#< that tag is from when I first thought I could do this in like 2019 kdhfkjdfjkhdfkjdhs

[bucketbueckers]

RECKLESS DRIVING

CHAPTER TWO

content: language, a cam roman crash out disguised as humor, mention of a panic attack (not an actual one, literally a mention), implied mental health issues, HORSE as foreplay, author won't pretend to know anything about the dallas geography

wc: 7.2k

notes: not gonna lie, this was lowk a rly tough chapter to write but im happy with how it turned out 🙂‍↔️ i love paige and cam so bad and i can't wait until we get to the heart of their relationship once the season actually starts. also i honestly wasn't gonna post this tn but somehow the wings won so why not. do not expect future updates to be this fast. shout out li yueru tho thats my goat fr. if i missed anyone on the taglist pls lmk !!! anyways i really appreciate the love on chapter one and i love hearing from y'all 🫶 as always i hope y'all enjoy this one ❤️

tags: @cowboybueckers @indigo491 @wnba-scotland @volleyballgirlsblog @sillystarv @middyprincess @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers @user1269 @fivest4rbuecks @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @lilpaigeyherbo

Before now, Cam isn’t so sure that she’s ever thought much about retirement.

She’s 26. She easily has another ten years left in her, but she’s always dreamed of having a long career that could rival Taurasi’s. She knows for sure that she’s not turning in her resignation papers without a league MVP, a championship ring, and an Olympic medal. Whether she retired as a Dallas Wing or whether she signed elsewhere was another story entirely. Maybe she’d spend her final season in the league as a Golden State Valkyrie, giving her last year to the city that had raised her.

Either way, the end wasn’t ever something that was a topic of thought for her. Cam liked to stay focused on the present – on her workouts, her training. The seasons always passed by so quickly that dedicating your energy to anywhere but the present was wasting the already limited time you had.

But now, as Cam stares at a very naked Paige Bueckers, whose face is wrought with a sudden shock and a damning realization, whose hair is mussed and whose neck is littered with enough marks that Cam has half a mind to call the cops and report herself for assault and battery, she sees her entire career flash by her eyes.

She recalls her draft night vividly. She still has the white, floral dress she wore to it hung up in her closet. She remembers her first rookie press conference and the reporter who backhandedly called her a “decent player, given the options the Wings had in the draft.” She remembers her debut, her lackluster thirteen points and five rebounds, how the media considered her a bust only five games into the season. Cam remembers how she fought to show up every day despite the fact that all she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and cease to exist.

Cam remembers how she made a name for herself in spite of it all. She remembers their winning season, and how it all came crashing down in 2024 when they only won nine games. She remembers the embarrassment of not being selected for the 2024 Olympics and how quiet the dinner table was after Coley only brought home a silver. Romans display their gold, her father had said, hardly sparing a glance at his youngest. Anything else is as good as a coaster.

They always say that, when you die, your fondest memories replay for you in one final surge of happiness. Cam is sure that’s what she’s feeling now because clearly her career is over.

She’ll have to request a trade. The Wings organization is already being held together by a thin piece of twine and the hope that Curt Miller, Chris Koclanes, and Paige Bueckers can be the one to pull them from the depths of hell and turn them into something that the rest of the league wouldn’t laugh at. Cam doesn’t know how anyone would be able to recover if word got out that she slept with Paige Bueckers – number one draft pick, Wings rookie (Cam’s rookie), future of the franchise, in case you’d forgotten – on the very same night that she lifted her jersey.

Okay. Maybe it wasn’t the same night, considering they didn’t make it back to the hotel room until well after midnight, and Cam was sure that the clock on the wall read something like 2:49 by the time the last of their energy was depleted and Paige spooned her from behind like they’d been in a position a time or two.

Obviously, that’s not the point – not if Camille’s ensuing panic attack has anything to say about it.

The point is this entire situation is a major conflict of interest. Morally, technically, probably legally. Cam was supposed to be the responsible one, the veteran. Granted, she and Paige aren’t so far apart in age, but she’s going on her fifth year in the league. She knows better. And everything is so fragile right now. She might have just risked the health of the locker room in exchange for one night that, admittedly, was nice.

The most terrifying part of this entire situation was that Cam was supposed to take care of Paige. Not in a coddling manner – Paige could handle herself. She was grown. But adjusting to the league, to the pace, to the expectations…that wasn’t something you should do alone. She was supposed to help Paige find her footing, support her, advocate for her. She was supposed to do what any good veteran would do for their rook, but somewhere in between all of that anxiety bubbling in her gut, she feels that ever present feeling of failure creeping in.

She hadn’t even made it back to Dallas before she fucked it all up. And this feeling – this fear, the dread, the overwhelming sense that she just did something she can’t take back, it feels worse than anything she’s ever felt before. It’s worse than getting blown out in front of a home crowd that gets quieter and quieter with every turnover, every missed shot, every collapse on defense that leads to an uncontested three.

Welcome to the league, Paige Bueckers. Bet you wished it really was an Alyssa Thomas screen, huh?

“Okay,” Paige says after a while, her voice surprisingly calm given the gravity of the moment. “It’s not that bad.”

Cam throws her hands into the air, overwhelmed and exasperated. “Not that bad?” she exclaims, her heart hammering against her chest. “Paige, we just slept together.”

The blonde swallows, her eyes flickering down, and it seems like it takes a genuine effort to lift them back to Cam’s face. “Trust me,” she says, her voice cracking a little. “I ain’t forget.”

Cam glances down, taking in just how fucking naked she is, too, and with a growl that borders on equal parts panic and humiliation, she rips the comforter off the second bed in the room and wraps it around her body. It keeps Paige’s gaze off of her chest, but Cam isn’t sure what’s worse ��� having Paige see all of her or the fact that, despite the early morning, Paige’s eyes are impossibly blue, alert, and trained on her face. Somehow, it makes her feel more vulnerable than having stood in front of her naked.

“Are you…okay?” Paige asks tentatively.

That makes Cam’s shoulders sag, a huff of air escaping her lips. It’s hard to tell if it’s a scoff or something more like amusement, and she takes a seat at the foot of the bed as she digs through the pile of clothes on the floor for her underwear. “Yes,” she says, the word sounding stale. Paige makes a soft noise behind her that sounds like disbelief. Cam sighs. “No. I don’t know, Paige.”

“Are you hurt?”

That makes Cam pause, drawing her lip between her teeth in contemplation as she slides her bottoms over her legs. “Sore,” she admits after a while.

“Yeah?” Paige goads, and it fills Cam with the urge to turn around and smack her head. She rolls her lips so as to not smile and doesn’t give Paige the satisfaction of getting a reaction. “I’d apologize, but…you seemed pretty okay with it.”

“Paige,” Cam stresses. The reminder of last night makes her walls raise again. “Be serious.”

“Sorry,” she says for real, and it sounds genuinely apologetic. “Do you, uh, regret it? I didn’t like – force you, or anything?”

Cam sighs again, reaching for her bra, dropping the comforter to slide it over her torso. She feels Paige’s gaze leave her. The respect is touching. “I was drunk,” she admits, listening for the hitch in Paige’s breath. “We were drunk. Not helpless. Or out of control. You didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t…want. Or consent to.”

Paige exhales a relieved breath. She’s silent for a few moments, her eyes tracing Cam’s figure as she slides into her baggy cargos, then her crop top. “Then why are you freaking out? You’re okay. Mostly.” She adds the last part as an afterthought, and it makes the ghost of a smile spread across Cam’s lips. “You’re not hurt. You don’t regret it. Please tell me what’s wrong, Cam. I’ll fix it.”

Cam takes a deep breath, twisting around in bed and leaning against the headboard. Paige adjusts too, keeping the comforter pressed close to her chest, the chain around her neck glimmering. “We’re teammates,” Cam states. “Like, you know that was the whole point of the draft last night?”

Paige nods seriously, trying not to smirk at Cam’s sarcasm. “Trust me. I ain’t forget that either.” Cam rolls her eyes, the humor helping to make her relax. “Plus, we’re not technically anything until I sign that contract. And, you know…teammates sleeping together isn’t a new thing. Look at Dee and Penny. DB and AT.”

“Are you also aware that those individuals are married?” Cam emphasizes, exasperated again.

“You don’t have to be married to sleep with someone,” Paige retorts, and it makes Cam bury her head in her hands. Paige sighs. “Hey – I’m sorry, okay? I’m tryna be reassuring. Emotions were all over the place last night. You found out you really liked Shirley Temples. And…I guess we have really good chemistry.”

Cam can’t hide her smirk this time. “Hopefully that chemistry translates to the court, or we’re screwed for this season.”

“Cam,” Paige whines, pressing her face into the pillow. That draws a real laugh out of Cam now. Their eyes meet again, both gazes softening. “Look, I’m just saying that it’s okay. It happened. Can’t change it. I don’t regret it, you don’t regret it, and we can be mature adults about it. Yeah, we’re gonna be teammates. This won’t affect the locker room, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Cam exhales sharply, trying to find the right words. It’s not just the locker room. It’s everything. Cam has no idea who was at that afterparty, if anyone has any clips of her and Paige dancing on each other or leaving the party together. It’s the fact that she feels like she has so many eyes on her, even though there’s nobody but her and Paige in this room right now. Between the realization that this entire situation is a moral landmine and how guilty she feels because she let herself be free and indulge in one night, all Cam feels is overwhelmed. That emotion doesn’t mix well with the residual exhaustion. “It’s just–”

Her alarm rings again, causing both her and Paige to flinch, and she silences it quickly with a ragged sigh. She closes her eyes tightly in an attempt to regulate her breathing and her emotions.

“Hey,” Paige says softly, her hand extending to brush across Cam’s back. “You’re good. We’re good. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

Cam nods, not quite trusting herself to speak, and she sucks in a breath. She doesn’t meet Paige’s gaze when she says, “I have to catch a flight back to Dallas. When are you flying in for the rookie press conference?”

Paige sighs. “Fuck. I’on know.” She swallows thickly, nodding to the ground. “Can you…uh, grab my phone for me?”

“Yeah,” Cam says quickly, if not a little awkward, and she leans over to fumble with Paige’s clothes on the floor until she finds the blonde’s phone tucked into the pocket of her pants. She hands it over wordlessly and Paige breathes a sigh of relief when she finds that it still has some charge.

Paige scrolls through her phone for a few seconds before she clears her throat. “I’ll fly in on the morning of the 23rd.”

“That’s fine,” Cam agrees quietly. “We’ll talk after.”

Paige lifts her head ever so slightly as she watches Cam shuffle around the room, searching for wherever her shoes had ended up. She’s unlacing one just as Paige says, “What hotel are you staying at?”

“Hilton,” Cam answers. “Why?”

Paige hums, her attention back on her phone. “Getting you an Uber back.”

“Paige,” Cam sighs, standing up straight. When Paige glances back up, an amused smile is on her face – probably because Cam has only one shoe on, her clothes are rumpled, and her once neatly styled hair is out of place. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Least I could do,” she says, her tone a little softer. “I got you stressin’ for no reason on a Tuesday morning. What kind of rookie does that?”

Cam huffs out a laugh at that – a real one. She finds her other shoe and starts working on getting it on her foot. “A really annoying, yet really thoughtful one.” Paige pats her chest proudly as if to say that’s me. When Cam is finally dressed, she palms her pockets for her phone, keys, and wallet, exhaling in relief when she has them. “Hey.” Paige looks up, and Cam bounces on her heels, a sheepish expression on her face. “Sorry for freaking out on you. I just–”

“I know,” Paige interrupts gently. Cam’s shoulders sag, appreciating Paige’s understanding more than she probably knows. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know that? It takes two to tango. It’s not like I was an unwilling partner.” Her cheeks are flushed when she admits, “Maybe a little too eager, though. That’s the last time I chase a shot with a Shirley.” Cam can’t help her laughter, shaking her head in amusement. “If there’s a blame, then we’ll share it. Or I’ll take it for you. Rookie duties or whatever. Just don’t freak out, okay? We’re good. We will be. I swear.”

“...Thanks, Paige,” Cam whispers, and Paige’s reassuring smile makes everything feel like it’ll be okay again. “See you next week?”

The reassurance falls victim to mischief, because something sparkles in Paige’s eyes when she says, “Don’t miss me too much, Cam.”

Cam rolls her eyes, pursing her lips to stifle a smile, and she and Paige exchange one last goodbye before Cam steps out. The door clicks shut behind her with a resounding noise and it takes everything in Cam to not pause and press her forehead to it dramatically. Instead, she sighs, and reminds herself of the Uber waiting for her, the flight she has to catch, and makes her way out of Paige’s hotel.

Maybe she overreacted a little. Truth be told, she still feels a little unmoored, like she’s not quite sure of her role anymore. She, the veteran, was the one freaking out in Paige’s, a rookie’s, hotel room as she reassured her and told her they didn’t fuck anything up. Cam can’t help but feel like that should have been her job.

It’s hard to understand why she’s fumbling so badly now. She didn’t have this issue last year with Jacy Sheldon – granted, Cam didn’t sleep with her, but Cam was confidently the veteran to Sheldon’s rookie. There wasn’t a single misstep. She coached the young guard, helped develop her, and did everything a veteran was supposed to do.

But Paige is something else entirely. An enigma. A challenge. Something Cam was prepared to be unprepared for because she knew that Paige was always a caliber above the rest. In her game, her mentality, her ambition. 

As Cam slides into the backseat of her Uber, smiling politely at the driver, she realizes that she has to run a tighter ship. She has to be poised, professional, the exact things she was supposed to be anyways before she let Paige Bueckers unravel her.

She’s here to play ball, and as far as she’s concerned, making her relationship with Paige more complicated than it already is will be the reason why everything crashes and burns.

Cam lands back in Dallas around 10am. She takes an Uber to her apartment, where Bobby, her characteristic orange cat, and Gatsby, a very particular tuxedo, greet her at the door. She’d managed to squeeze a few hours of rest in on the plane but she feels ready to collapse as soon as she’s back in. Before anything else, she scoops up both Bobby and Gatsby and plants a long, dramatic kiss to their foreheads and diligently portions out some wet food for them.

She makes her way into the bathroom to get ready for her presentation at UTA, then she’s back out of the house as quickly as she’d made it there in the first place. The presentation is a breeze, holding enough of her attention that she doesn’t get lost in thought about the blonde rookie who she’d left in bed at 5am, and the subsequent workout with her trainer after lunch drains her to the point that she doesn’t think about anything that’s not how sore she is the entire way back home.

Cam doesn’t even make it to bed. She curls up on the couch, curls damp from the shower she’d taken at the facility, hoodie sticking to her skin, and promptly falls asleep with Gatsby stretched out across her stomach.

That’s how the rest of her week goes. She tries – and more often than not, fails, to keep her mind on task. She throws herself into workouts, into running mindless drills, but part of her still can’t help feeling anxious. Paige had said they were fine, but Cam wonders how much of that was true, or if it was just the easiest thing Paige could think of to stop Cam from crashing out in her hotel room completely.

Or – and this is the million dollar answer right here – maybe Paige was genuine, and meant it, and Cam had no reason to be freaking out like she was childish and ten years younger.

The return to routine had helped a little. She had no reason to catastrophize, anyhow. Paige was right. They weren’t really teammates – yet – and the whole teammates having sex thing was pretty accurate, too. As long as they were able to keep it professional, cordial, and responsible on the court, Cam didn’t think the front office would particularly care, unless they were at risk of being a PR nightmare. Although…considering Paige’s celebrity, they probably are bordering on PR nightmare territory.

Either way, both of them were adults. It was consensual, Paige was incredibly chill about it, which meant Cam could probably be chill about it, which meant she didn’t ruin the locker room chemistry before it had the chance to grow.

At risk of fucking up their own chemistry, Cam knew that night wasn’t something they were going to repeat. Like, ever. If anyone asks, Cam has developed a sudden allergy for alcohol and is getting too old to be up past 9pm. If locking herself in her room like a tower-trapped damsel is what it takes to keep her relationships clean, orderly, and distraction free, then she’d gladly do it. She was committed to being responsible. She and Paige would just have to be friends. Very platonic friends who, sure, slept together one time when they were celebrating the biggest night of Paige’s life and they were both drunk on Dirty Shirleys, but that doesn’t have to define the course of their friendship.

Cam’s fine. Everything is fine. She got scared, overreacted, and maybe took it out on a poor rookie who’d only had two hours of sleep and a hangover. They could move past this and work together on the court without blurring the lines. Just friends. Just a rookie and a vet. Nothing more.

When the day of the rookie press conference arrives, Cam feels as though she has a better grasp on reality. She’s up early, goes on a morning run, showers, and is out of the door by 9am, only stopping for a chai latte before she makes her way to the facility. The first part of the morning was set aside to introduce the rookies and Cam was planning on taking advantage of the empty courts to run some drills and clear her mind.

The court smells like wood and fresh wax, a scent that makes Cam relax immediately. She’s probably spent more time between the hoops than she has anywhere else. She can see the three point line when she closes her eyes, imagine the height of the basket in her sleep. If the world had no room for her, then the one place she can confidently say she belongs is on the court.

She started playing basketball at a young age. Story of any player’s life, she’s sure, but it’s been one of the constants in her life for as long as she could remember. Despite that, it took her a long time to find genuine love in it. Basketball was an expectation. Greatness was, too. Lacing up her sneakers and working with private trainers had become routine, a way to earn pride and affection. Her mother always told her – and Coley, too – that she and her father were proud of them regardless of whatever sport they played or what they didn’t play.

People have different aspirations, Valerie told her when she was seven, in the throes of a tantrum because she’d been invited to a weekend sleepover that she would have to miss because her father had signed her up for a basketball clinic in Brooklyn. Different dreams. But you’re allowed to make space for what you love to do and what you live to do. You’re allowed to be a kid.

But Cam was sure that her father only smiled when she had a ball in her hand. She just wanted to make him proud – she looked up to him in so many different ways and wanted to boast gold medals just like he did. She wanted a career and a life to be proud of. So she’d sucked it up and went to the clinic, even if she spent every water break thinking about what her friends were up to.

It took a few years. She struggled to differentiate whether or not she played for the love of the game or for the need for approval. If she played because she saw the court not as polished wood and painted lines, but as the X’s and the O’s and as rotations and cuts, or if she played because she just wanted to be seen by the one person she always looked for.

On her own terms, she found herself falling in love with basketball in a way that was hers completely. She lived for teamwork, for the fact that playing good basketball meant knowing your teammates completely. The box score shows an assist, but doesn’t reflect how years of practice, study, and playing together prepares you to anticipate how your teammates move. She lived for the sisterhood of it all, the trust built between people who had the same goal and the same dedication to achieving it. She lived for the stillness on the court when she was at the line and the only thing between her and the hoop was fifteen feet of surety.

But Cam blinks back the memory, exhaling calmly as she laces up her sneakers on the bench. She ties them the same way every time – tight, double knotted, the ends tucked into the mouth. She doesn’t like practicing with music because it throws off her focus. There’s a rhythm to basketball that you only become privy to after years of breathing the game. The rubber echo of the ball against the court, the squeak of her sneakers, her own heartbeat – it grounds her, keeps her locked in.

When she’s satisfied with her shoes, she stretches out her legs, not doing anything too insane since she stretched before her morning run and was still feeling loose from it. It’s more to settle the residual noise in her brain.

After she picks up the ball, palming it between her hands, everything fades to a distant hum. It’s just Cam, the ball, the swish of the net. She runs a few drills just to get reacclimated with the feel of the ball in her hands, the way it bounces between her legs as she dribbles.

She moves onto shooting drills about ten minutes later, starting with a classic five spot drill. She doesn’t move on to the next spot until she makes ten in a row, but when she finds herself at the top of the key, three makes into her routine, the sound of the door pushing open causes her shot to clang off the rim.

She sighs, having found a rhythm, but steps off to pick up the rebound. Cam is only partially surprised to find Paige standing at half-court with a sheepish expression on her face and a pair of basketball shoes clutched between her fingers. The blonde has her hair up in a sleek ponytail, donning a black and white striped Nike sweatshirt (looking something like the Hamburglar, if Cam has to be honest), and a pair of matching black pants.

“Already trying to escape from the media?” Cam asks teasingly, holding the ball to her hip.

Paige shrugs, a little smile on her face. “I was tryna be good and mind my business, but I heard you dribbling. It was calling to me.”

Cam laughs. “Oh, I’m sure,” she says. “You sure you didn’t peek in, see it was me, and decide that annoying me was more worthwhile than getting to the press conference on time?”

“I still got thirty minutes,” Paige argues smugly. “I’m punctual and shit. Plenty of time to make you reconsider which rookie you actually wanted first dibs on.”

Cam hums, noting how comfortable she truly feels with Paige. She was expecting their first time seeing each other again to be a little more awkward considering how they left things, but their casual banter and teasing makes Cam feel like nothing had truly happened at all. Maybe she didn’t actually have too much to worry about. They would be fine, and she’s sure that the conversation they’ll have later would truly round it all out.

Then, she smiles, the curve of her lip indicating a challenge. She checks the ball over to Paige, who grabs it reflexively, her eyes wide in question. “How about some HORSE, then? Prove to me that you’re worthy of being the Camille Roman’s rookie.”

Paige scoffs, but she grins, setting her shoes down on the polished wood as she dribbles the ball. “What, was the natty not enough for you?” she teases. “Or going number one? Or buyin’ all your drinks?”

“I seem to remember those drinks of yours getting us into a lot of trouble,” Cam retorts, but the reminder doesn’t fill her with as much anxiety as it used to.

“You call it trouble. I call it vet and rookie bonding.”

Cam raises a brow. “Yeah? You gonna bond with Arike, too?”

Paige flushes, losing the handle on the ball as it bounces off her shoe, and Cam grabs it instinctively as she laughs. Paige, to her credit, recovers quickly, and she’s smirking when she says, “Nah. My vet says I’m off limits. I’m a one woman kind of girl.”

“Good answer,” Cam says. She checks the ball back with a loose, carefree smile. “First shot’s yours, rook. Make it count.”

Paige dribbles it once, twice, the smile never leaving her face as she inches closer to the three point line. She sets her feet shoulder width apart, crouching slightly, and she throws the ball underhanded towards the net. It sinks in gracefully, and Cam shakes her head in amusement at her over the top celebration as she tracks down the rebound.

“Don’t miss,” Paige says unhelpfully as she and Cam swap places. Cam rolls her eyes, not bothering with a response, and she steadies herself for her shot. Just before she gets it off, Paige adds, “You gonna repay me for all the concealer I had to buy last week?”

Her words startle Cam, but the shot is still money – it bounces off of the rim into the net, and the blonde sighs when her distraction effort fails. “You are such a cheater,” Cam gripes.

“What?” Paige cries, feigning innocence. “It was just a question.”

“Yeah, right,” she mutters under her breath, but her cheeks hurt from grinning. She scoops up the ball and shoves Paige out of the way with her hip. Paige huffs, moving, and Cam sits flat on the ground. Cam can feel Paige’s gaze on her as she lines up her shot and sinks the ball in with ease. “Two for two.”

Paige extends a hand to help Cam up, shaking her hand, and Paige grabs the loose ball and takes her spot on the court. The blonde readies herself to shoot, but just before she flicks her wrist, Cam steps up next to her, her calf barely brushing Paige’s shoulder.

The ball sails off course, clanging harmlessly off the rim, and Paige looks at her with a betrayed expression. “You’re cheating for real!” she declares, gazing forlornly at the hoop, and Cam laughs as she helps her up.

“That’s H,” Cam states simply, a mischievous smile on her face. Paige doesn’t respond as she tracks down the basketball and studies the court to look for her next shot. “I don’t know, P. I think Aziaha would have made that one for sure.”

“Nah, don’t piss me off,” Paige grumbles, which makes Cam giggle. She steps up behind the hoop, squares her shoulders, and Cam is peacefully silent as Paige shoots the ball over the backboard. It circles around the rim once before falling in and she exhales a breath of relief.

Cam raises an impressed brow despite herself, grabbing the ball as it bounces back towards her, and Paige pats her on the hip with a smug look when she passes. “Make this next shot if I’m your favorite rookie,” she declares.

“How old are you?” Cam asks as she lines up her shot. “Twelve?” Paige grins in a way that makes Cam regret asking, having spent enough time at youth camps to know that Paige’s retort would sound a whole lot like twelve inches deep in your mom. “Don’t answer that.” She exhales to calm her mind. Paige, thankfully, watches in silence, but it’s for naught as the ball bounces off the rim, anyways.

“How’s that H taste?” Paige is beaming as she checks the ball back to Cam, who rolls her eyes in amusement.

“Like you’re not my favorite rookie,” Cam chirps sweetly.

Paige squawks in indignation, which elicits a round of laughter from Cam. They go back and forth like that for a few more rounds, trading buckets, misses, and banter that gradually decreases the distance between them. Before a shot, Paige would pretend to massage Cam’s shoulders like she’s a fighter in a boxing ring. Cam would nudge her elbow before she shoots, attempting to throw her off her game, but she pats her hip when she makes it regardless.

Cam didn’t think it could be this nice. She thought that night at the hotel would have ruined her and Paige’s friendship and chemistry – both on and off the court – but she’s finding that, in a way, it’s brought them closer. She would never call it a mistake. She would be the first to admit that she wanted it – in the moment. Paige is good company, keeps her on her toes, and is obviously attractive, although there are some things you can’t have twice.

She’s closer to making her peace with that night. The conversation that she and Paige plan to have later would hopefully give her some more clarity and comfort in it, but she knows without a doubt that they can’t have a repeat of it. They can’t let the lines blur or push the boundaries more than they already have. That’s enough for her.

Both her and Paige have accumulated HORS twenty minutes later, and the both of them know they have to wrap it up soon so Paige can freshen up before she actually has to head out for media. The thing about Cam is that she’s not going to bend over and let Paige win just because she won’t concede the game. She and Paige both nailed the half court shot, which meant that game point relied on whether or not they could make it from full court.

“I don’t even think I have the arm strength for this,” Cam admits, standing as close as she can to the back wall so she has plenty of room to run forward. “The fact that you’re a point guard gives you an unfair advantage.”

“You tappin’ out?” Paige goads, grinning, and Cam has to bite her tongue. If there was anything Paige was good at besides basketball, it was baiting Cam.

“Rookies first,” Cam states.

“You don’t want the smoke,” Paige responds. Cam has to fight the urge to shove her, but she’s sure that would only motivate the blonde more.

Paige glances up at the hoop, nearly one hundred feet away, and she readies her shot. With a running start, she plants her feet at the baseline and grunts as she lobs the ball across the court. Cam’s eyes track its movement, the clean arc, and her jaw drops in complete and utter disbelief when it hits the backboard and swishes in without further fanfare.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” she groans, not really enjoying the taste of defeat on her tongue, but she can’t really be mad for long as Paige grabs her by the shoulders and shakes in excitement. She rolls her lips to stifle her smile.

“Just go ahead and take that E,” Paige says, passing over the second ball they brought to the baseline. Cam takes it with an eyeroll. “You don’t gotta embarrass yourself in front of me.”

Cam doesn’t dignify that with a response. She palms the ball in her hands, pushing herself closer to the wall, and takes a deep breath like she’s about to sink a free throw instead of launching a ball almost one hundred feet across the court. With a running start, she plants at the baseline and lets her right hand do most of the heavy lifting, and the ball sails out of her grip.

Both her and Paige watch with a bated breath as it arcs in the air. It flies closer, and closer, and closer, until it circles around the rim once, then twice, and falls out unceremoniously.

As Paige celebrates for the second time that afternoon, all Cam can really think about is how badly she wants to fucking retire. Paige jostles her as Cam stares at the hoop, deadpan and unblinking.

Premonition might be a curse. She just had to tell Rickea that the 2025 class was all about energy and how they’d be welcoming vets to the league. Cam just can’t believe she got welcomed by Paige during a game of HORSE that started as a joke more than anything else.

Cam just sighs, extending her hand, and Paige daps her up with unadulterated glee on her face. “Say the thing,” she requests sweetly.

Cam’s tone is flat as she states begrudgingly, “You’re my rookie.”

Paige pumps her fist in the air, looking nothing like the nonchalant final boss she claimed she was. Then, if only to add salt to the wound, Paige nudges her with her elbow and says, “Welcome to the league, Cam Roman.”

Cam can’t find it in herself to be upset. She supposes Paige did earn it, and hypothetically if she does get tagged in a few press conference clips later about Paige claiming she welcomed Cam to the league, she only reposts the clip out of integrity on her Instagram story.

When Cam told Paige that they’d talk after the press conference, she wasn’t really expecting it to be over takeout at Paige’s barren apartment, but she figures it’s a good venue as any. 

Paige welcomes her in with a sheepish expression and the smell of Chinese in the air. “I’m embracing the minimalist lifestyle,” she declares, gesturing minutely to the cardboard boxes sprawled around the room. There’s one in front of her couch, overflowing with a few trinkets like lego sets and framed photographs of Paige and her family and friends. Cam winces a little, briefly wondering who supervised Paige and her diabolical packing, but Paige’s apartment door clicks shut behind her and draws her attention back to the present.

Despite being lived in for only a few hours at most, Paige’s apartment is cozy and open. She has floor to ceiling windows in the kitchen overlooking the skyline, a cornucopia of takeout boxes littering the counter, and a few candles burning in the living room. They’re both dressed in casual clothes – Cam’s opted for a pair of comfortable, white gym shorts and a Wings t-shirt, while Paige has a loose pair of grey sweatpants hung low enough to reveal the band of her boxers and an old UConn tee.

“You’re doing better than I did when I first moved out here,” Cam admits, toeing off her slides and following Paige towards the kitchen. Paige throws a smile over her shoulder to let Cam know she’s listening as she sorts through the boxes. “I think I had takeout for a week straight because I didn’t have time to go buy pots and pans.”

“Shit,” Paige says instantly. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

Cam snorts. Paige passes a container to Cam, a simple order of lo mein and orange chicken, while she keeps the white rice and sweet and sour chicken for herself. There’s a bag of crab rangoons and eggrolls to share.

Almost absentmindedly, Paige pulls out the barstool at the counter for Cam before settling into the one next to it. Cam raises her brow but doesn’t say anything, taking a seat in the chair next to Paige, who passes a packet of plastic silverware and chopsticks like they’ve been in this position a hundred times before.

“You settling in okay?”

Paige shrugs a tired shoulder, shoveling a forkful of rice into her mouth. “Getting there,” she confesses. “Got a lot of shit to unpack, but…didn’t want it easy, right?”

Cam smiles knowingly at her. “I meant challenging as in getting your shot blocked by BG a couple of times. Not getting your ass kicked by cardboard boxes and IKEA instruction manuals.”

“I happen to be very handy,” Paige sniffs. “Don’t need no instruction manual. Or all those extra screws they pack in there.”

Cam stares at her unblinkingly. Paige stares back, something like mischief in her eyes as she spears a piece of chicken with her fork. The corner of her lips twitch ever so slightly. “Please tell me I’m not sitting on a chair that’s gonna collapse.”

“If you fell, I’d make sure you were okay before I laughed at you,” Paige offers unhelpfully.

Cam huffs. “Thanks. Just what any girl wants to hear.”

Paige smiles, and the two of them settle into a comfortable rhythm as they eat their dinner. Paige shares a couple of stories from media, telling Cam all about the embroidered cowboy hat she got and how done she is with random reporter questions about the Dallas heat and TexMex. That makes Cam laugh – it’s fitting to see that the reporters hadn’t gotten any better questions to ask besides food and the weather.

The peace lasts for a few moments until Paige’s fork hits the bottom of her takeout container and the last of her chicken is done. She clears her throat, taking a sip from her water bottle. “Elephant in the room?” she asks hesitantly.

Cam nods, pushing her leftovers away, and pauses for a moment. Finally, she settles on her words. “I think I might have overreacted a little,” she admits.

Paige offers a gentle smile. “I think it was a pretty valid crash out,” she states. “You were concerned about the locker room and making things awkward. I also get that the entire world would probably explode if word got out.”

“Yeah,” Cam agrees. She rests her chin in her palm. “I mean, I’m also…your vet,” she says carefully. The blue of Paige’s gaze is intense, but Cam forces herself to meet her eyes. “That night was out of character for me. I’m not usually so…”

“Carefree?”

“Reckless,” Cam supplies, and Paige nods, understanding. “I don’t regret it. You don’t either. That’s something we’ve got to stand on. I just wasn’t really thinking about…you know, the consequences of sleeping with my rookie.” Her words are dry, which makes Paige chuckle. “I don’t wanna deal with red tape from the front office. Definitely not the media. And I definitely didn’t want to make things weird with us.”

Paige’s smile turns a little crooked. “We’re good. I told you. We’re responsible adults.”

“Friends, if you will,” Cam adds.

Paige sounds all too smug when she pipes in with, “Best friends.”

Cam scoffs, rolling her eyes in amusement, feeling the final bits of tension leave her shoulders completely. They were good. No more issues. “Don’t push it, rook.” Paige raises her hands in surrender, a coy smile on her face as she slides out of the bar stool to start grabbing their trash. She waves off Cam when she tries to help, her expression far too adamant, so she bites her tongue and stays seated while Paige cleans up. “Paige?” she asks hesitantly.

“What’s up?” She glances at Cam briefly over her shoulder, the diamond studs in her ears glinting in the light as she turns, and Cam’s fingers drum lightly over the granite of Paige’s countertops.

Her voice is small when she says, “We can’t let it happen again.” It gives Paige pause, and she turns fully, leaning against the countertop. Her gaze is imploring – not offensive, just as though she’s trying to understand. “We’re friends. I’m your vet, you’re my rook. Nothing more. No need to make a good thing complicated, yeah?”

Paige raises a teasing brow. “You sure you can handle that, Cam?”

She narrows her eyes, which draws a laugh from Paige. “Can you?” she retorts. “You’re obsessed with me. It’s sickening.”

“I’m keeping you young,” she emphasizes. “Big difference.” Cam exhales, the noise sounding more like a breathless laugh. Paige clears her throat, fiddling with the towel in her hands. “I hear you,” she says, just so it’s absolutely clear, and the expression on her face eases when Cam meets her eyes. “I care about you and the team. We’ll keep it clean. But don’t think for one moment I’m gonna make your job any easier. You chose me on draft night – you’re stuck with me.”

Clean. Cam could work with that. There wasn’t any reason to change who they were or how they bantered, and if Cam was being honest, she didn’t want to. She liked this relationship she had with Paige, the slight push and pull and how they challenge each other. The mutualistic getting on each other’s nerves.

“Easy’s boring, right?” Cam reminds her, and a grin grows on Paige’s face, matching the sly one on Cam’s. Paige returns to the dishes, throwing jokes over her shoulder that Cam can’t help but laugh at. They’d keep it clean. Orderly. No chaos.

But entropy has to increase or remain constant. There was no circumventing that – it was a law of the universe. Ease wasn’t, though. Ease wasn’t just boring, and for Paige and Cam, they’d realize that it would be downright impossible.

[strang3lov3]

Apartment

You visit Benji's apartment before you leave. 6.4k words

Tags - cousin!benji, one shot, loss of virginity, very fuckin personal and emotional so take it easy on me, incest, piv, creampie, fingering, handjobs, nipple play, slight overstim, I cried writing this so,,,,

Maybe it’d be easier if Benji were here. 

Things are changing. A new chapter’s beginning and you should feel happy, right? Excited, because you know this is a good thing. Nervous would be okay, and natural, even. But looking at your room - or what’s left of it, at least, you feel so profoundly fucking empty. Thinking harder, digging deeper, you feel dread. These empty walls and cardboard boxes…it feels like such a scary and permanent change, and leaving everything behind feels impossible to wrap your mind around. Leaving everyone - all of your friends, all of your family. Benji. 

The last item you packed was a photo of the two of you. You guess that you were maybe thirteen in that photo. Your cheeks were fuller then and you were smiling, green and purple rubber bands around your braces in the spirit of Halloween, when that photo was taken. Benji had that stupid, shaggy haircut you loved so much, and he stuck Mike and Ike’s on his canine teeth, smiling so big. 

He was your first crush, way before you knew it was inappropriate to think of him like that. It never went away, though. But nobody has to know that except for you. You can keep it close to your heart. 

Benji really is your built-in best friend. He took a shine to you the moment you joined the world earth-side. He was always so patient, so gentle. Played dollies with you and everything, even though that wasn’t at all what he was into at that age. It wasn’t hard to pretend for your sake.

Benji’s the reason you learned to walk and run as fast as you did, little legs trying to keep up with him. Everyone always said you had your own secret language, too. And you did, literally. “Benji, translate” was a common command Benji would get from family members because he could understand your toddler-speak when others couldn’t. 

You’re going to the same school he went to. You always knew you would.

Tears build in your waterline and spill down your cheeks as you grab your keys and rush out the door, knowing exactly who and what you need. It’s a silent drive, and the sun is nearly set but it’s not quite dark yet, but you do love that orangey-pink that paints the horizon. 

You get out of your car and knock on Benji’s front door repeatedly, anxiously hoping he’ll answer. You probably should have texted. 

The door does swing open, thankfully. “Quit pounding on my fuckin’ door, dude, Jesus. I thought you were a cop.” Benji seems a little tired, with light shadows under his eyes and messy hair. He scratches the back of his head before looking at you, then realizes you’ve been crying. “Woah, hey - heeeyyy…” Benji pulls you into his arms and shuts the door, letting you cry into his shoulder for a moment before leading you to his small living room. 

Being in such a familiar, unchanged space grounds you. Benji’s been renting this apartment for a long time now. There’s shit broken from five years years ago that Benji still hasn’t fixed, and the same posters and artwork that’ve always been there decorate his walls. Dying plants on bookshelves that Benji can’t keep alive to save his fucking life. Mugs he’s stolen from shitty diners here and there, the fucking derelict. God, you love him.

Benji sits you on his used, blue sectional that has seen better days. It’s covered in tears and strange stains, probably not even by his doing. “What’s goin’ on with you, dude?”

“I - I,” You gasp and sniffle a few times, unable to speak as you sob. It’s always how it goes.  

“It’s okay.” Benji’s voice is gentle. He touches your shoulder and gives you a squeeze, waiting patiently for you to gather yourself. 

“I packed the rest of my shit and - and I don’t know,” you cry. “Just…looking at how fu - how empty it all was. I was all alone. I couldn’t do it. I n-needed you - fuck.” 

Benji nods, understanding well what’s the matter. With his thumb, he gently wipes away your tears, and his heart breaks at your forced smile as you tell him you’re fine and it’s really all okay. You don’t have to pretend to be fine and okay if you’re not. You can just be…you know. Hurting. And Benji can be there to ease that. You don’t have to soften or temper anything. He wants you to know this.

“I was gonna help you pack,” he murmurs, rubbing his knuckle along your cheek. “Right? I was gonna help you load everything into the truck and see you off tomorrow.” 

“I know. I’m really sorry, Benji.” 

“Don’t - hey - no, don’t be sorry, dude.” Benji leans forward and wraps his arms around you, knowing what you need but what you won’t ask for. Just some quiet time with him, crying into his shirt. Probably getting snot and tears all over it, but he doesn’t give a shit.

He pulls you into his body, situates you right between his legs. He covers you both in a scratchy, striped wool blanket that he got from some music festival years back. Benji unpauses the game he was playing on his PlayStation and just keeps you there, both of you quiet as he plays, save for your sniffling. 

He used to do this when you were younger, too, when he’d play Resident Evil and Silent Hill. He can laugh about the fact that you’re brave enough to look at the screen now. 

Benji keeps his lips pressed against the top of your head, kissing you there mindlessly. “Got some leftover Pizza Slut if you’re hungry,” he mumbles against you, kissing you again. 

“I’m not. But thank you, Benny.”

The nickname punches Benji in the gut. He hasn’t heard that in for-fucking-ever.  

Time passes in the quiet and dark room, illuminated only by the bluish glow of the TV screen and some warm, dim lamps. You slide your hands under Benji’s shirt and you hold his bare torso, memorizing all the details about the way his skin feels. He’s so warm and soft, breathing evenly with you on his chest. He smells like weed and faintly of sweat, and how that comforts you. What you wouldn’t give for this moment would last forever. Perhaps you could just unzip Benji and live in his ribcage, right there by his heart. Holding it safely in your hands. 

Finally, you whisper, “I’m scared.” 

Benji looks down at you. “Scared of what?”

You look at Benji, his gorgeous, handsome face. He’s so different now, but just the same as he ever was. His beard suits him well, and so do all those little marks of age on his skin. He’s lived his life in the sun and in the grass and sand and water, and it shows in the most beautiful of ways. 

You shrug. 

“No, no. Tell me,” Benji says, half paying attention to his game. 

“Being away from home,” you admit. “And um…being away from you,” you add, quieter.

“Oh, man.” Your admission tugs at his heart. Benji gives you a tight hug when he hears that. He thinks for a moment, conjuring up words he hopes will console you. “You know, it’s…what, just a few hours away, yeah? Three or four, something like that?”

Sniffling, you nod. “Yeah.” 

“And we’re gonna see each other at Thanksgiving, right? And Christmas break?”

“Mhm.”  

You nuzzle into Benji again, drying your tears on his shirt. “What else are you scared of?”

“Fucking everything,” you laugh humorlessly. Benji laughs too. 

“Yeah, I know. You always were,” he teases softly, pausing his game. And it’s true, what he said. About you being scared of everything. You can’t help it much. 

You used to come over here for sleepovers when you were younger. Benji would let you watch horror movies - he’s not into them much anymore, but still. The really shocking and horrible stuff, too. Your choice. “Your parents will rip me a new fuckin’ asshole if they knew I let you watch this shit, so…” 

You’d start out on his couch, then beg to sleep in his bed when you couldn’t get those awful images out of your head. He’d always take you in. “Yeah, fuckin’ - get over here. C’mon.” 

Benji slept better with you there, truthfully. His arms around your soft body, nose buried in your hair or your neck. 

You were scared of the bugs Benji would find and catch in his hands to show you, and he’d try so fucking hard to get you to tolerate them. You fucking hated watching them crawl on his skin. You were scared of the monkey bars at the park, but you wanted to do them anyway - Benji would spot you the whole time, his strong hands holding your waist as you made your way across. You were scared of starting high school, and you were scared of boys. Shy. There were times you were even shy around him, and Benji would have to work so hard to fish that sweet, chatty girl he knew out of you. He always got there.

“But you’re gonna do fine, dude. Really.” 

“How do you know?”

“Because I just do,” Benji says. You sit up a little and fold your hands under your chin, looking up at him with wide, tear-stained eyes. Your worried pout. Benji gently pulls on a strand of your hair and wraps it around his finger. “You’re not gonna smoke some asshole’s sketch-ass weed, right?

“Right,” you murmur, smiling at the memory. 

Benji taught you how to smoke, years ago at this point. He stressed the importance that you smoke his weed, and not some stranger’s shitass schwag that’d probably make you puke your brains out. 

It was winter, you remember that. Standing outside on Benji’s tiny porch where he taught you to roll a joint. You still suck at it, and make him do it for you. He rolls his eyes every time. 

You remember passing it back and forth in the cold, underdressed for the weather. The glow of the lighter on his handsome face. You were wearing plaid pajama pants and a long sleeve waffle knit shirt you borrowed from Benji, and you remember scurrying inside and sitting on one of Benji’s stools at his counter, pleasantly high and giggling while you watched him make pancakes. Bob’s Burgers was on in the background, and you were so fucking…happy. You’d never been so happy.

Benji remembers that night, too. He remembers hiding under blankets with you and making you giggle by tracing your fingers and tickling your palm. He remembers thinking you were so fucking beautiful and that he couldn’t believe you were all his. He felt so lucky to have you. He still does. 

“If you need weed, I will - I’ll hand-fuckin’-deliver. Promise. Okay? And you’re gonna make your own drinks, right?”

“Mhm.” 

“I’m fuckin’ serious, dude. Don’t let anyone else do it.” Benji doesn’t even wanna think about that. It is something he worries about, truth be told. He’s scared too, about you leaving.

The make-your-own rule is another one of his pieces of advice he gave to you when you were younger. Once again, you were at his apartment. It was after your very first breakup, which would have put you around sixteen. Benji asked what he could do, and you told him you wanted to drink. He didn’t think it was a good idea, but he let you anyway. 

“You’re so fuckin’ young, dude. Do you drink? Like - like actually?”  

“...Yes,” you lied. 

Benji breathed a sigh of relief. “Uh huh, okay. Stealing sips of wine from your mommy’s glass doesn’t count,” he teased, opening a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade for you. “When you do drink,” Benji said, “In college or whatever, promise me you’ll make your own. Okay?” 

“Why?” 

“Just ‘cause.” 

You shrugged. You didn’t recognize the significance of his advice until you were older. It just hit you one day, what it was he meant exactly. You wonder if there was a story to match, or something. 

Benji, always looking out for you. 

You got drunk off of that bottle and half of another, and you cycled through the emotions with Benji at your side. It was a lot of sadness, you recall. Benji really felt for you, poor fucking kid. You were utterly crushed. 

“It’s gonna be okay, dude.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe,” you sniffled, wiping your raw nose on your sleeve. Benji chuckled and handed you a roll of toilet paper to use instead. “Oh, no. It’s fine. This was actually his hoodie, so. Kinda could use the snot, I guess,” you joked. 

But Benji didn’t laugh. “You’re shitting me," he deadpanned. "That’s his? You're wearing that asshole's fucking hoodie?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You fucking loser, take it off.” 

You gave Benji a look. “No, I’ll be cold.”

“Who fuckin’ cares? Take it the fuck off, right now. Do it. I’m not kidding.” Benji snapped at you and motioned for you to remove it, but you shook your head. So he grabbed your sleeve and tugged, and that made you giggle. You pulled back and he tugged harder in return, trying to force your arm out of the sleeve.

It escalated, of course. You laughed when you hit the floor, and after briefly checking to make sure you were alright, Benji wrestled you. You squirmed and squealed as you fought for the upper hand, but Benji pinned you easily. He was always so strong like that, so capable. He rucked the hoodie up and off your body, accidentally exposing you in the process. You were both too drunk to give a shit. 

“Benji, fucking give it.” 

“Nope!” Benji hopped off of you with the hoodie in his hand, slid on a pair of shoes, grabbed a lighter off an end table and an aerosol can of god only knows what. “C’mon.” 

"Where are we going?"

"You'll find out."

He walked outside and down the street, with you following behind him, clutching your arms in the brisk air. Finally, after reaching a quiet spot at the end of the road, Benji dropped the hoodie. He crouched down, then flicked the lighter and handed you the can. 

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Burn that fuckin’ thing, dude.”

"You're ridiculous." You rolled your eyes and pressed down on the top of the can anyway, letting out a wild laugh at the large flame that you created. Benji laughed too, watching the cheap material of the hoodie melt and burn. God, it was so stupid and so dangerous and could have easily ended up being a trip to the emergency room, but laughing with Benji in and of itself was healing. 

Later, Benji took his own hoodie off and put it over your head. He pulled your arms through the sleeves, and it was nice to see a real smile on your face again. “Oh, yeah. That’s better,” he said. “I think that makes us about square. Just don’t fuckin’ - don’t go snotting this one up, okay? Fucking creature.”

“So yeah, you’ll be fine. You know, just - stay on top of your shit. Drop a class before you fail,” he advises, stroking your hair. Benji was always so handsy like that, so touchy. Not in an uncomfortable or unwelcome way, just comforting and loving. It seems to comfort him, too. “Umm…what else. Oh - your roommate is probably going to be an asshole,” he says. 

“You think so?”

“They always are,” he answers plainly. “And also, if they’re doing Humans vs. Zombies, don’t skip out on that shit. It’s fun as fuck.” 

“What is it?” 

Benji looks so beautiful as he looks up and off to the side, thinking of a way to explain it. He giggles a little, likely remembering playing the game himself. “It’s like - kinda like tag, but you have Nerf guns and shit.”

“I still have that little Nerf gun keychain you gave me,” you smile. “Do you remember it?”

“Oh, no fuckin’ way! Yeah, I remember it! Aw, man. Yeah, use that, dude.” 

“Can’t. It doesn’t work anymore.” Benji pouts. It was this little orange and yellow toy - Nerf Secret Strike is what it was called, if you remember correctly. You were small when Benji gave it to you. It ended up being one of those tchotchkes that just kind of hangs around. Gets lost for a few years and then shows up again, just to tickle you. 

“Bummer.” Benji pauses, then thinks again. “Do not try coke,” is the next piece of advice he offers you. “Fuckin’ waste of money. Seriously.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You don’t want that shit.” Benji goes quiet, thinking of more of his sage wisdom to impart on you. He thinks what he’s told you already about covers it. He knows you’ll appreciate it all, too. What he tells you is real and it actually matters to you, and it’s not the same bullshit you get from people who don’t know what to say. Benji gently pulls on a piece of your hair, then twirls it around his finger. “Aaaand…I want you to fuckin’ call me if you need anything,” he says, voice quiet. “Anything. I always got your back, dude.” 

“Benji,” you whisper.

“You know that, hm? You know I love you?” You’re not sure why you shrug. You do know how deeply Benji loves you. “Because I do,” he murmurs. “I love you so, so fucking much. Always have.” 

You smile sadly, tears welling up in your eyes, emotional all over again. Benji wipes them before they can fall. You see tears in his eyes, too. “And then I guess…I don’t know if I’m forgetting - fuck.” Benji wipes his own tears and sniffles sharply. “Oh, I know. For fuck’s sake, dude, use a condom. Just–” Benji taps you twice on the back, already sitting up. He stumbles off the couch and heads for his bedroom, motioning for you to follow him before scratching the back of his head and mussing his hair.

He left a lava lamp on in his bedroom, as well as some colorful string lights. His bed is unmade, and different posters decorate the walls. Sports teams, bands, video games. There’s a picture of you and him on his dresser that he’s opening right now - you on the handlebars of his bike, scared shitless as he rides behind you. He rifles through it, then gives you a handful of Durex condoms. “Here, take these. Don’t - yeah, don’t use the ones they’ll hand out at the health center. They’ll just fuckin’ rip on you,” he says. You wonder if he knows that from personal experience. 

Benji flops on his bed. You sit on the end near his feet, holding the condoms in your hand, tracing the circular outline with your thumb. “Benji?”

“What’s up?”

You take a deep breath, unsure why you’re about to tell him what you’re gonna tell him. Maybe you want his advice here, too. You’ve heard X, Y, and Z from your friends, but it’s just different somehow, talking with Benji. Someone who knows you inside and out, and who thinks in such a similar way to you. Who has a heart just like yours. 

“I’ve never had sex.” 

Benji turns to his side, resting his face against his fist. He looks amused, but not in a way that mocks you. Just curious, interested. “No shit. Really?”

“Yep,” you whisper. 

“No, like - like really? You never did it with…oh, shit. What’s his fuck...” You remind him of your ex’s name, and Benji snaps and nods. “Ooohhhh.”

“That’s why he dumped me,” you tell him. 

“Yeaaahh, yep, okay. I remember now.” 

“Don’t feel bad. I dodged a bullet. He’s fucking MAGA now, so.” You make a disgusted face as you think about him. God, and you thought it was the end of the fucking world, didn’t you? 

“So he can eat shit.” 

“Exactly,” you laugh. Benji gets it. Always. 

You flip the condom over in your hand, skimming over the words printed there, but it’s difficult to see in the low light. “I’m scared of that, too.” 

“Scared of what? Doin’ it?” 

You laugh at his candor. “Yeah.” You crawl up the bed, settling close to Benji. His unwashed sheets smell just like him, and it’s the warmest, most comforting scent.

“I mean, it’s instinct though, right? You’ll know what to do. Probably not gonna cum, though. Sorry.” Benji thinks you look so beautiful when you giggle at that, all bashful and flustered.  

You look at him for a moment, searching his gorgeous, hazel eyes. “When’d you first do it, Benji?”

“Umm,” he hums, thinking. “I was sixteen, I think?”

“What was it like?” 

Benji exhales, thinking back. “She was a few years older than me, you know. Whatever. We did it in her car and it sucked, dude. It was so uncomfortable. I fuckin’ busted too quickly, too. But she was really nice about it. We did it a couple more times before she left for school.”

You feel so awkward, but not in a bad way. You’re a little excited, curious. “Can I ask you more questions?” 

“Yeah, man. Shoot.” 

“What’s it like to be hard?” 

Benji laughs loudly, not expecting that particular question. Inquiring minds want to know, he guesses. “Oh, man. I don’t fucking know,” he giggles. “It feels like - like I don’t know, kind of like tensing a muscle. But it feels good, too.” 

“Mm.” You giggle awkwardly, not so subtle when you eye Benji’s crotch, wondering.  

“Fuckin’ pervert,” he says, and you smile in embarrassment. Like he gives a shit, though. There’s nothing wrong with a little curiosity, is there? “Do…you…maybe wanna cop a feel?” 

“Benji,” you laugh, but Benji’s not. He’s just smiling, eyebrows raised. “Wait, are you serious?” 

“I’m not not serious,” he says. “Just - if you want to, you can. That’s all. Want me to be your guinea pig?”

“But I don’t think we’re supposed to.” 

“I’m not a rat. Are you a rat?” 

You shake your head, and there’s an exciting, electric tension between you and Benji that’s nearly palpable. You could reach out and touch it, grab a handful, maybe. Your heart’s beating a little faster and your stomach is fluttering with it all. You wonder if Benji feels the same thing. 

Benji asked you who’d know or who’d tell when he kissed you a few years ago. It’s inappropriate now, and it was inappropriate then, but the memory remains a very private, personal pleasure of yours. 

You remember hanging out under a bridge while hiking. Taking a break to sip on some water and rest your aching feet, but it devolved into getting high together. Not too high, just happy and floaty, being tickled by the grass and watching the water flow. 

“I was fourteen, maybe?” he said, reminiscing about his first kiss when you’d asked. “It was another boy, actually.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Benji shrugged. “Sleepaway camp.”

“What was it like?” 

“Honestly? I didn’t think much about it. We were just dumb fuckin’ kids. But I didn’t kiss anyone again for a long time. Just kinda…yeah. I don’t know,” he shrugged.

You nodded, watching Benji puff on his joint. “I’ve never kissed a boy,” you told him. “Or a girl.” 

“You’ve never kissed anyone?” 

“Nope.” 

Benji gave you a look. “You wanna try?”

“I mean, we can’t, right?” 

“Technically, yeah. But who’d know?” After thinking for a moment and smiling to yourself, you told him yes, that you did want to try. “Alright, loser. Lay it on me.” 

You could barely contain yourself when Benji faced his body to yours. Knee to knee, both sitting with your legs crossed, vibrating with that shared energy. Benji waited there patiently with his eyes closed as you gathered the courage to kiss him, but you chickened out. He grabbed you before you could leave and kissed you anyway, and how exquisite that felt. His soft, plump lips. It was slow at first, gentle, and broken by whispers and giggles. You remember his warm hands on your face and waist, and how soft his hair felt between your fingers. It went on longer than it should have, and probably shouldn’t have happened in the first place. But oh, how special it was. 

“We’re just playing around, right?” You shrug and bite down on your smile. Benji scoots a little closer to you and takes your hand, noting your little tremble. You sweet, nervous thing. “Y’ready?”

“Okay,” you grin. 

Benji brings your hand to his body and presses your palm against his bulge. He’s only half-hard yet, but his cock twitches at your touch. You let out a surprised giggle, and Benji presses you harder against himself. He’s so warm through his shorts, and growing harder. It’s such a unique, pleasant feeling. “Holy fuck,” you laugh. 

“Can I like–” you trace him a little, intrigued by all that you can feel. Then, you squeeze Benji gently, eliciting a soft gasp from him. “Is that okay? Does it - does this, like, feel good?”

Benji chuckles. “You’re touching my fuckin’ dick, dude. Yeah, it feels good.” He lets you have your fun, lets you experiment. He’s fully erect now, and breathing hard as you tease him - unintentionally, of course. After a few seconds, Benji asks, “Do you wanna make it feel better, though?” 

“Yeah.” 

Benji pulls on the drawstring of his shorts and pushes your hand underneath them. You feel his pubic hair first, long and not unlike your own. “You’re not wearing any underwear,” you whisper. 

“Well yeah, dude. It’s the fuckin’ weekend.” You smile, and Benji giggles. You’re simply feeling his cock, not really moving your hand at all. Benji gives you a gentle push forward, wrapping his hand around yours. “You’ve really never done this, huh?” he asks, slowly moving your hand up and down. You shake your head no. “You’re doing good,” he promises. “You just go like this.” 

Benji lets you touch him on your own and brings his hand to your face. He pushes some hair out of your face and sighs, closing his eyes as he allows himself to relax into the feeling. His cock is warm and stiff, and you like how smooth and soft his tip is. He stops you for a second so he can take off his shorts entirely, and then lets you keep going. 

“It’s pretty,” you tell him, making a face when you hear how silly that sounds. “Or like - I don’t know. Fuck off.” 

“No, man. I’ll take it.” Benji laughs and rolls his eyes, then lets you keep going. 

As your movements slow, he knows that you’re wondering how far this thing goes. Are you supposed to finish him off? Do you just…stop? Do you want to stop? So, he asks you. “You wanna be done here or do you wanna keep going?”

“What would happen next?” 

“I’d touch you,” he offers. “If you wanted. Orrrr…whatever you want. Ball’s in your court here.” 

You nod, “Yeah, I want that.” 

“You want me to touch you?”

“I think.” 

Benji pulls your hand off of his cock and pushes you onto your back. He undoes your own shorts, then slides them down and off your legs. “You got some nice legs, dude.” 

“Shut up,” you laugh. Fucking Benji. Strange, beautiful man.

“You ever been fingered?” 

You shake your head. “Only by myself,” you tell him, scrunching your face. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that. You’ve never talked about it with anyone before. 

“Oh, don’t be all - ‘cause that’s good, though. You know what you like.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Wanna show me? What you like, I mean?” 

“I haven’t shaved, you know. Down there.” 

Benji scoffs. “Come on. I don’t give a shit. But you can say no, if that’s what you’re getting at. It’s okay.” 

“No, no. I do want–” you interrupt yourself by sighing, frustrated by you don’t exactly know what. 

Benji gets it, of course. You’re just a little overwhelmed is all. It’s new and strange and maybe a little scary. “Hey, hey - can you show me what you want? Hm?” 

You let out a deep breath, then take Benji’s hand, just like he took yours. Your stomach jumps when his fingers drag over your stomach as you push them toward your pussy. You’ve never felt anyone’s hands there beside your own. 

You spread your legs a little and Benji’s fingers slip beneath your panties. It’s nice to be the one to control the pace here, to really have the ball in your court, as he said earlier. You’re the one who chooses what his fingers touch and when, and right now, they’re rubbing your pubic hair. You inch him down a little more, and gasp at the feeling of his fingertips resting against your clit. Benji smirks. 

You adjust a little, then put your fingers over his. You let out a little noise at the added pressure, then show him the way you want him to touch you. “Like this, I think,” you whisper, moving him in circles. 

“Yeah?” 

“Y-yeah.” 

Benji knows it’s not feeling the best yet, which is okay. It takes some time to warm up, to find the right angle and pace and position and everything. He patiently works to find these things, to make you feel as good as you make yourself feel. Maybe even better. 

You moan for him. It’s loud and sharp and born of pure pleasure, and Benji grins proudly. “Ahh, okay. I got it.” 

He giggles with you. You’re spreading your legs wider and pulling your hand away from his, wetter than ever, melting into the pillows. You’ve felt pleasure before, but it feels so much more intense at the hands of Benji. You sigh softly, rocking your hips against his palm. You wonder if this really is so wrong, just making each other feel good. 

Benji’s fingers slip lower, pressing against your wet, dripping hole. He pushes just one inside, pumping it in and out of you slowly, getting you used to the intrusion. “That okay?” 

“Mhm.”

“How about…” Benji adjusts his hand and inserts a second finger that has you sucking in a sharp breath. There’s a stretch, a little amount of pain. It’s gone in seconds, quickly replaced by pleasure as Benji curls his fingers repeatedly, brushing such a tender, sensitive place inside you. You moan loudly, never having felt such a sensation before. 

And it makes Benji laugh. “Yeah, that’s the shit, right?” It’s so beautiful to see you like this, coming undone for him. 

“It’s - oh my god, Benji.” 

Benji kisses you, swallowing the delicious noises you make. He hums in surprise when he feels your hand slip beneath his - good for you, taking control of your own pleasure. You rub your clit to match his ministrations, pulling away from the kiss to bury your face in his neck. In time, you’re cumming, and Benji uses his fingers to fuck you through it. 

You come down with Benji by your side, making soft noises. He looks at you so full of care, wondering what you’re thinking. It’s those parted lips and your wide eyes that give you away, and he knows you want exactly the same thing he does. 

“I always wanted the first time to be with someone who loves me,” you say, then swallow thickly, “And who I love.” 

“I mean, I love you,” he whispers. 

You nod and kiss Benji again, your sides tickled as he pulls your shirt up and off of your head. He pulls his off next, then helps you out of your bra and underwear. Fuck, you cannot believe this is happening. Benji’s spreading your thighs apart and slotting his slim hips between them, and it’s exciting to feel his cock against your pussy. You’re fucking throbbing. 

“You wanna - fuck - you wanna find one of those condoms or…?”

“Still on the pill,” you breathe, and Jesus, does that bring back a memory. Of course he remembers. He used to drive you to the pharmacy so you could pick up your birth control that you weren’t supposed to have. 

“Cool, cool. Okay.” 

Benji spits into his hand and strokes his cock, then presses the tip at your entrance. He drags it up and down through your folds a few times, then lines up at your entrance. 

You laugh, “I’m so fucking nervous, Benny.” 

“We don’t have to,” Benji says. 

“I want to.” 

He nods. “You ready? Or do you need a minute, maybe?

“I’m - I’m ready, I think. I just - will it hurt?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he answers honestly. “But I’ll be gentle as fuck, though. I promise. Okay?”

“Okay,” you answer, and Benji notches himself inside. That initial stretch alone has you gasping, hurting a little. “Wait, wait, wait. Benji–” you put your hands on his chest to stop him. 

“What is it?”

“I don’t - I don’t know, I’m…fuck, I’m sorry. I’m being weird.”

“Hey.” Benji pauses to take your face in his hand, and he rubs his thumb along your cheek. “It’s just us, right? Just me and you.” He reaches for one of your hands and interlaces his fingers between your own, and he gives you three squeezes. I love you. 

He slides slowly into your body then, watching you so carefully. He sucks in a sharp breath as you clench around him, your eyes squeezing shut and your hand gripping his a little tighter. He bottoms out with a grunt, and you whimper at the fullness. 

“Hurtin’?” 

“A little. Can you just give me a minute to like - you know?”

“Yeah, man. Just tell me when you’re ready. M’not going anywhere.” He pushes your hair back as he waits for you to give him the go-ahead, cock throbbing inside you. “You are so fucking beautiful.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, man. Yeah. I think you’re so pretty.” 

It’s such a genuine compliment, coming from the person who looks at you like nothing else fucking exists. It’s how he feels, anyway. Nothing matters to him more than you, and it never has. He means that/

Benji moves when you tell him you’re ready for him to do so. He pulls out of you almost all the way, then pushes in. The pinch is still there, but it’s lessening, lessening…gone. You make such delicious, pretty noises as Benji rocks his hips not too quickly, but not too slowly, building the most perfect pace. You wrap your legs and arms around him, nails digging into his shoulder blades. “Benny,” you whine. 

Benji’s vocal too, groaning broken versions of your name as he fucks you, sawing his hips back and forth. His hand crawls up your torso and he squeezes your breasts, thumb flicking over your nipple. “Oh, man. Fuck,” he grunts. 

You rock your hips to match his rhythm, savoring every detail of this. His gorgeous body on yours, and the comfortable weight that comes with that. The hair tickling his nose that you push out of his face. The vein in his forehead protruding, something you thought only happened when he was angry. 

“How’re you doing?” he breathes, “You okay? Feelin’ good?” You struggle to answer him, opting for a lazy mumble and a nod instead, and that makes Benji smile. “Oh fuck, yeah you are,” he laughs. 

There’s a while longer of that steady thrusting before Benji’s reaching for your clit, massaging it in the same way he did earlier, and there’s no rush. He doesn’t will it to happen, and instead takes his time, letting the pleasure build on its own. 

It makes your legs shake and tremble, makes you moan against his hot, sweaty, salty skin. “Benji, I’m gonna–”

“I know. Let go, baby. I’m here.” 

You’ve never cum so hard before. Benji’s cockhead against your g-spot, his fingers on your clit - you’re in fucking pieces, sobbing his name as you fall apart. Benji fucks you through it all, ensuring he’s satisfied you completely. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest, you’re now seated on his lap. Benji fucks you even deeper from this angle, burying his face into your chest, sucking on your nipples. 

He knows it overstimulates you. He can hear it in your voice as he chases his own orgasm, and it’s a couple more deep, hard thrusts before he’s cumming, groaning in your ear. There’s a satisfaction that comes from the way he’s so sloppy about it, so frantic. And finally, that delicious warmth as he paints your insides with his cum, both of you knowing he shouldn’t. 

Just this one time, maybe.  

Benji sighs, pulling away from you after riding the last of its waves, and he notices you’re crying again. His brows knit together and he tilts his head, his cheeks all red  and warm.

“Ignore me,” you sniffle, wiping your nose.

As if he could ever ignore you. “It’s fine, dude. It’s okay. I got you.” 

Benji pulls out of you, making you spill onto his sheets. He doesn’t give a shit. He lays down with you instead, pulling you close to him. Noses touching, his hand on your waist, thumb rubbing you back and forth. In the soft, warm glow of the room, Benji doesn’t mind letting you see that he’s crying, too, and now it’s your turn to wipe away tears. 

Why wouldn’t he be, after all? It’s the last time he’s got you all to himself. Benji promised that you’d see each other at holidays but do either of you know that for certain, really? Fuck, he knows better than anyone how life gets as you get older. How lonely it gets sometimes. The realization that there’s some family and friends of yours that you won’t see again for many years, if ever. 

Benji will help you pack your things tomorrow, as promised. Tears will be spilling down his cheeks and he’ll pretend they’re not there, telling you not to worry about him. “I’m fine - I’m fuckin’ - I’m cool as a cucumber, dude.” You’ll laugh at that as you hug him for too long, and you’ll be late to leaving. 

You’ll drive away crying, and you’ll wear that hoodie he gave you all those years ago feeling close to him, knowing he’s part of you. Some 12.5% of your blood shared. 

It’ll be okay. 

you all know the drill. reblogs, asks, whatever, would all be very nice ♡ love ya.

ETA - shutting off anons for the night as I often do because that’s when the nutjobs come out. If you have an anon, send it tomorrow morning 🩵

[venusbyline]

The Blood of the Lamb (prologue)

— summary: During a few weeks, you thought that the idea of getting in one of your late father's cars and driving without any sensible planning to the distant farm where your uncles lived might be a good idea. You thought that their invitation for you to stay there for a while had been out of pure, genuine kindness. Then you chose to ignore any suspicious situation that could have prevented you from being there, almost on the verge of death and thrown in the middle of the forest

— pairing: vampire!Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader x vampire!Aegon II Targaryen

— type: dark, smut, 1930s AU

— chapter's warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, human!reader, dark!Aemond, dark!Aegon II, Targcest (uncles/niece), threesome FMM (female/male/male), rape/non-con, age gap (older men/younger woman), oral sex (female receiving), cunnilingus, blood drinking, blood and injury, nipple licking, dacryphilia, unconscious sex, non-consensual somnophilia, free use, sadism, dark content, 1930s AU/vampire AU, porn with plot. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: This is my first story involving vampirism. I love vampires since when I was 8 (thanks Bram Stoker's Dracula and IWTV movie), but I had never written a HOTD fanfic about this content until I watched Sinners and received an anon ask a few weeks later 💕💕 I hope you guys like that, I don't now when I'll write the next chapters, perhaps it'll be soon!!!

— author's notes²: The Blood of the Lamb is a series involving vampirism, Targcest and sexual master/slave themes.

— author's notes³: Each chapter will contain its own trigger warnings.

— author's notes⁴: If you want to be tagged for the next chapters, tell me!!! <3 <3

❥ Aemond masterlist • Aegon II masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

Your mother had warned you to stay away from your uncles since the family had become completely estranged for years. However, your stubbornness got the better of you and you got into the wrong path because of a stupid fight with Jacaerys, your older brother.

During a few weeks, you thought that the idea of getting in one of your late father's cars and driving without any sensible planning to the distant farm where your uncles lived might be a good idea. You thought that their invitation for you to stay there for a while had been out of pure, genuine kindness. Then you chose to ignore any suspicious situation that could have prevented you from being there, almost on the verge of death and thrown in the middle of the forest — all the nights they left without warning and came back with some strange stains on their clothes, all the looks they gave you when you got too close to them, those constant dilated pupils, the lack of any sunlight in the rooms...

"You look so pretty like this, little niece, crying and writhing like a lamb while my brother licks your cooze..." Aegon purred in your ear, blood still dripping down his chin from the most recent bite he had given your neck.

No matter how much you tried to move away from both of them, you found yourself too weak to fight again, fang marks all over your arms.

"S-Stop, uncle... Please." You looked at Aegon with those wide, vulnerable eyes, being interrupted by the loud scream as Aemond sank his teeth into your cunt.

The feeling of the blood being sucked out of your body was overwhelming, making it impossible for you to stay conscious for long, passing out and coming back every five minutes.

"Poor little thing..." Aemond teased, his fangs soaked with the crimson liquid, as was his entire chin. He caressed your bruised clit, enjoying watching your legs trembling even in your sleepy state.

Aegon moved his bites down to your breasts, squeezing one of the soft mounds while his mouth focused on practically ripping off your nipple. "Maybe we should keep her locked up in the barn, so we can have more fun with that little pussy."

Aemond frowned, stopping his licking and considering the idea of keeping you as a sex slave who would also serve as their frequent feed. After a few seconds, he nodded. "Yeah... maybe that could be more arousing than just sucking all her blood and throwing her corpse somewhere in the forest."

[juliettejwnewinesa]

I really don't understand what I'm happening with the whole situation (just something about ai), and I've been reading you fanfics for a while now (and I've been eating them up, theyre scrumptious and yummy), and never once have I thought they were ai. You can see it in writing structure(?) And the way you write, it feels human. And there is nothing wrong with using grammarly cause we all do.

Anyway, I'm so sorry for your hate, but if it's not much trouble, can you make a fanfic about childhood best friend!reader x Han Su-gang who is older than her by 2 years. She left town, sugang was devastated, and she came back and transferred for her last year.

He makes himself known by lingering around her for a long while (in the halls, brief touching, just tormenting her), wondering if she remembered him. things have been quiet, and no one tells her the incidents. She simps over Han su-gang about how handsome he is to her friends (she's a bunble Ray of sunshine and naive so they tell her nothing) and how adorable their children will be and all that like a middle schooler. It's like pure and adorable saying they'll have 3 kids, 2 boys and 1 girl, and have 5 cats (being dululu), and he hears about this and decided to give her a good time!(smut)

Anyway, please and thank you and take care of yourself (so sorry that this is long💔)

hey babeee thx for the request sorry for the delay btw 😘

Title: Guess You Grew Up Pairing: Han Su-gang x naive!sunshine!childhoodbestfriend!Fem!Reader Rating: 🔞 MDNI Tags: childhood best friends to something else, naive reader, light corruption, possessive Su-gang, unaware reader, fluffy smut, oral (f receiving), size kink, breeding talk (delulu style), soft and dark tension

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Han Su-gang never forgot you.

You were the only bright thing in his life back then. Messy pigtails, scraped knees, and that ridiculous laugh. You were the first person who held his hand without flinching. Who told him he was your “favorite person in the world.”

Then one day, you were just… gone. Moved away. No goodbye.

It haunted him. For years.

And then—just like that—you were back.

You transferred in mid-term, your backpack bouncing, your voice still sweet and chirpy as you introduced yourself with a wide smile to a classroom full of half-dead teenagers. “I used to live here when I was little! It’s so good to be back!”

Su-gang leaned back in his chair, staring at you from the back row, jaw tight.

You’d grown. Legs longer. Hair shinier. Same fucking smile.

But you didn’t even look at him.

Did you forget him?

He watched. Waited.

And when the bell rang, you skipped right past him like you didn’t even notice the boy who used to protect you from bullies.

He almost laughed.

You started following him with your eyes first.

He could feel it when he walked down the hallway, his hands in his pockets, and you’d pause mid-conversation, glancing up at him like a little lost puppy.

Then came the whispers. The blushing.

“He’s so pretty, right?” you said to your friends one day in the bathroom, unaware he was around the corner. “Like, dangerously hot. Oh my god. I want him to kiss me and then ignore me for a week so I can cry about it like in a drama.”

Your friends stared at you in horror.

You just kept going. “If I married him, our kids would be gorgeous. We’d have, like… three. Two boys, one girl. And five cats! Or maybe seven. He looks like a cat dad, don’t you think?”

Su-gang bit his lip to keep from laughing.

You really hadn’t changed at all.

He started showing up more.

Behind you in the hallway. Lurking near your locker. Sitting near you in the cafeteria. His knuckles would brush yours when you passed. His shoulder would graze yours in class.

It drove you crazy.

You kept stealing glances, your brain turning into fluff every time he licked his lips or leaned against the wall like a walking daydream.

One day, after your “dream wedding fantasy” rant, Su-gang finally snapped.

He cornered you after school, pulling you into a supply room and shutting the door with a soft click.

You gasped, back hitting the shelf.

“Han—Han Su-gang?!”

He stared down at you, silent.

Your heart thumped. “Are you—um, are you lost?”

He stepped closer. "You really don’t remember me?"

You blinked up at him. “Huh?”

“I used to walk you home. You made me hold your stupid Hello Kitty umbrella.”

Your mouth fell open. “…Sooie?”

He groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh my god—Han Sooie!” You laughed, teary-eyed, and then threw your arms around him. “I missed you! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

“I was waiting,” he muttered into your hair, his arms tightening. “Wanted to see if you remembered. You didn’t.”

“I do now!” you pouted. “You got hot. That threw me off.”

He pulled back and looked down at you, his gaze dark. “You really think I’m hot?”

You nodded without thinking. “Like… really hot. In a ‘ruin me’ kind of way.”

“…You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I will.”

He kissed you hard, like he’d been holding it in for years.

Your lips parted in surprise, and Su-gang took full advantage, sliding his tongue into your mouth, one hand cupping your cheek while the other settled low on your waist.

You melted into him instantly.

“I should make you pay for forgetting me,” he murmured against your lips.

“S-Su-gang…”

“You say I’m hot? Say you want kids? Say stupid little things about marrying me?” He kissed down your neck, biting gently. “You think I wouldn’t hear that?”

You whimpered. “You heard that?!”

He chuckled darkly. “You’re not subtle.”

His hand slipped under your skirt. Fingers finding you embarrassingly wet already.

“Oh my god—”

“You this wet just from seeing me around, sunshine?”

You nodded, dazed. “You always look so good. I—I just thought about it a lot.”

“You want me to give you a good time, yeah?” he whispered, fingers stroking your clit slowly. “Since you dream about it so much.”

You whined and nodded again.

He kissed you breathless as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them slow and deep. His other hand moved to your chest, pulling down your top just enough to mouth at your nipple, sucking lightly.

Your legs shook.

“Please—please, Su-gang…”

“Shh. Let me take care of you, sunshine.” He dropped to his knees, pushing your skirt up.

“Wait—w-we’re still at school—”

“Then be quiet,” he smirked, before licking a thick stripe up your pussy, making your knees nearly buckle.

He ate you like he was starved. Like he owned you.

You were already close—years of fantasy finally crashing into reality.

“S-Su-gang, I’m—”

“Go ahead,” he murmured, fingers tightening on your thighs. “Cum for me. Then maybe I’ll fuck you for real and give you those kids you keep talking about.”

You cried out, biting your fist as you came hard, hips grinding against his mouth.

When he stood again, your legs were trembling, and he kissed you soft this time.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “Got it?”

You nodded, dizzy, breathless, ruined.

“Good girl.”

[wonyology]

The Years Next Door (m!reader x Babymonster's ASA) - part II

part I - part III (coming soon)

Summary: Enami Asa - one of, if not the most important person in your life - moved in next door a few years ago. You didn't know back then. It started with awkward first meeting, family dinner and dish washing duty. Looking back now, you still remember it like yesterday. When did things change between two of you? You don't know for sure - but you know that once it changed, no going back for you two.

tag(?): fluff, lots of fluff, maybe fluff only

ASA x yourself/Original Male Character

Word count: ~6.8k - uhm, you guys can read and try to figure out what happens next, have fun reading~~

Also, give your boy a follow if you like what i write

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 That morning, you woke up feeling different. Sunlight spilled just a bit through your window curtains, giving you that feel good Disney vibe. Yesterday… yesterday was... definitely something. Your eyes hadn’t fully opened yet but they were squinting like crazy as you were reminiscing about her. She called you sunbae, she called you nice, she agreed to go around the neighborhood with you. For a teenager, life hadn’t felt this exciting in a while. 

 Getting up from bed, you walked around a bit before sitting on your study desk chair, taking in the little bit of sunlight that wasn’t covered by the curtains. Reaching out to open the curtains, the familiar view from your room welcomed you. But something changed yesterday, Asa and her family moved in. Just right across from your room, there had always been a window - could that also be her room? You glanced at the clock on your desk, 7:36AM. Should i text her right now? - you thought.

[준혁선베🥋]

hii

are u up yet?

[김아사🌸]

guess ㅋㅋ

You smiled, unconsciously. Thinking of how to reply when she texted back.

[김아사🌸]

you didn’t reply to my text last night

that’s rude, sunbae

 Ohh, right. You were in cuckooland last night because of her, didn’t even remember to reply back. Stupid. Stupid you.

[준혁선베🥋]

uhm… i’m sorry

what time are u free this morning? does 9am work?

i’ll buy u something to eat at the convenience store as an apology…

[김아사🌸]

9am sounds good 

*loopy thumbs up emoticon*

i’m just kidding tho, i’m not mad at you

 You felt relieved - like you just lost 10kg. Looking out the window, you snapped a quick photo of the one directly across from your room before sending the photo.

You sent a photo.

[준혁선베🥋]

is this your room window? it’s across from mine

sorry if it’s not. i’m not trying to be weird…

 Feeling both nervous and excited, you looked at the window. Someone was opening the curtains, you prayed to some supernatural force just for it to be Asa. Please be Asa, please be Asa… The curtains parted a bit, just enough for someone to peek their head out. 

 It was her. Yes!!! Her hair was slightly messy - like it was freshly combed, a few soft strands stuck on her cheeks, eyes puffy from sleep. Cute. So freaking cute. She blinked a bit before waving at you, that graceful beauty of hers made you feel like time just slowed down for the both of you. You knew better than to act like an idiot who just fell in love, not wasting any time smiling and waving back. She then pulled her head back from the window, maybe out of shyness. You stepped away from the window too, crashing right back into the chair with a thudding heartbeat. Glancing at the clock, it was 7:45AM.

[김아사🌸]

see u ㅎㅎ

can u come to my house later???

[준혁선베🥋]

ㅇㅋ (okay), see you later

 Hands running through your hair as millions of thoughts went through your mind, trying your best to keep it together. It wasn’t a date. You were just showing her around the neighborhood, as a friend - no big deal, just being nice, like she said last night. But still, you gotta get freshen up. Can’t go out showing Asa around looking like the neighborhood’s dummy. 

—

 You stand in front of the mirror, towel wrapped around your waist, hair still damp from a rushed shower. “Why do I have nothing to wear?” you muttered.  This was your first time in a while having such a dilemma choosing what to wear. Putting on a pair of clean-fit black pants, a “polite” white t-shirt and the nicest looking jacket you owned. Was it too much? Was it not enough? Was it just about? Whatever. Don’t overthink, it’ll do for now. You’ll hop on IG and look for some new clothes later if  this thing between you two ever works out.

 You then sprayed on four cautious sprays of the cologne that mom got for you on your last birthday. You didn’t know why a teenager your age needed cologne, but somehow, mom knew the best. Love you, mom. It smelled nice, just right, not too strong. Checking yourself out in the mirror once again, just to make sure you looked nice.

 Chill out, act normal. It’s not a date.

 Running downstairs, you slid your phone in your pocket before telling mom and dad you wouldn’t be having breakfast with them as you got plans, not mentioning Asa.

 “Are you meeting up with Asa?” your mom asked.

 You stopped dead in your tracks and turned around. “Uhm…”

 “The cute little girl next door. Your dad said he saw you two waving at each other this morning.” mom said while smiling lovingly.

 “Yeah, I’m just… showing her around. She’s new here”

 “Mm-hm.” Your mom nodded, eyes twinkling like she’s already imagined the entire future in her head. “Do you still have some pocket money left?” 

 You just blinked. “Yes, mom...”

 “Good” your mom walked to you, handing over a neatly folded 10,000 won bill anyway. “Buy her something nice, Joonhyuk-ah. Banana milk and some sandwiches or cream bread, she might like those. Don’t feed her those sausages in the morning, okay?”

 “Mom…”

 “I’m just saying. Your mom knows best.” her hands reached over, trying to brush your hair - which you immediately ducked. “First impressions matter a lot.” 

 You ran to the doorway, putting on your favorite pair of New Balance 550. “We’re just going around the neighborhood mom… I don’t like her or anything.”

 Your mom gasped, clutching her chest and acting hurt, way too dramatically. “You hate your mom now?! It feels like yesterday when you were so clingy to me, now that you are all grown up - you are too cool for the woman who raised you?!”

 “Mom… I’ll be back soon” you groaned. Teasing you had always been her favorite pastime.

 “Be nice to her. I will text Ms. Keiko and ask how you behaved” she called out before walking back to the kitchen.

 Behind all that teasing, you know - mom loves you. Always has, always would. Her way of showing affection was just embarrassing sometimes. Shutting the door behind, you walked slower than usual next door, trying to look cool, or normal. Glancing at your phone, it was 8:56AM. Perfect. A bit early? Maybe. But not late.

 Stopping at the front gate, you wondered. Do I ring the bell? Text? Call her out? Now what?

 Just when you were about to ring the bell, the sound of gates clicking made you freeze. It was Ms. Keiko and one of Asa’s sister, Lisa.

 “Oh, Joonhyuk-ah. Good morning” Ms. Keiko said. Lisa stood beside her, smiling politely at you.

 You straightened and bowed. “Hi, Ms. Keiko. Hi, noona.”

 “Aren’t you a bit early?” Lisa said, a hint of tease in the way she said it - just like last night.

 “Uhm, figured I shouldn’t be late.” your fingers nervously playing with the hem of your jacket.

 “Cute,” she added. “Asa should be down now. She just took too long to look pretty.”

 You nodded, trying not to let the thought of that rattle you, nodding.

 “We are just heading out for a bit.” Ms. Keiko said while opening the side gate slightly for you and stepping outside with Lisa.

 “Oh, we will make sure to come back before lunch.” you replied quickly.

 Just when they started walking down the street, Ms. Keiko smiled and gave you her blessing - half knowing, half warm. “Okay, just have fun, you two.”

 And with that, you bowed goodbye to them. Asa should be here any second now. 

 You heard footsteps. Then the creaking of the gate - there Asa was. Her eyes were smiling at you. She stepped out quietly, was she also nervous to see you too? Her hair was pinned back, left a bit loose on both sides - just enough to allow the sunlight to emphasize her features. She was wearing light makeup, nothing too fancy. A sky blue button-up, slightly cropped cardigan on top of a white tank top, paired with fitted jeans and a clean pair of Nike. Simple, casual yet… so beautiful. Your eyes met for a few seconds too long before she spoke up.

 “Hey”

 “Hi” you replied, a small pause in between - it didn’t feel awkward at all.

 “You came a bit early.” she said while glancing at her phone, not really checking the time.

 “I’m the type to be early.” 

 “So… you lead the way?”

 “Yeah, I’ll show you the local stuff. Secrets only longtime residents know. Real government-level classified stuff.” You nodded, trying to make her laugh.

 And laugh she did, quietly - the kind of laugh that can make a thousand boys fall for her. Just like that, the two of you started walking. Side by side.

 That moment, you felt like Park Kyung’s “Ordinary Love” was playing in the background, and the two of you were the main characters in a teenage romance. The weather that morning was great. Gentle morning air, perfect mix of breeze that made the world feel fresh and warmth from the sun shining at everything in the neighborhood. Just so good that you wished it would stay like this forever.

 The streets of Eungam-dong were nice, peaceful, disrupted occasionally by the sound of cars passing by or people opening their shops. You two passed through rows of nice buildings and light chatter of people starting their day. This silence - with her, felt nice. “Do you always wake up early? Like this morning.” Asa wondered, turning to look at you.

 “I don’t know. Depends on what plans I have on that day.” you shrugged.

 You pointed at the local convenience store just right around the corner. “Right there. Five stars. Nothing else in Korea can compare to this.”

 She smiled. “Wow.”

 You reached for the handle and opened the door for her. The bell chimed softly as you two entered. Inside, the store had everything teenagers like you two needed for a light breakfast. Instant noodle, snacks, cold milk... everything. You know every corner of this store, you’d been here since you were just a kid after all.

 “My treat, as promised. I have government funding.”

 “Funding…?” she replied, her head tilted, brows scrunching just a little bit - looking confused. “What does it mean?”

 Oh right, she’s Japanese - her Korean wasn't perfect back then. The way her voice sounded so sweet, soft and curious reminded you to take things slower with her. Gentler.

 “Oh, funding means… like money. Government money.” you tried to explain.

 She stared at you for a second. Then, she laughed - finally, sounded like candy to your ears. “Wow, must be nice.” The two of you walked to the drinks section. You went straight for the classic. “This one”

 You said while holding up a little bottle of milk to show her. “Everyone in Korea knows this. Legendary. I grew up drinking this… well, I still drink this but, you get the idea.”

 Asa leaned in, her eyes had a mix of curiosity and surprise. Her hand reached out to take the bottle - fingers slightly brushing against yours. Turning it around, she read the label just like your mom would. Are all women this careful? You, personally, just consume anything as long as it tastes nice. 

 “Cute packaging.” 

 “Yup, but I’m sure Japan has way fancier drinks.” 

 You then turned and scanned around. “And maybe… cream bread. Or this sandwich? I’m not sure what suits your taste but these are really nice. You won’t die from it.” you grinned while showing her one of the pastries.  Asa nodded, smiling. “I’ll try.”

 You then grabbed two triangle kimbap (one for her, just in case she was still hungry). Grabbing everything to the counter, you paid with the government funding (thanks mom) and led her back outside. There was a small bench right outside the store, just beside that familiar tree you always walked by on the way to school. You sat down first, she then followed. For a moment, the only sound there was the gentle crinkle of the plastic wrapping and the faint breeze passing by.

 “Try it.” you said.

 She took a sip of the banana milk, blinked for a second. “Mmm… It’s really nice.”

 You smiled, giving her a thumbs-up. “Told you. Only the best stuff.”

 She giggled again, feeling more comfortable this time. She mumbled thank you as you handed her her food, which you already peeled open. You two sat there, enjoying each other’s presence as time passed by - eating, sharing smiles between bites. Just two teenagers, under the morning sun.

 “So what was it like in Japan?” you asked after a short pause, still chewing a bit of kimbap still in your mouth. Damn, you really are your dad’s child.

 Asa started telling you everything - her hometown, her friends, her sisters, how she had to move here because of her dad’s job, where he now worked with your dad. She even told you how scary it was to leave everything and move to a new country, despite her dad trying his best to notify their family two years in advance. You listened. It must have been really tough on her. You couldn’t even imagine moving from Eungam-dong to Yeokchon-dong (which are right next to each other btw). 

 “That’s tough.” you said, in honest.

 “Yeah, but Korea’s nice. I guess I have a lot to do in Korea now.”

 “Uhm, do you watch… like, dramas or listen to K-pop?”

 Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, of course. My mom is a really big Block B fan, she’s the reason why I got into K-pop too. I also learnt Korean through watching dramas. What are your favorites?” Well, that made sense. No wonder why your speech is so cute.

 “Well, I don’t really watch dramas that much these days. I remember rewatching ‘Boys Over Flowers’ with my mom… Mmm, the other one, what is it? ‘Gentleman's Dignity’? Ever heard of it? The one with Jang Dong-gun in it. Really popular with middle-aged women.”

 She shook her head, laughing. “It sounds familiar.”

 “And K-pop, yeah… I listen a lot. Block B is nice, too. I like ‘Her’. My main is TWICE* and Bigbang.”

 “Ooh, I love them too. Super popular in Japan.”

*I LOVE TWICE.

 Great, you two had something in common. She even suggested - just threw it out there lightly - that you two start watching dramas together sometimes, if the chance ever came. Just say the word and I’d do anything with you. The conversation went on for a bit - teenage concerns, favorite songs, both of you two’s hobbies, the way your mood during the day was unhealthily decided by Manchester United’s result (I don’t know if we can stay up next season), how she wanted to try and start dancing… Then it slowed down, into something soft and easy. 

 “So there’s this arcade nearby.” you said, rubbing your hand on your knees. 

 “Oh, that’s nice. I haven’t really had the chance to go to one yet.” Asa tilted her head at you.

 “Wanna check it out? It’s really nice.” you asked, hoping not to sound over-excited.

 “Sure, is sunbae gonna show me all his skills,? she said, standing up slowly.

 “You’re gonna be amazed.” 

 “Or extremely disappointed.” she teased.

 “You’ll see.” The two of you - side by side, now closer to each other - with sunlight following, casting warmth along the peaceful street.

 The arcade was small, tucked in a corner near the main street, but it had everything: from claw machines, basketball game, racing simulators... you name it. LED lights along with a bit musty-but-still-clean-and-magical air of a place where kids, even adults come to make memories. You led the way, like a proud local. You showed her how to use the punch machine. With a light shoulder roll and a quick breath, you stepped up and swung. Baam.

 The machine blared: 674.

 “Woah.” Asa blinked. “That’s pretty good.”

 Did i look cool? You thought. “I mean, could’ve been better.”

 “Should I be scared of you, taekwondo master?” she asked, face holding a grin.

 You tilted your head slightly at her. “Only if you annoy me.”

 She laughed, holding her hands to cover her smile. Something about that way she does that still makes your heart beat crazy - till this day. “Try it, let’s see how you do.”

 Her punch was more like a gentle tap, scoring only somewhere around the 180-200s. She turned her head around looking at you, pouting - clearly playing it for the effect.

 “Not bad. You got potential.” You placed both your hands gently on her shoulders, pretending to console her but actually just taking any chance to be closer with her. You sly devil. And she didn’t pull your hands away, yes!

 After that punch machine victory, you two wandered around - laughing at each other’s poor attempt at racing, throwing bricks like Draymond Green at the 3-point line at the basketball machine and eventually ending up at the claw machine.

 Asa put both her hands on the glass, eyes wide. She pointed at the Crayon Shin-chan plush keychain - with him showing his butt, looking mischievous. Adorable.

 You tried. Then again. It took 4 tries. But you finally got it. The claw dropped it just enough to fall into the prize slot.

 “Victory, hehe.” you said, crouching to grab it, handing Asa the keychain while also hoping you really impressed her. Her eyes were sparkling. She mumbled thank you as she took it with both hands. So beautiful.

 Then, you tried once again to get the same one for yourself. You two walked out of the arcade with matching keychains - hers swinging from her cropped cardigan, yours clipped onto the neck of your jacket. 

 There was still a lot of time before lunch. No need to rush. You showed her the hidden alleyway shortcut behind the bakery - the one no one used except the kids who lived nearby. You passed the local park along Bulgwangcheon stream, stopping by the swings and sat there for a while. Taking in the scenery - the sunlight, the breeze, her beauty. Quiet, peaceful, nice. You showed her auntie Bomi’s snack stall near home, your favorite, where she got brave and tried something spicy - fanning her mouth after the first bite. Auntie Bomi didn’t even let you pay for it, saying it was a welcome gift for “this cute new girl”, she even gave Asa a free egg roll.

 On the way home, she asked if you ever get bored here. “Sometimes” you said. “But now it feels nice having you next door. Hanging out with you is… uhm, fun.” You two didn’t talk about feelings. Not yet. But she got closer to you, exchanging glances every now and then. Oh, before you even knew it, you guys already got home. Just in time for lunch.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 From that day on, something quietly began to grow between you and Asa. Late night texts, occasional video calls where you two spoke really quietly - not wanting to be caught… It felt so comfortable. You didn’t label it, didn’t feel the need to - maybe she didn’t either. 

 Your families noticed too, of course. They weren’t dumb, not at all. On the first day of school, your families forced you two to take a picture together, saying it would be “nice” to look back on in the future. Well… maybe they’re right. Your mom started asking if Asa had eaten yet so casually, as if she was already a part of your family. Ms. Keiko started calling you over to have meals with their family, like it was second nature. You guys walked to school - Youngrak middle school, together. Just a 15 minute walk from home. You guys ended up in the same class - sitting next to each other, right beside the window at the back of the class. That made everything easier - being next to her almost everyday. The first month at school was a bit tough on her. New culture, new language, new everything. But you were there, volunteering to help her whenever she needed - translation, math homework... Teachers noticed you guys too, being such nice, diligent and studious kids. One of your names can’t be mentioned without the other. Asa adapted really quickly, faster than you thought. The girls at school loved her, of course they did. Look at Asa. Guys at school didn’t really approach Asa, since you were with her almost 24/7.

 Friends also tease you guys, in that harmless silly middle school fashion. Whispering jokes in class, calling her “Joonhyuk’s girl”,... you guys laughed it off. Asa usually rolled her eyes, but not with her signature half smile-half sigh. Neither of you really said anything. Teenagers… 

 Back home, Asa’s sisters’ teasing her even more. They once saw you guys walking home on a rainy day after 학원*. You were holding an umbrella, tilting mostly on her side to shield her from the rain. She blushed like crazy, but you just smiled and waved at them, playing along. Everything about her became part of your life, naturally.

*학원/hakwon: like study/educaiton center for after school study (typically after school, at night), really common in Korea, my country or just Asia in general. 

 As the time went by, you two also grew - not much, but small changes counted. Asa decided to join the dancing club, finally. Part of you felt proud of her, Asa was such a talented girl, drawing, dancing, writing - she did it all, shining in everything she did. The way she danced with those soft, precise grace made everyone feel like they were really fortunate to be in her presence, be near her. The other part of you, was it… jealousy?

 The more she participated in the dance club, the more attention she got, especially from the guys, or those sunbae. Fuck that. Those guys didn't know how special she was, they didn’t treasure her like you did. You hated that, but you still reminded yourself: you two were NOT a thing. Just friends, close friends - next door neighbors.  But then again, they had her front and center for pretty much every school performance. Damn it…

 Meanwhile, you started taking taekwondo more seriously. Going to practice after school as a routine slowly became a rhythm you couldn’t skip. Twice a week slowly increased into three, four times. They had you coming in for the weekend too, but your parents had your back, making excuses for you to enjoy your teenage years whenever it felt like too much. Something about this, growing up, the pressure to do well, to win - was a bit overwhelming, but you still liked it... right? You won a few medals at the city level, yeah… but as a kid. Then you won even a few more as you grew up, to your surprise (not your coach’s tho). Word got around, your names started circulating around the taekwondo circle. “There is this kid, from Eungam-dong, really good - too good for his age.”  You thought it was just gibberish when your friends told you about it. Then came the messages, representatives showing up at your house - talking about “your son’s potential, international level”, then the offer. You got scouted for a sports-specialised highschool, all the way in Suwon. 

 Suwon… away from Seoul, away mom and dad, away from Asa… A school for kids who are extremely good at their sports, for kids who had the potential to represent Korea on the world stage. The best of the best. Flattering, sure… But it was also scary and confusing at the same time. Well, this all happened during later middle school - early high school, let’s roll back the time - to when things were a lot more simple.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 2019

 It was April, Asa’ birthday. You had been planning for a few weeks. With the help of Lisa and Chisa, you bought her a nice necklace from a really niche online jewelry shop on IG, with your saved up money that you were planning to spend on Juventus summer tour tickets in Korea that summer, planning to see Ronaldo (my GOAT) in real life. But for Asa, everything was worth it. The necklace was really nice, nothing over the top with some cute little charms. That night, you told her present was caught up in some delivery problems. She was a bit sad, which broke your heart but after your families were done celebrating her birthday at her house, you texted her.

10:24PM

[준혁선베🥋]

yah, kim asa, come out for a bit

ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

my mom said she forgot to give you some money for your birthday

[김아사🌸]

what? it’s okay

that’s nice but she doesn’t have too

[준혁선베🥋]

just come out

5 minutes

[김아사🌸]

your mom is too nice

give me one second

 After a few minutes, she was outside, wearing that oversized yellow pajama of hers, Donald ducks printed all over them. Hair a bit messy but still looking like she came out of your dream. Why do you have to look so cute even this late at night? The two of you standing under the lamppost between your houses, eyes gazing at each other. The soft glow from the lamppost definitely didn’t help you either, making her look even prettier.

 “Close your eyes. Give me your hands.” you said, a bit shy.

 “Huh… what are you doing?” Asa said, mouth grinning like she already knew what you were plotting.

 “Just do it or I’m walking back in.”

 “Okay, dummy.” She teased, closing her eyes. She held her hands out. Palms up, Trusting you.

 Right then, a wild thought ran through your mind: you really wished you had given her a light kiss on the lips. Your first kiss, hers too… maybe? No, it’s creepy. Instead, You pulled out a small box from your shorts pocket carefully, like it was highly classified, 24K carat, only-one-in-the-world type of jewelry, placing it into her hands.

 Her eyes opened, lips curling into a cheeky smile. “You really surprised me tonight, Seo Joonhyuk. I was actually mad at you a bit earlier ”. she said, clearly touched

 “Your sisters helped me pick it out. I felt like it really suits you. Just… don’t open it yet. Go inside and then open it. It’s really cold now.” you lied while rubbing the back of your neck. It wasn’t that cold. You were just really shy, so shy that you could die standing right there.

 “Okay, thank you for the gift, Joonhyuk-ah.” Asa waved at you one last time before smiling, going back inside.

 You waved back then walked back inside, pacing around the living room for a bit to calm the storm in your heart before sprinting to your room like a maniac. Thank god your parents were in their room, but little did you know, Asa’s mom was right upstairs in their house, witnessing the whole encounter with a loving smile on her face. 

 Your phone suddenly buzzed.

[김아사🌸] sent a photo.

 It was a selfie of Asa, lips puckered like Donald duck on her pajamas, hands up in a v sign - she was committed to the bit. Your eyes wandered around. On her neck was… there it was, your birthday gift. It was resting just above her collarbone, catching the soft light of her bedside lamp. 

 You stared at it for a while, smiling like you were a fool, president of cuckooland, just when a notification brought back to reality.

[김아사🌸] 

it’s really nice ㅈㅎ ah (your initials)

thank you so much ㅎㅎ

[준혁선베🥋]

see, i know the best

with a bit of help from your sisters, of course…

but still, mainly me.

[김아사🌸] 

you really know my taste huh

thanks again ㅎㅎ

[준혁선베🥋]

happy birthday, kim asa

 She then sent an emoticon of a cute bear, running around panicking with blushes on its face. Heh, i made her day. Well, she made yours too. From then on, you saw her wearing that necklace proudly on every special occasion. Seems like she really treasured your gift, nice.

 Late May came, 채육대 (Sports festival/day) at school

 Your school was buzzing with noise. Colorful t-shirts, cheesy banners. You weren’t really one to be excited for these kinds of events. But this year was different, Asa was here. The weather was a bit hot, but not so much, it was enough to make everyone feel energized.

 Asa, of course, was part of the cheering performance. She had her hair in pigtails, decorated with pink ribbons. She was almost front and center the entire performance, white shirt and black shorts - so simple yet so ethereal, looking like everyone’s first love in a drama. You didn’t want to stare that much, but you couldn’t help it. Her movements were sharp and graceful, always in sync with the rhythm, leading the other girls.

 You yourself were signed up for football, since you were, say, “a bit athletic”. People also knew you were a die hard United fan. When you told her you would be playing that day on the way home, she told you she would be cheering for you. No backing out now, buddy.

 When the match started, you glanced towards the audience and there Asa was, with her friend groups, jumping up and down while chanting something, felt like she was mouthing your name. Your chest felt like it burst open, time to turn into prime Ronaldo and impressed her. It wasn’t serious league football - just 7v7 - but to you, it was serious. Games gone by, you contributed by making passes and escaping presses in midfield to make play for your friends up front. When your team got to the final, you really hoped that Asa saw it all since your head was really into the game and didn’t want her to see you running around like a headless chicken. 

 Your class was screaming like crazy when there was 10 minutes left in the final. Asa was still there, sitting under an umbrella with her close friends. The score was 2-2. Then came a chance, a free kick with 2 minutes left. You stepped up.

 Your friend, Jooheon, jogged over and whispered in your ear “Whip it out right for me, I’ll try and score a header.” You smiled.

 Like mann, shut up. Watch me turn into 2008 Ronaldo and whip this ho in from 20 meters myself.

 You took your chance, kicking it with precision and just enough power. Please don’t embarrass me, ball. 

 As it flew through the other team defence, Joonheon stared “The fuck?”

 Time stopped, well… you felt so. Boom. It’s in. Top bins, baby.

 “Oh shit!”

 “Is it in?”

 The whole pitch erupted. 3-2. You turned to Asa, she was jumping with her hands up, mouth wide open - clapping while beaming at you like you just won the Champions League. You did it, just when you were deciding on what celebration to do, your friends tackled you onto the grass. 

 “You did it, you dumbass!”

 “Gang up on him, guys!!!” You couldn’t stop smiling, even under the dogpile of smelly, sweaty friends. That day was incredible, not because of the win. It was because she was there, you were there. You guys were there for each other, supporting each other even if it was just a sports festival day at school. That feeling when you made her feel happy - that rush - gave you something extra to hold onto when the real competition came. 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 A few weeks later, there was a taekwondo competition, national level. It was nothing like you’d ever seen before, not in a local center, not a school level competition. There were cameras to broadcast everything for TV.  It was held at Jamsil Student Gymnasium. It was huge, high ceilings, LED lights everywhere, rows of chairs stretching out endlessly, banners from every corner of Korea to cheer for their representatives. You still remember that day, it smelled like floor wax, sweat and raw nerves. 

 Looking around, you spotted mom and dad in the crowd, waving their hands like they were at a concert. You smiled, they would never miss this. Asa was sitting between your family and hers, giving you two thumbs up when your eyes met. As you squint your eyes to try and confirm, she was in fact wearing the necklace you gave her on her birthday - just like she would on every special occasion. You waved back at them, half smiling since the nerves were also getting to you. You hadn’t competed in anything this serious yet up until that point. This was "the one" for you to prove it, on the national stage.

 “Representing Eungam-dong, Seoul. SEO JOON HYUK”

 Everything passed by so fast, you had gotten to the final before you even knew it. It was not too easy, but not too hard. Still, those hits and kicks you took hurt like crazy, nothing like you felt before. Like damn, chill on me bruh… 

 As you were resting on the bench, waiting for the final, nothing was in your head except for  the rhythm of Twice’s ‘Cheer Up’. Weird, huh? You didn’t even notice that coach was encouraging you and giving tips on how to exhaust your opponent before going for it. Well, easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one with a sore rib and throbbing legs.

 But then, something made you turn around. A voice cutting through the noise of the arena. It was Asa’s.

 “Fighting, Seo Joon-hyuk. You got this.” she shouted with both her hands around her mouth, mimicking a megaphone. The families were cheering on you too, but for some reason, hers felt like the only one you needed. Time for the final.

 You stepped onto the mat, steady breath, mind relaxed. Fuck… why did your opponent look so big even though you two were in the same weight class. First round… Second round, then came third round. You two were aggressive. Every move hurt even more than the last. Everyone in the gymnasium was holding their breath. Your mom was holding back her tears, seeing her son all bruised up like this. Your dad’s hand was over her shoulder, still worried but knowing you can win this. 

 Fuck. Your neck felt so stiff.  Right leg so sore too.

 Final round, the moment came. You blocked, ducked and then decided to land a sharp body shot. Your opponent came down. It connected. The crowd roared. 

 The buzzer finally rang. You didn’t know how to react, crouching down to your opponent, asking if he was okay. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

 He nodded, while still lying down in pain. “Yeah… okay. Just need a moment to… you know…”

 You stood up while tapping on the side of his arms to signal that everything was fine between the two of you. You stood there, hands on your knees, heart beating like crazy, the adrenaline was through the roof - everything around you seemed so blurry, but you won.

 The ref raised your hand. There it was. The crowd cheered for you. You walked to your opponent and gave him a friendly hug, no hate, he gave you a fair beating. Proper guy. Your teammates, coaches crowded you. Hey, you won something grand, on behalf of your Eungam-dong and your school - which was not really known for athletic talents. But everything faded as you walked over to your family, signaling at the security guard, asking him to let them down.

 Mom reached out first, hugging you, despite the fact that you were drenched in sweat and probably death. “Oh my baby, I’m so proud of you.” She just kept kissing your head, it also smelt like crazy by the way. Your dad was proud on the side, busy taking pictures with his over 10 years old camera, yeah this one is going into our family history book, buddy.

 Her family came to congratulate you too, one by one, not forgetting to ask if you were okay.

 “It’s fine, Ms. I’m just a bit sore here and there.” you lied. It hurt so bad.

 “Come to our house tonight, Joonhyuk-ah. We will make you that magical Japanese potion. Fix you up real good.” Asa’s dad said. Everyone laughed. They are such nice neighbors.

 Just then, a thought crossed your mind - Oh, where was Asa? - your around. Shit, forgot my neck still hurt. There she was, behind her sisters, who were smiling like crazy. Your eyes met, this time, Asa wasn’t screaming or jumping anymore. Her usual self was back. You could tell she was proud, her face said it all. 

 As you took a step toward her, she took one too. In her hands was a towel and a water bottle, seemed like she was gripping it tightly ever since the start of the final - cold, condensation running down the sides. She looked… shy? 

 “Hey…” she said softly while handing you the towel “Congratulations. You did well today.” 

 You grinned, like an idiot, wiping your face and hair. “Really? Did I look cool?”

 She didn’t say anything, that signature half sigh-half smile is back on her face again.

 “I’ll take that as a yes. Thank you very much.”

 That was it, everything felt so peaceful. Then, you were called up to receive the medal, right after the cheering performance ended.

 Right, you almost forgot about that part. As you were walking to the podium, you felt like every pair of eyes in South Korea were on your back. Never the one for this much attention. The ceremony finally began. You bowed, shook hands with the vice president of Korea Taekwondo Association as he placed the medal on your neck. 

 “You really are one of a kind, kid. When it’s time, we will call you up to train for the national team.” 

 You smiled, out of politeness. National team, are you joking???

 Everything was a blur. Pictures being taken, TV interviews, you were now a local legend-celeb. But behind all that noise,  Asa was still in the crowds, tiptoeing behind her sisters to get a better view of you. Media duties done, you walked right back to her and your families. Without even knowing it, you took the gold medal off your neck and put it on hers. She was shocked - not in a bad way, just surprised at how naturally you did this.

 “Hehe, how does it feel?” you asked, still shy but it didn’t matter, Asa was in front of you. Well done, that was smooth.

 “Uhm… nice, I guess…” she said, looking down at the medal, touching to see how it feel. Her lips were also smiling. Cute.

 “I guess your mom is a nobody now. I’ll just live like this with your dad until old age then.” your mom, now done crying, happily teased as she saw the scene in front of her played out.

 “C’mon, mom.” you tried hard not to sound too flustered, while Asa was blushing like crazy, head down as she didn’t know what to do. 

 “Get in, you two. Let’s take a picture.” your dad said.

 Then, you two got closer together. Asa hooked one arm around yours, the other hand holding up the medal like a proud girlfriend. But, remember this, you two were still not a thing yet. However, it didn’t matter. You were just drowning deep in the moment. Meanwhile, Asa leaned in, putting her head on your shoulders and joked:

 “Pose, you smelly dummy.” Right, right. I’m sorry I didn’t take a 30 minute break during the middle of a taekwondo competition to shower before standing next to you.

 Click. A memory was sealed. Later that night, both your families had dinner together - a warm, chaotic celebration in the neighborhood. Everyone couldn’t stop smiling and laughing. Your dad was calling every relative you had to tell them about your big win, even the ones in Busan. Wait, you have relatives in Busan? Mom was so proud, she couldn’t stop talking about how her son won it on national TV.

 Peaceful, warm… The rest of 2019 went by just like that. Both of your and Asa’s families grew tighter - casual dinners, shared nights, moms started going out together and catching up on the neighborhood dramas… What about you and Asa? You guys walked to school together, waited until each other's practices ended. Casually hanging out in the neighborhood, video calls became more frequent, you guys even started dozing off without ending the calls, which felt normal. Even though you two got busier, there was still time for each other. You two kinda became that couple at school that everyone knew about - teachers, classmates, your coach… you name it, but neither of you dared say anything about it. 

 No one said anything. As you guys grew older together, at some point,  whatever this is between the two of you started to feel a bit unusual. A bit too complicated.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Yayy, part II is out now. Sorry for any mistakes, will be going through it again later. Like always, much love to you guys, feel free to leave comments/review/suggestions. ❤️❤️❤️

[aventurineswife]

Jiaoqiu and his s/o navigating thru his blindness (like from when it was a new thing to them slowly getting used to it) <33

Silent Eyes, Knowing Heart

Summary: After Jiaoqiu loses his sight due to a self-inflicted poison, he struggles with the challenges of his new reality. Despite his initial reluctance to accept help, his partner offers unwavering support as they navigate the emotional and physical adjustments of his blindness together. Over time, Jiaoqiu learns to trust in his loved one, finding comfort in their companionship and understanding that healing isn’t just for the body, but for the heart as well.

Tags: Jiaoqiu x Reader, Comfort, Blindness, Healing, Emotional Growth, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Love and Trust.

Warnings: Mild descriptions of physical and emotional vulnerability, Themes of grief and loss, Mentions of self-inflicted harm (poisoning).

The evening air in the Yaoqing base was unusually calm, the only sound the soft rustling of trees swaying gently in the wind. Inside Jiaoqiu’s quarters, the subtle aroma of medicinal herbs and warm food filled the air, a familiar comfort to both of you.

It had been months since Jiaoqiu had lost his sight, the tragic consequence of a self-inflicted poison, meant to protect his comrades but leaving him with a permanent reminder of his sacrifice. At first, the change had been jarring, not just for him, but for you as well. The sharp, commanding glint of his eyes had always been the window to his thoughts, but now those eyes were closed, perpetually shut to shield his injured optic nerve.

You were still learning how to navigate this new chapter of his life together.

It had been strange, those early days after the accident. Jiaoqiu had tried so hard to pretend everything was normal, masking his pain with his usual quiet grace. But you knew him too well—you could see the tension in his shoulders, the subtle tremor in his hands when he reached for something.

"Jiaoqiu, you don’t need to do this," you had told him one evening, watching him struggle to find his way to the small table where his alchemical formulas rested.

"I am fine," he had said softly, but there was a shadow of frustration in his voice that he couldn’t hide. "I’ve healed many, this is just another test."

But it wasn’t. Not for you, and not for him.

It was one evening, as he sat at the edge of his bed, attempting to assemble ingredients for his healing elixirs, that you gently placed your hand on his arm.

He flinched for a second, his body instinctively reacting to your touch, as though it were foreign to him. You had never seen him flinch before.

"Jiaoqiu, please," you whispered, your voice soft but firm. "You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here."

His lips parted, but no words came. He had always been so self-sufficient, so independent, and this new reality—one where he had to rely on others—was a challenge he hadn’t yet come to terms with.

"I..." he started, his voice thick with emotion. "I don’t want to burden you."

You gently cupped his face, your thumb brushing against his cheek as you met his gaze. "You don’t burden me, Jiaoqiu. I want to be here for you. Let me help."

A slow breath escaped him, his usual calm demeanor wavering for just a moment. The pain of his blindness was something he didn’t want to show, but with your touch, the cracks in his façade began to show.

"I… I feel lost, [Name]," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was never someone who needed help. Now… now I can’t even see the world around me. I can’t heal as I once did."

You smiled softly, bringing your forehead to his. "Jiaoqiu, you’re not lost. You’re just learning to see in a different way."

Days turned into weeks, and slowly, the two of you found a rhythm. Jiaoqiu learned to rely on you in ways he never had before—from navigating the halls of the base, to preparing meals, to reaching for the right herb when his hands trembled.

In return, you learned how to understand him without his eyes. You learned to read the small signs of exhaustion in his voice, the slight curve of his lips that betrayed a moment of discomfort, the way he paused for a moment too long when a memory weighed on him.

One evening, as you prepared a simple dinner for the two of you, Jiaoqiu sat at the table, his fingers lightly tracing the surface.

"Tell me," you said, handing him a bowl. "How does it feel now? Not being able to see?"

For a long time, he said nothing. But then, in his quiet voice, he spoke.

"It’s strange. At first, everything felt… dark. I thought I had lost my way." His fingers curled around the bowl as he continued. "But now, with your help, I can feel my way through it. My hands have become my eyes, my senses sharper than before. The darkness isn’t as scary anymore. Not with you here."

You sat beside him, your hand slipping into his as you leaned against his shoulder. "You’re not alone, Jiaoqiu. I’ll always be here to guide you."

His fingers gently squeezed yours in return, a silent promise that he would learn to lean on you, and not just for the physical help, but for the emotional support he had long denied himself.

As time passed, the two of you grew closer, navigating through the trials of blindness not just with patience, but with love. Every moment with Jiaoqiu felt more precious now—the way he would lean into you when the weight of his past became too much to bear, how he would sometimes allow himself to smile fully when he knew you were by his side.

One evening, after a particularly long day of battle preparations, Jiaoqiu found himself resting against the windowsill, his head tilted back, as if seeking solace from the night sky. You joined him, sitting next to him as the silence settled between you.

"Sometimes I wonder," Jiaoqiu began, his voice soft in the stillness, "if I’ll ever truly come to terms with this… this blindness. It’s more than just the loss of sight. It’s the loss of control, the feeling of being… powerless."

You rested your head against his shoulder, your voice steady and comforting. "I don’t think it’s about control, Jiaoqiu. It’s about trust. Trust in yourself, in me, and in the world around you. We’re all learning, aren’t we?"

He said nothing. But then, with a quiet exhale, he spoke again, his voice steady despite the vulnerability he rarely showed. "I trust you, [Name]. More than anyone else."

And in that moment, the world outside didn’t matter. In the darkness, with Jiaoqiu beside you, you both found a new kind of light.

[nullicaput]

skinner and the rat. VIII

Pairing: Han Su-Gang x Reader

Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Teacher-Student Relationship, Power Imbalance, Reverse Power Imbalance, Age Difference, Dark, Su-gang being deranged as hell

Summary: Familiar faces and familiar violence—you thought after almost ten years, the kid you left would never remember you, but you were wrong.

Word count: 1747

previous chapter.

Su-Gang's hand shot on its own to grab you by the back of your neck. 

However, before he could, a familiar face showed up. 

"Teacher [Name]."

Jae-Kyeong stood in front of you, her chest heaving up and down. A cluster of her curly hair stuck on her forehead, indicating that she was sweating—she ran all the way here. 

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"I need her help." 

"Can't you see that we aren't done talking yet?" He loosened his tie and combed his hair with his fingers. "Are you blind?"

"It's an urgent matter." 

"Do I look like I care?"

"What could be it?" you rasped.

"Papers." The apples of her cheekbones moved upward. "Come with me." 

You did not let Su-Gang do something; you practically sprinted just to get to your colleague.

You were saved.

"I see," you said, nodding. 

She grasped your arm and drag you with her until you got out of the hallways that led to the art room. 

"I didn't know what's going on, but you need to stop provoking him. If it weren't for that first year, I wouldn't have known that you were with him right now."

"Ah, Jin-Hyung." 

"Think of your safety." She smiled, but there was a knowing disapproval laced in it. "And ours, too." 

It made you feel nauseated to hear her speak about her worries when she was just like her other coworkers—of those who were dangling you into the waters as bait to keep the beast from harming them, and they were enjoying that you were acting as their shield unwillingly, yet now that you were doing the same to them, suddenly, you were jeopardizing everyone due to your selfishness.

A person without a backbone to keep them standing up and from breaking down the moment his eyes has been laid upon them, lecturing you? A person who could do nothing but apologize and beg for mercy when his mother arrived at the school with her hells lacking like a horse galloping through a battlefield. Whether it was due to concern or otherwise, you could not help but be disgusted with it. In fact, if you could pull out your guts out and squeeze all of their contents to dispose this creeping feeling that nestled inside your core. 

How dare they act as though they know Su-Gang more than you? 

Even if they were to spend their lifetime with him, their knowledge about him and how far he can go with his little games of amusement would never amount to what you have witnessed firsthand. In a place where he was the emperor—even higher than his kingly power inside the complicated walls and architecture of this school—only you were the only one who could even manage to get close to him. You have came to near to him that you saw the extent of what he can do just because. 

"Where are you going?"

You did not even realize you were diverting from the path to the faculty, but you made no move to follow her again. 

"Washroom," you replied.

You left her and made your way to the nearest single-stall lavatory. Inside, you immediately searched for a trash bin and threw the mask you did not know you kept holding onto for dear life. You locked the knob and leaned onto the door. 

"Damn this school," you spoke under your breath. 

You turned the tap on and made the water gush out loudly. You let its noise drown the thoughts that plagued your mind to no end, and you let it calm you down before you do anything more idiotic than saving that kid from Su-Gang. You gasped for air, keeping yourself from gagging and expelling the food you have eaten during lunch earlier. You gathered some of the water with your palms, and you washed your mouth. You rubbed your lips—inner and outer—to scrub off any of the trace that might have penetrated your mask. Tears then fell from your eyes, but they were not out of fear.

They were out of vexation, each drop filled of despisal for everyone who existed in this cursed place—including and especially yourself. You simply wanted to live normally, but you knew that you could not—yet you could not let go of that foolish desire of spending your days as a teacher peacefully when the monster you escaped from was the one who owned it.

"Hah," you scoffed.

You chuckled bitterly, feeling that helplessness you have once felt before inside the clutches of his family. You knew their tenacity more than anyone else in this school, and you knew that they were not the ones to let go of a grudge. 

You supposed that this was the greatest consequence that you could ever have. 

Like a rat, you have skittered around in order not to catch the wrath of those who claim to value you a little more than the people they can get rid of without even batting an eye. They loved you so much they wanted you in their picture-perfect family, but you did not want to join them, so you left. With those scars that could never fade, you left them with promise of no return. 

So why were you here?

Why do you keep stepping inside this school knowing what he was capable of doing just to have you again? Why do you keep attending the class that he was in? Why do you keep pushing through, when you could have accepted you fate and let him control you like a puppet? 

"Don't make me laugh," you mumbled. 

Either you die or you leave—those were the only options for you. 

Either he kill you or he fire you—those were the only options for him. 

No matter which choice he take, there is no other end but him letting you go—of setting you free once and for all. 

Because in this quiet yet deadly battle of yours against him, you refuse to lose. 

You need to win, and you would rather die than stop trying.

"He should be the one who needs to stop provoking me."

Your phone vibrated inside your pocket, and thankfully, it was not your mother. 

"Hey," Kwon-Jung said. 

"Hi."

"Are you feeling well?" He coughed. "Your voice sounds hoarse."

"Says you."

You covered the microphone of your device and sniffled, not wanting him to hear that you were crying. Of all people, you did not want him to be involved with the complexities of your past, which was now entangled with your present. 

"Let's meet up," he abruptly borough up. "It's Friday." 

"I don't have money to spare."

You used your non-dominant hand to hold your phone, while you used the other one to cup yourself water to rinse your eyes with. You blinked your tears away, and soon, you have stopped crying. 

"My treat, then."

"How generous of you."

"I'm not kidding. Today's my day off."

"And you're sick?" you teased. "Talk about unlucky."

"Mhm."

You heard him create some noises only a sick person could make, and you made him finish his capella before hitting him with something you knew all too well would make his mood worse. 

"Can Si-Min come?"

"No."

"Why not?" you drawled. 

His cousin, Si-Min, was the reason he met you, and he will always be grateful to her due to that. However, there was no way he could want to send this moment with you with her, since they frequently meet each other anyway. Besides, he want to be a one with you at least once. 

"You've met up just this recent." 

You laughed softly, not even clearing up that you were merely annoying him by asking a question he obviously disliked hearing. 

"Wear a mask when you meet me." 

"That's a given."

When the call ended, you felt your chest has become lighter than before. 

Your remaining classes passed by in a blur, and you soon found yourself walking toward the entrance of the school. 

Not too far was a tall man, with his side leaning against the metal bars of one of the gates. He was not putting any foot inside the academic institution, and you appreciated that he was abiding with even the smallest and simplest of rules. 

"You're wearing a hoodie," you said pointedly. "Couldn't you have worn something nicer?"

He grunted before stepping backwards. 

"I'm sick. Be nicer with me, would you?"

He even coughed to make his point clearer. 

You pulled him back to stumble for a step inside or two, and to your silent approval, he lowered his head so you could put your hand on it and estimate his degree of sickness.

"If you're so sick, then you shouldn't have come here." 

"I missed you," he answered sincerely. 

Your nose scrunched, and you only realized that you forgot to wore a mask.

"Ugh." You mildly nudged him on the forehead. "I'm telling Si-Min about this." 

"No. Everything but that," he protested. "She'll kick me in the face."

"You'll survive it, don't ya worry."

"[Name]."

"Whatever shall you do?" You huffed, a small quirk of your lips showing. "Unfortunately for you, you'll need to comfort me with your company."

When he heard that, his joking yet gentle disposition switched into a more concerned one. 

"Something happened?" 

"I'll tell you about it once we're somewhere safer."

"Safer?"

You need not to elaborate what you could mean by that, but you really wanted to tell him. 

Lest something happens to you in the future.

"Later."

He peeled his eyes away from you and quickly looked around the entirety of the buildings. His eyes fell onto a car with a group of students resting on its rear.

"Sure."

He held your hand, and his heat almost scorched you.

"You're burning," you commented.

From the opposite side, Eun-Gyo eyed your pair with curiosity. Moon-Ki glanced at her, wondering why she was staring at the gates for a minute now. With Su-Gang gone, she was a lot quieter, and it would not take any genius to figure out that her loud enthusiasm to eager him was faux, used to keep him from making her target. 

"What are you loo—"

"Miss Temp," she cut him off. 

The others followed her gaze, and soon, the few cogs inside their miniscule brains turned. 

"Don't tell him about this," Su-Gang's second-hand man ordered them. "No one's telling him about this."

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

"Don't tell me what?"

next chapter.

tag section.

@nickibunny23 @ghostedhymn @ashayein @yinyangcchii @ashayein @ruruyiin @mirwors @crazyhead333 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @san-axa0 @4ria790 @nijru @iiwsmr @littlebignoona @hisokaupbitch3525

[waynes-multiverse]

Time After Time – Chapter 13

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 & death, 2022 & season 3, SB being his charming self and everything that comes with it, drug use & drinking, PTSD, mentions of torture, physics, angst, one-sided pining & steamy thoughts, fluff if you squint

Word Count: 16.3k

Posted on Patreon May 23, 2025

A/N: So sorry, guys! Had a nasty cold the whole week and could barely move. Catching up with everyone over the next few days. Just wanted you to finally have this first 🩵 Oh, boy, don't know where to start with this one. My fingers slipped on the keys 😂 It's the reunion 2.0 (or 3.0?), Ben's hella confused and frustrated and possibly horny, and I played "fill in the gaps" with Season 3 aka his first thoughts when he woke up and found dear reader there and everything that came after 😉

✨ Chapter title comes from Frankenstein (1931)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 13: It's Alive! It's Alive!

2022

Ben didn’t remember much from his escape.

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the cold crawling through his blood and biting his skin. His skull buzzed with static, not a single clear thought coming through like the worst hangover of his life – and he used to have a lot of those.

Then came the sound.

Footsteps. Voices. English. American.

None of them sounded familiar. Not his old team. No one from Payback – not that he’d really expected them to come for him. Not after what they fucking did.

But then he heard the only voice that ever mattered – yours.

“Uh, Butcher, I don’t think this was a good idea…”

“Don’t worry 'bout it.”

British. Male.

And for a second, Ben thought it was another hallucination of you. It wasn’t uncommon for him to hear your voice in his head, after all. It had been the only constant for… well, however long it’d been. But then:

“No, I don’t think you understand. This pod’s got like three inches of lead, borated polyethylene, and some kind of heat sink. I can’t read most of this since it’s in Russian, but if I’m reading these charts right, the decay signatures are insane. There’s Americium-241 in the isotopic yields. You only see that as a byproduct in low-burnup plutonium fuel cycles. Alpha and gamma radiation is peaking simultaneously. I mean, this spike right here is equivalent to a 3 Gray dose in under four seconds.”

Yeah, Ben didn’t understand a single word of that. His hallucinations of you had always been realistic, but they’d never been as fucking smart as the real thing. There was only so much his brain could do. Which meant:

You weren’t a figment of his drug-induced imagination.

“English, sunshine,” the British guy prompted impatiently.

You sighed loudly. “The Russians turned him into a walking nuke.”

Great.

Ben’s eyes snapped open in that moment, blinked a couple of times to get rid of the blur in his vision and the dazed fog in his mind, and then, sure enough, there you were – live and in the flesh.

Not more than two feet away from him, staring wide-eyed and horrified between strange men in blue worker overalls and guns in their hands.

Your face was the same, hadn’t aged a day since ‘42. Your hair was a mess, your skin was smudged with dirt and sweat, and you were wearing the same overalls as the rest of them, holding a thick folder in your hands like you belonged with those fucking strangers.

You came. Freed him. Saved him.

But as Ben took a step closer, you took one back and hid halfway behind one of the men, clinging to the guy’s arm like you were fucking scared. Scared of him.

You didn’t run to him. Didn’t sling your arms around him. Didn’t seem happy in the slightest to see him again.

Just… terrified.

And then, Ben felt it – the pressure building behind his sternum, white-hot and untamable.

“Uh-oh…” You took another cautious step back.

“What now?” the British asshole huffed, voice louder over the low hum that began to rise in the room.

“His decay constants are collapsing. His metabolic feedback loop’s destabilizing,” you said.

Ben’s chest started to glow. Lights vibrated in their sockets. Dust lifted from the floor.

“English!”

“Right. He’s gonna fucking blow,” you clarified.

Yup.

Still fucking smarter than a room full of men.

And then, the bomb inside him went off, he blacked out for a few seconds, and when the disorienting haze lifted and he opened his eyes, you were gone. Vanished.

Again.

Ben didn’t think long and hard at that moment – he knew this was his chance to finally escape, so he took it. Staggered out through the hole he blew into the wall, past humans and bodies on the ground.

He found a locker room in the facility, broke one open, stole some godawful and grimy tracksuit and boots that were too tight in the toes. He grabbed a lonely duffel bag filled with a gun, a combat knife, a pack of smokes and a box of matches, a ration bar, some rubles, and a half-empty bottle of vodka.

Good enough.

Tunnels turned into roads. Chain-link fences and barbed wire turned into forests. He walked till he found train tracks, followed them to a station, and read the word “АЭРОПОРТ” on a screen there.

Airport? Good enough.

He took his chances and, sure enough, made it onto an airfield. Found a plane leaving for New York City and hid with the cargo like a goddamn stowaway. But it didn’t matter. He was nothing if not resourceful, and more importantly, he was going fucking home.

The most shocking thing, though, aside from your sudden reappearance in one of the most devastating places on Earth during one of his strangest times?

How much time had fucking passed.

Ben knew the fucking Reds had locked him into that box and kept him frozen for a little while. He didn’t have a sense of time in there, just weird dreams, but he judged from the length of his hair and beard that it had been at least a few months, maybe even a year or two. The last date he could remember was 1990 before they put him on ice.

Well, cut to the airport where he found a newspaper that said it was 2022.

Thirty-two fucking years?!

By the time he hopped over the perimeter fence at fuckin' JFK and disappeared into Queens, he suddenly realized how much had truly changed. It was a different world now, and he was fucking lost.

No identity. No money. No plan.

As he moved through the outer boroughs toward Manhattan, everything around him was wrong. Too fast. Too loud. Too bright. It wasn’t the New York he remembered.

Billboards weren’t paper anymore and cars were sleeker and quieter. A kid with blue hair and a nose ring, two gay dudes, and a guy who talked into the watch around his wrist walked by him. Storefronts had rainbow flags, and a bus passed him with a star-spangled caped cunt plastered on its side, advertising another Vought-produced movie.

Some things didn’t change, he supposed.

The smell of the city was the same – diesel fuel, pot smoke, piss, and hot dogs – but the city itself wasn’t. This wasn’t his America – not even close.

The only fucking thing he disturbingly recognized in this brave, new world was the small, rectangular slab everyone carried around in their hands and stared obsessively into like they were seeing God in church.

You’d had one of those as well, and eventually, he realized that the thing he’d kept safe in a box for forty years was a goddamn phone – cordless.

Ben then stole a cup full of quarters from a bum and found a payphone, dialing a number he remembered from forty years ago. It rang once and went dead.

So he went old school.

He started poking around pawn shops and old Vought haunts till someone finally whispered the name he was after.

The Legend.

Old bastard probably still had a Rolodex bigger than Fort Knox. He knew every back door in Vought and where bodies were buried because he helped bury half of them.

And then, a plan slowly formed in Ben’s mind: hole up at Legend’s, get cleaned up, find his old team, and kill their backstabbing asses – preferably as brutal and merciless as possible.

Permanent measures, Ben scoffed internally, remembering Stan Edgar’s words from a meeting back in ‘83.

Well, who was fucking laughing now?

And then, finally, when all of it was said and done, Ben would come for you.

After some roughing up of a man in a bar, he then got an address in Midtown, but somewhere between Sixth Avenue and 59th Street, he heard it.

Tinny, distant, but unmistakeable – the same melody and sharp vowels of a Russian pop song. It drowned into his ears from a small radio in a parked food truck.

Something inside him cracked then.

His vision blurred. His knees buckled. His mind flooded with images he tried to bury deep. But the hum in his chest, the pressure, the fire under his skin had already started, violent and unstoppable.

Then came the flash.

He didn’t remember much more. He woke up to car alarms, sirens, and people screaming. Thick smoke hung in the air like fog and rubble was everywhere. He stared at the scorched remnants of a building that looked like a hurricane of flames had blown through it.

And Ben felt bad. He really did. Because, sure, one could argue he’d killed a lot of people over the long span of his career, so what were a few more?

But this was different. He hadn’t meant to.

Getting tortured by the fucking Commies was one thing, but they turned him into one of those supe freaks he’d always despised. Strongest man alive turned walking, uncontrollable nuke.

He fucking hated what they made him into. If he could fucking nuke the entire upper part of the Asian continent, he would.

Ben then kept his head down, moved through the back alleys and side streets, avoiding ambulances, police cars, and cameras till he ducked into the lobby of a pre-war high-rise on West 55th, next to a cigar shop and a boutique vodka bar.

The elevator then creaked up to the penthouses – PH4.

Ben raised his fist and knocked – three hard pounds, each one echoing through the hallway. The paint on the doorframe cracked slightly.

Footsteps. Slippers shuffling. Then the clunk of a lock sliding back. The door swung open, and there he was.

Legend. Older. Softer. But still himself. Robe loose, silk pajamas, gold chain on bare chest, slippers that cost more than a car, and a whiskey tumbler in hand at 10 AM. Eyes like saucers. He looked like he was seeing a fucking ghost.

Maybe he was.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” the old man breathed. “Ben?”

Ben didn’t answer right away. He was tired – bone-tired, blood-tired. He’d walked out of a Russian grave, burned a street down in Midtown, and ridden the subway in a stolen tracksuit like some goddamn hobo. The whole journey had already taken him five days.

“You gonna let me in or just stare at me like I crawled outta your fuckin’ toilet?”

Legend stumbled backward with a stunned laugh. “Of course! Of course! Come on in, come on in, you beautiful bastard! I thought you were dead! I mean, you were dead! The whole world thinks you’re–… Oh, man, wait ‘til I tell Marge–”

“Start with a drink,” Ben grunted as he stepped inside, looking around.

Legend’s place hadn’t changed much. Just a new location and a better view. Crystal decanters. Too many mirrors. A leopard print robe draped over a $9,000 couch. It smelled like citrus cologne, stale cigars, and money that hadn’t been earned honestly. The walls were plastered with nostalgia: framed magazine covers, awards, posters, photos of stars long dead. And there were more pictures of Soldier Boy than any museum dared hang. It was like stepping into a shrine of himself.

He peeked at one photo and felt fucking nothing.

Legend closed the door behind him and scrambled to keep up. “You’re really here. You’re alive. What the hell happened to you?”

“Reds,” Ben muttered.

“Jesus Christ, I thought they buried you. I mourned you, man.”

“Yeah? Must’ve been a real touchin’ tribute,” Ben said dryly.

Legend blinked. “Hey. I liked you, alright? I didn’t sign up for whatever Vought pulled. I wasn’t in the room when they made that call.”

“You sure about that?” Ben said quieter. Dangerous. “You weren’t in on it?”

Legend looked wounded, but he always had a flair for theatrics. “Ben, listen to me. I had nothing to do with it. Swear on my mother’s grave, I didn’t know a goddamn thing. You were the crown jewel. The whole plan was to sell you forever. Why would they toss the best brand they had?”

Ben watched him closely. Legend still had that salesman gleam, but his hands were fidgeting. The man might be a rat for a living, but he wasn’t a traitor.

“I believe you,” Ben said finally.

Legend sagged, relieved. “Jesus. Thank God.”

“Don’t thank him. He didn’t help.”

Ben accepted the drink offered to him without blinking. Scotch. Strong. First thing he’d tasted that didn’t remind him of a basement in Russia. Legend never poured anything cheap.

The older man then refilled his own glass with shaking hands. “They said you died. Nuclear meltdown in Ohio in ‘84. You went in alone. They did the whole shtick – flag over the casket, moment of silence at Vought Tower, candles, parade. Even got you a statue. Beautiful PR, really. You didn’t know?”

Ben turned his head slowly. “Do I look like I fuckin’ knew?”

So this was what it had come to? This was what his life had amounted to? Buried like a hero, commemorated for a blink of an eye, and then fucking forgotten.

A fuckin’ statue?!

“No, no, I guess not,” Legend said, still rambling. “You look like shit, frankly. You wanna catch up first or take a shower? ‘Cause, no offense, you smell like Cold War ass.”

Ben quirked an eyebrow. “You offerin’ to join me?”

Legend raised both hands. “Hey, man, I don’t swing like that – anymore.”

Sure. Ben scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes slightly. Not like Bogart was ever balls-deep inside the guy.

They stood in silence for a beat. Legend then gestured vaguely back at the liquor cart. “You want something else? Shrimp? Bump? You still do coke, right?”

Ben glanced at him and plopped down on the velvet couch with a grunt. “You offering or reminiscin'?”

The old man moved behind the bar and opened a drawer. “You’re not gonna believe what I saved for a rainy day.”

He pulled out a round mirror, the kind they didn’t bother hiding in the ‘80s, and set it gently down on the coffee table. From a thin glass vial, he tapped out two tight white lines.

“Peruvian flake. 1983. From that last gig in Cartagena, remember?”

Ben dipped his pinky first and tasted it on his tongue. Still burned just right. He stared at the neat, shimmering lines like they were a goddamn miracle.

It had been forty fucking years.

He hadn’t touched coke since Reagan’s first term. His heart rate picked up just looking at it. He leaned down over the mirror, one finger closing a nostril, and inhaled the line in one clean, practiced motion.

The burn climbed straight to his brain and lit up every nerve ending like someone flipped a breaker. His eyes watered. His spine straightened like he’d just been recharged with jumper cables.

“Still burns like it used to.” Ben sniffed, nose tingling.

Legend grinned like a man watching the resurrection of a god. “Atta boy.”

“Now that’s the America I remember.” Ben dragged a hand down his face, leaned back against the couch, and let out a dark, satisfied chuckle. “You always did age like a cockroach. I figured if anyone made it, it’d be you.”

Legend laughed too hard and raised his glass, sitting down in a leather arm chair across from him. “They don’t make ‘em like us anymore.”

The men drank. After a few more quiet sips and more bumps of coke, Legend stood, dusted off his robe, and disappeared into a back room. He returned with a garment bag slung over one arm.

“Knew this day might come,” he said, grinning. “Couldn’t throw it away.”

Ben unzipped the bag and stared.

His suit. His real one. Emerald green, armor-ribbed, the star still proud on the chest. He could almost smell the battles in it. Almost hear the roar of the crowd.

He stood. “Shower?”

“Guest bathroom’s down the hall. Still stocked with aftershave from ‘87. Towels are clean.”

The bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the penthouse. Marble floors, a gold-trimmed mirror, a steam shower the size of a phone booth. Ben finally dropped the sweat suit, stepped under the spray, and let the water scald his skin – first real shower in fucking decades.

The grime peeled off in waves – Russian chemicals, blood, dirt, something green and sticky he didn’t ask questions about. He washed his hair twice. The beard had gotten too long, too wild. And as he finally stepped out of the shower–

“There you are,” he said with an almost amused sigh. At some point, he’d just accepted the fact that you were haunting his conscious.

Can’t fight the universe.

You sat on the counter next to the sink, smirk on your face, bare legs dangling over the edge – like fucking clockwork. “Missed me?”

Ben only nodded with a hum as he stepped up to the mirror above the sink. He wiped a circle clear on the fogged surface and stared for a long moment.

“You look like shit,” you noted and crossed your arms, giving him a scrutinizing sideways glance.

And yeah, Jesus fuck, he looked like he’d just crawled out of fuckin’ hell. Forty years of Commie torture and dark basements were written on his skin. He’d only seen daylight two times during his stay there – when they’d field-test the fucking Little Boy in his chest. And it had rained both goddamn times.

His eyes were sunken, the green a little faded. The beard made him look like a mountain man who lost his fuckin' mountain. He picked up the clippers. Hovered over the switch. He’d never really been a beard kind of guy. Vought had always insisted on a clean-shaven image.

“Keep it,” you said. “Give it a trim. I think it looks good. Dangerous. Edgy. Perfect for puttin’ the fear of God into your enemies.”

Ben smacked his lips and got to work. He trimmed the beard, shaping it into something neater and harder. He then grabbed a pair of scissors and cut his own hair with slow, methodical snips. Piece by piece, the ghost peeled away, and underneath it, something familiar started to reemerge.

“This is your time, right?” he finally spoke and peered at you from his periphery. “That fuckin’ flashlight was a phone, wasn’t it?”

You grinned cheekily. “Well, I couldn’t give that away. Can’t fault me for that.”

“Guess not,” he huffed a strand of hair out his face.

Ben then dried off, suited up, adjusted the straps. The fabric settled against his skin like it remembered him. Tight in the right places. The weight of the shield in his hand felt like gravity returning. He finally felt anchored again.

Less like a ghost, more like a weapon.

“You really sure about this?” you asked and gave him a look that was half-concerned and half-judgy. “Killing your old team? Your ex?”

Ben exhaled a deep breath through his nose but didn’t look at you, green eyes focused on his mirror image. “They betrayed me. Left me to rot.”

“Not like you didn’t deserve it,” you muttered under your breath, then tilted your head. “Am I on your hit list?”

Ben licked his lips and clicked his tongue. “Depends.”

Your brows pinched. “On what?”

Ben met your eyes. “If you fuckin’ left me on purpose.”

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Legend whistled.

“Still looks good. You could be on the cover of Time again.”

Ben ignored that. “What happened to Payback?”

Legend hesitated, swirling the ice in his drink. “Split up. Disbanded. Most of ‘em are ghosts now. Black Noir’s made it into the new group – The Seven. Crimson Countess does livestreams now. Weird stuff.”

Ben didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care.

“Where is she?”

Legend hesitated. “You sure?”

Ben’s expression didn’t change.

“Alright, she’s local. I’ve got an address. But Ben – don’t expect her to cry when she sees you.”

“I’m not going for tears,” Ben said coldly.

Legend handed over a scrap of paper with her address scrawled on it. “You’re not who you used to be.”

Ben paused mid-way to the door and turned his head slightly. “I know,” he said. “That guy’s dead.”

And with that, he left the penthouse.

The wooded clearing was dead quiet as Ben stepped into it like it was a battlefield – except his eyes weren’t on the war anymore. The old trailer lights flickered in the distance, his boots crunching the gravel with heavy thuds.

And apparently, the universe had a fucking sense of humor.

Because the last person he’d expected to find in front of his ex-girlfriend’s trailer was his other ex-girlfriend – you. But Ben heard your voice before he even saw your face.

“Jesus, Butcher, I told you not to drug him. He’s gonna have a concussion,” you bitched.

Ben then recognized the second voice that answered you as well. Still that same British asshole from the lab.

“It’s fine, sunshine. Focus on the task at hand, yeah? We’ve got bigger fish to fry now than MM’s moral compass.”

Ben stepped closer till figures came into view. The British asshole was standing and found his gaze immediately with a wide smirk. But Ben’s eyes slid past the man, landing squarely on you, crouched down and tending to an unconscious guy by the trailer steps.

A flicker of anger roared alive inside of him. Familiar. Old. He’d carried it around with him for eighty years already, and a part of him wanted to see you burn for it.

For fucking lying. For ever darling to leave him.

But something stirred underneath the anger and hurt – longing.

For your voice, your body, your heart.

But you only glanced at him briefly – unfocused, unbothered. You looked pissed and worried, but none of it was for him. You sent a glare to the asshole in front of Ben before your attention slipped back to the man on the ground, checking his pulse and muttering a few more curses under your breath.

Did you–

Did you not recognize him?

Ben couldn’t entirely fault you for the lab. He’d crawled out of that pod a complete fucking mess. But now he looked more like himself again. Sure, maybe not the ‘42 version of him, but he hadn’t changed that much. Still as handsome as ever. Was it the fucking beard? Should he have shaved it after all?

The Brit then mumbled something about good faith and a team up, but Ben didn’t really listen. Whatever the fuck was going on here, you seemed to be a part of it, and he wasn’t going to lose your trail again.

Not now. Not ever.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d walk out of it alive, depending on how this would go – once he’d figured out what the hell was going on.

“What about her?” Ben gestured with his chin toward you once the asshole had finished his pitch. “Who’s she?”

“She’s one of you. Supe. Chronokinetic,” the guy told him and smirked. “Bit of a wildcard, but bloody handy in a pinch.”

So Ben had been right. He was almost proud of himself for solving that one.

But what the fuck were you doing here? Why were you so fucking calm around men with guns? This shouldn’t be your fucking life.

“Oi, sunshine. C’mere. Introduce yourself,” the Brit called you over.

You stood slowly and dusted off your jean shorts, muscles tense as Ben’s eyes pinned you in place like a knife through a photograph. You weren’t wearing a band shirt, a ‘40s dress, or even an overall this time. Just a plain black hoodie with white lettering that read: ‘Without geometry, life is pointless.’

Yeah, definitely you.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Ben asked, a charming but feigned smirk tugging at his lips, eyes squinting and grazing over you. Observing. Studying.

Still not a trace of recognition in your eyes.

Did you really not know him? Were you lying again? Might as well give it a shot and see what poured out.

And then you just gave him your name. No muss, no fuss, no lies. Like it wasn’t a big deal to begin with. You weren’t guarding it like a state secret or nuclear codes. Just your name, plain and simple.

“You know who I am?” Ben asked next and watched your face contort – brow knitted, nose scrunched, lips pursed. You thought he was fucking crazy – but definitely not someone you once shared a goddamn bed with.

“I mean, yeah,” you said and snorted an amused laugh. “You’re Soldier Boy. You were in my high school history books. My grandpa liked to talk about you when I was a kid.“

Ben bit his lips, hummed. Nodded. And he wasn’t sure yet what, but something had died inside of him.

The fuck–

What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

You clearly had no fuckin’ clue. Did you forget? Did you really not know? What the fuck did that even mean?

This was fuckin’ absurd.

The first hint of disappointment then crashed over Ben. Anger gone. Hurt gone. Just disappointment that you couldn’t remember the real him, that you didn’t recognize him beyond what the world knew. You knew Soldier Boy, and for the first time in eighty years, he realized you’d be disappointed in him, too.

Sure, his hallucinations of you had been plenty opinionated over his actions, but they’d also been easy to ignore. But this was the real you, and he wasn’t the guy he used to be anymore.

Coming here to fry his ex probably didn’t help…

“Alright, Doc. Time to give the man his gift,” the asshole said and nodded toward the trailer.

You sighed, rolled your eyes slightly but didn’t argue. You looked fucking bored – like this was a goddamn chore. You dragged your feet back and held the trailer door open for him.

One thing the real you and his hallucination had in common, however: they were both fucking judgy.

Yeah, this first meeting wasn’t ideal. You were already looking at him like you’d decided you hated him the minute he opened his mouth.

He knew that look well.

But you’d done that back then, too. It didn’t mean anything. He could still turn it around.

Ben moved past you into the dim light of the trailer, cluttered with relics of a woman clinging to the scraps of fame. You followed, and then the two of you just stood there by the entrance. He narrowed his eyes past the beaded curtain, and sure enough, there was Countess, tied up on a chair and frozen mid-wail.

Jesus…

“So, how does it work? Your powers?” Ben asked, his voice rough like gravel as he tried to keep it steady.

He pretended to be unbothered, curious only for the sake of the reason why he was here, but on the inside, he was trembling and itching.

Because you were right fucking there – so close that if he stretched out his pinky right now, he could touch yours. He could feel your warmth radiate off your skin and brush his. He could fucking smell you – a scent he had never forgotten and chased for over eight decades trying to find it again.

He never could.

He’d forgotten so fucking much. Hadn’t even realized it till the temptation returned. The longing was fucking winning.

Over anger. Over pain. Over everything.

All he wanted to do now was grab you and kiss you like there was no fucking tomorrow because there truly never was a guarantee there’d be another one.

But how? To you, he was just a name in a book. A ghost on a screen.

Not Ben. Not yours. Not his.

His mind was goddamn racing, his heart pounding. He could already feel the hum in his chest.

This was all too goddamn much.

“It’s like a remote control. I can push Pause on a single object, a room full of people… Theoretically, even the whole world, but that’d take a lot of juice,” you explained.

“Can’t swing that much?”

You shook your head.

Ben gave a nod.

“She can’t feel anything right now. Not until you tell me to push Play,” you added.

“Like a VHS tape?” Ben quirked a brow.

Your lips rose to a faint smile. “Yeah, exactly like that.”

“This all you can do? Fuckin’ freeze people?” Ben tried to act goddamn normal, but every time he glanced at you, his heart almost exploded. “Can’t you hop through time as well? Chronokinetics can do that shit, right? Like the Terminator?”

You gave a soft chuckle. “I mean, yeah, I used to jump through time.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “Used to?”

“It doesn’t work anymore. Long story,” you replied and didn’t elaborate further. “But hey, unless, you want me to drop off your ex during an Ice Age, this should be enough, right?”

Ben swiped his tongue over his lips, nodding slowly, still thinking. Still trying to make sense of it all.

Were you telling the truth or were you lying? Did you really not know him or just pretending you didn’t? Should he say something? Ask you flat out?

No, not yet…

His eyes fixed back on Countess, still frozen like a turkey before it was shoved into an oven.

“Why did you freeze her, anyway? She’s already tied up. Seems like overkill,” Ben said, glancing at you sideways.

Your gaze was on Countess too, head tilted, brows scrunched. Watching. Thinking. Judging. Ben could see the cogs turning in your head. He knew that look of yours well.

“She was annoying Butcher,” you replied with a hint of amusement. “And frankly me. She’s kinda a bitch.”

“Tell me about it.” He snorted a scoff, then nodded toward the door. “And Butcher? He’s the asshole outside?”

You simply nodded, a faint smirk twitching on your lips.

“What’s his deal?”

Your amusement didn’t fade when you replied, “Much like you, he’s clinging to revenge fantasies. He’s CIA.”

Ben’s brows shot up. “That asshole’s CIA?”

“Yeah,” you snorted. “Didn’t buy it either when he knocked on my door, but it’s true.”

“And you’re CIA, too?”

“Uh, no…” you said slowly at first and hesitated. “I mean, now I guess I am. I’ve only known the guy for a month. I don’t usually get involved with all this supe shit.”

Supe shit.

The way you said it made Ben think you didn’t count yourself as one of them. Like you were something better. Above it all – especially the theatrics that came with it.

But Ben didn’t like any of it. Didn’t like you being here. Didn’t like you working with these people. Didn’t like how that asshole out there used you to do his bidding like you were some goddamn pet.

Made him fuckin' angry.

Ben arched an eyebrow, gave you a little smile – harmless like a lamb. “And what did you do instead then, sweetheart? Before all this?”

“I was a physics professor at a small college in Canada,” you replied.

Huh. That fit. Fit with what you’d told him. And it made more sense to him than anything else in this world – more sense than seeing you here in the middle of this shit.

“You know, I can keep her like that, and you can just do your thing,” you noted carefully. “That way she won’t feel anything.”

Ben’s jaw tightened, his gaze swerving back to Countess. “No, I want her to fuckin’ feel it,” he said after a beat.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully. “You sure about that?”

Ben looked at you then, eyes finding yours. His heart stuttered. He almost smiled, thinking his hallucinations of you had never been far off.

But you were… real.

You might have lied to him about parts of your life – about who you truly were or where you came from – but underneath it all, you were still undeniably you. Still judging, still observing, still asking impossible question he never really had an answer to.

He swallowed once and kept his eyes on you as he spoke, “She lied to my face. Said she loved me but then fuckin’ left when I needed her the most.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t twitch a single muscle, like those words had no affect on you at all. You just listened and stared at him with a trace of sympathy in your eyes.

“Yeah, I saw what they did to you, you know?” you said. “Your old team. In Nicaragua.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “How?”

“I can… glimpse into moments of time, too,” you explained. “Past, mostly. Future’s still fluctuating. Not as certain. Too many variables. But I can tell you who wins the next Super Bowl.”

You gave him a little grin. He matched it.

“Who?”

“Chiefs.”

Ben grunted, rolling his eyes back.

You giggled softly, the sound snaking into his heart. “You a Giants fan, huh?”

“Eagles.”

“Huh. Really?”

“I’m from Philly,” he found himself saying.

And then suddenly, it all became too much. Too fucking real. You had no idea who he was, who he’d been. You didn’t know him at all.

And what, was he supposed to pretend he didn’t know every part of you already, either? He wasn’t sure he could do that. How the fuck did he end up here?

Fuckin’ absurd…

His eyes landed back on his other ex tied to a chair. If he wanted a future with you, he had to clean up his past first. But he didn’t want you to see who he’d become. He just wanted you to see who he’d been.

“You’re gonna keep chattin’ or get the fuck out now? Don’t need a fuckin’ audience for this,” he said, colder now. He didn’t want you to watch. Maybe to protect you or maybe to protect himself. He wasn’t sure which one it was yet.

But he was determined to drag you out of this fucking mess with both hands.

‘Sides, what was he supposed to fucking do anyway? Walk back out there and say he’d changed his mind because the smartass with tits had a heart to heart with him?

No fuckin’ way.

He had to portray strength to his fucking enemies, or they’d come for him again. Sure, Ben hadn’t cared about shit, but if there was one thing he’d learned – no one else did fucking either.

But more importantly, a supe like you? The world would be coming for you.

To use you. To kill you.

You were too naive, too good, too fucking soft to see that. But he wasn’t – and he’d take fucking care of it.

Your brow scrunched at his harsher tone in that same miffed way of yours. It always had. It’s how he knew it’d work. You’d be fine.

“Gee, as you wish, asshole,” you huffed and then stomped your little feet back outside.

And as soon as the door swung shut behind you, Crimson Countess roared back to life – at least for the next ten minutes before it all went up in flames.

The asshole managed to pick the shittiest motel straight off the highway. It stank of mold, old cigarette smoke, and bleach. This was where someone came to murder fucking hookers – not have a goddamn reunion after eighty years with the love of their life.

But alas, here he was, in a bathroom with rusty red rims around the drains, as if people had already been dismembered by the fucking mob in here.

He’d washed of the grit and grime, the smoke and ash of earlier and found himself in a pair of gray sweats that fit a little too loose and a goddamn Giants jersey. You’d gotten it for him at a gas station. Gave it to him with a tiny smirk, like you were messing with him on purpose because he’d been unreasonably mean to you earlier.

And boy, had you fucking judged him once he’d walked out of that trailer – well, whatever had been left of it anyway. You didn’t say a word, not the whole car ride here, just glared at him every once in a while and let him feel it.

Luckily, that wasn’t entirely new. You’d done that to him in the past as well – the silent treatment, that fucking pout… Whenever he’d done something back then that irked you, you’d let him stew in it. Sometimes you’d even punished him for it – and not in the fucking fun way. Especially whenever he’d underestimated you, you’d hit him with a mental slap so hard his head was still spinning hours later. He’d secretly loved it, though. Turned him the fuck on.

But from experience he knew – your anger would pass. It always did.

For now, though, you were here, chatting outside this very bathroom with a British asshole and some scrawny kid that looked like he’d pissed himself after his girlfriend yelled a little at him.

But God, your fuckin’ voice…

He hadn’t heard that sound in decades – not the real thing at least. And the original was goddamn better than the stupid recording in his skull.

“Where are you guys off to?” your honeyed melody flowed through the thin wall – suspicious, pissed.

Those idiots out there thought he couldn’t hear them. But Ben could even hear the couple fucking three doors down.

“Supply run,” the asshole replied. “The patriotic princess in there gave us a ryder like he’s fuckin’ Mariah Carey. You’re on Cold War nuke duty, sunshine, while me and little Hughie go out there and shake down a cuppa dealers.”

Who the fuck is Mariah Carey?

“Wait, what?” String Bean threw in.

“Don’t worry 'bout it,” the asshole dismissed.

“Do I look like a fucking babysitter for a nuclear warhead to you?” you huffed. “I’m about to freeze both of you and walk out of here.”

Nuclear warhead? Babysitter?!

“Alright, alright,” the asshole soothed. “Look, sunshine, hate to break it to ya, but if grandpa in there goes nuclear again, you’re the only one who can cool down the bloody core, so to speak.”

Ah. So that was why they were leaving you with him – you were his goddamn fail-safe. Fuckin’ great…

“Oh, so you want me to freeze the Fat Man in there every time he’s about to fucking drop,” you realized dryly.

The fuck–

“Smart as always,” the asshole confirmed.

“Well, you know, there’s, like, a lot of people in this motel, and he’s not… stable,” String Bean said, voice weak and jittering, probably giving you a fucking puppy dog look on top of it. “You said so yourself.”

You have?

“Yeah, what he said, Doc.”

Ben could hear the asshole’s triumphant smirk through the goddamn door.

“‘Sides, would be nice if we could catch a couple hours of sleep. Maybe? Please?” The kid’s voice was pleading, and Ben knew you’d break at that whiny tone.

You exhaled a deep sigh, capitulated as expected. Ben waited a couple more minutes after they left, spritzed cold water on his face before feeling ready enough to face you.

When the bathroom door creaked open, you didn’t look up. He found you sitting on one of the beds, glowing rectangle in your hands, thumb gliding over the sleek surface like it was second nature. The phone flickered with light and colors like a handheld television from some alien planet, while you were all angles and distance, backlit by a blue hue.

Ben cleared his throat, but you didn’t even glance up.

“Bathroom didn’t explode. Guess that’s progress,” you commented wryly.

He pursed his lips, biting the insides of his cheeks. The room felt fucking suffocating. What was the goddamn plan here? Was he just supposed to talk to you and act like any of this was fucking normal?

He needed more goddamn answers. Drugs. Booze. Somethin’.

“So, they stuck you with babysittin’ duty, huh?” Ben asked with a small chuckle, trying to break the ice. Trying to bond. Talk to you like he used to.

“Yup,” you said and popped the p, still not looking up. “If you’re gonna be a good boy and not blow up, I’ll get you a juice box, some crayons, and a coloring book.”

Ben frowned, smacked his lips, and bobbed his head, sauntering over to the dresser where Butcher had put down the bottle of cheap whiskey.

Yeah, he needed some goddamn booze to survive this night…

“You know, I could hear you guys in there,” Ben noted lightly and flicked his chin toward the bathroom.

“I know.”

He then sighed a little and ran a hand through his hair. “You called me a nuclear warhead.”

“You are a nuclear warhead,” you replied unapologetically, eyes still focused on the screen.

“So…” Ben started, ignoring your little jab with a deep exhale. “You and that asshole?”

“What about it?” You still didn’t give him the time of day. Didn’t even flinch or shift.

And all Ben could think about was how you once looked at him like he hung the goddamn moon for you.

“You two a thing?” He tried to sound casual – not like a positive answer would cause him to torch this entire dump.

You snorted a loud laugh at that and finally looked at him. “What? No.”

Your nose scrunched, and Ben’s heart calmed slightly till the next thought crossed his mind.

“What about the twig? The one who looks like he’d snap in a stiff wind?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Who? Hughie?”

Ben hated how you said that name – caring, fond, familiar. You always had a soft spot for the weaklings.

“Yeah,” Ben grunted and gulped down a big sip of whiskey straight from the bottle.

Luckily, you chuckled in amusement. “No, nothing going on there. Hughie is like a little brother I have to keep from accidentally killing himself.”

Yeah, that makes sense, Ben thought with relief and felt his chest unclench. Just another kid playing soldier…

“Why are you asking about my love life?” you prompted with a suspicious smile, making his shoulders flinch subtly.

“‘M not,” Ben brushed it off casually with a sniff of his nose. “Just wondering how a smart girl like you ended up with that crew of fuckups.”

“It’s complicated,” you said simply and turned your focus back to your phone.

“Bet it is,” he muttered under his breath and took another gulp of whiskey. “Care to fuckin’ elaborate?”

“Not really…”

Ben rubbed his eyes, then his temples. Jesus fuck, you were harder to crack than the goddamn Zodiac Killer code. Had it been this hard the first time around, too? He couldn’t remember exactly, but he recalled he had to work for it back in ‘42 as well.

“Alright, just tell me what I’m gettin’ into here,” he said honestly, trying a new angle.

You looked up then, titled your head, and blew out a sigh between your lips. “Alright, fine. Butcher found me about a month ago. Wanted me to find a weapon.”

“Weapon?” Ben’s brow furrowed, keeping the whiskey bottle attached to his lips.

Your lips rose to a wry smile. “Yeah, you.”

Ben swallowed, drank more, and tried to ignore the tear in his gut. A weapon. So that was what you saw him as now – not someone to love, not a boyfriend. Just a walking nuke in need of round-the-clock supervision.

Great. That really put a dent into his romantic dinner plans.

“Well, technically, Butcher wanted me to find the weapon that killed you,” you clarified. “They discovered your death in Ohio was a cover-up by Vought. Frenchie has contacts in the Russian mob or something, I guess. He works for Butcher, too.” You shook your head, clearing your wandering mind. “Anyways, they found out about a botched operation in Nicaragua, so Butcher wanted me to look where the weapon is now.”

“With that little glimpsing thing of yours?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, smiling in a way that made his heart ache. “Turned out the Russians didn’t kill you.”

“Damn straight they didn’t.” Ben nodded and downed more whiskey. He was already halfway through the bottle. Good thing the asshole went out on that supply run.

“But Butcher still wanted to find out how they knocked you out,” you said with a small grin. Teasing. “So he booked plane tickets to Russia.”

Ben nodded slowly, letting the information settle. “What does he need a weapon for?”

You let out a long breath, lips curling. “I’m sure he’s gonna tell you that himself. Can’t give away the big surprise. He kinda lives for that.”

Ben’s brow wrinkled, but he didn’t press. Frankly, he didn’t care enough to. He just wanted answers about you. “Why did you agree to help? You don’t seem like the type to get involved in all this… supe shit.”

You laughed a little, twitched your brows. “Yeah, I usually don’t. I honestly never had much contact with the others. And the few I’ve met so far were…” You licked your plush lips, trying to find the right words.

Ben found them for you.

“Psychotic little freaks?”

You snorted and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“So, why are you helping that British twat?” Ben ventured a little further.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully for a moment, like you were deciding if you could trust him or not. Ben ignored the stabbing feeling in his ribcage.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” you said, then bit down on your lower lip – thinking. “In physics, we have something called the Second Law of Thermodynamics. It describes how in a closed system, entropy always increases over time.”

Jesus fucking Christ, he’d forgotten about that part – the endless physics lectures. At least back then, he’d get rewarded for listening – with you taking his cock into your mouth.

Now he’d just get the words without the fucking.

“Meaning…?” he played along as his fucking migraine started.

“Things naturally fall apart. Systems tend toward chaos, not order. It means you have to expend energy to maintain structure,” you explained with a small smile.

Ben mirrored it, finally understanding why you’d always loved standing in front of a blackboard.

Professor. Yeah, that made fucking sense now. You’d always gotten so turned on by teaching him shit.

Were you turned on right now, too? Ben was sure he could probably get you to fuck him. If he just upped the charm and went fully in, he could make you writhe underneath him tonight.

But then what? He needed to figure this shit out first.

“If we apply that to the modern world, we’re watching a complex societal system steadily lose coherence,” you continued. “Institutions are eroding. Trust is decaying. Information systems are overloaded. We’re heading toward maximum disorder – fast.”

Ben scoffed a chuckle. “Is this your way of telling me the world’s ending, sweetheart?”

“No, Earth will be fine. Humanity won’t be,” you said matter-of-factly. Logically. “Look, I don’t… agree with all of Butcher’s methods, but without intentional energy, we’ll spiral into decay. Entropy loves apathy. It starts with ‘who cares,’ ends with ‘Heil whatever.’ And sure, I could’ve stayed home, not gotten involved, and told myself it wasn’t my fucking problem, but eventually, decay would’ve come for me, too. Fascism thrives on unconsciousness. History always fucking repeats itself.”

“Ain’t that right,” Ben huffed in agreement with another sip of his drink. But something else tugged at him.

It all struck a nerve deep inside him. He had seen a lot of shit over the decades, but he’d never cared about it. Played hero for the glory and the money, but you spoke with such conviction as if you actually believed in the product you were selling.

You scoffed, tilting your head at him. “Really? You agree?”

Ben remained calm, even though he could see the challenging gleam in your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean, hm? I fought for my fuckin’ country.”

“Right.” You gave him a nod – sarcastic to the bone. Then you slowly leaned forward on your knees – collected, fearless, not backing the fuck down. “You killed my friend’s family back in the ‘80s. Called it collateral. You went after people till there was no one left when they came for you. You’re the fucking poster boy for decay. You talk like you’re fighting the rot, but you’re just part of the problem. You’re all manufactured patriotism, empty slogans, and fists over facts. Tell me – when’s the last time you actually cared about something that wasn’t your own goddamn ego?”

Well, fuck him. Brains won over brawn once again. He tried not to show how deep your words truly cut. His hallucination of you always called him fucking hollow. Seemed like real you did, too.

Ben nodded, clicked his tongue, and gave you a tight smile. “Not a fan, huh?”

“No.”

Simple, cold, and brutally honest. Just like you always had been. Made his heart swell for all the wrong reasons.

Ben’s face twitched. He could’ve argued. Said that the last time he cared about something, he’d cared about you. He could’ve even slipped on the mask like he would’ve done if anyone else had said that shit to him. Said some bullshit about how he wasn’t the rot, but the one that survived it. But instead, he went for something in between:

“You don’t know shit about me, sweetheart. Trust me.”

“I know enough,” you muttered just as quick and returned to your phone, not bothering to argue further.

Ben locked his jaw tight, clenched his fists subtly by his sides. So that was what you truly thought about him, huh? But the worst part was how fucking right you were in your assessment – and how much it fucking hurt.

Click, click, click.

Your eyes flicked to another strange device on the nightstand, brow furrowing as lights of green, yellow, and red flashed alive. Then your gaze landed on him.

“The fuck is that?” Ben gestured to the item in question.

“It’s a Geiger counter. Measures radiation. Tells me when you’re close to blowing a fuse,” you explained, narrowing your eyes at him, head tilting again. “Apparently, it’s tied to your emotions. Interesting. Is your pulse spiking?”

Fucking Christ on a cross…

“Turn it off,” he growled. He didn’t want a stupid little box to tell you when he was getting upset like some goddamn hall monitor.

“No,” you bit back with that fiery look in your eyes. “I’m trying to keep a block of civilians safe from you.”

“Just fuckin’ freeze me when I start glowing. That’s what you’re fuckin’ here for, right? How’s that?”

“Too risky,” you countered. Didn’t expand on your answer like you thought he was too stupid to understand it.

“Why?” Ben gritted through his teeth.

You let out an exhaustive sigh and contemplated something again. But after a beat, you seemed to cave. “It’s not that simple. Your powers–… the little nuclear reactor in your chest?”

“What about it?” Ben asked gruffly but slumped down on the second bed across from you, ready to listen nonetheless.

You licked your lips, surely weighing how much you could share without getting into trouble. Like he still couldn’t be fucking trusted.

“You don’t just go off like a regular bomb. As soon as you emit enough radiation, supes around you also lose their abilities. I think it’s because the nuclear energy reacted and bonded with the Compound V in your system in some way. Probably to help your body withstand that much energy. But back at the lab, you hit a friend of mine. You burnt the V right outta her. Made her human.”

Ben was quiet for a minute – a rarity. Good to know. And fucking bad for his enemies, which he had plenty of. But it also meant something else.

“So you can’t freeze me anymore when I’m too far gone. That what you’re sayin'?”

You nodded and smiled like he’d gotten an A on a test. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

Ben sighed and ran a hand over his face, drumming his palms on his thighs. “Alright,” he said at last. “Keep the fuckin' thing on, I guess.”

Frankly, he didn’t care as much about the junkies, prostitutes, and other scum in this shithole that could potentially die from his fallout. But he fucking cared about your safety.

Also wouldn’t be in his interest if you lost your fucking powers. He’d fling himself off a building if he had to keep playing pretend with you forever. The last few hours had already scorched him from the inside out.

“As you wish,” you said, but he caught the little winning smirk twitching on your lips.

It almost made him goddamn smile.

Ben rubbed his jaw then, watching you for a moment. You were right fucking there. And still, he couldn’t just reach out. It seemed like some goddamn cosmic joke. The Reds might’ve been done torturing him, but the universe clearly wasn’t.

And you obviously weren’t, either.

“Look, uhm, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” Ben said, clearing his throat a little. “I’m not the same guy anymore, alright? Maybe I changed. Isn’t there some physics law for that shit too that you could apply?”

You smiled – genuine this time. And fuck, did it make his heart burn alive like it hadn’t in decades.

He still knew how to talk to you – like riding a fucking bike. Like you’d never fucking left.

“Newton’s First Law,” you replied.

“See? Well, let’s go with that,” he agreed casually and leaned back against the headboard, feet up, satisfied.

You snorted slightly and cocked an eyebrow. “Do you even know what it means?”

“Do I need to?” Ben raised his brow, although he knew the answer already, but he let you talk anyway, listened to your voice in his ears like it was gospel.

Because to him, it fucking was.

You giggled softly, the sound like warm honey. “Kinda, yeah. Would probably help. It just means that a person in motion stays in motion in the same direction – unless something acts on them. You don’t change paths because you want to. You change because something hits you hard enough to knock you off your trajectory.”

Ben nodded, drank a little more, then gave you another tight-lipped smile. “Well, consider me fuckin’ hit, sweetheart.”

And he was – by you.

“Guess we’ll see,” you replied with a part-intrigued and part-challenging shimmer in your eyes, but for once you seemed happy with his answer.

And thank fucking God for that. He wasn’t sure how many rounds he could’ve still held up before you’d knocked out his fucking brain.

“But maybe you’re not wrong,” you added and bit your lip, surprising him. “I mean, Vought did you dirty, right? Maybe you can finally use all that energy and anger you have and aim it at something that deserves it.”

“You bet your ass I will,” he said. Smirked. And your lips even hiked up a little. “So that’s what this little dysfunctional group is about? You guys wanna bring down fuckin’ Vought?”

“In a way, yeah. It’s part of it,” you replied as mysterious and closed off as ever.

Some things really never fucking changed.

“Alright, tell me somethin’. I’m curious. What beef you got with Vought?” he asked slyly. Felt fucking smug for being so clever. “I mean, you’re a chronokinetic or whatever. Rare ability, right? Powerful, too. ‘M sure they had their greedy claws all over you. What, got tired of being their little puppet?”

“I never was their puppet,” you said. “And sure, chronokinesis can be a… powerful, messy, possibly disastrous ability, which is why they probably wanted to kill me in the first place.”

“They, what?” His head snapped toward you.

“Don’t look so shocked,” you said with an amused snort like it wasn’t a big deal. “Vought was scared I could mess up the timeline, fuck with their business too much... You think someone like Stan Edgar is gonna risk keeping that around? There’s powerful, and then there’s too powerful. One’s useful, one’s a threat. You know that better than anyone.”

Ben nodded slowly, the words sinking in. “Stan Edgar? That bastard’s still around?”

“Yeah, he’s the CEO of Vought now.”

That slimy fucking asshole. Of course he was. Legend wasn’t the only one that survived like a goddamn cockroach.

“He the one that threatened you?” Ben tried to sound fucking calm, but he was grinding his molars down to dust.

“Yeah, he thought I was gonna mess up… history, I guess,” you said. “I didn’t really use my abilities in that way, though.”

Ben’s brow knitted slightly, putting the bottle back to his lips. He squinted his eyes, watched you closely. “How did you use ‘em?”

You pursed your lips, so he clocked instantly that you’d done some shit. They all fucking had – supes, that is. Ben understood the temptation only too well. The only question was:

What was your goddamn poison?

“You know… fun stuff. Things that made life a little easier. Like more time on homework or pranking very… bitchy classmates. Sometimes used it to teach people a lesson.”

Well, shit. Looked like he’d gotten himself a little trickster on his hands. Adorable – and fuckin’ exhausting.

He gave you a little smirk. Charming. Coaxing. “That all, sweetheart? Skip the high school years.”

And there it was – a little twinkle in your eyes. He still got it, and you still fucking fell for it.

“Well…” Your lip looked almost swollen the way you’d been chewing that thing. Made him fuckin’ crazy. “You know, I went to see historical events I was curious about or talk to famous scientists and philosophers… Went to concerts of old bands. Like sixties, seventies…”

Sixties. Old. Ben snorted internally at the pain in his chest.

“So you partied a little and talked to a bunch of dead nerds,” he summarized wryly.

He could handle that. Shut that shit down, even. Keep you in line.

“Guess so.” You giggled, cheeks turning a little rosy. “But I was always careful not to screw anything up. Never shared too much. Never stayed anywhere longer than three days. Except the last time.”

Ben’s jaw moved a little. “What happened last time? Where d’you go?”

“Middle Ages – on accident. There was a… glitch. Got stuck there for a week.”

Ben stalked one, two steps closer to you. “Stuck, huh?”

“Yeah, but before that, it was pretty awesome,” you said, a little grin crossing your lips. “I even had this whole birthday tradition of working through my bucket list of the coolest things history had to offer.”

Well, well, look how far a little smirk’ll get’cha…

Had he been on your bucket list? Was that why you came there? He couldn’t really blame you if that was the case. He’d had groupies before.

But you weren’t a fan, were you?

So, did you get stuck in ‘42? Was that why you stayed? Why you left?

“And how did you get out? Vought had you in their sights, right? I know they don’t lose track of their assets, and you’re clearly not in a body bag,” Ben noted slyly, smirking even though the thought hurt. “So, who did you break, burn, or bribe?”

You gave him a raised look. “No one,” you replied. “I still had my full abilities back then. Little hard to catch me.”

Oh, he knows…

“I disappeared to 1925 Paris. I met Paul Langevin at one of Gertrude Stein’s parties there,” you said, and Ben nodded like he knew who those fucking people were. Probably physicists, so who the fuck really cared? “He told me about McGill University in Canada. Went there the next day – my present time – stole some dead person’s ID, and kept my head down for the next few years. Got my PhD in Quantum Gravity.”

Ben didn’t even pretend to understand any of that. He also knew asking you more questions about it would only lead to more complicated words.

He understood gravity. It made things fucking fall. What more was there to know?

And then, suddenly, a memory hit him like a goddamn backhand to the face.

1983. That stupid meeting he had with Edgar. He’d put you on Vought’s radar back then, running his mouth like a fucking dumbass. And Edgar, that smug piece of shit, filed it away and fucking waited for you. Waited for Ben not to be around and protect you.

Stan had always been ten fucking steps ahead, hadn’t he?

Ben swore in that moment he’d kill the guy. Not like Stan hadn’t already been on his list, but now he’d make sure he’d enjoy it too – tearing that asshole apart piece by fucking piece. Slowly.

His blood was boiling, but he wasn’t just mad at Edgar. He was mostly mad at himself – and he hated admitting that more than anything else. But it was all his fucking fault, wasn’t it?

Ben was the reason you were here. He was the reason why Vought had hunted you. He was the reason why no one had protected you. Why you worked with all these assholes and put yourself in danger.

Because he hadn’t been there when you’d needed him the most. Hadn’t been the man he was supposed to be – the one he’d promised you he’d be.

You shouldn’t fucking be here.

Click, click, click, CLIIICK…

The Geiger counter’s needle spiked dangerously into the red. Your eyes flicked to the device, then warily to him.

Ben hated that fucking thing.

“You good?”

“Peachy,” he grumbled.

“You sure?”

His glare slowly wandered to you. “I said I’m fine.”

You pursed your lips and raised your hands in surrender, letting it go. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

Ben exhaled a frustrated breath and shook his head clear. “No, look, I’m good, alright? Promise,” he assured you, and your shoulders lost a little bit of their tension. “So you hauled up in Canada with the fucking leaf lickers for the past few years, huh?”

Your lips involuntarily curled into a smile. You tried to push it down – unsuccessfully. Ben felt like he won the goddamn Super Bowl. Fuck the Chiefs.

“Yep, lived in a cabin off the grid,” you said. “But it was kinda a blessing in disguise, you know?”

Ben’s brow pinched doubtfully. “How so? ‘Cause you got to date fuckin’ lumberjacks with moose breath?”

“Jesus,” you snorted, laughing. “What’s with the obsession over my dating life?”

“Nothin’,” he lied and shrugged it off. Gave you a lazy smirk. “Just making polite conversation.”

Phew. You bought that, right?

You quirked a brow. “That’s your idea of polite?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “What d’you know about it, huh? You’ve been living under a rock and buried in books for–… well, I don’t know how long, but I’m guessin’ it’s been a while since you can’t even hold a goddamn conversation like a normal fuckin’ person.”

“Says the guy who’s been frozen since the nineties,” you quipped. You then leaned your head softly back against the headboard and sighed almost theatrically – like you’d held that one in for hours already. “I can’t wait to get back to my old life. I miss my grad students.”

Ben watched you then for a long time. Didn’t even care to hide it. He’d seen that look in your eyes before – that… dread. You’d had it as well when he first met you. He understood it more now.

You’d been missing something, hadn't you?

“How old are you anyway?” he prompted, taking you by surprise. He cleared his throat more casually, got rid of the rasp in his voice and the awkwardness on his tongue. “I mean… you look a little young for a professor. You’re, what? Twenty? Twenty-… four, maybe?”

Luckily, you only laughed softly at his… well, whatever the fuck that was.

“Uh, flattering, but no. I’m twenty-nine.”

Twenty–… WHAT?!

His brain was fuckin’ hurtin'.

So, 2022 minus 29 was like… Nope. 42 plus 24… Nope, that didn’t sound right either. 2022 minus 24 plus 29… What the fuck was he missing?

You’d told him you were twenty-four in ‘42, but now you were twenty-nine, which meant… Well, what the hell did it mean?

Shit.

You should remember him, right? That was the whole goddamn point. He didn’t need fucking math for that answer.

So, what? Was it memory loss? Was he supposed to kiss you awake like you were some goddamn Disney princess?

No, he figured that wouldn’t go over well either just by looking at you right now. You still didn’t like him a whole lot.

What the hell did it mean?

Click, click, click, click…

Goddammit!

“Are you okay?” As expected, you cocked your head and looked at him like he was a toddler with a flamethrower. “You want some weed?”

His head lifted, eyes blinking. His brow raised. “You packin’?”

Well, there was something fun the two of you had never done together before.

“I bought some earlier at the gas station,” you replied, shrugging your shoulders.

“At the gas station?” His brow furrowed.

“Yeah, they had a shop there.”

“A shop?”

“What is this, Jeopardy?” you retorted before your eyes widened almost apologetically. “Oh, right! You don’t know. It’s legal now. You can just go in a store and buy it.”

“That shit’s legal now?”

You grinned, all teeth and sunshine. “Pretty cool, right?”

He huffed a sigh and let his head fall back, staring at the clattering AC in the ceiling. “First good news I’ve heard all week…”

And he meant it.

Ben then watched you pull a little vile from your jeans pocket and grab a small tin box from the nightstand. But as he tried to take it from you, you slapped his reaching hand away, which – bold fucking move.

But you didn’t seem to care. Didn’t twitch. Just carried on – like he couldn’t punch a hole into you.

It was sort of nice. You treated him like he was normal (well, sort of if he excluded the annoying clicking thing). But he couldn’t remember the last time anyone’s treated him like that.

And Ben didn’t know if it was the V in your blood and the fact you could just fuckin’ freeze people like they were some mere vegetables that made you so daring, or if it was just… you.

“Just trust me. I got this. This is your first time in a while, right?” you said, sounded excited even. He nodded slowly. “‘M gonna make it fucking hit.”

Did you ever fucking hear yourself sometimes?

“I’m not a virgin, y’know?” he retorted, smirking, but his eyes drifted to your skilled fingers as they rolled their little arts and crafts project.

“Oh, you are when it comes to this,” you said, tongue sticking out between your teeth in concentration. Drove him fuckin’ nuts. “You ever had a cross joint?”

He swayed his head from side to side, hummed. “Heard of it. Never had the pleasure.”

“Well, you’re about to be fucking pleasured.” You grinned all cheeky and smug, making his goddamn heart flip.

Seriously, did you not fucking hear yourself?!

“You know, there’s other ways to pleasure me, sweetheart.” He smirked. You didn’t say anything, just cocked your brow, waiting for him to talk circles around himself. And he did. “Just sayin’, it’s been forty years since I had some goddamn pussy.”

Your lips rose to a smile – amused. “And you’re going for a pity fuck?”

“Wouldn’t be pity, sweetheart. Trust me,” he replied smugly, gave you his most charming grin that always used to get your panties fucking wet.

The amusement grew on your face. “Trust me. It would be.”

He frowned. Sighed. “Whatever, suit yourself,” he huffed. “Your fuckin’ loss.”

Worth a shot.

Was this gonna take him fuckin’ months again? He’d already fucked you. What was the goddamn big deal? And now, you were right there. He could touch you. He could, couldn’t he?

Fucking absurd…

“And what a loss that is,” you retorted teasingly and went straight back to building your little weed airplane.

“You know what I don’t get–” he started, but you cut right in.

“I’m guessing a lot.”

Ben pursed his lips, swallowed another sigh down. “Careful.”

You looked up and blinked. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just–… you missed forty years of pop culture and technological advancement. Gotta be confusing. A lot happened since the ‘80s.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he muttered, his eyes drifting to the little sleek, black box next to you on the mattress. “So, that’s what counts as a phone these days, huh?”

Your gaze followed his. “Oh yeah, but it’s more than that. It’s a camera, a photo album, a TV, a shopping list, a… Walkmen.”

“Flashlight?”

“Yup.” You grabbed the phone and a light flared up with the tap of your finger. “Very handy when you need to pee at night.”

Fuck me.

Ben’s brow knitted more, eyes narrowing at the device. “Is that why everyone keeps staring at that thing like it’s a Sears catalogue and they just hit the lingerie section?”

“Something like that, yeah.” You snorted a laugh. “Guess it is a bad habit of the 21st century. Kinda guilty of doom scrolling myself. Pretty sure it’s part of our little entropy problem.”

“Didn’t understand a single word of that,” he said, chewing his bottom lip.

“Trust me. You’re lucky you don’t,” you said and then brought the half-finished joint to your lips, wet the paper with your pink tongue, and rolled it into a tight little stick between your delicate fingers.

God, he was fucking jealous of that thing.

“Is it done?”

“No. Now comes the best part. You’re gonna like this one,” you said and gave him a little smirk again. “Now, we make a small hole into the big one and thread the other one through it.”

And then you did just that, and Ben watched you make art out of junk again like he’d done so many times before, just spending endless afternoons sitting next to you in the shed, chatting your ear off and trying to poke holes into your walls while you performed brilliant little miracles.

“Look at this baby.” You grinned proudly and held up your creation. “It’s a marvel of combustion engineering.”

Fucking shoot him now.

“Christ, you’re even nerdy when it comes to fuckin’ drugs,” he muttered, sighing. And God, was he getting hard.

“How can you not be?” You smiled, unbothered, just happy in all your nerdy glory. “It’s a trifurcated burn front. You’re maximizing both surface area and burn velocity with this thing.”

Fuckin' cute.

“What that mean in fucking English?” he deadpanned.

“You get stupid high and it looks cool as hell,” you said, smirking wide, and handed the mother of all joints to him.

“How do I light this little science fair project?” Ben asked as he put the filtered tip between his lips and hauled out the Zippo from his pocket.

You grabbed not one but two more lighters from your little box, gave him a countdown like you were launching a fucking rocket to the moon, and then you lit the two ends on the sides while he did the middle one.

And Jesus fuck, did it hit.

He swallowed smoke and tried not to cough like a fucking pussy. He still huffed out a deep laugh with a cloud of weed. “Fuck me, you’re like the Cosby of fuckin’ joints, sweetheart.”

You gave him a look. “Uhm…”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Not sure about that one,” you mumbled in sing-song. “Does it help?”

Ben smirked lazily. “Best damn babysitter I ever had.”

“Well, as long as you don’t blow us all up now, I count it as a win,” you said and got up, plopping down on the old couch in the room, phone in hand.

“You want to?” Ben held out the reefer to you, but you shook your head.

“No, I’m good.”

He sighed a little again. So much for his plan to get you fucking high and crawl between your thighs. But he was a persistent motherfucker, and ‘giving up’ wasn’t really part of his vocabulary.

You used to steal his cigarettes and drinks. Now, look at you. What the fuck happened?

“So, tell me about me you,” he prompted, watching you from the corner of his eye.

“Why?”

Jesus fuck.

“Just answer the question,” he retorted with a huff and a thin thread of patience. “I’m tryna make conversation. Hadn’t had one in a while with someone who speaks fuckin’ English. Not that you count. You don’t speak fucking English either most times.”

You smiled a little at that, amused. “Fair enough,” you relented and gave him your full attention then, folding your hands over your knees and leaning forward. “What d’you wanna know? First grade basics? Favorite color? Do I like unicorns?”

Ben scowled. “You know, back in my day, women were a little different.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘oppressed,’” you quipped all fucking smug.

His frown deepened, but he decided to move past it, knowing better than to fucking argue with you about that one. Wasn’t the first time he heard it, either. But Ben knew you'd been fucking happy back then. He'd made you happy.

Now you were treating him like he was the goddamn enemy of the state.

How did he fucking end up here? That shit surely hadn’t been on his damn bingo card.

He was supposed to have a house and kids and maybe a dog if you wanted one. He was supposed to watch you tinker on little inventions, get fucking rich, and live happily next to you till he dropped dead at a reasonable age.

That had been the dream. Simple, really.

And now? Now, he sat in a shitty motel, 103-years-old and a nuclear bomb, with a 74-years-younger girlfriend (he finally did the math), who couldn’t even fucking remember him. Never married. Never had kids. Never even had a fucking gold fish. Technically homeless as of this moment. And poor. And fake dead.

Fucking absurd.

But still, he found the silver lining – he could finally receive answers to questions he’d been asking himself for fucking decades.

“How about you just cut the sarcasm back a little and tell me where you grew up, huh? Can’t be that hard to fuckin’ answer,” he muttered.

Oh, but it was, wasn’t it? You never could tell him that. Guarded it like you knew where fucking Jesus went after his resurrection.

“Jersey.”

“Huh.” Ben stumped. Well, that was fucking easy this time ‘round. Jersey girl. Who knew?

“Grew up in a trailer park,” you added.

“No shit.” Ben tried to seem unaffected, but something curled inside of him. “That why you became a supe? Hoping it’s your ticket out?”

He couldn’t really blame you. He fell for that stupid trap himself. Even his reasons had been the same – escape the life he had. It could happen to anyone, even to the fucking smartest on this planet – like him and you.

“Wasn’t really my decision,” you replied, somewhat bitter. He sat up straighter at that and found your eyes. “My parents signed up for that Vought program.”

“What Vought program?”

The sting in his chest grew more intense. Like someone punched a fist between his ribs and squeezed.

“Vought ran these programs – recruited parents,” you explained slowly like you didn’t really want to talk about it. “Mostly from low-income families. They told them if they had kids, they could get them into Compound V trials. Have their kid become a hero, make money off of them… Well, you know the story.”

He did.

“They made parents sign NDAs too,” you continued. “Tell kids their abilities were a ‘natural gift.’ Truth didn’t come out till a couple years ago. Mostly because of Butcher, so he’s at least got that going for him, I guess.”

Ben was quiet for a moment, took a long drag from his weird-ass doobie. Tried not to make the fucking clicking thing go off again.

He’d heard it all before – in whispers in the hallways, in secret notes passed in meetings. Words like “special” and “God’s chosen” getting tossed around like warm bread.

Hell, they did it to him. He just didn’t give a fuck. Because he’d always known Santa Claus wasn’t fucking real. He knew where the fucking presents came from, and it wasn’t elves.

But what did he care if Vought shoved another fucking marketing lie down the public’s throat? Coca-Cola did it – “sugar is good for you.” Doctors recommended fucking Camels back then. News flash, ladies – diamonds weren’t fucking forever.

Hadn’t been his fucking problem…

“You believed that?” he asked after a pause.

You gave a small shrug of your shoulders. “Not really. For a while, yeah,” you replied at first, then bit your lip. “But when I was seven or eight, my powers really manifested, and I guess I was too curious not to peek. I had these weird dreams about it.”

“Nightmares?” he asked, and maybe he shot a little too quick at that one, but you didn’t seem to notice. Why would you?

“Kinda. I guess labs are scary for some people,” you mused. Ben frowned. “But they were actually just visions. So, you know, kinda ruined the magic.”

“So you were never actually human?”

His own question made him halt. You had no clue what it felt like?

There were days when he still missed it – not waking up with the screaming in his veins. Maybe that was the real reason why most supes were such fuckups. They didn’t know any better. Didn’t know what it was like to be free of burning poison.

You didn’t know.

“Guess not.” You shrugged simply like the thought had never even occurred to you at all.

“Your parents seriously signed you up for that shit?”

Another shrug. “Yeah, I mean, they were addicts, you know? They just thought in terms of their next fix. Heroin, meth, opioids… Saw my dad once drink antifreeze. Almost died. Did it again the next day. I mean, the only reason why they had me was to sell me. They didn’t want a kid beyond that. I used to sleep outside on an old cou–”

Click, click, click, CLIIIIIICK!

Your eyes flicked from the blinking counter to him.

“Are you okay?” you asked so innocently.

“‘M fine.”

He fucking wasn’t. This should’ve never fucking happened. You didn’t–… You hadn’t–…

He should’ve said something. Done something. Instead he just smiled for fucking cameras and let it fucking happen. He let you down. He just never thought you’d be around again to care. He never thought it would affect you.

But that didn’t really justify it, right? ‘Cause you’d argue that he was supposed to care anyway. He’d had that conversation before with you – just not the real you.

It was all his fucking fault, wasn’t it?

CLIIIIIIIICK!

“Jesus fuck! Can you shut it off?!”

“Are you nuts? It went off like five times in the last ten minutes. This is the worst time to shut it off,” you argued fiercely. Annoyed. “Just-… calm the fuck down for maybe three hours, and I’ll think about it.”

How was he supposed to fucking think clearly like this? A man needed fucking peace and quiet.

“Would you–” Your mouth opened. Closed. You groaned and lifted your eyes to the ceiling for a second. “Just take another hit, alright? Why are you so tense, anyway? I mean, you’re free now. Just relax for a minute instead of going straight on–, I don’t know, a killing spree.”

Ben snorted a laugh and took a long drag from his joint, chuckled till tears stung his eyes. Was he fucking losing his mind? That had to be it, right?

Free. Yeah, he felt so fucking free right now.

Felt more like some cosmic fucking prison. Like the universe had finally granted him his biggest wish and plopped you down right in front of him – all perfect and warm and fucking soft. And then it fucking told him not to touch.

Look but don’t taste.

Biggest fucking torture on the planet. Enough to break a man.

Who was fucking laughing at him now? God?

Click, click, click, click…

Ben groaned, let his head fall into his hands, you jumped up from your seat, and then were suddenly right in front of him. Kneeling.

What were you–

It was like you wanted this whole goddamn motel to go up in flames.

You put the little paper plane back into his mouth like he was a fucking toddler, lit it, and told him to breathe deep.

Thank fucking God you hadn’t told him to “open up” as he breathed into his fucking blue balls.

“Why did you get so upset when I told you that story?”

You didn’t move back to your old spot. You lingered. Sat down on the floor cross-legged in front of him, wide-eyed and curious.

Distraction.

“You know–” he started and smacked his lips, cleared his throat subtly like that one acting class Vought made him attend had taught him to. “Just upsetting. Fuckin’ Vought…” He gave a shake of his head. “Outrageous, really. You should be more angry about this…”

Your lips pursed, so he knew he was on the right track.

“You know, I didn’t know about it,” he added and licked his lips. Swallowed the guilt. And maybe he should’ve stopped right there. “If I had, I would’ve–…. You know, I-… I would’ve killed these bastards. This shit wouldn’t have happened on my watch, alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” you said quietly, almost like you didn’t believe him. Then you were silent for a moment. “Wasn’t really your fault. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”

He gave you a small nod and forced a smile, swallowing. “Yeah.”

The thought counted for fuckin’ nothin’.

“‘Sides, not sure there’s anything you could’ve done,” you added, voice soft and gentle like you were trying to make him feel better. He didn’t fucking deserve it. “Unless your plan would’ve been to burn down a whole lab with a bunch of perverted scientist in it.”

He should’ve done that! Why hadn’t he fucking thought of that? Why hadn’t he done exactly that?

This was why he needed you. You’d always been fucking smarter than him. You always had the best ideas.

God, fuckin’ shit.

He couldn’t figure this out on his own. You were the one who understood all that science and time crap. You were the one with the chalkboard. You could tell him what to fucking do here.

He should just fucking tell you the truth about everything. You’d know what to do. You’d understand all this shit, right? You could fix it. You wouldn’t think he was fucking crazy.

Right?

Yeah, he was just gonna tell you and ask for help. Tell you to make it right. Ask you to go back to ‘42 and fall in love with him.

Ah, fuck. That did sound fucking crazy. You’d probably run. Never speak to him again. Vanish.

Why couldn’t you fucking remember him? How could he explain that he’d already been in love with the girl sitting right next to him over eight decades ago?

You don’t, his brain chimed in. You sit there and fucking take it like a man.

And you just sat there too and stared at him like he was a fucking stranger – all perfect and close and out of reach. You were here but also weren’t. Like a fucking paradox.

Paradox…

You’d once said something about that. About cause and effect. Or was it fucking Schrödinger again? No…

No, Ben remembered the two of you were in the shed and you talked about it. Something about how actions have consequences. Said something about impossible situations. Called it a brain glitch.

Well, that didn’t sound fucking good, right?

Goddammit! Why couldn’t he remember the full fucking conversation? Why did that little shit back then have to stare at your ass so goddamn much?

If he could change time, he’d go back and tell that idiot to fucking listen for once.

Click, click, click, click…

“Jesus! What now?” You frowned and threw your arms up in frustration.

Ben shook his head, tried to clear his mind again. “Nothin’.” He then took another long drag of his joint.

He just had to stay fucking calm and figure this out on his own. Slowly. Not make any rash decisions like trying to fuck you into the floor. Not say something crazy like being in love with you for over eighty years.

“Maybe you should lay off the weed now,” you said, brow scrunched. “You’re getting kind of… sad… and… weird.”

Sad and weird. Fuckin’ great. Add lethal to that. Exactly what he’d been going for when it came to first impressions.

“You grew up on the streets, right? Did your parents sell you out, too? Is that why you’re so upset?”

Ben snapped out of his trance then and looked at you. He scratched his jaw, hesitating. You really didn’t know shit.

“Uh, no… to both,” he replied, clearing his throat, palms rubbing together like he could still fucking sweat. “Volunteered when I was twenty-five. Grew up rich, actually. Mansion.”

“Oh.”

Nope, didn’t seem to ring any bells for you. No mansion. No recognition. No memories. Even worse, Ben could feel your disappointment – as if the only thing you’d liked about him so far was a piece of Vought propaganda.

Yeah, he was tapping out for the night. Maybe forever. He couldn’t solve this shit. Couldn’t do fucking anything.

With a deep sigh that sounded more like a groan and defeat, he rose from the bed and paced the room, green eyes looking anywhere but you because if he did, he didn’t know how much longer he could control himself.

He just wanted to be with you. Just wanted to drag you out of this dump and live the fucking life he was supposed to have. Why couldn’t it be that fucking easy?

His eyes then landed on the little laminated pay-per-view program. A smile rose. “Well, look at that. They have some of my movies. Still bringing in the views.”

“In sleazy motels across America, maybe,” you muttered under your breath.

Ben ignored you and glanced over his shoulder, switching on the TV. “You ever seen one of mine?”

“Uh, not entirely, no,” you said, curling your lips. “Caught glimpses of some in those classics specials.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat, sweetheart.” He smirked broadly. “Wanna watch?”

You took a deep breath, exhaled a sigh, then gave him a fake fucking smile. “Sure. Whatever you want. I’m just here to babysit you, remember?”

Like he could fucking forget. You said it like it was a goddamn chore. Like you were getting paid to sit here and keep him calm – which to be fair, you sort of were.

Containment with a side of pity. That’s what he fucking got. Not admiration. Not love. Not you.

Something to manage, not something to miss.

But Ben didn’t let your mood deter him from his plan. He picked out a movie while you dragged yourself back to your old spot on the bed, settled in with another sigh – like you were humoring a petulant child.

Still, he plopped down next to you with a satisfied grin. You gave him a disapproving sideways glance and groaned slightly, but he didn’t care. He was gonna sit right next to you and enjoy this. Your look might’ve said “fuck off”, but your mouth didn’t, so he was gonna stay.

Maybe it wasn’t about the past at all. Maybe it was about the here and now. Maybe the universe was rewarding him.

He just needed to accept it and grab it. Make you fucking his again. Maybe that’s all there was to it. He’d just been fucking overthinking.

After everything he’d been through, after everything he’d fucking done for this country, he deserved to have nice things.

As the movie started with some obnoxious synth music, you still sat next to him, stiff and guarded. You kept just enough space for your thigh not to touch his – but still enough to drive him fucking insane.

Your shoulder brushed his arm slightly. Then you kicked off your shoes, stretched out those bare legs. His gaze followed naked skin from your ankle all the way up to where the hem of your jean shorts hugged your thigh. He almost goddamn came in his pants.

Yeah, maybe this had been a fucking bad idea after all.

“Is that Phoebe Cates?” Your head tilted at the screen and ripped him from his stupor.

“Huh?” His eyes squinted at the television where Phoebe’s character cooed and giggled and clung to his bicep. “Oh, yeah. She played my love interest.”

Your brows scrunched again. He used to kiss that spot above your nose where they met.

“She looks twelve.”

Ben frowned. Sighed internally this time. “She was twenty-one,” he huffed. Little too upset, maybe. “This was after she’d done Fast Times. Not so innocent. Trust me.”

“Still young,” you mumbled. Shrugged. “How old were you in this?”

“Vought billed me at thirty,” Ben said and stared stubbornly at the screen till the picture blurred, clearing his throat.

Slowly, your legs slid up to your chest as you rose to a sitting position, leaning forward. Raised your brows. Gave him a look.

Very judging.

“And in reality…? C’mon, I wanna know how many felonies I’m watching.”

Ben bit the insides of his cheeks. Hard. Might’ve tasted blood, then sniffed like it wasn’t a big fucking deal. “Born in 1919.”

“Fuck. Really?” A laugh spluttered out of you. Almost crippled you in half and threw you off the bed. “I mean, I knew you were in World War II, right? So–… Wait, that means you’re a… hundred-and–”

“Don’t do the fucking math.”

“–three! Holy shit!”

Ben groaned. Didn’t even hide it. He could still remember all of it. Same fire. Same mouth. Same razor-sharp wit that used to make him flinch and ache in equal measure. Never held back. Never tried to impress him. That was probably why he’d fallen so damn hard.

Fucking smart, too. He used to get off on it – literally. There were nights where you’d calculate the square root of something with his cock in your mouth just to screw with him.

The memory of your skin touching his burned through every inch of him. He could still feel you under him – warm and reckless and so fucking soft. The sounds you used to make. The way you used to bite your lip when you were trying not to laugh, how you’d curl your fingers into his shirt when he kissed you too hard, how you clung to him when he–

Click, click, click…

Of fucking course! Would only take a few seconds till you ask–

“You good?” Your eyes studied him.

Ben hummed and hoped you wouldn’t notice the damn ache in his sweats. “Yeah. Just excited to relive the glory days.”

“Sure.” You frowned, unconvinced.

You leaned back against the headboard and shifted, keeping a few strategic inches between you and him like it was habit. Like you’d done this kind of thing before with dangerous men who didn’t know where the line was.

“So…” He cleared his throat once more, gave you a smile that said he was probably trying a little too hard. “When’s your birthday?”

“I already told you,” you said, eyes not lifting from the glow of the TV.

“You told me your age,” he pointed out with as much patience as he could. “Didn’t tell me your birthday. When is it?”

“Why d’you wanna know?” Still didn’t look at him. Just dismissed him in hopes he’d go away.

Hadn’t worked for you the first time, though, had it?

“Humor me. Movie date etiquette,” he replied dryly, sent you a deadpan look that made you groan and roll your eyes. “March? December? January?”

“June.”

Huh. Well, fuck him. He hadn’t seen that one coming.

June. 1993. Twenty-nine. The world tilted on its axis. The moon dropped from the sky. The sun came with it. Nothing made fucking sense anymore.

Was this even the real you? Maybe it was a fucking clone. Or something else. Maybe he was dead and this was some weird fucking afterlife vision, his corpse still fueled by blue poison.

How was this possible? Unless–

Unless you fucking lied.

Ben jerked his head, narrowed his eyes, and watched you closely now. You’d always had an edge to you. You weren’t a full-blooded good girl. You’d always been that sweet spot in between.

So, okay... If he assumed you lied, he had to find out why, right?

The age thing – women lied about it all the time. Wasn’t a big deal. Over the years, he’d even begun to automatically add three to five years to whatever age they’d given him. He figured you’d lied, too.

But the birthday thing? That was fucking weird. Why would you do that? To blur your traces? To hide who you were? What you were?

Ben tried to remember the exact conversation. It was in his room–… No, the study. First night. You’d worn one of his shirts. You were still fucking closed off and guarded and didn’t like or trust him a whole lot – kinda like now. But he’d asked you to tell him at least one true thing about you, and you’d told him that today, January 24, was your birthday.

You hadn’t lied about it then. He could tell.

But you hadn’t actually said the date, had you? You’d just said today. Which might’ve been true – for you.

A half-truth.

Ben grinned smugly. He’d figured something out – without your help. You hadn’t been of any fucking help at all, actually.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked and furrowed your brow at him.

Oh shit. He’d still been staring.

“Would you ever, you know, lie about your age?”

The question threw you, but not as much anymore. Like you’d gotten used to the weirdness.

“Well, if you’re asking for yourself, I’d definitely lie next time you go on a date,” you replied wryly.

Good enough.

The two of you then went back to watching TV. He didn’t ask more weird questions and left you in peace. You looked tired. He was, too.

He tried not to get worked up whenever you accidentally touched him or he’d catch a whiff of your scent when the AC would graciously carry it to his nose. He didn’t know the shampoo or the perfume but recognized what was underneath it.

He wanted to touch you. Wanted to close the space, let his hand rest on your thigh, let his thumb brush over your skin, see if you’d still arch into him the way you used to when you were tangled up in his sheets.

Touch me, Ben thought, almost hoping his thoughts were loud enough for you to hear. Just once like you used to. Just look at me like I’m still that guy.

But you didn’t. You kept watching the screen. He followed your eyes and looked at Phoebe moaning his name under a fake rain machine – barely resisted the urge to shut it off.

You were younger than Phoebe. Smarter than all of them. You were the first woman who’d ever rolled her eyes at him – shocking, yes. The first one to tell him he was full of shit and then kiss him like she meant it. And when you’d kissed him, it hadn’t been about movies or hero worship or fear.

You’d kissed him because you wanted to.

Because even when he was just a rich asshole with nothing but a fast car and a faster mouth, you saw through all of it.

Now you didn’t see him at all.

And he was scared shitless that maybe you never would again.

If you didn’t remember him, it meant this you next to him hadn’t gone back and met the past version of him yet. But it’d also meant you must’ve known him then because you knew him now.

God, his head was startin’ to hurt again.

You hadn’t told him anything. Pretended you didn’t know him already – like he was doing now.

Ben figured you had your reasons, probably smart ones, so maybe he was actually onto something here, too. Maybe he had to just keep playing the game – like you had.

But for how fucking long?

You’d stayed in 1942 for five months? Six? It was fucking July now. Your next birthday was in eleven months – and that was best case fucking scenario. Could be five more years, could be fucking ten… And you’d told him your abilities didn’t even work in that way anymore. That was another fucking problem.

Shit.

“Hey, so, that time jumping thing, how does it–” But Ben stopped mid-question when he glanced down and noticed you’d dozed off.

You were out cold, curled up on your side, head tipped slightly toward him like it had just happened mid-eye roll. You’d made it a point to keep space between you the entire night, but now your head was resting against his arm.

Funny how that worked.

Ben didn’t dare move for a long moment. Just watched you while the credits rolled to that awfully cheesy ‘80s synth again. Watched your chest fall and rise, watched your eyelashes rest against your cheek.

He hadn’t seen you sleep in eighty years. Took everything in him not to reach out and pull you into his side.

“Missed you, sweetheart.”

He sighed softly under his breath, tipped his head back, eased into the mattress, and shut his eyes. And for the first time since 1942, he let himself fall asleep beside you again.

▶️ Chapter 14: I'm Going to Have a Lot of Drinks – JUNE 29

Poor guy, will he ever figure it out? The answer is yes – in the next part 😉 (aka the part where Ben realizes he needs to switch tactics and becomes a complete asshole). We'll see how it goes. It won't be a battle won by math skills for sure 😆

Coming Up:

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.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

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[dailypj]

(Assuming that you’ve already put some thought into characterizing PJ, tho feel free to ignore this if not! I’m just trying to scope out how to potentially write PaperJam’s character into a fic, since him being sort of a skeptic could mean that he wins the idgaf war too well and has no impact on the central plot yknow)

Do you have ideas for any fun internal conflicts or character arcs for PJ? If there’s a multiverse-threatening conflict unfolding, what would PJ be doing about it, if anything? What mcguffins or circumstances could be triggered that would quickly pique PJ’s interest enough to get involved?

As always my first piece of advice for writing anything pj is to go through the resources provided by his creator, @7goodangel (@-ing in case you wanna put in ur 2 cents, he is ur guy)

Here are the links for:

Pj’s bio

Pj info tag

Pj faq page (bit of a shortcut for the info tag since it holds answers to a lot of previously asked questions, tho not all of them)

now for an actual answer, there's a long ramble under the cut, enjoy

first thing that ik for sure is canon, pj would step in if it's necessary to protect his family (I believe it was a comment somewhere by 7 that stated that pj would go as far as suffocating someone for threatening his kid's life)

if the multiverse being in danger has the capacity to hurt his loved ones I'm sure he'd do something about it, but I think the lengths he's willing to go will vary depending on what/who is causing it and which other characters are joining the fight

Ink for example is definitely an interesting ally considering their past. a conflict between them is pretty much inevitable, especially if you take from canon and had them separated years prior

Now if pj’s loved ones aren't present here, that’s where my guesses on how she’d act get fuzzy. In the past, pj took it upon herself to judge whether certain aus should stay alive or be erased. She believed that what error did was wrong not because it was a massacre of innocents, but because he did it too indiscriminately

(I’d say it was pretty easy to gain a dehumanizing view of others when the 2 biggest influences she had referred to the masses as just fictional characters or anomalies…)

Now, she does indeed spare aus she deems acceptable, but I’m not sure how much she’s willing to risk for them. Cuz like, part of her self-given job is motivated by the want to prove she isn’t a mistake to the man who wants every universe to die

Basically she’s got some pretty dark grey morals and it’s fun to deconstruct them (or make them worse if you wanna go the antagonist pj route, equally fun imo)

now a more headcanon-y idea (aka the trait I tend to exaggerate in nearly every pj varient I've made thus far for angst purposes) is leaning into the whole "I have to be useful to be worthy of anyone's care" thing, and just strongly wanting to disprove bad assumptions/expectations about herself (especially the mistake thing) which couldd lead to her going down a phase of believing she should follow in ink's protector footsteps to try and become more of a priority in his eyes (with the added bonus of keeping fears other characters may have about her "becoming like error" at bay)

does it work? idk but maybe if she just obsesses over it even more the identity crisis will be worth it Slash J

so ya that's my 2 cents on a potential conflict based on canon stuff, absolutely feel free to go ham on whatever direction you feel like taking pj I'm just a big advocate for "learn the rules before you break them" 👍✨

[dzvelinaskebiyars]

"Have you ever thought how easy it would be for us to end the other one and never get caught?"

I'm ngl, I should do something about procrastinating (◞ ‸ ◟ㆀ) anyways, tagging: @shintaru @ravenwritten @sylith @bfwooin @zyart-jpg @i-nssomniia @kuchisabishiiiii

HYUK:

Honestly, at first Hyuk thought he heard you wrong. He's half-asleep on your chest, while you were gently playing with his hair, brushing it with your fingers or curling his dark folds around your digits.

And then you suddenly asked....that.

"Have you ever thought how easy it would be for us to end the other one and never get caught?"

Your question caught him off guard, especially your sweet tone and whisper, like you were asking if today's date. Hyuk lifted his head from your chest, his chin resting on your skin.

"To be entirely honest..." His voice trailed off, as if he was unsure whether it would be alright to admit it or not.

His hesitation made your chest beat faster. You were joking, of course. You asked that as a joke. It was totally just an intrusive thought- but with Hyuk...He was joking too, right?

He opened his mouth to speak again. "I've thought about what I would do if you were to die."

You blinked at him, his confession coloring you surprised. "Really? And what would you do?"

Hyuk stared at you for a moment, his eyes locked on yours. His mind shrifted to the old thoughts he had kept locked in his heart. It was unpleasant thought. No, it was more than just unpleasant.

The amount of effort he put in just to make you fall for him, just so you could get interested by him — whether it's the amount of times he freed his schedule just to see you, when he took you to playgrounds and proudly showed off his stunts, randomly asking to hang out with you, casually showing up in front of your house, memorizing your schedules, maybe he's bit guilty of obsessively having all his attention on you too.

It's weird to others maybe, but to him, it was normal. It was his calling to make you his, to understand you throughoutly and it was also his calling to don't lose you.

Hyuk usually didn't care about death as any normal person would. Maybe because he grew up in environment where death wasn't taken as seriously as it should have been, maybe because that thought didn't occupy his mind often. But maybe, just maybe, that wasn't case with people he was permanently fixated on.

Deep beneath that heart, he held a special place for people that he loves, in his own ways, and Hyuk isn't the type to just...get used to them not being here.

So what he would do if you died?

The thought is terrifying enough as it is for him, but confronting that question to give an answer was harder than he had thought it would be. "I wouldn't date again" he mumbled, loud enough for you to catch his words but quiet enough for the intimate moment. "I would still text you and send you videos of my stunts."

You let out small "aww", it was rare to see Hyuk being this open but i guess that's how he usually is half-asleep — clingy and open.

"But baby..." You awkwardly called him. "That wasn't the question....I still appreciate your answer though."

After hearing that, Hyuk furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and adjusted his position. "Then what was the question?"

"Have you ever thought how easy it would be for us to end the other one and never get caught?" You repeated for him.

He immediately flopped his head back on your chest, replying with "Nah" but then he slowly looked at you, raising his eyebrow slightly. "Have you?"

"Well..." You glanced away, rubbing your neck in awkwardness, purposely ignoring Hyul's soft gasp. "As a joke, kinda...That was when you scooped me as your backpack on your bike and pedalled like we had nine lives. At that time? I kinda wished to kill you but jokingly!"

Hyuk scoffs, closing his eyes. "Oh wow..." Honestly, he isn't surprised. You did almost bruised him from how hard you were holding him back then.

You continued to caress his hair gently, humming to yourself. In the midst of random prank question you heard from tiktok, you got such intimate moment for yourself and your boyfriend admitting he'd stay loyal to you even after death. What else could have possibly made you happier?

Wooin:

On a beautiful starry night, where moon blesses the streets with its silver light, when people are taking walk outside, kids playing football on playgrounds—screaming and laughing together, couples going on dates despite the time of the day, enjoying the warmth of the night....

You're stuck in your home with your sadistic, son of a bitch boyfriend, who decided making you watch horror movie with him was the best plan for indoor date.

That's how you ended up snuggled up to him, wrapped in the blanket like a burrito, your eyes wide in pure horror, fear nestled in your very bones. Wooin? He had smug grin on his lips, arm wrapped around you—pulling you in his embrace, his eyes switching from glancing at you to watching the movie, that didn't even scare him even a bit.

Honestly, he knows he's sick for enjoying the moment you're so terrified at but the way you're holding onto him like he's the safest space for you right now, the way you're cuddling with him, the way you're jumping at jumpscares and cussing out the ghost who, apparently, made you believe in existence of god as you were repeatedly begging deities to spare your heart from whatever the hell he picked—all of this was so amusing to him.

His eyes darted to the TV again, watching the way a main character killed his own wife in the fear of her being a witch and get away with it. Oh, that guy was nutjob, definitely. But then what could Wooin be called after asking you stupidly terrifying question at the worst (right) time possible?

"This made me think how easy it is to kill your own lover and get away with it. Have you ever thought of it?"

Your eyes immediately shoot up to look at him like he grew three separate heads, giving him most offensive side-eye he could ever get from human being, then turned your head to face him. "If you don't stop purposely trying to get me scared, I will kill you."

"Oohh." Wooin grinned. "Is that a threat? From you?"

"Very much so." You answered and turned your head back to the TV.

He hummed to himself, his thumb brushing your thigh. "But I could—"

"Say one more word and I'll suffocate you like this guy did in the movie."

"....." He opened his mouth again. "You know what? I don't dislike that idea."

And that's how he ended up sleeping on the couch instead of bed with you, since you claimed he was going to bring bad luck to you now–after all the nonsense he sprouted from his mouth.

JOKER:

Training with him was always amazing way to spend time, since both of you are quite athletic. But as always, his training schedule was too exhausting for you—as someone who wasn't interested in boxing nor weightlifting.

So watching him train after taking a break? Now we're talking. Usually, you'd be too distracted by his muscles, his biceps, the way his abs glistened with sweat but now? Your thoughts were occupied by certain question that intruded your brain.

So being too comfortable with him, you didn't mind asking it. "Hajun."

At the mention of his name, he glanced st you mid lifting, humming in response.

"Have you ever thought about how easy it would be for us to end the other one and never get caught?"

That's it. You did it. And almost made him drop the bar on himself.

His eyes meet yours, processing the question you just asked. Then he went back to lifting his weight while answering you with question. "Is that one of your intrusive thought too?"

Chuckle gets past your lips, barely audible. This poor man had to deal with lot of weird questions from you, huh? "No, this thought might be wanted."

He stops once again, side eyeing you before sighing in pure agony. "This is why I didn't want you to meet Hyuk. You got affected by his homicidal impulses."

"What impulses?!" You burst out laughing, leaning forward out of habit.

Opposite from you, he was NOT amused. Probably because of the recent race he had where Hyuk messed up everything by trying to have fun. Hajun, without a hesitation, repeated. "Homicidal."

He scoffed at your careless reaction, not seeing where he's coming from. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just..." You got yourself together, your laughter dying down. "I wasn't expecting you to insult Hyuk like that."

"It's not insults. It's facts. And you're getting influenced too." He explained, completely putting down the weight on the floor. "So, please don't act on your homicidal impulses. I actually have plans for our future."

[marigold-hills]

your hands; mine (Stalker Remus AU) Part 6

PART 1 | | PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

The first spoonful is like silk.

Remus moans. Audibly, aloud. At the taste, at the texture. Bites into a chunk of frozen chocolate and it starts to melt on his tongue - calling it silk is a disservice. He wants to savor, to be slow about it, but he eats like a dog lapping up its favourite meal. Can’t hold himself back until the bowl is empty.

He looks up when Sirius’ milkshake makes a slurping empty sound. The straw is still in between those pretty lips. Sirius is wide eyed and staring, like he’s stuck in some liminal moment inside of his own mind.

Remus feels a trail of melted ice cream dribbling down the edge of his chin. He wipes it off with the back of his hand. Thoughtless, licks it off: tongue outstretched to catch every drop like it’s something holy.

Sirius chokes.

Just like that, Remus is brought back to himself. Feels ashamed. Dirty, ugly display of greed and bad manners. “Sorry,” he says, playing with the spoon to occupy his fingers.

“Looked like you enjoyed it.” Sirius’ voice wavers and he coughs a bit, like he’s regaining a breath.

“I did. Thank you.” Remus’ mam raised him to be a polite man. He knows this about himself. He tries to remember how to be one.

“You murdered someone for me,” Sirius says carelessly and flippantly and so very blunt. “Least I can do, really.”

Remus knows what he did. He sees glimpses of the blood on his hands. Sees the man towering over Sirius like a shadow. But somehow, despite all of this, in the cozy night of Sirius’ flat, amidst the kebab and the ice cream, he’s forgotten.

Now he remembers. Like a tidal wave rising and rising and rising. The memory is more like realisation: he killed a man. He ended a life. This person no longer exists, who they were and who they could have been, gone because of Remus.

It doesn’t make any sense. How can something - how can someone - be and then just not be? 

“Huh,” Remus says, or tries to. “Excuse me,” he thinks he adds as he stands up and walks to the bathroom. Kneels on the white tiles. Dry heaves into the white toilet bowl. It smells like citrus chemicals, sharp and harsh and cloying at his nostrils and throat. His eyes water and he closes them on a cough and remembers the one Sirius let out when the man kicked him.

There must be a bruise. Remus should have checked him over better.

Should have done a lot of things better.

The taste of chocolate turns vile. Shaky legs, he forces himself up and over the sink. Cupped hands under the tap he fills his mouth with water. Washes it out and spits it out and gargles. 

You murdered someone for me. 

These new builds are made in such ways that things echo. In a white-tiled bathroom even thoughts do. 

Sirius’s block of flats was only completed three years ago, nobody else has ever lived there. It’s not like the rows of houses where Remus lives, each of them passed down through generations or through estate agents. Where death and birth have happened so much they become commonplace. 

Here, Remus feels like the moment he stepped over the threshold he brought with him a ghost. Ghosts don’t belong in flats like this one.

Remus splashes water into his eyes and thinks he better take the ghost back with him. Better make space for it in his own narrow life. Underneath the washing machine, maybe, or in the slit between the fridge and the counter, where he can never quite properly clean. 

It will share his bed now, Remus thinks. Drink his tea. Look at him from behind mirrors and across the windows and just over his shoulder, out of reach and out of touch. 

Remus didn’t think he would be inviting someone’s presence to join his life. He’s been living alone since he moved out of the cottage, a decade ago. It’s a long time to make routines and get used to one's own ways.

“Remus?” Sirius calls out from the living room. His voice is far from the bathroom door. 

NEXT PART

✨ ✨ ✨ ✨

Tags!

@hoje--aqui

@rae-lune

@wickedcoeur

@shunstanpike

@floretissogay

@remoonysiriusly

@lunalovegoodsgirlfriend

@father-imperator

@brighterthanthou

@a-pine-cone

@tealeavesandtrash

[melia-an2fa]

Christ on a cracker, no one seems to be able to act normal about this SaveAFox shit. I remember even back a couple years ago, I'd heard some criticisms of how she handled things, simply agreed "Yeah that sounds a bit concerning, I won't be watching her stuff," and then moved on, maybe on occasion gave friends a heads up if they posted her stuff, but otherwise, just... moving on.

I remember getting agitated when what started as very mild criticisms started to evolve into post after post into dedicated tag for her into Google Doc Callout Post™ and just feeling deeply annoyed by this being a constant cycle, and unfollowed some folks because of it. People who remember my old blog probably remember my post talking about people on Animalblr (? is that the word) I found annoying, this was part of why.

And in a way, it's a bit... cathartic? That may not be the right word for it. The irony of it all, is that the people who were most vocal about this, I could say the same thing for them that I would've said about Mikayla, which is that they were well-intended (caring about animal welfare and having real concerns) but still irresponsible (documenting literally every thing the woman did in dedicated tags; this was bound to attract bad faith actors and concern trolls!)

I honestly hadn't thought about Mikayla for a long time until this happened today, because, again, my response was simply "Well I won't watch those videos" then moving on. I didn't keep a dedicated tag to documenting everything she did. Hearing the news was honestly devastating, because I don't care what a person did, they don't deserve to die. I never even thought of Mikayla as a bad person, just well-intended but irresponsible, even if she were a "bad person" I wouldn't think she deserved to die.

So, fuck you if you sincerely consider this a "win," if you have no regrets about anything you did. I personally now have regrets trusting the word of some of these individuals, seeing as it has now escalated to this point. And sure, Ethan said it was because of people she knew and other sanctuaries, but let's not pretend rumors don't spread. I remember when I saw the doc in particular, I was disgusted that her having an OnlyFans even came up, it just ruined the credibility of the entire doc, no matter what legitimate concerns you may have had about Mikayla's animal welfare, because her having an OF... has nothing to do with her welfare! But that being information other sanctuaries could've found out about could've still ruined her credibility with them regardless, since, y'know, people fucking hate women who have a sexuality?

I will also say, I do think some of her defenders are going way too far, and I do not approve of this. I think it's kinda ridiculous to accuse every single person who's ever mildly criticized her, especially if it was years ago, and/or came from a person who's been inactive on Tumblr for half a year, of being "murderers." I've seen people hurling slurs (mostly the R-slur), being transphobic (because Owlvid in particular is trans), making threats about doxxing people and/or raping them and their family members... what the hell is wrong with you? There is no childish "But they did it first-" here, you are engaging in the exact kind of behavior that lead to Mikayla's death, and that's disgusting, what we're learning from this shouldn't be "Let's keep up this cycle of vengeance!" or "Let's document everything someone we don't like does!" No, do not entertain the idea of the "callout post." That's how we get here in the first place. Block. Move on. Curate. That's what the people who didn't like her content should've done, too.

May Mikayla rest in peace, my heart goes out to her family, I hope Ethan can get the funds that he needs in order to take care of his daughter, and I hope the animals can, at least, be rehomed to other sanctuaries, should Ethan not receive proper funding.

There's been a lot of recent events making me rethink how quickly I and others jump the gun when it comes to animal welfare concerns, and this is one of them.

[art-by-jas]

Watching Chapt. 3/5 (AO3) Charlie Reid x f!Reader Tags: Voyerism?, Mentions of overdose, Harassment, Pet names, Mention of the term "good girl" WC: 2k Summary: With a less-than-suggested order from Deputy Chief Reid, you get to work. Although he catches a lot of attitude from you in the process.

He lingered in the shadows by your window, his eyes glued to you through the thin crack in the curtains. What he saw was mesmerizing, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away as he watched you come. He noticed every little thing—the way your body writhed, how your chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, and the sweet sounds that slipped past your lips as you lost yourself in the moment. It was all too much; he felt his dick harden in his pants. He had to get some relief. He couldn't hold back anymore. He needed to leave, to go home and take care of himself. He knew he couldn't stay any longer. But as he moved to walk away, he took one last glance through the window before turning and disappearing into the night.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

As you step into the morgue to begin your workday, the first thing you do is don a face mask and gloves. You make your way over to the metal autopsy table. You grab a bottle of harsh, industrial-strength cleaner and a sponge and begin scrubbing. The routine task helps to focus your mind as you thoroughly wipe down the table, removing every trace of the previous body. The chemical smell stings your nose through the mask, but you pay no mind to the discomfort.

After the table is cleaned, the rest of the room gets the same treatment. You work diligently, moving from surface to surface, making sure every inch of the room is sterile. It's a monotonous task, but there is comfort in doing it.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, you've finished wiping down every last surface. The room is pristine and sparkling, with every speck of dust eliminated. You take a moment to admire your work.

Your thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the sound of a light knock against the doorframe. You whirl around to find Deputy Chief Reid standing there, leaning casually against the frame. His smirk is as infuriating as ever, and his eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your heart flutter harder than you are willing to admit.

He regards you for a moment before speaking, "Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" His words have a hint of mockery in them, his eyes roaming over you from head to toe.

You straighten your spine, trying to maintain your composure under his gaze. "Can I help you, Deputy Chief?" The question is asked in a cool, even tone.

"No need to be so formal," he drawls, his eyes still taking in the room, admiring your handiwork. "I told you, you could call me Charlie." He turns his gaze on you, his smirk still on his face.

After appraising the room, he finally turns his attention back to you. He leans against the autopsy table, his arms casually crossed. There's a hint of intensity in his eyes as he speaks, his voice taking on a professional tone.

"There was a body brought in yesterday, waiting for an autopsy. A Michael Anderson." He watches you, waiting to see if the name means anything to you.

Your mind quickly sifts through the day's reports, searching for the name. After a moment, you nod in recognition. "Ah, yes. I recall. He's in the cabinets over there." 

You gesture to a row of lockers along the far wall, where the bodies waiting to be autopsied are kept. Michael Anderson's body would be located in one of those drawers. He pushes off from the table and moves closer to you, his gaze still fixed on you. There's a hint of persuasion in his voice when he speaks.

"I need a favor. I'd like the autopsy on Michael Anderson to be done today. Can you take care of that?" He says this as if it's a given that you'll do as he asks, as if you don't have a choice. A flicker of annoyance passes through you at his authoritative tone. 

You raise an eyebrow and meet his gaze directly. "And why, exactly, do you think I'll drop what I'm doing to cater to your every whim?" Your voice carries a hint of irritation, making it clear that you don't take kindly to being ordered around by him.

His smirk only widens at your response, seemingly amused by your stubbornness. He takes another step closer.

"Because I'm your senior, of course," as if it should be obvious to you that his rank gives him the authority to make requests like this. He leans in closer, invading your personal space, and studies your face. His eyes gleam, as if he's enjoying this little power play between the two of you.

"Not to mention, I could make things... difficult for you if you refuse my request," he adds, his voice taking on a slightly different tone. His proximity makes you hyper-aware of his presence. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, and it's both infuriating and somewhat dizzying.

He continues his subtle taunt with a head tilt as his voice is a low rumble in your ear. "And you wouldn't want that, would you?" His words are a challenge, silently daring you to defy him and find out just what those promised consequences might entail. You hate how his presence affects you, how he can rile you up with so little effort. You hate how he can get under your skin so easily and get a reaction out of you.

He notices the irritation on your face, the way you're bristling at his closeness. His lips curve into a knowing smirk, enjoying the effect he has on you. He leans back from you, removing his proximity but not before patting your shoulder lightly. 

"Now, be a good girl for me and get to work," he says. Before you have a chance to compose yourself and find a retort, he's already walked away, disappearing through the door and leaving you standing there, flustered and frustrated, with a body to examine.

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Hours have passed, and you're deep in the midst of your work, surrounded by the surroundings of the morgue. The quiet hum of the nearby fridge and AC fills the air. In the middle of this, your phone chimes with a notification. 

You glance at the screen, noticing a text from Kim. It's about Adam; she mentions that his dad is staying with them for a while. She also says that he's been worked up by one of the cases they're working on, one involving a child. You quickly pick up your phone and text Kim back, proposing that you all meet up for a night out or a night in, whichever they prefer.

After finally managing to finish everything else on your to-do list for the day, the one thing left to do is the task that Reid asked you to do. The autopsy of Michael Anderson.

As you gather your things at the end of the day, knowing that you deliberately put off the autopsy that Reid asked you to do until the very last moment, just to make a point that you don't take orders from him, a bit of satisfaction creeps into your thoughts. It feels good to subtly defy his request and do things on your terms.

As you finish the examination and analyze the results, you slowly start to put the pieces together. The findings reveal that Michael's cause of death was a clear overdose. The wheels in your mind begin turning as you contemplate why Reid was so adamant about getting this autopsy done quickly. Could it be that Reid had a hunch about what the autopsy would reveal? Was there any reason for him to anticipate the cause of death?

As you're in the middle of washing your hands, your phone makes a noise, and you instinctively reach for it, expecting it to be a message from Kim asking about the meet-up tonight. Instead, you see an unknown number popping up on the screen.

From: UNKNOWN

Any news for me yet?

Your heart sinks slightly as you realize that it's Reid. You know deep down that it's him before you even read his message. Your confusion only grows as you think about how he managed to get your number. 

With a mix of irritation and disbelief, you type your response, your fingers tapping the screen with a bit more force than necessary.

From: Me And how, exactly, did you get my number?

From: New Contact Deputy Douche Reid Oh, I have my ways.

From: Me What? Are you stalking me or something?

From: Reid Or something. Now, do you have news for me or not?

From: Me The autopsy's done. It's an overdose, okay???? Is that okay with you, sir?

Just as you hit send on your message, your phone begins to ring, and Reid's name appears on the screen. Despite your annoyance and irritation, you answer the call.

"Yeah?" Your tone is curt and unimpressed.

Reid's voice comes through smooth and steady. "Good, you finished what I told you to do." His words drip with a slight hint of sarcasm, as if he expected anything else. He adds a bit of a sultry chuckle, a hint of flirtation entering his voice.

"Though you did take your sweet time, didn't you...? I wonder why that is."

Your frustration builds even more as his tone turns sultry and flirty, annoyance flaring at his implication. You reply, your tone biting and sharp.

"I had other things to take care of." There's a pause, and you can practically hear Reid's smirk through the phone. 

"Or were you just trying to defy me, as usual? Taking your precious time to make a point... You're so predictable, doll." He chuckles once again, the nickname sounding more like a jab than a term of endearment.

Your annoyance reaches its peak at his comment, and you respond with sharp, biting sass.

"Oh, I'm the predictable one? You're the one who can't go a day without giving me orders and trying to push my buttons." Your voice drips with irritation and sarcasm.

He laughs lightly at your response, "I like seeing your attitude. It's... cute."

Reid's words throw you off briefly. Did he... just call you cute? Your irritation momentarily switches to surprise, and a hint of a blush threatens to rise to your cheeks.

He chuckles, noticing your slight moment of silence over the phone. "Ah, I see. I struck a nerve there, didn't I?" He's enjoying messing with you, and his comment only increases your irritation further.

"It's cute how you pretend to be annoyed when I give you compliments. You're not fooling anyone." He chuckles again, his voice holding a hint of mockery.

You bite your lip, trying to maintain your irritation. You can feel yourself becoming flustered, which makes you even more annoyed with yourself for showing any reaction to his comments.

His chuckling continues as he picks up on your flustered response. "Oh, are you getting all flustered, doll? Is that blush on your cheeks I can hear through the phone?" His tone was teasing.

Reid's voice takes on a suggestive tone as he says, "Oh, if only I were there right now... I'd love to see that cute blush on your cheeks in person, doll." He chuckles lightly, adding a hint of playfulness before continuing, "Good night, doc. See you soon."

The call abruptly ending leaves you standing there, staring at your phone, you're feeling a weird mix of irritation and, dare you say it, arousal at the suggestive tone in his voice. Your thoughts are a chaotic mess. You sigh, shaking your head, trying to clear your mind. The way Reid manages to get under your skin and rile you up is... infuriating.

And yet, there's a small part of you that finds it strangely exciting.

Masterlist

@science-hoes

[virginreprise]

J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" ARE WE JUST DUST, ON THE FLOOR AGAIN? I THOUGHT WE WERE ON THE MEND " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

WARNINGS: suicidal ideation, angst, smut, panic attacks, emotional whiplash, joel sucks but then sucks less, emotional constipation, slight emotional manipulation, there are many emotions, light fluff, joel miller has a big cock, joel gets physical and not in a good way but its only briefly mentioned, joel miller is an asshole, i think it woiuld be appropriate for a joel miller is his own warning tag right about now

WORD COUNT: 10k

CHAPTER ONE ✦ CHAPTER TWO

AO3 LINK

CHAPTER THREE—WESTBOUND

BROKEN GLASS, MISSING HANDS, THE ABSENCE OF A TICK AND THE LOSS OF TIME.

Always and forever, there would never be enough time. 

There was no time for apologies, for healing, stitches snapping open every time they were replaced—every time arms were raised above heads in protest of the loaded pistol pointed at an already cracked open skull. Blood trickled down foreheads, parting like the red sea as it reached noses and ran for glistening, wet eyes in a desperate bid to blind the man on his knees; hoping he wouldn’t have to watch the quick, callous silence that followed the bang and gunsmoke. 

All: harsh displeasure, laughs ringing in his ears like a taunt, cackling and screaming, “You couldn’t save her,” whilst he begged on his knees and gripped his head to will them away. 

It was crawling in, on all fours like a temptress in the night, slinking around corners, using his cries as the music of her soul and wrapping her arms around his neck. A gentle kiss to his lips, distracting him from the cool metal against his stomach, dragging upwards until the point reached his neck. Pressing in, drawing blood, smiling softly and then reaching inside his mouth and pulling his heart right from his open fucking chest. 

Joel saw you—every night. Felt you around his cock every goddamn night. When he lay face first into his pillows, half-drunk from the whiskey he’d given up pouring, preferring to suckle from the bottle whilst visions of you smiling up at him, the drip of slick from your pussy that stained the bed sheets, danced in his peripheral—begging him to burst through the door and hold you tight against him. To apologise for leaving you curled in on yourself and wondering what you had done wrong. 

Always: staring at the cracks on the watch’s surface, blonde hair in the edges of his eyeline, blood-stained blonde—red dripping from his hands as he shook. 

You were supposed to make it better. Taking care of you was supposed to make him feel better. But he’d cum on your stomach like a fucking pussy and was already halfway through the door before you could convince him that his hands weren’t dirty; that he wasn’t tainting anything by touching you. 

There had been a flash of red on your cheeks, the imprint of his palm branded against your skin and dripping onto your tongue—you lapping up the sickly sight like you wanted to consume every part of him. Eyes welled with tears when he’d pulled away; leaving you red and wondering. Those questions that were etched along your lips: What happened? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave her? Why do I feel like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and find you with a gun in your palm and your brains all over the fucking wall? 

How did you know him so well? How did you manage to convince him of everything and then cause him to go spiralling headfirst into his deepest hallucinations and feel regret coursing through his stomach on a tidal wave of penitence?

He did not sleep until the alcohol poisoned his mind and left him desperate for someone to fuck up, for someone to cross him so he could beat them bloody. Senseless violence: all he conceived in his fucked-up head that hadn’t been the same since her—the name spluttering and stuttering against his tongue. Unable to come out. 

Pathetically, he wanted Tommy. He’d been so close after he’d left you bleeding, hand on the receiver, fingers shaking as he pressed button after button. That piece of yellowed paper that housed his little brother's chicken scratch—the Wyoming area code blotched and smudged from the continual worrying of Joel’s calloused fingers. He had hovered over the last number, lip quivering as he realised he couldn’t do it. That even if he was a selfish bastard, unable to think before making his decisions, he couldn’t call after fifteen years and bother the one person who had at least tried. 

Tommy who had stuck by him for as long as he could bear, before the self-pity and wallowing was too much for anyone, even Jesus Christ himself, to tolerate. 

All-consuming, self-conscious, doubt. Doubt in his ability to continue onwards, doubt in his strength, in his slowly dwindling figure that shadowed the sobbing, thirty-two-year-old him that clung to her. Limp and lifeless in his arms, losing everything that he had fought for—everything that had given him purpose. 

He’d gone to sermons when he was younger, dressed in his Sunday best and holding onto his mother’s hand. They had told him of the telos—that fellowship and eternity with God was entirely central. Even then, he had denied it, looking over at his brother who yawned in the pews and kicked his feet in boredom; Joel knew that that kid was who he was supposed to live for. Mother and father who had given him his blood: he bled for them. His only child who he held in his arms, endeared by the crying and the clench of her little hands as she whined in protest: his sole reason. 

Never, had he felt more strength than when he was with his family. There was no other reality in which he could feel a greater allegiance. 

But the anchor had been pulled from the bottom of the sea, lifted out by the force of God, and left him hurtling towards the rage of a storm—pulled under and decomposing with the shipwreck. 

He’d crawled his way to a lost island, screaming their names before realising that they were on the other side of the earth. 

Alone. 

What a thing it was to live alone in a world that was unkind to the solitary. 

It had been years, goddamn years since Joel had had anything as meaningful as the merging of bodies that you two shared weeks before. That nervous flip in his stomach he got when he felt undeniable pressure to perform well; hope that his age hadn’t caught up with him yet. That post-orgasm haze that he’d taken a few minutes to recover from—something he’d usually be able to ignore after a night with some woman he’d found down at The Esquire after he couldn’t stand the bruising quiet any longer. It’s why he’d kissed you before he’d let you go, why he’d given you that final flash of comfort before stripping the mattress from under you and leaving you asleep on the floor—cold and shivering. 

Your face had almost killed him. In the dead of night, when that expression flickered behind his closed eyes, he began to think that you’d poisoned him. That something so heart wrenching and painful was not kind enough to kill him on the spot. It waited. It festered. Until it seeped into his blood and had the veins in his forearms protruding until they burst wide open and left him bleeding to death on the bathroom floor. 

He’d meant it, when he’d said that he’d be there for you. If you needed anything, he would be waiting. Joel had been searching, for a very long time, for someone to look after. He was restless when he had no family, when he had no one to protect and caress. His family was his oxygen, his purpose, his entire reason for existing. 

He did not have a family. Not anymore. 

His mama had died shortly after his dad, too heartbroken to carry on without the man she’d dedicated so much of her life to. Tommy had been gone for so long that Joel didn’t even know if he was alive or dead, married, divorced, kids or just that echo of his nephew crying over the phone during those last conversations. He’d conjured an image, a pretty picture of everything that his brother had gained and he had lost. They’d stripped so much from him: one by one. It started when he was thirteen and his grandpa had died—listening to his mom sobbing as she hung onto the words of the person on the other end of the phone. The brusque way his father had clapped him on the back when he’d broken the news, how Joel had comforted his little brother as he cried—telling him harshly to keep it down because he’d upset Mama and dad wouldn’t be happy with his blatant display of emotion. 

That cycle of loss continued years later. A wife that he had loved dearly: running away from the possibility of having to fulfil vows that they had uttered in the courthouse after their rushed marriage—too afraid of what people would say if they found out he’d knocked her up and ruined the poor girl's life. Holding a baby in his arms as he willed himself not to cry, those traditional male values he’d been instilled with since he was a child rushing around in his head. Unsure of what to do when she bawled, holding a bottle to her lips whilst balancing a phone between his ear and his shoulder; listening to Tommy babble about his latest hardships as if a girl rejecting his advances was the biggest loss man could acquire. 

He’d taken it for granted, he understood that now. He wished, ardently, almost furiously, for those days back. A tension headache forming behind his eyes as he finally got a two-year-old Sarah to sleep, whispering down the phone as he tried to remedy a job gone wrong, ready to yell at Tommy for fucking up until he looked at her sleeping, the hand stroking her hair that he wouldn’t remove in fear she’d wake up, and felt that complete sense of calm. The fulfilment that she provided him. 

She’d been taken too. 

That glowing in his chest, the smile he couldn’t push down when he looked at her, when she came racing home from school to tell him about the A she’d gotten in her math test, or when she reached those middle school days and he couldn’t stop the ache in his heart as he realised how quickly she’d grown up. 

All of it: over. 

Ruined by the harshness of life and the awful happenings that landmarked every one of the unfortunate events that spread the length of his timeline. 

It was childish to believe that someone was out to get him, he knew that. It didn’t stop the feeling, however as he gripped his kitchen counters and waited for the aches in his back to go away, the stabbing in his heart that occurred every time he brushed his fingers over that godforsaken thing on his wrist and thought of the blood on his hands and the blood all over her pretty hair. He’d cradled her with that hand, cradled you with it too. 

However, no matter how much he tried to convince himself it had been a bad idea, that you were bad. He could not. He wanted to make you nasty, make you evil so he could give himself a reason to feel such blind hatred towards you. 

You’d fucked with his head and he didn’t appreciate it. Left him aching and grasping for a reason to keep surviving. If you weren’t going to be it then nothing would. 

Perhaps, it was self-destructive. Maybe, he wanted to die—a morbid desire for it all to just end. It wasn’t as if anyone relied on him, like he was needed or wanted in the community. He’d jumped off that horse a long time ago, been trampled by heavy hoofs and left everyone lingering behind him. 

You gave him a strange sense of purpose. Someone that he was genuinely interested in talking to. 

All those people who called him their “friend,” he could not give two fucks about. Those who used him for their personal gain; he, in turn, used them. It was a game of survival in this life, not camaraderie. He had learnt that the harsh way. When they saw that he was getting too comfortable—too happy; it had to be stripped away. 

Acceptance of the melancholia came easy; a space to reconcile it was much more difficult to come across. 

There had been a flash with you, however. A sharp, blinding spark that transformed itself across the backs of his eyes and then left when he let go of you. That moment of euphoria and he was done. Completely fucked because no matter how much he wanted to, he would not get it back. 

He’d exiled you and sent you flying over the border—the opportunity in the foliage much more substantial than the tumbling wasteland Joel resided in. 

The weeks that preceded that fateful day were some of the most miserable of your life. 

The tension between the two trailers was thick, a stalemate ravaging no man's land every time you stepped onto the dewy grass in the midst of dawn and breathed in the sickly scent of tobacco. The lingering smell told you he had been there. Elbows resting on rotting wood and fingers playing with the end of a cigarette—filter dirtied and yellowed by the constant touching and breathing. 

The stubbed end that lay, still smoking. You had missed him by a second. 

You missed him. 

Missed seeing that grimace, the determined smoulder in his gaze when you walked by and smiled softly at him. You missed his annoyance when you’d come knocking and ask him for another favour—still expecting nothing in return. 

You missed his hands on your skin, lips on your neck, whispers in your ear as he wiped away the tears. 

For a while, there had been no notice of him at all—nothing to indicate that he was still alive. You’d thought, with a churning stomach, that maybe he’d gone and done it. All that time spent mulling had finally come to fruition. One Friday night, you had worried yourself so much that you’d stomped out of your trailer, one foot on the first step towards your misfortune, when the light had flickered on and you slinked away with a finality—a decision that you were not obliged to save him. 

Until one Saturday evening, sitting on the broken steps, gazing at the stars, he came calling. Sparkling and broken in the dim light, stumbling and groaning as he tripped over his own feet, not recognising your presence just a few steps away from him. The discordance of his movement had a flash of light burning along your skin, the chill of the night air gone, the hiss of the snakes in the tall grass, stopping in companionship—letting you ponder over the situation that had presented itself. 

“Joel?” you called from the lone step, watching his head flick upwards in confusion—attempting to stand straight, square his shoulders, and act tough when he realised that your eyes were on him. 

Your name came stumbled from his lips—an attempt to not seem as drunk as he was. It seemed he had wished the day away with cheap whiskey and warm beer. Perhaps, he just had a low tolerance that you had not anticipated from someone so intimidatingly large. 

“Are you okay?” you asked as he stepped onto the grass, purposefully avoiding your watchful gaze as he pushed his hand into his pocket and searched for his keys—jangling in the solitude and passivity of the night's reclusion. “Joel?” 

“M’fine,” he mumbled. If it wasn’t for your questions, you would’ve thought he was talking to the walls, eyes firmly forward, back turned to you as he tumbled up his steps. Reticent in the way he always was—unable to allow vulnerability to push him against a heart-shaped bed and present love on a bloodied plate.

“Are you drunk?” you pushed. 

“Why does it matter?” he slurred. 

With a sigh, you stood, crossing your arms across your chest to stop the cold from seeping in, and stepped towards him. He’d stopped at the top of the stairs, perched on the porch like a starved vulture hoping to morph the dry sand into fresh meat. He could smell you: the warmth of your flesh, the deepness of your blood. If he turned around, you were prepared to let him feast. 

“I’ve never seen you like this,” you observed, eyebrows furrowed in concern as you hesitantly advanced, pushing out a breath as you stood on the step below him. 

Joel twitched when you halted, his porch light blaring in the background, illuminating his featureless face—obscuring the wet of his eyes that he blinked at furiously. 

“I ain’t drunk,” he huffed and his rejection burned fresh through the jerk of his shoulder when you placed your hand atop it. Fist clenching by your side, hand scorched and blistering, you stepped back. 

“Okay,” you muttered sympathetically. “I’m sorry.” There was something brewing in that mind of his. The brilliant torment that ravaged the war fumbling and relentless in the depths of his being. If you had to, you would step into the middle of the battlefield, white flag raised, and settle an agreement between the rage and the tenderness. “If you wanna…” A pregnant pause permeated the space as you gazed at the expanse of his back—the dust on his shirt, the scratches on his neck. It clicked all of a sudden. “Are you hurt?” 

Eyes honed in on the red streaks along his broad neck, seeing a tendon twitch as he slowly began to turn. 

It was an unshakeable disappointment when he faced you, and stood on his porch throne—haloed by the yellow glow of the lights of angels. Crusted blood under his nose and a gash along the bridge. A bruise was forming on his cheekbone. Eyebrow split open. 

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” you murmured, taking in the sight of his pillaged body. His skin: scorched earth. He looked defeated and sick. Man and violence: you could not comprehend. The willingness to destroy: an inescapable commonality between the species. 

Woman: born to serve and nurture. Matrimony and matriarchy. 

Just as you had been taught, sympathy soaked your throat, the urge to care building tall inside of you. 

You stepped forward with a swiftness he could not attempt to dodge in his state, and instinctively grabbed his wrist. 

“What’d you do?” 

His truculence was clear through the violence in his eyes as he gazed at your grasp—unintentionally tight and bruising. It disappeared when you softened, grip loosening, eyes dragging to the marks on his face. 

“Just a bar fight.” He shook his head dismissively, pulse pumping like the beat of a parade drum under the heat of your fingers. 

“What about?” you pried, part genuine concern and part curiosity as to how he’d found himself in this predicament—what God had allowed you to touch him again after so long without the desperation of his kisses. 

“Nothin’.” 

“Joel-” 

“It was nothin’.” He grabbed the hand clasped around his wrist, pulling it away, holding it in suspense and forcing you to gulp down a mouthful of sand. “Please,” he murmured. Sweeter this time. “I don’t want you worryin’ ‘bout me.” 

“But I do.” It was an easy statement to make, the words slipping from your throat and diving straight for his chest. A bullet hole on his shoulder and the acceptance of defeat as he let your arm drop to your side. 

Another shift in dynamic pulsated through the air like the aurora borealis; hopefulness in the colour. 

Joel offered you no response, just stood with his eyes locked on the turf and his lips twitching downwards in pensive passivity. 

A flourish of deep compassion warmed the stitchings of your flesh and pulled you into a role disparate from the ones you had held previously in the man's presence.  

“At least let me fix you up.” You began to turn, allowing him to follow if he wished. Up the steps, carefully ascending one, then the other, then pushing your door open and leaving it ajar. 

He followed moments afterwards. 

You both rode on a mare with glistening skin, demanding acceptance from the wild plains and the cackling hyenas. Both with only one journey to reach eudaimonia. The threshold lay just ahead of him, the jut of the doorframe that you had tripped over countless times, bordering the golden gates. Joel pushed them open, closing them behind him with a softness that had become familiar to you in these quiet moments of gratitude for his commiserations.

A light glow illuminated the kitchenette, lamplight streaming through the rest of the trailer and the TV that you had left on, muffled in the background. Your feet were bare against the carpet, shoes haphazardly lying near the front door where you’d kicked them off whilst Joel deliberated. You briefly diverted your course to switch the TV off, the late-night slop burning in your ears and then disappearing with a click and a thump as you threw the remote back down on the couch. 

The comforting roughness of the carpet disappeared when you stepped against the tile, the material cold on the soles and you hastily reached into the bottom corner cupboard to pull out your first aid kit. Hands trembled as you undid the clasps, a gentle vibration through your fingertips that almost caused you to drop the antiseptic wipes you acquired from the messy little box that you had filled when life only needed a band-aid to fix. 

He was hovering behind you. You could feel him. Eyes firmly on your back, watching you work. 

“Sit down,” you said simply and the scrape of the one wooden chair that sits lonesome under the kitchen table rattles in your ears like the call of bone whistles. 

There is a moment where you allow yourself a second to breathe, to regulate the undeniable draw you have to the man sitting drunk and waiting for you to fix him. As if you had the ability to fix Joel Miller. Every piece of him was stashed way out west down the Oregon trail, hidden in the Californian mountains, deep within a cavern—you were not brave enough to venture forward, only buying a slice of courage from an entity unknown as you turned around, antiseptic in hand and stepped towards him. 

There’s a simple carefulness in the way you settle yourself above him, breath held, eyes refusing to catch his as you hesitantly hold his face and begin to wipe away the filth from the nasty gash on his eyebrow. 

The silence was almost unbearable, his eyes fixated on your face as you wiped and tried not to show so much surprise at his compliance. He sat, letting you touch him, heal his bruises and staunch the blood flow with a soft touch and shaky exhales. With seemingly no irritation, nothing to indicate he would be disappointed if you were to question, you pressed. 

“What happened?” 

There was a pause, a held breath and a confession that shook you steady—hand pausing its movement and lips parting in poorly contained shock. 

“They were talkin’ bout you.” He sniffed, jaw set and eyes sad. “I couldn’t listen without sayin’ something.” 

After the initial, stomach-lurching waves of nausea and uncertainty, you held his jaw tighter, and began to wipe again—wound clean but so deep you couldn’t help but wipe and weep and hope that he wouldn’t confess another heart-skipping sin. 

Pathetically, you thanked him, hands shaking, breaths coming steady and controlled as you tried desperately to stop yourself from crying. Frustration: an undeniable churning. There were a million things you wished to say, spurt curses at his face as you pushed and pushed until he was just a ball of matter begging for mercy. To leave him as he left you—curled in on yourself, waiting for God to help you make sense of his departure. His rejection. But God had left long ago, his lingering presence unfelt in the doorways of a time long past, the bastard no longer the lone star on the Texas flag. 

When you felt his hand reach your wrist, pulling you away from his face, you began to tremble, lip quivering as you blinked away an onslaught of tears. 

“Baby-” 

“Don’t,” you begged softly, all fight gone as you basked in the burn of his fingers around you, hoping to see the scar when he finally peeled them off. “Please, Joel.” 

Those sad southern eyes looked at you with a despair unknown to you—a deep, lingering pit in the darkness that tugged on every fibre. That made you pity this man who had ripped you fully in two. 

“Okay,” he appeased. “Okay, honey, I’m sorry.” He began to rub the inside of your wrist with his thumb, waiting for the welling tears to fall, just so he could wipe them away and lick the salt of you off his skin. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you said when the tears finally fell, sniffing in a display so piteous and pathetic. 

And Joel had no reply—the silence was an agreement. 

He knew. Had known for a very long time. He could not blame it on her forever; he could not blame it on the loss. At a certain point, there had to be a common denominator and the only answer was him. 

“I just-” you scoffed, ripping your wrist from his hand, rubbing at the phantom bruise that wrapped purple and blue like tendrils of poison. “I just wanted to help you. I- I feel sorry for you, Joel-”

“I don’t need you to.” 

“But I do,” you interrupted, desperate to make him listen, to pull down the defences for once. “I can’t help the way I feel.” 

“I ain’t good for you-” 

“Would you please give yourself some credit? Stop being such a self-pitying asshole and maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable.” 

He stopped, stunned by your insistence, chewing on his next words before spitting them at your feet. 

“You ain’t got a clue.” 

You sensed the rage, the brewing red heat that bubbled in the pits of his pupils. The thunder clapped overhead and the rain began to pour as you looked in his pitying eyes. The windows to the soul: a dark soul that searched for something sacrosanct in a time where everything reigned unholy. It begged to take the body instead of the mind, let the crowd part and the shouting cease as he knelt before them with stigmata displayed—the crown of thorns digging, dripping. Blood-soaked. 

He waited for you in the haze of the desert and his soul flickered and died when you refused to bow. When you forced once more, the object of your essence, the need to heal something broken. 

“Let me have a clue then.” Your voice was quiet. The summer rain beat down on the windowpanes and he quieted with the muffled sound of running water. 

The silence stilled the tension and his eyes hung low as you pulled away from your spot between his legs to throw away the dirtied alcohol wipe. There was comfort in the rain as you fumbled around your first aid box and ripped another wipe open. No resistance came when you began to wipe his cut again, and you worked quietly, comfortably in the cataclysm of your growing companionship. 

When you finished, you dropped the evidence of your communion in the trash and, with your arms crossed over your chest, rested on the counter. 

Joel stayed at the table, just watching. 

It was you who broke the joining of your solitude. 

“I didn’t think it would rain here in summer.” 

Your eyes fell on the windows, the patterns that the rain made against the glass. It was soft on your ears and a welcome reprieve from the dry ground. You hoped the birds were enjoying the feel of the water on their feathers. 

“It happens sometimes,” he said gruffly. He looked exhausted, and you twitched with the itch to touch him. “It’s not regular, but it ain’t all dry down here.” 

“I like it,” you murmured, eyes fixed on his tired ones, and with a rush of adrenaline that spread to your shaking fingers, you advanced the short distance between you. He shuddered when your fingers reached his hair, a jerk movement that had him tensing with the unpredictability, but then, he relaxed. He softened as the shower ceased to a gentle thrum of rain. 

His head pressed against your stomach, the cut on his eyebrow brushing the fabric of your clothes—the wound irritated and raw as it began to bleed again. 

Dextrous fingers worked through his hair, throat dry as you struggled to whisper words of comfort in the face of such evil. He took the comfort better than you expected, softened quietly and let you stroke his scalp—let himself lean on you. 

“You’re so sweet,” he muttered as his hands slid to your waist, pulled you tighter to him as his heat seared into your skin. “Sweet thing.” 

You wanted to cry, but decided it was better to be brave for him, that you deserved so little comfort when he had spent so long desperate. So you swallowed away the ache and let his blood soak your shirt. You let him stay until he couldn’t bear the vulnerability anymore and cut through the atmosphere with his bruising force as he pulled you down onto his lap and brushed your hair from your face. 

“You got sad eyes, babydoll,” he muttered wistfully, and you were too caught up in his affections to be bothered that the change came from his discomfort at his blatant display of his conceived weakness. His thumb came to play at your lip, and you talked through the movement. 

“You’re bleeding again.” You reached for him, but he simply shook his head.

“Don’t you worry about me.” There was a sigh as he held your chin, eyes heavy, hands tight around your waist. “I’m a goddamn asshole and you’re…you’re sweet. I don’t know where you fuckin’ came from, but you scare me, honey.” 

You convinced yourself that he was still drunk, that the spew of affection was bred from the alcohol coursing his veins yet there was so much conviction in his stare, so much truth and power as he leant up to kiss you, so soft you barely felt it, that you couldn’t reconcile his actions with your doubts anymore. 

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop it.” 

He silenced everything with another kiss, flesh on flesh, the glorious union of your sweet pandemonium. You felt like you were on fire, embarrassed and confused at his insistence. You worried, beneath the pleasure of his mouth moving against you that this was another ploy. What was stopping him from leaving you again and then coming right back when he decided that there was something inherently wrong with you that repelled him? Everything he did was inherently wrong. The hypocrisy sickened you. 

“Joel,” you breathed as he began to kiss your neck. “Joel, stop it.” His tongue was rough as he flicked at your skin, his hands around your waist pulling tighter. “Joel.” 

Your insistence was lost on him, his eyes closed, his grip bruising as if this moment would determine every future interaction, like if he could not have this once he would never have it again. But your brain was churning, you were struggling with the fight between physicality and mentality and his hands felt cold as stone when you pushed at his chest and slid gracelessly off his lap to distance yourself from him. 

There was a guilty look on his face that signalled the softening of your disgusted countenance and you wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Sorry, I—” he began, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat and they got pushed back down with the acridity of all his lies and deceit. 

“You can’t just—” you struggled with your emotions, thrusting your hands in the air like the answer would form in your ears. “You can’t just kiss me and hope it makes everything better. It’s been three fucking weeks, I didn’t invite you in with the hopes that you’d fuck me.” 

The hum of the wind battered your ears alongside his silence, the whistle of tension as he tightened his fist, knuckles blistering white and then unclenching again as his eyes darkened and lips twitched. 

“No, you were just worried about me, ain’t that right?” Suddenly, he stood, hulking around the space as his rage materialised under all the careful depictions of the true nature of his soul. “Just wanted to make sure I was okay?” 

“Yes!” you exclaimed, entirely exasperated and let your chest heave as every unspoken word threatened to spill. “Jesus Christ, Joel, I thought you killed yourself the other day. You had me worried sick.” 

“Am I that pathetic to you?” 

“It’s not pathetic to feel—” 

“I don’t fuckin’ feel!” he shouted. All of a sudden, an outburst of anger and a shiver of fear as he closed in on you. “I don’t feel shit about this place, any of those people and especially not you. I had a family, and now that’s gone. I had a life and I ain’t bout’ to let some dumb little girl bury me in my own sadness because she can’t keep her goddamn nose out of that life.” 

Your breaths were coming fast and hard, your body immobile as you gripped tight at the kitchen counters. Your feet were cold. Your toes hurt with how numb they’d gone, and yet the sweat from your soles imprinted the linoleum like the brand of his kiss on your swollen lips. Pathetically, you felt scared. Pathetically, you did not say anything else, just let out a disgusting whimper as your throat closed and let the tears slide down your face. 

You were running before he could convince you to stay, running from your own trailer. In hindsight, it had been a stupid move, terribly juvenile, but he lorded your space as if it were his kingdom, and not even home felt safe anymore. So, you left. The rain beat deep and heavy against your body like the bass of concert speakers, bare feet numbing to nothing as you stomped across the grass. 

There were brief shouts of your name, lost to the wind as they were taken by the sky, and you trudged forward with words caught in your contracting chest and the promise of everything melting to nothing beneath the soil. You would walk to Oklahoma if it would get you away from him. 

“Goddamnit,” you heard, harsh and bitter, behind you. He was quicker, strides longer, anger larger. You were a fool to think he would let you go wandering. 

The hand around your wrist was warm, inviting against the cold wind, and you couldn’t afford the pleasure of such comfort, so you shunned it away, ripped the offending thing from your body and whipped around to face him. 

“Go away,” you said hoarsely. “Please, just leave me alone.” 

He reached for your wrist again, and you jerked away. Madness in his eyes, he reached again, this time for your exposed bicep, hairs standing on end from the chill of the rain, and tugged you close.  

“Makin’ me go out in the goddamn rain,” he muttered, as if dragging you back to where you’d ran from wasn’t offending. As if his insistence wasn’t shattering your soul as he pulled you along. 

With a pathetic whine, you began to sob brokenly, a sound he absorbed, mulled and let dictate his actions as he stumbled to a stop and loosened his grip on your upper arm. 

“Just let me go,” you pleaded between cries, breath hard to come by, head spinning as you clutched at your chest with your free hand and cursed your mind for forcing you into such a vulnerable position. The doctor had called them attacks, but no doctor could label the affliction of your soul. Your mother called them pathetic, and you were more than inclined to agree with her. 

“Jesus Christ.” Joel shook his head, a look of disgust plastered across his face as he let you go. “What is this? What are you doing?” 

“Just leave me alone,” you managed to get out between breaths, not forgetting your manners as you fumbled out a broken “please.” 

But he did not go. Your eyes blurred from the tears yet you could still see the outline of him, haloed by the light coming from Jimmy’s trailer that brightened as the bastard pulled open the curtain to see what the commotion was and whether by his own selfishness at being caught, or your delusional need to make it seem like he cared, he carted you away. “Babygirl” was on his lips again, and you could not help but fall into his chest and let him pull you back home. 

When you arrived back at the trailer, the grass was soggy under your feet. He set you down on his porch, mumbled “wait there,” and went over to close your door, which had been left ajar in your escape. Upon his return, there was conflict in his gait, a set furrow of his brow as he opened his door and pushed you inside. 

You still couldn’t breathe, could barely hear his words as he set you down on his recliner and left to get you a glass of water. You couldn’t gulp down the liquid when he handed it to you, too settled with the panic to care when the water dribbled out of your mouth and he took the glass from you with a sigh. 

“Stand up,” he commanded, his care concealed by his harshness and you heaved and shook as he guided you to a stand and you were shocked into submission when he wrapped his arms carefully around you, pulled you tight to his chest with your ear pressed against his heart and began to take consistent breaths. All in, and all out. One big breath, the feel of his chest expanding, then one big exhale, and his heart slowed beneath you. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe, babygirl.” 

It was hard not to listen to him. The desperation to be good was bigger than whatever disorder pervaded your sense and it was easier than it had ever been to sing away the discomfort and let him hold you. You breathed, then cried, and then apologised as if it was your place to say sorry for his misgivings. As if he were not the entire reason you had deteriorated into solemnity. 

He shushed you with a kiss to your head, arms coming round tighter as he had done when he’d sat you down against his lap only minutes previous, yet you did not feel this time that he would ignore you when you asked him to let go. You felt comfort in the knowledge that he was dangerous no longer, caged and chained, and when you removed your sticky, crusted cheek from his chest to gaze at him through misted eyes, you felt yourself soften and slip. 

You were leaning up to kiss him before you could decide your assumptions were wrong, and he fell down against your lips like the wind of a thousand summers. 

Neither of you spoke as he kissed you to the bedroom and there was no sound aside from the smacking of lips and the springs of the bed when he clambered over you. There was no time for you to contemplate the fact that you were in his bedroom, sprawled out against his bed as he suckled a mark against your neck. No time to think of the repercussions, the likelihood of him banishing you again once the night was over.

And yet, he was apologising into the junction of your neck, mumbled apologies that you couldn’t decide whether they were genuine or not. His fingers slid down your damp body, peeling the soaked clothes from your skin with a gentleness you couldn’t understand. It was whiplash. It was cruel. He was cruel and yet so sweet the moment the guilt overtook him and he couldn’t live in the stubbornness anymore. So, you just wrapped your legs around his waist and tugged him close, pulled his face back to your own and kissed him with the reverence of the summer breeze. 

Still, he worked diligently at your wet clothes, peeling the fabric from your chest and shushing your whine as he pulled away to get it over your head. You would’ve laughed at the sound it made against the floor if it wasn’t for how enraptured you were with him. You were hot, all over, fire in your loins when he tugged off your bra, ripped off his own shirt and pressed your bodies together. His skin against yours was paradisical, a plain so Godly you couldn’t even perceive it as sexual in your hazed mind. It was so dauntingly intimate, so separate from your last encounter that it felt like your soul was merging, entwining, all from the blessedness of his warmth atop yours. 

Everything else came off slower then, the kisses sloppier, shuddering in their rhythm as you lay naked. When he rolled onto his side, you went with him, leg cocked over his hip, and cunt knocking against the length of him with the movement of your lips against one another. But you were too tired to feel him fully, too locked in the escape from your mind, that you just wanted the kiss to last forever and his body against yours until the day you died. He made you feel so small, so delicate as his hands skated across your waist, over your hip, down then up again to brush his thumb on the underside of your breast.

You whined when he finally parted, a string of spit connecting you to him—snapping when he uttered slurred words. You could only assume his body was tingling as much as yours, that his brain was as addled and hazy. 

“Go to sleep, baby.” So soft through his lips, your heart twitching when he forced a smile. 

“But you—” you began to protest, eyes suggestively looking down at his cock which hung half-hard and heavy, jumping with every brush of your thigh. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he interrupted. “Don’t you ever worry about me. I ain’t worth it.” 

You were too desperate to please him to disagree, too wrapped up in how perfect the moment was to break it by talking back, so you nodded, eyes so heavy, body sinking against him. The world went dark when you slipped, but his inviting hands kept you grounded. Then, you felt his lips against your eyelids and you let your mind fall completely blank. For the first time since you had become aware of your own mortality, you felt safe as you drifted. In the arms of danger, you felt comfort. 

The two of you fell asleep naked, no promise of anything more, just the simplicity of the present. The predicaments would come when the sun rose, and you were content to let the night shelter you from the promises of dawn. You did not dream; you just kept the pleasure of unconsciousness, which stopped the maddening thoughts of the future and the constant skipping of your heart as his fingers dragged along your skin, and his soul twitched towards the hole in yours. 

You woke to mumbles, half-words that hummed against your hair. The sun was bleeding through the curtains, the light against the bedspread swimming along the shape of your calve that peeked from under the covers. Your skin felt dry, your mouth the same, and you could feel the mat in your hair from where the rain had dried the knots in place. Yet, he was there. He was still alive and breathing next to you, still as close as he was when you had fallen asleep prior, but this time, twitching and talking in his sleep with a tremor.

When you moved to touch him, his eyes shot open with the instinctiveness of a man used to the dangers of unconsciousness, and you retreated with the burn of the brown against your face. There was a stark silence, only broken by the bark of Jimmy’s dog, who tended to roam on his lonesome, then he pulled away from you to scrub a hand across his face and murmured a soft, “Mornin’.” 

“Morning,” you replied, feeling cold when he peeled himself away from you and leant up to sit on the edge of the bed. 

You hadn’t expected him to kiss you and hold you with the morning sun blessing your entwined bodies—you hadn’t expected him to stay at all. However, it didn’t lull the sting when the bed shifted with the loss of his weight and he groped for his sweatpants, thrown over the back of a chair in the corner and tugged them on. 

Yet, there was hopefulness in the dew and you gazed reverently at his figure as he reached into his drawers to grasp a flannel and turned to question you. 

“You want coffee?” he asked, jaw twitching at your eager nod. Then, he threw the flannel on the bed, the item landing softly beside you and he gestured to you with a gruffness that warmed your heart. “C’mon then.” 

There, he disappeared from the room, cracking his neck as he went, and his footsteps muffled along the carpet, pausing in the kitchen. 

You waited a fair few seconds before you pulled his shirt on, fully overwhelmed by the scent of him as you swung your legs over the side of the bed and trembled over to the doorframe. It seemed oddly domestic, strangely comfortable in the wake of such discomfort. But you retraced the footprints he had left behind and made the short walk to the kitchen, feeling awkwardly exposed without panties, despite the flannel covering you. 

Joel was busy making coffee, his back to you as he pulled two mugs from his cupboard, each mismatched and novel. Awkwardly, you swayed in your spot, arms crossed tight against your chest, mulling in the quiet as the ceramic clinked. 

“How do you take it?” he asked softly, mind occupied as he left the coffee to brew.

“Cream and two sugars,” you answered, and he scoffed amusedly. 

“Shoulda’ known you liked it sweet.” He turned then, arms mirroring yours, biceps bulging, and you thought of how those arms had cradled you just hours previous. You honed in on the bruise around his eye, the redness of his wound, but he was still beautiful, and it didn’t matter. There was no reason to give notice to his violence when that hostility had protected you. 

It was instinct, when you reached out to feel his strength again, feet moving of their own accord, trembling as you got closer and then sighing in contentment when he reached out too. He held you, tight as anything to his chest, your chin tickled by the hair there, and he leant down with something akin to adoration in his eyes before kissing you. 

His lips were plump and malleable underneath, no bruise to his touch, just the simplicity of the morning as his hands gripped your waist, trailed down after a harsh squeeze and pulled the fat of your ass into his palms. You yelped when he pushed you back to the counter, laughing against his lips as he lifted you onto the worktop and shoved his way between your legs. 

Amusement quickly gave way to carnal desperation, and every sensation pent up from the night before when you’d gone to sleep wet, came pummeling to the surface when he trailed his fingers across your thighs and kissed the space below your ear that had you keening. 

“J-Joel,” you fumbled out, hands gripping his shoulders and tugging him tight against you. He was teasing along the skin of your inner thigh with his fingers, suckling and nipping in a manner against your neck that would surely leave a mark and you jerked with a choked moan when he pressed his fingers against your clit. 

It was a slow glide towards your slit, calculated and clumsy all at once and he struggled to stifle his groan when he found the slick of you. 

“Jesus, baby,” he uttered, head falling into the crook of your neck. “Can I have you now?”

The question had you clamping around his hand, thighs joining together as he softly brushed your clit, breaths hurried against your skin as he pressed hard into the counter. Joel Miller was desperate, and it was blissful. Joel Miller wanted you with a desperation you finally felt mirrored your own and you were struggling to keep your rationale. 

So you nodded, pulled his face up to yours and breathed out a “fuck yes, please,” before he kissed you hard and began tugging on his sweatpants. You didn’t look when his cock sprang free, his appendage already disappearing between your legs as he tugged you closer to him and ran the tip up and down, up and down until he notched at your entrance and began to sink in. 

It stung with the stretch of a thousand cuts, breath catching in your throat, hands gripping against his shoulders, driving him closer to you so you could breathe in every breath he expelled. Your haste had been your downfall in those first few moments where he pushed in further, forgetting in your desperation how big he had been the first time—how much you ached afterwards. But the pain seemed welcome, your body responding in kind with a gush of nectar, the sharpness of you cutting through and salving the wounds of your insides. Then, it didn’t seem so bad, and you let your mind go blank as he pushed to the hilt and held himself there whilst he caught his breath. 

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Been dreamin’ about this pussy.” 

The crudeness was back and you couldn’t help but smile against his mouth as he kissed you again. 

“Been dreamin’ about you…” He pulled away and you prepared yourself for the stretch again as he hugged you tight, arms wrapped around you, hands sliding along your bare back as he shoved his hands under your shirt and he pushed back in with a groan before monologuing again.

“Fuck, been dreamin’ about you every night. Can’t get you out of my head.” 

You just whined, worried that if you said too much, he’d realise what he was confessing and stop. 

Another thrust, a heavy breath you sucked up and let posion your lungs—grabbing hard onto his shoulders, feeling against the bare muscles of his back. You would never forget how smooth his skin felt under your fingers, that even as you passed over the hardness of his age, he still felt like silk. He still emanated a youth that polarised how old he really was; the amount of life he had lived thus far. 

Then, his movements came more consistently, his words less measured and fabricated. The truth came there on the counter in the midst of summer morning, where everyone else seemed to be resting—where your souls entwined under the coming sun. The air shifted, and the ground split, and you were dragged to hell with him whilst performing the carnal sin that belonged to heaven. 

“You’re so pretty,” he said, breathy and soft, uncharacteristically sweet as he forced your eyes to his, placed a hand on your cheek and supported your lolling head. “Look at me.” You tried with wet eyes as he continued to thrust, so deep inside you yet frustratingly not deep enough with the position he’d locked you in. You wanted to ride him there on the floor, wanted to feel him splitting you open. You would be happy to die with the feel of his cock inside you—would be happy to die with his words ringing unceremoniously in your ears. 

“There she is,” he uttered into the space between your lips, eyes locked with his, trying your best not to let them flutter closed. “My pretty girl. My girl…all mine, right?”

You didn’t answer immediately, trying to understand what his question meant, whether the betrayal would come after he did, or he’d keep the covenant you were about to make as his fingers found your clit again and he began to rub with intention. He watched with reverence in his eyes as yours closed and your back arched, thighs jerking as his slapped against yours. He was inside you, asking for you, implying in the most explicit way he knew how that he wanted you. Whether it were to be temporary or not, you couldn’t care, not when he was being so sweet, so soft as he fucked you on his kitchen counter and watched, waited, expectantly for your answer.

“All yours,” you breathed out before you could bother to mull the implications of your words, not bothering to read over the terms and conditions before signing along the dotted line. 

But he choked out a moan, head falling into his neck and fingers faltering against you as he thrust and pushed and gripped you as tight as he possibly could. Your thighs were trembling, your head lolling to the side as you floated with the sensation of his rocking. 

The revelation you came to there, a revelation that should’ve been obvious to you, yet you had unconsciously tried mightily to deny, was that you cared about him considerably. The attachment that you had to him created an environment you were unsure you could leave. It was your Eden, it was the bliss of the freedom of Adam and Eve, so many passages unexplored; forbidden fruit to eat. The only way you would leave would be if he banished you, and even then, you would dream of Eden and its prosperity whilst you shook, ashamed of your nakedness and sin. 

Joel’s hips stuttered, and he breathed heavily to ward off the oncoming feeling, desperate in his movement against your clit, to make you come before he did. 

As the heat began shining through the window, the sun rising in conjunction with the rise of the sensation in your stomach, you fought back the urge to rip into his skin—to hold him there against you, flesh under your fingernails, and not let him go until he was skeletal, limp and dead. 

In an entirely hypocritical acknowledgement, you realised how much you adored him. In a way that rendered you disgusting and simultaneously amused at your head, you realised how much you liked his harshness. He was mean, but didn’t you deserve such a firm hand? He was eager to build you up and then let you go, but wasn’t that push and pull exactly how you lived in your head—teetering between happy and sad. Uncomfortably, somewhere in the middle of those feelings. 

But you fought your urges, just let your hands tug at the ends of his hair, nails along his scalp and focused hard on the feeling brewing inside you, the one that twitched along every nerve and tingled tantalisingly in the hedonism of your mind. 

“Joel, “ you managed to choke out. “Joel, please.” You consistently felt like you were repeating yourself in these moments, not witty enough to reply to his dirty mouth, not brave enough to disagree with his accusations when he degraded you, and then seemed to love you when he gave you every piece of himself he had left. 

“Go on, baby,” he murmured, pressing his lips against your neck as his hips sped up, jaw clenching as he tried to ward off the same sensation currently brewing inside you. He let out a few measured breaths, licking against your collarbone to appease himself and muttering words into your neck that almost became unintelligible against the ringing in your ears. “My pretty baby,” he said. “I’m sorry…so sorry, angel-girl.” 

Tears streamed from your eyes against the pressure of his cock inside you, trying to steady your stuttering breathing as you held him painfully tight and focused hard on the feel of adrenaline coursing to your overworked heart. 

“Look at me, angel,” he requested softly, his forehead pressing against yours, palm resting against your cheek and thumb brushing away the tears. When your eyes met, you struggled to dispel the insurmountable feeling that was churning inside you. 

With his eyes on yours, you came, sweat pooling on your back, body jerking when he came too—warming in your stomach as he stuttered and settled. 

For a few solid minutes, you both breathed each other in, breaths mingling, tears sipping from his eyes too from the overexertion and your thighs tightened around him as if the cum coating you was a promise of seperation rather than union. 

Then, the spell was broken as his dick slipped from you and the evidence of his misgivings spilt. 

“Shit,” he muttered, a flash of panic in his eyes that seemed to fall away when he gazed at the white glint along your cunt. “Sorry.” 

You were too warm to care, too full of him to worry about the thing pouring from you—the way that it could implicate your life. So you just shook your head and pulled his face back to yours, kissed him hard and then let him go, breathless and sated. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you assured. “It’ll be fine.” 

With a set stare, a determination in his countenance that showed he trusted you, he nodded. Then, he pulled you off the counter, muttered a “Don’t get any of that shit on my carpets,” humour in his uncomfortability, and patted your ass as he sent you on your way to the bathroom.

You waddled, cursing the lack of care from him, but still smiling as you heard the clinking of mugs again—the scraping of metal spoons against the ceramic. He was still taking care of you, but ultimately allowing your independence. He had also not told you to leave. He had not left, and it was enough for you to consider skipping like an over-eager schoolgirl to the bathroom. 

Softly, you closed the door behind you, met with the bleeding sun through the frosted windows and slumped down onto the toilet—wiping diligently after you’d ripped a few squares from the roll. 

As you sat, pondering the situation you’d been presented with, you felt the lingering doubt rise again like bile in the throat. There were no guarantees. This was not a promise, his cum saturating the thin paper was nothing more than the working of a man unable to control himself. What if that was all this was? What if it was just the action of Joel’s lack of constraint? He was not a man who loved easily, who gave himself up so willingly, yet it seemed, as you flushed the remnants of him away, that the moment in the night, the moment in the kitchen, was exactly what you hadn’t expected it to be: a promise. 

It would be foolish, to think that it was some kind of declaration, that you’d be holding hands and getting married before the month was out—in truth, the longevity of the relationship seemed just as blurred as the possibility of what would greet you when you walked from the bathroom—but it was something. There was an essence in his domesticity, a skip in your chest when you washed your hands, detoured to the bedroom to pull your panties back on, and went down the hall to see him sipping on his coffee; your mug sat next to his. 

He did not smile when he saw you, didn’t open his arms like a loving partner, but you didn’t expect him to. Everything about Joel Miller was subtle—all implied, not blatant—and you were content with the meaning of your steaming cup next to his, the way that he placed his down to hand yours to you.

You took the coffee gratefully, fingers brushing, but without the tension that used to cloud such muted touches. The contact settled with the prospect of easement, and you followed him like a loyal dog when he gestured to the door and muttered a soft “C’mon.” 

On the way, he snatched up his pack of cigarettes, his zippo going with it, and held the door open for you like a perfect gentleman when you walked past. 

The wood of his porch was rough under your bare soles, and you honed in on the lonesome garden chair that symbolised so much more than a place to rest. You had stared at that chair for weeks when he had left you waiting, gazing out the window and wishing to sit stubbornly in the empty space and give the plastic purpose. 

So, you hesitated when he went to sit in his preferred seat, gazing at the scratched white and hypothesising in your head what it would mean when you followed his action.

Joel looked at you funny when you didn’t mirror his movements, a cigarette hanging unlit from his mouth—his coffee mug placed on the table that sat between the two objects. 

His questioning gaze moved you, and you were shuffling to the seat, shaking as you planted yourself down and forced to put your mug next to his on the table in fear you’d spill it. 

There was the click of a lighter, and he handed you the smoking stick silently, another click as he lit his own, and the scent of tobacco permeated the space alongside the scent of coffee and dew. 

“Gon’ be humid today,” he huffed out, shifting in his seat, legs spread wide, still shirtless, and you couldn’t help but stifle a giggle. His head snapped towards you, a smirk curling at his lips. “What you laughin’ for?” 

You smiled wide, puffing carefully on the cigarette and expelling the smoke with a scoff. 

“We’re gonna talk about the weather? Really?” 

He returned your scoff and replicated the drag, tapping away the ash with his forefinger. 

“What else you wanna talk about?” 

In truth, you didn’t know, you didn’t have a goddamn clue where you would start a conversation with Joel. When you conversed with him, it ranged from mind-numbing small talk to the weightiest of confessions and equivocations. There had never been moments where you just sat and discussed whatever was on your mind, so you shrugged and looked him in the eye. 

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “We don’t really talk, do we?” 

He left your eyes then, gazing at your trailer, at the window he used to peer through so often and stubbed his cigarette out on the chair, melting the plastic before throwing the end over the porch bannister. 

“No,” he said monosyllabically. “I guess we don’t.” 

Silence overcame you, then, and you settled with it—settled with the rising sun against your face and the pounding of your heart when he placed his hand, palm up, against the little table. The invitation was clear, his intentions solid, and you reached out your left hand to his, letting the cigarette burn away in the right. He squeezed the flesh when you touched, just a brief tightening of his grip before he entwined your fingers, and let them rest together. 

The weight of something unidentifiable settled on your shoulders when he did not pull away—when he let the coffee go cold in favour of feeling your touch. He did not remove himself when people started to wake, when the park bustled, and they all looked as they walked past. You just settled in silence, unmoving, unblinking, let the angels fly around your head like a crown of lilies and repeated his words, mumbled them quietly in your mind: “I’m sorry…so sorry, angel-girl.” 

There, they rang true. You gripped the apology like you gripped his hand and closed your eyes, safe with the inaudible promise of prosperity.

© virginreprise

A/N Well...I'm back with this after I said it was finished!! I did not expect to come back to it but the TLOU fandom at the moment has been a shambles and I was hoping that by revisiting the first fic I ever wrote for Joel, I would get my love for writing back again. And I guess it worked because I'm here and posting and the vision for this part was so clear in my head. I can't promise any more after this so I'm going to keep it as complete but with enough convincing I might be able to make something up.

[emeraldserenade]

I know I’ve been giving a lot of requests- but recently, your the only writer who seem to answer my requests so thank you (also I love your writing so much, it’s not even funny). But I really hope if you could do husband!joaquin with swimmer!reader? You can free write it but here’s some ideas just in case:

Swimmer!Reader winning a gold medal at some competitions

OR/AND

Joaquin cheering very loudly while watching from the plane after a mission and Sam being very confused and Joaquin hogging the screen

thank you in advance, hugs and kisses, Adria

Cheering From The Sky ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: Even when Joaquín wasn't there, he always supported you

tw: fem!reader, swimmer!reader, husband!Joaquín,

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

Adria, this is for the second idea you had for this. I hope you like it!!

➽──────────────❥

Joaquín always wanted to be with you for your meets, he knew it made you feel safer. But he was called into a last minute mission that lasted longer than he thought it would, so he was stuck watching your meet on his plane ride home. Sam was just trying to calm down after the mission, but Joaquín kept cheering.

"Joaquín, man, what is going on?" Sam had to ask, rubbing a hand down his face.

"I'm watching my girl's swim competition," Joaquín said, sitting on the edge of his seat while watching you swim your last lap. "That's my girl!" Joaquín shouted as you finished first, you smiled at the camera when you got out of the pool. You gave a small wave, the same one you sent to the camera every time Joaquín couldn't make it to your competition. Joaquín cheered extra loud when you got the gold again, mentally planning on how he's going to show you just how proud of you he is when he gets home.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[arzen9]

I Could Be, Be Your Man

pairing: Astarion/f!Tav | Astarion/f!OC 18+ MDNI word count: 5k tags/warnings: Explicit, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ascended Astarion, PEG THE ELF, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, Porn without Plot, Lark x Astarion, mentions of past trauma, Anal Sex, your honor they love each other, Oneshot, Astarion deserves to be loved and pampered summary: Astarion wants Lark to do something they haven't done before.

PEG THE ELF oneshot brought to you by two Christine and the Queens songs: "iT" and "Catching Feelings".

HUGE thank you to @nerdallwritey for reading this through and approving that it's gooning material

Read on AO3

“You want me to fuck you?” Lark asks, looking at Astarion in the mirror. There is no evidence in her voice to suggest that she’s disgusted or weirded out; she just sounds like she’s looking for clarification.

Astarion rolls his eyes. “I truly wish you weren’t so vulgar, darling. But yes. Something to that effect.”

She pulls the hair ties holding her tight braids off and starts to untangle the waves that have formed. “And how am I supposed to fuck you, exactly?” she asks, lips twitching with amusement— but excitement, too. Astarion can hear it in the uptick of her beautiful heartbeat.

The instinct to grin at her with all of his teeth is much stronger than the desire to roll his eyes, at that moment. “With this,” he says, shaking a rolled-up scroll in the air.

Lark finally turns around, faces him. Raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look much like a cock to me.”

“You’re such a comedian, truly. Why did you ever choose poetry instead?”

Her composure breaks, and she giggles. Pauses, and then bites her lower lip before saying, “I appreciate the trust you have in me.”

And that’s who Lark is— even when he’s asking her to fuck him (her vocabulary is rubbing off on him, it seems) with a fake-magic-cock she still finds a way to make it sappy.

Not that he’s complaining, of course. He has changed, with her. Knowing that he’s capable of loving, and being loved, is no mere trifle for Astarion. The love he has for her, intense but lightening, pure, unbridled devotion— the love that lives in him and makes him a better person every single day, now blooms anew in his chest and all he can do is to close the gap between them and place a chaste kiss that makes both of them gasp on her soft, plush lips.

“I love you,” he says, fake-magic-cock scroll forgotten for a moment. Lark smiles at him, that glint in her eyes, ever-present, adoring and amused and full of everything Astarion once thought foreign to him at once.

“I love you,” she replies against his lips, and reaches out to take the scroll from him. “Let me show you how much.”

----

Astarion reclines back into the plethora of pillows scattered on their bed and watches Lark as she speaks the words on the scroll, shifting his thigh to accommodate how hard he is already at the sight of her nakedness. The determination that furrows her brows, creasing her forehead. How her lips move, her magic coming alive in front of his very eyes.

As soon as she finishes casting the spell, she yelps, eyes going wide, and quickly turns away from him. He straightens up, and when he speaks, his voice is colored with concern.

“Lark, love?”

“I— I’m okay. Just—”

Her shoulders start shaking, slowly at first. Is she crying? Astarion moves to rise from the bed, panic rising in him. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked this from her so brazenly, should have reassured her more, that this has got nothing to do with him being dissatisfied with their sex life because, Hells, how could he be dissatisfied with her even if the only thing they did was to lay down and stare into each other’s eyes for an eternity? He should have told her that this has everything to do with her, him wanting her, nothing else, and—

Lark turns slightly to the side, and Astarion realizes that she is objectively not crying. She’s laughing.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, eyes narrow with a glee. “It’s just—” She suddenly jumps forward, now facing him straight on, and goes on, “I have a dick.”

Astarion’s eyes follow the curves of her body, starting from her beautiful, flushed throat to her pebbled nipples, dark in contrast to the rest of her skin, to her navel that he desperately wants to dip his tongue into; and then, further down, to the lovely patch of hair he loves burying his nose in, where now a flaccid cock rests, springing up and down with her movement.

“You certainly do,” he says, voice raspier than he intended.

“Ha!” she laughs, jumping once again. “I’m a man now!”

Astarion rolls his eyes but can barely hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “What you are,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, though even he can’t deny the desire that coils tight in his body, “Is a child. Will you come here now?”

“Manchild?” she pouts, mocking.

“Whatever you say, my dear.”

She laughs, and starts walking toward him, but then pauses. “Am I…” she stops. Reassesses. “Is this okay?”

Astarion tilts his head, questioning.

“I mean,” she tries again. “Do you like this? Does it look good?”

He wants to be a better man for her— only her, for the rest of eternity. He’s usually very good at reassuring her, she says— she always compliments him, any chance she gets— but Astarion believes it’s only because she doesn’t shy away from asking him whatever comes to her mind, even if it sounds weird. She is much more in tune with her emotions than he is— his emotions too, for that matter.

“You look good, darling,” he says. There is a dull ache in his groin. Desire always has a way of making itself known. “I like you.”

Lark smiles, and with another step, climbs on top of their bed on all fours, crawling to him like a lioness circling her prey. Once she reaches his knees, she stops.

“Hi,” she says.

From this angle Astarion can see everything— her beautiful face staring at him with a mixture of desire and barely concealed embarrassment reddening her cheeks, making her freckles pop. Her gorgeous tits his fangs ache to bite into. And her newly-acquired, half-hard cock, nestled between her strong but plushy thighs.

His cock twitches at the sight of her. Already rock hard to the point of pain.

“Hi,” he replies, then lunges at her.

He kisses her, hungry and animalistic. His love who is willing to do anything for him, he knows— because he would do anything for her.

She tries to break the kiss, but Astarion doesn’t let her, clutching at her, lapping at anywhere he can get close enough to, as she giggles, and it makes him giggle, too— the sheer joy that radiates from her, the simplicity of it. “How—” she tries, and he kisses the corner of her mouth, that warm, pliant mouth that can bring him to ruin with just the little noises it makes. “What would you like me to do?”

“Don’t you want to see how it feels first?”

Lark tilts her head, thinking. She looks down between them, and another flush colors her cheeks. “Gods,” she says, and laughs. “It looks so real. Feels real.”

“That’s the point, my love. So that you feel good too.”

A surprised expression passes through her face quickly. “So I’m… going to feel everything?”

“Yes,” Astarion drawls, just the thought making his breath hitch.

Lark takes a deep breath, then exhales. “That sounds… good.”

“Go on, then. Touch yourself,” he swallows thickly.

She peels her gaze away from him, and looks away, before finally gazing down. With a gentle hand, she takes herself in her palm, sucking in her cheeks. She frowns, first; then with a sudden spark in her eyes, looks back at Astarion, who is watching her intently.

“Let me see,” she says. “This is how you like it.”

Lark tugs at the skin of her cock, gentle yet firm, eyes locked in with his, in the particular way that he does like— and when the touch elicits a whimper from her throat, her eyes fluttering closed— Astarion shivers.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. Can’t help it. “Always.”

It seems to egg her on— Astarion knows what his voice tends to do to her. She’s told him before— he could just whisper the filthiest things into her ear, without even touching her, and she could unravel for him.

When she opens her eyes again, there’s a glint of mischief in them. The corner of her mouth lifts upwards, ever so slightly, and standing straight up on her knees, holding her new and gorgeous member, now definitely hard— she draws circles on the tip with her thumb. With her other, considerably emptier hand, she crooks a finger at him, and Astarion obliges— of course he does— and leans forward, bent in front of her, his chin resting a few inches above her belly button.

“Tell me how badly you want it,” she says, firm, looking down at him beneath heavy lids, thick lashes fluttering. She’s having fun.

“Very badly,” he says, looking up. Reaches for her, but she pulls back.

“So badly that you would beg for it?” she asks, pumping herself a couple times— slowly, torturously. “For my cock?”

“Please, my love. My Lark,” he says, without hesitation, and her name sounds like the only word that has ever mattered in his mouth.

It does something to her, too; he can tell, judging by the way her eyes close, her head tilts back. A desperate sound stuck at the back of her throat.

“Please,” he says again, and she opens her eyes, pupils blown out, to look at him again.

“Good boy. You can taste me.”

She’s being cheeky, and they both know it, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t send a jolt of pure desire straight through him.

And so— Astarion tastes her.

In the wretched memory of his past, he finds a whole lot of points of comparison— but the thought isn’t as painful as it was before. Before her. The pain isn’t gone, and perhaps never will be— but she understands, and still wants him, all of him; and despite everything, he has found her, his Lark, his soul. Now, the moment he lowers himself to be able to stick his tongue out and lick a long strip from the very base of her cock to the head, the solitary feeling that bubbles up in his chest is desire— red hot fire, burning, burning him from the inside out, mingling with the all-consuming love he has for her. He feels like he could explode— bring about the creation of a new universe.

She tastes like her. All Lark. It’s not all that different from eating her out, and gods, does he love eating her out— feeling the little shakes of her thighs that increase as she gets closer to climax, the sounds that her small frame is capable of: heaven made palpable.

But that’s neither here nor there.

“Astarion,” Lark whimpers. Eyes fixated on him, like he’s the only thing that exists. Or the only thing in existence worth looking at.

He moves her hand that’s still holding herself, interlocking their fingers in an embrace that’s simply necessary.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and repeats his earlier motion, licking her, only to savor her taste and nothing else. It’s more than enough to make him lose all logical thought.

The velvet skin of Lark’s cock— salty, floral, milky, almost aquatic— it’s Lark, it’s her, and he, he—

When he opens his mouth wider to take more of her inside, she moans, and he does, too.

He loves her. Three words flash in his mind, over, over, over and over again.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

She looks at her like she can see it— of course she can.

“I love you,” she says.

Astarion moans. Takes more of her in his mouth. She twitches against his tongue. Leaks a drop of pearliness that is another shock to his senses— unfiltered Lark essence.

One hand still laced with hers, he places both on the sides of her thighs. His claws are coming out. He grazes one sharp nail against her skin, feels her tremble.

Lark lifts the hand that’s holding hers, looking at his claws.

“Pretty,” she says.

With a wet pop, Astarion pulls away from her cock. “And dangerous,” he replies. Presses a bit harder on her hip but doesn’t break skin. He can feel how her blood immediately pools beneath the surface. It makes him salivate.

“Most pretty things are.”

There was a time when he showed restraint and hid them from her— fearing her reaction to what happens when he lets go of control. Part of it is also, of course, the fact that he himself does not like letting go of control. But Lark teaches him every single day that he is deserving of everything good, simply for being himself.

With her, he feels more man than monster. Or— he feels that it doesn’t matter as long as he is Astarion.

“Am I a pretty thing?” he asks, placing a kiss on the top of her thigh, then breaking into an all-fangs grin.

Lark grins back at him, reaches out to play with his hair. They stare at each other for a moment. Then, slowly, Astarion lifts himself up, flush against her body, to capture her lips in a long overdue kiss. Her tongue infiltrates his mouth almost instantaneously and she moans, tasting herself. Her hands find the firm muscles of his ass, giving a quick squeeze before pulling back.

“Shall we take these off?”

He’s still in his pants. Right.

“Please.”

She helps him get out of them, and free of its confines, his cock aches to be touched. Lark doesn’t make him beg— instead, she takes him in her hand, that warm, gentle hand, the protector of his heart, the heart that found itself again thanks to her— and with her thumb, she caresses right below the head, just the way he likes.

“Darling,” he moans.

“Tell me what you want, Astarion,” she says, warm, like the rest of her, loving, caring.

He kisses her again, then— gods, the closeness of their bodies, and his cock brushes against hers, and it makes them both growl, moan, make any sort of sound possible, with how intense the pleasure of it is.

“Let me ride you,” he says between wet, sloppy kisses. Her breath hitches.

Peeling himself away from her with monstrous difficulty, he grabs the bottle he placed on the bedside table, and hands it to Lark.

“Prepared everything, I see,” she says, smiling.

“Oh, you know me,” he says with a smirk.

She just looks at him, for a second, holding the bottle of fragrant oil— with so much adoration in her eyes, it makes the corners of his sting.

He would’ve looked away, once. It would’ve been too much. But now, all he wants is to drown in the depths of her love.

Lark pours some of the oil in her hands, rubs them together. She closes the gap between them, kissing him deeply, feverishly; and with one hand she palms her cock first, then his— spreading enough of the lubricant on both of them— the feeling makes Astarion growl, one corner of his lips lifting in a snarl. With her other hand, she finds his backside, and moans into his mouth.

“Do you want me inside of you?” she asks. He nods, too far gone for words as her finger explores around his hole, gentle, undemanding. Thanks to the oil, her fingers are slippery, reverent, too gentle, Astarion thinks, almost involuntarily bucking his hips into her other hand, the one holding them together. He needs her, in any and every way possible.

“Please,” he whines, the word getting stuck in his mouth as she slowly pushes a finger inside of him. His eyes roll back, but he needs more, more of her—

“Astarion,” she says, and he looks at her, finding a thread of concern on her face— beautiful, soft brows knit together, nose crinkled. He lets her find the right words. “You’ll tell me if I do something wrong, won’t you? If you don’t like something?”

That bleeding heart of hers, those sweet lines that form on her face when she’s worried, worried about him, who has torn his way into her ribcage somehow, made a home for himself in there, right behind the hums and thumps of her chest. Gods, he’s so in love with her.

“Yes, my treasure,” he says breathlessly. “I will.”

“I love you,” she says again, her finger picking up pace, stretching, preparing him deliciously.

“Then please,” he whispers into her ear, taking the lobe in between his lips, letting go, grazing a fang against the flesh just to feel her tremble against him. “Please, fuck me already.”

Lark places chaste kisses on his shoulder, the column of his throat, then back down to his chest— far too innocent for what they’re about to do. But that’s just how she is— everything is pure, with her.

Then, she moves toward the nest of pillows Astarion has prepared, holding his hand to make him follow her— as if he was about to do anything but.

She lays down, the waves of her hair— the lovely aftermath of leaving them braided all day— pooling around her like spilled honey. She looks like the sun itself— the warmth he was deprived of for so long, even after becoming the Ascendant. How was he supposed to know the sunlight he was craving was actually a woman named Lark Promise?

Well, now he knows.

Lark pulls him forward, too, and Astarion straddles her thighs, claws on one hand drawing absent-minded shapes on her flesh.

Looking away from her intense gaze is a monumental task, but he manages— only to let his eyes wander over her body. She notices, and lifts her arms up above her head, pulling her body taut. The movement makes her cock jump, then settle against her groin at an upward angle— hard, a prominent vein bulging on the underside, pink and glistening with his saliva.

“Astarion,” she says, intonating his name like a melody, his siren song. “I’m aching.”

The little poet. She does have a way with words.

“For you,” she continues, to make sure it’s clear.

And damn him if he’s not aching for her, too.

Arms still above her head, she lets him take the lead, but the way her chest rises and falls rapidly tells him how desperate she feels— and he feels it too, her thunderous heartbeat echoing inside his skull as if it’s his own.

Astarion moves forward slightly, grinding against her, and her back immediately arches off of the bed. She chuckles quietly, amused by the intensity of her own reaction. “Ah,” she chimes, “Is this how it feels for you?”

He grinds into her again, harder this time, and her jaw goes slack. “Falling apart already, hm?”

He lifts himself up, taking her in his hand, lining her up with his entrance. He jests, but in truth, he’s just as lost as he is.

She thrusts upward, gently, slowly— just to make it known how much she wants this. Looks at him, wordless, eyes burning.

Astarion starts sinking down— slowly, a different kind of worship. Lark’s face contorts in a way that he recognizes intimately. She’s fighting the pleasure. Not because she doesn’t want it, but because she wants it so much, and it’s hard to handle the weight of that. He knows, because he feels that with her, all the time.

He leans back, bracing himself on one hand as he continues to take more of her, and she feels like heaven, although heaven is not, and will not ever be ready for the kind of love they have for each other.

There is a slight sting of pain as his body resists to accommodate the size of her, but he welcomes it— it turns into a wave of pleasure so intense; he throws his head back with a broken sigh, one fang digging itself into his lower lip.

His claws bury themselves into whatever they find— one hand bunches a fistful of the bed sheets, and he hears the faint give of fabric as it rips, but it hardly matters. His other hand finds purchase beside her hip bone— if he were to tear her apart, Astarion knows she would be more than fine with it, but the thought of causing her pain unless explicitly asked to do so is too close to what he guesses to be blasphemy, so he settles on a bruising grip instead.

And Lark never stops surprising him— he rather thinks she will continue to do so till the end of time, and what is time for a vampire lord, but an endless thread of opportunities?

With her, it’s so much more than that. But no need to dwell on that right now, with her cock filling him to the brim.

She reaches out and places her hand over his, not to move it away, but to make him apply more force. At the realization, he moans, and with great difficulty lifts his head toward her to find an absolutely debauched grin painted on her face, glassy with sweat— she looks perfect. She is perfect.

“How do I feel, my lord?” she asks, thrusting upwards to meet him halfway, making him moan.

“Glorious,” he says, and she laughs, a bright thing, cut off by a wanton moan.

Astarion picks up his pace, now able to take her with less resistance, and Lark desperately tries to keep up with him— poor, sweet, sweet thing, he wants to devour her— but he can tell it’s too much for her, the intensity of the sensations, the sound of skin on skin filling the room as it does so often, but— different.

He flashes a toothy grin at her, and he can see how thickly she swallows. “It is how it feels for me,” he says.

She throws her head back on the pillow, exposing her beautiful neck. “Fuck,” she says, and repeats it over and over again.

At the beginning of their relationship, Lark hadn’t been as vocal as she is now— and a sense of pride blooms deep within Astarion’s chest as he thinks about how much more comfortable she is now. With him. How loud and crass she can be, unrestrained, like a wild animal; without a care, just the way he likes—

“Yes,” he moans. “I know, love.”

And he does. Neither of them will last long, at this rate.

She lifts her head back up, and her gaze shamelessly falls on his cock, moving to the rhythm of their joint thrusts— only then does he realize the precum that has leaked on her navel. Lark pulls her hand off of his, almost in a trance, to wipe the translucent liquid from her skin, carefully bringing her finger to her mouth, sucking on it with reckless abandon, making a guttural sound that turns into impossible desire, spreading in him like wildfire.

“You’re a freak,” he smirks at her, all love and adoration.

Lark removes the finger from her mouth with a wet sound. “Says the vampire lord bouncing on my cock,” she says, intonating the last word with special emphasis.

They laugh together.

Astarion would never have thought sex could be like this— a sentiment shared by Lark. Sex as an act of love— not just seduction, not just lust, not manipulation, but an act of pure love; exploration, joy— he would have laughed at the sheer suggestion.

But here they are.

“Astarion,” she says, a needy, pathetic little sound. No one else deserves to say his name.

“Yes, darling.”

“Can I go on top?”

He slows down until he comes to a full stop, both of them panting. He feels so full, so perfect. Before lifting himself up completely, Astarion rocks his hips back and forth a couple of times, just to torture them both.

But he relents. How can he not, when just the thought of what she’s suggesting sends a shiver straight up his spine? Not to mention the tightness he feels in his abdomen— getting tighter, tighter…

He suddenly feels so empty once he’s off of her, crawling up the length of her body to steal a kiss before they switch positions. She whines into his mouth, pulling him to her, and they stumble between kisses until he’s the one nestled in the pillows with her looking down at him.

“You’re perfect, Astarion,” she says, brushing her nose against his. The truth is, he’s not— perfection is not a thing that exists for a psyche as tormented as his. Neither for hers, for that matter. But to each other they are perfect just the way they are— total acceptance. By accepting even the darkest parts in one another, they continuously shed a light on them, and it’s— well, perfect.

Lost in thoughts, Astarion almost misses as Lark pulls herself back, hands caressing his body along her descent, to position herself. She takes one of the pillows and places it under him, then takes more oil to cover herself in.

The burgundy fire of her eyes fixed on him, she pumps herself a few times, an amused smile tugging at her lips. She lines herself up, and pushes forward, meeting very little resistance. It’s only the tip of her yet, but Astarion runs a hand through his hair at the sensation; the anticipation, the knowledge of how good she will feel inside him.

Lark thrusts forward again, now fully in control— it looks good on her. And it feels good for him— to let go. Let his love take the reins.

“I can be your man,” she says. Quiet. Singsong. Entirely shy.

She’s going to be his godsdamned ruin.

Another thrust and his eyes snap closed, all the air sucked out of him— and she stops moving.

“Ah, please—” he begs, claws digging into the bed, burning, burning, a building pressure—

“Then look at me,” she says.

He does, and she fills him up.

They sound good together, moaning in harmony. Repeating each other’s names again, again, and again. Astarion meets each of her thrusts with increasing fervor, bringing one hand up to his nipple to twist it in the way he likes when Lark does it with her mouth.

The way she looks at him— like he is what holds her together.

“I’m—” he rasps, not quite finding the rest of the sentence. But she understands, his Lark.

She wraps her hand, her soft, warm, petite hand around his cock, and Astarion feels it— the cord pulled tight, about to snap.

“Yesyesyesyes—” is all he can manage, a hand buried in his hair, all of his nerves ablaze— it almost makes him cry.

“I’ve got you, Astarion,” she says, barely above a whisper. She’s not much for pet names, his precious girl— at least not much for using them herself. His name is a title of devotion enough, she says.

The cord snaps.

There’s sunlight on his tongue, taste of her blood still buried between his teeth from an earlier feeding (she’s always, always, always giving) and the transparent glow of her magic right on those fingertips he loves so much to kiss one by one pressed right on his cock, a sensation he never quite gets used to (will always want more, more, more). As Astarion comes, thick ropes spurting on his stomach, he can fainly hear Lark’s voice in the background, beneath the ringing in his ears— telling him how good he is, how good he is, and it’s difficult not to believe her.

The world around him starts to come back into view, as if the balloon he was inside was just popped. He’s panting, sticky— with more than just sweat.

Lark looks at him with one of his favorite smiles— the softest one that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle.

“Have I told you how much I love you before?” she asks.

Slowly catching his breath, Astarion laughs. “You can always tell me more.”

She slowly pulls out from him, the sensitivity making him hiss. With deliberate movements, she climbs up to him, placing a kiss first on his nose. “I love you,” she says. Another kiss between his brows. “I love you.” On his right cheekbone, followed by the left. “I love you.”

He buries a hand in her hair, applying the slightest pressure to pull her closer. Against her lips, he whispers, “My sweet girl.”

“Ah,” she breathes. “Your claws are gone.”

“You almost sound sad.”

“I do like them quite a bit.”

He kisses her, smiling all the while. Then his gaze shifts down. “They’re not the only things gone, it seems.”

“Pity,” she grins. “I did enjoy having a dick.”

“We can always buy more scrolls.”

“I would like that,” Lark says, then pulls away, making Astarion pout. “But first,” she goes on, moving back toward his abdomen and dipping down until her mouth is right next to the mess he just made. She lifts her ass up, putting on a show for him, and his fingertips tingle.

“Let me clean you up, my lord,” she says, lapping at him like a hungry kitten. He runs a hand through her hair repeatedly, and she hums— partly because of the sensation, partly because of his taste.

But she has not unraveled for him yet, and that’s simply unacceptable.

Astarion takes Lark’s chin between his thumb and pointer, squeezing her cheeks just so, and she knows why he does it— he loves seeing him on her tongue. And she shows him, so obedient, so eager to please.

“Good girl,” he growls.

All his. How did he ever get so lucky?

With a firm grip, he pulls her upright while slinking toward her on his knees. She’s the one to kiss him first, and he feels the blossom of new heat in his pelvis. His palm tingles— itching for one thing only. And Astarion has always been known to follow the thread of his desires.

Lark yelps as his hand meets the round flesh of her ass. But he can smell her arousal— insistent, constant, for him, for him, for him, eternal…

“My turn now, darling,” he growls.

Astarion has changed, with Lark. Time means something, now. More, more, more of her— eternally.

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