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waynes-multiverse · 1 day ago

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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:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

#time after time #soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x supe!reader #the boys #the boys amazon #the boys season 3 #the boys s3 #the boys x reader #the boys fanfiction #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy angst #soldier boy smut #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jackles

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thecorefrisk · 2 days ago

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Um, here’s my suggestion to the DP fans who want to only DP content… why not make your own tag??

I’ll probably sound passive aggressive when saying this but I understand. It’s super frustrating trying to find content for one fandom and then seeing completely different content.

Why not make a ‘dp only’ tag? That way anyone could find any sort of Danny Phantom only content without having to scroll through countless of other works to get to it.

I get it, it’s much more easy to put up a wall than build a bridge but creating an entirely new tag for yourselves can also be a rather constructive choice!

(My only question is… why is this an issue now rather than earlier? Is this something a lot of DP fans have been already thinking or it more so a recent thing??)

—

Edit: I posted something similar in the comments and I have a reblog up for anyone to see but I’ll say it here as well! This post was likely founded in my own hurt!! I personally think it felt entitled for me to say, someone else said it sounded condescending. Those two things don’t exactly contradict each other!!

(But the condescension part might’ve been just my lack of understanding of how my words come across to others due to the autism thing, but y’know, no excuse unless my entire family also happened to die before I wrote this. Which did NOT happen if you’re wondering, I’m just scared they will and that’s like, super different.)

I have had a history of being pushed out of things and spaces in which I should’ve been accepted into (ex: autism spaces, other fandoms, friendships). I was trying to ‘nice’ and also give my own opinion at the same time. (A skewed opinion.) I knew the whole discourse made me feel… bad but I didn’t know where it came from and I just posted this in an impulsive decision.

Not necessarily to go ‘ha! Losers!’ But to put up sort of shield to defend myself. So, I am sorry. For the condescension and for the passive aggressiveness. I already knew that was a problem in my speech but I didn’t realize it was THAT bad.

Uhh, let me review the things I did wrong. (I like lists.)

First off, I disregarded a group of people’s feelings for my own. Second, I decided to ‘bring up a solution’ that was more so a half assed compromise which was likely already someone else’s suggestion as well. Third, I also just so ‘happened to forget’ that the DP tag… WAS your tag. That you should be able to go through it without someone else shoving content from a different fandom in your face in all directions.

I mean, if I want my feelings to be heard, I should be hearing other people’s feelings too. It’s not fair for me to bring up my own opinions, expect them to be taken as seriously as anybody else’s, and then not give that treatment. And also I should probably learn impulse control?? I think I have a grip on it unless I feel hurt. Otherwise I’m fine.

It was probably, to me, that the post I first saw about it made it feel like people were going ‘…get out?’ (The post I saw was one asking for people to exclusively use the DP x DC tag for those kinds of posts. Which, in itself, is actually not a bad idea and would allow for further freedom as people are allowed to be separate but connected to the DP fandom and perhaps even the DC fandom.)

Basically, I was projecting my own past trauma onto this random person who just felt frustrated they had to scroll past what felt like a million posts just to get to the fandom they wanted to see. And the kind of posts they saw, might’ve not been the kind that they wanted to see at all which is even more frustrating. They likely wrote in a moment of frustration and it kind of came off as such in their writing. But that doesn’t mean that my reaction is their fault in the slightest.

It means I had a reaction to something I felt was hurtful. I’ve written this line before but when I sat down and actually thought about it all it felt all the truer. ‘They aren’t trying to give you a bad time, they are having one’. I made it about me— which was not cool of me.

So, again, I am sorry. I hope this comes across as me actually taking accountability for my actions and not another passive aggressive fat amount of text like I fear it will be.

Thank you, though! To the people who were so, so nice in the comments. You weren’t, like, mean to me about this even though I was sounding pretty bratty. Some were a little frustrated but it was in a way that I could understand and your hearts were all in the right place. Because even though this seems very small— a fandom having a space on Tumblr to be able to see their own content— it gives people a place where they can meet people who like the same things and even make friends out of it. And you also expressed your thoughts in a way that I could get! Which was super sweet, thank you so much. :>

Mwah, mwah, love you!! 🫶🏼

#danny phantom #dc x dp #dc crossover #dp #dpxdc #fandom discourse #I think??#I’m newer to all the fandoms listed so this is really just a suggestion

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kiokos · 3 days ago

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🪼⋆.ೃ࿔* Harvey, nobody knows what I see!

⋆𐙚₊˚ | featuring: charles chevalier

⋆𐙚₊˚ | setting: you just joined the french soccer club, PXG - where you met the person who would change your life forever.

⋆𐙚₊˚ | genre: moon x sun, sunshine x moonlight, stoic x confident

⋆𐙚₊˚ | A/N: guys I swear I didn’t mean to not post……………. Maybe…. btw reader is around the same age as Charles for obvious reasons.. also tell me if yall want this to become a series lol, but ts is js a short fic for now

⋆𐙚₊˚ | tags: @ihe4rtme

You took a deep breath as you entered the group bus. It had been a long day, and at this point, you just wanted to go home and sleep. You had done nothing but train all day - and it was especially embarrassing because you didn’t talk to anyone and nobody really talked to you, despite you being the new recruit. It made you a little sad, but you refused to let a couple of questionable humans from the male species ruin your day.

You made sure to ignore your teammates and chose to sit in the back of the bus, away from everyone else. It’s not like you were TRYING to be mean - you just didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Maybe it’s just because you’re naturally introverted? You didn’t know.

With a small sigh, you plopped yourself down on one of the seats and waited for your stop. You grabbed your phone and then headphones, turned on your headphones and connected them to your phone. You took a small pause to think about what song to listen to and daydream with, and you ended up picking ‘Harvey’ by hers.

One or two minutes passed, maybe more - you couldn’t really tell, when suddenly, you felt a presence right next to you. You paused, clicking your tongue in clear annoyance before turning to whatever teammate decided to ruin your day today.

“Hey! Hi! You can’t speak french, right? Don’t mind my accent! What’s your name??” You paused. That voice sounded familiar. Too familiar. Well no shit it sounds familiar, you spent the whole day with your teammates - but there was ONE specific teammate you dreaded to speak with. Charles fucking chevalier.

He was the number one example for ‘annoying’. A little brat who couldn’t mind his own business. Sure you were younger than him by a few months, but point still stands. He’s insufferable.

“…my name is [name]. Didn’t you listen during introductions?” You snarled back. He simply smirked and giggled out a, “nuh-uh! That’s boring!” You groaned at his reply - of course he’d find it boring. “You’re boring.” You let out, mumbling it under your breath like you’re saying a ritual. “Hah?” He propped up, feigning confusion despite hearing your every word.

“I said nothing.” You lied, rolling your eyes again before looking out the window after a while, hoping he’d get the hint and leave. Which apparently wasn’t the case because he was a fucking idiot.

“Hey, hey! What are you listening to!?” He shot you a smile, or a grin? What’s the difference again…? Never mind. You turned your head to glare at him before answering his question, “… well I WAS listening to harvey by hers but now I’m listening to daylight by taylor swift.” You didn’t know why you answered him, really. It was none of his business, much less your responsibility to respond to his questions - or rather - his demands.

“Really? My favorite song is En nuit by videoclub!” He beamed back at you. You paused, not knowing why he told you that despite you having no use for this information. “..why would I need to know that?” You commented about what he had said, before he replied to your comment with a cheeky, “well, isn’t it obvious? It’s to get to know each other, silly!” He smirked, his sharp tooth poking out. You stopped, perplexed. “..if you want to know more about me, just read my info or something. I don’t get why you have to ask me directly.”

He paused, looking at you as if you were crazy. Why would he do that if he can just ask you directly? It was stupid! “Hm.. well i’m a contrarian, so no!” He beamed, and you groaned in response. Your eyes flickered from his face to the next stop, which, THANKFULLY, was yours. You stood up, eyeing him before saying, “this is my stop.” You said simply. Like a fact. And you paused when you saw Charles’s face.

He was surprised.

You looked at him for a second, before he said, “hah, really!? It’s mine too! Let’s go, let’s go!”

You wanted to die. Was he being sarcastic? Surely he was, right? I mean, it couldn’t be possible.. RIGHT? SURELY?? YOU NEVER SAW HIM AROUND YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?

You paused, eyes wide, before going, “..are you serious? Please tell me you aren’t serious.” You said, feeling your life draining away at the sentence charles had just uttered. “Nope! Come on, come on!”

You don’t think you’ll survive this.

#blue lock #bllk crack #blue lock x you #bllk x you #bllk fluff #charles chevalier x reader #bllk charles #bllk charles x reader

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nevadancitizen · 2 days ago

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-> CH. 10: A HOUSE CALLED CARMODY DELL

synopsis: you tag along with hosea to set up a business deal.

word count: 4.8k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: sorry i was gone for so long! i stopped writing, felt like shit, started writing, and now i feel better. who'd have thunk?

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @its-yummi , @lazycowboah , @shackspossum , @swedesfics , @literallyrousseau , @xprloki , @pedifero , @6esi , @xnorthstar3x , @scorpio-echo , @eafv2323 , @junesfruits , @gallantys (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

You were never one to find robberies and petty crime exciting, but sometimes you do what you need to because you must. And Hosea – the arbitrator of god’s will, apparently – has deemed that you need to come on a petty stagecoach robbery because you must help the gang acquire money. You’re not exactly keen on putting out and you’re not sure you’d generate any sizable revenue anyway, so this is the next best (and profitable) thing.

You wait nearby, sitting on a crate as Hosea continues to talk to Seamus: the guy Hosea wants to exploit as a fence. The barn all three of you are next to faces the outskirts of town, so there’s less of a chance of nosy ears listening in on this private conversation.

“Well, every half-dollar robber says he’s capable,” Seamus says. “I never met an idiot that called himself one.”

“Very true. In that case, me and my friend here are idiots,” Hosea says. “But we know how to get things done efficiently.”

There’s a lull in conversation. You take the chance to say, “Hosea’s been robbing longer than I’ve been alive. What – what’s this guy’s place like, Fort Knox?”

“Well, no,” Seamus says. “The closest thing we’ve got is Fort Mercer.”

You look up just as the sound of footfalls meet your ears. It’s Arthur, looking between Seamus and Hosea and you. You have to bite your tongue because you just got away from him – just got an excuse to be outside of camp while he was in it – and now he’s here. Because hey, why the hell not? It’s not like this is your first actual job that you want to go smoothly. No, it’s totally one hundred percent okay that Arthur’s here. Honestly…

“Arthur,” Hosea greets. “This is Seamus – he’s our new partner.”

“I ain’t no such thing,” Seamus says.

“Prospective new partner,” Hosea corrects himself, “if he likes us.”

“Liking ain’t the problem – trusting is, as I said.” Seamus stands and checks around the corner. “And keep your voices down. I don’t want my boss hearing… This is a side line.”

“‘Course,” Hosea says. “Look at the three of us – honest as the day is long.”

“We can do some light work for you,” you offer. You stand, looking between the three men. “Give us an opportunity to, um… prove ourselves?”

A surprised exclamation of “Prove ourselves?” leaves Arthur’s mouth amid a laugh. He glances over at you and Hosea, gesturing at Seamus. “To this clown? Whatchu talkin’ about?”

“Good day, both of you,” Seamus says. He turns on his heel, his boots making a schlock sound in the mud as he walks away.

“Listen,” Hosea says quickly. He starts after Seamus. “He’s rough and ready and quick with his tongue, but I swear, you can trust him, you can trust them, and you can trust me.”

“I…” Seamus turns and glances over Hosea’s shoulder at you and Arthur. His eyes mostly linger on Arthur – probably figuring out the ratio of brains to muscle (which has a strong negative relationship in Arthur’s case). “I’m an old man.”

“You’re not old, Seamus,” Hosea says.

“I’m old enough,” Seamus counters. “And you know why I ain’t dead?”

“You don’t trust idiots.”

“Exactly.”

“We’re not idiots,” Hosea insists. “Let us prove it to you.”

You watch carefully as Seamus considers it. His face twists as he thinks, probably weighing the pros of working with someone like Hosea and the cons of working with someone like Arthur. You hope you at least mostly fall into the pros category.

“I tell you what,” Seamus eventually says. Your ears perk up and you turn your attention to him as he continues talking. “Old Bob Crawford and his boys just bought a beautiful stolen stagecoach from upstate. It’s in their barn. Now you go get that – and then we can work together.”

Hosea puts a hand on Seamus’ shoulder and guides him back to where you and Arthur are waiting, talking as he does so. “Who’s old Bob Crawford?”

“An… acquaintance of mine,” Seamus says.

“So you want us to take out your competition?” Hosea asks.

“Well, he – he’s not just an acquaintance,” Seamus says, “but a cousin… by marriage. I also wanna see if y’all got what it takes. Now, you survive that…”

“Where is he?” Hosea asks.

“He’s in a farmhouse just northwest of here, called Carmody Dell.” Seamus gestures down the beaten dirt road. “It’s just up the train tracks as you’re headin’ up towards Fort Wallace. There’s also money in that house – but that’s your business, not mine – but don’t kill nobody. Folks know we ain’t intimate no more… they’ll know it was me.”

Before you can question the use of the word “intimate” when regarding a cousin (by marriage, but still), Hosea speaks. “But you’re fine with us robbing your cousin?”

“By marriage,” Seamus insists, pointing a finger at him as if that further proved his point. “And yes, I’d love it.”

“You heard the man.” Hosea touches your shoulder as he turns to walk towards the horses. “Let’s go rob his cousin.”

Seamus mumbles “By marriage,” but you just hide your half-smile and follow Hosea. You mount Bronya and tug her reins, leading her away from the hitch.

Arthur mounts Belmont, and Hosea mounts Silver Dollar. They follow you a little ways away from Seamus’ barn.

“Really?” Arthur grumbles.

“Really,” Hosea says. “Lead the way. He said the place is just northwest of here.”

Belmont breaks into a trot as Arthur guides him onto the beaten dirt road. “Me?”

“You’re the one who’s been out gallivanting around here,” Hosea says.

Arthur passes you to lead, while Hosea lingers beside you. You pass by barns and fenced-in livestock on the way out of town.

The valley opens before you, the ground turning from shit-mud to packed down dirt. Winding, patchy desire paths join actual trailways, all bordered by grass that almost seems to roll when a breeze wisps by. A herd of horses slowly move out by the horizon, dotting the prairie with spots of black and white and brown.

Jesus, that’s beautiful, you think to yourself.

“Jesus, that’s beautiful,” you decide to say out loud.

“It is quite something,” Hosea agrees. “I’ve seen a lot of nature in my time, but the Heartlands trumps them all.”

“I’m… I’m jealous. Of your travels, I mean,” you say. You think for a moment. “Hey, maybe one day I can move my family out here? It seems… quiet enough.”

“Now, I – I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Hosea says. He glances forward at Arthur, then turns away to look out on the prairie. “Your girls are in California, aren’t they? They’re safer staying put for now. We can grab them on our way out of the country.”

“Do you…” You look forward to Arthur. He’s looking forward, most likely paying you and Hosea no mind. “Do you actually want me to run with you? Like, is this The Plan? Dutch’s Plan?”

“Ah, I’m just thinking out loud.” Hosea waves a hand dismissively. “Arthur – you couldn’t have played that thing with Seamus better?”

“Thought you wanted me here to show some strong arm?” Arthur says. “That’s usually how it goes.”

“Yes, but…” Hosea pauses. “You know how this works.”

“C’mon, Hosea,” Arthur drawls. “That feller’s a joke.”

“And that’s why he’s perfect!” Hosea exclaims. “He won’t cause us any problems. A safe spot to fence wagons and coaches, that’s easy money for us.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Come on, it’s not like he’s asking us to rob a bank.” He gestures over to you. “It’s perfect for their first job! If the two of us can’t teach some down-and-out how to steal a stagecoach, we should hang up our hats.”

You make a face at that but don’t comment on it. After all, you are some random person that came across them as a stroke of luck. If you were a bit less lucid in that cabin, Arthur could’ve shot you – so you guess that counts as another stroke of luck. It’s only a matter of time before that luck runs out.

“Thank you for that,” you blurt. “For – for trusting me with this job, I guess.”

“You need to start somewhere,” Hosea says. “Besides, we’re doing better. We won’t be in any major trouble if you make any mistakes.”

“Y’know, I figured more folks would’ve cut and run on us,” Arthur says. He looks to his left, like he’s thinking of looking over his shoulder at you, but he doesn’t. “Given all the trouble we’ve already gotten ourselves into, and the mistakes we already made.”

“Like Dutch says, a lone wolf don’t last long out on the plains,” Hosea says.

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “He does like to trot that one out.”

“People see that, especially when they get a few years on ‘em.” Hosea pauses, then admits: “Even someone like Micah.”

“There’s a couple of folks I wish had cut n’ run,” Arthur says.

Hosea pauses, then says, “I bet there’s some folks that feel the same about you.”

Even though you’re expecting it – Arthur’s eyes on you, staring you down and reminding you of what a burden you are – it never comes. He keeps his eyes straight ahead on the beaten dirt road. He doesn’t look to his left, he doesn’t look to his right. He doesn’t pay you any mind at all.

That’s good, isn’t it? You ask yourself. I’ve made myself useful. Useful enough…

The rest of the ride to Carmody Dell is mostly quiet, occasionally punctuated by people riding in the opposite direction or a bird flying overhead. Once the homestead came into view, Hosea had instructed you and Arthur to wait while he distracted the boy chopping wood at the front of the house.

Your back is flat against the trunk of a dead tree a little ways away from the house, and you can barely see the brim of Arthur’s hat peeking out from behind a rock. You’re both watching Hosea, waiting for his move.

“My good man! My good young man,” Hosea practically bellows as he approaches the teenager, throwing his arms in the air in greeting. “Fare thee well, fare thee well. Is your father home, son?”

The boy brings the axe down with (what you assume to be) way less power than he intended. He almost looks conscious and embarrassed at the poor display, but neglects to even acknowledge it. “Sure is.”

“Get him down here,” Hosea says. “Please, get him down here.”

You look over at Arthur’s rock. He’s halfway out of cover now. He points at the back of the house, and you point at Hosea.

The boy puffs out his chest a little and puts his hands on his hips. “Get lost, mister.”

“I was lost! For many years, I was lost.” Hosea nods sagely. “Many years. Now… I’m not.”

A man opens the front door and steps out onto the porch. You look over at Arthur and he nods.

With quick, light steps, you follow Arthur to the back of the house. He puts a hand on the doorknob and braces the other against the door.

“You know what to look for?” He asks, his voice hushed and almost rumbling.

You think for a moment, then answer, your voice just as quiet. “Cash, jewelry boxes… I – I’ve done this before, y’know?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “I did not.”

Before you can ask him what that facial expression meant, he turns the doorknob and slowly opens the door. It opens to a small bedroom and suddenly, robbing a house feels a lot more real.

“I’ll clear the rest of this storey n’ check upstairs,” Arthur says. “You start with this room.”

And like that, you’re left alone. He didn’t even give you enough time to explain that yeah, while you’ve robbed a house before, it wasn’t like… this. You rifled through drawers at some house party with lots of people, lots of music, and – most importantly – lots of drugs. Most people were too out of it to understand why you were doing that, and the people that weren’t were blissed out on ecstasy and didn’t care anyway.

You inhale sharply to try to shock your system into being not as nervous. It only kind of works. You start to open drawers of the dresser and focus on what you can hear from Hosea’s conversation to try and ground yourself.

“Pleasure to meet you,” you can hear Hosea’s muffled voice say. “I was just chatting with Junior here a bit.”

“You sellin’ something, partner?” A man’s voice says. Probably Crawford.

“Free!” (You can almost hear the way Hosea threw his arms up, flourishing his faux excitement.) “A free spinal alignment.”

You bite back a smile and move to the chest at the end of the bed. You need to ask Hosea where the hell he learned about chiropractors, of all modern things. You shift aside the folded clothes and find a small clip of money at the bottom. It’s not much – maybe ten ones – but it’s still something. You take it and move on.

Keeping in mind what Arthur did earlier, you brace a hand on the door and slowly open it into a small living room. There’s a fireplace with a mantle, a rug laid out across the wooden floor, and a table pressed up against the wall with three chairs.

“The Lord God Almighty, or who-whoever built us, put our brains in our heads,” Hosea says, “but our souls in our backs. You, sir, y-your back looks kind of tricky, and complicated.”

You move to the fireplace, making sure to tread with light footsteps. His voice is closer now, and a door you can see in a corridor nearby looks like it leads to the front porch.

Two mostly burned candles and a small picture in a frame sit on the mantle, and a larger portrait hangs above it. The candles and the painting are useless, but…

You take the small picture and flip it over, then dig your thumbnail between the backing board and the frame. It pops open, revealing four fifty dollar bills behind the picture. You take them, then put everything back in place and move on.

“I can fix those spinal troubles for you,” Hosea says. “Just ten or fifteen sessions.”

“Whiskey suits me fine, sir,” Crawford says.

As you move into the corridor, you realize it’s a small entryway and kitchen. A brick oven sits across from cabinets with a sink and fruit on the countertops. Stairs lead up to the second floor, where Arthur is surely pilfering.

“Whiskey? Whiskey is – is causing the problems!” Hosea exclaims. “You ever meet a Scot who didn’t hobble in old age? But the English stand tall, sir – gin! They drink gin. And what is gin made with? Junipers. And what does juniper do? Creates movement in the spine, whereas your whiskey – made with grain as it is – leaves the spine brittle! Hence, your hobbling Jock.”

You turn towards the stairs when you hear footsteps, and Arthur is quickly moving down them, a hand on the banister. He snatches a mostly-full bottle of whiskey from a shelf near the oven.

He pats your shoulder as he passes. “We gotta go.”

You put up no fight at all and follow him. He leads you back through the living room and back bedroom.

He takes the steps down the back of the house slowly, looking towards the front. You follow, minding your footfalls. He checks over his shoulder, back at you, then points over at a barn on the other side of a clearing.

“Hosea’s got ‘em distracted,” he says, his voice hushed. “Now, you wait for my signal and we’ll go.”

You peek around the corner. The boy is a ways away, leaning on the fence and looking out on the pasture. Hosea… has the man of the house face-down on a picnic table, rubbing and poking at his back.

“See, now this, here…” Hosea looks over and spots you and Arthur. He nods over at the barn, then presses the knuckles of his thumbs into Crawford’s back. “This…! Is a technique from the Far East. You should be feeling some – some movement along your spine.”

“Kinda, yeah,” Crawford mumbles into the table.

Arthur sticks low to the ground, so you copy him. He snaps his fingers and starts walking, and you follow. He leads you around the back, past the water tower, and into the barn; all the while, Hosea still has that man (metaphorically) showing his belly.

Arthur pulls the barn door open just wide enough to usher you inside, then he follows and shuts the door. There aren’t any windows, and despite the one desperate oil lamp, it’s still reasonably dark.

Two horses are strapped to a fancy-looking wagon. It’s coated in a fire engine red paint-job and the brand on the side reads DAVIS OVERLAND DESPATCH CO.

“Overland Despatch,” you say, pointing up to the yellow lettering. “Isn’t it spelled with an ‘I’? D-I-S…patch.”

Arthur pats one of the horses on the neck. “How am I supposed to know?”

I’m just trying to talk to you! You say in your head in a song-song voice. Who could ever imagine… Me, of all people, trying so hard to be nice for some jerk!

“I… you… read,” you mumble. “I thought… you liked reading?”

“Well, now you can go and have a nice conversation with Lenny.” Arthur tugs on the horses’ straps and reins, making sure they’re connected properly. “The kid loves readin’.”

“I know,” you say. “I-I’ve talked to him before – about books.”

One of the barn doors swings open, Hosea sneaks in, then promptly closes the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and brushes the lapels of his coat clean of nonexistent dust and dirt.

“My friends, the time comes where we must make our exit.” Hosea points at you. “You – get in the wagon. Arthur – come drive with me.”

You open the carriage door and hop inside, while Arthur and Hosea climb up into the driver’s seats. There’s the sound of a horse being whipped, then the stagecoach jolts forward and starts moving.

The barn doors crash open accompanied by the sound of hooves pounding dirt. You brace a hand against the side as the carriage rocks. Through the window, you can see Carmody Dell getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Belmont, Bronya and Silver Dollar trot behind, easily keeping pace with Arthur.

This is nice. The job was clean – you did well. At least, you think you did well… didn’t you? $200 wasn’t something to stick your nose up at in 1899 (or even in 2024, really).

“So, what were you able to lift from the house?” Hosea asks once Carmody Dell has disappeared over the horizon.

“Found some money stashed away upstairs,” Arthur says. “Must be a few hundred – not too bad.”

“Not bad at all,” Hosea agrees.

I’ll tell them about my find later, you decide. Talking would be awkward, given that they’re outside of the carriage while I’m inside… or maybe I’m being weird.

You settle down and actually take the time to look around. The inside of the stagecoach is plush – or what flew for ‘plush’ back in the now. There’s a seat that kind of looks like the seats at the back of the bus on one side, and another on the opposite side.

You sit and push down on the upholstered leather. It’s firm, but soft. You shift how you’re sitting, and the firm cushions give way to some amount of comfort.

It’s not quite as comfortable as the mattress you have at home, but it’s loads better than the nonexistent mattress you have at camp. You lean your head against one of the wooden beams that lines the window.

The plains outside are marked sparsely, only by bunches of shrubs, trees, and the occasional homestead. It kind of reminds you of long car rides when you were a kid, without a phone or music to distract you from the exceptionally boring ride.

The way Arthur drives causes the stagecoach to rock back and forth slowly. The horses almost seem to pound their hooves to a steady, rhythmic beat. Your eyes are heavy, and you feel tired.

Robbing a house really takes it out of someone that’s not fit to rob houses, you guess.

Your shoulders sag, heavy, with the weight of a child. A blond boy named Sasha, no older than seven. You know this as a matter of fact, of course.

There’s something resembling a kalash in your hands, and a revolver serves as your sidearm. Sasha had really only come with you after noticing the guns you have with you – and his uncle’s guts splattered on the metal floor. He hadn’t screamed or yelled or done anything a normal child would’ve done. He just sat there, saying, “He’s dead? Uncle’s dead? But how will I get home? He was supposed to take me home.”

The children of the Metro are a perplexing thing. They were born underground, are being raised underground. Sasha alone has been through hell, and from what he told you about the monsters and the nosalis that attacked his uncle, he only stayed alive by sheer luck. Yet he’s still chugging along, gripping the top of your head for balance, not a worry in the world aside from when you’ll shoot your gun next and how loud and exciting it’ll be.

The tunnels you and Sasha snake through are claustrophobic, just barely bent into a shape meant for long-term human inhabitants. The V.I. Lenin Metro was never meant to have so many bodies crammed into it, but humans have a tendency to do anything they can to survive. Both parties just cursed their rotten luck and made do.

The ceiling, once so low you had to take Sasha off your shoulders to crouch down with you, now opens up into a silo-like room that breaks the surface. Sparse planks of wood are nailed into a makeshift roof, but slits of light still break through. The sky you can see is a bleak bluish-white, and you can hear the faint sound of a blizzard a few kilometers away.

“What’s that up there?” Sasha asks, pointing to the partial ceiling. Before you can respond, he continues: “Wait! Uncle showed me a picture once… The sk-sky. That’s the sky, isn’t it? It’s like… a painted ceiling!”

“Mhm.” You nod as you survey the room. There’s a tunnel up a good eight or ten meters in the side that leads into Hole Station. Light from lanterns leaks from the station’s entrance into the greater area. A scout fire at your feet illuminates a ladder that leads up to platforms that give way to a precariously-balanced extension ladder that rests on the lip of the floor of the station entrance.

“I’ll be famous,” Sasha parades from atop your shoulders. “I saw the sky!”

Not so sure about that, kid, you want to say. I see the sky all the time and I’m a perfect nobody.

You hold an arm up above your head and Sasha latches on. You lift him halfway up the ladder, then let go of him to stabilize the outer rails as he climbs. Once he’s up and out of the way, you follow after him.

You lean and put one of your feet on the platform Sasha is on to test the stability with your added weight. The sheet of metal doesn’t move. With careful steps, you get onto the platform, ushering Sasha along in front of you until he stops in front of the foot of the extension ladder.

“Hey!” You try to call up into the station’s entrance. Your voice is too weak, and the wisps of wind coming down from the surface isn’t enough to carry it. You bend down and bang your palm against the sheet metal below your feet.

Two men peek out, each dressed similarly to you – guns, kevlar, light and malleable metal bound to their shins and thighs by rope. A woman pushes one of them aside and immediately cries out a hoarse, “Sasha! That’s my boy; they have my Sasha!”

You snap an arm around Sasha’s middle to prevent him from running to his mother. He thrashes against you, but stops when his mom tells him to.

“I’ll hold this side of the ladder,” one man shouts over the gap. He gets on his knees and holds the ladder’s outer rings. “You get the other.”

You point at Sasha with a stern finger. “Wa… wait.”

You shift and hold the outer rings, then lift Sasha onto the ladder, careful of the flat-ish angle. He climbs on his hands and knees, completely focused on the ladder and oblivious to his mother’s fretting. She watches him with wide eyes, back and forth between Sasha and the ladder, her bottom lip pinched between her thumb and forefinger in worry. He just bumbles along, laughing delightedly when his mother scoops him up as he crosses into Hole Station.

You carefully follow Sasha’s footsteps, although you have to accommodate an extra ninety kilograms – both from you being an adult and all the gear you have on your person. Your ascent is not nearly as eventful as his.

A man claps you on the shoulder as you enter the station. He watches with you as Sasha’s mother fusses over him, pulling his clothes aside to check for any injuries, speaking to him in a soft but quick Ruslish.

“Thank you.” The man removes his hand from your shoulder. He starts walking, and you follow him.

The entrance is small and defensible. Hooks hammered into stone walls hold lit oil lanterns, their small flames contained by glass. Your headlamp would be a better source of light, but you don’t say anything. It’s called Hole Station, and probably for a reason. (You don’t really know if it was named that before 2013, but it’s not that important now.)

“If you had any idea how much that boy means…” The man shakes his head. “His father is really important to all of us, and if his son died, well… It would’ve killed him.”

You look over and see Sasha’s mother kneeling, her son in front of her. Tears carry the kohl that lines her eyes into black rivers that cut down her pale face.

“Where’s Mikhail?” She asks. “How’d you get up here?”

“Uncle is dead, Mom,” Sasha says. It’s clear that while he knows what the words mean and what order to put them in, he doesn’t fully know what it means when a person dies. “But this person took me on their shoulders – I helped them shoot the monsters!”

Sasha’s mother catches you out of the corner of her eye and stands, cradling Sasha’s face to her belly. “O, слава богу. Thank you for saving my son! I – I can never repay you, but…”

She pulls a cartridge – 45 military-grade bullets, you presume – out of her pocket and holds it out to you. “Take these cartridges. At least it’s something.”

Something in the back of your mind snaps. It tells you to take them. You scraped your way into adulthood, and you need everything you can to stay out of a shallow grave. This woman has a husband and a father for her child. And it’s not like you’re robbing her, either – she’s willingly giving up something with purchasing power, which is rare in the Metro. She fully knows what she’s doing.

You reach out and wrap her fingers around the cartridge, pushing them back towards her and shaking your head. She waits for a moment, then nods and tucks it away in her pocket.

As the two men lead you further along into Hole Station, you can’t help but glance back over your shoulder. Sasha’s mother is back to fussing over him, holding his baby-fat face and talking to him softly.

Your teeth grit together and you’re suddenly seething with jealousy. What are you jealous of? Sasha? He’s a child. You don’t want to be a child. Sasha’s mother? She nearly worried herself to death when her kid went away from home. You don’t want to worry like that. Maybe you’d like to have someone worry over you like that, but, no… this is a distinctly different feeling.

So why are you jealous? Are you angry? What do they have that you don’t? What the hell of theirs could you even want?

A child, that something in the back of your mind says. Where’s your baby? Your beautiful baby girl… Have you put her down to bed? Where’s she gone?

42 notes · View notes

loveyouprongs · 9 hours ago

Text

bringing up baby part 5

remus lupin x whimsical fem!reader | Buttoned-up grad student Remus Lupin has the rare chance to work under one of the top scholars in the country. But his carefully laid plans keep getting derailed by the scholar's free-spirited whirlwind of a daughter who seems determined to unravel both his plans and his sanity.

upcoming content: fluff, alcohol mention, food mention, minor fire

authors note: part 5 baby!!! i really tried to take it back to the beginning with their dynamic! this was so much fun to write!!! i hope you all love it :")

word count: 3.6k

series masterlist | masterlist

tagging (pls send me an ask to be added or taken off): @wrenisrad @daydreamandforget @jamesweather @oldhollywoodniall @sillygirlantics @shipwreckedlor @slutfortheblog @rulesareshadesofgrey @lettertovera @knew-better-forever-girl-three @siriusement @detmarmalade @turnmeintoaflower @soulshaped @lilians17 @rhettsluvr

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Sirius let out a low whistle from the living room, not even having to look back to know that Remus was scurrying around their kitchen like a man on the brink of collapse.

“How’s it going, Rem?” James asked overly enthusiastically, and it reminded Remus of how his primary school teacher would talk to him when he would present a craft that was just a mess of glue and ripped up construction paper.

Remus looked up at him, hands on his hips, which only smeared more tomato sauce onto his trousers. It had already splattered across his shirt while he was stirring, and when he’d tried switching to the blender, the lid popped off and sprayed sauce everywhere. He panicked and tried to cover the top with his hands, which only left the sauce coating his arms and dripping down to his elbows.

Egg and breadcrumbs were stuck in his hair from when he’d dragged his hands through it in a fit of frustration, completely forgetting they were still coated in gunk. And the final straw was when the oil in the frying pan snapped with a hiss and spit directly into his eyes.

“How’s it going? Pretty bad, Prongs! Pretty bad!”

“Don’t say that!”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, “Mate, look at him!”

“Alright, that’s it-”

“Don’t listen to Sirius,” James began, “i-it’s not as bad as you think it is!”

Any other time Remus would’ve appreciated his friend’s never ending support, but considering the fact that you were supposed to arrive for dinner in less than an hour and there was no food he wasn’t exactly in the mood.

“Oh, shut up!” Remus groaned, tossing the spoon into the sink with a loud clatter.

“The plan was to impress her. You know, look like a functioning adult who can cook a nice meal and use an oven! I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face and smearing sauce across his cheek.

Sirius wandered into the kitchen, arms crossed as he looked down into the surrendered pot. “Was this the egg thing or the pasta thing?”

“Yes,” Remus deadpanned.

Sirius gave it a slow stir, then quickly pulled back. “Alright, yeah, that’s- don’t serve that.”

Remus sighed. “I should just cancel.”

“No, you are not bailing,” James said firmly, steering him away from the stove before he could injure himself further. “You’re just overwhelmed. You always get like this when you care.”

“Which is funny,” Sirius added, “because you clearly do. Like, a lot.”

“Out. Both of you,” Remus snapped, pointing to the living room. “You’re not helping.”

“On the contrary,” Sirius said, already backing away with a grin, “I personally think we’re doing great.”

“Just ignore, Pads, he’s being annoying,”

“Oi!”

“and just clean up and start again, yeah? Come on Remus, you know how to make pasta. Just try one more time.”

Remus took a look at the sauce-covered blender, the trail of breadcrumbs across the counter, the smoking pan, and the slightly crooked stack of plates he’d meant to set. The whole scene seemed beyond repair.

And his defeat must have shown on his face because Sirius sighed and rested his hand on his friend’s back. “Listen Moons, think about who you’re seeing, yeah?”

“What do you mean by that?” Remus asked, a tad too defensive. He was less careful with hiding how he felt about you these days.

“I mean, do you really think she’s going to care about any of this? You could go put on your Gandalf costume and she wouldn’t care-”

“I don’t still have that.” Remus said, stiffly and both James and Remus gave him matching looks that they weren’t buying it.

“Yes you do. But, she wouldn’t care, hell, she’d probably prefer it, yeah? She’s fun like that!”

“Exactly Rem, you’ve finally got what you wanted, just have fun with it, okay?” James added.

“Yeah,” he sighed, and then again, with less doom and more determination, “yeah, yeah, you’re right. She’ll be here soon. And that’s enough.”

Sirius grinned. “That’s the spirit! Now go wash your face, and you have to change your clothes, you look like a butcher just back from the slaughter, dear GOD!”

“Alright, just get out!”

“Let us know when we can come back, if at all,” James quipped as he put on his jacket, waggling his eyebrows.

“Bye!”

Remus stepped out of the shower, freshly scrubbed and finally free of tomato splatter, breadcrumbs, and shame. A clean pair of trousers and a soft jumper were laid out for him on the couch, and the ingredients he hadn’t ruined were now neatly lined up on the kitchen counter, like little soldiers ready for round two.

He’d just begun to chop the tomatoes when there was a rhythmic knock on his front door.

Remus froze. His eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Eight o’clock. On the dot.

“This can’t be happening.”

He scrambled, hopping on one foot as he yanked on his jumper and fumbled to pull up his slacks. “Um! One second!” he called out, voice slightly strangled as he tripped over his own trainers on the floor.

“Remmy! It’s me!” You sang through the door.

“I- I know, love, I’m, oh damnit,” he swore under his breath, trying to not fall flat on his face as his long legs got tangled in his pants.

His hair was still damp and sticking up at odd angles, but he made it to the door in one piece.

He swung it open, slightly out of breath.

And there you were.

Remus looked down at you as the hall light tinged you in an orange glow. You donned a faded orange flowy dress, decorated in lavender stalks. A long necklace trailed between your torso, golden charms of shamrocks, berries, and stars hung off it. You looked like a comet that dropped from the sky and right there on his doorstep.

He blinked at you, a little dazed. “You’re early,” he said, though it wasn’t true. You were right on time. He was just very, very not ready.

You tilted your head with a smile, taking in the man before you. His sweater looked so soft you wanted to forgo dinner all together and just rest your head on his chest, and his sandy hair fell just before his rich eyes, and his neck was flushed from his soft, panthing breaths.

“You okay?” You asked softly.

“Me? Yes! Yes, totally,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “Please, come in! Sorry.”

You giggled lightly, biting your lip at how nervous he was. Even though these past two weeks had been filled with the two of you kissing in corners, and whispering jokes and stories to each other over the phone late at night, he still reminded you of the first time you met, and how you thought you couldn’t wait to ruin him.

You walked past him, slipping off your shoes and taking in the scene with bright eyes. The apartment was tidy enough, candles flickering on the coffee table, the stack of plates now somewhat centered—but the dining table was bare, and there was a conspicuous lack of food.

Your eyes landed on the counter, where ingredients sat untouched beside a suspiciously shiny blender that looked like it had recently been hosed down.

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “Nothing’s cooking yet?”

Remus ran a hand through his still-damp hair, only making it worse. “Right, about that—”

You gasped.

“What, what, what?” Remus asked, panicked.

“Oh my god! Are we going to cook together!”

Remus hesitated. “Is… is that something that sounds fun to y-”

“YES!” You exclaimed, cutting him off and throwing your arms around him.

An oomf escaped him as your bodies collided. “Well then, good thing that was my plan all along, isn’t it.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Let’s get started, shall we?”

You clapped your hands and Remus swore he saw your shoulders vibrate a little.

“Remus, this is adorable!”

He blinked again. “It is?”

“Obviously,” you said, already heading toward the kitchen and rolling up your sleeves. “You get to show off your domestic skills and I get to boss you around. It’s perfect.”

Remus laughed, a wave of happiness all day washing over him for the first time all day. “My domestic skills?”

“Well yeah! I have to see how much your dowry should be. Cooking is worth at least ten goats!.”

“Ten?” Remus repeated, reaching for a chopping board. “That’s steep.”

“Well, I’d say five for personality alone, but you haven’t even chopped an onion yet.”

“I’m being bartered for livestock and you haven’t even seen my knife skills,” he said, sliding her a look.

“Go on then, show me,” you challenged, nudging the onion toward him.

Remus smirked and began to peel. “You know,” he said as he worked, “in some medieval Welsh traditions, dowries included things like wool cloaks and cows, not goats.”

“Wool cloaks? That’s so strange! Like, here’s my child and also a cape.”

Remus laughed, and decided not to comment on the fact that you were so excited about cooking with him, yet now you sat on the counter, a glass of fizzy strawberry wine in your hand. “Essentially, yes. The cloaks were a sign of status. And cows, obviously, meant wealth. Milk, meat, land labor and the like.”

“That’s so interesting that you know that, Remmy. What else?” You asked, popping a cube of cheese in your mouth. Watching him move around his kitchen,

Remus brightened, clearly thrilled by the interest. “Well, it depended on the region, but there were all sorts of specifics. Like, in some cases, the number of cows a woman brought into the marriage could determine how much legal say she had in household disputes. And the cloaks—those weren’t just practical, they were dyed specific colors to represent family status. Deep blue was especially prized, because the dye was expensive to make.”

“Wow,” you said, genuinely. “So she’d walk in like, ‘I brought you my finest cow and also I’m wearing blue, so you better listen to me’?”

He laughed. “In a way, yes. Oh! And there was something called the amber, stir this for me, love? A kind of fee paid to the lord when a woman married. It was meant to symbolize her transition from one household to another, but in practice it was basically just a tax.”

You nodded, stirring the sauce absentmindedly. “Fascinating. Do you think anyone ever said no to the girl but kept the cow?”

Remus blinked. “What?”

“I’m just saying, if she brought a really nice cow—like top-tier, shiny coat, good attitude—I feel like someone might’ve gone, ‘No thank you to the marriage, but I’ll be keeping the cow.”

“Wh—no, that’s—what are you talking about?”

“I’m just curious about the logistics. Would there be a court for that? Like ‘Your Honor, I already emotionally bonded with the cow. I named her. She knows my scent!”

Remus dropped the spoon on the counter. “I’m trying to tell you about medieval economics and you’re running off with some custody battle over a cow!”

You beamed. “You love it, Mr. Lupin”

He narrowed his eyes at you, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but now you’re picturing the cow in a little witness box, aren’t you?”

Remus shook his head, reaching for the pasta. “Absolutely not. And she’s wearing blue, too, isn’t she?”

You gasped. “You are picturing it!”

He sighed through a grin. “We are never getting through this dinner.”

Before he could say anything else, you hopped down from the counter, your bare feet making a soft sound against the tile as you stepped toward him, tilting your head like you were studying something behind his eyes.

“I don’t really care if we do,” you said airily, blinking up at him. “Your eyes look like tea left out in the sun. Did you know that?”

Remus blinked, ignoring your question. “What? What do you mean you don’t care? We’ve already started cooking! I planned this!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, he got hung up so easily.

You reached out and ran your fingers lightly over the edge of his sleeve, grounding him and also entirely ungrounding him. “I mean, I’d still be happy even if all we had was… I don’t know, burnt toast or something.” How much longer would you two have to talk before he kissed you?!

Remus stared at you like you’d spoken in Parseltongue. “Why would we have burnt toast?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“I made a whole menu!”

You smiled, stepping a little closer. “And I think you’re lovely. With or without your timeline.”

Remus let out a breath that hitched somewhere halfway between exasperation and surrender. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” you said sweetly, “I’m trying to kiss you.”

“Oh,” he breathed, very intelligently. “Well. In that case—”

And you were finally kissing again, smiling against his mouth as he pulled you in with more confidence this time. Your hands wound into his shirt and his fingers found the small of your back, gripping you in a way that made electricity shoot up your legs.

Lost in each other, and Remus growing rapidly fond of the honey lipgloss you wore, neither of you noticed the slow creep of smoke of the dish towel beginning to curl on the burner.

Remus leaned into you, his hips slowly pushing yours against the counter, with all the intention of pushing you back atop it, his mind clear of anything else but your warm body under his. His hands fumbled at your waist—warm, careful—before one reached out to steady himself on the counter behind you.

Clink.

His fingers knocked into the half-full bottle of white wine, sending it teetering, then tipping.

You both barely had time to react before it spilled, the liquid splashing across the burner where the dishtowel had already begun to smoke.

WHOOSH.

A sudden rush of flame flared to life, licking up the side of the stovetop and devouring the corner of the towel in seconds.

“Shit-!” Remus jumped back.

“Oh my god!” you gasped, scrambling for the dishcloth, but it was already half blackened.

“No, don’t touch it!” He grabbed a nearby pot lid and tried to smother the flame. It only made the fire sputter angrily, then grow.

“Why is it doing that?!”

“I don’t know!” Remus yelled, waving a wooden spoon helplessly.

Remus darted for the nearest pan, fumbling to get it under the tap.

But the second his fingers wrapped around the metal handle,

“Shit!” he yelped, yanking his hand back like it had stung him. Which, to be fair, it had.

Right then, the smoke detector let out a piercing shriek overhead. From outside the door, a rising murmur began, footsteps, voices, the slam of a door. Then another. Then another. The boys’ building was quite small, only 30 flats or so, so the smoke quickly alerted everyone.

“Remus…” you said carefully, watching the smoke coil toward the ceiling. “I think we have to go.”

He whipped around to face you, a little wild-eyed. “Just wait- wait, one second-!”

Before you could argue, he bolted into the hallway, nearly tripping, as he disappeared around the corner. You stood frozen, blinking against the sting in your eyes and nose, until he reappeared, clutching a bright red fire extinguisher.

With a hiss and a pathetic wheeze, the flames gave up. The pan was scorched, the towel was history, and the alcohol bottle had rolled somewhere under the fridge—but the kitchen was, technically, no longer on fire.

You stared.

Remus coughed once, setting the extinguisher on the ground with a wheeze of his own.

“Alright,” he said, blinking through the fog. “Crisis managed.”

But the alarm was still blaring overhead, and out the window, you heard the low, ominous wail of a fire truck approaching.

You gave him a flat look. “Remus.”

“I know,” he groaned. “We still have to evacuate.”

He reached for your hand without thinking, lacing your fingers together as the two of you made your way toward the door. The hall outside was already filled with neighbors filing out, most of them in pajamas, one in a towel, and someone else carrying what looked like a fish tank.

“Lovely,” Remus muttered.

You studied the side of his face as he led you both down the stairs and through his neighbors. The carefree smile that had graced his face all evening had now morphed into a disgruntled frown, his eyebrows furrowed harshly and his shoulders drooped. Your heart ached in your chest, having gotten so used to loved-up Remus, who would giggle when your fingers trailed under his shirt, just above his waistband. You hated seeing him so put out.

When you stepped outside, blinking in the flashing red lights, the usual crew was already gathered—Mrs. Ellison from 3A with her twin chihuahuas, the very stressed man from 1C holding two laptops and a half-eaten bowl of cereal, and a mom with her son who was crying his eyes out over clearly being woken up.

Remus stared at everyone, his face looking like a puppy that’s just been kicked. And that just wouldn’t do.

“Come on, Rem!” you said, tugging gently on his hand.

He blinked as you guided him away from the cluster of blinking lights and confused neighbors and over to the brick wall lining the front of the building. You dropped down first, tugging him down beside you, and he followed with a tired sigh, knees folding up as he leaned back against the cool stone.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared straight ahead at the firetruck with a dazed look on his face, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t still part of some stress dream.

Then he let out a long breath. “I’m so sorry.”

You turned to him, frowning. “What? Why?”

“Oh, come on,” he muttered, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “This was a disaster. I wanted tonight to be nice.” His arms rested on his knees, his eyes focused on the dirty sidewalk.

“It was nice!”

Remus snorted, but it was a quiet, sad sound. “You deserved better than this.”

You shifted to face him more fully, your knee knocking gently against his. “Hey. Look at me.”

He hesitated before opening his eyes.

“I had fun,” you said simply, voice soft but certain. “You opened the door looking like you just survived a food fight. We made a mess, you gave me a very passionate speech about Celtic cattle cloaks, we almost died kissing! Do you know how romantic that is?”

Remus gave a choked laugh.

“And, I haven’t stopped smiling since I got here. I like you, Remus.”

His eyes searched your face for a long moment. And then, finally, that sweet, lopsided smile returned.

“You like me even though I set things on fire?”

“I especially like you because you set things on fire!”

That earned a real laugh, one that shook his shoulders and softened every sharp line on his face. He leaned his head against yours and squeezed your hand.

“You’re the weirdest person I’ve ever met,” he murmured.

Before you could respond, a loud, “REMUS!” echoed from down the block.

You both turned to see James sprinting toward you, hair flying, eyes wild.

“Oh no,” Remus muttered.

“REMUS ARE YOU OKAY!?” James shouted again, skidding to his knees dramatically in front of him and throwing his arms around his shoulders. “I swear to God, if you died, I would never forgive you!”

“I’m fine, James, bloody hell,” Remus groaned, patting him stiffly on the back. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” James sniffled. “You scared me! What happened?”

Sirius strolled up a few moments later, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to the flashing lights behind you. “You okay, doll?” he asked you casually, like this was any ordinary evening.

You grinned. “I’m great! Who knew Rem was such a bad boy?”

“Ha! You’re responsible for this, Moony? No fucking way.”

“It was just a kitchen fire. And we put it out before the fire truck got here.”

“With what? The fire extinguisher?” James asked, still breathing heavily.

“Of course,” Remus rolled his eyes.

“Good! Good! And you didn’t have any trouble with it like last time?”

“Prongs!” Remus hissed under his breath.

“What happened last time?” You asked.

“Nothing-” Remus started.

“I made us all practice using it during one of our roommate meetings, and Remus had the nozzle facing himself by accident,” James said, cupping Remus’ head.

Remus just buried his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

“I’ve been so scared ever since!”

“James,” Sirius winced, this was getting too embarrassing for Remus, even for him.

“But look at how he held his own!!” James cried, shaking Remus by the shoulders.

“He had a lot to drink at the pub,” Sirius added dryly.

James threw his hands up. “Let’s go back! All four of us!”

You jumped up, “I would love that! Remus and I still haven’t had dinner!”

“This is perfect!” James grinned. “I can get more Sangrias!”

Sirius turned, already walking. “If we’re not ordering cheesy chips, I’m not coming.”

The four of you began heading down the street, still lit red from the lights behind you.

“I never thought our first date would be a pub dinner,” Remus murmured beside you, leaning in close enough that your arms brushed.

You looked up at him with a mischievous smile, “Let’s make a scene there too!”

<- part four

#remus lupin x reader #loveyouprongs #remus lupin #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin x whimsical!reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin fic #marauders #marauders fanfic #marauders fanfic rec #remus lupin series #bringing up baby

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luciopioid · 22 hours ago

Text

Send Me Out

Diana of Themyscira x Fem(me)!Reader > 2,522K Words

tags: friends to lovers, dry humping, counter sex, comfort sex, reader is nervous, lesbian sex, just smut lowkey, reader has curly/coily hair

synopsis: Diana is representing Themyscira at a conference and she asks you of all people to accompany her. On her way to pick you up, you let nerves get the best of you.

You put your earrings on in the mirror, trying to ignore the prickling in your stomach. Diana was on her way and you still don’t know why she asked you to be her plus-one at a diplomatic conference, one of which she was representing her people of Themyscira. You knew it was important to her and there’s no use in passing up free drinks and time with your best friend, but surely one of her colleagues or sisters ought to have been a more acceptable choice. You check yourself frantically, wondering if your dress was appropriate. You pick your hair, attempting to fluff it out. You check your face, wondering if your makeup was too much– or too little.

A knock at the door takes you out of your ruminating thoughts. As you walk towards the door, you take a quick moment to adjust yourself. When you open the door, you’re greeted with Diana in a fitted tuxedo, her long curls elegantly pulled back into a bun. Your stomach churns again, but for different reason this time. She immediately smiles upon seeing you, and before you know it, her arms are outstretched as she takes a step towards you for a hug.

“It’s good to see you.” Diana says, her hands rubbing over your back. You breathe in her scent, earthy and sweet.

She follows you inside, she stops and leans in the doorway of your bathroom while you go back to fixing yourself up.

Diana crosses her arms, “Are you ready to go?”

You check the time on your phone. 8:19.

“I thought it didn’t start til 9?” You ask in a fruitless attempt to sound calm. You start moving faster, the last thing you wanted was making Diana late.

“No, it does I just-” She pauses, cocking an eyebrow at your obvious anxiety that was practically emanating off of you. Diana speaks softly, “Hey…”

“What’s wrong?” She asks, tilting her head to the side. She steps closer to you.

“Nothing.” You croak, feigning normalcy, your voice betraying you instantly. Diana chuckles in response.

“You’re frantic. And quiet.” She observes, her voice tentative. “I’m used to you ready to talk my ear off.”

You pinch her arm, “Shut up.” Diana giggles, nudging you back. She moves closer, standing behind you in the mirror.

“I’m serious though…” She pauses, “Are you nervous about tonight?”

You sigh, your shoulders slumping. You meet her gaze reluctantly. “I’m not– it’s not–” You stammer, the words not finding you yet, knowing Diana was not going to let up anytime soon. She raises a skeptical eyebrow, her lips curling into a small smirk. “Oh really?” She asks tenaciously, not believing you one bit. “Are you sure?” She says, her voice still full with skepticism.

“It’s just… It’s such an important event.” You explain, accepting defeat. “Important people from all over– I don’t even know what to say to them! I mean I’m happy to go, but surely one of your hero friends or something would have been…” You trail off, feeling a little bad about that last part.

Her expression softens into something more understanding. She sighs ever so softly before speaking her next words carefully. “First of all,” She pauses, “You don’t have to say anything you wouldn’t normally say. Just be yourself.” You scoff.

“Secondly,” Diana says, “I invited you because I trust you– a lot more than them.” She speaks earnestly. You meet her gaze in the mirror, her eyes never straying from you. You feel your stomach stir at her words. “It is important. That’s why I wanted you by my side.” You don’t respond at first. The moment is sweet and vulnerable, in her attempts to comfort you she admits that she trusts you, that she wants you to be there. Your nerves about the conference are replaced with something more unfamiliar. Something you’ve been trying to ignore.

“What if I do something stupid?” You ask, tone only partially serious.

Diana smiles amusedly. “Then don’t.” She retorts sarcastically.

You let out a sigh, shaking your head in feigned exasperation. Diana is standing unruly close behind you, her body heat radiating against your back, causing a whirlwind of sensations to wash over you, your head spinning. Her previous comfort to you and mere presence making you dizzy. And the way she looks in a suit, well… it's not exactly helping matters either.

“Look at me.” She whispers, her voice clear and firm in your ear. She moves closer, if that was even possible, her gaze fixed on yours through the reflection.

“I think you’re in your head…” Diana says softly.

She pauses for a moment, taking in your expression, trying to get a read on you. “Look at yourself.” She adds. You watch her eyes roam over your face and over your body. You almost felt faint, not believing your predicament one bit. “You look absolutely stunning.” Diana says, her voice lacking its usual sternness. “You’re sharp. You look good. And you’re more than capable.”

You smile sheepishly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you…”

She reaches a hand up and gently adjusts your curls for you, her touch tender. Careful. You feel a sense of comfort, yet there's also a cautiousness in the air. You realize this is probably the closest she has ever been to you, her presence both comforting and overwhelming in equal measure. Her eyes never left yours, focusing on your gaze and your gaze only through the mirror.

In a delicate, almost ghost-like manner, Diana moves her hand from your hair to your hip, her fingers hovering just above your skin, not quite making contact. She lifts her gaze to meet yours, her eyes questioning, seeking approval, asking yours if they knew a boundary was getting crossed. Your stomach flutters involuntarily in response, a mix of anticipation and excitement coursing through you.

“Just stick by me tonight…” Diana whispers. Her hand finally making contact with your hip, her touch excruciatingly gentle. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll make sure of it.” She speaks, her voice low and soft in your ear.

Your breath quickens involuntarily. Shit.

There was no putting up a front now, Diana’s breath is warm against your neck and her hand is resting on your hip. You felt your heart practically beating out of your chest. Diana immediately notices your change in demeanor, the way your chest heaved ever so slightly. She doesn’t pull away though, instead she presses against you fully, the hand on your hip pulling you closer. You shift your head so that your neck is slightly exposed for her. For no reason…

Her grip on your hip tightens, her fingers dipping into your skin through the dress. She leans forward, her chin resting on your shoulder. Her voice a soft, airy whisper in your ear, “Relax… I’ve got you.”

Diana could probably feel the tension in your body, the way you were trying to hold yourself together so firmly.

“What is this, huh?” You whisper back.

On the contrary to your question, there’s a thick, underlying tension between the two of you. An unspoken amperage crackling in the air. A tension that’s familiar and new simultaneously. Familiar because of the history between you two, yet undiscovered. She leans closer, her free hand joining your other hip. Her voice is low, almost sinful in your ear. “You know exactly what it is.” She murmurs. You bite your bottom lip at her words, affecting you more than you intended.

Diana senses that you are still tense, she lets out a soft sigh, tinged with a hint of frustration. "Relax," she repeats, her voice now firm and almost commanding. You release the breath you didn't realize you were holding, as your body eases against her touch. Almost instinctively. You can practically feel the warmth of her grin against your neck.

You press back against her slightly and Diana’s breath hitches momentarily, a jolt of electricity running through you at the unexpected, yet not unwelcome sensation of your body against hers. She doesn’t pull away though, instead letting you press against her even more. Her arms snake around your waist and pull you closer. She looks at you through the mirror, her voice low and sultry in your ear. “Much better,” she whispers.

Diana’s body is so warm against yours, her arms completely encircled around your waist. Her chest strong and flush against your back. She’s so close that you can hear her breathing and every faint sound she’s been making. You can smell her shampoo and the smell of her skin. Your head swims. It’s intoxicating. Overwhelming even. You struggle to think about much else but her, with you, right now.

You whine softly. “God, Diana…”

The use of her name breathless on your lips had clear effect on her. Her eyes fluttering shut as she lets out a shaky exhale only for you to hear. Her mask falters a bit, her fingers digging into your hips again.

“Say it again. Say my name again.” She whispers, low and hot.

“Make me.” You retort, wanting some of your control back.

Diana's reaction is instantaneous, her grip on your hips tightening as she presses you against the bathroom counter. Her body entraps you, and you feel her hips jerk involuntarily against your ass, a natural reflex. She repeats her order, her voice thick with demand, "Again." The air is heavy with tension, as her tone leaves no room for argument.

As you moan involuntarily at the sudden contact, your body happens to crave more of it. You resist the urge to give in just yet, teasing her with a breathy challenge. "Harder," you taunt, your face almost pressed against the cool surface of your bathroom mirror. "Like you mean it."

Diana barely contains a laugh at your audacity, but she has no time to waste on quips. Instead, she responds with a guttural moan, her hips moving with more deliberate purpose, grinding against you. She leans down, pressing her body against your back, her hand finding its way to your throat, gripping it firmly. She holds you there, her breath hot in your ear as she moans, for you and you alone.

The sensations overwhelm you, and you surrender. To her.

“Diana, baby. Please.” you plead, your voice thick with need and desire. You whine as she continues to grind against the curve of your ass, the clothed motion feeling so perverted yet so right. So intimate. Your head is spinning with need, and you gasp out, "More…" You whisper, voice desperate and ragged.

She obeys without a second thought, her hand sliding up your side and finding your breast. She cups it and squeezes it firmly, her hips rocking against you with a little more haste. Diana moans, “Your ass… so perfect.”

"Your body in this dress too," Diana moans, her voice thick with desire. "God, I've been thinking about doing this since the moment I walked in. " You gasp in response, the thought of her wanting you as much as you desire her sending waves of pleasure through you. You take the hand kneading at your tit and guide it to your clothed crotch. You hear Diana’s breath hitch once more.

You keep her hand there firm in place as you grind against it, her fingers cupping over the outline of your pussy through your dress. You hold your hand over hers, wanting to feel the veins in her hand as your clothed clit rocked against her fingers. When you moved backwards you were still met with Diana’s eager, gyrating hips. The double sensations making you moan out wantonly. It being so much, but still feeling like not enough. You would ask for more, but you forgot the two of you had prior obligations, lost in the heat of the moment.

Diana peppers kisses along the side of your throat and face, soft and tender, her desire for you prevalent in every kiss. Her grip on your neck is firm as she holds you in place possessively. Her touch is a stark contrast to the eager motion of your body rutting against her hand and her hips that were practically slamming into you now.

You felt a beam of heat coil in your gut, just needing a little more. And then some. You breathe out, throwing your head back against Diana’s chest.

“I’m so close.” You gasp into a moan, your body becoming overwhelmingly aware of all the sensations she’s giving you.

Diana’s gaze snaps up to look at you through the mirror, wanting to see your face when you cum for her. She runs her nose along your neck, her breath hot against your skin. “That’s right,” She whispers, her voice hoarse in your ear, “Let go for me.”

She’s losing her composure herself, her own breathing becoming ragged as she intensifies her ministrations. You whimper shamelessly. She bites down on the shell of your ear as she murmurs, her voice thick with desire, "You're so beautiful. So good for me." Then, in a hushed tone, she confesses, "I want to hear those gorgeous sounds when you cum.”

Diana's gaze is burning in the mirror, her eyes locking onto yours as she grips your face and forces you to maintain eye contact. You’ve never seen her look at you like this before– her gaze is low and seductive, filled with pure need.

You gasp as the orgasm washes over you, your body going rigid with pleasure. Diana continues kissing your neck, her words a sweet, incoherent mix of whispers and soft nothings. Her kiss is tender as you begin to tremble, and her body is there to support you against the counter. You slump against the surface, Diana's chest follows, hovering above you as her breathing intermingles with yours. The bathroom creating an echo of soft moans and ragged breaths, resonating in the empty space.

She moves the coils by your ear and whispers softly, “Can you stand?”

After regaining composure you stand up and turn around to face Diana, leaning against the counter. Her eyes, once filled with a preyful spark, are now softer, more vulnerable. Her gaze flicks down to your lips and then back up to your eyes, a clear message dancing in her gaze.

"I really want to kiss you," Diana admits, and you don't hesitate closing the already small gap between you two. Diana doesn’t hesitate with deepening the kiss, her mouth captures your bottom lip, lewdly sucking it in and out, the kiss slow and sloppy, filled with words left unspoken. Your hands roam instinctively, grasping at each other, seeking contact, as soft whimpers escape both of you.

Diana pulls back from the kiss, albeit reluctantly. She proceeds to smooth out your dress and adjust your hair again, taking a silent responsibility for the disarray. You return the favor, fixing her collar and gently tucking any loose curls back into her bun. A shared sense of giddiness fills the air, and as you lock eyes once again, you can't help the joint saccharine smile that you two shared.

"Now, are you ready to go?"

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