#My least favorite is probably The fire chapter one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

morganblues · 2 months ago

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𝓘T'S ALWAYS SUNNY IN METROPOLIS.

LIFE AND THE EDITORS OF THE DAILY PLANET PRESENT. . .

01. ‘ TEMPTATION SENSATION. ’ ★★★

series masterlist ! next chapter !

chapter summary⠀★⠀It was monday morning and your whole routine at the Daily Planet as a reporter got wrapped up by a chatty red squirrel, a chihuahua, and thousands of cameras everywhere. Could Clark Kent just shut up for a second?. content warnings⠀★⠀for the moment, nothing, Jimmy Olsen comic accurate, Lois and Cat being the ultimate friends, slight mention of Clex lol, Clark Kent being Clark Kent as always, Lex Luthor slander? As it should be, english isn't my first language!!! when you see these symbols [ ] appearing and disappearing, it means they start talking to the camera. word count⠀★⠀6K notes⠀★⠀ I'M SORRY I'M LATE SO MUCH IK but honestly I'm a slow writer and it's hard for me to write quickly :( Anyway, did you see Superman? I can only think about that movie istg I'm also super excited about my first series here and I really hope everyone likes it.

𝓜ETROPOLIS — 9:15 AM.

You were running late.

You barely had time to close your doors before you started running down the street trying to catch the subway and not miss it for the fifth time this month. You’re not thinking about the bitter coffee you'll have when you get there, and you don’t care about what's going on in the world today because you honestly couldn't care less.

When you got Cat's message just before getting on the subway, you read it a couple of times without understanding why her unusual drama was happening. Come on, it was Monday morning, the weather was a bit chillier than usual, your cat Arthur had been crying on your shoulders all night because he hated the new medieval castle-shaped bed you had bought with all your effort as a cat mom, and for nothing because he detested it from the moment he saw it, and honestly, Mondays were your least favorite day of the week, followed by Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday.

[Cat]: GOOD MORNINGGGGGGG come to the office NOW!!!! idgaf if you take the subway, come hereeeee you'll get here faster by bike, buy a helicopter, run, or disappear and reappear in the elevator. Just get here NOW.

You held your breath for a second.

"Am I about to be fired?" You wondered to yourself, or at least you thought you did, because just then several people in the train car turned to look at you. You tried not to pay them any attention, just staring at your phone as if you hadn’t said anything at all. And suddenly you felt like you were overreacting; sure, you weren’t the one covering the best section in the entire paper, but you knew your boss appreciated you — or at least that’s what you wanted to think. Besides, everyone was nice to you, and you always pitched in when it came to celebrating holidays, not to mention hanging out with Lois and Cat almost every weekend. You tried calling her but then she just sent a message saying she couldn't answer, and that didn't help at all.

You were a good coworker, or at least that's what I wanted to keep believing.

It doesn't take long when you push the door open hard that leads to all the workstations, and the first thing you see is chaos. Literally chaos. People you didn't know were crossing the aisles carrying cameras, lights, and their dignity dragging behind them.

Lana was talking to someone from the sound team in what could only be described as heartbreaking for both of them. Lois was pacing back and forth talking to the boss, Jimmy was just chasing after the big camera as it moved from one coworker to another, and in the background, Steve was just furiously typing on his phone, probably planning out all the angles he’ll cover about tomorrow’s basketball game.

And there she was, Cat leaning against your totally messy desk with pictures of your cat, one from your last birthday at the most boring bar in Metropolis, and the last one with your mom and sister on a trip to Central City.

"You're late."

"Who died?" you ask in light of the morning disaster before your eyes. Perry switched desks, and now you see him coming in and out of his bathroom, "What does this mean?"

Cat clicks her tongue like she’s waiting for your answer. And honestly, you can’t blame her, she knows you like the back of her hand. "Perry called us in for a last-minute meeting to fill us in on this whole disaster."

"And it's all about...?"

She looks at you again as if you've grown another head or are dumber than usual. "The big documentary they told us about a while back during the talk, remember? I've been talking about this for months."

If you're honest with yourself, you don't remember anything, but you're more forgetful than you'd like to be, and just when Lois gets close to you, she hears what you're saying and you know she has all the answers. "Honestly, I wish I could forget this too. Jimmy is the only one who's excited."

"But it's in the contract! It's always been known."

You mutter under your breath about the obvious. Of course, it was all in that stupid contract that you didn't even care about beyond the paycheck. "I never read that damn contract! Fuck, I needed the money and they needed a reporter, that was it."

"Perry just said we should act like none of this is happening, so just act normal."

"Like I always do?" A doubtful question, even though you already know the answer and it’s most likely they’re right.

The cat puts on its bright smile that you know is fake, and you know it because you feel like they've been friends since birth. "You can create a new persona... Just like Clark, check him out." You all turn to him, "He's acting like he's some cool guy instead of a nerd from Kansas."

"That's so true," Lois states and takes a sip of a bitter coffee, and you know she hates it, everyone hates Daily Planet coffee. You were going to rant until a bald man, even though he doesn't look more than 30, yells at you from the lunch room.

"YOU!"

"Me?" The black girl asks, pointing to herself.

"No, her!"

"Me, me?" you asked, incredulous, pointing at yourself.

"Yeah, you, you! White wants you to be in the main interview group! She said you're charismatic and 'tragically functional on camera.'"

That's such a lie.

No way, not today. You know you’re not ready for what that circus act could turn into, and even though your friends aren’t ready either, their confidence is a step ahead of you. Like Lois, who stays a bit neutral about the situation while still being annoyed, or like Jimmy, who follows everyone around and wishes he could split into pieces to be in multiple places at once.

"It's in the contract!" Perry shouts at you from a few meters away, with his tobacco between his lips like it's his religion. It probably is.

You want to raise your hands in a sign of peace, but your mind knows that all the thoughts against the situation have you on the edge of "Damn contract".

You gave up. A few minutes later, you had someone putting a microphone on the fabric of your suit, Jimmy telling you "Try not to sweat, your shirt is a bit see-through" — and you really tried not to take it too seriously — and Cat shouting from her office, saying you look better than usual and to be ready for any camera that's close to you.

You should just act natural. You remember it and repeat it in your mind until you decide to dodge the call you got and go straight to sit in front of your work area.

Your boss decides to speak for everyone: "'QUESTIONS IN 10 MINUTES! AND NO ONE SAY 'THIS IS NOT MY JOB' Because unfortunately for everyone, it is... And they don’t pay me enough to handle your complaints, so... Let’s get to work!"

Once again, the hallway turns into a parade of chaos disguised as professionalism, and you're just trying to remember if you put on deodorant this morning and if anyone, hopefully Clark, brought donuts.

In the end, you find out that almost all of them were eaten by Lana, and Steve ate the last chocolate glazed one.

Now you wish you hadn't gotten up from the discomfort of having Arthur as your pillow, and you know it would have been better if you had called in sick for all the trouble that being a journalist at the Daily Planet brings you.

It's your fault, you know it. You should have never gone into journalism, you should have never picked up a typewriter as a kid and imagined made-up stories and commented on all the silly news in your school.

It's your fault for hating it, well not entirely, but that annoying chatter coming from the stupid red-haired squirrel a few feet away is a pain you can feel in your right ear that not even an alien invasion could take away. You know he's doing his job and now you realized that the contract said that at any moment, due to the high demand for news every day, your boss was going to find a way to pile even more work on you, and today was that day.

That damn documentary was eating away at you, and it was the first time ever that you found it impossible to solve a fact of that magnitude. You were tied up from all sides, and Perry White was laughing from his desk like some evil wizard looking for more exploitation. You were about to quit when Lois reminded you what your contract included, and no lawyer was going to get involved in nonsense just because you didn’t read the contract—or genuinely didn't care, but that was the fate you were stuck with. Now hundreds of cameras are roaming around the Daily Planet while your other colleagues are trying to act as natural as possible whenever any cold light shines in their eyes.

You see Clark sitting there talking to Lois about who knows what, but they've both been complaining about all the stupid stuff that comes with making a documentary, and you know, nobody cares about what a group of writers with no social life beyond a pet do from Monday to Friday as they just focus on what's happening in the city and the world day after day.

It was exhausting just to listen to it.

If you thought about it, it made some sense, but come on, no one at work should know that sometimes you don’t totally dislike your job.

But according to the one and only Perry White, this was the big future that the city was tied to, and it would make more future generations interested in the harsh truth of a story, in what it can generate, and thus learn that a good reporter doesn’t just get great stories. A good reporter makes them great.

And even if you don't know every stiff soul of your coworkers completely, you know you're not the only miserable one there. You see your gossip buddy Cat, who is the voice in your head telling you that even though she’s not excited, it’s the best for the paper, and you try not to let Olsen's whistling, calling you to look at the camera and act like a decent person, bother you.

"Day 01 of the documentary 'Metropolis: Veritas et Justitia'. Goal: to capture the essence of modern journalism. Today, we're here with another one of our reporters..."

"Could you do me the favor of removing that damn camera from my face?" you turn to the redhead who has not only taken it upon himself to harass all your colleagues but also to ask every stupid thing he could think of before he was called to take pictures of any early news.

You can feel how the camera zooms out from you to the point where you can see Jimmy's teasing smile behind the device, until he turns off the camera for a few seconds.

"This is just our first day shooting! Can't you make at least a little effort? You know... everyone else has wanted to chip in."

"I honestly don't understand all this preparation," you growl at the amount of lights surrounding Lana, as you watch her speak enthusiastically in front of a camera, "plus I remind you that you work for the newspaper, not whatever this is.

"Yeah..." Jimmy's smile shows up as he sits at the table behind him, adjusting his shirt between his khaki pants. "Perry said I could volunteer with one of the cameras to save some costs."

[ ]

"And did you volunteer on your own?" the cameraman asks alongside his crew, the question makes him feel smothered for a second, and it feels like the warehouse is smaller than it really is. He knew he was an idiot for agreeing, but that’s how things were. He couldn't back out now that he was so deep into the role.

Jimmy pressed his lips together in front of the camera that was filming him while he tried to come up with the most coherent thing he could say without looking like an idiot in front of everyone who would watch the documentary. "Honestly, Perry forced me and offered me a check for 8% to keep it a secret, but I can't tell her that; she'd tell everyone, and I can't face another embarrassment."

The camera guy behind him shakes his head in annoyance, and Olsen feels the room getting a little smaller. "There's nothing worse than lying as a journalist."

Jimmy apologizes before getting up with embarrassment, and leaves the mic dropped on the floor.

[ ]

"And you were the one who offered?" You smile ironically, "Woah Jimmy, you're quite the gentleman."

"Of course! Who else would do it?"

"Uh, I don’t know…" you deny in false understanding and lean in to pat him on the right shoulder twice, as if you’re feeling sorry for him. "Probably someone who likes getting paid poorly."

His huff is interrupted by Perry’s long walk towards you holding a poster with the day’s latest news. You lower your face toward your computer, and just when you want to pretend you’re typing, the sound of several pages falling onto your keyboard breaks the silence. You’re not scared because that’s how most days went, but today felt exceptionally heavy, and you wondered if you were finally going to cover something that actually interested you.

A yellow sticky note firmly covers Arthur's face, and you grin showing your teeth with a force that makes your jaw hurt. How dare he!?

12:00 PM — INTERVIEW WITH HELEN BRYCE: 'DOES HER CHIHUAHUA DOG SEE A PSYCHOLOGIST?'

"What is this?" You play dumb and point to the piece of paper placed on the amazing photo of your son. Perry squints, knowing what you're doing, and takes the tobacco out of his mouth.

"You need to go to her mansion in New Troy before that time, keep it professional like always, and please just ask her the important stuff. No talk about Belle Reve or her psycho boyfriend because I guarantee she'll start crying in an instant."

You get up from your seat, challenging him as the terrible smell of tobacco pierces through you. You hate it, and at this very moment, you hate your boss a little bit more. "Come on, Perry, I studied investigative journalism for stories like this," you point to the TV showing Flash saving thousands of civilians in Central City. "Not to ask some ex-socialite if her dog has daddy issues because of Lex Luthor’s abandonment."

"These are the news that people want to read."

"Yeah, but those aren't the ones I want to share."

"We've already talked about this," he resigns himself to your attitude while you're trying to stay calm. Obviously, you weren't going to blow up right then and there, especially with cameras around. Your mom still watches cable TV after all. You need to keep a more than presentable attitude, or at least that’s what you were going to try.

Jimmy comes closer again and focuses on your face. "Here’s one of our gossip journalists reporting a new case about one of the most famous dogs in the city. What will it bring us this time? Is it trendy now to take dogs to psychologists? We’ll find out..."

[ ]

"Rule #01 of Post-Modern Journalism: If you cover gossip about famous pets more than twice... Your dignity applies to euthanasia because they don't care about their pets, they care about them entering their branded bag" You stare at the camera with a certain attitude "Besides, if I'm completely honest, cats are even better and no one can prove to me otherwise"

[ ]

Clark walks up to them from a distance with the biggest grin you've ever seen, and Jimmy manages to make fun of him from afar while recording it, and you wonder if that'll ever air. You hope not. "He's all silly because we got our first front page together."

"Our?"

"I took the photos" Olsen smiles as if he just spotted a glazed donut that you miss, and for a moment you think about forgiving him for all the time he’s tried to film you.

You arrive and bump your fist against his shoulder, knowing he hates it, that's why you do it. "Congrats, Kent, which premise did you cover?"

The imprisonment of Luthor, if it's even possible, makes his smile even bigger, and Olsen gives him little jabs in the ribs. "Look," he hands over his newspaper, and you check today's date, along with the big headline in headlines and his name as the author in small print, with Jimmy credited as the photographer.

"Is it good?" he asks, adjusting his glasses.

"Uhhhhh I don’t know... Do you think it’s good?" You cross your arms, challenging him to reveal the truth.

He ignores your question and laughs, "I guess Perry wants all those words from the cutest puppy in town. YESTERDAY, and I think" he turns to Jimmy as if he’s about to make a joke, "that I already delivered mine."

[ ]

"Of course I read Clark's article long before he got around to showing it to me. Is it good? Yeah. Will I admit it? Never, my ego the size of Gotham City wouldn't survive if it found out."

[ ]

You frown and want to tell him that his article needs some tweaks, but he doesn't even give you time to share your thoughts before, out of nerves, he snatches it from your hand because his red-haired buddy just started filming it so he can share his experience. You laugh when he gives a shout-out to his parents right off the bat.

You take your coat in one arm and your dignity in the other, you remove the yellow sticky note covering your son and head towards the worst part of the city. You hear as breaking news that Steve never ate the last chocolate donut. Clark approaches you with that beautiful pink box shimmering with silver glitter, and without saying anything, he opens the cardboard box in front of you. In your mind, you want to make it more dramatic than it already is, and you thank any goddess that might be listening for this blessing that you have yet to name. You open it and there it is, the famous last glazed donut, yes, that one — the one you had cursed for not reaching.

You don't want me to know how much you want to hug him, so acting naive is your only weapon for now. "Is this your way of saying sorry for existing?"

He doesn't even bother to make another comment that takes up more of your time. "This is the last one, I thought you liked it more than Steve or Lana, or the city in general."

"And you don't?"

He shrugs as if he doesn't care, "I already had my moment of glory today, remember? Front page. I don't need a donut to feel validated."

You let out a big huff that you don't even care if any camera is recording or not. Their laughter warns you that their joke is nothing more than that, and there's no one but you who knows it, but honestly, today is just not your day and your brain doesn’t care to come up with another ironic joke to hurt Clark's feelings even though you desperately want to.

You decide to ignore them as you grab the only thing that can fill you with happiness right now: "I hate you."

They open their eyes as if what you just said is true, and at this moment, you don't care. They get closer to say goodbye to you, but you’re faster. You grab your coat, take off the yellow tag covering your kid, and head towards the worst part of the city.

[ ]

You look at the camera intently.

"Clearly, I don't hate him and he doesn't hate me. And yes, I ate the donut. What did they want me to do, leave it there? Share it? This is the Daily Planet, not a hippie commune, and if I die in that mansion, let it be clear that Clark Kent was... somewhat decent today. Not a hero, but almost."

[ ]

After taking a cab with the money Perry gave you, you arrived in torture territory, or as you like to call it 'the mansion of the recently dumped Helen Bryce and Lex Luthor.'

It's huge, Perry told you that Luthorcorp bought up big plots of land to build homes for all their corporate buddies, but since his imprisonment, they only finished one house, and that was his. Now it's been lived in by the woman he was supposed to marry, but the pictures of Lex as a cheater have multiplied ever since rumors came out about him dating Eve Teschmacher.

Her assistant evaluates you for a moment, and you observe yourself. You're wearing your coat now, and your sunglasses had hidden themselves deep in your purse, probably assessing whether you’re the real reporter or not, but she’s judging you more than you’d like. You're about to ask her why she’s staring so much until Helen Bryce’s brown hair along with her unmistakable Chihuahua appear in front of you, holding a smile that looks more creepy than friendly. Even though you know she’s just upset, or at least that’s what you want to think.

She seats you in one of those beach chairs that overlooks the pool and the tennis court, and hands you chamomile tea that one of her other assistants brought. You lean closer to Helen and start pulling out your recorder because you don’t feel like writing about any nonsense you plan to cover.

You think about formalizing your role as the established reporter you are and introduce yourself as you always do by saying your name, your position at the daily, and the reason for your visit, but Helen interrupts any thoughts you have before you can even remember them the moment you hear her speak.

"My baby Peanut" takes a little paw from the chihuahua and pets it. "She has nightmares about him, you know? Luthor would always threaten her if she broke stuff around the house."

You nod like it's tea time with a celebrity, and try not to smile for a second because it's almost the same as saying, "I get it, dog feelings are... pretty complex, right?"

"You have no idea!"

"Of course, and how has it been since the departure of...? Well, you know who I'm talking about." You're afraid that the awkward laugh you let out will be noticed, and you'll find yourself wrapped up in a pointless problem before 2:00 PM.

"Well, I'm fine, but my baby? My baby feels everything. Do you see how she's shaking?" She points again, trying to prove her point, and the worst part is she's right; you see the Chihuahua frowning just at the mention of the name Lex. "It's the real post-Luthor trauma! Ever since that... thing tried to turn her little doghouse into an anti-Superman bunker!

"You pause for a second. "A what, you say?"

Helen's face turns cold, and her features that were once tinged with sadness are now firm, realizing she said something she shouldn't have. She bites her lips and lets her pet run off to anywhere in the house.

"I’d prefer if you forget what I said..."

You shake your head, "Sorry, I can't. My values as a reporter won’t let me," you adjust in your chair as if that gives you more validation, "And you should also know, it's illegal."

[ ]

The cameraman looks at you with a face you translate as unfriendly, but you ignore it. "It’s not illegal, but she probably doesn’t know that."

"Is everyone in this Daily a liar? Real journalism doesn’t exist anymore," you try to keep a calm face when you see him shaking his head as if he’s disappointed, and you wonder who the other person who lied could be.

[ ]

"Lex did a lot of illegal things, it doesn't make sense to add another thing to the list."

"And where does that leave him?" You watch her, waiting for a huff or for her to kick you out for making her question things, but she says nothing, stiff like she doesn't know what to do.

Perry was crazy if he thought you were just going to stick with the interview about why a dog was sad. Now, if you could have some real news, one that was worth every word and every paragraph, but also one that could beat Clark's big scoop, and all coming from the same person.

Now you're holding your recorder like a weapon and definitely jotting down what you consider the most important: "All of our team at the Daily Planet needs you to not only show loyalty to your role as a person but also to yourself," you say, placing the big notebook resting on your knees. "Don’t do it just to look good in front of the world, do it for her," you point to the Chihuahua that’s biting a ball from a distance. "You know she would vote for you to do the right thing."

"No," she says firmly.

"Please."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"Please?" you ask, leaving your recorder on the chair and moving closer. "I'll make Lex Luthor the biggest idiot of an ex in the whole city if that's really what you want..."

Helen manages to smile and, overwhelmed with emotion, squeezes her puppy in her arms, sure that she will now need psychological help. "Really? Would you do that for me?"

You nod, getting excited about any juicy news she might tell you. Yeah, take that, White. You feel that victory on your lips, savoring it along with a trip to the Bahamas with Arthur having an assistant, and Clark fuming over your victory known throughout the Daily.

"You have to promise me you won't say my name in this," she gets closer to you, surprising you by grabbing your shoulders and looking you straight in the face. Her breath hits you, and for a second, you think about dropping everything and doing that damn report on the dog with daddy issues.

"I promise."

"No, I need you to swear it," she grips you tighter and shakes you. Your recorder lying on the ground shines brighter than ever, and you realize you're committed now. You can't back out.

"I swear!"

"Swear it on what you love most in life!"

"I swear on my cat!"

Her smile grows as she hears you. "You know, today I’m really feeling a deep kindness in my heart and I..." she starts, talking about the beginnings of their relationship and you know this will take more time than you feared. Her eyes cloud over and she lowers her voice, checking to see if her assistants are nearby. "He used to talk in his sleep about some projects. He said things like... Building global watchtowers, and he always talked about Superman, to be honest! I was so fed up with it! I think he's just in love.

"I think the right word would be obsessed," you assert, jotting down what she says.

"For me, he was in love but like I said, that’s just my opinion."

"Go ahead" you stop her before she starts rambling about things that don’t concern you and add nothing to your new story, she looks at you for a few seconds with a frown, as if she doesn’t understand you. "The bunker"

"Bunker?... Oh right! Peanut was sleeping in her cozy little heated house and was happily living her life, until he showed up with his blueprints," your surprised eyes watch her seriously. "He wanted to install a so-called urban camouflage that emitted rays which could weaken Superman."

You tried not to look surprised, but you were, and you were scared if Helen was just as crazy as her ex. Even though you had never seen Superman being anything but powerful, you had no doubts that if someone found his weakness, it was Lex Luthor. "I get it... And how did you react to that makeover?"

"Well, I couldn't say anything, after all it's her house, but Peanut didn't like it at all," she smiles proudly, "She pee on Lex's Italian shoe. And then with her help I stole something from him to follow through with his plans that genuinely make 0 sense to me."

"What was so important that you had to steal from her?" Your eyebrow raises, expecting something more interesting than just a simple innocent theft.

Helen pulls a flash drive from her left pocket. "This! We snatched it without him noticing when the Belle Reve officials came to get him." You take it in your hands and are surprised by its shape; its USB port is almost invisible on the base, and you notice it's not compatible with just any computer. "Lex called it his bone backup; he hid it in Peanut's little house because he thought no one would check there. Isn't that silly?" The Chihuahua reappears from behind some branches, barking non-stop at a butterfly, then comes over to you a few seconds later, panting like it just ran a marathon of about 10 kilometers.

"I didn't have much time to check it out, but there are all kinds of things related not just to Superman, and he always mentioned the construction of those power towers not just in the city, but all over the country."

You don’t know what to tell her. You definitely didn't have much info about Superman besides knowing him as the hero of the city everyone loves, but you have no clue where Luthor’s intense obsession with him comes from, and even less about how he plans to destroy him — if he even can.

"And what do you think Lex was planning to do with all this information?" You point to the flash drive, now yours. Sticking like gum in hair. And now you actually feel it, that sense of achievement growing in your chest with all this scoop in your hands. You don’t even know if Helen is telling you the truth, but her sad resentment towards Luthor was more than obvious, so you doubted it. All you know is that this whole situation is journalism, pure journalism, the kind you want to find in every newspaper, and for which that fucking Perry White would give you the front page.

"I guess so."

The recorder next to you picks up all the info you’ve been digging into and more, and you smile to yourself before thinking things through completely. You have a slight suspicion that your boss would fire you if they knew that not only did you not interview the damn dog, but also because you’re not following their rules and getting involved in situations that are driving you crazy.

"Mrs. Bryce, this is incredible, but pretty dangerous. If Luthor finds out you have this..."

She interrupts you before you can even think about what you were going to say next, "We have lawyers and the justice system isn't as corrupt as you make it seem."

Sure.

Your watch shows a different time, and you know it's your moment to leave before you find out something else that exceeds your expectations as a reporter. You say goodbye to another rude assistant at the door, and just as you turn around, you hear it. "Poor girl , she will urgently need a lawyer."

[ ]

Clark puts on his glasses and adjusts his tie, establishing a neatness he's been managing for longer than he can remember. "Hey ma and pa," he laughs as if they're watching him right now, "Hope you guys are doing well, everything’s great over here..."

"Cut to the chase, dude," the cameraman interrupts his speech before it can go on longer than anyone wants. "We don't have all day."

He gets embarrassed and nods as if he’s being scolded. "Well, the donut, like always, was a peace offering or a survival tactic, I'm not sure." He pauses for a second while turning to look off-camera and then looks back at the lens. "Look, she says she hates me, like a lot, and I tell her that every day too, but she always accepts the food I offer her, it's something, right?" There’s a moment of silence and he leans slightly forward, as if sharing a big secret. "Once I said that bagels were better, and she wouldn’t talk to me for like three days. Isn’t that stupid? But she’s really sweet, even when she’s about to murder me with her eyes, or throw her coffee cup at me... sometimes both at the same time."

[ ]

You're leaning against the cold wall of the elevator while you wait for the doors to open on your floor, praying to any God you believe in that there isn't a damn camera with a microphone aimed at the elevator door like working is the greatest thing in life.

You were wrong.

You hear the whistle as the doors open and quickly hit the button to close them again, but the camera has already caught you; you were about to look like the biggest idiot at the Daily.

You walk quickly over to the lunch table to get yourself a cup of coffee, and your smile couldn't get any bigger. Today was one of the happiest days of your life, and it’s all because you landed the scoop of your life that would shape your entire career—or at least boost the respect you get as a reporter. What’s worse? Perry wanted an article, and since the psychology of famous pets is the future, now you have the story that will overshadow Kent's scoop in a heartbeat.

You lose track of the sugar for a moment and notice Clark by the gleam of metal behind you. You squint your eyes and turn around, determined to hear any nonsense he might say. "Uh, Perry sent me to... help you with the dog interview," he extends the sugar container towards you, "Everything okay? You look excited."

"Kent, I don't believe a word you say."

"Well... Maybe he didn't say that, but I just want to know how it went. Nothing else," he chuckles, "You're very, very excited."

"Me? I don't think so, I just found out that Luthor's ex's dog hates its ex-owner more than you hate staff meetings."

"Is that it!?"

"Oh and it also has daddy issues!"

Clark smiles but his eyes don’t; they're fixed on the bulge in your pocket and you don’t pay attention. How would he know what you're hiding until you figure out what it really contains? An awkward silence settles under his persistent gaze while everyone else talks until the day ends, and you make up a whole story about Peanut and the anxiety of missing and hating his dad at the same time.

You got home before midnight after an endless day at the Planet, and you felt more than exhausted. You had no energy for much more than crashing on your green sofa next to Arthur, a bag of onion-flavored chips, and the crime documentary about Gotham that you had been meaning to catch up on for weeks. You felt good, way more than good; your day had gone from the stress of being interviewed by some idiot Jimmy and a competitive Clark to the craziness of chatting with a Chihuahua lover, and everything would be alright if you could just find a reader for that specific USB.

It was now Tuesday morning and almost everything had gone amazing on Monday, but that all changed when, that same night, the entire building you had lived in for 6 years was on fire. And now, while you were eating a hot dog from the corner near Lois's place, you knew a curse had fallen upon you because you had no home and all you had on was your pajamas.

taglist: @beforeroachfalls @neska223

#it's always sunny in metropolis 𖤓 #dc #dc comics #dc universe #dc superman #superman x reader #superman smut #superman x you #clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #superman #superman 2025 #david corenswet #david corenswet x reader

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thefeverburningalive · 6 months ago

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࣪𖤐.ᐟ 𝖳𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖨 𝖧𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖠𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖸𝗈𝗎.

billie eilish x fem!reader

chapter three | ch2 | ch1

summary: due to the recent new rule given to your sister by your father, some meddling parties decide the easiest way to get you to date is by paying somebody to take you out. who better to do so then the hot mysterious delinquent

link💙

a/n: i’m so sorry this took so long to come out </3. i had a super crazy past couple of weeks plus some writers block sprinkled in there. there will most likely be only one or maybe two more parts of this so i hope you guys enjoyy.. also! i put a little star (*) where a specific scene starts, in order for the scene to make sense please watch the link above or at least listen to the song above (bc it was the best thing ive ever written and i want it to make sense so bad) tysm!!

genre: slow burn, tooth rotting fluff, angst, probably a curse word or two

warnings: slight cursing, idiots being idiots

word count: 4.2k

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

“y/n, m’lady, you sway to the rhythm of my heart.” kissy sounds and off beat comments where all you could hear the second you entered the classroom, reminders of the fool you had made of yourself at that party. english had always been your favorite subject but you where dreading all classes today. how could you be such an idiot? you couldn’t give any of those jerks the satisfaction of your acknowledgement. you sat down and began to take your materials out. just ignore and pretend like you always do. “y/n stratford you where on fire! wonder where you learned to dance like that babe.” joey’s voice makes anger bubble deep inside your gut. you kept cool on the outside, not even glancing up, keeping your eyes fixated what’s in-front of you as joey joins his friends. right as the bell rang, billie came in. she quickly looked for your eyes which where still preoccupied. she timidly walks over and slinks into the seat behind you. you knew it was her. you weren’t sure if you recognized the sound of her necklaces rattling together or her musky perfume first, but both where indicators of her presence. billie knew she fucked up. the entire situation was fucked up. she couldn’t help but ask herself if the money she was getting was worth breaking something that’s already fragile. billie wants to know you, to be real with you. your cold shoulder was enough for her to make up her mind. she’s calling it off with joey. you listened intensely as mrs. blaise explained the upcoming assignment. something about writing poems- or something like that. before you knew it the bell was ringing, and you waisted no time in scooping up your stuff and rushing off. you didn’t even hear billie say your name as you left.

you always spent lunch with your friend juliana, being that she was one of your, if not your only, close friends. “you went to a party? i thought we where officially apposed to social activity.” she linked her arm through yours, connecting you guys while the two of you walked through the campus. “i didn’t have a choice jules.” this was the last topic you wanted to discuss, not only where you embarrassed over getting fucked up and making a fool of yourself, but also embarrassed by getting turned down by billie. “didn’t have a choice? where’s my y/n and what have you done with her?” you knew she was just poking friendly fun but you really where in no joking mood. “i did it for bianca and it backfired. i got drunk. i danced. i fell. i puked. i got rejected. it was big fun.” juliana didn’t push after your short angered rant. she could tell it was something that was still raw for you. she really wanted to ask about the being rejected part, you having failed to mention to her you where even remotely intrigued by anyone. as you two walk you see and make eye contact with billie. she nervously smiles and gives a small wave. you huff and roll your eyes before immediately turning to walk on a different path. juliana made eye contact with billie. without knowing or hearing anything, juliana knew all she needed to know before continuing to follow you. you decided to have some ‘you time’ after school. the vintage book store was always a comforting place for you. you could spend hours trailing up and down the rustic istles. “exuse me? do you know where i could find a copy of the feminine mystique? i seemed to have lost my copy.” it seemed as if billie came out of no where, suddenly standing directly in-front of you. you stop dead in your tracks and cross your arms. “what are you doing here?” she smiles and shrugs her shoulders at you. “heard this is a pretty cool joint.” you let out a sarcastic laugh before turning to a near by shelf, picking up a book, and shoving it into billie’s chest before exiting. when billie looked down, there was now a copy of the feminine mystique in her hand.

the next day flew by fairly quickly, and quietly. you where on the soccer field going about practice as usual. the coach announced a fifteen minute break since the marching band was also on the field, practicing for the next football game. you chatted with some of your teammates, discussing tactics for the next game and complaining about whatever else.* “you’re just too good to be true,, can’t take my eyes off of you,,” suddenly a beautiful voice could be heard over the loud system of the game field. “you’d be like heaven to touch,, i wanna hold you so much,,” billie was suddenly seen coming out of the announcer booth, microphone in hand, lips moving perfectly in sync with the singing. she was singing. “at long last, love has arrived,, and i thank god i’m alive,,” she then finally finds your eyes on the field, holding the most intense eye contact with you. “you’re just too good to be true,, can’t take my eyes off of you.” as she finished the phrase she points a finger at you. before you could even continue to process what was going on, the entire school band starts playing music- the music to go along with billie’s singing. your mouth hangs agape, an unavoidable smile spreading onto your face. everyone else on the field was in total shock, people laughing, teasing, gossiping. but you couldn’t even be bothered to care. all you could focus on was billie. she sang and danced through the bleachers, along with running away from campus security. all you could do was watch and laugh and smile, not even believing what was happening. as the song came to a close billie eventually had to stop dodging security and go with them to the principals office- probably to get in trouble for hijacking the sound system. you whistled and cheered for her though, as did everyone else. you definitely couldn’t let her sit through detention after that. the loud whistle the coach was using snapped you out of your thoughts. unfortunately, you couldn’t help her until after practice. luckily, it wrapped up about twenty minutes later. after lazily throwing sweat pants over your soccer shorts and slipping on some low top sneakers, you made your way to the detention room. all you had to do was distract the teacher long enough to let billie escape. as you entered the room, billie eyes where the first thing you looked for. your eyes met instantly, she gave you a ‘what are you doing?’ look as you gave her a ‘don’t worry about it’ look back. “mr. elicks! just the guy i was looking for!” okay so maybe you weren’t an actor, but you could be convincing enough for the sake of the task at hand. you created small talk with the older male teacher, once he turned his back you looked over at billie- mouthing the words ‘escape while you can’. billie had a huge grin on her face as you continued to chat away with the teacher. slowly but surely, billie made it out of the classroom undetected. once she was out, you quickly said goodbye and dashed out of there. the both of you laughed and giggled while running down the halls, booking it for the parking lot. you lead her to your car before unlocking the doors allowing you both to sit. “dude i can’t thank you enough for helping me sneak out of detention. very cool of you.” she was still panting a bit, but you where too, having just run down four hauls and several flights of stairs. you laugh through the pants before responding. “yeah no problem.” you put the keys in the ignition and begin to drive, existing the parking lot. “i thought i was gonna be a goner trying to sneak out of there. so how did you do it? keep him so distracted?” due to you driving, you couldn’t exactly look over at her. but you could tell she was still smiling. “oh you know..i dazzled him with my wits.” she chuckles as you pull into a gas station parking lot. “so what now.” you turn to billie, now being able to actually talk. “are you up for it?” billie has this mischievous look on her face. “up for what?”

that’s how the two of you ended up covered in paint, laughing your asses off, playing paint-ball. “eilish watch out!!” you two start laughing as she got hit with a paint ball. you take a few step closer to her but you’re suddenly hit with a paintball straight to your back, sending you stumbling forward. before you know it you’re falling onto the ground- right on top of billie. “well how cliche.” billie placed one of her hands on the small of your back, while the other came up to brush some of your paint covered hair from out of your face. “shut up and kiss me already.” “with pleasure.” billie then finally brings her face to yours, and places her hips atop of yours. her lips where softer than clouds, seemingly melting into yours. the kiss was soft and gentle. she tasted like cherry chapstick and spearmint gum. when the kiss was done, you felt yourself missing it. after the kiss, you both just looked at each other for a moment. neither of you being able to find the right words to say now. billie was the first one to speak. “maybe we should uh- head out.” you nodded and scrambled to get up and off of her, offering your hand to help her stand. the walk back to the car was silent. it wasn’t awkward, but there was still a slight feeling of tension. as you got to the car you handed her a towel from in your trunk. she raised an eyebrow at you. “bianca always has me pick her and her friends up from the beach. i hate sand, especially in my car. so ive just gotten into the habit of keeping towels in the trunk.” she nods and listens as you both wipe as much paint as possible from off yourselves before entering the car. “do you wanna go to my place?” the question catches you off guard. you’d never been to billie’s house before, hell you dont even know where she lives. she continued to speak. “we’re both covered in paint, and exhausted. also- i’m pretty sure your dad will go all ‘sargent dad’ on you if you go home looking like a kindergarteners finger painting project.” she had a point, your dad would ask way too many questions, and you hated the feel of the paint drying in your hair. “yeah why not. but i have no idea where you live.” she smiles as she puts her seat belt on. “i gotcha mamas, i’ll give you directions.” and she does just that. it was about fifteen minutes of her giving you directions before you finally made it back to her house.

it was different then you pictured in your head. she leads you inside after unlocking the door. you’re suddenly met with a large pitbull, jumping up excitedly onto billie. “shaaark hi buddy, hey big guy, who’s a good boy!” you watch as billie crouched down to give love to the dog while she talked to him in a cute baby voice. it was a side of billie you’d never seen before, and it made you smile. the dog suddenly comes over to you and sniffs you, before sitting in front of you seemingly waiting for you to pet him. you smile and pat his head. “nice to meet you shark! aww you’re so cutee.” now you’re crouching down to pet the dog as he rolls over for you to rub his belly. “oh yeah he’s a looker.” she watches closely while you interact with her dog, something about it makes her stomach do backflips. “he’s literally the cutest thing i’ve ever seen.” you turn to look at her while still petting the dog. “not as cute as you.” she shoots you a wink and you roll your eyes, your cheeks blushing slightly. “here come i’ll show you where the bathroom is, i’ll grab you a towel and some clothes to throw on.” she guides you up a flight of stairs and to a bathroom, seemingly to be her own. “i’ll be right back with the supplies.” she turns and leaves while you study the bathroom. it has one tooth brush, so this must be her own bathroom. you see some skincare products lined up on the sink, along with some vanilla body lotion. a knock at the door is heard before billie slips in. “clothes and towel as promised. there’s shampoo, conditioner and body wash inside the shower on the shelf. once you’re done you can come to my room that’s where i’ll be. it’s the first door on the left when you walk out.” you nod taking the pile from her hands, while she closes the door behind her. you quickly shower, ridding yourself of the paint. billie gave you a black nike hoodie with some red basket ball shorts. the outfit was a little big on you, but it was almost comforting. the clothes smelt like her arms where wrapped around you.

you made your way to her room, the sound of low music to be heard from the door that was cracked open. when you stepped inside you’re met with a whole different billie than you’re used to. billie is seated at a desk- she’s wearing a darker red hoodie was some sort of band logo on it, along with some checkered pajama shorts. her hair was wet but thrown up in a messy bun, and she seemed to be applying some skin care products to her face. she seemed so much more real. she noticed your presence and smiled. “c’mon in, i don’t bite.” she grins as she speaks while motioning for you to sit on the edge of the bed next to her chair. without a second beat you indulge. “do you live here alone?” you couldn’t stop yourself from being nosey. it was strange there was no one else here. “nah i live with my parents and older brother. my parents travel a lot for business and my brothers almost always at his girlfriends house- if not then working.” you head nodded as she spoke, your eyes locked with her blue ones. “its not too bad tho. i usually just kinda hang here with shark. sometimes zoe will come by.” as hard as you tried to pay attention to her words, her presence was overtaking your mind. your mind couldn’t help but question how you ended up here. “what about you? have anything you like to do while home alone?” it was clear billie was continuing to try and get to know you, which you appreciated. “well i’m also usually home alone a lot. bianca’s always god knows where. my dad works in a hospital so he’s off saving lives. jules is usually busy- she works and studies a lot, and she’s pretty much the only person i hang out with. i kinda just read or listen to music or practice the guitar.” speaking with billie felt so natural to you as you’ve grown accustomed to her being around. “nice nice. i’m more of a piano person myself.” billie smirked as she spoke. “speaking of music- i didn’t know you could sing??” you’d almost forgotten about the public performance from earlier today; even though it was only a few hours since it felt like days. you could see a small blush creep onto her cheeks as she just smiled and rubbed the back of her neck. “i- yeah.. it’s not something i talk about a ton.” you could tell the topic made her slightly nervous. it was cute. you start to think back on the reason for her show earlier, and it makes you slightly frown. billie must have noticed the shift in your mood because she immediately perks up. “hey, what’s wrong?” the concern could be heard in billie’s voice. “why didn’t you kiss me in the car?” the question you’d been dying to ask finally spilling out, you stood as you continued to speak. “you flirt with me. you call me pet names. you- you take me to a party- take care of me- open up to me- but then you don’t kiss me-? and then today you do this big gesture and you hang out with me and kiss me and bring me to your home- i just.. do you not want to be with me or what because i-i can’t just play games with you billie.” you let out a sigh after speaking, having just ranted and spilled out everything you’d been thinking.

billie just looks at you. you couldn’t tell what she was thinking- her eyes being so unreadable. she sighed as she stood up from her chair so she was standing directly infront of you. without saying any words she just brought her arms around your waist and pulled you in for a hug. not knowing what to do- you put your arms around her shoulders. billie buried her face in the crook of your neck and sighed. “i’m sorry.” was all billie said, her voice low as she was so close to you. you could feel her breath on your neck and it sent shivers down your spine. the two of you stayed like that for a moment, not knowing when to break apart- not wanting to break apart. billie pulled away and cupped a hand on your cheek. “i was scared- you where kinda drunk and i don’t know i thought that you’d either regret it or forget it if we kissed that night. but i-i do- i do want to be with you.” billie’s eyes slightly glossed over, a mix of emotions clouding her brain. none of this was actually supposed to happen. she wasn’t supposed to fall for you, she wasn’t supposed to get so involved, but she couldn’t help it. her stomach was sick with guilt, she wanted to be real with you. she wanted to be with you because of her feelings, not because of joey. you smiled and pulled her into another hug. “i forgive you.” you spoke just above a whisper. “i know i can be a lot.. i’m very closed off but it’s just because- i’ve just been hurt a lot. it’s hard for me to trust people.” your confession sent another wave a guilt through billie. billie knew she had to be sure that this ‘deal’ with joey was buried dead and gone. she also knew she had to make sure you’d never find out. when you finally let go, billie could see more of the pink hue that dusted your cheeks. for the first time, you felt nervous under her gaze. billie gave you the softest smile, the same pink hue now covering her own cheeks. she slightly stepped closer, if that was even possible. “can i kiss you again?” her voice was low, quiet, like her words where only meant for your ears. all you could do was nod, not trusting your voice to be stable enough to answer. she placed her hand behind your ear while her thumb rested on your cheek before leaning in, and kissing you once more. this kiss felt different then the first one. the first one was soft, a spur of the moment kiss. this kiss felt more real. it was passionate, like she was confessing her feelings through her movements. she pulled you closer by your waist as you put your hands on her chest, slightly grabbing at her hoodie as if to pull her even closer. by the time you’d both finally pulled away, you where on the brink of gasping for air, the kiss having lasted a life time. she rested her forehead atop of yours, her eyes staring deep into yours. “go to prom with me.” it wasn’t even a question she was asking you, more of a demand. “prom-? why would you even want to go?” you didn’t take billie as the school event type of girl. “i want to be with you. i want to do things with you. please go to prom with me.” the desperation in her voice made the butterflies in your stomach start to flutter. “i don’t know billie..” you wanted to protest the idea but then you just saw her staring at you with her big blue eyes. how could you say no? a sigh escaped you lips before you finally answered. “okay- i’ll go to prom with you.” billie immediately picks you up by the waist and spins you around. you laugh with wide eyes while gripping onto her shoulders. “i promise you won’t regret this y/n.” she holds your face in her hands as she speaks. you blush once more, the strong brick walls you had built around your feelings slowly came crumbling down.

it had been hours since you’d arrived at billie’s house, her having suggested to you guys watching some tv on her living room couch turned into an hour and a half long nap. when you woke up, you where clung to billie’s torso. her arm was draped around your shoulders while the other one was playing with your hair. you groaned, having been so comfortably sleeping. “hey sleepy head.” billie spoke very softly, sounding like she’d possibly also been sleeping. “how long was i asleep for?” you sat up slightly, still staying close to billie. “like an hour and a half-ish. i woke up like twenty minutes ago.” you nodded and sighed as she spoke, knowing you’d most likely have to go home soon. before either of you could say anything else, the sound of the front door opening and shark barking filled the room. billie looked over and noticed the two that had just walked in and smiled. “hey fin, hey claudia. finally gracing me with your presence?” you assumed this must be her older brother and his girlfriend, who billie had briefly mentioned earlier. she then got up from the couch and headed in their direction. a part of you wanted to pull her back and keep her next to you but you knew the moment couldn’t last forever. you knew you should also get up and say hi so you did. as you approached you got to actually see the couple that just arrived. you took notice of her brothers ginger hair, wondering if maybe billie’s jet black hair wasn’t her natural color. the girlfriend was tall, and very beautiful. even in a sweat suit she still looked like a super model. the girl seemed to notice your presence before the other two. “hi there.” billie and her brothers heads turned at the sound of her voice. “oh right- y/n this is my brother finneas, and his girlfriend, claudia.” claudia gave you a warm smile and wave while finneas extended his hand for you to shake, which you reciprocated. “hi nice to meet you guys. i’m y/n.” you felt slightly nervous interacting with the two despite their kindness. the conversation flowed with ease, both finneas and claudia being incredibly nice and friendly. the four of you sat on their living room couch, discussing various topics like music, tv shows, movies, food, and sports. after about a half hour you had decided it was probably a good idea for you to head home being that you had been out the entire day and it was almost 6pm. billie was leaning up against your side, so you lightly tapped her knee. her head perked up and she looked over at you. “i should probably head home.” she frowned but understood. “cmere i’ll walk you out.” you turned to finneas and claudia after standing up. “it was so great meeting you guys.” the couple also stood and each came in to give you a hug. “you’re welcome any time.” finneas said as he hugged you goodbye. “i hope we see more of you!” claudia stated as she gave you her hug. finneas then turned to billie before you two exited. “you better treat her right kid. she’s a keeper.” you could feel heat rush to your cheeks, and you saw billie’s do the same. billie and you walked out without a word, walking to your car in silence. “i uh- loved spending the day with you.” billie opened your car door for you as she spoke. you giggled slightly before leaning in and kissing her cheek. “me too, see you tomorrow?” billie blushed once more before nodding with a smile. you started your car with a sigh and waved to billie before driving off.

billie watched your car drive away, before going inside and picking up the phone. she waited a moment, letting it ring, before beginning to speak once the line picked up. “the deals off joey.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

tag list <3: @emilyshortcake

#Spotify #billie eilish #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x you #billie eilish angst #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x female reader #wlw

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mostlyghoestly · 3 months ago

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Chapter 2- Ironwood’s Favorite Sin

Summary: You go to another race meet in hope to get another eyeful of him.

Part 1

Tag list: @ihyperfixateoncharacters @untoldshortsofthefandoms @stormgrl19

The next morning, you swore you weren’t gonna think about any of it. About him. About the race. About the way his engine sounded like a war drum, or how that damn wink lodged itself into you’re every thought and refused to leave. You laid in bed longer than you should’ve, phone alarm long silenced, staring at the water-stained ceiling of your tiny apartment like it might offer you an escape route. But every time your mind drifted, it circled back to him.

Ray Young. You hated how easily his name felt on your tongue. Like it belonged there. The streets of Ironwood didn’t forget guys like him. The town had a long, mean memory, and Ray’s name was carved into it with jagged letters. The Mayor, they called him. Not because he ran anything official — hell no — but because people moved when he spoke, and no one challenged him without bleeding for it. Because he built the foundation that the now raced to.

You knew about him your whole life. Everyone did. From the moment you were old enough to notice the way engines revved louder when Ray walked by. You had always been curious about Ray. Bad boy and hot? god, what can beat that combo? In high school , you would be lying if you said you never had a crush on Ray. Although high school you probably wouldn’t do anything about it due to insecurities but adult you was maybe a little better.

You still remembered his stupid, cocky grin when he walked in halfway through the school, unapologetic and looking for trouble. And now you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked under those flickering streetlights. How his face lit up when his hands gripped the wheel. That rare smile like a strike of lightning through a storm. The way his eyes found you through a crowd that didn’t even see you.

It was dumb. It meant nothing. You had work to get through. you were teenagers anymore. You have Animals to care for. Old Mrs. Whitlow’s pug to trim nails on. New kittens dumped in a box by the dumpster. A stack of homework to pretend you gave a shit about. Life, as it always did, went on in Ironwood — slow, steady, suffocating. “You’ve been staring at that same spot for five minutes,” Shyann’s voice snapped you out of it. She leaned over the front counter of the vet clinic, popping her gum, a teasing grin lighting up her face. “Bet I know what you’re thinking about.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

“Y/N, you so are.” You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “It was one night.”

“One night where the Sin of Ironwood looked at you like you were something worth ruining his life over,” she snorted, flipping her blonde curls over her shoulder. “You think guys like that just wink at anybody?”

You wanted to argue. Really, you did. But the truth was, you’d felt it too. That split-second weight of his gaze, heavy as a hand around your throat. You’d seen guys like Ray your whole life — the ones who set fires and walked away while the whole town watched them burn. And you? You were the girl who kept her head down, who didn’t gamble with things like boys built from smoke and gasoline. At least you used to be. “Another meet tonight,” Shyann said casually, twirling her keys around her finger as she plopped into the chair beside you. “You in?”

You blinked. “Didn’t we just go?”

“Races don’t stop just ‘cause you got weak in the knees, sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Oh, you were.” She winked. “It’s okay. Happens to the best of us. I mean, hell, I’d let him ruin my life. Just saying.”

You snorted despite yourself, trying not to let the blush crawl up your neck. “Maybe another time. I got—”

“Homework? Laundry? Netflix reruns of that serial killer doc? Nah. Not a good enough excuse. I’ll pick you up at eight.” You opened your mouth to protest, but she’d already sauntered off, phone in hand.

You told yourself you weren’t going to dress up. It was stupid. It didn’t matter. Nobody would notice you in a crowd like that. Hell, you’d barely noticed yourself last time. But somehow, you still spent twenty minutes picking out your outfit. Settling on a dark mid thigh flowing dress. Very cute but still feminine. A cute black short cardigan that ties in front. This made you feel a little less like a sore thumb. Your makeup somewhere between soft glam and don’t-look-at-me. You met Shyann outside your apartment. She whistled low. “Damn, girl. If I was Ray, I’d climb you like a tree.”

“Shut up.”

“Not even kidding.”

The drive to the lot felt like déjà vu. Same cracked streets, same neon signs flickering over grimy buildings. Same knots in your stomach that tightened the closer you got. The air felt thicker tonight, heavy with exhaust, sweat, and tension. It buzzed under your skin like static. Busier. Louder. Rougher.

The crowd buzzed with something electric, every other person looking like they either wanted to fight, fuck, or race. Maybe all three. And then there was you. Not a daisy in concrete anymore — more like a candle in a hurricane. Shyann wasted no time disappearing to find drinks, leaving you to cling to the shadows near the edge of the lot. Engines roared, headlights cutting through the dark like twin moons. You could feel bass thudding in your chest, see money exchange hands, hear the crude jokes and shouted dares.

And then you saw him. Ray was leaned against a different car tonight — deep midnight blue, with silver trim that gleamed under the lights like a blade. He was surrounded, as always, by his crew. People orbiting him like he was the sun, and they didn’t dare get too close in case they got burned.

You told yourself not to stare. You stared anyway. And like some cruel trick of fate, his gaze slid across the crowd and landed on you. Not just a glance this time. A look. Slow. Unflinching.

A spark behind it that made your stomach tighten and your pulse trip over itself. Some idiot nearby muttered loud enough for you to hear, “What’s she doing here? Looks like somebody’s lost.” A few of them laughed. Your chest tightened, heat crawling up your neck. The words stung in a way you hated, making you acutely aware of your curves, your softness, the way you didn’t fit here — not in this crowd of sharp-edged people with knives for smiles. Before you could snap something back, the air shifted. Ray straightened up. His crew stilled. It was like watching a storm roll in.

People moved without being told. Space cleared in front of him as he took a slow, deliberate step toward your side of the lot. The guy who made the comment noticed, too late. Ray’s voice was quiet. Lazy. But it cut like glass “Say it again.”

The guy blanched. Stammered something about it being a joke. You could practically smell the fear on him. Ray didn’t blink. Just let a slow, crooked grin stretch across his face. “Didn’t think so.” He didn’t look away from you the whole time.

Didn’t smile your way.

Didn’t wink. But it was worse, somehow.

That steady, unbroken eye contact. The silent acknowledgment. The message in it. I see you. The world seemed to tilt for a second, the noise dulling under the weight of that stare. Shyann appeared at your side, shoving a drink into your hand. “Girl. He never does that. Ever.” Your throat felt tight. “Does what?”

“Stares like that. Gets involved. I’ve seen him punch guys for less. And he doesn’t even bother with people like them.”. You shook your head, trying to shrug it off. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

Shyann snorted. “Or maybe you just became Ironwood’s newest problem.” And even though you told yourself you should be scared , should be mad, annoyed, disinterested, all you felt was a sharp, stupid thrill. Because second looks? They always hit harder. And you already knew you were going back as soon as you can.

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godmadeaterribleerror · 10 months ago

Text

Chapter 25 - All I Know

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Finally accepting that this story is just a very horny, romantic rewrite of the Boys. Like we will be doing much plot and thesis, but the biggest theme is that the world could be exploding and these two would still find a way to be horny and in love about it.

Chapter Title from The Fall by Imagine Dragons

Word Count: 26.8k (my hand slipped, sorry)

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Ben take a trip to Red River. Usual warnings, plus some extra smut.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, smut, fluff, light angst, established relationship

Read on A03!

Chapter 24 - Chapter 26

The gun range is wrapped in glittering lights and colorful bubbles that bounce off the walls, and when the bang of the gun echoes through the room, you turn around, glaring at Ben’s determined, insufferably handsome face.

“It’s not working.”

“Keep fucking try-“

“Benjamin, I swear to God, if you tell me to keep fucking trying, I’ll cut off your left ballsack.”

He frowns. “Only the left one-“

“It’s my least favorite.”

“What the fuck is better about the right one-“

“Personal preference is a thing, Pretty Boy. Maybe it’s hairier, maybe it’s less hairy, and I’m never telling you which is which.”

“You’re only hurting yourself,” Ben drawls, leaning back against the wall. “If you tell me, I can start doing the same thing with the left one, and you’ll love both my ballsacks equally.”

“I already love them both equally,” you shrug, a grin creeping onto your face as you reload the gun in your hand. “If you don’t believe me, we can go home and I-”

“No.” Ben snaps, closing the space between you in two steps, grabbing your shoulders physically turning your body back to the target. “We’re going until you get it. Now.”

You tilt your head back to meet his eyes with a fake pout. “If you’re turning down my blowjob, am I allowed to shoot you-”

“Not turning it down, Sunshine.” Ben winks before grabbing your chin, moving your gaze back to the gun range. “Delaying it, until you fucking get this. Go.”

You sigh, and raise the gun. This is your sixteenth attempt to get this right, to fully control what Ben is calling your brain tricking shit. You’re supposed to fire the gun without Ben seeing or hearing, as he stands right behind you.

Of the many issues with this plan—you’re not sure you can fully control the sensory manipulation, it’s weird singing in a gun range, and Ben keeps being very distracting—the main one is that you’ve barely gotten better with a gun. You don’t stumble when you shoot it anymore, but it still takes a lot of focus to hit the target. Focus that you can’t spare.

Ben is convinced you can do it. That you’re perfectly fucking capable of doing this, Sunshine. You’re smart and strong and hot as fuck, and if you need motivation, I’ll eat you out when you get it. And fuck you. I’ll fuck you as well.

In a way, it’s comforting to know that love is making both of you idiots. Because Ben’s wrong—you won’t be able to control this, no matter how vulgarly and aggressively he believes in you—and you’re a lot more encouraged by the promise of Ben eating you out than he’ll ever get to know.

Overall, though, it’s probably a detrimental incentive. Ben’s still pressed against your back, and he’s correcting your form in an unnecessarily hands-on manner that’s making it simply impossible to focus. His arms are around you, and all you can think about is them pinning you down, caging you against your bed. His beard brushes against your cheek as he tells you something you don’t hear, and you want to feel it between your thighs. His hands are grabbing at your body, adjusting your stance and hold on the gun, and you want them everywhere. In your hair, rubbing patterns on your skin and your clit, slapping your pussy once before he pushes big, rough fingers deep inside of you and grumbles your name against your-

“You are not fucking paying attention to me.”

You blink at him, feeling your face flush. “Yes, I-“

“Don’t fucking lie, Sunshine.” Ben drops his face to being level with yours, a wide smirk on his face. “I can hear your heart racing, and you’re looking at me like you want to fucking eat me.”

“Shut up-”

“I want to fucking eat you, beautiful. Watch you squirm under me, hear you moan my fucking name.” He leans forward, lips brushing against your ear, breath sending a shiver down your spine. “That what you want? Want me to fucking ravish you?”

Ravish? Who taught you ravish?

You did, smartass. Ben drops to your neck, kissing a light trail across your collarbone. Answer my fucking question.

Yes, please. You take an uneven breath, and when Ben nips at that one spot, your whole body shudders. A soft, golden mist is filling the room, and just as the idea is forming in your head, Ben draws back.

“Then earn it-“

His smug words are cut off as you reach up, pulling his stupid, handsome face back down to yours. Kissing him with every piece of that unending thirst, sucking on his lower lip until he groans. Ben’s hands fly up—cupping your face and tugging you a little off the ground—and you can feel the hunger in him flare, overriding any resolve to finish training.

Not a fair fucking play, he grunts in your head, even as he jams his tongue down your throat, walking you backwards into the dividers. You think you’re really goddamn clever-

I am clever, you smile against him, keeping your hand carefully off the gun’s trigger. And you can just push me away-

Not a chance in fucking hell. Ben pushes his knee between your thighs, angling your head back and leaving sloppy kisses down your throat. I’m going to fuck you right here, clear that smart, pretty fucking head of yours, and then you’re going to finally goddamn focus.

The golden mist is growing stronger, starting to glow and cast the room in a soft, warm light. You tangle a hand in Ben’s hair, urging him further as you grind against his leg. Do I still get eaten out after?

His chuckle rolls through your body, clearing your brain to a pure, natural bliss. If you’re real fucking good, we’ll see.

You moan, leaning further into him, following the urge in you of Ben. The chorus of Ben, Ben, Ben, better than food and laughter and the sky and the ocean. Better than the sun and the stars and the earth and the music. Ben. His hands kneading on your waist, his teeth scraping on your skin, the smell of pine and gunpowder and coffee invading you everywhere. Light dancing off the walls, the world a little easier and better because the song of Ben is filling your body, making everything just good. So simply good.

Somewhere in the haze, you manage to raise the gun and pull the trigger. And when Ben doesn’t even flinch, you grin.

Did it.

His movements against you falter. Did what.

Earned it.

Ben draws back to his full height, frowning down at you. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

You gesture to the gun in your hand, then point to the range. To the small, still-smoking hole in the mattress-padded far wall.

Ben blinks at it, then looks back at you with narrowed eyes. “You missed.”

“I didn’t have to hit the target, I had to fire the gun without you noticing.” Your grin widens, all teeth and straining at your face. “So I fucking did it.”

You feel something charged and bright swell in Ben’s chest, and his thumb runs over your cheekbone with a careful touch as he scoffs. “I didn’t hear you singing-“

“Didn’t need to,” you shrug, dropping your head against his body. Burying your increasingly warm face where he can’t see it, muffling your words against his body. “Found another way.”

“What other way.”

It doesn’t help, how the low rumble of Ben’s voice is all around you, echoing off the walls of your ribcage, making something inside you fuzzy and wired. Doesn’t matter-

He grunts your name, and you sigh.

When, um, when I get turned on, I kind of-

You do the brain trick. I’ve noticed. He tugs on your hair, just enough to pull you back and meet his eyes. That worked for this shit?

Yeah. Your whole face is flushed, and your breath is already becoming shallow under Ben’s gaze, pulling you apart with a reverence that makes you swallow. It, um, it did. How did you know-

I’d have to be real damn stupid not to notice, Sunshine. You look like you’re made of fucking stars when you cum.

Don’t get fucking shy on me. Ben lifts you up into a soft kiss, and smirks against your lips. It gets me going. Could get there myself just by watching you. He pauses, and his hands drop under your thighs, pulling you up his body without ever fully taking his mouth from yours. Let’s do that.

Your arms wrap around his neck as you hum into him. Do what.

You’re going to fucking cum, and I’m going to watch-

“Ben,” you lean back, giving him a flat look. “You have to meet with Ryan right after this.”

“Then we’ll be quick-“

You snort. “We both know that’s a lie. We’re never quick. We say we’ll be quick, that I’ll just suck your dick and then we’ll go to dinner, and then you’re fingering me on the floor and I’m riding you until Annie calls us to ask why we’re twenty minutes late-“

“I am not going to feel bad for fucking you,” he grumbles, squeezing your ass as he hauls you further up his chest. “It’s your goddamn fault, you never stop me. You’re supposed to be the brains-“

“I am the brains,” you drag your hands over his back, rolling your hips against his torso, and Ben makes a low grunt that vibrates through your blood and bones. “Which is why I’m telling you that we’ll fuck later. After you train with Ryan.”

Ben scowls. “Brat.”

“Cunt.” You kiss his cheek, and Ben sighs, all his love in you furiously devoted, the world sharp as he leans into your touch. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he mutters your name, and you pull back to watch him, a wide, almost instinctual smile on your face. “We could be quick-“

“Nope.” You start to squirm out of his arms, and his grip on you tightens. You give him a sharp glare, and he shrugs.

“We’re not fucking done here-“

“Benjamin, what else could we possibly have to do-“

“You can’t only control the magic brain shit when you’re horny,” he snaps. “You have to do it with the goddamn music, or we have to find other ways-“

You sigh. “I know, but,” you shake your head, moving your hands to trace along his jaw, running the hair of his beard between your fingers. “It’s going to be a long day. We’ve got Red River, and we don’t know what to expect, and I don’t want to-“

“Fine.” Ben’s grunt is low, but it’s fueled by all the solid, zealous care in his body. Wrapping around your skin and heart, keeping you safe in his arms. “But tomorrow-“

“I’ll try it with the music.”

“You’ll fucking do it with the music-“

“Okay, Yoda.” You start to wiggle away once more, and this time Ben helps you down, keeping an arm around you under you’re on steady legs. “Thank you.”

“Don’t-“

You wrinkle your nose at him, folding your hand into his. “Let me thank you, or the ball cutting is back on the table-“

Ben tugs you forward—affection and amusement rushing through him at the small yelp that leaves your body—and spins you until you’re tucked at his side, his arm over your shoulders. “You won’t cut my balls, Sunshine.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head, muttering the words into your hair. “You love me too fucking much, it would hurt you a lot damn more than it would hurt me.”

He’s right. You do love him too much. Ben’s eyes are electric on yours—holding you up into a light you’ve never felt before him, boring into a deep part of your body that only he’s seen—and you know you love him a little more than you should. Not because you shouldn’t love him—you’re meant to love Ben, nothing feels more natural and simple than loving Ben—but because you’re growing more and more certain that it’s not just a romantic notation you’ve invented in your Ben-addled brain, that you love him more than anyone’s ever loved anything. You do. Your love for him is bigger than the ever-expanding universe, stronger than every force that moves the world. It’s like gravity. Your love for Ben is solid and vast and everywhere. It’s inevitable, and permanent, and dependent, and so innately part of you that it’s in every breath and heartbeat. When Ben kisses the space between your eyes and lets you guide him out into the hall, mumbling a goodbye against your lips, he’s alight and warm in your chest. Humming and steady with his arms around you, all the same as when he turns and leaves to the gym, and you set off down the hall alone.

We’re fucking when I get home. We set aside specific time so I could fuck you before we left, and we’re goddamn using it. Ben’s words echo in the silence, and you smile into the air.

I think I can live with that. Deal.

Deal. There’s a pause, Ben’s love in your body sitting in ease at the top of your ribs, and then, what the fuck are you doing while I’m gone.

A-Train, I need to talk to him before we go.

The hell do we need from that pussy.

That’s not very nice, he’s been helpful-

He has not been fucking helpful-

Yes, he has.

How.

You pause, and squint at nothing. Technically, A-Train has provided incredibly useful information, if this was a year ago. If you were fighting a pre-Sage Vought, a pre-Sage Homelander, knowing Vought passwords and company secrets would’ve been helpful. But the game changed, and what constitutes helpful did as well.

You don’t have a goddamn clue-

Fuck you, he’s trying. And he can help with this.

What the fuck are you asking him.

Don’t you have to train Ryan-

He’s stretching. Answer my question.

You sigh. Red River. I want to know what he’s heard about it, if he has any idea what the fuck the Cornucopia is.

Annie didn’t-

Annie wasn’t in the tower for as long as A-Train was. And it can’t hurt to ask him.

Whatever. Be safe-

It’s just A-Train-

Be fucking safe anyway.

Can you tell Ryan I say hi.

I already did, tell me you’re going to be fucking safe-

I’ll be safe, Benjamin, you cunt. I love you.

Good. I love you too, Sunshine.

The presence of Ben fades into the static of the world around you as you continue down the hall, looking for A-Train’s apartment. You probably should’ve done this a few days ago, but you’ve been busy. Despite the perpetual news from Mallory that Singer was working on it, so be patient, you still had work to do.

You’d finally told Ben about the Soldier Boy V you’d given to Butcher. You hadn’t meant to keep it a secret, but you kept getting distracted. You’d remember that you needed to tell him at all the worst possible moments—the thought flashing through your head only moments before Ben was picking you up and dropping you onto the bed, burying himself between your thighs and making everything else seem less than important—so you’d done it over dinner, where that wasn’t a risk. Ben had said something old—it had probably been about music, because Hughie had looked like someone had shot him, but Ben had some sauce on his upper lip that you wanted to lick, so you weren’t really paying attention—MM had muttered someone needs to figure out how to make you look like the ancient asshole you are, and you’d remembered.

As the groans and glares had died down, you’d nudged Ben’s shoulder with your own, keeping your gaze passively on Frenchie as he talked about the various merits of French Rap. I need to tell you something.

What. What the fuck is wrong. You’d felt Ben’s eyes on you, the weight of his concern and care pressing on your lungs, and given a small shake of your head.

I’m okay, Ben. I did something, though, and I need to tell you. But you need to not break anything when I do.

He’d paused. What did you fucking do.

Promise you won’t lose it.

No. Tell me.

Benjamin-

I’m not swearing a single goddamn thing, Sunshine. You have the worst goddamn track record for secrets, and they always fucking hurt you. He’d paused, and the ache had flared slightly over his head and heart. They fucking hurt me.

You’d sighed, leaning your head onto his shoulder. This won’t hurt me. You might not like it, but I promise it won’t hurt me. I just need you to tell me you won't kill anyone.

He’d grumbled your name in your head. Just fucking tell me-

Please, Ben-

I won’t kill anyone. The fuck did you-

The V didn’t break. The V I took from the tower, our V, it didn’t break. I gave it to Butcher.

He’d gone rigid at your side, but both the table and Butcher had remained intact, so it felt like a victory. What.

I gave the V to Butcher-

And why the goddamn hell would you do that.

I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to chose what to do with it-

So you gave it to fucking Butcher?! The fuck is Butcher going to do with it?!

You’d shrugged, looking up at Ben’s scowl with raised brows. Use it, probably. I’d bet he’s going to use it.

Yeah, I fucking got that, smartass. Ben had rolled his eyes, hand fisting on the table as he shot Butcher a glare. Who the goddamn hell could he use it on. It doesn’t exactly have a perfect fucking success rate.

It doesn’t? You’d frowned, tugging Ben’s shirt until he looked back down to you. What do you mean.

I mean you and I are the only fucking survivors. I went into Dr. Vought’s trials with almost one-fifty other fuckers, I’m the only one that lived. You survived yours as well, and that’s it.

You’d blinked, glancing back at Butcher. Oh, shit. I didn’t know that.

Fucking obviously-

I don’t think he’s going to use it on just anyone, though. It’ll probably be himself. Probably.

Ben had sighed. Fine. But that was a stupid fucking move-

Or maybe it was genius-

Shut the fuck up, it was dumb as shit and you know it.

It had been dumb as shit. Of all your many hazardous and less-than-ideal plays, that one had been born of exhaustion and stress, of being cracked and tired and in pain, and not wanting just another fucking thing to deal with. But you’d still done it, and you weren’t going to take it back. You really don’t think Butcher will shoot up anyone but himself, because there’s no reason for him to use it on anyone else. He won’t create another random supe, he won’t want to make Ben more powerful, and every week he seems to want you dead just a little less. He might be dangerously close to trusting you, even.

So you’d managed to talk Ben into leaving it, and letting it play out. If Butcher doesn’t use it, it never gets used. If he does, he’ll have to live with the consequences of that action, and be stuck with you and Ben for the next million years.

It’s not your problem anymore. And, if you’re being honest, you don’t really regret it. You might not make the same choice again, but this way you can focus on what’s in front you. On figuring out why your step-father is in Singer’s cabinet, and what you’ll do if he screws you over. On how the Boys had silently sided with you over Mallory, but you haven’t told them about Edgar’s possible leak. It’s not safe to do here—where you’re almost certainly under surveillance by the very people you don’t trust—but you’ll have to do it eventually. And then you’ll have to figure out who the leak is, and if there’s anything you can do about it. And if there isn’t, you’ll have to figure out what to do about that.

Today, though, is about Red River. About finishing Ben’s deal with Edgar, and praying that the Cornucopia is just an expensive statue or painting, or maybe even a bucket.

It’s probably not, but it could be. It would be so fucking easy if Edgar just wanted a very fancy bucket, and had decided to be as stress-inducing as possible about it. You have fifty dollars on the Cornucopia being a collection of classified Vought documents, but you’ll gladly lose that money to Frenchie’s bucket bet. You’ll do almost anything to lose that money, and just have to pick up a bucket.

It was really the best possible option, and a lot easier to live with than Butcher’s very unhelpful bet of child, or MM’s bet of supe-killing weapon.

You were starting to think constant betting on life-ending events wasn’t a great way to run a CIA private-ops team. But you also didn’t have much else to do, and it was your only source of income, so if Butcher slams a fist on the table and yelled thirty quid that Sage and the Deep are fuckin, and that’s the only reason he ain’t dead, you’ll take that, amending your bet to they were fucking, but he gave her a fish-based STD and they stopped.

And it’s better to joke about these things, because the other option is dwelling on how truly fucked your life is. How much of the world hinges on you and the Boys getting this right, no fuck ups, no loose ends, no debts to Edgar or stupid mysteries to solve, just a dead Homelander and a bankrupt Vought.

Which is why you probably should’ve talked to A-Train as soon as MM told you Red River was a go. There were things you did have to do, like tracking Sage’s movements and speeches, keeping up with the various news and theories about your disappearance, preparing to meet with Singer and Muller, and working out a plan to get the V into Homelander, but you still had free time. You used a fair amount of it to help Ryan do his homework, or visit Annie and Hughie, or talk to Kimiko, but the majority of it was dedicated to Ben. Watching TV with him, training with him, cooking with him and laughing with him and fucking him. Sitting half on his lap when you made him and Ryan lunch, visiting them in the gym and talking to Ryan about books as Ben traced patterns on the skin of your leg.

Some of that time could’ve been sacrificed to visit A-Train. But you hadn’t wanted to. You’d wanted to let Ryan show you his progress, and feeling the undeniable pride flash and inflate over Ben’s chest. And it wasn’t like A-Train was going anywhere. Most of his time was spent sulking in his apartment, attending occasional dinners and refusing to participate in conversation. You didn’t judge that—it wasn’t like Ben was any better, you’re pretty sure that if it wasn’t for you and Ryan he’d be a hermit—but it did make talking to him feel less urgent. He was always in the same mood, annoyed, so you never had to worry about catching him at the right time.

It’s dependable. How when you knock on his door, it opens in a second and A-Train watches you with a weary, uneasy glare.

“What are you doing here.”

You frown, crossing your arms with a shrug. “Visiting you.”

“Why.”

“Am I not allowed to-“

“We’ve barely spoken since you got back,” A-Train snaps. “So why now. What do you want.”

“I don’t-” You cut yourself off with a sigh, guilt sparking in your gut. “Can I come in? To talk?”

A-Train looks you up and down, and for a second you think he’s going to turn you down. To tell you to eat shit and fuck off, let him wallow in peace. But he steps back, and jerks his head into the apartment, waiting for you to step inside before almost knocking you over with a gust of wind as he runs to sit at his dining room table.

You move to join him, glancing around the apartment and realizing it’s bare bones. Everyone has done something with their space—even Butcher’s black and white, cold-war akin minimalism has improved with Ryan moving in—but A-Train’s only has the basics. The generic, catalog type furniture the CIA provided to start with, nothing on the walls or floor, no plants or blankets or small pieces of evidence that someone lives here. If it wasn’t for the crumb-covered plate on the counter, you’d have mistaken it for one of the empty apartments.

“This isn’t my home,” A-Train mutters, and you realize you’d been staring. “It’s temporary. Until you dumbasses do your jobs and this shit is finished, then I can go home for real.”

“Is that what you want to do?” You tilt your head at him, lowering yourself into the seat opposite him. “When we’re done? Go home?”

“What else is there to do?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “You could try the hero thing for real-“

A-Train scoffs. “We both know there’s no world where that works. If it’s not another Vought, it’ll be the government fucking things up. They’ll build more places like this,” he nods to the wall and ceiling, giving you a flat look. “And turn supes into weapons instead of celebrities. At least with Vought they had to worry about approval ratings and quarterly sales. The CIA won’t.”

He’s right. You know he’s right, deep down, because you don’t have a retort or argument in your head that doesn’t circle back to being in his favor. It’s why you don’t trust Mallory, because in the end her loyalty isn’t to you, it’s to the government. To an overall, subjective greater good. In a careful order with minimal damage to the least people, without elimination of the problem altogether. Homelander’s death, Vought’s downfall, won’t fix the supe problem.

“What would you have the supes do after?” You ask A-Train, tone slow and cautious. “They won’t go into retirement, but we can’t just kill them. I mean, this has been your whole life-“

“I didn’t want it, though. I mean, I did want the money and the fame, but everyone wanted the money and the fame. I didn’t ask for this shit, it’s not my job to make it better.”

“You still did things you didn’t have to, though.” Your fingers tap against the wood of the table as you frown at him. “You’re not innocent, just because you didn’t start this. Whether or not you asked for it, you still benefited. You could’ve walked away at any point-“

“What, like Annie?” A-Train rolls his eyes. “Use my powers for good, fight against the system?”

“Maybe, yeah-“

“You can’t fight against this system,” A-Train hisses your name, and leans over the table with a scowl. “I just gamed it, and you can’t fucking blame me for that. I’m helping you because it’s the right thing, but that’s it. I’m not cleaning up the mess after.”

“I’m not asking you to,” you snap, your patience fraying. You don’t want to fight, but you’re still really tired, and you’re getting more and more sick of people just telling you they’ll only help on their terms. “I’m just pointing out that you’re not a victim. And yeah, you left Vought, and you’re helping us, but only because it’s convenient to your bottom line. If you really want to make up for everything, you’ll do something that’s not easy for you.”

“This shit isn’t-“

“It is. For you, it really is. Your family is safe and you’re not in any real danger. You’re hiding, not fighting. And I know you want to do something more-“

“No, I don’t.” A-Train sneers. “You don’t want to do this. Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about picking up with Soldier Boy and just leaving, letting the people who actually fucked the world up put it back together. Hell knows I want to-“

“But you haven’t. You’re still here, just like I am, because you know that the people who fucked this won’t fix it. We have to-“

“We don’t have to do anything-“

“We do. There’s no after until we’re done. And nobody’s going to finish this but us. And us includes you.”

A-Train pauses, examining your set, taut features. “You thought about after?”

“A little, yeah.” You pause, taking a long breath and focusing on Ben’s love, still beating in your chest. “I will say you were right about that. It helps.”

“You going to make a life with Soldier Boy?” A-Train watches you carefully. “Or keep working for a bunch of ungrateful government dicks?”

“I’m not sure,” you mumble, letting a little bit of your frustration leave your fingers and stomach. “But a life does sound nice.”

“With Soldier Boy?”

“With Ben.” Always with Ben. Whether or not you’re dealing with the aftermath or living a peaceful, happy life far away from the mess in your wake, you’ll be doing it with Ben.

A-Train nods, and grunts, “Congrats on that, by the way.”

“Um,” you sigh, giving him an apologetic glance. “Look, I’m sorry about the whole you have to keep it a secret thing-“

“I was fine. It was annoying as shit, but mostly because he was so clearly fucking obsessed with you.” A-Train shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “You can’t sit in a room with that guy for ten minutes without the conversation somehow becoming about you. So good work.”

You flush, and Ben’s love hums inside you. “Oh. Thanks?”

“No problem.”

“Do you have an after? Will you go back to your family?”

“They won’t take me,” A-Train mutters, eye dropping to glare at the table. “My brother won’t forgive me, and that means I won’t get to see my nephews. I’ll probably just fuck off.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. I always wanted to go to those huge fucking mountains, the Rockies.”

“You’ve never been to the Rockies-”

“For press shit, yeah.” A-Train leg stops bouncing, his frown deepening. “But I wanted to go for myself.”

You hum. “So home will be Colorado-”

“Home,” A-Train mutters. “Will be any shit hole in the world that’s not here.”

You understand that. For the rest of your life, no matter where you go, there will always be a small part of you that’s afraid of the New York skyline. Even when it’s irrational, you’ll hate skyscrapers that Homelander could be watching you from, and billboards that could slide to his cruel, cold, evil smile watching you with teeth like eyes. You’re going to be haunted by the small things for a while. Even when Ben is there, you’re going to be crippled by leather and coconut and blue and the hum of a ceiling fan. It will get better, time and love will make it better, but it will always be a scar that follows you everywhere. It’s part of what’s making you tired, being here. Where Homelander and the CIA are still an ax over your head, looming closer and closer as you near the end.

“Would you want to go back to your family?”

Your question is measured and slow, and A-Train huffs. “Of course I fucking would. But Nate-“

“Forgiveness is earned.” You shrug. “You can’t just take it. It has to be given.”

“Whatever.”

You glare at him. “I’m serious. If you ever want there to be a chance for your brother to forgive you, you’ll have to prove you’ve changed.”

He snorts, expression bored and flat. “And you’re going to tell me the only way is to step up, be a hero.”

“Wrong.” You narrow your eyes at him. “You don’t know me. Or what I’m going to say. And I don’t know your family, so I was done there. Maybe you’ll have to be a hero, maybe you’ll just have to be selfless once, and that will be it. But I don’t know.”

“Fine.” A-Train mutters, his eye roll not subtle, but also not filled with toxins. “You want to tell me what you’re here for now?”

You could keep pushing, but you don’t. It’s not your job to fix A-Train, so you leave it. Taking a long breath, chewing on your lip and studying A-Train’s passive frown. “Red River.”

A-Train blinks. “What?”

“The supe orphan-“

“I know what Red River is. Why are you talking about it?”

You swallow. “Has anyone mentioned the whole Stan Edgar thing to you?”

A-Train’s eyes widen. “No. Nobody tells me shit, what did Edgar do-“

“Technically nothing,” you mumble. “Ben sort of owes him a favor. We have to get something for him, from Red River. And I wanted to ask if you have any idea what it might be.”

“He didn’t tell you?” A-Train frowns, and you’re grateful he doesn’t dwell on the Ben owes Edgar a favor thing. To be fair, it’s probably because he doesn’t care, but it still makes this a lot easier.

“Nope. Just said to pick up the Cornucopia and bring it back to him.”

“The Cornucopia? Like one of those weird horns?”

A-Train either has genuinely no clue what you’re talking about, or is an incredible actor. You don’t think it’s the latter, because his look of such pure confusion is hard to fake.

“We don’t know,” your brow draws together as you try to remember every idea for what the Cornucopia could be, and how likely a literal cornucopia was in comparison to Kimiko’s pitch of just a lot of money. “Maybe. But it sounds like a codename, and I wanted to know if you had any sort of idea about it. Or anything about Red River that we might not know.”

“You ask Annie?”

You shake your head. “She knows just as much about it as the rest of us. But you were there longer-“

“I also got kicked out for a year, in case you idiots forgot. And I wasn’t exactly Edgar’s best friend-“

“If you don’t know anything, just say that and I’ll leave. You don’t need to be a dick.”

A-Train blinks. “Really.”

His voice is flat, disbelieving, and you sigh. “Yeah. Really. I’m not here to fight, I just had to ask. If you don’t know, you don’t know.”

“I,” A-Train hesitates, and he shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know. About the Cornucopia, I’ve never even heard of it. But Red River. I know some stuff about that.”

You’re silent, giving him a sharp nod to continue as you go still in your chair.

“It’s not just Vought that funds it. It’s subsidized, by the government.”

“How do you-“

“Ashley told me.” A-Train says, shifting slightly in his chair as his legs start to shake the table. “After you guys pretended to kill Neuman, she had to go through all their records and make sure nobody could figure out the connection. And she found records from the past thirty years, massive tax write-offs without explanation, that essentially pay for half of that place.”

You nod slowly. “And she didn’t know before.”

“No.” A-Train gives a dry snort. “They tell her less than they told me.”

“So,” you bite your tongue, picking out your words carefully. “It’s a federal sponsorship. The IRS would have to approve the write-offs.”

“I guess-“

“It makes sense why they would. Don’t want rogue, unstable parent-killing babies running around with the general public. And the government has to have known about compound V for a while, they sponsored the Soldier Boy trials as well.” You frown into the air, rising to your feet as your brain continues to turn. “Um, thanks,” you glance back down at A-Train, still in his seat. “This was helpful.”

“Are you-“

“I have to go. But, really, thank you.” You give him an awkward thumbs up, walking backwards to the door. “I just need to figure something out. Now.”

You half run into the hall, and don’t wait for the door to close behind you to shout down your line to Ben.

Red River is government funded.

There’s only a split-second pause before he responds. What.

A-Train says Red River gets huge tax write-offs, for no reason. Enough to cut the cost in half.

How the fuck does he-

Ashley told him. This isn’t good, Ben. Red River covered up compound V’s less than ideal results, and the government has to have had a reason to cover up V. It can’t just be the kindness of their hearts. There has to be some sort of deal.

The government and Vought were real fucking tight in my day. Maybe it’s just a roll over from then, and none of these dumb fucking pussies have noticed.

No, it’s only the past thirty years. That’s in the nineties, after Vought and the government drifted away from each other. And it’s millions of dollars, someone would have noticed.

Well that’s all I fucking had, Sunshine. What do you-

I don’t know. You sigh. I’m worried though. We’re going there this afternoon, and if it’s government sponsored-

No telling who the fuck will be waiting for us.

Exactly. We need to-

You yelp as someone filled with tension across their body and a bitter, foul hollow in their chest grabs your arm, and yanks you into a dark room. Your fist makes contact with something, you hear a crunch, and then a shout of pain.

“The bloody hell is your problem?!” You hear shuffling—a few things falling over and several more low grunts—and a light flicks on. You’re in a cleaning supply closet, and Butcher is glaring at you like he wants to kill you, holding his bloody nose with one hand. “You ain’t allowed to just fuckin punch people-“

“I’m allowed to punch people who drag me into dark closets! For the second fucking time!” You snap, keeping an eye on Butcher as you turn inwards to Ben, pounding in your chest as his voice roars your name in your head.

God fucking damnit, his voice is strain, his love pulling tight over your chest. Fucking answer me-

I’m okay, you glare at Butcher, who’s shifting through the shelves for some paper towels, blood dripping on the floor. Butcher pulled me into a closet, instead of just asking me to talk like a normal fucking person.

A weight dissipates from your lungs, and something loosens from around your throat. Fucking Christ, Sunshine, you nearly gave me a heart attack.

You can’t get heart attacks-

Shut the fuck up, I’m serious. Don’t do that.

You sigh. He’s getting better about the overprotection—you haven’t fought about Red River again, and he’s not trying to push against you going to the next Singer meeting—but it’s never going to fully stop. He’s Ben, worrying over you and caring about you is how he shows you he loves you. And you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t adorable, that it didn’t make you love him all the more. The darker side of it breaks your heart, the fear—though he’ll never call it that himself—that eats at Ben, that he’ll fail you again. But in better moments, it’s Ben wrapping himself over your body, shoving food in front of you with a scowl, and kissing you like he’s just returned from war when you’ve only been apart for two hours.

This is born from the fear, though. So you make your voice soft, gentle and soothing. I know. I’m okay, I promise.

Good. There’s a pause, and then, what the fuck does Butcher want.

Don’t know yet, he’s mostly just being a massive bitch about me breaking his nose.

You broke his nose?

I think. You squint at Butcher, trying to tell if the crooked shape of the bridge was you, or one of the countless other people who also decided his face was punchable. Probably.

Ben glows in your chest, his voice smug. That’s my girl.

Thank you. Your face flushes, and his chuckle bounces around your ribs. Are you done with Ryan?

Just finished. He told me to tell you that he finished reading Percy Jackson, and I told him to tell you himself-

You just did tell me, Ben.

Shut the fuck up.

Did he really finish already? The books arrived yesterday-

It’s not like he’s got a fuck ton else to do. It’s just reading those damn books, and training with me. He’s getting fucking good, by the way. Did a clean cut on the target today, so get ready to hear about it for a damn year at dinner.

You smile into the air, something so incredibly bright and strong easing over your heart. We won’t be at dinner, Ben. We have Red River.

Fuck. There’s a pause, and then, We do. Forgot to tell him-

I’ll have Butcher do it. And tell that we’ll have breakfast with him tomorrow morning.

We-

Yes, we. You’re making pancakes. Talk when I’m home?

You hear his grunt, and can perfectly picture his small, rough nod. Fine.

I love you.

I love you too, Sunshine. Tell Butcher to eat my fucking taint.

You have to know I’m not going to do that-

“You done bein all fuckin lovey-dovey with Soldier Boy? I ain’t got a million damn years, Love, and I’m sure he’ll be all laid out and ready to fuck when we’re finished.”

I’ll see you at home, Benjamin. You glare at Butcher—the bleeding has stopped, plugged by two tissues stuffed in his nostrils—as Ben turns back into a warm imprint near your heart and a faint smell of pine around you. “You kidnapped me-“

“This ain’t a kidnappin-“

“And I’m busy, what’s so urgent that-“ You cut yourself off, swallowing down your words as you look around the closet. “Do they bug the storage spaces?”

“Nah, I did a real tight sweep before, ain’t nothin in here but spiders and windex-“

You whirl around, locking the door. “I need to ask you something.”

“I’m the one who’s askin you-“

“And if you want an answer,” you turn back around, glaring at Butcher and crossing your arms. “You’ll answer my question.”

“I thought you were in a fuckin hurry.” Butcher sneers. “Suddenly you got the time when I can be your question whore-“

“Shut up. Did Mallory approve Red River?”

Butcher coughs. “She, ah, she ain’t aware we’re going.”

You blink at him, gaping slightly. “At all?”

“She thinks we’re still in-fighting. Deliberatin. Hughie gonna drive you lot in my car, she won’t even know you bloody left-“

“Yeah, that’s not what I’m worried about.” You sigh, narrowing your eyes at Butcher. “Why. Why haven’t you told her.”

Butcher shrugs. “Same fuckin reason you gave me the V and not her, I reckon.”

There’s a silence for a second as you and Butcher glare at each other, neither of you willing to say it first.

You don’t have all day, though, so it’s good that Butcher breaks when he does.

“I don’t trust her with Ryan. She still wants to use him against Homelander, but he’s ain’t ready for that. Becca,” Butcher tugs one of the tissues out of his nose, crumpling it in his hand. “She wouldn’t have wanted that. She’d have fuckin loathed the idea.”

“Okay.” Your fingers start to tap against your arm, and you lean back against the door. “Why don’t you trust her on Red River.”

Butcher drops the blood-stained tissue to the ground, kicking it under a shelf. “You don’t trust her on Red River.”

“You don’t trust me-“

“I trust you with Ryan.” His words are clipped and shot, and he holds your glare. “You ain’t gonna put him in danger, and he likes you. Thinks you’re fuckin sliced cotton candy and coke. Grace don’t trust you, but she thinks you ain’t able to see the bottom line-“

“Because of Ben.” You mutter, nails digging into your skin, and Butcher scoffs.

“We don’t got to keep pretending, Love. You’ll blow the whole fuckin world up for that cunt.”

“I-”

“But you’d do that shit for Ryan, too.” Butcher’s glare doesn’t soften, but it wavers. And you realize it was never hateful, just guarded. Like Butcher’s still trying to find a reason to hate you, and it’s frustrating him that he can’t. “And you’re still fuckin here. You’re still fightin, and I ain’t gonna police you if you’re gettin results. You and Soldier Boy hurt my fuckin eyes with all your damn moonin over each other, but are less bleedin unstable cock-twats when you’re together, so I ain’t gonna compromise that either.”

“Compromise-“

Butcher gives you a flat look. “We both know if Grace knew what was really up with this Red River shit, she’d cut it off at the bloody head, and Edgar wouldn’t be real fuckin pleased with Soldier Boy. Think of it as an olive branch. I’ll keep your back if you don’t fuckin stab me in mine.”

You extend a hand. “Deal.”

Butcher hesitates, glancing at your bare skin, then back up to your bored, neutral face, his expression uneasy. And just when you think he’s going to tell you to take his word, his hand shoots out. His grip is like iron—as if he thinks he can keep the empathy away from his body through sheer, brute will—and a rush of that same, souring and shadowed feeling rushes through your body. It’s tired, but not like you. This tired isn’t cold and cracked, it’s like a tornado. Pushing and pushing and pushing, tearing through the world in just a little more until it’s forced to drop.

The feeling is yanked from your body as Butcher releases you, taking a step back and rubbing his hand like you’d burned him—you hadn’t, you’d been very careful not to burn him—and you run your tongue over your teeth, raising your brows at him.

“You wanted to ask me something.”

Butcher nods—hands sliding into his pockets as he looks you up and down—and his words sound forced, like he hates saying them. “What was it like. Bein made into a supe as an adult.”

You’ve tried not to think about that. You’ve locked that memory—of the V being pumped into your body—far, far in the back of your head. It had felt like death, and every time after the first had only been worse. It had been everywhere, ripping apart your body and searing into your bones, boiling your blood and freezing your organs and muscles and nerves. Your whole body had only been pain. You can’t pass out because you’re being kept awake by this pain. It’s not blinding or numbing or deafening, it’s consuming. Everywhere in your body had been pain.

“It,” you pause, taking a long, steady breath. “It hurt. A lot.”

“How fuckin long.”

“It changed every time. First shot was the longest, but the ones after hurt more.”

Butcher shifts slightly on his feet. “Does it feel different. Than bein human.”

“I’m still human-“

“You know what I bloody meant-“

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m fucking correcting you.” Butcher almost flinches at your tone—sharp and cool—but doesn’t break your gaze as you continue. “I’m still fucking human, Butcher. I didn’t turn into a monster, or an animal, or an alien. I’m a human, and that’s it.”

Butcher’s lip curls. “We both know it ain’t that fuckin simple. I got a career in callin supe bullshit, Love, stompin them out when they stop pretendin to be human-“

“Nobody’s pretending to be anything, they’re just human-“

“I’ll believe that when I’m shown some fuckin evidence-“

“You have seen evidence,” you hiss, a slight itch under your skin but no smoke curling from your fingers. “You live with the fucking evidence. Kimiko’s evidence, Annie’s evidence, I’m fucking evidence. If I wasn’t human anymore, I’d have never even bothered working with you. You would have cornered me in the graveyard, and I would’ve just killed you. At any given point in the past year, I could’ve just fucking killed you. But I didn’t, because murder makes me feel bad. And you’ve killed a fuck ton more people than Annie and I combined.”

“What about your beloved Ben?” Butcher sneers, back straightening as he returns your glare with a mocking tone. “He ain’t any better than I am, I’d wager he’s got the blood of fuckin hundreds on his hands. Blood that wouldn’t be there if not for the V.”

That’s not the shot at you Butcher thinks it is. You’d spent hours fighting with yourself over that, and you’ve always drawn the same conclusion. You don’t care. As long as Ben keeps trying, keep proving to you in a thousand different ways that he cares—really, really cares about you and Ryan and, to a certain degree, your friends—you don’t care who he was. It’s not your job to forgive him, he’s never actually hurt you, but you don’t hold who he was against him.

But you also know everything sadistic and crude that Ben did still wasn’t the V, it was him. He was a byproduct of his father, of Vought, of that razing and obliterating anger you’ve felt in him from the start, but it was still Ben who put the blood on his hands himself.

Just like it’s Ben who’s wiped the stains of blood off of yours. Ben who’s been the first person to tell Ryan that none of this fucking shit is your fault, kid. Your dad’s an ass-leeching cock-pulling pussy, and you’re not. That’s fucking it, so don’t feeling guilty about something you didn’t do. Sins of the father, right Sunshine? and have Ryan believe it. Ben who kisses the space between your eyes and makes you smile and picks you up when you’re too tired to make the small walk up the stairs. Ben who gave Ryan an awkward, well-meaning pat on the head when Ryan had managed to hit a moving target for the first time, and made a wide-eyed, adorably confused face when Ryan had hugged him right after, but still returned the hug without hesitation.

“He’s better,” you keep your voice bored and passive, angling your chin up to look down at Butcher, even as he stands above you. “He’s being better. I’ll never pretend he hasn’t done horrible things, but he’s changed, and that’s proof that he’s still human. Homelander’s a human as well, he’s just a horrible one. The V doesn’t turn people evil, Butcher, it’s their actions and choices.”

Butcher’s silent, and when you examine his face in the florescent light of the closet, he’s paler than you've seen him before, and his nose keeps twitching with his jaw, as if he’s trying to fight down a bad smell or taste.

“Why are you asking?” You know why he’s asking. You’re just testing if he’s willing to tell you. See how far this deal of got your back goes. You think Butcher is going to tell you to mind your own fuckin business.

He doesn’t. And you trust him a little more.

“I ain’t shot up yet,” Butcher grunts your name, whole body tenses like he might make a break for it at any second. “So get the fuckin thought out of your head-“

“You’re thinking about it though, aren’t you.”

He scowls. “That’s not your bloody business-“

“I know.” You shrug. “I gave the V to you because I don’t want it to be, so I’m not going to make this choice for you, Butcher-“

“I ain’t askin you to-“

“But,” you continue, ignoring Butcher’s protests. “I can tell you it hurts. It really hurts, and you feel like you’re going to die, and you might. This V isn’t the stable, mass-produced V. Ben says he and I are the only survivors. And if we count Stormfront, that’s three out of a hundred and fifty-two users that survived. Your odds aren’t great, but they’re not non-existent, and nobody’s allowed to make that gamble but you.” You tilt your head at Butcher, at his bloodless features, washed out in the light of the closet. “I can also tell you it won’t make you evil. If you take the chance, and it pays off, you’re still going to be you. And if you go on a rampage, killing anyone in your path, that will still be you. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. Got it?”

Butcher looks like he wants to yell at you, or taunt you, or maybe punch you. His jaw grinds as he nods, hands jammed almost violently into his pockets, and when you turn to leave he makes a low, strangled cough, pausing your hand on the door knob.

“I die,” he grunts, eyes resting uneasily on yours. “What will you do with Ryan.”

“Take care of him.” You don’t even have to think before you answer, the words almost falling out of your mouth. “We’ll make sure he’s safe. Just like now.”

“You and Soldier Boy.”

“Yeah. And tell him we’ll have breakfast with him tomorrow.” You give a tight nod, turning the handle slowly. “We done?”

Butcher makes a low huff, and you take it to be one of affirmation. And if it wasn’t, Butcher doesn’t try to stop you from opening the door and stepping out into the hall, leaving him alone in the flickering light of the closet.

It’s not your problem how this ends for Butcher. If he has an after, if he wants an after. He has his hand to play, and how he uses it isn’t within your control. But he’s got your back now, and you won’t stab him in his. Mostly because your back is your after—if this could be over before summer ends, A-Train was right, you really need to think about an after—and your after involves Ryan. Every fantasy and thought of a world with no Homelander. A world that’s still in ruins, but the storm has passed and now you can dedicate yourself to rebuilding, is you and Ben—always you and Ben—and Ryan. And Annie, and Hughie, and Kimiko and Frenchie and MM. Butcher is, against your better judgment, welcome as well.

But Butcher’s back is only Ryan. Your back is something better. A lifetime of smiling and watching Ben’s face light up with a pride you can feel in his ribs, of Ryan getting a real childhood, of having conversations with your friends that aren’t overshadowed by the constant fear that plagues all your lives.

So you have Butcher’s back. If he has his own back isn’t your problem.

You have enough problems to worry about as it is. There are two hours left until you, Ben, Hughie, and Kimiko leave for Red River. If Mallory doesn’t know you’re going, then you’re probably in the clear, but you still have to figure out some precautions.

You, Hughie, and Kimiko will have to turn off your cell-phones. There’s going to have to be a very strict no murder rule, as opposed to the usual, looser maim if necessary, and if that kills them, they should’ve tried harder not to die, rule. Someone will have to keep an eye on the door, and any Red River employees who might identify your identities. Ben won’t be able to wear his supe suit, and he’s not going to be happy about that.

He’s waiting for you when you walk into the apartment. Sitting at the dining table, fists curled on the wood and already glowering at you when you walk through the door.

“The fuck did Butcher want.”

You cross the room to Ben’s side—it’s half on instinct, your legs moving without thought—and wrinkle your nose at him. “No hello? Just straight to business, not even going to wine and dine me?”

“If you want me to wine and dine you right fucking now, Sunshine, all you have to do is ask.” He grins, turning his chair out and pulling you between his legs, letting your hands brace on his broad shoulders. “But you’re always on my damn ass about priorities-“

Ben’s words fall into a deep hum as you lean down—taking his stupid, smug, unreasonably attractive face between your hands—and give him a long, soft kiss. His hands tighten on your hips, tugging you down until you fall forwards, straddling his lap and leaning onto his chest.

You separate in harmony, Ben kissing your brow as you take a long, ragged breath, running your fingers through his beard, sitting in the feeling of his love. Warm and focused and alive in your body, paired with the gentle patterns his hand is tracing on your upper thigh, and the way that—when you look up to meet his eyes—he’s watching you the same way he always does. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen, and you��re only getting better with time.

“Hi,” you whisper, and Ben’s grin overtakes his whole face, sending something in your brain in a haywire of Ben. Ben, Ben, Ben.

“Hi, my love.” He bumps his nose with yours, and you can’t stop the easy, bright giggle that escapes you. Not when it makes the love in him start to roll around, beating against his chest to move further into you. “You want business later? Because I have a few fucking ideas for the pleasure-“

“You always have ideas for that. I’m pretty sure half your thoughts are just ideas for fucking.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, and the movement makes his cock—half-hard in his sweatpants—brush against your thigh, causing your thighs to push together slightly. He notices, he always notices, the asshole, and winks at you. “And you fucking love it.”

“Fuck you,” you mumble, dropping your head to rest of his neck, his chuckle rumbling through every part of your body.

“I will, right goddamn now if you want.” Ben’s arm around your waist drops, letting him squeeze your ass once as he lowers his mouth to brush over your ear. “But we won’t get any fucking business done, beautiful. Once you say the word, we’re going for the rest of the goddamn afternoon. So get all your lecturing and thoughts out now, before I fuck them out of you.”

You swallow, hugging his torso and squirming a little further up his body. He gives a low groan, and you smile against his skin. Think you’ll be able to pay attention, Benjamin? Sure you can focus on something other than fucking for fifteen minutes?

Ten.

We’re not negotiating-

The fuck we aren’t. You get ten minutes, then I get started.

We have two hours before we have to go-

And we’ll have to shower all the fucking cum off of you, and I’ll probably fuck you in there as well. Nine minutes.

You sigh against him, force yourself not to think about how he’s all sweaty from the gym—how you can taste the salt on his skin and feel his arms flexing around you—and start running through the highlights. I was right, Butcher’s going to use the V on himself. He wanted to know what it was like, when they injected me with it.

What did you tell him.

That it hurt. A lot.

Ben nods, his chin resting on the top of your head. I remember that shit. Felt like someone was fucking flaying me alive. He pauses, and you can hear the hitch of his breath in his throat. Did it hurt every time. When those science pussies did the other shots.

Yeah. More, actually.

You feel that sore ache, solid and wrathful and bloody, flare over your skin—Ben’s skin—and sigh into him.

There’s nothing you could’ve done about that, Ben. We didn’t even know each other-

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to fucking kill the cock-heads that did it. His love and care—all made of stone and zeal—rumbles through you with his voice, and his arms tug you a little closer. Nobody should fucking hurt you-

But they did, and it’s done. And I killed them already, so don’t throw a temper tantrum.

I’m not throwing a fucking temper tantrum-

Yes, you are. You kiss Ben’s throat, and a low grunt escapes his chest as you smile against him. But I love you for it, you giant fucking man child.

Shut the fuck up. His words are grumbled between your heads, but you can feel the glow in him start to spread over his every muscle and bone. Five minutes. What about A-Train. Red River.

Mallory doesn’t even know we’re going, so we’re good. We’ll have to be careful, though. No powers, no murder, no going off book.

What fucking book, we’re always just making this shit up as we go-

You look up, giving Ben a flat look. Let’s say the Genova conventions and call it a day. No war crimes.

It’s a goddamn orphanage-

Extra reason to be careful. We’re going in, getting the Cornucopia, and leaving. That’s it.

Ben rolls his eyes, but nods. A-Train got any idea what the fuck we’re getting, or is he still being a useless fucking pussy.

Nothing. You sigh, leaning back in Ben’s arms and tapping your fingers against his chest. Said he’d never even heard of it.

Because he’s fucking useless-

He’s trying, Ben. And Annie hadn’t heard of it either, I just wanted to cover all our bases. We’re going to find out soon anyway.

If it’s another fucking kid-

It’s not going to be another kid. Butcher’s just dramatic.

But if it is, we should keep it.

You blink at him. What?

I don’t trust Edgar with a kid, and Ryan needs friends who aren’t fucking us and Kimiko. Like Neuman’s kid, he said they were friends. We should bring them here-

Are you trying to start a new orphanage? You give him a look of disbelieving amusement, tracing a hand over his jaw. Soldier Boy’s home for wayward baby supes? Am I going to come home one day and we’ll suddenly have a bunch of stray children?

That sore, itching embarrassment starts to crawl over Ben’s skin. Shut the fuck up, I’m just saying that if it’s a kid, we shouldn’t just fucking give it to Edgar-

We won’t, I promise. But I really don’t think it’s going to be a kid, Ben.

He sighs. Yeah, you’re holding out for the fucking bucket still.

It would make things easier-

Things are never fucking easier, Ben mutters your name in the silence, searching your face carefully. And I’ve fucking got you, but this might backfire. You need to goddamn swear to me you’ll be ready-

I’m ready for anything, Pretty Boy. You give him a kiss on the cheek, pressing your brow to his. And if it’s a kid, we’ll figure out what to do. Together.

You open your eyes, and find him still watching you, and if you couldn’t feel his adoration, you could see it. It’s painted all over his face, glazing over his eyes as he looks at you. He’s everything, and the whole universe feels trapped between your bodies, floating around somewhere near the place where that part of you—alive in him—calls you back home. To Ben, every time.

I love you, Sunshine, his hand has drifted up your back, tangling in your hair. Christ, I really fucking love you.

I know. You smile, and all your love for him explodes through every part of the world as he grins back. I love you too, Benjamin. And I’d very happily run a supe orphanage with you. I’d happily do most things with you, you massive fucking cunt.

Good. Ben gives a small nod, his face suddenly falling into an intense concentration. Time’s up.

You yelp as Ben’s hold on you becomes firm, and he stands up in one, smooth movement, your body barely shifting against him as he marches you up the stairs.

“Ben-“

“I was goddamn serious earlier,” he grunts your name, glancing down at you with a smirk. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you cum. You’re always fucking beautiful, but when you cum you’re a fucking wonder of the world. And I want to watch.”

“You, um,” you clear your throat, trying to ignore the rush of smug satisfaction blurring in with Ben’s hunger, and how it makes the heat between your legs start to throb. “You always watch me-“

“Not like I’m about to,” he grunts, kicking the door to your room open. “I want to see the whole fucking thing.”

“The whole thing-“

“You’re going to touch yourself,” he mutters, lowering you carefully onto the mattress. “And I’m going to watch. Cum just from fucking watching. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, shivering as Ben traces careful fingers over the waistline of your pants. “That’s, yeah. I can do that.”

He huffs a small laugh, and kisses you. Long and deep and rough, his tongue pushing down your throat within a second, sucking on your lips as he lowers you onto your back. “I know you can. You’re so fucking good for me,” he hums your name onto your skin, leaving sloppy kisses over every single part of your face he can reach. “So fucking pretty, fucking perfect. It’s a goddamn threat to my health, how much I fucking love you. Ready?”

Your nod is frantic, and just as you start to grind up into him, Ben draws back up to his full height, and pulls his shirt over his head. You might be drooling a little bit, but you have the right to. Ben’s huge, and muscular, and his hair is already messy, his whole body already covered in sweat he hadn’t bothered to wash off—he probably knew the benefit of keeping it, based only on the cocky glint in his eyes as you take him in—and you want to touch him. This man is yours. He’s everything, he loves you, and every part of him is for you. His defined chest and abdomen you want to trail your fingers over, his handsome, stupid face you want kiss, his soft hair you want to tug at and his big, calloused fingers you want him to push inside of you, or tease you, or stick in your fucking mouth-

“Words, my love,” he growls, and you can’t manage to drag your eyes back up to his, away from where he’s pulling off his sweats, and boxers and-

“Ready,” you’re definitely drooling, in at least two places. He’s already hard, his cock standing at attention, and massive, and thick, and you need him. “Please-“

Ben pushes you lightly back down as you try to sit up on your elbows, reaching for him. “Whole point of this is we don’t fucking touch, Sunshine. Think you’re going to live?”

He’s teasing you, but you might not. Ben’s started to stroke himself slowly, his eyes blown out with lust, and you’re not even undressed. Every nerve of your body is wired and electric, howling for you to just jump on him, let him relieve the pounding need between your legs, ram into you until you’re dizzy and the world is just a haze of Ben. He might be a drug, because you’ve never chased someone like this. You’ve never felt so hopelessly desperate for Ben to just fucking touch you, just a feather-like brush of his skin over yours, anything-

“Clothing off,” he grunts your name, and you start to move before you even fully register his words. You don’t think you’ve ever undressed so fast—rolling around the mattress as you tug off your pants and underwear, unclipping your bra and squirm to tug your shit over your head—and you can feel Ben’s eyes on you the whole time. Hear the small grunt leave his mouth as you fall fully back onto the sheets, entirely naked before him.

Look at me.

Your gaze drags back up to his eyes, your hips almost buck off the bed at the full sight of him. He looks starved, borderline animalistic. He’s still moving his hand so slowly over his cock, the head dripping with pre-cum, and his jaw clenches as your legs tangle in the sheets, squirming around them to try and chance some sort of relief. Your mouth is hanging open, your whole face already slack, and you can’t tear your gaze away from him. It’s like he’s locked you in place, and you can’t do anything but roll your hips on the mattress for friction.

Ben-

Touch that perfect pussy of yours, darling. Make yourself fucking cum.

Your hand shoots between your legs, moving over your clit in fast, tight movements, and you whimper as his nostrils flare.

Legs open. Let me see you.

A low groan leaves him as you spread your legs, his hand starting to beat against his cock in an unrelenting pace.

“Please-“

“Have to give it to yourself, Sunshine,” he grunts, every muscle of his chest flexing, and you start to grind onto your own hand. “Christ, you’re so fucking good, I can fucking smell how wet you are, hear your fucking heartbeat, so fucking perfect-“

You moan, your free hand moving up to pinch at your nipple. “Keep, fuck,” you throw your head back, trying to keep your eyes on him as your back arches off the mattress. “Keep talking, Ben, please-“

“You like me talking to you? Like when I tell you how fucking hard you make me, how fucking hot you are, how you drive me goddamn crazy with how fucking perfect you are, how all I ever think about is you?”

“God, yes-“

“I don’t know how I ever fucking lived with without you,” He growls your name, and your movements against your pussy grow rapid, three of your fingers pressing down and rubbing back and forth in a blur. “Everything you goddamn do makes me hard, because you’re so fucking good and hot and fuck-“ He takes a ragged breath, and you palm at your breast, spreading your legs until your thighs ache. “You’re my whole fucking world, darling, your fucking voice gets me going, turns me on when you hit me, when you walk, when you fucking smile and laugh, and I’ve never-“

“Please,” you cut over him, your toes curling in the mattress. “I, Ben, need to-“

“It’s damn killing me not to touch you, beautiful, but fucking Christ, you have no idea what you do to me-“ He cuts himself of with a groan, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. “Need you to fucking cum for me, need to see you fucking cum-“

“Ben-“ His hips buck against his fist, and you whine. “Ben, please-“

“Cum, Sunshine-“

Your orgasm rips through your body, every part of you wracked with a high and blissful heat, a high, desperate moan falling out of your mouth as you thrash in the sheets. Your eyes never leave Ben’s, though, trapped by the hunger and love and devotion on his every feature. You’re just coming down when he groans, rutting into his fist, and falls over you as he finds his own release. His kiss is demanding—all teeth and spit and insatiable want—and you whine as he paints your stomach white, your hands tangling his hair as a second orgasm crashes into you. Cresting with Ben’s own until your whole body is loose under him, your breaths in an unsteady, even harmony with his.

Ben gives you one last, almost chaste kiss, and hauls himself off of you, scanning over his handiwork. He runs two fingers through the mess he left on your skin, using his free hand to pin you against the mattress when you squirm under his touch.

“You know what you did that time?” He hums, glancing up at you with a smirk. “You looked like one of those crystal fucking things, with the rainbows-“

“Prism,” you mumble, and his grin grows.

“Of course you know what the fuck I’m talking about.” He shakes his head, and you feel the glow inside him wrap around every inch of his body, running through his blood and over his skin. “Too fucking smart for your own good, Sunshine. Too fucking smart and perfect. You looked exactly like a goddamn prism, full of fucking light and color. So fucking beautiful, my love, drive me out of my goddamn mind.” He brings his fingers up to your mouth, raising a brow. “Taste.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your jaw drops open, and when Ben presses his broad fingers onto your tongue, you close your lips around him and suck. Scraping with teeth, swirling your tongue over the pads of his fingers, drinking his cum like it could possibly quench the undying thirst and desire for every single part of Ben, as close to you as he can possibly bring them.

“Good girl,” he grunts, pulling his fingers away and hauling you up to his chest, kissing the top of your head. “Fucking love you, Sunshine. More than anything.”

You smile at him, all of your blood still trading between your bodies as you crane your neck up to kiss him once, mumbling against his lips, “I love you too, Benjamin. We should shower-“

Ben’s arms drop below your thighs, and he cuts you off with another, slower kiss as he stands, carrying you to the bathroom without ever pulling his lips away.

In the end—despite Ben’s attempt at timely sex—you’re still late to meet Hughie and Kimiko for Red River. You’re in the shower for about two whole minutes before your chest is pinned to the tile walls, and you become lightheaded from both the steam and the way Ben is pounding into you, his hand mimicking your own previous movements on your clit until your legs give out as you cum. You can feel yourself squirt that time, but you’ll never tell Ben because it gets washed away in the water without him seeing. From there you take about forty five minutes to get dressed—you tell Ben he can’t wear his supe suit, and immediately distract him by jerking him off, which somehow inevitably leads to him fingering you—and when you’ve convinced him to leave the shield and just please follow you to the elevator, a gun in his pants and your sunglasses on your brow, you’re fifteen minutes past the agreed upon time.

Fortunately, Hughie and Kimiko are a lot more forgiving of your habit for taking schedules as a suggestion rather than a strict guideline than MM or Butcher. Your apologies are meet with a nervous shrug and two thumbs up, and by the time you’re in the backseat of Butcher’s car—leaning into Ben’s side as Kimiko takes shotgun and Hughie drives—you’re pretty sure MM might have accounted for your chronic tardiness when he’d told you when to leave, because you’re only going to be five minutes late.

Ben?

He grunts, tugging you a little further into his side, squeezing your shoulder in a silent instruction to continue.

What if it is a kid.

Then we’ll deal with it-

How, though. If it’s a kid, we can’t give it to Edgar. But you can’t stay in his debt-

Ben’s hand cups your chin, and he carefully guides you to meet his eyes. We’ll fucking deal with it. I can take of the Edgar shit, we’re not hurting a kid.

What if it’s a baby. We can’t keep a baby in the compound-

It won’t be a baby, Sunshine. Edgar said he’s been keeping it there for a while-

Maybe the V made it into a permanent baby. A permababy, Ben, I don’t know how to take care of a permababy-

What’s wrong.

Nothing’s wrong-

Ben mutters your name in the hum of the engine, scanning over your face. Something’s wrong. You’re freaking the fuck out, for no goddamn reason. You don’t even think it’s going to be a kid, let alone a fucking baby-

But it could be-

It’s not going to be a fucking baby. What’s wrong.

You take a deep breath, holding onto his wrist and letting the stone resolve and concern steady your thoughts. I’m not freaking out, but I’m nervous. No matter what it is, it’s important. If it’s a weapon, we can’t give that to Edgar either. If it’s documents, what type of fucked up shit is worth hiding at this point? What if it’s just a box, and we can’t open it, so we don’t know? Fuck, Ben, what if it’s just a box-

He leans down, giving you a slow kiss to your lips until your body is relaxed against his, and your breathing is in an even pattern once more. I can break a fucking box, Sunshine. You can break a fucking box. Christ, Kimiko could break a fucking box. We’re going to deal with this, no matter what it is. Together.

But-

No. We’ll deal with it. That’s fucking that. Ben kisses your brow, tugging you onto his lap, your back pressed to his chest and his arms wrapped over your middle. If it’s a box, I’ll break it. If it’s documents, you’ll figure them out. If it’s a kid, we’ll deal with it together. I’ve fucking got you, darling. You burn, I burn.

You burn, I burn. You sigh, taking one of his hands between yours, turning it over in your fingers like you can find some sort of way out this, written on his knuckles or palms. Thank you.

Don’t. He squeezes your waist, guiding your hand—tangled in his—up to press a kiss on the back of it. I love you.

You smile, and Ben’s love wraps over your skin, keeping the world clear and safe in the smell of pine, the warmth of Ben’s body and devotion. I love you too.

“Hey, um,” Hughie coughs your name from the front seat, glancing back at you in the rearview mirror. “I know Annie didn’t know anything about the Cornucopia, but she said you were going to try and talk to A-Train-“

“He didn’t know anything either. I think,” your fingers start to tap against Ben’s arm as you frown at the passing road. “It might be a good idea for someone to stay in the car. In case it’s something that’s… not great.”

Kimiko raises her hand, offering you a smile when you glance at her and signing, I can. Hughie’s been here before, and Soldier Boy won’t want to be separated from you.

You frown, signing back, Frenchie says you can’t drive.

I can drive, she shrugs, twisting in her seat to fully face you. Just not legally.

At this point, you’re past legality. Ben has to go in, you have to go in with him, and it’s probably smarter to bring Hughie than Kimiko, if only because Hughie has the best customer service persona out of all four of you.

Okay, you give Kimiko a small nod, before looking back to Hughie in the rearview. “Kimiko can stay in the car. You, Ben, and I will go in, get the Cornucopia, and get out.”

“Can Kimiko,” Hughie pauses, glancing at Kimiko with a weary frown. “Can you drive?”

I’m pretty sure, yeah. Gas, break, horn, headlights. I’ll get it.

“She says yeah,” you translate, deciding it’s not worth giving Hughie an anxiety attack. If things go south, Kimiko will be able to get you away from Red River, and probably do it fast. Things like the fact that she pointed at the wipers lever for the headlights aren’t that important. Sunset isn’t for a little while, and if it starts to rain, you’ll be set, so you let it go. “How much longer until we’re there?”

Hughie glances at his phone, propped in a cup holder. “Ten minutes.”

Kimiko gives you an eye roll. It would be five, but Hughie drives like a blind old lady. She gives him a glare. We already commit so many crimes, what’s speeding to murder?

You snort. I’m just happy it’s not Butcher. He has nothing to lose and he drives like we don’t either.

Does he, Kimiko points to Ben, and his arms tense slightly around you. Drive like an old person?

I don’t know, actually. The only time I was in a car while he was driving, I passed out. You glance up at Ben’s stoic, too passive face, giving him a soft smile as you continue to sign to Kimiko. He does a lot of things like an old person though. He won’t admit it, but I think our electric AC is confusing him. He always makes me change it for him.

He’s like a hundred, right? I’m impressed that he can use a phone.

Hundred and six. You look back to Kimiko, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. I know it’s weird, I try to ignore it.

Why, because you’re, Kimiko’s hands still, and she looks between you and Ben with a confused expression. Dating? You’re dating him?

Yeah. I mean, yeah to the weird. I think to the we’re dating. You shake your head, trying to physically clear your thoughts. Ben said we were, to Neuman, but we haven’t really talked about it.

You should talk to him about that. Annie told me talking about relationships is good. And I don’t think it’s that weird.

Really? You tilt your head at her, signing slowly. I mean. He’s a dinosaur. I love him more than life and he’s a grumpy old dinosaur.

Kimiko gives you a toothless, almost apathetic smile. Would you rather he date an eighty year old, break her hip during sex, and there is only a twenty year gap? At least this way you’re both happy.

I guess. You look down to Ben’s arms, a smile tugging at your lips when you realize he’s started to draw patterns over the skin of your stomach, and you’re not sure he even knows he’s doing it. He does make me happy. You sign, looking back up at Kimiko. And I think I make him happy.

You do make him happy. He’s an asshole, but he’s sort of okay now. He did call Frenchie a cowardly cigar pussy when Frenchie tried to take the ice cream in the freezer, but then he told us about MM’s donut stash.

Was it the malt vanilla? That Frenchie tried to take?

I think so.

You feel a rush of affection for Ben, and know the smile on your face is downright pathetic when you sign back to Kimiko. He loves that shit. Old fucking man.

You love him a lot.

You blink at Kimiko’s blunt phrasing, and forgo your many internally rehearsed speeches about why you love Ben. How he’s the best thing that ever happened to you, and you trust him with anything, and every time he shuffles up to you, grumbling about how it’s really fucking hot, Sunshine. Why is it so fucking hot, it should never be this goddamn hot inside. Go hit the stupid buttons so I don’t leave a fucking sweat-stain on the couch, you love him a little more. Instead, you sign, yeah. He’s, he’s good. And he cares about me, a lot.

We all care about you, Kimiko gives you an amused look, pointing at Ben. He’s like a puppy. Or one of those airport dog videos MM loves. It’s good. You smile a lot now.

You do. It only hits you right then, how your lips and cheeks are almost always pulling in a wide, toothy, real and full smile. And not only for Ben—mostly for Ben—but for your friends. It’s easier to smile at them now, because you’d smiled at Ben and he’d returned it. It’s easier to do a lot of things now. For every item and experience that will always have a Homelander shaped shadow casting over it, there are two that will always be washed in a warm light that smells like pine and tastes like coffee and vanilla.

Thank you, your signing to Kimiko is cautious, careful. For giving him a chance. I know he’s not easy-

Kimiko shakes her head, and your hands freeze as she responds. He’s easier than before. With you. You’re both easier with each other, it’s obvious to us. She makes a quick gesture between herself and Hughie. Even if it’s not obvious to everyone else.

Mallory?

Yeah. Kimiko’s brow draws into a glare, and you know it’s not directed at you. She’s a bitch.

Yeah, you grin. Was she always a bitch? Or do I just bring that out in her?

I think she’s getting sick of us making messes. Kimiko’s glower deepens. I’d like to see her try to clean up blown up dick and follow the FBSA’s guidelines-

Kimiko’s gestures are cut off as the car slams to a halt, Hughie flinching and looking back at you and Ben with wide eyes.

“Sorry, the breaks are, uh, touchy. We’re here.”

It’s almost immediate to you—as Ben helps you out of the car and your eyes adjust to the sunlight—how painfully similar Red River looks to a prison. There’s no guard tower, but the large, brick building is blocked by a high, chain-link fence with barbed wire, and there are surveillance cameras on slow swivels, covering almost every bit of dirt and pavement.

Fuck, there are surveillance cameras-

Several loud bangs cut through the air, followed by a yelp from Hughie and a huff from Ben as he tucks his gun back into his pants.

“Shit!” Hughie shakes his head, gaping at Ben with an almost fearful indigence. “What the fuck was that, dude! We can’t just fire guns on private property-“

Hughie’s words falter as Ben shoots him a bored glare. “You should be damn thanking me, you dumb cockfuck.” Ben points up to the sizzling, cracked cameras, wires still slightly sparking. “We need to move, now.”

Hughie glances at you, and when you give him a small nod he returns it—giving Ben one last, anxious look—and leans into the window to hand Kimiko the keys.

Benjamin. You slap his arm over your shoulders, looking up at him with a dry expression. What did I say about being subtle-

We can’t have cameras see us, Sunshine, you fucking know that-

I do, you cross your arms, holding his glare with mostly just exasperation. Which is why I’m not mad. But there was probably a better way to do that, and now we’re on a timer. So please be careful. No yelling at the workers if they piss you off, no murdering people who piss you off, no inflicting any sort of disabling harm on people who piss you off-

Ben catches your hand—raised up to count each item on your list—and squeezes it once, grumbling your name in the breeze of the wind. I’ll follow your lead. But if I think there’s any sort of fucking danger-

You take over, I know. You bump his shoulder with yours, offering a small, light smile. I trust you. No calling any children pussies or dumb fucking cockheads.

I would never. He grins at you, a look of faux indigence painted over his handsome features, and your smile grows wider—more authentic—as his amusement runs through your blood and muscle. That shit doesn’t sound like me in the goddamn slightest. I’m a fucking gentleman, my love, you know that-

You reach a hand up to tangle in the back of Ben’s hair, pulling him down into an easy, gentle kiss, teasing your tongue over his lips and letting a content sigh when he hums against you. I love you, Benjamin. And you can be a gentleman, when you want to be, but you also called Frenchie a cowardly cigar pussy. So forgive me for making sure no children get told their legos look like fucking dogshit.

Ben chuckles, tugging you a little closer as he deepens the kiss. That what you and Kimiko were talking about? How Frenchie is a fucking whining pussy ice cream thief.

Maybe. Maybe we also talked about how you told Frenchie about MM’s donut stash. You’re going soft, Pretty Boy-

I am not going fucking soft. Ben bites your lower lip, smirking at the small, breathless moan he draws out of you. Ryan was there, and you’re always trying to teach him about that fucking kindess shit-

You pull back, giving him an amused look. Kindness would’ve been sharing the ice cream, dumb dumb.

Ben rolls his eyes. I don’t share my ice cream, it’s fucking mine-

You share with me.

That’s not the same. I love you.

It's such a simple sentence, and he’s said it so many times, but it’s yet to stop your body from filling with a bright, natural light. Ben says I love you like it’s obvious, and everything becomes a little sharper, all your thoughts a littler loud and cleaner in your head, no longer stained with blood or a muck of fear. You lean your head onto his shoulder and watch as Hughie and Kimiko finish their slightly disjointed exchange about the car.

I love you too, Benjamin. Should I go help them-

You cut your own thought off in Ben’s head as Hughie stands back up, turning at you and Ben. “Kimiko’s all set, so I guess we’re up.”

When you look around the street, it’s almost deserted. You’ve parked on the curb, and there are a few, empty cars up and down the block, but you’re the only people in sight.

“Do we just” you nod to the gate, glancing at the barbed wire. “Jump it?”

Ben’s immediately on board with your plan—nodding and starting to back you both up a few paces—while Hughie goes pale, shaking his head and moving to try and block your path.

“There’s a doorbell!” He half-shouts, arms reached out, glancing over his shoulder to the wire. “We don’t need to jump anything-”

“No,” you tug yourself away from Ben’s hold, scanning over the wired fence. “If we ring the doorbell, they’ll ask who we are. We’d have to lie, and they’d try to check the cams, and we’d be fucked. There might be a back entrance, but we don’t have the time to look for one.”

Hughie watches you with an uneasy gaze, looking between your frown and your fingers, flexing as you approach the gate. He mumbles your name, scratching the back of his neck. “I know you guys are immortal, but I’m really not, and I really like life-“

His words trail off as you press your hands—palms up and fingers spread—to the wires, and they start to sizzle and melt away, moving over the metal until you’ve created a large hole that will fit you all easily, and pulling away without smoke or any exploding buildings.

You look back to Ben with a grin, and he winks at you.

This is why you should fucking listen to me, Sunshine, I taught you how to do that-

You wrinkle your nose at him, still smiling. You stood behind me and made grumpy faces, I did this myself.

And I helped, brat.

Something bright and almost elated is rising in Ben’s chest, swelling across his muscles as he gives you a wide, toothy smile, and you give in easily. He did help, and you want him to keep making that joyful, content face.

Fine, cunt. You’re an excellent teacher.

Damn right I am-

Hughie coughs, hovering at your side as he examines the fence. “Sorry, I know you guys were, uh,” he trails off, mouth twitching as he gives you a confused look. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to call it.”

You give him a shrug, dropping your voice to a fake whisper. “We haven’t come up with a name for it yet, someone keeps vetoing all my amazing ideas-“

“You’ve tried to get me to call it the fucking Ben’o’phone,” Ben drawls your name, suddenly right behind you, causing you to smile up at him and Hughie to flinch. “I’ll goddamn eat glass and suck Hughie’s dick before I call it that.”

“You don’t, uh, you don’t have to do either of those things-“

“Well, until you start pitching ideas, I’ll call it whatever the fuck I want.” You stick your tongue out at Ben before turning back to a still-blushing Hughie. “We should move, though, can we talk on the way?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Hughie watches you start to climb through the fence, Ben following, before ducking after himself. “I just want to go over the plan before we go in-“

“Get in,” Ben grunts, wrapping his hand in yours, a concrete, firm and unmoving care and concern settling in your body. “Find Vanessa. Get the Cornucopia. Get out.”

“Vanessa?”

“Edgar said to ask for her.” You examine the building as you approach, raising your voice to carry on the wind to Hughie. “We’ll have to find her though, we can’t exactly just walk in the door without some recognizing Ben and I. Hopefully she has an office, or they wear name tags-“

“I’ve met Vanessa,” Hughie interrupts you, and you turn back to see him stopped a few feet from you and Ben, frowning as he thinks. “Last time I was here. I think, maybe-“

“Hughie,” you tap your fingers on Ben’s arm, letting him keep a vigilant eye on the sky and yard as you hold Hughie’s nervous gaze. “On a scale of one to ten, how sure are you that you know Vanessa.”

“Maybe eight?”

You’ll take those odds. “Will you recognize her?”

“I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

“Awesome. You’ll lead.” You turn away from Hughie’s nervous nod, tugging slightly on Ben’s arm until he frowns down at you. “Can you throw me up there?”

Ben looks to where you’ve pointed—a window ledge two stories up, the blinds open and the room empty—and back down to you with tense glare. “Why.”

“I’m going to melt the glass, you’re going to throw Hughie up, and then jump up yourself.”

“Why do we always have to throw me up,” Hughie’s voice is higher than usual, his eyes on your slightly pleading. “Can’t we just use one of the windows in front of us to trespass?”

“Suck it up, kid, if she says I’m throwing you, you’re getting fucking thrown-“

You raise your hand up, and Ben falls silent with a grumbling protest and glower you can feel in your stomach. “Hughie, we can’t go in on the first floor, we can’t tell if any of these rooms are empty-“

“There are the basement windows,” Hughie gestures past your feet, and you turn to see the ground-level half-windows. No blinds, each room inside empty. “You can fit through that, then let us in-“

“No.” Ben snaps, shooting Hughie a glare that makes him flinch, arm tightening around you. “There’re not a fucking chance you’re going in there alone-“

“Ben,” you squeeze his hand, glancing back at Hughie’s pallid features. “It’s a good idea, and I can handle myself-“

It is not a fucking good idea. What if things go south while you’re inside and I’m goddamn stuck out here. What if you get lost, or someone fucking recognizes you-

I’ll be really careful. You scan his taut, angered face, the mold growing back over his heart and something made of a heavy iron wrapping around his lungs and throat. I promise to be careful. You’ll know where I am the whole time, because we’re like pigeons, and we can talk and check in on the Ben’o’phone. His frown deepens, and you trace over the lines on his face with light fingers. If things go south, you can smash right through the front door, and we’ll find each other. I’ll be okay, just don’t kill Hughie while I’m gone.

His hands move up to hold your face, running his thumb over your lips and cheeks, examining you with that gaze where you think he can see inside you. See all your blood flowing into his, the hum of your fire under your skin—entirely within your control—and every single thought running through your head. Trying to calculate every risk of going in alone, every possible thing that could go wrong and work out how you’ll deal with it, still mulling over what the Cornucopia could be, and always circling back to Ben. How much you love him, and how you won’t be that worried while you’re searching through the halls of Red River, because you’ll feel him somewhere in your orbit and resting in your chest, and know you’re safe.

Whatever Ben sees in you, it makes him relent. He presses a firm, almost tender kiss on the top of your head, and tucks your hair behind your ear as he gives you a short nod. Be fast, and stay alert. If you hear anyone, fucking hide, and if there’s a single goddamn threat remember to keep your weight even when you throw the punch-

I won’t punch, you rest your brow against his. I’ll burn. Someone really grumpy and mean taught me how to control it, but he’s really handsome. I like it when he’s grumpy, it makes me love him a lot.

Brat. His words in your head are low and gruff, but the thing around this throat has loosened, and the mold has started to wane, replaced by the small, soft glow, pulsing between your bodies. I love you. Ben stands back to his full height, glancing to the side at Hughie, shifting awkwardly on his feet as he waits. “While she’s gone, you listen to me. If I tell you to fight, you fight, if I say shoot, open fucking fire, and if I-“

“I didn’t bring a gun-“

“Why the fuck didn’t you bring a gun, are you going to fucking talk your way through the damn bullets-“

You deal a swift kick to Ben’s shin. “Hughie, if you need to run, run. Ben and I will be fine, and you’re actually, you know. Killable. Ben can steal us a car, and we’ll meet you at home. But that’s if worst comes to worst, and it won’t.”

It won’t come to the worst. You keep reminding yourself, over and over, that it won’t. It can’t. You won’t let it. Ben won’t let it.

Still, you take a long breath as you crouch down, laying your palms on the glass of the window and letting it melt under your touch. Ben stands over you, blocking you from the view of the sky, and when you look up his jaw is clenched, hands fisted at his side, and you think you can hear the drums. You reach up silently, and Ben drops down on his knees—still hunching over you—and pulls you into a bone crunching hug, running his hand through your hair and holding your face to his neck.

Swear you’ll be safe.

I promise. You lean back, kissing his cheek. I’ll be right back. Don’t kill Hughie.

The moment you drop down—onto a carpeted floor in a room full of random pieces of furniture but no people—you can feel Ben start to strain in your chest. Beating against you, telling you outside. On the grass. This room is so damp and dark and cold, and life is outside.

You push through it. Stuffing your sunglasses in your jacket and pulling the hood of it over your head, you creak the door open, peek out into the hallway, and start to pad down it, looking for stairs. You need to find stairs.

Ben.

His response is instant, stirring at the top of your ribcage. What, are you okay-

I’m fine, I need you to ask Hughie something.

What.

If he saw any stairs, when he was here before. Or passed an elevator.

There’s a few beats of silence, before he said he did.

Where.

I don’t fucking know-

You roll your eyes, checking every door as you make your way down the hall. Ask him, dummy.

Shut the fuck up. There’s a low rumble from Ben’s Thing, a little more quiet, and then, he says near the front door. Not too deep into the building.

There’s a hall branching off, further away from the rooms lining the building’s wall, and you glance behind you with a frown. Can you ask if it was on the side I dropped into?

He said it was.

Okay. Thank you. You start down the new hallway, looking for any sort of exit sign.

Ben’s Thing inside you starts to bounce around, and you think he’s begun to pace. This is fucking stupid, I can fit through that hole-

Do not leave Hughie alone, Ben, I’m fine- Your heart jumps in your chest when you see it, glowing green and mounted high on the wall, and—with a brisk scan of the still deserted hallways—you take off, half sprinting to the stairs. I’m okay, you send down the line before Ben has the chance to freak out and start tearing apart Red River’s brick foundation. Found the stairs.

Good. Are you-

I’m okay. You pause at the base of the steps with a frown. I need you to go around the side of the building. I’ll find an empty room, far from the entrance, and let you in.

Ben grunts in your head, and he fades into a hum that rings through every part of your body, filling up every in-between around you. You start up the stairs—keeping a little bit of your attention on the instinct of home, home is that way, Ben is that way—and push out into a slightly less horror movie-like hallway. It almost looks like a public high school, with white bricks and paneled ceilings. Fluorescent beam lights and fake wooden floors.

You hear voices, and duck back into the stairwell, pressing your back to the wall until they pass. They’re small voices, children’s voices, but—although you can’t make out what they’re saying—they don’t carry the light joy they should.

It hurts something in your stomach, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. When a door slams and you poke your head back out the door—the hall deserted once more—you start to hum. A slow, sad song, trying to let your brain fade into a harmony with the world around you. When all that happens is some flickering lights and a glass-like bending of the hall—everything becoming glossy and almost transparent—you add in words, trying to relax your body, mold your own thoughts, and find that same easy, natural feeling you’d had in the gun range.

When you look down, your hands are gone. So are your legs, and torso, and any visible evidence that you exist.

It’s not foolproof. You’re not actually invisible. Someone could bump into you, or hear you, or you could falter in your song and be completely revealed. But you’re shocked it even worked, and it’s better than just ducking into a room every five feet, so you start to creep down the hallway, keeping your singing to a low, half-mumbled volume.

You can feel Ben, waiting a little bit around the back, and you follow that gravity like tug to him, twisting through hallways with careful, measured, silent steps.

He’s past this door, a few more steps calling you home.

But the room is occupied. You can hear voices, and shuffling movements, so you’ll have to adapt.

You start to walk just one more down—Ben and Hughie have legs, one window over won’t kill them—when the door swings open, and your heart almost stops. You barely manage to keep your song going as you come face to face with a dark haired, middle-aged woman, her eyes worn with bags and staring right through you.

“Hopefully that will help until we get someone to look at the AC,” the woman calls behind her, to a room full of teenagers, sitting in a circle. “I know it’s hot guys, but it’s July. Not much else to do.”

“We could get someone with ice powers in here,” one of the girls mutters, hunched over in his seat. “Or like, wind powers.”

One of the boys nods. “All we have to do is kill their parents, and we’ve all got experience killing parents.”

A few of the kids laugh, and the woman sighs the boy’s name. “You know our rules on darker humor during group sessions-“

“C’mon Vanessa,” a different boy, sat next to the first, crosses his arms, and you freeze in the doorway. “That was fucking hilarious-“

“And you know our rules on swearing. Let’s just keep going, guys-“

The conversation continues, and you’ve found Vanessa, but you’re almost stuck in place. You recognize the look on every single one of the faces in that circle. An expression of exhaustion and almost hollow, numb fury at nothing. A sadness that becomes a disease, becomes a part of you as you start to believe that nothing will—nothing could—get better.

It’s tearing something inside you in half. Something near the broken part of you still twisting and flailing in your gut, that’s still trapped and alone and tired. Clinging onto unfair. This is so unfair, what did you do to possibly deserve this, and why you, why does it have to be you, this is so fucking unfair.

You’ve gotten lucky. You have Ben. You have someone who will always pick you up and remind you that this is unfair, but you’re okay. Someone to stand by your side and hold you as you crawl back to okay. Really, truly okay, and with enough time, happy. These kids don’t have that, and it’s boiling that thing inside you into a fury. A white-hot, avenging fury of not fucking fair. Not fair of their parents, to shoot them up as babies. Not fair of Vought, to lock them up after the parents paid the price. Not fair of the government to help hide it, no matter what they’re getting in exchange. All of this is so fucking horrible and unjust, and there’s no one person to blame.

There isn’t. You want there to be, it would be so much easier if there was, but Ben’s right. It’s never easy. You can blame Homelander for a lot of it, but most of this predates him. He didn’t open Red River, he’s probably never even thought about this place. You can blame Edgar as well, but he didn’t make compound V, he just mastered its marketing. You could blame Fredrick Vought, but he’s long dead and didn’t create the government that bought V, that sponsored its creation. There’s no one person to blame in the government either. It’s a system, made by countless people, laying it out brick by brick over 200 years. This is so unfair, and you can’t really fix it. This isn’t a wound that will heal easily, it’s something festering deep under every single piece of tissue, wound into the nerves and impossible to pull or carve out. It’s going to take a long, painful time to repair, and it’s still going to be so fucking unfair.

Where are you.

You blink, refocusing on the pound of Ben in your chest. Sorry, the room is full, give me a second-

“It’s so hot,” the first girl is whining, fanning herself dramatically. “The door didn’t do shit-“

“No swearing.” Vanessa gives the girl a tired, empty glare, and shakes her head. “We can open a window, too, get some fresh air. Marie-“

“On it.” One of the teens, a shorter girl with dreads, stands up, chair scraping on the ground, and you stop singing. Stumbling off to the side as you yank on that line between you and Ben. Move. Benjamin you have to move, now, fucking run or hide-

Ben grunts your name, flaring in your chest. What the fuck is happening, what’s wrong-

Someone’s opening the window, they can’t see you or we’ll be fucked-

Ben is still beating inside you, but he’s not talking anymore. He’s probably moving Hughie, it’s probably fine, but you don’t take a full breath until you hear the chair scraping on the floor and feel a breeze flowing into the hall.

Are you-

We’re set. Ben rolls around in your chest—pulling you just a little further down the hall—and his voice is rough and clipped. You’re okay.

I’m okay. You duck into a room, where you can feel Ben past the wall, and lock the door behind you. Don’t move.

You open the blinds, revealing an out of breath Hughie and a scowling Ben, glaring at you through the glass.

You smile at him. Hi.

Hi. He grumbles your name between your heads, keeping his eyes narrowed as his mouth twitches. That was too fucking long.

It was like, ten minutes. You wrinkle your nose at him. I’m going to get rid of the window, step back.

Through the glass, you hear Ben’s snap to Hughie—repeating your words—but he himself stays planted in front of you, watching as the glass melts under your fingers.

You’ve barely finished when he’s barreling forwards, half picking you up off the ground as he holds you, running hands over your body like he’s looking for a newly-formed scar or cut. Your arms wrap around his torso, and you let Ben kiss at your neck, pulling you as close as he can without climbing into your body.

You hear Hughie stumble into the room, and raise a silent finger from one of your hands, resting on Ben’s back. You can feel the mold slowly burning completely out of Ben’s body, and—even though you’re still on a slight timer—you don’t want to disturb it. It’s a little selfish of you—of your love and affection for Ben, and how the feeling of his ache and pain rips your heart in half—but the last time you’d walked away with a promise of coming back, you hadn’t.

So you wait until Ben peels himself away before turning to Hughie, making a silent gesture for him to follow you deeper into the room, away from the window.

“I found Vanessa,” you keep your voice low, just in case the wind carries it to an open window, or someone passes in the hall. “She’s in the room that you just ran from, doing a therapy group or something. We just have to wait until they wrap up, I can keep an eye on it and call you when they’re done.“

“How are you going to keep an eye on it?” Hughie frowns at you, staring very intently at you and not Ben, who’s gone rigid at your side. “If it’s just hiding in a room, I’m sure I can do it-“

“Nope.” You grin, stepping a few paces back, and spreading your arms wide. “Watch this.”

You start to sing—the same song from before—and you it’s worked when a jolt of shock flashes from Ben and Hughie’s mouth falls open.

“Holy shit,” Hughie mutters. “You haven’t always been able to do that, right? I’m not going insane?”

“No, it’s new.” You reappear in their vision as you stop singing, and give Ben a wide, unrestrained smile. You have to eat me out now. You promised.

He snorts, and the ardor and affection you can feel everywhere in him exposed in his chest, climbing up to show in his eyes. Locked onto yours, dilated and full of a powerful awe that makes every nerve in your body start to itch for him. I have to fuck you, as well. He winks. And if you want to add another reward, I think I could live with it.

You flush, forcing yourself to turn back to Hughie. “I got through the building like that. If I just stand in the hallway, I can tell Ben when she’s left the room, and we can talk to her.”

Hughie nods, and you look back to Ben. “I’ll be right outside, open the door and grab me if something happens.”

He grunts an affirmation, and doesn’t try to talk you out of it, but you still cross the room and hold his face between your hands, smiling up at him. I love you. Thank you.

Don’t. His scowl softens slightly as you kiss his jaw, his hands moving up to cover yours. And I love you too. Always fucking love you, even when you’re being a fucking brat.

I think especially when I’m being a fucking brat. You move to kiss his lips, soft and firm, his beard scraping against your skin and so real. Ben and warm and solid and real.

You pull back—giving Ben one last smile—and start to sing again, slipping out into the hall and keeping a careful eye on the still ajar room.

It’s only a handful of minutes before you hear the scraping of chairs, and the various teens start to filter out. A few walk in your direction, and you have to drop your singing to a whisper, but soon they’ve all passed and Vanessa shuffles out, looking down at her phone and swaying slightly in the hallway.

You wait until she begins to walk away—her back facing fully to you, her steps brisk—before you reach out to Ben. Let’s go.

If you weren’t already a little haywire from how much was going on, you’d probably have realized that trying to follow Vanessa to her office with Ben and Hughie wasn’t the best plan. Hughie’s practically skittish—jumping at every distant footstep and echoing slam of a door—and Ben might as well be waving a flag that says we are up to suspicious activity. He’s light on his feet—you’re not sure if it’s his training, or his secret talent for dancing, but he’s amazingly silent—but he’s also massive and incredibly attention grabbing. And it’s not your love for him, clouding your judgment and blowing this out of proportion to a thought of you always see Ben, so everyone else does as well. He’s looking at everything like it’s going to come to life and start stabbing him, he’s taken the lead—he can follow Vanessa’s heartbeat, and she’s moved out of your sight—and is making a face a little like a bloodhound, and is overall very obviously a strange, grown man sneaking around an orphanage.

Ben raises a hand, stopping you and Hughie in your tracks. That’s it. He nods to a closed door, a few steps away. She’s in there. Just her.

Do we just break in?

Yes. Ready.

Hold on. You look over at Hughie, point at the door, and mouth out she’s in there. It takes a few seconds of confused staring, but eventually Hughie nods, and you turn back to Ben. Let’s do this.

Ben raises his leg, fully prepared to kick the door in, but you’re faster. Grabbing Ben’s arm to move him back a step, you place a tentative hand on the door handle and slowly test it.

Unlocked.

You raise three fingers for Ben and Hughie to see, glancing over your shoulder to ensure they’ve gotten the message, and drop them one by one.

Three. Two. One.

You push the door open with full force of your body, and Vanessa barely has time to drop her jaw before Hughie and Ben are running in after you and you’ve slammed the door, locking everyone inside.

Vanessa looks frozen in shock—face slack, eyes wide and filled with terror—and it sends a small pang of guilt up your spine and into your fingers as you jump into action. No risks.

“Hughie, can you check the desk for a panic button? And,” you sigh, tapping your fingers where you’re still holding the door handle. “Take her phone. Just put it in your pocket, we’ll give it back after.”

“Who,” Vanessa’s started to stutter, and you nod for Ben to close the blinds as you move to stand before her desk. “You’re, are you really, you look like-“

“Yeah, I know. I’m the Anomaly, that’s Soldier Boy,” you incline your head to Ben, smiling at the half-pout of his face, and move on to Hughie. “And he’s, well he’s just kind of a guy-“

“Mr. Campbell?” Vanessa's face grows blanched, staring at Hughie and shrinking into her seat as he tucks her phone into his jeans. “I remember you, you’re dating Starlight, and you visited us last year and we never heard back-“

“Yeah, um,” Hughie looks to you for help, and you offer him a grimace and shrug. “Sorry. It didn’t pan out. You know, with the economy.”

You give Hughie a flat look, and he returns it with a sheepish one as you sigh, turning back to Vanessa. “Listen, we’re not here to hurt you. We just need something, and then we’ll be gone. Nobody will even know we were here-“

“Why are you here?!” Vanessa squeaks, and you sigh.

“I’m getting there-“

“He’s,” Vanessa points to Ben. “A terrorist, and you’re missing! Crap, I’m supposed to report any sightings to the tower, it’s mandated, and why are you together, was Starlight telling the truth?!” She turns back to Hughie. “Are they really dating? Is Starlight here, because I’m supposed to report her too-“

“I’m, um, Annie’s not here, and Soldier Boy’s only mean, he’s not really a terrorist anymore, but I’m not sure if they are dating-“

“Hughie,” you raise your brows at him, shaking your head. “Shut up.”

“And I’m not a fucking terrorist,” Ben grumbles, moving to your side. “I got pardoned. And we are dating, you pussy fuck-“

Benjamin-

“Does that mean the other stuff is also true? About Homelander?” Vanessa’s looking at you with wide eyes, and you take a shaking breath. The adrenaline is fading, you didn’t miss the mandated reporting thing, and a chill is starting to creep through your blood, blurring the world.

You feel Ben’s foot press to yours, and the world moves back into focus.

Thank you. You meet Vanessa’s eyes—feeling Ben’s arm wrap around your waist, steadying your feet—and set your features into a pleasant, neutral boredom. “It is. But that’s not why we’re here.”

“Why-“

“We’re here for the Cornucopia.” You cross your arms, examining Vanessa’s faint expression. “That’s it.”

“I, um,” Vanessa looks around between you, Hughie, and Ben, shaking her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Cut the fucking bullshit-“

You elbow Ben’s stomach, holding Vanessa’s gaze. “We know you do. And I promise we won’t hurt you, but we’re also not leaving this room until you give us what we need.”

We don’t have the time for that, Sunshine, Vought’s probably noticed all their fucking cameras are out-

It’s a bluff, Pretty Boy. You keep your attention on Vanessa, pulling Ben’s arm a little tighter around you. I know we’re on a limit. She doesn’t.

Vanessa’s still silent, shooting the least subtle looks you've ever seen at the door behind you, and you sigh. “Don’t try to make a break for it, please. He’ll,” you jerk your head to Ben. “Catch you. Easily. All we want is the Cornucopia.”

“You don’t understand,” Vanessa whispers, looking over Ben with fearful eyes. “I can’t, nobody’s even supposed to know about that-”

“We were sent by someone who does,” you say carefully, treading around Edgar’s name, unwilling to show all your cards. “And they want it back.”

“Who.”

Of course it’s not that easy. Vanessa doesn’t seem stupid, just afraid. You hold her narrowed glare, and shrug. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

You chew on your tongue, unable to find a way around this, and keep your answer measured and short. “Edgar.”

“Why would he send you-“

“Don’t worry about it,” you lean forward, placing two hands on Vanessa’s desk and trying not to let her flinch make your gut twist. “I get that this is confusing, but we both know you don’t want to cross Edgar. Let’s call him our friend for now, think of this as a favor, and start over. Nice to meet you, Vanessa.” You introduce yourself, keeping your hands braced on the table, and nod behind you to Hughie and Ben. “That’s Hughie Campbell. This is Benjamin, and he doesn’t have a last name. We have all day to wait in here for you to come around, and Ben shits like a horse, so I’d just give us what we need so we can all go home and nobody's office becomes a toilet.”

“I,” you can see the uneven rise and fall of Vanessa’s chest as she speaks, her protests growing weaker. “I’m really not, I mean, what will you do with it?”

It. Not a child. Some tension that had been strung through your whole body relaxes as you respond. “Bring it to Edgar. That’s it. I promise.”

Vanessa looks you over one last time, her hands shaking slightly as she stands and moves around the desk. “I, um, he added something to it last year. Before he was arrested. Does he want that too?”

You have no fucking idea. “Yeah, he does.”

“Okay.” As she crouches down to the floor, Vanessa looks up, around your group, and pauses. “Vought doesn’t know you’re here, right?”

You shake your head, and Vanessa starts to pull at a loose wooden panel. Her body is blocking the view of what’s inside, and you can feel Ben’s grip on you start to grow tight as you wait.

When Vanessa rises up, facing you once more, her fists are closed and the panel is closed once more. “If I give you these, I need you to promise you’ll just leave, and you won’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want the kids caught up in anything, and if Homelander finds out-“

“Homelander’s never going to know anything about this.” It’s the easiest promise you’ve ever made. “No matter what.”

Vanessa lets out an unsteady breath, and extends her hands, uncurling her fists.

You blink, taking the items from her hands. A key and a vial of green liquid.

Green liquid. You almost shove the keys into your pockets, turning the vial over to find the label you already know will be there.

Project Anomaly, Trial 5.

“Fuck.” You look up at Vanessa. “When did Edgar give this to you?”

“About a year ago?” She mumbles, fidgeting with her hands. “He said to keep it with the Cornucopia, but that’s it.”

You look up at Ben, who’s watching you with a concerned, stone-like gaze, mirroring the concrete resolve in his body. If the Cornucopia is the keys, why the fuck did Edgar have this-

We’ll deal with it. He squeezes your waist, giving you a short nod. Together. But we have to fucking move, he mutters your name between your heads, holding your gaze. Now.

You nod, tapping your fingers on the V and shoving it in your pocket with the keys. “Thank you,” you give Vanessa a small, toothless smile. “We’re going to break your window, and you can say it was random criminals. They must have shot out the cameras as well.”

Vanessa’s eyes widen. “You shot out the cameras?! Why would you-“

“We aren’t exactly fucking buddies with Vought, lady.” Ben grunts, and you sigh as he pulls you with him to the far side of the room.

“He’s right, we aren’t.” You crack your neck, examining the glass panes. “Also, you’re going to be missing two other windows. One in the basement, one near that classroom you were just in. I’d get them fixed.”

Before Vanessa can freak out about that as well, you lay your hands on the window, and it melts away. You turn to Ben with a grin, and he winks.

You really fucking like that trick. He grabs your still scorching hand in his, kissing your knuckles without a flinch. I could’ve just fucking punched it in.

Two vanished windows and one broken window is a lot more suspicious than three vanished windows, Benjamin. Consistency is key.

We’d be confusing the fuckers-

You shake your head, dropping your sunglasses onto your face as you lean out the window, checking for a clear path. We don’t want them to be confused. We want them to think it was just a weird break-in, that’s it. No extra reason to really investigate. Let’s go.

Ben follows you out the empty window pane without hesitation, and you hear Hughie give Vanessa a few more, stumbling apologies before following himself. It takes a second to orient yourself to the outdoors—to figure out where you’ve ended up in the yard around Red River—but Ben beats you to it, grabbing your hand and pulling you after him, taking large, long steps in a direct path to the hole you’d burned in the gate.

Kimiko is waiting for you, leaning against the car and waving to you before signing, good thing you’re back, I need help.

You frown at her, stepping back through the hole in the fence as you sign, with what?

Something kind of happened, while you were gone. Kimiko gives you an apologetic look as you stop in front of her. Don’t worry though, I handled it.

“What’s she saying,” Ben grunts, leaning over you to glare at Kimiko. “What’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong-“

You cut yourself off as Kimiko shakes her head, signing to you with a sheepish expression. Things are wrong. It’s not good.

“You said you handled it-“

I did. She shrugs, pushing off the car and walking around to the trunk, gesturing for you to follow. It’s better if you see.

You chew on your lips, and don’t bother to shrug Ben off as you move to Kimiko’s side. Wait, you sign to her, looking to where Hughie has frozen on the curb, watching everyone with a bemused expression.

“What’s going on-“

“Kimiko handled something,” Ben snaps, his eyes trained on the trunk. “In the trunk.”

Hughie blinks. “In the trunk? What’s in the trunk-“

“She hasn’t shown us yet,” you cover Ben’s mouth with one hand as he opens it to yell, beckoning Hughie over with the other. “Do we,” you look back to Kimiko. “Should we get ready to fight?”

Kimiko pauses, glancing at the trunk, then signs, No.

“Are you sure?”

Yeah. Ready?

You nod, pulling your hand down from Ben’s mouth and crossing your arms, tapping your fingers against your jacket. “Ready.”

Kimiko pops the trunk, and Hughie stumbles backwards, rubbing his face and pulling at his hair with frantic movements.

“Why the fuck is Ashely in our trunk?” He’s half shouting, and you see Ben—out of the corner of your eyes—shooting him a sharp glare.

“We all fucking see it,” he hisses. “Shut the fuck up before someone goddamn hears you.”

Hughie continues to protest, and you squeeze Ben’s bicep in a silent request for him to handle it. You’re a little preoccupied, your brain moving a mile a minute to adjust for this new, less than ideal development.

Ashley is indeed in your trunk. Completely knocked out, hands tied in a haphazard knot with some rope—you assume Kimiko found it in Butcher’s less-than-secret weapons compartment—and her wig slightly askew.

“Kimiko,” you sign with your words, tearing your eyes away from Ashley and up to her. “What happened.”

I saw her park over there, Kimiko points a little down the block, to a fancy, silver sports car. And start to walk to the gate. We made eye contact, and she tried to run inside, so I jumped her. She’s really weak, it was easy.

“Okay,” you take a heavy breath, looking back to Ashley’s body, double checking for the shallow movements of breath. “Thank you,” you shoot Kimiko a small, tired smile. “I mean, this is a fucking mess, but it’s good she didn’t make it inside, especially if she saw you.”

Kimiko returns your smile, taking your hand and squeezing it, and you feel a rush of her own gratitude, mixed with an almost natural trust. In you. Kimiko really, fully trusts you to deal with this, and it chases away a little bit of the tight, doubting cold in your body. You can fix this. This is something you can fix.

“Ben,” you turn around to where Ben and Hughie are still arguing in half-hushed, half-shouting voices, and they both look up at you with a stare of concern—lined with affection—from the former, and pure, unbridled anxiety from the latter. “I need you to hold the Cornucopia.”

Kimiko’s eyes widen, waving her hands to get your attention before signing, you found it? Is it a bucket?

“No, it’s keys.” You hold them up quickly for her to see, before chucking them at Ben’s face, not bothering to see if he catches them. He always catches them, and you need to talk to Kimiko. “Can you restrain her without knocking her back out? She probably already has a concussion, and we don’t want to give her permanent brain damage.”

Kimiko nods, flexing her arms and moving to stand right at your side, glancing down at Ashley. What are we doing with her?

“I’m working on that,” you taste a tang of blood in your mouth, and realize you’d bitten through your cheek. “But we need to get her tracker out now. Ben?”

You can feel him behind you, and glance back to find him watching you with a clenched jaw, his legs in a wide stance, as if he’s ready to punch anything you point to. He gives you a sharp nod to continue, so you do.

“I need you to listen for when I’ve fried the tracker. Kimiko will keep Ashley down, and if you can make sure nobody sees us-“

“Got it,” Ben grunts, turning around to watch the street, hands fisted at his sides. “Go.”

You swallow, and look back to Ashley, reaching down to touch her arm where the tracker had been in A-Train, feeling only a quiet, empty buzz in her sleeping body. Kimiko’s braced at your side, Hughie’s pacing somewhere behind you, and Ben’s got you. You’re blocked from the view of the sky and street, your blood is cold but all your own, and you can deal with this. You’re not strong enough to fight Homelander, but you can easily deal with Ashley.

It takes a few seconds for the pain to wake her up. You’ve already seared through the first two layers of skin when her eyes shoot open, red and unfocused, and she doesn’t get a chance to make even a strangled sound of panic before Kimiko covers her mouth. From there it’s harder. You can feel every ounce of Ashley’s raw, unbridled fear. It’s all that in her body, and it’s so fucking exhausting and painful and you hate this. When Ben finally nudges your shoulder, muttering fried down your connection, you pull your hand back like you were the one that had been burned, shaking it like you can make Ashley’s mind-numbing fright leave you faster.

Ben, you look over your shoulder, waiting for him to glance back at you before continuing. Can you gag her? I don’t want to knock her out again, but we can’t have her screaming-

Okay. Ben nods—ripping off part of his sleeve without missing a beat—and moves around you to work as you turn to face Hughie. Later, you’ll have to hold Ben’s face between your hands and kiss his whole stupid, handsome, amazing face for letting you take care of this without question. Repeat to him a million times how much you love him, and show him on your knees and under his body and riding him until he groans.

Right now, you’re on borrowed time. There’s still smoke curling from your fingertips, and even though there’s no itch under your skin, your thoughts are moving too fast and there’s bile in your throat. You have to move, right fucking now, and if you pause for even a second you think the cold will take over your bones and blood, and you’ll fall over as a sickening, crippling weight drops onto your shoulders. You’ll fall apart later, and sit in Ben’s warm arms until the cracks stop spreading, beginning to seal once more.

“Hughie,” you turn, and your voice is harsher than you mean it to be, but he’s still panicking and it’s not helping at all. “As far as you know, did anyone but Butcher have access to the safe house cams?”

Hughie’s steps falter as he thinks, his whole body tensed. “No,” his voice is shaking slightly, but raised enough for you to hear it. “He installed them himself, I think. Before you and Soldier Boy even moved in. He might have told Mallory, but only we have the actual software to use them.”

“Okay, good. Kimiko,” you return to the trunk, where Ben is securing Ashley’s gag and Kimiko is holding her down. “I need the keys.”

Kimiko looks between her occupied hands and you, giving you a slight grimace as you realize the problem.

“Fuck, um, I’m going to list off places and you just nod or shake your head, Okay?”

Nod.

“Are they on you?”

Shake.

“In the car?”

Nod.

“On the seat?”

Shake.

“Cup holders?”

Shake.

“Ignition?”

Nod. You barely see the bob of confirmation before you’re moving, reaching into Ben’s pockets and grabbing your phone.

“I’m driving.” You watch Ashley carefully as you recite your plan for Ben and Kimiko, knowing one of them will grab Hughie when everything is set. “Double check the knot on her hands and lock the trunk when you’re done. Ben, I need you in shotgun. Kimiko, maybe find Hughie a paper bag or something, I’m worried he’s going to pass out. Ashley,” she goes still, meeting your eyes with her own glossed in a too familiar, rabid look of fear. “We are not going to hurt you. I had to burn out your tracker, but I fucking swear we won’t hurt you. We’re taking you somewhere safe, to talk, and if you want to leave after, you can. But we have to talk first.”

She nods, a tiny movement you barely catch, and it does almost nothing to sooth the vile, twisting and disgusted feeling in your gut.

But you have to keep moving. You’ve already lingered too long with the cams shot out and the Cornucopia in your possession—whatever the fuck it actually is, because your money’s not on just keys to an empty storage unit—and someone’s going to notice Ashley’s missing soon. You’d rather not be here when they send someone to check her last known location.

When you drop behind the wheel, it occurs to you that you haven’t actually driven a car in four years. After you’d gotten out it had been all walking and buses, nobody ever trusted you enough to drive the van, and Ben had driven that Lexus you’d stolen at the Renegade Room. But it’s like riding a bike. A huge, metal bike that can kill someone. It’ll be intuitive, you’ll be fine.

You’ll be fine.

You don’t enter the safe house address into the GPS, instead opting for the grocery store Mallory had been using for your supplies. You’ll orient yourself from there, and, just for safety, shut down your phone before you arrive.

Ben opens the shotgun door within a minute, and when you glance up you can see Kimiko tugging Hughie off the street from the rearview mirror.

When Ben sits down his hand immediately finds your thigh, kneading on your skin and slowing your heart as his firm, permanent, unshakeable resolve wraps through your body.

You’re okay. He grumbles in the silence, and you are. This is horrible and you feel ill, but you’re dealing with it. And Ben is grounding you, slowing down your brain from every single possible thing that could go wrong, from how many consequences there are going to be for this. You’ll fix this. You can fix this.

According to the GPS, it should take you about 20 minutes to reach the safe house. But Hughie and Kimiko are barely in the backseat before you’re driving, and you’re no better than Butcher. You’re violating countless traffic laws, and the speed limit is really more of a suggestion, and everyone who’s honking at you can shove it up their ass, because they don’t have Vought’s CEO in their trunk, and you’re doing your fucking best. It’s a miracle you don’t get pulled over, but you go just slow enough to not be an outright danger to other drivers, so when you pass the grocery store—telling Ben to turn off your phone—you’ve made the trip in 11 minutes flat.

It was a silent, tense ride, with Ben keeping his grip tight and solid on your thigh, Kimiko awkwardly patting Hughie on the back as he calms down, and all of you pretending you can’t hear Ashley pushing at the trunk.

You park on the street, yank the keys out of the ignition and drop your head to the steering wheel. You can hear some shuffling around you, and a few, grumbled orders from Ben to Hughie and Kimiko, but there’s a high ringing in your ears and every inch of your body feels cold and vile. The whole ride, when you’d turned the wheel or pressed a button or changed the gear, you could’ve sworn there was blood on your hands. Sticky and red and horrible, horrible blood.

You’re so tired. You’re growing more and more certain that you can’t keep doing this. You don’t feel on the brink of collapse when you’re at home—wrapped in Ben’s arms, laughing with him or your friends, making fun of Butcher and talking to Ryan until looks a little less haunted and a lot more comfortable—but right now you’re so fucking tired. You can still deal with this, but you’re also still weak. Someone strong wouldn’t have crack lining their lungs from the fear. Someone strong would be unwavering, and you’re about to scream and collapse in the car.

Ben tangles his hand in your hair, running it through his fingers as he remains at your side. Always at your side.

Breathe.

I am-

Slowly. Your heart sounds like it’s about to damn pound out of your chest.

You let out a shaking breath, keeping your head down. Maybe that’s just my natural heart rate, you don’t fucking know-

It’s not. Ben’s hand still its movement, something stirring and stuttering in his chest. I’ve gotten yours memorized. It’s too fast right now, so fucking breathe.

You turn your head to the side, and see Ben’s harsh, angered features relax slightly as your eyes meet. I didn’t know that. I thought you could just, I don’t know, hear it.

No. He searches your face, a slight, wired soreness running over his skin. It’s not a big fucking deal-

I have your grunts memorized.

Ben pauses. What.

You give him a small smile, barely a tug of your lips but still genuine. It’s for Ben, so it’s genuine. When you go like this, you mimic one of Ben’s grunts, and his fingers tense on your head, a flash of sharp adoration and amusement pulling something heavy out of his heart. It means you agree with me, but you’re too much of a bitch to admit it. This one, you make another grunt. Means you agree with me, but you’re too grumpy to just use words. This one means you’re about to wake up, this one means you’re listening to me, and this one means you’re listening to someone you don’t respect. This one, you make one last grunt, your smile widening. Is my favorite. It means you’re about to cum, or tell me you love me at a very inopportune moment.

Ben makes that exact grunt, and his hands resume their movements on your head as something vast and easy settles in his body. I do fucking love you. That’s why I have your damn heartbeat memorized.

I know. I love you too, Benjamin.

He’s everything, and nothing you’ve ever said has been more true. Ben is still pulling you apart under his gaze, making the whole world safe and your breathing steady, and you love him. He’s igniting a warmth that spreads through your chest and burns away every thought of can’t fix this, what if you can’t fix this, what if you’re weak and you can’t fix this from where they’d been festering in your gut and mind, and you love him.

When he asks, Better? down your connection, you are. Because he’s here, and you’ll deal with this together, and you love him.

Better. You sigh, pressing your head further onto the leather of the whee, holding his gazel. I hate this, Ben. I really fucking hate this.

I know, he mutters your name in your head, and there’s something holy about the way he says it, that makes you feel just a little stronger. We’re going to figure it out. Fucking swear it.

I kidnapped someone. A small whimper leaves your throat, and something gets caught in its wake. I kidnapped Ashley, I hurt her-

No. Ben’s brow draws into a glare, and there’s a spark of wrath in him that doesn’t drive into you, but wraps over you. Like a barrier, trying to keep you safe. Don’t fucking do that. You didn’t kidnap Ashley. She’s got a direct damn line to Homelander, she knew we were at Red River, and she’s not fucking innocent in this shit. You thought real fucking fast, saved everyone’s damn ass, and we’re going to fix this. You think he can see the doubt and anxiety painted across your face, because he continues. Hughie and Kimiko are getting her inside, you’re going to fucking talk to her or whatever, and then she’ll be free. It’s not kidnapping if you set her free.

You give him a flat look. I don’t think that’s true.

No. It’s a fucking hostage-

Hostages are for negotiation, we’re not negotiating for anything.

Yet, Sunshine. He winks. Night’s still real fucking young.

You might cry. A soft laugh pushes out of your lips, and your thoughts are clear and focused—get Ashley inside, figure out why she was at Red River, convince her to not tell Homelander or Sage about any of this and adapt to whatever comes up—but you’re still going to cry. You’re tired, and Ben is so warm, and you want to climb into his lap and stay there for a while. Maybe forever.

But you have work to do. You can’t cry these tears—born from a confusing storm of love for Ben and exhaustion and unfair—now, but you’ll cry them later. When it’s only you and Ben in the whole world—on your bed, a lamp light casting his handsome face in a soft, golden glow—you’ll climb onto his chest and wait until his warmth seals a few more cracks, and you’re a little less tired.

Ben sees the determination set onto your face, and presses a kiss to your brow before climbing out of the car, moving around to your side and helping you onto the street. Ready?

Ready. You nod, and glance up the driveway to see Kimiko holding Ashley over her shoulders like a sack of potatoes, and Hughie’s back to you with a hand hovering over the code-pad.

“We need to get inside-“

Hughie cuts you off as you approach, turning around with a sheepish expression. “I, um, I can’t remember the passcode-“

“Christ on a Cross,” Ben jerks his head for Hughie to move, stomping up to the keypad and jabbing the numbers in with his thumb and low grumbles of, “fucking mouse-brained pussy.”

Hughie blinks, shooting you a look of confusion. “Has he, um, always known the code-“

“Yes,” Ben snaps, stepping back to your side as the door unlocks and glowering at Hughie. “You idiots are goddamn terrible at your jobs, I figured that shit out before two months in this place.”

Hughie opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then shakes his head and closes it.

“We should, uh,” you glance at Kimiko, barely affected by any of Ashley’s weak thrashing. “It’s not smart to stay outside.”

Kimiko nods, hauling Ashley through the door with everyone else following behind, and you’ve barely closed the door when Neuman’s in the hallway, gaping at the scene before her.

“What the fuck are you guys doing-“

“We need to use your office,” your voice is apathetic, filled with measured boredom. You don’t have time for Neuman to argue, or the energy to dance in circles about why here and what the hell is wrong with you idiots, so you only offer Neuman a semi-apologetic face as you continue. “Sorry.”

“Does Mallory-“

“No. Don’t tell her.”

“Hughie,” Nueman turns to Hughie, who flinches. “What the hell is happening? Why are you guys always up to something insane-“

“Ashley showed up at Red River,” he mumbles. “And saw us. We’re, um,” Hughie glances at you. “I’m not actually sure what we’re doing-“

“We have questions for her,” you supply, holding Neuman’s irritated gaze. “This place is safe.”

Something strange that you can’t read flashes in Neuman’s eyes, and she gives you a clipped nod. “Fine. Don’t get blood anywhere-“

“There won’t be any blood.” You nod for Kimiko to carry a slightly more struggling Ashley up the stairs as you speak, and with a shrug to Neuman, she does. “Thanks.”

“I want to sit in on this,” Neuman snaps. “I don’t-“

“Okay.” You shrug, and Neuman blinks.

“That’s it? I can? You’re not going to try and stop me-“

“I’ve got a lot to deal with, Neuman.” You link your arm through Ben’s—standing over you, letting you deal with this while he stares daggers and promises of violence at Neuman—and don’t bother to look at Neuman’s expression as you walk past her, up the stairs. “I’m picking my battles, and I don’t really give a fuck about that one.”

Kimiko had dropped Ashley in a chair—keeping her in her seat with a hand on her shoulder—and you haven’t even fully removed the gag when Ashley starts shouting.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?! Why did you keep me in the trunk, where did you fucking take me, what the fuck is,” Ashley goes pale as Neuman enters the room, locking the door behind her. “Why the fuck is the ghost of Victoria Neuman here?! Where am I?!”

You take them one at a time, ignoring the what’s wrong with you question, because you simply don’t have the time. “Well, we couldn’t exactly keep you in the backseat, we took you somewhere safe, and Neuman isn’t a ghost, she’s just not as dead as you might have been led to believe.”

“What?!”

“I’m alive,” Neuman makes a sarcastic, sweeping gesture. “Surprise.”

Ashley’s face twitches, and she looks back to you. “You faked her death.”

“Obviously-“

“Fake mine.”

Ashley’s words are firm and assured when she cuts you off, and it makes your own voice falter. You look over to Ben, and even he looks confused. You expect Hughie's shock, Kimiko’s blinking, and Neuman’s slightly open mouth, but Ben never looks confused. He looks annoyed or grumpy or pissed, but never so obviously slack jawed and thrown off. It’s almost disturbing.

Hughie clears his throats, words uncertain. “I, um, we don’t just fake deaths-“

Ashley scoffs, all of her evident fear—or self-preservation—having abandoned her as she says, “Oh, fuck off, Campbell. You fake deaths all the time-“

“No, we don’t-“

“I know about A-Train.”

Hughie’s protests die off, and he looks to you with a hopeless expression.

“Ashley,” you tap your fingers on your leg, keeping your voice steady and neutral. “Why do you want us to fake your death.”

“Because I’d like to make it past forty,” she snaps. “Sage and Homelander are insane, the Deep is an idiot fish-fucker, and I want out. I know A-Train was thinking about leaving, and you helped fake his death. Help me too.”

“No offense, Ashley.” Hughie says, his frown unsure as he fidgets with his hands. “But why should we help you? I mean, you’ve been loyal to Vought forever, and you were just at Red River-”

“I was there to help you guys!” Ashley’s voice fills with desperation, pleading anger. “I got the call that the cams had been blown, checked the last footage, which I deleted before Sage could see, you’re fucking welcome, and realized this was my out!”

“Then why the fuck did you run from Kimiko,” Ben grunts through teeth, and Ashley looks almost offended by the question.

“Because she’s fucking psycho! I mean,” Ashley wiggles in the chair, and Kimiko winces. “She knocked me out and tied me up-“

“She’s not psycho,” you cut Ashley off with a hiss, and Kimiko gives you a grateful, tentative smile. “You’re not trustworthy. We have no reason to trust you-“

A loud, sudden chorus of music and buzzing cut through the air, and Hughie almost dropped his phone as he fumbles it out of his pocket.

“Shit, sorry,” he says your name with a flinch, and turns the screen for you to see. “It’s MM, can I-“

“Yeah,” you gesture your head to the hallway, keeping your attention on Ashley. “Hughie?”

He pauses with his hand on the door. “Yeah?”

“Tell MM we’re still at Red River. I’ll tell him when this is cleaned up, but we don’t need to give him a heart attack.”

Hughie hesitates, glancing at Ashley, and nods. “Yeah, okay. Got it.”

“What do you mean cleaned up,” Ashley squeaks, the door closing behind Hughie. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me-“

“We won’t,” you chew on your cheek, looking over Ashley with a heavy, frustrated sigh. “But we still don’t trust you-“

“You have to trust me, I’m on your side!” Ashley’s eyes on yours are hopeless, her voice growing distraught. “I even, look, I brought you something! It’s in my pocket, I stole it from Sage to prove you can trust me-“

Check her pocket, you sign to Kimiko, saying aloud to Ashley, “What is it.”

“Information! You guys need information, right, you’re really stupid-“

If this wasn’t such a dire situation, you’d have laughed at how Ben and Kimiko have almost identical expressions of indignation, Ben’s hot anger flashing through you and Kimiko looking up at Ashley with a scowl.

“Hot tip, Ashley.” You say, tone dry and gaze flat. “Don’t call the people you’re trying to defect to really stupid. What is it-“

Your words die in your throat as Kimiko rises back up from Ashley’s pocket, holding up a fluffy pink pen.

Neuman huffs in disbelief. “How the hell is that-“

“Shut up,” you snap, and don’t bother to think about Neuman’s shocked expression. “Ashley, where the fuck did you get that.”

“I told you, I stole it from Sage. I recorded one of our meetings, and I got some of Sage’s fucked up plan! It's a peace offering, you have to fucking help me, I’m done, I want out, I promise.“

You don’t trust it. This is an exact type of play Sage would make. Take advantage of you and your team's morality and desperation, give you one reason to trust Ashley and then stab you in the back.

Play it, you sign to Kimiko, who’s eyeing the pen with weary confusion. You have to click it-

Your movements falter as Kimiko follows your instructions, and Sage’s voice fills the room. It’s still cold and crude and almost robotic, and that broken thing in your gut cowers at the sound.

“We’re still waiting on our federal asset to report back, but I have faith they’ll block any of Butcher’s plans for the V. They’re also working on the remaining supplies, I don’t know what Edgar was thinking with that deal, but it should remain a non-issue. Most of them don’t have the cognitive skills to connect any dots that might prove dangerous to us, except,” Sage says your name, and you swallow. “And she’s-“

“She’s missing, Sage,” that’s Homelander’s voice. Annoyed and callous and hateful, making every part of your body shrink into itself. “She’s not working with those fucking idiots, they probably took her again-“

“You saw the tower, and my coma, that was-“

The audio cuts out, and you take a long breath. “Who recorded that.”

“I did,” Ashley’s answer is nervous, but not quick. Not rehearsed. “I stole the pen from Sage, and recorded it. I couldn’t use my phone, they’d have tracked me on it-“

“Homelander thinks I’m still on his side?”

“He fucking lasered one of the writers.” Ashley face contorts in disgust. “When they suggested moving the narrative to you being a heartbreaking slut.”

Ben’s arm shoots out, as if he can feel the slightly dizzying cold climbing up your spine—he probably can—and steadies you on your feet. If Ashley has an opinion on that, her eyes dropping to Ben’s hand resting on your hip, arm around your waist, holding you tight against him as his fingers rub patterns on your skin, she’s smart enough not to say it.

“What’s the federal asset.”

“Sage has a contact or leak or something,” Ashley’s voice is growing eager as she answers you. Still authentic, and you don’t remember her being a great actress. “I don’t know who, but I think it’s in the CIA or another fucking important government place.“

Your hand moves to cover Ben’s, keeping him there—warm and holding you on earth—and tapping your fingers on his knuckles as you continue. “And the Red River deal. What’s that.”

“Red River is funded by the government, I think it was in exchange for their own V supply, but I’m not sure-“

“Fuck,” you hiss, turning to Neuman. “When you were in the White House, did they-“

“They did,” Neuman mutters. “Off-site, not involved with the Pentagon. It was an executive backup, but I don’t know where we got it-“

“It’s from Red River. Ashley’s not lying about that, it’s half-government funded with tax breaks.”

Ashley frowns at you. “That was a big fucking secret, how did you-“ she cuts herself off, eyes narrowing. “A-Train?”

You give a curt nod, giving up on trying to gloss over that question. There are more important things to worry about. You can taste blood again, and you’re too wired to focus on anything but what now. You have to figure out what the fuck to do now.

“So he is alive-“

“Yeah, he’s alive, shut up.”

“I knew it, that piece of shit-“

Ben tugs you closer to his side, shooting Ashley a deadly glower. “She said to shut the fuck up.”

“How long have you wanted out,” your question is slow, tired. You’re tired, and you do want a reason to trust Ashley. You can’t give her to Mallory, she can’t just go back to Vought, and fucking hell you’re going to scream. “Because we can’t just fake your death-“

“You faked A-Train’s death-“

“Well, despite what you think, we aren’t in the business of witness protection. And with that,” you point to the pen. “We can’t give you to the CIA. So what do you think happens here.”

Ashley goes pale. “You keep me safe? And I help you fuck with Vought?”

“We can’t take you with us, Ashley.” You rub your face, trying to push all the tension out of your body. “This is really fucking complicated-“

“She can stay with me.”

You turn to Neuman, and find her face settled with a resolved certainty. “What?”

“I want this whole thing to be over as well, and if keeping Ashley safe will help, I can do that.” Neuman sighs. “Zoe needs to go to a regular school, and I miss coffee shops. Mallory never visits, so that’s not a danger, and you’re right, she,” Neuman jerks her head to Ashley. “Can’t go back to Vought. As long as she promises to not be a bitch, she can stay here.”

“I won’t be a bitch,” Ashley jumps in, words frenzied and expression hopeful. “And I’ll help wherever you need-“

You raise a hand, and Ashley’s words stutter off as you examine her. You shouldn’t trust her. She might still be working with Sage and Homelander, this could so easily be a trap.

But fuck, you’re sick of being vigilant. And Ashley’s fear is still lingering in your throat, and it tastes like grime and leeches off your own terror, making the cracks inside you spread. You’re tired, and you don’t want to be angry and cold and bitter anymore. This might be a trap. It might be smarter to lock Ashley up somewhere, or kill her right here.

You have no interest in being smarter right now. Locking Ashley up is a line you won’t cross, and the thought of killing her makes your hands feel wrong and evil.

“Ashley,” you say, words clear and sharp. “If we leave you here, you listen to Neuman. Her word is your fucking law. Got it?”

“Yes,” Ashley nods, and something relaxes in her face. “Got it. Thank you-“

“Don’t,” you exhale, leaning back into Ben’s body. “Just don’t fuck us.”

“I won’t.”

You want to believe her. More than anything. So you give her a half-smile, and nod to Kimiko to release her.

The door bangs. “Can someone let me in-“

Hughie falls forward as Neuman opens the door, regaining his balance in stumbling steps. His gaze flicks to Ashley—untied and rubbing her wrists—but it doesn’t linger, shooting to you with a wide, anxiety filled expression.

“We, uh, we have to wrap this up-“

“We did, Ashley’s staying here.” You frown. “Hughie, what-“

“Singer wants us all in DC. And we were supposed to leave an hour ago, but MM couldn’t reach you.”

“Fuck, okay. Neuman-“

“I’ll handle it,” she gives you a curt nod, keeping her eyes on Ashley. “Good luck with Singer.”

You should apologize for barging in and dropping Ashley on her without notice, but it feels like an insult. Neuman’s smart, and she knows what she’s doing. So you return the nod, take the pen from Kimiko, and slide your hand into Ben’s as you pull the car keys out of your pocket, tossing them to Hughie.

You turn back to Ashley before you follow Ben out the door, and know you’ve made the right choice. There’s no one to blame for this, and if there was, it wouldn’t be Ashley. She’s just as afraid and tired as you are. You’re starting to think everyone might be just as afraid and tired as you are, and you’re just the only one weak enough to crack and break and show it.

Not weak.

You’re not weak. You fixed this. And Ben’s hand is holding yours, big and warm, with rough fingers holding you in a gentle grasp. There’s still atomic, zealous, focused love in his body, all for you, and it’s so strong. There’s still that mold lining his heart, but it’s being pushed out and replaced by that blooming glow, and you think you’re fueling it. That it’s fertilized by that piece of you that’s alive inside of him, that’s twined into his body and permanent. Weak things aren’t permanent. Weak things don’t grow.

Everyone is tired. This is all fucking unfair and everyone is tired. But Ben’s hand is in yours. Ben loves you, and not every other exhausted, wronged person in the world. He’s staying with you, and never leaving you in the darker spaces that are only cold and hollow.

Not weak. You are not weak. You are not fucking weak. You’re still exhausted, but you’re not fucking weak. There are a hundred more battles to fight in this war, and you’re not faltering. You’re tired, but you’re still fucking fighting, and you’re not fucking weak.

And you’re going to figure this out. With Ben at your side, you’re going to get to the end. Together.

End Note: As we near the third and final act of this story, an extra thank you! I don't think I'll ever fully express how grateful I am for everyone, and the love you've shown this story means everything to me. These two haunt my everyday life, and I'm so happy you guys adore them as well. Thank you so, so much, and I'll see you soon for an all Ben chapter!

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warpdrive-witch · 3 months ago

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It Worked (16/?)

AN: Life after graduation has involved writing, naps, and more writing. I'm not sure I like this chapter as much as my others, and I'd love your thoughts on chapter 15.

Words: 24.9k. MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT. Warnings: smut. Mentions of a past abuser. Agnst.

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader

Nothing Stays Buried Forever

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The house held a rare stillness—the kind that settled not just over walls and furniture, but inside the body.

The kind that made you exhale slower. Think deeper. The kind that came only in the late hours of a slow morning, when nothing urgent pressed at the edges of your time. The windows trembled with the breath of February’s last grip. Outside, skeletal branches traced ghostly patterns across the frost-laced glass, and the wind sang a low, persistent song, like something waiting to be heard. Inside, the warmth clung close to the floors, caught between the radiator’s quiet ticking and the lingering heat from last night’s fire. The coffee pot gave one final hiss and clicked off. Steam curled into the air above the machine. The scent of rich roast mixed with the faded trace of cedar smoke and the ink of Agatha’s grading pen.

She sat at the kitchen island, sleeves pushed to her elbows, glasses halfway down her nose. A stack of papers leaned precariously at her elbow. Her red pen moved slowly, deliberately, marking a battlefield of passive voice and underdeveloped arguments. She murmured to herself now and then—words like “vague,” “disjointed,” or her favorite: “try again.” Her hair was pinned up, a few strands falling loose to frame her temple in that way she never noticed but Rio always did. She murmured louder to the “Are you fucking kidding me. You can’t just say ‘history happened.”.

Rio watched from the couch, legs curled beneath a fleece blanket that no longer did much to ward off the chill in her bones. She wasn’t grading. Not really. Her screen was open to her inbox, but her fingers hovered unmoving, resting gently against the trackpad. Her laptop was warm against her thighs, open to a folder she had visited at least ten times in the last week. Not for work. Not even for planning. Just… circling, orbiting the thought she hadn’t said aloud.

Her eyes slipped down to the screenshot again. White paper. Black ink. A smudge at first glance. But not a smudge. A line. A single, quiet line. Almost invisible. An address.She hadn’t meant to find it. She hadn’t been looking. And now it wouldn’t leave her. Agatha’s voice broke the quiet again, this time softer. Thoughtful. “Do you think she’s warm enough out there?”

Rio looked up from her screen. “She’s with Billy,” she said gently. “You know he’d put her in bubble wrap if she let him. She’s layered up. Coat. Gloves. Scarf. Probably waddling like a penguin.” That earned a small smile from Agatha, but it didn’t fully reach her eyes. She stared a moment longer out the window, at the sway of the branches and the pale sun failing to warm the world beyond the glass. And then, Rio exhaled. Slowly. The question burning too long in her throat to ignore anymore. “Hey… Aggie?”

Agatha didn’t look up immediately. “Hm?”

Rio shifted and pushed the blanket off her lap. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad. “You know that letter. The one about her mom?”

That made Agatha look up. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of alertness rising behind her glasses. “Of course. Kinda hard to forget. What about it?”

Rio turned the laptop slightly in her lap. “There wasn’t a return address. But… there was something. A line. Down at the bottom.”

Agatha cocked her eyebrow, red pen poised in midair. “What do you mean?”

Rio brought up the screenshot—she��d saved it the moment she noticed, but she hadn’t opened it again until today. The image glowed faintly on the screen: the lower edge of the letter, where the paper dipped into shadow, and the ghost of a line too faint to belong. “It was printed. Not handwritten. Not even meant to be seen, I think.” She spoke slowly, like she was still figuring it out as she said it. “Valentine’s night—you and her were in the shower. Remember, I went to change the sheets and clean up before joining. I opened the drawer and saw the envelope. It looked like a smudge at first. But it wasn’t. It was typed.”

Agatha stood slowly. Not startled, but changing. Alert. Her brow knit in quiet tension as she crossed the kitchen and came to Rio’s side. “Let me see.” Rio tilted the screen toward her. Her finger pointed to the line. “There. Right there. Tiny. Quiet. Hidden in plain sight.”

Agatha leaned down, eyes narrowing as she scanned the image. The wind howled softly outside, tugging at the old shutters like a warning knocking gently at the door. “That’s not…” Agatha squinted closer. “That’s not where she lived.”

“Exactly,” Rio said, her voice steadier now. “It’s not even the right part of town. It’s not near her last address. Not even close.” Agatha’s mouth tightened. The red pen she still held clicked against the kitchen island as her posture drew upright. “It’s not anywhere near where she lived before she died, right? From what I remember, I can’t imagine that she would’ve sent anything from that side of town.”

Rio looked up at her, and their eyes locked. No need for guessing anymore. “You see it too, then.” Agatha nodded, slow and grim. “I do.” She sank down onto the stool beside her, her gaze never leaving the screen. “Have you looked it up yet?”

Rio drew in a breath, finger hovering over the address like it might burn her. “Not yet. I wanted to wait for you.” Agatha leaned in a little more, her body already in motion. “Well then—” She reached forward, fingers poised to click. Without looking, Rio lifted her hand and batted Agatha’s away with the back of her fingers. It wasn’t forceful—more reflex than anything, like swatting away a cat that had reached too close to a glass of water.

Agatha blinked. “Did you just swat me?”

“I did.” Rio’s mouth twitched, just slightly, but her eyes never left the screen. “I’m building tension,” she said, deadpan. “Let me have my moment.”

Agatha leaned back, biting back a smirk. “You’re ridiculous.”

But her hand settled quietly in her lap now. She didn’t reach again. The silence wrapped back around them like a heavier blanket. Outside, the wind howled against the house, distant but steady. A branch dragged once across the siding. Rio’s finger hovered again. Then, almost too quiet to hear: “I just… I don’t know what I think it is yet.”

Agatha said nothing. She didn’t press. Just rested her hand palm-up between them on the cushion, her presence grounding. Rio exhaled—then reached for her. Their fingers met, laced together without ceremony. The screen hesitated as Rio pressed Enter—just a little spinning circle in the corner of the browser, loading. The moment stretched long. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful anymore. It had shape. Edges. She tightened her grip on Agatha’s fingers. Agatha, seated close enough that her knee brushed Rio’s under the blanket, didn’t say a word. But her eyes were on the screen now, sharp and waiting.

The first thing that appeared was a satellite view—washed-out colors, a tangle of residential streets, and a pale red pin marking a spot just east of the city center. Rio double-clicked. Street view unfolded with an almost apologetic slowness. There it was. A squat brick building with flaking white trim and a sun-bleached cross affixed to the roofline. The sidewalk out front was cracked and buckled, the grass sparse and winter-burned. A wooden sign stood on metal stakes, slightly crooked. The lettering was weathered, but not unreadable.

River of the Risen Light – Pentecostal Ministries Sunday Services – 9AM & 11AM

Agatha leaned in, brow furrowing. Her breath caught halfway through her throat. Then she blinked, and whispered—less to Rio, more to the screen— “Of course it’s a fucking church.” She didn’t shout. She didn’t sneer. She just said it with a kind of bitter clarity that scraped the edge of her voice raw.

“Of course it is.” She sat back slightly, lips parted. Her hand was still twined with Rio’s, but her posture had changed. Like a door in her body had swung shut without warning. Rio felt her stomach twist. “She must have… changed churches,” she murmured. “This isn’t the one she used to go to.”

Agatha gave a humorless exhale. “Doesn’t matter which building it is. It’s the same doctrine. Same poison.” The image on the screen didn’t move. It didn’t need to. That building—small, plain, familiar in its harmlessness—felt louder than it should’ve. Rio clicked again. The church had a website—basic, two pages, mostly calendar events and service times. There was a link to livestreams, but she didn’t press it. “Let’s check their socials,” she said quietly. She pulled up Facebook. The page was public. Banner photo: a cross against a pink-orange sunrise. Grainy, oversaturated. She scrolled.

December 2nd “Join us for a very special Celebration of Life this weekend. Let us come together and honor her walk with Christ. #faithfulservant #comehome”

Rio’s throat tightened. The timing hit like a slow slap. That was a few weeks before the letter had arrived. Agatha shifted beside her. The inhale she made wasn’t quite a gasp—it was tighter, more contained, like she was holding herself together by force of will alone. Her jaw clenched. The muscle there jumped once. “They had a fucking memorial.”

Rio stared at the post. “Before we even knew. Before they had the decency to let her know… they told the fucking internet.”

She kept scrolling.

February 20 “A beautiful season of rebirth ahead. So blessed to welcome our guest preacher back next Sunday. #revival #healinglight #comehome”

No name. No photo. No comment thread. Just that. Agatha made a sound deep in her throat—half breath, half growl. She leaned forward again, bracing one hand on the cushion between them, the other still wrapped around Rio’s. Her eyes scanned the screen like she could burn through it. Then she said it—low, flat, sharp as a snapped thread. “What the actual fuck.” The words didn’t come loud, but they landed heavy. Like something dangerous had just been named. The two of them stared at the post. No name. No photo. No explanation. Just that smug little caption: “So blessed to welcome our guest preacher next Sunday.”

The cursor hovered over it like it might pull up more—some image, a tagged name, anything. But the screen didn’t move. Just sat there. Radiating silence. Rio blinked. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry. She didn’t look away. “Guest preacher,” she repeated, her voice dry and distant. “Right after the letter.” Agatha’s fingers curled tighter around hers, knuckles going white.

Something was blooming behind her eyes now—not panic. Not even fear. No, it was colder than that. Older. Rage. Not the kind you screamed. The kind you honed like a blade. The kind you held in your chest and waited with. Rio didn’t say anything else, but she could feel it too. It was rising in her—the way her heart beat against her ribs a little too fast, the way her jaw had gone tight because it wasn’t just a church.

It was your mother’s voice, borrowed again. Echoed through a building where she had no body, no breath—only the people who still believed in what she’d used to hurt you. And now someone else was speaking in her place. The church stared back from the screen. Brick and faded paint. Ordinary, forgettable—except it wasn’t. Not anymore. It was a wound disguised as a building—a familiar shape, wrapped around something far more dangerous.

The post lingered on the screen, stark and silent. The silence around Rio and Agatha had shifted and gone dense. Electric. Like the space between two magnets just before they snap together—pulling, trembling, inevitable. Rio’s fingers were still laced with Agatha’s, but her grip had changed. It wasn’t comfort anymore. It was anchoring.

Agatha stared at the screen like she could burn it to ash with her eyes alone. Her chest was still. Too still. “Let’s not say anything yet,” Rio said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not until we know what this is. I don’t want to stress her more than she already is.”

Agatha didn’t answer. Her jaw had gone rigid. The red of her pen-stained thumb pressed into her palm, hard enough to whiten the skin. The light from the laptop painted her face in a cold digital wash, highlighting the hollow beneath her cheekbone, the pale gleam of her eyes. She looked like she’d stepped out of a fire and hadn’t noticed the heat still licking at her. And then, softly: “I will burn that fucking building to the ground if i find out they fucked with my wife.”

Rio looked over, breath caught. Agatha wasn’t raising her voice. She wasn’t making a scene. But her voice was final. The kind of finality that belongs to witches and widows. The type of promise that doesn't need thunder to echo.

“I promise you.” She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away from the image. Rio swallowed hard, her mouth dry. She closed the tab, and the image vanished. The screen darkened to a neutral gray. Then she shut the laptop. The snap of it sounded like a coffin lid. Silence returned—but it wasn’t empty now. It was thick. It had breath. It had memory. The kind of silence that knew things. The kind that might whisper if they sat too long.

And neither of them noticed it—not in that moment—the photo buried further down the timeline.

A post from two weeks ago: Outreach volunteers gathering for another blessed Saturday! Attached: a low-res, washed-out image of a small group standing in a fellowship hall. Most were facing the camera. Some were smiling. But one figure was turned slightly away, just enough to avoid the full light. Their face was blurred. But their posture— The tilt of their head. The angle of their shoulders. The precise, practiced way they held their hands in front of them. It was a silhouette burned into muscle memory. A shape Rio and Agatha had trained themselves to hate. To track. To survive. They didn’t see it. Not yet. But it was there. Waiting. Watching. Just like before. Agatha finally spoke. Her voice came out too calmly. “What time do we need to be at Billy and Eddie’s?”

Rio blinked hard, grounding herself. She rubbed at the side of her face like it might wake her up. “Little over an hour.” Agatha nodded. Stood slowly. Walked to the counter without another word. She poured herself the coffee that had long since gone cold, sipped it like she could taste something in it besides bitterness.

No one said the word “church.” And in the corner of the room, the coffee pot gave a final click. The radiator hissed. A shutter outside trembled against the wind. The world, impossibly, carried on.

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The café smelled like brown sugar and espresso and something cinnamon-warm that lingered in the corners like a hug no one had to ask for. It was small—locally owned, with chipped mugs and mismatched chairs—but it was warm. The kind of place that didn’t need music to feel alive. Just the occasional hiss of steam from behind the bar and the murmured conversation of people who belonged to the same town.

You sat across from Billy in a booth by the window, one hand wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa, the other resting instinctively over the curve of your belly. The cocoa was too sweet, just the way you liked it, and a single heart-shaped marshmallow floated in the center, slowly melting into a cloud. Billy had a latte in front of him, foam still clinging to the rim. Between you sat a single banana nut muffin, split down the middle. It was enormous, already unraveling at the edges of its paper like it couldn’t hold itself together anymore.

You took a bite—fluffy, warm, the nuts toasted just enough to cut the sugar—and licked a crumb from your finger as Billy tore off what could only be described as the tiniest sliver imaginable. You arched a brow at him. “You planning to eat that with tweezers?”

Billy shrugged, sheepish, but didn’t look up. “You’re the one with the baby. Priorities.”

“Pretty sure she’s not demanding muffins yet.”

“You don’t know that.” He gave you a look. “She’s probably in there building a crib out of banana bread.” You laughed softly and took another bite. He sipped his latte. A beat passed. Comfortable. Then Billy asked, “So how are the edits going?” You leaned back against the booth, rubbing your thumb against the side of the mug. “Good. I sent the last round to my chair right after Valentine’s Day. Just waiting to see what’s next now. I’m either completely done or two footnotes away from a breakdown.”

Billy chuckled into his drink. “That sounds about right.” You glanced out the window. The wind was still carrying cold, but the light had changed—just slightly. The kind of February sun that made you believe spring was somewhere nearby, even if it hadn’t quite found the door yet.

“How are things at the house?” you asked.

“Good. Asher’s napping now. Eddie’s setting up the bookshelves. You know, like it’s a game of Jenga with no rules.”

You smiled. “I’m so glad you’re back. Really. Especially before she arrives. ”

You rested your palm gently against the rise of your belly. Billy’s gaze softened, then flickered with something heavier. He set his cup down. “How’ve you been since… y’know. Since you found out about your mom?”

You paused, took a breath that felt thicker than the air around it. “Rough,” you admitted. “At first. I don’t think I even realized how much I’d been holding, waiting for something awful. And then it came. And it still didn’t look the way I thought it would.” Billy didn’t interrupt. He never did when you needed space. You looked back down at your cocoa. The marshmallow had fully melted now, leaving a pale swirl in the foam. “But we got through it,” you said. “It’s been… better. Really. It actually feels like something’s shifted. Like I can breathe again.”

Billy nodded. “You’ve got good people.”

You smiled. “I really do.”

He tore off another microscopic bite of muffin and handed you the bigger half. The warmth in the café had taken root deep in your bones now, the kind that softened your shoulders and quieted the steady hum behind your temples. Outside, February still rattled its breath against the glass, but here, over cocoa and banana muffin, it felt far away. Like winter couldn’t reach you.

Billy leaned back against the booth, latte in hand, his thumb idly tracing the swirl of foam on the lid. The light from the window painted a halo along his hair, golden and sharp against the worn wood of the table. He glanced at your belly again, a little grin tugging at his mouth. “So…” he said, drawing out the word, “have you two picked out nursery furniture yet?”

You let out a slow laugh, sipping your cocoa. “Furniture, we’re working on. I found this beautiful crib I loved, real vintage, kind of mid-century? But of course, Agatha’s going over it like it’s made of knives.”

Billy snorted. “That sounds about right.”

“She’s been reading safety reports like they’re spellbooks,” you added, leaning forward. “And Rio keeps quietly reminding her that we also survived babyhood with far less regulation, but it doesn’t help. You should’ve seen the look on her face when I said I wanted something with spindles.”

Billy took a sip, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. “Spindles. God help us.” You grinned into your cup. “I know. I might as well have suggested a dragon’s cradle.”

“Okay, so maybe the furniture’s still a mystery,” Billy said, “but what about a name?” You hesitated, your hand resting lightly over your belly again. “Absolutely not,” you said, laughing a little. “No name. We haven’t called her anything besides BeanSprout—or just Sprout—since day one.”

“Sprout,” Billy echoed, deadpan. “Wow. Really unique. I can see the nameplate already. ‘Sprout Vidal-Harkness. She’ll be running a law firm in no time.”

You burst out laughing, the sound sudden and whole, bouncing against the brick wall beside you. “God, don’t even say that. We’ll never agree if we start combining surnames.”

Billy broke a piece of muffin off, still ridiculously small, and popped it into his mouth like it was a delicacy. “So we’ve got no name, no furniture, and a baby on the way in what—seven weeks?”

“Give or take,” you said, smiling, but your hand rubbed gently over the top of your bump. “We’ve got time. She’s not in a rush.”

Billy leaned back, crossing his arms as he gave you a look. “You sound so calm. If it were me, I’d be building a pillow fort and crying about breast pumps.”

You laughed, cocoa warming your chest. “Oh, don’t worry. We’ve had our spiral moments. Agatha tried to read aloud from a breastfeeding manual and started critiquing the formatting.”

“Of course she did.”

“Rio lasted two pages before she bailed.”

Billy raised his eyebrows. “Where’d she go?”

“I found her in the kitchen ten minutes later watching the beginning of a childbirth video. Just… wide-eyed, frozen. Looked like she’d seen a goddamn ghost.”

Billy choked on his latte. You grinned. “When she realized I’d walked in, she slammed her laptop shut and went, ‘You know what? I’ll live in the moment. Sprout’s birth can be the first one I see.”

He was full-on laughing now. “She’s so real for that.”

You snorted, nodding. “She meant it, too. Just—nope. Absolutely not. Straight to denial with a smile.”

Billy wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “God, I missed this.”

You smiled behind your mug, then fell quiet for a moment. The weight of your daughter pressed gently against your ribs—steady, anchoring. Not heavy, not yet. But present. The café’s warmth curled around you like a blanket. A barista in the corner was laughing at something too quietly for you to hear. Someone’s phone buzzed on a nearby table. The world moved gently around you, unaware that yours was counting down. Billy’s voice came again, softer this time. “Are you scared?”

The question wasn’t intrusive. It just was. Like the steam rising from your cocoa, like the baby, turning slow beneath your skin. You thought about it. Not quickly. You looked out the window, where the sidewalk shimmered faintly from the sun glancing off last night’s frost. A couple walked by, bundled in scarves, arms looped. Someone’s dog wore a little red jacket.

Then you turned back to him. “Yeah,” you said. “Sometimes. But mostly I’m just… ready. Not like I’ve got everything figured out. But ready in the way that matters.”

Billy nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

You nudged the muffin closer to him. “Also, pretty sure she wants me to eat this entire thing.”

He smirked and broke off another microscopic crumb. “She’s got good instincts.” You smiled, hand resting again over the curve of your belly, the weight of her a familiar pull. The cocoa had gone warm instead of hot. The sun outside was still sharp, but less cold now. The world looked soft from behind the café glass.

Billy glanced down at his phone, thumb swiping once before he gave a short laugh through his nose. “Alright. Ready to head out?” he asked, slipping his coat off the back of the chair. “I have a feeling a certain nephew of yours is going to be completely off the rails the second he sees his three aunts.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your mouth. “Let’s just hope he hasn’t added somersaults to his greeting rituals.”

You pulled your phone from your pocket and typed out a quick message to Agatha and Rio: Leaving the café now. See you at Billy’s.

The reply came almost instantly. We’re just heading out too. See you soon, love.

You smiled at the screen, pushing yourself to your feet with a low breath. Then—she moved. A little stretch. A nudge, then a roll beneath your palm—like she’d heard your voice and decided to press back.

You stilled. Smiled. “Oh—hey,” you said gently, catching Billy’s wrist before he could pull on his glove. “Here. Meet your niece.” A little roll. A shift under your ribs. Then a firm nudge outward against your palm. A foot, maybe. Or a stretch. It was purposeful, like she’d heard her name spoken and decided to chime in. You smiled—soft, slow, radiant. And turned to Billy, who was halfway through looping his scarf.

“Oh—hey,” you said, reaching out and catching his wrist. “Come here. Meet your niece.” Billy blinked at you, surprised, as you gently guided his hand to rest against the curve of your belly. At first, he was still, like touching something sacred without warning. Then she kicked again, right into the center of his palm.

His mouth parted. A short laugh escaped him, wide-eyed and warm. He looked down at your stomach, then at you, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and mischief. “Well,” he said, “clearly she knows her favorite uncle made sure you got the bigger half of the muffin.” You laughed, hand still resting over his. “Please. That was the sugar from the cocoa. She’s already learned how to weaponize a sugar high.” Billy let his fingers stay there a moment longer, like he was listening for something more. The grin on his face was crooked and soft. Familiar. “She’s got a serious kick,” he said. “Rio’s gonna have her playing softball before she can walk.”

“Rio already has color-coded drills planned for the toddler years,” you replied. “We’re just hoping she doesn’t bring cones to the delivery room.” Billy barked out a laugh, then wiped subtly at the corner of his eye with his knuckle like it was nothing. You let the moment stretch, full and easy. Her movement had stopped—settled again. But the warmth of it still echoed beneath your skin.

Billy’s hand lingered on your belly a moment longer, as if waiting to see if she’d move again. When she didn’t, he began to pull away. You caught his fingers before they could retreat and gave them a small, warm squeeze. He looked up, brows lifting, and you smiled—wide and full and unguarded. “I’m really glad you’re home.” Billy’s grin softened. His throat worked, but he didn’t speak. He just nodded and bumped your shoulder gently before stepping toward the door. He pulled it open with an exaggerated shiver, half-dancing in place like the cold was already biting at his ankles. “Let’s go, Sprout,” he called softly. “Time to help Uncle Billy unpack a bookcase with too many screws and no instructions.”

You laughed and followed him outside, tugging your coat tighter as the wind found its way beneath the collar. The sidewalk sparkled with patches of melting frost. Your boots clicked softly against the concrete. Billy was a few steps ahead, already unlocking the car. And that’s when it came. A low, firm tightening that bloomed across your abdomen—not painful, but undeniable. Familiar now. The kind of sensation you no longer feared, just endured.

Your breath caught. You didn’t stop walking, just let your pace slow by a step as you placed one hand low beneath your belly. Let it crest. Let it pass. Braxton Hicks. Just another practice round. The warm-up to something your body would eventually remember how to finish. You said nothing. Billy glanced back once, grinning as he opened your door. You met his eyes. Smiled. And climbed in.

The drive to Billy and Eddie’s was short, the kind of quiet ride where conversation wasn’t necessary. The heater hummed low, warming your hands where they rested over your bump, and Billy tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the rhythm of whatever soft song played through the speakers. As you turned onto their street, a familiar car slowed just ahead—Rio’s. You recognized the curve of the headlights, the slightly too-bold bumper sticker Agatha still claimed she didn’t know was there.

They pulled into the driveway just seconds before you, tires crunching gently over leftover gravel. The late afternoon light caught the curve of Agatha’s coat as she stepped out, and the wind caught Rio’s curls, sweeping them across her face before she tucked them back with a practiced flick of her hand. By the time you were easing yourself from the passenger seat, they were already moving toward you. Agatha’s arms went around Billy first, tight and fond, the kind of hug that looked like a reflex. “Welcome home,” she murmured into his shoulder.

Rio grinned and clapped him on the back before pulling you close and kissing your cheek, her palm warm and grounding on your back. Agatha was right behind her, kissing the other cheek and murmuring something low—too soft for anyone else to hear, but meant for you. You leaned into both of them, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Together, the four of you walked toward the front porch, boots crunching against the last of the salt-gritted path. The door opened before any of you knocked—Eddie stood there holding it wide, Asher behind him in a hoodie two sizes too big, sleep still clinging to his face. And just like that, his house felt full again.

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It had been two hours since dinner, and the scent of garlic and olive oil still lingered in the air, warm and low like the memory of a good story. Eddie’s pasta had been simple—cavatappi tossed with blistered tomatoes, caramelized onions, and just enough shaved parmesan—but it had the kind of flavor that made you feel like someone had really wanted you to eat well.

Now, the house was alive again. Open boxes spilled over the hallway runner. Clean towels were stacked in soft, shifting towers on the arm of the couch. Billy’s voice echoed down the hall from the spare bedroom, half-laughing, half-arguing with Eddie over where his “non-linear” book system was supposed to go. Billy and Eddie’s things were spilling out of every open bag and bin, creating little pockets of clutter that looked like life in progress.

Billy’s voice rang from the spare bedroom where he and Eddie were attempting to wrestle a shelf into a corner that did not want it. Their familiar back-and-forth carried through the house—playful, competitive, married. And in the middle of the living room, Asher, just shy of four, was busy unpacking a very important collection of plastic dinosaurs and lining them up on the coffee table.

Very carefully. One by one. Each one was placed with precision. Each placement came with a whispered command—unintelligible, sacred. Maybe instructions. Maybe the start of a plan for world domination. One of them had already claimed the TV remote as its “boat.”

One particularly enthusiastic stegosaurus had already claimed the TV remote as its “boat.”

“Daddy! Aunt Rio made the T. rex eat the boat again!” Asher shrieked in delight.

From down the hall, Eddie called out: “Rio! Find another boat!”

“In this economy!” Rio shouted back, indignant.

You laughed quietly from your place in the kitchen. You moved from counter to cabinet with practiced ease. A dish towel in one hand, a drying plate in the other. Someone had told you—more than once—to sit down after dinner. You’d said “Sure, in a sec,” and then promptly begun reorganizing the spice rack.

Rio had offered to bring in the last of the bags from the car. You’d let her. Kind of. After you’d finished refolding the stack of guest towels, someone else had clearly folded them wrong. Agatha had disappeared to help Eddie shift furniture, but you could feel her presence like a tide: tracking you through the house, always a few rooms away, always listening for the rhythm of your footsteps.

You were thirty-two weeks pregnant now. Your belly curved outward beneath your sweater, firm and forward. She had been active all evening—kicking, shifting, rolling as if she too wanted to help unpack. Every now and then, her heel or elbow would press up under your ribs with startling precision.

Still, you moved. Fold, dry, stack, breathe. The motion helped. The doing helped. A house in motion felt like a heart still beating. You reached to hang a towel on the oven handle just as she gave another firm twist beneath your palm, reminding you she was in there, listening. Present. From the other room, Asher’s triumphant voice rang out again. “The triceratops is on the boat now!”

“The remote is not a boat!” Eddie hollered. You smiled to yourself and turned toward the sink for the next thing to do. Your gaze landed on the two small boxes tucked against the kitchen wall—lightweight things. One labeled linens, the other pantry extras. Someone had carried them in and left them just out of the way, but not quite in the right place. Just enough to bother you.

You glanced toward the hallway. Billy and Eddie were still debating shelf placement down the corridor. Asher’s dinosaur parade had spilled into the dining room, accompanied by soft growls and the occasional sound of plastic smacking wood. No one was watching. You braced a hand on your lower back and bent, just enough to lift the top box.

It wasn’t heavy. A soft exhale, a careful lift—nothing dramatic. You didn’t even feel strain. Just a mild stretch in your belly as you adjusted your grip and set the box down near the pantry where it actually belonged.

That’s when you heard it—the unmistakable patter of small, fast feet. Before you could turn, a set of arms wrapped around your legs and squeezed. “I’m happy we’re home now,” Asher said, his little face pressed to your thigh, muffled and earnest. “I missed my bed. And my house. And your kitchen.”

You laughed gently, heart stuttering at the force of him. “I missed you too, Ash,” you said, stroking the back of his head. He pulled back, then darted forward to hug you again—smaller this time, higher up, one arm trying to reach around your middle as best it could. “I can’t wait ‘til the baby’s here,” he whispered, like it was a secret. “Then she can play dinosaurs too.”

“She’s gonna need a little time to learn the rules,” you teased. “But I think she’ll love them.” Asher beamed, cheeks full and flushed. Then he ran off again, voice already rising to announce the diplodocus had stolen a shoe. You watched him go with a smile that stuck even as your back gave a quiet ache of protest and the box you’d just moved sat innocently beside the pantry—out of place only minutes ago, but now perfectly aligned. You watched Asher go with a smile that lingered, even as your lower back whispered its quiet warning: you’d lifted more than you should have. But the house was alive again. Full. It was a good kind of ache.

Then came the familiar rhythm—small, sock-footed feet thumping across the hardwood in no particular pattern, their chaos somehow musical. Asher reappeared at your side like a living exclamation point, cheeks pink from exertion, curls slightly damp at the temples. He looked up at you, mouth already forming the next thought. “Can I say hi to her?” he asked, voice bright, already stepping closer, small hand hovering near your belly but waiting—just barely—for permission.

You smiled, soft and full, and nodded. “Of course.” You braced a hand against the counter and crouched slowly—your movements more measured now—and turned just enough to face him. He stood in front of you, eyes wide, posture straightening like he understood something special was happening. You reached for his hand and guided it gently to the curve of your belly. And as if on cue, she moved. Not a flutter. Not just a twitch. A roll. A stretch. A solid little press against the palm of his hand, like she knew exactly where he was.

Asher gasped—sharp and joyful in a way only children could do—his entire face lighting up like the first second of a birthday candle catching flame. “That was her!” he breathed. “She kicked me!” You laughed, but it caught in your chest in that aching way joy does when it’s too pure. His hand stayed still, reverent, eyes wide with discovery. “She did,” you said. “She’s saying hi.” He pressed his hand a little more firmly, carefully. You could see the calculation in his brow—measuring gentleness, focus, the kind of concentration only kids could master when something felt like magic.

Then, softly: “She’s really strong.”

You smiled. “She is.”

“She’s gonna be so good at dinosaurs.”

You tilted your head. “Good at them?”

“Yeah.” His voice lowered, matter-of-fact. “She can play with the nice ones. And the medium-bitey ones.” He paused, dead serious. “But not the really bitey ones ‘til she’s big.”

Your laugh was softer this time, hands resting just below your bump. “That’s very wise.”

“I’ll teach her,” he said, already proud. “She can be in the club.”

“She’d love that.” And then he surprised you—rested his cheek gently against your belly, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment like he was listening for something only he could hear.

Your breath caught again. The weight of it—not just his body, but his being—was like a prayer you hadn’t known to speak. And then he was off again, bolting down the hallway to tell his dads that the velociraptor had declared a truce. His feet squeaked as he ran. His laugh bounced off the walls like sunlight off glass. You stayed crouched a moment longer, hand pressed lightly to the place where her kick had landed.

She was still moving. Slower now. Shifting. Receding. You rose with care, one palm bracing the counter, the other instinctively low at your back. And then—it came. A low, firm tightening. Not painful. But present. It wrapped around your belly like a breath held too long—your muscles clenching gently, your body bracing.

Braxton Hicks.You inhaled slowly, evenly. Let the contraction crest and begin to fade. You knew the rhythm now. You knew it wasn’t the real thing.You’d been unpacking dry goods for the better part of an hour, ignoring the mild tightness that had started low in your belly—first soft, then steadier, creeping across in slow waves. It wasn’t painful. Not quite. But it was there. Persistent. Rhythmic. Your body remembering something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

You moved by the counter, one hand braced on the cool edge, the other resting protectively across the top of your belly. The kitchen was full of late-day warmth: the hush of a crowded house at rest, the softened clatter of boxes being unpacked a few rooms away, and the hum of a fridge working just a little too hard. The light over the stove buzzed faintly, casting a warm halo against the far wall. You shifted your weight with care, rocking your hips side to side, breathing deep through your nose, slow through your mouth. A rhythm. A ritual. “Okay,” you whispered under your breath. “It’s fine. You’ve done this before.”

The room was quiet except for the hush of your breath and the slow thud of your pulse behind your ribs. Then—footsteps. Familiar. Soft, measured. Confident. Rio. She didn’t speak right away. Just leaned against the doorway, arms folded, her gaze steady as she took you in. You could feel the warmth of her attention even before she crossed the room—the way her eyes followed the curve of your spine, the rhythm of your hips, the gentle way your hand stayed cradled just beneath your ribs.

“Tightening?” she asked quietly. You nodded once, eyes still down. “Only a few times since the last time. Nothing to worry about.” You pulled in a breath, let it go slow. “Ezra said they’re totally normal. Just more… Braxton Hicks. Probably from standing too long.”

That’s when the footsteps down the hall paused. But neither of you noticed. Not yet. Rio crossed to you in two smooth steps, and her arms were around your waist before the next breath. Her hands found their way instinctively—one above your belly, the other anchoring low on your hips. She pressed into your back gently, steadying you, curling herself around you like a shield made of warmth and calm.

“I know,” she murmured into your hair, lips brushing against your temple. “Still not letting you do this alone.” You leaned back into her just slightly, the curve of your belly nestling between her hands. Her presence was so solid, so sure, it made you exhale again—deeper this time. More fully. The tightening continued—not sharp, but stronger. A slow cinch. Like a belt being drawn just a little tighter across your middle. Your eyes fluttered closed as you rocked through it, letting your hips sway like a metronome. And Rio moved with you, perfectly in time.

No fear. No questions. Only her hands at your sides, the breath of her voice in your ear. “You’re doing so well.” You hummed, jaw loose. Still moving. “You’re such a badass,” she added, a smile in her voice. “Your body’s just getting both of you ready to meet the world.”

You didn’t answer, but the small laugh that broke from your throat was real. “Honestly, it’s kinda your fault,” you murmured between breaths. “She has your sense of timing.” Rio laughed under her breath, pressing a kiss into your hairline. “Of course she does,” she said. “No concept of patience, constantly interrupting, dramatic entrance guaranteed.”

“Textbook Vidal.” You exhaled slowly through your nose and let your body press a little more into Rio’s. Her hands adjusted with you—one slipping higher to brace your ribs, the other splaying wide across your lower back. Her thumbs traced small, steady circles against the fabric of your shirt. You rocked gently into her with the kind of motion your body didn’t have to think about.

The tightening had already begun to ebb—still present, but retreating now. You could feel the crest pass beneath your skin like a tide pulling back from shore. You breathed through it. “If she could prove that without the added flair of Braxton Hicks,” you murmured, voice dry, “that would be great.” Rio chuckled softly against your temple.

“Feel free to send that message directly to her,” you murmured, palm resting low on your belly. “She’s clearly checking her inbox.” Rio chuckled softly, her lips brushing your hair. Her hands stayed on your hips, slow and sure, her presence wrapped around you like a lull. You were just beginning to feel the contraction ease—crest passing, pressure receding—when a voice broke the quiet:

“Braxton Hicks?”

You turned your head. Agatha stood at the edge of the hallway, half-shadowed, eyes sharp, body drawn tight. Her fingers curled around the doorframe like she didn’t trust herself to move. “You’re having contractions?”

Before you could answer, she stepped forward. Her voice didn’t rise, but the panic threaded through it came sharp and clear. “You should be sitting down. What the hell are you still doing on your feet?” Rio’s hands tightened slightly at your waist. She stayed grounded behind you, but tension rippled through her—contained, but real.

You exhaled carefully, keeping your voice low. “Aggie,” you said gently. “They’re Braxton Hicks. Ezra said they’re normal. Not labor.”

But Agatha was already shaking her head, eyes burning. “Normal doesn’t mean safe,” she snapped, striding in now like a storm rolling over the horizon. “You don’t get to shrug this off. You’re thirty-two weeks. You should be resting, not organizing someone else's pantry!”

“Agatha…” Rio’s voice cut in—a quiet warning. Not sharp. Just… strained. Like she knew exactly where this was going and couldn’t stop it. But it was too late. Your temper, already teetering on edge thanks to your uterus, your ribs, your hormones, snapped. “Stop it.”

The words weren’t loud. But they cut the air like a slap. Agatha froze. Her mouth parted, startled, and you gently pulled out of Rio’s arms—just enough to face her, just enough to meet her there in the tension.

Your chest rose and fell, your pulse thrumming against the inside of your throat. “You don’t get to bark orders at me like I don’t know my own body.” Your voice trembled—but it didn’t falter. “I know you’re scared. I know. But I need you to stop talking to me like I’m fragile, or stupid, or like I haven’t been doing this for the last seven months.”

Agatha blinked, took a step back. Her mouth opened. Closed again. “I love you,” you said, quieter now, breath hitching. “But I need you to stop treating me like a problem to solve. Or something you have to contain. I’m not glass, Agatha. I’m not going to shatter because I unpacked a damn box of lentils.”

The room held still.

Rio’s hand found yours again—silent, anchoring. Her thumb stroked slowly across your knuckles. The hum of the fridge returned. The soft thump of Asher’s feet echoed faintly from down the hall. The house carried on, unaware. You let your forehead rest against Rio’s shoulder and breathed in the warmth of her sweater, her skin, the steadiness she offered. The hum of the fridge returned. The soft thump of Asher’s feet echoed faintly from down the hall. The house carried on, unaware.

You let your forehead rest against Rio’s shoulder and breathed in the warmth of her sweater, her skin, the steadiness she offered. Her hand was still in yours. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. You closed your eyes for just one breath, then opened them and turned toward Agatha, still standing there, still watching you like she wasn’t sure if she should move or speak or vanish.

Your voice was soft when you spoke. Steady, even as the ache pushed at your ribs. “I want to go home,” you said. Agatha blinked. The tension in her face hadn’t left, but it had softened—like she’d just come through a wave herself and wasn’t sure where to land. You shifted your weight, still holding Rio’s hand. “We need to say goodbye to everyone first,” you added, quieter. “Then we’ll go.”

Agatha gave a small nod—jerky, like she couldn’t quite control the shape of it. You took another breath. This one a little shakier. “And I don’t want to talk about it yet,” you said. “Not until I’ve calmed down.”

She didn’t argue. But her face cracked—barely. The kind of shift that lives at the edge of tears. You stepped closer. Not too close. But enough to meet her eyes fully. “I love you,” you said, with no anger in it. Only truth. Only the tired kind of love that doesn’t stop, even when it hurts. Agatha’s mouth moved like she wanted to answer, but nothing came out. That’s when Rio moved.

She let go of your hand just long enough to step between you both—light as air but grounding in a way only she could be. Her hand cupped Agatha’s cheek, her thumb brushing the edge of her temple. Then she leaned in and kissed her, right there, soft and sure on her cheekbone. “Just let her breathe, love,” Rio whispered, low and warm. “We’ll talk about everything when we get home.”

Agatha’s eyes closed. Her body leaned forward just slightly, like her weight wasn’t just emotional now—it was physical. No one said anything else. You all turned as one, silent, collected, and crossed the house like a shared current.

In the living room, everything was still ordinary. Asher had climbed onto the couch, surrounded by his dinosaurs, reenacting what sounded like a peace treaty between the T. rex and the stegosaurus. Billy was half-lounging in the armchair, his phone balanced on one knee. Eddie was kneeling by a box, sorting chargers like it was a life-or-death mission.

The moment you entered the room, three heads lifted. You forced a soft smile. “We’re gonna head out,” you said, your voice steady but laced with fatigue. “I’m just… more tired than I thought I’d be.”

Eddie stood first. He crossed the room in two steps and gave you a hug that didn’t ask questions. “Take care of yourself,” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded. “Thank you. For dinner. For all of it.” Billy gave you a longer hug, his arms folding around you with that same quiet protectiveness he always had. When he pulled back, he didn’t say a word—just gave you a small, knowing look. One you were too tired to unpack right now.

Agatha knelt in front of Asher first, folding herself down with the careful elegance of someone trying not to tremble. She brushed his hair from his forehead and whispered something low—too quiet for you to catch, but it made his whole face light up. He flung his arms around her neck with a happy squeal and she hugged him fiercely, blinking fast against the top of his head. Rio followed, dipping just enough to kiss his curls. She murmured something in Spanish that made Asher giggle, his feet kicking gently against the couch cushions in response.

Then it was your turn. You stepped forward slowly, one hand on your belly, the other steadying against the arm of the couch as you crouched down in front of him. The second your knees bent, you heard it. A sound—small, but sharp. A caught breath from just behind you. Agatha. It wasn’t a word. Not even a gasp. Just the kind of raw, involuntary noise someone makes when their fear gets ahead of their logic.You glanced at her from the corner of your eye. She hadn’t moved. Still crouched, still smiling at Asher. But her posture had gone stiff, her fingers curling subtly into the hem of her sweater like she needed to hold onto something.

Your brows lifted—just slightly. Not mocking. Not angry. Just... seeing her. Seeing how much she was seeing you. And across from her, Rio noticed too. Without looking away from Asher, she reached out and gently, wordlessly, squeezed Agatha’s hand. Not in warning. Not in comfort. In anchor. A quiet press of skin against skin that said: She’s okay. We’re here. You don’t have to hold the whole world by yourself.

Agatha exhaled slowly. Almost imperceptibly. Her grip loosened. You turned your focus back to Asher. He was watching you like he was memorizing your face. “Okay, buddy,” you said, smiling softly. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

He nodded solemnly. “Tell the baby I said hi.”

“I will,” you promised. He leaned in and whispered, “She’s gonna be really good at stegosaurus battles.” You laughed, gently. “She’s got the best teacher in the world.” You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He smelled like tomato sauce and shampoo. Like safety.

Then, with care, you braced your hands and rose to stand—slow, measured, with that now-familiar stretch along your spine. You adjusted the weight of your belly beneath your palms and exhaled, letting it settle. Behind you, Agatha rose too. Slower. Like she was moving through water.

She reached for your coat from the hook by the door. Her hand brushed yours as she held it out. Neither of you spoke. But the brush lingered. And then you all turned together—Agatha beside you, Rio just behind—and crossed the threshold into the night. The door closed softly behind you with the smallest click.

Outside, the world had quieted. Dusk had fallen in full, casting the street in soft, bluish-gray light. The wind moved low across the ground, lifting the ends of your coat. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, and the last breath of someone’s firepit curled smoke through the breeze. The three of you walked toward the car in silence. Not cold. Not angry. Just... quiet. Worn.

Agatha walked half a step behind, her hands deep in her pockets like she didn’t trust herself to reach for you. Rio moved between you both. She didn’t say anything. But her presence was constant. Solid. A gentle weight pressed into the fragile space between two people who loved each other more than they knew how to forgive in one breath.

And you? You just walked. You didn’t reach for anyone. But you didn’t move away, either. You stood at the edge of the car’s open door, wind tugging at the hem of your coat. Agatha moved to open the front passenger side for you, her hand already on the handle, her gaze flicking toward the seat like it was a foregone conclusion. But your voice stopped her. Soft. Even. “I want the back seat.”

A beat. Small—half a second, maybe less—but you felt the shift in her. She froze, just enough to register. Her hand stilled on the door. Her shoulders pulled in by a fraction, like a breath held too long. Then she stepped aside.

“Of course,” she said. Quiet. Controlled. The kind of control that frays at the edges. She opened the back door for you anyway. You climbed in without another word, settling into the seat with slow, deliberate care. The upholstery was cool beneath your thighs, the kind of fabric that held on to cold longer than it should. One hand braced your belly as you angled yourself sideways slightly, knees drawn up just enough to relieve the pressure in your lower back. The door closed gently behind you.

Agatha rounded the front and climbed into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut like she didn’t want to disturb the air between you. Rio got behind the wheel last. She didn’t speak. The engine started with a smooth, subdued hum, followed by the soft, unthinking voice of the radio—mid-song. Piano, slow and cinematic. The kind of piece that never fully resolves.

Nobody reached to change it. No one asked how you were doing. The car moved forward like it was exhaling for all three of you—smooth down the gravel drive, turning onto the street with that careful hush of tires on winter-worn pavement. Inside, the silence held. Not empty. Heavy. Rio kept her hands at ten and two, her eyes flicking to the mirrors once in a while, but not to you.

Agatha sat with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles white. Her face was turned toward the window, but you could see her reflection in the glass—jaw tight, throat working like she’d swallowed something sharp and couldn’t dislodge it.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t touch her. You didn’t close the distance. You needed that distance tonight. The streetlights came in slow pulses—sweeping across the dash and fading just as quickly, like memory. Every few minutes, the car passed a porch light or a window left glowing, but none of them reached inside.

Ten minutes. That’s all it took. But time stretches differently when hearts are raw and silence becomes the only language spoken. When the house came into view, the porch light was already on—warm, golden, flickering faintly like it had been waiting for you. Rio eased into the drive without a word.

You unbuckled your seatbelt with a soft click. It echoed in the cabin like a dropped pin. You opened your door before the car had even fully settled into park. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back. You stepped out into the night. The cold was clean against your skin, curling under your collar and catching in your breath. You walked slowly up the front path, one hand at your coat, the other resting at the curve of your belly. The key was already in your hand. Behind you, the engine ticked softly. But no doors opened. Not yet. Rio stayed in the driver’s seat.

Agatha stayed in the passenger seat, hands still clasped, her eyes forward but unfocused—watching something far past the windshield. They both watched you walk away, but neither followed.

Not yet.

------

The house welcomed you in silence. Not peace. Not comfort. Just the hush of walls that had seen better nights. A single lamp cast a soft gold spill across the entryway, stretching long shadows along the hardwood. The air inside was warmer than outside, but not quite warm. Still holding the chill of absence. Of interruption.

You moved slowly toward the kitchen island, your fingers sliding beneath your coat collar. The fabric slid from your shoulders with the sound of fatigue—quiet friction, soft fabric sighing across skin. Your other hand instinctively cradled the base of your belly, steadying yourself as you exhaled.

And then—

The door slammed shut. Not violent. Just… too much. Too fast. Too loud against the silence you were trying to preserve. Agatha’s footsteps followed immediately. Sharp. Hurried. Her boots struck the floor like they were trying to make a point. She rounded the kitchen island in three strides, hair coming loose from where she’d clipped it back earlier, breath caught high in her chest. Her entire body moved like she had rehearsed this confrontation all the way up the driveway, and now couldn’t stop the momentum. Like she’d burst if she didn’t say something. Like she already had too much in her hands. You met her eyes just as she stopped, mid-step, mid-thought. Too close to you. Too far from grounding.

Rio entered behind her. The door closed again, this time gently. Clicked shut like a breath being held. She locked it with a soft snick, then didn’t move from it. She stayed in the frame—watchful, still, silent. Not neutral. Not distant.

Just… reading the room with her whole body. Her eyes didn’t leave Agatha. She was already tracking the ripple beneath the surface—shoulders, hands, the way Agatha’s chest rose just a little too fast. Like she was already halfway to breaking and didn’t know how to stop. You stood where you were, your coat halfway off your arms, your spine upright but tired. Your palm resting on your belly like a shield.

And when you spoke, your voice didn’t rise. Didn’t shake. Just cut cleanly through the tension like a knife through linen. “Let’s talk before this turns into something it doesn’t need to.” Agatha’s breath hitched. “I’m too tired for a blow-up,” you said, quieter now, but no less firm. “And I don’t want to say something fueled with pregnancy hormones, I'll regret .”

That stopped her. Fully. She didn’t argue. Didn’t push. But her body wavered on the edge of something—fight or fall, you couldn’t tell. The kitchen was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the low, distant tick of the heating system kicking on in the vents overhead. It wasn’t comforting. But it was real. Agatha looked at you. And something behind her eyes collapsed—not loudly, but like a crack forming down the center of a dam. Not enough to burst. Just enough to make everything inside tremble.

Rio still hadn’t spoken. But she shifted slightly at the door. Not stepping forward yet. Not interfering. Just… staying. Like she knew the moment she moved, something would spill. And so she waited. Watched. Her eyes flicked between you and Agatha and back again, her jaw tight, her hands curled into the sides of her coat like she didn’t know who to go to first.

You pulled your coat the rest of the way off, the fabric catching on your elbow, clumsy from the weight of the day. One hand stayed curled protectively over your belly. The other gripped the counter—tight—like it was the only thing keeping you from floating off the earth. “Because I’m trying to breathe, Agatha.”

The words came out low. Flat. No fury yet—just the kind of tired that settles in your bones. A beat. “I’m trying to feel okay without being watched every damn second.” Across from you, Agatha’s brow twitched. Her arms crossed over her chest, like a wall she didn’t realize she was building.

“I’m not watching you.”

You looked up then, full weight of your gaze meeting hers. Your voice didn’t rise. It narrowed. “You’re hovering.”

Agatha’s mouth tightened. “I’m trying to take care of you.”

You let out a breath—not a laugh. A warning. “That’s not what it feels like.”

“You think I’m trying to control you—”

“You are,” you cut in, voice snapping like a taut wire. “Every time I move, every time I stand too long, you act like I’m about to fall apart.”

Agatha took a step forward. Her spine stiffened, voice slicing clean through the space between you. “What we’re not going to do is pretend I’m overreacting. My very pregnant wife was having a contraction while lifting boxes.”

Another step. Not threatening—just certain. “I’m allowed to be worried when your body starts tightening up like you’re about to go into labor in someone else’s kitchen.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then: “It wasn’t a contraction—”

“It was a Braxton Hicks,” she snapped. “Which are still contractions. You were swaying. Bracing yourself on the counter like your whole body was locking up. And Rio behind you like some secret that needed to be kept from me—what the hell was I supposed to do? Pretend that wasn’t happening?”

The silence stretched. Then the fire came. “I’m not asking you to ignore me.” You stepped forward. “I’m asking you to trust me.” Agatha flinched—just slightly. But it was there. You didn’t stop. “Stop looking at me like I’m seconds from collapsing.”

“Because I’ve seen you fall apart!” The words cracked through the room like thunder—loud and ugly and full of grief. She kept going—too fast now, like if she stopped, she’d never say any of it again. “You passed out in the middle of a workday. Alone. Pregnant. Your head hit the desk. You couldn’t even answer the phone. I didn’t even know how long you’d been like that—” Her voice caught. “You looked dead.”

Your breath hitched. But you didn’t back down. “And I didn’t die.” That landed like a stone. Agatha blinked hard.

You stepped forward again—not to comfort. To be heard. “You think I don’t carry that memory? That I don’t still hear your voice saying my name when everything was going dark?” Her mouth parted—but your hand lifted, firm. “You’re scared. I get it. But you’ve wrapped that fear around me so tight, I can’t breathe.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again—”

“Agatha.” Your voice broke—not with weakness, but insistence. “Look at me.” She did. “I am right here. Healthy. Alive. Still growing this baby. Still showing up. And you’re still looking at me like I might break just for touching a bin of towels.”

“You shouldn’t be lifting anything!” she snapped, fists curling at her sides.

“It was towels, not a fucking boulder—”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It matters to me!” Your voice cracked now, your whole body tensing with it. “Because this is still my body. My pregnancy. My limits.” Agatha’s breath was ragged. Her posture sharp. You pressed forward anyway.

“That’s not care, Agatha. That’s fear pretending to be love so it doesn’t have to apologize.” Another breath. You didn’t stop. “You say you’re taking care of me, but all I feel is pressure. Constant. Crushing. Like the second I slow down, everything falls apart. Like I’m a countdown. A liability.”

Agatha’s voice lashed through the air: “Because it might. You’re thirty-two weeks pregnant and pushing yourself too hard again. You’ve done it before—don’t act like I’m imagining it.” You didn’t even blink.

“And who paid for it last time?” you said. “Me.” A beat. Your voice didn’t waver now. It burned. “I’m still here. Still carrying our baby. Still working. Still walking. Still trying not to lose myself under the weight of everyone else’s panic.” Agatha looked stunned. Rattled. Off-balance. You didn’t give her time to recover. “I know you’re scared. I know. But I need you to stop treating me like I’m made of glass.”

A breath. Your voice dropped low—not pleading. Not broken. Just true. “I need you to trust me enough to let me be okay.” Agatha didn’t move. Her jaw clenched once, then again—like she was chewing words she couldn’t swallow. Her arms stayed at her sides, but her shoulders fell. Just a little. Like something inside her had given out. She looked at you—and for the first time, really looked. Not scanning you for danger. Not assessing. Just… seeing. You.

There was so much in her face then. Anger. Love. Terror. Shame. All of it clashing just behind her eyes like thunder behind glass. But she didn’t speak. Not yet. Because just then, Rio stepped forward. She didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.

Her voice was steady. Soft, but not delicate. “You’re not their doctor, Aggie.” Agatha turned slowly toward her. Rio’s eyes didn’t flinch. “You’re their wife.” That—finally—landed. Agatha’s mouth opened, just slightly. No defense. No retort. Her gaze flicked between you and Rio and back again.

And she looked exhausted. Not by you. But by what she’d let her fear become. Her lips parted, like she might speak. But all that came out was a breath. A single, shaking breath. Agatha’s lips parted, like she might speak. But all that came out was a breath. A single, shaking breath.

She didn’t reach for you. She didn’t defend herself. She just stood there—arms slack, coat still buttoned, like she’d forgotten she was wearing it—staring at the space between you like it had become a chasm she didn’t know how to cross. The whole room felt too bright, like the overhead light was catching on the sharpest parts of everything—glinting off the edges of anger, guilt, fear.

You stared back at her, breath still high in your chest. Your palms were damp. Your pulse loud in your ears. You were so tired—body and mind and soul. But in that silence, in that split-second where she didn’t move— You did. You stepped forward. Not far. Not all the way. Just enough to close the space that mattered. Your hand came up slowly. Cautiously. Like a question. And then it slid into hers.

Fingers soft. Warm. Not sure if they’d be met. But they were. Agatha’s hand tightened around yours like she couldn’t believe it. Like it hurt to hold and hurt worse to let go. Her thumb brushed across your knuckles in one trembling arc—just once—like a prayer she didn’t know how to finish. She still hadn’t said anything. Not out loud. But her body spoke in small ruptures. Her spine curled inward. Her shoulders trembled—not enough to collapse. Just enough to show she’d been carrying it all.

Rio moved then, soundless. She stepped forward from the doorway, her curls catching the light, eyes locked on you first—then Agatha. No judgment. Just deep, steady presence. Her hand found the small of your back like it always did—warmth through fabric, pressure just firm enough to anchor you in your own skin.

You leaned into it. Just slightly. Just enough. And then you looked at Agatha again. Your voice came low. Sure. Soft. “I love you.” Her eyes flicked to yours like they hadn’t expected to hear that yet. Or maybe at all. They were glassy. Her mouth opened—but still, no words came. So you added—because she needed it, and you did too:

“That hasn’t changed.” Her shoulders dropped a fraction. Like the weight she’d been bearing had finally begun to shift. Not gone. But shared. “But I need you to let me breathe again.” A single nod. Then another. And Agatha’s expression broke—quietly, beautifully. Not into tears, not yet. But into something softer. Something that said I hear you. I know. I’m sorry. You didn’t need more than that. Rio leaned in and kissed your temple, her breath warm against your skin. She didn’t rush. Just lingered there, lips to your hairline, heart against your back. “Let’s go lay down,” she murmured. “All three of us.” No one objected. No one moved fast.

You turned with them—one hand still in Agatha’s, the other resting on your bump, feeling the faint shifting of Sprout beneath your palm. Rio’s arm curled around your waist. Agatha’s coat rustled as she finally shrugged it off and reached for the light. The kitchen dimmed. The hallway opened. And together, without another word, you disappeared into the quiet. The bedroom welcomed you like dusk—not with ceremony, but with a kind of hush that made every sound feel sacred.

The lamp on the nightstand cast a honeyed pool of light over the room. Shadows curled into corners, softening the edges of the furniture, the walls, even your reflection in the mirror—just a vague silhouette, curved with life and fatigue. No one spoke.

The only sound was the rustle of clothes sliding off tired bodies. Fabric hitting the floor in gentle sighs. A zipper lowered. A breath released. The quiet choreography of shared exhaustion. You stripped slowly, carefully. Not out of modesty—just… reverence. Your hands moved without rush, peeling away your sweater, your bra, the stretch of your leggings. The cold kissed your skin in the places warmth had just left, and for a moment, you stood still, one palm splayed over your belly like a grounding spell. Sprout stirred under your touch—just a flutter. Just enough to remind you: I’m here, too.

You turned toward Rio’s dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and reached for the pair of soft gray boxers she always wore to bed. Cotton worn thin in the best way. You stepped into them, pulling the waistband under your stomach, your thumb brushing the hem absently. The fabric felt like her. It was the only thing you put on.

Behind you, Agatha moved with quiet intent. Her sleep shorts were already on—low on her hips—but she shed the rest without ceremony. Her blouse dropped from her hands like it no longer mattered. Her bare back caught the lamplight for a moment—pale, freckled, unguarded—before she slipped past you, fingers brushing the edge of the mattress as she turned it down.

Rio, on the other side of the room, undressed without looking away from you. Her jeans folded over the chair. Her shirt peeled off in one clean motion. The curve of her collarbone caught a flicker of lamplight as she reached to switch it off—then paused. The room stayed lit, soft and gold and breathing. You climbed into bed first. Your body, tired to the bone, found its familiar shape—on your side, knees tucked just slightly, arms cradled beneath the pillow. You shifted your hips, exhaling as Sprout adjusted with you. The mattress dipped behind you. Agatha.

She slid in close without hesitation, her bare chest pressing to your back like it had done a hundred times before—but tonight, it felt like something deeper. Her arm curled gently around your belly, not gripping, just resting—the way people touch stained glass they’re afraid will crack. Her breath warmed the space just beneath your ear. She didn’t speak. Her lips pressed, feather-light, to your shoulder blade. Her other hand slipped under the pillow, fingers brushing yours. You let her find them. And then Rio.

She crossed slowly to the other side and settled onto the mattress facing you—not curling in, just being there. Her legs stretched long under the covers, one arm folding beneath her head, the other reaching across the narrow divide between your bodies until her fingertips met your upper arm, stroking a slow arc over your skin. Three bodies. Three pulses. Nothing separating you but breath and history. The silence deepened—but it wasn’t cold. It was warm. Full. A silence that knew the words had already been said. That anything more would be too much, too loud, too late.

Agatha’s fingers moved absently across your stomach, tracing invisible lines. Her touch was reverent. Not ownership—just awe. As if she couldn’t believe you’d let her stay this close after everything. As if she were still waiting to be told to leave.

But you didn’t move. And neither did she. Rio’s hand stilled at your bicep. Her thumb brushed once, twice. A rhythm. Not a question. Not even reassurance. Just presence. You exhaled—deep and slow. The kind of breath that tells your body it’s safe to rest. Sprout kicked once, gently, like she was knocking on the edge of the moment.

And then—

“Are you okay?” Rio’s voice came so quietly you almost missed it. Not for you. For Agatha. A pause. Agatha’s lips grazed the back of your neck. Her breath hitched. And then, softly—so softly you could feel the words more than hear them:

“Not yet.” The silence that followed was raw. Honest. But it didn’t ache anymore. Agatha’s arm tightened around your middle—not possessive, just real. Rio leaned closer, her forehead almost touching yours across the space of a breath. Her hand settled against your belly now too, beside Agatha’s. Two hands. One heartbeat. Yours. Sprout’s. Theirs. You didn’t need to speak. You didn’t need to fix it. You just needed to stay.

And you did. Wrapped in gold light, bare skin, and the kind of love that doesn’t always feel gentle, but always stays.

------

It started with a kick. Not a sharp one—just a slow, stretching push. A curl of elbow or heel sliding long into your right side, then pressing stubbornly against your ribs. You stirred with a quiet grunt, lips parting around a groan that barely made it past your throat.

Sprout. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know it was her. A second nudge followed, lower this time, accompanied by the faint, shifting roll of your entire belly as she repositioned herself. Your palm drifted down on instinct, pressing gently to the spot where she pushed. “Okay, okay,” you mumbled sleepily, voice rough with sleep. “I get it. You’re awake.”

The room was still dark, painted only in the faint pre-dawn light edging in around the curtains. Agatha’s breath ghosted warmly against the back of your neck, her arm still cradled over your middle. Rio lay just a few inches away, her curls spread across the pillow like ink spilled in soft circles. The blanket had slipped down to her hips. One of her hands was still curled loosely over your arm.

And yet—you knew you wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Sprout kicked again, a longer stretch this time, and your ribs flared just enough to make you wince. You sighed. Slowly, carefully, you peeled yourself out from between their warmths. Agatha stirred behind you, murmuring something unintelligible as her hand slipped away. Rio exhaled but didn’t wake. The bed shifted as you sat up, swinging your legs over the side.

You moved on autopilot—quiet steps, hand braced to your back as you crossed to the bathroom, the tiles cool beneath your feet. Relief came. But sleep did not. Your hand slid over your stomach again as you stood in the mirror, your reflection ghost-like in the low light. Sprout had settled, but the energy in your chest hadn’t. You didn’t want to crawl back into bed.

Not yet. Instead, you stepped out into the hallway, letting the chill of the hardwood against your soles clear your head. The nursery door was slightly ajar. You pushed it open with a gentle hand. The nursery was cloaked in the kind of light that only arrived with the earliest edge of dawn—faint, filtered through a sky still heavy with sleep, where pinks blushed beneath deep winter blue. The pale green walls reflected it softly, casting the room in the tender hush of a watercolor painting.

You rocked gently in the chair—the one Agatha had insisted on, the one Rio had assembled with her sleeves rolled up and her brow furrowed in concentration. It sat nestled beneath the overhead lamp now dimmed to a halo of gold, like the room itself understood what was needed: quiet. Stillness. A soft place to land.

It wasn’t modern or minimal. No slim lines or quiet luxury. It was solid. Cushioned. Deeply upholstered in warm stone fabric that welcomed you like it already knew your shape. It didn’t ask for grace or posture. It simply held. Built not to impress, but to endure.

The ottoman in front of it cradled your feet, your calves heavy with the kind of ache that only came at the end of long days and longer nights. Your body was still settling after the weight of everything it had carried—contractions, tears, arguments, apologies. And now… this. The soft after. Sprout rolled beneath your palm, stretching long against the curve of your belly, then settling again as if rocked into peace by the chair’s steady rhythm.

Outside the window, snow fell like a final breath—slow and silent, the kind that didn’t need to stay long, only long enough to say goodbye to winter. You watched it drift, blinking slowly, your other hand cradling the armrest like it was an anchor. For once, your body wasn’t in motion from urgency. Just presence.

Then—

A sound. Soft. Bare feet across wood. A breath held and then released. You didn’t turn.

You didn’t need to. Agatha appeared in the doorway—silhouetted by hallway light, wrapped in one of Rio’s cardigans, her hair mussed from sleep and the weight of dreams she hadn’t escaped. She hovered there for a moment, her hand gripping the edge of the frame, thumb brushing along the grain of the wood like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Her posture was wrong for her—shoulders slightly rounded, arms wrapped around her torso as if to hold herself in place. The steady, unshakable woman you knew had become a trembling outline in the dark.

She watched you for a long moment. And then she moved. Slow steps across the rug. Soundless, deliberate. She didn’t speak. Didn’t reach. She just lowered herself in front of you—onto her knees at the edge of the ottoman, settling between your legs like she was preparing for confession. The air shifted. The rocker slowed. Her eyes lifted, rimmed with shadow, lashes still clinging with sleep or something heavier. You waited. You didn’t ask her to speak. But when she did, her voice was raw. Unvarnished. “I’m sorry.”

Her words broke the silence without shattering it. They folded in instead, like they had always belonged in this room, in this moment. “For last night. For how tightly I’ve been holding everything. For the way I’ve spoken to you, hovered over you. The way I…” Her voice wavered. She reached forward, and you met her halfway, your fingers folding into hers like muscle memory. “I thought if I watched closely enough, worried loudly enough, I could hold the world still.” She swallowed hard. Her thumb dragged across the back of your hand once. Twice.

“But that’s not what you needed. That’s not what you asked for.” And then she broke. Not in sobs—Agatha didn’t break that way. But her voice dropped to a trembling whisper, low and hoarse. “…Because if something goes wrong again, I won’t survive it.” You felt those words in your chest. In your lungs. In the tender spot right beneath your breastbone, where your love for her had always lived—feral and bright.

She leaned forward, forehead pressing to your knuckles, her body curling inward like your hand was the only steady thing in the world. “Every time you wince. Every time you go quiet. I feel like I’m watching the ground crack open beneath us. Like I’m waiting to see you collapsed in that hallway again, bleeding. Breathless. Cold.”

A tear slid down her cheek and dropped onto your leg. Her voice cracked: “I can’t lose you. I don’t know how to be brave like you are.” You let the silence hold for just a moment more. Let her cry. Let her fall apart here, at your feet, in the chair she chose for you to be safe in. You moved. You freed your hand from hers gently, only to cradle her face, your thumb brushing slow paths beneath her eyes. She leaned into the touch, breath catching, the cardigan falling open to reveal bare skin beneath—vulnerable, real. “You don’t have to be brave for me, Agatha.” Your voice was soft but unwavering.

“You just have to be with me.” Her eyes fluttered shut. She nodded once—but it was a tremble more than a motion. “You said you’d walk with me,” you whispered, forehead leaning into hers now, your breath mingling between you. A beat. “So stop trying to carry me.” That stopped her. You felt it—like a pulse. Her fingers tightened slightly against your knee, and for a second, she didn’t breathe. Then she exhaled. A real one. A full one. She shifted forward again, settling against the ottoman with both arms now wrapped around your belly. Her forehead came to rest gently against the side of the swell.

And in that silence, she whispered: “You are so loved, Beansprout.” Her lips pressed into your skin, low and warm, reverent. “Probably more than you’ll ever understand.” She kissed you again. Longer this time. The way someone kisses sacred ground. “You probably know this,” she murmured, “but you have three moms who are infatuated with you.” Another kiss. “And we are so proud of you.” A soft, laughing exhale—a little watery. A little wrecked. “You have a few more weeks of growing, okay?” Her palm slid over your belly, settling right where Sprout kicked.

Agatha's breathing had finally evened out, her cheek still pressed softly to the slope of your belly, her arms wrapped around your waist like she was afraid the morning might take you away from her again. You kept stroking her hair, your fingers threaded gently through the loose strands, letting the motion lull you both. “Do you have class this morning?” Your voice was soft. Not a disruption—just a gentle question drifting into the hush between you. Agatha didn’t lift her head right away. She nodded against your skin.

“Yeah.” Her voice was rough with sleep and emotion. “Rio does too.” You nodded, your thumb tracing an idle circle across her shoulder. The silence returned, but it was looser now. Lived-in. You tilted your head, watching the snow continue to fall outside the window, slower now, heavier. It had blanketed the porch in white, and the faintest blue light was beginning to gather along the windowsill. “Would it be alright if I came with you?”

Agatha stirred. “To campus,” you added gently, hand still stroking her shoulder. “I don’t want to be alone today. I thought I could sit in one of your offices. Just… be near.” That quiet admission landed with a softness that didn’t need apology.

Agatha didn’t say anything at first. She simply leaned up, her eyes lifting to meet yours—and whatever she saw there made her nod instantly. “Of course,” she said, and the words carried more weight than she likely intended. “Of course you can.” You let your eyes close just for a breath. Relief crept in warm and low through your chest.

A sharp electronic chime sliced through the hush. The alarm. It hummed from the bedroom down the hall—gentle but insistent. Its digital rhythm signaling what it always did: Time to begin again. Agatha groaned softly into your lap. You smiled. “Duty calls.” She shifted and dipped lower, kissing the stretch of bare skin just above your waistband. And that’s when Sprout moved—a sudden stretch, long and unmistakable, a foot pushing out so strongly it lifted your skin in a visible arc.

Agatha blinked and pulled back half an inch, eyebrows rising. “Well.” You gave a breathless chuckle and glanced down. “At least she’s already up.” Agatha’s mouth quirked into a half-smile—the kind that hadn’t reached her face since before the argument. She leaned back in and pressed another kiss to your belly, right where Sprout had kicked. “Show-off,” she whispered, affection spilling through the words like sunlight through the blinds.

You sighed, your hand still curled in her hair. The sound of Rio’s alarm joined the other—muffled, familiar. The day had begun. But for a moment longer, you stayed right there. Held. Connected. Ready to begin again. Together.

------

The car was warm. The kind of warmth that took a moment to earn—soft blasts from the heater slowly carving away the chill that had crept into the seats overnight. The windshield glowed faintly with morning light, and outside, the last of February’s frost clung to rooftops and mailboxes like a rumor that winter hadn’t quite ended. You sat in the passenger seat, boots off, wrapped in Rio’s oversized hoodie, your sock-covered feet resting carefully in the footwell. Legs stretched. Shoulders finally relaxed. The bump beneath the hoodie rose and fell with each breath, Sprout tucked neatly beneath your hand.

Rio had taken the back seat without argument—her arm slung casually across her bag, one knee propped up against the door. “All part of the tactical pregnancy protocol,” she’d announced as she slid in. “Stretch out. I’ll be here for witty commentary and rogue snack management.”

Agatha had just shaken her head, but the smile had crept in anyway. She reached for your hand the second she shifted into drive—her fingers weaving through yours like muscle memory, grounding you both. The car rolled out onto the road, the quiet just full enough to feel like peace. It was you who broke it, voice soft and almost to yourself: “Opening Day’s in a few weeks.” Agatha hummed faintly beside you. Not questioning. Just… listening.

From the back seat, Rio leaned forward, her chin hooked over the edge of your headrest. “You thinking Asher’s gonna make it past the third inning?”

You smiled. “If there’s popcorn and a giant foam finger? Maybe.”

Agatha let out a faint chuckle. “He’s going to ask at least four times if the mascot is real.”

“And five more if he can pet it,” Rio added.

You shook your head slowly, thumb tracing the edge of Agatha’s hand. “We should pick a game soon. I’ll be thirty-seven weeks by then…”

There was a pause—not heavy. Just honest. Thirty-seven weeks. So close it felt like the shadow of a finish line. Or a beginning.

Rio laughed. “We’ll find a good game. Early enough in the season, easy parking, minimal chaos.” Agatha’s fingers tightened around yours.

“And if you’re not up for it, we can always make a day of it at home,” she said. “Blankets. Ballgame on the TV. Mini hot dogs and stadium nachos.”

That made you laugh, warm and surprised. “And no overpriced water bottles.”

“Or crying toddlers behind us,” Rio added. “Just one adorable four-year-old and one very, very round mama.”

You snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

“That was a compliment,” Rio said, faux-offended. “You are the most beautiful gravity well I’ve ever seen.”

Then Rio’s voice, gentler: “You know the season lasts all summer, right? If you’re not up to it, we can always switch the plans around. Take him to a game later. He’ll still think it’s magic.”

You smiled at that. “I know. But if I can help it—I’ll be there. Blanket, water bottle, seat cushion and all.” Agatha glanced at you again—longer this time. There was pride in her eyes. And something quieter too. Worry, maybe, but tucked carefully beneath the surface. You gave her hand a soft squeeze.

Thank you for letting me say it. Her fingers tightened around yours in return. A quiet thank-you. For letting this moment be light. For not hovering. For letting you talk about the future without shrinking away from it. Agatha glanced sideways, just for a breath, and when her eyes met yours, something in her shoulders loosened. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

From the back seat, Rio sighed dramatically. “Sprout’s first game. Asher’s first pretzel of the season. It’s the beginning of a legacy. The start of his villain origin story.”

You laughed and leaned your head against the window, eyes half-closing as the road hummed beneath you. It was still cold outside. But inside, between the hands that held you and the voices that loved you—

Spring was already on its way.

The elevator chimed low, the hallway unusually quiet for a Monday morning. Most of campus was still in that early-semester drift—midterm stress not yet in full swing, the air between lectures feeling like a breath being held.

Agatha’s office door opened with a gentle creak, the hinges softened by age and routine. She held it for you without a word, her hand pressed lightly to the small of your back as you stepped inside.

The familiar scent of cedar, black tea, and the faintest trace of old books welcomed you like an old friend. Agatha’s office had always felt that way—cozy, lived-in, unapologetically hers. Shelves lined two walls, heavy with annotated volumes and student gifts. The corner lamp cast a warm golden light across the floor, softening the early sunlight that filtered in through the frosted windowpanes.

And there, on her desk, just beside the framed photo of the three of you at Christmas, was a small, matte printout of your latest ultrasound. BeanSprout. Her tiny foot mid-kick, perfectly curled spine barely visible in the grainy dark.

You walked toward it slowly.

The photo of the three of you had been taken just hours after you learned she was a girl. You remembered that moment—how Agatha’s hand had found yours first, how Rio had immediately declared she would have “the legs of a sprinter,” and how you’d laughed, tears still clinging to your lashes. In the photo, the three of you were glowing. Not from the lights of the tree behind you. But from joy. From knowing.

You smiled, touched the edge of the frame gently with your fingertips. “It still doesn’t feel real sometimes,” you murmured. Behind you, Agatha smiled faintly, already moving to the wall-mounted heater. She twisted the knob a few clicks to the right until it groaned to life, humming softly.

“Well, she does keep kicking like she’s practicing for tryouts,” she said. “So I’d say that’s very real.”

You moved toward the couch—Agatha’s couch—the same one she’d had since before you were ever a you. It was wide and deep, a soft gray that had faded to comfort over time. The cushions still dipped slightly where students had once curled up for late meetings and where, much later, you had curled into her side, long before the three of you shared a bed, or a home, or a baby.

You sat slowly, easing yourself down until you could prop your feet along the far arm. A pillow tucked under your back, your laptop balanced gently across the round slope of your belly. The screen blinked awake, a document half-finished and waiting. You adjusted slightly—settling into the space that had always welcomed you.

Agatha watched you from across the room, her head tilting just slightly. Something shifted behind her eyes—soft awe, a glimmer of pride. Then she pulled her phone from her pocket. “Stay right there,” she said gently.

You glanced up. “What?”

“You look…” She didn’t finish the thought. She just lifted her phone and snapped the picture before you could protest. The click was quiet. Sacred. A keepsake. You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. She crossed the room once more, bent to press a kiss to your forehead, her hand settling for a brief moment over your belly—just long enough to feel the slow shift beneath your skin. Then she dipped lower.

Her lips brushed the curve of your belly, warm and lingering. “You have a good day too, little one,” she whispered against the fabric, voice low and full of quiet devotion. “Keep being gentle with your mama, okay?” Sprout gave a tiny nudge beneath her palm—just a twitch, like acknowledgment. Agatha smiled as she straightened again. “When I’m back,” she murmured, her voice brushing soft against your hair, “we’ll grab coffee. Maybe lunch. Somewhere with soup that doesn’t taste like cardboard. I love you.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you leaned into her. “Deal. I love you, too.”

The door clicked softly behind her as she left, the heater still humming, the light catching the ultrasound on her desk. You exhaled slowly, fingers drifting to rest over the baby’s gentle stretch beneath your ribs.

Warm. Safe. Held.

------

The morning had grown too quiet. Not the good kind. Not the soft, sleepy stillness that curled around her shoulders when she made it home before sunset. This was something else. Hollow. Off. Like the silence left behind when someone leaves a door cracked just wide enough for a chill to slip in.

Rio sat alone in her office, the blinds still tilted from the last class she’d taught on Friday, slats of gray light stretching across the bookshelves like fingers. Her coffee had gone cold beside her elbow. She hadn’t touched it in over an hour. The cursor blinked against a half-finished email on her screen. But her hand hovered above the mouse. Still. Caught. And then—almost without realizing—she clicked.

The browser opened with a sigh. She didn’t type the address. She didn’t need to. It was already waiting in the autofill: facebook.com/RiverOfTheRisenLightPM

She had told herself she wouldn’t check again. Yesterday morning in the kitchen with Agatha had been enough, hadn’t it? The quiet unraveling. The way the map had loaded, and Agatha’s voice had gone low and furious, “Of course it’s a fucking church…”

But Rio couldn’t wait anymore. Something was wrong. Not just morally wrong. Wrong in her bones. Like the storm that comes before thunder. Like the breath that catches in your throat before someone says the thing you can’t un-hear.

The page loaded slowly. Too slowly. First the banner: a crowd gathered in front of a white-brick building, arms raised mid-song, some smiling, some in tears. A quote stretched across the top in warm, looping script: "Let Love Make All Things New."

It turned her stomach. She scrolled. Event flyers. Baptisms. Videos of sermons clipped to five-minute bites. Testimonies. Posed group photos. Most of it was filler—the kind of curated, sugary content that wanted to be shared without being questioned. But here and there, your mother slipped into view.

Not center stage. Just present. First in the background—her mouth tight with polite reverence during a group prayer circle. Then in profile beside the pulpit, her hands folded, a familiar pearl brooch pinned to the collar of her coat. And again—smiling this time—posed beside a woman holding a certificate that read “Rededicated in Christ.”

Your mother’s eyes were sharp. Alert. Pleased. But it wasn’t joy. Not the kind Rio trusted. It was control. Performance. A calculated grace. Rio scrolled further, her breath shallow. And then—it stopped her. A post from four weeks earlier. Framed perfectly. Pinned at the top of the page as if it were something to celebrate.

The two of them.

Your mother.And Chase.

Smiling. Arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Standing on the front steps of the church beneath a banner that read: “New Year, New Heart.” Rio’s blood ran cold.

The caption read: “From brokenness to belonging—what a gift it is to witness God's healing grace. Forgiveness and new life are being built here every Sunday. Come home to the light.”

Chase looked like he belonged there. Like he’d never been a threat. Like he hadn’t left scars on you so deep you still startled at unexpected knocks. His smile was smooth, camera-ready. Confident. Your mother… she looked proud. Rio stared at the screen. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her eyes locked on the photo like it might blink, like it might rearrange itself and take it all back. But it didn’t.

It stayed exactly as it was. Proof. Not just that your mother had lied. But that she had been building something. Something deliberate. Something that had room for him. For Chase. In her church. In her arms. In her forgiveness. The coffee mug trembled where Rio’s hand hovered beside it. She drew back, slowly. Her shoulders rigid. Her jaw clenched so tight her molars ached.

This isn’t a coincidence,she thought.This is a plan.The page blurred in front of her. Her chest burned with fury—not loud. Not yet. But steady. Controlled. The kind that waited. Rio closed the tab. Sat back. The sound of the clock ticking overhead was suddenly too loud. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap.

Rio leaned back in her chair, the vinyl creaking faintly beneath her weight. The cold light of her office dimmed as a cloud passed across the sun outside, throwing soft shadows against the bookshelf behind her. Her hand stayed still on the mouse for a long moment. No clicks. No movement. Just… silence.

Not grief. Not yet. This wasn’t heartbreak. It was clarity. She pulled her glasses off and set them on the desk with care, the lenses catching the faint reflection of the screen. Her jaw worked once. Then again. Then she slid her chair forward, opened a new tab, and started to search.

Not the church’s homepage this time. That was curated, sanitized—meant to convert. No, she moved like an archivist now. Like a researcher. She pulled up the local newspaper archives first, scanning for anything that mentioned “River of the Risen Light – Pentecostal Ministries” in the last twelve months.

Obituaries. Community events. One listing in the classifieds for a coat drive last November. Nothing unusual. But too clean. She opened the church’s Instagram next—less filtered than Facebook, more likely to hold candids, stories, tags. Her thumb scrolled steadily on her phone now, not on her laptop. Easier to capture screenshots this way. Evidence.

Her chest felt like stone. There was your mother again. Same coat. Same expression. Same performance. In one clip, she was singing—standing in the front row, voice lifted in harmony with the others. The phone capturing the video shook slightly, like the person recording was overcome with joy. Rio’s lip curled. No one should look that at peace next to a man like Chase.

She paused the video. Zoomed in. In the background—stage right—Chase. Not leading. Not preaching. Not front and center. But present. Consistent. She went deeper. Tag history. Photo shares. Congregant testimonials.

And then—there it was.

A flyer. Posted two years ago, buried in the feed, shared by a woman named Linda Rose_1986.

Rio tapped to enlarge it. A black and gold gradient overlaid with cursive script.

"River of the Risen Light – Guest Revival Speaker Series: ‘Broken Men, Redeemed Lives.’ Featuring Brother Chase W., former youth leader and survivor of spiritual trial. Sunday, 11:00 AM.”

Her lungs forgot how to move. She took a screenshot immediately. Then scrolled further down the woman’s profile. A video. Thirty seconds. Shaky. Chase, standing at the front of the church, one hand raised, the other clutching a microphone. His voice projected—smooth, confident, too familiar.

“I lost everything,” he was saying. “My way, my dignity, my family. But He—” he gestured upward “—He never let go. And neither did my church family.”

The camera panned, and there—front row, beaming with that same rehearsed pride—your mother. Arms crossed. Eyes bright. Rio paused the video and set her phone on the desk. Then she stood. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just… bracing. She walked slowly to the window, hands tucked into her back pockets, her mind moving faster than her breath could keep up.

This wasn’t just about letters anymore. Or grudges. Or even your mother.

This was organized. This was intentional. And it wasn’t just that Chase had returned. He had been welcomed. Platformed. Rio turned from the window, eyes narrowing as she moved back to her chair. No one had said a word about this. Not to you. Not in the funeral arrangements. Not in the letter you’d received.

Whatever this was—it was still in motion. It was being buried in soft language and hollow blessings. But Rio had read enough propaganda in her day to know when someone was laundering violence through scripture.

And she wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

------

The hallway leading to Agatha’s office was quiet, still holding the hush of early morning lectures. The kind of quiet that made every footstep sound too loud, every breath feel like a confession.

Rio’s boots thudded softly against the tile, her fingers curling tighter around her phone as she reached the door—the same one she’d leaned against a hundred times before. But today, her body hesitated. The door to Agatha’s office stood closed. No window. No pane of glass. Just dark wood and a narrow plaque etched with her name. Familiar. Unchanging.

Rio stared at it for a long moment. Her hand hovered near the handle, fingers curling once. Then again. Inside this office, you were safe. Warm. Likely still curled on Agatha’s couch with your laptop propped on your belly, feet tucked beneath a blanket, humming quietly to yourself or muttering edits under your breath. You didn’t know.You didn’t know what Rio had just seen. What was sitting heavy in her pocket and heavier still in her gut. And God, part of her wanted to turn around. Not walk in. Not disturb the calm you’d built for yourself in this quiet morning hour. Not drag the shadows of River of the Risen Light into the one place they hadn’t yet touched.

But her chest ached too much. Her body was too tense. She needed you. Just for a moment. Even if you didn’t know it. So, she knocked. Then turned the handle and eased the door open with slow, careful fingers. You didn’t look up.

The light caught first—soft gold spilling in through the high windows, washing the room in warmth. You were curled into Agatha’s old couch, legs stretched along the length of it, laptop perched gently atop the soft rise of your belly. One hand moved across the keys with focused precision, the kind of fluid focus Rio had always loved watching you fall into. The other rested lightly atop your bump like you’d been subconsciously keeping her calm while you worked.

Sprout shifted as Rio stepped inside—just a little kick beneath your palm. You hadn’t heard her. You were mouthing something as you typed—quietly narrating a sentence in progress, your brow furrowed like the weight of an entire chapter lived just behind your eyes. A half-drunk mug of tea steamed beside you. The worn edges of a blanket tucked behind your back. The room glowed with stillness. You looked… safe.

And that made her ache. Because everything in her hand—everything on that phone—threatened to shift everything. Rio stood just inside the door, unmoving. For a long moment, she simply watched you. The way your breath slowed when you hit a paragraph you liked. The way your hand drew mindless shapes across your belly.

Her throat tightened. God, she loved you. Loved all of this. The quiet. The strength. The absolute nerve of you to keep blooming in a world that kept trying to close you off.

And still—beneath it all—there was fire. A fire that flared hotter the longer she thought of that photo. Of Chase. Of your mother. Standing together beneath a banner like nothing had ever happened. Like you didn’t still carry the scar. She stepped closer, finally. Rio closed the door behind her without a sound.

And for a moment, she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you in the filtered morning light. The room smelled like cinnamon tea and old books. A scarf was draped across the back of the couch. A worn pillow supported your spine. Everything about the room screamed safety. History. Home.

Rio’s shoulders dropped, barely. You’re okay. It hit her all at once—how fragile that truth had become. She stepped forward finally, boots soft against the rug. You looked up as her shadow passed over your knees, blinking like you were surfacing from some deep place.

You looked up, blinking into the room as if surfacing from underwater. Your eyes softened the second you saw her. “Hey,” you murmured, your smile a little sleepy. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Rio shrugged off her coat and crossed to you, her hand brushing gently along your shin as she sat at the edge of the couch near your feet. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You looked…” she paused, glancing around the room, then back at you. “Happy. Focused.”

You reached for her hand without thinking, your fingers sliding through hers. “Just working on a few edits for an article. Bean’s been kicking like she’s got something to say about this footnote.”

Rio smiled, but the edges of it were tense. “Let her rewrite it,” she said quietly. “Just make sure she is listed as a co-author.” You laughed once, light, real—and that was the sound that finally loosened something in Rio’s chest.

You caught it. Of course you did. Your thumb traced the line of her knuckle. “You okay?”

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to yours—soft, grounding. “I am now.” Because right here, in this tiny pocket of calm… nothing had shattered yet. But outside? Outside, there were lies waiting to be named. Tomorrow, she’d bring the fire.

-------

The final slide clicked into place with a soft click of the spacebar. Agatha straightened slightly behind the lectern, letting her gaze sweep across the lecture hall. Half her students were already packing their bags—notes half-scrawled, laptops shutting with tired clicks. A few lingered near the front, eyes sharp, waiting to see if she’d say anything off-script.

“Alright,” she said, voice cutting cleanly across the low hum of post-class restlessness. “Same time next week. Bring your annotated sources. And please—if one more person misuses the word ‘dialectic,’ I will light your essays on fire.”

A few scattered laughs. One audible groan. She allowed herself the barest smirk. The students trickled out in clusters, their chatter rising as they passed into the hallway. Agatha stayed back, methodically closing her laptop and sliding her notes into her bag. The same rhythm she’d kept for years. Her knees ached. Her voice buzzed faintly in her throat. But it wasn’t a bad kind of tired. Just… the kind that hummed beneath the skin of someone who hadn’t slept enough in weeks and was carrying more in her chest than she could admit out loud.

She began to collect her papers. And then— A voice near the doorway, drifting in from just outside. Low. Casual. Two students. Voices low, not whispering—but not meant to be heard.

“—so yeah, apparently it was a sudden death? His cousin or something. Out of town funeral.”

“Wait, what? Who?”

“Dr. Marcus. Didn’t you get the email?” Agatha’s spine locked.

Her fingers froze on the zipper of her leather case. The conversation kept going—already moving further down the hall, swallowed by noise. “He canceled class for two weeks. Said he’d post make-up assignments later. Weird, right?”

“That’s weird. He never cancels.”

“Right? I was gonna skip anyway, but like

“Kind of… I thought his family was local?”

“I don’t know. Guess not.” Their conversation continued down the hallway, fading into the distant pulse of the student center crowd. Gone in a breath. But Agatha remained still.

A death? She zipped her leather case slowly, her eyes flicking toward the door with that instinctive wariness she hadn’t been able to unlearn—not since the hospital. Not since finding you collapsed in your lecture hall. Not since your mother’s letter. She didn’t make a face. Didn’t roll her eyes or mutter something biting. Just… paused. Dr. Marcus. Two weeks off. No warning. No sub.

She hadn’t heard a thing. The man had been on edge lately—short-tempered, closed off even for him, and snippier than usual in their last department meeting and downright rude to you. Maybe this was why. Maybe he’d been dealing with something. Maybe—God forbid—it was genuine grief.

But the thought didn’t sit neatly in her chest. It caught. Like a button forced through the wrong hole. She slipped her satchel over her shoulder and ran a thumb along the edge of her notes, her eyes lingering on the empty lectern like it might offer clarity. Huh. That was all she let herself think. No panic. No theory. Just a quiet huh that curled into her ribs and refused to unfold.

------

The hallway outside her office was quiet, just the low hum of fluorescent lighting and the faint echo of students dispersing two floors down. Agatha’s keys jingled softly at her hip as she reached the door—already unlocked. You were inside. Her breath slowed at the thought.

She opened the door, expecting a soft quiet. Maybe the click of a laptop. The gentle shuffle of feet on old couch fabric. But the moment she stepped in, her whole body registered the difference in the air. Not just the warmth of the room. The weight of it. The air was thick with it—moist, slow, clinging. Like a storm rolling just beneath the surface of something sacred. Rio looked up from where she sat on the edge of the couch, fingers still gently tracing the curve of your thigh. Nothing overt. Nothing indecent. But intimate in a way that struck Agatha low in the ribs.

You were on the couch, all curves and quiet desperation, legs draped over Rio’s lap, head tipped back against the cushion like gravity had given up on you entirely. One hand was resting protectively over the soft, high swell of your belly. The other was limp beside you, fingers curled as though they’d once clutched your laptop but forgotten how to hold. And your belly—Sprout’s soft, growing curve—rose and fell beneath the thin stretch of your shirt. The same shirt that clung a little tighter lately. That lifted every time you arched just slightly. Like now.

Your lips were parted. Eyes unfocused. You weren’t even pretending to write anymore. Your pupils were blown wide. Lips parted. A flush bloomed high on your chest, crawling up your throat like a breath you hadn’t let go of.

Rio’s hand—possessive, gentle, knowing—was slow on your thigh. Her fingers drawing circles, barely grazing skin. Enough to tease, never enough to satisfy. Rio smiled at her. Lazy. Knowing. “Hey, sweetheart,” Rio murmured, voice low and velvet, barely glancing up at Agatha. “We were just waiting on you.”

Agatha’s gaze slid from you to her, then back again. Slowly. Measuring. Her hands didn’t move—yet. You tried to sit up straighter, but the shift pulled your shirt higher, exposing a soft line of belly beneath it. The skin was flushed, pink from heat and pressure, and the near-constant presence of Sprout stretching against you from the inside. You gasped slightly as she kicked, your hand reflexively smoothing down, grounding her. Grounding yourself.

You ached. There wasn’t a better word for it. Not for the way your skin felt too tight, too tender, like even the warmth of your clothes was friction. Not for the way Rio’s hand on your leg felt like a brand, or how your lower belly pulsed with some ancient, cellular memory of need.

Everything was heightened—your senses, your body, your hunger. And right now, it wasn’t food you wanted. It was touch. Not gentle affection. Not passing sweetness. You wanted to be filled. Agatha stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a careful click. She raised a brow, glancing at you, then Rio, reading the current immediately.

You looked at her like a woman on the edge of unraveling. “We were gonna grab lunch,” Rio said casually, but her voice dropped a note lower. Teasing. “But she’s a little distracted.”

Agatha’s brow arched. The faintest smirk. “Mmm.”

You licked your lips. Your voice came out thinner than you wanted. You blinked slowly. “Not distracted. Just…” You trailed off, breath catching as Rio’s thumb swept just under the seam of your shorts. “Sensitive.”

Agatha crossed the room, setting her bag down gently on her desk. “I see.”

“I’m not—” You paused. Swallowed. Then confessed. “I’m not hungry for lunch.”

Rio chuckled softly, brushing her nose against your temple. “That’s one way to say it.”

Agatha moved slowly. Deliberately. Her bag fell to her desk with a soft thud, and she circled around, walking with that calm, predatory rhythm that always set something low in your belly alight. She didn’t reach for you at first. She just stood at the edge of the couch, hands in her pockets, watching. And you squirmed under it.

You hummed, low in your throat, hips shifting without thought. There was a pressure there—between your legs, in your belly, in your lungs. A swelling. A burn. Everything about you felt like a wick too close to flame.

The air pulsed between the three of you—your breathing shallow now, thighs instinctively pressing together, trying to create friction where none had been offered yet. Rio leaned in, brushed her lips against your cheek.

You whimpered.Soft. Barely audible. But Agatha heard it. She came to you slowly, each step deliberate. Her hand reached out, not for your belly, but for your jaw, tilting your face gently toward hers. Your eyes fluttered closed. Lips parted. Breathing ragged.

“Sweetheart,” she murmured, “what do you need?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know. Everything.” Your voice was hoarse. Honest. “I feel… full. Like my body’s humming. I can’t focus. I can’t sit still.”

Rio’s fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts. Not enough to touch anything truly cruel. But enough to promise. Her fingers slid just a little higher, just inside the inseam. “Hormones hit different in the third trimester, huh?”

Your eyes welled. It wasn’t just want. It was being seen.

Agatha dropped to her knees before you without another word.Not for worship. Not yet.But to be level with you.To see your face as you came undone.Her hand reached for the edge of your thigh, palm warm, steady. She didn’t rush—just held you there, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts, thumb tracing the crease behind your knee.

You stared down at her, breath caught somewhere between hunger and awe. And Rio—still beside you—leaned forward to kiss the slope of your shoulder, the pulse point at your neck, like grounding wire feeding back into the earth.

“Breathe,” Rio whispered. You tried. But the air tasted like promise.

Agatha’s mouth hovered just over your belly, her breath sending a tremor through your core. And then—finally—she looked up, eyes locked on yours, and pressed the gentlest, most devastating kiss to your skin. Low. Reverent. Your whole body clenched with the restraint of it.

Then she stood, slow and fluid, her fingers trailing up your arms as she rose. Her mouth met yours before you could think. And gods—you sank into it.

The kiss was molten. Unrushed. Deep. The kind that made your knees threaten collapse. Her hands cupped your jaw like she was holding something fragile and holy, and you let her—for exactly one breath. Then Rio stood too.

You were between them. You gasped softly when they both leaned in, chests brushing yours, heat pressing in from both sides. Your belly was tight between them, full and demanding, but not in the way that made you hesitate.

In the way that made you need. You broke the kiss with a ragged exhale and pressed your forehead to Agatha’s. “If we don’t leave now, I’m going to come apart on this couch.”

Rio’s laugh was low. Almost a growl. “So what’s the plan, sweetheart?”

“We go home,” you said, grabbing your bag with a trembling hand. “Because if either of you touch me again in this office, I will beg. And it’ll be loud.”

Agatha smirked, stepping back to grab her coat. “That a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

The walk to the elevator was torture. You could feel Rio’s gaze on the back of your thighs. Could hear the measured breath Agatha took to keep her hands to herself. And then— The elevator doors opened.Empty. You stepped in behind them both. And the moment the doors began to slide shut, Rio’s hand shot out—hit the button panel with just enough force to send a warning jolt through your spine.

She turned. And pressed you hard against the wall.

The contact wasn’t violent. It was needy—her body flush to yours, one thigh pressed between yours like she was staking her claim. Her lips brushed your ear. “You said we had to wait,” she murmured, voice dark and trembling, “but I’m not a fucking saint.”

You gasped as her hips pressed forward—just enough friction to make your head drop back against the metal wall with a soft thud. “Rio—” Her hands pinned your waist. Not rough. But commanding. And then she kissed you. It stole your breath. Open-mouthed, slow, but filthy in its intention. There was nothing polite about it—just heat and surrender and a growl that came from deep in her chest when you whimpered beneath her. Agatha groaned behind her. You barely heard it. Because you were gone.

------

The front door hadn’t even clicked shut before your back hit it.

Not hard. Not rough. Deliberate.

Agatha’s hands found your waist before the strap of your bag could even slide from your shoulder. She guided you—not with force, but with gravity. With the inevitability of someone who had been holding herself back all day and had just remembered she didn’t have to anymore.

Her breath was already at your neck, hot and ragged. Her body pressed flush to yours like she’d been starving for hours and had only just been given permission to taste. You barely had time to gasp before she was on you.

“So fucking sexy,” she whispered—low and rough, like gravel kissed with smoke—and then her mouth was on your throat.

Your breath hitched. Then broke.

The gasp that escaped you was loud, sharper than you meant it to be, punching into the entryway like a commandment. Your head tipped back with a soft thud against the wood, neck arching instinctively to meet her. Agatha didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ease in. Her lips dragged down the column of your throat—slow, open-mouthed, devouring—not a kiss, not a bite, but something in between. Like she was trying to memorize your pulse with her teeth.

Heat rolled through you in waves.

Then her hands rose.

You knew it was coming—you felt it in the way her breath stalled. In the reverence that always came before her touch. In the way her fingers curled near the hem of your shirt, thumbs brushing the barest edge of skin like a question you’d already answered a hundred times.

And then— she cupped your breasts.

You moaned.

The sound punched out of you with a hiss, a cry, a staggered breath that filled the space between your bodies like lightning. Your nipples were swollen, hypersensitive, so hot it felt like the blood was vibrating just beneath the skin. Agatha’s thumbs brushed over them—barely there—and your body arched.

Your hips jerked forward into hers. Your hands gripped her shirt like you needed something to tether you to the earth.

“Sensitive,” she murmured—not mocking, not smug. Just hungry. A breath and a vow in the same heartbeat.

You nodded, desperate, your eyes brimming. The sensation was too much and not enough and perfect. She growled low in her throat, deep and instinctive, and tilted her face to kiss you—your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—and finally, your lips.

The kiss was slow.

But it was not gentle.

It was a claiming. Her body boxed you in—not to trap you, but to catch you. To hold you upright against the unraveling, she’d started with a single touch.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered against your lips, voice cracking with awe. “So needy. So fucking ready.”

From the hallway behind her, you heard Rio groan—deep, aching, like watching had broken something loose in her spine.

“I swear to every goddess listening,” Rio growled, voice low and strained, “if we don’t take this to the bedroom, I’m going to come just watching.”

You laughed.

A sound that tumbled out half-sob, half-lust, your body trembling where Agatha held you. Your hands clutched at her collar like you were praying. “I need—” you gasped again as she squeezed, her thumbs circling slowly now, dragging fire through your bloodstream.

“I need—fuck—Agatha—”

She stilled. Just enough. Just close enough. Rio’s breath caught.

She hadn’t moved from the hallway. Not really. One hand braced against the doorframe, jaw tight, heart pounding. Her whole body was pulsing with it—need, yes, but also something deeper. Something that came from watching her wife come undone like that. Not from pain. Not from panic.

From want. From trust. You were trembling. Practically vibrating where Agatha held you. And gods, you were glowing—skin flushed, chest rising and falling in sharp, open breaths, belly tight beneath your shirt like the full curve of it was singing. Rio had seen you in every kind of light. But never like this.

Never so close to shattering from pleasure alone. She hadn’t meant to interrupt earlier. But the sounds you made—the way you whispered Agatha’s name like it was the only thing anchoring you—it had torn through Rio’s restraint like paper.

And now…

Now she couldn’t stand still.

“Use your words, sweetheart.” Agatha’s voice was a growl wrapped in silk. Your mouth opened. But you didn’t answer. You just gasped again, head falling back against the door, throat exposed, chest arching forward—offering. That’s what undid her. Rio stepped forward. Quietly. Intentionally. Her boots didn’t echo. Her voice didn’t announce her. She simply moved—like heat through a room already burning. She reached you first.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She stepped back just enough for Rio to slide in beside her, hand trailing along your arm, palm pressing to the top of your belly. It was so round. So warm. And when you breathed in, it rose into her hand like it recognized her.

You looked at her—eyes glassy, lips parted—and Rio kissed you. Not softly. Not yet. It was a claim. And a promise. You gasped against her mouth and whispered her name like it was a confession. Rio’s breath caught.

She hadn’t moved from the hallway—not because she didn’t want to—but because she couldn’t. Not when the two of you looked like that. You, flushed and breathless, back against the front door like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Agatha, braced against you, hands reverent and unforgiving, mouth trailing possession down your throat like a rite.

And the way you moaned— it was the sound that broke her.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Rio stepped into the room slowly, each movement measured. Controlled. She didn’t make a sound. Didn’t interrupt. Just came closer. Closer. Until her body stood parallel to Agatha’s, the two of them framing you like gravity had pulled them there.

You felt her before she touched you. And then her palm—broad, warm—found your hip. She slid it gently around the curve of your belly, fingers spreading like she could feel Sprout rolling beneath your skin. Her other hand found your cheek, tilting your head toward her. You blinked up at her, lips trembling. Rio kissed you like it was a secret. Slow. Deep. Hot. And when she pulled back, your mouth chased hers like it couldn’t bear the distance.

“I know, baby,” she whispered against your skin. “We’ve got you.” Agatha’s hand still cradled your breast, her thumb slow and sinful over your nipple. You cried out again—softer now. Like your voice had given itself over entirely to them.

“Bedroom,” Rio said, her voice not loud but final. Agatha’s nod was immediate. “She’s not going to make it more than a few steps on her own.” You tried to laugh—tried—but it came out broken, breathless. “I can walk.”

Rio arched a brow. Her hand found yours. Interlaced your fingers. And Agatha stepped to your other side, her palm splayed low on your back, steadying you. The three of you moved together. Not fast. Not rushed. But like something sacred had already begun.

Each step was a breath. A vow. A promise of what waited behind the door at the end of the hall. Agatha pushed it open with her foot. Rio helped ease you down onto the edge of the bed. Her hands never left your skin. And you looked at them both—your wives—already unbuttoning their shirts, their eyes dark with love and hunger.

You whispered, “I need you.” But it wasn’t enough. Your breath caught. Your body trembled with it. So you said more. “I’m desperate,” you confessed, voice cracking as you sat there on the edge of the bed, thighs trembling beneath the weight of it. “I can’t—” You swallowed hard. “I can’t take it anymore. If you don’t touch me right now, I swear I’ll do it myself.”

That stopped them. Agatha’s lips parted, her shirt halfway off her shoulders. Rio went still, hands frozen where they’d just begun to tug down her waistband. And both of them looked at you like they’d never seen anything so wrecked—or so beautiful.

You were flushed everywhere. Your skin lit from the inside, like your pulse had replaced your breath. Your legs shifted open just a little, your hands braced on the bedspread, and your belly rose between you like a divine altar. “Please,” you said again, lower now, like prayer. “Please—I can’t breathe unless I feel you on me.”

Agatha was the first to move. Not quickly. Not hungrily. Reverently. She stepped forward, knelt between your legs, and pressed her hands to your thighs—solid, grounding. And then she moved.

Fast. Agatha’s fingers found the waistband of your pants and tugged—hard—dragging the fabric down in one smooth motion that made you gasp out loud. The pressure of the waistband sliding over your hips, the rush of cold air against flushed skin, the way her breath hit your thighs before her mouth ever did—it all hit at once.

You cried out as she hooked one finger in the band of your underwear and shoved it aside—no hesitation, no pause for permission, only purpose. Then her mouth was on you. Not gentle. Desperate.Her tongue swiped up the center of you in one broad, reverent stroke, her lips parting as if even a moment without your taste would have broken her in half. The sound you made was filthy, and she growled in answer—low, vibrating, the kind of sound that said this wasn’t about teasing anymore.This was about worship. And Rio—gods, Rio—knelt behind you on the bed, one arm curled protectively beneath the swell of your belly, her breath warm at the shell of your ear, her voice a rasp spun from silk and smoke: “That’s it, baby. Let go. Let her take you apart.” You couldn’t see Agatha anymore.

Not past the soft, glorious curve of your belly, tight and high with the weight of thirty-two weeks, the fullness of the life you carried. Your body had shifted forward, knees parted wide, thighs trembling with every motion—and still, you couldn’t see. But you could feel her.

God, you could feel her. The drag of her tongue—broad and slow—stroking through your slick like it was scripture. The way her lips sealed around you, lower lip dragging across swollen flesh, tongue circling your clit with meticulous worship. Her groan vibrated against you like a prayer answered.

You cried out. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t quiet. It ripped from your chest like a confession. Your hands fumbled uselessly—clutching the bedspread, gripping the hem of your shirt, sliding over your own belly as if that would bring you closer to her. But there was nothing to do but feel. You couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t see the hunger in her eyes. Only the ache of being filled with sensation and unable to ground it.

Your mouth fell open. You were going to fall apart. “Eyes on me, baby.” Rio’s voice—command and comfort, all in one. Your head turned before you even meant to, like your body knew to listen. Her hand guided your jaw gently, fingers splayed across your cheek. Her thumb brushed your lip.

She was close now, her curls brushing your collarbone, her breath feathering over your throat. Her eyes locked with yours—steady, wanting, infinite. “Look at me,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm. “I want to see every moan fall out of you. I want to hear every sound you make. Don’t hide from me. Not now.” You tried to speak, but Agatha chose that moment—that exact moment—to suck your clit hard into her mouth and flick her tongue in tight, relentless circles.

Your whole body arched. You sobbed. “Fuck—” Your head fell forward onto Rio’s shoulder, your jaw trembling, tears beading at the corners of your lashes.

“Give it to her, baby,” Rio whispered, lips pressed to your temple, her voice a raw ache you could feel echoing inside your ribs. “She needs it.”

And gods—you did.

You needed to give it. You needed to be taken. Agatha’s mouth was unrelenting now, her tongue working you open with a rhythm that had long stopped being patient. She was starving for you. Every motion was deeper, slicker, more demanding—her lips locking around your clit like she was trying to drink every moan straight from your center.

Your thighs were shaking. Your belly jumped under Rio’s arm with every gasp, every flinch. You were suspended—open, wide, trembling, your entire body arching toward that mouth like gravity had redefined itself.

And then you remembered— That warning. That promise. That threat you'd made hours ago in Agatha’s office: “Because if either of you touch me again in this office, I will beg. And it’ll be loud.” You had meant it. But you had no idea it would feel like this.

Your breath punched out of your chest. “Please—Agatha—fuck—please—don’t stop—don’t—”

The words fell out of you like sobs, broken and breathless, your hips jerking forward, caught between helplessness and hunger. You couldn’t see her—your belly blocked the view—but it made everything worse. It made every flick of her tongue feel like a shock through your spine. Like sensation with no face, only need.

“Please—please—I’m begging you—”

Agatha groaned into you, the vibration making your vision white out. Her hands gripped hard and possessively, pulling you lower toward her face like she couldn’t get close enough. She growled—growled—“Say it louder.”

“FUCK, AGATHA—”

You shouted her name. You screamed it. Your body was gone. Gone. And Rio—bless her—Rio cupped your cheek, her voice hoarse and reverent: “That’s it. That’s it, love.”

Your head thrashed against her shoulder, your hands slipping down your own sides like you were trying to hold yourself together, like the orgasm building was going to rip you in two. Your legs shook so violently you nearly slid forward, and Agatha caught you—held you—never breaking rhythm, her tongue lashing, circling, sucking you into the kind of pressure that made your chest seize. “I—I-can’t”

But you could. And they knew. Because when your hips jolted forward one last time, when the heat in your belly snapped and the moan tore through you—long, high, shaking—they were already holding you.

Agatha didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow. Her mouth stayed locked to you, tongue devouring, breath desperate, like the moan you'd just let slip had fed her. Had awakened something low and primal and holy. Her grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open as your hips tried to jerk away—too much, too fast, too raw.

But there was no escaping this. You had warned them. And now, you were loud. “Please—please, Agatha—I’m begging—” The word broke. Begging. It rang out between the walls, cracked and crystalline and undeniable. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t pretty. It was guttural, broken, raw and they felt it. Agatha moaned against you—moaned—her voice caught in her throat like your pleading had dragged something unholy from her. The sound of it vibrated through your clit, through your core, through every nerve ending she’d already set aflame.

She didn’t tease. She didn’t relent. She answered. Her tongue worked you in tight, frantic circles, lapping through your slick like she needed it, like you were oxygen and she’d been starving for breath. Every swipe pushed you higher. Every groan threatened to break you.

And Rio—fuck—Rio pressed her forehead to yours like she was the only thing anchoring you to the room. Her hand came up to cup your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple in slow, spiraled devotion, voice low and fraying with restraint:

“That’s it, love. That’s the sound. We’ve been aching for it all day.” Youwhimpered. Yousobbed. Your body vibrated between them—open, bowed, unraveled.Your legs shook. Your toes curled. Your breath was gone.

“Louder,” Agatha growled from between your thighs, her voice muffled and wrecked against your skin. “Let the whole fucking house know you meant it.” You didn’t think. You couldn’t. Your cry ripped out of you, full and shattering, the kind of sound that had no name—just need. It tore through the bedroom like a storm, like an answered prayer, like a psalm screamed into the mouth of God.

You were loud. You were shaking. You were sobbing their names, syllables tangled in your moans like mercy and worship braided together.

Your body was already unraveling—one trembling breath at a time, thighs slick and shaking, your spine bowed forward in Rio’s arms as Agatha consumed you like she was starved for something only you could give.

But then—then—Rio shifted. She pressed a kiss just beneath your breast. Then another. Her mouth closed around your nipple. Hot. Wet. Deep. She sucked—slow at first, then firmer, dragging it between her lips until you gasped, the sound punched from your chest without permission. Your hand flew up to her shoulder, fingers clutching her shirt, your hips already rolling down into Agatha’s mouth like they didn’t belong to you anymore.

And Agatha—gods, Agatha—growled. The sound reverberated through your core just before her tongue dipped, then thrust—inside you. Deep.

Agatha moaned deep, tongue swirling tight around your clit before plunging inside you, deep, hot, relentless, her hands gripping the backs of your thighs and pushing them wider, anchoring you down to the bed like she couldn’t stand to miss a single shudder.

Agatha moaned deep, tongue swirling tight around your clit before plunging inside you—deep, hot, relentless—her hands gripping the backs of your thighs and pushing them wider, anchoring you to the bed like she couldn’t stand to miss a single shudder. You were so open. So wet. So helpless to the depth she gave you.

Her tongue drove in again—deeper this time—reaching like she was trying to find the point where your pleasure broke open from within. She thrust again, harder, slower, curling upward once she was buried inside you. You cried out. Your legs twitched. She groaned against your cunt, low and guttural, and your hips bucked uncontrollably. Her grip only tightened.

She held you open like you were something sacred—like an altar, not a body—and her mouth was the only worship you’d ever need. And gods, she didn’t stop. Her tongue thrust in again and again, sliding slick and deep and thick as she worked her mouth down into you, one hand moving to spread you wider, fingers pulling you open with reverent precision. You could feel her lips pressed to your folds, her nose brushing against your clit with every motion, but it was her tongue—her tongue driving in and out, curling with practiced rhythm—that shattered you.

You gasped—then moaned, louder now, buckling forward. You couldn’t stop shaking. You couldn’t breathe. And behind you, Rio whispered something raw and wrecked against your ear: “Eso es, mi amor. Deja que te llene. Deja que pruebe todo lo que tienes.” You cried out again.

“Oh god—Agatha—deeper, please—fuck—please don’t stop—” Agatha moaned again, dragging her tongue up through you, circling your clit just once—just enough to keep you climbing—before plunging back inside, this time slower, this time so deep you swore she reached something you didn’t know existed.

And still—still—it wasn’t enough. You were wailing now. Whimpering. Begging. Agatha growled low against you, her tongue still driving into your soaked heat, her mouth open and reverent, her fingers bruising where they held your thighs wide. And Rio—bless her—lowered her mouth again to your breast, lips dragging over your nipple before she sucked, deep and low and full of need. The sharp pressure of her tongue against your swollen peak sent a bolt of sensation ripping through your spine, so raw you cried out, your hips bucking hard against Agatha’s mouth.

And then— It happened.Just as Agatha plunged her tongue inside you, curling deep and rhythmic, driving up like she knew the shape of your soul, Rio let out a guttural, startled moan—not performative, not careful. It was ripped straight from her.

Because her mouth filled with liquid. Warm. Earth-sweet. Your breast had let down—just a little, just enough to catch Rio’s tongue with something your body had never done before. Something new. Something wild. Something utterly yours.

You gasped, “Oh—oh fuck—Rio?”—your voice already shaking, but she didn’t stop. She groaned, deep in her throat, wrapping her mouth tighter around your nipple, drinking you like you were the only thing that could satisfy her now. And at the exact same moment, Agatha’s tongue drove deeper, curling inside you like a hook, pressing up, then retreating, then plunging again—in and out, a rhythm so intimate it didn’t feel like fucking—it felt like claiming. You screamed. Your whole body arched, seized, broke—your orgasm crashing through you like your entire nervous system had let go.

“FUCK—AGATHA—don’t stop, don’t stop—oh my god—Rio—” You didn’t just come. You collapsed into it, shaking violently, tears springing to your eyes as your body gushed—flooded, clenching around Agatha’s tongue while her moan vibrated through your core like an earthquake beneath your skin. She didn’t stop. She licked deeper, tongue still pressing up into you, her jaw moving slow, reverent, hungry, her hands holding your thighs so wide you couldn’t even try to pull away. And Rio—gods—Rio was still suckling at your breast, gently now, her hand stroking your hair, her voice trembling as she whispered: “She’s so ready. Look at her, love—look what you’ve done.” And Agatha— She answered with another moan,still inside you, her tongue easing in again, curling just to feel your body respond.

You were still trembling, hips loose against the sheets, Agatha’s mouth soft against the inside of your thigh. She hadn’t moved. Just… stayed there, kissing your skin like it was a psalm. But your breath was shallow. Your eyes glassy.

And then—

Rio reached down, clapped her hand against Agatha’s with a smirk and a glint of heat behind her eyes. “Tag. My turn.” Agatha huffed a breathless laugh, already pulling back on her knees, face flushed and lips swollen, wrecked in the best possible way. “You better make her louder than I did.”

“Oh, I will,” Rio said with a grin, already shifting to help guide your limp, shaking body further up the mattress. Your thighs parted with no resistance. Your belly curved up soft and full and divine between them. Your chest rose and fell like you were learning how to breathe again.

Agatha bent down, not between your legs this time—but to your breast. Her mouth closed gently around your other nipple, tongue flicking once, then stoppingas her brow furrowed. Then— “Holy fuck.”

Her voice was reverent. Shocked. Because her mouth had filled—just slightly—with the barest taste of you. A sweetness you hadn’t expected. A shift in your body neither of you had spoken about. But it was there. It was real. Her lips closed again, and she moaned, like you were the only thing in the world worth worshiping. You whimpered. And then—Rio’s mouth met you again. Hot. Unapologetic. Quick. She didn’t ask for permission. She didn’t work her way in slowly. She took you.

Her tongue was relentless, licking fast, tight circles over your clit before dragging low, then back up—sucking, pressing, slipping in just barely before pulling back to flick again with precision that felt like she was reading your pulse. And gods, you couldn’t stop it. Your voice rose—already loud, already gone. “Rio—oh god—sí, sí, no pares, por favor, por favor—te necesito—”

You barely knew what you were saying. But Rio did. Her moan hit your skin like a firestorm. She gripped your thighs tighter, digging in, her tongue working faster now—merciless, focused, chasing your cries like they were the thing she needed most in the world. And Agatha—still suckling, still moaning—groaned as your milk spilled against her tongue again. Her fingers dug into your side like she couldn’t believe what she was tasting. “You’re fucking everything,” she whispered against your breast, breath hot and broken. “We should’ve never left the office—look at you—so full, so loud, so goddamn perfect—”

You shattered. Again.Harder this time. Faster. “¡Dios, Rio—no pares, no pares—¡me vengo!—fuck—AGATHA—” Your scream cracked, full-bodied and explosive. Your whole body jerked, hips lifting straight off the bed, thighs clamping around Rio’s head as your orgasm ripped through you—violent, loud, beautiful. Your voice echoed off the walls, no restraint, no apology, only truth. You weren’t just wrecked. You were worshiped. And they stayed with you. Rio easing her tongue into long, slow laps as Agatha kissed up the curve of your belly, hands cradling your sides like you were carved from starlight.

And when the shaking finally slowed… When your breath steadied…

When your eyes fluttered back open, raw and brimming, Rio crawled up your body, kissed your temple, and whispered low in Spanish— “Eres un milagro, mi amor.” You couldn’t even answer.

You just wept. They didn’t let you move. Not even an inch.

Agatha was the first to press herself against your side, kissing slow trails up your belly as Rio pulled her mouth away from the slick between your thighs, wiping gently with the back of her hand, breath still shallow from the effort of claiming you.

“Come here,” Agatha murmured. Her arms curled around your shoulders, her cheek resting against the crown of your head as she pulled you up—not to move you, but to hold you, to wrap you in warmth and grounding and touch.

Rio climbed up behind you next, sliding in close at your back, long limbs draping over your body like a blanket. Her hand reached over to lay softly across your belly, and you could feel her kiss the top of your spine, slow and anchoring.

Your body trembled—shallow, beautiful aftershocks.

And then—

You cried. It was small at first. A breath hitch. A twitch in your lips. But then the tears came. Hot and quiet. Rolling sideways into the pillow as Agatha blinked and leaned back just enough to tilt your chin toward her. “Hey—” her voice was low, furrowed, gentle. “Why are you crying, sweetheart? Did I—are you—”

You sniffed hard, cheeks flushing. “It’s just hormones or whatever,” you said, wiping your cheek with a shaky laugh. “And I just—” You hesitated. Then sighed. “I didn’t expect the milk. That’s… new.”

Rio’s arm around you tightened in that grounding way she always did when words failed. But Agatha just smiled—not teasing, not at all. “It was beautiful,” she whispered.

Rio nodded behind you. Her voice was soft, breath curling over the back of your neck. “You should’ve seen yourself. You looked like a goddess.”

You covered your face with one hand. “I felt like a faucet.”

That made Agatha laugh—soft, affectionate. She pulled your hand gently away, kissing your knuckles. “No, love. You felt like life.”

Rio's hand rubbed slow circles on your belly now, her palm firm and steady. “Your body’s getting ready,” she murmured. “She’s getting ready. It’s happening. So soon.”

You nodded, a little overwhelmed. A little in awe. Thirty-two weeks suddenly felt like a whisper away from something so much bigger. So much closer. Your chest swelled with it—love, fear, pride, everything.

Agatha reached down then, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your shirt. “Let’s get this off,” she said softly, “let you breathe.”

She peeled your shirt up slowly, reverently, lifting it away from your damp skin. Rio helped you sit up just enough for it to slide over your arms and shoulders. Then Agatha undressed you the rest of the way, moving with care, not haste—just attention, folding your clothes off your body like she was unwrapping something holy.

You sank back into the pillows, bare and radiant and trembling.

Rio kissed the curve of your belly first. Then the top of your thigh. Then she whispered: “You did so good for us.”

Agatha followed. Her kiss landed just beneath your navel, and then her hand joined Rio’s over the place where Sprout stretched within you.

Both of their hands were on your belly now—Agatha’s sliding in beside Rio’s, fingers splayed wide, the warmth of their touch settling you like weighted blankets. Beneath the surface, Sprout rolled, a deep, slow stretch that made your entire torso shift. The movement was whole-bodied, not a jab or flutter—a full tumble, like she was rearranging the furniture inside you. You gasped a little, the sensation pressing high under your ribs.

They both felt it. You let out a breathy sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “She’s doing laps,” you muttered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Agatha leaned in with a kiss, lips brushing the taut curve where Sprout had just pushed. She arched an eyebrow and whispered, tone mock-scolding but fond:

“Hey,” Agatha whispered to your bump, her tone mock-scolding. “No revolutions in the womb. We haven’t finished your nursery yet.” That pulled a soft snort from Rio, who dropped her chin against your shoulder with a grin. Her hand rubbed slow circles against the spot where Sprout was still stretching, active, like she knew she had an audience now.

Agatha kissed you again—lower this time, right where Sprout had pushed out the hardest. “I get it, Bean,” she whispered to your skin. “You’ve got things to say. Just remember, you’re still on a lease agreement. One more month, minimum.”

Then, softer still, her cheek rested against your belly, her fingers laced back through yours over the stretch of warm skin.

“We’re ready whenever you are,” she murmured.

“But not tonight.”

------ What did you think, my loves? Remember, comments give me life.

@6stolenangel9 @ahintofchaos @peskygremlin @holystrangersalad @loveshineslikethesky @dandelions4us @mustangmopar @maydaythingz @stevieswildheart13 @myharkness @fucklove-4-life @supergirl107 @jillisselt @claramelooo @im-tired-24-7 @littlegaybutterflysblog @skidney1 @nothingspecialnothingnew @idonutevnno @thembolesbo @bethany-zor-el-danvers @holystrangersalad @eternalfaeri @s1anwyck @alessandradenoir @ananas8292 @theevilqueenfr @n0body-is-perfect @alexaneb @team-blackstar @the-library-of-alexandria @mandolinvibes @julia203 @thatssomeplaygirlshit @myharkness @tiddiewitch @filmedbyharkness @dragynflies @quesadillasandchips @deeem-daynie @tvseries-writings @i8ev1

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sungodsfav · 5 months ago

Text

just a stranger | t. fushiguro

summary : honestly what did he expect was going to happen? you were a complete stranger to him three months ago. it’s not your fault he was an idiot for thinking any sane person would agree to getting married to anyone that soon.

ch warnings : MDNI, fem!reader, dilf toji, hitman!toji, dumb toji, enabler sukuna,

wc : 2.4k

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chapter two : stop laughing

Your heels can be heard echoing down the hall. The sound of them clicking against the concrete had the man in his office nearly salivating at the thought of you visiting him at work for a change. You knock only twice before entering, not waiting for any response. The only woman he knows to be on the same level as him when it comes to naturally having people fear you whenever you walk into a room. “Well if it isn’t my favorite lawyer, good to know I didn’t need to stab someone for your attention, again.” Sukuna teased. He’s actually done a lot worse to have an excuse to speak to you since you never answer his calls if it isn’t work related.

You slam the picture of Toji Zenin on his desk. “Did you place a hit on me.” Your voice lacked the questioning tone and was more of a statement. “You should probably fire him and get a new guy. He’s been tailing me for weeks now, I’m still alive, and figured out his identity by the end of day one.”

The pink haired man lets out a cackle of pure amusement. “The fuck is Fushiguro doing.” He picks up the image that your undercover bodyguard took of Toji outside the coffee shop. “Your honor, I have no idea what the fuck he’s doing he told me he was going to be on vacation for-” he pauses to check his phone before continuing, “a month, he comes back in a couple days.”

Your eyes can’t help but glare at him. He’s actually being honest, that much you can tell. “I'm not a judge, stop calling me that.” You snatch the photo from his hands and shove it back in your purse. “Fushiguro? I thought it was Zenin?” At least this lead wasn’t a complete bust.

He smirks at your interest. “Give me a kiss and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about my dog.” You ignore his comment and take a step toward the door to leave and he lets out a grunt. “Ugh okay fine what do you want to know.”

With a small laugh of your own you turn back to Sukuna and sit in the chair across his desk facing him now. “Everything you know that can help me figure out why he’s suddenly taking an interest in me.” And boy does he talk. Makes you wonder how he avoided prison before you became his lawyer on speed dial for so long if he’s so willing to talk about such sensitive information about his own people.

He paced back and forth in front of your desk, his hand gently caressing his own chin in a thoughtful position. The brunette finally stops and faces you. “I don’t think this is a good idea. He could be lying, and this could all be an elaborative plan for some long term goal. Or maybe-”

You smile kindly at him which causes him to abruptly stop. “That’s why I have you Hiromi. You’ll have my back, like you always do.”

“Very well. You’re lucky I’m exceptional at my job.” You nod to every word he says in agreement. “May I ask why you want to engage with him?”

You sit a little straighter in your chair and cross your arms. Hiromi Higuruma had a special privilege when it came to you. It definitely had something to do with him being your mentor, to then helping you start your own law firm, to then hiring him as the second head of the firm. “I think he needs me for something so I want to take something from him. If he wants to use me that's fine but I won't walk away empty handed.” Hiromi sits in the empty seat crossing his ankle over his knee. “I want to take his son from him. He’s going to get the boy killed just like that previous wife of his.”

He lets out a deep exhale.

“He’s a sweet boy Romi, just turned two. I know I can be a great mom to him, I can feel it. Please, help me.”

“Okay, I’ll help you. What do you need from me?” This is exactly why Hiromi always got your full truth. No matter how dark, scary, or ugly it was. He was always beside you ready to be whatever you needed him to be, your muscle, brain, or your best friend. He was your ride or die and has been since meeting you. You nod with a smile.

“Just gonna need your help with taking on some of my cases so I can have time to date the guy, and maybe start working up a contract that gives me custody of the boy.”

Another deep exhale escapes him before he speaks. “That’s not too difficult, I’ll get started on the paperwork today.”

The first month of dating Toji was weird. You knew he had an ulterior motive, but you didn’t know what it was. You also had an ulterior motive to getting close to him that he didn’t know about. It was hard and so painfully awkward having to act like anything and everything Toji did or said didn’t make you want to punch his face. His presence alone just pissed you off. It was so hard for you to pretend to want to hold his hand, to pretend you didn’t want to projectile vomit on him whenever he kisses your cheek, to force you to fake a giggle at every stupidly cheesy sentence he’d say to you.

It was so horrible that Toji noticed. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other.” He huffed out a few seconds after you had dodged another one of his attempts to kiss you.

You freeze up. Panicked now. No way was this going to be all for nothing. “What why?” You ask grabbing onto his massive forearm to keep him from putting more distance between you both.

The large man scoffs before running his free hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “You just don’t seem interested. I’m too old to be wasting my time with whatever game you’re playing at.” His dark eyes swirl with real emotion that was unknown to you, it’s different from how he used to look down on you. Before you could tell he would hide whatever emotion he truly felt around you. This was real. Frustration? Maybe it was defeat?

You glance down at the ground trying to compose yourself while you quickly try to think up a believable lie to get him to not dump you. How embarrassing, getting dumped by a guy you don’t even want. “I am-I am interested in you, I just never dated before! This is all new to me.” Every good lie has to have some truth to it. “I don’t know how I should act. I'm sorry I’m so bad at this.” You tilt your head up to look him in the eye with a small pout.

It works. He palms both your cheeks and lets out his usual deep chuckle. “Mama, how is that possible?” He asks, his thumb brushing your cheek gently. That goddamn pet name makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

“Dating wasn’t a priority of mine, busy focusing on school so that I could graduate early.” Staring up at him like this was different. This was more intimate than what you ever allowed. Pretty soon these intimate moments would be the new normal between you both. You weren’t ready for that, you didn’t want these moments with him to be normal. “I never had sex either,” You blurted out. Your final hail mary attempt to push him to slam on the brakes when it comes to physical intimacy. At least you can use it as an excuse to not want to put out. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

It takes everything in you to not laugh at the way his face drastically drops. You couldn’t help but to mentally applaud yourself for coming up with that complete and utter bullshit. Now he would come off like an asshole for trying to push you into something you weren’t ready for. “Oh, wow. Okay. Okay. That’s-” He lets out an exhale and both hands drop from your face and he looks anywhere but you. You smirk. “. . .cool.” His arms cross and you can’t help but to stare as his chest doubles in size. At the end of the day you were just a woman with needs. Needs that you refuse to have Toji anywhere near. “That’s fine, look I’m serious about you, so I’ll let you lead our pace.”

He was so full of shit you would roll your eyes if he wasn’t looking into them, searching. You smile at him and place your hands onto his chest for balance as you get on your tippy toes and peck his lips lightly. Your first kiss with him. “Thank you, Toji, for being so patient with me.” You suppose some sacrifices have to be made to keep him around long enough for you to get him to sign the contract.

Besides, now that Toji practically handed you all the power you realized you can have a lot more fun playing around with Toji. He smirks down at you as your tongue peeks out and swipes across your bottom lip. “Oh come on, play fair sweetheart.” His tone was teasing as his fingers grazed down from your elbow until they reached your fingers. He interlocks with them. “You should go inside and get some sleep.” He steps closer to you and opens your front door behind you. “Goodnight, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You nod and go inside without another word. After spending ten minutes scrubbing your lips with some homemade lip scrub recipe you found online you dial Hiromi’s cell. “Hiromi, Is the contract done yet? I want to end it with him already!”

His loud laughter can be heard through the speaker which makes you glare at the wall ahead of you.

“Stop laughing, I’m serious.”

When he finally does recover you hear him cough. “It’s barely been a month, is he that bad or is this your philophobia taking, or your fear of commitment, or your-”

“Hiromi what the fuck, why are you attacking me? He’s a professional murderer, Hiromi. Do you seriously want me to actually settle down with him? He’s literally just a stranger with a kid I want to legally steal from. So what is the status on the contract?” By the end of your rant you’re out of breath awaiting his response. It’s too quiet. “Unmute yourself. I know you’re making fun of me, no need to hide it Hiromi.”

“You went all defensive on me repeating my name and all, so I know what I already assumed was right.” his voice comes off smug and teasing, you can’t help but mutter a few curses at him. “The contract is basically done, just gotta proofread it, I’ll send it to you, look it over and let me know boss.”

While Toji received a phone call in the middle of his drive back home. “I might have a job for you.” Then the line went dead and Toji immediately headed to Sukuna’s place.

His staff greets him kindly when he arrives but Toji doesn't have the energy to deal with fake pleasantries. Especially not when he just finished dealing with you. He swears all his energy gets sucked away after your little dates. He takes the elevator up to his floor and lets himself in. “What do you got for me?” His voice carries through the place as he makes himself at home by rummaging through his friend’s fridge to fix himself a drink.

“First, how did that date go? Date number five, was it?” He taunts with a smirk as he emerges from the hall in a hoodie and sweats. “She finally let you hit?”

Toji bangs his head against the now closed fridge. “She’s a fucking virgin. Took her an entire month just to kiss me, I’m fucked.” He bangs his head three more times as his friend cackles.

“Really? Damn she definitely doesn’t seem like a virgin. Can be hot depending on the way you look at it. Like being the first to fuck her, untouched and all.”

Toji faces him with a deadpan face. “She’s saving herself for marriage.”

Sukuna starts crying. Tears come out as he clutches his stomach and leans over in laughter. “Why is that an issue? I thought that was your plan? To marry her and all?” He questions after recovering from Toji’s misery.

Toji shrugs. “Yea but this just means I can’t get my dick wet until I marry her. Before you say anything, no Sukuna, I won’t cheat on her. If she finds out I did, she'll probably find a way to chop my dick off and sue my ass for it.”

Sukuna nods agreeing. “So just marry her? So you can fuck her already. Say that corny shit that girls like, when you know you know, or some other bullshit. Yea that should work.” Sukuna can’t help but to smirk knowing that Toji was standing in silence seriously thinking about if he should or shouldn’t.

“You said you had a job?”

The change in subject told Sukuna everything he needed to know. Toji’s dumb ass is going to propose. “That’s up to you. Gojo is sniffing around that future wife of yours, so I'll let you figure out how you want to handle the situation. If you kill the guy I know one hell of a good lawyer.”

Toji lets out a deep exhale through his nose. “Shit, do I even want to be a husband again?” Sukuna slams the palm of his hand against his forehead in disbelief at his friend. “It was so exhausting last time and I actually loved my wife, so with her it’ll be more exhausting having to keep this charade up forever . . . sure she’s hot but like that’s all she’s got going for her. Her entire pink bubblegum personality just isn’t my tea man. . . I guess her being loaded is a bonus too. She can send Megumi to some fancy private school to keep him safe. Fuck I have to marry her if I want to have sex, don’t I?” Toji rambles to himself as Sukuna walks off completely ignoring his turmoil.

a/n : this chap was fun to write but damn did it take me forever to write. ooooh great news I already have ch 3 written just gotta proofread and will probably post end both the week :)

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #jjk #jjk x you #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jjk toji #toji fic #toji smut #toji x you #fushiguro toji #toji zenin #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji x yn #fushiguro toji fic

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yoongleboonglepie · 1 month ago

Text

Pechsträhne Chapter 22

BTS x Reader

Series Masterlist

Chapter playlist-Youtube music

Chapter Playlist-Spotify

word count: approx~21k

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A/N: This slowly went from being one of my least favorite chapters to write to one of my favorites. So take that for what that means lol.

I might have another chapter out by next weekend and then go back to every other week but I will let y'all know. I'm already writing 23 as I type this because I feel a fire under me that is itching to create.

Content warning: I don't think I have any for this chapter. Good luck, and I'll see you on the other side~

Delyn

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Recap:

Jungkook needed little convincing to stay in her room for the evening, giving her a silent, affirming nod when she asked him to; and with a ghost of a kiss on her cheek, tiptoed out of her room to collect a set of scrubs for him to wear in the morning. While he was gone, she twirled about her room, nudging the forgotten plants towards the window to reorganize during the next afternoon. When satisfied with their temporary placement, she collapsed onto her bed to pass the time on her phone until he returned.

She couldn’t imagine that her day could get any better than it already had.

That was until her eyes skimmed at the first few notifications on her lock screen, and her fingers tripped over each other in their haste to unlock her phone and read them. Her pulse sped up in her ears–her brain must be playing tricks on her. Surely. There was no possible way her eyes had seen what they had seen.

Tapping on her text messages, the first ones to show up at the top was a pair of messages from Jimin that had her flushing profusely.

[Jimin 🤗✨ ]: I had come by to say goodnight but it seemed like you and Jungkook were preoccupied.

[Jimin 🤗✨ ]: I hope to hear all about it tomorrow 😈👀–stay safe you two! I love you💚

[Jimin 🤗✨ ]: P.S I’m not mad, so don’t worry–I still think you're lovely.

She clicked out of his and onto the next, her mind going blank–goosebumps fanning out over her skin and her heart dropping into her stomach. Her eyes weren’t deceiving her.

[Taehyung🕺🪻]: Fuck it. If this doesn’t mean anything to you, ignore me. But here goes nothing.

[Taehyung🕺🪻]: I’m feeling pretty tired, I need a nap.

The hotel lobby was a barren wasteland of golden polished floors and glittering yellow lights. The space felt liminal–caught during the transitional period of calm before the storm of guests would begin to funnel through, only adding to the unease that wound itself around Y/n’s stomach like a sewing thread that had been pulled too tight.

She slipped two fingers up the hem of the midnight blue shirt she had left unbuttoned over a cropped shirt, smoothing the wrinkles almost compulsively, like if she pressed on the ridges enough that it would soothe the gnawing anxiety in her mind.

I stood too close to a trumpet and it made my ears bleed. I barely heard it and I was right next to you.

She repeated the communally decided phrase over and over, eyes darting over the pristine counters and empty seats that surrounded her, and the wandering curious glances of the young barista fluttering about behind the counter to prepare for their first real customer. Y/n couldn't blame them for constantly checking in on her–she probably looked unwell–eyes heavy from the lack of sleep she fought so hard for while pressed into Jungkook’s side, shoulders pinched and constantly rolling backwards to relieve tension; and her fingers dancing ceaselessly from one edge of the table to the next in search of nonexistent crumbs to wipe away.

Speaking of the man himself, Jungkook, Yoongi, and Hoseok had congregated in a room over–the lobby shop–sprinkled through the shelves with their eyes and ears peeled. The group (excluding Jungkook, who had found her in a frazzled state once he had returned with his uniform the previous night) had been the only ones awake at an hour worthy of bringing a tear to the eye to answer her SOS message, offering moral and literal support for whatever was about to maybe occur.

This was crazy, and Y/n knew it. Putting blind faith in a dream was nothing short of senseless. And to get her friends involved was even more so. But Taehyung’s text was no coincidence–it was an occurrence unexplainable by anything in the physical world. It was a message with more than one meaning. It was proof.

It was the reason Y/n found herself seated at the table in the back left side of the Edelweiss cafe, one of Jungkook’s barely worn button ups over her shoulders to cover the cropped tank she had worn to bed, and an untouched cup of overly sweet coffee positioned in front of her.

I stood too close to a trumpet and it made my ears bleed. I barely heard it and I was right next to you.

Y/n whispered it to herself to keep it fresh in her mind, though it would take another head injury for her to forget it at this point (a thought she snorted at while she raised her cup to her lips, knowing full well that joking about such a thing didn’t minimize the very real risk of said thing occurring). Through the glass windows that peered into the gift shop across the way, Y/n caught Yoongi’s tired stare, his thin lips quirking upwards into a weak smirk and mouthing a silent ‘What’s so funny?’ She withheld a smile and shook her head dismissively, diverting her gaze back to her drink to take a second sip.

“Good morning! Can I get you anything?” The barista’s cheery tone rang from the front, wrenching Y/n’s attention back to the counter.

“No thank you,” a deep voice laved, “I’m alright for now.”

Taehyung strode through the tables with purpose, weaving around the edge of the counter straight towards her, brown eyes boring into hers with each step.

Y/n’s breath hitched at his arrival. He had a red hoodie pulled over his broad shoulders, the hem hanging loosely over his joggers. His casual choice of dress was enough of a signifier of his distress. It was rare to see this man not in a pair of high-end sneakers at the bare minimum. He drank in her outfit and her fidgety hands, his lip sucking into the hold of his upper teeth when he gave extra attention to the color of her shirt.

When he approached her tableside he stood stiff as a board, mouth held slightly agape for an entire phrase of the Sinatra song that swayed down from the overhead speakers. With a sharp intake of breath, he finally broke the tension with his velvety timbre. “I stood too close to a trumpet…and it made my ears bleed.”

Y/n released a breath of her own that bled into her words. “I barely heard it and I was right next to you.”

“Fuck,” Taehyung muttered under his breath, quickly slotting himself into the chair across from her with his head rested on an open palm and his leg tapping a restless rhythm against the underside of the table.

Y/n placed her cup back onto the table and smoothed her palms over the shiny top again. “You can say that again. I don’t even know where to–”

“Don’t,” Taehyung held the hand he wasn’t resting on up between them before letting it fall onto the table with a thud. He leant across the table, eyes alight with something almost manic. “I don’t want to hear any of the cluelessness. I just want to know how you knew to come here.”

She quirked a brow up at his forwardness, and his stubbornness to still fully accept the certainty of their situation. “The dream. If that’s what that even was…”

Taehyung’s eyes were glazed with tension, almost flat and unmoving, as though he was digesting her words and fighting each one of them as they landed with inarguable accuracy. His leg bounced so fast that it was seconds away from snapping off altogether. With a sudden gust of momentum, he launched himself up from his seat, whacking his knee off the table with a hiss before limping off towards the register. Y/n watched his attempt at a polite smile that was sent towards the barista who took his order up until he clenched two tall paper cups in his hand all the way back to their table, taking a seat with both cups hoarded towards his chest as a mother bird would wrap a supportive wing around its chicks.

Taehyung brought the first cup to his lips and took a long drawn-out sip, keeping his gaze locked with Y/n’s over the rim. Y/n remained quiet, even as he released the lid with an exaggerated gasp for breath that made her cringe and smacked it back down to the table.

“This is insane,” He started, his words much slower now that he had a drink to focus on. “But I don’t know how you knew she’d come for me–but she did.”

Y/n’s eyes widened and she jerked closer to him. “My mother? What did she say?!”

“Pretty much exactly what you said she would. That she wanted me to help her with–” He gesticulated with his hand in slicing circles, “ –something. I didn’t really understand what she could’ve possibly meant with all the bullshit she tried to spew.”

She scoffed, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back into her chair. “You can’t remember anything she said?”

“Hey, sorry I wasn’t taking notes and asking questions! Weren’t you the one who told me to get out of there as soon as I could?” Taehyung cried out indignantly. “This is all very new and very uncomfortable for me. I’m not used to all this shit. The wacky, whimsical, weird shit I mean.”

“And you think I am?” Y/n countered with a raised brow.

“Obviously. You pretty much insinuated in our dream that you are.” Taehyung shot back, his words echoing into his cup he poised at his lips.

“Touché.” Y/n watched a small droplet of coffee dribble down his chin, and her hand itched to take a napkin and swipe it away, but three of his long fingers came out to wipe it away first.

He started up again after a moment’s thought. “She said something about me helping her–both of them. Said she wanted to use my…” Taehyung’s voice died out in his throat like it had collapsed in on itself, and he gave a few quick tugs on the collar of his hoodie as if it was restricting his airflow. “My abilities. Whatever that means.”

Y/n froze, face contorted into shock and poorly composed curiosity. “‘Abilities’? Like what?”

“Hell if I know!” Taehyung rolled his eyes. “Weird dream connections and maybe ghosts are one thing. But having some kind of ability? Absolutely not. What is this? Stranger Things?”

“You’d be surprised how common having abilities seems to be anymore...” Y/n chuckled nervously. “I was of the same belief until a few months ago.”

Taehyung blinked, his mouth falling flat. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“We will cross that bridge when we get there.” Y/n waved his question away, not wanting to scare him off with everything right away. “But back to my mom and your abilities–”

“I don’t have abilities,” Taehyung objected with one finger held up between them.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Y/n crossed one leg over the other and gave his tense form a once over. “Do you see things you can’t explain often? Hear things? Maybe get weird feelings when you touch things?” She quizzed in rapid succession.

“No, no and no.” Taehyung shot each one down with a sarcastic check of his finger through the air. “Nothing like that. I guess just the occasional noise or figure out of the corner of my eye. You know, normal ghost stuff.” He gagged around the word and wiggled his shoulders with a chill. “Gross. I hate saying that…”

“Oh get over it, pretty boy.” Y/n rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, adopting the nickname Hoseok had called him that morning over text. “Just wait till they try and punch you in the face or chase you through the woods.”

Taehyung snorted with a quiver of his brows, downing another third of his drink. “Finally something I can relate to.”

Y/n’s head cocked to the side, urgency taking a hold of her. “What do you mean by that?”

“My night terrors.” He answered plainly. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the one you had the pleasure of interrupting. She’s not easy to forget.”

Something that he said made the gears of her overrun brain start to turn, the cogs grinding the vowels and consonants down to easily digestible crumbs before building them back up into words in her head. Dreams.

She wasn’t sure what overcame her, but in an instant she fumbled her phone out of her pocket and opened up a new tab, going through a handful of ways to ask “psychic dreams” into the search bar until she found any kind of reasonable result. All searches led her to one word: Precognition. A type of psychic ability to tell the future or experience past or present moments in time through dreams.

Y/n looked up at him over her phone, heart beating loudly in her chest. “Have these dreams ever…have they ever come true? Or have they ever meant more than just a dream?”

“Well you already have the answer to one of your questions,” He grimaced, gesturing between the two of them with a finger. “But as for whether or not they’ve come true…I guess so?” Taehyung’s voice rose in pitch with the end of his sentence.

“You…guess so?” Y/n lowered her phone to the table and placed it face down.

Taehyung rested his fingers on the rim of his cup and twisted it in careful circles. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“ Yeah. And in me repeating your lackluster choice of words, I wanted more clarification.” Y/n crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with a pointed stare. “Tae–I’m exhausted, and quite frankly, I’ve about had it with serious discussions for the next ten years. Just be frank with me. I’m literally the last person on earth who would judge you.”

Taehyung made a noise of unease in the back of his throat, and shifted his eyes from hers to the front of the cafe, looking forlornly out into the lobby as though weighing the pros and cons of making a run for it.

“It’s not that they come true per se,” He scanned the perimeter of the room until he found her again, looking even more unsettled than before. Y/n could see the reluctance leaching off his body in waves, and she felt a twinge of remorse for him and the personal boundaries he was crossing–boundaries he had so clearly expressed to her in this very cafe under much different circumstances. “It’s almost like I’m…” He trailed off, his tongue searching for the words that remained shapeless with the opening and closing of his mouth. “It’s almost like I’m watching things happen in real time, but I can’t be sure if it's real when I only have small clues to go off of. Other times, my dreams are freakishly similar to stories I heard or read about the property like I’m witnessing a moment of history replay in front of me–”

“Like a vision of the past?” Y/n quipped in, lips searching for the next sip of her drink and almost missing. She could have sworn she heard Yoongi snicker next door.

“Not exactly.” hesitation contorted his face into something almost painful. “More so like I’m a PA on a movie set. Physically there as my own person–watching it all play out. But no one else can see or hear me. Like I’m the one that doesn’t exist. Other times, I am the main actor, watching things through their eyes. It’s a crap shoot what I’ll get when I zonk for the night.”

Y/n tapped her index finger thoughtfully on the side of her cup, pursing her lips. “What kinds of things have you seen happen in real time?” When he made a face, she rephrased her question with an exaggerated blink. “Sorry–what are things that you think you’ve seen happen in real time?”

“Well–you see…that’s…” Taehyung dragged both hands into his hair and let them disappear into the roots, gripping them tightly in his hands to ground himself. “That’s complicated. I guess I’ve had some of you. Maybe we can quiz each other to see if they mean anything or if they really are just coincidental dreams.”

“Well by all means let’s give it a go. You have–” Y/n checked the time on her phone, “–approximately three hours until I need to start heading down to the greenhouse for work.”

“You’re way too calm about this.” Taehyung shook his head with a breathy laugh drenched in disbelief.

“Yeah, well, when you’ve been in my shoes the past few months nothing could surprise me. You kinda gotta start rolling with the punches–no pun intended.” Y/n shrugged with a slow upward quirk of her lips, leaning forward to rest her chin on her palm. “Hit me with your best shot, Pretty Boy.”

Taehyung shook his head with a scoff and averted his gaze, a flush of pink splotching up his neck to his ears. “I guess there’s a few that really made me start questioning my sanity…”

“What a perfect place to start around here–go on.” Y/n looked at him expectantly, her unbothered expression doing nothing to ease his discomfort. Perhaps it even worsened it.

“A few weeks ago–maybe a month I don’t know–I had a dream about you being in the ballroom with this creepy woman.” Taehyung visibly shivered. “I saw the way she held you and forced you to the floor–I heard her screaming, and Namjoon too from somewhere I couldn’t see. And then it just-”

“It stopped didn’t it,” Y/n shot up in her seat, back straight with her fingers bending the paper of her cup under the force she held it with. “It started over.”

A wave of relief washed over his eyes, an agreeance dangling from the tip of his tongue that was quickly swallowed by fear, his lips clipping shut and his hands grabbing for his second cup of coffee to scarf down three large gulps. The empty cup hit the table so hard it bounced, and he cursed under his breath, hiding his head in his now free hand. Y/n was still processing his dream, remembering the way he had appeared from his room as they were coming up the stairs after Candida, acting like the sight of them was one more ghastly than any ghoul.

“No, no, no, no–NO!” His protests were muffled by the sleeve of his sweater. “This isn’t–”

“We were wearing the same clothes,” Y/n conjectured, realization hitting with the memory of his eyes scanning their exhausted group. “When you came out of your room you freaked–because we were wearing the same clothes as your dream.”

Taehyung’s head bobbed against his forearm. “Bingo.”

Y/n gasped–an image of him stumbling down the hallway in the dim light of early morning from a crack in her door coming to the forefront of her mind. “Taehyung–what were you doing a few weeks ago, when you left your room in the middle of the night.”

“Huh?” Taehyung lifted his blown out eyes up to hers, confused. “When?”

“I had a weird dream myself,” Y/n shifted in her seat, the memory of Candida and Matilda nothing short of unpleasant. "But when I had woken up I was wet, like I had sat in a bathtub. Then I heard you leave your room, checked on you, and saw you were wet too.” She kept her explanation brief, purposefully leaving out details of her own experience to see what he came up with on his end.

Understanding dawned on his features, and he brought his face up just enough to look at her fully. “I had a nightmare about…” His brows furrowed in concentration. “About….” He groaned and gave her a partially embarrassed sideways glance. “Sorry, I didn’t know her that well. Your sister. The little creepy one.”

“Matilda.” Y/n managed a snort at his honesty, but found little actual humor in his admittance. “What about? Mine involved being at a lake with her–but I want to know what yours was.”

“Mine too. I was in someone else’s body that wasn’t mine, and she was leading me through the woods. I think she was taking me to Mother.” Taehyung rested his chin on his forearm while he spoke. “But something happened–I guess she changed her mind and I ran. I woke up pretty soon after I was taken back to the estate, soaking wet.”

“Holy shit…” Y/n let her jaw fall open. “That was my dream Taehyung.”

“No it wasn’t, that’s not possible.” Taehyung shook his head adamantly.

“It was. I was dreaming. That was me you saw walking to the lake with Matilda.”

“No you weren’t.” Taehyung lifted his head from the table and tipped his head towards her with a look doused in skepticism. “I would know you weren’t dreaming because I saw you going back to your room. I asked if you were okay but you were super out of it. Thought you were drunk or something. And no offense–wasn’t up for messing around with that shit after the dream I had.”

Y/n’s words were smothered by the rush of goosebumps that rippled over her skin. Every time she learned something about herself during her possession with Candida, or any memories were brought to the surface of her experience, she felt violated in a way she couldn��t explain. To know she could have been wandering around the grounds unknowingly–that her dream could have been real was enough to have Yoongi and Jungkook pop their heads around the edge of the window with differing levels of concern when her feelings oozed through the glass.

By the time Hoseok appeared behind them, looking clueless as ever with some birthday cake flavored protein bar he had swiped from the counter half-eaten and dangling from his lips, Y/n had given them a weak shake of her head to let them know she was fine.

Taehyung saw the motion, catching the direction of her eyes far too soon for her to look away and spinning around to see whom she was looking at. Yoongi and Hoseok had the decency to slip behind the wall of the glass and out of sight, but Jungkook (as watchful and stubborn as ever), remained with his head craned to watch the two of them. One of Yoongi’s hands smushed against his cheek and tugged him back out of sight forcefully–but it was too late–Taehyung had already seen him.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Taehyung demanded, swiveling back to face her. “Are they watching us?”

Y/n gripped his forearm in her hands and pressed it against the table to keep him still in case he made the move to run. “No! Well–yes! But it’s only for our safety. There’s a lot of shit going on that I don’t think you are ready to know about.”

“Does it have to do with what I saw in the ballroom? Or why you were running from the house that one day months ago?” Taehyung questioned.

“Yeah. You could say that…” Y/n breathed out in relief when he seemed to have no interest in leaving just yet.

He squinted at her, chewing on the inside of his cheek pensively. “Can I ask you a question now?”

“Feel free,” Y/n released his forearm and fell back in her seat, shooting a small glare over at Jungkook when he slowly peered back around the window.

“In my dream, you said that you were unconscious when I had said I'd tried to look for you. Why?”

Y/n weighed her odds of lying and whether it would do more harm than good if he discovered–or perhaps already even knew the truth from one of his dreams. She took a steadying breath, looking him square in the eyes. “I had been possessed by the lady in the ballroom, and she had forced me into this world of in-between until they were able to smoke her out enough for me to come through.”

Something in his expression shifted–only just by the decimal. His eyes glazed over and one of his brows moved a hair of a way skyward. “What did she do to you?”

“Followed me around in my reflection. Made me do things I didn’t want to do–showed me things I didn’t want to see.” Y/n felt herself recoil inwards with the memory of the greenhouse. “And only I could see her.”

“Things like what?” His voice had dipped low. Waiting.

“Just…” Y/n brought her shoulders to her ears and dropped them with a huff. “Just some bad shit okay?”

“Did she tell you to hurt people? Or yourself?” He inquired through an almost whisper.

“I mean–I guess so. She showed me visions of people I really cared about getting hurt. And I’m not itching to relive those memories.” Y/n brought one hand up to play with the tip of her ear anxiously.

It was in that moment–that split second that Y/n realized she had fucked up. His shoulders relaxed, and his mouth dropped open in a sarcastic laugh. She knew what he was thinking before his head had started to shake.

“Fucking hell, Y/n.” His smile was boxlike in its cold joy.

“No wait–Tae it’s not–”

“No, I think I know exactly what this is.” He used the table to lift himself up and pushed his chair in, pointing a finger at both of them as he stood. “You need help. We both do.”

“Tae I mean it! I know what it sounds like but it’s not that!” Y/n got up with him, stopping his path when he turned to leave.

“Then what is it Y/n? Ghosts? Grow up.” Taehyung lowered his face closer to hers. “Go to your doctor. Get checked again. Did you know delusions and hallucinations can occur after a seizure?”

“I didn't, no. But that’s not what this is because that wasn’t a seizure!” She grabbed his arm when he tried to step around her. “Please believe me!”

“Then what was it?” He stopped with narrowed eyes, breathing heavy.

“It…” Y/n felt small and trapped under his hardened gaze. Like any word she said could easily be twisted into something it wasn’t. “It was a ghost. He’s called the devil, and he showed himself to me in the kitchen. He’s the same one from your dream in the ballroom–with Charli, remember? He tried to–”

“I’ve heard enough.” Taehyung put both hands on her upper arms and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “You will be okay if you just tell your doctor about all this, okay? We should just keep some distance until we both get it figured out. Shared delusions are dangerous.”

“That’s not what this is!” She shook his hand from her arms and pointed a finger up at him. “What about the code? The dream? The color of our shirts? That’s not a coincidence or a delusion!”

He shrugged and instead of going around her, backstepped around a table next to them and snaked away from her just out of reach. “It could be. The brain can conjure up all sorts of fucked up shit.”

She sped forward, crossing through the gap in another table to cut off his exit. “I know that! I really do! But this isn’t what that is. Please believe me Tae–now that you know what’s going on they might come for you too. I promise I’m telling the truth, and we need to at least put wards up around your room and–”

“Enough Y/n!” Taehyung snapped, spinning around and gripping her shoulders tighter than before, shaking them for further emphasis. “Enough!”

Y/n jumped back at his tone, and immediately he dropped his hands that had begun to dig into her skin. His eyes were beginning to water and his cheeks flush with impatience.

“Tae…” Y/n brought her hand up to run a cautious swipe of her finger over his cheek but he backed away from her touch.

“Don’t,” His attention flickered to the door behind her momentarily, returning to hers with more softness held within them than before. “I know that what you’re telling me is your truth, and I know you believe it. But you have to understand me when I tell you this: I can’t believe you. I won’t encourage this.” A presence loomed behind her, the heat from their body melting through the fabric of the button down, and Taehyung took another step back.

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I really am. Get some help, okay?” Taehyung shouldered past her and out into the lobby, pausing only when Hoseok and Yoongi rounded the corner from the store, the three of them exchanging less than friendly looks before he shoved past them and disappeared around the elevator and out the back.

“You alright?” Jungkook mumbled from beside her, one of his hands hovering over the small of her back, the freedom to press it against her still entirely new to him.

Y/n pressed her lips together and fought back the overwhelming urge to cry–not only did Taehyung now think she was mentally unwell, he was putting himself at serious risk. If her mother was onto him it was only a matter of time until a bright red target was drawn on his back, and there was nothing she could do to help him if he pushed her away like this.

Her temper rose in seconds, ignited by the unbearable frustration of being so obviously misunderstood–and in a way she really couldn't be mad at him for. She knew how she sounded to him. She knew what he was thinking. Hell, if she hadn’t had the year she had up until this point, she would’ve been right there with him. How the fuck was she supposed to get through to him before her mother got to him?

“Fuck!” Y/n grunted through her teeth, kicking the closest wooden chair with the side of her foot with so much oomph it nearly toppled over, saved from a clambering demise only by Jungkook’s quick reflexes.

“Ma’am is everything alright over there?” The cashier with the brightly colored hair leant over the counter, her tone apprehensive yet leaving no room for any lying–a polite way of saying ‘hey! I saw that!’

Y/n gave her a tight lipped smile and a brisk wave, muttered apologies raining from her lips when she steered herself passed the counter towards where Yoongi looked at her with a clouded expression, eyes dark and zeroed in on her shoulders with Hoseok still glaring off in the direction Taehyung had disappeared.

“That bad, huh?” Yoongi gave her a knowing once over.

“Don’t ask a question you already know the answer to,” Y/n continued past both men and in the direction of the front of the lobby.

“Where are you going?” Jungkook was right behind her in an instant, even going as far as to pick up his pace so he could hold the door open for her with a faint flush on his cheeks.

“I don’t know. I just need some air.”

The air was cooler than inside, but not uncomfortably so. It was a welcome shift from the heat that burned beneath her skin with the lingering aftereffects of their altercation. She made herself comfortable on one of the front steps, content with watching the sky morph into an awkward shade of dusty blue from the sun that had just woken up. It didn’t take long for Yoongi and Hoseok to join them on the steps, the four of them crowded in some slanted shape so Hoseok could stretch his legs down in front of them.

Y/n puffed out her breath, imagining that it held her anger, and ordered her shoulders down to trick them into relaxing. Tipping her head to the side, she let her temple rest on Jungkook’s shoulder, grabbing his hand that rested on his thigh and slotting their fingers together. Few words were shared, but it was comforting. The only difference in how they usually held hands was the way his thumb ghosted small striped up and down the side of her index finger.

“So what’s the plan? Clearly I think the dreamer needs some space for a bit.” Yoongi finally broke the silence when the birds started their morning song.

Y/n looked over her shoulder at him, meeting his equally as tired looking gaze. “Not sure. We have a lot of shit to unpack.”

“Too much if you ask me." Hoseok pouted lightly, resting his upper half back on his elbows.

Yoongi snorted and gave his shoulder a teasing shove. “Don’t you start whining already. You’ve barely done anything with us yet.”

“Lies. I’ve learned all about your little witchy spell bags and nifty tools, the mirror-sat through like, four of Namjoon’s plant lessons.” Hoseok pinched the bridge of his nose with an exaggerated expression of fatigue.

“And do you remember any of them?” Yoongi asked with a tiny grin.

Hoseok scrunched his face into a look of nonchalant confidence. “‘Course not.”

That pulled the teensiest of laughs from Y/n and a small humored exhale from Jungkook.

“What about G-min?” Y/n offered first, scanning each person's reaction.

Jungkook’s hand tensed in her own, and Yoongi cleared his throat in an instant. “What about him?” Yoongi’s voice had elevated in pitch if only slightly.

“That’s where we left off before they carted you off halfway across the planet. I can imagine that in itself means that there’s something important about him and all of this.” Y/n kept her voice light and her grip on Jungkook’s hand tight. “Something about him they don’t want us to know.”

“G-min?” Hoseok’s tone lifted at the end, two fingers coming up to fiddle with the pocket of his sweat pants.

“Yeah. Did you guys do any digging into him?” Yoongi’s look drilled through Hoseok’s profile despite trying his best to stay neutral.

Hoseok hummed, clicking his tongue while he turned the question over in his mind. “No. Not really. I saw one of his ornate journals in Mariah’s bag though–the one with the gold swirly stuff on it?” When Yoongi only nodded, Hoseok continued. “She never let me touch that one. Looking back at it all now, there were definitely things that she kept from me just about as much as she shoved others in my face.”

“Like what?” Y/n pivoted her body so she was sitting sideways, her back resting on Jungkook’s thigh that was a step above her.

“Eh, nothing I can really pinpoint. Unfortunately I didn’t care enough about anything other than my meds when I was with her.” He frowned slightly, tugging at a particularly long loose thread on his thigh. “The biggest one was your dad. I wasn’t allowed near him–ever. When she let ‘em come to dinner the night you came back I was surprised she didn’t send me some hostage negotiation text to keep me away.”

“That was the first time I had really seen him in a while too.” Jungkook broke in quietly.

Y/n swiveled her head back to look up at him. “Yeah?”

“And knowing what I know now with how…you looked with her, he looks similar. Looks all messed up.” The side of his nose twitched, giving away just how much the memory perturbed him.

“Circling back here,” Yoongi addressed Jungkook when he could feel the tensions rising. “G–min. The journal. Why would she have that? Last I had heard they had returned all of his stuff.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hoseok spat under his breath, the hostility that crept in aimed at someone who was not present. “You think they are telling the truth? I mean, let’s all be honest with each other and ourselves. You really think after their jobs were threatened that your parents would keep pushing against the Wörners? You can’t bust the strainer….” His voice dropped, his last phrase merely a mumble of discontentment under his breath. But Yoongi and Jungkook both heard it, and both of them stiffened simultaneously.

Y/n eyed the two of them carefully, but both of them seemed keen on observing the trees down the path, or the lines of their palms in their lap. “What does that mean?” She tried carefully.

Hoseok floundered for a moment, his mouth hung open and his eyes wide as saucers. “It’s…It’s well–fuck–Just forget that I said anything.”

“No I think it’s fine,” Yoongi swallowed with a small nod. “I think she can handle hearing it. We handle living it.”

Y/n cast them all with a look of pure bewilderment before he continued.

“‘You can’t bust the strainer’,” Yoongi articulated each word slowly. “Sometimes also said as ‘Don’t bust the strainer’. It’s something the families have said for a long time. Bottom line is that it means not to push back against the Wörners even if you know you should–even if you know something they are doing isn’t fair.”

“Oh…” Y/n shifted in her seat uncomfortably.

“Yeah. The strainer stands for the Wörner’s. Anything we do, and everything we have, has to go through their filter. But if that filter breaks, we could risk losing everything that holds us here. I mean, Y/n, look around.” Yoongi gestured to the front of the hotel and over the expanses of the grounds. “They pride themselves on ‘honoring’ our family's contributions, but where the hell are we? Besides the second floor of the historical society. None of our names are plastered anywhere around the hotel, and none of our history–which is just as fucking huge, if not more so than yours–is displayed on the walls. Granted, my family’s shit is still new, but still. The OG Kims were here far longer than most of your lineage, and the most they got was a tea set on the mantel and a couple art pieces near the bedrooms of the estate.”

It was then that everything finally started to become clearer to her. His words hit no barrier as they whittled into her mind and illuminated the subconscious truth she had always known was there, but had never really stopped to think of. One of those innate pieces of knowledge that your brain just knew as fact, with little reasoning for how they got there and no further investigation as to why they are there. Passing questions in her mind that were always left forgotten.

“And you guys have always just said this?” She looked back and forth between them all–not angry. Just besides herself that so much was happening beneath her nose. Things she very well should have seen.

Hoseok nodded sheepishly. “I think one of the Kim’s started it. I’ve even heard my grandparents say it a couple of times before they passed.”

“It’s about power.” Yoongi stated lazily. “How do you keep the people you work with from overtaking you when they have more numbers, and are just as good at their job? You keep one thumb on them at all times. They don’t actually do much with it, but they like to remind you it’s there. One flash of their eyes or one whispered threat against their livelihoods is all it takes. And what fucking sucks is that our families could easily find work elsewhere–but just like you, we love this place. This place is just as much ours as it is yours. But they are pretty fucking good at making it seem like it was never ours to begin with.”

Y/n let his truth sink in. Let it fester beneath her skin and wander up into her brain to make its home there. Guilt was something she felt–yes. But almost instantly she felt enraged. “Fuck no,” Y/n sat up abruptly, shooting to her feet and pacing on top of the stairs. “Absolutely not. Not on my watch.” She spun on her heals and pointed at them. “When–and I mean when I get the hotel back–that’s going to change. I want your names plastered everywhere, and I want your families listed on the deeds as co-owners.”

“I do believe you’re gonna try, but I dunno. Feel like maybe you wouldn’t be the first one to say that…” Hoseok gave her a weak smile where he still sat below her.

Y/n snorted and shook her head at him. “Yeah well I don’t just try and give up. Once I’m in that seat my parents can’t stop me. This place won’t be mine, it will be ours.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, the lights that poured out onto the porch from the windows and dotted the outdoor sconces flickered and dimmed; and a faint rumble reverberated from the floors beneath her thin sneakers. One by one, the lights snuffed out. Even the windows of the guest rooms stories above them went dark. The emergency lights clicked on in rapid succession, bathing them in orange light, and serenading them with the faintest of electrical buzz.

Life began to stir audibly through the doors, muffled voices of the early morning staff sharing in their well-controlled panic and moving in a rush of squeaking shoes and streamline efficiency. It was then that another booming vibration rumbled the grounds, the chandeliers shuddered visibly through the windows of the lobby, and hanging plants on the porch rattled their chains.

The panic-stricken tones of the employees turned dire as the emergency lights fizzled out to nothing, leaving the only light source the sickly blue sky that had only just started to twinge with orange. The wind rustled the grass and billowed around them, curling up her hand and forearm much like how it had done on the evening she had arrived. This one felt less inquisitive and more forceful in its exploration until it coated her shoulders with an ice that made her teeth chatter.

“Watch your tongue, traitor. This place will always be mine–never yours.”

Yoongi cursed, lurching to his feet and fumbling a small flashlight out of his pocket to cast her in its light, inching the cold from her shoulders until Jungkook joined her on the stoop, chasing the last of it away.

Flashlights beamed through the windows and flashed this way and that across the lobby while the staff scurried around for the staff entrance to the basement, no doubt trying to find their back up generator.

“If it is not me who commands it, under all others it will fall.”

The voice vanished with the wind, and a flourish of the lights twinkled back on from above, starting from the top floor and cascading downwards until the lobby was flooded with sparkling lights and a rejoicing staff.

“I don’t think they liked that,” Yoongi commented, the flashlight still gripped tightly in his fist.

“Well they can suck it up,” Y/n shivered and rubbed her palms along her upper arms to ebb away the residual chill. “Because we’re not going anywhere.” She held one middle finger up towards the building and shouted with all of her might. "Nice light show, asshole!"

_________________________________________

Y/n busied herself for most of the morning with pruning the flowers and dead foliage around the greenhouse, and weeding the garden beds with Namjoon. They currently stood side by side, mouths moving in a flurry as she caught him up on her morning and hands moving in tandem to yank weeds from the moist soil. Namjoon had brought up the fact of discussing their options with Bear now that she wasn’t possessed, which Y/n agreed to be the best idea before they made any solid moves with G-min.

Sweat beaded down her temple and her hands were in a consistent state of damp from the unbearable sun, the temperature well over the norm for June which meant more plant care to keep them afloat. Her body temperature only worsened when Namjoon prodded into her night.

“How’d things end up smoothing over with Kook?” He cleared his throat, clearly not understanding the weight of his inquiry with how relaxed and blithe he remained.

“W-what do you mean? What about him?” Y/n tripped over the words and the spade she held in her gloved hand clattered to he the ground below them. “D-did he say something to you?”

He paused, raising his eyes to look at her at a snail’s pace, inspecting her from head to toe like he was Sherlock Holmes himself. The only thing he was missing was the pipe and the wool hat–but he sure did have an air of smugness about him that signaled her demise.

“Crossed paths with him on his way back to his room last night and he looked really upset. It was when he started blubbering about you and Jimin, and something about his mom that I sent him right back to you. I was done playing peacemaker.” A grin worked his face into something sly, dimples on display and his teeth pressing on his tongue. “Should he have said something to me?” He made a show of rubbing his chin with thought. “Now that you mention it–I didn’t hear him come back to bed last night…”

“No!” Y/n squeaked and snapped her neck to look back down at the plants, snatching the spade and carving it into the side of a particularly thick weed. “Nothing to talk about.” She could feel his laughter before she heard it, and Y/n thought with her rise in temperature that the risk of fainting was high.

“Oh~” Namjoon managed between a few of his giggles, and she snuck a sideways glance just in time to see his eyebrows wiggle. “I understand now.”

“No you don’t.”

“I really do.”

There was a moment of silence before she faced his teasing smile and shoulders that shook with laughter, and found herself joining in if only a little bit with a playful shove to his shoulder. “Just keep it to yourself, okay? I don’t know if he wants me talking about it!”

“No I get it–my lips are sealed.” Namjoon’s grin never left his face. He tugged at the root of long weed and discarded it to his left. “Does Jimin know?”

“Yeah,” Y/n flushed again. “I didn’t talk to him about it yet, but he may have…heard it.”

Namjoon couldn’t keep his laughter to himself, bending at the waste with a boisterous burst that nearly knocked their buckets of waste material over.

“What’s so funny?” Y/n couldn’t stop the few giggles that escaped, his laughter entirely too contagious.

“It’s just too perfect. All this time I spent counseling the two of you and here you all you guys needed was to fuck it out…” He wiped at a fake tear. “Ah, you guys grow up too fast…” He pointed an accusing finger her way, residual chuckles muddying his jest. “I told you that you were worrying for nothing. You were literally the last person to get with it.”

Y/n held her hands up in defense, dirt flying from her fingertips. “Pardon me for being stressed about ruining so many friendships.”

“Too stressed if you ask me,” He let out a hefty sigh, clearly pleased with himself. “Ah well, at least you guys are talking about it now and I can finally get some rest.”

“I can agree with that. From here on out I’m not going to fight it–I’m just going to try and go with the flow.” She grabbed a fistfull of rogue clover and tossed it into her bucket.

Namjoon stopped his movements, fixing her with a pointed look and lazy lop sided grin. “Cool. So what about everyone else?”

“Who?” Y/n answered a bit too quickly.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about miss, ‘I’m not going to fight it anymore’.” He mimicked the tone of her voice and waved a bundle of weeds in her face.

“Shut up,” She made a face at him and moved to continue with her task.

“Make me,” He countered back, lighthearted, yet edged with something deeper–a real challenge layered beneath it.

Y/n moved with splintering speed to face him, their faces closer than she remembered. The silence was charged and heavy, making the air feel thick as it was sucked into her lungs and released back outwards. “Make you?”

Namjoon sucked on the inside of his cheek but made no move forwards. For once the wise talker was out of words. With a dust of pink to his cheeks he coughed into his fist and diverted his attention back to the unruly weeds.

Y/n smiled to herself up until lunch had come, and Jimin had wiped the smile off her face with a knowing glint in his eyes and a soft hold of her hand when he led her to the spot in the yard they used to eat together the most, a combination of reassuring words and loving touches with the occasional teasing filling the gaps of their meal. Nothing had changed between them from the afternoon prior to today, and that reassured her more than his whispered words of comfort that nothing truly bothered him–and that what he had said about how he viewed their shared relationship was his truth. Especially when he pressed tender kisses to her mouth that tasted sweet like lemonade and the fresh picked blueberries that scattered across the blanket between them. Jimin wouldn’t kiss her if he was being dishonest. And for that, she let all of her insecurities about him and about Jungkook float away with the wind, disappearing into the trees and away from her if only for the rest of the afternoon.

Jungkook picked her up from the greenhouse, their fingers intertwined, and his body void of any of the frigidness of the previous weeks. Now all that remained was his normal placid expression that was molded from softness and indifference, as much of a comfort to her as the smallest twitch of his lips at the corners when she would purposefully bump their shoulders together, or squeeze their hands just a bit tighter. The normal kind of quiet from him was a breath of fresh air.

At dinner she was crowded between him and Jimin, which was all well and dandy until her mother decided to make her appearance at the dinner table that evening, shocking everyone, their shared giggles and lighthearted banter falling from the air like a bird that had been struck from flight, landing heavy, dead, and crumpled in a heap on the table between them. Y/n naturally made a move to shift from Jungkook, but to her surprise he reciprocated no such motion. He stayed, his face neutral and impassive–an impressive feat considering his wandering eyes.

No one dared speak.

Not when she looked at Hoseok for just a second too long.

Or when she scrutinized Yoongi from his seat across Y/n so openly.

“Don’t all stop just for me,” Mariah scooched her chair in, snatching her napkin from beneath her plate and tucking it roughly over her lap. “I’d hate to interrupt whatever lovely time you guys seem to be having.”

No one took up her offer of returning to their joviality.

Hoseok’s fork visibly shook as it maneuvered food to his lips, swallowing each bite with audible force. Yoongi pushed his food around his half-empty plate with a meticulously carved expression of coolness, though his Adam's apple bobbed with each smack of his lips, the way he held his mouth looking like he was more likely to vomit than to take another bite.

Jimin slid his arm from the back of Y/n’s chair to drop lamely between them, his knuckles turning white with how hard he clenched his fork to keep himself busy. Jungkook had the strangest reaction to what she would have expected. His head tilted, and his eyes narrowed at the older woman’s face that remained downturned towards her plate. It was unsettling, seeing him so openly offensive to her mother. But not unwelcome.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Y/n almost didn’t realize that she herself was the person who had spoken so brazenly until Namjoon’s eyes bulged in her direction.

Mariah stopped midbite, the food on her utensil slopping off onto her plate. The two of them were locked in a silent battle, Y/n’s feelings coming to a boil beneath her skin at just the mere sight of her after all she had learned. After all they had been through and the spectacle at the hotel that morning.

“Watch your tongue,” Her mother recovered a new bite like nothing had occurred, but Y/n wasn’t interested in just letting her ruin their meal and keep the peace.

Y/n pushed her plate away from her towards the middle of the table and angled herself towards the head of the table. “I don’t think I will. After all, you said we could keep having a lovely time–didn’t you? And it’s been how long since you’ve decided to show your face here? Weeks? A month? Longer?”

There was a soft jab to her ribs from Jimin, but she ignored it.

Mariah dabbed at the edge of her mouth with the blue cloth napkin with downcast eyes. “I'm incredibly busy with work–something you should very well understand.”

“Yeah. Right.” Y/n fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Mariah exhaled sharply through her nose, though she remained silent. As did everyone else at the dinner table for that matter. Not a word was uttered until they had begun to shuffle their chairs out and make way for the door and the cleaning staff had been signaled to cart their dishes away.

“Jungkook–May I speak with you for a moment?” Mariah barely spared him a glance, her tone deceivingly light.

Those who remained in the dining faltered; Jimin tripped over the dining room rug, catching himself out in the foyer, and Yoongi's foot paused mid-air over the next stair in the foyer. Hoseok’s phone slipping from his hand to land unceremoniously on the table was so loud it rang in their ears like a gunshot. Jungkook, who was in the process of pushing in any chairs left out stopped with only one remaining, his hands clasped around it robotically. He gave a stiff nod.

When Y/n and Hoseok made no motion to leave him in the dining room, her mother tacked on one singular word that had Y/n’s head spinning.

“Alone, preferably.”

The world felt blurred when Hoseok grasped her elbow loosely and tugged her out into the foyer, Yoongi already up the stairs and waiting around the corner of the left hall just out of sight. Y/n heard the doors to the dining room click closed, finalizing whatever fate awaited Jungkook on the other side of them, and her mind raced with suggestions for what her mother could be saying to him at that very same moment that Hoseok steered her towards Namjoon’s room.

The three of them piled into a very oblivious Namjoon’s room (having escaped as soon as his plate was clean to spare him from any interrogation that he would be unable to dodge with his rosy cheeks and splotchy neck). Jimin was nowhere to be found–lost in the blur of her journey upstairs.

“Whatever it is–we will handle it,” Yoongi crossed his arms over his chest, his reassurance more for himself than anyone.

Y/n sat on the edge of Namjoon’s bed, her cheek propped on Hoseok’s shoulder while Yoongi paced in front of them, tracked by Namjoon's solemn eyes from where he sat with his elbows propped on his thighs and chin gripped in his fingers. Tense couldn’t even begin to describe the atmosphere as the minutes ticked by. A singular word was not enough to encapsulate the way she felt as though she was entangled in barbed wire, her limbs glued to her side and her mouth stuffed with cotton; waiting for the impending doom they knew was only awaiting them torturous enough. And none of them could react lest they all risk ripping down the last curtain that stood between her mother “knowing” things and serving them to her on a silver platter with little room for argument.

Her mother must know how cruel this was.

The doorknob twisted, and everyone perked up towards the sound. Jimin slipped in with tired eyes and thinly pressed lips–face red with pent up frustration and eyes glossy.

“What is it? Did you hear something?” Yoongi tore back towards the younger one with thinly veiled panic. It was rare to see him so frazzled.

Jimin didn’t move from in front of the door. Frozen. Shaking. Looking up to Y/n with a look so desolate it dripped with words unspoken between the two of them.

“She just fired him.”

_________________________________________

The room exploded around her.

Yoongi roared with rage and his fist collided with the wall near Namjoon’s closet, ratting the pictures and plants hung from it. Hoseok fell back onto the bed and bounce the two of them. The motion jostling Y/n from her stupor.

“Like hell she did!” Y/n acted without thinking, shoving past Jimin and out into the hall just in time to see the man in question ascending the stairs, dark eyes looking up at her sudden appearance with surprise.

She stormed past him towards the direction of her parents office, her mother clipping out of vision, casually strolling down the hall like she hadn’t just turned their world upside down and tossed a match into an already raging fire. Her foot never made it to the bottom stair–Jungkook’s hand clamping over her mouth and his other hoisting her backwards to follow him up the stairs.

She knew he was helping her. God knows what she would’ve said to her mother at that moment if given the chance–something that would push them past the point of no return with little hope for ever rekindling the scraps of what they had. Not that Y/n cared for that anymore. But she wished he weren't so thoughtful for once. All she wanted to do was tear right into that woman.

Y/n let Jungkook pull her back from the direction where she had come from, her feet stumbling along the rug back into Namjoon’s room where chaos and devastation still rained down from all sides. Namjoon shot to his feet at their entrance, his authoritative persona switched on as everyone else crumbled around him, leaving him to hold down the fort.

“Don’t freak out,” Jungkook said calmly, releasing her from his hold and letting her sputter out some of her steam for a few seconds.

Yoongi looked about ready to snap again, whirling towards the door with hands raking through his hair. “Don’t freak out? Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Jungkook affirmed with a nod. His voice and demeanor were much to relaxed for Y/n’s liking given the situation.

“Jungkook–don’t just let her walk all over you like this–” Y/n started to plead, but he silenced her with one small smile that had the words dying on her lips.

“It’s alright,” Jungkook smoothed a few wrinkles from his t-shirt absentmindedly. “I’m not banished. Just fired.”

Yoongi nearly choked on his own scoff. “Yeah, and that’s bad enough. She has no real reason to fire you but she knows we can’t fight their decision. God, it should have been-" Yoongi fretted with another pass of his fingers through his hair.

“No it shouldn’t have. I’m okay. She just wants me to go talk to my dad about it. To find a new direction.” Jungkook plopped himself down next to Hoseok where Y/n had originally sat.

“So she wants you to take my future job. That’s just peachy.” Yoongi huffed and dropped next to him.

“No,” Jungkook shook his head firmly. “She wants me out of the house. But I’m not going anywhere.” He finished with a meaningful glance towards Y/n and she felt the gravity of it.

Y/n sandwiched herself between Yoongi and Jungkook, their sides feeling like the only thing holding her upright. “So what does she think you’re going to do now? Just run up to New York and visit your dad?”

“Probably.” Jungkook scratched at his nose with another shrug.

“Whatever she wants you out of the house for…I’m not excited about it.” Hoseok’s worries were muffled by the hands he kept over his face. “The stories you guys have and the little I've witnessed is gnarly–feels like a trap if we don’t have the one person who can throw punches.”

“Agreed,” Namjoon sighed, massaging his brow to release the tension that settled there. “She’s undoubtedly up to something. Just what exactly is the question. And we have no direction to go in.”

“We need to move then. Fast.” Y/n wound her own arms around her middle and shuddered. “Candida maybe? Bear? G–min? Something. I need to do something tonight. If I just sit around I might explode.”

“Not Candida.” Yoongi wasted no time shooting down that suggestion.

“Bear said we should give her time to ruminate. She might be easier to crack if she’s desperate to be released–which means keeping her in mirror solitary confinement for the time being.” Jimin offered more details willingly at the look Y/n gave Yoongi.

She pushed forwards. There was no time to argue. “Then Bear and G–min. I just need an hour to try and get back in touch with myself–I haven’t been the same since her, but I know I can find it in me. I have to.”

Yoongi shifted next to her, his breathing evening back out and his composure returning. “I can help you with that. We can go work on it together while they try and squeeze more information out of Bear.”

No one argued with him. There was a buzz of urgency that stuffed them with a shared determination to move–to fight back.

Jimin, Hoseok, and Namjoon parted back to the former’s room where the inhabited printer lived, and Jungkook tasked himself with escorting Y/n back to her room while Yoongi trudged through the attic back to his room to avoid stirring up more controversy than necessary on the cameras. Clearly, Jungkook cared very little about being picked up by the cameras at this point–what was left to lose? This evening had made it very apparent that her mother knew to some extent that their relationship had changed. That was the only thing that had shifted since her return.

Y/n gripped his hand tightly, squeezing it between hers until her hand went numb. Guilt had carved out a den in her chest and settled within its self-made home. Y/n felt partially to blame for his predicament and conjured up thoughts of how to remedy it in their shared silence. When they stopped just in her door while he waited for Yoongi to return, the urge to wrap her arms around him and kiss the apples of his cheeks and the skin of his knuckles in apology was too overwhelming. Jungkook eyed her wearily in between glances towards the attic door, for he could no doubt sense her growing unease with his eyes that had fully dilated black, watching for any sign of danger.

“Come here,” Y/n finally mumbled. She tugged on his hand until he was fully in the room and standing inches from her.

She slid her hands up his shoulders and onto either side of his face, running her thumbs over the soft skin there and looking up at him with all of the sincerity she could muster. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll give you money from my paycheck until we get this figured out. It doesn’t fix it but I can’t just ignore it either.”

He was taken aback by the sudden affection, eyes blinking rapidly and mouth pressed into a thin line, though with the tender stroke of her thumbs he melted into her touch with a soft sigh.

“ S’okay, I can figure it out.” He closed his eyes and leaned further into her touch.

“No.” Y/n shook her head adamantly. “I’ll figure it out. You do so much for me, I want to help you too.” His nose twitched, but he didn’t argue any further. The same unbothered aura floated around him as before. She managed a halfhearted smile and one of her hands inched up to card through his overgrown waves. “You know, you’re strangely calm for someone who just lost their job…”

He contemplated her observance, tongue coming out to poke at his lip ring, the sight of it glistening in the lamplight making her entire body flush. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“It should,” Y/n breathed out as she reigned herself in. “It bothers me.”

“Don’t let it. Trust me, I’m okay.” Jungkook pulled his mouth into another tiny sweet smile, and she saw the quickest dart of his eyes down to her mouth that he tried to hide. “I never…I’m not as interested in what I do for work as everyone else is.”

“What are you interested in then?” Y/n pulled him closer and he nervously stiffened when she guided their faces closer. He audibly gulped, his skin hot under her palms.

“Jesus Christ–at least close the door so I can try to knock!" Yoongi complained from the threshold, a teasing grin lifting his features that still drooped with the uneasiness he tried so hard to hide.

Jungkook took a long stride back away from her and flushed from his collar to the tips of his ears, giving them both a silent, clunky nod goodbye and vanishing around the doorframe to return to Jimin to help with Bear. Y/n had assumed Jungkook would stay with them–but with a chuckle she imagined he was now too embarrassed to face Yoongi for a bit. She made a mental note to talk to him later about how he felt about people knowing, and what they wanted to call each other moving forward. It was still fresh, but her discussion with Namjoon was still ripe in her mind and she didn’t want to be crossing a boundary he had or making him uncomfortable by commenting on it.

Thankfully Yoongi didn’t seem bothered enough to comment on it either, directing her to wait in her room while he grabbed a couple things from his, returning with his arms full of small colorful pouches, and a flimsy paper bag that looked to be mostly empty.

Yoongi moved with a relaxed fluidity, setting up a spot for the two of them on the floor with throw cushions and a smaller black cloth, settling for lighting a few lavender and black candles instead of the normal army of pillar candles they would’ve had on any of their other ventures. Everyone pinned the label of stoic and stony to Jungkook–but she had to commend Yoongi for how well he handled himself. The way in which he stowed away his reactions and feelings in favor of coming off as level-headed was impressive, but she had seen him under duress enough times now to notice the almost glazed over look he wore, or the precision he aimed for with his movements like each flick of the lighter or search for one of the pouches had to be meticulously monitored. It gave him a look of serene impurity; the surface of his deceivingly calm seas masking the truth of a storm that brewed below it.

Y/n followed the flame that flickered up from the last candle he cradled in his hand where his knuckles bloomed with red from the blood that pooled just below the skin. The only indication he had let his rage come crashing through earlier that evening.

“Is your hand okay?”

He paused, his face illuminated by the small flame below his chin as he looked at her quizzically. She gestured with her chin towards his hand that lowered the candle back to the last empty spot in the circle around them. He looked down at it, taking a moment to flex it, the action tugging at the irritated skin while sucking his cheeks in slightly with the sting it brought on.

“It’s fine,” Yoongi ground out with a low voice. As if proving a point, he used that same hand to make a fist which he coughed into, pivoting to grab the paper bag from his side. “I have something for you.”

Y/n clicked her tongue at his avoidance, but still she found herself leaning forwards to peek into the bag he dug through. He procured a small paper slip and tossed the now empty bag off to the side carelessly. The paper sailed in an arc across the small gap between them and landed on her crossed legs before she could catch it, the beginnings of a small chain uncoiling out of the bag onto her leg. She gingerly lifted the chain from the bag that slipped from the piece of jewelry effortlessly, looking at the glittering black pendant. The stone was smaller than her last necklace, and cut into an elegant teardrop shape before being polished until it glistened. The color of it was similar to the last–the only difference being the flecks of brown that dotted the back surface when it swung in the light. It’s funny in a way, the variation an uncanny rival to the color of his eyes.

“I anointed this one, so it shouldn’t cause as much trouble.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “They didn’t have the same one I got you before…”

Y/n looked at him through the hoop the necklace created–he looked nervous. “That’s okay, I like this one more anyway.” She smiled at him and rushed to unclasp the metal, looping both ends around her neck and fumbling to clip them together.

“You’re going to break it if you keep jamming it together like that!” He scolded softly, gesturing for her to turn and face the other direction, which she did without hesitation. Y/n rolled her eyes playfully, sliding the same blue button down she had worn before work down her shoulders so he could have easier access. She fought to keep her eyes on the dancing glow of the candles and not the graze of his fingertips on her neck or the proximity that was nonexistent between them.

He guided the blue fabric back up her shoulders and back into place as he finished, moving tantalizingly slow, and she held her breath to keep from reacting to an action that felt far more intimate than she could have ever thought. For a split second his hands lingered on her shoulders, fiddling with the collar of the shirt and almost pretending to smooth it down politely. It definitely should not have made her heart race the way it did. His touch was gone shortly after, slinking back into his spot across from her–perhaps a few inches closer if Y/n really cared to note.

“We just need to get back to the basics,” Yoongi suddenly blurted out and stretched his hands out with his palms up. “You already know how to do this–just have to get you back in the groove of it.”

Y/n spun back around and shook herself of the lingering sensations of such a quick moment, steering her mind back to focus on the task at hand. “R-right. Deep breaths?”

A ghost of a smirk took over his features and he nodded. “Yep. See–you’re already on the right track.”

Y/n placed her hands over his and held them loosely in her own–the contact already making her feel jittery. She took in shaky breaths to steady her pulse. She needed to calm down. It was just Yoongi. Just Yoongi….

“You’re thinking too much. Just relax.” Yoongi set an example with his perfectly controlled breath and his eyes shut. Y/n resisted the urge to mock him out loud, settling for mouthing his words back to herself with a roll of her eyes.

Easier said than done, she huffed to herself.

“Don’t give me an attitude.” He cracked one eye open, and she scrambled to snap hers shut and pretend she hadn’t just been doing exactly that.

Y/n pursed her lips to contain her mischievous smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She could practically hear his eyeroll since she couldn’t see anything but the back of her own eyelids. He gave her hands the lightest of squeezes and she understood. Focus.

Y/n counted each breath in, and extended each breath out longer than necessary. She found herself vacant and empty. The luscious green that used to greet her still reduced to nothing but stubble. With intention behind each breath, she encouraged the vines to come forth again, to reach upwards towards the sky–but nothing emerged from the remains. Not letting it get under her skin yet, she tried again; each attempt getting more and more forceful with the added push of her frustration.

“It’s not working,” Y/n mumbled dejectedly into the darkness.

Yoongi finished his lengthy exhale before speaking in a low drawl. “It will. Just stay still, and be kind to yourself. You’re not going to get anywhere by manhandling your emotions like that.”

Y/n heeded his direction and tried to calm herself with thoughts of Jimin–the two of them laughing on the checkered blanket on the lawn between blueberry flavored kisses. She thought of the week of freedom they had all had while Jin and her mother were away, skipping playfully through the halls and playing games at the dinner table like they used to. Her mind wandered against her will to Jungkook, the thoughts starting off innocent and unassuming. The feel of his face pressed between her hands when they had parted; the skim of his thumb over the back of her hand; his looming presence over her shoulder wherever she went; and the sound of his voice when he decided it worthy to offer his input. That quickly devolved into the sound of his labored breath that hitched, or the warmth of his hands that cascaded down her sides. The memory of his searing hot kiss tingled the skin of her lips and had her blood rushing through her body, heat and pressure building in her abdomen–

Yoongi gave a weak cough and shifted in his seat subconsciously, his left hand twitching beneath hers. Embarrassment flooded through her in waves as she remembered his presence. Surely he couldn’t know what she was thinking–but it still had her mouth running a kind of dry that no water would cure. Before she could fret over it too much, a small sliver of bright green caught her inner eye. A little vine curled itself upwards and bumped with the buds of newly forming leaves. She exhaled in relief, and put forth all of her energy into it, clawing like a madwoman towards the first sense of power flowing through her chest.

“There you are…” Yoongi whispered under his breath. Then everything was blue.

Crystal blue waters lapped at her shins and the bottoms of her thighs, pooling around her nursery vines and encouraging them up and up–the stems growing thicker until there were a dozen of them winding across the surface and dotting the water with brightly colored blooms like a pond from a story book illustration. It felt like his water was washing her clean of the dirt and grime Candida had left behind, leaving room for her own desires and intentions to grow through. It felt empowering. The flow of her own energy unblocked and honed in on dancing in and out of the water Yoongi had offered her.

She felt whole again.

_________________________________________

Yoongi worked with her patiently until her eyes began to droop and her bones weighed down with fatigue. Together, reminiscent of the months prior, they worked on the simple action of summoning her own power and releasing it. It was approaching eleven in the evening when there was a soft knock on her door that pulled them both from their ritual.

Jimin had meandered over, a small stack of paper in his hands that was streaked with black pen ink. A quick scan of the paper told her exactly who it was from by the blocky printer ink and Calibri font. He left shortly after bidding her a goodnight, offering to remind Jungkook to stop by as well to do the same with a wink and a cheeky grin that she batted away enough to close her door.

Y/n lazily draped herself over her bed with her legs dangling down below her with the papers hanging loosely from her fingertips. Yoongi had taken to cleaning up the candles and oddities he had displayed, while upon his request, she read the packet aloud so the two of them could catch up with the rest of the group–and Yoongi wouldn’t have to wait for her to finish, which was a plus in his mind.

Thumbing over the first few pages, she mentally thanked Jimin for being so thorough; each paragraphed answer had whatever question they had asked abbreviated in swooping lettering above it. With a steady breath, she began to read, forcing away any of the discomfiture that came with having to read aloud to someone else.

Q: We are stuck on what path to take, what advice can you give us to help make a decision?

Answer: I suggest taking whatever route does not involve my aunt; but I am certain you know that already. What are your options?

Q: G-min or whatever course you suggest with whatever information you can give us.

Answer: What I can suggest is limited. While I pride myself on staying intact this long–my in-depth knowledge is rather disappointing–thus I will try and offer what little information I can to hopefully lead you on whatever path that fits your intention.

My brother and I did not get along for the majority of our lives, and it was in his best interest to keep me away, or to torment me whenever I dared try and return. You already know that I led an affair with his wife which earned me lifelong resentment (which was arguably deserved in this case), but what really put the nail in my coffin so to speak, was the loyalty his children had to me over him. Even long after I kept my distance did his children come to me for whatever life threw their way. Johan even specifically requested me to be present at his wedding, and for the day he stepped up as owner of the hotel.

You can imagine how angry this made him. Even in the afterlife.

However what I can say is this: When I did try to return, there were significant times where things changed. Most notably, was perhaps a decade ago. (Excuse my poor sense of time, it can be hard to keep track of years and days when you have no body to tie you to such an arbitrary system). After a few attempts at returning home, I was able to slip through the cracks unnoticed. Margaret–a wonderful woman in both life and death–kept me hidden in the study and away from the havoc that had been unleashed on the property. Our usual meeting place. It was around then where things started taking a turn for the worst.

Family and friends became mangled and twisted. Their humanity sucked dry from their spirits until they were nothing of who they once were. It came on relentlessly, without mercy. Taking anyone who dared step in its path.

Before I continue on, it is crucial that I tell you some important facts of our connection. Of our family.

First: The job of keeping the house sane fell on the wives. Unfortunately, whatever secret they all shared died with Patti, and was left forgotten. There was a small group of us that she did let assist her when Duane became…unmanageable. However some details were never shared.

Second: Because she had never gotten the same initiation or level of support as the other matriarchs, there was a group of us that worked around the clock to help Margaret keep the home at its normal level of activity. I never left the house–not really. I would return when Duane would putter off to work and partner up with whomever was home to get the job done. This was usually done using bells because it was all we knew. However we did start to get creative after a while.

Some of our little hodgepodge group had their own methods: Seonggi Kim would sing or use religious tokens such as holy water or prayer. Youngho Jung enjoyed playing the trumpet through the halls when they were empty, or dancing with the bells attached to his ankles to ‘kick up the dust’ as he would say. It wasn’t the same exact way Patti had done things (I can vaguely remember some kind of cleaning solution and a spoken prayer, but she preferred to do it privately and away from us).

We spoke in code through hidden notes. This was especially nifty if I wasn’t able to catch them before Duane returned.

Then one day, they stopped. The Jung's and the Kim’s I mean. It was right around when Johan took ownership of the property when they took their leave with little to no warning. I tried to give Margaret what help I could, but Duane had retired not too long after, and it was hard for me to come around outside of holidays and events I was specifically invited to.

I am of the belief that Duane had cornered them. Given them an ultimatum: stay involved and put a wedge between them that could risk their children’s future, or back out when given the chance. I do not hold resentment towards them for taking it. I do just wish we could have discussed it further before the rug was pulled out from under our feet so abruptly.

With a lack of man power, things spiraled quickly. I am much wiser than I was then. IF I had known then what I know now, it would have been clear to me that the first step would have been unraveling whatever it was my brother was up to–because whatever it was, it can only be described as evil. He became sick. Twisted. Cold.

That brings us back to the decade past in the study with Margaret. We tried to hold a small group together in the study, doing in death what we had done in life. But it didn’t work this time. Not like it did when we were alive. Whatever plagues this house has surpassed the tools we had to keep it contained. We fought to try and reach anyone else on the property for assistance, but our calls were always left unanswered. The new matriarch had dismissed Margaret’s efforts to educate her, and thus we paid the price.

Something had exploded when Y/n left. It drenched the grounds with filth that grew arms and legs, wrapping its fists around whatever it could at a much faster rate than ever before. A completely new reign of dark. We can only assume the source is the woman that has been steering the ship with a compromised head of the estate under her thumb. The only way for her to wield the power of her husband.

Whatever it was she had done–it strayed from the other families. I saw them walking, sitting, and lingering in spaces freely as though nothing had changed. I think whatever promise had been made years prior kept them out of it. Over time they too started to vanish, just not in the same caliber as ours. They would simply leave this plane, only to return later when things were relatively calm to poke around their descendants. Like they were taking a small vacation somewhere else until the storm passed.

They will not talk to me. They will speak to no one.

Except perhaps they will speak to you.

If you have family who you are able to speak to, I do believe that to be your wisest choice. They have been here watching over everything from the sidelines, safe from it all. I would even be willing to bet that those who are still alive know more than they care to share.

I apologize, I have gone on for far too long. Is there anything else you would like to know?

Q: Do you know when the plague of madness started? You said it worsened recently, but Jungkook shared that he had seen someone M.A.D before then.

Answer: That I don’t have an answer to. There were always a few spirits that were less than cordial, but never were they as bad as they are now. Even when I lived here from my youth well into adulthood a handful of ghouls liked to stir up trouble and scare the children or the guests that stayed on the property. I was not a believer when I was young the way I was later in life, so it is hard to say what I turned a blind eye to. But it was never this bad.

Q: You specifically mentioned my (Hoseok) family and the Kim’s. Would they be beneficial to reach? I had seen Youngho in a vision only once.

A: They were the ones to help the most, and I would assume–to my best knowledge–they were the most involved long after. The Jeon’s were much less interested in it, though they did offer to assist here and there. They were never the religious or spiritual kind. The Min’s were still adjusting when this was all happening, and kept to themselves–no doubt worried what getting involved so early into their placement could mean for them if things went south.

Seonggi and Youngho were very involved–as much as me I would say. I can’t promise they would be willing to speak.

Q: I’m going to pivot here for a moment. Ani, the little girl that attacked Margaret. Do you know anything about her? She seems to strike a nerve with them. Would it be wise to look further into her?

Answer: Ani is a mystery to us all. Poor girl has been trumping around, mostly plagued since I opened my eyes on this side of the veil. It can not be ruled out that she is some child of an affair or even a child someone looked after that lingered after her death. You’d be surprised how many spirits roam the property that have nothing to do with us. It is curious though, if the infection truly only stays in my family, who she could have belonged to. It was no one I was familiar with.

And in my personal opinion, a dog will always gnash its teeth when you prod at a tender muscle. If they are reacting strongly to you diving down that path–that might be another good one to take.

Y/n frowned, running her fingers over the ink and retracing the lines from one end to the other. Yoongi had long finished putting away his belongings, listening intently from her desk chair while she recited Bear’s writing.

“Is that all?” Yoongi asked.

“Yeah,” Y/n sighed and dropped it onto her comforter next to her. “What are you thinking?”

Yoongi rubbed the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip, staring out her window into the early summer evening. “Maybe we do move forward with Ani. Or one of Hoseok’s grandparents…”

“But G-min?” Y/n sat straight, furrowing her brows.

Yoongi looked down to his thumb that he had begun picking at. “If it’s not going to get us the answers we need than I won’t push it.”

“Yoongi, you have been saying this whole time that you think it would be helpful. And Bear said it himself: Dogs bite when you hit their sensitive spots. Literally the day after we said we’d reach out to him my parents intervened,” she reasoned.

“I guess you’re right about that…” Yoongi drifted off, his leg bouncing a mile a minute. “ I just don’t want to push it. Not with the kid.”

Something about the way he referenced Jungkook sounded off. His usual playful term of endearment that he favored for him sounded less lighthearted and more genuine. More protective.

“Jungkook can handle it. As long as you are open and honest with him.” Y/n’s voice felt strained from how much she had talked that day, and it cracked a few times through her short reassurance. She stood, taking shuffling steps towards her desk chair to pull his thumb from the wrath of his teeth. “Careful, your hand has already been through enough today.”

Yoongi stared at their connected hands, tracing the way they molded together between them. When he looked back up at her, Y/n had a hard time seeing through this mask he put up–a look in his eyes she didn’t entirely recognize.

She took a risk, flipping his palm towards the ceiling to massage soothing circles into knotted muscles that wound through it. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting a little different…”

He stared, mesmerized by the pressure she applied to the spots that she could no doubt tell were tender, working away the overuse from his tools at work and the pencils he gripped well into the night.

“I’m okay.”

Y/n gave him a coy smile and hummed in a way that made her disbelief known to him. “You can tell yourself that, but you can’t sell that bullshit to me.”

Yoongi’s breath caught when she found a particularly sore spot near the base of his thumb. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yoongi,” Y/n chided him, halting her massage. Finally his dam broke, and with the first drip of honesty from his mouth she continued to ease the knots in his palm.

“It should have been me,” He whispered into the air between them. “I should’ve been fired. Not him. He’s done nothing to deserve this shit. I was the one that got everyone involved, and here he is taking my fall. A load of fucking crap is what this is.”

“It should be no one,” Y/n corrected him with steadfast reassurance. She moved her ministrations up towards the muscles and tendons above his wrist, kneading circles into any tender spots in his forearm. “None of you should be losing anything. None of you deserve any of it. End of story.”

Yoongi winced under the onslaught of her fingers, clicking his tongue when she increased the pressure to tease him. “I know that. But if it had been anyone of us–”

“No,” Y/n cut him off. “You deserve it no more than anyone else. You deserve to be here, to work, to live, and to pursue whatever the hell you want to here. You said it yourself that you had been unfairly painted by my mother as a villain–don’t you dare paint yourself as less worthy of anything because of how they treated you. You belong here with us.”

Yoongi’s face scrunched up like he was in pain, but she wasn’t massaging him anymore. “Do I?”

“Of course you do. We wouldn’t be complete without you.” She inched her hand back down to his, linking her pinky with his and swinging their hands pack and forth. “Pinky promise.”

She let that ruminate within him for a few moments until his breathing returned from stuttered to even.

“So. How do we find G-min?”

_________________________________________

Y/n slept alone that night. Jungkook wanted to take time to call his dad before Mariah did, and Jimin had passed out on his bed the minute he got back to his room after delivering Bear’s conversation. She wouldn’t have minded it if it weren’t for the nightmares that plagued her.

Flashes of the lake’s black waters, yellow vintage kitchens, and loose pieces of sheet music strewn about a floor–battered and sopping with water that made the ink bleed. Each time she awoke to put a stop to them, she would fall helplessly back into another. Her second round could easily be blamed on her father who must have returned with her mother, the rhythmic creak of the floorboards under his feet and the quiet hum of a lullaby anything but soothing. She was tormented by the face of the beastly Devil; his gaping mouth and thin overly stretched skin that twitched with the pulse of black ichor beneath his skin sneering at her from down hallways and around corners. His morose cries and incessant weeping echoed around her dreams and followed her everywhere she went. When he would speak, it would either be tear-drunken French gasped out between sobs.

The final dream was short. Just the Beast hunched in the corner of the dining room making a mess of the rug and the floor with his ick, shuddering and dry heaving more liquid from his mouth onto his own chest. It was no different than the dozen she had already had. At this point Y/n was just waiting for her alarm to go off so she could down a cup of coffee and trudge to the greenhouse with Namjoon. The Beast’s self-pitying cries lost their scare factor after the first six times she was forced to watch him crawl into a different corner to cry.

“I am…sorry.”

Y/n twisted in her chair to look at the creature. He had yet to speak to her directly in any of her dreams this night. Silence ensued and she was beginning to play with the idea that she had just imagined the muffled apology when he wept again, his scraping voice piecing together his phrase as though he, too had no idea what it was he was saying. It was choppy, and each word had a different tone from the next.

“You always…hurt the one you love…The one you shouldn’t…hurt…at all…”

He shifted his massive face to look at her, and with his mouth now uncovered, she could hear a melody forming. He was singing to her–in his own strange way.

“You always…take….the sweetest…rose…” He brought a set of spindly claws up to his face, watching them open and close, the tips puncturing the flesh of his own wrist until his words came out in a growling hiss. “And crush it….till the petals…fall…”

The beast left the song suspended in the quiet dining room, unfinished. The eerie silence that followed was scarier than any song he could sing, or any growl he let loose. He turned to her, a painfully slow pace, and his melted eyes dribbled from his sockets and down his cheeks until one bubbled and hissed with a release of pressure.

“I really am terribly sorry. Perhaps I am the Devil; and perhaps the name is fitting. Don’t look at me with too much disdain for what is to come. There is no choice.” He lowered one hand to the floor. Then the other. Repeating the same process until he was creeping towards her in a clumsy crawl. “Doomed is the fate of the prettiest flower. Plucked.” He took another step. “Plucked.” He was only a few feet from her chair now. “Plucked.”

Snakes slithered up her chair and burst into a chorus of hisses in her ears, dragging their cold, scaly, bellies over her thighs and forearms that were stuck still against the seat. She gasped, and fought against the invisible restraints that kept her from swatting them off and booking it for the stairs to no avail. Her breathing was stifled by one of the snakes winding over the back of her chair and over her mouth. The same song he was singing played throughout the room on the record player next to her–but it was slowed and warbled–bouncing off the walls that felt too tall, the room to vast.

From the cracks of the crisscrossing, writhing, bodies of the snakes left for her, she could see the Beast sat by her feet, his head resting on her lap with only the bodies of the animals to keep his jaw from pressing into her knees.

“Say you will understand–say you will finally listen. It pleases me little to do this. But your selfish persistence is damning. Damning!” He wailed, tossing his torso over her in a flair of dramatics. “The lesson must be learned. And if you will not listen, we will find someone who will.”

The day crept by at a snail's pace. As did the rest that followed it. Her dream long forgotten during her waking hours, but it would make a reappearance each time her head met the pillow, or resting against Jimin or Jungkook’s chest while they slept. Except every night that followed, the Beast would never show himself–she would just hear the music, feel the wriggling snakes slide up her skin and his hot breath on her knees.

Work was her safe haven. With the grounding presence of Namjoon and Jungkook as she moseyed about the plants, she could forget the darkness easily when they made her feel so light. She spent each morning wishing for the days to move faster until their first real seance as a group planned for the upcoming Friday night, but she was at least letting herself soak up more time with Jungkook than ever before.

She couldn’t lie, having Jungkook around to help them took a weight (literally) off her shoulders when it came to heavy lifting or pretty much anything her or Namjoon forgot or missed–if they needed it, Jungkook would get it. And when he wasn’t helping, he was organizing Namjoon’s shelf of preserved plants, herbs and seeds, dusting them off and giving everything a much needed clean.

Another thing his presence did for her was give her ample time to explore their new boundaries as a…couple. Not much had changed for them in the literal sense–he didn’t seem too keen on PDA around other people, and she respected that. When they were alone though…that was another story.

He practically drowned in her affection. Any hug she offered him, any kiss she grazed on the apple of his cheek, and any compliment she threw him left him twinged with pink with the smallest of sweet smiles. His carefully maintained exterior stepped aside to make room for a much softer side of him that she cherished getting to witness. It was still clunky, a bit awkward, and sometimes hard to tell if the tiny glint in his eyes was one of happiness or discomfort–but it was them. And she had the rest of time to learn how to navigate it. His natural demeanor would peak through in ways she almost found endearing sometimes. Like when she would ask him if he wanted to go on a real date, he would furrow his brow and ask with a borderline flat tone why that was necessary if they were already spending time together everyday. When she clearly was taken aback by his answer, he ruminated on the question until the next morning he met them at the greenhouse with a fistful of handpicked wildflowers and asked her if she wanted to eat lunch together on one of the walking trails.

When she would prod into what changed his mind, he mumbled something about “Jimin said dates make your partners feel special, so I figured that’s what you wanted.” And when she would ask if he wanted to feel special at all, he would look just as unphased, and with an effortless way of making her heart flutter he would say “Just being with you feels special enough”.

He would say things like that often. The sweet antidotes spoken so plain and sincerely that she had no choice but to kiss him each time they did. Her relationship with him was already so different from the one she had with Jimin, but she loved it.

Thursday blew in with another wave of sweltering heat that had every guest and employee pulling out their favorite pair of shorts and the thinnest excuse for shirts they could find while still complying with the dress code. Y/n planned on spending her lunch with Hoseok, the two of them bonding over ranking songs that came on his car radio and a shared sandwich. Y/n was focused in on whether or not to give the current song a 3-star rating or a 2-star rating when Hoseok turned the dial to the volume down, his body language shifting from relaxed to fidgety with the flick of his wrist against the close window that drummed the same beat that they were just listening to.

“Do you not like that song?” Y/n asked casually.

“Huh? Oh no,” he laughed, breathy. “Not my style.”

“Figured.”

An air of unease settled over the car, the quiet now feeling awkward.

“Y/n?”

She turned from gazing out the window at the swaying trees to face him, his tight-lipped smile betraying his attempt at coming across as unphased. “What’s up?”

“If I–hypothetically–asked you to come with me to one of my appointments next week, would you?” His attention darted from his hands to the frayed hole in his baggy jeans, avoiding her at all costs.

“Of course, no questions asked.” Y/n grabbed for the small fruit cup that came with their sandwich and poked around the melon for which piece she would devour first. She didn’t want to look at him either. If she did he would surely see how anxious the proposition made her.

“You mean it?” Hoseok stopped his tapping, eyeing the side of her face warily.

Y/n nodded, making a noise in the back of her throat while her mouth was busy slurping up the juice of a rather large chunk of watermelon she had shoved into it. She forced it down with a swig from her water bottle, giving her chest a smack to clear her throat. “Is this one important?”

He blew a breath through pursed lips, punctuating it with another rhythm reminiscent of an earlier song. “Kind of. I’m getting a steroid shot, and then they were going to talk to me about scheduling a date for the surgery. I just uh…” He cleared his throat once. Then twice. “I just–your mom would usually go with me, and I don’t know who else to ask. I don’t think any of the guys would want to. Honesty I would feel the most comfortable with you.”

Y/n gave him her warmest smile, and without so much as a second thought she laid one hand across the knee closest to her and squeezed. “I’m not sure what kind of support I can offer, but if you ever need me to go I will. Just let me know the date and time.”

He stiffened under her touch, her pinky and ring finger resting on the warm skin that surfaced from one of the holes. “Are you…are you scared?”

“What?”

“You’re hand…” He peered down at where her hand rested on his leg.

Y/n jerked her hand back and wiped the sweat that had built up from just that short time they were connected. “Sorry–I didn’t–” She smacked her palm to her forehead with a defeated sigh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t mind.” Hoseok shifted in his seat with a twitch of his upper lip–something he did when he was in pain, and didn’t want to say anything. “You don’t have to go if it makes you freak out.”

“It’s not that–I just worry about you…that’s all.” She played with the necklace Yoongi had given her, rubbing her thumb over it, memorizing the natural grooves in it.

“About me?” A playful lopsided smile started to round out his cheeks. “I dunno–thought you said we weren’t friends anymore…”

“You can not seriously be joking about that already!” Y/n whirled on him, genuinely shocked he was so comfortable with their most recent argument.

Hoseok chuckled with an animated shrug. “What else am I gonna do with it if not make jokes about it? I gave it the courteous month. It’s free game now.”

Y/n deadpanned, and he let out another real laugh that shook his shoulders with its force. With his tension now gone, they returned to ranking a handful of songs before the clock reminded them that they were still at work, and their lunch break was coming to a close. Hoseok steer the car out of their favorite lookout spot and back towards the road while Y/n caught up on a few missed messages from their group chat, scrolling through the handful of them that had appeared.

[The Most Annoying and Toxic Coworkers]

[Zoltar 🔮]: Is anyone available to give me a quick hand?

[Midas(s)✋🃏]:👏👍

[Zoltar 🔮]: Funny.

[Zoltar 🔮]: Anyone else?

[Midas(s)✋🃏]: Y/n and I are at lunch. Srry.

[Jungkook ⚫⚫ 🔪]: With what?

[Zoltar 🔮]: I want to check the basement for a few of my grandpa’s things. I asked Bear to cut the cameras. If not I might have to stage a heist in my parents room.

[Jungkook ⚫⚫ 🔪]: I’ll be there.

They seemed to have been sent almost twenty minutes prior, and they were probably done with it by now, still Y/n typed up her own message to offer a hand if needed.

[Morning Glory 🌼]: We are on our way back from lunch, can we help with anything?

Y/n watched two little checkmarks appear underneath the message, but no message swooped up from the other side. Something ice cold started to form in the pit of her stomach, prickling her insides and churning her lunch around with it the longer she waited for them to respond. She tried her best to keep her anxiety at bay with balms of ‘they are probably still finishing up’ or ‘maybe they are already back at work and don’t have a second to check’. However all of that was flushed out to sea when Hoseok walked her to the greenhouse where only Namjoon was bent over his sandwich at the greenhouse table, no Jungkook in sight.

Suddenly her dream didn’t feel so easy to forget. The slithering snakes and looming stench of the Beast hitting her with full force. She brushed them away as she yanked open the glass door. This was Jungkook she was talking about–if anything came up to him he could take them.

“Welcome back.” Namjoon nodded to them both in greeting, rushing to cover his mouth to spare them the sight of the bite he had taken.

Y/n tried not to let her fear bleed through her tone. “Where’s Kook? Did him and Yoongi finish up okay?”

One of Namjoon’s eyebrows rose into his hairline, and he forced his bite down his throat before it was ready to be. “I thought he was with you?”

Y/n made a face, and chuckled nervously. “No–they went to the basement.”

“Yeah but when he brought me my lunch he said he was going to find you two.”

Y/n’s heart dropped into her feet.

No. No no no no.

In one shared look of panic that needed little explaining, she tore off towards the house, Namjoon following close behind her. Hoseok jogged to keep up with them, but lingered a dozen or so feet behind. The dining room window was cracked open to bring in some airflow, and from the little sliver of it she could hear an eerily lilting song coming up from the record player that sounded sickeningly familiar.

She burst through the front door to find the foyer tranquil and unassuming. The only thing out of place was the hallway closet door that led to the basement left slightly ajar, and the dining room doors mostly shut, a small gap leaving most of the room to the imagination.

This house had proved time and time again that it excelled in the art of deception. And today was no exception. The stillness fell heavy on the heaving shoulders of the trio that scanned the foyer for any sign of life, their ears on alert for a lone creak of wood from the stairs.

A call for their name was caught in her throat–if something was happening, they couldn’t give away that they were close. Or what if they were hiding? Everything felt like too much–her breath escaping her each time she tried to wrestle it in. She started towards the dining room to turn of the song that had haunted her every night, the floorboards groaning under her weight making her freeze.

After a few tortuously slow breaths the song stopped on its own and she could hear the needle skipping over the end of the record through the gap in the doors. Then that stopped too. A heavy step on the basement stairs had them all jumping back to face the door, waiting with baited breath for what was about to round the corner. Whatever creature awaited them. Would it be the Beast? The volcanic woman? Hadwin? Duane? Maybe even the children in their muddied vintage dresses–

“You’re back.” Jungkook popped his head around the corner to take them in, his eyes brown.

They shared a collective sigh of relief, and Y/n scrambled towards him to pull him into a hug.

“Jesus fucking Christ Kook!” She cried into his neck, her lips brushing the skin of his throat that was cool from the air conditioning he had been lucky enough to sit in. “I texted you! I thought that something had–” Y/n pulled back from the hug to get a look at him, to look into the brown eyes she loved to see at the moment. “Don’t scare me like that, idiot!”

Jungkook gave her a tense smile that almost warbled into a grimace. “Sorry…”

“You better be!” Y/n dove back in for another hug. “You and Yoongi both. Where is that asshole anyways? He always responds…”

She heard Namjoon tread over to the basement to peer down the stairs for the man in question, and the bench by the door made a noise when Hoseok sat on it to untie his shoes and stretch his hamstrings from the jog over. She looked over Jungkook’s shoulder to Namjoon, his mouth set in a hard line and his eyes quivering with something she wished she didn’t see. He looked at her from the corner of his eye and gave her the smallest shake of his head.

It was at that same moment that she noticed Jungkook wasn’t the kind of cold that came from sitting in an air-conditioned room and then touching someone who was out in the hot sun. This is the kind of cold that soaked through her thin shirt and deep into her bones, her muscles almost screaming to let him go.

She kept her eyes locked with Namjoon and her arms around “Jungkook’s” neck, her body beginning to shake. If she said something to Namjoon it would signal to whoever had their arms around her that she knew. But if she did nothing–who knows what could come of this.

Hoseok hissed from behind her, a welcomed distraction.

“Damn, you even had me running,” he laughed lightly, stretching his arms overhead. His hand bumped into something and he cursed–but Y/n was too scared to move and look. Too afraid to take her eyes off of Namjoon.

“Sorry.”

Y/n wanted to throw up. The way this “Jungkook” spoke was with too much emotion to be Jungkook. Her Jungkook had a delicate balance of plain and soft that no one could mimic. Not even the professional impersonator she was trapped against.

Hoseok must have heard it as well. Y/n saw Namjoon look at him from across the room, saw the look of pure terror he sent his way, flickering his eyes from Jungkook to the basement rapidly.

They were trapped.

Hoseok laughed, a convincing one that almost made Y/n believe it was genuine. “All right you two, enough PDA. Unless you want me to projectile vomit watermelon and BLT all over you.”

The record player kicked back on from the dining room, this time something new but just as sickly soft and sweet, fuzzy around the edges with age. Y/n took Hoseok’s out and loosened her grip on the man’s neck and swallowed the bile in her throat down enough to give the shoulder a playful smack like she would a friend.

“You heard ‘em. Release.”

“Jungkook” made no move to listen. Instead he gripped her waist tighter.

“I mean it, buff guy. I can feel it coming up–” Hoseok gave a good show with some exaggerated dry heaving and coughing to boot.

“I don’t have to listen to you.” The voice sounded like Jungkook’s, but the playful chuckle that came with it was just a tad too…too much. He pressed her face back into his shoulder, trapping her against it.

“Fine then,” Hoseok grunted, and she felt his chest press into her back and threw his arms over the both of them. “Ahhh that’s better. Group hug~”

Hoseok perched his chin on her shoulder, his lips close to her ear on the opposite side where “Jungkook” was shifting uncomfortably. She felt his breath his the shell of her ear, and one of his hands came up to rest over one of hers on the back of the mimic.

With his touch, came a quick flash of an image–a vision of Hoseok using the hand that rested on top of hers to tap a countdown, before pushing back on Jungkook’s shoulders towards the stairs, and Y/n doing the same and ducking out from beneath the hug. Hoseok must have given Namjoon a look to move away from the door because he did so with a nonchalant sigh and flushed cheeks.

“Well if no one is dying then I really need to head back to work.” Namjoon walked halfway to the door and stopped. “You coming, Y/n?”

Hoseok tapped one finger on the back of her hand, and an a flash he gave the Mimic’s shoulders one powerful shove, Y/n planting her hands on their chest and doing the same. He went reeling backwards enough for Y/n to swoop under their arms and twist back and away towards the foyer.

Hoseok didn’t give the Mimic enough time to recuperate from the sudden attack, giving another sharp shove of his chest back through the kitchen door where he skidded to the floor, slamming it closed the moment he could.

“The other door–go!”

Y/n skidded over to the dining room doors, hands enclosed on the handles ready to bring them closed when a flash of green caught her eye.

“Jimin!” Y/n fell through the doors with a scream.

Jimin was slumped in his seat with his head lolled onto the table next to his half eaten plate. Unmoving. His limp hand had split his drink that now dribbled onto his green shirt and the rug below, staining it a burgundy. She made a desperate grab for his face and pressed at the cheeks that were thankfully still warm to the touch.

“Wake up! Wake–” Her screams caught in her throat, tears blurring her vision. His eyes were stuck open and their sweet honeyed-brown was overcome with a shade of milky white.

She heard Namjoon call for her, but the doors that separated them from the foyer slammed closed, the lock clicking into place. The dial on the record player spun–the volume drowning out Namjoon’s fists that slammed against the door on the other side. She pressed a finger to Jimin’s upper lip and felt the faint puffs of air against it–almost knocking her over with relief.

The door to the kitchen swung with the Mimic’s entrance, still wearing Jungkook’s face and voice entered, looking right at her.

“What was that about?” His boots scuffed the rug as he closed in on them. “I thought you liked my hugs?”

“Not yours, you sick fuck!” Y/n spat. She lowered Jimin’s head back to the table and swiped the knife he had used with his meal.

The Mimic whistled a downturned tune, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “That’s not very nice.”

“I don’t believe in being nice to murderous assholes!” Y/n lunged at the demon, swinging the knife in hopes to land a blow to his chest but missing when he stepped back just in time for it to cut through empty air. He snickered, impish and inhuman, catching her wrist and squeezing it until it burned. Something popping beneath the force of his fist.

“Don’t be so foolish! You should know better than to do something so stupid.” Spit landed on her cheek from his clenched teeth, and the knife fell from her grasp with a cry of pain. “How have you made it this far with a brain so dull and thoughtless?”

The Mimic threw her effortlessly into the hutch and she crumpled–the air pressed from her lungs when her chest hit the floor with an audible sound. Something hard and cold pressed into her cheek. One edge pointed, one not.

Her necklace.

She curled her fingertips around the chain and waited. Praying the stone would be enough–pushing as much of her energy into it as she could.

The mimic crouched next to her, knife he stole in hand spinning around like a toy.

When his knee barely touched the blue fibers of the the rug, she broke the chain in on swift tug and shoved the stone into his cheek until it started to hiss with steam. He cursed and fell backwards, knocking his head into the table on his way down, and clutching for the hole she had burned into his face.

Y/n struggled to her feet and scrambled for the dining room doors–pulling with all of her might against the lock that wouldn’t budge.

“Arrow! Tree!” She screamed as loud as she could hoping they were near. “Sergeant–please! Help me open the door!”

The lock still didn’t budge, and with a harrowing stillness she realized that she could no longer hear Namjoon on the other side.

The mimic was starting to stir from under the table and Y/n knew she’d have to act quickly–but in doing so Jimin would be left vulnerable and alone. She wanted to scream. To cry. Whatever this was was the cruelest yet.

She was of no use with just the crystal and herself. She would need a real weapon. Something designed to hurt them. And all of those things were upstairs.

Y/n’s heart shattered–her face wet and her throat constricting on a sob. With one last look to Jimin’s slumped body she ran for the kitchen, twisting the handle with little resistance. She ripped it open and immediately tripped over something large in front of the door.

Her already screaming wrist cracked under her weight when they shot out to catch herself from the fall. She twisted back to see what she had tripped on and felt her lunch bubbling up into her mouth from her stomach. Hoseok had collapsed on the floor, eyes wide and white like Jimin’s.

She couldn’t stay and watch–she needed to move.

Y/n fought to get to her feet and hit the ground running. Her legs ached but she couldn’t stop–she made a beeline for Yoongi’s room and shoved the door open in time for footsteps to ring from behind her.

Her knees took most of the hit, sliding across his rug and ripping the sensitive skin over her knee caps to get to the chest under his bed. Fumbling with the lock, she finally cracked it open and started to heedlessly dig for anything she could–stuffing bags of herbs, bundles of sage and rosemary, and one of their spare flashlights into her shorts pockets. Something in the corner of his room jostled. It clanked and thumped about until she turned to look at it fully.

The antique mirror was propped in the corner and wrapped tightly with cloth and twine that was braided with herbs. It moved like a living creature against its restraints and fought against them to free the image of the woman on the other side. The hair on her arms prickled. Y/n could sense her. Without needing to look, the vision of the demonic woman's golden eyes stared through the cloth at her so hard there were phantom burns on the back of her head.

She heard Namjoon’s voice calling for her, and it took little time for him to pop around the door frame, face wild and out of breath.

“How did you get out?”

Y/n shook herself from the mirror's trance and snapped the chest shut. There was no time for Candida and her tantrum. “I hit him in the face. C’mon–we need to get to Jimin’s room. We need to get to Bear!”

The two of them raced around the corner and across the landing in a whir of labored breathing and pounding steps. Y/n felt so grateful not to be alone–to have one person left to help her. The two of them had just passed Namjoon’s door when she paused, and Namjoon had to grab onto the wall to stop from colliding into her back.

“Joon, you have those oils you made right? In your fridge? Can you grab them?”

Namjoon looked down at her curiously, brows furrowed. “Is that really important right now?”

“Yes!” Y/n struggled to catch her breath, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him towards his door. “I’m going to anoint the knife we stole from the historical society. Now go!”

Namjoon braced his hands in his door frame and refused to go further. It was then Y/n got a good look at his face–his one cheek had the faintest tear drop shape etched into the skin. So pale it could easily be missed when one was running for their lives. He couldn’t go through the door even if he wanted to

This wasn’t Namjoon.

“Ugh! Fuck you!” Y/n took a fistful of rosemary and threw it at him without bothering to see if it did anything, turning on her heel and breaking for Jimin’s door.

She slammed it shut in the fake Namjoon’s face and hurried to the printer to drop her collection off next to it on his desk.

“Bear! I need your help!” She tapped the top frantically. “Something fucked up is happening and I’m alone. They are all in danger–I don’t know where Yoongi and Jungkook are–Please!”

The printer whirred to life in an instant, as did the little walkie talkie parked on the shelf above it, his voice carrying through it.

“Scheiße. What can I do?”

“I don’t know!” Y/n flailed about for the knife, tearing open his drawers and rummaging through them with her good hand. “Anything! I don’t know what to–fuck I just need to find this! They could be dead for all I know–”

“Take a deep breath. I know it seems hard–but just one.”

She barely managed to follow his direction, but did so quickly.

“Perfect. We don’t have time to panic. That does nothing. I need your head on your shoulders and your heart beating. We need to move fast if it's this dire. I need you to get me out.”

Y/n wanted to cry, and she did a little bit–an anguished scream tearing through her throat. “I don’t–I don’t know how!”

“Yes you do. I know you can figure it out. Just summon me out. I know you can do this, Entlein. They need you.”

They need you.

Y/n smacked both palms on top of the machine and pulled–pulled with all she had. She pictured the youthful version of himself he had shown her in the vision with the violin; she pictured him as a child in the photo from the front lawn; and then she pictured him as she knew him–old and frail, telling extravagant stories with lips stained from the wine he stole from other people's glasses that he knew he shouldn’t have.

She thought of each one of her friends and let her emotions fuel her–of Jimin and Hoseok lying on the main floor with their white reflective eyes and wherever Jungkook, Namjoon and Yoongi were.

She thought of her mother and her irritating coolness from dinner earlier in the week. Of how she could do this to them. To all of them when they had all loved her so dearly with small shining faces and delicate hands she had held. How could anyone do this to people they claimed to love. To anyone at all.

There was a blinding flash of light, and all of the electronics in Jimin’s room fizzled to life with a deafening roar before splintering and cracking to nothing. The printer flickered and sparked, and smoke rose from the middle and into her face.

Jimin’s closet door crashed into the wall, stuff that had been neatly lined atop the dresser within tumbling to the ground as though invisible hands were swiping it off and out of the way–because they were.

The knife dropped to the floor from a box that had flung itself from it, and Y/n dropped to the ground with what she had–wadding a ball of rosemary and sage into her mouth and soaking it with her spit. If she didn’t have any oil she’d have to make it herself. Once the herbs coated her tongue with sharp and aromatic flavors that wound up into her nose and made her tongue tingle she spit it out into her hand and spread it over the blade, putting all of her rage and fear into the concoction until even she could feel it ebbing off the knife. Her eyes caught a flash of red on her knees–blood–and as though her actions were inspired by something deep within her, an innate whisper in her brain to use it. She swiped the blade across it directly and coated the side with the small trickle until she felt it good enough. As a finishing touch, she wound the chain that held the stone Yoongi had gotten around the handle and tied it tight.

She got to her feet with the blade gripped tightly in her fist. She spotted the gun on the floor and kicked it towards the closet where she could feel Bear still stood.

“Take this. I’m offering it to you.”

With the walkie talkie clipped to her shorts and Bear’s energy swirling around her side, they took to the hall that was now empty with no sign of the mimic.

“Y/n?”

A voice clipped through the walkie that was so soft it had her freezing in the door way.

“Y/n is that you?”

It was at her lips before she could even register grabbing it. “Jimin? Is that you?”

“It’s me! I’m stuck somewhere–I can’t see–I can’t touch anything. I can only hear. I thought I heard Bear and I followed it. Then I heard you scream. What’s happening?”

The Walkie talkie buzzed with the vibration of Bear’s voice now. “How close does she sound to you right now? We will come find you.”

“I don’t know. Y/n speak again please.”

“I’m over here,” Y/n kept her volume low. She wanted Jimin to hear but not every spirit in the house.

“She sounds far away.” Jimin groaned.

“Then we keep moving until I sound close. Listen for my footsteps. Bear, let me know if anyone approaches us.” Y/n moved out into the hall with the Walkie clipped to her chest and knife held at the ready. No one was going to keep her from finding him. From finding any of them that were still out there.

Not even her own mother.

If she showed her face to her right now, she might have more than just her own blood staining the blade. She almost hoped the cameras were working with each careful step. A part of her deep within the darkest parts of herself wishing she could look right into the glowing red dot that looked over them like an all watchful eye, blade in hand, a wordless threat that she would be coming for her.

_________________________________________

Song lyrics are from The Mill's Brothers, "You Always Hurt The One you Love", from 1958.

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