#right when I was finally getting my shit together again

[rawjutsu]

I WANNA FUCK!

― a sneaky abyss mage hits you with an aphrodisiac!

pairings (separate): kaeya, xiao, itto, alhaitham, neuvillette, mualani, childe, dainsleif x reader

cw: explicit piv content, dubcon, semi-exhibitionism, spanking, slapping, biting, scratching, overstim, creampie, breeding kink, babytrapping? (childe), scissoring (mualani), praise, neuvillette has a dragon tail bc i said so but its not very relevant

kaeya

the spell hit him fast.

one second kaeya was joking with you over a drink, the next he was doubled over against the bar of angel's share with his hand clenched over his mouth, panting like he’d run from dragonspine. you barely had time to process the heat in his eyes before he was dragging you out the back door with a death grip on your wrist.

now you were pinned between the cold stone wall of angel’s share and the full length of his body, his thigh shoved between yours, coat pushed back, gloved hand under your skirt—in your panties.

“fuck,” he hissed, breath hot against your lips, “you feel that too, don’t you, pretty girl?”

you couldn’t answer—not with his fingers already sliding through your slick folds like he was starving, not with the way his cock strained against his pants, grinding against your thigh. he chuckled low in his throat, even as he panted like a dog in heat.

“abyss bastards must be getting creative,” he muttered, teeth scraping along your jaw. “should’ve known something was wrong when i started picturing you bent over the bar…”

he pressed a kiss to your throat, then bit it—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you gasp and grip his shoulders. he moaned when you did, hips twitching. the sound was obscene.

“you’re so wet for me,” he whispered. “you like seeing me like this? all hot and desperate? hah… you always were a bit of a tease.”

you didn’t get a chance to shoot back. he yanked your panties aside with one hand and unbuckled his belt with the other, his movements clumsy and frantic—not like him. the spell had stripped away all the usual smooth bravado. his hands trembled. his lips were parted. and when he finally sank into you, the noise he made was almost vulnerable.

“ohh… fuck, fuck—archons, you’re tight—‘m gonna lose it,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “shit, you’re gonna milk me dry, pretty girl…”

your back hit the wall with each thrust, hard and fast, the way only someone out of his mind with lust could manage. he couldn’t keep quiet—every breath came with a moan, a whispered praise, a filthy promise.

“so fuckin’ good, baby. taking me so well. gonna fill you up right here where anyone could walk out and see.”

you whimpered his name and he lost it.

one hand fisted in your hair, the other dragging your leg higher around his hip as he slammed into you with a growl. “say it again,” he panted. “say my name, beg for it—i wanna hear you sob it while i ruin you.”

your thighs trembled. your nails dug into his coat. and when your orgasm crashed into you like a tidal wave, kaeya snapped.

he fucked you through it, chasing his own release, rutting into your soaked cunt like a man possessed. when he came, he bit your shoulder to muffle the sound, cock pulsing deep inside you as hot cum spilled out around him, dripping down your thighs onto the cobblestones below.

neither of you moved for a moment. just panting. trembling. pressed together in the shadows.

then he tilted his head and smirked.

“…think diluc would mind if we used the spare bedroom upstairs?”

xiao

he warned you not to follow him.

the abyss mage had vanished into the night, but whatever cursed aura it left behind clung to xiao like smoke. he staggered onto the balcony, breath ragged, arm trembling as he gripped the railing like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

“don’t—come near me,” he snarled, voice hoarse, teeth clenched like he was in pain.

you’d never seen him like this. sweat glistened on his brow, hair stuck to his neck, and when he looked over his shoulder at you, his golden eyes were wide—wild.

“i can’t… i can’t control it. it’s crawling under my skin. my body’s burning.” his voice cracked on that last word, as if admitting it made the heat worse.

you stepped closer anyway. “xiao…”

“don’t,” he begged, backing into the shadows. “don’t say my name like that. i—i can’t—��

but then you reached out. you brushed your fingers against his and gasped at how hot he was—feverish, shaking.

he froze.

and when you looked up at him, wide-eyed, lower lip caught between your teeth in concern—

his last thread of will snapped.

xiao slammed you against the balcony wall in the blink of an eye, his body caging you in like a beast cornering its prey. his lips ghosted over your jaw, but he didn’t kiss you. he just breathed, fast and shallow, like he was scared that touching you would ruin everything.

“you looked at me like you trusted me,” he whispered, nails digging into your hips. “like i wasn’t dangerous. like i wasn’t… like this.”

you whispered his name again. that was it.

his mouth crashed down on yours—clumsy, desperate, teeth grazing your lips. his hands found your thighs, lifting you with ease, and his hips pressed against you, hard and already throbbing through his pants.

“i’m sorry,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “i can’t stop. i don’t want to stop.”

and he didn’t.

he shoved your underwear aside with shaking fingers, freeing his cock just enough to rut into you, his hips snapping forward with a raw, needy groan. you cried out at the sudden stretch—he was thick, trembling as he buried himself inside you in one hard thrust.

“fuck,” he gasped. “you’re… ngh—you’re perfect. too warm. too tight. i c-can’t…”

he tried to pull back—tried—but your walls clenched around him and his restraint crumbled to dust. he drove into you like a man possessed, every thrust harsher than the last, his voice a mess of choked moans and broken apologies.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he whimpered, “i was trying to protect you, i—shit, i’m going to cum—”

you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, anchoring him, and whispered “please. i want it.”

he shattered.

xiao buried his face in your neck, crying out as he emptied inside you, hips jerking, cum spilling deep and hot and fast. he trembled in your arms, still rutting shallowly like he couldn’t bear to be apart from your warmth just yet.

you stroked his hair. whispered his name again, this time with a smile.

he groaned softly.

“…you’re going to break me,” he breathed.

itto

“okay, but real talk—why do i feel like i’m gonna explode if i don’t stick it in you right now?”

itto’s voice was a breathy whine, his huge hands clinging to your waist like you were the last snack on earth. his abs were still glistening from your little one-on-one sparring match, and now he was hard—violently hard—bulging against his pants like his cock was trying to punch its way out.

“i’m serious!” he groaned, grinding into your hip with zero shame. “i was fine one second, then you looked at me with that little smile, and boom—boner. massive. painful. i think i’m dying.”

you blinked. “itto… you did get hit by a weird-looking abyss mage’s spell like, ten minutes ago.”

he stared blankly.

“oh. huh. that would explain the horny.”

you didn’t even get a chance to laugh before he was kissing you—sloppy, hungry, tongue already in your mouth and one of his massive hands groping your ass like he needed to memorize every inch. his other hand lifted you off the floor like you weighed nothing, slamming you down on the futon so hard it squeaked in protest.

“sorry! sorry,” he panted, already tugging your pants down. “i just—i can’t. babe, i need you. like, right now. right this second. please please please lemme cum in you, i swear i’ll be good—fuck—”

you tried to answer, but he already had your thighs pushed up and apart, cock out, flushed and angry looking, and he just lined up and shoved in with a groan so loud it shook the walls.

“haaahhh fuckkk, you’re so warm,” he slurred, eyes rolling back a little. “squeezin’ me so good, shit—babe, you made for this or somethin’?”

his hips slammed forward again. and again. and again. no rhythm. no restraint. just full-force, head-empty, dick-driven fucking. you were already gasping, clawing at his back for purchase, but itto was in his own world—moaning and muttering under his breath like a man in a trance.

“feel so good—ahh fuck, you’re takin’ it so well—y’like this? y’want me to go harder? i can go harder—”

“itto!” you gasped, seeing stars.

“fuck, yeah, say my name like that,” he groaned, hips pistoning faster. “archons, m’gonna cum, gonna cum—fuck, babe, i’m gonna—!”

and then he slammed all the way in and stayed there, cock twitching as he emptied himself deep inside you with a loud, wrecked moan. he didn’t even pause—just kept grinding into you, cum dripping out around his base, chasing that sweet friction.

“oh fuck, wait, you feel too good—i gotta keep goin’. just a little more, babe. c’mon. i’m so close. again. again.”

you whimpered, thighs trembling.

“...i think this spell’s still goin’,” he panted.

and then he smiled that dumb, hot, oni smile.

“guess we’re goin’ for round two, huh?”

alhaitham

he didn’t even flinch when the abyss mage cast it.

just let out a slow breath, adjusted his grip on his sword, and sliced the creature in two before it could vanish. you were panting behind him—relieved but shaken—barely even processing what had just happened before he turned to you with sharp, unreadable eyes.

“don’t panic,” he said, voice smooth, calm. too calm. “i’m aware of the spell’s effects.”

you blinked. “the what—?”

he was already walking toward you. unhurried. measured. the same way he read a book. the same way he always did everything.

“a focused aphrodisiac curse,” he said, sliding his gloves off. “localized. intensely hormonal. you’ll likely remain unaffected… but i’m already experiencing symptoms.”

you backed into a wall—gently, instinctively. his hand came up to cage your head, palm braced above your temple, and his mouth was suddenly much closer than it had been five seconds ago.

“which brings us to the solution.”

“w-what solution?” you breathed.

alhaitham leaned down and kissed you like he owned you—calm and composed but deep, tongue sliding over yours with slow, obscene confidence. by the time he pulled back, your head was spinning and your thighs were pressed together tight.

“the more i fuck you, the more the curse burns itself out.”

you gasped, but he was already sliding a hand down to your waistband. no shame. no hesitation. just firm, steady fingers tugging at your clothes like he’d already decided.

“you’re wet already,” he observed, voice low. “good. that makes this easier.”

and then he had you turned around—facing the stacks, bare ass pressed against his hips—and slid inside like he knew your body, like it was another formula he’d memorized and solved.

“you’ll tell me if it’s too much,” he muttered against your ear, hips rolling slow and deep. “but i don’t intend to stop until it wears off.”

your mouth dropped open in a soundless moan. he was thick, perfectly curved, bottoming out with every stroke like it was nothing. every time you tried to steady yourself, he’d just grab your hips tighter and fuck you harder—his voice still maddeningly even.

“look at you. arching for it already.”

one hand slid up your spine and curled gently around your throat—not choking, just there. a silent reminder of his control.

“do you like this?” he whispered. “do you like being used to stabilize my symptoms?”

you whimpered—no words, just a shaky nod—and he groaned low in his throat, pace picking up.

“you’re helping. so well, in fact, i might not stop even when it fades.”

your legs were trembling. your orgasm was building too fast, tight and unbearable and ravenous, and alhaitham just pressed his mouth to your ear and whispered:

“cum for me. now.”

you did, spasming around him, and he groaned like he’d been holding back for hours, slamming in deep and emptying himself inside you with a growl of satisfaction.

but he didn’t stop.

you flinched as he started moving again, slow and steady, already hard again, cock still stuffed inside your overstimulated pussy.

“the spell’s not done,” he said coolly, eyes half-lidded.

then he kissed your temple, softly.

“neither am i.”

neuvillette

it had been a quick fight. too quick for you to realize what the abyss mage had slipped into the room with—not until neuvillette turned to you afterward with wide, blown eyes and a tremble in his breath that made your chest seize.

“i—” he choked, his voice already hoarse. “i’ve been afflicted. please… please leave. i can’t—”

you took one step toward him, just one, and he shuddered, knees buckling slightly as he braced himself on the judge’s bench behind him. his breathing was ragged. his pupils had nearly eclipsed the soft blue of his eyes. and his whole body—

he was shaking.

“no,” you said quietly, “i’m not leaving you like this.”

that was when he snapped.

you weren’t even sure how fast he moved, only that suddenly your back was pressed to the polished wood of the bench, your legs forced open by large, trembling hands, and neuvillette was growling against your mouth as he kissed you like he’d been starving for centuries.

“i tried,” he rasped. “i tried to be noble. i tried to be good.”

he dragged his lips down your neck, his tongue darting out to taste your skin, and whimpered—an honest-to-archons whimper—as if the flavor of you was enough to undo him.

“but it hurts,” he choked. “it hurts so much. please let me… please—”

his cock was rock hard, thick and twitching in his trousers, already leaving a soaked, glistening patch on the front. he ground himself against your core like he couldn’t breathe otherwise—moaning deep in his throat as the pressure gave him momentary relief.

“i shouldn’t—do this,” he gasped. “i shouldn’t—use you this way—”

“but you need it,” you whispered, gripping his coat and pulling him closer. “don’t you?”

that was all it took.

he tore through your clothes—not with violence, but with urgency, reverence, desperation—and buried his face between your legs like a man sentenced to die. licked you until you were slick and dripping, trembling under his tongue, and then finally—finally—he pressed the head of his cock to your entrance and sank inside.

“ah—” he gasped, voice cracked and broken. “you’re perfect. too perfect. you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t let me—”

you cried out as he bottomed out. he was huge, stretching you wide, and every pulse of his cock sent a gush of wetness dripping down your thighs. he wasn’t even moving yet—just trembling, panting, holding himself back with visible agony.

“neuvillette,” you begged, wrapping your arms around him. “please. don’t hold back.”

his restraint shattered.

he fucked you against that bench like he was trying to drive the curse out of his bloodstream—deep, punishing thrusts that made your eyes roll back, your nails dig into his shoulders, your cunt tighten helplessly around him as slick soaked down your thighs and dripped onto the courtroom floor.

the whole time, he was moaning, whimpering things like:

“i’m sorry—so sorry—but you feel too good—”

“i need to cum—i have to cum—inside, inside—please—”

“won’t you let me breed you, mon ange? i can’t stop—i can’t stop—”

and you barely managed to scream his name before he came hard, hips slamming into yours as his cock throbbed and released a flood of hot, viscous cum inside you. the pressure was insane. it leaked out around him instantly, coating the wood below.

but he didn’t stop.

“still burning,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “still too hot. i need more—you—i need to keep going—”

and that dragon tail curled around your thigh as he started again, more desperate than before.

mualani

you should’ve known something was wrong the second her hands started trembling.

mualani was always warmth wrapped in sunshine. she laughed like wind chimes in the breeze, kissed you softly, and touched you like you were made of something softer than skin. there was always a flower in her hand and starlight in her smile. but now?

now she was staring at you like she didn’t know how to hold back.

the abyss spell shimmered faintly around her—silvery-green mist curling around her marked arms and flushed cheeks, catching in the light like dew. her lips were parted, giggling softly under her breath as she tried (and failed) to keep her thighs pressed together.

“oh,” she hiccuped, a little breathless, “i think i touched something i shouldn’t have… it tickled all the way up my spine. and now i can’t stop thinking about you. your skin, your thighs, your… everything—hahh, oh no, i’m so sorry, i sound crazy, don’t i?”

“mua,” you murmured, hands on her waist, trying to steady her. “it’s the spell. it’s messing with you—maybe we should sit down—”

but she just let out another soft, high giggle, burying her face in your neck. “too late. i already want you. i already need you.”

and then she was kissing you—light and fluttering at first, like she was trying to be good, trying to keep her usual sweetness intact. but her mouth was hot and needy, and the little noises spilling from her lips betrayed her. her whole body trembled, glowing with that blue-yellow aura, her vision pulsing around you like plankton caught in a whirlpool.

she gasped when your hand slid up under her skirt, clinging to you like she was melting. “i’m sorry—i’m sorry—i just—can i…? can i feel you?”

you nodded before your brain could catch up. “yeah. yes. please.”

she giggled again, all breathy and dazed. “hehe… you’re warm. i love that. i love you.”

clothes came off in soft, clumsy motions—skirts pushed up, lips still brushing, chests heaving. she kissed you all over, from your cheek to your hipbone, humming delightedly at every sigh you made. and then, with her face flushed and her pupils blown wide, she pressed her cunt to yours.

“oh—oh, goodness,” she gasped, head falling back. “you’re so wet. that’s from me, right? i made you feel that good already?”

you could barely breathe, let alone answer. her slick skin was grinding against yours, hips trembling as she moved—slow, at first, and then a little faster, moaning softly each time her clit brushed yours. her legs locked around your thigh and she rocked against you in tight little circles, giggles tumbling into gasps.

“mua,” you whimpered, clutching her waist. “fuck—mua, you feel so good—keep going, please don’t stop—”

“‘course i won’t,” she said, almost drunkenly, her face glowing. “i could stay like this forever. pretty girl, pretty girl, you’re so soft. so perfect.”

her hands curled into yours as your slick bodies slid together, mess building between you. the moss below was damp with sweat and arousal, petals crushed under your bodies. you couldn’t stop moaning—your voices tangling in the air, high and desperate, hips grinding harder and faster until your thighs started to shake.

“i’m gonna cum,” she whined, voice all shaky and high-pitched. “please—cum with me—want you to make a mess with me—”

“i’m—fuck, yes, mualani, yes—!”

you clung to each other like vines, bodies trembling as the heat shattered between you. you came in sync—sobbing, grinding through it, her giggles dissolving into little gasps and praise.

she collapsed against you, face buried in your neck, giggling and sighing all at once. “oops.” she whispered, grinning.

your thighs were still shaking. “mua. you nearly killed me.”

“don’t be silly,” she said, eyes glittering. “i don't think this is wearing off anytime soon.”

and then she was sliding her leg back between yours again, breath catching.

“again?” she whispered.

you just pulled her closer. “again.”

childe

“fuck—! ajax—!”

he laughs, low and breathless, as he slams into you again—your knees sliding against the furs beneath you, snow melting into steam around your tangled bodies.

“you say my name like it’s gonna save you, pretty girl,” he pants, one hand tangled in your hair, the other squeezing your hips hard enough to bruise. “but it won’t. not from this.”

the spell hit him mid-fight, some abyss mage’s last-ditch effort before childe sliced him clean through. and at first? he brushed it off. laughed it off. “ha, what’s this? a love spell? cute.”

until he caught your scent.

and then it was over.

he dragged you into a half-collapsed tent behind enemy lines, tossed you down like a prize, and now? he’s ruining you—balls-deep, unrelenting, grinning even as he snarls.

“you sure this was a spell?” he growls, teeth grazing your ear as he fucks you through another wave of overstimulation. “because i’ve wanted to bend you over like this since day one. maybe the abyss just helped me along.”

your body jerks with each thrust, moaning his name like it’s the only word you know. he’s so deep it’s like he’s trying to breed you, to plant himself inside you until he can’t be removed.

“look at you,” he coos, licking a stripe up your neck. “so cockdrunk, so fucking needy. what’s wrong, sweetheart? don’t tell me you like when the enemy wins.”

you sob out his name, and he slaps your ass, cock twitching deep inside you.

“say it louder. let them hear.”

you scream for him—broken, breathless—and he fucking shudders.

“ohhh fuck, yeah. that’s it. let ‘em know you’re mine now. that this sweet little body belongs to the fatui’s number 11.”

he fucks you harder. deeper. his cock stretching you open like your cunt was made for him. and then he pulls you up by the hair, flush against his chest, his breath hot and shaky against your ear.

“i’m gonna cum inside you,” he whispers, biting down. “and when this spell wears off, you’ll still feel it. still leak with me for days. and if we’re lucky? i’ll knock you up too. make sure the abyss spell sticks with you for life.”

your thighs quake. your orgasm hits like a bomb. and behind you, childe laughs again, full of heat and madness and pure fucking obsession.

“guess we’re both victims of the spell now, huh, baby?”

dainsleif ― bonus!

you don’t remember how the fight ended. just the burst of dark magic cracking through your ribs like lightning, and then—heat.

not just arousal. not something manageable. no. it’s suffocating. a deep, clawing ache in your womb that pulses harder with every breath of dainsleif’s scent.

he drags you to safety. sets up camp. checks your wounds. all while you tremble, every touch of his gloved hands burning you alive.

you try to hide it at first—gripping your thighs, biting your lip raw. but your whimper gives you away, and his head snaps toward you.

“…it affected you.”

you nod, shaking. desperate. so fucking wet it’s dripping onto the furs. and dain? he just sighs. gentle. almost pitying. he pulls off his gloves with slow precision.

“lie back.”

“w-what?”

his voice stays calm. measured. but his eyes—glowing, unreadable—pin you in place.

“you need relief. you’ll burn through your own mind if you don’t get it. i’m not affected by the abyss’ magic... but i can offer you my body.” he pauses. “use me. however you need.”

your brain short-circuits.

then you’re climbing on top of him, fingers digging into his shoulders, sobbing his name as you sink down onto his cock for the first time.

and fuck, he’s big. thick. heavy. stretching you open perfectly—and you don't even care. you need it. you ride him like you’ll die without it, hips snapping down hard, tears spilling down your cheeks as your cunt flutters around him.

“dain—! dain, please, i can’t— i need more, i need—”

he grips your hips, steady but unyielding, holding you open as you bounce on him.

“shhh,” he breathes, voice like silk. “take what you need. i’m not going anywhere.”

and you do. you fuck yourself on his cock until your thighs shake and your moans turn hoarse. until your pussy is soaked and red and raw, clenching down again and again like it never wants to let go.

dain watches the whole thing. chest rising slowly, lips parted, but never losing control. just… observing. letting you devour him.

“you’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs eventually, one hand smoothing up your back. “even consumed by madness. so full of need… like the abyss carved its hunger into you.”

you cry out as another orgasm crashes through you, pussy milking him—and only then does he shift, just enough to thrust up into you once. a warning.

“that’s enough,” he says, voice low. “you’ve taken your fill. now it’s my turn.”

you blink through the haze—and then dain flips you. presses you into the furs and fucks you so deep you swear you can taste it, murmuring about how good you feel, how well you took him, how he’s going to fuck the abyss right out of you��

until you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t exist without him.

and through it all, dain holds you like something sacred. a relic to be cherished. a temple overtaken by hunger and worshipped with every thrust of his cock.

a/n: can u tell who my genshin fave is idk

[0scarp1astr1]

Anniversary Tears

જ⁀➴ Desc: || In which your perfect anniversary was long forgotten by your boyfriend and you're tired of being last place in his life. ||

P2

ᯓ★ Featuring: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Carlos Sainz, Fernando Alonso.

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: Don't worry guys, I do see your requests in my inbox, and have them drafted. Solo fics take longer than the headcanons, So I am putting more content out there to hold you over. I hope you all enjoy the angst.

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Max Verstappen

When your relationship with Max first took off, it felt perfect. Not only were you a WAG with a loving boyfriend and your own career, but you were also his world—his safe haven outside the sport that constantly demanded his time, energy, and focus. After long days filled with tension, yelling at his team, and pushing for improvements they sometimes refused to acknowledge, you were his anchor. On the verge of breaking, you were the one who held him together.

But slowly, the pressure from his job started to seep into your relationship. Max grew distant, his presence increasingly replaced by postponed dinners and late nights. "Don't wait up," became more common than goodnight kisses. The bed felt colder, and the silence at night felt heavier. Still, you clung to hope. Your anniversary was coming up—it had to mean something to him. He’d always remembered before, right down to the minute. He never missed it. It was always in his phone, always marked with care.

“Don’t worry, liefje,” he said with a soft kiss. “I’ll be home before you know it.” His lips lingered just long enough to convince you he might mean it this time.

You dressed with care that evening—spritzed on the perfume he loved, slipped into the dress that never failed to catch his eye. Dinner was set. A night under the stars, just the two of you. You waited, surrounded by the hum of music, the clink of glasses, the low chatter of couples enjoying each other’s company.

But not yours.

You kept glancing at the door. Then at your phone. Finally, you called him. When he answered, you could hear him talking to someone—Christian, maybe—before he turned his attention to you.

“Sorry, liefje, I was just talking to Christian. What’s up?”

What’s up?

“What do you mean, what’s up?” you snapped, your voice brittle.

His reply was casual, too casual. “Why are you so moody? Are you on your period or something?”

That was the final straw.

“No, Max, I’m not,” you said sharply, your voice tight as you stood from the table, phone pressed to your ear. “Maybe I’m just moody because the man I love can’t even let go of a damn steering wheel for five minutes to be with me. I get it. You love racing. I know your career comes first. But on our anniversary?”

There was a pause, then a panicked, “Shit. I’m sorry! I’ll come right now—”

“Don’t bother, Verstappen.” You cut him off, eyes stinging. “Save your apology. I’m done. I can't keep coming in last place... while you sit there and celebrate every first.”

You hung up. The quiet click of your heels echoed as you walked away, tears slipping down your cheek.

Elsewhere, Max stood frozen, phone in hand, jaw clenched, eyes heavy.

When someone asked what was wrong, all he could manage to say was—

“I screwed up.”

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Charles Leclerc

You always knew Ferrari was Charles’ world. From the time he was a boy, it was his dream, his everything—and you stood by him every step of the way. He was a loving boyfriend, no doubt about that. He just had a habit of forgetting the little things—milk from the store, the eggs, the scented candles you asked for, even the specific dog food that Leo could actually stomach.

But you loved him. Loved him so much, you would sit in silence and come last, over and over again.

You were used to being his priority. Even in crowded rooms or intense conversations, his hand would still find yours—on your thigh, your back, your waist. But lately, that had all changed. Ferrari was struggling, and so was Charles. You saw it in his eyes: the exhaustion, the pressure, the desperate hunger to do better, to fight for pole position, for podiums, for anything. And in the process, you felt like discarded trash—left behind, forgotten.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He smiled. “Of course. I’ll handle today and be home.”

You assumed he knew. It was on the calendar. In both your phones. You’d dropped hints all week. He couldn’t forget this—your day. The day you two fell in love. The day you made each other yours.

When he walked out the door, your heart had lifted. You cleaned the flat from top to bottom, cooked his favorite meal, lit the candles he loved most, and carefully scattered the rose petals you bought. You dressed for the night you’d both needed. A reconnection. A celebration. A return to each other.

But hours passed.

The food grew cold. Half the candles flickered out. Leo had chewed through most of the petals. You sat in silence, staring at the clock, the night collapsing in on itself like a slow disaster.

Then—finally—you heard his keys.

His voice.

And your heart sparked, a flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—he’d remembered. Maybe he brought flowers. Maybe he had a surprise. A kiss. An apology. Something.

But when the door opened, your smile died.

Charles stepped in… with one of his engineers.

“I invited him over for dinner,” he said casually, dropping his keys on the counter. He glanced around. “What’s all this?”

Your chest tightened, breath caught in your throat.

“Our dinner,” you said quietly.

He raised a brow. “We planned this?”

You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek.

“I mean… if we did, I must’ve forgotten,” he said, walking toward the table. “Did Leo eat half of whatever this is?” he added, lightly nudging a chewed petal with his foot.

That was it.

You grabbed your keys without a word and walked out. Charles watched you go, confused, glancing at his friend—who only shrugged.

And then his eyes landed on the calendar.

Red marker. A heart. One word.

Anniversary.

His stomach dropped.

“Our anniversary,” he whispered. Panic set in as he fumbled for his phone. He called you instantly.

“Y/N,” he breathed when you answered. “I forgot—I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. We were just talking strategy all day, and I lost track of time. Please, just come back.”

You sniffled on the other end.

“I’m tired of chasing someone who’s chasing a podium,” you said. “I know it’s your dream, Charles. But am I even part of it?”

He swallowed hard, unable to respond.

“You cross the finish line, but do I even matter?” your voice cracked. “You don’t even know what to say. You can’t, because you don’t care. I ask for your time—and you have none to give. So good luck with Ferrari this year, Charles. Go chase your podium. I’m done chasing you.”

And then the line went dead.

Charles stood frozen, phone still in hand, eyes stinging with guilt and regret. He whispered, more to himself than anyone else, anger and heartbreak swirling in his chest.

“She hates me…”

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Lewis Hamilton

You were in love with a seven-time world champion.

And somehow, despite the millions who adored him, he loved you. He chose to build a life with you—and Roscoe. Nothing could break you two apart. His heart was yours, and yours was his.

He made sacrifices, hard choices in his career, and swore time and again that he'd always try to keep you first. That love—it made you feel like you were flying.

Until you crash-landed. Alone.

Lately, the clock would strike midnight, sometimes even two in the morning, and he still wouldn’t be home. And each late night, each unanswered message, made your chest feel tighter. You told yourself not to complain—he was famous, his life demanding. But still, you wanted time. His time.

“We deserve a trip,” he had said, flashing that smile, the one that always calmed your nerves.

“We do,” you agreed. “Just don’t forget the date. I even canceled vacation plans with the girls—told them I needed time with my future husband.”

He had chuckled and held up his phone. “I’ll spend an hour with the guys and come home early. I still need to pack Roscoe’s stuff, anyway.”

“Responsible,” you teased, kissing his cheek. “Go have your fun.”

And the moment he walked out the door, your heart started dreaming. You imagined quiet mornings with him, waking up tangled in each other, no alarms, no cameras. Just the two of you, off the grid. Long walks. Photos where he called you beautiful. Whispered I love yous between sips of coffee. A version of him that only existed when the world wasn’t watching.

But the clock ticked. Then again. And again.

No message. No call. Nothing.

Just silence—until you opened Instagram.

There he was. Laughing, smiling with the guys. Still out. Like he had no flight. No bags. No anniversary. No you.

He was winning in the race of life—and losing in the one that truly mattered.

He didn’t come home until hours later. Eyes tired, voice light.

“An hour I said—and then Franco dared me to—”

He stopped.

The place was too quiet. Too empty. Roscoe sat by the door, ears perked.

“Y/N?” he called, stepping deeper into the penthouse.

“Babe?”

He walked through each room, heart picking up speed—until his eyes caught the note sitting on the counter.

Lewis,

I waited. But you didn’t come. I told myself maybe you'd run late, maybe you'd rush home, maybe you'd try. But you didn't.

You missed our flight. You missed our anniversary.

So I went without you. I’m on vacation—with the girls I turned down for you.

Don’t call. Just ask yourself why it always ends up like this.

—Y/N

Panic set in. He grabbed his phone and immediately called you.

When you picked up, your voice was quiet, broken by the faint sound of laughter in the background.

“Where did you go?” he asked, breath uneven.

“On vacation,” you said simply. “You missed our flight. You know… for a seven-time world champion, I thought maybe—maybe—you’d lay it to rest just for one day. Or did you forget what this trip was even for? It was our anniversary.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I’m laying off work as much as I can. You know how demanding it is. I love what I do—”

“Yeah. You love what you do. But do you even love what you have?” your voice cracked. “I’ve spent so much time loving you, accepting that you’re sweet… but never around. At some point, Lewis, you’ll wake up past forty, still chasing podiums, and realize the world kept spinning without you.”

Silence.

“And when all the other drivers are married, in love, settled… you’ll say I miss Y/N. You’ll say you miss us. You’ll wish we had more time. You’ll wish we got married. You’ll wish you treated me like more than a trophy in your case.”

You paused, breath catching.

“But I won’t be there.”

And then you hung up.

Back in Monaco, Lewis stood frozen in the middle of the room, eyes glassy, hands shaking. His phone slipped from his grip, landing with a sharp clatter on the tile.

“Fuck!” he yelled, voice raw, hands in his hair as he stumbled backward.

“How did I mess this up?” he muttered, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

“I lost her…”

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Lando Norris

When you first met Lando, you knew who he was—the party boy. The fast life, the late nights, the grin that could disarm anyone. But behind that chaos was something softer. Something real. A boy with a full heart who crumbled in your arms when the media became too cruel. You held him through breakdowns, through silence, through storms no one else ever saw. He was yours. You were his.

And for a while, it felt like nothing else mattered.

Time with him felt like being the center of the universe. Every moment was electric. He made you feel like you were more than his girlfriend—you were his constant. His peace.

But it shifted.

McLaren started winning, and suddenly, so much more of him belonged to the team. His attention narrowed, his kisses got shorter, his exits quicker. “Love you,” turned into rushed goodbyes and texted emojis. You started waiting—hours—for a message, a call, a sign.

Sometimes, you only got a thumbs-up.

He didn’t feel like your boyfriend anymore. He felt like Lando Norris, the driver. And you? Just another face in the crowd, another voice in his overflowing inbox.

It hurt. Bad.

That’s why you didn’t say anything.

You wanted to see if he’d remember your anniversary. Not because you wanted to punish him—but because part of you needed to know if he still saw you. Not as a fan, not as a placeholder, but as the girl who’s been with him through it all. The one who stayed.

You let the day unfold in silence.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d say no to clubbing. Maybe he’d surprise you. Maybe he’d say no to everyone else and yes to you—for once.

The lamp in the living room was the only light on. You sat on the couch, dressed up. Makeup perfect. Perfume light and familiar. Waiting.

You imagined him swinging through the door, smiling, dressed up, ready to whisk you away like it was year one again.

But hours passed.

Your heels came off first. Then the makeup wipes. Then the dress, now forgotten on the cold floor of your bedroom. By the time the clock struck midnight, you were in pajamas—hope deflated.

Then, voices at the door.

You looked up, heart already heavy.

“He’s drunk,” one of his friends laughed as they helped Lando up the stairs.

His head lolled to the side, eyes half-closed, a goofy, blissed-out grin on his lips.

You opened the door.

“On our anniversary…” you whispered under your breath.

Still, you couldn’t turn him away. You loved him too much for that.

You thanked his friends, then wrapped your arms around him as he leaned all his weight on you. He laughed—slurred and unaware—as you helped him toward the bedroom.

“Norris,” you muttered, sighing. “You forgot what today was.”

He didn’t respond.

You eased him onto his side of the bed, unlaced his shoes, tossing them aside. He collapsed into the pillows with a lazy groan.

“Four years,” you said quietly, watching him.

“Anniversary, you know?” you tried again. “Four years.”

He hummed, eyes shut. “Whatever you say… I don’t care…”

You froze.

And then, with a careless wave of his hand, he mumbled—

“I love you, Luisinha…”

The breath left your body.

Your heart split clean down the middle.

He wasn’t just drunk.

He was drunk and still thinking about her.

Luisinha.

The girl before you. The one you thought he’d moved past. The one he said he didn’t talk to, didn’t think about, didn’t miss.

But that bracelet you’d found a week ago—the one he promised he’d thrown away?

He kept it.

He kept her.

And now, with his defenses down, the truth came out. Maybe the drinking, the clubbing, the partying—it wasn’t about the spotlight. Maybe it was about numbing the space she left behind.

Your eyes welled with tears as you looked at him—peaceful, unaware, dreaming of someone else.

“For once in my life…” your voice shook, barely a whisper, “I thought someone loved me. Sober or not sober.”

You wiped your eyes, hands trembling.

“I’m last place in your mind,” you said, broken. “Always have been.”

You lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking one last look at the boy who promised you everything—but gave you half-truths.

“I hope she makes you happy,” you whispered.

And then you left.

No destination in mind.

Just anywhere that wasn’t there—anywhere you could breathe, away from the lies, away from the ache of trying to be someone’s everything when they’re still mourning someone else.

Back in bed, Lando stirred. Tossed. Snored.

And then, barely audible—

“Luisinha…”

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Carlos Sainz

Carlos was your sweetheart.

Every photo of you two looked like a still from a romantic comedy—sometimes sweet, sometimes goofy, always full of heart. Together, you’d wish fans happy holidays, post silly videos, and make even the quietest moments feel alive. Being his felt like honey: warm, golden, slow-dripping joy.

He loved to show you off. His friends knew your name. His fans knew your face. He spoke of you like you hung the moon.

And for a long time, the weight of that love wasn’t heavy—it was heavenly.

But slowly… that love began to fade. Not disappear, no. Just… retreat.

His smiles became half-hearted. His eyes darted around the room, distracted. Every dinner was cut short. Every date somehow became a double date—someone tagging along, someone stealing his laughter, his attention, his time. And you? Left picking at your food, faking smiles.

He always apologized. Swore he’d change. And you believed him, because when Carlos loved, he loved hard.

“This time, I’ll focus on you. It’s our anniversary, mi amor. I could never forget my special lady,” he teased, pinching your nose, making you laugh in spite of yourself.

“Good. I already have my outfit picked out, Sainz,” you grinned.

“Perfect, I'll meet you tonight, have to do some stuff so I can make time for just this moment and just for you," he said, kissing your forehead. It felt like a promise.

And for a moment—you believed it.

That night, you stood in front of the mirror, beaming. Your dress hugged your body just right, your makeup was soft and glowing. You did a little spin, whispering to yourself, “He’s gonna lose his mind when he sees me.”

You were ready to be his entire world for the night.

But hours passed.

The food on your plate grew cold. The candles flickered lower. And the seat across from you? Still empty.

Your phone finally rang. Your heart lifted, a flicker of hope rushing in. “Carlos?” you answered with a soft smile.

Laughter poured from the other end of the line. Background noise. Music. Clinking glasses.

“You should come to the bar!” he said, voice light and carefree.

Your smile shattered.

The silence on your end stretched, and then—

“Carlos Sainz Vázquez de Castro…” your voice trembled. “Do you really not know what today is?”

He hesitated. “I must’ve forgotten, because… no?”

Your throat tightened. “Our anniversary.”

Silence.

“And I have to say,” you added, voice cracking, “sitting alone at this table—alone—is humiliating.”

He exhaled. “Come to the bar. I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” You stood up, voice raising with the weight of every swallowed hurt. “You’re always sorry, Carlos! And then you go and do the same thing again. And again.”

People turned their heads, but you didn’t care anymore.

“I’m tired of being last! I’ve sucked up every ache in my body for you. I’ve swallowed my pride. For what?”

“You know how demanding my career is,” he said quietly.

You laughed bitterly. “Your career? Carlos, other drivers have relationships. They’re not out at a bar on their anniversary night like it’s nothing!”

“I’m not them,” he snapped. “Don’t compare me, corazón.”

You shook your head, heart sinking. “Maybe if you loved me the way they love their partners… I wouldn’t have to.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Maybe if you just looked at me, for one second, I wouldn’t have to beg to be seen. I made you first in my life, Carlos. First. And all I’ve ever been to you is another face in the crowd. Someone who waits. Someone who blends in behind your friends, your fans, your fame.”

He stayed quiet.

You looked at the phone, your reflection in the black screen, your makeup starting to smudge, your hand trembling.

“We’re done, Carlos,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Done.”

And with that, you hung up.

Back at the bar, Carlos stared at his phone like it had punched him in the gut.

He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing.

He slid the phone down on the counter, staring ahead at nothing. His jaw clenched. His throat burned.

One of his friends leaned over, hand on his back.

“You okay, man?”

Carlos didn’t answer at first. Then, slowly, voice cracked and broken, he muttered:

“I just lost the one woman who loved me more than the world…”

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Fernando Alonso

Fernando Alonso Díaz.

Even just his name gave you butterflies. It belonged to the man who made you laugh until your sides ached, who smothered you with kisses every morning despite your sleepy protests. His affection was playful—nose pinches, tight hugs, spontaneous dancing in the kitchen. You were his world. And he was yours.

He once told you that when he was ready to marry again, it would be you. Only you. That you’d be the last woman he’d ever love like this. That one day, he'd put a ring on your finger and call it forever.

For a long time, life with him felt like a promise unfolding. Soft, beautiful, and full of meaning.

But promises, even beautiful ones, can crack under pressure.

The small things started to slip. A missed good morning text. A quick kiss on the cheek without eye contact. Late nights with the same excuse: work. “You know how it goes,” he’d say. “Busy as always.” And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were his partner… or his afterthought.

Still, you hoped.

You wore the outfit he loved. You tried to spark memories, gently reminding him of the day you became official. He smiled—but his face didn’t light up. “I don’t really remember the date,” he said, brushing it off. “But I remember it felt magical.”

Your fake smile held long enough for you to turn your back.

Then came another goodbye. Another peck on the cheek. Another “work’s calling.”

You stayed home, holding on to hope. Holding on to him.

Evening came. Then night. Your phone buzzed.

Fernando: Don’t wait up. Working late.

That was it. No call. No detail. Just another dismissal, like you didn’t spend the day waiting, hoping he’d come home ready to celebrate you both.

You called him. Your voice trembled, trying to stay steady.

“Fernando,” you said, “I think you should check the date.”

He laughed softly. “Are you drunk, mi vida?”

“No,” you whispered. “Just check.”

There was a pause. Then, casually: “Is it important? I’m heading out with the guys. Engineers are buying.”

Your heart cracked. “Nando, it’s our anniversary.”

Silence. Then a light chuckle. “Ah… I missed it. We’ll fix it tomorrow, yeah? When I’m free.”

You swallowed hard. “Are we ever getting married, Fernando? Or is that just something you say when it’s convenient?”

He sighed. “Why would I stop racing to get married? This is my life. You knew that.”

“I’m not asking you to stop racing.” Your voice shook. “I’m asking if you even see a future with me.”

Another sigh. Dismissive. Cold.

You continued, voice stronger now, pain spilling out. “You remember everything about your career—your wins, the year you debuted, your teammates, your rivals. But you couldn’t remember this. Us. What we built.”

You wiped a tear away. “You’re forty-three, Fernando. I don’t need a perfect family. I don’t even need kids. But marriage… time together… commitment. That’s not too much.”

“I’ll marry when I’m ready,” he replied. “I’m not living a domestic life right now. I have a few more years left in me. You knew that.”

“I did. I knew what I signed up for.” Your tone softened, but the sadness deepened. “But I didn’t sign up to always come second. Or third. Or last. I thought we were in this together. I thought love meant sharing the wins.”

He was quiet. You knew that silence. The kind that said he’s made his choice.

“I’m not trying to change you,” you whispered. “I just wanted a little of your time. A little of your heart when it wasn’t being poured into a car. I wanted our love to matter as much as your next race.”

Then his voice sharpened. “If you hang up, I won’t chase you. I won’t beg. If you hang up, it’s done. So give me a moment—”

Click.

Silence.

The moment you ended the call, something shifted in him.

Fernando sat motionless, the phone still in his hand. The words echoed in his head.

“There is no reason one of us should be winning and the other losing.”

He’d spent his life chasing podiums, building a legacy. But in the quiet that followed your goodbye, he realized something:

The one person who loved him beyond the helmet, the headlines, the trophies—had just walked away.

And he let her.

A single tear slid down his cheek as he placed the phone on the table, the weight of everything he’d lost crashing down on him.

“What have I done…”

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[shake-back]

Choshoe!

brat tamer!choso x reader

Warnings: suggestive content/ALMOST smut (gotta edge you horny mfs), fluff, some crack

A/N: It's 1 in the morning, and this my 2nd fic in a loooong time (refer to my main jjk acc @6foot7foot8) so y'all chill on me cs this is def not proofread

part 2!

Brat tamer! Choso who can put up with all your nonsense because he's known you for like, ever. You being whiny about the temperature? A normal monday, you play fighting with him while he's trying to go to sleep? Typical. Nothing irks him, nothing gets under his skin.

And that drives you insane

Everytime you act bitchy is so that he locks in one day and puts you in his place. For him to choke you out, grab your face, bend you over the bathroom sink at a party

You'd do anything to see sweet Choso get riled up, get jelous, even just for a moment, but it looks like he's gonna be level headed to the bitter end :(

Until one day. You two were on vacation with some friends in Cancun for the summer. It must have been too hot, or he had a headache, or Gojo of all people was getting into his head, but he finally snapped.

"Oh my fucking gosh Choso why haven't you put any sunscreen on me? And you didn't even put any on your damn self, explain that to me now." You bark from underneath the beach umbrella you two were currently under, fresh out the water with sunburn hot on skin.

"I-I'm sorry baby please! you didn't remind me." He says, making grabby hands towards you, thinking a hug can make up for his transgressions. Gojo stops yapping for once in his life and focuses on someone else other than himself for a change.

"Oh brother, here she goes again." He says to no one in particular.

You swat Choso's hand away "No, I just wanna go back to the hotel now bruh. Like, you ruined this whole trip for me thanks."

'Bruh?' Choso thought to himself. We've been together for how long and she calls me bruh? He tried to shake it off.

"Okay mama's that's cool i'll just-" Before he could even stand and pick the umbrella up, you get up with the towel on and storm off, kicking sand everywhere, including onto him. Everybody around watching the meltdown happen.

This isn't even the worst that you've done to him in private or in public, but Choso just felt some type of way about it today. He sat there for a second, staring out into space, until he got up & followed you back to the hotel.

When he gets to the room, your starting to take your sandals off, muttering about something, like he cares about that right now.

Without saying anything, he walks up to you, exterior cool, calm & collected.

"Why are you getting so close to me, ain't I tell you-"

Your sentence is cut short when you feel his strong tattooed hand around your throat.

"Aye who the fuck you think you talking to?" He says, his voice dropping an octave like he just woke up, and his eyes lasered onto you, waiting an answer, yet you just stare up at him dumbfounded, not knowing what to say.

He puts his other hand around your throat, squeezing tighter.

"Didn't I just ask you a fucking question? You dumb or some shit?"

You look up at him, not backing down, not yet.

"You, the fuck." You manage to choke out.

He inhales, dragging you over to the wall, getting close to your face.

"You like this shit, huh? Weird ass bitch. You want me to fuck you up or something? Talking to me like i'm Megumi or some shit" He whispers to you. At this point, you're on your tiptoes, trying to squeeze your thighs together to hide the fact that you're getting off to this, but your betrayed by the moan you let out when his grip gets tighter.

One of his hands make their way down to your clothed sweet spot, just cupping it, no movement, no friction. Only thing separating his hand and your clit was the thin fabric of the bikini that you had him pick out for the trip. You try to grind up into his hand to relieve the tension building up inside you, but he just smacks your pussy.

"Nah, you wanna act like a brat get treated like a brat."

He pulls away from you, and walks out the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving you stunned and hungry for more.

Choso Kamo will never know a day of rest ever again

Lmk if y'all want a part 2 this was actually kinda fun to write lol

[barabaraoranges]

soggy bottom boy

pairing: not really a pairing, moreso just a character study while i play around with washford. but technically washford/gn!reader

hints at reader topping washford at the end. heavily suggestive. yes, washford is a trans guy. sue me. and the thought of dripping wet washford did immense psychic damage to me and i needed to get it out on tumblr. not beta read, written purely because i couldn't sleep without getting it off my chest.

once again requesting folks to avoid any comments about breeding or getting washford pregnant in the tags.

wc: 802

It happened right as you were getting ready to go to bed.

Silence. Then a strange noise from the laundry room. Then water coming out from underneath the doorway. And a heavy sigh as you realized.

Shit. Your washer broke.

You groaned, pulling your phone out and dialing emergency repair services. Thirty minutes, they said. Thirty minutes, that's all you needed to handle.

As you grabbed as many towels as possible from your closet, you mentally made notes on how to handle Washford. A brooding romantic, a heartbroken brooding romantic.

Of all the dateables in the house, he was the one that you struggled with the most. You'd picked up reading Shakespeare, learning poetry. You took notes of the poets and writers he discussed with you. And you were learning, you were!

But your heart fluttered at the sound of his voice, at his ramblings. You would find your mouth dry as a desert, your tongue fatter than a pig for slaughter. You found yourself thinking about him at night, thinking about how he would ruin you and how you would beg for him to.

It baffled you how quickly Drysdale could discard such a man for someone like Dirk. It made you question his taste, if you were to be honest with yourself.

"I can do this," you whispered to yourself, trudging through the kitchen. "I can do this. I can do th-"

Opening the laundry room door, you found yourself speechless, your mouth agape at the sight in front of you.

Washford leaned on the windowsill, his shirt discarded. Shoulder muscles gleamed under the moonlight, scarred and freckled chest shifting with each subtle movement. His soaked pants tight to his legs, thighs bulging and threatening to break through the seams. It was a work of art, how the water and moonlight blended together to show every muscle, every striation on his body. The bulges of his biceps, the strength in his hands. They worshiped his years of acrobatics in a way you could only dream of.

You wondered for a brief moment if you had been teleported to a romance novel and had stumbled upon your male love interest. The door closed behind you as you stepped in.

His muscles twitch and flex as he ran his fingers through his hair, squeezing out what water he could. A look of discontentment had settled on his face, finally registering your presence.

Quietly, you envied the water droplet that rolled down his chest.

"Have you come to laugh at my humiliation?" he mused with a scowl on his face. "To gawk at the drowned fool?"

Your face burned, words failing you. Since when did he have freckles on his chest and shoulders? Since when was he so built? Well, he was an acrobat. But were all acrobats this strongly built? Fumbling, you awkwardly gestured to the fresh towels in hand.

"I, um." You couldn't peel your eyes from him. "I have, uh, towels."

He stood from his spot. Despite his bulk, his light footsteps barely disturbed the water underneath his feet. You found him standing directly in front of you, his form impossible to ignore. His bare chest inches away from your own, inviting you to get lost in his freckles. His face inches away from your own, his breath mixing with yours. Petrichor, you noted as a strong cologne hit your nose.

You pressed your back against the door, and he stepped closer. The towels in your hand were unceremoniously shoved against your stomach as his chest came to touch yours. His breath rolled across your lips, his eyes impossible to read. Your breath hitched against took a deep breath in, Washford taking that opportunity to press against you further. Heat burned at your cheeks as he looked down.

A hand came to your side, and you found yourself dizzy from the squeeze. Or perhaps from holding a breath you'd been holding. But it did not last, with Washford taking the towels from your hands.

"Thank you."

His voice rumbled in his chest and echoed through yours. Finally, you let out a shaky breath as he stepped away.

"I, um, the emergency maintenance guy will be here in like. 30 minutes."

You couldn't tell if he had heard you as he walked back to the windowsill. His shoulders were more impressive from the back, aged with years of acrobatics. Streams of water rolled through his muscles like valley. You imagined your thumbs going through those crevices, his chesty groans filling the room as you massaged away his pains. You imagined gripping the sides of his waist while as his ass pressed against you, teasing you with what was just barely out of your reach.

And for the briefest moment, you thought about begging for him to ruin you then and there.

[zepskies]

Diving right in! Interesting that we're continuing right from the end of the last chapter... (Though your warnings and AN are scaring me 🫣)

Daylight. TV off. Your spot next to him empty. Cold. And Ben? Fully clothed and painfully hard as a rock. Ah, shit. Rough mornin’. Wet dream turned fuckin’ nightmare.

ehehe never mind. 🤣 I had a feeling it was a dream when she didn't react to all that "mine again" talk. But I was still disappointed right along with Ben when he woke up...but ok, maybe not as disappointed as he was lmfao 😆

Yeah, Ben would put a fucking stop to this once you were his again. What happened to goddamn modesty?

Dude, not him thinking he's gonna get her to stop doing anything once they're actually together 🤣

Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary. Dangerous.

Yes, and I love this for her, especially now that he's recognizing it 😌

“You know, all this tension could be solved if you just went and made us breakfast, doll. Maybe put on a skirt and apron, smile a little. That’s what you broads were built for, right?”

Oh, God. 😅 The way I, just to myself, said out loud, "Oh shit."

“Good.” Ben matched his smile while imagining ripping the guy’s throat out with his teeth.

He's so infuriating, but I love his protectiveness at the same time (what's wrong with me??) 🤣

“Like Shakespeare, you bardless brute,” you retorted your correction. “If you’re not careful, I’ll turn your head into an ass as well – a real one, not a donkey.” Ben’s lips twitched with a challenging smirk. “Well, if you pardon, we will mend.”

Omg YESSSS. You know I love a Shakespeare reference! lolll And Ben pulling out the Bard out of his ass? Honestly made me melt more than the reader in that moment 🤣

But Ben remembered the way you’d jumped like he’d burned you whenever he’d done it in the past. So, what the hell happened between then and now? Or, well, now and some arbitrary date in the future, he supposed.

Oh, oh no. I have a bad feeling, considering your warning at the top...

“Why they came for you. Your team.” You smiled, soft and slow and pitying. “You don’t want kindness? Too bad, you’re getting mine: you might be an ass, but I still think you deserved better.”

And this is why I love her. She sees right through him 💛

Even if it broke him more than Russia ever did.

God I hateeee him for this! I knew we were headed here, and I understand why he feels he has to do it, but it's still so wrong 😭😭

“No,” Stan said, meeting his gaze coolly. “You are. By dragging her into this. By trying to keep her close without telling her who you really are. You think she won’t leave? That she won’t hate you when she finds out? Not to mention, if you mishandle this, the loop never starts.”

Oooh how I hate him for this lol. You've done such a great job of going through this part of the S3 arc, and now we're getting closer and closer to the "start" of the loop, if we can call it that. The tension is both driving me crazy and has me biting my nails (especially with poor reader in a coma 😭)!

And when you looked at him, on the rare occasion you did, it was like you were finally seeing the monster. It broke his fucking heart.

It's breaking mine too honestly. The fact that he allowed himself to go even that far is fucking crazy, but it's also just how desperate he is for her to love him...still, I'm mad as hell at him right now 😤😤😤

And the sick truth of it was, he wasn’t even sure he deserved the fucking chance.

Oh, he really fucking doesn't. Now I'm back to fully saying "you go girl" when she came back and literally shoved him into his nightmare back with the Russians. 😤

However, I am very excited that we're back in the present for the next chapter! I'm so curious how you're going to bring these two back together, but I have a feeling Ben's going to need to be very tenacious in a whole different way if he's going to win her heart back ❤️‍🩹💛❤️‍🩹

Time After Time – Chapter 14

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, violence, smut & attempted assault, 2022 & season 3, Herogasm, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, drug use & drinking, PTSD, mentions of torture, physics, one-sided pining, injuries, jealousy, ANGST

Word Count: 18.7k

Posted on Patreon June 1, 2025

A/N: This chapter is one wild, chaotic ride and full of angst! Also apologies in advance for that beginning, the middle, and, uh, the end, probably 😂😘

✨ Chapter title inspired by a line in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 14: I’m Going to Have a Lot of Drinks

The motel’s Vacancy sign buzzed outside the window in red neon, casting lazy pulses of light across the cracked walls, the sun-faded window frames, and the worn carpet of the room.

Ben sat on the small bed, barely watching his old movie flicker across the ancient TV. The bed springs creaked beneath you both, your head still resting softly against his arm.

He could hear everything that went on in a motel at 3AM: someone snoring next door, water dripping in a pipe somewhere, the vending machine outside coughing out a can, and a cat yowling by the dumpsters.

But what he focused on most was your breathing. Slow. Steady. Trusting.

You were out like a light. Leaned against him like he wasn’t a monster but just the comfiest pillow in the world.

Your cheek was warm against his bicep, lips softly parted. His arm had gone phantom numb a while ago where your head rested. Your hoodie was bunched up a little around your waist, baring patches of soft and taut skin to his eyes. Your jean shorts hugged your hips like a sin, one bare thigh pressed against his leg, the heat of you bleeding through his sweats.

Ben didn’t know how the fuck this happened. You’d crashed next to him on the creaky motel bed, all attitude and sarcasm one minute – and then you’d gone still.

He hadn’t dared to move since then. Couldn’t if he wanted to. Not even to breathe right.

The movie flared with machine gun fire and patriotic nonsense. A sharp boom shook you awake. You stirred, eyes fluttering as you blinked blearily at the screen.

“There she is. Welcome back to the land of the living.” He looked down at you and met your groggy eyes with a wide smirk. “You were droolin’ on me, sweetheart.”

“Shit. Sorry…” You sat up next to him, shifted just slightly to bring enough space between the two of you again.

Ben almost sighed at the loss.

“Is that… you?” Your gaze drifted back to the TV.

“Yeah, one of the old ones. It’s a classic,” he said, still smiling.

“Aren’t they all?” you retorted, voice still laced with sleep. “Still watching old movies of yourself, huh?”

“It’s called nostalgia.”

“It’s called narcissism,” you quipped with that same sharp tongue. “Is that a railgun?”

“Sure is.” Ben grinned smugly.

“You know, that’s not how electromagnetism works. You’d need a whole substation strapped to your spine,” you noted. “Where the hell would you store that much capacitor power? In your ass?”

Ben gave you an amused look, chuckling. “It’s a movie, Doc. Not a science fair. You get off on ruining dreams? Pretty sure it’s illegal to look that good and talk that nerdy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Flattery? Must be the forty-year dry spell talking.”

Ben laughed lowly. “Yeah? Care to end it? Could volunteer for science, Doc.”

You snorted, but Ben caught how you shifted on the mattress, how your eyes flicked briefly to his mouth. Unconscious, maybe, but still there.

“Careful,” you warned playfully. “I’ve got a thing for self-destructive men with god complexes.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got both,” Ben drawled, spread his legs a little wider, kept his eyes trained on your lips.

And he saw it – the way your thighs pressed together slightly. Subtle, but sure as hell not invisible. Your body gave you away before your brain had caught up.

He knew the fucking signs. Knew them like the back of his hand. Knew what he had to say to get you all hot and bothered.

He deserved nice things, right?

“Wanna find out what else I could do with these hands besides holding a weapon, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught.

Bingo.

“Think about it.” Ben’s smirk deepened, voice low and coaxing, smooth as bourbon. “Haven’t been touched in decades. Haven’t tasted anyone in just as long. Think about how starved I am. How much I’d fuckin’ devour you.”

You didn’t respond, but your fingers twitched against the bedsheet. And Ben saw it – saw it all. Saw the little twitch in your muscles that held back the squirm. Saw the war playing out behind your eyes.

Fight or surrender.

“What? You’re gonna tell me that didn’t do anything for you?” His head cocked, brow lifting. “Because I’m pickin’ up a few signs, sweetheart.” His voice dropped another notch. “Little tension in your legs. That shift in your hips just now. Not exactly subtle.”

You looked down, as if trying to reset. But he wasn’t about to absolve you. He let the words hang in the air for a moment. Waited. Patience was a fucking virtue predators knew how to enjoy.

And then, his fingers stretched a little. Skimmed the bare skin on your thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Barely brushing.

You didn’t move but bit down on your lip – like a fish on a hook.

But then, to his surprise, your head tilted, your eyes dragged over him – speculative, curious, challenging – and a smirk curled.

“Oh, yeah? Wanna back that up or are you all… talk?”

Ben laughed it off. He’d just been teasing. Talking shit. He knew you wouldn’t go through with it. He enjoyed the foreplay nonetheless.

Still, he humored you. Wanted to see how far you’d go before backing down.

His hand slid over his thigh, patted it, fingers spread wide. He grinned – lazy, bold, certain. “Wanna find out? Right here’s the impact zone, sweetheart. You can calculate my thrust velocity.”

You’d done it once before. It was impressive – you and him. Actually made him wonder if he could break his old record now with super-everything.

Surely, right?

Your eyebrow arched – fucking smug. “Think you can handle me?”

Ben gave a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, I know I can.”

And certainly, he thought you would back out now. He’d done this dance with you before. But in an unexpected turn of events, you rose on your knees, crawled over, and straddled his thighs.

No hesitation. No asking. Just a smooth and taunting swing of your hips, and you settled in his lap like you fucking belonged there, hot against the worn cotton of his sweats.

And Ben? His dick twitched up immediately, thick and straining beneath the fabric, aching from how long it had fucking been. His hands caught your hips on instinct, rough and grounding.

Muscle fuckin’ memory.

“Not sure you’re ready,” you teased, warm breath brushing his ear. Hands pressed against his chest, then slowly slid up to his shoulders, locking around his neck.

“Dangerous game you’re playin’, sweetheart,” he rasped, eyes darkening. His fingers were already itching to pull you all the way. “You’re sittin’ on a loaded gun.”

There was the little smirk on your lips again. “Forty years, huh? Hope you’ve been saving up, soldier.”

His breath punched out of him in a low groan. His resolve broke. Hands gripped you hard and greedy, dragging you closer.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, grazing your throat. Fucking inhaled you.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he growled, hands roaming your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “‘Cause you got no fuckin’ clue what you’re gettin’ into here, but I’m gonna make sure you feel it goddamn everywhere.”

“Yeah? Show me.” A slow smile formed on your lips, nose brushing his. Teasing. And then you rocked.

Just once.

And he saw fuckin’ stars.

That was all it took. His hand flew to the back of your head, tangled in your hair, mouth crashing against yours. His tongue claimed you – filthy, desperate, fucking hungry.

But your lips met his with a slow drag and lazy tongue strokes – teasing, daring, coaxing. Not rushed. Not frantic. You kissed him like you were memorizing him – like he was something worth savoring.

Your teeth tugged on his bottom lip till he growled. You rocked your hips forward again, a slow grind, dragging the heat of your pussy right over the thick bulge in his sweats.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed. “You sit in my lap like that, and I’m gonna fuck you like I own you.”

You moaned into his mouth when he pulled you down harder, one hand gripping your hip and helping you move, the other sliding beneath your hoodie to find bare skin.

Palmed at your waist, your ribs, the fucking softness of your tits.

He couldn’t believe he had you again. That you were moving on him like this – raw, aching need in every grind, every gasp.

“Feels like you missed this,” you teased breathlessly.

“Oh, sweetheart, you have no fuckin’ idea.”

Your pace got filthier – less teasing, more need. His cock strained hard against the sweats, precum soaking through the fabric, catching where your shorts rubbed down on him again and again and again.

He gripped your ass, rutting up into you. Chasing it. “Feel that, huh? How hard I am for you? That thick fuckin’ cock’s beggin’ for you. Forty years of waiting to be buried in that tight little pussy. Imma fuckin’ ruin you. Make you fuckin’ mine again, baby.”

You whimpered, pressing your chest to his. He kissed your neck, licked it, bit down hard, left a fucking mark on your skin.

He bucked up into you, losing rhythm. You chased it anyway — moaning, rocking, dragging your cunt over his cock like you needed it to breathe.

“F–Fuck, baby. Just like that,” he grunted, already twitching under you. “Fuck yeah, rub that pussy all over me. Make a fuckin’ mess, sweetheart.”

You rolled your hips in sharp little circles, moaning salaciously into his neck. He was fucking addicted to the obscenity. To the fucking sounds he was drawing from you.

His fingers tugged impatiently at the hem of your hoodie. “Off,” he growled. “Or I’ll fuckin’ rip it. Need to see those tits, baby. Been too fuckin’ long.”

You pulled your hoodie off in one swift motion.

No fuckin’ bra. Just glorious tits how he remembered them.

“Fuck, baby, still so fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured against your ribs like he was worshipping at a fucking altar.

He latched onto your breast, mouth sucking your nipple between his teeth, groaning like he’d gone a lifetime without the taste. You gasped, arched into him, rubbing your clit against the ridged shape of him.

“Fuck–… Need you–” you panted.

“You have me, baby,” he rasped between bite marks on your skin, loving how they fucking stayed. “You always fuckin’ had me.”

He shoved a hand between your bodies, past your waistband, dragged his thick fingers through your slick, groaned when it trickled and drenched his fucking hand.

“Look at you, sweetheart. Already such a fuckin’ mess. Already so fuckin’ soaked for me from just a little grinding, huh?” he muttered, rough thumb working your clit. “Fuckin’ knew it. Fuck–… That’s my girl.”

“Fuck me, please,” you whimpered.

And then, fabric ripped. He didn’t care, just tore your shorts off and left you bare in front of him. He shoved down his sweats, just enough to free himself, cock springing against his stomach.

Hard. Thick. Flushed dark with need and fuckin’ twitching.

You gasped when the blunt head rubbed against your slit. He slid through your folds, coating himself – teasing, smug, and fucking wrecked.

“You want it?” he asked. Low. Raspy. Dangerous. “Fuckin’ say it.”

“Please.”

He grinned like the fucking devil. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

He thrust up hard – one stroke, all the way in. You cried out when his dickhead slammed against your cervix, nails digging into his shoulders. He’d split you open and sealed the wound in one go.

Tight. Wet. Hot.

Just like he fucking remembered. And you? You rode him like you’d done it before. Like you’d missed it. Like it was fucking yours.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking Christ, just like that,” he praised, head dropping back with a rough moan. His hands guided you, eyes watching as you squeezed him just right and got off on the upstroke. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch like I know you can. Fuck–… Be my fuckin’ hero, sweetheart. Ride it–… ride your cock.”

The rhythm was brutal, desperate, punishing. Years of deprivation behind every snap of his hips. The whole bed creaked like it might collapse. You were moaning – open, loud, messy. Like you didn’t care this whole dump could hear you getting ruined on his cock.

The sound of your voice fucking shattered him.

“Faster, baby,” you begged breathlessly.

He gave it to you. Gripped your ass – rough and bruising – and started fucking up into you like he meant to breed you.

“Feel that fuckin’ stretch, baby? Feel how fuckin’ deep I am inside this pussy. God, shit, still so fuckin’ tight,” he choked on a moan. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy… Fuck, been dyin’ to be inside you again–”

You gasped, writhing against him, clenching around him, thighs flexing, chasing that high. But then: “Fuck, Soldier Boy.”

Ben stopped. Stiffened. His hands went slack around you.

You were still moving, still kissing him, still breathless in his lap. But for him? The moment cracked open like ice underfoot.

A hand cupped your cheek, tried to force you to look at him, but you didn’t.

“Fuck, baby. Just look at me. It’s me. It’s Ben,” his voice tried to reach you, but you were too far gone. “It’s Ben, baby. Please, just–… just look at me. Just fuckin’ remember me.”

Thud–thud–THUD!

Three heavy pounds rattled not only the door but also him awake. Ben jolted up, chest heaving, weary green eyes blinking around the room

Daylight. TV off. Your spot next to him empty. Cold.

And Ben? Fully clothed and painfully hard as a rock.

Ah, shit. Rough mornin’. Wet dream turned fuckin’ nightmare.

He couldn’t have fucking nice things for once, could he?

And in a sick twist, you groaned “Coming!” from the bathroom and stormed toward the door, pulling a hoodie overhead as you went. Didn’t care that he was right there and seeing you half-naked – a fucking stranger.

Yeah, Ben would put a fucking stop to this once you were his again. What happened to goddamn modesty? But hey, at least it was long enough for him to peek: bra, dark navy blue, and a lot of delicate lace around those beautiful tits.

He’d love to tear that thing off of you.

The asshole then brought presents: a happy hero meal and some fuckin’ drugs – the hard, good shit. He tossed it like Ben was a shelter dog that had bitten too many people and was soon gonna be put down. And you, on the other hand, got some translated folder and a gigantic cup of frap-somethin’ with an obnoxious amount of whipped cream and caramel.

But you’d always had a sweet tooth, so it didn’t come as much as a surprise. What fucking killed him, though?

You pulling out the fuckin’ straw and going to town on it, tongue licking cream like it’d never done anything else.

Ben almost blew his load and a gasket in the fuckin’ Geiger counter, wanting to throw the damn thing out the window.

Rough fuckin’ morning… And it had only been the first goddamn day of many.

At least, he had some Bennies to get over the pain above (and the ache below) – well… until you fucking ruined that, too.

Because you watched him. Sitting on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee and still working that damn straw. Eyes on him.

His back was half-turned, but he still caught it in his periphery as he was halfway through crushing pills to dust with his knife.

Judging.

“Problem, sweetheart?” His voice was a little too gruff, a little too deep, a little too defensive. Too confrontational.

“No,” you replied, bored. Almost deadpan. Then you casually opened the folder in your lap, directed your gaze there, took a slurp of coffee through the straw, and added: “My parents always snorted their breakfast, too.”

Then, you gave a shrug of your shoulders and started reading – innocent. Like you hadn’t just launched him into complete chaos.

You liked teaching people lessons, alright. You also liked fucking with them. On purpose.

This was the goddamn problem with smart women – especially if they fucking knew it, too. They knew exactly where to hit and make it stick.

But Ben couldn’t help the little smirk twitching on his lips – almost proud.

Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary.

Dangerous.

And well, he was a little dangerous, too. You and him had always made a good team in the past. Now, the two of you could be unstoppable.

He just had to ensure you stayed in your fucking lane – and he didn’t mean that in a bad way. Just… rein you in a little – like taming a fucking wild horse.

His gaze flicked briefly back to you. You were watching him again, subtly, your eyes not on the knife but the tremble in his hands. The way he ground his jaw a little too tight.

Fuck. He’d forgotten about your shitty parents.

Did you have a fucking problem with this? Probably, if your parents were fucking junkies, right? And here he sat, supposed hero turned nuclear weapon and addict. He felt a little ounce of shame curling in his gut.

And still, he felt his blood itching for it more. But he couldn’t do this with you here. Couldn’t do it with you watching.

“You know, all this tension could be solved if you just went and made us breakfast, doll. Maybe put on a skirt and apron, smile a little. That’s what you broads were built for, right?”

The room went silent.

Your jaw dropped slightly, eyebrows lifting. But then you ground your teeth and a fire flickered alive in your eyes.

“Jesus,” String Bean breathed, eyes wide.

Ben knew where to hit. Knew how to weaponize what he knew about you to get rid of you – or so he thought.

But you only scoffed in amusement and rolled your eyes before delivering your punch: “God, it’s like you’ve been alive for a hundred years only to make cavemen look evolved.”

Then you got up from the bed and strolled over to Butcher, ignoring Ben like he didn’t exist anymore.

“I’m taking a break,” you announced and puffed your chest out, shoulders straight. “And I want vacation days, Butcher. I know you’re technically blackmailing me, but I still think I have at least basic labor rights. MM and that CIA lady gave me forms to sign, so I know I’m employed somewhere.”

Ben straightened slightly at that. Blackmail? What the hell did that fucking mean? That asshole better not be threatening you, or Ben would punch that dick to goddamn Uranus.

Butcher sighed – loudly. “Jesus fuck, sunshine, how ‘bout we talk when the job’s done, alright?”

But you didn’t back off – not even a little. Ben listened in amusement. Didn’t dare to look fully and give anyone the impression that he actually cared about this little spat, but he still enjoyed it greatly – enjoyed the fucking destructive wildfire you were.

“After this job’s done, I’m not gonna stick around, so you better figure it out now,” you bit, all flames and heat. Then you held open your palm – waiting, demanding. “Give me your car keys. I wanna go see Kimiko and check on Frenchie.”

Butcher scoffed in response and met your challenging gaze. “The hell you are.”

Oof. Wrong move.

“What d’you think you’re doing? You know I can just freeze your ass and take them,” you said and raised your open palm a little higher. “Give.”

Butcher met you head-on. “Try. You don’t even know where I hid ‘em.”

“I don’t care if you shoved them up Hughie’s ass. Still gonna dive in and find them,” you retorted.

“Whoa, uh, just like to clarify – he did not… shove anything up my ass,” the kid muttered nervously, blinking at you with those pleading puppy dog eyes.

Ben almost snorted out loud into his soda.

Butcher groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes back like he’d been dealing with enough sassy employees for a week. He then hauled out a jingling set of his keys from his pocket and placed them in your palm.

You grinned, triumphant and satisfied. Ben wanted to kiss you stupid for it.

“Don’t fuckin’ take too long,” Butcher growled.

“I’ll take as long as I want,” you called back, already out the door as it fell shut behind you.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the messy white lines in front of him, then back to the door. He felt torn. Torn between relief and worry.

Because now you were out there – alone, unprotected, and out of his sight. What if you fucking disappeared again?

He didn’t like that thought at all. He had to keep an eye on you – keep you close.

“Where’s she off to?” he asked, drawing the asshole’s attention to him.

“Hospital,” Butcher replied curtly.

“She’s, uh, visiting a friend of ours,” the kid added helpfully, earning him a raised look from his boss.

“What’s this talk about blackmail?” Ben asked with a casualness only he could feign, snorting his first line.

“Insurance policy.” The asshole smirked. “Don’t worry about ‘er, mate. Guarantee she won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Ben matched his smile while imagining ripping the guy’s throat out with his teeth.

No one got to fucking threaten you and live to tell the tale. For now, though, Butcher was useful in keeping you close, but he’d surely made it onto Ben’s hit list with that little stunt.

The asshole’s smirk widened then. “Let’s get to business, shall we?”

After striking his little deal, Butcher eventually went to hunt down the first names on his list and left Ben alone with the kid as his babysitter – like that would actually help if he blew.

Luckily, you came back about three agonizing hours later – made fun of his movie that was playing on TV while plopping down on the worn couch next to the kid.

Not next to him. Not like the two of you were closer. Not like you hadn’t already shared every part of you with him.

Drove him and the Geiger counter fuckin’ nuts.

On top of that, you and String Bean were annoying the shit out of him with questions, with your judgment, with your fucking righteousness – like you kids could actually understand what was on the fucking line here.

Ben was trying to protect you. He loved you. And you? You fucking forgot about him.

At least, Butcher then came back with good news – the location of the fucking twins.

Ben suited up in the bathroom, walked out, and found the two idiots shooting something up their veins while you tied your shoes casually on the bed next to them like it was just another fucking Tuesday.

He smelled the Compound V instantly – but different. Green. Didn’t look like Vought was even pretending to hide the poison under false advertising anymore.

Ben then glanced at you – same black sneakers, jean shorts, and a new black hoodie that read: “May the mass times acceleration be with you.”

Christ on a cross….

Star Wars? Fuckin’ seriously? God, you were a bigger nerd than he ever thought.

“That what you wearin’, sweetheart? Where’s your fucking suit?” Ben asked, eyeing you sideways.

You tilted your head, amused, gaze grazing him from head to toe. Then you snorted a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not gonna be caught dead in something like that,” you replied and then grinned, gesturing down your outfit. “‘Sides, this is my armor. I’m not a sparkly unicorn that shits rainbow glitter. Don’t need a lot. Got my onyx slippers.” You clicked your heels. “They used to be red. You know, like ruby slippers? But I switched to black after I lost part of my abilities. Figured it was more appropriate ‘cause, you know… I’m in mourning.”

Jesus fuck. You were not built for fucking battle. Now, Ben was even more reluctant to drag you into this – Herogasm of all things. Not exactly a place he ever imagined you in the middle of.

Ben’s eyes drifted to Butcher, chin nodding toward you. “Can she fuckin’ stay here?”

“No can do, guv. House full of supes? We’re gonna need ‘er,” Butcher replied. “Just try to get along, yeah?”

You smirked winningly and brushed purposely past Ben. He almost pushed you against the nearest wall.

“Don’t worry, gramps. I won’t bite as much,” you said, grinning. “All I need is for someone to be distracted for a second while they read what’s across my tits.”

Ben made the mistake and looked down at the white lettering again, and suddenly, in the next blink of his eyes, you were on the other side of him, smirking wide.

“See?”

God, this was gonna be fuckin’ annoying, wasn’t it?

Ben gave you an impatient and tight smile, unamused. “Cute lil party trick, sweetheart. Don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he warned but kept his voice calm – almost playful. Still, he didn’t want you to get any fucking ideas. “You at least got a fuckin’ supe name?”

You grinned then – cocky, bold, and mischievous. “Puck.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “Like hockey?”

“Like Shakespeare, you bardless brute,” you retorted your correction. “If you’re not careful, I’ll turn your head into an ass as well – a real one, not a donkey.”

Ben’s lips twitched with a challenging smirk. “Well, if you pardon, we will mend.”

Ooooh... Your fuckin’ face was glorious. Your brows drew together, you stumped so much your shoulders actually flinched an inch backward, and your head tilted the other way.

You were fuckin’ impressed now, weren’t you?

“Huh. Who knew you actually know more than godawful action movies,” you muttered.

“Impressed? Who’s a fuckin’ bardless brute now, huh?” Ben retorted smugly.

He still fucking was. Only reason he knew that line was because his English teacher once made him participate in a play of Midsummer Night’s Dream to save himself from a failing grade. But hey, he loved acting and it had been easier than writing a fucking essay.

He’d gotten a standing fucking ovation, too. Of course he had.

But the look in your eyes? Fuckin’ worth dragging that out from the cobwebbed corners of his mind.

After more curious questions from you about his Shakespearean knowledge, came a four-hour car ride to Vermont (or hell), where he had to share a backseat with you.

And you, you fucking menace?

You leaned your back against the door, stretched your legs across the seat, and rested your bare feet on his thigh.

No asking. No hesitation. Just did. Didn’t even look up once.

And Ben? He was strung taut like a wire the whole ride. Tried not to twitch pathetically. Tried not to outright beg for you to touch his dick with your goddamn pinky toe.

He tried to keep his mind occupied instead. Solve this fucking problem, so you could actually touch him. And that was when he noticed it – you touched him.

Not just now, but back at the motel, too. Since the minute you and him first spoke at the trailer, actually. Sure, you kept your distance – but mostly because you didn’t like him. Not because you were scared of him.

This whole time, you hadn’t cared about close proximity at all. You didn’t seem terrified of him even a little – which was fucking frightening for different reasons entirely.

When they finally arrived at their location, Ben then decided to test that little theory in action as he stalked through the mansion with you.

He’d told you to stay in his fucking eye-line, pretended it was for the sole reason he didn’t want you to pull a stunt on him again and freeze him. But in reality, he was protecting you – and making sure those little perverts better kept their clammy hands by their sides.

His experiment, however, came to full fruition then. First test: gently putting his hand between your shoulder blades as he guided you through the house. Second test: letting it rest briefly on the small of your back. Neither of them yielded a fuckin’ reaction.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t give a single fuck.

But Ben remembered the way you’d jumped like he’d burned you whenever he’d done it in the past.

So, what the hell happened between then and now? Or, well, now and some arbitrary date in the future, he supposed.

“God, I can’t believe you founded this depravity,” you muttered, nose and brows scrunched as your eyes drifted around, barely being able to decide which abomination to judge first.

Fuckin’ adorable.

“Whoa, hey, just to fuckin’ clarify – I didn’t found–” his gaze flicked around, tongue poking out between his teeth as he searched for the right words, “–well, whatever the hell this freak show is. You know, back in the day, this used to be a classy gig. Yeah…” A smirk crawled across his face at the memory. You would’ve loved it – not that he would’ve fucking shared you with anyone. “Cigars, bourbon, even had a flag bikini contest to boost morale. Think, a gentlemen’s club for the Rat Pack.”

You would’ve fucking won that damn bikini contest.

“Lovely.” You gave him a deadpan look, arms folded tightly over those tits underneath that baggy hoodie like you were trying to keep the slime of this place away from you. Your gaze then swerved off to a threesome on the kitchen counter, brow wrinkling even more.

Ben followed it, smirk deepening. “You know, sweetheart, I bet you could bend that way, too.”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes dark at first, then twinkling with amusement.

“What, don’t believe me?” he teased. “I’ll kick these amateurs outta one of those bedrooms and happily show you.”

You raised a brow. “There’s about twenty naked women around you. Why are you hitting on the one girl in clothes?”

“I like a fuckin’ challenge.” He grinned, lazy and smug. “‘Sides, I have an acquired taste.”

You snorted a laugh. “Well, take me off the menu, please.”

Not a fuckin’ chance…

“C’mon,” you motioned toward the living room area, “Butcher said the twins are back there.”

Ben nodded, smirk fading, and stuck close by your side.

“You want me to freeze them?” you asked, shooting him a glance. You bumped into him slightly when you dodged a couple fucking against the wall of the hallway. “I could only freeze their bodies, you know? Keep the heads. That way they can’t run, but they can still talk. They also feel it when you kill them… ‘Sides, it’s kinda funny. People get really panicky and freak out when I do that.”

Ben stopped in his tracks, blinking at you for a moment. He watched a small smirk flash across your lips – puckish.

Made his goddamn heart swell and his dick hard.

He hummed and considered it, then gave barely a shrug of one shoulder. “That does sound kinda funny. Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

Good team work. Unstoppable force.

As he moved half a step toward the living room, you stopped him, though – hand wrapping around his wrist, pulling him gently back, touching him.

“Wait–”

You dropped it and flinched back when he met your eyes, probably confusing his prayer for a warning. You just couldn’t see it.

“You’re not gonna–… you know, power up the nuclear reactor in here, right?”

Ben met your request with a tired stare and a deep exhale through his nose. You might have judged these perverts, but you were still worried about their safety, apparently.

Fucking Christ, your generation was nutty. Not exactly how men won wars.

“No,” he assured you nevertheless. “Don’t worry about it. I can dent their teeth in with my fuckin’ pinky.”

Your lips pursed for a second before forcing a tight smile. You gave him a nod and a thumbs up. “Great.”

Yeah, you didn’t belong onto a battlefield but into Lecture Hall B of some ivy-wrapped university. This was the fucking last mission he’d ever take you on (and if only it had been as easy and simple as wishful thinking).

And the rest of the day? Fuckin’ disaster.

The twins went according to plan till they didn’t. You froze them, they panicked (which really was satisfyingly hilarious), and the two idiots leaked more than the poop chute on the screen behind them. But then, he fucking heard it – that sound.

That song.

He didn’t remember much after. Just that melody, you backing away next to him, eyes wide, asking him what was wrong, and him telling you to run.

He woke up to wreckage and smoke. There was barely a house or people left – at least not ones that could still be recognized as such. When you weren’t anywhere in his close vicinity, he felt relief surge through him – before the panic kicked in.

Where the fuck were you?

But Ben didn’t get enough time to look for you before the next problem arrived – the caped cunt Butcher wanted dead.

Fuckin’ ridiculous, honestly. A clown, really. But that strength?

Yeah. Shit…

Took him, Butcher, and a butt-naked String Bean to hold the pussy down. Still didn’t get to kill him. The coward fled.

Ben then followed Butcher and Hughie – slowly, unhurried, calm. Not like he wanted to run around and scream your fucking name till you answered.

Outside, Ben then finally spotted you – sitting by the curb, blood running down your cheek from a small head wound. The glare and sharp mouth were apparently alive, too.

“You good?” Ben came to stand next to you, looking down, fingers twitching by his sides to reach out and wipe the blood from your cheek, legs itching to crouch down and check on you properly.

“Yeah.” You gave a nod and met his gaze, bringing a flat palm up to shield your eyes from the setting sun behind him. Your brow then wrinkled again. “Are you okay? You look like you’re in pain… or constipated.”

“‘M fine,” Ben replied with a huff. “Your powers? Still working?”

Your finger pointed behind his right, and he followed it, finding a half-burning supe frozen still – including the little flame on his arm.

Thank fucking God.

“Does that answer your question?” you asked as the man resumed screaming and running down the road in a panic.

Ben nodded, hesitated for a moment, but then held his hand out to you. You looked reluctantly at it for a second before you placed your palm in his, and he helped you back onto your feet.

He hated letting it go again.

“How d’you get out?”

“Well, I–… I couldn’t freeze shit,” you explained, slightly irritated, your eyes watching him closely again. “But I could at least put it in slo-mo long enough to get the fuck out.”

Good girl.

“Was that Homelander in there?” you asked, looking warily up at him.

Ben glanced at the burning mansion, then back at you. “Yeah,” he replied, deep voice raspy. “He know who you are?”

You blinked at him but shook your head slowly, shrugging. “No, I–… I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Ben gave a nod. “Keep it that way.”

You didn’t ask him what exactly happened or what he meant by that, although he could tell it was on the tip of your tongue the whole car ride back.

Legend’s mansion reeked of old whiskey, ghosts of cocaine, and broken promises – but still fucking better than that shitty motel off the highway.

Ben hadn’t left a lot of room for discussion with Butcher when he told the asshole about his idea to knock on his old friend’s door and hide out here from the public. After forty years, he deserved a little luxury and a king-sized bed without creaking springs.

The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, but the house still held its burn when Ben strolled through it. Everyone had retreated to their corners, licking their wounds, but he could hear your heartbeat from the hallway.

That little rhythm, steady but tight. Anxious. He’d memorized it. Could pick it out of a crowd by now.

The lights were dimmed, only a small lamp on a side table held an orange glow while the rest of the room was lit by the flickering blue hues of the TV. You sat alone on the couch, tucked into cushions, barefoot, remote in hand, and eyes tiredly fixed on the screen, watching the late-night news. You were curled into the corner with a blanket haphazardly tossed over your lap as Ben poured himself a glass of forty-year-old Glenfiddich at the bar before flopping down next to you with a grunt, ice clinking in the tumbler – most certainly uninvited.

You didn’t glance at him, just kept your eyes trained on the TV like it might give you answers the rest of the world couldn’t.

Ben didn’t say anything as he lit a joint and leaned back against the couch with a long, exhaustive breath. He stayed like this for a while – no words, no touches, just your presence. He needed that, especially after today.

He hated that he couldn’t claim all of it. That this – the two-feet distance at all times, your scent and warmth but nothing else – had to be enough.

“Clothes good?” you asked suddenly, voice low and soft as not to disturb the silence of the house too much.

When you’d returned from the hospital this morning, you’d also brought a bag of clothes for him that you’d gotten during a pit-stop on your way back to the motel. No one had asked you to – you’d gone out of your way to do it, anyway.

Nothing fancy. Nothing too modern. Just a few simple and plain tees, a comfier pair of sweats, and jeans. Didn’t ask, just did – with a smirk and the explanation that Butcher had left his credit card in the car.

Ben looked at you briefly from the corner of his eye before staring down at the black shirt and gray sweats he was wearing.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, and added a mumbled “thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with an almost inaudible sigh and turned your focus back to the TV.

News anchors, wide-eyed, grim, and breathless, recited the carnage like it was a weather report. Fires. Body bags. Death toll still rising. No comment from Vought yet.

“Hell of a show, huh?” he broke the silence with a low chuckle like it was just another night – like he hadn’t incinerated a house full of people. He took a sip of his drink and a drag from his reefer, lazily blowing out the thin stream of smoke. “Should charge admission next time.”

“Not funny,” you muttered.

Ben gave a grunt, rolled his eyes slightly. He knew you weren’t happy with him – neither was he, but it hit different when it came from you.

Green eyes flicked back to the screen with another sip of his drink. “Too bad Earving wasn’t there.”

Your head snapped toward him, brow raised in question. “Earving?”

“Black Noir.”

“Oh.” You sunk back down into the cushions. “Weird hearing real names. Makes you sound like people.”

That was a jab, right? Some fucking guilt trip? He wasn’t imagining that, but he let it slide. Couldn’t really blame you for it after today.

“We are people – you included, sweetheart,” Ben retorted nonetheless and took another hit of his joint – a fucking long one. He looked at you for a second, trying to figure out a way to bridge the gap between you two. “My name’s Ben, by the way.”

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, Ben thought you’d finally remember him. Braced himself for it. But whatever you were searching for in his eyes, couldn’t be found.

You turned back to the screen somberly. “Think I’ll stick to Soldier Boy. Suits you better.”

Ouch.

“C’mon, loosen up,” he scoffed. “Not like you actually liked any of these assholes.”

“That’s not the point,” you argued, sitting up straighter like you were getting ready for a fight. “Just because I might think they’re awful people, doesn’t mean I wanna see them burn alive. I mean, Jesus Christ… They didn’t deserve that.”

Ben leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Sure they did.”

And then you went quiet. Thoughtful. The creases in your brow ironed out. Your head tilted ever-so slightly. And Ben knew what that look meant – that fucking softness.

He hated it. Hated that you were soft. Even now.

“What happened today?” you asked with that gleam of quiet concern in your eyes like he was a wounded Grizzly with rabies that wandered into your yard and could be fixed with a bowl of water.

“Nothin’,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the TV, though he wasn’t watching. “Twins pissed me off and I put ‘em in the dirt. They were goddamn traitors. Handed me over to the Reds. All I did was return the fuckin’ favor.”

You leaned forward on your knees, your stare intensifying as you shook your head. “No, I don’t buy it. This wasn’t planned. I don’t believe you wanted to hurt all these people.”

“Believe it.”

“When I asked you today, you said you wouldn’t–”

“Yeah, well, I say a lotta things. Doesn’t make ‘em true,” he said with casual cruelty, but he had to stop you from fucking prodding – from finding the truth. “Just said what you wanted to hear, so you get off my fucking back, sweetheart.”

“You’re lying.”

That hit deep. Not because it was true – but because you saw right fucking through him. Saw right through the lies, the walls, the mask.

“I was right next to you when it happened,” you added. Same persistence, same fire in your eyes he knew so well. “You told Hughie and me you blacked out during Midtown. You said you didn’t wanna hurt those people.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how did nineteen people end up dead? Not supes, people,” you prompted and waited long enough to let the silence stretch. “You can’t control it, can you?”

“I can,” he growled with a stern look. "Back off. Not gonna warn you twice."

“But you can’t every time, right?”

You were always like this – soft voice, soft hands, soft eyes – but never weak. Never stupid. It made you harder to lie to. Harder to brush off.

He didn’t respond. He knew where this conversation was headed, and he wasn’t fucking doing it.

He wasn’t gonna talk about Russia. Ever. Not with you.

That part of him – the dark, twitching, screaming core of what they did to him – it wasn’t something he knew how to name, let alone share. And you… you were the last person he wanted to share it with.

Because if you saw the truth – the shaking hands, the blackouts, the Russian lullabies that burrow into his skull and flip the fucking switch – you’d flinch. Or worse, you’d pity him.

And he couldn’t fucking take that.

If you knew about the restraints, the isolation, the endlessly cruel tests, you wouldn’t look at him the same. Not like someone who was strong, but someone who was broken.

One wrong melody away from burning down a neighborhood.

And you? You’d try to fix him. You always had. Even before the shield, before the name, back when he was still just a young, dumb kid, you looked at him like he could be more. But now he was something else – warped and weaponized by Vought, cracked open and rebuilt in a Russian lab, and every inch of him screamed 'Don’t touch this.'

But if you saw it – if you saw him – you’d reach for him. You’d say something soft. You’d try to make it better.

And he couldn’t fucking afford that right now. Not when he didn’t know what was even going on yet.

“Look, if you wanna talk about it–” you started, but he cut you off quickly.

“I don’t.”

“I–… I saw what happened to you, okay? Parts of it,” you said carefully. His eyes snapped to you. He heard your heartbeat accelerate. You then averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “Not in my head, by the way. I just wanted you to know I wouldn’t do that,” you clarified, swallowing. “But we-, uh, we found tapes when we got you outta there.”

Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t.”

“I’m not here to poke at your scars. I just wanna understand. That’s all,” you said.

“You want to understand,” he repeated and scoffed a mocking chuckle, rubbing his eyes. “Right. You want me to lay my head into your lap and cry about it? Light a candle, do a feelings circle, and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

You shot him a look. Not amused. “You don’t have to joke your way out of everything.”

“Alright, you want the play-by-play, sweetheart?” he baited you, eyes narrowing. “You want me to walk you through how I turned a house full of assholes into bone confetti? Or do you just want a hug and a sob story about how I’m soooo broken inside?” Then he leaned in, arm resting on the back of the couch behind you, smirk dancing on his lips. Cold. Venomous. Cruel. “You ever stop to think maybe I wanted to kill ‘em? Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe I fucking liked it. Hm?”

That made you stop short for a second, but the fire in your eyes never went anywhere. The flames only rose higher.

“Then why did you save me?”

Shit.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, sipping his whiskey.

“No, you did,” you insisted and were getting a little more heated. “Don’t you dare fucking gaslight me. You told me to run. You looked fucking terrified, and it wasn’t because of the twins.”

“Shut up,” he huffed dismissively.

“It was the song, wasn’t it? There was a Russian song that came on the radio. It triggered you, didn’t it?”

“Stop,” he warned, but you were a full wildfire now – all heat and no escape.

“Look, I know what it’s like when you’re not in control. I get why you’re so fucking angry. Trust me. But you’re gonna hurt more people if you don’t face your shit,” you argued fiercely. Brave. Foolish.

“You wanna help me? That it, sweetheart?” He scoffed coldly into his tumbler. “I don’t need your fucking pity, and I sure as hell don’t need you to fuckin’ fix me.”

“I never–”

“No, but you’re thinking it. I can see it,” he cut it, taunting. “Poor Soldier Boy, all alone. Must’ve been so hard, right? Frozen in a box, tortured, abandoned, boo-fucking-hoo.”

“That is hard,” you countered – still fearless, still soft, still all you. “And I know you’re clearly not asking for my opinion, but you should know I don’t think you’re broken or weak because of it. I think it made you stronger.”

And that was the worst of it – you meant it. You fucking cared. You looked at him like he was still something worth saving. Like he hadn’t just taken out half a goddamn mansion. Like his hands weren’t still stained with blood. Like you hadn’t seen the monster and decided not to run.

“Damn right it did,” he snapped and fixed you with a glare. “You think I want to be soft and bleeding and weak like you? You think because you’ve got some tragic backstory of your own, we’re the fucking same? You and me? Not the same species, sweetheart. You’re not special. You’re not different. You’re just a little girl playing hero in a world full of wolves. You’re soft. You still believe people can come back from the edge. But I jumped off that cliff a long fucking time ago. So don’t look at me like I’m something you can save.”

You inhaled sharply, but still didn’t back down. “I know you’re not the cold asshole you’re pretending to be.”

“You wanna know what Russia did to me? What they did? Little scientists like you, hm?” Ben goaded. “They tore me apart. Nerve by nerve. Memory by memory. I begged them to stop. I screamed. I cried. I pissed myself. That what you wanna hear?”

“No,” you said, getting up from the couch. “I’m just trying to help you.”

He hated the look on your face. Hated himself for putting it there.

Ben rose as well, towering over you. Cold. “I didn’t fuckin’ ask for it. Wanna know why? ‘Cause, most of all, those forty years in that shithole gave me fuckin’ clarity. Made me realize I don’t need people. I don’t need kindness. I don’t need you. I wanna burn every last thing that tried to take me down to the fucking ground. You think I regret what happened today? I relished it.”

“Liar,” you bit. “I know you didn’t.”

And God, he hated you for it. Hated you for giving him fucking hope.

“That’s because you’re still stupid enough to think there’s fuckin’ good in people,” Ben retorted. “You think you know me? You don’t know shit. Let me make it real fuckin’ clear – whatever you’re looking for? It’s not there.”

He wouldn’t let you get into his fucking head again.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said and took a fucking step closer.

Jesus fuck, why did you always have to do this?

“You think because I let you sit next to me, you’re safe? Maybe you’re even dumb enough to think I like you,” Ben growled, stepping into your space – and you still didn’t even bat a fucking eyelash. “But trust me, if I go off again, you’ll be the first to fry. And I won’t lose any fuckin’ sleep over it, sweetheart.”

There it was – silence. Finally. But in the end, you still didn’t move.

Instead, you scoffed a chuckle and looked him deeply into his eyes – cruel in your mercy. Puckish in your execution. “I think I know now.”

“Know what?” he huffed, impatient.

“Why they came for you. Your team.” You smiled, soft and slow and pitying. “You don’t want kindness? Too bad, you’re getting mine: you might be an ass, but I still think you deserved better.”

Fuck you for saying that.

Then you were done. Shoved past him and left for your room. The door slammed so hard it shook the glass in the windows.

And then it rattled him.

That look you gave him – like you weren’t sure he was a monster or not, like you didn’t know if you could trust him – he’d seen it before.

It all fell into fucking place then and there.

An hour later, Ben knocked on your door.

His heart pounded, he ran a hand over his face, and he thought twice about turning around and storming back down the hall to his room. But he needed fucking answers now.

After a moment, he heard your voice from the other side, guarded. “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?” Ben asked, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t really have a plan beyond that – just needed to get in there and talk.

There was a long pause. Longer than he liked. But finally, you sighed, and he heard the soft sound of you getting up from the bed. The door clicked open a moment later.

No welcoming smile. No warmth. No trust.

“What d’you want?” you prompted with a blank expression and crossed your arms, head tilted. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Ben hauled something from the pocket of his sweats and held it up for you – cross joint. “Truce?”

Your lips pursed, which meant that you at least weren’t unimpressed. “First one?”

“Yup.”

First successful one. Fourteenth try overall – harder than it fucking looked when you’d done it.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully for a moment before you stepped aside to let him in. He shut the door behind him with more care than he’d normally bother with.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“Didn’t think you’d actually ask,” you shot back wryly.

He clicked his tongue. “Fair enough.”

“So, what? You’re here to apologize?”

Ben bit the inside of his cheek. “Look, I don’t do fuckin’ apologies, okay? I know I can be a little… direct sometimes, but that’s your problem. Not mine.”

You snorted a chuckle. “Wow. Okay…” You cleared your throat like you were coughing the amusement out of your system.

He knew you hated that, but he had to walk a fine line between getting the information he needed and not ruining it with you by being too… friendly.

With a deep groan, Ben dropped down on an armchair in the corner by the large, floor-to-ceiling window front. Legend had given you the guest bedroom on the ground floor with the terrace that led to the garden – aka one giant entry point for all his enemies.

He’d have to talk to the old guy tomorrow about changing that. Get you bumped up to the first floor, maybe a windowless room.

He was kidding. A little.

“Listen, I’m not great at the whole... people thing,” Ben started with a dry laugh.

“No shit.”

“I just wanna talk, alright? I try not to be a dick again. How’s that?”

You considered it, then gave a nod. “Fine. What do you wanna talk about?”

Ben licked his lips, searching for the right words that didn’t give away too much. “Out there, you said you get it – what it’s like not to be in control. What did you mean by that? Is that why half your abilities ain’t working?”

The question seemed to surprise you.

“Uhm, yeah,” you replied after some hesitation. “Three years ago, I started getting panic attacks – not that I’m saying that’s what happens to you.”

“You better not,” he muttered from his chair.

“Anyways,” you continued, trying to tame your fire a little – he could tell and tried not to smirk. “It happened after I got stuck.”

“That Middle Ages thing?” Ben questioned, cocking his head slightly. A laugh then rumbled through his chest. “What the hell happened, sweetheart? You almost got burned on the stake for bein’ a witch?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened,” you replied, almost too casual.

“Oh.” He stumped for a moment, then finally lit the joint. “Well, shit. Why d’you go there in the first place? I mean, no offense, doll, kinda common knowledge they’re known as the Dark Ages.”

“I didn’t go there on purpose,” you said, laughing a little as he passed you the reefer. “I just-… Took the wrong exit and… couldn’t go back in there.”

Ben exhaled a sigh through his nose. This was gonna take longer than he expected, wasn’t it?

“In where?”

He mostly couldn’t believe he was having this conversation and it wasn’t about where to put his cock.

“Wormholes.”

Not better.

Ben’s brow creased a little more. Another sigh left his lips. “What’s that?”

You arched an eyebrow. “You want me to explain wormholes to you?”

Ben stared at you for a moment, took a drag from his joint, and then shrugged. “Sure.”

Your lips pursed, but your head nodded. “Uh, okay. Yeah.”

Ben then watched you pace the room, kick your shoes off in various corners before disappearing into the en-suite bathroom, only to emerge a minute later with your makeup bag, where you fished out a red lipstick. Tossed the bag onto the bed. Uncapped the lipstick, cap flying somewhere behind you and landing next to a shoe.

Ah, shit. He’d have dreams about this tonight, wouldn’t he?

“Wormholes are also called Einstein-Rosen bridges,” you explained and drew a long, smudged line across a window pane in deep red. “They are theoretical solutions to Einstein’s equations of general relativity. They describe a tunnel-like structure connecting two separate points in spacetime.”

“Like a tunnel?”

“Yes, exactly!” you said, and Ben tried not to smile at your enthusiasm. He enjoyed it in silence and sangfroid. “I’m sparing you the folded paper analogy, but basically, it means time’s not a straight, rigid line. It’s flexible. Relative. You can bend it.”

Ben didn’t know what it was about the scene that got him – maybe it was how natural you looked doing it, talking through half-formed thoughts while your hand moved fast and confident. Or maybe it was because he’d seen this before, a lifetime ago. Chalkboard. Shed. That same furrow between your brows, the way you gestured mid-sentence like your mind was three steps ahead of your mouth.

“That’s what you do, right? Bend time?” Ben asked, barely keeping up, but he understood enough.

“Did, yes.”

“You tried jump-startin’ it again? Your abilities?” Ben watched your mouth open and then close, head shaking.

“I’m not a car, you know?” You snorted a small laugh and crossed your arms over your chest with a curious smile. “What would you suggest I do?”

“I don’t know.” Ben shrugged his broad shoulders. “You tried jumping off a building yet?”

Your smile twitched a little on your lips. “Uh, no, can’t say that I have. Why exactly would that help?”

Ben gave another shrug. “I don’t know. Facing your fears?”

“I’m not afraid of heights,” you replied, chuckling. “I’m afraid I get stuck somewhere I don’t wanna be.”

Like 1942, Ben thought dryly.

“So, it doesn’t work at all right now?”

“No, it works. I just can’t control it. It’s like a mental block, you know?” you explained. “But back at the lab when you detonated, you triggered it, and I accidentally jumped. Landed back in New York with a five-minute time difference.”

“Huh. That’s how you disappeared,” he muttered under his breath. “What triggers it?”

“I don’t know. Could be anything. Mostly stress, fear, panic,” you replied.

Ben then realized that was how you’d vanished that night as well, wasn’t it? You were scared and emotional, and a minute later, you were gone.

You hadn’t left him. Hadn’t wanted to. Not on purpose.

His chest tightened, but he didn’t let it show. He’d waited eight decades for that answer.

“So, how this whole thing work?” Ben asked with a clear of his throat. “What happens when you go back and change somethin’?”

You chewed on your lower lip for a moment. “Well, there are several major theoretical models. Fixed loops – like Novikov’s principle – say you can’t change the past because you already did. So time, in a sense, is self-correcting.”

“What does that mean?”

Ben watched, half amused, half fascinated, as you scrawled a massive loop across the glass. It wobbled a little, more oval than circle, but your point came across.

“This is a fixed loop,” you said and jabbed the top of the circle with your lipstick. “Everything repeats. You can’t change the outcome because your future self already did whatever you’re going to do. Paradoxes get swallowed up by consistency. There’s no free will.” You drew a squiggly line through the loop. “Now, if you diverge from the loop here, you create a branch. Alternate reality. That’s the multiverse model. Every choice spawns a new timeline.”

“So how many timelines are there?”

“Infinite,” you said slowly. “Every little choice you make on a daily basis creates an alternate timeline where you made a different choice.”

Ben tilted his head, watching your reflection in the glass. “So, what... you break off one path, and now there’s two versions of me out there?”

You giggled lightly. “I mean, yes, basically. It’s Everett’s theory. If you switched your toothpaste, there’s another version of you out there that didn’t,” you said.

“So, which one’s the correct theory?” Ben asked, leaning back in his chair, joint halfway burnt.

“I think both theories are true,” you replied. “You could be in a loop and create branches at the same time. It’s all quantum probability.”

Ben stared, lips pursing.

You stared back. “What part didn’t you follow?”

He scratched his jaw. “The part where I need a damn PhD just to keep up.”

You smiled a little, nodding. “Alright, let’s simplify. Movies.”

Two hours later, you’d explained every working model on time there existed, went through both plots of Terminator and Back to the Future in great detail, and told him about the butterfly effect.

“In a fixed loop, the butterfly effect still exists, but it’s already been accounted for,” you said and stretched your arms over your head with a yawn. It was already long past midnight. “So even if you think you’re making a new choice or messing something up, that choice has already been ‘written’ into the loop’s history. You’re just fulfilling it.”

“So it’s like a script?”

You nodded and shrugged. “Kinda yeah.”

“What if something changes? What happens then?” Ben asked, the feeling in his gut coiling tighter.

If he understood it correctly, you and him were apparently caught in one of those loops. You’d explained it like a chain reaction – dominos propped up in a circle. If one was removed, the circle wouldn’t work anymore.

All he had to do now, was find the missing domino and nudge the first one with his fingertip.

“I mean, theoretically, you can break the loop and create a new quantum branch. But it’s risky,” you said, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “You don’t know what changes or how much. That’s why it’s better not to interfere.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Ben had to ensure everything stayed the same in order for you to go back to 1942 and fall in love with him. But his heart was already stinging – warning him.

He tried to think back, remember every little interaction he ever shared with you in the past. But what stuck was the beginning – how scared you were. Not just of the strange world around you but of him.

You weren’t spooked because someone had been after you. Not Vought, not the government, or some other asshole like Butcher.

He recalled how you’d crashed into him in the street, nearly knocking him over. How fast you recoiled when he’d reached out instinctively to steady you – like his touch burned. You looked like someone who’d been through hell and wasn’t going to let anyone drag you back – especially him.

The looks of fear, the no touching, the not trusting – it all had been for him, hadn’t it? You’d hated him when you landed in 1942. You’d probably seen what he’d done, knew what he’d still do. Some future version of him had done something. Had broken your trust. Hurt you. Betrayed you. Enough that you came back in time and looked at him like he was the worst kind of monster.

And he hated that he’d have to do it to you again. But he didn’t have a choice, did he?

Because if he let this go on – the bonding, your smiles, your looks like he could be more – he’d risk losing it all. What if you got stuck in 1942 already liking him? What would happen then?

“You okay?” you checked with a soft smile.

Ben nodded slowly. “Uh, yeah. Just thinking.”

But even when you despised him at first back then, even when you knew everything there was to know about him – every cruelty, every mistake, every life he took – you still fell in love with him.

And he could see it now, too – how you looked past everything that had happened in the last few days, every chaos and death he caused. And still, you were here, smiling and talking to him like he was just another human being and not a cold-hearted killer with tons of baggage.

The beginning of it was already there. He remembered it like it was carved into bone: the way your eyes softened. The way you let your guard down slowly, week by week. The way you started to look at him like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t just a weapon someone had pointed at the world and forgotten to leash.

You’d fallen in love with him despite everything. You were doing it again now, too.

And he hated that he couldn’t let it happen. He had to stop it, or it could ruin everything. It was too fucking soon.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, jaw grinding tight as the plan formed – quiet and bitter.

He had to make you hate him. He had to be the version of himself you were willing to run from. Even if it killed him.

But he couldn’t let you like this version of him. Couldn’t let you trust him too easily. If he was too soft, too honest, too goddamn human, you might not look at him the same way when you’d eventually land in 1942. You might not flinch. You might not run. And then–

The loop would fracture. It would all fall apart.

“You wanna stay up and watch Back to the Future with me?” you asked with a little grin.

Ben hesitated for a moment, watched the smile dance on your lips like it was the rising sun. His heart ached.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a faint smile. “Why not?”

And sure, after everything he’d learned tonight, he should’ve said no. Should’ve said something mean and cruel and lay the brickwork for the downfall. But he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

He decided to let himself have one last night – one night of closeness, of enjoying your smiles, of hearing your laughs. He was allowed to have one nice thing, even if it didn’t last.

And tomorrow?

He’d go back to the cocky, smug bastard he used to be. He’d tease you. Grate on your nerves. Maybe even push too far, just enough for you to roll your eyes and walk away. He’d play the part, he’d set the trap, and he’d make sure the loop held.

Even if it broke him more than Russia ever did.

For the next three days, Ben had avoided you as best as possible while he formed his plan. But it was harder than expected because every time he turned around, you were there. Coffee mug in hand, nose in a book, leaning over Legend’s pool table with a stretch that gave him thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

And it was starting to piss him off. Because the more he tried to create distance, the more he wanted to be near you.

He doubled down over the following week.

At first, he started small – sexist comments here and there, belittling you, or telling you to fetch shit for him. He made you his personal assistant, which Butcher highly supported. It annoyed you, sure, but it didn’t exactly make you hate him. Of course you couldn’t make it easy on him.

So, he went a little further next. He started screwing Legend’s maids like clockwork, hoping that would do it and maybe even make you a little jealous. Needless to say, all that did was make you disgusted – your words, not his. You’d told him as much when he called for you to bring him a new bottle of lube.

But none of it made you hate him. And that terrified him more than anything.

On the morning of day eight, Butcher and Hughie were still neck-deep in trying to trace Mindstorm, and Ben was growing more impatient by the hour. As he padded toward the kitchen, he paused in the hallway when he heard your voice – sharp and pissed.

“You don’t get to act like you’re in charge. You have no plan. You’re just drugging him up and sending him like a rabid dragon toward your revenge fantasy,” you snapped. “He’s not a person to you. He’s a tool.”

Ben leaned his shoulder against the wall just out of sight, listening.

“But he’s not a person to you either, sunshine,” Butcher bit back. “He’s dangerous. You said so yourself. Called him a liability if I remember correctly. So help us find Mindstorm, and the sooner you can go back to your life and leave all this bloody shite behind you, Doc.”

“You want me to help you find Mindstorm?” The laugh you let out was dry and short, laced with disbelief. “After everything with Soldier Boy at Herogasm? Did your frontal lobe fall out in the car? I told you – I’m not gonna help with this little murder spree. You guys are on your own for this.”

“I think you forgot you’re not in a position to play hard to get, sunshine,” Butcher said lowly. “You wanna stay under the radar, I suggest you help the people that are currently keeping Vought off your back.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you shot back. “Don’t pretend you’ve been doing me a favor. If you wanna turn me in to Vought, be my guest. It’ll take them two weeks just to figure out what name I’m using this time. Not to mention, I’ll tell them you’ve been running around with a war criminal.”

Ben felt his lips twitch. God, you had guts. Butcher went quiet at that – he had no cards left to play and knew it.

“Jesus,” Butcher muttered. “Bloody useless, the both of you.”

Ben waited until footsteps retreated. Then he strolled into the kitchen like he’d just gotten out of bed and hadn’t heard every word.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said, grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, letting it fall to the tile.

You didn’t react. Hughie grimaced.

“What, no geriatric gangbang scheduled for this morning?” you deadpanned.

Ben grinned, lazy and smug. “You jealous? ‘Cause I’m sure I can pencil you in for noon.”

“Great,” you replied with a wry smile. “I can draw you a diagram of what an STD looks like.”

Ben clicked his tongue, lips curling. “Feisty, but you know you love me.”

“I really don’t.”

Stupidly, that stung. But he let it roll off his shoulders.

Over the next few days, he tried and tried again, but nothing was working. Every time he expected you to snap – to scream, to cry, to tell him you fucking hated him – you didn’t. You just looked at him like he was something under your shoe. Sometimes you were too annoyed to care. Sometimes too tired to react. Sometimes you hit him with the most surgical, disinterested commentary that bruised his ego in ways nothing else could.

But you never hated him. You endured him – which was arguably worse.

Ben couldn’t tell you what he knew. Couldn’t give away that he was watching his every step like a man walking a minefield. But you’d said it yourself – no disruptions, no butterfly effect.

But every night, when he lay awake in that stiff bed, his mind kept drifting back to the soft shape of your smile when you were excited about something, to the way your lips brushed his jaw in the dark, murmuring things you hadn’t meant to say. And he wondered – if this version of you never went back, never finished the loop… Would you ever love him at all?

So he stayed cold. Distant. Loud. He banged maids and played dumb. He tried everything short of outright cruelty.

Till he realized there was no way around it. He needed to push harder.

Mindstorm had been a fucking disaster – fully yours and Hughie’s fault.

As soon as Butcher had been taken out by that psycho freak with a migraine, the kids had formed an alliance against him – undermined him every step of the way.

When he got meaner and crueler to you, Hughie would step in like your knight in shining polyester. It was fucking annoying. And no matter what he said or did, you still never backed down.

All in all, fucking frustrating – not as frustrating as the news he received, however.

That same night, Ben found you in a place he’d never wanted to find you – Legend’s music room, seated right at the piano as your fingers tickled the ivory keys.

It did unspeakably barbaric things to his heart.

He paused in the doorway for a second, just watching. Enjoying. Reeling.

Luckily, he was already nursing his third whiskey when he stepped inside. You didn’t glance up at him, not really, just arched a brow.

“Jesus fuck, what now?” you huffed, halfway onto another eye roll. Your patience with him had become thiner than ice over the last week.

“You got a minute?”

“Depends,” you said grimly. “Am I about to get roped into another errand that involves you traumatizing the staff?”

Ben’s mouth twitched. He should’ve expected that. The maid incidents hadn’t exactly landed the way he’d wanted it to. You’d just gotten more judgy – like you were slowly starting to catalog him the way a scientist would a failing experiment.

“No lube runs this time. I promise,” he said, strolling in. “This is serious. I need your help with something.”

And boy, was it fuckin’ somethin’. Not exactly the conversation he ever planned on having with you. Where would he even start?

Hey, sweetheart, you know how you already think I’m a mess of bad decisions and unchecked aggression? Well, guess what – Vought used my sperm to make the guy I’m supposed to kill. Neat, huh?

The worst part, though?

You were the only person he’d ever imagined that with. The only one who’d made the idea feel like more than some stupid pipe dream – a house, a dog, maybe a kid with your eyes.

Not this – not some fucking lab-bred monster raised in a cage to replace him.

Your face softened then, anger dissipating. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Uh, no, not really. That freak told me something today, and I need you to check if it’s true.” Ben swallowed, stepping closer.

He crouched down beside you, arms resting on the bench’s edge – close enough to feel your body heat, but not close enough to ask for anything more.

“Okay, what is it about?”

“In the fall of 1980, Vogelbaum called me into the lab.” He hesitated for a second, licking his lips. “Wanted a… sample.”

Your brow quirked. “Like–”

He held up a hand. “Yup, sperm.”

“Ew.” You grimaced. “Did they at least buy you dinner first?”

God, he fucking loved you and hated how he couldn’t tell you.

Ben gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nah, just handed me a cup and a dirty magazine. I made do.”

“You’re so brave.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed his face. “They told me it was just for genetics. Research, you know? I felt flattered. Didn’t think twice about it. Hell, they wired me twenty grand. I left fuckin’ whistling.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying not to laugh. “Sure, yeah. If Nazi geneticists ask for more of your DNA, you always say yes for money and pride.”

Ben took a deep breath for the next part. “Mindstorm said they used it. That they made something with it. Someone.”

Your face shifted then, sobering up fast. Quiet alarm. “You think he meant–”

“Homelander.”

You bit your lips hard.

“I wanna know if it’s true,” he added. “I wanna know what the hell they did.”

You stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay, uhm… I can look for you.”

You closed your eyes then and only a second later, you gasped – sharp and low. Ben heard your heart beating faster.

Your eyes flew open with a “Jesus fuck.”

“That bad?” Ben checked against his better judgment. He’d pay a trillion bucks not to know the answer.

You blinked hard, catching your breath. “It was like watching the Antichrist claw his way out of hell.”

Ben’s stomach twisted, head bobbing in defeat. “That bad. Got it.”

“But it’s true. I’m sorry,” you said finally. “They used your DNA. The embryo was carried by a homeless girl – barely twenty. Vought gave her two grand and a contract she didn’t understand. She died during birth. He-, uh, he killed her. Killed a few others too. Floated out of her with the cord still attached.”

Ben frowned. “Did you really have to share that part?”

You twitched your shoulders innocently. “Hey, if I had to suffer through that, so do you.”

Ben didn’t laugh, only let out a shaky breath and found your eyes. “What do–, uh… What do I do now?”

“Uhm…” Your lips parted for a moment, thinking. “Well, you know they didn’t just make him to replace you, right? They made him to never need anyone. Most of all, you.”

Ben didn’t respond to that. He just sat there for a moment longer in your presence. How stupid was it that a part of him still ached for something he’d never had? A different life. A different version of you. One that remembered what he remembered.

Now, in his real life, he was just a man with blood on his hands and a legacy made of ash. A father without knowing it. A failure even in that.

Ben looked up at you then. “You ever think about kids?”

You gave him a look like he’d asked if you wanted syphilis. “Fuck no,” you snorted.

He raised an eyebrow, licking his lips. “That firm a stance, huh?”

“Look, I like kids. They’re undeniably cute,” you said, and he’d almost smiled. But it didn’t last – his chest felt hollow. “But I’ve seen what Vought babies look like. And you practically created the lovechild of King Claudius and Palpatine with a Big Brother kink. This whole thing was like watching a PSA for not having babies. So, pretty sure that’s a solid no by now.”

“Right,” he said quietly and slowly rose back to his feet.

And then, he felt it – grief.

He’d lost a lot in his life. Fans. Friends. Family. A future. But this – losing you like that – this was a different kind. Slow poison that killed him from the inside out.

“You gonna tell Butcher?” Ben asked then. He knew you technically had to – unless he killed the asshole for blackmailing you.

You stayed quiet for a beat and studied him before answering. “No,” you said, surprising him. “I mean, eventually, yeah. But knowing Butcher, he won’t care. He’s still gonna want him dead, and he’s still gonna want you to do it. And I think you deserve a night to make your own decision, so…”

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Well, uhm, I’m gonna go to bed. Kinda beat after today. You know, after the schizophrenic mind freak and, uhm, all the verbal abuse – courtesy of you, of course,” you joked dryly and stood, sauntering to the door, all too happy to get away from him again. But when you still turned around, there was sympathy in your eyes. “Don’t worry, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Ben couldn’t bring himself to respond, only slumped down on the bench with a sigh and a whiskey in hand.

The part that hurt most was how badly he wanted to believe you. That maybe we was still something he could count on. That maybe, even after everything, you’d still help him find a way out of the wreckage of his life.

Ben had one job that week.

Not to kill Homelander. Not to show Butcher what a real soldier looked like. Not even to stay alive.

No, the job was simpler, crueler, harder: Make you hate him – or it would all go to shit.

You weren’t allowed to love him yet. Not until the loop could hold. Not until history clicked into place and the ugly cycle wore itself out the way it was meant to. So for a week, Ben did what he’d never done before.

He broke his own heart, over and over. With volition. With purpose.

He kept fucking Legend’s maids. Loud, messily, with the doors open and no apology in his eyes. Gave you the worst of himself till he even got bored of it. He threw your past back in your face, mocked the way you still believed in him – if you did at all. He called you a tagalong, a liability, a glorified errand girl.

Ben did what he was good at – what Soldier Boy was good at.

He shut down. Barked orders. Called you useless so many times, hell, even you were starting to believe you were broken. He used that. Leaned into it. Said you’d get someone killed. Maybe yourself. He didn’t flinch when you stared at him like you didn’t recognize the man in front of you. That was the point.

He went colder. Meaner. He let the old monster fully out, the one who constantly picked fights and kicked in doors and laughed while people begged.

But you weren’t useless. You were the only thing in this twisted fucking world that made him want to be more than a weapon again.

And you? And you fucking endured it all – like you were playing a longer game than him.

Maybe you were. Ben had overheard your plans when you chatted with your girlfriends recently – after Homelander, you were done. You were planning to apply for teaching jobs at colleges, striking a deal with Edgar, moving on.

But Ben couldn’t let you move on. Couldn’t let you out of his sight again. Couldn’t just let you walk away into freedom.

But you still never flinched. Never screamed. Even after Mindstorm, when he tried to drown the memory of who he used to be in booze and rage. Even when he insulted you just to escape the gravity of how much he still wanted to be the man you loved in 1942.

You always just watched him like you were memorizing every awful thing he said, every dismissive look, every command barked like you were furniture – filing it away.

You never broke.

But he did – and he hated you for it.

The worst part, though? You still didn’t fucking betray him, even when the chance was presented to you on a silver platter – a golden ticket to get rid of him for good – and you didn’t take it.

No, fucking worse – you warned him. Helped him. Saved his ass.

When Butcher and Maeve joined him at Vought Tower, Ben made sure you weren’t invited. Told Butcher you were useless. Told you that you owed him for it. Probably added some sexist remark that he hadn’t used sincerely since the Nixon era.

But of course, you fucking showed up anyways – with Hughie, Annie, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko.

Chaos ensued in every direction. But before they got to him, you stopped it all.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I gave you a fuckin’ out,” he barked at you, concealing his concern as best as possible while the world was frozen around the two of you.

The silence was almost serene – the most peaceful he ever felt on a battlefield.

“I know you did,” you said, not even pretending you hadn’t seen right through him. “That’s why I’m here.”

You told him then about the other assholes' plan – that as soon as Homelander was in the ground, they’d come for him next. Ben almost exploded and killed them all right then and there – but you convinced him not to.

“Don’t kill them, please,” you begged him with that doe-eyed, reaching-into-a-man’s-soul look. “Just let them go.”

“You just told me they wanted to lock me back up in that fucking box!”

“And they can’t, okay? I sabotaged Frenchie’s little Novichok cocktail. It’s not gonna do anything. I promise,” you assured him. “Just act surprised or tell them you’ve built up an immunity against the stuff or some shit. And then walk away.”

Ben only scoffed at the mere suggestion. “You fuckin’ want me to just let it go?”

“You killed MM’s family, okay? Can’t blame the guy for taking his fucking shot,” you countered, looking intently into his eyes.

“What if they fuckin’ try it again, hm?” he asked, quieter now, but his chest was still heaving and firing up beneath his skin.

You exhaled a long breath before answering. “They won’t. I’ll make sure of it. But you gotta work a little with me here, okay? Just be less… belligerent. And controversial.”

Ben considered it for a moment. Considered you. “How can I fucking trust you, huh? You could just be sayin’ all that shit, so I fight less when it happens. I mean, outta all of them, you have probably the most reason to get rid of me, right?”

And that fucking hurt the most.

“Probably, yeah,” you admitted like it didn’t deepen the crater in his chest, but a smile tugged at your lips. “But I told you a few weeks ago, I thought you deserved better. Still holds true.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, his heart stinging. “Why?”

“Entropy,” you said simply and gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Did you really think it’d all end with Homelander? I’ve heard Butcher refer to himself as a ‘supe exterminator’ on multiple occasions now. Homelander’s just the biggest threat at the moment, but after he’s gone…”

“They’ll come for me,” Ben finished.

Fuck, you were smart. No wonder Stan Edgar had been scared enough of you to want you dead.

“And me, probably,” you added.

“I thought those guys are your friends,” Ben noted.

“They are until they aren’t,” you replied. “Payback was your team until it wasn’t.”

“Got it.” Ben clicked his tongue. “So, what? You wanna strike a deal now? You watch my back, I watch yours?”

Another shrug. “Maybe.”

And God, fuck, he wanted that. More than anything.

“No,” he managed to say. And you still didn’t react – like you’d expected that answer. “Sorry, but you’re on your own, sweetheart.”

You gave him a nod. “Figured. Men make stupid decisions all the time.”

A smile of amusement briefly flashed across his lips. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He meant it.

And then, in the next blink of an eye, you were gone. Vanished right in front of him. Took Ryan with you, even though Ben wanted to scorch every last bit of rotten Brooks DNA that had weaseled itself through time and sprouted like weeds.

The fight with Homelander was brutal. Biblical in that kill-your-own-children way. But no one was left untouched. Ben was losing, then winning, then losing again. Homelander’s strength was impossible. But you changed the game.

You fucking cheated. Came back just to rig it.

Homelander screamed, fought, bled. Maeve leapt into the fray. Butcher took a blast and kept going. Ben punched steel wrapped in daddy issues. You froze Homelander long enough for him to charge.

Together, you all changed the tide.

But the price was high. The detonation burned through every supe in range – Butcher, Maeve, Annie, Kimiko, and you. It took a drop of blood falling from your nose onto marbled tile that made Ben surge forward and tackle the caped supe. And with Homelander in his grip and Maeve beside him, he dove out the fucking window, drawing the blast away.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because when he came to, scorched and dazed on the street below and Homelander twitching in a crater, MM was carrying you out of the rubble – body limp, nose gushing red, head lolling, eyes shut.

You didn’t wake up.

Not on the way to the CIA facility. Not during Butcher’s rant about being robbed of revenge. Not when Frenchie and Kimiko paced the waiting room floor. Not when Annie cried, or Hughie sat in numb silence, or MM tried to keep everyone calm.

Ben followed them, and no one stopped him. Not even when he stood in the hallway outside your hospital room, hands shaking and heart thundering like it hadn’t in eighty years.

He tried to look apathetic. Bored and not like someone with a crushing pain in his ribcage. He sat on the bench outside your room, staring at the wall like it owed him a fucking explanation. Clenched his fists and dug his heels into the linoleum to keep him from going in and reaching out.

He’d spent a week trying to get you to fucking hate him. He’d said the worst shit he could come up with. Treated you like garbage. Fucked every distraction within arm’s reach.

And you still came back for him. Still saved him. Now you might never wake up to see how it would end.

Inside the room, you weren’t moving. Machines beeped steadily. A coma, they’d said. Not permanent – maybe. Not fatal – yet. But your body had taken the hit of freezing time across an entire floor full of supes while his own powers weakened you. And apparently, something in your brilliant brain had finally gone too far. Lit up and blown out.

He knew it was his fault – somewhere under the anger and the static and the sharp edge of grief curling behind his ribs. If you hadn’t stopped him – if you hadn’t warned him – he’d have killed them all. Annie, Butcher, hell, maybe even Ryan. He wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have thought.

You’d made sure he didn’t become exactly what they thought he already was.

Ben leaned forward and rested his clasped hands between his knees. He didn’t pray. He didn’t beg. But he came close.

And then, he could smell the fucking bastard before he heard his footsteps stroll down the hallway toward him.

Stan Edgar. Older. Just as smug. Still smelled like overpriced cologne and executive privilege. The last time Ben had seen that face, was in 1984, and Payback had just handed him over like a dog someone got tired of feeding.

Ben didn’t even look up when the expensive loafers halted in front of him.

“I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to slither in,” he said coldly and met Edgar’s eyes. “You have some fuckin’ nerve showing up here. Can’t decide yet if it’s ballsy or stupid.”

Stan Edgar’s voice was the same as it had been in the ‘80s – cool, measured, and full of contempt he didn’t bother hiding. “I almost didn’t. But then, you’re not the one I came to see.”

Ben rose to his feet. Slow. Deliberate. Towering.

“You’re not fucking touching her,” Ben growled. “Give me one good fuckin’ reason I shouldn’t put your teeth through the back of your goddamn skull.”

Stan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Was that a fucking thing smart people had in common?

“Because you need me,” he replied with a calm smile.

Ben scoffed a laugh – humorless and sharp. “That’s a new one.”

Stan’s gaze flickered to the closed door beside them. Your room. A hint of interest passed over his face – not warm, not cruel, just precise.

“You’ve done an admirable job pretending you don’t care about her,” Stan said. “Almost convincing.”

Ben’s fists clenched, his teeth gritting. “Walk away.”

“But you do care,” Stan continued, eyes narrowing. “You always did. Even back then when you first told me about her. We never did find out what exactly she changed. Only she will probably ever know the truth. But I do know she’s your axis, Soldier Boy. Your tether. She’s what you’re fighting to stay alive for, even if you’re too angry and broken to admit it.”

Ben’s jaw twitched.

Stan let the silence draw out. Let the words sink in. And then, in a tone that was too casual to be anything but deliberate, he mused, “She hasn’t gone back yet, has she?”

Ben looked up sharply.

Stan gave a small, knowing smile. “I thought so. This version of her – the one lying comatose on the other side of that door — she’s still in the present. Which means the loop hasn’t closed. Which means you still need her. Alive. Close. And willing to go.”

“Go to hell,” Ben hissed and stepped closer. “You set me up. You handed my team the knife and told ‘em where to cut. You’re the reason they sold me out, the reason I was buried under forty years of ice and piss and Commie tests. I don’t make deals with fucking snakes.”

Stan stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. “She doesn’t know, I assume. Not about you. Not about what you were to her. That’s important. You break that too early, it falls apart.”

Ben scowled – hard and quiet. His blood boiled underneath his skin. “That a threat?”

“It’s a truth,” Stan said, smiling. “One you’ve gone to great lengths to protect.”

“Careful, Edgar,” he muttered, jaw grinding. “Because if I start swinging, you won’t come back from that one.”

“You won’t kill me,” Stand replied calmly. “Because I know what she’s planning. I know she’s applied to universities in Boston, New York, Los Angeles, even Paris. She’s waiting until this ends to disappear. Teaching gigs, research grants. A clean, respectable life. Smart girl. Admirable, really.” He tilted his head slightly. “You can’t follow her there. And you know it.”

Ben’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re here to blackmail me.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t burn your only lifeline,” Stan replied. “The war with Homelander is almost over. The dust is going to settle, and some of us are smart enough to plan ahead. Someone needs to replace him. Smooth things over with the public.”

Ben scoffed a dark chuckle. “I’m not gonna be your fuckin’ Vought puppet again. You’re playing with fire, Stan.”

“No,” Stan said, meeting his gaze coolly. “You are. By dragging her into this. By trying to keep her close without telling her who you really are. You think she won’t leave? That she won’t hate you when she finds out? Not to mention, if you mishandle this, the loop never starts.”

Ben didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. They both knew what was at stake.

“You want her alive and in your vicinity. I want insurance. I think we can come up with something mutually beneficial,” Stan said. “I keep your secret and help keep her here. In exchange, you don’t kill me and save the company. And when the dust settles, we both walk away.”

The old rage in Ben’s chest itched like a half-healed scar. Everything in him wanted to flatten this bastard with his goddamn boot. Snap his jaw, twist his wrist, spill the truth of 1984 in blood and bone. But if Stan opened his smug little mouth at the wrong time, you’d run.

“Got any bright ideas?”

That same old smug smile curled on Stan’s lips. He knew he won. “I do,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

And just like that, he was gone – leaving Ben alone again with the silence and the guilt and the weight of the impossible.

Ben thought it would get easier after you woke up. It didn’t.

Three days of silence in that hospital room, and the moment your eyes finally opened, he felt something in him uncoil so violently it almost hurt. He didn’t show it, of course. Kept the mask on. But deep down? He had nearly fucking broken. It was the damn relief that did it – the blinding, gut-punching realization that you were still here. Still breathing. Still his to destroy.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Destruction.

After the showdown with Homelander, you’d lost your other ability, too. That stupid, terrifying power of yours – pausing time like it was nothing – was gone. Burned out, maybe. Broken. Either way, it was one less variable to worry about.

Because without it, you changed.

Ten months later, you were still here, still pretending you weren’t afraid of him, but your edges had dulled. No more cocky interruptions, no more smug little barbs when he barked orders. You still seethed – he could see it in the set of your jaw, in the stiff way you handed him his schedule or fetched his dry cleaning – but now, finally, you hated him. Not just with defiance. With disappointment. With bitterness.

Quiet, sharp, cold – just like he needed.

The deal you made with Edgar had made all of this possible. Vought had wanted you dead for years. Ever since you appeared on their doorstep with chronokinesis (and one clumsy meeting in ’83), they’d flagged you as a catastrophic liability. You’d been in hiding, hunted by the company until Edgar put a lid on it.

A truce, really.

You got your life back, and in return, Soldier Boy became the fucking leash – again.

Public relations rehab. America’s first supe rebranded as the woke patriot. Pride parades, women’s marches, climate rallies – Ben did it all. Sure, he had wanted to throw up half the time and punch someone the other half, but he showed up. Grinned like an idiot. Waved at the cameras. Did what he had to do to stay on the team – because that meant keeping you close.

That was the condition he gave Butcher. And you.

If you left, so did he. And if he left? Edgar would gut the deal. You’d be back on the hit list in seconds. He didn’t have to say it twice. You stayed. You endured.

You even tried to look forward to something, curb your disappointment. You got an offer to teach at NYU that made you smile brighter than the sun, not knowing he’d already crushed it behind the scenes.

But that wasn’t enough. He needed proximity. Pressure. Something deeper and more convenient.

So he made you his PA.

His old ones never lasted. Never could handle him and for sure as hell hated him. And you? You had no choice. No power. No way out. So you agreed.

For the past ten months, he turned your life into something small. Something gray. Verbal jabs turned into long, punishing days. Coffee, coke, and condom runs at 3AM. Paperwork dumped in your lap without warning. Public ridicule disguised as jokes. Every time you smiled at someone else, he punished it with ten more errands. Every time you looked like you might find a second of peace, he shattered it.

He never laid a hand on you, but he didn’t have to. He broke your spirit in slow, deliberate pieces.

And it fucking worked.

You hated him. Truly. Deeply. Visibly. That sparkle in your eyes he loved so much was gone, replaced by exhaustion and contempt.

But still not enough.

You hadn’t gone back yet. Hadn’t slipped. Hadn’t triggered the loop. And he was running out of time. Your birthday was in a week – the day he was banking on. The day you’d finally break. He’d rehearsed every possibility. Every variable. Every sharp word and final blow.

And then, right when things were at their most frayed and he didn’t know what else to do to push you over that cliff, Vought PR sent him to a fucking middle school – which turned out to be his saving grace.

Edgar thought it would be good for Soldier Boy’s image – the kids would love it, marketing said. He had to suit up. Shake hands. Sign notebooks. Let a bunch of snot-nosed brats ask him questions about courage and justice like he hadn’t spent the last year slowly mutilating the best person he ever knew.

Annie stood beside him as Starlight, all practiced smiles and warm answers. The kids screamed when she flipped the light switch in the gym and lit the damn rafters up with gold. Soldier Boy, meanwhile, flexed once and signed a forehead.

But then, he saw you.

You were off to the side, chatting with someone he hadn’t noticed before. Young guy, decent build, probably early thirties, wearing a NASA sweatshirt like he earned it. Tall. Clean-cut. Big smile. Middle school science teacher, from the look of him.

The two of you were huddled near the supply room door, leaning against lockers like the rest of the world didn’t exist. You were holding a paper cup of coffee as if it was the Holy Grail and gesturing mid-rant with your free hand. The guy was nodding along, wide-eyed and grinning like a fucking rescue mutt who just found a forever home.

The way you laughed, the way you leaned in without even noticing – something in Ben fucking snapped. And before he could stop himself, he perked his ears to catch the conversation.

“–taught at a tiny liberal arts college outside Montréal. Great students. Terrible funding. I built a cloud chamber out of a fish tank once just to prove we could,” you told the guy enthusiastically.

“No way.” The guy grinned brightly.

“Yup. Had to smuggle dry ice across the border in a cooler from Vermont. Worth it.”

“Wow, that’s dedication,” he chuckled.

“Please,” you grinned. “You haven’t seen dedication until you’ve tried to explain wave-particle duality using glow sticks and a laser pointer from Canadian Tire.”

Ben felt something unpleasant twist behind his ribs. You were glowing. Beaming.

“And you said you’re running something today?” you asked, curious now.

Ben stepped in closer, pretending to inspect the trophy case. His teeth ground together so hard he swore his molars would crack. If you dared so much as to touch the guy’s arm now, he’d blow up the whole goddamn school.

“Oh, yeah,” the guy said and lit up. “It’s the old NASA demo with vacuum and marshmallows. I’ve got a bell jar, vacuum pump, camera rig… We film the expansion in slo-mo and talk about gas laws. I also bring in Peeps for maximum horror.”

You laughed, full-bodied and joyful. “Stop! I love that experiment!”

“Come sit in,” he said, clearly encouraged. “You’d be great with them. Honestly, if you’re ever interested in guest lecturing, I know my eighth graders would lose their minds.”

Ben had heard enough.

“She’s got work,” he cut in behind you, voice casual and deadly. “She’s got a schedule. Doesn’t have time to blow up candy with middle schoolers.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn. “And you’ve got an audience to pander to, remember?”

Ben moved into the space beside you, shoulders squared, gaze sharp. “There’s a meeting in twenty minutes. You’re coming.”

“You and Annie have a meeting. I’ll catch up.”

“You sure about that?”

You raised your brows and stepped closer, your eyes flickering around the gym full of kids. You lowered your voice as you spoke, “What’re you gonna do? Throw me over your shoulder in front of a class of children and ten reporters? You can’t pull your usual bullshit with the world watching.”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t threaten you here, not with dozens of kids around and Annie two feet away. Couldn’t risk the cameras catching even the edge of a snarl.

He clenched his jaw.

“Guess I’ll go help inspire the next generation. You and Annie have fun with the mayor.” You smiled sweetly – fake as hell. Then you turned back to the teacher, tone instantly brighter. “Lead the way, professor. I want front-row seats for the Peep implosion.”

The guy smiled and opened the door for you. You went willingly – laughing again, relaxed, glowing, as if you hadn’t spent ten months taking his orders and swallowing his poison.

And Ben stood there, fuming, watching the door swing closed behind you like a goddamn slap in the face. His stomach twisted into knots he hadn’t felt since ’42 – the kind of jealousy that bordered on nausea. That pussy got a smile out of you. Got real laughter. Got your attention.

He hadn’t seen you that fucking happy in months. And you hadn’t looked at Ben like that in eighty-one goddamn years.

Now, none of it was for him.

That night, Ben waited.

He stood across the street for hours. A half-lit cigarette dangled between his fingers, long since dead. He didn’t light another.

Your little dungeon-level walk-up apartment was tucked under one of those overpriced brownstones with wrought iron railings and chipped stairs leading down from the sidewalk. Half a planter wilted on the stoop. A bike was chained to the gate like it had given up.

It was close to midnight. You still weren’t fucking home.

His jaw worked till he got a migraine. You’d left the school with that fuck. That smug, soft-spoken, teacher-voice fuck who probably graded tests with smiley faces and called his mother every Sunday. Probably had a cat. Or worse – a golden retriever.

Then, there you were – laughing.

You were walking up with that pussy now, your bag slung over your shoulder, hair pulled into a loose knot, your shoulders bare in the warm June air. You had your keys in hand before you even reached the steps. Ben followed your movements, watched as you gestured animatedly, then laughed again at something the science teacher said.

He hated the way you looked at the guy. Open. Interested. The bastard’s hand was way too fucking close to your back as you unlocked the door, and you smiled — all bright and easy. That sharp little smile that meant your brain was working overtime.

You let the teacher inside, and that was it.

Ben was across the street before you’d barely closed the door. By the time you answered his knock, loud enough to wake the damn neighborhood, you were already pissed.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Coffee,” Ben said, his lips curling into a slow, lazy smirk. “I want fucking coffee. From that place on 12th.”

“Seriously?” you scoffed, stepping half into the doorway.

“Now.”

“I’m off the clock.”

“You’re never off the fuckin’ clock.” Ben tilted his head a fraction. “You gonna make me ask twice?”

That’s when the guy inside appeared behind you, standing awkwardly with one of your mugs in hand, already halfway into his little “I should give you two a minute” face.

Ben’s eyes were locked on you. Not moving. There was no yelling. No words. Just a look. A cold, sharp threat that made your stomach flip – not for yourself, but for the man behind you.

You knew it instantly.

If you don’t go right now, I’ll snap his fucking neck.

Your throat worked before you turned back to the teacher, forcing a laugh that was half a breath too tight. “Give me ten minutes?”

The guy smiled, easy and trusting. “Sure, I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t break anything while I’m gone,” you muttered to Ben as you brushed past him.

Ben didn’t bother answering.

When the door slammed shut, the teacher guy was still standing by your couch, probably confused. Probably nervous.

Good.

Ben didn’t waste time. He walked a slow, heavy loop around the room. Took in the bookshelves, the cluttered little desk, the framed photo on the wall of you with Annie and Kimiko. His lip curled at the sight.

The teacher offered him a tight, awkward smile. “Did you need something, or…?”

Ben turned to face him. He didn’t speak at first, just stared. But when he finally did, it was low – gravel scraped off pavement.

“If you don’t walk out that fucking door in the next three seconds, I’ll break your neck so fast your brain won’t have time to know you’re dead.”

The teacher’s face went white.

“Don’t ever think you can fucking come back, either,” Ben added. “Lose her number.”

That was it. The door clicked shut a few seconds later.

And ten minutes later, when you finally came back, it all unraveled then.

You looked around, confused, before realizing the teacher was gone.

“What the hell did you do?” you snapped, storming toward Ben without waiting for an answer. “He was a decent guy, for once. And you scared him off like some rabid fucking–”

“I gave him three seconds,” Ben cut in, voice low and bored like he’s just filed his taxes. “He got out in two. Smart guy. You think I’m gonna let you go fuck some science fair reject?”

You crossed your arms, the dim light throwing shadows up your bare collarbones. “I think you’re bored. Again. And I think you should leave.”

Ben stepped forward. Just one little step. Measured.

You didn’t move – not yet.

“That’s cute,” he said, sneering. “Real fuckin’ cute. You think you get a say?”

His eyes dragged over you like a lazy threat.

“God, you can’t stand that I might have a goddamn moment to myself, can you? You don’t get to decide who I talk to. You don’t get to decide anything about my life.”

“I do when your life is fuckin’ mine. I own you. Get this through your stubborn fucking head.”

He said it like it was truth. Like the sky was blue, gravity was real, and you belonged to him.

You stepped closer, trembling with fury. “You treat me like a slave, you stalk me, you ruin any fucking chances I have at being happy–”

Ben chuckled – the kind of sound that set nerves on edge. “Happy?” He took a slow, deliberate step toward you. “You think flirtin’ with some soft-handed twink who’s never been in a fight is happiness?”

You stepped back instinctively.

Ben’s smile twisted. He saw it. Smelled it – fear.

“Here’s the thing, sweetheart,” he murmured, closing the gap like a lion circling the kill. “You wanna get laid so bad, maybe you should’ve just asked. I’m right fucking here.”

You scoffed, but he still came closer.

“C’mon, doll, you’re already playing the part. Dressing like that. Batting your lashes. Might as well bend over and get what you’ve been fuckin’ begging for.”

You backed up another half step, but the wall was coming up fast behind you – that little strip of space between the bookshelf and the door.

And Ben fucking followed.

His hand grazed your hip. Not a grab. Just fingers brushing the fabric. Deliberate. Familiar – the same fucking move his father had used. Fourth of July, 1942.

You flinched, just slightly, but that was all he needed. His stomach turned, but he didn’t stop.

Because this was the goddamn plan. This would push you far enough, wouldn’t it? It would probably make you hate him so much you’d go back in time just for the sole purpose of finally killing him.

Ben had never hated himself more than in this moment.

“That it, hm?” He caged you in with one arm against the wall, the other trailing down the curve of your waist like a slow threat, fingers dragging over fabric, flesh, and bone. “You thought some middle school dweeb was gonna fill you up? You wanted fuckin’ affection that bad?”

His fingers dug into your waist, just enough to stake a claim – just enough to threaten. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t move beyond the line. But he hovered on the fucking edge of it. Close enough to burn.

Your pulse began to race, panic biting at the edges – he could hear it. But your voice was steady and your shoulders straight. You didn’t cower.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you bit.

“You should be.”

His fingers tightened just barely again – enough to warn, not enough to bruise. Yet.

But as you looked up at him, stared into his eyes as if you could stare into his soul, something shifted in your gaze. Cold. Empty.

“I see it now,” you whispered. You didn’t sound afraid anymore, but he knew you still were. “That’s what this was always about. You want to break me.”

Ben froze, throat closing, but he didn’t take his hand off you.

“This is what it takes, huh? You want my dignity next? You wanna feel like a man? Rape me?” You spit the word in his face. “Go ahead, Ben. It’s still not gonna fucking break me.”

First time you ever used his actual name.

Ben flinched. Breath hitched. Heart hammering like he’d been the one cornered. He looked at you, really looked, and saw the hate there.

Clean. Pure. Uncompromising.

He’d finally fucking done it – and it felt like swallowing glass.

Finally, he took a step back like your sheer heat was burning him. “Careful, sweetheart,” he muttered. “Next time I won’t be so goddamn nice.”

And then he left. Fled your apartment, practically.

Because it was all he could do to keep himself from dropping to his knees and fucking screaming. The pressure that had been building in his chest all year – all eleven fucking months of playing the villain, twisting the knife deeper every day – it all burned too hot and sudden.

Ben kept telling himself then that it was just one more week. Seven fucking days. He could stomach anything for that long.

But each time you passed him in the hallway, eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn in like you were bracing for impact, something inside him cracked further. You flinched when he cleared his throat. Stiffened when his shadow crossed yours. And when you looked at him, on the rare occasion you did, it was like you were finally seeing the monster.

It broke his fucking heart.

He had told himself this was the only way. That when it was over, when you were back – really back – he could explain everything.

But now, watching you move around him like a ghost of the girl he’d once known, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He didn’t know how to fix this. How to fix you. How to fix himself.

And the sick truth of it was, he wasn’t even sure he deserved the fucking chance.

▶️ Chapter 15: I May Be a Thief, but I Am Not a Cheat – JULY 6

Going back to the present next week! Yay 🥳

What did you think of this one? Did you expect Ben to go this far? Did you enjoy their little moments of bonding before Ben turned up the volume? Hope those last few chapters filled in some gaps. Writing his pov is always a bit wild 😂💚🦅

Coming Up:

Before his brain could supply more brilliant ideas, he caught you staggering another step. One more step backward and your hand darted to the brick wall beside you. You blinked, your knees shook, breaths grew labored. Your nose twitched, and your hand flew up to your face.

The blood came fast – just a drip, then another, your fingertips painted red.

His stomach dropped, his smirk dropped faster. Your knees gave just enough to make him lunge forward, and Ben was at your side in a second, arms reaching for you.

“Whoa, shit–… Hey, easy… I got you–”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your voice hit like a whip. Not loud. Not harsh. Just final.

It stopped him cold. The words sank deep. Cut clean. Same tone you’d used back in 1942.

Same shit you said to him when he first offered you his hand and you looked at it like it was a trap. You didn’t want comfort then. You didn’t want it now either.

Ben slowly lowered his hands and backed off – and it hurt like fucking hell.

You leaned heavily against the wall of the corner store and slowly slid down to the cool concrete with a wince. Back slumped, one knee up, blood still streaking down the side of your face. Your eyes were sharp. Distant. Locked up like you couldn’t afford to let him close.

He watched you for a beat, jaw clenching. You were breaking. Physically. But you still wouldn’t let him in.

Of course not.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

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[francislangdon]

(POA anon) honestly between the molangdon, melangdon, and perlah&princess discussing if heather and frank have slept together, i need ED bicycle langdon. every woman has taken him for a spin. absolutely no one gives a shit that he's married bc they know if they're really hankering for an uncomplicated night of getting their pussy ate, he'll do it and they can go right back to work without any further issues. kim fucked him in an empty wing slated for renovation once and didn't find it that interesting tbh, but he and princess had a truly unhinged hookup in a bar bathroom after labor day 2023. samira hasn't fucked him yet but is due for it once they start really generating some friction during langdon's repeat PGY4 year. the few times abby actually steps foot in the ED she has no clue every woman there knows what her husband's dick feels like.

i would also like to spread my bisexual langdon agenda and suggest that he's also fucked donnie and jesse. he sneaks off into a supply closet and santos thinks he's doing drugs again but when she walks in he's railing whitaker. which is the worst case scenario in her eyes tbh. samiralangdon will have a rivalry all season until episode 10 where they fuck about it and then realize that their conflicting approaches to medicine fill the gaps of each others weaknesses. and then they save a life together and that's somehow more intimate than the sex they had. one day his whoring comes to an end and everyone is like "you're finally commiting to your wife after all this time?" and hes like "lmfao no. mel is possessive."

and that's why dana is always on his case about being a better husband cos she knows he's slanging it.

[whileinthe80s]

THE OLD GUARD 2 ❤️‍🩹

First thoughts

I DON'T THINK I'LL EVER RECOVER FROM THAT ENDING IT FELT LIKE MY HEART STOPPED OR SOMETHING. That aside.I can say it was an overall enjoyable watch but that's not enough yall. Had to turn a blind eye on some major unsatisfying plot points. Im glad that everyone had a decent amount of time on screen. Not a lot of complaints there.

Booker dying was fucking horrible and Andy had to watch!!? that shit was heartwrenching, but it was totally expected from booker. I knew he was gonna pull some shit like that the moment he got that immortal lore from Tuah. It's sad to see booker go but he TRULY AND FINALLY made his choice. It would have been nice to see him take his time with it though. His reality to him was a hellscape so what he did feels fitting. It did feel a bit rushed (like every thing else in the movie) because its something I knew he would do but it really didn't have to happen so quick. Especially after they've decided to leave the story unfinished. Could've given the man some time with it.

Tuah is great. he's only really a segway for the immortal history plot line so that's about it.

JOE AND NICKY MY SWEET SWEET JOE AND NICKY.. I was honestly just extremely happy to see them again. Love that they were being goofy. Love that Nickys immediate instinct when Joe said he wanted to be alone was to follow him because he knew when he was hiding something. I think that's a nice little acknowledgement of they're centuries together because I believe if Joe was saying he wanted sometime alone to just be by himself nicky would know that too. (Nicky would probably also know that Joe would never even want such a thing as to "be alone" sooo). The conversation they had about them possibly ending was cool. Wish it was a bit longer though.( or its probably just me never having enough joexnicky). Them driving was HOT. Had to say it like damn.

ANDROMAQUYNH IS HEREE!!...I enjoyed their developments. Totally would have loved to see how Quynh navigated her rage if she hadn't immediately connected with Discord. But Discord found her so i guess that was never meant to happen. (Andy getting her immortality back is great and all now who's gonna give it to Quynh🫠. The whole transferring immortality thing is crazy af tbh.)

Discord feels a bit unfinished. Like how did she lose her immortality. The whole shift in the story of immortality itself is quiet unsteady tbh. Like do you only ever lose your immortality if you get wounded by the last immortal? If that's the case, Lykon???. Or is their initial concept of death coming unexpectedly to all living things still on the table and the thing with the last immortal just speeds up the process.

Nile is still cool af. Love to see her taking charge. Her finding a Weapon was cool!!. But again there really wasn't much room in the movie for any deep personal development moments. Something was always going on so we missed out on that from Nile aswell.

There's a lot left unanswered and the movie just ended at THE most worrying point. Really for a second thought i could see the fam in a happy ending (minus booker💔). They took that from us.

I'm just suppppper happy they're back. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the movie. Sure it has some rough edges and were allowed to be upset about these characters that we love but honestly I'm good. Our worst case scenario has been averted. It sucks that we've waited 5 years and now we have to wait again for god knows how long. ( maybe we won't even have to wait if neflix chooses to not renew it for a third🤡 but honestly who the fuck leaves a franchise like in a fully unfinished state. they MUST renew it right right right????!??!? can't even call it a cliffhanger its simply an unfinished story so they must.)

[grimsonandclover]

I can’t ever pass up the chance to spread mrta!artrick. I think it’d be interesting to see how the other acts when one of them gets a girlfriend or even just another best friend

Jealousy, Jealousy [patrick zweig] [art donaldson]

Art gets a new friend. Patrick gets a new "girlfriend". There are no good, clean shirts.

[sfw] [864 words]

⚠︎ Something simple and short to get me out of my writing slump. Not terribly proofread, not terribly great. MRTA Atrick, Art is jealous of Patrick, Patrick is jealous of Art, tension and underlying feelings, stuffed animals, canonically pushed together beds, dirty shirt piles, teenage boys

"Dude, where the fuck..."

Art throws another shirt out of his drawer to the floor with frustration, sighing and pushing back the wet curls on his forehead. "Where the fuck are all my nice shirts?" He turns, eyeing Patrick at his desk accusingly. Patrick, completely absorbed with his texts, only offers a mumbled response.

"Check The Pile."

"Check the—? Patrick, what the hell, man!" Art turns to the corner of their room now called The Pile, or more accurately, their version of a laundry basket minus the basket. It's the last thing Art wants to dig through right now. "You wore them? All of them?"

"Yeah, all two of them." Patrick spares Art a single mocking glance from his phone before another little ring comes from it, and he goes straight back to texting. "Remember I had that thing with Juliette last week," that 'thing' being her brother's Bar Mitzvah, "and then she wanted to go to Olive Garden yesterday."

Juliette this, Julie that. Art stands shirtless in the middle of the room, anger bubbling in his veins. Patrick, that little shit. He has clothes of his own. "You have clothes of your-" Art grabs one of the stuffed animals on his nightstand, launching it at Patrick's head, "-own!"

Patrick can't even let out a full grunt before getting distracted again by a text. It's Juliette; they've been going back and forth about plans for tonight. He smiles to himself, looking up at Art. "I think Julie is gonna finally, you know."

The blonde groans, flopping backwards on the bed. Patrick kicks his feet up on the desk they share, leaning the desk chair dangerously far backwards. "You've been saying that for weeks now, fucking creep."

"I'm really sure this time. What do you need a nice shirt for anyway? You're not getting any."

Thanks for the reminder, Art wants to say. Instead, he throws another stuffed animal at Patrick, this one on his bed, who had kept the first one on his lap before the second knocked it off. He plays idly with the ears of a bunny Art got at a fair as a kid, now sitting alone with him as the first bear stares up at him from the floor. "Connor just got his fake, and he wants to sneak out and go to a bar downtown tonight. Maybe I could get some if I didn't have to go wearing a fucking," Art gestures to one of the shirts hanging off the dresser, " 'I Love Tig Bitties' shirt or—"

"—That's a prized possession, and you know it. Wait, Connor—?"

"—or the shirt I stole from my dad that screams I'm a balding fifty-year-old with a marriage on the rocks. And yeah, Connor."

Patrick almost pouts but bites his bottom lip instead, turning to look out the window the desk faces. He pulls the ear until he feels a bit of the old thread tear open, and then stops immediately. Muttering a curse under his breath, he hugs the plush close so Art can't tell. "Connor's a dick."

"Connor's a dick, yeah, but so are you."

"But he's, like," Patrick was going to say he's a bigger dick, but then he looks down at the bunny. His phone beeps with another text, but he doesn't check this time. "Why don't I come with then? You shit yourself every time you face a bouncer."

Art, who's started picking at a hangnail on his big toe, turns his head to Patrick again. "I thought you were gonna 'you know' with Julie." The name comes out painfully and mockingly, and he makes a face with it. Art doesn't even get it; she's nothing like the girls Patrick normally goes for. She's— god forbid he admit this to anyone but himself— nice. Patrick responds with a casual shrug, like he hasn't been building this up for himself since he met Julie two months ago.

"What time are you guys going out? Maybe I can make it."

"Eight. Connor wanted to get something to eat before we try the bar, and I wanted time to go somewhere else if the place sucks."

Patrick chews on his lip some more. "Oh. Alright." Art continues picking at the nail. Patrick looks to the fallen bear for a moment. It's quiet for a bit. Another beep.

His fingers fiddle with a loose thread at the seam where the ear was attached to the bunny's head. It was cheaply made, it's old, it's Art's. Most nights, though, this bunny in particular gets pushed to Patrick's bed in the middle of the night. Or maybe he grabs it. If you asked him, it's always the former. The bear always sits alone on the nightstand, untouched.

Patrick picks up his phone again to check the text and Art sighs, rolling backwards off the bed and grabbing a random t-shirt from his clean ones. "I'm gonna see if Connor has something I can borrow." Art doesn't even consider borrowing from Patrick. The door closes behind him, and Patrick stares at the letters on the screen. For some reason, they don't feel as exciting as they would have fifteen minutes ago.

"excited for 2nite <3"

[chaos-interwoven]

So about the dancing duo Catalina and Jeremy 👀 They would totally break that dance floor! Which song do you think is the one for them? That special song they recognize from the first beat and Cat starts screaming excitedly and Jeremy grabs her hand and leads her to the dance floor

oof Far this was a tough one 😭 there are just so so many songs to choose from! i spent a day finally making an era accurate tsc playlist full of songs i think they would dance to and have been listening to it for days trying to choose one. (i even put it on at work today and made my coworkers play a game of “oh shit skip this one” cause things on aux have to be kid-appropriate lmao)

honorable mentions go to My Style by the Black Eyed Peas ft. Justin Timberlake and Outrageous by Britney Spears but ultimately i had to go with:

She’s Freaky by Pitbull

what i was looking for was

1. something with either a recognizable first beat or an intro of sorts that would allow for the classic scream and run to the dance floor (as you perfectly described) because that’s a move everyone should get to experience at least once. nothing beats the feeling of hearings That One Song come on and knowing you get to let loose

and

2. something they could shake ass to. because you cannot tell me that once jeremy learns how to properly move his hips, he would do anything else. and cat would obviously be turning up every. single. time.

and so after combing through 5 1/2 hours of potential songs we landed here.

i was so so close to choosing Outrageous because it’s so fun and i do think the floozies (and jeremy especially) would love Britney but there wasn’t enough of an intro, it was just a straight launch into the song and it’s a little too repetitive for what i was looking for. but again, i guarantee that they would love it. like cmon look “It's outrageous when I move my body / Outrageous when I'm at a party Outrageous in my sexy jeans / Outrageous when I'm on the scene / Outrageous, my sex drive /Outrageous, my shopping spree” they would scream those lyrics no doubt

and My Style is similarly a blast and i could imagine cat and jeremy having a lot of fun with the call and response type lines but ultimately She’s Freaky just seemed perfect

the first like four lines are great to just scream out as you get ready to dance in my opinion. the lyrics are exactly right for shaking it and grinding, because i do believe that cat and jeremy wouldn’t just dance but would dance together and at certain parts of songs, on top of each other. and not with any sort of implications but just because they’re hot, they know it, and dancing with someone who matches your rhythm perfectly is so much fun.

this song is also great cause the way Pitbull drags out certain words in the chorus creates just enough difference to have little switches to your rhythm when dancing

and maybe my favorite part is:

“I want ya'll, I want ya'll / To get loose, get crunk, get high, get drunk / To the point of no return, take one more shot / And feel the burn, now work it out / Shake that thing 'til you can't no more now! / Work it out, take that thing d-down to the floor now! / Work it out, Shake that thing 'til you can't no more now! / Work it out, take that thing d-down to the floor now!”

Pitbull puts a pause between every “Work it” and “out” which i love. the first two lines build and then we have this alternating repetition that i think they would trade off for. like one of them would get “Shake that thing 'til you can't no more” and the other would get “take that thing d-down to the floor” and they would alternate dancing their part and hyping the other up. i can see it soooo clearly in my head and it looks like a great time. (i think jeremy gets “shake that thing” and cat gets “take that thing down” btw but really it could go either way. they’re flexible like that)

would love to hear what other people think their song is though because there are so many good options out there

[bambisbabygirl]

Another request for John b: type: angst/fluff. Plot: John b finds his girlfriend (reader) badly beaten after some kooks hurt her.

Hi, omg thank you sm for this request I love writing for John b so much

Warnings; violence, blood, swearing

Note; I wrote this as best I can- I’m sorry it’s so late, pls lemme know for any changes

Beat up + John B

It was supposed to be a quick errand- twenty minutes tops. You told John B you’d meet him back at the Chateau before sunset.

You were gonna go out. A real date. Eat the left overs from Heyward’s and go for a walk on the beach.

But now the suns gone, the sky’s gone dark, and you’re not answering your phone.

So when he finally hears Pope yell from down by the docks- “John B! it’s her! Shit- it’s her!” He’s running before he even knows what he’s running toward.

And then he sees you.

Crumpled on the ground like a broken thing. Blood on your face. A split lip. Scratches across your cheek.

Your arms wrapped around your ribs like they’re the only thing keeping you together.

His heart stops.

“Oh my god.” He breathes, falling to his knees beside you. “Hey- hey, baby, look at me. It’s me. It’s me baby. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused. “John B…?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m right here.” His hands hover- afraid to touch, afraid to hurt you more- but when you reach for him, he crumbles. He pulls you into his arms carefully, shielding your broken body with his as if he can block out the world.

Block out the danger.

Just you and him.

But then you whisper, “they said I didn’t belong,” you squirm in his arms clutching his chest, voice broken. “They said Pogues should know their place”

His grip tightens.

“Kooks.” He growls, like it physically hurts- like it burns his tongue to say it. “Who? Who the fuck did this to you?”

You shake your head slowly. “I didn’t see all their faces. I-I just ran.”

John B’s while body trembles with rage, but he keeps it buried, locked beneath the bigger priority- you.

He gently lifts your chin to examine the damage, his finger impossibly gentle, eyes red with unsure tears.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says like a promise. “We’re going to get you cleaned up and we’re gonna make sure they’re never near you again.”

You nod weakly, already leaning into him.

He lifts you into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing, whispering softly as he carries you home.

“I got you baby. I got you. I got you.”

[philcoulsonismyhero]

Aaand now my car's so dead that even my jump starter won't get it going, fuck's sake, I Do Not need more car repair costs on top of Everything Else

[crystalkitty1220]

Man I wonder where the leader of the fear realm could've gone, it's alMOST LIKE NEVIN HAS AN

[quitedisastrous]

i wish i could just do nothing for a few days straight. maybe even just sleep for a few days straight. sooo excited for constant misery over the next 20 days

ranting in the tags. i would just scroll past if i were you

[uchiha-gaeshi]

When you realize that you’ve accumulated a whole slew of bad habits over the past 2-ish years…

[radio-4-is-static]

WONDER BOY'S AKUMU CLUB - Yojiro Noda

[shokocide]

POWER PLAY - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru’s used to getting everything he wants—until his company hires you, the shy assistant who’s all glitter, gloss and charm. But the more he tries to stay professional, the harder it gets… in more ways than one.

word count. 9.3k (not 10k wow)

content. mdni fem!bimbo! reader, ceo! gojo, gojo crashing out for multiple reasons, down bad simp gojo, heavy tension, teasing, jealousy, pet names, smut, multiple scenes, fingering, oral (m and f rec.), p in v, office sex, desk sex, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. inspired by this by my leslover @deathofacupid i'm sorry this took so long imy hardcore my angel

The wine’s expensive, but not because he’s trying to impress her.

He just likes the taste.

The restaurant is sleek, candlelit, with soft jazz humming in the background. It’s the kind of place that whispers luxury, not screams it — understated elegance, a lot like his watch. Or his suit. Or the car he pulled up in.

The girl across from him is… nice. Pretty in that polished, social-media kind of way. Knows which fork to use, laughs at the right moments, has a thousand-watt smile and legs he noticed the second she slid into the booth.

For the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks: maybe.

Maybe this could go somewhere.

She sips her wine, sets the glass down, and leans in just enough for the scent of vanilla to drift his way. Her voice is smooth, easy. “So, what’s it like, running an empire?”

He smiles, a little self-deprecating. “Exhausting.”

She laughs. “Bet it pays well, though.”

A harmless joke, maybe. But something cold flickers at the edge of his ribs.

He hums, brushing it off.

But then she tilts her head, lashes fluttering just so. “I mean… you must be, like, what? Eight figures? Nine?”

There it is.

His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his chest withers.

He takes a slow sip of his wine. Lets the silence stretch for a beat too long.

Eight figures. Nine.

She’s still looking at him, expectant. Playful.

He should be used to this by now. Hell, he is. But it still stings. Every damn time.

“I stopped counting,” he says lightly, setting his glass down.

She laughs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “That’s such a rich guy answer.”

And just like that, the candlelight feels too warm, the wine too bitter. The space between them grows miles wide.

Gojo leans back in his seat, fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth. He already knows there won’t be a second date. No nightcap. No exchanged texts or cheeky goodnights.

And when he finally slips into the backseat of his car an hour later, staring blankly out the tinted window at the blur of city lights, a single thought loops in his head like a broken record:

Maybe this just isn’t in the cards for me.

Not the connection. Not the late-night calls. Not the stupid domestic shit he secretly wants — tangled legs on a couch, coffee in chipped mugs, someone who sees him.

He huffs a soft laugh, more bitter than amused.

Gojo Satoru has everything.

And somehow, he feels like he has nothing.

-

“What did you just say?”

Gojo doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The sheer weight behind the words is enough to make the room still.

Nanami adjusts his glasses, like he hasn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of Gojo’s morning.

“The quarterly reports,” he repeats flatly, “were emailed to Zenin Holdings.”

A pause.

“And the Osaka merger documents,” he adds. “Along with internal notes referring to their CEO as—” he consults his tablet, “—‘an off-brand Ken doll.’”

Gojo presses a hand to his temple, like he’s physically holding in the migraine.

“Who?” he grits out.

Nanami doesn’t blink. “The new recruit.”

Another silence stretches.

Then Gojo lowers his hand. “Bring them to my office.”

Nanami nods once, and without another word, leaves the room.

-

You’re not sure why you were summoned.

You clutch your little pastel folder to your chest like it might protect you, knees squeezed together as you sit—perch, really—on the plush chair outside the glass doors of the executive office.

The receptionist gave you a look. You’re not sure what kind of look. It felt kind of judge-y. Or maybe pitying?

Then, the doors open.

“You can go in,” Nanami says, voice flat as ever.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Oh! Okay. Um. Am I—” You pause, then smile nervously. “Am I in trouble?”

He doesn’t answer.

That’s fine. Totally fine.

You step into the office with careful little steps, the kind of walk that says please don’t fire me before I finish paying off my student loans.

Inside, the man behind the desk looks up.

White hair. Stupidly pretty face. Cerulean eyes that flick over you like you’re a puzzle that somehow assembled itself upside-down.

He’s not smiling.

You don’t meet his eyes—not for more than a second—just dip your head as you approach his desk.

“I—um. I was told to… to report here?”

Your voice is so quiet he almost misses it.

He leans back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, thumb brushing his jaw. “You’re the new recruit?”

You nod once, too fast. “Y-Yes. I mean, I think so. That’s what Mr. Nanami said, at least. He said—um, he said this is my new position now.”

You step fully into the office, holding a pink folder like it might bite you. You’re wearing a cream sweater that looks two sizes too soft and a plaid skirt that’s about four inches too short for HR standards. Your ID badge is flipped backward. Your heels click awkwardly against the tile.

And he suddenly understands how people end up doing very, very stupid things for women.

You stand there, shifting your weight from one heel to the other, clutching your folder like it’s a lifeline.

“And you are…?”

You whisper your name so faintly he has to repeat it aloud just to be sure.

“Right.” He pauses. “Well, take a seat.”

You hesitate for a second too long before perching on the very edge of the chair across from him—back stiff, eyes focused on the edge of his desk.

Gojo leans back in his chair. He’s quiet for a beat too long.

Then “So,” he says, tone deceptively mild. “Tell me. Why did Zenin Holdings get our quarterly reports?”

You freeze.

“I—I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to?” you offer, blinking up at him.

He blinks back. Slowly.

You chew your lip in thought. “They were in the CC list… and I thought that meant they were part of the, um… quarterly club?”

“The what.”

“The quarterly club?” you repeat, voice smaller now. “Y’know. People who… get quarter stuff.”

You trail off, wilting under the weight of his silence.

Gojo stares at you. Hard. Trying—trying—to remember that you are a human being. With feelings. With softness. With a little clip shaped like a bunny holding back your hair. His eye twitches.

“And the Osaka merger notes?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word like it might hurt.

Your expression brightens slightly, like you've just remembered something important. “Oh! Yeah, I added a couple of personal notes to that file! Like, color commentary. For context.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Color commentary.”

He almost sighs. This is who HR sent? The one who forwarded classified financial statements to a competitor because their logo “looked kind of familiar”?

But then you shift slightly, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, and he catches a glimpse of that anxious expression. The way you bite the inside of your cheek. Like you're waiting to be yelled at. Like you already know you’ve messed up and can’t even figure out how to explain yourself.

And, god help him, something about that makes his chest ache.

Gojo closes his eyes briefly. He’s going to need to do breathing exercises. Maybe call Shoko and have her prescribe something illegal.

You smile again. It’s like watching sunlight struggle through a stormcloud. “Was that bad?”

He exhales.

He should fire you. Realistically, that’s the correct response. A sane man would do it.

But when he opens his eyes, you're still standing there—wide-eyed, a little nervous, but so terribly, painfully earnest.

And his heart does that stupid little lurch again.

“No,” he mutters finally. “Not bad.”

You brighten instantly. “Oh, yay! I was worried—”

“But,” he cuts in, holding up a hand, “you’re going to be working directly under me from now on.”

Your brows lift. “Really? Oh my gosh, that sounds so fancy!”

“It’s not,” he lies smoothly.

He’s already planning which desk you’ll sit at in his office. Already making a mental note to have HR triple-check your email access. Already dreading what happens when you accidentally reply-all to a company-wide memo.

You give a delighted little bounce, clearly thrilled by the promotion.

Gojo’s not even mad anymore.

He’s confused. He’s concerned. He’s possibly having a stroke.

And he’s completely, utterly fucked.

-

It starts with the printer.

You stand in front of it for ten minutes straight, staring like it personally wronged you. Gojo passes by, slows, then stops entirely when he sees you poking the touchscreen with a single perfectly-manicured finger.

“…Need help?”

You turn, lip caught between your teeth. “I think it’s jammed.”

He crouches down, opens the tray, and immediately pulls out a crumpled sheet that’s very clearly been inserted upside down.

“Oh,” you murmur, eyes wide with awe. “You’re so smart.”

He straightens slowly. “Right.”

Then there’s the time he catches you on your way to send a very important file.

You wave at him, cheerful. “Hi, Mr. Gojo! I’m going to fax that thing you said.”

“Email,” he corrects gently, already bracing himself.

“Oh—right! Email. I meant that.”

(You did not.)

Still, when you do manage to send the right file—to the correct company this time—he gives you an exaggerated look of impressed approval.

“Nice job,” he says. “Look at you.”

You beam. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “You’re crushing it.”

He swears your cheeks actually flush. Like you’re the one who just got complimented for launching a satellite into orbit instead of… attaching a PDF.

Another time, he asks you to bring him a hard copy of the quarterly budget report.

You come back ten minutes later with a full-color printout of a Pinterest banana bread recipe.

You fidget when he just blinks down at the paper, eyes wide. “I, um… I might’ve labeled it wrong on my desktop.”

He hands it back. “Looks delicious.”

Despite everything—everything—he just can’t seem to get frustrated with you. Your voice is always soft when you speak to him, full of tentative politeness like you’re worried he might bite (he won’t—unless asked). You apologize earnestly for every tiny mistake, so genuinely mortified each time that he ends up reassuring you.

And when you do get something right—God help him—he reacts like you’ve cured polio.

“That’s perfect,” he tells you one afternoon, glancing at a neatly stapled stack of documents you’ve triple-checked for typos. “You nailed it.”

You blink up at him, mouth parted just a little. “…Really?”

“Mmhm. Proud of you.”

You go quiet. Blush furiously. Practically flee the room.

Gojo grins at the door after it clicks shut behind you.

He’s doomed.

Absolutely doomed.

-

“Do you need to stand there like that?” the exec snaps, arms crossed. “That machine isn’t rocket science.”

You blink, startled. “O-oh… I’m just— I’m trying to find the—um, the collate button?”

“It’s literally right there,” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at the screen. “God, how did you even get hired?”

You flinch like you’ve been struck. Eyes down, voice small. “I—I’m sorry…”

And that’s exactly when Gojo shows up.

You don’t even see him coming. One second the air is stiff with tension, the next it’s cut clean by the sound of his voice—smooth, pleasant, deceptively light:

“Everything okay over here?”

The exec stiffens. “Sir. I was just—”

“I saw,” Gojo says simply, stepping in beside you. He doesn’t even look at the guy—his gaze is already on you, sharp and assessing.

“You alright?”

You nod quickly. “Mhm. Sorry. I was just confused—”

“No need to apologize,” he says, almost too softly. “That’s what training is for.”

Then he finally looks up—at the exec—and there’s something in his eyes that wipes the smug off the latter’s face immediately.

“Unless,” he adds with a tilted smile, “you’re suggesting I made a mistake hiring her?”

Silence.

The exec stammers. “Of course not, sir. I—”

“Good,” Gojo says. “Then don’t talk to her like that again.”

The exec makes a quick, flustered exit. Gojo turns back to you, and his whole demeanor changes—softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You nod again, a little stunned. “…I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he assures you. “Some people just forget how to be decent.”

And then—because you’re fidgeting and biting your lip and looking far too much like you’re going to cry—he gently takes the stack of papers from your arms.

“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

You trail after him, still pink in the cheeks, still utterly confused by the way his hand just barely grazes the small of your back as he guides you to his office.

(You don’t know it yet, but Gojo has already scheduled a little "chat" with HR.)

-

He checks his watch for the third time that morning.

9:47 AM.

You were supposed to be here by 9:00.

Gojo exhales, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, irritation simmering just beneath his skin. Meetings have been pushed, calls delayed. He’s not even sure why he’s this impatient—he has other assistants, more capable ones at that. But none of them stumble into his office with sleepy eyes and whispered apologies like you do.

And like clockwork, the door swings open with a quiet creak.

You enter in a flurry—breathless, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed with panic. The top two buttons of your blouse are undone, likely forgotten in the rush, and your skirt is just slightly askew. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, lips parted as you gasp, “I’m so, so sorry I’m late—”

Satoru turns in his chair, ready to scold. Ready to lecture you into next week.

But the words die in his throat.

His gaze drops.

The loose fabric of your blouse shifts with each heavy breath, revealing just enough skin to make his jaw tighten. The delicate slope of your collarbone, the curve of your breasts pressing faintly against the silk. One deep breath away from completely derailing his morning.

You don’t notice the way his posture stiffens. Or the way his grip on the armrest turns white-knuckled.

He stands slowly.

Silent.

You freeze when he starts walking toward you, every step measured. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than you expect. Lower.

“Why are you late?”

You blink up at him, confused by the shift in tone. The air around him feels… heavier somehow. You fidget, your voice soft, guilty. “I—I overslept. My alarm didn’t go off and then the train was late and I didn’t mean to—”

He stops in front of you, towering over you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm, expensive, intoxicating.

You glance up nervously, throat bobbing.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper again, lips trembling in the tiniest pout. You’re not even aware of how you sound, how you look. Not aware of the storm building behind his gaze.

And that is the worst part.

Because you don’t know what you’re doing to him.

You never do.

Gojo inhales sharply, jaw clenched. He watches the way your fingers twist in the hem of your cardigan like you’re expecting to be punished.

But instead of snapping, instead of chastising you like he knows he should, he closes his eyes for a second, forcing down the heat licking at his spine.

“...Don’t let it happen again,” he says at last, voice hoarse.

You nod quickly—eager to please, still breathless, completely unaware that he’s already running through several very unprofessional thoughts involving those undone buttons and his desk.

He turns away before he can say something stupid. Or worse—do something worse.

“Go grab your coffee,” he mutters. “You’ll need it.”

Because he sure as hell does.

-

Gojo thinks he’s composed. Polished. Unshakeable. He built an empire from the ground up, commands boardrooms with a single glance, and has executives stuttering when they see his name on a meeting invite. And yet—you.

You waltz into his office in pink heels, with a notepad that’s more doodles than notes and a voice so breathy it makes his vision blur. You don’t even mean to drive him insane, he knows that. That’s the worst part. You’re just sweet. Oblivious. Soft in ways that make his dick ache.

Like today. You’re sitting on the edge of his desk, babbling on the phone about a nail appointment while absentmindedly reapplying your lip gloss—shiny, sticky, strawberry-scented. He watches the wand glide over your bottom lip like it's a slow-motion scene from a movie no one else gets to see. He’s staring. Unblinking. Dying.

And when you leave, heels clicking, skirt swaying, you forget the gloss. He doesn’t even hesitate. Just picks it up and rolls it between his fingers, stares at it. It smells like strawberries. You smell like strawberries. His head hits the back of his chair. He’s so fucked.

It happens again and again. You lean over his desk to show him your “cute calendar” for the month—full of glittery stickers and hearts—and your cleavage is right there. Right. There. He knocks his coffee into his lap and doesn’t even flinch. Just stares at you while it soaks through his slacks, wondering if this is how men go insane.

And then in the elevator. Five minutes. Just the two of you. You don’t even notice the silence thick with tension. You’re talking about your new lip liner. He’s clutching the railing behind him like it’s keeping him tethered to Earth. If you’d looked at him, you’d have seen the vein in his neck pulsing like a warning sign.

But nothing—nothing—compares to the time you shyly step into his office and whisper, “I finished typing the reports, sir.”

He doesn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you like you just moaned it instead of murmured it. Sir. Sir.

He shifts in his seat. Crosses his legs. Forces a smile. “Good,” he manages to say, voice tight.

You beam, oblivious. “Thank you, sir!”

He books a week off.

For “stress.”

-

His voice is calm. Measured. Smooth as silk over the phone speaker as he discusses quarterly projections with someone powerful on the other end. It should be just another meeting—another conversation where he dazzles and dominates, where the board eats out of the palm of his hand.

But you're sitting beside him. So it’s not just another meeting.

You’re perched on the edge of his long leather couch, notepad in hand, eyes wide and glossy with focus—or something like it. You’re wearing that tight little pastel skirt again, the one that always hikes up when you sit, riding dangerously high on your thighs. He’s not looking. He’s not. He can’t.

You chew on the tip of your pen. Take little notes in bubbly handwriting that looks more like diary scribbles than minutes. Your perfume curls around him like sugar—sweet and sticky and heavy.

He swallows thickly and forces his voice to stay even.

“Yes, I saw the numbers from Q1. I’m more concerned about the international—”

Your pen clatters to the ground.

You let out a tiny “Oops!” and bend down to retrieve it.

And he sees it.

The hem of your skirt lifts, slow and innocent. And beneath? A delicate peek of pink lace. Just a flash. Barely anything. But enough. Far too much.

His throat goes dry mid-sentence.

“—international… ah—i-interest projections,” he chokes, dragging a hand down his face like that’ll fix the heat flooding it. On the other end of the call, someone asks a question. He doesn’t hear it.

You sit back up like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just flash your lace panties in front of a man on the verge of damnation.

You turn to him with a soft, clueless smile. “Did you want me to jot that last part down, sir?”

He makes a sound. It's somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

“…Y-Yeah,” he rasps, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles go white. “Write it down, sweetheart.”

He ends the call early. Tells them he has a migraine.

And when you leave, swaying your hips and humming under your breath, he sits there in silence. Staring at the door.

He needs a second. Maybe a sedative. Maybe a priest.

-

The next few days are… strange.

You don’t do anything differently. Not really. You still show up on time, still take notes in pink ink and heart your i’s. Still trail after him in those little skirts and heels that click sweetly on the marble floors. But now?

Now you catch him looking.

At first, you thought it was your imagination—just a trick of the lights in his big glass-walled office. But then there was that meeting where you leaned over to grab a file from across the table, and his pen slipped right out of his hand.

The way he stared at it on the floor for a solid five seconds before muttering, “I’ll grab it later,” like it had personally wronged him.

Or how his jaw flexes every time you call him “sir.”

And maybe, maybe you're not as airheaded as everyone thinks. Maybe you notice the way his breath stutters when you get a little too close. The way his fingers twitch when yours brush his as you hand him his coffee. The way he clears his throat, sharp and low, whenever you pout a little at the copier machine and ask, “Sir, can you help me? I think I broke it again…”

He’s unraveling. Quietly, pathetically. And now you know it.

So one afternoon, when it’s just you two in the office, you decide to test a theory. You're by his desk, sorting through a stack of documents, when your pen slips from your fingers. Again.

This time, you don't rush to pick it up. This time, you bend at the waist slowly, keeping your knees straight, skirt riding up with every inch.

You hear it—barely—a sharp inhale through his teeth. The creak of leather as he shifts in his chair.

And when you straighten up, all innocent, pen in hand and a small “Got it!” on your lips, you glance back at him.

His eyes are locked on his screen. His jaw is tense. His ears are red.

“Something wrong, sir?” you ask softly.

His hand flexes on the mouse. “No,” he says, too quickly. “Just… keep working.”

You turn back around, letting a little smile play on your lips as you resume sorting. And behind you, you swear you hear him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

-

The office is quiet. Still.

It’s late—past nine—and everyone’s gone home. The usual buzz of ringing phones and fast-clicking heels has faded into silence, replaced by the distant hum of the city through the tinted glass.

You zip your purse, your reflection faint in the darkened windows, and start toward the elevators when you pass by his office.

There's a light. A thin sliver glowing beneath the heavy door.

You pause. He usually leaves before you—always gone in a blur of cologne and tailored coats, muttering about dinner meetings or conference calls. But tonight?

You don’t even think to knock. You just twist the handle gently and step inside.

He’s on the couch. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened. His head’s tipped back, long legs spread lazily, one arm resting across the back of the couch. But it’s his face that stops you—brows knit, lips parted slightly, tension carved into every sharp line of his expression.

“Sir?” you ask, voice soft.

His eyes snap open instantly.

He blinks once. Twice. Like he’s still anchoring himself to the present. Then he straightens slightly, clearing his throat. “You’re still here?” His voice is rough—raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Like maybe he’s been sitting there, alone in the dark, trying to exhale something that refuses to leave his chest.

“I was just leaving,” you say, stepping in hesitantly. “I saw the light. Thought something was wrong…”

His gaze drags over you, slow and unreadable. You’re still in your little work outfit—tight pencil skirt, soft pink cardigan buttoned just enough, gloss fading but still catching the light.

Something shifts behind his eyes. Not predatory, not quite. Just tired. Tightly wound. Like he's been holding his breath for days and didn't realize it until now.

You take another step in, voice gentler. “Are you okay?”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, low and humorless. “That’s a loaded question.”

You offer a tiny smile, unsure. “Can I… get you anything? Water?”

He leans back again, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’m alright. Just… stressed.”

You take a small step closer. Your heels click against the floor, the sound delicate and deliberate in the thick silence of his office. “Stressed?” you echo, like it’s a foreign concept. “Is it work stuff?”

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s always work stuff.”

You hesitate. Then, softly—“I could help you.”

His head tilts just slightly. “Help me?”

“Mhm,” you nod, all sweet sincerity. “Like, if there’s something that’d make you feel better…” You give him a soft little shrug, voice light. “I’m good at taking direction. And I always try my best. Especially for you, sir.”

It cuts to silence.

Except it isn’t really silent—just muffled. Wet sounds echo low between your bodies, broken only by the soft catch of your breath and the rougher gasps he keeps trying—and failing—to hold in.

You’re on your knees in front of him.

The carpet’s rough under your skin, but you barely notice. All your attention is on him—on the way he looks half-wrecked, head tipped up like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t have.

His shirt’s half-open, wrinkled and clinging to his chest. His tie’s slung loose around his neck. His belt is unbuckled, slacks shoved just low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy against your tongue. You’ve got one hand wrapped gently around the base, just to keep him steady, and the rest of him is disappearing into your mouth—slow and warm and dripping with spit.

He’s so hard it hurts. His thighs are tensed under your palms, twitching every time you suck just a little deeper, every time you swirl your tongue just right. His knuckles have gone white where he’s gripping the edge of the desk behind him, and the only reason he hasn’t fucked into your throat yet is because he’s too stunned to move.

One hand’s in your hair. Not tight—barely there, fingers trembling where they tangle in your strands. Like he’s scared to hold you too hard. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to snap.

Because you look up at him with those pretty, shiny eyes—sweet and obedient, mouth stretched around his cock like it’s nothing, like you were made to take it. Every time your lips slide down, you hum like it makes you happy. Like you’re just trying to make him feel good. Like you really think this is helping.

But it’s not just good. It’s fucking devastating.

“F-fuck,” he chokes out, voice thick and raw, eyes squeezing shut like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips twitch and he immediately pulls back, like he’s punishing himself for even thinking about pushing deeper. “You—god, you have no idea what you’re doing to me…”

You pull back with a soft, wet pop. Your lips are swollen and slick, gloss long gone, spit clinging to your chin. And still—you look up at him like you don’t understand why he’s shaking. Why his voice is breaking. Why his jaw’s so tight.

You blink slowly, lashes fluttering. Your voice comes out light. “But… I thought I was helping, sir.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment Gojo knows he’s fucked.

Because you’re too sweet, too soft, too good—kneeling on the floor with your mouth still open like you're waiting for permission to keep going. And he doesn’t want to just ruin you.

He wants to worship you while he does it.

His whole body goes still.

Like that last sentence knocked the breath out of him. Like the sight of you—so sweet, so sincere, kneeling between his spread legs with spit on your lips—is too much.

Gojo’s chest heaves, one hand still barely resting in your hair. The other drapes uselessly over the back of the couch, knuckles twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He looks down at you. Really looks—at your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes, the gloss long gone from your lips. You’re still stroking him, slow and gentle, mouth parted just enough like you’re ready to take him again the second he says so.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, voice rough.

You tilt your head, blinking up at him. “I was just trying to make you feel better…”

And that’s what shatters him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand tightening slightly in your hair. Not rough. Just… grounded. Like he needs you now—needs the feel of you to keep from falling apart.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he admits, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “This exact thing. You. On your knees. Pretty little mouth full of me. Acting like you don’t even realize what it’s doing to me.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy. Wild.

“I think about it all the time, you know? In meetings. At dinner. Late at night in my apartment—fucking my fist wishing it was you.”

Your breath hitches at that. He notices.

And when he strokes your cheek—soft, reverent, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lower lip—you don’t flinch. You just lean into it, eyes wide, mouth still open a little.

“God, baby…” he whispers. “Look at you. You don’t even realize how fucking perfect you are, do you?”

Then, low and commanding, “C’mon. Open up again for me.”

You do. Instantly. No hesitation.

He groans, head falling back against the couch cushion, hips lifting just slightly as you take him back into your mouth—slow, deliberate, deeper this time.

He’s panting now. One hand in your hair, the other gripping the couch so hard the leather creaks under his fingers.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice broken. “Just like that. Let me use your mouth, sweetheart. Let me fuckin’—” He cuts himself off with a ragged gasp when your tongue flicks along the underside of his cock just right.

He tries not to buck his hips.

Tries not to grab your head.

Tries not to lose it completely.

But it’s no use. Not when you look so soft. So obedient. So eager to take everything he gives you.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t just a one-time thing. Not after this. He’s never letting you go.

You can feel it in the way his thighs tense under your palms. In how his hand tightens just a little too much in your hair, like he’s trying not to pull you down—trying to be good.

But his self-control’s shot to hell.

You hollow your cheeks and ease forward just an inch more. His head snaps back. A long, broken moan spills out of him, and his other hand—still clinging to the edge of the couch—moves to cradle your cheek, palm shaking.

“Wait—baby, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You look up at him. Eyes wide. Unfazed. Lips stretched around him, spit running down your chin. You hum softly—sweet and encouraging, like you want it.

That’s what does it.

Gojo groans deep in his chest, hips twitching once before he locks them still, his hand trembling where it cups your face. He comes hard, spilling onto your tongue, body shuddering like he’s been pulled out of orbit. And you don’t move—don’t flinch—just swallow quietly, blinking up at him like you’ve never done anything so natural in your life.

He’s panting when it’s over. Gasping like he ran a mile, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His hand slips from your hair and drags gently down the side of your neck, tender and dazed.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”

You pull back slowly, mouth slick, lips swollen and pink. There's still a bit of him clinging to your bottom lip—and when you wipe it away with your thumb and suck it off absentmindedly, he makes a soft, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.

“Did I help?” you ask softly, like you’re not already his religion.

And suddenly he’s moving.

In one smooth, needy motion, Gojo leans forward, grabs you under your arms, and pulls you right into his lap. The whole shift is effortless—like you weigh nothing, like you belong there. Your knees settle on either side of his thighs, your hands instinctively resting on his chest.

He’s still breathing hard. Hair messy, tie hanging askew. But his hands are steady now, warm as they cup your hips and hold you close. His head rests against your shoulder for a second, like he just needs to feel you.

“Too well,” he murmurs. “You helped too fucking well.”

One hand lifts to cup the side of your face again. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, gaze softening like he’s trying to memorize everything—your flushed skin, your shiny lips, the way you’re still straddling him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re so good for me,” he says. Quiet. Honest.

You smile, just barely. “I like being good for you.”

And it clicks for him then. That he’s completely gone. That he’d do anything to keep you like this—sweet, soft, his.

“Let me take care of you now,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You were perfect.”

His mouth brushes your jaw, your cheek, your lips—soft, reverent kisses. Nothing rushed. Just quiet, lingering gratitude, like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t have words for yet.

He holds you there, warm in his lap, and for once in his life, Gojo Satoru feels like he has nothing else to run to.

-

It starts small.

A glance that lingers too long. The way his eyes flick down to your mouth whenever you talk. The way his voice goes soft—low and fond—when he calls you into his office now.

“Got a minute, sweetheart?”

He always says it like it’s nothing. Like his heart isn’t skipping a beat every time you look up at him with wide eyes.

But then there’s the night he catches you frowning at the copier.

Your arms are crossed, bottom lip caught between your teeth, standing in front of the machine like it just insulted your entire bloodline.

He rounds the corner, sees the blinking error light, and immediately slows his steps.

“Need help?” he asks, lips twitching.

You huff. “It keeps saying ‘paper jam,’ but there’s no paper. I looked!”

Gojo steps in without hesitation, one hand brushing your back as he leans close—so close—to peer into the machine with you.

“Let me help you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice warm.

You freeze a little when he says it like that. Soft. Patient. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to come untangle your messes.

He opens the side panel, reaches in, and—sure enough—pulls out a crumpled little piece of paper stuck way in the back. You blink.

“Oh.”

He grins, glancing down at you. “You’re cute when you try to problem-solve.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can say a word, he leans down and kisses you. Soft, slow, sure. Right there in the hallway, lights buzzing faintly overhead.

It doesn’t last long—just a breathless few seconds—but when he pulls back, he’s smiling like you hung the stars.

“See? You do your best,” he says. “And I take care of the rest.”

Another day, another meeting.

You're seated beside him, nervously flipping through a stack of documents. The printouts don’t make much sense—some budget chart you barely understand—but you try to follow along, nodding like you get it.

Gojo notices. Of course he does.

He leans over, voice low near your ear. “That page’s upside down, baby.”

You blink down. Oh. It is.

Your face goes hot instantly. But he just grins, tugs it gently from your hands, and flips it around before setting it neatly back on the table.

Then he grabs your pen and starts jotting little notes in the margins to help. Bullet points. Simplified terms. Asterisks with arrows pointing to key numbers.

You stare at the page.

He nudges your knee under the table, gentle. “I got you.”

Sometimes he kisses you without warning. When you bring him coffee. When you trip over your words in a meeting and look at him like you’re going to cry. When you smile too hard at something stupid and he just can’t help himself.

There’s a moment in the break room—mid-laugh, holding a napkin in your hand—when he walks in, sees you like that, and kisses you so suddenly the coffee cup almost falls from your fingers.

He just pulls you in. Mouth hot and insistent. One hand curling around your waist like he needs you closer.

You gasp against him, wide-eyed, but don’t pull away. You never do.

When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Eyes glassy.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Couldn’t help it.”

But he’s not sorry. Not even a little.

And when he walks you out at the end of the night—past the quiet desks, the dark windows—he always makes sure your purse is zipped, your coat is buttoned, your phone’s in your hand.

“You good?” he asks, gentle. “Need me to call you a car?”

“I’m okay,” you say every time, small and sweet.

But he still walks you to the elevator, still touches your back as the doors close, still watches them until the numbers tick down and you're out of sight.

Because Gojo Satoru is in love. So in love.

And it’s getting harder every day to pretend he’s not.

-

You hand him the report in silence, nervous fingers lingering just a second too long on the paper. He takes it, brows lifted—expecting to have to fix something, as usual.

But he doesn’t say a word. Just scans the first page, then the second.

Then stillness.

He looks up, something unreadable in his eyes. “You did this?”

You nod slowly. “I… think I got it right.”

He flips back to the beginning. Reads again. His lips part, and he exhales a quiet laugh—disbelieving.

“Yeah. You did.” A pause. “You got everything right.”

Your breath catches.

He pushes back from his desk, legs spreading slightly in his chair, eyes still locked on you. “C’mere.”

You walk around the desk slowly. His chair rolls back a little, his hands landing on your hips to guide you between his legs. His voice is low, almost amused.

“You’ve been trying to get this right for weeks.”

“I know,” you say quietly, blinking up at him.

“You’ve been trying so hard,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin. “And I’ve been so fucking patient.”

Before you can ask what that means, he pulls you in, kissing you soft and deep, tongue sliding into your mouth with slow intent. It’s not rushed. It’s not demanding. It’s like he’s savoring you.

Then, a whisper against your lips, “Up on the desk, sweetheart.”

You hesitate. His hands lift you easily, setting you on the polished edge, your skirt already sliding up as he nudges your knees apart.

You breathe his name, quiet. He smiles, eyes flicking to your thighs, then back to your face.

“You always try so hard for me,” he murmurs, fingers brushing up your bare leg. “I should’ve done this sooner.”

He leans in and kisses your inner thigh. Just once. Then again, higher this time, warm breath brushing close. You’re already squirming when his fingers hook into your underwear, dragging it down slow.

His hands hold your thighs open, firm but not rough. And when he leans in and finally licks—flat and slow, from bottom to top—you gasp.

He hums against you, like you taste better than he imagined.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your clit as he speaks. “Wearing that little skirt. Acting all innocent.”

His tongue moves again—firmer now, more focused, mouth wet and hot, tongue dragging circles around your clit until your back’s arching off the desk.

One of his hands drifts to your stomach, holding you down gently while he keeps going.

He doesn’t stop. Just sucks your clit slow and deep, then flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

“Oh my god—sir—”

He groans at the sound of your voice, fingers digging just slightly into your skin. He licks deeper, messier now, tongue dipping into you before dragging back up, mouth slick with you.

You grip his hair, eyes fluttering. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he groans when you do it—low and hungry, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you.

Every time your hips jerk, he steadies you with a quiet, “Shh, I got you.”

And when you finally come—quiet but shaking, breath punched out of your lungs—he holds you still and keeps licking until your thighs are trembling from the aftershocks.

Only then does he pull back, mouth shiny, pupils blown.

When you finally go still, he stays there a beat longer. Just breathing against your skin. Then he leans up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you.

No smirk. No smug comment.

Just “You did good.”

Then a pause, before he adds, softer—

“So good I might keep you here for a while.”

-

The conference room is all glass and polish, afternoon sunlight spilling over the sleek table, casting reflections on every chrome edge. You’re seated near the far end, soft blouse tucked neatly into your skirt, lips glossed, notebook open—trying to look like you understand the graphs being passed around.

You’re perched between two other departments. People you don’t usually work with.

That’s when one of them—a guy from Finance, tall, tan, and way too smug—leans toward you with a charming little grin.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he says low, like this meeting is a cocktail hour. “You new?”

You glance up, a little startled. “Oh—kinda. I’ve been here a couple months…”

He looks you up and down, eyes lingering a second too long. “They must’ve been keeping you hidden.”

You laugh nervously. Just a tiny sound. Then glance across the table.

Gojo’s already watching you.

Expression unreadable. Elbow propped on the armrest, long fingers brushing his lips, like he’s bored but you know better. His other hand is clenched in his lap, the silver of his ring glinting as it curls tighter.

He says nothing.

Just tracks the way that guy keeps leaning closer. The way his shoulder nearly brushes yours. The way you keep tucking your hair behind your ear.

“You work directly under Gojo?” the guy asks, lips quirking.

“Mhm,” you nod, keeping your tone light. “Just admin stuff.”

“Admin,” he echoes with a smirk. “You sure don’t look like admin.”

Gojo’s head tilts, slowly. “Something you’d like to say about my assistant?” His voice is calm. Light.

But something sharp lives underneath it.

The guy laughs, brushing it off. “Just saying, sir. You’ve got an eye for talent.”

A few people chuckle under their breath.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking back to your notes, burning with embarrassment.

Gojo doesn’t laugh.

He just smiles. That small, dangerous kind of smile. “Mm. That I do.”

The meeting moves on—but he doesn’t.

You can feel the weight of his stare for the rest of it. Every time you fidget, every time you speak up with that soft, hesitant voice of yours, his eyes flick to you like he’s trying to memorize the sound.

It’s late afternoon when your desk phone rings.

You jump a little. The office is quiet now—most people wrapping up their day, the halls thinning out.

You pick it up. “H-Hello?”

“Come to my office.”

That’s all he says. No tone. No explanation. Just that low, clipped command—and then the line clicks dead.

Your heart stutters.

You smooth your skirt nervously, touch up your gloss with shaking fingers, then knock on his office door.

No answer.

So you step inside.

The room’s dim, lit only by the golden wash of the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gojo’s at his desk, sprawled back in his leather chair.

Jacket tossed aside, sleeves rolled. His tie’s hanging loose around his neck, top buttons undone. Hair a little messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

He looks you over slowly. Not speaking. Just dragging his gaze down your body and back up again, the tension crawling up your spine with every second of silence.

You shift, swallowing. “You… asked for me, sir?”

A slow smirk touches his lips.

“Mm. I did.”

He doesn’t invite you to sit.

He just watches you stand there—nervous and fidgety, wringing your hands in front of his desk.

“I wanted to ask,” he says lazily, “how that meeting went for you.”

You blink. “It was… okay?”

“‘Okay’,” he echoes, still smirking. “That guy from Finance seemed real interested in you.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh, um—he was just being friendly—”

Gojo hums. Stands up.

You freeze as he rounds the desk, walking toward you slowly. Unhurried. Like he already knows you won’t run.

“He called you pretty,” he says, voice softer now. “Right in front of me.”

You look down. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t flirt back or anything—”

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart,” he murmurs, reaching you at last.

His fingers find your chin, tilting it up gently.

“I saw you. Saw how good you were. All polite and quiet. Just letting him talk like that.”

You nod, lips parted, breath catching.

His thumb strokes along your jaw.

You barely have time to ask what this is about before he crowds in, gently guiding you backward until your hips bump the edge of his desk. He doesn’t push—he never has to. Just waits, hands resting on your waist, thumbs stroking small circles until you sit for him.

The silence stretches as he steps between your legs. He’s still for a moment, eyes drifting down your body—slow and thoughtful, like he’s mentally tracing every place he’s already touched.

“Didn’t like that,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

His hands slide up your thighs. “The way he looked at you.”

You swallow. “I didn’t flirt with him or anything, I swear—”

“I know,” he says simply.

His thumbs reach the edge of your skirt, bunching the fabric higher. The room’s quiet except for the rustle of clothes and the faint hum of the city outside the glass.

“You were good,” he murmurs. “You always are.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart’s racing. You’re too aware of the warmth of his palms against your skin.

Then he sinks to his knees.

Your breath catches.

“Sir—”

He looks up at you. Calm. Steady. “Just let me, angel.”

You nod.

He leans in, pressing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. His hands slide further up, coaxing your legs open—thumbs stroking the soft skin of your inner thighs like he’s in no rush. Like he’s savoring it.

You try not to squirm.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs.

He hooks his fingers under your panties and drags them down slow. No fanfare. No teasing smirk. Just quiet focus. When he presses his mouth to you, it’s unhurried. He licks into you like he’s tasting you for the first time—soft, deliberate strokes of his tongue that have your breath stuttering.

You grip the edge of the desk. He hums softly when you twitch under him.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs. “How long have you been like this?”

You shake your head, too breathless to answer.

His thumb strokes your thigh while he eats you out like it’s something to be taken seriously—like he’s tuning the rest of the world out just for this. Just for you.

Every now and then, he pauses. Kisses the inside of your thigh. Lets you breathe.

“Say it.”

You blink, dazed. “Say…?”

“You know what I want.”

Your mouth parts. “I’m yours.”

He groans softly, going right back in—tongue slow, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open.

“Again.”

You moan, hips jerking. “I’m yours, Gojo—fuck—only yours—”

“Yeah,” he mutters against you, voice low and wrecked. “That’s right.”

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start trembling, thighs shaking around his head. He keeps working you through it—tongue steady, hands warm, mouth dragging out every pulse of it until you're gasping his name, half-crying into the sleeve of your blouse.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is slick and his breath is shallow. 

You're already wet—he drags his fingers through it once, slow and deliberate, before circling your clit with maddening patience. You try to keep quiet, but the sounds come anyway—tiny, breathy, embarrassing things.

He slips one finger inside, then another. It’s not rushed—it’s focused. Careful. Testing what you can take.

His free hand wraps around the back of your thigh, pulling you a little closer to the edge. His fingers work you open slowly, curling just right, his thumb brushing up top in quiet, steady strokes.

“You can take it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You grip the edge of the desk, gasping when he shifts just slightly and hits something deeper.

“There,” he says, like he’s memorizing it. “Right there, huh?”

You nod quickly, eyes fluttering, hips starting to roll with him.

“Yeah… that’s it. Just like that.” He watches you the whole time—so attentive, so fucking into it—like he’s trying to catch every twitch of your mouth, every time your lashes flutter.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “I want to feel you.”

You come quiet, but it shakes through you all the same—hips jerking, thighs trembling, mouth falling open around a sound you didn’t mean to make. His fingers don’t stop. He fucks you through it—just enough pressure, just enough praise, dragging it out until you're oversensitive and shaking.

When he finally pulls his hand away, he brings it to his mouth, licking his fingers like it’s nothing.

You blink at him, dazed. “Gojo—”

He stands, reaches out, and drags you up to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re not done yet,” he murmurs, already turning you gently around.

And then he presses you forward over the desk—his hand on your back, firm but not rough, guiding you down. You feel the heat of him behind you, his belt already unfastening.

His belt slides open with a quiet snick, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving you time to brace.

But you don’t. Can’t. You’re still bent over his desk, legs trembling from the second orgasm he pulled out of you like it was nothing.

Behind you, you hear the soft zzzp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he lowers just enough to free himself. You start to shift—maybe to stand, maybe to turn—but his palm finds the small of your back again, holding you down gently.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

You freeze.

“‘M not done with you yet.”

You gasp when you feel the blunt heat of him, hard and already dripping, sliding between your folds. He’s not pushing in—yet—but he’s there, heavy against you, teasing, dragging slow and wet between your folds while he stares down like he’s watching something sacred.

“Still so fucking warm,” he says under his breath. “You gonna let me fuck you now, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly, the word yes catching in your throat.

“Need you to say it,” he breathes, leaning forward, his chest brushing your back. “C’mon. Tell me.”

“I want you to,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Please—”

He groans, low and ragged, and then—finally—he pushes in.

You gasp—he’s big, thick and slow as he sinks in inch by inch. Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk, gripping the edge as he fills you.

“F-fuck,” he grits out, jaw clenched tight. “You feel—Jesus, precious, you’re perfect.”

He bottoms out with a slow roll of his hips, then stays there. Doesn’t move. Just breathes heavy against your back, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “So long. Can’t even count how many fucking times I looked at you and wanted this.”

You whimper as he pulls out a little, then thrusts back in—just once, sharp and deep. You jolt against the desk, your cheek pressing to the cool wood.

He sets a pace then—not fast, not rough. Just deep. Controlled. Like every thrust is meant to remind you who you belong to. He fills you so fully, going deeper with every thrust as if trying to rid any thought from your brain that isn’t him.

The rhythm of it—his hips rolling into you, his hand tight on your waist, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin and your own slick soaking every movement—drives you closer and closer until you’re nearly crying with it.

“Satoru—please—” you pant, arching back against him, trying to take more.

“I know, precious. I know,” he murmurs, dragging his hand back to your hip so he can fuck you harder now, a little deeper. “You’re takin’ it so good.”

His thick head kisses your cervix with every relentless snap of his hips and one of his hands reaches down to dip between your thighs, rubbing tight, precise circles onto your clit.

“Mmm—sir,” you whine into the polished mahogany table, fingers digging into the edges of the fine wood. “I’m so—fuck—close!”

“Yeah? You’re gonna come for me, precious?”

Your orgasm builds sharp and fast and you nod, your toes curling, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.

“Let go,” he whispers, voice low and frayed. “Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be good for me, yeah?”

You do—god, you do—legs shaking, breath catching, body going tight around him as the orgasm hits, rolling through you in waves.

Gojo swears under his breath, fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release. And then he groans deep and spills into you with a shudder.

He stays there for a moment, slumped over you, both of you catching your breath in the heavy silence of the office. Then, slowly, he pulls out, gentle as ever, hands skimming over your hips to smooth your skirt back down.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice still rough, a rasp of heat and concern wrapped in silk.

You nod, lips parted, lungs trying to catch up. His gaze doesn’t move from your face.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder then another just beneath your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he coaxes, hands tracing soothing lines down your sides. “You were perfect.”

He shifts, not pulling away from you, but adjusting and cradling you with too much care for a man who had you begging a few minutes ago. He gently flips you over onto your back, strong hands finding your hips and then your thighs, his thumbs kneading slow, soft circles into the sore muscle like he’s memorizing your skin.

A content sigh escapes you, and he smiles, eyes half-lidded and reverent.

“Good girl,” he says lowly, his forehead pressing to yours. “You did so good for me, angel. So fucking good.”

His mouth finds yours, and the kiss he gives you is nothing like the ones before. It’s not rushed, not wild. It’s deep, slow, and indulgent. Like he’s trying to pour all the unspoken things into it.

Your arms loop around his neck, and your fingers find his hair, tugging gently. He groans quietly against your lips, like the sound is meant just for you.

You sigh into his mouth, full, and wrecked in the best way.

He pulls back only slightly, nose brushing yours. 

“Remind me to give you another bonus.”

author's note. yeah i got real lazy at the smut. i'm so done with writing smut i quit icl ts pmo gng

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

taglist. @raendarkfaerie