zepskies

[zepskies]

Aww I so appreciate that, friend! We all need some hurt/comfort fics every once in a while, and Beau I think is the perfect character for it. 🥰

(lol your reaction pics/gifs always get me 🤣)

me constantlyyyyy lol, this entire intro has been so relatable (minus the lovely boyfriend part😔💔)

lol girl sameeeeee

so cute 😭🤣 and I lovee that show — less than thirty seconds to guess is definitely not enough time to figure it out, but I still try to 😂 they are extremely talented fr

Right?? It's not enough time! 😂😂

oh? you were chillin watching a movie marathon and she just came home from work visibly exhausted…boy stop playing rn

Exactly her point 😭🤣

melting immediately. 😩 to be loved is to be known and considered :(((💓 he knew where her back acheddddd 😭

I love that sentiment so much!!

(again, rolling at your reaction picssss 🤣🤣🤣)

this imagine is such a wonderful mix of comfort, feels and spice ❤️‍🔥 straight into my favorites folder lol <333

aw thank you, my lovely!! 🥹 I'm so glad this emotional cocktail worked for you 💕💕

How would Beau comfort reader who’s gotten home from work and is feeling overwhelmed and sooky? I’m in need of comfort my the cutie patootie pls and thank you beloved 🫶🥺

Hello, my love!

I know it's been a while since you requested this @chernayawidow, but I’m so sorry you’re feeling down. It’s my pleasure to fulfill this prompt for you! 😘💞

AN: This is sort of a sequel to “Didn’t Mean to Stay,” but can be read as a stand-alone.

Word Count: 3,000 Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, lots of hurt/comfort, fluff, and feels.

Imagine: Beau gives you the support you need.

You heaved a sigh while climbing up the short flight of stairs to your apartment. Why the hell you decided to live on the second floor, you had no idea…

Okay, mainly for the safety aspect of being a single woman living alone, but at least for the past year, you hadn’t been all that single (or alone, for that matter).

Seeing Beau’s truck in the parking lot reminded you that your boyfriend was already home from work. It was rare that you got here after him, but you perked up a little.

I hope he got something for dinner. Your stomach began to rumble at even the first stray thought of food. After the ridiculous day you’d had, you’d happily eat your weight in just about anything.

A hearty sandwich, Chinese lo mien, a whopping burger with fries…hell, you’d eat a whole damn bag of pizza rolls. As long as it was hot and you didn’t have to cook it.

Once you managed to insert your key and unlock the apartment, immediately there was too much sound coming from the living room. Guns and blasting and whoops and hollers. It all grated on your ears and your frayed psyche.

You grimaced as you locked the door behind you.

“Are we being invaded?!” you called.

Mercifully, the cacophony ceased as you walked into the living room and found your boyfriend with a sheepish smile. On the TV was an old western classic, The Magnificent Seven.

Typical, you thought. Your Texan cowboy loved his westerns.

“Sorry. Too loud?” he asked.

“Just a touch,” you replied.

“Well, I’m glad you're home.” Beau nodded at the TV. “Was gonna ask you what your Netflix password is.”

“What, don’t tell me you settled for 1960s cowboys?” you quipped.  

You dumped your purse on the coffee table and sunk onto the couch next to him. Beau slid an arm around your waist and pulled you in closer. You obliged by shucking off your shoes and resting against him, with your head on his shoulder. You let out a long sigh.

“Well, that was my fallback plan. See, damn Netflix booted me out and I’m really gearing up for that new season of Cake or Cake,” Beau said, with a somewhat childish smile that almost succeeded in tugging your lips upwards as well. Your brows drew together.

“Cake or…oh my God. You mean Is It Cake?” you asked. You nearly slapped yourself with your own hand as it came up to cover your eyes. Your shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“Ah, yeah. That one.” Beau grinned.

“I just can’t figure out how I keep guessing so wrong," he continued. "It looks like a hat. It should be a hat. How the hell is it actually cake? These guys are just so damn talented, I’ll tell ya. I mean, I’ve eaten my fair share of quality cake, but I ain’t never eaten a hat cake…though that does sound good to me, now that I think about it. Heh, I could finally say, ‘if that ain’t real, I’ll eat my own hat.’ And I’d actually be able to take a bite.”

Now, normally you found boyfriend’s diatribes incredibly endearing. Beau was a talker, and you appreciated having him with you at social gatherings. Not only was he great at connecting with people (something you very much admired), but the man was damn good at filling a silence.

Today, however, he was feeding the headache pulsing behind your eyes. You loved him dearly. Yet you were tempted to dig your nails into your own arm just to stop yourself from snapping at him to please, stop talking.

“Speakin’ of food, that reminds me. My stomach’s damn near ready to eat itself.” He eyed you. “What’s for dinner, baby?”

Your hand slid from your face and slapped onto your leg. Your head slowly turned to him.

“I don’t know, Beau. What’d you cook?” you said tartly.

It was an effort, considering how comfortable you were while tucked against him, but you moved his arm off your hip and lifted your heavy-feeling body off the couch. Shaking your head, you trudged a path over to your room.

You didn’t see it, but Beau frowned. Though you heard him follow after you. You did your best to go about your business, unbuttoning your pants and starting on your blouse. You were just so damn tired, and probably still anxious. Even your hands were trembling and fumbling with the buttons.

Still, you sensed him coming closer, saw his sock-covered feet out of the corner of your eye. The rest of him was comfortably dressed in sweatpants and a wool sweater you bought for him last month; he was getting better, but still acclimating to Montana winters.

“You’ve been here all this time,” you grumbled. “You see how late I’m coming in, and you don’t think, hey, my girl’s gonna be tired. Why don’t I figure out how to work the stove so she doesn’t have to worry about feeding my six-foot-ass, bottomless pit—”

Beau’s hands stilled yours, and he took over unbuttoning your blouse to help you. He bent his head enough to catch your eyes, smiling a little at your grumpy face.

“All right, all right. I see your point,” he said. “You had a bitch of day, huh?”

“The longest of my damn life,” you said. The stress of each moment played behind your eyes. So much that they stung with unshed tears when you raised your gaze to meet his.

Beau’s brows furrowed in sympathy. He paused in what he was doing to stroke your cheek and press a tender kiss to your forehead.

“And I wanna hear about it, but first, you go take a nice long shower,” he said. “What do you feel like eating?”

“Food,” you said petulantly. But he was being too sweet for you to be all that annoyed with him. A reluctant smile was growing across your lips. Beau smirked.

“You in the mood for Italian? Chinese? Maybe feeling a little adventurous and wanna try that Greek place down the street?” he suggested. “I think they deliver.”

By now he’d worked your blouse open. His hands were finding their way along the curve of your waist, smoothly across your skin, then meeting at the small of your back. He pressed the heel of one hand there, where he knew your shitty desk chair often made you ache.

You gripped his strong arms for support and leaned into him. You let out a sigh and rested your cheek against his chest, where he dropped another kiss on the top of your head.

“Greek sounds good, actually,” you confessed.

“Mmm, hell yeah. You want chicken, steak, or lamb on your gyro?” he asked. You felt the reverberation of his hum, and it was weirdly soothing. Though his question reminded you of one of your favorite movies that you too often quoted to him: My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

“What you mean he don’t eat no meat?” you said with a giggle. Beau’s lips moved to your forehead, and you felt the shape of his smile.

“It’s okay, I make lamb,” you both said together.

He chuckled and held you a bit tighter, secure and comforting. “All right. Lamb it is…you think they got cake on the menu?”

When you laughed, it was muffled by his sweater.

After a hot shower, good food, and three episodes of Is It Cake later, you were falling asleep on your corner of the couch.

All through dinner, Beau had listened to you vent about your day. About the problems your coworkers had hoisted on you to solve in the midst of a massive project you were already tackling. How your boss then blamed you for not coming to her first before you overloaded yourself, and how you’d very seriously contemplated going to HR before you figured just dealing with it would cause you less grief in the end.

Your boyfriend listened and gave his two cents, both supportive and fair. That was another thing you liked about him; he was always fair.

Now, he roused you out of your drowsy state when his arms wrapped around your frame and lifted you up.

You whined in protest. “Whaaat? Don’t move me.”

“Nope, you’re goin’ to bed,” he said, in his sheriff’s voice that boded no argument. You grumbled, but you still snuggled closer to his chest and pressed your sleepy face into his neck.

Smirking, he walked you into the bedroom and laid you down on your side of the bed. He came to your place often enough that he now had his own side, complete with his own nightstand and a couple of drawers of your dresser, even a bit of closet space.

You really should’ve just told him to move the hell in already, but you weren’t like Beau. He was a man of action. He processed things quickly and made decisions just as fast. His job demanded him to be that way.

You tended to drag your feet. You also tended to worry, and weigh pros and cons, and you were cautious by nature. Even dating this man had been a slow process, for which he’d been very patient with you. (And you with him, especially in the beginning as he learned to open up to you.)

The evidence was plain to see, as he raised the blankets and helped you roll underneath them. You just took him by surprise when you grabbed the front of his sweater and pulled him down with you.

“Hey!” he laughed. He had to brace himself against the mattress before he crushed you. His knees fell on either side of your hips while your arms twined around his neck.

“You’re a wily one, even half-asleep,” he remarked. You smiled and threaded your fingers through his soft brown hair.

“Like a rattlesnake in the tall grass,” you teased. In fairness, the two of you had gotten into watching David Attenborough's nature documentaries.

Beau’s brows raised, his smile deepening.  

“Oh yeah? Better not mess around then,” he chuckled. “I might just get bit.”  

You snorted. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You leaned up until your lips were nearly brushing his. Beau’s eyes lowered to your face, taking in all the things that felt more like home than his little trailer near the woods.

Just before you would’ve closed the small breadth of distance, you veered away from his mouth and went for his neck instead. He even flinched at the tease of your teeth playfully biting him.

"You little vixen!" He laughed deeply as he unwound your arms from his neck. He pinned you down to the bed and pressed his hips down into yours over the sheets. But it was his claiming lips that stopped you from fighting back.

Your shoulders trembled with giggles that he swallowed up, kiss after kiss. Your eyes closed as he dragged the sheets down away from your body. His hands caressed you through your thin tank top, brushing over a hardened nipple with the back of his hand, then squeezing your breast through the fabric.

You sighed into his mouth. “I know I kind of started this, but I’m really tired, baby…”

“Who says you gotta do anything?” rumbled his rich voice.

A tremor of heat ran through you. Even with your eyes closed, your exhausted body responded to his touch. His lips drew a hot, wet path down your neck, all while his hands did sinfully good things, sliding under your tank top and gliding against your skin. You let him take it all the way off, followed by your pajama pants and cotton panties, though he paused to squeeze your ass in appreciation.

“Someone’s been doing squats,” he noted, grinning down at you.

“Nah, just an extra slice of that honey cake,” you retorted. Apparently, the Greeks liked honey on everything.

Beau’s head tilted. “Huh. Well, I do like me some cake.”

You laughed, then jolted with a yelp when he slapped a bare cheek.

But you couldn’t just lay idle when he started on his own clothes. You sat up and helped him raise the sweater up and over his shoulders, but he stopped you.

“I mean it. You just lie back and relax,” he said, giving you a charming grin. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes; he was just too damn good to you.

While he finished taking off the sweater, your hands drifted down to the waistband of his pants. You caressed the hardening length of him, earning a hiss and a groan from him.

“Can’t I just…” you tried.

With difficulty, Beau grabbed your wrist. He raised a brow at you and guided you back down.

“For once, I’m ‘a need you to listen to me,” he said, kissing your cheek and then the other side of your neck.

You breathed a laugh, but it caught on a moan as his fingers brushed through your wet folds. He made a sound of approval. And those nimble fingers gathered some of your wetness and began circling slowly over your clit.

You sucked in a breath and arched against him. You even whimpered a little as his free hand wound through your hair, giving him further access to your neck. He hummed against your skin and grazed his teeth under your ear.

“I gotcha, baby. Whenever you need it,” he said, low and steady. You gripped his arms for dear life as two of his fingers slipped deep inside you. You panted into his neck, rocked your hips mostly in time with his fingers as they twisted and pulsed around your tightening walls. His thumb rubbed against your throbbing clit.

“Please,” you whispered into his neck, squeezing your eyes shut. “Want you inside me.”

“We’re gettin’ there,” Beau nodded. He was breathing harder too, just from anticipation. The sounds you were making, the way you were squeezing his hand from the inside had him painfully hard.

“Now,” you insisted. Your hands moved to grip his hair, and your lips met his in a devouring kiss.

Beau matched your passion with closed eyes and furrowed brows. He’d had a plan for you at the start of this, but what kind of man would he be if he didn’t abide by your wishes?

So he withdrew his fingers from your slick pussy, even though you uttered a shuddering breath. It took everything you had within you to remain still and resting against the pillows as you caught your breath. You wanted to wrestle down his sweatpants yourself and show your boyfriend how appreciative you could be.

But you also appreciated what he was trying to do. You watched him with tired, but still hungry eyes as he kicked off the pants and the boxer briefs and returned to you, bracing a forearm above your head after he spread your legs and raised up your knees.

He lowered himself between the warm cradle of your thighs and kissed down your chest, licked between the valley of your breasts.

You arched up again when his tongue found your nipple, swirling around it, and finally taking it between his teeth. His hips rolled against yours, making his cock press against your core teasingly.

“Beau, for the love of God,” you moaned.

He chuckled. “Maybe you oughta learn how to be patient.”

You grabbed his bearded face between both hands and raised him up to you. He noted your challenging brow, but also your smile.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tease the rattlesnake,” you replied.

Beau laughed and ducked his forehead against yours. “Okay, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

He nosed at your cheek, angling for a kiss. You tipped your head back and welcomed his lips, especially when his tongue slipped past to tangle with yours. His forearm was braced above your head, but his free hand left your hip to line himself up to your entrance.

Another shudder went through your body as he finally slid home inside you. The shape and feeling of his cock was familiar as it stretched your inner walls, and you caught his moan in your mouth.

Your legs wrapped around his hips and squeezed, forcing him in deeper. His eyes screwed shut as he lost focus for a moment. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the feeling of you, or the sound of your voice, or the way you trusted him, but still tried to give as much as you took.

He pulled out nearly all the way, slowly sliding back in so you’d feel every inch. You clenched on him as a tremble ran through your body.

You uttered a broken gasp of his name that spearheaded goosebumps across his skin. And his next movements were faster, though just as deep.

He followed the encouragements of your voice, especially when he shifted his hips at an angle he knew would make you writhe. His fingers stroking your already sensitive clit, in time with his last wild thrusts, had you threatening to rip out a chunk of his hair. Instead, you gasped in his ear and dug your fingers into his hips.

His own release followed yours shortly after; he could only resist you squeezing the life out of him from the inside out for so long. And you held him afterwards, even though he still had a trembling arm braced above you.

Your hands smoothed up and down his back, trailing lightly with your nails. His breath was hot, but not uncomfortable against your neck.

You felt absolutely boneless as your legs slid from his hips. He pulled out of you soon after, but your embrace kept him from moving very far. He rested on his side, and you turned towards him. You both knew you’d have to deal with the sheets and the cleanup, but not just yet.

You carded your fingers more soothingly through his hair and drew his face back to yours.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whispered. And you didn’t just mean in this bed. “I haven’t had that in a long time.”

Beau’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You don’t gotta thank me for that.”

“Yeah, I do,” you nodded. Your lips formed a tired smile before they pressed softly to his. “I love you.”

Beau took a moment to brush a sweaty strand of hair away from your face. He’d believed in second chances before he met you…just not for himself. Meeting you made him swear by them.

“Love you too,” he said.

And the warmth of that bone-deep knowledge was more satisfying than even the heftiest slice of cake.

AN: God, I love Beau. I miss Big Sky. 😭 But feel free to let me know what you think of this one! It's only my second time, but I really do love writing this guy. ❤️

And tell me...are you team cake 🍰 or team pie 🥧?

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[zepskies]

hiiii lovely happy tuesday !! I hope you’re doing well :)🫶🏽 sorry in advance for your notifications, i’m determined to catch up on some reading lol. also, I have a series of silly little questions for youu :p

what’s your favorite ice cream flavor? 🩵 (alternate question in case you’re not into ice cream, what’s your favorite summer treat?☀️)

⭐️ bonus question! who out of your favorite characters would you prefer to share with? ;)

Hey, Jules! I'm doing well, thanks, hope you are too!! 💕 Aww thanks, I hope you enjoy whenever you get a chance! I've been trying to catch up on my reading too lol.

Favorite ice cream? Oooh that's SO tough!! I love ice cream. My ultimate favorite flavor is Ben & Jerry's Half Baked - chocolate chip cookie dough and brownie pieces?! Simply elite. 👌🏽

Favorite summer treat? Hmm, peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream.

Favorite character to share it with? Ooh, well I've written more than once about my HC for Dean Winchester being like Joey Tribbiani - he doesn't like to share food. But if I feel like teasing him, that honestly wouldn't stop me from doing battle with him by sticking my fork in his pie 🤣

Honestly I think all Jackles characters are such foodies, it would be a fun experience to get ice cream together with any one of them. My heart says Dean though. 💕

[zepskies]

Heya! Hope you are doing amazing!!!!🌸💗✨

I know the requests are closed, so whenever you feel comfortable!! I will love to see Jenson’s characters reaction to Sabrina’s JUNO positions! My dad kinda got weird and uncomfortable after watching Juno performance🤣🤣🤣 Dude is from older generation after all!

Haha! Bye and Take care darlin😘

Hey there! Aw thank you, I'm doing well! Hope you are too! 🥰

Oh God lol not dad getting weird about Sabrina. 🤣 I feel like with most Jackles characters (let's say the Big Four - Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), Russell Shaw), they'd have similar reactions of 😳 ➡️ 😏

Dean, Ben, and Russell: Wastes no fucking time. Would suggest you "try one out" with him right now. (AKA: his favorite one, whatever that might be.)

Beau: Has a teenage daughter, so he has mixed feelings about watching Sabrina do her thing, but he's very game for whatever position you might wanna try next.

[zepskies]

He really did! loll And you'll see more of that in Part 5 😉

Aw I'm glad you like Sophia!! Loosely based on my own grandma lol 💗💗

UNRAVEL ME - Part 4

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Here we go! Another big step in their adventure...

Song Inspo: “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura (English lyrics)

Word Count: 8.8K

Tags/Warnings: Fake dating (lol), meet the family, some old-school machismo, Dominican food, bachata, “North Cuba” (Miami), angst, rom-com vibes

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Part 4: Food & Family

After driving through the loops of highway along I-95, Ben grows frustrated at the thirty or so signs of exits that lead to different parts of the city. One wrong turn, and it could send you miles away from where you were—even over the bridge to Miami Beach.

You consult the GPS on your iPad, since your new “burner” phone is just an old-style flip phone. 

You’re able to point him where to go to get to the airport. He finally takes the right exit, but he pulls off the highway split, off the main road, and heads into the alley of a side street.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer you, just pulls to a stop and shifts the car into park.

“It’s been fun, sweetheart, but I think it’s time we part ways here. I’ve got a couple errands to run before I get the fuck out of here,” he says.

You consider him shrewdly. “Errands? What the hell do you mean? How’re you gonna even get a plane ticket? You don’t have any money…”

And it dawns on you. You suck in a breath, then you glare at him.

“What’re you going to do, Ben?”

“That’s my fucking business, all right?”

“What’re you gonna do, knock over a bank? Kill a few people on your way out?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, sweetheart,” he says. He looks at the darkening alley ahead rather than at you. He’s keeping an eye out for anyone that might spot you two in the car, until you lean over and lay a hand on his forearm.

“Ben,” you say. “Look, I’ll pay for your ticket.”

His brows crunch together. “I don’t want your fucking money, all right?”

You hesitate. Now that’s a first. But you still take your hand back to start digging into your purse for your wallet. He reaches out and stops you with a big, warm hand over yours. Firm.

“You hear what I fucking said?” he snaps.

You just sigh. “Ben, breaking into a bank—”

“Doesn’t have to be a fucking bank.”

“All right, a store! Either way, that might raise a few alarms, don’t you think?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Ben says. His gaze cuts away from you and toward the city behind you both.

Suddenly, it hits you. This is it. No more of this asshole being a human crater exploding into your life. 

But it’s also kind of hard to imagine him getting on that plane alone, fucking off to obscurity again. You bite your lip while considering him. It feels like a waste.

“What if…what if you stay and fight?” you say. “Fight off Homelander. Expose him for the piece of shit he is.”

Ben’s steely expression just hardens further. “I’m done talking about that frosted hole. Whatever formula they mixed him with in that fucking lab, it didn’t come out of my ball sack.” 

You roll your eyes. God, he’s so gross. “Ben. For God’s sake. Don’t deflect—”

“You do realize I have the FBI, the CIA, and the whole rest of the alphabet soup on my ass, right?” he says. Finally, he looks at you. “They don’t want me here. They didn’t even try to find me when the fucking Commies… So no. Fuck ‘em. I’ll make new somewhere else.”

It’s truly incredible, considering how damn angry you were at him yesterday. Angry and afraid.

Now, you begin to feel a twinge of…concern. Yes, he’s arrogant and vulgar, selfish, and more than a bit of a dick at times. He’s killed people, whether on accident or on purpose, even if it was partially for your sake. But after last night, getting just a glimpse of what he went through, you wonder if he really deserves to be run out of the country. 

I may regret this, but…

“Listen,” you begin. “It’s getting late. Do you want to have dinner with me and my family? You’ll get some good food, one more night States’ side.”

Ben looks just as surprised by your offer as you are to suggest it. His lips begin to quirk upward, albeit incredulously.

“You offering to be my tour guide?” he asks.

You give him a knowing look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s just dinner. Nothing else.”

You raise a finger, gesturing at him to hold on a second, and you grab your phone to call your mom first. She’s easier to talk to than your father, who would probably bombard you with questions about the trip and why it was taking you so long to get home.

“Hello?” your mom answers.

“Hey, it’s me,” you reply.

“Why are you calling from this weird number? Did something happen to your phone? Is that why you haven’t been answering our calls?”

“Yeah, sorry, I lost my phone and had to get a replacement,” you lie on the fly. You’ve had to get good at it over the past week. “I made it to Miami though. I’m almost home.”

“Oh, that’s great! Meet at Mamá’s house though. We’re making dinner right now,” she says.

You smile. Looks like Ben is going to get to meet your grandma too. “Really? Oh, okay. We’ll meet you there then.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“Oh, I’m uh…bringing a friend,” you say, though your face begins to heat in a blush at the way Ben smirks at you.

“A friend, huh?” your mom asks, in a suspicious tone.

“Yeah, okay see you soon!” You hang up the phone before she can ask you any more questions. Sometimes she can be as bad as your dad. You shift your attention to Ben.

“Okay, let’s switch seats. I think it’ll be easier if I drive,” you say.

He raises a skeptical brow at you. “Where are we going?”

You offer him a smile. “Oh, just wait. You’re in for a good time.”

Homelander’s angry strides are heavy and unmistakable. Vought employees veer out of his way and give him a wide berth, keeping their heads down all the while. His heated steps bring him to the Surveillance team, where The Deep has been at the helm for the past couple of months.

And what the fuck does he have to show for it? He’s sipping a soda while flirting with one of the glorified interns trying to sort through the classified files on her screen. Deep perks up when he notices Homelander barging into the room.

“Oh! Hey, sir—”

“Where the fuck is my son?” Homelander snaps.

Ever since the incident last week, Ryan has been ducking out of his room more than usual. Despite him choosing the right side, Homelander’s side, Ryan hasn’t been working with the production team on his superhero image.

Nothing useful has come in about Soldier Boy, and now Butcher has disappeared from their sight as well. Though that one doesn’t matter so much. Homelander will be happy to see that bastard die of the cancer already eating his brain. There’s probably nothing Homelander could do that would be more fucking hilarious than that.

“Uhh, not sure, sir. But we do have something new on the Soldier Boy front,” Deep says. He cues a finger at the girl, Ashley or Annika or whatever the fuck her name is.

She presses a play button on her computer screen, and Homelander bends at the waist to scrutinize the footage. It captures an alleyway between the main building of Vought Tower and the garage.

“This is the day of the, um, the incident,” she adds.

Soldier Boy exits the building, stumbling out really. He eventually crosses paths with a young woman. To Homelander, she almost seems familiar.

Soldier Boy grabs her arm, says something to her that makes her eyes widen with fear, then drags her toward him so he can cover her mouth with his hand. They wait there against the wall for almost thirty seconds. Then, he pulls her into the garage with him.

“Who the fuck is that?” Homelander asks.

Allie chimes in. “Ah, she was a Vought employee, sir. She recently quit without prior notice.”

“See, we had Webweaver on this, but the police just found his body in Lake Marion, South Carolina,” Deep says. 

A slow smile spreads across Homelander’s face. “Fucking finally.”

“Uhh, what?” Deep says.

It’s a lead, Homelander thinks. A trail. One step closer to hunting down dear old Dad. 

Emphasis on fucking old.

Your grandmother lives south, west, and more west, almost right on the edge of the Everglades—a 1.5-million-acre wetlands protected by the state. When tourists and natives alike end up on the news for getting their limbs bit off by alligators or left half-dead by a cottonmouth snake, it’s usually because they were stupid enough to hike through the mangroves and jump into the swampy waters alone.

You pull up in front of your grandma’s house and park in the paved driveway. It’s a modest three-bedroom, Spanish-style home that your dad grew up in with his two brothers, your Uncle Felix and Uncle Luis. They re-painted the outer walls the color of a soft sunset in golden orange, the roof tiles a darker terracotta. A rod iron gate around the property meets at the front with a small arch Ben will later have to duck his head under.

You can already smell freshly cut grass as the sprinklers run in the front yard, but for the moment, you stay in the car to figure out the game plan.

“So,” Ben says, “what role am I playing for tonight, sweetheart? Your work friend, or your boyfriend? Both have their pros and cons, and potential benefits.”

His grin is far too cocksure not to irritate you on sight. You’re already regretting this lapse in your sanity that led you to try being nice to this asshole.

You also realize that you haven’t exactly thought this through. What if they recognize him from the news? 

…Well, your parents don’t like social media and your grandmother barely even knows how to text, let alone what Instagram is. 

“Let’s just play it by ear,” you say, resisting a sigh. “But for now…God, fine, you’re my boyfriend.”

“Okay,” he gamely nods. “How long’ve we been dating?”

“Long enough for me to bring you to see my parents, so let’s say a few months,” you say. Then, you grab his wrist. “Please, try to tone down the cursing and general pussy talk around my family. They’re Catholic and…conservative.”

Again, his lips twitch upward in a way you don’t really like.

“Sure,” he says, “I can turn on the charm.”

He turns his wrist under your grasp to bring your hand up to his lips. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can be very convincing.” 

A warm blush spreads across your cheeks, prickling down your neck.

Shit. You’re already regretting this. 

After slipping your hand from his grasp so you can look yourself over in the little car mirror, you get out of the car first. Ben follows your lead and walks up to the front door with you. 

You look over at him with a more critical eye, humming to yourself. You try to fix his wrinkled shirt, straighten his collar. Ben watches you do it with an amused gleam in his eyes. 

“My mom is the queen of snap judgments,” you explain. “One damn smudge or wrinkle and she’s gonna think you don’t bathe.”

You lean up and sort your fingers through his hair a little, sweeping the strands away from his brow. You have to ignore the way he’s watching you. 

When you turn and knock on the door, Ben settles a hand on the small of your back. You shoot him a raised brow. He winks at you. You don’t have time to comment or even push his hand away, because that’s when the door opens.

You greet your dad with a wide smile to cover up your nerves. Out of anyone that could’ve opened the door, why did it have to be him? He kisses your cheek when you lean in to hug him, but he eyes the man beside you with a note of appraisal. 

“Who’s this?” he asks. 

“Dad, this is Ben,” you say, choking out the second bit, “my boyfriend.” 

“Sir,” Ben greets. He offers the man a firm handshake. 

“Victor,” your dad replies, though he shoots you a look. “You didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.”

“Is that her?” your mom says. She comes out to greet you and Ben, taking in his tall, handsome form with a pleased scrutiny. “My goodness, this is your friend, huh?” She gives you a teasing wink. “I didn’t buy that one for a minute, but it has been a long time since you’ve brought a man home.”

Ben’s smile takes on an amused glint when he casts you some side-eye. 

“It’s kinda new,” you confess, trying to ignore the hot blush in your cheeks. Your mom is already having way too much fun with this, but she immediately levels up her own brand of Cuban Mom Charm, taking Ben into the house by his arm. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Gloria. This is my husband Victor,” she says, gesturing at your dad, who stands stoically behind her. Ben gives him another nod, then hits your mom with a kind of suavecito that would put James Bond to shame. 

“Now I know who to thank for giving my girl her beautiful smile. We’ve got Miss Florida herself right here,” Ben flirts, squeezing her hand on his arm.

Gloria twitters a laugh, making you bite your lip against a snort. 

She leads him further into your grandmother’s house, while you and Victor follow behind. Ben takes note of all the pictures on the walls and housed in various frames on virtually every shelf and accent table: your parents’ wedding, your father and your uncles when they were young, and you at various ages—kindergarten through your high school graduation, followed by your college graduation. 

There are pictures of you with your parents, your ten first cousins and thirty second cousins, your aunts and uncles, and you with your grandmother—the woman who’s currently cooking up something that smells delicious in the kitchen. Garlic and onions and olive oil; the smells mingle together with the red and green bell peppers being sautéed in a pan with some kind of red sauce. 

Your grandma Sofia takes in Ben from head to toe with wide-eyed, blinking surprise, even a bit of wonder. She glances at you, at Ben’s hand once again resting on the small of your back. Slowly, she brightens.

“Ay, Diosito mio, who’s this handsome man in my house?” she says.

Ben smiles, but you step in before he can flirt with her too. 

“Mamá, this is Ben. Uh, my boyfriend,” you tell her while giving her a big, warm hug. You try to blink past the tears stinging your eyes. You’ve probably missed your grandma the most. 

She squeezes you tight, but she also smacks you on the ass. 

“Hey!” you protest, laughing in embarrassment.

“Oye, you couldn’t call to tell us you finally got another man?” she chides. “How long has this one being going on?”

“Um, a few months—”

The old woman gasps, as if you told her that her recorded episodes of Caso Cerrado, the Latino version of Judge Judy, had been erased. Taking another look at a highly amused Ben, she crosses herself and delivers a kiss to the heavens. 

“Ay, Padre Santísimo. Finally, a man who doesn’t dress como un niño malcreado—like Justin Bieber.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. Your mother snickers, while Ben chuckles deeply. He doesn’t know who the fuck Justin Bieber is, but he knows about at least one of the pussy man-boys you’ve dated in the past. He slides you a knowing smirk.

“No, ma’am. She’s got a real man now,” he adds.

You blow out a subtle breath, trying with all your might not to glare at him. You do shoot him a tight smile, a warning in your eyes.

But he just trails a strong hand across the small of your back. The sensation makes tingles travel down your spine. 

You bite your lip and return your attention to your mom, who grabs some cheese and salami for you and Ben to snack on. You sit with him at the kitchen island and help your grandmother peel potatoes for the meal. By now Victor has claimed his usual spot on the couch, no doubt to catch up on one of the ten new baseball games he always has recorded. If there’s one thing your dad is obsessed with, it’s baseball. 

Ben lingers with you though, casually resting a hand on the back of your chair while he leans back in his seat at the island. 

“What’s on the menu?” Ben asks. 

“Carne guisada, white rice, and tostones. Eh, fried plantains,” Sofia replies. “Have you ever had Dominican food before?”

“No, but it smells delicious.”

“Ay, mija, have you not been feeding him?” your grandma reproaches, to your long-suffering sigh. 

If she only fucking knew.

Your mom watches in amusement while taking over stirring the stew. Meanwhile, Sofia rounds the kitchen island so she can tug you down by your arm.

“What have I taught you, huh?” she whispers. “A man well-fed will stay in your bed.” 

Mortification burns hot in your cheeks. Your hand comes up to half cover your face. 

“Ay, Mamá,” you hiss. Inside, you’re dying a thousand deaths. 

You glance at Ben over your shoulder. He sips at his beer, but by the way he’s smirking, of fucking course he heard her. 

“You call her ‘mom’ too?” he asks.

“Yes, they all call me that because I am everyone’s mother here,” Sofia says. She wipes her hand free of parsley bits and pats Ben’s hand where it rests on the counter. “But you, young man, can call me Sofia.”

“Mamá!”

Ben eats dinner with gusto. Your grandmother is satisfied and pleased by how much he’s clearly enjoying the braised beef stew. She even loads him up with his third serving. You watch him in amusement, even though you shake your head.

He’s stuffing his face as if he’s never eaten real food before. Though you wonder when the last time he had a real home-cooked meal was…before you met him, that is.

Ben and Victor talk about baseball and the classic players they admire (with Ben having actually met a few of them). While the men are distracted with their conversation at the far end of the table, you have to endure your mother and grandmother’s grilling. 

Where is he from?

What does he do? 

How old is he? 

Spring weddings are just beautiful in Miami, you know. Your cousin Julissa had a spring wedding by the beach. Wasn’t it nice?

Needless to say, you should be winning an Oscar for your own improv performance tonight.  

“Where are you guys staying tonight?” Gloria asks.

Your grandma looks affronted. “Well, here of course.”

You laugh a bit nervously. “Actually, Ben can’t stay. He, um…he has a plane to catch in the morning, for a business trip.”

“Oh, what kind of business? You said he works at Vought too,” Gloria asks.

You nod, though you have to think quickly to come up with something plausible. You glance over at Ben, who briefly meets your gaze. The look in his eyes tells you that he’s caught the edges of your conversation and wants to know what you’ll say as well.

“Uh, Ben is in Vought’s Sales Division,” you say. “Sometimes they have him travel overseas.” 

“Oh, wow. Where are you going, Ben?” Gloria asks him.

“Buenos Aires,” Ben replies. “Vought’s trying to develop another Voughtland down there. They’ve been trying for years, but the locals figure they’ve got enough entertainment, what with the tourist traps and the drug cartels and all. So they’ve brought me on to seal the deal. Think of me as a…well, as a closer. ‘S why they pay me the big bucks.” 

You resist the urge to shake your head, but you do squeeze his thigh in warning under the table. He gives you a smile and a raise of his brows. Eying him pointedly, you shift the conversation. 

“So he’s planning on staying at the airport tonight, since it’s such an early flight,” you say. 

Sofia shakes her head, as well as a finger in the air. 

“No, no. You are a guest in my home, so you will stay here tonight. I won’t take no for an answer,” she says. 

Ben gives you a self-satisfied smile, before he answers her.

“Well, who am I to say no?”

It seems strategic, the way your mom corners Ben in the kitchen to try and fish more information out of him. Meanwhile, your dad pulls you aside into the living room.

“So tell me. What’s going on with that job of yours?” he asks. His brows have that telltale furrow of concentrated Dad Worry. On Victor, it looks just shy of being angry.

You cross your arms, debating with yourself for a moment. You’ve been lying a lot tonight, but this is something you know you have to come clean about, even if you know it’s a victory for your father.

“I quit, okay,” you admit.

His shoulders loosen in relief. His gaze raises heavenward while his hands rest on his hips.

“Thank God,” he says. But then, he concentrates back on you. “This mean you’re finally moving back home?”

“I didn’t say that,” you snap. “I’m gonna stay here with Mamá for a little while until I figure out what I’m gonna do. But I’m going to find something in New York. I have time now. Maybe I can finally start my own graphic design business.”

For the past year that you hadn’t been able to find other work to leave Vought, you’d begun to spin the idea in your mind. You have friends in the Marketing department who could help you build a website, run some ads across socials. You know how to create your own content, do your own marketing, even reach out to potential clients. All you need at this point is some time and money. You have one, and you can use some of what you have in savings to invest in the idea—to build something of your own. Something honest.

Victor’s jaw clenches. He swipes a hand of frustration over his face, his gait shifting with the effort of keeping his anger contained in his mother’s house.

“Why do you always have to be so damn stubborn?” he grits out.

“Why’re you always trying to control my life?” you counter, just at hotly. “I’m not a little girl. I’ve been doing what I have to do on my own—”

“But that’s it. You don’t have to,” he says. “You wanna get blown up in one of those buildings? Or run through in the street by one of those fucking supes, like that girl two years ago? You’re smart, mija. Use that brain for something besides selfish little ideas that don’t go anywhere.”

Your mouth falls open, but nothing else escapes. Your heart is in your throat, a painful lump as tears cling to your lashes.

“You went to NYU because the schools here somehow weren’t good enough. Now you’re in debt,” he continues, raising his hand up to his brows. “Hasta los ojitos. ¿Verdad? You tried to make it in that city because you wanted to be an artist. And where did you end up? At a corrupt fucking company that worked you like a dog, and nearly got you buried under a pile of rubble like it was 9/11 all over again.”

His words cut into you like so many knives. A familiar well of acid had been churning in your stomach; now it reaches up into the base of your throat where you’re already choked by embarrassment, resentment, shame.

“Okay, dessert!” your mom calls from the kitchen, this time unaware of her husband. She brings out the large pan of flan she made last night and sets it on the table while Ben begrudgingly brings out the smaller plates and spoons. The smell of Café Bustelo reaches you as the cafetera begins to steam and boil on the stove. Sofia lifts the top of it and nods when she finds that the espresso is done percolating.

“Quién quiere café?” she asks.

Heaving a sigh through his nose, Victor raises a finger. Ben notices you, sees whatever he sees in your face, no matter how you try to bury it down. You can tell that he’s heard every word, just by that look on his face. Ben approaches you and your dad, once again sliding a hand across the small of your back, but you speak before he has a chance to say anything.

“You want coffee, right?”

Ben nods slightly, letting you leave him to escape into the kitchen. He shifts his attention to your father. The man is shorter than Ben, but still a presence that commands respect in the house.

“You still work for Vought after everything that’s happened?” Victor asks him.

Ben’s brow turns wry. “Oh, I’ve got an exit strategy.”

Victor nods. That seems to mollify him a bit, even as he watches his daughter. Ruefulness enters his gaze, even if it’s still hard with his convictions. It just reminds Ben of his father’s blue-eyed stare—the kind that always pierced straight through his skin and saw every scrap of weakness underneath.

“She’d rather live in that fucking cesspool than listen to me,” Victor says. “Young, stubborn, thinks she knows it all.”

Ben’s lips tug at a smile. Yeah, that’s fucking you.

“She thinks she can handle it out there by herself, but take away all that attitude, and what?” Victor shakes his head. “She’s fucking soft.”

Ben glances over at him, then at the silver medals framed in glass on the wall. There’s a picture of a younger version of the man in front him, leaner, just as stoic, wearing an army green uniform and a captain’s insignia. If Victor looked to be in his mid-fifties now, that would’ve put him in his early 20s during the Vietnam War.

Other than a few photo ops after the Tet Offensive and a movie he did in the late ‘60s, Ben spent most of his time snorting coke and fucking the female cast of Bewitched. (Elizabeth Montgomery blamed her failed marriage on him, but that shit was wrecked long before he came into her picture. Literally.)

Ben’s gaze drifts away from the shiny wall of accomplishment, and back over to you across the room. You’re helping your mom set out the plates of flan after she cuts each slice. He sees how hard you try to bury everything you have boiling inside behind the task, swiping a stray curl out of your eyes as you go. He’s come to recognize that look, and the things you do to keep moving forward.

“She can be,” Ben nods at your father. “But maybe she’s stronger than you think.”

Victor’s brows furrow, but Ben doesn’t stick around for more. He joins you back at the dinner table and takes a small white espresso cup you offer him. Your fingers brush with his on the pass, but its his hand casually curling wily strands of your hair behind your ear that earns your attention, your slightly widening eyes.

He smirks down at you before taking a seat. Despite yourself, your lips tug at a smile, and you join him.

After dessert, your parents finally head back home. You finally allow yourself to confess to your grandmother that you quit your job. It’s easier to be honest with her than with your parents sometimes.

She’s sorry to hear the news, knowing you enjoyed your independence in New York. While you didn’t necessarily love your job, up until now it had allowed you to have the life you wanted.  

Since she has more room to spare in her house, she’s graciously agreed to have you stay with her for a little while. You know what you told your dad, but you wonder if you can even go back to New York after this. He might just win after all.

But of course, there’s also Ben.

“I still don’t know what the big fucking deal is,” he says, somewhat grumpily. 

You sigh and shove an extra blanket into his hands from the hallway closet. 

“Look, my grandma is fun, even a little mischievous, but she’s not actually going to let me share a bedroom with my ‘boyfriend’ under her roof. Conservative Catholics, remember?” 

You also hand him a towel to take a shower. “Besides, it’s not like I’d let you into my bed anyway. Can you please just remember our deal?” 

He nods, albeit reluctantly. “Don’t you fucking worry. I’ll be out in the morning before God and everyone wakes up.” 

You hesitate, leaning your back against the doorway to your room. Ben will be staying in the second guest room down the hall.

“Well, you can still knock on my door before you leave,” you say, with a slight smile. “You know, if you wanna say goodbye.”

Ben eyes you, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Might as well get that outta the way now,” he says.

Your smile fades in confusion, but before you can react, he slips an arm around your waist and guides you in close. After a beat to gauge the look on your face—surprised, but not angry, by the way your eyes roam his face—he bows his head to claim your lips.

It’s a thorough kiss, and a little demanding as his lips move over yours, but it makes a tendril of heat lick down your spine as your fingers curl around his biceps. 

You find yourself at a loss when he breaks away. His eyes open to meet yours, smiling when he finds you breathless.

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says.

And he lets you go, allowing your hair to slip through his fingers. 

You’re tempted to smack that self-satisfied look off his face, but you shake your head with a smile. You guess you can give him one for the road. 

Butcher, Hughie, and the rest of the boys are tearing apart Webweaver’s disgusting apartment. Considering the supe’s phone is dead, and he hasn’t been seen in over 24 hours, Butcher is willing to bet that Soldier Boy killed the little prick. 

Unfortunately for Butcher, Webweaver was feeding him information. 

“There’s nothing here,” M.M. says in disgust, wiping his hands of a sticky substance. He’d rather not know what it is.

“He had to know something in order to pick up the cunt’s trail,” Butcher says. He points to Webweaver’s laptop, where Hughie is trying to hack the password.

Butcher’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Fishing it out and peering at the ID, he smiles slightly at the text. 

I’m close to your apartment. Can we talk?

Ryan. Finally, the kid is coming around. Butcher types out a reply.

Give me half an hour. 

Butcher considers his next words carefully, and he adds…

There are things we needa talk about.

There was too much shit he hadn’t told the kid, for fear of pushing him away. (Already done.)

Or fearing the kid wouldn’t believe him. (Ain’t got nothing left to lose now.)

Butcher only half suppresses a wheezing cough.

Oh, yeah, he’s still fucking dying. But if there’s one thing he’s going to do, it’s find Soldier Boy, so he can make good on their deal on snuffing Homelander.

He knows he’ll have to be even more creative with how he gets the supe to agree, seeing as Butcher double-crossed him once before. But this time, he has M.M. and Annie actually on board with the plan. Homelander plans to get V24 in the military with Victoria Neuman’s help.

So all the fucking Spice Girls finally agree: right now, Homelander’s the bigger threat. Then, they’ll somehow deal with Soldier Boy.

Or better yet, the two will kill each other. 

“Got it!” Hughie fist pumps the air. He’s been able to crack into Webweaver’s laptop, even though he balks at having to sort through a tremendous amount of disturbing pornography.

He finally finds a file labeled: Parking Lot, June 3, 5:34 p.m.

He presses play. The first thing he sees is your scared face come into frame, followed by Soldier Boy. 

​​“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy?” He glances up at you through furrowed brows. He looks ragged and soot-stained, his breathing labored as he leans against the wall. He focuses on you. “Uh, a-are you okay?” you ask shakily, clutching your messenger bag.

“All right,” Butcher drawls. “Who the fuck is that?” 

In the morning, you wake to the sun in your eyes through the windows. You get up and check the room across the hall. The door is open, and the bed is made, clear of Ben’s things. You feel disappointed that he didn’t wake you up before he left.

I guess the one goodbye was good enough for him, you think, not willing to wonder why that kind of upsets you. 

Whatever. It’s for the best. Soldier Boy is finally out of your life, and you can focus on what you need to do to pick up the threads of your life.

With that decision made, you go about starting your day. You don’t bother to change out of your pajamas. You just fluff out your curls and venture out to the kitchen, where the smell of Cuban coffee once again wafts stronger in the air. Your grandma might be Dominican, but she’s embraced her daughter-in-law’s Cuban-centric community with the little things, like espresso and pastries in the morning.

There you find something unexpected. You find Ben sipping coffee, chatting with your grandmother at the kitchen island while she makes breakfast. Her favorite radio station plays on the counter and masks the contents of their conversation, but they’re smiling and laughing, having a good ol’ fucking time.

Until Ben notices you standing there with your mouth hanging open. He grins.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. Sofia smiles over at you too.

“Ben,” you say. Your voice strikes a higher pitch than usual. “What happened to your flight?”

“It got cancelled,” he claims, though he beckons you over. You remember then that this little play is still going on—meaning you force yourself to smile and go to him as if you’re so very happy to see him.

Why the hell did I ever think this was a good fucking idea?!

He takes full advantage of the boyfriend charade, laying a heavy hand on the small of your back. It travels around your waist and comes to rest on your hip. He brushes his thumb back and forth over the thin fabric of your pajama top, and even has the gall to eye you with a grin, likely noticing that you aren’t wearing a bra.

“I invited him to stay for a couple more days, get to know the family,” Sofia says while stirring some scrambled eggs. Bacon is also sizzling on another pan on the stove.

While her back is turned, you shoot Ben a knowing glare.

To think you were a little disappointed about being rid of him. Now, you’re just angry and irritated as good sense hits you upside the head. The longer he stays with you, the better chance of Homelander or the government finding him. 

You’re quiet throughout breakfast while Sofia asks Ben more questions about himself.

“Do you go to church?” she asks, with a raised brow.

You snort into your coffee, but Ben just rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’ll admit, I’ve skipped a few Sundays,” he says, somewhat dismissively.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. His skin would probably burn if he took one step inside of a sanctuary. 

“Well, what about kids. Do you like children?” Sofia asks.

Your eyes widen. “Mamá, seriously?”

“I always thought I’d have a few,” Ben replies. You turn to look at him, and the sincerity of his tone and the sudden thoughtful gleam in his eyes surprises you even more.

“Guess I’ve been waiting for the right time to settle down,” he says, glancing at you. It’s hard for you to read that look, but it makes you wonder what the fuck he’s thinking.

He goes back to eating.

After breakfast, you get up to help Sofia clear the table. While she’s putting the pastries away, you grab Ben’s arm and lead him closer to the living room. 

“You really need to go,” you whisper-hiss. “You promised me—”

He rolls his eyes. “All right, keep your fucking panties on. Just one more night of R&R and I’ll get gone.”

“You better be for real, because I can’t—”

“Ay, mi canción,” Sofia says. She comes over and tugs on your hand. “You remember this one, right?”

The song that plays on the radio is “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura, the song your mom would always wake you up with on Saturday mornings to get you up to help her clean the house. It was a tradition your grandma started when your dad and his brothers were kids. She later got your mom hooked on it when she came to stay with your family for a few years, shortly after you were born. Gloria had needed the help, and her parents had already passed away a few years back.

Now, Sofia leads you away from Ben so that you can dance with her. She pulls into the bachata—ironically, the dance that began in the bars and brothels of Santo Domingo. In the 1960s, it was the dance of the lower class, the degenerates, and the campesinos. Bolero rhythm was its heart, but the spirit of the common people was its soul.

You protest at first at being uprooted from your grumpy mood, but your grandma has a way of hooking you into almost anything. Eventually your tense shoulders relax, and you’re laughing and twirling under her hand while you let your body inhabit the song.

Ben watches the scene in amusement, becoming transfixed by the sway of your hips, to the quick and natural steps of your feet…until Sofia grabs his hand too. 

“Hey, no. I’m good,” he says. “I don’t dance…whatever this is.”

“So I teach you,” she insists, beckoning him closer. “Come, come! Watch me. Es fácil. Real easy.”

You step off to the side to give them room, and you giggle while watching Ben try to follow her instructions. Sofia is persistent though. She teaches him how to step in counts of two, how to lead her back and forth, then turn her around. She even sends you a cheeky look while she has the man’s hands trapped either in her hand, or on her waist.

You hide your laughter behind your espresso cup. Damn. She’s still got game.

After a few minutes, Sofia leads him over to join Ben’s hand with yours, claiming she needs a rest. She guides you into his arms, and you step in with a good-natured smile.

“This is a bit fucking much,” he mutters to you. “It’s too complicated.” 

“You’re actually doing well. Just feel it though. Don’t watch your feet,” you continue to instruct him, amused by his hesitance. 

He seems to be into this though, and he begins to gain some confidence the more he learns the flow of the steps. He holds your hand more assured as he moves from side to side in time with the beat. For a white boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he has some decent rhythm. 

Ben throws in a spin that’s not quite bachata-like. It feels more like the swing of the ‘40s, the stuff you’ve only seen in movies. Still, it thrills you when you end up even closer in his arms, his warm chest pressed to yours. He looks down on you with hooded eyes that slowly roam your face, stopping on your lips.

He begins to bow his head toward yours, but you clear your throat and smile, a little nervously. You place a hand on his chest and push him back subtly as the song comes to an end. 

“Oh! Before I forget,” Sofia says. 

You almost forgot she was there. Instinctively you freeze where you stand, still catching your breath all too close to Ben. 

“Can you pick up some things from the store for later? I’m making arroz con pollo,” she says. “But you know what, I’ll give you a list, ‘cause I’m out of some other things too.”

Glancing up at Ben once more, you take the excuse to step away from him. You agree to take your grandma’s list, and you head to your room to get changed. 

The man not only follows you to the car, but insists on “getting out of the house” and going with you to the local Cuban-owned grocery store and café. 

“Christ on a Cross, is this the price of steak nowadays?” he mutters, eying all the cuts behind the cold glass. “Used to be cheaper to order it at a fucking restaurant.”

You’ve stopped here to pick up a couple packages of ground beef. You shoot him a glance, wondering why he cares when he had enough money to buy the restaurant, once upon a time. Maybe it’s the principle of the matter with him.

“Welcome to the modern world,” you drawl. “It’s getting too expensive to live, and jobs don’t want to pay for shit.”

He raises a brow, but he follows you down the aisle.

Ben is kind of the worst to go shopping with. He sneaks things into the cart when he thinks you’re not looking. You tell him you’re not buying him three different cakes and a dirty magazine. Where the hell did he even find that? 

You stuff it all back on a shelf, behind some boxed novelty cakes imported from Mexico. Though you agree to buy him one dessert, after you throw in some peaches. 

“You may be a super soldier, but you should eat more fruits and veggies,” you quip. Stuffing himself full of takeout, booze, and weed all the time can’t be good for him.

Ben raises a wry brow at you. He sidles up close while you’re putting goods on the checkout counter. His hand molds to the curve of your waist as he speaks lowly in your ear.

“I’ve got all the peaches I need, sweetheart.”

You blush hotly and send him a wide-eyed look over your shoulder. His hand means to drift lower on your ass, but your lips purse, and you smack his hand away.

“Do you have no shame?” you whisper-hiss. Giving him one kiss was like feeding a stray dog. Now he thinks he can keep sniffing your ass for more. 

“Come on, Chiquita. Would it kill you to lighten the fuck up?” he teases. 

You roll your eyes heavenward, praying for strength. You manage to get through the rest of the transaction of the checkout line mostly in peace, and Ben does all the heavy lifting of putting the bags in the car. However, you’re giving him a bit of a cold shoulder as you get back into the car.  

“All right, what’s the matter now?” he asks. “For Christ’s sake, you don’t have to be so fucking frigid.”

“Why did you come anyway?” you ask, slamming the trunk closed. “Just to cop another feel? What, did you think I was gonna blow you in the alley behind the bodega?”

Ben hesitates with a frown. There’s a moment where you think he might give you an earnest answer, but ultimately, he just shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

You scoff, both incredulous and disgusted as you rip the driver’s side door open and get inside the car. You barely wait for Ben to do the same on the passenger side, before you’re turning the ignition and angrily shifting the car into reverse. 

You back out with more force than Ben would’ve recommended, but he flexes his fingers on his thigh. He doesn’t want to tell you that he hadn’t liked the idea of you going out alone. Not without a weapon, some protection.

But he also didn’t think you’d still be cockblocking him so much after last night. And this morning, he thought you were actually warming up to him…

Guess not, he thinks sardonically, with a roll of his eyes. Whatever. It’s not like he’ll be wanting for pussy when he gets to South America. Pretty soon, it’s going to be him fucking bitches on nude beaches, drowning himself in margaritas, blow, and pussy all day long. 

He doesn’t know what it is about you though. He knows you’re into him, even if you won’t admit it… 

It’s that challenge, that Latina fire that stokes his blood every time he looks at you. Gotta be.

He also knows that the moment he leaves, one of two things will happen. Either Vought finds you, or the CIA does. If it’s the latter, they’ll question you. Even if they don’t get the information they want, they could try to protect you and your family.

Regardless, Ben knows he can’t stay. That’ll just make things worse, for himself, and for you. All he can do is take advantage of the hours he has left here.

“Look, what’s your problem, huh?” he tries again. “Think I can’t show you a good time?”

You heave a sigh without looking at him. “It’s not about that, Ben.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“You’re leaving. You’re not going to stay and fight the deranged prick who’s on the verge of taking over the whole damn country,” you say sharply. “You’re gonna fuck off to who knows where, bury your head in the sand, and numb yourself for the rest of your life. So there’s no point in exploring you and me. I’m not gonna be some quick fuck and ‘Sayonara, sweetheart. Been a good time.’ No! None of that shit.”

That falls heavily between you two, even with the radio playing at a moderate volume.

Ben simmers in the near silence while you drive through the heavy traffic in Miami. You curse when you get stuck at an intersection. 

“This is taking fucking forever,” he grumbles.

You whip your head over at him again. “Okay, and? Should I part the Red Sea of Miami for you?”

“All right, Christ. Enough,” he says. He rubs at his forehead like you’re giving him a headache. 

Good, you think. The feeling’s mutual.

Ben crosses his arms in his seat and stares out ahead. Traffic is starting to easy up, allowing you to inch closer to the righthand turn. 

You blow out a sigh, contemplating the man riding shotgun. You’re not sure why he’s still here with you. Why he doesn’t want to just leave his old life behind and make new somewhere else. It’s obvious that he wants you, but does he care about you? 

There’s no point in exploring you and me.

You hadn’t meant to say that, but it left you with a sinking feeling in your chest afterward. You still feel its hold on you now, steely fingers gripping your heart.

It’s fucking crazy. You must be crazy…to want him to care.

But before you can let your mind devolve any further, Ben breaks you out of your thoughts when he points out a McDonald’s up ahead. 

“How about you pull over into the drive-thru there,” he says.

You raise a brow at him. “You’re hungry again? Already?”

He shrugs. You shake your head, but your lips begin to tug at a smile. This fucking bottomless pit.

“All right, I’ve got this.”

You take him to a hole-in-the-wall Cuban bakery. The sign is half-scratched off, but you know it from memory. This place has been here for over 50 years, since waves of Cubans fled the iron fist of Fidel Castro’s communism in anything that would float those 90 miles—from pristine sands, and the home of guava fruit, plantains, and pure sugar cane, to the rough shores of the Florida Keys.

Ben polishes off a Cuban sandwich and three guava and cheese pastries, washing it all down with three beers and a cigar he got by talking shop with the locals playing dominoes in the dining area. The men are old enough to remember him as Soldier Boy. Even though they watch the news all day long, they have a healthy mistrust of everything they see.

They're more inclined to trust the supe they watched and admired when they were young men, the supe that (they thought) represented the ideals of the American dream; the same dream they themselves had fought for when they arrived in this country.

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna out you to the press,” says the only one of them who speaks English. “I’ll just get to tell the wife that I shared a cigar with Soldier Boy. She don’t gotta know when.” 

The other men laugh, Ben included. You roll your eyes. 

They talk him into playing around of dominoes with them, offering to “teach” him how to play, as long as he bets $5 to start with. You lean over his shoulder and help him make the right moves. Your dad and your uncles taught you how to play when you were a kid.

With your help, he ends up winning $200 dollars off of the old men. They don't get mad about it, all too happy just to spend time with one of the only superheroes they respect. You realize then why Ben is getting along so well with these guys; the man himself is at least twenty years older than them. This is essentially a group of his peers.

And what does that make me? you wonder, not knowing whether to laugh or be icked out. The longer you stare at Ben's profile, the line of his jaw, the cut of his beard, the roguish sweep of his hair and the shape and broadness of his form all too casually sitting in a metal chair, the more that thought fades to the back of your mind.

You focus more on Ben, specifically the way he's all too smirky and cocky and proud of his winnings. You’re amused at the way he counts the bills to himself later in the car. You’d think he won the lotto at Atlantic City or something. 

“Hey,” he says, earning your attention. “Let me take you out before I go. Call it a thank you.”

You give him an incredulous look. “You haven’t tested fate enough today? You should be lying low. Me too for that matter.”

“Relax, Chiquita. Nobody fucking knows we’re here,” Ben says, continuing to count his bills. He glances over at you though. “Besides, you’ll be fine, long as you’re with me.”

You consider him with a tilt of your head. Long as you’re with me, huh?

He wants to actually do something for you. More than that, he wants to protect you.

You fight the small swell of butterflies in your stomach. Matter of fact, you hate those little shits. A small sigh escapes your lips.

This guy is fucking exhausting.

“How many goodbyes are we going to have, Ben?” you ask.

He quirks a smile. 

“Just humor me.”

AN: Did you like the little scene change? I had to give things a more tropical vibe for Miami. 😉 Plus, we got a bit of the fake dating trope sliding in there, meeting the parents, some disappointed father syndrome -- checking some rom-com boxes right? 😂

Next Time:

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

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[zepskies]

Gahhh such angst! Even in an AU setting, Joel's such a mess, isn't he? loll Him making that video was so painful, I actually got second-hand embarrassment for him! 😂😭

But this for me was the banger of the whole fic:

"What you gave me, I haven't felt that since Sarah's mom left. Hell, if we're bein' honest, I never allowed myself. But with you..." He came to a stop in front of you, and now you could see flickers of that warm fire in his eyes again. "Never had a choice."

When Time Stood Still

Pairing: no outbreak!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: In a universe where the apocalypse never happened, Joel gets drunk and regrets breaking up with you, resulting in a video tape he wishes he hadn't sent... Set in a timeline somewhere around Joel's 40th year around the sun, where he hasn't allowed himself to really love anyone since Sarah's mom - at least until he met you.

Word Count: ~3.5k

Tags/Warnings: alcohol, mentions of a stroke/aneurysm, broken hearts, angst, regret, fluff

A/N: This idea came to me after watching Pedro perform "For All The Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses" by Ngozi Anyanwu as part of the 24 viral monologues by the 24 Hour Plays. This fic is based around Anyanwu's incredible monologue and Pedro's performance of it. Please give it a watch, especially if you'd like a visual representation for half of this fic 😅

They say that some things have to be felt to be understood.

A sentiment you had never subscribed to. If you could imagine it, you could understand it. That was how you saw it.

Until the day that Joel showed up at your door at 10am on a Sunday morning, hair disheveled and brows furrowed, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Time really did stand still then.

You hadn't seen him in months. Hadn't expected to see him now at your front door either. It just wasn't the kind of thing one expected after a break-up. Hoped for maybe, sure. But expect it?

Not in a million years. Not after he'd shattered your heart into a million tiny pieces, fragments so little that even months later, you were still in the process of gluing it back together; trying to find matching fragments in a sea of chunks and shards. They cut you sometimes, sharp edges and all, memories bleeding into the now. It made you wonder now, just for a moment, if you were hallucinating him.

"Did you watch it?"

The hallucination spoke with his voice - Joel's voice - and then it pushed past you (with all the force of a very real being) into your living room.

You watched as Joel marched over to your couch, shaking up the blankets you kept on it for comfort and warmth, then digging through the cushions.

A cold draft blew around your bare legs. While the Joel-shaped person blew through your living room, you stood by your front door, handle in one hand, a sagging slice of toast in the other. The bite that was still in your mouth had taken on the consistency of cement.

Is this what a stroke feels like?

You could only briefly wonder if you had blown an aneurysm before hands were on your shoulders and you heard your name being spoken in that awful, awful favorite voice of yours.

"Hey, hey. Focus. Did you watch it?"

This version of Joel was different than the one you knew. His hair was a bit longer. Messier too. There was more silver in it. Bags under the eyes, dark and heavy. They matched the dark irises that were boring into yours. Your Joel's eyes had always been warm, like a cozy fire that was happily crackling on in the background. This Joel's eyes had none of that. His were dull and empty, like a fireplace long forgotten.

You liked your version of Joel much better.

Like a bizarre game of ping-pong, you matched this Joel's eyes as they flicked back and forth between yours. Left-right-left-right.

A deep sigh, and though you didn't think it possible, the light in his eyes darkened even more.

"Of course you saw it. Of course. Fuck."

He sat on your couch, face in his hands. Another cold breeze blew through your open door and rustled the loose papers on your dining table. With goosebumps all over your legs you closed the door to your apartment, sealing whatever hallucination had blown through inside of your apartment.

"Would you like a glass of water?" Stroke, hallucination - you figured it couldn't hurt to be polite. There was a guest in your house, and you had manners.

It was also the only thing you could think of to say.

Because what was the alternative? Demanding to know what he was doing here? A plausible choice, if he was real. The jury was still out on that one.

You set your slice of toast down on the nearest end-table, the strawberry marmalade having lost all its appeal. It'd have to go on the "forbidden items" list once this was over, joining its brothers and sisters with memory-jogging-capabilities. Another thing lost to Joel Miller. Would the list ever end?

Once you dared looking over again, you found the Joel imitation staring at you like you were the alien in your own house, not him.

“I also have coffee.” Did figments of imagination prefer caffeinated water? You didn’t know.

He regarded you for a moment longer, then nodded slowly, as if coming to terms with something he’d been struggling with.

“Of course you’d wanna talk about it,” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than you, then: “Coffee’s fine.”

Talk about what?

You filled a mug for him, then repeated the question out loud.

'Joel' accepted the cup with a dry snort. “You’ve always been too kind for your own good. Y’don’t gotta pretend. Go ‘head. Lay it on me. I deserve it.”

A somber expression took place on his face, one you’d seen him put on before meetings with clients he knew had a bone to pick with him.

You blinked at him, trying once again to figure out if this was happening or just a really absurd dream.

“Umh.” You felt the strong urge to reach for your phone. Didn't Google have an answer for everything? 'how to tell if a person is real' 'how to politely ask if someone is real without coming off as crazy' 'signs of mental breakdown' Wouldn't that be a fine addition to your digital footprint.

You cleared your throat, hands nervously twitching at your sides.

“Uh… don’t take this the wrong way. Please. But, umh, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Joel's fingers fumble across the screen, accidentally swiping back and forth between the photo and video option a couple of times. A frustrated sound bubbles up from the back of his throat before he finally manages to settle on the correct setting. A tap of his thumb, and the countdown starts.

10, 9, 8, 7...

The visual on the screen shakes as Joel hastily props his phone down against the makeshift stand he created out of books and manuals. It's not perfect, but it'll get the job done. Hopefully.

Little beeps accompany the dwindling numbers until there's silence. He glances up at the screen, half-convinced he's fucked it up again - but there's the big red stop button, along with counting numbers at the top.

The tape's rolling, metaphorically at least.

A grin breaks out on his face. Victory. He did it. He's doing it. He's doing this.

He's going to pour his all into this video. Gonna put into words what has been trudging through his brain in an endless loop. He's gonna make you see, that you're still here, in his heart, his brain, his every fiber-

The numbers are going, running away from him. The tape's rolling, and he hasn't said a word so far. Out loud.

The smile falls from his face as he sombers, focuses.

"Hi."

The greeting hangs heavy in the air. It sounds unfinished to his ears, lacking one of the many endearments that used to follow his hellos.

"I... I, I, I..."

He had a plan. A speech, if you will. All laid out and practiced in his mind, but now that he's doing this, talking to you... He knows it's just his phone. But it's not. He's not talking to a mechanical box, he's talking to you. And that knocks the wind out of him.

Joel takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he knows he has to say. Needs to say, or his head will implode. His chest might too.

It's now or never.

"I was thinking about you. I always do, around this time - every time of the day, actually... Uh, anyway. You're probably not even thinking about me." He's moved forward, more subconsciously than purposely, leaning towards the camera.

"Do you? Ever think about me?" Please say you do. "A little?" Please.

The picture of your smile enters his mind, distracting him momentarily. God, he misses you like a desert misses rain.

You're getting off track. Shit.

"What was I saying. What am I... What am I saying...? Don't lose track. Fuck!" He straightens momentarily in the hopes of straightening his thoughts along with his spine. This is so stupid. What is he doing?

"What am I saying!" He can't help but grin at his own incompetence. You used to lovingly tease him for it, the way his mind would sometimes scramble mid-sentence when he looked at you. God, this is awkward. He had a whole speech planned. Where did it go? What did he want to say?

Joel rubs his hands over his face, then claps them together. Focus.

He had a speech. A point. Time to bring it across.

"Do you remember - d'you remember when we saw that - what was it? Uh..." Fuck, what was it called? He snaps his fingers like the memory will snap back into his brain if he just does it enough. What was it called?!

"You remember?" Please say you do. "They used to be in these big ass expensive fuckin' buildings - you remember? What are they called... Erm-" What's the fucking word! Joel can't remember for the life of him. Perhaps the various whiskeys he's had have something to do with it. Either way, this is going nowhere. He's trying to make a goddamn point, for Christ's sake!

What were they called, what were they called? He knows he has one of them lying around. The papers that used to come with them. Probably still do. The little leaflets, you saved so many of them...

Joel doesn't realize he walks out of frame, nor the ruckus his search causes. Shit, this place is a fucking mess. But he knows there's one of them somewhere. He has kept them all, even if he didn't keep you. Don't think about that now. Don't. This is why you're doing this. Focus! Too many empty beer cans. He swipes them off the counter, along with his toolbelt. It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is... There!

Joel hurries back to the camera, holding up the leaflet triumphantly. It has the word "PLAYBILL" stamped across its front. "Plays!" He beams at the camera. Finally. "This dude." He raps his finger against the thick paper. "The Last of the Sad Mad Geniuses," he reads the title. It was one of the first ones you and him saw together.

"Remember plays?" You have to. There's no way you forgot. "Songs?" You used to sing them all the time. In the shower, in the car. "Poetry?" He'd read them to you, verses you found in old books you picked up at the flea market. Your head on his lap, one of his hands in your hair-

God, why did he let you go!

You probably don't remember any of it.

"Yeah, me neither." The beer and whiskey slosh around in his stomach. Fuck, his head is kind of spinny too. Wait, didn't he have a point?

"What was I saying?" A point, yes, he had a point. "Right, umh." The play.

Joel holds the pamphlet up again, taps its cover. "Remember we saw this play, and you laughed so hard you peed a little..." You had been so embarrassed, but it just made Joel love you even more. Your joy was contagious. It'd make everyone smile. Him. Sarah. Most of all him. It makes him smile now too, just thinking about it. What was that line again?

"What was that fucking line in the play? How the fuck did it go? If - if if if -" Get it the fuck together, Joel. Focus. What was that line?

"If you got one friend when you die..." He hears your echo in his mind. It's hollow now, not as clear as it used to be, your voice slowly fading into obscurity as the days without you begin to outnumber the days when you were still his. If you got one friend when you die...

"...then you got something most people never have." He finishes the line and takes the verbal punch to the gut. Who knew theater could predict the future? You'd been his, and he had cast you away. For all the good reasons, the good and bad, though they all seem bad now in retrospect. Why the fuck did he push you away!

"And I tried to quote that shit back at you..." He sees you clearly now, down in that alleyway about a block away from the theater, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. "And you laughed at me, cause I fucked it up-" Like he always did. Like he had, with you. Finish the story.

"And I kissed you-" And then he threw you away. Suddenly, the tears are too thick to hold back. They burn in his throat, on his tongue. Fuck, fuck, hold it in, hold it in. Joel's breath trembles as he speaks again. "And you let me-" God, it hurts to breathe. His chest is too tight for his lungs to spread. There's not enough air, not in his lungs, not in this room, not in his heart. Fuck, his heart. It hurts so bad.

"And it-" Breathe, he has to breathe. "And it rained like we were in a fucking movie! And life was never better than that." The sobs come as the truth hits him smack in the face. He loves Sarah with all his heart. But you? You completed him. Filled in the cracks that opened when Sarah's mother left him. You made him whole.

Which means that he not only broke your heart, he broke his own too. In trying to do what he thought was best, he broke the both of you.

Joel thinks this just might be the moment that death comes and takes him. Almost hopes for it as he faces the ugly truth of his own actions. "Shit," he curses through his tears, then again. "Shit! What am I saying?" Didn't he start this full of confidence, with a plan? "Wh-what was I saying?" Breathe, Joel, breathe. Focus.

"Right. Right!" He remembers, now. The question he meant to ask.

"Why did you have to love me like that?" None of this would have happened if you hadn't loved him, after all. He wouldn't be here, suffering worse than he did after the mother of his child left him, left them. He wouldn't have to face the fact that his good intentions had been anything but.

"Why did you have to love me back!" It comes out in a yell, all wound up and tight like his anger is inside of him. At you, at himself. Mostly himself.

"You know? Why'd you do that?" Why did you? Love him back?

"You'd have to have known that you'd - you'd send me into a kind of madness, you know. Sometimes... Sometimes I think, maybe, uh... I made you up." Say that you were real. Say that we were real. "Sometimes," Joel whispers and wishes nothing more than to hear you answer him.

"So I go into the quietest parts of this house and... I whisper your name. I wish I could scream it." He should. "I should." Should he? "Should I scream it? I will. I should." He inhales deeply, your name already at the tip of his tongue. Just say it. Scream it. He wants to. He does. But his throat is locked up, your name heavy on his tongue like lead. Try as he might, it won't roll off.

The air dissipates out of him like a deflated balloon. He's dizzy, his stomach in an uproar. His pulse pounds in his ears.

Joel glances at the screen of his phone. Five minutes in, and he's only made a fool of himself.

"Yeah, I... I can't send this." What the hell was he even thinking?

Joel sat on your couch like a statue made of stone as you watched the video. If you'd had looked up from your phone, you'd have seen him flinch and cringe during various moments, but alas, your attention was fixated on the video Joel had sent you.

You hadn't seen it before he arrived. As a rule, you avoided your phone until after you had finished your breakfast, and Joel had interrupted you right in the middle of it. To be fair, the rule had only recently come into place, more specifically after Joel had broken up with you. Not immediately after, only when you noticed that you would scroll through his old texts and stalk his business' website like a madwoman, or - well, like a woman with a broken heart. You knew it was unhealthy and getting you nowhere.

So you hadn't seen it, not when he had sent it and not the morning after. Not until he showed up at your door like a ghost from the past you had tried to summon with your heart every day since he had cast you out.

You could hardly believe your eyes nor your ears.

The Joel that had recorded this had clearly been intoxicated. That, or someone had switched out your version of Joel for one that spoke a lot more openly about what he felt.

Silence filled the room when the video ended. You saw your own stunned reflection in the reflection of your phone screen as turned black.

"Umh-" You searched your mind for the right words, for the appropriate reaction. What did one say in a situation like this?

"I know," Joel interrupted your thinking before you could get anywhere. "M' sorry. Shouldn't have... I shouldn't have sent that. Or recorded it to begin with." He scoffed. "Just goes to show wha'a fool I am. M' sorry you had to see all that." Joel didn't look you in the eyes as he spoke. His eyes landed on your half eaten toast instead. "Sorry I interrupted your breakfast too." You saw him run a tired hand over his face, heard him sigh. "Guess I'm sorry for a lotta things these days."

Was he? Sorry? For breaking up with you?

For all he'd said in the video, that much still wasn't clear. You could assume, of course, but you had also assumed that Joel had loved you enough not to send you on your way, and you had been wrong about that.

"Why did you love me, Joel?" It wasn't quite what you had intended to ask, but it was close enough. You could tell it caught Joel off guard by the way he froze in place.

He took so long to answer that you were almost convinced he wasn't going to, or that he didn't know how. You couldn't have blamed him for the latter. It was hard to summarize why you loved the people you did, especially when put on the spot. To his credit - and your surprise - he tried regardless.

"Because you made me whole." He said it quietly, but with conviction. And then, for the first time since you had clicked play, he met your eyes. "Cause you love loudly and without fear, n' I loved it so much - you so much - that it scared me. Terrified me, actually." Joel was on his feet now, slowly approaching you. "What you gave me, I haven't felt that since Sarah's mom left. Hell, if we're bein' honest, I never allowed myself. But with you..." He came to a stop in front of you, and now you could see flickers of that warm fire in his eyes again. "Never had a choice."

Though he looked more like the Joel you knew again, you were starting to doubt his realness once more. How else could you explain the man you loved so deeply standing in front of you, telling you all you'd wished to hear ever since he had cast you out?

"You took my choice, too." For all the good he was saying, there was still a lot of hurt inside of you. "When you told me to leave, you took away my choice of staying with you despite your fear." The words felt wide and heavy, awkwardly shaped lumps that you had to force out of your throat and over your tongue out into the world. You blinked ferociously, trying to keep the few tears at bay that had pooled in your eyes.

Joel's face twitched and crumpled at your words. His arm jerked, like he was fighting an instinct, and then he brought a thumb to your cheek regardless, wiping away a single tear that had managed to escaped.

"I know," he rasped, visibly trying to control himself. "N' I'll spend my whole life makin' it up to you. If you'll let me."

And despite the pain he had caused you, despite the many nights you had cried over him, you didn't need to think twice to know your answer. You still loved him, after all. And in spite of it all, it seemed that Joel Miller still loved you too.

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I hope you all don't mind that I tagged you, just figured you might have an interest in this 🥺

[zepskies]

Ahhhh what a great finale! It gives everyone the ending they deserve, especially Tim. Poor guy been through it. 🥲

“First off, you sucked ass at biology. Second, I have read every book, paper, and journal on going primal that Dr. Olson could find. There’s nothing in there about this.” “Because it wouldn't be,” he said. He smiled, watching you give him a bitch face. “This feels good. Is this what it’s like being a know it all all the time?”

LOL that reminded me of that scene in National Treasure where Riley is telling Ben and Abigail about daylight savings time. 😂😂

Tim and Lucy really just went for it on their relationship, but like he said, considering how they became mates it feels like it's par for the course with them lol! Now both he and Beau are girl dads. 🥹

And Beau being a dad for the second time had me in a PUDDLE of feels. (Love how reader took charge at the end there lol ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥)

Emily really was the MVP of this series - I love how she and Tim, even as "side characters," were just as important as the reader and Beau. This series has featured such an interesting twist on omegaverse, and I enjoyed the twisty thrilling ride so much, Michelle!! 💕

(And yes I would love to see more of the reader and Beau and their growing family! 🥹)

Primal (Part 9)

Summary: Brock's arrested, Teddy's getting the help he needs and our crew can finally take some very important steps forward in their lives, as individuals and a family...

Primal Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Beau Arlen x Omega!reader

Word Count: 10,400ish

Warnings: language, angst, violence, drugging, serial killers, death, kidnapping, smut

A/N: The finale's finally here! I know this was a bit different but I had so much fun writing this mystery and the science behind it all. Please let me know what your favorite part was!...

Y/N POV

Three Hours Later

“Well good afternoon, sunshine,” you teased. Tim grumbled as he woke up, taking one look around the hospital room and the padded restraints on his wrists before flopping his head back down. “How you feeling?”

“If I could stop waking up tied down to something that’d be great,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

“Should have chosen a different omega if you didn’t want that to be in your future plans,” said Lucy from the table by the window. Tim pointed a finger at her, smirking as she grinned. 

“Well, with a certain someone I have an entirely different opinion on the whole situation,” he said, becknowing her over. You rolled your eyes and took a seat at the other end of the bed, Lucy sitting on the edge, taking one of his hands in hers. “I’m so sorry for putting you through this.”

“Hey, it’s alright. I don’t mind if my Alpha is a damsel,” she teased, Tim laughing quietly. You pretended to gag when he arched up to kiss her, getting a kick in the leg for it.

“We sure all that primal shit is out of you yet?” You slapped his leg, Tim narrowing his eyes like you’d pay for it later. “By the way, where’s my apology?”

“I don’t owe you shit,” he scoffed, making a face when you went wide eyed. “Oh, you were fine with Teddy. Clearly, Beau and Lucy were going to save the day.”

“You were turned primal. Again. Just a tad traumatic,” you said. He shook his head with a tsk.

“Well if this is how you’re going to be, I’m revoking your badass title and giving it to Emily. I mean, she took down a serial killer. All you do is get kidnapped,” he smirked.

“I spoke in code that there was a bomb under a car!” 

“She stopped a serial killer. An untrained seventeen year old girl. You’re never going to win.” 

“Hun,” Lucy smirked. “Emily told us everything. She hit Brock with the car after he snuck up on you. You tied him up and tossed him in the backseat. You cuffed yourself and got in the trunk before you went full primal so you wouldn’t hurt her.”

“Nope, Em still gets the title over this whiner,” he said. You rolled your eyes and stood up, going to him and bending down, wrapping your arms around him. A shaky breath betrayed you, Tim’s head tilting to lean against your own. “Sh. S’alright. Lucy’s got me. Go let that hunky sheriff take care of you and make sure Em’s okay.”

“He’s busy,” you mumbled, a strong scent filling the room.

“Nah, it’s been a slow day around here actually. Pretty boring,” said Beau from the doorway. You smiled, releasing Tim as Beau walked inside the room, tucking you under his arms. “You’re just always getting saved by omegas, aren’t you, Barclay?”

“What can I say? I’m progressive like that,” he said, Beau ruffling reaching out to ruffle his hair. Tim growled quietly, Beau cocking his head. “Do that again and see what happens.”

“I’m shaking in my boots,” he said, messing it up even more, earning a louder growl. Beau grinned hard, sending strands all over the place that had Tim testing the strength of his restraints. 

“I’m going to find a way to dye your hair pink, Arlen,” he gritted out, Beau finally taking pity on him.

“I’m sure you will. Lucy, give us a call if you need us. Otherwise I’ll leave your angry puppy in your hands.”

“Bye, guys,” you said, Beau leading you out of the room. You glanced through the window in the hallway, smiling as Lucy laid down beside Tim, a gentle look crossing his face while she smoothed out his hair.

“She’s got him,” said Beau, your arms wrapping around his waist, his own tucking you in tighter to his body. “I need to find a way to thank him for saving Emily.”

“He won’t accept it,” you said quietly, nudging him down the hall to give them their privacy. “He’ll probably blame himself for Brock attacking them at the rest stop in the first place.”

“Well, he’s a moron if he thinks that. Brock put a tracker on their car too,” he said, pausing at the end of the hall. “Brock is up in intensive care. I don’t know if you want to see him or if not. That’s all fine with me.”

“Brock can rot in hell. If it’s okay, I’d like to see Teddy before we go home though.” He kissed your temple and hummed, guiding you to the elevator where you traveled up to the eighth floor. It was quieter up here, Beau holding your hand as he took you past a security checkpoint. “What is this place?”

“Even criminals need medical care. When it’s too much for local jail or prison, those people go to the hospital like everyone else. Teddy’s being held back here.” You followed him closely, stopping outside a guarded room with a one way window. Teddy lay in a bed, strapped down just like Tim was, apart from the IV with a green liquid flowing into his veins.

“What are they doing?” you asked, Beau nodding when Dr. Olson came into view and slid onto a stool, patting Teddy’s arm. The two men exchanged a brief pair of words before Teddy smiled and nodded.

“Under the law, a primal Alpha is technically not in the right state of mind to be aware of their actions. Teddy guided us to his journals but his Alpha has forbidden him from speaking about anything we want to know answers to. Your mother has clammed up but Boston PD doesn’t believe she is primal. Just…batshit crazy.” Dr. Olson adjusted something on the IV, the two men chatting, laughing even as you watched. “Springs is telling her team to review the journals closely. They can’t say for sure right not but initial findings is Teddy was telling the truth.”

“Dr. Olson is trying to make him not primal,” you said. Beau hummed. “Is that even possible for an Alpha that was turned so young?”

“The doc believes so. Emily said Brock was talking about how he’d have his children back soon, how Teddy would bring you to him. But Teddy didn’t take you to Brock. We think maybe he tricked his own mind into technically complying with his Alpha’s orders by taking you but he delayed bringing you there. Same thing with the journals.”

You leaned against Beau’s arm, sighing to yourself. “How will they know if he’s no longer primal?”

“Blood test, same as Tim.” He pulled you in front of himself, arms wrapped around your shoulders. “You don’t have to have anything to do with Teddy anymore if you don’t want to. This can be it. Or you can have more. You don’t have to decide anything right now.”

“Jenny Hoyt should be given this same course of treatment,” you said. Beau nodded, kissing the top of your head. “Do we know how either of them were turned?”

“Teddy’s journals indicate Jenny went on a solo camping trip in Washington when she’d just finished the police academy. She twisted her ankle and another older hiker helped her for the night. We believe Jenny was targeted. Brock was one of her instructors at the academy apparently. He likely drugged her, injected her when she was passed out and she woke up none the wiser that she had a new Alpha. It would have been before her first heat.”

“Her stabbing Tim in the gut was most likely her attempt to follow the order but still save him. She could have shot him in the head if she actually wanted him dead,” you said, closing your eyes. “And I busted her leg and nearly bashed her skull in.”

“If this works, I think Hoyt will be thanking you for that broken leg for the rest of her life. Teddy was getting older. Hunter was his new killer and I expect Jenny was about to start being told to do that too.” He squeezed you tight when you gripped his arms, lowering your head. “Primal Alphas haven’t been a thing for centuries and using them to control other Alphas to commit murder opens a can of worms I won’t even pretend to understand.”

“Teddy’s probably going to jail for the rest of his life when he was a victim too,” you said quietly. “It’s not fair.”

“Let’s see if we can get the primal out of his system first. If we can do that, Carla’s a hell of an attorney. Maybe we can do something.” You hummed, turning around in his hold. “Let’s get you home, ‘mega.”

“Beau. Don’t you have to go back to work?” you asked a few hours later at your townhouse, stepping out of your bedroom in a pair of pajama shorts and his hoodie you’d stolen back in Boston. He looked up from where he was unpacking a box of plates in the kitchen, freezing in place while you shook out your damp hair. You looked down and back up. “What?”

“Just uh, seeing you in my clothes and uh…” He wasn’t shy about raking his eyes up your bare legs, biting his bottom lip. A noise from the front hall had you both turning your heads, Emily coming into view with her hands on her hips. “Need help, honey?”

“I need you to stop being so horny on main.” He scoffed, Beau crossing his arms while you stifled your life. “Give me your car keys.”

“Uh, what?” he asked. She held out her hand, making grabby hands. “Technically these are keys to a Helena PD car-”

“Go make out with your girlfriend,” she said, stalking over and taking them off the counter, spinning around quickly. 

“Emily,” you said, jogging over quickly, catching her arm. “You had a long day. I think your dad wants to keep an eye on you. He’ll behave, I promise.”

Just then the front door of your new townhouse burst open, Tim carrying Lucy inside, their lips locked as he fumbled with the door. Emily held out her hand, making a face. “Well hey there! If it ain’t the other horny on main couple.”

Tim nearly dropped Lucy, the two of them scrambling apart as Emily crossed her arms, looking back at her father. 

“H-Hey guys,” said Lucy, tucking her hair behind her ear, Tim’s face sporting a nice pink blush.

“Why are you people here?” he asked, giving you a long glare. You shot it right back, flipping him off.

“I live here, jackass. Do we have to have the talk about making out in common areas again?” you asked, Tim rolling his eyes.

“We’ll come back later,” said Lucy, dragging Tim by the hand by the door. “Six? We can all have dinner?”

“Sounds great,” said Emily, walking past and shaking her head at Tim. “I still expect to see you at therapy today, Barclay.”

“That’s in like twenty minutes,” he scoffed, Emily shrugging and heading out the door. “Emily. Emily whatever your middle name is Arlen!”

“It’s Louella and you promised me, Barclay. Get horny on your own time,” she called back, Tim’s eye twitching as Lucy laughed beside him.

“That little shithead,” he grumbled, Lucy patting his back. “But we were-”

“Go to therapy,” she murmured in his ear. “I’ll wait in the parking lot for you, okay?”

“Alright,” he mumbled, Lucy spinning him around, walking him out the door. “Later guys.”

You locked the door after them, Beau padding over on bare feet and a smile. “Remind me again why I didn’t just move in with you?”

“Because we said we’d be adults about the whole situation and re-evaluate in a few months. You haven’t had a steady home in nearly a year and the past month has been a lot on top of the whole mate thing on top of the whole I have a teenager thing and we both need to figure out dating with that and-”

“Sh,” you said, pressing a finger to his lips. “We have the place to ourselves. Let’s enjoy it, hm?”

“Well when you put it like that, what are we waiting for?”

Beau, Emily and Lucy left late that night after a long dinner, leaving you and Tim to do a bit more unpacking around the place. It was past ten when you were in your room reading, a light knock on the door. “S’open.”

The door cracked, Tim standing there in a pair of black joggers and nothing else. You frowned at the bruises covering his abdomen, Tim holding up a tube of cream and bandage.

“Can you uh, change my bandage?” You hummed, washing up in your bathroom as he sat on your bed cross legged, fisting his shirt in his hands. You unpeeled the bandage by his shoulder, a long red slice there from a knife if you had to guess. There were no stitches at least so it couldn’t have been deep. 

You worked quickly, discarding the old and putting on the new, patting his back gently when you finished. You washed up and then walked around to the other side, helping him put his t shirt on. 

“All set,” you said, ruffling his damp hair. He nodded, head lowering. The room suddenly smelled like fresh rain and you let out a deep breath before crawling up onto the bed behind him. He got up, walking quietly to the door when you sat up. “Why don’t you ever let me see you cry?”

“Don’t take it personally. I don’t like to let anyone see me upset,” he said quietly. 

“How many times have I sobbed all over you? When my dog died when I was a kid? When my first boyfriend broke my heart? When I thought my parents were getting a divorce? When I got laid off? When I blamed myself for you and Mika breaking up cause I thought she didn’t like me? If you want to be alone, okay. But you don’t have to be. I know I’ve said it more than once over the years but-” You shut up when he turned and plopped down on the bed, wrapping his arms around your hips and burrowing his face in your thigh. 

“I broke up with Mika because she didn’t like you. She cheated on me a few times but it was finally over when she was real nasty when I said we had to delay our date so I could pick you up from a frat party.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” you said, letting him hide his face. He shrugged in response, breathing shakily. “Tim-”

“If she couldn’t wait thirty minutes so I could make sure no one took advantage of you, then she could get the fuck out of my life.” You bent down and wrapped your arms around his shoulders and back, closing your eyes. He shivered, squeezing you tighter. “I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of protecting you. Teddy picked me to be that person for you and I screwed up so many times.”

You pushed him off of you, Tim laying back on the bed, staring up with a red face, like you’d just slapped him. You peered down over him, getting right in his face. “Stop. Just stop with this bullshit. It’s me. Just say what you’re scared to say. I know that’s not what you really are trying to say so just for once, trust me.”

He closed his eyes, his face scrunching up. “My dad hurt your dad. He destroyed Teddy’s life. Brock turned me so I’d attack Emily. Beau could never forgive me for that. He’d kill me. Back in Boston I believed you when you said you’d always be there for me but after today? I’m scared you’ll blame me for everything.”

“Why on earth would I blame you?” you asked, eyebrows sky high.

“Because Brock told me you would before he turned me and I have a very hard time getting the shit that man says to me out of my head,” he said, sitting upright, putting his back to you. “The man is a serial killer that gets his kicks by torturing omegas. He psychologically, physically abused me everyday for eighteen years. I thought I was better, that he didn’t affect me anymore but I’m still scared of that old man. He got the jump on me because I got scared today. I’m an Alpha like he is. What if I’m as fucked up as he is deep down?”

You scooted over to him, wrapping your arms under his arms and around his broad chest, legs going around his waist before you dropped your head to the space between his shoulder blades.

“I’m a Barclay too. Am I fucked up?” You inhaled his scent, still rain like, still tense. 

“You’re not like me,” he said quietly. “You’re normal.”

“Brock hurt omegas. You protect them. You’re developing quite a collection of them in your life that will gladly tell you how much of a monster you are not.” You nuzzled his back, his hands grasping your forearms. “Do you remember the first time I stayed over your apartment? How awkward we both were? We’d only met twice before that and suddenly my dad drops me off at your door for two days because their friend bailed on watching me for a weekend.”

“I remember,” he said softly. “You lost all that bravado and turned into another person. I had no idea how to take care of a kid.”

“You could have hurt me. But by the end of that first night, we were best buds.”

“What’s your point?”

“You didn’t want me. You didn’t want me more than anything in your life because I’d just be another person to hurt you. Yet here we are, twenty years later. Your annoying, brat, kid sister and my stubborn as hell, gentle, kind, good big brother. An Alpha that bears his omega’s mark. So go ahead and freak out because your family will be there when you do.” You rested your chin on his shoulder, the rain scent fading, replace with flowery vanilla. 

“I made a standing appointment with that therapist. Tuesdays at 3,” he said quietly, resting his head against yours. “Thanks for making me go with Em.”

“FIgured it wouldn’t be so scary if you went with her at first,” you said.

“Would you come to my session sometimes?” 

“Of course,” you said, lifting your head up, kissing his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispered, kissing your temple. 

“Sleepover tonight?” you asked. He groaned but plopped down on his side, taking you with him. “Too late. You’re getting cuddles.”

“Jokes on you, I always liked your cuddles,” he said. You squeezed him tight, Tim wincing. “Easy there Sarah Connor. I was in a fight today you know.”

“A man in his seventies hit you with a crowbar and stabbed you one little time. I mean honestly, Timothy, you should have kicked his ass.” 

“He hit me in the back of the head ya little fucker.”

“Just saying, I got kidnapped today and talked my way out of it. You got your ass handed to you by a man that lives in an assisted living facility.” He sat up, twisting around to stare down at you. You sighed, holding up your hands. “Tim, it was a joke. I’m sor-”

“It’s not that. You’re right. Brock lived in a facility but today, he swung that crowbar hard. Way harder than a seventy something year old should be.” You sat up along with him, pursing your lips. “My father’s a bastard. Why would he voluntarily live in a place like that?”

“Access to drugs? I know to turn an Alpha primal you need to be injected with another Primal Alpha’s saliva.”

“But is Brock primal?” he asked, reaching across you to grab your phone from the nightstand. “I thought they said he wasn’t.”

“He’s not,” you said, Tim starting to text on your phone as you rested your chin in your hand, elbow against your knee. “So how does a normal Alpha make other Alpha’s primal…”

Tim lowered the phone, a stupid grin growing on his face. You raised your eyebrows, Tim smirking. “You don’t know? For once I’m the one that paid attention in biology class?”

“First off, you sucked ass at biology. Second, I have read every book, paper, and journal on going primal that Dr. Olson could find. There’s nothing in there about this.”

“Because it wouldn't be,” he said. He smiled, watching you give him a bitch face. “This feels good. Is this what it’s like being a know it all all the time?”

“I’ll tell Lucy you’re being mean to me,” you said, reaching for the phone, Tim catching your wrists in one hand and keeping you away from it.

“I’m always mean to you, it’s how we say we love each other,” he said, smiling when you growled. “You going to keep being a brat or let me explain?”

“You’re the one being a brat,” you grumbled, rolling your eyes at him. “Fine. What does the old man know that I don’t?”

He gently smacked you in the face with your own hands before dropping them, tossing your phone back in your lap. 

“Up until a few hundred years ago, pack leaders were a big deal. They were always naturally chosen based on physicality, birth order, all that crap. Then as we got a little more aware of things, society decided we no longer needed pack leaders and the practice of having them fell out and eventually they were banned. But, genetically, our bodies can still be pack leaders. Brock comes from a very strong line of Alphas and he was an only child. He has those genetic details that make him a pack leader. I think he activated them and after doing that-”

“A pack leader can make pack members go primal by instructing them to go after an omega but not allowing them to physically go get the omega,” you said. Tim hummed. “Teddy was his first turn, right? Let’s assume Hunter and Jenny were turned from Teddy’s saliva. How’d Brock turn Teddy when Teddy wasn’t in his pack?”

“Same reason…” He sighed, closing his eyes. “It’s the same reason…”

“Same reason you started to smell like Beau a bit after meeting him. The whole you can indoctrinate pack members when you form a bond.” Tim didn’t speak, only inhaled deeply. “You both were so protective of me, it was only natural you formed that brotherly bond.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m ready to call him…that but same principle applies. Brock formed that older sibling relationship with Teddy. Didn’t you used to say your grandpa was always so confusing cause he was sweet to you and a dick to your dad?”

“They did fight a lot when my dad was young,” you said. “So Brock found him when he was young and vulnerable?”

“Probably. We should ask Teddy how Brock got to him if that primal cure stuff ends up working.” He flopped back down on the bed, letting out a long sigh. You finished off a text to Beau with your theory, getting a quick response back he’d look into it in the morning. After tossing your phone aside, Tim rolled over, jetpacking you and letting out a small yawn. “Can I ask you a question about Lucy?”

“What’s up? I mean we were friends in college but fell out of touch when we graduated so we’re still getting to know each other again.”

“I know that. Just…if my life hadn’t been on the line, do you think she would have gone for me?” he asked quietly.

“Do you remember that week you went to California for some urban tactical training seminar? You got to play paintball for a week in the woods?” you asked.

“If you mean the week I went to a very selective stealth rescue training activity, then yes.”

“Like I said, paintball in the woods.” You could feel his eye roll behind you as you hummed. “Well, I threw a little girls only party at our place that week. And my friends may have seen your picture on the walls.”

“Lucy thought I was hot?” he asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

“All of them did but I kept catching Lucy smelling your blanket. She kept saying she was just cold and that her nose was but if I think about it, I think you scent-marked her without being there. She broke up with her boyfriend like three days later and we all thought she was going to marry him. So. Do with that what you will.”

“Doesn’t mean she likes me, just my scent.” You groaned, slapping his behind. “Ow!”

“Timothy, I know you’re revolting and a dickhead but you really have no idea how good of a guy you are. Trust me, as an omega woman, there are Alpha men that treat us like we should be grateful for the chance to carry their pups. Then there’s a guy like you. We like when guys stick up for us. But you, you’re the guy that makes us feel supported when we stick up for ourselves. I’m half your size and you have never, ever, made me feel weak or like I can’t protect myself. You did a pretty good job of raising yourself and me. Be proud of that.”

“I’m trying to,” he said quietly, his breathing slowing behind you. “Y/N.”

“Mhm?”

“Want to watch something scary?”

“But I have to stare at your face everyday already. Don’t I suffer enough?” He squeezed you tight, rolling straight off the bed with you, your feet off the ground. “I’m in danger, aren’t I.”

“You have five seconds to say something sweet or we’re watching The Strangers.”

“No! That gave me nightmares,” you said as he carried you out of the room and down the hall. “Um…”

“You were literally just nice to me. How is it this difficult?” He stopped in front of the couch, holding you over it. “Three seconds.”

“Uh.”

“Two.”

“Uh.”

“One,” he said, his arms holding you out further. You looked over your shoulder at him, his gaze unreadable. “You giving up?”

“Can we watch Alien?” you asked, jutting out your bottom lip, putting on your puppy dog eyes. “Please? I get murder and you get Sigourney?”

He groaned, dropping you to the cushions and going to stand under the TV, pulling out the DVD. “Someday that’s not gonna work on me.”

“Sure, sure. Same day your crush on her stops too I bet.” He flopped down beside you after a moment, tossing you the remote. “Ready?”

“Whenever you’re ready, kiddo.”

Three Weeks Later

“Father,” Emily proclaimed when you got out of the rental car at his parents place in Houston. You spun around, Emily storming away from the second rental car behind you that Tim and Lucy were exiting. “That was cruel and unusual punishment forcing me to ride with them from the airport.”

“Oh, they aren’t that bad,” he said, smirking as Lucy grabbed Tim’s waist and pushed him back against the side of the car, the pair sharing an intense kiss. You watched them with a raised eyebrow, their kiss turning PG-13 and then some fast. “Uh…”

“I think they finally mated a few days ago,” you mumbled, getting out a backpack, handing it to Emily. 

“Great. Now I have four of you randy fuckers,” she grumbled, Beau flicking her ear. “Hey!”

“Your grandmother hears that language and she’ll give you a time out.” She rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and try her.”

“I’m so glad I’m staying with mom tonight,” she mumbled, trekking up to the door. “No one wants to see your boner, Barclay!”

You and Beau shared a grin when he and Lucy broke apart, Tim coughing as he walked farther down the driveway to adjust himself. 

“I’m so happy we have a sassy child to torment them with,” you said, laughing to yourself.

“We have a sassy child, eh?” He said, setting down his carry on. Your cheeks heated, Beau smirking and stroking his thumb over the crest of it. 

“I-I didn’t mean…there’s no way I’d ever try to replace Carla or be Emily’s…” you trailed off, Beau tilting your chin upwards.

“Emily’s old enough to understand that you’re a permanent member of this family. Now, I’ll trust my two ladies to figure out what they want that relationship to be but, and you didn’t hear this from me, a certain sassy child despite her constant digs on the grown ups, would greatly enjoy another maternal figure in her life. If that’s something you’re okay with.”

“Really?” He hummed. “But she already has a mother.”

“She hasn’t quite forgiven Carla for what happened last year with the camp and her former stepfather. I don’t know that she’ll ever forgive her. Her stepdad let her down and put himself first whereas you? You saved her dad. She all the shit she gives them, she adores Tim and Lucy. You don’t guilt trip her for her feelings like her mother does sometimes. She respects the respect you give her. I don’t say that to pressure you but if you want more with her, you should go for it.”

“Thanks Alpha,” you murmured so quietly only he could hear. He pulled you into his side, giving you a hug. “I don’t know that I’d be very good at it though. My own mom was never the most maternal and that was before I found out she was a psychopath.”

“I think you ought to give yourself more credit. All you gotta do is love ‘em and protect ‘em and you got plenty of experience with that,” he said, Tim and Lucy sharing a laugh from the end of their car. “Now that I’m about to introduce you to the Arlen clan and be interrogated by them, I’m realizing we probably should have had a few more grown up discussions about certain things.”

“Hm, well I’ve never met a boys family before so this will all be new to me,” you said, Beau’s hand gripping your waist. “While I’d love to say it’s none of their business, if we get questioned, marriage eventually and perhaps a pup down the road?”

“I always wanted to give Emily a sibling,” he whispered, brushing his lips over yours. “And what do you do for work, Mrs. Arlen?”

You smacked his chest, Beau grinning back at you. “I got a job with Dr. Olson at the university hospital overseeing-”

“You got the job?” He picked you straight up off the ground, squishing you tight, a round of giggles escaping you. “When did you find out?”

“When we landed. I’m nervous but excited,” you said, Beau grinning. “It’s a boring office job, Beau.”

“Um, excuse me but aren’t you getting a serious pay bump, it’s not full time and you get to go find funding for oh, an actual cure to Primal? Yeah, just a wee little old office job.” 

“Exactly,” you hummed, Beau pressing his lips to yours.

“No body wants to see that nastiness,” said Tim, Beau flipping him off without breaking away. 

“Boys,” you and Lucy sighed, Beau reluctantly peeling away from you. You took your backpack and carry on, waiting a beat before you followed Beau up the drive to the the front door, hands interlaced. 

“Ma, we’re here!” He called as you stepped inside the foyer area, Beau telling you to leave your bags in the adjacent dining room for now.

“I took that you were based on Emily devouring my gingerbread cookies in the kitchen,” said a gentle voice. A shorter woman with light brown hair rounded a corner, wearing a big smile. “Oh are these the girls? You boys have outdone yourselves.”

“Hi,” you said, setting your backpack down. “I’m Y/N and this is Lucy, my brother’s girlfriend.”

“I know who you two are. I’m Bridget,” she said, all smiles, wrapping you both up in hugs, Lucy giving you a look over her shoulder during hers. She lingered with yours, leaning back with a soft look. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so smitten.”

“Literally right here, ma,” said Beau behind you, Bridget rolling her eyes.

“Mhm,” she hummed, ignoring him before grinning over at Tim. “Oh and you must be Timothy!”

“Tim’s fine,” he said with a brief smile, Bridget wrapping him up in a big hug. 

“Well I know you kids had a long flight. Beau, Tim and Lucy are in Declan’s old room and I have you and Y/N in yours. Why don’t you show them around and when you kids are all set, we’ll head over to Declan’s for dinner,” she said.

Five hours later you were back at Beau’s parents after an easy going dinner at his older brother’s place nearby. You and Lucy helped prepare the dining room table in your pajamas for Thanksgiving the next day while the guys helped his parents in the kitchen.

“Okay we’re all set. What next?” you asked rounding the corner of the kitchen. 

“Time for a drink,” said Jock, Beau’s father, ushering you and Lucy to take a seat at the kitchen island. He mixed you both old fashioned’s as you watched Beau mash a giant pot of cooked potatoes while Tim sprinkled marshmallows over mashed sweet potatoes in a casserole dish. “The girls finished their tasks boys. Just waiting on you is all I’m saying.”

“Perfection cannot be rushed,” said Tim, carefully rearranging the marshmallows. Beau tried to smack his elbow to throw him off but Tim dodged it, a loud whistle coming from Jock.

“Beau, stop being a little shit and let him finish. I’ve been dreaming of that casserole ever since Y/N said Tim offered to make it.”

“My sister does not have the refined palate some of us with taste do,” said Tim, popping one last one in. He spun around with a grin. “More for us.”

“Last time I ate your magic potato casserole I spent the night throwing up,” you said.

“That was from eating undercooked chicken, not my wonderful creation. She never appreciates my cooking,” he said.

“Yes I do, just not your nasty casserole,” you said, Lucy shushing you. “Oh, don’t take his side.”

“But his food is yummy,” she said, giving him a soft look. “I am looking forward to it tomorrow.”

“Y’all crazies can have it,” you said, smiling when a slice of chocolate pie was set down in front of you and Lucy each by Bridget. “Beau, have I mentioned how much I love your parents yet?”

“We’re just glad to have a noisy house again,” she said, cutting up a slice for Tim and handing it to him after he set the casserole in the fridge. “Oh! Let me get the whip cream. I know that’s your favorite, Tim.”

She grabbed the can, squirting a big helping on top for him before ushering him over next to Lucy.

“Annnnnd done,” said Beau, holding out the pot ready to be heated tomorrow. “Pie please, mother.”

“He always did have a sweet tooth,” said Jock, setting a drink down for Tim as Beau got his plate and hopped up on the counter, sitting cross legged. Bridget excused herself as the four of you devoured your slices and started to eat straight out of the tin, Bridget returning with three white boxes. 

“So I’m sure you noticed we already have the tree and stockings up. We like to decorate a little ahead of time,” she said, handing a box to each of you apart from Beau. “These are for all of you.”

You set your fork down and opened the box, smiling as you pulled out a baby blue stocking with a doe on it and your name stitched into the top.

You glanced to the right, Lucy holding up a light green one, also with a doe, albeit in a different position. You peaked around her, Tim holding a rich dark green with a large stag wearing a scarf. He thumbed over his name, smiling to himself.

“Okay, go hang up your stockings on the mantle and I’ll find you more desserts you can devour,” she said, shooing you off. You ducked into the next room over, hanging yours besides Beau’s navy blue with stars and a stag. 

“Here’s good,” he said, patting a spot next to your name, Tim tucking his up there along with Lucy’s. 

“Why’d your mom make us these?” he asked quietly, Beau cocking his head. “And are being so nice? Did you ask them to be nice?”

You and Lucy shared a sad look behind his back, Beau clasping Tim on the shoulder.

“Timothy,” he sighed. “Those people are going to give you weekly phone calls from now on and you’re going to answer. You’re going to go to holidays and family reunions and on big vacations. Mom will get you a cake every year on your birthday no matter where you are and dad will come up every spring to watch you in your first intramural baseball game of the year. Don’t resist it. It’ll be a good thing, I promise.”

“But why?” he asked quietly, Lucy closing her eyes, your arms wrapping around her.

“Trust me?” Tim sighed, nodding once. “Good. Now take a seat people. Time for the annual Arlen watch of Trains, Planes and Automobiles.”

Three Weeks Later

“Hey,” you said, bumping into Tim as you were walking out of the front door of your townhouse. “I’m spending the night at Beau’s so you have the place to yourself.”

“I know, Beau gave me the heads up as I was headed out.” You adjusted your overnight bag, Tim tossing his backpack through the open door. “You got a sec?”

You followed him back inside, closing the door behind you to keep out the winter chill. He kicked off his snow boots and set them in the tray, lazily hanging his coat and beanie up on the rack. He ran a hand through his fluffy hair, the strands sticking up.

“You need a haircut,” you said, Tim rolling his eyes.

“I’ve only been a wee bit busy lately,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. He looked you up and down, your eyebrow raising. 

“Spit it out, Barclay. I got a handsome man making me a home cooked meal in a childless house to get to.”

“I wanted to give you a Christmas present early,” he said. 

“Are you dying?” He scoffed. “Oh come on, you never give me gifts early. You’re 45 so I mean you could be dying. You would tell me if you’re dying, right? If you are hiding-”

He covered your mouth with his hand, chuckling to himself. He slid it away when you stopped talking, a light flush to his cheeks. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a envelope carefully, handing it to you.

You slowly opened it, wide eyed as you pulled out a card.

World’s Best Aunt!

Your eyes flickered up to him, a stupidly shy smile on his face. “You’re gonna…”

“Be a dad? Yup. That is a thing that will be happening next year,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Are we happy about this?” you asked gently, Tim nodding fiercely, a grin breaking out over your own face. 

“I’m fucking terrified. But happy. Lucy told me a few days ago and she’s only a month in but she wanted to tell you and Beau. I figured-” You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing his warm cheek. 

“You’re going to make an amazing father,” you said, Tim picking you up and hugging you tight. “And when you start to freak out, remember you guys aren’t doing this alone.”

“I know,” he mumbled, setting you down. “It was a little sooner than we were expecting but nothing about our relationship is normal so why start now.”

“You going to marry her?” He rolled his eyes with a smile. 

“I was hoping you could help me pick out a ring before we head down to Jock & Bridget’s for Christmas. Lucy’s folks will be there too and then they’re making plans to move out here to be closer to us in the spring and Beau said he’d abuse his power as sheriff to get us a wedding venue in a few months before she starts to show and why are you smiling at me like that?”

“Because you’re happy.” You squeezed him tight, Tim’s scent relaxed and cozy. “So Lucy’s moving in here, right? Her place is so small and this is three bedroom so you got room for a nursery and an office-”

“Uh, yes Lucy will move in, after the holidays most likely. But we got time for all that,” he said, tilting his head. “I don’t want you to move out. You and Beau are taking things slow and Lucy and I fully respect that.”

You looked up at him, smiling softly. “How many nights a week do I even sleep here, Tim?”

“Okay but I don’t want you to think I’m pushing you out the door to Beau.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?” He sighed, your hand clasping his. “I will move out when I am good and ready. So. Why don’t you run to the grocery store, make Lucy dinner, and talk about baby names tonight?”

“Alright, go be with your boyfriend,” he said, tugging on your braid. “But when you two start getting serious, that boy better ask my permission if he wants to marry you.”

“Are you asking Lucy’s dad?” 

“I don’t need to. She’s her own woman,” he said, crossing his arms. 

“I see, I see,” you said, nodding your head with a hum. “But Beau needs permission.”

“I ain’t letting any schmuck marry you,” he said, lifting his chin. You smiled, shaking your head. “I’m serious. I need to know that boy’s got good values.”

“You’re teasing me, aren’t you.” He put a hand to his chest in shock, feigning innocence. “I can’t wait until you have a child you can annoy instead of me.”

“It’s cute you think that will save you.” 

“Later, Timothy,” you said, flipping him off as you opened the door. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Careful driving.” 

Ten minutes later you were stepping into Beau’s house, kicking the snow off on the front rug. It smelled like sugar cookies and something delectable in the warm house.

“I’m here!” you called, hanging up your coat and boots, carrying your overnight bag on your shoulder and ditching it in it’s usual spot by the bottom of the stairs. Beau had the fireplace going and through the back windows fat, fluffy flakes fell down against the black sky. 

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said. You spun around to spot him working over the stove in a dark green flannel and long white sleeve henley, the sleeves pushed up on both. You came up behind him, ducking your head under his arm, inhaling deeply. 

“Fuck, that smells so good.” He chuckled, kissing the top of your head before you pulled away. You went to the table where an unopened bottle of wine and expensive bourbon sat. “What’s the occasion?”

“The occasion is Emily is at a sleepover tonight and Tim and Lucy have graciously offered to take her Christmas shopping tomorrow and let her spend the night at your place with them. We got two whole nights to ourselves.”

“How’d you swing that?” you asked, opening the bourbon, pouring a glass for each of you.

“They did offer honestly. But they’ve been bugging me about wanting to work a case together. I’ve refused cause of their relationship but I said I’d give them a test run and if they work well, I’ll consider doing it again. Otherwise I’ll delegate them back to their respective office corners.”

“Have you picked out a case yet?” you asked, handing him his glass before you sat up on the counter nearby with your own. His eyes raked down your body, taking in your cream sweater, maroon skirt, and lingering on your black tight coated legs. 

“I’ll see what comes across the desk next week. I’d like to push them both a bit, see what they’re made of.” He stirred the creamy sauce in the pan before him, using a smaller spoon to taste test.

“I’m sure they can handle it,” you said, taking a sip of the smooth bourbon. “Tim tell you anything particular today?”

“He did,” he said, turning a burner on low, quickly checking the oven. “Twenty minutes and dinner will be all set.”

He picked up his glass and hummed around the lip, stepping over in front of you. “He’ll make a good father and husband.”

“I know he will,” you said. He pressed forward, your legs widening before wrapping loosely around his hips. “Funny they were going to take it slow and a month after sealing their bond they got their whole lives planned out.”

“Is my omega jealous?” he teased, your head quickly shaking. He chuckled, setting his glass down before resting his palms on either side of your thighs, leaning in close. “I guarantee the only reason those two are already expecting a pup is because they were so randy, they couldn’t remember to use protection. An Alpha’s brain gets all…twitchy when they smell their omega in heat.”

“This is true,” you said, Beau smirking. “You think we’ll have that kind of…reaction my next heat?”

“I have that kind of reaction with you every time we’re together.” Knuckles grazed over the top of your leg, trailing inwards before retreating away. You inhaled deeply, Beau’s green eyes locked onto the way you bit your bottom lip. “Talk to me, ‘mega. What’s going through your head?”

You glanced down to your lap, a gentle hand tilting your chin upwards to face him again. His eyes were gentle, so full of care. You swallowed, placing your hand over his in your lap.

“Tim and Lucy are moving a million miles an hour even when they wanted to go slow.” He didn’t speak, didn’t interject as you gathered your thoughts. And your heart fell for him a little more for him for that. “I know we’ve talked, about all the big stuff. Kids and marriage and I love how mature you are for that and how you’ll give me whatever I want. But dammit Beau, you’re so damn considerate of me all the time. I need you to take for once.”

“Alright. Here’s what’ll happen,” he murmured, pressing his lips to under your jaw. “I’m going to feed you a magnificent dinner. I’m going to fuck you raw in front of that fireplace for hours until we both fall asleep. In the morning you’ll take a shower while I go get your favorite coffee and pastry. I’m going to hold you while we watch Christmas movies on the couch and go for a few more rounds. By the time we’ve worked up an appetite, I’ll be taking you out to dinner at Blackstone’s where you will be wearing the little black number I may have stolen from your closet and is currently hiding in the back of mine. When we finish, I’m going to bring you back home where I will be biting into that bonding gland all over again while you squeeze my knot bare.”

He suckled over your mark, sending chills down your spine.

“You know what happens when an Alpha does that?” he purred.

“Triggers a heat and a rut,” you breathed out, closing your eyes. 

“Now tell me if you want that and I’ll gladly do it. But if you’re not sure yet, then we’ll wait.”

“Beau-”

“You were on the run for a year. You deserve to pick what you want and when you want it. If that means I’m moving slow, then I’m moving slow, and you’ll have to accept that about me.”

“Why don’t you demand more? Why are giving me all the control here?” you whispered. He lifted his head, staring you dead on.

“I’m respecting you, not giving you control.” Your breath stayed caught in your through, Beau leaning his forehead against yous. “Sarah Connor this shit, omega. Don’t be scared and tell me.”

“Your idea for next few days sounded pretty good,” you mumbled against his lips. 

“If I do that last bit, odds are Emily gets a sibling,” he whispered, hand cupping the back of your neck, thumbing your mark. 

“I didn’t take my birth control this morning.” He stilled, your hand pressing against his chest. “I don’t want to use condoms anymore either.”

“What else do you want,” he breathed out, his heart hammering in his chest.

“You.”

“You got me,” he said, pressing your lips together, soft and slow, lingering together. His heart calmed under you, arm wrapping around your back to pull your body flush to his. “Always.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Six Months Later

Beau POV

“For the love of god tell me why we agreed to this shit,” Tim said beside me. Lucy and Y/N were sitting on the back porch with Emily while Tim and I tried to wrangle an arch made of green and gold colored balloons.

“Because when your little girl graduates from high school, if she wants an obnoxious ballon arch tunnel entrance, you give it to her,” I said, Tim grumbling from the other end as we adjusted the ground anchors. “You’ll learn these things someday.”

“Yeah well my little girl ain’t getting balloon arches like her spoiled cousin,” he grumbled, wiping sweat off his brow. He glanced over at Lucy who was holding Emily’s hand over her stomach, all three girls giggling. He shared a quick glance at me, catching my smirk, before rolling his eyes. “Fine. I’m wrapped around that girl's finger and she ain’t even born yet. You’re the same way you know.”

“Hey, I don’t know if I have another girl coming.”

“Emily told me.” I groaned, Tim’s eyes widening. “You bought that? It’s actually a girl?”

“Keep your mouth shut,” I said as I walked over to him, pulling him around to the front of the house. “We were going to do a little cake later tonight with a gender reveal. Act surprised.”

“I will, I will,” he said, holding up his hands. We walked into the open garage, Tim going to the beer fridge along the back wall and pulling two out. He handed one to me before cracking his open. “So we’re going to have two little girls around here soon. We’re both screwed.”

“Oh for sure. But hey, we’ll be able to have a joint graduation party for them and being a girl dad is kind of amazingly life changing,” I said, Tim giving me a high five as we chuckled. “I uh, heard you’re not pressing charges against Jenny Hoyt.”

“And?” he said, taking a long drag from his bottle. I shrugged. “Her bloodwork shows she’s no longer Primal, she told the investigators everything about Brock turning her when she was younger, the orders he gave her, attacking me. She’s a victim and her life’s hard enough without me sending her to jail. I never want to see her again but when she gets out of rehab for that leg, she should be able to start over again somewhere. You got a problem with that?”

“Nope.” I set my beer down after a sip, picking up a pile of plastic table cloths stacked on top of folding chairs. “Your daughter will be lucky to have a good man for a father.”

He didn’t say anything, only popped his beer on top of my tool bench and picked up four chairs at once. We carried them to the back, making a few more trips to get everything into the large tent set up out there.

“Boys,” Y/N called, walking over on bare feet across the grass. “Take a break. We called in reinforcements.”

“We only got a few hours before the party starts,” I said, Y/N putting her hand on her hip, the bottom of her shirt riding up around the swell of her belly. 

“Exactly. A long ass party where you two will be drinking, cooking and I’m totally sure not getting competitive with a bunch of highschoolers when they decide to play volleyball over there. Sit your butts down in the shade for a few.”

“But-” She crossed her arms, her shirt riding up even more, my eyes drawn downwards towards it.

“You have a huge ass family sitting in hotel rooms and Air B&B’s right now. They can help. I already talked to your mom and people will be here within thirty to help. You can boss them around when they get here but until then, sit down.”

“I for one know better than to argue with a pregnant woman,” said Tim, holding up his hands as he slipped past, gently rubbing her belly as he went. “Tell your momma to take it easy on your pops, little nugget.”

“And you?” she asked when we were alone, my hand reaching for hers. 

“Technically I’m in the shade,” I said, pointing to the tent above. She narrowed her eyes, pushing me to sit down in a folding chair. “Am I getting a repeat of my private bachelor party?”

“Later if you behave for me right now,” she said. I kicked my feet up on the table and put my hands behind my head, Y/N smiling before sitting in the spot next to me, throwing her feet into my lap. I rubbed them gently, her eyes fluttering closed. “If my feet feel like this at six months, I can’t imagine how it’ll be when I’m ready to pop.”

“We’ll have to get you some easy slip on shoes for the house, give you a bit more support.” I worked her sore feet for a few minutes, Y/N letting her eyes open after a bit. “Remember to take some breaks and go cool off in the house today. You keep doting on Lucy and you’ll push yourself too far.”

“So we should get our husbands to dote on us?” she teased. “Yes, yes that’s an excellent idea.”

We both turned when we heard Emily shriek, Tim instantly by her side, holding her arm. Y/N pulled her phone out of her pocket a few moments later, smirking at her screen.

“Lucy says she got stung by a bee,” she said, shoving it away as Tim went inside with Emily.

“Girls,” I said with a tsk, Y/N slapping my arm playfully. “Don’t get me wrong. I love girls but y’all are silly.”

“It’s a good thing we’re having a girl then,” she said, my smile growing. “But we are not buying a bunch of girlie shit.”

“I’m not much of one for pink for girls, blue for boys,” I said, Y/N grinning. “Oh was that a test?”

“No but I like the sentiment. I totally bought the cutest little blue onesie with yellow elephants on it yesterday and I don’t care at all if it was in the boys section.” 

“We got to raise a badass after all and there’s nothing more hardcore than yellow elephants,” I teased. She cocked her head, sliding her sunglasses down over her eyes before getting to her feet. “Where you going?”

“Oh, I was just thinking there’s no way on earth you don’t know how good you look sitting there in that backwards baseball cap and sunglasses.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me more,” I said, pulling my feet down and resting my chin in my hands, grinning up at her.

“I think you ought to go…lay down for a few minutes. Get your…rest,” she said, voice low, a hint of roughness to it. 

“You mean you want to go…”

“Yes, Beau,” she said, tickling my bonding gland for a split second, making sparks shoot through my body. She pulled away too fast though and was stepping away. “I’ll be waiting.”

She’d barely gotten a step away before I was out of my chair, following in her footsteps. Less than a minute later we were upstairs, Tim and Emily thankfully having retreated outside to continue decorating.

Y/N locked the bedroom door after herself, spinning around with a smile as she pushed me to lay back on the bed. “You know, Omega, we got ten minutes at most before we need to go back.”

“Mr. Arlen, you need to learn to delegate,” she said, pulling her shirt off of her head and shoving her loose running shorts down to the ground. Her underwear went with it and with a quick reach behind her back, she was dropping her bra on top of the pile at her feet. “But if you want to be put to work, I have some ideas.”

I sat up on my elbows, eyes drifting up as Y/N crawled over top of me, straddling my hips and staring downwards. I swallowed when she reached between us to undo my belt and with one helpful shove, my shorts and boxers were at my knees, my feet working to kick them off. She traced a finger under my chin, sitting back on her heels to give me room to rip off my shirt, my hat and sunglasses going flying in the process.

“Mmm,” she hummed, planting her hands on my pecs, sliding her body downwards, both of us grinning when my cock slid through her folds. She suddenly froze up, eyes fully of worry.

“What’s wrong? Is it the baby? Your back? I can-”

“Fuck, I want your cock in me but I want to be careful too. I don’t want you in me right now,” she said quietly, her cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry-”

“Sh, sh. We can have plenty of fun without penetration,” I said, gripping her thighs. “Rock back and forth and rub yourself off on me.”

“Are you sure that’s enough to get you there too?” she asked. I chuckled, my hands sliding to her waist, pushing my cock through her folds, the head of my cock hitting her clit and earning a sharp inhale of air.

“My hot pregnant wife rubbing herself off on my dick? Oh yeah, that’s not sexy at all.” I moved her body again, Y/N relaxing more. She bit her bottom lip, grinding against me. “That’s it, nice and easy.”

We fell into an easy rhythm. She slid back, I pulled forward, smirking as she bit harder when I hit her clit.

“Love to get you off, omega. Can’t wait to put another baby in you.” Her lips parted, my hands grasping her harder. “You like that? You want another baby?”

“Fuck, ask me again in six months. Until then don’t stop talking like that,” she said, voice deep and whining. I rolled my hips as I yanked her forwards, Y/N joining in and giving us both more pressure. Back and forth, back and forth.

A thin layer of sweat broke out over my body, Y/N panting atop me. I was close but she needed more time. I forced my body to relax as I moved my hand, rubbing my thumb against her clit as we rocked together. Her thighs flexed, locking my hips tight.

“Come on, darlin’. Come on,” I said, encouraging her. 

“Talk dirty, please,” she gasped, moving faster, looking for her end.

“Can’t wait to put that next baby in you. Watch you ride my cock like last time. Remember how you milked my knot so hard you nearly passed out? Feel my knot? Fuck it wants-“

I wasn’t prepared for Y/N to reach behind herself and wrap her hand around it, giving my knot a firm squeeze. I came hard, rubbing Y/N until she was tensing up, squeezing my arm with a soft moan.

She rolled to the side, my eyes closed tight, heart pounding in my ears. 

“Beau,” she said, shaking my arm. “Beau, are you okay?”

“Uh huh,” I mumbled, my body flooded in post orgasmic bliss. I turned my head, forcing my eyes to open. She smiled, running her hand through my sweaty hair.

“Did I break your brain?” I hummed, smiling lazily. She reached a hand over my cock, giving the knot the tiniest of squeezes. I came over her hand, Y/N wide eyed as she gently milked me through it.

An incoherent garble of words spilled past my lips, Y/N’s hand working my knot like her pussy would have. I’d have sworn I was floating if not for her other hand on my head to ground me, praising me through it all.

“Good boy,” she murmured when my knot finally deflated, my stomach and her hand a mess. “You ever do that before?”

“Get my knot milked by hand? No, it’s too sensitive but damn, when you do it…” I made an explosion sound, Y/N giggling into my shoulder. “You have fun?”

“Always,” she said, turning her head up and kissing me. “Want to make out in the shower before we go back out there?”

“You always have the best ideas,” I said, sitting up, scooping her up in my arms.

“Dad!” Emily shouted from what sounded like the bottom of the stairs.

“What?” I called back, stopping near the door, double checking it was locked. 

“When you’re done being a horny teenager, grandma and grandpa are here!”

“Give us five minutes!” I shook my head, Y/N smiling in my arms. “Children. Are you ready to deal with another one of her in eighteen years?”

“I can’t wait for it.” I smirked, kissing the tip of her nose. She looked so innocent, so light and happy unlike on the night we met all the months ago. What I wouldn’t give to tell that girl just how wonderful life would be for her soon enough, how she’d turn so many of our lives around. 

I carried her into the bathroom, holding her tight, excited for what the future would hold.

“Me either, omega.”

A/N: Well, that's all folks! What'd you think of this one? Would you ever want to see more of this world in the future? 🤔

[zepskies]

MUSIC PLAYLIST - Side B

YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Unravel Me

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

👀 Sneak Peek of Part 5:

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

⋆˙⟡ Read Part 5 Now on Patreon!

⋆˙⟡ Coming to Tumblr/Ao3: 7/06

Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1):

@spnwoman @waynes-multiverse @luci-in-trenchcoats @rizlowwritessortof @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@midnightmadwoman @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@deansbbyx @chernayawidow @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @chevroletdean

@foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @lacilou @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @winchestergirl2

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @my-stories-vault @spnbabe67 @alwaystiredandconfused @globetrotter28

@mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @k-slla @deanbrainrotwritings

@jackles010378 @deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @just-levyy

@leigh70 @kmc1989 @ghostslillady @siampie @jessjad

@beautyvaliant @mimaria420 @kaleldobrev @pieandmonsters @twinkleinadiamondsky

@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2 @americanvenom13

[zepskies]

You are a great writer! I like you! Have a cookie 🍪 💗

Aw thank you!! 🥰 I do love a cookie 🍪💜

[zepskies]

Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 2):

@winchestergirl2 @a-lil-pr1ncess @winchester-whiskey @spnbabe67 @supernotnatural2005

@cheynovak @megara0224 @yoongi-holland @illicithallways @perpetualabsurdity

@deansimpala @impala-dreamer @jc-winchester @k4marina @legalmente-loca

@0ccvltism @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @star-yawnznn @mostlymarvelgirl

@suckitands33 @cookiechipdough @riteofpassage77 @artemys-ackles @bleuatlas

@valerinapetrova @spnaquakindgdom @podiumackles @ladykitana90 @nancymcl

@winchesterwild78 @jollyhunter @gabavaldman @agentmstark @immastealurkneecaps

@barnes70stark @nperoconelcositoarriba @writtenbyhollywood @lori19

@deansimpalababy @milesdrift @lunaleah @mrsanakinwinchesterpoldark @kimxwinchester

@reidology13 @superbouquetgarden @disappearintofanfiction @thewritersaddictions @lupinslibraries

MUSIC PLAYLIST - Side B

YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Unravel Me

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

👀 Sneak Peek of Part 5:

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

⋆˙⟡ Read Part 5 Now on Patreon!

⋆˙⟡ Coming to Tumblr/Ao3: 7/06

Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1):

@spnwoman @waynes-multiverse @luci-in-trenchcoats @rizlowwritessortof @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@midnightmadwoman @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@deansbbyx @chernayawidow @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @chevroletdean

@foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @lacilou @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @winchestergirl2

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @my-stories-vault @spnbabe67 @alwaystiredandconfused @globetrotter28

@mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @k-slla @deanbrainrotwritings

@jackles010378 @deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @just-levyy

@leigh70 @kmc1989 @ghostslillady @siampie @jessjad

@beautyvaliant @mimaria420 @kaleldobrev @pieandmonsters @twinkleinadiamondsky

@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2

[zepskies]

MUSIC PLAYLIST - Side B

YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Unravel Me

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

👀 Sneak Peek of Part 5:

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

⋆˙⟡ Read Part 5 Now on Patreon!

⋆˙⟡ Coming to Tumblr/Ao3: 7/06

Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1):

@spnwoman @waynes-multiverse @luci-in-trenchcoats @rizlowwritessortof @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@midnightmadwoman @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@deansbbyx @chernayawidow @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @chevroletdean

@foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @lacilou @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @winchestergirl2

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @my-stories-vault @spnbabe67 @alwaystiredandconfused @globetrotter28

@mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @k-slla @deanbrainrotwritings

@jackles010378 @deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @just-levyy

@leigh70 @kmc1989 @ghostslillady @siampie @jessjad

@beautyvaliant @mimaria420 @kaleldobrev @pieandmonsters @twinkleinadiamondsky

@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2 @americanvenom13

[zepskies]

I spy with my little eye a Javier Peña fic on the horizon?!

IM SO EXCITED!!!!

You spied right, my friend!!! Just a lil' drabble to start with, to see who actually wants to read some Javier Peña from me 😝

I just released it on Patreon yesterday, so that'll probably get posted here next week! 🥰❤️

[zepskies]

Aw thank you, friend!! Yep, I love me some Pedrito 😭💗

Joel Miller, Javier Peña & Harry Castillo Tag Lists

Yep, I've added 3 Pedro Pascal characters to my tag lists, which means some new stuff from me coming soon - not just beloved Jackles characters!

If you'd like to be added to any of my character tag lists, check out this form! ❤️

Pedro Pascal Characters Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Just FYI to my current biggest tag list, if you're interested in Pedro Pascal characters:

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

[zepskies]

If you get a star ⭐️ in your inbox. It means your moot appreciates you, and your efforts in the community. Send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love! 🩶🤍

Aw thank you, lovely Liane! 🥹 Right back atcha!! 💕💕

[zepskies]

AHHHH omg this is so creative, original, and CUTE. 😍

(And I'm obsessed with the color scheme!)

Good thing he’s Dean friggin’ Winchester who’s got walls higher than the damn wall of China, fighting off any mind-bending magic or whatever’s going on here. Because one thing’s for sure. Soulmates don’t exist. Not in his world. The sand gives in under his aggressive steps as he stomps back to the same spot as before.

One, I love the visual of this so effing much lol. Dean being grumpy is one of my favorite things, but I love how the ocean/universe itself was against him on this one -- or rather fighting his stubborn ass with its cosmic flair. 😆

His connection with the reader ends up being so cute, especially how he gives into one of the things he claimed he doesn't do: a romantic walk on the beach. 😏💗

Soul Gems

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x gn!Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY There's only one soul gem for each - a gift of the sea; a window into the soul of your soulmate's and the compass to your missing piece.

WARNINGS / TAGS Soulmate AU (but with a beach-themed twist), Dean's usual denial, a bit of Angst when you squint your eyes, canon Swearing, Fluff, Told from Dean's pov. No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 1000. Woop I did it! 😂

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES My first entry for this super fun Summer Snapshot Challenge of @ambiguous-avery! AND my first time writing for a soulmate trope!? I hope it checked all the boxes? :D

Dean didn't do beaches.

He didn't do fatewalks along the shores. Or bond-diving in the ocean. And he most certainly didn't search the sand for ‘his’ stupid rock.

And yet, Dean Winchester's standing nowhere less than smack in the middle of the California beaches right now.

You gotta be kiddin’ me.

Dean shakes his head. Rolls his eyes in exageration as a swooning couple walks past him. He can only scoff at their newfound love that's radiating off of them in waves. Fingers tightly entangled, their free hands showing off a stone each as they hold it up into the sun - their sparkling colors mirroring their eyes’.

Who the hell even believes this crap?

Dean goes on with an internal monologue about this old movie and that song which all would’ve made the perfect snarky comment right now, if he wasn’t roaming the shores all by himself.

He’s momentarily thrown off when something shiny passes by his shoes.

He stops. Turns and bends down. Picks up the small rock when a jolt of energy passes through him.

For a split second, the entire universe seems to have come to a halt.

The next second, Dean scoffs and hurls it into the ocean.

It was almost as if he was taunting fate, laughing at her dumbfounded expression as if it was all a joke to him. Because it is. It's a joke, and he's not going to play along.

He turns and steps away from the shore, kicking the sand as if it's personally offending him, like it’s the culprit who lured him down here in the first place when out of nowhere – SMACK

He whips around. Facing the empty beach that stretches left and right.

“What the hell…” he mutters, eyes narrowed at the line of bubbles fading into the sand after the waves rolled across it. His free hand comes up to rub his throbbing back head from whatever had hit him. His eyes dart around until his focus shifts to his feet - and his hand freezes in mid motion.

“No friggin’way.”

Wet and shiny. The very same stone he had just tossed into the ocean.

The stone which glittered in ways that made him wonder whether it had stardust molded within it.

The stone which had sent a shiver down his spine the moment his fingers brushed its surface.

Tilted his inner world. Melted his believes as its sweet poison poured down over his soul, all within a blink of an eye. Made his mind cloudy and reeling at the same time. While something was pulsing within his heart – something hot and heavy and sticky; Emotions he couldn’t pin point, blurry thoughts and fractures of memories he didn’t recognize as his own. But the feeling like he should. Like he wants to know. Has to. Like his inner compass has just locked onto a target and won’t waver until he has found the missing piece which will finally complete him. Perhaps even-

Bullshit. He mentally punches himself. ‘Soulmates’ - What complete bullshit.

Dean’s face hardens. Twists into a scowl.

Bending down, he picks the damn thing up once again. Nose wrinkled and half-heartedly pinched between his fingertips as if it was a piece of hexed bunny droppings. His inner defences raised high as the stone begins to pester his mind once more. Good thing he’s Dean friggin’ Winchester who’s got walls higher than the damn wall of China, fighting off any mind-bending magic or whatever’s going on here.

Because one thing’s for sure. Soulmates don’t exist. Not in his world.

The sand gives in under his aggressive steps as he stomps back to the same spot as before.

“Hey, you bitch!” he shouts at the ocean in annoyance, “I’m not playing your stupid game-” he raises the stone high and waves it pointedly at the horizon “- so keep your crap to yourself!”

“Don’t like what the universe handed you?” a voice says next to him, “Or just fed up with your soulmate never showing up?”

Dean spins around, eyes wide in surprise.

“I – don’t believe in that crap,” he stammers but his voice dies down as your eyes lock.

Your breath hitches. His gets stuck in his throat.

The low sun on the horizon freckled his emerald eyes with golden speckles. The colors glint and flicker, mirroring the ones of the stone held in your hand.

At the same time Dean watches in stunned silence how your eyes reflect the pattern of his stone.

“No. Nope – nu-uh,” he sputters, averts his eyes as he violently shakes his head, “This is a joke – it can’t be – I can’t -”

“Have a soulmate?” you finish for him. His eyes snap up to meet yours and his stomach does a somersault.

���Uh, yeah. Yeah that,” he rasps out. You tilt your head, and damnit – the way you look at him, really look at him, it has his heart hammer against his ribs.

Your eyes are intense and soft at the same time, and he can’t help but feel utterly exposed. Deep down, it has him wonder how much you know of him. How much that damn stone revealed to you.

The thought has him go rigid. Hands balled into fists at his side.

My soulmate. He repeats to himself over and over. At first hesitant – no – fucking terrified.

But then his focus returns to yours and the panic induced adrenaline rush takes an unexpected turn.

Excitement.

“You sure took your time,” you smirk knowingly. Sweet. Cheeky. And everything Dean didn’t understand yet but swore to himself that very moment that he would spend the rest of his life to figure out.

“Yeah, I… I did,” he chuckles, then pulls his lips into that charming smirk of his as he holds out his hand for you, “Care for a beach walk?”

You giggle, then nod. And Dean suddenly feels like he has to physically hold himself back from scooping you up and never letting you go again...

My soulmate.

Dean Tag List:

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99 @supernotnatural2005 @Ms-kayla-readinglover @youdontknowe @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @123passwort @lamentationsofalonelypotato @my-stories-vault

@champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @nesnejwritings @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @Magic-sprinkled-daydreams @woaheasytig3r

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

[zepskies]

Oh yeah, Eomer is the perfect character for that! 😂

Thanks for reading! 💜

AS TRADITION DICTATES

Pairing: Éomer x Reader 

Summary: Your marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark has been arranged in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor. The morning after the ceremony, your new husband continues to defy your expectations.

AN: I’ve been wanting to write something for Éomer for a while now, so here we go! Confession: this one-shot actually comes from an Éomer x OFC story I have fully outlined, called The Appeasement Bride. I adapted this snippet into a reader insert story.

Word Count: 1.7K

Posted on Patreon: 1/21/2025

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Spiciness, fluff, newlyweds trying to suss each other out lol.

You woke just after the dawn, the sun peeking over the horizon and filtering through the open window. Its light began to wash over your face and stir you from a deep, well-earned sleep.

Your hand slipped out from under your head and drifted over…and you frowned. Opening your eyes, you realized that your husband’s side of the bed was empty and cold. Already, it seemed, he didn’t care to be with you when you woke. Had you done something wrong?

Flashes of memory from the night before conjured in your mind; of the surprising carefulness in his calloused hands, of hot, sweat-slick skin against yours, and the rasp of his beard as his lips and deft fingers taught you more of pleasure.

A shiver ran down your spine, blooming some warmth between your legs. Surely, if you had displeased him, he would’ve told you so. Or maybe he was polite enough to withhold that from you, along with most of his other thoughts. Éomer was often so stoic, it was difficult for you to learn your husband, even before the wedding ceremony yesterday.

You had come to Rohan over a month ago, and in that time, you had been able to glean precious little about him other than the ones he seemed to value most: his sister, his cousin, his uncle, Théoden King, his country, and his horse.

Not that he told you any of these things in words. You saw it in his actions—by the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke to you and others with fairness and courtesy, not arrogance. You’d heard gossip of his infamous temper, but so far, you had not seen it.

Nor did you see him now.

Perhaps he had more pressing work to do. In these past few weeks, you saw a bit of how demanding his station could be, and you understood his duty to patrol the Riddermark as Third Marshal of these lands. However, if he could’ve just been courteous enough to wake you before he left—

The heavy door of the bed chamber opened to Éomer himself. He wore only breeches and boots, his wheat-blonde hair loose and unadorned down his back. You swallowed a surprised gasp and watched him from the bed, unconsciously bringing the fur blanket up to your shoulders.

He met you with a polite, “Good morning,” before he continued inside to stoke the fire. He held more kindling wood in his arms, and he laid it on the platform before the fireplace.

“Good morning,” you nodded, though your cheeks warmed in a blush at the sight of his bare chest (you remembered that slightly wooly patch well). The defined muscles of his shoulders and arms shifted with his movements.

You were also a little embarrassed for overthinking.

“You rose early,” you added belatedly, for lack of something better to say.

“I am accustomed to it,” he said.

He finished with the fire and stood. You couldn’t help the way he captured your gaze, his measured steps bringing him closer to the bed. You sat up to meet him, the furs draping from your body, covering only where you held the soft fabric over your breasts. His eyes were an interesting shade of green as they roamed over you.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

Somehow it was not what you were expecting, though it was perfectly agreeable. Your blush deepened.

“Very well, thank you.”

He nodded. Then, something almost hesitant passed through his gaze.

“I’ve drawn a bath for you, unless you prefer to rest longer,” he said.

You blinked. “Really?” That was a kindness you did not expect.

Éomer’s lips tugged upwards. He offered you his hand. Though you hesitated, you slipped your free hand into his. Instinctively you took the furs with you to cover yourself, your face warming down to your neck under the weight of his amused stare.

Your hair was a tangled mess along with the sheets remaining tousled on the bed, and you realized that your body was sore in places you had never felt so. He led you around a simple wooden partition to a wide bath that was built into the ground. Your eyes widened at the luxury of it.

You had noticed that Rohan largely valued comfort and efficiency over ornateness in their architecture, but it seemed they lavished some things with greater detail.

Éomer helped you step into the bath. He took the furs from you, still with that amused glint, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking note of your bare, supple form, what glimpse he was able to get before you lowered yourself into the steaming water. He had explored each and every lovely curve the night before, but you were lovelier to behold in the morning, he thought.

You looked up at him with some hesitance, but there was a question there that he thought he would like to answer.

“Have you already bathed?” you asked.

“Yes,” he nodded, “I will leave you to your leisure. Breakfast will be brought up in a little while.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you,” you said.

Was that a note of disappointment in your tone, in the downturn of your face?

Éomer paused, but he did as he set out to do, leaving you to your bath in peace. He went over to his side of the bed to continue dressing himself, slipping a long shirt over his head that he tucked into his breeches. Though he tried not to let them, his thoughts of you remained.

Meanwhile, you relished in the hot water relieving your sore muscles (and other places). You washed and hummed a little tune to yourself, forgetting that you weren’t entirely alone, despite the partition.

By the time you left the bath, dried off and dressed in a heavy robe over a thin dressing gown, your new husband was already munching on bread and fruit and other good things that were brought up from the kitchens. He welcomed you to sit with him by the fire, where two wide chairs were draped with furs to make them comfortable. You joined him, and the tray of goods rested in between your seats.

“Do you have much to do?” you asked, while buttering a slice of bread. The crust was hard and somewhat sour, but the inside was soft and delicious.

“The only business I must attend to today is to remain kept with my wife,” Éomer said. He glanced up at you, once again capturing your gaze. “As tradition dictates.”

By the Valar, was there no end to how you blushed around this man? You only couldn’t tell if being kept by you was a duty he relished in.

You almost didn’t hear him when he added, “Tomorrow we will see your family off. They ride back to Gondor.”

Belatedly, you nodded. Éomer saw the note of melancholy cross your face.

“I am sure it is…a sooner parting than you would like,” he said.

You offered him a rueful smile. “Yes, but…not as difficult a goodbye as I thought it would be.”

One of his brows rose. “Why is that?”

Drawing in a deep breath, you mustered a little courage to answer him honestly.

“I did not know what to expect when I arrived in Rohan, but its lands have beauty of its own. Its people have integrity and courage, and its noble house is noble indeed,” you said. A small, true smile brightened you when you looked at him. “It is honorable, and kind.”

Éomer blinked in surprise. On his face it was still muted, but it was there. Your words touched him. He cleared his throat, for some reason finding his face a bit warm. In his eyes, you continued to be a wonder. He too hadn’t known what to expect from a woman of Gondor. He knew what many in your country thought of the people of Rohan—simple folk at best, and horse-wild barbarians at worst. With you, he’d mostly expected a haughty, spoiled brat.

He’d never been more willing to be proven wrong. In fact, the more he learned about you, the more beautiful you became.

He reached over, almost hesitant to cover your hand with his larger one. He was suddenly very conscious of his rougher palm in contrast with your soft skin.

“Regardless of how we were entered into this arrangement, I stand by my vows,” he said. “I will honor and protect you, and do my utmost to make you comfortable here in my home.” 

You smiled. Your hand turned under his to curl your fingers around his palm.

“I will also honor and protect you in whatever way I am able. And I will do my utmost for your house, for it is now mine as well,” you replied.

Éomer brushed his thumb over the back of your hand. He rose out of his seat enough to lean over, and he kissed you. It was sincere, but all too brief. You leaned towards him after he broke away, left wanting more as your eyes slid open.

Recognizing that look of desire stirred his own, deep in the pit of his stomach. He tugged on your hand meaningfully and guided you out of your chair, over to him. You tentatively sat across his lap, uttering a laugh when you slid backwards and landed against his chest. Your hand flew there to steady yourself. Éomer clasped it against his heart and claimed you in a deeper, rougher kiss, one fueled by a craving he couldn’t name.

You held his bearded face and hummed sweetly into his mouth. You matched his fervor, your fingers slipping into his hair and instinctively tightening a stronghold. He groaned in response. His hands, large and strong, moved over your side and down your back, while the other squeezed the supple flesh of your hip through your thin gown.

Soon, it wasn’t enough. He slid his arms around your waist and under your knees before he stood with you in his arms. He smiled at your squeal of surprise. It was the first real smile you’d ever seen upon his face. It delighted you to be the one who put it there.

He carried you to back his bed. Our bed.

But still, it was only a matter of lust, if twined with mutual respect and…curiosity.

You did not love him. (Yet.)

AN: Love me some blonde, medieval cowboy Karl Urban. 😘💜

⋆˙⟡ Read the Sequel: A Subtle Invitation

Summary: “You needn’t be so formal,” Éomer said. His lips moved against the shell of your ear. “I am Éomer, especially when we are alone.”

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when new stories drop! 💜

Add yourself to my Tag Lists || Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on.

LOTR/The Hobbit Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Eomer Tag List:

@kmc1989 @eddie-munson-stories @lamaudite

[zepskies]

lol tbh it snuck up on me too when I was writing! 😂😂 But I'm so glad you think it works well!

Ben's acting career spans literal decades lol, so I felt like this bit of finessing wouldn't have been difficult for him, especially if it gives him the opportunity to get under the reader's skin.

Oh you're totally right in thinking he secretly doesn't want to leave her -- whether it's the guilt of leaving her unprotected, or just the fact of *leaving* her, and being alone again.

With her dad, we all know what Ben's relationship with his own father was like, so he sees some of himself in how Victor's criticizing her. And for sure like you said, there's some protective vibes there 😜

Yesss both sides are starting to converge on our dynamic duo, but no wayyyyy will that get them into trouble. 😆 (Whatever could go wrong?)

Ooh you're on the right track with the next part! Their relationship is (finally) gonna break some major ground... 😏

UNRAVEL ME - Part 4

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Here we go! Another big step in their adventure...

Song Inspo: “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura (English lyrics)

Word Count: 8.8K

Tags/Warnings: Fake dating (lol), meet the family, some old-school machismo, Dominican food, bachata, “North Cuba” (Miami), angst, rom-com vibes

💜 Series Masterlist

❤️ YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 4: Food & Family

After driving through the loops of highway along I-95, Ben grows frustrated at the thirty or so signs of exits that lead to different parts of the city. One wrong turn, and it could send you miles away from where you were—even over the bridge to Miami Beach.

You consult the GPS on your iPad, since your new “burner” phone is just an old-style flip phone. 

You’re able to point him where to go to get to the airport. He finally takes the right exit, but he pulls off the highway split, off the main road, and heads into the alley of a side street.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer you, just pulls to a stop and shifts the car into park.

“It’s been fun, sweetheart, but I think it’s time we part ways here. I’ve got a couple errands to run before I get the fuck out of here,” he says.

You consider him shrewdly. “Errands? What the hell do you mean? How’re you gonna even get a plane ticket? You don’t have any money…”

And it dawns on you. You suck in a breath, then you glare at him.

“What’re you going to do, Ben?”

“That’s my fucking business, all right?”

“What’re you gonna do, knock over a bank? Kill a few people on your way out?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, sweetheart,” he says. He looks at the darkening alley ahead rather than at you. He’s keeping an eye out for anyone that might spot you two in the car, until you lean over and lay a hand on his forearm.

“Ben,” you say. “Look, I’ll pay for your ticket.”

His brows crunch together. “I don’t want your fucking money, all right?”

You hesitate. Now that’s a first. But you still take your hand back to start digging into your purse for your wallet. He reaches out and stops you with a big, warm hand over yours. Firm.

“You hear what I fucking said?” he snaps.

You just sigh. “Ben, breaking into a bank—”

“Doesn’t have to be a fucking bank.”

“All right, a store! Either way, that might raise a few alarms, don’t you think?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Ben says. His gaze cuts away from you and toward the city behind you both.

Suddenly, it hits you. This is it. No more of this asshole being a human crater exploding into your life. 

But it’s also kind of hard to imagine him getting on that plane alone, fucking off to obscurity again. You bite your lip while considering him. It feels like a waste.

“What if…what if you stay and fight?” you say. “Fight off Homelander. Expose him for the piece of shit he is.”

Ben’s steely expression just hardens further. “I’m done talking about that frosted hole. Whatever formula they mixed him with in that fucking lab, it didn’t come out of my ball sack.” 

You roll your eyes. God, he’s so gross. “Ben. For God’s sake. Don’t deflect—”

“You do realize I have the FBI, the CIA, and the whole rest of the alphabet soup on my ass, right?” he says. Finally, he looks at you. “They don’t want me here. They didn’t even try to find me when the fucking Commies… So no. Fuck ‘em. I’ll make new somewhere else.”

It’s truly incredible, considering how damn angry you were at him yesterday. Angry and afraid.

Now, you begin to feel a twinge of…concern. Yes, he’s arrogant and vulgar, selfish, and more than a bit of a dick at times. He’s killed people, whether on accident or on purpose, even if it was partially for your sake. But after last night, getting just a glimpse of what he went through, you wonder if he really deserves to be run out of the country. 

I may regret this, but…

“Listen,” you begin. “It’s getting late. Do you want to have dinner with me and my family? You’ll get some good food, one more night States’ side.”

Ben looks just as surprised by your offer as you are to suggest it. His lips begin to quirk upward, albeit incredulously.

“You offering to be my tour guide?” he asks.

You give him a knowing look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s just dinner. Nothing else.”

You raise a finger, gesturing at him to hold on a second, and you grab your phone to call your mom first. She’s easier to talk to than your father, who would probably bombard you with questions about the trip and why it was taking you so long to get home.

“Hello?” your mom answers.

“Hey, it’s me,” you reply.

“Why are you calling from this weird number? Did something happen to your phone? Is that why you haven’t been answering our calls?”

“Yeah, sorry, I lost my phone and had to get a replacement,” you lie on the fly. You’ve had to get good at it over the past week. “I made it to Miami though. I’m almost home.”

“Oh, that’s great! Meet at Mamá’s house though. We’re making dinner right now,” she says.

You smile. Looks like Ben is going to get to meet your grandma too. “Really? Oh, okay. We’ll meet you there then.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“Oh, I’m uh…bringing a friend,” you say, though your face begins to heat in a blush at the way Ben smirks at you.

“A friend, huh?” your mom asks, in a suspicious tone.

“Yeah, okay see you soon!” You hang up the phone before she can ask you any more questions. Sometimes she can be as bad as your dad. You shift your attention to Ben.

“Okay, let’s switch seats. I think it’ll be easier if I drive,” you say.

He raises a skeptical brow at you. “Where are we going?”

You offer him a smile. “Oh, just wait. You’re in for a good time.”

Homelander’s angry strides are heavy and unmistakable. Vought employees veer out of his way and give him a wide berth, keeping their heads down all the while. His heated steps bring him to the Surveillance team, where The Deep has been at the helm for the past couple of months.

And what the fuck does he have to show for it? He’s sipping a soda while flirting with one of the glorified interns trying to sort through the classified files on her screen. Deep perks up when he notices Homelander barging into the room.

“Oh! Hey, sir—”

“Where the fuck is my son?” Homelander snaps.

Ever since the incident last week, Ryan has been ducking out of his room more than usual. Despite him choosing the right side, Homelander’s side, Ryan hasn’t been working with the production team on his superhero image.

Nothing useful has come in about Soldier Boy, and now Butcher has disappeared from their sight as well. Though that one doesn’t matter so much. Homelander will be happy to see that bastard die of the cancer already eating his brain. There’s probably nothing Homelander could do that would be more fucking hilarious than that.

“Uhh, not sure, sir. But we do have something new on the Soldier Boy front,” Deep says. He cues a finger at the girl, Ashley or Annika or whatever the fuck her name is.

She presses a play button on her computer screen, and Homelander bends at the waist to scrutinize the footage. It captures an alleyway between the main building of Vought Tower and the garage.

“This is the day of the, um, the incident,” she adds.

Soldier Boy exits the building, stumbling out really. He eventually crosses paths with a young woman. To Homelander, she almost seems familiar.

Soldier Boy grabs her arm, says something to her that makes her eyes widen with fear, then drags her toward him so he can cover her mouth with his hand. They wait there against the wall for almost thirty seconds. Then, he pulls her into the garage with him.

“Who the fuck is that?” Homelander asks.

Allie chimes in. “Ah, she was a Vought employee, sir. She recently quit without prior notice.”

“See, we had Webweaver on this, but the police just found his body in Lake Marion, South Carolina,” Deep says. 

A slow smile spreads across Homelander’s face. “Fucking finally.”

“Uhh, what?” Deep says.

It’s a lead, Homelander thinks. A trail. One step closer to hunting down dear old Dad. 

Emphasis on fucking old.

Your grandmother lives south, west, and more west, almost right on the edge of the Everglades—a 1.5-million-acre wetlands protected by the state. When tourists and natives alike end up on the news for getting their limbs bit off by alligators or left half-dead by a cottonmouth snake, it’s usually because they were stupid enough to hike through the mangroves and jump into the swampy waters alone.

You pull up in front of your grandma’s house and park in the paved driveway. It’s a modest three-bedroom, Spanish-style home that your dad grew up in with his two brothers, your Uncle Felix and Uncle Luis. They re-painted the outer walls the color of a soft sunset in golden orange, the roof tiles a darker terracotta. A rod iron gate around the property meets at the front with a small arch Ben will later have to duck his head under.

You can already smell freshly cut grass as the sprinklers run in the front yard, but for the moment, you stay in the car to figure out the game plan.

“So,” Ben says, “what role am I playing for tonight, sweetheart? Your work friend, or your boyfriend? Both have their pros and cons, and potential benefits.”

His grin is far too cocksure not to irritate you on sight. You’re already regretting this lapse in your sanity that led you to try being nice to this asshole.

You also realize that you haven’t exactly thought this through. What if they recognize him from the news? 

…Well, your parents don’t like social media and your grandmother barely even knows how to text, let alone what Instagram is. 

“Let’s just play it by ear,” you say, resisting a sigh. “But for now…God, fine, you’re my boyfriend.”

“Okay,” he gamely nods. “How long’ve we been dating?”

“Long enough for me to bring you to see my parents, so let’s say a few months,” you say. Then, you grab his wrist. “Please, try to tone down the cursing and general pussy talk around my family. They’re Catholic and…conservative.”

Again, his lips twitch upward in a way you don’t really like.

“Sure,” he says, “I can turn on the charm.”

He turns his wrist under your grasp to bring your hand up to his lips. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can be very convincing.” 

A warm blush spreads across your cheeks, prickling down your neck.

Shit. You’re already regretting this. 

After slipping your hand from his grasp so you can look yourself over in the little car mirror, you get out of the car first. Ben follows your lead and walks up to the front door with you. 

You look over at him with a more critical eye, humming to yourself. You try to fix his wrinkled shirt, straighten his collar. Ben watches you do it with an amused gleam in his eyes. 

“My mom is the queen of snap judgments,” you explain. “One damn smudge or wrinkle and she’s gonna think you don’t bathe.”

You lean up and sort your fingers through his hair a little, sweeping the strands away from his brow. You have to ignore the way he’s watching you. 

When you turn and knock on the door, Ben settles a hand on the small of your back. You shoot him a raised brow. He winks at you. You don’t have time to comment or even push his hand away, because that’s when the door opens.

You greet your dad with a wide smile to cover up your nerves. Out of anyone that could’ve opened the door, why did it have to be him? He kisses your cheek when you lean in to hug him, but he eyes the man beside you with a note of appraisal. 

“Who’s this?” he asks. 

“Dad, this is Ben,” you say, choking out the second bit, “my boyfriend.” 

“Sir,” Ben greets. He offers the man a firm handshake. 

“Victor,” your dad replies, though he shoots you a look. “You didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.”

“Is that her?” your mom says. She comes out to greet you and Ben, taking in his tall, handsome form with a pleased scrutiny. “My goodness, this is your friend, huh?” She gives you a teasing wink. “I didn’t buy that one for a minute, but it has been a long time since you’ve brought a man home.”

Ben’s smile takes on an amused glint when he casts you some side-eye. 

“It’s kinda new,” you confess, trying to ignore the hot blush in your cheeks. Your mom is already having way too much fun with this, but she immediately levels up her own brand of Cuban Mom Charm, taking Ben into the house by his arm. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Gloria. This is my husband Victor,” she says, gesturing at your dad, who stands stoically behind her. Ben gives him another nod, then hits your mom with a kind of suavecito that would put James Bond to shame. 

“Now I know who to thank for giving my girl her beautiful smile. We’ve got Miss Florida herself right here,” Ben flirts, squeezing her hand on his arm.

Gloria twitters a laugh, making you bite your lip against a snort. 

She leads him further into your grandmother’s house, while you and Victor follow behind. Ben takes note of all the pictures on the walls and housed in various frames on virtually every shelf and accent table: your parents’ wedding, your father and your uncles when they were young, and you at various ages—kindergarten through your high school graduation, followed by your college graduation. 

There are pictures of you with your parents, your ten first cousins and thirty second cousins, your aunts and uncles, and you with your grandmother—the woman who’s currently cooking up something that smells delicious in the kitchen. Garlic and onions and olive oil; the smells mingle together with the red and green bell peppers being sautéed in a pan with some kind of red sauce. 

Your grandma Sofia takes in Ben from head to toe with wide-eyed, blinking surprise, even a bit of wonder. She glances at you, at Ben’s hand once again resting on the small of your back. Slowly, she brightens.

“Ay, Diosito mio, who’s this handsome man in my house?” she says.

Ben smiles, but you step in before he can flirt with her too. 

“Mamá, this is Ben. Uh, my boyfriend,” you tell her while giving her a big, warm hug. You try to blink past the tears stinging your eyes. You’ve probably missed your grandma the most. 

She squeezes you tight, but she also smacks you on the ass. 

“Hey!” you protest, laughing in embarrassment.

“Oye, you couldn’t call to tell us you finally got another man?” she chides. “How long has this one being going on?”

“Um, a few months—”

The old woman gasps, as if you told her that her recorded episodes of Caso Cerrado, the Latino version of Judge Judy, had been erased. Taking another look at a highly amused Ben, she crosses herself and delivers a kiss to the heavens. 

“Ay, Padre Santísimo. Finally, a man who doesn’t dress como un niño malcreado—like Justin Bieber.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. Your mother snickers, while Ben chuckles deeply. He doesn’t know who the fuck Justin Bieber is, but he knows about at least one of the pussy man-boys you’ve dated in the past. He slides you a knowing smirk.

“No, ma’am. She’s got a real man now,” he adds.

You blow out a subtle breath, trying with all your might not to glare at him. You do shoot him a tight smile, a warning in your eyes.

But he just trails a strong hand across the small of your back. The sensation makes tingles travel down your spine. 

You bite your lip and return your attention to your mom, who grabs some cheese and salami for you and Ben to snack on. You sit with him at the kitchen island and help your grandmother peel potatoes for the meal. By now Victor has claimed his usual spot on the couch, no doubt to catch up on one of the ten new baseball games he always has recorded. If there’s one thing your dad is obsessed with, it’s baseball. 

Ben lingers with you though, casually resting a hand on the back of your chair while he leans back in his seat at the island. 

“What’s on the menu?” Ben asks. 

“Carne guisada, white rice, and tostones. Eh, fried plantains,” Sofia replies. “Have you ever had Dominican food before?”

“No, but it smells delicious.”

“Ay, mija, have you not been feeding him?” your grandma reproaches, to your long-suffering sigh. 

If she only fucking knew.

Your mom watches in amusement while taking over stirring the stew. Meanwhile, Sofia rounds the kitchen island so she can tug you down by your arm.

“What have I taught you, huh?” she whispers. “A man well-fed will stay in your bed.” 

Mortification burns hot in your cheeks. Your hand comes up to half cover your face. 

“Ay, Mamá,” you hiss. Inside, you’re dying a thousand deaths. 

You glance at Ben over your shoulder. He sips at his beer, but by the way he’s smirking, of fucking course he heard her. 

“You call her ‘mom’ too?” he asks.

“Yes, they all call me that because I am everyone’s mother here,” Sofia says. She wipes her hand free of parsley bits and pats Ben’s hand where it rests on the counter. “But you, young man, can call me Sofia.”

“Mamá!”

Ben eats dinner with gusto. Your grandmother is satisfied and pleased by how much he’s clearly enjoying the braised beef stew. She even loads him up with his third serving. You watch him in amusement, even though you shake your head.

He’s stuffing his face as if he’s never eaten real food before. Though you wonder when the last time he had a real home-cooked meal was…before you met him, that is.

Ben and Victor talk about baseball and the classic players they admire (with Ben having actually met a few of them). While the men are distracted with their conversation at the far end of the table, you have to endure your mother and grandmother’s grilling. 

Where is he from?

What does he do? 

How old is he? 

Spring weddings are just beautiful in Miami, you know. Your cousin Julissa had a spring wedding by the beach. Wasn’t it nice?

Needless to say, you should be winning an Oscar for your own improv performance tonight.  

“Where are you guys staying tonight?” Gloria asks.

Your grandma looks affronted. “Well, here of course.”

You laugh a bit nervously. “Actually, Ben can’t stay. He, um…he has a plane to catch in the morning, for a business trip.”

“Oh, what kind of business? You said he works at Vought too,” Gloria asks.

You nod, though you have to think quickly to come up with something plausible. You glance over at Ben, who briefly meets your gaze. The look in his eyes tells you that he’s caught the edges of your conversation and wants to know what you’ll say as well.

“Uh, Ben is in Vought’s Sales Division,” you say. “Sometimes they have him travel overseas.” 

“Oh, wow. Where are you going, Ben?” Gloria asks him.

“Buenos Aires,” Ben replies. “Vought’s trying to develop another Voughtland down there. They’ve been trying for years, but the locals figure they’ve got enough entertainment, what with the tourist traps and the drug cartels and all. So they’ve brought me on to seal the deal. Think of me as a…well, as a closer. ‘S why they pay me the big bucks.” 

You resist the urge to shake your head, but you do squeeze his thigh in warning under the table. He gives you a smile and a raise of his brows. Eying him pointedly, you shift the conversation. 

“So he’s planning on staying at the airport tonight, since it’s such an early flight,” you say. 

Sofia shakes her head, as well as a finger in the air. 

“No, no. You are a guest in my home, so you will stay here tonight. I won’t take no for an answer,” she says. 

Ben gives you a self-satisfied smile, before he answers her.

“Well, who am I to say no?”

It seems strategic, the way your mom corners Ben in the kitchen to try and fish more information out of him. Meanwhile, your dad pulls you aside into the living room.

“So tell me. What’s going on with that job of yours?” he asks. His brows have that telltale furrow of concentrated Dad Worry. On Victor, it looks just shy of being angry.

You cross your arms, debating with yourself for a moment. You’ve been lying a lot tonight, but this is something you know you have to come clean about, even if you know it’s a victory for your father.

“I quit, okay,” you admit.

His shoulders loosen in relief. His gaze raises heavenward while his hands rest on his hips.

“Thank God,” he says. But then, he concentrates back on you. “This mean you’re finally moving back home?”

“I didn’t say that,” you snap. “I’m gonna stay here with Mamá for a little while until I figure out what I’m gonna do. But I’m going to find something in New York. I have time now. Maybe I can finally start my own graphic design business.”

For the past year that you hadn’t been able to find other work to leave Vought, you’d begun to spin the idea in your mind. You have friends in the Marketing department who could help you build a website, run some ads across socials. You know how to create your own content, do your own marketing, even reach out to potential clients. All you need at this point is some time and money. You have one, and you can use some of what you have in savings to invest in the idea—to build something of your own. Something honest.

Victor’s jaw clenches. He swipes a hand of frustration over his face, his gait shifting with the effort of keeping his anger contained in his mother’s house.

“Why do you always have to be so damn stubborn?” he grits out.

“Why’re you always trying to control my life?” you counter, just at hotly. “I’m not a little girl. I’ve been doing what I have to do on my own—”

“But that’s it. You don’t have to,” he says. “You wanna get blown up in one of those buildings? Or run through in the street by one of those fucking supes, like that girl two years ago? You’re smart, mija. Use that brain for something besides selfish little ideas that don’t go anywhere.”

Your mouth falls open, but nothing else escapes. Your heart is in your throat, a painful lump as tears cling to your lashes.

“You went to NYU because the schools here somehow weren’t good enough. Now you’re in debt,” he continues, raising his hand up to his brows. “Hasta los ojitos. ¿Verdad? You tried to make it in that city because you wanted to be an artist. And where did you end up? At a corrupt fucking company that worked you like a dog, and nearly got you buried under a pile of rubble like it was 9/11 all over again.”

His words cut into you like so many knives. A familiar well of acid had been churning in your stomach; now it reaches up into the base of your throat where you’re already choked by embarrassment, resentment, shame.

“Okay, dessert!” your mom calls from the kitchen, this time unaware of her husband. She brings out the large pan of flan she made last night and sets it on the table while Ben begrudgingly brings out the smaller plates and spoons. The smell of Café Bustelo reaches you as the cafetera begins to steam and boil on the stove. Sofia lifts the top of it and nods when she finds that the espresso is done percolating.

“Quién quiere café?” she asks.

Heaving a sigh through his nose, Victor raises a finger. Ben notices you, sees whatever he sees in your face, no matter how you try to bury it down. You can tell that he’s heard every word, just by that look on his face. Ben approaches you and your dad, once again sliding a hand across the small of your back, but you speak before he has a chance to say anything.

“You want coffee, right?”

Ben nods slightly, letting you leave him to escape into the kitchen. He shifts his attention to your father. The man is shorter than Ben, but still a presence that commands respect in the house.

“You still work for Vought after everything that’s happened?” Victor asks him.

Ben’s brow turns wry. “Oh, I’ve got an exit strategy.”

Victor nods. That seems to mollify him a bit, even as he watches his daughter. Ruefulness enters his gaze, even if it’s still hard with his convictions. It just reminds Ben of his father’s blue-eyed stare—the kind that always pierced straight through his skin and saw every scrap of weakness underneath.

“She’d rather live in that fucking cesspool than listen to me,” Victor says. “Young, stubborn, thinks she knows it all.”

Ben’s lips tug at a smile. Yeah, that’s fucking you.

“She thinks she can handle it out there by herself, but take away all that attitude, and what?” Victor shakes his head. “She’s fucking soft.”

Ben glances over at him, then at the silver medals framed in glass on the wall. There’s a picture of a younger version of the man in front him, leaner, just as stoic, wearing an army green uniform and a captain’s insignia. If Victor looked to be in his mid-fifties now, that would’ve put him in his early 20s during the Vietnam War.

Other than a few photo ops after the Tet Offensive and a movie he did in the late ‘60s, Ben spent most of his time snorting coke and fucking the female cast of Bewitched. (Elizabeth Montgomery blamed her failed marriage on him, but that shit was wrecked long before he came into her picture. Literally.)

Ben’s gaze drifts away from the shiny wall of accomplishment, and back over to you across the room. You’re helping your mom set out the plates of flan after she cuts each slice. He sees how hard you try to bury everything you have boiling inside behind the task, swiping a stray curl out of your eyes as you go. He’s come to recognize that look, and the things you do to keep moving forward.

“She can be,” Ben nods at your father. “But maybe she’s stronger than you think.”

Victor’s brows furrow, but Ben doesn’t stick around for more. He joins you back at the dinner table and takes a small white espresso cup you offer him. Your fingers brush with his on the pass, but its his hand casually curling wily strands of your hair behind your ear that earns your attention, your slightly widening eyes.

He smirks down at you before taking a seat. Despite yourself, your lips tug at a smile, and you join him.

After dessert, your parents finally head back home. You finally allow yourself to confess to your grandmother that you quit your job. It’s easier to be honest with her than with your parents sometimes.

She’s sorry to hear the news, knowing you enjoyed your independence in New York. While you didn’t necessarily love your job, up until now it had allowed you to have the life you wanted.  

Since she has more room to spare in her house, she’s graciously agreed to have you stay with her for a little while. You know what you told your dad, but you wonder if you can even go back to New York after this. He might just win after all.

But of course, there’s also Ben.

“I still don’t know what the big fucking deal is,” he says, somewhat grumpily. 

You sigh and shove an extra blanket into his hands from the hallway closet. 

“Look, my grandma is fun, even a little mischievous, but she’s not actually going to let me share a bedroom with my ‘boyfriend’ under her roof. Conservative Catholics, remember?” 

You also hand him a towel to take a shower. “Besides, it’s not like I’d let you into my bed anyway. Can you please just remember our deal?” 

He nods, albeit reluctantly. “Don’t you fucking worry. I’ll be out in the morning before God and everyone wakes up.” 

You hesitate, leaning your back against the doorway to your room. Ben will be staying in the second guest room down the hall.

“Well, you can still knock on my door before you leave,” you say, with a slight smile. “You know, if you wanna say goodbye.”

Ben eyes you, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Might as well get that outta the way now,” he says.

Your smile fades in confusion, but before you can react, he slips an arm around your waist and guides you in close. After a beat to gauge the look on your face—surprised, but not angry, by the way your eyes roam his face—he bows his head to claim your lips.

It’s a thorough kiss, and a little demanding as his lips move over yours, but it makes a tendril of heat lick down your spine as your fingers curl around his biceps. 

You find yourself at a loss when he breaks away. His eyes open to meet yours, smiling when he finds you breathless.

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says.

And he lets you go, allowing your hair to slip through his fingers. 

You’re tempted to smack that self-satisfied look off his face, but you shake your head with a smile. You guess you can give him one for the road. 

Butcher, Hughie, and the rest of the boys are tearing apart Webweaver’s disgusting apartment. Considering the supe’s phone is dead, and he hasn’t been seen in over 24 hours, Butcher is willing to bet that Soldier Boy killed the little prick. 

Unfortunately for Butcher, Webweaver was feeding him information. 

“There’s nothing here,” M.M. says in disgust, wiping his hands of a sticky substance. He’d rather not know what it is.

“He had to know something in order to pick up the cunt’s trail,” Butcher says. He points to Webweaver’s laptop, where Hughie is trying to hack the password.

Butcher’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Fishing it out and peering at the ID, he smiles slightly at the text. 

I’m close to your apartment. Can we talk?

Ryan. Finally, the kid is coming around. Butcher types out a reply.

Give me half an hour. 

Butcher considers his next words carefully, and he adds…

There are things we needa talk about.

There was too much shit he hadn’t told the kid, for fear of pushing him away. (Already done.)

Or fearing the kid wouldn’t believe him. (Ain’t got nothing left to lose now.)

Butcher only half suppresses a wheezing cough.

Oh, yeah, he’s still fucking dying. But if there’s one thing he’s going to do, it’s find Soldier Boy, so he can make good on their deal on snuffing Homelander.

He knows he’ll have to be even more creative with how he gets the supe to agree, seeing as Butcher double-crossed him once before. But this time, he has M.M. and Annie actually on board with the plan. Homelander plans to get V24 in the military with Victoria Neuman’s help.

So all the fucking Spice Girls finally agree: right now, Homelander’s the bigger threat. Then, they’ll somehow deal with Soldier Boy.

Or better yet, the two will kill each other. 

“Got it!” Hughie fist pumps the air. He’s been able to crack into Webweaver’s laptop, even though he balks at having to sort through a tremendous amount of disturbing pornography.

He finally finds a file labeled: Parking Lot, June 3, 5:34 p.m.

He presses play. The first thing he sees is your scared face come into frame, followed by Soldier Boy. 

​​“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy?” He glances up at you through furrowed brows. He looks ragged and soot-stained, his breathing labored as he leans against the wall. He focuses on you. “Uh, a-are you okay?” you ask shakily, clutching your messenger bag.

“All right,” Butcher drawls. “Who the fuck is that?” 

In the morning, you wake to the sun in your eyes through the windows. You get up and check the room across the hall. The door is open, and the bed is made, clear of Ben’s things. You feel disappointed that he didn’t wake you up before he left.

I guess the one goodbye was good enough for him, you think, not willing to wonder why that kind of upsets you. 

Whatever. It’s for the best. Soldier Boy is finally out of your life, and you can focus on what you need to do to pick up the threads of your life.

With that decision made, you go about starting your day. You don’t bother to change out of your pajamas. You just fluff out your curls and venture out to the kitchen, where the smell of Cuban coffee once again wafts stronger in the air. Your grandma might be Dominican, but she’s embraced her daughter-in-law’s Cuban-centric community with the little things, like espresso and pastries in the morning.

There you find something unexpected. You find Ben sipping coffee, chatting with your grandmother at the kitchen island while she makes breakfast. Her favorite radio station plays on the counter and masks the contents of their conversation, but they’re smiling and laughing, having a good ol’ fucking time.

Until Ben notices you standing there with your mouth hanging open. He grins.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. Sofia smiles over at you too.

“Ben,” you say. Your voice strikes a higher pitch than usual. “What happened to your flight?”

“It got cancelled,” he claims, though he beckons you over. You remember then that this little play is still going on—meaning you force yourself to smile and go to him as if you’re so very happy to see him.

Why the hell did I ever think this was a good fucking idea?!

He takes full advantage of the boyfriend charade, laying a heavy hand on the small of your back. It travels around your waist and comes to rest on your hip. He brushes his thumb back and forth over the thin fabric of your pajama top, and even has the gall to eye you with a grin, likely noticing that you aren’t wearing a bra.

“I invited him to stay for a couple more days, get to know the family,” Sofia says while stirring some scrambled eggs. Bacon is also sizzling on another pan on the stove.

While her back is turned, you shoot Ben a knowing glare.

To think you were a little disappointed about being rid of him. Now, you’re just angry and irritated as good sense hits you upside the head. The longer he stays with you, the better chance of Homelander or the government finding him. 

You’re quiet throughout breakfast while Sofia asks Ben more questions about himself.

“Do you go to church?” she asks, with a raised brow.

You snort into your coffee, but Ben just rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’ll admit, I’ve skipped a few Sundays,” he says, somewhat dismissively.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. His skin would probably burn if he took one step inside of a sanctuary. 

“Well, what about kids. Do you like children?” Sofia asks.

Your eyes widen. “Mamá, seriously?”

“I always thought I’d have a few,” Ben replies. You turn to look at him, and the sincerity of his tone and the sudden thoughtful gleam in his eyes surprises you even more.

“Guess I’ve been waiting for the right time to settle down,” he says, glancing at you. It’s hard for you to read that look, but it makes you wonder what the fuck he’s thinking.

He goes back to eating.

After breakfast, you get up to help Sofia clear the table. While she’s putting the pastries away, you grab Ben’s arm and lead him closer to the living room. 

“You really need to go,” you whisper-hiss. “You promised me—”

He rolls his eyes. “All right, keep your fucking panties on. Just one more night of R&R and I’ll get gone.”

“You better be for real, because I can’t—”

“Ay, mi canción,” Sofia says. She comes over and tugs on your hand. “You remember this one, right?”

The song that plays on the radio is “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura, the song your mom would always wake you up with on Saturday mornings to get you up to help her clean the house. It was a tradition your grandma started when your dad and his brothers were kids. She later got your mom hooked on it when she came to stay with your family for a few years, shortly after you were born. Gloria had needed the help, and her parents had already passed away a few years back.

Now, Sofia leads you away from Ben so that you can dance with her. She pulls into the bachata—ironically, the dance that began in the bars and brothels of Santo Domingo. In the 1960s, it was the dance of the lower class, the degenerates, and the campesinos. Bolero rhythm was its heart, but the spirit of the common people was its soul.

You protest at first at being uprooted from your grumpy mood, but your grandma has a way of hooking you into almost anything. Eventually your tense shoulders relax, and you’re laughing and twirling under her hand while you let your body inhabit the song.

Ben watches the scene in amusement, becoming transfixed by the sway of your hips, to the quick and natural steps of your feet…until Sofia grabs his hand too. 

“Hey, no. I’m good,” he says. “I don’t dance…whatever this is.”

“So I teach you,” she insists, beckoning him closer. “Come, come! Watch me. Es fácil. Real easy.”

You step off to the side to give them room, and you giggle while watching Ben try to follow her instructions. Sofia is persistent though. She teaches him how to step in counts of two, how to lead her back and forth, then turn her around. She even sends you a cheeky look while she has the man’s hands trapped either in her hand, or on her waist.

You hide your laughter behind your espresso cup. Damn. She’s still got game.

After a few minutes, Sofia leads him over to join Ben’s hand with yours, claiming she needs a rest. She guides you into his arms, and you step in with a good-natured smile.

“This is a bit fucking much,” he mutters to you. “It’s too complicated.” 

“You’re actually doing well. Just feel it though. Don’t watch your feet,” you continue to instruct him, amused by his hesitance. 

He seems to be into this though, and he begins to gain some confidence the more he learns the flow of the steps. He holds your hand more assured as he moves from side to side in time with the beat. For a white boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he has some decent rhythm. 

Ben throws in a spin that’s not quite bachata-like. It feels more like the swing of the ‘40s, the stuff you’ve only seen in movies. Still, it thrills you when you end up even closer in his arms, his warm chest pressed to yours. He looks down on you with hooded eyes that slowly roam your face, stopping on your lips.

He begins to bow his head toward yours, but you clear your throat and smile, a little nervously. You place a hand on his chest and push him back subtly as the song comes to an end. 

“Oh! Before I forget,” Sofia says. 

You almost forgot she was there. Instinctively you freeze where you stand, still catching your breath all too close to Ben. 

“Can you pick up some things from the store for later? I’m making arroz con pollo,” she says. “But you know what, I’ll give you a list, ‘cause I’m out of some other things too.”

Glancing up at Ben once more, you take the excuse to step away from him. You agree to take your grandma’s list, and you head to your room to get changed. 

The man not only follows you to the car, but insists on “getting out of the house” and going with you to the local Cuban-owned grocery store and café. 

“Christ on a Cross, is this the price of steak nowadays?” he mutters, eying all the cuts behind the cold glass. “Used to be cheaper to order it at a fucking restaurant.”

You’ve stopped here to pick up a couple packages of ground beef. You shoot him a glance, wondering why he cares when he had enough money to buy the restaurant, once upon a time. Maybe it’s the principle of the matter with him.

“Welcome to the modern world,” you drawl. “It’s getting too expensive to live, and jobs don’t want to pay for shit.”

He raises a brow, but he follows you down the aisle.

Ben is kind of the worst to go shopping with. He sneaks things into the cart when he thinks you’re not looking. You tell him you’re not buying him three different cakes and a dirty magazine. Where the hell did he even find that? 

You stuff it all back on a shelf, behind some boxed novelty cakes imported from Mexico. Though you agree to buy him one dessert, after you throw in some peaches. 

“You may be a super soldier, but you should eat more fruits and veggies,” you quip. Stuffing himself full of takeout, booze, and weed all the time can’t be good for him.

Ben raises a wry brow at you. He sidles up close while you’re putting goods on the checkout counter. His hand molds to the curve of your waist as he speaks lowly in your ear.

“I’ve got all the peaches I need, sweetheart.”

You blush hotly and send him a wide-eyed look over your shoulder. His hand means to drift lower on your ass, but your lips purse, and you smack his hand away.

“Do you have no shame?” you whisper-hiss. Giving him one kiss was like feeding a stray dog. Now he thinks he can keep sniffing your ass for more. 

“Come on, Chiquita. Would it kill you to lighten the fuck up?” he teases. 

You roll your eyes heavenward, praying for strength. You manage to get through the rest of the transaction of the checkout line mostly in peace, and Ben does all the heavy lifting of putting the bags in the car. However, you’re giving him a bit of a cold shoulder as you get back into the car.  

“All right, what’s the matter now?” he asks. “For Christ’s sake, you don’t have to be so fucking frigid.”

“Why did you come anyway?” you ask, slamming the trunk closed. “Just to cop another feel? What, did you think I was gonna blow you in the alley behind the bodega?”

Ben hesitates with a frown. There’s a moment where you think he might give you an earnest answer, but ultimately, he just shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

You scoff, both incredulous and disgusted as you rip the driver’s side door open and get inside the car. You barely wait for Ben to do the same on the passenger side, before you’re turning the ignition and angrily shifting the car into reverse. 

You back out with more force than Ben would’ve recommended, but he flexes his fingers on his thigh. He doesn’t want to tell you that he hadn’t liked the idea of you going out alone. Not without a weapon, some protection.

But he also didn’t think you’d still be cockblocking him so much after last night. And this morning, he thought you were actually warming up to him…

Guess not, he thinks sardonically, with a roll of his eyes. Whatever. It’s not like he’ll be wanting for pussy when he gets to South America. Pretty soon, it’s going to be him fucking bitches on nude beaches, drowning himself in margaritas, blow, and pussy all day long. 

He doesn’t know what it is about you though. He knows you’re into him, even if you won’t admit it… 

It’s that challenge, that Latina fire that stokes his blood every time he looks at you. Gotta be.

He also knows that the moment he leaves, one of two things will happen. Either Vought finds you, or the CIA does. If it’s the latter, they’ll question you. Even if they don’t get the information they want, they could try to protect you and your family.

Regardless, Ben knows he can’t stay. That’ll just make things worse, for himself, and for you. All he can do is take advantage of the hours he has left here.

“Look, what’s your problem, huh?” he tries again. “Think I can’t show you a good time?”

You heave a sigh without looking at him. “It’s not about that, Ben.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“You’re leaving. You’re not going to stay and fight the deranged prick who’s on the verge of taking over the whole damn country,” you say sharply. “You’re gonna fuck off to who knows where, bury your head in the sand, and numb yourself for the rest of your life. So there’s no point in exploring you and me. I’m not gonna be some quick fuck and ‘Sayonara, sweetheart. Been a good time.’ No! None of that shit.”

That falls heavily between you two, even with the radio playing at a moderate volume.

Ben simmers in the near silence while you drive through the heavy traffic in Miami. You curse when you get stuck at an intersection. 

“This is taking fucking forever,” he grumbles.

You whip your head over at him again. “Okay, and? Should I part the Red Sea of Miami for you?”

“All right, Christ. Enough,” he says. He rubs at his forehead like you’re giving him a headache. 

Good, you think. The feeling’s mutual.

Ben crosses his arms in his seat and stares out ahead. Traffic is starting to easy up, allowing you to inch closer to the righthand turn. 

You blow out a sigh, contemplating the man riding shotgun. You’re not sure why he’s still here with you. Why he doesn’t want to just leave his old life behind and make new somewhere else. It’s obvious that he wants you, but does he care about you? 

There’s no point in exploring you and me.

You hadn’t meant to say that, but it left you with a sinking feeling in your chest afterward. You still feel its hold on you now, steely fingers gripping your heart.

It’s fucking crazy. You must be crazy…to want him to care.

But before you can let your mind devolve any further, Ben breaks you out of your thoughts when he points out a McDonald’s up ahead. 

“How about you pull over into the drive-thru there,” he says.

You raise a brow at him. “You’re hungry again? Already?”

He shrugs. You shake your head, but your lips begin to tug at a smile. This fucking bottomless pit.

“All right, I’ve got this.”

You take him to a hole-in-the-wall Cuban bakery. The sign is half-scratched off, but you know it from memory. This place has been here for over 50 years, since waves of Cubans fled the iron fist of Fidel Castro’s communism in anything that would float those 90 miles—from pristine sands, and the home of guava fruit, plantains, and pure sugar cane, to the rough shores of the Florida Keys.

Ben polishes off a Cuban sandwich and three guava and cheese pastries, washing it all down with three beers and a cigar he got by talking shop with the locals playing dominoes in the dining area. The men are old enough to remember him as Soldier Boy. Even though they watch the news all day long, they have a healthy mistrust of everything they see.

They're more inclined to trust the supe they watched and admired when they were young men, the supe that (they thought) represented the ideals of the American dream; the same dream they themselves had fought for when they arrived in this country.

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna out you to the press,” says the only one of them who speaks English. “I’ll just get to tell the wife that I shared a cigar with Soldier Boy. She don’t gotta know when.” 

The other men laugh, Ben included. You roll your eyes. 

They talk him into playing around of dominoes with them, offering to “teach” him how to play, as long as he bets $5 to start with. You lean over his shoulder and help him make the right moves. Your dad and your uncles taught you how to play when you were a kid.

With your help, he ends up winning $200 dollars off of the old men. They don't get mad about it, all too happy just to spend time with one of the only superheroes they respect. You realize then why Ben is getting along so well with these guys; the man himself is at least twenty years older than them. This is essentially a group of his peers.

And what does that make me? you wonder, not knowing whether to laugh or be icked out. The longer you stare at Ben's profile, the line of his jaw, the cut of his beard, the roguish sweep of his hair and the shape and broadness of his form all too casually sitting in a metal chair, the more that thought fades to the back of your mind.

You focus more on Ben, specifically the way he's all too smirky and cocky and proud of his winnings. You’re amused at the way he counts the bills to himself later in the car. You’d think he won the lotto at Atlantic City or something. 

“Hey,” he says, earning your attention. “Let me take you out before I go. Call it a thank you.”

You give him an incredulous look. “You haven’t tested fate enough today? You should be lying low. Me too for that matter.”

“Relax, Chiquita. Nobody fucking knows we’re here,” Ben says, continuing to count his bills. He glances over at you though. “Besides, you’ll be fine, long as you’re with me.”

You consider him with a tilt of your head. Long as you’re with me, huh?

He wants to actually do something for you. More than that, he wants to protect you.

You fight the small swell of butterflies in your stomach. Matter of fact, you hate those little shits. A small sigh escapes your lips.

This guy is fucking exhausting.

“How many goodbyes are we going to have, Ben?” you ask.

He quirks a smile. 

“Just humor me.”

AN: Did you like the little scene change? I had to give things a more tropical vibe for Miami. 😉 Plus, we got a bit of the fake dating trope sliding in there, meeting the parents, some disappointed father syndrome -- checking some rom-com boxes right? 😂

Next Time:

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

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