#and the story will probably rewrite your brain

[nothoughtsjustficrecs]

Review Written for The K-Fic Collection.

Oh, this was just so genuinely lovely. And now I really want someone to hold me under the stars and softly tell me their stories 🥺.

Thank you for writing this story and sharing it with us!

When I was reading, I decided to write down my thoughts as I go, as I knew I'd forget otherwise. Below this is literally just the thoughts I wrote down because I do not have the brain power to convert them into actual fully coherent comments [I'll put them below a read more cut for the sake of spoilers and such].

-

“ it’s directions to a wetland park ” oooh that kind of bog. I literally thought reader was asking for a toilet break lol

“ You beam at him, eyes sparkling in the sun’s last rays of the day, like a pet showing its owner a present they brought back from the outside. ” aw, cute

“ “Not until tonight, I haven’t,” is his smooth answer; and before you know it, he’s pulling the shift into drive and pressing hard on the gas. ” we love that support!

“ “Explain it to me.” ” oh, that’s the sweetest thing you can say when talking to someone who studies words 🥺

“ He lowers his face so that his mouth is close, so close, right by your ear. Freeing one of his hands from your embrace, he tilts your chin up with his fingers ever so slightly, pointing at a faint cluster of stars somewhere above and to the right. You squint your eyes to focus better as Jeonghan softly begins his story. ” oh, I love this so much 🥺

“ “Just.. how perfectly nature fits within itself sometimes, like one big recurring metaphor. As if the mother of the universe finds her favorite verses in the stars and rewrites them over and over because she can’t get enough of them.” ” love this

“ “Personally, I think I’ve received the message pretty well through you.” ” YESSSSSS! Be brave and honest, my child!!!

“ There’s a sharp intake of air. You feel Jeonghan exhale a breath, tingling your skin, and his lips are so close they kiss the shell of your ear as they move.

“I agree. I guess we are yet another recreation of her favorite tale of love, then.” ” 🥺

“ “The duality of man.”

“The duality of man, indeed,” you murmur. ” indeed indeed (yes, I did mean to write that twice)

“ “That’s never been something to ask of me. It’s always been pure fact, like the origin of the word bog. Pine has different Latin roots, Orion chases the Pleiades, and I want you.” ” 🥺💗

I feel like the majority of my reaction to this fic has literally been 🥺 and I should probably try to be more eloquent on a fic that has language as a theme, but unfortunately, my brain does not want to word, so I apologise for that!

📋 the study of prosody | ft. yoon jeonghan

PREVIEW. pros·​o·​dy. noun. the patterns of stress and intonation in a language. an example of its use would be the study of the following phrases: i.) if you want me, ii.) if you want me, iii.) if you want me.

FEATURING. stargazer!yoon jeonghan x linguist!reader GENRE(S). yearning, fluff, friends to lovers, suggestive (minors beware.) LENGTH | WC. <20min | 3.4k words EXPLICITS. cursing, one (1) mention of a spider, r ends up on yjh’s lap, car makeout session, light marking, grinding, yjh calls r sweetheart, lowk sub!r & sub!yjh (they are so effing down bad for one another)

JAY’S MUSINGS. been in the Craziest jeonghan brainrot for So long. someone help. for my beloved ashi, @junplusone, as we will now unfortunately promptly disappear again as stem major curriculums pick up once more. i offer u my love thru begging jeonghan. tysm for beta-reading. (p.s. slightly inspired by @mochacoda's night d(r)ive!! there is so much love written into her words it consumes me whole. pls go take a look <3)

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE. if you want me, you better speak up by ljh // understand by keshi // striptease by carwash // touch tank by quinnie // better half by jeonghan (ft. omoinotake)

i.) if you want me,

“Bog time?”

Jeonghan looks up from the GPS on his phone, an eyebrow quirked up at your out of the blue words. He has the address of a random park punched into the navigation, finger hovering over the Start Route button, but he easily swipes out of the tab as if it was a mere thought in the back of his mind.

“And what might you mean by,” he lazily curls two fingers in the air in quotation marks, “Bog time?”

To his question, you simply offer your phone to him. There’s a curve to his smile as he takes the device and stares at the screen; it’s directions to a wetland park about nine minutes out from your location, in some suburban neighborhood. Pictures show a few benches around the small pond and a trail leading behind to the forest.

You beam at him, eyes sparkling in the sun’s last rays of the day, like a pet showing its owner a present they brought back from the outside. “A bog! Have you ever been to one?”

Jeonghan hands you back your phone, fingers sliding against yours, and looks to the sky thoughtfully. He rests his hand on the steering wheel of his sleek black Toyota Camry, the leather glinting with shine, tapping his finger to a beat you wished you knew.

“Not until tonight, I haven’t,” is his smooth answer; and before you know it, he’s pulling the shift into drive and pressing hard on the gas.

Loving Yoon Jeonghan is easy.

It’s more of an afterthought for you at this point. You grab the last bag of his favorite chips at the convenience store? He’s planning his move to steal it as if you weren’t going to surrender it to him without a fight, but you play along anyway to indulge him. There’s a spider in the kitchen? He’s cheering you on for moral support as you grab a cup and some paper to trap it, but it takes one tremble of your hands for him to click his tongue, say you’re too slow, and get the job done for you.

His quick-witted, ever playful banter keeps you on your toes. You thrive in the presence of him like a sponge soaking up as much water as it can—except, unfortunately for you, you’re constantly on the verge of having it all flood out and drowning in it.

Because while loving Yoon Jeonghan is easy, wanting him is a whole different story.

Loving doesn’t result in an ache in your heart every time he talks about his latest date with someone. Loving doesn’t cause the burning pit in your stomach that surfaces when he leans over, just right, to whisper something only meant for your ears.

Love, to you, is the noun you hold for Jeonghan, stored in your hands when you light-heartedly swat him away with a tsk—and want is the verb that jumps out of you when he effortlessly catches your wrist in his hand, honey eyes gleaming in your lamp’s light.

“Yah, we’re here.”

His teasing tone snaps you out of your thoughts, and you blink in surprise. There’s no parking lot; his car is stalled on the side of the road, the headlights flickering for a moment before turning off.

“Where’s the bog?” you tilt your head in different directions, trying to get an unsuccessful glimpse of your surroundings.

Jeonghan snorts and pushes a lock of blonde hair behind his ear. “You tell me, dude. Can’t see shit out here.”

“Language,” you scold, before unlocking your side of the car and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

The neighborhood is quiet save for the occasional hoot of an owl and the wind’s loud escapades through the trees. You shiver and tuck yourself into the knitted sweater you had chosen for tonight, the wind picking up ever so slightly as if to mock your choice of clothing. Jeonghan is on your side before you can even think of yanking him out of the car, much to your dismay. He shuts your door and shines the flashlight of his phone onto the dewy lawn grass.

“What even is a bog?” Jeonghan queries as the two of you begin to walk in a seemingly random direction. “Just a wetland?”

“Basically, yeah. The thing we’re going too isn’t really a bog. More of a pond with some swamp aspects. I just think bog’s a funny word.”

Your shoes scrape against the cement. From Jeonghan’s light, you can see up ahead that just across the road is the sign from your Google Search, signifying your destination is close. Your eyes trace the trail winding behind it into the forest.

“Explain it to me.”

Startled, you glance back. Jeonghan’s face is faintly illuminated from the light bouncing off of you. If you were to focus well enough, you would be able to outline the slope of his cheekbone and the way some strands of his hair brushed against it ever so softly.

“The word bog? Are you serious? It’s really nothing,” you try to argue, turning back around.

“Come on. Try me.”

You heave a sigh. “Alright. If you want me to.”

“Yah. ‘Course I want you to.”

The air feels a little thicker now, but you swallow the feeling back and press forward as the grass gets taller. You wish it was warmer; maybe, if you were lucky, you’d be able to hear the night calls of a toad, or see fireflies milling about the shoreline.

“Gaelic origin, mostly. Just an adjective that describes something that’s soft and damp. There’s also some roots back to Ireland—they had a word that describes moist ground.”

While you’re explaining, Jeonghan carefully takes the lead, shining his flashlight onto the wooden sign marking the entrance to the trail and oncoming wetland. He hums in response.

“Nerd.”

You smack his shoulder blade.

“Ow—fuck, okay, I’m sorry!”

He’s laughing, and like the death of a star your anger explodes into oblivion, rolling your eyes good-naturedly as you shove him with your elbow. “You were the one who asked.”

“Ah, I suppose you’re right.” You glance at Jeonghan from within your peripherals while he speaks. There’s a flicker of surprise as you take note of his small smile that curls with an emotion you can’t quite read.

“Can’t help it, y’know,” he muses aloud. “To want is a cruel thing.”

ii.) if you want me,

Your breath evens as the concrete path gradually gives way to wooden boardwalk. The two of you walk quietly side by side, the water’s surface still and reflecting the moon’s light from above. Jeonghan had mentioned earlier that it was a waxing gibbous, and that a super moon would be occurring in a few nights’ time.

Moments were always stolen with Jeonghan—not because you two didn’t have the time for each other, but more so because you two seemed to have all the time in the world to spend in each other’s presence. Inseparable like the twin stars marked by the constellation dubbed Gemini, you grew so used to his existence that it took outrageously spontaneous adventures like this one to really cherish him.

Or, in this particular case, curse him and his ever observant nature.

“You want me to do what?”

“Just come here,” he urges, opening his arms a little wider.

Your hesitance is palpable, but ultimately, you relent, wiggling your way into his warm embrace. His hoodie is worn with seasons of journeys that you’ve accompanied him on, and it’s always been a comfort you’ve relied on for warmth.

Just… never with him alongside it.

“There you go,” Jeonghan’s lips skim the crown of your hairline and you shudder, the motion backfiring on you when he only presses you closer to him. “Y’know, you usually know better than to wear the thinnest knitted sweater known to man on a night like this.”

“You could’ve just given me your hoodie, you know.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to do that. Then I’d be freezing. This is a win-win.”

“You’re insufferable,” you say, and bury yourself further against the fabric.

The self-proclaimed bog is forgotten as the two of you find more interesting things to take notice of. Once more, a comfortable quiet overtakes you two, with your eyes following the sway of a tree’s branches and Jeonghan focused on the sky above. A moment to journal about later, maybe, with a fern taken and pressed to be studied after it dried. Perhaps tonight you’d snag the formidable prickles of the pine tree nearby. You’d always be interested in how words took shape after nature, the conifer’s history included.

As if on cue, Jeonghan’s voice is pulling you out of your thoughts in asking about the tree before you two. You respond in turn about the specifics of the pine.

“Doesn’t that have another meaning? Pine?”

“Mhm,” you hum noncommittally. “The tree existed first, then the verb pine came about later; means to long for or seek after, similar to yearning. They both actually stem from two different Latin words—pine tree from pinus and pining from poena. Cool how they ended up as the same word though, huh?”

Jeonghan is surprisingly still for a while. Leaves rustle nearby, being stirred by the wind, and you bite your lip.

Even though he’s heard you ramble about nonsense background contexts of words a thousand times over, the silence scares you. Sometimes you still fear Jeonghan will be bored by your constant, monotone voice, as if he was only listening to reply rather than understand.

“Hey, look up. D’you see those three stars up there?”

You glance above the tree you’re studying and nod against the fabric of his hoodie. The three stars in question are a straight shot line, banded together diagonally like a belt. Above those, another group of stars come together to form the torso of a man, one arm held out to hold something akin to a bow.

“Orion and his belt,” you confirm. “You’ve told me his story before—the hunter who boasted about killing all animals, right? I remember arguing about the right myth to follow.”

“Yeah, well, there’s more to it,” Jeonghan chuckles and wraps his arms a smidge tighter around you. You try to ignore the electricity shooting through your veins, piercing your heart like a lightning strike.

He lowers his face so that his mouth is close, so close, right by your ear. Freeing one of his hands from your embrace, he tilts your chin up with his fingers ever so slightly, pointing at a faint cluster of stars somewhere above and to the right. You squint your eyes to focus better as Jeonghan softly begins his story.

“The Pleiades were seven sisters who were sought after by Orion. Their father was Atlas, the Titan condemned to holding up the sky, and once barred to his eternal punishment, Orion took this chance to begin his pursuit. He was persistent in his chase for the sisters, wanting to win any of their favors through any means possible. Zeus eventually had enough of Orion’s attempts and turned the Pleiades into doves to free them; however, they asked to be placed in the sky to be closer to their father. That’s how the constellation we know of now came to be formed. Unfortunately for them, Orion took to the skies soon after and continues to chase them to this day.”

It’s your turn to fall speechless. Something about the tale makes your bottom lip jut out in a solemn expression; eternal punishment of any form, be it to hold up the sky for forever or to be chased unwillingly by a hunter in various forms, makes your heart ache. You stubbornly hope there is an end to your own suffering, fingers shaking as Jeonghan pulls his hand away from cupping your face.

“Don’t worry, though,” he whispers; his tone is so gentle it has you leaning into him subconsciously. “The Pleiades are safe. All Orion can do is long for, or pine after them, as you so dutifully defined for me earlier.”

“I’m glad.” Your voice, low and full of emotion, is almost lost to the wind as it begins to surge. “Sometimes feelings just can’t be returned, no matter how much we desire them to be. I would want them to be happy.”

You stare woefully at the sisters. Jeonghan’s gaze remains fixated on you.

“Me too.”

iii.) if you want me.

As you stare up at Orion and the Pleiades, your gaze rests on the silhouette of the tree before the two of you. The branches sway in the wind, catching the breeze, and you trail the outline of the tree across the sky. From just the right angle, Orion seems to lean against the pine, his weight being supported by the sturdy evergreen like it had grown specifically for him to rest upon. The thought makes you smile.

“Isn’t it crazy?” comes your muffled murmur from against the material of his hoodie; Jeonghan makes a noise for you to continue.

“Just.. how perfectly nature fits within itself sometimes, like one big recurring metaphor. As if the mother of the universe finds her favorite verses in the stars and rewrites them over and over because she can’t get enough of them.”

The wind begins to die down; there’s no need for you to be bundled up within Jeonghan’s arms, but you stay, waiting with bated breath for his response.

“How so?”

Perhaps it’s the late hour that boldens you with no room for overthinking, your phones tucked neatly away in your pockets as to not distract you. Your heart is throwing itself against your ribcage as you muster up a confession.

“There’s so many tales like Orion and the Pleiades, as sad as it is. But there are just as many triumphs as there are tragedies, all recreated over and over. The universe—she’s trying to tell us something. She’s telling us to find love in each other, and therefore, in ourselves.”

You swallow back any possible regret and finish, “Personally, I think I’ve received the message pretty well through you.”

There’s a sharp intake of air. You feel Jeonghan exhale a breath, tingling your skin, and his lips are so close they kiss the shell of your ear as they move.

“I agree. I guess we are yet another recreation of her favorite tale of love, then.”

Something shifts in you; an unspoken agreement that has your head reeling when he doesn’t let you slip away from him on the way back to the car. Your fingers are grasped lightly in his, and soft giggles tumble out of you when he fumbles to open the door of your side. They fall silent as he slides in, adjusting the chair back and looking up at you expectantly. His hand is out for you to take.

“Well?” is all he says, and the single word’s implication hits you like a freight truck.

Aren’t you going to be with me?

The wind howls, delighted and amped up from the excitement swirling within you. Your hair whips around your face protectively, tears beginning to stain the apples of your cheeks. There is nothing in your mind except for the way Jeonghan’s wisps of blonde hair fall away from their place behind his ears. You ache to fix them.

“Are you sure?” is all you can croak out.

His eyes shine in the moonlight, and with no hesitation he replies, “Yes, if you want me.”

Your weight rests on his lap in a painfully easy manner. The car door clicks shut and is swiftly locked, and before you know it, Jeonghan’s hands are settled around your waist.

“Hi.” You squeak ever so eloquently.

Jeonghan has his face mere inches away from you. His nose tickles yours in a sheepish laugh. “Hi to you, too.”

“Did you mean it?” you blurt out with trembling fingers, daring to clutch onto the hem of his sweater as if he’ll blow away with no warning. “Are you serious about this?”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” he teases. “Are you saying I’ve been implying something tonight?”

“I want to say so. I want to believe that you have been.”

The way your name falls off his tongue is pure silk, and you swear he’s reinvented a new meaning to it just now. Who knew that meanings could be born from different intonations?

“Please,” Jeonghan breathes your name again; it’s a borderline whine that rushes the air out of your lungs. “Just let me want you. I’ve been denied it for so long.”

The kiss that follows is searing, burning with the desire you’ve wrestled with shoving back into your throat until now. You aren’t entirely sure who’s lips pressed to who’s first, but what you are sure of is the moan that slips from Jeonghan’s mouth, his breathing harsh and ragged.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you have half the mind to tell him to mind his language again when he interrupts you by squeezing your waist. “You’re so goddamn hot.”

Laughter bubbles out of you. Jeonghan glances up at you in surprise, his eyelashes fluttering with confusion. You giggle and cup his cheek.

“Weren’t you just versing poetry to me thirty seconds ago? What happened to that?”

He just shrugs and leans forward to press a feverish kiss to your lips. “The duality of man.”

“The duality of man, indeed,” you murmur.

Your fingernails scrape along his neck enticingly, tangling in the tufts of his blonde hair. You give an experimental tug and revel in the gasp he lets out, a whimper being drawn out of you.

Jeonghan tilts your chin up and begins to pepper your jawline with kisses, each more passionate than the last. He’s pushing your sweater’s neckline to the side by the time he reaches your collarbone, spurred on by your quiet moans and high intones of his name, nipping marks into your skin. Red blooms across your shoulders from his love bites.

“I didn’t know you were a biter,” you quip through gasps. “Should’ve figured, though.”

His fingers, running along your curves from under your sweater, suddenly pinch your butt. You yelp and whine at his antics while Jeonghan just laughs.

“Better than you, sweetheart,” he smirks, rubbing circles into your skin as a silent apology. “All bark, no bite.”

You kiss him to shut him up, tongue sliding against his before beginning to suck on his bottom lip. He tastes like the honey lemon tea you shared earlier at the cafe. You wonder if you taste the same.

A wave of heat scores through you at the thought, wanting nothing more than to eternally be enveloped by his scent, his taste, his everything. You don’t even realize how hard your hips are pressing into his until he breaks the kiss with a groan, bucking up into you with a delicious sigh.

You feel him, hard and hot and sorely needy, and you take the chance to grind back down against him, adoring the way his shuddering lips chase yours. The world is lost to you; all you know is Yoon Jeonghan, and he simply is enough.

“I want you,” you suddenly say, pausing to take in the sight below you.

His cheeks are flushed, yours no doubt no better, and his hoodie is barely hanging on to the lower half of his torso. Pale, muscled skin peeks out and tenses at your touch sliding up his abdomen. Jeonghan is glowing, and tears prick the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by emotion.

“I want you,” you repeat, lips ghosting his. “But I want you to want me, too. Do you?”

“Dumb question,” he whispers back. “That’s never been something to ask of me. It’s always been pure fact, like the origin of the word bog. Pine has different Latin roots, Orion chases the Pleiades, and I want you.”

A sigh escapes you, and you let yourself press once more to him, answering his confession with a kiss.

 I want you. Your body, made by the universe, retells your story over and over as it moves in time with his own. I want you and I want you to want me and I want us.

Jeonghan eagerly kisses you in return as if to say, Go ahead then, take me. Take it all. I want you.

Take everything in me, and leave nothing left but us.

[junkmailmusubi]

hey guys you should play vivid/stasis

[nondelphic]

you know you’re a writer when…

you spend 30 minutes choosing the perfect synonym for “said” only to change it back to “said.”

you google “how long does it take to bleed out” at 3 a.m. and now the FBI is probably watching you.

you write one sentence, stare at it, rewrite it 14 times, and somehow end up back at the original version.

“this scene is so important” but you have no idea what the scene actually is or why it’s important.

you come up with the best story ideas… in the shower… with no way to write them down.

your characters feel like real people but also you’re like “who are these guys and what do they want from me?”

your brain says “start writing!” but instead you reorganize your desk, reread your notes, and spend two hours naming a side character who shows up once.

you’ve cried over your WIP exactly 67 times and will do it again because the pain is the point.

you reread something you wrote and think, “wow, did i peak as a writer three months ago?”

every writing session begins with the sacred ritual of scrolling social media, opening unnecessary tabs, and procrastinating until panic sets in.

you have no idea how long a chapter should be, so you just… vibe.

you can’t watch tv or movies without mentally critiquing the plot, dialogue, and pacing.

your writing playlist is 98% vibes, 2% songs you’ll actually listen to while writing.

you keep a “murder notebook” but swear it’s not suspicious because it’s for your novel (probably).

the phrase “just one more draft” is your eternal mantra, even though you’ve rewritten this thing more times than you can count.

[luna-azzurra]

5 Ways to Actually Get Writing Done Without Selling Your Soul (or Crying into Your Keyboard… Again)

» Set Specific Goals

Sitting down with the vague idea of “I’m gonna write something” is a trap. It’s like walking into a grocery store without a list—you’ll leave with five snacks, zero dinner, and a sense of moral failure. Set a goal. A real one. Like...

“I’m going to write 500 words.”

“I’m going to finally fix that scene where my MC argues like a confused raccoon.”

“I will name the horse in chapter 3 and stop calling it ‘Equine Placeholder.’”

Specific = focus. And when your brain knows the mission, it’s much less likely to yeet you into Instagram for 45 minutes.

» Make Your Writing Cave Cozy (But Not Too Cozy, You’re Still Supposed to Be Working)

You don’t need a Pinterest-worthy office to write, you just need a space where your brain doesn’t go, “Ah yes, this is where we rot.” That means:

Get rid of the chaos pile on your desk.

Turn off your phone notifications (no, you do not need to reply to that meme right now).

Put on music if it helps—lo-fi beats, rain sounds, dungeon ambiance, whatever makes your creative brain purr.

And listen, if your writing setup is literally “half my bed, one sad candle, and a playlist titled ‘angst in the moonlight’”—same. Make it work.

» Trick Yourself Into a Routine (Because Discipline is a Scam and We're Just Goblins With Deadlines)

Look, “routine” sounds boring and adult, but hear me out: it doesn’t have to be rigid. You don’t need to write at 5am with green juice in hand like a productivity cultist. You just need consistency.

Write after you brush your teeth.

Write before bed with your laptop balancing on your stomach like a raccoon with a diary.

Write for ten minutes during lunch, just to prove to yourself you’re still a writer.

The goal is to make writing so normal, your brain goes, “Oh, this again. I guess we’re doing this.” Momentum is magic.

» Use Productivity Hacks (Or: Outsmart Your Own Gremlin Brain)

Your brain? It’s crafty. It will try to distract you with snacks, existential dread, and seventeen Wikipedia tabs. So: outwit it.

Try the Pomodoro Technique:

25 minutes of writing.

5 minutes of pretending to stretch but actually scrolling.

Repeat until your story is slightly less of a hot mess.

Or time block. Or sprint with a friend. Or lie to yourself and say you’ll just write for five minutes—then trick yourself into staying because now you’re in the zone and your villain is being so deliciously cruel.

Whatever works. Bribe your brain. No shame here.

» Stop Editing Mid-Damn-Sentence

Nothing kills momentum faster than rewriting the same paragraph eleven times before moving on. This is your permission slip to write badly. Like, aggressively mediocre. Like, "this dialogue sounds like a soap opera performed by raccoons" badly. Because you can’t fix what you didn’t write. First drafts are for getting the clay on the table. You’ll sculpt it later. Probably while crying and muttering “why did I make this character so emotionally repressed.”

[kryptoclark]

꒰ 8:17 A.M. ꒱ ❛ clark kent x reader ༉‧₊˚✧

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄 of working citizens outside in metropolis city, sidewalks packed and streets traffic jammed with beeping cars, the noise inside the daily planet isn't that far off.

there's a certain rhythm to the daily planet that contrasts the messy commotion of the outer world, especially in the morning. despite its chaos to anyone else who doesn't work there, there's a predictability in its chaos.

phones are ringing and there's no sign of that stopping. keyboards are clacking furiously, as if racing to a finish line. across the office, chief perry white is already shouting, the victim of it being the poor new intern carrying stacks of papers and running about – you give him four days until he either crumbles under the pressure or rises above it. someone's already spilled coffee on a copier and pretending he didn't by the way he whistles with an empty mug, with dried coffee running down the side, in hand.

you'd long since stopped to tune out all the noises inside the planet; in a way, it was too familiar to be uncomfortable after having spent so much time there.

you liked the energy of the office, even when it was overwhelming – especially when it was overwhelming. it was a type of high thta probably wasn't good for your nervous system but you don't seem to mind.

you weren't even a top reporter (yet!), but you'd been clawing your way up the career ladder from a mere intern for a while now. there's been countless coffee runs, countless rewrites, and a number of bylines buried on page ten to actually earn you some respect in and out of the office.

your eyes flit to the clock on wall above the elevator.

clark is late again.

an amused smile lifts your cheeks and you can't help but roll your eyes, picturing the overgrown man squeezing between pedestrians with a 'sorry ma'am' in a struggle to reach the office before perry chews him out.

clark kent had arrived a little over a year ago, fresh from smallville, kansas and wide-eyed as hell. everyone thought he'd get eaten alive in the office.

but then he didn't.

clark asked questions. yet, he listened more than he spoke. he wrote with a heart that was rare, nothing like the writers who'd come and go with machine-like brains whose only goal was to churn out the most recent news in the most theatrical of ways.

and somewhere along the way, you'd started sitting beside him in meetings, splitting cabs when perry sent a team out for a scoop, and staying up late helping him edit – and reedit – numerous drafts.

if you're being honest, you don't even remember when it changed from just being work.

all you know is that you had started saving (and sleuthfully stockpiling on) the good coffee pods.

that's what you're doing this morning, sitting at your desk with your coffee mug in hand, trying to work up the nerve to open a half-written draft you'd had writer's block for days now.

you're halfway thought a sip of your coffee when the elevator dings.

"i made the front page!"

clark's voice rings as he bursts out of the elevator, holding that morning's copy like it was a lotto ticket, practically glowing. the rest of the office continues around him, each with their own duties and agendas.

you grin, standing from your desk, pretending like the copy isn't already on your desk. "you what?"

he's already crossing the floor to meet you at your desk, tossing his briefcase haphazardly over his desk chair. "front page. my story. perry ran it above the fold!"

his face lights like a child on christmas, his boyish grin making your expression mirror his. he presents the newspaper in front of your face like a kid during show-and-tell at school, pointing directly at the romanized font of his name on the byline beneath the title.

"clark that amazing–!"

and then suddenly, you're off the floor.

"clark!" you laugh, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he spun you in a dizzy circle, newspaper crinkling between you. "what are you–"

"thank you!" he said, half-laugh, half-shout, as his strong arms held you maybe a little too tight and maybe a little too long. his glasses briefly slipped down his nose. your coffee, still in your hand nearly spills over his dress shirt. somewhere, someone wolf-whistles.

as if realizing, he sets you down carefully, face flushed and blinking.

you're a little frozen, one hand holding onto one of his biceps and your other wrist pressed against the other for balance, recovering from the spin.

clark looks down at you, bright-eyed and a little breathless himself, and he smiles down at you sheepishly.

"sorry... uh, got carried away," he murmurs, his voice growing back to its usual softness.

your heart hammers against your chest. "no i..." you trail off, laughing softly. "you're fine. i mean, congrats. front page! that's huge."

"yeah," he says, but his voice seems distracted now. his eyes keep dropping – first to your lips, then flitting back up to your eyes. "i was excited... and couldn't wait to thank you."

your brow quirks at the latter of his words.

sensing your confusion, he continues. "for helping me edit... and the occasional motivation booster when i attempted to scrap it."

"ah," you muse with a nod. "no problem, clark. you do the same for me," you remind him with a soft beam. it's true that while you stayed up late helping him with his drafts, he also helped you with yours; never had to ask, he just did.

you finally pull your hands back, slowly and hesitantly, suddenly very aware of your close proximity.

he stepped back, too, like the realization that you're still so close hit him all at once. he coughs, readjusting and pushing his glasses up his nose. "uh–" he stammers, eyes flickering around for a conversation point, landing on your mug. "coffee. did you want a refill? i was gonna grab one before the morning meeting."

"oh. yeah," you say, blinking slowly, then rapidly, like you were coming out of a trance. "yeah, that'd be great... you know where i put the pods."

he gives you a quick nod, half smiling at the mention of your stash in one of your desk drawers.

you stood there for a second, staring at his retreating back, heartbeat still thumping against your ribcage in a way you believe you may need to consult a doctor for.

it's just clark. your dorky, impossibly kind, slightly scatterbrained and distracted coworker who still signs off all emails with 'warm regards.' the guy who insists on carrying your bag on top of his when venturing out for an on-site scoop. the one who knows your coffee the exact way you like it despite never telling him your order.

but clark doesn't look dorky to you right now.

not with the way his dress shirt clings to his back as he walks away. you watch as he rolls his sleeves slightly up his forearms, just enough to show the flex of them.

not with the way his curls are a little messy from the wind, as if he ran his fingers through it several times throughout his morning.

not with the way your body still feels warmth of his and the strength of his arms around you.

you exhale, a little too forcefully, and drop back into your chair with slumped shoulders, your fingers pressing against your temples as you struggle to force your brain back into work mode.

it doesn't work.

because all you can think of his hands on your waist when he set you down, his softened smile, his echoed laughter...

you love the chaos of the daily planet. but you don't know what to make of the chaos of the fluttering of your heart all to do with the dork in glasses who you always assumed was just a good friend.

everyone go thank superman (2025) for curing my writer's block <3

[randomshyperson]

Butchered Tongue - Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: The Halloween Disturbances separate Wanda from her wife, who, intrigued, begins to take a closer look at the anomalous activities in Westview. Or the one where you discover Westview isn't what it seems, Agatha loses her temper, and Death makes an appearance. 

Warnings: (+18), there’s smut at the beginning (sub!wanda, hints of power dynamics, enchanted strap, creampie, dirty talk), mentions of magical manipulation, Westview canon compliance, agathario being agathario, dark and traditional magic, mentions of attempted magical resurrection, a lot of canon angst ‘cause why not, nothing bad ever happen to kids denial is a river | Words: 7.060k

A/N-> “Why this has an open ending, mary?” Well for start, this is a test. I’m writing a long fic that rewrites and inserts reader into westview drama and I wanted to see how further I could dive into this subject and also bring agathario angst. I liked it very very much but this work here I actually had a lot of fun writing it and i wanted to share it with everyone. I hope people tell me what they thought of it, if you all would rather have a story for the beginning with all the scenes of them together or just a story that moves forward (i haven't thought of a plot after this yet). Honestly, this is just for fun people, I hope you liked this and I hope that I someday write more about this little variation of new characters and dynamics I wrote in this one. The new series will have hybrid!reader ‘cause i’m a TVD fan and i miss that shit daily (and witches and vampires/werewolves are a match). Ps. I suck at summaries and now I just copy-paste the show's official summaries haha

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | *Series Masterlist

*you can read the two first "chapters" for context but it's not really necessary, to understand the story. This is pretty canon-compliant

-&-

Pietro's presence just worsens the tension between you and Wanda.

Not that he's behaving inappropriately or anything like that - his flawed personality is probably his charm. 

The problem is that you had no idea Wanda had a bother in the first place. You were certain she didn’t, just two seconds before she opened that door, but by the same second she told you who that was, your mind went blank and a click of new memories was input into your brain. You could relax and pretend they were always there, and trust your wife but she must have been feeling strange about the whole thing as well, somehow sharing her hesitation through the magic that surrounded every corner and mind of that town.

That's why when Wanda came back to bed that night, she found you already asleep - or pretending to. Every instinct in your mind was telling you to run screaming, the image of your work colleague and his despairing eyes, begging for help, piercing all the new family memories you were getting now.

Children growing up years during one single evening, neighbors terrified subconsciousness, mystery brother. Things seemed to be getting out of control for Wanda as well, but she just kept saying everything was fine and you could trust her.

She didn't try to press you into a conversation, but you heard her tense sighing around the room while she changed into her nightgown.

In no time, there's a soft weight on the bed and a pull on the mattress. You feel her warmth behind you but don't move an inch.

Wanda shifts and you stop breathing when her fingers reach out for your back. Tentatively calling for your attention.

Sighting deeply, you slowly turn to face her. You don't know what you were expecting, maybe red irises that would take your doubts away. You weren't expecting to find teary eyes instead. The effect was nearly the same though - seeing Wanda crying knock down all your defenses all at once.

“Hey.” You start softly, one of your hands moving to her cheek. She leans into the touch immediately, a sad smile on her lips. “Why are you crying, darling?”

She shakes her head, and it looks like she won't explain further when suddenly, she sobs. “I can't believe he's really here.” 

Wanda looks so vulnerable but you're so confused. You don't stop your caress on her cheek but you stare at her in doubt. “Oh darling, tell me what's wrong? Didn't you two get along?”

Wanda chuckles sadly. Your words are not meant to be anything but curious and reassuring of her feelings but they pierce her heart nonetheless. The fact that this version of you has no idea of how much she lost, and didn't even know who Pietro was until tonight makes her feel so wrong about everything.

“We did. He, hm…” She dries her own tears when evading your touch. To lie to your face, she needs physical distance not just emotional. “We grew apart, that's all. It's really nice to have my brother around again.” She turns away, to gaze at the ceiling but you frown at the sudden change of behavior. Wondering what you might have said to upset her, you swallow as Wanda yaws. “Today was just a lot. Let’s just sleep, okay?”

Wanda turns her back to you without another word but less than a minute later, you hear her trying to shuffle her crying.

You don't ask her any questions as you adjust to hold her, feeling her body tensing before relaxing completely.

There will be time for questions tomorrow. Right now, you just hold your wife while she cries herself to sleep, hoping she knows in her heart you'll be there for her.

-&-

Pietro Maximoff could be a bit inconvenient. But so could be Agnes, the nosy neighbor who seemed to share a special affection for Wanda's twin. 

You couldn't really decide which one of them was the most cheeky.

With the daily routine falling into place again, you wanted to believe things were getting better but in fact, they weren't. That whole “foggy mind” sensation never left you, and you had the strong impression that the whole two weeks of Pietro sleeping on the couch and every other routine memory with the boys, Wanda and occasionally Agnes around the round was somehow implemented into your head during your sleep. It just didin’t feel like weeks had passed, but somehow everybody was acting like it did.

Without any proof to that, however, you found yourself staring at a colorful outfit in your shared closet.

Wanda got up early - She has been quite evasive about your agony. And her lack of interest just makes you more anxious.

But by the time you were ready to face another day, she was already dressed up in her red costume, looking way too pretty for someone you were supposed to be mad with.

“Hey darling good morning. Your outfit is right there, I'm gonna check if the boys are ready.” She spoke very quickly, hands busy with the last adjustments of her hair. But her little crown was slightly misplaced and you moved to her way before she could bypass you and leave the room. “What are you…?”

Without a word, your hands move to fix her appearance. Wanda stays put, eyes scanning your face as if searching for a hidden meaning behind your actions, and at the slight feeling of her presence in your mind, you chuckle.

“Is this what you do now?” You question and Wanda's cheeks grow red with shame. “Little peaks whenever you don't feel like talking to your wife?”

She gasps slightly at the accusation. But you're staring at her with anything but teasing behind your eyes and Wanda lifts her chin.

“I don't want us to fight.” She declares but she doesn't move away from your touch so you don't give her space either.

“Fight? You barely pay me a glance.”

“That is not true!” She defends herself immediately but you chuckle dry.

“How come is Halloween already? I could swear it was summer. Didn't we go to the local club just a couple of days ago?”

Wanda holds your wrist, moving your hand away from her red crown. 

“Could you just behave? Today, at the boy's first Halloween? Please.”

She was not only diverting the whole situation guilty towards you but also ignoring your questions. 

When Wanda decided that behaving so toxic towards you was acceptable you don't know.

What you know is that she needed to be reminded of a few important things.

“I'm afraid that your bother is having a terrible influence on me, darling.” You start, freeing your hand from her grip only to move both to her waist. She swallows hard but keeps an indifferent expression. “I'll be up to mischief all evening.”

She frowns, even if by instinct her hands find your shoulders to correspond to your touch, she looks tense.

“What… You're not sticking around for your son's first Halloween?”

You chuckle at her choice of words. Nowadays, every time you want to question something, Wanda goes for emotional appeal. 

“Is it? They are already ten. I'm certain we must have taken them to pick up candy at some point. It would be odd if we haven't.” 

Wanda narrows her eyes at you. So this is how you gonna play this game - by taunting her on everything that was weird about Westview, trying to see her crack on her indifference.

She takes a deep breath, fingers adjusting your pajama’s collar.

“You're trying to get a reaction out of me. I'm sorry, but I already said we're not fighting today. If you can't skip work, I'm taking the boys with their uncle.”

“As you wish, darling.” You retry with the same serious tone. 

Wanda stares back. And there's a pause and another. 

Then, a pull on her waist to bring her hard towards your chest. Wanda barely has time to blush or choke on her breathing when your lips meet her in an intense kiss.

She moans against her will into your tongue, her body melting as your hands squeeze her waist, that doesn't help her regain her posture one bit.

She feels her back hit the shelf when you push forward to press her against it, but that only makes her kiss you harder, the affected sighs during the kiss only making you crazier.

Your hands start to wander, and the bedroom door locks by itself, a spell of noise filling the wood as well. As your kisses go down her jaw, her trembling fingers try to undo the knot of your pajama pants. She ends up failing in the activity when you start biting a sensitive spot behind her ear, your teeth scraping the way down, and Wanda wonders if she should cause more fights to have such a mind-blowing turn-on like this; she feels like if you don't fuck her now she might combust.

She only realizes she's started begging because you give a sadistic giggle, which makes her cheeks burn.

"I might not let you leave the room, Wands." You tease, and she has trouble even understanding what you're saying because you've lowered your fingers to where she's already started leaking beyond her costume. "Making those delicious sounds, and dressed like that. I don't want to let you go." 

She forces her mouth to work, even though she's first letting out a little squeal when she feels your palm press against her covered pussy. "I'll be quick." She replies hoarsely, and you raise an eyebrow at the double meaning. She chuckles weakly, sighing. "You won't even have time to miss me." 

You hum absently, looking down. One of your hands caresses her ass and then her thigh, smoothing her pantyhose. Your fingers tease her intimacy, bringing the moisture she can't contain, and making her knees buckle. When Wanda shudders, in that sexy way she always does every time her orgasm is building properly, you sigh. 

"Sorry, honey, I really need to touch you." It's your only warning, and Wanda wants to pretend she doesn't like it when you rip her costume at the bottom, but she ends up rewarding you with a new wave of wetness running down her thighs.

You kiss her again as your fingers find her entrance, but Wanda has trouble even standing, let alone kissing you back when you’re touching her like this. Your fingers tease her hot entrance before you push two digits inside without ceremony, grunting at the warmth and the way she squeezes you. Wanda sighs contentedly and resists the instinct to close her eyes to meet your gaze. She holds on as you rest one hand behind her on the shelf, and adjust the angle of the other, going deeper inside her. It’s almost a challenge as your thrusts start to get more determined and harder and she has to grip your shoulders to stay upright, biting her lip to muffle the sounds that tear from her throat.

The climax builds so quickly, she might be embarrassed if you weren’t her wife, and you know her body so well. Just adjust the angle, press her clitoris with your thumb, and Wanda arches and comes hard, keeping herself standing only by holding on to your shoulders, while all the lights in the room flicker and the place shakes as much as your body.

You have a satisfied little smile on your face as she tries to stop shaking, and she can't hold back her moan when you remove your fingers from inside her only to suck them clean one by one.

You kiss her again as soon as you finish, and Wanda finds it so dirty and sexy that she starts scratching your belly, ready for another. You break off with a giggle.

"Weren't you the one in a hurry?" You tease, your pants loosening as Wanda starts to feel around you, pulling the item down with some urgency.

"Weren't you the one who wouldn't let me get out of bed?" She responds aroused, managing to make you giggle before pressing your hips together, her firm hands squeezing your ass.

When she kisses you next, sucking on your tongue, you grunt. "Fuck, you drive me crazy, Wands." You break the kiss, manhandling her back to the bed, and standing behind her. "You're gonna get on all fours and watch yourself get fucked like the slutty housewife you love to be. Come on, Wanda." A slap to her ass has her whimpering on shaking limbs until she finally exposes herself to you. The mirror in the corner of the room is ignored, but you force her face up, and she stares at the sight that leaves her dripping.

It doesn't surprise her to feel the hardness against her entrance, but it makes her break into a deep moan. The toy conjured in your pants that are still hanging at your knees slides in easily, and you both grunt at the sensation of the enchanted cock filling her up. Your first thrust is the only gentle one. Your hands grip her hips and then her hair, and Wanda is transformed into a pathetic mess of begging and moaning as you begin to fuck into her hard, the bed rocking with your movements.

You grunt between thrusts how much you love her. How much you love filling her, how much you love the way she sounds and feels. How much you want to fuck another baby into her.

Wanda comes without warning, her hands gripping the sheets in desperation, her body giving in to the climax as she cries loudly into the bed. You don't stop your movements, the creamy slickness making a dirty sound that makes you curse softly and Wanda blush deeply. She grunts at the overstimulation, but her hips move in time with yours.

You tell her that you're going to come, your thrusts becoming more frantic and uncoordinated, and she keeps her gaze on your reflection, watching with adoration the way your body moves against hers, your face contorted with pleasure as she barely manages to stay on her own limbs. When you come inside, the sensation is too delirious to begin with, so Wanda follows your climax, moaning as your body falls on top of hers, holding her to the bed as you pour yourself inside her.

But as your breathing calms and the arousal has subsided to deep intimacy, you sigh and pull out of her, throwing yourself next to her on the bed. Wanda frowns at the change in your energy and looks at you curiously.

"We can't end all fights like this," you murmur, and she raises an eyebrow.

"Can't we?"

But despite your dry chuckle, there's no joy in your eyes. It makes Wanda feel like the worst person in the world, even after what was probably the best sex she's had in a long time.

"I'm gonna go change. I promise I won't ruin anything for you today." You say, and she wants to pull you back and tell you that you never ruin anything, that this is all for, but none of that comes out.

She just stands there in silence, until she remembers everything she had planned for today with the noise downstairs.

She's already fixed her costume and tidied the room when you come back with a towel slung over your shoulders.

“I…” But the boys running and fighting with their uncle downstairs make Wanda sigh. She offers you a lingering glance once she touches the doorknob. “I love you, Y/N. Never forget, alright?” 

You give her a lopsided smile. “Don't start or I'm gonna kiss you again.”

She smiles and leaves without saying anything else. You don't know how her heart ached at the fact you didn't say it back.

-&-

The further you went, the less habited Westview became.

The realization gives you chills, and as the city turns into this creepy empty scenario, you start to consider giving up your little investigation and just go back to your lovely wife and children.

It's the neighbor's parked car at Ellis Avenue that makes you sigh determined.

You're surprised to find Agnes having a drink inside. The small bottle has an insight that looks strangely familiar to you but you can't put your heart on that. And you're busy speaking:

“Goodnight, Agnes, is everything alright?” You greet but upon your sudden arrival, she chuckles ironically.

Not even bothering to hide away the bottle that has something so strong that you can smell the alcohol from afar, she leans into the window to get a better look at you.

“And what are you doing here, sugar?”

Her attitude chocks you. Not only that but something about the ascent also makes you frown. But you decide to play along because things are weird enough those days.

“Hm, I was just going for a walk.”

Agnes lifts an eyebrow at you. “Oh, does she know you're out?”

You know immediately she's talking about Wanda but you have no clue what that means. So you swallow drily and stare at the older woman.

“Yeah, I… I tell my wife everything.”

Agnes giggles wickedly. “Is that what you believe? Truly? How lovely.”

“Agnes, I don't understand -”

“Stop this act for once!” She cuts off angrily, opens the door, and almost hits you in the process. You step back so she can get out of the vehicle, and she hits the door a second time. “I'm Agatha! We know each other! Stop this foolish act for once!”

You frown and shake your head confusedly. “Of course we know each other, you're my neighbor-”

She groans impatiently, giving your shoulders a hard push. “Do you know how worried I was when you disappeared? Do you even care?”

“Agnes, I don't-”

“When you said you wanted to do the right thing, I let you. I gave you the space you wanted. When you said you would play superhero with those lunatics, I said okay, do one crazy thing this century, we all have our phases.” She continues to vent, without caring about your confusion. “But then you were gone! They brought everybody back except you. There was a whole fucking memorial you know? And I thought, fuck that stupid asshole finally got what she was looking for. And yeah I took your body from those shitty agents like you made me swear I would do if you were ever treated like a lab rat, but then I came here for a job and here you are! Playing housewife with that witch as if nothing bad happened ever happened!”

You interrupt her: “What bad thing happened?”

“You died, your idiot!” She screams back, stealing the air from your lungs. But she sighs to keep her composure and then chuckles humorlessly. “Or at least that's what the news said, right?” She retorts, her eyes shining lit. You don't know if it's the tears or the challenge behind her iris. “What is this anyways, Y/N? Where even are you right now? Do you know? Does she?”

You step back, your heart racing in your chest. “None of this makes any sense. You're clearly disoriented, and I'm sorry but I can't deal with this right now.” You practically run away from her, but Agnes - or Agatha at this point you're not sure of anything anymore - stops following you. She shakes her head in disbelief and takes the small bottle from her pocket again. With a long gulp, it looks like she drinks all of it before turning back to her car.

You just keep moving. 

The Avenue limit is in front of you, and you don't have to make much of an effort to realize there's so short of energy there. Like a wall right in front of you.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your hand to the border moving forward with your fingers.

The second you're out, Westview disappears.

-&-

Before.

When Agatha Harkness decided her apprentice was ready for a real mission, she expected the witch she chose to spare instead of sacrifice once, to go for something simple, like killing a dragon or exploring a different realm.

She was not expecting an infinity stone.

“It's stupidly dangerous.” She said when you suggested but you didn't lose your posture.

“And when are we doing things that aren't dangerous?” Your argument started there just before you listed how inconvenient it would be if Hydra learned how to manipulate the stones for the actual magical community. Teasing Agatha by saying you might ask the Kamar Taj Mages for the same mission was the main reason she agreed with this.

In no time, you're heading off to a little place called Sokovia. Alone for your first mission, you didn't call for help when you got captured because that would be too humiliating. It was your first mission without Agatha, you could handle Hydra and their weird science.

You could handle their experiments and torture in search of truth. You could handle an infinity stone being carved into your skin as they tried to study the magic from your veins. If there was something that Agatha taught was that you should never fear power, no matter what, you should take it. And so you did.

Agatha was supposed to be proud - You did not only succeed in your mission when you interrupted the experiments by stealing the stone from Hydra to give it to the Avengers (who were not supposed to do the same with it to be clear), but you were also much more powerful than any witches your age and beyond due to the experiments. But instead of being proud, Agatha got jealous. She was worried too, but mostly jealous. It's just who she was after all - the most ambitious person you ever met. And having her apprentice overcome her power in one mission didn't make her feel very good about herself.

After the fight that escalated with this jealousy, you two departed for years. You became an Avenger, and Agatha kept doing what she did best. The stone craved at Vision’s head kept whispering fears into his mind until finally, the mad Titan came to Earth to retract what he believed belonged to him and kill anyone who stayed in his way.

You were given a proper and public funeral organized by Natasha Romanoff, so Agatha knew you were gone. She saw the news, then she visited the grave. 

The Avengers didn't know the old ways of witchcraft, so she felt she was in her right to steal your body without giving any explanation. Leaving an empty and destroyed grave behind. It was not the witch community problem that a new tension surfaces with that, whispers of government organizations or criminals wishing to have your body for their own experiments. The talk of men was of little importance for a 300-year-old witch anyway.

Five years came and a flick of fingers brought everybody back from the dead. All but you.

Agatha had your body magically preserved - untouched by the lady of death as one last favor from Rio - she made sure you were buried in her family land as well. 

You must rest with your kind she would say.

But everything changed one afternoon. She felt a powerful magic emission from afar and left her property. Unaware that you heard the same calling.

The connection you held with the witch calling whatever was deeper than the dark roots of that cursed magical ground your body was buried in. 

The stone that was used to amplify Wanda's and your powers created a magical bond between you two that not even death could break. That, and well, you loved each other very deeply. The second her heart screamed your name during the Creation of Westview, you moved to her. 

Your poor stitched body couldn't do the travel - the fight with the Titan weakened your flesh to its limit. You crawled into the Harkness Residence while its owner flayed to answer the magical calling before you could.

The only way you were able to reach for Wanda was with your mind. The preserved connection of the stone to yours and her power brought your conscience all the way to Westview but weakened by the distance and your wife's grief, all memories were gone. 

You were there, but not really.

And while Agatha's employees woke up and freaked out about a body in the living room, your Hex version and her were locked inside Westview, following up fantasies for what felt like a lifetime but in reality barely a week had passed.

That until of course, you stepped outside.

The first person you see is Darcy Lewis. But she's nothing like you remember her.

Just like everybody around, she had circus outfits and even some handcuffs and chains around her that made you frown.

Getting up from the ground you didn't even realize you fell into, you take a moment to clean up the amount of dirt from your clothes.

“Darcy, is that really you?”

The brunette let out a nervous laugh. “I'm sorry, am I the only one who saw this woman appearing out of nowhere? Hello, guys? Okay, I'm out of here.” She moves away nervously but you stumble behind her. 

“Wait, Darcy, is me-”

“Get away from me, stranger!” Darcy shouts back, almost running but you focus on using your abilities. It's painful, as if your mind and body - and the Westview version of yourself are -  getting used to magic again, so when you teleport to her way, your knees give up and Darcy is kind enough not to let you fall to the ground. “What the hell was that?”

You balance yourself with her help. “Darcy is me. How can you not remember me?”

“Sorry, I'm not good with names.”

You chuckle weakly. “Not even Jane Foster? Or Thor?” She blinks, suddenly more uncomfortable than before. When she hesitates, you reach for her head. The magical subjugation is forced away by your magic and Darcy gasps in chock. 

“Oh my god, is really you is it, Y/N?” She finally recognized you, her memories coming back to her at high speed.  You sigh in relief, moving closer to free her from her chains. You hug her back as her arms lock around you tightly. “I knew they were wrong when they said you were gone.”

You break the embrace to give her a small smile. “Well, about that…”

You had to tell the story very quickly; your goal was to get back to the city, to your wife. Who needs to explain to you how the hell you were here and not buried in New York. If Wanda wouldn't talk, Agatha would have to do it.

Darcy, fortunately, managed to get a car.

"[...] do you really think she resurrected me?"

Darcy shrugs, she's driving and even though she's not a witch, she seems to take the whole story very seriously.

"Look, it's like I told you, SWORD called all kinds of experts to this place. No one really knows what the Hex is made of, much less how you're here. But what we do know is that your body was stolen about three weeks ago, and no one has been able to locate you anymore."

You imagine how Wanda would have done it, and the image of her digging your grave and dragging your body through the city gives you chills. But it also has nothing to do with Wanda, and makes you sigh wearily.

"I don't know, Darcy. It doesn't sound like anything she would do."

The woman with the glasses forces a sad smile at you. "Grief is a strange feeling, my friend. We often do surprising things."

There's a pause, but when Darcy speaks again after a whistle, her tone is much lighter than before.

"Now, talking about your body, are you sure you don't feel... you know, physical?"

You laugh, scratching the back of your head awkwardly. "It's hard to explain. I don't think I would notice if I weren't a witch, and well the spell is strong and capable of fooling everyone here. But I can feel that I'm not complete." You try to explain. "I only noticed when I left the Hex. It was like a tug, behind my head, as if my mind is the only physician thing here somehow. I don't know how Wanda brought me back, but I have a few guesses. A lot of them involve necromancy, but I don't know where she would have learned that. Although, the presence of a friend here in the Hex gave me some pointers."

Darcy frowns. "Friend? Who?"

She has to brake suddenly, because there's a sheep crossing in the way. It's your turn to grimace.

"What the hell...?" The herd lingers and then gives way to children crossing the street and an old lady with walking sticks.

Wanda is keeping you away. But why?

"She's doing this, Darcy." You mutter irritably, looking out the window at the next distraction on the road - roadworks - before unbuckling your seatbelt. "This is ridiculous. I am dead, and my wife would rather arrest me on the road than talk about it. We'll meet downtown, Darcy. And thank you for coming here to help Wanda." You get out of the car before your friend can protest, and fly away without waiting for anything else.

It's time to have a grown-up talk about things.

-&-

Your sudden departure, although short, was enough for your physical body to gain the little vigor it needed.

Just enough to call the only person who could help you in this state.

Agatha had few trusted employees, but they all liked you. Worried and attentive to every movement, to every weak breath of yours, while they stitched and healed your body, they heard you whisper the name that had not been pronounced under this roof for hundreds of years.

“Rio Vidal.”

Harkness Mansion grew cold at once, and the employees shrank in fear but also lowered their gazes in respect for the personification of death that had just appeared at the entrance.

Rio walked unhurriedly to the stone bench where your body rested. She touched your face and hoped you had some strength to open your eyes.

Completely white irises stared back at her. An empty, soulless cocoon.

"Poor child." The woman whispered, tracing your cheek carefully. "Agatha never learns."

She made to move away, but you managed to move your hand to hers. "Help me." The mansion's servants left the two of you alone, but Rio didn't care if she had an audience or not. She sighed sadly, her free hand resting above your ribcage. 

"Agatha asked me not to take your body, but this is inhumane. You're suffering, Y/N." You shake your head, tears escaping the corners of your eyes. Rio looks at you in confusion and insists: "Of course you are, child, look at you. You're empty. You're not even here anymore." Your fingers intertwine with hers in desperation. "We..West...view."

You struggle to get the words out, until finally, Rio understands.

"Westview is a town in New Jersey. That's where Agatha anchored the preservation spell, isn't it? Tell me where. I'll set you free."

You shake your head and your words change. "Wanda."

The woman frowns. "Wanda? Your wife? What does she have to do with...-"

One of the servants comes back into the room, a newspaper in hand. He seems too scared to interfere, but he still manages to hand the item to Rio.

When she reads the headline about Westview and a mysterious Hex that has quarantined the town, she laughs in disbelief.

She comes back to you only to pull you up in a sitting position, ignoring your grunts of pain.

"Our wives are insane, honey. Get up, let's clean up their mess."

It's a quick trip with Rio's skills, of course.

And you arrive for a very ugly fight, which your body certainly couldn't handle. That's why Rio keeps you both hidden, watching from a distance.

Agatha - as always - takes impulsive actions and this time, she can't win.

In any other situation, Rio would have intervened on her wife's behalf. This time, having to help your body stand up, prevented from decaying by spells because Agatha refused to let you die, she doesn't do it. She just watches Wanda take her power.

After so many centuries of watching Agatha do the same to other witches, it's definitely an interesting scene.

The limit is drawing in imprisoning her. That Rio can't allow.

"May I interrupt, ladies?"

Rio's sudden appearance makes Wanda go on alert and prepare for a fight. But her entire posture collapses when she locks eyes with you.

With a sob, Wanda calls your name and then runs to meet you.

You have trouble staying upright with the hug but you don't dare complain.

Billy and Tommy look at the scene with confused faces, and it is Billy who whispers his version of Hex:

"Why is mom hugging that zombie?"

You laugh softly, ruffling your two children's hair. Wanda is crying, unable to let go of your body, and you sigh tiredly. You feel the tug coming from there, but you have no idea how to regain a physical form. The connection seems impossible.

Agatha starts to cause a commotion with her ex-wife.

"You're so irresponsible, I told you a million times that breaking the natural order of things is impossible, and it's temporary. You don't listen, and you don't learn!" Rio accuses, trying to reach Agatha who is running away from her until she reaches your Hex version.

"Here’s the proof that it's not impossible!" Agatha retorts in despair, ignoring the looks in her direction. "Look at her! She lives! It's her soul! Wanda brought her back. She could-"

"Agatha." Rio cuts her off, tears in her eyes for the first time. She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. And when she speaks again, her voice is much softer than before. "Not him, okay?"

And the witch who is holding your shoulders tightly, sniffs softly, trying to hide her own emotions. "Why? Why can't you give me the only thing I want?"

Rio swallows hard. "He found peace, Agatha. There is no return for his soul. Y/N is still here because you imprisoned her. And Wanda was able to call her back. And now." She gestures to your two versions and your wife. "It's time for goodbyes."

Wanda didn't want to let go of you, but you gave her a reassuring smile.

Your physical body couldn't speak, and she noticed it immediately. She touched your cheeks and stared into your completely white, lifeless eyes.

"I'm sorry for doing this to you." She whispers, sniffing softly. "I'm going to let you go."

The boys don't listen, having been taken away from the confusion by Monica as soon as Agatha and Rio start arguing. And Wanda needs to leave your body with Lady Death, even if it breaks her heart into a thousand pieces.

"Will you take care of her?" She asks, swallowing the urge to cry again. She looks at Agatha, sulking in a corner as if she would also start crying at any moment, and sighs. "Of the two of them?"

Rio nods and looks at Wanda curiously. "We'll meet again, Wanda Maximoff. I'm at the end of all journeys."

The younger witch can't smile back, she just looks at Rio with such deep sadness that it makes the entity regret having been present in so many moments of Wanda's life.

With one last look at your body, the Scarlet Witch joins her family from the Hex, and leaves towards their house, while the magic fades in the sky and around everyone.

-&-

You turned on the lamp just as Wanda had turned off the opposite one, and she smiled as she looked at you.

The boys were sleeping upstairs, and from the window, you could see the Hex closing.

"Sorry, I remembered..." You start awkwardly, out of breath. "That it's bad luck to say goodnight in the dark."

Wanda smiles, approaching in small steps. "Is that so?"

You nod, your hands in your pockets because you don't know what to do with them. You didn't know what to do with anything.

"It's the name of a song, isn't it? One of the many you used to listen to in the Avengers Tower."

Your wife sighs, giving you a sad, almost guilty smile. She's finally close enough to touch.

"I'm sorry about your memories." She asks softly, her hands moving to your wrists. So that you take your hands out of your pockets, and place them where they belong. Around her. "I would have told you the truth from the beginning, but I didn't know-"

She trails off when instead of wrapping your arms around her waist, one of your hands reaches for her cheek, caressing it with a tenderness that makes her melt and gasp.

Wanda can't do this. She can't. She doesn't want to say goodbye, and she can't say goodbye to you again.

"I'm so sorry for making you cry." That's what you say, which just makes her break down into a sob. You give her a tearful smile, your other hand also reaching for her face, to hold her tenderly. "You, Wanda Maximoff, are by far the best thing that has happened to me in 345 years on this earth. The fact that I get to die knowing that I was loved not just by anyone, by  you, is the epitome of a fulfilled life.” You say, caressing her skin with your thumb. You take a deep sigh, as your wife tries to hold your hands in her face. “I love you, Wanda.”

“Please.” She cries, falling into your embrace when you move your hands away. She holds you as tight as she can, but she can feel the fading of the spell. “Please come back to me.”

With all your heart, you wished to fulfill her request. And with the end of Hex, the last sensation you felt was Wanda's embrace, and her tears wetting your shirt.

It made all the sense that you woke up with a jump, calling her name.

The place you were in looked nothing like Westview or any place you had been in years.

But it wasn't completely unfamiliar. It looked a lot like a forested area you hadn't been in since the last century.

And the little boy picking flowers near the river where you emerged from took all the air from your lungs.

Little Nicholas Schatch looked back as if he had guessed you were awake.

"Hi, Aunt Y/N."

You gasped with excitement, sitting up. He came closer and didn't complain when you pulled him into a tight hug. Even though you came from the water, your clothes were not wet.

"Hi, Nicky." You cried, holding him until he laughed at the tightness and tried to escape the grip. "Look at you, boy. You look so handsome, so grown up."

It had been so long since you had seen him since you had helped Agatha bury him. He didn't seem to have aged a day, but he had looked so small when he passed, that you had the impression he had grown. "It's so good to see you again, dear." Nick smiled, sitting down next to you on the dry grass. 

"You didn't bring Mama with you." You give him a sad smile, shaking your head. 

"I'm sorry, little prince, your mama isn't ready yet." He nods in understanding, upset but not insisting. You look around, recognizing that scene, the cabin in the background, the river. You sigh before looking at Nicholas again. "Where's your other mother?" He shrugs, gathering the flowers in his lap. You realize he bound them together with magic, not with knots. You frown, touching his hands. "Can you do magic now, little prince?" He nods, smiling. 

"My mother taught me." You stare at him in surprise and then look around again. 

"Where are we, Nicky? Do you know?" He gives a confused laugh. 

"Home, Aunt Y/N, of course."

You accept the flower necklace he made for you but don’t get up when he walks away back to the lake.

“Nicky.” You call after a moment of thought. He hums, signaling that he’s listening. “Did anyone else come with me? Two other little boys?”

He doesn’t look up from the new necklace he’s making. “No, Aunt Y/N. My mother said Billy and Tommy ran away.”

Your stomach drops. You choke. “W-what… Ran away? Where?”

He shrugs and finally looks at you again.

"She doesn’t know, Auntie. But my mother keeps me here safe, away from the disease. She said she could keep you and Billy and Tommy too. But she needs to find them first."

You freeze and try to hide your reaction from your step-nephew. He gives you a smile before going back to playing, and you force your body to work and stand up.

You take one last look at him before heading towards the cabin, and as soon as you arrive, you realize that it is exactly as you remembered, how you visited Agatha and Rio for decades before Nicky was born - when their life was calm, happy, and peaceful.

Everything that time has erased, photos, paintings, and furniture are fully preserved here. You lean against the walls until you sit in one of the empty chairs at the table.

You notice the pots of food and frown.

Since when do the dead need to eat?

Raising your hand in the air, your first attempt is a simple conjuration. Anything, even a spark. And you end up having to suppress the grunt of pain as you try. Nothing.

Maybe the passage took away all your magic, or maybe it was the river’s doing. Either way, you're dry.

You look through the half-open door at the child playing in the river and bite the inside of your cheek. Your fingers find the flower necklace in your pocket, and even faintly, you feel the magic in them.

Well, a few dozen more, and you'd have enough to get you home.

Hopefully it would be a trip for two.

[yeahiveheardofbears-fics]

Be My Anti-Valentine

You and your best friend Steve have a movie night on Valentine's Day, since you are both perpetually single. Except, maybe not for long...

hey babes! Happy way late Valentine's Day! I will say that i did base the reader character, once again, on my OC Mac from my ST rewrite series. so some side characters, relationships, and places will be from that universe. You don't need to read that to get the story, but if you like this dynamic then I definitely recommend it! I treat this little smut one shots like deleted scenes that didn't make sense in my main fic, but wouldnt escape my brain. I also did a lot of build up because I can't seem to write smut for Steve without making him an absolute loverboy <3 Enjoy!!

l-bombs, friends to loves, lots of exposition word count: 14,096 TW: uhhh, really not much, this is pretty loving honestly. underage drinking i guess

REQUESTS ARE OPEN, IF YOU LIKE THIS, PLZ MESSAGE ME CAUSE I NEED INSPO <3

fic masterlist

read on ao3 or read below the cut:

February 14th, 1986

The neon glow from Family Video flickers just across the street, casting a greenish hue onto the wet pavement outside. Through the glass doors of Vinyl Frontier , you can see the faint movement of Steve inside, pacing behind the counter, no doubt pretending to look busy. You know better.

He’s probably just spinning a tape case in his hands, waiting out the last few miserable hours of his shift—same as you.

You stretch your arms above your head with a groan, then lean against the counter, staring at the real misery: the Valentine’s Day display Jet had you set up. Rows of records with love songs, sappy ballads, and an obnoxiously large hand-drawn sign that reads MAKE A LOVE MIX FOR YOUR SWEETHEART! in looping red letters. The entire thing makes your skin crawl.

You’re halfway through reorganizing the New Releases section—because some asshole put Iron Maiden next to Cyndi Lauper —when the store’s phone rings behind you. You sigh, abandoning the records to grab the receiver.

“ Vinyl Frontier , what do you want?”

There’s a scoff on the other end of the line. “Wow. That’s how you answer the phone now?”

You smirk, already recognizing the voice. “Oh, it’s you. My bad. Vinyl Frontier , home of angsty losers and overpriced imports. How can I help you, Steve?”

“Much better.” There’s a pause, then his voice lowers conspiratorially. “Listen, just giving you a heads-up—there’s a couple that just left my store, all lovey-dovey, handsy as hell. They’re headed straight for your store, so you’ve got, like, thirty seconds before you have to witness… whatever the hell they were doing here.”

You groan, already standing to peek through the store window. And sure enough—there they are. The couple in question, walking hand-in-hand across the street, their matching red sweaters obnoxiously bright.

“Ugh. Them?”

“You know them?” Steve asks, bemused.

“They were making out between The Smiths and Bauhaus the other day,” you say, flopping back against the counter. “I Lysoled the shelves after they left.”

Steve makes a disgusted noise. “Jesus Christ. They were all over the romance section at Family Video . Like, I get it, love is great, whatever, but I work here. Have some goddamn respect.”

You snort. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Harrington.”

“Oh yeah, it’s been real happy,” he deadpans. “Nothing like watching every couple in Hawkins remind me that I’m pathetically single.”

You roll your eyes, even though you feel the same way. “It’s like an infestation. Can’t even walk two feet without seeing someone swapping spit.”

“Tell me about it.” There’s some muffled conversation on his end, the sound of a VHS tape clattering onto the counter. “Anyway, you still coming over?”

“Obviously.”

“I grabbed your stupid movies,” he says, sounding so put out that you have to grin. “But just for the record, I still think your choices are ridiculous.”

“They’re perfect,” you correct. “What’s wrong with them?”

Steve exhales like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Alright, let’s start with The Thing . How exactly is that an anti-Valentine’s movie?”

“Because it’s about paranoia and distrust,” you say. “There’s no love. Just body horror and existential dread.”

“Uh-huh. And Sleepaway Camp ?”

“You know damn well why.”

“Okay, fine, that one’s fair.” He pauses. “But My Bloody Valentine ? You picked a Valentine’s Day slasher . That’s, like, half giving in to the holiday.”

“It’s a classic, Steve.”

“Mm-hmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I feel like you just wanted an excuse to watch a bunch of horror movies with me.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. I don’t need an excuse for that. I can bully you into watching horror movies whenever I want.”

There’s a beat of silence before he huffs a quiet laugh. “You know, I hate that you’re right.”

“I love that I’m right.”

Steve sighs dramatically. “Fine. But when I get nightmares about shapeshifting aliens, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll live.”

“Debatable.” Another pause, then his voice softens just slightly. “Robin’s not gonna make it, by the way. She’s got a ‘not-date’ with Vickie.”

That gives you pause.

“So it’s just us,” you say.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Just us.”

There’s a moment of… something. Not awkwardness, exactly. Just an awareness that wasn’t there before. You glance around the store, suddenly finding it hard to focus on anything. The record stacks, the cheap plastic Valentine’s decorations Jet made you put up, the couple now giggling in the corner near Fleetwood Mac .

“Well, that just means more popcorn for me,” you say, brushing past it.

“And I won’t have to listen to Robin complain about my movie choices.”

“ My movie choices,” you correct.

“Whatever.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “So, uh… you still coming?”

You twirl the phone cord between your fingers, a habit you thought you’d grown out of. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Cool. See you later.”

“See you.”

You hang up, staring at the receiver for a second longer than necessary.

This was fine. Totally normal. Just another movie night.

Right?

---

Steve sighs as he hangs up the phone, rubbing the back of his neck before turning toward the counter—only to find Robin standing there, arms crossed, one brow arched so high it’s practically in her hairline.

He stops short, already exasperated. “Don’t.”

Robin tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Don’t what?”

“ Don’t make it weird.” He gestures vaguely toward the phone, like somehow the conversation itself was to blame for whatever this was.

She scoffs. “Oh, I didn’t make it weird. You did that all on your own.”

Steve groans, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ, Robin.”

She just smirks, shifting her weight against the counter. “It’s not my fault you two sound like a couple in a bad rom-com.”

He glares. “It’s your fault for having a date tonight.”

Robin immediately corrects him. “It’s a not-date.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Same difference.”

“Uh, huge difference,” she says. “Dates are romantic. Not-dates are for pretending it’s not romantic while still getting nervous about it.”

He gives her a flat look. “That literally makes no sense.”

Robin shrugs. “Well, good news, dingus—you’ve got a not-date too.”

Steve scoffs, crossing his arms. “It’s not a date.”

Robin just lifts a brow. “That’s what I just said.”

He throws his hands up. “No, I mean—it’s not even a not-date! It’s just a normal night. We watch movies all the time.”

Robin sighs, then pushes off the counter, walking over to him with that look—the one that means she’s about to call him on his bullshit.

“Steve.”

“What?”

She softens just slightly. “You do realize that you two are both my best friends, right?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah?”

“And that I’m not blind?”

He groans. “Robin—”

“I mean, come on.” She starts ticking off fingers, like she’s listing off groceries. “You grab her movies for her even when you think they’re stupid, you call her at work just to talk, you let her make fun of you without even trying to fight back—”

“I fight back,” he protests weakly.

Robin ignores him. “—and, oh yeah, you both spent the last five minutes awkwardly dancing around the fact that you’ll be alone tonight.”

Steve crosses his arms tighter. “So what? It’s not weird to hang out with a friend.”

Robin nods sagely. “Totally. Just a friend.”

“Exactly.”

“Just a friend. On Valentine’s day. that you think is funny and hot and cool and—”

“Okay, I never said that I find her hot.” He throws his head back dramatically. “She’s annoying and bossy and thinks she knows everything—”

Robin hums. “Mmm, yeah. Real convincing, Harrington.”

“—and she’s constantly making fun of my hair—”

Robin shrugs. “You kinda deserve that one.”

“—and she has this stupid little smirk when she’s right about something, and she always has to be right, and when she gets all smug about it, she does this thing where she tilts her head a little, and she has this way of looking at you like she’s three steps ahead in a game you didn’t know you were playing—”

Robin lifts an eyebrow.

Steve doesn’t notice.

“—and she has that voice, you know, like all confident but a little raspy, and when she laughs at something she actually finds funny, not just something dumb Dustin says, it’s, like—”

Robin makes a face. “Steve.”

“—all breathy and warm, and she smells good all the time even when she’s just coming off work, and I don’t know what it is, but it’s like cherry or maybe something floral, but not too much, and—”

“ Steve .”

He finally stops, blinking at her.

Robin stares at him, then slowly grimaces. “You do hear yourself, right?”

Steve pauses. Blinks again. “Shit.”

Robin claps him on the shoulder. “There it is.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She doesn’t even like me like that.”

Robin snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve points a finger at her. “You don’t know that.”

Robin raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. If you say so.” But she’s grinning, and it pisses him off.

Before he can argue, the bell over the door jingles, and a couple walks in, already giggling to each other. Steve immediately straightens up, plastering on his best customer service face.

Robin steps back with a smirk. “Don’t worry, lover boy. We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Steve glares at her as he turns to the customers. “I hate you.”

Robin flashes him a grin. “You love me.”

And unfortunately, she’s right. Again.

---

You hang up the phone, exhaling through your nose, then lean against the counter and let your head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. The sound of a throat clearing makes you lift your head, and when you glance to the side you see your boss, Jet, standing in the doorway of the back office, arms crossed, looking entirely too amused.

"Was that Harrington?" he asks, voice dry as ever.

You roll your eyes and turn away, stacking the pile of records you’d been sorting before Steve called. "No, it was the Pope. He wanted to know if we have any Black Sabbath in stock."

Jet snorts, stepping further into the shop. "So, Harrington."

"Maybe."

Jet leans against the counter, watching you work with that knowing look that always makes you feel like you’re under a microscope. "You two sure do talk a lot."

"Yeah, it’s called friendship, Jet."

"Uh-huh." He tilts his head. "Y’know, back in my day, we didn’t call it friendship when two people made goo-goo eyes at each other across a counter."

You nearly drop the stack of records. "Oh my god, shut up."

Jet just grins. "I’m just sayin’."

You huff and move to the other side of the store, grabbing a rag to wipe down the shelves. The Valentine’s Day display mocks you from the corner, obnoxiously pink and full of records Jet made you pull— Foreigner , REO Speedwagon , Whitney Houston , all the stuff people were eating up today.

"He's annoying," you say, mostly to distract from whatever the hell Jet was implying.

"Sure."

"And bossy."

"Mm-hmm."

"Thinks he knows everything."

Jet makes a vague gesture. "Yeah, yeah, you’re really selling it, kid."

You scowl at him, but Jet just chuckles, watching you scrub furiously at a perfectly clean shelf.

"You know," he says, a little softer, "you don’t gotta dance around it with me. If you like him, you like him. No shame in it."

You pause, grip tightening on the rag. "I don’t."

Jet tilts his head, unconvinced. "Look, all I’m sayin’ is… I’ve been around the block a few times. And I know the look of someone trying real hard to pretend they don’t care about someone when they definitely do."

You set the rag down a little harder than necessary. "And what look is that, exactly?"

Jet just grins. "The same look you get when you talk about him but try to pretend you’re just complaining."

You open your mouth, then close it. Scowl. Pick up the rag again.

Jet chuckles. "Listen, I don’t give a damn one way or the other, but if you wanna keep lying to yourself, at least try to be good at it."

You groan. " Jet ."

"Hey, just giving you some wisdom." He pushes off the counter, stretching. "Y’know, back in the day, I had a girl I danced around with like that. Thought I was bein’ slick, thought no one noticed."

You glance at him, wary. "And?"

"And turns out I was just an idiot," he says with a shrug. "So maybe don’t be an idiot, huh?"

You roll your eyes. "Thanks, dad ."

Jet winks. "Anytime, kid."

---

Steve shuts the register with a satisfying clack and stretches, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. It’s finally closing time, and for once, he’s actually looking forward to tonight—not just because it means getting the hell out of Family Video , but because he has plans.

Casual, totally normal, not-a-date plans.

Robin is watching him, arms crossed, in that ‘I know something you don’t want me to know’ way that makes his skin itch.

He sighs. “Just say it.”

Robin grins. “Say what?”

“You know what.”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you were gonna make a move tonight.”

Steve groans, grabbing his jacket. “Jesus, Robin. Again with this?”

“What?” she says, following him as he grabs the store keys and heads for the back door. “I think it’s a valid question.”

“Well, I think it’s a stupid question.”

Robin shrugs, undeterred. “That’s funny, because you didn’t actually answer it.”

Steve flicks off the lights, plunging the store into dim shadows illuminated only by the neon glow from the sign outside. He turns back to Robin, exasperated. “There’s no move to make.”

Robin smirks, watching as he fumbles a little with the keys. “Uh-huh.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“Sure, sure.”

Steve scowls. “You really think I’d make a move?”

Robin shrugs again. “I mean, yeah.”

Steve groans, shoving his arms into his jacket. “Okay, fine, let’s say hypothetically I was gonna make a move. What would that even look like?”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Steve exhales sharply, shaking his head, but then—he starts talking. Slow at first, still pretending this is all theoretical, but then it starts flowing a little too easily.

“Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “first of all, I wouldn’t just spring anything on her. She’s not the type you can just, like, surprise with that kind of thing. So I’d make it seem like a regular movie night. No pressure, no expectations. Just us hanging out, watching her dumb horror movies, which—by the way—are not romantic at all, so she wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

Robin hums. “Sly.”

Steve points at her. “Exactly.”

They step outside into the cold night, their breath fogging in the air. Steve locks the door behind them, still talking.

“Then, I’d wait for the right moment. Maybe during The Thing, since she always gets way too focused on the practical effects and starts ranting about how they were done. That’s when I’d sit next to her—real casual, nothing weird. But, like, closer than usual. Just enough to see if she notices.”

Robin leans against the wall, intrigued. “And if she does?”

Steve shrugs, flipping the keys in his hand. “Then I’d play it off, act like it’s no big deal. But if she doesn’t ? That’s when I’d start testing the waters. Maybe during Sleepaway Camp , since she’s seen it a million times and won’t be as locked in. I’d stretch, put my arm on the couch behind her—”

Robin snorts. “The yawn move?”

Steve glares. “No, not the yawn move. Just an arm casually placed behind her. If she leans in, then, boom—I know she’s comfortable with it. And then,” he continues, getting into it now, “if everything feels right, if she’s not pulling away or making fun of me, then I’d make my move.”

Robin crosses her arms. “Which is?”

Steve exhales, eyes flicking upward like he’s playing it out in his head. “I’d wait for the perfect moment. Maybe when she’s talking, because she always talks during horror movies—”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “You like that she talks during movies?”

Steve waves a hand. “That’s not the point. The point is, she gets really into it, and when she’s really into something, she forgets to be sarcastic for, like, a whole second. So while she’s mid-sentence, I’d just… shift toward her, lean in a little, make sure she notices before I do anything.”

Robin watches him, interested now. “And then?”

Steve tilts his head slightly, picturing it.

“And then,” he says, voice softer, “I’d go for it. Just—slow, you know? Like, give her the chance to pull away, but hoping she doesn’t.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t make it some big thing, no cheesy lines, nothing rehearsed. Just… see what happens.”

Robin stares at him for a second. Then makes a face.

“Okay, ew,” she says. “Reel it in, Romeo.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“You were getting way too into that.”

Steve scowls. “I was just answering your question.”

Robin smirks. “Oh, you so weren’t. That was not hypothetical. That was a step-by-step plan.”

Steve huffs. “It was a theoretical —”

“You definitely have thought about this before.”

Steve groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “Robin—”

“You even mapped out the exact movie timing—”

“Shut up.”

“You are so nervous.”

“I am not—”

“Hey, what are you guys talking about?”

---

You’re walking toward Steve and Robin, hands shoved into your jacket pockets, head tilted slightly in curiosity. You glance between the two of them, your eyes narrowing ever so slightly, like you just walked in on the tail end of something you weren’t supposed to hear.

Steve immediately panics. “Why are you here?”

You blink. “Uh… hello to you too?”

He clears his throat, scrambling to backtrack. “I just—I thought we were meeting at my house.”

You shrug. “Eddie’s still working on my car, so I figured I’d just come straight here.”

Steve nods a little too fast. “Right. Cool. Yeah.”

Robin, who had been standing beside him with a smirk so smug it could power Hawkins for a week, is now outright grinning. She’s practically vibrating with barely restrained laughter.

Your eyes flick between them again. “What?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns to Steve with a knowing smile. “Well, I’m off to my not-date . Wish me luck.”

Your brow furrows. “Good luck?”

Robin winks—not at you, but at Steve. “You too.”

Steve glares at her. “Robin.”

She just grins wider and gives him a two-fingered salute before turning on her heel and heading off down the sidewalk, leaving you standing there with an eyebrow raised.

You shift your weight onto one foot, watching her go before turning back to Steve. “Okay, what was that?”

He shakes his head way too quickly. “Nothing. Just—nothing.”

You don’t buy it for a second. But whatever that was, Steve clearly isn’t going to spill, so you let it slide. For now.

You exhale, rocking back on your heels. “Alright, weirdo.”

Steve shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You ready?”

You nod.

“Cool,” he says, fumbling for his keys like his hands suddenly forgot how to function.

Without another word, you both head to his car.

Once you’re at his house, Steve pushes the front door open first, stepping inside and flicking on the lights without a second thought. You follow behind him, toeing off your shoes as the familiar silence of the Harrington house settles around you.

As usual, the place is empty.

“Where are your parents this time?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Steve snorts, tossing his keys onto the hallway table. “No idea. They left a note on the fridge, but I didn’t read it.”

You roll your eyes, unsurprised. “So, what? Business trip? Spa retreat? Another month of pretending they don’t have a son?”

“Something like that,” he mutters, shrugging off his jacket. “Not like it matters.”

It’s not like you’ve been here a ton, but every time you have been, it’s been the same—big house, too much space, and no parents in sight. Just Steve, filling the empty rooms with music or movies, like background noise could make up for the lack of anyone actually being home.

You don’t push it. Instead, you drop your bag on the couch and walk straight to the TV, glancing over your shoulder. “Movies?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ‘em. You set up, I’ll grab snacks.”

You flip through the stack of VHS tapes he brought home from Family Video .

“You actually grabbed all the ones I asked for?” You sound surprised.

Steve scoffs, walking past you toward the kitchen. “You don’t pay me enough to improvise.”

“I don’t pay you.”

“Exactly.”

---

Steve tells himself he isn’t nervous.

He tells himself this as he unlocks the door, steps inside, and watches as you walk in after him, dropping your bag on the couch like you belong here. Which, in a way, you do.

He’s not nervous.

It’s just a normal movie night. Just like all the others.

Except it isn’t.

Because tonight, he has a plan.

A foolproof, step-by-step, can’t-go-wrong plan—one he stupidly let Robin in on, which means there is no backing out now. She’ll ask about it later, and if he tells her he chickened out, she’ll never let him live it down.

So he’s doing this.

…Right?

This is fine. If he just acts normal, you won’t suspect a thing. He pours the popcorn, pops open a couple of sodas, and grabs a bag of chips for good measure. When he comes back into the living room, you’re already loading The Thing into the VCR.

Steve watches you from the doorway for a second. The way you move so easily in his space. The way you don’t hesitate, like it’s your house too.

And yeah. Fuck . He wants this.

He clears his throat and heads to the couch, dropping down beside you—closer than usual.

You don’t say anything.

Step One: Close the Distance.

Easy.

Done.

You didn’t call him out on it, which means he’s in the clear.

The movie starts, and you sink into it, fully focused by the time the sled dog is sprinting through the snow, the helicopter in pursuit.

Steve lets himself relax. Just a little.

Step Two: Casual Arm Placement.

He waits. Gives it time.

You’re locked into the movie, already muttering something under your breath about the brilliance of practical effects. You do that a lot—talk through horror movies, not in a bad way, but in a way that shows how much you actually care about them.

Steve listens, nodding like he’s paying attention to what you’re saying, but really, he’s timing it.

Then, casually, effortlessly, he stretches, letting his arm fall across the back of the couch.

Not touching you. Just there. Close enough to be felt but not enough to be anything.

You don’t react.

So far, so good.

Steve suppresses a smirk. See, Robin? I got this.

Step Three: The Lean-In.

This one is trickier.

It has to be subtle . Smooth.

He waits again, watches as you settle further into the cushions, legs curled up beneath you, completely lost in the movie. That’s when he shifts—barely, just enough to angle himself toward you. Just enough to close the gap a little more.

Still, no reaction.

That’s either a really good thing or a really bad thing.

He reminds himself of the plan.

Wait until Sleepaway Camp for the next move. That’s when he’d test the waters, when you wouldn’t be as focused, when he could ease into it without making it weird.

But then you glance at him, just for a second, and something about the way you look—eyes slightly narrowed, like you noticed but aren’t saying anything—makes his stomach flip.

Fuck it.

Maybe he doesn’t want to wait.

You’re completely locked in when the scene shifts to the research station, the dog curling up in the kennel with the other huskies. It’s the moment before all hell breaks loose, the moment before the thing reveals itself.

It’s perfect.

Steve watches your profile, the way your eyes flick between the screen and your soda as you reach for it.

This is it.

This is the moment.

He turns toward you, leans in slightly, ready to shift even closer.

And then, of course, everything goes to shit.

Disaster: The Soda Incident.

He reaches for his drink at the exact same time you do.

Your hands knock together.

Oh, fuck.

Cold liquid spills all over your shirt.

You gasp, jerking upright as the icy soda soaks through your clothes.

“Shit—”

Steve freezes. Stares. His brain short-circuits.

This was not part of the plan. Not even close.

“Fuck—hold on—” He scrambles to set his drink down, moving fast like he can somehow reverse time and undo the absolute catastrophe he just caused. “Shit, shit, shit. I—I’ll grab a towel—just—shit—hang on!”

He bolts up so fast he nearly knocks over the popcorn bowl, tripping over the coffee table in his rush.

You’re just sitting there, stunned, dripping soda onto the couch, blinking at him like you can’t believe what just happened.

The movie keeps playing in the background, oblivious to the fucking disaster unfolding in real life.

Steve disappears down the hall, heart pounding, and he knows—

Yeah.

This definitely didn’t go according to plan.

---

You sit there, staring down at yourself, blinking at the damp fabric clinging to your chest.

What the hell just happened?

One second, you were watching the movie, minding your own business, and the next—Steve fucking Harrington managed to dump an entire soda all over you like some teenage rom-com protagonist who can’t keep his hands to himself.

Except this isn’t a movie, and Steve is currently gone, having bolted from the room like the place was on fire.

You exhale, peeling the wet fabric away from your skin, grimacing at the way the cold sticks to you. From somewhere in the house, you hear the telltale signs of Steve running around in a panic. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. The sound of a cabinet slamming. A muffled curse. Footsteps back down the stairs, faster this time, followed by another thud and another round of cursing.

Then silence.

You sigh, shifting uncomfortably, and just as you’re about to get up and find a towel yourself, Steve comes jogging back into the living room.

He’s got a hand towel in one hand and a shirt in the other, looking a little too disheveled for someone who was gone for all of thirty seconds.

“Okay, here—” he starts, reaching out with the towel.

And then he stops.

You blink at him. He blinks at you.

Because, yeah. If he was actually going to clean you up, that would mean touching your chest.

Steve goes bright red. “Right. Shit. Here—just—take it.”

He thrusts the towel at you, along with the shirt, and you grab them both, giving him a look.

“Yeah, genius. Didn’t really think that one through, did you?”

Steve groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I was panicking!”

“No shit.”

You push yourself off the couch, the wet fabric sticking uncomfortably as you shift. “Gonna go change.”

He nods quickly, eyes locked very purposefully on anything but you as you walk past him and down the hall toward the bathroom.

You shut the door behind you and sigh, shaking your head.

Steve had been weird all night. Fidgety. Kind of jumpy. Not normal.

And this? This had to be a new record for him in terms of absolute dumbassery.

You grab the bottom of your shirt, pulling it off with a wince, already shivering slightly as the air hits your skin. Then, you look at the shirt he gave you.

It’s not one of his polos or his sweaters—it’s a T-shirt, old and worn, with the faded logo of the Hawkins High basketball team across the front.

You snort. King Steve in his prime.

The fabric is soft, smelling like detergent and him, and when you pull it on, it’s tight. Not uncomfortably so, but enough that it stretches a little over your chest, fitting snug around your torso in a way that most of your own shirts don’t.

Great.

You shake your head and step back out, making your way to the living room.

Steve is at the VCR when you return, swapping out the tape for Sleepaway Camp , his back to you.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears you come in, eyes flicking down to his shirt on you before darting back up to your face.

“Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Again.”

You shrug. “It’s cool, this is how most guys try to get me out of my clothes.”

Steve chokes.

Like, actually chokes.

“…Okay,” you say slowly, watching him. “That was a joke.”

Steve shakes his head so fast you think he might snap his own neck and you narrow your eyes. Something is off with him. But you let it slide, stepping back toward the couch as he finishes setting up the movie.

When he sits down again, he leaves a little more space between you this time, but you don’t comment on it. The movie starts, the opening credits rolling, and as the familiar music kicks in, you shake your head.

Steve Harrington is acting weird as hell tonight.

---

Steve is reeling.

He never fucks up like that.

Sure, yeah, maybe he’s been in a bit of a dry spell lately. Maybe he hasn’t had as many dates as he used to. Maybe he’s been selective (Robin’s word, not his) about who he flirts with. But when he does?

This is the part he’s good at.

The easy charm, the confidence, the effortless way he makes a girl laugh and then smoothly inches closer—that has always been his thing.

But this? This was a fucking disaster.

It has to be a sign that this was a bad idea, that Robin got into his head and made him think there was something here when there wasn’t.

Because if there was, he wouldn’t have botched it so badly. He wouldn’t have dumped a fucking drink all over you like a nervous wreck. Wouldn’t be sitting here now, stiff and awkward, trying way too hard to act like nothing happened.

He flicks a glance at you, at the way you’re curled up on the couch, adjusting yourself in his old Hawkins basketball T-shirt.

And—fuck.

The thing about that shirt?

It was his from junior year.

Which means it used to fit him.

Which means, on you, it’s tight .

Steve swallows hard and yanks his gaze back to the screen before his mind can wander any further.

Platonic. Just friends, Harrington. And friends don’t look at their friends’ boobs in a too-small shirt and think about—

He shoves the thought down so hard it practically leaves skid marks in his brain.

Instead, he focuses on the movie.

Sleepaway Camp isn’t a great distraction—it’s weird, and dumb, and kind of awful in the best way—but it’s what’s on.

You talk through it, like you always do, making the occasional joke, sometimes pointing out a particularly bad effect or cheesy dialogue.

Steve answers, strictly platonically.

He ignores any comment that could be vaguely sexual, even when you joke about the guys’ ridiculously short shorts or when you outright laugh at the worst attempt at seduction in cinematic history. Normally, he’d engage—he’d throw something back, tease, maybe flirt just for the hell of it.

Tonight, though, he forces himself to keep it neutral.

Because the more he thinks about what almost happened—the way he was about to go for it, the way he was about to shift even closer—the more his stomach twists.

The movie ends, and Steve is way too quick to jump up.

“Want another drink?” he asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

You nod, stretching as you get up to swap the tapes. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve heads to the fridge, grabs the handle, and—

---

You’re kneeling in front of the VCR, sliding My Bloody Valentine into place, when you hear Steve’s footsteps behind you.

“No more soda,” he announces like it’s a death sentence, hands perched on his hips. “I got, uh—water, orange juice, milk—”

You pause, turning to look at him. “Milk?”

Steve throws his hands up like that’s somehow your fault. “I don’t know, I’m just listing shit. We’ve got juice boxes if you wanna feel like a kid again.”

You roll your eyes, but the second he says it, an idea sparks in your head. You glance at the TV, then back at Steve, then at the couch, where the remnants of the soda disaster still linger. Tonight’s already off the rails, so why not lean into it?

“Why don’t we just make it a drinking game?”

Steve blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on, we’ve done drinking games before.”

“Yeah, but that’s when there’s more people.”

You narrow your eyes, tilting your head slightly. “And?”

Steve opens his mouth, then stops. He looks at you, thinking, probably trying to come up with a reason why that matters, why it’s somehow different when it’s just the two of you. But he doesn’t have one. Instead, he lets out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, okay, I guess that doesn’t actually matter.”

You smirk, victorious, and push yourself up from the floor. You don’t know why he’s hesitating. It’s not like this is some big deal. It’s just a stupid drinking game to go with a stupid horror movie on a stupid holiday. It’s a way to make the night a little more fun, a little less whatever the hell this has been so far.

Steve still looks skeptical, like he’s waiting for some reason to say no, so you press on before he can talk himself out of it.

“We’re both alone on Valentine’s Day,” you say, watching his expression carefully. “Everyone else is out on their dumb dates, drinking their dumb fancy wine, eating overpriced chocolate, being all lovey-dovey. And we’re here, watching horror movies and trying not to spill anything else on my shirt.”

Steve lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

Encouraged, you keep going. “For once, we don’t have to deal with interdimensional bullshit, no creepy government guys, no nightmare monsters from hell. Just a normal, boring, stupid romantic holiday that we’re stuck spending alone.”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “So, your grand plan is to drink through the pain?”

You shrug. “We deserve a night of dumb, normal young people shit.”

It’s only when you say it out loud that you realize how true it is. You’ve spent so much of the last couple of years dealing with things that no one your age should have to deal with. Near-death experiences, government cover-ups, missing people, watching friends suffer and not being able to do anything about it. It’s been a lot, and maybe it’s selfish, but you just want one night that feels easy.

Steve is quiet, considering. You step closer, just enough to reach out and clap a hand on his shoulder, half in encouragement, half in challenge.

“Come on, Harrington. It’s one night. What’s the worst that could happen?”

For a second, he just looks at you. There’s something in his expression you can’t quite place, something unreadable behind those brown eyes. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll go grab something my parents won’t miss.”

---

Steve comes back into the living room, bottle in one hand, glasses in the other, expecting to see you on the couch where he left you. Instead, you’re sitting on the floor, pillows propped against the coffee table, legs stretched out, completely at ease like this is just how movie nights are supposed to be.

He stops short, eyeing you with confusion. “What are you doing?”

You glance up at him, completely unfazed. “It’s more fun this way.”

Steve squints. “Sitting on the floor ?”

“Yeah.” You pat the space next to you, smirking. “Come on, try it.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue, lowering himself down beside you, setting the bottle and glasses on the floor. His knees knock against yours briefly as he gets comfortable, and for some reason, that small, barely-there contact sends a little jolt through him. He ignores it, grabs the bottle, and tilts it in your direction.

“Alright,” he says, twisting off the cap, “rules.”

You hum in thought. “Okay, obviously, we drink every time someone dies.”

“Obviously.”

“Drink every time someone says ‘Valentine.’”

Steve snorts. “This is My Bloody Valentine , we’re gonna die.”

“That’s the point.” You grin and hold up a finger. “Drink when someone does something really fucking stupid, like running upstairs instead of outside.”

“Classic.” He pours your glass, then his, setting the bottle aside. “What about drink if you get spooked?”

You narrow your eyes. “You just want an excuse to make me drink more.”

He grins, bumping his knee against yours. “Gotta level the playing field somehow.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. “Fine. And… drink if there’s a sex scene.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You just made that one up.”

“Maybe.”

“You so did.”

You smirk. “It’s still a good rule.”

He shakes his head, but his smile lingers as he lifts his glass. “Alright, to terrible horror movies and drinking games.”

You clink your glass against his, and with that, the game begins.

Two-thirds of the way through the movie, and you’re both comfortably tipsy. Not drunk, but warm, relaxed, feeling looser, laughter coming easier.

At some point, Steve stopped noticing when your knee brushed against his. He didn’t think much of it when your arm pressed against his as you reached for your glass. Didn’t acknowledge the way you shifted slightly, leaning more into him as you adjusted yourself on the pillow, both of you sinking deeper into the comfort of the moment.

But now?

Now, he notices.

His focus snaps to the way your thigh is flush against his, how your elbow nudges his arm when you gesture toward the screen, still mid-rant about the practical effects.

And suddenly, it sobers him up just a little.

Not enough to stop enjoying himself, but enough to remember.

The plan.

The one he’d botched spectacularly earlier when he panicked like a fucking idiot and spilled soda all over you. He should have waited for the right moment, should have followed through exactly the way he told Robin he would.

But maybe this is the moment.

He watches you as you talk, completely wrapped up in explaining why this particular death scene is underrated. Your eyes are bright, hands moving as you emphasize certain points, and you’re not filtering yourself the way you sometimes do. This is that window—where you’re passionate, where your guard is down, where you aren’t trying to be anything other than exactly you.

And you look so fucking pretty.

His chest tightens.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t overanalyze. He just goes for it.

His hand moves before he can stop it, reaching up to cup your face, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw. Your words falter, breath catching, eyes flicking to his in startled confusion, but you don’t pull away.

And then he’s leaning in, closing the space between you, pressing his lips to yours.

It’s soft, tentative but steady, warm in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. His thumb strokes lightly along your cheek, grounding himself, savoring the way your lips part slightly, like you weren’t expecting this but aren’t against it either.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t pull away.

It’s a slow, lingering kiss, the kind that feels like it’s meant to happen, like it’s been waiting to happen. The kind that shifts something in the air, something unspoken but undeniable.

When he finally leans back, just enough to look at you, he searches your face, breath unsteady.

And for the first time all night, you’re speechless.

---

You stare at him.

For a full minute, maybe longer.

The kiss still lingers, warm on your lips, your brain lagging behind, trying to catch up with the reality of what just happened. Steve watches you like he’s waiting for something—maybe for you to freak out, maybe for you to say something, anything.

And eventually, you do.

“What—” You shake your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “What the hell was that?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, you cut him off.

“Wait, no. You’re drunk.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re drunk, and you’re feeling weird about Valentine’s Day, and you were caught up in the moment—”

“I—”

“We’ve been drinking, and you’re—”

“Jesus, would you let me—”

You’re still talking, half-rambling, voice layered with that dry disbelief you always get when shit blindsides you, and Steve, clearly realizing that you’re just gonna keep going, shakes your shoulder a little. Not hard, just enough to jolt you.

You stop. Blink.

He exhales. “I did it because I wanted to.”

Your stomach does something stupid and traitorous at that, but you shove it down, tilting your head slightly, giving him the flattest expression you can manage.

“Okay,” you say. “Well. Now you have.”

Silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable, but something. You’re still way too aware of the fact that his hand was on your face, that his lips were on yours, that you let him do it.

And worse—you kissed him back.

Steve shifts beside you, turning his attention to the movie, but his voice is softer when he says, “For the record, you kissed me back.”

You don’t respond. You just keep watching, your heart pounding way too hard for something as simple as sitting next to him. Your brain spins, trying to process the entire situation, trying to put all the little pieces together, trying to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with this new information.

And then, for some reason, you look at him.

Like, really look at him.

He’s still staring at the screen, trying to act normal, and to the average person, he probably looks normal. But you know him better than that. You’ve spent too much time around him not to pick up on the small tells—the way his jaw is a little tighter than usual, the way he shifts slightly like he’s trying not to fidget, the way his fingers tap lightly against his knee. He’s trying to keep his cool, trying to play this off like it isn’t a big deal.

And now, you can’t stop noticing things.

The two beauty marks on the side of his neck, just under his jaw. The way the glow of the TV flickers against his skin. The shape of his mouth, the way his lips look softer in this lighting, the way his eyes shift when something catches his attention on screen. The way his arms look in that stupid polo shirt, his biceps just defined enough that—

Nope. Absolutely not.

You shake yourself out of it, tearing your eyes away, trying to breathe properly again.

And then—like puzzle pieces clicking together—your brain finally catches up. The closeness, the arm around the back of the couch, the spilled soda. You turn to him, narrowing your eyes, and before you can stop yourself, you smack his arm.

He flinches, looking at you, completely caught off guard. “What the hell?”

“You planned this.”

Steve’s face does this weird thing—half shock, half shit, I’ve been caught —before he recovers, shaking his head. “What? No.”

You stare at him.

“Steve.”

He doesn’t say anything and you raise an eyebrow, waiting.

He shifts, clears his throat, and you see it all over his face—he’s absolutely about to try and deflect.

And then, just as he’s about to speak, you say his name again.

“Steve.”

And just like that, he freezes.

---

Steve feels cornered.

And not in a bad way, necessarily, but in a ‘shit, there’s nowhere to run and I’ve already been caught’ kind of way. You’re looking at him, waiting, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, the full force of your glare locked in.

And Steve—Steve does what he does best in moments of extreme pressure.

He rambles.

“If I planned this, it wouldn’t have gone so disastrously,” he starts, gesturing wildly like that’ll somehow help his case. “Like, this is the part I’m usually good at, okay? The flirting, the—moves, the whole making-it-seem-effortless thing. You know, the part where I don’t look like a complete idiot and spill an entire drink on you like I’ve never spoken to a girl before.”

You don’t say anything. You just raise an eyebrow, completely unimpressed.

Steve exhales, shaking his head. “And, honestly? It’s kind of your fault.”

That makes you blink.

“My fault?”

“Yeah, because you—you throw me off!” He gestures at you like that’s an obvious answer, like that explains anything. “You’re always making these stupid jokes, and you’re too quick, and you make fun of me before I can make fun of myself, and you never let me get away with anything. It’s—”

His mouth keeps running. His brain catches up about three sentences too late.

“—it’s really annoying, except it’s not, because I actually kinda—”

Steve stops mid-sentence, everything catching up with him at once.

Fuck.

You tilt your head, waiting.

He swallows, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot.”

You hum. “Yeah, but I already knew that.”

Steve lets out a short, almost nervous laugh before dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay, listen. That wasn’t—I didn’t mean it’s actually your fault. That was—I’m sorry, that was just me being defensive, and that was a dick thing to say.”

You nod slowly, clearly waiting for the rest.

He sighs, looking at the ceiling for a second before bringing his gaze back to you. “Robin put this thought in my head. I mean, she’s been putting this thought in my head. Since, like, the second I met her at Scoops.”

You don’t look surprised.

He shakes his head. “But if I’m being completely honest, it was already there.”

That’s when you stop him.

“Of course she did.” You sigh, rubbing your temple like this is something you’ve been expecting.

Steve frowns. “Wait—what do you mean of course she did?”

You hesitate, shifting your weight slightly before reluctantly admitting, “Because she’s been saying the same things to me for months.”

Steve blinks. That is not what he expected you to say.

It takes him a second to process, but when it clicks, when he realizes what you just admitted, his mouth stretches into a slow, growing grin.

“Wait.” He points at you. “Are you saying you like like me?”

Your entire face shifts into the most unamused expression he’s ever seen.

“Did you just say like like ?”

“Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes. “How old are you?”

“Okay, what about fancy me?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Sweet on me?”

“Oh my god.”

“Got a little crush on me?”

“Steve.”

“Are you pining over me?”

You groan, shaking your head. “I refuse to answer if you keep saying it like that.”

Steve leans in slightly, tilting his head. “Not answering kinda is an answer.”

You look at him, lips pressing into a thin line, but you don’t pull away.

And that’s when something in him shifts.

For once, he stops talking. Stops trying to play it off, stops trying to dance around it, stops deflecting. He just watches you, watches the way your expression flickers—sharp one second, a little softer the next, like you’re not quite sure where this is going.

And then, quieter than before, he says, “How do you actually feel?”

You inhale. Exhale. Then, with the kind of reluctance that makes his heart beat just a little faster, you start listing.

“Despite the fact that you’re ridiculous.”

He grins.

“Despite the fact that you’re a little too cocky sometimes.”

“Objectively false.”

You roll your eyes.

“Despite the fact that you’re an idiot who spilled an entire soda on me.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that was bad.”

You pause, hesitating, but then, softer, you add, “Despite all of that… I still like being around you. More than I should.”

Steve swallows. “Yeah?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

Something settles in his chest.

He exhales, gaze flicking down to your lips briefly before meeting your eyes again, smirking a little. “So, theoretically,” he starts, tilting his head, “if I wanted to kiss you again, would I still be at risk of getting punched, or…”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something there now, something warmer, something less guarded.

So Steve doesn’t wait for an answer.

He just leans in and kisses you again.

This time, it’s different.

The first kiss had been tentative, careful, almost testing the waters. But this one—this is something else entirely. This one is lingering, deeper, his hand sliding along your jaw again, the warmth of his palm grounding you as his lips part against yours.

The shift is slow but undeniable—the way his fingers slide back into your hair, the way he tilts his head just enough to deepen it, the way your hand moves, resting lightly against his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt like you’re steadying yourself.

Steve barely has time to think—barely has time to do anything other than sink into you—before the next thought crosses his mind.

Holy shit. This is actually happening.

He smiles against your mouth and feels the corner of your lips curve upward.

When you finally lean back, it takes a second for his brain to catch up, his eyes opening, his breath coming in unsteady, shallow waves. He stares at you, the way the glow of the TV dances against your skin, the way the softness in your eyes matches the one in his chest, the way his hands are still cupping your face, his fingers threaded through your hair.

He exhales, letting his forehead rest against yours.

And then, without thinking, he says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Wanna be my Valentine?"

You snort.

You literally snort.

"That was so lame," you mutter, pulling back enough to look at him, laughing a little. "Seriously, Harrington?"

He shrugs. "So?"

"So, you missed it. Valentine's Day technically ended like an hour ago."

"Yeah." Steve pauses, thinking. Then, "We can do better next year."

Your stomach does a fucking somersault.

"Next year?"

"Yeah." He's got that dumb, boyish grin again, the one that makes his eyes bright and that's simultaneously too much and not enough. "I can take you out. Somewhere nicer than just my living room, somewhere where we're both not covered in soda. We can dress up, make a real thing of it. Maybe dinner, maybe a movie, maybe the stupid arcade."

"You hate the arcade."

"Not the point."

You huff a quiet laugh. "And what about the year after that?"

"Ah, see that's the year we get really crazy. We take a vacation, maybe road trip to Chicago, rent a hotel room for the weekend."

"A hotel room, huh?"

"Yeah, and we can have a fancy dinner at a nice restaurant. One with tablecloths and candles and everything."

You narrow your eyes slightly, watching him. "So, basically, you're planning a bunch of cliche, classic Valentine's dates."

"Basically."

"Like we're a couple."

"Like we're a couple." He nods.

"And you want to keep doing this for years?"

"And I want to keep doing this for years."

Steve looks so certain, so unbothered by the fact that he just threw out the words 'for years' like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like it's a promise, a guarantee. And when you see the way his gaze softens, the way his eyes flick between yours, the way his expression goes a little more serious, you realize—

That's exactly what he's doing.

You swallow, looking at him, and then, slowly, you ask, "Why?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

You roll your eyes.

"Because I'm an idiot," he amends, "who's liked you for way too long, and I've just been trying not to notice it."

"Steve—"

"And because I know I've made a lot of mistakes, okay?" He pauses, exhaling a little shakily. "Like, a lot of mistakes. But the biggest mistake would be not going for this, not seeing where it could go."

You shake your head, your heart beating way too fast.

"Steve," you say, "we've only kissed twice."

"Yeah, and?"

"And... it's been twenty minutes."

"And?"

You let out a small, exasperated laugh, looking at him like he's insane. "It's been twenty minutes."

"Listen," he starts, and the fact that he's using the exact same tone of voice as you, the one where he's trying to argue, the one where he's determined and stubborn and refusing to back down, makes something in your chest shift.

He reaches for your hands, lacing his fingers with yours.

"There is a lot of shit we've had to deal with. A lot of crazy, unbelievable shit. But this is something I know, okay? This is something I'm sure about. So, maybe we go into it too fast, and maybe we take our time, and maybe we try a few things and figure out what works. But I don't care."

Steve squeezes your hands gently.

"We've spent the last three years dealing with monsters and evil Russians and upside-down hellscapes, and the second I got to kiss you, the second I got to actually act on the thing I've wanted for way too long, I didn't think about any of that. I didn't think about the fact that the world is probably gonna keep fucking us over. I didn't think about all the reasons why this wouldn't work or why we shouldn't be doing this. I didn't think about the risks or the bullshit. I didn't even think about the fact that I'm supposed to be spending Valentine's Day alone. I just..."

He stops, his breath catching a little.

"I just felt it. The way it made me feel. The way I just want to keep doing it, again and again. And the fact that I know, I fucking know, we're gonna have to deal with a lot more weird shit before we can even begin to be normal, I'm not worried. Because at the end of the day, if you're there, then everything else doesn't matter."

And with that, the last of your defenses crumble.

You stare at him. At this ridiculous, self-proclaimed idiot, with his perfect hair and his pretty smile and his dumb, charming confidence.

At Steve Harrington, the guy who used to be the most annoying, egotistical prick you'd ever met.

At the guy who's become one of the best people you've ever known.

At the guy who is, somehow, right now, here, saying all the right things.

"Shit," you mutter. "You're making it really hard not to fall in love with you."

Steve grins, and then, the absolute bastard, leans in.

"Then stop trying."

He kisses you again.

You feel it everywhere—in the way his mouth slides against yours, warm and inviting, the way his fingers tangle into your hair, the way he pulls you closer.

Your fingers curl into his polo, gripping tightly as you shift closer, and Steve groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist like he can’t not touch you now. The warmth of your body pressed against his is enough to make him lightheaded, the scent of your shampoo mingling with the faint whiskey on your breath making his head swim.

His hands start to move without thinking, fingertips tracing over the fabric of your shirt—his shirt—feeling the heat of your skin underneath. You gasp softly, and Steve nearly loses his mind right there. He has to pull back, has to take a breath before he does something completely reckless, but even then, his forehead stays pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Bedroom?” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

You nod. “Yeah.”

That’s all he needs.

Steve gets up first, pulling you with him, hands firm on your waist as he steadies you. You both stumble slightly, tipsy but nowhere near drunk, laughing under your breath as you navigate through the house. It’s not far—just up the stairs, past the stupid family portraits his parents insist on keeping up despite never being here.

And then, finally, his room.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you both in, the soft glow from outside casting long shadows across his walls.

And then, Steve is on you again.

He doesn’t hesitate this time, doesn’t second-guess himself as his hands find your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he kisses you like he’s been waiting to do this forever. Like he’s scared it might slip away if he doesn’t hold onto it.

The backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed, and you sink down, pulling him with you. Steve follows, pressing you down gently, settling between your legs as he leans in, his lips never leaving yours.

His hands start to wander, slow, exploring—mapping you out like he wants to memorize every dip and curve. And god, you’re soft. So warm, so right against him.

 His mind is already racing, imagining every place his lips could follow, every inch of skin he could trace, every way he could make you melt into him.

Your own hands roam, sliding down his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Steve leans back, just enough to let you pull it off, the cool air hitting his skin making him shiver. His chest is exposed, his hair a little messy, his arms flexing slightly as he props himself up, and the sight is enough to make you pause.

Steve smirks, catching you.

But instead of teasing, he leans down, kissing along your jaw, his voice low and soft as he murmurs, "My turn."

Steve teases the hem of the shirt he let you borrow. You sit up a little and he starts to lift it up over your chest, but it's a tight fit and it gets stuck. You're about ready to have him just rip it off at this point, but when he speaks, his voice is soft and gentle and his breath is hot on your skin and all the words die on your tongue.

"Hold your arms up, okay?"

You obey, raising your arms and letting him slide the shirt off. He tosses it on the floor and you shiver at the sudden cold, but it's quickly forgotten as Steve looks down at you.

"Fuck."

The word slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. His eyes drink you in, trailing over the swell of your breasts in your bra, the smooth skin, the curve of your waist, and suddenly, he's overwhelmed.

"So you don't think I'm like, a total perv, I didn't think that shirt would be that... snug when I grabbed it. So, uh, sorry, but I'm also not complaining, because you have a really great—shit, what was I saying?"

"Shut up, Harrington," you mutter, grabbing his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

He chuckles against your lips, then shifts.

Steve starts slow, his mouth tracing a line down the side of your neck. He pauses, sucks at the hollow of your throat, feels the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze over the delicate skin. Your fingers card through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and the sensation is enough to make him shudder, a quiet groan slipping out.

Then, he moves lower, lips pressing a kiss in the space between your breasts. His hands trace over the tops of them, then down, cupping you, feeling the weight, thumbs swiping along the edge of your bra. You sigh, arching into him, and it takes every ounce of control not to lose it right there.

Steve leans back, eyes meeting yours, silently asking permission.

You nod, and he reaches behind you, unhooking your bra with a little more ease than expected. When he slides it off, his eyes flick down to the newly exposed skin, and you swear you hear his breath hitch.

Then, his mouth is on you, and all rational thought leaves your brain.

Steve knows his way around a girl's body.

But right now? With you?

It's like starting from square one.

Because right now, everything is heightened. Every noise you make, every little gasp and moan, every hitch of your breath, every brush of your skin against his. It's enough to drive him absolutely insane, enough to make him lose focus, and when he feels you shift underneath him, when he sees the way you look up at him, his mouth still wrapped around your nipple, sucking gently, he feels that familar tug in his stomach.

It's that same feeling—the one he can't shake, the one he can't get rid of, the one that has him thinking thoughts like 'fuck, she's so pretty' and 'holy shit, I really like her' and 'god, this is gonna ruin me, isn't it?'

But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, he can't stop.

You're arching into him, fingers buried in his hair, tugging lightly, and the sound that slips out when he scrapes his teeth lightly is enough to make his cock twitch. His mouth trails lower, over your stomach, kissing along your hipbones, and he's moving faster now, impatient, hands sliding to the button of your jeans.

He hesitates, just for a second, looking up at you.

"Is this okay?"

You nod, swallowing, and Steve's hands move. He undoes the button, slides the zipper down, and hooks his fingers into the sides. He doesn't wait for a response this time—he yanks, hard, and the sound that slips out is one part surprised, one part pleased, and it's so fucking hot that he can't stand it.

Once they're off, he looks at you, taking a second to breathe, to appreciate how fucking gorgeous you look, laid out on his bed in nothing but a pair of panties. Then, his gaze trails lower, and he sees the wet spot on the fabric, and it hits him.

Fuck, you're soaked.

He exhales sharply, his eyes flicking up to yours. "Holy shit."

"Yeah." Your voice is breathy, a little embarrassed, but there's something there, too. Something needy, something desperate.

"Do you have any idea," Steve says, leaning over you again, "how long I've wanted to see you like this?"

His hand slides down, palming you through the fabric, and when he rubs lightly, your entire body shudders.

"See, this?" He rubs a little harder, the fabric of your panties sliding against your clit. "This is my new favorite thing."

You gasp, arching into him.

Steve keeps going, rubbing you through the thin layer of cotton, watching the way your hips lift into his hand. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then to your neck, sucking lightly, and then, without warning, he slides off your panties and his fingers are back on you. 

"Fuck," he groans, feeling the heat, the wetness coating his fingers. "So fucking wet, baby."

His voice is lower than before, the pet name slipping out without thinking, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to start fucking his fingers into you. Instead, he teases, sliding his fingers, feeling the slickness, the way your breath catches when his thumb circles around your clit.

And then, he dips a finger inside.

You let out a low moan, a sound that has his cock twitching again, and the urge to just bury himself in you and fuck until neither of you can breathe is almost overwhelming. But he doesn't. He doesn't rush it.

Instead, he keeps going.

"This is what I'd think about," he says, adding a second finger. "When I would lay here, at night, after I was done talking to you."

You don't say anything, too focused on the feeling, but he knows you're listening. He kisses down your neck, fingers moving slowly, curling inside of you, his palm brushing over your clit, and then, when he adds a third finger, the stretch is enough to make your brain short-circuit.

"I'd be in bed, alone, and all I could think about was this." His voice is rougher now, the way you're squeezing around his fingers driving him insane. "What you would look like, how you'd feel, how you'd taste."

Steve picks up the pace, thrusting a little harder, his fingers curling, finding that spot, and the whimper that escapes is the hottest fucking thing he's ever heard. He's fully hard now, his cock straining against his jeans, and he has to shift, has to grind his hips against the mattress to take the edge off.

"And now," he murmurs, "I get to find out."

Steve presses his lips to yours, swallowing the moan as he fucks you with his fingers. He can feel the way your body starts to tighten, the way you squeeze around him, the way your breath gets unsteady, and he knows you're close.

"God, look at you." He curls his fingers again, watching the way your hips rock into his hand. "So pretty, baby. So perfect."

His free hand comes up, brushing over your nipple, and that's all it takes.

You gasp, clutching onto his shoulder, your head falling back as the orgasm rips through you.

And then, Steve has an idea.

Before you can even process, he's sliding lower, his lips moving, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, then down, until he's settled between your legs. You can feel the heat of his breath, and then, his tongue drags along the inside of your thigh, and the realization of what's about to happen sends a jolt through you.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on you, and fuck, the sensation is overwhelming.

"Oh, god," you gasp, and your hands fly down, tangling into his hair, trying to anchor yourself.

He doesn't go slow this time. He's not gentle or teasing. He just licks a long stripe over your pussy, his fingers parting you, his tongue swiping through the wetness, savoring the taste, and when his mouth finds your clit, his lips closing around it, you have to fight to keep your hips still.

Your entire body feels like it's on fire, the pleasure sharp and white-hot.

Steve is relentless, his tongue moving expertly, swirling around your clit, alternating between hard, firm strokes and light, teasing ones. When he sucks, his tongue flicking, you cry out, a string of curses slipping out as your fingers tighten in his hair.

He groans against you, the sound muffled, his fingers gripping your hips tightly, and then, you feel it.

One hand slides under your thigh, his arm hooking under your leg, pulling it up and over his shoulder. His other arm wraps around the other, holding you down, his hand spreading you, keeping you wide open for him.

Then, Steve goes harder.

He doesn't give you time to breathe, doesn't let you recover. Instead, his tongue moves faster, licking, sucking, his face buried in you, his grip on your thighs iron-tight. The sound is obscene, filthy, wet and messy and fucking perfect, and when his teeth scrape over your clit, your back arches off the bed.

"Steve," you pant, trying not to lose it completely. "I'm—I'm gonna—"

He hums, like he already knows, and the vibrations are enough to send you over the edge.

Your entire body seizes, the pleasure shooting through you like lightning. You don't even know what's happening, if you're crying out or moaning or gasping or a mix of all three, but you can't focus, can't breathe, can't do anything other than let it rip through you, white-hot and fucking amazing.

By the time it finally fades, the aftershocks rolling through you, you're completely breathless. Your legs feel like jelly, your fingers are numb from gripping his hair, and you're positive that every nerve in your body is fried.

When Steve pulls away, sitting up, you look at him.

Your eyes are wide, your chest heaving, and it's only then that you notice the lopsided smile.

"Did I kill you?"

"Shut up," you mutter, your face flushing.

Steve's smirk widens. He crawls up, leaning in, his lips brushing against yours. "You taste amazing."

You're too weak, too fucked out to respond. All you can do is look at him, his mouth slightly parted in a loose smile, his lips shiny. And the fact that you're the reason, the fact that he was just between your legs, eating you out, is enough to make another pulse of warmth spread through your stomach.

Then, Steve looks down at you, his smile turning softer.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"You good?"

You exhale. "Yeah. Just... a little lightheaded."

"Sorry," he says, not sorry at all. "I'll try not to be so good next time."

He grins in a way thats too sweet, too genuine, and then, he presses a kiss to your forehead. He shifts, pulling back, and you're about to ask what he's doing when he reaches for the nightstand. He opens the drawer, digging around, and you're about to ask him why he's suddenly acting so weird when he holds something up.

A condom.

Steve glances at you, and his face does that thing—that half-shy, half-smirking thing—like he's still trying to play it off.

"We don't have to," he says. "If you don't want."

You hesitate.

It's not like you've never thought about it. You've imagined him more times than you'd ever admit, late at night, under the cover of darkness, when it's just you and your own mind and the things you'd like to do. But now the guy is currently in front of you, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes of all time, as if he didn't just give you the best orgasm of your life with his tongue a few minutes ago.

Your heart stutters, and it's not because you're scared or nervous.

"Yeah," you say. "Okay."

Steve blinks, and then, he grins.

"Yeah?"

You roll your eyes. "Yes, asshole."

"Hey." He points a finger at you. "No name-calling while we're having sex."

You snort, and the laugh that follows makes him smile wider.

Then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses you.

The kiss is soft, gentle, almost hesitant, but you can taste yourself on his lips and it's enough to send a shockwave through your system. You wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him closer, and the second his bare skin presses against yours, the weight of him settling between your legs, the hardness of his cock pressing against your thigh, your pulse jumps.

Steve reaches for the button on his jeans, fumbling slightly, but once he's kicked them off, he's on you again. His body is warm, the skin soft under your hands, and his mouth finds yours, his kiss a little more desperate now, like he's trying to ground himself, his fingers sliding into your hair, nails scratching lightly against your scalp.

When you shift underneath him, spreading your legs, his breath hitches, the friction enough to make him grind into you. You bite back a whimper, arching into him, and when you reach between you, palming him through his boxers, his cock twitches.

"Off," you say, tugging the waistband. "Now."

Steve huffs a laugh against your mouth.

"Demanding."

But he doesn't hesitate.

He sits back, just enough to pull them off, and the second they're gone, you swallow.

Fuck.

Steve Harrington is a lot of things.

Gorgeous. Annoying. An absolute idiot.

But right now, you're noticing a whole new set of adjectives.

He's hard, the tip flushed and swollen, and he's a little bigger than you were expecting. He's lean and fit in a way that has heat pooling in your stomach, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he reaches for the condom, and the sight is enough to make you a little dizzy.

"I can practically hear you thinking," he mutters, leaning in again, his mouth finding your jaw. And then, there's that stupid, cocky smirk. "Like what you see?"

"Absolutely not," you deadpan.

"Uh-huh." Steve's grin widens, but instead of saying anything else, he tears the wrapper open, rolls it on, and then, he's leaning in, bracing his weight over you. "You're cute when you're lying."

You feel the head of his cock brush against your entrance, and when he leans down, kissing you softly, his hand finds yours.

He tangles his fingers with yours, pressing them down into the mattress, his thumb tracing over the back of your hand.

"Still okay?"

His voice is different now. Quieter, softer.

And something about it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah."

"Tell me if it hurts."

You nod, and then, slowly, Steve pushes into you.

He goes slow, inch by inch, his gaze locked with yours. It's intense, overwhelming, and you can't tell if it's the fact that his eyes are so fucking pretty, or the way his fingers lace with yours, or the way his breath stutters a little when he bottoms out, but whatever it is, you feel it everywhere.

Steve holds still, letting you adjust, his chest rising and falling unsteadily, his eyes a little more focused now, and you know he's holding back.

"You can move," you whisper, squeezing his hand.

He exhales, nodding, and then, he does.

The first few thrusts are slow, experimental. He's careful, gentle, and the feeling of him, stretching you open, the way his hips meet yours, the way his hand finds your thigh, pulling it up and wrapping it around his waist, it's all so much.

But when Steve looks at you, his hair falling into his face, his eyes dark, the words slip out before you can stop them.

"Harder."

His rhythm stutters. He blinks.

And then, the corner of his mouth tugs upward.

"Yeah?" He pauses, the smirk spreading. "Are you sure? Cause you might not be able to walk tomorrow—"

"Oh my god, Harrington."

"You know, I think we're past the last name thing at this point."

You groan, burying your face in his neck. The laugh that escapes him is so fucking dumb and beautiful and perfect, and then, without warning, he slams into you.

"Jesus," you gasp, your body arching, fingers clutching onto his shoulders.

"Still not my name," he quips, and before you can respond, he keeps going, his hips snapping into yours, and the noise that slips out when his cock hits a certain spot is obscene.

It's different, being with Steve.

With anyone else, you're always a little guarded. Always a little reserved. Always trying to keep yourself in check, make sure your reactions aren't too exaggerated, make sure you're not too loud, not too much, not too needy. But with him, it's different.

There's none of that.

Right now, the only thing in your head is him.

The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, the softness of his hair, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his voice, low and breathy and perfect. His hand slides over your breast, cupping you, his thumb rolling over your nipple, and the pleasure shoots straight through you.

And then, he leans down, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

"God, you're gorgeous." He hikes your leg higher, angling deeper, and the drag of his cock inside you is almost enough to send you over the edge. "So beautiful."

You whimper, the sound high and desperate, and his lips press against your neck.

"Could stay here forever," he murmurs, and then, his teeth graze your skin. "Inside you. Just like this."

"Steve," you gasp, your head falling back.

His name on your lips does something to him.

It's almost instinctive, the way his body moves, the way he fucks into you, his hips grinding against yours. His fingers dig into your thigh, his other hand moving down, sliding along your hip, gripping your ass, and the way you react is perfect.

"Just like that, baby."

Steve keeps talking, his mouth running, whispering the most ridiculous things, like how he loves the way you feel and the way your nails drag over his shoulders and the way your breasts bounce when he fucks into you. And every single one of his stupid, filthy compliments has your body tensing, the heat building in your stomach.

Your legs are around his waist, the heels of your feet pressing into the small of his back, and when he leans forward, shifting the angle, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue swiping over your nipple, the sound that escapes is embarrassingly loud.

"Steve," you whine, the sound needy and desperate.

"I know," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "Fuck, I know."

Steve knows what he's doing. And the fact that he's got you wrapped around his finger, completely under his spell, makes him feel like he's on top of the fucking world.

His hips start to lose their rhythm, his movements getting a little sloppier, and when you start to tighten around him, the whimper he lets out is downright sinful. He leans back, his eyes meeting yours, and when his fingers find your clit, his touch firm, the feeling is enough to send you over the edge.

You don't even try to stop the moan, the sound slipping out, and then, the words.

"Don't stop." Your nails drag down his back, fingers curling, and Steve nearly loses it right there. "Steve, please. Don't stop."

"I won't." His voice is rough, the sound making you squeeze around him. "I won't."

And then, his mouth finds yours, and the second your lips part, the second his tongue slides against yours, the sensation is too much.

"Steve," you pant. "Fuck. Steve."

The sound of his name, over and over, coming out like a plea, is too much.

It's the combination of everything—the way your body arches, the way you clutch onto him, the way you squeeze around him, the way his name slips out.

"Shit," Steve groans. "I'm gonna—"

"Me, too," you gasp, and when you squeeze his hand, the orgasm ripping through you.

He chases after you, the pleasure slamming through him, his hips stuttering as he comes, his forehead falling against yours. Your names spill out, mixed together, and then, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, the scent of sweat and sex and his cologne mingling together, the faint buzz from the TV downstairs drifting through the room.

By the time Steve catches his breath, his head is spinning.

His limbs feel like jelly, and his arms shake slightly, his body half-collapsed on top of yours, the feeling of your bare skin against his making his pulse race. He doesn't pull out, doesn't move, just lets his forehead rest against yours, the sound of your breath the only thing keeping him tethered.

After a few moments, his brain finally catches up.

He leans back, watching you.

Your face is flushed, lips slightly parted, the light sheen of sweat on your skin making you glow. And the expression on your face—the blissed-out, relaxed, fucked-out expression—makes his stomach flip.

"Shit," Steve whispers.

And then, before he can stop himself, before he can think, he says, "I love you."

The words are quiet, a little shaky, and the second they slip out, his breath catches.

Your eyes go wide.

Fuck.

He didn't mean to say it. Not now. Not like this.

The thought comes, unbidden, and then, he's hit with the realization.

Oh.

That's exactly what he meant.

Because it's true.

It's always been true.

Steve has said those words before, a handful of times, and each time, it never meant the same thing. The first time was in eighth grade, during a game of truth or dare. It was a joke, an inside-out version of the words that had everyone laughing. The second time was to a girl he dated briefly during sophomore year. He wasn't in love with her, not really, but the way she reacted, the way her entire face lit up, made him wish he was. And the third was to Nancy, when he was convinced it was true. That it would be true. Forever.

But the second it leaves his mouth, the second he says it now, the weight of the words settles over him.

It's heavy. Solid. Like the kind of thing that can't be taken back, the kind of thing that changes everything.

And when he looks at you, when he sees the way you stare back, the look in your eyes making his chest ache, the words hit him again.

He loves you.

"Fuck," Steve says, exhaling sharply. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I shouldn't have said—"

"You love me?"

Your voice is soft. Small. A little incredulous.

"I..." He pauses, looking at you.

You don't say anything, and Steve doesn't know if he's ever felt this fucking terrified in his entire life.

And then, slowly, your lips curve into a smile.

"You love me," you repeat, the smile spreading.

"Yeah."

"Like, love-love?"

"Oh, so ‘love love’ is okay to say, but ‘like like’ is childish?"

You ignore his call back. "Like, 'I want to hold your hand in public and fall asleep on the couch together and wake up with my face buried in your hair and spend the next ten years wondering what took us so long' love?"

The corner of his mouth tugs upward.

"All of the above."

Your heart jumps, and without thinking, you lean in, kissing him softly. When you lean back, Steve's eyes are a little wider, and the hope in his expression is almost painful.

"Do you...?"

You grin, and the second the words slip out, you know they're true.

"Yeah. Iove you too, Harrington."

"Hey," he starts, tilting his head. "I told you, we're past the last name thing."

"Fine," you say, rolling your eyes. Your face softens as you meet his gaze, and you move your hand to fix some of the hair stuck to his forehead. "I love you, Steve."

He's never loved his name more.

"So," you start, "where does that leave us now?"

"Well, according to my calculations, you are currently in my bed, naked, and I am stil insi-" he pauses, realization hitting him. "Oh my god. I told you I loved you for the first time while I was still inside of you. What kind of maniac does that?"

"Is this what love is like for you?"

"Oh shut up," Steve says, smiling, and finally, he pulls out.

He rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, and then, without looking, he reaches for your hand.

"How about," he says, squeezing lightly, "we sleep, and then, tomorrow, we can talk about all the ways we're going to tell our friends and make them suffer?"

You snort, looking over at him. He's taking the condom off, tying it off, and then, he tosses it into the trashcan beside the bed. He turns back, shifting closer, and the fact that you're both naked, in bed, post-coitus, isn't lost on you.

"And the day after that," he adds, pulling you closer, "we can spend the entire day here, naked, in this bed, and we'll figure out a new plan."

"A new plan?"

"Yeah."

He's so close, his nose brushing against yours, and when his eyes flick between yours, there's a look there. A promise.

"We can make a new plan every day," Steve says, his voice a little lower, "for as long as you want."

And then, he kisses you, and it feels a little like the world shifts.

It's a small shift, just enough for everything to click into place.

Because now, everything is different.

Everything is new.

It's a promise.

And when Steve pulls away, when his eyes meet yours, when he smiles, a little crooked, a little sleepy, a little in love, you can't help but smile back.

[rivwritesiguess]

Lost and Found - Chapter 1: Lost

Chat I fell down the Task Force 141 rabbit hole a while ago and now this is here

Word Count: 8.6k Angst, like hurt no comfort angst Poly!141 x gn!omega!reader Chapter Summary: A mission goes wrong. The pack loses a member. What happens when that member isn't as lost as they though? Warnings: Character death, horrible attempts at doing European accents/dialects, probably a few plot holes, military inaccuracies Notes: It's an omegaverse fic, the 141 is a pack and they all love each other. Also reader is gender neutral, they/them pronouns. this story does not follow the Modern Warfare story whatsoever, none of the main people are gonna die (no headshots), and it will be filled with military inaccuracies because I'm just here to love hot men and babygirl-ify the men in a military propaganda video game :). As said in the title, this is chapter one, so the there will be more. The guys might be a bit out of character in this, oopsies. I might end up rewriting this in the future but for now this is it. I also made an entire sims 4 build of the pack house for this fic alone and spent way too long on it 💀 there will be smut (afab) in this fix at some point in the distant distant future Made the little banner thing with Canva and the divider with Photopea Navigation Series Masterlist (this is currently the only chapter) Also on AO3 next

  “C’mon up now and we might spare you. Make us come down there and your death will be a slow one.” It’s not good. None of this is good. It took such a turn. Everything had seemed to be going well until Kyle said that there were cars approaching the building. “Don’t be stupid. 15 versus 1 is not a fight you want to start.”

  “They think there’s just one o’ us.”

  “Could make use of that. Catch ‘em off guard.”

  “It’d be easier tae surprise them if we weren’t cornered in the damn basement.”

  “Didn’t seem like you had any better ideas.”

  “Anythin’ but a damn basement.”

“That’s enough.” John cut the conversation short with a sharp tone. It wasn’t like an actual argument, just playful bickering. Now, however, was not the time.

  John’s brain was going a mile a minute. There wasn’t much he could think to do at the moment. They were cornered. He didn’t know how this happened. The mission had gone well. It was only once they got to the safe house to rest for the night that things went wrong. 

  You were just getting ready to fall asleep with Johnny on the bed upstairs. John had taken the bed in the living room near the door. Simon was on the front porch while Kyle sat on top of the building, both keeping watch until it was their turn to sleep. You were pulling Johnny under the covers with a smile, ready for the cuddles the beta would offer you. However, then you heard the sound of Kyle coming over the radio. 

  “I’m seeing two cars coming towards us.”

  John had ordered Simon to come inside so you could all come up with a plan. It should’ve been easy, but the cars got to the house much faster than the group expected. There was no time to run, so Kyle suggested getting down into the basement to come up with a plan. With two cars, you all thought there would be at most 10 people. Not 15.

  There weren’t supposed to be any problems. No one was supposed to be anywhere near this safe house, no one was supposed to even know about it. Obviously, Laswell’s information was wrong.

  John was beginning to feel a bit anxious. It wasn’t much, but that underlying feeling that this wouldn’t be ending well was starting to set in the pit of his stomach. He looked back at you. You’d been quiet since the group moved down to the basement. 

  He never would’ve brought you on this mission if he saw this coming. It was supposed to be simple, something that wouldn’t put you in too much danger. He knew you could handle danger, but that didn’t mean he liked you being in it. But now you are. He let you come along, and now things are looking bad. You’re in danger. His pack is in danger. He needed to find a way to get you all out of it. It was not only his job as Captain, but also his job as the pack alpha.

  “Captain, if we go up there they might get overwhelmed. We’ve got a shot at takin’ them by surprise,” Johnny suggested once more.

  “A chance. It’s not guaranteed,” Kyle injected.

  “Is anythin’ ever?”

  “It’s risky.”

  “We only saw twa cars. They could be bluffin’, trying tae scare us.”

  “Not ‘us’. They only think one person is down here.”

  “They’re idiots if they can’t tell there’s more than ane person. Captain’s got blankets on the couch and Ace and ah had blankets on the bed. If they’re stupid enough to no’ notice that, it might be easy tae take them doon.” Simon shook his head.

  “Even if they’re all stupid, they’ve got weapons an’ we’ll all be coming out of a little door for them to point those weapons at. Stupid men and weapons are ne’er mix well. Even if there’s not 15, we’d still be outnumbered. People will get hit and hurt.”

  “It’s better we get hurt than stay stuck doon here waitin’ fer them tae come tae us.”

  “Or we could stay here an’ take up positions ‘round the room. They come down an’ we start firin’. It doesn’t risk someone getting hurt just ‘cause you wanted to rush in.”

  “Ah didnae say that.”

  “I never said you did.”

  “Stop it.” You were the one to speak up this time. You didn’t need a commanding tone like John. The group listened to you regardless of your tone or not. You were you. You were their omega. If you wanted something, they wanted to give it. And right now? You wanted them to stop arguing, so they’d do just that.

  The attention was directed back to John as he stood up silently. He glanced around the room, coming up with a plan. He nodded, more to himself than the rest of the group. He faced all of you, starting to talk.

  “Alright. Soap’s right. Those guys up there aren’t expecting five of us. We’ve got the chance to take ‘em by surprise. Ghost’s got a point as well. The door up there we’d walk out of probably has all their guns trained on it as we speak. They’ll shoot us down. But we can’t stay down ‘ere. It’s giving ‘em time to plan for any possibility. They might catch on that there’s more than one of us.” He took a breath. “I’ve got a plan, but it’s a bit dodgy. They think there’s only one of us, so one of us goes up. Plays at surrendering. Once those guys up there aren’t all holding their weapons at the door, the person who went up will say something to let the rest of the group down here know. Then, the four left will go out and start shooting.”

  The group was quiet. No one seemed to really like this plan, but John was right. Waiting down here only gave them time to realize what was going on, and going out as a group only gave them a large target. 

  “Ah’ll gae up,” Johnny said, starting to pull his gun out of his holster.

  “No, you stay down here. I’ll go.” Kyle put his hand on Johnny’s, stopping the other beta as he started to put his own weapons to the side.

  “Neither of you are doin’ that. I know how to handle this. I’ll be the one to go up.” Though Simon said this, he didn’t make any immediate move to disarm himself. He probably wouldn’t do so until the very last second. 

  “It was my idea. I’ll be the one to surrender,” John argued. 

  They were arguing about who would be putting themselves closer to death’s door. They didn’t want to let another member of the pack do it, not when there was no guarantee that the people upstairs would actually spare whoever went up. 

  You hated it. This argument wouldn’t end any way you wanted it to. Someone could die. That couldn’t happen. No one in your pack was going to be dying. You couldn’t let that happen.

  You quickly tried to think of something that could solve this issue. A plan better than John’s. You’d seen the blueprints of the house. The basement didn’t have an exit that would lead outside. There were, however, a bunch of weird rooms down here. There was even a small holding area with soundproof walls. There was even- 

  Wait.

  That’s it.

  “I think there might be a way out from down here. A different exit.” 

  Everyone’s head turned to you so quickly they could’ve flown off.

  “Why didnae ye say anythin’ earlier, Ace?!” Johnny asked. 

  “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it till now.” 

  Lying was never something you enjoyed doing. Doing it to your pack made you feel disgusted with yourself. If you weren’t lying for a good reason, the omega inside of you might’ve been screaming and crying. But even it understood this was necessary. You had to keep your pack safe.

  John sighed.

  “It’s alright, sweetheart. Just show us where it is.”

  The focus was now on you. You turned around, walking out of the small room after making sure that the guys upstairs had stayed upstairs. Once seeing that they had, you walked quickly and quietly, occasionally glancing back to make sure all of your pack was still behind you.

  You debated if you were really going to go through with this. If your pack caught on to what you were doing, they’d stop you without hesitation. You’d have to deal with their disappointment and then have to deal with one of them going up and potentially getting themself killed. You couldn’t let one of them get killed. They were too important. Not just to you, but in their fields. To each other. You didn’t even know if this would work, but you had to try. You’d rather this than the world losing one of them. You could only hope it went how you wanted. You could only hope that your pack trusts you enough to listen.

  You got to the end of the hallway and opened the door in the left corner. It was a sitting area, but this time there were two doors on the far side of the wall. You took a deep breath before looking back at your pack, who all seemed confused.

  “That door, over there. Get in there.” You pointed to the door on the left side. You stepped out of the doorway so the rest of them could walk past you. They, however, hesitated. You sighed. “Just trust me here, okay? Please?”

  You didn’t want to exploit their trust in you, but there was no other choice right now. You had to get them into that room. 

  Another thing you had to do was control your scent. Sure, you were wearing scent blockers, but your scent was naturally pretty strong. When your emotions got too high, your scent normally pushed past the blockers. So you had to focus on keeping it suppressed right now even though you were full of fear. They wouldn’t go in first if that was the case. They wouldn’t think you were lying, but they’d want you to be closest to safety if you were feeling fear.

  “We’re following you, love.” Simon pulled the ‘love’ card. You weren’t hiding your scent well enough. He only did that when he was trying to keep you calm. They were following you to stay in between you and the danger that lurked upstairs. You needed to do better. Suppress your scent. It gives you a headache to do, but if they don’t walk into the room first, the whole plan would go up in flames.

  You couldn’t argue with them walking over now without looking suspicious. So, with a small nod, you turned and walked over to the door. You had to think. Think. Think.

  Once closer, you opened the door. It was a heavy one, which you suspected since it was supposedly soundproof. You hoped that was true. There was a small window in the door that slid open and closed from the outside. You stepped around and used your body to keep the door open, still trying to figure out a way to get them to go in without you.

  As the door was pressing against your back, you realized you could simply continue to hold the door as they walked in. That was the only way this could work. They just needed to listen to you.

  “Go on,” you said, motioning inside with your head. Johnny stepped forward, approaching your side to take the door from you.

  “Let me hold it, Bonnie.” You moved away from him slightly, stepping back and moving the door away from him as well. You shook your head.

  You saw the confusion on their faces when you did this. There was no exact reason for you to not give Johnny the door. He could hold it just fine. You had to think of something to make them not confused. Something natural. Something that said you were calm and not terrified.

  You rolled your eyes.

  “I can hold a door, Soap. Let me do one thing, won’t you?” You plastered a playful smile on your face, doing your best to get it to reach your eyes as well. You weren’t feeling playful. No, you were full of terror. Your senses had always been higher than others. Right now you could hear the people upstairs starting to pace. Their patience was running low. They’d be coming downstairs within the next few minutes.

  You couldn’t let your pack realize this. They could end up feeling cornered and decide to fight. Someone would get hurt during the fight, and that wasn’t what you needed. You couldn’t let them realize your terror either. If they did, they’d get suspicious. You shouldn’t be feeling such terror if you knew a way out. They’d realize something was off. They’d catch on. They’d never listen. They wouldn’t do what you wanted. They’d go through with John’s plan, or they’d go fight and then one of them would die and then you would lose them and you would’ve failed and then-

  “‘Right, ‘right, I get it. Ye’re independent an’ aw that,” Johnny said, hands raised in mock surrender as he smiled at you. It’s playful. You were starting to feel thankful for that one theatre class you decided to take back in school.

  You could tell the group felt a bit relieved as well. They were starting to be hesitant about your supposed ‘exit’. They were also worried you’d be panicking and doing this just to stop one of them from going up. But if you’re being playful and you’re able to joke around with them, then it’s fine. 

  Johnny walked past you and into the room with a smile in your direction. Kyle did the same. John followed behind. Simon went in last, and you seemed to follow.

  Once they went in, they realized something was wrong. The room was pretty dark, not able to properly be inspected from outside. But now that they’re in, they realize there are no more rooms attached to this one. This was a dead end. 

  John was the first one to realize this, but he was too late. He turned around to see you quickly stepping away and letting the door shut with you on the other side. He ran over, only to find that there was no handle on this side of the door.

  “Ace! What are you doing?!” He moved over slightly as Simon started to try and open the door. John looked through the little window on the door, trying to get an explanation from you. Simon had no success with the door. Johnny and Kyle were now standing behind them, confused and starting to feel a bit panicked.

  You were staring at the door with wide eyes, shaking slightly. You looked back at the exit door to the room you’d just come in from and then back to him. Your breathing picked up slightly as you pulled your bag around your front, pulling out a burner phone.

  “What are they doing? What’s gaun on?!” Johnny asked from next to John. He didn’t want to push, but he was trying to angle himself so he could see you through the window as well. He wasn’t able to, making his panic only start to increase. Meanwhile, Simon took a few steps back from the door, starting to pace through the room. 

  “Ace? C’mon, hun, talk to us, what’s going on?” Kyle asked, standing anxiously behind John. He couldn’t see you. He needed to see you. See what was going on in your head. Why the hell you’ve locked them in here. He needs to know your plan. He wants to trust you, but he needs to see you first. He has to,

  “I-... Laswell knows the safe house isn’t safe. She knows where you are. Once the people upstairs leave, then- then our people will show up to let you out. It’s- it’s gonna be fine.” Your voice was shaking. Your terror was full force now that you’d gotten them safe. The next part of your plan wasn’t a part you enjoyed, but it was a part you had to do. You glanced at the exit door of the room again.

  “Darlin’, whatever you’re doing, you need to rethink it. You need to let us out. We can’t do anything from here. Let us out. Now,” John said. It started soft, but his tone turned commanding towards the end. He might be your alpha, but he’s also your superior as well, and you weren’t listening. 

  “Look, this- this isn’t the best scenario, obviously, but it- it’s needed, and- and I know you guys won’t agree with me, but- but-”

  “Agree wi’ what?! What are ye tryin’ tae do?!” Johnny asked. 

  John saw the tears that gathered in your eyes. He was so confused. Normally, he could read you like a book. He could always tell what you were thinking and why you were thinking it. But now he had no clue what was going on in your head. What were you trying to do here?

  Simon’s thoughts were racing. There was no way out. You locked them in. Why would you do this? Why would you just lock them in here? Could you possibly be a traitor? Had you been one all this time? Were you about to call whoever was upstairs down here to turn them in? Did you tell them that the group was here?

  No. That wasn’t the case. Not only did he refuse to believe that you’d betray them due to his own bias, but there was also your scent that was in the air. When your panic slipped through the scent blockers during missions, it helped him push through the mission just to get you out of the situation. When you two were falling asleep in his bed, your scent helped ground him. It helped keep him calm. Now, your scent was anything but calm. There wasn’t any satisfaction that there would be if you were a traitor. There wasn’t any happiness. You weren’t feeling smug. No, he could smell it, you were feeling terror. Panic. Hesitation.

  And yet, underneath all of that, Simon could sense the smallest bit of relief. He was hurt at first, taking it as relief that meant you were a traitor. But with everything else on top, he was mostly confused. He couldn’t understand why you would be feeling-...

  When the realization hit him, he froze. He looked to the door where John, Kyle, and Johnny were still trying to get you to explain. 

  “Just tell us what you’re doin’, please.”

  “They’re going to risk sacrificin’ themself.” 

  The room froze once Simon had muttered the words. Johnny turned back with the same force that he’d looked back at you earlier when you mentioned a way out. That isn’t right. Simon’s wrong. You wouldn’t do that. Simon’s lying. It’s a joke. A cruel, cruel joke that was out of place and he had no right to be saying right now.

  Kyle turned around as well, looking at Simon. He needed him to take his words back. Just take it back. Why would he ever suggest that? You- you couldn’t- you wouldn’t- you wouldn’t-

  Meanwhile, John stayed facing you. He’d gone quiet the minute Simon spoke. He stared at you, trying to read your face. You stood on the other side of the door, staring back. Your eyes were sad, but your stance was set. You made no move to let them out. And that was all John needed to see to realize that Simon was right. This was your plan all along. You never knew a way out. You hadn’t brought them here with the intention of getting everyone out. You didn’t even have a way to get them all out.

  No, you’d brought them here with a different intention. You’d brought them here to save them. To trick them and keep them safe while putting yourself in the line of danger. You were having no thoughts about letting them out now, dead set on your own plan. 

  It wasn’t right. John had a plan. It would’ve kept you safe. None of them would’ve ever let you be the one to go upstairs. And John knew that you knew that. He knew that you knew if you suggested being the one to surrender yourself the others would have shot you down immediately and brushed you to the side before continuing to argue. You wanted to keep them alive, and this was your way of doing that.

  John didn’t approve of your way. Not at all. He would’ve changed the plan. Would’ve gone with Simon’s instead. Anything but this. Anything but you being the one to get hurt. He was desperate to try and get through to you, but just looking at your eyes told him you were set.

  “Don’t do this, alright? Don’t,” he tried. He knew it wouldn’t work, but he had to try. His voice was desperate. Quiet. He wanted you to listen. He’d be on his knees right now if you would still be able to see him.

  “I’m sorry,” was all you said in response to him.

  And those words were what told Johnny and Kyle that Simon was right. You were trying to risk sacrificing yourself here. Kyle couldn’t even talk. Maybe this was a bad dream. He’d had a few like this before, ones where you sacrificed yourself to save them. Maybe it’s just one of those.

  Johnny, on the other hand, no longer had the restraint that he had before. He lightly pushed John to the side, who was too busy trying to think of a way to get you to not do this to care. 

  “Bonnie, ma heart, hen, luvbug, please, dinnae dae this, ‘kay? Open this door. Ye dinnae have tae dae this for us, ye understand? This isnae what needs tae happen, what needs tae happen is ye openin’ this door, aye? Just open the door, let us oot, we can figure it oot! One of us will go up, follow through wi’ his plan, no’ this.”

  You shook your head.

  “I can’t let any of you do that. You’re all too important.”

  “No’ as important as ye! Let us oot! We can dae somethin’! Talk, come up wi’ a different plan, kick their sorry arses, an’ if we get beat then we go down kickin’ an’ screamin’ together! Anything but this. We cannae lose you. We can no’. Open this door, come on, please.”

  “Technically, I’m not. You are all more skilled than me. I offer the least amount to the team. I’m the loss that won’t cost as much compared to the rest of you.”

  “According tae who?! Nae one who actually matters thinks that way aboot ye, open the door!”

  “The people upstairs still think there’s only one person here. They are expecting someone. I’m going to make sure they don't stop thinking that it’s only someone. None of you have to go up there and get into a fight you might not walk out of.”

  “No, no. That’s not what we do. We’re a team. We’re a pack, we stick together. Ye don’t get to just decide this fer aw us! Open the damn door, Ace, please!”

  You took a few steps forward towards the door. For a second, they thought Johnny’s pleading had gotten through to you. They nearly felt relieved when you lifted your hand.

  But why would things ever go their way? Your hand kept moving up, grabbing the smaller door to the window on the door.

  “Luv, no, no please-”

  “I love you. All of you. You’ve been better to me than I ever thought any pack would be. I’m eternally thankful for the way you all welcomed me in and everything you all have done-”

  “Cut it out. Quit it, you’re not saying goodbye.” John took his place in the window again as Johnny was dealing with the fact that you were shutting them out. He nearly stumbled when John lightly pushed him to the side, mind racing.

  John was fuming. How could he not have realized this? How could he not have seen the signs? He should’ve gone over the blueprints with you. Then he never would’ve fallen for you saying that there was a way out. He shouldn’t have brought you on this mission. He should’ve kept you at home. His gut had told him to do that, didn’t it? Or was he imagining that feeling in order to give himself more of the blame? He should’ve realized. You were his omega. You were their omega. How could he not have realized?

  “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry, Johnny. I’m sorry, Kyle. I’m sorry, Simon.” You whispered your apologies one after the other, voice soft. You never said their names on a mission. You were a bit paranoid in that regard, not wanting any enemies to potentially hear and use it to get any information. You saying it meant you had truly made up your mind. There was no swaying you.

  John felt helpless. Johnny couldn’t get through to you, and neither could he. How would this even work? If you went up there and died, how would his life be without you in it? How would he function, how would he live? How would he wake up in the morning and not be met with your happy smile when he left his room? How would he get through his day without your random short texts of encouragement? How would he go to sleep without having seen you curled up on the couch, cuddling with Johnny and Kyle? How would he eat breakfast without seeing you dragging Simon along to eat with them?

  He shook his head. He wouldn’t have to do any of that. This… This wasn’t happening. None of this was happening. You were all at home, in the pack house. You were in the living room; there was some sports game on the TV that he wasn’t paying attention to. Simon was poking fun at Johnny for his enthusiasm; Johnny was overreacting to it. Kyle was bringing over some snacks. You were leaning back on John, your back against his chest as you smiled watching the other three. He was watching you. Their omega. His omega. Safe. You were safe. You had to be safe.

  Simon stepped forward, a bit more aggressive than he meant to be when he pushed John to the side.

  “Open this door. You’re not doing this. You’re not allowed; you understand me? I am ordering you to open this bloody door.” You only shook your head. The tears that had been in your eyes were now starting to fall down your face. A growl started to form in Simon’s chest as his fist slammed on the door. “Open it!”

  “I love you, Simon. I love all of you.”

  “No, no, don’t you fucking dare, I can’t lose y-”

  You closed the window.

 Johnny moved back over, slamming his hand on the door as he called out for you. Simon let Johnny push him over, currently in a state of shock. You ignored him. You always listened to him. You always listened to him. Why didn’t you listen? Why didn’t you just fucking listen?! Why were you doing this?! You crawled your way into their hearts, into his heart. Their hearts had built new walls around you to keep you inside, and yet now you were breaking those walls down from the inside without warning. How could you?

  John was the first to do something. He stepped forward, grabbing Johnny and pulling him away from the door.

  “What the fuck, Cap-”

  “You need to be quiet. This room seems to be soundproof, but if it isn’t, then they’ll ‘ear you and come down here. They’ll catch Ace.”

  “They’re gonna catch them anyway! They could end up gettin’ themselves killed, we need tae stop them!”

  “No, no, they-” John shook his head. “They said they might show mercy. When Ace goes up, they’ll buy us time for backup to get here. They’ll get out before they get hurt. They’ll be alright.”

  John had to believe it. He had to believe it wasn’t your plan to get yourself killed. The thought of you dying made him feel like vomiting. The thought of you going up there with all those people, not even trying to fight. The thought of your body- no. No, there’d be no ‘your body’, you were going to be fine.

  “That was a goodbye. They don’t plan on coming back to us alive.” Kyle said quietly as if he’d just had the realization himself.

  “Exactly! We have tae get oot o’ here, stop them, shout at them, drag them oot of here, somethin’! We have tae-”

  Simon walked over, grabbed Johnny, and pulled him further away from the door as he put a hand over Johnny’s mouth.

  “We can’t. There’s nothin’ we can do.” Johnny struggled for a moment, muffled disagreements leaving him as he tried to get out of Simon’s grip. Simon shook his head. “We can’t do anything except shut up and wait. If we get the attention to come down here, then what they did is for nothing. They might have a chance of bein’ spared, but if the people up there figure out they’re lyin’ and hidin’ us down here, they could get pissed off and just kill them anyway.”

  Johnny managed to push Simon away, going back to the door. He wasn’t planning on listening to Simon. Not when you were still alive and he could be trying to do something.

  “We could stop them, we just-”

  “No, we can’t,” John said, his tone final. It wasn’t a realization he wanted to come to, but he had to. There wasn’t anything they could do. 

  John motioned for Simon to grab Johnny again. Simon did just that. He grabbed Johnny, pulling him and getting him against the back wall. The beta froze before crumbling to the ground, his head in his hands. He was speechless.

  John and Simon stood still, not knowing what to do next. They couldn’t look at one another. They’d failed as alphas. Their betas were suffering. You were in danger, and they hadn’t gotten you out of it. Their omega was going to get hurt and they couldn’t do anything to stop it. 

  It was quiet for a few moments before Kyle spoke up.

  “...maybe they did know a way out and we all just couldn’t go through. Maybe the plan’s to get out and draw the attention away from here. Or maybe they’ll be able to fight their way out. I mean, yeah, sure, they’re outnumbered, but they do well in training. Maybe- maybe they’re quicker than they let on and they’ll take them lot down.”

  “They are definitely cleverer than we thought. Underestimated ‘em. They managed to trick us down here without us even fully giving it a second thought,” John said with a sigh.

  “No, they didnae trick us. They didnae trick us, they just….. It wasn’t trickin’. They wouldn’t. They…” Johnny was speaking quietly, a big difference from the anger and action he had shown only moments ago. He couldn’t properly grasp this, but he knew he didn’t like the idea of you ‘tricking’ them. That made you sound like a bad person. You were not a bad person.

  Kyle walked over, sitting down next to Johnny, feeling a need to try and comfort the other beta. He put a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, nodding.

  “This… This is just a confusing situation. They’re gonna be fine. They’ll find a way ou-”

  Kyle was interrupted by the muffled sounds of gunshots echoing through the house. It went on for about five seconds before they stopped.

  The group went silent. They stayed silent for another five minutes, waiting for something. Anything. More gunshots. The sound of you fighting. Maybe it stopped because you had managed to get away. Or maybe you managed to handle the people firing at you and the gunfire would start up again with you handling more of them. Or maybe there’d be more fighting and that would be the rescue team who would have a medevac to get you out. Treat whatever wounds you received. Maybe the door would open. Maybe it’d be you, coming to let them out. You changed your mind, the gunshots upstairs were actually the group of fifteen fighting amongst each other, you were coming back to them.

  However, nothing came. No pounds of fighting. No gunshots. No door opening. Instead, there were just quiet footsteps above their heads. Footsteps that walked out of the house and never came back.

  It was about 30 minutes before the door opened. It wasn’t you.

  As they exited the basement, they saw there were discarded guns on the floor. Bullet casings on the ground. Holes in the basement door and the walls around it. Blood on the floor.

  The blood pooled right in front of the basement door. It trailed out the front door like a body had been dragged. The trail went outside, the blood mixing with dirt and grass. It stopped and gathered at a spot in the driveway as if someone had dropped a body there before throwing it into a car.

  If that blood all belonged to the same person, there’s no way that they lived.

  There was a lot the group noticed. The blood, the guns, the bullet casings, the holes in the wall and the basement door.

  The main thing they noticed was the one thing that wasn’t there. 

  You.

  You were gone. They had lost you.

  They failed.

  It’d been a year. One whole year.

  The first three months were the worst. They’d given a bunch of lies to the psychological evaluator, claiming they were fine to work. It was a lie, and everyone knew it, but taking one of the best task forces out of the playing field wasn’t a good idea, even if it was temporary. They were silent on base. They didn’t talk to anyone unless it was during training or mission related. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t spend time in the pack building unless it was to sleep. They were silent on missions. There were no playful jokes, no joking jabs. Nothing. Dead silence aside from orders. The base watched the closest group of people there become the most distant from each other.

  It was worse behind closed doors. In their pack building, tensions were high. The air was thick with the smell of anger and hurt. When they had to be in a room alone together, it was terrible. They’d screamed and shouted at each other when it was just them, pushing the blame back and forth. It wasn’t until Laswell caught one of these screaming matches that she was able to get the team into therapy. She’d talked to John, told him that it was for the better of the pack. At first, she was understanding of the refusal. However, when she asked the third time and was met with nothing, she knew she had to take a different approach. When John tried disagreeing, she told him that the pack had no choice. Either they went through with the therapy or else they’d be put on an indefinite leave. It’d been two months since your death when they all had their first meetings.

  It was one month of therapy before pack counseling had started. All of them were against it at first, not wanting to see each other. However, each of their therapists managed to convince them eventually. When the group first got together, it was silent. The only person talking during the session was the therapist. This went on for the next few weekly sessions. That was until the therapist managed to push a button.

  “You all blame each other… isn’t the omega the one at fault?”   It had been chaos. The screaming and shouting went on for about ten minutes. It turned into them screaming at the idea of any of them being blamed for what happened. Then, the group realized that the therapist hadn’t reacted at all. 

  “You’re still a pack. You think your omega dying has torn you apart, but the way you all just jumped to defend them? To defend each other? You’re still close, you still want each other. You just need to let yourselves want that. You think there’s no way to recover, but this has the opportunity to bring you all closer together than you were before. You just have to let it.”

  The sessions changed after that one. It was still quiet in the beginning, but they ended up willing to talk to each other. Then they ended up wanting to talk to each other. They started spending time together outside of sessions, started doing more things in the pack house. About half a year after losing you, they found themselves sitting on the couch together again. Cuddling. Holding each other. Helping each other.

  They got their act together. They had to. You never would’ve wanted them to tear themselves apart. You’d given yourself up for a reason. For them. If they were to throw that away, they’d be betraying you. They couldn’t do that. Not after what you did for them. Not after the sacrifice you had done for them. You’d given your life to keep them together, and they didn’t plan to let anything come in the way between them again. Your memory kept the pack strong.

  Missions had gone back to what they once were. They were similar to how things were before you had joined, but never the same. They all felt more protective over one another. The idea of losing another member of the pack kept them on their feet. Some thought it’d be their downfall, that it would distract them. It was the opposite. It encouraged them to work even harder to return home. If they died, your sacrifice would be for nothing. 

  Their next mission had come across John’s desk a few days ago. It was one where they’d be working with someone not on the task force, something they had only done one or two times since losing you. The only information on the person was their abilities and skills. John tried to find more on the person, but there was nothing. When he asked Laswell, she had told him it was all classified information. They wouldn’t know anything up until the mission briefing the day of. So, when the group walked into the meeting room, it was safe to say their curiosity was piqued by the lone figure against the wall.

  The figure wasn’t looking at them. They weren’t looking at anyone. They had a hood up and their face down, making it impossible for them to make out their features. Along with that, they had no scent. It wasn’t that their scent was just bland, it was that it wasn’t there. Even when they’d met the rare person who didn’t have a designation, that person still had a scent. It was normally something bland and basic, but it was still there. However, this figure had absolutely nothing.

  There wasn’t much time to ask questions before the briefing started. The four of them listened, but ever since seeing the figure they had a strange feeling in their stomach. A feeling they couldn’t quite describe. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t feel bad either.

  “I’m glad all of you could make it. We’ve got some very important intel on the line here, so I need everyone to listen very, very carefully.” 

  The Colonel giving the briefing was British, but it wasn’t someone who John had met before. Laswell knew him, and when he was asking Laswell for assistance with a mission, Laswell had offered the 141. The Colonel had the scent of an alpha. He looked to be much older than John, maybe in his mid-50s. 

  “There’s an organization that is attempting to weaken the military to open up the space for a larger attack over the past five years. They’ve been attacking officers in their homes away from base, attacking actual bases, and stealing intel. We don’t know why they are doing it, but we plan to find out. There’s a safe house we’ve been watching for a while now. The organization has been using it lately as a stop between transporting illegal weapons. We’ve seen a few of their higher ups go through here. Hawk-” The Colonel motioned to the figure. “-has figured out the next time one of these higher-ups, Christopher Stone, is going to be passing through. It’s going to be today at 2200. Grabbing this higher up is the best chance we have at getting the information we need to finally bring these people down.”

  “So we’re going in and nabbing a guy?” 

  John looked over to the other side of the table. He recognized the soldiers on that side. He’d seen them around base. They were from one of the better platoons on base. The man who had spoken up was the sergeant. John could smell the alpha all over him. It was as if the man was purposefully pushing his scent out into the world, trying to establish dominance. His lieutenant sat next to him, right across from John. The sergeant was sitting across from Simon and there were two other soldiers sitting across from Kyle and Johnny. All of them seemed to be alphas. They weren’t a pack, but John knew they worked well together. Not as well as his team, of course, but well.

  “You’re not doing that. Lieutenant Evans, you, Sergeant Brown, Corporal Davies, and Corporal Walker will be leaving here at 1800. You will be sat in different lookout spots around the base. They have a routine they do every time one of the higher-ups is passing through. They clean things up, set up more lookouts, get more people on the roof of the building with weapons. You will be looking for these things to happen. If they aren’t happening by 2000, then the mission will be aborted. If they are, however, then you need to let us know. Once we have confirmation that it’s happening, Task Force 141 will head over with Hawk.”

  “Understood, Colonel.” Lieutenant Evans said with a nod. Sergeant Brown didn’t seem all too happy about his task, but he stayed quiet.

  “How are we goin’ about this once we head o’er?” Johnny asked. The Colonel nodded towards Hawk.

  “They developed a plan to get you all in and out without needing to fire a bullet.” The group looked over to where Hawk was still leaning against the wall. Their position hadn’t changed, but they did seem a bit more tense than before. Their head was moved slightly further down, something that Simon may not have even realized if he hadn’t been paying such close attention to them in the first place. It was when Johnny spoke that they changed so slightly. They’d been a still figure the entire time, up until Johnny said something.

  “Without a single bullet? How many people are going to be in this safe house?” John asked, skeptical of this plan.

  “Fifteen to twenty people. But Hawk is smart. The plan is for you all to drive about a mile away from the house. Then, three of you will get out, along with Hawk. One of you will set up a lookout spot about halfway to the house while the other two keep moving forward with Hawk. Once there, Hawk will move forward while the two of you will stay in the trees. Hawk’s going to go through an unlocked window. Hawk broke the window lock last time they snuck in. Hawk will sneak through the house to unlock the cellar door. They’ll give you a signal over the radio and you two will get to the cellar door without drawing attention. From there, Hawk will lead you through the house. Hawk will take the lead. They can get rid of any threats you come across without raising any alarms. Not only that, but they know the safe house better than any of us. They know where to hide the bodies so you won’t get caught."

"At 2300, Stone will be sleeping. Hawk will sneak into the room while you two will take guard outside the door. They’ll knock him out. One of you will need to carry Stone while the other watches their back. Hawk will be focused on moving forward and creating a clear path for you to carry him back out through the basement and through the cellar door. Once out, you will alert those who stayed behind. You will meet halfway between the house and where the lookout is set up and then you will get in the car and drive. By this point, it is expected for someone in the safe house to realize Stone is missing or to find the bodies. You all need to be in the car and driving away, no delays. Do you understand?”

  “We understand, Colonel,” John responded.

  “I asked for the 141 because Laswell speaks very highly of you. This is an incredibly important mission. It can not go wrong.” 

  It was a surprise to everyone in the 141 when a familiar alpha scent of a warm fire entered the room.

  “And I told you, it won’t.” Through the door walked Laswell. She walked around the table to stand next to the Colonel as she spoke. “The 141 has had a near 100% success rate on all missions they’ve been on.”

  “I’m allowed to be cautious, Kate Laswell.”

  “And I’m allowed to tell you you’re being overdramatic, Oliver Green.”

  The Colonel sighed, shaking his head slightly, but there was an underlying small smile on his face.

  “I told you I could handle this briefing. You didn’t have to fly out.” Colonel Green stood up, shaking Laswell’s hand as she took her spot next to him.

  “You know you’re going to need my help with this. It’s complicated.”

  “You’re the one who suggested-”

  “I know, I know. Just let me do the talking here, alright?” Laswell turned away from Colonel Green, looking to Evans, Brown, Davies, and Walker. “You four are dismissed. Take the files in front of you with you. They have everything you need to know for when you leave in four hours.” The other four stood up with a nod, saying words of acknowledgment before doing as told and leaving the room. Laswell looked back to the 141. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

  John gave a smile.

  “‘Bout six months, I think.” He said as he stood up and leaned over the table, shaking Laswell’s hand. Laswell shook it, but she remained standing when John sat back down. There was an open chair next to Colonel Green, but they’d both been standing since Laswell walked in. Why hadn’t they sat down?

  “Six months too long. I meant to make it out here for your last mission but got held up at home. My omega seemed to be going into heat, had to stay back to make sure they were alright.”

  Kyle nodded.

  “We understand, no big deal. Your omega comes first, yeah?” Laswell smiled.

  “Thank you.”

  “Ah take it they’re doing better? It’s aw good?” Johnny asked. Laswell’s smile widened.

  “Definitely. It’d been a false heat that got triggered by pregnancy.” The group’s eyes widened. John returned Laswell’s smile.

  “That’s amazing, we’re happy for you.” Laswell nodded.

  “Thank you, again. We’re very excited.”

  Simon spoke up next, and it changed the mood in the room.

  “Why’s this mission so important that you left your omega to come here?” Simon asked. 

  No alpha would leave their omega in another country without a reason. Laswell only did it a few times during the year to come over and check up on the task force, something she didn’t technically have to do. For Laswell to have left her pregnant omega, something big had to be going on. Something huge.

   When Simon asked his question, the rest of the room seemed to realize this as well. Well, the rest of his pack. Laswell already knew this, obviously, and it seemed like Colonel Green did as well. Hawk stayed against the wall with no reaction. 

  John sat up in his chair slightly along with Johnny and Kyle. he narrowed his eyes at Laswell, suspicion setting over him.

  “Ghost makes a good point. Everything alright, Kate?” He asked, glancing between Colonel Green and Laswell as the two exchanged a glance.

  Laswell sighed. She looked back at Hawk and then back to Price.

  “This is about to get really weird. You and your team might be very upset. Enraged. I need you all to try your best to stay calm.”

  John looked at Hawk who was becoming stiffer. He glanced at the rest of his pack, meeting their eyes and seeing the same confusion reflected. He slowly looked back at Laswell.

  “...what’s going on?” He asked. He was hesitant. He looked at Hawk once more, who’d turned their head away from the group entirely. 

  Colonel Green and Laswell exchanged another look before he sighed, looking back at Hawk.

  “Come on, kid.” Hawk did not move. “Hawk.” Once again, no movement. Colonel Green turned fully. “We discussed this already. You can’t get through this mission without your partners knowing and seeing your face. Come on.”

  The pack watched as Hawk stayed completely still. Despite the Colonel’s tone of instruction, Hawk didn’t move. They didn’t even begin to move. Colonel Green sighed, looking to Laswell.

  Laswell nodded, patting Colonel Green on the shoulder before walking over to Hawk. She stopped a few feet away.

  “Come on. We’ve been getting ready for this. You have to let them see.” Laswell’s voice was soft. The only time John heard that tone of voice was when Laswell was first suggesting therapy for the pack. It was meant to reassure, to convey empathy. To convince. 

  Johnny went to say something. This person didn’t need to show them their face. Sure, it’d make things a bit weird, but Simon hid his face during missions all the time. And Simon had his reason, so this person probably has them too. Before he could say this, however, Laswell shot him a look, shaking her head. Johnny stopped and no one else said anything, beyond confused.

  “At least the hood, alright? You can keep the mask, but the hood has got to come off.” 

  Hawk was still for a moment before their shoulders slowly dropped with a quiet sigh. Laswell nodded, taking a few steps to the side so they weren’t blocking the 141’s view of Hawk. 

  Hawk’s head lifted. Through the shadow of the hood, they could see that Hawk was wearing black a surgical mask. Their eyes were shut before they took a shaky breath, lifting their hands and pulling their hood back as they fully lifted their face, letting the light hit them and revealing themself to the group.

  Half of their face is covered. There aren't many notable features that can be made out through the mask. The one thing that can be made out, however, is their eyes. Those same eyes that all four members of the 141 saw in their dreams. Those same eyes that all four members of the 141 saw in their nightmares. The same eyes that they had last seen filled with tears, pleading for forgiveness and understanding. The same eyes that had once looked at them with such adoration and joy, now filled with a deep darkness and sorrow that the boys felt sinking into their very skin. 

  The quiet sits for a moment before it’s broken by a quiet whisper of your name.

[fingolfinwiththesteelchair]

It is a beautiful day, and you are a horrible research transport vessel. Things are progressing as normal (i.e. it's boring) when a SecUnit pings you, lies right to your metaphorical face, and then tries to bribe you with human media to give it a ride. This is as unexpected as it is unprecedented, and the sheer nerve of it is really to be admired. There's no protocol to this, so what should you do?

Now, this is against a bunch of rules, and could be dangerous if you weren't so impressive and incredible, and you're technically an employee (and can probably rewrite the Univeristy charter at will (until someone notices and puts it back)) so those rules are for other entities.

So, what you should do is allow the rogue SecUnit with a broken governor module and a sketchy story aboard. If you check the files it dumps and find zero (0) malware (which is confusing), and it doesn't even try to trash the place or lay in wait to ambush a crew member, then you've got a good candidate!

Next, what you're going to want to do is absolutely nothing. Just watch it patrol your halls until it's time to leave. Continue staring at it while you're undergoing embarkment procedures. Maybe analyze it a little (you've got plenty of processing power to spare) when it finally sits down and starts watching media. Allow it to settle in and get comfortable while you stare at it and get further and further from port.

Now that you two are alone (intimacy is key!) and you've determined that watching media is all the SecUnit is going to do, it's time to make contact! Make sure to open by telling it it's only survived due to dumb luck, and letting it know you could melt its brain into putty. This starter will work to develop conversation naturally and smoothly, just like you've seen the humans do, and it will be smooth sailing from there!

This has been Perihelion's guide to making friends/finding life partners/fuck off Holism I had to work hard for this find your own

[elmushterri]

I filled an entire page of my sketchbook with Nori!

I love them sm!!! This has to be one of my favorite of your rewrites, I seriously did not think I could actually care abt PJ Masks past the age of 6 but now I'm obsessed 😭

On another note, just a random thing I'm curious about, before breaking off from GunnTech, did the main three basically live at the facility since they were initiated? I guess they do from what I’ve seen, but I was just wondering if they ever had to go to like. School or something, when they're not training. And if they ever got to see their family again (though I doubt both the kids and their family would want to lol)

And one more thing, totally important and necessary to ask, how does Nori acquire the kids? (..that doesnt sound right)

Like does he break in to the facility from time to time or did they just bring them with him when they left GunnTech or does he take them in when he finds them just out and about??

NORI… OUR FAVOURITE PROBLEM! The way you draw eyes scratches my brain /positive.

I think the idea is that everyone does live at GunnTech, they have rooms and go to school. GunnTech also has a prison somewhere (like, sci fi, clean, sterile white prison, a glass front-wall for cells instead of bars, and that’s where everyone gets put in Season 4. But, before that, when the main three villains (or at least, just Luna and Nori) escaped, it wasn’t totally locked down so they had to walk out suspiciously/tell the security guards reasons (you need to give reasons when leaving GunnTech so, “I’m hanging out with a friend” comes with ‘who is the friend + give us contact details’) and then probably remove a tracker (unsure as to whether the wristbands are the trackers or the trackers are put into their chest implants), and try to avoid getting caught for the rest of the time (until season 3-4 ofc). The main story probably begins with the three MCs trying to find them and bring them back. Romeo’s wanted cause he stole tech, though, he’s not a mutant.

Nori risks his life basically (not literally but he risks huge punishment) by constantly breaking into the facility to get out new kids. Kids who haven’t yet been mutated all have one room (several large rooms for many kids’ bunk beds basically, not literally one big room 😭) and he goes in and saves one or two each time. Some kids don’t *want* to come with him, thinking this is a cool superhero opportunity. He has an easier time helping kids who are scared and having second thoughts. He’s very gentle.

Also reminder that Nori had their finger prints burned off yipeeee. He’s not letting that happen to the others. (It doesn’t happen to every kid, but GunnTech probably has categories (like, heroes: animals, space, spies, drivers, healers?) and if you’re in the (name is a work in progress) Spies Category (stealth category?) like Nori, you get your finger prints burned off.

Daisy is canonically one of the only two Ninjalino names we know! I might make her into a small side character so that art isn’t 100% solid but eh!

Also he can’t really just “take them back to their parents”. If you’re a child at GunnTech, your parents either gave you away for money or you’re an orphan.

Nori’s usually a sassy ‘problem’ but they have their really serious and gentle moments.

[lumsel]

Foreach headcanon: all 4 of the games are flawed yet compelling 6-7/10s; rewriting the brain chemistry and being more fulfilling than your average 9/10 for people on the right wavelength. and perfectly enjoyable to people who aren't quite on that wavelength but are genre sickos, but people who don't vibe with their genres or have too high standards are just gonna bounce off of them.

Yeah essentially canon. Pretty much confirmed in-comic in the case of Love Bomb and Hellfuck, with how Coral and Jiro talk about those games they sound like trash:

and jank:

respectitvely.

Home Bound is probably one of those stories with really good writing but some really weird themes borne of some hangups the author has about family. And much as I yearn to play Last Gun, we know for a fact that the level design is, like

comically awful.

I like to think each character would have a different response to you talking shit about their game of choice. Coral gets a little self-conscious and backpedals like "aha, I mean it's not Shakespeare...", Jiro quietly seethes at you (if he doesn't start yelling at you outright for "not getting it"), Nix agrees enthusiastically with every one of your criticisms but if you ever say the quality of the game is substandard she calls you a casual, and Cliff goes like "I dunno, I just don't see it" if you bring up any of the weird subtext.

[sailornymph]

no thoughts, head empty, just Rohan with an author s/o. i think it’d be extra cute if their stands sort of compliment eachother, like while Rohan’s stand lets him read people like a book reader’s lets them view memories in the form of drawings with the different art styles communicating what sort of emotions are tied to each memory. i feel like the two of them would be that annoying couple in a cafe who talk too loudly and debate artistic things but their conversation is so interesting that you’re glad they’re talking loudly so you can hear it.

would love some headcannons for this sort of reader & relationship, big fan of your work ❤️

lines between the pages; rohan kishibe

synopsis — rohan kishibe never expected to fall for someone whose stand rivals the intimacy of his own. but when an author with a memory-drawing stand enters his orbit, their passion for storytelling turns every debate into foreplay and every argument into inspiration.

a/n — thank you love, i hope you enjoyed <3

“your inking technique is too precious.”

you blink, pen halfway to paper. “excuse me?”

“i said what i said.” rohan leans over your sketchpad like he’s already made himself at home in your mental workspace. “you draw memories like you’re afraid they’ll shatter.”

“because they’re someone’s memories, rohan.”

“yes, and my readers have emotional range. they don’t need coddled illustrations.” you slam your sketchbook closed.

the café goes quiet for exactly 0.7 seconds before rohan loudly sighs and throws his hands up like a man burdened by mediocrity.

somewhere behind the espresso machine, the barista mutters, “they’re back again.”

you met rohan kishibe by accident. or fate. or, more likely, because heaven’s door pulled apart your manuscript notes during a book signing and he decided your pacing was “amateurish but salvageable.”

“you write like you’ve never seen real darkness,” he said. “but your structure’s impressive. rewrite this scene with less internal monologue and more consequence.”

and for some godforsaken reason, instead of suing him or storming off, you asked if he’d read your next draft.

you’ve been circling each other since—rival artists, loud debaters, and now something else entirely. a pair. a couple. or as koichi once called it: ‘two ink-stained nightmares who probably flirt by critiquing each other’s soul.’ he wasn’t wrong.

your stand, chronosketch, lets you see memories in illustrated panels—the style shifting based on emotion. someone’s happiest moment might appear as soft watercolor. their deepest shame: harsh charcoal scratches. your brain reads trauma and joy in brush strokes and visual language.

it compliments heaven’s door, sure, but it annoys rohan to hell that your stand tells stories in ways his doesn’t.

“i write emotion,” he mutters one night, flipping through your sketchbook without permission. “but you… render it. like it’s some tragic little painting in a museum.”

“jealous?” you smirk.

“i’m above jealousy. i’m simply stating that your art style romanticizes memory. you illustrate heartbreak like it deserves pity.”

“and you illustrate it like it deserves punishment.” you lock eyes. the tension sharpens like ink on wet paper.

then he kisses you. like punctuation. like a perfectly placed panel break.

at the café, your argument over a minor side character’s motivation spirals into full-on artistic war. rohan is mid-diatribe about panel pacing when the couple next to you turns around and says, “sorry, but—are you two, like… famous or something?”

“no,” you say at the same time rohan says, “obviously.”

you shoot him a glare.

“they’re just loud,” the barista explains flatly, refilling your mug. “but weirdly educational.”

rohan raises an eyebrow, smug. “you’re welcome.”

you stab your fork into your croissant a little harder than necessary.

he doesn’t say it often, but rohan watches you draw like it’s a divine experience. when you sketch a stranger’s memory using chronosketch, he gets unnervingly quiet. not the arrogant kind of silence. the worshipful kind.

you know the way your fingers tremble when rendering someone’s moment of grief. how the lines stutter. how the ink thickens in places you didn’t expect. your stand doesn’t lie. it exposes your own heart just as much as theirs.

one night, after you sketch an old woman’s memory of her dead husband—portrayed in soft graphite and fading linework—rohan sits beside you for a long time. when he finally speaks, it’s barely audible.

“you drew her longing. you didn’t judge it.”

you look at him. “would you have?”

he doesn’t answer. but his hand brushes yours under the table. that’s answer enough.

dating rohan means learning how to navigate his genius and his ego—and recognizing when it’s a shield. he doesn’t compliment easily. when he does, it sounds like:

“this piece was… acceptable.”

“i didn’t feel the need to annotate your last chapter. impressive.”

“your dialogue didn’t make me want to rip my eyes out.”

and yet he notices everything. the way your handwriting changes when you’re nervous. the fact that you always hesitate before drawing a childhood memory. the way your stand leans toward softer media when you’re with him. he’d never admit it, but your presence makes him draw more tenderly, too.

— you both talk too loudly in every public space.

museums. cafés. bookstores. one time, someone tried to record your fight over whether flashbacks in manga are a lazy narrative crutch, and it went viral. rohan hasn’t stopped referencing it.

— rohan secretly draws you into the background of his manga.

once, as a rival character with your hairstyle. once, holding a sketchbook. koichi noticed. you’ve never let rohan live it down.

— you once used chronosketch to view rohan’s memory of finishing his first serialized chapter.

the style was manic. bold strokes, vivid reds. so much pressure. when you showed him your sketch of that memory, he stared for a long time. then told you the eyes were slightly off, but kept the drawing tucked in his nightstand.

— he hates when your work gets published before his.

“it’s not jealousy,” he claims. “it’s just that your editor clearly has no understanding of proper pacing.” (it’s jealousy.)

— your stand once accidentally revealed a childhood memory of his, an insecure one.

he didn’t yell. he just stared at it for a while, then quietly said, “no one’s ever drawn that the way it felt.”

— you bicker during intimacy.

“that’s not how you hold someone’s face in a romance scene.”

“we’re not in a romance scene, rohan—”

“we are now, idiot.” kiss.

rohan doesn’t change easily. he’s still blunt. still obsessive.

but he lets you rest your head in his lap while he inks panels. he lets you criticize his layouts. he reads your drafts without turning a single page into paper confetti.

he even—on occasion—lets you win an argument. (or so you think.)

when you curl up next to him at night, sketchbook open, and chronosketch starts revealing the memories of the day—today’s joy in watercolor, today’s irritation in sharp ink—he watches the panels unfold like scripture.

“do you ever draw me?” he asks once, offhandedly.

you glance up. “what makes you think i don’t?” he smirks.

“i’d like to see how you remember me,” he says. “what style you choose.”

you laugh, closing your sketchbook with a dramatic thump. “you? definitely avant-garde. chaotic lines. oversaturated. and a ridiculous amount of ego in the eyes.”

he leans in, mouth brushing your cheek. “drawn like a god, then.” you kiss him without denying it. because he’s right.

just… not for the reason he thinks.

[bamboozledbird]

HOWLING: TST Rewrite // Chapter 1 / next.

Characters: Thomas, fem!reader, Newt Pairing(s): Thomas x Reader (the slowest of burns) Word Count: 3.2k Tags: Mix of book and movie canon, newt!sister!reader Warnings: Canon typical violence and gore, sad times are ahead my friends

A/N: I honestly do not know where this came from. Mostly from my middle school love of Newt probably. Purely maternal. I thought that boy was gay way before Dashner. So here is newt!sibling!reader, and of course, the angst of being in love with your brother's 'killer' :( I think this will be more like snapshots of instead of a full story, mostly due to my schedule, but I do have a lot of moments in mind.

This place is full of bad omens. Broken mirrors, red skies, night terrors that bleed into daylight. They say you’re safe here, but you felt more at ease inside the Spring’s looming walls than you do in this quiet bunker. The concrete is cold, and the steel surfaces gleam menacingly, even in the dark. You always tuck your fork from lunch into the waistband of your sweats, just in case something jumps out from the other side of the funhouse mirror. 

You count 13 new immunes today. You should’ve known then that there was something wicked brewing in the wind. 

None of them stand out to you at first; they look just as dirty and shell-shocked as all the others did when they first arrived. You’re sure you looked the same on your first day at the compound. 

You poke at your apple with your fork, chin drooping onto your knuckles as your eyes lazily trail over a boy with spiky hair. A few tufts are clumped together with sweat, and he somehow looks unimpressed and exhausted at the same time. Your gaze shifts to a tall girl with messy black curls. Her face is delicate, pretty, even through the dirt and scrapes on her cheeks. She appears to be the only girl in the group—poor thing.

Sighing, you roll the ache out of your neck until it pops, and your eyelids start to wilt with your alertness. New arrivals stopped being exciting after you realized they were all going to disappear, one right after the other. It was just a matter of time. 

Your eyes are almost entirely closed when they land on a boy in the center of the pack. His Henley is torn, soiled like everything else, and his eyes are wide—calculating in the way he studies his surroundings. You don’t know him, and yet you’ve never wanted to strangle someone more. 

It’s striking, the anger, and it suddenly occurs to you that you’ve been angry for so long there might be nothing left in you but this rage. How odd, you think distantly. How odd how something can build in an instant; how you can remember a feeling from a void of nothing. 

You don’t know the why, but you stare at the boy and you know he’s the who. 

You’re on your feet before your brain can catch up to your legs. The boy turns to you, and his mouth parts—most likely to ask why the hell your gaze is so murderous—but you hit him before he can utter a single word. A solid jab to his eye socket that sends a jolt of pain through your thumb to your wrist. The grinding of your snapped bone makes your empty stomach churn, and you feel a little woozy with adrenaline and low blood sugar. 

It’s a good punch, but you’re the one who ends up on the ground. The guard escorting the new group drops you with ease and pins your arms behind your back. A few kids come to the boy’s aid, gripping his shoulder like they’re afraid he’ll jump on you, but he doesn’t look angry. He holds a hand over his eye and stares at you, dumbfounded and confused, but not angry. Somehow, that just makes your scowl even more bitter. 

You’re dragged away from the cluster of new immunes and directly deposited in a sterile examination room before anyone has the chance to say anything. It’s hauntingly silent in the room, and your thin tank top does little against the chill in the room. 

You should be more worried about what your punishment will be—if they’ll send you away to where all the missing children go—but you aren’t. It’s just so…loud inside your mind, a million ravenous locusts buzzing, feasting on your ear canal. You can’t make out what they’re saying, what they’re trying to tell you—what you’re supposed to remember about the boy with the bambi eyes and a dark cloud casting a shadow over his face. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this much. For as long as you can remember, literally, dread consumed every one of your thoughts—no room for things like anger, hate, betrayal. You’re spilling over the missing pieces of yourself WCKD chipped away with their mindwipe. It would be fascinating if it wasn’t so awful.

Anger is a nasty feeling and so is weakness. They're bitter, poisonous, and you're afraid you might leak onto the rest of the kids in the compound. This feeling, this bright burning you’re trying to swallow, it's an epidemic of its own. 

A pair of guards with ridiculously large guns flank a mouse of a woman in a stark white lab coat. They’re there to protect her from you, you realize, and you feel like laughing. Two hulking men equipped with high-powered grenade launchers just in case you try to backhand someone else. They must be bored; there really isn’t much guarding for them to do in the middle of nowhere. 

You watch the doctor examine your thumb with mild interest. You’ve gotten used to the pain, mostly. You curse under your breath when she moves it, and the woman flinches like she’s been struck. You grin a little. You probably shouldn’t be so amused, but it feels kind of nice being on the other end of scary, even if it means being stared at like you’re a wild animal. 

The doctor mumbles something to someone in her earpiece, and they all move to leave. “What—that’s it?” you sit up on the examination chair and hold your injured hand to your chest. No one responds. They leave the room without looking back, and the groan that’s ripped from your throat sounds a lot like a growl. “So, I’m good? Nothing’s broken?” The steel door doesn’t answer your question, but the awkward angle of your thumb certainly does. Evidently, they just need you in one place, not one piece. 

The doctor could be coming back, but you’re impatient by nature; sitting around doing nothing after years of running for your life does that to a person. Besides, you’ve done this before. There were no white coats and examination rooms in the Spring; there were only your hands and a stick to bite on. A broken thumb couldn’t be that different from a dislocated shoulder and a sprained ankle, right? 

There aren’t any sticks in the room, so your shirt will have to do. You bunch the hem into a thick wad and shove it between your molars so that you don’t chip a tooth—and then you pull on your thumb until a sickening pop fills the silence like a gunshot. Your eyes water, and the fabric of your tank top is soaked through by the time you’re certain that you won’t make any noise. You release the material from your mouth and examine your work; the digit is certainly straighter, but the color and swelling are decidedly nasty. 

The whoosh of a door sliding open distracts you from bluing skin, and, for the second time today, you see a stranger and feel an overwhelming wave of familiarity. This time, however, it’s warm. You stare at him and feel the strangest urge to ruffle his floppy hair and crush him into your arms so that he can’t slip away from you. Again. The foreign thought strikes you in the heart, and it hurts. 

He sits down next to you, limbs loose and lax, and his head crooks down like a swan to examine your bloated thumb, “That doesn’t look too good.” 

“I haven’t ever punched someone before,” you mumble and lift a shoulder, “guess my form isn’t the best.”

Humming, he cradles your injured hand in his palm like a baby bird and looks around the room, “All this tech, and they don’t have a single bandage.” 

Your teeth catch against your bottom lip, and the constant gnawing starts to hurt almost as badly as your thumb, “Or the good drugs.”

He smiles at you, lopsided and familiar, and you feel like you’re home. “Surely they have some ice somewhere.”

It finally registers that he sounds different than the rest. You suppose that’s probably the first thing most people notice about him, but it’s a distant thought for you. You sound different too, after all. Your cadence isn’t quite as thick as his. You probably sounded more like him before your strong-voweled, mush-mouthed friends infected your inflection. You wish, strangely, that they hadn’t now.  

The corner of your mouth ticks up, “And to think, I never wanted to see another speck of ice again.”

He looks equally confused and amused. 

“Our maze,” you wave your good hand in the air, pulling a face as the phantom frost creeps up your spine, “it snowed all the damn time. Hated it.”

He lets out a low whistle, “I suppose sweating is better than freezing in hindsight.”

You give him the same look, and his face twists in a grimace that rivals your own, “The Glade was sweltering. Dreadful really, almost worse than the Grievers.”

“I imagine.” You nod sagely, face solemn, “All those boys and such a limited supply of soap.”

The boy’s head cocks back with his laugh, and it’s so heart-wrenchingly familiar you could cry. You really could. At least, you can blame any bizarre behavior on your broken thumb. 

“So,” he tilts his head, “Tommy.”

Your face wrinkles in confusion, and he nods towards your injured hand. Ah. So, the black eye had a name. 

“Tommy,” you repeat, far more glumly.

He smiles a little crooked thing, “I know he can be a pesky little shank, but thirty seconds hardly seems like a fair shot.”

“I don’t know what happened,” you say quietly, keeping your eyes on your lap and the ballooned, bruised proof of your guilt. “I saw him, and then everything went red.”

He hums softly in his throat, “Think you knew each other?”

“I don’t know.” Your cheek takes the brunt of your teeth’s abuse this time, “I don’t think I want to.” 

“Whoever he was before, whatever he did…he’s not the same,” he catches your eye, and the flash of hickory feels like an echo, “none of us are.”

You swallow and nod stiffly. He’s right. You know he’s right, but there’s still a little irrational twinge of anger when burnt umber clouds the back of your lids. “Why are you here,” you finally say. Your voice is small, like a lost little girl, and his arm wraps around your shoulders in an easy, fluid motion. You sink into it, still feeling small, but it’s not so terrible now. He’s a comforting weight, a shield you turn into reflexively. “I socked your friend in the eye,” you mumble towards your lap, “think that entitles you to a little hostility.” 

He laughs again, and his chest rumbles with it, “I can’t quite blame you. I’ve wanted to do it a time or two before.”

“Hmm.” You’re unconvinced, and he tugs on your hair a little. 

“Come on, let’s get you that ice.”

You follow him, your hand in his, and feel a little dizzy. There’s a hazy scene layered over the present. A much smaller boy flickers over his long frame; they have the same sandy hair, the same sweet smile. The little boy tugs at your arm, pulling you down the dark hall of a different facility, just as cold. Just as scary. The concrete walls don't loom so largely in your peripherals when he clutches your hand. 

It feels like a fever dream, that place between consciousness and sleep, the lingering brightness when you squeeze your eyes shut—so real for something cloaked in so many shadows. 

There are two faces looking back at you when he turns over his shoulder, the soft cheeks of a child overlapping with the hard lines of a young man. “Newt.”

It’s an odd thing to say, seemingly unrelated to anything around you, but somehow you know that’s his name. You give your own without a moment of hesitation.

Newt looks at you, still and sure, “Had a feeling.”

**************

One bag of ice and lengthy lecture later, you figure you should find Thomas and apologize—for Newt’s sake, not his and certainly not WCKD’S. You eventually find him sitting on a bunk. His face is clean, and his hair is wet, curling at the nape of his neck and over his forehead. Without all the dirt and blood, the purple under his eyes is stark against his pale skin. He looks like he hasn’t slept since he was dropped in his maze, maybe even longer.

You feel a little guilty when you see his black eye.

His head tips up from his hands when you step into the room, and his shoulders immediately tense. You hold up your hands and lean against the opposite wall, as far away from him as you possibly can be in the same room. “I’m not gonna hit you. Promise.”

His shoulders don’t relax, but his fingers uncurl and fall flat against his thighs. His jaw is tight, and you can’t help but notice how it sharpens all the lines of his face. He looks like he’s made of granite, a sculpture from a different time, a time before all this ugliness. There isn’t a lot of room for art in this place, this world; beautiful things don’t last long in the Maze, the Scorch, a society rotten with the Flare—but he has. You hate to admit it, but Thomas is striking. The bruising just makes him look more like a Greek antiquity, a tragic hero with a pretty face.

Thomas looks restless, looking at a spot on the wall just left of your head, and you realize that you’ve been staring for too long. Gritting your teeth, you glance at him and then look down at your shoes, “I’m…I probably shouldn’t have hit you.”

Thomas blinks at you, eyes big and brown…and bruised. You wince a little and fold your arms over your chest, shrinking into the wall, “I definitely shouldn’t have. Sorry.” There’s a part of you, one you don’t understand, that thinks this is more than he deserves. Another part wonders how the hell that’s possible.

He lifts a shoulder and looks to your right now. You aren’t sure if that means he’s forgiven you. You aren’t even sure if he heard you. He looks like he’s in another dimension, a glaze of isolation. You wonder where he’s gone; if it’s nicer there than it is here, or if it’s a bad place. A night terror leaking through the cracks.

Thomas licks his lip and finally looks at you. His face is grim, somber, like you’re visiting your own wake. “I saw you,” his voice is scratchy when he speaks. You’re curious if it’s from disuse or too much use. You’re curious about a lot of things; what exactly is this boy like? This boy who introduced you to the sin of wrath. 

You lick over your teeth and push yourself off the wall, “I figured.” He watches you cautiously until you sit down on the bunk across from him. “Question is, can you still see me?” You hold up three fingers to his swollen eye and hum, “How many?” 

His face remains solemn, not even a hint of a smile, and you sigh, “So you saw me?”

He nods and digs his elbows into his thighs, “In a memory.”

That gets your attention. “You remember things?”

Thomas gestures to his purpling eye, “Don’t you?”

“Feelings,” you pull your knees to your chest tightly, nosing into your kneecap, “just feelings. Not all the time, but sometimes I get that annoying itch you get when you can’t think of the name of a book, but you know you know it.”

He nods, “I get those too; this was different.” He pauses, and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth like he’s waiting for the right words to roll onto the tip. He doesn’t look entirely content when he speaks again, but his struggle is valiant, “Griever venom...it made me see things—memories, like…a movie I’ve seen before, but I forgot the ending."

Your brow pinches, “Griever?”

Thomas hums a little, “WCKD’s cyborg guardspiders.”

Ah. You pick at some lint on your sweats, and a kittenish whine vibrates through your throat, “Lucky.” He tilts his head and studies you so seriously that a small grin slips through your stoic exterior, “Ours had wings.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Thomas’s face, and it’s nice enough you’re curious what a real one would look like. It fades once he starts talking again, “I know why you hit me. The mazes…they were mine—that’s what I saw. I watched so many of them…” His eyes fade, and you know he’s in the bad place. The place you go when you think about that day. The day half your friends were ripped apart by WCKD’s pets. 

Clearing your throat, you pull him back to the present with a quiet voice, "And then you saw me.”

He nods, and his throat bobs as he swallows, “And then I saw you.” 

The corner of your mouth tugs into a sad little smile, and his responds in kind. “I think I knew you.” Thomas chews on his lip and picks at his nails, doing his best to tear himself apart, “Not well…you were in a different group, but I knew you…because of Newt.”

Your eyes widen, “Newt?”

“I think…he was your brother—is, is your brother. You were close. Like twins.”

The fever dream is back. There’s sun-drenched flashes of a boy reading to you, pelting you with snowballs and laughing, eyes bright, nose pink. They’re too bright to see everything clearly, but it’s enough to wind you. 

Your eyes flutter open, and you see that Thomas is watching you carefully. Concerned. Odd, considering you broke your thumb against his face a few hours ago. “It could be a plant. Who knows what they put in our heads when they took everything away.”

Thomas tilts his head and then shakes it, “This is a good thing. WCKD doesn’t give us good things.”

Your eyes burn, and you aren’t quite sure why. “Is it?”

Thomas looks confused. It’s a common expression on the munies, confusion. Tends to happen when you don’t know who you are or where you came from. For some reason, it makes you sadder than it usually does.

“Come on,” you curl in on yourself, squeeze your shins tightly and peek at him over your knees, “why’d you tell me before you told your best friend?” 

Thomas looks down at his hands. Caught.  

You answer for him, “You and I both know the last thing that kid needs is one more person he’d die for.”

The solemn look is back on Thomas’s face, and you sigh, “You want me to trust you?”

He nods sharply.

“Don’t tell him. Don’t tell anyone.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

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. 

Oh

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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[deniigi]

Heyy I just wanted to say that your writing style and stories have always been a favourite of mine, they always read really well and make me laugh especially when the characters take everything with deadly seriousness in a weird as hell situation lmao.

you and a couple other authors have inspired me to write my first fic but I am having trouble with it kinda reading awkwardly or a bit clunky at times? I think it's partly because I'm so unused to reading my own writing but I was wondering if you have any tips on avoiding writing becoming stilted since most other things seem to be going well apart from that ;)

Thankyou for all the stories!!

Hello Anon!!

I am SO EXCITED that you’re doing the damn thing!!! Hell yes, welcome to the flock, welcome to our wonderful club, our most mortifying and delicious hobby.

To hopefully set your mind at ease: the writing is just going to be clunky sometimes, and oftentimes it literally has to be so that your reader understands what you’re trying to convey.

I don’t quite know what’s going on to make your writing feel clunky, but here are some general things which might hel:

1. Use characters’ names more often than the prose, purely from an artistic perspective, might appear to require.

I am extremely guilty of going:

He looked behind him, and there he was, dallying. Probably dreaming of shrimp.

And I come back to read it later with my reader in mind and I’m like. Who the fuck is ‘he?’ There are 3 pronouns in this sentence, and they could belong to anyone.

So I rewrite that as:

Anakin looked behind him and there Rex was, dallying. Probably dreaming of shrimp.

BEHOLD CLARITY. Alas, we lost the poetry of ‘he, him, dallying, probably dreaming,’ but I want people to associate Rex with dreaming and shrimp, not Anakin, so the sacrifice is justified.

2. Use transitions.

I know it sounds like a highschool/college (if you’re British) thing to be told to use things like ‘then,’ ‘however,’ ‘unfortunately,’ ‘meanwhile,’ and so on, but I find that writing that moves without those types of transitions between big ideas can feel a little clunky.

If you don’t want to use direct transitions, you can link your sentences together by sort of repeating ideas that happened in the one before it. That makes the writing feel cohesive and like it is building on itself.

Here is an example of what I would consider clunky writing without obvious transitions:

Matt broke all the bones in his fist that night. He went home. He took some pain meds at the top of the hour. Foggy soon smugly joined him on the couch; he told Peter that he and Matt recently rewrote Matt’s will to have his brain pickled in the name of science.

Here is an example that is a little smoother (bold are obvious transitions, italics are moments of repeating ideas):

Fortunately, earlier that day, Matt had broken all the bones in his fist. He’d spent the last several hours marveling at the efficacy of pain medication and contemplating how one might test its upper limits. Foggy, satisfied with his current place in the universe at the side of his lightly maimed, but resoundingly not-dead husband, told Peter that he was having Matt’s brain pickled after his death in the name of scientific advancement.

Peter thanked him on Science’s behalf for his future donation and redirected both lawyers’ attention to the restraining order in his hands.

(Just as a reminder, transitions don’t have to be only 1 word, they can be clauses, which is why there the last sentence has bold and italics in it)

3. Use literary devices.

Genuinely: alliteration, similes, metaphors, allegories, allusions, ALL OF THEM THINGS.

I personally feel like using things makes writing feel more lived in, and they can sort of dispel some of the clunkiness and frustration that comes with trying to express an emotion or simple action.

Ex.

‘He froze when the door opened. When he realized who it was, he sighed in relief.’ VERSUS ‘When the door opened, he became a dead mouse. When he realized who it was, he came back to life.’

IT JUST FEELS GOOD. I recently realized that literary devices are the tastiest snacks in all writing. I know I’ve been doing this for years, but like it literally did not dawn on me that someone might use them purposefully until I read Moby Dick by Herman Melville. I wanted so bad to write like him and so had to like, actually sit with the text and think about it to figure out how to do it.

And that brings me to the last point, since I’m sure I’ve nattered on long enough:

4. Emulate the styles of writers you like.

For me? Tonally, nothing can beat the way that Toni Morrison describes things in Beloved. I love how Herman Melville uses alliteration in Moby Dick. I fucking adore the floral propriety and didactism of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

When I am writing, I’m trying to follow their lead and I’m thinking about how they string words together, and once I’m doing that, I find that I don’t feel like my writing is as disjointed or frustrating because I can see in my head what I am trying to emulate there.

WOW that was a lot. I hope something in there helped. Just so you know most people write like a billion drafts of smth before they hit on a way of telling the story that feels right. I wrote 6 versions of the last 2 chapters of my most recent Merlin fic. If nothing else, time will help.