#like my chest is infinitely imploding

[halfdeadwallfly]

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 15 - I Found A Martyr

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Me, reading more and more smut the further we get into the story: I’m studying. I’m improving my craft. It’s for the people. Chapter Title from Coming Down by Halsey

Word Count: 23k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You have a revelation. Nasty fucking smut. Just so much smut. And usual warnings.

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 14 - Chapter 16

This was bad. This was really, really bad. 

You loved him. 

You loved Ben.

You totally, completely, wrathfully and comfortably loved Ben.

That’s what this was. This eternal feeling of need and want and safety. Love. For Ben. Infinite and indestructible love. No way around or over or under it. No way to talk or twist yourself out of it. You loved Ben. With every bloody and broken part of you, you loved Ben. You burned because Ben was there. He didn’t even have to burn with you, because that’s how strong your love was. You would burn for him, and it would be an inferno that carried you both. He would burn with you though, because he was an idiot. Your idiot. Your idiot, because you loved him.

It had pushed so close to the surface, when Violet had almost said it for you. That you only silently communicated with people you loved. But you’d rationalized. You’d been doing that with Ben for months now. Love had nothing to do with it. You just understood each other. That was all it was. Not love. Just the implicit knowledge that Ben had you. Got you.

Then he’d held you again. He’d moved you and danced with you, still touching you so gently. He had been everything around you, the song, and the rhythm, and his chest rising and falling as your head had pressed into it. And it was all so painfully obvious that it was love. You loved Ben.

You loved his stupid face. His stupid, handsome, stoic face that starred in your dreams. It was a little mean, actually, that he was so attractive. That his jaw was sharp and his lips were full and his eyes were pretty and green and boundless. It would be unfathomably easy to just get lost into his eyes forever. So easy it was downright cruel. Nobody should be allowed to have eyes like that. To look like that. But Ben did. When he slept his face would grow slack and peaceful as his lips parted and his hair fell across his face, and you’d always need to brush it away so it didn’t have a chance to wake him. When he was focused his brows would knit and his eyes would grow intent, and you’d always need to be the thing he was watching and picking apart. When he scowled at stupid things his nose scrunched slightly and all the lines on his face deepened, and you’d always need to run a hand over them until he smiled again. Because Ben’s smile was the most amazing thing you’d ever seen. It was so rare, because he’d wink and smirk and grin all the time—and it would always make you want him more—but his smile was rare. The wide, toothy, carefree smile that made his whole stupid face happy and brighter than any star. And when he laughed with his smile, he might as well have just shot you. It would make your heart stop, ruin and implode your world, and spill your heart out of your chest faster.

Nobody’s laugh had ever sounded as powerful and consuming as Ben’s. He made a lot of sounds that drove you insane—grunts and moans and snorts and low growls that always moved through you—but his laugh, his real, full laugh, was like a song. Full and deep and loud, filled with genuine amusement and digging into your brain. It moved mountains, it parted oceans, it made you warm and happy and love him so much more. Impossibly more. Because it meant he was happy, and he was the most handsome, idiotic, amazing person in history when he was happy. And it made your whole world solid and clear to feel his joy, made you feel just a little more real yourself when it was you making him happy. When he laughed at your joke or completed a task you’d set for him or you did something for him. Just for him. To make him happy. You’d do anything to make him happy. If he was happy he might stay with you, so you’d do anything. There were frighteningly few lines you wouldn’t cross for him. You’d be more worried about it if you didn’t trust him so completely. If you weren’t full of so much faith that Ben wouldn’t throw you across those lines, or even bring you anywhere near them. You wouldn’t love him if you thought he would. He might not love you, but he understood you, and understood what things you’d never do. And you’d make that enough. You make him staying with you and caring for you and keeping you safe worth his time. You’d keep holding his head and healing his PTSD, even when he bitched and moaned about not needing it. Because he was noticeably less paranoid, more often at ease. He didn’t have as many nightmares anymore, you didn’t feel the drums pound inside him when someone said Russia or sleep. It was the very least you could do for him, when he chased away your nightmares just by existing in your orbit. By surrounding you with his body and smell and making you fly out of your mind with desire, chasing away every shadow in the night and stifling every hateful part of you.

He was everywhere around you. Everywhere you looked was just Ben. Everywhere you looked would always be Ben. That was one of the more detrimental parts of living with him, was that every corner of your home was Ben. The fridge was full of strawberry cream cheese and the freezer had three pints of malt vanilla because he’d tear through one in a day. There were apples instead of oranges on the counter because oranges were a goddamn disgusting ass of a fruit. The carpet in your bedroom was there because Ben asked for it, and the bathroom had a razor because Ben needed to shave. His shield rested at your bedroom door, and there was a page bookmarked in your cookbook for pancakes. His clothes were mixed in with yours, so even when you wore one of your shirts they smelled like him, and when you showered you had to stare at his half-used shampoo that was evidence. Evidence Ben existed here, with you.

He was woven all through the world as well. You saw Ben everywhere in the world. You’d look at the map of the United States hanging in the dining hall and frown at Florida. You’d eat lunch with Annie, and she’d serve you strawberries and your whole body would start to search for him. You’d glance out a window and see the sky and a voice in the back of your head would go Blue. Pussy fucking color. You’d never be able to go outside again. Because you’d look at the grass and the trees and the bushes and only think Ben. Ben’s eyes are green like that. You’d never be able to do a lot of things again, especially if you lost him. Nobody would be allowed to address you, because it would just make you think that Ben had said your name better. The sun would have to stop shining because sunshine wouldn’t be allowed to exist anymore, and everyone would have to stop swearing because nobody would do it as well as he did. And nobody would touch you again. They wouldn’t do it like Ben did it. They wouldn’t wreck you just with hands on skin or names hummed into mouths. If someone held you, it wouldn’t be like you were holy. They wouldn’t be everything.

It wasn’t healthy. You weren’t stupid, you knew it wasn’t healthy. But you didn’t care. Healthy was a privilege. Healthy was for people who budgeted out their months and worked semi-stable jobs and had been born half-sane. Healthy was for people you could get their heart broken and have enough of themselves left to heal it. Healthy was for people who had a heart that was capable of remolding to fit in place with a new, different one after the heartbreak was over. Your heart was for Ben. It didn’t fit anywhere else. It could either be in your chest, or in his hands. It wouldn’t survive anywhere else. You’d survive without Ben. If you lost him, the world would keep spinning and your heart would keep beating and you’d heal after a very, very long and lonely time. But that would be it. It would just be you. No one else. If Ben left you’d let him and mourn it for the rest of your life, alone. If he went back to sleep, you’d burn everything to wake him up, and not just because you’d promised. Because you wanted him awake and happy and holding you. You wanted him. You needed him. You loved him.

And now you have to live with that. You’d have to learn how to love Ben like this. In this way that sat in your brain and made everything clear as your whole body was wrapped in some kind of cocoon, some sort of shield that kept you warm and alive because you loved Ben. You have to learn how to love him in this infinite way and never let it show.

You’ll keep going like you have been. Because you’ve loved him for a long time, if you think for just a second about it. You don’t know when it began, and you’re a little afraid to search for the exact moment where it became something of no return. The turning point, the moment that made your thoughts and feelings about Ben change from understanding and friendship into love. Horrible and loud and glorious love. Because it feels a lot less recent than it probably should be. It doesn’t feel like something that happened last week, or two weeks ago, or even a month. If you concentrate and comb through the past maybe you’d find when this became love, but it doesn’t really matter. Because it feels old. It feels like it’s something ancient that was dormant and now will never stop raging inside you. Just because you’re aware of it now doesn’t mean it wasn’t strong and fixed like this before. 

So you’ll love him like you have been. Because you have been. Nothing needs to change because you have been loving him in secret for a while, it’s only just no longer a secret from you as well.

The only difference is now that chorus of Ben that runs through your brain all the time is followed by I love you. You wake up the morning after Violet’s visit, with Ben’s body heavy and secure over yours—his head pressed into your neck and his snores reverberating through your bones—and your mind goes Ben. Ben, I love you. You lay there for a while, waiting for him to wake up because you could. You had all the time in the world to lay in bed with the man you loved, letting his hands drift in sleep to the hem of your shirt and his legs tangle thoughtlessly in yours. To let your brain go Ben, I love you over and over until he made that small grunt that always preceded his waking.

Ben’s eyes open slowly, looking at you from underneath his eyelashes, and even those are pretty. You’d never stood a chance.

“Mornin,” he grumbles, and you smile at him.

“Good morning, Benjamin.” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper. Already, acting normal is not going well.

“Benjamin?” He drawls, smirking up at you. “The fuck did I do to earn a Benjamin this early in the day?”

You wrinkle your nose at him, pushing your knee up into his gut. “It’s your name. Am I not allowed to call you your name?”

“Not when I’ve barely opened my damn eyes.” Trying to knee him was fully ineffective, because he's completely unaffected and now your calf is brushing against his half-hard cock. And he’s still looking at you. “You only call me that when I’ve pissed you off. Tell me what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” Ben, I love you. “You’re doing something, right now. But I was just saying your name.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Then say it again.”

“What?”

Ben grins, shifting up on his arms and hanging over you. His face only a slight movement from yours. “Say my name again. My full name.”

“Why-“

“Because I want to hear it when you’re not mad at me for some shit reason.” His breath is moving from his mouth into yours. “Say it.”

You swallow, his lust sitting somewhere with your own in your chest and throat, but still manage to say, “Ask nicely.”

“Brat.”

“I’ll never say your name again-“

He kisses you, sloppy with his tongue falling into your mouth and his hand coming up to cup your face. He’s groaning your name, and his voice is so deep and he smells like pine and his body is warm and he tastes like mint-

You push up on his chest, gaping at him slightly. “Did you fucking brush your teeth?”

He scowls. “Shut up.”

“No, you brushed your teeth!” You grin at him, feeling the closest thing you’ve ever felt to embarrassment course through him. It’s sore and hot, crawling along his skin as he avoids your gaze. “I can taste it, Benjamin, so don’t even think about lying to me.”

“I wasn’t goddamn going to lie to you.”

“Because you’re not a pussy.”

“Because I’m not a fucking pussy.”

“But you brushed your teeth?”

Ben’s still glaring at you, but there’s nothing cold or sharp behind his eyes, or in his body. You can feel more of a sour annoyance, like he’s mad he got caught. “Brat.”

“Cunt.” You whack his chest lightly. “Are you just not going to admit it? Or am I going to have to get up and check your toothbru-“

You choke on your words as Ben drops back to your neck, sucking a line up your jaw.

“Ben-“

“I fucking brushed my teeth,” he growls into your ear, and somehow it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. “Are you happy now?”

You want to say yes, or very, or Ben, I love you, but all you can manage is a strained, desperate sound that’s half-sigh and half-moan.

“Good. Now say my name and I’ll-“

You’re moving so fast to grab Ben’s face and pull him back against yours that whatever he was about to promise you is lost in a groan down your throat. You don’t care, because it can’t be better than this. It can't be better than Ben over you, his hand kneading the skin at your hip and his teeth making your lips swell. It can’t be better than the heat of him around you, the power of his hunger in you.

It’s so easy to moan, “Benjamin-“

He’s gone, hauling himself off of you in a second, so fast you can’t grab his arm and yank him back down.

“You asshole-“

“If you had let me finish my fucking sentence,” Ben grins down what’s meant to be your murderous glare but—based purely on his amused expression and teasing tone—is more likely a pout. “You’d have heard the part where I’m making you breakfast now.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you grumble. “Get your ass back down here.”

Ben hums. “No.”

“Benjamin-“

“There she is,” he leans down, pulling you up just enough that he can kiss the top of your head. “That’s how you always fucking say it.”

Before he can draw back up again, you grab his wrist with one hand, pushing your jaw up into the air to try and move his mouth to yours. He lets you, kissing you far too sweetly for the thirst to be overflowing like this, for the ache between your legs to be growing painful.

When Ben moves away once more, he presses another kiss to your forehead and all your thoughts become clear. It’s only Ben. Ben, I love you.

“Pancakes?” He mumbles against your skin, and you nod.

“Of course I want pancakes, but you-“ His mouth is gone again, hands still holding your face as he draws to his full height. “Ben-“

“I’m going to pick you up.” He says firmly, watching you carefully. It’s not a question, but he doesn’t move. Towering over you, waiting for you to prompt him. You nod, and the rough feeling in his chest pulses slightly as his arms drop under your knees, pulling you up into him.

“I hate you.” Your tone, quiet and gentle, isn’t convincing. Your movement isn’t convincing, arms wrapping around Ben’s neck and body leaning into his hold.

He chuckles, “No, you don’t.” 

And you don’t. You love him. But you still glare at him, and revere in the complete concrete safety of Ben touching you. The strength of his body, the power of his resolve coursing through your bloodstream. The way you barely jostle against him when he walks down the stairs, how carefully he sets you down. How—once the coffee is brewed—he pours your mug first and places it in front of you. Shooting you a sharp glare when you start and stand up to help him.

“Get your fucking ass back in the chair, Sunshine,” he snaps. “I can cook my goddamn self.”

“I know,” you walk over to his side, holding his glower with an overly sweet smile. “But I want to cook with you.”

He’s still frowning, looking you up and down. “Why.”

“It’s fun,” you shrug. Ben, I love you. “You get mad at some really stupid shit. I’ve never seen someone snap a bowl in half before, I didn’t know you could snap a bowl in half.”

“It was broken already,” he grumbles. “Wasn’t fucking mixing the batter.”

“That’s not how bowls work, and you know it.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Shut up and get the milk or sit the hell back down.”

You smile at him, wide and light, and start to turn to the fridge. You don’t even take a step before Ben’s hand catches the top of your arm and spins you around, his lips crashing into yours in a long, needy, marked kiss. Walking you back into the kitchen counter, going and going until you’re breathless and moaning his name.

He smirks against your lips, sucking slowly on your top lip before moving away. Staring at you with the lust shining in his eyes. The lust and another, louder, fiery thing that’s roaring somewhere near his lungs. He says your name, voice hoarse, and you think it might kill you. “You’re a real fucking pain in my ass.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I can really tell how hard all this is on you.”

He groans, because your words were carefully chosen. “Fucking hell-”

“Is there a problem, Pretty Boy?” You smile at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful.” He kisses just the tip of your nose, and your whole body sings. “Get the milk.”

“Cunt,” you mutter under your breath as he walks away, and his laugh echoes through you. Ben, I love you.

This will work. You’ll love him like this. Keeping your lines set in stone rather than sand, because as much as you need him to walk back over to you—to pick you up again and just fuck you—you can’t. Knowing you love him made it easier to not chase after him, easier to stop yourself from giving him everything as you were now certain he couldn’t return it. But it made you want everything so much more. So you had to keep your head on your shoulders, and let him call you beautiful and kiss him until he was hard and you were wet, and never let it go further. You can love him like this. And it will be fine.

You master it, over the next three days. You get in stupid fights about nothing—Ben uses an abominable amount of toothpaste per brushing for someone who probably hasn’t done any sort of dental care in almost a century—and they either end with you winning, Ben’s tongue down your throat, or some combination of the two. And your brain always goes Ben, I love you, and you turn it into a whack of his arm or a wordless moan into his mouth or against his skin. You snark at him, and he chuckles and teases you, and instead of climbing on top of him and grabbing his face in your hands and screaming Ben, I love you, you make him laugh. You savor the sound as it fills the apartment, and squeeze your thighs together because everything this insufferable ass of a man does turns you on. It was a problem before, and now it might be starting to actively hinder your life. You’re training with him—Ben has insisted you learn how to coordinate fire in with your combat so you don’t rely wholly on your power, saying any supe worth their goddamn salt can do more than just party tricks, Sunshine—and your task is to knock him down.

It’s not going well. 

“You did this better when you hated me,” Ben taunts, side-stepping you again.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs. “Maybe I will, once you’ve earned it.” 

You scowl, lunging at him again. This time, when Ben doges, he moves right into the column of flame you’d risen in his path.

“Fucking Christ-“ He jumps away, shooting you a glare and snapping your name.

You don’t let him keep going, rushing another wall of flame at him. You’d learned to control the temperature—hot enough for Ben to feel, not hot enough for it to burn—and he takes a stumbling step back.

“That’s more fucking like it,” he’s grinning now, fists up. “Keep it coming, at this rate you’ll get me down by April.”

You flip him off, wrapping your hand in fire and throwing a punch right at his stupid, handsome face. “I’m going to wipe the floor with you Pretty Boy.”

He fakes left, the fire shooting up to block him in the wrong spot when he ducks right, under your arm. You recover fast, but Ben’s already grabbing you by the hook of your elbow, pinning you against his chest.

“Those are some big words,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear as his arm snakes around your waist. “For someone who can’t even land one damn punch.” 

You angle your head back and kiss him. Rough, sudden, and harsh. It catches him off guard, and his grip loosens just enough for you to turn and jump up. He catches you as your legs wrap around him—you knew he would—and growls into your mouth as your hands pull at his hair. You keep going, Ben matching every bite of his lips with a bite of yours. Every groan you pull from him makes him harder and harder against you, makes his hold on you like steel and his hunger start to burn in your body. You lean your chest forward slightly—still holding his mouth against yours—and he moans. Ben moans, and your whole plan almost goes entirely out the window. The only thing that keeps you on track is the fact that if you don’t move now he’ll moan again and not a thing in the universe could stop you from fucking him. 

You shove down on Ben’s shoulders, your whole body going up in flames. It does the trick, and Ben loses his balance just enough for you to push harder. Make him drop down to the floor as you straddle his chest, grinning triumphantly at his adorable, befuddled frown.

“I win.”

The disbelief and shock dies in Ben fast, and suddenly the hunger is bigger. Everything in him is bigger. Hunger and affection and a strange feeling that makes you light-headed and giddy. 

“Dirty fucking trick, beautiful.” He says, smiling widely up at you as his hands find your hips. “Don’t think that’ll work on the average opponent.” 

“Worked on you,” you say smugly, and the feelings somehow grow in him. In you. It makes you blink, your whole body consumed by it, and you don’t see or feel Ben grab your wrists until it’s too late and he’s flipping you over. 

He’s above you, he’s everything, and nothing in you wants to try and get him away. You’d won already, and even if you hadn’t you can’t think of a way out of this. Not when his face is so happy, not when you can feel all of him. His body and his desire and his care. 

“Fucking brat,” he mutters, mouth lowering just over yours. “Too smart for your own damn good.” 

“You love it,” you mumble. I love you. 

Ben snorts, and your whole world is just that sound. Content and moving through and around you. Just Ben, kissing you until your back is arching off the floor. Picking you up and dropping you both on the couch, going and going until you’re both out of breath. Then just touching you. Thumbs tracing circles on your skin, head resting against yours, all just Ben. 

You look up at him, and he’s watching you. He’s always watching you. You don’t ever want him to look away. You move your hands up into his hair, palms pressed against his head, and his brows raise. 

“I feel goddamn fine,” he drawls your name. “You don’t have to keep fucking doing this.” 

“You had a nightmare last night,” you glare at him. “I decide when I stop doing this.” 

Ben scowls, but doesn’t move your hands away. Sulking as your grip tightens and you set to work. You’re grateful for it, because his nightmare had scared you. It had been the first in a while, and while he hadn’t fallen into the drums and exploded, the pain he’d felt was still sitting in your bones. The strained sounds of suffering and fear that he’d made were rattling around in your head. It was wrong. He wasn’t supposed to make those sounds. Ben wasn’t made to make those sounds. So you’d keep doing this until he never had to make them again. It wasn’t hurting you at all anyway, you felt fine. Were shadows a little darker in corners and sounds a little louder at night? Maybe, but you were fine. And this wasn’t about you. It was about Ben.

It was about how soft his hair was in your hands, and how handsome his face looked when it was relaxed. It was about making him keep looking at you. All the time.

“We have dinner in an hour,” you say after a while, mostly to try and drown out the song in your head of Ben. Ben, I love you.

“I know,” he grunts. “It’s the same time every fucking night.” 

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Someone’s grumpy.” 

“Shut up.” 

“What, not looking forward to Butcher’s nightly interrogations about if we’re fucking yet?” 

Ben smirks at you. “You’d think he’d realize that the moment we start fucking we’d stop coming to dinner.” 

“We’d still go to dinner-“

“You wouldn’t leave the bed for a week,” his voice is low, taunting, and your nails start digging into his scalp. “Longer if you wanted.” 

Ben, I love you. “Someone’s real cocky.” 

“And one day,” he winks. “You’ll find out why.” 

You snort, even as your whole body starts to feel like putty. “Okay, Pretty Boy.”

“Are you fucking doubting me?”

“No,” you scoff. “Before we met, about 85% of the things I heard about you were that you were an asshole manwhore. I don’t think I ever doubted that you could fuck.”

“An asshole manwhore?” Ben scowls. “Who called me an asshole manwhore?”

“I think that asshole manwhore was Butcher.” 

Ben grunts, “fucking pussy.”

“If it helps,” Ben, I love you. “You are an asshole manwhore. But you’re also the most aggressively caring person I’ve met.”

“Aggressively caring?”

“You give a shit about me. More than anyone ever really has. In a very violent, mean, asshole manwhore way.” Ben, I love you. “But it, it means a lot.”

“You mean a lot,” Ben grumbles. “And of course I give a shit about you. It’s not like you don’t give a shit about me.”

“Yeah but that’s not my point-”

“Sunshine, just take the fucking compliment.” 

You stick your tongue out at him. “Asshole.”

Ben winks, still watching you. So full of lust you might pass out from it. “You need to shower.”

“You need to shower.” You mutter, and he grins.

“We could do it together-“

“Fuck off,” you mutter, face heating and eyes moving to stare at his forehead. Looking at him right now—with his face alight and the hunger and want painting his every feature—would be counterproductive. “Once I’m done with this you’re showering, without me, and then we’re going to dinner.”

“You’re going first.” 

“Ben-“ 

“I take longer showers than you,” his tone is firm, and you can feel his eyes on you. “So your options are going first and having warm water, or going second and freezing your beautiful fucking face off.” 

“But-“ 

“You could always just shower with me,” he continues, and your eyes drop back to his against your will. They’re bright, and so green, and boring right through you in a way that makes you think he can see your thoughts. See the way your whole mind is just going Ben. I love you. “Eliminate the damn problem altogether.” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, and Ben chuckles, pulling your hands down from his head. 

“Then you should get a fucking move on,” he says your name, eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t want to be late to our stupid dinner, do we?” 

“Cunt.” 

He kisses your knuckles, and your whole brain is Ben. “Brat.” 

You shoot him one last glare as you stand, and try not to let your whole body feel cold without him as you climb up the stairs. You turn the shower handle so steam fills the room and the water is scalding. It doesn’t hurt, heat never hurts anymore, but the sensation still exists. You know it’s hot, you know it burns and would’ve hurt before, but now it just feels good. It would’ve, once, been used to wipe your head clear of him, used to chase the thoughts of Ben away into the water and down the drain at your feet. But now it just amplifies them. You don’t know how long you can keep this up, when everything Ben does is like a river that sweeps you up into him, that’s started to smooth rules you’d carved into stone about not going everywhere with him. It’s only been three days. Three long days of knowing you love him. How you managed this before you knew is a mystery, how you didn’t know for so long is even more baffling. Maybe it’s because you didn’t understand that love could feel like this. You’d been in love before, sure. And it had swept you away and made you smile, but it had never been a part of you. It had never been something that felt bigger than you, something that was only building and building by the second. You’d only fallen in love after sex, after months of casual dating and messing around until it grew deeper. You think you might have loved Ben before he even kissed you. You think you might love Ben until the universe is wiped away in fire. 

You think the fire might be yours. You think what might destroy the universe is this love for Ben, pouring out of you until it’s everywhere and still only a fraction of what he is.

And it’s only been three days. 

You’d had forty-five minutes when you’d entered the shower. Wallowing in the fog and warmth of the water might’ve taken up five. Ben took half-hour showers, but you could cut it down to twenty-five if you really got on his ass about it. 

Ten minutes was more than enough to get yourself off.

The good thing about the rain showers was that they were relaxing. The bad thing was that there was no removable shower head to work with, but you could improvise. You lean back against the wall, planting your feet firmly on the floor as you arch your hips, angling them so that the water falls right between your thighs. You move your fingers down slowly, and part the lips of your pussy so that your clit is exposed to the air and the stream of the shower lands steadily against it. The effect is immediate, your whole body seizing for a fraction of a second at the sensitivity before you adjust, completely relaxing against the wall. All your thoughts are wrapped in the steam, wrapped in the sensation of the heavy beat of falling water on your clit, and you don’t even try to stop the moan that escapes your mouth.

Ben. If you were a little weaker—or stronger—it could be him doing this. He could be holding you up against his muscled chest instead of you leaning against tile, it could be his rough hand squeezing your breasts instead of your own, and he could be devouring your high, needy sounds into his body. Holding your chin up so he can lean over you and kiss you until you feel like you’re going to pass out. Wrapping his arm over your hips to keep them from bucking as his hand dives between your legs. Rubbing large, strong fingers over your clit in a fast, mind-numbing pace and rhythm. Head lowering so he’s sucking on your neck as he moves down, down, down and plunges inside you, palm still bumping your nerves as he moves in and out at a brutal pace. Going and going until you’re screaming his name, muttering filth and praise against your skin, bringing your over the edge-

Your legs almost give out when you cum, and as your wits return you realize your own fingers have stilled inside you, and your throat is aching. You were screaming his name.

Any hopes that he might not have heard are dashed when you exit the bathroom and Ben’s sitting on the bed, smirking at you.

“Have fun?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, walking around the bed to where your phone is plugged in. 

“There better still be hot water-“ 

“If there’s not,” you glare at him. “Then maybe you won’t take a year to shower. For once.” 

He winks. “You’re real mouthy for having just been screaming my name, Sunshine.”

“Fuck you.” 

“I could’ve. If you’d let me in the damn shower.” 

“Well I didn’t,” you stick your tongue out at him. “So haul ass.” 

He leans across the bed, grabbing your forearm and yanking you down with a yelp. You land right in his lap, and the lust in him is so strong that, combined with how your whole body is still alight from your orgasm, you don’t even think to squirm away as he kisses you until you’re grinding against his thigh. 

“This fucking needy already?” He hums, nipping at the corner of your mouth. “I’ll have to make it two damn weeks.” 

I love you. “Benjamin, you dick-“ 

He chuckles, gently rolling you off his body. “The moment you say the word, my dick is all yours.” Ben smirks at your slack expression, kissing your cheek before growling in your ear. “But you’re going to have to beg for it.” 

When he stands and walks into the bathroom, leaving you panting slightly on the bed, you realize this is going to kill you. It’s only been three days, and this love for Ben is going to kill you. 

How some people do this for years will never cease to amaze you. 

Nobody’s caught on yet. Tonight, just like the past three nights, dinner will be weird, but normal weird. The biggest thing that changed was two nights ago, when Ben called Annie Annie instead of Starlight for the first time. The reaction had been similar to the switch from Cocksucker to Hughie, with everyone starting slightly in their seats before rushing to continue the conversation and gloss over the change. You’d asked him, later that night when you’d returned to your room, what had done it. 

“Done what?” He’d grumbled. 

“Don’t play stupid, Ben-“ 

“I don’t know what you’re fucking taking about.” 

“Yes, you do.” You’d narrowed your eyes at him. “What made Annie earn name privileges?” 

He’d glared at you, but grunted, “She’s not being a damn bitch anymore. Finally got off her fucking high horse.” 

You’d nodded and dropped it, but didn’t miss the way he didn’t glare at Annie when she talked to you anymore. Now, as you walked into the dining hall with his arm hanging over your shoulders, he even gave her a curt nod when she smiled at you, and no rush of angered protectiveness surged through him. 

Annie had asked you, the day after Violet left, how the meeting had gone. You’d been standing downstairs at the doorway, and Ben had been upstairs, but there was no way he hadn’t heard. Annie’s voice had been slightly hushed, and the door had been closed, but Ben had the ears of a moth. You’d told him that once and he’d shaken his heard, grumbling about you being a too fucking hot for a walking encyclopedia. But he did. He heard everything. There was no way he hadn’t heard Annie. 

And he’d called her Annie that same night. 

When you drop across from Annie and Hughie, Frenchie and Kimiko are nowhere to be seen—despite a jacket you recognize to be Frenchie’s tossed on one of the seats—and MM and Butcher are shuffling over from the kitchen doors. 

“Where’s-“ 

“Kimiko’s making Frenchie listen to some songs she just found on Spotify.” Annie smiles at you with a shrug, and you smile back. “It’s a lot of J-Pop and showtunes.”

“If it’s Kimiko showing them to Frenchie, he’ll love them.” You lean slightly across the table, Ben sitting silently at your side with hand resting on your lower back. “What’s on the menu?” 

“I dunno, we just got here.” Hughie cranes his neck to look at Butcher and MM. “Hey guys-“

“Pizza.” MM sits next to Hughie, angling his plate for display. “They got Hawaiian, pepperoni, cheese, and broccoli.” 

You nod, starting to rise from your seat, but Ben pulls your wrist slightly. “I’ll get it.” 

“Okay, can you get-“ 

“I know what you fucking want.” He mutters, and you blink at him.

“Really?”

“We have pizza every damn Friday,” Ben shrugs, standing. “You always chose the same thing.”

He stalks past Butcher, still standing with a scowl at the head of the table, and pushes roughly through the doors. 

“He’s, uh, he’s right.” Hughie’s staring after Ben, a small frown on his face. “They do give us pizza every Friday.” 

“Like we’re fuckin babies,” Butcher’s holding his plate with white knuckles, glowering the two remaining seats. Next to Annie, and next to you.

“Babies don’t eat fuckin pizza, Butcher.” MM mutters. “It’s bad for their guts, and they can’t chew it.”

“It’s more like we’re teenagers,” you nod. “My high school cafeteria definitely had pizza Fridays.”

Annie hums. “Actually, mine did too.”

“That makes three,” Hughie takes a large bite of his pizza, a little cheese hanging out his mouth, and you all look expectantly at MM. 

He sighs. “Mine did as well.”

“Well ain’t that just bloody fantastic for all you.” 

“Butcher,” Annie sighs. “Just eat your pizza or go sit alone.” 

This happens every night. Butcher stands at the table, making jeering comments until someone—usually Annie or MM—tells him to sit and eat, with them or by himself. He always sits down, usually next to Hughie or MM, sometimes next to Frenchie, once next to a very stiff bodied Ben and once next to a wide-eyed Kimiko. Never next to Annie. Never next to you.

You think tonight will be the first night he sits alone, right up until he’s marching around the table and sitting down at your side so aggressively it shakes the bench. The shocked silence only lasts a second before Hughie jumps frantically into a conversation about some movie he and Annie watched last night at MM’s suggestion, you and Butcher both refusing to look at each other.

The kitchen doors swing back open, Ben reappearing with two plates in hand. His eyes narrow when he sees Butcher at your side, a scowl overtaking his face. The fuck is he doing?

Sitting, apparently. Your shrug is so small that anyone except Ben wouldn’t have caught it. Don’t say anything about it. I think he’s like a reverse Tinkerbell. 

Ben raises his eyebrows. The fuck does that mean. 

If you give him attention, he dies.

Snorting, Ben sits back at your side, and you grin at him as he slides your plate in front of you before dropping his hand to your thigh. Letting it rest there as you glance at his serving—five slices of pepperoni—and then yours. He’d gotten it right, and you blink up at him. 

He frowns. What? 

Ben, I love you, is what you want to tell him. You even know what that face would look like. A full smile, all teeth and joy, with your eyes shining with all your love for him as you just look at him.

But you only give him a smaller smile, still happy, but not everything. Thank you. 

Don’t. He squeezes your thigh, rolling his eyes. Never fucking thank me. 

You wish Ben would let you thank him, but a small part of you knows it’s a mercy he doesn’t know he’s giving you. You’d never stop thanking him if he didn’t get all grumpy when you did. You’d thank him for every stupid, handsome smile and every brush of his skin against yours and every teasing jab that meets and spars with yours. You’d thank him for holding you under the table for the whole dinner, Butcher eating at your side without a word. You’d thank him for leaning back slightly when Kimiko sits at Annie’s side so you can talking to her in sign about the music she’d been showing Frenchie. You’d thank him for staying silent and grounding when Butcher launches into a briefing, despite everyone’s glares. 

“Grace says Edgar’s almost ready,” he’s looking around, meeting everyone’s eyes to ensure they’re listening. “We got a plan for when he makes good.”

“A plan?” Annie frowns. “Can you be more specific-“

“No.”

You’d thank Ben for rolling his eyes at you. Fucking pussy probably doesn’t even have a fucking plan. 

I’m sure we can improvise. You shrug, and he scowls. 

You always have to improvise. If they want you to keep fucking improvising for them, they better start paying us both what we damn deserve.

You raise your brows at him. We? When have you ever improvised for them? 

This whole plan was my goddamn idea. 

That’s a plan. It’s the exact opposite of improvisation. 

Brat, Ben grins at you. We’re a package fucking deal. They want your services, they pay us both. 

You wrinkle your nose at him. I did not agree to that.

I go where you go, beautiful. Ben winks. 

You’d thank him for the flush of your face, and the smile you have to physically fight off your face. 

You’d thank him for clearing both your plates when Butcher’s doing the same so you don’t have to be alone with Butcher beside you, and you’d thank him for bringing you back a fistful of chocolate when he returns from the kitchen with his own full pint of ice cream. You’d thank him for holding your hand all the way back to your apartment, and up the stairs, and into bed. You’d thank him for kissing you until you’re scraping at his back, and for doing that annoying thing where he tells you you’re tired and you suddenly are.

You’d thank him for staying—at your side—every day, every time you so much as saw him. You’d thank him for humming terribly as you drift off to sleep, you’d thank him for the way his heart pounds softly against his chest until the world is dark and peaceful.

The world had taken a turn. You’d been somewhere that was full of sunlight and life, Ben holding you against him, and suddenly it was dark. So dark you couldn’t see your own hands. Your body is lit in flames and it’s somehow still so very dark. And cold. There’s wind and it’s freezing your skin and guts, even as you burn. You call for Ben, your voice turning from nervous shouts of his name into screams. Loud, panicked screams for Ben to find you, to shout back and tell you he’s there, that he’s okay, that he’s searching for you as well. 

There’s only silence, your name swallowed in a vacuum of the cold darkness. And it’s silent and cold for so long. So very long where you’re burning and can’t find Ben. He’s in danger, you know, you can feel it. Something’s keeping him from you, because that’s the only reason he wouldn’t be roaring for you to return to him. And he’s in pain. You’re certain he’s in pain. Ben is in pain, somewhere in the dark, because you can feel something ripping you open and flaying you alive and drowning you. Something is drowning you. Something is drowning Ben. And it’s all you can feel, for a long, long time, until a voice sounds through the world, screeching in your ears.

Run. 

You’re gone. You’re sprinting through nothing and it’s like falling. There’s no end, and it’s so fast, and where’s Ben. You have to go faster, you have to find him. You have to crash into whatever that’s doing this, causing this pain, and destroy it. You have to find it, you have to find him, and you can hear something. Breaking through the fire around you and your own screams for Ben, there’s something running at you. Behind you. Faster than you, gaining pace, a cruel cackling sound that’s becoming louder and louder.

There’s a light. Far away there’s a warm light that’s growing and growing with drums. Loud, heavy, bloody drums. It’s Ben, chest alight as the drums become all you can hear. He’s facing you, and the danger behind you is closer, closer, closer as Ben grows brighter, brighter, brighter. 

The danger tears past you. It’s not going for you anymore. It’s headed for Ben. Faster, and the drums aren’t loud enough, and there’s a fraction of a second where you could’ve held it back. Where it ripped through the space between you and Ben and you could’ve struck it down. You could’ve redrawn its attention to you. 

But Ben is doing what you should’ve done. His eyes lock with yours, right as the danger hits him. And suddenly there’s nothing, not pain or danger or drums or any sign that Ben was ever there. Just cold nothing.

The world floods with light.

Fluorescent, blinding, painful light. Everything smells like hand sanitizer and the air is too clean. Artificial. 

When you can see again, everything in you dies. 

You’re back. You’d swore you’d never to go back. To this white room with the too bright lights and everything deep cleaned so there’s no proof. No proof you exist. You’re just another decoration in this horrible, horrible place.

It’s changed though. There’s no longer a steel door with a small slat that meals were once pushed through. There’s nothing. Not even glass. You could just walk out, right into the lab.

The white room and the lab had been different though. You’d never existed in both at the same time. And this lab isn’t the same as yours. At the surface level, it’s an identical copy with bleached floors and a lot of tools that make your blood run cold. But the vials are all full of nothing. Just air. There’s a large one, connected to an IV that doesn’t run into a body, but a tube. 

A large, metal tube. More like a box. With a single clear panel that’s just too high for you to look into. You don’t need to though. When the box shakes slightly, something in you pulses and thrashes against your chest and you know. When the box is still, and the thing dies out a fraction of a heartbeat, you know. 

Ben is there. Asleep in the box. And you’re burning everything to try to get him out, but the box isn’t even shaking again. It’s still and silent as you scream, and it echoes through the ashes and smoke around you. You’re burning the world and everything between it, but Ben is still asleep. Gone.

You hadn’t been smart enough. You hadn’t been fast enough. You hadn’t done whatever it took, and now Ben was gone. You’d failed him. 

You’d failed Ben. 

You’re still burning when you wake up. You’re still screaming when you wake up. Your voice is hoarse, your throat feels raw, but you can’t stop screaming. The world is on your back, pushing down on your shoulders and snapping your spine in two. You’d failed him, you’d lost him, and now Ben was gone-

“I’m right fucking here,” the most familiar voice in the world moves through your body, saying your name, but all you can think is Ben. He’s gone. 

You’d lost him. 

“You didn’t lose me,” it’s the same voice. Low and forceful. “I’m here,” it’s saying your name. You need to listen, because it’s making your name sound important. Like it’s the only thing in the world worth saying. “I’m right fucking here.” 

That’s Ben’s voice. As you’re coming down you know it’s Ben voice, because he says fucking like that. You think his voice was built to say fucking, with the spitting sound on the f and the deep growl of the uh. The speed at which he tears through the king.

Ben’s here. You didn’t lose him. He’s here. Suddenly you can feel him all around you, and it’s not just the feeling of his resolve like a shield around you that’s pulling you back down. It’s him. It’s just Ben. It’s the heat of his body, the way he’s holding you with real, strong hands. It’s the sound of his voice, and the rumble of his heart where you think your head is pressed into his ribs. It’s the smell of him. Pine and vanilla and Ben. All Ben. Real, with you, not gone.

Your screams turn into sobs, and your breathing grows faster until you’re lightheaded. Until gentle, calloused hands are on your face, pulling you back from where you’ve buried yourself.

Ben’s face is drawn, focused, and the frown on his face isn’t at you. It’s for you. You can feel the way in which his anger is blowing, and it’s up and around and everywhere until he can find something to turn bloody and beat to a pulp. But for now he’s holding you. Searching your eyes for his answer.

“Fucking breathe,” he says your name again. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You sob again, hands flying up to keep his on your face. In case this is another lie. In case your mind is truly that hateful and would do this to you again.

“I’m not going fucking anywhere.” He hisses. “You need to know that, Sunshine. I’m never going anywhere without you.”

Your breathing slows, and the blood pounding in your ears with it. Soon it’s just Ben. You and Ben.

He must read it on your face somewhere—that you’re here, in your mind, without the fear and panic—because he kisses your brow, still holding your face as he speaks. “What happened.” 

You shake your head. “Just a nightmare.” 

“You haven’t had a nightmare like that since damn Neuman.” 

He’s right. You’d had bad dreams, one or two, but not nightmares. No fire had torn through this room before, Ben hadn’t had to bring you back from some sort of ledge on this mattress.

“I don’t know where it came from,” you whisper. “I’m sor-” 

“No apologies.” He pulls your face up just a little further. “You’re okay.” 

Not a question. “I’m okay.” 

Ben grunts, thumb drawing circles on your cheekbones. “Swear it.” 

“Promise.” You pause, looking up at him. Ben. Ben, I love you. I can’t lose you. I can’t fail you. I can’t fail anyone, but if I fail you it’ll destroy me and the world. “Ben?”

He hums your name, and you run your hands from over his to hang off his forearms.

“You trust me?”

“Of course I fucking trust you.” 

“Can you promise me something?” 

Ben grunts. “What.” 

“I don’t know what Butcher and Mallory are planning,” your voice is still choked, and it hurts to speak. But you keep going. You have to keep going. “But if it falls through, I need you to promise that you’ll let me do what I need to do.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Ben’s hold on your face tightens, and you swallow. 

“If whatever Butcher and Mallory have-“ 

“That’s not what I’m asking.” He’s irritated. You can hear it in his voice, you can feel it on his fingertips. There’s something else, the bitter thing has wrapped around his throat, combined with something bellowing inside his chest. “What the fucking hell do you mean what you need to do.”

“To finish this,” it’s painful to look at him. It’s painful to see his jaw clenched and mouth frowning when he’d been gone from you, even if it hadn't been real. It’s painful to see the intensity of his gaze when you’re asking this of him. “To do what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done?” Ben hisses. “If you don’t speak more fucking clearly, I’m not promising you shit. If you’re talking about your god awful plan-“ 

“I’m not,” you squeeze his arm, and he relaxes slightly. The bitter thing becomes easier to breathe through. “Just, what I need to do.”

“That's not nearly goddamn clear enough.” Ben says your name, and his voice is becoming strained. There’s gruff pain to it, like someone is trying to claw out of his airway. “What will you possibly fucking need to do.” 

You can’t answer. Because you don’t know. You don’t know what the plan is, how it could go sideways, what will need to be done. You’re not even certain you know if you’re talking about the mission or not. But you need to be able to do it. Whatever it is that needs to be done, you have to do it. You have to be able to keep Ben here, you have to save Ryan Butcher, you have to kill Homelander, this has to be over. You’re so tired. Whatever needs to be done to just rest, for the world to rest, you need to be able to do. And you can’t let Ben stop you, or hold you back. You can’t let him take all the danger for you, it’s not fair. You love him.

But you can’t say that. So you say, “I don’t know.” No lies. “But I need you to promise me you’ll let me do it.” 

“No, I’m not promising that when I don’t fucking know what-“ 

“That doesn’t matter,” you’re begging now, head shaking frantically between Ben’s hands. You don’t care. He needs to give you this, he needs to understand and promise. “It doesn’t matter what it could mean, Ben. I just, please, I need you to promise, please promise-“ 

He pulls you forward. Back into his chest until the drum of his heart makes breathing easier again. When he speaks, his voice is everywhere. Around your body and making a home in your brain. “It fucking matters. It always fucking matters. I’m not promising something fucking stupid like that.” 

Your hands fist against his shirt, word muffled. “Please. I need, Ben, please.” You’re not crying anymore, you’re trying to climb into him. To keep the safety and everything of Ben around you, even as you push. “I need to help, I need to help, I can’t be useless, I need to help and it needs to matter-“

“Shut up.” Ben has one hand in your hair, one wrapped around your back and resting on your hips. It’s the way he’s holding you so diligently—as if this is his whole purpose, to touch you—and the way his voice and body are wholly devoid of anger, and how it all makes your brain clear to Ben, Ben I love you, that makes you fall silent and let him continue. “You matter. You’re helping more than any other fucking pussy in this damn building. And you are the least useless person I have ever fucking met. So I’m not promising that.”

You pull your head back through sheer force of will, because you need to look at him. Even if it’s painful. “Please.” You could use a favor, you have a few left, but it needs to be Ben that promises. He needs to understand, you need him to mean it. “Please, Ben. I need you-“ a sob wracks your body, and you almost leave the sentence there. You need Ben. You love him. “Promise. Please promise, I need you to promise. Just this,” you tug at his shirt, and your body is smoking. When you pull back his skin is redder, but he hasn’t flinched. Only holding you, only watching you. “Just this one thing. I’ll never ask you for anything again. Please.”

He stiffens. For the most horrid, long moment of your life, you think you’ve shown too much. You think you’ve said the thing you’d promised not to say, found the line you’d been trying to toe so carefully. That keeps him beside you and never wondering why you’re clawing so desperately to do so. You don’t know which part of your pleas were the thing, which part turned your cards around for him to see and which card is going to be the one that makes you lose him-

“Fine.” His words are through gritted teeth, and you can see the tick of his jaw, but he’s nodding once, roughly, and you know you haven’t misheard him. “I promise.” 

His voice is so hollow. You’ve never heard Ben’s voice hollow before, and it’s wrong. “Swear it?” You whisper, because you need him to look less like a statue. You need him to move with a chuckle or a frown or an eye roll. 

You get a small twitch of his mouth. That’s enough. “Fucking swear it.” 

“Thank you,” you breathe. And Ben doesn’t stop or correct you about it. He lets you burrow back into his chest, pulling you up a little farther so he can shift back against the headboard. Your head lies somewhere between his ribs and stomach, arms around his torso, and he just stays there. Real and solid, and you’re no longer sure whose heart is pounding. You just know it’s steady, and that Ben is here. 

He holds you until the sun rises, and well after. You don’t want to move, you can’t move, so Ben just holds you. Holds you until you tug at his arm and ask quietly for coffee. Then he kisses the top of your head and hauls you up from between his legs to against his chest. 

“I’m going to carry you,” he grunts, and you just curl further into him.

When he sets you down on the couch he kisses the top of your head before walking to the kitchen, and you sink into the cushions. You don’t know how long he’s away—away meaning five feet away, shuffling loudly around the kitchen—but only when he returns to the couch, sinking into the spot by your feet, do you realize how cold you’d grown. 

“Thank you,” you mumble as he passes you a mug of coffee. 

“Don’t.” 

You smile softly, staring at the dark liquid in the cup. “Are we doing fire later or-“ 

“You are not fucking training today,” Ben snaps, and you look up to find him glaring at you. “Or doing your stupid brain magic.”

“Brain magic?” Your smile feels a little more real, and you’re not going to fight with him about training or healing. You’ve battled with him over more pointless things, but you’re just so tired. So you’ll just tease him, pushing and pulling with him about nothing.

Ben gives you a flat look. “What would you call it, smartass?” 

“Healing.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

You give a small giggle, and Ben’s whole face is still stoic, still drawn, but there’s less tension along it. “Grumpy old man.” 

“I said shut the fuck up.” 

“Make me.”

The speed at which Ben sets his own mug on the coffee table and climbs over you is truly remarkable. “You know very well,” his voice is gruff, the weight of his hunger crashing through you. “That I am not a fucking old man.”

“Well,” you hum, grinning widely up at him. “Just in terms of chronology, you are an incredibly old man-“ 

It’s amazing how good he is at this. How Ben is so easily capable of dragging you up from the worst pits and holes of your own head and throwing you into this thirst. How fast he can make your mind go from spinning and finding every nook and cranny or your life, your self, that is evil and hopeless, to just singing Ben. Ben, I love you. It’s why you don’t fight back when he falls onto you, his arm around your waist pulling you up into him and his mouth destroying your whole body in the most amazing way. He’s only against your own lips for a second, and the moment you open for him, moaning his name, he’s gone. Biting and sucking along your jaw, and your neck, up to your ear to tug it between his teeth, then down to your collarbone. Going until the sounds rising from your throat aren’t Ben or please or fuck, but only incoherent whines. Then he’s back on your mouth, and you give everything back to him. Your hands in his hair, your legs wrapped around him as you grind up, and your tongue running along his lips. Trying to get him as impossibly close as you can without crossing the line.

You say it. You know somewhere in the haze, your brain still slightly hazy from the pain of the night and your will weakened by all of him, you say it. Ben, I love you. It comes out a high, breathy whimper, but you know that’s what it was supposed to be. You know he doesn’t pick up on it, because nothing in him changes. He doesn’t waver or push further, he just goes the same as he had been. Letting you try and devour him as he does the same. So you moan it again—this one from somewhere deeper in your chest—because you’re allowed to say it like this. You’re allowed to say Ben, I love you, when it’s just another plea for him that he can’t understand the power of. Just like how you’re allowed to try and make him part of you when there’s not a chance he will be.

He hisses your name into your mouth when you yank his hair hard enough for his head to move up. His beard scratches along your cheeks and lips, but it’s Ben, so it’s everything. And he lets you drop down to his neck, lower, biting into his shoulder slightly. You don’t break skin, you’re not that strong, but he groans against your ear as your teeth scrape his skin and that’s enough. It’s more than enough—it’s the whole world—when Ben starts to knead at your skin under his hands, and he’s still making sounds that echo through your blood and bones. It’s everything, when he pushes you further down, down, moving his mouth back to yours and burying you between him and the sofa. Safe. Strong. Real. 

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

He’s hard. You can feel him bumping against your lower thigh, and it makes your moans louder. It makes your legs tighten around him, trying to move him up into you without you telling them to. You find another thing you’d thank Ben for, when he stops this for you. It makes you feel a little empty, but he doesn’t leave. He just drops his lower body down, pinning you to the couch so that you can’t keep bucking up into him. Resting his forehead against yours until your breath is steady, and your brain can manage to control your body.

“Better?” Ben mutters, and you blink up at him. It is better. Everything is better now. 

“Better.” You whisper, and he nods. “If we’re not training today, what-“ 

“I need to clean my shield. We’ve got dinner with the Pussy Brigade. I have to shit. You said we’d watch something called The Mummy a few nights ago. And you have your stupid fucking lunch with Annie and Hughie.” 

You grin at him. “In that order?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he kisses your nose, and you think this might destroy you more than anything else could. How easy this is. To love him, to let his voice move through you and settle your nerves. To let him just touch you all the time in the most simple and boring and mind-numbingly good ways. “Go get dressed, Sunshine.” 

You push up on your forearms, grabbing Ben around his neck and pulling him down to you one last time before he can stand. One longer, gentler kiss, where neither of you are trying to take it further, take it right up to the edge. Just kissing him because you love him, because you can. Because he’s real. 

Ben carries your mugs up into the kitchen, and you climb up the stairs, allowing yourself to turn back and look at him once. The most attractive, stupid man you’ve ever seen in your life. Glaring at the mugs as he dumps the now-cold coffee in the sinks. Turning on the sink to wash them with so much force you’re surprised the knob doesn’t snap off. But still doing it. His handsome scowl and rough movements not stopping him from doing it. You love him. You love Ben so much. It’s everything. There’s been blood on his hands and darkness in his head and life that should be unforgivable, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s become the most dependable, insufferable, important person in your life. Not when you love him like this. Not when you know he’s trying. In his own angry, violent, and sullen way, Ben is trying so hard. You’re not sure why he’s trying, or if he even knows he’s trying, but he is. He’s washing the mugs without you asking, because that’s what he does. Everything for you, without you needing to ever ask. And you’ll never stop loving him for it. 

Annie’s early for lunch today. She collects you around eleven, mentioning that she and Hughie have something planned for the afternoon as Ben opens the door, snapping at her that she's too fucking early. You tell Ben to let it go—you’ll be gone the same amount of time regardless—and he does his angry, half-pouting frown about it but kisses you lightly and sulks upstairs. 

“Something?” You tilt your head at Annie as you walk down the hall. 

“What? 

“You and Hughie have something planned?” You almost nudge her shoulder like you would with Ben but stop yourself. “Did you just not want to tell Ben, or is it-“ 

“My mom.” Annie says softly, staring down the hall. “She agreed to visit last week. Mallory’s bringing her today.” 

“Oh, shit.” You want to hug her. She looks like she needs some sort of comfort. So you give her your most reassuring expression, holding your hands behind your back. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” Annie sighs. “I mean, I asked her to come. But I haven’t talked to her since-“ 

“Firecracker.” Something clenches around your heart. Something that is all bones and burnt flesh. 

Something grabs your wrist, and you freeze. Anxiety and tension and exhaustion run through your body—it’s different from your own—and you realize it’s Annie’s. She’s touching you on purpose.

When you look at her, she’s watching you carefully. You blink at her, eyes wide, afraid to move. Afraid to ruin this and make her let go.

“I never thanked you for that,” Annie’s voice wasn’t joyful, but it was lighter. Even as the anxiety tightened around your skull. 

“For what?” 

“Killing that bitch.” She gives you a small, close-lipped smile. “I don’t ever really condone murder, but if anyone deserved it, she did.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” you say before you can stop yourself. You’re not a sadist, this might be a test, maybe Annie’s not really grateful but trying to see if you’re remorseful. “It was an accident.” 

“I know. I’m still thanking you.” 

“Oh.” You swallow, trying not to give the emotions you can feel through Annie’s hand any attention. “You’re welcome.” 

Annie nods, and just before she lets go something like relief spins through her. 

Hughie made pancakes and eggs. Well, Hughie tried to make pancakes and eggs. He burnt the eggs, twice apparently, so now it’s pancakes and a fruit salad. It’s still good—you add honey to the fruit, as well as strawberries and syrup to the pancakes because you’re a masochist and miss Ben—and sit at their dining room table. Annie brings out hot chocolate, and it’s comfortable. Especially after Annie tells Hughie you know about her mom visiting, because any nervous tension dissipates into the air and it’s fully, genuinely comfortable.

All three of you silently agree not to talk about family, because none of you have amazing relationships with your mothers, Hughie’s wound from his father’s death is still open and fresh, and fear still occasionally grips your heart that Homelander will find Violet and use her against you. So, you talk about frivolous things instead. Annie and Hughie want your opinion on a hideous throw pillow Hughie bought. You burn it, and Annie laughs as Hughie sighs, grinning as well. You debate with Hughie about Billy Joel songs, because his love for the man makes him blind to the fact that We Didn’t Start the Fire is just a truly terrible song. You win by pulling out a video of Billy Joel himself echoing your point, and Hughie throws his hands up in mock exasperation. Annie asks you if you need any help buying decorations for your apartment, or continuing to decorate, full stop, given your roommate—she hesitates before labeling Ben, and you don’t blame her in the slightest—not exactly being the most aesthetically oriented man in the world.

“Ben’s actually been shockingly helpful,” you shrug. “He chose the rug in our room, and aggressively vetoed plates with his face on them.” 

Hughie gapes at you. “Plates with his face on them?” 

“Limited Edition Soldier Boy Dining Set, manufactured and sold by Vought International,” you grin, and miss Ben more. This is really becoming a problem, that you get this dopey just thinking about him. “I thought his jaw was going to break.” 

Annie and Hughie exchange a glance, and Annie says slowly, “What, what exactly is going on with you guys?” 

“What do you mean?” You know what she means. You’re just hoping you can get out of this conversation if she’s not willing to say it.

“You live together, you sleep in the same bed,” Annie watches you carefully, and it’s an active effort to hold her gaze. “You kiss-“ 

“Make out,” Hughie corrects. “I’ve never seen two people make out like you two do. And that’s how you make out in front of us.” 

“Well-“ 

“He’s right,” Annie cuts you off. “You make out. And do heart-eyes at each other all the time. But you’re,” she pauses, looking to Hughie for help. 

“Not fucking?” He offers nervously, and Annie nods, turning back to you. 

“You’re making out, but not fucking.” 

You glance between them. “Is that a question?”

“Kinda,” Hughie mumbles. “It’s just confusing to see, if you’re really not fucking.” 

“We’re not.” 

“Okay,” Annie sighs. “But you do get how that’s a lot more confusing, yeah?” 

You tap your fingers on the table, wondering if you do it loud enough Ben will hear and come save you from this conversation. “It’s complicated. We’re just, we’re not fucking.”

“And he’s,” Annie frowns. “He’s not-“ 

“No.” Your voice is a little harsher than it maybe needs to be. But it feels appropriate. Ben wouldn’t do that. “He’s not. I mean,” you bite the inside of your mouth, searching for the words. “I was surprised as well. I still don’t fully understand why he’s not trying to get me to do more. But, I don’t know. He’s not.” 

“I’m not,” Hughie says, so simply for how both you and Annie are looking at him. Like he’s grown a third head. “What?” 

“What are you talking about?” You frown. “You’re not what?” 

“Oh, uh,” Hughie blinks at you. “I’m not, I’m not surprised.”

“Surprised?” 

“It’s like,” Hughie looks at Annie, likely for aid, but her expression is just as befuddled as yours. “It just makes sense to me. I dunno.” 

“What makes sense to you?” You push, because you need to know what he means. What he’s trying to say, in case it’s what you think. 

“I mean, in all this fucked up shit,” Hughie stumbles over his words, rubbing the back of his neck. “You two seem to get each other. In a weird, kinda gross way. I think Soldier Boy would give you the moon if you asked for it.” 

Annie nods cautiously, and suddenly you’re the only one still lost in this conversation. “You’re right, I don’t think he would’ve agreed to that deal with Mallory if it was just like, physical.” 

“Deal with Mallory,” you say, looking between them in jerked, half-controlled movements. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“When we brought him to make the deal with Edgar,” Annie frowns. “And Mallory told him that-“ 

“You don’t know,” Hughie cuts Annie off, scanning over your frown and overly tight posture. “I don’t, I don’t think he told you.”

“Told me what.” Your voice is rising into panic. “What didn’t Ben tell me?”

“Um, I don’t know if it’s our place-“ 

“We agreed to stop pushing you into dangerous positions, like Tek Knight’s club.” Annie’s voice is blunt, but her face remains hesitant. “If he stayed in line.” 

Something cold is freezing your bones. Everything’s a little blurry. It’s a labor to speak. “Or?” 

“Um,” Hughie takes over for Annie, even as he looks at her reluctantly. “He’d go back to sleep? That part wasn’t our idea-“ 

You raise a hand, and Hughie falls silent as you stare ahead into nothing. Everything is becoming sharp, your blood is rushing hot and wild through you, and you’re regaining control over your thoughts. And all of them are circling around the same thing. 

“I need to go,” you stand, pushing the chair back. “Thank you for lunch, and uh, good luck with your mom.” 

Annie calls your name after you, but you’re gone. There will be time for guilt later, and you’ll apologize for your abrupt departure. Right now it’s about the thought in your head, pushing up your throat so violently that you’re yelling it the moment your door slides open, before your even fully through it. 

“Why would you do that?!” You almost scream into the apartment, before you can even see him. “Benjamin, why the fuck would you do that?!” 

He sits up from the couch, just a handsome, stupid head frowning at you. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

You stalk over to him. “What fuck possessed you to do that? To fucking agree to that?!” 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking abo-“ 

“Mallory!” You’re screaming now, and he’s standing up, glaring at you. You hold your line, you’ll continue to hold it until he explains. “Why the fuck would you agree to that?” 

Ben’s shouting your name, and if you weren’t so blinded by your anger you’d focus on the strain in his voice. “You need to stop speaking in fucking riddles! What the fucking hell has got you losing your damn mind?” 

“They’re going to put you back under!” You’re hugging into yourself, nails digging your skin. “If you step out of line Mallory and Butcher are going to put you back under!” 

“That was always fucking true-“

“No it wasn’t!” You think you might start to cry. You can’t pull rank. “That was never true! If you stepped out of line I would handle it! I would make the call! That was the whole fucking point! Why didn’t you fucking tell me-“ 

“What the fuck could you have done?!” Ben snaps, and you can see his fists clench as he marches around the couch to tower above you. “It wasn’t a fucking secret! And I wasn’t going to step out of their stupid goddamn line-“ 

“But why would you do that?” You scream, refusing to touch him, even to shove him. If you touch him you’ll crumble. “Why would you agree to let them threaten that just to keep me away from stupid fucking shit that doesn’t matter?” 

“It matters more than anything.” He growls. “Stop fucking saying that it doesn’t.” 

“No, it really doesn’t!” You feel so small. You’re caving in, shattering in a way that’s worse than when he didn’t care, when this was about trust and not about losing him. Ben being taken away from you. “I’m fine! You didn’t need to do that!”

“That’s real fucking easy for you to say, Sunshine!” Ben roars. “You don’t have to fucking watch you break. Again and again over the worst fucking plans in the world when those fucking pussies throw you to the goddamn wolves and in front of their shitty fucking trains! I have to! I’m the one that has to watch you be fucking afraid!” 

“But why would you do that,” you’re definitely crying now. But you keep screaming, even as your voice becomes raw. “I’m always fine-“ 

“Because it fucking kills me! You are fucking everything to me, and every time you break its the worst thing I’ve never fucking seen!” You don’t think your heart is beating anymore, not as his voice grows louder. “Because I can never just fucking fix it, and you always break. And I mean it more than you can possibly fucking imagine when I say that I will do whatever it fucking takes to keep you safe! I’d rather go back to Russia right fucking now than just stand aside like a fucking pussy and let you keep breaking!” 

Ben’s face contorts, and you think he’s only just realized what he’s said. What it means. But he doesn’t take it back, doesn’t walk away, and you won’t pull rank. 

“Do you think,” you hiss through tears, fear building and morphing into some sort of love-born fury. “That it wouldn’t fucking destroy me if you went back under? That I wouldn’t do fucking anything to get you back to me?”

“That’s not fucking the same.” 

You almost laugh. “It’s the exact same-“ 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I adore you, Benjamin!” you scream. “Every good, and bad, and ugly part of you, I fucking adore you.” His whole body stills, and you keep going. You say everything but the thing. “And I made a promise as well. I might not be going back to Homelander, but you aren’t going back under. You’re not burning without me right there, by your side. It is the exact fucking same, because you are fucking everything to me!” You take a deep breath, trying to bring yourself down as your words become pleading. “There are so many beautiful things in the world, but I’d destroy them all to keep you awake. To keep you here. So don’t say it’s not the exact fucking same.” 

You can feel him. You’re not touching him—you're still trying to cave into your own body—but as the last words hang in the air you can feel Ben. This is hunger, not thirst. This is something rioting around and clawing out of your chest, not the love that’s resting for him in your head. This is Ben, not you.

This is Ben and you. Together. He’s not leaving. You’re not leaving. You’re everything to him and he’s everything to you. 

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

You almost say it. You’re seconds from saying it. It’s going to fall out of you and the only way to stop it is Ben. And you lunge at him just a fraction of a second before it’s too late. 

He catches you. He always catches you. And when you slam your lips into his, he doesn’t hesitate. 

This is different. This kiss is different. You can’t distinguish Ben from you anymore. Touching him has completely razed whatever remainder of a line existed, and now it’s just us. It’s you and Ben inside your body, even if everything around you is Ben. Kissing you with his tongue and teeth, pulling your lip into his mouth, making deep sounds from his throat that make you grind against his muscled torso. Sounds spurred by your hands pushing him further into you by his jaw—his beard rough against your fingers—and pulling at his shirt until the only space between your bodies is two thin stretches of fabric. One of his arms was secured below your thighs, holding you up with a hand on your ass, squeezing and making you moan into his mouth. The other is holding you under your own arm with a hand on the back of your neck, fingers pulling light at your hair. Touching you with a reverence. Always with a reverence, a furious care that makes you feel safe. Always with an attentive fire and ardor running through your blood. Ben’s blood. Someone’s blood who you can taste on your teeth because you think you might have bitten his tongue slightly, but Ben didn’t pull back or flinch so now there’s a slightly metal flavor that mixes and fades with Ben. Salt and coffee and strawberries and Ben.

You need more.

Whatever he’ll give you. You’ll take it. You’ll take every single part of Ben he’s capable of offering and plant them in you, grow them and tend to them until he pulls them out so that the roots remain. You need him. You love him.

“Ben-“ 

“All the way?” His words roll through your body, down and into your core. 

You only whine into him, and suddenly he’s moving. Walking backwards, mouth never leaving yours. Holding you tight enough that you can’t continue to rub against him, looking for friction. You’re desperate for it, the sounds escaping you growing louder and louder as his steps offer you something, and then giving a needy, long moan when you manage to adjust just enough to bump against his cock. Still in his pants, hard and long. Then Ben spins, slamming you between his body and the wall, hoisting you up by his hold on your ass and thighs so your faces are level. At some point you’d begun to scrape at his back, and he chuckles as you start to grind against him once more.

Ben’s holding your face firmly, angling you for his mouth to devour yours, grinning against your lips. 

“What do you want, beautiful.” 

You run your nail back up between his shoulders, unable to break skin but trying to sink into him. “Please.“ 

“Please what,” even as he teases you, Ben’s never separating from you. You’re not sure how either of you are breathing, whether the lightheaded feeling is from Ben or just lack of oxygen. If it’s the way all your air is trading between your lungs and Ben’s, or the way he’s started to rut up into you. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you. But you have to use your words.” 

“Ben, just-” 

His head drops down to your neck, finding the one soft spot that makes you whimper and focusing all his efforts on it until your grip on his hair is tight, your sounds a string of pleas. Then he moves up, right to your ear. “Beg. Say my name and beg and I’ll give you the fucking world.”

“Ben,” You look down at him, and you don’t think anything could’ve prepared you for what you see. He’s staring at you, and every part of his face is alive. His lips are parted, and his eyes are almost black, and he’s relaxed. Full of lust and hunger but so completely at ease in every feature of his handsome face. “Please.” 

“Please what.” 

“Fuck me.” 

A low growl escapes him, and his cock twitches against your thigh, but he still doesn’t move. “Whole thing.” 

“Benjamin,” You grind back against him. “Fuck me now.” 

That snaps something in him. Ben’s mouth crashes back into yours, and he doesn’t even have to push before you’re opening for him. Nipping at his upper lip, letting him take whatever he asks for. Anything that keeps him doing this, dropping a hand down and back up through your shirt. Ben’s hand is dropping down and back up through your shirt. Squeezing your breast once, then—when you make a high sound—leaning away from your mouth and doing it again. Then once more, running his thumb over your nipple slowly, so focused you’d think he’s doing surgery. 

He looks back up at you, watching him, breathing heavily with a little bit of droll falling from your mouth. “You like that?”

You nod, head pushing back against the wall when he does it again. “Ben, you ass-“ 

“That’s not very fucking nice, Sunshine.” He leans forward, pushing you further into the wall and bringing his lips just over yours, moving back every time you try to bring him closer. “Manners.” 

“Fuck you,” the moan from your mouth is captured by his, sucking it down with another whine into him. “Ben-“ 

“You never begged,” he says your name against your mouth, moving against your breast once more. “Fucking beg.”

“Cunt-“ 

“I’ll get there.” He chuckles as you buck into his chest. “But you have to tell me that you want this.” 

Somewhere in the daze of Ben’s hands and his mouth and the power of him, your love for him somehow grows again. Becomes something purer and more sweet than it had been. 

Ben, I love you. “I want this,” you breathe. “I want you.” 

He grunts, and he twists your nipple between his thumb and forefinger once before starting to run his hand slowly and lightly down your stomach.

“Ben, please-“ 

Your words become a strangled whine when Ben bites your lower lip gently at the same time his hand drops into your shorts. Palm pressing against the ache through your underwear. 

“Ben-“ He starts to rub in circles, fingers dancing lightly against your slit through the fabric. “Fuck-“ 

“You have too much clothes,” he mutters, and you moan. 

“Too many-“ He pulls his mouth away, and you bury your head into his shoulder. “Ben-“ 

“Fucking smartass,” you can hear the smile on his voice, feel the amusement running up his spine and colliding with whatever is bouncing around his ribs. “You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes, you asshole-“ 

Ben kisses you again, and your protests turn into a long noise of want. He chews at your lip for a second before moving away once more. “I’m taking off your shorts. I can do it fast or careful. You don’t get both.” 

“Please-“ 

He presses his hips back with a groan, forcing you to stop grinding. “Words.” 

“Fast-“ 

The choice had barely left your mouth when Ben was ripping them off your body. Tossing them on the floor without a thought before looking back up at you. Raising his brows in a silent question as his hand rested between your thighs, over your underwear. 

“Yes,” your nods are frantic, bordering on pathetic. But he’s so close. “Ben, please.” 

He runs his hand over you once, still not just doing it. “So fucking wet, just through the damn fabric.” he smirks at you. “All for me, brat?” 

You whimper, trying to drop all of your weight into Ben’s hand as you clench around nothing. He knew what that word would do, there’s no way he didn’t. Not with his smug expression and the way he won’t let you bring his lips back to yours. “Cunt-“

“Answer my damn question,” he growls your name. “Or I’m not fucking you.”

It’s a bluff. You know it’s a bluff because you can feel how vast and insatiable his hunger is. You know it’s a bluff because, as good as a liar Ben is, he’s rock hard against you and keeps bucking up when you kiss his neck. You don’t call it though. You just meet his eyes and hiss, “It’s for you, Ben. Now are you going to fucking do something about it?”

You see Ben’s grin for only a second before his mouth is pushing your head against the wall with the force of his kiss. You feel him tear off your underwear in one, fluid movement, and the cold of the air has barely hit you before his hand is back. And everything is just Ben. 

He’s teasing you. The base of his palm is bumping against your clit, but never for more than a second. His fingers are running between you, over you but never in. You’re going to kill him. You’re going to wipe that smug and cocky grin you can feel against you off his perfect, handsome stupid face- 

“You think I can make you cum just like this?” Ben hums against your lips, pulling his head back just a fraction. “Without even properly fucking touching you?”

“Fuck you, Benjamin.“ 

“I know you want that,” he drawls your name, rolling his palm one firm time, and your hands start to scratch across his neck and shoulders. “But you need to tell me if you think I can make you cum on just my fucking fingers.” 

“Cunt.” 

“That’s what I’m asking. Do you think I can make your pretty cunt cum here, without even fucking you like you deserve?” 

“Like I-“ Ben pushes one finger in ever so slightly, and stills it completely. You take a long breath. “Fucking dick. Like I deserve?” 

His lips bruise against yours, and his palm fully presses against your clit. Rubbing once, twice, fingers still not moving. “Like the beautiful fucking brat you are. Until all your fancy words are just my name and you’re so fucked out you couldn’t even think to be worried about dumb fucking shit. Until you’re fucking stupid.” 

His finger sinks all the way in, and you press your forehead against his, arms fully wrapping around his neck. “Do that.” 

“Fucking words, Sunshine.” He growls, pulling out slowly, and you shake your head desperately against his. 

“Ben, please-“ 

His finger pushes back in, fast, and you don’t know if you moan or scream or whine because Ben is eating any sounds that leave your mouth. Moving his finger faster and faster until you’re trying to chase it when he pulls away, his deep groan rumbling through you when your thighs brush against his cock, still in his pants because life is unfair. 

“That’s more fucking like it,” he grunts, moving his head down in sloppy kisses to your neck. “Want some fucking more, beautiful?” 

“Fuck, yes-“ 

He latches onto your neck—sucking in a way that would leave a mark if either of you were capable of being marked—and just as the second finger pushes in his palm finds a pattern. A steady rhythm that turns whatever remaining sanity you had into just Ben. Ben, I love you. You impossible asshole, you’re everything in the fucking world. Ben. 

He’s not letting you over the edge. Every time you get close he slows just enough and rises back to your mouth. You might have been here for a lifetime, or just a millisecond, but it’s all just Ben. Hissing your name against your skin and making everything just good. This is so good. Why did you deny yourself this? Why did you ever deny yourself Ben when he’s making everything so good like this. So warm and easy and so fucking good. 

“You're so fucking tight,” he hisses in your ear, and you try and tug him closer by your legs. Try and make his dick just brush against you. “Think you can do three?” 

You cannot do three. You think three might kill you in the best possible way. Ben’s huge, his hands are rough and broad like every other insufferable, amazing part of him, so three would make you explode. But he’s watching you with so much hunger, so much adoration as you pant and whimper his name, and he’s still not just fucking you, so three will have to be a suitable substitute until he stops toying with you. You nod, and he chuckles against your skin.

“What did we say about words-“ 

“Just fucking do it, Benjamin, now-“ 

You are going to die. This love for him is going to kill you, and the murder weapon will be the way he’s finding every single thing that makes you scream his name like he’s been studying for it. How his fingers get so deep in you and find that spongy, electric part every single time he plunges back in. Crooking against it for just long enough to make you moan before yanking his hands back down and pressing his palm against your clit until you're keening, before repeating in all again. You’re going to turn into just flames that sing the same song of Ben over and over.

“Want to fucking cum?” He mutters against your lips, and you whine again, high and needy and barely a breath. 

“Ben, yes-“ 

“Beg.”

“Asshole-“ you choke on your own words, because he’s going faster, it’s all going faster, and you can’t think of anything outside of Ben. Ben, I love you. 

“Fucking beg.” His words echo through your body, and you’re vaguely aware of smoke rising around you. But he’s not stopping, if anything there’s a vigor to him now. A brutal, rough pace that’s just one move away from making you find release. A move he won’t make until you ask for it. 

Dignity is overrated. Dignity is for people who don’t have Ben making them feel like the whole world is just him, touching them like he’s touching you and groaning their name like he’s growling yours. 

“Please, Ben, please.” You make yourself look at him fully, hungry and cocky and watching you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen and he’s so handsome and stupid and Ben and you love him- “Fucking please-“

Any sounds or screams or moans of Ben are captured in his mouth when he presses you so far back against the wall with a kiss you think you hear it crack. When he twists his fingers in you and his palm draws one long, heavy circle over your clit and everything is reborn inside you. It’s just Ben, Ben, fire and life and love and Ben. Your orgasm hits you like a train, your vision going white and your hands trying to pull Ben further against your body. He’s still in you, fingers resting inside you as you clench around him, palm rubbing slowly against you until you fall back to earth, back to him. 

You blink at him, mouth hanging open and all of your mind and body completely made of love and need for him. Everything is full of Ben. There’s a thick cloud of smoke through the room, but he’s so close it doesn’t matter. You can see him, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. His whole face is made of—if you know anything about him, and you do—devotion. Ben pulls his fingers out of you slowly—never breaking his gaze from yours—leaving you empty and sensitive and trying not to just start grinding against where you can still feel him, somehow harder in his pants. Then his fingers rise into his mouth, and he sucks on the wetness still falling off of them, and any attempt at control is gone. His gaze is lidded as he tastes you, and you start trying to pull him down to you with scrambling movements against his neck. 

He doesn’t budge, only grinning at you as you whine again. “Fucking needy, beautiful.” He brings two fingers—the same ones that had just been in his mouth—to brush against your mouth. Pressing them lightly until your lips part. “Taste.” 

You let him push his thumb into you, and you become a woman on a mission. Sucking and licking at his fingers until you can feel him twitching against your thighs, going with a fervor until he’s groaning and pulling them away with a pop. When you lean forward to kiss him gently he lets you, taking every moan you give him with a squeeze of your skin under his hand and a trace of your cheekbones with his fingers. 

When he rests his head against your shoulder, you’re both breathing heavily and Ben’s words are hissed against your skin. 

“I’m going to fuck you for a whole year,” he grunts your name, rutting up against you. “And I’m going to make you fucking scream and beg for two.” 

You’ve never been more on board with a plan in your life. You’re going to tell him. You shouldn’t, not when it might make this go away, not when you just got this, but you want to. You want him to know that when he fucks you for a year the only thing you’ll be thinking is Ben. Ben, I love you. You want to be able to moan it into his mouth and against his skin and around his cock and scream it when he makes you cum, in a way that he can hear and know about.

Your mouth falls open, your hand moving to his face to pull him up to look at you, and the door to the apartment bangs open.

Ben’s faster than you, but in your defense most of your thoughts and instincts are being covered by the daze of your orgasm. He doesn’t drop you or turn you, but slides you down his chest and twists you around so your arms are wrapped on his torso, your feet back on the ground. When he whips around you realize he’s blocking your half-naked body from view, keeping you secure against him with a hand on your forearm. Stupid, handsome, perfect, safe fucking man. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ben barks, and you lean around him to see Butcher in the doorway, smirking at the scene before him. 

“Well, Gov,” Butcher drawls. “I was coming to congratulate you on your awful fuckin plan working, let you know Edgar delivered, but now,” he winks at you. “I’m just chock full of other questions.” 

“How did you get in?” You ask with a frown. “Only I have a keycard.”

“Mallory unlocked all you cunts doors for me,” Butcher shrugs. “We got a meetin, I’ve been sent to collect you since you weren’t answering your fuckin phone.” 

You flush, because your phone is indeed long forgotten somewhere near the couch. “Can we have five, please?” 

“What, only five?” Butcher’s mocking smile turns to Ben. “You that fast, gov? Because I can give you ten if you wanna take care of your,” his eyes flick down. “Problem.” 

You can feel Ben’s anger, and tighten your grip around him until he looks at you. Don’t kill him, please. 

Why the fuck shouldn’t I. 

You give him a small smile. Murder is a crime. Also, it’ll ruin the mood. 

Whatever, Ben rolls his eyes, but you can see the tug of his lips, feel the amusement dart through him. 

“You two done?” Butcher snaps, and you both look back to him with frowns. “Care to have an out-loud conversation, share with the fuckin class?” 

“No.” You give him a sickly sweet smile. “Are we meeting in the cafeteria?” 

Butcher nods with a grunt, and you sigh. 

“Can you please leave so I can get dressed?” 

“I’m waitin outside, and if you two horny twats aren’t outside by then I’m coming back in.” 

“Fine. Go.” 

Butcher slams the door behind him, and you squeeze out from behind Ben to start to run upstairs and put on clothing that isn’t completely destroyed. You pause though, doubling back to Ben and pulling his face down for one last, long kiss. 

“We’ll fuck later,” you whisper against his lips, and he grunts. “Thank you.” 

You yelp as Ben picks you up, carrying you up the stairs in long, quick steps. “Stop fucking thanking me.” 

You smile at him, all teeth and joy because you fucking love him. “Make me.” 

“Brat,” he snorts, kissing you again as he lowers you onto the bed. “Keep it up and I won’t let you cum again.” 

“You don’t let me do anything.” 

“You’re real fucking sure of that,” he taunts, marching over to the dresser to toss you a new pair of underwear and sweats. “But you sure were goddamn begging me less than ten minutes ago.”

“Cunt,” you mumble, catching the clothes. You don’t have a good comeback, because your brain is still a little addled, and you can see that Ben’s still hard, and nothing about his deep voice and word is making you less horny. 

“You love it.” He stops above you again, watching with heavy eyes as you pull the clothing on.

I do. I love you, dumbass. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Ben laughs, pulling you up the moment you’re dressed. “Later. Later we can shut each other up as hard as fucking possible.” 

“Deal,” you whisper, because he’s holding you so lightly and close to his body and it’s not helping. “Ben?” 

He raises his brows at you, a small frown on his face. You think he can hear the nerves in your voice. “What.” 

“Edgar-“

“We’ll make it work.” He says firmly. “Whatever it is, whatever stupid shit Mallory and Butcher are planning, we’ll make it fucking work for us.” 

“You promised-“ 

“And that won’t fucking matter, because we’ll make it work.” 

“Ben,” you squeeze his hand, tangling his fingers between yours. You feel him everywhere now, all the time—the clenching in his chest and around this throat and the sour taste of it—and that might be something to worry about later. But for now you just want to touch him. “Please. Just say you promise.” 

He sighs, jaw ticking, but nods. “I swore it. I meant it. But that doesn’t fucking mean-“ 

You kiss him, and every part of his body falls into yours as the grip against your hands loosens. When you pull away, smiling at him, he’s looking at you with that same devotion. “Thank you.” 

Ben grunts, slinging his arm around you as you walk back downstairs. Kissing the top of your head once, and this is right. This is you and Ben and it’s right. It’s everything, and he’s yours. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anything and now, for whatever amount of time he’ll give you, you’re his.

—————

Ben had learned there was a hierarchy in the promises he made Her. There weren’t many—neither of them threw around those words with ease or carelessness—but his promises of staying here and no more lies were secondary to keeping her away from Homelander. There was nothing as fucking important in the world, and that meant that Ben would let Her do what she needed to do—like he’d promised—but not if it meant she went back to Homelander. He’d have done anything to keep Her safe before, he’d have gone back under if it meant she’d be free, and now Ben was fucking certain he’d goddamn die before he lost Her like that. If he had any fucking say in anything at all, nothing was ever going to break Her again. If she tried to throw herself in front of him to take whatever bullets Homelander or Mallory were aiming at them, Ben would be faster. He’d move to let them hit him first. 

He’d let Butcher hit him with a goddamn bomb to keep Her safe. Because She was fucking perfect, and Ben wasn’t going to allow anything to hurt her again. She was leaning into him as they walked to the dining hall, and Ben might have to take a detour to the bathroom to get himself under fucking control if She kept tugging and tapping at his hand around her shoulder. Her hair was still messy, and her lips were still a little red, and Ben could still fucking taste her, lingering in his mouth. And that was his shirt. She was wearing his fucking shirt, and holding his hand that had just been inside her, and chewing the inside of her mouth that had just been screaming his name. The Thing didn’t need to tell Ben She was perfect. He had fucking eyes, and a fucking brain. And a very hard dick that was becoming slightly painful, straining against his pants for Her. For Her beautiful face and the perfect sounds she’d made when she came. On his hand.

Ben didn’t have to hold himself back anymore. He didn’t have to keep waiting until She was keening against him and moaning his name before ripping himself away from her. Before he came in his jeans from just the feel and taste of Her mouth like a fucking teenager. He could fuck Her, she’d let him fuck her, and he was going to. Ben was going to fuck Her so hard and good that she might stay with him and keep looking at him forever. He was going to make Her cum until she said Ben, I adore you again. Until She told him she wanted him again.

That had made the Thing roar inside of him. Her perfect, breathless, needy voice telling him she wanted him. Nothing could take that away from him now. She fucking wanted him. People had wanted him before. Countless forgotten pretty faces had wanted Ben. But none of them had been perfect. And none of them had said it like She had. They had wanted the power of him, they had wanted Ben to fuck them and give them more than he cared to. All those pretty faces had wanted to be the one’s on billboards and red carpets with him, to fuck Soldier Boy and be a good enough fuck that he decided to keep them. When She said he wanted him, it wasn’t just to fuck her. There had been something that made the Thing climb into Ben’s brain and consume him in Her voice. 

She wanted him. She wanted every part of him. She had every part of him, She’d had it for what felt like a lifetime, and he’d never have taken it away from her. When She one day left Ben, she’d take every part of him that was worth a fucking thing with Her. And no one else would ever get to have him, not like She did. Not like he was going to give Her. Ben was going to fucking worship every perfect part of Her, until he could maybe ask her to stay with him and there was a single goddamn chance She might say yes. 

Every member of the Pussy Brigade looked up when they entered the Dining Hall. Butcher had marched in brisk, pissy fucking steps ahead of Her and Ben, and apparently hadn’t been just bitching when he’d grumbled that everyone was just waiting on them. 

“Is everything okay?” Starlight was watching Her, under Ben’s arm, nervously. “You weren’t answering your phone-“ 

“The cunts were fucking,” Butcher snapped, stopping next to Mallory at the head of the table. “In the middle of the goddamn room.” 

Ben bit his tongue, because She has to handle this. He needed to hear what She told her pussy fucking team, so he could figure out what she wanted from him. 

“It’s our apartment, you ass,” She glared at Butcher. “It’s not like we were in the hallway.” 

“So you admit you were fucking, Love?” 

“Not yet.” She shrugged. “Some dickwad fucking cunt interrupted us.” 

“But,” Cocksucker looked between them nervously, not fully meeting Ben’s eyes. “You were going to fuck?” 

She sighed. “This really doesn’t feel like an important conversation to have right now.” 

“It’s not,” MM grunted. “I’m already gonna to need to wash out my fucking ears. Any more and I’m going to have to cut them off.” 

Ben disagreed. He thought they all needed to fucking know, that this was the only conversation worth having right now. Ever. She wanted him, and every single pussy fucker in the world should know that. But She shot him a small look, important meeting, don’t be a fucking idiot, Pretty Boy. And Ben let Her pull him onto the bench. 

Later, he’d fuck Her until she screamed so loud everyone could hear it, hear his name and Her moans falling out of her perfect mouth. 

“Can we get started?” Mallory stood—arms crossed with a thin scowl—at the head of the table. “Or do you need another ten minutes to discuss your sex lives?” 

“Jesus, no.” MM snapped. “Just fuckin talk, Grace.” 

“Stan Edgar sent files over to me last night, and we’ve just finished clearing them for use,” Mallory launched into her explanation with the most monotone, boring voice Ben had ever fucking heard. “Butcher and I have been working on a plan-“ 

“What are the files?” Starlight asked, raising her hand like a damn child. “Will they work?” 

“They’ll work a fuckin charm,” Butcher winked. “They’re everything we could’ve bloody asked for, times two. Keep goin, Grace.” 

Ben felt Her relax slightly against him, along with Butcher’s eyes on them both. Cold, tense, but not mocking. For once in his goddamn life, the pussy seemed to have some sort of mind to not be an instigating piece of shit, and he was better for it. Ben would’ve thrown a stray plastic fork into Butcher’s eyes and ripped off his dick if the asshole had said even a single fucking detail of Edgar’s files. A single detail about Her. 

“Thanks to Marvin,” Grace gave MM a small nod. “A-Train has agreed to clear a path for us into Vought tower. We’ll ensure Homelander is away, dealing with something else, and retrieve Ryan Butcher.”

Ben could hear the tapping begin, and covered Her hand with his. 

She looked up at him with a frown, What’s wrong? 

This is going to fucking work. Ben held Her gaze. You’re going to be fine. 

She smiled at him, and every time she did it like that—gentle and comfortable—the Thing doubled in size. I know. 

“How are you going to get Homelander away?” Cocksucker asked with an anxious frown. “I mean, this might not be quick and if he arrives back at the tower-“ 

“Frenchie,” Butcher nodded at the French Prick. “Will be causing a diversion.” 

“By diversion,” Starlight said slowly. “You mean-“ 

“A massive, glorious fucking explosion.” The French Prick grinned. “It will be impossible for the Homelander to ignore.” 

“No.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Her lean forward across the table, shaking her head. Why the hell was she talking. Why could Ben hear her damn thinking. What the fuck was she planning- 

“No?” Mallory asked, looking at her with slight curiosity. Saying Her last name in clipped words. “Please elaborate.” 

“He’s on alert, right?” She looked around the table. “After Neuman, he won’t just fall for something like that. Especially not with Sage whispering actual coherent thoughts in his ear.” 

“Maybe,” Mallory nodded, still looking at Her. Ben needed Mallory to stop looking at her like that. Like she was a fucking toy. “But it’s our best bet, and we’ve already lost too much time to waiting for Edgar.” 

“I have an idea-“ 

“No,” Ben cut Her off with a grunt. He knew what type of ideas She always had. Mallory and Butcher always knew what type of ideas she had. Genius, stupid fucking ideas that always worked—so everyone went along with them—and always put her in the line of fire. 

“No?” She glared at him. “What do you mean no?” 

“You lost your idea privileges a while ago, Sunshine.” Ben snapped. “So no.” 

“Oh, fuck you Benjamin.” She kicked him under the table and looked back at Mallory. “Ignore him. I have an idea.” 

Ben gave Mallory his most menacing, violent scowl that the woman knew signaled he wanted to kill someone. But she ignored him, giving Her a nod. “Go on.” 

“He’s looking for me. Let’s show him what he wants.” She took a deep breath, and every fiber of Ben, from the Thing to his brain, was telling him to shut Her up now. Before she said what he knew she was going to. “Let’s show him me.” 

The room was silent, and blood was roaring in Ben’s ears. He glared around at the Pussy Brigade daring any one of them to speak. 

MM was the idiot who volunteered for Ben to kill him first. 

“The hell you mean show him you,” MM said Her name slowly, and the fact that he didn’t seem to be agreeing to it was the only thing that kept Ben rigid in his seat. 

“Bait,” She answered, quiet and soft and Ben was going to kill someone- “Offer him me. Draw him out to a fight to get me. He’ll go, and he’ll leave Ryan behind. He didn’t want Ryan to meet me until I was-“ She made a small choking sound, and that was it. 

“No.” Ben said firmly, daring anyone to fucking disagree with him. “There’s not a chance in fucking hell you’re doing that.” 

“You’d go with me,” She looked at him with wide, sharp, desperate eyes. “Please, Ben. It would work.” 

“Doesn’t fucking matter if it would work. They,” Ben jabbed a finger at Butcher and Mallory. “Swore you weren’t doing stupid fucking dangerous shit anymore.” 

“We did promise him that,” Starlight says Her name gently. “Promised you. That’s, doing that’s too far. Too risky.” 

“It would work,” She was pleading, and if Ben didn’t know better he’d think she fucking wanted to die. “You wouldn’t be giving me to him. We’d escape. We’d go in public, Homelander would see it, we’d keep him there until Ryan was out, and then we would escape.” 

“How?” MM frowned at Her. “The motherfuckers got X-ray vision and super speed. He won’t just lose you in a crowd.” 

“He won’t lose us. We’ll,” She paused, fingers tapping under Ben's hands. “We’ll call him. We won’t go in public, for a fight, that was dumb. We’ll call him, tell him I want to meet him, play right into his fantasy. Annie and Hughie will come with us, because he can’t kill either of them without ruining the narrative. We’ll keep him there until Ryan’s out, then Frenchie will do the explosion. We’ll play it off as a mistake, bad timing, and he’ll go to investigate. By the time he realizes what’s happened, we’ll be gone."

“That’s still a dumb fucking plan,” Ben growled Her name. “What if he doesn’t go. What if he tries to fucking take you.” 

She looked at him, Her beautiful face so sad and determined. “He won’t.” I won’t let him. You won’t let him. 

“It’s a good idea,” Mallory mused. “Where would you meet him?” 

“Old Starlight Fund,” She turned back to the group. “Ben will call him. He’ll take a call from Ben. And then I’ll take the phone and tell him I convinced you to let me see him.” She looked fucking sick—her heartbeat panicked in her chest—and it made the Thing twist inside of Ben. Made Ben sick. “But that you won’t let me meet with him without you there.” 

“The Starlight Fund was where they wanted that first meeting,” MM said to Mallory. “And it’s right fuckin across from the tower. He won’t think we’re trying anything in his backyard.” 

“We’ll vote-“ 

“No!” Ben almost roared. “You fucking pussies goddamn swore-“ 

“Ben,” Her voice was gentle, too fucking gentle. To perfect and kind for this goddamn fucking bullshit, for how fast her heart was inside her. Trust me. Her face pleaded. Just please trust me. 

This is fucking insane, Ben glared at Her. Even for you, this is a fucking stupid, insane plan. 

You promised. She flipped her hand under his, folding her finger between his. You promised me you’d let me do what I needed to. 

You don’t fucking need to do this. 

Yes, She gave him a small smile. I do, Ben. You know that. Please. 

Ben cursed himself in every vulgar, lewd and angry way he knew. “Fine.” He grunted aloud. “But if anything,” he hissed around the table. “Goes fucking south-“ 

“It won’t, Gov.” Butcher winked at him, but there wasn’t anything crude or sneering in his voice. “We’ll get you both home in time for a nice fuckin dinner and dessert.” 

Mallory sighed. “Ready to vote?” After several nods from around the table, she continued. “All in favor?” 

Her hand shot up just as fast as Butcher’s, Kimiko’s close behind them and the French Prick’s right after. For one long second, Ben watched MM frown at Her. Studying Her, before looking at Ben and narrowing his eyes. He looked back at her—hand high in the air and feature determined—and MM’s hand went up. Five fucking idiots in favor. 

“All against?” 

Ben raised his hand, and She glared at him. Benjamin-

I won’t fucking stop you, Ben glared right back. But I’m not in any form of goddamn favor for this shit. 

She sighed, and Ben glanced around the table to see Cocksucker and Starlight both raising their hands with him. Three people who seemed to give a single shit about Her. 

Too fucking little to stop this. 

“Alright,” Mallory nodded. “We’ll move tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Hughie blinked. “Don’t you, uh, need to plan-“ 

“We wasted too much fuckin time, Lad.” Butcher shrugged. “A-Train’s ready, we move tomorrow.” 

“Are we fucking done here?” Ben grunted, and barely saw Mallory’s nod before he was standing, hauling Her up with him, and marching out of the door. He heard her call some goodbyes—running after him with Her heartbeat unsteady—and pulling Ben’s arm until he slowed down. 

“Are you mad at me?” She whispered, and he shook his head. He wasn’t, he was furious with himself. For being a weak fucking pussy who was allowing this to happen. 

Nothing’s going to hurt Her, he reminded himself, reminded the Thing to try stopping it from tearing his tissues and guts apart. No fucking thing is allowed to hurt Her. I’ll be there. If it comes to it, I’ll do whatever it fucking takes to keep Homelander away from Her. Even if she hates me for it. 

“Then can you look at me?” She pleaded, and Ben couldn’t help himself. He glared down at Her, and felt a twist in his stomach at the desperation in Her eyes. “I’m sorry-“ 

“Don’t,” he snapped. The only thing worse than Her being sad and weak and broken was Her apologizing. Thinking she was a problem for him, and not the most perfect thing in the fucking world. “I’m not fucking mad, Sunshine. I’m just-“ He ground his teeth, pushing the words out between them. “I fucking hate this.” 

“I know you do,” She took a small step forward. “But it’ll be fine. I promise.” 

It would be fine. Because Ben wasn’t going to allow it not to be. So he just picked Her up into his arms—if She kept moving so hesitantly and tentatively around him he’d fucking explode—and carried her down the hall. She didn’t push against him or protest, only wrapped Her arms around his neck as Her heartbeat slowed. 

“Ben?” She asked, voice muffled by where she’d pressed into his shoulder, her warm breath fanning against his skin. 

“What.” He glanced down at Her—perfect face turning up to him—and the Thing clenched inside him at her nervous expression. “Are you-“ 

“I’m okay,” She shook her head slightly and Ben grunted, unable to hide his stupid relief. “I, um,” She swallowed. “Do you-“ 

“Spit it out,” he muttered, hunching slightly so She could scan the badge. She’d needed that—needed not lose Herself in a spiral of her too quick head—because she nodded, fingers scratching light against the nape Ben’s neck. She took a deep breath, and Ben turned to push the door with his back. 

“Do you still want me?” 

She was the smartest fucking person Ben had ever met. She was a goddamn genius, it was insufferable and impossibly fucking hot how smart she was. How clever she was, how well she understood other people. Which is why Ben snorted aloud, because for the brilliant woman she was that was such a stupid fucking question. 

“Ben-“ 

“Of course I still fucking want you,” Ben scoffed, walking up the stairs. “You have no fucking idea how much I want you. I’ve wanted you through a lot of your stupid plans, another one isn’t going to make me stop fucking wanting you.” 

Nothing could make me stop wanting you, Ben’s head hummed in time with the Thing. If I ever stop wanting you, it’s because I’m fucking dead. 

“Oh,” She mumbled, and Ben wished She would just look at him so he could figure out what she was thinking. “Good. Is that why-“ 

“I’m not fucking you,” Ben drawled Her name as he pushed open the door to their bedroom. “Not tonight.”

“Okay,” Ben glanced down to find the saddest look he’d ever witnessed on Her face. If the Thing wasn’t fucking whining at the sight of it, he might have been smug about her looking so morose at the idea of not fucking him. “That’s fine.” 

“I’m not fucking you,” Ben grabbed her chin, gently with a firm hand. To make Her look at him. “Because I want to take time when I fuck you. I want to make you scream and make it hurt when you sit down. And you need to be able to walk with full damn mobility tomorrow. So later. When I can keep you in bed for a decade without anyone fucking interrupting.” 

Her heart sped up, and Ben smirked at her. “You started with a week,” She told him, even as she leaned into his hand. “Then it became a year. Now a decade?”

Ben winked. “If you want a century, just fucking ask, beautiful.” 

“Cunt.” 

“Brat.” 

She looked over him, eyes resting where Ben knew she could feel his dick straining against his pants. “What about hand stuff?” 

Ben snorted. “I’ll allow it."

“Oh, well if his majesty allows it-“ 

Her words turned in a yelp as Ben tossed Her onto the bed, grinning down at Her. How fucking perfect she was, looking up at him with wide, pretty eyes that were so soft. For him. Right now, every part of Her was for Ben. 

He started to lean down, planning to move across the bed until he over Her. Test what different sounds She would make in a bed instead of against a wall. But She sat up before he could, crawling across the blankets with her perfect fucking ass in the air. Drawing up on Her knees when she reached Ben at the foot of the bed, smiling at him with all such an ease and adoration. She adored him. 

Ben grabbed Her face between his hands, her back straightening as she grabbed at his shirt. Yanking him closer. Ben attacked her mouth, revering in the way it fit so well against his, the way she tasted like honey and chocolate and Her. That taste of Her he’d gotten early, that wasn’t sweet but strong. The best thing he’d ever had on his tongue, a little weaker in her mouth but still there. The proper fucking taste of pussy. Of Her. Ben didn’t think he could live without it now that he’d had it. 

But there would be time to deal with that later. Right now everything was Her. The way she moaned into his mouth, and one of her hands tracing down Ben’s chest to palm him through his pants. 

He pulled back with a grunt of Her name. “You don’t-“ 

“I want to,” She chased his mouth, but paused. Look up at him with some sort of apprehension that made the Thing itch. “But if you don’t-“ 

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Ben snapped. And he was going to add something about this not being about him right now. Something saying how this was about Her, about making her understand how perfect she was and making her scream his name again. But She nodded with a hum, and squeezed Ben through his pants and suddenly that really didn’t fucking seem worth saying anymore. He’d say it later. If She wanted this—wanted him like this—he couldn’t deny her. Ben wouldn’t be able to deny Her his whole fucking brain or heart or lungs if she asked for them. And what type of fucking pussy would he be to deny the most perfect woman in the world his cock. 

“Off, please.” She nodded to his pants, and Ben almost chuckled because she could’ve called him every vulgar name under the sun and he still would’ve taken his pants off. A please was in no way damn necessary.

“Fine,” he pulled down his pants, watching Her carefully as his boxers followed. “But after this, beautiful, it’s my fucking turn.” 

She swallowed, staring at Ben’s dick—now fully exposed—and Ben had never felt so smug in his fucking life. A lot of women had been impressed by him, but none had looked at him like that. Like they needed to touch him. Ben had never needed to touch them. Not like he was pretty sure he’d have died somewhere in the next few seconds if She hadn’t looked back up at him—with parted lips and a flushed face that Ben needed to burn into his eyes so he’d never stop seeing them—and kissed him so eagerly that he groaned. 

Then She started touching him, and Ben realized he had been right. As he tangled his hands in her hair and started buck into her hand—trying to keep his mouth on hers so she would catch every sound she was causing him to make like he’d eaten hers—Ben knew this would kill him. She would kill him, because nobody should be allowed to so fucking perfect in every possible way. Nobody should be capable making him feel like this with just their hand, just by stroking him and somehow finding such a painfully good fucking pace. Nobody should be allowed to read him well enough that they adjusted for every rut of Ben into their hand, to make him feel like he was high. But She could, because she was perfect, and was trying to kill him. She had to be, or she wouldn’t be pulling back to look at Ben like she was, with something so deep and impossibly caring in her eyes as she pulled him apart. He was supposed to look at Her like that. She was the one supposed to be wrecked. Ben didn’t get wrecked. 

But it’s not like She liked listening to him. Or allowing him to just follow the rules he’d set for himself decades ago. Every single thing Ben had known and understood she’d destroyed, then rebuilt, just by smiling at him and never wavering. Like she was now.

So Ben buried his face in Her neck—finding the spot that he knew would make Her feel half of what he felt—and started to fuck her hand. Faster, faster until she moaned, and he grinned against her. 

“When you’re done,” Ben started to kiss up Her neck until he was growling in her ears. “I’m going to make you scream. Got it?” 

She nodded, and the small sound she made just made Ben go faster. 

“You’re so fucking good,” he kept talking, because Ben hadn’t missed that every time Ben spoke She’d fall a little further into him, her free hand tugging at his hair. “Your hand’s fucking made for this, beautiful.” 

“Ben-“ 

He grinned. There it was. If anyone tried to say his name again—in a way that wasn’t breathless and passionate and falling from their mouth—he’d rip their tongue out. “So fucking perfect.” He pulled Her closer, one hand cupping the back of Her head and the other kneading at the soft skin of her stomach, arm fully around her waist. She squeezed him just fucking right, and Ben hissed against her skin. “Fucking perfect. Too fucking good at this, too fucking beautiful, too fucking-“ 

She turned Her head, moving Ben to her lips, just as she moaned down his throat and made one, long movement—nails running lightly against his balls with another squeeze—that did it. Ben groaned Her name into her wide, perfect mouth, swearing as he jerked forward. She didn’t stop, didn’t pull back, just stayed exactly where Ben needed her until the bare parts of her legs were covered in cum. Ben’s cum. On Her. 

Ben kissed Her roughly, waiting right up until she whined to pull his mouth away slowly. Panting slightly, he kissed the top of Her head and waited for her to look up at him. 

“My turn.” 

He didn’t wait for Her to speak before leaning over her, moving her down until she was flat on the bed below him. Letting her grind against his chest and wrap her legs around him, moan his name and claw at his hair and back, for just long enough to build Her up and up. Ben moved his hands down from her face to her thighs, squeezing once. 

“Please,” she whimpered into his mouth, and the only sound better than that was what followed it. “Ben.” 

He gave Her one last, wet kiss, and dropped down to the edge of bed, kneeling on the floor and using his hold on her thighs to pull Her forward. As Ben hooked her legs over his shoulders—tossing her underwear and shorts away into some corner of the room—he saw Her sitting up on her elbows, frowning down at him. 

“We said hand stuff, Benjamin.“ 

He raised his brows at Her. “Do you want me to stop?” 

”No, but you’re cheating-“ 

Ben didn’t give her an opportunity to keep talking. He’d have a long time—if he was lucky—to listen to Her talk about whatever she fucking wanted. Right now he needed to make her scream. 

It was almost immediate. Ben dove forward, sucking on Her clit one long time, and she whined, high and loud. 

“Fuck, Ben-“ 

That was good. He liked that. Ben liked everything about Her, but that—the sound of Her feeling good with his name—was one of the fucking best things he’d ever known. 

She needed to do it again. He needed to find every way she could do it. This was his fucking job now. Everything else could fucking wait until she came all over Ben’s face, until she felt so good she’d never be in danger of breaking again. 

So Ben set to work. Sucking and licking and goddamn eating Her alive. Tracing rough patterns with his hands against her thighs and ass, bracing an arm over her hips to keep her still. To allow Ben to fuck her with his tongue until the taste of Her, that real, powerful taste was drowning him as she screamed his name. He’d die for this. She wouldn’t have to kill him because he’d give everything to keep Her like this forever. To keep her blissfully whining and moaning, to make her never have to feel fear again because she was too busy being tended to under him. For there to be even the slimmest fucking chance that She’d want him to do this forever. Want him forever. 

For now, though, Ben would settle for this. He’d settle for him being the one who made Her squirm in this moment. Ben got to see this, Ben got to cause this. Right now She adored him, right now she wanted Ben. Nothing else. Just Ben. 

So he’d give Her everything he had. 

He focused fully on Her clit, puffed and red, and dedicated himself to it. Pulled it into his mouth until her screams turned to breathless begs and sounds that might be Ben’s name—tangled with other noises he didn’t understand—and then let his teeth brush it, groaning against Her at the same time. She managed to scream one last time—hoarse and deafening and the most amazing sound in the fucking world—as She came. Squeezing around his tongue as Ben lowered to taste it all, as she pushed up into his face to give him it all. Back arched off the bed and thighs trapping Ben against Her as if he was so much of a fucking pussy idiot he’d even damn think to try and leave.

When She was done—shaking and breathing heavily as she relaxed fully around him—Ben rose up, wiping the remaining wetness clinging to his beard with one hand. Watching Her, pulled apart and reaching for him, just him. So thoroughly wrecked at his efforts, heart hamming against her chest. So fucking beautiful. 

Ben started to walk to the bathroom—quickly pulling his pants back on—but She made a needy sound for her throat that made him pause. 

“Are you-“ 

“Where are you going?” She whispered, and Ben felt the Thing rip inside of him. Torn between making Her smile and taking care of her. 

“Getting a towel.” He grunted, still rooted in place. “Need to clean you up.” 

“No,” Her voice was hoarse, and she was starting to sit up. “I’m fine, just stay-“ 

That won the war inside of him. Ben crossed back to Her in two long steps. Dropping next to her on the bed and rolling her onto his chest. Lying with her until her heart slowed, her breaths became easy against him. 

“Ben?” She whispered into the air, the room having fallen dark at some point. Ben hadn’t noticed really, unable to be fucked to pay attention to anything but Her, against him. Safe and happy and warm. 

He hummed Her name, and waited for her to continue. 

“When it’s over, I’ll go with you.” 

Time stopped. Everything stopped. Nothing fucking mattered except Ben knowing exactly what She fucking meant. If it was what he thought—fucking hoped—she meant. “With me?” 

“Wherever they send you off to, when this is done. I’ll go with you.” 

Ben nodded slowly at nothing, trying to act like he was unaffected. Like the Thing wasn’t bellowing and scraping at his ribs and brain, trying to tell him something really important, make Ben tell Her something important, but he couldn’t figure out what it was- 

“If you, um, if you still want that.” 

He blinked, glaring down at Her in the dark. “Did I ever fucking tell you I didn’t?” 

“No, but you haven’t said anything-“ 

“You’re coming with me,” Ben said, firmly. She wasn’t allowed to think anything else, not if She wanted this. Wanted him. “Nothing in the world will goddamn stop me taking you with me, not if that’s what you’re choosing.” 

“I chose that,” Ben could feel Her smile against the base of his neck. “I chose you.” 

The Thing needed something. Something earth-shaking and impossibly fucking vital for Ben to know if he was going to keep living. Something She had to know or Ben might explode. 

“I’ll let you fuck me on the beach,” She hummed, and Ben just decided to ignore the Thing. She was more important. “And in the ocean and in a bed and wherever else you want.” 

“Wherever I want?” Ben chuckled into the dark. “Dangerous fucking promises, beautiful.” 

She yawned, and Ben kissed Her head as her voice turned sleepy. “That’s the point, Pretty Boy.” 

As She pulled herself further into him—breathing turning slow and body relaxing further under Ben’s hands—Ben said Her name softly. 

“Yeah?” 

“If this doesn’t work,” Ben said slowly. “I want to fucking leave anyway. If we don’t get the kid, me and you are gone, Sunshine. We’ll go wherever you want, and we’ll go together. Somewhere with a beach for me to fuck you on, or somewhere in the mountains so you can scream even louder. But we’ll be gone.” 

She sighed, but didn’t protest. Ben had expected Her to push back—tell him they had a job and responsibility and had to finish this—and even as he’d thought the words he’d known she’d tell him no, but she didn’t. 

“I’ll think about it,” She said after a long, silent minute, and Ben wasn’t sure if it was Her or the haze of the sleep overtook her only seconds later. He didn’t know if she’d even remember him asking, or was just too tired to try and convince him that they couldn’t just leave. 

But Ben decided to believe Her. To allow himself to think that she’d really consider it. Either way she’d go with him. No matter what, she’d stay with him. That was all that fucking matters. 

It was the steady beat of Her heart, paired with the lingering taste of her and sound of Her wanting him, that allowed Ben to sleep soundly through the night.

End Note: I’ve made the unprecedented and totally out of left field executive decision to make Ben a top. Crazy. I’m sure this is really shocking news, but we’ll get through this like we always do. Together and horny.

Leave a comment, if you want! Any and all thoughts, feedback, jokes, and predications are always welcome, and will make my day. Also I'm thinking of giving you guys a playlist? Idk lemme know if that's something you'd want. Thank you so much for reading, and see you soon <3!

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

Taglist

@lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

@fghj18 @n-o-p-e-never @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @marisha-3 @stvrniolo

@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf @ciuguapa @ilyaasansaif @whimsicalcherry

@sadpods @ahoytothestorm

[charleylouisebell-poetry]

Drown My Robotic Heart

The grief still comes in waves,

A tsunami in my chest,

The tide rising in my throat,

Like she was the moon,

And now the ocean in me runs wild,

No lasso could ever catch her,

She cannot be pulled back,

Untethered she drifts away,

Forgotten day by day,

I have no choice in that,

No matter how hard I try,

My mind tries to protect me,

With a self destruct protocol,

But with every imploding memory,

The pain of losing you grows,

The ocean rises still,

Salt fills my cracks and burns my wounds,

A flaw in the system,

A broken motherboard,

How ironic,

Technology and salt water go to war,

With each wave more corrosion comes,

Crystallising,

Demobilising,

It becomes a race,

Erase or die,

The past and future cannot both survive,

Not in the present,

It must be one or the other,

To remain afloat in the storm,

The realisation that its me or you,

Holding onto both tears me in two,

A black space,

A disgrace,

To save myself is to let go of you,

Selfish acts swim beneath the surface,

They fear the return of waves,

This battle never truly over,

You are infinite,

I only exist because of you,

How do I forget that?

[the-lonelybarricade]

Hiii!! I've been following your work since the beginning and i just wanted to give u a big squeeze of a hug for blessing us with all of your fics 'cause i feel like we don't deserve u for blessing us with all these wonderful feysand content that u are sharing.

I hope all is well with ur life and in ur studies, and if it's not too much to ask, would you consider writing a feysand au where Feyre & Rhys aren't mates, but are happily in love and in a relationship--when all of a sudden, one of them meets their mate (preferably Rhys..?) or something like that 😚. Won't lie to u that im dying to know what events would play out and how Feyre would react if this scenario happened. Really no pressure to write this or anything just wanted to try my luck with this idea :DD. Thank u!

Bestie, ooof. What are you trying to do to me? Can you imagine how heartbreaking that would be for Feysand to be happy and in love, waiting patiently for the mating bond to snap only to find out they were star-crossed lovers all along? Well you don’t have to imagine it, because I already have. And if I’m going to be in torment over Feysand angst, I’m (affectionately) dragging you all down with me.

P.s. thank you for the submission lovely, I hope you enjoy <3

The Chains That Bind Us

Word count: 1,956

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre and Rhysand were happily married. For 300 years, they had basked in what seemed like an infinite stretch of rapture, working alongside and complimenting each other with a grace and chemistry that had always felt predestined. They had always been certain they were mates, but time had flowed on and neither had felt the inkling of that special, magic bond.

They have resigned that perhaps the mating bond will never snap, perhaps that’s simply not what they were to one another, but that was okay. It was enough to be husband and wife, to be High Lord and Lady, to be happy and in love. They didn’t need a mating bond to reaffirm what they felt for one another. Things were already perfect as they were.

Until they weren’t. Until they had journeyed together to Illyria to oversee the announcement of the first all-female battalion. It had been a long term goal of Rhysand and his brothers to finally battle back the long ingrained sexism of Illyrian culture, and the visit was meant to be a celebration. A liberating ceremony, in honor of their mothers and all the females who had been victims of prejudice.

But when the leader of the battalion stepped forward to be acknowledged for her accomplishments, Rhysand had gone rigid at Feyre’s side, his breathing suddenly ragged. His pupils were blown wide, eyes fixed, riveted to the female.

Feyre felt her whole world had imploded in that moment. Especially when that female’s eyes had met her High Lord’s and had frozen just the same, the two bearing matched expressions of awe and disbelief.

She was certain she was going to be sick. Such a thing would be far from befitting of a High Lady, so Feyre had immediately winnowed back to their River House, back into their bathroom where she was instantly emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl.

Rhysand was there not too long after, holding back Feyre’s hair. They said nothing to each other, not until Feyre had recovered enough to turn and face her husband.

She was entirely unprepared for the way her heart shattered to meet his face, to meet those lovely eyes she had loved for centuries. Eyes that had only moments before been staring at another female with so much blind devotion it had torn her open.

“Feyre—” he started.

“I suppose we should have assumed that something like this could happen,” she interrupted, because she couldn’t bear to hear him apologize. Not for something like this, something that was entirely out of either of their control.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he insisted, but there was a strain to his voice that had never been present before. A bite that Feyre was convinced was the result of Rhysand battling against his instincts to return to Illyria, to that female.

“It changes everything, Rhys.”

She was already weeping as she choked the words out, because speaking them made them true. Those few centuries of bliss between them, they were a bubble, a perfectly crafted delusion that had finally popped.

“I love you,” Rhys seethed, as though arguing with himself. “I don’t even know that females name—”

“It doesn’t matter, Rhys. She’s your—”

“Don’t say it,” he begged, his voice a broken rasp. “Please, don’t say it.”

Somehow, that made it impossibly worse. That Rhys had been gifted this incredible, Cauldron-blessed thing, but was scorning it for her sake. Most Fae dreamed of the moment their mating bond would snap, and here was her husband acting as if it was his worst nightmare.

But Feyre knew what it was like for males. She knew he was clawing against every instinct in his mind, screaming at him to go to his mate, to know her name, to claim her. Feyre stifled another sob. Rejected mating bonds could drive a male mad. How could she ever think to do that to him? How could she deny him this piece of himself?

What broke her heart more than anything is that Feyre knew he would. Rhysand would reject his bond, would let that intrinsic part of his soul be torn away, for her sake. If Feyre asked, he would stay. He would stay and be miserable.

“I can’t do this to you, Rhys. I can’t force you to stay with me out of duty. I will not be your jailor.”

“You are my wife,” Rhys choked, reaching for her hand. He drew her palms to his face, allowing her to caress his cheeks. He shut his eyes as he nuzzled into her touch, causing his unshed tears to fall, racing down to collect at her hands. “You are my High Lady. You are the only one I want to be with.”

That wrecked another sob through Feyre’s body, which came out as a harsh exhale as she tried to restrain it. “You’d be a broken male without her, Rhys. The Cauldron—” she sucked in a strangled breath. Some truths were just too difficult to confront— “The Cauldron didn’t intend for us to be together.”

“Damn the Cauldron,” he growled, reaching for her with newfound conviction. “No one and nothing can decide who I love. No one can tell me that you are not who I belong with—who I belong to.”

Feyre allowed him to bundle her in his arms, to press her fiercely against his chest. She knew moments like this were fleeting, where they could hold each other as husband and wife. Already, their love was tarnished. Tainted. Blood spilled onto white snow. How long would it take for this mating bond to seep, to spill into the cracks, to spread until it consumed them? She couldn’t see an outcome where they could stay together unblemished, where they wouldn’t come to resent one another.

“Rhysand, listen to me love,” Feyre said, and found that her voice was steadier than she anticipated. “I care more about you being happy than I care about that happiness being found with me. Do you understand?”

“I would not be happier without you, Feyre.” His voice was ripe with earnesty. When she turned those eyes to meet his, those violet depths were burning, the silver constellations completely eclipsed by molten amethyst. He swallowed thickly. “Do I… want that female? Yes.” Feyre cringed to hear her husband admit it outloud. “But, that is just my instincts. I will be able to manage them with time. This bond is nascent. My love for you? It’s endured for centuries. The cauldron is not faultless; my parents were mates and they were miserable together. I could never imagine someone so perfect to walk beside me as you, Feyre. I do not seek another, no matter what fate has to say for it.”

Feyre allowed the comfort of his words to wash over her. She rested her head against Rhysand’s shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent, letting herself lavish in the rhythm of him, the beat of his heart steady in his chest.

“I will understand if you change your mind,” she whispered. “I do not hold you to your vows. If you become unhappy, if one day you cannot resist the pull you feel towards her… I will not hold it against you. I give you permission to… to leave me.”

Rhys let out a small, rueful laugh before he pressed a tender kiss to her temple. “How could I desert a love that is so selfless? The least I could do in the wake of such a declaration is promise to never see that female again.”

Feyre shook her head emphatically. “Don’t promise me that, Rhys. Just—just promise me that we’ll always be honest with each other. That we’ll always be a team, whether it be as rulers, or as lovers, or… or just as friends.”

“I promise,” he swore. “I vowed on my court and crown that I will love you for eternity. And I still know that to be true, even now. My soul… it might belong to someone else. But my heart, Feyre, it will always belong to you.”

There was something irreparably changed between them. They both knew it, could sense the way it lingered between them. The first crack, and possibly not the last. What they had was fragile now, but they had a gift for being delicate with one another.

The silence hung between them, a wretched, discomfiting presence that had never been there before. Both not quite sure what to say, not quite sure where this put them. She watched Rhysand’s lower lip quiver, understood that it was from the strain of not burdening her with his own turmoil over the situation.

Feyre tutted as she threw her arms around him, recognizing the signs of his crumbling. Rhys bowed his head in shame, burying his face into her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against her, releasing a sob of his own. “I’m sorry it couldn’t have been you. I wanted it to be you. I’m a failure of a husband, for putting you through this.”

“You are an excellent husband,” Feyre protested, threading her fingers through his hair soothingly. Her voice was still raw. “I don’t blame you for this, Rhys. I love you just the same.”

He lifted his head so their tear-stained faces were level. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, still glistening in silver. “What do we do now?”

They clung to each other so tightly, as if they pressed hard enough they could redirect fate, could mold their souls together and correct the misdeed of the Cauldron.

“I don’t know,” Feyre answered, burying her face in his shoulder as if it would hide her from the truth of the world. “I suppose we have no choice but to keep going. We’ll find our footing again. Together. And if we don’t… well, maybe we can wish on the stars.”

There was a huff of air at her ear. A laugh, she guessed, or something like it, something wry and humorless. Rhys moved underneath her, and Feyre pulled away to watch in confusion as her husband rose to his feet.

He extended his hand towards her. Curious, Feyre accepted, allowing him to pull her to her feet. In a blink, they were on the rooftop, beneath the stars. She hadn’t even realized the sun had set until she was staring up at the impossibly bright cosmos.

“Where better to find our footing than under those very stars?”

She turned to him, and Rhys was staring at her the way he had on starfall, all those centuries ago. Staring at her as if she were the brightest star in the sky, as though he looked to Feyre to cast his wishes.

“Will you dance with me, wife?”

Not convinced she was capable of speech, Feyre nodded. Using the hand he still held, Rhys twirled her into his arms. And though no music played, they found their own rhythm, lost in the cadence of each other, spinning endlessly under the stars.

As they swayed under the endless expanse of sky and starlight, Feyre mused how even the brightest of stars eventually burned out, but that didn’t make them any less worth wishing on. That didn’t mean they weren’t worth fighting for.

⟡⟡⟡

[troubatrain]

tis the damn season - m. tkachuk

a/n: as we all know, i am an absolute whore for a christmas fic and when i listened to evermore yesterday i knew this needed to be done. i literally haven’t written anything this fast in forever but i hope you guys like it!! (also tagging @igor-shestyorkin​ @blueskrugs​ & @fenwaynightlights​ for reading this last night and telling me it was good so i’d actually finish it ily)

The second you walked into the party, Matthew’s eyes didn’t leave you. He knew you were coming, but watching you step into his parent’s house with a plate of your famous chocolate chip cookies and a smile that made his heart skip a beat, was almost taunting him. You dated forever ago, the last real relationship Matthew had ever been in, and by the looks of it - it was staying like that. You greeted everyone, down to the biggest hug to his grandparents who swore you were going to be Matthew’s wife one day. That was because that’s just how you were, kind and smart and constantly impressing anyone who Matthew introduced you too. Every teammate he had at the time loved you, and he knew if you were in Calgary his team now would be the same. Brady adored you, even admitting to his brother he still called you for girl advice because if Matthew fumbled the bag when it came to you there was no way Brady should take his advice. Matthew couldn’t even think about your relationship with his sister, or how crushed she was when you broke up. Then there was his parents, his mom swore it would be okay. That it was just Matthew’s first love and eventually he’d find his forever but he knew she was lying. Matthew found forever with you, and he let it implode because his dream was just more important at the time. Now, he could be at the top of the world and none of it mattered because you weren’t by his side.

Matthew just felt dumb now, because you were on to bigger and better things and you weren’t hung up on your high school ex-boyfriend. You went off to college, crushed it, and moved back into St. Louis with a near perfect job offer and success practically radiating off of you. He was standing in his kitchen in the worst Bud Light Christmas sweater like an eighteen year old frat boy and you looked every bit like the goddess Matthew knew you were. The perfect Christmas red dress you were wearing sat on your frame flawless, and it was obvious that red was still your color.

“I can leave if you want me to?” You ask, leaning into Matthew when you finally made your way over to him. Your voice was low, mouth close to Matthew’s ear while you hugged him so no one could hear you ask. You were an infinitely better person than he was, so of course you asked him if it was okay to stay.

“You’re always welcome here, you know that,” Matthew answers, sipping his beer for some liquid courage he desperately needed.

“Just because your mom invites me doesn’t mean I need to be here,” You shrug, “Maybe you’ve got someone here…”

He would never. Matthew had never even considered it, what it would be like to bring someone home that wasn’t you. There wasn’t one person in Calgary who could measure up, and despite the fact that his family loved him and would accept anyone with open arms, deep down Matthew knew you would always be on their minds.

“I don’t,” Matthew says, trying to stop himself from wrapping his arm around your waist while you stand with your chest still pressed against his from your hello hug, “I mean what would be the point? They don’t make cookies like you do.”

Matthew had to joke, cover up the fact that he was never able to let go of what you had and choke it down with beer he was drinking. He liked seeing you, the same times he did every year. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the occasional summer BBQ was something he looked forward to, sometimes he even hoped for an extra reason for you to both be somewhere. He knew you’d come, because you wouldn’t dare deny his mother’s invitation.

“Of course you noticed I made them,” You rolled your eyes, pushing Matthew back jokingly, “Remember when you used to beg me to make them-”

You stopped yourself when you noticed where this was going, you never brought up the before times. The times when Matthew would give you his best puppy dog eyes for you to bake him something, followed by a plea to just look the other way when he devoured the entire plate.

“Maybe it’s best we broke up, I probably never would’ve gotten drafted by eating these,” Matthew teases, sliding past you to grab a cookie off the counter and taking a big bite, “Because fuck these are good.”

Matthew’s moans in delight sent a chill up your spine. You hated that he could still do that to you, because it was the same thing every time. You’d see him, and for a moment you’d think that this would work itself out. You could get back together, and falling in love would be just as sweet a second time, but it wouldn’t work. You were settling into your own, a fresh lease signed in your new apartment you were going to move into after New Year’s, and Matthew was going to go back to Calgary where he was a big deal. That was always the dream, to make it big in the league and make his parents proud. Matthew was doing it, not that you ever doubted him, but you were proud nonetheless.

The thing was, because Matthew was doing the damn thing, he gave up you. It was like a deal he made with the devil when he was seventeen, he could have everything he ever wanted if he didn’t have you to hold him back. You always knew that was why he broke up with you, it was the right person at the wrong time.

“It’s nice to see you Matthew,” You muse, biting the inside of your cheeks to hold back the grin on your face. You stopped the conversation before it started, constantly trying to make this as painless as possible, but it wasn’t always easy.

“Wait, uh, you’re going to be here until Christmas right?” Matthew asks, grabbing your attention before you slipped out of the kitchen. Matthew was hopeful, catching a flight a few days earlier than he usually could and landing before Christmas gave him more time to see you.

“I’ll be at my parents house,” You nod, thinking about your childhood bedroom that was currently covered in moving boxes while you waited to settle into your new place.

“Oh sweet,” Matthew takes another swing of his drink, trying to keep his cool because you were the only person who made him completely uncool.

“Yeah, sweet, I’ll see you around,” You wave, disappearing into the kitchen. Matthew takes a deep breath, collecting his thoughts for a minute until Brady stepped in front of him. His little brother scoffed, a stupid smirk on his face when he finally spoke.

“Dude that was painful to watch.”

***

Matthew had no idea what the fuck he was doing. His feet were just carrying all two hundred and two pounds of his body in the exact direction of your house. He was drunk, well over the limit of how many whiskey shots he could even handle. He looked at his watch, it was almost three in the morning but if he didn’t get it out now when would he ever. He loved you, and all he could think about is what would happen if he could have just had one more night with you. Maybe you’d feel it, you’d always been pretty intuitive with his feelings, because he was awful with them. He had to make his case, did he even have one?

Oh hey Y/N, I know I’m hammered and it’s three in the morning the day before Christmas Eve but I want you to know I’m still in love with you.

That wouldn’t work, and he was going to have to do better than that. He could turn around and go home, but if he had to watch another one of your Instagram stories and pray that whoever was in them wasn’t your boyfriend again - he would lose his mind before he made it to the holidays next year. He snuck past the gate into your yard, not surprised to see your whole house was sleeping quietly. He picked up a few pebbles from your mother’s garden, shaking them in his hand and hoping you remembered the way he let you know he was outside when you’d sneak out in high school.

One.

Two.

Three.

You were woken up by the sound of three pebbles hitting your window, and you rub your eyes in disbelief by what you were hearing. Matthew wasn’t outside your window at three in the morning looking for you, why would he even think about it? 

“What the hell are you doing?” You ask, poking your head out the window and crossing your arms to battle the cool air blowing through.

“Come down?” Matthew asks, wiping his palms on the back of his jeans and giving you his best smile. A real one, because you’d always been able to tell when it was fake.

You should’ve closed the window, and pushed Matthew to the back of your mind until you found yourself creeping on his Instagram again. You were always a good listener, and you always tried to do the right thing but Matthew was your vice. He’d always been a little bit a bad boy, but never enough to stop you from coming back for more. So you opened your window a little more, slipping down and scaling down your house just like you used to.

Matthew could have pretended like he didn’t notice, his last name faded on the back of the hoodie you were wearing, but he couldn’t. You looked just as cute in it as you did all of those years before, “Seven was such a good number on you, I wish I could have kept it.”

You could feel the heat on your cheeks, hoping Matthew couldn’t catch it in the moonlight, “Why are you here?”

“I want one more night,” Matthew takes a deep breath, standing his ground, “I, uh fuck-”

Matthew Tkachuk had never been good with words. He put his foot in his mouth, all the time, but his plea was something you never thought you’d hear. It was Christmas, you were lonely, and a part of you wondered the same thing. So you said fuck it and decided that this was your problem later, pressing your lips to Matthew’s. Your hands gripped his shirt, trying to get as close to him as you could. Matthew was dumbfounded, wrapping his arms around your waist, his fingers digging into your sides.

“Can you be quiet?” You ask, pointing at the back door. It was the middle of the night and your parents room was on the first floor but if Matthew was quiet enough you could get him upstairs easily - you used to do it all the time.

Matthew nodded eagerly, following you inside and tip-toeing up the stairs. He was doing a terrible job, either he’d gotten bigger or the floors in your parents house had gotten creakier.

“You said you could be quiet,” You tease, letting Matthew push you against the door, he twisted the lock, smirking at you.

“I’m a lot bigger than I used to be,” Matthew declares, fake puffing out his chest.

“I noticed…” You muse, running over your hands over his shoulders. He’d gotten broader with age, and it wasn’t something that was lost on you. You press your lips to his, throwing your hands around his neck and pulling him closer. Your fingers crept up to his curls, tugging on them slightly. Matthew smirked against your lips, “I missed that.”

“I missed you,” Matthew mutters, wrapping your legs around his waist to bring you to your bed. You squeal, tucking your head into shoulder to stop the noise, “Who’s the loud one now?”

“Well don’t stop kissing me then,” You tease, grabbing Matthew and pulling him on top of you. You worked quickly, a pile of clothes in the corner of your that was going to be addressed later. Matthew’s lips were on your neck, his finger circling your clit while you bit your lip hold back a moan, “Matty please-”

The nickname slipped your lips so easily it was like you never should have stopped calling him that. Matthew took notice, and it was like music to his ears, “Anything you want babe.”

“Fuck me,” You breathe out, desperate for as much of him as you could get. Matthew slipped out of his boxers, pumping himself a few times before he gave you a look. You nodded, giving him the go ahead and pulling his lips back to yours. Matthew slipped inside you, and it’d never felt better.

Matthew was better now, much much better. His hips were snapping into you, a near perfect pace while grunts left his lips. The pleasure was almost too much, and you could feel your nails scratching into his back while you bit into his shoulder to keep yourself quiet. His hand snaked down to your clit, “Cum for me babe, c’mon.”

You clenched around him, the sensation was enough to send Matthew over the edge, spilling into you. He dropped to his elbows, placing lazy kisses on your skin while you basked in the post sex glow. Matthew’s skin was glistening against the moonlight from your window, his breath in your ear while you caught yours and it all felt right.

“You know you have to go now,” You remind him, “My dad will murder you if he catches you up here.”

“I know,” Matthew bumps his nose against yours, pressing one more kiss to your lips, “I’ll see you tomorrow? Or later?”

Later. It had completely slipped your mind that in just a few hours you were going to be forced to run an annual day before Christmas Eve 5k with the Tkachuk’s like you did every year. The idea was somehow worse than doing it on Thanksgiving, and now you had to see Matthew after you let him fuck you in your childhood bedroom. You watched Matthew dress himself, hopping out your window and back to his own house.

Now you just needed some sleep.

***

You felt like shit, and you were missing the iced coffee you didn’t have a chance to get while you trailed behind your parents to meet the Tkachuk’s. You greeted everyone, stopping at Matthew last, you were unsure of how to even greet him after what you’d just done a few hours before. He didn’t think anything of it, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into his chest.

“Here,” Matthew says, nudging his cup towards you. You assumed it was coffee, but then the taste of a mimosa hit your tongue.

“Jeez,” You choke, coughing while you take down the champagne with just a hint of orange juice.

“Do you think I was going to run this sober? You wore me out last night,” Matthew teases, and he could feel Brady’s gaze on him.

The wheels in Brady’s head were turning. He was suspicious, catching Matthew sneak back into the house early in the morning, and now watching the two of you - it was clear. It became even clearer when they started running, because Brady knew Matthew wasn’t that slow and he didn’t wasn’t going to let Brady beat him. He was though, jogging behind Brady with you and laughing at whatever you said. There was one thing that was clear, Matthew got over his dumb fear of talking to you and finally did. His brother was happy, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was going to watch this explode in your faces in a few days. Matthew would go back to Calgary and just the first time you broke, it was going to be ugly.

***

The winter in St. Louis was brisk, but Matthew’s warm body next to you was enough to fight it. Your head was on his chest, and you were snoring softly. Matthew picked you up a few hours after you got home, driving up to the same lake you snuck off to in high school. He stole Brady’s truck, driving off with a bunch of blankets without giving Brady an answer as to where he was going. It was supposed to be romantic, but you’d always been prone to falling asleep when you were with him.

Matthew didn’t have a complaint in the world, you slept the same way you used to. Your head on his chest, a leg tangled with his and your hands clutched to his shirt so he couldn’t move. He wasn’t going anywhere. Matthew would let you sleep the entire day away if he could have. He carded his hands through your hair, a content sigh leaving his lips.

Matthew often wondered what would have happened if you never broke up. If you’d followed him to Calgary and what that would have been like. Maybe you’d still be together, and after all these years he’d start looking for a ring. If you’d buy a house together, maybe even be that family that houses wayward hockey players just like his parents did. You’d be the person he got to share looks with across the room when he was forced to have conversations he didn’t want to have. He’d get to take you family skates and you’d get to see him play and you’d live happily ever after.

Reality was always much more cruel, and it wasn't pretty. You had a life in St. Louis, one that didn’t include him. You were moving along in your life just fine without him. You didn’t need Matthew and it was dumb of him to think you’d drop it all for him. You never asked him to stay, and it would be unfair to ask you to wait around.

“I can hear you thinking, you might start to malfunction soon bubs,” You whisper, your voice still laced with sleep. You meant to run a hand through his hair, but the palm of your hand just hit his forehead while you moved it back down slowly. Matthew chuckles, the silly nicknames you gave him seemed to come out without a second thought, and it felt good to be called any of them by you.

“Just thinking about you,” Matthew breathes, and you pick up your head. Matthew shoots you a smile, but you knew he was faking it.

“Matty-” You take one deep breath, “Don’t ask me to come with you, you know it’s not fair to me.”

Your voice was cracking, pleading Matthew to just not have this conversation. You weren’t ready for it, because it meant accepting defeat. The universe wasn’t going to allow you to be together, and that’s just how it was going to be.

“I don’t want to go back to Calgary,” Matthew whispers, more to himself than you. He did want to go back, but he wanted to go back with you.

“You have to,” You sit up, a chill running through your body from the loss of Matthew’s body next to yours. You rub your arms to warm up, “You have to because we’re just not going to make it work Matty.”

Matthew nods solemnly, like his heart just broke all over again. You were right, you always were, it just seemed naïve to think you’d both be any different now than you were the first time, “Let me take you home.”

The car ride was awkward. The only thing cutting through the silence was the Christmas music playing on the radio. You sat with your head pressed against the window, counting down the streets until you finally hit yours. Matthew halted the car, and you gave him one more look before you stepped out of the car, “Tell your parents I said Merry Christmas.”

“I will,” Matthew nods, and those were the last words you heard him say before you walked up your stairs. Matthew waited for you to be inside before he drove off, a small part of him hoping you’d run back to the car and tell him you wanted him too. You didn’t, and that was just how it was going to be.

***

Christmas was awful, the past two days seemed to pass were pure agony. You were sad, and knowing Matthew was about three blocks and four houses away wasn’t helping. You were counting down the hours until he was back in Calgary, away from you and you could finally grieve him for the final time. The last nail in the coffin of what was once your first love had yet to be hammered in but once he was gone that would settle it.

You had two more hours until you knew his flight would leave, and you were so close to the finish line you could taste it. You were home alone, your parents still making their way to a few neighbors' houses to spend the last few moments of the holiday with their friends. You were sulking, a wine bottle stolen from your mother’s collection and the Grinch on your TV. 

A doorbell was the only thing to interrupt you, and you could see a tuft of curly hair through the window. Matthew was standing outside your door, pacing back and forth while he waited for you to open it. You thought about acting like you weren’t home, maybe he’d leave and never come back. You opened it, not even having a chance to open your mouth before he spoke.

“Come with me,” Matthew pleads, “I love you, I still do and I always have and we’re meant to be together. There isn’t anyone I want more by my side than you, and I know it’ll be hard but I’m not ready to let you slip through my fingers again.”

“Matthew-” You interrupt grabbing his arm to stop his pacing, “Listen to yourself.”

“I am, and I want this, I never wanted to give up you and I just can’t fly back there with people who don’t know when I’m faking a smile or when I don’t want to be somewhere,” Matthew explains, running a hand over his face, “You’re the best I’ll ever have and I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

“I’ll come until New Year’s,” You agree, Matthew’s face breaking out into a very real smile, “We need to talk about this Matthew.”

“You talk, I’ll listen, you can have whatever you want,” Matthew agrees, because he’d move the sun if he could for you. His lips pressed against yours, pushing you against the same front door he kissed you in front of on your first date. The porch light still flickers the way it used to while Matthew’s hands gripped your face because he was afraid to let you go. You both finally pulled, Matthew mumbling his next words against your lips.

Tis the damn season huh?

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Everything Has Changed--Ch. 11

Chapter 11

Shaye

           Pain wasn’t the word for what I felt. It was a white hot agony that sliced through my muscles, that rent my lungs into pieces, that cracked my ribs into shards that shredded the aching remnants of my heart. My God, I felt it in my soul, burning it up until there was nothing left but ash. The world fell away and there was only nothingness remaining.

           All the air had been sucked away. I forgot the taste of oxygen. The feeling of my chest rising and falling with breath. My lungs threatened to implode. My heart drummed a death march. Any moment now, and the horrible, empty, burning ache would drag me under and it would all be over. Completely and irrevocably over.

           Somewhere my mind wondered if I agonized so much because Kenny had been my first… everything. I had been innocent in so many ways when I met him. Not just because I was a virgin, but because I’d never though love like that could happen so fast. I’d never thought a love like that could exist like that in the first place. It had been an avalanche, a relationship lived against a timeclock that had given no quarter.

           Had the looming inevitability of my departure made me—made him—say and feel things that weren’t true? How much of those weeks had been real and how much had been a fever dream that I was only just now breaking through? I couldn’t have imagined it all.

           Imagination didn’t hurt this much.

Nick

           I’d only felt helpless twice in my life. Once was when my brother Malachi got hit by a car right in front of me when we were kids. The other was watching Shaye Walker completely come apart in the parking lot of Victoria Arbors Park. She’d gone from beating her fists against my chest in fury to being almost catatonic. I had the feeling that the only thing keeping her upright was me.

           What do I do? I’d lived through my own heartbreak before, but that had been ripples compared to the tidal wave that seemed to be drowning her. I could only hold onto her as I tightly as I dared. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough to mend what Kenny Omega had broken in her.

           God, help me please, I prayed. Please. I don’t know what to do and she’s hurting so much. Help me. Please, God, please.

           My prayers had never been pleas like this before. I could feel desperation clawing its way up my throat. My dad said to never bargain with God, but I was willing to for her. I’d sell away every last breath in my body if it gave her just one moment of reprieve from this pain.

           I tightened my arms around her, cradling her head against my shoulder. My body felt coiled like a spring, a fierceness rushing through me. I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t need to. All I knew was that I would protect her.

           “I’ve got you, Shaye,” I murmured against her hair. “I’ve got you, and I’m not going anywhere. You won’t be alone, I promise. I swear it. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Shaye

           It felt like it was never going to end. The agony that pulled me under and threatened to tear me apart. It was infinite and unyielding. Merciless and maniacal.

           I’ve got you, Shaye. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.

           One two three four…

           Somewhere, something shot through the darkness that threatened to destroy me completely. A knife’s blade of silver and glass casting a thousand rays of light from its unforgiving edge. It cut through the gloom.

           I could see the faint ripples of light on the surface of blackness.

           I’ve got you, Shaye. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.

           One two three four…

           The endless blackness turned grey. My head started to spin as my lungs burned, desperate and aching. It was like I could see the way out, but I had no way forward. I had an anchor tied tight to my limbs. Salvation was so close, but there was no way to reach for it. I would die there, almost free.

           I’ve got you, Shaye. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.

           One two three four…

           My body ached. I felt my lungs like they were going to explode. The world turned hazy and white around the edges. Darkness started to seep in again. My heart sank, slowed beat by beat in my chest. This was it. I hadn’t been wrong. It was going to kill me. The heartbreak was going to kill me.

           I’ve got you, Shaye. I’ve…

           One… two… two…

Nick

           Shaye let out a faint whine. Small and helpless and broken beyond repair. I couldn’t explain it, but everything about it terrified me. She sounded like she was choking.

           “Shaye!” I called out her name, complete and total terror burning through me. “Shaye!”

           God help me, please! Help me. Help me!

           “Shaye.” Her name came out quietly. My voice broke as if I’d been screaming for hours on end. Tears burned on my face. She gasped. Her fingers clutched tight in my shirt.

           I sank to the blacktop, cradling her in my lap. “I’ve got you, Shaye. I’m right here.” It felt like I was choking on tears of my own. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving you.” I pushed her hair back from her face, letting my fingers stroke her cheeks. I didn’t stop myself from curling her closer, pressing my forehead to her temple. “I’m not leaving you. I swear I’m not leaving you.”

Shaye

           Seconds passed. I waited for the endlessness to come barreling in. To take me under and end this horrible, shredding ache. But the white along my vision began to fade. It was like the pressure that had closed in around me seemed to release. It brought the hurt back into sharp focus. Slicing through me anew as I broke the surface, sucking air into my lungs.

           I gasped, choking.

           Onetwothreefour

           Onetwothreefour

           My heart thundered. It raced so fast that I didn’t think I’d ever be able to count fast enough. Air sawed in and out of my lungs. I couldn’t catch my breath. It was like tasting oxygen for the first time after so long without it.

           “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.” Words whispered against my ear. A voice that I knew.

           I blinked. The world faded into view in fits and starts. It shaded in with greys and blues. Blues that were bright and glittering. Blues that were so close and so filled with fear.

           “Shaye?” That voice that seemed to speak out of my memories. “Shaye, speak to me. Please.”

           Nick’s face blurred into view. His eyes—always his eyes—came into focus first. He watched me with so many things reflected in his eyes that I couldn’t begin to make sense of them. I reached up, and I could see my pulse thrumming at my wrist.

           “Nick?”

           He sighed and held my face in his hands. “Yeah,” he said breathlessly. He took a deep breath and cradled my face, stroking his thumbs over my cheeks. “I’m right here. I’m right here”

           “I’m sorry,” I gasped out. My throat felt as if it had been scraped with a grater.

           “Don’t you dare,” Nick replied vehemently. “Don’t you dare apologize and don’t you dare do that to me again!”

           He pulled me against his chest and pressed his cheek against the top of my head. He was quiet for a moment before tilting my face upward with his fingertips. “I need to get you out of here.”

           I leaned against his chest, breathing as deeply and slowly as I could. I focused on the scent of heat and sunshine and sweat that surrounded me in his arms. Nick was more than I deserved in a friend. I wished I could figure out the words to say to tell him how much it meant to me to have him there.

Nick

           When she took a breath, it almost took my own. I’d never felt happiness and relief like I did when she took that breath and said my name. We probably looked like we were crazy, but it didn’t matter to me. All that mattered was that Shaye wasn’t smothering in her grief anymore.

           “I think you might need a drink,” I whispered, looking down into her dark eyes. “A strong one probably.”

           Her lips tipped up in a faint smile. “I can’t have a good Christian boy buying alcohol.”

           My heart skipped a beat and I couldn’t help but grin. I skimmed my fingertips over her face, tucking her hair behind her ears. “For you, I think I’d risk it.”

Tag List

@mox-made-me-do-it​

@imagineall-the-fandoms​

@Waywardstrong

@lilred91​

@lakamaa12​

@maelleoute​

@not-that-kinda-gurl08​

@writtingrose​

@unabashedwrestlefics

@hungmanhorsecarriage​

@adriii-omega​

@lyly00​

@unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin​

@rdhester1987​

@thenerdybaker523​

[internalsealpanic]

Thorn part 2

summary: You really should check who’s watching or not. 

a/n: My quest to cram as many kinks into a fic continues. Special thanks to @littleredwing89​ for helping me finish this and proof reading.  Also, yes, I am trying to convert as many people as humanly possibel into Slade simps

warnings: voyeurism, exhibitionism, bondage, blindfolds, degredation-ish, spreader bar, threesome, (what do you call stuffing panties into someone’s mouth), oral (male receiving), vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, dirty talk, spanking and probably somethings I forgot.

villain’s masterlist

main masterlist

part 1

Something’s been bothering you for the last few days- an itching in the back of your mind that made the nerves in your hands prickle even as you leafed through the notes piled high on your desk. You flex your fingers, reading over a transcript of a witness’ statement. There was something wrong. 

 “Give us a good show.”

 Us

 Heat trails up your neck at the memory of his skin against yours but it also agitated something in you. It was probably nothing but the way he said it bothered you. There was something you were missing. A joke. A hint. A pun. Something. Maybe you just hung around Nicky too much. Maybe, but that didn’t still your mind. It was Slade.

 You haul March’s fluffy body on to your lap. She rumbles but makes no move to get up even as you thread your hands through her thick fur. In some lazy retaliation, she pads her little front paws against your papers but you don’t find yourself minding since you’re already too distracted.  You gaze into her dark fur, a sea of black pooling and shifting on your lap like a dark mass of shadows. Your mind buzzes with too many details. That night was cluttered with too many… sensations. You cup your hand over your face feeling the heat rising on your cheeks.  March’s ears perk up and the inky mass in your lap twists to face you. Her golden eyes leering at you questioningly. 

 Us

 Your stomach plunges. You remember Slade's eye, how carefully it inspected the corners of the room, how it would wander to them while you were… The prickling in your mind told you something was wrong. You set your notes down to the side and begin to move March but she yawns contentedly on your lap so you let her be.  You drag your laptop closer to you, arching your back carefully so as not to move March. The scratching in the back of your mind definitely has something to do with the Thorn. Who knows maybe it was something relevant to the case this whole time? The dread rising in your stomach says otherwise. 

 Then there it was. Of course, it was in the fucking fine print. 

 High ranking clientele have 1 week to accept or decline the option to keep their private room videos private.  

 You swore viciously, putting your face in your hands. Your blood rushes to your ears. Of course, they would have cameras! You groan curling in on yourself. March bristles and shifts trying to pry your body open but you can’t make yourself budge not when you just want to implode. March, having given up on your sorry ass, squeezes her way out of your hold and hisses at you as if to tell you off. 

 “Yes, March. I know. I know. Oh my god- Shit, I know.”

 Her judging gaze did not waver even as she flicked her tail at your papers. You look at her pleadingly but she does not relent and even turns away from you. God, even your cat thinks you’re an absolute dumbass. Did Sita know? Did Nina? Did Anthony? Sita, probably not. She wouldn’t throw you under the bus like that. Ok, she would but not this badly. Nina, yeah probably. Anthony, definitely. But those two probably thought you were ok with it. This was such an amateur move. 

 You bite your lip and drum your fingers against the keyboard staring at the clock on the corner of your screen. Your eyes flick to your eyes to your notes and the grumpy cat making a nest out of your papers. There wasn’t much you could do with the case right now, not until Sasha made good on her end of the bargain. That would likely not be for a few hours and …

 You didn’t exactly trust Slade to keep this between the two of you. Besides, shit like this? Shit like this had a bad habit of leaking to other sites and whatever weight you pulled in the force would vanish in an instant. You ruffle your hair in frustration. Of all the mistakes you could make, why him? 

 “Such a good cockslut.”

 You bury your face in your arms as the heat creeps up to your ears. Out of habit, you put some pressure on the back of your neck but instead of quieting your mind, it slung your mind back to when Slade’s hand wrapped around your neck. You could still feel his calloused fingers grazing your sensitive skin, his breath fanning against your shoulder. How the hell were you supposed to fight him when the mere thought of him made you so flustered?! You were a goddamn professional! You want to scream or to be swallowed by the floor or both. Both sounds better. 

 You sigh, exasperation bleeding through the sound. You don’t regret it. Not really. You just wished this wouldn’t end up being career suicide. Sadly, you weren’t lucky. March’s tail flicked angrily at the thought. You say a nasally apology. She, appropriately enough, does not accept your apology. 

 You look at your phone. 1 AM. The thorn should be busy right now, meaning the guards should have their hands full.  You could definitely- Fuck it. You need to delete that thing. 

You spring out of your bed, launching yourself out the door not bothering to change out of your pajamas aside from throwing on a jacket and a pair of tennis shoes. It would be a quick in and out job if you did it correctly. 

 “See ya, March! Don’t wait up!” you call out from the door, waving your jingling keys. The sound makes March stir but she doesn’t look at you. You snort but the fondness in your features wins over the anxiety and the annoyance. 

“March?” Anthony’s voice rises above the echo of sensual music coming from the main room. You freeze, the movements of your limbs stuttering along with your heartbeat. “Uh hey,” you answer, voice infinitely more stilted than you were envisioning. 

 In the low light, you can see Anthony tilting his head, a wrinkle of concern marring his perfect brow. “I thought you were supposed to be off for a day or two since-” his statement falters when his eyes flicker to the hickeys dotting your skin. You fight down the urge to zip up your hoodie. “-since Mr. Wilson likes to play rough.” Anthony continues both from not really being able to stop the words and the need to get more information out of you. 

 You smile easily. For once, you’re thankful for the low lighting of the club. The corners of your lips twitch unconvincingly. “I- Mr. Wilson called me about an hour ago and told me to meet him here- same room- He said something about an offer and considering the tip he gave me… I found it hard to turn down.” You lie, shrugging your shoulders casually and giving him a look roughly translating to ‘eh what can ya do’. You will your muscles not to wince or fidget. Maybe your lie would be convincing enough. 

 Finally, after a long pause, Anthony gives you a knowing look and says “Well, don’t let him work you too hard.” You give Anthony a wry smile unsure what to say. “I won’t. Promise.” 

 You wait for Anthony to disappear before letting your shoulders roll into a slump. You wonder if he’s ever…

 You shake your head. That wasn’t your business but that doesn’t stop your mind from wandering. 

 The security guard in charge of the monitors was almost insultingly easy to take out. Given, he had his hand crammed down his pants and he wasn’t exactly paying attention to the surroundings. Then again, could you really blame him when part of his job is just watching porn?

 You drag his unconscious body to the closet, jamming the door with the guard’s chair. You would think this place could afford a rolly chair. Nope. You suppose they had to cut corners somewhere. They probably should have cut it at the cameras but then again you weren’t the one running the joint. 

 Just as with the guard, getting into the system was fairly easy. The universe may be telling you something. It likely was but you ignored it in favor of the screen lighting up with dozens of thumbnails of naked men and women. You fight down the spike of embarrassment that rises in your chest. The idea that one of these guards watched you as you… It was mortifying but something in your stomach stirred. It was a mix of humiliation and something unexpectedly warm. You shake your head doing your best to ignore the feeling bubbling in your stomach. 

 Underneath each thumbnail was what you assumed to be the client’s initials and what looked to be the dates of each video. Well, they’re horny but organized which really helps you. You type in ‘S.W.’ just to shorten your agony. 

 The screen flickers again and when it lights up with another set of thumbnails, your mouth dries and the blood rushes to your face and to your groin. You bite out a curse for letting your eyes wander to the images. The first one your eyes land on has his back facing the camera in all his naked glory. You scan the image, eyes tracing over the scars littered all over his body and the rippling back muscles you could only see through his shirt. You groan in frustration. You can feel yourself growing wetter. Because of course, you didn’t account for your body’s reaction to him factoring into the speed of your work. You slip up and play one of the videos, the vulgar sounds permeating the room and reverberating in your bones. You scramble to pause the video. A part of you is hesitant to. The better, more logical part of you wins out. It was either propriety or jealousy that won out. Either way, you weren’t eager to investigate, not when the aching between your legs made itself so pronounced. You swear but it came out more whiny and breathless. You tighten your grip on the desk and the mouse. You had to find this thing before you turn into a runny mess on the floor. 

“If you wanted a copy, Kitten, you could have just asked,” a gravelly voice drawls into your ear. You attempt to twist, your body brushing up against something solid. Strong arms and a toned body cages you against the desk. The man certainly knows how to use his large build to his advantage.  You twist and wriggle, a mix of irritation and panic traveling up your spine. Behind you, Slade groans as your ass brushes against his growing bulge. You freeze. Heat creeps up your face and a swelling pool of warmth in your groin makes itself known. The close proximity makes your hackles draw up with all the force of the ‘fuck you’ you felt but you reign it in along with the shiver suffusing through your frame. 

 You take a steadying breath. “How the hell did you know I was here?” you snarl, voice caustic. Unaffected and more amused than anything, Slade leans in closer, his hot breath fanning against your neck. You shiver. Your nose is overpowered by the mix of musk and gin permeating off of him. The scent was delightfully potent making you squirm in discomfort. 

 Slade kisses up your neck, taking his time answering. His teeth catch at your skin once or twice making you gasp. This feels so good. The thrum under your skin worsens. Your mind was starting to become fuzzy with anticipation. This man was definitely trying to kill you. 

 “Anthony told me,” Slade says in between kisses, and the anger that statement should have drawn out of you was nowhere to be seen.  “He told me that you were waiting for me in my usual room. Imagine my surprise when you were nowhere to be seen.” You roll your eyes at him. 

  “Let’s see what you’ve been looking at, Sweetheart,” Slade murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing against your jaw as he maneuvers the mouse away from you. A large hand settles on your hip, calloused fingers toying with the top of your shorts as his thumb traces circles against your bare skin. You whine and lean into his touch not even minding the obvious distraction. 

 You feel him smile against your skin as he reads through the dates on screen. You know he could just zip through these dates, his meta powers enhancing the rate at which his mind processes things.  You know he’s only slowing down to make sure you see the sheer volume of videos he has. Your mind tries desperately to shrink away, to carve out some sort of irritation or maybe even disgust but all you could feel was a rampant tinge of jealousy and you weren’t entirely sure what to make of it. 

 The obscene sound of your desperate moans fills the room, making you flush with embarrassment. On the screen, you watch as your fingers dip in and out of your core. The slick sounds blaring from the speaker make you drip and clench together but you do not look away. Your eyes are fixed on your trembling limbs and your gasping, kiss-bitten lips. You can feel it even now, the way your body greedily soaked up the sinful atmosphere. Your body aches from the memory. 

 You yelp when Slade’s fingers slip past the waistband of your shorts. You buck against his touch, letting his calloused fingers brush up against the bare lips of your pussy. “You making a habit out of not wearing underwear around me?” Slade teases bringing you out of your haze only through the need to defend your last bit of dignity but whatever sharp or witty comeback you have dies on your lips when he curls his fingers inside you. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

 So much for your dignity. 

 Your hips rock against his hand, doing your best to fuck yourself on his fingers and brushing against his bulge. Sure, you were horny as all hell but that didn’t mean you weren’t still the pettiest little shit in existence. You close your eyes and look away from the screen trying to concentrate on the feeling of his hands inside you. But you can’t deny how the sounds from the video made this way hotter than it already was. Gripping your neck with his hand, Slade forces you to look back at the screen.  

 You open your eyes and see yourself bouncing desperately on Slade’s engorged cock. You groan, pussy clenching on his thick digits.

 “Such a good cockslut, look at how well that tight cunt of yours is taking me in.”

 Shame ravages your entire body as you hear yourself pant and whine at the statement. You recoil looking away wanting nothing more than to dissolve into seafoam at the moment. You don’t get to revel in your shame when the hand on your neck shifts and is pushing you down and closer to the screen. “Didn’t I tell you to keep watching, Kitten?”

 “Yes, sir,” you breathe, mouth pressed against the meat of your arm. You try to concentrate on the video- the needy little noises you try to bite back, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the wet squelching noises as his cock drills into you. You really do. 

 You hear the click of the mouse. Your eyes watch as another video loads. On the screen, Slade rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, showing off his powerful forearms. There is a woman on the bed blindfolded, obediently keeping her arms in place as Slade binds her limbs to the bedposts with silk ribbons. Her parted legs show off the slick between her thighs flowing down to the sheets. Wordlessly, Slade drags a riding crop against her sensitive hole. You groan almost loud enough to snuff out her cries for him. A prickle of jealousy tugging at you makes you go rigid under his touch. 

 “Jealous, kitten?” he whispers, hand sliding into your shirt, large hand grasping the soft round flesh of your breast. You shuffle trying to kick him but stop when you feel him roll your nipples between his fingers. In the reflection on the screen, you can see him leering at your face twisting in reluctant pleasure. You can feel it against your ear. “Don’t worry, I have plenty of ideas for a good little slut like you.” You hear another click.  

 In the next video, the first thing that registers is a high keen, a mangled version of Slade’s name,  accompanied by a low buzz. In the corner of the screen, Slade’s toying with a remote, flicking the slider up and down with no real thought behind it. The woman whines, a frustrated sound, and you can understand the frustration as you grind your barely clothed pussy against the swell of Slade’s cock. 

 “Sir, please- Ah!”

 “Please, what, sweetheart?” he coos, turning the vibrator inside her back down to the lowest setting. 

 “Plea-” her plea is cut off by Slade flicking it back up to the highest setting then back down. You make a strangled noise of frustration at both the Slade behind you and the one on screen. 

 “Sir, please. Your cock. I need it. Please fill me up.” Tears are streaming down her face. Slade uncrosses his legs and stands up, smiling like he’s just been served something particularly delectable. “Such a good slut,” he purrs, turning the power back up to the highest setting. 

 The camera angle changes. You watch as Slade’s engorged cock sinks into her fold, vibrator still buzzing inside her. “You think you can take something like that? Can your tight little cunt of yours take that much?”

 “Yes, sir,” you answer, rolling your ass against him. He grunts and you grin into your arm. “This tight little cunt can take your large cock,” mouth shaping itself, showing off your pretty lips, “and whatever else you can give me” you say, voice breathy but even. You inject all the cocksure you can into the words trying to sound more challenging rather than pleading. Slade chuckles into your flesh. “We’ll see, kitten.”  

 Slade clicks on another video.  The camera trails over the swell of a woman’s ass down to her sopping core. Her face is pressed against the leather cushions of her couch while her limbs are locked to a spreader bar leaving her open and helpless to Slade’s ministrations. Slade, in all his naked glory, pumps his leaking cock lining it up against her greedy hole. She’s shaking and whimpering, trying to push her ass flush against him but his bruising grip keeps her in place. She cries out and your walls clench on nothing when Slade plunges his cock roughly into her folds. You whimper and buck against him, mimicking the way her ass bounces against his hips. The movement draws out a sharp ‘fuck’ from Slade’s clenched teeth. His thumbs press into the dimples of your back as he pins your hips to the table.   

 “Do you want me to fuck you like I fucked her?” he asks, threading his hand through your hair and yanking you up to his chest. You gasp, the pain making your blood sing.  “Do you want that, kitten?” You nod. “Take off your shirt.” Slade pulls himself back, still pinning your hips against the table with his. You shimmy out of your shirt and jacket eyes glued to the screen. You want him. You can feel how much he wants you too from the possessive way he cages you into the way his fingers curl inside you. They’re crooked just the right way to let you fuck yourself at just the right angle but it’s not enough. They fill you but it’s not the burning stretch you crave. You watch as he fucks into her relentlessly, jealousy boiling over in your veins as her eyes roll into the back of her head, completely and utterly lost in the pleasure.  “Maybe we’ll try one of those on you next time,” he whispers, pulling down your shorts and letting them fall to your ankles. Once again, your body bends over, presenting your bare ass to him. This time willingly as if to ask him to just fuck you however he wants.  

 "Tell me what you want," Slade licks a stripe up your spine, tasting sweat and desperation on your flesh and stopping at the back of your neck. You can feel him nip at your flesh. "What do you want me to do?" 

 All of that, you thought greedily.  I want you to fuck me, use me, make me cum over and over.  I don’t care how you use me. 

 "Would you rather I tell you what I want to do to you, kitten?" The hand shoved between legs is rubbing shallow circles on your clit. The motion easily cuts off whatever coherent reply was resting on your lips. You bow your sweat-drenched back into his chest. The hairs on his chest prickle your back. “I’ll tell you exactly how I intend to use a pretty little slut like you.” He grabs your neck, giving it a light but firm squeeze, his thumb brushing against your pulse. “I’m going to have you gagging around my cock as fuck your throat raw,” he growls. It sounds like a threat but it sends shivers up your spine. “Don’t worry, kitten, I won’t come down your throat. You know me better than that. I’d rather give you a string of pearls to decorate your wonderful breasts,” he says squeezing one roughly in his large hand. Your tongue lolls out thinking of just how much you want this. Slade brings down his palm against your ass; the same broad palm kneads your flesh feeling the familiar heat emanate from the red blooming on your skin. “Then I’ll fuck that tight little ass of yours.” You gasp as he enters your pussy in one swift thrust. The rhythm of his thrusts mimics the one on the screen, slowing down when he feels your insides strangling his cock. He whispers every filthy promise you don’t even dare dream of. 

 “Do you want to cum?”

 “Yeees,” you sigh into your arms. “Please.”

 “Ask nicely.” You’re going to kill him. 

 “Please, Slade. I-”

 “Oh errr-” You freeze. You turn your head to look over your shoulder. You make a horrified bleat when you see one of the security guards standing meekly at the door. He doesn’t bother to hide how blatantly he’s watching as Slade continues to fuck into you drawing little sighs and gasps out of you. Your walls flutter around Slade, sweet and tight drawing a growl out of him. Slade looks over his shoulder as if he’d just noticed your audience. “Patrick, do you think you could give us a few minutes?” Slade grunts slowing his movements. Patrick seemingly surfaces from his slack-jawed haze. “Yes, of course, Mr. Wilson! Right away.” He scampers off shutting the door in a violent haste. 

 “You know him?” you gasp, twisting your body to scowl at him. His pace slows even more as he pretends to thin his answer over. “He’s caught me a few times,” he says offhandedly. You have no idea why this surprises you. “You’re not the first slut I’ve fucked over this desk.” You shiver as Slade pushes you back down onto the table, keeping you still with a hand around your throat.  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he teases, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. “You’d want me to fuck that tight little cunt while he watches.” The hot breath fanning against your skin draws a shiver from you. 

 “What do you think, kitten?” he asks, nipping at your ear.  “Don’t worry he won’t mind. No one would mind watching that cute little ass of yours.” You whine in a half-hearted protest. It’s loud and you think you’ll get caught again. Slade seems to think so too as he instructs you to open your mouth.  Your skin feels too hot and your mind is hazy so you obey fully expecting to press his fingers into your mouth. Instead, he stuffs a lacy piece of cloth into your mouth. You make the mistake of flicking your eyes back to the screen to investigate. In your mouth was your lacy underwear from the other night and on the screen was...

 There he sits with the ease of a hedonistic king while one woman sucks on his cock, tears pricking the edges of her eyes, and the other riding his fingers chasing her own high as he devours her mouth. The satisfaction of your jealousy heats Slade’s veins. “Sometimes double is better, don’t you agree, kitten.”  You make a dissenting whine cresting over your lips. “Don’t worry we’ll let you try it at some point.” 

 “Men would pay good money to watch you like that-” Slade tilts your chin, squeezing your chin and forcing you to look at the screen as Slade fucks the woman's throat raw. “or like this-” Slade’s cock plunges into you, deep and filling and hitting all the right spots. Your nails drag against the desk feeling your insides clench around him. He leans into your ear, voice a husky whisper. “They’d pay even better money to have their cocks where mine is-” thrust “-right-” thrust ”-now.”  You whimper around the cloth in your mouth. You tighten around him at the thought of other people vying for your attention and Slade claiming you as his while they looked on with jealousy. Slade barks out a laugh, gripping hard above the arches of your hips to bounce you back on his cock.  You’re so close. You’re going to cum. You cum with a shrill cry. Slade fucks you relentlessly through your orgasm, grunting loudly against your ear. 

 He takes his cock out of you. You feel something warm spill all over your ass. It’s sticky and hot and you don’t need to look to know what it was.   

 He takes your panties out of your mouth. Your breath, greedily sucking in air but it turns into a gasp when you feel the lacy cloth rubbing against your oversensitive skin.“Gotta keep this place clean, kitten- This is a high-class establishment after all.” You don’t protest as he tosses your cum covered panties into your pile of clothes. You simply press your body against the cool surface of the table and let out a tired little sigh.  

 “Feel free to delete the videos if you want. I already have my own copy,” he says casually waving a USB stick as he walks towards the door. “As I said before, just tell me if you want a copy. I’ll happily give you a copy… for a favor.”

 “Fuck you.”

 “Anytime, kitten.”

 You hear the door close. You’re going to have to work to get your clothes back on. Your limbs feel like noodles but first, you click on your video and delete them. You saw several people on the members' list you want nowhere near you or your videos.  Your skin heats again at the thought of those people bidding just to- You push it out of your mind and hit the delete button. 

 You breathe a sigh of relief. 

 Bonus: 

 Slade brings his phone up to his ear after typing in a familiar set of digits. “How did you like it?”

 “Wilson, you’ve got her trained well,” Roman’s gravelly voice, says roughly strained from arousal as he replays some highlights. 

“Indeed, I do.”

 “How much?”

 Slade hums, taking his time to answer. “How much are you willing to pay?” 

 “You would be surprised.”

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THANKS FOR READING

Tag list:  @batarella , @anothertimdrakestan , @lucy-roo , @multifandomgirl-us , @idkmanicantenglish ,@birdy-bat-writes , @americasmarauders , @l-inkage , @arestorationofbalance  , @cloudie-skay , @wunderstell    @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red

[chronicowboy]

incurable romanticism

a/n: the old guard is amazing and you should all watch it again and again. but i had a cute idea for our immortal husbands and i had to write it.

Nicky stared at the empty bed. He looked to Booker who was reading some first edition of an old book that must have cost Andy an arm and a leg. Nothing she couldn't grow back. He looked to the woman, alone in the dining room with her bottle of vodka. Where was Joe?

The TV was quiet that night. No game to argue over. No movie to watch. No historical documentary to scoff at.

Nicky opened his mouth.

"I don't know where he is." Booker answered before he could ask. Nicky smiled. He must have become predictable over their centuries together.

"He went outside half an hour ago." Andy said as she passed Booker her half-full bottle. He supposed she would have thought of it as half-empty. Nicky had seen too much bad to let it destroy the good.

He wandered outside and spotted a figure in the overgrown grass. Joe sprawled across the field, his arms tucked under his head as a pillow. Nicky laid down next to him, resting his head on Joe's chest.

"I couldn't find you." He murmured. Joe grinned.

They stared at the stars in silence. The planes roared overhead, but they had plenty of practice at ignoring them.

"I don't believe in much." Joe said. "Not anymore. But I do believe in stars and love." Nicky admired the man. His eyes sparkled in the starlight and his smile outshone every constellation above them. "People have gazed at the stars since the beginning of time. They have wondered and marvelled. And the stars have stared right back."

"Do you think they watch us?" Nicky asked. Joe looked at him.

"I do." He ran his fingers through Nicky's hair. "We've seen civilisations fall and rise from the ashes. We've watched countless people live. We've died an infinite number of time. We've seen species go extinct. But the stars have stayed with us all this time." Nicky had always been more fond of constant reminders of love. A hug, a hold of the hand, a kiss, a romantic little comment. But Joe's rants of incurable romanticism were impossible not to fall in love with. "We have been condemned to a fate of immortality, but the stars have too. They have watched us ruin ourselves over and over again, but they don't turn away. They don't stop shining. They remain. And I never get tired of them."

"Will you ever get tired of me, my love?" Nicky tried to make the question sound like a joke, but the insecure edge crept into his voice once more. Joe entwined their hands and brought them to his heart.

"Never. How could I tire of you?" He inhaled. "Your heart is the birthplace of good even after all we've seen. How could I tire of you?" Nicky pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

"You're hopelessly in love with me."

"I am." They beamed at each other. "I think when we die, we go up to the stars. We stay there until we see what we need to and then we implode into a supernova. Maybe not as literally as that, but I believe in the poetry of it. From stardust we are born, to stardust we return."

"And we are just stars that didn't return home?" Nicky asked. Joe sat up and nodded. "Your smile is made of sunlight." Nicky breathed. Joe laughed. "Your laugh is divine. The universe has never made anything like it."

"Now who's the poet?" Joe tapped his shoulder and Nicky stood, offering his hand. He pulled him up and Joe used the momentum to press his lips to Nicky's. They rested their foreheads against each other and breathed in the night. They loved moments like that. There was no fight ahead of them, no blood on their clothes. It was just them and their love.

Nile returned from her walk. She nodded at them, walked a few steps, stopped and turned on her heel. They watched her struggle with something.

"How many times did you kill each other?" She asked. Joe and Nicky shared a look.

"Too many to count." Joe said.

"Well, then, how did you realise you were in love?" She stuffed her hands into her pockets.

"They say it's like sleeping." Nicky started. "But that would imply its accidental. It's like waking up. You have a choice. Your brain wakes up, but your eyes are still closed. You could keep them closed, press snooze on the inevitable, or you could wake up. The full light of it blinds you at first. But you carry on looking." Joe's forehead ached with the weight of the thousand eternities of their love. Nile frowned at the floor.

"But how did you know?"

"We died again." Joe refused to be outdone. "Staring into the lifeless eyes of the other. His spear through my stomach, my arrow through his neck. And as we came to, I realised. I never wanted to see his eyes like that again. I loved how they sparkled with life. I loved him." Nile smiled. Nicky put an arm around her shoulders and they walked back inside.

[lololil]

Requested by @nachtumringt from this prompt list - the way you said “I love you”. I appreciate you greedy being, thank you for the request. I hope you’ll enjoy it. 🍃✨

2. With a hoarse voice under the blankets

Lucas doesn’t know when it became love. Maybe it always has been. He remembers seeing Eliott for the first time, a clumsy little boy carrying boxes into the house next door. The feeling in his belly - like infinite little stings - and the heat spreading through his tiny body were definitely something new.

He even asked his maman what it meant, afraid he might have had an allergic reaction, but she just smiled and kissed his forehead. “One day you’ll know, mon chérie.” But he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, it may have been warm and fuzzy, but it was prickling, urgent. “Now, don’t you want to go meet the new neighbors? Take them this.” She stuffed his short arms with a basket filled with fruits and some sweets. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go, of course he wished to see the boy again, but what if that weird feeling ate him up?

If only had he known...

The feeling did, in fact, eat him up. To the point each two of three thoughts in his head would be about Eliott - that’s the boy’s name.

And now, twelve years later, they are in the exact same position. Lucas observing him from his house, analyzing how his muscles contract differently with each movement, how the breeze makes his strands dance around, how his eyes shine even though the sun decided to stay hidden behind the dense clouds. Boxes are being carried, but this time from the house and into the car. Eliott’s car. The one he will drive away in first thing in the morning, away to college. Away from Lucas.

Funny thing is, he did find out what that feeling he felt so many years back was. But now he has only been left with his chest ripped open, his heart sore, imploding, bleeding. 

Eliott’s eyes catch his and he can’t help but smile. His friend looks worried, lifting his shoulders with a clear question what is it. Lucas shakes his head and Eliott, as the stupidly perfect boy he is, starts running towards Lucas with a childish jog despite his huge limbs.

“What’s wrong?” Eliott asks, keeping his hands behind his back.

“Nothing! I was smiling!” He points to his own mouth and makes an exaggeratedly fake grin. “See?” Eliott huffs and takes one hand to Lucas’ hair, playing with it.

“Dumbass.”

“Yes, I guess we’ve established that that is my role in this relationship.” He points to both of them and something shines in Eliott’s eyes.

“I have something for you.” Lucas’ features brighten and he jumps excitedly. He was always incapable of feeling down around Eliott.

“What is it?” Eliott laughs and takes his hand from behind his back. Presenting Lucas with a stuffed raccoon. The raccoon. “What? Eliott, you can’t give me this. I already have my hedgehog.” And well it was kind of ridiculous, but they had bought them when they were younger, Lucas only agreed because Eliott had the most gorgeous smile on his face and he wanted it to last a bit longer.

“Yes, but I want you to have it. Please. So you can remember me when you look at it.” He looks taken aback, bashful, and it’s so honest and so sweet Lucas could kiss him. God, he wants to kiss him.

It’s not like I could spend a minute without thinking of you he almost says. “Ok. But only if you take my hedgehog.” Eliott smiles so angelically it’s hard to breathe.

“Ok.” He agrees and Lucas takes the stuffed animal giving it his all not to squeeze it. “You are cute.” It isn’t unusual for Eliott to say random stuff like this and Lucas never knows what to do. Obviously, his immediate response is always a heat accompanied by a deep crimson spreading through his features.

“Okay, please don’t. Come on, we still have a lot to do before you leave.” Eliott ruffles his hair once more and takes Lucas’ shoulder, leading them into the latter’s house.

***

Hours later, after spending the evening rewatching all their favorite movies, they are in Lucas’ bedroom, tucked under his covers, talking. This is one of the things Lucas loves the most, spending time next to Eliott talking about everything and nothing. Just existing next to him.

After they’ve settled in a comfortable silence, Eliott turns his body in Lucas’ direction and they stare at each other before Eliott starts talking.

“Do you remember how we used to read stories under the covers?” Lucas laughs.

“How could I forget.” Indeed, how could he. Eliott wiggles his eyebrows.

“So, wanna do it again? For old times sake?”

“For old times sake.” Lucas imitates him exaggeratedly. “Gosh, you are just a big baby and want excuses to read child books.” Excuses, just excuses. It’s what came to Lucas’ mind instead of running to get under the covers just to be closer to Eliott.

“I don’t see any kids' books around here. Do you? I mean, it is your bedroom, so if there were I guess that would make you the big baby.”

“Oh shut up and just get under the blankets.” And it’s beautiful, how Eliott beams with excitement. Just like a child.

“Ah, I’ll just get my phone, because I know how you get. Afraid of the dark and stuff.” At that, Lucas has no choice other than roll his eyes and tackle Eliott onto the mattress. Wrong choice, they end up close, really close, and Lucas has to strain himself not to join their lips. He quickly goes under the covers and Eliott follows after, turning his lantern on. “Excited, are we?” He teases, but Lucas is too entranced by the way the light reflects on Eliott’s features to respond. “For someone so opposed to the idea you sure got down here pretty fast.”

“Jesus, shut up!” Lucas says kicking him maybe a bit harder than necessary, making Eliott let out a high pitched squeal and they both burst out laughing. Their bodies squirm and it gets harder to breathe under all the blankets but none of them dare to resurface.

The laughter dies gradually, disappearing into a stuffed silence. Through the badly lit space, he can see Eliott. He seems lost in thoughts.

“Lucas, I’m scared.” He whispers, the light barely hitting his face, but Lucas can still see the deep worry in his eyes, how they are darker than usual, heavier. And how Lucas wants to touch him, take this feeling away, make that beautiful smile appear on Eliott’s face again. “I don’t want to lose you.” Eliott’s voice sounds broken and a shiny tear travels down his cheek, making a perfect trail to his mouth. Lucas follows its path with his thumb, drying it softly. Eliott’s skin is so warm under his hand.

“You could never lose me.” Eliott closes his eyes, creasing his eyebrows. More tears slide down his face. “It’s true.” Lucas can’t stand this, so he gets closer, until their noses touch. And Eliott opens his eyes, pupils blown. “You will never lose me.” They stare at each other, minutes spent looking at the galaxy that is Eliott’s eyes.

“Lucas.” His voice is only a tone louder than a whisper, a soft hoarse to it. He backs up a little, his hand traveling up to cup Lucas’ jaw. Eliott studies his face for a minute, eyes landing on each and every spot of Lucas’ features before they return to his eyes. “I love you.” All his thoughts get blurred, he can’t command his body to move, he can’t do anything except from widening his eyes in utter shock. He had wished to hear those words coming from Eliott’s mouth with that meaning countless times, but he never really expected it to happen.

Eliott must sense Lucas’ inability to form any coherent sound, so he lands a kiss on his cheek, it’s warm and sends a shiver down Lucas’ body. “I love you.” A croaky whisper against the skin there. His mouth travels to Lucas’ ear, warm lips caressing it. “I love you, Lucas.” He lets out with a warm puff and realigns their heads, trailing his thumb across Lucas’ lips and capturing the lower one. Lucas wants to bite it. “Can I kiss you?” He asks. Grave.

Lucas wants to scream yes, finally. But his brain is still short circuiting from the revelation, so he just joins their lips. It’s far better than he could have ever dreamt of. Warm like a summer breeze, but as refreshing as inspiring winter air.  They move in perfect synchrony, pulling desperately at each other, their bodies touching completely. It’s like they have been doing this forever. Might as well have been.

Lucas has to part, words finally coming back to him.

“I love you, Eliott.” The boy smiles, dumbfounded. It’s a beautiful image and the duvet over their heads with the dim light makes it even more magical. “God, I love you. So much.” Eliott lets out a laugh, maybe a bit relieved, and pulls Lucas on top of him, their mouths join again, no sight in detaching.

***

The next day, when Eliott leaves, Lucas still feels like a part of him has been ripped. Like maybe a vital organ is missing. But at least now he knows what Eliott’s mouth tastes like, what it feels like to touch and be touched. And that, that is something nothing can take away.

And now, when everything seems too much, they can always go back under the blankets. Just the two of them. Stolen peace in the middle of chaos.

[diveronaevents]

AUTHOR: Rogue

MENTIONED: ORSINO, ROSALINE, JULIET

TRIGGERS: Discussions of past torture/bodily injury, PTSD

SUMMARY: After taking some time to reflect, ROSALINE and ORSINO make a plan to leave Verona. As of MAY 23rd, ROSALINE and ORSINO are permanently in Amsterdam in order to take the city for the Capulets. Rosey will no longer be writing Rafaella in any capacity, but Rogue will continue to write Orion in an extremely limited one (occasional phone calls, emergency visits from characters to Amsterdam should you wish it, etc).

The positions of SPETTRO and ADVISOR are now open. Currently, Cosimo and VOLUMNIA are reviewing candidates for the ADVISOR position. If your character is interested in the SPETTRO position, you are welcome to think about their development, and also to send those thoughts to the main so we can discuss them! Thank you for bearing with us as we figured this out! 

The sounds of the city below are a low hum he’s learned to tune out. It’s calm tonight, very few sirens, no drunken raucous to be found as he listens to Rafaella’s quiet breaths, feeling them as her chest rises and falls beneath his head.

He used to hold her like this often. Orion has no issue in the switching of position; it’s the why that trips him up, stealing one of the rare nights of peace until the quiet buzzes like a wasp’s nest in his mind.

She runs her hands through his hair and it feels different. The long nails she used to wear haven’t yet grown back, the foundation slow if they want her hands to eventually be strong and healthy again. She won’t ask, but she feels more than hears her hum as she presses her lips to his temple a moment. He sighs.

“Today was bad.” That’s putting it delicately, but it’s not untrue. Rafaella makes that tiny hum again, but her focus has shifted entirely from her book. It’s set aside on the end-table now, her formerly preoccupied hand finding his so she can link their fingers together. They’re very unlike each other in this one specific way, for all the things they share. When Rafaella tries to hide her hurts from him at first, trying to protect herself or him in some immeasurable way, Orion has no issue sharing his.

He outlines it clearly: there will be no intensive movement of his shoulder for the next twelve months. Were he to do so, he would certainly lose any range of motion, and may end up paralyzed. There are other, more minor hurts that will still take an awful lot of time to heal, but this is the most egregious. This is the injury that debilitates him in the eyes of her Uncle, and Orion has an awful sinking feeling in his chest that he tries to ignore.

(Will it debilitate him in the eyes of Rafaella, too? He’s never worried about this before. He’s never been weak.)

Orion laughs with no bitterness, genuinely amused by how thoroughly Marcelo has decimated him. “They’re really good at their job, hm?” He blinks up at Rafaella, almost coquettish. “I have a type. Competent with a shitty home life.”

Rafaella lets go of his hand and runs a finger down the bridge of his nose before tapping once, lightly. “Don’t forget beautiful.”

“Yes, and works of art. The triad.”

Her mouth twitches at the corners, soft and fond but still reserved compared to several months previous. His Rafaella is quieter, now. He finds he doesn’t mind.

“How long,” he asks calmly, “until Capulet disposes of me?”

The hand in his hair freezes.

“He’s not a man to take kindly to wasted resources,” Orion continues, blithe, even as he reaches for her hand again. He squeezes until Rafaella squeezes back, until he has awareness that she’s listening again. “I’ll certainly be demoted, but I could handle that. It’s the rest that has me on edge.”

Rafaella shifts him off of her so she can look him in the eye. She doesn’t let go of his hand, warm and solid in his. “You are not disposable.” Her eyes are red. He wants to kiss them at the corners.

“Not to you,” he reminds her. “Not to some.” It’s not good enough, not if Capulet is truly headed for war. “I know too much, and there’s no way to ensure my compliance if I’m not being paid for anything. There’s no reason to pay me if I’m not doing anything, and I’m not the right person to be an emissary, even if they weren’t leaning more into fights lately. Two plus two equalling four, the easiest solution would be — “

“No.” This is practically a snarl. Rafaella’s gaze is biting, some of her former venom appearing in the way she bares her teeth with the sound.

He waits. Her mind is so sharp, twisting and unfurling until it blooms with new ideas, potent strategy, or something witty and bold. He wishes he could listen to her think, sometimes. He wants to be in that maze, curve around the edges, hug the walls until he finds her waiting for him at the center.

If he’s realized something, it cannot be long until she realizes it too.

There. He finds it in her eyes, when anger becomes defeat and quickly rallies into determination. “That’s not happening.”

“Of course not.” Orion smiles.

It must be contagious, because her lips curve too, shaking her head. She has far less faith in her ability than he does, but that’s fine. Orion has never been over-burdened with insecurity, but some have said he may be overwhelmed by overconfidence.

If he splits some with Rafaella, it will balance.

“Since it’s not, though,” he points out, “we’re going to have to do something about it, and I don’t have anything in mind.” His head is still fuzzy, sometimes. Things don’t come with perfect clarity. He has been assured that they will, after extensive scans of his brain, but that will come slowly, too. His treasured independence has been cast aside in favor of being coddled and taken care of, and he doesn’t mind half as much as he should, so long as it’s Maeve or Rafaella doing the caring.

She brings their hands up to kiss his knuckles, her gaze very far away.

“I might,” Rafaella admits. Orion never doubted it. “Give me some time.”

When Rafaella Capulet tenders her resignation as Cosimo’s advisor, it does not go the way anyone thinks it will.

That it happens at all is a shock to the bloodstream for almost everyone.

She attends three meetings in the span of a day, one public, one revealed but under the guise of being secretive, and one that is truly kept from the world at large. There are other goodbyes, of course. Other meetings to be had for herself and Orion both, other tender words to share with those who love them and are loved in return, other stolen moments where the pair can be themselves and acknowledge what they’re giving up.

But first, it goes like this:

Near dawn, Rafaella and Juliana Capulet share espresso in Orion’s kitchen. He would call it their kitchen, but she still can’t believe that, can’t hold onto it without fearing she’ll break it. Orion’s house, Orion’s kitchen. She’s an invader he refuses to get rid of.

They talk at length, until the sun is high in the sky and Orion has left for physical therapy. What they speak of, it’s too soon to tell. What they plan for, only the two of them know. In the end, they simply hold each other, holding tight for a very long time, all the while knowing that even when separated, family doesn’t truly end.

Hugs do, though, and finding solace in one another will never quite be the same.

Next, Orion and Rafaella go together to meet two non-descript men in a simple cafe. Nothing is ostentatious, everything quiet, their heads bent low. The Montagues and Capulets alike who pass them by hear Orion and this man conversing in stilted, passable Dutch. When the two men depart, the couple seem extremely satisfied, Rafaella curling around Orion like a cat stretching toward the sun.

The third, of course, is the hardest. Meeting with Cosimo Capulet is never easy. Telling your Uncle you’re leaving him behind is infinitely worse.

Somehow, though, she manages it. She stands strong as she calmly explains their reasoning. Both Orion and Rafaella have been torn apart by this war, bloody and raw, but she doesn’t point that out. They have been nearly broken, slashed into so many times they’re shells of their former selves in so many ways, but these are not reasons that will impress Capulet. And so, with Orion’s hand tight in hers, she lies.

She lies about the up and coming organized crime groups in Amsterdam. She explains the disorganized and chaotic nature of the warring gangs, of how many have fallen victim to hubris and the law. She opens his eyes to a world of her own creation, where Amsterdam has a power vacuum in dire need of filling, and the Capulets desperately need allies if they’re going to win this war without dying out in the process. She spins and spins her web around him with enough half-truths and persuasive words to bring glory to his thoughts, and all the while, Orion’s hand stays in hers.

A role better suited to our current position, she admits, letting the hint of vulnerability in her show for just a moment. Or should I say our current predicament?

It’s easier than she wants it to be. Selfishly, desperately, she wants him to fight for her to stay. Rafaella has been accepted as his family; should he not fight to keep his family together? Yet he considers it with almost cerebral calm, like he’s watching a chess game rather than thinking of the future of his family, and Rafaella’s heart hardens.

When Verona implodes around him, when his throne is viciously stolen, when everything he’s built flourishes while he crumbles himself, Rafaella tells herself she will not be sorry.

[serpentmythos]

Scars - Baron Draxum/OC One Shot

3.8k words, SWF (Mentions of gore, blood, and mild nudity)

A monstrous snarl echoed through the maze of tunnels that was New York's Underground City, followed by the slamming of something heavy on metal. A clawed hand lashed out, ripping paper from corkboard and sending pages fluttering through the air, only to settle haphazardly across the concrete beneath. Baron Draxum grit his teeth, eyeing the discarded notes with the purest of malice and malcontent. "Now now, My Lord, that can't be good for your blood pressure..." A mythic-sounding female voice sounded from behind him, one that the warring warrior scientist had grown accustomed to hearing as time passed. He let out another snarl, looking over his shoulder to glare at the immortal Queen of Egypt. "Your Majesty..." He growled, tone filled with warning, one that the woman clearly didn't heed.

Nafretiri chuckled and shook her head, folding her arms under her chest and giving him a knowing grin. "Errors in your stoichiometry again?" She questioned, and Draxum groaned, slapping his hand to his forehead and dragging it down his face. "No matter what I try, I can't seem to get the same results as the first!" He griped, turning around and slamming his hands on the metal lab table, making laboratory glassware shudder and shake in protest. A few empty test tubes rolled off the table and threatened the shatter on the ground, but with a snap of her fingers, a golden aura surrounded them. The tubes floated lazily through the air before righting themselves back into their proper racks. "Well, you certainly aren't going to get the same results by throwing a tantrum."

“You’d be wise to hold your tongue, woman.” Draxum warned, which made the enchantress roll her one remaining eye and scowl. “And a Baron would be wise to not order a Queen’s silence.” She snapped back without missing a beat. Draxum sighed, not having an appetite for Nafretiri’s sass at the moment. He needed to figure out what was going wrong in his formula notes, but now that a distraction was here in the form of The Oracle, his mind had little energy left to devote to focusing on his work… Watching the way his shoulders relaxed, and hearing the breath that left his lips, Nafretiri smirked.

“Come away from the table, Draxum. Allow me to help you with relieving a little stress.” She spoke, waving her hand and materializing a golden staff, a striking cobra coiled around the upper quarter of it. The Baron let out a low chuckle, knowing precisely what the enchantress was referring to. “With pleasure, Your Majesty.” He muttered, producing a pair of purple seed pods in his palm. A wicked grin spread across Nafretiri’s wine red lips, gold snake bite piercings glinting in the dim green light of the underground laboratory. Draxum turned, an insane grin of his own plastered on his face. The two relocated to a more spacious and open area of the lab, standing on opposing sides of the great room. Crushing a seed pod in each hand, a toxic purple slime encrusted up the length of Draxum’s arms, spikes erupting from various places upon his limbs. With the subtlest of nods, Nafretiri raised her arms, one clutching her staff, the other facing her open palm towards the male in front of her. Her palm brushed against the back of the golden cobra’s hood, its ruby eyes beginning to glow a brilliant red. The same golden miasma that surrounded the test tubes earlier began to envelope the cobra and her empty hand, a golden aura flickering from her eye as well. “O Geb, Mighty Lord of Land and Earth, lend me your Might!” She called, voice echoing with a bizarre power that had since been lost to times long ago. “Rise ye, soldiers, my Sentinels of the Desert Sands! Strike down this enemy of The Pharaoh, so your Queen commands it!”

As she recited her incantation, she moved her other arm out towards him, her open palm now facing the ground beneath her. Sand began cascading down from her palm, and pouring out of the golden cobra’s gaping mouth, the grit flowing freely around its bared fangs. Slowly the mounting piles of sand began to take shape, morphing themselves into pairs of tall and imposing looking golems, broad-shouldered and solidly built. Draxum’s grin only grew as he witnessed The Oracle channeling her magic. It was other-worldly, graceful, powerful to behold. No matter how many times he had borne witness to it, it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and his skin prickle with excitement. The woman before him truly was a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps if he could convince her to join his cause…? He didn’t have the luxury of time to finish his internal musings, as one of her Sentinels rushed him, stone spear poised to impale itself through his abdominal cavity. He raised his arms into a quick guard, the stone spear point shattering upon impact with his armored limbs. A swipe of his hand summoned a massive vine, the wood-y plant’s flesh colored the same toxic purple as his arms. The vine twirled and whipped about, thrusting itself through the Sentinel’s chest. With one swift flicking motion, the sand golem was sent flying through the air, crashing into another and both collapsing into dust. The sheer giddiness the Baron felt was clear in his expression. Golems could not feel the same pain that he and The Oracle could. Draxum could be as ruthless and destructive as he wanted to be with them, with no fear of repercussions. He could rip them apart and fling them about like ragdolls without a care. And sometimes that was the purest form of joy in the world.

And thanks to Nafretiri’s magic, there were endless waves of the sand brutes to work through, further honing his skill, perfecting his fighting style, testing the limits of his stamina. This was a challenge, and oh, how Draxum loved a good challenge. Despite the seemingly infinite supply of golems, he made it his silent goal to push Nafretiri’s defenses back, to corner her, to exercise his superiority over the Queen. He would tear down her walls of Sentinels one by one until there was nothing left! Force that haughty woman to bow before him! Another Sentinel fell, and another. Vines whipped and flailed, writhed and stabbed, cutting down the golems one by one as they rushed mindlessly towards the warrior scientist. Ones that managed to slip though his botanical defenses, Draxum finished off himself with nothing more than a few well-placed strikes. The more golems she created, the more Draxum found himself falling into a frenzy, relishing in the delight that the sandy carnage surrounding him brought. But, he might have been the only one enjoying it…

Across from the Baron, behind the much taller forms of the Sentinels, Nafretiri’s arms quaked. Sweat beaded along her brow, and her teeth gritted together from the strain. Usually Draxum was satisfied with just a few dozen golems slaughtered, but he was pushing well into the hundreds, now. This was far more than she could handle without more advanced preparations! As each Sentinel fell to Draxum’s might, Nafretiri felt her consciousness fading. She was only barely aware of the toxic purple vines creeping closer to her, and Draxum pressing further into her defenses. A vine swept a wave of Sentinels out of the way, and it coiled itself snugly around her waist. However, it had only just begun to bring her closer to Draxum, when everything went dark. Her body slumped and her grip on her staff slackened, before the golden artifact slipped out of her fingers entirely, falling to the floor with a metallic clatter. Without her staff to channel her magic, the Sentinels froze in place and soon collapsed into piles of sand once again, before slowly beginning to fade from existence entirely. Draxum let out a laugh of triumph, and as the last Sentinels began to freeze and fall at his cloven feet, he prepared to gloat over his apparent victory. Except, instead of the Queen standing there with a displeased scowl like he expected, her slack form in his vine caught him off guard. “Nafretiri…?” Her name had barely left his lips before her body went completely limp, head falling forward and her golden mantle falling, the crown rolling away from her and coming to rest at his feet. 

His eyes went wide in shock, and slowly he began to approach the unconscious body of the Queen. “Your… Majesty?” Draxum questioned, reaching out to lift her chin. However, when his clawed fingers were just a few inches away from her, a great golden spark leapt from her body to his, electrifying him and making him snarl in pain and surprise. He grit his teeth and withdrew his hand, as a warmth cascading from his hand up and through his body. He looked up when the pulses of magic began radiating from his form, and the same pulses came from the slumped form of the enchantress in his vines. A few more pulses, this time slower, before the magical energy froze in the air. Draxum looked about in confusion, letting out a small shout when the energy suddenly imploded in on the two, and promptly exploded back out, only this time it was different. 

The explosion of magical energy seemed to transform the empty room they were in. Great stone pillars erupted from the ground, stone walls came alive with colorful murals depicting hunts, coronation ceremonies, images of war. Gold, ghostly silhouettes of hundreds of people began to fill the room, their faint and echoing voices chattering in a tongue he couldn’t understand. A pair of great wooden doors swung open, and music swelled. A procession began to file in, and figures that he could only assume were religious ones entered first, swinging metal pots of burning incense and filling the air with smoke. He tried to dodge out of the way but froze instead, when he realized that the ghostly priestesses simply… Walked right through him. As if HE were the apparition here... The musicians came next, plucking their harps and lutes, shaking strange loops of metal that made sounds like tambourines, banging their animal skin drums, clapping their hands to a beat he was unfamiliar with. His eyes widened further as the next group came in, taking him aback completely. He stumbled back and tripped over Nafretiri’s crown, falling to the ground as the dancers moved in. The chiming of bells reached him, flowing skeins of dyed, sheer muslin graced every woman, with thick gilded necklaces being the only thing obscuring their breasts from prying eyes. His eyes fell on one dancer in particular, and familiarity tugged hard at his mind. Why did he feel as if he knew her...?

Her hair was woven into dozens upon dozens of braids, multitudes of fine gold and glass beads adorning each one. Her makeup accentuated her beautiful face, but what sparked his memory wasn’t her face, but instead it was her eyes… That same piercing gaze that always seemed to look into his very soul… “Nafre…tiri?” He asked, slowly coming to a stand as the apparition of the now-mortal enchantress made her way towards him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her graceful form, her dance was absolutely hypnotizing! The way her body moved and flexed, each motion flowing into the next so smoothly… It took his breath away. He tried to reach out to her, but the door slammed shut behind the end of the procession, and the celebration scene suddenly flashed out of existence. He started as they were suddenly in a courtyard, two young men vying for the affections of a now more modestly (well, modest by ancient standards) dressed Nafretiri. One tried to woo her with gifts of tigers’ pelts and exotic perfumes, while the other recited poems of his own writing. The next scene flashed, and she was kneeling with one of the young men in some kind of religious temple, in front of rectangular pool, floating flowers on the water and praying to a massive stone statue of a falcon-headed man. Movement out of the corner of his eye made Draxum turn his head, and the first young man from before was hiding behind a pillar, scowling and his eyes filled with heartbreak and bitter envy.

The hazy apparitions continued to show the progression of Nafretiri’s life. The passing of the previous Pharaoh from illness, the younger of his twin sons ascending to the throne with Nafretiri as his Queen, the older twin becoming his advisor. The couple in the Pharaoh’s bed chambers, bodies obscured by a veil, but silhouettes depicting a passionate embrace and a kiss that only two lovers could ever hope to share. A religious ceremony with the Pharaoh and his Queen sitting on raised thrones carried by soldiers, Nafretiri’s belly swollen and round with child. The pained screaming of the new mother as she lay in an ornately decorated pool of water, squeezing her King’s hand as midwives attended to the birthing of the young prince. The crying baby boy being lifted from the water, his umbilical cord cut with a knife, and both cord and afterbirth placed in a dish for sacrifice to the goddesses in exchange for the child’s protection. Nafretiri whimpered as the midwife handed her the little prince, and through her tears of pain she was smiling the dreamiest of smiles. She whispered something that sounded like a blessing (Draxum couldn’t be sure, this birthing process as a whole was something he had never seen before), kissing the crying baby’s forehead and nuzzling him close to her breast. The child grew before his eyes, from a crying newborn, to a babbling baby, and finally a rambunctious toddler that the slaves and nursemaids would chase endlessly throughout the palace. The Pharaoh scooped the boy into his arms, laughing heartily and carrying the prince outside to his mother, where she was dressed for a journey and seated in a barge for a trip down river. She bid a tearful farewell to her son, and kissed her husband, before a blessing was said over the barge by priests, and sailed off down the river, fading away.

It was only now that Draxum realized that the Pharaoh’s advisor had been present through every apparition, always nearby, but never truly getting involved. Always eyeing his brother and nephew with malice. But this time, he noticed the absence of the older twin. Draxum caught a glimpse of the man behind another pillar, holding a perforated earthen ware pot, with a muslin lid secured over the top with a red cord, and a manic grin on his face. The half-mutant snarled a bit, not liking the look of that pot in the slightest. Something was amiss. Some more timed passed, and the Pharaoh and little prince were napping peacefully in the Pharaoh’s bed chamber. Silent as a mouse, the advisor crept in, carefully setting down the pot and undoing the red cord. Tipping the pot over with his foot, ashen gray and tan scales of an Egyptian cobra could be seen. Slowly, the serpent slithered its way out of the ceramic vessel. It lifted a portion of its body off of the floor, raising its head before slithering towards the bed, silently moving its body under the linen covers, where the ruler and young heir were sleeping. The advisor picked up the pot and closed the wooden door to the bed chamber. Not long after, as the advisor was walking down the hall, the high-pitched and pained shrieking of the toddler prince, and the panicked shouts of the Pharaoh sent the palace staff sprinting towards the bed chamber.

The scene that flashed next, was a gut wrenching one. Nafretiri walking up from the tomb of her now-mummified husband and son, eyes puffy, and red from crying. The older twin feigned sympathy, hugging the woman, comforting her. It made Draxum’s blood boil. The funerary procession marched somberly back through the desert to the capital city. The apparitions progressed further, showing the older twin rising to rule, and exercising his newfound power in such a ruthless fashion that it shocked even Draxum. Monuments of the old Pharaoh were toppled, his burial tomb destroyed, scrolls burned, murals torn down, and repainted. Those who mentioned the old king or young prince were publically executed. This new Pharaoh took every step he could to erase his brother and nephew from the annals of history. Nafretiri simply sat back and… Watched it all happen. She spent a majority of her time in the palace locked in her bed chamber. The Queen grew thin, her eyes sunken, her once-beautiful face having turned gaunt from grief. To see the apparition before him, and comparing it to the immortal enchantress he knew now, it was like comparing night and day. To see the strong and powerful woman he knew so weak… Draxum felt a tightness in his chest. His heart ached for her. He wanted to reach out to the apparition, to pull it close to him, and comfort her. But those feelings were brief. They were soon replaced with the deepest rage, and bottomless hate, for the man who did this to her. He let out a roar and lunged for the form of the new Pharaoh, but the scene changed again.

Nafretiri and the Pharaoh were arguing. Nafretiri yelling through tears and the Pharaoh drawing ever closer to her, clearly demanding that she hand something over. When the woman continued to refuse, Draxum’s anger only mounted higher as the Pharaoh seized his wife, and plunged his hand into her right eye, ripping the beautiful green orb from its socket and throwing it to the floor. The sound of the blood pounding in his ears and his vision going red obscured the sight of Nafretiri crumpling to the floor and clutching her face, and droned out the poor Queen’s shrieks of unimaginable pain. Draxum lunged once more for the Pharaoh’s apparition, but obviously phased right through him. He was about to try again when there was a gasp from behind him, and the Baron whirled around as the scene surrounding him faded. They were back in his lab, Nafretiri had regained consciousness! In his anger the vine that restrained her had rotted away, leaving the immortal Enchantress in a crumpled heap on the floor. She was panting, her eye wide, and hands shaking. Slowly, Draxum approached her, picking up her fallen crown and holding it out to her.

It took Nafretiri a moment to register what was happening, but she looked up at Draxum holding her crown out to her. Nodding in silent thanks, she took the crown and placed it back on to her head. “I fail to understand…” Draxum spoke, making Nafretiri glare up at him in disdain. “You know damn well that if I overexert myself, I lose control of my-“

“I’m not talking about that!” Draxum interrupted, startling the woman. Growling, he was clenching his fists as his face went dark. “I fail to understand how you don’t hold the same hatred for humanity that I do! That wretched waste of organic material… That, false king… What he did was unforgivable, scarred you for life!” He shouted.

Nafretiri looked down at her hands, as she slowly came back to a stand, piecing together what happened when she passed out. She remembered… Bits and pieces of her past life floating through in a dream like state. She must’ve projected her dream into the real world when she fainted and lost control of her power. Draxum… Draxum witnessed everything. The treachery that lead to her death. The disgraceful acts that left her permanently disfigured, even now, thousands of years later. She was, as he said, scarred for life… “That was nearly three thousand years ago, Draxum…” She muttered, refusing to look up, her hair obscuring most of her face from him. “As the Mighty Ra’s solar barque sails ever forward, bringing with it one new day after another, scars begin to fade away…”

Draxum came forward, grabbing her chin and forcefully lifting her face to look at him as he leaned in, staring at the muslin bandages that obscured her hollow right eye socket from the rest of world. Her remaining eye was wet with tears, something he wasn’t expecting. His mind briefly flitted back to the crying, grieving Queen in the apparition of her dream. “Scars may fade, but they never truly heal, do they?” He snarled, but it wasn’t as threatening as before. She jerked her head out of his grip, turning and kneeling down to pick up her golden staff. “Touché…” She responded, looking over her staff and keeping her back turned to him.

Pursing his lips, Draxum stood there for a while, before coming closer to her. The armor on his arms cracked and flaked, decaying away from his skin and returning his limbs to normal. Just as she turned back to face him, she felt a tightness wrap itself around her body. She came face to face (or rather, face to chest) with the warring warrior scientist, the half mutant pulling her into a hug. It was a strange thing for Draxum to do. She expected such action from Huginn and Muninn, but from Draxum… Her vision went blurry as more tears formed, and she failed in choking back a sob, wrapping her arms around the Baron and burying her face into his chest. The Queen leaned into him, crying her heart out as all the painful memories came flooding back. He squeezed her a bit tighter, placing a hand on her head. “I’m sorry, Nafretiri…” He muttered, not expecting a reply. After what seemed like ages, the tears began to slow, and her sobs were replaced by whimpering hiccups. “I need to get back to work now…” Was all Draxum said before letting go of her and turning to walk back into the main part of his lab, leaving her there to dry her tears and regain her composure.

Huginn and Muninn flew down from their perch in the rafters, draping a small blanket around her shoulders. “C’mon, gorgeous, we’ll escort you back to your hotel…” Muninn spoke softly, Huginn nodding in agreement and gently pushing the Queen in the direction of the lab's exit. Draxum watched his gargoyle minions tend to the grieving Queen from the darkened hallway, gritting his teeth as his mind recalled all that he saw. Snarling, he shoved himself off the wall and strode off back into the lab, picking up his discarded notes and working on them with renewed spite, vigor, and determination. His eyes drifted up to the test tubes that Nafretiri saved from breaking earlier, reaching over to pick one up. Growling, he shattered the glass in his hand and dropped the shards to the floor. Humanity will pay for their transgressions… Not just towards yokai and mutant-kind, but towards Nafretiri as well. Humanity and their ancestors will suffer. They will all… Suffer.

(A/N: Please leave comments and criticisms, I wanna know how I can improve my writing ; u ; Reblogs > Likes.)

[justjessame]

Babysitting Butcher Chapter 17

Domesticating Billy Butcher wasn’t something I’d aspired toward when I took the assignment given me with poise and grace. Ignore the discomfort I openly experienced when learning of my new role, please. Without my questioning my superior’s sanity, I clearly displayed ample poise and grace. At least that’s what I planned to keep telling myself.

Back to the domestication of one William “Billy” Butcher. This wasn’t my goal, but neither was having sex with the man. That being said, there was something very toe curling about seeing him wearing nothing but his boxers, standing in my kitchen, arguing with the box that held at least part of the dinner he was preparing for us about how fucking idiotic it was for something so small to take so bloody long to cook. If you doubt me, I dare you to see it for yourself and prove to me your toes didn’t twitch even a little at the sight.

“I could give you a hand,” I offered from where I’d been leaning against the doorway, watching in amused and slightly aroused silence. He shot me a look over his broad shoulder, eyebrow raised and I had to give myself a cool down talk. Jumping him in while he was trying to cook dinner wasn’t going to get either of us fed. Although, dessert was always pretty damn filling. I pushed off the door frame and was in his arms with the irritating box tossed behind me, our mouths meeting and his arms wrapping around me so he could pull me tight against him.

“This my shirt, Ronnie?” I might have pilfered his clean shirt, buttoning it carelessly, but it managed to cover me almost to my knees regardless. Sighing as his mouth met the curve of my neck, I nodded. “Looks better on you, but I bet it’ll look fucking amazing on the floor.” And then he tugged it off of me and kept kissing down my body, wait, I wanted dessert first. I started to argue, but then his mouth confirmed that I’d ONLY been wearing his shirt and I couldn’t remember being hungry at all.

 Dinner didn’t burn, of course it didn’t cook either, since I’d interrupted Billy BEFORE he turned the oven on and put anything in it. We ate Hot Pockets, which he was shocked I had in my freezer, what fucking neanderthal doesn’t keep Hot Pockets on hand? We sat at the table, but we were so close together that we could have been on the floor, his shirt was covering me again, his boxers in place, and we were savoring our little warm gooey meal.

“You constantly surprise me,” he told me as we were putting the dirty plates in the dishwasher. I must have looked confused because he went on. “Buffets, naughty in the office,” I almost reminded him that he was the instigator of those office moments, but he kept going. “Hot Pockets, tough as fucking nails, but sweet as sugar, Veronica Taylor, you’re a fucking constant source of amazement.”

Shutting the dishwasher door that stood between us, I closed the gap. “Hark who’s talking, William Butcher.” I traced up his arms, from wrist to shoulders, with my fingertips. “Who knew you could make pancakes, wash clothes, and attempt to make dinner?” He was smiling down at me. “And I have it under good authority,” from the report I wrote on the subject, I added in my head, “that you’re also fucking diabolical.”

His mouth met mine, but unlike when I interrupted his dinner making, this kiss reminded me of the first kiss we shared. Slow, tempting, testing the waters. Like he wasn’t sure, as though he didn’t know how I’d receive his advances. Even as I went on tiptoes, letting his neck take a break from leaning down, and my fingers slid through his hair, Billy kept the slow pace. As though, if either of us pushed harder, moved faster, the bubble would burst and we would implode or disappear.

We kissed for hours, or so it seemed, just enjoying the taste of one another’s mouths. The feeling of his tongue teasing mine, still so slow and sweet that I would have enjoyed it for days.

 We didn’t have days to enjoy ourselves. Monday came, as Mondays always would come, and I smiled into the warm chest of the man lying next to me when the alarm went off. I could get used to it. Having him with me, next to me, warm against me as we drifted off. And that scared the hell out of me.

“Morning,” he muttered, lips touching my head. “Ugh, work.” My smile grew and I kissed his chest, glancing up to see him staring down at me. Growing bolder from the attention, I took a slow tour down his body, thinking that I could make his morning, and mine, infinitely more enjoyable with a couple minutes of focused attention.

 Billy told me he’d meet me at the office, and I grinned because I knew that he needed a change of clothes, even if we’d laundered his. He kissed me as he helped me into my car, telling me that he’d kill to wear the shirt that smelled exactly like me, but that he’d get not a fucking thing done if he did. Except me, he offered with a smile, and then he drove away and I was shaking my head as I pulled out behind him.

 I was sitting in my office, door closed, clicking through work emails when the knock came. Shaking my head, reminding myself to mark the upgrade for Billy’s key fob to urgent, I stood barefooted to answer the door. It wasn’t Billy. Nor was it Joseph, Anthony, or any of the men who normally rapped on my door.

Looking up at his smug face, I had to remind myself that he was invulnerable, or nearly so and hitting him or being rude could be construed as an act of aggression and he’d welcome an excuse.

“Homelander,” I offered with a small tilt of my head. “To what do I owe the-” I couldn’t say pleasure so I left it dangling.

“I think you should invite me into your lovely office, Dr. Taylor,” his voice was quiet, so I could hear the excited muttering voices from down the hall, clearly he’d been noticed. “The conversation I want to have, well, it’s not one you’ll enjoy your underlings being privy to, I assure you.”

Stepping back, hoping against hope that traffic would keep Billy at bay until I could diffuse whatever situation this was, I let him in cape and all.

[bakerstreethound]

Not Your Prisoner

Pairing: Greg Lestrade x reader drabble

Warnings: smut…I guess (or my very late night poor excuse for smut)

Summary: Greg tied up with his own handcuffs…need I say more?

All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound​

Word Count: 574

So I’m totally blaming @pandaqueen7799 for this idea. Luv ya (:

“Come on Greg,” I purred, pushing away the doughnut from his hand. While nestled comfortably on his lap I could clearly see how the rise and fall of his chest grew heavier with each syllable slipping from my lips. His eyes roamed up and down my body, clearly dismissing his now discarded doughnut as it lay helpless on the floor. This prompted me to purr louder in his ear, sending ripples of pleasure through his being. That is, until you grasped his waist, ever so skillfully pulling out shiny and recently polished handcuffs. He groaned in response, reaching up to tangle his calloused, yet warm hands in my wavy locks. “Oh hell no, put those back.”

“These pretty things? Of course…not,” I smirked, leaning down to brush my lips against his. I was rewarded with a whimper as I pulled away, but remained merely centimeters from his chest. His heart rate was increasing by the minute, heat pooling between us. 

He bit his lip, squirming against me. I could feel his need growing from under me. “You really don’t have to use those. Only prisoners need them.”

I raised a brow. “What a brilliant observation. You are my prisoner now. Such a naughty boy,” my voice turned sultry, tinted with desire. He shifted under me, drawing his fingers to his hardening member. I grasped his wrist, using as much force as I could muster to hold him against the chair and wrapped the handcuffs around his exposed wrists. 

“Dammit, woman.” he sighed, his silver hair falling into his eyes. I gazed at him, adoration that once shimmered there now replaced with malicious intent. He needed me and would not let a pair of damned handcuffs stop him. 

“Such a good boy. Are you ready to claim your reward for your cooperation? Awe look at you, so helpless, so…weak.”

His legs trembled, feet tapping fervently against the floor. “I’m not your prisoner, you know. I catch the bad guys,” a measure of confidence imploded in him. 

“Oh, you’re not, now, are you?” I snarled as I hitched up my skirt, before grinding against his prominent erection. His moans were a glorious cacophony penetrating through the walls of the Yard. 

“Oh, mmm please, bloody fucking hell, I need you, alright!” his hips thrust up against mine as I draped my hands across his neck, savoring the feel of him, or part of him. 

“I need you now, Greg. I will have you right here and now. No one will stop me.” I made quick work of his pants, disposing them underneath his desk. Immediately his member leaked as I grasped it in my hand, pumping it sure and steady. Greg’s panting grew louder until I finally plunged into him, uniting us as one. “Greg, gah you’re so perfect.

“Hell, you’re tight.” he panted, sucking on a tender spot of my neck as I brought him down for our release. “Please, harder, I’m about to…” his voice cut out into a moan as we both came for what felt like an infinite time. 

I slumped against him, listening to his raging heart, my breath steadying out to equal his. He smirked, looking at my tired form curled in his lap.

“You know I would cuddle with you, but…” he tilted his head back. “Handcuffs, damn handcuffs. You have to have the keys somewhere.”

I raised my head lazily from his toned chest. “Keys, what keys?” 

[initiala]

what’s left of me

A soul for a soul. That's the deal, right?

a post-Endgame fix-it fic. The canon is dead and I killed it.

{on AO3} {on FF.Net}

ABSOLUTELY SPOILERS HERE

I tried to get her back.

It's the hardest thing, waiting in the shadows, listening to them argue about who gets to die - who kills themselves for the cause.

It was supposed to be me.

He flinches at the explosion, hears Clint's bow clatter against the stone, the footsteps quickening. Natasha's shout and he dares to look out from behind the rock and his heart plummets as she disappears over the edge.

It's hard, but he hears them arguing, still, dangling over the precipice.

"Damn you!"

"Let me go."

"No. Please don't."

"It's okay."

And Clint's anguished cry tells him everything the blinding flash of light doesn't, that Natasha's gone, she's not coming back, it's irreversible.

She's not coming back.

Steve's had some bad hands dealt to him over his life. Parents gone too soon. Crappy health. Denied the chance to do some good again and again, until someone took a chance on a scrawny kid who couldn't breathe right most days. Then denied the chance some more, put on tour like a circus monkey, a slap in the face.

Losing Bucky. Losing Peggy.

He's not losing Natasha too.

He's lost seventy years but gained seven - seven not so bad ones, with her at his side with her quiet jokes and her own persistent pursuance of truth and justice. She'd been the one to pull him back together after the Snap, after they'd killed Thanos, pulling every trick in the book to keep whoever was left in the loop and doing whatever they needed to keep the entire universe from imploding on itself from the genocide. She'd pushed him into helping others, knowing he'd understand more than anyone else how difficult it was to move on from a horrifying change in your life.

He'd pushed her to sleep a little more, to let Danvers and Okoye run their recon and let Rhodey follow up on leads.

He doesn't remember who'd pushed whom into bed first, but they found comfort in one another for that first year or so, before finally admitting there was something more, something that had been simmering in the background since the start.

He'd found Bucky. He'd found Peggy.

He'd be damned if he wasn't going to find Natasha too.

Maybe you ought to go talk to him!

The spectre lingers near the edge, the hood keeping its face in shadow as Steve steps into the light. The case feels light in his hand, as if the item it contains knows it's home and is trying to fly out; he'd left Mjolnir left in its own time on Asgard, the other stones back in their respective homes. The Soul Stone is the last to return and he's got all the time in the world to barter for Natasha's life.

"Steven, son of Sarah."

He knows that voice.

Red Skull looks on with the same indifference he remembers from eighty years before; nothing surprises him anymore, not the least the appearance of his old enemy from halfway across the universe and a lifetime ago. He steps forward, opening the case as he goes. "The stone you seek is no more," Red Skull intones.

Steve lifts up the Soul Stone. "Returning it, actually."

For a moment, Red Skull actually looks surprised, then confused. "Why? The price has been paid, the conditions met."

"About that," Steve says. "You said the conditions were a soul for a soul." He held out the stone, settling his stance and meeting the spectre's gaze squarely. "So I offer it back, to cut out the alternate reality this made, in exchange for a soul."

Red Skull grimaces, stepping back into shadow. "Once the exchange has been made, it cannot be undone."

"Says who?"

"The stone."

"Bullshit."

The inhuman face floats just inches from his own now, eyes piercing into his own. Steve's hand closes over the stone, clenching into a fist. "You are condemning me, boy, to a curse that will last infinitely. Returning the stone will not bring her back. Returning the stone will only trap me here until the next wandering soul comes to try and claim it, only to fail yet again."

The stone feels warm in his hand. "I can't say I care too much about condemning you. I thought that had been taken care of already, but I'll gladly do it again after everything you did. But the fact remains - the conditions for the stone are a soul for a soul. I very much doubt that whoever created the stones thought that someone would go to all the trouble of returning them moments after they were taken. Her body's not even cold."

He takes a step forward, the stones beneath his feet trembling as the clouds overhead rumble. "So I say again. A soul for a soul." He holds out the stone, its light piercing as it hovers over his palm.

"Give her back to me."

"A soul for a soul."

The whisper calls to mind the roar of a waterfall and the slithering of snakes over fallen leaves, the cold of space and the blaze of a volcano. It is all and it is nothing as light streaks down from the heavens and encases the rock pillars around them. The warmth in his hand increases to a burn and power pulses from the stone, pushing him back and blinding him all at once-

Until there is darkness.

Clint, where's Nat?

His heartbeat sounds oddly loud in his ears and his body aches. It takes him a moment to register that he's laying in a pool of water, that being partially submerged is why his heart beats so loudly, that his body aches from being exposed to the power of an Infinity Stone.

But there is a weight on his chest.

He sits up carefully, aware that she's been through a trauma and might not be fully awake or okay just yet. He holds her, using the water and his hands to clean her face of blood and checking her for a source or further injury, listening to her steady breathing and praying to whatever was listening that this wasn't some kind of monkey's paw - that she'd returned and she'd be herself and not some facsimile of Natasha Romanoff.

He hadn't listed any conditions. He probably should have listed some conditions.

A soul for a soul.

She opens her eyes. Green, clear, confused, darting this way and that as she draws a shaky breath and tries to sit up on her own. "How-?"

"We won," he tells her. It's not the first thing he wanted to say, and it's not even the second thing he thought he should say, but she's looking around like everything has gone wrong but he just needs to tell her the most important parts, that everything's changed and a lot of it did go wrong, but they got the job done.

They won. That's all that matters, now.

She's waiting for him down the street, lurking in the shadow of a tree and ignoring the scandalized looks from passersby. "She took it well?" she asks, holding out her hand for him to take.

"She understood, as much as I could explain it anyway. She's married, anyway. Good guy, loves her for who she is." Steve pauses, glancing over his shoulder. "I can't say it didn't tempt me to stay," he admits quietly, knowing she's done and forgiven him for worse.

Natasha steps in front of him and he takes a handkerchief from his pocket - an old habit, sure, but it comes in handy now when he wants to wipe away another streak of blood left maring her skin. Her eyes are sad but there's a smile on her lips. "You love her," she said, catching his hand with hers before he can pull away.

"And part of me always will," he says. "She loved me before I became... this. But she's in the past-my past. I found you. You never gave up on me, not in the beginning and not through all those years on the run and trying to figure out life after Thanos. You reminded me that I wasn't always Captain America, that I was still Steve Rogers. You helped me remember why I signed up for this, why we kept going after SHIELD, after the Snap."

She's shaking her head. "Only because I couldn't stand seeing you break. You needed something to believe in, a reason to keep fighting and stay sane. I took over the insane stuff so you didn't have to."

"I believe in you, Natasha."

His lips find hers, soft but with feeling, pouring everything he couldn't find the words to say into a simple gesture. She presses her forehead against his and he feels dampness against his cheek. "You found me," she whispers.

"I didn't know what I would do if I lost you."

They remain that way for another moment before she pulls back first, sniffling and swiping at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. "Well. Where do we go now, Cap?"

He smiles, tugging her hand and leading her down the street. He's still got a few vials of Pym particles, he knows their quantum GPS's are still sync'd to the new portal in 2023, but he's not in any particular hurry to go anywhere. "I know a good place we can go and get some milkshakes," he says. "Best in Brooklyn, hand to God."

They've got all the time in the world, after all.

[iminyourhandskara]

I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor - Karamel One Shot. (1/2)

WORD COUNT: 2178

______________

The weather wasn’t looking too nice on Argo City, heavy clouds were covering the sky ready to shower the night away. Kara and Mon-El had just left their dinner with Thara and Lir-Al (which resembled a lot a double date, but neither of them had enough courage to say it out loud), and it didn’t end in the best of ways: Kara was still fearing for her life, even if her mom reassured her there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe she should’ve said no..maybe she should’ve spent the night with her mom, catching up and all those lost years. And Mon-El too, yes, just like in her dream.

 “I’m sorry if I ruined the night with my paranoia.” Kara apologized to Mon-El as they were walking home. “You have nothing to apologize for. And I trust you and your instincts more than anyone else’s.” “Thanks.” “By the way, I had fun: I haven’t had a normal night out since…I don’t even know.” “Yeah, me too. I wish my biggest struggle was designing my new house.” She chuckled, thinking about Thara’s disappointment with her monolith. “Right?” Mon-El joined Kara in her laughs, “We know nothing about that.”

 They arrived home to Alura, where the lady was still awake. “Hello, guys! I didn’t expect you to come back so soon. Did you have a fun night?” Kara and Mon-El looked at each other with crinkled foreheads, before they said in unison, “Mostly, yeah.” “Well, you’re gonna tell me all about it tomorrow..Kara, I know it was a very long day for you, but would you mind joining me in a prayer to Rao, before we go to sleep?” “Mom, of course! I would love to. You don’t know how many times I prayed with your hologram during my toughest times.. Mon-El, do you want to join us?” Mon-El definitely did not expect such a request, he found himself blushing: “I think you need some mother-daughter quality time by yourselves, I would just—just ruin it.” “You wouldn’t ruin anything, Mon-El.” Alura touched his arm, hoping he would feel more comfortable. “Mom, do you know I taught him some of our prayers? Do you still remember them?” “Most of them, yes.” He admitted; he was the one who asked Kara to teach him, he was never a religious person, but he could see that she was really connected to Rao and it meant a lot to her, so he wanted to help her feel more like on Krypton, at home, even on Earth. The three of them stood together, holding hands, as Alura started talking in kryptonese: “Rao, today I am thankful for my daughter’s return home, after so many years separated: you brought us back together and the joy in our hearts is infinite: we might not always understand your plans for us, but you bless us continuously and keep us safe, despite the hardships.” “Rao,  I thank you for keeping my mother alive and well, for leading me to a loving family on Earth when I didn’t have her, for all the people that have protected me and made me feel less alone: I’m grateful for the powers you’ve blessed me with, I hope I used them in a just way, in the name of your light. Thank you for letting me be here, with the people in this room, after I thought I had lost them forever and would never see them again. And for the ones I’ve lost, we’ve lost..” She started reciting the prayer for the dead, with Mon-El and Alura. They endured so much pain and loss in their lives, this was a cathartic moment for them; a few teardrops fell down Kara’s cheeks, who was particularly missing her father in that moment, Mon-El’s hold on her hand got a little tighter, to show her support.

“Rao, I haven’t been fortunate in many aspects of my life.. I know I haven’t trusted you for many years, thinking you hated me and put me in the worst situations, but I know better now: I know you were teaching me resilience and patience for greater things that would’ve happened later. Each experience was a lesson, that brought me here today, and I feel blessed. Finally, I thank you for keeping this woman that changed my life completely, safe, and the woman who raised her to become a hero, as well.”

 Both women smiled at his words, Alura’s curiosity about the connection between the two friends was rising, but now it wasn’t the right time to think about it.

Kara immediately hugged her mom, needing her embrace more than anything else in the world, she craved the affection of her jeju. “Before we say good night..I just realized I don’t have a bed for both of you, I’m not used to having..guests.” “Oh.” “But no worries, I’ll sleep on the couch, you can sleep in my bed.” “No, no, I’ll sleep on the couch.” Mon-El replied firmly.

 Kara was slowly imploding and sweating about the idea about sleeping in the same bed as her ex lover after a year. “Mon-El, you are my guest, I won’t let you sleep on the couch. You guys had a really long day, you deserve to rest up.” At that point, Mon-El knew there was no way to get out of that argument, Kara took her stubbornness from her mother.

He looked at her, puzzled and deep in thought, she was probably realizing the same thing that he did. “Okay.” Kara said really quietly, and not exactly convinced. “Take these blankets to keep you warm.” “Won’t you get cold on the couch?” “I have other blankets, don’t worry about me. Go to sleep.” Alura gently caressed her daughter’s cheek and kissed her forehead.

 Mon-El and Kara went to the last room in the hallway, but right before they walked inside, she stopped: “Mon-El..” “Are you okay?” “It’s my parents’ room. I haven’t seen this place in 14 years, so please, after we open that door, let me take a few minutes to just..reminisce.” “Of course.”

He nodded understanding, he would’ve been breathless as well if suddenly he saw the palace he grew up in, for many different reasons.

 Kara opened the door and looked at every corner of the room in silence: she could see her child self jumping on that bed, waking up her parents because she just had a bad dream, playing with her dad, who picked her up and made her “fly”…Her lower lip was now quivering and Mon-El couldn’t resist the urge to hug her anymore. He embraced her, as she sobbed quietly on his shoulder, until her breathing was even again: rain started pouring outside their windows, suddenly becoming a soft, relaxing melody for them. “Put these blankets here, I’m going to put on my pyjamas in the bathroom.” Mon-El said, realizing that the room was getting much colder.

 When he got back into the bedroom, she had already changed her clothes too, to a silver nightgown. Kara was sitting at the edge of the bed, still quiet and immersed in her thoughts, so Mon-El sat next to her. “Do you need anything? Do you want to talk?” He was too concerned about this experience being overwhelming for Kara, and he needed to do anything to make her feel better.

 “No, no, I’m fine. You can sleep.” “I’m not going to sleep until you do. We can just sit in silence if you want.” “It’s just weird… it’s all so strange, being here again.” “You’re overwhelmed.” “Yeah.” She lowered herself on the bed under the blankets: Mon-El was about to do the same but he figured he wanted to be 100% sure that she was comfortable with him there.

 “May I?” Kara nodded, smiling: she was surprised to see how gentle he was being with her, ever since she realized this place was Argo City, he didn’t want to make her feel out of place or uncomfortable in any situation, Mon-El was being the most supportive partner in this journey to her hometown.

He was lying next to her, but still trying to keep a certain distance, he tried to not think about his racing feelings for the woman beside him, and to follow the raindrops’ sound until he would’ve fallen asleep.

“Are you cold?” Kara asked, very awake, unlike her friend. “No, no. Are you?” “No, I’m good.” “Okay…Good night, Kara.” “Good night, Mon-El.”

 A few minutes passed, Kara was now on her side, facing Mon-El, who was lying on his back. “Mon-El.” “Mmh?” “Are you asleep?” “No, tell me.” “It’s not that important, you can go back to sleep.” “I wasn’t sleeping, what’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to thank you.” “For what?” He turned his face to Kara, still enough inches away from her. “For being so kind and understanding.” “Don’t even mention it.” “And seeing you, praying with me and my mom..it meant a lot to me.” “It meant a lot to me, too.”

 The night was now becoming more and more obscure, they could barely tell their own silhouettes apart: Kara kept turning around, the sound of the storm wasn’t letting her fall asleep, the movements made Mon-El wake up from his slumber. “Kara..” “Great, I even woke you up. I’m so sorry, but I just can’t sleep with all the noise outside.” “Don’t worry about it, just try to stay still and calm down, you’ll fall asleep soon.” She tried to follow his advice, but quickly after that, she started shivering, but obviously, her stubbornness wouldn’t let her show it.

 Mon-El now fully turned around to Kara: “You’re shaking.” He whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m not really used to feel this cold.” He raised his arm, “Come here.” He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, but his instincts told him it was the right thing. “Mon-El, I..” Kara looked at Mon-El like he was the most beautiful thing she couldn’t have. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.. Can I hold you?” “Yes.”

She let Mon-El take her in his warm embrace, and those butterflies in her stomach she tried to ignore for all those months, were now fluttering at full force. All the thoughts that preoccupied her mind before were gone now: she wasn’t caring about what was right and what was wrong, Kara just knew that this was how they were supposed to be, and he was right, they didn’t have to talk about it in that moment.

She focused on his heartbeat instead of the rain, the rhythm was fast, but then slowly calmed down. “Are you feeling better?” He whispered again. “Much better.” Kara’s head rested on his chest, one of his hands on her back, the other was caressing her head: without even saying a word, both of them fell asleep, peacefully.

 It was almost dawn, when Kara noticed that something was wrong: she heard him mumble something multiple times, then pausing and shaking. “Please, don’t. Please don’t hurt- NO!” His eyes were now wide open, Mon-El was breathing heavily. Kara looked at him with worry in her eyes, “Hey.. you had a nightmare, you’re okay now.”

He was sitting on his side of the bed, unsure of what to say, “Do you want to talk? Do you want to try sleeping again?” Kara tried to whisper with the softest voice, just like he did to her.

“No…no. Let’s just go back to sleep.” “Okay.”  They lied down in the same position as earlier, but Kara noticed a stiffness that wasn’t there before.

“What did you see, Mon-El? Please, talk to me.” He didn’t want to tell her, he didn’t want her to have a wrong idea of what it meant, but he knew he had to tell her.

The light of the sun rising made her face clearer in the dark: Mon-El looked at her comet eyes and started talking: “At first…I saw Imra, she looked upset and disappointed, like.. she was about to slap me. Then, I blinked, she was gone,” he paused to take a breath, “and my mother showed up.” Kara flinched at Rhea’s mention, the wound she cut into her was still too fresh. “She told me something about how all my problems start and end, how all my pain is caused by..by you. And then she tried to stab you, again. That’s when I woke up.” “I’m so sorry, Mon-El…” “I don’t want to hurt you, Kara..or anyone.” “You won’t, okay? Look at me, you won’t.” Her hands caressed the sides of his face, light reflected on the Legion ring she forgot to take off. “Let’s go back to sleep, come here.” It was now her turn to comfort him: Mon-El saw himself as someone who broke everything he touched, and blamed himself even for things beyond his control, it seemed like those seven years didn’t change that aspect of him, but actually made it worse. Her presence calmed him down, it gave him the comfort and peace he seeked for most of his life.

[parvatiholcomb]

the (current draft of the) first half of the big convo between phineas and leah under the cut

“This is unusual,” says ADA. “Hello, Dr. Welles. I hope you aren’t here to involve the Captain in an irrational scheme.”

Phineas has neither the breath nor the time to answer. He heads straight for the stairs leading to Leah’s quarters— and nearly crashes into the metal door suddenly barring the way. His heart pounds in his ears. “Blast it, ADA—“

“The Captain has requested that her sleep only be interrupted for medical emergencies.” ADA’s tone is just short of menacing. “Is this a medical emergency?”

“It’s an urgent matter.”

“On a scale from ‘spilled Zero-Gee’ to ‘Monarch imploding’, how urgent is it?”

Phineas stops short, crisis temporarily forgotten. “What kind of scale is that?”

“The Captain devised it herself. I admit, the lack of numeric reference points makes it difficult to use. I’m still mastering the finer points of it.”

“It’s an eight,” Phineas hazards.

ADA deliberates in silence. Phineas’s answer must prove satisfactory, because the door at last slides open with a hiss of pneumatics. “Very well. I’ll wake her.”

By the time Phineas reaches the top of the stairs, Leah is leaning against her doorway, waiting for him. She’s bundled up against the cold, in fleece pants and an oversized sweater, and something about her appearance is off. Her armband, Phineas realizes. She isn’t wearing it.

“What the hell’s going on?” asks Leah, blearily. She looks him up and down. “Law, how many stimulants are you on right now?”

“That isn’t relevant,” says Phineas, waving off the question. “I need to speak to you about a sensitive matter.” On the last two words, his eyes flick up to the ceiling meaningfully. He (seventy-three percent) trusts ADA herself, but recordings can be hacked; sensors can be hijacked. Until he and Leah decide on a course of action, it’s best to ensure any prying eyes remain in the dark.

“ADA,” says Leah, “can you give us some privacy?”

“Yes, Captain. I am capable of performing that action.”

“Okay, let’s try that again. ADA, turn off all surveillance devices outside the bridge until I ask you to turn them back on.”

“Understood, Captain. Please be advised that if you are crushed under a falling object while my sensors are disabled, I will be unable to detect that you require help.” An ostentatious sequence of three descending beeps plays from the ceiling, signaling ADA’s compliance.

“Accidental cyanide poisoning couldn’t have killed Dr. Miller,” says Phineas without preamble, now that they’re alone. “I examined his genome, and within it, I found the ability to taste and smell cyanide. It would have been impossible for him not to notice that his respirator was broken.”

Leah stands up straight, eyes alert, all her tiredness sublimating like naphthalene at room temperature. “Why the hell were you looking at his genome?”

“He wouldn’t be the first scientist the Board has assassinated through a staged lab accident. I started investigating as soon as I learned of his untimely death. At first, I thought I was merely being paranoid— but I was right. Dr. Miller’s death isn’t the simple case it appears to be.”

Leah sighs, touching her fingers to her forehead in an infinitely exhausted gesture. “The Board had nothing to do with it.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I know who did it.” She holds up a hand to keep him from interrupting. “It’s been handled. Before you ask, I can’t tell you who it was. And before you ask the next question, I can’t tell you why I can’t tell you, either. All I can tell you is that there’s nothing more for you to investigate.”

“Do you think I could have survived thirty-five years as an outlaw without learning discretion? Whatever you’re trying to protect me from, you don’t need to.”

“It isn’t about protecting you. I’m asking you to trust me on this, Phin.”

“I’m man of science. ‘Trust me’ isn’t enough of an answer, not even from you. If you won’t tell me, then I’ll be forced to continue investigating, whether you want me to or not.”

For a long moment, she holds his gaze, and no one speaks. Finally, shoulders slumping, she folds. “He wasn’t murdered.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that, can you? You just admitted it wasn’t an accident.“

“It wasn’t murder, and it wasn’t an accident. Johan… turned off his respirator himself. He messaged me the night he did it. Explained his reasons, asked me to keep it a secret. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. It was his last request.”

Leah isn’t making any sense. What she’s describing simply isn’t possible. Miller wasn’t a thief; he wouldn’t rob—

There it is: another damned splinter of Board conditioning Phineas can never extract. He was raised by Spacer’s Choice parents in a Spacer’s Choice town; propaganda was spoon-fed to him with his baby food, and one of the flavors was Rizzo’s Purpleberry Suicide Is Theft. Only the Hope’s colonists are free from that corruption. Only they can fix things.

And Miller knew that. He wouldn’t just abandon the colony. “Is that message the only evidence?”

Leah blinks at him. “Evidence?”

“I don’t doubt you believe what you’re saying, but I’ve dealt with the Board’s machinations for much longer than you have. Forgery is child’s play for them. They’re terrified of you after what you did at Tartarus, and they’re right to be. They would stoop to any means to throw you off the scent.”

“Phineas. He killed himself. That’s all.”

“Aha! Don’t you see? That’s precisely what the Board wants you to believe. Think about it logically, for a moment: Dr. Miller’s work was among the most successful of any researcher in Halcyon. What possible reason could he have for choosing to stop?“

Leah stares at Phineas, dumbfounded, as though he just declared that the speed of light is saltuna. Not simply an incorrect statement, but one so fundamentally wrong about the nature of reality that the listener doesn’t know where to start with corrections. Finally, she says, “You know about his kids. We were both there when he woke up.”

Phineas has a vague memory of Miller, minutes after dehibernation, mentioning something about the family he left behind on Earth: two daughters and three sons (or was it three daughters and two sons?) and a dozen grandchildren. The specifics hadn’t seemed important at the time. But now, Phineas — not a father, not a family man, and not accustomed to stepping outside himself — pauses to consider what the loss would feel like. A thought experiment. Leah, he supposes, is the closest analogue. If she were to die—

Multiply that by five, all at once, and Leah’s hypothesis becomes a sickeningly plausible alternative to murder. “But he lived with that reality for five months. What changed?”

“A few months back, he thought he found one of his grandkids’ names on a colony ship manifest from Dashkova. But two days before he died, he found out it was a different Jozefein Miller. They just happened to have the same name and be the same age. He… couldn’t handle it anymore, after that.”

Another plausible answer. There must be a flaw somewhere, if only Phineas can find it. “Dr. Miller wasn’t indentured. He didn’t have a body price. Why use such elaborate means to conceal his own suicide?”

“You,” says Leah, softly. “He knew how hard you worked to save us, and how much faith you put in us, and he didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You’re certain of this?” asks Phineas, his stomach dropping to somewhere in the vicinity of Terra 2’s mesosphere.

“I’m certain. He was in a bad place for a long time. None of us want to disappoint you, Phin, but—“

“I failed him, didn’t I?” asks Phineas, unable to hear Leah over the wave of nausea rolling over him. “If I’d found the solution to reviving you all sooner, his children would still be alive. He would still be alive.”

Leah gasps — a sharp, broken little sound — and she puts her hand on Phineas’s shoulder, gentle and firm all at once. “No,” she says. “Look at me. Look at me. That isn’t your fault. We’re only here because you refused to give up on us. You dedicated your life to saving us. Just you, alone. You did everything you possibly could.”

“That’s what I can’t stand. I did my best, and it wasn’t good enough.” Phineas swallows down the lump in his throat, unable to meet her gaze. “I wasn’t good enough.”

Without warning, Leah pulls him into a hug he doesn’t deserve, pressing her cheek to his chest. She’s a wall of living warmth, proof that his failure wasn’t total, and his arms hang uselessly at his sides. He possesses the physical strength to push her away, but not the moral strength. “You were. What you did was a miracle, and you did it with no help from anyone. With the Board trying to hunt you down. You can’t blame yourself for not doing it sooner.”

She’s wrong, wrong, wrong. “Why can’t I?” Guilt fills Phineas’s lungs like water; crawls under his skin like Monarchian parasites. He doesn’t deserve her comfort. He doesn’t deserve any of this. “Dr. Miller is dead because of my failures. Dozens of colonists are dead because of—“

Phineas catches the confession halfway through, but it’s too late. Leah breaks the embrace quicker than if he’d turned into a mantisaur, and she backs up one step, then two. “What are you talking about?”

He should lie to her. Say that he meant the colonists whose hibernation chambers UDL stole for their Lifetime Employment Program research. He opens his mouth to tell her just that, and from far away, he hears himself say, “You weren’t the first colonist I attempted to revive. You were my first success.”

Leah takes another step back, her expression inscrutable, and Phineas waits for her reply like a prisoner waits for the firing squad. This must be what the colonists’ tachypsychia feels like: one moment, stretched into eternity. He’s hyper-aware of everything: his heartbeat, the stale taste of recycled air, the cold spots on his back from the loss of contact. He tries not to imagine Leah throwing him off the Unreliable, starting the engines—

“If we’re really gonna talk about this,” says Leah, “we should sit down.” Without waiting for a reply, she walks past him, heading for the stairs to the third level of the ship. She doesn’t look behind to see if he’ll follow.

A moment later, he does.