#now what was my revelation tag for this run.....

[marigold-hills]

The Dark Wizard

preview! Wolfstar Howls Moving Castle AU a tiny little bit of the next work I’ll be working on. Posting will begin in December :) massive thanks to the groupchat for checking this over before I posted, you are the absolute best ❤️

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When Remus leaves his hometown, it’s not to seek his fortune, or adventure, or – gods forbid – love. He leaves because he’s a monster, and monsters do not belong in society. They belong in the Waste.

This is how it happens.

It’s May Day. The village of Hogsmead is abuzz with excitement. Revellers and drunks, lovely dressed up ladies and dapper gentlemen circling one another, for propriety's sake staying respectable distances away. The gentlemen whistling at the ladies, the ladies pretending to be aghast by the behaviour, covertly blushing and giggling.

It’s a perfect day. Sunny, warm, bright.

For Remus, it’s perfect for a different reason.

Everyone is too busy to notice their pockets getting lighter. Too buzzed to pay attention to the man dressed in ill-fitting clothes walking too close to others. A casual jostle is just this - casual. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to raise concern.

Remus has a few pilfered wallets in a hidden pocket he sewed into a stolen vest. It’s easy, this. He’s done it for years.

“My apologies,” he smiles at a man in a soldier’s garb, whose money pouch he just appropriated. This one feels good for more than one reason - the soldier was in the process of accosting a lady who did not seem pleased to be accosted. She takes the moment he gets distracted by Remus and ducks away. Remus would like to say that he makes sure to only steal from those who deserve it, but it wouldn’t be true.

Food is food, and money is money, and both are something he needs to live. Remus can’t get a job, on account of being a monster, on account of how many days he has to take out to recuperate and travel somewhere far enough to make sure he wouldn’t let himself loose on his quaint hometown of Hogsmeade. Since his parents’ passing, this is what he’s been reduced to. 

He’s tall but can make himself look unassuming, with hair once golden-auburn and now grey from the effect of too many full moons. It’s perfect for this job, being easy to look over and hard to describe. He’s young but looks old. Feels old, too, but that’s not something for people to see.

Remus makes mistakes in this work so rarely that he doesn’t notice he’s made one until it’s too late.

He’s following a well-dressed man, waiting for an opportunity to strike. The man is exceptionally pretty, with short black curls barely skimming the tops of his ears and a gait like royalty. Remus follows behind him at a stretch, slow and careful, until they round the back of a seedy, dark pub and the man turns around like he is the one who set the trap.

Green eyes like poison.

“Trailing the Wizard of the Waste, that’s brave of you,” the man says with a voice that freezes Remus midstep.

Because he knows better than that. He knows not to go for the people who are dressed overly expensive, with rich black fabrics and shining peacock plumes in their hats. He knows chances are somebody is watching over the really rich. That the possibility of a greater payoff doesn’t compare to the risk of being caught.

And yet here he is: caught.

“Or maybe simply foolish,” the Wizard says. “You don’t look a fool, but such things can be so deceiving, don’t you agree?”

The way his eyes pierce through Remus: all he can think is he knows. Somebody knows. Remus has been found out. 

He turns and runs, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away. Remus remembers what the townspeople did the last time someone was found out. Remembers the stench of burning flesh.

He doesn’t look back once while he flees, not even when the Wizard shouts “my regards to Sirius!”, to his retreating back. 

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tagging you lovely people who had previously been interested in future works - let me know if you want to be in the list for this one as well :)

@tealeavesandtrash

@moon-girl88

@hoje--aqui

@cocoabutterandbooks

@onion-sliced-apples

@prancingpony42

@digital-kam

@remoonysiriusly

@sweetstarryskies

@a-sunset-outside-my-window

@procrastinatingstuff

@annaliza999

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged!)

[dirtyoldmanhole]

this is such a minuscule detail - but i really love that it's gunter who lands the *first* blow on anthony, after the latter betrays you

[todayisafridaynight]

funniest part about masadai is ichiban because he would be completely unhinged about it, ESPECIALLY in a post y7 context. “young master YOU’RE getting down and dirty with the former tojo chairman??? woweeeee…. talk abt sleeping with the enemy hohoho” full eyebrow wriggles and everything. he’d go and personally apologize to daigo for having to know masato in the early 2000’s. masato almost pulls a gun on him several times but also he’s really trying to be better so he stops himself and ichi full cries when he sees masato exercise that restraint

YOU SEE THE VISION

ichiban IS the earnest-but-unintentionally-annoying little brother and thats so important to me. au where aoki lives but boy does he regret it when ichi's warming up to daigo all 'we're gonna be in-laws !!!!' and is now divulging every embarrassing memory he can

[gojoshooter]

HER HO!NY HUSBAND : GOJO SATORU

tw. suggestive, gojo flashes his goodies

Husband!Gojo coming out of the shower with a wet muscular body and a piece of towel hanging along his waist—only to see his wife laying on the bed right in front of him.

Pregnant Wife!Yn who had been insecure of her growing belly and weight since a couple months due to her pregnancy, watches Gojo check her from head to toe, an unexplainable look on his handsome pale face.

Sitting upright, she fixes her loose garments. Maybe he’s finally come to the realisation of not being such a big fan of my mom body.

Husband!Gojo sensing her dejected mood, snaps out of his internal thoughts as he decides to reach out and sit next to her instead.

“Baby? Something’s bothering?” he asks softly, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear.

Pregnant Wife!Yn ever a self-conscious overthinker, mumbles while looking up at her husband, “I saw you gazing at me few a many times now...” she fixes her garment again, in embarrassment “like... weirdly. You start looking stiff all of a sudden, as if you want to confess something. About my bad shape maybe.”

At her confession, Satoru pauses, lips parted open slightly and not sure which part to explain first. He brings a wet but comforting hand on her swollen belly.

“Silly girl. Are you worrying about your plump little adorable tummy again? I told you I like it.”

Pregnant Wife!Yn frowns, not really sure of his words. “Really? Then how would you explain everytime you stopped to stare at me? Your face doesn't seem as if you love it—or even like it, Toru.”

Husband!Gojo who shakes his head, body turning more towards her distressed wife. “I don't like it? I love you and every part of you babe, you know me.”

Yn sighs softly, looking down with an upset face. “I do... but maybe i shouldn't have asked for a baby. I just... I feel like you'd have appreciated my old body more, Toru.”

Satoru snaps his head towards her, eyebrows raised in disbelief. This was his last straw. She has to know what his pregnant, innocent wife does to him.

As he stands up slowly from the edge of the bed, he makes sure she's all eyes and ears. “Oh really now. Then I must give you a real reason to never regret your baby with me...”

Undoing the towel hooked on his dripping wet waist, the white haired man reveals his lower half of the riches. As her eyes set down, there comes in view an almost fully hard wet length of Gojo Satoru.

Pregnant Wife!Yn being taken aback, is unable to react for a good few first seconds, mouth agape. Light hue of red crawls up the neck to settle on her cheeks, when her husband hums in question.

“Mm? You see this? This is what you do to me, silly girl.”

Everything seemed suddenly more reasonable—Gojo stealing those frequent long gazes, his odd body language while he checks his pregnant wife out. Gojo gets aroused.

Pregnant Wife!Yn tears her gaze away from his manhood, cold sweat making her feel more or less like her currently out of shower dripping wet husband. Oh the thoughts that might be running in his perverted brain, all the ways he could take you in and you wouldn't be moving away with all the weight you bear of his baby, but comply, and relish, and whine.

“Oh-oh...” she mumbles shyly, the revelation lessening her insecurity effectively more than all sweet words combined could have ever had.

an. husband gojo >>> also this is my 1k readers special! ty for giving my writings your time, love y'all. likes & rbs are appreciated <33

tags: @anubisisthebomb @dianagracesworld @stellagrangerreads12 @momochina-sama @xxkay15xx @ruins-posts

[readwritealldayallnight]

Love is a Verb

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 3k words

warnings/tags: fluff, allusions to smut, Simon gets in his feelings™️

It was the first time that you dropped a plate stacked high with heart-shaped pancakes in front of him, that you realized just how much Simon had been starved for love in his life.

“What’s this?” He asks, eyebrows scrunching in confusion, staring down at his plate as though it were a bomb in need of defusing.

“Breakfast? You’d mentioned pancakes the other day and I’ve been craving ‘em since.” You shrug, walking back towards the stovetop where the next batch are waiting to be flipped over.

“They’re- you’ve never-” You glance back over your shoulder at him, watching as he appears to struggle to find the words for what he means to say. He looks almost out of place, his large, hulking frame sitting at a breakfast table with flowers adorning it (he’s the one that brought you that bouquet, of course), his bed head on full display. “You’ve never made ‘em like this before.”

“What, like hearts?” You giggle, scooping up the last of the breakfast onto a plate, making your way back to the table, seeing Simon give you a nod in confirmation. “I just wanted spread some love to my love. Is that alright?”

Setting your plate down next to his, you go to take a seat before you feel two muscular arms wrapping around your middle, pulling you backwards and seating you onto his strong lap.

“‘Course s’alright.” He mumbles into your hair, pressing a kiss wherever his lips may land on you. From those two words alone, you can tell his throat is getting scratchy, and you almost think you hear the slightest sniffle coming from him. You can’t help the surprised blush that creeps through you. You weren’t expecting him to react this way. You’re willing to bet he also wasn’t expecting to react this way.

Knowing that communicating, as well as understanding, his feelings isn’t something that always comes with ease for Simon, you decide to give him a moment, not wanting to put him on the spot. You spread some maple syrup across your stack, tilting it in the direction of his plate and receiving a grunt of confirmation before you drizzle some onto his as well. Taking your cutlery in hand, enjoy your breakfast in quiet bliss, taking turns feeding bites to yourself and your shadow behind you, always receiving a loving squeeze to your thigh after each piece you slip between his lips.

��Mum never made anythin’ like this.” His revelation arrives just as your chewing on your last bite, stomachs content, hearts even more full. You can count on one hand the amount of times Simon has brought up his family to you. You’re aware of the circumstances, and while you don’t know every detail (nor do you need to), he has over time opened up to you about what happened. “Not ‘cause she didn’t love us. I think she would’ve if she-” he clears his throat, and you readjust yourself in his lap so that you can wrap your arms around his neck, leaning your head against his shoulders, rubbing reassuring circles into the muscles your hands come across.

You don’t want to overwhelm him by looking at him as he opens himself up to you, but you want to reassure him that you’re listening, you’re here with him. He can tell you as much or as little as he wants to, and you’ll listen.

“Beth did though. Once or twice.” He adds, resting his chin atop your head, running a hand through your hair. “I mean, I’m sure she did it more than that but, I saw her do it, once or twice. For Joseph.” Your grip around him tightens ever so gently at the mention of his late sister-in-law and nephew. You’ve never seen a picture of the boy, but you can just picture him, a small little blond head of hair, maybe with eyes like his, running around, keeping his young parents busy. Knowing the fate his family endured, a shiver runs through you, but you don’t let it overcloud the moment that Simon is sharing with you. Certainly not when it appears he’s thinking of them fondly right now, reflecting on his past with a happy lens.

“I’m sure he must’ve loved it.” You whisper into the skin of his neck, sending goose bumps sprawling across the flesh.

“He did. Tommy too.” At that he gives a slight chuckle, shaking the two of you. “Even when we were younger, he could always eat us out of house and home. Was like you couldn’t get anything to stick to his bones, either, that kid. More than half the time I wound up shop liftin’ it was to feed his skinny arse.” You sit there together for a moment, holding one another, basking in the newest glimpse of his past that Simon has just offered you.

“They would’ve loved you.” He mumbles into your hair, emotion evident in his voice, his grip on you tightening desperately, as though you two might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold you close enough. “Think you would’a liked em as well.” At that you pull away from his shoulder, slipping your hands to cradle each side of his face, bringing his forehead to meet yours.

“They loved you, Si. Of course I would love them too.” You whisper against his lips, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to each corner of his mouth, the top of his nose, each closed eyelid, before returning to his mouth.

It’s the next week when you decide to finally tackle the last of the moving boxes. You and Simon finally moved in together a few months ago now, and Simon seems to have placed more priority on ‘christening every room’ (also known as fucking you senseless over each and every available surface in the place) over unpacking.

The handful of boxes that are left are more of the miscellaneous, don’t really have anywhere to put them, sort of items that you can’t exactly part with but don’t have any real use for. Most of it being your stuff. His time in the military has left him without a need for many material items, and so you’re surprised to find a smaller box shoved to the back of the pile labeled as ‘Simon’.

Upon opening it, you find it contains a variety of what appears to be memorabilia he’s collected throughout his time in the military, small souvenirs from his travels, old folded up uniforms, and what not. But slipped between two folded shirts, you can feel something more sturdy. Carefully slipping it out of the box, you discover a frame containing a multitude of medals.

In spite of being in love with a Lieutenant, your knowledge of the military is still slim. You don’t recognize any of the medals shining up at you, but they are numerous, and you can tell they must be incredibly important, something he’s worked so hard to earn. Why is he keeping this tucked away?

“Hey Si!” You shout in hopes that he’s near enough to hear you.

“What are you up to now, mischief?” He asks, his tone playful as you hear his footsteps approaching. “Christ, we’ve still boxes left?”

“Acting as if you don’t purposefully walk around them every day.” You tease back, rolling your eyes at him. You stand up, turning to face him with the frame clutched to your chest. He takes you in and raises a brow in question as to your discovery. “What are these?”

He steps closer to glance at what you’re holding, shoulders tensing for a moment before releasing, letting out a deep sigh.

“Ah. S’nothin’.” He tries to reach to take it out of your grip, but you swing your arms behind your back, hiding it from his grasp.

“What do you mean nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing to me, mister award winner.”

“They’re not- I don’t-” he seems to struggle with his words, and it’s only then that you realize perhaps he doesn’t view these medals in the same way you do.

“Do you not like ‘em?” You ask, bringing the frame back around to your front, glancing down at them with a more quizzical eye this time.

“I just- I’m not always proud of how I earned em, love.” He attempts to explain, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “Some I reckon’ I don’t mind but- all just seems unnecessary to me. I did my job, all there is to it.”

“Are these like, the kind they have big ceremonies for and then someone pins them on you in front of everyone?”

“Somethin’ like that.” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his large chest.

“And let me guess, you never attended any of them?”

“Don’t need all the fanfare, lovie.” He says, stepping forward and slowly slipping the frame from your grasp, tossing it back into the box you’d found it in. “All I need’s right here.”

“I just wish you’d let yourself be celebrated sometimes too, Si…”

“Well if it’s celebratin’ my birdie is wantin’, how’s bout we go celebrate with you on top of the washing machine eh? Don’t think I’ve made you cum up there yet.” You roll your eyes at his changing of the subjects, but can’t contain the giggle that erupts out of you when he swings you over his shoulder, apparently having decided the laundry room is exactly where you two are going now. “Just put a load in the machine, only right I put a load in here too.” He adds with a smack to your ass.

You’re worried you’re about to make an absolute fool out of yourself. No, you’re sure you’re about to look like an idiot. You know how much that man loves you, but even this might be exaggerating. Glancing at the clock above the stove however, you know it’s now or never. The candles around the room have been lit, the lights are dimmed, his favourite meal is cooking in the oven, soft music is playing from the record player, you’re wearing Simon’s favourite dress on you, and you even went as far as to spruce up your hair and makeup for this. In theory, everything is perfectly set up and in its place.

So why then, do you feel so mortified as you hear the sound of keys jingling the lock at the front door? Oh right, because it’s him you’ve set this all up for.

“Hi sweetheart,” he shouts to you as he walks in, too preoccupied with removing his boots and gear to look up yet. “Smells really good, what’s-” He cuts himself off upon walking into the kitchen, eyes landing on the unusual scene before him. You watch as his irises glance around the room, taking it all in, before landing on you. He’s still stood a few feet away from you, but you swear you can see his pupils dilate as his eyes roam up and down your figure.

“Hi.” You whisper meekly to him, wringing your hands nervously behind your back.

“Hi.” He answers back, taking an apprehensive step towards you. “What’s all this then?”

“First you have to go get dressed.” You inform him, jutting your chin in the direction of your shared bedroom. The small smile working its way onto his face helps boost your confidence, nerves slowly dissipating.

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm. Even laid out your clothes for you, so you don’t have to think about it.”

“We goin’ somewhere?” He asks, beginning to undo his belt already. The movement catches your attention, likely his intention, and his smirk widens upon seeing you blush.

“Nope. We’re just celebrating at home.”

At this, he freezes his movements, belt halfway slipped out of his belt loops. His gaze scans your face, looking for anything he might have missed.

“Shit. Did I- did I forget something, baby? I did-”

“No, no no no!” You cut him off with a slight giggle, coming up to him now to lay your palms across his chest. “No, you’re okay Si. You didn’t forget anything, I’m just surprising you.” You reassure him, knowing that he only calls you baby when he’s worried he’s in trouble (or when he’s already in trouble, crouched between your thighs attempting to earn his way out of the dog house).

“You didn’t have to do any of this love.” He says, hands pulling the rest of his belt out, before he loops it around you, using it to pull you even closer to him.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done yet, mister. We’ll see if you still like me in a bit.” You stand up on your tippy toes, planting a kiss to his Adam’s apple, fingers reaching up to slowly lift the skull printed balaclava off his face. Your lips follow each inch of skin revealed as you finally slip the fabric off his visage, exposing the face of the man you love. “Now go get dressed before I change my mind.”

With a kiss to the forehead and a squeeze to the bum, your man releases you from his grasp to obediently follow your command, making his way towards the bedroom. Steeling yourself with a deep breath, you turn towards the cabinets, pulling out the secret you’d been hiding, the reason you’re doing any of this.

Minutes later, Simon is walking back into the room, dressed in form fitting black dress pants, and his large hands are finishing up the last few buttons of his white button-up shirt, the buttons appearing minuscule in his grasp. Your eyes land on his figure, and suddenly the smell of the food in the oven isn’t why your mouth is salivating so much. He glances up at you, eyes meeting and each of you fights off a small blush and a shy smile, as though you’re seeing your dates for the prom for the first time.

“You’re so handsome, Si.” You tell him, stepping closer to him.

“Think you’re just desensitized to me at this point, love.” He attempts to deflect, but you see the blush deepening across his pale cheeks. “Besides, I oughta be kissing the ground you walk on birdie, just look at ya…” He reaches a hand out towards yours, spinning you around gracefully, taking the time to admire you entirely.

The look in his eyes is glazing over, as he licks his lips, eyes unable to tear away from each inch of skin you have exposed. You’re equally become as hot and bothered, but you’ve got a goal tonight, and you want to see it through, for his sake.

“Before dinner, I uh- I wanted to do something for you.” You say, stepping back enough that your backside meets the edge of the counter top. Your hands feel behind you for what you’re looking for, hoping he can’t see what you’re attempting to conceal for just a little longer. “I don’t need to explain to you how hard you work, everywhere you go, you’re always taking care of others, Si. And you don’t get even nearly as much thanks as you should, and-”

“Love,” he tries to cut you off, stepping closer to you, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Hold on, I really want to say this. To do this.” He nods at your interjection, accepting to hear you through. “Ever since I met you, you’ve changed my life Simon Riley, and I know I’m not the only person in the world who can say that. You are a good man, a hero to many, a leader to others. You’re just- you are good, Si. I promise you are.”

You can’t help the emotion beginning to seep into your voice now, but it’s important to you that he hears every word you have to tell him, and that he knows you mean them.

“I don’t know everything you’ve done, and I don’t want to. Your job terrifies me, and every time you walk out the door I’m scared you’re going to get hurt but- you’re so good at what you do, Simon. They couldn’t do it without you. You’re important, you’re needed.” At this, you slip the frame of medals out from behind your back, bringing them in front of you for Simon to see. “That’s what these are, at least in my eyes. They’re reminders that you’re meant to be doing what you’re doing, but most importantly, they also mean you made it back. You made it back to me.”

His warm hand reaches out to brush away a stray tear that’s spilled over your lashes, his palm staying to cup your cheek affectionately.

“You’re right, we don’t need all the fanfare, all we need is right here. But some occasions call for a celebration. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll let me put these on you? Just once, just this one time, I just- I need you to know how important you and your accomplishments are to me.”

Wordlessly, he nods to you, his own eyes appearing to be brimming with emotion. Sniffling, you turn the frame over, opening up the back before carefully slipping it off. Your fingers gingerly pick up the first medal they find, bringing it up to his firm chest. You look into his eyes once more, ensuring that this is okay with him. All you see in his gaze is pure, undeniable love. One hand reaches between the fabric of his shirt and the warm, scarred skin across his pec, as the other brings the medal to the front of the button-up. With all the devotion and tenderness in the world, you secure the medal to his front, slowly slinking your hands away to see if it’ll stay in its place.

When the medal does not budge, you repeat the process over with the remaining medals, until one side of his shirt is significantly weighed down compared to the other side, and both your hearts are bursting with affection for the human being stood before you. Sliding your now empty hands up his shoulders, his calloused palms resting on either side of your waist, his eyes communicate to you everything that his lips will never need to tell you. You know him. And you know what you mean to him. That’s why as he shuts his eyes and presses a kiss to your forehead, you find yourself whispering the sentence you hope to tell him every day of your life:

“I love you too.”

[plutoswritingplanet]

It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader) pt. 2

a/n: re-uploaded cause tumblr wouldn't show it in the tags for some reason Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con, Arranged Marriage, Reader is an Atriedes, Horny Violence, and some angsty family relations (lmao)

Summary: The courting becomes more and more complicated, as both you and the Na-Baron discover something about each other.

Part.1, Part 3. Part 4.(finale)

- He's a beast.

Lady Jessica stops in her tracks, her hands sliding gently across the fabric of your nightgown. It's your Mother, that puts it out on the table next to your bed. But the person, who turns back towards you with an unreadable expression, is most definitely not her. You're talking to a Bene Gesserit sister now. A freezing chill runs up your spine, and you start picking at the skin around your fingernails, a nervous habit you've picked up a long time ago.

- Have you forgotten all that I have taught you? - she asks, turning to face you fully, in the dimly lit space of your bedroom

Subconsciously you retreat into yourself, body leaning further away from her, as if that distance might save you from whatever unpleasant revelation will most likely fall upon you. Lady Jessica takes a deep breath, her lips pulling back into an easy, soothing smile. In the past, you would look for expressions such as this, fish them out for comfort. Now, as you look upon your Mother's face, it all seems to be a trap made specifically for you.

- Men like him, beastly men, are the weakest ones - she explains, taking slow steps towards your hunched form - They need the power and the blood to feel worthy of existing, which makes them easy to manipulate. Keep them pliant under your hands like fresh dough. 

She sits beside you, your mattress dipping under her weight, and your eyes are immediately drawn to your Mother's elegant hands, folded neatly in her lap. You wish you could put your head there. Have her pull your running thoughts out with gentle caresses. A hairbrush lays abandoned on the vanity in front of you, and silently you contemplate, whether you'll ever have the opportunity to have your hair brushed by her. 

- You must find his weakness, what drives him to do what he does. And then control it.

- I don't want to control my husband - the words spill out of your lips, before you have the chance to stop them - I want to love him, to support him. To give him children he'll love, children I'll love. 

Tears fall in heavy waterfalls down your cheeks. You haven't had the luxury of a good cry since your betrothed had arrived, and it feels divine. Letting your body shake and shiver, wrecked by uninhibited sobs, as your Mother looks down upon you, torn between the two roles she must fulfill. 

The more you've thought about your situation, the more hopeless you felt. The Harkonnens will never let you see your family again, you're sure of it. You'll have to deal with all the horrors of Giedi Prime entirely on your own, with no support from your husband, no friends, no family. And your children, as they are sure to come, will be taken away from you. Thrown into the black and white, until there's no love left in them. 

The Emperror is a cruel man, you think. An execution would've been a kinder end. 

- Why did you have to make me a Daughter? - the way your voice breaks in desperation fills you with shame - Why couldn't you give Father another Son?

You know you've overstepped, as soon as the accusatory tone registers in your brain. It is far too late by then, and the hands, which just moments before you've fantasized about running through your hair, grip you tightly. Your Mother's face, a constant image of beauty, twists into something darker, something you don't recognize, and you gasp, as her dull fingernails dig into the skin of your wrist.

- Your Father has Paul - her voice is barely above a whisper, blue eyes stabbing you with the intensity of her gaze - I gave him a son, because he asked for a son. Because I loved him enough to give him one. And he can have him. He can fill him with lessons of male leadership, of short-sighted plans. You. You are my Daughter. You are mine, and I've trained you well enough to conquer this task.

A hopeless pit settles itself in the void of your stomach.

You've always known your destiny would be to marry well, to further House Atreides' legacy. And yet, somehow, there was a sliver of hope, treacherously worming itself into your brain. Your Father had Paul, the perfect heir. Surely, he could send him off for the greater good and leave you to your own devices. Let you find someone to care for you, someone you'd do anything for. The thought sits in the pit of your stomach, turning your insides in shame. Still, you can't shake the sinking feeling, that if the universe was kind, you would've been born a Son. 

Your Mother, or more likely, the Bene Gesserit, stands up, a cold chill filling the space where her body used to sit. She regards you once, a stern, unwavering gaze.

- Wear black tomorrow.

Perhaps, you'll die in your sleep tonight. Perhaps the universe will bring you this small mercy.

*** Perhaps you did die. 

Through the haze of dreams, you can see him. Bare, as the day he was born, body gleaming white in the darkness of your room.

You can't move, can't see his face, and when he approaches, every single one of your muscles tense. You shift under the covers, cold tendrills of fear engulfing you entirely. He comes closer, moves like a wild cat, stands at the foot of your bed. 

The need to run is overwhelming, but your body refuses to listen, as slowly, torturously slowly, he climbs on top of you, defined muscles moving under his skin in a way that reminds you of some cursed demon, rather than a man. His scent fills your nostrils, a mixture of something heady and metalic, and, like a little child scared of the dark, you try to hide your face under the covers. 

This demon version of your betrothed sits down, sculpted thighs squeezing around your sides, and with rising panic you realize, he's slowly choking the life out of you. A fitting end, a welcomed one. Perhaps it would be better to die right now, before you discover what atrocities he plans to commit on your body and mind, after you're wedded. 

Then, his hand reaches behind his back, full lips pull upwards, exposing blackened out teeth. You barely register the glint of his sword, not until he holds it high up, above his hand. You're not allowed a moment to wallow in your confusion, as your future husband brings the weapon down, sinking it with brutal force into your beating heart.

You awake screaming.

***

In the morning, you pull a black tunic over your head, remnants of your dream clinging to you like an unwanted shadow. 

Every move of the silky fabric against your skin feels like a small defeat, and with your head hung low, you make your way towards the dining hall. Truly, you're not hungry, stomach turning and twisting, a steady presence of nerves keeping your body on edge. Your attendance is required however, such are customs, and it is entirely too eaarly for another lecture about your behaviour. 

As you enter the room, your mask of tired indifference slips just for a second, a mixture of fear and anger flickering in, and out of existence.

 There, opposite of your Father you can see him. Your future husband, the love of your miserable, ending life. Slow horror washes over you, as you suddenly realize that this demonic, otherwordly version of him, which visited you in your nightmares is just how he looks. He greets you with a polite inclination of his smooth head, and you consider not showing any outward sign of repulsion, a small victory on your part. Your Mother doesn't think so, but you dodge her sharp eyes in favor of greeting your brother.

It doesn't go unnoticed, the way Feyd Rautha's eyes drink in greedily the sight of you embracing Paul. His gaze lingers on your smile, and he raises his cup to his lips, scrunching his nose ever so slightly at the unfamiliar drink he's been offered. You want to ask, if they have coffee on Giedi Prime, but the question is forcefully swallowed down. You will not talk to this man. He will never know anything more than contempt from you. Curse your Mother's words, you'll fight this battle every day, on your own, if you have to. 

- My Daughter will show you around the training barracks after breakfast - Duke Leto announces, and you freeze with a cup of coffee half-way to your lips.

- Will I? - you ask, trying to control the edge in your voice. 

- Na-Baron has made inquires about a place to train - your Father explains, giving you a meaningful side eye - You'll accompany him. 

The coffee tastes like rot in your mouth, and you place your cup down with a note of finality. You won't look at him, you don't have to. That knowing smirk could be felt through the very particles flowing in the air, every single one laughing at your predicament. 

Despite your best efforts, the breakfast comes to an end, your family slowly rising to attend to their duties. Your Father, ever the cordial man, bids his farewells to the unwelcomed guest. Your Mother does the same, albeit sounding more honest. Paul lingers as long as Lady Jessica allows him, until he is forced to retreat by a slender hand tugging mercilessly on his elbow. A gesture both of you know intimately from your childhoods. 

Before you know it, you're left alone with the pale imitation of a man. He arises slowly from his seat, smoothly making his way towards you, each of his footsteps echoing in the dining room. 

- Shall we, my Lady? 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his offered hand, like a white spider living just outside of your vision. With a shudder, you slip out of your chair, trying very hard not to touch him, and failing immediately, when his broad chest nearly pushes you back into your seat. 

He smells nice, your brain betrays you, the scent bringing back images from your night terror, causing an involuntary shiver to run up your spine. With averted gaze, you turn to leave, ignoring his still extended hand. He follows you like a shadow, catching up to you in no time, as you slide through the corridors of the Palace. It's uncomfortable, to say the least, walking with him behind your back. His eyes bear into you, a prickly feeling at the base of your neck making you roll your shoulders.

It follows you, as he follows, right to the very destination. All in blessed silence, a small miracle to save this already dreadful morning.

The men, launging about at the training barracks freeze in their spots, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest, when Duncan Idaho catches your eyes. His skin has a beautiful, warm tone, highlighted by the morning sun flowing into the room through the windows. You nod, he nods back, an unspoken understanding blooming between the two of you. There could be no suspicion of any closer bond, lest this engagement would be called off. A result, perhaps favorable to you personally, but your family would never live down the shame. And you would never jeopardize Paul's future, no matter how hollow yours looked.

- You have a warrior's body - your betrothed comments, as he inspects the blades laid out on a small table - Do you train here as well?

Small talk, you could do small talk. With a sigh, you tear your gaze away from Duncan, and turn to the Harkonnen, forcing something resembling a polite smile to bloom onto your features. 

- Yes, I do - you answer curtly, eyes falling onto elegant, white fingers, sliding over a shiny metal blade. 

- It is not a common practice here, is it? - he looks at you, eyes gliding over your stature - Women being trained to fight?

Suddenly very much aware of your body, you cross your arms on your chest, hugging yourself tightly. You don't miss the way his gaze seems to linger on the low neckline of your tunic, and with bitterness on your tongue you wonder, has this man ever felt ashamed. 

- Not common, but it does happen - your voice betrays your emotions, a sharp edge settling over your tone, causing the man to arch an eyebrow.

Finally, he settles onto a chosen blade, bringing it up to the light and with laser focus observing the way particles dance on the steel surface. Then, he looks back at you, catching you in the act of observing the prominent, lean muscles on his neck. You ignore the knowing smirk and will your blushing cheeks to suddenly become devoid of color.

They don't, of course, and you scurry to the side of the table, to fiddle with the rest of the weaponry. Your favorite training blade is there, and instinctually, your hand reaches for it. 

- Train with me.

The request catches you off guard, and you shoot him a questioning look, one he deflects with a nonchalant shrug. 

Your muscles flinch, as you drag your hand back from the blade. 

- It would hardly be appropriate - you counter, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your tunic.

To that, he tilts his head, light eyes studying you for a longer moment, until you truly feel uncomfortable under such scrutiny. 

- And suddenly you're worried about what the court says? - he cuts you off, before you have the chance to ask, just what exactly does he mean by that - Perhaps you're too soft to fight me.

- I know what you're doing - you point an accusatory finger at his chest, and the man smiles, blackened teeth peaking between his full lips.

- And what am I doing? - it's hard to ignore the teasing timbre in his voice, and you swallow thickly.

- You're trying to get under my skin.

Shivering under the expected cruel glint in his eye, as another, most likely filthy innuendo purses his lips, you turn to him fully, a serious expression on your features.

- I've seen you fight, Na-Baron - his jaw tightens at the sound of your voice curling around his title - I know you're a force to be reckoned with, I'm not scared to admit that.

He straightens, regards you with furrowed brows for a longer second, until, yet again you start to fidget under his gaze.

- Perhaps then, you're scared you'll hurt me - the mere idea is so preposterous, your head snaps in his direction - If I had known, you liked me that much...

- That is entirely not true, and you know it - you deflect again, although annoyance begins to paint your voice.

Then, his hand shoots out, gripping your arm and pulling you closer. Air seems to thicken around you, as you look up at him, with surprise quickly morphing into outrage. His breath mingles with yours, and you can't seem to look away from his eyes, pupils nearly drowned in the overwhelming blue of his irises.

- Stop hiding, my viper. Fight me.

The command, spoken in a harsh whisper just shy of your lips, turns your insides into molasses. 

His taller form leans down to tower over yours, an intense expression settling over his sharp features. Close to excitement, much too close to desire, even closer to a murderous curiosity. Your throat feels entirely too dry, and before you can stop yourself, you swallow thickly, tongue darting out to lick your lips. His eyes snap almost immediately downwards, and your heart stops beating. You can't see anymore blue in his irises, only black. Darkness covers his eyes reflecting his thoughts, and you feel like you have to flee right now, before something terrible happens to you. 

So you do just that. Ripping yourself away from his closeness, you return to the table, hand finding your chosen blade without really looking. 

Another flash of black teeth, as the Na-Baron realizes what you're doing, and the both of you enable the shields surrounding your bodies. 

The gathered soldiers watch on, as you march towards the center of the room, determination filling every step to the brim. Duncan gives you a look, which you choose to ignore. You can't think about him now, not when you have your honor to defend against this Harkonnen monster of a man. 

Feyd Rautha rolls his shoulders, discards the thin fabric of his dress shirt, and once again you are stricken with his almost god-like physique. The blade looks like an extension of his hand, as he weighs it and slashes the air in front of him. Then, he fixes you with a challenging expression, as if he expects you to do the same, to try and best him at some shameless display.

You decide to keep your clothes on, blade held high, ready to strike. 

He jumps from one leg to another, and immediately an orchestra of alarm bells rings out in your brain. Should a man really be this excited at the prospect of fighting his future wife? Should you be this excited? Questions without answers, and before any of you make a move, another one absent-midedly floats to the surface. Just how much can you hurt each other, before the wedding is concluded? How much you'll inevitably hurt each other after?

The darkness he has brought on the ship with him must be contagious, because despite your better judgement, you smile. A sharp smirk, that makes your eyes look less like a human and more like a wild animal. And he drinks it all in, as he begins to circle you.

You'd never show him your back, never again. He's a tried and true predator, the only instinct he has, is a killer one. A fact you quickly get aquatinted with, as he unleashes a series of lightning fast strikes your way. 

Immediately you realize, that small show of cruelty he organized at your grandfather's theatre was nothing, compared to what he could truly do. And still, you suspect he's holding back, as you barely dodge a nasty stab, right under your ribs. Another one is blocked against your sheild, and before you have a chance to collect yourself, third one sends you back a couple of steps. 

He doesn't let you get away, with confident steps pushing you further and further out of the center of the training floor.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Duncan Idaho stand up from his place. Thinking back to your last training session, you shudder bitterly. "Never fight in anger" is easy to say, when you're not forced to marry, bed and sunsequently give children to the man you're fighting. 

Panting and sweating, you give Feyd Rautha your all, twirling in place, sliding on your feet. A different kind of choreography, which seems to work surprisingly well, with his almost animalistic force. Gurney taught you how to be powerful, how to land strikes which were as effective, as they were cunning. Duncan, on the other hand, taught you how to dance. So that's what you do.

Finally, you manage to grab at his free hand, locking your feet between his and bringing him closer to your blade. It stops just short of his artery, blocked by his dagger, the clash of metal reverberating through the halls. 

The smirk he gives you is beyond nasty, and forcefully, you push away from him, as if the very idea of skin to skin contact repulsed you. And it does, it truly does, especially now that adrenaline mixed with frustration boils in your head. 

- Again - you snarl his way, assuming your fighting stance.

- As my Lady commands - his voice has a natural growl to it, made even more prominent by the exertion of the fight, and he twists his body into a perversion of a curtsy.

This time you're the one to attack first, ignoring your menthor's words and relying on pure rage to guide your steps. A stab to his thigh, which he deflects with seemingly childish ease. Your tunic slips through his fingers, as you slide under his arm. Out of the corner of your eye you can see his blade, when he hides it into his belt. Confusion hits you suddenly. Was he giving up, why was he hiding his weapon? None of the questions get answered, as a foot curls itself around your ankle.

Your balance leaves you with a gasp of surprise, and soon, your back is on the floor, Feyd Rautha following closely behind. Your heated gaze meets his, as one hand wrenches the blade from your grasp and pins both your arms above your head. The other one supports his weight, as he hovers above you, light bleeding behind him in an unfitting image of a halo. 

Your chest heaves, sweat rolling down your collarbones, and the Harkonnen doesn't even try to hide the way his gaze follows a stray drop of salt, as it disappears between your breasts. 

- You fought well - he complements in a hushed tone, and you writhe desperately under his body.

The night terror rears its ugly head again, as you feel his tighs press onto your sides, almost as if he wants to shape your flesh into the imprint of his body.

- I think I prefer you like this - he whispers, face coming closer to the exposed column of your neck - You belong under me. 

That's what does it. Your face twists into an expression of equal parts disgust, and fury. You won't give him this victory, you'd rather die. Legs tangle themselves around his calves, and you use all your strength fueled by the burning need to fucking hurt him. 

The world spins, two bodies rolling on the floor, and suddenly you're on top of him, legs biting into his hip bones. While one hand supports your weight on his naked shoulder, the other finds the dagger hidden in his belt. The surprised gasp, which leaves his lips feels like music to your ears, and you don't even try to fight the awful smirk splitting your mouth.

The shield on his neck glows an angry red, as you press the tip of the blade down, right under his bobbing Adam's apple. He swallows, for just a second letting you see the mask of self confidence slip. He has quite long eyelashes, you notice, as his eyelids flutter, a low hum reverbating through his chest. Eyes that are neither blue nor completely black drink in the sight of you. The halo of your hair, the snarl on your lips, the curve of your waist, where one of his hands settle. 

Missing all of this, too enraptured by your own fury, you push the blade further down until it pricks his alabaster skin. He hisses through his blackened teeth and you want more, you want him to scream. A thin streak of red begins to flow down his neck, and God help you, it looks like art. 

His grip on your waist tightens, all five fingers digging into your flesh through the thin tunic. Feyd Rautha bares his teeth at you in a cruel smile, one that makes you question whether you're the one in control.

And then his hips roll upwards. 

A barely noticable movement, easily mistaken for a spasm of the muscles, but you know better. You can read it all from his expression, his pupils blown wide, the quickened breaths of air slipping past his lips. From the quickly hardening length pressing against your inner thigh. 

Your stomach flutters with a well known feeling, and that terrifies you more than any pain-motivated erection ever could. Because he sees it, he sees the beginning flames of desire taking root in your center, and the realization looks like ecstasy on his face. Humiliation washes through you, fills you completely. There is no awkward blush on your face, no. All you feel is white, freezing terror, as all your defences seem to crumble all at once.

Like a scared animal, you're off of him in a split-second, and he doesn't chase you, as you all but run from the training barracks. Doesn't have to, he already has everything he needs. 

[exorcxqsm]

Only a fool would bargain with the leader of Onychinus

Word Count: 5,8k

tags - WARNINGS: mdni, reader isn’t the lnds!mc, explicit sexual content, first time sex (not virginity loss) alterations to the main story, dr/y humping, thigh riding, b/egging, f!receiving oral, p in v, unprotected sex, creampies, squirting, dirty talking, use of pet names (kitten, sweetie, baby), violence, mentions of injuries. 

Notes:Some of you may have already read my fic, The Price of Desire, in which the reader’s evol is mentioned. If you have, you’ll notice that the evol is the same in this story; however, there is no connection between the two. The concept of a reader with this ability was too appealing for me to resist, and since it was briefly mentioned in the previous fic, I decided to explore it further in this one. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! All likes and reblogs are appreciated. :3

Going on missions for Sylus was nothing new to you by now. You had spent years by his side since he first found you, a wild creature desperate for survival. Sometimes, you could still recall how close you had come to killing each other back then. You had been hunted by nearly every illegal underground group, all seeking your evol, and while on the run, you stumbled upon him like a scared and feral animal.

You had instinctively tried to attack him on sight; it was all you knew how to do, having fought for your freedom for as long as you could remember. You were no stranger to the danger he represented—the bloodthirsty leader of Onychinus. If other groups sought you as a mere experiment for your power, you could only imagine what Onychinus would do if they got their hands on you.

The moment you realized the person you had fallen headfirst into was the white-haired menace himself, you had attempted to fight him with everything you had. Sylus, of course, dodged every single one of your attacks effortlessly, but he was merely toying with you, for he possessed something you were unaware of; he could not be killed.

You had always been feared for your lethal evol—one touch from your bare fingers could send someone halfway to the other world. You were an extraordinary weapon, yet Sylus was not deterred; he was intrigued, even enamored by you.

With his energy manipulation, it was impossible for you to harm him, particularly when he thrived on high levels of adrenaline and excitement.

So, even as you forced yourself to keep trying to touch him, desperate to end the chaos, he reveled in your fierce determination. He loved witnessing the fire in your eyes as you believed you could take him down. When he finally grew tired of your little game and decided to put an end to it, he was blindsided by a fact he had overlooked.

While he had learned nearly everything there was to know about your evol and your abilities, he did not realize one important thing; you were immune to his mist.

No matter how fiercely the red and black tendrils curled around you, the moment your flesh made contact with them, they vanished into thin air.

Sylus had nearly salivated when he realized the challenge you presented. It had been far too long since he had encountered someone so intriguing, and he was determined that you wouldn’t walk out of that valley without becoming his.

That’s how you found yourself in his group now. Unlike everyone else, Sylus had made a promise that night: if you went home with him willingly, he would never force you to use your abilities for his research or personal gain. He needed you to choose to be there if you were going to help him.

His condition was simple: think of aiding him, and in return, you would gain his protection, a life free from fear and the constant need to run for your freedom.

You had taken a significant risk when you decided to go with him, but the white-haired man kept his word. It took you months to contemplate helping him instead of merely enjoying the luxury of his lifestyle, but he was patient. In time, you became not only his most valuable asset but also his right hand. Whenever he was out of town for deals or missions, you handled matters back home on his behalf.

Deep down, back then you knew he wasn’t just a kind-hearted man simply looking to help a struggling girl off the street. What he truly sought to protect was your evol because he believed you would eventually come around to assist him when he needed it most. So when you finally did, it was no surprise to him. He had merely given you a subtle nod and handed you the first files.

Now, two years later, you stood beside him at one of the many auctions taking place in the N109 Zone. He was after a particularly important and valuable protocore—one he had pursued for years—and today presented his chance to possess it.

Being next to him not only amplified his chances of leaving unscathed without extensive negotiation—after all, who was crazy enough to challenge the leader of Onychinus and his lethal right-hand woman?—but it also made it easier for him to operate, as you inevitably drew attention and distraction from other bidders.

His hand curled possessively around your waist as he proudly showcased you to the crowd. The dress you wore was as red as his eyes, hugging your every curve and accentuating your figure. Your hair was styled in a simple updo, revealing your back to the admiring gazes around you.

The less fabric you wore, the more difficult it was for his mist to approach you, and that was one thing you clung to. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you—he had come to not only depend on you but to trust you as well. Still, you maintained a small resistance, a defiance that you weren’t ready to surrender, no matter how much it irritated him.

Your gloves were snugly in place, allowing you to interact with him without draining his energy, thus enabling you to warn others of the imminent danger your touch posed. One slip of fabric, and whoever you touched would be lost forever.

“Mr. Sylus, I didn’t think you’d make it tonight,” a distant voice interrupted your thoughts, drawing both of your attention. A young man addressed your boss, his tone a mix of surprise and formality.

“Not happy to see me?” Sylus replied, his voice smooth as silk and sweet as honey, the smugness evident in his expression as he arched a white brow at the man.

“Of course, sir! I’m sorry, sir. I just thought you’d be out of town—”

“Change of plans." Sylus muttered, cutting him off with a tight smile before guiding you forward, his hand resting firmly on the small of your back.

As you walked toward the room where his meeting would take place, you tilted your face up to catch a glimpse of his profile. “He’s right, you know,” you began, curiosity lacing your words. “Weren’t you supposed to return next Tuesday?”

Sylus’s smirk deepened at your question. “If I had known you’d be so disappointed by my early arrival, sweetie, I would have made sure to come back yesterday.”

You scoffed at his remark, subtly flexing your back to shake his arm off, but his grip only tightened, keeping you glued to his side. “Be good now. You know how important tonight is,” He leaned in closer, his hot breath sending a shiver down your spine as it tickled your ear. “Don’t screw this up.”

You couldn’t shake the uneasiness that crawled up your spine from the subtle threat lacing his tone. Sylus had been under immense pressure lately, but you refused to let him take it out on you.

“Sylus.”

He let out an impatient huff as you halted him just outside the door of your final destination, but he turned his body to face you fully, his expression a mix of frustration and intensity.

“I’m not your enemy,” you asserted, holding his gaze with unwavering resolve. “Many people work for you, but aside from Luke and Kieran, no one stands by your side with the same loyalty I do. I know you’ve been struggling, but I’m the last person you want against you right now.”

“Oh, is that right, kitten?” His brows furrowed, drawing closer until your chests nearly touched. To an outsider, you might have appeared to be lovers, but the tension between you was palpable and lethal. “And why is that? Because you’re oh-so-dangerous?”

His provoking smirk ignited your anger, and while you couldn’t fathom what was going through his mind, you chose to avoid making a scene. Stepping away from him, you tried to regain your composure. “They’re waiting for us.”

Before you could take another step toward the door, you were abruptly lifted off the ground, hanging upside down over Sylus’s shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?” you whispered-yelled, frantically scanning for prying eyes. Your surprise deepened when, from the shadows, Luke and Kieran rushed toward you, effortlessly pulling you from Sylus’s grip. “What—”

“Take her to the car and wait for me,” Sylus commanded sharply, his tone clipped and leaving no room for negotiation. As you were carried away from him and the room, you felt a pang of frustration.

“Let me down!” you practically shouted as the twins put distance between you and the auction building.

“Sorry, ma’am, no can do.”

“Yeah, ma’am, we’re sorry, but no one bypasses the boss's orders!”

Your heart thumped loudly in your ears as the events unfolded, anger and frustration boiling within you at how Sylus had treated you. It was the first time since you started working for him that he had dismissed you so callously, and you couldn’t ignore the pang of hurt that coiled deep in your stomach.

You sat in the backseat of the car while the twins chatted and bantered in the front, oblivious to your turmoil. It felt surreal, as if they were living in a different world. Maybe you were overthinking it—after all, you hadn’t expected him to disregard you like that, especially during an auction so crucial to him. You were valuable to him, weren’t you? He needed you by his side, didn’t he?

Your thoughts spiraled until they were abruptly shattered by a loud bang. Before you could process the sound, part of the building in front of you exploded in a fiery eruption. Wait—was that the floor where the auction was being held? The very floor Sylus was on?

Without a second thought, you threw open the car door, sprinting toward the burning building despite the twins’ frantic shouts urging you to stop. Your mind was consumed by one thought: Sylus. He couldn’t be hurt. He couldn’t die. Foolish girl, not even his evol could save him from an explosion of that magnitude.

Your breaths came in ragged gasps, sweat clung to your skin as you pushed your limits, charging up the stairs to the floor where you had been just forty minutes earlier. You stumbled multiple times, falling to your knees, but the thought of Sylus pushed you onward.

When you finally reached the floor, it was a scene of devastation. The area lay in ruins, engulfed in smoke and chaos, with scattered survivors struggling to breathe amidst the wreckage. You focused your eyes and ears, straining to find Sylus amidst the agonizing cries of others. Time blurred as you searched, exhaustion creeping in and threatening to overwhelm you.

Just when you thought you might pass out, you spotted it—silver locks, now dirty and disheveled, just a few feet away. Panic surged through you as you fell to your knees and crawled with the last remnants of strength you had left. When you finally reached him, your heart stopped. You had never seen Sylus so vulnerable, so exposed.

You reached out to touch his face, your irritation intensifying at the realization that you still had to keep your gloves on, unable to feel his soft, dirt-streaked skin. With the last remnants of your strength, you shook him gently, your voice coming out hoarse as you tried to call his name.

Slowly, his eyes peeled open, and you let out the breath you had been holding. Unfortunately, you had inhaled too much smoke, resulting in a violent cough that wracked your body.

Clutching your chest, you hunched over, trying to cough out the smoke while moving away from him. Just then, you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you down to him. You attempted to focus on his face, searching for any injuries, but your eyes were tearing up, and your vision was blurred from the smoke-filled atmosphere.

Just as you thought you might lose consciousness, his voice broke through, shaky and hoarse but still as sharp as a knife. “What are you doing in here, kitten?” His eyes were half-lidded, and he groaned as he struggled to sit up. “Didn’t I tell you to wait for me outside?”

You tried to help him rise, but his heavy body only dragged you down, sending you sprawling onto the floor. As he noticed your condition, his eyes sharpened with concern, and his features turned serious. He began removing his coat, which was now dirty and full of holes.

“Sylus—you need to get out of here,” you urged, trying to push him away as he attempted to cover you completely with his coat.

“Don’t talk right now, sweetie.” His movements were urgent, almost desperate, as he made sure no part of your upper body was exposed. Your hands were now firmly pinned to your torso beneath his coat. “And don’t fight me.”

His fingers came to your face, squeezing gently until your lips formed a pout and your attention was solely on him. “Stubborn little kitten,” he muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and affection.

Just before you slipped into unconsciousness, you felt the tendrils of his red-black mist enveloping you, pushing through your evol’s resistance and carrying you away from the chaos.

When you finally opened your eyes, it took a moment for your surroundings to come into focus. The unmistakable scent of Sylus’s mattress enveloped you, grounding you in reality. You were back at the mansion.

Your limbs felt heavy, and a dull ache throbbed in your head. Every part of your body screamed for you to stay in bed, to drift back into sleep and forget everything that had happened before you lost consciousness. But your mind was fixated on one thing: Sylus.

With a groan, you attempted to sit up, quickly glancing over your body. To your relief, you realized you were freshly cleaned and dressed in one of your nightgowns, with no significant injuries aside from a few scratches on your skin.

You took a moment to steady yourself, ensuring your vision wouldn’t fade to black before you attempted to walk across the room toward the door. Sylus’s office was just down the hallway, and as you stepped outside, you could faintly hear Luke and Kieran’s voices drifting from inside. You paused, heart pounding, and when you heard Sylus’s gruff tone, a wave of relief washed over you. He was okay.

After a brief moment, you knocked once before turning the doorknob and peeking through the small opening. Sylus’s gaze met yours immediately, and the twins turned to regard you with their rare smiles. It wasn’t often they dropped their masks, even in the mansion, but now their boyish features shone through. Their red hair was pulled back into matching messy ponytails, and a hint of blush colored their cheeks as they took in your appearance in the gown.

Sylus coughed discreetly, and the twins exchanged glances before standing up to give you two some privacy.

As they made their way to the door, Kieran paused to ruffle your hair playfully, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “You gave us a scare there, little crow.”

You regarded both twins with a small, apologetic smile before turning your full attention to the white-haired man seated behind his desk. He still wore his torn shirt, which left his muscular frame fully exposed. With a languid movement, he rolled his chair away from the desk and beckoned you with a finger.

Taking slow, deliberate steps toward him, you felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over you as his intense gaze roamed over your form. Despite the butterflies in your stomach, you approached and stood before him, his legs slightly apart, causing your knees to brush against the inside of his thighs as he looked up at you.

Your eyes fell to his toned chest, now marred with scratches and bruises—evidence the damage inflicted, perhaps a sign that he was running low on evol energy and unable to heal completely.

“Are you okay?” Your voice emerged as a barely audible whisper, still tinged with hoarseness. You clasped your hands behind your back, fidgeting awkwardly.

You weren’t quite sure what had come over you; you had never before found yourself in a situation where you needed to actively express your concern for Sylus until tonight, and you hoped he wouldn’t recall too much of what had transpired in that building.

“Worried, kitten?” he asked, a small smirk curling at the corners of his lips as his gaze swept over your body. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and touch you, yet he seemed equally torn, grappling with the worry that had gripped him when you had passed out in his arms.

You sniffled softly, your eyes darting anywhere but to him, your body tense and rigid as if your bones were locking into place. Instead of answering his question, you opted to redirect the conversation. “Do we know what caused the explosion?”

His expression was unreadable, and you noticed his jaw tick slightly as he processed your words. After a moment, he exhaled slowly, raising his hand to brush his knuckles gently across your arm. A shiver coursed through you at the contact, and you could see the corners of his lips curl slightly at your reaction. This time, he didn’t bother to hide himself from you.

“I did.”

“What?” Your voice came out louder than intended, earning a deep, rumbling chuckle from Sylus. He relaxed further into his chair, locking his carmine eyes onto yours with an intensity that sent your heart racing.

 “What are you talking about, Sylus? When I came in there…” It was becoming increasingly difficult to mask the emotion in your voice. “When I came in, you had fainted. What would have happened to you if I hadn’t found you in time?”

Amusement danced freely in his eyes at your small outburst. You truly were exquisite in your concern. “You underestimate me too much, sweetie.”

“You’re the one underestimating your enemies, Sylus!” You raised your voice, your hands gesturing in disbelief. “Just because you’re the leader of Onychinus doesn’t mean they can’t get to you if you’re unconscious.”

“Burnt men can’t walk, kitten.”

A small gasp escaped your lips at the speed and bluntness of his response. His smugness only fueled your anger at his reckless behavior. Leaning down, you gripped the arms of his chair, effectively caging him in. You were about to respond when you suddenly realized the position you had put yourself in. It gave him a full view of your breasts, the fabric of your nightgown flowing away from your skin and leaving little to the imagination.

Your ears and cheeks burned a deep crimson as you tried to pull away just as quickly as you'd leaned down. However, Sylus’s arm had already wrapped around your waist, anchoring you in place and pulling you impossibly closer. Your breath hitched when you noticed the way his pupils had dilated, his lips parting slightly as he fixated on your slowly hardening nipples.

“Sylus…” Your voice was barely a whisper now, heat pooling in your core under his intense gaze.

Finally, Sylus’s eyes met yours, and he began to stroke your back slowly, his tone low as if he feared shattering the delicate bubble that enveloped you both. “The explosion; It was my plan all along. Why else would I want you out and away from the building, sweetie?”

A frown crossed your face at his admission. Despite your initial shock, your body grew more compliant under his gentle strokes as he pulled you in, guiding you to straddle his thigh. His red irises darkened just a bit when your pulsing core made contact with his jeans and you felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks at the realization that he could probably feel just how wet you were.

Yet, he continued speaking, his voice smooth and steady. “Tonight had no other way of going. It was necessary and inevitable.”

“But why?” Your eyes had softened since you’d first entered his room, and you found yourself relaxing more beneath his touch as he explained the events of the night.

“Because, kitten, tonight’s transaction was off the table the moment it was proposed by the other side, a few days back when I was still away."

By now, confusion began to cloud your understanding of Sylus’s motives. “But…” Your gaze drifted to his desk, where numerous files lay scattered. “Is this why you came back earlier? Tonight’s transaction was for that protocore you needed, Sylus. I thought nothing could screw this up for you. Weren’t you after it for years?”

Sylus let out a small scoff, his lips pressing into a thin line as he studied your face intently. “You never asked me what the price of that protocore was, kitten.”

Curiosity piqued, you looked up at him again, instinctively leaning closer. Your breasts brushed against his chest, heightening the tension between you as if his answer were a secret he needed to share. “And what was the price?”

“You.”

Your eyes widened in shock, and a dark cloud crossed his features as he spoke. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, causing you to squirm on his thigh, which elicited a low grunt from him.

Your emotions were a chaotic mess, thoughts swirling together and leaving you breathless as you tried to process what he was implying. “So what you’re saying is…”

“The deal was off the table the moment they thought you were for sale.” Sylus’s leg bounced suddenly, and you couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped your lips. Your hands instinctively flew out to clutch the fabric of his open shirt for stability. “I came back because I had to send a message.”

His voice dripped with malice as he continued to move his leg, sending shockwaves of sensation through your core as it ground against his thigh.

The pleasure mixed with confusion made you feel light-headed; even if you wanted to resist, your body had already betrayed you. There was no stopping your hips from chasing the friction, no way to quell the whimpers that escaped your lips. Sylus’s fingers curled tighter around the fabric of your nightgown at the sound.

As you continued to grind against him, he spoke with a dark intensity. “They had to know, kitten; Nobody lives to say they tried to bargain with what belongs to me.”

“I—I don’t belong to you,” you breathed out, unsure whether you were trying to lie to him or to yourself.

“Is this why you’re drenching my thigh, sweetie?” As if to emphasize his point, he bounced his knee again, causing it to press against your sensitive nerves with a force that made you moan involuntarily, your head falling to rest on his shoulder.

“You poor thing,” he cooed in your ear, his hand sliding to your lower back, urging you to grind down against him.

“Tonight—you put yourself in danger, Sylus.” You struggled to form coherent thoughts as you chased your orgasm on his thigh, your mind slowly turning to mush. “That was so stupid, even for you.” You finished your sentence with a moan, and Sylus groaned, instinctively moving his hips upward, his own hard-on seeking friction.

“Were you worried about me, kitten?” He dipped his head to your neck, his lips leaving open-mouthed kisses as he awaited your response, which never came. Sensing your hesitation to voice your concern, his hand slipped between your bodies, his fingertip pressing onto your throbbing clit, making you cry out. “Answer me.”

“I—yes. Yes, I was s'worried.” Your head fell back in bliss, granting him access to suck and nibble on your throat as your hips moved faster and harder. The tight coil in your belly was only a few movements away from bursting. “I thought I’d—”

“Go on.” Sylus urged, his fingers dancing over your clit as he bounced his knee in sync with your movements, relishing the way you were making a mess on him, your whole body heating under his touch.

“I thought I’d lost you.” The words escaped your lips just as your orgasm washed over you, making your vision go black and your entire body shake with its intensity. Sylus’s arms wrapped around you, caging you against his chest as he let you ride it out, offering the small comfort you sought after your confession.

When you finally came down from your high, you were breathless, panting, and a few tears had escaped your eyes. But he was there, holding you gently and running his fingers through your hair. “I’m not that easy to get rid of, sweetie.”

You pushed your head off his chest, your eyes meeting his soft red ones. Without thinking clearly, you reached out to cradle his face. The moment your fingertips made contact with his skin, his whole body visibly flinched, and just like his heartbeat, it felt like time had stopped.

Horrified and regretful, you realized you had let your emotions get the best of you and forgotten about your evol. You stood up from his lap, pressing your hands tightly against your chest, the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Just a few seconds. Just a few seconds, and he’ll wake up, like he always does, right? Doubts gnawed at you; he was so weak after tonight, but his evol would heal him. It had to.

Just when you were about to scream for help, Sylus’s chest began to rise and fall again. His eyes fluttered open, and relief flooded your entire being. Your shoulders slumped, and your body shook, even though he was alright. How could you have been so careless?

“Sweetie.” His voice was soft as he stood from his chair, towering over you. “Look at me.”

You tilted your head up hesitantly, your regrets gnawing at you for what you had just done. You tried to open your mouth to apologize, but no words came out; instead, his lips found yours, silencing any sound you might have made. He threaded his fingers through your hair, pulling gently to angle your head to the side and deepen the kiss until you thought you might faint from lack of breath.

This time, you made sure to keep your hands glued to your sides, not daring to touch him again. When he finally pulled away, you were both panting. He rested his forehead against yours and moved his hand to the back pocket of his pants, retrieving something.

You tilted your head to watch him unfold two pieces of leather gloves. He carefully took your wrist, drawing it toward him before placing the glove on your hand, then moved to the other to do the same. It was a temporary solution, one that frustrated you to no end, but you wouldn’t jeopardize his life just for a touch of his soft skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your thoughts crashing over you like a tsunami of negativity at the prospect of harming him. Your frustration only fueled your desperation, and you found yourself clawing at the remnants of his shirt, trying to pull him closer. “I need you, please, Sylus, ’m so sorry.”

Sylus groaned as he felt you tugging him nearer, his own hands finding refuge on your body, touching and caressing anywhere he could reach. “Are you sure, kitten? Once we start, I don’t know if I can hold back.” His voice was low and controlled, while your legs trembled with desire and need.

“Then don’t hold back. Give me everything you have. I can take it, Sylus.” You pressed kisses all over his exposed chest, making him gasp and thin his patience. In one swift motion, you found yourself lifted off the floor, your body cradled in one of his arms as he carried you toward his desk.

“You really know how to bring a man to his knees, sweetie.” He placed you gently on top of the desk, taking his position between your legs. Your lips connected again as his hands deftly worked to rid you of your clothes.

Once you were bare before him, he stepped back, his gaze roaming over your body like a starving man taking in a feast. “Breathtaking.”

He fell to his knees in front of you, throwing your legs over his shoulders with a force that sent you backward, your elbows bracing against the desk for balance. He was too impatient to tease; he dived right in, his tongue lapping at your folds with urgent fervor.

Your back arched immediately, moans and whimpers spilling from your lips as he worked his mouth on your cunt, devouring you as if you were his last meal. Your legs tightened around his head, the pleasure overwhelming, which only made him groan and feast on you harder.

His tongue plunged into your tight hole, sending shockwaves of sensation coursing through your body. You thought you could hold on a little longer, but when his large hand spread across your tummy, pressing down, you exploded in his mouth. Your vision went white as you drenched him, your thighs shaking violently around his head.

The realization of what you had done hit you when he pulled away, his chin and exposed chest glistening with droplets of your release. You shot your gloved hand to cover your mouth, your legs instinctively closing in embarrassment.

Yet, he looked even more exhilarated, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them apart as he positioned himself between them, his lips finding yours once more. “You’re going to do this again. And this time, you’re going to do it on my cock.”

He pushed you back, a firm hand on your chest as you lay spread out on top of his desk. Your eyes focused on his hands as they deftly undid his pants, pushing them down along with his briefs. The moment you saw his girthy cock—veiny and the tip angry and red for you—your mouth went dry.

You craved to satisfy him as he had satisfied you, but when you tried to sit up, his hand pressed you back down against the desk.

“Not tonight, sweetie. Right now, I just need to be inside you.”

Even though he spoke, he made no move to get on you, waiting for your consent first. You nodded, your eyes clouded with lust.

“Use your words, kitten. I need to hear you.” He was pumping his cock with his hand, his fingers barely wrapping around it. Standing before you in all his naked glory, he resembled a Greek statue, and your chest tightened at how wickedly beautiful he looked.

“Yes. Please, Sy, need you inside me.” Your voice came out breathless, and that was all the confirmation he needed. He wrapped an arm around your thigh, pulling you to the edge of the desk and throwing one of your legs over his shoulder to spread you open exactly as he desired.

He pushed the tip in at first, making you clench around him instinctively, as if trying to suck him deeper. An unsteady breath escaped him, and his body stuttered momentarily. You were killing him in the sweetest way. “So goddamn tight.”

Your eyes rolled back in pleasure as he pushed further inside you, his grip on your thigh tightening the moment he was fully buried in you, his pelvis pressing against yours. You could feel him all the way up into your stomach, and your legs began to shake, even though he remained still.

His breathing had turned erratic, and the moment your hips squirmed forward, his other hand came down to keep you in place. “Shit, baby, don’t move. Give me a moment.”

You were a whimpering mess, sweat beading on your forehead from the anticipation. But the instant he started moving, your whole body unlocked, turning to pudding under his thrusts. He began with a slow, deliberate pace, his lips parting as small grunts escaped him, each thrust igniting the fire building within you.

The more you clenched down on his cock, the faster he moved, until the desk scraped against the marble floor. “Fuck, kitten. You’re squeezing me so tightly.” His voice was thick with lust, and the sound of skin slapping against skin only intensified the fire burning deep in your core. “Do you love my cock that much?”

Your mind had turned to mush, thoughts consumed by how he stretched you and filled you to the brim. You nodded uncontrollably, crying out every time his cock brushed against your sweet spot. “Yes! I love it so much, Sy.”

“Good girl.” Sylus’s thrusts quickened as he heard your pretty sounds, the way your walls sucked him in making his thighs tremble slightly as he felt his release drawing near. “Such a good girl, so cock-hungry for me.”

“Ah— fuck.” Stars began to form behind your eyelids, your whole body rocking on the desk. If it weren’t for Sylus’s hands gripping your thighs, you would have slid right off and ended up on the floor from his relentless force. The desk shook violently from his pounding, and you were certain the whole house could hear you.

Sylus’s hand reached for your face, his thumb brushing against your lower lip before slipping past it to press down on your tongue, making you clench around his cock instinctively. “That’s it, sweetie,” he breathed, his eyes closing and his head tilting back in pleasure as your cunt hugged him tightly. “Give it to me; I can feel how close you are.”

You were indeed on the brink, your whole body burning and trembling under Sylus’s powerful thrusts. But what sent you over the edge was a sudden knock on the door, followed by Luke’s voice calling out to see if everything was alright.

The moment you realized you had been caught, and Luke could turn the doorknob at any second to find you spread for Sylus, his cock pressing against your cervix, you exploded. Your loud moans were partly muffled by the white-haired man's finger in your mouth. The pressure you applied around his cock as you climaxed made Sylus falter, his own orgasm crashing over him with a force he hadn’t anticipated.

His hot seed coated your walls, filling you to the brim and spilling out of you, trickling down your thighs as he continued to thrust, ensuring every last drop found its way inside. You were a crying, spent mess on his desk, while he tried to catch his breath, slowly lowering your leg back down from his shoulder.

Luke was long gone from outside the door, having heard enough to realize what was happening between you and Sylus.

You could only look up at him with a small shared chuckle before he leaned down to kiss your lips, his newfound gentleness contrasting sharply with the intensity of the moment. “I believe they received a lesson about eavesdropping now,” he murmured, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

[yannawayne]

viii. a little death

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: MILD SMUT (will put indicators if people want to skip), Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Suggestive jokes, Doppelgangers AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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The black of his suit bleeds seamlessly into the surrounding darkness, making him appear more phantom than man.

He looks like a living nightmare.

Damian lifts his head just in time to see Batman towering over you, his cape billowing ominously in the night breeze. A cold chill runs down Damian's spine as dread settles heavy in his chest. Of all people, his father was the last person he wanted to find him here like this—vulnerable, exposed, and with you.

Reacting on pure instinct, Damian scrambles to his feet, positioning himself firmly between you and the Dark Knight.

"Father." Damian’s voice is low but steady, though the weight of what’s happening lingers in every syllable. His mind races, knowing that Batman doesn’t recognize you in your vigilante form and likely believes he's cheating on you.

To Batman, this looks like betrayal.

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Sunday, 12:13 AM - Stark Tower, Gotham City.

The rhythmic clacking of a keyboard filled the room, a steady, almost hypnotic sound that gently tugged you from sleep. You stirred, the tangled sheets wrapping around you like a cozy cocoon. Damian’s strong arms were draped around your shoulders and waist, his warmth a comforting presence as he held you close.

As he shifted slightly, his fingers traced absentminded patterns along your back, a tender caress that sent a soft shiver of relaxation down your spine. You groaned softly, turning towards him and resting your head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath your ear was a soothing, rhythmic pulse, grounding you in the comfort of his embrace.

Across the room, Morgan was propped up at your desk, her messy hair pulled back with a headband, though a few stray tendrils had escaped and framed her face in an untidy halo. Her eyes were fixed intently on the laptop screen, where a Google document was open, filled with lines of text that seemed to flow endlessly. In her free hand, she cradled a steaming cup of coffee, the rich aroma wafting through the room and mingling with the faint scent of the morning air. 

After returning to the tower yesterday, you and Damian had practically slept through the entire morning—this one, however... 

You groaned, burying your cheek deeper into the pillow as you tried to block out the light from the laptop and her typing. 

“You bitch. Do you ever sleep?” you grumbled, your voice thick with sleep as you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand.

Morgan gave you a lopsided grin, the steam from her coffee curling around her face like a comforting fog. “Sleep? What’s that?”

You rolled onto your back, stretching your limbs. “That’s usually my line.”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. “I know. Just kinda hyper tonight,” she said, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she continued typing.

"By the way,” she hummed thoughtfully, “what kinks do you think Nightcrawler would have?"

"..."

You could feel Damian’s confusion even before he spoke. "Excuse me?" he blinked at her, squinting as if he’d misheard. “Why on earth would you ask that? And why now, of all times?” “I’m writing fanfic,” she replied matter-of-factly, still typing away. “Ooh! You’re her boyfriend. What kind of freaky stuff do you think her hero-sona would be into?”

You stifled a laugh, propping yourself up on one elbow to enjoy the show. “Choking kink.”

Damian, who had been leaning against the headboard, choked on his own spit. His eyes widened in shock, and his face turned a deep crimson. “What?!”

“Don’t play dumb,” you snickered, reveling in the way his skin turned redder by the second. “I know you knew this one.”

Morgan’s gaze flickered between you two, her expression momentarily blank, though a hint of something inscrutable flashed in her eyes before she quickly shook it off. She returned to her typing, the clacking of keys filling the room once more.

“That’s so basic,” she huffed, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Give me a better one. I need something with a little more flair.”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Bondage, then. Webs, remember?”

Damian's face turned an even deeper shade of red at the mention of webs, his mind clearly racing to process the suggestion. 

Morgan’s fingers paused mid-keystroke as she considered your suggestion. A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. “Web bondage? Now that’s more like it,” she said, quickly typing it in. “I can work with that.”

“I’m surrounded by lunatics,” he muttered.

Morgan grinned wickedly. “Lunatics, maybe, but this is going to be one hell of a fic. And don’t worry, Dames, I’ll make sure Robin gets some action too.”

He shot her a glare. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“There are ships of us already?” you blink, surprised. 

Morgan coughs into her hand, an odd twist in her face. “There are ships of everyone these days. People have imaginations that just don’t quit. "

“I had no idea,” you said, blinking in surprise. “What do they call it? SpideyBird? WebWing?”

Damian looked genuinely disgusted. “Why do they even need a name for it? Why are people spending time on this?”

You patted Damian’s shoulder reassuringly, trying to lighten the mood. “At least they’re rooting for us to be together, right?”

Morgan just shrugged off Damian’s reaction and continued to write. “The fanfics of you are pretty fresh. Only around a hundred works so far, but the edits…” She trailed off, her fingers fumbling for her phone with a mischievous grin.

Groaning, you shut your eyes as Morgan’s grin widened. 

“Do not show me—” you began, but before you could finish, the audio started blaring from her phone.

Well, come and get it now Come and get it now Baby, show me what you're doing Come and turn around 'Cause it's not just a figure of speech You got me down on my knees It's getting harder to breathe out

“MORGAN!”

She looked up, grinning widely as if she’d been waiting for this exact reaction.

“What?” she laughed, thoroughly enjoying the moment. “You can’t tell me this hot.”

Curiosity got the better of you, and despite your better judgment, you peeked at the screen. The video was a shaky close-up, showing you leaning against a car, your hair tousled and your armor cracked. You were breathing heavily, your head thrown back.

The camera zoomed in slowly, and the lyrics that accompanied it were dramatic and overly romantic, turning the entire scene into something far more intimate than it had ever been. You could almost understand why someone might find it “hot,” but that didn’t stop the wave of embarrassment from flooding through you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “That is horrible. I was literally on the brink of death. Was that from last night?” “Yeah,” Morgan nodded as she replayed the clip. “Your fans ate it up. Apparently, it’s going viral.”

Damian, who had been eerily silent throughout the entire exchange, finally broke his silence. “Where is that on?”

You immediately yanked your hands away from your face, your eyes wide with disbelief. “No. Don’t even think about it.”

“Tiktok,” Morgan answered casually, a hint of mischief in her tone. To your horror, Damian pulled out his phone

“Don’t you dare!” you warned, but it was too late. Damian was already typing your codename into the search bar. 

As the search results loaded, an edit began to play, and you felt your face flush with heat. The chosen song only seemed to amplify the humiliation. 

Touch me, yeah I want you to touch me there Make me feel like I am breathing Feel like I am human

Damian, smirked, liked the video, and saved it.

“STOP!”

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Sunday, 8:06 AM - Gotham City.

"..."

"..."

"Why—"

"Don't—" you seethed, sinking deeper into the plush leather seat of Tony’s limousine. The soft leather creaked under your weight as you clenched the armrest, your knuckles turning white. "Don’t even say a word."

Damian pressed his lips together, suppressing a smirk. 

His gaze drifted over your outfit—no, the uniform you’d been practically forced into. The Stark Industries cap perched on your head was like a crown of corporate shame, its logo glaring down at you from the brim. Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your torso, the bold emblem stretched so tightly across your chest it might as well have been tattooed on. Even your sneakers were branded with that obnoxious red logo.

You felt like a sellout.

“You look stunning,” Damian said, barely holding back a laugh as he glanced over at you from his seat across the limo. 

“Stunning?!” You shot him a scowl, the edges of your mouth twitching downward. “I look ridiculous!”

“Why didn’t you just wear—”

“I couldn’t!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at Morgan. “This fucking ginger goblin threw my clothes out! Now I’m stuck as a goddamn billboard!”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo," she mocked, turning to you from her spot in the limo, sprawled comfortably on the cushions. Her fingers casually brushed against the plush fabric as she spoke, “Don’t shoot the messenger. Dad’s idea, not mine. He wanted you to have a ‘fresh look.’”

You turned to Tony, who was lounging at the far edge of the limo, his dress shoes propped up against one of the seats. He was absorbed in his phone, mindlessly scrolling through this week’s gossip. Occasionally, he chuckled to himself, completely oblivious to the steam practically pouring out of your ears.

Fighting the urge to choke-slam him right then and there, you spoke up “What the hell is this all for, anyways?”

Tony peered up from his phone and grinned, “Oh, come on. It’s a marketing move. There’s going to be paparazzi and everything. We thought it’d be fun to put you in our new line of promotional gear.”

“Fun? You think this is fun?!”

“It’s not like we’re asking you to wear spandex,” Morgan snickered, her eyes drifting to meet Damian’s. He shot her a glare in response. “It’s just a little branding.”

“I’d almost rather be wearing spandex,” you grumble, pressing your cheek to the cool glass of the window. Your breath fogs up the surface, creating a clouded view of the city beyond.

Morgan whistles. "That's a sight I'd love to see."

You roll your eyes. The cityscape outside rushes by, a blur of towering buildings and streaks of light blending into a hazy, indistinct swirl. Outside, the world seems distant, almost unreal, as if you're moving too fast to truly grasp any of it.

“By the way, you’re going to hate me, but…” Morgan spoke up again, reaching into her bag. “I also brought a jacket.” She held out a sleek, branded jacket that perfectly matched the rest of the outfit.

You slammed your head into the glass and vowed to burn every Stark-branded item you owned.

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Sunday, 8:14 AM - Wayne Tower, Gotham City.

Bruce wondered if it was too late to file for unemployment.

He sat at the head of the conference table, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the middle-aged man droning on in a monotone voice. The man's garish mustard-yellow tie jerked awkwardly with each exaggerated gesture, as if trying to bring some life to the dull presentation. His glasses, too large for his face, inched down his nose with every movement, threatening to fall off completely.

“—as you've all been aware, we've been facing issues regarding our stolen drone flight technology due to criminal activity in the—”

The slides projected onto the screen, filled with graphs and charts, were melding into an endless stream of data that felt like it was slowly turning his brain into mush. Bruce barely registered them. Instead, his mind was a million miles away, lost in a fog. He let his attention drift to the ceiling tiles, idly counting the tiny imperfections as the briefing continued. 

TICK. TOK. TICK. TOK.

He glanced at his watch, stifling a groan as he saw only a few painful minutes had passed since he last checked. The meeting, as usual, felt like a slog, but today was particularly grueling. 

His thoughts kept drifting back to the text he received last night. Damian had invited him to your dress shop appointment today, telling him he would be covering the bill. Without a second thought, Bruce agreed and sent his card over—and if Alfred hadn’t intervened, he might have ended up buying out the entire boutique in his enthusiasm.

Could you blame him?

Much like Selina, you were stubbornly independent—always managing on your own, even when you needed support. It was a trait that made him proud, but it also left him wishing he could be more involved in your life.

If Bruce were a better man, less emotionally constipated as he often chastised himself, he might have reached out more. He might have asked if you needed to talk, offered his support more openly, and bridged the gap that seemed to widen with each passing year.

But he wasn’t that man. He was the one who held back, kept his feelings guarded, and let the distance grow because he didn’t know how to close it.

Adding salt to the wound, Stark would be there too, intruding on what should have been his time with you. 

An absolute diva. That man had a way of dominating any room, leaving little space for anything—or anyone—else. It wasn’t just Tony’s overwhelming presence that irked Bruce, but how effortlessly Stark seemed to connect with you.

In just a few months, Tony had managed to get closer to you than Bruce had in years. Where Bruce held back, Tony leaned in, closing the gap he couldn’t seem to bridge.

To make matters worse, Stark had already gotten a head start. Although Bruce would have loved to pick you up himself, he was stuck in this meeting he couldn’t cancel again—he’d already rescheduled it thirteen times.

Which is why, the moment the clock hit 12, he was already on his feet, pushing his chair back and making a beeline for the door.

"Sir, we still need to discuss—" mustard tie stuttered, but his protest was cut short as Bruce, without turning or breaking his stride, raised a hand and dismissed him with a flick of the wrist.

“Contact my secretary if you need anything,” Bruce called over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for debate. The matter was closed.

“I’ll handle whatever needs to be done tonight,” he said, shutting the door firmly behind him.

And he would. Bruce had already gathered a significant amount of data on Black Mask and the recent robberies plaguing Wayne Enterprises. Although the case had taken a backseat amid the chaos with the spider vigilante, it was time to refocus. The priority now was to tackle what truly needed his attention.

As he stormed through the hallways, the lens of a nearby CCTV camera tracked his movements.

The camera’s feed flickered momentarily. The image on the screen sputtered and glitched, revealing fleeting glimpses of different worlds—flashes of varying times and places. Colors bled into one another, shapes twisted and warped, and for a brief, disorienting moment, the image seemed to fracture, as if reality itself was breaking apart.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the glitching ceased. The feed stabilized, leaving only a faint trace of the anomaly that had briefly unsettled the surveillance system.

Bruce jabbed the button for the ground floor and slid into the elevator. 

The lens refocused, but he was already out of sight.

 ༻⊰───⋅

The vehicle glided to a stop in front of a gleaming marble building, and you all stepped out, heading toward the entrance. The interior was as opulent as the exterior promised. Marble floors gleamed underfoot, and glass walls reflected the polished attendants who moved gracefully in their sharp suits. Nearby, customers mingled and laughed, their designer outfits adding vibrant splashes of color to the sleek surroundings. 

Your attention was drawn to the sleek signage behind the lobby desk, where a name was displayed in elegant gold lettering.

“La Ouvere.”

French. Expensive. So luxurious it practically oozed excess. Because, of course, this was the place Tony chose.

Grumbling, you adjusted your cap to hide your face. 

You couldn’t believe he made you wear company merch to a place like this. 

CLAP.

You looked up just in time to see two rough hands slam together in a handshake, the sound sharp and echoing through the lobby like a gunshot. Tony and Bruce exchanged pleasantries, their faces stretched into wide, almost painfully forced grins.

"Bruce! Good to see you," Tony started, his voice oozing with practiced charm. "I’ve got to say, I am a huge fan of your recent striptease at the Iceberg Lounge."

"Ha." Bruce’s reply was tight-lipped. "Tony. Always a pleasure."

The handshake lingered a beat too long, both men gripping each other’s hands like they were trying to see who could squeeze the other’s bones into dust first, daring the other to flinch.

Bruce placed a hand on your shoulder with a fatherly air. “I’m glad you saw great potential in her. I’ve always known her to be quite the achiever from a young age.”

Tony wasn’t about to let that go uncontested. He quickly slid his other hand onto your shoulder,  “Well, if anyone’s been pushing the limits and achieving great things, it’s definitely been her.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And it’s all thanks to the support system. After all, it’s not just about talent but the environment that nurtures it.” He gave your shoulder a pat, adding, “Despite the struggles, her aunt raised her well—you just get to reap the benefits. Haha. Not everyone can rely on billion-dollar labs to get ahead.”

“Well, thanks to me,” Tony says, giving your shoulder a shake (again with the shoulders thing.) “I’d say she’s got plenty of both now.”

The testosterone in this room was so thick you could practically taste it.

“Alright,” you shake your head, gently removing their hands from your shoulders. “Lovely. Nice. Wow. Can we like, go inside now?”

Tony tossed you a quick glance and said, “Right. Lead the way.”

Bruce gave a curt nod. “Of course. After you.”

They both reached for the door handle at the same time, their fingers colliding in an awkward, fumbling dance. For a split second, they froze, locking eyes with a mutual glare.

Seconds dragged on, feeling like hours. Neither man budged. Their hands, now tangled together in a bizarre and clumsy struggle, seemed locked in an absurd standoff. Tony’s fingers began to subtly shift, attempting a stealthy maneuver to slip underneath Bruce’s grip. But Bruce wasn’t having any of it. With a deliberate twist of his wrist, he countered Tony’s advance, blocking the move with a firm slam.

Another minute stretched out, each second heavier than the last.

You couldn’t take it any longer.

“Are you two having a staring contest?”

"..."

"..."

Tony blinked first, cursing softly under his breath. Bruce’s smirk broadened, twice as smug than usual.

“Oh my god. Just move!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up in frustration. “We’re here to shop, remember?”

The two men released the door handle simultaneously as if startled out of their petty contest. Tony stepped aside with a flourish, giving a dramatic sweep of his arm. “After you, mademoiselle.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

“These are the choices given to you by Mister Stark and Mister Wayne. Social event, oui?” the attendant says, her tone professionally neutral despite the clearly forced, fake French accent. She smooths down your black undershirt, ensuring it's perfectly straight before presenting the options.

She holds up the first suit: “Deep scarlet. Rich, saturated color—like fine wine. A luxurious wool blend. Two-piece. Tapered trousers, invisible stitching. Streamlined silhouette. French cuffs.”

Then she displays the second option: “Now, dark silk. Smooth, so smooth—like velvet in night. Classic sheen, very elegant. Three-piece. Also with tapered trousers, invisible stitching. Slim silhouette. Barrel cuffs.”

With a smile, she adds, “Both have their own magic, non? What shall you choose for the grand affair?”

“Uh,” you gape like the peasant you were, eyes darting between the two suits which seem nearly identical apart from their color. You barely caught onto the details the attendant pointed out.

As you wrestle with your decision, snippets of the conversation between the two men outside drift through the curtain.

“Sometimes, a classic black suit just gets the job done,” Bruce interjected. “It’s timeless and professional, never out of place.”

Tony retorted, “Oh, sure, blending into the background is so exciting. Why not go for red—loud, in-your-face, and impossible to ignore? It’s a damn statement.”

Bruce’s voice grew sharper. “I don’t know if you’re the right guy to make that call, considering the atrocity you dressed her in today,” he said, gesturing toward the Stark Industries merch discarded on the couch in the dressing room.

“Uh, says the guy who thinks monochrome is the pinnacle of fashion. Please, get real asshole. This is a hell of a lot better than your boring black blobs. Grow up.”

“You grow up,” Bruce shot back.

You roll your eyes and spot another suit hung up on a nearby wall—a deep emerald green. “What’s that one?”

The attendant perks up. “Ah, cette tenue! I apologize, it slipped my mind. This one was provided by the young gentleman with you. I should have mentioned it earlier.”

She holds the suit up to your chest, carefully examining the fit and adjusting the sleeve to ensure it drapes just right. 

“Three-piece suit with pattern. Jacket is single-breasted, notch lapels, welt pocket. The trousers are flat-front, slim fit, with sharp crease. The vest has five buttons, V-neckline, tailored fit. Very technical, very structured.”

You nod, satisfied. “This one. I like this.”

“Oh, magnifique! Excellent choice!” 

She quickly helps you into the suit. First, she slides on the vest, adjusting the straps at the back for a snug fit. Next, she drapes the jacket over your shoulders, smoothing out the fabric and aligning the lapels. Finally, she fastens the trousers, making sure the fit is right and the sharp crease is aligned.

You step out from behind the curtains, and every eye in the room locks onto you.

Morgan's face drops. “She chose the puke color.”

"Wow. Thanks. Really feeling the support here," you scoff, adjusting the sleeves. 

Turning to Damian, you raise an eyebrow, and it's only then that he truly registers what he's seeing. His expression softens gradually as he takes you in. The hard lines of his face are still there, but now they seem gentler, softened. 

You give him a small smile—nothing grand, just a subtle curve of your lips. But you know that even the smallest smile from you is enough to unravel him.

He watches, mesmerized, as you twirl slightly in front of the mirror. The suit hugs your figure perfectly, accentuating every curve.

“This was the boyfriend's pick," you say, flicking and straightening the lapels. Morgan's head snaps up. "I picked it because it matches his eyes, and honestly, I couldn't deal with your guys' arguing any longer.”

"Tt," Damian’s lips curl into a smirk, and he gestures for you to come closer. You step to his side, feeling the warmth of his hand as it rests gently over yours. With a subtle twist of your wrist, your fingers intertwine naturally, fitting together like they've always did.

Tony huffs, shaking his head. “Alright, well, whatever makes you happy. You look snug as a bug, kid.”

“Uh. Arachnid. Not a bug,” you correct him.

Bruce blinks in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of the interaction, clearly missing the joke.

He shakes his head and gestures to a waiting attendant, who approaches with a tray holding three boxes. The attendant opens the first box, revealing a necklace that catches the light and glints brightly. They lift it out, its shine almost blinding, and place it carefully on the counter.

“If you'd like,” Bruce smiles, “I’ve also picked out some accessories for you.”

The attendant then moves to the next box, lifting the lid to reveal a set of matching earrings, which they arrange neatly on the counter. They proceed to the third box, opening it to reveal a bracelet that sparkles just as intensely as the necklace. The attendant sets everything out with careful movements, arranging the pieces in a neat row.

You hold the necklace up to the light, blinded. “This is... a lot of sparkle.”

Turning to the attendant, you ask, “What’s the damage?”

“The necklace is priced at $250,000,” they say with a smile that’s more tightrope than genuine. “The earrings are $150,000, and the bracelet is $300,000.”

You blink, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, the numbers swirling in your head.

“What the actual fuck?” you blurt out, carefully setting the necklace back in its box with the reverence of someone handling a live grenade. “That’s… definitely not in my budget.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just money. If the price is too much, I can always—”

Bruce cuts him off with a grunt. “No need. I already have the check ready.”

"What?!" You turn to Bruce, shaking your head. “No! No one is buying me more than the suit! I appreciate the gesture, but this is way too overboard.”

"It's not that much, beloved," Damian hums, reaching for the earrings and holding them up to your face. "The necklace I bought you for your 18th cost twice of these combined."

Your eye twitches in disbelief. “You... you told me it was of ‘reasonable price.’”

“It was.”

“How much did you pay?!”

Damian remains silent, avoiding your eyes.

“Damian. Thomas. Wayne—”

Before you can finish, Damian calls over one of the attendants with a casual wave. “Excuse me? We’ll take all of this.”

The attendant, looking a bit taken aback but eager to please, nodded quickly and began arranging the items. You stared at Damian, your eyes practically burning and searing a hole through his stupid undercut.

“You can’t be serious!” 

Damian simply smirked, leaning closer. “Consider it a small gesture for someone who’s worth every penny.”

As you continued bickering, Morgan’s gaze lingered on the scene, her chest tightening with an unsettling, heavy feeling. She could feel something bitter and heavy rising in her chest, and she turned her eyes away, hoping that if she didn’t see it, she could ignore the way it made her feel, that gnawing ache she wished she could forget.

But then she heard your voice, soft and inviting.

"Morgan?"

It was like a lifeline, pulling her back to the present. She turned to you, forcing herself to meet your gaze.

"Can you tell them that I do not need this?" you asked with a groan, your smile radiating warmth. It was the kind of smile that could light up any room, even as your eyes drifted to the glimmering jewelry with exasperation. “They’re completely insane.”

Morgan forced a small smile of her own, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and shrugged slightly. 

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I think they’re onto something. You’re worth every penny. More than any of this could ever show.”

The words came out easy enough, but underneath, she could feel the bittersweet edge of them, something she kept buried deep where no one could see.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 10:24 PM - The Safehouse, Gotham City.

Shot through the heart and you're to blame Darling, you give love a bad name An angel's smile is what you sell You promised me heaven, then put me through hell

Music played from her speakers. The lab was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft glow of various screens and the occasional flicker of a monitoring light. Morgan sat at her workstation, the faint blue light of the holographic display casting a ghostly glow on her face. She was surrounded by a sea of tools, schematics, and half-finished projects, but her attention was miles away from the work at hand.

The thought of how you looked at Damian earlier haunts her deep into the night. 

Morgan’s fingers tapped absently on the console, her gaze distant and unfocused. She tried to lose herself in her work, hoping the details of her projects would distract her from the ache in her chest. But every time she glanced up at the screen, it felt as if her mind was dragging her back to that moment.

It didn't take a genius to see that she had feelings for you.

Woah, you're a loaded gun, yeah Oh, there's nowhere to run No one can save me, the damage is done

On the screen, the potency of the toxin you were exposed to a day ago was being processed. Ivy's old journal lay open in front of Morgan, serving as a reference for comparison.

As she scanned the data, a troubling pattern began to emerge. The readings were unstable, fluctuating wildly and suggesting incomplete or inconsistent results. Hours melted away as Morgan poured over the data, her eyes darting between the fluctuating graphs and the notes in the journal.

An odd, unknown element kept appearing in the results. It was an anomaly.

"This is not supposed to be here...?" Morgan mumbled, scratching at her head.

The journal’s pages fluttered as she flipped through them, desperately searching for any mention of similar anomalies or clues that might explain the glitch. Ivy’s notes were dense with technical jargon and cryptic observations, but none of it seemed to align with the strange data she was seeing on her screen.

BEEP.

Morgan’s head perked up, her attention snapping back to the screen. The familiar, rhythmic pulse of data had been interrupted by a sudden alert.

Element Detected: 𝑜̥̊⃝𝑠̥̊⃝𝑏̥̊⃝𝑜̥̊⃝𝑟̥̊⃝𝑛̥̊⃝

She squinted at the glitching display. The screen flickered and distorted, displaying an unfamiliar string of characters. The text was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The computer screen continued to flicker violently, lines of code merging into chaotic patterns. Cursing under her breath, Morgan fought to stabilize the screen. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, desperately trying to recalibrate the system.

After a tense few moments, she managed to clear the worst of the glitching. The flickering subsided, and the screen settled into a more manageable state.

Was that someone trying to hack in? The thought crossed her mind with a jolt.

She scrutinized the security logs, reviewed firewall activity, and cross-referenced access records, but found no concrete evidence of a breach. The logs were clear. Everything seemed normal—no unauthorized access, no signs of tampering.

But the unknown element was still there, stubbornly staring back at her from the screen.

Morgan ran her tongue over her teeth, a habit of hers when deep in thought. 

Alright. So. Every sci-fi movie warns against messing with unknown chemicals. And this is definitely one of those “don’t touch” moments. But what’s life without a little risk? Besides, it’s not like she hasn’t faced weird before. 

Problem was… the data on her screen right now was like trying to read a recipe from a cookbook that had been chewed up by a dog—completely useless. If she wanted answers, she’d have to get a closer look.

Morgan quickly set up a new data extraction protocol, isolating the unknown element. The process was slow and tense, but gradually, the substance began to take shape on the screen, its properties becoming clearer with each passing minute.

Once she had successfully isolated the element, she moved on to the next phase: synthesizing it into a serum. With a gloved hand, she carefully heated a glass flask on a burner and began adding the unknown element to the mix, watching as the contents started to react.

The silence was abruptly shattered by a sharp crack that split the air. Morgan’s eyes widened in shock as she saw thee glass flask on the burner shatter into jagged pieces. The once-clear liquid inside had turned into a dark, burned residue, and what was left was a blackened crust coating the inside of the flask.

"Great. Just great," Morgan muttered under her breath. She reached for the shattered glassware, cradling it gingerly in her hand. But as she did, something bizarre began to happen—the flask itself seemed to glitch.

The glass started to flicker and warp as if it were a malfunctioning image. It shimmered and pulsed with an otherworldly light, surface fading in and out of focus, struggling to maintain its form.

"What the fuck?" 

Her eyes stayed glued onto the flask. The constant flickering was starting to give her a headache, a dull throbbing that grew more intense with each passing second. She squinted, hoping to stabilize her vision, but the distortions only seemed to worsen.

Amid her growing confusion, she started to hear faint whispers—strange, disjointed voices that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The whispers were so low she could barely make out their words, but their presence added to the sense of disorientation that was creeping in.

An unexpected impulse tugged at her—a sudden, inexplicable urge to take the serum. Her hand trembled slightly as she considered the syringe lying on the nearby counter, a dark thought creeping into her mind. 

She stared at the flask, her gaze mad.

A part of her wanted to see what would happen if she followed through with the intrusive thought. 

Then, in a sudden, jarring shift, the erratic glitching reached a peak. The flask’s distortion became so intense that Morgan could barely make out its shape. She snapped back to reality, jolted by the sheer intensity of it all. Her senses were overwhelmed, the whispers louder now, almost shouting in her mind.

In shock, her hand lost its grip. The flask slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor, the blackened remnants scattering across the lab.

CRASH!

The sudden noise of breaking glass cut through the disorienting haze, and Morgan’s breath came in ragged gasps as she stared at the mess before her. 

The strange impulse had vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

The glitching that had plagued the flask started to spread outward, expanding like a ripple through the air. Her eyes widened in disbelief as the distortion grew larger, forming a swirling vortex in the center of the lab. 

The portal-like disturbance expanded further, and out of it, a shadowy figure began to emerge. First, it was just a hand, reaching through the glitching void. It grasped at the air, solidifying into a more defined shape. Morgan's heart raced as the figure pulled itself further into the lab.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, as the figure's hand closed around her arm. The touch was cold and otherworldly, sending a shiver down her spine. She struggled against the grip, her heart pounding as she tried to pull away.

With a sudden, violent shove, the figure tossed her back. Morgan crashed into her workstation, slamming painfully into a shelf, sending tools and equipment clattering to the floor. 

Her eyes darted back to the figure, now fully emerging from the glitching portal. 

The intruder was clad in dark green armor, nearly black in the dim light, with a purple shawl draped over their shoulders and a hood shadowing their face. They wore goggles and a mask that concealed their features, lending them a menacing, almost robotic aura. Despite their height and build matching Morgan’s, there was a palpable strength in their movements, an unspoken threat in the way they stood.

The portal behind them flickered and closed, sealing off the strange rift from which they had emerged.

Morgan scrambled to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She clenched her fists, trying to steady herself as she faced the intruder.

“Who the fuck are you?!” she demanded. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she stood her ground, ready to fight if she had to.

The masked figure remained silent, their gaze—hidden behind those reflective goggles—locked onto Morgan. They slowly tilted their head down, taking in the sight of the shattered remnants scattered across the lab floor. 

Morgan followed their gaze and noticed the scattered pieces of a hoverboard. She recognized it immediately from the fragmented components. The design was eerily similar to the one she had in development herself—a project that had been pushed to the back burner.

The intruder’s attention then shifted to the broken glass and the unknown element still displayed on her screen. A soft click of disapproval escaped from behind the mask as the figure nudged the broken hoverboard aside with a booted foot.

“Shame,” they murmured, their voice low and laced with something almost like regret. “I came a minute too early... You should have taken that serum first. You were supposed to. It would have made this easier for both of us.”

Morgan swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what they meant, but she didn’t want to find out. The figure took another step closer, closing the distance between them.

“Who are you?” Morgan pressed. “And how did you even know about that?”

The figure paused, considering her for a moment before answering. “Who I am isn’t important. What matters is what you could have been—what you were supposed to become.”

Morgan’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of the cryptic words. This wasn’t just about the serum—there was something bigger at play. She took a step back, trying to put more distance between herself and the intruder, but the figure only followed, matching her movements like a shadow.

“Don’t worry,” they said softly, almost mockingly. “I should know better than anyone that you would want answers.”

Morgan’s heart skipped a beat as the figure’s gloved hand slowly reached up to their mask. The tension in the room was suffocating, each second stretching out endlessly. The mask and goggles came loose with a soft click, and as they were removed, Morgan’s breath caught in her throat.

It was her.

Her own face stared back at her, a perfect reflection, yet not. There were differences—subtle but unmistakable. The other Morgan’s eyes held a cold, calculating gleam, their hair was longer and pin-straight compared to her short curls, and their lips curved into a smirk that sent a shiver down Morgan’s spine.

“I'm Morgan Stark,” the doppelgänger said, voice eerily familiar yet laced with something darker, something twisted. “But in my universe, they call me the Green Goblin.”

Morgan felt numb. The words didn’t make sense, and yet they explained everything. 

“What... what do you want?” Morgan’s voice was barely above a whisper, the shock of seeing her own face—so twisted and malevolent—making it hard to think straight.

The Other Morgan—the Green Goblin—tilted her head, studying Morgan with a mix of amusement and pity. “Isn’t it obvious?” she said, taking a step closer. “I’m here to make things right. In my world, I perfected the serum. I became something more, something powerful. But in this universe, you... you were just about to throw it all away.”

Morgan shook her head, trying to process the flood of information. “This... this isn’t possible. How can you—”

“Exist?” the Other Morgan interrupted, a cruel smile curling on her lips. “Multiverse theory, sweetheart. Infinite versions of you, of me, of everyone. Even our beloved Spidey. In my universe, I figured it out. Became a goddamn genius... and a bit of a monster, too. Here though? You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“I don’t care what I—you’ve done in your world!” Morgan’s voice shook with defiance. “You don’t belong here. You won’t get whatever it is you’re after.”

The Other Morgan smirked. “Oh, but I already have. I didn’t come here to take anything. I came to see what I could have been if I hadn’t chosen the path I did. And honestly,” they scoffed, flicking a piece of Morgan’s hair, “I’m disappointed.”

Morgan’s fists clenched at her sides. “Get out,” she spat, her fear giving way to anger. “Get out of my lab, out of my life. Now!”

But they just laughed, a chilling sound that echoed in the small space. “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t come all this way just to walk away empty-handed. If you won’t take that serum, then...”

Before Morgan could react, her doppelgänger lunged toward the remnants of the shattered serum with blinding speed. Morgan scrambled to intercept, but her doppelgänger was faster. In a swift, brutal motion, they slammed Morgan down onto a nearby table, the impact knocking the wind out of her.

Morgan struggled against the hold, but her alternate self was stronger, pinning her down with ease. The twisted grin never left their face as they reached for a syringe. 

Morgan watched the charred solid remnants of the serum begin to twitch and quiver, as if responding to the presence of the syringe. To her horror, the blackened crust slowly liquefied, transforming back into a thick, dark fluid that oozed toward the tip of the needle.

"Shh," the Other Morgan cooed, voice dripping with mock tenderness as they drew the serum up into the syringe. The liquid swirled ominously inside, as if alive with a malevolent intent. “You’ll thank me for this in the future.”

Morgan thrashed, trying to break free, but her alternate self only tightened their grip, leaning in closer.

“Don’t worry,” the Other Morgan whispered, bringing the needle closer to Morgan’s skin. “This is a canon event, sweetheart. This is the part where you become more than just a bystander. This is where you become unstoppable.”

They leaned down, eyes glowing an eerie green. “This is where we kill Robin.”

“No!” Morgan's scream pierced the air as she slammed her knee into her doppelgängers gut, the sudden impact causing them to stumble back.

The Other Morgan staggered backward, clutching their midsection with a pained gasp. Morgan seized the moment, pushing herself off the ground and scrambling for any advantage. Her pulse raced as she darted towards a nearby workbench, grabbing a wrench and holding it defensively.

Scoffing, the Other Morgan recovered quickly, rising to their full height with their long hair cascading over their face, obscuring their features.

"First off, I’m not some fucking homewrecker," Morgan gasped, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as she took a defensive step back, wrench clutched tightly. "And second, you’re insane! Spider’s happy with him! Do you honestly think she’ll fall for you after everything you’ve become?"

“You think you can stop me?” Other Morgan snarled. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

“I know enough,” Morgan said through gritted teeth, trying to steady her trembling hands. “And I’m not going to let you hurt anyone.”

The Other Morgan’s lips curled into a smirk.

With a swift flick of their wrist, they threw a small device onto the floor. It hissed and released a dense cloud of smoke that quickly filled the room. Morgan’s vision blurred as she squinted, trying to make out the figure through the thickening haze.

Suddenly, a sharp, electric crackle pierced the smoke, followed by a powerful jolt that knocked Morgan off her feet. The room spun around her as she struggled to rise, her head throbbing from the shock.

Before she could fully recover, she felt a tightness around her wrist. She looked down to see a watch strapped onto her, its face glowing ominously. As she tried to make sense of it, a swirling portal began to materialize around her, its edges flickering with an eerie green light.

“Why don’t you take a trip to my universe for a bit?” the Other Morgan taunted, their voice dripping with malice. “I’ll handle things here while you’re gone.”

Morgan tried to protest, but the portal’s force was too strong. The edges of her world warped and twisted as she was yanked into the swirling void.

As she disappeared into the vortex, she heard a faint, mocking laugh. 

The portal closed with a swoosh, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

The Other Morgan turned their gaze to the workbench, their eyes locking onto a pair of scissors lying casually on the counter.

“Alright,” they said with a chilling smile, “first, a haircut.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

They say you’ll be bitten by spiders no less than 500 times in your lifetime, and you probably won’t even notice 95% of those bites.

Spiders might not affect most people that much.

Damian, however, would have a different opinion. He’d also like to punch those people in the face

Tonight, as Robin swings through the city, his gaze is locked onto you. You dart between skyscrapers with a grace that seems almost effortless. Your Starktech suit, still in for repairs, has you back in your old black kevlar—sturdy, reliable, and showing signs of wear.

Damian, out with you for what was supposed to be a routine patrol and sweep, is seeing your skills up close for the first time. He watches as you maneuver through the urban jungle with an ease that both impresses and frustrates him.

He finds himself pacing alongside your swings, trying to stay close—not just to keep an eye on you but because he’s half-expecting to be called into action at any moment. Watching you is like witnessing a high-wire act where the safety net has mysteriously vanished. Moments ago, you executed a daring twist and jump that had Damian’s heart lodged firmly in his throat. He was practically holding his breath, bracing himself for the sickening thud of a broken leg—or worse—only to see you land on your feet with a carefree laugh.

But then, without warning, you yelp and take a sharp turn, diving into the open air. The sudden change sends a jolt through Damian, and his heart skips a beat as he watches you fall fast.

“Nightcrawler!” he shouts, his voice barely audible over the rush of wind. His grappling hook fires with a crack, and he rockets toward you, every muscle straining as he fights the pull of gravity.

Just as you’re about to hit the ground, Damian’s gloved hands wrap around your front, pulling you into his arms with a fierce grip. He tucks you close, bracing for impact. You slam against the wall of a nearby building with a jarring thud, Damian’s boots taking the brunt of the landing. The impact shakes him to his core, but he holds you tightly, shielding you from the collision.

Heaving, he immediately tucks a strong arm against your back, holding you against him. “Are you—”

You burst into laughter, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press your cheek against his. “Did you see that? I pulled off a perfect dive!”

Damian’s breath comes in sharp bursts as he steadies you both, his eyes scanning for any signs of injury. “You imbecile! What were you thinking? You could have broken your neck.”

You pout playfully, brushing a stray lock of hair from Damian’s mask. “I was having fun! Come on, I wasn’t actually going to fall.”

Damian shoots you a glare that borders on murderous. "Fun?! Fun isn’t worth risking your life."

His fingers dig into your hips as he continues to hold you tightly against him, his muscles tensed like a bowstring. "And you did fall—nearly landed on your face. If I hadn't been there, you'd be eating through a straw right now."

You tilt your head, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Uh. But you were there.”

Damian narrows his eyes, his tone dripping with frustration. "Do you get some perverse pleasure out of scaring me to death?"

"Maybe," you drawl with a teasing grin.

Even with his anxiety cranked up to eleven, he can’t help but feel a surge of warmth for you. The irritation in his eyes softens, revealing a flicker of affection.

“You talk and do too much,” he grumbles, though his actions speak louder than his words. As he starts to guide both of you up to a nearby rooftop, his grip remains firm and protective. 

He’s climbing with you in his arms, every muscle straining under the effort. You can’t help but whistle at the impressive display of strength, watching as his muscles ripple beneath his suit with each movement. 

“Tsk,” he scoffs as he hauls both of you up onto the rooftop, setting you down gently.

Once you’re safely on solid ground, Damian steps back, creating a respectful distance between you. As he stands against the backdrop of the city lights, his figure is dramatically framed by the glowing skyline. His cape flutters behind him like a dark, billowing flag, enhancing his imposing silhouette. Robin stands tall, masked, and cloaked in shadows—dark and lean.

You grin coyly at him, your arms tucked behind your back as you take a few steps closer. 

“My hero,” you tease playfully, your fingers trailing gently up his cape.

The gesture almost immediately disarms Damian, his irritation momentarily forgotten.

He snatches your hand away from the fabric, his fingers wrapping around yours in a firm grip. “Is this a joke to you? I am in no mood for your games tonight,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair as he turns his gaze to the city skyline. He bends down, squatting on the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below and casting a soft, ambient glow over the scene.

You follow him, bending down to wrap your arms around his shoulders and drape yourself across his back. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his jaw through your mask, the gentle touch warm against the cool night air.

Damian’s shoulders relax slightly under your embrace, and he closes his eyes momentarily, savoring the closeness. For a moment, he considers chastising you, but the feel of your body pressed against his back makes the words die on his lips.

Instead, he lets out a sigh and shifts his position, guiding you so that you slide down his back into his lap, your legs draped on either side of his hips.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you’re not making it easy to stay upset with you.”

“That’s the point,” you whisper, your breath warm and teasing against his skin. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, moving to stand and pulling you up with him. 

You giggle, your fingers trailing down his chest, light and teasing. Your claws graze over the contours of his suit, scratching at the armor that covers his chest and abs. The sensation is electric, sending shivers through both of you.

“Careful,” Damian rumbles, his voice a low growl as he grabs your hands once they reach his waist, his grip firm but not unkind. You’re getting a rise out of him, in more ways than one.

You lean in closer, wickedness dripping from your lips. “When have I ever been careful?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, the heat in his gaze intense as he draws his face inches from yours. "You never are. You are a reckless, impulsive, and downright idiotic woman." 

“Yeah,” you press your chest against his, your voice low and teasing. “I get that a lot.”

"And you just love proving them right, don’t you?" he says, his voice low and laden with both warning and something else.

“Is that a threat, Robin?” you whisper, your voice dripping with challenge. Flicking your wrist up, you web his chest and pull him down. 

He crashes into you, his body pressing against yours. His hands fly to your thighs, gripping the supple flesh there.

A smirk spreads across his face. "Merely a promise."

Without another word, Damian tugs your mask off and closes the distance between you, his lips crashing onto yours in a fierce, heated kiss. His mouth moves with a possessive intensity that sends a shiver down your spine, his tongue teasing yours as he pulls you closer, leaving no space between your bodies.

You feel the low rumble of his moan vibrating through your chest, a sound that only fuels the fire between you. As your hands tangle in his hair, you suddenly notice something that makes you pause—he’s smirking against your lips.

He’s smirking. The fucker is smirking.

Grinning against his lips, you pull back just enough to murmur, “So my Spidey thing turns you on? Or is it the webs?”

"Keep talking like that and I'll have to shut you up," he grunts, his voice rough with desire before he silences you with another kiss, this one deeper, more consuming. His grip tightens as he claims your mouth again, leaving no doubt about the effect you have on him.

He presses you back, and in the heat of the moment, you take a step backward with more force than intended. Your injured ankle lands awkwardly, sending a jolt of pain shooting up your leg. Despite being healed, it still ached every now and then, and this was one of those painful reminders.

You pull away with a sharp hiss, unable to stifle the reaction. 

Damian's concern for you immediately eclipses his previous frustrations. His hands find your hips, steadying you to prevent you from putting too much weight on the injured foot.

“What happened? Did I—”

“It’s just,” you wince, carefully adjusting your stance, “just my ankle. It’ll be fine.”

"I thought you said you were healed," he fusses.

"Guess I thought wrong."

"I wouldn’t have let you out with me tonight if I’d known you were still having trouble. You should have told me it was still bothering you." he scolds.

You frown, your voice softening as you look up at him. "I just... I just wanted to spend time with you. Are you mad?"

Damian’s expression softens with an almost pained look as he carefully gathers you in his arms, lifting the weight off your injured ankle. 

"Mad? No, I'm not mad," he hesitates then, his grip on you tightening slightly. "But I'm worried. I worry about you, and your actions tonight didn’t exactly ease my concerns."

He looks down at your ankle, gently tracing his fingers over the injury. 

“I’m sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t—Last night, if I’d just taken time to ask you—you wouldn’t be hurt in the first place,” he whispers, his voice barely audible as he brings his face close to yours. The apology is raw, and when he mutters it against your lips, his breath hitches in his throat, overwhelmed by the warmth in your eyes.

“You had your reasons; it’s okay,” you say with your usual forgiveness, the kindness in your voice a balm to his aching conscience. 

His fingers gently graze the back of your neck, the touch tender and almost reverent. 

“I should have been more careful,” he murmurs, thick with regret. “I’ve let my anger cloud my judgment.”

“Damian, it’s fine,” you said, running your fingers through his hair and gently swinging your legs. “I trust you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. We all have our moments, and it was just a bad time for both of us. I love you, and I trust you.”

Damian made a soft sound. Up close, in his arms, there was no space between you, and he seemed softer, more touchable.

“I love you too.”

You cupped his face gently as his other arm slid below your head, pulling you even closer. His strong arms enveloped you, holding you in a way that felt perfectly right—moving closer, exchanging breaths, and locking eyes to see everything there was to know about him.

 ༻⊰───⋅ smut begins

Whispering his name, you kissed him again, and he eagerly returned the gesture. 

He guided you into a shadowed corner, his kisses growing more urgent and insistent as he pressed you against a wall. The world around you began to dissolve into a swirling haze. The only sensations that mattered were the feel of your breath mingling with his, the whisper of your voice against his, and the way your hands tugged at his hair. 

You. You. You.

His tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking for entrance, which you granted immediately, opening your mouth and deepening the kiss. His hands roamed over your body, mapping the curves and contours like a blind man seeing the world for the first time.

You raised your knee and pressed it against him, eliciting a groan from Damian, his eyes rolling back into his skull. “Fuck…”

You teased softly, “That good?”

“As always, habibti.”

Damian’s words were swallowed by another kiss as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him even closer, bodies pressing together in an intimate embrace.

His fingers roamed up your back, tracing the curve of your spine with the practiced touch of a man who knows you intimately.

Smirking wolfishly against your lips, Damian slowly dragged down the zipper on the back of your suit. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, amplifying every sensation as he worked his way down.

The heat between you two quickly spiraled into an unstoppable force that surged and twisted. 

His utility belt falls to the ground with a loud clang, the buckle hitting the asphalt. Fingers trembling with impatience, Damian tugs at his suit's zippers, each one loosening with a sharp hiss before he dives back in. 

Every touch, every movement, seemed to ignite a deeper craving within him. Each time you breathed his name, it was like a spark that fueled his losing control, pushing him further into the abyss of his desire.

He wanted more of you—every part of you, every inch of your skin, every breath you took.

He dips his head down, his mouth finding the pulse point on your neck. His tongue flicks out, hot and wet against your skin, as he begins a trail of kisses down your collarbone that sears into your skin. 

"I need to feel you, sweet girl." Damian's words come out in a guttural moan, half-curse, half-plea. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as his mouth found your chest, and you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him.

“Damian,” you gasped, your voice a low moan. “Please.”

A flurry of movements passes, and finally, he's pressing himself into you. Your body welcomes him like it was always meant to be, fitting together perfectly as if he was always meant to be a part of you.

His cape falls over you, enveloping you both in a cocoon of shadows and heat. 

The rhythmic movement of your bodies creates a slow, intense friction between you. The heat between you two was scorching, each touch and caress creating sparks of pleasure that shot through your body. Damian's teeth sank into the soft skin of your neck with a possessive fervor, leaving behind marks that would linger long after the night was over.

He could feel you pressed against him, your warmth melding with his. The taste of you lingered on his lips, the flavor of you lingering with every kiss. The sweet sounds of your pleasure, your moans and gasps, filled and echoed in his ears. The scent of your perfume, intoxicating and familiar, drifted in the air, consuming, overwhelming his senses and pulling him deeper into you.

It was all you. Everything was you.

It comes in waves, each one building and cresting until the final surge pulls you completely out of orbit. Your toes curl, your thighs lock, your heart seems to freeze, and a cry of his name escapes your lips, echoing in the space between you.

“Yes,” Damian pants out. “There you go, habibti. Just like that…” 

He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he follows you through the aftershocks. Gently, he guides you down from your peak, his hips rolling slowly against yours until the rhythm gradually subsides. He murmurs love confessions in Arabic, lips trailing loving kisses over every inch of exposed skin, soothing you as you twitch and tremble in his lap. 

As the aftershocks subside, Damian gently lifts you and tucks you against his chest. 

"You okay?" he asks, soft and filled with concern. He gently massages your lower back, his fingers tracing soothing circles on your skin.

He pulls his cape around you like a blanket, wrapping you in a layer of warmth. Even in the middle of the night on a secluded rooftop, he’s focused on making sure you're cared for and cozy.

Damian adjusts his suit and re-secures his utility belt. Taking a cloth from his belt, he begins to wipe you down, removing any lingering traces of the night’s events. Once you're clean, he carefully tugs your suit back on, smoothing out any wrinkles and zipping it up with steady hands. 

 ༻⊰───⋅ smut ends

“Thank you,” you rasp out, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Damian’s response is tender; he nuzzles his face into your neck, pressing a gentle kiss to your skin. His touch is warm and reassuring. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieves your mask and hands it to you.

You tug it back on, but before you can pull it down completely, Damian leans in and kisses you. Smiling, you kiss him back, the mask only partially covering your face, leaving your lips and the lower part of your cheeks exposed.

!!!

You slowly push Damian back, a sense of alarm creeping into your consciousness.

!!!

A loud thud echoes in the distance.

DANGER.

Before you can process what’s happening, Damian is violently knocked away from you. He’s flung onto the ground with a forceful crash, the impact sending a shockwave through the rooftop. You watch, breathless, as he hits the surface hard, pain etched across his face.

Cursing, you try to move toward him, but a sudden, chilling presence makes you freeze. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the dark, sweeping fabric of a cape fluttering through the air. Your heart skips a beat as you turn, dread coiling in your stomach.

Batman.

For a moment, the world narrows to the figure looming before you, the embodiment of shadow and fear. The distant hum of Gotham fades, leaving only the thudding of your pulse, loud and insistent in your ears. The scattered light from the city below creates jagged contrasts on Batman's armor, casting him in sharp highlight. The black of his suit bleeds seamlessly into the surrounding darkness, making him appear more phantom than man.

He looks like a living nightmare.

Damian lifts his head just in time to see Batman towering over you, his cape billowing ominously in the night breeze. A cold chill runs down Damian's spine as dread settles heavy in his chest. Of all people, his father was the last person he wanted to find him here like this—vulnerable, exposed, and with you.

Reacting on pure instinct, Damian scrambles to his feet, positioning himself firmly between you and the Dark Knight.

"Father." Damian’s voice is low but steady, though the weight of what’s happening lingers in every syllable. His mind races, knowing that Batman doesn’t recognize you in your vigilante form and likely believes he's cheating on you.

To Batman, this looks like betrayal.

Bruce's hurt gaze flickers briefly to Damian before settling on you, his eyes unreadable beneath the shadowed cowl. His voice cuts through the silence like a blade, deep and gravelly. “Step aside, Robin.”

Damian doesn’t budge, his chin lifting in stubborn refusal. “No.”

“I won’t repeat myself,” Bruce warns, his tone colder, more commanding. “Move. Now.”

“You don’t understand,” he snaps back, voice laced with urgency. “It’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it?” Bruce’s gaze hardens as it shifts back to you, scrutinizing every detail of your vigilante form. He’s searching for something—anything—that might give him a clue to your identity. “Who are you?”

You remain silent, your mind racing to assess the situation. Revealing your true identity isn't an option—not now, not like this. You adjust your stance, preparing yourself mentally for whatever comes next, but Damian's presence in front of you is a steadying comfort.

“She’s with me,” Damian states firmly. “That’s all you need to know.”

But Bruce isn’t swayed. He takes another step forward, his towering form casting a long, ominous shadow over both of you. The authority he exudes is almost suffocating, a force that demands obedience and submission. 

Bruce’s voice drops to a near growl, heavy with warning. “You’re making a mistake.”

Damian doesn’t waver, his stance firm, his resolve unshaken. “Maybe I am. But it’s my mistake to make. I’m not moving. Not until you understand—”

“Understand what?” Bruce’s voice, though controlled, cracks with an edge of hurt. “That you’re risking everything for—” His words catch in his throat, and his eyes, now seething, lock onto you with anger. The unspoken words hang in the air, heavy and accusing, as if he’s struggling to comprehend how Damian could make such a choice. 

“Father,” Damian tries again. “Just listen, please. I’m not—”

But Bruce cuts him off sharply. “I don’t want to hear it, Robin. Stand down. Now.”

Damian grits his teeth, his jaw clenching at the command. “I won’t. You want me to move, you're going to have to make me.”

Bruce growls and his posture shifts, his body tensing as he readies himself for combat, cape swirling with a sudden, sharp movement, the dark fabric creating a menacing silhouette against the night sky. Damian rolls his shoulders.

The silent acknowledgment of the fight to come is all that’s needed. 

The first move comes fast and brutal—a sweeping kick aimed at Damian’s legs. Damian barely manages to sidestep, but the force of the attack sends him stumbling slightly.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Bruce presses his advantage. He lunges forward, delivering a powerful punch to Damian’s jaw. The blow connects with a sickening thud, causing Damian to gasp and stagger backward. He tries to recover, swinging a fist toward his father, but Bruce is already moving, effortlessly deflecting the strike and countering with a sharp elbow to Damian’s ribs.

Before Damian can recover, Bruce is on him again. He grabs Damian by the collar and delivers a powerful knee to his abdomen. The impact sends Damian sprawling, crashing hard onto the rooftop. The concrete shudders beneath him, and he struggles to get to his feet, gasping for breath.

“You’ve forced my hand. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to,” Bruce seethes as he advances. His fists come down in a series of blows, each strike aimed at disabling rather than harming. Damian blocks and dodges where he can, but Bruce's assault is relentless, each hit pushing him further back.

THWIP

A web snares Bruce’s arm, halting his advance. His head swivels toward you, confusion and fury flashing in his eyes beneath the cowl. He struggles against the webbing, but you seize the opportunity to yank him off Damian, pulling him forcefully to the side of the rooftop. The webbing binds him tightly against the edge, restricting his movements.

Without wasting a second, you rush to Damian’s side. His breathing is ragged, masked cracked. blood runs down his lip You kneel beside him, gently pulling him up against you. Your arms wrap around him, providing a protective, comforting embrace.

“Baby, are you okay?” you ask urgently, voice trembling with fear.

Damian rasps out a laugh, his grin weak but defiant. “At least I know he’ll do the right thing if I ever do you wrong.”

SHLICK.

You look up to see Bruce cutting through your webbing with a knife. The webbing disintegrates under the assault, and you curse under your breath. Without your web-shooters, your organic webs are noticeably weaker—a reminder that you'd need to ask Morgan for new ones as soon as possible.

Bruce continued his advance, his gaze fixed on you this time.

You raised a hand, trying to signal a truce, your voice shaky but earnest. “I... I don’t want to fight,” you said, the exhaustion evident in every word. 

“Then take off the mask,” Bruce commanded, his voice cutting through the air with a harsh edge, leaving no room for negotiation.

The demand hung between you, making your heart pound louder. You took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on you. Slowly, you lifted a trembling hand toward your mask, fingers grasping the edge.

But before you could fully uncover your face, Damian's hand shot out, grabbing your arm and yanking it away.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses, eyes flashing with desperation. He turns to Bruce, getting back onto his feet.

“Don’t come any closer,” Damian warns as he unsheathes his katana, its blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. “I have the utmost respect for you, Father, but if you take one more step, I will have to engage you properly this time.”

Despite the weight of your decision, there’s no other choice. Your sole aim is to end this confrontation swiftly and with as little harm as possible.

With a sharp breath, you square your shoulders and raise your head.

“Nobody’s going to do anything,” you say firmly as you start to tear off your mask. The fabric pulls away slowly, the cool night air brushing against your exposed skin.

As the mask comes free, you are left bare to the elements, your face now fully visible under the moonlight. You hold Bruce's gaze directly, hoping that this gesture will be enough to de-escalate the standoff.

"It's just me."

 ༻⊰───⋅

ruh oh

mmmmmmmm yes 3-4 chapters left

[chibinasuu]

Little Mouse | Sanji x Reader

Summary: An espionage mission gone wrong had you on the run from the Marines. You snuck onto a random pirate ship to hitch a ride out of town but were discovered by the ship’s cook, who was oddly fond of mice.  Tags: one-shot, fluff, no use of y/n, f!reader (one use of “lady” in reference to reader), mouse-zoan!reader, spy!reader, set in East Blue just after Loguetown

a/n: i have always loved Sanji’s soft spot for mice, and this idea of Sanji with a reader who was a mouse zoan wouldn’t leave my mind so please enjoy this little fic!

You messed up. 

You scurried through the streets of Loguetown, your tiny paws agilely dodging the feet of all the people milling around. 

You really messed up this time.

A couple of marine soldiers were hot on your heels, desperate to accomplish their superior’s bizarre order of capturing a measly little mouse. You reveled in their apparent frustration as they whipped their lowered heads left and right to find you, to no avail. You were too quick for them. 

Now that you thought of it, this whole situation wasn’t even your fault in the first place. You prided yourself in being smart enough to know when you were walking into a trap, and you were certainly observant enough to distinguish a lie from the truth. 

It just so happened that a member of the pirate crew you were spying on was a fool. 

You had been involved in an under-the-table deal with the Marines for over a year now, pocketing Berries in exchange for valuable information that could lead to the capture of East Blue’s most notorious pirates. It was dirty work, and you hated every second of it, but what could you say? Your devil fruit ability was perfect for this and it was a way to put food on your table. 

Your mission this time was to scout a small pirate crew, which was affiliated with one of the marine’s bigger targets. You had overheard a crew member telling his captain that they were supposed to meet the “Big Boss” on the western coast of Sixis Island at dawn. You had no suspicions at all that the man was telling the truth, because he had believed the information to be correct. In such a manner, he had unknowingly — luckily for him — passed on false intel to you, and consequently to the Marines. If you had waited an hour longer, you would’ve heard the ship’s captain scolding the man for misinformation following his conversation with “Big Boss” over the transponder snail, which reaffirmed the location of the actual meeting point.

So imagine the Marines’ surprise when they arrived at the western coast to find not a single soul. The pirates, which were positioned on the southwestern coast, were alerted of the Marines’ arrival and successfully launched an ambush, turning the table around and causing an immense loss for the Marines. 

The Marines were furious at you. One wrong intel and over a year’s worth of precious, accurate information you provided them went down the drain. You were deemed a traitor, and a bounty was immediately put upon your head. 

That was how you find yourself scampering around the streets in a dash toward the harbor. You need to get on a ship and get out of this town as soon as possible. You figured a pirate ship would be your best bet, as they were the least likely to be fraternizing with the Marines.

You were desperately running through the harbor when a stunning caravel with a sheep figurehead caught your eye. You were well-versed in the pirate crews of the East Blue, but you didn't recognize the ship's Jolly Roger — a skull wearing what appeared to be.. a straw hat?

Without a second thought, you snuck onboard, careful to ensure that no marine saw you. You slipped through an open door and found yourself in a quaint kitchen and dining room. You scurried into one of the slightly ajar lower cabinets, and waited. 

After what seemed like hours, you heard the crew, which seemed to be a very small one, preparing to cast off from the harbor. 

Your nerves started to settle as you felt the ship slowly moving away from the town of the beginning and the end. The exhaustion of the day finally caught up to you, and you found yourself drifting off to sleep to the sway of the ship upon the waves. 

The respite was short-lived though, as you were awakened by the clangs of pots and pans. You could only hope that whoever was cooking wouldn’t need anything from the cabinet that you were currently huddled in. But of course, with how your luck was going lately, that was too much to wish for. The cabinet door was suddenly yanked all the way open and you came face to face with a blonde man, his piercing blue eyes wide in surprise. You froze, fully prepared to be met with revulsion, the way normal people react when they see a mouse in a kitchen. 

Instead, to your surprise, the young man’s lips curled up into a wide smile, “Oh hey, little mouse. What are you doing here? You must’ve slipped in at Loguetown, huh?”

He picked you up gently and sat you on top of his palm, “Well, aren’t you a cute little fella?”

If mice could blush, you were sure your white fur would’ve turned red all over. No one has ever called your mouse form cute before. 

He set you down on one of the long benches on the side of the dining table, and continued talking to you, as if he knew that you could understand him, “A ship’s not a good place for a mouse to live, but since you’re already here, let’s take care of you until we can release you on the next island, yeah?”

He went back to the stove and put a little bit of what he was cooking onto a small plate. The cook placed the plate in front of you, “Dig in, Mouse-chan. I hope you like fried rice.”

The inviting aroma of the warm meal made your stomach rumble, reminding you of how hungry you were. You sniffed around the plate, acting as close to an actual mouse as possible to avoid suspicions, before lowering your mouth slowly and taking a small bite. It took everything in you to remain silent and expressionless as you tasted the most delicious food that you have ever had in your whole life. A few minutes was all you needed to clear the plate. You wished you could thank the chef, but you knew it would be wiser for you to stay in your mouse form in front of him. 

“This brings back memories.” He chuckled, though a pinch of sadness was apparent in his smile, “I used to cook for mice when I was little.” 

He took away your little plate before serving up the rest of the fried rice onto the dining table, obviously dinner for his crew. He opened the cabinet that he found you in, folded a dishcloth to form some sort of cushion, and put it inside. 

He offered his palm to you, and you tentatively jumped onto it. He smiled at your cooperation, then proceeded to place you on top of the soft fabric inside the cabinet, “My crew is a rowdy bunch. It’s probably best for you to stay in there for now.” 

He closed the cabinet door, but not all the way, allowing a sliver of light and some fresh air to come through. 

The rest of the crew eventually gathered for dinner. You had no intention to spy on them, but old habits died hard, and you found yourself unwittingly perking up your round ears and listening in to their conversation. 

You figured out that the crew was composed of at least five people – three more boys aside from the cook, and a girl. They seemed to be on the younger side, and you could tell that the crew was only newly formed.

You were only half-listening as they went on to talk about all sorts of mundane things, until the girl suddenly spoke up, “According to this map, we’re about three days away from the Reverse Mountain…”

Wait… the Reverse Mountain? This small-time pirate crew was heading to the Grand Line? With just five people? You couldn’t believe your ears. You had hitched a ride with a bunch of idiots. 

Despite your predicament, a minuscule part of you couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit excited. After all, the Grand Line used to be your dream too, once upon a time. You had fantasized about traveling the world, before reality crashed down upon you and forced you into doing dirty work for the Marines just to survive. 

A little voice inside your head told you that maybe sneaking into this very ship was a blessing in disguise. You were a fugitive with a bounty now after all, so what was stopping you from joining a pirate crew and sailing freely in the Grand Line? 

The more rational voice reminded you that you were an uninvited guest on this ship. There was no way the crew would take you in – a stranger they knew nothing about, and a stowaway at that. No, you couldn’t dare reveal yourself to them. It was better to get off this ship at the next port and figure out your way from there. 

The bustle of the dining room slowly died down as one by one, the crew retired for the night. You heard the sound of dishes being washed, and you felt your thoughts being pulled back to the blue-eyed cook and the kindness that he showed you. If you’ve learned anything from being the user of the Mouse-Mouse Fruit, it's that cooks hate mice in the kitchen. You couldn’t understand why this one treated you differently. 

As if summoned by your thoughts, the door to the cabinet opened to reveal the blonde cook, “You doing alright, Mouse-chan?”

You couldn’t help but admire how handsome he looked under the warm lights of the kitchen. 

The cook brought a little cup of water and put it beside you inside the cabinet. Once again, you were taken aback by the generosity of this man. 

“Sleep tight, I’ll see you in the morning.”

He turned off the lights and headed outside, and before you knew it, a deep sleep claimed you. 

You awoke to the crew’s chatter as they had their breakfast. You hadn’t felt this rested in ages. You saw that a block of cheese and some crackers had been placed beside the water, definitely courtesy of the cook, and you nibbled on them gratefully. 

The day passed on peacefully, with you taking a much-needed rest inside the cabinet and the cook sparing you spoonfuls of the dishes he was cooking for the crew’s lunch and dinner. 

By evening, you were getting a little antsy, the way you always felt when you stayed too long in your animal form. You longed to transform back into a human and stretch your whole body, but you knew it was a risk.

You heard the cook, which you found out from the crew’s conversation was called Sanji, finish cleaning up the kitchen. Just like the day before, Sanji put a cup of fresh water inside your cabinet and bid you good night, then turned off the lights and left the kitchen. 

You hesitated for a second. Now that he had left, the kitchen was empty, dark, and quiet. It should be safe for you to transform for a few minutes, right?

Stealthily, you sneaked outside the cabinet, and in the comfort of the unlit kitchen, you turned yourself into your original human form. You stretched your arms over your head, moving them side to side as you extended your spine. You were so focused on the pleasure of being back in your body that you didn’t notice the footsteps heading toward the kitchen before it was too late. There was no time for you to change back into a mouse as Sanji switched on the kitchen lights. 

The both of you were frozen to your spots as you sized each other up. Sanji looked you up and down, taking in your fitted white top and pants, before locking his gaze on your face. 

His confused expression turned into one of puzzled recognition as he stared into your eyes, the only distinctive feature that you shared with your mouse form. His lips trembled before he sounded out in disbelief, “M-mouse…chan?”

You timidly nodded, heart pounding as you feared what would come next. He would definitely rat you out to his crew, then they would probably throw you overboard. 

“I, uh, forgot my cigarettes,” was the only thing Sanji could say amid his shock. 

Silence shrouded the room, both of you not knowing what to say, before Sanji finally opened his mouth again. 

“Who… what are you?” He asked carefully, in a tone that was filled not with anger, but with curiosity. 

“Do you know what devil fruits are?” You uttered softly, revealing your voice to him at last.

Sanji nodded, “Our captain is a devil fruit user. So, you’re one too?” 

“Yes, the Nezu Nezu no Mi.” You explained, “It allows me to switch between three forms – my true human form, a mouse, and some sort of human-mouse hybrid.”

He was quiet as he took you in once again, his face lit with wonder. A trail of blood started to flow down his nostril and he quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of his suit.  

“Are you okay? You’re not…mad?” You asked hesitantly, before blurting out in one breath, “I’m really, really sorry for stowing away on your ship. You have been nothing but kind to me, and I’ve been tricking you and taking advantage of your hospitality.”

You got down on your knees, “I understand that this is impertinent of me, but I beg you, could you please let me stay until you arrive at the next island? I promise I’ll disappear after that, and I won’t trouble you and your crew ever again.”

Tears started forming in your eyes as you waited for the cook’s verdict. His leather shoes entered your blurry sight as he stepped closer to you. He crouched down before you and tipped your chin up with his fingers, “Of course, you could stay. You could stay however long you like. I don’t know what your situation is, but I would never turn away a lady in need.”

His thumb absentmindedly brushed away the tears from your cheeks as he continued, “I still have to tell the Captain, but I have a feeling he’d be happy to have you onboard.”

“Why?” You asked incredulously, “Why would he be happy to find a stowaway in his ship?”

Sanji chuckled, “Well, for one, you could turn into a mouse. That would be more than enough reason for him to let you stay, or permanently join the crew even.”

At your confused face, he laughed louder and told you, “Trust me, you’ll never meet a man quite like my Captain.”

You slowly nodded, regaining a little bit of composure with Sanji’s reassurance. 

“I have one condition, though.” You heard Sanji say as he stood up and offered you his hand. 

You felt your heart drop. Of course, he would have a condition. You knew it was not going to be as simple as that. 

You took his hand and stood up, lifting your chin in determination, “Name it.” 

Sanji grinned cheekily, “Show me your human-mouse form.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at his request. You hated your hybrid form. It was hideous, for goodness’ sake. However, you could not possibly deny the wish of this man, who has shown so much kindness to you. 

You let his hand go and took a step back. You drew a shaky breath, before allowing your power to flow over you and shift your body into the only form that Sanji had not yet seen. 

You hugged your fur-covered arms insecurely, and nervously looked up at Sanji, expecting to find disgust written all over his face. Yet, his face was filled with what you could only describe as awe. He reached out and ran his fingertips over your whiskered cheek inquisitively, “Beautiful.”

You shivered at his word and his gentle touch, before turning your face away from him in embarrassment and immediately transforming back into a human. 

Sanji laughed in amusement at your shyness, “Hey, don’t hide your pretty face from me.”

The heat on your cheeks intensified, and your eyes wandered around the kitchen, trying to find a distraction from Sanji’s gaze upon your face. Your eyes landed on today’s newspaper lying on top of the dining table, the corner of a wanted poster visible from between its pages.

You took out the poster and cringed at the sight of your full name and picture looking back at you. 

“Is that you?” Sanji asked, “No wonder I thought your face looked a little familiar.” 

He took the poster from you and scanned its content. You felt your heart inadvertently skip a beat as the sound of your name fell from his lips for the first time. 

“15 million Berries?” He raised a swirly eyebrow at you, “That’s quite a bounty for a little mouse.” 

You sighed, “I guess you deserve an explanation.”

You ended up telling him everything. You weren’t sure why, seeing as he was practically a stranger, but you knew that you could trust him. 

You told him about how you left your hometown to go out to sea, filled with dreams of the Grand Line. About how you were stranded on an island with all of your provisions and Berries lost to the sea, and how you ended up accidentally eating a devil fruit to tame your hunger. Of course, you also told him all about how you came to be in this mess with the Marines in the first place.

Sanji was quiet as you talked, only offering small hums and nods to indicate that he was listening. When you finished, he simply thanked you for trusting him with your story. 

In exchange, he told you a little about the crew. He told you about his Captain, Luffy, who dreamed of becoming the King of the Pirates. You had initially laughed, thinking that he was joking, before realizing that Sanji was dead serious. You shook your head in disbelief and smiled to yourself, just what the hell were you getting yourself into?

Without even being aware of it, You and Sanji had talked through the night, getting to know one another over cups of tea that Sanji had prepared at some point during your conversation. 

The rising sun caught the cook’s attention, and he immediately jumped up to prepare breakfast. 

You trembled anxiously at the thought of meeting the rest of the crew soon, not knowing how they would react to your presence. 

Sanji noticed and squeezed your shoulder reassuringly, “Everything is going to be alright, Mouse-chan.”

Somehow, you believed him. 

You watched the sun creep higher and higher over the horizon, bringing in a new day and hopefully, a new life for you.

Everything was going to be alright.

update: hi, thanks so much for reading this far, and for all the likes, reblogs, and comments! this sanji x mouse-zoan!reader idea had been floating in my head for a while and i was really glad to have finally written and posted it. it's not a guarantee, but i may write a couple more stories set in the canon timeline after the mouse-zoan!reader officially joined the straw hats, so please let me know if you want to be tagged in possible sequels to this fic!

[folkling]

SLASHED A 12 Day Spooky Season CAS Challenge 🩸💀

Hi friends! It's getting closer to one of my favorite holidays, and I thought I'd make a CAS challenge to help bring in the spooky season. I've had this challenge in mind for a while, and now is the perfect time for it. I love slasher films, Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, you name it. So, that's the theme of this CAS challenge. No rules, these are your slasher film characters. Just share, tag me (I'd love to see), and have fun!

Remember, use #windbrookslashed

*update: Day 6 “The Sacrifice” now encapsulates “The Fool” (stoner/ and or comic relief) character archetype - more details in glossary*

Find a character glossary below

Character Glossary

The Final Girl

Usually the one that survives the onslaught, they give the killer a run for their money

The Jock

A douche. They’re arrogant, irresponsible, and usually one of the ones to die first.

The Bad Girl

Flirtatious, sexy, and catty to a fault. Usually stuck up. They mean well, but ultimately cares only for themselves.

The Outcast

Responsible and level-headed, they're often perceived as a "Debby Downwer".

The Academic

Nerdy, kind-hearted, and loyal. They're either finding clever ways to outwit the killer or making the cast easy prey - by accident of course.

The Sacrifice/The Fool

We care about them, they’re funny and relatable. Usually ridiculed by The Jock and The Bad Girl. As much as we care about them, they typically die a gruesome death, ultimately warning the others of just what kind of danger their in.

The Skeptic

“See it to believe it” is their motto, and by then it's usually too late.

The Meddler

If there's a demonic ritualistic book locked by key, they're usually going to find a way to pry it open. Everyone suffers because of them, everyone.

The Harbinger

A creepy old person usually warning the main cast to stay far away from whatever impending danger they seem to be crashing into.

The Detective

Thinks they know best, and the main cast hates them for this. They're always poking around, checking things out. Typically they're a blessing to The Final Girl, helping best the killer, or a curse, in which you're happy to see them die.

The Hunter

Knows the killer's weakness and the best way to beat them. The Final Girl typically teams up with them to finally nail the killer. Usually, they're considered the other final character to survive.

The Killer

Iconic. The bringer of doom. It gives them pleasure to pick of the cast, reveling in their own cat and mouse game. No matter their backstory, it always leads to slaughter in the end.

[maybank5]

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐤 (𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐡 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭)

pairing ⤜ yn x jj

summary ⤜ you and jj have never gotten along; sworn enemies since childhood. so why is then, when he shows up with bruises, you want to burn the entire world down for this boy?

tags and such: abuse, mentions of abuse, fluff, comfort, walks on the beach, mutual crushes, jj calling you 'mama'

a/n ⤜ needing some comfort jj fics in my life right now, and i'm sure i'm not alone in that. enjoy! also this was supposed to just be a little drabble, but she kinda took on a life of her own. not complaining though lol

song inspo ⤜ any kyla la grange song

word count ⤜ 4k+

JJ Maybank - the bane of your existence. Ever since he had trampled your sandcastle on the playground back when you were seven, you couldn't stand him. And one trampled sandcastle had set the stage for ten years of torment at the hands of this boy. He seemed to revel in making your life miserable. He wouldn't be JJ Maybank if he wasn't pulling your hair or teasing you or shoulder-checking you in the hallway. And you wouldn't be you if you didn't put your hands on your hips and glare at him, shouting after him a scolding, "Oh grow up!" that was only ever met with that laugh of his that seemed to bounce of the cinderblock walls of the school halls.

You had come to realize sometime around sophomore year that you and JJ Maybank were destined to be enemies. You found yourself looking forward to the school day, to see just how he'd try to fuck with you, and to scold him and hear that damn laugh. Your friends couldn't understand it; why the two of you always seemed to seek each other out, despite your mutual hatred. "You wouldn't get it," you'd say with a shrug. JJ Maybank was your mortal enemy, but you honestly couldn't imagine your school day, your life, without him in it.

JJ is no stranger to a fight. He's always getting into something with the kooks from Figure Eight. It's not out of the norm for him to show up to school with a busted lip or black eye. He always shrugs it off, brags about how the other guy "looks much worse." You roll your eyes and shake your head. He's never seriously hurt though, so you don't worry too much. It's not like you lose sleep over JJ Maybank. Still, you can't help the relief you feel that shoots through you like a drug whenever he laughs off the bruises or black eyes.

But today is different. Yesterday, JJ wasn't in school. Not that unusual of an occurrence. But today, JJ shows up to school with his face a galaxy of purples and yellows. Your heart sinks to your stomach as if weighted with a lead anchor. This wasn't just the result of a spat between a Pogue and a Kook. He looked like he'd been jumped and you spend the entire morning following him with your eyes. You want to go over and check on him, press your palm to his cheek, and ask what happened, make sure he's okay. But that's not you and JJ. Instead, you hug your books tighter to your chest and follow him down the halls with your gaze. All you want to do is run after him, check on him. It makes no sense. You know he probably just got in another fight. JJ was always stirring up some type of trouble. But he didn't have the usual laugh or smile this time. His eyes looked almost hallow, broken. It made your heart feel heavy in your chest. You could barely focus in class, all your thoughts drifting to JJ Maybank and those haunting bruises. They were like ghosts in your head.

At the end of the day, JJ was swinging his backpack onto his shoulder with a wince, about to hop into his truck with you surprised yourself. Instead of catching a ride with your friend Sarah, you find yourself running across the parking lot to his beat up, rusted old truck.

"JJ!" You call.

His head whips around, brows furrow when he sees you. Then, that lazy smirk spreads painfully across the snagged and scabbed lip, "Y/N," he says in that lazy, bemused kind of way of his, that let's you know you're in for something, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

You want to scold him like you would normally. Instead, you freeze. You don't know what to say that doesn't include some sort of spat or dig. Instead, all you want to do is pull him close to you and hold him in your arms and it makes no damn sense.

"You weren't in school yesterday," you settle for saying.

"Astute observation, Sherlock."

Your stomach flips a little, excitedly like it does before a fight with JJ Maybank; like you were born for these little interactions. Instead, you take a breath and try your best to push through the wall he's putting up. "I just...I wanted to make sure you're okay?"

"When am I ever not okay?" JJ asks, pushing the blonde hair off his forehead with a practiced flick of his hand.

You sigh. He's deflecting. Of course he is. When does JJ Maybank ever take anything seriously. You don't know why it bothers you so much, but you need him to know. You need him to know that you care, that you're in his corner. You'd fight against him a thousand times over, but when he shows up looking like this, all you want to do is fight at his side and burn down the world for him. You know it doesn't make sense, but when did anything regarding JJ Maybank make sense.

You decide to meet him where he's put you. "Just seen you prettier, that's all," you say with a shrug. If he wants to deflect and be snarky, you can do that too. If snark is his comfort zone, you can meet him there.

JJ tugs the corner of his bottom lip between those feline-like teeth of his. He's amused, and it makes you happy to know you made him smile. Or rather, JJ's version of a smile.

"You worried about me, darlin'?" He drawls.

"If someone roughs you up too badly, who do I have to fight with?" You ask, and JJ laughs. Your stomach dips with the weight of the butterflies that have filled it.

JJ pushing his hair back again, smirk still playing on his lip, "Don't worry, darlin', nothin' can stop me from fighting with you. It's my favorite part of my day."

You cross your arms, fighting the smile on your face as you shake your head. "You're impossible," you say.

"And you love it," he says. You don't realize right away that you don't deny it.

"So...need a ride?" He asks, glancing behind you as Sarah's car pulls from the parking lot. "Cause it looks like yours just left."

Sarah. She's always trying to get you two alone. For some reason, she has it in her head that all your fighting is just camouflaging your "real feelings." You think Sarah needs to stop reading so many fanfics in her free time.

"Of course," you sigh, "Remind me to give Sarah Cameron an earful when I get home."

JJ just chuckles and unlocks the truck, tossing his backpack in the backseat. "Get in," he says. You don't argue.

You toss your bag in the back next to his before joining him in the front seat. Sitting together on his bench seats of his old truck feels almost intimate. This is the closest you've ever been to JJ before, and it's happening when you're alone. Both your brain and stomach feel as if they're on rollercoasters.

JJ backs the truck out of the school parking lot. "So, where to, Y/L/N?"

You tell him your street and he nods. He rolls down his window and with practiced ease, takes out and lights a cigarette one handed. You try not to wrinkle your nose. This is his truck and he's being kind enough to give you a ride. You aren't going to be a pain about a little cigarette smoke.

JJ begins to drum his fingers on the wheel, his right knee is bouncing jitterijngly. The cigarette between his fingers is doing nothing to calm his nerves, and you fight the urge to rest your hand on his knee.

"So," you say after a beat, "You gonna tell me about the sick fight you got in that led to....that," you wave a hand in his general direction.

JJ takes a drag of the cigarette, the air in the truck suddenly feeling thicker. "Not much too tell. Mouthed off, the usual."

You nod, "We both know that mouth of yours is gonna get you in some type of trouble one day."

JJ smirks, but it doesn't quite reach his eye, "Yeah," another drag of the cigarette, "But fuck, I wish hadn't been so drunk out of his mind to forget he was wearing that damn class ring."

You freeze. "What?"

"Dad," another drag, "That's who I've got to thank for these sick bruises. Dear ol' Dad."

"JJ..."

"It's fine," he quick to say, quick to shrug, "I've got it under control. It's usually not this bad. But last night he was completely hammered and I should have known not to..."

"No, JJ," you're quick to say, "Nothing you did is an excuse for this. Whatever you did, you didn't deserve this. This is on him, not on you."

JJ sighs, tightens his hand on the wheel, "Whatever," he says, another shrug, a slight sniffle, "It's just a few more months, then I'm eighteen and I'm out. It's fine, really Y/N. I've got it under control. And usually when he gets like that, I can hide out at John B's place, lay low a bit."

"JJ, you shouldn't have to..."

"It is what it is," JJ says, another shrug, "It's just the roll of the dice. The hand I've been dealt. I learned a long time ago it does nobody any good to run around feeling sorry for yourself."

"Does anyone know?" You ask, you feel like your stepping out onto a frozen lake, unsure of the weight of the ice.

"John B, his dad. They do what they can. No one blinks twice at a kid from The Cut with a few bruises. I've got a home, I'm fed. That's more than most of the kids from the broken homes 'round here. Besides, if anyone did come sniffin' around and decide to take me away, you know what that means, Y/N? That means being taken to the mainland, to a group home that'd probably be worse than where I am now. And I won't have John B or Big John or the surf to keep me sane. So I lay low, try to stay out of his way. It's fine, Y/N. I'm fine."

Your hand hovers slightly before you press above JJ's knee, right where the khaki cargo shorts cut off. His skin is soft, tanned. You half expect him to jerk away, to smack your hand away. Instead, he tenses under your touch, his eyes draw to you. You give him a soft smile.

"It's okay not to be fine, JJ. You don't have to be fine all the time, and you certainly don't have to be fine around me. It sucks, and I'm so sorry this is what you go through. You've never minced words with me before, so don't start now. It fucking sucks. But you aren't alone, okay? I'm here for you too."

"Mind if we make a pit stop first?" JJ asks.

You shrug, "I've got nowhere else to be."

You're sure Sarah is probably glued to her phone wanting every detail. You can make her stew a little bit.

JJ pulls the truck over at the drive-in burger place, Storm's. He orders two strawberry milkshakes.

"If you don't like strawberry milkshakes, then I'm kicking you out of this truck right now," he says, paying the carhop the $5.50 and handing you your Styrofoam cup.

"If you don't like strawberry milkshakes, I might never speak to you again," you say.

"Damn it," he snaps his fingers with a grin, "Nearly had an out."

You give his shoulder a shove and JJ laughs. It feels good to hear him laugh, to be the cause of it. You want to make him laugh over and over again.

JJ takes the truck out towards the beach. You sit in silence as you watch the waves, sipping your milkshakes. Silence has always made you feel awkward, on edge. This silence between you feels almost comfortable. Like neither of you have to say anything, and that's okay.

Still, you can't help but ask, "You have somewhere to go tonight?"

"Been staying at John B's," JJ says, "Dad'll cool off in a few days. Sober up. He's predictable like that. Hell," JJ laughs humorlessly, "I'll bet this weekend he'll pull up with an ice chest of beer and cans of tuna and have a whole weekend out on the boat planned just the two of us. That's as close to an apology as Luke Maybank can muster."

"JJ..."

"It's fine, Y/N. Like I said, I've got it under control. A few more months and then I'm out. I've even got money saved. John B and I are gonna rent a place close to the water. It'll be sick."

"Sounds nice," you say. "This is nice," you wave your milkshake out towards the sea just ahead, "I don't come to the beach enough."

"You don't? How do you survive?"

You can't help but laugh at how genuinely concerned he sounds. "Not everyone needs the salt water to survive, Jage," you say, "I guess I just never grew up with it. My parents are definitely more inside people. And sure we go to the beach sometimes. But I guess I just don't go out of my way to come here."

"That's just sad, Y/N. One of these days, I'm gonna have to teach you to surf." The comment seems to take the both of you by surprise. "Uh..." JJ's hand goes immediately to the back of his neck.

"I'd like that," you're quick to say, and it seems to relax him just a bit.

"Really?" That lazy grin is back.

"Mmhmm," you nod, "No one's ever gone out of their way to teach me anything like that before. And even I know you're one of the best surfers on the island."

JJ beams with pride, sits up a little straighter, "Damn straight." He takes another slurp of his milkshake, then lifts his chin towards the water, "C'mon," he says.

"Where are we going?" You ask as he's already bailing out of the truck.

"Just c'mon," he says.

You can't help but laugh, leaving your milkshake behind. JJ takes your hand in his and pulls you towards the beach. The wind is kicking up as evening approaches, and you walk along the sand, breathing in the brine of the salt water. JJ's still holding your hand in his, and you can't help but think it belongs there, in his.

"This right here," he says, "is why I stay where I am. I can't imagine being away from the ocean, the surf. John B says I have saltwater for blood and maybe he's right. But this right here, Y/N, is my favorite place in the world. It's paradise. Everything else, all the bullshit, it's worth it to be here. There's no where else I'd rather be."

"It is beautiful," you say, "I definitely need to come out to the water more."

"I'll bring you."

"You better."

JJ smiles, tightens his hand around yours.

The two of you walk along the beach, enjoying the sounds of the waves splashing, the gulls cawlling from above. Some little kids are building sandcastles as you walk past.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" You ask, "I was building a sandcastle in the sand box on the playground and you trampled right over it."

"That was not the first time we met."

"Yes it was."

"Oh no it wasn't. C'mon, Y/N, do you really not remember?"

"I remember you trampling my sandcastle is what I remember."

JJ shakes his head, "We met before that. Nursery school. About two years before then."

"What?" Your brows furrow as you try to think back that far.

"It was your first day and you were crying and clutching that stupid teddy bear of yours. You didn't want your mom to leave you. You sat off by yourself crying all morning. I went over and shared my Goldfish with you cause I felt bad."

"Oh my God..."

"Yeah," JJ runs a hand through his hair, watching the sand kick beneath his feat, "And then that day on the playground, I was so excited to see you again that I ran over and...accidentally stomped on your sandcastle. But by then you were so livid that I'd ruined it and started yelling at me, and well...I've always been kind of a shit about things and so I started kicking it worse, just to get a rise out of you. I'd have done the same thing to John B. But seeing you get all...squawk like that."

"I do not squawk."

"Oh you absolutely squawk," JJ laughs, "And thus began our beautiful rivalry as we know it."

"You're a pain," you say, but you can't help the smile on your face.

"You love it though."

"Do not."

"Do too!" JJ gives you a gentle shove with his shoulder, "You absolutely start half the shit that's happened between us. You go out of your way to track me down and yell at me for something."

"I do not do that!"

"You absolutely do that. And you drag poor Sarah long with you and she stands there and tries not to laugh as we go at it. If I didn't know better, Y/N, I'd say you actually enjoyed our fights."

"That's not true! You are such a menace! You get on my last never all the time and..."

"Uh-huh," JJ's smirk deepens, the dimple forms in his cheek, "Keep tellin' yourself that, Mama."

The term of endearment makes your stomach tighten. You can feel your cheeks heat, and it's not from the sun.

"Don't call me that," you say.

"Why not?" JJ asks.

"Because," you can't think of a single valid reason. "That nickname is for a significant other," you finally say.

"True," JJ nods, "And that's definitely not you, right?"

"Absolutely not," you say, your hand gives his an involuntary squeeze, "In your dreams, Maybank."

"What do you know about my dreams, Y/L/N?"

You give him a shove, and JJ laughs.

"I like that," you say before you can stop yourself.

"Like what?" JJ asks.

"Your laugh."

You swear his cheeks go a shade of pink when you say it.

"No one likes my laugh," he says.

"That's not true. John B likes your laugh, I see the two of you. He's always trying to go out of his way to make you laugh. And I like it too."

JJ blushes deeper, "You can't just go runnin' around sayin' shit like that," he says.

"And why not?"

JJ just sighs, lifts his eyes to the sky like he's saying a silent prayer and shakes his head, "You just can't, darlin'."

The two of you walk a little further, to one of the rocky hills. JJ still holds your hand as the two of you climb up to sit on the top. He pulls his knees to his chin, wrapping his arms around his legs. "Love coming here," he says, "Best place to sit and clear your head when the noise of everything else gets too loud."

"It really is beautiful," you say, "Thank you for bringing me."

"Haven't had a chance to come out here since the other night," JJ says, picks up a rock and turns it in his hand. "Went straight to John B's after."

You finally reach a hand out, cup his cheek in your palm, "I'm so sorry, JJ," you say, wishing your gentle touch could somehow erase the pain from his flesh. You realize in this moment that JJ Maybank should only ever feel gentleness and softness. It breaks your heart to think he's felt anything else.

"Nothin' to be sorry for," he says, overlapping your hand with his, "But thank you, Y/N."

"Make you a deal," you say.

"What's that?" JJ asks.

"Any time things feel like a lot, you can come find me and bring me out here. I need a surf instructor after all. Any time you need to clear your head and need an excuse, I'm here."

JJ smiles, nuzzles his cheek into your hand, "Thanks, Y/N." He takes your hand in his and runs his thumb over the back of your knuckles, "Can I tell you a secret?" He asks.

"Sure."

"I think that's why I pick fights with you like I do. Fighting with you...it's fun. And it pulls me out of my head. Distracts me."

You can't explain it, but his words make your stomach dip. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," JJ blushes again, ducks his head, "I just...it's fun. Isn't it?"

"It is," you admit, "I like fighting with you."

"But after all these years...." he sighs, "...sometimes I can't help but wonder..."

"Wonder?"

"If there might be something better...better than fighting."

The butterflies are back and you tilt your head to meet his eye, "Like?"

"You're my distraction, Y/N. Every bit as much as the waves are. You keep me grounded. It sounds stupid....but the reason I even still come to school at all is because I look forward to fightin' with you. I'm just sayin'....what if there was something more than fightin'."

"Can I tell you a secret?" You ask. JJ nods. "Sarah gives me so much shit for it, but fighting with you is one of my favorite parts of the day. I do look for you and go out of my way to yell at you for something. It's...it's fun, getting under each other's skin. I can't imagine you not being the fixture you've become in my life, JJ Maybank. I don't think I want to."

JJ takes a breath, the blush is back on his cheeks. You give his hand a squeeze.

"What would you want with a guy like me?" He asks and your heart clenches in your chest.

You let go of his hand and turn to face him, sitting up on your knees. "JJ Maybank," you say, gently scolding, "Don't you even think that. Not for a second."

"Look at me though," he says with a broken sigh, "I'm fucked up, Y/N. Just look at my face..."

You interrupt with a press of your lips to his cheek. JJ freezes, you hear the softest little gasp escape. You press another kiss to another bruise, and another. The bruise on his cheekbones, the cut above his eyebrow, the purple blooming along his eyesocket. JJ is almost shaking as you press a final kiss to the cut on his swollen lip.

"Jesus, Mama..." he says, and it sounds like a prayer.

"That a better distraction than fighting?" You ask with a smirk of your own.

"Fuck yes," his voice is thick and wrecked as you sit back, card your hand through the blonde bangs sticking to his forehead.

"I think so too," you say. "What do you say we retire our title of mortal enemies, hmm?"

"Yes please."

You can't help but giggle at the desperation in his voice, "What other title should we give each other then?" You ask.

JJ rolls his eyes, the smile on his face big enough to split him in two, "You're really gonna make me say it?"

"Mmhmm."

JJ shakes his head helplessly, "Alright, fine. You win. Girlfriend?"

"Boyfriend," you say back.

JJ ducks his head to hide the blush staining his cheeks. His smile has somehow grown even bigger. Then, as if finally getting a handle on himself, he reaches up and pulls you towards him, hand at the nape of your neck.

"You know what this means, right?" He asks, lips hovering above yours.

"Tell me."

"I get to kiss you any time I like."

"Well you god-damn better," you can't help but grin.

JJ chuckles lowly, before capturing your lip in his. The kiss is unlike any other kiss you've ever experienced; those sweet, shy kisses on doorsteps after dates to dances and diners. This is different. There's a desperation there, a hunger, and a hope all in one. JJ nips at your lip as the two of you pull apart.

"Fuck," he says on a sigh.

"Better than fighting?" You ask again.

"So much better."

You press another kiss to his cheek, "I wish I could kiss away every bit of pain, JJ."

"This?" JJ points to the bruise on his cheek, "Aint nothin'. I'd walk through fire and back for one kiss from you."

"I'd never ask you to," you say, cupping his cheek in your palm again. "You know what this means, right?"

"What's that, Mama?"

"I get to kiss you any time I like. No walking through fire required."

"You're letting me call you Mama," JJ says, reaching a hand out to twist a strand of your hair around his finger.

"Boyfriend privileges and all that," you say.

"I like the sound of that," JJ grins, "Tell me, darlin'. What other privileges do these new titles come with?"

You shake your head with a laugh, "You'll just have to see."

The sun is starting to set and JJ sighs, "Guess I better be gettin' you home."

"Pry should."

"And Big John is grilling out for us tonight, so I should get back for that."

"You gonna be okay?" You ask.

"Of course," he says, "I'm JJ Maybank. When am I ever not okay?"

You sigh and shake your head as he holds out his hand and helps you to your feet. "Besides," he says as the two of you start the walk to the car, "I get to look forward to seeing my girl tomorrow."

You can't help but blush. JJ holds the truck door open for you and you slide in. He goes around to the drivers side and hops in, turning the key in the ignition.

"Do girlfriends get AUX privileges?" You ask, reaching for the cable hanging down by your feet.

"Fuck no," JJ laughs, snatching it away, "I've heard the shit you and Sarah blast from her convertible. Girlfriend or not, Taylor Swift is not touchin' these speakers."

"But...girlfriend privileges."

"Girlfriend privileges nothin'," JJ grins, backing the truck out, "Girlfriend privileges mean I'm pressin' you up against this truck and kissin' you breathless before I tell you goodnight. It does not mean blasting Taylor Swift in ol' Daisy Mae."

"You named your truck Daisy Mae?"

"What?"

"That's more egregious than any music I could play from my phone."

"Don't you be talkin' shit about Daisey Mae, okay?"

"Stupid ass name," you say with a smile.

JJ lifts his middle finger at you with a smile equally as big.

"Alright," you say, "question."

"What's that?"

"Just because we've retired the title of mortal enemies doesn't mean we still can't fight, right?"

"Not the fun fights anyway," JJ grins, "Those fights I can always just shut you up by kissin' you."

"Menace."

"Always."

You shake your head, laughing and lean your head against his shoulder.

"Oh I am in so much trouble," he says, handing you the AUX cord, "You've already got me wrapped around your finger. You always have."

You press another kiss to his cheek, taking his hand in yours. You pull up These Arms of Mine by Otis Redding.

"And you've got me wrapped around yours," you say.

JJ grins, lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles. The two of you drive the rest of the way to your house in silence, your head on his shoulder and Otis' voice crooning from the crackling stereo. JJ Maybank was officially now no longer the bane of your existence, and maybe Sarah Cameron hadn't been that off-base after all. All you knew in this moment though was you'd spent the last ten years being driven crazy by JJ Maybank, and you'd gladly be driven crazy by him the next ten.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 15 - I Found A Martyr

Series Masterlist

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

Word Count: 23k

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

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 14 - Chapter 16

This was bad. This was really, really bad. 

You loved him. 

You loved Ben.

You totally, completely, wrathfully and comfortably loved Ben.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“Why-“

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

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

“Brat.”

“I’ll never say your name again-“

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

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

He scowls. “Shut up.”

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

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

“Because you’re not a pussy.”

“Because I’m not a fucking pussy.”

“But you brushed your teeth?”

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

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

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

“Ben-“

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

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

“Good. Now say my name and I’ll-“

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

It’s so easy to moan, “Benjamin-“

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

“You asshole-“

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

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

Ben hums. “No.”

“Benjamin-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles, “No, you don’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not going well. 

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

“Fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I win.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.” 

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

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

“We’d still go to dinner-“

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

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

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

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

“Are you fucking doubting me?”

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

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

“I think that asshole manwhore was Butcher.” 

Ben grunts, “fucking pussy.”

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

“Aggressively caring?”

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

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

“Yeah but that’s not my point-”

“Sunshine, just take the fucking compliment.” 

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

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

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

“We could do it together-“

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

“You’re going first.” 

“Ben-“ 

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

“But-“ 

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

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

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

“Cunt.” 

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

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

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

And it’s only been three days. 

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

Ten minutes was more than enough to get yourself off.

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

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

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

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

“Have fun?”

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

“There better still be hot water-“ 

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

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

“Fuck you.” 

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

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

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

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

I love you. “Benjamin, you dick-“ 

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

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

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

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

“Done what?” He’d grumbled. 

“Don’t play stupid, Ben-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

And he’d called her Annie that same night. 

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

“Where’s-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, can you get-“ 

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annie hums. “Actually, mine did too.”

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

He sighs. “Mine did as well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ben raises his eyebrows. The fuck does that mean. 

If you give him attention, he dies.

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

He frowns. What? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

This whole plan was my goddamn idea. 

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

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

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

I go where you go, beautiful. Ben winks. 

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

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

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

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

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

Run. 

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

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

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

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

The world floods with light.

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

When you can see again, everything in you dies. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d failed Ben. 

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

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

You’d lost him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Just a nightmare.” 

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

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

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

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

Not a question. “I’m okay.” 

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

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

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

“You trust me?”

“Of course I fucking trust you.” 

“Can you promise me something?” 

Ben grunts. “What.” 

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

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

“If whatever Butcher and Mallory have-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.” 

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

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

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

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

“Healing.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

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

“I said shut the fuck up.” 

“Make me.”

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

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

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

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

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

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

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

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

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

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

You grin at him. “In that order?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?” 

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

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

“I know. I’m still thanking you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surprised?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was always fucking true-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not fucking the same.” 

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

“No, it’s not.” 

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

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

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

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

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

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

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

You need more.

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

“Ben-“ 

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

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

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

“What do you want, beautiful.” 

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

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

“Ben, just-” 

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

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

“Please what.” 

“Fuck me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cunt-“ 

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

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

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

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

“Ben, please-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you asshole-“ 

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

“Please-“ 

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

“Fast-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you, Benjamin.“ 

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

“Cunt.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Ben, please-“ 

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

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

“Fuck, yes-“ 

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

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

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

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

“What did we say about words-“ 

“Just fucking do it, Benjamin, now-“ 

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

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

“Ben, yes-“ 

“Beg.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why the fuck shouldn’t I. 

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

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

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

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

Butcher nods with a grunt, and you sigh. 

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

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

“Fine. Go.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t let me do anything.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Edgar-“

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

“You promised-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you admit you were fucking, Love?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have an idea-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll vote-“ 

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

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

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

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

You don’t fucking need to do this. 

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

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

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

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

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

“All against?” 

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

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

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

Too fucking little to stop this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you still want me?” 

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

“Ben-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cunt.” 

“Brat.” 

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

Ben snorted. “I’ll allow it."

“Oh, well if his majesty allows it-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ben-“ 

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

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

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

“My turn.” 

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

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

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

“We said hand stuff, Benjamin.“ 

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

”No, but you’re cheating-“ 

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

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

“Fuck, Ben-“ 

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

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

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

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

So he’d give Her everything he had. 

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

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

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

“Are you-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When it’s over, I’ll go with you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but you haven’t said anything-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taglist

@lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

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

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

@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf @ciuguapa @ilyaasansaif @whimsicalcherry

@sadpods @ahoytothestorm

[reticent-writer]

Hiii, can you please write another fic about a teenage reader (16-18) and anybody from hazbin hotel. It can be about anything

HEloooo

Alastor x teen reader platonic

Headcannon by @ghostly-one: "During Alastor's absence, Reader went to the overlord meetings in his place"

✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･**･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　

*knock knock knock*

You heard as you groaned and pushed your head up from your pillow.

"It's me, Y/n." You could hear the radio static through your door, "I have an errand to run and would like for you to join me."

"I'll be down in a minute." You replied as you started to get up.

------

"Oh, boy whats the plan, boss?"

"I like your suits."

"What are the antlers for?"

"Can I touch your ~staff thing~?"

"Are those your ears? or is it your hair? I can't tell."

The egg boiz were annoying the fuck outta you and Alastor. If you knew they would've tagged along, you wouldn't have come even if you were going to an overlord meeting.

"Hark Alastor, Y/n. How fare thee this day." Zestial appeared from nowhere in front of the both of you.

"Good evening Zestial, It's nice to see you again." You greeted with a smile as Alastor quickly threatened the eggs.

"Greetings Zestial." Alastor said as the sinners around you three started to take notice and run.

"Ah, the weather doth become this fine day."

"Indeed. Looks like we might have some acid rain this afternoon."

"If our luck doth hold! I do revel in the screams. How art thou? It has been an age since thou hath graced us with thy presence. Y/n hast been in thy lodging since thee've been gone." Zestial looked to you with a pleased expression as he patted your shoulder before continuing his conversation with Alastor.

"Some hath spun wild tales of you falling into... Holy arms."

"Hahaha Oh, I just took a well-earned sabbatical. Nothing serious. Though it's fun to keep everyone of their toes."

"There too hath been rumour of thy involvement with the princess and her recent flight of fancy. TELL ME, how does thou fall in such folly." Zestial would've creeped you out if you weren't used to his (and Alastor's) over-the-top and old-timey ways.

"That is more me to know. But please do guess. I'd love to know the theories."

"T'would be grander folly by far to assume the workings of your mind, Alastor. Thou hath been naught but an enigma since thy manifested in this realm."

"Coming from someone as ancient as you, I take that as quite the compliment."

The three of you made it the the building where the meeting would be taking place as you and Zestial stepped into the elevator you waiting for Alastor to tell the eggs to wait for him before pressing the button.

-------

You sat in between Alastor and one of Carmilla's daughters.

"Welcome, Hell sovereign overlords. I've invited you all here because you represent the controlling powers of out city. Together you own millions of souls. Souls at risk with the new extermination schedule. We need to discuss what can be done to minimize the impact to our interest." Carmilla said matter-of-factly. "Zestial, so good to see you, my friend."

"Enchanted as always Carmilla." He said as he sipped his tea.

Carmilla was about to look around the room when she spotted Alastor. The face that she made nearly made you laugh.

"Alastor?"

"Yes, I know I've been absent some time. I'm sure you've all been wondering." Alastor spoke like he'd been waiting 7 years just to say that.

"Not really. But welcome back in any case." She dismissed him. You could hear the static abruptly stop and had to bite your lip so you wouldn't laugh.

Once the meeting started you zoned out staring at the wall. To be honest you didn't really care about the meetings you were only there to show your face and now that Alastor is back it gave you less of a reason to care, but interesting things did happen quite often.

Like Velvette wanting a war with the exterminators.

✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･**･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　

Zestial translation: It would be much more foolish to think that I understand how your mind works, Alastor. You have always been a mystery to me ever since you came into this world. (just thought it would be nice to add this.)

@ghostly-one

This is choppy and rushed but parade season is starting soon and I have a lot of performances before then too.

[trappolia]

── NO GRAVE CAN HOLD MY BODY DOWN

(minor spoilers for season 2!) sevika. near what feels like death, sevika has a revelation and a confession.

Sevika thinks two things when the Hexcore's static passes through her scar and seizes her bloodstream.

One: she can't believe that she's writhing on the floor in agony, beaten by Vi's little Piltie girlfriend in her ridiculous beret.

Two: she might actually die today.

It's ridiculous, she thinks, how everyone has gone to absolute shit. There's a new sort of madness glinting in Jinx's no-longer-baby-blues (the odd magenta shimmer of her eyes sends a shiver down her spine) and not to mention that little shit that has tagged along in this operation, with Jinx doing little to dissuade the runt besides some sarcastic melodramatic warning and a few finger guns. And now they're here, beaten and clawing at each other's faces wildly like fucking children (she can see Jinx in her peripheral, has never seen her fight so sloppily with her little hands; she understands now why Silco had insisted her skills laid in engineering and inventions, rather than the fists that her sister wielded so boldly) and Sevika doesn't know where the fuck Isha is nor does she know what the fuck is going on with their weapons. Her new arm is fine, albeit heavy with extra weight and throbbing with phantom pain— but something had gone wrong

She's going to die. She's going to fucking die, and because of some fucking magic trick gone wrong.

Sevika doesn't fear death. Hell, she's lasted a lot longer than what her own mother thought. Life down here in the Undercity is nothing like the wealth and opulence and light of Piltover's Topside. To some, death may have been a blessing. Some days, Sevika thinks that it's better than cleaning up after Jinx's messes and running Silco's errands.

But Silco is dead, and the one thing he loved more than their city is off the fucking rails. Sevika can't die now. Not with these fucking blue bellies gassing her home with the fucking Grey again, not when there's so much left to be done.

And maybe there's a third thing in the mix too. Caught between rage and pure, genuine terror, Sevika twitches and grunts and claws at her skin, thinking: Fuck. Fuck. She's going to die like a wimp whimpering on the cold stone, and she's never going to see you again.

Sevika is not the romantic sort. Before you, she'd found simple pleasures in the smoky rooms of Margo's brothels, or pretty doe-eyed lasses she met at the bar. But now she finally finds it in herself to admit that for fucking once, she might have wanted to take you to a candlelit dinner. Seen you giggle and shit about her poor attempts at romance— not the malicious sort of giggle, no, but fond. Endlessly fond, in the way Sevika never deserved.

The thing — magic, engineering, Hextech or whatever the fuck it's called — crackles across her veins and bones, setting fire to her blood and the viscera that sits contained under her skin. Her body gives another involuntary jerk. It's certainly not her first time having the misfortune of being caught at the wrong place at the wrong time— hell, that blue explosion all those years ago is the reason she has to rely on a metal arm now. But this is different, wrong. It sinks deep into her bones, claws at the essence of her being with its arcane

Sevika tries to scream, but she can't.

In the ringing between her ears, Sevika can only think of where she could be— anywhere but here, either dying or something far, far worse. She wants to sit by your bar after a long day's work while listening to you re-tell the odd and frankly ridiculous narratives your patrons tell you when they're neck deep in drink and tab. She wants to wake up in the middle of the night when you roll over and instinctively press yourself to her side for warmth in your sleep. And maybe, more than anything, she wants to go back in time and cradle your face when you beg her not to leave, kiss you and tell you that she'll be home in time for dinner.

(She'd dismissed you then, told you that a spoiled Piltie couldn't beat her ass hard enough to keep her down.

She was wrong. So fucking wrong.)

Sevika thinks of you now, waiting at home. Anxious; oh, so anxious, because Silco is dead and Jinx has been haywire and who is level-headed enough to at least attempt to clean everything up, but she's only one woman and the Chembarons are fucking deranged and she's just— just—

"Just come home safe, Vika."

Fuck. Fuck.

From her periphery, she registers Cait — Vi's little girlfriend, that prestigious bitch — stumbling to her feet, fumbling for her glitching (why the fuck is it glitching?) rifle. Sevika moans in pain, trying to will some strength into her muscles to get up, fucking get up! Cait can't be a better shot than Jinx. No one is. But Jinx is out of weapons, having been clawing at Vi with her bare hands and pink-blue nails for what might have been just a minute or hours, Sevika's brain is too muddled to tell. But she knows Jinx, knows that she's nearly damn useless when it comes to rationality without her sanity and her trinkets, and when she's squabbling with Vi so blindly, so violently, Sevika knows Cait will have a clear shot.

And she does.

Sevika hears a cry. Pained, almost child-like. She thinks its Jinx, at first— and for a split moment, it is. Jinx, blue-haired, glossy-eyed, a finger shot straight off its knuckle. Electricity crackles over the palm of her gloved hands, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly with each breath she takes.

But then the pain overtakes Sevika again, and she clutches at her rib, her leg— everything. She wants it out, but she doesn't know where it even is.

When her eyes clear again and she can breathe semi-properly, it's Isha now. That little runt with her mop of messy brown hair and that stupid helmet that's toppled to the floor. Vi is straddling her sister-- or was, before that stupid kid ran from where she was hiding in the rafters (when had she gotten down, and how did she do it so quickly?), shoved herself between the pink-haired turncoat and Jinx.

There's two holding a gun now.

Words being spoken. Isha wails, clinging onto Jinx fiercely even when Jinx tries to shove her off, equal parts frustrated and confused by the younger girl's behaviour. Sevika thinks of you, just as quick to shove yourself between Sevika and danger when the two of you had been barely strangers.

"Come back to me."

A groan rips itself from her throat, silent but pained. Sevika pulls herself to her feet, the goddamned Devil's lightning still crackling around her limbs like some fancy magic trick gone horribly wrong (She hopes it doesn't ruin her new arm. She literally just got it this week, goddammit.) Cait's back is turned to her, the Enforcer's hands gripping her rifle like a lifeline— but too stupid, too caught up in playing hero for her fucked little kingdom to notice the heavy footfalls behind her.

She stumbles to the wall, wracks her brain for somethng. She's missing it. Sevika blames it on that damn Jinx, the way she yaps like an overexcited puppy when she's explaining her plans; and the way she never actually elaborates on them, because "Sevika is too dumb, Sevika won't get it." Stupid kid. Sevika needs to get her out of here.

"Sevika. Please, don't do this," your pretty face, your teary little eyes. You're a tough little cookie, Sevika knows, like a stubborn weed growing in their nasty streets, but you're always so quick to tears when you think Sevika's staking her bets too high.

Maybe she did. But she can't lose the game. Not now.

One more bet.

Her human arm fumbles clumsily over the flat stone wall— not one of those pillars that Jinx and Vi had so recklessly ruined in their squabble. She feels along the ridges, remembers the flares and bombs that Jinx had planted all around Topside.

There's a click.

"Don't go."

Oh, she's not going. She's got another day yet.

[wlntrsldler]

poisoned mercury | end up here

a/n: i'm going FERALLLLLLL over this chapter. enjoy poisoned mercury's debut album hehe.

iv. end up here by 5sos

series masterlist | previous | next

“your band name doesn’t even make any sense,” you argued, eyes narrowing at the boy in front of you. 

luke crashed your secret spot, again, and refused to let you smoke in silence until you gave him a detailed explanation of how your day went. he knew you didn’t smoke every day, only on days that were particularly hard. he noticed that your bad days always had something to do with your dad, but it didn’t feel like the right moment to bring that up. 

anyway, you got fed up with his badgering and that stupid smirk on his face because he knew you were about to crack, and decided that if he was going to act like a toddler, you would too. hence, why you were now bringing up his band name. 

luke took offense to that because he thought the band name was cool. he was the one to suggest it. he crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to let his hurt show on his face, “what do you mean? poisoned mercury is a sick name.” 

“mercury is already poisonous. your band name is like redundant or some shit.” 

“then why did so many people in history ingest it?” luke asked, recalling the one thing he remembered from his high school history class before he dropped out. he took a drag from his cigarette, turning his body a bit so the wind didn’t blow the smoke directly in your face. 

“they fucking died, castellan,” you replied, deadpan. 

“oh,” he blinked, staring off, “i didn’t know that.” 

you rolled your eyes, a habit that you’ve picked up whenever you were with him and sat back down on the bench. luke joined you, silent as he thought about what you just said. he really needed to stop zoning out during lessons, but since he was already out of high school, he guessed it didn’t matter anymore. 

as much as you hate to admit it, luke castellan was growing on you. sure, he got on your nerves like nobody else– the boy just doesn’t quit– but, he wasn’t half as bad as you originally thought. not that you’d ever tell him that though. 

when you got back to the cabin last week after helping with concert prep, the cabin was spotless. there were no empty red bull cans in sight, the table tops were free of crumbs, floor vacuumed and mopped, and there was even a candle burning on the counter. you approached your bedroom door to find a post-it on the handle. luke’s messy writing was smudged around the corners, but you could still make out what it said. 

“five star, 

i snitched on the boys and my mom will have a stern talk with them about their cleanliness. can’t promise that people will stop talking about me, but i can promise you won’t have to live in the dojo casa house mojo or whatever it was. 

ps i’m using the spot tomorrow, just thought i should let you know. maybe we can set up a calendar for reservations. 

luke :)” 

the cabin hasn’t been as messy since. whatever may castellan told the boys worked like a charm. there was still the occasional trash, but nothing crazy. it smelled better in the cabin too, still like a boy, but it smelled like expensive cologne more than anything. cedarwood and pine. 

and thankfully, the luke castellan hype train was starting to run out of steam, with many people finally realizing that he was also just a human being and the surprising revelation that luke castellan was not entertaining anyone during his time at camp helped with it as well. you still heard whispers about him here and there, but you were glad the topic of conversation was beginning to switch to something else. 

you and luke walked to the gym and back home every morning together. he and the boys sat with you and clarisse during meals. they tagged along for music lessons and spoke to the kids, which they really appreciated. they helped the older campers with writing music, luke particularly. you’d been around a few musicians in your life and many of them only kissed ass when your dad was around, but poisoned mercury was different. they were passionate about their music. that was clear.

after a conversation with clarisse, where she managed to convince you that not all musicians are like your ex, you began to let loose a little bit. you hung out with the boys more, partly as an excuse so clarisse could hang out with chris without causing too much suspicion, and found that you actually enjoyed their company. and luke castellan? well, he wasn’t half bad. that doesn’t mean he got off easy though. 

you took a hit of your vape, facing him, “are you done interrogating me?” 

“for now, yeah,” he smiled as you shook your head. “are you coming to the concert tonight?” 

“well, i did help organize it.” 

“a simple yes would’ve sufficed, five star,” luke teased, relighting his cigarette. it was burning unevenly and luke was never one to waste his cigarettes. “you gonna watch us play?” 

“don’t have a choice. dad wants me there the whole time.” 

“you can act a little excited,” luke ran a hand through his curls, “we are pretty good, you know.” 

“i know,” you hummed. the sun was beginning to set and there was a slight breeze in the air. goosebumps formed on your skin, the t-shirt and denim shorts you wore didn’t offer much comfort. you shivered, “i have listened to your music.” 

“are you cold?” 

your teeth chattered, but you shook your head, “i’m fine.” 

luke took off his hoodie, tossing it in your direction, “take it.” 

“no,” you tossed it back to him, “told you i’m good.”

always so stubborn, luke thought.  

“if you catch a cold, that’s not on me,” he placed the hoodie on the bench between the two of you. “which songs have you listened to?” 

“kilby girl, of course. it played on the radio so much when you guys first dropped it,” you said, remembering the days where you and your hometown friends would blast it in the car. it reminded you of high school, reckless decisions, life-long memories, and the thrill of knowing you were going to be playing the sport you’d worked so hard to excel in at a d1 level in the fall. you looked at him, sincerity in your eyes, “i really like family line. it might be my favorite.” 

luke’s eyebrows shot up. not many people talked about family line. it was probably their least streamed song. they never performed the song on tour because it was difficult for luke to sing it. it was a personal song to him. it was inspired by his relationship with his father, or lack thereof. 

when poisoned mercury first got signed to olympus records, luke sent a message to his dad on facebook. luke hadn’t tried to contact him since he was ten, not since his father returned his letter to him unopened, no response but a “return to sender” stamp plastered over the envelope. but after the small congratulatory party his mom set up for the band after they signed, luke felt like a little kid again, a kid who wanted to share the great news with his dad, so he found his dad on facebook, made an account, and sent him a message. 

he didn’t get a reply, which was expected, but it felt good for a second to pretend that he had a father to tell his good news to. luke thought he didn’t care about whether or not his dad was proud of him, but when his message went from “sent” to “read” a few days later, he was brought back to those moments in his life when he cried and wondered why he wasn’t enough to make his dad stay. he wrote family line in one sitting, on his bed in his bedroom in connecticut, looking at the little league medals on his wall that seemed to mock him. 

he originally didn’t want it on the album because he felt like it didn’t fit the vibe of the rest of the songs and that it was too real, too vulnerable for a debut album, but then he played it for his mom and she loved it. she cried when she first heard it and luke knew that even if people didn’t like the song, he was going to put it out for his mom. 

“huh,” he cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, “wasn’t expecting that one. thought you’d be more of a crash my car type of girl.” 

“i like that too,” you shrugged, “but family line. that song. i don’t think i have the words to describe it.” 

“thanks, five star,” luke looked down at his feet, taking a puff from his dying cigarette. “that’s my mom’s favorite, too.” 

“did you write it?” 

luke nodded, looking to face you. there was a new expression on your face, one that you’d never used with him before. it was a mix of disbelief and awe. he tried not to get offended that you didn’t think he could write something like family line, but he couldn’t blame you. he didn’t really portray the type of person who would be able to be that raw and vulnerable on a song. “me and trav write the lyrics for our songs, mostly. chris and connor help too, but the bulk of the lyrics are me.” 

“you need to stop doing that.”

he cocked his head to the side, crushing the cigarette butt on the hardware of the bench, “doing what?” 

“surprising me,” you shook your head, “i don’t like it.” 

“i don’t know what to tell you,” he chuckled, leaning back on the bench. he looked out into the lake, watching the sun disappear behind the mountains, “i have layers. you just gotta give me a chance.” 

“how do you do it?” you sat criss cross on the bench, leaning against the arm rest. “how do you write like that?” 

you’d always been curious about music, even if you weren’t good at it. your dad was never one to answer your questions, especially because you were interested in lyrics more than anything, and that wasn’t his forte. 

luke mimicked your actions, “i dunno. personal experience, i guess?”

you frowned, thinking about the lyrics of family line. luke never talked about his dad, but spoke highly of his mom. was family line based on his own life? if it was, his dad was an asshole. 

you relented to the cold, grabbing the hoodie that he left in between the two of you. you ignored the triumphant smile on his face when you draped the sweater over your bare legs, shielding them from the wind chills. 

he continued, “sometimes things happen to me that get me worked up and i have to write a song about it. sometimes, it’s based on my imagination. it depends.”

you wanted to ask him about his dad, but you didn’t know if he considered you guys friends yet. it’s not like you made it easy for him anyway. you could deal with the banters and annoyance, but you didn’t want to push him to talk about something he wasn’t ready to. you could be a dick, but you weren’t cruel. 

you changed the subject, “okay, let’s play a game.” 

“21 questions?” luke bit his bottom lip, trying not to laugh. he waggled his eyebrows, dodging your arm that reached out to smack him. 

“you’re gross,” you gagged, knowing the implications of the game, “no, i’m gonna ask about the songs on your album and you tell me if it’s real life or from your imagination.” 

“alright, go for it five star,” he beamed, propping his elbows on his crossed knees. he loved talking about music with anyone. he could go on and on for hours. 

“18.” 

“real,” luke snorted, remembering the first time travis pitched the idea for the song to the band, “but not my experience. it was trav. he met this girl at one of our gigs in new york, right after we got signed, and he was obsessed. she was a freshman at nyu and she kept telling him he was too young for her, even though she was just less than a year older. trav was hooked.” 

you could picture it. it was definitely something travis would do. “okay, another one of my favorites. only angel?” 

“not real,” luke shook his head, a slight blush creeping up on his face. “if you tell anyone, five star, i will vehemently deny it, but i had a crush on jade west from victorious and i wrote it about her.” 

there was something about jade west that made luke like a love-sick puppy. ignoring the fact that she was hot, her attitude was something that luke was attracted to. she had a tough exterior and acted like she didn’t care about people, but she had her moments where she was soft and kind to the people she cared about the most. luke liked that. the idea that someone could be sensitive but only to the people they deemed worthy. 

he’d spent so much of his life trying to be worthy, in whatever way the stage of his life defined it, and he craved it– a pat on the back, an approval, a confirmation that he was worthy of it. 

you threw your head back laughing, surprised by his ridiculous confession. the sound of your laughter rang across the woods, making luke smile. your voice echoed throughout the trees and he his senses were surrounded by you. it hit luke like a truck. 

he sucked in a breath, taking out his phone. he jolted from his seat for more than one reason. “shit, five star. we gotta go.” 

you took out your phone too, checking the time. your eyes widened as you got up from your seat. you threw his hoodie over to him, “fuck, we’re late.” 

the two of you raced out of the woods, arriving to the concert venue with flushed faces and rapid breaths. you could feel clarisse’s knowing eyes on you as you got ready for the concert. you tried your best to ignore it. you were going to deal with that later. 

–

“and for the final event, i know you guys are looking forward to this one,” your dad laughed into the mic. the sun was long gone and there were disco lights illuminating the stage. a smoke machine was on either corner, making it difficult to see the bottom half of the stage. you and clarisse stood in the front row, listening to the deafening cheers of the campers. “ladies and gents, welcome poisoned mercury!” 

the screams got louder which you didn’t even know was possible. travis entered the stage first, sticking his tongue out as he expertly twirled his drumsticks around his fingers. connor came in next, smiling and waving at the crowd as he plugged his guitar into the amp. chris walked in with his bass strapped around his neck, eyes immediately finding clarisse and sending her a shy smile. you nudged her teasingly, enjoying the way she blushed under the lights. 

then luke castellan walked in. he ditched his hoodie and t-shirt and walked in with a white tank top on, messing with the curls on his head. he tugged on the silver necklace around his neck as his eyes scanned the crowd. he threw a wink to the group of the older girls in the back, turning to travis to let out a laugh at their reaction. the lights on the boys were blinding and a thin layer of sweat already began to form on their skin despite the bite to the air. 

luke took center stage, picking up his guitar. he leaned over directly in front of you, fingers pretending to mess with the wires connecting his guitar to the speakers, “hey, five star.” 

he straightened his back before you could reply. clarisse’s eyes darted between you and the boy, now nudging you like you did to her earlier. you rolled your eyes, smiling at the rest of the boys as luke began talking on the mic. 

“what’s up, camp half blood?” luke screamed into the mic. the crowd roared. “we’re poisoned mercury and we are so happy to be with you guys here this summer. before we close out this awesome concert, i wanna introduce our lovely band.” 

“on drums, we have the one and only, travis stoll!” luke turned around to applaud travis as he did a little drum solo, head banging as he hit the drums. he turned to connor, “on lead guitar, we have the amazing connor stoll!” 

connor strummed his guitar, leaning over on the left side to soak in the applause of the crowd. the girls beside you swooned as he unleashed one of his award-winning smiles. 

luke faced chris, “and on bass, we have my very best friend in the entire world, my 4lifer, chris rodriguez!” clarisse cheered loudly for chris as he played a tune on his bass, mouthing, “love you, brother,” to luke as he played. the crowd quited for a second as luke addressed them again, “and my name is luke castellan. we’re poisoned mercury!” 

you turned around to look at the crowd. the size of the crowd tripled when the boys got on stage. everyone had a smile on their face, excited to hear them play. 

“the song we’ll be singing for you guys today is from our debut album,” luke adjusted his mic on the stand. he got closer to it, lips touching the metal, “this is only angel.” 

you couldn’t help but let out a laugh at their song choice. this was not the song they were supposed to sing. they’d been rehearsing kilby girl for the past week. luke saw your reaction, laughing along with you. 

the instrumentals began and you nearly missed the beat drop because of the cheers from the crowd. as the song progressed, the boys were one with the music. you watched luke sing, working the crowd like a pro. his skin glistened under the spotlight, beads of sweat tricking down the side of his face. he approached chris when the chorus started, dragging his mic stand with him. he swung his guitar around so it rested on his back as he sang the lyrics. his curls were sticking to his forehead, eyebrows raised in glee as he performed. 

you couldn’t take your eyes off the lead singer, not even when the rest of the band had their own solos in the song. your eyes were glued on luke; how his adam’s apple was on full display as he threw his head back, getting lost in the music, how his arms flexed as he wrapped the mic cord around his fist, how his thin tank top stuck to his body and how it raised when he lifted his arm up to bring the mic closer to his lips. you saw the outline of his abdomen and his v-line. 

but what really got you was his face. he looked at peace on stage, a wide smile on his face, full lips pink and glossy as he licked them in between verses. he looked incredible up there, like that was where he belonged. he was born to be on stage like this. 

“fuck,” you mumbled, applauding at the end of their song. luke’s eyes found yours as he sang the last bit of the song, smiling at you. you hoped clarisse couldn’t hear you talk to yourself. you looked down at your feet, tugging nervously on the collar of your shirt, “i get it now.”

[lilacxquartz]

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

choso x gn!reader

ao3 • masterlist • part 2 >>

summary: stumbling upon a strange man while deeply lost on halloween night in the subway, you find yourself quickly in trouble.

tags/warnings: slight non graphic violence, yandere, reader insert, season 2/shibuya arc references

Quickly finding yourself trapped in the quickly dimming station Shibuya, you found yourself rather lost on what to do, let alone where to go. The flickering lights felt harsh against your eyes, inducing an almost nauseating headache as you attempted to navigate the subway.

With no idea as to what was happening, you pressed on regardless. Maybe there had been maintenance going on? Or was it something else? None of it made sense anyway. One minute you were walking to meet your friend for the big halloween party and the next, the world seemed to scramble into a disorienting mess.

Something was ripe in the air, making you feel uneasy and your gut instinct couldn’t help but ache with unrelenting dread.

You paced through the now seemingly empty space, finding that you could just barely breathe. The atmosphere felt heavy with pressure, the air feeling thick against your lungs.

It was right about then that you saw another presence lurking right by the stairs and although you were surely wary, seeing just the sight of another soul down here alone with you filled you with unfathomable comfort like nothing else.

Quickly approaching the person, you took in their gradually closer appearance. It was a man; tall, pale with long dark hair spearing into two parted bunches. His under eyes were painted purple, suggesting deep set exhaustion with a birthmark of some kind across the midsection of his face. His gaze on you bordered intense, although a flicker of care could be reflected in his stare.

The man watched as you soon devolved into a desperately hopeful mess, with your own eyes sinking into his soul and seeing him as something that he hadn’t been able to fully register himself:

As a human.

There had been no fear lurking behind your eyes, no willingness to cast him away as a monster—no recognition of the blood he wore on his hands—nothing of the sort and with such a revelation, something stirred inside of him. Maybe it was something sinister, maybe it wasn't right, but it was happening and festering, a certain sort of thought that boiled away in his restless mind.

“H-hey, do you um…” you attempted to speak up, your words trailing under his watchful stare. You felt unsettled, but he was your only hope. “Do you know if there’s any trains running right now? I was supposed to take the last one on the platform over, but it seems to be cancelled? A-All of the trains seem to be canc—“

“—you…” he interjected, stopping you in the midst of your nervous ramble, his voice slightly cracking before he cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He stepped forward as his violet eyes sank into your form, searching for any hint of awareness of the unfortunate situation that you had found yourself within, but there was none. This led him to understand that you were completely, blissfully and almost beautifully ignorant of the horrors that roamed the subway, of the hell that was soon to be unleashed on the surface.

“I-I got lost,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping your lips as you slightly stepped away, not quite liking the hint of warning that his words carried, “like I said, I was supposed to meet my friend, I was supposed to… I don’t know. I feel like something's wrong down here. I can even think right, let alone find a proper exit. I-It’s like there’s something down here messing with my thoughts.”

The man—Choso—almost twitched before you, his mind racing with almost intrusive thoughts that challenged him to reach out and touch you just to prove that you were real. To prove to him that you weren’t a figment of his imagination (to prove that you were a person who saw him as their equal).

How long has it been since someone looked at him the way that you have?

Surely this couldn’t have been the first time?

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured again this time with less volume, his tone adopting a darker edge as he drove his point further, “it’s dangerous.”

You laughed again, not understanding the grave implication of his words. You couldn’t help your reaction, though. You were slightly afraid but your mind refused to acknowledge that something was wrong, even if you did feel it on a deeper level.

“Y-yeah, I know,” you acknowledged, “clearly there’s something up,” you however then paused, hoping to trust the kindness you saw in him just moments ago. “Can you maybe show me the way out if you know it? I’d just like to get home at this point.”

Home. He replayed the word as you said it in his mind again and again until it sounded almost foreign to him. He had no concept of it, yet when he looked at you, he could find comfort in your unsettled gaze, understanding that you saw him for what he truly wished to be.

A darker thought formed once again.

He couldn’t let you go. Not now, not ever.

“I can’t, but…” he gently declined, giving into the part of him that defied reason. Slowly, he reached out to grab at your wrist with his cold calloused hands. He coiled his fingers right around your arm with an almost gentle firmness that hinted at the strength he kept hidden—the strength that would otherwise make him into a monster. He didn’t want to drive another person into hurt though. He wanted to use himself for good.

(To protect you, perhaps?)

“Hey—“ you gasped, trying to tug your arm away.

However Choso’s grip only tightened, reeling you in with almost a desperate plea. “—please,” he whispered, “it’s not safe out there. You’ll stay with me.”

“H-hang on a second, I can’t just—“ you protested once again, trying your hardest to pull away from such force but in doing so, he only tightened his hold on you more and more. He squeezed at your wrist until your bones whined and almost cracked, failing to understand just how fragile humans truly were.

Your heart rate spiked as you were reminded of your own weakness, of the dire situation you found yourself in. Suddenly, you felt weak and perhaps even small; your senses telling you that something was especially not right with this man at all.

Attempting to drive his point home, Choso tried to soothe you, “You’re safe with me. I promise. I’ll protect you from the rest.”

“T-the rest…?” you almost whimpered, fearful for what sort of company he was inviting you into.

“Just stay with me,” he told you, “don’t worry about anything else.”

However, the alarm bells were loudly rolling for you now. Your mind was a mess. This man wasn’t normal. There was something off about him that almost made him seem inhuman, that urged your instincts to break away from him and to run as far as you could possibly go but you couldn’t—his hold on you was completely unforgiving, as if afraid to let you go.

“You’ll be safe with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” he repeated.

And so, you were left with no choice but to stay by his side, his grip on you unyielding as he led you deeper into the station, away from whatever horrors lurked outside, and into a different kind of nightmare.

A dream of his that started with you seeing him as human.

Ending with a nightmare of yours that you had run into a monster instead.