nice.”

he chuckles lightly, gesturing to the open space around you. “help yourself to anything while you're here. bathrooms, the kitchen, the living room—whatever you need as long as you're working with me here.”

when you reach the kitchen, ward turns to face you, and you're about to answer his question when the boys from earlier walk in, their presence shifting the energy in the room.

the tall one—who you now realize must be rafe—moves with an air of familiarity, heading straight for the fridge without so much as a glance your way, though his friends have sprawled out on the couch nearby, keeping half an eye on the situation.

“you grew up here?” rafe asks, pulling something from the fridge with a nonchalance that borders on arrogance. his tone isn’t rude, exactly, but there’s a challenge in his words, like he’s testing you.

you shift your weight slightly, feeling his attention on you now. “yeah, i did.”

“humor me,” he says before his father can talk, smirking as he continues, “figure 8 or the cut?"

there it is—the divide. figure 8, the land of privilege and wealth, versus the cut, where people like you are from. it's a question loaded with judgment, but you stand your ground.

you hesitate, unsure whether to entertain your boss’s son. “that’s . . .” you begin saying, noticing the small hint of a smile on his lips as he twists the bottle cap off. “i lived in the cut.”

ward quickly steps in, raising a hand to ease the tension. “y/n,” he says, using your name in a way that reminds you you’re under his wing here. “you don’t have to answer his questions.”

there’s a quiet pause before he officially introduces rafe, confirming what you already suspected. “this is rafe,” he says, nodding toward his son, who watches you intently. ward pauses as he brushed over it quickly, “and his friends,” like he doesn’t want to say it.

you give a small wave in return, feeling the awkwardness creep back in. you’re not sure what to make of the boys yet, but the dynamic between them feels . . . off. guarded. like there’s more going on than meets the eye.

ward claps his hands together, breaking the silence. “time for lunch. rafe, can you please tell sarah and wheezie to come down?” he asks, already heading toward the patio doors. “y/n, feel free to find a seat at the table.”

you murmur an ‘okay’ and follow ward outside, the breeze hitting your face as you step onto the patio. you take a moment to scan the setup, unsure where to sit, but ward motions for you to pick any spot. the table looks inviting, the outdoor space just as luxurious as the inside. it’s surreal, really, being here—like stepping into a different world entirely.

the table outside is a lavish spread, every dish meticulously placed as though the meal is a display of the cameron family's status. some of the food is freshly prepared, you can tell by the steam rising from the platters, while other dishes have clearly been delivered, probably from some upscale restaurant.

everything is pristine, almost too perfect for a casual lunch, but you remind yourself this isn’t just any ordinary lunch. this is a welcome—to ward’s world, to his home, and into the lives of the camerons.

this lunch wasn't really about you, though. it’s more of a formality for ward’s return to north carolina.

as you sit at the table, alone for now, your gaze drifts to the patio, the large windows giving you a glimpse into the house. your thoughts wander to art, and you can almost hear his voice in your head—his dry humor, his sarcastic quips. he’d love this, probably have a million things to say about the whole setup.

the camerons, so far, seem nice. well, most of them. sarah is definitely the easiest to get along with, the type of person you instantly feel comfortable around. but rose? you're not even sure she’ll show up for lunch. and rafe . . . you’re still figuring him out. there’s something about him, something unreadable that leaves you on edge.

as your eyes sweep around the room inside, they land on rafe. he's with his friends, the same group from earlier, laughing and talking like they don’t have a care in the world. there’s an ease about him when he’s with them, like he’s more at home in their company than anywhere else.

you can’t quite put your finger on it, but something about him feels . . . dangerous? no, maybe not dangerous, but unpredictable. like he could switch from charming to something much darker in the blink of an eye.

and then it happens—he looks at you. directly at you, like he knows you’ve been watching him. the way he smiles is almost smug, as if he’s aware of the effect he has on people, on you. your heart does a small flip, caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze.

then, just as quickly, he says something to his friends, who erupt into laughter, and you feel the uncomfortable prick of self-consciousness. are they laughing at you? god, you hope not. the last thing you need is to be the butt of some joke you don’t understand.

you pull your focus away, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your cheeks, and you shift in your chair, suddenly too aware of how out of place you feel. this isn’t your world, not yet at least. you’re still figuring out the rules, where you stand, who you can trust. it's like being in a play without knowing your lines.

“i know my kids are going to be a handful when they’re all together, so . . . be prepared for that,” ward’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and you turn slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. there’s a warmth to his tone, something almost paternal. “but they’re good.”

you force a small smile and nod, though you’re not sure how much you believe him. you have a feeling ‘good’ might mean different things in the cameron household.

“you’re a year or two older than sarah,” he continues, and you turn back to face the table, focusing on the clean lines of the polished wood, the way the sunlight catches on the glassware. “you’re not that far off in age with rafe, either. sarah’s probably going to be your best friend. she can’t help it.”

there’s a lightness in his voice, and you get the sense that sarah is the glue that holds this family together, the one everyone relies on to keep things civil. “but rafe . . . he’ll warm up to you.”

will he? you can’t help the slight lift of your brows, amusement flickering in your expression as you consider his words. you don’t agree, but you can’t say that. something about rafe feels like he’s not the type to easily ‘warm up’ to anyone, especially someone like you—an outsider stepping into his territory.

“yeah,” you murmur, your tone filled with doubt, “i’m sure of it.”

the cameron family finally gathers at the long, polished table outside, sunlight filtering through the trees and casting dappled patterns across the plates. you take in the scene quietly as everyone finds their places, the quiet shuffle of chairs pulling out, scraping slightly against the patio stones.

it’s a family affair, but rafe’s friends have tagged along—an addition that seems unsanctioned by ward but tolerated nonetheless. ward positions himself at one head of the table, with you and sarah flanking either side of him like you’re all part of some carefully orchestrated tableau.

rafe is at the opposite end, far enough that the distance feels intentional, deliberate. you can’t help but notice how he’s checked out, his gaze drifting, uninterested. to your right, one of his friends, the blond one, settles beside you, and his presence feels awkward, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible, aware of the invisible tension in the air.

on the other side of him, the other friend sits, both of them quiet for now. down sarah’s side, wheezie sits next to her sister, then rafe at the very end. the empty chair beside wheezie feels like a gap. technically it’s rose’s chair if she were to have changed her mind.

“so what are you?” wheezie asks, breaking the initial silence, and you can see sarah’s immediate reaction, the quick glance she shoots her sister, a mild scolding in her eyes.

the phrasing is blunt, too blunt, but then again, wheezie is a kid—still learning the art of conversation, still figuring out the way words land.

before you can answer, ward steps in, his voice calm but authoritative. “y/n is my assistant,” he says, filling in the blank you hadn’t yet decided how to describe. you pause mid-chew, a small bite of food lingering on your tongue as you listen to him explain. “she’ll be working with me here in north carolina for cameron development over the next few months.”

you nod slightly, not sure how to react to being discussed like you’re not there. you’ve been in situations like this before, professionally at least, but it feels different now, being talked about in front of his family. a piece of you wants to assert yourself, to explain your role in your own words, but it feels like there’s no room for that right now. so, you stay quiet.

“that’s cool,” sarah says, her voice warm and genuine as she glances over at you, a small, encouraging smile on her face. she seems like the type who would get along with almost anyone, a natural mediator. “what do you do? as his assistant and all.”

from the corner of your eye, you catch rafe’s subtle shift, his gaze flicking toward sarah, his expression sharp for a moment, like he’s not interested in this conversation but is still somehow annoyed by it. you wonder what’s behind that look, what tension simmers under the surface.

you swallow and clear your throat, aware that everyone’s waiting for your answer now. “uh, yeah,” you start, your voice sounding more casual than you intend, like you’re trying to downplay your actual responsibilities.

“your dad has his job—he oversees the projects, handles the big picture stuff. i come along when he needs help with negotiating contracts and leases, hiring architects, engineers, contractors, all that. i also scout available land for potential developments.” you pause, glancing around the table. “just stuff like that.”

there’s a moment of silence, and for a second, you think maybe your explanation was enough. but then, like a crack in the veneer, rafe speaks, almost mockingly, “do you also get him coffee whenever he asks? do you fuck him, too?”

his words hit like a punch, unexpected and crude, cutting through the air with a kind of reckless confidence that leaves you momentarily stunned. for a second, the table feels frozen, like no one’s quite sure how to react.

the blond boy next to you nearly chokes on his food, a strangled half-laugh escaping before he catches himself, suddenly aware that rafe’s comment shouldn’t be funny.

your stomach twists, a flush of heat creeping up your neck as you force yourself to stay composed, staring straight at rafe from across the table. his gaze is fixed on you, unflinching, like he’s testing you, waiting to see how you’ll respond.

it’s infuriating—the audacity of it, the way he tosses out the insult so casually, like it’s no big deal.

ward sets his fork down with a soft clink against the plate, his fingers intertwining as he leans forward slightly. the tension shifts, thickening around the table, and you can feel every set of eyes on you, but your focus remains on rafe.

“rafe,” ward’s voice is calm, measured, but there’s a warning in it. and yet, rafe doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch. he stays locked onto you, like you’re locked in some kind of silent standoff, and part of you wonders what he’s trying to prove.

after a beat of silence, ward adds, “can i talk to you inside the house?” it’s not really a question, more of a command, and finally, rafe moves. slowly, he pulls the napkin from his lap, tossing it onto the table before rising from his seat.

ward turns to you, his expression softening into something apologetic, and you nod slightly, acknowledging his silent apology even though you’re not sure what to do with it. as they disappear inside, the tension lingers, heavy and uncomfortable.

you force yourself to take another bite of food, though it feels like chewing cardboard. the uneasy feeling coils tighter in your chest. this is off to a rocky start, to say the least. sarah and wheezie seem fine, but rafe . . . rafe’s going to be a problem.

sarah reaches across the table, her hand brushing lightly against yours, and you glance up to meet her eyes. there’s sincerity in her expression, a quiet kind of empathy. “i’m so sorry for him,” she says softly. “rafe has a tendency to act like an idiot on a daily basis. don’t let anything he says get to you.”

before you can respond, the blond boy—topper, you think—finally speaks, his voice quiet but carrying a hint of amusement. “he doesn’t have a tendency to act like an idiot every day,” he says, shaking his head slightly as he takes another bite of food, a small smile playing on his lips. it’s the first thing he’s said to you directly, and the casualness of it surprises you.

“oh, he absolutely does,” sarah retorts with a light laugh. “and i’m sure you get yours from him.” she turns to you, smiling again. “y/n, this is topper and kelce, if you hadn’t already been introduced.”

before you can say anything, wheezie pipes up quickly, almost as if she’s sharing a secret, “sarah and topper used to date.” her voice is soft, but the reaction from sarah and topper is immediate—they both look over at her, like this was something she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

“what?” wheezie says, glancing around the table innocently.

you can’t help but smile at the sibling dynamics playing out in front of you. it reminds you of your own relationship with your brother, the way siblings know each other’s secrets, their histories, the things that outsiders wouldn’t catch unless they were paying attention. in this brief moment, amidst the tension, you find a sliver of familiarity, of something you recognize.

you pull your napkin off your lap, rising from your seat, feeling the tension still clinging to your skin like humidity. you adjust your clothes, smoothing down fabric that doesn’t need smoothing, but it gives your hands something to do.

“where’s the nearest bathroom inside?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but you can feel the strain in your voice, the way your words almost trip over themselves.

“once you’re in the kitchen, it should be the door in the hallway if you just keep walking straight,” sarah tells you, offering a small smile. you nod in response, forcing yourself to return the gesture, though it feels hollow.

you step away from the table, and sarah seizes the moment to nudge wheezie, probably to scold her for spilling her relationship drama with topper.

as you make your way toward the bathroom, your steps slow. it’s not like you really need to go. you glance behind, making sure no one’s paying attention, before diverting your path to the front door instead. the knot in your stomach tightens with every step.

the front door is slightly ajar, and through the opening, you spot rafe. he’s leaning back in a chair on the porch, his head tilted toward the sky as if it’s the only thing he can stand to look at.

ward’s standing near him, mid-conversation, and their voices pull you in, despite knowing you shouldn’t eavesdrop. you lean against the doorframe, just out of sight, your heartbeat quickening.

“you didn't have to fly out some girl that works at the company just because she’s doing good,” rafe says, lifting his head from the chair, his voice tinged with frustration, like he’s been holding it in for too long. “i could've taken the job, especially because i’m already here.”

there’s bitterness in his words, but beneath that, you catch something else—something raw. rafe’s trying to understand why he’s being left out, why he’s not the one ward trusts.

“exactly, rafe,” ward replies, his tone firmer than before. “you're twenty-one and you’re still here. she’s twenty and she's been working with me for nearly two years. don’t you think that says something?”

his words land heavily, and for a moment, there’s silence. you feel the weight of the comparison ward’s making, and it sinks into you too, even though it shouldn’t. rafe chuckles, standing up, but it’s not out of amusement. it’s a defense mechanism, a way to shield himself from whatever hurt ward’s words are causing.

“y/n is here because she’s good at what she does,” ward continues, his voice steadier now, trying to end the conversation.

“alright, dad,” rafe says, nodding, but his expression betrays his words. “let's say i believe that—because i don’t—why am i not in her place?”

ward sighs, shaking his head like he doesn’t understand how rafe isn’t getting it. “rafe, think about what kind of job she has. how could i trust you with that?”

the words sting, and even though they aren’t directed at you, you feel a strange sense of guilt crawling under your skin. you know you’ve earned your place, worked hard for it. but hearing it spelled out like this, in such a stark contrast to rafe, it makes you feel . . . uncomfortable.

rafe rubs his chin, his fingers brushing against the stubble there. he doesn’t say anything, just nods like he’s processing it all, or maybe pretending to. he turns to head back inside.

and that’s when he sees you, standing there, caught in the act of listening.

his eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, you don’t know what to do. your throat tightens, but you force yourself to keep your head high. you can’t apologize. you don’t need to. this is your job, after all, the one you’ve worked damn hard for.

still, the silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. rafe doesn’t say anything, just turns away, walking back out toward the patio. you exhale, realizing you’ve been holding your breath. the knot in your stomach only tightens as you push yourself off the doorframe and head toward the bathroom, your footsteps almost echoing in the stillness of the hallway.

you stop in front of the bathroom door, staring at it like it might hold some answers you don’t have. your hand reaches for the knob, your fingers curling around it, but you don’t turn it. instead, you stand there, replaying the conversation in your head, trying to make sense of what you’ve just heard. rafe’s resentment, ward’s trust in you—it’s a lot to take in, and you wonder if you’re supposed to feel . . . what? proud? guilty? it’s hard to pin down.

before you can figure it out, you hear footsteps approaching. your hand drops from the doorknob just as ward’s voice reaches you.

“hey,” he says, his tone softer now, though there’s still an edge of frustration lingering there, probably from his conversation with rafe. “you and the girls getting along good?”

you plaster on a smile, nodding even though your thoughts are still tangled from the scene outside. “yeah, we’re good.”

ward mutters a small ‘good, good’ as he walks past you, heading back to the patio. you watch him go, your arms crossing over your chest as if that’ll hold you together. you follow behind him slowly, a quiet unease settling in your chest. this family, with all its complications, feels like a storm you’ve just walked into.

and then there’s rafe. if he already resents you, you can only imagine how his friends—topper and kelce—will react. boys like them, they stick together, and you know that dynamic all too well. the chances of them giving you a fair shot seem slim.

you brace yourself as you step back outside, a small sigh slipping past your lips. this job, this place—it’s not going to be easy. but nothing worth it ever is, right?

“so you're from the outer banks?” sarah asks as soon as you sit back down. there’s an edge to her voice, like she’s making an effort to seem casual but is still trying to figure you out. you can’t blame her. she’s probably just trying to get a feel for who you are, maybe ease the tension that’s been hanging in the air since you got here.

“where from?” she adds, glancing at you over the rim of her glass.

you pause, fork hovering just above your plate, feeling a flicker of unease. it’s a simple enough question, but you can already feel the weight of your answer.

“near quinton,” you say, cutting into your food with deliberate care, keeping your tone light. “a little south.”

you don’t look up as you speak, focusing on the neat little slices you’re making in your lunch, as if perfecting that action could keep the conversation from slipping into uncomfortable territory.

“i’m surprised we haven’t met before today,” you continue, the lie slipping out so smoothly you almost believe it yourself. “my friends and i knew just about everyone before i left the island.”

but the truth sits heavily in your stomach. you don’t know them. sure, your brother mentioned that your families had crossed paths when you were younger, but the memories never stuck. whatever brief moments there were, they’ve faded into the backdrop of your childhood.

rafe, however, doesn’t let your words slide by as easily. he latches onto them like a dog with a bone, straightening in his seat, eyes gleaming with interest.

“your friends?” his voice cuts through the air, almost too eager, too sharp. it’s like he’s waiting for you to say something wrong, give him an opening to tear into you. sarah watches him warily, her eyes flicking between you and her brother. she’s looking for help—maybe from her dad—but the tension is palpable, thickening by the second.

your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and the vibration pulls you from the uncomfortable scrutiny rafe’s casting in your direction.

“who do you know here?” he presses, and his tone is challenging now, like he’s daring you to prove something to him. to justify your place here, in this house, at this table.

you lift your gaze then, meeting his eyes with a steady look, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. but there’s something in the way he’s staring at you that makes your skin crawl, like he’s already made up his mind about you, about what kind of person you are.

it’s fucking exhausting.

“hate to interrupt you, ray,” you say, letting a mocking lilt creep into your voice as you rise from your seat. you keep your movements controlled, measured, not too rushed. “but i have a phone call.”

you pull your phone from your pocket, waving it slightly, feeling a small rush of satisfaction when rafe’s jaw clenches ever so slightly. “let me just take that really quick so we can continue our conversation.”

you don’t wait for his response, because you know whatever he says will just add to the irritation simmering beneath your skin. as you step out of the way, you hear him mutter, “it’s rafe,” under his breath, like correcting you is somehow important to him.

“it’s actually my brother!” you whisper-yell back, flashing the screen of your phone in his direction, making sure he sees the call.

as you walk away, you feel the tension ease just slightly, but it’s still there, humming beneath the surface. this place—figure eight, tannyhill—it’s like a tangled web, and you’ve just stepped into it, with people like rafe already ready to watch you stumble.

you press your phone to your ear as you step out of the patio and into the cool air of the home, and you try to calm yourself, leaning against the wall as your brother’s voice greets you on the other end.

you know you’ll have to go back in there, face rafe again, but for now, you allow yourself a brief moment to breathe.

considering making this a few-part series (maybe) !! let me know if you’d be interested thru replies, anons, or dms <3

@tiaamberxx

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bbina · 3 days

Text

alone together ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 . . . yearning

── taking comfort in the thought that you are together in aloneness through late night talks, heartfelt confessions, and a genuine connection. with your shared experience of recent heartbreaks, you wonder if getting together would be all worth it. in which you find solace in each other's company, that you are alone together.

⋆｡˚ prev | next ˚｡

꩜ notes .ᐟ 3.6k words later my brain is absolutely FRIED with this chapter... took me a day or two and a headache later but ITS HERE. finally goddamn.. and btw im sorry zb1 stans that i've may or may not have sorta villainized your man... its just for the plot i swear!

꩜ taglist .ᐟ @onlywonb @rosesfortaro @starwonb1n @wonychu @totheseok @dolloie @hyunjinsnumberonefun @binluvsu @onlyhyunjin @annswwa @wonbinsvlle @hakkkuu @ilovejungwonandhaechan @artstaeh @lecheugo @odxrilove @bunni @saranghoeforanton @nujeskz @nakam00t @kyusqult @nctsshoes2 @revehosh @s9nwoo @daegale @palchokitty @dutifullyannoyingfox @oshakyao @koryutte @b-riize @meowbini @the-swageyama-tobiyolo @winuvs @i03jae @rsatoru @enhacolor @dalliesque @sweetiejaeyun @dearestjake @cupidslovearrows @sasfransisco @kkumistars @sngj08 @taroddori @nshmurarki @ennycutie @ffixtionista @koeuh @astro-doll-the-star @amouriu

you ignore the way your phone was buzzing like crazy inside your pockets. you couldn't stand it anymore. not even a day in with your unofficial smoking ban, you're already caving in because of some minor inconvenience in your life— "relapsing", as karina likes to call it

it's stupid, you think. why now? you were doing so well with the process of moving on but then it just hits you on a random day. what exactly are you missing? do you miss the warmth that comes with being in the arms of your lover? do you miss the stupid laugh you have when he makes you smile after a rough day?

what are you yearning for?

before you even realized it, you found yourself in front of the same convenience store you always go to. somehow this little convenience store just provided everything you needed when you need it the most such as right now

you only wanted one thing and no one is here to stop you

"one pack of–"

"i'll take these please. thank you" someone cuts you off in front of the cashier. you let out a scoff until the voice registers in your head

it was wonbin

instantly you shoot him a glare. how the fuck did he find you this quick. actually scratch that– how did he know you'll be here?

with your reaction, wonbin takes this time to pay for whatever he grabbed just before you could tell the cashier that you wanted a pack of cigarettes

the cashier eyes you two weirdly, an eyebrow raise as he is unsure on who to serve first

"uh do you still need the cigarettes..?" the cashier cautiously asks, throwing a thumb towards the display behind him

"yes"

"no!"

you and wonbin both say at the same time, confusing and irritating the underpaid cashier. he lets out a loud irritated sigh and punches in wonbin's things before hastily handing it to him

"thank you for coming, come again next time" the cashier grits his teeth as he forces himself to smile

"thanks" wonbin chirps, grabbing the plastic bag and your hand before dragging you out of the convenience store

"what the fuck, wonbin! i told you i need one right now!" you complained, yanking your hand back from his grip

"you don't. that's why i'm here so instead of smoking, you could talk it out like any normal person would" wonbin points out like it was the most obvious thing in the world

"but i don't want to" you grumbled, stopping in your tracks. "just leave me alone today. i don't want to be around anyone"

before you could say anything else, you see someone you know all too well walking towards your direction. your eyes widened and you feel your breath hitch. if your eyes aren't deceiving you, you're sure that it was gyuvin and his new partner

wonbin notices your sudden reaction and before he could ask, a much taller guy approaches the two of you

"y/n, is that you?" gyuvin asks

you felt yourself frozen in place, unsure on what to do. this was the first time in a month that you've talked to him. hell, why would you? you two are broken up in the first place and gyuvin made it sure that you two will never be a thing ever again

"it is you!" gyuvin gasps, finally reaching you and wonbin who just looked lost at the moment. is he your infamous ex boyfriend that you kept mentioning?

"how have you been?" gyuvin makes small talk, "haven't seen you in a long time"

"and why would you?" you retort, raising an eyebrow at the taller male

gyuvin scoffs and pats your head, "still feisty as ever" he comments. gyuvin then finally takes wonbin beside you and his eyes widened.

"is this the new guy you're seeing?" he asks, looking between you and wonbin, trying to piece things together

before you could answer, wonbin does it for you

"that's none of your business" he calmly states, grabbing a hold of your hand, "c'mon. the guys are waiting for us" wonbin lies, gently pulling you away in front of gyuvin

"woah man! i was just asking a simple question" gyuvin raises his hands in mock surrender, "come on babe, let's go" gyuvin cackles, walking away with his arms around his new partner who shoots you a look

you close your eyes as you process what the fuck just happened to you. this day cannot get any worse than it already is. did you really have to run into your ex like that in the open? with his new partner too?

"y/n" wonbin snaps his fingers in front of your face. you must've been too deep with your thoughts to even hear him calling your name

"what?" you snap back to reality

"i asked if that was that him?" he asks quietly, stealing a glance

"... yeah" you murmured, taking a deep breath "i think i'm gonna need some fresh air"

wonbin nods "and i just know the right place"

. . . ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

wonbin takes you to the rooftop of his building. the same spot he took you during the party back at his building complex. now here you were, leaning against a railing, letting the air hit your skin

wonbin was seated on the ground, waiting for you to speak. he fishes out the food that he blindly grabbed just so he could stop you in time from buying your cigarettes

hearing the plastic rustle behind you, you turned around to see him munching on some snack. in an instant, he raises the bag of chips to offer you some, only for you to shake your head no and turned back around

"... i still want a cigarette" you say out loud

wonbin chuckles, "too bad"

"you're the worst" you grumbled, pushing yourself off the railing to sit next to wonbin who only laughs at your reaction

"i'm ready when you are" you hear wonbin murmur beside you as he pulls out more snacks out of the plastic bag just in case you'll ever need it

taking a deep breath, you take a look at wonbin

"where do you want me to start?" you ask, unsure where to begin. your thoughts are messy as it is

"anywhere. just talk and i'll listen" he shrugs, licking the chip flavor off his fingers

you start fiddling with fingers, trying to think of something to start off with. being put on the spot like this isn't helping at all. maybe if you just had your trusty dusty cigarette, you would've forgotten about your little dilemma in the first place

since there was no backing out from wonbin much longer, what else is there left to lose aside from your pride and dignity from being perceived?

"i think..." you start, staring off into the distance, "... i miss having someone or more like i miss being with someone" you admit sheepishly

it's pathetic, you think to yourself now that you've said it out loud, it sounds and it is stupid now that you think about it

wonbin nods his head understandingly beside you, waiting for you to carry on

"i miss the feeling of what it feels like to love and to be loved. do you think i'm wrong for missing my ex like that?" you turn to wonbin for his opinion

your eyes both meet and he shakes his head no

"no, i don't think it's wrong for you to miss your ex. even i miss my ex sometimes" he says

"right?! it's not wrong right?! it's just normal human behavior to miss something you had" you throw your hands up in the air

"but sometimes it feels like i'm the villain in my own mind for missing what i had and it's so embarrassing to admit it out loud to my friends after all the shit talking i did" you continue, reflecting on yourself for the past month

"yes i hate him for what happened but i think miss what we had at the same time. i know this is so toxic to say but it's like playing with fire and to be honest, it feels or it felt really good" you finish

wonbin takes time to digest what you're ranting. making sure he's taking in all the words you're saying. you take notice of this and start to feel anxious again

was it too much for wonbin to take?

"what i'm getting is that you don't actually miss the person, but the feeling of security of being in a relationship" wonbin comments, making sure his words aren't hurtful or shameful to hear

you give him a weird look. what did he mean by that? did you not make it loud and clear or were you missing something?

what did he mean by that you don't miss the person? you never really had any other exclusive relationship with anyone else besides gyuvin so it would make sense that you miss gyuvin the way you are missing what its like to be in a relationship

wonbin pauses and holds a finger out. motioning you to wait

"hear me out on this. maybe the reason why you feel that way is because, you actually never felt that feeling you're looking during your time in the relationship. it was always you who was the giver right? so now that you're all on your own, you are now craving for the things you've never felt before" wonbin says gently

"in short, maybe you're yearning for familiarity. now that it's gone, you don't know what you actually want, hence you missing what it's like to be with someone and the like" he finishes, finally looking at you as you take in his words

familiarity. what a funny word.

you take a deep breath as the memories of your past relationship all comes rushing through your mind. you were always the giver or should you say you were the "pants" in the relationship. you never really did receive anything in return that amounted to the shit you did throughout the relationship

even if your ex boyfriend fucked up, you were always quick to forgive and forget

yes you had moments where you felt like you were the luckiest girl in the world but looking back now...

if you could talk to your past self, you would've told her to grow a pair and stand up for yourself to those who won't even bother to look at your direction when the time comes

you were so busy giving everything you had to the person who won't even do the same to you in return and in the end, you were left with nothing for yourself

so much that you didn't even notice that you were feeling neglected throughout the relationship. even you had needs, not only him

you cringe at the mere thought of being the one who serves your lover like it was your duty to do so. not because you wanted to, but because you had to. so that the relationship could stay afloat

but it's too late now. here you are, a month later after the break up. yearning for something that you don't even know, yet you know damn well that you'll never ever receive it

so do you actually miss your ex boyfriend? or did you just miss the feeling of being needed? do you miss the feeling of knowing that if you do your part in the relationship, they will always be there?

maybe it wasn't the familiarity that you long for?

"no.. i'm sure i miss him. at one point he was my everything so of course i miss him! it's not easy to move on from someone you've been with for over a year!" you defend yourself, trying to justify the way you feel but it just feels all wrong

you start to think about those times where it was you who was being taken care of for once. times where your ex would hold you and tell you that everything will be alright as long as you two are together. the times where it felt like the whole world was against you and that you only had him?

those were real feelings right? you had every right to miss those rare moments shared between you and your ex lover

right?

"maybe it's not him directly, but the feeling of loving somebody that you didn't notice that you were losing yourself in the process" wonbin says

you did lose yourself in the process of loving someone else. that's why you're acting the way you are now, right? you barely know how to act anymore, thinking that no one would actually understand you, get you because what else was left for you to understand yourself?

"no" you deny, furrowing your brows. “i do miss him,” you say quickly, but the words don’t feel as true as they once did.

do you really?

do you really miss him that way?

do you miss the way you had to bend your back just so you could give him what he want— exactly what he wanted?

do you miss the way that you'd spend nights trying to make amends over some dumb misunderstanding?

do you miss him the way you were slowly losing yourself that your friends had to keep you in check?

do you?

you can feel your chest tighten as the realization slowly sinks in

was that even love?

or was it a routine that you've grown used to?

maybe you didn't really miss him at all. maybe it was the comfort it brought you all along. maybe—

you were so deep into thought that you didn't notice something right in front of you. it was wonbin holding out a cigarette

"here" he says, voice soft

you look up at him with wide eyes as you glance between him and the cigarette, having an inner debate with yourself if you should take up his offer. should you?

"i'll give you a pass but only for today" he prompts, grabbing your hand as opens your palm to place the stick

with a deep sigh, you accept and held the familiar stick rest in between your fingers. using your free hand, you rummage through your bag for your lighter but wonbin beats you to it

he was already holding a lighter with his hands in front of you. wonbin flicks the lighter and a small flame emerges. you let out a little scoff but nevertheless you leaned your head toward him as he lights up your cigarette for you

for a moment, your eyes meet his, and there’s something different in the air. It’s not just the flame between you—it’s the proximity, the way his gaze lingers as you inhale.

wonbin takes notice of the bags under your eyes when you leaned closer to him. his eyes trail over your face, taking a good look when you're this close and personal to him

he fights the urge to tuck the stray hairs falling over your face

you pull back, taking in your first drag, and let the smoke swirl from your lips. you ca feel his eyes were on you so you peer your head ever so slightly to offer him a small smile

wonbin hangs his head low, smiling sheepishly to himself, tucking away his lighter back into his pockets

suddenly he feels you tap his shoulder. you were offering him the cigarette

"the deal was that if i stop smoking, you would too. but since i'm smoking right now, it's only fair for you to smoke too, right?" you say, offering him the stick

wonbin laughs in disbelief. "i guess you're right"

of course you were trying to justify your actions with the deal you two made the night prior

you were about to hand it to him, but something makes you stop. instead of giving it directly to him, you raise the cigarette to his lips yourself. his eyes flicker in surprise, but he leans in, lips brushing lightly against your fingers as he takes a drag

there’s a sudden shift in the air, something you can’t quite pin point

wonbin's a little shocked by your action. he could've held it himself but whatever. who is he to say no to a free hit?

you watch him take a long drag before blowing the sweet smoke into the cool air. the smoke curls between the two of you. there's something intimate about this and you don't know what possessed you to do such thing

wonbin coughs a little, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. something he isn't used to

"i still don't understand why you prefer cigarettes over vapes" wonbin makes a sour face and wipes his mouth with his arm

you shrug, taking another drag after him, "it's easier to dispose"

"fair enough" wonbin comments, grabbing your hand to take another hit which you gladly let him

it was like this for a while. just taking turns smoking until the cigarette finally dies. you squish the remains on the concrete floor before throwing it into the plastic bag from the convenience store earlier

you were feeling a lot better now that you've smoked it out. you made a silent vow to yourself that this would be the last time you'll ever do this to yourself

if it meant that you'd stop clinging onto your dead relationship, you could at least give up the same vice you picked up from the said relationship

no more clinging onto the feeling of familiarity. it was time to start fresh

wonbin leans back on the wall, staring out over the city, fiddling with a receipt. he wants to say something but he's not sure if he should

fuck it, wonbin thinks to himself before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath

wonbin's voice breaks the sudden silence

"i don't think i've told anyone this either but," wonbin begins, voice quieter, "i still think about my ex relationship"

you take a glance at him, noticing the way he his shoulders are tensed and that he was gripping what seems to be a receipt so tightly that you could see his knuckles turning white. you note that he seems to be deep in thought, gazed fixed on whatever is in front of him

"we dated for a long while," wonbin continues, there's a hint of bitterness in his tone of voice. "i thought things were going well but then she ghosted me. twice" wonbin starts to laugh

"first time, i gave her space. i chased after her and thought maybe she just needed some time to be herself or something.." wonbin trails off, "then she came back with no explanation or whatever and obviously i was so relieved like she came back so i didn't question it"

wonbin's brows furrow as he rips the receipt he was playing around with into pieces

"and then she did it again. this time, no warning or no anything. just, gone" wonbin breathes out, crumpling the ripped pieces of paper into a ball before looking up at the night sky

"i don't even know why i kept hoping for so long like a fucking idiot. i kept looking, kept searching, literally anything i could get my hands on just for an explanation on why she would do that but alas, i got nothing"

you can only stare at him in silence. shocked that he too would open up something he never told his closest friends. you can sense that there was more to this so you just kept quiet and waited for him to let it all out

"it makes you wonder what's wrong with you, you know? like was everything not enough?" wonbin smiles bitterly, "it doesn't matter how much are you willing to do because if the person won't appreciate it, then anything you do will never be enough in their eyes"

you've never felt more seen

after a moment of silence, you slowly reach out for his hand, giving it a small gentle squeeze. it's a small gesture, sure but you know damn well that it meant a lot not only for him, but for you as well. your own way of offering your support

wonbin's eyes widened when he feels your hand snake their way onto his and in that moment, it feels right

you don't really understand why you feel this way towards wonbin. was it because of the shared experience? there was something about him that just makes you gravitate towards him and vice versa

there's a moment of silence after that. just the sound of the bustling city below could be heard echoing through the cool night sky but it's comforting

"thanks for listening" your voice barely above a whisper, breaking the silence. you turn to the side to see wonbin watching the stars silently. you feel a small smile creeping up your face, feeling a little better that you actually opened up to someone for once

you and wonbin suddenly make eye contact. he then reaches his hand over your face. you feel yourself flinch and close your eyes before you felt his fingers delicately tuck your hair away from your face

your heart races but there's an odd sensation of comfort in the air that it feels warm. like two people who met by fate due to the same circumstance of carrying the burden of recent heartbreaks and that,

for the first time in a long time, you don't feel so lonely

99 notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 1 day

Text

Chapter 19 - Don't Look Back

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Sorry for the slight delay! I was hit with a big case of “this chapter is very important so it has to be perfect” and “I have a crush on someone and it’s rendering me incapable of human function." Enjoy!

Chapter Title from Love From The Other Side by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 26.4k (for context that is longer than the first 4 chapters combined. Someone needs to restrain me)

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You have work to do, and Ben keeps to his word. Usual warnings, with emphasis on assault. No rape, but one non-con kiss. Make the best call for yourself.

Read on A03!

Chapter 18 - Chapter 20

You’d been right. Word of mouth spread fast, and Sage knew about your speech. Homelander as well, but he’d reacted about as you’d hoped to anticipate. Proud, smug, certain beyond a doubt that you had been speaking of him.

Sage knew better. She knew what you’d really meant—who you’d really been speaking of—and the only thing that saved was that she couldn’t do anything about it.

Because word of mouth spreads fast.

But the internet spreads faster.

Everyone has an opinion on what, in a brilliant twist of journalism, was being called Believe-gate. Everyone has seen the photo of your fearful expression when the “CIA terror attack” on good, christian America had begun and Homelander had shot off the stage. Fear for your lover, gone to fight for what’s right. Or, if the photo was of your fear expression when your extraction operation had begun and Homelander had gone to kill your team.

It all depends on who you ask.

If you ask Homelander’s supporters, or Homelander himself, you’ll hear the narrative you’ve been forced to memorize and parrot almost every day. Your fear was for Homelander, whom you loved. The attack by the CIA on a group of innocent civilians was a tragedy both in the losses of A-Train and Ezekiel, and as the American people had to learn they couldn’t trust their government. They could only trust their heroes, trust Homelander, to keep them safe.

If you ask the Starlighters, or read the CIA’s official statement on the matter, the alleged “attack” had been an extraction operation for the Anomaly that had gone sideways. Employees of Vought had interfered with a government sanctioned mercenary team—lead by William Butcher and containing Soldier Boy but not in official association with Starlight—and collateral damage had been unavoidable. People should write their congressman to divert more money into funding Butcher’s team, and boycott Vought products until the Anomaly was freed.

That’s closer to the truth, but reality is still far more absurd than either side seems to properly capture. Not absurd in the way the media seems to think, because gossip and rumors spread like the wildfire climbing steadily back under your skin. In meetings—as Sage goes over damage control and shoots you cold, measured glares—you see post after post, headline after headline, and video after video of speculation. You’re honestly a little surprised it took this long for the ball to get rolling. You’d thought the aftermath of your interview was going to be the largest fallout—the biggest step and ultimate catalyst—but you’d been wrong. This was it. For some reason, the Believe Expo was what did it. People are trying to figure out what was really going on. Someone posits a theory on Reddit about you’re a robot or shapeshifting supe who stole the face and identity of a dead PhD student. NPR runs a story about the history of government and corporate propaganda, and CNN does a frame by frame breakdown of recording of your speech. A video essay about how you were Homelander’s girlfriend but had been tortured and brainwashed by the CIA to infiltrate Vought. Old footage of the Firecracker rally circulates as people dissect your every facial expression. One person accuses you of being obsessed with Homelander. Another says you’re just Stormfront with a new face. There’s a small online movement that’s pretty sure you’re actually Sage’s girlfriend and Homelander’s just bearding for you, and another that’s convinced you’re Robert Singer’s estranged love-child. One person sends an email accusing you of being Stan Edgar’s daughter. Several people accuse you of working for the Chinese, and several more of being a British Spy. At A-Train’s funeral, one stupidly brave man with a microphone had shouted a question of what’s your response to allegations you had an affair with William Butcher, and you’d almost laughed in his face.

That might have been your favorite moment, because it made you snort and think of Ben’s sour expression.

Butcher couldn’t fucking handle you, Sunshine.

Benjamin, you can barely handle me yourself.

I’m having a grand fucking hell of a time trying. Butcher would start whining like a bitch.

You whine like a bitch.

Brat.

Cunt.

That’s the part nobody has guessed. People have landed on pieces of the truth. You are a dead PhD holder—everyone always seems to forget you actually had the PhD—and you are infiltrating Vought, but not because anyone told you. If anything the biggest opposition you faced to your plan has been from your side. Not a day passes where just the phantom of Ben doesn’t tell you to come home. To wear blue and let him just come get you.

And that’s the part people seem to be missing. It’s obvious to you, but you’re biased and have the full picture. The fear on your face at the Believe Expo was for Ben. For the split second you’d thought you might lose him. People couldn’t trust their heroes, but nobody needed to break you out. People should absolutely not demand Butcher be funded further. You did not want to return to find Butcher, Ben, and Frenchie jerking themselves off over a collection of military-grade weaponry. In all the millions of people stringing you up to search for the truth, the real you—if Vought is right or the CIA is right or if you’re playing them both—they all miss the only two things that really mattered to you.

Kill Homelander. Whatever it takes, however you have to twist and pull yourself apart, you will kill Homelander.

Go home to Ben. Tell Ben you love him, then go wherever he goes.

As the week starts to pass, the scandal doesn’t turn into just another story. It only grows. Sage puts you back on tower lockdown, and most of the time it’s just you, The Deep, and Ashley on 99. You have to record videos and do livestreams and keep pretending you don’t want to lean over to Homelander in the dead of night and just kill him. Find a way to make yourself stronger than him and strangle his throat, or use all the fire you have in your control to reduce him to a shriveled husk that’s still in only half the pain you are. You smile all day—in the dim yellow lights of Homelander’s room and into flashing cameras at Sage’s orders—and at night you drag up the fire, miss Ben, and feel the cracks in you start to spread.

You’re the most famous person in America.

You want to go home.

You have to go home. Before the cracks reach something fundamental and you just break. Without Ben to pick you up.

Overall, you’d know getting the V was going to be a delay, but it’s not as large as you’d expected. The time added by finding V is being lost by how fast everything else is going. How it’s snowballing and rolling down the mountain with you even having to push it. Three weeks are added to your timeline just as two are lost, and you’ll be home soon.

If everything goes well, you’ll be home soon.

You’re keeping yourself whole. By threads and stitches and temporary bandaging, you haven’t completely lost yourself and fallen apart. But the cracks are coming faster, larger. Nightmares that you have to learn to hold down, because Homelander can’t see you break. You wake up paralyzed and cold, still haunted by images of Ben asleep, or gone, or having just left. He wouldn’t, you know he wouldn’t, but Homelander had still cornered you after the Believe Expo and told you that he had.

He’d dropped you in the Seven’s meeting room, and pushed you into the wall by your throat.

“You didn’t know,” he’d sneered into your face, and you’d had to shake your head weakly.

“I didn’t, I swear-“

“Were they there to save you? Take you away again?”

“I don’t know-“

“Tell me the truth!” He’d roared, spit flying in your face and coconut making you sick. “I’m so sick of everyone lying to me!”

“I am,” you’d clawed at his gloved hand, the leather cold on your skin, choking on your words. “That’s the truth, please, I didn’t know-“

Homelander had laughed. “Doesn’t matter, they didn’t get you. Your precious little Soldier Boy ran.”

That wasn’t true. You’d told Ben to go, he hadn’t run. He’d never run, not away from you.

“They left you. Didn’t even try to keep you.” Homelander had tsked, shaking his head. “I’d stay.”

You’d just nodded, unable to speak, and Homelander’s jaw had ticked. Hand tightening around your throat.

“I said I’d stay. They left you, Soldier Boy left you, but I’d fucking stay. You’re a fucking manipulative bitch, who can’t make anyone like you, or anyone stay without tricking them. I’m the only one who sees through you, who doesn’t fall for your silly tricks, and that’s why I love you. You can’t fucking trick me, and I know you love me.”

Your nods had grown frantic. “I know, please, I can’t-“

“I’d stay.” Homelander had hissed. “You love me and I stay.”

“You’d stay. I love-“

The door opened. Your desperate, lying words had failed in your mouth because the door had opened and a group of people had walked in. Interns or cleaners or tech workers, just normal people.

Homelander had lasered them down, their bodies falling to the floor with sickening crunches and wet sounds. He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even blinked. Just killed them and turned back to you with an annoyed expression.

“People don’t even knock anymore.” He’d sighed. “I mean, it’s manners. None of these people were raised in a fucking barn, right?!”

“I, I can’t,” you’d coughed slightly. “Breathe, can’t breathe-“

Homelander had rolled his eyes, glaring at you as he spoke. “Say you didn’t trick me.”

“I didn’t trick you, I can’t-“

“And you love me.”

“I love you-“

“Say Soldier Boy left you.”

“He left, I can’t, please-“

He’d dropped you to the floor, scowling as you’d pulled yourself back up on shaking legs. “Good.” He looked you up and down one. “I can trust you.”

That had been what you’d been angling to hear for weeks. All of this had been playing the game until Homelander trusted you. It was even more vital now, if you wanted to find the V. But you’d only been able to stare at the bodies on the floor. Blood on your feet and splattered across your face, and it won’t come off. Not really. Never entirely. There’s guts spilled across the room, a brain visible through a hole in a skull, and mouths frozen in permanent screams that you’ll see for the rest of your life.

That night your dreams had been haunted by red hands and cold skin, and when you called for Ben to find you, no sound had come out. You’d woken up paralyzed, and a pattern had begun. This became the new normal.

You’d had nightmares in the tower. But they’d been bearable, no worse than they’d been before. You’d woken up cold and curled into your own body, your breath and heart still steady enough to be silent to Homelander.

Now they felt like death. They felt like a burning, white-hot sort of cold under your skin and in your blood, an inescapable hurricane that would devastate what little was left of your control. Nightmares of Ben vanishing in smoke, hearing him fall to the ground and not get back up. Nightmares of blood rivers that pull you away and under and down, until all you can see is red. All you can taste is metal and it freezes your tongue. Holds it still when you wake up with a high, ringing feedback in your ears, and holds you down when you try to rub off the lingering feeling of dread. The sense that this is eternal, and you only have yourself to blame.

You chose this. In every nightmare you jump in the river, and if you don’t Ben falls in smoke that you can’t pull him out of. Every time you wake up you’re frozen, and every day you can’t breathe without tasting coconut and iron. Over and over until you think you’re going mad, because you look at your hands and they still have blood on them. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. It’s tying that cold you’ve felt from the start into the fire, pulling it up faster and faster as your skin starts to grow molten on your body. As the cold runs through your veins and heart and begins to leak into the world.

At first, you don’t notice. You’ve felt this before, this feeling of every nerve in your body growing heavy as your blood grows cold and pushes out of you. You’d felt it with Tek Knight. Felt it when Homelander had pulled you into the sky during that fight outside, and when he’d grabbed your face after Noir II. Brief flashes of something like a glacier rushing in and over you, covering anything that dared touch you. But it had been temporary. Brief, polar flashes that were gone in a second. This was long. This was arctic, permanent, and you could barely control it. Nobody touched you, nobody ever touched you here, but it was still spreading like mold around you. People go rigid when they pass you, and start to look cornered and feral when they sit in a room with you for too long. They look trapped. They look how you feel.

After one meeting, where a Vought “journalist” sat across from you and Homelander—asking you pre-written and approved questions about love and your future and it’s so cold—Sage holds you back. Homelander gives a clap of his hands and crude, white-toothed smile before vanishing with a jump and a sonic sound, but Sage holds you back.

“Sit down,” she nods to the chair you’re only half risen from, and it’s not a request or suggestion. She’s telling you to sit, and you do. You’re not at an advantage right now, you’ve made too many risky moves that—while paying off—had shown too much. Shown you.

You sit, and wait. You won’t speak first, because you don’t know what game you’re playing and can’t afford to make the starting move.

Sage frowns at you, tilting her head, but begins to speak. “I’ll admit I’m not sure what you told Soldier Boy that incited such an event, but it did allow me to understand you better.”

“Understand me?” Your words are spoken through the constant cold. Too controlled, almost bored. “I don’t think there’s much to understand.”

“There’s more than I usually face.” Sage looks you up and down, and sits across from you. Leaning forward. “It’s taken me longer, as well. There’s been one last piece of the puzzle I couldn’t quite find, and you handed it to me. I thought of you better than that.”

“I don’t think I am a puzzle.” You frown. “And I’d never think of myself better than anything-“

“Yes, I got that quite a while ago. Someone who values themself, values their life, doesn’t volunteer to stand in the front lines of an unwinnable war. Doesn’t forgive as easily as you do.”

You shrug. “I believe that there are very few things that are truly unforgivable. I can only think of one.”

“Rape?”

You swallow, frost pushing up your throat, and Sage hums.

“Unsurprising. That’s another puzzle piece that fits you well, and another reason your little performance will never really be sold.”

You’re not shocked you haven’t fooled Sage, but it’s not her that you need to have a hold over. So you just watch her silently until she scoffs.

“This is just us talking. Homelander won’t hear, I’m not looking to lose my first semi-worthy opponent to an easy to spot trap.”

You still don’t speak, and Sage smiles.

“Smart. Would proof help? How about,” she looks you up and down. “When we met in January, I was genuinely considering flipping to your side. Homelander is an emotional, pathetic imbecile who refuses to truly acknowledge that I am significantly more intelligent than he, and while I have no care for people,” her face twists slightly as she says the word, like it tastes sour on her tongue. “I did think I could face an equal challenge taking down a well-established international conglomerate as I was facing with the United States Government. But with a new, unexpected player I decided this could still be interesting.” Sage sits back, looking you up and down. “I showed you mine.”

Sage wouldn’t call Homelander a pathetic imbecile if there was a chance he might hear—she’s still very capable of being lasered in half—but she could pull a tape and show select footage. So you just blink.

“Fine.” Sage sighs, and pulls out a pen. Pink, with a fluffy top. She passes it into your hands, careful not to touch skin, and nods. “Click it.”

You glance at the pen, and push the ballpoint out.

Sage’s voice echoes through the room. Homelander is an emotional, pathetic imbecile who refuses to truly acknowledge that I am significantly more intelligent than he.

You frown at her. “Collateral?”

“You’ll hold on to the pen, after this conversation I’ll wipe all the tapes and break all the audio bugs in front of you, and then you’ll return the pen to me. Deal?”

You nod slowly, taking the pen. “Deal.”

“Good. Show me yours.”

“I don’t know what you want me to show you,” you shrug. “Like I said, I don’t believe myself to be a puzzle. And you’ve already figured me out.”

“I hadn’t,” Sage corrects you. “For months, I hadn’t been able to see the whole picture. Your forgiveness is… inconsistent.”

“Really,” you say dryly, crossing your arms. “I’ve only been raped by one man.”

Sage hums. “Would you forgive me?”

“Would you earn it?”

“Maybe.”

You lean back. “Then maybe I’d forgive you.”

“Even though I’m actively working with your rapist? Am aware of the trauma he inflicted upon you and yet still chose to enable him?”

The cold is sitting in your throat. “All depends on you. Like I said, you’d have to earn it.”

“And how did Butcher earn your forgiveness?”

You frown. “Butcher?”

“He’s the thing that incited Homelander looking into Becca Butcher. Discovering Ryan Butcher. Wanting more.” Sage gives you a half-smile. “Taking you.”

“I don’t hold people accountable for the actions of others.” Your voice is still bored, even as the cold starts to numb your tongue. “Butcher had no way of knowing that Homelander would do this. He didn’t even know who I was until last year.”

“Is that the same grace you’ve offered Soldier Boy?”

Your heart stutters, falters, and freezes. “I haven’t offered Soldier Boy anything he hasn’t earned.”

“And that’s the thing.” Sage narrows her eyes at you. “You really believe he’s earned it. Despite all of his crimes, of which are an impressive amount and magnitude, you’re still forgiving him. And couldn’t figure out why. It doesn't fit with anything else, it’s completely irrational. But the answer isn’t something that’s supposed to be rational, and I made the mistake of factoring it out.”

“I don’t-“

“You’re in love with Soldier Boy.” Sage looks you up and down. Her handiwork she gets to admire. “And I didn’t catch it because, by all logical reasoning, you shouldn’t be. I didn’t even consider it until I’d exhausted all other possibilities, and even then I settled on some odd sort of camaraderie. But you love him.”

The cold becomes like frost lining your heart, and every beat begins to spread it further. Move it out. Play the game, don’t break. “What would it change, if I did?”

“You do,” Sage says simply. “You are in love with him. It explains everything that felt out of place. Every action you made that didn’t line up with what I’d anticipated.”

“What you’d anticipated?”

“Yes. For example, you shooting me. It was a reckless choice that backfired on you completely, but every time I ran over the scenario you would still do it. I’d wondered if I’d undersold the stakes, made you feel backed into a corner when that wasn’t my intention. But you’d still shoot me. You’d always shoot me, and it was because I misestimated your stakes. You love Soldier Boy, so if I tell you he’s in danger you will act.”

“That doesn’t mean I love him.” You give Sage a passive shrug. “Maybe I shot you because you’re fucking annoying.”

“No, you wanted to hear my plan. That's why you’re still sitting here.” Sage nods to the door. “You could’ve left. You could’ve gotten up and run out the door. You’re faster than I am, you’d have gotten away, showed Homelander the pen, and won. But you know I’d have a countermove, and that’s why you’re still here. That’s why I’m here.”

“Why you’re here.” You repeat slowly, and Sage nods.

“We’re the only players that matter now.” She grins at you. “Homelander and Butcher and Soldier Boy can flash their toys, but in the end you’re stronger and I’m smarter. My plan will work better, and you’ll respond in a way I won’t predict. You’ll have a move that would be successful, because you’re fucking powerful, but you’ll sidetrack yourself in the name of humanity and love. In the end the question will be if you can control yourself. If you can forsake being good enough to be great. My bets are on no, but you’ve surprised me before. And that’s what makes this interesting.”

Play the game. Even as you start to cave in, play the game. “You know I’m stronger than Homelander. But you haven’t told him, he still thinks he’s the strongest supe alive.” You frown at her, trying to pull everything together in your head. “You don’t want him to know I’m stronger. If I fight him, you don’t want him prepared. You want me to kill him.”

“I do.” Sage shrugs. “I’d like to martyr him, but I don’t think I will. I think I want to play this out.”

“Make it interesting?”

Sage smirks at you. “Make it interesting.”

“It’s your move,” you say, throat tight. “And, while we’re being honest, I’m fucking winning right now. So, what’s your move?”

She laughs. “You were winning. But I’ve figured you out, so your lead is gone.” Sage’s smile becomes crude and chilling. “In exactly one week, you’re going to propose to Homelander, live on VNN.”

The cold rushes, so fast. It had been building up and up and now it’s everywhere. A week isn’t long enough. You still haven’t found the V, you’re not close, and a week isn’t enough time. Every piece of your innards and piece of your mind is freezing, because you can’t. You can’t go home yet, but you can’t go fast enough. And you’ll die before you smile at Homelander. Before you let him touch you. He’ll take it as a sign that he’s done this right and now he’s won you. Your blood is frozen and creaking in your body, but Sage is still smirking across from you.

Breathe evenly. Hold your blood in your body with calculated breaths and careful words. “And If I don’t?”

“Then I lure Soldier Boy out, and put him back to sleep.” Sage stands, and you can’t move. You can only watch her walk around the room reaching into bowls and under furniture to show you tiny audio bugs that she crushes in Her hands before taking the pen back. “You have a week. Your move.” She pauses at the door, looking back at you with a frown. “Don’t make me wrong about you. I have no interest in being wrong.”

Then you’re alone, and the cold becomes big. It’s inescapable, how unending this feels. It’s too massive for you, too wild to control and spreading too fast to contain. You stumble your way back to Homelander’s apartment—people parting around you like you’re made of poison—and lock yourself in the bathroom, dropping to the floor in desperation to not break. You’ll find a way out of this, you always find a way out of this, you’ll get through this and go home and this isn’t permanent. Sage hasn’t won, because everything in you is still you, and soon you’ll go home. Everything is cold and bursting out of you, this feels like it will last forever, but it won’t. It can’t.

The cracks continue to grow, and when you sleep that night you’re plagued by smoke and ice that makes you weak and swallows Ben. You hear him fall and he doesn’t rise back up, and you reach for him only to find him further than you’d thought.

When you wake up, you’re still held down. Paralyzed and frozen without relent. You want to go home. You’d overestimated your strength, you didn’t want to beat Sage, or trick her, or win. You didn’t want this to be interesting, you just wanted it to be done. You’re exhausted, and alone, and you miss Ben so much. You’re not going to win, because these cracks are starting to be dangerous and you can’t stop them. You’re too weak to stop them, you don’t know how, and you can’t be smarter or stronger because you’re just so tired and almost every part of you is growing thinner and softer by the second. One step away from shattering. Breaking. Maybe you’ve really just already broken, but in a way you didn’t realize, and now you can’t be sewn back together. Your fire is sputtering out once more, you can’t pull it back up, can’t kill Homelander, can’t save Ben. You’re going to break and it’s going to make Ben go under, and he’ll never hold you again. You’re going to be in this vast, hollow loneliness forever, and Homelander will keep you on a shelf as your last embers flicker harmlessly, and you’re going to never see Ben again-

Calm the fucking hell down, Ben’s voice in your head is rough as it says your name. You’ll see me again, you fucking promised.

That strange thing is humming in your chest. It hasn’t left you since it appeared. Since you’d seen Ben. Through the day it sat in you silently. Undisturbing, shifting and rolling with a dull ache near your heart. Just a piece of Ben that you got to keep, that always felt like him. Like he was there, warm around you in the cold and tending to your fire. Then, at night, it roars. Twisting with your guts and kickstarting your lungs and mind when you grow frozen. Speaking to you in the dark until you feel like you again. A part of you that’s ingrained and unmovable, that’s not plagued by this cold because Ben is warm. Never afraid because Ben is safe. It’s angry and bloody and zealous, but it’s Ben, and so it smells like pine and feels good. Feels solid and easy, makes Ben feel more real. You’re on the too smooth, silken sheets of Homelander’s bed and everything is cold, but you can almost feel his breath on your ear and his voice rolling into your body.

I did promise. You sigh into the dark of the room, and your breath comes out in fog. But I don’t think I can talk my way out of this one, Pretty Boy.

Why the goddamn hell not.

I’m not smarter than Sage, or stronger than Homelander. I said whatever it takes, but I can’t, Ben. I can’t. I just want to come home.

First of all, shut the fuck up. You’re being stupid, Sunshine.

Fucking rude-

His voice cuts you off. It’s doing that a lot more lately. I don’t give a shit. Homelander is a pathetic fucking pussy, and Sage is a heartless bitch. You’re perfect the goddamn way you are. It’s goddamn infuriating how you’re so perfect, because it’s inconvenient. And if you want to come home you’ll wear blue and not a single fucking thing in the world will stop me getting you.

That’s part of the problem, Benjamin. I’m not perfect, I can’t fight them, and I can’t let you come and get me. You know that.

You are fucking perfect. You’re a goddamn pain in my ass, but you’re still beautiful and sure as shit smarter than you should be. And all I know that I fucking miss you.

You’re crying. Silent tears you have to muffle and wipe away, because even if Homelander isn’t here you can’t chance that he’ll see you break. If you break, it can’t be in front of Homelander. You won’t allow it.

But Ben’s voice sounds so real. Deep and pushing calm into you—soothing your blood back into your body—because as long as Ben’s voice is here and talking like this nothing can hurt you.

I miss you too, Benjamin. Your smile is soft and tired, but you can feel Ben there. Something a little more solid than a phantom around you.

Come home. Just fucking come home. There’s a beat of silence, and his voice in your ear is hoarse. Please.

Soon.

You always say soon. Just come home now.

Ben-

I miss you. I fucking miss you and I don’t want you home soon. I want you home now. His voice is building with frustration, and something in you is starting to spark in time with that strange thing. I can’t keep worrying about you. You promised, and I trust you with my goddamn life, but I don't trust you with yours.

Hey. You frown into the dark. My life, Benjamin. My choice to stay.

I haven’t fucking gotten you, have I? I’m respecting your stupid fucking choice, but I still hate it. I fucking hate this.

I know you do. But there’s more work to do.

You don’t have to be the one to do it. You can just-

I can’t. You hug yourself, the warmth in you growing stronger. Not pushing the cold down, or your blood back in, but rising the fire to fill the cracks the cold is leaving along your head and heart. I can’t just come home. I have to do this. This has to be me.

There’s another stretch of silence—that thing climbing up your spine and lighting up every nerve—before Ben’s voice rings around you once more. Fine.

Thank you. You’re not sure why you’re thanking him. He’s not real, but it’s an instinct. Thank Ben, always thank Ben because everything in you is back in your hands and you love him.

Don’t.

You smile into the dark, your tears drying in your eyes. You can’t fucking stop me, Pretty Boy.

I will soon. You’re going to come home, and every time you thank me I’m going to fuck the words out of your mouth.

I don’t think that’s going to have the effect you intend it to.

Yes it fucking will-

Ben. Your voice in your head is dry. If every time I thank you I get fucked, I’m never going to stop thanking you. I might start just thanking you randomly, specifically so you fuck me.

The thing in you is bellowing and jerking your heart around. Smartass.

I mean, you had to have seen that coming-

I just want to see you coming, beautiful. You can almost see his wink. All over me.

Horny old man.

You love it. And you’re no fucking better than me.

Than I. And excuse you, I for one can keep it in my pants-

His voice snorts. I know you, Sunshine. You want to fuck me more than anyone has ever wanted to fuck me. And a lot of people have wanted to fuck me.

Braggart.

That’s not a real word.

Yes, it is.

Well then what the hell does it mean.

You brag a lot. It’s pretty self-explanatory, Benjamin. You could’ve gotten that one yourself.

Shut the fuck up.

Make me.

I will. When you get home I’m going to shut your pretty mouth up for a whole goddamn year. With my cock, and my hands, and-

Fuck you.

I promise I will, brat. I’m going to fuck you so much you’re never going to want anyone else to touch you.

You don’t need to fuck me to do that. You sigh, trying to sit a little longer in the warmth as daylight starts to creep into the room. I already don’t want anyone but you, Ben.

His voice is silent for a second, and you think it’s going to say what it always does, because you love me, but it doesn’t. The thing rattles with an ache in your body, and Ben’s voice is softer than you’d expected when you hear it again. I don’t want anyone else either.

Good. Your breathing is easy, and you can really almost feel Ben. Behind you, around you, in you. Can you still fuck me anyways?

His laugh rolls through you, and that thing feels lighter. You feel lighter. Deal, Sunshine.

Deal.

The thing fades into dormant ease once more, but you’re still warm. Your blood is still trying to break out of your body, but you’re holding it in.

And the fire is building. Faster and faster, blazing up into your skin, the fire is building.

And you won’t break.

In the morning, your lockdown is temporarily lifted so Homelander can parade you to the masses. They’d long fixed the damage you and Ben caused to the tower lawn—the grass is green once more, and the sidewalks have been repaved smooth and black—and they’ve set up a stage that’s reminiscent of Firecrackers. Not quite as dramatic, twice as large, and with better rigged lights. You could just walk out the doors of Vought Tower—they’ve barricaded the path for that very purpose—but Homelander trusts you. And you’re so close. You’re holding on by a thread, but you won’t break. Not yet.

Homelander’s been touching you more. Never casually, and not like that, but his hand isn’t just on your lower back anymore. It’s clasping into yours more often, and not in the intimate, careful way Ben does. A cold, leather glove that snaps around your hand, no fingers intertwined or thumb rubbing on your skin. Yanking you around in a way that makes your elbow snap, slamming you into his back and not bothering to steady you. You let him, he has to trust you, but it makes you colder. Homelander will look at you with cruel blue eyes, devoid of any light or warmth or life, and you feel like a prize. He’s won you, and now he’s growing more and more confident, less and less afraid.

He still won’t touch you with skin. You can’t figure out why, but Homelander’s so very careful not to even brush his skin against yours. You’d think it’s fear. That you’ll feel him, and see something he doesn’t want you to. It’s not about you burning him, you haven’t used fire in front of him since he’d taken you and he knows it. He thinks you’ve burnt out. Learned your place and burnt out. So it has to be about a fear you don’t understand.

You try not to question it. It’s saving you from being touched like that, and that would break you. That would irreversibly shatter you, and you wouldn’t be able to pull yourself back together. So you don’t question it, use that small part of Ben that’s comfortable in your chest to feed the fire, and try to keep the cold in you. You’ll have to, for this. You can’t afford the cold taking control and falling out of you. You can’t afford flinches or numb expressions when this winter becomes something that’s beyond you.

So you push it down, down, down, and smile at Homelander. Too sweet, too many teeth, almost manic.

But you smile at Homelander, and play the game. You’re almost done, so you play the game.

“Babe?”

He turns on you with a shark-like expression. You’ve baited him with blood—drawn right from your heart and making you cold—and he’s taken it.

Homelander says your name, and it's hard to keep smiling. “I like babe, it’s right. Keep using it.”

You nod, and don’t speak. Waiting for him to prompt you.

“If you want something, say it.”

“I was just wondering if you could carry me to the rally later?” Your words are softer than you’d intend, but your tongue is numb in your mouth and it’s the best you can manage. “I just want to get more used to flying with you-“

“Of course you can,” Homelander looks you up and down. “It’s not like you’ll get hurt if I drop you.”

You make yourself laugh, and it doesn’t sound like you. But you keep smiling. Allow yourself to sound smaller. “You won’t drop me, right?”

He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’d take a week to scrape off the pavement.” Homelander’s eyes narrow on yours. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course!” Voice lighter. Don’t let a crack show in it. “I’m just scared of heights.”

“Oh,” Homelander nods, and starts to walk to you. Arms opening to pick you up, and you have to not scream. Have to keep your teeth from chewing at your cheek and your hands from shaking. “Then let’s go fly. Now.”

“I, I’m not ready-“

“Honey,” Homelander’s voice is annoyed, and he’s glaring again. “Humans have silly little fears about heights. Not us. You’re going to get over this, fucking now, because you aren’t human anymore.”

You’re not afraid of heights. You’ve never been afraid of heights. You’ve only ever really been afraid of three things in your life.

Being worthless.

Losing Ben.

Homelander.

But you can’t break. Play the role. Nod slowly and walk into Homelander’s arms. Feel cold but keep it in you, because you don’t have time to let it out. You have six days to do everything, and being defiant isn’t a luxury you can afford.

He’s still grinning at you, and his teeth are too white. They look fake. “I knew you’d come around. Sage said you wouldn’t, said you’d always be a little too weak, but look at you.” He laughs, and you have to keep smiling. “Still fucking weak, but ready to fix it.”

He doesn’t let you respond before yanking you up the stairs and onto the roof, and your words and protests die in your throat because he has to trust you if you want to go home. And when Homelander shoots up into the sky, you can’t scream or push him away or even go rigid like you’d done before. You had to pretend you trusted Homelander. That he’d won you and now you trusted him. You have to pull him closer on purpose, even though he’s colder than the air around you and your body hates it. It hates touching him, it hates him touching you. He does it as if you’re his possession. With callous, thoughtlessly placed hands and like, if he were to drop you, it wouldn’t matter. You’re his to break.

You’d flown with Homelander before, but that had been for transportation. He’d been focused and bored, carrying you like cargo. This was purely to force any fear or weakness out of you with speed and brute force. He’d done flips, your body tossed around through the air and his arms so loose on you there’s not a second where you are certain he won’t drop you. Halfway through you start to hope he will. That you’ll fall with a sickening splat below, someone will post it online, and Ben will come get you.

But Homelander doesn’t drop you. He goes so fast your skin feels like it’s peeling off your face, so high the air feels thin, and through clouds that leave you damp and chilled.

You weren’t afraid of heights before. You think you might be now. Another line on the growing list of things that, even if you manage not to break, will never be good again. You’re not sure how long you’re up in the air, but when you land back at the tower your hands feel bitten with frost and there’s bile in your throat.

“Go get yourself together,” Homelander orders, nudging you to the door back inside. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

You nod, and try to smile at him. He grins back, but his expression turns slightly sour the longer he looks at you.

“Don’t fucking cry. And wear your supe outfit.”

He’s gone in a blast of wind, and you’re left to stagger back to his apartment. Alone. Blood so cold, but without time to get a hold over it. You just have to keep going, and hope this settles within the hour.

You find your way back to the apartment, still freezing into your bones. Trying to stoke the flames under your skin with that thing of Ben’s in your chest, with thoughts of good things.

Music. City Lights. Ben.

Go through the movements. Don’t vomit—it will take too long to do, time you don’t have—and hum to yourself until the air feels warmer. You can still feel the cold rushing in your blood, but your skin is warmer. You sing a song of summer, and at least your skin feels warmer. You don’t break.

Do your hair and makeup yourself. Ashley had offered you a team this morning, and you’d turned it down. You’d made sure Homelander heard your words—I know what I should look like, I don’t need people helping me—and Ashley had nodded and dropped it with an anxious expression and tug of her hair. So now you stand at the mirror, putting on lipstick that’s the wrong shade of red for your skin and applying shadow in a way that’s not you. Not a style you’d ever wear, not when you had control over it. But it’s the role. This is the right red for this version of you, because it’s a red Homelander likes. This eyeshadow is exactly how you have to do it, because it’s how the paid Vought artists did it. How the world thinks you do it.

You keep a small part of you in your makeup. There’s a green, metallic eyeliner in the collection that had appeared in Homelander’s bathroom, and you trace it on your inner eye. It flashes whenever you move, and it’s impossible to miss. Just a little green, where Ben won’t miss it. Just a little light that doesn’t feel blinding, but feels peaceful and alive. You don’t break.

Now get changed. You have to get changed, because you’ve calmed down enough to not be in danger—or a danger—and done your hair and makeup. The hour is almost up, and so you have to get changed.

The only reason you’re managing not to vomit every time you wear your supe costume is because there’s still a stale smell of Ben on it. You’re surprised Homelander hasn’t noticed, but he also doesn’t know what Ben smells like. The pine could just be from the outdoors, the gunpowder from the attack. And the part that’s just Ben—not shampoo or lingering parts of his day that grow stronger on his skin—is yours to know. It’s a strong smell, powerful and Ben, and you know it’s his. Same as you know that the thing in you is him, something of Ben’s that’s left a tattoo on you. You know all of him, and this smells like he feels. Like he tastes.

You still remember what I fucking taste like?

Shut up. I miss you, and I love you. Of course I remember, don’t be a dick about it.

Would you prefer I give you my dick about it?

You snort softly into the empty air. That one’s not even good. I expect better from you.

You fucking shouldn’t.

And yet, I do.

Because you love me.

Because I love you. You frown at your reflection in the mirror. The green hair clip you’ve been wearing—the one you’d been clinging to since you’d seen it in a costume room and stolen it to keep—looks out of place. It feels too much like you, and you don’t look like you. You look like a statue, or doll.

I look stupid.

You look hot. You always look hot, Sunshine. It’s one of my favorite things about you.

Wrong. You smile at your reflection, and that’s your real smile. You’re talking to Ben—even if it’s just his phantom—so that’s your smile. You like that I’m smart, and that I’m kind, and my pussy.

And all of that is fucking hot. Because you’re hot.

Thanks, Pretty Boy. You’re hot as well.

I fucking know that. That’s why you love me.

That’s not at all why I love you. I love you because you care, more than you’ll ever admit. I love you because you never give up on anything, and because you’re honest. I can trust you, I can always trust you. I love you because you always do what you say you will, and you’re never trying to be anything but yourself. You’re an asshole, Benjamin, but you’re my asshole. You’re a protective, abrasive, vulgar manwhore, and I love you so much it makes me a little insane.

Brat.

Cunt.

You also love me because I’m a good piece of ass. I’m hotter than the goddamn sun and you want to jump my bones, admit it.

I’m allowed to love you because of who you are and also think that you’re stupid hot, Benjamin. You make me laugh and feel safe and happy so I’m always going to love you, and you’re so handsome it hurts to look at so I’m always going to want to jump your bones.

Good thing I want to fuck you until you’re dizzy and can’t even damn speak, beautiful.

I think I can live with that. You sigh. I miss you, and I have to go.

I miss you too. Kick their fucking balls into their throats.

You huff a small laugh into the air. Gross.

You love me.

I do. The cold in your blood is tangible, but so is the fire. And both are yours. Completely yours.

You can do this. You can fucking do this, do it right, and go home.

It still takes holding your tongue between your teeth to not scream when Homelander grabs you, and control over every muscle in your body to not go rigid when he touches you, but you do it. You keep your body limp and smile at his cruel face. You land on the stage—the crowd only one push or wrong noise from a riot—and keep smiling. You shrink into yourself, step back into Homelander’s shadow in a careful way that’s about being shy. About not wanting the spotlight, and seeking comfort in love.

It’s really about trying to get away. About giving your feet just an inch they can move away, because they want to run. Everyone is watching you like you’re going to be their salvation. Like they’re going to eat your flesh and it will bring them comfort. Like you’re going to put on a show and it will be glorious, like you’ll bring them something they’ve been missing. Homelander is watching you as well, and you’re trying to get to where he can’t see. His eyes make that cold spread, make it rile up in wind that sweeps through your body like a storm.

So you’re quiet, and meek, and give Homelander no reason to look at you. You wave to the crowd and smile in a small, pliant way. Sage walks up onto the stage and you get the same, small nod that she offers Homelander. You return it with a sweet expression, and fade into the background as Sage and Homelander work. All you have to do is be here, stand silently, and do as you’re told and it will be more than enough. Cameras are angled at your every shift and breath, and you’re still nothing more than a statue. Homelander tells a completely fabricated and implausible story about how he used to fly you to Paris at night so you could picnic on the top of the Eiffel Tower. The Deep shows up and talks about how hard all the lies have been on you and Homelander, his two closest friends, especially after the recent deaths of your teammates. You considered them family, and this is a period of grief, not of—as the Deep puts it—being a total hater on true love. Ashley gives a speech about how when she first met you, she knew you were in love with Homelander because you couldn’t stop laughing with him about nothing. She says you and Homelander have invited her over for dinner, and everyone here should one day hope to have his burgers and your chocolate mousse cake.

In the hum of the speaker feedback, you hear Ben snort. Suddenly he’s everywhere. Around your body and between your fingers and resting on your head.

I remember when you tried to make us a cake. I wasn’t sure if it looked or tasted more like actual dogshit.

Fuck off. You ate the whole thing.

I’ll eat fucking anything, Sunshine. That cake was a goddamn travesty.

Guess who’s not getting a cake for his stupid birthday.

I’m a little damn old for a cake. His voice drawls your name on the wind. I’ll just eat you instead.

Smooth. And you’re never too old for cake, Benjamin. I’ll even put vanilla ice cream on it.

I thought I wasn’t getting a fucking cake.

I changed my mind. You’re getting cake, and it’s going to be the fanciest cake you’ve ever fucking seen. And I’m going to put rainbow sprinkles on the ice cream, and there’s not a thing you can do to stop me.

Can I still eat you?

Yes. But you’re eating the cake first. And you have to grill burgers.

For my own fucking birthday? Isn’t the whole point supposed to be that I don’t do shit?

Would you rather I make the burgers?

You and Ben had tried to make burgers four times. Technically, you had tried. He’d already known how, because he was a goddamn red blooded fucking American man, and attempted to teach you, but you had not been a good student. You’d burnt them every time, but you kept getting distracted. Ben’s muscles would ripple when he flipped a burger and he’d grin at you while he talked about meat and things being tender, and you think you just kept blacking out in an effort to not fuck him right there. After the fourth smoke alarm resulted in you and Ben sitting in the dining hall while Mallory lectured you about fire safety and banned you from the kitchen’s grill, you’d decided this was just a skill you didn’t need to have. Ben could make burgers. He was better at it, and always got focused in a way that made you both want to fuck him—have all that intensity and care turned on you—and just touch him. Run a hand across his forehead, into his hair, and check that he was real. It made you love him more.

You’re not sure if the phantom is reacting to the burger comment and you calling him adorable, but something rumbles around in your heart and Ben’s voice grumbles. Shut the fuck up.

It’s a little easier to look mindlessly happy. You can feel this remnant of Ben in you—this thing that is him—climbing up a little higher to sit on the top of your chest, so it’s easy to pretend you’re ditzy and humble and your smile is light and carefree. Ashley concludes her speech, and Sage is up. You and Homelander represent the best of what the world has to offer. Two people who have loved each other from the first time they saw each other, and who, despite the hardships and obstacles, will always prevail. She says Homelander will always find you, and you manage to keep smiling. Ben’s Thing tightens in you, and you can practically see his angry expression, but you keep smiling. You will build a perfect American family, and Ryan Butcher will be returned to where he belongs.

I haven’t been being a dick to the Kid.

You blink. What?

You told me not to be a dick to the Kid. I haven’t been. I’ve been a goddamn angel.

Okay. You fight the confused frown on your face. Why are you telling me that?

Because you seemed to really damn care about it. I don’t know. Shut the fuck up.

But-

You were right. He’s not like Homelander. He’s a little bit of a pussy-

Benjamin.

What?

Don’t call a twelve-year-old a pussy. It’s uncouth.

But he is a pussy-

How can he possibly be a pussy.

He can name all fifty states.

I can name all fifty states.

That’s different.

How.

You’re a fucking know it all.

Hey-

You’re a sexy know it all. You look hot when you get riled up, and talking about pretty much anything gets you riled up. If you sat in front of me and named all fifty states I’d get a fucking boner.

That’s weird, Ben.

Fuck off. You’d love my boner.

You lightly bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling. I would.

You’d suck me off, and look fucking hot doing it, and then I’d eat you out and make you cum on my face-

You’re trying to distract me from you calling Ryan a pussy.

No. Shut the fuck up.

You shut the fuck up. I would suck you off, and then maybe I’d let you eat me out-

Maybe?

And then I’d make you clean up and get dressed and learn all fifty states.

That information will never be goddamn useful, Sunshine. Would be a waste of my fucking time.

Because you’re such a busy man? Is getting a boner from listening to me talk and then eating me out that time consuming?

So I will get to eat you out.

Fuck you.

That’s what I’m fucking asking-

Stay on topic, Ben. You should be able to name all fifty states.

Why in goddamn Christ-

You’ve been around since before Hawaii and Alaska, and you’re barely younger than Arizona. It’s a little sad you can’t, Pretty Boy.

Well, I’m not a damn loser pussy, so I don’t really give a fuck.

Rude.

You’re not a loser pussy either. No woman of mine would be a loser pussy.

Your heart stumbles a little faster, and Ben’s Thing hums in your body. Thanks.

Don’t.

You can’t fucking stop me-

Because I’m not there, beautiful. If I were on that stupid fucking stage and you thanked me, I’d pick you up, carry you home, and stop you with my cock in your pretty fucking mouth.

You need to get a grip on yourself. Maybe start putting effort into filtering the phantom better. Because, even in your head, your voice sounds breathless. Okay.

No big words, Sunshine? Just going to let me fuck your face-

Shut up. Cunt.

Brat. There’s a beat of silence, but it’s still louder than the noise of the crowd because you can almost hear Ben’s breath in your ear. I miss you. Come home.

Soon. You feel something heavy, sickening in that piece of Ben inside your chest. You can’t stand it, it makes your heart hurt, and you need Ben—even this strange fragment of him—to feel happy again. And as soon as I do, I’m kicking your ass and making you apologize to your grandson for calling him a pussy.

It feels lighter, and Ben’s scoff isn’t painful. Don’t call him my grandson.

He is, by definition, your grandson. Don’t be a pussy about it, Benjamin.

Smartass.

Old man.

You like it, you fucking grave-robber.

Am I a grave-robber, or are you a cradle-robber?

You’re a goddamn grown woman-

And you’re an ancient, grumpy man-child.

You love it.

I do. You don’t repeat the second part, because Ben’s voice doesn’t prompt it out of you. It just falls into a comfortable, happy silence everywhere around you, and you feel safe. You might have never been in more danger—Homelander at your side and the eyes of the world on you—but everything that’s been breaking in you feels a little more manageable. You’re still full of that never ending cold, but it’s not falling out of you or trying to escape. You can sit in it easily, because you can almost feel Ben there and your fire is still growing. Sage is still talking, and you let it pass through you. This will get through you, and you’ll go home soon. Sage calls you the sweetest and most genuine person she’e ever met, and you hear Ben’s snort. She talks about how Homelander treats you like an equal, and there’s a spark of annoyance in Ben’s Thing for you. She calls you and Homelander American Heroes, and you can keep yourself modest and happy as Homelander laughs and waves off the compliment.

But you can’t stop the momentary static of your heart, or the numb of your body, when Homelander kisses your cheek. A new crack forms—long and somewhere critical—and Ben’s Thing in you riots. Grows louder than the crowd, louder than the ringing in your ears.

You almost don’t see Homelander freeze. He goes still and rigid, his face twitching and looking sick, and you realize that the cold is leaving you. Homelander touched you, and Ben’s Thing is roaring in some sort of pain, and you’ve lost a hold over the polar feeling in your body.

Fuck this, I’m coming to get you-

Benjamin. He’s everything in you that’s good. Everything is cold and you’re afraid and you can’t control yourself and you’re going to lose, but Ben’s voice is still around you and you’re still you. You haven’t broken. You’re so close, you won’t break, and this piece of Ben will help hold you together. You can’t. You know that.

He fucking touched you-

He only kissed my cheek. I’m okay. You’re not. You know what this means, even if Homelander had recoiled from you with a look that won’t last. But you’re so close. There won’t be time for escalation, you’ll be home soon. You’ll falter and break when you get home.

Ben’s voice doesn’t seem convinced. You don’t fucking look okay. You look like you just got goddamn shot, you need to come home right now-

I’m fine.

When Ben says your name, there’s some sort of strain in it. The same ache and pounding that you can feel from that thing inside of you. There’s not a single goddamn thing you can do to stop me-

I know. But please don’t. If you trust me, Ben, please don’t.

You don’t know why you’re arguing with him. This Ben isn’t real, it can’t come get you. But it’s so deep inside of you, keeping you together as Sage’s speech concludes and Homelander herds you up to the front of the stage, you entertain it. It doesn’t feel fake. It feels like him. The sharp, bitter anger in your chest feels like his, the gravely frustration in his voice sounds like it’s coming from right behind you, and it’s so fucking important that you keep it there until you’re in control again.

I do fucking trust you, but I can’t just leave you-

Not leaving me. You’re never leaving me. You’re waiting.

Ben’s Thing stabs into you, and you almost flinch from it. I am waiting. I’m waiting for as long as it takes. But Christ, I fucking hate it. I don’t want to wait, I want you home.

I want to come home. I want to come home more than almost anything. But-

Almost? His words are a grunt from somewhere at your side. The hell do you want more-

You. Fire is building in you, fed by the warmth of Ben’s Thing beating in your chest. I want you.

That thing roars. Claws against your ribs and heart, and you can’t think about anything else. You’re going through the movements—waving and smiling to the crowd—but everything in you is about Ben. About how you’ve never felt a fervor like this anywhere but in him, and you miss him and want him and love him-

Fine. He’s relenting. He’s only in your head, but he’s still relenting with a low, tired voice. But if I see even a little bit of fucking blue-

You can break down the doors of Vought Tower and carry me home. You swallow, and keep your face bright as something in you wilts when Homelander’s arm wraps around you. I’ll see you soon, Ben. I promise.

I know. And I’ll wait.

Thank you.

Don’t.

It doesn’t go dormant, but Ben’s Thing stops being loud. It moves back to resting near your heart, existing always with that arctic sensation in your body. It takes all the strength and will you possess to pull the lingering bits of it—the fear it’s made of—back into you and hold them there when Homelander vaults up into the sky. He’s not touching you on skin again, and Ben’s Thing has tugged much of it out of the air around you, but your blood is still singing, trying to reach anything else and make it feel this. Feel the pure, raw terror that the infinite cold is made of, that’s rushing through you. Rushing out of you.

But it’s not just fear falling out of your body. It’s something furious that’s for Homelander touching you. And you’ve felt things that aren’t fear move out of you before. You’ve felt heat, want and love and adoration, run out of your body when Ben’s touched you. When you’ve gotten to touch him.

Homelander leaves you on the roof to find your way back to his apartment, saying he has business to attend to. He looks like he might try to kiss you, but fear and hatred leaks out of you when he moves and suddenly he’s gone.

And you have a theory. You have a little more than five days, this Thing of Ben’s still burning peacefully inside of you, and a theory.

You have to test it. The cold in you is growing, but so is the fire. Both are, for now, in your control. The fire and the cold are everywhere in you and on you, but not around you, and you’re holding them there. If you’re right about this, then everything will work. You’ll go home.

But you have to test it first.

You spend that night, alone in Homelander’s apartment, making a new plan. You can’t test on Homelander, he needs to keep thinking you’ve gone docile. That you’re out of tricks and are back to being what he thinks you are. You can’t test this on Sage, she’ll figure out what’s happening and you can’t afford that right now. This is the only advantage you have over her, because you’re certain she doesn’t know about it. If she knew, she wouldn’t let you go to rallies, or go anywhere near her. This is the one thing she can’t control or predict or understand.

Feelings. She can’t control how you feel. She can’t stop you being afraid or angry, can’t stop you loving Ben, and can’t prevent how when it all becomes too much your emotions aren’t yours anymore. How they’ve been building up and up and up, growing loud and feral, and now they’re bigger than you are. You’re more afraid than you can hold in you. Afraid for your life, and your self, and for Ben. And every time Homelander’s touched you or Sage had threatened you the fear has grown until it’s sweeping through your body.

But it’s not just the fear. It’s your anger, your fury that this isn’t fair. This is wrong and fucked up and you have to be the one to fix it, but you just want to go home. You’re full of wrath for yourself, for Ryan and Becca Butcher, for Hughie and Annie and MM and Frenchie and Kimiko and everyone you love being forced into this. It’s stoking the fire, and that’s why everything is white-hot now. The anger and fear are made of the same thing that pushes out of you in moments when they consume you, and now they sit in your blood to be weaponized.

The only thing bigger than them is your love. It’s grown so large in your heart and head and soul that it’s become its own animal. It starts in you, and it belongs to Ben. All this love in you is for Ben. You’ll always know him anywhere because your empathy has decided that he is you. He’s something so crucial to you, your love for him is so powerful, that you don’t recognize him just because you know him. You can feel him when he’s not touching you, sense him when he’s close. Nothing has ever been as powerful as your love for Ben, and your empathy knows that. It knows that he won’t hurt you, he’d never hurt you, and that it’s only this strong because of him. Because Ben let you touch him and wasn’t afraid of you, and now he’s everything. Just as much a part of you as the fire has become, and you’ll always return to him.

You’re so close.

Right now you have to be angry and afraid and learn what it can do, and then you can go home and love Ben. Spend the rest of time loving Ben.

But first you have to be angry and afraid.

It takes four of your five remaining days to prove and understand your theory. You go along with Sage’s orders and Ashley’s requests, because right now the act is vital to keep up. You can hear the protest crowds from the 99th floor, and every time you catch a glimpse of social media it’s all about you. You’re America’s sweetheart and savior and symbol, and this is all you have left to do.

You test on the Deep first. You hold your anger in every muscle of your body, and ask the Deep about something simple.

“Hey, Deep?”

The idiot pauses in the hallway, spinning around to grin at you with a puffed out chest. “Anomaly! What’s going on, does Homelander need me-“

“No,” you give a light, silly giggle, like a schoolgirl who just heard her crush liked her back. You don’t throw up on the Deep’s dumb, shiny suit. “I just wanted to know if you got the funding for your new movie?”

“Oh, shit, yeah! I mean with A-Train dead, rest in power, brother,” he puts his fist up in a salute and you have to hold down a scoff. “There’s like a fuck ton of money just lying around, and I was like ‘uh, guys. What if I got the money, right?’ and they said-“

You’re not listening to what Vought Studios said, because you’re trying to figure out how to touch the Deep without him realizing. You wait until he’s completely engrossed in his story then start to walk, gesturing for him to follow. He falls into a pace at your side, talking about getting good writers that will do his character justice, and you lean to the side. Brush your arm against his, and all the wrath in you flares.

The Deep’s voice grows louder. Tighter. “And I don’t fucking understand why they didn’t just give me the money, right? I mean it’s not fucking fair I have to pull all this shit together by myself. I just want to chill the hell out, but somehow this falls on me to fix this shit-“ He freezes, because by his last words he was in a full on shout. Almost a scream. “Uh, sorry, I don’t know where that came from. Don’t tell Homelander I was yelling at you, I really didn’t mean to-“

“It’s fine,” you smile, and it’s more sweet than smug. But you feel really fucking smug. “You’re just passionate.”

One down. One step closer.

Next, you find the writers. Skinny McBrown-Nose and Bald Pussy. You’ve forgotten their names again, and you’d feel a little worse about it if the moment they saw you they didn’t start trying to feed you anecdotes to use about your love for Homelander.

“What if,” Bald Pussy leans forward with a toothy grin. “You asked him out first. And he said no, because he loved you and wanted to protect you, but it broke your heart.”

“And you tried to get over him,” Skinny McBrown-Nose jumps in with an up-beat bounce to his words. “But nobody made you feel the way he does. There’s nobody else for you, and you’d just resigned yourself to a life of solitude when he confessed his love for you. He just couldn’t bear to see you with another, and he decided that putting you at risk would be fine, because he’s the strongest man in the world. As long as he’s there, you’ll be safe.”

You blink, because that is shockingly close to being accurate. For them it’s about Homelander and not Ben, but it’s more you than anything else they’ve pitched.

There is no one else for you but Ben, although you don’t think you’d ever even try to get over him. When this is over you’ll just resign yourself to not being loved by him and dedicate yourself to loving him in secret.

Ben is the strongest man in the world, but he’d never put you at risk. He hates you putting yourself at risk, and if he knew one of the reasons you’ve been staying at Vought was to protect him he’d probably have an aneurism.

And as long as he’s there, you are safe. There’s not a safer place in the world than at Ben’s side.

“I, um,” you have to cover your hesitation, because the writers are looking at you with nervous, expectant expressions. “I think Homelander would prefer he asked me out. It fits in better-“

“But this way,” Bald Pussy interjects eagerly. “We hit the demographic of liberal women in the 18-44 range. They’ll love that you took the move first, and that he loved you so much-“

“I don’t know.” You pull all the dormant cold from your blood and focus on it—let it choke you—and lean forward enough for your hands to touch theirs. Lightly. Unnoticeably. Holding their gazes so they don’t look down and see it. “Maybe I should go get him, and you can tell him-“

“No!” Bald Pussy’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head frantically. “I mean, no need to involve Homelander, you’re probably right-“

You can’t be sure if this is just an average, healthy fear of Homelander, or your fear of Homelander. The fear that haunts you and follows you everywhere. You have to be sure. “I mean, I like it. I think I can just approve it myself-“

“Don’t worry about it!” Skinny McBrown-Nose’s voice is a squeak. “I mean, you shouldn’t bother him. It wasn’t that good an idea, and we’ll come up with a better one, so you don’t have to risk it. Right?”

That’s fear for you. Skinny McBrown-Nose is afraid for you, to talk to Homelander and offer him something he might hate. He has no rational reason to be afraid for you, not with what he’s been told. It worked.

You agree softly and walk away from them. You have more work to do.

You fall into random people and bump against passers by. For the first time in years, you’re touching everyone you can on purpose. Doing it randomly is helping you from falling apart, as their emotions aren’t intense or overwhelming. They’re mostly just bland, flavorless neutrality. It’s not a great indictment of the emotional health of Vought’s employees—how soulless and empty everyone is—but right now it’s working in your favor. You can ignore the emotions that each touch gives you and just study the way they react.

Some stumble slightly, and a lot of them freeze. Several double over before looking around with slack, pained expressions, and one even falls to the ground. Dropping with a strangled sound like you’d shot them.

And you know you were right. You’ve proven yourself right, and you almost fully understand it. You’re so close. To going home, to being with Ben again, to being done. This is almost over.

Almost. You just need to find the V. You have just less than two days left, and you won’t fail. Your nightmares are growing worse and you’re still waking up paralyzed, unable to breathe or move or think anything outside of blood. So much blood, all on your hands. Not strong enough to clean them, too weak enough to wipe them on another. And there’s just so much blood.

But you’ll get through it. You’re almost home.

The more you do this, the more you feel Ben. His voice is always louder now, and you think you might be going insane. You don’t know if it’s this new power taking you over and driving you mad, or if you just miss him so much you’re losing your mind, but Ben feels closer than he had before. Maybe it’s because you’re almost ready. Maybe it’s anticipation.

But no matter what it is, he’s still everywhere. His Thing in your chest is almost always alight, and his presence is solid. Just as permanent as your love for him, just as strong and warm as he is. It feels so purely Ben that your body starts to look for him where you know he won’t be. He’s not going to be in Homelander’s bathroom, or in the Seven’s meeting room, or Ashley’s office. But you can sense him all the time, and the phantom is getting away from you. Muttering in your ear at inconvenient moments about random things that were far too detailed.

Why the fuck did you love those stupid sunglasses? He’d grumbled one morning, a little before your talk with The Deep. You’d frowned into the lukewarm air of Homelander’s kitchen.

What are you talking about?

Those shit quality, knock-off Soldier Boy sunglasses you always wore. Why did you like them.

Oh, you’d blinked at nothing, tapping at the bridge of your nose. Why?

I asked first.

But-

Just answer the damn question, Sunshine. There was a pause, and you could almost hear his sigh. Please.

You had to fight the smile on your face, because Homelander could walk in at any second. Well, since you asked so nicely, Pretty Boy, they reminded me of you.

He was scowling. You don’t know how you know, but you’re certain he was scowling. They were fucking blue.

Yeah, well- You pause, his words settling in. What do you mean, were.

Don’t fucking worry about it. How did they remind-

Why did you use past tense. What happened to my sunglasses.

I said don’t worry about it, his voice muttered your name, and it was almost sheepish. It’s not-

Benjamin.

They broke.

What.

When I lost you, they got smashed-

First off, you didn’t lose me. Stop saying you lost me. Second of all, why are you asking me about my broken sunglasses.

You loved them. I want to know if you just fucking like sunglasses, or if it’s something else-

I loved those sunglasses because they made me more certain you were real. You’d cared enough to give them to me when Butcher had dropped them off, and that made me happy. It made me think you cared about me-

I do care about you. He sounds indignant. Of course I fucking care about you. I-

I know you care, Ben. That’s why I’m not that mad about them hypothetically being broken, because I don’t need proof-

Why would you ever fucking need proof.

Because you’re confusing. You’re the love of my life, Benjamin, and you confuse the fuck-

His voice sounded like it had somehow dropped an octave when he says your name. What the hell did you just say.

I said you’re a confusing piece of shit-

No, the other thing.

I said I love you. You know that. Let me talk.

Sunshine-

Homelander had walked in, and you’d had to tune out Ben’s words around you to feign joy in his presence and interest in his words. Ben’s voice had fallen back into a soft sound of static, but his Thing had remained—steady and comfortably—in your chest. A constant, dependable, holding you down until only a few hours later when you’d heard him from nothing again.

You would fucking know what this shit means.

You’d frowned at the stall of the bathroom, collecting your thoughts and trying to reign your anger back to your body. What shit?

Manifest Destiny. Doesn’t even make any damn sense-

It’s the nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to expand westward, and should exert the means to do so.

Smartass.

You fucking asked me the question. It’s not my fault I knew the answer.

You’d heard Ben’s snort, and his Thing had rolled over inside you. Brat.

Cunt.

Someone had entered the bathroom, and Ben’s voice had gone silent around you—a smell like pine and barbecue fading from the air—as his Thing had remained burning in your chest. You didn’t dwell on it, you didn’t have the time or energy to even think it over once, especially as it just kept happening. Over and over, through the evening and night, Ben’s Thing kept growing brighter and Ben began to intertwine into your senses. You start to spare it thought, especially as the conversations keep starting from silence about nothing.

I’d never hurt you.

I know that. You barely managed not to stumble as you walked through the hall, his voice taking you by surprise. Why are you telling me that?

Because Annie��s fucking wrong. I’d never fucking hurt you. You’d have told me if it hurt, and I’d have fucking tied your hands up if you tried to keep doing it.

You’re just confused enough to not let that turn you on. What?

If you kept trying to do your fucking brain magic after saying it was hurting you. I’d have tied you up to stop you from doing it. I’m not-

Why are we talking about this?

Because I wouldn’t hurt you. I love you, and I rather fucking ship myself back to Russia-

You sigh. I told you to stop saying that, Ben.

He went silent for a second, and his Thing in you rumbles. What.

Stop saying you love me.

No.

Please-

No. I fucking love you, let me say it-

Ben, please.

Stop saying please. I don’t want you begging unless it’s for me to make your pretty fucking eyes roll back in your head-

I’m not joking-

Do I sound like I’m damn laughing. I love you-

Benjamin-

You almost walk into a wall, and have to cut off your own voice in your head to regain your balance. And now you’re certain it’s not worth second guessing, because Ben doesn’t love you. You simply miss him so much your stupid brain is inventing random reasons for him to talk to you. It’s only been two weeks since you saw Ben last, and it’s driving you insane.

If you weren’t already so preoccupied with trying to get a lead on some V, you might be more worried about that. But right now you need the comfort that’s provided by Ben’s voice rolling through you as he tells you he loves you, and the easy joy that talking to his phantom brings. The way it makes his Thing so powerful and devout to whatever feeds it.

You still can’t figure out what feeds it, but it’s only growing more and more hungry. It’s still holding your head together, though, so you entertain it. You have a whole morning dedicated to finding V, and Ben’s phantom and Thing can follow you wherever so you don’t break. You have two days left, so you have to play the game and keep your mask on and find the V. If letting Ben haunt you will keep you sane, so be it. There are worse ways to be hungry.

A-Train said Homelander kept some in his room, but you’ve been looking over almost every nook and cranny and shadow and hollow, and there’s nothing. Homelander didn’t throw it away, he wouldn’t, but you don’t even have an educated guess as to where he’d move it to. It doesn’t help that you have to at least try to sneak around Sage’s notice, or that Ben’s voice keeps muttering everywhere about things that don’t matter. It’s keeping you sane—his grumbles and feel all around you, pushing your cracks back together—but it’s a little distracting. You can’t care about breakfast or guns or the movie Palm Springs—you don’t actually remember watching that one with him, you weren’t sure he’d like it—because you have to rummage through cabinets and empty rooms of the dead members of the Seven.

Ben’s voice keeps telling you he loves you. You give up on trying to shut him up, because you don’t have the time. He’s here to keep you steady, and it’s working fairly well.

I still can’t fucking believe they were keep my shield in goddamn Ohio.

Uh huh, you nod mindlessly into the air, pressing the wall in Firecracker’s old room like you might find a secret door. Annie probably would’ve mentioned a secret door, she lived here for almost three years after all, but you can’t afford to leave any stone unturned.

I mean, why even go to trouble of putting it back together if you’re going to put it in taint-fuck Ohio-

Benjamin. Why are we talking about Ohio.

Because if Vought was keeping V in Ohio with my shield, I’ll blow their stupid fucking tower up-

Your shield was fine, you big baby. And It doesn’t matter where Vought was keeping V, what matters is where Sage is keeping it. Now.

Ben’s grunt sounds from somewhere behind you. You’re right.

What was that?

You’re fucking right. You’re always fucking right, so don’t damn gloat-

I am not always right.

Yes, you are. You’re going to find the V and come home, because you fucking promised and you’re always right about this shit.

What shit?

How people think. Their dumb fucking pussy emotions and thoughts.

Well, I do try.

You’ve probably already fucking found the V. Homelander probably didn’t even hide it, because he’s a smug pussy who thinks everyone fucking loves him.

You almost drop the vase you’d been turning over in your hand, mouth falling slightly open. Holy shit, Ben. You’re a genius.

Goddamn right I am. His voice pauses in your head, and you can almost see the knit of his brow. But why the fuck do you think that.

Because Homelander’s a hubristic piece of shit. He won’t think anyone would ever cross or betray him, and if they did he doesn’t think they’d get away with it.

So?

You smile, fingers tapping against the vases slightly dusting glass. I know where the V is.

It takes an effort not to sprint back to Homelander’s apartment. To look nonchalant and bored as you open the door, to call out to see if he’s there, and walk up the stairs carefully just in case.

You duck under the bed, and there’s a black box. A small, sleek black box without a lock, weighting barely over five pounds when you pull it out.

There’s only one vial. One small vial of green liquid, with a label on it that reads Project Anomaly, Trial 6.

It’s your V. Ben’s V.

It’ll have to do.

There’s only one last move. One last careful move. One more thing before you can go home, and one more day to do it.

You make dinner for Homelander. You’re not sure what he likes, but he’s made you eat a lot of corn dogs. You don’t know how to make corn dogs, so you heat up some hotdogs and hope it’ll be enough.

It needs to be enough.

When he arrives, your smile is tooth-rotting. You’re small and quiet and weak, and you’re all for him. You’re cold and exhausted and everything in you is taut, but you’re so close.

“Hi, babe!” You’re going to vomit. You can’t, but later you’ll need to cut off your tongue so you can never even risk sounding like that again. “I made you some food.”

“Food.” Homelander stops in front of you, and you don’t flinch. “What’s the occasion that finally made you stop fucking moping?”

“It’s an offering,” you give him a simper. It hurts your face. “I want to apologize, and talk about us.”

Us. You want to scream but you turn it into a sweeter smile, and Homelander’s face twists into a wide, smug smirk.

“Us?”

He says the word like it’s real. Like it’s applicable to you and him, and you’re not barely alive anymore. So close.

“Our future.” You pat the seat next to you. “Eat first, you’ve been running around all day.”

Homelander lowers into the seat, and frowns at the sad, limp hotdog in front of him. “What the fuck is this.”

“We don’t have a lot of raw ingredients, I did my best with what I had, I’m sorry-“

“I am not eating this limp dick excuse for food.” He pokes the hotdog, and turns to fully face you. “Talk.”

“I, um,” you take Homelander’s hand gingerly, waiting for him to yank it back. He doesn’t. “Sage suggested that I should propose to you, and I just wanted to talk to you about it. Make sure that’s what you want-”

“Sage suggested.” He scowls at you. “So you don’t want to marry me? What am I doing wrong?!” You stare at him, frozen in place as you try to hold your blood in your body, and Homelander’s voice grows louder. “Fucking answer me!”

“Nothing!” Your voice is nervous because you love him and want him to be happy. Not because you keep seeing red on your hands and his face and splattered across walls. You’re holding one hand up to his face and it’s to comfort him, and you’re not forcing your fingers to stay steady. He’s so angry, and cold, and everything in him is like a tornado. Moving and changing too fast, making you sick. “I just want to make sure marriage is something you want too! I love you, that’s enough-“

Homelander’s moving, and before you can even realize what’s happening his mouth is on yours. His hold on you is like a chain, uncaring and harsh and wearing you down, wrapping around your throat until all you can do is think no. No no no no no-

“I knew you’d see it my way.” His words are hissed against your lips, and something finally breaks deep in you. Far, far down in an artery you feel it snap, and if this doesn’t work, you might not survive.

“Of course,” you have to smile. The world is ending but you have to smile. “Thank you for waiting, babe.”

Homelander stands up, almost pushing you away, and claps his hands. “This is going to be a fucking wedding. They won’t be saying all those lies about us when they see it, it’ll be befitting of the gods we are.” He grins to himself. “And everyone loves romance. Fucking sheeple will eat this up. I’m going to get you a ring-“

“Can you get it from Paris?” You give him a pout. “I’ve always wanted a ring from Paris.”

“Of course, honey. Only the best for the bride of the century.” Homelander nods, and kisses you again. You’re drowning, falling, dying, breaking- “I’ll go now, Sage won’t bitch about it when she sees how much people love us.”

You pretend to start and protest, but he’s already gone. And you’re alone. You’re breaking—the cracks are starting to split open and the world is going blurry—but you have to go. You’re on a time limit, and you have to fucking go.

You’re so close. You can’t fail now.

Homelander’s fast. Paris is far, but Homelander’s fast. You probably have an hour, likely less if he gets word. You’ve already wasted time on the floor, clinging onto the parts of you that are somewhat intact to get your through this. Trying to focus on Ben’s Thing in your chest—bloody and loud—to keep your feet moving.

And you run. Nobody guards Homelander’s room, people are barely even on 99 lately, so you run. Faster than you’ve ever run in your life, one hand over the original V in your pocket to keep it from falling out. Out the door, down the stairs, not stopping to check if anyone sees you. The fire is scratching under your skin, and you’re going to pass out from the cold you won’t let leave you, but you go.

Down, down, down. 82. 74. 66. 53.

The alarms go off. The stairwell lights up red, the blare of a siren echoing off the gray walls, and you keep running.

50. 47. 42.

A door opens somewhere, the creak and scrape on the concrete barely audible.

38.

A man in all black is aiming a gun at you. He has brown eyes, and his hands are shaking.

His eyes burn out first, and you keep running.

35.

Three more. One of them has a tattoo of a flower visible on her wrist. It curls and twists with the burns on her hands.

31. 27. 23.

More bodies. The stairs are littered with bodies, and everything is painted in blood, and the water from the sprinklers is going up into steam. You can’t see your next steps, or the floor numbers, but you keep going.

Down, down, down.

A green EXIT sign is glowing through the smoke and mist. You slam into it, and you might hear something crack.

Go.

People are screaming, most of them parting around you. A few more bodies drop, a few more flashes of curly hair curling up in smoke and a scar on a cheek growing larger. One man’s shout of stop sounds like your father.

Fucking go.

You can see the exit. The doors of Vought Tower are made of glass, and it’s sunny outside. Everything is sparkling, like it just rained.

GO.

Someone calls your name. Your real name, your full name that’s carved on a gravestone in Boston. But the voice is wrong. There’s only one voice that’s right, that’s safe, and it’s the deep one that’s roaring for you in your chest. You don’t stop.

That’s your name again. A woman is calling your name. She’s small, with dark skin and the coldest eyes you’ve ever seen.

She’s not safe. Everything in your brain is gone—replaced with a smooth song that feels familiar and an instinct to go home—but this woman is not safe.

She’s talking to you, saying words you should understand, but you have to go. She’s telling you that you’re interesting, but she’s still won. That you shouldn’t use that vial in your pocket, because it might kill you. That you’ll never find the right kind, and that someone that makes everything in you scream is coming to take you away. That you’re out of the way, you failed to control yourself and now this shrewd woman has won.

You can see the sun. It’s warm. It feels safe. The grass is green, and it’s reaching up to the sun.

And you let go. You stop trying to keep yourself steady and strong, and you let all the exhaustion and loneliness and horror out into the air. Someone screams, and it might be you.

Glass shatters, and something stings your skin. There’s blood on your hands, and you don’t only belong to you anymore.

But you can feel the sun.

———————

In the week after the Believe Expo, Ben started to lose his mind.

He’d been in a meeting when it had started. Sat silently a few tables down from where MM, Mallory, and Butcher were interrogating A-Train. Ben had been kicked out of the actual process, because apparently nobody fucking appreciated how all his questions were about Her, and if she was okay. What did her smile look like, if she was even smiling. Was she having nightmares, and was Homelander keeping her locked up. Why was A-Train such a fucking weak pussy who didn’t help her.

So he’d glared at them from across the room, trying to both listen to A-Train list off stupid fucking passwords and building locations and not break the glass in his hand. It would shatter everywhere, and Ben would probably have to fucking clean it up.

That’s not glass, Pretty Boy. It’s plastic.

Feels like fucking glass.

Well, it’s plastic. You really think the CIA would give us real glass? When most of us can’t seem to stop blowing shit up and Hughie startles at the smallest sound?

Ben had smiled into the air, ducking his head so that nobody would see him looking like a fucking idiot. Plastic can still goddamn break, Sunshine.

Her voice hummed somewhere in his chest, right next to the Thing. Well, it’s easier to clean.

He’d snorted, and looked up as the doors from the hall swung open. Hughie and the French Prick had burst into the room, both shouting incoherently and tripping over each other.

“The bloody hell is wrong with you two, ain’t you able to see we’re busy?!“

Kimiko had stepped over Hughie and the French Prick as they untangled themselves, ignoring Butcher as she marched over to Ben.

He’d frowned up at her. “What.”

She’d glared at him, signing something she fucking knew he didn’t understand, and dropped her phone in front of him.

It was Her. A picture of Her, at the Believe Expo, frozen on the stage. Staring off into the distance, stage lights washing out her perfect features, her mouth open and her eyes wide. The headline above the picture read Anomaly’s Speech Interrupted by Terrorist Attack from the CIA.

“The fuck is this.”

Kimiko signed at Ben aggressively, and he didn’t fucking understand-

“She says that it is all over the news.” The French Prick had stumbled up behind Kimiko, translating with a frown. “That it is bigger than the court trial. People are, to quote roughly, ‘losing their fucking minds’.”

“Frenchie, what the hell are you talking about.” MM had called, still seated across from A-Train. “What’s bigger than the court trial?”

The French Prick had said Her name, still watching Kimiko. “She is everywhere. The article Kimiko is showing Soldier Boy is from VNN, and there are many more about her and Homelander and the Believe Expo and-“ The French Prick had sighed. “Mon Coeur, I am not saying that to them.”

Kimiko had turned to him, gesturing again with another point to Ben.

“Because it will not be helpful.” The French Prick had looked at Ben, then said in a lower voice that Ben had still fucking heard, “this is already not very good-“

“If you don’t fucking tell me,” Ben had growled. “I’ll rip off your hands and make you eat them.”

Kimiko had stepped between the French Prick and Ben, still gesturing at the former with only a brief pause to flip the latter off.

The French Prick had let out another fucking sigh, and said the words slowly. “There are many… outlandish rumors. About her,” The French Prick had nodded at the phone, still in front of Ben. “And the nature of her life.”

“Frenchie,” Butcher had drawled from across the room. “If you don’t start talkin without being a cryptic cunt-“

“Many are calling her a messiah. Some think she is an insider, a spy for either the CIA or Vought. There are investigations into her past, her paternity, and relationships with Homelander and…” The French Prick had winced as he spoke. “Monsieur Butcher.”

Ben had needed to take a walk. His fist had curled against the table, blood had pounded in his ears, and Her voice in his head had hummed do not kill Butcher. It will be messy and just a huge inconvenience for everyone, so Ben had stood up—the bench screeching as it flew out from under him—and stomped out of the dining hall.

Butcher had, surprisingly, not been a total fucking dickless piece of shit about it. Nobody had even mentioned it as more and more rumors and speculations poured in, each more fucking insane than the last. Ben started to long for Her to haunt him again, because right now he was being suffocated with this version of her that wasn’t fucking Her. It wasn’t even a goddamn person, it was a product, an idea for the fucking masses to project onto. She wasn’t a liar, or a honeypot, or a silly bimbo just caught up in a whirlwind romance that had gotten away from her. She was a brilliant, beautiful, fucking perfect woman. She wasn’t brainwashed—Ben pitied the fucking idiot who would try to, She’d give them a run for their money—or anyone’s fucking bastard child, and she had a PhD. In Anthropology, because she cared so fucking much about people and making the world good. Because She was good. She was the only person in the whole fucking world who was good. She wasn’t Homelander’s or Butcher’s or CIA’s, she was Ben’s. She was the most painfully strong-willed woman he’d ever met, and she wanted Ben.

And he had to just fucking watch, like an undeserving fucking pussy, as people kept talking about Her like they knew her. They didn’t know her. Ben knew her. He knew that this was part of Her stupid plan, and that she’d be home soon—She’d fucking promised—but that no matter what he’d wait until everyone else was dead and the building around him was in ruins for Her to return to him. He knew that, if this wasn’t tearing the country apart and inciting riots in the streets, She’d find it all hilarious.

That’s the third person this week to accuse me of getting a BBL. She hummed in Ben’s ear as he listened to Hughie ramble on about the newest developments. Like I could afford an ass this good on a waitress’ salary.

He coughed to cover his snort, and Mallory shot him a glare.

“Is there anything you would like to say, Soldier Boy?”

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

“I’m your reporting officer-“

“You’re still not fucking paying me,” Ben sneered. “I’m not here for you, or your shit fucking ideas. Hughie, keep talking.”

Hughie nodded nervously, and continued. It was a lot of pointless shit about how they had to keep to their stories, what allegations were worth addressing and what was just nutjobs talking out of their asses. Ben wasn’t really fucking listening, just staring at another photo of Her, in that stupid fucking costume, wearing a smile that wasn’t Hers.

He missed Her smile. Ben missed every fucking thing about Her, but her smile was a goddamn work of art. When it was real it was wide and toothy and made everything around it brighter. Her eyes would scrunch with it, and it always looked like she was keeping a secret. Something just for Her, about how beautiful the world was and how she got to see it. When She gave Ben that smile, he got to be in on the secret. He got to see every single fucking perfect part of Her—understand a little more about why She loved this shit life so much—and if she let him he’d keep making Her smile until everything was almost as beautiful as She was.

He kept his promise. It had clearly been important to Her—for reasons Ben didn’t understand—that Ben was better to the Kid. She’d cashed in a fucking favor for it, and Ben knew she wouldn’t forget that it was Her last one. She’d wasted them on making him watch TV and read goddamn books and getting her some chocolate from the dining hall in the middle of the night—he’d have fucking done it without the favor, because She’d sprawled herself across his chest and held his face between her hands with a pretty pout on her lips—but She’d never used that last one.

But She wanted Ben to be nicer to the Kid. So he marched into the dining hall for dinner and sat at the almost empty table.

The Kid stared at him over a book, and Ben grunted. He didn’t have a goddamn clue how to do this.

“The fuckin hell are you doin here?” Butcher appeared through the kitchen doors, two plates in hand. He set one down in front of the Kid, dropping down across from Ben with a scowl. “You ain’t been to one of these since-“

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben muttered. He didn’t need another fucking reminder She was gone. “I live here just as much as you do, you fucking pussy. I can eat wherever I damn well please.”

Butcher narrowed his eyes at Ben. “Then where’s your food.”

“I only just fucking sat down-“

“You can have mine.” Ben felt his jaw clench as the Kid pushed his plate across the table. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Ryan, you eat your own fuckin dinner and let me-“

“Kimiko gave me some cheese earlier.” The Kid mumbled. “I was showing her my homework and she was eating cheese. I asked for some-“

“Ryan-“

“I didn’t mean to eat all of it, I was just hungry-“

“Ryan-“

“And Mom said sharing was good!” Ryan looked at Butcher with wide eyes, and the pussies face fell into a glower. “She said sharing was important!”

Butcher’s glare turned to Ben, and Ben pulled the plate closer to his body. He wasn’t that fucking hungry either, but Her voice kept ringing in his head.

Be kind to Ryan. For me.

“Uh,” Ben looked at the Kid, who was watching him with an openly nervous expression. “Thanks.”

Was that so hard, Pretty Boy? You were almost civilized.

Shut the fuck up.

Her laugh echoed around Ben’s head, and he gave the Kid a small nod. “What are you reading.”

“Of Mice and Men,” The Kid answered, and his voice was so fucking quiet. “Aunt Grace says it’s important for my education-“

“That the one about the huge idiot who gets shot in the head, yeah?” Ben frowned, because he’d read that book. Over 80 years ago, but he’d read it. “It’s-“

“Lennie gets shot?!” The Kid’s face had fallen, and Ben blinked.

“Uh-“

“Bloody hell.” Butcher sighed, pulling the book away from the Kid with a glare at Ben. “Tell him about your homework Ryan. I’m gonna go get you another fuckin book.”

There was silence for a second after the door closed behind Butcher.

“You don’t have to listen to me talk about my homework,” the Kid mumbled. “It’s not that interesting.”

Be kind to Ryan. “I don’t fucking care. Talk.”

The Kid started slow. He’d been right, it wasn’t that interesting. It was all books and history and science and fucking math. Ben goddamn knew what ecosystems were, and he didn’t give a fuck about calculating percentages, but the Kid seemed to. He got all damn cheerful naming the fifty states, and Ben didn’t have the fucking heart to shut him up. She’d asked him to be kind, and this seemed like the type of shit She’d love. She wouldn’t care that it was all for fucking children, She’d ask the Kid about his opinion on the symbolism in their stupid fucking books and his opinion on the Lousiana purchase.

So he let the Kid talk, all the way until the dining hall finally started to fill with the rest of the team. Annie and Hughie first, followed by Kimiko and the French Prick, all of whom gave Ben odd looks but didn’t interrupt the Kid’s ranting. MM and Butcher arrived—A-Train was still mostly keeping to himself, Ben hadn’t even seen him outside of meetings—and the Kid was cut off mid-sentence as Butcher dropped another book on the table.

Ben stood up. He’d done what he had to, and been nice to the Kid. He could leave.

“Are you not eating with us?” The Kid was frowning at him. “I thought you were going to eat with us.”

Ben wasn’t sure what to do. “I’m not-“

“Sit your ass down, Soldier Boy.” MM grunted, not looking up from his plate. “Eat your fucking dinner.”

The Kid was still fucking watching him with a sad expression that turned into a smile when Ben slowly returned to his seat.

Ben wasn’t sure how he allowed it to happen, but he was back in the dining hall the next night as well. He kept thinking about how fucking happy She’d be he was talking to the Kid, and how the Kid didn’t seem to care that Ben had tried to murder him at one point. He just seemed happy Ben was there, and his face lit up when Ben sat across the table again. So Ben was there the next night, and the night after that, and suddenly he was fucking eating dinner with everyone.

The Thing was still fucking trying to tell him something. He still didn’t fucking understand. It kept going on rampages around Ben’s body, trying to force him to get it. To just know what it wanted him to, what the Thing had decided was so fucking important for him to know. And it was still trying to tell Her. She wasn’t here, Ben had to keep reminding the Thing She wasn’t here, but it didn’t give a shit. It was rioting inside of Ben like it did when She was sad and he needed to help. To hold Her until her heartbeat was steady, or talk to Her until her perfect fucking brain was Her’s again. When it was trying to tell Ben to touch Her, that he should touch Her and all the pain and fear written across her pretty features would vanish, because Ben would make Her feel good. He’d touch Her and kiss her and bite her and fuck her until she was happy. He’d do fucking anything to make Her happy.

And the Thing roared.

There were points where the Thing would explode inside him, and Her voice would become clear. Like she was right at his side, grinning up at him as she spoke. Telling him about things only She would think of. The real Her, not the echo of her in his head. The Thing would squeeze in Ben’s chest in the middle of the night, and Her voice would start talking all too fast about how she couldn’t come home. She was weak and couldn’t come home. Ben told Her to shut up, because she would. Not coming home wasn’t a goddamn option.

And She still wasn’t wearing blue. She’d promised, fucking sworn, that she’d wear blue if Ben needed to come get her. But she wasn’t, so Ben just waited. Mallory turned on the Dining Hall TV for some sort of stupid Vought show, and She looked so fucking exhausted and small—shrinking into herself in a way that Ben knew meant she was afraid—next to Homelander. But Ben had to just listen to Sage give a speech about their fucking relationship, and not go help Her. He hated this, but he fucking couldn’t go until She gave the signal. The Thing was raging inside of him, and Her voice was following him—teasing him with a lightness in her voice—but Ben had to just watch. Talk to Her in his head about anything, because that’s all he could have right now.

Then Homelander kissed Her cheek, and the table had cracked under Ben’s grip. Everyone was fucking looking at him, and She looked so fucking afraid. Homelander had touched Her. That weak, pathetic fucking pussy wasn’t supposed to touch Her. Ben should’ve been there to fucking kill him for even looking at Her-

Ben was moving before he was even aware of it. Stalking down the halls, back to the apartment, because he was going to get Her. The Thing was going fucking feral, and Her voice kept trying to stop him, but nothing could stop him. Nothing was going to stop Ben from fucking killing Homelander, right fucking now. He had his shield and himself, and V or no V, he’d take the shot and he wouldn’t fucking miss. He wasn’t going to keep fucking leaving Her-

Not leaving.

She kept talking to him, her voice desperate in Ben’s head. He had go goddamn save her, bring her home-

Her voice wouldn’t shut the fuck up. She wanted to come home. She wanted him more. She’d see Ben soon, but he had to wait.

He had to keep fucking waiting. He had to put down his shield, put his shirt back on, push his suit back into the dresser and just miss Her. Wait for her and miss her.

After a while, someone knocked on the door. Ben scowled—if it was Hughie or Annie here to talk about fucking feelings, he’d punch their teeth out—and went to answer the door.

It wasn’t Annie or Hughie to talk about feelings. It wasn’t Mallory or MM or Butcher to lecture him either, or even the French Prick to do whatever the hell the French Prick did.

It was the Kid, looking up at Ben with an anxious face.

“You, um, you weren’t in the dining hall for dinner. I wanted to see if you were okay.”

Ben blinked at him. He didn’t fucking love how he seemed unable to hold a normal conversation with the Kid. It was just a small fucking human. He could act like a grown ass man.

“I’m eating alone. Go back before Butcher starts fucking looking for you.”

Ben went to slam the door, but the Kid stopped him. Shot out a hand and stopped Ben. “Please, wait-“

“How fucking strong are you?”

The Kid stared at him. “I, um, I don’t know. My dad said I was really strong-“

“Anyone ever tested it?”

“Tested what?”

Ben sighed. “Your strength. Given you some weights, put you under a car-“

“A car?” The Kid shook his head frantically. “I don’t, please don’t put me under a car-“

“Calm the fuck down, I’m not going to do it right damn now.” Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell Butcher tomorrow.”

“Tell Butcher what-“

The Kid’s words were still panicked, and Ben sighed, running a hand over his face. “We need to figure out how strong you are. Just so you don’t fucking break something.”

“I broke a cup,” the Kid mumbled, staring at the floor. “When I got here. And I’ve broken some people-“

“That’s not your fault,” Ben snapped, Her sad face flashing with smoke in his brain. “If nobody’s taught you how to control it, you shouldn’t be fucking expected to.”

The Kid nodded slowly, still staring at Ben. “Will you help me?”

“I don’t-” Ben’s fists curled at his side, and he cut himself off as he saw at the Kid’s wide, hopeful eyes watching him. Watching Ben like he was better than he was, like he’d somehow earned the Kid’s trust. Ben cursed himself, and sighed. “Fine.”

“Will you come to dinner?”

“No.” Ben wasn’t going to relent on that. He didn’t need everyone’s fucking sad, pitying looks, not right now. Not when the Thing was still rolling around inside him, not when he could still see Her face—full of frightened shock—and couldn’t do anything about it.

“Can I eat here?”

Ben blinked. “What.”

“May I please eat here? If, um, if it’s okay with you I can go ask Butcher-“

“Why.”

The Kid shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “I want to ask you some questions, please.”

Ben frowned. “About what.”

The Kid said Her name, and the Thing fucking moaned in pain. “I just, I want to know about her. Nobody will talk about her, and Kimiko said you were-“

“You can fucking talk to Kimiko?”

“I’m trying to learn,” the Kid shrugged, glancing up quickly. “It’s important to understand and respect others, even if they’re different-“

“Fine.”

The Kid looked fully back up. “Fine?”

“You can eat here. Don’t bother getting Butcher, he’ll be a fucking ass about it. If he whines like a dickless pussy, I’ll deal with it.” Ben stood aside in one sharp step, and the Kid walked in the apartment slowly, looking around with wide eyes.

“Your place is nicer than Butcher’s.”

“Everyone decorated their own,” Ben grunted, moving to the kitchen. “And Butcher’s fucking boring. No color in that asshole’s place.”

“Who decorated yours?”

Ben sighed, said Her name, and ignored the stab through his heart. “Sit the fuck down. We’re eating bagels.”

The Kid waited silently as Ben pulled out plates and prepped the food. When he stalked back over to the table—The Kid watching him and sitting with good fucking posture—Ben slammed the bagels down and dropped in his seat. The Kid was in Her seat.

He had to be okay with that. She’d kick Ben’s ass if he moved the Kid just because he didn’t think anyone else should ever even try to take her place in any fucking way.

The Kid took his first bite, and stared down at the bagel as he swallowed. “Is this-“

“Strawberry cream cheese,” Ben muttered, shoving half of his own in his mouth. “Better than fucking crack.”

“Oh.” The Kid nodded, and took another small bite.

Ben sighed. “She liked it.”

Don’t lie to the child, Benjamin. You love that shit twice as much as I do.

“She showed it to me,” Ben amended himself, face dropping into a scowl. “And I love it as well.”

The Kid nodded, but didn’t say anything else. Taking another bite, waiting for Ben to speak.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Ben leaned back in his chair, glaring at the Kid. “Three questions. That’s all you fucking get. I don’t have to answer a goddamn one if I don’t want to, and you don’t get them back. So choose fucking wisely.”

The Kid nodded, and looked back down at his plate. Ben shoved the rest of his bagel in his mouth, watching the Kid carefully as he chewed.

“What’s her favorite color?”

“All of them,” Ben swallowed, his words becoming clearer. “She liked every fucking color. She said she didn’t want any of them to feel bad about being ugly, so she wouldn’t pick a favorite. All colors had something to contribute.”

“Even orange?”

Ben snorted. “Halloween and the damn Grand Canyon.”

The Kid took another bite, looking up at Ben. “How did you meet her?”

“She fucking kidnapped me.” Ben grumbled, and the Kid’s mouth fell open. Ben rolled his eyes. “Not like that. She woke me up to kill Homelander, and we lived in a safe house together. We grew,” Ben frowned, searching for the right word that explained how She was his whole life. How he’d decided that, in the end, he would fucking die and kill and bleed for Her. How She made him happy and was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. How She was perfect, and adored Ben, and they’d always fucking burn together. “Close. Once we stopped trying to damn kill each other, we grew close.”

“Okay.” The Kid looked fucking sad, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“Spit it out,” Ben muttered. “Whatever the hell you want to say-“

“I’m sorry.“ The Kid’s voice was almost a whine, and he sounded desperate. Talking too fucking fast. “I, um, I know she’s not here because of me, and what my dad did to her, and Butcher says it’s not my fault but-“

“Shut up,” Ben’s words were rough, but he was getting worried the Kid was going to make himself pass out. “Butcher’s, for fucking once, right. You’re not your shit-fuck father, buddy.” That felt like something She’d say. “And she wanted to help you. She doesn’t hate you.”

“Why?” The Kid gave Ben a pathetic, sad look. “Why did she help me? After what my dad, what Homelander did-“

“Because that’s not the type of person she is.” Ben snapped, and his voice was harsher than he’d meant it to be, but the Thing was bellowing inside him. “She doesn’t hold things against people, even when she fucking should. She wants to help people, and so she fucking does.” Ben sighed. “She thinks the world is good. She’s mean and rude and has a smart fucking mouth, but she still thinks this shit is worth something. And she’s a fucking genius, so she’s probably right. She probably didn’t even damn think to blame you, so don’t fucking do it for her. She doesn’t like people doing shit for her.”

“She doesn’t?”

“No.” Ben watched the Kid’s soft, eager expression. “She works her fucking ass off for everything, and earns every damn thing she gets. Never even asks for shit in return.” Ben scowled into the air. “She deserves a fuck ton more than people are giving her.” She deserved fucking everything. “Does everyone’s goddamn jobs and all she gets is an apartment and a limited company credit card in fucking Mallory’s name. If the CIA weren’t full of such fucking asshole pussies, they’d just give her goddamn control of everything and we’d all be home in an afternoon.”

“She sounds really cool.” The Kid mumbled, and Ben nodded.

“She is fucking cool.” He grunted. “She’s fucking perfect.”

The Kid looked up at Ben with big eyes. “Yeah, it, um, it makes sense why you love her.”

Ben’s whole world stopped.

He did.

He loved Her.

With every single fucking part of him, Ben loved Her. That was what the Thing was. Love. For Her. That’s what it had been trying to tell him. He loved Her.

She was perfect. She was the whole world and everything around it and between it, and Ben loved Her. She never fucking wavered, and was so fucking smart and beautiful and good, and Ben loved Her. She trusted Ben, she wanted him, and he fucking loved Her.

This was the stupid shit people wrote all those songs that She loved about. Where they talked about it like it was evasive and the most amazing pain you’d ever fucking feel, and how their person was the best person and nobody fucking got it like they did. This pain was fucking amazing, and Ben never wanted to stop feeling it. It made his heart—that’s what the fucking Thing was, and Ben was a goddamn idiot—ache because she wasn’t here, but it also meant he got to want Her. The pain meant She was in sight, and Ben just had to fucking wait. He’d never stop waiting. If the next time he saw Her was in a thousand fucking years, Ben would pick her up into his arms all the same and kiss her until she moaned into his mouth and he could breathe again. Because his person was the best fucking person. Nobody did fucking get it like Ben did. She was better than every other goddamn pussy fucker on the planet, and she was a goddamn force of nature. She made oceans part and lightning strike and the sun followed Her because it wanted to share Her warmth. She was so fucking perfect, so powerful, that she’d managed to make Ben’s heart beat in a way it hadn’t before. He’d been alive for over a goddamn century, and he’d never had everything be about his heart, and how it needed to be in time with Hers.

This was all the goddamn movies she’d made him watch, where two people would look into each other’s eyes and the music would swell and everything would fade to black as they kissed. This wouldn’t fade to black. This would keep going, and Ben would eat Her pretty face and suck her lips until they were swollen. He’d put wets kisses along her jaw and bite on her neck, and she’d fucking moan and the lights would stay up as Ben fucked her. Really, properly fucked Her like she deserved, made her unravelled and wrecked under him. Everyone would fucking see, because the whole fucking world needed to see Her how Ben saw her. And he’d keep going and going until she looked at him like he was everything, and Ben would keep fucking loving Her until someone figured out a way to kill him. And even then he’d crawl back to Her. They’d have to pull his fucking heart out of his chest and launch it into fucking space where he couldn’t follow it. He’d probably follow it anyways, because space didn’t have fucking shit on Ben, on his love for Her. His love was bigger, more important, and if space tried to take his heart Ben would just have to figure out how to fucking kill it and get Her back.

This was probably like poems and books, as well. She’d say it was. She’d say that love is the most poetic thing in the world, and that love in some form runs through every great story in history, even the tragic and heartbreaking ones. She’d make this shit poetic. She’d hold Ben’s face between her hands and say a bunch of things he didn’t understand, using allegories and metaphors and smiling at him, and it wouldn’t fucking matter what Ben understood. She would be there, telling Ben she loved him and smiling and saying it a million different ways because that’s who she was. Her brain moved too fucking fast, and She’d only be able to tell Ben she loved him in a way that was beautiful.

Ben didn’t need to be fucking beautiful. This was pretty fucking simple, he loved Her. That was all that needed to be fucking said, there was no other goddamn way to put it. Ben loved Her, like nobody had ever loved anything in goddamn history. Ben loved Her, and whenever he thought the words his heart would feel a little easier in his chest.

Once She was home Ben would get his hands dirty for her and do whatever she told him and make Her feel fucking good. That’s what he was here for now, to make Her feel good, to touch her and praise her and worship her until she understood that she was perfect. She’d fall apart because of Ben, and she’d fucking smile at him after, and that would be all he needed to keep living. She could have all his food, and take all his sleep and oxygen and goddamn peace, but Ben would fucking thrive. Because She’d be there and he could keep loving her.

But now, he had to get through the rest of dinner and show the Kid out while acting like everything was normal. He had to get through the rest of his fucking life acting like everything was fucking normal. Like he wasn’t in love, in stupid fucking love, with Her.

He’d tell Her. She had to fucking know. Ben would hold it within himself until She was home and happy, then he’d tell her.

He didn’t have a fucking clue how. He’d never done this shit before, where it really fucking mattered that he did it right. He could get her shit. Something she’d like, that proved that Ben listened. He always fucking listened to Her.

She liked those stupid off-brand Uought sunglasses. She’d wear them all the damn time, and they’d broken when he lost Her. He wouldn’t get Her blue one’s this time. She shouldn’t wear blue, unless it was to tell Ben to come fucking get Her. He didn’t want to get Her Soldier Boy sunglasses, Vought didn’t deserve Ben’s money—technically the CIA’s money, but who gave a fuck—or his likeness.

Ben got Her green ones. Simple fucking green ones with the same aviator frames, that he could give to Her and say he loved her and she’d smile at him.

He kept eating with the team. The Kid kept asking Ben questions, a lot about history—like he was supposed have a fucking clue just because he’d been alive for some of it—and a lot about Her.

“I wasn’t alive in the fucking 1800s,” Ben muttered as the Kid showed him a worksheet question. “I don’t have a goddamn idea what that painting means.”

“The book said it was about Manifest Destiny,” the Kid frowned. “But I can’t find a definition, and Butcher and Aunt Grace don’t want me to have a phone.”

Ben actually agreed with that. The Kid didn’t need to see all the shit people were saying about him, or about how Homelander and Her were in love but maybe She’d been fucking Butcher. Ben wished he could unsee it. Wipe it from his goddamn brain. He was about to say he didn’t have a fucking clue about the Manifest Destiny shit, but She must have told him at some point. This seemed like shit she’d tell him about, and suddenly her voice was reminding him.

“It’s the nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to expand westward, and should exert the means to do so.”

The Kid blinked at him. “Really? Are you-“

“I’m fucking certain.” Her voice in Ben’s head had been fucking certain, so he was as well. “That’s what it means.”

“Okay.” The Kid started to write on the paper, and people began to trickle in for dinner. Butcher sat at the Kid’s side—glancing over the worksheet once and giving an approving nod—as Hughie and Annie sat on Ben’s bench. Neither flinched when Ben glanced at them. MM and A-Train arrived, the fast pussy finally seeming to develop some team spirit, and the French Prick and Kimiko were late. Ben hoped they were finally just fucking. If they kept making silent heart eyes at each other without just fucking, he’d shoot them. The French Prick specifically, because Kimiko would just be a waste of a bullet. If Ben couldn’t fuck his woman, everyone else better start appreciating what they goddamn had.

“You still need my phone for that bloody school shit, Ryan?”

“No,” the Kid didn’t look up from his paper. “Ben helped me. Manifest Destiny means,” he paused, squinting to read his own handwriting. “The nationalistic belief that America should expand to the west.”

Butcher scowled at Ben. “That so?”

The Kid hummed, and Ben shrugged. “I’m fucking right, so don’t lose your stick up your own asshole.”

“You seem real fuckin sure-“

“He is right, Butcher,” MM muttered. “That’s the definition. Not sure how he knows-“

“All of you seem to be real goddamn convinced I’m a fucking idiot,” Ben snapped. “I’m not a boring pussy, but I know things. I’m not a goddamn asshole without a fucking brain.”

“I think we just aren’t sure what you would know,” Hughie mumbled, glancing at Ben nervously. “I mean, you haven’t been in school in a while. And I don’t think they taught westward expansion with any, like, nuance in the early 1900s.”

“They didn’t,” Ben sighed, and said Her name. He needed to say Her name more, it made his heart squeeze but it always sounded fucking right. “She told me. And she’s a fucking nerd,” he tried not to smile. He fucking missed her. “She’s always fucking right about that shit.”

A-Train was looking at Ben weird again. Ben was about to fucking ask what the hell is problem was, why the pussy wouldn’t just talk to him. Ben hadn’t even ever really tried to kill him—as far as he remembered—and everyone else was talking to him. He’d defiantly tried to kill everyone else at least once, so why the fuck A-Train was being so damn strange-

“Does she like school?” The Kid was asking Ben with those same fucking wide eyes, and he couldn’t not talk about Her if he fucking tried.

“She says there are massive flaws in the American education system,” Ben shrugged. “But she likes learning, because she’s fucking insane.”

“What was her favorite subject?” The Kid’s voice was growing eager, and everyone else was silent. “In school?”

“English. And the fucking social one. Anything about people.”

“Arts and Humanities,” MM offered, frowning at Ben. “If it’s not STEM, it’s Arts and Humanities.”

Ben didn’t have a fucking clue what STEM was, but Arts and Humanities sounded familiar. “Sure. That shit.”

“I like English as well,” the Kid was smiling, and Ben couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching. “But I also like science. Biology is my favorite-“

“Let the old ass fuckin eat, Ryan.” Butcher muttered, standing up. “You want pizza rolls?”

“Yes, please.”

Butcher nodded and stalked off, and the Kid turned back to Ben.

“Does she like biology?”

Ben sighed. “She likes everything. I think she gives at least a small shit about biology, because she talked about it when she’d work on my shell shock.”

The Kid needed to stop asking fucking questions about Her, because Ben was learning he was incapable of just lying or telling him to shut the fuck up. His stupid heart would grab his mouth and use any fucking excuse to talk about Her—about how good she was and how she made everything around her good as well—because it wasn’t allowed to say Ben loved Her yet.

“What’s shell shock?”

“PTSD.”

“What?” Annie leaned over Hughie, frowning at Ben. “What are you talking about?”

“She was doing her fucking brain magic shit on my head.” Ben snapped. “She asked to, and it was fucking working.”

It had been working. Ben would never tell Her, because she’d get that pleased look in her eyes and bounce around the room, taunting Ben until he grabbed Her and kissed all the smug words out of her mouth—actually, he would tell Her, because that sounded fucking amazing—but it had been working. Ben’s nightmares about Russia and pain had faded, and he didn’t hear drums in the constant background anymore. Now it was only Her, following him and making him lose his fucking mind.

Annie nodded, and dropped it for the rest of dinner. Ben answered a few more of the Kid’s questions, ignored A-Train’s silent, strange looks, and ate his barbecued ribs. When he was done he cleared his plate, dropping it into the sink, and nearly punched Annie when she came up behind him.

“Soldier Boy?”

Ben whipped around, fist’s clenched. “Christ on a fucking cross-“

“Why didn’t she tell us about the PTSD treatment?” Annie crossed her arms, standing her ground. “We should know-“

“Me and you pussies weren’t exactly buddy-buddy,” Ben drawled. “And you don’t need to know shit about what she and I do.”

“If it affects the team, we do.”

“Well it fucking doesn’t-“

“It was probably hurting her,” Annie pushed on, and Ben’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t just vanishing. Whatever she was doing to fix you was going into her.”

“She’d have fucking told me-“

Annie shook her head. “She wouldn’t.” Annie said Her name with a sad expression, and Ben’s heart hurt. “She, well, you know her. She wouldn’t ever tell anyone she was hurting, not until she had to.”

“She’d fucking tell me.” Ben insisted. She’d never fucking lie to him, and he’d never doing anything that would hurt her. “If it was hurting her, she’d have told me and I’d have fucking stopped her-“

“Just, listen.” Annie sighed. “I know she cares about you. A lot. And if you care about her, you won’t make her keep doing that when she gets back. It’s not her responsibility to fix you, even if she...” Annie looked him up and down. “Cares about you.”

“I fucking know that,” Ben hissed. “You think I don’t fucking know that? I care about her more than you’re goddamn capable of imagining-“

“Then don’t hurt her.” Annie shrugged. “She won’t say it’s hurting her, but her nightmares were getting worse even before the tower. She’s dealing with a lot, do this one thing for her.”

Her nightmares had been getting worse. And She’d been staring at corners and shadows when she didn’t think Ben was watching. “How the fuck did you know that.”

“She’s my friend,” Annie frowned. “She told me stuff.”

“What other stuff did she tell you?”

“Enough for me to believe that you don’t want to hurt her.”

“Stop speaking in fucking riddles-“

“Soldier Boy,” Annie shook her head. “I’m not trying to fight with you. Not right now, with everything being so fucked. But just, don’t hurt her.”

Annie left, and Ben couldn’t fucking move. He’d never hurt Her, he fucking loved Her. Everything in him was dedicated to protecting her and loving her, and he’d rather go back to sleep or ship himself to Russia that let her hurt anymore-

She knew that. Ben was certain She knew that. She didn’t know he loved Her, and he wished her voice would stop trying to fight with him about that, but she knew Ben would never fucking hurt Her. He’d keep her safe, he’d always care for her and make her happy. Everything good was Her, and Ben’s heart kept beating so she could have it when she came home.

The blood in Ben’s body had turned into Her. This is what people must have meant when they said love would drive you mad. Her voice, growing clearer and clearer in his head, was still telling about strange fucking things Ben hadn’t been thinking about before. Sometimes it would even say that She loved him, and Ben decided that he was getting a little too fucking into this fantasy. Where he could ask Her voice in his head questions and she’d answer like it was Her. Really Her. When he’d finished buying Her sunglasses—She’d be real fucking proud, he’d used Amazon without calling Hughie to make him do it—Her voice had been tired and sour around him, but still so slightly amused. Sounding like Her.

Do you think he watches tentacle porn?

Ben had frowned into the empty apartment. What the fuck are you talking about.

The Deep. Do you think he watches tentacle porn?

I don’t fucking know. Why the hell would I know that.

You don’t have to actually know, Pretty Boy. You can guess, or offer another type of porn. My vote is tentacle, but if you think there’s another-

What’s that one you told me about that I couldn’t fucking understand. With the dogs.

Beastialty?

No, smartass. With the costumes-

Oh. Furries.

Ben had nodded at nothing. Is there an ocean version of furries?

Maybe. I don’t actually know.

You don’t have to actually know, Sunshine. You can fucking guess-

Shut up.

No.

Benjamin-

No.

Fuck you.

I will. When you get home I’m going to blow your fucking mind. There’s not a single goddamn thing I won’t do to you, not if you ask real fucking nice-

Not a thing? Are you going to tentacle fuck me?

Brat.

Cunt. And there probably are ocean furries. Rule 34 and all.

What the hell is rule 34.

Her snort had rumbled in Ben’s chest. Oh, that’s going to be so much fun to show you.

You can just fucking tell me-

No. I want to see your face, it’s going to be adorable.

I am not goddamn adorable-

Yes, you are. You’re downright cute, Benjamin. Deal with it.

Ben had sighed. You’re lucky I love you.

Ben, please. Stop saying that.

No. I fucking love you, and there’s not a goddamn thing that will make me stop loving you-

Ben-

His phone had buzzed with a message from Butcher about another A-Train meeting, and Her voice had vanished into the hum of Ben’s heart. He’d smiled at her sleepy face, still his lockscreen because there was not a fucking chance in hell he’d change it now, and left to go hear A-Train list out another bunch of stupid fucking passcodes.

He kept hearing Her. Her voice was only growing stronger, and Ben must miss her somehow more than he’d thought fucking possible because she was always there.

Benjamin.

He’d tensed, standing in the shower after returning to his apartment from dinner, and repeated Her name back to her in his head.

Would you hate it if I asked you out?

What.

If I told you I loved you, and asked you out. And don’t say you love me. You’re not allowed to say you love me.

Shut the fuck up, I’ll tell you I love you as much as I fucking want-

Ben. Please just answer my question.

No.

Benjamin-

My answer is no. Why the fuck would I hate it if you asked me out. And if you told me you loved me-

I don’t know. Gender roles? Guys are supposed to ask girls out.

We’re not fucking children. Let me finish my damn sentence. If you told me you loved me, there wouldn’t be a single fucking thing you could ask of me that I wouldn’t give you. And it doesn’t matter, because as soon as you’re home and safe I’m going to tell you I love you and fuck you stupid.

Stop saying that-

No. I’m going to make you cum all over me a hundred times in every single fucking position I can think of. Then I’ll make some new ones, and figure out which ones are your favorite, so I can keep fucking you forever.

Ben had almost been able to hear that small sound She always made when she was trying to hide how wet he’d gotten her. I’d like that.

Good. Because it’s fucking happening. The moment you say the word, you’re fucking mine, Sunshine. And if you want to suck my cock, I won’t stop you.

What a gentleman. I’m one lucky gal, having such a generous… Her voice had trailed off, and Ben had seen her pretty lips falling into a frown. Heard the chew of her cheek. Boyfriend sounds stupid.

Boyfriend is stupid. Ben had scowled, because boyfriend was too weak a word to describe what he needed to be to Her. And girlfriend was a fucking pathetic thing to call the most perfect woman to ever exist. And I’m not ever going to call you my girlfriend, because we’re fucking adults.

That’s true, hundred year old men shouldn’t have girlfriends. That’s pretty embarrassing for you.

Brat.

Cunt. There was a beat of silence. What would you call me?

Doesn’t matter, Ben had shrugged, even though She wasn’t real and couldn’t see it. As long as we’re fucking together, I don’t give a shit what we call each other.

He’d want to call Her his wife. Suddenly he was goddamn certain that, one day, he’d fucking marry that insane and perfect fucking woman. If She’d let him. As Her voice hummed and faded away again, Ben decided that whatever she’d give him he’d take. He’d ask, at the right times, what she wanted. If it was everything he wanted. But if she didn’t—she might never want exactly what Ben wanted, not with Homelander as a stain on her head—Ben would genuinely be fucking fine. Not Her type of fine, where she just didn’t want to talk about how much everything was hurting Her, but just fine. As long as She was with him, Ben would be fine.

His dreams were getting fucking horrible again. He’d wake up from nightmares filled with blood, unable to breathe with Her voice in his head.

Blood. So much blood. I don’t have time to clean all this blood-

Breathe, Sunshine. He’d glare into the dark, because even if She wasn’t real it was fucking painful to hear her voice so afraid and weak. Just fucking breathe.

There’s blood, Ben. It’s everywhere, and it’s not mine, and I miss you. I miss you so much-

Wear blue, and I’ll come fucking get you, right now.

No, I’m so close. I can’t.

Then breathe.

Ben’s own heart had slowed, and his own breathing became even.

Thank you. Her voice had whispered, right in his ear. He could almost feel Her soft hand, gently tracing his jaw in the dark. I’m sorry.

Shut the fuck up. Don’t ever thank me, or apologize.

Please-

No. I don’t want it. I want you home, because I fucking miss you. Nothing else.

Okay. Silence, then. I’ll see you soon.

He’d sighed into the dark, and stared up at the high ceiling. He’d forgotten to turn off the bathroom lamps, and there was light leaking under the door of their empty bedroom. I’ll see you soon.

They were still looking for V. A-Train had given them a list of warehouses and Vought storage spaces, so right now Ben’s job was to comb over them with Butcher, Hughie, and the French Prick for clues. There were hundreds of warehouses and cargo ports and underground bunkers, and Hughie kept finding fucking more. There was one in Sacramento that A-Train had claimed was full of V, but Hughie couldn’t find it on any records. It had seemingly disappeared off the face of the damn planet. There were fifty more like it, a lot of others in fucking places like New Orleans and Austin that held supe gear, and several in Akron and Portland and Chicago that were label miscellaneous. They’d kept Ben’s shield there. In a fucking miscellaneous warehouse.

“This is getting us fucking nowhere,” he muttered, crumpling another paper in his hand as Her voice turned back to an easy song in his head. “It doesn’t fucking matter where Vought kept them. Sage would fucking hide anything she didn’t destroy.”

“You got a better fuckin idea, Gov?” Butcher snapped, not looking up from his own papers. “We ain’t got much to go on, we’re doin the best with the shit we’ve got.”

“Our best is fucking dogshit-“

“Maybe it’s offsite?” Hughie paused his tapping of the computer. “Vought has, like, a lot of shell companies, right? Maybe Sage moved it there, off of any records.”

Butcher nodded slowly. “Frenchie-“

The French Prick sighed. “I will go tell MM.”

“What about Homelander,” Ben grunted, frowning at Hughie. “Are you looking where he’d keep it?”

“We can’t be sure he has any-“

“He does.” Ben’s snap was cold. “He might be the one keeping it offsite, where Sage can’t fucking find it.”

“Lad, he’s ain’t totally fuckin wrong,” Butcher glanced up and Hughie with narrow eyes. “Homelander ain’t tryin to hide it from just the CIA, he’s tryin to hide it from everyone. And Vought’s his fuckin playground. He might be keepin it wherever he damn pleases.”

Hughie sighed. “Maybe, but I can’t check that without the list of shell companies.”

“Do your fucking braking shit,” Ben scowled. “Isn’t that your whole fucking thing-“

“It’s hacking, not braking. And it’s not my whole thing-“

Hughie cut himself off as the Kid pushed into the dining hall.

“Is it pizza night?” He sat next to Butcher, right across from Ben. “I know it’s early, but I’m really hungry-“

“It’s Friday, ain’t it?” Butcher started to pull his papers into his chest, shoving them down to Hughie. “And we can eat early. We’re the cunts in charge of ourselves.”

Ben returned his papers to Hughie as well, because this wasn’t going to do fucking shit. There wouldn’t be V anywhere, Sage was too smart of a bitch to leave it lying around. Ben could eat dinner, and then hang over Hughie’s shoulder until the man proved himself fucking useful.

He ate Her favorite type of pizza. He’d been eating Her favorite type of pizza, because it reminded him of Her. Of her smile and the soft look on Her perfect face when Ben would get it without her asking. She didn’t need to ask. Ben knew everything about Her that he needed to in order to keep her happy. It was how he was able to answer all of the Kid’s questions, and usually that knowledge would make his heart a little slower. Make Ben feel a little more at ease that She be safe and happy with him. That there was at least one way in which he was deserving of Her. But tonight his heart was going a mile a damn minute and he couldn’t fucking figure out why. He felt like something was choking him, like every nerve in his body was burning and he was cold. The pizza was warm, the dining hall was warm, but Ben felt cold. And it only got worse and worse. He felt fucking sick, something felt wrong. The longer the night went on, everyone having joined them to eat and talk about anything but the mission—a recently imposed rule by MM after Butcher had said the words supe jizz might have fuckin V in it and everyone had lost their appetites—the worse Ben felt. He was dying. Everything fucking hurt and he felt like he was going to fucking collapse-

The whole room lit up red, and deafening alarms started to sound through the building. Ben and Butcher were up first, MM and Annie close behind them as they stormed to the door.

“What’s going on-“

“Stay right fuckin there, Ryan.” Butcher roared, and the Kid froze in his steps. “Hughie, don’t let him out of your sight. Everyone else-“

“We don’t know what’s going on, Butcher.” Annie’s words were loud, but unsure. Ben could even fucking hear her heart racing over the sirens. “It might just be a fire drill-“

“We ain’t supposed to be hooked up to the drills,” Butcher snapped, pounding the wall and opening a full fucking arsenal panel. Someone should’ve told Ben about that sooner. “And we ain’t supposed to get alerts unless it’s defcon 1. It might be-“

“It’s not Homelander,” MM held up his phone. “I’ve got a Google alert on the fucker, he was just in France-“

Ben caught the gun Butcher was tossing to him. “It’s fucking something.” He grunted. “Something’s real fucking wrong. Get a gun and start moving.”

MM frowned. “How the hell do you know-“

The doors burst open, and one of those pussy fucking agents—the man—yelped as five gun’s clicked with barrels aimed at his head.

“Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot-“

“What the fuck is going on,” Ben didn’t try to make his voice nice or kind. Something was going on, he’d never felt this type of goddamn suffering in his life, and when he’d paused for just a second he’d realized Her voice was gone. It wasn’t humming softly around in his head and heart anymore. It was just fucking pain.

“Soldier Boy, sir, I’m sorry to bother you but-“

“Fucking talk!” Ben roared, his ribs starting to cave in. “Stop pussying around and use your goddamn words-“

The agent shouted Her name, and the gun broke in Ben’s hand. “She’s in the lobby, but nobody can touch her-“

Ben didn’t wait to hear more. She was in the lobby. The sky felt like it was fucking falling and Ben couldn’t really see beyond something red lining his vision, but She was fucking here. He was sprinting down the hall, and into the elevator with Annie, Kimiko, and somehow Butcher the only ones managing to keep up. His fists were clenching and unclenching, nobody was daring to fucking speak, and as the elevator started to drop the pain began to subside. Like it knew he was getting closer. It knew She was home.

The elevator had barely dinged before Ben was out of it, ripping through the metal with his hands. They hadn’t stopped in the lobby—they’d stopped three or four levels above—and people were trying to get on. Scrambling forwards, then falling back with surprised sounds as Ben pushed past them. All of them looked fucking afraid, like they were running from something.

There was an overlook into the main lobby. The first seven floors had hallways that wrapped around the entrance, and Ben had a feeling that if he just kept walking towards what everyone else was fleeing from, he’d get there. Butcher and Annie were calling after him, but Ben didn’t fucking care. She was so fucking close, he had to fucking get to Her-

He heard Her screams first. They were raw noised of pure fucking pain, and she was probably trying to fucking say something. Ben could only hear his blood in his ears, and hHr screams, and her heartbeat. Fast and wild and pounding out of her chest.

Ben could hear Her heartbeat. That was Her heartbeat. He’d recognize it underwater and in deep space and buried twenty feet under the ground. It had made him turn around at the Believe Expo, because he’d have just kept walking and telling Her voice to stop torturing him with ideas that she might be there, but he’d heard her heartbeat. And this was Her fucking heartbeat.

She was alone, curled into Herself in the center of the lobby. Ben could finally fucking see Her, four floors below him, collapsed on her knees and screaming. Covered in blood, clothing scorched, and fucking screaming. Everyone was either fleeing, passed out in an odd pattern across the floor, or watching with wide-eyes from a wide circle that had formed around Her. Nobody was helping Her. Why was nobody fucking helping Her-

She wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking at anyone, her eyes screwed shut as she screamed again. It was the worst fucking sound Ben had even heard. He needed to fucking get to Her, now. He’d survive the jump down, he wouldn’t even fucking feel it. He took a step back, readying to go, go to Her, he’d wasted too much fucking time and he had to get to Her, but a small hand yanked him back.

“What the fuck-“

Kimiko was glaring at him, pointing at the people scattered around Her and signing something Ben couldn’t fucking understand.

“I need to help her-“

She shook her head, gesturing to the weak, knocked out pussies on the floor.

“They’re not fucking burned, there’s not even any fucking fire. And I’d fucking survive it anyway-“

“It ain’t fire, Gov.” Butcher was out of breath, shoving his way forward with a glower at Ben. “If you hadn’t just bloody run, you’d have heard what’s goin on.”

“If you pussies don’t let me go and shut the fuck up, I’ll fucking kill you-“

“It’s the empathy!” Annie was right behind Butcher, her voice desperate. Below, She screamed again and Ben died a little bit. “People were trying to help her, but they kept screaming and collapsing. There’s not any fire, she just,” Annie’s eyes landed on Her, flinching as She screamed. “They’re feeling Her. Anyone who goes too close to Her feels whatever she’s feeling.”

“And they’re all fuckin passing out from it, Gov.” Butcher sighed, shaking his head. “We just got to let her tire herself out, if anyone gets just a little too bloody close they’ll-“

There was not a chance in goddamn hell Ben was going to wait. She was here, she was home, he was done fucking waiting. If he felt that pain, or passed out, or even fucking died, at least it would’ve been to get to Her.

He yanked his hand away from Kimiko, sending her stumbling backwards, and jumped down to the lobby.

The floor cracked under him, and Ben braced himself for the pain. To roar and scream like she was and fucking crawl to Her if he had to.

Nothing came. There was a dull kind of ache, but no pain. Everything that hurt was the noise of the alarms and the horrible sound of Her screams. He took a careful step, closer, and still nothing. Another, and the alarms and gathered crowd fell into the background. Her heartbeat was louder, and it was all Ben could hear. Everyone could fucking watch with stupid pussy gapes, all that mattered was Her.

Her eyes were still closed, and when she screamed again he heard the words, running from her blood into his.

Ben.

He ran. It took two, bounding and powerful strides to grab Her. Hold Her in his arms. To fall to his knees at Her side, and pull her up into his chest.

Her screams stopped. Ben cradled Her head in his hand, his other squeezing her waist to make sure She was fucking real. He felt a flash of something boundless, something infinite and indestructible, and then she passed out.

Ben carried Her to medical. He wanted to carry her to bed, to let her just rest, but he had to make sure she was okay. That someone with a pussy fucking degree would look at Her and tell Ben she’d be ok. Everyone was parting around then, and Ben didn’t give a fuck. She was in his arms, and everything was going to be okay.

They gave Her a bed. Every doctor on the staff popped their head in—Ben thought they might be drawing straws for who’s turn it was to check on Her—and the French Prick came in with a vial of a golden liquid, attaching it to Her IV.

“The fuck are you doing,” Ben grunted, but didn’t move from Her side. He’d pulled a chair up beside Her, and wasn’t going to fucking leave until her eyes opened. Until She could look at him and say she was okay. She was going to be okay. She had to be fucking okay. And if she wasn’t, Ben had to know that so he could figure out how to help. If he could fix it or heal it or just had to stay there, at Her side until she smiled. Whatever it fucking took.

“It is a suppressant.” The French Prick glanced at Ben’s scowl. “It will not hurt her. It will help.”

“How.”

“We do not know what will happen when she awakens. This will make sure people other than yourself can approach her safely.”

Ben nodded slowly, looking back at Her face. Perfect, at complete ease in her sleep. “Fine.”

Then it was just them again. Ben’s hand was in hers—nobody could make him stop touching Her with a fucking nuke of Sage’s gas pointed to his chest—and she was sighing in Her sleep.

Perfect.

He loved Her more than the whole fucking universe, and he wouldn’t be able to tell her that when she woke up. When Her eyes opened, it was going to have to be about her. Ben would have to fucking swallow the words, and tell her he loved her when she was ready to hear it. When he was convinced beyond a doubt she’d be okay, and that she’d keep smiling at him no matter what she felt for him. She wouldn’t leave him. She adored him. Even in her fucking sleep her fingers had twined themselves into his, and Ben had never been more certain of anything or anyone. He was certain he loved Her. He was certain he didn’t deserve her, but that his whole fucking life from here on out was going to be about earning her. This was all about Her now.

Everything was Her.

And Ben couldn’t say it where She could hear him. But he had to say it, now, or he’d explode.

“I wanted to hate you,” he started in a low voice, watching Her eyes flutter in sleep. Perfect. “I should’ve fucking hated you, and I really goddamn wanted to. You seemed like everything I fucking despised. People who think they’re better than me because they’re too weak to see the gray of the world. People who sit in ivory fucking towers and think they’re worth more because they’re smarter than me. People who think they deserve to tell me what to do, pussies who are too fucking good for anything.” He sighed. “I really fucking tried to hate you. It would’ve been easier. Made this stupid shit so much fucking easier. But you can never make anything easy, can you Sunshine. You have to be the most beautiful fucking pain in my ass all the goddamn time.”

She shifted slightly, heart still slow and steady, and Ben smiled. “You wouldn’t fucking stop proving me wrong. You don’t think you’re better than me, you are better than me. You’re better than fucking every sorry pussy in the world. You see all the gray, but you still keep doing good things, and that’s so fucking hard to do. I’ve been trying to, for you, and Christ, it’s exhausting. But you just do it, like there’s no other option. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever fucking met, and you’re fucking funny, and you never think you’re better. You explain everything you say if someone asks, and you’re not nice about it, but you do. You love answering questions, you love people, and I don’t fucking get it. I don’t fucking understand how you’re so fucking perfect, and why you couldn’t just let me hate you. Why you couldn’t just be a fucking bitch, why you kept smiling at me and laughing with me.” She hummed in her sleep, and Ben reached a hand out. Brushing his thumb along Her cheek. “You’re so good, Sunshine. I couldn’t hate you, because you’re just good. You’re too good for everything, but you’d never lord it over anyone. You’re the most beautiful woman in history, and you’re a goddamn brat, and I could never really fucking hate you.” He felt a lump form in his throat, and She leaned into his hand. “I love you.” He sighed Her name, listening to the easy sound of Her heartbeat. “I love you. You burn, I burn, and I fucking love you.”

She was safe.

She was home.

Ben loved Her, and they were going to be okay.

End Note: Can you guys tell I’m a whore for Chekov’s Gun? We did it squad. She's home. Thank you all for sticking through the darkest part (there WILL be more angst, but like. hurt/comfort. Lined with fluff and character growth that doesn't make us want to die), and every form of support you've shown me. You guys are the best, and I'm very sorry for doing that to you. See you soon!

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

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cherrycolored-punk · 3 days

Text

NHTK - Chapter Two

Masterlist

pairing: brother's best friend! Eddie Munson x fem! Reader, reader is Reefer Rick’s little sister.

w/c: 6.2k

author's note: this is a repost from my previous blog @strangemagicc but somewhat re-written, some of their story has changed. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please reblog if you did, support is always appreciated!

warnings: angst, mention of cheating (technically not reader), mention of anxiety and a past car accident, brief mention of money issues for reader

Then:

“Fucking shit!”

Eddie can hear the worry in your voice as he rounds the corner. The sound of his heavy boots against the tiled floor catches your attention.

The fear is vibrant in your eyes when you turn to him, a quiet cry for help and he can’t help but chuckle at the scene. At the state of your brows pushed together, face twisted in horror.

He looks over your shoulder, noticing that the popcorn is overfilled and smoke is billowing from behind the glass doors of the machine. Charred pieces of popcorn fall into the vat; the burnt smell wafts around you and fills the air.

“Way to go, Little Lipton,” he laughs and moves around you to turn off the machine.

“Shut up,” but the words come out like a whine.

You’re already annoyed that he caught you creating a mess and even more peeved that he’s looking at you with that cocky smirk of his.

“Alright,” he sighs heavily, “this one is going to be out of commission for a bit, so we’ll need to make sure that one is always prepped with fresh kernels,” he tilts his chin to the only other popcorn machine and leans against the counter with his arms crossed.

“Out of commission?” Your voice raises an octave, face twisting in horror as his words make alarms blare in your skull.

“Yeah,” he chuckles as though his next words are obvious.

“We have to clean this one before we use it, or all the other batches are going to taste like shit, and that’s not the easiest or fastest task.”

“He’s going to kill me,” you groan and drop your head back.

He being your manager and a major pain in your ass since the day you started working here. Mark wanted things a certain way; candies lined in a specific direction, cups displayed for the customers to see, popcorn made to perfection and not burnt until it turned to dust.

“Probably not kill, just maim,” Eddie shrugs with a crooked grin, a glint of amusement in his chestnut eyes as he stares down at you.

“You never told me what to do if I burnt the kernels,” you abruptly look up at him and swat at his arm.

His smile grows wider at your display.

“That’s because I told you not to overfill the kettle and never thought you’d ignore that tidbit,” he sighs dramatically, “guess that’s what I get for thinking.”

Reflexively he moves out of arm’s reach before you can do any serious damage.

Eddie enjoys the way your lower lip juts out, how your forehead creases between your eyebrows when you are mad, and fuck, were you pissed.

It had been nearly two weeks since you started working at Hawk Theater, trying to save up for the new camcorder you’d been eying, and Eddie had been assigned to train you.

Or his form of training, which was a lot of “this is how they want us to do it, but this is what works.”

The problem was that you’d been distracted.

It was the way his smile lifted to the side and the way he tied his long curls into a messy ponytail. How he’d look at you when you caught onto something quick or the reassurance he’d quickly give when you didn’t. And sometimes, the sun would shine through the windows and hit his eyes just right, making them look like molten honey.

You couldn’t help the nervous flutters that sprung to life when he was near, your childhood crush resurfacing with teeth and taking hold of you.

It made it hard to listen and remember the instructions he told you, like not to fill the kernels past the very obvious line or else.

He never expounded on the or else, but negative consequences were heavily implied.

“You’re such a jerk,” you rebut, but the venom fell flat, the insult sounding endearing to Eddie’s ears.

“You already knew I was, sweetheart. Don’t know why you expected anything different now that you work with me,” he begins cleaning out the popcorn machine. Dumping the burnt kernels into the trash can before adding the cleaning solution to the kettle.

Your heart is still fluttering, replaying the single pet name over and over again.

“Guess that’s what I get for thinking,” you mimick him and begin helping him clean so the two of you would be ready for opening in thirty minutes.

Eddie watches you from the corner of his eye, the way your gaze is lit with mischief as you tease him, and he can't help but smile to himself.

“Are you two trying to set this place on fire?” Mark Huntzberger, the manager, bellows as he came down the stairs from his office. He eyes the mess you made with a stern, critical eye that shifts over the concession stand and back to you.

The air still smells of burnt kernels and puffs of smoke still swirl in the air - highlighted by the afternoon sun peeking through the windows.

You can’t help the way you shrink under his scrutiny.

“I know this may just be some summer job to you, but this is my livelihood. If you can’t get it together by the end of the week, I will make sure this one fires you.” He points a fat finger at Eddie before turning his attention to him.

Munson’s face has gone flat, eyebrows set in a straight line. Jaw tense.

“It was an honest mistake,” Eddie interjects.

“Clean it up,” Huntzberger orders before disappearing into the ticket booth.

“Why did I think this was going to be easy or fun?” You question more to yourself than to Eddie, shoulders tense as you tie the trash bag containing the burnt kernels before pulling it from the bin.

“Because the town fuck up works here, how hard can it be?” He nudges you with a wink, wiping the inside of the soiled popcorn machine with a clean rag.

“Move over, Eddie. Someone’s about to take your place,” you giggle and walk towards the exit doors that lead to the alley behind the cinema.

Eddie drops the rag into the popcorn machine, following you outside.

The summer air is suffocating with its humidity—the sharp stench of spoiled food wafting from the dumpsters causing you to wince as you approach the dumpster.

“Don’t do that. It’s the only thing I got going for me,” his grin grows wider as he walks in step with you.

He was all self-deprecation all the time, and you begin to wonder how much of it he really believes—the thought causing a pang of sadness to twist in your gut.

You lift the bag over your head, but he stops you, taking it from your grasp and hoisting it into the metal canister.

“Y’know it’s not true, Ed’s,” you begin, brushing your hands off and looking up at him. Eyes nearly squinted closed from the intensity of the sun.

“What’s not?” He questions, leaning against a brick wall that hid the dumpsters from the rest of the alley.

You stand in front of him, toe to toe, trying to hide the way your gaze dances over his face. Tracing the freckles that line his nose and admiring the dimple pushed into his cheek as he smiles at you.

And fuck, he’s caught you staring.

“That you don’t have anything else going for you,” you clear your throat, “you have lots of talents-“

“Ah, yes, I am known for my natural ability to annoy and antagonize,” he interrupts, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re so annoying,” but the words sound more affectionate than irked.

“I’m being serious,” you begin again, “I mean, I don’t know many people who can learn a new song on the guitar half as fast as you. Didn’t you learn Master of Puppets in like a week?”

You shrug, doing your best to be nonchalant.

“And what about all the stuff you know about cars? Or the random tidbits about pop culture and music? You’re like an encyclopedia britannica,” you continue with a small laugh.

“For all things useless,” he corrects.

You poke his side causing him to flinch away from your touch, swatting your hand in the process.

“I mean it!” You insist, gaze holding his.

It’s the exact look you get when you’re excited about something, and Eddie chuckles, ears turning a shade of red from the attention you’re giving him.

“You’re just trying to flatter me so I don’t fire you,” he jokes, but you continue to look up at him with a dramatic bat of your eyes, inching closer.

“Is it working?” You retort, exaggerating the breathiness of your voice.

For a brief moment, you see his confident facade falter - his eyes darting between your eyes and the plush of your lips as he swallows hard.

But in an instant, it returns.

“Flattery always works with me, sweetheart,” he winks and turns back to the building.

There it was again.

Your heart stops, skips, and starts again as you will your legs to move. You watch his retreating frame, eyes boring into the back of his head.

“You coming?” He doesn’t stop walking, and you take wide steps to catch up with him.

Before you walk back through the door, you grab his arm and turn him to face you. He’d successfully evaded your compliments before, but you needed him to know it wasn’t empty praise.

“I meant what I said, Eds.”

He looks at you with a questioning perk of his eyebrow but doesn’t verbalize his confusion so you continue on.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” you squeeze his arm softly so he can feel your sincerity.

When he doesn’t say anything, you release his appendage with an uncertain grin and pull open the door, the cold cinema air greeting you.

Eddie watches your retreating frame for a moment, a little taken aback, before following you to the concession stand.

The two of you fall into an easy silence as you work.

You wipe the counters and finish cleaning the popcorn machine, carefully following Eddie’s instructions while he sets up the rope dividers in between each register, making sure things are organized just as Mark liked before the doors opened.

He looks at you every so often, and you try to hide the way his subtle attention affects you, keeping your head down and focused on counting your till. Having to recount when you catch him looking again.

But finally, you’re ready for the day; doors unlocked, and fresh edible popcorn ready for the masses. A small line of moviegoers already stood in front of the ticket booth.

The two of you rest your backs against the counter, waiting for the first customer to approach, when Eddie leans over to you, warm breath fanning your ear.

“Thanks, (Y/N).”

It was the first time he said your name. Acknowledged you as something other than Little Lipton.

The first time Eddie saw you as more than just his best friend’s little sister.

—————

Now:

Eddie clamors into his trailer, heavy boots dragging across the worn carpet as he trudges to the kitchen and swings open the fridge, grabbing a six-pack that is nearly gone.

He spreads out on the couch and chugs one can before reaching for another, eyes darting around his home. Uncle Wayne had been gone for nearly a week on another cross-country drop-off, and Eddie usually enjoyed having the place to himself, but now the silence engulfed him.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly as the seconds pass, his thoughts clashing into each other.

—————

Then:

Eddie tries to keep his attention on the TV as you enter the room for the fourth time that afternoon.

Rick shakes his head, taking a quick absent look in your direction.

“Dude, I think my sister might like you,” your brother laughs as you disappear back into your room.

Eddie scoffs at his words, but the thrum of his heart would’ve given him away if Rick could hear it.

“I’d never date your sister,” Eddie nudges his arm against Rick’s, eyes still trained on the video game as he sniped an enemy target, but his mind wanders behind the wood of your door. Wondering what you’re doing and if Rick might actually be right.

“Like I’d let you,” he chuckles, breaking Munson’s train of thought.

Eddie’s brow twists in confusion, and it isn’t lost on Rick.

He turns to his friend with a flippant roll of his eyes and a gentle nudge against the metalhead’s shoulder. Prepared to emphasize his point.

“Oh, come on. I love you, man, but there’s no way in hell I’d let my sister date a guy like you.”

Eddie chuckles along with Rick to conceal the sting of his friend’s words.

He knows all the things that people don’t like about him. His hair, his tattoos. The bad reputation he’d more than earned, but to hear it from his best friend made it sting more.

He can’t help but wonder if you see him that way, a loser with no future—just the town freak.

And in that moment, he promises himself that he’ll never put himself out there to know.

—————

Now:

Eddie presses his palm to his eye, a headache building behind his orbital bone.

Rick’s words reverberate off his skull as he grapples with the feelings he’s long ignored. The feelings that had sprouted and made a home of him since the summer he worked with you.

Eddie can still feel your lips against his, the electricity still humming in his veins, and fuck, he wishes it had lasted a moment longer.

He made a mistake, a huge mistake, and winces every time he thinks about the look on your face when he pushed you back into the passenger seat.

Eddie knows that if it went further, you’d only regret it once the sun rose and you’d sobered up. Once the realization hit that you’d slept with the pariah of Hawkins and he couldn’t live with you seeing him that way, with you regretting him.

Not when he already saw it in so many eyes around town.

He isn’t exactly someone you could take home, someone you could brag about or show off a picture of. He knows that much, has been told that much, and already accepts it as truth.

When girls got with Eddie, they expected fun. They expected drugs and a quick hookup.

Some of them never talked to him again, pretended they didn’t know him when they ran into him in town, and others told him that being with him made them realize they’d hit rock bottom.

God, he couldn’t handle you telling him that he was your rock bottom.

Eddie decides that it’s better to ignore it, to ignore you. Better to pretend it didn’t happen despite the way he feels. To spare himself from the regret he knew you’d eventually feel.

—————

Now:

It’s a rainy day, and fat drops bounce off the windshield as your father drives. Faster than usual.

In a hurry but you don’t know where to.

The air conditioner is off, creating a layer of condensation on the windows. Making your legs stick to the leather seats of your family’s beat-up station wagon.

You draw butterflies on the glass, a small finger tracing against the cool pane. Grinning wide as your drawings expose the gray sky and the way the dark clouds roll quickly against its expanse.

The low hum of Strawberry Fields Forever plays over the radio, but your parent’s voices are louder.

Angrier.

Your mom sniffles, and you lean up in your seat to see if she’s crying, but the length of her hair conceals her face from view.

“Mama,” you push against her seat with your sneakered foot, but she doesn’t respond.

“Jude, please pull over. I can drive.” Your mom insists, tugging at your father’s arm, but he shoves her off.

You unbuckle your seat belt and pull at your mom’s shirt, trying to get her attention.

“Mom.”

But your voice is cut off, muffled below the volume of the radio as your dad’s hand reaches for the dial turning it until your ears ring.

You shrink back into your seat, lower lip jutted as you look between the two of them. No longer able to understand what your parents are saying, the scene in front of you a mix of gestures and twisted faces making you more confused.

Your mother pulls on your dad’s arm again, and he shoves her off, turning his head to look at her. Mouth wide as he speaks, but you still can’t understand what he’s saying.

Everything else becomes a blur of lights and pain—endless pain shooting from your leg and throughout your body.

Your cries wrack your body but are silent to your own ears. The scene around you a mix of broken glass and lifeless eyes.

Then darkness.

You wake up in a cold sweat, wild gaze darting around the room as sit up in bed. The fabric of your tank top clings to your sweat-slicked skin uncomfortably, and your head pounds behind your eyes. A rhythm that matches the way your heart is beating against your ribcage.

Bile rises in your throat, the nausea that always accompanies the nightmare.

The sting of your leg a reminder of the accident, of the pain from that day.

You press a palm into the skin of your thigh, massaging the muscle marred by a thick scar that’s a shade lighter than the rest of your flesh. It aches like it just happened, like you are ten years old and trapped in that car again.

You groan uncomfortably and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to bring yourself back to the present. Trying to ground yourself with the distant sound of the coffee maker and the smell of burnt toast. The soft song of the birds outside of your window.

Slowly you become grounded, heart settling into a steady rhythm, and open your eyes.

Sunlight streams through your sheer curtains in brilliant rays, yellow hues creating a soft glow along your pale blue walls and highlighting the dust that dances through the air.

You throw your head back against the pillow, not ready to face the day.

Images of the night before flooding your vision.

Simon and Rachel, her mouth pressed to his. The way she smiled up at him, held his hand.

The scene too familiar for a random drunken hook-up.

You press your palms into your eyes, rubbing until you see swirls. Until you are reminded of Eddie’s stunned face when you sat in his lap, hands pressed to his chest. The way he bucked into you.

The way he pushed you back into the passenger seat.

“Fucking idiot,” you groan with embarrassment and pull your pillow over your face, letting out a muffled scream.

You stay concealed under the pillow, contemplating jumping into the lake and disappearing altogether. Definitely not ready to face Simon and Rachel. Or Eddie.

You flail your body around as another wave of embarrassment rolls through you, causing your pillow to fall from your face.

The incessant buzz of your phone catches your attention, and you glance over at its illuminated face. The screen full of notifications that you can see without grabbing it.

Hesitantly you reach for it, eyes pouring over all the texts.

11:55PM

Simon: Guess you decided not to come tonight?

12:00AM

Simon: helloooo?

12:23AM

Simon: so you’re just going to ignore me now cos I asked you to go out?

Simon: not like we can’t do date night another time, wanted to go have some fun for once

1:03AM

Simon: so you did show up

Simon: you left with MUNSON?

2:30AM

Simon: you’re really just going to ignore me?

2:33AM

Rachel: (Y/N)?

Rachel: Simon is really worried about you

7:49AM

Simon: We need to talk

8:36AM

Rachel: Text me when you’re awake

You swallow the emotion that arose and wonder if their guilt had kept them awake, if it had eaten at them or settled into their chest. Felt whenever they breathed.

Were they even capable of that?

Slowly you push the sheets off the bed and force your legs over the edge one by one until your feet are planted firmly in the plush carpet, your back still pressed against the mattress. Phone forgotten, lost somewhere in your purple comforter.

You will yourself off the mattress and clamor out your bedroom door. Mind focused on getting a glass of water to cure your dry mouth.

The throb of your head returns as the smell of burnt toast grows stronger, and fuck, why did you drink so much last night?

You can only assume the assault on your nose is your brother’s fault.

“Is it really that hard to cook toast, Rick?” You complain loudly as you stumble into the kitchen and throw open a cabinet door, reaching for a glass on the top shelf.

You turn towards the sink, blissfully unaware that there is a set of eyes on you. Watching as you whistle and fill your glass to the brim. Foot tapping to a song that only you can hear.

Eddie watches you, a little petrified like a deer caught in the headlights.

He knew he’d see you, it was your house after all, but he wasn’t prepared for how much he’d see.

His eyes trace over your legs, stalling on the swell of your ass. He watches as you lean over the counter to get a better view of the lake from the window just above your sink. The angle exposing a glimpse of your butt cheeks.

It’s like you know what you’re doing, know that he’s watching and driving him just a little bit insane.

He swallows harshly, refocusing his attention back on his breakfast. Doing his best to ignore you like he’d planned.

“If it isn’t little miss sunshine,” your brother greets, his words dripping with their usual sarcasm.

You turn around to mock him but stopped in your tracks, eyes practically bulging from your skull when you notice Eddie, and you grip your cup harder.

Had he been sitting there the whole time?

He quietly nibbles on a piece of bacon. Avoiding your eye contact entirely.

The embarrassment you felt before flares awake, and god, you want to crawl into a hole and disappear entirely.

Blinking rapidly, you shift your gaze back to Rick.

He sits at the table, grabbing a plate and shoveling food onto its surface. Eggs, bacon, and the incredibly burnt toast.

“Have work today?”

“Like I do every Saturday,” you shrug, tone bored and doing your best not to glance at the metalhead out of the corner of your eye.

You sip your water, focusing on how its cool temperature slides across your tongue—trying to focus on anything else.

“I’m not going to be able to take you to work. Mrs. Wheeler needs me to take a look at her car and then I’m picking up some extra hours at the shop.”

You had yet to overcome your fear of driving, already having a hard time just being a passenger.

“Can’t mom take me?” you question, but Rick’s head is already shaking as you get the words out.

“The transmission is acting up in her car. Need to look at it,” he states around a mouth full of food.

“Then how is she getting to work?” You set your cup onto the counter sharper than you intended and fold your arms over your chest.

“She’s not, has one of her headaches again,” he gestures to his head and shovels more food into his mouth.

“That’s why I need the overtime and for you to go to work, we need the cash. Next deal isn’t coming in before the light bill is due.”

Your shoulders sag—the constant stress of bills weighing heavy on you.

“I can just walk or get an uber,” you suggest with a tight smile, reaching over to grab a piece of bacon.

The walk isn’t that long.

“Your uber is already here,” he points his head towards Eddie, and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head at his suggestion.

Not happening.

“I can just walk,” you reaffirm quickly, causing Eddie’s eyebrow to quirk.

“Why are you acting like such a brat?”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m not, just don’t want to make Eddie go out of his way for me.” You unfold your arms and gestured absently towards him.

It was mostly true anyway, you didn’t like the idea of returning to the scene of the crime or spending the twenty minutes it would take for him to drive you to work in awkward silence.

“He’s not, stop being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” you scoff, voice rising slightly and definitely being weird.

“Besides, I can just ask Simon to give me a ride,” you shrug nonchalantly, taking another bite of bacon.

Rick doesn’t need to know that you aren’t talking to Simon and definitely wouldn’t be getting a ride from him.

Eddie’s elbow settles against the wooden dining table as he watches you and the way you so easily lie to your brother.

“Jesus, fine, whatever.” Your brother holds out a hand to get you to shut up and chugs his orange juice.

You reach for another piece of bacon but this time off his plate. Rick grabs your hand, shaking the piece out of your grasp, and turns to you—his face twists in disgust when he notices what you’re wearing for the first time.

“Go put some clothes on before Eddie gauges his fucking eyes out.” He wipes his mouth and waves a dismissive hand at you, chuckling at his own lame joke before biting into the bacon that you tried to steal.

Eddie chuckles along with your brother, his pale cheeks blossoming pink. His faux laugh disappears when he notices you sneering in his direction.

“Oh, I’d really hate for him to do that,” your voice drips with sarcasm as you roll your eyes, taking quick steps back down the hall and to your room.

You press your back against the wooden door, a mix of anger and annoyance filling your chest. Overtaking any embarrassment you previously felt.

No, Simon wouldn’t be giving you a ride but neither would Eddie. You’d rather risk showing up a sweaty mess than sit in a car alone with him.

—————

What you didn’t plan on was for it to start raining ten minutes in.

Large drops had fallen from the sky in quick succession, dark clouds covering the warmth of the sun and creating a chill in the fall air. One of Indiana’s infamous sporadic showers.

The maple leaves are already starting to turn yellow, their brightness a contrast against the gray sky. The air smells of the evergreens, the sharpness of their leaves mixing with the sweetness of the maple trees.

Your feet trudge through the mud, splashing dirt onto the cuffs of your jeans. The road feels longer in the bad weather.

The white of your assistant manager shirt clings to your skin, revealing the pink of your bra, and you cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to conceal it.

There’s a small part of you that wishes you had just taken the ride from Eddie, but there’s a bigger part, the more prideful one, that is glad you hadn’t.

Not after the way he’d laughed at you, chuckled at the thought of even being attracted to you. When you’d just mauled him the night before and this would be the perfect time for lightning to strike you down.

To end your misery, the embarrassment clinging to you once again like the fabric of your shirt.

In the distance, you can hear a car approaching, and you move further into the dirt to avoid being hit.

Hoping it isn’t a creep or a new serial killer looking for his next victim.

But it’s worse.

It’s Eddie.

Smiling at you from his rolled-down window, van driving slowly on the road's edge.

“Are you that fucking stubborn?” He questions, although he already knows the answer.

“Go away, Munson.”

You don’t look at him, eyes focused on the road ahead.

“Simon a no-show, huh?”

You click your teeth, trying to appear nonchalant. Like the words didn’t dig at you.

“Looks like it.”

His shoulders drop as you continue to ignore him, and he decides to appeal to your sensible side instead.

“You’re going to get sick.”

“So?”

And why did he think you could be sensible?

He groans and speeds up a little, parking the car just before you to block your path. You stop in your tracks, listening as he climbs out of the driver’s seat and rounds the car.

“Are we really going to do this again?,” he questions as he trudges toward you. Boots slamming into the mud. Curls a little wild and starting to cling to his face when he looks at you.

“Do what?” You give him an innocent smile, eyelashes batting dramatically.

Eddie closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Just get in the fucking car,” he states through gritted teeth, his annoyance only making your grin widen.

“Sure you wouldn’t rather gauge your eyes out?” Your voice drops low, mocking Rick’s tone.

You drop your smile, gaze a little cold as it meets his, and push past him to continue your walk to work.

He throws his head back, face to the sky. Of course, you were pissed about that.

“I’m sorry, okay?” He turns to you, watching as you get a little further way from him.

“For driving me home last night and making out with me or for laughing at me this morning?” You turn around and begin to walk backward, arms lifting from your side.

A little tired, a little defeated, and you stop beside his van waiting for his answer - concealed from the rest of the road.

“Laughing at you,” his voice is earnest, “I didn’t mean it.”

You nod, his words a salve to that wound but still, there was the mortifying way he’d pushed you away from him.

Eddie began to walk towards you, drawing closer. The scent of his cologne invading your senses.

“Sure you aren’t sorry about the making out part?” You question, eyes trained on his amber gaze as he approaches.

He swallows roughly and debates whether he should be honest.

“I’m,” he pauses and sighs heavily, “I’m not sorry about that.”

You shrug your shoulders in an attempt to appear flippant, to seem as though his reassurance doesn’t affect you the way that it did. Heart hammering wildly, legs a little wobbly because Eddie Munson didn’t regret kissing you.

“Well that’s good, I’m glad neither of us regretted it,” you turn back around, missing the way his gaze lit up at your words. The reassurance that he needed.

“Now you can go on your merry way and pretend that you gave me a ride. I promise I won’t tell my brother that you didn’t.”

His hand is warm against your arm as he spins you around to look at him.

Your shoes slide against the wet earth from the force, and it is for a brief moment that you see him before you crash into the soft mud.

“Fuck-“ your curses are synchronized as you fall and pull him atop you, his weight causing you to groan from the sudden impact.

Eddie’s knee is slotted between your legs as he lifts his weight onto his forearms, brown gaze boring into your eyes. An apology on his lips when you begin to laugh. Giggles filling the air around you.

You looked at the evidence of your fall, your white shirt now painted brown. Ruined, and marred from the mud. Your hair is a mess of dirt that clings to your face.

Eddie is nearly devoid of any filth. The only evidence he’d fallen is the mud that soaks through the pants of his jeans.

And it’s a little bit annoying how he isn’t as muddy as you.

Slowly you reach your finger up and slide it across his pale skin with a wide mischievous smile. Chuckling at the way his eyebrows marry at your actions, the way his jaw juts to this side and he shakes his head.

“You brat,” he lifts a hand and attempts to copy your actions as you try to wiggle away. His free hand stills you, holding you by the waist, as he drags the other across your cheek.

His playful smile mirrors yours.

“You jerk, I have to get to work!” But your tone doesn’t match the light in your eyes.

“I don’t think Huntzberger wants you hovering over the popcorn, let alone walking into the building, like this.”

His eyes roam your body, noticing the way your nipples are pebbled against the pink lace of your bra, easy to see through the sheer fabric of your shirt. The way your jeans hug the flare of your hips as you squirm beneath him.

Your breath hitches as you watch the way his gaze dances over your frame, chest rising and falling at a quick pace that isn’t lost on Eddie.

“How much time do you have before work?” His voice is a little gruff, affected, and it takes a moment for you to form a coherent thought.

You blink rapidly, hands resting on his chest absently, and clear your throat.

He lifts off of you and reaches a hand to help you up, but you pull him down into the mud beside you.

“You little shit!” Eddie looks at himself, the mud that clings to his jacket and jeans.

“Oops,” you shrug and lean out of his way as he throws mud at you.

“I have like two hours,” you laugh, looking at him completely amused.

“How long did you think it was going to take you to walk?” He lays there defeated, chuckle matching yours.

“I don’t know, it was just in case-“

“In case what? You had to fight a pack of wood rats to get through?”

“Shut up,” you shove his face from yours, mud caking his cheek.

Eddie gasps at the same time you do, realization dawning as he tackles you back into the mud.

It was like the whole world fell around you, ceasing to exist except for you and Eddie. His muddied face hovering above yours, long fingers digging into your sides as you try to wiggle away from him.

Your giggles fill the air, and you push at his chest.

“Stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Tears spring in your eyes as you push against his chest once more, dirt seeping further into your clothes as you lay there at his mercy.

“Say please,” he insists, and you shake your head, hands gripping his shirt.

For a moment, he stops, fingers stilling at your sides and he smiles at you mischievously. Face moving half an inch closer, and your smile falters briefly, gaze darting to his lips and back to his eyes. Their deep brown staring back at you, a light in them you hadn’t seen.

“You don’t regret it?” He questions, needing to hear it again. His breath fanning against your face.

You shake your head, already knowing the “it” that he thought you regretted.

Eddie leans closer, his lips a whisper above your own. Shaky breaths mixing with yours.

Your heart skips as you anticipate the first touch, your eyes fluttering closed.

Eddie pulls away, slowly. Hesitantly.

“Think we should get you back home,” he looks down at your dirtied clothes and chuckles, face hovering above yours. You try to hide your disappointment as you nod in agreement.

He pushes himself off of you wiping his hands along his jeans before stretching out his hand to help you up.

Your palm slides against his, caked dirt pressing against his warm hand, and he pulls you against him. Sliding his hands down until they settle on your waist.

His nose traces yours as his fingers dig into your hips, and he swallows hard.

The composure he’d always managed to maintain quickly slipping away.

You tilt your face and run a hand against his jaw, cupping his chin. Thumb lazing against his stubbled flesh drawing circles in his skin.

“Fuck it,” Eddie breathes, and his lips push against yours.

The press of them makes you gasp, they’re just as soft as you remembered but more fervent than before.

His tongue presses at the seam of your lips, swiping against yours when you open for him.

He tastes sweet like spearmint, and you hum.

Exhilaration thrums through you, and you pull him closer, arms wrapping around his neck.

Chest to chest.

Hearts synchronized, each beating at a rapid pace, and you want the moment to stretch on.

For the kiss to never end.

Thunder cracks in the air and the two of you pull apart, looking up at the darkened sky just as the rain begins to fall again.

Eddie looks back at you, his dimpled grin wide as the first drop hits his cheek, and you yelp as another drop cascades down your face.

He presses a quick kiss to your lips, enjoying your surprised gasp. The way you instantly melt into his touch.

“Will you please get in the fucking car now?”

You nod rapidly, your hand slipping into Eddie’s warm palm. Allowing him to pull you towards his van and into the passenger seat.

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#queue queue #el is on vacation #eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem oc #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson x female character #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson smut #eddie musnon x fem!reader

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https-murdock · 21 hours

Text

All Yours - Matt Murdock

summary: after a bad day, all you can think about is Matt - all he can think about he making you relax.

word count: 835 (lil one!)

warnings: smut with plot! (i’m getting better at adding plot to porn lol), oral f receiving, super fluff

note: i feel like ive used this pic for a fic before ?? so if anyone knows which one let me know and ill change it lol <3 enjoy

Walking in through the apartment door, you’d expect for the weight of the world to fall from your shoulders - but when you don’t see Matt’s glasses on the side, next to his cane, things feel a lot heavier.

“Matt?” You call, dropping everything near the door and collapsing onto the couch, mind spinning with things that have happened through the day. How much you’d give to see him.

Just as the tears were starting to prick at your eyes, the door flings open with that usual sense of urgency he always has.

“Hi sweetheart, sorry got caught up-“ Matt says, starting to explain what his day entailed but in the blink of an eye you’re in front of him, arms wrapped around his shoulders and head against his chest just listening to his breathing. “Woah, hey… y’ok?” he smiles, and he can hear the way your heart starts to race at the question.

“Yeah just… bad day.” You say, cheeks squished into his chest, his gentle heartbeat soothing you slightly.

Dropping his cane to the floor and throwing his glasses to the kitchen side, he scoops you up into his arms, bridal style.

“Missed you.” You mutter, feeling suddenly weightless under his strength.

“I’ll make you feel better,” He starts, and by the time you open your eyes he’s laying you down on the bed, “Missed you all day. wanna make you feel so much better.” You wonder if he’s more so just telling himself what he’s going to do with you.

“You just take whatever you want, i’ll just lie here.” You giggle, giving him his free pass to have his way with you. You could always say that to him in confidence, knowing that no matter what he chose to do, your safety was always at the forefront of his mind.

“No no, shhh, it’ss about you.” He lets his hand find your mouth, gently covering it and keeping you quiet. “Let me do that, you don’t say a word. just wanna hear those pretty little moans.”

His fingers dance up your waist, lifting your shirt over your head, and if you listen closely you can hear the small whispers of praise he’s speaking into your skin, lips trailing across your stomach.

Next thing you know, his soft touches have brought your clothes to the floor, leaving you stark in front of him - body begging for more from him. He’s in his boxers, head nestled between your legs, leaving little kisses splayed across your thighs.

“Matt-“ You begin, almost forgetting he set the rule of no words to come from you, before he speaks again, “sweetheart, shhh, just let me do this. lay back, i’ll relax you.” He giggles, and the display of happiness from him almost relaxes you enough to finish right there.

You let your head hit the pillows behind you, finally feeling him place a slight kiss to your clit, a gasp escaping your chest at such a soft feeling.

Finally, Matt lets his tongue delve deeper to where he is craving to be - licking a gentle yet strong stripe from top to bottom, his tongue finishing on your clit by leaving behind a gentle suck. You can tell he’s relishing in the sound of the moans he’s already grasping from you.

“You’re still the most gorgeous person i’ve ever seen, even when you’re so wet for me.” He says, reaching up to pick at both nipples at the same time, earning a very loud “Fuck, Matt.” from your chest.

He continues his gentle assault on you, sucking and kitten-licking on your clit and moaning as he’s tasting as much of you as he can access - the vibrations of his low voice running up your spine and setting off goosebumps across your skin.

“Oh-Shit…” You moan, voice running higher pitched at the end as he lets his teeth graze across your folds, your hands finding his hair and gripping.

You pull softly on his dark hair, eliciting a moan from him again - your body telling you that it was inching closer to that mind blowing orgasm he always gave you.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re close.” he’s saying, hands moving yours from his hair to clasp them down at your sides, his fingers intertwining with yours.

Again, he grazes his teeth so softly you can barely feel it across your clit, and that’s when you snap - falling into an ear ringing, eye rolling orgasm, back arching so far off the bed that Matt has to crawl up slightly to keep up with where you’re taking him.

As you start to come down from your high, Matt is holding himself above you, muscles rippling with his strength.

Your ears come to, and the sounds of all the traffic outside bring you back to earth.

“Can’t believe you’re all mine.” He trails off, almost sounding like he wants to say more but can’t find the words, until your mind is ready to speak, “All yours.”

— tags —

@lambmurdock @parker-murdock @silas-aeiou @blushingrn @audreyclimbs

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock smut #daredevil #matt murdock x you #marvel daredevil #daredevil fanfic #daredevil marvel #https matt fic #matthew murdock x you #matt murdock x fem!reader #matthew murdock smut #matthew murdock x reader #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fic

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kingofbodyrolls · 17 hours

Text

Friendcation (m) | myg | pregnancy special

you and Yoongi try to get pregnant, but it doesn’t go as planned, as the road isn’t easy. But he’s your rock, and he’ll stand with you through thick and thin 💜

→ Pairing: mechanic!Yoongi x reader (female) → AUs: established relationship, mechanic!Yoongi, married!au, pregnancy!au → Genres: slice of life, humor/crack, smut and fluff → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 7.5k → Warnings (general) + triggers: mentions of blood because of SPOILER a miscarriage (there’s blood but know more detail than that), angst, anxiety/fear for the future and for a miscarriage again, pregnancy, raging hormones, drinking sorrows away, getting angry without course, yelling without course, OC is being rather destructive in this one but Yoongi is very sweet, understanding and supportive 👏 → Warnings (explicit): unprotected sex (is this really a surprise? But please don’t be stupid irl, though they aren’t stupid here ‘cuz they’re actively trying for a baby); oral (female and male receiving), doggystyle over a table 😝, spanks, creampie, cockwarming, kisses (yes that is a warning because it’s sugary sweet 😘), multiple orgasms → Author’s note: hiya all you lovely people! I’m back at it again with another extra for friendcation and let me tell you, even though this is very angsty, I loved writing it a lot. I drew from my own experience (miscarriages), but I didn’t want to go into too much detail, so it’s very light. But it does affect OC and her mood, like she almost gets depressed over it 😢 But Yoongi is there to pick her up and support her, so don’t worry! It’s a sweet one, and of course it has a happy ending, because you know what’s gonna happen in the winter special that I wrote a long time ago! I hope you love it as much as I did! This one was honestly so fast for me to write, like a few hours! It’s so much easier for me when I write from my own personal experience. And if you’ve ever had a miscarriage, I want to give you a hug, and please know that you’re not alone, okay? 🫂 (author’s note2: I wrote this story in the beginning of August 2024) → Read on AO3? [link] ✨

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“There are two lines!” you cry out, bursting into the living room with a pregnancy test clutched in your trembling hand. You twirl it in the air like a magic wand, watching the realization spread across your husband’s face, his eyes lighting up with a mixture of joy and wonder. He moves toward you, a smile breaking across his lips, and in one swift motion, he wraps you in his arms, pulling you close as he plants a tender kiss on your cheek.

“Are you really pregnant?” he murmurs, his voice soft yet trembling with excitement and a touch of fear. You hear the uncertainty beneath his joy, the way hope and anxiety dance together in his words. You’ve both dreamed of this moment, talked about it late into the night, imagining the tiny life you would create together. Ever since your honeymoon, where every whispered wish was laced with the hope of creating a new life, this has been your shared dream. And now, it’s real. The weight of it hits you all at once, and tears well up in your eyes, spilling over as the emotions of the moment overwhelm you.

He kisses you again, this time with more intensity. “I can’t wait to have a baby with you,” he whispers against your skin.

Neither can you. The joy is too immense to contain, so you schedule a doctor’s appointment, needing to hear it confirmed, to know for certain that your dream is taking root inside you. Yoongi is right there beside you, holding your hand as the doctor measures your HCG levels via a blood test and tells you the news you’ve been waiting for—you’re pregnant, and not just newly so. Eight weeks have already passed, and suddenly, the idea of this tiny life feels even more real.

Giddy with excitement, the two of you start to dream out loud, envisioning a life that needs more space to grow. The apartment where you built your love, small and cozy as it is, now feels too cramped for the family you want to become. You’ve always talked about raising your children just outside the city, where the air is cleaner, and the pace of life slower, where a bigger house awaits with room enough for your growing dreams. Yoongi smiles at the thought of a garage, where he can create and tinker, a space of his own.

You start house hunting in the suburbs surrounding Seoul, imagining nurseries painted in soft pastels, browsing baby clothes with tiny sleeves, and laughing over the choices. Each step feels like a dream in the making, a life slowly unfolding before you, full of promise and possibility.

But today has been long, and your body is weary. The excitement has worn you down, and as you return home, you kick off your shoes with a sigh, feeling the ache in your swollen feet. You glance around, hoping to hear the familiar sounds of your husband’s return, but the apartment is quiet. You open the fridge and pull out a cold bottle of water, hoping it will soothe your frayed nerves. The stress of your marketing job clings to you like a shadow, and all you want is a moment to unwind, to let go of the day’s tension.

As you set the bottle down on the counter, a sudden, sharp pain radiates through your stomach. Your hand instinctively flies to your belly, and you double over, gasping as the pain intensifies. It’s not normal, you think, panic rising in your chest. Something is wrong.

When you look down at the floor, a wave of horror crashes over you.

Blood.

Dark, vivid, and far too much of it. It’s pooling beneath you, seeping through your clothes, and it’s only then that you fully realize how soaked you are.

Terror grips you, squeezing your chest, making it hard to breathe. Tears well up in your eyes, your breath comes in ragged gasps as panic begins to set in. This can’t be happening—this much blood, it’s not normal, not now, not when you’re carrying life inside you. A flood of thoughts races through your mind: is the baby inside you still safe? Or is this the cruel end to a dream that had only just begun?

You need Yoongi—his steady presence, his strong arms, his comforting words—but he’s not here.

With trembling hands, you fumble for your phone, digging it out of your skirt pocket, and desperately pull up your husband’s contact. The phone barely rings before the door to your apartment creaks open, and there he is, stepping inside. Relief mixes with fear as he rushes to you, his eyes widening in shock as he takes in the scene—the blood, your trembling form, the tears streaming down your face.

Without a word, he’s at your side, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close. His fingers, rough from years of work, trace gentle, soothing circles on your back, trying to calm the storm inside you.

“What happened?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady, but you can hear the tremor beneath his words, the fear that he’s trying so hard to mask. His breath comes quicker, and though he tries to be strong for you, you can see the terror in his eyes, mirroring your own.

“Out of nowhere, the pain started,” you sob, clutching at your stomach, “and then the bleeding... so much blood.” Your voice breaks as the pain flares again, sharp and unforgiving.

Yoongi pulls you to your feet, his grip firm but tender, “We need to get you to the doctor’s. Now.” His words are clipped, urgent, but his touch is all comfort as he guides you out of the apartment, into the elevator, and finally into the car. The drive is shrouded in a thick, suffocating silence, broken only by your muffled sobs. The fear that’s lodged in your throat is too heavy to put into words, and deep down, you’re terrified of what you might say if you tried.

At the doctor’s office, the cold gel on your stomach is a jarring contrast to the heat of your fear. The ultrasound screen flickers to life, and there it is—a heartbeat, strong and steady. Relief washes over you like a cool breeze, but it’s tinged with uncertainty. You dare not hope too much, not yet.

Yoongi’s voice cuts through the silence, steady but laced with anxiety, “Why is she bleeding so much?” His eyes search the doctor’s face for reassurance, for something solid to hold onto.

The doctor hesitates, their gaze softening as they meet your wide, tear-streaked eyes. “It’s not uncommon to bleed in the early stages of pregnancy,” they explain gently. “Everything could be okay, but…” they pause, and the weight of that single word hangs heavy in the air, “it might be a miscarriage in progress. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do except wait and see what happens.” The apology in their voice is almost unbearable, as if they’re sorry for delivering such uncertain news.

And so you wait, the days stretching out like an endless horizon. The bleeding continues, each drop a reminder of the life that hangs in the balance. Yoongi never leaves your side, holding you close through the long, silent nights. You curl into a ball on the bed, grief pulling you into its dark embrace, and you weep for what you fear you’ve lost, though no one has told you for certain. You cry yourself to sleep most nights, haunted by the thought that the heartbeat you saw was the last flicker of hope, slowly fading away.

You feel like a hollow shell, a prisoner within your own skin, drifting through the motions of life, performing tasks you know you should care about but no longer do. The days blur together in a monotony of routines—going to work, waking up, all the things that once held meaning now feel like burdens. The joy that once colored your world has faded to gray. Yet, Yoongi remains by your side, unwavering in his support, whispering words of comfort, promising that everything will be okay. But when the doctor confirms your worst fears, telling you that the life you carried is no longer, you don’t even cry.

It’s as if your tears have run dry, drained by days of sorrow, leaving you numb and empty. Yoongi pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly, trying to shield you from the storm that rages inside. You feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, and you cling to it like a lifeline.

Back home, you slip off your shoes and head straight for the alcohol cabinet. The house is quiet, the air heavy with the weight of your grief. You reach for a bottle of red wine, the one you’ve been saving for a special occasion. With a shaky hand, you uncork it and pour the crimson liquid into a glass, filling it almost to the brim. You glance at your husband, managing a weak smile. “Do you want one?”

“It’s the middle of the day on a Saturday,” he says softly, concern lacing his voice. But you just shrug, raising the glass to your lips as if it could wash away the pain. “But I don’t mind drinking with you,” he adds, grabbing a glass for himself and pouring some wine. After all, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?

He settles beside you on the couch, wrapping an arm around you, and you lean into him, seeking the comfort of his warmth. The past few days have been a blur of tears and aching silence, and as you take a sip of the wine, the familiar burn in your throat offers a momentary escape. You know it’s not a solution, but today, you allow yourself this indulgence. Tomorrow will be different, you tell yourself. Tomorrow is a new day.

Yoongi doesn’t say much; he simply kisses the top of your head, holding you close as you both drink in the quiet of the day. There’s a solace in his presence, in the way his arms encircle you, making you feel safe even as the world crumbles around you. The wine, the warmth of his body, the soft hum of his voice as he sings you a lullaby—it’s all a balm to your wounded soul.

Before long, sleep overtakes you, and you drift off with your head resting on his lap, his fingers gently combing through your hair. When you wake, your head throbs with a dull ache, and your eyes feel dry and gritty. You rub them, groaning softly as you stretch. Yoongi isn’t beside you, but on the table, you find a glass of water and a couple of painkillers waiting for you. The small gesture makes your heart swell with love.

As you swallow the pills, Yoongi emerges from the bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water clinging to his skin. His voice, still thick with sleep, wraps around you like a warm blanket. “How are you feeling, babe?”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I have a slight headache, but I’m okay,” you reply, pouting playfully as you try to tame your unruly hair. “Thank you for indulging me,” you add, feeling a surge of gratitude for the way he understands you, even in your darkest moments.

He crosses the room, sitting beside you on the couch, his presence a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of your emotions. “I’ll always be by your side, babe, you know that,” he says, his voice soft but filled with unwavering conviction.

You nod, your heart swelling with a love so deep it almost hurts. Because you do know. And you love him all the more for it.

He disappears into the bedroom to get dressed, and when he returns, he sits beside you again, his hand finding yours, his touch grounding you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You hesitate, fidgeting with your fingers, feeling the weight of the words that hover on your lips. But you know that talking might help, that sharing the burden might make it easier to bear. So you take a deep breath and let the words spill out.

“I want to try to get pregnant again,” you confess, the hurt still fresh, but beneath it, a flicker of hope. Despite the pain, despite everything, you still want that baby. You still believe in the dream that once filled you with so much joy.

Yoongi looks at you, his eyes soft with understanding. He nods, his grip on your hand tightening just a little. “Okay,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “Let’s try again then.”

And in that moment, you know that no matter what comes next, you won’t be facing it alone.

And so you try, again and again, in every possible way, in so many positions that it borders on the absurd. The weeks blur into months, yet each time you face the stark emptiness of a negative pregnancy test, hope crumbles a little more. You feel bombed, discouraged, like a balloon slowly deflating, the air of optimism leaking out with each failed attempt. You never imagined it would be this hard to conceive, and the disappointment weighs heavy on your heart.

Doubt creeps in like a shadow, wrapping its cold fingers around your thoughts. You begin to wonder if there’s something wrong with your body, some hidden flaw that’s keeping you from the one thing you want most. Why isn’t it happening? And yet, beneath the yearning, there’s a trembling fear—fear of what will happen when you finally see those two lines again. Fear of reliving the pain of another loss.

“Maybe we should see a doctor,” Yoongi suggests one quiet afternoon as you both pick at your food, the silence between you thick with unspoken worries. “Maybe I should get my sperm checked,” he muses, his voice tinged with a mix of concern and determination.

You nod, though deep down you doubt that he’s the problem. It feels like the fault lies with you, that your body is betraying you. Isn’t there something about a woman’s fertility dipping after thirty? You vaguely recall reading that somewhere, and it haunts you now. But Yoongi’s right—there’s no harm in getting checked. Perhaps it will give you some answers, or at least a direction.

A few days later, you walk into your doctor’s office with leaden feet and little hope, convinced that age has already set its limits on your dreams. The tests are done, the waiting begins, and you brace yourself for the worst. But when the results come back, they reveal that everything is fine—your fertility is normal, Yoongi’s sperm is in excellent shape. So why isn’t it happening? The question echoes in your mind, relentless and cruel.

Frustration gnaws at you, its claws sinking deeper with each passing day. You find yourself snapping at your colleagues, the tension spilling over in ways you can’t control. Apologies tumble from your lips almost as often as the sharp words that precede them. At home, you manage to hold your temper, but you fear it’s only a matter of time before even Yoongi becomes a target, despite his unwavering support.

Making love, once a source of joy and connection, now feels hollow, reduced to a mechanical routine. The passion that once ignited between you has dimmed, replaced by a clinical determination to conceive. You know Yoongi feels it too; he’s always been attuned to your moods.

“I’m not fucking you when you’re not in the mood,” he says one night, his voice low but firm.

You scoff, anger flaring as you rise from the bed. “Just fuck me so I can get pregnant.”

“No,” he replies, his tone unyielding. “Not when your heart’s not in it.”

With that, he stands up, naked and resolute, pulling his clothes back on as you lie there, seething and tearful, frustration coursing through you like a fever. The anger isn’t just at him; it’s at yourself, at your body, at the unfairness of it all. You hear him in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes a stark contrast to the silence that fills the bedroom. You pull yourself together, dressing slowly, avoiding the mirror because you know you won’t like what you see—a woman who feels trapped in a body that won’t cooperate, stuck between desire and despair.

But Yoongi isn’t wrong. Pushing yourself when your heart isn’t in it won’t help, you know that. You just can’t help the desperation that drives you to this point. Taking a deep breath, you step out of the bedroom and find him in the kitchen. Without a word, you wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice thick with regret. “I’ll do better.”

He hugs you back, strong and warm, and in that embrace, you find a flicker of comfort. You kiss, a promise unspoken between you, and you feel a surge of gratitude for the man who stands beside you through all the heartbreak and frustration. Whatever comes next, you know you’re in this together.

You immerse yourself in research, scouring every corner of the internet for vitamins, supplements, and rituals that might tip the odds in your favor. Each new discovery feels like a lifeline, something to cling to in the relentless tide of hope and disappointment. But one day, after yet another fruitless search, you feel a wave of exhaustion wash over you—a weariness that reaches deep into your bones. You close your laptop with a heavy sigh and turn to Yoongi, the words slipping from your lips before you can second-guess them.

“I don’t think I want to have kids anymore,” you say, your voice eerily calm, as if stating a simple fact. But inside, you feel as cold and distant as the words sound. Yoongi’s head snaps toward you so quickly that you can almost hear the air shift. His eyes search your face, trying to comprehend the sudden shift in your resolve.

“We can just keep trying,” he replies, his voice gentle but with an undercurrent of desperation, as though he’s pleading with you—because he is. You know how deeply he longs for babies, for a family built on the love you share.

But the weight of it all crushes you, and the tears you’ve held back for so long finally threaten to spill over. “I don’t think I can,” you whisper, your voice breaking as a sob catches in your throat. The exhaustion, the fear, the endless cycle of hope and heartbreak—it’s too much.

Yoongi pulls you into his arms, his embrace warm and reassuring. He pats your back, murmuring that it’s okay, that everything will be fine, even as he holds you a little tighter, as if trying to shield you from the pain. He pulls back slightly, his eyes locking with yours, and you see the sincerity in them—the way he’s willing to let go of his own dreams for your sake.

“We don’t have to have kids if you don’t want to anymore,” he says, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering, making sure you know he means it. It’s not just a comfort; it’s a promise.

You swallow hard, the enormity of the decision weighing on you. Could you keep trying? Maybe. But fear coils around your heart, tightening with each passing thought. The future feels uncertain, and that terrifies you.

“Maybe,” you begin, searching for the right words, “we could still try, but not focus on it so much. I don’t think it’s healthy for me to be this obsessed.”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips as relief softens his features. “Maybe we should rekindle our love,” he suggests gently. “Sex shouldn’t feel like a chore, and I hate that it does for you,” he adds, a pout forming on his lips as he looks at you with concern. “How can I make it better for you?”

You take a moment to ponder his question, reflecting on the love you share, the bond that has always been strong, even in the face of adversity. You realize that it’s not about what’s missing, but about what’s been neglected—the time, the attention, the simple joys of being together. Your hectic schedules have stolen moments that should have been yours, and now you feel the distance.

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” you ask, a shy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

His chuckle is like music, sweet and comforting, warming you from the inside out. “Always,” he replies, intertwining his fingers with yours, his touch a silent vow of affection.

In the weeks that follow, you carve out more time for each other, stepping back from the rush of work to simply be together. You surprise him at his garage, sharing takeout in his cluttered office, laughing over greasy fries and soda. You catch late-night movies, stroll through the mall hand-in-hand, visit little cafes tucked away in the corners of the city. You do all the things you’ve missed, the simple, everyday joys that once made your love effortless, and already you feel lighter, happier.

Amidst this rekindling of your love, you stumble upon the perfect house just outside of Seoul. It’s spacious, with a large living room that echoes with the laughter of future children you haven’t given up on just yet. The garden sprawls wide, with enough space for dreams to grow, and the garage—oh, the garage is exactly what Yoongi has always wanted, a place to tinker and create. When you step inside for the first time, you feel it in your bones—this is home. It speaks to you, calls to something deep within you, and you see the same recognition in Yoongi’s eyes.

The decision to buy the house is easy, almost instinctual, as if you’ve always known this was where you were meant to be. You celebrate with friends, toasting to the new chapter that’s about to begin, and their joy mirrors your own. The move won’t happen until summer, giving you a few precious months to pack up your life and prepare for the future. And for the first time in a long while, that future doesn’t feel so daunting—it feels full of possibilities.

It’s March, and winter still clings to the world with frosty fingers, the cold seeping through the cracks of the early morning. Yoongi holds you extra close as you stroll along the river, the chill in the air making you grateful for the wool scarf he wrapped around your neck with such tender care. Your hand finds refuge in the deep pocket of his coat, where your fingers intertwine, sharing warmth with each squeeze and caress.

As you walk, you take in the quiet beauty of the morning. Couples sit huddled on benches, whispering secrets, some stealing kisses as if the cold gives them courage. Children chase each other across the dewy grass, their laughter like wind chimes in the crisp air. You savor these moments, these tranquil walks before the world wakes up fully and the weather softens into spring.

Yoongi tugs you toward a small coffee shop nestled by the river, and soon you’re cradling steaming cups of hot cocoa. The rich scent of chocolate wraps around you like a comforting blanket as you settle into a cozy corner. Across the table, Yoongi’s fingers dance playfully over yours, each brush sending electric jolts through your body. His touch warms you from the inside out, and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks, though you try to hide it.

Suddenly, he chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’ve got something on your face,” he teases, pointing at your mouth.

You fumble to wipe it away, but before you can, Yoongi leans over the table, closing the distance between you. His lips capture yours in a soft kiss, his tongue slipping out to clean the smudge of cocoa from your mouth. The simple act is intimate, thrilling, and utterly unexpected.

“Yoongi, we’re in public,” you stammer, your voice a mix of scolding and breathless surprise. The audacity of his gesture stirs a warmth between your legs, a desire that flickers to life like a spark catching flame.

“When has that ever bothered me?” he retorts with a mischievous grin, his boldness both shocking and endearing.

You stare at him, baffled by his audacity, but also deeply drawn to it. With a playful smile, you grab his hand, pulling him up from his chair. “Let’s get home before you get us kicked out.”

Laughter bubbles between you as you walk hand in hand, the cold forgotten in the heat of the moment. By the time you step into the elevator, the tension has built to a fever pitch, and you find yourself unable to wait any longer. You pounce on him, surprising Yoongi with the fiery need in your kiss, your lips capturing his in a fierce embrace.

“I want you, Yoon,” you whisper breathlessly, your lips brushing against his ear as you tighten your arms around his neck. “I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow.”

His giggle is low and throaty, the sound reverberating through you as his back meets the steel of the elevator wall. “Hmmm, you’d like that, huh?”

“Yes,” you pant, your breath hot against his skin. You lick your lips, eyes dark with desire. “You can decide how you want it. My birthday present to you.”

He chuckles, kissing you softly, tenderly, as he murmurs, “But you already gave me a scotch, a new toolbox, and a house,” a kiss for each gift, each one lingering longer than the last. “You don’t need to give me more.”

“And sex shouldn’t really be a gift,” he adds, his lips quirking into a smile, but you nod, already knowing this.

“Doesn’t change the fact that I want you inside me,” you counter with a wink, giving your own ass a playful slap.

A low grunt escapes him, arousal thickening his voice as he grabs you, pinning you against the wall, his lips tracing a searing path down your neck. You moan softly, your body arching toward him, your pussy throbbing with need.

When the elevator doors slide open, he pulls you out, his grip firm as he leads you to your apartment door. He fumbles briefly with the key, urgency in every motion, and the moment the door clicks shut behind you, the world outside ceases to exist.

Shoes are discarded in a hurry, and in the blink of an eye, Yoongi has you in the kitchen, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. He spreads your legs, his eyes dark and hungry as he takes in the sight of you. Already, you’re so wet, aching for him, and you can see the primal desire mirrored in his gaze.

He kneels before you, lifting the hem of your dress with a mischievous glint in his eye. “There’s a wet patch on your panties, babe,” he murmurs, a chuckle rumbling from his chest as his gaze darkens with desire.

“Well, I want you badly,” you breathe, your legs parting in invitation, your body aching for his touch.

Without hesitation, he hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric of your panties and slides them down your legs, letting them pool on the floor. His lips find your slick pussy, his tongue a sinful instrument of pleasure as it dances over your folds. He laps at you with fervor, his nose grazing your sensitive clit as his tongue delves deeper, exploring every inch of you. You moan, the sound almost foreign to your own ears, lost as you are in the ecstasy he’s drawing from you. It doesn’t take long before you’re unraveling, your release shuddering through you as you come apart on his tongue.

He pulls back, his lips glistening with your essence, and he licks them slowly, savoring the taste of you. “You’re so hot,” he breathes, his voice thick with need.

You hum in response, wanting to tell him how irresistible he is, but before you can, he’s grabbing your hips, pulling you down from the counter and capturing your lips in a searing kiss. “I want to fuck you so bad,” he growls against your mouth, his fingers digging into your flesh possessively. “I want to fill you up, to lose myself in your pussy.”

When you pull away, his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with lust. “I want to take care of you first,” you whisper, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “I want to suck you off.”

“You don’t have to. I just need to be inside you,” he argues, his hands already unzipping his pants, freeing his hard, aching cock.

“No,” you insist, your voice soft but firm. “It’s your birthday, and I want to give you everything you desire.” You help him discard his pants and boxers, and as soon as he’s free of the fabric, you wrap your hand around his dick, feeling him twitch in your grasp. He groans, a needy sound that makes your own desire flare even hotter.

“I want you to fuck my mouth,” you say, your voice sultry and full of intent. You drop to your knees before him, looking up with wide, pleading eyes. “Please.”

He hesitates, but only for a moment. You always have this power over him, making him bend to your will with just a word, a look. So when you take him into your warm, wet mouth, he sees stars. You hold his gaze, your eyes locked on his as you slowly, sensually, begin to pleasure him. He thinks you look like a vixen, so full of confidence and allure, and sometimes he can’t quite believe that you’re his, that you belong to him in every way.

For a while, he lets you lead, your lips and tongue working him over with skillful precision. But soon, his need for control takes over, his hands tangling in your hair as he starts to guide your movements, thrusting gently at first, then deeper, harder. He knows you can take it, even when your eyes flutter closed and your breath hitches. He knows you love it as much as he does. The sounds you make, the soft, wet noises of your mouth on him, fill the kitchen, and he moans your name, the pleasure almost overwhelming.

He can feel himself getting close, that familiar tightening in his core, and it takes everything in him to pull back, to stop before he loses himself entirely. When he does, a string of saliva still connects you, a testament to the raw, unfiltered passion between you.

“Was it too much?” he asks, his voice rough with desire, his thumb brushing against your flushed cheek.

You shake your head, wiping the drool from your lips. “No,” you assure him, your voice breathless but steady. “If it was, I would have said something.”

“Good,” he rasps, pulling you to your feet, his lips finding yours in a heated kiss. “Because now I need to fuck you. On the table.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, a playful glint in your gaze. “The dining table?”

He grins, wicked and full of promise. “Yes, the dining table.”

He nods, and you do as he says, feeling his presence close behind you, a silent promise of what’s to come. The air thickens with anticipation as you remain in your dress, a symbol of your desire lingering between the layers of fabric. When he turns you around to face the table and gently presses you down onto its cool surface, you know exactly what he wants, and the thought alone sends a shiver down your spine. God, you love it when he takes you from behind.

He hikes up your dress, exposing you to the cool air, and his hands find your ass, groping and squeezing with a possessive reverence. “So pretty,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with need.

You feel the heat of his cock teasing against your entrance, the anticipation almost unbearable. His hands spread your cheeks, and then you feel the head of his cock pressing into your slick pussy. Slowly, he pushes in, the stretch more intense in this position, but you welcome it, your body humming with pleasure as he fills you completely.

He grunts, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through you as he bottoms out, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. “Yoongi—please, move,” you pant, your hands gripping the edge of the table, seeking leverage as he begins to thrust into you.

“Fuck,” you moan, your voice breaking as he picks up the pace, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythm that feels both punishing and divine.

His hands roam over your backside, caressing, gripping, pulling you closer with every thrust. “Ah, fuck. You always feel so fucking good around me,” he groans, his voice dripping with raw desire as he speaks your name.

“I love having your cock in me. Fuck me faster, please,” you plead, your voice breathless, every nerve in your body alight with want.

The table shifts beneath you, scraping against the floor with each thrust, but the sound is lost in the symphony of your pleasure. Soon, this place won’t be yours to worry about, but right now, it’s all that grounds you as he drives into you, hitting that perfect spot inside that makes your vision blur with bliss.

“Fuck! Right there!” you scream, your mind emptying of everything but him, your husband, the man you love so fiercely.

“So fucking tight,” he moans, his fingers digging into your hips with a grip that promises to leave marks, tangible reminders of this moment.

“Yoon—, I’m gonna come,” you gasp, your breath ragged, sweat beading on your forehead as the heat between you builds to a crescendo.

He rams into you harder, just like you wanted, and you shatter around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. Your vision goes white, stars bursting behind your eyelids as your body sags against the table, barely able to support itself.

“Fuck,” he curses, and then his hand comes down on your ass, the sharp sound of the slap echoing in the room. You clench around him reflexively, another wave of pleasure crashing over you.

“Fuck,” he curses again, another slap, another burst of sensation, and you cry out, your body quivering under his relentless assault.

“Yoongi!” you scream, teetering on the edge of another climax, “I think—”

But the words are stolen from you as he continues to pound into you, the force of his thrusts driving the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping, lost in a sea of sensation.

“Fucking shit. I’m so close,” he pants, his hand soothing over your ass before delivering another stinging slap, and your second orgasm melds into a third, your body convulsing with the intensity of it. You cry out in pleasure, your voice raw as your world narrows to the feel of him inside you, the only anchor in the storm of your release.

His thrusts grow erratic, less controlled, until finally, he stills, his cock buried deep as he spills into you, the warmth of his release filling you up. A sigh escapes your lips, your body utterly spent, your mind adrift in the aftermath.

He collapses over you, his weight a comforting pressure as he keeps himself inside you, his hands caressing your body with gentle affection. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers against your ear, pressing soft kisses to your skin. “I love you so much.”

You chuckle softly, the warmth of your love for him blooming in your chest. “You aren’t too bad yourself,” you tease, feeling his softened cock slide out of you as you turn to face him. “And I love you so much too.”

He smiles, tender and full of adoration, before capturing your lips in a kiss that speaks of gratitude and deep, unwavering love. “Thank you for this lovely birthday,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips.

You smile back, letting him take your hand and lead you to the bathroom, where he gently cleans you up, his touch as tender as his heart. Later, you fall asleep nestled in his arms, the world outside forgotten, lost in the cocoon of your shared warmth.

You stare at the test in your trembling hands, the seconds ticking away with agonizing slowness. Three minutes—those eternal, cursed minutes—dragging you back to that moment in the forest when the thought of pregnancy filled you with dread. But now, everything is different. Now you want it, crave it with every fiber of your being, yet fear still lingers like a shadow in your heart, whispering what-ifs.

Your phone vibrates, breaking the silence, signaling that the time is up. You take a deep breath, steel yourself, and then you look.

Two lines.

Your heart skips a beat, and you blink, hardly believing it.

Two lines.

You rush to show Yoongi, his eyes lighting up with pure joy as he sees the result. He’s elated, grinning like a child, and his happiness is contagious. You’re happy too, truly, but beneath the surface, that familiar fear curls, a silent specter reminding you of the past, of the heartbreak you’ve been through before. What if it happens again?

But the weeks pass, and you pack your life into boxes, preparing for the move as summer blooms. Now, four months pregnant, you find yourself with Yoongi wrapped around your little finger. He’s doting, tender, doing everything for you as if you were made of glass—cooking your meals, helping you dress, even braiding your hair with surprising care. He indulges your every craving, runs to the store for cake and candy at odd hours, holds your hair when the nausea takes over. His protectiveness borders on overbearing, but you can’t bring yourself to mind. It’s endearing, really, and you feel a warmth in your chest that’s as sweet as the candy he brings you.

On moving day, Yoongi insists you don’t lift a finger, so you supervise, directing your friends on where to place each box in your new home. It still feels surreal—this beautiful house is yours, truly yours. You rest your hand on your growing belly, not yet feeling the strong kicks you’re longing for, though you’ve sensed some faint fluttering. Perhaps it’s just gas, but still, the anticipation is almost unbearable.

After a day of grocery shopping, stocking the fridge and freezer with essentials, you find yourself craving ice cream late at night—the one with Oreo bits swirled through it. The craving grips you suddenly, fiercely, and you know there’s no ignoring it. You need that ice cream.

“Yoongi?” you call out, drawing his name in that sweet, almost sing-song voice he knows all too well.

He chuckles, already predicting your request from the way you’ve drawn out his name. Your cravings have become a nightly ritual, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, he loves it—loves you more than words can express.

“Yeah?” he answers, laughter in his voice, as you hesitate, almost shy to ask for something else after all the shopping you did today.

“I’m craving ice cream…” you murmur, unsure how he’ll react, knowing full well you’d already stocked the freezer just hours ago.

He sighs, but it’s a soft, amused sound. “The one with Oreo bits, right?”

Your eyes fill with love and gratitude, tears pricking at the corners. “Thank you!” you whisper, your heart swelling as he’s already up, grabbing his keys without a second thought.

You watch him go, overwhelmed with love for this man who would move mountains just to see you smile. When he returns, ice cream in hand, you greet him with a kiss, diving into the tub with abandon. Fifteen minutes later, the tub is empty, and you glance at him with a sheepish smile, wondering if he’ll have to make another trip. That’s when he decides to always buy extra, stashing it away in the freezer, ready for your next craving.

He’s your snack patrol, your guardian of midnight desires, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you happy, to keep that radiant smile on your face. After all, you’re carrying his tiny miracle inside you, and for him, indulging your every whim is the least he can do.

One evening, you stumble through the door after a long, grueling day at work, exhaustion clinging to you like a heavy shroud. All you want is to collapse into the soft embrace of your bed, to let the day melt away into dreams. But hunger gnaws at you, demanding attention, so you drag yourself to the kitchen, hoping to find Yoongi bustling around, preparing dinner as usual. Yet, the air is absent of the familiar, comforting aromas that typically greet you, and instead, you find Yoongi lounging on the couch, engrossed in a book.

“Didn’t you make dinner?” you snap, frustration bubbling up before you can contain it, the weariness in your bones making your temper short.

He glances up, confused, his lips parting to speak, but you cut him off, the anger spilling over.

“You dick! You know I expect you to make dinner when I get home late,” you huff, the irritation morphing into something sharper, more biting. But before the anger can fully take root, it unravels into sobs, the tears pouring out uncontrollably, as if your exhaustion has found a new outlet. You’re crying so hard that you scare yourself, and Yoongi, too, who tosses his book aside and rushes to your side, wrapping you in his arms, his touch gentle and soothing.

“There’s leftovers, remember?” he whispers softly, his hand rubbing comforting circles on your back, his voice steady and calm, grounding you in the moment.

And just like that, clarity washes over you. He’s right. Of course, he’s right. The realization of your misplaced anger makes you feel foolish, small. Lately, you’ve been snapping at him over the smallest things, calling him names in moments of frustration, but he always meets your outbursts with a patient smile, never holding your forgetfulness or emotional swings against you. He’s a gem, a steady rock in the midst of your storm.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his lips, and he returns it with such tenderness that you know, deep down, everything is going to be okay.

The months in your new home pass like pages turning in a cherished book, each one filled with milestones and memories. You’ve hosted a housewarming, celebrated your baby shower, and now, winter has settled in once more, December’s chill creeping through the air. Maternity leave is just around the corner, and you can’t wait to have the time to focus entirely on Yoongi and the tiny miracle growing inside you.

“I’m so fucking tired, Yoon,” you sigh, sinking into a chair, every breath feeling like an effort, exhaustion etched into every part of you.

“It’s okay, take a break. I’ll finish up the painting. Why don’t you go change clothes?” he suggests with a reassuring smile, but the frustration within you bubbles up again, spilling over before you can stop it.

“I look so ugly,” you cry, tears welling up as you take in your reflection, emotions surging in a wave. “I’m so fat, and my stomach feels like it’s dragging me down. I’m swollen everywhere, and I just look so ugly.” Your voice breaks, the tears falling freely, and Yoongi drops his paintbrush immediately, rushing to comfort you.

“You’re not ugly, babe,” he says softly, wiping away your tears with his paint-stained fingers, his eyes full of love and sincerity. “Those extra pounds just make you even sexier,” he adds with a playful smile, kissing the tip of your nose. “Please don’t speak ill of your body. I love you, and I love everything about your body.”

You sniffle, his words washing over you like a balm, soothing the insecurities that have taken root in your mind. You know he’s right, and you decide to believe him, because why else would he stick around through all your emotional ups and downs? “Thank you, Yoon. I love everything about you too.”

The nursery is ready, painted in a soft shade of lilac, filled with carefully chosen furniture. You’ve both decided that your baby girl will sleep in your room at first, so the nursery remains more symbolic than functional for now. But it’s been a labor of love, preparing for this new chapter in your lives.

As you gaze out the window, watching the snow pile up on the street, a sense of quiet anticipation fills you. Soon, so very soon, you’ll meet your miracle baby, and the thought sends a warmth spreading through you, cutting through the cold of the winter night.

Taglist: @idkjustlovingbts @constancelayon @wobblewobble822 @ktownshizzle @moonchild1 @ultimatefangirl0 @baechugff @jimintaemin @parapiop7 @fckkntired @iluvfndms @citypop-princess @tarahardcore @bergandysam @massivelyfullenthusiast @tatyhend @gimeow

*if this fucking taglist doesn't work... I don't know what to do with myself. Hopefully you'll find it even though tumblr will probably be a bitch and not let it work...

Author’s note(2): I really hope you liked it! I hope it wasn’t too angsty 🥹 This was largely inspired by the song ‘Pregnant’ by Phlake. You should really give it a listen, it’s very explicit and cute, lol 😝 Please let me know what you think in a reblog, comment or ask. And if you’ve ever had a miscarriage— here’s an extra hug for you 🫂

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sugarphoenixlovesfanfic · 1 day

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better off without me ◦ . ◦

synopsis: Aventurine thinks he knows what's best for the both of you. a/n: angsty oneshot I wrote based off of a prompt from here. tags: angst, aventurine, aventurine x reader, sad ending

ao3 link here!

You watch as the blond gambler saunters into the house, acting as if his very presence didn’t make your heart bloom and wilt simultaneously.

“Did you miss me, sweetheart?”

The last few weeks blur in your mind. All those days and nights anxiously watching your phone, waiting for a text. A call. A note. Anything to let you know he’d be back, or that he was doing fine, or that he was thinking of you. Maybe even an “I’m missing you” but, clearly, for the gambler that was too much.

You thought he had changed. You thought maybe there was something blooming, between the long nights and the expensive gifts.

With the way the gambler was acting, as though nothing had changed, despite not returning any of your messages for weeks, there was nothing.

You ball your fists, tears stinging your eyes, as you rise from the living room couch and come to stand a couple feet away from him.

“Where were you?” you demand, trembling. “Where were you all this time?”

You see a hint of an emotion pass through his face. Could swear that it was guilt, sadness, pity. Even self-hatred. But just as soon as it had come, it was gone, and he was back to his strange grin.

“Don’t you remember? I told you I was going on an assignment before I left.”

“Why didn’t you return any of my calls? Or my messages?” Hot droplets trail rivers down your cheeks, pitter-pattering on the ground. “You could’ve let me know you were okay. Or alive.”

“I was busy, darling. I couldn’t—”

You smack him across the face.

“Busy? Too busy for me?” You practically scream at him. The impact of your hit knocks off his serene mask, and now he’s looking at you with a stunned expression. “You didn’t have time for just one text back. Just one!

“Just one would have been enough,” you sob, pulling away and clapping a palm over your mouth as though you were trying to stem an open wound.

Aventurine looks away, and this time the expression of guilt doesn’t fade away when it comes. You stand there, waiting for an answer or an explanation, or even an angry insult. Anything. But the gambler doesn’t say anything.

“Do you even care about me at all? Did you ever care, all those nights? All the times we hung out? All those gifts you sent me?” The tears blur your vision now, and you wipe them away.

The gambler still doesn’t respond.

“Say something!” you yell.

“No, you’re right,” he says, and if your heart was already broken it felt as though he ground the pieces into the dirt with his heel. “You’re right. I’ve been terrible to you.”

“No, that’s not what I wanted to hear,” you say, almost too choked up to speak. “That’s not what I want. I want you to apologize, tell me you’ll try harder next time.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t deserve me,” Aventurine says, looking at you. “You should move on.”

“No!” you yell. Why was he just giving up so easily? “I want to save us, why don’t you understand? Why won’t you try to hold on to us like I am?”

Aventurine goes quiet again, and you can’t handle it anymore, your body wracking from each sob you let out.

“Fine. Leave. Go. And never come back again.” The words are barely perceptible in between your cries.

Aventurine freezes for a moment, looking at you as if to verify that this wasn’t a joke. When you don’t respond, he moves towards the door, and you watch him. Just before he leaves, he pauses, looking back at you for a long time, as though committing your form to memory.

And then he’s gone.

You crumble to the floor, crying and sobbing and wailing until you’re exhausted and empty.

♤♤♤

Aventurine looked at the text you sent.

How’s your assignment going? I miss you.

He sighed. It had been five hours since he touched down on this planet, and here you were, checking up on him.

He didn’t hate it. In fact, he loved it. It’s took every ounce of his strength not to reply to you.

But that was precisely why he couldn’t let himself reply.

The arrangement was meant to be temporary, noncommittal. He’d drop by for a night or two, then move on. Two nights became three, an afternoon became an evening, and a quick text became an hour long conversation. It wasn’t long after that he’d begun to shower you with gifts and affection throughout the day.

During one of your conversations over text, he’d typed in that’s what I love about you into the text bar.

Love? No, this was never supposed to turn into love.

But one thought turned into another, and suddenly he was recounting all the things he loved about you in his mind. I love your smile. I love your laugh. I love when you pout because something hasn’t gone your way. I love, I love, I love.

And then the thoughts of everything between the two of you flooded over him. The way he bought you gifts, the way you smiled at him, the way you checked on him throughout the day, the way he loved curling up with you at night.

Disastrous. No one was ever supposed to love him, least of all you. He was a hot mess of a man, distrustful and beaten and broken through and through. He was hateful, and awful. Unloveable.

He hit backspace, erasing what he had written. Replaced it with lol yeah. And decided then and there and he would slowly start to end things.

To protect you from himself.

So he’d text you a little less throughout the day. Stopped giving you gifts. You didn’t notice it, because it was only a week and then he went to his assignment, where he decided he would cut it all off, then and there.

He watched as you texted him, and then didn’t respond. Watched as your texts turned from joyful, to confused, to sad, to desperate. You didn’t stop texting him, though. You texted him almost everyday. Ironically, Aventurine realized what the full extent of your love was as he was cutting you off, but he couldn’t turn back now. It was better this way, he told himself. You were better off without him.

But when he came back, he realized he couldn’t keep himself away from you. He had to see you one last time.

So he paid you a visit, deciding to act as though nothing was wrong, just to twist the knife a little. To make sure you would absolutely hate him. And then when you told him to leave, he left. But not before giving you one last glance, memorizing your form in his mind, your tearstained cheeks he could kiss every day for the rest of his life, your wet eyes he could stare into forever. The anguished look on your face he desperately wished he could turn into a smile.

But there was no turning back now.

You’re better off without him. Yes, that’s what he tells himself as he lays in bed tonight and holds his phone to his heart, your past text messages displayed on the screen. That’s what he tells himself as a single tear falls from his lashes, wetting the pillowcase beneath him.

You’re better off without him.

dividers by @cafekitsune!

reblogs and comments appreciated!

#honkai star rail #hsr #aventurine #hsr fanfic #hsr fic #aventurine x reader #angst fic #angst with a sad ending #hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #honkai star rail fic #fanfictions. ✧

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nylibrty · 3 days

Text

wus good / curious ⸝ ⸝ ⸝ b.stewart

「pairing」 breanna stewart x rival!reader

「summary」 getting stuck in an elevator with your rival ends in unexpected ways

「cw」 smut. a lot of yap, semi-public sex, choking(??), hate sex

「notes」 elevator fic.. rushed ending my bad...

you were already in a bad mood. it was a blowout game, 98-72, your rival team winning. so when you walked down the long concrete hallways of barclays and saw the only elevator quickly closing, the anger inside you only bubbled.

from your distance, you could only make out the figure of a tall person standing in the elevator. "hey! wait—hold the door!" you shouted, picking up your pace as you approached the doors.

relief washed over you as you saw a hand poke through the closing doors to open them once more. that relief was quickly taken away from you as you saw just who exactly opened the door.

"you've got to be kidding me." you groaned under your breath.

breanna stewart—your career long rival—was standing there, a smug smirk coming across her face as she watched you walk in. "not too hurt after that loss, right?" she grinned, raising her eyebrow.

your sour mood returned just as fast as it left, thanking god you were only forced to stand so close to her for the short elevator ride. "shut up, stewart." you retort, forcing yourself into the furthest corner from her.

she let out a breathy laugh, returning to looking at whatever was on her phone.

the ride was going smoothly, you were practically counting down the seconds until you could get the hell out of this elevator and catch a cab to your hotel. the storm outside raged on, it scared you slightly, but you could never show fear to something so silly in front of your rival.

the one that you fucking despised.

the elevator shook slightly, causing breanna's head to shoot up. It abruptly stopped with a loud bang and the shaking of the elevator cab. then it went pitch black, only being slightly illuminated by the emergency light in the corner, it was small and only glowed blue.

"oh you've got to be fucking kidding me right now." you sighed, a little louder than you wanted, breanna took a step closer to you.

"no way you're scared right now," she laughed.

"how are you not?!" you let your head fall back against the metal walls of the small elevator.

"it's just the storm, it happens all the time." she shrugs, tapping the red emergency call button. but to her dismay, it didn't make the beeping noise it normally did. she gulped, fumbling her phone into her pants pocket to attempt to hit the button again. but once again, nothing happened.

"do something!" you shouted at her.

"what the fuck do you want me to do? i pressed the button!"

"i don't know, stewart! just fucking fix it so i don't have to be here with you anymore," you groaned, desperate to get out of this tiny elevator.

she scoffed, crossing her arms and stalking towards you. "how is this my fault? its not my fault your team lost."

"no, actually, it is your fault we lost. you blocked me like 50 times," you argued back. as much as you were angry at her, you couldn't help but clench your thighs together. her impossibly calm demeanor and the soft blue light glowing on her made her stupidly attractive.

"you shouldn't be so easy to block." she laughed, raising her eyebrows slightly at you.

you groaned again, only getting more annoyed by her cockiness. "i fucking hate you stew—"

and before you could finish your sentence, you felt her lips crash against yours, her slim hand finding your hair. she pulled away from you, light blue eyes looking into yours, "is this okay?" she asked, her hand still laced in your hair.

"please, stewart," you whined, your hands running down her body, attempting to grab wherever you could. before you knew it, her lips were smashing into yours once more. she overwhelmed your senses. she tasted like something was so uniquely breanna, but also of vanilla and citrus. she smelled overwhelmingly like men's cologne, almost intoxicatingly so. one of her hands planted firmly on your ass, squeezing it slightly while the other tugged your hair.

you two sat there for a moment, fully immersed in one another. breanna pulled away, out of breath, "if you're loud, i'll stop." she said firmly, her hand traveling down to the button of your jeans. with ease, she popped the button open and slid the zipper down. you whimpered at the feeling of her long, cold fingers dipping into your panties and swiping through your folds.

"somebody's excited, hm?" she teased, feeling how impossibly wet you were. you turned your head away, letting it fall gently back against the metal wall. her hand found your chin, cupping it lightly and moving your head to look at her once more.

"keep your eyes on me." her fingers dipped into your soaked cunt, sliding in easily. you struggled to hold back the moan that was forming in your throat, letting it slip. her free hand was brought up to your face, two fingers pressing on your lips, begging for entrance. you parted your lips slightly, surprised to feel her pointer and middle finger press down on your tongue.

she raised her eyebrow, "what did i say about being quiet?" you attempted to come up with a response, but were unable to say anything back due to her fingers in your mouth. she slipped them further into your mouth, causing you to gag slightly.

the pace of her fingers inside you sped up while her thumb circled tightly across your clit. you struggled to moan around her fingers, successfully keeping you quiet. she leaned into you, and you felt her hot breath against your ear while her fingers kept up a relentless pace. her other hand was snugly against your mouth, fingers deep in the back of your mouth which only added to the arousal.

a part of you hated that you were giving yourself to your rival so damn easily, but the other part knew that this was coming sooner than later. you two could feel the sexual tension every time you had a game, and you were sure as hell everybody else could, too.

you could feel your orgasm quickly approaching, her fingers moved impossibly fast, and you weren't gonna last much longer. your fingers weaved in her hair, tugging slightly. to your surprise, a small moan left her throat when you did that. you grinned at that, tugging again but harder and recieving an even louder moan in the process.

"i thou—fuck—thought i was the one who was supposed to be quiet." you grinned, still teasing her even if shes knuckle deep inside you.

"shut up," she thrusted her fingers faster into you, throwing you off the edge and head first into your orgasm. your nails clawed down her white tank top as you rode out the climax.

"doin' so good for me babygirl," she mumbled against your ear, not letting up on her pace.

as if the elevator knew, the red emergency button began to beep rapidly. breanna removed her fingers, licking them clean before walking over to the set of buttons.

"are you just gonna pretend like that didn't happen?" you frowned.

"do you still want to be in this damn elevator?"

she made a good point. while she talked to the responder through the small speaker, you stood and watched her. maybe the feelings you had towards her weren't only anger and hatred.

after what felt like forever, the cab began moving again, and you two were being pulled out of the elevator by two firefighters.

"do you wanna.. uhm, come home with me?" she asked sheepishly.

#breanna stewart #breanna stewart x reader #wnba #wbb #wnba smut

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joontroverted · 3 days

Text

siren sweet, swim with me

pairing : nanami kento x reader

fandom : jujutsu kaisen

tags : pop idol reader, cfo nanami, fluff, angst, smut (later on), more tags to be added as the fic progresses

status : ongoing

summary :

after all, computers crash, people die, relationships fall apart. the best we can do is breathe and -

carrie bradshaw did not know what the fuck she was talking about. because when your international sensation girl group STARDUST collapses in on itself, everything you've ever known is hanging on by a thread.

disgruntled and exhausted, nanami kento, cfo, knows everything there is to know about his life. the books, the cash flow- the world he had built for himself made sense. until now. as the irrational nagging sense of uncertainty leads to a random moment of circumstance, the two of your lives are entangled.

ie. it's entirely up to you as to whether you'll shine in the spotlight, or explode and fade into obscurity like a supernova. it's also up to you as to whether you want to fall for the disgustingly handsome office worker.

author's note : first nanami long fic! can you tell i'm scared? anyways, this is an idea i've hadd since summer. summer! i'm glad i've gotten started finally 🥲 this is just the first chapter so it's just the set up. hope you have fun!

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

index -

chapter 1 (ao3)

yuki's staring at you in a way that makes you want to reach across the table and swing your fist across her face.

you would've, if yuki wasn't very very important to you, and wasn't still built like a wrestler.

“it's fine,” you mutter. “i'm fine,” you repeat, more clearly this time. your phone buzzes in your bag.

yuki blinks, breaking herself out of her dead stare for a moment. “you're not, but that's fine. no one would be, at the moment, and that's all right!”

pushing her chair back, she gets up and makes her way to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. her blonde bangs tickle your face as she leans in closer, and her ginormous tits cover your arm from both sides as if hugging you to comfort you. if your mind wasn't running a million miles an hour and constantly hitting dead ends, you'd probably feel a little more comforted and a little less... crushed.

she waves a hand in front of you, as if gesturing to a marvellous new life. “we just need some time to rebrand you! some new girls, a fresh new concept, dye your hair some color we haven't done before and you're ready to hit the stage again!”

your eyes widen at that. “no.”

yuki straightens. “what do you mean, no?”

“i'm not joining a new group!”

“well you wouldn't be joining a group, you'd be the centre of a new group. the new group would be formed for you!”

“well i don't want that. i wanna be a solo artist now.”

there. you've said it. you've put the dreaded words out there, and now it's real. and judging by the way yuki's face falls, it's a reality that's not gonna come to fruition smoothly.

she straightens, her warmth leaving you. “oh.”

you bite your lip and look into her eyes. “just say it. tell me how terrible of an idea you think it is.”

“it's a terrible idea.”

she can probably see how your face falls, because yuki does something that yuki rarely does. she backtracks.

“or, what about a hiatus? you can go on a vacation! you can make a whole trip out of it, show how travel has healed you, you could even attend a few events with some international artists, and that could bring in a whole new crowd, huh?”

you put your face in your hands and shake your head, as you feel your phone buzzing away in your bag again. “yumi's already done the healing journey thing, and it's actually authentic to her.”

“yumi was never cut out for this life, don't compare yourself to her,” says yuki, her tone sharp. “of course she'd love frolicking in fields,” she grumbles.

you grin, despite her words. “yumi's doing great, by the way.”

“i know,” says yuki, folding her arms, “we've been in touch. you're attending the lauch party aren't you?”

“launch gathering,” you correct. “she's living a simple life now.”

“she can die."

“yuki!” you giggle.

“it's not the fact that she left -you know i'm all about ethical work, it's why i made a whole agency- it's that she did it so suddenly! we had had so many discussions where she swore up and down on her own volition that she'd renew the contract and all it took was a week for her to tear down this... this empire that we've built!”

“she's a simple girl.”

“a real simple person would know that they want a simple life from the beginning. which so called simple person auditions five times and then trains for years and then debuts to become the biggest girl group of the generation? and then just dips?”

“she just needed a taste of the high life to know what she really needed. like buddha.”

“people live and die for this life. people live and die for what she has. had,” she grumbles, “and what about all that talent? is she truly going to be satisfied doing the dishes in her little down to earth cafe?”

“she was more than content doing the dishes back when we were poor. she'll hardly be doing the dishes in her cafe, she's a milliona-”

“a simple millionaire.” you both say at the same time, and then burst into laughter.

“we are getting wildly off topic,” says yuki, after a beat.

you stare at your shoes. “i know.”

“any chance you're gonna wanna take back what you just said?” she asks, looking slightly like she pities you.

“no,” you reply, feeling and looking a lot more pitiful.

she sighs and takes the chair next to you. the two of you are silent for a moment, and that gives you some time to take in her office. when yuki had begun as a manager no one took her seriously. no matter how successful and glamourous her career as a wrestler was, she was still a newbie in the entertainment industry and had neither weight nor connections to her name. she used what little connections she had and started off as an assisstant in one of the entertainment giants and worked her way up to manager. what she lacked in her network, she made up for greatly with her charisma and eagerness to learn about the industry. and then she met you.

her golden duck that lay gold eggs, is what she called you.

you were sure you were just an ugly duckling that blossomed into a swan under her care, but whatever.

she got sick and tired of being controlled by people who barely cared for the craft and cared even lesser about humans they managed, so she broke off from the company to start her own. and through a leap of faith, you followed her.

and the rest is history.

her last championship's belt that sits right above her chair glints at you, pink and white, sparkling away in the sunlight. the office is so yuki. gaudy, but neat and professional. rhinestone embedded decor sits on shelves, reminiscent of the 2000s with the nice fur carpet and the literal disco ball that hangs from the ceiling. framed pictures of all the other groups and artists under Star City Entertainment decorate the walls, but your group is the highlight, with multiple pictures, much bigger than the others.

STARDUST, the group that made the company sky rocket.

yuki wheels the chair around to face you.

“why?”

“it just seems... correct.”

she purses her lips together. “i'd rather you not make me say it, but it's my duty as your manager to be frank with you. you don't really have what it takes to be a solo artist.”

“well, we can work on that, there are so many- ”

she holds a hand up. “especially after being a part of such a prominent group for so long. the general public love you but the fans already know that you neither write nor make the music. being involved in the behind the scenes is way more important to fans than before and it defines an artist a lot more these days. it gives them cause and meaning, some attachment to the craft that they're selling themselves with. you had yumi and seika to distract the fans from that before, but now it's just you. how long can you hold on to star power? and how far will that alone take you?”

the best thing about yuki is that she's brutally honest and always looks out for you. the worst thing about yuki is that she's brutally honest and always looks out for you.

it's as if her words have opened a chest of secrets that you had locked and chained deep inside you. your flaws were not flaws when you were in the group. they were just... things that you didn't need to do.

seika was good at producing and song writing, tasks that she was more than happy to have her hand in. yumi was musically talented beyond words. to date there hadn't been an instrument that she didn't excel in, and her voice seemingly knew no bounds, considering she had professional training to be an opera singer before this.

and you did everything else.

main dancer, the looks, the socializing, the personality... the star power, was all yours. if there was one thing that you had, it was what it took to be the it girl of the group, of the generation, and that combination of skills among the three propelled STARDUST and subsequently, Star City Entertainment to massive success that only grew as the years passed.

it was an open secret that this was the division among all of you. but everyone was okay with that. everyone was happy to perform their role, do what they excelled at and what was expected out of them. you all dabbled in each other's work, as you naturally would after these many years together, but the recipe to your success was the three of you, exactly as you were. and now it's just you. without them, there's nothing for you to stand on. there's nothing to add your special touch, your sparkle on to.

anyone could tell that.

the reality of the situation grips you like an ice cold fist and the hollowness that you felt ever since the decision was made public expands like a vast cavern beneath your feet. you are all out of tears, but your face still threatens to scrunch up with dry sobs as your lip wobbles.

“why don't you want to be a part of a group?” asks yuki.

“as if what we had can be replicated,” you mutter. “i really don't have it in me to start afresh with new girls who would definitely be younger than me and definitely have some buried animosity for me right from the beginning. oh, and the people. they already scrutinize us from the ends of our hair to the nails of our toes, i can already hear all the people talking about how i peaked with STARDUST and it's not gonna happen again. and what about GALAXY? they're not gonna take me being in another group lightly! i wouldn't even be ble to call them GALAXY anymore!”

“we don't necessarily have to have a three member group. maybe a five member group this time? that would lessen the direct focus on you and give the four other girls a chance to shine!”

“or it could give four other girls a chance to hate me more for stealing their spotlight if we do well, or for being dead weight if we don't.”

“we could scout some girls from other big groups that just disbanded! that girl from CROWN seems to be popular and jobless at the moment. what about her?”

��i just don't see it! don't you think the public knows that we'd just be trying to recreate STARDUST? also neither yumi nor seika are continuing in a group because both of them know that it was a one time thing. it's the exact same chemistry, or nothing! it'd be such a mess.”

“and even that is a safer option than you as a soloist.”

“wow,” you breathe, laughing, leaning back. “wow.”

“i never mean to hurt you.”

“wouldn't it be so funny if i went home and committed suicide after all this? then we wouldn't have to worry about what i'm gonna do next. my name will be remembered forever, i'm gonna go out with a bang- literally!”

“okay!” says yuki, throwing her hands up. "you're going on a hiatus! go on a vacation! find a new hobby, do whatever you want, i don't care- " she narrows her eyes and points a sharp finger at you, "and no, you cannot commit suicide!"

"geez, can't a girl joke?" you roll your eyes. "and i don't think it'd be wise for me to go on hiatus right now. i'd lose momentum and i'd lose my mind."

"finally, you're saying things that make sense. we haven't yet released any news of this, so you're safe. the public still thinks that STARDUST is on hiatus after the last tour so we have time. GALAXY has, however noticed that there's a lack of posts on seika's twitter and instagram, which we will be dealing with. you and yumi have been posting regularly and innocently enough, which is good. all in all, you'll be fine! the tour was enormous, so it would definitely make sense that you guys are on the dl now doing your own thing..."

she goes on about how doing nothing is okay, and your mind wanders to how it all began.

yumi had been sobbing almost every day ever since the last concert in the last venue. it had all started from there. she couldn't keep up with being an idol, and you couldn't blame her. yumi was never really the type. she was from an upper middle class family, and a musical genius. a sweet girl, who started off with posting covers on youtube and then began to look into joining a group, because she too knew that a group helps make up for what she lacked, which was everything else. and now, richer and more than satisfied with the taste she got of the idol life, she said she'd be happier in the food industry and going back to posting covers as and when she felt like it.

yumi's waning passion had set off seika too, frustratingly enough. seika was the opposite of yumi. she had joined the company as a producing intern which somehow led to her becoming a trainee, and when she always seemed to get the sound and the music for the concepts just right and picked up dance quick enough, there she was. she took it all in stride because everything seemed to work out just well, but even she knew that yumi leaving would finally give her an opportunity to come back to her origins and true passion.

your lip wobbles again, and you tune back to yuki just in time to hear her listing out things that you could do during hiatus.

" -of them are so fucking stupid, but i'm sure we can find someone sexy. a fun fling with an actor, how 'bout that? when was the last time you had a cute little scandal, huh? or you could study something, oh! you could do some volunteer work with animals, you used to be a horse girl, right? i think we could really- “

the door slams open, and the two of you jump at the sound. utahime iori stands at the doorway, mouth screwed up.

“are you incapable of picking up your phone?”

“hime!” you say, surprised.

“and what are you doing here?” asks yuki.

utahime ignores her. instead she makes her way to you, throwing her arms around you in a hug. she pulls back and looks into your eyes. “you're gonna be okay. so what if STARDUST disbands? you'll be the main girl of a new group!”

“see, even she thinks it'll be a great idea to be in a new group.”

“i wanna be a soloist,” you say dully staring at utahime's chest which is in eye level.

“exactly, and you're gonna be the greatest soloist ever!”

“oh please, not this again, i just talked her out of it!” yuki groans. “and how did you know about this? did you tell her?”

“no she didn't, have some faith in her. i put two and two together. seika's been more or less sleeping over in the studio with all the free time, yumi's gallivanting around the world, happier than ever and this one's been completely MIA other than the mandatory appearances at events. if they were gearing up for another comeback they would've been discussing concepts by now. also, i find it really insulting that you didn't tell me, ya know?” she concludes, looking down to you.

utahime iori, former trainee, part time choreographer/back up dancer but full time makeup artist to STARDUST. also, your closest friend. it's kinda sad that all your friends are more or less your co workers. yumi and seika, yuki and hime. now everyone's camaraderie is to test considering you're not really working together anymore. suddenly you realize that you don't even have a job anymore.

“she's doing her job. i'm doing my job. and what exactly are you doing?” asks yuki, now standing up.

“i'm doing my job!” says utahime.

yuki cocks her eyebrow.

“my jooob,” she falters, looking away for a second, “of being her best friend. yeah. someone needs to look out for her and care for her, as a person- ”

“and that's what you do, looking out for and taking care of people, huh?”

oh for fuck's sake. you're sitting between the two women who are standing over you, and in any other moment, you would've enjoyed being seated between two gorgeous arguing women, who most definitely need to fuck each other instead. you and utahime had been friends ever since she was a trainee in Star City, but yuki and utahime only really met when she was assigned as one of the official makeup artists for the group. nearly everyone had been victim of their terrible... flirtationship, as seika called it.

these fools are not flirting. not on purpose at least. they've been so enamoured and amazed by each other's existence that they just have to do something about it but that sinething never meant dating or kissing or fucking, it meant quarreling and irritating everyone till the end of time. they can't seem to fathom the idea of dating each other, or at least utahime can't. you do believe that yuki is warming up to the idea of it considering there's been less push from her side and more of her allowing utahime to speak over her. as much as one can speak over yuki that is.

“are you guys done flirting,” you say flatly, eyes closed.

“we're not flirting!” they both declare.

“good, because i wanna leave.”

“oh?” says utahime. you open your eyes and you see her glance towards yuki for half a second before determinedly looking back at you and nodding. “yes! let's go! we're leaving!”

it's sweet that she stands by you although she would definitely like to f̶l̶i̶r̶t̶ argue with yuki more.

“let's go!” she loops her arm around yours and pulls you up. you turn around to look at a slightly disappointed yuki.

“bye yu,” you mutter, giving her a half hearted hug.

she in turn wraps her arms around you and squeezes tight, almost lifting you off of the ground. “don't worry kiddo! it'll all work out. just... hang in there, okay? think about what i said!" she finishes, looking kind of awkward.

kiddo. she's really feeling terrible.

you feel bad, but not really. you're glad you managed to upset her this much, considering how she and well, everyone, had no qualms in upsetting you.

except utahime, that is.

you nod and give in to utahime's tugging and follow her.

"do you want me to stick my tongue out at her? or pull a face? i can pull really ugly faces, you know, right?" she whispers to you.

"have at it!" you snort, exiting the room as you watch utahime turn and pull a face at yuki which is quite the feat, considering how pretty she is.

the door shuts behind you and you make your way out the building with her, arm in arm in silence. utahime hums as the two of you go to the parking lot and get into one of the company cars, with a driver waiting for you.

the moment you shut the door and the car is moving out the building from one of the back exits, you thank god for tinted windows as you immediately lay down, your head in utahime's lap, sniffling.

“oh!” she gasps.

watanabe is nice enough to have raised the partition the moment he started the car. you stare blearily out the window as you pass buildings as utahime gently strokes and twiddles with your hair.

“i'm sorry,” she says softly. “i really am.”

“i'm sorry. you don't have a job anymore.”

“mm, makeup artists always have a job. i just need to talk to some people and get the ball rolling. i'm always down for collabs and teaching classes. i'll be fine. although i've heard that the NDA Star City is sending around would require for us to be quiet about our unemployment till you release an official statement.”

you nod, wondering about the near hundred people employed both directly and indirectly due STARDUST, and whether they have it all sorted, or if they're scrambling. like you.

you pull up the group chat and send a quick text telling the girls that you'd like to send a confidential broadcast to everyone that they could reach out if they had issues finding a job. neither of them have even received the message. obviously. you toss the phone back into your bag and curl into utahime's stomach.

“what am i gonna dooo?” you groan, inhaling her sweet perfume.

“have you considered going home? spending some time with your family?"

"that's just escapism." your parents are worlds apart from yours. two middle middle class engineers, and no siblings. they're very important to you, but unless they give you a solution to this... this mess, you don't want to go to one of your few safe spaces and ruin it with your hopelessness. you need something concrete. something real.

"you could also..." you look up to see hime's face scrunched up the way it usually does when she's gonna say something so fuck ass. "you know your unemployment is not the same as anyone else's unemployment, right? you're a millionaire! you coud drop off the face of the earth and live off of royalty and stocks alone. and then when you're bored you could start an exclusive luxury clothing line and enter the industry again! loads of people have done it!"

you stare at her.

"i'm sorry."

"you should be."

"do you want some ice cream?"

"yes. get some for watanabe san too. you're buying though, i'm unemployed now."

she flicks your nose before she asks watanabe to stop the car near an ice cream truck. utahime's popular, but only in the industry. regardless, she snaps on a face mask and heads out to the truck.

what if you became a host. like for a show like too hot to handle or single's inferno. what if you joined a show. you could enter like a special contestant in the middle and topple the social heirarchy that was established there. the analysis videos would be come aplenty with that one, oh and so would the downfall of the generation's it girl video essays. you don't watch or consume news/media about yourself but you do watch a lot of video essays so what would you do if one of your favourite youtubers made one about you? you could hang yourself and give them more to talk about. no, that's way too serious, even for you. what if you got a regular--

"-- and here we have roasted almond for my baby! and plain ol' vanilla for watanabe san, no, put your wallet down! we insist!"

you bristle, getting up from still being curled up on the backseat. leaning back, you lick the side of the cone that has ice cream threatening to dribble down your hand and wonder if this really is the end of it all.

"it is."

“um, should i perhaps inform gojo san of the time? i don't think it's healthy to-- "

"ijichi."

"i'm sorry! just give me five minutes, i will be back!"

kento watches as ijichi scurries away round the corner. he sighs. he never means to be short with ijichi but anything that doesn't directly contribute to solving an issue at hand doesn't require more than a simple conversation, let alone an entire back and forth.

it's even more insulting that ijichi thinks that satoru has any say over how long he's working. satoru wouldn't care less if he worked from his office or if he worked from a rager in aruba. he thinks he'd even prefer it.

speaking of satoru, he hasn't seen him the entire day. they hadn't had any meetings that required more than a phone call and one he had meeting with suguru, but suguru had been happy to come over to his office to talk. just the thought of the two of them makes his eyes immediately unwillingly flit over to the other side of the floor. to the wide office far opposite to him, past the darkness of the empty cublicle space, he can see the yellow light from one of satoru's newer lamps on and the blinds shut. a wave of irritation passes through him before he forcibly dismisses the thought, aching for the bitter taste of the coffee he's awaiting.

he has work to do.

he slides his spectacles back down to his nose bridge from where they were perched on his forehead and cringes with the initial burn from staring at the screen. has his power increased? he should get it checked and changed, he notes down mentally.

“nanamin!”

oh he is going to gut ijichi alive.

he looks up and it seems that ijichi seems to value his life because he's made himself scarce. instead at his office door, bouncing from one foot to the other, swaying from side to side, clearly not caring for the well being of the coffee in his hand is gojo satoru.

“and where is ijichi?” asks kento, motioning for his coffee.

satoru takes that as an invitation to enter and sprawl his upper half over kento's desk, smiling face staring down at him, coffee still in his hand. kento snatches it back carefully. clearly he's going to need it now more than ever.

“ijichi came cowering to my office saying that my cute kouhai's on his eighth coffee of the day! made it seem like i'm some terrorizing dictator making his precious nanami san work overtime. that's hardly the truth now, is it?” he says, pulling a sad face, expectantly looking at kento.

kento sips his coffee. “ijichi did not make this.”

“and he never could! i sent him home. i made the coffee myself, you're welcome. one could call me a humble man.”

kento grunts. one never would. however both of them knew that while ijichi's coffee is what he expected, satoru made his taste... unfortunately nice.

“i'm nearly done. i'll just finish looking over this bit and then i'm packing. you can go back to your office.” he waves to satoru, eyes back on the screen. placebo effect or not, the caffeine makes sifting through all the numbers a little less of a task this time.

there's silence as kento makes his way down the document, making sure that it was up to expectations, the only sound being the squeak of his chair as he leans forward at times to see something more clearly.

“are you done yet? because i finished reading that almost a minute ago and it's all good.”

satoru's made his way to behind kento and is leaning over his shoulder, speaking directly into his ear.

kento exits out of the document with a smash of keys. “what do you want?” he bellows.

satoru reaches out to his computer, shutting it down over kento's head, literally, and then spins kento to face him. if kento ground his teeth anymore, he'd have a mouth full of powder.

“i need you.”

“you have three seconds, maximum.”

“okey dokey. i'm inviting superstar it girl of our generation, the only icon more iconic than me, celestial beauty siren to the party.”

kento nods, getting up to leave. “amazing. i'll try to contain my excitement."

“it will not be easy,” says satoru, pushing kento down. he scoots his ass onto his table, chin in hand. “it won't be easy at all.”

kento rolls his eyes. “and why is that,” he says, flatly.

that actually makes satoru fully direct his attention to him, a grin spreading across his face. “boy, do i have some gossip for you!” he cackles. “but you need cross your heart and hope to die pwomise not to tell anyone what i'm just about to tell you!”

kento crosses his heart with one finger, head in hand.

“okay so initially i wanted to invite the whole damn group because duh, that's how the magic happens, but imagine the resistance i got from the company like damn not a single bitch in that building is available to speak to? i almost pulled a do you know who you're talking to? so i dug deep. or rather i bullied megumi to dig deep until i had to enter the field and take matters into my own hands. pull up a few contacts, ask a few favors- ”

“why is this one band so important to you?”

“group. girl group. anyways guess what i found!” satoru doesn't leave kento any time to answer, not that he had any answers. he leans forward conspiringly, his eyes a mix of mischief and malice. “STARDUST... is no more.”

“they died?” kento starts, taken aback. satoru's gossip was neither worth sharing nor listening, but for once he had delivered some quality news. a girl group that big? japan would be in shambles. nobara would be in shamles, he realizes.

“this is worse. they broke up!”

“and how is that worse?” he stands up, tired of this conversation. he straightens himself and begins to pack for home, putting things in place in record speed. there's yesterday's leftovers waiting for him, along with a new bottle of wine he would definitely need after the day that he had had. satoru follows him, and before kento can react he snatches his briefcase away from him, holding it hostage.

“it's terrible! i cannot fathom a reason why! what they have is... is once in a lifetime stuff, and they're throwing that away for what? the industry loves them, and GALAXY...” he sniffles, “and the girls...” he mumbles, looking at his feet, head downcast, pouting.

“i'm sure you'll be fine. within days there will be a new group of 20 somethings singing and dancing and -”

“don't you see how much pressure there is on me now?” exclaims satoru, now hugging the briefcase, his lips twisted into a frown. “i promised the girls that they're gonna get a surprise! i can't just turn up with only one 'em!”

“who?”

“nanako and mimiko!" he whispers. "don't tell suguru!"

oh. oh god. the gloom that's been in him grows and kento almost loosens his tie to breathe.

kento purses his lips, moving to snatch his briefcase and satoru dodges out the way. "give it to me!" he hisses, "unlike you, i don't have time to waste over silly whims of children."

satoru scoffs. "you would move heaven and earth for yuuji, even nobara! silly whims of children, my ass! you spoil them rotten!"

"i spoil them a reasonable amount, none of which is your business. invite them all, invite none, i don't care. just today i went through mountains of reports. i've been buried in these numbers all day, trying to forecast next quarter's revenue and-"

"kento please." satoru's looking at him with a wrinkle between his brows, and he can't help but take in how ridiculous he looks. hair mussed from running his fingers through them and his glasses are nowhere to be seen. he's blinking more than usual because of it too. the ceo of the infinity hotels, gojo satoru hassled over the breakup of a girl group seems laughable, but kento begrudgingly suspects what this means for him. the ticket to the nice big happy-

“you've never cared for those girls before. what changed now?”

“i've cared for those girls!” he squaks. “i care about all children.”

kento just looks at him.

satoru doubles down. “i care about megumi, and yuuji and even young kugisaki, even though she barely acknowledges my presence. i care about your kids, so,” he shrugs. “it's only natural that i care about my partner's kids! all my partner's kids,” he adds.

satoru is an amazing liar. kento knows what satoru looks like when he lies well. and kento knows that satoru's lying right now, and he's so lov- lost that he doesn't even realize how badly he's lying. he almost gags.

"i'm asking you this as a friend," continues satoru. "i know..." he looks away, his eyes bouncing about the room. "i know things have been... rocky recently, i've been too busy with work, and patching things up with suguru, and the girls because i think" his voice softens, “i think it'll work out this time. infinity's been doing great, all the time and money's finally paid off, suguru's parents have finally- it's nearly been a fucking decade- come around and let me off the handle for making... um, influencing suguru to drop out, and the girls are old enough to let suguru at least entertain the thought of dating. i just... need to win them over a little!”

the question hangs in the air between them, and kento knows that satoru wishes he won't reach out and address. regarding any otehr issue relation to satoru, kento gladly wouldn't. however-

“but why?”

“it's... it's suguru!” is all satoru says, faltering. “he's my best friend, and he's your friend too. i want to do something nice for him, and you know he loves his daughters!” satoru pumps his arm with a guffaw that sounds all too full of fake enthusiam. or rather real enthusiasm, but something else.

the weary look on satoru's face turns something in kento. he has almost never in the last thirteen years of knowing satoru ever seen him so... genuinely concerned for anything. not when they made this company, not when their first hotel launched, hell not even when his parents nearly cut him off for all the risks. only one man made him quiver so, and he'd do anything for him. the rest of the men and materials around him were just collateral damage.

he swallows. fixes his tie and looks away. “what do you want from me?” he grits out.

satoru lights up like a christmas tree. he pulls out his phone and wow- there's an entire spreadsheet's worth of information he has compiled.

“okay, so from what i've gathered, mirage is on a complete hiatus from everything and melody is either out of the country or has left the industry entirely... or both. i'd still like you too check- ” he glances up at kento and takes in his lost look. he rolls his eyes.

“okay grandpa. mirage,” he says slowly, “is the stage name of seika. this one,” he points at a girl with a halo of curls and loads of freckles. “and melody is the stage name of yumi, who is this.” he is now looking at a rather plain but sweet looking girl.

he pulls his glasses on and looks closer. “i think i've seen them before.”

“yeah no shit you've seen them before, they're literally japan's pride,” mutters satoru. “anyways. this, is siren. also known as the celestial beauty siren, her actual...” he goes on, his eyes lighting up as he talks about this siren.

kento looks at the picture. and well. he knew next to nothing about your singing capabilities but looks wise, they weren't joking around when they named you siren. and to make it even more accurate the public called you celestial beauty siren. the picture is of you smiling up at him, like you knew exactly what you were.

“so what exactly do you want me to do?” he asks, giving the phone back.

“i need all of them here, so you'll have to make some phone calls. at the moment, melody and mirage are allegedly MIA but i need you to be a hundred percent sure first. best case scenario we're getting all three. worst case scenario we're getting just one and in this case it's siren. we- ”

“wouldn't the worst case scenario be that we're getting none? and if they're broken up i doubt some company's launch party will be on their list of things to care about.”

“well!” satoru claps, “good thing we're not just some company! we're infinity hotels! we're limitless, and if you work hard enough- ”

“we work hard enough”

“you work hard enough, there isn't a chance that we're getting none of 'em! come on kento, you can do it!”

“why is this suddenly no longer a group project?”

“oh it is a group project, yes yes,” satoru nods sagely. “between you and megumi that is.”

kento tsks and steps back, looking up and down at satoru and his audacity that seems to have grown ten feet taller than him. at least he has the decency to look embarassed.

“i am the cfo of this company. so why, pray tell, would i be tasked to snoop around the well concealed affairs of some pop girl group with your assistant who's barely out of university?”

satoru wrings his hands. “i'm too busy, and there's no way to do all this without them finding out! it's not the same as inviting any regular celebrity especially considering all the strings i pulled to get confidential information! if it's not a meeting with ten boring senior citizens that fret over the same bullshit, it's date nights with- date nights, or my family being on my ass about something or the other, or trying and failing to bond with the girls- ”

“you just had to open your stupid mouth and ask if they could be returned to the kennel the moment you met them, didn't you?”

“how the fuck could i have known that they were forced to live in a literal cage?”

“oh imagine that. how bizarre it is that every child on this planet wasn't born with a silver spoon in their mouth and five maid servants to run around after them.”

“exactly, and now they're getting to wear miu miu and party with the closest things we have to magical girls in real life. they'll think i'm amazing, we all win.”

kento rubs his temple, feeling the beginning of a dull headache.

“fine. which ones are their favourite,” he sighs, hoping to reach the end of this conversation. he's going to be having the leftovers and ordering in tonight, he assures himself .

“i got nothing,” shrugs satoru.

“they're just three girls, which one do they talk about the least?”

“ehhh,” he says, tilting his head to the side, pulling a face. “they kinda stop talking whenever i'm around and just glare at me till i leave.”

“okay, then ask megumi to ask them.”

“he's blocked on every platform.”

“then ask suguru!”

“and how would that come up naturally in a conversation? and i don't want him to have the slightest clue about all this, i can't just ask suguru!”

“ask me what?”

the two men whip their heads to the sound of the deep yet silky voice coming from the doorway. geto suguru stands, leaning against the frame. his eyes move from satoru to kento to satoru again. he's in the usual work attire, except his hair is down, and the necklaces he usually keeps tucked into his shirt hangs out in front. he purses his lips and folds his arms. he clears his throat. “ask me what?” he repeats, sounding less... breathy this time.

“nothing,” chokes out satoru.

it's amazing how much he's effected. even the greatest liars seem to fall short at their game.

suguru turns to kento instead. “kento?”

“if you were willing to review some of the reports with me. the workload's been piling up recently, and i thought it would be more effecient if we had an extra pair of eyes to clarify some things.”

suguru's eyes widen. “of course! just send them over tomorrow morning. and satoruuu...” he drags out his name, eyes sliding to the other man, who's been standing in silence. “why couldn't you ask me, huh?”

satoru straightens immediately, pulling an easy grin. “wouldn't wanna bother you, late night and all. that would be unprofessional.”

“it's hardly unprofessional to come ask me for help. especially when kento here is burning the midnight oil too, isn't he? come talk to me next time, yeah? both of you,” he adds at the end, to kento too.

kento would rather they beat him to death with a bat than drag him into whatever perverse flirtation this is.

“all right then. i'll send over the reports tomorrow morning. now if that's all, i'm going to head out.” satoru's hands still clutching kento's briefcase are limp enough for him to snatch it away from him. he gives satoru a sharp nod.

“good night kento!" wishes suguru warmly as he passes him at the doorway.

a “good night” sits at the tip of his tongue. he turns to face suguru and pulls on a smile. "you've put on satoru's blazer instead, by the way. good night."

the quick blink of suguru's otherwise relaxed purple eyes is a small win. he leaves before he hears whatever suguru has to say.

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n

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