#or he would have survived just long enough to burn the whole world down

[assiraphales]

bro I’m sick bc ace dying in his arms was luffy’s biggest nightmare but dying in the arms of the person that he loved most / loved him most was probably the kindest Fate (under the circumstances) that he could have been given. luffy, the person he sacrificed himself for and would again and again and again and a million times over if he’d been given the chance bc there was no world he wanted to live in without his little brother alive and breathing, there with him at the end.

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ Tides of Treachery

pairings: Pirate!caleb x Mermaid!reader.

notes/warnings: violence, brief mentions of blood. Nearly drowning. Reader is intended to be afab!bodied and gender neutral. no smut in this part, part 2

The sea has always been Caleb’s first love. The way the waves rolled and crashed against the hull of his ship, the scent of salt thick in the air, and the endless horizon stretching beyond his reach—it was all he had ever known.

Years ago, he used to happily laugh around and run in the water, throw sand at his friends and enjoy the rays of warmth radiating from the sun. But all good things come to an end, Caleb had learned the hard way that nothing in life was permanent—not love, not safety, not even the land beneath his feet.

His father had gone out to sea one morning to fish for their humble family business, promising to return before nightfall, but the tides swallowed him whole, leaving behind only whispers of his name in the crashing waves.

His mother, left to raise him alone, had done everything she could to keep him safe. But safety was a fragile illusion. The night the world flipped upside down for him, the thugs came, she had fought for him, desperate to keep her boy safe as she hid him in a corner, tears streaming down her face as she hugged him for the final time. Caleb still remembered the way her blood pooled on the wooden floor, how the coppery scent mixed with the salt on his skin as he was dragged outside, kicking and screaming.

He was meant to die that night. The leader of the gang had loomed over him, blade in hand, expression cold and indifferent. But something in Caleb’s eyes must have reminded him of himself—some old, bitter ghost of the past—because he hesitated

“Take him,” the man had ordered. “Teach the boy how to survive.”

And so he did.

Caleb was thrown into a world of cutthroats and thieves, learning how to wield a dagger before he could grow his first beard. The boy who once ran across the shore, carefree and full of laughter, had long since vanished. In his place stood a pirate feared across the seas, his name whispered in drunken taverns and city guards.

He should have felt satisfied. He had carved his own place in the world, commanded a crew that would die for him, listening to his every whim and commands and sailed waters that no man dared to cross.

But sometimes when his crew went to their beds and bunkers, he would step out of his own, in the quiet of the night, when the ocean was calm and the stars burned like embers overhead, he thought of the past. He thought of a life that had once been his before fate stole it away.

A creature he recalled, a siren. an abomination mix of fish and human. he never entertained the talk of catching a siren to keep it for him to sing. if one was unfortunate enough to fall in the nets of his ship would immediately have its scales taken away and itself shipped off and sold to some lord with fortune, that easily explains the amount of coats he has with shimmering scales.

It was on one such night, when the sea lay still and the wind barely stirred the sails, that Caleb saw them.

A shape, moving just beyond the reach of the lanterns’ glow, barely a ripple in the water. He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to the edge of The Wayward Star, gripping the wooden railing with steady fingers.

Then, the moonlight caught them.

A figure, half-submerged, skin glistening like pearls beneath the pale light. Their hair floated around them in thick, damp strands, creating an illusion of ink swirling around them, and their eyes—dark and knowing—locked onto his.

Caleb inhaled sharply.

A mermaid.

Not the kind sung about in sailor’s tales, with golden curls and gentle voices. No, this was something else entirely. Their gaze held no innocence, no wide-eyed wonder. Instead, they studied him, unblinking, as if deciding whether he was prey or something more. It made a humming gurgling noise, the odd scent of seasons and spices had attracted it towards the ship.

His fingers itched toward the cutlass at his hip, but he hesitated.

“You watching me?” he called out, voice low, roughened by years of salt and rum.

The mermaid didn’t answer, not in words. Instead, they tilted their head slightly, eyes glinting like two beads covered in obsidian in the dark.

Something about them made the air feel too thick, too heavy in his lungs. He had spent his life commanding men, stealing from those unfortune to pass his ship, fighting battles and staring death in the face without flinching. But this? This was different. that thing unsettled him.

Then, as silently as they had appeared, they slipped beneath the waves.

Gone.

Caleb exhaled, only then realizing he had been holding his breath.

Caleb barely slept that night. He couldn’t. After returning to his bedchambers, his eyes wouldn’t stay closed, he felt like a nail was being jammed into his head, and when he felt comfortable enough for sleep to lull him away, a thunder would wake him up.

Caleb gave up trying to get a brink of sleep. He sat at the bow of The Wayward Star, staring out at the sea as if drilling his gaze into the water infront of him would will the mermaid to return. The waves lapped lazily against the ship’s hull, rocking it. and the stars shimmered like scattered silver, but the water remained empty.

By dawn, the mermaid still hadn’t resurfaced.

He told himself to let it go. He was a pirate, not some fool enchanted by sea myths. There was plunder to seek, ships to raid, and yet—he found his thoughts drifting back to them. The way the moonlight caught the wet sheen of their skin, the quiet intelligence and stupidity in their dark eyes, the way they had simply watched him, like they were trying to understand him.

He had spent his life being feared, respected, hated by most. Never had someone looked at him like that before.

He shook the thought from his mind. Damn that fish, he had better things to do.

But fate, it seemed, had no intention of letting him forget.

The second time he saw them, it was in the middle of a storm.

The sea raged, tossing The Wayward Star like a toy, and rain pelted the deck in thick sheets. Caleb barked orders over the howling wind, his clothes soaked through, his hands raw from gripping the ropes. The storm was bad—worse than most—but he had survived worse.

Then, amidst the chaos, he saw them.

A shadow beneath the waves, moving too fast for the current to carry. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, lack of sleep always did funny tricks on people, but then the ship lurched violently to the side, nearly throwing him off balance.

He barely had time to react before a massive wave surged forward, hitting the ship with unnatural force. The wood groaned under the weight, and his crew yelled in alarm, struggling to hold the vessel steady.

Caleb barely had time to brace himself before the wave struck.

The impact sent him staggering backward, boots slipping on the rain-slicked deck. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rigging, but another violent lurch of the ship sent him sprawling. The world tilted—dark sky and raging sea spinning together in a blur—before the deck vanished beneath him.

Cold, crushing water swallowed him whole.

The ocean was deafening. It roared in his ears, filled his nose, dragged him down with merciless hands. Caleb kicked, fighting against the force pulling him deeper, but the storm churned above him, tossing him around like he was nothing more than a scrap of driftwood.

For the first time in years, true panic clawed at his chest.

His lungs burned, muscles screaming as he thrashed against the weight of the sea. He had survived battles, betrayals, and the cruel hand of fate itself—but drowning? Dying alone beneath the waves? The thought sent a sharp bolt of fear through him.

Then, just as the darkness at the edges of his vision threatened to consume him, something moved.

Not the waves. Not the current.

Something else.

A shadow slipped through the water, too fast, too smooth, circling him like a predator. a creature made for water.

He didn’t have the time to register the shape before arms wrapped around him—strong, steady, and colder than the sea itself. A rush of movement followed, the water parting as he was dragged downwards with unnatural speed.

Then—air.

Caleb’s breath came in ragged gasps, his throat raw from seawater and the force of the storm. His hands pressed into the damp sand beneath him, fingers curling around the fine grains as his body shook with exhaustion.

The cave was dimly lit, the glow of bioluminescent corals and strange, shifting lights casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of salt and something else—something unfamiliar, earthy, and deep. The sound of dripping water echoed in the cavern, mixing with the rhythmic crash of waves outside.

His mind reeled.

How was there air here? How was he even alive?

A flicker of movement made him tense.

Slowly, he raised his head.

The mermaid was there.

They lingered at the water’s edge, half-submerged, their dark eyes watching him with the same unreadable intensity as before. The glow of the cave cast shifting patterns across their skin, highlighting the smooth muscles of their shoulders, the glint of scales that shimmered with every small movement.

Caleb swallowed, still breathless.

“You saved me,” he rasped, voice hoarse from nearly drowning and coughing out salt water. He didn’t know why he was stating the obvious, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

The mermaid tilted their head slightly, considering him. Then, slow and deliberate, they moved closer.

Caleb’s instincts screamed at him to be cautious. He had spent his life surrounded by liars and thieves, men who would slit your throat for a handful of gold. Trust was something he had long since abandoned.

And yet—

He didn’t move as the mermaid reached out.

Their fingers brushed against his cheek, cool and slightly rough, like they weren’t quite used to touching something as fragile as human skin. Caleb held still, his breath catching as they traced the outline of his jaw, their expression unreadable.

Their touch lingered for a moment longer before they withdrew, retreating slightly into the water, as if waiting.

Waiting for what?

Caleb exhaled sharply, running a hand through his soaked hair. He needed to think, to figure out where he was, what they wanted. But the storm had drained him, and the warmth of the cave—unnatural as it was—lulled his body into something dangerously close to comfort.

He should have been afraid.

But for the first time in a long, long while, he wasn’t.

Instead, he found himself staring back at the creature before him, heart pounding, pulse thrumming with something dangerously close to curiosity.

“…What are you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

The mermaid didn’t answer in words.

But they smiled—slow and knowing—before slipping back into the water’s embrace.

After a few hours, you returned. Different types of fishes for your lovely guest you had dragged to your home, could you be blamed? the deep ocean was starting to get boring and dull, hunting fishes would not excite you. Days weren’t looking brighter and you felt like day by day you were evolving into a sea cucumber laying uselessly on the sand waiting for your eventual demise.

You swam through the water effortlessly, the cold depths parting for you as you carried your prize—an assortment of fish clutched in your hands, still fresh, their scales gleaming under the soft glow of the cave’s bioluminescent corals.

It had been years since anything had truly interested you. The ocean, vast and endless as it was, had lost its thrill. Hunting was easy. The other creatures of the sea were predictable. You had seen everything there was to see, done everything there was to do.

But him—the human—you had never encountered something quite like him before.

He was fragile. Small, in comparison to the beasts of the sea. His limbs were awkward and unfit for swimming, his body weighed down by the very waters that carried you with ease. And yet, despite his weakness, he fought.

You had seen the fire in his eyes, the defiance that burned even as the sea threatened to swallow him whole. A lesser creature would have gone limp, accepted their fate, but he had thrashed, struggled, survived.

That made him interesting.

And interesting things did not come often in your world.

So, really, could you be blamed for dragging him here? For watching him as he gasped for breath, the air in the cave filling his fragile lungs? For wanting to see how long he would last before his fear turned his survival instincts to recklessness?

You breached the water’s surface, the fish still held tightly in your grasp, and your dark eyes immediately sought him out.

There he was.

The pirate.

He had not moved far from where you left him. His body was curled slightly, one arm slung over his bent knee, head resting against the damp rock. His breathing was steady now, slower, but his exhaustion was evident.

You took a moment to observe. Poking his feet to test the waters before crawling out of the water and on top of him.

His skin was warm, unlike the cold-blooded creatures you were used to. His hair, still damp from the ocean, clung to his face in uneven strands. His chest rose and fell in slow, rhythmic motions, his lips slightly parted as if caught between sleep and wakefulness.

The fish in your hands flopped weakly, their gills opening and closing in vain. You had chosen well—fat, fresh, the best you could find. Surely he would be pleased.

But as you placed the offering beside him, he did not react.

You frowned.

You reached out, fingers ghosting over his skin, pressing against his shoulder. The warmth of him startled you, even now, and for a brief moment, you simply felt—the rise and fall of muscle beneath your touch, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly in response.

You raised your webbed hand and slapped it down on his firm chest.

Plap!

His eyes snapped open with a gasp. For a long moment, you two simply stared at each other.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, his gaze flickered downward—to the fish beside him, and to the naked scaled-covered chest of the mermaid hovering over his face, blocking his view of the cave. he averted his eyes to the fish, it was still twitching, their silver scales glinting in the dim light.

A pause.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, something between amusement and disbelief flickering across his face.

“…Did you just bring me food?”

You blinked.

Of course you did. What else would he eat? Rocks?

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he sat up. His fingers brushed over the fish idly, as if testing to see if they were even real.

“Well. Can’t say I’ve ever had a meal delivered to me by a sea creature before.” He glanced back at you, his lips quirking at the corners. “Guess I should be flattered.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him.

Strange.

You had given him a gift—an offering of peace, even—and instead of taking it seriously, he was… laughing, what was laughing supposed to mean here? humans were so so strange.

You narrowed your eyes, leaning closer, your face mere inches from his. His breath caught slightly, his gaze flickered to your lips that were inching just centimeters away from his, but he held his ground, his eyes returning up to watch you in return.

Interesting.

Your lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t quite a threat, either.

This was going to be fun.

[cruel-seduction]

Mattheo Riddle Headcanon

Warning: This piece contains themes of possessiveness, obsessive behavior, and dark romance undertones. Mattheo's love might be overwhelming, intense, and not suited for everyone’s taste. Reader discretion is advised.

(+ Requests are open so if you wanna request something, go ahead)

Mattheo Riddle

౨ৎ 6’2 | He’s not as tall as Theo, but you wouldn’t dare mention that unless you want to end up against a wall (and not in the fun way—well, not just the fun way). He’s tall enough to tower over you, and honestly, that’s all he needs.

౨ৎ Built to fight | Mattheo doesn’t have the lean elegance of Theo or Draco. He’s solid—broad shoulders, strong arms, and that delicious combination of athletic and dangerous. (He’s fought more boys in Hogwarts hallways than you’ve taken exams, and every single one of them regretted it.)

౨ৎ Hands? MADE FOR SIN. Big, veiny, and calloused from Quidditch and street fights. He’s got a grip that can pin you down or pull you close—whatever mood he’s in. (He could choke you mid-argument, and you’d thank him afterward. RESPECTFULLY.)

౨ৎ He doesn’t work out for fun—he works out to survive. Fistfights, dodging hexes, getting thrown into detention every week; it’s all part of the “Mattheo Maintenance Plan.” (He calls it cardio; we call it hot as hell.)

౨ৎ Face? Pure trouble. Mattheo’s got that sharp jawline and cheekbones that could cut glass. Dark, stormy eyes that smolder like embers, framed by lashes so long they should be illegal. He’s always got a cut or bruise somewhere on his face—his version of an accessory. (You just want to kiss it better, don’t lie.)

౨ৎ Hair? CHAOTIC. Dark and curly, it looks like he ran his hands through it during a fight and then just left it that way. It’s thick and soft, and you know it’d feel like heaven wrapped around your fingers. (Or gripping your thighs while he devour —anyway.)

౨ৎ That smirk. It’s a weapon. Crooked, cocky, and knowing, it has the power to make you forget how to breathe. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he throws it your way. (And you hate yourself for falling for it every single time. But not enough to stop looking.)

౨ৎ He doesn’t just walk; he prowls. There’s a predatory grace to the way Mattheo moves, like he’s always two seconds away from either a fight or dragging you into a dark corner. (You wouldn’t mind the later one, do you?)

౨ৎ Voice? A slow burn. Low, raspy, and smooth, like he’s smoked one too many cigarettes but still has you hanging on every word. When he whispers, it’s game over. (He calls you “trouble” in that tone, and suddenly you’re ready to commit a crime.)

౨ৎ Anger Management Issues | Mattheo doesn’t yell—he doesn’t have to. His rage is cold, quiet, and calculated, which somehow makes it ten times scarier. He’ll get even, and he’ll do it in a way that leaves scars. (Emotionally and physically.)

౨ৎ Fight first, ask questions never. Mattheo’s solution to any problem is his fists. Someone looked at him wrong? Fight. Someone disrespected Theo or Draco? Fight. Someone dared to breathe near you? FIGHT. (And he’ll win, obviously. Look at him.)

౨ৎ Slytherin Prince energy. He doesn’t care for titles, but people gravitate to him anyway. He’s magnetic, exuding a dangerous charisma that makes you want to follow him—even if it means walking straight into hell.

౨ৎ Soft spots? Hidden under lock and key. Mattheo doesn’t open up easily, but when he does, it’s devastating. A rare, crooked smile or a quiet laugh, and suddenly your whole world tilts. (We LOVE a secretly soft bad boy.)

Would you let Mattheo Riddle ruin your life? Absolutely. Would you thank him afterward? Also yes. (No notes. Just him.)

Mattheo Riddle | Personality

౨ৎ He’s loud but in that dangerously calm way when it matters most. Mattheo knows exactly how to push buttons, whether it’s with a smirk, a biting remark, or just the way he looks at you like he knows all your secrets. (Spoiler: he probably does.)

౨ৎ The type of person who thrives in chaos. He’s not a troublemaker by default; he just is trouble. People either avoid him completely or flock to him like moths to a flame—usually the latter. (WE LOVE A MAN WHO IS THE RED FLAG AND THE WHOLE DAMN CARNIVAL!)

౨ৎ Reputation? Notorious. Everyone knows Mattheo Riddle. Maybe it’s because he’s always at the center of some scandal, or maybe it’s just because you can’t not notice him.

౨ৎ Manipulative, but make it hot. He doesn’t need to raise his voice or even argue much. Mattheo knows how to twist words and situations until you’re the one apologizing to him. (And then he has the audacity to smirk about it.)

౨ৎ Fights aren’t something he picks—they’re something that find him. But once he’s in one? All bets are off. "You wanted this. Don’t start crying now."

౨ৎ Unlike Theo’s quiet menace, Mattheo fights loud. He taunts his opponent with sharp quips and cruel laughter, the kind of guy who’ll land a punch and then casually fix his hair like it was nothing.

౨ৎ Obsessive tendencies galore. When Mattheo decides something—or someone—is his, it’s game over. He doesn’t just like you; he fixates. (Good luck trying to shake him off because you’re not going anywhere.)

౨ৎ Affection? Worship disguised as possessiveness. He’s the type to follow you around like a shadow, making sure everyone knows you’re off-limits. His jealousy? Immediate and obvious. "If you wanted to make me mad, congratulations, princess. Now, what are you going to do about it?"

౨ৎ He’s a natural flirt, but it’s not rehearsed. Everything about Mattheo is raw, instinctive, and dripping with confidence. (The man could make tying his shoes look like foreplay. It’s unfair.)

౨ৎ Smirks more than he smiles, and every single one is lethal. It’s the kind of smirk that makes you rethink your life choices. (Like why you aren’t currently pinned against a wall by him.)

౨ৎ His anger is a wildfire—hot, destructive, and consuming. But what’s scarier is the moments right before he snaps, when his voice lowers and his eyes darken. That’s when you really start praying.

౨ৎ Chaotic protector energy. Mattheo doesn’t have many people he’d go to the ends of the earth for, but if you’re one of them? He’ll burn the world down to keep you safe. (And he’d make it look sexy while doing it.)

He’s not just passionate; he’s intense. Whether it’s fights, emotions, or sex, Mattheo doesn’t do anything halfway. He’s all-in, all the time. (Exhausting? Yes. Worth it? Also yes.)

Would you let Mattheo Riddle ruin your day, your life, and your sanity? Absolutely. Would you regret it? Never.

౨ৎ Layers of chaos. On the surface, Mattheo looks like he’s got everything under control—swagger, confidence, and a devil-may-care attitude. But under all that? Oh, he’s a mess. Overthinks everything, but you’d never know it because he masks it with a cocky grin and impulsive decisions. (SOMEONE GIVE THIS MAN A THERAPIST, BUT ALSO LET HIM KEEP THE TOXIC EDGE. WE LOVE IT.)

౨ৎ Moody as hell, but in the hot way. You’ll know when he’s upset because he gets too quiet, that jawline clenching just so. He won’t lash out; instead, he’ll brood in the corner until someone’s brave enough to poke the bear. "Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? *Smirk.* " (Sir, that smirk says you’re about to burn the whole castle down.)

౨ৎ Impulsive to the core. Plans? Never heard of them. Mattheo acts on instinct—whether it’s throwing a punch or dragging you into an empty corridor because he needs you right now. It’s a miracle he hasn’t landed himself in Azkaban.

౨ৎ Organized chaos. His notes are scribbled, his robes are half-untucked, and yet he’s always prepared. Somehow. He doesn’t stress about the details; he just wings it. (And annoyingly, it works out every time.)

౨ৎ Languages? Oh, he knows a few. His Italian is rough but so hot, especially when he’s muttering something under his breath that you can’t quite catch. And Merlin help you when he growls something in Parseltongue. (THE THINGS WE’D LET HIM DO IN THAT LANGUAGE.)

౨ৎ Smart but reckless. Mattheo doesn’t study much, but he’s one of those annoyingly brilliant types who can pick up a spell by watching someone else do it once. He’d ace every class if he cared enough to put in the effort.

౨ৎ Social butterfly with teeth. He thrives in social situations—not because he’s polite, but because he’s got the charisma of a goddamn snake. Everyone either loves him, hates him, or fears him. Sometimes all three at once. "Hey, sweetheart. Didn’t think I’d catch you looking, but here we are." (Boy, nobody was looking. But now we are.)

౨ৎ Driest sense of humor. Mattheo’s sarcasm is so sharp it could cut glass. Half the time, people not sure if he’s joking or insulting them.

౨ৎ But according to him you look good in everything. Wearing a garbage bad? "Oh baby, You look like goddess"

౨ৎ Drinks tea like an old man. (Yeah, you thought he’d be a whiskey guy, didn’t you? Nope. Earl Grey, no sugar, no milk. Deal with it.)

౨ৎ Parties are his stage. Mattheo doesn’t just attend parties—he owns them. Whether he’s in the center of a fight or the middle of the dance floor, he’s the one everyone’s watching. And if he’s not? He’ll make sure he is. "Draco’s drunk, Theo’s being boring, and you’re coming with me. Now."

౨ৎ Protector vibes, but make it chaotic. Mattheo will fight anyone, anywhere, at any time if they so much as look at his friends the wrong way. But he’s not the silent type—oh no, he’s the guy yelling insults mid-fight and making sure the whole room knows why this person deserved it.

౨ৎ Would you trust Mattheo Riddle to make a single responsible decision in his life? No. Would you follow him into the chaos anyway? Absolutely.

Mattheo Riddle | Boyfriend

Oh, dating Mattheo Riddle is like dating a thunderstorm: chaotic, intense, and utterly mesmerizing. He’s a mix of reckless devotion, gentlemanly gestures, and just the right amount of toxic edge to keep things interesting.

౨ৎ The Fighter You Can’t Stay Mad At:

Let’s get this out of the way: Mattheo is always getting into fights. Whether it’s over you, his friends, or just because someone looked at him wrong, his knuckles are perpetually bruised.

You’ve become an expert at patching him up, and even though he winces when you clean his wounds, he sits still because you’re the one touching him.

But the second you start crying while bandaging him up? Oh, his heart shatters. He’d rather die in the ring than see tears in your eyes. "Baby, please don’t cry. It’s just a scratch—I’m fine, I promise." (Spoiler: It’s not just a scratch, but he’ll never admit it because he can’t stand upsetting you.)

౨ৎ The Open Book:

Mattheo tells you everything. Even the dumb stuff that doesn’t matter.

He’ll burst into your room with stories about the dumb prank Theo pulled or the argument he had with Draco over which Quidditch team is better.

It’s not just oversharing—it’s that he wants you to be part of every aspect of his life. You’re his person, and he doesn’t hold back. "Guess what? Draco tripped on his robe this morning, We saw his penis, and Theo nearly died laughing. You should’ve been there—it was glorious."

౨ৎ Your Number One Listener:

If you’re a talker, Mattheo listens like your words are the most important thing in the world. He’ll nod, ask questions, and remember everything.

You’ll mention something in passing—like wanting to try a new dessert—and two weeks later, he’ll surprise you with it.

And if someone interrupts you while you’re talking? Oh, they’re about to meet a very pissed-off Mattheo. "She wasn’t finished speaking. Shut up and wait your turn."

౨ৎ Gentleman With a Hint of Chaos:

Despite his bad-boy demeanor, Mattheo has a surprisingly soft, thoughtful side.

He carries pads or tampons for you, keeps a hair tie around his wrist just in case, and always has a water bottle on hand because you forget to stay hydrated.

He’ll open doors, walk on the side closest to the street, and make sure you’re warm when it’s cold. (But let’s be honest, he’ll also yank you into a broom closet mid-conversation because he needs to feel you right now.)

౨ৎ Hopelessly Devoted (But Low-Key Toxic):

Mattheo worships the ground you walk on, but don’t mistake that for him being easygoing. Oh no. His loyalty comes with a dark, possessive streak.

He’s not the type to tell you who you can or can’t talk to, but rest assured, anyone who crosses a line with you will regret it.

You can do anything, like literally anything. You can kill a guy and all Mattheo would do is kiss your forehead and hide the body. According to him you are never wrong. You can slap him, punch him, or worse kill him he would still justify it saying there must be a reason behind this.

He’s subtle but scary when it comes to protecting you. A cutting glare, a whispered threat, or just his mere presence is usually enough to keep people in line.

౨ৎ How He Fell in Love:

Mattheo thought he was immune to love. Sure, he flirted and hooked up, but real feelings? Nah, not for him.

Until you came along.

It hit him during one of his usual brawls. He glanced at the crowd, and there you were, looking so worried. And suddenly, getting punched didn’t matter—making sure you never had to worry about him like that again did.

Afterward, he was awkward as hell trying to tell you how he felt. He didn’t have Theo’s calculated charm or Draco’s smoothness. Instead, he just blurted it out one day while you were laughing at some dumb joke he made. "I love you. Like, I think I’d die if you ever left me, so… yeah."

Your stunned silence nearly killed him, but then you kissed him, and he knew he’d never want anyone else.

౨ৎ Ride or Die Energy:

Mattheo isn’t just your boyfriend; he’s your partner in crime.

Whether it’s sneaking into the Restricted Section, hexing someone who pissed you off, or just holding your hand while you rant, he’s always got your back.

He might be reckless, dramatic, and a little toxic, but he’s also fiercely loyal, endlessly devoted, and absolutely crazy about you.

Dating Mattheo Riddle? Exhausting. Chaotic. Perfect.

Mattheo Riddle | Affection

Mattheo Riddle isn't the type to pour out his feelings in grand speeches or dramatic gestures—no, he's far too intense and possessive for that. But when it comes to affection? He’s got a way of showing it that’ll make you never doubt how much you mean to him.

౨ৎ The Quiet, Intense Affection:

Mattheo is a man of action, not words. He won’t always tell you he loves you, but his touch? Oh, it says everything.

His hand on your waist when you walk through crowded hallways. The way his fingers graze your back when you’re standing too close to someone.

In public, he’s cool and calm. But when it’s just the two of you? He’s all about that quiet intensity that makes your heart race.

If someone tries to flirt with you? He’ll just stand there, leaning against a wall with a smirk, eyes dark and unreadable, watching. He doesn’t need to say a word; everyone knows you’re his.

౨ৎ Praise Kink, Because Why Not?

Mattheo lives for praising you, but not in some sugary, over-the-top way. No, his words are quiet, almost off-handed—but they hit like a freight train.

"I don't know how you make doing nothing look so fucking sexy."

“You’re brilliant. You’ve got this whole school eating out of the palm of your hand, and I love it.”

He’ll say things that seem like offhand compliments but are actually his way of making it clear you’re the most important thing in his life. You’ll think about it later, and that’s when it hits: he means it.

౨ৎ Acts of Service—Mattheo Style:

Mattheo won’t jump up and start fussing over you the second you’re upset. He’ll do it in his own way—quietly, but with a look that says he’ll take care of you.

He won’t tell you when he’s bought your favorite candy or snuck into the library to grab the book you mentioned once.

"You said you were feeling stressed, so I already cleared your schedule for the week," he’ll say, as though it’s no big deal. (It’s a huge deal, but he’ll never admit it.)

If you’re tired and need a break, you can bet Mattheo will be the one to drag you out of the common room for a walk, simply so you can breathe without all the chaos.

౨ৎ Possessiveness, But Make It Sexy:

Mattheo doesn’t have to raise his voice or throw punches to show how much you’re his. His possessiveness is felt—a deep, simmering intensity that wraps around you.

At parties, his hand is always on you. Resting on your back, on your thigh, on the curve of your waist. Every touch is a claim, subtle but strong.

He doesn’t need to make a scene when someone flirts with you. Instead, you’ll see him lean in, whisper something in your ear, and the person who was trying to flirt with you? Suddenly, they’ll lose interest.

"I believe you’re standing a little too close to her," Mattheo will say, his voice smooth, and then? Instant silence. You’ll never see that person again.

౨ৎ The Soft Side of Mattheo:

Don’t be fooled by his hard exterior—Mattheo has a surprisingly soft side, but only when he’s with you.

He loves wrapping you up in his arms, his strong hands gently cradling your head as he runs his fingers through your hair. The moment the world is quiet, Mattheo will pull you closer, murmuring things only meant for you.

"You’re the only one who can make me feel like I can finally breathe," he’ll whisper, kissing your forehead like it’s the most sacred thing in the world.

He’s the type to hold you while you fall asleep, his hand resting on your back, as though he’s terrified of letting you go.

౨ৎ Mattheo Riddle, the Perfect Boyfriend:

He’s everything you didn’t know you needed. Intense, protective, and slightly toxic, but in the best way possible.

He’ll fight for you, adore you in his own way, and make you feel like you’re the only one in the world.

It’s the kind of love that burns, but in the most thrilling, heart-stopping way possible.

Because, at the end of the day, Mattheo Riddle isn’t just your boyfriend—he’s your protector, your love, your obsession.

And honestly? You’d never want it any other way.

(So yeah, you might occasionally hate how possessive he is, but you love it. Let’s be real, you know he’s all yours and you wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Mattheo Riddle | Obsessive Devotion

If Theodore is calculated destruction, Mattheo Riddle is reckless chaos. He doesn’t just want you to fall apart; he wants to be the reason you can’t put yourself back together. With Mattheo, it’s raw, unrelenting intensity—the kind that leaves you breathless, marked, and utterly ruined.

౨ৎ The Firestarter:

Mattheo thrives on tension, but unlike Theo’s slow burn, Mattheo’s approach is an inferno. He’ll corner you in dark hallways, his hands caging you against the wall, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs something filthy.

"You think you can tease me like that and get away with it? Oh, sweetheart, we’re far from done."

He doesn’t do subtle. His need is primal, immediate, and entirely consuming. If you’re within reach, you’re his—whether it’s in the privacy of his dorm or against a cold stone wall in the dungeons.

౨ৎ Possessive Chaos:

Mattheo doesn’t just want to own you—he needs to make sure everyone else knows it.

He leaves marks on purpose, smirking when you try to cover them up. "Don’t hide it, baby. Let them see who you belong to."

He’ll pull you onto his lap at parties, his hands gripping your thighs possessively, his dark eyes daring anyone to come close.

౨ৎ Praise Me, Baby:

Mattheo isn’t shy about telling you exactly how much he wants you. His words are rough, filthy, and laced with need, but they always leave you trembling.

"You’re a fucking goddess, you know that? Look at you, taking me so perfectly."

He thrives on your reactions—every gasp, every moan, every arch of your back. It’s his fuel, his addiction.

And if you praise him back? If you tell him he’s good, that he’s making you feel amazing? His restraint snaps. He becomes desperate, almost feral, to prove that he can give you everything you want and more.

౨ৎ Control Meets Chaos:

Mattheo loves being in control, but he’s also unpredictable. One moment, he’s guiding you with a firm, steady hand; the next, he’s pinning you down, his lips bruising yours as he loses himself in the heat of the moment.

He’s rough but never careless. Every grip, every bite, every growled "mine" is deliberate, a testament to just how much he adores you.

Push him too far, though—maybe tease him with a sly smile or brush your fingers against his neck when you know he can’t do anything about it—and you’ll unlock a side of him that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

"You want to play games, sweetheart? Fine. But don’t think for a second you’ll win."

౨ৎ The Edge of Obsession:

Mattheo isn’t just devoted—he’s obsessed. He memorizes every little thing about you—your favorite scent, the way your lips twitch when you’re amused, the soft sounds you make when he kisses that spot just below your ear.

He carries your favorite snacks in his bag, not because you asked, but because he noticed you skipped lunch one day.

౨ৎ Endurance King:

Mattheo doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, breathless, and begging for mercy. Even then, he’ll push just a little further, his lips curling into a wicked grin as he watches you fall apart beneath him.

"One more, baby. Just one more. You can do that for me, can’t you?"

And when you think you’ve reached your limit, he’ll hold you close, his voice soft and soothing as he helps you come back down.

౨ৎ Switching It Up:

Mattheo loves being in control, but when you take charge? Oh, it drives him wild. The second you push him onto the bed, straddle his hips, and demand that he behave, he’s putty in your hands.

"You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind, baby."

Watching you take what you want from him—feeling your nails dig into his skin, hearing the way you gasp his name—it’s enough to make him come undone every single time.

౨ৎ The Vulnerable Side of Mattheo:

As intense and chaotic as he is, Mattheo has a softer side that he only shows to you. After the fire has burned out, he’ll hold you close, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers things he’d never admit in the light of day.

"You’re everything to me, you know that? I’d burn the whole world down for you."

He loves running his fingers through your hair, tracing lazy patterns on your skin as he listens to your heartbeat. It’s in those quiet moments that you see the depth of his devotion—the way he’s completely, irreversibly yours.

౨ৎ Mattheo Riddle, The Lover You’ll Never Forget:

He’s fire and brimstone, chaos and passion, but beneath it all is a man who would do anything to make you feel loved, desired, and protected.

With Mattheo, every touch, every word, every moment is a whirlwind of intensity that leaves you craving more.

Because once you’ve been loved by Mattheo Riddle? No one else will ever compare.

[heelvng]

EXTRA CREDIT, EXTRA FEELINGS— JAY

┊ academic rivals to lovers · fake dating · fluff with tension

“you didn’t have to defend me in there,” “i wasn’t defending you. i was defending us.”

synopsis

you and jay have been academic rivals since freshman year—always one-upping each other, always toe-to-toe in class debates. but when your psychology professor assigns a semester-long project on relationship dynamics… and pairs you together?

you’re forced to fake date. for extra credit.

you both hate it. until you don’t.

pairing ⟶ jay x female!!reader

genre ⟶ academic rivals au, fake dating, slow burn, fluff w/ tension

word count ⟶ 4.9k

💌 heelvng note : though this took me forever to finish (bc im the biggest procrastinator in the world), my heart is so fuzzy and warm every time i read this. may your heart be just as warm and fuzzy like mines, happy reading everyone !!

—

you started to think professor park had it out for you. there was no way, no actual way, you were going to survive a whole semester of this.

it had been one week since the project started, and already, jay was getting on your last nerve.

“you walk so damn slow,” jay grumbled as he walked beside you down the quad, hands stuffed in his pockets.

you shot him a glare. “then walk ahead of me. no one’s forcing you to stay by my side.”

“oh, but they are, sweetheart,” he smirked.“professors orders. we have to act like a couple, remember? it be weird if I just left you behind.”

you scoffed. “the only weird thing here is you calling me sweetheart. never do it again.”

jay let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “you’re so fun to bother. this is going to be great.”

“you mean miserable,” you corrected, rolling your eyes.

“Same thing.”

the two of you had to meet up at least three times a week—in public—to convince people you were “dating.” professor park insisted that this wasn’t just a private assignment; your classmates needed to see the relationship progress over time. which meant you had to be seen together, talking, walking, eating—hell, you even had to sit next to each other in lectures now.

“okay, let’s get this over with,” you growled as you reached the campus café.

jay raised an eyebrow. “you say that like I’m not the best fake boyfriend you could’ve gotten.”

You gave him a pointed look. “I would rather date a lizard.”

he put a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “damn. you really know how to flatter a guy, yeah?”

you ignored him, pushing the café door open. as expected, the place was packed with students grabbing their usual coffee fix. you spotted beomgyu in the corner, already watching you with an amused grin. he was way too entertained by all of this.

jay noticed too. “your little fan club is watching,” he murmured. “time to sell it, babe.”

you froze. “enough with the pet names. my stomach can’t handle you saying it.”

“but babe.” his smirk deepened. “gotta make it convincing, right?”

you clenched your jaw so hard it hurt. but before you could curse him out, he did something worse—he threw an arm over your shoulders.

your entire body stiffened. “get. off..”

“nah,” he said casually, steering you toward the counter. “couples don’t stand a foot apart like they hate each other. relax.”

you wanted to strangle him but your peers were m watching, along with a handful of other classmates who had heard about the project.

if you shoved jay off you now, it’d look suspicious.

instead, you plastered on the fakest, most sickeningly sweet smile you could manage and turned to him.

“jay?”

“hm?”

you grabbed his wrist, nails digging into his skin as you pried his arm off your shoulders, he lets out a small yelp from your sharp nails digging into his flesh.

then, you leaned in just enough to keep up appearances—your voice dripping with venom.

“if you touch me again, i will make sure you don’t live to see the end of this semester.”

jay, the absolute menace that he was, just grinned. “damn. threats already? we’ve only been fake-dating for a week, babe.”

you smiled even wider, “it feels like forever!” you sarcastically exclaimed, grabbing his arm and dragging him towards the cafe food.

jay only chuckled, stepping forward to place his order. you could already tell—this project was going to be the death of you.

–

you’re now six weeks into the project and things couldn’t have gotten any worse. he had to dorm with you—and goodness, does he know how to ruin your space.

it was five minutes past seven and you were doing your skincare while he was in the shower. you had on your avocado mask and a fluffy headband holding back your hair.

the shower water shut off, and you paid no mind to a half-naked jay stepping out. it didn’t even cross your mind what it would feel like to drag your finger down his abs. you suppressed those thoughts. they’d only get in the way of the assignment.

“that coconut vanilla shampoo does wonders,” he said, rubbing a towel through his jet black hair.

you shot up immediately. “you used my shampoo?!” your blood was practically boiling.

“yeah? i didn’t take a lot,” he said, motioning to his hair. “i don’t have that much, babe.”

you groaned, falling back against your pillow.

jay walked over to the microwave, where his ramen—well, your ramen now—was supposed to be waiting. he opened the door to find it empty, only the faint scent of broth lingering.

“did you eat my ramen?” he asked, eyes locking on you instantly. a small smirk curled on your lips.

“that was my last ramen!” he dragged out, sighing like the world was ending.

“then you should’ve labeled it, genius.”

“why can’t this assignment just be easy? why do you make it harder than it should be?”

“because i don’t like you, jay. simple as that.”

he went quiet for a beat.

“why don’t you like me? i haven’t done anything wrong to you except be an academic rival. during this whole assignment, i’ve treated you with nothing but care. and i’ve even let you treat me horribly.”

you stared at him. his face full of emotion—serious in a way you weren’t used to. you couldn’t handle it.

your phone vibrated, reminding you to take off your mask. you took that as your escape, walking briskly to the bathroom and shutting the door behind you, leaving jay standing there, confused and alone.

—

a few hours later, jay was strumming his guitar softly. the tune was… calming.

it made your shoulders relax without permission, and you hated that. you turned to face the wall, pretending to scroll through your phone.

he started humming to the melody, and as good as it sounded, it somehow irritated you more.

“can you not play the guitar like you’re in a movie? some of us are trying to ignore our feelings.”

he chuckled under his breath. “you’re the one who ran away, not me.”

“i didn’t run. i just needed a second,” you said, still turned away, your eyes tracing the cracks in the wall like they could give you the words.

“okay. so… what’s really going on?” he set the guitar down and sat up, giving you his full attention.

the room fell silent. the heavy kind. the kind that filled your ears until your heartbeat was the only thing you could hear.

“i always thought you were better than me,” you said finally, your voice low. “you make it look easy. you never have to try. you walk into a room and people pay attention. professors love you. you get everything right—without even breaking a sweat.”

jay looked confused. “is that what you think?”

you turned over to face him. your chest tightened.

“i’ve been killing myself trying to measure up in every class. and then you show up—perfect, smug, smart—and suddenly none of it matters. i feel like i can’t succeed when you’re around.”

his eyes dimmed. like you’d knocked the light right out of him.

“i never meant to make you feel like that,” he said quietly, his thumbs fidgeting in his lap.

you didn’t know how to respond. it wasn’t like jay to be so serious, so in tune. and now that he wasn’t hiding behind his usual grin, you didn’t know where to look.

neither of you spoke after that.

but the silence didn’t feel tight anymore.

it felt softer. like something heavy had finally been placed on the table—and for once,

neither of you were rushing to pick it back up.

you stayed like that, facing each other in the low light.

and maybe that was enough.for now.

—

it’s been nine weeks into the assignment, and after that big confession in the form, you and jay suddenly got closer. the kind of close where people couldn’t tell if the relationship was real or not. the kind of close where even you couldn’t tell if it was real or fake.

“professor park wants to see us—evaluate us super quickly,” you told jay, your head resting on his shoulder as the two of you sat outside, watching the campus.

“when?” he asked, his hand wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

“in the next five minutes. we better get going since we’re a little far from his office.”

you and jay walked into professor park’s office a little out of breath. you were adjusting your sweater as you both took a seat in front of his desk.

professor park looked up, smiling slightly.

“you two have gotten… comfortable.”

you and jay glanced at each other. honestly, he wasn’t wrong. but neither of you said anything—because what was there to say? it had gotten comfortable.

then he leaned back in his chair and added, “there’ve been a few murmurs about your relationship. some of your peers think you’re playing it up too much… that it looks unrealistic.”

your chest tightened. that familiar self-doubt crept back in, sharp and sudden.

“is it unrealistic to care about someone?”

the room stilled.

jay didn’t look at you. his gaze was fixed on professor park, voice calm but firm. “i don’t care what they think. they’re outsiders. we’ve done everything you asked us to—but this? this isn’t just for a grade anymore.”

you glanced at jay from the side, your heart uncertain of what to do in this moment.

professor park studied the two of you—your words, your body language, your silence—before picking up his clipboard and jotting something down.

“you’re dismissed,” he said, still writing.

after you left the office, you were too stunned to speak. jay didn’t say anything either, not until you both stopped just outside the door.

he finally turned to you. “i meant that, by the way.”

“which part?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“all of it. every last word.”

you let that settle between you. it wasn’t a full confession, but it felt like one. and the scariest part? you didn’t want to run from it.

instead, you said, “you didn’t have to defend me in there.”

“i wasn’t defending you,” jay said, and for a moment your heart dropped—until he added, “i was defending us.”

you stared at him. he stared back. and for the first time since the assignment started, the space between the lines began to fill with something true.

—

the walk back to the dorms was silent, but comfortable. it felt spacious, like there was more to say, but the moment wasn’t asking for it yet.

you and jay didn’t speak—just walked side by side. your fingers brushed once, then again. the third time, he took your hand in his without a word.

it felt easy. it shouldn’t. but it did.

the campus was softer now, less crowded, and the sky was a dusty blue—the kind of blue that suggests something’s about to happen, especially with the breeze picking up.

jay didn’t let go of your hand.

and neither did you.

when you reached the dorm, you both stopped—like stepping inside would shatter whatever this moment was.

“you sure about earlier?” you asked, not looking at him.

“completely.”

you nodded once. barely.

you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. you didn’t look up—until you did.

and when your eyes finally met, the tension returned. it was quiet. full. almost too much. your body moved before your thoughts could catch up. you leaned in, slow—giving him time to move away if he wanted to.

he didn’t.

your lips brushed against his once—hesitant, questioning. and then again, more certain.

it wasn’t a grand kiss. not rushed or greedy. just soft. slow. like a quiet truth exchanged between mouths instead of words.

his hands moved without thinking—one gently at your waist, pulling you in just enough. your hand curled in the fabric of his hoodie, the other resting on his chest where his heartbeat stuttered under your palm.

jay didn’t push. he didn’t exaggerate the moment. he just kissed you like he meant it. like he’d been waiting for this moment to mean something.

when you finally pulled back, it was barely an inch. eyes still locked. the wind moved around you both—a gentle reminder: this just happened.

his forehead rested against yours. noses brushed.

“was that okay?” he asked, voice low.

you nodded. “yes.”

and it was more than okay. it was real. terrifyingly real.

you stayed like that for a moment—hands tangled, hearts too loud. then, quietly, jay opened the door.

but this time, when you stepped inside, it didn’t feel like something was ending.

it felt like something had just begun.

—

it’s been thirteen weeks in the assignment and tomorrow is the exam and you’re currently doing math work from your other professor. your brain is fried from the numbers and letters clashing together on paper and it’s bothering you.

you want to call jay over to help you but every time you think about asking for help you feel less highly capable of doing things by yourself and it takes you back to where you’re confessing your feelings to him.

jay sensed your frustration and creeped over to your side of the room.

“need help?” he offers, his hand resting on your bed frame.

you needed the help but you knew you were highly capable of doing the work. “no jay, i’m fine. thanks,”

jay’s face softened. “don’t shut me out like that, let me help you.”

your pencil stilled. you could hear the sincerity in his voice, quiet and steady.

you stared down at the numbers again, blurry and jumbled on the page like as if they were laughing at you.

“i just—“ your voice cracked. you swallowed hard. “i hate the feeling like i can’t do it when i know i’m capable. i know it’s stupid… but when i ask for help it feels like i’m failing.”

jay didn’t say anything to you. instead he crouched, eye level now.

“asking for help isn’t failure,” he said softly. “you’re one of the most capable people i know. seriously. you don’t have to prove that to anyone, not even me.”

you looked at him surprised by the earnestness in his voice.

“but i always feel like i do,” you admitted. “like if i’m not the best than what am i? and when i see you—it’s like everything just comes easy to you. i feel like i’m constantly catching up.”

jays eyes didn’t move from yours. “you’re not behind me. you’ve never been behind me.”

you blinked, a lump in your throat formed and your eyes daring to spill tears. you hated crying over your own flaws.

“then why does it feel like i’ve been running this whole time?”

jay reached out, taking your pencil from in between your fingers and placing it aside. then he took your hands in his.

“maybe you’ve been running,” he said, “but not because of me. maybe you’ve been running because nobody told you that it’s okay to rest. breathe. and ask for help,”

your hands stiffened in his.

“you don’t have to prove yourself to me,” he continued, voice lower than a whisper now. “you already got my respect. and more.”

you eyes widened.

“more?” you echoed.

he gave a faint, bashful smile. “yeah, more. i think somewhere between all the pretending , it stopped being pretend to me.”

your heart skipped a beat. you knew. you’d known. but hearing it? it shifted somewhere deep in your heart.

“me too.” you said quietly, “i stopped pretending weeks ago.”

the silence that followed was light and comforting.

“so,” he murmured brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “can i help you with the math now?”

you let out a light laugh. “only if you promise not to correct me too smugly,”

he grinned. “deal!”

—

the next day arrived faster than you wanted it to. despite the emotional gravity of the night before, there no time left to process it. not when professor park scheduled your evaluation in-front of the entire class.

you stood outside the lecture hall with jay by your side, heart thudding loudly in your chest. the door was already open. students were chiming in, curious and excited. this was the finale part of the experiment: a verbal demonstration of what the couple had learned.

no scripts. no notes. just honesty.

jay nudged you with his shoulder. “ready?”

you have a small shake to your head. “no. you?”

“not even a little,”

but his smile was reassuring.

when your names were called, the two of you stopped in-front of the door together. your classmates started whispering and you weren’t sure if they were waiting for drama or a love confession or perhaps both.

professor park folded his hands. “you’ve completed thirteen weeks of this

project. today, we ask one simple thing. what have you leaned about each other.”

the room was silent.

jay looked at you, then turned to the class.

“i’ll go first,” he said.

your heart clenched.

“when i started this, i though i’d just annoy her for a few weeks, play the part, and get it over with. but something changed,” his voice was calm but full. “i started paying attention. to how she always pushes herself harder than anyone else. to how she doesn’t ask for help, not because she’s proud, but because she’s afraid of being less than perfect. to how she shows up, again and again, even when she’s tired, even when she’s overwhelmed.”

he paused.

“she’s the smartest person i’ve ever met. not just academically but emotionally. she feels everything deeply and on another level, even when she’s tries to hide it. and along the way i stop pretending to care about her.”

jay looked at you—then really looked at you.

“because i do. i care about her. a lot.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat saving that for another time before you faced the class.

“i hated him.” you said bluntly, earning a few laughs. “he walked into every class with this stupid snarky smirk on his face and an even more perfect gpa, and i thought he was everything i didn’t want.”

you glanced at him, eyes softening.

“but then he started helping me. not just with school, but myself. he made me realize that it’s okay to ask for extra assistance and that it doesn’t make me weaker. he never made me feel small, even when i was spiraling. he just stayed. patient. steady.”

your voice lowered

“somewhere between the fake dates and late night studying, i started looking forward to everything—just because he’d be there.”

jay’s gaze flickers to yours, full of

something warm and bright.

professor park took a few scribbles on that same clipboard , but the room

stayed silent. almost breathless.

“thank you,” he said at last. “you’ve both exceeded expectations.”

the class broke into applause. a few people even whistled. but all you heard was the sound of jay’s breathing next to you. steady. grounding.

—

later that night you find yourselves back where it all started—the quad, now quiet under the golden wash of the campus.

jay had his hands in his pockets, walking slowly beside you.

“so,” he said eventually, “assignments over.”

you nodded. “guess we can stop fake dating now,”

“yeah we could,”

you turned to look at him. “unless…”

he stopped walking and you did too.

jay pulled his hands from out his pocket, stepping infront of you. “unless we don’t stop.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“i meant what i said in-front of everyone,” he continued, voice low. “i meant every word last night too. and i don’t want this to be pretend anymore.”

you felt your breath catch in your throat.

“so,” he said pulling something from

behind his back—a single sheet of paper.

your heart sank. “what is that?”

he grinned. “your last fake dating report.”

you opened it and read:

final evaluation : y/n is officially the person i want to stop pretending with. if she’ll let me, i want to keep dating her—no project, no professor. just me and her. will you be my girlfriend?”

you looked up, blinking fast. “you wrote this?”

“yeah…just didn’t want professor park took a grade it.”

your laugh broke through the lump in your throat.

“so,” he asked stepping closer. “will you?”

you didn’t hesitate. “yes. yes i will be your girlfriend jay.”

jay smiled so big it felt like this whole semester had been worth it for this moment alone. he leaned in, and you met him halfway—this time, with no tension lingering, no blurry lines.

just a kiss that felt like the beginning.

and it was.

—

[ruewritesoccasionally]

Friction & Flames | Terry Richmond

pairing: terry richmond x black!reader

warnings: smut (18+), workplace rivalry, power dynamics, forced proximity, angst, rough sex, oral (f receiving), light hair pulling, explicit language, possessiveness, a lot of dialogue, a little slow burn and Terry being an absolute menace (but we love him).

summary: a classic enemies-to-lovers showdown: sharp words, sharper tension, and a deadline that forces them into close quarters. When tempers flare and restraint snaps, her and Terry finally settle their differences - in their own way...

word count: 6.4K

a/n: this came out much longer than intended 😭 this is a reupload, just reworked - the original didn't do as well as i would've liked but also it wasn't my best work. i'm much happier with it now though and i hope you guys are too 🫶🏾

The alarm buzzed, shrill and relentless. She groaned, blindly slapping at the snooze button before peeling herself out of bed. Coffee brewed while she moved through her morning routine—shower, dress, make-up—each step as precise and efficient as the last. The world felt easier when it followed structure, when things happened as they should.

Which was exactly why he drove her insane.

Terry Richmond had no regard for order, for rules, for method. He operated on instinct, on charm, on raw talent that somehow, infuriatingly, got him just as far as the meticulous planning she slaved over. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But it was the reality she faced every single day as his co-lead project manager.

By the time she arrived at the office, it was still quiet—just the way she liked it. These early mornings were her sanctuary, the only time of day when she could get ahead without distraction. But of course, peace never lasted long.

The telltale hum of easy conversation carried through the space, growing louder as he made his usual rounds. Schmoozing. Charming. Doing absolutely nothing useful. She didn’t even have to look up to know Terry had entered the room.

“Morning, everyone,” his voice rang out, smooth as silk.

Her fingers paused over the keyboard. Not yet. Not today. She kept her gaze locked on her screen, willing him away with sheer willpower.

No such luck.

“Well, well, Princess” he drawled, stopping beside her desk. “I see someone made it in without getting lost. Impressive.”

Her jaw tightened as she slowly swiveled in her chair, eyes locking onto his. That smirk. That self-satisfied, arrogant, infuriating smirk.

“For the last time, Terrance,” she said, enunciating his full name like a curse, “it’s not Sweetheart, it’s not Babygirl, and it’s definitely not Princess. Now turn around and—”

“Terrance,” he interrupted with a hand over his chest, feigning a wound to his heart. “Damn. And here I was, thinking we were past the formalities.”

Her glare could’ve set the whole office ablaze, but he only grinned wider, like he enjoyed the fire.

He always did.

The smug grin Terry shot her before he strolled to his desk was enough to make her want to hurl her coffee at him. Bastard. He knew exactly how to get under her skin, and he did it with a deliberate ease that made her blood boil. She inhaled deeply, gripping her pen tighter than necessary, willing herself to stay calm. The workday had barely begun, and he was already pressing every button she had.

It had been like this for years. Their competition wasn’t just petty office bickering—it was a game of survival. A slow-burning, high-stakes war waged between two people too damn good at what they did to ever back down.

The promotions? She’d landed hers first. The biggest client of last quarter? He’d swooped in and stolen it from right under her nose. Every time she thought she had the upper hand, Terry Richmond would find a way to level the playing field—or tilt it entirely in his favour.

And he loved it.

She could see it in the way he watched her now, that knowing glint in his stormy grey eyes as if he was waiting for her to snap.

Not today.

Before she could drown him out with work, Linda’s heels clicked against the floor, her presence snapping the room into silence. Linda was direct, no-nonsense, and not easily impressed—so when she stopped by their desks instead of addressing the entire team, something was up.

“This next campaign is the biggest account we’ve landed all year,” she started, flipping through the folder in her hands. “Which means I need our best people on it.”

She paused—just for a beat—before letting the inevitable bomb drop.

“I want both of you heading it.”

Her stomach twisted, and she barely managed to suppress a groan. Of course.

Terry leaned back in his chair, the picture of casual amusement. “Our best, huh? You sure you want to put her in the running, boss?”

Her jaw tightened. “I should be asking the same about you.”

Linda exhaled sharply. “Enough. I don’t care how you two feel about it—I care about results. And between the two of you, I expect nothing but success.”

Linda’s expression remained impassive as she looked between them. “I don’t care how you two feel about it. This job is crucial, and it needs to be done. Quickly.” Her voice was sharp, clipped, leaving no room for argument. “In fact, why don’t you use tonight to start planning? Somewhere neutral. Off-site. No distractions.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. The mere suggestion of being alone together outside of work sent an undercurrent of something charged through the air.

Terry’s smirk stretched wider, like a cat toying with a trapped bird. “Neutral, huh? Guess that rules out your place, Princess.”

Her jaw clenched at the nickname, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed, voice razor-sharp.

Linda, either blissfully unaware or purposefully ignoring the crackling tension, made a quick note on her clipboard. “That’s settled, then. I expect a full report by tomorrow morning.” She barely spared them a glance before walking away, her heels clicking against the floor in sharp finality.

Terry, ever insufferable, watched her go before turning his gaze back to the woman standing in front of him. His smirk hadn’t faltered once.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other tonight,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

She shot him a withering glare, but deep down, she already knew—this was going to be a very, very long night.

The words settled like a weight in the air. She hated that Linda was right. Neither of them would ever willingly bow out of something like this, not when winning meant getting one step ahead of the other.

And Terry knew it too.

He tipped his chin toward her, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. “What do you say, sweetheart? Think you can keep up?”

She refused to look at him, refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she turned to Linda and gave a curt nod. “Fine. I assume we’re getting full creative control?”

Linda returned the nod. “Within reason.”

“We’ll see about that,” Terry murmured under his breath.

Linda gave them one last pointed glance before walking off, leaving the tension behind her thick enough to choke on.

She should have just let it go. She should have focused on the work, ignored him like he was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing in her ear.

But then she saw it—his damn smirk widening, like he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to bite back.

Slowly, she turned her head to him, keeping her expression neutral. “Try not to get in my way, Richmond.”

His gaze flickered with amusement, but he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “I wouldn’t dream of it, babygirl.”

Her fists clenched at her sides as she bit back a retort. She was going to need every ounce of patience to survive this.

The hours ticked by, and as expected, Terry took his sweet time getting back to her about the details of their meeting. She wasn’t surprised. He loved making her wait, forcing her to reach out first. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not tonight.

She went about her evening, refusing to check her phone, knowing that the moment she did, he’d win. And she’d sooner staple her own hand than let him believe she was sitting around, waiting on him.

When her phone finally buzzed, she ignored it for a few minutes before opening the message with deliberate disinterest.

Terry: Meet me at my place. 10 PM. Try not to get too distracted tonight, Princess.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers tightening around the phone. She should have known. Of course he’d make this as inconvenient as possible. Not a café, not a bar, not even the office—his place. A blessing in disguise to be honest. There was no way she’d let him pollute the sanctuary of her own home with presence.

He was testing her.

She could decline. Tell him to meet somewhere neutral, somewhere that wouldn’t give him the upper hand. But then he’d smirk that insufferable smirk and say something smug about her being too scared to be alone with him.

And she refused to give him that, too.

So she texted back.

Her: Fine.

The response was short, devoid of anything he could twist into a game. Still, she knew he’d find a way.

Standing in front of his door, irritation coursed through her, tangled with something deeper—something she refused to name. She wasn’t nervous. That would imply he had some kind of power over her, and he didn’t. He didn’t.

The door swung open, and there he was: Terry Richmond, leaning lazily against the frame and she was immediately annoyed. He looked too good. Smug satisfaction lined his face, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing inked skin stretched over muscle.

"My, my, my," he drawled, letting his gaze sweep over her with deliberate slowness. "Don’t you look stunning. Don’t tell me you dressed up for me."

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Terry, you’re on my time now—use it wisely," she snapped, slicing through his charm before it could gain traction.

Terry raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for a split second as he clocked her no-nonsense mood. He adjusted quickly, though, stepping aside and gesturing her in with a lazy wave. "Come on in, then. We wouldn’t want to waste your precious time, would we?"

“Didn’t think you’d show.” His voice was lazy, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

She tried pushing past him but he blocked her movements. “I’m here to work, not play into your little games.”

He finally moved, shutting the door behind her, a low chuckle escaping him. “Princess, everything we do is a game.”

She walked past him, jaw tightened, but she ignored him, scanning the apartment instead. It was neat, too neat. The kind of place that suggested he didn’t spend much time here, that it was more of a crash pad than a home. Still, it smelled like him—clean, woodsy, with a faint trace of cologne—and the familiarity of it made her stomach tighten.

Terry shut the door, watching her. Always watching. "Drink?"

"No."

He hummed, pouring himself a glass of whiskey anyway. "Suit yourself."

She moved to the dining table, pulling out her laptop. "Let’s just get this done."

Terry exhaled dramatically, taking the seat across from her. "So eager. You always this desperate to get away from me?"

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before she met his gaze, bored. "Depends. You always this desperate to keep me around?"

His lips curled. "Oh, always, sweetheart."

She hated the way her pulse betrayed her. The way his voice dripped with a promise she refused to decipher.

As the night stretched on, she noticed his focus drifting—not from the project, but from her. His gaze lingered too long, tracing the line of her throat when she sipped her drink, flicking to her mouth when she spoke, dropping to her bare legs beneath the table.

She knew the exact moment he stopped caring about work.

“Tired?” she asked, feigning innocence.

Terry leaned back in his chair, stretching leisurely. “Bored.”

“Because you’re losing?”

His smirk deepened. “You think this is a competition?”

She mirrored his expression. “Isn’t it?”

The words hung heavy between them, thick with something unspoken. Something neither of them wanted to name.

Shaking it off, she focused on the task at hand. They settled into work, heads bent over the project, their focus sharp. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe this might actually be productive.

But Terry was Terry, and peace was never part of his repertoire.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing—he did. But slipping in his usual jabs was second nature, like breathing. Whether it was the clash of egos, his compulsive need to compete with her, or sheer stupidity, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

To her credit, she let it slide. For now. His behaviour, by his standards, was almost tolerable, and she kept her focus on the task at hand. So much so that she barely noticed the way his eyes lingered on her.

Terry wasn’t focused on the proposal anymore. His gaze drifted, taking in every detail: the shimmer of gloss on her lips as she spoke, the way her movements carried an effortless grace even in her irritation. He wasn’t oblivious to the effect she had on him.

She walked into every room with a quiet confidence that drew him in, her voice carrying an authority that demanded attention. And it drove him mad that she seemed entirely unaffected by him. Her refusal to acknowledge his flirtations turned into a game he couldn’t resist playing. He loved riling her up, watching her react. Every glare, every clapback—it all meant she cared, and that’s what he wanted.

He leaned back in his chair, letting her take the lead on the project, though his mind had long since wandered. His eyes lingered on the way she crossed her legs, the slight arch of her back as she leaned forward to emphasise her point. He imagined how it would feel to have her closer, to—

And then he couldn’t resist.

“So," he drawled, his voice low, carrying that signature teasing edge, "how many other guys would kill to be in my position right now?"

That was it.

Something inside her snapped. Her face flushed, anger blazing in her eyes as she shot to her feet. Fists clenched at her sides, she fixed him with a glare that could melt steel.

"You arrogant, son of a—"

But she didn’t get the chance to finish.

Terry was already grinning, wider than ever, his expression one of pure satisfaction. He basked in the chaos he’d created, every ounce of her fury a testament to his power to get under her skin.

He leaned back, utterly unbothered, his smirk taking on a wicked gleam. He’d pushed her to this point, and he loved it. Relished it. This was his game, and he was playing it to perfection.

The tension in the room shifted—thick, potent, and almost suffocating. He moved toward her with a predatory grace, every step deliberate, his presence commanding. Placing his hands firmly on the armrests of her chair, he caged her in, leaving no room for escape.

Trapped and surrounded by his heat, her senses were overwhelmed. But even as he asserted his dominance, one thought lingered in his mind: she would taste him later.

Leaning down, he lowered his voice to a murmur that sent shivers racing down her spine.

"You see how easy it is for me to get under your skin?" His breath ghosted against her neck, his lips barely brushing her ear in a tantalising tease.

"But between you and me," he continued, his tone thick with sinful intent, "I’d rather you be under me."

The hitch in her breath was almost imperceptible, but Terry caught it. Of course, he caught it. That was the thing about him—he noticed everything. The way her pulse flickered at her throat. The way her fingers clenched, then relaxed, then clenched again, like she was trying to fight off whatever was brewing inside her.

And the way she didn’t move away.

His smirk deepened, his hands still bracketing her chair, keeping her right where he wanted her.

“I can see you're thinking about it,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something richer, smoother, meant to sink under her skin. “We both know how this ends. Why fight it?”

She scoffed, though it came out weaker than she wanted. “You’re delusional.”

His lips twitched. There she was. “And yet,” he murmured, tilting his head, “you’re still standing here. Close enough to feel me.”

She swallowed hard.

Terry chuckled. Low, slow, like he had all the time in the world. He let one hand trail up the armrest of her chair, fingers grazing hers. Barely a touch. Just enough to make her breath hitch again.

Then, he leaned in. Closer.

She could smell the whiskey on his breath, the warmth of it mixing with something darker, something entirely him.

And she hated—hated—how badly she wanted more.

“You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think you like this. The arguing. The tension. The push and pull. I think it gets you off—”

She moved before she could second-guess herself. A sharp, frustrated sound left her throat as she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down, her lips crashing against his.

Terry groaned, deep and guttural, as if he’d been waiting for this, aching for this. His hands found her waist, gripping tight, and then suddenly she wasn’t in the chair anymore—she was against it, her back pressed into the table as he stepped between her legs, pressing into her, all hard heat and impossible arrogance.

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, holding him there, not that he had any plans to go anywhere. His mouth was urgent against hers—hot, demanding, a perfect mirror to the fire that had been simmering between them for months.

She bit down on his lower lip, just hard enough to make him grunt.

Good, she thought, satisfaction curling in her stomach. If she was going down in flames, he was burning with her.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark, wild, consuming.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for that,” he murmured, his thumb dragging over her bottom lip.

She licked the tip of it, just to watch his jaw tighten.

“I think I have some idea,” she teased, voice breathless, electric.

Terry’s eyes darkened, amusement flickering into something sharper. Hungrier.

“Alright, Princess,” he murmured, voice dropping to something low, something dangerous. “You wanna play?”

The air shifted.

The power balance tilted.

And neither of them were backing down.

Terry let out a slow, dangerous chuckle. Then he kissed her again—deeper, harder, bruising in its intensity.

His hands gripped her waist with practiced ease, lifting her effortlessly to her feet as he closed the remaining distance between them. Their bodies collided, his heat searing against hers. His lips crashed into hers with an intensity that was anything but gentle—a clash of teeth and tongues, raw and unrestrained. She tasted like temptation, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

She met him with equal fervour, her fingers threading into his hair and tugging him closer, pulling a low growl from his throat. He took it as permission to push further, his lips leaving hers to trail down her jawline. His teeth grazed her skin, nipping lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue.

As they pulled apart, his smirk spread, slow and calculated, dripping with satisfaction. His eyes gleamed with the knowledge of what he’d just unleashed. The storm between them was no longer just a simmering rivalry—it was a blaze, out of control, and neither one of them knew how to stop it.

“You think you’ve got this figured out, don’t you?” His voice was rougher now, all edge and low heat. There was an unspoken challenge in the air. He was no longer just teasing—this was war, and the rules had changed.

Her heart raced, her pulse thundering in her ears, but she refused to let him see the effect he was having. Instead, she shot him a pointed look. “I’ve got more than you think.”

He chuckled, the sound dark and mocking. “Always so sure of yourself, aren’t you?” He pushed off the desk, the sudden movement bringing them closer, his towering presence stealing her breath away. His eyes never left hers, hungry, predatory.

They were circling each other now, neither willing to show weakness, both battling for dominance. The air around them felt too thick, too heavy, but neither of them could make the first move. The competition had always been fierce, but this? This was something different. Something primal.

Her gaze flickered to the clock on the wall, as if time could be her ally. “I’m just here to finish the job,” she said, trying to sound detached, but the words caught in her throat, betraying her. They both knew it was more than that.

Terry’s gaze softened, just for a moment. Then he was back to his usual cocky self, pressing closer. “It’s funny,” he murmured, voice quieter now, like he was letting her in on a secret. “You act like I’m the one distracting you.” His fingers brushed the edge of her desk, and the simple movement was enough to send a shiver down her spine.

Her clenched her fists at her sides. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

She was playing right into his hands. Lowering himself further, his lips brushed along the line of her jaw, his breath hot and unrelenting as he whispered, "Nuh-uh. That’s not how this works, sweetheart. You’re in my house now." His voice dropped even lower, the words landing with weight. "And you play by my rules."

Fully closing the space now, his breath warm against her skin. “You always know how to keep things interesting, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his breath warm against her flushed skin.

It was a challenge. A dare. And it hit harder than any insult or word they’d thrown at each other before.

His proximity was intoxicating. She could feel his heat radiating off him, like a physical presence pressing against her own, testing her resolve. For a moment, she considered backing away, but something about the way he looked at her—so assured, so relentless—made it impossible to move.

His fingers grazed her wrist, just barely, the touch lingering enough to make her skin burn. She could feel her breath quicken, the air around them thick with unspoken words. The space between them was dangerously small now, and neither one of them was backing down.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked, voice a little more breathless than she'd intended.

Terry’s smile turned devilish, the playful glint in his eyes sharpening. “What would be the fun in that?” he said, then stepped back, breaking the spell with a sudden, disarming ease. He ran a hand through his hair, cocky as ever. “Let’s see who cracks first, then.”

Her pulse quickened at the challenge, the tension between them building with every word. Neither of them was prepared to lose. Not this time. And as the clock ticked on, the battle between them grew more intense, the stakes impossibly high.

His hands moved with purpose, one slipping to the small of her back while the other pressed against her hip, guiding her until her back met the solid surface of the nearest wall. The coolness against her skin was a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him, pressing into her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. Every nerve in her body was alive, her senses alight with the overwhelming presence of him.

She wanted to snap back, to hurl something biting, to put him in his place with that razor-sharp tongue of hers—but nothing came. Her thoughts were too hazy, clouded by the way he towered over her, by the way his body felt against hers. His presence was magnetic, undeniable, and it was pulling her under like a riptide she had no hope of escaping.

Then his hand brushed against her arm—a barely-there touch, yet it sent a bolt of electricity straight to her core. A sharp breath left her lips. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. She hated him, truly, deeply. But she wanted him just as fiercely. And no matter how much she tried to deny it, to shove it down where it couldn't be touched, it clawed its way back to the surface.

Terry took another step closer, deliberate, unhurried, his confidence infuriatingly steady. His fingers trailed lower, sliding to the small of her back again, and this time, he pulled her in. Every inch of her was flush against him now, the heat between them scorching, the last remnants of distance obliterated.

“What’s it gonna be, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dripping with challenge. “You gonna keep pretending? Or are you ready to stop fighting this?”

The words settled heavy between them, the weight of them undeniable. The world outside blurred, irrelevant. All she could hear was the deafening pound of her own heartbeat, the ragged pull of her breath.

And then, like a dam breaking, every pent-up emotion, every unresolved moment between them came crashing down.

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt before she could stop herself, a sharp tug pulling him into her space. She wasn’t following his lead anymore—this wasn’t about his challenge, his rules. She was setting the pace now. She was in control.

His smirk deepened, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction of gloating. She surged forward, her lips crashing into his with a force that stole the breath from both of them.

Terry groaned against her mouth, the sound raw, almost desperate. Then his hands were on her again, moving with an urgency that sent a fresh wave of heat through her. He caught her wrists in one swift motion, lifting her arms above her head, pinning them effortlessly against the wall. His body followed suit, pressing her there, letting her feel the weight of him, the full brunt of his control.

For just a second, he held her like that—let her feel the shift, let her know exactly who had the upper hand now.

Then his lips crashed into hers again, rough, unrelenting.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything they had never said, everything they had pushed down, everything that had burned between them from the very first moment they met.

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in, trapping them in the storm they had created. Her pulse pounded against her ribs as his hands slid down, gripping her waist and pulling her tighter against him. His touch was firm, possessive, but there was something else beneath it—a quiet, maddening restraint, like even now, he was holding back.

She arched against him, breathless, defiant.

“Do you feel that?” he murmured, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, his voice dark, taunting. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Her breath shuddered as she stared up at him, her mind a blur of want and frustration, her body betraying her with the way it leaned into his.

And the worst part?

She had been waiting for it too.

The arrogance in his tone should have pissed her off. She should have shoved him away, thrown a cutting remark to put him back in his place. But instead, his words sent a shiver down her spine, pooling heat low in her belly. Her heart pounded—loud, insistent—as if trying to warn her, but she knew he could hear it, feel it, just like she could feel the heat radiating off him, pressing into her.

She hated that he had this effect on her. Hated how effortlessly he stripped away her defences, unravelled her completely with nothing but a look, a touch, a single taunting word.

In a blink, she found herself against the wall, the hard surface biting into her back, his body caging hers in. She should have fought it, should have snapped something defiant—but she didn’t. The space between them dissolved, his lips hovering just inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was thick, roughened with something unreadable. It almost sounded like concern. But she knew better. This wasn’t concern. This was a test. A challenge. A game of control, of willpower, of just how far he could push her before she shattered.

Her lips parted, but hesitation caught in her throat. Because if she said no, she couldn’t take it back.

Terry’s fingers skimmed the side of her thigh, his touch maddeningly light, a whisper of contact that made her body jolt in anticipation. The bastard was waiting. Letting the silence stretch. Letting her squirm under the weight of her own restraint.

Her nails curled into his chest, tension coiling tight in her stomach, and she knew she was at the edge—dangling over it.

Then, barely audible, she whispered, “No.”

His smirk was slow, dangerous. “That’s my girl.”

Then his mouth crashed into hers.

There was nothing soft about it. No careful prelude, no tentative exploration—just pure, unchecked hunger. He kissed her like he wanted to brand her, own her, stake his claim right there against that cold, unforgiving wall. And she met him just as fiercely, dragging him in by the collar, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a battle of dominance neither was willing to concede.

His hands moved with intent, sliding beneath her shirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of her ribs before finding the swell of her breasts. He cupped them through the thin lace, his thumbs circling over her nipples with infuriating precision. A sharp gasp left her lips, her body betraying her, arching into his touch instead of away.

Terry hummed against her mouth, amusement flickering through the kiss. “So sensitive,” he murmured, dragging her shirt higher, exposing her inch by inch like he had all the time in the world. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

She wanted to deny it, wanted to bite out something sharp to wipe that smirk off his face, but then his teeth grazed her jaw, his lips dragging down her throat, and any words she might have had died in a sharp inhale.

His hands were ruthless now, dragging her skirt up, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her knickers. The moment he found her, slick and wanting, a curse left his lips.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his breath hot against her skin. “Look at you.”

Her thighs tensed, heat surging through her, but before she could process the words, before she could react, he was gone.

The sudden loss of his touch made her shudder, her breath catching—but then he dropped to his knees.

Her stomach clenched.

Strong hands gripped her thighs, pried them apart, lifting one over his shoulder with unrelenting ease. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer any more smug remarks. He just stared up at her, dark eyes gleaming with wicked intent, and then—

His mouth was on her.

A choked gasp tore from her lips, her head knocking back against the wall. His tongue was relentless, dragging over her with obscene precision, tasting her like he’d been starving for it. Her fingers twisted into his hair, her grip tight enough to hurt, but he only groaned, the vibrations sending another wave of heat crashing through her.

She refused to give in so easily. She refused to let him win.

But then he sucked—slow and devastatingly deep—and her entire body jerked, a whimper slipping free before she could stop it.

Terry chuckled against her, the sound smug, knowing. His grip on her thigh tightened, a silent warning, and then his fingers joined the fray—two slipping inside her, filling her with an unrelenting precision that had her shuddering against the wall.

Her resolve shattered.

“Terry—”

He grinned, curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that had her thighs shaking. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against her, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me hear you.”

She had no choice. He tore the sounds from her, made her body betray her again and again, driving her higher, dragging her over the edge with devastating ease. And when it finally hit, when pleasure crashed through her like a violent storm, her body seized, her breath strangled, her fingers yanking at his hair as she cried out his name.

Terry didn’t stop. He worked her through every wave, every tremor, didn’t let go until she was fully spent, trembling, utterly undone.

Then, finally, he pulled back, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured, his voice smug, satisfied. Then he rose, towering over her once again, his gaze locking onto hers as he wiped the last traces of her from his lips.

And God help her, she wanted more.

Neither of them had the patience—or the inclination—to take this upstairs. The moment stretched, charged, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. Every second they waited only made it worse.

Terry’s hands were already on her, firm and insistent, guiding her towards the couch like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between them.

“Right here,” he growled, voice low and commanding. “I’m done waiting.”

She didn’t protest. Couldn’t. Her breath hitched as he turned her around, rough hands gripping her hips with purpose, bending her over the plush cushions. The anticipation was maddening, her skin buzzing under the ghost of his touch as his fingers trailed down her back, slow, deliberate—like he was savouring the moment, relishing her submission.

“Stay just like that,” he murmured, his voice dark silk, but his hands were anything but gentle. The rush of air against her thighs sent a shudder through her as he pushed her skirt up, his fingers dragging over the lace of her underwear before slipping them down in one smooth motion.

A sharp inhale cut through the silence. He wasn’t even touching her, but she felt it—his gaze, the weight of it scorching her skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re perfect.”

Her nails curled into the fabric beneath her, fighting for something to ground her, but then Terry was pressing against her, all heat and hunger, the hard evidence of his arousal making her breath falter.

“Say it.” His voice was thick, strained, heavy with restraint he was barely holding onto. “Tell me you want this.”

She clenched her jaw, heart pounding. He wouldn’t move until she said it. Wouldn’t give her what she was aching for.

Her resolve cracked, her need eclipsing her pride. “I want this,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. Then, stronger—daring. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

His grip tightened—one hand pressing into the small of her back, the other bracing her hip—before he thrust into her in one fluid movement.

A broken gasp tore from her lips, her body arching as he filled her completely, stretching her, owning her. There was no hesitation, no restraint. He took her with raw, unrelenting force, his movements deep and demanding, fuelled by the same tension that had kept them at odds for so long.

His fingers dug into her skin, holding her still, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. “So fucking good,” he groaned, voice wrecked, like he was barely holding himself together. “Better than I ever let myself imagine.”

She barely registered the words. Her mind was slipping, drowning in the rhythm of him, the way he moved, the way he took. Every deep stroke unravelled her, pulling her further under, until all she could do was surrender to it—to him.

Terry leaned in, his chest flush against her back, his breath hot against her ear as his hand slid into her braids, tugging just enough to tilt her head back. “Don’t hold back, baby.” His voice was a rough whisper, wicked and coaxing. “I want to hear you.”

And she did.

Her moans spilled into the room, raw and unrestrained, each sound sending a fresh surge of heat through him. He rewarded her for it, driving into her with punishing precision, wringing every reaction from her until she was teetering on the edge, trembling, gasping—

Then she shattered.

A sharp cry broke from her lips as pleasure tore through her, leaving her breathless, undone. She felt him falter, his pace growing erratic, his grip tightening—then, with a deep, guttural groan, he followed her over the edge, his release spilling into her as he collapsed against her, spent.

Silence settled over them, save for their ragged breaths.

Terry’s hands, once rough and claiming, softened on her hips, tracing slow, lazy circles against her skin. He eased out of her, lingering for just a moment longer before stepping back, watching as she pulled herself together.

Then, with all the composure she could muster, YN wiped her mouth and turned to face him, lips curling into something wicked. “Well,” she said, smoothing her skirt down, “I suppose we can’t call it a productive meeting until we actually finish that proposal, huh?”

Terry chuckled, raking a hand through his messy hair, looking every bit as wrecked as she felt. “Oh, don’t worry,” he drawled, flashing that signature, lazy grin. “We’ll get it done. I work best under pressure… just like tonight.”

She arched a brow, crossing her arms. “Funny,” she shot back, “you didn’t seem too worried about the deadline when you were too busy getting under my skin.”

His grin widened, smug, infuriatingly charming. “Well, now that I’ve got you warmed up, I’m sure the rest of the work will be a breeze.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her. “Let’s just make sure we finish before Linda decides to make one of her famous surprise appearances.”

Terry laughed, shaking his head as he reached for his laptop. “Agreed. But next time—neutral ground, alright?”

“Next time?” she echoed, tilting her head. “You’re really pushing your luck, Terry.”

He leaned back, flashing her a wink. “Don’t worry, babygirl, I’m not done with you yet.”

And as they turned their attention back to the proposal, the tension between them still hummed in the air, thick and unresolved. They both knew this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @nickidub718 @notapradagurl7 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @wildcardmelaninfreak

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

[anonmousegosqueak]

I don't need much, I just need-

Soap and Ghost cuddling on the porch outside.

It had been a long mission. It's amazing Soap even survived. There was even a close call in those tunnels, If Price had been even one second slower in shooting him... Soap doesn't want to think about what would have happened.

But that's all over now.

Makarov is dead.

The world is just that little bit safer.

Cap had obviously sent them off, practically chasing Soap off the second they got back. He honestly had to feel a bit bad for the guy, it's pretty clear he was under a lot of stress the whole time. Besides, Soap never was one to turn down a free vacation.

He didn't even think twice before grabbing Ghost, packing a small bag for the two of them, and heading off towards his family home up in Scotland.

They had just arrived the other night, having spent the day relaxing and catching up on sleep. Even Ghost, the insomniac he is, didn't leave the bed till 1300.

Gaz and Soap had chatted earlier that day over text, mostly Gaz bragging about the nice date he was planning for Red and himself. Soap couldn't blame him too much, he's definitely not that much better off with how often he talks about Ghost. They were both a bit hopeless, weren't they? Lovesick fools, the pair of them.

Now Johnny is sitting on the back porch, watching the wee barns play around in the backyard. He's shoved himself into Simon's side, close enough he can feel the other man's heart. Thankfully he doesn't seem to mind that much, his only real reaction was a hum before pulling Johnny even closer.

The sun had already started setting, casting a nice glow over everything. The air had started to get a bit of a nip to it but not enough to be uncomfortable. More of an excuse to cuddle, no?

They hadn't talked in a while, simply enjoying each other's company. The warmth of dinner still sat nicely in their stomachs, the first real meal either of them had eaten in... A long time. Rations were fine short term, but even Simon could get a little tired of them.

Dinner was nice for other reasons as well.

Johnny had found himself quieting down for once. Not out of fear or anger, no, more out of... Focus.

Simon was smiling. He was smiling and laughing with Johnny's family. He had taken the mask off to eat, but even then he wouldn't slip it back on while he chewed like he sometimes did when he was uncomfortable. His face was warm and full of life, his posture open and welcoming for once.

And if it didn't all go straight down to Johnny's crotch...

They didn't fool around though, no matter how much Johnny wanted to pull the other man into the nearest bathroom. Instead, they went out to the backyard for the kids to burn off some energy before bed.

His sister was off playing with the kids, his ma working on the garden and his da not too far off so he could lend a hand if she needed it. The rest of the family was all scattered around, too spaced out to really be trackable.

Johnny and Simon had simply relaxed on the porch together.

Snapping brought him back, the slight jostle of his shoulder making him look up.

"y' alright? 'been quiet... In your head again?"

It's not often Simon is worried about him being quiet, usually he's telling Johnny to shut up. He must have spaced out quite a bit to get this kinda reaction from him.

"Mhm. Solid. Just thinking, nothing bad though."

That seems to be enough for Simon, settling for a 'humph' and pulling Johnny closer. If that was even possible.

They drifted back into a quiet cuddle, the silence comforting like a blanket.

And for once? Soap didn't mind the empty space.

Because it wasn't empty. It was full.

Home.

Lmao. Look at these idiots, they're in love haha. Anyways, I'm going to go pass out for a few hours, I'll see y'all when the sun collapses.

[elikajinnie]

The Last Breath - S.J

P: Demigod!Jake X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, Death, Violence, Confessions, basically right person, not enough time.

Synopsis: On the battleground, you lie on the edge of death, knowing there’s nothing left to do but let go. But then you see Jake, the one you’ve loved for so long, fighting. With a final surge of adrenaline, you muster the strength to confess your feelings, hoping to hear him say it back. But by the time he does, it’s too late. Two people in love cannot survive when one of them is gone, and as you slip away, so does the light of the world for Jake.

a/n: this is kinda short, but angsty :) so enjoy!

now playing: i love you by billie eilish

percy jackson au!masterlist

--

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be in this battle—not today, not like this. But the gods, your so-called parents, had once again decided to throw you and the other half-bloods into the fray, using you like pawns on a celestial chessboard. It wasn’t fair, and some of you had dared to say so, but really, who could stand up to Zeus? Who would risk it, knowing the cost?

The fight had started off manageable—a few monsters, nothing you and your friends couldn’t handle. You’d thought maybe, just maybe, this would be one of the easier ones. But that hope shattered when the Minotaurs appeared, chaos erupted, and before you knew it, the battlefield had turned into a gruesome field of broken bodies and spilled blood. Friends, strangers, creatures—dead or dying everywhere you turned.

You should’ve been stronger. As the daughter of one of the more prominent Greek gods, you were supposed to rise above, to lead, to fight. But even godly lineage has its limits. You were cornered before you could react, outnumbered and outmatched. Their strikes were brutal, unrelenting, and though you fought back with everything you had, it wasn’t enough.

Now, here you are, crumpled on the ground, blood soaking through your torn armor and pooling around you. Every breath burns, every movement feels like a thousand daggers stabbing into your flesh. You can hear the shouts of your friends somewhere in the distance, but their voices are drowned out by the pounding in your ears.

You can’t die here. You won’t die here. But as the darkness creeps in, swallowing the edges of your sight, you can’t help but wonder if this time, the gods have pushed you too far.

You looked down at your wounds, at the crimson streaks running down your arms and hands. Your fingers were stained red, trembling as you struggled to make sense of the pain. It was everywhere—your chest, your legs, your ribs. Every breath you took felt like fire, every movement sent waves of agony through your body. You’d never been to Tartarus, but you swore this was what it must feel like. This was suffering, pure and unrelenting, and you didn’t know how much more you could take.

For a moment, the thought crossed your mind: you could just close your eyes. Let the pain take over. Give up and let the darkness swallow you whole. But before you could give in, something in the corner of your vision caught your attention. Him.

Sim Jake.

Son of Ares.

Even now, bruised and bloodied, barely holding himself upright, he kept fighting. He refused to back down, even when it looked like his body might give out at any second.

And he was your crush.

From the moment you arrived at Camp Half-Blood, clueless and scared, he had been there. You’d met him on your first day, wandering aimlessly, overwhelmed by the realization that you were a demigod. He had found you and, without hesitation, taken you under his wing. He’d taught you the ropes—how to hold a sword, how to defend yourself, how to survive. He showed you kindness when you needed it most, and slowly, over time, you’d fallen for him.

How could you not? There was so much to love about Jake. His soft curls that always seemed to fall perfectly into place. His warm, puppy-like eyes that somehow made you feel safe. His confidence, his humor, the way he smiled like he had the entire world in his hands. He was fierce and brave, yet gentle in a way you hadn’t expected from someone like him, someone whose father was the God of war.

Jake was... Jake.

And to you, he was everything.

But what were you to him? A friend? A sister figure? A pupil he’d taken under his wing out of pity? You didn’t know, but the idea of confessing your feelings only to be rejected kept you silent. Why would someone like him ever like someone like you? Jake deserved someone strong, someone who could stand by his side in battle without faltering. Not you, bleeding out on the ground, helpless and weak.

You shook your head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they lingered. You didn’t deserve him. That much, you were sure of. And yet, even as you tried to convince yourself to let go of the hopeless dream, you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

You loved him. So, so much. Even when you didn’t want to. Even when you tried to tell yourself it was foolish, that it would never work. But no matter how hard you fought it, your heart always betrayed you. And somehow, that hurt so much more than any of the physical pain you were feeling. The ache in your chest burned hotter than the cuts on your skin, sharper than the bruises blooming across your body.

You told yourself you’d had enough—enough fighting, enough struggling, enough everything. So, you stayed where you were, content to just watch him in your final moment.

But then you saw it.

A creature.

It was creeping toward Jake’s blind spot, its movements silent. He was too busy fighting off another monster to notice.

He didn’t see it.

He didn’t see it.

Your body moved before your mind could process what was happening. You didn’t know where the sudden rush of adrenaline came from, but it didn’t matter. Pain surged through you as you forced yourself to your feet, the wounds screaming in protest, but you ignored it. Your hand found your sword, then your shield, both slick with blood as you grabbed them from the ground.

You staggered forward, limping and breathless, but your focus never left him. The creature was getting closer. Too close. Panic clawed at your chest as you tried to move faster, your battered legs trembling beneath you. Every step felt impossible, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

“Jake!” you screamed, your voice hoarse but desperate enough to make him turn. His wide eyes found you, shock flashing across his face as you barreled toward him, pushing yourself past the limits of what you thought you could endure.

Before he could say a word, before he could ask what you were doing, you threw yourself against his back. The impact sent a fresh wave of agony through your body, but you bit down the cry threatening to escape. You raised your shield just as the creature lunged, its attack colliding with the metal in a sickening crash.

The force of the blow rattled your bones, nearly knocking you over, but it didn’t hit Jake. It didn’t hurt him. You held firm, your shield braced as you stood between him and the creature, refusing to let it lay a single claw on him.

For a moment, everything else faded—the chaos, the deaths, the battlefield, the blood. All that mattered was that Jake was safe.

And you wanted to make sure he stayed safe. That was all that mattered. With a shout that burned your throat, you pushed the creature back with all the strength you had left, raising your sword and slashing it across the neck. The monster let out a guttural cry before falling, its body crumpling to the ground, lifeless.

You stood there for a moment, panting, trembling, and turned to Jake. He had just bested the last of his opponents, his blade still in hand, his chest heaving with exhaustion. The relief that flooded you was overwhelming. He was okay. Jake was okay. That was all you needed to know.

But your body had reached its limit. The adrenaline that had kept you standing drained away in an instant, leaving only the crushing weight of your injuries behind. Your legs buckled beneath you, and you fell. Your sword and shield slipped from your hands, clattering to the ground with a dull metallic crash.

You barely registered the sting of the impact as your body hit the ground, too numb, too tired to care. The edges of your vision blurred, darkened, but you could still see Jake turning toward you, his eyes wide with alarm.

“No!” His voice was panicked, cutting through the haze that threatened to pull you under. You wanted to respond, to tell him you were fine—or at least lie and say you were—but the words wouldn’t come. Your body felt heavy, your limbs like lead.

You tried to lift your head, but the effort was too much. All you could do was watch as Jake dropped his weapon, and rushed toward you. You wanted to smile at him, to reassure him, but the darkness was too strong.

You felt so numb, so cold… like the warmth was slowly draining from your body. The pain that had consumed you earlier was gone now, replaced by an eerie emptiness. But then, you felt it—Jake’s arms around you, pulling you close. His warmth pressed against your chilled skin, his frantic movements jolting your mind just enough to keep the darkness at bay. His voice was desperate, trembling as he spoke, though his words were distant, muffled by the haze clouding your mind.

You blinked sluggishly, trying to focus, trying to understand, and that’s when you felt something wet against your face. It wasn’t blood—it was warm, and it fell in soft drops that rolled down your cheeks. It took you longer than it should have to realize they weren’t your tears.

Jake was crying.

Your Jake. The brave, unshakable son of Ares. The boy who faced monsters and gods without flinching, who always smiled even when the odds were stacked against him. His face was twisted in anguish, his tears falling freely as he cradled you like you were the most fragile thing in the world. His voice broke as he spoke your name over and over, his hands shaking as he tried to keep pressure on your wounds.

Why was he crying?

Your mind felt too foggy, too far gone to make sense of it. You wanted to ask him, to tell him you were fine—even if it was a lie—but your lips wouldn’t move. Instead, you stared up at him, your heavy eyelids threatening to close, wondering why he looked so heartbroken.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he pressed his forehead against yours. “I’m so sorry. Please… please stay with me. I can’t—” His words choked off into a sob, and his grip on you tightened, as if holding you closer could somehow keep you here.

Sorry? What was he sorry for? You didn’t understand. Your chest ached, not from pain, but from the look on his face—the fear and desperation in his eyes. You’d never seen him like this before, and it hurt more than any wound ever could.

“Jake…” you finally managed to whisper, though your voice was barely audible. It took every ounce of strength you had left, and even then, it felt like the effort might break you. His head snapped up at the sound of your voice, his tear-streaked face hovering above yours.

“Yes! Yes,” he said quickly, his tone a mix of relief and panic. “I’m here. I’m right here. Don’t—don’t you dare close your eyes. Stay with me. Please.”

You wanted to obey, to stay awake like he begged, but the numbness was spreading, the world around you blurring again. Still, you fought to keep your gaze locked on him, his familiar face the only anchor you had left. You wanted to tell him everything—to tell him you loved him, that he was the reason you kept fighting, that he was your everything. But all that came out was a weak, trembling whisper.

“Why… are you crying?”

Jake’s face crumpled again, and a fresh wave of tears spilled from his eyes. He shook his head, brushing your hair back gently as if trying to soothe you. “Because I can’t lose you,” he said, his voice breaking with every word. “I can’t. I—” He swallowed hard, his chest heaving as he forced the words out. “Because I can’t lose you,” he choked out, his voice trembling like it was on the verge of shattering. He looked so lost, so helpless, his usual confidence stripped away.

“I can’t lose you, not you,” he rambled, his words tumbling out like a dam had broken. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you. You’re—you’re everything, and I should’ve told you that. I should’ve stayed with you during the battle, I should’ve protected you better—” His voice broke again, a sob catching in his throat. “But I wasn’t strong enough, and now… now you’re—” He cut himself off, shaking his head furiously, as though refusing to even acknowledge the possibility.

His hands trembled as he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away blood and dirt like he could somehow make everything better by sheer force of will. “You can’t leave me. You can’t,” he said, his voice rising in desperation. “I can’t live without you. I don’t want to. Do you hear me? I need you. I need you.”

Tears streaked down his face, landing on your cheeks and mingling with the blood there. You stared up at him, your body too weak to move, too drained to respond. But your mind… your mind raced. His words, his confession—it didn’t feel real. Jake, your Jake, was falling apart in front of you, his heart laid bare, and you didn’t know how to process it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice raw with guilt. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. If I had just stayed with you, if I’d just—” He clenched his jaw, his fists tightening as though trying to hold back the anger at himself. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve been by your side, protecting you. That’s all I ever wanted—to keep you safe. And I failed.”

You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that it wasn’t his fault, that he’d done more for you than anyone ever had. But the words wouldn’t come, your body too weak to obey. All you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, your heart pounding despite your exhaustion.

Jake’s gaze searched yours, his desperation deepening when he noticed your silence. “Please, say something,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Yell at me, tell me I’m an idiot, anything. Just… don’t leave me. Please..” His forehead pressed against yours again, his warm breath mixing with your shallow, ragged gasps.

The world around you felt distant, muted, but Jake… Jake was so close, his presence so overwhelming that it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And even through the haze, you could feel your heart breaking at the sight of him. You’d never seen him like this—never seen him so completely shattered.

You wanted to reassure him, to tell him it was okay, that you weren’t giving up. But all you could do was keep staring, stunned by his confession. The boy you thought could never love you the way you loved him was here, holding you like you were his entire world, begging you to stay, telling you he needed you.

You didn’t know how this would end, whether you’d survive the injuries tearing you apart, but in that moment, you found the strength to part your lips, even if only slightly.

“Jake…” you whispered, barely audible, but it was enough to make his head snap up, his tear-streaked face inches from yours. You saw the hope flicker in his eyes, the way he clung to the sound of your voice like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“I…” Your voice faltered, the effort too much, but you managed a small, trembling smile. You needed him to know, no matter what happened next. “You’re wrong. You… you didn’t fail me.”

“No,” Jake said sharply, his voice trembling with barely-contained emotion. “I did fail you.” His hands pressed harder against your wounds, though you both knew it wasn’t helping. He looked at you like he was trying to will you back to life with sheer determination, his tears falling faster now. “If I was just a little stronger, just a little faster… you’d be standing with me right now. Victorious. Unharmed. Unscathed.”

His voice cracked, and he shook his head, his lips pulling into a thin, anguished line. “You wouldn’t be here, bleeding out in my arms. You wouldn’t—” His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes for a moment, his shoulders trembling. “You wouldn’t be dying.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that none of this was his fault. But you couldn’t. Not because you agreed with him, but because you already knew the truth. He wasn’t wrong about one thing—you were dying. The warmth in your body was all but gone, replaced by a chilling numbness that crept deeper with every passing second. You could feel it now, the faint pull. You wouldn’t survive this. No godly intervention, no miracle could save you.

So what was the point in denying it? If this was the end, you knew there was something you had to do. You’d carried the weight of your feelings for too long, burying them out of fear of rejection, of heartbreak. But now… now you didn’t have to be afraid. If he rejected you, it wouldn’t matter. You’d be gone, and there’d be no heartbreak to endure.

What better time to confess than when you had nothing left to lose?

Your lips trembled as you summoned the last of your strength, your voice a mere whisper. “Jake…”

His eyes snapped back to yours, the desperation in them piercing through the haze clouding your mind. “What is it? Don’t try to talk—just hold on, okay? You’ll be fine. I’ll get you out of here, I swear.”

You wanted to smile at his stubborn hope, but your body was too weak. Instead, you forced out the words you’d never had the courage to say before. “I… I need to tell you something.”

Jake’s brow furrowed, his panic deepening. “No, you don’t. You can tell me later, okay? When you’re better—”

“Jake,” you interrupted, your tone firmer this time despite the weakness in your voice. He froze, his lips parting slightly as he stared at you. You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down as you looked into his eyes, memorizing every detail of his face.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words leaving your lips so softly they almost got lost in the chaos around you. But Jake heard them. You saw the way his expression shifted, the way his eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “I’ve loved you for so long. And I… I’m sorry I never told you before, but I couldn’t. I was scared.”

His mouth opened as if to say something, but no sound came out. You pushed forward, desperate to get it all out. “I didn’t think you’d feel the same. But I—I needed to tell you. Just once.” A weak, bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Even if you don’t feel the same, it’s okay. I just… I needed you to know.”

Jake’s face crumpled again, his tears falling faster now as he shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice breaking. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that and then—” He stopped himself, his hand cupping your cheek as he leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I feel the same... I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

Your heart ached at his words, both with joy and sorrow. You wanted to hold onto that moment forever, but you could feel yourself slipping away, your vision blurring at the edges. “Jake…” you whispered, his name a soft breath on your lips.

“No, don’t you dare,” he said, his voice rising in panic as he shook you gently. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. You’re staying with me, do you hear me? I love you, and you’re staying with me. Please.”

But his voice was growing fainter, the world around you dimming as the darkness closed in. All you could see was him, his tear-streaked face and trembling hands, his love for you written in every broken word he spoke.

And as the last of your strength faded, you managed one final smile, your fingers brushing weakly against his hand. “I love you too,” you whispered, and then everything went still.

You wouldn’t know that Jake’s screams echoed across the battlefield, piercing through the chaos like a dagger to the heart of everyone who heard it. His cries were filled with so much anguish that even the monsters seemed to hesitate, their bloodlust momentarily stalled by the sheer force of his grief.

He clutched your lifeless body to his chest, his arms trembling as he held you as tightly as he could, as though refusing to let you slip away completely. His tears soaked into your bloodied clothes, his face buried in your hair as he sobbed. “No, no, no,” he chanted over and over, his voice cracking with every word. “Please… not you. Anyone but you.”

Jake felt like his entire world had collapsed. His heart was shattered, broken beyond repair, leaving nothing but a hollow void in its place.

“You can’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible now. “I can’t… I can’t do this without you. You promised me. You said you’d stay.” His fingers brushed against your cheek, smearing the blood there as if trying to bring color back to your pale skin. But it was futile. He knew that. Deep down, he knew.

Yet he couldn’t let go.

His body shook as he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his tears falling like rain onto your face. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking again. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve protected you.”

But no matter how many times he apologized, no matter how many tears he shed, it wouldn’t bring you back. And that thought… that reality… was unbearable.

Jake felt his breathing grow ragged, his chest tightening painfully as the weight of your absence threatened to crush him completely. He couldn’t imagine a world without you. A world where your laughter didn’t fill the air, where your smile didn’t light up his days. A world where he didn’t get to tell you how much he loved you every single day.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Not without you. I can’t.” His hands shook as they clung to you, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. He didn’t care about the battle raging around him. He didn’t care about the blood still staining his hands. All he cared about was you. And you were gone.

He pressed a soft, trembling kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as his tears continued to fall. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the wind. “I always have. I always will.”

But the pain didn’t go away. It only grew, consuming him like fire, burning through his resolve and leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. He didn’t know how to go on. He didn’t know if he could.

Because a world without you wasn’t a world worth living in.

Jake’s trembling hands slowly reached for the pendant around your neck—the one he’d given you months ago, after you’d bested him in a sparring match. It was simple, unassuming, but it had meant the world to him when you’d accepted it. Now, it was all he had left of you. He unclasped it with shaking fingers, clutching it tightly in his palm as if it were the only thing tethering him to what little sanity he had left.

“I’ll see you again,” he whispered, his voice so broken it was barely audible. “I promise. I’ll come to you. Just… wait for me.”

As the battle raged on, Jake didn’t care about the outcome anymore. He didn’t care about the gods or their games, or the war that had taken everything from him. All he cared about was the promise he’d just made. To you. To the only person who had ever truly mattered.

a/n: oooooooooookay! so this marks the last fic of 2024 :) wooow... what a year. Thanks for all the birthday wishes <33 Love all of youu! Now time to get drunk, ugh i need it after this year. Reblogs and commentary are welcomed <3

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[gothamhappiness]

Death can't keep us apart (f!reader x Bruce Wayne - part II)

Hi everyone, this is the second and last part of this fic about reader dying / the Batfamily darkly reacting to it.

As a reminder, the first part ends on Damian telling Bruce that his grandfather might be able to bring reader back from the grave.

Hope you'll enjoy <3

Warnings: no proof reading, ANGST and more ANGST, no happy ending, despair, sadness, insanity, dark!Batfamily

Everything was going to be alright.

Even if everyone knew it was a terrible idea. 

And yet no one could care any less. 

Bruce would have eagerly sold his soul to the devil if it meant getting you back. He knew the pain of your absence would never get away and he wasn’t too certain how long he would be able to survive it. No matter if Gotham needed him and his children. His duty was long forgotten; even a soldier needs happiness to keep going, even bats need the sun to not get lost.

Bruce found Ra's Al Ghul with crazed determination. He let go of his weapons and toys, to show his opponent that he actually wasn’t here to fight. Ra’s had no idea what was going on, Talia was afraid to understand when Bruce knelt in front of the old man.

“I’ll do anything you want, but bring my wife back. Damian said you could and I believe you know how to.” Batman pleaded

“Anything?” Ra’s asked, knowing how love could be the most efficient way to destroy someone

“Anything”

Bruce agreed to become his heir and the new Head of the Demon. He agreed to embrace a very dark part of himself. He agreed to let the League of Assassin roam inside his manor. But it didn’t matter. Even his children agreed with everything. The price was high but it was the only option.

Talia watched in silence and with sadness. She couldn’t even be happy for her father. She knew that Bruce was simply losing himself. She hoped the price wasn’t too high, she hoped you were going to come back alright and she hoped that Bruce would find a way back to himself. She noticed how Damian was also eager to get you back home. She was grateful you took care of her boy so tenderly. But she hated you for being such a weakness.

A pathetic weakness.

The most powerful weakness.

She even made her son promise that once you would be back, he would protect you so nothing could ever happen to you again. She was aware that otherwise the people who loved you would burn the whole world down and it wouldn’t be a happy ending for anyone. Not even the Justice League would be able to do anything about it, she was certain of it. 

Love consumed everything, like a burning sun. 

And their love for you was a crying volcano.

When you woke up, you were in your bed. It was strange, because you were pretty certain that last time you were awake, you were on a very uncomfortable chair. You had a massive headache and your whole body was aching too. You were completely disoriented, half wondering what you were doing here. You tried to remember what happened, but the headache grew even stronger. You took your skull in both your hands, whining in pain. You barely felt bigger hands gently stroking your hair. You didn’t hear the soft whisperers of reassuring words either, until you slowly calmed down.

When you relaxed again as the pain subsided a little, you looked up and saw Bruce watching over you. 

He looked so pale, so exhausted. He searched for your eyes with such raw despair; it worried you. You reached for his face and he instantly leaned into your touch. Your warmth was already a balm to his suffering. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. He wasn’t fully certain all of you were back, but he had lost enough of his sanity to be happy to just have your body alive again, no matter how much he would also want your mind, of course.

“How are you feeling, my love?” he whispered, testing the waters, tears in the eyes

“I… What happened, Bruce? Riddler… I…” you babbled, trying to gather your thought but your head started to pound again

“Shh, my beloved. It’s alright, everything is alright now” he shushed you as he brought you closer to him “You’re safe and loved. Nothing bad will ever happen to you again. I promise you.” he continued

“My head hurt.” you whispered

“I know. You can't take a med for it right away, but later on, after some food, you’ll be able to grab one. You’ll feel better soon.” he replied

“Have I been out for a while?” you asked because as you leaned against your husband’s form, you felt he had lost quite some weight and it couldn’t have happened just in a few hours.

“Nine months” Bruce finally replied and you looked up at him in pure shock

“Wait, what? But how is that even possible? Why am I not at the hospital then? Oh my God, Bruce, what happened to me?” you cried out

Bruce shushed you again and tried to appease you by cuddling you.

“You don’t have to worry about anything. You’re back, you’re awake and that's all that matters, trust me” he gave you a small smile and you bite your tongue.

“Are you okay, Bruce?” you frowned

“Yes, yes I am now” the man hummed as he leaned his forehead against yours. 

He was relaxing for the first time in so many months. The pain finally left his body and mind. You were back home. You were safe. Your mind seemed intact, as well as your body. From now on, he could work with anything.

A soft knock at the door startled you. Alfred slightly opened the door. The man seemed as exhausted as Bruce. You noticed the appeasement and the relief washing over him as he saw you curiously peering at him from Bruce’s side.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the two of you, but food is ready” he informed you

You realised you were actually starving, as if you hadn’t eaten in… oh well yes, you didn’t eat in months indeed. You started to get up and Bruce carefully helped you. Your bones cracked a little as you stretched before starting to walk. You were feeling a little bit weak and still a little bit lost, so you let Bruce support you and guide you through the manor.

You knew something was awfully off when all the children got up as you entered the room. They came to you, helping you to sit down, all trying to touch you and kiss your cheeks and hands. They all wanted a seat next to you, they were all so agitated. You didn’t understand their unshed tears, their relief, their worried tenderness. You also noticed some people standing in the living room, like perfect little soldiers. You frowned and Bruce shushed you again.

“Don’t worry about anything, darling” he told you

You nodded, not understanding anything anyway.

You were happy to eat Alfred’s food and you relaxed a little as you focused on the delicious taste flooding into your mouth. Everyone around you started to eat once you did. You were surprised when you noticed how silent your family was. They all seemed to have their whole attention on you. Like your husband, they didn’t seem to be doing so well either.

“Maybe we could get a walk in town today, you all seemed like you could get some fresh air” you offered

“Look, my darling, a lot of things have changed in your… absence. And from now on, I’m afraid you won’t be able to leave the Manor.” Bruce softly informed you

“What?” you asked as you stopped eating

“It’s okay, Ma, keep eating” Jason instantly pleaded

“Yes it’s just for safety measures” Dick nodded

“We just need to keep an eye on you” Tim added

“We have been very worried about you but now you’re back” Stephanie tried to smile

“And you won’t leave us again” Damian muttered under his breath

“And you don’t need to worry about anything, we’ve got it” Duke tried to reassure you

“Nothing bad will ever happen again” Cass promised

It hit you. 

It hit you so hard. 

Your head was pounding because you got shot. You were… You were dead. 

You were dead. You were dead. You were dead. 

Oh my god you were dead.

But not anymore.

You felt sick. Your body felt wrong. Your mind was screaming.

The food tasted like iron.

You tried to remain calm, but you were going insane.

One of the soldiers came into view and walked to Bruce.

“Head of the Demon” he greeted Bruce.

You didn’t hear the rest of the words. Your head was spinning. You suddenly got up and everyone stopped eating or listening to what the member of the League of Assassins was telling Bruce.

“I need a shower” you said and rushed away before anyone could offer their help or stop you.

You locked yourself up in the bathroom, and turned on the water. You undressed and started to inspect your body. You got flashes from what happened with Riddler.

You remembered everything as you washed your body with a brush until your skin was raw. Once you were done, you went out of the shower and sat down on the ground before starting to cry. You couldn’t believe your family brought you back from the dead. How could they not understand how wrong it was?

You jumped when Bruce knocked at the door.

“My love, can you open the door please? You’ve been in there for a very long time” your husband pleaded with you, you could hear the worry lacing his voice.

You mechanically stood up and opened the door.

You didn’t care about your nakedness. Bruce cupped your face and frowned in pure sadness as the tears cascading down your face. He also disapproved of how harsh you had been with your body.

“Allow me to put some cream on your skin” he asked and you shrugged “Please” he whispered and you nodded.

He guided you to the bed and sat you down, before leaving for the bathroom and coming back with the expensive hydrating cream you used to put on your skin after every shower. He knelt down in front of you and started to coat your legs. He massaged your body, hoping you would relax under his touch.

“You shouldn’t have brought me back,” you whispered.

He froze for an instant before resuming his actions.

“Trust me, we didn’t have any other choice” Bruce gloomy replied “Now you’re back, I can finally work again, I can finally eat and rest. The children too. We are finally going to be alright again. The pain… The pain is gone.” he mumbled

“Bruce…” you choked on your tears

“We’ll keep you safe here. We’ll take care of you. We’ll do so much better. We’ll do everything you want. We just want you to be happy and among us. We’ll make sure to distract you from being locked up inside the manor. I’m sure you could rethink the decoration to keep you busy for a while. You'll read books and watch movies, you'll play video games. You'll do anything you want as long as you stay with us, at home. And at night, you can go in the park of the property” Bruce said, like the man who thought about everything “We just need you here, that’s all we’re asking” 

“Ra's Al Ghul…” you started

“Yes. But it was worth it. It’s okay, really. Everything is alright” Bruce cut you

“You… Death shouldn’t be cheated like that”

“Death shouldn’t have taken you away from us, we fixed things like we always did.”

Happiness is sometimes dark, just like love.

That night Bruce finally fell asleep, with you tightly snuggled up in an embrace you couldn't break free from.

Your family proved to be even stronger than Death.

Even if it meant you now wanted to die and kill them all, even if you were losing your sanity, even if the Batfamily was getting so dangerous no one knew how to deal with them anymore.

But it was alright, because you were forever back home.

--

Taglists:

Taglist for all my work <3

@blublock404

@wind-canoe

@silverklaus

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch

@tatsuri-zomushiki

@navs-bhat

@randomnamedmira

@winterhi09

@murkyponds

@qardasngan

Taglist for Bruce Wayne <3

@alishii

Taglist for this mini series <3

@classicsimpforaaronwarner

@blue-iris09

@melday0105

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 18 - Something In The Static

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: I’d like to dedicate this chapter to my friend who I finally got to watch the Boys and we’re talking about Soldier Boy and I have to pretend I’m not doing this and be very normal about the conversation.

Also for everyone who's gonna say “why is Ezekiel alive”, Butcher never went all tentacle tumor on us, and therefore Ezekiel is still very much alive. “Well how did Butcher survive their encounter” idk maybe he kissed Ezekiel and then just ran away.

Chapter Title from Not Strong Enough by boygenius

Word Count: 25.7k......

Chapter Summary/Warnings: The Believe Expo is underway, and everyone is dealing with a lot of emotions. Usual warnings, times two. We're looking at angst and smut and (minimal) fluff. Just a hodgepodge of everything.

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 17 - Chapter 19

Coconut might be the worst smell in the world. Not real coconut, but this fake, chemical coconut that was everywhere in Homelander’s apartment. Everywhere on Homelander. Too sweet and impossible to not think about. It burns your nose, and you’re starting to wonder if it’s some kind of poison cologne. Something designed to make him even harder to stand against, because you always have to use a hand to block the smell from your nose. You’d never smelled it in the white room, but Homelander always went through an airlock before he visited you. This is just him, all the time, and you’re choking on it. 

He still hadn’t touched you. And they hadn’t locked you back down. You think that, between Noir’s sudden and heroic death very vaguely “defending our country” and the the CIA releasing a statement that you’re being held against your will by Vought—you’re surprised Mallory didn’t take the disavowing you entirely path, but here you are—Sage is too busy putting out fires to convince Homelander that you didn’t break that easy. That, after Noir II, you’d gotten back up. Revised your role, changing how you played it, and kept moving. You would not break, not like this, not where Homelander could see it. He didn’t fucking deserve to see you break, really break. He could think he’d gotten you to understand, but you would never allow him to see what you breaking really looked like.

You would break—really break, with screams and sobs and nails in your skin and not getting back up—when you got home. When you could cry into Ben’s chest, and he could keep your nails on his arm instead of your own. He’d pick you up. He’d pick you up in strong, safe arms and carry you to bed, holding you as long you asked him to. Everything would smell like pine and Ben, and you’d be able to break without the freezing cold making you glue yourself together. You’d just break. 

But not now. Not yet.

Not when there was still work to do.

A-Train had found you a few days after Noir II, after the CIA had responded to your speech. An official statement from the director, co-signed by president Robert Singer, stating that Soldier Boy was indeed a CIA operative, that Vought had no jurisdiction to declare him a public enemy, and that the Anomaly was currently being tortured by Vought to comply with their agenda. They didn’t say the whole truth, because according to them you and Ben were co-workers—nothing more—and Homelander had been obsessed with you since you were both young supes but you’d turned him down numerous times. You wish they had just committed to it. Just told the world what Homelander was, what he’d done to you, but the truth did somehow sound more absurd. And right now wasn’t about the truth, it was about doing what needed to be done. You had to trust that Mallory was smart. That she knew what she was doing. 

It would be really helpful if A-Train had a similar leniency. 

“What are they doing?” He’d skidded to a stop in front of you again, in another too-fancy bathroom at another boring event. 

You’d held up a single finger, taking a long, deep breath. You were curled up on the floor, under a hand-dryer that you kept pushing the button of to make the warm air blast onto your head. It was helpful, it made you feel a little more alive and was a lot more sustainable than constant vomiting. 

A-Train had just kept talking, pacing in front of you. “Sage is really not happy, there’s no fucking way I can risk talking to MM now. That was not smart, that shit you did on TV. You know why Sage isn’t here? The Deep went to a fucking Panera last night without telling anyone and Sage is pulling camera footage to make sure he’s telling the truth. And Noir is dead-“ 

“Can you please shut up?” You’d muttered, tapping against your calves. “I know what I did. I knew there would be consequences. I’m willing to live with them.” 

“Well, I’m not!” A-Train’s feet had stopped in front of you, and you’d reached up to hit the button again. Letting the hot air push on the top of your head, calming you as he continued. “This isn’t just about you, you’re not the only one who’s suffering-“ 

“I could say the same to you.” 

“Come on-“ 

“I’m serious,” you’d looked up at him with a scowl as the wind above you stopped once more. “This is good. Ben can help them now, Annie has more fuel against Vought, and Butcher and Mallory will know how to work this.” 

“Fine, but I’m not helping you at all if you keep this shit up,” A-Train had snapped your name. “I’ve got people, I can’t risk my nephews for this-“ 

“Okay.” 

He’d blinked at you. “Okay? That’s it?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” You’d shrugged. “I can’t make you help me. If you won’t, you won’t. I can handle this myself.” 

“You’re really not going to lecture me about being a hero, or doing the right thing?” 

You’d shaken your head, looking back down at the floor. “I don’t really have legs to stand on there. I got Noir II killed, I killed Firecracker, I’ve destroyed at least two buildings and gotten a lot of other, innocent people killed by proximity. I mean, fuck, I’m in love with Soldier Boy-“ 

You hadn’t meant to say that. It had fallen out of your mouth and you’d stuttered to a stop, but it was too late. When you looked back up at A-Train, his mouth was hanging open. 

“You-“ 

“Please don’t tell anyone that,” you’d whispered. “I didn’t mean to tell you that, I’m just exhausted-“ 

“I’m not going to.” A-Train had still been frowning at you. “I mean, I don’t really care about your personal shit. Even if it’s being in love with Soldier Boy.” A-Train had frowned. “Isn’t he technically Homelander’s father?” 

“Yeah,” you’d leaned your head back against the wall. “And I’m aware of how fucked up that is.” 

A-Train had shrugged. “All of this is fucked. I don’t think you fucking Soldier Boy is any less fucked than anything else we’ve all done.” 

“We’ve never actually fucked,” you’d mumbled, because you couldn’t stop now. In no world had you foreseen the I’m very in love with Ben and it’s all impossibly confusing and complicated conversation happening in a fancy bathroom with A-Train, but you had started it and now you were apparently incapable of stopping it. “I mean, we’ve done stuff. But not fucking.” 

“Okay.” A-Train had frowned. “Why the fuck are you telling me that?” 

“Because I’m lonely.” You’d looked up at him with a sad smile. “And you’re here.” 

He’d nodded, then moved away. You’d thought he’d left, just pissed off because he didn’t want to deal with this. But he’d dropped against the wall across from you with a sigh, pulling off his visor to meet your eyes. “How long?” 

You’d frowned at him. “How long?” 

“Have you and Soldier Boy been not fucking.” 

“February. But, uh,” you’d shaken your head. “I think I might have been in love with him before that.” 

“Okay,” A-Train had nodded, and kept going. “Does Homelander-“ 

“He found out after the interview. Sage told him.” 

“And your team-“ 

“I’m not sure. They know we’re close, and maybe some of them have figured out it’s more than that, but I’m really not sure.” You’d tilted your head at him. “Why are we talking about this?” 

“I don’t exactly have a lot of friends either.” A-Train muttered. “I killed the only woman I’ve ever loved because Homelander told me to, Sage is a bitch, and the Deep is an idiot. Ashley’s fine, sometimes, but we don’t exactly talk about things that aren’t life or death.” 

“Oh,” you’d nodded. “Okay.” 

It had been silent for a second, both of you watching each other wearily. 

“Does he know?” 

You’d blinked. “Who?” 

“Soldier Boy. Does he know you love him?” 

“No,” your voice had cracked a little, a lump forming in your throat. “It’s complicated.” 

“Does he love you?” 

“No.” 

A-Train had blinked at your answer. “You said that really fast.” 

“He doesn’t,” you’d let out a long breath before continuing. “I’m okay with it. He just doesn’t and it’s fine.” 

He’d looked like he’d wanted to keep pushing. You’re grateful he didn’t, because if you kept talking about Ben you might have started crying. 

“I, uh,” A-Train had shaken his head, foot tapping on the floor. “When I was a kid I wanted to be a hero. Just, while we’re talking about fucked shit, I wanted to be a hero. A real hero. My brother said I could help people, and I really did believe him. And then I just, I got lost. It’s a shit ton harder to be a hero when it’s not just a word. When you actually have to back it up and nobody around you seems to care. Now it’s probably too fuckin late.” 

“I don’t think it’s ever too late,” you’d watched him carefully, speaking slowly. “You can always change. Humans aren’t static. We’re always changing. It’s a strange kind of exceptionalism to think you’re immune to that. To think you’re special enough to not be capable of being better.” 

A-Train had narrowed his eyes at you. “What are you talking about.”

“I dedicated my whole life before this to studying people,” you’d held his gaze, not wavering on your words. “And you realize pretty fast that concepts of good and bad are different across the world. It’s not something that’s fixed, because people aren’t fixed. We’re not born good or bad. We are who we are, who we’ll be, but we also make choices. I mean,” you’d shrugged. “You can keep doing good things, or bad things, or nothing at all. But you’re never incapable of doing something different. If you think you can’t, it’s because you think you’re too good to be better. But everyone is always capable of being better.” 

“Like Soldier Boy?” 

“Like Ben,” you’d whispered. “He’s better. And he’s good. Really good.” 

“And you really love him?” 

You’d swallowed. “Yeah. A lot.” 

A-Train had nodded. “You think he’ll be waiting for you?” 

“Yes.” You’d answered without hesitation. Ben may not love you, but he’d never leave you. If you knew one thing in all of this, it was that Ben would never leave you. “He will.” 

“Then what?” 

You’d frowned at him. “What are you talking about?” 

“When this is over. If you win,” A-Train had shrugged. “Then what?” 

“I,” you’d shaken your head. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.” 

“You have to have a reason you’re still going,” A-Train had leaned forward slightly. “It can’t just be because you’re a fucking good person.” 

“I’m not-“ 

“Yeah, you are.” A-Train had rolled his eyes. “You’re better than me, than all of us. Congratulations, you did it. You won the stupid contest.”

“I didn’t-”

He’d kept going, ignoring your protest. “But you have to have something you want. Everyone has something they want. That’s how this shit gets out of control.” He’d sighed. “You get promised the thing you want and never fully get it. Then it’s never enough.” 

“I don’t have anything I want,” you’d mumbled. “Just for this to be over.” 

“After that,” A-Train had snapped. “You’ve got to think of after. Otherwise you’ll just burn out.” 

“Butcher-“ 

“Is a vengeance fueled asshole. That dude might not have an after. I want my family back. So does MM. Hughie and Annie probably want a peaceful, boring fucking life. Ashley wants a year at a spa. What do you want.” 

You’d swallowed. “I don’t know.” 

“Think about it. What did you want before?”

“To do something important,” you’d said softly, rubbing circles against your arms. “Have a job where I helped people, where I was respected in my field. Then go home to someone who loved me, who I’d built a life with. A life that was mine.”

“Then do that. When this is all finally fucking done, build a life.” 

“I can’t,” you’d shaken your head, eyes blurred from tears. “I wanted to get married. I wanted a job. I wanted kids.” You choke slightly. “I don’t, I can’t be sure any of that is even possible anymore. Not after this.” 

“You can do whatever you want.” A-Train’s voice had been sharp. “Don’t let all these assholes control you, change how you live your life. You can do all that, or none of it, but you do it.” He’d sighed. “Don’t let them make you lose people. Lose happiness. They don’t deserve to have that kind of control over you.” 

“Thank you,” you’d smiled softly, and he’d shrugged. 

“Sure.” 

You’d given a dry laugh. “They really just fuck everything up, don’t they.” 

“Fucking everything,” A-Train had nodded with a small smile that had fallen fast. “I still can’t help you. Not like you asked. My family-“ 

“It’s fine,” you’d met his eyes with a sigh. “I’ll find something else.” 

“You’re serious?” 

“Yeah,” you’d shrugged. “I can move things around, find another way. You can still help.” You’d given him a tight smile. “You can be better. But you should leave the bathroom. They might start looking for us soon.” 

He’d nodded and stood, giving you one last look before leaving. “Thanks.” 

“No problem.” 

The air whooshed, and you were alone on the floor of the bathroom again. 

We could go to Rome, Ben’s voice had hummed around you. When all this shit is over, we can always go to fucking Rome. 

I’d love to go to Rome. You’d smiled into the empty air around you. I’d love anywhere, as long as you were there. 

Because you love me. 

Because I love you. You’d leaned back again, hitting the button above you one last time. Ben, really I love you. It’s kind of stupid how much I love you. 

Are you ever actually going to fucking tell me that? 

Maybe. You’d sighed. Maybe one day in a million years I’ll grow some balls and tell you. 

What would you say? 

It doesn’t matter. 

Shut the fuck up. When you tell me you love me, which you will because you’re not a pussy, what are you going to say. 

Benjamin. 

Don’t Benjamin me, I’m fucking helping. 

You’re not real.

So you can fucking tell me. If I’m not real it won’t goddamn matter. 

The air turned off, and the bathroom had still been empty. 

You’d started to hum. A simple love song, just so you could see his face. Look at him. 

He was so fucking handsome. You'd almost started crying because he was right there, tall and broad and standing in front of you, grinning at you but not real. You couldn’t feel him, not really, because your sensory manipulation didn’t extend to emotion. So you could grab Fake Ben’s hand and feel his warm skin but not him. You couldn’t feel Ben, strong and resolved and everything. But you could smell pine, and feel his hand trace along your jaw. You could grab it and hold it there—let Fake Ben trace circles on your cheek with his thumb—and try to pretend it was real. Pretend it was enough. 

I love you. Your words had to stay in your head, because if you stopped humming to talk aloud Fake Ben would disappear and you needed to keep looking at him. I love you like the ocean loves the moon and the sun loves the stars. I love you like the birds want to sing and the caterpillar longs to be a butterfly. I love you like the grass loves the rain and the lighting loves the thunder. Like the flower loves the bee and the snail loves its shell. I love you like you’re music I get to sing and light I get to eat. I love you like the spiderweb loves the spider and the grave loves the flowers. I love you like a mirror loves to shatter and the alter loves the blood. I love you like the devil loves fire and like god loves the devil. I love you, Ben. I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll love you until all the world is scattered across the sky and we’re both trapped in the spaces that remain between. I’ll love you until my voice is gone and my heart is only still beating because you’re holding it. I’ll love you until everything is burning away and it’s just you and me. If they find a way to kill us I’ll love you as a ghost and my skeleton will keep one hand on yours. I love you because all my bones and muscles fit in with your bones and muscles, and because my soul is mine but it’s stronger when it’s yours as well. I love you, Ben. I love you. 

You’d cried. No sobs wracking your body, but small tears you couldn’t hold in. Tears you’d let Fake Ben wipe away before you’d had to let him go, and then wiped again yourself because they were real, and he hadn’t been. And you’d returned to Homelander, smiled through the party in a green velvet dress that didn’t fit and said words you didn’t mean. Let Homelander herd you wherever he wanted and kept your head together. Taken in even breaths of horrible coconut and smiled with no teeth at people with eyes like monsters. Looking at you like you were a prey that they couldn’t have because the apex predator had decided you were his. 

You didn’t throw up that night. You’d stared into the dark, cold air and talked to the phantom of Ben trapped in your head. 

And you’d sat in the fire. Not alight under your skin, but pulsing in a small, warm ember. Awake. Growing. 

By the time you’re sat in the Seven’s meeting room, with all four remaining members and Ashley, it was stronger. Beginning to smoke along your veins. 

“We’ll all be attending the Believe Expo tomorrow,” Sage’s arms are crossed as she glares around the table. “It’s important to appear as a unified front, and this is our primary base. Many non-christian supporters will be in attendance this year, as the association between Homelander and Christianity is becoming interchangeable in the public eye. Which also means we’re leaning away from actual biblical rhetoric, and into our own narrative. We can’t completely disavow the religious aspect, so we’ll have to walk a careful line between not alienating the new people and indoctrinating the old ones. Everyone will get their scripts tonight.” 

The Deep raises his hand, and Sage rolls her eyes but nods for him to speak. 

“Uh, aren’t they going to notice if a,” he frowns at Sage, looking her up and down. “Muslim is leading the Christ Show?” 

“No, because I’m an atheist, dumbass.” Sage snaps. “And I can recite the bible from front to back. All you have to do is show up, do what I tell you, and not say you’re in love with an octopus again. Understood?” 

The Deep looks at Homelander for an order to say yes or no, but Homelander’s not paying attention. He’s staring up at you, standing where he’d told you to. Silently at his side, like a statue he’d collected. When The Deep coughs, Homelander scoffs and waves a hand. 

“Just do whatever the woman fucking tells you to.” 

“Yes, sir.” The Deep nods, and then gives Sage a nervous look. 

Homelander is still staring at you. 

“Sage,” he says slowly. Not looking away. “I want to see her script.” 

“I haven’t written her one,” Sage glares at you. “Anomaly will be on stage for your speech at the end of the program, and you’ll kiss her. That’s her role.” 

Your nails dig into your wrist, both held behind your back. Breathe. You just have to breathe and get through this and not break. One kiss will not break you. One touch will not open the floodgates. You can’t scream or run because you’ll lose. You can breathe now and fall apart later. 

Homelander says your name, and it makes your skin itch. “Is going to give a speech. The people need to care about her, especially with the CIA and Starlight spewing all those fucking lies about her. About us. 

Sage shakes her head. “Homelander-“ 

He turns, shooting her a sharp glare. “I’m not fucking asking. Write her a speech.” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Sage says cooly. “Not after-“ 

“I dealt with that,” Homelander’s voice raises slightly, and Sage falls silent. She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t keep pushing either. “I am telling you that you are going to write her a speech. You can either do it yourself, or I’ll have those fucking idiot writers do it for you.” 

Sage’s eyes narrow, but she nods. “Fine.” 

Homelander nods, looking back to you. “Sage?” 

She sighs. “What.” 

“Make it about love.” He smiles at you, and nothing has ever been harder than smiling back. 

The first thing you learn about the Believe Expo—something that until two weeks ago you’d been pretty certain wasn’t a thing anymore—is that it’s loud. Everything is so loud. Homelander flies you there through the cold mist and wind of the morning before telling you to practice your speech and shooting back up into the sky. They’re only setting up—workers dressed in black adjusting lights and testing speakers that ring screeching feedback through the air—and it’s already too much. People are moving everywhere, marking spots on the stage floor and arranging seats and trying to get cloth covers to stay on the tables. You’re lost in how loud it is, and almost get run over by a man carrying a large box that spills out cables as it collides with you. 

“Fuck!” You flinch at his shout, dropping down to help gather the wires scattered across the damp grass as he continues. “Goddamnit girl, we’re already behind schedule, I don’t have the fucking time-“ 

You look up at him to apologize, and he freezes. “I’m-“ 

“It’s fine,” he mumbles, almost pushing you away from the mess. “I’m sorry I yelled, ma’am. I promise there won’t be any delays for the event.” 

You blink at him, rubbing his neck and refusing to meet your eyes, but before you can ask any questions someone taps on your shoulder and says your name. 

“Thank fuck I found you, your trailer is ready.” 

“My trailer?“ You turn to see Ashely, holding a clipboard and tapping her foot. Looking around at the stage work with a tense expression. “Ashley, I don’t-“ 

“I’ll show you where it is. And don’t clean that up, it’s not your job.” 

“But-“ 

“You!” She points her pencil at a woman standing off the side, holding a coffee. “Clean this up, now.” 

“Ma’am, I’m uh, I’m on break-“ 

“I don’t fucking care, clean it! And you-“ Ashley’s glare turns back to you, still crouched on the ground. “Let’s go.” 

She grabs your arms and starts to pull you up, and something wraps around your throat and hands, trying to squeeze all the oxygen out of your body. Everything is sharp, too sharp, moving too fast and yet not fast enough. 

You yank your arm away the moment you’re on your feet, half because you don’t think Ashley remembers you can feel her and half because that was completely unbearable. You follow her off the stage, waiting until you’re out of the crews’ earshot to quicken your pace, walking at her side and speaking in a low voice. 

“You shouldn’t touch me, Ashley.” 

“What?” She shoots you a quick glare. “Don’t be dramatic, I was just helping you stand up-“ 

“You touched me. Your hand touched my arm. I felt you.” 

“So? It’s not like I-“

“Ashley.” You stop walking and wait for her to turn around. “I felt you.” 

“What the fuck are-“ Her angry expression falls, her face goes pale “Oh, I, I forgot, fuck-“ 

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. You just, uh, you shouldn’t touch me.” 

“I didn’t mean to, I’m- shit! I-“ 

“I’m not mad,” you frown at her. “I’m just reminding you. Don’t touch me unless you’re okay with me feeling it.” 

She nods tightly, hands pulling at her hair, and swallows before speaking. “Don’t tell Homelander I touched you. He doesn’t want us to touch you.” 

You feel the cold bloom inside you again, but manage to push it down. Give Ashley a tight nod. “I won’t.” 

“Can we go to the trailer now?” She looks down at the clipboard. “Fuck, we were supposed to be at the trailer five minutes ago-“ 

“Where is it?” 

“Just over there, but-“ 

“I can find it.” You start to walk away, in the general direction Ashley had pointed, but she calls your name and you stop. “What-“ 

“We’re not supposed to leave you on your own.” She’s tugging at her hair still, looking between you and the clipboard. “I technically should’ve been there when Homelander dropped you off-“ 

“I’m not going to run away, Ashely.” You sigh. “Please, just go do whatever you need to.” 

She looks like she might protest for a second, but looks back at the clipboard and gives a tight nod. “Okay. Go.“ 

“Great.” You start to turn again, but Ashley calls your name again. 

“What-“ 

“Um, thanks.” She mutters, gives you a tense smile. “And please, don’t try to fucking escape-“

“I won’t. I can’t.” You turn, and finally manage to get away before Ashley can see the anguish on your face. 

You could escape, Sunshine. Ben’s voice carries on the wind. Or I could come fucking get you. 

We’ve had this conversation. You can’t come get me, they’ll put you back under. 

I don’t give a shit. You should be home. With me. 

I know, but I can’t. Not yet. 

You fucking should, though. This is some insane, cum guzzling bullshit. And you are not fucking kissing Homelander. 

I’m not exactly thrilled about it either, Benjamin. 

Not for me, brat. Because he’s a fucking pussy who shouldn’t be allowed within a million miles of you. 

You have to stop your internal fight with Ben’s voice, because you reach the trailer and are immediately surrounded by people doing your hair and makeup, shoving Sage’s script into your hands for you to memorize. There will be a teleprompter, because Sage isn’t an idiot who thinks the Deep will remember anything for more than fifteen minutes—let alone a whole script from the time he’s in his trailer to four hours later when he’s on stage—but you still want to read it. To know what’s coming. 

It’s what you expected in its entirety. A lot of propaganda. A lot of lies. A lot of anecdotes that never happened and some musings about love that sound like a sociopath wrote them. I love Homelander because he completes me. I see us in every great romance in history. He is the thing that gets me up in the morning. 

You can hear the crowd outside now. People start to filter into the venue, more and more in larger and larger waves until the trailer feels as if it’s shaking. 

But you manage to keep it together. To keep reading as your finger taps on the chair and a blonde woman you’ve never seen before—and will likely never see again—pins your hair tight against your head and applies chemicals that would probably burn your scalp if you didn’t heal in that same second. 

I want to start a family with him. Lead the best life we can together. 

You put the script down, and once your hair and makeup team is gone you scramble to the trash can and empty the bile of your stomach until you can breathe. 

You just have to get through this. You just have to keep moving. 

They’d put you back in the supe costume. It’s better fitted than last time, but still just hideous. Uncomfortable and impractical and ugly. It feels wrong on your body, not just because it’s showing too much skin and the lace is scratching at your skin but because it’s not you. Supe costumes in general are dumb, because it’s not an outfit on a person, it’s a label on a product. Ben’s lucky he has a stupid handsome face that makes him attractive in everything or you’d have made fun of him ruthlessly about his own. 

You still fucking did that. You said I looked like a Christmas tree that’s been sent to war on the draft. 

And I’ve have said more if I didn’t want to climb that tree and let it fuck me. 

You called me an R rated G.I. Joe Doll. 

You are an R rate G.I. Joe Doll, Pretty Boy. I was being accurate and poetic. 

Brat. 

Cunt. 

You take a long breath, and grab the script again. Just get through this. You’ll break later, but right now you have to get through this. 

I’m excited to lead a great life with Homelander, for our love story to be remembered as one from a fairytale. Because he is my prince, my white knight who saved me from the dark. Homelander you’re my soulmate- 

Soulmate my fucking blue balls. Ben’s voice mutters in your head, and you can almost see his scowl. The pussy doesn’t even like you. 

Soulmates aren’t real, Ben. 

Still, you’re not his damn soulmate. 

Well, I’m not yours. Or anyones. Because soulmates aren’t real. 

But you love me. 

I do. That doesn’t mean we’re soulmates. You don’t even love me, Benjamin. Something hurts deep, deep inside you and against your skull. I think soulmates, if they were real, which they aren’t, are both supposed to love each other. 

Inside your chest, something pounds and beats against your lungs and ribs. Something powerful and bloody and desperate. The slight blur of the world vanishes—you hadn’t even noticed it before—and everything is clear and warm and angry. 

Why are you so fucking sure I don’t love you? 

What? 

You keep telling me I don’t love you. What makes you so damn positive? 

You don’t. 

I do. 

You blink into the empty trailer. No, you don’t. 

I fucking do. The thing inside you rages, and you’re not sure if it’s yours or not. You’re not touching anybody, and it doesn’t feel foreign or out of place inside you. But you’ve never felt something like this. It’s focused and pious and entirely made of something monstrous that you can’t name. It’s not dangerous, nothing about it feels dangerous—it reminds you of Ben, and he’d never hurt you—but it’s still the most intensely starved and insatiable feeling you’ve ever experienced. 

No, even in your head your voice is slow and confused. You don’t. 

You’re not the fucking boss of me.

I am literally the fucking boss of you. I am the government-appointed boss of you. 

I think they stripped that title from you when they realized we didn’t exactly have an appropriate boss-employee relationship, Sunshine. 

Fuck you. 

You did, that was the problem. 

You watch too much porn, Pretty Boy. I’m not a boss fucking her secretary and causing a scandal. 

I wasn’t your fucking secretary. 

Good thing, too. You’d have been terrible at it. I’d have asked you to check my calendar and you’d have destroyed the computer. 

You wouldn’t have been too mad about it. I’d have fucked your brains out on the desk and you’d have forgiven me. 

I would not have forgiven you. Computers are expensive. 

Then I’d buy you a damn new one, then fucked your brains out. And then you’d have forgiven me. Because I’d have told you I love you, and you’d have cum all over my cock, and you’d forgive me. 

You think your heart stops for a second, restarting with the jolt of that strange feeling in your chest. In your head your voice is breathless. Ben, please stop saying that. 

No. 

You don’t love me- 

I fucking do. 

No, you don’t. This feels like a strange hill for you to die on, convincing the phantom voice in your head of the man you love that he doesn’t love you back. But you press on. Stop saying that you do. It’s mean. 

Why the hell is it mean. Saying that I love you is the opposite of damn mean- 

Because I really, really, love you! And it’s mean to lie to me and try and convince me that Real Ben might love me! 

The thing roars inside you. What- 

The door to the trailer opens, and Ashley walks in without warning, eyes glued to her phone. The thing in you flares, and then it’s gone. 

“You’re on,” she looks up, giving you a once over before her eyes land on the abandoned script at your feet. “Did you read it?” 

You kind of read it. You didn’t finish it, but you’ve got the gist, so you nod. 

“Good,” Ashley looks back to her phone. “Are you ready?” 

You nod again, pulling yourself up from the floor, and are about to walk out the door when Ashley holds out an arm to block your path. You almost run into it, and you both flinch back, Ashley nearly dropping her phone. 

“You need to wear your disguise,” she says quickly, pulling her arms back. “People will swarm you.” 

The prep-team had left you a large hoodie with Homelander’s smiling face printed across it, a Vought baseball cap, and black sunglasses. You glance in the mirror after you change, and you look like an idiot. You feel like an idiot. If this all wasn’t so dangerous and precarious, it would be plain stupid. 

But, because the universe is strange and uncaring, this is incredibly important. You have to wear Homelander’s face on your body, because you can’t protest or it will blow everything. You have to wear a stupid baseball cap—which is going to ruin your stupid hair—because people can’t see your face. It’s the same reason you put on the sunglasses that pinch your nose, and make yourself follow Ashley out into the densely packed crowd. You don’t have another choice. 

There are too many people. The first thing you realize is that there are far too many people, and you’re going through them. They’re bumping your arms and legs, brushing against your skin in accidental passing, and it’s going to make you explode. Everything is too bright and loud and everything is like a live wire. Everyone is so excited, and all you’re getting is fleeting passes of their overzealous, stabbing feelings before being plunged right back into your own cold fear. Spreading faster, not fully overtaking the fire but making it grow dim. Pushing it further away. 

By the time you’re dropped off in a small tent—A-Train and the Deep playing cards at a fold-out table, Sage and Homelander nowhere to be found—your blood is rushing through your body and ramming against your throat and ears. Trying to escape your body. You almost immediately collapse into a chair, trying to take long breaths and think about happy things. 

Music. The music playing over the loudspeakers is deafening. Off-rhythm gospel music that’s like nails digging into your brain. 

City lights. There isn’t any life or joy in the light around you. The sun is behind the clouds, and the flood lights are hidden in a mist that makes the whole world just gray. 

Ben. Ben isn’t here. With you. And all you can do is miss him. 

Something claws at your heart, but you can’t spare the time or energy to feel it. It’s loud and tight, almost impossible to ignore, but you manage to just close your eyes and try to find something happy. Try to make something happy. A-Train and the Deep are fighting in the background. It’s so loud, and you’re growing cold again. You can’t see anything but the gray, can’t feel anything but a metal chair below you and the fog around you, and can’t hear anything that’s not angry or frantic. 

Fresh air. The air is fresh and smells like rain. You haven’t smelled fresh air in months, and it’s all just clean and easy. Sharp and bright in your lungs, made of the wetlands around you. Mud and pine and grass, stronger than the cold sweat of the crowd. Fresh air. 

You take one last, long, deep breath. You’re not at peace, but this isn’t about peace. It’s about the world being in focus, and being able to just keep going. 

“Hey,” The Deep says your name, and you just stare at him. “We haven’t really talked yet. I’m Deep.” 

You nod. “I know.” 

“Right, of course you do. I mean, you can call me Kevin-“ He extends his hand for you to shake, and A-Train whacks it back. “Bro-“ 

“We’re not supposed to touch her, dumbass.” A-Train’s not looking at you. He hasn’t looked at you since you sat down. “And she’s not going to call you Kevin. Fucking nobody calls you Kevin.” 

“My friends all call me Kevin,” the Deep looks back to you with a wide, white-toothed smile. “I mean, me and Homelander are real tight-“ 

“No, you’re not.” 

“He likes me more-“ 

“Homelander doesn’t give a shit about you,” A-Train rolls his eyes. “It’s your turn. Play or give up.” 

The Deep gives you one last look like he’s going to say something, but turns back around to their game. 

It’s another ten or so minutes before Ashley returns—this time with both the clipboard and her phone—and you have to move. Interviews. Photo ops. Saying all the right words in the right tone with the right body language for the microphones and cameras. 

It’s so loud. The walk—even through a barricaded area—is full of screaming people leaning over metal blockades and the bass of the music, running into your bones. Ashley is recapping Sage’s talking points—The Deep isn’t allowed to talk about marine animals, A-Train needs to talk about gospel and unity, and you shouldn’t speak at all—As the Deep shakes his body out, practicing his smile and introduction and A-Train still doesn’t look at you. 

The powerful thing returns, as you’re back in the open. It’s still violent and alert, strange but not out of place, and it feels like Ben. It’s just Ben, indescribably Ben. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was him, because you know him. You know all of him, all his anger and care and vengeful warmth. You know how he is, how his heart pounds and his will moves everything around him, how everything in him is strong like this is. 

It fades when you're pulled into another tent. Not fully dying out, but growing dull. Far away. 

You’re sat next to A-Train—who just stares ahead into the air and lets them start to mic him—with a reminder not to talk. If you’re asked questions, Sage will answer them for you. You just have to sit there, be pretty, and smile. No matter what happens, what’s being said around you, keep smiling. 

Sage doesn’t show up. There’s a seat saved for her, with her name taped to it and water bottle under it, but she never arrives and Ashley makes everyone keep going. A well dressed woman sits across from you, the cameras turn on, the show begins.

Smile. Don’t talk and smile. Ashley reminds every journalist to greet you and look at you casually but never actually speak to you. They just give you a few smiles and glances, and only two or three actually meet your eyes. Most end up going through the motions and trying to pretend you’re not there. 

You don’t blame them. You’re doing the same. For what feels like eternity you’re sat in a chair—just another prop to the set—and as your face starts to hurt from smiling you stop paying attention. You put energy into trying to find the source of the odd feeling still making a home in your chest, but it’s stubborn. You try and pull it up to the surface and it doesn’t budge, you try and poke it and it just hums. 

It’s exactly like Ben. 

After all I fucking do for you. 

His voice is back. It always comes back. It doesn’t make the thing in you rear and push like it had before, but it’s still everywhere. Humming lowly in the mic feedback and where your foot is tapping the floor. 

Go away. I’m busy. 

His laugh haunts the spaces of silence between the voices around you. I’m not fucking real, Sunshine. I can’t go away. I’m a part of you. 

You’re an annoying part of me. Piss off, Pretty Boy. I’m trying to figure something out. 

Figure what out? 

Shut up. 

Fuck me backwards for trying to help you. 

This isn’t something you can help with, Ben. 

Try me. 

Fine, you try not to sigh aloud. I can feel something. Something I’m not sure I should be feeling. 

What, like horny? Are you horny? Do you miss me and you’re horny? 

No, you fucking dumb dumb. Like an emotion that I can’t understand. 

Well I can’t fucking help with that shit. 

I know. That’s why I told you to go away. 

Whatever. You love me. 

I do. 

The thing responds to that. It roars and starts to claw up your spine, grabbing your heart with firm but gentle hands and trying to pull it around in your body. 

What the fucking shit was that? 

I don’t know. Shut up, I need to test something. Ben, I love you. 

It’s going to kill you. This strange thing inside you is going to rip you to shreds, but before you can test anything further, the interviews are at an end and Ashley is ushering everyone away, dragging you around the venue to take photos. You’re handed countless crosses and bibles to hold up for the camera to see, as if people might not have been previously aware of them. The Deep and A-Train shake hands and pose with fans, you’re put in front of lambs and goats and a very unsettling marble statue of Homelander that’s still somehow warmer than the real one. 

The thing is still there. It keeps growing and waning and spreading and pulling back. As you move through the convention it grows wrathful and deafening, and you can’t figure out what it is. It’s not you. You’re certain it’s not you. You’d been pretty sure before, but now you’re certain. It doesn’t feel wrong, it doesn’t feel out of place, but it’s not you. You’re not consuming like this, you’re not… Parasitic is the wrong word, you decide, because it’s inherently negative. Nothing about this thing is negative. It’s big and demanding and so loud, but it’s almost comfortable. Full of want and content and focused attention. Made of something rough that’s been dedicated to whatever feeds it.  

You just can’t figure out what it wants. It’s hungry, it’s full of such a familiar, Ben-like hunger, but nothing seems to satisfy it. You repeat the words, Ben. Ben, I love you, several times, and it always takes them, but it never grows fully quiet. If anything it’s like offering it salt-water. It pours it down deep, and then grows more demanding. 

If you had more time you’d find somewhere quiet to figure out what the hell is going on. But the sun is starting to fall down, and Ashley is herding you to the backstage area. Ranting about speeches and last minute adjustments and don’t fuck up and- 

It’s just a flash. You only see it for a second, moving beyond the barricade through the crowd, but you still see it. 

Black hair. Long, wavy black hair attached to a short woman. 

Lots of people have black hair. You’ve seen at least twenty women with black hair in the past three hours alone. But you still stop in your path and crane your neck up. Trying to see over the crowd, deeper into the fray. 

You see the hair again. And, this time, the side-profile of the woman it’s attached to. Hooded eyes with eyeliner and a focused determination on her face. 

“Holy shit.” 

Your whisper is only heard by the Deep, who turns to you with a frown. “I thought Sage told us not to swear-“ 

“Ashley!” Your voice is almost a shriek, loud and frantic. “I need to go to the bathroom now!” 

“Hold it,” Ashley says your name without looking up from her phone, continuing to move towards the stage. “We’re on a really fucking tight schedule.” 

“Ashley!” You move to grab her, stop her, make her listen and she flinches back with wide eyes. 

“I-“ 

“I got my period,” you say bluntly. “And, uh, I’m wearing a skirt-“ 

She sigh. “Fine, but be fast-“ 

“I will! Super fast!” You run ahead, into the porta potties dropped near all the stage equipment for the crew. They smell awful, and you probably should’ve chosen a spot that’s meant to hold more than one person, but you’re here now. Now is not the time to second guess anything. 

You wait, just long enough that you start to wonder if A-Train hadn’t heard you or didn’t understand, and wasn’t coming. 

Then the air whooshes, and he’s crammed next to you as the door slams. “What the fuck was that about-“ 

“They’re here,” you don’t wait for him to fully gain his footing in the small space before you speak, and ignore his rush of stress and annoyance when your bodies brush. There’s not enough time. “They’re all here.” 

“Wh-“ 

“Butcher,” you hiss. “MM and Frenchie and Kimiko. Probably Hughie, probably not Annie.” And Ben. Ben is here. 

“Are you sure-“ 

“Yes.” 

“Well, why the fuck are they here-“ 

“I don’t know!” 

“Would you stop fucking interrupting-” 

“No!” You’re running your hand over your face, trying to make your brain move faster. To do something productive, and stop just chanting Ben. Ben, I love you. Ben, you’re here and I can see you and touch you and I love you, Ben, I love you- “I need to think.” 

“Think?” A-Train glares at you. “We need to fucking run, those idiot are always blowing everything-“ 

“Shut up,” you snap. “This is a chance. They’re here for a reason. They’re probably planning something-“ 

“Something stupid-“ 

“Shut up!” You’re almost shouting. There’s no time for this, you need to figure out what they’re doing here and adjust, you need to find out how to keep Homelander and Sage—wherever the hell they are—away from them, you need to see Ben. You need to find Ben, now. A-Train is still glaring at you, and your fire isn’t strong enough yet—not here, where the cold is crawling through you once more—so you need a plan. 

You look A-Train up and down, he’s trying to pace in a space where you’re both pressed against the wall to not touch each other, and you’ve got it. 

“You’re leaving.” 

A-Train freezes, frowning at you. “What?” 

“You’re going to go with them. When they leave, you’re going to go with them,” you nod to yourself as you speak. “You’re done with the Seven, you’re going with them.” 

“Are you crazy?! Or stupid?!” A-Train gapes at you. “I have a tracker, they might not even take me, and my family will still be in danger-“ 

“I’ll burn out your tracker, they will take you, and…” You trail, trying to find your way around A-Train’s family. He’s right, Vought knows who they are. They won’t just let him go quietly and bloodlessly, not when he’d be turning to their enemy. But this has to work- 

“If you can’t tell me how my family will be fine, there’s not a chance in hell-“ 

“You’ll die.” 

“What?!” 

“You’re going to die,” you say the words firmly. No room for error, no room for wavering. “They’re going to ‘kill you’,” you make exaggerated air quotes. “And you’re going to ‘die’.” 

A-Train frowns at your hands. “What are those, what are you talking about-“ 

“You’re not really going to die,” you snap. No time. “We’re going to fake your death. They’ll make it look like they killed you and everybody wins.” 

“How does everybody win there?” A-Train’s rolling on the balls of his feet, still glowering at you. “They’ll just twist it, Starlighters are murderers-“ 

“Exactly,” you have an almost maniacal grin on your face. “But the Seven will just have lost its second member in as many weeks. Not a great look for the whole supe supremacy narrative if their best and brightest are dropping like flies. It’s bad for everybody, and that’s why everyone wins.” 

A-Train shakes his head. “What about my family? How do they win?” 

“If you’re dead, if we do this right and Sage doesn’t suspect a thing, then they’ll be honored for your service and left in peace. But we have to do this right.” 

“I don’t-“ 

“A-Train,” you hiss. “This is the something. This is the better, and this is what I’m asking of you. You’re going to leave with them, you’re going to help them. You don’t have to like it, but this is it.” 

“How will I be able to help,” he protests, still pushing and there’s no time. “I mean, if I’m fucking ‘dead’-” 

“You have insider knowledge of the tower. You have insider knowledge of Vought, and Homelander, and Sage. You can help them, you just have to go.” 

“What about you?” 

You blink. “What?” 

“You’re not going to leave? Run away with them into the sunset?” 

You can hear the words A-Train won’t say. You can see them on his face and hear them echo in your head. Leave with Ben. Run away with Ben and be safe and let him care for you until this is just another nightmare. 

“I mean, you can’t just keep-“ 

“I’m going to stay.” You mutter, hating the words on your tongue. They taste bitter and foul, like sour coconut. “I have to stay.” 

“That’s-“ 

“Not up for debate.” You cross your arms, holding A-Train’s glare. “I have to see this through. They’re here for a reason, and once I know what, I can work it into my plan.” 

“You’re still doing a plan?” You don’t love the disbelief in A-Train’s voice. “There’s no fucking way you can keep this up-“ 

“I don’t have to keep it up.” You snap. “I just have to get through it. I’m staying, you’re going, that’s that.” 

A-Train pauses, and you can almost hear his brain trying to find a way to disagree. But you’ve done this well, and he lets out a long, heavy, angry sigh. “What do you need me to do.” 

“Thank you,” you give him a half-smile. “I’m going to find them. I’ll tell Ashley I just need to sit down, because I’m getting cramps or something, and I’ll go find them.” Find Ben. “Find out what they’re doing, why they’re here. I need you to find Ezekiel.” 

“Ezekiel?” A-Train frowns. “I haven’t seen that guy all day-“ 

“He’s here. This is his event, he’s on the program. You’re going to find him, and trick him into walking into them.” 

“Trick him? How am I-“ 

“Tell him they’re here. Tell him they’re looking for new members of the Seven and killing Butcher is a surefire way to get a foot in the door. Tell him Hughie’s here, he hates Hughie. Just get him to fight them. Preferably away from the crowd, but not until Homelander’s speech.” Your fingers are tapping against your arm, making changes to the plan as you speak. “Ezekiel can’t just go alone, he’ll mess up the plan, so you have to make him wait. After you talk to him, say you’re going to find where they are, so you can fight them together, and come find me. I’ll burn out your tracker, you’ll bring Ezekiel to fight them, make it loud, and ‘die’. My team will take care of getting you out, hopefully they’ll kill Ezekiel on the way, and I’ll know what I need to do on my end.” 

“For your plan.” 

“For my plan.” 

A-Train shakes his head. “Are you going to tell me your plan?” 

“No. All you have to do is die.” 

“Fuck.” He takes off his visors, meeting your eyes fully. “You think this will work?” 

No room for error, no room for doubt. “It has to.” 

He nods slowly. “Where am I going to find you?” 

Wherever Ben is. “You might have to look. I’m not sure yet.” 

“You’ll burn out my tracker?” 

“As soon as you find me.” 

“And my family-“ 

“Will be fine.” You give him a close-lipped, tight smile. “Promise. Just find Ezekiel.” 

“Fine.” A-Train put his visors back on. “See you on the other side.” 

He’s gone in a rush of wind, and you’re alone in the porta potty. Just you, the horrible smell of shit, and that thing in your chest. 

Ben. It is him. He’s here, and you can feel him. It’s something you’ll have to retcon later, why you can feel him, what this feeling actually is, but right now Ben is here. And you have to find him. 

You find Ashley first, and tell her you’re throwing up from period cramps in quick, blunt words. 

“Can’t you just hold it?” She begs, and you give her a flat look. 

“Ashley, do you think Sage will be angrier if I rest in the bathroom but do my speech without a hitch, or if I throw up on live TV?”

She shakes her head, running her hands through her hair. “Fuck! First A-Train’s fucking gone, now you-“ 

“He was freaking out about something,” you shrug. “Wouldn’t tell me what, but I think he’s just calming down.” You make a fake retching sound, and Ashley’s face twists. “Can I please-“ 

“Just go!” 

“Thank you!” You make yourself double over slightly, make your words strained. “I’ll be back-“ 

“I don’t fucking care, just be fast!” 

Ashley turns away, and you’re gone. Find Ben. You have to find Ben. This place is massive, and you can’t just push your way through the crowd—not again, not if you want to keep going—but nothing is more important right now than finding Ben. 

Where would you be, you fucking ass. Where would Ben be at the Believe Expo. 

He’d hate all of this. He’d hate the abstinence only sex education—the fuck do they have against a good time—he’d hate the pandering and holier-than-thou attitudes—these pussies aren’t better than me just because they read a goddamn book—and he’d despise all the morality. All the haughty faces and watered-down language and fake smiles. He’d hate all of this, there wouldn’t be a corner of it he’d enjoy, so you have no fucking clue where you’ll find him. 

You can’t just wander and hope you run into him. You don’t have the time to spare just trying to bump into him. But you need to find him. He’s here and you have to see him. Half because of your plan with A-Train, half because you fucking miss him. You miss him so much, and he’s here, and you can’t just not see him. Not touch him. He’s here and you need him and you love him- 

That thing in your chest rolls around. It’s pulling you forward, and you don’t think twice before you let it. And you know. You know where he’d be. You’d find him anywhere, and you know where he’d be. 

Taking a piss. In the VIP bathrooms, because he has no regard or respect for venue restrictions. He’d need to go to the bathroom, and would not care to use the dogshit porta potties—especially not with his sense of smell being so strong—so he’d just walk right into the VIP bathrooms. No one would stop him, because he’s Ben and he looks right everywhere. Even if he’s in disguise, he still walks and talks like there’s not a place in the world he doesn’t belong. 

There are two VIP bathroom trailers. One is near the trailers, and one is across the venue. You should check both, but he’s in the further one. You just know, he’s in the further one. He’d have been staying on the outskirts of the event, and would be in the further one. So you take a long, grounding breath, steal a black Believe Expo Staff hoodie and cap, and move. Trying to run without people noticing, because there’s no time to just walk. He’s there, you know he’s there, so you have to go. 

Of the three bathrooms in the trailer, two are locked. And one is Ben. There’s no way to explain how you know, but one is Ben. It’s the center one, and he’s in there, and you have to wait. 

You can’t wait out in the open. If a staff member sees you they’ll either make you go “back to work” or recognize you and tell Ashley or Sage that you’re here. So you look around, make sure no one’s watching, and rush into the spare, empty bathroom. Lean against the counter and wait. 

Ben. Ben is here. He’s one door down and now you have to just be patient. You’ll see him soon. 

It’s the longest four minutes of your life. You hate this stupid, amazing man, taking impossibly long pisses and making you love him and not just leaving the bathroom. He must not feel you here, not like you can feel him, because he’d be breaking the door down. 

That’s another thing to be confused about later. How this thing works. Right now the trailer is rumbling slightly, because someone just flushed a toilet, and you can just hear a door opening and closing over the noise of the crowd.

Ben. 

You open your door, and there he is. He’s turned away from you, and wearing a baseball cap that covers his hair, but it’s him. You’d be able to recognize him blind and underwater, and that’s Ben. Tall and broad and walking in rough steps with his hands fisted at his side. Away from you. 

“Ben,” you hiss his name, but he doesn’t turn around. “Benjamin.” 

His steps stutter, but he keeps moving. Getting further and further away. 

“Ben!” Your words are still said in a hushed voice, through your teeth, but you’re almost shouting. “I know you can fucking hear me, you cunt.” 

He stops, but still doesn’t turn. Hands curling tighter, knuckles becoming white. 

“Benjamin, if you don’t turn around right fucking now-“ 

You see his body heave from a sigh, hear a low and frustrated sound, and he turns around with a scowl. 

He’s so fucking handsome. His face is tired and angry, half obscured by his hat, but he’s still everything. And when he sees you, glaring at him with all the anger you can muster when he’s right there, his mouth falls open and that strange feeling—his feeling—roars. 

The shock across his features doesn’t even last a second before he’s moving. Sprinting across the grass with no regard for secrecy or not drawing attention. Sprinting to you. He’s here. 

You don’t have time to take a step back before he’s crashing into you, picking you up and slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t kiss you. You’d thought he’d kiss you, but he just raises you off the ground in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever experienced. And you can feel him. You can feel the warmth of his body, the care with which he’s touching you—hands roaming you like he’s not sure you’re real and is trying to check—and the strength of him. Really him. Here and touching you and smelling like pine and gunpowder and full of desperation. He’s so tired—you can feel it in your bones—and he’s trying to pull you closer and closer into him, in a way that would be painful if it wasn’t him. If he wasn’t still holding you like you were holy, like you were just a cloud that might dissipate in his hands if he didn’t stop it with firm hands and adoring touches. 

“You’re real,” his voice is soft and hoarse in your ear, and something in you breaks. He sounds exhausted. “You’re fucking real.” 

“Ben-“ 

He kisses you then. Drops one hand below your thighs and hauls you further up his body, swallowing your words. Swallowing you. It’s just you and Ben, and he’s here. He’s real and touching you like he always has and, just for now, you’re safe. You’re safe in his arms, keeping you steadily off the ground, and getting drunk on him. On his hands kneading your skin and cupping your face, on his mouth against yours. Hungry, always hungry, pushing into you brutally. Trying to take all your breath and give you his. Tongue tracing your teeth and pushing down your throat, sucking and biting your lips and groaning into your open mouth. You take it all. Your hands grab at his hair, push his cap to the floor so you can touch him, and lean as far into him as you can without being him. He’s here. He’s here and you love him and he’s everything. You’re letting him consume you, touch you as much as he wants, because you missed him. Because he’s real, and anything he can give you is enough. If he tries to take your heart, reach into your chest and rip it out, you’ll do it for him and feed it to him. If he bites your neck you hope it will, for once, leave a mark. If he gives you any part of him, you’ll dig a hole in your body and keep it there. Anything to feel him forever, anything to never stop feeling this. Feeling Ben. 

When he finally pulls back, it’s only because you can feel the pounding of his heart under your hands. Only because he’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in an uneven pattern, and you’re doing the same. You feel a little dizzy, but you want to keep going. You want to touch him until you pass out and he can take him home. Or to Rome, or Hawaii, or fucking Ohio or Texas or California or anywhere where he’s there and you’re together. Where you can feel like this forever, and it’s just you and Ben. Happy. Where he can always set you down this carefully against the counter, and keep his forehead pressed to yours as you both just hold each other. Where you can close your eyes and fall into him and always trust he’ll catch you. 

He mumbles your name, lips brushing yours as he speaks, and you can’t stop the small sound leaving your throat. A strangled noise of Ben. Ben, I love you. I missed you and I love you and I’m sorry. 

You’re crying. You don’t even realize it until you feel his thumb against your cheek, wiping your tears away, and that makes you cry more. 

“Ben,” you’re whispering. You don’t trust your voice to do anything else. “You’re here.” 

“I’m here.” He mutters. “You’re real.” 

You huff a soft, weak laugh. “I’m real.” 

He nods against you, and when you open your eyes he’s still there. Watching you, always watching you. Looking at you so reverently, and that thing is stronger than you’d ever felt it when he’s touching you. He’s wrapping around you, he’s everywhere around you, full of care and affection and something small and bright that’s resting at the base of his throat. His whole body relaxed and washed with relief. You love him. You love him so much. 

“Hi,” you smile at him, and it’s real. It’s sad and you’re still crying, but Ben is here and nothing can stop you from smiling at him. Just for now, just in this moment, you can smile at Ben and get to mean it. “Can you kiss me again?” 

Ben chuckles, and it’s a sound from deep in his body that moves into yours. He does as you ask, and this time he’s gentle. Not pushing for more, just kissing you until you sigh and hum against his mouth. Letting both of you just savor it, sit in the feeling of comfort and each other. 

When Ben pulls back he draws up slightly, studying your face, tracing it under one hand as the other holds you at your waist. “Are you-“ 

“I’m okay.” 

He doesn’t believe you. Ben frowns and his eyes narrow, and you know he doesn’t believe you. He trusts you, you can feel it, but you can also feel that concrete resolve around you both and you know that Ben isn’t going to just drop it. 

“Don’t-“ 

“I’m not lying,” you move your hands up from his chest, resting them on his shoulders. “I’m okay.” 

“I don’t think you’re lying,” he mutters, scanning over your body. “I know you think you’re okay. You always think you’re okay.” 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“You always say you’re okay, and you’re not.” Your eyes meet again, and there’s something painful in Ben’s. You can feel that pain in his body, but when it reaches his eyes it’s somehow worse. It makes him look sad. “You always fucking think you’re fine, and you believe it, but you’re goddamn not.” 

“I-“ 

“Just,” he sighs, squeezing your hips and running a thumb over your cheekbone. “Tell me the truth. Not what you think is the fucking truth, the factual truth. Are you okay?” 

You don’t answer. You try to answer, but words choke in your throat and suddenly you’re crying. Not soft tears like before, full sobs that shake your body and make you fall into Ben’s chest. He catches you, holds you against him until you can breathe again. He lets you wrap your arms around his torso and traces familiar patterns on your skin, resting his chin on your head and humming so fucking terribly. So off-key and out of tune you almost don’t recognize the song. 

When you do, you pull back and frown at him, blinking away your tears. “Rainbow Connection?” 

“Shut up.” 

“When did you-“ 

“Don’t fucking change the topic.“

“Ben,” you move one hand up to rest against his chest, and he holds it. Pulls it up to his mouth and kisses your palm, and your heart flutters through all its sore fatigue. “I’m okay. I’m really okay. I’m exhausted, but I’m okay.” 

“Homelander-“ 

“Hasn’t touched me,” you whisper. “Not like that.” 

Ben doesn’t stop glaring at you. “Swear it.” 

“Promise. No lies.” You smile at him again. “Would be a weird fucking thing to lie about anyway.” 

Ben rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” 

“Make me.” 

You’re wasting time. You have so little time to find out what the Boys are doing here, why they’ve decided being here is worth such a massive risk, but when Ben kisses you again you don’t really care. It’s just him, big and warm and safe. 

Real. 

When he leans back, you’re not crying anymore. You think you’ve just tired yourself out, or that your body knows there will be time to cry later. Right now Ben is here, and that’s all that matters. 

“Are we going to talk about Rainbow Connection?” You smile at him because you can. As long as Ben is here, you’ll always smile at him. “Did you watch the Muppets again?” 

Something flashes under his skin. Sore and hot, embarrassment. That’s his embarrassment. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“You did-“ 

He kisses you again. He won’t stop kissing you, and you’ve never been less annoyed about anything in your life. Today he’s allowed to kiss you to shut you up. Anything that keeps him here longer, anything you can take and hold in the weeks to come. 

Anything that makes you more certain he’s real. That this isn’t a cruel trick of your brain, and any second you’re going to wake up in a cold room that smells like coconut with Homelander across the mattress. 

But he is. Ben is here and real and you can feel it. A dream wouldn’t feel powerful like this, wouldn’t have all the protection of Ben running through your body, wouldn’t have this strange feeling of something pushing from Ben into you when he holds you. 

“You can gloat about it later,” he grunts against you, before standing up to his full height, looking down at you. “We need to fucking go.” 

You sigh. You’d known this was coming, and you’re honestly surprised it took this long. “We’re not going anywhere, Ben.” 

“The goddamn fucking hell we’re not-“ 

“I have to stay here.” Your voice isn’t loud, or firm. It’s soft and shaking and tired, because you’re exhausted. Because every ounce of will and strength in your body is being used for this. For telling Ben you can’t just go, that he has to leave you here and you’re both going to have to find a way to live with that. “You know I have to stay here.” 

“You don’t have to do a single fucking thing but go,” he’s not yelling. His voice is rising and his words are sharp but he’s not yelling. “You’re not safe here, we need to fucking go-“ 

“I can’t.” You reach up, holding his face between your hands and trying not to shatter when he raises his own to keep you there. “I can’t go, not until I see this through.”  

“Yes, you can! You fucking can!” His voice is loud, but Ben’s still not yelling. You’ve heard him yell, and it’s commanding. Ben’s yell demands attention, demands compliance. This is angry and loud but he’s pleading, and it’s worse. He knows you’re not leaving with him, deep down, so Ben is begging you to change your mind. It’s making you hurt, making all your bones and organs shutter and snap, and it’s horrible. All of this is horrible. “All you fucking have to do is go-“ 

“Ben-“ 

“You’re not fucking safe, I’m not going to goddamn leave you-“ 

“You’re not leaving me,” you smile at him, and your heart is starting to fold in on itself. “This isn’t leaving me.” 

“Yes, it fucking is-“ 

“I’m telling you you’re going to have to go without me. Not now,” your words become quick, slightly panicked, because if Ben leaves now you’ll collapse and not get back up. “But when it’s time. When you go, you’re going without me.” 

“I’ll pick you up and fucking carry you out,” he snaps, and you sigh. 

“I’ll scream.” 

“Then I’ll fucking cover your mouth.” 

“I’ll bite your hand.” 

“And I won’t goddamn feel it.” 

“Then I’ll take off your stupid hat and people will see you.” You shake your head, and try to be a little more numb. Try to pretend this isn’t killing you, that you can’t feel it killing him. “I want to come home Ben, I really want to. But I can’t. You know that.” 

“There’s not a fucking chance in hell I’m letting you stay here-“ 

“Ben,” you whisper. “You don’t let me do anything. I’m staying here, but you’re not leaving me.” 

“I fucking am,” he’s furious, you can feel it coursing through you, but it’s like poison. It’s raging and turning every part of Ben against himself, making your heart start to wither for him. For how he’s doing this to himself. “If I fucking go without you, I’ll be fucking failing you again. I’m not fucking failing you again-“ 

“Benjamin-“ 

“I’m not! I’m never failing you again, I’m never leaving you again, I’m never fucking losing you again-“ 

You pull his head down, and he freezes. Ben lets you hold his head against your shoulder, and when you start to run a hand through his hair he falls onto you. Just holds you like you’re going to try and escape, buries his face in your neck like he can climb in you and stay there. 

“I can’t fucking lose you again,” he mumbles your name against your skin, and your heart grows weaker. “I just fucking can’t.” 

“You didn’t lose me.” You say softly. “You didn’t fail me, or leave me, and you’ll never lose me.” Ben. Ben, I love you. “I’ll come back. I’ll always find my way back to you.” 

“You shouldn’t fucking have to,” he pulls back, and his face is so sad. You’ve never seen Ben sad, where his face is just slack and tired and clouded. He’s still angry, but his wrath is made of despair. Low and sunken and almost sick. That thing in him—in you—feels ill. “I can’t fucking stay here with you, I can’t protect you-“ 

“I’m okay,” you lean forwards, and Ben meets you. Heads pressed together, his arms still around your body and your hands still in his hair. “I’m going to be okay.” 

“You’re fucking not-“ 

“I will,” you whisper, and it’s not just Ben you’re trying to convince. “I’ll be okay. You don’t need to protect me from this, Ben. I’m okay.” 

“Please,” he mutters your name, and your heart finally breaks. Pulls itself in two at how low and desperate and hopeless Ben’s voice is. “Please, just come home. Just fucking come home.” 

“I can’t,” you’re crying again, and these tears are slow. Soundlessly falling from you, the only part of yourself that’s allowed to just mourn this. You’re not going home. Ben hasn’t failed you, he could never fail you, you love him and he’d never leave you or fail you or lose you, but you’re not going home. “We both know I can’t.” 

“I don’t fucking know shit-“ 

“I’m aware,” you smile dryly. “But I still can’t come home.” 

“You can,” his protests aren’t loud anymore. He’s just grasping at straws, trying to find one thing that will make you give up and go. “We’ll just fucking walk away, go to Rome-“ 

“Not until this is over. Not until Homelander’s dead.” 

“He will be,” Ben’s hands squeeze on your hips. “The team has a way to kill him, and they can fucking do it themselves-“

Your eyes widen. “They found a way?” 

“I fucking found a way, they barely did shit-“ 

“Benjamin,” you pull back, and everything is urgent again. “How do you kill Homelander.” 

“V. But-“ 

“V?” 

“Compound fucking V. Puts him down for the count, makes him a damn coma patient.” Ben says your name. “But they can do that themselves, we can go-“ 

“How do you know?” 

“We found a file in his lab-“ 

“His lab?” 

“The fucking Homelander lab, where they used my cum to make him grow-“ 

“That’s fucking disgusting-“ 

“Shut the fuck up, you love my cum-“ 

Now is not the time to let that turn you on. Keep going, no getting sidetracked trading easy, sparring words with him or thinking about his cum. “Ben, are you sure this will work?“

“I’m fucking positive, the lab nerds were real clear that even one shot of V throws off his whole body and turns the pussy into a vegetable.” 

“Won’t you still need to blast him with the special sauce?” 

Ben rolls his eyes. “They can make their own goddamn special sauce. Pump Homelander full of V, find their own fucking way to take him out forever. Drop a nuke on him, I don’t give a fuck. We-”

“That’s why you’re here.” Your brain spins, sorting and matching every piece of this together. “Samaritan’s embrace was a V front, and you’re looking for some.” 

“We’re fucking finding some, and killing Homelander, so you can go-“ 

“You won’t.” You pull Ben face forwards, forcing his words to die in his throat, making him listen. “Ben, you’re not going to find any V here.” 

He frowns, momentarily distracted from lightly tugging at your skin and pleading for you to leave. “What the fuck are you talking about. Butcher said-“ 

“Butcher was wrong,” you shake your head. “I mean, he might have been right last week, maybe even this morning, but if there was V here it’s gone now.” 

“Why-“ 

“Sage said she was dealing with a Homelander mistake last week. She must have been talking about the lab, about how you were able to get in and poke around. And nobody’s seen her or Homelander or Ezekiel all day. Whatever V was left, they’ve gotten rid of it.” 

Ben scowls. “So we can just find more-“ 

“Sage won’t leave more.” You tap your fingers against Ben’s jaw, trying to focus and not think about how he’s stilled himself completely to let you talk yourself through this. “She won’t get rid of it, not all of it, it’s too valuable, but she’ll hide it. Any supplies that might be accessible to anyone that could be hypothetically compromised will be destroyed or relocated. She won’t tell anyone, won’t leave any records. It’ll be as good as gone.” 

Ben hums, and you see his question in the knit of his brows. Well how are we supposed to fucking get our hands on it? 

“I’m not sure,” you mutter, frowning. Scanning Ben’s face like you might find the answer in it, and not stopping when you don’t because you just want to look at him. “I’d bet on Homelander, he and Sage don’t really trust each other, not enough for him to let her just bulldoze any plans or intentions he might have with remaining V. But it’s not a safe bet, Homelander’s never a safe bet.” You feel something tight and bitter in his chest, and sigh. “I’m okay, Ben.” 

He rolls his eyes, still not moving under your hands. I didn’t fucking say shit. 

“Yeah, but you thought it.” 

What are you, a fucking mind reader? 

“With you?” You smile at him, and it’s so easy. Even when you’re talking about killing Homelander, it’s still easy to smile at Ben. “I might as well be.” 

Smartass. 

“Fuck you.” 

He grins. Not in public, Sunshine. 

You stick your tongue out at him. “Shut up. And we’ll just have to ask A-Train when he gets back.” You sigh. “I can’t think of anything else that might work.” 

Your fingers have stilled on Ben’s face—now just playing with the hair of his beard—and he takes it as a sign to speak. “A-Train?” 

“The fast one.” 

“Why the fuck are we waiting for him?” 

“He’s defecting,” you shrug. “He’s leaving with you today, you’re going to have to fake his death by the way-“ 

“Fucking Fast-Man is coming home, but not you?” Ben’s glaring at you, saying your name in a deep, annoyed voice. “I am not fucking trading you-“ 

“You’re not trading me, Benjamin.” You hold his glare. “I’ll come home soon, just not now. And A-Train is going to help you. He helped me.” 

“How the fuck has he helped you?” Ben grumbles. “He hasn’t gotten you out-“ 

“Nobody’s gotten me out, because I’m waiting. I have a plan-“

Ben scoffs, but that strange feeling in him pulses with warmth. “Of course you have a plan.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You always have a damn plan, Sunshine.” He glowers at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not have a fucking plan.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “And how is that a bad thing?” 

“It’s not,” Ben mutters. “But I just fucking wish you would share your plans. With me. Let me goddamn help.” 

All the annoyance in you vaporizes in just how much you love him. How much you love Ben, how no matter what he’s there. He trusts you, he knows you, and he’s there for you all the time. He’ll groan and bitch about everything but he’ll still be there. He’ll try and fight your battles for you, roll his eyes and be a grump when you don’t let him, and stay at your side until you’ve won. He’ll be there to do what you need him to and then hold you like this—with so much rough care—even when he’s pissed. He won’t leave. He’ll never leave, not really. And you love him. 

“It has to play out naturally,” you say, gently. Smiling so that his scowl starts to waver. “If I tell you what to do it might not work as well. I’ll come home soon, you just have to let me do this my way. Please.” 

Ben lets out a long, labored sigh that makes his chest rumble, makes your whole body fall into his. “Fine. Fucking fine.” 

“Thank you.” 

He just grunts, and you pull his face back yours. Kiss him long and soft. Never looking for more, just trying to touch him. Just trying to have him while you can, before A-Train finds you and tells you this has to be over. You don’t ever want this to be over, you only want to kiss Ben like you have all the time in the world. Like every moment in this bathroom isn’t being borrowed and running out fast. 

You almost tell him. Right here, in a Believe Expo bathroom with Ben cupping your jaw and looking down at you with affection as his arm cages you to his chest, you almost say it. Ben. Ben, I love you. You’re going to have to let me stay here, but please know that I love you. Please, please wait for me and don’t hate me because I love you. I’m trying to make myself okay with keeping it together and leaving you to go home alone, but I’m so close to breaking. Please just tell me to damn the consequences, damn the world, and bring me home. Or to Rome, or to the farthest corner of the world, but with you. Please pick me up and take me with you because I love you and I can’t keep this up much longer. I’m okay, I’m really okay, but I’m so close to falling apart. I love you, fuck everything else because I love you and I want to go home. 

You’re crying again. They’re not singular, lonesome and tragic tears or shaking screams and sobs of hollow and empty. They’re small, wet gasps as you try to fight the words down. Try to stop yourself from ruining everything just because you can’t do this. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want Ben to go, and he has to go, but it’s going to be the most painful thing in the world. Even if you know you’ll be home soon. 

He mutters your name, deep and firm, and now you’re crying more. You love him. “What-“ 

You kiss him. You grab his shirt and yank him down and just kiss him. You can’t tell him you love him, not like this. Not when you can’t hold him all night and wake up next to him in the morning. Not now, when you have to stay here. But you’re going to tell him, you recognize that impossible to quell instinct of Ben. Ben, I love you, pushing up your throat and you only know one way to stop it. Ben, kissing him and touching him and turning those words into just sounds. Into moans and whines that he won’t understand. So you just pull Ben into you, and hope he’ll do the rest. 

He does. He’ll always do this for you. His hands will always find a firm, natural hold on your body and his mouth will always fit perfectly against yours. He’ll always fill with hunger and adoration, and give you everything he can until you’re—at least for now—whole again. He’ll always make all that noise, all that loud, angry pain in your head that’s trying to find a why, why is this so unfair that you have to stay here and Ben can’t stay with you, why won’t the world give you one thing, just one thing that you don’t have to rage to keep, and why does time have to keep moving when this day is going that have to end without Ben at your side, and he’ll make it go away. Ben will always make all the sounds and rushing thoughts in your head slow until it’s just him. Just Ben. Ben, I love you. He’ll make the whole world only Ben, rubbing circles on your skin and pulling you impossibly closer, pressing his tongue to your lips in a silent question, and taking everything you give him. 

You want to give him everything. Only opening your mouth for him to move deeper into you—to suck and bite and taste—and leaning into him so your hands are scraping at his neck, so his groans run through your body and down into you, isn’t enough. Making high, needy sounds that Ben swallows isn’t enough, grinding half against his torso and half onto the counter isn’t enough, because it doesn’t tell him. It doesn’t show him that you’ve missed him and you want him and need him and love him. Everything you can’t say, not now, you still need him to feel. He can’t feel you like you feel him, can’t understand without words how important he is to you. He can’t feel your love, not like you can feel that thing in him rumbling somewhere sacred in his chest. Bouncing off his ribcage and hungry and wanting for carnage. Wanting you, desperate for you in a bloody and wrathful way that tells you Ben cares. He might not love you, but he’s missed you. That even if he’s furious he’ll have to go without you, it's still about you. You and Ben together, right now, having each other. 

He has to have all of you. He has to have every part of you that you don’t need to see this through, so he can protect those instead. So he can keep some sort of knowledge that walking away from him—even if it’s temporary, which it is, because nothing is permanent except you and Ben so you will always find a way back to him—is impossible. It’s going to keep you up for many nights, haunt all your dreams until he’s there to hold you like this again. You have to, you can’t see another way out of this that doesn’t end in the world destroyed and Homelander the king of whatever remains, but it’s killing you. Ben needs to understand that this is killing you, that you’ve never wanted or loved anything like you need him. And the only way to show him is to give him all of you. 

“Ben,” you gasp against his mouth, and it drops to leave sloppy kisses down your jaw and neck. Letting you speak but not making it easy. Not when he’s pulling skin gently between his teeth and running his hand up your back. “Please.” 

“Please?” He hums, moving back up to look at you fully. Hands still kneading at your thigh and wrapping around your body. “What-“ 

“Fuck me.” You lean forward, trying to pull him back down. He can’t be away from you, not for a second, not now when he’s going to have to go so soon. “Please, fuck me.” 

His eyes widen, and even as the hunger roars inside him Ben frowns. “Here?” 

You nod desperately. “Please-“ 

“Sunshine,” his hold on you has become like iron, and you can feel the enormity of his want, feel his hardened cock pushing into your thigh, but he’s shaking his head. “I am not fucking you for the first time in a goddamn bathroom.” 

“Ben-“ 

“I said I wanted to take time,” Ben leaned down, holding your gaze. His eyes are darkened, and you can feel him. Everywhere you can feel Ben, in your body and around you and running between your bodies where the boundary of Ben or you doesn’t matter anymore. “And I fucking meant it. I am not fucking you when I can’t take a goddamn week off to do it, when there’s not even a fucking bed.” 

“Please, I just want-“ 

“I know what you want,” he growls your name, and you whine. “And fucking believe me, I want it as well. The only thing I want more than to fuck you stupid is to bring you the hell home. But,” he shakes his head, and presses a kiss to your brow, grunting the words against your skin. “You’re a stubborn fucking brat who doesn’t listen, so I’m not taking you home. And there’s not a fucking chance in hell I’m fucking you for the first time in a bathroom at a fucking Christ Convention.” 

You sigh, falling further into him. He’s right, which is annoying because he’s always so smug about when he’s right, but he’s right. Ben can’t fuck you, not here, not now. You can’t tell him you love him, you can’t go home with him, but you also can’t fucking him at the Christ Convention. 

Ben pulls back, watching you with silent eyes that are trying to dissect you. You love when he watches you like this, like he can see you, and you hope he never stops. You hope when you close your eyes tonight, alone in a cold room, you’ll still have the image of him watching you. 

You offer him a small smile. “How are you enjoying the Christ Convention?” 

“It’s fucking stupid,” he mutters. “Dumbest shit I’ve ever seen. Bunch of high and mighty pussies who think they know everything. Butcher said they do this every year,” he shakes his head like that’s an impossible thought. “Wouldn’t have fucking let that slide in my day.” 

You hum. “I mean, evangelical Christianity was definitely a thing in the 80s. And 70s. And 60s. Mass media just inflates connection and audience.” 

Ben rolls his eyes. “Every year is still goddamn insane. The man has been dead for thousands of goddamn years, there’s nothing fucking new to say.” 

You laugh, burying your head in his shoulder. His arms hold you there, safe and comfortable against him, and it takes a lot out of you not to cry again. To just mumble against his skin, “I see you haven’t killed Butcher yet.” 

“Yet.” He grunts. “Fucking asshole’s on goddamn thin ice. Borrowed time.” 

You smile. “Well, I’m proud of you anyway.” 

His arms tense around you, and that thing glows. Somewhere in that carefully tended and protected part of Ben where it lives, it starts to feel ardent and light. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you closer, but you feel it. Glowing inside him. 

“Has anything changed,” you don’t move from speaking against him, because Ben will hear you anywhere. “Since I’ve been…” 

You can’t finish that sentence. You can’t say that word. And Ben knows, because he doesn’t make you. “No.” 

“Nothing?” 

“We haven’t exactly been fucking team building and circle jerking, Sunshine,” he drawls, and you still smile. You missed him. “We’ve got goddamn jobs to do.” 

“And you haven’t killed anyone? Even when they’re being idiot pussies?” 

He snorts. “They’ve managed not to deserve it yet.” 

“Deserve it?” 

“They’re listening to you.” 

You lean back, and frown at him. “To me?” 

“When you tell us to trust you,” he grunts. “When you go on TV.” 

Something you hadn’t fully realized was there loosens around your throat. “You’ve seen me? You’ve gotten it?” 

“Of course I’ve fucking seen you,” Ben mutters, and his glare is more indigent than anything else. “Green for me to listen. To make sure I know you’re still fucking you.” 

You smile, and it’s all teeth and a little bit of joy. He’s seen you, and he’s been paying attention, and he understands. “Good.” 

Ben rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to do green, I’ll listen no matter fucking what.” 

“It’s a signal-“ 

“I don’t need a fucking signal to know you’re okay,” he snaps your name. “I can see it on your face. When your little fucking act drops and you look like you. I need to know when you’re not okay. When I have to come get you.” 

“Ben-“ 

“I won’t,” he holds your eyes, voice firm. “I won’t come get you until you say. I’ll go along with your stupid fucking secret plan, but I need a way to know if you need me. If it’s gone to shit and you need me.”

You sigh. He needs this. Ben is doing the impossible thing you’re asking of him and only demanding one thing in return. You couldn’t say no if you wanted to. “Blue.” You squeeze his bicep, and give him another smile. “If I need you, which I won’t,” Ben glares at you, but you keep going. “I’ll wear blue. And you can come get me.” 

You’ll never wear blue again. If Ashley or Sage or Homelander try to put you in blue, you’ll spill food or coffee all over the outfit or just fucking burn it. But—likely even when you go home—you’ll never wear blue again. You’ll never wear blue or smell coconut without throwing up, you won’t drink a milkshake for a long time, and you’ll hate the winter forever. You’ll have to stay where it’s warm, you’ll have to keep Ben with you so he can block chilling winds and hold you against him like this. In a way that makes everything hot, makes your blood rush in a way that’s just you and him together. You’ll do anything to keep Ben with you when this is over. You’ll offer him this comfort that there’s a signal to tell him you need him—even if you’ll always need him, regardless of Homelander or Vought or any plan or mission—and whatever else he asks for so he’ll wait for you and hold you when you return. 

“Blue,” he repeats, nodding slowly. “Swear it.” 

“Promise.” You search his eyes, and try not to cry when you can see just how tired he is. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t-“ 

“Benjamin.” You shake your head, and lean back into him. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.” 

“I haven’t done a fucking thing-“ 

“You’re here.” You whisper. “You’re going to let me do what I need to do, and you’re waiting. That’s all you have to do, but it still fucking sucks, so thank you.” I love you. 

Ben scoffs. “I thought I didn’t let you do anything.” 

You huff a soft, sad laugh. “But I’m going to thank you anyway.” You look back up at him and smile. Wide and bittersweet, but still real. This is still real. “Thank you.” 

He watches you for a second, and that thing in him is glowing again. Glowing and burning. Hungry. 

Then he’s on his knees. Ben’s hands move to hold your thighs, and he falls to his knees between your legs, smirking up at you. Eyes still tired and body still washed in distant pain, but the hunger overtaking all of it. The devotion is spreading over all of him, climbing into you. 

“Ben-“ 

“I am not fucking you here,” he winks up at you, and you don’t think your heart is working anymore. It’s gone into overdrive and it’s going to explode. “But I can still make you feel fucking good.” 

Your eyes widen, and you feel heat rush into your face. You feel heat rush everywhere. “Okay.” 

“Say it,” he grunts, and you know what he wants. You always know what he wants. 

“Please,” you grab his face, running your fingers back into his hair. “Please, Ben.” 

“More.” 

“I want you,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to stay stable otherwise. Not when one of Ben’s hands is drawing closer to your center, hovering right over your underwear. “Ben, I want you, please-“ 

His thumb presses right over your clit, and your words turn into a long moan. “All you fucking have to do is ask, beautiful.” He grins up at you. “Say my name and ask.” 

“Ben-“ 

“Whole thing.” 

“Benjamin, please-“ 

He stands up, crashing his mouth against yours as his hand moves under your panties, teasing you gently. Rubbing his thumb lightly while he slides his fingers between you, but never in. Groaning into your mouth when he feels how wet you’ve become, how much you want him.

“Fucking needy, Sunshine.” He mutters, pulling his hand away, taking your underwear with him and dropping it on the floor. “So fucking needy.” 

You only moan, trying to grind into him enough that he’ll just come back, and he pulls his mouth away, grinning down at you. He looks so handsome, with dark eyes and full lips that were just on you and why can’t he just come back- 

His fingers—the ones that had just been touching you—raise into his mouth, and you almost fall off the counter. Almost jump him when he makes a low, satisfied sound and watches you with a cocky smirk. How you’re wrecked and he’s not even touching you anymore. 

“Please-“ 

He pulls his fingers out his mouth and grabs your face, yanking it up to him. His hand in your hair, your taste is in his mouth, his body so strong and warm and Ben and he’s everything- 

“Fucking good,” he mutters against your lips, and you whimper. “You’re so fucking good.” He says your name, and you think you might just cum from that. The impossibly good sound of your name from Ben’s mouth, in his deep and powerful voice. 

“Ben,” your words are just breath, but you know he understands, because he grunts and his hands that’s moved under your thigh squeezes you. “Please. More, please-“ 

He’s gone again, moving you back down to the counter and returning to his knees. You almost whine again, almost make a desperate sound that was probably supposed to be come back, but then he’s everywhere. His hands hook under your knees, and he tugs you forwards. Right into his mouth. 

He’s done this once. It made you scream his name and see stars, but this is better. He’s learning, you realize, because he’s already doing everything he needs to do to bring you up to the edge. After just one time he’d somehow memorized every single thing that made you melt, and now he’s on a mission. 

He moves one hand to knead and bruise your thigh around him, while using the other to brace against your abdomen, keeping you still as he works. 

His tongue is there first. Licking you once until he brushes your clit, flicking it once, feeling your thighs tighten around him, and chuckling as he does it again. 

“You fucking like that?” He mutters, and you just moan and try to roll your hips against his face. 

He laughs and does it again, lighter this time, so feather like and teasing you until you whine. Until it’s too much and you’re aching before he flattens his tongue against you and hums, running it down, up, down, and into you. Ben pushing his tongue into you, and starts to fuck you with him mouth. 

His teeth are brushing against you when he pushes in, letting out a growl when you clench around him that makes his nose bump your clit. You make a strangled sound and he finds a rhythm. His tongue doesn’t stop moving, twisting and fucking you as he squeezes the skin of your thigh, then rises for just enough to nip at your clit and sooth it with a kiss before dropping back down. 

Ben won’t let you cum. He knows exactly when that line is and he’s taunting you with it, grunting into you as you start to shake above him, as you tug at his hair or moan his name. He goes faster, eating you like he’s been starved until you start to tremble, and then he slows down, running his tongue between your pussy and clit, never fully touching either. Starting it all over the moment your breathing becomes steady. 

“Ben,” you whisper, and he looks up at you with so much devotion and affection it almost makes you fall apart just from him. From how relaxed he looks, between your legs. How his eyes are hungry and lustful and full of light. For you. “Please.” 

He hums against you, and you shiver as the sound runs up your spine. “More?” 

“Please.” 

“You want me?” 

“I need you.” 

He smirks up at you. “You need me, Sunshine? Need me to make you fucking cum?” 

“Yes,” you breathe out as his hand moves from your thigh, tracing circles around you and over you but never pushing in. “Ben, please. I need you, please-“ 

Two broad, rough fingers push into you and your words dissolve into a moan. Ben pumps them once, and once more when you squeeze around him. “Like that? You fucking need me to do that?” 

“Ben-“ 

“So fucking tight,” he mutters, gaze dropping down to watch you clench around him when he moves again. “You’re so fucking tight, beautiful, it’s gonna fucking kill me.” 

You can’t speak anymore, not when he moves in and out again, and again, and again. Setting a brutal, demanding pace that has you unable to think outside of Ben. Rough, strong fingers inside of you that are Ben’s and making you feel so good. 

“No smart words from that pretty fucking mouth?” he hums your name, and you whine. 

“Ben-“ 

“There’s one.” He winks at you, and you melt further into him. Try to use your leg to pull him closer. “Let’s see if we can make you scream it.” 

He drops back down and bites your clit. It’s gentle and light, but Ben bites you and you have to move a hand to cover your mouth so you don’t scream his name. You’re trying to grind onto his face, his fingering still fucking you without relent or relief, and you need him to keep going. To bite you or lick you or do something to bring you over the edge. But his arm is keeping you so torturously still, you can only grip his hair and throw your head back as he goes and goes and goes and you’re full of him. He’s in you and on you, his tongue tracing taunting circles around your clit, and it’s all Ben. 

Then he kisses you. He leaves one, painfully soft kiss against your clit as his fingers still deep inside you, and you’re so close. 

“Ben-“ 

You feel him grin against you, and he crooks his fingers in you against that one spot as he pulls your clit into his mouth. He sucks on it and groans, and that’s it. Everything is Ben, flicking his tongue against you with a growl and scissoring his fingers to give friction inside you, and you have to bite your hand as you cum. As everything grows loose and good, the whole world becomes both so big and wide but it’s still just Ben. It’s still just Ben in all the warmth and pleasure, making you feel like you’re made of stardust and more important than the sun as he keeps going through your orgasm until you’re shaking. Until you’re trying to pull him back up because you need to see him. You need him to kiss you again because you love him, and this is going to be over so soon and you just need to see him. Show Ben that he’s done this, that every part of you is his and nothing else has ever mattered like this matters. 

You almost damn it. He’s pulled you apart and put you back together, still going, and now you have to tell him. Ben has to know, he has to know you love him. It’s so impossibly crucial that Ben understands you love him. You say it, you say Ben, I love you, but he’s done his job too well and all that comes out is a breathless, wanting sound. Every part of your body, of your mind and soul tries to say it as well. Ben. Ben, I love you. Ben, I love you. Please understand, please try and feel how much I love you and tell me you understand. But he's still going, even as your thighs start to crush his head, and all you get is a roar. That thing inside him roars, and moves to fully rest in you. You don’t understand it, you’re not even sure Ben understands it, but it’s sitting in you now just as much as him, and it’s the most natural thing you’ve ever felt. It hums when you repeat the words in your head, when you think Ben. Ben, I love you, and pray he’ll somehow hear it, somehow see it on your face when he’s still between your legs. He doesn’t, but that thing always makes another low, happy sound and that can be enough. Everything is light and high, and this strange thing that lives in Ben but feels like it’s yours can be enough. 

Ben, after what might have been a thousand years, stands up. He’s staring at you—still slightly shaking and flushed, words still a little far away—and the look in his eyes is reverent. His face is covered in you and his beard is wet but he’s not moving to wipe it away. He just kisses you, one last long time, and mutters your name against your lips. 

“You’re perfect,” his voice is low and wanting, and you shutter against him. Feel his hard cock twitch against you. “You’re so fucking perfect.” 

In the grand scheme of things, it’s probably a good thing A-Train finds you when he does. Because if you’d been left alone with Ben for about three more seconds the part of you that’s been begging you to just go, go home with Ben and the rest of the world can figure out how to deal with this themselves, just tell Ben you love him and go, would’ve won. 

That doesn’t mean you can’t be annoyed when the room is rushed with cold air and A-Train slams the door behind him. 

Ben’s faster than you—in all fairness he didn’t just have an earth-shattering orgasm and you’re at a disadvantage—and turns to block your body from view, roaring at A-Train. 

“What the fucking hell-“ 

“Calm down, asshole.” Peaking over Ben’s shoulder you can see that A-Train’s facing the wall, back to you both. “This isn’t something I want to see. I’m just doing my job.” 

“Get fuck out-“ 

You reach around Ben’s head and cover his mouth with a hand, staying behind him as you lean over his body to address A-Train. “Are we ready?” 

A-Train nods. “Ezekiel’s waiting for me, I told him I’d find where your team is then come get him.” 

“Okay,” you sigh, trying to focus on running through your mental checklist when you can still feel Ben, when your legs have wrapped themselves around his torso. “I’ll burn out your tracker, and we’ll get going.”

Ben licks your hand, and it surprises you enough to pull back. 

“Benjamin, what the hell-“ 

“Does anyone want to fucking tell me what’s going on?” He snaps, glaring at you over his shoulder. “Or am I supposed to just goddamn stay in the dark?” 

“I did tell you,” you kick his thigh slightly. “A-Train’s defecting, you’re going to kill him-“ 

“Don’t actually kill me,” A-Train cuts in, still facing away from you. “I’m not doing this if this dick is going to actually kill me.” 

“He’s knows that-“ 

Ben shrugs. “I don’t know shit.” 

You pinch him, shooting him a flat look. You’re being unhelpful. Shut up and get me decent. 

He rolls his eyes, and ducks down to pick your discarded underwear off the floor. You keep speaking as he helps you into them, allowing yourself to sit slightly in the feeling of him touching you, hands running up your legs and arms holding you still. 

“They won’t kill you, A-Train. Ben, promise you won’t kill him.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Benjamin.” 

“Fine, I won’t fucking kill him.” 

You glare at him. “Promise.” 

“I swear I won’t kill him.” He glares at you, drawing back up to his full height. “Happy?” 

You smile at him. “Very.” And it’s not even a lie. “A-Train, you can look.” 

Ben steps to the side—you have to shove him slightly, but he does—and A-Train turns around slowly. 

“My tracker?” 

You nod, pushing off the counter and crossing the bathroom. “This might take a second.” 

Ben follows you, standing behind you silently as you raise your hand over A-Train’s extended arm and close your eyes. This will work, this has to work. Ben’s right here, and he’s warm, and right now you’re not afraid, so this will work. 

It takes a few minutes of slow breathing and focus, but you drag just enough up fire. You can do this. 

You glance at A-Train once. “This might really hurt.” 

“Just do it-“ 

The flame forms in the palm of your hand and your eyes narrow. Concentrating it into something like a needle and pushing it into A-Train’s arm. He flinches, face twisting, but doesn’t pull away as you work. Smoke fills the room, all three of you watching the beam of fire twist and scorch A-Train’s skin, burning it with the tracker. Ben’s shoulder nudges yours and you pause, looking up at him. 

“What?” 

“It’s gone,” he grunts. “I heard it, it’s fried.” 

A-Train frowns. “You sure?”

“Fucking positive.” 

“Then,” A-Train looks back at you. “We’re good?” 

You glance at Ben, who gives you a tight nod. “I guess.” 

A-Train looks between you and Ben again, but rests his arm back at his side. “Is he going to tell your team-“ 

“I’ve got it fucking handled,” Ben snaps. “Pretend to kill you, bring you back. Find another way to get V.” 

“V?” 

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten. “Fuck, wait. A-Train where did you find Ezekiel?” 

“He was backstage,” he shrugs. “Most of that time was spent convincing him, he’s annoying as hell-” He frowns at you, cutting himself off. “Why?” 

“We need some V,” you sigh. “But if he was backstage that means they finished cleaning up. There won’t be any left, not here.” 

“Why do you need V?” A-Train shakes his head. “That shit is horrible for you, it almost fucking killed me-“ 

“It knocks Homelander out. We need it to kill him.” You look at Ben, and find him watching you carefully. “You’re going to need to tell Butcher what I told you. You’re not going to find V any way you might have before.” 

Ben scowls. “Well then how the fuck-“ 

“Homelander,” you swallow down the lump and bile in your throat. “He’s the only bet we have. He had to have kept some-“ 

“He keeps some in his apartment,” A-Train interjects, and you turn to see him frowning at you, hands on his hips. “I saw it, even took some for Hughie. It’s in a box.” 

“I’ve never seen it-“ 

“He might have moved it when you arrived,” A-Train shrugs. “But he has some.” 

You nod, chewing on your tongue, and feel Ben’s arms wrap around you. Pulling you back into his chest.

“You don’t have to fucking get it.” He mutters. “We’ll find another way-“ 

You sigh, and tilt your head back to look up at him. “There’s not always another way, Ben. We have to get through this, not around it.” 

He glares at you. Come home. Just fucking come home. 

I can’t. You stand on your toes, leaning further into him, and give him a gentle smile. You have to go, and I can’t come with you. 

His body tenses around you, and he makes a deep, pained sound from his chest. I fucking hate this. This is fucking stupid and I fucking hate it. 

I know. You squeeze his arm around you and force yourself not to cry. You can’t cry now, because you won’t stop and this will never work. I know you do. But I’ll see you again. Soon. 

Fucking swear it. Swear you’ll come home. 

I promise. 

He nods, and turns you around. Kisses you again, and you know this is the last one for a while. He’s not pushing into you or trying to get more, he’s just trying to memorize you and you’re doing the same to him. You already knew all of Ben—and he knows all of you—but you need to have it leave a mark that you can carry when he goes. You need to still remember in a week, still feel how his muscles move around you like he’s still holding you, have his taste remain on your tongue when he’s not there pushing it into you, smell pine and gunpowder and Ben over the coconut. You’ll certainly have how he sounds—you’ll never lose how Ben sounds because his phantom will stay with you—but you want all of it. You need all of it if you’re going to keep going. 

A-Train coughs, and Ben pulls away with one last, gentle movement. 

“We have to get moving,” when you turn, A-Train isn’t looking at you, but frowning at Ben. “Homelander will be back real soon, for his speech.” 

Homelander’s speech. Your speech. You have to go do your speech. “Okay.” 

You have to force every step as you pull away from Ben’s body. He doesn’t let you go, not fully, allowing you to turn before dropping his head down to yours. 

“Come home.” It’s final. He’s still asking, even when he knows the answer, one final time.

“Soon,” you whisper. “You’re not losing me, Ben. You just have to wait for me.” 

“I’ll always fucking wait for you.” He grunts, and your heart isn’t going to recover from this. Not for a long time. “I’ll wait a million goddamn years, as long as you always fucking come home.” 

“Always.” You mumble, and he nods. “Thank you.” 

“You burn, I burn,” his breath fans against your face, and you can feel that thing in him start to riot. Claw up your lungs—Ben’s lungs—and throat. Furious and loud. 

So you just make a small, sad sound because you’re out of tears and sobs and sighs and smiles. “You burn, I burn.” You look up, and meet his eyes. “Can you do me a favor, Ben?” 

He just grunts, and you know he understands. You’re not asking, you’re cashing one of your last favors in. But it’s not for you. 

“Don’t be a dick to Ryan, please.” 

Ben blinks at you. “What?” 

“Ryan Butcher.” You watch him carefully. “Don’t be an ass to him. He’s just a kid.” 

“I haven’t been a fucking ass-“ 

“Yes, you have.” You trace a hand along his beard, resting it at the base of his neck. “I know you, Ben. You might not be being an ass on purpose, but you’re blaming him for this. He’s just a kid, it’s not his fault. None of this is his fault.” 

“You’re only here-“ 

“Because of Homelander,” you shake your head against his. “Not because you lost me, or failed me. Not because of Ryan or even Butcher. Because of Homelander. So please, just be kind to Ryan. For me.” 

He stands up, and holds you against him for one last moment. “Fine.” He pauses and kisses the top of your head, speaking the last words against you in a way that rolls through your body. “For you.” 

“I’ll see you soon,” you whisper into his chest, your words right over his heart. Right over where you can still feel that thing tearing Ben apart. You hope he’ll carry them until you’re home and can tell that thing to rest. 

Ben nods. “Soon.” 

A-Train’s been waiting, and you’re thankful for how he doesn’t say anything. How he lets Ben and you peel yourselves apart, lets Ben pick up his cap, gives you one last curt nod, and doesn’t comment on how you love Ben, or make you say any more promises. You only have room for two promises now, because they’re the most important ones you’ll ever make. Kill Homelander. Go home. You only have in it you to nod back, and try not to fall to the floor and scream when Ben gives you one last look and a kiss on the crease of your brow. When he walks out the door—like you’d told him to—and you have to watch him go. When A-Train leaves as well, and you trust both of them to do what you need them to, but it still shatters you. You’d had him. He was real and warm and here and you’d had him. There wasn’t a world where you kept him—not today—but this is still the most painful thing you’ve ever done. 

He’s lingering. You’re finding your way back to the stage and Ben’s likely still across the venue, but he’s still in you. That impossible to understand thing is still in you where it had been in Ben, and it’s not fading. It’s setting itself into you, and making you feel Ben even when you pull off your disguise and try to fix your makeup and smooth your hair in a backstage mirror. It’s making it hard to acknowledge that doing that—staying there with him for so long and letting him touch you like you’d needed—wasn’t smart, because this is all you’ll have for a while. At least until you revise your plan, until you figure out a way to get your team the V they need. As much as it hurts, you’re praying that this thing stays with you until you’re back in Ben’s arms. It might be the only way you get through this. 

Ashley finds you minutes later, her hair a mess and a wild, panicked look in her eyes. “Where the fuck did you go?!” 

“I was in the bathroom-“ 

“The bathroom?!” She shakes her head frantically. “For almost a fucking hour?!” 

You shrug, looking around nervously. No Homelander. No Sage. “I can’t control my period-“ 

“You know what?” Ashley raises a hand sharply. “I don’t fucking care. You’re on now, move.” 

Your mouth falls open, and the cold starts to creep back in. “Now? But I’m not until-“ 

“A-Train and Ezekiel are fucking missing, and Sage still hasn’t shown up after being a controlling bitch about this all week, so you’re on now.” You’re frozen in place, and Ashley looks up at you with glare. “Now! Fucking go!”

She almost moves to push you, but flinches back at the last second. Your feet start to carry you forwards, moving mechanically through the steps Ashley had drilled into you this morning. A man mics you, and you can barely feel his anxiety over the cold. It’s getting cold again, and the only thing keeping your legs steady beneath you, keeping you upright, is the way that Ben is still there. How you can feel that odd thing from him ingrained in you even when he’s gone, how it’s him. Everything about it is Ben, and it’s making a home inside of you and keeping your mind from clouding with cold. Fogged up cold. 

The man finishes his job, adjusting the mic a little further from your mouth. A woman checks your hair and makeup, and another points out all your marks and the teleprompter as Deep wraps up with large gestures and over-exaggerated laughs. The first woman smooths down your costume once and gives a thumbs up, the second shoves you forward with a clipboard, and suddenly you’re there. On the stage, walking to a red x and being blinded by stage lights that turn the crowd into murmuring shadows.

Words fall out of your mouth like vomit. You sound robotic. You feel robotic. You’re speaking and your voice isn’t yours, you’re smiling and it’s wrong on your face, and your hands are locked behind your back so your nails can tap and dig into your skin. 

“From when I was young, I’ve loved Homelander. Even when we were children, sharing secret moments in the fields behind my parent’s house, I loved him. I loved him enough to follow him to the city before he knew how I felt, before I knew he loved me. I loved him when he made his first save, and he told me how happy it made him.” Swallow the bile, read the words on the prompter. The boring, mechanical, words about love that aren’t yours. Aren’t about your love. “I loved him when he came to me with roses and told me he loved me, asked me to be his one and only. I loved him when he let me stay on the sidelines, when he was forced into PR relationships to keep me safe. I love him now, as America’s greatest hero and my savior.” Don’t break. “I love Homelander because he completes me. I see us in every great romance in history. He is the thing that gets me up in the morning. He makes me happy, and I want to start a family with him. Lead the best life we can together. I’m excited to lead a great life with Homelander, for our love story-“ 

Your words are cut off by a rush of air and shaking of the stage as Homelander lands at your side. Grinning and waving, placing a hand on your lower back as his voice echoes over the venue. 

“Oh, just pretend you can’t see me!” The crowd grows louder with applause, and he laughs. “I’m here to listen to Anomaly, same as all of you! I just have the best seat!” He pulls you off your mark, closer to the front of the stage. “She’s doing so well, isn’t she?” 

He grins at you as the crowd’s noise begins to drown out your own thoughts, and you make yourself smile back. The nerves are real, but you force the comfort onto your face. Make yourself stay on your feet. There’s no other option but staying on your feet and smiling at Homelander like his hand on your own body doesn’t fill you with dread and agony and cold. Pretend you don’t know what’s coming, that you’re going to finish and Homelander will kiss you and you’ll have to not scream or push him away. You’re sweating and the air is humid from the lingering mist of the morning, but you’re so cold. 

“Alright, let’s settle down!” Homelander dismisses the crowd with a hand, and the last few whoops and claps die off. “Keep going, honey, everyone’s listening.” 

You swallow. No way out. “I’m excited to lead a great life with Homelander, for our love story to be remembered as one from a fairytale. Because he is my prince, my white knight who saved me from the dark. Homelander, you're my soulmate, and I love you. I am deeply in love with you, and there will never be another-“ 

Something bangs in the distance, and the part of Ben that’s still in you begins to pound. Drums. Echoes of drums in your chest that fall into time with a spark of lights and another bang. Gunshots. Those are gunshots and the overhead lights are sparking.

Homelander’s hand tenses on your back. “Keep calm, folks! I’m sure it’s just a truck! I’ll go myself and make sure they get that faulty engine fixed. Please, let my lovely girlfriend finish the speech she’s been working so hard on.” He leans down to hiss in your ear, face turned from the crowd. “Keep going until I get back. Don’t stop fucking talking.” 

He’s gone, and another gunshot fires. Ben. Ben might be in danger, Homelander’s going and Ben is strong but they don’t have the V, and Sage hasn’t been seen all day. The gas- 

Ashley’s gesturing at you off to the side. Keep going. 

You have to keep going. There’s nothing you can do but try and cling to that thing in you—rumbling and bloody—that tells you Ben is still awake. Try and raise your voice over the gunshots that mean he’s still fighting. 

“There will never be another man for me. And that’s why-“ The prompter glitches and sparks out, and a flash of light clears the sky in the distance. Then there’s another gunshot, and a whoosh of air, and you have to keep going. You can still feel Ben, so you have to keep going. There are no words left for you to say, you didn’t memorize the speech and can’t remember where it went after the that’s why line. You have to find your own word. You have to just keep going. 

“That’s why I want to share what it’s like to love him.” You take a heavy breath, and hold onto that piece of Ben in you like it’s a lifeline. “Why he’s everything to me.” 

The venue lights flash again, and the phones start to spark out and fry with the cameras. You’re okay with that. This isn’t for the world to remember or see, this is for you to keep talking and find a way to keep going. 

“He’s good,” you smile into the flickering darkness. “He’s just so good. It’s hard, but he’s still good. His smile is the best one you’ll ever see, and his laugh is the only thing you’ll ever need to hear. If you could see him happy like I do, you’d never want to see anything else. And I, I get to do so many things I’ve always wanted to do with him. I get to talk to him and feel heard and to cook with him and share things I enjoy, and he touches me like I’m the only one he’s ever wanted to touch. Ever needed to touch. Ever needed. I get to feel half as wanted as I want him, and I want him. I want all of him.” You can’t stop. Your heart is breaking and gluing itself together every other second, but you can’t stop. “I want the parts you get to see and the parts that get to be mine. I want to laugh at him and with him and see him smile. See a smile that gets to be mine, and keep watching him try. Try to keep me when everything is horrible, and I want to stay with him, I want to stay with him-“ Your words are becoming choked, and you’re pleading to no one. Begging into a silent crowd of people who don’t understand and a night that doesn’t care. Keep going. “I, I want to watch him be better, never stop trying to be better, just be better and be good. Be good to me, he’s so good to me, even, even when it’s hard and I have to miss him and I-“

The whole word explodes. The drums are still rattling around your head as the night is illuminated from a cloud of fire and ash exploding across the night. You almost run to it, run to him, but people are grabbing you and pulling you off stage. You can’t fight, you're frozen, kept from shattering only by the hum of Ben still carved into you. Like an imprint, like a scar you wouldn’t want to heal if you could because it’s telling you he’s awake.

They lock you away. Someone shoves you into the trailer and you hear the door click, but you don’t bother to even try the handle. You couldn’t move if you wanted, couldn’t run if you tried. You’re cracking. Not breaking—not while that thing of Ben’s still shifts inside you and tells you he’s okay—but cracking. Growing weaker, the fire going dormant once more, because you’d let it get away from you. That speech won’t see the morning, nobody had gotten the part that was just you on footage, but people will talk. Sage will hear, Homelander will hear, and the former will know that you weren’t talking from nothing. She’ll see that hand you’d accidentally shown, that last piece she’d been looking for. The only thing that will save you is the latter believing you were speaking of him. That it’s Homelander you need and want and think is good. You’ve never laughed with Homelander, never seen him be better—only worse—and never, ever missed him, but he’ll still think you were talking about him. 

You miss Ben. You’re sobbing on the floor, cracks appearing in your mask because it’s all too much, and you just miss Ben. You’ll get through this. You can feel that echo of Ben still in your chest even as the noise outside dies down, and you know you’ll get through this, but you’ll miss Ben. More than before, which you didn’t think was possible. You’ll miss him more because he’s waiting, and you know home is closer in time but far in effort. Anything goes wrong and home goes away forever. There’s a way to kill Homelander, a way to get Ben the shot to kill Homelander, but this has to go right. You have to do this clever, however you need to, and with no hesitation, because then you can go home and Ben will be waiting. You’ll kill Homelander, and hold each other until this doesn’t feel like pain anymore. Only another shadow in the corner, another skeleton you bury and grow flowers from. 

Ben will be waiting. You’ll pull yourself up and tape every single piece of your mind together to drag yourself home to Ben, and he’ll pick you up. Ben will wait, and he’ll make this better. 

You’ll love him when you touch him again, and forever after that. You’ll love him when he makes this better and you remind him he’ll never fail you. When you get to stay and you never have to break again. Until then you’ll love him here as well. You’ll keep this piece of Ben in you, and worship in the hopes he feels it. 

You hope he feels your love. Even if he doesn’t love you, you still hope Ben gets to feel your love like you feel his strange thing inside of you. Gets to know it’s yours, for him, and feel how easy and natural it is to love him. How he didn’t fail you, could never fail you, because you love him like this. 

You love him until the night is silent. Until it’s just the dark and spreading warmth. Until your tears are dry and you can just feel you and him. You love Ben like there’s nothing else to love in the world, because there’s not. 

No love is worth this holy and infinite one that you have for Ben. No love is worth rage and desolation like this one is. No one is worth what Ben is. 

And he’ll wait for you. You’ll go back to him. You’ll find a way home. 

You’ll always find your way back to Ben.

——————

Ben couldn’t let himself think about it. Not now, not when he was still fucking clean up the mess he and the team had made. Not when the Pussy Mobile had come to a screeching, rattling halt right before Butcher could park it, and Ben was honestly surprised they’d made it the whole damn drive back. The hunk of shit probably should’ve broken down the moment Butcher had floored it and they’d torn away as Homelander dealt with their diversion. Ezekiel’s body strung up across tents—Ben having pulled him apart with hands and hatred—Annie playing haunted house with all the lights, and a bomb of the French Prick’s going off when Homelander destroyed the guns MM had rigged to keep firing. 

He couldn’t think about how’d almost fucking lost it. How they’d been driving away and Ben had been forced to shove the drums down, try to control them and keep the bomb in his chest from destroying the van and the team when the Thing was roaring at him. When the night had exploded and it had shaken the van, making Ben have to just stare and floor and try not to get lost in how much this fucking hurt. He’d done it, he’d done exactly as She’d asked. A-Train was “dead”—Homelander even the last person to see him before Frenchie’s bomb supposedly blew him to bits, which had been Hughie’s idea and didn’t end up being total fucking shit—and they knew they had to wait for V. They knew that had to wait for Her to get them some or find it somewhere else. Every selfish part of Ben wanted Her to get it, because that meant she’d have to give it them. She’d have to come home to give them the V, and this wouldn’t fucking hurt anymore. 

He’d find a way to get Her to stay this time, and this would never be painful again. He’d kill Homelander and she’d get to smile at him somewhere in Rome forever. He’d hear Her cry about normal, stupid fucking things and she’d tease him and tell him what to do, and he’d just kiss Her until this didn’t fucking hurt anymore. Because he’d done it, he’d done the job, and he’d never hated himself more. 

They were circled up in the dining hall. It was past midnight, but this was a lot more fucking important. They had A-Train, and maybe the fucker could help them. Get Her closer to coming home. Sleep didn’t matter, not when Ben had to fucking bring Her home. 

Ben’s at the head of the table. He can’t sit, can’t rest, he can’t stop fucking moving, not for a second. Not when it will be nothing but fucking pain and images of Her in his head. Fresh, like open wounds that won’t just fucking heal. 

So Ben stood, rigid at the head of the table, his fists curling and uncurling. Butcher at his side—the man’s glare almost as violent as Ben’s—as A-Train’s bouncing knee shook the table. Hughie and Annie had gone to bed with small nods—nobody had stopped them—but MM was frowning at A-Train from his seat across the table, and Kimiko and the French Prick were watching the tight silence with nervous expressions. 

“Are any of you going to talk, or just keep fucking staring at me?” 

Ben’s jaw clenched at the fucking sneer in A-Train’s voice. The fucking annoyance, as if Ben hadn’t just fucking given everything, given the whole fucking world, to save his fast, worthless, pussy ass. She’d told him to, and he had, but it should be Her at the table. In Ben’s arms. Not this fucking piece of shit She’d been so goddamn certain could help. 

He could only say half of that. A-Train needed to understand what had been lost to get him here. He had no fucking right to know more about Her. 

Ben leaned across the table, not bother to hide the fucking fury in his voice. “You’re the one who needs to start fucking talking.” 

“About what?” A-Train snapped. “I’m here, you know why I’m here, what else am I supposed to do?” 

“Make this fucking worth it!” Ben roared Her name. “Said you’d help. Fucking help!” 

“How? How am I supposed to help?” 

Butcher cut in right before Ben could rip A-Train’s head off. “Our mutual friend seemed to be bloody certain you’d have somethin for us. MM here seems to think we can trust you. And I’d fuckin wager you’ve got some real nasty shit on Homelander and Vought.” 

“Yeah, but-“ 

“Man, just listen,” MM muttered. “Those two motherfuckers get off on vengeance, and you’re not doing yourself any favors by poking at them.” 

Butcher scowled at MM, and Ben just keeps fucking pushing. She’d said A-Train could help, and she was never fucking wrong, so the pussy better start fucking helping until Ben started finding more creative ways to figure out what she’d meant. 

Don’t kill A-Train, Ben. Her voice hummed in his head. Or at least do it outside. People eat here. 

“What was she planning,” Ben grunted, trying to speak firm and steady over the pain. “She told me she was planning something. What is it.” 

“Don’t know,” A-Train at least had the brains to look a little fucking guilty. “When we talked she’d never tell me. Said she couldn’t risk it or something.” 

“Well, what did she say?” MM runs his hand over his face. “There has to be something we could use.” 

“Nothing,” A-Train’s answer is way too damn fast, and he’s giving Ben a strange fucking look. “I mean, she was trying to convince me to help, and I agreed, and now I’m here. I can’t fucking help more than that-“ 

“That ain’t fuckin true mate,” Butcher sneers. “You gotta have somethin for us. We didn’t fake your damn death just for you to come here and leech.” 

“I’ve got some stuff on Vought, but you can’t really think they were telling me everything? I mean, Sage didn’t trust me as far as she could thrown me, and she’s not that strong-“ 

“There has to be fucking something!” Ben hissed Her name, leaning down to hold A-Train’s gaze. “She had to have said fucking something, anything, that could get her-“ 

“She wouldn’t share her plan with me!” A-Train was still fucking looking at Ben like that. Like he’d fucking dropped from the sky and was speaking goddamn gibberish. “Like I said, she didn’t tell me anything! I asked, and she said no. She didn’t even fucking tell you!” A-Train gestured at Ben with an exasperated movement. “Why do you think she’d tell me!” 

“A-Train,” MM sighed. “What do you know? That shit about Vought, about Homelander and Sage, about anything.” 

“I mean I fucking know all their old V stashes. I know about security. I know Sage, kind of. How she thinks. I know Ashley, and she’s real close to snapping or losing it or something.” 

“That’s good,” MM glanced up at Butcher. “We can get Mallory here tomorrow. Get all his shit down.” 

“Mate, we can’t be fuckin sure he’s even gonna tell us the truth-“ 

“I will.” A-Train frowned at Butcher. “I’m not here for Vought, fuck those guys. I’m here because I’m trying to be better. Because she,” A-Train shot Ben another strange look as he said Her name for clarification. “She said I could help. I’m not going to lie, there’s too much on the fucking line to lie.” 

“Well,” Butcher snapped. “We might need a little bloody more than Vought security protocols and a fuckin Sage profile. That’s all shit we can get our fuckin selves-“

“I can get you their passwords.” A-Train said, words abrupt and tight. “Hughie’s into all that computer stuff, right? I can write down everything I remember about Vought, about all their passwords, and go over what Sage has told me. I can tell you weaknesses, about Homelander and milk, and the Deep and fish-“ 

“How the fuck will that help-“ 

A-Train cut Ben off with Her name, and everything fucking hurt again. “She thought I could help. This is all I can do, man. She knew that, and she thought it was worth it.” 

“Stop fucking talking about her like that.” Ben hissed. “You don’t know her. You don’t know what she thinks, not about this or any other damn thing.” 

“She told me I could help you. So I’m here.” A-Train didn’t flinch away from Ben’s glare. “Don’t blame me for her idea.” 

Ben was going to kill him. He was going to fucking rip his spine out of his back and break both his knees. The pussy didn’t have any fucking right to pretend to know Her, what she wanted. Ben trusted Her with his goddamn life, and he fucking trusted she knew what she was doing because there was no other option. No world where she never came back to him. She had to fucking come back, come home, but there wasn’t a single fucking way passwords and milk was going to help fucking help them. Help Her. 

Butcher placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder, and he flinched. “The fuck-“ 

“In and out, Gov.” Butcher muttered. “It ain’t gonna help shit to kill A-Train, even if he deserves it.” 

“Shut the fuck up, you pussy-“ 

“Trust me, I want to kill him just as much as you do. But he’s got somethin for us that ain’t totally fuckin useless.” Butcher nodded to MM. “We’ll get Mallory here at the crack of fuckin dawn. We got some work to do.” 

MM nodded, leaning down the table to the French Prick and Kimiko. “Can you two show A-Train a room? Doesn’t fucking matter which one, just get him in a bed.” 

A-Train gave Ben one last weird fucking look before he was led out of the room, leaving Ben with Butcher, MM, and the hum of a fan somewhere. 

Butcher sighed, dropping his hand from Ben’s shoulder back into his pockets. “MM, you better be bloody right about him-“ 

“I am,” MM muttered. “He’s here. He’s not going to fucking leave now, not with his family out there. And we can use his info, get the Kid on a laptop and into their servers. Get an idea of what Sage is doing. But we still need V-“ 

Butcher said Her name, and it ached in Ben’s ears. “Said she’d get us some. Right, Gov?” 

Ben grunted with a nod, and Butcher frowned. 

“She good?” 

Ben shot Butcher a glare. “The fuck is it to you.” 

Butcher shrugged. “She’s doin a lot of shit. Want to make sure she ain’t gonna burn out on us.” 

“She fucking won’t.” Ben snapped. She couldn’t. She’d promised she’d come home. “She’ll be fine.” 

She’ll be fine. Ben had left Her but she was going to be fine. 

You didn’t leave me, Ben. 

Butcher was speaking before Ben could respond to Her voice. “You didn’t fuckin pick her up and carry her back?”

“Fucking obviously.” 

Butcher narrowed his eyes. “After all your fuckin peacocking-“ 

“She told me to trust her,” Ben muttered. “And she’d have fucking kicked my ass if I tried to take her.” Ben shot Butcher a cold look. “I’m not in the business of making my woman do shit she doesn’t goddamn want to.” 

He’d said the words before he could think about them. My woman. She was his. He was supposed to hold her and protect her and care for her and help her and- 

Everything was fucking painful. 

Butcher grunted, nodding. “She’ll get through this, Mate. She’s a clever fuckin lady, she knows what she’s doing.” 

Ben didn’t respond. He already fucking knew that, he knew everything about her. She was fucking perfect and a goddamn threat to Ben’s sanity. 

He didn’t even notice Butcher was gone until MM coughed, and Ben realized it was just them left in the dining hall. 

“What.” 

“You were gone with her for a while,” MM said, watching Ben with a blank, unreadable face. “The fuck were you doing that whole time.” 

“None of your fucking business.” 

“It is if she’s-“ 

“It’s fucking not.” Ben glared at MM with all the fucking pain in his body. “It’s ours. Nobody else's.”

MM hummed, holding Ben’s glower. “Ours.”

“You’ve got a fucking problem with that? You hate me so fucking much you don’t trust me with her? When I’m the only fucking one who’s been fighting for her, doing whatever it fucking takes while you pussies-“ 

“I don’t trust you with her, motherfucker.” MM sneered. “She’s a good woman, and she’s too good for you. She doesn’t need you to fight for her-“ 

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben couldn’t fucking deal with this. Not when everything hurt and he could still see Her when he closed his eyes. “You can hate me for the rest of goddamn time, and tell me I’m evil or say I get off on vengeance, or whatever else makes you sleep at night, but never say shit about what you think she deserves, or needs.” 

“What, you think you speak for her?” MM scoffed. “You think she needs you?” 

Something stabbed deep into the Thing, and Ben had to speak through gritted teeth. “She doesn’t fucking need anyone. She wants me.” His head hurt. Something was pulling at his throat and clouding his eyes and a halo of pain was wrapping around his head. Stinging his tongue when he said Her name. “Doesn’t need you telling her what she wants. Or if I’m fucking good for her. She’s capable of making her own fucking choices.” 

Look at you, defending my honor. My right to choose. Keep this up and you’ll be giving lectures at Feminist panels. 

The pain was becoming blinding. 

“You’re a fucking murderer, Soldier Boy.” MM stood from the table, leering at Ben. “Nothing’s going to change that, change the shit you’ve done.” 

Ben’s jaw was going to break. “I know what I was.” He grunted, a lot of his anger leaking out and being replaced by just this inescapable agony. “You don’t need to fucking tell me. But I’d fucking do it again,” Ben gave MM a cold look. “I’d kill a thousand fucking people and be trapped in Russia for a million goddamn years if it brought her home.” 

“And what about those people's families?” MM hissed. “Their kids, like me?” 

“I’d fucking repent.” Ben sighed. He was so fucking tired. “I’d do it and add another hundred years to my sentence for every single body.” Anything. Anything to bring Her home. 

“What about me,” MM was still frowning, but there was something tragic in his voice. Something Ben couldn’t call weak, because he felt it too, felt it in his pain. “What about what you fucking did to me.” 

Ben said the only thing he could think of. The only thing that he could fucking mean and understand at the same time. “Whatever I fucking need to for you just fucking let her be happy.” 

“With you?”

“With me.” Ben felt something hard in his throat. “Or wherever else she wants. Just goddamn happy.” 

MM sighed, and Ben wished he would just fucking leave. Let Ben deal with this fucking pain alone. “She’ll fucking want it with you.”

Ben blinked at MM, something close to shock sparking through his chest. “What.” 

“She’ll be happy with you. When she gets back. I can’t fucking explain it, I defiantly don’t damn understand it, but she’s real happy with you.” MM shook his head. “She sees something in you I can’t understand, don’t even know where she’s finding it, but she’s smarter than most of us. Smarter than me and Butcher, defiantly fucking smart than you. I can’t explain why, shit’s fucking baffling why, but she’ll be happy with you. Just,” MM gave Ben one last look. It wasn’t cold, wasn’t hateful. Just tired. “Try to earn it.” 

It was like MM had fucking shot him. Shot Ben in the fucking chest and left him to bleed out. He stood in the dining hall, alone and in pain long after MM left, and only managed to move when the fan stuttered off and he couldn’t stand the silence. 

He hadn’t earned Her. Ben could never fucking earn her. He’d held her and lost her, fucking again. He’d spent the whole fucking Christ Convenetion feeling the way the Thing was alight, burning and raging inside of him, trying to pull him around and falling into a beat that was so familiar but Ben still didn’t recognize, or know how to decipher. It had been trying to tell him something, it was always trying to tell him something, but it had been fucking feral. Roaring and howling in a language Ben didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. He’d come closer to geting, when he’d seen her. Touched Her. 

Real. 

Back in his arms and fucking real. Making the Thing start to break bones in his body and turn Ben into just a fucking soldier that could bring Her home. Make her smile while she was against him forever, make those feelings of sheer fucking pleasure and ease run between them when he touched her, tasted her, and just had her. 

He’d fucking had Her. She’d been real, with Ben, and he’d lost her. 

You didn’t lose me, Benjamin. I’ll come home. 

He didn’t fucking care. It was all goddamn semantics, because Ben had failed, again, to be worthy of her. He’d listened to her and done as he’d been told, and still managed to fail Her. She wasn’t home. Ben couldn’t breathe because she wasn’t home. He’d failed to bring Her home, failed to convince her she’d done enough. That everything was worse because she wasn’t at Ben’s side, that everything hurt because he’d fucking failed. She didn’t know what she meant to him. If She knew what she meant to Ben she’d have come home. If he could break the Thing’s stupid fucking code and tell her that vital thing, she’d have understood and come home. 

The Thing pulsed, and Ben knew he was wrong. Collapsing on the couch, he knew he was wrong and she wouldn’t have left. He could’ve offered Her the sun and stars and every fucking song in the world and she’d have still told him she had to see this through.

Why couldn’t he have chosen to feel like this about a woman who would just go? Leave? Just fuck the world and come home for Ben. 

Because that wouldn’t have been Her. The Thing ran into Ben’s head, but it wasn’t speaking. It was pushing against the painful haze, and Ben was finding the words on his own. She’d never give up on the world. She’s too good to give up on the world. And it always has to be Her. Nothing is capable of making you feel this pain like She is.

That might be the worst fucking part of this. Was that, somewhere in this pain of Ben having lost Her. He’d left her and lost her and she still doesn’t understand that Ben can’t breathe without Her there, there was something good. She’d trusted him, to do what she needed him to do. She’d cried against him and known he’d pick her up and make it better. She’d touched him and still meant it, still wanted him even after he’d failed Her. 

She still wanted him. She still wanted Ben. She’d smiled at him and laughed with him and known him like nobody ever had. Like nobody ever would, not like she did. Not like she’d pulled Ben into her and tried to tell him everything he’d needed to hear. Found every way to feed the Thing with soft words and pretty looks, and all at once, grow this pain. She was perfect, and she still wanted Ben, and he’d never fucking earn her. 

That’s what breaks the pain. Snaps it open in two, and Ben with it. She wanted him. She was perfect and she wanted him and Ben hadn’t even told Her how much he missed Her. How he wasn’t sleeping and eating was an act of labor without Her there to throw crumpled napkins at his face and hang around his body while he did the dishes. How she was gone and nothing was good. 

He hadn’t told Her. And she still wanted him. And Ben breaks. 

It starts in his chest. Shaking something there and pushing that lump further up into his mouth. The pain tightens around his throat and brow, his eyes feel fucking weird, and the first sound echoes through the dark, empty apartment. Choked. Tired. All fucking pain and hurt. 

The damn breaks, and Ben’s too goddamn exhausted to fight it. He roars into the darkness, even though he knows nobody can hear. Maybe she will. Across the city and bay, she’ll hear how much Ben fucking misses Her. How nothing is as important as Her. Home. Safe. With Ben and happy. 

When he roars again, it’s strangled and he tastes salt. His eyes hurt, and it’s so fucking hard breathe. There are no drums, no violence in him. Just a fucking ache for Her, and he can’t do anything about it but try and pull it out of his brain. Run his hand over his face and through his hair and pull it back to find it wet.

He’s crying. He’s fucking crying. 

Ben hadn’t fucking cried since he was a child. It had been a hundred fucking years since Ben had cried like a pussy. Weak, pathetic, and useless. 

This didn’t feel useless. For reasons Ben couldn’t fucking understand, the bellows of pain escaping his body and the endless fucking pain finding its way out of his body didn’t feel useless. It felt good. It felt like a tribute, like he was leaving an offering for Her in this loneliness. This was agony and the worst fucking thing in the world and Ben had to fucking break to prove it. She couldn’t break, she wouldn’t allow herself to, so Ben would do it for Her. He’d shatter on the floor of their apartment and cling to any thought of Her as it made this pain grow. It was a lot fucking better than forgetting. 

Nothing would hurt more than forgetting Her. Forgetting her laugh and smile and the way she felt. Forgetting her beautiful face and smart fucking mouth, forgetting the way she spoke and looked at Ben. Like She somehow did think he was worthy. 

So Ben just cried. He knew she’d come home but he still just fucking sobbed on the couch. Alone. Missing Her, and wanting her, and waiting for her. 

He’d fucking wait for Her. He’d cry for Her and be haunted by her until She was home. 

He’d always wait. She’d always come home, so Ben would always fucking wait. 

The Thing would keep him company, twisting and screaming in time with Ben’s tears and choked noises of pain. Remind him of every part of Her. Every part he’d lost. Every part that would come back. 

Ben cried until the sun cracked the sky. 

He’d wait for Her until it burned out the universe.

End Note:  End of chapter check in! How we feeling, squad? We getting through this?

Also, if you haven't yet, check out the first one-shot from the reader event! I'm moving through the rest, and I think I'll upload them between chapters to keep you guys fed. No matter what, thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you soon!

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

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[gayspacepiratesss]

TL; DR: Saving Minrathous allows Neve to hope.

(Saving Treviso allows Lucanis to forgive, but that's another story for another day.)

***

Every companion in DATV hits a character crux during the game, but Neve's and Lucanis's characters -- being linked to the cities they love -- are especially interesting to me.

In particular I think Neve's character is a brilliant navigation of the issues the devs faced in representing the Tevinter Imperium. In previous games, Tevinter is an ancient shadow empire of blood mages and oligarchy; if Ferelden is roughly medieval Britain and Orlais is roughly medieval France, Tevinter is the remnants of the ancient Roman empire, with a hefty number of Nero-like rulers (sadistic, debauched, unchecked) still in residence.

So: how do you make that a place the player can root for? You write the story of the resistance. The anti-slavery Shadow Dragons make sense as Rook's allies, and their work is important. But Neve is how DATV tells the story of Tevinter's losers: the vast majority of regular people, who aren't mages or oligarchs or magisters, but still have to get by in this violent, corrupt place.

Neve has been manipulated and disappointed by institutions her whole life (like, let's be real, most poc and women and lqgbtq+ folks irl). She has enough privilege to protect herself: she's a mage born in a world that prizes magic. But she's not rich, and she's too fiercely ethical to take the shortcuts that would allow her to accumulate power. If you travel with her long enough, she'll tell you about the relatives who were only kind to her because they wanted to use her status as mage, and the uncle who was different. When she's in Lucanis's family home in Antiva, he complains about decorating, and she tells him her entire Minrathous apartment could fit in one room. Her clothes are well-tailored because she knows that looking good is a kind of power, but she'll explain to Bellara that it's not because she actually HAS rich patrons; she just dresses to look as if she might. She knows how to use the theater of wealth, but at the end of the day she's firmly working class, surviving off street food and bad coffee above a second-rate bookshop.

Neve loves Dock Town, sees how badly Tevinter's institutions have failed her community, and is deeply, fiercely protective of the weak and the vulnerable. If you drop a coin in a beggar's plate, she'll drop one too, and ask if they have shelter for the night. Hal insists he owes her free fish, but notice: every time, she says "Sure, next time, Hal," and pays him anyway. She knows he can't afford to give away business, but she'll never embarrass him by pointing this out. This is the same instinct that makes her so sweet to Bellara back at the Lighthouse: her elvhen fangirl is an open book, completely emotionally vulnerable, and Neve is immediately ready to look after her.

(It's also the instinct, I think that keeps her from confronting Rook about [redacted for spoilers] -- how terrifying would it be to fall for someone with that much of a blind spot?? But she's not going to kick Rook while they're down, and she can't help being drawn to them. Like, her fear is justified. It's not a great start to a relationship.)

But Neve is also a realist: she knows she CAN'T protect everyone, no matter how hard she fights. Over and over she's seen bad actors like Aelia slip through the cracks, and good guys like Brom (who ... maybe she had a thing for? some of her notes, idk) get killed trying to make it right. So when Rook meets Neve, this is the open question for her: CAN you make the world a better place? Can you illuminate the dark corners, and lift up the downtrodden, without compromising your own values? Or is it always already a hopeless proposition?

If Rook saves Treviso, and lets Minrathous burn, that's Neve's last straw. She stops looking. There's no way to be better than the Archon or the magisters, and so she'll join the Red Threads to beat them at their own game. Unlike Lucanis, she's still romanceable in this state, because ultimately she's still fighting for the things she loves; she just doesn't really believe in the future anymore. There's a pretty sad version of Neve's story in here, especially if you choose her to dismantle the wards in endgame. It's possible for her to lose everything she ever believed in. I've seen a lot of angry people complaining on the internet that her line at the end of her last companion quest -- "This is MY city now" -- is aggressive and cliché, but these people seem mainly to have saved Treviso and to not understand, as a result, how Neve's character is limited by the circumstances they've engineered. The complaint that her voice acting is hard, guarded, or flat is missing the point: her PERSONALITY is hard, guarded, and flat unless and until you help her believe that gentleness can be rewarded.

If you SAVE Minrathous, I think, Neve's character can have the most beautiful arc -- and her romance makes the most sense here, because as she begins to hope that her efforts in Dock Town might actually make a difference, she also begins to let her guard down. Both these things scare her shitless. Being visible (letting the citizens of Dock Town SEE her fight for them, letting Rook show her some risks are worth taking) is really scary. But if you save Minrathous, Neve begins to hope that there's a future for the soft, sweet, and vulnerable creatures of the world -- and that includes herself.

When her voice starts to crack in the later romance scenes, when her brow crinkles with anxiety and her eyes go wide and soft -- that's the reward for saving Minrathous. That's Neve Gallus with a future.

[sulfies]

If I Lead (pt1)

"You have to be fucking kidding me..."

He really thought the whole Isu shit was behind him. The world burned and his job was done. Nearly all of 7 billion people dead, but at least not under an evil Godesses whim as slaves. He was doing as he was told, he was leading the people out of the doom he inflicted upon them and helping them rebuild. 

His job with all the Apples and Isu bullshit should be done! So why did his eyes open in the sanctuary of Monteriggioni out of all the fucking places. 

"That's what I get for touching that damn shit!" 

He should have left it fucking alone, it was perfectly fine where it was! Hidden under rubbles and sand in a half-collapsed cave Desmond ventured in to map out to see if there was any underground water source. 

He had found a gorgeous cenote in the depths of the cave with fresh water, which was all fun till he noticed an all too familiar golden sheen at the bottom of it. 

He should have turned around and left the place, fuck the Isu's, fuck the apples fuck everything.

"FUCK!" 

He kicked the base of one of the statues. His voice echoed in the stone room.

He just had to dive in and get it, didn't he. He was conditioned like a dog. Like a Pavlovian itch, he swam into the depths just to touch it.

"Because why not huh, maybe it can help us, maybe I can learn something from it" He mumbled to himself in a mocking voice "God I am so fucking stupid! I should have left it alone." 

He knew nothing good came out of any Isu artifact! He knew it yet he still touched it and now he was here after the all too familiar light show he experienced.

He squatted on his knees, holding his head in his hands. "I am way too old for this"

He raised his head and took a look around. This place did not change at all. Even in his forties, this place was always fresh in Desmond's mind like a second home and nothing had changed at all. 

He wiped his face with a palm and shook his head. Alright...He was in Italy now. 

He had to figure out how to get back.

Thankfully Shaun and Rebecca could perfectly handle the camp while he was away but he was already a month late from his exploration and now who knows how long it would take for him to get back. Few months with a boat? That is if he could find one.

"Good job Desmond, you fucked up once again" he sighed and got up, hearing his knees crack. 

He scratched his beard and looked toward the stairs that led to the main exit. "Let's hope the fires and the rubble didn't block the exit, again"

He did not want to do the parkour thru the caves again. Especially the part where he had to swim in that slimy water.

But this place looked fine, even better than the last he remembered which did surprise him but maybe it was that well built.

He looked at Altaïr's statue, not one crack showed on his whole build. The Master Mentor of all standing proudly as always, he laughed painfully. "Things were weirdly simpler back then huh... You probably would not have failed." 

He pursed his lips in a thin line and turned back to the stairs to try the door. His hands found the mechanism easily enough, just as he was wondering if the mechanism inside survived the heat, the door slid open smoothly. 

Way too smoothly.

The hair on his arms stood up as Desmond's eyes met with the Monteriggioni villa in the night air. No destruction in sight.

"No..." 

He walked through the door as his boots met with the polished tiles underneath. His hands touched the soft fabric of the curtains. He saw the desk in the study littered with papers like someone was going to come back to it come morning. 

His head turned to the right to see the codex wall... Some pages already pinned down onto the board, more than half incomplete but on the right track.

Desmond felt the sweat drip down his back,  he breathed in harshly. 

"What the fuck..."

He really should not have touched that devil's orb. 

—-------

Once the reality actually sank in, he could not have run out of the villa faster. 

He opened the window closest to him (the glass was still intact) and hopped out to the courtyard (the healthy grass under his boots squished) and booked it. He ran into the woods (there were trees!) till his breath ran out then he ran some more. 

This had to be a joke, no matter what, he had to be seeing a vision or something. Maybe his bleeding hit him hard this time and he was hallucinating this whole thing... He had to be.

Desmond slowed down to stop at the forest once he came to the hill edge. He choked a shocked sob.

There in all its glory, the village of Monteriggioni stood in front of him. All the buildings standing up with no rubble nor the damage of the flare around. 

The sun, like a big fuck you to him only, was making its way out of the peak of the mountains slowly as torches around the buildings were illuminating the dark roads in between houses the light had yet to reach

Desmond crouched down activating his sight. Hundreds of grey figures came into his view, many of them asleep in their bed and Desmond couldn't hold his eyes from watering. He listened intently to hear some drunkards walk the street blabbering and singing to themselves as they went home. He heard the merchants and workers shuffle around their homes getting ready for the day.

He let out a shakey breath and fisted the grass under his hand. It has been a while since he saw this... 

It used to feel like such a small place when he first reached this town, the village in contrast to New York seemed like nothing…

Now, after the flare. It was insane to see this many people in one place like this again.

A boat was not going to be enough to take him back home.

—-------------------

Desmond had to be quick before the town really woke up, he was already scouting the rooftops and wires people hung their clothes on to for stuff that would suit his frame. Hopping one rooftop to another he was biting his cheek to stop himself from the slight grin that wanted to get out of him.

He had missed this. 

There were no rooftops left to climb after the flare, no buildings to scale. No points to jump off of not even trees. It had all burned away and dammit his body has missed this.

He snatched a few garments that looked roughly his size from the wires he crossed by and hopped into a rooftop garden. 

He needed to wipe the smirk off of his face...

He would have killed to be able to visit Ezio’s time before, to run these streets again, but now all he could think was; how fucked it was that he was finding a sliver of joy in this while people back at home were probably battling to stay alive as always.

He was supposed to lead them, he was too much of a pussy to save them all before the least he could do was rebuild them as well as he could as they have told him to. 

And now he was gone. All because this time he couldn't keep his hand to himself. 

He sat in the rooftop garden looking through the clothes he picked and judged their size. Truth be told at this point they were in better condition than the clothes he had on at the moment. 

He took off the scarf and the threadbare jacket and sat with his hoodie on… He could not get rid of that damn thing no matter what. It had way too many memories to him, especially after the flare where it was one of the only things left from before. 

He was attached to the damn thing even if it was holding together mostly with patches these days, stitches jutting out of the clean hems of the cloth where it had gotten town again and again. 

He took it off but stuffed it down his backpack Rebecca had found in a surviving underground bunker and gifted it to him for his 30th birthday. It was faux leather so it would not look that much out of place he decided.

He shed his shirt and pants next, shivering from the chilly air. Quickly putting on the doublet and the vest then he fumbled with the pants for quite a while… 

“I need to figure out better shoes” He had grabbed a pair he saw sitting outside on a windowsill, probably the owner had left them to dry out overnight, thinking it was high up enough for anyone to not be able to steal.

But they were too small for comfort, a week in these and his feet would be ruined. He threw on his backpack and gathered his pants, shoes and shirt in his arms. He had to burn these somewhere.

He jumped out of the garden and made his way to the outside gates before the town started its routine.

—----------

As he made it to the clearing just outside of the walls, Desmond breathed in the clean air. No smell of char reached his nose. It was wild… after twenty years of inhaling the slight burnt smell of the world, all he smelled now was the fresh air.

He found a less grassy spot and piled the clothes on, retrieved his flint from his backpack pocket.

As the fire burned the only clothes he had for a while he listened to the birds chirp. Those were gone as well, as most of the animals were. Only the ones lucky enough to be near an artifact at the time had survived. Shaun had come up with the theory.

Once again the sense of peace he felt was quickly replaced by his guilt. He rubbed his chest, it ached with every memory. He didn't deserve to see all of this. Not when he was the sole cause of that madness people back home were subjected to daily. 

Twenty-plus fucking years he tried to make up for his mistake. He found whoever he could and took them back to their camp. He gathered whatever he could, and used every bit of the knowledge he gained from the apple to lead what was left into a better place, and now he was gone.

Abandoned them to their fates on a random weekday.

Because he could not keep his hands to himself.

He rose up from where he stood and kicked in the dirt to smother the ambers. Watching them sizzle down.

He had to find a way to get back… If a piece of Eden took him here, it could and should take him back.

—----

He needed to figure out what year it was first, and where Ezio was. 

Not to meet him of course, If all went well he would never see the man and no one here would know he even took a step in this time.

But he needed to know where Ezio was so he could know where the apple was. 

Since Monteriggioni was standing perfectly intact, it was before he embarked to Rome. The codex pages were just starting to get collected so he would have been quite young. This meant the apple was barely even on his way to Venice on a ship…

“Shit, he must be what… 25-27 at best?”

God…. Thats so young, was he even officially initiated yet? If the age he guessed is right Ezio should be in Venice, either with the thieves or the courtesans… he needed to know the date to be sure.

Ezio did not even know of the apple's existence yet probobly.

He so wished he could just go where the ship was right this very moment and get to the apple but truth be told his memory of Ezio’s life after 20 years of apocalypse wasn't too fresh on his mind… So even if he knew the date It wasn’t like he could sail on a vessel and interrupt the ship alone.

Which meant Desmond had to track the apple at the same time as Ezio. 

—-------------

Desmond sat on top of one of the watchtowers near the walls, watching the town come alive as people went about their day. It was overwhelming yet he couldn't tear his eyes away. 

To think he lived in one of the most populated cities before, and now seeing 500 or less people in one spot made him nauseous with awe. So many mouths to feed, so many resources to find….

He looked away,

these people weren't his commune. He wasn't responsible for them but he couldn't shut his mind up. 

It felt unreal, like in any moment he was going to blink and this was going to reveal itself to be a one extreme bleeding episode.

He did still have those, but he knew they were never like this.

After decades of living with it, he knew what a bleed felt like. They rarely caught him off guard nowadays unless he was having particularly bad days.

But this wasn't one.

[a-case-of-attachment]

The Lamb & The Serpent

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Lucifer Morningstar x sinner fem!reader

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Lucifer being a chaotic mess, mentions of sex, swearing, slow burn, mentions of depression, Charlie being the best supportive daughter, awkwardness, mentioned of death and violence, ducks of the rubber kind, Lucifer being awkward, fluff.

Please click -> here <- to read on AO3

Lucifer hadn’t intended to end up in another relationship, in fact he had been rather adamant that Lilith was it for him but it seemed like the powers that be had other ideas because it had placed you within his path and despite how much he hadn’t wanted to Lucifer had been unable to stop himself from falling completely head over heels for you in the end. 

You were a sinner, just like almost everyone else down here except you were one of the rare ones, a good soul condemned to damnation simply because you had chosen to save a life by taking another’s when you yourself had only been hanging on to the living world by a thread. You didn’t deserve to be down here, but Lucifer didn’t make the rules so when the time had come, and your body had fallen still you had been dumped down here like all the other sinners. Left to rot until the next extermination rolled around. 

Somehow you had managed to survive the savage and demented cesspool that was hell, making it six months in Pentagram City without giving in to the plethora of sin and temptation that it had to offer. Again, a rarity especially considering how obvious it was that you weren’t like the others. It was impressive that you had managed to survive for so long before you had stumbled across Charlie and Vaggie out on an errand for the hotel. Charlie had been her normal charming and cheerful self, roping you into a rather in-depth conversation about the hotel and how it could help someone in your situation before you had even managed to say a simple hello, and by the end of it you had found yourself with an invite to stay at the hotel despite being adamant that you weren’t after redemption because you didn’t regret what you had done. You had given up your own life and taken a killer with you to save the life of someone you cared for deeply. You didn’t need redemption because to you, you hadn’t done anything wrong. It hadn’t mattered much to Charlie, she was just excited to have a new friend and someone to help her with the arduous task of redeeming sinners. Something you had agreed to readily. 

It was because of your roll in the hotel and friendship with Charlie that Lucifer came to meet you and his whole world got turned on its head. 

He had been there to see Charlie, trying to rebuild their relationship after years of neglect and the hotel was a big part of that. She was enthusiastic about making this work, wanting so badly to help reform the inhabitants of Hell and put an end to the exterminations. Though he was slightly sceptical if it was actually going to work Lucifer was determined to support her and that meant taking a more hands on role with their people and the hotel that could potentially save their souls. No one was delusional enough to think their little throw down with Adam and his bitch hit squad would bring an end to the blood shed. If anything, it would just give Heaven even more of a reason to stomp their little revolt down, especially with Adam’s death firmly on their shoulders. Ah well, the little prick had it coming, emphasis on the little if Lilith and Eve were to be believed. The point was that Lucifer was trying his hardest to actually be worth a dam to Charlie and if that meant actually engaging with the filthy sinners in this land then so be it. It would all be worth it in the end to see his darling daughter smile. Plus, he would be able to keep an eye on that no good radio demon because oh boy, Lucifer really didn’t like him and he especially didn’t want him anywhere near his little girl. 

The first time Lucifer saw you he was already on his way out, having just finished taking tea with Charlie and her little lost angel girlfriend. They had been walking past the parlour, talking about a flashier and more aggressive add campaign because “really Charlie these sinners are all the same. You need to hit them with a bit of pizazz, put on a show and they’ll come running.” When he had caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye. He had needed to do a double take because he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. 

You looked human, almost exactly the same as he assumed you had up top if it wasn’t for the lambs ears sticking out the side of your head. It was a glaringly obvious sign of your innocence, one that didn’t happen that often down here and Lucifer couldn’t help but stare dumbfounded at you. There had to be others like you down here, you weren’t the only person who had committed a sin for all the right reasons but Hell had a habit of taking people like that and chewing them up before spitting them back out into the streets, a more mangled and tainted version of themselves. You though, oh you were still pristine and innocent looking, even dressed in white to make it that much more obvious and Lucifer had to wonder if Charlie had found you straight after you had arrived in Hell.

It didn’t take you long to realise you were being watched, your little lamb ears twitching as your face scrunched up slightly. By the time you turned around to look at them Charlie was already talking rapidly, introducing you and explaining your role in the hotel. Lucifer only took in about half of it, something that wasn’t unusual these days. He just couldn’t help but space out, his mind wandering or just turning into static. He caught a few words here and there, but your name wasn’t amongst them, nor how you had come to be a resident of Hell. Oh well, he was sure he would pick it up at some point.  

Lucifer couldn’t help but stare at you as you had gotten up from the chair you had been curled up on, wide and friendly smile in place that made your eyes almost sparkle. Like most souls down here you were taller than him, Lucifers eyes level with your collar bone and giving him an uninterrupted view of the curve of your neck though it was quickly hidden by the modest neckline of your floor length dress. You were so painfully innocent looking, a complete juxtaposition to every other soul down here and Lucifer was suddenly left feeling guilty and horrified by your presence down here because you clearly didn’t belong in Hell and it was all his fault because he had given humanity free will and damned you all to this hell hole because of it. 

Lucifer had let out a loud and awkward laugh when you had addressed him as your majesty, completely ignoring your outstretched hand as he tried to put some distance between the two of you. He threw out some jumbled excuses about having other important things to do because he was “the King of Hell Charlie, lots to do, people to, to…well you know. Busy, busy, busy. That’s me,” and waving off any attempt Charlie made to get a solid answer from him. He needed to get out of there though, needed to be as far away from you as possible so he had ignored Charlie’s confused little frown and the hurt he had seen flash through your eyes. Without even a glance back Lucifer had opened up a portal there and then, calling out to Charlie that he would call her latter before disappearing through the portal and letting it almost slam closed behind him. He had spent the rest of day locked away in his work room, ignoring his phone and responsibilities in favour of working on yet more rubber ducks. So what if they all had little lamb ears and were dressed in white. It didn’t mean anything. Nothing at all. 

The next couple of times Lucifer had to go to the hotel he avoided you like the plague, checking every room before he even stepped in the doorway. It worked for a while but of course his cleaver little girl figured out something was going on and after only a couple of weeks he had been faced with the dilemma of disappointing her or spending time with you. He hadn’t wanted to agree when Charlie had asked him to accompany you to Cannibal Town to visit a potential new guest for the hotel, but she had pulled out those big puppy dog eyes and went on about how “worried I am about her being out there all alone and defenceless. I would go with her myself but I’m running a training session on apologise and there’s no one else I would trust with this. Please dad, this would mean so much to me.” The little devil knew what she was doing, and Lucifer found himself agreeing even though the thought of spending any prolonged amount of time with you had his eyes twitching and skin itching. But Charlie had asked so he was going to suck it up and do it. Any way, he planned on opening a portal and just dumping you on the main boulevard of Cannibal Town, so it wasn’t like this was going to take that long. 

He did not portal you there, in fact when he had presented you with it and tried to usher you through you had thanked him for the offer but you had still said “no, I think we should walk. It looks like a lovey day for it don’t you think?” You. Said no to him. To Lucifer Morningstar. To the king of Hell. The big boss. The number one honcho. No one said no to him, ever. It was all ‘yes Sir’ and ‘of course your majesty’ never no and he really didn’t like it. But you were Charlie’s friend and just like the dad wannabe loser Lucifer found himself unable to do anything about it because he couldn’t run the risk of upsetting his little girl and losing her forever. So, despite how much he really didn’t want to Lucifer found himself following behind you, glaring at you the entire time. 

At least you had the good sense to cover your ears up with a hood and changed your usual white attire for something a little more Hell appropriate. People still stared, though more at Lucifer than anything else but he could understand why. It was a rare thing to see him and even rarer that he would be seen down on the streets amongst the sinners. All that attention made him feel uncomfortable, Lucifer desperately wanting to just open a portal and run back to his ducks, but his pride wouldn’t let him, demanding he put on a show for all the gawking masses. So, he stood straighter, holding his head high and plastering a wide teeth filled smile on his face as he greeted almost everyone the two of you passed. “Hi, hello. Yes, it’s me. That’s right, the big boss himself. Hi there, hey. I know, truly a honer for you.” 

You didn’t say anything about his sudden change in demeanour, just glancing over your shoulder and raising an eyebrow at him whist smiling widely. When all he did was shoot you a glare you had turned your attention back to the street in front of you, laughing softly even as you side stepped a cat like soul passed out on the side walk. Neither of you interacted again and by the time you reached Rosie’s Emporium Lucifer was feeling drained, ready to just collapse at his work desk and sleep for a year. He wasn’t used to having to be this full on for so long, out of practice since his retreat into isolation and it was beginning to take its toll on him. He would have loved to just leave you there and make his escape, but he knew doing so would put you in danger, not to mention how angry Charlie would be with him, especially if something happened to you. So, Lucifer stayed, sat in a plush chair to one side with a rather excitable Rosie trying to talk his ear off whilst you were off in another corner of the shop talking as privately as you could with one of the shop workers. 

Lucifer made sure to keep an eye on you the whole time, sipping on his tea and ignoring the dainty looking finger sticking out of it. Even though he couldn’t hear what you were saying it was clear that you were passionate about it, eyes wide and gesturing wildly with your hands whilst also drawing your companion into the conversation. It was interesting to see. Charlie had always been the passionate one when it came to the hotel. Yes, there were others who had an interest in it like himself and Vaggie but that was because they wanted to support her, not because they shared the same level of enthusiasm for her project but there you where. An outsider. A nobody in the grand scheme of things and yet you were the one out on the streets, talking to the souls interested in a shot of redemption regardless of the danger it put you in. It was interesting to say the least and left Lucifer with the desire to crack your head open and see how your mind worked. 

Eventually you were done and not a moment to soon because Lucifer had just about had enough of making awkward small talk with Rosie. He was quick to jump out of the chair he had sunk down into as soon as he saw you finishing up, shouting his goodbyes over his shoulder as he grabbed you by the arm and dragged you out the door. As soon as you were outside Lucifer let go of you, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he prepared himself for the long walk back to the hotel. It was fine, just one more thing to get through and then he was done, obligation fulfilled and Charlie still happy with him. 

Next to him you sighed, Lucifer opening his eyes slightly so he could glance at you. Your hood was back up, ears hidden away within the shadows and if Lucifer hadn’t known better, he would have thought you as human as they came. Noticing him looking you offer him a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It’s a familiar look that is a bit to self reflecting for Lucifers liking. He’s just about to start on a brisk walk back when you stop him in his tracks by asking “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to open a portal back to the hotel could you? I know it’s lazy of me, but I really don’t think I have the energy for the walk back.” Lucifer stares at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what your angle here was. All he sees though is a tired young women with an embarrassed flush to her cheeks whose looking at Lucifer like he could solve all her problems. 

He doesn’t like it. Well maybe he liked it a little bit but that just made it a hundred times worse. He doesn’t want or need you relying on him for anything no matter the flutter of excitement he felt. Huffing, Lucifer opened the portal to the hotel lobby with a les then dramatic wave of his cane. He ignored your grateful thanks and Charlie’s surprised shout as as you stepped out in front of her. As much as he wanted to spend time with his daughter Lucifer was to drained to be anything even remotely close to pleasant company. So, he gave her a quick wave before he let the portal close and teleported back home.  

Lucifer spent the next few days shut inside his home, trying to recharge from all the socialising and people. He worried that he might of upset Charlie with his sudden absence but like the shining star she was Charlie had understood, texting that very evening to thank him for the help and to visit for tea when he was feeling up to it again. It warmed his heart to see she cared so much that he hadn’t lost her completely and the realisation helped ease some of the tension he had been feeling since his little outing. 

It took him four days before he returned to the hotel, Lucifer having been given an open invitation to go whenever he wanted. So naturally he hadn’t bothered to call or even text Charlie, just teleporting into the parlour and straight into you. The impact was enough to have you both tumbling to the floor, Lucifer ending up sprawled across the floor with you laying half on top of him, one of your knees between his legs and face pressed into the crock of his neck. Everything seemed to stop, Lucifer becoming painfully aware of everywhere the two of you were pressed together and how your weight felt on top of him. 

You were the first one to move, looking up at him with wide and panicked eyes. His gaze locked with yours, the two of you seemingly waiting for the other to do something but Lucifer didn’t really know what he was supposed to do, his hands seemingly stuck to the floor. It was Charlie’s cry of “DAD!” that finally got you moving, scrambling to get off of him with a rush of apologise because you were “so sorry. I didn’t see you. NOT because of your hight! You just came out of no where and I didn’t have time to move. I’m so, so sorry.” Lucifer ignored you as he got back up, snatching his hat back off you when you held it out to him and dusting it off before putting it back on. 

He felt strange, a mix of embarrassment and anger but something else that left his skin tingling everywhere you had been touching. He didn’t like it, feeling things he couldn’t explain, and he was inclined to blame it all on you. Huffing he straightened his clothes, shooting you a quick glare before breezing past you straight to Charlie and asking about the tea she had promised him and acting like the last few minutes hadn’t happened. He didn’t miss the frustrated groan you made as he and Charlie headed towards the lift or the extremely tall spider teasing you about how “he’s definitely gonna remember your name now toots. With an entrance like that it’s gonna be hard to forget.”

Lucifer frowned, getting a glimpse of you sinking to the floor and burying your head in your arms before the doors closed. Had he really not remembered your name, surely by now he had heard it and said it back to you but as he stood in the lift, Charlie already filling the small space with her chatter Lucifer realised that he really didn’t know what your name was, having resulted to calling you sheep girl when ever he had needed to address you and you had answered every time, never once correcting him and remaining polite and respectful, addressing him by his title when needed. That didn’t sit to well with him, knowing that someone who was an important part of Charlie’s life was still some what of a mystery to him. Well, he couldn’t have that. He needed to know everything about his daughters life and the people in it so he vowed there and then to make more of an effort with you. Even if it was just to make Charlie happy. 

So the next time Lucifer had seen you he had made a point to say hello and trying not to laugh as you choked on your coffee. The time after that he had offered his help when you had been trying to get that Cherry girl to hand over the bombs she was holding. He had even complimented your outfit once or twice but what he hadn’t learnt was your name. It was like now that he was listening for it everyone had stopped saying it and as much as he was enjoying seeing you get more and more flustered with every interaction it was getting increasingly more and more difficult to avoid having to address you directly. He was on the brink of just going to Charlie and asking, admitting his lack of attention when you had done something completely unexpected. You had told him it yourself.

In an attempt to be closer with his daughter and stave off his bouts of depression Lucifer had been spending more time at the hotel, not doing anything in particular just hanging out, helping out where he can and keeping an eye on that no good asshat of a demon. He had been sat on the couch, tapping his cain on the floor and bored out his mind when you had suddenly sat down next to him, startling Lucifer enough that he had jumped a little. You didn’t say anything to start with, just sat staring at the wall opposite and leaving Lucifer to feel about a thousand times more out of place than he had just moments ago. He shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter as he to tried not to look at you but it was hard, his eyes darting over to you every couple of seconds because he couldn’t figure out what in the unholy hell you were doing. 

He startled a bit when you broke the silence, taking in a deep breath before turning towards him with a friendly smile and your hand outstretched, greeting him like you hade never met him before. “Hi! I’m Y/N, it’s an honour to meet you your majesty.” Lucifers just sat there dumbly, staring at your hand like it was a bomb about to explode in his face. When he didn’t make any immediate move to do anything your smile fell, hand lowering back to your lap. You look so disappointed, your ears twitching downward as you glanced off to the side. Lucifers reminded of a younger Charlie, the look she would give Lucifer over her shoulder as Lilith lead her away. It’s devastating, filling Lucifer with guilt and regret. It’s this that spurs him forward, his hand darting out to grab yours and shaking it enthusiastically as he makes his own introduction. 

It’s a rather strange interaction and Lucifers not really sure why it’s happening but he is rewarded with a wide smile and a genuinely happy laugh. The two of you carry on the brief conversation as if your new acquaintances, exchanging pleasantries and idle chit chat that really amounts to nothing. When Charlie arrives a couple of minutes later you thank him for his time and tell him it was “a pleasure to make your acquaintance your majesty,” before disappearing back up the stairs. When Charlie asks him what all that was about Lucifer shrugged, admitting he had “absolutely no idea. Odd one that one, best to keep an eye on her.” Charlie just shrugs it off, but Lucifers couldn’t help but look back at the stairs even though you were long gone. He was right, you were rather peculiar but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He found you somewhat interesting at least. Interesting enough that he remembered your name the next time he saw you a few days later, an odd feeling in his chest as your face light up with joy when he addressed you by your name. 

From then onwards Lucifer mad a conscious effort to learn all the hotels inhabitants names, well at least the ones that mattered anyway. Not only did it help show Charlie that he was actively taking interest in the hotel, but it also meant that he got to have conversations with people that weren’t his ducks or his daughter, something that the aforementioned daughter had been rather insist he do. Something about engaging with others and “getting back out there dad. You’ve been cooped up in your office way too long, you need to start socialising. Meet new people, make some friends. Trust me, it’ll make you feel better.” Lucifer didn’t think becoming all chummy with the sinners would make him feel even remotely better but he truly was wrapped around Charlie’s little finger, so he gave it a go expecting everyone to run away as soon as he started talking, terrified of why the king of Hell was suddenly paying them attention. All but a handful proved him right, disappearing so much as a hello out.  That left him with all of five people to talk to plus Charlie because Lucifer absolutely refused to include that rotten little radio freak as an option.

Nifty wasn’t really an option. She was small and psychotic, and he was pretty sure she was trying to flirt with him. Vaggie was always a good choice, she was an angel after all, and they both loved Charlie deeply but that didn’t make things any less awkward. Neither of them really wanted to talk about their time in Heaven and there was only so many times Lucifer could say how amazing Charlie was. With Angel Dust every other word out of his mouth was something to do with either sex or drugs, the little spider taking far too much joy in his work if Lucifer was being honest. Husk just knew to much, about everything and everyone plus he was bound in servitude to that pesky demon so Lucifer couldn’t chance their conversations going past casual pleasantries. That left you and surprisingly enough he didn’t hate it as much as he thought he would. 

You were always polite, respectful of his status as the King of Hell though it never stopped you from teasing him, your eyes alight with amusement as he faked annoyance. Conversation was surprisingly easy with you, always willing to talk about whatever topic Lucifer came up with, even the ones he picked specifically to fluster you. As weeks turned into months it became less polite conversation in passing and more hour long discussions that covered anything from menial subjects like  what had been going on in the hotel and what knock off rubbish Vox was peddling now to more serious subjects like how a soul is determined to have been a winner or a sinner and the grey area that people like you existed in. Lucifer even spoke about his time in Heaven and how he fell from grace. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t even realised he had shared such an intimate part of himself with you until the heavy silence afterwards and he actually realised what had come out of his mouth. 

He panicked slightly about how open he had been with you, talking about things that he hadn’t spoken to Charlie about and barely even mentioned to Lilith, but it had been so easy with you. He felt relaxed with you, like he didn’t have to constantly be performing the part of King of Hell, the embodiment of pride and the herald of humanities decent into sin. He was just Lucifer, though you refused to call him that despite how many times he insisted it was fine. He was just a guy with a weird obsession for rubber ducks who could be loud and flamboyant one moment or deep and serious the next. He was prone to sudden bouts of depression and often spaced out. So, what if he was powerful beyond most peoples realm of understanding, it didn’t seem to matter all that much with you anyway. 

He had been expecting this to be a bit too much honesty for you though but after those few awkward seconds everything had sort of clicked into place and you were back to smiling softly at him and actually discussing some of the things he had said. It had surprised him that you had accepted it so easily, most people got a bit funny when it was highlighted that he was still an angel if but a fallen one. Though he shouldn’t be surprised, you were constantly exceeding his expectations of sinners. You didn’t shy away from the subject of heaven, a thousand questions on the tip of your tongue, seemingly having been waiting for him to breach the subject first. Lucifers found that he didn’t mind talking about it all if it was you asking and from there on out, he had little to no issue indulging your curiosity. Some subjects were still a little to raw to discuss, like Michale and Lilith’s departure but you respected that, knowing not to push when he clearly wasn’t comfortable with it. Your compassion and understanding earned you his respect, knowing full well that most would try and pry the information from him until he lost his shit and went full on demon king on them. 

Somewhere between the guilt and awkwardness of your first meeting and Lucifers attempts to be more present in his daughter’s life something truly bizarre happened. The two of you became friends. Lucifer hadn’t even noticed not till Charlie commented on it on one of their little afternoon tea dates, happily stating that she was “glad to see you making friends Dad. I told you it would do you good to start talking to people and you really seem to be enjoying the time you spend either Y/N!” Lucifer had been adamant that wasn’t what was happening but the more he protested, and the more things Charlie listed off that made them friends Lucifer was forced to realise that was exactly what the two of you were. Friends. 

He couldn’t deny that he found the whole concept bewildering, especially considering he didn’t know how it had happened. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment he had gone from tolerating you to actually looking forward to spending time with you and actively seeking you out whenever he was in the hotel. But it had happened and now that he was aware of it Lucifer found himself glad that it had. It hadn’t fixed all his problems, and he would still find himself feeling anxious or sad at random times, leaving him to feel hollowed out and empty but it did help and Lucifer found himself experiencing his darker moods less often, even when he was on his own in his work room. 

Now that he had a name for what was going on between the two of you Lucifer threw himself into your budding friendship, even deciding to dragged you along with him on his little adventures out into the city though Lucifer was very carful where he took you and when, not wanting to run the risk of putting you in harm’s way or having to suffer Charlie’s anger and disappointment if he didn’t return you in the exact same condition you were in when he picked you up. He even went as far as inviting you to his house to see his rubber duck collection after you had expressed an interest in seeing them and all because Lucifer had spent the better part of an hour talking about all the ones he had made. 

The thought of having someone else in his space after so long had terrified him slightly. No one apart from him had stepped through his door since Lilith had left him, Charlie included and now that he had asked you over Lucifer was horrified to realise that his house was a mess. Well, his work room and bedroom were a mess, the rest of the house was just dirty, years of neglect obvious in the tick layer of dust over everything and the mass amount of cobwebs everywhere. He couldn’t have you coming here with the place looking like this. Not only would it be a blow to his pride, but you would undoubtedly tell Charlie and then she would know how well Lucifer hadn’t coped with his wife gone. 

Determined that your first impression of his home was nothing short of perfect Lucifer had been quick to conjure up a whole host of copies to help with the arduous task. It had taken hours but they had gone through every room, one after the other, leaving surfaces sparkling they were so clean and a faint smell of candy apples in the air. The only rooms that hadn’t been touched at all were Charlie’s old room and Lilith’s private suite. The former because he didn’t want to risk upsetting his daughter and the latter because he couldn’t bring himself to open the door, the memories it held within still too painful to relive. Lucifer even tided his bedroom, making the mess of twisted sheets that was his bed and opening the curtains for the first time in years. He didn’t know why he bothered, there was no reason why you would end up in here but just in case that somehow happened Lucifer wanted it to be as perfectly tidy as the rest of the house. 

He had only just vanished his creations and straightened his hat when you knocked on the door, lucifer taking a deep breath before yanking the thing open and pulling you into a hug so tight he was surprised your head didn’t pop off. You laughed at his excitable behaviour, giving him one of your wide smiles as you straightened out your clothes when he finally let you go. It had been been decades since Lucifer had anyone new in his home and he was sure he forgot some of the things that were expected of a host, like offering you a drink or letting you actually sit down. Instead, he had snatched up your hand and pulled you along behind him as he gave you a tour of the house, excited to show it off. He made sure to take you to every room, pointing out things that he thought were noteworthy, like the life size statue of a carousel horse in the main parlour or the framed drawing of Lucifer that Charlie had done when she was six in the study. You took it all in, letting him ramble on about each room’s contents and never once mentioning the rooms he skipped over. Lucifer showed you everything else though, even his bedroom though that had been a rather quick visit, lucifer having flung the door open tell you that “this is where I sleep alone hahaha!”  before slamming the door closed and pulling you on to the next room. 

His rather in-depth tour came to an end outside his closed work room, Lucifer fidgeting nervously as he asked you what you had thought of the place. He had been eager to hear you praise it but as you had stood there, fingers gently rubbing over the ornate lamp of an elephant balancing on a ball Lucifer wished he hadn’t been so thorough in his tour. He was well aware that he leant into the circus them a bit too much and that his home was no exception. It wasn’t that over the top, Lilith hadn’t allowed it, but it was present enough to be obvious even if some of it was subtle. He expected you to be polite about it, tell him that it was different or so him but yet again you surprised him, a genuine smile in place as you told him how much you “love it. It’s so cool. I mean where did you get these? They’re amazing!” Your seemingly genuine enthusiasm had Lucifer relaxing, his strained smile easing into something more real. 

Knowing that you actually seemed to like his eccentricity Lucifer had no problem opening the work room door and tugging you inside, excitedly telling you that “this is where the magic happens. Oh, mind your step there, don’t want to end up getting lost in a duck pile.” You hadn’t seemed all that bothered about that though, eyes alight as you practically ran over to the nearest mountain of rubber ducks. It had been a fun afternoon, Lucifer taking great delight in explains each and every one of his ducky creations to you as you rifled through the piles. You especially got excited when you came across one that looked like someone you recognised, wanting to know exactly what had driven him to make them. By the time you were due to return to the hotel nearly a quarter of his little rubber duckies had been examined and sorted depending on what it did. It was the most organised they had ever been, but Lucifer didn’t hate it, nor did he hate the fact that you were returning home with a little ducky version of himself that had a habit of randomly turning into various other animals such as a snake or a goat. 

Now that you had been in his home once Lucifer was adamant that it happened again and again and again until you were spending at least one day a week in his home. More often than not you would end up lounging on the sofa in his work room whilst he went over new plans and designs for things that weren’t ducks. That wasn’t all the two of you did though. Lucifer taught you how to play chess, your games starting out serious enough but after a while they devolved into chaos, each of you cheating in an attempt to win and never bothering to be subtle about it. On days that Lucifer was feeling less then himself it would often be him lounging on a sofa in the parlour, curtains drawn and the lights on dim with you sat in one of the arm chairs, your voice soft and melodic as you read to him, often going for one of the more happier works of fiction that you found in the library. 

Overall Lucifers life was pretty good despite being stuck in Hell. He had rekindled his relationship with his daughter, finally stood up to Heaven and the massive douche bag that was Adam. And on top of all that Lucifer was making friends, well one friend and a couple of acquaintances but that’s just semantics. He hadn’t thought when he had first seen you with that to bright smile and little lamb ears that he would ever consider you anything more than a painful reminder of how he had contributed to humanities greatest fuck up but here he was, actually caring about someone’s wellbeing apart for his daughters. It was strange and exciting Lucifer not used to being liked instead of envied, feared or hated. Now all he had to do was make sure he didn’t fuck everything up like he had with every other meaningful relationship in his life. 

[maybeiwasjustjade]

This is the last time I’m gonna talk about this topic, mostly because it’s hiatus era and I would like to be able to write fics without outrightly bashing s2 Alicent, but I do think it needs to be said.

There’s nothing defendable in what Alicent did when she gave up her entire family on a silver platter for Rhaenyra.

So many takes about how we—the ones who found that scene abominable and abhorrent—misread the scene, or purposefully misinterpreted just to hate her; that what Alicent did was a good thing because it would have spared her entire family if only she let Aegon die. Giving up Criston and Gwayne’s location to be slaughtered (in what is most likely going to be Butcher’s Ball) wasn’t the intention; Alicent would never do that to her family and this was the only way to ensure survival en yada yada yada.

Yet the only person she said anything about saving was Helaena and Jaehaera, the latter of which is still continued to be dehumanized by no one referring to her as anything but ‘child’. Alicent put no thought towards Daeron—her innocent 16 year old son, who has done nothing—who was now joining a war that she started by declaring his brother king. Daeron, who’s flying alongside the Hightower army, in a war that will not end just because the Dowager Queen decided enough was enough. Who might die, and actually will die, before he ever sees his family again.

And even if she believes Rhaenyra executing Aegon would end the war (which it won’t), what made s2 Alicent think that the deaths would stop there?

A son for a son? Rhaenyra didn’t even remember that Jaehaerys had already been murdered for Luke. What made Alicent think that Rhaenyra would spare fucking Aemond of all people??? Aemond, who killed Luke and Rhaenys, who’s now Prince Regent because Aegon’s heir is dead? Who rides Vhagar, and would rather burn the world down than cleave to Rhaenyra? Who’s committed the majority of the crimes that make up Team Green? No, Aemond will have to die.

Daeron will have to die.

Jaehaerys, had he lived, would have to die anyway.

Maelor if he existed too.

Otto, Criston, Gwayne—all dead by virtue of being active participants and commanders in TG.

The only way Rhaenyra can claim that throne and ensure she can hold it is by eliminating the rival claimants, down to the youngest son.

That was something s1 Alicent knew, had raised her son on the belief they would die if their sister ascended, before the writers butchered her to a million pieces and left a caricature in her place. The claims go down son to son before it reaches daughters, which meant killing Aegon wouldn’t stop Rhaenyra’s troubles. She’d have to go after his sons and brothers too before the throne is legally hers.

There is no version of this story, where war has already started and a king crowned, that would end with little bloodshed beyond the death of said king.

In a different world, an argument could be made to spare some of them. If Rhaenyra had ascended untouched, then perhaps deals could’ve been made. Aegon would still have to die, I’d imagine. Take the Black at minimum, with Jaehaerys following in his footsteps as an adult or perhaps the Citadel. As long as Aegon’s line persisted, there would always be a chance of rebellion happening once Jace becomes king. So that whole line would have to be removed.

Aemond and Daeron would be less dangerous, but there would be little chance they’d be spared. The Black for Aemond, because I can’t see him agreeing to be a Kingsguard. Daeron would go to the Citadel without question. Jaehaera would either be married into the main line via Aegon III like in canon, or Rhaenyra would arrange for her to marry Jace to solidify his claim. He’d have a better claim through Jaehaera than Baela, after all.

And even then, that was still best case scenario. Worst case they’re all executed to protect Jace. Because Rhaenyra’s reign might somehow be mediocre and peaceful (really she has no makings of a great queen), but Jace’s will be a landmine. Between two legitimate brothers and no sisters to marry them to and trueborn cousins and uncles, Jace’s ascension was going to be a massive clusterfuck that would make the Dance look like a play.

[imaginesmai]

Promises to keep (3) - Azriel

Final part! Thank you for the support, I usually don't post the fics so rushed, but I wrote all the parts at the same time and why keep you waiting? Enjoy it!

Part 1, Part 2

Plot: Azriel and you have been rescued from a living hell, and now it's time for recovery.

Azriel remembered little about the hours following your rescue.

He remembered the calmness he felt when he heard the familiar steps through the hallways, thinking your soft smile was because of them too. He could hear again and again Rhysand and Cassian calling out for you two, and him shouting back – and he could feel the knot on his chest when you didn’t look down the hallway with him. He remembered thinking you were going to black out like the previous times. And then, he heard your heart.

Just before Rhysand and Cassian barreled in covered in blood, Azriel heard your heart slowing dangerously. He tried to keep you awake, and felt his whole word crumbling when, after Rhysand pushed past him to look at you, you closed your eyes.

Azriel remembered little about that day, only the feeling of your hand in his through the recovery.

Madja had been a saint through all of it, enduring his screams when he woke up thinking you were back in the cell, and you weren’t in his arms. She didn’t comment about the burns on your hands and the burns on your soul. She didn’t complain when Azriel and you were laid in the same bed because he couldn’t bear to have you out of sight.

She was a saint, and Azriel would be forever grateful for it.

Through conscious and unconsciousness, he healed slowly but firmly. Not as much could be said about you, whose wounds had yet to close and power to return. He laid his broken body next to you as he healed, and prayed each time he was awake that you woke up to one last promise.

“I’m sorry it took us so long” Rhysand confessed that night, only the moon illuminating the room. Azriel was laying on his side, staring at your motionless face. “We should… I’m sorry”

“I don’t blame you” Azriel croaked out.

Rhysand had yet to know the full details of what happened, and the lord guessed he would never know them all. The way Azriel’s eyes had been haunted, the burns on your hands, let him know enough. He couldn’t let go of the guilt of not arriving sooner, but even his was insignificant compared to Azriel’s.

When he wasn’t staring at you in silence, he looked ready to break down the world for what had happened.

“There was a male. Tall, black eyes. He knew about her powers. Made her use them” his voice was rough with unuse, sad and regretful. “Did you find him?”

“If he was there when we arrived, then he hid well. We killed everyone left” Rhysand was silent for a moment, debating whether he should tell his brother what he knew.

“I want to know it” Azriel’s hazel eyes briefly left your face to look at him. “Don’t you dare to hide it. Tell me”

“We didn’t find him, but… when you were taken, we used everything we had to find you. There was no trace, no smell, that could tell us where they had taken you” he swallowed hard, thinking about the first hours of panic and chaos. “But Lucien… he recognized the magic left on your cabin. Knew where it came from”

“Where?”

“The continent. It was the same magic he found when he went looking for the Vassa” before Azriel could press further, he continued. “I can only theorize, but if you say he survived her powers, that might had been Koschei”

“He’s here?”

Azriel rose on one arm, no sign of discomfort from his wounds. Rhysand didn’t know if it was prudent to tell Azriel about Koschei, because his brother looked ready to travel back to the continent to find him. He could only guess what he would do if Feyre was in that bed.

Koschei had appeared not so long ago and had showed interest in Azriel’s powers. He had taunted the Illyrian, angered him until he had shown him a part of his shadows. And still, Azriel knew it was a blessing that Koschei wondered about him and not about his mate. It seemed, that blessing had been short-lived.

“Y/N’s powers… we had been lucky until now. If Koschei has Vassa in that lake, Y/N would seem like a perfect complement”

“But we were careful” Azriel interrupted him, now sitting in bed. “When he came, she was away and didn’t come back for a month. Why now? Why does he know about her and her powers? Did someone betray us?”

“Or he smelled her through Vassa” Rhysand shrugged, as if he hadn’t been breaking his mind for the last month trying to understand what went wrong. “You can try and guess, for now, the only thing we can do is keep her safe”

The bond stilled in his chest for a long second, and Azriel looked down at you. Peacefully sleeping, you looked like an angel. He had seen the carnage at the cell. How, body after body, had melted when your light infiltrated through their pores and broke through. Each patrol sent your way had met the same fate. The last ones, when your power was on the verge of giving up, had been the most grotesque.

All of that had been because of him. You had refused to acknowledge your power for centuries, had dismissed any chance of training it in fear of repeating what happened the night your parents were murdered. And you had finally done it for him. The man who couldn’t keep your hands safe from the fire.

Rhysand’s hand on his shoulder startled him, and he looked up. The high-lord, like everyone else, was worried about him. About what he ate and drank, how much he slept and talked. He was regaining his mobility back little by little, but whatever time he could spend off the bed, he stood by your side.

Azriel willed himself to smile for his friend, his brother, but nothing came out.

“Thank you” he chose to say, for lack of better words. “For coming for us”

“Try to sleep”

The high-lord left with silent steps, Azriel watching each one of them. And when he was out of the room, only your quiet breaths breaking the silence, he promised himself he would find Koschei and burn him down to ashes.

-

You woke up two days later, and Azriel was almost fully healed by them. He still couldn’t fly or run, but his body was healing.

The first time you opened your eyes, he was in the kitchen for the third time since you came back. He felt your emotions through the bond and almost drained himself too when he winnowed back to your rooms.

For the next hours, Madja overwatched your recovery and gave you instructions about what to do now. Rest a lot, eat a lot, drink a lot. No big movements, no straining yourself, no powers. As if you would willingly use them again. No sex too, she declared with a sharp look at Azriel, who didn’t bother looking back. He listened to her instructions with neat attention and was close to kneeling before her in gratitude.

Once your friends had given you half-hugs and heartful apologies, you were left alone with Azriel. Madja hadn’t even left the floor when you tried to stand up.

“What do you need?” Azriel pushed your shoulders back with a scoff. “Madja told you to take it easy today. Don’t move until she comes back tonight. Do you need water? Food?”

“A hug would be nice”

You tried giving him a small smile and Azriel breathed through his nose. The tension on his shoulders dropped a little, his wings fluttering. After a second of consideration, he sat on the cushions next to you and dragged your body to his side. Any movement of his wings was painful and itchy, but he swallowed the discomfort and draped one across your back.

Your now bandaged hands fell on his chest, and the relief Azriel had let himself feel since you woke up died down.

Last night, he had finally opened to Cassian about what had happened. His brother had hugged him tightly, almost painfully, as Azriel cried onto his shoulder. The physical recovery would only be a part of a long journey, Madja had said that morning, before you woke up. What Azriel had endured in and out of that cell would haunt him for a while, but Azriel refused to let it take him away from you.

So, with a sharp breath, Azriel looked away from your hands to your beautiful eyes.

“You look good” you admitted. “How are you feeling?”

“Leg’s fine, nothing more than a medium limp now. Madja stitched it up and the skin has regenerated with her tonics. It feels… weird, but it’ll be alright” Azriel explained, eyes locked on yours. “And the wings will heal, too. I can’t promise you flights across the Sidra anytime soon, but Cassian can take you”

“You just lost half of your appeal” you chuckled.

The sound brought a smile to his lips. When you were with him, when he could stare into your eyes for hours in the safety of your home, he could pretend nothing had happened. A bad mission that had left him sore, not his worst nightmare come true.

With your head resting on his shoulder, you let the warmth of the morning heat your body. You were sore, too. Your back and arms hurt, your chest shook with each breath and your legs were cramped. Above all of that, you felt the crushing void of your power in your soul, restoring itself little by little.

Azriel seemed to know all of that from just staring at you, and his gaze saddened.

You had talked about that possibility before – about someone finding your powers, wanting to take advantages of them. When you first met him, it was political talk. The dangers of you staying in the court, the ways they could assure your protection, techniques to avoid you ever being noticed. As the years passed, those talks developed into feelings.

Into the fear of someone finding you and taking you away from Azriel.

You looked down to your lap and fidgeted with your fingers. The new skin felt strange against the bandages, but you didn’t complain. Not when his hand covered yours and he brushed a careful finger against the bandages.

“Don’t say it, Az” you sighed, feeling the apologies build in his mind. “It wasn’t your fault more than it was mine. I don’t blame you and that’s all. Please, don’t say it”

“I need to. Just one time” he admitted. “Let me say it one time, and you won’t hear it more. Let me get it out of my chest before the guilt consumes me”

You pressed your thumb and index finger together, stretching the bandage. You knew what he wanted to say, and you hated that he felt the need to apologize. Azriel had offered his life again and again in that cell for you without ever letting you argue against it, and would do it once more. But through the years, you had gotten to know him, and you understood that he needed that.

So you nodded without looking at him, and felt his chest widening in a breath.

“I am so, so sorry, because they did that because of me. Maybe they knew you wouldn’t let them touch me and were ready to…” his voice trailed and he silently pointed to your hands, not ready to say it. “And I’m sorry you had to use your power. I tried to shield you from it, my love. I’m so sorry I failed you”

Failed you

Long ago, when you first realized your feelings for the shadowsinger weren’t common, Azriel had made you the first promise. That he would keep you safe from the people who hurt you, that he wouldn’t let anyone force you to use your powers. Those had been empty promises, that you had needed in the dark nights of the first years.

Azriel had kept that promise, that impossible promise, during centuries. There had been others that had tried, people who knew about you and found where you were. And each and every threat was eliminated before they could reach you.

You knew that Azriel would have rather died in that cell that even think about you using your powers to free him. You thought briefly about the devastation on his face when he had realized what you had done, for him. It wasn’t disgust, or fear. It was self-disgust and failure on his part.

Shadows gathered around the bed when you looked at him once more, raising until you could look at him comfortably. His hand steadied you at your lower back, the other still holding yours. You didn’t need to shove your emotions down the bond, as they all were shining in your tearful eyes.

“I’m sorry too I wasn’t strong or brave enough to get us out sooner. That you had to get through all of that and he still knew” you confessed, trying to keep your voice loud and clear. “I’m sorry because I failed you too. I promised I would keep them hidden and I didn’t. Azriel, I would…”

You paused for a second, and let yourself soak in the love that seeped through his hazel eyes. He knew that, just as he couldn’t and wouldn’t blame you for that, you couldn’t and wouldn’t blame him. Love made you powerless, maybe reckless, but it was your love was the axis of his world.

A slow smile formed on your lips at the next words.

“I would have burnt that place and myself down for you. And there’s nothing you can say or do to change my mind”

“And I would have endured each beating for you too, with a smile on my face”

They were sad words, ones neither of you wanted to hear. But your love had gone through worst and would endure more. You were a dangerous person, not just for yourself but to others around you. Your powers drew a target on your back, and no matter how hard Azriel scrubbed, it wouldn’t go away.

And Azriel’s feelings, his devotion to you, would always put him at risk. Both you had learned to live with that and would continue to do so.

“I don’t expect you to keep every promise we make” you told him, squeezing his hand softly. “You promised me once that you would love me with your last breath and thought. And I promised you that you would hold my heart till the ends of times. That’s the only promise I care about”

Your wedding vows, made fifty years ago, brought tears to his eyes. He remembered his family gathered together for the event, the once in a lifetime feeling that rocked his body when he saw you walking down the altar in that beautiful dress. The words of the priestess were dull and incoherent as he looked at you, so beautiful and magnificent.

He had known by then that you would be his ending, that there would be no one after you. All that waiting had been worthy the moments he set his eyes on you, and each second by your side reaffirmed it.

Azriel leaned forward until you were inches away, your smiles matching.

“I promise you once more than I won’t ever stop loving you, my love, not even when my heart stop beating”

He closed the distance between your bodies and kissed you, closing another promise that he intended to keep, no matter what.

Want to read more? Check out my side blog @imaginesmaimasterlists, where I keep all the masterlists! Feedback is always appreciated

Let me know if you want me to do an Azriel taglist!

Azriel taglist:

@boygeniuses10

Promises to keep taglist:

@historygeekqueen

[dioslesbianwife]

I have a request you don't need to write it if you want

But can I request jofoes with a partner who has a stand like meduca and them finding out she was assaulted by a person when she was a nun and got blamed because it's her fault and her leaving the place

Like her becoming the definition of feminine rage and meeting her jofoes and becoming partners how would they react to her backstory.

Them being Imagen the jofoes with a partner who has a stand like meduca and them finding out she was assaulted by a person when she was a nun and got blamed because it's her fault

Like her becoming the definition of feminine rage and meeting her jofoes and becoming partners how would they react to her backstory.

Them being the only men she likes must be a ego boost for some and for the others she won't betray them or leave them and as long she trusts them her stand doesn't affect them long she trusts them her stand doesn't affect them🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍

sure, i hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting <3

Dio

He doesn’t just sympathize- he seethes on your behalf.

The idea of you being blamed, used, and cast out by an institution that claims “holiness” disgusts him.

“Fools. They feared your power because they were weak. They broke you because they could not tame you.”

Dio is obsessed with your Stand. A Medusa-like ability that turns enemies to stone unless you trust them? To him, it’s art. A weapon born of pain and power.

It feeds his ego immensely that he’s immune. “Of course you trust me. I would never punish you for your strength.”

He tells you to embrace your rage, that you were reborn the moment you turned your back on that church.

He would kill the man who hurt you. Not quickly, and not cleanly.

You are divine to him. Beautiful, holy in your wrath. He worships you like a goddess of vengeance.

Kars

Kars listens quietly when you tell him. No interruptions. No questions. Just his unreadable stare.

“Humans are pathetic,” he says flatly. “They destroy what they fear. And they always fear women who refuse to break.”

He respects your evolution- from a shamed outcast into a walking embodiment of fury and control.

Your Stand intrigues him on a scientific level and an emotional one. The idea that it won’t affect someone you trust fascinates him.

When he realizes he’s not petrified by it, he doesn’t gloat, but you can see the flicker of pride.

“You have finally adapted to the world that betrayed you,” he says. “You are stronger than they will ever be.”

He would go back and rebuild the church only to burn it down with the man inside.

Yoshikage Kira

Kira reacts in quiet fury. He’s not the type to rage, but his hand tightens into a fist behind his back the whole time you tell him.

“That man deserved death. And the ones who blamed you deserve worse.”

You being a former nun surprises him- but it also makes sense. There’s something divine and untouchable about you that he can’t get enough of.

Your Stand is terrifying. He has deep respect for it. Killer Queen and your Stand are eerily compatible, like beauty wrapped in lethal power.

He doesn’t care about your rage. In fact, he admires it.

“You’re the only woman I’ve met whose fury doesn’t scare me. It makes me feel... calm.”

The fact that your Stand doesn’t affect him? It satisfies his deepest craving for control and peace. He knows he’s safe. He knows you chose him.

Diavolo

Your backstory deeply resonates with him.

“The world tried to erase you. But you survived. That makes you dangerous, tesoro.”

He sees your Stand as the ultimate safeguard: no betrayal, no lies, just petrification. It's a system he trusts more than people.

When he realizes it doesn't affect him, he doesn’t just feel trusted- he feels chosen.

“You trust no man but me. Good. That’s how it should be.”

Diavolo wishes he could erase your past so it can never reach you again. You are his queen of wrath, and he will destroy the world if it ever dares to hurt you again.

Doppio

When you first tell Doppio, he doesn’t know what to say. His voice cracks. His hands tremble.

“That’s... that’s not your fault. None of it was your fault.”

He doesn’t understand how people could hurt someone like you- someone so strong and beautiful and good.

Doppio cries when he realizes the trust you place in him. That your Stand doesn’t hurt him. That he’s safe with you.

He calls you his angel, even though your wrath could tear the heavens down.

He carries around trinkets and things to cheer you up. He’ll stand between you and your past like a shield even if he’s shaking.

Diavolo, in the back of his mind, is silently proud. “You turned your pain into power. And now you stand beside us.”

Enrico Pucci

He is still deeply religious, but your story makes his faith flicker.

He believes in salvation- but your story makes him question what kind of God allows such things to happen.

“You were not wrong. You were made an example by men afraid of your strength.”

He sees your Stand as a divine punishment- a holy plague upon the wicked.

You remind him of a fallen angel, and he sees it as his purpose to never let you fall again.

When he realizes he’s safe from your Stand, it reaffirms to him that fate has chosen him. That you have chosen him.

He would still pray beside you, even if your prayers have turned into curses.

Funny Valentine

He is both angry and fascinated.

“How cruel,” he mutters. “Even in God’s house, they destroy their daughters.”

He sees your pain as something to be weaponized against the unjust systems of the world. You’re more than a symbol- you’re a force.

He’d tell you that your rage is patriotic. That your survival is American resilience.

Your Stand fascinates him. He would study its mechanics but also find symbolic meaning in it.

“Trust is the foundation of loyalty. And you have given me yours.”

He'd use the power of the nation itself to protect you if he had to. And he’d make damn sure you never felt powerless again.

Tooru

Tooru is incredibly protective over you after hearing what happened.

“People suck. They see something beautiful and pure and they break it just to feel stronger.”

He loves how deadly you are now. He is infatuated with the way you carry your rage like a crown.

Your Stand scares him- he’ll admit it- but when it doesn’t hurt him? Oh, his ego goes wild.

“I’m the only man you trust? Y/N, you’re gonna make me blush~”

He jokes a lot, but the moment you’re triggered or hurting, he becomes quiet and attentive, never pushing, never pressuring.

He would absolutely manipulate your enemies into walking right into your Stand’s range. “Oops. Guess they shouldn’t have messed with you.”

[cheezb6llz]

Yandere shadow please 👉👈🥺

I have an autoimmune disease with my bones. ( rheumatoid arthritis) how would shadow react to a reader with said disability

OMG I HOPE I RESEARCHED GOOD ENOUGH HERE YOU GO SORRY IF THIS IS INACCURATE

YANDERE SHADOW X READER WITH RA

(rheumatoid arthritis)

Before the kidnapping, he’d notice subtle signs at first, he is INCREDIBLY observant. He doesn’t say anything at first, but he watches. Every time you flex your fingers like they’re sore, every time you rub your wrists in pain..

When he suspects something is wrong, Shadow starts digging. Whether it’s going through your medical records, watching you at the pharmacy, or following you to a doctor’s appointment.

When he finds out you have RA, it absolutely crushes him. He has an intense urge to protect you from EVERYTHING. He thinks this world doesn’t deserve you, so he’s going to make it easier. He becomes hyperaware of everything that could worsen your condition.

Carrying heavy bags? not anymore! Walking long distances? He can help with that, he’ll just teleport you wherever you need to go. Reaching for something high up? He’s already gone ahead and grabbed it for you.

He notices everything.

“You didn’t tell me you were hurting today, why did you hide it?”

He’s not angry, just a bit disappointed.. He wants you to need him.

One day your suffering made him decide he had enough. This world wasn’t safe enough for you! He could do a much better job. He had to.

“You won’t survive out there.. But with me? I’ll make sure you never hurt again.”

Well.. now after the kidnapping!

He’s removed everything you could trip on. There’s soft carpeting on the floor, soft lighting to avoid headaches, your medications organized neatly on a nearby shelf.. Every part of the room is designed so you never have to strain or reach too far. he literally avoided tying you up to make sure you’re not in pain.. just made sure that everything is locked TIGHT!

Even if none of this was necessary, he wanted you to have the best experience possible.

“I studied everything. You’ll be more comfortable here than you ever were out there.”

Seriously, he knows every single med you’ve ever been prescribed.. down to the side effects and timing.

He’ll hand them to you on the DOT, with water at the perfect temperature and food tailored to your diet. (he literally wont leave the room until you take it he would he genuinely distressed if he ever forgets to make you take them)

this man will not let you lift a FINGER, on bad flare up days he’ll help you with absolutely everything.

Shadow learns exactly where your pain flares up, making sure he avoids putting pressure on your joints and is insanely careful when dressing you, bathing or even cuddling.

He’s always whispering softly to you, but his words always end up circling back to how much you need him.. Still acting like being locked away with him is for your own good.

“You’re safe here, you don’t need to fight anymore.. Just let me take care of you.”

all this forced dependence is just how he sees his loving relationship with you! If you try to do anything alone while you’re clearly hurting, yeah, he’ll be a little upset.

“You don’t trust me to take care of you?” (of course not you literally kidnapped me!) “I took you away so you’d never have to suffer alone again.”

[i read somewhere that sometimes it can get worse in the cold, so here’s some of that!]

When the weather drops, he refuses to leave your side. He’ll wrap you in blankets, hold you close, maybe even carry you if you simply shiver. So yeah, if the cold worsens the pain, he’ll heat the whole house just for you.

“I don’t care how hot it gets in here. I’d rather burn than let you sit there and suffer.”