#museum title: the kiss

[beskarfrog]

Maybe dinluke-it The Kiss, 1859 by Francesco Hayez ?

big heart eyes for how your brain works @cutoutthepoetrywatson

[jackdawandicarus]

Me n who? 😞

[comatosebunny09]

— cw: making out, steaminess, jealousy, tooth-decaying romance, terms of endearment

He takes you with him to a gala to celebrate the opening of a new museum. 

It’s a little overwhelming, showing up on his arm like this. Everyone’s attention has been on you since you stepped inside the venue. There’s no clear-cut title to your relationship. But he doesn’t correct the other guests when they address you as his lady.

You’re not used to the attention. The whispers of how refreshing it is to see him with someone after years of bachelorhood. They talk about who you could be. A model, an actress, a singer. Talk about how you could’ve come to be his girl. The handsome, seemingly cold, and stoic business mogul smiling boyishly with you on his arm. No one’s ever seen him glow like this. You should be so lucky.

It’s flattering, their gossip, but it’s getting to you along with the champagne bubbling in your stomach. You slip out of the banquet hall for some fresh air. Truthfully, you plan to escape to your room upstairs to take off your dress and recharge. You don’t belong amongst these people, and it shows. You stick out like a sore thumb. 

You saw him chatting up a beautiful, statuesque woman on your way out. She kept touching his arm, smiling all pretty, giggling bewitchingly. He wasn’t doing much to stave off her physical display of affection. Must’ve been an old fling. How could you possibly compete with that?

You step into the elevator, heaving a sigh. Suddenly, a large hand slips between the doors, halting them from closing. He eases in beside you, a furrow between his brows as he watches you in your periphery.

“Were you not enjoying yourself?” he asks, breaking up the tense silence that befalls you as the elevator lazily drags itself between the floors. 

You fiddle with your necklace, a nervous chuckle in your throat. “No, no, I was. I just…”

He suddenly spills over you. Blots out the bright lights overhead, filling your vision with only him. He perches his palms on either side of your waist on the rail behind you. Exudes a dizzying warmth and heady scent that makes you feel more inebriated than the bubbly you consumed.

For a moment, you forget how to breathe. You swallow against the dryness in your throat, squished up against the elevator wall. He quirks a brow, wordlessly encouraging you to continue. Studies your face with scarlet eyes smoldering like burning coals, fully aware of his effect on you.

“I—”

“You?”

You stiffen when his fingertips graze your cheek. He sweeps some hair behind your ear, watching your mouth quiver as you struggle to form words. Your gaze falls to his lips. You’ve kissed before. Though there’s no definitive title to your relationship, it stretches beyond that of interviewer and interviewee. Ambitious journalist and prodigious business mogul. Beyond mere acquaintances or friends. 

He’s made it glaringly obvious that he likes you. He’s showered you with gifts and his time. Whispered the sweetest words to you, held you close. It would be nothing to kiss him now. To lay claim to him, spiting the pretty woman who’d been throwing herself at him earlier.

You’re not usually one to initiate. But you call up some courage, fingers wrapping around the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. He blinks at you, a little perturbed, lips slightly parted. You pull him to your height to kiss him, trapping a sound of protest in his throat. 

He melts against you, the kiss evolving into something more heated as he anchors you to the wall with his body. His hands find yours, trapping them overhead, fingers tightly wound together. 

He ravages your mouth. Leaves no part of it untouched by his tongue, drawling pretty mewls from you. He groans in response, addicted to the way you taste. To how you feel, so small and pliant against him. How you sound, sighing all content and gasping for air each time your mouths part.

The elevator dings, signaling it’s reached its destination. You’d forgotten you were onboard, lost in the feel of Sylus’ mouth moving against yours. He breaks away reluctantly, desire burning beneath his irises. He studies you for a beat before pulling you out of the elevator. You toddle behind him like a fawn, your heels too tall, legs feeling like jelly.

You vibrate with anticipation as he drags you to your room door. Pushes you up against it, swooping in for another taste of your lips, hand at the crook of your knee, bringing your thigh up to his hip. He swipes your keycard whilst your hands frame his face, and you’re kissing a little more desperately now. Stumbling back, shoved up against the door’s other side once inside your room. 

His hands roam up and down your sides. He notches himself up against you, knee nestled between your thighs. You moan as he pulls away from your mouth, blistering your neck with kisses leading to your collarbones. Instinctively, your fingers find his hair, mussing up his pretty, white coiffure.

His phone rings in his pocket, the sound jarring amid your labored breaths and the rustling of fabric. He tries to ignore it, busy nipping at the junction of your shoulder, palms roving over the plush of your thighs, your hips. Whoever’s calling must have a vendetta against you because they don’t let up. 

With an irritated sigh, he draws away from you. Still strokes over your skin, his cell held between his ear and shoulder as he grates a harsh “What” into the mic.

You stifle a chuckle. He looks so cute like this, lips kiss-swollen and smudged from your lipstick. Cheeks flushed, mottled red. His hair is slightly askew, the collar of his dress shirt wrinkled, and his bowtie loosened. He watches you with a crease to his eyes, cupping your cheek while his thumb teases your bottom lip.

You chase the feel of it, locking eyes as you nip at his fingerpad. His gaze darkens. He wants to kiss you again, but whatever’s taking place on his phone seems to be holding him back.

“On my way,” he sighs, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He inches in for a kiss, this one chaste and guiltless. Fingers smoothing back your hair, he breathes into the space between your mouths, “Forgot I had a speech to give.”

You pout, knowing where this is going, tugging on his jacket like a clingy toddler. “You leaving me?”

He chuckles, the faintest smile canting his lips beneath the low light of the hotel room’s entryway. “Only for a little while. I’ll come back for you, sweetheart.” He presses himself fully between your thighs, the seam of his trousers delightfully grazing your inner thigh. “Promise.”

You brush your noses together, lids lowered. “Okay,” you drunkenly nod, ghosting your lips over his.

“Wait for me?” It’s more of a request than a question, but you agree. You’ll always wait for him.

After kissing you one final time, he peels himself away, straightening his tie and smoothing out the wrinkles in his tux. You watch him from the slit of your door with a smile before closing it, propping yourself up against it, and sliding down.

With a dreamy sigh in your lungs, you’re a giddy mess as you fling yourself onto your bouncy mattress, kicking and squealing into the pillows like an enamored teen. 

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

We Fell in Love in October | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hello everyone, and…

🦇🧟‍♀️👻🎃Happy October!🎃👻🧟‍♀️🦇

It is truly the most wonderful time of the year! Halloween is my favorite favorite holiday, so of course I had to write a little something. I borrowed the title from a girl in red song that I enjoy. Also, if you're a New Girl fan, parts of this plot line might be familiar to you :)

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: minor reader injury

Shrieks and laughter echoed from every direction. The smell of fresh kettle corn wafted through the crisp autumn air. And two separate groups of children in Halloween costumes almost knocked Bucky to the ground. They blew past him in a blur of candy and chaos, shouting as they ran. He was certain that a rogue kiddo had somehow smeared the sleeve of his jacket with the sticky, sugary coating of their caramel apple, but he didn’t mind.

He simply took in the sights and sounds of the Halloween carnival, smiling to himself as went out of his way to step on crunchy leaves. 

Autumn was his favorite time of year- October, specifically. It was October when he first bumped into you at his favorite coffee spot, spilling your pumpkin cold brew all over your shoes. His insistent apologies and dedicated clean-up efforts endeared him to you instantly, as did his shy smile. He graciously replaced your drink and bought you a slice of spiced pumpkin bread for good measure, which you happily shared with him.

After that, Bucky knew he was done for.

He found himself spending as much time with you as possible. The two of you frequented bookstores and museums. You introduced him to a swath of movies and tv shows that he’d missed out on over the years. And he brought you back in time with each 40’s crooner he showed you on his record player. He’d never felt so comfortable, so at ease. And you returned the feeling ten-fold. 

It was October of the following year when he showed up at your apartment with a massive bag of candy and a bottle of your favorite wine. He knew how much you loved Halloween and all it entailed: the movies, the décor, the spirit of the season. And he was determined to make it extra special. The two of you watched scary movies and laughed uproariously each time the other jumped. And both of you consumed so much candy, you feared you might be sick.

But that fear subsided when Bucky finally pressed his lips against yours for the first time. It took him all night to work up the courage. He found his focus drifting from Nightmare on Elm Street and settling on you. Your jack-o-lantern sweatshirt. Your slightly messy hair. Your bright smile. But he didn’t make his move- he couldn’t. He was far, far too nervous. 

It wasn’t until the night came to a close that he finally found his nerve. You walked him to the door and thanked him for the candy. The wine. The company. And for making the first day of October one for the books. The goodnight hug you shared lasted longer than it ever had, and you swore he held you tighter than before.

The two of you lingered by the front door, chatting about nothing of consequence. Bucky needed to buy himself some time, and you wanted to keep him in your apartment as long as possible. You figured that if he hung around long enough, maybe he’d finally make his move.

But he left. After another long hug and some more nonsensical chatting, he bid you goodnight. He intertwined his fingers with yours for a moment, sweeping his thumb across the back of your hand. He gave your hand a squeeze and swept a kiss across your knuckles, and then he slipped out the door.

But before the disappointment had a chance to settle into your chest, a metallic knocking vibrated through your front door. You opened it instantly, figuring that Bucky had forgotten his phone or his keys on your coffee table.

But he wasn’t after any forgotten personal effects. 

Breathlessly, he asked, “Can I?”

“Please.”

And that was it.

His mouth met yours in long, deep kiss full of want and adoration and Halloween candy. His hands cradled your face, yours twisted into the front of his t-shirt. And neither of you took a breath for a very, very long time. Only when your chest burned from lack of oxygen did you finally pull away- but it was only for a second. He greedily recaptured your lips before you even knew what happened, not that you’d ever complain about it. 

And when Bucky eventually broke the kiss, you knew you this was it for you- he was it for you. He brushed his lips against your cheek, your forehead, the tip of your nose. And he asked you if you’d like to join him for an official date. You, of course, said yes.

Said date came only a few days later, when Bucky took you to a pumpkin patch and the two of you carved jack-o-lanterns together. You carved a rather accurate depiction of Ghost Face. And Bucky, of course, decorated his with a stick figure representation of the two of you at the coffee shop where you first met.

The night ended with a Halloween Hayride followed by a corn maze- and you swore Bucky got the two of you lost on purpose. He kept pulling you down errant pathways, insisting that they’d lead to the exit. No exit ever materialized at the end of his rogue, twisting trails. But they did provide the perfect venue for him to steal a kiss or three. And you didn’t complain once.

On October thirtieth, he asked you to be his. And you told him that you already were- you’d been his for a long time. He just didn’t know it.

It was hard for Bucky to believe that only two Octobers ago, you were a stranger. And now, you were his girl. He’d given all of himself over to you, and you accepted him with nothing but warmth and kindness and love. He couldn’t believe he’d been lucky enough to meet you, to win your affections, to call you his. 

He was never a huge fan of dark, dreary, autumn, as he always preferred the warmth of summer. But meeting you was enough to turn him into fall's biggest fan. The two of you were inextricably linked to the season, turning it instantly into his number one favorite. And as he strolled through the Halloween carnival and allowed autumn to wrap around him like a blanket, he couldn’t help but feel at home. 

At the sight of the Haunted House, Bucky hung a right and curved around the back of the structure. He listened to the screams and subsequent laughter of the patrons inside as he waited for you. He didn’t particularly love haunted houses, and probably never would’ve considered partaking in one if it hadn’t been for you.

“Buck!” your voice broke through the noise of the festival and pulled Bucky’s attention. 

But as his head perked up, he didn’t find his best girl. No, he found only a bloody, decaying zombie sprinting in his direction. He’d never been so happy to see a monster.

“Woah! You look amazing, baby!” Bucky motioned for you to do a spin for him and admired your elaborate, almost-too-realistic make up and costume. “You’re gonna scare the hell outta these people, doll.”

A wide, satisfied smile stretched across your zombified face, “That’s the idea.” 

As carefully as you could you leaned in and brushed a kiss to Bucky’s lips. Of course, you didn’t want to dirty his face with your gory make up, but you simply couldn’t resist kissing him. And you’d never want to. 

“Wait, I thought Sam was coming with you,” you scanned the area, looking for Bucky’s partner in crime. “Did he change his mind?”

Bucky let out a breathy laugh, “No, he’s here. But he saw a caramel apple stand near the front of the carnival and I lost him immediately.”

Your laughed matched Bucky’s, “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

Bucky eyed the haunted house, with its flashing lights and eerie exterior. It loomed over the entirety of the carnival, promising heart-stopping terror and endless fright for anyone who dared to enter. A cold sweat dampened the palm of his right hand; he swiped it on his pantleg without a word.

“So, how’s it been going, doll? Are you having a good time?”

At first, you thought it might be strange to volunteer as a scare actor. You didn’t have any experience, and didn’t think of yourself as much of a performer. But the second you saw the listing for volunteers online, the idea wormed its way into your brain and refused to leave. You always loved Halloween, always loved all things creepy. And working as a scarer for a few nights a week sounded like fun.

But it was Bucky who gave you the final push you needed. He knew you were second-guessing yourself, knew you’d talk yourself out of it if he didn’t step in. And you were grateful he’d been there to encourage you.

“I’m having the best time! It’s been a blast so far,” the excitement radiating off of you was almost palpable. “Everyone’s so nice and we’re having so much fun. I’m really glad I decided to go through with it.”

“See? I told you,” Bucky shot you a wink. “I only wish I could’ve been here on opening night of the festival-”

“Buck, you were literally saving the world. I understand,” you told him. “There’s no hard feelings.”

“Well, I’m really happy for you sweetheart. I’m so glad you’re having a good time.” He gently placed his metallic hand on the least bloody part of your face, “And I’m so excited to see you in action.”

You gave him a strange look, “What do you mean?”

“I just mean that I can’t wait to see you doing your thing in there!” He gestured toward the haunt, “Can’t wait for you to scare me to death, baby.”

“Oh, Buck- no. I don’t-” you cut a glance toward the haunted house, knowing full well what lurked inside the walls. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What? But I want to support you, doll-”

“You’re supporting me just by being here,” you leaned into his touch. “But I don’t think you should go in there, babe.”

Admittedly, he wasn’t looking forward to his trip through the haunt. Of course, he was excited to see you in your element- he just wished your element wasn't a terrifying, immersive experience.

“It’s a dark, enclosed space with blood and gore and people screaming,” you cautioned him. “And there’s actors who jump out at you from the dark. I swear, there’s one of us popping out around like, every corner.”

Bucky’s lips twisted into an uncomfortable, tense expression. He thought about what that experience might be like for him. How it might affect him. Once again, he found himself wiping his palm against his thigh.

“I just don’t want it to trigger anything for you, you know?” And you meant it. A trip through your stupid haunted house wasn’t worth his mental health.

He forced the tension out of his face and blanketed his features with a manufactured calm. You were always so supportive of him, always did your best to be there for him. And it was his turn to be there for you. What kind of boyfriend was he if he couldn’t even see you perform? Sure, going inside the haunt wasn’t his idea of a perfect evening, but he owed it to you.

“Yeah, but I’ve been through way worse, sweetheart. I can- I can handle a haunted house.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince- you or himself. “As long as there isn’t a Hydra torture chamber scene, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Well, I assure you there is not a Hydra torture chamber in there, but I still think you should think it over before you go inside. Okay?” You knew Bucky too well. Knew he’d do anything to make you happy- even if it meant sacrificing his peace. But he’d worked so hard to find that peace, and you couldn’t let him shatter it just for you. “I won’t be disappointed or get my feelings hurt if you decide not to go inside, I promise. I just want you to have a fun night without any pain or flashbacks or panic attacks.”

Bucky found nothing but authenticity in your voice. You weren’t just saying these things, or secretly hoping that he’d still venture into the haunt. No, you meant everything you said; you just wanted what was best for him. Wanted him to enjoy himself. And he was endlessly grateful for your understanding. For your kindness.

“Shit. Alright, I-” you looked down at your phone and sighed at the new text illuminating your screen, “I have to get back inside, my break’s over. Sorry, baby.”

“No, doll, don’t worry about it. Sorry I monopolized your entire break.”

“Are you kidding me?” You pressed a kiss to his cheek, “this was exactly how I wanted to spend it.”

He pulled you in for deep- yet careful- kiss. He didn’t want to mess up the makeup you’d worked so hard on but couldn’t let you go back inside without a kiss. 

“Just promise me you’ll think it over before you actually go inside the haunt, okay?” You eyed him with a serious, almost grave expression. “There won’t be any hard feelings if you sit this one out.”

“I promise,” he said. “And to tell you the truth, I’m- I’m thinking I might just stick to carnival games and funnel cake.”

A massive sigh of relief left your chest. The worry you’d been holding onto dissipated into the chilly autumnal air. And suddenly, nothing sounded better than cheap, rigged carnival games. 

“See, now that sounds like fun.” You left one more kiss to Bucky’s lips before heading toward your next shift. “Have a good time tonight, Buck.”

Bucky watched your bloody form receded toward the haunt. He couldn’t help but smile as he thought about your warnings, your cautionary words. You really did care about him. You loved him more than anyone ever had. And you always, always put him first. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to express how grateful he was to have you. And as he observed the way you went out of your path just to step on the crunchiest leaves you could find, he knew the two of you were perfectly suited.

“Baby!” Bucky called after you as you reached the back door of the haunt.

You turned.

“Do you still wanna come over later?” he shouted over the noise of the festival.

Your “DUH!” echoed across the distance. And then you disappeared inside.

“Aw, man. Did I miss her?” Sam appeared just behind Bucky, two caramel apples in hand.

“Yeah, she had to get back to work. Oh-” Bucky reached for the apple in Sam’s right hand, the one that hadn’t yet been marred by Sam’s teeth. “Is this for me? Thanks, I-”

“Um, no,” Sam yanked the treat out of Bucky’s reach. “These are both mine.”

Bucky scoffed, “You’re joking, right?” 

“Nope.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “You’re actually double-fisting caramel apples right now?”

Sam gave a confident nod and took a bite out of one of the treats. “Leave me alone, man. I’m just participating in the spirit of Halloween.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at his friend’s antics. “Okay, well then, I’m gonna go get one of my own. Are you coming?”

Sam tilted his head to the side and gestured toward the haunt with one of his apples. “Aren’t we going inside now that she’s back on shift?”

Bucky gave the unsettling building a long look. He really did want to support you- but he just couldn’t bring himself to willingly venture into that environment. He thought back on what you said: Dark. Enclosed space. Blood. Gore. People jumping out of the darkness. It was the perfect recipe for a flashback. He could practically feel his PTSD crawling out of the darkest corners of his mind, waiting to pounce.

“Um, no, actually. I’m not- I’m not gonna go in,” Bucky said. “I was cautioned against it by a very sweet, very beautiful zombie.” 

It didn’t quite make sense to Sam. “She doesn’t want you to go inside?”

“She said it’s just not the best idea. The way she described it, I know it’s not gonna be a good experience for me,” a sad smile pulled at Bucky’s features. “Plus, I don’t know how I’m gonna react to bloody people popping out of the shadows and screaming at me. I feel like my training- or my PTSD- is gonna kick in and I might hit first and ask questions later,” he shrugged. “I don’t wanna hurt anyone.”

Sam didn’t suspect that Bucky would actually harm any of the actors; he trusted Bucky more than Bucky trusted himself. But he wasn’t going to push. If there was any possibility that the things inside the haunt might send Bucky into a spiral, he was happy to steer clear.

“Alright, yeah, we can- we can go play some games instead,” Sam suggested. “And you can win your girl a prize. Come on.”

Sam pointed Bucky in the direction of the carnival games- but not before he granted Bucky his second apple. 

“Wilson… I’m touched,” Bucky took a huge bite of the tart, sticky treat. “This is real friendship.”

“Yeah, yeah. But you’re getting the next round.” 

The two of them set off in the direction of the large array of carnival booths, both happily gnawing on a caramel apple. Bucky was grateful to have two people in his life who truly cared about his mental health. Two people who never forced him into situations that had the potential to rip open his old wounds. 

And though Bucky wished he could visit you inside the haunt, he knew it was better this way. If he chose to experience the haunted house and ended up having a violent flashback or a panic attack, he knew it would ruin your night. You’d spend the entire evening taking care of him, looking after him, worrying about him- you’d completely abandon your post inside the haunted house, and he couldn’t do that to you. He couldn’t take away your Halloween fun, especially not when you’d just told him what a blast it all was.

No, he’d instead spend the evening playing shitty carnival games, drinking pumpkin beer, and betting Sam that he couldn’t eat another caramel apple. And later, after you’d finished your night of scaring, he’d welcome you into his apartment and spend the rest of his evening snuggled up with you on the couch. He’d make a batch of spiced apple cider and curl up with you under a blanket. And the two of you would fall asleep while Scream played in the background.

Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Around ten-thirty, a quiet knock pulled Bucky from his book. He dropped it on the coffee table- taking no care to mark his page- and dashed toward the front door. He couldn’t wait to ask you a million questions. To hear your stories from the night. But when he threw open the door, he didn’t find the smiling zombie he’d seen just a few hours ago.

Something about you seemed off. Almost hollow. But Bucky couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was certain you had to be tired- exhausted, really. You’d spent hours chasing after your victims and screaming at the top of your lungs. Surely, you were just worn out.

“Hey, Buck,” you did your best to force a smile, but it wasn’t at all convincing. 

“Hey, baby,” Bucky pulled you into his body without caring that you were still covered in a thick layer of fake blood and zombie make up. “You good?”

You nodded against his chest, “Yeah. Just tired.”

Bucky felt his worry recede a bit- but it didn’t vanish completely. He took you by the hand and brought you inside, but didn’t pepper you with questions like he’d planned. All of his wonderings could wait until after you got a well-deserved night of rest. 

“I was thinking I could make us some spiced apple cider,” Bucky offered, “But if you’d rather just go to sleep, I can save that for tomorrow. What do you think, doll?”

“Um, whatever you wanna do, babe,” you rummaged through your overnight bag and unearthed your toiletry bag and pajamas. “I’m gonna go shower and take off my make up.”

Without another word, you retreated down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom. Something about your demeanor didn’t sit right with Bucky. This wasn’t just exhaustion; something darker lurked beneath your still waters. But he opted to give you your space. He didn’t want to delay your shower; surely, you wanted to shed your grime and get comfortable. And once you’d emerged from your clean up, he’d once again ask about your well-being. But not a moment before.

He quickly changed shirts, shedding the one that he’d willingly dirtied by hugging you, and went to work on the cider. Even if you only wanted a sip or two before bed, that was enough for him. He didn’t mind putting in the effort if there was even a chance it might make you smile- he’d do anything to see that smile. To make you happy.

“Sorry that took so long,” you said as you padded down the hall half an hour later. “Getting all of the blood and make up off is kind of a process.” 

At the sound of your voice, Bucky rose from his seat in the kitchen and met you in the hall with a mug of hot cider, which you accepted.

“Don’t worry about it, doll. I was just-” a smiled flashed across his face, “Oh, sweetheart, it looks like you missed some.”

Some of the blueish purple make up still stained your cheek and tainted the skin around your eye. A bit of fake blood ran through your brow. And clearly, you’d forgotten to remove one of your bloody contacts. 

“Here, let me.” He raised his hand to your cheek and tried to swipe the remaining make up from your skin with his thumb, but you yanked your head away.

Pain burned in Bucky’s chest. You’d never flinched like that around him. Never once did you dodge his touch or fear that he might hurt you. You always said you didn’t see him as a threat, didn’t think of him as a monster. What had happened in the last few hours that changed the way you saw him? 

He felt himself teetering on the edge of heartbreak, but the puzzle pieces fell together before he had the chance to fall apart. He didn’t recall you wearing bloody special effects contacts earlier tonight. And your zombie make up hadn’t been that shade of indigo. 

Bucky flipped on the hall light, bathing your face in a warm glow. He carefully raised his palms in a wordless promise that he wouldn’t hurt you. And once you gave him a small nod, he gently cradled your face in his hands. He carefully turned your head toward the light, allowing him a good, clear look at the marks on your face. 

And what he found ripped open a pit in his stomach. You didn’t flinch because you feared him- no, you flinched because you were hurt.

A large, dark blue bruise bloomed under the skin of your cheekbone. And another bruise stained your orbital purple. The area was already swelling, and Bucky couldn’t help but think about how much pain you were in. A gash sliced through your eyebrow, just above your blackened eye. And unfortunately, the blood staining the white of your eye wasn’t part of a creepy contact lens- it was real. It was all real.

“Shit. Baby, what happened?” 

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky insisted. 

A few tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. You spent your entire ride to Bucky’s telling yourself that you were fine. That you were okay. That it was just some bruising. That crying wouldn’t fix anything. You told yourself that people go through way worse every day- that Bucky had been through way, way worse for almost a century. You told yourself that it wasn’t a big deal. That getting emotional over something so small was unnecessarily dramatic. 

But Bucky automatically validated you- without even knowing it.

“What happened, sweetheart?”

You cut a glance to the side- which only made your eye throb. “Um, there was this guy who came through the haunt. And when I jumped out at him, he um,” you shrugged. “He hit me.”

A hurricane of emotion ripped through Bucky. He was horrified. Concerned. Wrathful. Heartbroken. All at once. 

“He hit me twice, actually…” You knew it would only make Bucky more upset. But what was the point of hiding the truth? He was going to be distraught either way. “He hit me here first,” you pointed at your cheek. “And then the second time, he got me in the eye. He had one of those big, collegiate class rings on- that’s what sliced my eyebrow open.”

“Jesus. Okay, um, you hang tight right here. I’m gonna grab my keys and some shoes- I need to get you to the emergency room,” Bucky threw his attention down the hall, searching for his keys.

“I don’t need to go to the ER-”

“Then I’m at least taking you to a minor emergency clinic,” Bucky insisted. “You need to be seen by-”

“The medic at the carnival already gave me a once over,” you rested a hand against his chest, calming him. “She said I’m fine. The cut doesn’t need stitches. I just have a minor concussion.”

Bucky stared at you for a long moment while a war raged inside his head. He knew you were okay, that your life wasn’t in danger. And he could tell you were too tired for an unnecessary trip to the hospital. But he’d feel more comfortable if a doctor took a look at you. If he had a guarantee that you’d be alright.

“I promise I’m okay,” you told him. “I really just wanna rest.”

And after another long moment of internally weighing the pros and cons, Bucky conceded.

“Okay. Here, I’ll take that,” he took your mug of cider and placed it on the hall table. “Come sit, sweetheart,” Bucky took you by the hand and led you to the living room. He got you situated on the couch and draped a blanket over your lap.

“He actually tried to hit me a third time,” you said. “I was already on the ground at that point. But he still went for it.”

You didn’t mean to sound so wounded. So pathetic. But part of you was still in shock. And the other part was heartbroken that one person had ruined your entire experience. 

“Thankfully, a few of the other actors got to him before he had the chance to actually make contact again.”

Bucky thought he might be sick. “What the fuck?”

You shrugged, “I’m not… I don’t know.”

“Um, do you need- I’m gonna get you some ice, okay?” He didn’t want to leave your side, but he could practically feel the throbbing, pounding pain hammering inside your head. And when he returned from the kitchen with an ice pack, some Tylenol, and a glass of water, he took a seat next to you.

“Why would he- he knew he was going into a haunted house. Why would he hit you?” Bucky couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He knew it was possible that the trauma from his Hydra days could make him lash out inside the haunt, so he chose to abstain. Why your assailant hadn’t done the same baffled him. 

“And why would he hit you multiple times?”

You shook your head and instantly regretted it as pain surged through your face. “I mean, they say ‘fight or flight.’ He clearly chose fight.”

“But after the initial hit, the shock and fear would’ve worn off,” Bucky reasoned. “He would’ve been able to recognize that he wasn’t actually in danger. That you were an actor, not a threat.” He sighed, “At least, he should’ve been able to figure that out.”

With a swig of water, you downed the pain relievers and sunk back into the couch cushions. The ice stung against your tender, pulsing wounds and you hissed at the sensation. But as the cold rendered your face completely numb, you recanted your initial, ungrateful thoughts.

“Well, I’m pretty sure he’d been drinking,” you rolled your eyes. It sent pain rocketing through your skull. “One of the guys that pulled him off of me said the guy was slurring his words pretty badly and absolutely reeked of beer.”

“Oh, perfect,” Bucky clenched his hands into tight fists. “Did anything happen to him? Is he gonna face any consequences?”

You offered him a downtrodden half-shrug. “I’m not sure. There were some security guards who escorted him out, but that’s all I know.”

Bucky leaned over and brushed a light kiss to your cheek- the one that hadn’t been marred by stranger’s fist. A razor-sharp feeling of helplessness carved deep into his flesh until it struck bone. He had a duty to you, and felt as though he’d failed. He couldn’t save you. Couldn’t protect you. Couldn’t even take you to the emergency room. 

All he could do at this point was try his best make you feel comfortable. Safe. And above all, he had to take care of you. 

Alarm struck him in the chest as he noticed what appeared to be a fresh drop of scarlet oozing from your brow. He stood from the couch with worry pulsing through his veins. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna go get some supplies to tend to your cut. Okay? You stay here, I’ll be-”

“No, that’s okay, Buck. It’s not that bad,” you shook your head, rejecting his offer; the throbbing inside your skull multiplied.  

“Baby, you’re bleeding…”

“What?” you removed the ice pack from your face and used your free hand to swipe a finger across your brow- only to find a warm, sticky sensation. “Oh, I didn’t even notice. My face is numb,” you brandished the ice pack at him. 

Bucky’s soft laugh filled the room, “I guess that’s a good thing?”

You gave him a careful nod. “Definitely.”

“Sit tight, doll. It’ll only take me a second.”

And he was right. He was only gone a few moments at the most; anything more than that felt unjustifiable. 

“Alright, let me see,” Bucky took a seat on the coffee table and placed his first aid supplies down next to him. As carefully as he could, he took your face in his hands and appraised your wound. He used gentle pressure to hold a piece of clean gauze against the bloody ooze. And though the cut wasn’t severe, it didn’t stop the dread from circling him like a vulture.

“I should’ve stuck around longer,” he lamented. “I should’ve stayed at the festival. Maybe I could’ve helped you somehow. Maybe I could’ve-”

Your hands found his forearms and wrapped gently around his wrists. “No, Buck. I didn’t want you going inside the haunt, regardless. Even if it was only to be my knight in shining armor.”

He stroked along your jaw with his cold, metallic thumb. “You always put me first, don’t you?”

“Of course,” you swept your thumbs over his skin, “I’d never dream of having it any other way.”

If there was one thing Bucky could count on, it was being your first priority. He’d never imagined he’d meet anyone who valued him. Who saw his worth. But you did- you always did. And you placed him proudly on a pedestal as your number one. Nothing came before him; nothing could take his place. He mattered more to you than anything or anyone ever had.

You were the kindest, most understanding person he’d ever met. You saw the good in everyone, even if they couldn’t see it themselves. And knowing that someone hurt you, that you were shown anything other than gentleness, killed him.

“Baby, I’m- I’m so sorry this happened. You didn’t deserve it.”

You poked at the ice pack resting in your lap, “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not ideal. But I’m not dying, or anything.” Your gaze dropped to the floor, “It’s really not a big deal.”

“Hey, look at me,” Bucky waited for your eyes to meet his, but had no luck. “Sweetheart, can you look at me? Please?”

After another long moment, you finally dragged your eyes upward. Bucky instantly clocked the tears gathering along your lash line.

“I know you’re not dying; I know this isn’t life threatening- but it’s still a big deal,” he said. “What happened is not okay. And you don’t have to pretend like it is.”

You rolled your eyes, sending a tear trailing down your cheek. “But you’ve been through a lot worse. I got punched- so what?” You scoffed, “You were abused for close to a hundred years. What happened to me isn’t-”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be upset,” he said. “You don’t have to compare your life to mine, sweetheart. No one should’ve laid a hand on you- tonight or ever.” He searched your face for a long moment, “Okay?”

It took a while for his words to sink in. For you to believe them. Rebuttals formed on your tongue every few seconds, but the concern in Bucky’s eyes banished them.

“Okay.”

A sigh of relief left his chest, and he delivered a long kiss to your forehead. He didn’t want you to diminish the events of the evening all because of him. Didn’t want you constantly using his suffering as a litmus test for your own. He knew you’d never consider your trauma as worthwhile if it always had to stand up to his.

With a fresh piece of gauze, he swiped the tears from your eyes. “Good. I love you.”

This wasn’t what you expected out of life. You were the last of your friends to find something real. To find someone worthwhile. And you assumed you’d missed your window. All of your exes treated you like you barely existed. Like you weren’t worth their time. None of them were ever concerned about your happiness or your well-being. And after dating more assholes than you could count, you resigned yourself to a life without romantic love.

And then Bucky spilled coffee all over your shoes, and you’d never been happier to have stained sneakers.

Bucky used a butterfly bandage to carefully close your cut and fetched you a fresh cup of cider. He took care of you in a way you’d never experienced. In a way you’d never thought possible. And after the night you had, all you wanted was to curl up on the couch with him. You wanted to fall asleep in his arms and forget all about what happened. 

But just as Bucky took his rightful place next to you on the couch, he was gone.

“Buck, where are you-”

“I almost forgot!” he called from down the hall. And just as quickly as he vanished, he reappeared with his hands behind his back. “Those carnival games are really hard- I mean, really fucking hard. And it took me all night, but I won this for you.”

With a quiet “Ta-da!” he revealed his prize and held it out for you. 

“I know he’s kind of ugly,” Bucky laughed, “But-”

“He’s not ugly!” You snatched the prize and held it close to your chest.

It was a little black teddy bear with orange spots- and upon further inspection, the orange spots appeared to be jack-o-lanterns. An orange and black plaid bow sat perched around the bear’s neck, and a tiny witch’s hat rested atop his head.

“Buck, he’s perfect,” you reached for him, pulling him down for a long, deep kiss before he even had the chance to sit. “I love him!”

“I’m so glad, it took me longer to win him than I’d like to admit,” Bucky laughed. “I’m sure Sam will happily tell you all about it.”

Once again, you captured Bucky’s lips with yours. Sure, you were exhausted. And hurting. And sad. But as Bucky’s hand cradled your face, and the prize he’d worked so hard to win for you rested against your chest, the pain of the evening melted away.

“Thank you, Buck.”

He shot you a wink, “Anytime, I-”

 “I mean it,” you abandoned your new teddy bear for only a second and took one of Bucky’s hands in both of yours. It took most of your strength, but you finally got him to take his spot next to you on the couch, “Thank you.”

His arm snaked around you and pulled you tightly into his side. “I’ve always got your back, baby.”

With your new teddy bear resting in your lap, you snuggled as close to Bucky as you possibly could. He brought you a sense of peace, a sense of safety that you’d never experienced before. All he ever wanted to do was take care of you, and you thanked the universe every day for granting you someone so gentle and kind and sweet.

Bucky put on a classic Halloween movie from your childhood, Halloweentown, to help you feel a little more at ease. And it came as no surprise to him that you were asleep less than fifteen minutes in, but he didn’t mind. He simply pulled you into his chest and carefully carried you to bed- along with your new stuffed animal. 

And as he climbed in next to you, he couldn’t have been more grateful for your cautionary words about the haunt. He thought about how different the night could’ve been, how much worse things might’ve gone had he stepped foot inside the dark, scary environment. What if he had a bad reaction and hurt one of your coworkers? What if he hurt you? If he’d been the one to strike you in the dark, you absolutely would’ve required an ambulance and a hospital stay. 

Just thinking about his metal fist connecting with your face made him nauseous. With a shake of his head, he forced the thoughts away. You were okay, you were right there next to him, sleeping soundly with your teddy bear tucked safely in your arms. He eyed you in the light of the moon, and thanked any deity who would listen for keeping him out of the haunt.

Just as he considered allowing his eyes to close, you moved. You loosened your grip on your bear and let him fall to the side as your sleepy hands searched for Bucky. He moved closer to you and watched with a smile as you draped your body over his. A tired, contented sigh fell from your lips, and Bucky thought his heart might melt.

He knew he didn’t deserve you. Knew he’d done so much wrong in his life. But now that you were his, he’d spend every day trying to protect you. Trying to make you happy. 

He couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with you. He was already planning to offer you a ring next October- doing so during any other month felt like sacrilege. 

————————————-

@beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes @psychoticmason @glxwingrxse @lonewolf471 @purpleshallot @seitmai @itvy5601 @dailyreverie @navs-bhat @eviesaurusrex @themorningsunshine @buckys-metal-arm @broadwaybabe18 @the-kestrels-feather @avocadotoastwithegg @goldylions @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @vrittivsanghavi @idkitsem @avengetheunnatural @rassvetsky @hereforbuckyandsteve @juvellian @samanthacookieone @frombkjar @blackbirdsinatrenchcoat @anything-more-than-human

[hrts4hanniehae]

seventeen and how they would launch their relationship with idol!you

PAIRING. seventeen (ot13) x idol!reader GENRE. fluff, established relationship, scenario imagines WARNINGS. kissing, social media, staying the night, WORD COUNT. 991 words

rereading it makes me feel like they r all OOC pls give feedback in my ask box

choi seungcheol

he would hard launch

when your managers both give the go sign, he would immediately post his favourite date pics with you on to his instagram and weverse.

his captions would be one emoji.

he would tag you in his instagram bio and become upset if you don't do the same.

the rest of svt wld be so done with him because he wld just be spamming his story with all his favourite pics of you for his highlight he titles "y/n"

yoon jeonghan

he would soft launch after begging you not to post anything for one month

when your managers both give the go sign, he would just post a picture of your hands touching onto instagram, captionless.

then he would watch his instagram comments get flooded

a month later, he would post a picture of the both of you, again, captionless but tag you and turn off his comments so yours would be flooded.

when you asked him why he did that... "because it's fun." he says before kissing you.

joshua hong

he would hard launch

when your managers both give the go sign, he would post one picture of both of you on his instagram story before going offline for 1284284 years again.

the launching is left to you...

but when you post, he's the first to comment and like it.

he loves you but not social media.

wen junhui

he would start a lovestagram

he would firstly make you post the same stray cats as him just hours apart, then the same restaurant, then the same shops.

he would then wait to see if people began to catch on, then he'd reveal the relationship.

you find it funny how serious he takes this.

kwon soonyoung

he would hard launch

he prepared matching tiger shirts for this very moment.

he would post a dance practice you both had while wearing the shirts, in which the vid ends with an off screen kiss. that the other svt members can be heard to be groaning at

he would tag you in his instagram bio and add a tiger and a heart emoji

the rest of svt wld be so done with him because he wld be recording "horanghae" videos for you even more.

jeon wonwoo

he would soft launch

since you both met due to your love for gaming, he would just subtly change his gamer tags to match yours

he would add the words "player 1" to his instagram bio and you would add "player 2"

he would then start a "gam3 boi" and show off your characters in [game] having a cute house together and being married

after a while, you both decide to post a picture together and finally fully reveal your relationship.

lee jihoon

he would soft launch

he isn't the type to be super affectionate, so at most he would start by liking your instagram posts.

after a while he just decides to repost your posts on his story

once the speculations that you were dating became more apparent, he would finally let you convince him to start a lovestagram with you.

it's kinda cute because he secretly likes it a lot.

xu minghao

he would soft launch on weibo

he would start by posting pictures of himself at museums that you took, then take photos for you which you would post on your instagram

after that he would subtly hint his presence in the photos he takes of you. like maybe a fraction of his reflection in a window, or his shoe in a photo of you petting a cat.

soon, people would catch onto his presence and your relationship

kim mingyu

he would hard launch

he would tag you in his instagram bio and start pouting if you don't do the same.

he would just announce it on his weverse "I'm dating y/n."

after that he would keep posting stories of his dates with you and clips of your performances that he really likes

lee seokmin

he would hard launch

when your managers both give the go sign, he would immediately post his favourite date pics with you on to his instagram and weverse.

his captions would be along the lines of "my precious sunshine"

he would be so happy after that, because he gets to tell the world that you're his!

he would post videos of your best concert fancams and caption them with hearts.

boo seungkwan

he would hard launch with a lovestagram

typical photos taken by both parties.

he would caption all the posts with a heart emoji.

when people would begin to realise the photos match up, he would officially reveal it .

you would post your photo with the caption "i don't love anyone more than boo~" and he would be all smiles for a week.

vernon chwe

he would just wait for dispatch to announce it first before posting anything

after that then he would post a solo pic of you he took when you stayed over at his house with the caption "pretty u" which is quite cute.

he would still pose the same even when you take selfies together and that makes your pics look like you edited him in, so they're not postable. so you just take and post boyfriend pics of him.

lee chan

he would hard launch

when your managers both give the go sign, he would immediately post his favourite pics of you on to his instagram.

his captions would be lyrics from your hit love songs

he would get teased nonstop when his hyungs see the post, but wouldn't care because the smile on your face seeing those posts are worth it..

in turn, you would caption boyfriend pics of him that you post with "my otter" or "my chan" or you would tease him with pics of your good fits with "oh my god! look at my fit!" and the other svt members would comment "it's good!" (pls get the ref...)

[orchidyoonkook]

To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 7

Title: Hard Goodbyes and Favourite Colours

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Mild Royalty AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: Nel flies home, Yuri flies back, Jungkook can't stop thinking about the other night. And you? Gods, don't even get me started.

Warnings: T, language, fluff (?), angst, reader is ~not~ okay for a chunk of this, bye bye Nel! it was nice to meet you, Yuri being the bestie she is, playful antagonism, JK thinking a lot, some photography technical words but nothing scary, reader is painting again, shocker.

Word Count: 4,463

Release Date: July 9, 2024. 2:00PM

A/N 1: Hi this was supposed to be released like a month and a half ago but then i went to europe and my brain was anywhere but near electronics. Anywhooo here she is, as always thanks for waiting and I'll try to be more consistent now that post vacation depression has kicked in.

Series: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six

Sometimes life works out incredibly conveniently for you, like when Nel’s flight leaves a half hour before Yuri’s gets in at the same airport. 

But then it sucks again as your week with Nel flies by so quickly it feels like you’ve had no time at all while also having so much because of all the new memories you’ve both made. 

Currently in a rideshare and airport bound, because you will be in no way okay to drive back, your grip on Nel’s hand is strangling as you take in every last second of time you can get with him. He keeps giving kisses to your forehead, nose, cheeks, mouth; anywhere he can get access to really. 

He doesn't want this week to end just as much as you don’t. Fuck this fucking sucks so much.

The driver pulls up to the terminal drop off, and you both exit. Nel grabs his bag from the trunk, now filled with little mementos from your week as well as his clothes. A pressed flower from the greenhouse, museum postcards, a doodle you did for him while he was sketching, and more, all tucked away for safekeeping. All the only physical things he can hold onto until he sees you next. 

Walking into the airport, you make your way up to the check in desk, paperwork already in hand. Nel checks in and you request an escort pass, determined to spend every last moment together. 

There’s a lump forming in your throat that you’re trying to swallow. It’s thick, like a ball of unending peanut butter you can’t get down. And your chest feels like a black hole has opened inside of it, right where your heart is supposed to be. Every second that ticks away allowing another drop of the warmth you have with him to be sucked right out of your sternum.

Painful doesn’t even begin to describe this feeling. 

As beautiful as your week was, the reality of the present is setting in, and the closer you get to his gate, the closer you are to tears. You’re trying your best to blink them away, but you won’t be seeing him until winter break, and even then, that’ll only be for a day or two at most before you have to wait till summer to see him again. So it might as well be goodbye for those full 6 months.

It hurts. It hurts so bad to have to go through this over and over again, to have this separation from the one you love, even if it’s only temporary. Funny how temporary can sometimes feel like forever when you’re in the middle of it. 

Funny how the concept of temporary doesn’t make the gash in your heart open any less.

You don’t want him to go, but you know he has too. The faster he goes, the faster he can come back to you. 

You hate that he has to go in the first place. You just want him to stay. Please, just stay.

But he can’t. 

You reach his gate and before you know it, his flight’s being called to board and your tears refuse to stay inside any longer, the lump succeeding in its plot of victory. They spill down your cheeks in silent rivers, wet splotches on the neckline of your shirt forming as they flow. 

Maybe they’ll create a little lake in the hole he’s leaving you with. There’s certainly enough of them to fill it. Something to fill the void a little until you can see him again.

Nel takes one look before scooping you into a crushing hug, a desperate echo of the one from a week ago. His own tears now staining.

“I love you so much,” he says. You don’t see his eyes squeeze shut, nor do you see him memorizing your smell, as he kisses the top of your head. And his voice wobbles as he whispers, “It’s not forever, it’s just for now.” 

He says those words every time you two part, whether it was for a day or a year. Never goodbye or so long. Never see you later. 

They’ve always been a small comfort in otherwise shitty situations. 

“Just for now,” you get out through quiet sobs, gripping onto him even tighter as you shake. 

It takes you a couple deep breaths before you can say anything without breaking. “I love you too. Please be safe, message me when you land, and do well on your final exams.”

He smiles at that last bit, and your tears free themselves again. You’re going to miss seeing that smile in person.

Nel pulls you in once more, tighter. “It’s always harder when my good luck charm is halfway across the world, but I’ll manage.” Your sobs stutter with a broken laugh, and you’re pretty sure his sweater is going to have tear stains on it. “I promise I’ll message as soon as I can. And I’d wish you luck but you never need it. You always do well.”

The announcement for final boarding calls and both of you freeze in each other's arms. You don’t want him to go. He doesn’t want to go.

But he has too. 

You separate only enough to kiss. It’s messy and wet and gross, but you don’t care. It’s the last one you’ll have for a while and you never want it to end. 

But it does. 

Nel pulls away, and you reluctantly let him. He grabs his bag with one hand, the other holding onto both of yours as he backs away until he can no longer reach. Your arms drop to your sides with the traces of his warmth on your skin.

You watch as the boarding crew welcomes him on, and he takes one look back at you. 

You wave, mouthing ‘I love you.’

He mouths ‘I love you’ right back, and turns the corner.

You waited for Yuri at her terminal after dropping off Nel and taking five—okay ten—minutes to violently sob in the bathroom. 

She took one look at your half smile and puffy eyes and smothered you in a hug. Smelling like sunshine and ocean water, it was exactly what you needed. 

“It’s okay Sweets, you’ll see him again before you know it. This year will pass by so fast, just you see,” she tells you through your whimpers, the tears having returned the second her arms were around you.

They dry sometime on the way home. It was a thirty minute ride back to school, and they fell silently for a solid twenty before you even got in.

You hate goodbyes. 

But Yuri’s seen this three times now, and she always knew that a warm drink and junk food were in your immediate shared futures when she did. Screw healthy coping methods. It may be 9:30pm on a Sunday night, but that won’t stop you from downing a pint as you drown your sorrows in sweet, sweet cookies n cream. 

Yuri also knows you need a distraction, so she doesn’t hold back on telling you every detail of her vacation. 

The duke from a few weeks ago had been a dud. ‘Shit personality and even shittier sex’ according to Yuri. No consultation needed. 

But this new guy from the Ilcalos Islands sounds promising. He’s a Count of something she can’t remember but in her words, “big heart and even bigger dick.” 

That makes you giggle. And you’re happy for her. 

“Bitch, the second night he did this thing with his tongue and an ice cube and oh. my. god. I think I’m in love. That man could do whatever he wanted to me and I’d still say thank you afterwards,” she’s rambling at this point and you’re mentally apologizing to the driver for having to hear all of it. 

You, on the other hand, don’t mind at all; gladly welcome it actually. You want your mind anywhere other than the present right now. 

You don’t want to start crying all over again. By the morning you’ll be fine, you’ll have let out everything you needed too. But between then and now, it’s a matter of mentioning the wrong words or seeing an intriguingly designed building that could trigger those pesky tear ducts.

So you listen to Yuri go on and on about this guy, all his techniques and what she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since she last saw him. His number is already saved in her phone under a very inappropriate name, but you expect nothing less from her. 

You love her for it. For this. 

For knowing what you need to stay afloat right now and not allowing you to throw the anchor overboard with your leg chained to the end.

You really fucking hate goodbyes.��

You’re staring at him. 

Like, full on, no bars held, staring at him. 

And Jungkook’s pretending he doesn’t notice.

You’re sitting in your chair and he’s back in his beside you at greenhouse cafe. Your half done painting of pink flowers sits in front of you, his laptop screen’s filled with this week's newly assigned ‘Studio Portrait Techniques 1’ homework. 

His half finished coffee on his table. An empty pastry bag on yours.

His hands on his keyboard, yours gripping a brush.

And you’re staring at him. 

He’s hoping it’s because this is the first time you’ve seen him since Nel left. 

But it’s probably to do with the fact that he hasn’t looked at you once today. Or the fact that he’s barely spoken at all when he usually can’t seem to shut up when it’s been more than 48 hours since he last saw you. 

Because it’s also the first time he’s seen you since he was with Adaline, imaging she wasn’t Adaline.

“You’re acting weird,” you say.

“No I’m not,” he responds a little too quickly, eyes still focused on his computer.

Yes he is. He really, totally is. 

“Yes you are, you won't look at me and you’ve barely said two words since I got here.” Well your knack for observancy is still intact.

Normally that's a good thing, but right now?

“Did I do something wrong?”

No. No you didn’t.

He did.

He let his emotions get the best of him in a moment of weakness. He let himself become so overwhelmed with feelings he isn’t allowed to have. He let them win for a single night.

And now if he isn’t paying the goddamned consequences. 

After that night with Adaline, Jungkook had woken up filled with regret. He’d crossed a line he didn’t even know he should have drawn in very dark, very permanent ink.

For letting himself, just for one moment, imagine what it would be like to be with…

And things are harder than ever to shove down now. He can’t look even look at you without thinking about it. About what he did. What he wanted. 

Wants.

Fuck, he’s in over his head.

Jungkook forces himself to look at you, putting his years of social training and emotional masking to good use. It sure as hell came in handy during times like this.

Because you can never know. 

He can’t lose you because he's unable to get his shit together. It’s not your fault he feels like this. 

So he lies. Both to you and to himself, hoping it might help him believe it.

“Nothing’s wrong Dali, just focused on my work is all. We got assigned a big project on Monday and I’m planning out all my shoots.”

You look hesitant, like you can see right through his bullshit excuse that was only a half excuse because this project is massive. 

“If you say so,” your tone implying you don’t believe him, but thankfully, you let it go and lean closer to him to see. He pretends his breathing doesn’t hitch, “What’s the project?”

“It’s my final assignment for a class, I have to do a series of five portraits. Each one with a different style, capturing a different emotion, and they all have to be of the same subject to show the true versatility of my work. It’s easy to make things look different when it’s different people being photographed,” he explains.

Therefore, this assignment, and all of its working parts, is huge. He’s glad it’s due in the middle of December because it’s going to take him almost a month of planning to get it all together; backdrops, concepts, costumes, previsualization, focal lengths, props, equipment, lighting setups, etc. And then when the planning is over: to shoot, narrow down and edit. 

But that’s the point of it. To have the students demonstrate they know how to effectively expand on the definition of a ‘portrait’ instead of having one concept in mind and sticking to it. 

‘To broaden your creative approaches to seemingly simple constructs,’ as his professor would say.

He loves the way this professor does assignments. How she layers them so that not only does he learn how to shoot multi-concept ideas for the same project type, allowing him to add to his creative portfolio, but they also force him to break out of the expected conclusions for an idea and think outside the box. 

“Oh wow, that is a lot,” you say. Because you understand long running projects. 50 hour paintings don’t just happen in a day. “Do you have any ideas yet?”

“Yeah! I have them all already, actually,” he turns his computer towards you and you see a point by point list of summarized ideas.

- Bright and bold - happy, bright smile, colourful gels - Black and white, soft light: gel or bounce? Silk diffuser  - profile with water falling on face - relieved - Focused on passion - candid, regular colour. Diffuser? Or silk flag? - Normal colour profile, stark lighting - serious, front facing body, profile facing left, no visible clothing, “regal” _|(_*-*)>_. Flag.  - Mysterious - black background, white smoke, barely visible model, lower half of face painted black, upper half white, striking purple eyes (contacts?). Flags. Gels? 

“I’m really excited for this project,” he says, “it’s just the prep that’s going to take a while. Getting it all mapped and planned out. It’s mostly concepts right now.”

You nod, understanding once again. Though very different mediums, visual arts and photography are similar in many ways. 

“Adaline going to be your model?”

It doesn’t surprise him you think that, but he has no intentions of ever using Adaline for assignments or homework. 

“Actually, I… uhh…” he trails off. Jungkook’s trying to get the words out, he is. But they’re surprisingly difficult for some reason, and getting caught in his throat. 

Which makes his earlier anxious state come back in full force. 

It shouldn't be this difficult. It won’t be the first, second or fifth time he’s asked you.

Get the words out Jeon. Put on your professional face, this is nothing new.

He fails, instead, his voice comes out barely above a whisper as he says, “I was going to ask you if you would.”

You somehow hear him. 

“Me?” you look dumbfounded. 

“Yes, you.” He’s always used you for homework assignments before, so he’s not sure why all of a sudden this is surprising. Maybe because it’s a final assignment versus a weekly one? The effort will be greater? 

“But you have Adaline? I assumed that she would take up the position of model when you guys started going out.”

Oh. That makes more sense. 

But that is one mistake he won’t be making again, because he did ask Adaline. 

Once.

It was recent, Nel was still here and he didn’t want to disturb you because of that. Plus Jungkook was just trying to get a jump on his upcoming assignments anyway, taking a page from your book.

So he asked Adaline. And she leapt at the opportunity, like he expected.

What he didn’t expect, was when she essentially directed, staged, lit and posed every. single. shot. so that she would look her best. 

All he did was click the capture image button when she said too. 

And after the shoot, before he could even think to look at the pictures, Adaline was already there, holding his camera, going through them and deleting any picture she deemed ‘ugly.’

He was left with less than 20 images from the shoot where he was ordered to take over 200. And she even made him switch out one of the three he narrowed down for one she liked better. 

So no, he would not be asking Adaline to model. 

Ever again.

“Nah. You’re a lot easier to work with because you don't care how the pictures turn out, and let me do my thing. Adaline cares a bit too much, and has to have approval on all of them before I submit.”

You snort. “Seriously? Is she that self absorbed?” a quirked brow places itself on your face to match the smirk now on your mouth.

That’s new.

Your tone towards Adaline has always been neutral, if not a bit sharp when he talks about her. 

But this one? It’s like you know her, and knew she was like that, but didn’t know it was this severe. 

Adaline is very popular...maybe you two met and it didn't go well?

It certainly sounds like you don’t like her, if those six words were anything to go by. Which, he guesses they shouldn’t, but he knows you well enough by now to know the difference.

And if he’s honest, that wouldn’t shock him in the slightest. You two are nothing alike, and thank god for that. 

He covers for Adaline, like any boyfriend would. Though it stings a little bit.

“She’s just careful about what images could be leaked to the press. Can’t really blame her for that.”

Your face changes minutely, as if a second of understanding passes through before you turn to go back to your painting, and mutter, “no, you can’t,” placing a splash of pink on a flower. 

He returns to his work as well, switching the portrait assignment out for a different one. He needs to get his mind off it for a while before circling back. 

And the fact that you didn’t answer him. 

Deciding on a Design and Visual Culture assignment due next week, he dives in head first, resuming his earlier state of focus and avoidance.

Jungkook’s editing a picture when you stretch. 

You often hunch over your work, so you try to stretch every 30 minutes or so. Your arms are in the air and he catches a peek at the nearly finished floral study. 

They’re some kind of vibrant pink dangling flowers, and you’ve captured the likeness of them quite well, to no surprise of his, so he goes to compliment it but you beat him to the punch.

“Shots blurry.”

Jungkook does a double take at his laptop screen. He’d spent the better part of 40 minutes editing the image and hadn’t noticed that.

Because it’s not. It’s perfectly crisp and clear.

When he looks back to you, you have a shit eating grin on your face. 

Ah, he knows that look. 

You love to tease him about little things like that, giving him mini heart attacks. ‘Pay back for that first day,’ you claim. 

Well…

Two can play this game, so he plays off your comment.

“Oh, you're right. Thanks,” and he switches to another image. 

Your grin falters but you recover quickly.

“No problem.”

See, while you know how to playfully harass him about his pictures, Jungkook knows how…particular you are about your colours. How they need to be labelled correctly instead of by their umbrella terms like ‘blue’ or ‘red.’ Because blue or red could mean any one of the dozens of ‘sub colours.’

‘It’s not blue, it’s cerulean,’ you’d remark. 

‘That’s not red, it’s burgundy,’ you’d correct him.

You’re always correcting him, and it makes his pants tighten a little bit every time. But that’s on the other side of the line he does not cross anymore. A nice, big, fat, permanent, protective line. 

Jungkook settles for a more subtle method of attack. Using this little fact and your ridiculously extensive knowledge of flowers against you. 

He never thought the defense and attack lessons his father put him through would come in handy like this. But he’s glad for them now. It was the only time he could ever outsmart you.

He gestures to your canvas. “Those pink flowers are pretty, what are they called?” 

“Their common name is Lady’s Eardrop. And they’re magenta.”

Hook, line, sinker. 

He doesn’t even have to try, you walk right into it every time.

“Lady’s eardrop? That’s a weird name…do they come in other colours besides pink?”

You don’t look up as you reply. 

“Magenta, and yeah. Some are plum and magenta, some are a buttery white and magenta, and then some have this like, almost dark tangerine hue, but they’re a different type, longer. Not the same as those,” you point with the end of your brush to the greenhouse, where the fully magenta lady’s eardrop sits in the window. 

“And are these pink ones your favourite?” he’s really trying his best to keep a straight face as yours contorts with an eye twitch at every use of the word.

“They’re. Magenta. And sure, but the plum ones are pretty too.”

“Noted, the pink lady's eardrop are your favourite among eardrops.”

You break, turning to him, voice raising in minor annoyance. Jungkook bites his cheeks to keep a smile at bay.

“They are magenta. Not pink. Pink entails a lighter hue, there’s more titanium white in pink. That,” you point again, “is very clearly, magenta.”

He has to. 

He can’t help it. 

You’re sexy when you're assertive, he thinks. Tip toeing on that nice, big line.

But also hilarious. 

“Same difference.”

He can see the fire in your eyes blaze.

“No, not ‘same difference,’ they’re magenta!”

He’s leaning in. “Pink,” eyeing your lips as you speak. 

You lean in too, enunciating every syllable to prove your point. “Ma-gen-ta.”

Your noses are mere inches from touching. 

“They’re pink, Van Gogh,” he backs off before he does something stupid that he’ll regret, “Don’t get so invested.”

You back off too, sass still very evident when you reply, “They’re fucking magenta, asshat. Two completely different colours and you’ll label them as such around me.”

You’ve always had a mouth on you. One you aren’t scared to use when necessary, especially around him. So he doesn’t push any farther, knowing he’s already gotten what he wanted and then some. 

But also because sitting has become slightly uncomfortable. There was a stiff breeze, he tells himself.

Thank god for baggy, oversized hoodies. 

Returning once again to his work, he puts an elbow on the table and places his hand on the left side of his face to hide the massive smile that’s trying its best to turn into a smothered laugh.

Unfortunately for him, he lets his Princely guard down around you and so he forgets to force it down to an uncomfortable degree like he would at the palace. His laugh slipping out as a strangled noise and he quickly turns it into a cough, hoping you don't notice. 

But you do, because it’s you. Of course you do.

And the look on your face is priceless.

“You did that on purpose!”

“What?” he says way too high pitched. “Nooo, I would never, one hundred percent intentionally, say pink just to get back at you for pointing out the non-existent blur in my perfectly clear picture.”

He can see you trying to control your features, can see you failing and giving up by facing your canvas again, smiling to yourself.

“I was wondering how many times I could get you to say it. I think that was somewhere around ten? Gotta be a new record.”

You roll your eyes at him, but your quirked mouth remains. 

“You’re such a dick,” you quip.

“Yet, you like me anyways.”

You mumble something incoherent.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Awe, c’mon now. Fess up.”

A pause, before, “I said I just remembered I don’t know your favourite colour.”

No you most certainly did not, but he’ll let it slide.

“Black.”

“Ugh, boring.”

“What?”

“Boring,” you say again with absolutely no hesitation and proceed to grace his eyes with your own. “And technically not a colour. Black’s a shade.”

Jungkook offers up a non-smothered chuckle, saving his throat from further shenanigans.

“Whatever, Seurat, it’s still black. What about you? What’s Miss High and Mighty All Knowing of Colours’ favorite?”

“It’s still a shade,” you repeat.

“It’s still my favourite. Answer the question,” he presses. 

You give him an unimpressed stare. 

“Violet. Royal violet. The one your dad wears a lot,” your expression softens to one of wonder as you continue. Like you didn't just refer to the King of the nation you live in as ‘his dad’ so casually. “And when it’s not that, it’s this bright yellow. Like sunflowers or daffodils. Or the colour leaves turn in the fall when the light hits them from above just right.”

It’s Jungkook's turn to stare now. You look lost in your own head, envisioning the colours you describe, seeing them dancing in your eyes. And he can’t help himself, you glow when you speak about something you're passionate about.

“Why two?” 

“Why not?” you answer, still dreaming, colours swimming in oceans of thought. Your voice is almost whimsical. “Don’t you get bored of one colour for too long? It’s nice to switch things up every now and then.”

His reply brings you back down to earth, albeit slowly.

“Red.”

“Hmm?” you touch ground.

“If you won’t accept black, then red. The rich dark one, like blood.” He chose the first colour that came into mind, not really caring which one. 

He did like red. Red looked good in many ways. On cars, clothes, lips...

But he chose the first one that popped into mind because after hearing your favourite colours and the reasons why, he started to like them more than all the others too.

“Red’s a great choice, strong,” you say, allowing him the blanket term just this once.

“Thanks.”

There’s a moment of comfortable quiet between you before you break it.

“When do you need me for the shoot?”

Jungkook’s eyebrows find his hairline. 

That was a yes, right? You’re saying yes?

“Uhm…soon, I’ll let you know the specifics when I do.”

“Sounds good.”

He was going to leave it at that, but adds, “Thanks, Y/N.”

He hasn’t said your name since the assembly. 

Always nicknames when talking to you. Always. 

Never your name. 

Not once in two months. Almost three.

You—

An inhale.

You…like it.

The way it sounds coming from his lips.

Exhale.

Chapter Eight: Photo Shoots and Blasphemous Discoveries

A/N 2: She's shorter but chapter 8 is like 11k so far, so I hope that makes up for it!

A/N 3: As always, Thank you for reading, loves. Xoxo - Yoon <3

<- Back

[libraryofgage]

Addams Family B-Side (1)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually Debbie and Fester Addams One (you're here!) Rick and Evelyn O'Connell (on the way!)

This is part of a series of unrelated works entitled "Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually" and I think that title is fairly self-explanatory. If there are any other couples you think would be good parents for our Stevie boy, let me know and I'll take them into consideration!

Anyway, the B-Side thing is because this is like taking my Addams Family Steddie au and just flipping the cassette tape hfjsdk

This time, it's Steve that's the Addams and Eddie that's normal!

Anyway, blame @whatthemeepever for this one specifically cuz it's gonna spiral into a wild ride actually, so let's all pray for Eddie in advance

If you'd like a tag for any future parts, let me know!

And, as always, if you see any typos, no you didn't

-------

The moment Steve is born, his father sticks a light bulb in his mouth. When it glows, he jumps with joy and throws Steve into the air. The moment Steve's mother realizes what's happening, she slaps his father upside the head, throws the light bulb at him, and threatens to blow him up again if he sticks anymore into Steve's mouth before he starts teething.

She follows through on the promise exactly two weeks later, and Steve's parents (one smug and the other notably singed but delighted) rebuild their house next door to his father's brother.

Steve's mother chooses his first and last name (Harrington, a reference to some long-lost family friend or other), and his father is reluctantly given the freedom to choose his middle name. In the end, he is dubbed Steve Faustus Harrington, a name his mother is so surprised to find acceptable that she kisses his father as a reward.

And so begins Steve's life.

------

"I can't believe you got expelled," Steve's mother seethes, gripping the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turn white. "Again!"

Steve crosses his arms, sinking lower in his seat as he glares out the window. "It's not my fault they were shitty friends. They got what they deserved."

He hears his mother laugh, the sound strained and indignant and very quickly followed by his father turning to look at Steve from the passenger seat. His sunken eyes are filled with suppressed delight as he asks, "What did they do this time?"

A few seconds pass before Steve sighs. "They said they couldn't go out later because they had to study for finals. I mean, what kind of bullshit is that? Finals are three weeks away, and they can't spare one weekend for the funeral museum?" he says, scoffing as he looks at his father, grins, and adds, "So, I brought the funeral museum to them, coffins and cremations and all."

His father's eyes light up, sheer joy and pride dancing in them. And for the very first time in Steve's life, his mother pulls over to the side of the road and parks the car.

"Pumpkin?" his father asks.

"Fester," she says, her voice low and somewhere in the range of upset, "do you remember when I tried to kill your entire family?"

"Of course. It was a splendid attempt."

She nods and looks at him with a tiny, somewhat pained smile. Then she turns and sets her gaze on Steve. "Darling, what kind of grades do your friends have?" she asks. "Because if you're anything like me, and I know you are, you tend to befriend people who are significantly dumber than you."

Steve blinks, thinking for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, most of them were about to fail," he admits.

"Then, isn't it possible they really were studying for finals? Especially if they were close to failing at a school where passing is a requirement of attendance? Perhaps you could have suggested going to the...funeral museum after finals?"

A few seconds pass as Steve considers her words, a crushing sense of realization and guilt dropping on his shoulders and traveling to the pit of his stomach. It makes him feel nauseous, and he stares down at his lap. "I fucked up," he finally says, voice quiet and apologetic.

"Of course not!" Fester says, reaching out and ruffling Steve's hair despite the affronted noise from Debbie, "Your plan was beautifully conceived and masterfully executed. Perhaps you should just talk a little more before pulling out the urns next time."

"Incredibly, your father is right," Debbie says, looking pleasantly surprised before turning her gaze to Steve. She sighs and holds out a hand, squeezing Steve's when he takes it. "Don't get so blinded by a beautiful pair of shoes that you completely miss the sale two aisles over, Steve. At the very least, do a little more research before resorting to torture and murder. Personally, I'm very tired of calling the family's lawyer."

Steve snorts at the utter lie. Debbie loves calling the family's lawyer. She does so regularly just to double-check the state of Fester's stocks and bonds and deeds and general worth. "Okay," he says, nodding once, "I'll remember for the next school."

"You know," Fester says, looking at Debbie hopefully, "Pubert is a senior this year. Maybe Steve could go to high school with him."

Debbie hesitates, frowning slightly before saying, "Yes, but it's...public school."

"The best Gomez and Morticia could find! It was highly recommended by Margaret, and Pubert can make sure Steve adjusts and makes friends."

Steve can see the moment his mother agrees. She sighs, lets go of his hand, and fixes her already perfect bob. "Well, I suppose," she says before looking at Steve once more. "And you, Steve? Would you like to try...public school for your junior year?"

"Sure, might be fun," Steve says, thinking about all the movies he's seen that display public high schools as a zoo and the worst place on Earth. It sounds great, and if the place is still standing while Pubert attends, it must be somewhat entertaining.

------

"You've got everything you'll need?"

Steve looks up from lacing his shoes and smiles at his mother, earning a nervous grin in return. Her blonde hair is uncharacteristically frazzled, and Steve feels warm and fuzzy (like a mold growing over his heart) at knowing she's so worried as to appear less-than-perfect in front of him.

"Yes, I've got everything," he says, gesturing to the backpack on the stairs next to him. In addition to notebooks and his pencil case, Steve has also packed a travel mace, a miniature bomb (alarm clock detonator stored separately, of course), a tiny bottle of tequila, and his lucky lightbulb (just in case).

His mother nods once, takes a deep breath, and then turns her head toward the kitchen to shout, "FESTER!"

Something crashes, a cat (they don't have a cat) yowls, and Steve's father slides into the doorway. "Yes, Pumpkin?" he asks, eyes bright and happy and utterly stuck on Debbie.

"Is Steve's lunch ready? You made something normal, right?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.

Fester glances at Steve, a brief look shared between them that's both sympathetic and endeared toward Debbie. "Of course," Fester says, disappearing for two seconds before striding over to the stairs with a pink lunch box decorated with black skulls (Steve chose the color, Fester chose the pattern, and Debbie gave them her stamp of approval). "A turkey sandwich, fruit, cookies, and juice."

"Fruit?" Debbie asks, her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Apple slices!"

After a few seconds, Debbie nods, and Fester gives the lunch box to Steve, shifting some so Debbie doesn't see the conspiratorial wink that tells him the juice is definitely poisoned. Steve grins and shoves the lunch box into his bag. He finishes lacing his shoes and stands, holding his arms out so his mother can inspect him.

"You've done a wonderful job pairing your shirt and shoes," Debbie says, walking around Steve with an air of pride and approval. She rubs the sleeve of his pastel yellow sweater between her thumb and forefinger, nodding once. "The plum pants are a bold choice, but it pays off. And, as always, your hair is flawless, dear."

Steve grins, letting his arms fall to his side. "I tried that new mousse you gave me," he says, fingers twitching as he fights the urge to run them through his hair. "It works great."

His mother smiles even wider and kisses his cheek, pulling out a handkerchief and carefully wiping away the lipstick residue she leaves behind. "I knew it would," she says, inspecting Steve's face once more before nodding with approval.

"Pumpkin, it's time for Steve to go. Pubert is waiting."

Debbie huffs softly and gives Steve one last once over before nodding and hurrying him toward the door. "Have a good day at school, try not to blow anything up, and call me if Pubert tries to cut off your head with a rusty knife again," she says.

"What if it's a clean knife?"

"Well, that's fine. Grandmama will just sew it back on."

Steve grins and waves to both of his parents before hurrying toward the sidewalk where Pubert is waiting. His hair is parted down the middle and gelled down, his pencil-thin mustache is immaculate as ever, and he's wearing a three-piece suit. When Steve is closer, he pulls out two cigars and offers one.

"This isn't an exploding cigar again, right? I'm wearing a new shirt," Steve says, taking it and looking it over.

"Nah, that joke only works once," Pubert says, dragging a match against his palm to light it. He holds it to his cigar first, puffs a few times, and then does the same for Steve. "How long till you get expelled again, you think?"

Steve shrugs as he takes a puff from the cigar, letting the smoke linger for a moment before skillfully blowing it out in perfect circles as they walk. "I haven't been to a public school before," he says, tapping the cigar over the sidewalk, "so, hopefully, at least a year."

"Public school is fun," Pubert says, getting a wicked grin as he looks at Steve. "You can get away with a lot."

"And the other kids?"

"Well, they've certainly got a lot to learn. I mean, most of them can't even handle a little cyanide."

Steve scrunches his nose and takes another puff of his cigar. After a few seconds he asks, "Will we have any classes together?"

"You're a year below me, so maybe an elective or two. What did you sign up for?"

"I signed up for, uh, shop class, forensic science, and Gothic literature."

"We'll have Gothic lit together," Pubert says, flashing a smile before asking, "And you know what shop class is, right?"

Steve blinks, suddenly a little hesitant. "Is it not, like, something about shopping?"

"No. It's building things. With wood, usually."

"Oh! So, I can build anything?"

"I guess. I haven't taken it."

"Well, I'll find out. Maybe I can build Dad a catapult or guillotine or something."

As they get closer to the school, more students fill the sidewalks, but Steve notices that most of them seem to give him and Pubert a wide berth. They also stare, looking at Steve like he's some kind of puzzle to be solved, with more than a few flashing sympathetic smiles like he's trapped and can't get away. "You're popular," Steve notes, taking one last puff of his cigar before dropping it into a trash can.

"I would fucking hope so," Pubert says, finishing off his cigar and tossing it into the next trash can they pass. "I didn't flood the place with roaches and vermin to not be known."

Steve grins, listening as Pubert regales him with the tale only to cut it short when they get inside the school and pass the front office. "I need to get my schedule, but Mom said she made sure we'd have lunch together," Steve says.

Pubert waves him off. "Yeah, I'll meet you in the cafeteria. Have fun, cousin," he replies, mockingly saluting him before heading off down the main hall.

-----

Steve's first class of the day was AP Calculus, followed by AP Physics, Wood Shop, and AP U.S. History. When it's finally time for lunch, he surveys the cafeteria for a few seconds before finding a table in a dark corner that everyone seems to avoid. By the time he gets there, Pubert has sat down with a tray from the lunch line.

Steve sets his backpack on the table, sits down, and says, "For a place that's so lifeless, it's not even fun."

"Yeah, it's like that," Pubert agrees, poking some unidentifiable mush on his tray with a spork before spooning some into his mouth.

It's with a somewhat jealous expression that Steve pulls out his lunch box and removes a thermos of poisoned juice. "Is it bad?" he asks, nodding to the tray.

"Utterly repulsive."

Steve sighs and takes a sip from the thermos before pulling out everything else in his lunch box. "They made me wear safety goggles in shop. Safety goggles! It's like they don't know how fun splinters in the eyes are. And everyone is soooo scared of the saws, it's ridiculous," he complains, taking an angry bite of his sandwich.

"What about your other classes?"

"Physics would be better with more practical examples. I mean, who cares about apples when we could learn if a body falls faster than a cannonball?"

"From experience, no," Pubert says, "Anyway, you gonna join any clubs?"

"Maybe the swim team? If I'm lucky, I'll drown," Steve says, perking up a little at the thought.

"Best of luck with that," Pubert replies, stealing Steve's thermos to take a sip of his juice. When he places it back, he offers Steve a sporkful of the mush.

Steve lights up and happily tries it, wondering how something can be so perfectly undercooked and overcooked at the same time. "Impressive," he says, passing the spork back. "Is that freezer burn?"

Before Pubert can answer, a bang from the other side of the cafeteria cuts off all other sounds. Steve glances over to see a boy in heavy combat boots climbing onto his table with a mischievous grin. He's wearing a shirt with a devil head on it and "Hellfire Club" emblazoned above and a vest with spikes, pins, and patches. His hair is just below his shoulders and a little curly, and Steve can see from here the wild glint in his eyes as he stomps down the table while talking.

"I'm tired of the double standards of this lame school. If you're into science or band or some other 'uncool' interest, the administration couldn't give two shits! Oh, the choir room needs new risers so the current ones don't break any necks? Well, that's too bad, we've got to give the football team new monogrammed towels for the locker room!" the guy says, grinning when a group of kids to the side shouts their agreement. "And never mind that our Robotics team has won the school three trophies when the basketball team so valiantly scraped into third place last year for being kinda good at throwing balls into laundry baskets."

"Prick!"

Steve glances at the guy who shouted, taking in his letterman jacket before quickly dismissing him. He looks back in time to see the boy on the table sticking out his tongue and holding his hands to his temples to make horns. There's an even wilder look in his eyes now, a sheer glee at causing a scene and getting under someone's skin.

Steve doesn't realize he's smiling until the boy scoffs, shouts one more line about the school's unfair preference for "mediocre jocks," and hops off the table. He looks over at Pubert and asks, "Who was that?"

Pubert glances at Steve, studying him for a moment before swallowing another mouthful of mush and saying, "Eddie Munson. He does that once a week, usually."

"Eddie Munson," Steve murmurs, glancing over at Eddie's table again and smiling a little wider.

[niki-phoria]

the look of love, the rush of blood

pairing: kim jiwoong x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: fluff word count: 397

notes: cinema paradise jiwoong my beloved <33 this is very short but i'm a little rusty, inspo from this prompt list by @thepromptswhisperer, not proofread, pls forgive any mistakes!! i've had this song stuck in my head all day lmao, title from arctic monkeys - no.1 party anthem

shivers race down KIM JIWOONG’S spine as you casually brush your hand through his hair, twisting the soft strands between your fingertips. your knuckles brush against the edge of his jawline, trailing against his sharp features and smooth skin. 

the comfortable silence that has settled over your apartment is only occasionally broken by the quiet chirps from nearby birds. sunlight fills the room, painting the world gold. hues of purples and pinks dance in the sky above but your gaze remains trained on the man lying beneath you. “you’re so handsome, jiwoong,” you murmur quietly. 

“really?” he chuckles, shifting slightly to look up at you. his eyes shine the colour of honey in the sunlight - as captivating as the artwork that lines the walls of various museums. jiwoong smiles brightly at you. “you think so?”

“of course i do.” stray strands of bleached blonde hair frame jiwoong’s face. your hands ghost against the faux freckles littering his flushed cheeks, careful not to smudge the makeup. blood rushes to jiwoong’s face, staining his ears with a bright pink tint. “you’re blushing,” you tease.

jiwoong laughs. he raises his hands to his face as he twists away from you, halfheartedly hiding behind the sleeves of his hoodie. his eyes crinkle into soft crescents as he smiles. “i can’t help it when you look at me like that.” 

his voice has fallen to just above a whisper; the words are barely audible over the gently whistling wind. your hand has fallen slightly, now gingerly tugging jiwoong’s hand into your own as you unconsciously intertwine your fingers together. 

“you’re beautiful, jiwoong,” you murmur. you can feel the heat rising to his face once again as you cup his cheeks in your hands with a soft smile. “the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen.” 

jiwoong sits up, running a hand through his already messy hair as he shifts to sit beside you. his knee brushes against your own when he leans in, gently meeting his lips against your own in a sweet kiss. your bodies move together effortlessly, like two puzzle pieces meeting in a seamless rhythm. your hands snake around his shoulders as his find your waist, tugging you even closer. “i love you,” he whispers breathlessly. jiwoong’s forehead rests against your own as you smile brightly. 

“i love you, too,” you murmur before pressing your lips against his once more. 

if you liked this fic, please comment, reblog, or leave feedback !! and if you want to support me, check out my zb1 masterlist <33

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 30 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: I'm dedicating this chapter to Becca Butcher, who never did anything wrong in her life. This one's for you.

Chapter Title from Shake it Out by Florence and the Machine.

Word Count: 26.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You bring Ryan to safety, and Ben prepares for the final showdown. Usual warnings, plus extra violence.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, fluff, angst, violence, established relationship

Read on A03!

Chapter 29 - Chapter 31

Ben found Her in the attic. Curled in a corner, perfect features cast in the shifting light of a lone window, and reading an old, leather-bound book. 

It looked almost fucking magical. Like some sort of painting he’d see in a study or museum, with all her beauty just as permanent and timeless as the sunlight leaking into the room. The dust glowed, hovering in the air and swirling with Her every breath and shift, and Ben paused to just look at Her So goddamn peaceful, so far from the tense shouts and movements of their team downstairs and on the grounds. Setting up weapons and traps and steeling themselves to fight.

Steeling themselves for Homelander.

It was why She was up here. She wasn’t fighting with them, but she still had an hour until she and Ryan left, so she’d grabbed Ben’s arm and whispered in his ear that she was going to go rest. Ben had grunted, kissed the side of her head, and held onto Her heartbeat as she walked away. He couldn’t feel Her—She’d taken the fucking suppressant again, to trick Sage, and now Ben couldn’t fucking feel Her—so he’d kept half of his attention on Her heart every second she was away. He’d marched around the grounds, going over plan after stupid fucking plan with MM, Butcher, and Annie, listened to Frenchie explain the drill a million goddamn times, and given Ryan a hug every time he started to look sad and pointlessly guilty, all without ever letting go of Her heart.

And now, as everything began to settle and it became a game of nerves—of knowing what was coming and never fucking flinching—Ben followed Her heart until he ended up here. Dropping to his knees before Her, letting her look up at him with a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and pulling her into his chest. He’d brought her coffee and a bagel, but they got discarded and forgotten on the dusty floor as Ben’s whole existence remained about Her. Just fucking holding Her, hopefully until there would be some sort of goddamn imprint of Her on his skin he could carry with him into battle.

Ben didn’t want Her to go. Not now, not when he couldn’t fucking sense any part of her but what was in his hands. It wasn’t that it wasn’t enough—soft skin and nails digging into his chest and hair he could tangle between his fingers—but he couldn’t fucking sense Her. Ben wouldn’t be able to know that She was safe, that Ryan was safe, that the only two people he cared about hadn’t figured out how to get themselves goddamn killed when he was supposed to protect them.

She’d tell him that it wasn’this job to protect them. That his job was to be there, and love them, and keep them safe with a feeling, but right now Ben didn’t give a fuck. If he lost them here, at the goddamn finish line, he wouldn’t have a lifetime to make them feel safe. To do whatever the fuck families that loved each other did. To make a million stupid breakfasts and watch every movie ever fucking made, to show Ryan how to shave and raise him so he’d earn a woman half as good as She was. To hold Her like this forever and kiss her until she melted into his body.

To let the instinct of Her return, so Ben could fucking feel all Her love and adoration and joy. Because She’d be safe, really fucking safe, living in a world without Homelander or some sort of fucked up game to play, or any war to fight. She’d clean up messes they made, together. In the kitchen and on the stairs and between the sheets of their shared bed. A bed that would belong to them, and nobody would ever try to take away.

But Ben still had to keep Her. He had to not fucking falter here, and remind himself that she did have to go. They couldn’t delay Homelander, Ben had been the one who’d insisted She and Ryan stay away from the fight, and this would help him focus. All he’d have to do is finish the fucking job, and know that he’d feel Her again when it was over. Ben had to keep reminding himself that it was for Her own fucking safety, and he’d see Her again. He’d always fucking see Her again. He’d kill Homelander, their pigeon shit would come back, and he’d go find Her.

Ben was more than goddamn ready to kill Homelander. To spill the pussy’s fucking blood over the grass and turn him into the fucking worm he was. Buried in the dirt, never seeing the goddamn sun again, and sparing it any thought of having to give someone as fucking worthless as Homelander a shred of his demanded light.

“Three hours.” Her words are muffled against Ben’s chest, her head tilting back to watch him. Her eyes are glossy and her expression tired, but She’s still beautiful. Still fucking perfect, and still looking at Ben like she loves him. And it’s all he can goddamn ask for, so he lets a hand drift to her face, tracing the lines and slopes of Her features until he gets a soft smile, and can drag his thumb over the curve of her lips.

“Two hours.” Ben corrects, following his own internal timer. “And fifty-seven minutes.”

She gives him a flat look. “That’s only three minutes, I rounded-“

“It’s three minutes less. Four now, the longer you get all fucking smart with me-“

“You like it when I get smart with you,” Her smile grows to something more real, and it makes Ben feel fucking alive. “It turns you on, you horny old cunt.”

“I’m your horny old cunt. You’re fucking stuck with me,” Ben moves Her hand up between their bodies, and says Her name like it should be said. Like it some sort of perfect, sacred secret that he gets to keep. 

She hums, examining the ring, and Ben knows that on any other day She’d have teased him. She’d have stuck her tongue out, pretended to pull the ring off, and giggled when Ben caught her hand and pushed her to the ground, kissing her until she was a moaning, writhing mess under him. But today is a walking fucking nightmare—or a strange space before it, where you know the nightmare is inevitable, and you’re fucking exhausted, so you can’t do anything but wait to pass out and let it take over—so She just leans back into Ben’s body, propping her head on his shoulder, and looks past him to the window.

“I think it’s going to rain.” Her words are only a breath in Ben’s ear, and he lets his hand wander over Her back, moving her further up his body. “We don’t have floodlights, and it’s probably too late to get them. Annie could be the light, but you’ll probably want her for the combat-“

Ben tugged on Her hair, just enough to get her attention and pull her drawn, worried face to his. To kiss Her long and soft and gentle, and stop the machine that was Her brain from sending her into overdrive.

“Not your job to worry about that shit.” He muttered against Her lips. “We’ve got it.”

“But-“

“No.” Ben dropped his brow to Her’s, and held her quiet, painfully fucking tragic gaze with the most goddamn certain one he could manage. His voice had to be strict and firm, because Ben was going to kill Homelander, and She wasn’t going to need to lift a goddamn finger to find it washed in blood. “We’ve fucking got it. You’re going to go with Ryan, and not goddamn worry, because we’ve got it. Read some books, stay away from the TV, and wait to feel me. Then I’ll come get you, and we’ll get fucking married-“

“Right after?” She giggled, and it was like fucking music because—even if it was quiet and soft—it meant She was a little bit happier. “Are we having a shotgun wedding?” She made a mock gasp, leaning fully back with a glimmering, wide-eyed expression. “Am I pregnant? Is it yours?”

Ben snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t joke about that shit, it’s not fucking funny-“

“You laughed.“ She gave him a pretty, fake pout, fingers tapping at his chest, and She was so fucking beautiful and hilarious and perfect that Ben had laughed. 

And he still did not want to entertain that line of thought at fucking all. The very damn possibility that Ben was about to leave Her, and she could be pregnant, and it would be his because who the hell else would have made that happen, and fuck, Ben was not going to leave Her if-

“I’m not pregnant,” Her hands moved to hold his face as she spoke, her expression falling into one of worry. “It was a joke, my love.”

“I fucking cum in you-“

“I’m aware, Benjamin.” She drawled, and sighed at the scowl that Ben could feel over his face, running her fingers through his beard. “It’s, I know I can, Homelander made the scientists check, but I’m not. I think it’s part of the V. The healing.”

“The V.”

“I mean, my healing factor sort of like a stasis, right? It’s why I can’t get sick, or be poisoned, and I only get my period once a year. And, um, I think if I don’t want to be, I won’t.”

Ben started at Her for a long, silent moment before grunting, “What the fuck are you talking about.”

“If I’m not ready, if my body isn’t ready, that won’t happen.” She sighed, dropping her head into Ben’s shoulder. “I mean, we fuck all the time, and, um, Homelander wasn’t really all about protection-“

“Fine.” Ben cut it off there. He understood now, he fucking believed Her—she was a whole lot smarter than he was, and always fucking right, so there was no damn need for doubt—and had almost negative fucking desire to think about Homelander right now. Doing that, or touching Her, or trying to fucking hurt her in any goddamn way. Just the damn thought made his grip on Her tighten, because nothing should hurt Her. Nothing would hurt Her, and she needed to damn know that. “You’re okay.”

She nodded slowly against his body. “I’m okay. I’m,” she let out a long breath, and her arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m tired.”

“You’ll rest-“

“I won’t.”

Ben frowned, angling her chin up with a careful hand to find Her smiling at him in a way that wasn’t making it any fucking easier to think about leaving her. All love and want, searching over his face like She was trying to memorize it. He grunted Her name, and she sat a little higher, holding herself at his eye level.

“I’m not going to rest, Ben. I’m going to worry about you. I’m,” She smile grew, and it was only made of fucking exhaustion and love and an ache that Ben could feel around his ribs. “I love you. And if you die, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’m not going to fucking die-“

“And I can’t die.” She gave him a pointed look. “But you’re going to worry about me.”

“That’s not the same-“

“Yeah, it is-“

“It’s fucking not.” Ben snapped. “I die, you’ve still got Ryan. You’ve still got all the pussy fuckers downstairs and your family. You die, I’m done. I’ll be a graveyard coke snorter, Sunshine, and no one will even give me any goddamn coke-“

She leaned up, kissing him in the soft, easy, shut up way he usually kissed Her, and Ben fucking hated this. He should be comforting Her. He was built for battle, for war, for blood and dirt and killing in Her name, and it was not her fucking job to kiss him like this right now-

“If you want coke,” She said against his lips, and a lot of the fight in his body fucking evaporated into radiant light at the look of adoration in Her eyes. “I’ll get you some coke, Pretty Boy. But if I die, which I won’t, you won’t be done. You’ll have Ryan-“

“If one of us is dying and leaving the other with Ryan, it should be me. He likes you more-“

She wrinkled her pretty nose, whacking his arm. “He likes you plenty, you dickhead. And neither of us are dying, so we don’t need to talk about this. We can talk about how I think Hughie was going to propose to Annie and you stole his thunder, or how I think A-Train and Ashley might be sleeping together, or our wedding, but no planning our estate or trying to figure out who’s going to die. Got it?”

Ben felt something loosen around his lungs, and he grinned, dropping to nip and suck at Her neck. “It’s real fucking hot when you yell at me-“

“I know, that’s why I do it.” Her voice was an airy, happy breath, and Ben didn’t think it was possible to be in real pain when they were like this. Her legs around his torso, his mouth attached to her skin, everything fucking good.

“Brat.” He muttered, pulling back to search Her wide, slightly flushed, perfect fucking face. “We should do it now.”

“Do-“

“Get married. Right fucking now. MM’s probably a minister or some shit, he seems like the type, we can just do it-“

She shook her head, and Ben fell silent on pure fucking instinct as Her hands glided over his face. “Not now, Ben. I don’t even have a dress-“

“You don’t need a dress, beautiful, we can-“

“I want to do a real wedding,” She said, her eyes almost pleading. “I want to have a stupid, normal, insanely fucking expensive wedding, where I throw flowers and you have to pretend you like talking to people, and I get to see you in a suit, and you,” she pressed a small, innocent kiss to Ben’s cheek before moving to whisper in his ear. “Get to do the garter thing. Behind closed doors, because there’s not a chance you don’t start eating me out the moment you get there.”

Ben loved her so fucking much. “Fine. But if we’re not married by October, I’m-“

“Waiting very patiently? Because you’re a very good husband?” She kissed him in that same sweet way, and Ben rolled his eyes.

“You’re a fucking menace, Sunshine.” Ben bumped his nose with Her’s, she fucking giggled again, and he felt high. “And I am not getting married in November, it’s a dogshit fucking month, but-“

“How about December?” She tilted her head, words slow and careful. “I know we don’t love the winter, but it’ll be one year of us knowing each other. That feels symbolic-“

“I don’t give a fuck about that. I just want to get married. Soon.” He grumbled, and earned a wide, bright, toothy smile as She squirmed in his lap, her words soft and happy.

“I can live with that.”

“Good.”

“We can do it in August? Inside, so that the only sweaty and gross things are you and I after-“

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Ben said Her name with a smirk, and she hit his chest, sticking out her tongue.

“Fuck you, Benjamin, we both know you’re just marrying me for the amazing honeymoon sex we’re going to have, and maybe the opportunity to dress Butcher in a pretty dress for his flower girl role-“

“I am marrying you for a lot of reasons,” he muttered, kissing the space between her eyes and trying to inhale the easy, blissful sigh that left Her. “But our sex is always fucking amazing, we don’t need a fucking flower girl, and Butcher should count himself lucky he’s allowed to be there.”

“What about Ryan?”

“I am not making Ryan the fucking flower girl-“

“No, Benjamin, he should be the best man.”

Ben froze for a second, scanning Her soft, thoughtful expression with a furrowed brow. “Have you been fucking thinking about this?”

“Yeah.” She mumbled, turning her flushed face to press into Ben’s arm, her heart hitting an uneven, fluttering pace in her chest. “It’s been a good distraction. From, uh, everything.”

He nodded slowly, and started to draw slow, firm patterns on her skin. “What else have you thought about.”

“I think Kimiko would like to be the flower girl,” Her voice was muffled in his body, more uncertain than Ben liked, so he just hummed and kept listening. “She likes to do pretty, simple things, I think it helps her cope with the whole situation. I would like Annie to be on my side, but I really think you should take Hughie. He might get all panicky and red when you ask, but it will mean a lot to him. And I, I want MM there, but I’d understand if he doesn’t want to be-“

“He will.” Ben muttered. “He likes you a fuck ton more than he hates me.”

“I know, but I don’t want to make him uncomfortable-“

He drawled Her name, kissing the top of her head. “We’re well fucking past uncomfortable. He’s accepted that I’m not going a single goddamn place without you, that I fucking love you, and that you love me. He’ll be there.”

“I do love you.” She mumbled, kissing the base of Ben’s neck and curling her fingers in his hair. “You burn, I burn. No burning without me, Benjamin, or I’m serious. I’ll fucking kill you.”

He chuckled, squeezing the skin of her hips. “Deal, Sunshine. You burn, I burn.”

She smiled up at him, all sweet and adoration and love and fuck she was going to kill him. He couldn’t fucking do this, he couldn’t fucking move from this warm, impossibly fucking good moment, and he never wanted to let Her go. 

Ben was vaguely aware that she had been right. It was raining, and the attic had dropped into a damp, heavy darkness Ben could feel over his skin and inside his lungs. He could hear thunder in the distance, hear the drumming of the rain on the roof above them, but Her heartbeat was more important—sacred and critical and all fucking Ben’s—so he held onto that. He held onto Her for as long as he was fucking allowed to, until her phone buzzed and she had to pry away from Ben’s grip to take the call.

“Where are you.” MM’s voice was static and muffled through the speaker, and she sighed, watching Ben as she answered.

“In the attic with Ben, why-“

“You’re rolling out now.” There was a sense of almost apologetic urgency in MM’s words, and Ben felt his hands tense as Her heart stuttered. 

“Now? I thought we had another thirty-“

“This storm is looking heavy, and I don’t want you trying to drive in it if it gets worse. You’re packed?”

“Yeah. I did Ryan’s bag as well-“

“Where-“

“In our room. But, MM-“

“Look.” MM sighed through the phone, and She swallowed. “I don’t want to fucking cut it off early either, but we don’t know when Homelander will be here, and I’d rather get this over with and know we got you out safely. Is Soldier Boy-“

“I’m here.” Ben grunted, leaning forward as she held the phone between their bodies. “What.”

“Get her downstairs, then meet Butcher and Annie in the kitchen. We’re going over everything again. No errors.”

Ben nodded, and when he looked back to Her sad, open, slightly hollow expression, everything in him became steel. If fucking anything went right tonight, it would be that She was going to be safe. That nothing was ever going to fucking hurt Her again. “Got it. Did Frenchie-“

“Guns are in the dining room. See you soon, motherfucker.”

The phone line clicked dead, and She wasn’t fucking moving. She wasn’t falling into Ben, or pulling away from him, but she was just fucking frozen. Staring at him with glassy eyes and an open mouth, her heart uneven and her nails digging into Ben’s skin, rising with smoke.

Ben didn’t bother to speak, because words wouldn’t fucking help. He gave her a long, slow kiss, letting her part open for him at the first sweep of his tongue over her lips, and deepening it until her body was warm but not burning, and Her heart was fast but not erratic.

It was a promise. Neither of them were attempting to stand and leave, because this was a silent fucking oath that Ben would find Her. That She’d be safe with Ben still lingering on her lips and teeth, and Ben would fight with the taste of honey and chocolate on his tongue, the smell of flowers everywhere around him. He’d run his fingers through her hair again, and she’d hold his face in that way that told Ben she was seeing him. That She was touching him and wanting him and had no fucking intention of ever being anywhere else, because She wanted Ben to look at Her, and she loved looking at him.

And Ben fucking loved Her. And he’d be here again—with Her in his arms, but all her fucking love alight in his body—because there just wasn’t another fucking option. He’d finish this by the time the sun reappeared in the sky, and he’d feel Her again before that. Just two fucking hours, and Ben would be able to sense her again. 

He’d made it a lifetime never feeling Her at all. He’d made it two months without feeling Her or knowing she loved him. He wasn’t a fucking pussy, he’d manage to survive less than three goddamn hours knowing she was safe, that she loved him, and then worship and tend to Her for a million goddamn years when this was done.

She let Ben carry Her downstairs, burying her face in his neck and still clinging to him when they reached the kitchen and he lowered her to the ground. Ben looped his arm around her waist, holding Her as steady as he could, and neither of them spoke as he guided her outside. Into the rain, cold and stinging on his skin, her body against his the only real thing in the whole fucking universe. 

They were taking the car She and Ben had stolen in Boston, and most everyone was already there. Ashley and A-Train were squished into the back with Zoe, Neuman was twisted around in shotgun to hold her daughter’s hand and whisper soothing words, and MM was standing on the driver’s side as they approached, tall and unflinching in the downpour as he gave them a curt nod of greeting and tossed Her the keys.

Ben snatched them out air with a scowl, his eyes narrowing at MM. “She is not fucking driving-“

“Shut up, Benjamin-“

“No. You’re a goddamn threat to your own safety when you drive-“

“When it’s just us,” She snapped, and tried to jump up to grab the keys from Ben’s hand, held high over her head. “I’m not going to be reckless with two kids in the car-“

“And she’s the only one I trust to drive, you asshole.” MM crossed his arms, scowling at Ben. “So unless you want Neuman to drive your wife and son around in the middle of this shit, give her the fucking keys.”

Ben did not appreciate that use of wife and son, because MM knew exactly what the fuck he was pulling with it. He’d backed Ben into a corner where She now had to have the keys, because Ben didn’t fucking trust Neuman, and she wouldn’t be reckless with Ryan in the car, but Christ. He mostly just didn’t want Her to go. Ben knew She’d be careful, that when she’d went she’d be safe, but if he kept the keys where she couldn’t get them—where nobody could get them, because Ben was a fuck ton stronger than all these pussies—he’ never have to say goodbye.

And She must have seen that on his face, because when Ben passed her the keys with a scowl, she kissed his cheek with a sad, loving smile and let Ben half pick her up off the ground as he deepened every part of this. It wasn’t a fucking goodbye, not by a damn mile, but Ben still gave Her fucking everything left he had to offer. His mouth and body fitting perfectly against every part of her, his touch on Her skin careful and deliberate, and the atomic light in his body that might be the bomb and might just fucking be his love for Her radiating into the air. Ben kissed Her and held her until they couldn’t fucking feel the rain, and her heart was beating in perfect time with his.

“I love you,” he said Her name down her throat, and she fucking knew that, and Ben was still never going to stop saying it. “I fucking love you, and I’ll find you. I’ll always fucking find you.”

“I know you will,” She mumbled, pulling away slowly, as if it was painful. It fucking was. “I trust you, Benjamin, my love. I know.”

Ben already had Her face memorized but he still stared. Still tried to look at Her enough that, when he closed his eyes, She’d be the only thing he saw. Listening closely enough that, between any explosion or sound of pain or splash of rain on gravel, he’d hear the perfect, musical sound of Her voice. He could live here, he decided. If all of time froze and Ben was trapped in this storm forever, it would be in a moment where She was looking at him, and he was holding Her, and everything ached but Ben still fucking had Her.

He wouldn’t lose Her. He’d repeated it to himself countless fucking times, and it had become some sort of oath between him and the universe, but right now it was a prayer. God wasn’t fucking real, the world was too cruel for that, but Ben still was asking for one last favor. He didn’t deserve it, but he still needed to look at Her and fucking plead that he would fucking find Her. That Ben could let go of Her and it wouldn’t be painful, because he had an hour and forty-four minutes left until he could feel Her, and when he did he’d only feel Her love. Only feel Her up and down his spine and wrapped around his skull, making everything in his vision glow and the drums pound of out his chest in an avenging beat of Her. She was fucking safe, and loved Ben, and now this was going to be fucking over.

So when Butcher and Ryan joined them—Butcher giving them a rough nod and Ryan running to give Ben a tight hug—all Ben could do was fucking pray. 

“I don’t want to go,” Ryan muttered, looking up at Ben with wide eyes that he could fucking taste the fear in. “I can help-“

“It’s not your job to help, Ryan.” Ben knelt down, holding Ryan’s gaze with his own glare. “Your job is to go with her, and wait for me to come get you. I’ll take care of this, and you’re going to be fucking fine.”

“What if you lose-“

“I won’t.”

“But-“

“I won’t fucking lose, kid. I don’t lose.” That wasn’t really true anymore, but it made Ryan’s face relax slightly, so Ben said it anyway. “So don’t worry about me. I’ve got it.”

Ryan mumbled Her name, glancing to where She and Butcher were exchanging low words Ben couldn’t decipher over the pounding of the rain around him and the drums inside him. “Um, she said you lose. She said you’ve never beaten her at a card game, or won any of your fights.”

Ben snorted. “That’s because she’s a fucking genius, and nobody can beat her in a fight. That woman could talk circles around a hundred damn people at once. And,” he lowered his voice, leaning closer to Ryan with a grin. “I let her beat me at card games.”

“Why?” Ryan titled his head with a frown that was remarkably fucking uncanny to Her’s, and Ben’s smirk widened. 

“Because she loves winning.”

“But it’s just a card game-

“I know that. And she really fucking loves winning. And I love her.” Ben shrugged, because in his head it was pretty goddamn simple. They played, he went out his way to lose, and she lit up like the goddamn sun after. Ben got extra ice cream, and extra sex, and She was all fucking bouncy and bright for the rest of the day, so he could lose a stupid fucking card game. “When you love someone, you let them have stupid shit that makes them happy.”

Ryan nodded slowly—it was an almost eerie imitation of Her slow nod, that told Ben they understood something, but were still thinking about it—and his frown became less strained on his face. “Okay. What does,” Ryan paused, closing his mouth once before continuing. “Does the card game, um, does it make her really happy?”

“It makes her fucking glow.” Ben looked over to where She was still talking to Butcher, and his grin became all teeth and raw fucking joy when She glanced at him, her whole face relaxed, and her smile became the one that told him Ben. Ben, I love you and adore you and want you. He turned his attention back to Ryan, dropping his voice to a mock whisper. “You ever want to get her in a good mood, lose a game of cards.”

Ryan nodded slowly, and Ben knew the kid probably wouldn’t use that tactic nearly as much as he did. Ben used it, or others like it, any time he saw her eyes grow fogged, heard her breathing become mechanical, or felt her nails dig into his arm. He’d lose a bet about who got to make dinner or chose the movie or let Her lead sex just to see her fucking smile. Ben could eat next to anything, and watch a million hours of fucking static, and have almost any damn form of sex as long as it was with Her.

And Ben wouldn’t be able to be with Her for this. He’d have to just fucking wait, and keep fucking praying. Praying that Her firm handshake with Butcher was because even that damn pussy was on board with what this was about. 

Killing Homelander. Keeping Her and Ryan safe. 

That’s all it had been about since the very fucking start, and Ben got that now. He’d get that for the rest of his fucking life, and his last prayer to the universe was that he’d been right. That this was some sort of fucked up heaven—where Ben got to have a real family, and be loved a perfect fucking woman, and repent for the rest of his goddamn life to earn that—and not the most twisted hell imaginable. That this wasn’t well-designed torture, where everyone had somehow forgiven him, and he felt loved for the first time in a hundred years—was happy for the first time in his fucking life—only have it all taken away. To have Her ripped away from him and, to lose. Lose this war, lose the only people that mattered in the entire goddamn universe, lose the love of his life and have no one to blame but himself.

She bumped past Butcher to return to Ben’s side, and pulled Ryan into a long, tight hug without a word. Ryan’s head buried in her chest, Her body over his to shield him from the rain, and Ben wanted to crawl up from where he’d found himself—kneeling in the mud, drenched in a downpour She’d probably call mythical or some shit—and fucking hold them.

Her eyes opened, meeting Ben’s, and her tiny nod was like a command over his whole body. He stood, almost launched across to the small space to where She and Ryan stood, and took all the rain like they were fucking bullets. Another way to repent, another way to prove his love, and another way to keep them safe.

“Can you,” Ryan’s voice was muffled between Her and Ben’s bodies, drowned out in the unrelenting pound of the rain, but Ben still heard them. Right now all he could fucking hear was the rain, Her heart, and Ryan’s unsure words. “Ben, can you come with us? Please?”

She tensed slightly, but looked to Ben for his answer.

She trusted Ben to handle this himself. That he’d say the right thing, not fuck Ryan up more than the poor kid already had been, and all She had to do was back up what he said.

“I can’t, kid.” He muttered, holding Ryan’s sad gaze and making his words a fucking promise. Something so certain Ryan wouldn’t even bother to worry. “I’ve got to stay here and fight. But she’s going to take good care of you, and I’ll find you both when it’s over.” Ben felt something impossibly fucking painful, overtake his body, and his words became rough. Edged with that same pain, lined with the knowledge that he could convince Ryan they’d be safe—he could convince his damn self they’d be safe—but he still couldn’t fucking feel Her, and they still had to go. “All you have to do is wait. You’ll get somewhere safe, survive this mythical storm, and just fucking wait.” He glanced up at Her, and this was the hardest thing he’d ever had to fucking say. “Take care of each other, and I swear on my fucking life I’ll find you. I’ll always fucking find you.”

“Okay.” Ryan squeezed Ben one last time, and looked to Her with an open, soft expression. “Can I-“

“Go wait in the car, Ry. I’ll be right there.” She pulled the kid back against her and let him stay there until he was ready to god. Until Ryan pried himself from Her body, and walked away with one last fearful look at Ben. Not fear of Ben—Ben knew what that fear looked like, and it was more terror than worry—but fear for him, and Ben was going to fucking roar louder than any rain or thunder or bomb.

“Mythical?” She whispered, moving Her gaze from Ryan to Ben with a sad adoring smile. “What’s a mythical storm?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “I don’t fucking know. What the hell would you have said-“

“Biblical? A biblical storm?”

“Smartass.”

“You love it.” She sighed, shuffling right into Ben’s chest and pulling his arms around Her as if they hadn’t been about to hold Her on pure fucking instinct. “You love me.”

“I do.” He ran his hands through her wet hair and pressing a kiss to the top of Her head, speaking against her skin. “I really fucking love you, Sunshine.”

“Good.” She hummed, her own arms wrapping over his torso and squeezing. “Because I really fucking love you too.”

Neither of them spoke after that—neither of them needed to speak—and when she pulled Ben’s face down to Her’s for an unhurried, sloppy kiss, he bit Her lower lip in a silent promise. 

I’ll find you. When this is over, I’ll come get you, and I love you. I won’t ever lose you, because I love you, and if this does turn out to be hell, the Devil better run for the goddamn hills because I’ll burn the entire universe to get you home.

She didn’t hear the promise between their heads, or read it on his face, but she didn’t need to. Ben had told Her that in a million goddamn ways, and right now it was more of a warning to whatever might be listening. That the world better fucking pray that Ben didn’t lose Her, because he wouldn’t kill anything innocent in Her name—She’d hate that, and Ben loved Her—but he’d raze and maul and scorch anything that was guilty.

And the world must have heard him, because lightning cracked through the sky—lighting up Her every perfect feature and making Her look like some sort of forgotten, vital god that turned the world round and created all its beauty but still only looked at Ben—and Ben was forced to let Her go. To press his brow to Her’s, trace his hands over Her face to wipe any water that might be tears, and leave one long, gentle kiss to her lips before he had to watch her walk away. Meet Her eyes one last time, see that She loved him on every single part of Her beautiful face. Feel the world a little beyond himself, feel peaceful and infinite and warm in the chill of the rain, and know that Her sharp, adoring gaze would follow him, and the deep, unstoppable, consuming look in her eyes was love.

I love you, Benjamin. 

There was iron wrapped over his lungs and throat, and a roaring rush of fury and blood in his chest, but it was all drowned out by Her. And it was easy to look at Her and nod, and Ben didn’t have to think to turn his face into an expression of his own pure, devout ardor and affection. 

I love you too, Sunshine.

She nodded, and something in Ben became a heavy weight he was happy to carry as the car pulled away. She knew he loved her, and that was all that fucking mattered. His whole world was in that stupid fucking car, and he’d carry that piece of Her inside of him, the crucial and holy responsibility of loving Her, until he could feel her again. Ben would bear this on his shoulder and over his head until he could pull the universe back into his arms, and then he’d breathe. He’d crash into Her and spend the rest of time where he belonged, but until then he had a fucking job to do. 

The next time Ben saw Her, he needed to be able to look Her in the eyes and tell her Homelander was dead.

They gathered in the kitchen, and Ben could barely fucking breathe. It wasn’t just the strain and mold on his heart leaking into his lungs, it was the very air in the goddamn room. Heavy and cold, but still humid and thin, wearing them down before the fight even began.

It was wrong without Her here. Wrong to listen to MM recite a plan She made without her listening, without her correcting or amending anything, without Ben having anything to hold but a gun in his hand, anything to touch but the splintered wooden table they sat around. It was wrong to not feel Her anywhere but in the empty space at his side, or hear Her heartbeat and voice in the static silence of a ceiling fan. 

“Here’s the deal.” MM’s words were short as he scanned over the team, hands sorting the guns in a neat line on the table. “Everyone gets two guns. One regular, one drill. We got enough for one V bullet each, which means you do not take a shot unless you’re going to hit. Not you think you’re going to hit, you’re going to hit. A shot you’d have to be a real fucking idiot to miss. Understood?”

Everyone nodded, and Hughie raised a shaking hand in the air.

“What if, um, you’re just not good with a gun and don’t want to fuck anything up more than it already has been-“

“Everyone gets a gun, Lad.” Butcher snapped. “You got hands and eyes. Fuckin’ use them.”

Hughie gave a mumbled, sheepish agreement, and Frenchie cleared his throat.

“I did not, ah, account for the rain, but it should not be an issue. There are alarm triggers and traps all over the grounds, and, Petite Hughie-“

“Vicky was right,” Hughie tapped his computer on the table. “Edgar had the place wired. I’ve never see so many hidden tree cameras, I thought that was only a thing in movies-“

“Well, Edgar’s more of a paranoid asshole than most, and now we get the benefit.” MM crossed his arms, his expression grim. “Homelander won’t be able to take a piss in the woods without us knowing what leaf he uses to wipe. Hughie will keep eyes on the cams, and Frenchie’s alarms, and we can hope that the rain is in our favor. I’d imagine the overload of sound won’t help him-“

“It won’t.” Ben grunted, because the rain was starting fucking overwhelm him. It was all he could fucking hear, without Her heart there to latch onto, and it was going to drive him fucking insane. “He won’t be able to pull footsteps or random fucking heartbeats out of the noise. It’s an advantage, so fucking use it.” He moved his glare around the table. “If you can, shoot during thunder. He won’t hear the gun fire, and the pussy probably won’t bother to dodge anyway, but no risks. No fucking missing, and no going off on your own stupid little vengeance quest.” Ben’s attention moved to Butcher, and he made his words a threat. A promise of violence if Butcher screwed this up for him, for Her, for the entire goddamn world. “If Homelander isn’t fucking dead by tonight because you decided to go all scorched earth instead of sticking the goddamn plan, I’ll kill you.”

“I ain’t lookin to fuck you, Gov. Didn’t bring any protection, and I’m more damn scared of your wife than I am of you. Don’t want her findin out about our little affair and flayin me alive.” 

Butcher’s words were casual and mocking, but Ben could hear the pussy’s heart over the rain—hammering at a fucking mile a minute—and see the almost imperceptible tick of his jaw, so he wasn’t fucking worried. Butcher understood that Ben would have his back, and if he got fucking stabbed in it, Butcher would die a nuclear, bloody, violent death.

MM coughed before continuing, giving Ben a short nod and starting to push the drills—along with small earpieces—out around the table. “One shot. No missing. Keep your coms on, and be fucking careful. Homelander’s got nothing left to lose, and he’s going to fight like it.”

“I still think I should be able to just, uh,” Hughie’s eyes widened as MM handed a gun to Annie, his voice growing higher with every damn word. “Watch the cameras without a gun? I’m not going to be out in the fight-“

“What if Homelander pushes through the door?” Frenchie suggests, loading up his own drill. “It is either boom, no more Hughie, or bang,” Frenchie made finger guns, shooting into the air. “No more Homelander.”

Hughie nodded, face bloodless. “Yeah, that’s. Okay. Shit. I’ll take a gun, please.”

“You’ll be okay, Hughie.” Annie gave a sweet, encouraging smile, and Hughie blushed. “You’re not a terrible shot.”

Ben grunted Her name, glowering at his own gun. “She had you fucking train her. And you didn’t do a total fucking pussyass job, before I took over. You’ll be fine.”

“Oh, um,” Hughie swallowed. “Thanks, Ben.”

Ben just shrugged, focusing on putting in his earpiece in and not breaking the weapon in his hands. Ben fucking hated this. He hated just waiting for Homelander to arrive instead of going and finding the asshole, fighting him,and finishing this without any sitting on their goddamn asses. He hated that She was the one who told them to wait, and she was always fucking right, and Ben knew that waiting was smarter, but he still fucking hated it. He goddamn despised that She was out there with Ryan, without him, and there was still a whole goddamn hour until he could feel Her again, until Ben could be goddamn certain that she was safe-

He saw the light first. Out the window there was a flash of yellow light in the distance, then, over the storm, the bang of an explosion.

Everyone fucking moved. Seats scraping on the floor as they were pushed away, guns aimed at the door and the stomping of feet to cover their every goddamn vulnerability point. Frenchie and MM patrolling the upper halls, Kimiko in the attic, Butcher in the living room, Annie in the kitchen, and Ben in the entrance hall. Gun raised at the door, the drums completely under his control and more than fucking ready to burst out of his chest. Every fraction of light and fury in Ben’s body was humming and golden over his bones, dug inside his muscles, and he wasn’t goingtomiss. If Homelander was enough of an idiot to try and walk right through the door, Ben’s finger was set on the trigger, and the pussy would die in the fucking mud as Ben blasted him backward and ended this.

But all Ben could hear was the wind and rain. Banging at the doors and falling everywhere around him, loud but not enough to cover up another explosion or the shout of a teammate for aid. 

But neither of those things fucking came. And if Ben focused he could hear rapid, panicked heartbeats, but no bombs, and no blood.

Just the fucking wind.

“There’s,” Annie’s voice was quiet in Ben’s ear. “There’s nothing over here. No Homelander, no open fire. Nothing.�� “Same here.” MM said, his voice a little firmer. “But stay alert, he could be playing some sort of game-“

Butcher cut over MM, a slight screeching sound cutting into Ben’s head that made him grimace. “Homelander don’t play games, Mate. Mighta just been a real bloody unlucky squirrel.”

“Non, the traps are calibrated to human weight.” Frenchie sighed over the coms. “Maybe a baby deer, though. I cannot be sure.”

“It’s pouring, a baby deer wouldn’t be outside, right? It would be-“

“It wasn’t a baby-” There was another static shriek as Hughie cut over Annie, and Ben could hear the chorus of groans through the house. “Shit, sorry guys. But it, um, it wasn’t a baby deer. I actually, I don’t see anything here. No dead animals, no people, no Homelander. Anywhere.”

MM hummed, and Ben could fucking hear his frown. “The motherfucker could be toying with us. Luring us outside while he waits in the sky-“

“I fuckin told you, MM.” Butcher didn’t apologize as the static cut in once more, and the next person who made that horrible fucking sound happen was getting their head ripped off. “Homelander don’t play with his food. Not when he’s real angry. He’s either gonna burst through the door and fuckin eat us, or he ain’t here and that was a squirrel.”

“It wasn’t a squirrel.” Hughie sounded urgent, and Ben could hear his fucking tapping at the laptop over the rain. “It was something, but not a squirrel.” There was another, softer, muffled voice through Hughie’s com before he continued. “Oh, uh, that’s a good idea. Thanks.”

Ben scowled. “What fucking idea.”

“Annie said to look for what bomb went off. It was the…” Hughie trailed off, the sound of his typing growing rapid, then, “Seventh bomb. Down by the creek.”

There was a long moment of silence, then Annie cleared her throat into the speakers.

“I think we should send a team. Just to make sure it’s really nothing.”

“Fine.” MM paused, and Ben jumped in.

“I’ll go. I’m invincible, and if it is Homelander, I’ll just fucking shoot him.”

“No,” MM muttered, and even though no one could see it, Ben scowled. “It could be a play to get you out. You’re the one he views as a threat, it might be a lure.”

“Nah, I’m with Soldier Boy.” Butcher said, and Ben wished he would shut the fuck up. Butcher backing up a plan was never a good thing. “We all got drills, and Homelander don’t got a goddamn clue. If it is a lure, he ain’t ready for us to be ready for him. I’ll go out with the old cunt, and if it’s nothing, we’ll be right back in shake of a cock’s ass.”

Ben rolled his eyes, and could almost fucking see the wrinkle of Her nose. Almost hear Her say there’s literally no way that’s a real phrase. 

He couldn’t actually hear it—forty-five minutes—but he could imagine it.

“I can go too,” Annie added. “I can be a light source.”

MM still didn’t relent. “I don’t want to send two of my three supes out there. Not when we don’t know what the fuck that was.”

“Think of it like this,” Ben drawled, keeping his gaze on the door. “If it is Homelander, we can fight him. If it’s not, Butcher’s not a fucking idiot for once. He won’t be expecting you to have the guns, and you can shoot the stars and stripes pussy in his fucking mouth, I’ll come back, and he’ll die.”

There was a second of static, then MM’s grunt of, “Fine. But be fast, don’t be stupid, and keep on coms.”

“Aye fuckin aye, Mate. Lines on, be quick.” Butcher rounded the corner to the hall, winking at Ben. “Oi, Gov, you want anythin before we go out? Gonna put on your fuckin suit for the grand fight?”

“You want to eat my fucking asshole?” Ben snapped, because he’d very fucking purposefully traded his suit for normal, boring ass clothing. Homelander could wear a costume and fight like a fucking monster. Ben would dress like a goddamn person, and fight like an asshole who had something to lose, and people to fight for. Bloody and unforgiving, but still goddamn human. Not Soldier Boy, fighting for some sort of annoying fucking honor before. Ben was himself, and he was killing Homelander for Her. 

She’d say there could be symbolism in killing Homelander while dressed as Soldier Boy, and having that be his final act in the suit. And Ben would listen to Her, then kiss the space between her eyes and mutter that he didn’t fucking care about symbolism. He cared that She was fucking safe, and Homelander was dead. Half of his uniform was at the bottom of the fucking ocean, and when this was over, Ben would burn his Soldier Boy suit and be done for good.

But right now—Annie and Butcher a pace behind him—Ben had to wander out into the darkness of rain and try to remain vigilant when he couldn’t tell up from down. It was so fucking loud, and he had to fucking focus but Christ, it was loud-

“Hey, Ben.” Annie jogged up to his side, and Ben glanced at her with a frown.

“What.”

Annie said Her name, and it was like it set something off in his body that roared with love and care and focus. “She, um, she told me more about Rome. And I wanted to thank you-“

Ben’s frown deepened, and his words became curt. “Why.”

“Because you really make her,and Ryan, actually, happy.” Annie sighed, scanning over Ben’s face in the dark of the storm. “And I’m not going to apologize for the tower last year, you were being a dick and I’d do it again, but I will say I don’t regret listening to her. When she told us to wake you up. I mean, I didn’t think this would happen, but I’m glad it did. And I’m glad she has you, even if you’re like, so gross together.”

“Good.” Ben grunted, and he didn’t know what the fuck to do with that. “Thanks.”

Annie nodded, moving to fall back another step, and Ben scowled. 

“I’m glad she has you as well.” He added, and it was Annie’s turn to look like a fucking idiot. “She deserves a friend who can’t shut her up by fucking her stupid.”

“That’s what I mean.” Annie muttered, but there was something lighter in her tone. “That’s disgusting, who just says that-“

Ben said Her name, and couldn’t stop the grin on his face. “She’d say that shit. She’s a horny fucking problem, Annie, I don’t know how she tricked you pussies, but she was fucking begging to blow me in a bathroom last week-“

Annie made a face, and Butcher laughed from behind them.

“I knew the lady wasn’t all fucking prim and proper words. Good on you, Gov. That ain’t a shit job.”

Ben whipped around, stopping dead in his tracks to glower at Butcher. “Fucking watch it-“

“Calm your bloody tits.” Butcher raised his hands in mock surround, rolling his eyes. “That was what we call a compliment. That woman was abused and tortured, and she’s a piece of bloody work, but you somehow make her all fuckin ditzy and dumb just by smilin at her.”

Ben scanned over Butcher—the words seemed genuine, even if Butcher always said everything in a way that sounded rude—and grunted before turning and continuing their march to the creek.

“You’re going to be her bridesmaid,” he snapped to Annie, because every moment of silence in the noise of the storm was driving him fucking insane. “She told me. And I get Hughie.”

“Oh.” Annie gaped at him slightly, then shook her head clear and nodded. “Okay. I mean, maybe be careful when you ask Hughie, he might turn all red and get really nervous-“

“I know.” Ben grunted, scanning over the trees as they approached the rushing water. “The guys a fucking mess, but he’s kind. Patient.” Ben scowled at a strangely shaped tree. “Good man.”

Annie let out an almost dreamy sigh, and Ben wondered if he looked that fucking stupid when people talked about Her. If he did, he didn’t fucking care, but it did make him worry about his face when She was actually there.

“He really is. I love that weird Billy Joel nerd so much- What the fuck?!”

They’d halted at the edge of the water—the creek overflowing and rushing between their feet—and Annie’s eyes began to glow, the air humming and buzzing, as the Deep grinned at them from a high rock on the other side.  

Ben frowned, scanning over the man’s tall, proud, over-fucking-dramatic hero pose. “What’s the fishfucker doing here.”

“I’m here to fight!” The Deep called over the rain, and even Ben could barely fucking hear him. “And defend America-“

“Speak up, you asshole!” Annie was half screaming, eyes growing brighter. “I can’t fucking hear you-“

“He said he’s here to fight and defend America.” Ben muttered to Annie, keeping careful attention on the Deep’s look of annoyance before raising his own voice to a shout. “Speak the fuck up, you pussy, we can’t hear you!”

The Deep nodded, looking slightly uncertain. “I, I am here to defend America from the terrorists, Annie January, William Butcher, and Ben. We, uh, we couldn’t find a last name for Soldier Boy-“

Annie’s eyes narrowed, and Ben could fucking taste the electricity through the rain. “Deep, get the fuck off my farm-“

“God, Annie, can you not be a bitch for five seconds so I can do my speech?” The Deep rolled his eyes at Ben, and Ben wondered if fish would find empty fucking eye sockets attractive. “She has been out to get me since the start, sabotaging me, trying to cancel me-“ 

“You assaulted me, you fucking-“

“What the hell are we stoppin-“ Butcher stomped up behind them, cutting himself with a groan. “Ah, bloody fuckin- The hell you doin here, Lad. I mean, ain’t gonna pass up the oppurtuiny to kill ya, but this,” he gestured around to the woods. “Ain’t your fight.” 

“Wrong, Mr. Butcher, this is Homelander’s fight, and he’s my bro, so it’s my fight too. And-“

“As well.” Ben snapped, mostly on instinct, and the Deep frowned at him.

“As well as what-“

“Proper fucking grammar, you fish blowing pussy.” Ben raised his gun, aiming right for the Deep’s head. “It’s your fight as well, and you’re going to die in it.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever grandpa.” The Deep scoffed. “Can I get through my speech now? I am here to defend America from the terrorists Annie January, William Butcher, and Ben. You have committed high treason against Homelander-“

“You ain’t able to commit treason against a person, cunt!” Butcher called over the river. “Treason gotta be against your country-“

“Well bloody fucking hell, I don’t care, you British weirdo!” The Deep stood a little taller, starting over. “I am here to-“ 

Ben had been fucking seconds from shooting and putting an end to this bullshit, but the Deep stumbled, fucking yelped, and fell into the water. 

“Well, fuckin shit.” Butcher leaned over the flooding river, frowning at the water. “Think he managed to kill himself for us?”

“He has gills, Butcher.” Annie’s voice was the harshest Ben had ever heard it, her hands and eyes still glowing. “And he’s like a fucking cancer. He’ll be back.”

Ben scanned over the river—crashing and rushing and so fucking loud—and didn’t see any evidence of the Deep. “Assfuck could’ve hit his head-“

“No. He doesn’t get to just fucking die like that, to have this be over-“

“Bloody hell, Starlight.” Butcher gave Annie a twisted smile. “Hughie know you’re so fuckin bloodthirsty and not just a pretty church girl?“

Annie flipped Butcher off, never looking away from the water. “Shut the fuck up, Butcher, you know exactly why I want him dead-“

“I ain’t mockin you, I appreciate it-“

“Well, don’t-“

Ben raised his hand, and Annie and Butcher fell silent.  

“There.” He hissed, pointing to an odd rippling pattern in the water. “Fish-fucker is alive, stop arguing and fucking focus-“

The Deep burst from the water, splashing Ben in the goddamn face, and landed on the riverbank in an even stupider fucking hero pose than before.

“Ha!” He shouted. “Bet you thought you’d gotten me. Well, I don’t go down easy-“

“You slipped, Mate.” Butcher drawled, raising his gun. “We all fuckin saw it. Now walk your sorry octopus-blowin ass away, and maybe we might let you live.”

The Deep scoffed. “Oh, c’mon, you guys won’t kill me. I mean, you’re just like, a bad guy with a gun.”He gestured to Butcher. “Like, oh no, bullets! I mean, that’ll barely even tickle, you fucking idiot.”

Ben’s hand tensed on his own gun, and he saw Butcher’s scowl grow taut and violent as they realized the same thing. They couldn’t shoot this asshole with their guns. The bullets were either useless, or made of fucking V, and the Deep wasn’t Homelander. The V would goddamn help him, make him stronger.

But the pussy didn’t fucking know that yet. He was still monologuing, his attention turned to Ben.

“And you’re just off your leash. Where’s your whore fucking girlfriend, bro? I’d say you finally grew some balls and kicked her to the curb, but she’s got her claws sunk right into your dick-“

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Ben sneered, raising his gun higher as the radiant feeling in his body became hot and bloody. “Or I’ll-“

“What, kill me? That’s never worked for you guys before, and I don’t think your little slut would like that, Ben-“ 

Something atomic was going to explode out of Ben’s body, but Annie was right in the fucking path of it, so he did a warning shot instead. Aimed at a tree just past the Deep’s head, close enough to make him shout in fear and flinch.

“Do not fucking speak about my wife.” Ben hissed, taking a rough step forward. “Or I won’t kill you. I’ll make you wish I did.”

“Your wife?” The Deep shook his head with a tense, strange laugh. “Dude, you are way too fucking dope to be married to that manipulative ice queen bitch. I mean, I get it. I never got a blowjob from her, but Homelander told me they were good enough to fuck with his head. And like, I’m only a man, I’d probably have caved too. Fucking Annie over here gave me a shit one, and I still think about that-“

The whole world burst with light, and Ben couldn’t fucking see anything but white or hear anything but blood in his ears and a ringing in the air. It wasn’t golden light of the bomb—still held within Ben’s body—but a crackling and hissing white flash that made Ben’s hair stand on end and his skin hot and stinging. And when his vision cleared, Annie wasn’t blocking his shot at the Deep. 

She was down in the mud of the river, punching the Deep’s face raw and bloody with glowing hands. 

The rain was fucking wired with electricity, and that was the fucking sting. Every drop of water was filled with Annie’s power, humming through the air, but the Deep wasn’t fucking dead. He roared over the water, throwing Annie off his body and into a tree trunk. 

Ben lurched forward, the bomb growing sore in his hands, aching to launch from his body and just fucking kill the pussy—smashing Annie’s head against the roots of the tree—but Butcher caught his arm.

“What the fuck-“

“Starlight’s got this,” Butcher muttered, his gaze not leaving Annie, who grabbed the Deep’s fist and kicked him in the gut as another blinding rush of light burst through the air. “She needs this, Gov. Let her fuckin handle it.”

Annie did fucking have it. She was pummeling into the Deep’s gut with tight, even hits, and every traded blow just fucking drove her on, until she’d backed the Deep towards the river, her eyes glowing as the rain crackled with energy. Butcher flinched slightly at the electric water—bu didn’t fall—and Ben was fucking impressed. He’d never see Annie look fucking feral like that, and it made him like her all the more. He could have a friend like that. It was still Annie—a little too fucking nice, a little too fucking moral—but she wasn’t above blood and grime and mud like he’d thought she was. This Annie was vengeful and fucking angry, and the Deep didn’t seem to stand a goddamn chance. 

The pussy kept trying to talk to her—either to mock her or plead with her, Ben couldn’t tell and didn’t really fucking care to know—only to have Annie’s fist collide with his mouth and send him flying back. The Deep’s punches were growing weaker as Annie’s grew stronger, his nose was bleeding and his stand beginning to become unsteady, and Annie looked like she was being vindicated. Her expression was only focus, only fury, and when her body become blinding with light, Ben threw up a golden shield at the last fucking second.

A sound like thunder tore through the air around them as Annie exploded, and when Ben’s vision cleared the Deep was lying in the sizzling, electric mud.

“Woah, Annie, I, I got it, you win.” The fish pussy was crawling back as Annie advanced, twitching slightly as the rain continued to shock his skin. “Let’s talk about this, you’re not a killer, you’re like, a good person-“

“Maybe.” Annie kicked the Deep back, closer to the water. “But I’m not a saint. And I hate you.”

The Deep’s eyes widened, and he twisted to try and fall into the water and swim away like a fucking coward, but Annie was faster. Grabbing him by the neck, dropping on his back, and shoving his face into the creek.

Ben frowned, letting the barrier drop as the rain became just water once more—all of Annie’s focus and energy on keeping the Deep’s head in the flooding river—and didn’t look away from Annie as he muttered, “What the fuck is she doing.”

“Tryin to drown the cunt.” Butcher sounded fucking pleased, and Ben didn’t need to look to know he was smiling. “He breathes with fuckin gills on his torso, ain’t gonna be able to breathe if just his ugly fuckin mug is in the water.”

The Deep was pounding at the ground, trying to push Annie off, but he wasn’t faltering. His fists didn’t look strong, but they were firm. He wasn’t drowning.

Ben looked up to the darkened sky, then back to Annie and the Deep, and his fists curled. “The rain. Annie!” He shouted, and she glanced over at him with a frown. “The fucking rain! The fish fuck can breathe in the goddamn-“ Ben cut himself off with an eye roll and sigh, because Annie just looked confused. “Fuck it.”

He’d been practicing. In Rome with Her, waiting for Her and Sage’s meeting to be over, whenever he got a fucking opportunity, Ben had been trying to control the bomb. Move it through his body at will, let it glow and bang and roar in his body before focusing it and throwing it out on more than just fury and an instinct of protect.

It had paid the fuck off, because when he clenched his jaw and vaulted some of the nuclear energy built in his muscles through the air, Ben could narrow his eyes and hold it the fuck together in a way that was solid. It was the drums, tearing through his head and over his ribs, and not painful in the fucking slightest. Filling the air around them, all in a rhythm Ben could fucking control. The feeling was away from his body—golden and humming, holding Annie and the Deep in a bubble that blocked the rain—but still a part of him. 

And the Deep started to flail. Scraping at the air and Ben’s gold, trying to just twist away from Annie’s hold, and growing weaker by the second. 

Then he was only twitching, Annie pushed his head deeper into the river, and he stilled. 

Annie looked up to Ben, nodded, and the shield dropped away as the Deep went limp under her body.

“I’m pushing him into the river.” Annie muttered as Ben and Butcher approached, and Ben nodded, because as far as he was concerned, it was Annie’s body to dispose of.

“Make sure the cunts really fuckin kicked the bucket-“

Annie pulled the Deep’s head from the water, turned his swollen, slack face for Ben and Butcher to see, and snapped his neck.

“Good enough for you, Butcher?”

Butcher shrugged, and Annie threw the Deep’s weak, small corpse into the water. He was swallowed in the rushing, tumbling river, and vanished without a trace.

Ben reached a hand up to ear to radio MM, and nothing fucking happened. “Fuck.”

Annie frowned. “What-“

“Coms are fried.” He grunted, pulling out his earpiece and tossing it back into the river. “We need to get back-“

Ben’s pants began to buzz, and he pulled out his phone, the air filling with the ringing of MM’s call. 

He’d barely picked up when MM was shouting through the speaker.

“Where the fuck did you assholes go-“

Ben flinched, but didn’t pull the phone from his ear. MM’s anger was easier to focus on than the pounding of the rain. “We’re still at the creek. Our radios got fucked, but it was just the Deep-“

“We fucking know that, Hughie saw it on the cams-“

“Then what the fuck is your problem-“

“My problem.” MM hissed through the phone. “Is that we don’t have a fucking clue where Homelander is, and no one is responding to our texts.”

Something felt sick in Ben’s gut. “What.”

MM said Her name, and Ben heard the screen crack in his grip. “I texted her to check in, and I haven’t gotten a response.”

Annie approached Ben, her face drawn with worry. “What-“

Ben ripped the phone from his ear, putting it onto speaker. “MM.” He said, pushing the words through his teeth. “Where the fuck are they.”

Annie and Butcher froze, and MM’s labored sigh was almost muffled in a crack of thunder. 

“I don’t know. And we don’t think Homelander’s coming.”

Butcher’s hand shot to his coat pocket, and his body went rigid as Ben heard his heart begin to fucking race. Butcher’s heart never fucking raced. 

“Bloody fuckin,” Butcher tore off his jacket, turning it over and frantically shaking it. “Fuck. Where the fuckin hell-“

“Ben.” MM grunted through the phone, his voice urgent. “Hughie can’t track the car. You need to do that brain connection shit-“

“I can’t.” The words felt like fucking torture in Ben’s mouth. Like poison or bile, his whole body splitting open as everything in him became wrath, mauling his organs and spine, turning solid in his throat and making it painful to do anything. “She’s still on the fucking suppressant, I can’t fucking feel her-“

“How much longer until you can?” Annie’s question was a whisper as she glanced over at where Butcher had started to pull apart his drill. “Butcher, what are you-“

Butcher pulled out the bullet, pried it open with pure brute force, and dropped the shell to the ground as he took out the vial of V. 

“Butcher.” Ben warned. They didn’t have fucking time for dramatics. “What the fuck-“

“My V’s missin.” Butcher snapped, angling the V’s needle over his forearm. “I’m improvisin.”

“Holy fuck, Butcher, no, that’s a terrible idea-“

Annie started to run, probably to try and knock the V out of Butcher’s hand, but Butcher stabbed the needle into his arm, pushed down, and the vial drained.

“Jesus-” Annie halted as Butcher dropped into the mud, his body convulsing. “Fuck! Why are you such a fucking idiot, you asshole?!” She looked at Ben, expression almost desperate as she gestured to Butcher on the ground. “What the fuck do we do with him now?”

“What did he-“

“Shot up with V.” Ben snapped into the phone, because he didn’t fucking care right now. Not when She was fucking missing, and they didn’t have a goddamn clue where Homelander was. “He’ll live, it was just the regular shit. MM, where the fuck is my wife.”

“We’re working on it, but until you can do the thing-“

“I don’t know when it’ll come back, and I am not fucking waiting.”

“It could be nothing,” Annie mumbled, still watching Butcher and not even sounding like she believed herself. “They could just be in a dead zone-“

“I don’t fucking care!” Ben roared, and his whole body was trying to strain in every fucking direction. To pull Ben back to Her, when he didn’t have a goddamn clue where she was. “We don’t fucking know when Homelander is, we don’t know where anyone is but the Deep, who’s dead in the fucking river-“

Butcher groaned from the dirt, and when he looked up to Ben and Annie, his eyes were glowing. “Gov, we’ve got this. She’s strong, it ain’t gonna be an issue and Homelander will be ‘ere-“

“Are you insane?” Annie snapped at Butcher, whose eyes were still flickering with light. “You are not allowed to make plans anymore, you just shot up V-“

“I ain’t playin this clean, Starlight, Homelander ain’t-“

“We needed that V, you asshole! To kill Homelander, which we don’t need powers for-“

“Easy for you to fuckin say, when you got powers-“

“Which I didn’t choose! Nobody made you do that-“

“Ben.” MM said through the speaker, and Ben held the broken screen back to his ear. “Get back to the house, and we’ll figure out where they are. But until we’ve got confirmation they’re in danger, no going rogue. Got it?”

He might have agreed. Ben might have swallowed the feeling of wrong in his body and just kept fucking moving, kept fucking praying that She was fine and that—when the connection lit back up, any fucking minute now—he’d feel nothing but tight nerves in his body that was Her fear and love for Ben. Not aimed at anything in particular, not mind-numbing and vulnerable, just worry. Ben might have marched back to the farmhouse, ignoring Annie and Butcher’s fight about the V, and steeled himself to just fucking kill Homelander. The pussy didn’t exactly have manners, he might just be fucking with them, or late.

No part of Ben thought Homelander was late, but he could try to pretend that was it. For Her, Ben could focus on stupid fucking teamwork and trusting that she was okay. That She’d find a way to call for him if she needed it. He’d even taken a step back from the creek, grumbled an agreement to MM, and been about to hang up the phone.

Then the world lit up. And as Ben’s looked to the skyline, dark and gray and clouded with rain just a second before, the whole fucking world ended.

Not that far in the distance, ripping throughout the world with heat and light, the sky was an almost neon blue. And for a horrible, long moment all Ben could see was fucking blue. Blue fucking fire.

Everything was fucking blue, and She needed Ben.

—————————

The first half hour of the drive is the longest of your life.

For one, nobody in the car is thrilled to be there. Neuman is rigid and silent at your side—her arms crossed and her mouth in a thin, tight line—while Ashley and A-Train frown in the back, exchanging looks between themselves, and Ryan and Zoe stay in a hushed conversation about either dinosaurs or dragons. 

You’d check, or maybe dwell for even a second on how you’d manage to confuse yourself between the two, but you can’t focus on anything. Your body feels wrong—everything feels sick and slow and wrong—and you have to use all your energy to focus on driving. To get everyone to safety—or just anywhere Homelander isn’t—and not think about Ben. Not think about how he could be fighting Homelander now, how he’s going to win—he’s strong and immovable, so he will win—but it might still cost something.

You can’t think about how this might cost something. How Ben is unbreakable—sturdy and firm and made of pure fucking resolve that keeps you safe and warm and happy, your head on your shoulders and the world in focus—and Kimiko has a healing factor second only to your, but everyone else is mortal. It would be hard to hurt Annie, but it would still be possible. Butcher and MM wouldn’t go down without broken noses and bloodied fists, and Frenchie wouldn’t go down without explosions and rounds of bullets into Homelander’s unbreakable skin, but they can all still go down. 

And Kimiko can still get hurt. She can lose Frenchie and go insane, the same way you know you won’t recover if you lose Ben.

You won’t lose Ben. Not you can’t, you won’t. You’re not even going to entertain the fucking idea, because it makes your blood cold and your whole body feel all the more ill. It makes the silence in your chest unbearable, gets you stuck on hollow and quiet and wide it is where Ben is supposed to be. How you might already be going mad, just because you can’t feel Ben. You can’t feel if he’s in pain, or angry, or focused or tired or relieved or triumphant. You can’t know if Homelander is dead or if the world is burning. You can’t do anything but try to drive through the storm and push down everything instinct in your body that’s tell you to turn around. That you don’t want to see blood, and the plan is solid and well-made—you made it—but you want to go back. You want to run to Ben and tell him to come with you and Ryan, or send Ryan off with Neuman and fight yourself. You could fight. There’s fire under your skin and blood in your body that’s alive and all yours, and you could destroy Homelander, but you don’t want to.

You just want Ben. And you can’t have him right now. 

And the further away your drive, the more everything feels wrong. The more edged and wired and taut your whole body becomes, spiraling down into thoughts of blood and cold blue eyes before forcefully yanking your thoughts back to good things.

Ryan. Music. Stuffed Lions. Gardens. Ben. 

You develop a routine. The time passes as if you’re wading through mud—any small shift in a seat, or cough, or bump of the car or too loud pound of the rain on the metal roof sends you closer to screaming—and all you can do is cling to small things to keep going, and waiting, and desperately thinking of anything but blood.

Ryan.

He’s safe. He’s in the car with you, still whispering with Zoe, and he’s not unburdened and really that happy, but he’s not crying or panicking or apologizing, so he’s okay. You’d packed his clothing, and his books—along with a few extras he’s never read, that you’d bought for him at the airport—and a deck of cards in the likely event that Ryan tore through his reading within the first few hours. He has you, and he has Zoe—which is good, he should have a friends that aren’t, his grumpy, amazing asshole of a grandfather, his grandfather’s immortal wife, his impossibly British step-father, or their cool, mute friend—and, when this is over, he’ll have Ben. Ben will find you both, and Ryan can be the best man at your wedding, because you’ll threaten to punch Ben if he’s not.

Music. 

You have music. You’d put your phone on shuffle, and you had music. It filled the car with sounds that weren’t anxious and doubtful whispers or heavy breaths, and kept your attention within the world. You could tap your fingers on the wheel in time with every song, breathe in and out as if you were singing without any actual hums or vocalizations, and focus on that instead of anything else. You can pretend you’re dancing in strobing colorful lights during the songs with heavy bass and fast beats, and you can image that Ben’s arms are around your body during the slower ones. You start to skip the faster songs, just because anything that filled the air like honey or a warm, summer breeze means that you can pretend you’re pressed against Ben’s body and swaying in his hold, letting him guide you in a careful dance you could learn, but don’t really want to. You’ll spend a lifetime having Ben lead you in something so elegant and romantic and peaceful, and never want for anything ever again.

Stuffed Lions.

Ben’s was in your suitcase, right next to your white tiger. You’d give it back to him when he found you, and he’d scowl—even as you felt the glow consume his whole body—and you’d kiss him until he smiled then fall to your knees to just touch him. He’d place the lion carefully on the bed—if you told him you’d noticed he’d deny it, but he would—fist his hand in your hair, and guide your mouth up and down his cock. You’d show him how much you loved him, looking up though heavy lashes at how his throat bobbed and muscles flexed, growing wet frown every foul, vulgar praise that he offered you and every hissed groan of your name, and sit in the feeling of him everywhere. Big and strong and vengeful and all yours, cleaning you up when you were done, placing the stuffed lion on the dresser right next to your tiger, and refusing to ever let them be separated.

Gardens.

This one was harder, and easier. Right now you were driving through wilderness, and everything was green and overgrown, but it was also dark. The storm made the life around you hidden in the shadows and washed in almost too much water, made every flower and leaf hang down to the earth, made every warm patch of dirt become cold, thick mud. And so you thought of after, and that was the easiest thing to do in the world. To think of a garden after, that you’d grow in a yard that was all yours. That you’d sit in on sunnier days, and Ben would come up behind you and drop to your side, pulling you into his lap and kissing you until you were giggling, before touching you until you were moaning. He’d lay you down in the dirt, ignore your half-hearted protests of we’re outside, Benjamin, anyone could see us because he’d know that you didn’t really mean them—not when your every word after that would become either Ben or please—and then he’d touch you everywhere. Rough and long and slow and devout, before picking you up and carrying you to his part of the garden. And he’d refuse to call it his, but he’d also refuse to let you touch it, and it would be filled with butterflies he’d give threatening glares to never fucking land on him and flowers he’d pick and shove into your hands.

Ben. 

It was never an effort to think about Ben, because he was everything, and therefore everywhere. Even when he wasn’t alive and humming at the top of your chest, you could still see and feel him in the whole world. He was in the headlights, leading you through the shadows of the storm. He was in the forest, filling the air with the smell of pine and your vision with green. Ben was on your tongue—his taste of strawberries and coffee still lingering from your kiss—and over your skin. Warm and rough, fitting right over you in a phantom touch that had sunken into your skin and would stay there like a tattoo. Ben was in every note of every song, and every slow and careful breath, and every dim glow of a golden streetlamp. He was every beat of your heart, and every single thought that ended up finding its way back to Ben.

You always found your way back to Ben, and so you didn’t need to be afraid. You’ll still worry, and when you hold him again you’ll probably cry, but you don’t need to be afraid. 

You trust him. You trust your team. 

And all you can do is drive.

Then, in a very cruel twist of fate—but more likely simply an oversight in the rush and panic of the morning—a little yellow light starts to flash on your dashboard, and you’re low on gas. You haven’t quite made it to the highway, and you’d passed a station a few minutes back, so you make a U-turn, mumble apology and explanation to the group, and drive about five minutes back  to park the car at a pump and rush out into the rain. You can’t afford to linger—not for long, not when you’re still close to the farm—so you have to be quick and efficient. You’ll have to fill up the tank in the downpour, ignore how the rain is biting and cold on your skin, and go.

But the universe hates you. You must have wronged some sort of god in charge of luck, because yours is just so consistently shit. The’s a small sign taped to the gas pump with writing you can barely read—it’s a messy scrawl, and the bleeding on this ink isn’t doing anyone any favors—but still manage to decipher.

Pay inside.

You sigh, walk around the car, and rap on Neuman’s window.

She glares at you, and mouthing what and not moving from her seat.

“I’m going inside!” You over enunciate each word, pointing to the small, square connivence store. “The pump!” You point over the hood of the car. “Is fucking broken!” You make an X with your arms, Neuman just stares at you, and you sigh, yanking the door open.

“Hey!” Neuman leans back—away from the rain—with a glower. “What the fuck-“

“The pump is broken.” You glare around the car—not at Ryan and Zoe—as you make your words short and stern, mimicking Ben’s fucking listen, or I’ll feed you your balls voice. “I have to go inside to pay for gas. I’ll be back fast, don’t go anywhere.”

“Like you’d fucking let us go anywhere,” Ashely mutters, her eyes widening as your glower turns to her. “I don’t, uh, I’m-“

“Save it.” You sigh, turning your attention to Ryan. “I’ll be right back-“

“Can I, um,” Ryan’s pale, looking between you and the gas station with a frantic expression. “May I please come with you?”

“Yeah.” You give him a small smile and nod. “Let’s go.”

Ryan nods, wiggling past Zoe to the door, and you glance at Neuman.

“We’ll be back. Don’t try to drive away, because you don’t know where you’re going, and I’ll find you-“

“Yeah, you’ll track me down, we made a deal, whatever. We’ll stay here, now go.”

You swallow, draw back up, and close the door as you turn to Ryan. 

“Christ, Ry.” You pull off your jacket—technically Ben’s jacket, so it’s big and warm and feels safer than any other jacket—and pull it over Ryan’s smaller, shivering frame, his hair already stuck to his forehead from the rain. “Let’s go inside, we’ll try to get you something warm-“

“I’m okay,” he mumbles as you steer him towards the station. “It’s just wet-“

“Yeah, I know, but that’s how colds get caught.” You push the door open, and go directly for the pre-made food station. “You can’t drink coffee, and that doesn’t look like reliable hot chocolate-“

You’re mostly talking to yourself, so when Ryan tugs on your sleeve you freeze, all your attention refocusing from the gas stations dogshit options to him.

“I, um,” Ryan clears his throat, and you move a little more hair away from his face on instinct more than anything else. “Am I allowed to ask where we’re going? When we get the gas?”

“You are,” you sigh, turning back to the counter and settling on hot water and very old looking tea bag. “But I can’t really give you an answer.”

Ryan’s face falls slightly. “Oh, I’m-“

“I don’t know where we’re going.” You cut him off with a gentle, warm smile. “MM just gave me directions, no final destination. He said the drive will be about six hours, so we could be going to Canada, Pennsylvania, or upstate New York, and I won’t know until we’re about halfway there. But,” you drop your voice to a whisper. “When I figure it out, you will be the first person I tell.”

“Okay.” Ryan nods, returning your smile with a nervous—but real—one of his own. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” You start for the checkout counter—keeping your head bowed, because you’re not alone in this gas station and you don’t need one of these random drivers realizing the Anomaly and Homelander’s son are buying tea and gas—and bump Ryan’s shoulder with your own. “You are my favorite.”

Ryan’s smile grows slightly at that, and he remains almost stuck to your side as you wait in line.

You reach into your hoodie pocket for the beaten wallet MM had passed to you before you left, and freeze as your hand brushes of the small, cold vial. You’ve been pretending it’s not there. That you’re not always away of the weight of it, that—even now—you can’t feel the label you know reads Project Anomaly, Trial 6 brush against your fingers.

You’re not proud of the fact that it’s there. Of how you’d stolen it from Butcher,  how you’d swiped it from his stupid trench coat just like Ben had taught you to. Of how you’d gone back on your word, that it was Butcher’s to do what he please with.

And you know what he’d planned to do. You hadn’t been able to find it in your shared room with him, Ryan, and Ben because Butcher had been keeping it in a needle, on his body, for the entire day. You’d bet a small fortune that he’d been ready to shoot it up at any second, and that’s exactly why you’d taken it. Your final conversation with Sage had haunted you, and you weren’t sure you’d fully breathe again until the only V left in the world was that already flowing through bloodstreams.

You’ll have to burn the recipe. You should give it to Singer, or the UN, or some sort of authority figure, but you won’t. Because this isn’t just Homelander, it’s something rotting and brittle in the foundation, and this can’t be a power anyone ever gets to control or manufacture. It can’t be about being stronger or cleaner or better. It can’t be about winning anything, at all. 

If Ryan grows up and has children, if you and Ben have children, there’s a chance they’ll be born with powers. You’re honestly not sure how Ben hasn’t managed to have a dozen kids—you love the man more than life, and he’s a whore—but you have a feeling it’s the V. The unstable, strange V that’s in both your bodies, that could be too much for a normal body to handle, and may be a breeding ground for what Butcher would call little fuckin Soldier Boy kiddies. And that would be different, you’ve decided, in a way that you know is bias. You’re well aware that taking the V you’d given Butcher—taking away his ability to become a supe because you don’t want anyone to give themselves or anyone else that power again—is deeply hypocritical when there’s a high chance you’ll turn around and create a child born with this same V ingrained into its DNA. 

And you don’t care. You’ve earned being selfish, because you’re so fucking tired of all of this. You’ll look Butcher in the eyes when this is over and apologize—not caring if you really mean it—then fall right into Ben’s arms. You’ll burn all the V, and the formula, and there won’t be a second Homelander, or second Sage, or second anything. You’ll fix this past just killing Homelander, and no one will ever have to feel a pain like this again.

“Will the, um, place, will it have cards?”

You blink at Ryan, pulling out the wallet and forcing a smile onto your face. “I brought cards. They’re in the trunk.”

“Oh, okay.” Ryan studies your face carefully, his words slow and uncertain. “Um, I just wanted to know if you’d want to play go fish with me, or something-“ You raise your brows at Ryan’s nervous stuttering—he’s speaking like something very important is riding on this, when it’s just a game of cards—and find yourself unable to stop the real, peaceful smile from spreading over your face as you realize what’s happening.

 “I’m okay, Ryan.”

He gapes at you slightly, shaking his head in an almost frenzied movement. “I, I know, I just wanted to know if you wanted to play go fish-“

“If you want to play go fish, I’ll play go fish. But,” you give him a pointed, warm look. “If you’re just trying to cheer me up, you don’t need to. It’s not your job to help me, Ry, it’s my job to help you.”

“I, I wasn’t-“

“Ben told you to play cards with me, right? To cheer me the fuck up, or something?”

“Was that, um, was it supposed to be a Ben impression-“

“Yeah, I know it’s terrible, but don’t tell him I said that. Did he?”

Ryan stares at you blankly. “Did he what?”

“Tell you to play cards to cheer me up?”

“I, um, I don’t-“

In an attempt to stop Ryan from making himself overload or pass out, you make your voice a gentle whisper. “Because I know he does that. All the time.”

“How?” Ryan blurts, looking a little panicked. “I didn’t tell you, he said it’s a secret-“

You laugh. “He’s literally never beaten me. In any game. He loses war, Ryan, every time, without fail. It’s a game of chance, that’s almost statistically impossible.” You let out a sigh that’s probably dreamy and stupid, smiling into the air, and Ryan frowns.

“Why don’t you tell him you know-“

“Because he’s a massive dumb dumb who loves us very much, and he’s always very, very proud of himself. He’s adorable, and makes me dinner without me asking, and after we watch one of his dumb documentaries, which he does not pay attention to, he-“ You cut yourself off with a flush , because you’re going to draw the line of your odd pseudo-parenting tactics with Ryan at telling him that, without fail, every time you beat Ben at cards he becomes feral in the bedroom. You think it’s some weird, primal monkey-brain part of him taking over—getting all smug and cocky with how happy you are, how he’s the one that made you happy—but you have no plans to analyze it, because why meddle with perfection. 

Ben gets to glow with affection and love you can feel in your chest, looking like a wrathful angel who’s being rewarded with just you for his unrelenting devotion—strong and big and warm and Ben—and you get to scream and moan as he fucks you in a rough and unforgiving manner. Ad Ben turns you into a writhing, needy, pleading mess that only knows the word Ben, and uses it like a prayer. His lips bruise and bite every sensitive bit of your flesh, and his hands squeeze and rub your body until you’re just putty in his arms, and when you squirt over his cock he falls forward, and both of you get to rest in each other’s arms. 

You clear your throat, pushing on, and hope Ryan didn’t notice your stumble and can’t hear how your heart is pounding. “He’s just, um, really happy, after. And that makes me happy, because I love him, and I love that he’d do that just to make me happy, and I love that he’s so bad at lying to me I realized what he was doing almost immediately, but he’s still so proud of himself every time I makes me even happier.”

Ryan nods as you take another step in the line, starts to say something that’s likely a sweet and nervous question, and your whole word shifts into cold.

It was just a flash. A shifting movement outside—barely visible through the rain—that caught your attention, a crude and hateful face in the shadows, and you can’t remember how to breathe, or hear, or think. You can’t hear Ryan, only a faint ringing and overwhelming, dreadful sound of your heart. You can’t take the next step forward in the line, but you can’t keep looking. 

If you keep looking, Homelander will know you’ve seen him. And he’s far enough into the dark for you to know he doesn’t want to be seen. 

It lasts a second—the pure terror and wild, arresting sense of no. Wrong and bad and dangerous, no—because you only have that one advantage. You’ve seen him, he doesn’t know it, and you can’t afford to be frozen in pain. Not when Ryan is at your side, and you can’t feel Ben, you only have yourself. You’re the only one that can do anything here, and you’ll find a way to get through this.

Whatever it takes.

“Ryan.” You place your hand on his shoulder, angling him away from the windows, and take a careful, measured pace forward to block him from view. “I need you to be quiet, please. You can nod, and whisper, or talking to me in Kimiko’s sign language, but you cannot speak.”

Ryan’s expression falls into something nervous and weak, and you know he’s worried you’re angry. You can’t relent your focus or how critical it is that he listen to you, but it becomes just as vital that Ryan knows you’re not mad. That he hadn’t invaded your life, or crossed an invisible and always moving line, or become something you have to deal with. That all the joy and comfort is drained from your face because you will not let Ryan get hurt, and Homelander is outside, and nothing fucking matters except making sure you get out. You don’t care to shed blood and guts or to flay alive, you only need to leave this place with Ryan at your side.

You drop your hand to hold his, squeezing gently, letting your voice raise slightly. “I’m not mad. You didn’t do anything wrong, or saying anything bad, and I am not angry at you. Squeeze my hand twice so I know you understand.” 

Ryan nods slowly, and his grip on your hand might crack your bones, but you get two squeezes, and continue.

 “Good. I have this under control, I promise but I need you to listen to me. Okay?”

Two squeezes, and you sigh, standing up a little taller as you reach the cashier, plastering a fake, bright smile on your face at their empty greeting. You’ll have to keep this vague, because you’ve lowered your voice, but the cashier is inside, and right in front of you. You’re taking the gamble that over the storm and through the glass, Homelander won’t be able to hear you. The cashier might, and you can’t afford any delays. 

“Your dad,” you pull the card out of MM’s wallet with one hand, refusing to let go of Ryan’s. “Is waiting outside. We’re going to have to run out into the rain, because we don’t want to get wet before we drive home. Ben’s expecting us, and we should get there soon.”

Ryan swallows, his expression only a pure, wide fright of What about everyone else? He’s going to kill everyone else.

You know that. The people in the gas station are already dead—or as good as it—and it hurts to keep smiling at the cashier when you know that. Know that the last thing they’ll ever do is chew gum behind a counter, and you can’t save them. You want to, and you’re going to be haunted by their screams for rest of your life, but you can’t save them. Homelander won’t spare them—he may go out of his way to kill them, just to prove some sort of fucked up point that starts with superiority and ends with worms—and all this time is borrowed, and can’t be used to figure out an impossible solution where everyone makes it out alive.

You’ll have to pay for everything after. Funerals and debts and family support. Some sort of worthless apology for not saving them, for trading their lives for yours and Ryans.

But it’s still a trade you’re going to make. You’re going to do everything you can—in this finite moment—to save the people in the car, the people who’d directly trusted you with their safety, and the people who may have a chance. Homelander will want to confront you, but he hasn’t even bothered to look behind him. At the gas pump, where you pray Neuman or A-Train have noticed his drenched, hollow figure in the rain and keeping quiet. You can pray that Homelander remains so focused on you and Ryan that they escape his notice, and get out. 

You can buy time. Take just a little more—to save the people that have a fighting chance, that you can tell them how to survive this and they’ll listen—and keep praying for it to be enough.

“Ry,” you glance down at Ryan’s face with your warmest, most-reassuring smile, and pray he can’t see your own fear rooted deep in your eyes. “Do you want some candy?” You put an urgency in your eyes to tell him I’ve got this, I just need a little help.

He mumbles a weak agreement, and shuffles off to the candy isle. You hold up the line—anyone who goes outside will die quicker, draw attention faster—and keep one careful eye on Ryan as you take out your phone and dial his number. 

Ryan had left his brick cellphone in the car, and when Zoe Neuman’s soft voice greets you as she picks it up, you almost fall over in relief. 

“Hi,” She whispers your name, her voice small and filled with fear, and you know they’ve seen Homelander. 

“Hi, Zoe. Can you give me to your mom?”

There’s a brief shuffling sound, and then Neuman is hissing your name through the speaker.

“What the fuck is Homelander doing here-“

“I don’t know.” You keep your word low and curt, and don’t leave room for something useless like argument. “But he is here, and I need you to listen. I’ll take care of getting Ryan to Ben’s, you tell Ashley’s boyfriend to pick you guys up. I’ll talk to him while you wait for the ride, don’t worry about it.”

Your code is crude—you’re don’t even know what the hell is going on with A-Train and Ashley, and you’re not willing to lend it nuance right now—but effective. You’ve got Ryan, A-Train will get them out, and you’ll distract Homelander. Neuman mutters an understanding, her voice dropping to a whisper the microphone barely picks up.

“I’ll tell him. Are you,” there’s a pause, the static humming until Neuman speaks again. “You got this.”

It’s only half a question, but you understand why. You need to have this—you cannot falter or break or crack—and Neuman needs you to know that. She needs her daughter to survive this—the exact same way you need Ryan to—and she is telling you that it is crucial you think you can do this. That there may not be an option, but you are still smart enough, angry enough, and more than fucking strong enough to do this.

“I’ve got this,” you repeat the words, just to make them real. You’ve fucking got this, and Zoe will be safe. You can save Zoe, you can save Ryan, and once they won’t ever need to be strong again. “Neuman.”

She hums, and you sigh.

“Tell, uh, Ashley’s boyfriend, to be fast. That this is what I’m asking, it’s all I’m asking, and if he’s fast, we both get an after. Okay?’

There’s a moment of silence, then, “Okay.”

You nod, knowing Neuman can’t see it, and the line drops.

Ryan returns to your side, clutching a bag of gummy bears in a shaking hand, and you shove your phone back into your pocket, pulling off your ring and tucking it safely into Ryan’s jacket.

“Can you keep that safe for me?” You ask, and Ryan’s eyes widen.

“Yes, but I,” He mumbles your name, and you can hear the terror lining his every word. “I’m, I don’t, I’m not-“

“I know.” You sigh, pulling him carefully against your side and kissing the top of his head as his arms wrap around you. “I know. But we have to.”

Ryan nods against you, and you lean down, keeping your word low as the cashier scans the candy.

“Stay behind me, and don’t look at the car. You’re going to be okay, we all are, but you can’t draw attention to the car. Okay?”

“Okay.” Ryan’s voice is weak—even that one word is filled with fear—and it breaks your fucking heart. 

“Ryan,” you cup his face in one hand, holding his nervous gaze on yours, and you’ve never seen him look more like a kid. He is a kid, it’s often forgotten in the chaos and blood and violence of your life, but Ryan’s just a kid. And he can be afraid all he wants—fuck, you’re terrified, your blood still cold and your stomach turning and boiling—but you won’t let Homelander hold that power of inevitable, unstoppable, deadly and without a cure over either of you. Ryan can’t think you’ve already lost, because you haven’t, and Homelander won’t win. “It’ll be okay. We’re going to be okay. He’s not going to hurt you, he’s not going to even touch you, and once everyone else is out we’re going to run. I’ll knock him back, we’ll get to the car, and we’ll go back to the farm. Ben will meet us there, and it’ll be okay. Yeah?”

There are countless flaws in your plan. No car is faster than Homelander, least of all your stolen Honda Civic, and you still can’t feel Ben. Still can’t warn him what’s coming, still can’t scream between your heads for him to help. That you’re strong enough to do this, but you don’t want to do it alone, and you need Ben here now. 

It’ll be back soon. Thirty minutes, and Ben would find you anywhere. All you had to do was stall and run, and find thirty fucking minutes.

So when Ryan nods, still afraid and shaking—grabbing your hand and clinging to it like a frightened child, because that’s really all he needs to be right now—but taking deeper, more even breaths, you offer him a toothless, painful and sad smile, and hand him the gummy bears.

Neither of you speak as you walk to the door, and you put yourself a step ahead of Ryan as you push out into the rain. Wet and cold, small bombs of ice and water that hiss off your skin but focus you all the same. Your whole body is white-hot, but your fire is humming along the surface of your body and you’re not breaking. You’ve fucking got this. 

Homelander’s waiting for you with a crude smile and his hands behind his back—white teeth still blinding in the dark, everything about his posture and walk and face and movement so simply wrong—but there’s patch of hair near his brow that’s missing, one of his eyes looks milkier than the other, and there are still a few burn scars twisting near one of his ears. Between that and the rain, there’s a higher chance he won’t notice any of A-Train’s movements, and you can feel a small, bright bloom of something that’s bloodied and tired and furious in your chest. It might be hope. It might be certainty that you can do this.

You don’t have another choice.

“Homelander.” Your voice is bored and casual, and you don’t recognize it. It doesn’t sound like you—doesn’t feel like how your whole existence is ending in this very moment—but you can’t afford to be you right now. You have to be the Anomaly. You have to be the cold, manipulative, ungrateful bitch Homelander believes you to be, just until you’re certain everyone is out of the car. Just to hold his attention.

It’s working. His whole face twitches at your pure uninterest, and you see something that makes your heart curl and wither in your chest flash in his eyes. He says your name, and it’s wrong, and you don’t fucking flinch. “Give me my son. Now.”

You raise your chin, holding his gaze and not allowing any of your terror into your expression. “No.” 

Homelander scoffs, dismissing you with a hand. “C’mon, we both know how this will go! I’ll just keep killing everyone you love, you’ll beg me to spare them, and I’ll win. I always win, because that’s just how this works! I’m-“

“Better?” You raise your brows, and there’s a flash of moment in the background, and one person is out. Two to go. “You’re better?”

“Yes!” His hands move to his hips, and he looks mostly just annoyed now. “I am better. I mean, you idiots can’t even flee properly! I just saw you, walking in there,” he gestures to the station behind you. “With my son, and you didn’t even notice me! I’ll always win,” he says your name, his expression dropping into one of menace and a crazed short of rage he doesn’t seem to know how to hide. “Because you’re weak, and human, and I’m perfect.”

You hum, titling your head at Homelander as his eyes start to glow red. “You know, that’s almost exactly what Sage said. Right before I killed her.”

“You can’t kill me,” He hisses your name again, taking a slow step forward, his laugh making your skin crawl. “And I am tired with your games, you fucking slut. You did me a favor, though, with Sage. She was starting to outlive her use, so if you give me my son back now, maybe I won’t laser you in half.”

“No.” You let a crude, mocking smile that’s all teeth and hatred cross your face. “We might not be able to kill you, Homelander, but you can’t even hurt me, so you’re not getting to Ryan.”

Homelander laughs, and it makes your skin crawl. “Maybe I can’t physically hurt you, but I can make you cry like the weak little bitch you are when I kill all your friends. When I track down your family and fly them up to the atmosphere. Suffocate them like the breakable, useless worms they are, then go find your precious Ben and use Sage’s gas-“

“I’ll wake him up.” You shrug. The rain seems to be moving into your bones, and you’re so fucking cold, but there’s another rushed movement near the car so you raise your voice. Just one more. Just a little more time. “You knock him out, I’ll wake him up and fuck up your face even more.”

This scoff is less confident, but just as cruel. “You really think he’d be grateful? Letting some weak little bitch save him, like a damsel when he’s fucking Soldier Boy?” Homelander sneers your name. “He and I are strong, we’re fucking heroes, the epitome of human evolution-“

You snort. “You’re not evolution, you’re a product. You were designed, Homelander, like a fucking machine-“

“But I was chosen.” Homelander narrows his eyes at you, there’s another flash in the background, and you stand a little taller. This is almost over. “Just like my father, just like my son. Ryan,” Homelander tries to lean around you, and you move to block his view. “You’re strong. You’re not a pathetic fucking human like her or your mother, you belong with me-“

“You’re not touching him.” You hiss, holding Homelander’s glower. “You’re not touching anyone I love again.”

“What, like Soldier Boy-“

“Yes. You hurt Ben, I hurt you, and he won’t think it makes him weak. He’ll think it’s hot, and we’ll probably fuck after.” You’re taunting Homelander, but you need him to be so blinded by anger he doesn’t see your blow coming. “But you try to take him away from me with that stupid fucking gas, and I’ll destroy you.” 

“I’ll throw him in the fucking ocean, I’ll separate you ungrateful traitors forever-“

“And I’ll find him.��� Your grin becomes almost manic. “I’ll always find him.”

“Fine.” Homelander’s tone is flat and curt, and he gives a stiff shrug. “Be all fucking dramatic and annoying. Let’s see how long you can stick to your whole romance thing with my father,” he looks over you with disgust, his lip curling. “When I lock you back up and he never, ever sees you again.”

Before you can speak, or move, or do anything, red cuts through your vision, there’s a boom behind you, and everything is burning. It’s not your fire—starting to riot and grow painful under your skin—because your fire is warm. Your fire feels clean and holy, because it was born from something worse than hell, but you’ve made it yours. 

This fire is hell. It’s made of screams and pleas for help, and there’s nothing you can do but try not to turn around. Force yourself not to look at the wreckage behind you—Homelander must have hit a generator, because you can feel the heat behind you and hear the building crumbling—that you should’ve tried harder to prevent. People are dying and you could’ve done more, could’ve been stronger, could’ve worked to save these people who have people that care about them, who cared about people, who had lives that are over because you weren’t strong enough-

“This is what you wanted,” Homelander calls your name over the storm and fire, and you can’t breathe. “Isn’t it? To fight? To be all high and mighty about love only to not have the fucking spine to kill me? I’d dare you to try,” he laughs, his face sadistic and amused and so cold. “But this isn’t David and Goliath. It’s Goliath and a fucking slut who thinks she’s more important than she is.”

Homelander takes a fast step forward, and you have to be stronger, but fuck, you can’t. You’re falling and breaking in barely a moment—a moment you’d fucking anticipated—and the rain is so cold, and you have to do this, but you can’t. You’re alone, and you’ve never wanted to be saved more, but you can’t feel Ben-

There’s a rush of air, almost knocking you backwards, and Homelander stumbles back as A-Train slams into him, pummeling into his stomach before speeding away again. 

Homelander begins to roar, his eyes glowing, and he’s distracted. A-Train is zipping in and out of the burning parking lot, keeping Homelander’s focus on trying to kill him, and the wind jumpstarts your whole body.

You grab Ryan’s hand and run. Half carrying him to the car—refusing to look back at the ruins of the gas station or the fight—and throwing him into shotgun before sprinting around to the wheel. Fumbling with the keys before slamming them into the ignition, and just fucking going. The tires skid and squeak on the wet pavement, you’re flooring the gas and breaking countless traffic laws, but you can’t care. You have Ryan, you have time, and you need to get back to Ben.

It’s almost impossible to see where you’re going. The rain is heavy and blocking your vision, you have to use the headlights in small bursts to avoid being seen, and every tree you pass looks the same as the one before it, but you know where you’re going. It’s not a long drive from the station to the farm—not at the speed you’re going—and it’s relatively simple, so all you have to do is go and go and go until you see the turn onto the dirt road, and Ryan will be safe.

He’s silent in the seat next to you, shaking and hyperventilating, and when you offer him your hand, he takes it and squeezes his eyes shut. Like this is just a nightmare he can wake up from, it will all be okay in the morning.

“Ryan,” you whisper, even though it’s just you in the car and the rain drowns out almost every sound. “It’s, it’s okay-“

“Do you think he’s going to die?” Ryan mumbles, and you tense. You don’t need to ask to know he’s not talking about Homelander. “Just because he helped me-“

“No.” You shake your head, keeping your eyes on the road. “I mean, I don’t know what will happen, but none of it is your fault. A-Train made that choice himself, we all made our choices, and this is not your fault.”

“I could’ve tried to fight-“

“It’s not your job to fight him, Ry.” You sigh, risking one, soft comforting look at Ryan’s pale face. “And this really isn’t your fault. I promise.”

Ryan nods, and you’re so fucking close. All have to do is get to the farm, and-

You barely have a second to register it as it happens. You flip on the lights at the exact moment Homelander slams down on the road before you, and you can throw your arm over Ryan’s chest, but you can’t slam on the breaks. You can try and swerve around him, but the road is wet, the car isn’t in your full control, and Homelander’s eyes are already glowing.

There’s a second where your whole body is pain. Where you falling or crashing or drowning, and you manage to keep your hold on Ryan, but your body is being shred apart and stitched together every other second. When the world comes back into focus you’re pinned under what feels like a mountain but is only metal, and Ryan’s half shielded under your body, but you can’t move.

And you still can’t feel Ben.

Homelander’s towering above you, grinning at how effectively trapped you are under the wreckage, and you can’t run, or fight, or pull yourself to entirely block Ryan from his view. You can’t even gnaw off your own leg like an animal in a trap, you can only scream in your head—between every roll of thunder and rush of chilling water—until Ben can hear you. 

“Well,” Homelander sneers your name, his grin growing. “Where’s all your fight? That little spitfire attitude all gone now that you get it?”

“You,” you groan, because trying to pull your leg out from under the debris just breaks it and heals it all over again. “You’re not going to win. You can kill A-Train, but you can’t kill me, and people will notice-“

“Don’t be dramatic, I did not kill A-Train.” Homelander rolls his eyes. “I broke his legs and left him to die by himself. And I have no interest in killing you, that would be such a waste.” 

Homelander scans over you, and suddenly you feel small. Any remaining resistance seems to be pulled from you as Homelander asses your body like it’s all you are, and for the first time he’s doing it without any guise. There are no declarations of a love you don’t want, for person who you’re not, you’re really just a vessel. Just a toy for Homelander to play with and use as he sees fit, and then break when he gets bored of. 

You wonder how long it will take him to realize that he can’t get what he wants from you. That whenever he touches you, hurts you, your body will remember and refuse to let any part of him live within you, ever. 

How long it will take before he gets rid of you somewhere cold where you can’t die but Ben can’t find you, and there will be no one left to protect Ryan. If Ben will blame himself, and burn the world only to not find you in the ash. He’ll keep looking after—he’ll be able to feel you and never find you and it might drive him mad—and you’ll keep trying to get back to him, and you won’t know how to do that or kill yourself, so you’ll become just a husk.

And you’re not strong enough to stop it. You should be, but you’re cold and there are screams echoing in your head and none of this is rational, so you’re not. 

“You might be a weak, whoring, lying bitch,” Homelander says, and you can’t tell if you’re crying or just breaking in a silent, long way that no one will be able to fix. “But you’re still pretty. Smart enough to get Sage, always healthy from the V, and maybe your V will make our offspring immortal. Then we can figure that out, and put it into me.” Homelander nods to himself, and you’re going to scream but you can’t find your voice.

“Please, Dad,” Ryan whispers from behind you, and Homelander’s attention shoots to him with a flash of surprise over his horrible face at Ryan’s soft words. “Please don’t hurt her, I’ll come with you, but please-“

“Ryan, quiet.” Homelander looks over your head, to Ryan, pointing a stern finger. “This is not your concern-“

“But I don’t want you to hurt her, please, please don’t-“

You have to be stronger, but Ryan’s pleading is going to make you sob, and you can only push your upper body to try and shield Ryan a little more from Homelander’s wrath, and you can’t- 

“Ryan!” Homelander’s shout rips through the air, over the storm, and right into your lungs. “I am your father, you will not tell me how to deal with my problems. And she is a problem.” His finger moves to you, and you choke on the rain. “She is weak, she is a parasite who tore our family apart, and parasites do don’t deserve to be happy. But I,” Homelander looks at you, his grin returning as he takes in the sight of you, trapped and useless and fucking broken. “Will be able to find a place for her. And we’ll figure out how to use her until she’s paid for what she broke. Until she understands that she is nothing, and you and Soldier Boy finally get she’s just good cattle, and fucking animals don’t deserve us-“

Something stabs and sears through your chest, carving you open and slicing your lungs in two and filling your mouth with blood. You hear a high, weak scream, and in the brief moment where everything is only pain—your vision blurred and body weak and head wrapped in iron and darkness—you don’t exactly what happened. There’s no weight under your legs anymore, the figure of Homelander is gone from your sight, and something that feels firm but touch you like it’s fragile is cradling you and calling your name in broken pleas.

“I didn’t mean to,” the sound is choked and barely audible, and you’re still lost in the daze of blood. Blood on your tongue and sticking to your skin and running the rain red. “I’m sorry, please don’t go, I don’t want you to go, I’m sorry-“

The voice says your name again, and something evil calls over it. 

“Ryan. Let’s go.”

That’s Ryan’s voice. Saying your name and pleading for you to stay. Begging you not to leave through the fog of something that’s close, but never reachable.

Then everything rushes back into focus—your body mending itself and yanking you back to earth—and you can see Ryan’s red eyed, sobbing face over yours. Feel the cold rain on your skin and the fire in your body start to bubble over. The iron taste of blood sharpens your head, drags you together faster, and then you smell coconut. 

You see a red gloved hand reaching for Ryan, feel your every instinct turn into no, and you have just enough time to throw Ryan off your body before you explode.

Ben will find you. You can’t feel him, but you know he’ll see the blue flame, vaulting from your body to the sky and burning away the rain, and understand what it means. What he has to do. 

You’re not too far from the farm. You can’t burn everything—Ryan is a part of everything, and keeping him safe is and always has been more import than killing Homelander—but you can do a fuck ton of damage with just your hands and your own, zealous fury.

You can really, really hurt Homelander. 

You can make him wish he’d never touched anyone before, and never want to touch anyone again.

It might be terror on his evil face, when you launch at him. And you understand that. The whole world is fire. The aftershocks of your explosion are still shaking the earth, and the rain may have begun to fall once more but it’s burning away around you. The air is hissing and waving, and you’re only flame. Your whole body wrapped in white fire, your hands curled in even, careful—just as Ben had taught you—and you might look like a monster. You might look like a demon, or vengeful spirit, or fallen star that’s refusing to burn out. 

But you’re worse than that.

You’re just a human that has power in her body that makes the world sing, and you’re angry. You’ve sealed up every crack in your own body, you’re strong and you’re no demon or monster or god, because they’re not real. 

You’re incredibly real.  

And Homelander’s going to feel it. 

The first blow of fire knocks him down the highway, the pavement cracking as he lands. He’s already stumbling—pushing up on shaking legs to glare at you—and there’s a hot, unrestrained anger in his laser slicing through your neck, but it does nothing. Ryan had just split you in two and you’d healed in ten seconds flat. If Homelander were smarter, less prideful and consumed by his own anger, he’d run.

He doesn’t, though. And you pull your punches to keep Ryan safe for your fire, but he’s still losing. His skin bubbles and twists when he tries to get close to you and land a blow, and every hunk of metal he throws at you explodes and melts as you blast right through it. You keep Ryan behind you—far enough to not feel the full force of your heat—and you never even trip.Homelander’s odd hit that strikes your face or gut sends a brief cracking sound through the air—leaves a dulled flash of pain through your body—but it fades and you repair and you don’t break. 

Your hand cover’s Homelander’s face, melting away the skin of his nose, and you can feel an unfocused, aimless, hollow and self-serving anger that’s twined with the most vile, gnawing and destructive feeling you’ve ever experience. Making your body eat the anger and turn it into glory that’s only a trophy to hold high over your head.

Your empathy is back. Ben’s roaring your name in your head and between the crackling of flames, and you’re going to win. Your blood is held in your body—Ryan’s already shaking and crying behind you, and you don’t know how to focus the vigilance of your emotions yet—but your fire is growing brighter, and Ben is coming. 

Homelander’s falling to the ground as you kick his tiny, worthless, hideous dick, and when you reach down with hands made of only fire, you’re smiling. Homelander is so fucking small and pathetic on the ground, at mercy you will never offer him, so you’re smiling like a fucking madwomen.

Then Homelander’s face flashes with a grin as well, and you’re not fast enough to stop his hand as it shoots up and stabs something into your bare arm. 

You see the flash of green as he pushes the head on the needle down, and when he half scrambles back—holding his burnt hand up to the rain—you don’t know what to do. There glass vial that held the V shatters and melts as your fire flares, but your skin has healed over the needle and it’s too late anyway. Homelander had moved with quick precision, and the last dosage of the Soldier Boy V is in your body.

There’s a split second where you’re only afraid, and then all you can do is wish you were dead.

Agonizing is too weak a word. Pain is far too weak a word. This is what death feels like. Like no part of your body belongs to you, like they’re all being ripped and torn into isolation for their induvial torture, then being sown back together in a way that’s brittle and volatile and one wrong breath from imploding. You can’t stand, because your legs feel like they’re running away from you but can’t get away fast enough. You can’t reach out, because your hands feel heavy like you’re carrying the sky and world and every single star. You can’t push your body away from where’s Homelander’s gripping your wrist, cracking your bones and dragging you through the wreckage to where Ryan’s crying and begging. You can’t do anything but scream, and be unsure if Ben’s roars are echoing through the world in response or just imagined in your head, so you can pretend he’s here with you.

It’s not ending. You can feeling everything, and this doesn’t feel like it will ever be over. There’s light and strength in your muscles, but it’s overwhelming and stretching you far too thin. There’s water in your lungs and ribs that might be the rain, but still drowns you and makes you feel buried in your own body. Your voice is empty, and your fingers are cracking and locking back together, and you’re too aware of everything but it makes the world around you feel so big and horrible and worthless. Your blood is burning and half yours but also everything else’s and wrong in your body, pumping through your heart and filling you with dread and hate and terror. There’s lighting stinging and stabbed and destroying your whole fucking head and soul, and it feels like there’s a fever behind your eyes that’s screaming to get out and spill gut for retribution. 

And then it all sinks deep, deep down into your body and becomes, so briefly, tolerable. Strange but peaceful in your body as something so, so strong wraps over every piece of pain and torture and soothes it into your body. Something golden and atomic, telling every other fiber in your body that this will be fucking fine, and that’s not an option. 

Your body listens. You take a shaking breath, and you’re alive again. You’re all blood and skin and bone, and you’re all you.

There’s a hole in Homelander’s glove, and his skin feels like plastics on yours wrong. Static and inhuman, without the warmth a body should have. And his odd, twisted fear and anger are still pushing through his veins, but they’ve been covered by his anger. 

And below everything else in his body, there’s something vital and horrible, but so, so powerful. It feels a little broken—as if it’s been molded and ingrained somewhere dark and wrong—but it’s still calling to you. Offering for you to grab a piece of it and pull it into your own body.

You’ve got nothing left to lose, so you bite your tongue and try to grab it. It comes willingly, and it’s only foreign and parasitic in your body for a second. Then it’s molding into a part of your body that’s fundamental and all yours, and everything is sharp. The rain is louder, your vision feels too focused—every line too pronounced, every raindrop bigger than it should be—and the smell of coconut is going to suffocate you.

But you also feel strong. Not in your mind or heart—which are the same as they’ve always been—but your hands. You feel like everything is breakable, and everything is soft, and you could flex your fingers and bring an empire to its knees. And there’s fire and fury living in your eyes, and you know exactly what’s happened. For a brief moment, you can’t help but understand why Homelander thinks he’s a god. If this was all you’d ever felt and known in your life—and everyone knew you were like this, and knew to fear it—you might think you’re better than you are as well.

You might have. You wouldn’t have, but you could have. Homelander’s powers might exist in your body—waning by the second until you take more—but you’re still you. And you’re not better. You’re exhausted and desperate, and you need more time. Just a little more time, until Ben finds you and this can be over. Until you can collapse and scream and cry and just fall all the way apart, when everything is safe.

You need more time. And you’re awake, and in pain, and so fucking angry and strong, so you’ll be able to buy it.

Homelander’s stopped dragging you along the road, and you can hear Ryan’s sobs, fueling every bit of resolve and will in your body. Building you higher and dragging you back to earth like an anchor. 

“What, what did you do to her-“

Homelander cuts off Ryan’s heartbreaking, fearful, choked words with a scoff. “That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does! She can’t die, I don’t want her to die, I need her-“

“No, you don’t. You don’t need anyone be me, Ryan. Look at her.” Homelander yanks you up, a hand wrapping around your neck to hold you where Ryan can presumably see. “All it took was one dose of V and she’s fucking done. I mean,” he laughs, and the fury begins to build up and up behind your pupils, lining your vision with red and your head with heat. “Carrying the original V into battle, letting it fall out of your pocket? That’s downright stupid, honey. I thought you’d know better, but no.” He clicks his tongue, and you screw your eyes shut. “You’re still just a stupid, weak little girl, and I will always fucking win-“

Your eyes shoot open, and Homelander can only stare in shock when he sees the red glow in your eyes. Can only open his mouth and try to drop you, throw you away from his body, but you’re fucking strong now. You wrap your hands around his on your throat—keeping him right in front of you as a manic grin pulls at your mouth and strains at your cheeks—and you laser him right in the fucking face.

He roars, and you’re fucking moving. Punching his melted, twisted, face—skin hanging off his body and sizzling—with all that new strength in your body. Homelander’s strength, that seems just slightly weaker in your body, but you’re still more powerful. Your fists are wrapped in your own fire, and your eyes are still glowing with the laser—slicing into his arms, not drawing blood or cutting limbs, but sending him stumbling away from you—and you’re a better fucking fighter. Ben trained you well, so you can absorb every hit to your body and deal even, measured blows that make sickening crunches when they land.

You’ve push Homelander down into the mud and debris—pinning his face to the wrecked pavement and his body to the ground—and you’re so fucking exhausted but you have to keep going. To focus the laser on his skin of his neck and burn a hole for the V. When Ben arrives—he’s close, you can hear him roaring in your head and feel him drawing closer—you need this to be done. The pain hasn’t left you, only been pushed aside by the adrenaline, and you can’t keep going. You have to, but you can’t. You’re tired and cold and covered in blood, and you’re starting to feel wrong. 

This feels a little beyond death. It’s eating you alive and pulling your body away from you, and you’re still fighting because Homelander won’t touch Ryan, but you don’t feel well. Homelander’s powers are volatile and horrible in your body, and the new shot of V is leaving a chronic feeling of being cleaved open and sliced apart and shoved back together every fucking second. The world is moving in and out of focus—your body feels like lead and your brain feels like it’s not your own—and when Homelander throws you off his body all you can do is drag yourself back up and keep being a fucking problem.

He won’t let you touch him anymore. Homelander’s not stupid, he can see you’re growing weaker, and he’s figured out not to touch you. You’ve moved to block his path to Ryan, you’ve thrown up a thin wall of fire to keep him at bay, but you’re so fucking tired. You’re dizzy and heavy and breathing is an act of labor, and you’re holding yourself awake by your throat. By nails in your skin and quickly drying blood in your mouth.  

And you’re going to fall down. You’re going to crack and break, and keep trying to fight until you’re dragged deep, deep under as your body implodes. Homelander’s face is so fucking hideous from your fight, but it’s coming into view as the fire flickers and hisses in the rain, and you’re going to collapse but you can’t-

You feel Ben first. Somewhere in the flame and blood and searing of flesh and snapping of bones, you feel more alive, and know he’s near. You feel something return to you that you’d longed for since it left, and it’s pious and loud and wrathful and aimed into you. Filling you up with just enough fight to keep going, more and more resolve and concentration, and sparking a fuel in your veins that’s calling you somewhere warm and safe.

Then there’s an ache and mold and wrath and love that’s stronger and better than anything else in the world, smell pine as your heart becomes something golden and fucking furious. 

Then, through the rain and fog, you see a blinding white light. Drawing closer and closer, screeching on the wet pavement, going so fucking fast and aiming directly at Homelander. 

He doesn’t realize anything happening until you grab Ryan will all the remaining strength in your body, and dive to the side. You see his fucking horrible smile falter, his head twist, and it’s too late. Butcher’s car crashes into Homelander with a burst of fire, and you think your scream stops the world.

Ben was in there. Ben was in the car and now it’s wrecked, and you can feel the pain in his body and you’re so tired. You can’t lose this, but you won’t be able to keep going if you lose Ben. There’s so much fucking pain in your heart and lungs and throat and skull and you’re not sure who it’s belongs to but you can’t do anything but scream.

You hear more explosions, hear Ryan calling your name, but you can’t fucking breathe and there are black spots covering your vision, and Ben. Where is Ben, you need him and you can feel him but everything fucking hurts and where is Ben-

“I’m here.” Something warm and familiar and safe pulls you up from the ground, and a deep, powerful, good voice says your name. “I’m right fucking here, Sunshine, I’m here.”

Ben-

You’re going to be okay. He mutters in your head, and you’re not sure if you’re crying or drowning, but Ben’s here so it doesn’t really matter. I fucking swear, beautiful, you’re going to be fine. 

You pull your face back from his chest, and he looks terrible. He’s still handsome—Ben couldn’t be ugly if he tried—but God, he looks tired and angry. You can see every line on his face and feel every stab of mold through his heart, and when you reach up a hand to trace his frown, he leans into your touch like he’s not sure it’s real. 

Benjamin, my love-

We’re fine. He grunts, kissing the top of your head. We’re going to be fucking fine.

There’s another explosion, and you flinch. Homelander-

Butcher’s got it. You and Ryan are safe, that’s all I fucking care about.

You blink around, Ben’s touch and existence in your body forcing the world into focus—even as you continue to fall—and you realize everything is covered in a golden glow. That Ryan is clinging to Ben’s arm—the one that isn’t holding you—and every bang and roar of Butcher and Homelander is muffled through the atomic feeling of Ben around you.

“Ryan,” you reach out to pull him closer, not allowing yourself to flinch when all his terror hits your body. “Are you-“

“I’m okay.” He whispers, staring at you with an open, fearful face. “What did my dad do to you-“

It’s impossible to look at Ben when you answer, because you feel him grow rigid, his love and care alight and bloody in your body, and his pure fucking fury written all over his face before you even speak.

“He,” you take a long breath, forcing the words out as your head begins to wrap in a haze again. “He shot me with the last original V-“ 

“He fucking what.” 

You swallow, dropping your brow to Ben’s shoulder. “I’m okay-“

“I can fucking feel you,” Ben hisses your name, his voice lined with anger even as he runs his hand through your hair, his touch still reverent. “You’re sick, we need to get you out-“

“No.” You shake your head against him, pressing your palm to his chest. “Butcher can’t fight Homelander alone, he’s not a supe-“

“He shot the V.” Ben grunts. “The regular shit-“

Your gaze shoots up, your eyes wide. “He what-“

“When we realized Homelander wasn’t coming. He got laser eyes and strength, like last time, he’ll be fucking fine-“

“But he can’t kill Homelander, Ben.” Your words become frantic, your brain turning, but not fast enough for your tongue. “Even he gets the V in, it just makes Homelander vegetative. He needs to be hit with the nuke, he needs-“

You cut yourself off, your hand drifting to the exposed skin of Ben’s collarbone. Deep, deep down, in a fundamental part of his body—your body—he’s alive, and golden, and powerful. The V in him already feels like yours, and it’s so much better than Homelander’s. It might be because it’s the same as your V while Homelander’s is the overly perfect formula, or because Ben is simply good while Homelander is vile, or because Ben is yours and as vital to your existence as your own head and blood, but it’s right. You don’t need to take it, it already belongs to you, and it rolls into your body like a brilliant, peaceful storm. 

The pain doesn’t leave you, but it becomes distant. Pushed away where it’s only banging on your skull, dulled by the sheer feeling of Ben’s power. It’s radiant and atomic in your body, up your spine and blooming over your ribs. It’s focused and hot and so fucking strong, and it’s only building higher, until you feel invincible. You feel like the earth itself, all the way down to your core, white-hot in your muscles. It would take a force like the sun to destroy you, but you’re not even the slightly bit worried it will. The sun rests in your body—under your skin and over your brain—and it’s moving in harmony with what Ben’s silently and unknowingly offered you.

You meet Ben’s eyes—the best shade of green in the world and looking right into the deepest parts of your mind that sometimes you don’t even know how to reach—and you wonder if he can feel it. Feel his own power in you, sense that something has shifted and settled into your bones. 

“Ben-“

“No.” He cuts off your whisper with a stern hiss of your name. “There is not a fucking chance-“

“Butcher needs you. And you,” you glance at Ryan, still shaking and so small. “You need to stay here, my love.”

“You stay here, I’ll fight-“

“Please.” You move your hands to cup his face, and offer him a small, sad smile. “You said you’d let me do what I needed to do. I need to do this-“

“I did let you, and I lost you, so there is no goddamn way-“

“I need to do this. I, I don’t want to, but I need to. I have to. Please-“

“I’m the only one who can blast Homelander’s powers-“

“That’s not true.” You drop your brow to his, and let the power continue to climb. “Not anymore. I don’t know if you can-“

“I can.” Ben sighs, his hand squeezing the skin of your waist. “It’s, I felt all of it. And I can feel this. But you don’t have to do it just because you can fucking mimic me or some shit-“

“I do.” Everything hits a plateau of steady, unyielding strength, and you press a small kiss to Ben’s slack mouth. Please, Benjamin, my love. I can do this, please trust me.

He’s completely still under your touch, and you can feel that rot eating at his insides. It might drive you mad with guilt, but you need to do this. This has to end, and it needs to be you that ends it. You’ve never wanted it to be—you’d done everything in your power to make it so it wouldn’t be—but someone has to, and this feels unavoidable. All of Ben’s power is mixing in with yours, and you’ve never felt more alive, and it might be temporary but you’re going to use it to end this.

Ben will have to stay with Ryan. To keep him safe as you fight at Butcher’s side, to make sure he sees nothing that happens. And it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever asked of him, but you’ll spend a lifetime afterwards apologizing. Kissing him and touching him and doing whatever needs to be done for this to just be a ghost neither of you ever speak about. 

And he’ll forgive you. You’ll crawl back to him and splinter apart in his arms every single time, and you know Ben will forgive you. He understands you, he’s always understood you—even if he might claim otherwise—so when you feel the mold twist in his arteries it kills you, but you know he’s going to let you do this.

Maybe one day you’ll be strong enough to tell him that—even if he doesn’t let you do anything—if Ben had shaken his head and told you no, I’ll fucking do this and you’ll stay safe, you would have given in. But he doesn’t. Ben gives you a tense nod, his jaw clenched and his grip on your body bruising, and you’re going to do this.

You have to kiss him. You should go now—there’s not a chance Butcher is strong enough to do this himself—but if you don’t kiss Ben you’re going to die. And he must feel it too, in his bones and blood and every burning nerve of your bodies—or maybe he just feels you—because you’ll never know who moved first. 

You might dedicate a lifetime to describing this kiss, when everything is over. It’s hungry and angry and desperate, but coated with so much care and fear, and filled with love. It’s only really love, in the end. It’s a brief moment where it’s only you and Ben, and there’s fire on you lips that he doesn’t flinch from and a nuclear warmth in your body that only makes you dive deeper. It’s spit and teeth and fury, and so, so soft because at the core there’s a promise.

This isn’t a goodbye kiss. It’s a you’re not allowed to fucking say goodbye kiss. It’s you making a silent, final oath that Ben isn’t going to lose you, because that’s just not how this works. You’re alive in Ben, and he’s not something you’ll allow yourself to lose. 

This kiss finishes, but neither of you pull away. You live in one second longer, where you’re attached in every way possible, and warm, and safe in a way that feels permanent and older than the universe, even if it’s not. 

You burn, I burn, Sunshine. Ben’s voice in your head is hoarse, and his every exhale moves easily down your throat. No fucking burning without me.

I know. You smile, because Ben is here, so you’re not going to burn out. And you’re not fighting alone, because it will be Ben’s power—inside you and so fucking natural—that keeps you together and finishes this. I love you, Benjamin. You burn, I burn.

He nods slowly, and you have to pry yourself from his lips. Use every ounce of resolve in your body to stand, to give Ryan a reassuring smile as you steel yourself.

You take a long, deep, heavy breath that tastes like pine and gunpowder and Ben, and you can fucking do this.

The golden shield doesn’t need to drop, because you take a cautious step up to it and it begins to sing and glow in your presence. There’s a brief second—as you walk through it—that you’re stronger than you’ve ever been in your life, and you’re all yours and Ben’s. You’re everything, warm and vast and bloody, and nothing will ever break you again.

Then the chill of rain falls on your brow, and the wind rushes in your ears, and everything comes into a sharp, brutal, unforgiving focus as you step into the ruins around you.

Butcher and Homelander are locked in the most destructive fight you’ve ever seen. Scorched earth is too light a phrase, because everything has been razed and wrecked around them. The car parts have been flung around, and there’s melted metal and gas fires and fallen trees strewn across the road, and the air feels like it’s calling forward judgment day. Heavy and hot in your lungs, all smoke and oil and ash down your throat.

Neither of them see you at first—marching through the wreckage and wrapped in flames that make this rain fade in a hiss—but they don’t need to. You make yourself know as you let out the most primal, furious sound that’s ever left your body, and a wave of fire crashes through the world, aimed right at Homelander. 

Butcher moves to your side as you advance on where Homelander had vanished in the flame, giving you a smirk.

“Bout fuckin time, Love-“

“Shut up.” You snap, not sparing Butcher a glance as you see a shifting, dark form emerging from the smoke. “You get him down, I blast him, no fucking games.”

Homelander roars as he charges toward you, his laser carving a hole in your chest, and you don’t even flinch. Something white-hot and in an easy rhythm with your heartbeat crashes through the air at your will, flashing gold and knocking Homelander back.

“Bloody Christ, how the hell-“

“I have new powers.” You mutter, shooting Butcher a daggered look. “Homelander shot me with the V that I took back. And you can be a fucking cunt about that,” you narrow your eyes, and Butcher closes his mouth. “After we kill Homelander.”

“Well, Love, I ain’t sure that your plan’ll work if I don’t got backup.” Butcher glances at Homelander, rising into the air, and doges a laser blast that had been aimed at his skull. “V made me strong, but the cunt-“

“I’ve got it.” You do. Ben’s power, thrown and focused, won’t wipe the V from Homelander’s body, but it will weaken him. Enough for Butcher to get his shot. “You just need to get the V-“

“Ah, that’s the thing-“

Butcher’s words are cut off as Homelander sweeps down, grabbing him and throwing him halfway down the cracked pavement.

“What are we chatting about?” Homelander turns to you, and fuck he looks ugly. His formally too perfect face has been marred and burnt and scarred, flesh falling off his skin and his nose half caved into his fucking head. “It’s not very nice to leave me out, you know-“

You have no interest in banter or conversation, so you punch Homelander right in his thin, mauled lips and send him stumbling backward.

“Fuck,” he roars, and when he spits out a tooth you don’t bother to hide your grin. “You evil little bitch-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, throwing out another rush of Ben’s nuclear energy. “You’re fucking pathetic, Homelander, you know that? You had to kidnap me,” a punch to his gut, fist wrapped in fire. “And rape me,” his jaw, blood splattering over your face. “And fucking torture me in order to control me. But here’s the thing.” You take a step forward, and the pussy fucking flinches, taking a stumbling step back and your whole body begins to glow with fire and energy. You’re not sure if this is your power, or Ben’s, and you don’t really fucking care. “You never broke me. Not permanently. Not in a way that couldn’t be fixed. And now I’m going to kill you, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

He tries to fly away, but you’re faster. The whole sky turns in a storm of fire, and Homelander crashes back to earth as he realizes there’s no way out.

You hear Butcher clear his throat behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder his nose is broken and there’s a large gash along his neck, but he’s still up. Still fighting.

“You still on that die like a human shit?” He asks, keeping his attention on Homelander’s stirring body. “Or you wanna just-“

“No. He dies like the human he is. Get the V-“

“That’s, ah, that’s the thing, ain’t it.“ Butcher coughs, and you’ve never seen him look nervous before. It’s unsettling. “We don’t got no V.”

“What-“

“Used mine.” Butcher muttered. “Rest shattered in the car wreck, or is back with the team. We just got each other, Love, which I ain’t thrilled about either, but-“

“Shut up.” You squeeze your eyes shut, your fingers tapping an inhuman speed against your palm as you try to fucking work your way out of this. “We need to keep him down, that’s what the V was for, and you could do it, but I’d need to blast you-“

“Do that.”

You frown at Butcher, examining his stone-like expression. “Butcher, that might kill you-“

“So?” Butcher shrugs, and the only sign of any care or fear in his body are his hands—fisted in his pockets—and his eyes. They’re flashing with something you don’t understand, but know is emotion, even if his face is set and blank. “Don’t pretend you think I got shit to live for, Love. You all got people, I got Ryan, and he’ll be fine without me. He’s got you, he’ll make it.”

There’s no disgust or resentment in Butcher’s words, but no defeat either. Just flat fact, like even if this isn’t the only possible way, he’s not looking for another. And you can only think of that last vial of V, meant for Butcher but in your body, and how he’d been so ready to take it.

You don’t think he wants an after. Butcher might really just believe that this is all he’s for, and after isn’t a place he belongs. 

And you’re not sure if you agree, because you don’t like Butcher, but he’s not Homelander. He’s not Ben either, but he’s something in the middle. Something just as angry as them both, but with just enough love and care in his body that he couldn’t be Homelander, and not enough will for something better to be Ben. 

He’s not lost. He’s close to it, but not quite. He’s a supe now—and you can almost taste his own hatred of that every time he scratches at his skin or grimaces at any step—and you might call that punishment enough. To be the thing he swore to destroy. 

But this will wipe the V from his body, and there will be no retribution.

But you don’t think you care for retribution, or reparation, or even an apology from Butcher. You just want this to be over, and you will offer Butcher this grace. He’s never been your friend, but he’s never tried to stop you. He’s never liked you, but you don’t really think he hated you either. He’s backed up your every plan, and never stood in your direct way. He’s antagonized you, but still had your back on your more fucked up plans.

He’s the reason you have Ben. He’d backed you up, and if he hadn’t, you’d still be alone. And this isn’t your choice to make for him, and it’s your turn to back up the one time he’s will to make a sacrifice that he’ll pay the price for.

“Butcher,” your words are soft, but firm. “Do you-“

“I got a gun.” Butcher looks you up and down, his face grim. “You still want-“

“Yes.” 

Butcher nods and that’s it. All that left to do is finish this.

Homelander’s flying at you, and when his hand wrapped around your throat you let all your blood out of your body. Every last bit of cold, paralyzing fear of him that existed inside of you is pushed out, into Homelander, and he barely gets you off the ground when he drops you with a pathetic fucking scream. Butcher’s waiting for him, lasering his gut and knocking him fully to the ground, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him to the pavement and you land on his chest.

He’s sneering and hissing hateful words you can’t hear, because you’re calling the drums. The start in the distance, so familiar and in a harmony and beat you’d recognize anywhere, and as they draw closer you feel like you’ve reached some sort of peak, and you’re only seconds from the plummet. Like the barrier of Ben’s power that’s been holding the pain at bay is about to collapse, and this split second is all you have. 

But you don’t break, or falter, or fail. 

The drums fall into time with your heart right as the sickness of the V returns. 

And you feel every bit of the bomb rip out of your body and through the world right before you fall to the ground and everything is only pain.

In the distance, or maybe right by your ear, you hear a gunshot go off. It might just be a delusion of peace—born from the way that everything is fading in and out around you and you can’t tell what’s solid and what an illusion—but then you feel something being to riot in your chest that’s more real than anything and you know you’re still awake. 

Your eyes flutter open, and everything is out focus and wrapped in a haze, but that Thing that’s only ardor and care is sinking into your heart and ribs, and it gives you a brief moment of clarity. A long moment where you’re warm and safe, and so, so loved. This love feels like the universe. This love feels bigger than the universe, and you think it might be all yours.   

You hope it is. It would be really nice for this existence of only pain to fade, and to wake up and be loved like this for a long, long time.

But right now you have to rest. There’s something soft and dark creeping at your vision, and you’ve never been this tired in your life, so resting feels like a good idea. It feels very simple, to just close your eyes and rest.

Peace starts to pull you, down, down down—into something warm and intangible, but somehow everything and made of ardor—and the last thing you hear is someone that sounds like everything good roaring your name.  

The last thing you see is cold, blue, lifeless eyes that will never hurt you again. 

The last thing you feel is clean.

End Note: I would say f's in chat for Homelander but I'm throwing a party to celebrate his death, so no respect. Also, this chapter is a direct fuck you to the “powerful MC loses her magic” trope. Fuck that. She’s MORE magical!

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

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

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

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

@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf @ciuguapa @ilyaasansaif @whimsicalcherry

@sadpods @ahoytothestorm @silverwingxox @criminalyetminimal @solsborg

@generalmoonpolice @ifyouwerethemoon @leavli @imsiriuslyreal @ambientcryptidsounds

@ej13928

[hoseoksluna]

BERRIES | jjk ft. jhs

pairing: ex-boyfriend!jungkook x oc (feat. hobi)

genre: angst, tiny fluff, itty bitty smut

word count: 6.0k

summary: your ex-boyfriend shouldn't have this much influence over you when you have a new man, should he?

playlist: berries / pinterest board: berries

warnings: depression, daddy issues, use of titles, oc has dirty thoughts about hobi (do we blame her? no, we do not), slowburn, implied sex, dd/lg, soft argument

note: this took every last bit of my strength, so i had to split it up. i'm sorry if this is a piece of absolute shit, but as you all know work this week squeezed everything out of me and i'm so exhausted that i'm not even sure if this is worth posting. i struggled a lot with this fic, rewrote it multiple times, and i'm so very happy that it's finished. i hope you all enjoy the start of a new series, this time a slowburn that will have more parts, more depth and everything. and surprise! it features hobi, my beautiful husband. it was my first time writing about him and he's missing so terribly from my soul that it was one of the reasons why i struggled so much. i wish it weren't like this for my first time with him, but oh well. i hope you, guys, enjoy. please, let me know what you think. <3

The satiny material of your cream-colored dress must be the one and the same that these sculptures had worn centuries ago. You can almost imagine the softness kissing your fingerprint instead of the cool stone as you graze your touch against each and every immortalized angel of loveliness. You’re stirred by a sense of poignancy—that you’re alive and they’re not and yet you believe that as you stare at them, feel what they’ve been through the more you study their eternal expressions, they stare right back with their eternally tender eyes, see right through you, through your heart, know its contents. You wish you were in their place instead; you’re sure they would’ve handled your cursed life better than you can. 

Or you wish you were as stony as them. 

But you’re an opulent fountain of emotions that are anything but gentle. 

This thought distracts your attention from the way your feet ache in the boots you chose to wear to impress your date. Thigh high, with black knee socks underneath to keep you warm from the cruel breath of autumn. Hoseok is carrying your trenchcoat as you’re adventuring on your own in this art museum and that’s the only sliver of kindness he’s shown you this very morning. 

The only compliment you’ve received from him was a nonverbal one. An up and down look with a smirk creeping in when he picked you up at your apartment. No hug, no caress. You felt so small—and awkward a little bit, comparison rushing in. Not in the form of a wave of the sea, but in the form of a snake, its thick body tightening around your throat. An ouroboros, which made you regret going out on a date so soon. 

It hasn’t even been a month since you’ve become a single girl again, learning how to walk in this new, harsh reality, your legs wobbly, weak and too, too heavy. And the lack of comfortable physical contact made you see your ex-boyfriend before your own eyes, the memory of how he acted at the beginning of your first date. The way he picked you up into his arms due to his excitement of being with you and carried you inside his car. He put on your seatbelt for you. Drove carefully. Held your hand as he led you to the restaurant he picked for you. Even during the walk after while you talked about the stars and you couldn’t help but tell him that his eyes were filled with them. 

Hoseok did neither of those things. He had asked you where you wanted to go and you’ve wanted to visit the museum for quite a while, so you suggested it. He had agreed, no sort of enthusiasm evident in his voice muffled by the phone call. And you’ve barely exchanged a few words during the half an hour of your time spent here, let alone led an entire conversation. You should’ve heeded the warning when it was right in front of you.

Hoseok is certainly not of the artistic kind. 

Looks quite bored as you turn your head to look at him, your coat dangling from his arm so terribly devastatingly. And when you focus your gaze to your right, where a dark wine-tinged room, with golden frames of paintings, awaits you and where you’ve longed to go the moment you stepped a foot inside this grand building, a distaste pools on your tongue, your former aesthetic elation ruined. 

You’re surprised he didn’t stand you up. 

You don’t even want to take pictures. As a matter of fact, you want to go home. But you can’t. Can’t ravage your only possibility and means of forgetting the person you still love. Can’t really encourage Hoseok to leave your life, not when you’re the type of person that doesn’t find love upon every corner you turn to. 

This is your only chance. And he’s the only man you’ll conceivably have in your life for quite some time. 

You walk up to him and take your coat from his arm. His eyes deepen on you, in fact they haven’t strayed from you during the entire half an hour—and that bothers you. If your ex-boyfriend were here, he’d share the beauty with you. Make you laugh so hard that the sound would echo around the vast room. Perhaps give life to the sculptures and they would laugh along, too. 

Your heart hangs heavy in your chest, sinks ever so slowly and you can’t bear it. You need to leave. Take this date elsewhere, hope for betterment to grace you—to have but a fragment of pity for you. 

“You hungry?” you ask, softly, willing your voice to be smooth and not divulge the brassy storm of your emotions to him. Hoseok doesn’t know anything about you. Doesn’t know that you yearn for another person to be standing in his place. “Did you have breakfast?” 

Hoseok needed the date to be in the early hours. Said he had a meeting in the afternoon. Would be working on a project with his colleagues until the late hours. You didn’t mind, not really, in fact it animated you—brought briskness into the sadness of your headspace, knowing it was rainy and cloudy outside. Perfect weather for the influence of the arts. That is, until you realized that it was a grave mistake to take a businessman to a museum; that you dragged a heathen to a church.

Hoseok shifts his weight on each foot, his shoulders swaying with the movement, and he licks his lip, bringing your attention to them. Small, but full—you wonder what they would feel like against yours. Wonder if he’d be gentle with you or violent. If he’d stroke your hair or grip it; fondle the ribbon you’re wearing in a half up do or untie it, entirely. Use it for another means like your ex-boyfriend invariably did. 

Your distaste grows, but not for Hoseok. It grows like poison ivy for yourself and your tendency to compare him with someone he doesn’t deserve to be juxtaposed with. 

Guilt blossoms in your sternum, the leaves of that poison ivy. Pretty to the eye, but deadly for the body. Just like you. You’re too baneful for such a pretty man like Hoseok. You’d do well to respect his boundaries and abstain from physical contact, prevent red rashes from marring his skin.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” Hoseok says, just as softly, rubbing the nape of his neck, the black cloth of his dress shirt taut over his arms—a pretty sight, one that could be hanging in the wine-tinged room for generations to gawk upon. “Truth be told, I was too nervous.” 

A brief smile adorns his slender face and you melt, the poison ivy scratching you raw. Your heart picks up its rhythm, flattery clothing it in a protective layer and you pout, your hand itching to graze his forearm. But a hidden fight rises in you, an army of darkness ready with their bows, their arrows shooting thoughts into your brain about how little you’re worthy of such kindness and favor. 

Though when Hoseok blushes upon seeing your tender expression, it gives you some sort of strength to stand tall against those demons. Despite the fact you don’t understand it, you don’t question it either and you cling to it, sensing its freedom speaking to you in a foreign language. A yearning forms in you, one you haven’t yet had the possibility of meeting. A yearning to learn its syntax and vocabulary. And when you give in to it, the poison ivy in you lessens. 

This is good. 

You reciprocate his smile and you coo. Find it the easiest thing in the world. And because you’re so grateful for what he’s unwittingly done for you, you decide to share your truth with him as well. 

“Let’s go eat, then.” Your eyes crinkle and you’d bet light flickers in them, for your whole body does, you sense it. A warm light enlarges on its axis, taking a hold of the heaviness you felt. “There’s no need to be nervous. It’s what I told myself when I was getting ready. My stomach hurt and believe it or not when I told myself these words, it stopped.” 

Hoseok chuckles, his arm slapping back to his side, but you notice that it trembles. You’re so touched by it that you become angry at yourself, self-hatred clashing with that warmth. You misinterpreted him so unfairly and what’s more, you wallowed in your brokenness and your heartbreak, when Hoseok had been nervous and timid the whole time, which now sheds light on his lack of closeness with you. 

You’re despicable. And the awareness of it transforms into that snake tightening around your throat again. Only this time, you welcome it. Long for it to take your life. It’s the least you deserve. 

But you’re not letting yourself loll in the bed of your horrendous emotions. No, you lift your hand and you caress his arm, the one that quakes. And amidst the sepulchral attention of the sculptures, you’re a witness to that trembling’s halt, to Hoseok’s visible tranquility, and you want to weep. 

You know if you were to gaze at the eternal angels of beauty, you’d see stony tears appear on their ivory cheeks, too. 

“I’m sorry,” Hoseok mumbles and you curl your brows in confusion, not knowing what he’s apologizing for. Hoseok opens his mouth again to speak, but he pauses, sloshing the words in his mouth. You feel so bad that a craving to better yourself overcomes your entire being. “I’m sorry for being such a buzzkill. If you wanna explore this place more, we can. I saw you looking at the room with the paintings.” 

He tilts his head in the direction of the aforementioned room, but you care very little about it as of now. You’d much rather take this elsewhere and get to know him better, so you don’t make the mistake of distorting him again. You’re not very keen on forcing a heathen to pray, either, however you do appreciate his willingness and attentiveness. Carry those things into your jarred heart, fold them inside its chambers, the edge pieces to the puzzle of his personality. 

“Don’t worry,” you murmur, taking it one step further and hooking your arm around his. Hoseok sighs, his shyness slowly breaking apart as he clasps his hand over yours and if you could dissolve any more, now would be the perfect time for it. His hold is strong and steady—and it creates something stable within you, an orchard of fruit trees, pink and green, and bushes of berries, a safe place you want to rest in; lay down your brokenness and woes in. “You’re good. No need to apologize.”

His blush deepens at the reassurance and he smiles, softly, running his thumb over your knuckles. And the gratefulness you feel due to the fact he’s touching you, it is the rain that freshens up the apples and cherries hanging on the twigs of those trees, guiding it into full bloom. You focus on it—focus on the thick, cottony material of his dress shirt as you rub his forearm in response. You want to acknowledge yourself with the unspoken parts of him like these, remember them, allow them to heal you and crack the plaster over your heart. 

And there you hear it. The crumble as Hoseok leans in and presses a chaste peck onto your cheek, lingering there for a second more, inhaling your sandalwood scent. And his smile widens as he looks down on you at such close proximity, erasing your touch-starvation once and for all. It’s your turn to blush now and you feel an inkling to shy away from his gaze, but you stifle it back. Curl your mouth in a smile—your heart thumping louder amidst the orchard now that it has more space to function in. 

“No, I really want to apologize. It’s been too long since I’ve been on a date and you’re so stunning that I’ve forgotten my game, so I can’t help but to be nervous. I don’t know how to act around you,” he says, mutedly, punctuating his sentence with a breathy laugh, glimmering eyes flicking to the lining of your silky neckline just below your collarbones, tracing the miniature cherub hung up on your dainty necklace plated in gold, motionless against your dress. Your own heart grows wings and momentum in its place, fluttering in haste to move closer to him. He bores his gaze back into yours, letting it stay there. “Art isn’t really my thing, but you look like you belong here. Look like all those angels around.” He nods at your necklace. “And like that angel, too. Can I take a picture of you?”

You’re so taken aback that you don’t have time to respond. Pulling out his phone from the pocket of his dress pants, he withdraws from you and gently ushers you in the direction of the closest angel, your trenchcoat slung over his arm again, vibrating with life. He positions you how he likes—right in front of the immense sculpture, your head turned slightly to the side so the wisps of your white ribbon in your hair can be seen. His touch grounds you, tells your bloodstream, your organs that everything is okay, repeats it a little louder to your headspace—all before war could be declared with you. 

Hoseok, the prince of peace. 

The prince that crouches to the dirty floor so the vastness of the angel’s wings can fit in the shot. Yours, too. You think you’ve grown a pair of your own, alongside your heart, now that your shared honesty brought you closer.

You struggle to hold back your sob, to stop the corners of your mouth from rounding, your chin from quivering—all because the lightness that you sense wrapping over your heart is one you haven’t felt in a really long time. You feel taken care of, feel like you can depend on him, and while you can’t explain why you feel that way, you consider that such an immense blessing, regardless. So much that your eyes wet for the camera, but you don’t mind. Let that be captured in the memory—the mending that occurred. And let that be safe with him. 

You smile and the flash goes off, which causes you to burst into giggles, your liquid softness forgotten, and run to him, your palm covering his phone camera so nobody sees his defiance. You look around to make sure no employee is in sight before you face him, cheeks warm, heart warm, wings warm, body warm. Hoseok quirks a brow, confused, gaping up at you from his position, and you take a deep breath to halt another inrush of laughter.

“You can’t take pictures with flash here. They’ll throw us out,” you whisper-shout, your giggles escaping your tightened mouth. His own forms into an ‘O’, fingers clicking on his screen, presumably turning off the automatic flash.

“I didn’t know,” he whisper-shouts back, mouth stretched in a lopsided grin. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid.” You shake your head, shoulders still shaking with the last of your giggles. He probably didn’t have a phone back then, which makes it even funnier. He inspects his settings again to make sure it’s all good before his hand finds your thigh and pushes you back. “Okay, I turned it off. Go back to the angel.” 

It’s your whole body that flutters now, not just your heart, both pairs of wings unfurling, and when you retrace your steps, you still feel the heat of his touch—half on the fabric of your dress, half on your bare skin. And as you smile more naturally for the picture this time, greed kisses your core. A greed for more of his touch; on the same place as well as elsewhere. 

A twinkle of where he could possibly touch you flashes before your eyes and it’s all your focal point consists of when you turn your head to your former position the way he wanted it and he praises you for it: “Good, good.” 

Your muscles clench as you imagine his hand going underneath the fabric, exploring what’s hidden in there for him. The words of praise he would utter at the discovery of your private flesh. Your ears must be red. Such a twist of events you didn’t expect. A meek form of demureness creeps in, enveloping you in a feminine sensuality and you’ve missed feeling this way. Missed feeling pretty and alluring for yourself first, then for a man second. Missed being the center of your attention like this, of someone else’s as well. 

You’ve always loved it. Perhaps due to the fact that you very seldom have it—so when it does come, it changes your life and you attach your being to it. 

You didn’t anticipate going home with Hoseok, especially not on the first date. But because you’re being fed, you don’t really care about being proper. You want to go home with him and so you simply shall. 

Can’t let the opportunity run away from you. 

And so you arch your back a little bit more, look up at the angel and give her your silent thanks, your hair flowing around your form when you flick your gaze back to Hoseok to see him concentrated on the task, his smooth features gravely serious. Your stomach flips. 

“Now from the back,” he instructs without lifting his eyes off of the screen of his phone. “Just like you were.” 

A breath lodges in your throat, the double meaning burning the poison ivy down to ashes and you swallow it, let your stomach acid consume it until there’s nothing left of it, until all that your body carries is nothing but the lightness and the seductiveness that Hoseok gracefully gave you, the comfortable heft of the wings that grew because of him. 

It’s those things that drive forth your following words with the world’s ease, unabashedly. 

“You want it from the back?” 

Hoseok’s mouth parts and the look he exchanges with you should chill your blood, but it doesn’t. If anything, it boils it. The heat that wafts off it pools in your core before ascending to your imaginary wings, leaving them dripping with sweat and the dew of titillation. Hoseok’s eyes narrow, shadowed by the furrow of his brows, encouraging it all the more. 

There is it—the heady energy shift, permeated with the sweetest of berry juices, stemming from lust, from the orchard he planted in you. Strengthening your allure, steeling you from head to toe. You submit to it; kneel into it, notionally. Your elation raises from the dead—and you grin. 

“Behave.”

A pulse in your private parts. The lengthening of your expression of delight. Your wings, your muscles clench and the same winged creatures soar to your heart from your stomach, squeezing the beating flesh. You swivel on your heels, the hem of your dress rippling, exposing more of your tender skin, the ribbon in your hair following suit. 

Hoseok sucks in a breath. Your cheeks ache from the joy’s strain and it is utterly exhilarating to you. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Hoseok coos his approval and you can’t take it anymore. You let him take a few more pictures as you move around, dancing in your own way, running your fingers through your hair, trying to distract yourself from the throbbing between your legs, but to no avail. And when you sigh and face him head-on, Hoseok is already on his feet, walking towards you with a reappearing lopsided grin that forces the butterflies gnawing at your heart to go absolutely rampant. 

You’re done for. You need to take him home. You’re not even curious about how the pictures came out—you can always look at them later. 

Hoseok seems to know about your neediness because when he crosses the distance, he cups your chin. Makes you look up at him. And his smirk deepens while your heart increases in size, wings flitting at the special attention. 

“Such a pretty girl,” he murmurs, caressing your skin with his thumb. Your eyes round and the heat you feel is sweltering underneath your clothes. All the more reason for him to take them off. “The pictures are great. Wanna see?” 

Biting your lip, you shake your head, briefly. “What I want is to make you breakfast,” you say, mirroring his tone, hoping he gets the hint. 

Hoseok waggles your chin, humming. “Oh, yeah?” 

Fuck. If his scolding already didn’t make you submissive, then his response and his actions have. You wet your mouth, teeth instinctively sinking back in, and only nod. Hoseok opens your coat and covers your shoulders in its warmth, pressing the cotton twill fabric against your sternum. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

A fond sound pours out of him and the fact that he likes to be called by that title heightens the pulse between your legs. “Let’s go.” 

He leads you towards the exit with a hand on the small of your back and you’re so happy to be touched at last that with a final look at the angels, you send out your silent love and goodbye to them, thank them one last time for the kindness you received because of them, one that you so ferociously sought after and longed for. 

They seem to bow to you, happy to be of service, and you smile so profoundly that you feel as though nothing could stain your joy and mar it all over again. They wouldn’t allow that to happen—and a tendril of hope burst open within you like sunlight tearing through clouds, one that is suffused with the notion that Hoseok would stand in the way, side by side with those sculptures, too.

And he does when you swivel your head back and catch a glance of someone you know. 

A piercing on the side of his brow, unchanged from the last time you saw him. Round eyes, murky. Ashen complexion that used to bloom with vibrant tints. Full, soft-toned mouth, ever so stuck in that pout, one you used to kiss until it bruised. 

Your bloodstream doesn’t cease its flow. Not until you notice the person beside him. 

A girl with an aura so cataclysmic that it forces you to stop dead in your tracks. An August night storm personified, obnoxiously sweet-smelling of the past summer that you spent with her companion. The hollow, funereal scent of a meadow doused in petrichor—she walks with it, her hands intertwined before her in a clasp. 

You wished for him to be in Hoseok’s place so ardently that he appeared. And now that you contemplate him, the lack of distance between him and the girl, it makes you regret that you ever did. 

Because, unknowingly, it drenched you in gasoline and his presence is a lighter, hers the hand that has flicked it to life and now serenely holds it against your skin, waiting until the flames, little by little, devour you whole. 

And the job is finished when both of their heads whirl, meeting your livid stare. 

And Jungkook, too, stops dead in his tracks. 

“Do you know him?” Hoseok asks and you find it strange that you can hear him when all you can see is red. 

And the red fades into the matching black shirt that Jungkook is wearing, into his bluntly pained mien; into the strands of his date’s short hair and her scrunched up brows as she regards you with a strong aversion that makes you scoff. And the same red weakens when Hoseok turns your attention to him by playing with the ends of your ribbon, grazing them before twirling them around his finger. 

A breath of fresh air, he is. 

You don’t know what to say. Don’t know whether to tell him the truth or come up with something that won’t devastate what you have currently going on with him. But if you lie to him, you’ll stumble into a dead end you’d much rather stay clear of. You’d see it before your eyes once you do take him home and it would ruin the newness he brought up with you, preventing it from taking root in you. 

Devastation awaits you in either case. Both you and Hoseok. 

Cursed, your life is. Doomed, absolutely fucking doomed. 

What would the angels do in your place? 

Seeking their wisdom behind you, it is not in them that you find your answer, but in the passing pair dressed in black, making their way over to the dark-wined room. He’s pretending he didn’t see you at all, walking away from you without saying a word, despite the fact you broke up on good terms. 

You worshiped him in this very building almost on your knees and he dismissed you as if you meant nothing to him, caring for the feelings of his date, instead. 

Peculiarly, the sentiments Hoseok installed in you, both of the passionate and the soft kind, turn that fire blue and it becomes the driving force that guides you to act without a single thought spared. 

“Yeah, I do know him. Do you mind if I quickly say hi to him?”

The corner of Hoseok’s mouth curls and he caresses your hair down your back one last time.  “Go, I’ll get the car ready.” 

Such a confident, strong man, broken out of the confines of his former timidness. Not possessive, nor insecure—letting you do what you want. Respectful of your personal life that doesn’t include him just yet. And for that very reason it will—as soon as you’re done putting out that fire in you. 

It’s not only you that has gone through a change upon this hour and it strikes your awe, enough for you to lean in and peck his cheek, just like he did to you. 

Hoseok makes a sound of endearment, pivots on his feet to leave you to it, but you grab a hold of his hand. Have a need to say something to him. 

His brows rise at the attention and you brush your hand across his knuckles, mimicking his previous actions, having learned them, intimately. 

“Thank you, Hoseok. Really,” you say with a smile that could magnetically pull the sunlight out of its hiding place behind the clouds and bathe this bizarre room in light. You squeeze his hand. 

A swirl of shyness flushes his face in rose pink and he shakes his head. “No need to thank me,” he assures, reciprocating the smile. “And call me Hobi. You can save Hoseok for later.” 

Your jaw falls open and Hoseok chuckles, warmly, deepening the pulse between your legs until a wet spot adorns your panties beneath your dress, one that you look forward to showing him at the aforementioned time. 

He pivots again and you watch his tall, lean figure leave. Back muscles clothed in black, straining against the fabric. He must’ve undergone his military service. 

A beautiful man. You can’t wait to taste him. Taste that manliness. 

Loosening a breath, you turn around to search for your ex-boyfriend. And much to your dismay, he’s appreciating the angel sculpture—the very one and only Hoseok took your pictures with. Fire licks at your every nerve ending, but then you notice that his date is nowhere in sight. 

A perfect opportunity to do what you want to do. 

Pulling out your phone out of your little purse, you look for his name in the history of your calls and tap on it, placing the device against your ear, your hoop earrings clashing against the screen. You watch him palm his pocket as the vibration disturbs his aesthetic pleasure and he casts a long glance at your name filling up his screen. Doesn’t comb his gaze through his surroundings. No, he seems to be transfixed by the twist of events and when he swipes his finger to accept the call, his stare begins to dig a hole into the dirty, marble floor. 

Doesn’t say anything. 

You scoff, fury grazing your fire. “You’re pretending not to know me? That’s low.” His pout rounds and the tip of his shoe traces the edges of the ruination he’s caused. Remains silent. “Who’s your little girlfriend? I thought you’d introduce me. Where is she, anyways?” 

It’s him who scoffs now and he flicks his gaze towards the face of the angel. It’s like he’s staring right at you. “You shouldn’t be doing this, little one.” 

The too familiar pet name brings agony to your heart and you would break had Hoseok not given you his strength, if the dependability of him waiting for you outside wasn’t real. And the allure and the lightness in you, perhaps the very love of the sculptures encompassing you—all of those things only vivify your solidity. You have no reason to break, you’re safe. 

“Well, I think you should be a good Daddy and meet me right there in the red room,” you seethe, glad for the anger to be lingering in you, for the utterance of the title leaving you unscathed. You’re just giving him a taste of his own poison, nothing else. 

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair and sighs, clenching his jaw. “Don’t call me that.” 

You chuckle, enlivened by the provocation. “I can do whatever I want. Besides, you started it.” 

He grits his teeth. “Not when you’re talking to me, you can’t.” 

Your fire rises in overwhelming waves, your curt response ready on your tongue, but Jungkook hangs up, making you shut your mouth, instantly. 

You hate him for that; hate him with the entirety of your being. 

What has happened to your friendship? To the sweet, weeping Jungkook who broke up with you because he didn’t want to cause you any more pain with the state of his mental health, who has been dealing with depression for so long that he’s reached a point of no return, a lightless room with no windows, where all he saw was you, and he didn’t want you to be a victim of such unhealthy attachment. So he bid you goodbye, hugged you until you couldn’t breathe and let you go. 

Three weeks ago. 

You haven’t seen him or heard from him since until now. Until you’ve found someone else and moved on with your life. That’s just your luck. 

And now the person you’re gazing at, it’s not the same one that wept against your chest. Yes, he might have been strict with you during intimate times, teased you with his fatherliness during the day even—but that invariably was imbued with the mellowness of love. 

Try as you may while his words ring in your headspace, you cannot unearth any trace of that same mellowness in it. Only bitterness, coldness and a profound darkness. 

Jungkook pockets his phone and, leaving both of his hands there, sunk deeply, he walks over to the wine-tinged room, his frown obscuring the place in gloom. Murky clouds, personified. A perfect match to the storm of his companion. Bile lodges inside your throat. 

You follow after him, your feet aching terribly in your boots, but it serves as some kind of alleviation to the tautness of your emotions, of your confusion, disgust and offence. Makes you feel better—because once you see Jungkook ogling a certain painting of a woman beaming at him softly, dressed in flowers, blues and greens as the redness akin to your fire burns in her background, the agony tries to slither its way inside your heart, but fails.

You’re a locked orchard. 

Jungkook senses your presence and he swivels, biting the inside of his cheek, pierced brow quirking. There’s a strain to his shoulders and his Adam’s apple bobbles as he takes in your appearance. The creaminess of your short, silky dress, the darker shade of the same color of your trenchcoat slung loosely over your shoulders, exposing your brown, leather, high-heeled boots, your matching purse clutched in both of your hands as you strut towards him. Calm, all of a sudden. It does nothing to you, nothing whatsoever—your heart momentarily attached to Hoseok.

“I thought you’d already left,” he murmurs, tipping up his chin. Begins to sway back and forth on the balls of his feet, the carmine hues of the room swathing him in a deeper shade of darkness. “Isn’t your boyfriend waiting for you?” 

You don’t bother to correct him. It’s none of his business who Hobi is to you, not when he treated you like a stranger.

“We were about to leave, but then I saw your actions,” you say, quite monotonously, your calmness as disturbing as it is triumphant. You yourself even wonder at it. “What the fuck was that?” 

A smirk. “Glad to know I still have some kind of effect on you.” 

You scrunch up your brows, distaste once again pooling in your mouth. “Trust me, I would’ve done this with anyone I know. You’re not special.” 

His smirk widens. “So, you’re not jealous?” He rubs the side of his jaw, staring at you, intently, and disgust comes over you like a splash of a wave, soaking you in cold sweat. 

He did it for that very reason—to make you jealous. Walked right past you, just to get a rise out of you. As much as you loved him half an hour ago, that affection turns into dust within you, sprinkling the fruit trees and the berry brushes with its gray smithereens, poisoning them. 

Ouroboros, all over again. Full circle. Anger covers your disgust. 

A voice echoes within the room. Airy and light, as feminine as it is otherworldly, and you know, without a doubt, who it belongs to. It doesn’t suit her, not in the slightest. 

“There you are,” your ex-boyfriend’s companion trails off, the clapping of her flat shoes halting. “Who are you?” 

You only turn your head to the side, signaling to her that you’ve heard her question, because you fix your stare back at Jungkook as you answer it. “It’s not something you should trouble yourself with. Can you give us a minute?” 

You don’t hear any movement, so she must be stubbornly staying where she is. All right, she can join the conversation for all you care. 

When you turn your head back around, you catch stars oozing from Jungkook’s eyes, a conveyance of adornment painting his face in gentle colors that could never be associated with this room. There it is, the face you know, so resplendent of the one you last saw. And it grazes your anger, whispers to it that it was a mistake, a game of pretense, because you’re reverently acknowledged with his soul—you know who he is. While it may explain his fucked-up behavior, you don’t soften. Not at the hint of familiarity. Not even at the hushed hint of your deduction telling you that the reason why he unmasked himself was because you chose him and didn’t run away when his companion spoiled your short time together. 

You don’t soften because you simply don’t want to. 

You don’t want to give in to any means of getting close to him. 

The chapter is finished. You shouldn’t have called him. You should’ve left with Hobi. 

You don’t wish to keep him waiting long, nor do you wish to keep sprawling in your mistake. You pivot, ready to leave, but Jungkook captures your hand. Desirousness palpitates in his eyes as if he, too, needed to tell you something of urgency. 

You’ll hear him out, but that’s the end of it. 

“Can I see you later?” he asks, pupils growing in size until they absorb his chocolate irises, his grip over your hand tight and heated. A wind blows in your orchard, sweeping away all the darkened smithereens left by the bane, freshening you up. 

You don’t really think that’s a good idea. 

“I won’t have time for you later, I’ll be with Hoseok.” 

To Hobi, you won’t lie, but the same can’t be applied to Jungkook. 

His breath hitches in his throat, disappointment weighing him down, the thought of you being intimate with someone who is not him causing his posture to slouch even more. 

But he surprises you with the words he says next. 

“I’ll wait, then. Let me know when you’re alone.” 

And you surprise yourself even more when you nod, turning on your heel and scurrying off to meet Hobi outside. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

[seattlesellie]

hii, can I request something based on this

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSL1YNSCU/?t=1

the reader is just mindlessly scrolling on her phone, and ellie is just a being little shit and annoying the reader cause she needs some ATTENTION ASAP !!!

it starts out as ellie peppers the reader with kisses innocently, and they accidentally (not rlly an accidentally 😭) ended up in bed cuddling while naked 🙈

anon this tiktok couple drives me insane im so jealous theyre so cute i literally think about blocking them sometimes. the highway looking like a real good sleeping space rn!

warning: nsfw+fluff. THIS CAME OUT. NOT THE WAY IT WAS SUPPOSED TO. THERES NO CUDDLING BECAUSE I LOST MY MIND WRITING THIS AND ELLIE IS KIND OF MEAN AT THE END :( IM SO SORRY NONNIE 🤍

this ones gotta be an actual hammer. theres no way in hell they could make a cake this accura-

fuck. how is everything fucking cake? if these yellow crocs arent actual wearable shoes, you were going to sue tiktok user 0087fakeorcake.

scroll

ugh, a slime video. your favorite. this one’s crunchy, too. and the color? a deep hypnotizing purple. it looked like a galaxy, far far away. you just went cross eyed.

“babe” ellies voice echoed through your shared apartment. a new one at that. the smell of fresh paint, new wooden furniture, and a pinch of familiarity. ellies punctured sock was laying on the floor like a modern piece of artwork at a funky museum, but were gonna ignore that for a second.

scroll

ooh! a kitten looking dapper with a bow tie! double tap.

“babe” she said, slightly raising the tone of her voice.

not now, ellie! you were just about to watch a target haul.

a small huff escaped her lips. how was she now jealous of an actual piece of metal squeezed between your hands. if you didnt look so cute concentrated, eyebrows furrowed while trying to read a conspiracy theory about the moon landing, she would have probably snatched your phone off of your hands by now.

she got slightly closer, and positioned herself between your legs. you didnt even acknowledge your sweet girl, too bothered reading stupid tiktok comments on a prank video.

“HAH!” you giggled, slightly sliding off the cream colored couch.

“you have to see this one, el” you exclaimed, voice filled with anticipation.

ellie hummed in response, and sat on the couch near you, manspreading as usual, slightly pushing you to the opposite direction with the spread of her knees. ellie didnt even want to see. she needed your attention now, or else shed die. quite literally die. a fish out of water.

she sighed dramatically, side eyeing you. if ellies facial expression had a name, it would be “notice me! notice me!!! im your dramatic girlfriend and you havent given me a kiss on the cheek for over 2 hours and i feel sick!!!”

“i dont wanna see” she said dryly, voice slightly raspy from the spliff she had smoked 10 minutes near the open window - “creep” by radiohead playing in her headphones. sometimes, ellie couldn't help but despise how deeply music affected her. she would get lost in the lyrics, immersing herself in the melancholic tones of the guitar. in moments like these, she felt as if she were the protagonist in a radiohead music video— broody, hunched, and consumed by a cloud of introspection.

you shoved the phone in her face, your eyes glued to the screen.

the title of the video flickered on the screen. “this is how dinosaurs sounded like… 🦕 part 1 💯”

the room was suddenly filled with the jarring sounds of screeching and growls. despite the cacophony, you smiled dumbly, looking forward to her reaction. i mean, its fucking dinosaurs.

“nice” ellie remarked in her trademark dry tone, laced with a hint of sarcasm.

that was so fucking cool, she thought. “can you show me the second part?” “actually, triceratops probably didnt roar like that… theyd make more cooing like sounds, y’know?” is what ellie would have said, if she weren’t so lost in her dramatic performance of her tony award winning play - “my gf is ignoring me therefore i must die immediately.”

“youre annoying” you said, ts’king and reverting your gaze back to the screen. you pressed save on the video. you knew her so well.

“m’not” she said, sighing dramatically. “you are.”

“fine” you mumbled under your breath. then, your attention quickly shifted. ooh! baby goats! you smiled brightly at the screen.

ellie stared at you. when she saw your stupid smile, she couldnt help but soften her gaze. why did you have to be so fucking cute, all hypnotized and shit. “youre so annoying” she whispered, and planted a small kiss on your cheek.

you couldn't help but giggle at the ticklish sensation of her plump lips against your skin. you were kind of over the doom scrolling now, but fuck- if seeing your girlfriend try to win your attention didn't seem tempting. you pressed "like".

she kissed your cheek again, small huffs of breath leaving her mouth as her lips met your skin. “annoying” she hummed playfully, and planted more delicate kisses all over your cheeks. her hand intertwined with yours, and she kissed it as well.

“mmhm” kiss. it tickled. “so” kiss. that one was wet. “annoying” kiss. her tongue was peaking out of her mouth. “and” kiss. her hand was on your thigh. “lame” kiss. that one was on your neck.

you attempted to stifle your smile, fighting the urge to toss the phone aside in a moment of playful frustration. however, your efforts were in vain as a giggle escaped your lips, unable to contain yourself.

“got your attention now?” she said smugly, continuously planting small kisses on your neck. although your eyes were still glues to the screen, ellie knew she won. so, so predictable.

“no.. theres- this… video now” you said, stuttering slightly. what video? god knows.

“yeah…” she murmured, her voice husky and brimming with satisfaction. “m’sure youre watching” she kissed your ear, making you let out a small whimper. “has to be a good one, got you all giddy like that” so smug.

suddenly, she ended the cascade of kisses, and pulled away. you pouted. “should i turn the AC on? you look kinda hot” yeah, she knew you were flustered now. funny, she thought. after all this time together, you still couldn’t help but flush whenever she got near.

“m’fine” you murmured. you were not.

“no i think…” she straddled you, her voice now a seductive whisper in your ear. “you feel really hot” she murmured, her warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “sure you dont have a fever?” she teased. “poor thing”

“no…” you giggled nervously, still scrolling, ignoring every single video on your feed. you were literally just moving your finger now, for no purpose at all. ellie chuckled.

“think we need to get this off of you” she suggested, her hand gradually inching up under your shirt, lightly tracing circles on your stomach.

“dont want you to get a heat stroke” she teased. her skillful hand gradually removing the fabric from your warm body. it tangled with your phone. ellie couldnt help but let out a small laugh.

she couldve taken the phone off your hand and you wouldnt have resisted. but this… was so, so much more fun.

her hungry eyes roamed over the sight of your exposed bra, appreciating the beauty before her. with a gentle touch, she cupped your breasts, a soft grunt escaping her lips. "oof, babe... tits feel kinda hot too," she whispered into your ear, her warm breath sending tingles down your spine.

you couldn't help but giggle in between short, desperate breaths. “yeah?" you teased, still scrolling through another video on your phone, purposely avoiding eye contact with the girl straddling you.

"mhmm," she hummed approvingly, unclasping your bra. as the cold air brushed against your skin, causing goosebumps to rise, she couldn't help but feel a wave of hunger wash over her. the sight before her made her mouth nearly water, and yet, you remained engrossed in that damn phone.

ellie was pissed. she let out a small, frustrated whimper. she wasnt going to touch you until you threw that phone across the room. ball was in your court.

she crawled off of you. she planned on giving you a damn show. “m’kinda hot now too…” she murmured, feigning discomfort. “fuck- this apartment is like, scorching hot.” it was mid-december. the new apartment was… morgue-like cold sometimes.

she threw her shirt off to the back of the room.

your phone was invisible to you now. her toned stomach, muscled arms came into full view, leaving you breathless. fuck, she really was a fucking sight.

her eyes flickered over to you, a self-assured, cocky glint dancing within them. she let out a huff, her lips curling into a triumphant smile. she had you right where she wanted you.

“didnt you have a video you needed to watch…?” she teased. “looked super important” she continued, smirking. you didnt respond, almost hypnotized by the sight in front of you. ugh, ellie.

“dont look at me, look at the screen” she playfully teased once more. her voice carried a hint of seductive taunting. as if to further entice you, she flexed her muscles, the tantalizing display meant to captivate your gaze. she was a master of the tease, and she knew exactly how to make your attention sway in her direction.

she crawled back to you. “go look at your dumb vlogs” she whispered into your ear, causing a shiver to run down your spine. your eyes rolled back in response to her words. "keep going," she commanded with a smirk, claiming your compliance. as a final tease, she planted a tantalizing kiss on your neck, sucking the skin. she made sure you felt her wet tongue, felt what you were missing. your breaths were becoming raggedy now.

ellie continued her crawl, moving further down your body. “just like that” she murmured when you bucked your hips forward. her needy, needy girl. her fingers skillfully unbuttoned your jeans, swiftly removing them along with your panties in one smooth motion. the cool air caressed your bare skin, causing you to flinch.

a small whimper escaped your lips.

“what…?” she cooed, planting soft, wet kisses on your exposed thighs, looking at you with a hungry gaze.

did you really think she was going to give it to you, after youve ignored her for so fucking long? ellie rolled her eyes, and broke the string of kisses. you stared at her, and fuck, she couldnt have looked more cocky.

she got on her knees, not breaking eye contact. she looked so fucking mean.

“no” she exclaimed, as if she could read your mind. she knew exactly what you wanted.

she took off her boxers in one swift motion and threw them.

at your face.

“get that fucking phone to fuck you.”

[nor-4]

Hey pretty do you still take requests? If you do please write something about Lewis Hamilton x Fem Reader and their relationship is like that one video of rihanna and asap where rhi is looking lusty at asap. Lmao I'm bad at explaining I'm sorry, anything will do tbh i trust you. 🥰

Those sinful eyes - Lewis Hamilton x Fem!Reader

ᝰ.ᐟ A/N: Oh i just know what you mean lol. All the requests in my account got deleted and this is recent so if you are one of those peeps who sent me a requests back then you are free to send it again, I'm very sorry for the long take. 💋

ᯓ★ One of the things you can use against lewis is your eyes. They have a big impact on him it can be staring up at him or staring down at him.

"Don't move so much babe, I'm trying to do your hair." You giggled as you place your feet behind your ass resting it on his knees to comfortably sit on his lap while he wiggled like a child, "I'm sorry missus." as his eyes traveled from your lips to your eyes.

"fuck.." he muttered looking at you breathlessly, "What you have a staring problem now?" you joked as your fingers made their way into his curls before carefully tugging a piece as you continued your work with braiding his hair since the fronts are the only thing that was left untouched.

"You are so beautiful and beautiful and beautiful." Lewis blabbed looking back at your left to right eyes as if he is watching a tug rope competition fighting over which side is he gonna look at with how close you are.

The biggest hate love he has on the way he folds quickly just by the eye contact. The intimate eye contact and smile does something to him that will make him want to go on convulsion.

George once pointed it out on him which became a whole joke on the grid.

"The family guy is here again." Max said as lewis approach the drivers who just sat down and talk after the practice race, "What do you mean, we don't have a kid yet?" lewis cluelessly said as he sat down between all of them.

"With how whipped you look at her oh you will be soon" George marked spreading his arms on the back of the chair to welcome lewis more to share a detail about both of yours relationship. "Have you seen how his girl look at her? If she looked at me that way i would even faint, lewis is just a humble guy." Lando pointed out to side lewis and to give him a concrete reason on why lewis acted like that when you look at him.

"I mean have you seen lewis? I would look at him that way too" max stated before sipping his redbull.

ᯓ★ Get dressed, get your nails done, buy all your make up, own him up.

Another weakness of his is seeing you all ready and pretty for somewhere you guys are going for a date or whenever you go to the paddock.

"Hey guys i wasn't informed we are all meeting in here." Lewis entered as the laughter and talking went down to silence, "What's that on your face?" Lando was the first one to speak up which broke the silence.

"What what??" Lewis asked as he rose his phone up using it as a mirror to look at himself

"That kiss mark.."

"Oh it's from my missus." Lewis answered confidently before sitting down as a big smile still plastered on his face like a kid who's proud of his medal, "Yeah of course.." George bitterly said rolling his eyes and smacking his lips.

"Wow the missus really wifed you up."

That's one of his title that he is very proud of, hell have you guys checked on lewis when both of you first talked? He is very proud of it bragging it to everyone as if he won the most luckiest man alive. What worse when you said yes to his proposal of being your boyfriend who will definitely be your husband soon.

One of his dream is making a family with you, finally hearing his surname beside your name.

"Hello Mrs. Hamilton you look beautiful in that dress." Lewis addressed walking at your back feeling his palms on your back like he is sculpturing like those statues in museum, "Thank you Mr. Hamilton, you look handsome as ever.." You complimented back placing your hand on his face caressing his jaw and cheeks, holding up an eye contact on him with pure admiration.

"Of course i do, you are the one who picked my outfit" he commented and yes he lets you pick on what he wears. There are times where both of you wear a matchy outfit or just a same color shirt just so people can't tell you both apart. "Did you like it?"

"Oh i love it Mrs. Hamilton, look how good we look besides each other" He kept the nickname before looking at both of you in the mirror holding your waist like the mirror will take a picture any time moment. "I think something is missing hmm.." he said looking at you.

"What do you mean, you look really good." You muttered looking back at him, "My kiss.." he pouted as you smack his chest feeling a sigh of relief. "Darling you scared me" you giggled before grabbing his face with one hand and placing a kiss on his cheek.

Looking at the pigment that rests on his face is like looking at the painting of work from the history. The memories and moments of how many times you have did this, it's like reminding everyone that you own him, The seventh time world champion who makes everyone know that he can't function without feeling the affection you give to him by the daily basis.

"How i love looking at that on my face everyday, God knows you will walk down the aisle as a scene and confirmation to everyone that i am gifted with a gorgeous wife like you."

[7ndipity]

Dating Namjoon headcanons

Warnings: swearing, suggestive, teeny bit of angst

A/N: I realized that I hadn't written anything for Joon in a hot minute, so let's change that, shall we?

Masterlist

Requests are open

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Dating Namjoon feels like one of those early 2000s romance movies.

Utterly frustrating but soo worth it.

He talks a lot of hype in his songs, but I think when he first meets someone he's really into, he's a fucking mess.

Like it's Joon, but it's Joon, you know what I mean?

Red ears, stumbling over his words(and feet), getting flustered every other sentence.

Probably walked into a wall while distracted talking to you.

Don't get me wrong tho, once he gets the butterflies to chill and gets comfortable, the rizz is BACK and in full force.

Big on eye contact

Stares at you with absolute heart eyes(if you've seen that clip of him watching Hobi from Bon Voyage, you know what I'm talking about)

But can flip the switch in the blink of an eye, and be looking at you like he's gonna eat you alive(we love a duality king)

Simp Romantic. Will randomly bring you flowers just cause he was thinking about you(but he's always thinking about you, so why was today any different?)

Writes soo many songs/lyrics about you, but rarely tells you about them directly. He just asks if you wanna hear something he's been working on, and then sits back and watches your faves as you catch the hidden meanings and references. At the end, he's just sitting there, grinning, asking "You like it?"

(Like, yes, I like it you fucking dork!)

Always remember important dates like birthdays and anniversaries( first date, first kiss, everything)

Museum and bookstore dates are a given.

Buying/sharing books with you is probably one his favorite forms of intellectual intimacy, because, for him, each one is a glimpse into your mind.

If you mention one of your favorite titles and he hasn't read it, he's gonna find it asap.

Would try to get you to workout with him and be gym buddies.(I don't know if I like or hate that idea tho?)

Random texts at 1am asking if you're up and wanna hang out?(may or may not be outside your place already, cause he's over-eager and forgot to text earlier)

Endless, late night talks about everything from music to the meaning of life to what jelly bean flavor is superior(it's watermelon)

Also random trips together. Could be to the beach, could be to Sweden, who knows? You bring out his spontaneity and are one of the only people who can get him to take a vacation anyway.

He is a workaholic though, so you have to look out for him sometimes, make sure he eats, sleeps, touches grass, etc.

You probably bicker and butt heads a lot, but y'all make sure it never gets out of hand and try to find a solution.

(Lowkey possessive, but won't admit it)

Not a fan of pda, but he *clings*.

He tries to be subtle about it, but fails because it's like there's a gravitational pull between the two of you from the way he's constantly within arm's reach wherever you are.

Same goes for when you're alone. He's not technically cuddling you, but he always somehow ends up pressed to your side or back, or has a hand on you in some way.

Another member of the 'Protective Squad'. Like, if anyone so much as looks in your direction the wrong way, he's got the death glare locked on them.

Pretty classic when it comes to nicknames for you. Things like 'honey', 'baby', 'jagi'. Adds 'my' in front of any of them when he's in the mood to fluster you.

Which reminds me, he is the BIGGEST FUCKING TEASE ISTG.

He knows exactly what riles you up, and then just gives you these soft, sweet little kisses like you're not about to combust. Has the nerve to then smirk and call you needy(I wanna fight him)

Finds the most random things you do attractive. The way you read. The way you make your coffee. The weird little face you make when your flipping through Netflix.

Although he seems a bit cautious, I actually think a relationship with him might move pretty fast. Like, he's fighting back from asking you to move in with him after five or six months type of fast.

Lives for domesticity with you.

Quiet, sleepy mornings together. Messy hair and glasses over tired eyes, resting against your shoulder as he brings you coffee while you cook breakfast.

I know he said he's not sure abt kids anymore, but I do see him possibly getting a pet with you to 'round out the household'. Something quiet and low maintenance though, like a couple hermit crabs.(would probably name one after a favorite artist/author and then name the other smth random like 'blue')

Again, I don't know how to end these. Just love him, please.

[hotluncheddie]

For the @steddie-spooktober day 22 prompt : leaves

rated: E (?) | cw: none | tags: housewife role play, feminisation, established relationship

🍁💕🍁💕

Eddie bought the place from a guy Hopper knew. A plot of land in Illinois, just outside Kentucky. A place to rest, to build roots. A new home.

After four platinum albums and near constant touring, Eddie made his lawyer find a clause in his contract titled ‘give me a fucking break.’

So after a final summer of shows. Eddie bought the land officially and did the closest thing he could to marrying Steve Harrington.

He bought a home for Steve, to get him away from the city. He was always complaining about it, about wanting a change - especially now that Robin had settled in an apartment with her girl and had gotten comfortable at her job with the museum. (Eddie flies them out during holidays. He’s rich now, and he’d do anything to put a smile on Steve’s face.)

So Eddie bought Steve a house, and a ring. And it was all very wholesome, and sweet. And Eddie always looks forward to coming back once he’s finished whatever show, interview or meeting that whisks him away. He’s always craving his little bit of wholesome, his little life of sweetness.

He’s also usually craving something else. Something that’s maybe less wholesome, and sweet, depending on how you look at it…

Eddie wipes the sweat from his brow, leaning over the pot of canned sauce he’s stirring. He still can’t cook, and every time worries it’ll mess with the fantasy.

But he can’t think about that now, checking he definitely set the timer for the garlic bread in the oven. He did, 5 more minutes.

He hears Steve kick his boots against the wall outside the frontdoor. He’d wanted to finish moving all the fallen leaves together to be readied for compost. They no doubt tacked themselves to the bottom of his shoes.

The door unlocks and Eddie scrapes a hand through his hair. He hears Steve shuffle around, taking off his jacket and hat. Eddie re ties his apron, pulling the strings tighter around his waist.

‘Honey I’m home!’ Steve calls.

Eddie tenses for a moment, then goes back to stirring. He shivers as Steve’s thick, work worn hands slip around his waist and squeeze. The smell of Steve’s hard earned musk making Eddie’s knees weak.

‘Hey baby.’ Eddie murmurs, as Steve kisses up the side of his neck.

The timer going off makes Eddie jump.

He shoos Steve into a chair and bends to take the garlic bread out of the oven, arching his back a little more than he needs to.

‘Okay, I, uh, think I just need to dish up.’ Eddie says, slightly frazzled, making sure everything is turned off and grabbing plates out.

‘C’mere a sec?’

Eddie turns, smoothing down his frilly apron and stepping over to where Steve’s sat, legs spread. In his flannel and blue jeans he’s as close to a cowboy as Eddie’s ever seen. (The tabbed off page of his old play girl doesn’t see much action anymore, rendered useless by the man before him.)

Steve pulls at his wrists, making Eddie sit straddling his knee. Eddie bites his lip at the friction on his cock through the thin cotton shorts he’s wearing.

‘How’s my best girl huh?’ Steve asks, pulling Eddie flush against him.

Eddie whimpers. ‘Good.’ He rasps. ‘Missed you.’

‘Missed you too, did you cook me something nice?’ Steve tucks a lock of hair behind Eddie’s ear.

Eddie opens his mouth to answer but Steve shifts his thigh and grips Eddie’s hips to grind against him. Eddie moans.

‘What was that?’ Steve asks.

‘Yeh, yes.’ Eddie manages. ‘Pasta.’

‘Ah, just like a good little housewife huh? Go serve it up then.’ Steve says, lifting Eddie’s writhing form off his leg and smacking him on the ass.

Eddie serves up two plates, hands shaking, dick tenting his shorts.

He can’t wait to see what Steve has planned for desert.

🍁💕🍁💕

Tag list (lmk to be added / removed) : @scoops-aboy86 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @marvel-ous-m @thecatkingsthrone

@cheesedoctor @chickensinrainboots @chameleonhair

[m00nsbaby]

Already over.

Main Steven Grant x F! reader. ( + Marc Spector x F! Reader)

Part 2. Sleepwalking.

Warnings & tags. ANGTS!! Cheating kinda but not really?, hurt, and all of thaaaat.

Word count. 3.4k

Summary.

We been talking for hours About how we shouldn't talk for hours on end. Kissing after a conversation About how we'd probably be better off as friends. Same time here next weekend Say, "We won't do this again" Make me fall where I stand Only like you can.

It had been a while since Steven and you had accepted your positions in Marc's life. Both of you were external parts of something larger, like small protrusions on a road that led nowhere.

You decided to understand it when you realized the burden Marc had to carry. Khonshu had taken hold of his psyche and shattered it as he pleased, although he was aware of his dissociative identity disorder, he had started to lose control a long time ago and this resulted in Steven finding out in the worst possible way. It was as if life itself had decided to break him in every possible way.

Hadn't he suffered enough already? Steven and you weren't going to take away the last thing he had.

The love of his life. Layla El-Faouly.

You envied her in different ways. Living a life of adventures with the man of your dreams sounded like something out of a book. She was a strong woman and the first in Marc's life, and therefore also in Steven's, but if there was something that broke your heart in half, it was knowing that she was happy with him.

It would be a lie to say that you weren't happy with Steven. He gave you all of himself and loved you in a way he never tried to hide. But for years now, you had been the one picking up the pieces of two broken people and putting them back together. And then, there was Layla, who didn't even know about the existence of her husband's alter ego, enjoying the best part.

The carefree part that stood above all the atrocities of daily life, simply having a nice date or the official title of his wife, with a ring and legal documents.

"Do you miss working at the museum?" Steven's fingers traced your waistline, occasionally pausing to press on the moles peeking beneath the fabric of your short shirt.

"You have no idea how much." You could never tell him how much you appreciated that he didn't lie to you. You knew he comforted Marc by telling him that life was perfect just the way it was.

You were face to face. You admired Steven's face in front of you.

Anyone would think that once the issue of his fake sleep disorder was cleared up, he would look less tired. Although there were still hundreds of nocturnal missions, and Khonshu destroyed the mercenary's body until an exhaustion beyond description, now Steven could sleep a few more hours, the ones where he used to force himself to read until the letters danced before him.

Nothing had changed at all. In fact, you could swear that the dark circles under his eyes were becoming more noticeable.

"I love you, Steven." You said suddenly, resting a hand on his cheek. His skin had always been so soft and delightfully warm.

You brought a smile to his face, the one that momentarily makes you forget that both of you feel that time is running out.

The one that makes you forget the slight resentment you have towards Marc.

"I love you…" He whispered before leaning forward, just enough to brush his lips against yours, a gentle touch as his hand rested on your waist, and his thumb traced circles on your bare skin.

He wasn't lying; Steven never lied.

You spent the rest of the afternoon kissing and chatting about what had happened during the week you couldn't see each other. You asked about Layla as you always did, he shrugged, and you wondered if he felt the same resentment towards her that you felt towards Marc.

"The idea of vegan hot wings is stupid," you laughed as you bit into the vegetable in your hand, the one that was trying to deceive you and pass for something else.

"The sauce tastes good!" Steven laughed with you, playfully pushing you with his shoulder. To hell with sitting face to face in restaurants; if your bodies weren't close enough, neither of you were comfortable.

"It's a fraud."

"It's delicious." Seeing you take another bite was enough to feel that he was right without you explicitly saying it.

"Do you want to come to my apartment later?" You sucked your thumb to clean the sauce from it. "Yesterday, I accidentally stumbled upon a garage sale and bought the dumbest movie I've ever seen, I got it for us. It's called Rubber, and it's about a homicidal car tire."

Under any other circumstances, Steven would have laughed with you, but he gave you that look that you already knew too well.

"I'm sorry, love." Suddenly, the fake wings didn't look so appetizing. "Marc is feeling better."

Ah. That.

That was the signal that he would be spending the night with Layla.

"That's fine." You nodded immediately, and you also felt disgusted with the food in your hand.

How much longer could you go on like this?

After a few seconds of silence, you cleared your throat. You had some time to come up with a change of conversation.

"What happened to your hand?" Your index finger touched Steven's injured knuckles.

"Marc didn't keep the suit on long enough; the larger wounds healed, but the rest didn't." He never lied, although this might be the exception. A minor injury to prevent a bigger one; he wouldn't ruin his life over a trivial matter.

You nodded slowly, planted a kiss on his shoulder, and continued with your attempt at a date, which was going perfectly until you remembered where you were standing.

The truth was that the night before, Steven had had a fight with Marc, one of those that hadn't happened since they threatened not to switch bodies back to each other.

"Are you two together, Steven?" He was about to explode, about to go crazy. This was the last thing he needed right now, adding more lies and involving more people. "I already told you, no!" Ever since you considered the possibility that Marc might find out, you had decided that if it was a panic situation, you would opt for the most efficient plan: Deny, deny, deny, deny. "Don't lie to me, not to me!" He never yelled; he was the calculating, quiet, and careful type, but even he had a breaking point, and if Steven was going to shout, then he would too. "Do you think I'm stupid, Steven?" It's funny because he hadn't had any doubts until a few weeks ago, so maybe he was a bit stupid, but he wouldn't say it out loud. "No, no, but…" "But?" "We're not together, Marc; she's my best friend." The second part was at least not a lie. He exhaled heavily and mentally thanked for being in front because dealing with anger, panic, and fear without having control over your body was a nightmare he had experienced before. Why did he ever buy so many mirrors? Marc's accusing gaze followed him around the apartment. "And you like her," Steven completed, another thing that wasn't a lie. "If I lose Layla because of you two, I swear I'll…" Adrenaline rushed through him; he lost control of his hand, which ended up against one of the mirrors, breaking it into a thousand pieces. "Marc!" The other didn't say anything, he watched from the reflection of some glass pieces as Steven's hand now bled, and tears filled his eyes. His body was used to large doses of pain, but emotionally, he wasn't used to seeing himself bleed or handling loud noises well. "We. Are. Not. Together." It was the last thing he said as he stretched his fingers and watched the blood flow between them. Marc was no longer in the reflection. He didn't want to object.

"Will I see you the day after tomorrow?" You could still see him tomorrow, but the idea of him coming to your place smelling of Layla's citrusy perfume always disgusted you. It was as if an extra day would be enough to erase any traces of her from his body.

"The day after tomorrow, without fail." Steven knew; he didn't question you. He placed a kiss on your forehead.

"I love you, Steven."

"I love you, sweetheart."

Receiving calls or visits at midnight was always terrifying, especially when you knew your partner was constantly at risk, and this time was no exception.

The strong knocks on the door woke you up, and knowing it could be no one else but him, you opened the door without hesitation. Clad only in Steven's shirt that barely covered your thighs, with messy hair and half-closed eyes because the hallway light bothered you in the darkness.

Marc's tearful eyes met yours, along with the strong aroma of whiskey that Steven had told you about before, the one that stung his nose.

"Are you okay?" It was the first thing you said as he analyzed you from head to toe. He hated you, hated that you looked so good in the middle of the night, and hated that he felt a sense of ownership just from seeing you in a shirt that was originally his.

He didn't answer, he walked straight into your apartment, and you could only step aside to let him pass.

The way he walked past the sofas to sit on the floor was frightening; you had spent time with Marc during bad moments, but you had never seen him like this. You didn't say anything, didn't press, you just walked behind him and sat down beside him on the cold floor.

Your mere presence was enough for his eyes to fill with tears again.

"I didn't know where to go," he whispered, breaking your heart into a thousand pieces with just a few words.

"Oh, Marc." You knelt beside him to have better access to his body, and within seconds, you had your arms wrapped around him, holding him close. "I'm here, calm down."

You didn't get more words from him for a while, just sobs and those annoying chest contractions you get when you try to breathe through crying. You could even feel the fabric of your shirt damp at the shoulder level from his tears.

"I'm scared." His voice was broken, trembling.

"I'm here." You repeated as you held him tighter.

He didn't have the strength to tell you. He was afraid of you. Afraid of the dreams where he saw himself with you, afraid of the way his heart raced the few times you crossed paths, afraid of losing Layla because of his feelings, and afraid of change.

He was terrified of the mere idea of his life changing completely again.

You played with his curls and stayed on your knees until they hurt, with him in your arms whimpering like a little kid.

"Let's go to bed, Marc." He didn't resist, and you led him by the hand.

Nor did he object when you helped him get rid of his clothes just so he could sleep a little better. He almost felt guilty about how comfortable he seemed to be in your bed.

You hugged him from behind, your two hands resting on his chest where you could feel the beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his breath. Your cheek enjoyed the warmth of his back.

When you woke up, there were no traces of Marc anymore.

"Meanwhile, Osiris' wife, Isis, searched tirelessly for his body and then…" The way you were looking at the ground while walking had caught Steven's attention for quite a while, but he didn't confirm his suspicions until he noticed you weren't participating in his narration as you always used to do. "Lovey?"

"Huh?"

"You seem distracted today."

"I'm sorry, I, it's just…" You cleared your throat while forcing a small smile on your face.

"Do you like it here?" He interrupted to finally point out an area in the park that seemed perfect for your plan. You immediately nodded with that fake smile, and both of you sat down carefully on the grass. You placed the book you had been carrying in one hand aside.

Steven handed you your ice cream and kept his own in the other hand.

"Can we talk?"

"Nothing good ever comes out of that, I've seen it in movies." Steven tried to joke, but hearing those words come out of your mouth made him sick to his stomach. Slowly, he rested his head on your lap.

Your hand, as if drawn by a magnet, went straight to his tousled curls. He closed his eyes and smiled; you had always compared that gesture to a puppy seeking more affection.

"We can't keep doing this to Marc, love." Your voice broke as you gave him those caresses he loved so much. "Nor to Layla, it's not fair to them."

Steven was looking at you again, with a terrified expression and a slight pout on his lips.

"And is it fair to us?" he snapped. Needless to say, both of you had long stopped paying attention to your sad ice creams; they were already melting into the grass.

"If Layla finds out, we'll ruin Marc's life." You tried to be the rational one between both of you, but with Steven's puppy eyes fixed on you, it was almost impossible to think clearly.

"And if we end… this, mine will be destroyed." Well, he had a point. "Please." His two hands went to your cheeks and pressed them gently, his forehead now resting against yours. "We can't. You can't." His lips claimed yours within seconds, and you could only respond as if life were slipping away.

Whom were you fooling? You were selfish enough to give in. After all, every night you created scenarios where Layla found out and left Marc, knowing that it would destroy him, but in your scenarios, you were there to comfort him, to prevent him from falling apart.

"I love you, Steven." You didn't get a response, but you didn't need to hear it; feeling the strength with which he held you was more than enough.

You were all he had, and he was all you had.

Life was better when you both pretended to have a life that wasn't yours. When you fantasized and made plans for a future you would both do anything to have.

"What do you think of that one?" You both looked like kids with your foreheads pressed against the glass that separated you from the kittens.

"They say the orange ones are crazy, lovey." The fact that Steven was just as interested as you in this fed your good mood entirely. "How about that one?"

"I like his or her fur." You pressed your index finger against the glass to try to get the attention of the kitty that was completely distracted playing with another.

"Love, love, love." He nudged you with his shoulder, making you laugh, so you looked at the opposite side, another part of the store.

You gasped.

"THAT ONE?" You had to cover your mouth when the tone of your voice caught the attention of other people in the place.

There was only one cat in the area reserved for senior cats. You knew it was harder for them to get adopted compared to the kittens, it was as if he was destined to be there.

"It's just a baby." You pouted slightly as you pulled Steven's hand, both walking straight towards the spot where the little cat was staring at you.

He was white, although half of his body was covered in black spots, reminiscent of a cow's fur. When you got closer, you noticed that the tip of one of his ears was missing.

Love at first sight.

"Hiya, mate." The guy next to you was as enchanted as you with the animal. "Uhm, what do you say?" He tilted his head towards the glass. The meow completed his performance. "Look how curious, he says he's looking for new parents."

You laughed, genuine happiness coursing through you. You didn't give Steven time to react before jumping into his arms; he lifted you a few inches off the ground in the middle of the hug.

You didn't care about drawing attention. In fact, having witnesses to your love made it feel more real, reminding you that it wasn't just a product of your imagination.

After he kissed your lips, you could feel the ground under your feet again. You couldn't stop smiling.

"Come on, let's fill out the form." Steven's heart was about to burst with love at any moment.

The instructions were clear: fill out the corresponding paperwork, a few days of socialization with the cat to make sure he felt comfortable with you, and by the following week, he would be yours.

"We'll come to see you, okay? And then we'll go home."

"See ya, buddy." Steven said his goodbye too. "Next week, you'll have the best home, the comfiest bed, and the best parents, I promise."

"What's wrong, Marc?" There was something scary about the idea of being alone with him without him being intoxicated or injured. You were taking off your scarf to leave it on a sofa while he watched you from his table, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest.

It was impossible to read his expression because Marc always seemed tense.

"She knows."

Your heart sank in seconds, and you looked at him in surprise.

"Ah?"

"She knows," he repeated. You swallowed hard, and for a moment, you thought this was one of those silly dreams that sometimes distorted your reality.

"Knows what?"

"Please, don't treat me like I'm stupid." His tone of voice was enough to make you tremble. You immediately looked at the bathroom mirror.

Steven had told you that while one had control of the body, the other could be reflected in different surfaces, but of course, that only worked between them. No matter how much you looked, hoping that Steven would appear to save you, it didn't happen.

You didn't even know if he was aware of what Marc was doing.

"I don't…" Your voice died down slowly, and you refused to get closer to him. "What does she know?"

"About you." He took a step closer, and you felt immobilized. "She thinks you're my lover, like any sane person, she knows nothing about Steven."

You swallowed the lump in your throat as tears filled your eyes.

"You have to tell her, Marc, explain to her she…" He interrupted you in seconds; the way he raised his voice made you flinch.

"'She will understand?' Is that what you want to say?" He was getting closer, and you felt like he was taking your breath away. Why were you suddenly so afraid? "Yes, I'll tell her every damn thing that's wrong with me so that you can be happy."

Ouch.

"I-I'm saying it for you, Marc." Tears were already streaming down your face, and you mentally cursed yourself for the mere idea of showing so much weakness. "She has to know, it's best for you." And it was, of course, but you were resorting to your last resort to not lose Steven too.

And maybe, not lose Marc either.

"You don't know what's best for me, you have no idea." His sarcasm cut deep as he took the last step to confront you.

"Please, please, don't do this." You pleaded through sobs; your hands ended up on his cheeks. "Please." You pulled him closer to you.

He seemed to relax under your touch, at least for a few seconds. Your heart stopped when one of his hands rested on your waist.

"Don't make this harder, you're killing me." He was also begging, even as his forehead pressed against yours.

"We can get through this, Marc." You sniffed. "I promise, we can…"

A kiss. A desperate and painful kiss silenced your words; it was the only one Marc and you would share.

"Go," he whispered against your lips, still planting small kisses on them. "Please, I beg you, go."

And that was the final nail to seal the coffin between you both.

His hand made you take a step back, a very gentle push.

"I'm choosing her." He knew you better than he'd like, knowing that you wouldn't stop insisting unless he caused you permanent harm. Besides, how could he convince himself he wasn't in love with you if he didn't do this?

You looked at him incredulously, not believing his act, but there was nothing else you could do.

This time, you begged that Steven was present to hear everything that had transpired between you both because you wouldn't have the strength to end it after this. In fact, you didn't even know if you'd have the strength to live without him.

You didn't say anything more, you didn't look back at him, and he didn't change his mind. You left his apartment, leaving your scarf on his sofa as a final reminder of your presence in his life.

sorry, i got tired of happy endings

Part 2. Sleepwalking.

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 3)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

GIF: Originally posted by @sassycherryblossomtree

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Threat. Dubious/non consent. Physical intimacy.

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: What a full on week! I've had a job interview. Got turned down for said job. Went to a Sandman filming location (Natural History Museum) and watched Dune Part 2 (cannot recommend enough). It took away from my writing time a bit but part 3 is here now, and I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think. Part 4 will be coming soon. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

---------------------------------------------

"Y/N, I claim you as my soulmate."

The sentence is a catalyst, fuelling the physical and emotional reactions in both the surroundings and your body.

The wind is gone, leaving a claustrophobic air that crackles with untameable energy. The streetlight above violently flickers and flares, the unmistakable noise of a circuit about to overload emanating with each surge.

You feel these surges within your chest too, stoking the warmth radiating through you to an uncontrollable blaze. The ferocity of the sensation makes you whimper.

The man's hands are still touching you. Cradling your face and holding your hand; he feels the tremble that couples with your vocalisation.

"I understand. I feel it too," he whispers. "Though I imagine it is much more intense for your mortal heart to bear."

He eyes are raven black as he strokes his thumb back and forth over your cheek, before strengthening the hold he has on your face.

"Let me kiss the pain away."

He gives you no time to respond. He leans in the last few centimetres and puts his lips firmly against yours.

At first, contrary to his intent, the pain amplifies. He grunts, indicating that he has felt this spike also yet begins to move his lips regardless. It's like your heart is a balloon and it is being overfilled with air, close to exploding and obliterating you from existence. You then feel as if you are about to black out and want to pull away, and are about to try when the agony starts to subside.

The seduction begins.

The fire is mellowing with each press of his mouth, transforming into a restorative, yet sensuous energy. It's alleviation akin to calamine on a sunburn.

It awakens a primal need in your soul. This man is fundamental to you. He is the only one who can truly protect you from harm. You must remain with him. Give yourself to him.

You act on this revelation and kiss him back with a hunger that you didn't think you were capable of demonstrating.

Your reciprocation sends him into a frenzy. He cages you against the damp wall of the building and kisses you with unyielding, dangerous passion.

His skill is impressive, changing technique frequently to keep you guessing. Smothering kisses, bruising kisses, slower kisses to give you time to breathe. The hand that was cupping your face is now stroking down your side; breasts, waist, hips and back up again.

Tentatively, you raise your free hand to the back of his head and run your fingers through his wild hair. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, a satisfied vibrating sigh of sorts that encourages you to dig deeper into the silken locks.

He escalates things by slipping his tongue into your mouth. You feel his lips curl into a smirk as you moan in response. His taste is a potent blend: a smoky base, herbaceous core and ambrosial top notes. You are drunk on it, and him seconds after exposure.

Logic has left you. Schedules and duties cast aside.

The juxtaposition between the present and minutes prior would be frightening if not for how correct all this feels. You had been disgusted and alarmed by his conduct, ready to bring in reinforcements and then all of it had dissipated like dust under a short, sharp breath.

It is not a ridiculous change in behaviour; you were supposed to be doing this. This stranger is all you want.

He pulls back when even his slower kisses are unable to calm your elevated respiratory rate, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth as he does so to draw another moan from you.

The blue of his eyes shimmer with a myriad of emotions. Lust stands out the most along with awe and relief. Your cheeks prickle with a light blush as he continues to stare and document every detail.

"I have been waiting to do that for thousands of years, my precious soulmate," he eventually says in reference to the kiss after absorbing your image for a while.

There's that word again. Soulmate. You hadn't exactly been allowed a period of contemplation when the man first uttered it, too swept up in the fire and his touch, but now with the semi-reinstation of coherent thoughts you begin to assess. It proves difficult. Your cerebral matter feels like a mixture of treacle, sap and epoxy. Trapping words and slowing down your processing power. It would be so simple to let yourself live in this mental mire and be carried along by his whims.

No. You scold inwardly. Ask a question.

"What do you mean by soulmates?" You force yourself to speak.

He guides your palm to rest on his heart and sets up a mirror image with his hand on your chest. "It means that we are bound together, made for one another."

The next question is easier to form. "And what now, given that you've found me?"

"Now," His hips grind into yours. "I will continue with the ritual of awakening you to the metaphysical connection between us, stripping back the shrouds and glamours that have been protecting your mind from the gravity of this gift."

That explained why everything shifted when he first touched your skin.

"Are you going to do that here?" Your brain is really starting to break free of its trappings and you need to ascertain his plan for it sounds like his intentions are of a sexual nature and you are in a public place.

"No, your time in this world has reached its end. I will take you to my realm, lead you to my chambers and I will not stop stimulating you until I have taken residence in your every thought, every cell."

The speed and confidence with which he is pouring forth all of these sentiments, and the near-full recovery of your mental faculties triggers a wave of nausea. Perspiration forms on your nape and ears and your core temperature feels off; warning signs that you get when you are about to vomit.

He still hasn't let go of your hand. You hone in on the softness of his skin, hoping you can use him as an anchor as you wade through the icky symptoms.

Recent events are starting to catch up with you. You replay it all.

Soulmates. Mortal. Thousands of years. Metaphysical. Realm. The unexplainable environmental manifestations. The strange shifting qualities of his eyes. What kind of supernatural devilry had you managed to become ensnared in?

Was he in fact the devil?

You are so conflicted. This being, for you are convinced that 'man' is no longer the correct term, is telling you things that threaten your entire way of life and your heart is pushing you to seek comfort from him!

Then the voices start.

Your sense of balance tilts and you instinctively grasp his forearm for stability. He says your name and you drag your focus from your thoughts to his face. He is looking at you with deep concern.

"Tell me," he commands gently.

"I feel dizzy... And I can hear voices."

"How many?"

"What?"

"How many voices?"

Your eyes are wide as you struggle to understand the relevance of his question.

You stammer out a couple of syllables.

"Breathe," he encourages.

You obey and concentrate on the hubbub.

"Three. Everything is being repeated three times."

The frown lines smooth and he is smiling faintly. "It seems The Fates are vying for your attention."

"The Fates? Like in Greek mythology?"

"The very same."

Was this being a God then?

"They're telling me to close my eyes," you relay as soon as the instruction is delivered.

He nods. "That will be the trigger that transports your mind to their location."

"Will I pass out?"

"No. It will be a temporary connection that keeps your body frozen for mere moments."

"I feel so dizzy though."

"I can hold you while you converse with them should you wish."

You nod somewhat frenetically as a sliver of fear creeps into your mind. "Yes, please."

He lets go of your hand for the first time since you tried to go back in the building, slips his arms around your waist and he pulls you close with a satisfied sigh. The neediness with which you are clinging to him lessens your apprehension just a little.

"How does that feel?" His voice rumbles deliciously through your chest.

"Good, thank you."

"You should close your eyes now. It is best that you do not keep them waiting."

"Okay."

"I'll see you in a few moments."

You shut your eyes.

----------------

The scene you awaken in is all lemon yellows, blush pinks and pastel blues. There's no landforms or structures. Just a never-ending stretch of bedrock, topped with a horizon that is beginning to show a sumptuous sunset.

You squint a little and then notice that there is a actually a point of interest. A lump of rough rock, waist height. There's a divot worn into the top that makes the obtrusion look like a font. For a moment you see a single figure standing at it.

A figure that appears to have three faces.

But then you blink and the number has tripled.

Maiden, Mother and Crone.

The trio block the worst of the sun glare, and the light that isn't obscured is highlighting the translucent layers that overflow from their intricately constructed and adorned outfits. Their curly hair, like the fabric of their clothes, flows freely in the gentle breeze.

You walk towards the group, thinking back to that term in school where you studied Greek mythology. Under no circumstances did you ever think that any of it could possibly be true, yet here you were.

You stop a respectable distance from them and quickly avert your eyes downwards to look at the ruby ring on your right hand.

One of them speaks, "You need not be intimidated by us, sweetness."

"I only wish to pay respect to you, your Graces."

You chance a peek at the Fates and see amusement in their eyes.

"Oh, you are going to fit in very well in his world," the Mother says with a smile.

You don't know what to feel about that comment however you don't have time to dwell on it for the eldest addresses you.

"Come closer. Let us look at you."

And look they did. Their resolute gazes are just as discerning as the stranger's but unlike his, where you knew he was soaking you in, you feel like the Fates are seeing through you.

You don't know what exactly it is that they are looking for but their smiles give the impression of being appeased.

"Has Morpheus told you how this will go?"

"No..." You hesitate before speaking his name, "Morpheus has not."

"He didn't tell you his name, did he?"

"We didn't get a lot of time for small talk," you admit sheepishly.

"We can see that from the state of your lips."

"He always was rather forward with his physical affection."

"Touch starved," the Crone finishes.

You are beyond embarrassed. How swollen were your lips for it to be that obvious? You can almost feel his touch now, it tingles like phantom caresses on the skin of your neck, chest and waist. You swallow hard before further lust can thicken your throat.

The Fates then speak in turn again, explaining the context of your rendezvous.

"You will have the opportunity to ask three questions."

"That is the custom when meeting with us."

"There is no need to rush."

Choosing only three questions will be tough when there are hundreds you could ask. Were you losing your sanity? Was Morpheus a demonic envoy from the underworld sent to corrupt your mind?

You suppose all you really want to know is whether this is real.

"Is he telling the truth about us being soulmates?"

The Maiden answers in a musical voice, "He is. The confluence of yours and Morpheus' lives has been written for millennia. Your souls have been intended for each other since he came into existence. You were never meant for anyone else but him."

You feel like you are about to cry. That last statement cuts deeply.

"All those times that potential partners lost interest or ghosted me. It was because of this soulmates thing," you murmur the statement, aware that you don't need to ask them to know if it is true.

Years of heartache and confusion had been for nothing. The nights spent wondering if you had done something wrong, the days where you threw yourself into your work to distract from it.

You cannot regret all the good things you managed to create as part of your team at the charity yet it is hard to look past the personal torment that countless unexplained rejections caused. You are human after all.

Selfishness rears its head and pushes the next question from your mouth with a tone of indignation.

"Why am I only finding out about this now?"

The Mother takes over, tone caring and brown eyes cordial, "It was not necessary for you to know."

Ire disintegrates into frustration. "But I could have been preparing. Not building a life that I was clearly going to have to give up."

"You would not be the person you are had we given you warning. You needed to live as a human, not as someone who was fated to be with the King of Dreams and Nightmares. Besides, there was no possibility of you being together. For 106 years, Morpheus was the prisoner of a human, and it was the recent end of his captivity that allowed fate to take its intended course. Reaching your potential on Earth gives you a strong foundation from which to guide and influence him in how to best serve humanity, and learn to trust in them once more after what he suffered at the hands of one."

The amount of information you have just received is like a freight train. One after the other, the revelations barrel into you and you take refuge in your mind.

The King of Dreams and Nightmares; not a title you had heard of before. Yet there is a strange sense of recognition. A forgotten memory that barely flickers with life. You ignore the niggling thought and focus on the more devastating one.

This King, your soulmate was held against his will, subjected to suffering. You cannot bear the idea of it regardless of how few details you have at present. Your chest aches and you know your soul is the source.

Fury twitches in your fingers, as fiery as the now burnt oranges and bloody reds of the ever-progressing sunset. You want to know who could do such a terrible thing but you realise that it is not the most important question you could be asking.

You look back to the Fates. You note their proud smiles at your restraint.

"What role am I expected to play in his future?"

The Crone moves to centre stage, "You are to be his everything. Muse. Lover. Queen. Advisor. Confidant."

Your stomach twists.

"Are you ready to return to him?" The Maiden asks, taking you off guard.

You feel like you a patron being kicked out at closing time with half a drink left. A fizzy one that you can't knock back easily.

What you've just been told honestly scares you. It's a mountain of expectation, the sort of thing that could birth an inferiority complex. There's also your self-preservation instinct starting to scream. You've seen darkness in his eyes, felt his physical strength and heard how resolute his statements are.

You have to say something.

"I'm worried about what would happen if I disappoint him, if he would hurt me."

The trio step closer, the scant remnants of sunlight reflect off their perceptive eyes and the metal of their matching earrings.

The Crone speaks solemnly, "It has been well-documented that Morpheus has a ruthless nature. As one of the Endless siblings, he is among the most powerful beings in the universe; equal parts creator, and destroyer."

The Mother touches your cheek with a warm hand. "But you have just as much power to hurt him, sweetness. We have provided you with it."

The Maiden nods in agreement, and takes your hand.

"He deals in fears, yes but his domain also lies in fantasies. He will be able to furnish you with yours. He has been made to be perfect for you."

"But -"

"This is not a loss of agency or an act of surrender. Put aside your qualms, listen to your soul and ask yourself this: do you find him attractive?"

"Yes." He's the most attractive person you've ever seen.

"Do you care for him?"

"Yes." Your reaction to his imprisonment is evidence enough of that.

"Do you want to a chance of happiness?"

"Yes." Deep down beneath all the doubt and overthinking and catastrophising, it's exactly what you want.

You want Morpheus.

"I'm ready," you say calmly.

You take a step back from the Fates and bow.

"Thank you for your time, your Graces."

The sky is an inky violet with daubs of dark blue, the sun is a thin line on the horizon. It sets, signalling the end of the meeting and your time as an ordinary mortal.

"Fare you well," the Fates' voices echo in unison as everything fades to black.

-------------------------

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

"Deep in my heart, deep in my mind. Take me away, take me away. This is my word, dream maker, life taker. Open up my mind."