Post TADC 8 & 9 pre-established Bunnyteeth/Showbunny AU with Caine finding out about Jax's abstraction.
He was hoping to come back and start trying to make up. Instead he got to attend the much overdue funeral...
Jaxy forgives you Cainey-Bee...
I woke up and decided Angst. I got more (Not of this comic but just art) to post today (hopefully) but for now, enjoy the Caine Angst.
Professor!Abby Anderson x Medical Analyst!WOC Reader
CW: fluff, light smut, yes they are married :)
Wife!Abby whose wife is a medical analyst
Wife!Abby who always makes sure your day's meals are always packed. Some days it’s only one, sometimes is breakfast through dinner depending on your shift.
Wife!Abby who loves the way you look at her when she surprises you with takeout from your favorite Indian restaurant on one of your late shifts.
You see her coming through the door in your lab, a few nurses peeking in through the doorway wondering who this woman is. You perk up as she comes to give you a peck on the lips.
“Hi, baby. What are you doing here?” You ask, but not complaining at the woman's presence.
“Thought I’d bring my girl a treat,” she says as she sets the takeout bag on your lap.
You gasp before wrapping your arms around her neck, hugging her while telling her she’s the best.
Wife!Abby who quite literally has to drag you to bed on your off periods because you won’t sleep.
“I’ll be up in just a second. I just have to finish this theorem,” you say as you draw on the whiteboard in your office.
Abby stands quietly seething in the doorway. You’d been given three full days off of work in compensation for overtime. However, instead of resting and relaxing, Abby has found your continued presence in your office. It’s almost two in the morning and Abby can tell you're tired because you’ve started talking to yourself. Mumbling about probabilities and calculations.
She walks over to you and plucks the dry erase marker out of your hands.
“Abby,” you whine. “Give it back I was almost finished and-”
“You’ve been saying that for the past three hours.”
“Okay, but this time I am almost done,” you protest.
“Well if you’re almost done, you can just finish it off tomorrow morning.”
You pout as Abby cracks a small smile, turning and walking out of the room expecting you to follow. Instead, you grab another marker from your desk and begin writing again. You write for a few seconds before you’re picked up and tossed over Abby’s shoulder.
“Abigail, put me down!”
She doesn’t.
Abby takes you to your shared bedroom. She picks out some comfortable clothes for you to wear and makes sure you do your skincare and put your hair in your bonnet before making you lay down with her in bed by force. You huff as she keeps you close to her, her arms encircling you. But as soon as Abby starts rubbing her hand up and down the length of your back, you’re nearly purring like a cat as you drift off to sleep.
Wife!Abby who loves seeing you get dressed up for events. She thinks you look beautiful in everything, hell you could even make a garbage bag look good. But she loves watching you get dressed up. Applying makeup at your vanity, taming your hair, putting on jewlery. Her favorite part? You asked her to zip up your dress. She holds a certain kind of pride knowing she’s the only one who knows what color lingerie you’re wearing under it. The whole time at the event all she can do is think about how much better it would look on the bedroom floor.
Wife!Abby who loves getting her hair braided. Whether it’s sitting in bed or sitting on the floor while watching one of yalls reality TV shows, she wants it braided. She loves how you comb your fingers through her hair, trying to be as gentle as you can knowing she’s tender headed as hell.
Wife!Abby who will never admit that she loves sleeping skin to skin. It’s her favorite form of intimacy, but it wasn’t always that way. She was confident in her body, but whenever she was in a relationship, she felt like it wasn’t right. Too much muscle. Too broad. When she met you, all she saw was everything she wasn’t. You had curves in all the right places. A body fit for a goddess. You were all soft curves while she was all harsh lines. That didn’t deter you though.
You had come home late, again.
Abby had already drifted off to sleep, her bare back exposed as she laid on her stomach. In all of the five months you’d been dating, you’d never seen her without a sports bra. You washed and did your night routine before slipping into bed beside her in only your underwear.
At the movement, Abby is suddenly awake and tense. Shit. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
In the dark room you make out her silhouette as she sits up abruptly, fumbling with her shirt that had been on the nightstand beside her.
You reach your hand out, stopping her frantic movements. “Abby…lay down.”
Hesitantly she lays back down, facing you in the darkness. You reach your hand out again and your fingertips meet her shoulder. She flinches. You draw your hand back slightly, but Abby manages to grab a hold of your hand and drags in across the length of her collarbone and neck.
You’d never touched her before. She never let you get this close before.
She lets your hand go and you bring your hands to her face, tracing along her nose, cheekbones, and lips.
“You’re beautiful, Abigail,” you whisper into the darkness.
She chuckles dryly. “You can’t even see me.”
“I don’t need to see to know.”
Wife!Abby who helps you through your post shift migraines.
You had come home late, almost midnight. Abby had stayed up waiting for you.
The whole drive home was excruciating. You had been in the lab and meetings all day and your head was screaming. The fluorescence in the building had made your eyes hurt, making them overly sensitive and the sterile smell of the hospital had begun to make your head spin.
Abby was sitting in bed, her glasses firmly on her face and a stack of her students' essays by her side. Her eyes brighten as she looks at you, but her eyebrows furrow as she sees you.
She doesn’t ask straight out. Instead, wanting to gauge your mood. “Hey, babe. How was your shift?”
You shrug noncommitaly, tiredly. “Fine, I guess.”
She watches as you walk around the room removing your hospital badge and shoes before heading to the bathroom. She doesn’t miss that you don’t turn the light on as she hears the shower start up.
You were definitely not fine.
You stand under the cold spray of the shower, hoping it will have a cooling effect on your overheating head.
“Shit, babe. Why is the water so cold?” Abby hisses from behind you.
Abby can just barely make out your figure as you shrug again.
She huffs as she reaches around you, turning the dial to the right to get the water warmer before looking at you in the dim lighting coming from the lamp in the bedroom. “What happened? What's the matter?”
You break down crying. It’s so sudden, Abby is scared for a moment before snapping out of it and taking you into her arms.
“My fucking head hurts. They had me in the ER almost all day running tests and there were so many people and the alarms were going off and the lights hurt my eyes and I was so stressed,” you manage to get out between sobs.
Abby doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t have to, only continuing to hold you. Your crying reduces down to short hiccups as she grabs the non-scented soap from the ledge and lathers it on a sponge.
She knows how sensitive you are to smell, light, and sounds. Your choice of profession doesn’t help that though.
As she washes you she whispers affirmations to you along with bits about her day and her students. She manages to get a sad chuckle out of you.
Wife!Abby who takes self care very seriously.
You had just gotten home from your shift at around five o’clock. Abby wasn’t home yet so you change into your favorite pair of sweatpants and one of Abby’s tshirts, wrapping a scarf around your hair.
You turn on the TV for background noise and take out one of your medical books to start reading lightly. It’s almost seven o’clock when Abby gets home.
At the sight of you sitting there on the couch, Abby feels a hunger growing in her chest, but she tampers it. You’re relaxing.
At the sound of the door opening you peek your head over the back of the couch as you smile at her. “Hey. I was thinking of making chicken and rice bowls tonight, does that sound good?”
Fuck you’re wearing one of her tshirts too.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
While Abby goes up to shower, you start making dinner. As Abby makes her way down the stairs, she peeks into the kitchen on her way to the living room, watching as you flitter around the space.
It only takes you a few minutes for you to bring her her food and she thanks you as you both sit on the couch. You start eating your dinner, book in one hand, fork in the other. Completely engrossed in the research journal.
Abby on the other hand, is not. She’s too engrossed in watching you, to eat her own food. The way your delicate hand holds the book, your wedding ring on full display.
She stands and moves closer to sit right beside you. You pay no mind to the action.
“What’s your book about?”
Without looking at her, you crack a smile. “I’m at a part where they’re talking about how difficult it is to calculate and determine the dosage of a solution in which someone will not hemorrage. The solution is lethal if not measured correctly and would have to be so exact with the margin of error being 0.000174.”
You turn to her with an excited smile on your face. You look at the small table in front of the couch at her dinner. “Did you not like your dinner? I knew I shouldn’t have added that new seasoning I got,” you say, a sorry expression on your face. “I can make you something else.”
Abby shakes her head. “No. No, the food was great.”
You furrow your eyebrows as you huff a laugh. “Then why aren’t you eating it?”
“Because I’d much rather have dessert first.”
—-
“A-abby, fuck.”
Abby chuckles against your skin and it sends a shiver down your spine. “Hm? You’ve worked so hard lately, mama’s. Need to work on taking care of yourself. No wonder you’ve been fucking irritated. Look at you.”
The blonde had you firmly held in her lap, your back against her chest, as she fucked her fingers into you. Your legs were thrown haphazardly over each of her thighs, your hands clawing at her bicep and forearm as she kissed along your exposed neck.
You rest your head on her shoulder, reaching your hand back to grab the back of her head, bringing her forward to your lips. You kiss her, desperate little gasps and whimpers being consumed by her.
Abby knows you're getting close. She’s pinpointed every single one of your tells.
The way your back arches out. How you flutter around her fingers. How you're almost silent, wanting to be at least a bit modest even though you both know the rather obscene things you would and have let Abby do to you.
Abby curls her fingers upwards to that spot that has your squirming. “Nuh uh. Don’t be fucking quiet now. You were just ranting about your book,” she chastises. “You’re such a nerd.” She bites down on the side space between your neck and your shoulder before kissing it. “My nerd.”
Your orgasm crests and you’re practically shaking, but Abby doesn’t stop, fucking you through your high. You relax back onto her chest, her labored breathing in rhythm with yours.
Abby places a kiss on your cheek, nuzzling her nose into your curls.
Wife!Abby who is just overall fucking feral and head over tits in love with her wife.
How soft Shoto would become when the adrenaline of battle had died down.
When the lateness of the evening made for lazy nights at your dorm room. And once he’d step foot in there, you could see the tension immediately ebb off him in waves. He’d been so nervous, almost stone-like, the first time you invited him, but now hesitation knew no home here. He crashed, gently of course, into your frame. Taking in your scent, eyes sleepy with clear exhaustion and comfort only you got to see.
Here, when he was with you, he was the most soft. Practically a kit that silently follow you around and did everything you asked.
> “Let’s get you a bath, hm?”
> “Okay.”
> “Time to dig in.”
> “Okay.”
> “Getting sleepy. Wanna cuddle?”
> “Yes, please.”
He didn’t say it like a robot, but a man so entirely enraptured by it all that words weren’t really necessary. His eyes felt like they were molten with the way they reflected the dim light of your room. Melting with affection as he silently watched you comb his damp hair through lowered lashes. Staring as you ate soba with him, finding the sight so perfect he didn’t dare look away. And when he cuddled, he fought to stay awake like it was his hardest mission. Because it was, really.
You were so good to him. So soft, so kind, so warm and loving that it was an uphill battle every time. He wanted to enjoy your embrace for as long as he could, but comfort and exhaustion were partners in crime. He’d fall asleep on your chest, eyes closed in serenity that was proof of it all. His tired, damaged soul had found peace, and you were its home.
Author's Note: On god they're about to be so cute. This was going to be one chapter but they can't stop fucking and I can't stop writing. Enjoy!
Title from All I Want For Christmas is You by Mariah Carey
Word Count: 8.5k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: A No Love Lost Christmas Special! Takes place about five months after the end of No Love Lost, sort of an epilogue to the main story.
The Boys start Secret Santa, Ben pretends to do his job. Usual Warnings, plus smut. Much fluff and smut.
Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, tooth rotting fluff, smut (fingering, oral f receiving, p in v sex), established relationship, Christmas Special
Part 2
Read on A03!
Doing this in Butcher’s apartment was a terrible idea, because the asshole only cleans when it’s his weekend with Ryan, and you’re right on the wrong end of that. Doing it immediately after work was a worse one, because you’re in heels and a too tight bra that you’re not allow to rip off, throw in Ben’s face, giggling when he all but tackles you into bed.
Doing it without Ben here to smile and pout and snark at might be the worst idea you’ve ever had.
And you’ve had a lot of remarkably fucking terrible ideas.
You’re not really paying attention to your friends around you, because you’re staring at your phone. Turning it around between your hands, waiting for Ben’s text to let you know Ryan’s home from school. That he’s not being bullied, and he’s doing his homework, and his powers didn’t cause what the principal had referred to as structural damage to the school’s foundation, and what Ben had correctly said was just a fucking accident. It’s not Ryan’s fault you pussies put the baseball field right next to the goddamn building.
There haven’t been any incidents since then—Ben had taken Ryan to a large, empty field and helped him figure out how to not turn a ball into a genuine weapon—but it’s still a delicate situation. It took a lot to get Ryan into a public school. A lot of promises of Ryan won’t hurt anyone, you fucking pussies, he’s not a damn baby, and bargains of Ben and I will donate, and go to all the fundraisers, but you’re not allowed to explicitly advertise that Ryan’s here, and many, many thinly veiled threats of if you don’t treat our son like a proper fucking human, I’ll let my wife yell at you. And she’ll rip you to fucking pieces.
You wouldn’t have ripped anyone to pieces. Literal pieces. Emotional pieces had been on the table, as had reputational pieces. It was one of the very few advantages of being so highly and strangely regarded as the woman who killed Homelander and the founder of the Soldier Boy Relief Foundation. People respected you and your opinion, which was an interesting choice on their part, but served you well. Ryan had gotten into the school, and he seemed to be liking it, so you hadn’t even been that mad at Ben for threatening the superintendent.
But you also don’t really get mad at Ben. Not ever. You whack his arms and wrinkle your nose and elbow his gut, but he always feels that you don’t mean it, and you never fight him when he tugs you into his arms and kisses you breathless and dizzy. When he mutters promises about fucking you stupid later, and calls you a brat, and chuckles when you grind onto his thigh in the middle of the office, and you miss him so much-
It’s barely been six fucking hours, Sunshine.
You scowl into the air, even as your whole body sings from the feeling of Ben, strong and deep and flaring in your chest. Shut up, you’re supposed to be picking up Ryan-
Already got him. We’re home.
You were supposed to text me, Benjamin-
Why, I’m telling you right fucking now-
Because Singer’s still on our ass. You sigh, tapping your fingers on the back of your phone. And the Ben’o’phone isn’t admissible in a court of law to prove we’re well-suited parents.
Singer can shove it up his fucking dick-
Ben, please- You cut yourself off as your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a message.
Benjamin; Stupid fucking handsome asshole husband
Ryans hoem
R u fuckingg happy sunshine
You smile, typing back Yes. Thank you, grumpy.
Shut the fuck up, Ben grumbles in your head, and all his adoration flares in your chest as you smile into the air like an idiot.
I love you, you massive fucking man-child.
I love you too, brat. Why the fuck aren’t you home yet.
You can almost picture his half-pouting scowl, feel the warmth of his body around you and smell pine drifting through the air. Meeting with everyone.
Everyone.
Yep.
Why the fuck is everyone meeting without me-
Because you’re picking up Ryan.
We could’ve made fucking Butcher do that-
Butcher doesn’t have a super awesome wife who’s going to tell him everything when she gets home, my love.
There’s a pause, and then Ben mutters between the low words of your friends talking around you, Be fucking fast.
MM says your name, looking between you and the bowl on the center of the table. “You put Ben in there?”
I always am. You nod to MM as Ben moves back to a quiet, warm hum in your chest, and tuck your phone into your pocket. “Yeah. I’ll give him his name when I get home.”
“And we’re sure Ben knows how Secret Santa works?” Hughie scratches the back of his neck with a sheepish expression, and you sigh.
“No. But I can explain it to him.”
“Old cunt ever even celebrated Christmas?” Butcher mutters, his feet kicked up on the table. “He don’t seem like the spirit of givin’ type.”
You flip Butcher off, your words short and firm. “He’s not a million Butcher, he’s celebrated Christmas before.”
Ben seems to love Christmas. Or at least grumpily acknowledge it with a soft, easy glow over his ribs and a relaxed face, which is the closest thing he gets to loving something that’s not you or Ryan. He’d told you, at the beginning of the month, that it was the only time his father didn’t drink as much. The only time his mother got to love him and not be caught between he and his father’s fights. The only time he got something as a child that he wasn’t expected to feel sorry or wasteful for receiving.
You wish there was some sort of supe that could communicate with ghosts or raise the dead. You’d mimic their powers, bring Ben’s father back, and then kill him again.
“Alright, Love.” Butcher raises his hands up in mock surrender. “Just makin’ sure.”
“Suck my fucking dick-“
“Can we, um,” Annie gives you an apologetic look as she cuts you off. “Can we draw? Now? Everyone has work tomorrow, and I would like to go home and eat my weight in sushi.”
Hughie nods, grinning down at Annie. “And watch Love Island.”
“Love Island?” MM raises his brows, and Annie blushes.
“It’s fun-“
“Names, cunts.” Butcher leans forward, pulling his paper, and looks around at the rest of the group. “Before time get’s all our sorry fuckin arses. Except yours. Love,” Butcher winks at you. “You’re stuck ‘ere till the sun goes out.”
“Eat me, Butcher.”
“Oi, I’m not above tellin the Gov you said that-“
“Ben would kick your sorry ass if you said that, Butcher.” MM’s voice is flat as he interrupts, leaning over the table to draw his paper. “You might be a supe now, but that motherfucker would beat up a mountain if it insulted her honor.”
You snort as Butcher’s sour expression, and give MM a grateful nod. Everyone here knows you don’t really have honor—at least not in a way that matters—but they also know that Ben doesn’t really care about that. His notion of your honor is subjective. You’re, apparently, above killing and straining labor, so he does that for you, but he also threatens congressmen and rude parents of Ryan’s classmates with his wife. You don’t lie to him, but he’s flat out encouraged you to commit perjury. He’d threatened a journalist who said you spread your legs for any powerful supe, but then shoved your knees apart to bury himself inside you and fuck you until you were a slurring, whiny mess under him.
It seems to mostly be about what you think of the insult. If that mountain called you a slut and you laughed, Ben would just glower, standing tall and ridged at your side. If it said the same thing and you stopped talking—cold spreading through your body and a ringing in your ears—Ben would make the mountain regret being born.
You miss him so fucking much.
Once everyone has a name and you’re sure no one’s pulled their own name, you leave Butcher’s apartment with grins and half-goodbyes. You, Annie, MM, and Hughie will all see each other tomorrow, and Frenchie, Kimiko, and Butcher will do the same.
It’s a short drive home from Butcher’s apartment, but that’s by design. For Ryan. Butcher lives in the city, and you and Ben are in the outskirt suburbs. You’d say Ben’s benefitting more from this arrangement—Butcher lives right above their office, while you have to drive to downtown for yours—but you’re the one who fought for this. The one who convinced Ben that Philadelphia would be a good place to live, because there was enough to not get bored, not enough that you’d never have peace, and it was halfway between New York and Washington. Most of the supe cleanup contracts that Ben, Butcher, Frenchie, and Kimiko got contracted for ended up being in New York—you’ve called Ben a murder maid several times, and he always rolls his eyes, kisses the top of your head, and mutters we don’t fucking murder people, we just get them in line when they’re being damn idiots—while a lot of your work is in DC, dealing with the more technical side of the post-Vought mess.
Ben hadn’t wanted you to call it the Soldier Boy Relief Foundation. He’d scowled at you as you’d told him and MM the idea, and their glares had been almost identical.
“There’s no fucking way you’re calling it that.” Ben had snapped, and MM had shot him a look of surprise.
“I mean, not that I don’t agree,” MM had said, scanning over Ben with a frown. “But why the hell do you think that.”
“Because Soldier Boy’s fucking dead. You,” he’d bumped his shoulder with yours, rough affection spreading over his ribs, even as he continued to glower. “Fucking killed him, Sunshine. Don’t use that name.”
You’d wrinkled your nose at him. “First of all, that’s very romantic, Pretty Boy. I’ve always wanted to metaphorically murder my husband.”
Brat-
“But,” you’d continued, kicking Ben’s shin as he’d started to smirk. “I have reasons to name it that.”
MM had scoffed. “There is not a chance you’ve got reasons to justify using that name-“
“It will draw attention.” You’d raised your fingers as you listed the reasons, using a bored, plain tone. “The whole point of this is to get as many victims of Vought and Homelander as much help as possible. Labelling it with Soldier Boy’s name will put it on people’s radar-“
“So would calling it the Starlight or Anomaly relief Foundation-“
You’d shaken your head, giving MM a flat look. “Annie’s supe name is already tainted in the public eye. Mine is controversial. If people hear the Anomaly Relief Foundation, they’ll form an automatic opinion based on the trials and news stories they’ve read. Soldier Boy will get people to actually look at what we’re doing. Older victims will be more likely to come out of the woodwork, supes that admired Ben growing up will be more willing to see what we’re offering them, and congress is full of old white assholes who will love it.”
MM had frowned, but nodded for you to continue, and you’d raised a second finger.
“Vought’s copyright on Soldier Boy expired last year, but Starlight and the Anomaly won’t be available for public use for another forty. Even if Vought goes down, they could drag us with them on petty litigations and technicalities, and we don’t need that right now. Finally,” you’d raised a third finger. “I think it’s poetic, and funny, and rubbing how we won in Homelander stupid dead face.”
You’d won that argument. And the argument about where to live. And the argument about letting Butcher have alternate weekends with Ryan.
That last one had been the easiest to win. For the name debate you’d had to convince Ben and MM, and for the city debate you’d had to convince the whole team of stubborn assholes you called your friends, but for the last one you’d only had to convince Ben. And you always convince Ben. He puts up a grumbled argument, and you tear down his points with teasing, loving words, and he gives in with a grunt. But you always see his small grin, and feel all his love and care and affection bursting from that piece of him near your heart, and he devours your face and neck and cunt until your knees get weak and you almost fall over.
You might love him more than life.
He’s waiting for you when you get home. You barely open the door before he’s on you, sweeping you into a long, deep kiss and groaning down your throat.
Hi, Benjamin. You mumble between your heads, and his chuckle rolls through your whole body.
“Hi, Sunshine.” He grins at you as he pulls away, hauling you up his chest as you gape at him a little stupidly. It’s not fair how he somehow keeps getting more handsome, how a domestic, peaceful life looks so good on him it might drive you insane. How his shirt under your hands is clean and soft and easy to tug on, to pull him back onto your mouth. How, when you finally get your shoes off, they’re on a mat right next to his, and that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. How his beard is so well-trimmed because there’s nothing to rush for, and the whole house smells like pine because of Ben’s constant presence, and when he carries you up the stairs he doesn’t bother to look where he’s going because he already has the path memorized.
“Wait,” you push up on Ben’s chest, dropping your chin on his shoulder. “Ryan-“
“Hi!” Ryan calls your name from downstairs. “I’m doing homework!”
Don’t know how the fuck he’s my blood. Ben mutters in your head, never breaking his pace. He’s all damn smart and good at homework. “You know the drill, Kid?”
“Dinner in forty, only bother you if it’s an emergency!”
Smug pride inflates in Ben’s chest, and when you lean back he’s already grinning at you with darkened, blown out eyes, his half-hard cock already poking at your thigh.
You wrinkle your nose at him. We are not fucking with Ryan in the house.
We fuck with Ryan in the house all the damn time-
When he’s asleep, or watching TV, or has his headphones on. Not when he can hear it.
Then we’ll have him put headphones on-
You are not asking Ryan to use his headphones so we can have sex. You give Ben’s borderline pout a sweet smile, and lean forward to kiss over his beard. But when he goes to bed, I’ll let you do the thing.
Ben’s hunger grows white-hot and ravenous in your body, and when you meet his eyes, they’re darkened and peeling you apart. You have to squirt.
I can’t control that-
Whatever. Ben kicks open the door to your room, shooting you a wink. You have to let me make you fucking squirt, beautiful. No holding back.
You snort. When have you ever held back during sex.
I managed not to fuck you for six goddamn months. His voice is almost a growl in your head, and it’s not help your resolve to not have sex in the slightest. That’s some goddamn restraint, brat. He drops his mouth to that one spot on your throat, sucking and biting until your fingers curl in his hair. You’re fucking hot.
Thanks. Your voice is breathless, even between your heads, and you give a weak pull of Ben’s hair that only spurs him on. Wait, Ben, I need to talk to you-
That makes his pull away in an instant, his attention vigilant as he scans over your face, your skin suddenly wrapped in his concrete resolve. What the fuck is-
Nothing’s wrong. You take his face between your hands, giving him a soft smile. It’s about the meeting with everyone.
The one that you didn’t fucking invite me to.
The one, you swat at his arm, sticking your tongue out. That I’m trying to tell you about now, you big baby.
Fine. Ben grumbles in your head, watching you expectantly. What.
Have you ever done Secret Santa before?
Once. Vought party in the 80s.
You raise your brows at him. Really? How did that go?
I don’t fucking remember-
Well, it was forty years ago. You hold his face between your hands with a mock pout. Is your memory going, Benjamin? Do Ryan and I have to put you in a home-
Shut the fuck up, brat. Ben moves you flat on your back, kissing a very distracting line along your jaw as your finger curl in his hair.
Ben- You tug him back up—because if he keeps that up, you’ll never get around to telling him anything except more—and the asshole rises up with his hunger covering your bones and muscles, his body big and warm and strong over yours-
“Yes, darling?” Ben drawls, smirking down at you, and you scowl.
“You’re such a fucking cunt-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, still hovering over your body. “Tell me what the fuck the meeting was about to so I,” he pushes his knee between your thighs. “Can focus on this.”
Not with Ryan in the house-
You’ll just have to be quiet. He presses his knee up, bumping right over your clit, and grins at your small whine. Tell me about the meeting.
We’re, fuck- You grind pathetically against him, and Ben drops his weight to down to trap you against the mattress stilling the movements. You dick-
I’ll give you my dick. He kisses you once, long and slow, guiding your arms fully around his neck. Just use your fucking words, beautiful.
It’s a miracle you remember how words work, let alone say any of them, because Ben dives back down to your neck—keeping you pinned down as he works you into a gasping, writhing mess under him—and everything becomes very simply Ben in your mind and body.
“I, um,” he nips at your throat, and you have to swallow a moan. “Kimiko wanted to do something, for the Holidays, and Hughie suggested Secret Santa, so we’re, fuck, Ben, we’re doing that-“
Ben rises back up to frown at you, and you whine at the loss. “Doing what.”
“Secret Santa,” you whisper, taking the moment of his distraction to wrap your legs around his torso. “I put your name in, and, um,” you let go of him for a second, fumbling around in your pocket for Ben’s paper, folded neatly while yours was crumpled. “I grabbed yours.”
Ben wraps an arm around you as he sits up, pulling you to fall over his chest and curl in his lap. “That,” he nods to the paper, still in your hand. “Is who I have to get the gift for.”
You nod with a hum, passing it into his hand. “I didn’t look,” you say, watching him un-wrinkle it. “So don’t-“
“Butcher?” Ben looks up at you with a scowl, a hot, stinging itch spreading over his skin and sitting in his fingers. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with Butcher.”
You sigh. “Tell me. Don’t tell me, Ben.”
“I had to fucking tell you,” he snaps your name, glaring at the paper. “I can’t get a gift for fucking Butcher, all he does is fucking work and pussy around, fucking asshole probably doesn’t even want anything like a normal damn human-“
“There has to be something.” You mumble, tapping your fingers on Ben’s arm. “We’ll figure it out, Ben. I’ll help you. But you can’t tell anyone I did, and you have to pretend you don’t think this is stupid-“
“I don’t think it’s stupid-”
You give him a flat look. “Benjamin-“
“I think Butcher’s a fucking ball strainer.” Ben shrugs, fisting his paper into a ball and tossing it onto the floor. “But I’ve got you, Sunshine, so I’m good.”
You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Ball strainer’s a new one. I like it.”
“Good,” Ben mutters, relaxing under your hands, the glow returning in his chest. “Who the fuck did you get.”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Why the fuck not, I told you mine-“
“Which you weren’t supposed to do.” You give him a flat look, and he rolls his eyes. “It’s Secret Santa. You’ll find out with everyone else.
“What’s the fucking point of being married,” Ben grumbles, pulling you a little further up his chest. “If my wife won’t tell me all her secrets.”
“You already know all my secrets, Benjamin.”
“Not fucking all of them-“
“This isn’t a secret.” You smile at him, and the glow spreads up his spine. “It’s a surprise.”
“Whatever.” He grumbles. “Sounds like a fucking secret.”
You kiss his cheek with a soft hum. “Grumpy-“
Your words die in a yelp as Ben flips you over, crashing his mouth into yours with a fervor, his hands squeezing and kneading at your waist.
“Brat,” he growls, and you have to bite your tongue to hold down a loud plea of his name. “I’m going to fuck you stupid, Sunshine, make you fucking drool and beg.” He bites on your lower lip, his knee pushing back to your core, and you whimper. “But you need to keep quiet.”
You will not be able to keep quiet. You’re grinding desperately against him, your mouth slack and open, and your whole body warm and sensitive and buzzing with Ben. Leaving wet, open kisses down your neck, replacing his knee with a broad hand cupping your pussy, groaning onto your skin as he twitches against your thigh.
“Ben-“
“Do you need some fucking help?” He drawls, crawling back up over you with a smirk. “Can’t keep that smart, pretty mouth closed?”
“Fuck,” you gasp as he pushes your panties to the side, running one finger between your folds. “God, Ben, fuck you-“
“I will.” He winks at you, his whole body still filled with adoration and hunger as his tone becomes stern. “Just ask real fucking nice, and I’ll fuck you all you damn want, Sunshine.”
“Ben, please-“
“Think you can keep it the fuck down?”
You nod frantically as Ben’s thumb moves to your clit, rubbing around it but never on it. A metallic tang sits in your mouth as you chew through your cheek, and Ben must see the tint of red or feel the sting of pain, because he pulls back suddenly, and you can’t stop your moan of protest.
“Not going to let you fucking hurt yourself.” He mutters, raising your legs up as he pulls off your underwear. You can talk here, he balls up the cloth, rising back up over your body. But that’s it. Got it?
You glance at the underwear in his hand, and swallow as you realize what he means, your mouth falling open without a single other thought.
Fucking words-
Got it. You smile up at him, curling a hand in his shirt to tug him down into a deep, easy kiss, pulling his tongue between your teeth. Fuck me.
He rises back up, scanning over your features with an attentive, rough care that pulls you apart and makes your whole body molten. There’s a sharp, sore ache over his skin and in his muscles, his free hand trailing slowly over your thighs, and God, if he doesn’t fuck you right now you might die.
Please, Ben. You grind up into the air, letting all of your love and thirst for him leak out of your body and into his. Please.
You can see the moment it hits him. His eyes flash, his nostrils flare, and if there was anything holding him back from just fucking you it’s gone. He presses his thumb on your lower lip in a silent request for you to open, and when you do he looks almost feral. He groans as he stuffs your panties into your mouth, tracing broad fingers over your cheekbones and squeezing your waist as he draws back.
Going to go slow, he mutters in your head, angling your hips up into the air so your ass is resting on his thighs, your dripping pussy is fully at his mercy. Take my fucking time.
Ben-
He slaps your pussy once, and your moan is muffled as your eyes roll back in your head.
So fucking wet, he says your name in the silence, smirking at you as he repeats the movement and your hips buck into the air. And fucking needy, already whining and I’ve barely damn touched you-
Please, you widen your eyes at him, your fingers curling in the sheets when he drags his thumb up, over your slit, and presses hard on your clit. Fuck, Ben-
What do you want, darling. He presses his thumb down, angling it so he can tease your already fluttering cunt with two forefingers. You want my fingers? He shoves them deep into you, crooking them as they hit that deep, soft spot that makes everything in your body sing.
Fuck-
Or, he kisses a sloppy path down your chest—pausing only to flick his tongue over your nipple and smirk at your high, muffled noise of need—and moves one hand back to your hips, adjusting you further upwards as he buries his face between your legs. My mouth?
His beard brushes and tickles your thighs as he tongue-fucks you, his nose bumping your clit, and God, it’s everything. Ben’s everything. Just the sight of him—in all his stupid, handsome glory, all of it just for you—makes you dizzy. And he’s touching you like you’re holy and grinning against your cunt as you make high, muffled sounds, and you’re so close already and he’s so good-
Ben. You don’t have to the strength to push up on your elbows and fully look at him, and he’s holding you still with big, warms hands that pull and rub at your skin, so all you can do is moan into the mock-gag and arch your back when he licks a rough stripe up your cunt. Fuck, Ben, I need you, please-
He hums against you, flattening his tongue on your clit as one hand snakes back under your ass, playing and teasing around your cunt, never pushing in. You like this, darling? Like getting my mouth and fingers the needy fucking miracle you are, like it when I fucking worship your perfect pussy-
Yes, please-
He shoves two fingers back into you, pumping and scissoring as he flicks his tongue over that bundle of nerves. Tell me how good it feels, Sunshine, talk to me-
So good, you whine, and he chuckles in a way that rolls right into the tight coil near your gut. Fuck, Ben, fuck me, please-
That what you want? He rises back up with one last suck of your clit, leaving you whining and empty and fuck, he’s so handsome and all yours and looking at you like you’re some sort of god-
Benjamin-
His cock slaps on your clit—you don’t even know when he took off his pants, because everything is just a haze of warm and pine and Ben and good—and you fucking squeal.
You want my fucking cock, beautiful? Want me to make you squirt all over my fucking dick, fuck you like you deserve, fuck you until that smart, pretty mouth is fucking drooling and screaming my name-
Please, you hook your legs around his waist, trying to guide him inside you. Want you-
Beg.
I did, you asshole- The gag barely muffles your moan as Ben teases the head of his cock inside you, and you almost fly off the bed. Fuck, please-
More.
Please, Ben, please fuck me, please-
Good girl. He pushes himself inside you without further warning, primal satisfaction glowing over his ribs and abdomen as ghosting, iridescent fire covers your skin. So fucking beautiful, he growls your name between your heads, dragging himself out and slamming back in with a bruising force. Fucking perfect. So tight and wet for me, Sunshine, always so fucking good-
Ben groans as you squeeze around him, but he doesn’t pick up the pace. He just moves your hips a little higher, towering over you as he slowly thrusts in and out of your aching pussy.
Fuck, you’re a goddamn marvel, beautiful, feel like fucking heaven, could die here-
Ben, you whimper around your underwear, somehow finding the strength to reach up to him. Please, faster-
It’s all he needs. Ben’s praise becomes slurred as he fucks into you at an inhuman pace, his skin slapping sinfully against yours and his cock bumping your cervix with every thrust.
Christ, fuck- He falls over you, kissing over your collarbone before sucking on your neck, his movements becoming jerking and uncontrolled. You’re- fuck- Such a good girl, taking my cock so fucking good, fucking made for me, best fucking pussy I’ve ever seen, fucking love you-
You’re so close. Everything in you is alight and desperate for release, and you’re only a split second from begging for it when Ben groans against you, rising up to watch you with a devout, starved focus you can feel pounding in your heart.
You’re perfect. His voice in your head is deep and so fucking hungry, and you whimper. Cum, Sunshine.
Release rips through your body, and Ben rips your underwear out of your mouth, slamming his lips over yours and kissing you into the mattress. You scream down his throat as he fucks you through your orgasm, and when something warm and wet flows out of your pussy, Ben’s cock starts to jerk and spill into you. It’s so warm and blissful and made of Ben’s ardor and pleasure, and it sends you over the edge once more.
Neither of you try to move for a minute, Ben’s brow dropping to yours as you sit in his safe, certain warmth.
“We’ve got dinner.” He mutters, kissing the space between your eyes as he pulls out of you. “Go shower, beautiful.”
“You need to shower as well-“
“I’ll shower after.” Ben shrugs, rubbing on your thigh as he sits on the edge of the mattress. “You’re a bigger mess than me, darling.”
“Then I,” you mumble, and he rolls his eyes, jagged affection flaring in his body. “And I’m only a mess because you’re a tease, Pretty Boy.”
Ben snorts, leaning down to give you one last, soft kiss. “You love it,” he mutters onto your lips. “See you downstairs.”
You don’t move for a while after the door closes behind him, and you don’t know how long passes when Ben sparks in your chest, his words low in your head.
Move, Sunshine. Dinner’s almost ready.
Shut up. You smile at the ceiling, because he’d known you would still just be lying, fucked out, in bed. I hate you.
No you don’t. You fucking love me.
I’m allowed to feel two things, cunt.
But you don’t, brat. Say it.
You roll your eyes, pushing up on the bed. I love you, you dick.
I love you too. You feel him glow in your body, and you shuffle to find where Ben had tossed your pants. See you in ten.
You nod mindlessly into the air, and pull your own paper out, smiling easily at the name. See you soon, my love.
—————
Ben worked in a fucking office. He did a goddamn commute every weekday, got dropped off at a fucking office, received a paper bag and a kiss on the cheek from his wife, then worked from nine to fucking five.
In a fucking office.
At a fucking desk.
Ben had a fucking desk. With a computer and stupid chair that spun in a circle and a mug that his son had gotten him. It said World’s Greatest Grandpa, and his wife had almost fallen over laughing when Ben showed it to her.
You think that’s fucking funny, Sunshine-
I know it’s funny, Benjamin. She’s kissed him, alive and beautiful in his arms, leaning into his body like she’d never want to be anywhere else. And they were out of Dad mugs, so it was either that or you being the World’s Best Mom.
Ben had rolled his eyes, then kept that mug where he could see it all the time. At his desk.
In his fucking office.
His office with a horrible fucking paint job, and lights that barely worked, and a printer that he had no damn idea how to use. It was why he made Kimiko print out photos of Her and Ryan, and he spent most of the day just fucking staring at them and bothering Her through the brain connection while she worked.
Because Ben was—as She’d call it—being a dramatic fucking man child. He only actually went in once or twice a week, for briefs on new missions and paperwork on old ones. The worst part of the whole fucking thing was that he still couldn’t figure out the fucking computer, and every few weeks he had to sleep at a hotel in New York for a case. In reality he got paid damn well, woke up next to the most beautiful woman in fucking history every morning, and picked his son up from school every afternoon. He got to do work he didn’t hate, and work with people who he—against his fucking will—liked enough not to kill.
Butcher was calling it a Private Military Company. She called it Supe Cleanup. And murder maid, but most supe cleanup.
She was fucking right. In all the jobs Butcher had found for them, exactly two had been non-supe related. And whatever She said was the goddamn truth anyway, because no matter what Butcher claimed, they worked for Her. She got Neuman to give them all their damn cases, was the one who funded a lot of their fucking bullshit, and She dealt with most of the aftermath. Butcher wouldn’t say it because he was a pathetic fucking pussy, and She wouldn’t say it because she was too kind for her own damn good, but everyone else knew.
She was the fucking boss. She called the shots, and looked damn hot doing it. She was the one who killed Homelander—all Butcher had done was shoot a fucking gun, any asscuck with eyes and hands could’ve done that—and the one who built this shit up in a matter of months. She had the ideas for the supe reform programs, and employed all the lawyers who represented the countless victims of Vought and Homelander. Christ, She even got Butcher the damn license to be a private contractor, and convinced that Defense Secretary pussy to hire them the post-Vought efforts. She was the one with a real damn job.
Ben, Butcher, Frenchie, and Kimiko sat around until someone told them there was work to do, and then they damn did it and went home.
She testified before congress. She dealt with all the fucking press idiots, and offered the supes second chances the pussies didn’t deserve, and made sure everyone got their reparations. Ben wasn’t really sure what the fuck the actual mission statement of Her whole thing was—She’d explained it, tits pressed together as she crossed her arms, and he hadn’t remembered all her big, fancy fucking words—but he knew she was doing something good. She ran a real company, not a group of four fucking assholes.
“It’s not a company, Benjamin.” She’d told him, straddling his torso and pouting down at him as his hands kneaded her skin. “It’s a non-profit.”
“What’s the damn difference,” he’d grumbled, and she’d sighed, tapping her fingers on his chest.
“Well, if it’s a company I don’t get any government funding. And as a non-profit we get exempt from certain taxes, and it lends us a certain credibility, which is important because a lot of people aren’t going to trust us. Which I understand, this is a mess, but we also can’t give the media or public anything that might lend to confirmation bias-“
Ben had pulled Her down as she started to spiral into a fucking overdrive, and kissed her until she relaxed in his arms.
Don’t fucking hurt yourself, Sunshine. He’d muttered. You had me with ‘well’.
That was- She’d let out a small gasp as Ben nipped on her upper lip, her voice breathy in their heads. I hadn’t even started talking-
I know. He’d smirked against Her, rolling them over so he could look down at Her beautiful face, how it was open and easy and all his to keep joyful. You have me all the damn time, darling.
Good. She’d smiled up at him, Ben might have drowned in how fucking perfect she was. Because you have me as well.
He didn’t have Her now. Ben had Her everywhere in the world, except in his arms. She was in the flicking, golden light of the office, and the off-key, horrible fucking humming Butcher was doing across the room, and wallpaper of his phone. Both She and Ryan were in pieces all over Ben’s desk as well. Not just in the pictures, but the little paper guide She’d made him to the internet. It told him how shit like URLs and emails and incognito mode worked, and it was in Her handwriting because She loved him enough to help him with this. Ryan had contributed, and drawn a little fucking smile on the corner of one of the pages, and Ben kept it open to that section all the damn time.
Ryan was mostly in that stupid damn mug that Ben kept on his desk every moment, even when he wasn’t using it.
She was mostly in the ring on Ben’s finger. Matching Her’s, the only thing he ever owned that he gave a shit about. He’d had houses and trophies and diamonds and stupid fucking crystal plates that barely damn worked, but they’d all been replaceable. This ring wasn’t. It was made of all the stupid scrap Frenchie had found in the pawn shop, and fireproof because his beautiful, perfect wife was a fucking menace.
And She wasn’t fucking replaceable. The ring proved that Ben had Her—alive in his body and consuming his every damn thought—and he’d never fucking lose Her. He simply fucking refused to, because he’d never, ever be able to find someone he knew how to love half as much. Christ, he’d never had a goddamn chance, because loving Her might be the only thing Ben had ever been a natural at. He’d learned how to do it without effort, like it was something he was born for, and he’d never want to do anything else again. He was the only pussy in the world who was worthy of it, as well.
Ben was worthy of Her, because he fucking understood that She was priceless and holy. That loving Her was a task, but fuck it was worth it. Every nightmare and hollow, glassy stare when she retreated back into pain—the feeling like torture in Ben’s body, making him feel fucking sick until she smiled again—was well worth it to love Her. Worth how he might not be the only one who got to see all Her damn perfection on the surface—beauty and kindness and smart words that came with a smarter fucking brain—but it was Ben alone who got to see everything. The whole picture of this insane, infuriating, perfect woman.
And fuck, She was a masterpiece. And She was all fucking Ben’s. All his to tend to and hold, all his to throw around and fight besides, all his to grin at and care for and really fucking love. All Ben’s to give the whole damn world, and then reduce it all to a moan of his name when he fucked Her. When he buried his head in Her pretty pussy that tasted like a heady, slightly bitter, powerful fucking drug and rubbed Her clit until she squirted all over his fucking face. All Ben’s to trace with worshipping, firm hands, all Ben’s to get fucking high on.
Because sometimes he’d have his hand braced near Her head as he fucked her, and she’d be a needy fucking mess under him, and he’d trace fingers over Her lips and cheekbones before brushing the hair from Her face.
And his ring would catch the light through their blind shades.
And Ben would lose his fucking mind.
He’d hit a pace that was inhuman, and kiss Her everywhere he could fucking reach. Breathing would feel pointless, because he had his wife under him, screaming his name and being the only thing in the whole world that mattered. All of Ben’s existence would narrow to his mouth on her own, or kissing at Her breasts, or sucking on her clit. His hands would be for squeezing and pulling Her skin, or tracing and teasing over her perfect body, or thrusting fingers in and out of Her pussy. Shoving them deep enough his ring would come out covered in her arousal, crooking them until she was pleading and whining under him, and tasting Her when he pulled them out, leaving Her ruined and whimpering on the edge.
And he’d split Her open on his cock, make Her say his name like a prayer, and fuck Her until she squirted all over his cock and he could pump her full of his cum-
Stop distracting me, Benjamin.
I didn’t fucking do anything. He drawled Her name between their heads, smirking into the air. You’re the one who’s distracting me, brat.
Shut up, you’re probably at your desk watching baseball. And you know what you fucking did.
Ben rolled his eyes, turning off his monitor, and with it the MBA game. I don’t have a damn clue what you’re talking about, Sunshine, you spoke first-
Because you started getting horny and loud in my brain, and I’m at work. I can’t start masturbating while I talk to MM and Hughie, they’ll never look me in the eyes again.
Tell them to fucking leave.
I’m not kicking them out of our meeting so we can have mind sex.
You’ve kicked them out so we can have real sex-
Ben could almost see the wrinkle of Her nose. That’s not the same, you looked like you were going to kill them if they didn’t leave-
I hadn’t seen you in a fucking week-
Three days, don’t be dramatic-
And, Ben ignored Her, pushing on. Those pussies chose to leave, it’s not like I fucking threatened them-
They could see your boner, my love. Her voice was bored and amused in his head, and Ben wanted to fucking eat the sound and turn it into a moan. And you almost broke down my door demanding we go on a date, and I quote, ‘right fucking now’-
We should go on a date-
Ben-
Tonight, darling, keep your damn head on. You can stash Ryan at Butcher’s, the asshole looks fucking lonely anyway-
Don’t call it stashing, Ben-
Fine, drop him there after you pick him up-
I was actually, um, I was going to- She paused, and Ben could almost hear her nervous swallow. I wanted to ask, and you can say no, but I-
Words, darling-
Could you pick up Ryan today? I have to go do something.
Ben frowned into the air. Something.
Her voice hummed in his head. Yeah.
Are you going to fucking tell me-
No. It’s a surprise.
It’s a fucking secret-
Ben. Her voice was soft and gentle in his head, and that alone made his frown drop to what She called a pout.
What.
If it was a secret, I would’ve told you I’m working late, or going out with Annie and Kimiko, or something else stupid. But it’s not a secret, I just can’t tell you right now.
She was right. She was always fucking right, and Ben had an idea what this was, but he still missed Her. Wanted to touch her and walk with her and make Her bury her face in his arm when he teased her. You’re going to fucking tell me.
I promise that, by the end of the month, I will have told you. And we can do that date on Christmas eve. Whatever you want.
You don’t have to damn bribe me-
I know. She sighed in the silence, and something in Ben ached as Her own guilt clouded over his eyes. But I want to go on a date with you. And I really want to tell you what I’m doing-
You’re getting a gift. Ben said between their heads, and there was a brief silence before She responded.
Shut up.
Ben drawled Her name, grinning at the air. You’re going to get your gift for the stupid fucking Santa thing-
No, I need to go to the mall for that. Actually, She paused, and Ben felt a smile tug at his lips as he pictured Her pretty face starting into the air, her fingers tapping her desk or leg. Could you take Ryan to the mall? Help him get his gifts? And maybe new pants, I think he grew again-
You have to go with us to get the tree.
If Her nose hadn’t been wrinkling before, it sure as fuck was now. I thought I didn’t have to bribe you, Pretty Boy-
It’s not a fucking bribe, Sunshine, it’s a deal. You go do your secret shit-
My surprise shit-
And I’ll get Ryan and do the fucking shopping. But we’re doing that date, and you’re coming with us for the tree.
Okay. Deal. Ben?
He grunted Her name between their heads, and something warm spread over his whole body at the sound of Her sweet, sharp, infinitely adoring voice.
I love you. She whispered. Thank you-
Don’t. Ben muttered. I love you too. But if you’re not home by midnight I’m finding you and carrying you back.
Her giggle was soft in the silence of the office, and Ben didn’t bother to fight the wide grin on his face. Promise?
Brat.
Cunt.
She faded back into a quiet, perfect presence over Ben’s skull, and now he actually had to damn work. But then he’d get to pick Ryan up—Ben didn’t fucking know how shopping worked without Her there, and he didn’t think Ryan would either, but they’d figure it out—and kiss Her dumb when she got back from whatever the hell she was doing.
She’d tell him. Ben didn’t have a single fucking doubt She’d tell him, because they didn’t keep secrets from each other. Ben could feel Her all the fucking time, and knew exactly where she was across the city, and he didn’t have a single damn desire to keep anything from Her at all. He didn’t see the point in it. That’s what fucking marriage was for, Ben giving his everything to Her, while She gave every part of her right back.
It’s why he was so fucking ready for the holidays. Ben hadn’t had a real Christmas since he was fucking six or seven. They’d either been spent at boarding schools or in military camps through his youth, or at drug-fueled parties through his career. Or just fucking alone. When everyone had people to go to that they cared about more, and Ben didn’t have a single fucking person who saw him as their person.
He’d told Her that, and something soft and pained had flashed over her beautiful face as she held his face between his hands. He’d expected an age joke—So in a hundred fucking years, Pretty Boy?—but all he’d gotten was a gentle, slow kiss and loving words.
You’re my person, Benjamin. She’d mumbled against his lips. And as long as you’re stuck with that, we can do whatever you want for Christmas.
I’m not fucking stuck with it, he’d grumbled, hauling Her up his chest. I love you, Sunshine, you’re not getting rid of me until I fucking die.
She’d hummed, smiling at him. So in like a year, old man?
Ben had rolled his eyes—there She was—and kissed Her until she was squirming above him, then fucked up into her as she screamed his name.
And he didn’t really fucking want much else. There were to many damn traditions for this shit. Activities he didn’t understand, and mistletoe he didn’t fucking care about—he didn’t need a damn plant to tell him when to kiss his wife—and cards that were fucking pointless because they had six friends who they saw every damn day.
He wanted to do some of it though. Ben wanted to eat all the food, and watch whatever movie She told him to—he didn’t understand how a movie about the Grinch could be the best Christmas movie ever fucking made, Benjamin, but he’d watch most anything if She sat with him —and he really wanted to do the tree. To get a big one that made the whole house smell good, and he could cover it in stupid lights.
It should be rainbow lights. She’d fucking love rainbow lights, so Ben should get rainbow lights.
Ben should get them a lot of fucking things. He should get Ryan whatever the hell the kid needed to be a kid, and Ben hadn’t been a kid since the fucking 20s, so he’d have to ask Her and see what that shit looked like now. Probably sports gear, and a real phone that wasn’t a damn brick, and a trip to some museums because Ryan was like Her, and they both liked smart shit, and museums were full of smart shit.
She should get a trip to a museum as well, just Her and Ben. She should get twenty more houses, and a massive library that was just for Her to be a genius in, and as many breaks and vacations as Ben could drag her on. Back to their villa in Rome every summer, and up to Boston to visit Her sister, and every other beautiful place in the world.
She should get the fucking world. Ben should be able to drag the sun down from the sky for Her to hold, and break of a piece of the moon for Her to touch.
But this—a normal, easy holiday where Ben could buy find Her something as perfect as she was for a gift—was going to be damn good place to start.
End Note: It was bold of any of them to think Ben would be able to keep any sort of secret from Her.
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Just saw your latest ardeth fic and I loved it!!! Was here thinking, do you know that trope when person a gets hurt and person b goes ape shit? Ok, this but with ardeth x reader? Reader gets hurt and ardeth goes ape shit, I love to see a coolheaded character loose his cool hehehe :3
Warnings: Gun and sword violence, mildly detailed descriptions of being wounded and killing enemies.
Tags: Established relationship, pre-established relationship, flirting in battle, person a gets hurt person b goes insane, badass reader WITH A SWORD, medjai reader, gender neutral reader, flirting, injuries, the french foreign legion UGH
Summary: Another day, another fight with the French Foreign legion. But this time, you're injured on the field, and Ardeth isn’t going to let your attackers get away so easily.
A/N: Anything in italics indicates a character speaking in Arabic. Headcanon here is that the reader is part of the Rick and Evy gang and joined the medjai after the events of The Mummy. Reader can speak Arabic and English. Enjoy, anon!!
Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Four: Profiler
info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".
Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT
Chapter Four: Profiler
Derek insisted on driving me home to our shared apartment that night. He was uncharacteristically silent after my accidental snapping at him in the bullpen. It had been nearly two hours since that moment, yet he had seldom dared to utter a single word to me. He didn't ask me how I was — he already knew the answer I would give him. He didn't ask me what caused the outburst. He didn't touch me. He hardly looked at me. I couldn't bring myself to look at him, either. I could tell he wasn't angry or upset with me, but rather that he felt something far worse: he was worried about me. He knew how much I couldn't stand anyone worrying about me.
We took off our shoes after closing and locking the apartment door behind us. Wordlessly, he walked to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. He played a vinyl record, which was the only sound in the quiet, dim light of the living room. I sat on the couch and lit a cigarette, moving the ashtray on the coffee table so that it was within reach. I sighed quietly in slight relief as I exhaled the first drag.
The klonopin I'd taken at my desk earlier now slightly lessened the intensity of the flashbacks enough to help me endure them with a little more ease, while the vyvanse continued to keep me grounded and focused. Now it felt less like I was experiencing it all again, rather more something akin to memories that played on a loop, full of holes and empty blank spaces. Something far darker lived in those gaps — something that wasn't noted in the case file, something that lay in wait for the right trigger. I tried to ignore the instinctive need to recall what had transpired in those repressed memories. I couldn't rid myself of it entirely, but I could at least attempt to push the recollection of the unknown aside for now. I stared blankly at my satchel, my case file, I'd snuck into it before leaving work, threatening to burn through the leather, aching to make its presence known, to be remembered.
By the time I recognized the record playing as Nirvana's MTV Unplugged live album, it was already playing the ninth track: Something In The Way. The melancholic guitar strummed softly in the background as my lover walked back into the room with two cups of coffee. Black coffee was for him, and coffee with too much sugar was for me; it was just how we both liked it.
"You can't outsmart a profiler, gorgeous. Even a profiler as skilled as yourself can't hide from me forever, you know..." he began, his voice soft. "I saw you put that last file into your satchel before we came home."
"I'm sorry for that outburst earlier. I didn't mean to snap at you," my voice sounded so weak. I hated it.
"It's no problem, Reid. I mean it. Seriously," he said, voice still so gentle.
I met his warm brown gaze; his eyebrows furrowed with deep concern.
"I didn't mean for that to happen. I guess I was just feeling overwhelmed." I couldn't stand how pathetic that statement sounded coming out of my mouth, and did my best to save myself by joking, "Probably should've paced myself with all those files instead of trying to finish it all in one night."
"No need to apologize, sweetheart. But I think you already know what I'm about to ask." I didn't reply, letting him continue. "It was your case file, wasn't it? The one detailing what Hankel did to you." There was no judgment in his tone.
"...Yes," I admitted after pausing a beat too long, "It was the Hankel file — my file, I suppose. I didn't think reading it would have me so... on edge. I didn't expect it to trigger any flashbacks from only having read the basic report on the first few pages. I didn't even get to the transcripts or anything else. I couldn't read it all in one sitting. The flashback felt more real than usual — I could feel, smell, and hear everything like I was still there. That's why I snapped at you, I guess."
Derek nodded his head slowly and with a soft understanding. "Hey, it's alright. Nobody would ever expect you to go through that whole file in one night. I can't imagine..." his voice trailed off.
"The worst part is that it omits any mention of anything that happened when the camera was turned off."
Morgan cautiously sat down next to me on the couch. I took a long drag off my cigarette and ashed it. "Do you want to talk about it? You don't have to do or say anything you aren't comfortable with or ready for."
"I want to talk about it, but that's the problem... I can feel the blank spaces where the memories are supposed to be... but I can't remember what happened when the camera wasn't on."
"Well, what does your gut tell you? Maybe that would be a good place to start. What does your body remember that your mind hasn't caught up with yet?"
The questions made my blood run cold. I thought long and hard for a few minutes about that. In the brief silence, I realized the record was looping Something In The Way by Nirvana on an endless repeat. It felt oddly fitting somehow. What did my body remember that my mind couldn't? What did my gut instincts tell me? I shivered slightly.
"My gut tells me that whatever happened when the lights were off was worse than anything the case file noted. That much is obvious. My body... I feel pressure and pain during more intense flashbacks that don't align with anything in the case file or report."
"Whatever it is, baby, I'm not here to judge you. I won't tell anyone anything unless you want me to. Your secrets are safe with me like always, okay?"
I nodded my head in solemn understanding. "When I think about what it feels like happened — what my gut and body are telling me — it feels wrong. Not just wrong because it's horrible and traumatic... It feels wrong because it almost feels like I made it up, or I'm reading too much into it. It feels almost impossible."
"You know you can tell me anything, Spencer. If you're having a flashback, use that to remember and tell me what you felt in those moments."
I nodded my head again, slower this time. I closed my eyes to focus on the flashback. The haunting rhythmic guitar strummed softly as Kurt Cobain began singing the song again.
Underneath the bridge
Tarp has sprung a leak
"I was cold. It was dark. I think it must have been night, although it was always hard to tell in that place he kept me," I began.
And the animals I've trapped
Have all become my pets
"I remember being colder than normal. There was a draft in that place where you could feel the breeze when the wind was strong enough. I could feel more of the cold breeze on my skin than usual."
And I'm living off of grass
And the drippings from the ceiling
It's okay to eat fish
'Cause they don't have any feelings
"It smells like burning fish hearts and livers — he said it kept away the devil like in The Book of Tobit, where Asmodeus couldn't find Tobias so long as the fish hearts and livers were burning. I remember I wasn't bound to the chair anymore. I was on the floor with my wrists bound together. I was too drugged to be able to resist or fight him off in any sense."
I could see how Derek's eyes lit up with something bright and awful — fear? Worry? Concern? "I know it's not easy, but keep telling me what you can remember. Maybe it will help make sense of things in your mind."
"That's just it, Morgan," my voice was cold with dissociation. "The next part makes me question if the memories of it were even real."
"It's perfectly normal to question the reality of things when it comes to recovering traumatic memories like these. Keep going, just tell me to stop if it gets to be too much to handle. We can always revisit it at some other time when you're ready."
"No, I think I'm about as ready as I'll ever be." I lit another cigarette, taking a long pull to stabilize myself before speaking again. "He... He stripped me naked and then he um..."
Something in the way
Something in the way
Something in the way
"It's okay, I'm here. You're here with me. He can't hurt you or punish you for telling me," my partner reassured.
"I guess there's no nice way to say what I think he did, is there?" I asked rhetorically.
Morgan shook his head. "There's only the truth." I hated how right he was all the time.
Something in the way
Something in the way
Something in the way, yeah...
"I think... I think he raped me, Derek."
"Spencer..." his voice sounded utterly broken, and I couldn't meet his gaze.
"That's not even the worst part."
"Then," his voice was hesitant with grave concern, "If that's not the worst part, what was?"
"It didn't only happen once. It happened multiple times, day and night. It happened every time the cameras were off. That's what my file did not note because there was no evidence to suggest it happened. Because they never thought to question if it happened or to do a rape kit on me because..."
"Because you're a man." Morgan finished my sentence for me, causing me to let out a sigh of relief.
"Because I'm a man," I confirmed, repeating his words. "Did... did you or anybody else ever suspect...?"
"Gideon was the first to suggest it as a possibility when Hankel still had you — when we still didn't know where you were. I got pissed at him and told him I didn't want to think of something like that happening to the love of my life. But he told me privately all of that and warned me that if we ever found you alive, to be prepared for something like that, to be extra gentle and cautious with you. I didn't want to believe it was true. You never said anything about it, but I could see the way you flinched when I'd touch you without warning. I saw it especially in the way our sexual dynamics changed ever since we got you back home. You and me? We used to go at it like rabbits every night, sometimes multiple times each night. But it's almost like you've been afraid of being touched at times ever since then. I don't hold any of that against you - never did for even a second. I knew if something had happened, you'd find a way to tell me when you were ready. You displayed so many of the typical behaviors of a rape victim that we as profilers are trained to look out for and notice... I feel horrible about not having asked you about it sooner. But, like I said, I knew you needed to bring it up on your terms. I worried that if I pushed it at all, you'd spiral or something even worse. I didn't want to make things worse than they already were."
"Does Gideon know? Does anybody else know?"
"I think Gideon still strongly suspects it... But he told me he would wait for you to tell him either way when you're ready. Most, if not all, of us worried about it being a possibility at various points... but, to answer your question, no. I don't think anybody truly knows apart from me and you."
"Okay," I nodded, smoking my cigarette. "I hate that everybody thought that might have happened, but I know you're all just worried and doing your jobs as profilers. I hate knowing how sorry for me everybody's gonna feel whenever they all find out."
"Hankel may have tried his hardest to take everything from you, but you still get to be the one to decide how and when and if anybody else ever finds out about what he did to you. You still have power, whether you believe that or not. You're not weak. You're not dirty. You're no less of a man for what he put you through. And you are strong as hell for reliving it enough to remember as much as you have and even stronger for telling me about it."
"I don't feel strong," I mumbled around my cigarette.
"I know, baby. But I promise you are. You're the strongest, bravest, toughest, most badass person I've ever known. Remember what that man in Chicago did to me as a teenager?" I nodded sadly. Carl Buford had used his upstanding reputation in the community to hide what he had been doing to Derek for years. Derek hadn't told any of us about it until about a month or two before my kidnapping. "Finding out what happened didn't make you see me any different than how you've always seen me, right?"
"Right. But, Morgan, this is different."
"Why is it so different, Reid? Because I was underage? Because I wasn't drugged or tortured or held captive?"
"No, I don't mean that what you went through was any less horrible than what I went through, and I know it's never a good idea to compare traumas, no matter how many elements are similar betwixt the two."
"Then you know that from most people's perspectives, what you went through was unimaginably worse than what I went through. Just because it's different doesn't mean you weren't raped and taken advantage of."
My eyes brimmed with tears that threatened to escape their confines. "I guess it just feels like... like if I allow myself to understand that I was raped — that it was real at all — that there's no going back to how things were even just a few minutes ago to before I told you."
"Maybe you're right. Maybe it won't be easy. Maybe it will hurt like fucking hell on earth. But that hurt is a whole lot better than you spending the rest of your life keeping what happened bottled up inside you and never telling anyone."
"You're right. I know you're right. It just..." I let out a small and sad laugh, "It just really fucking sucks," I punctuated the last word by stubbing out my cigarette in the glass ashtray in front of me.
"I know. And I know it sounds cheesy to say this, but you are not alone, Spencer. You get to live your truth now, even if that truth breaks your heart every single day. Think of it as one of the many freedoms that Hankel never wanted you to have. You don't have to hide it anymore."
I wished this so-called freedom didn't feel like another circle of hell.
The truth was finally out in the open. There would never be a way to take any of it back. There was no turning back now.
Summary: Alistair is awoken in the middle of the night by the mabari war hound and the Warden is nowhere in sight.
A/N: This is something I had on my mind for a time since you can't really change the warden's hair through the game and I HC my warden having longer hair and my heart melts everytime i see Alistair and so I decided to write this. Also, this is my first time writing for Dragon Age so I hope it's ok.
Alistair’s sleep was interrupted by the sound of Anneliese’s hound, Buddy, whining next to him and nudging him with his snout.
He tried to ignore it, turning around and murmuring “Five more minutes, Anneliese, and I’ll go.” In his sleep-addled state, he hadn’t realized that the Warden wasn’t nearby. It was only when Buddy gave a playful bite on his hand that Alistair woke up.
“Ow, that hurt.” He said to the dog, clutching his hand. Buddy sat, whining and looking at him. “It’s the middle of the night, it’s not time to play.” He tried to reason with the mabari but the dog stayed. “Go to your owner, she-” He began telling Buddy to leave, looking around when he realized that Anneliese was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she?” Alistair whispered, making the dog bark in response. He stood up, walking to where the Warden usually slept, but she wasn’t there. He turned to the dog. “Buddy, can you find her?”
The dog barked and began sniffing the ground, trying to find a trail. When it had seemed that he found a scent, he began running after it. Alistair, quickly grabbing his sword, following Buddy.
As the two wandered through the forest near camp, Alistair started to think about what could have happened: had darkspawn kidnapped Anneliese to turn her into one of those horrid broodmothers? Did the Crows decide to send another assassin to finish Zevran’s job? Had Loghain's forces found them?
Buddy’s pace picked up when Alistair began hearing a string of swearing followed by groaning and moans of pain and irritation. It was when he heard a familiar “Fuck!” that he realized it was Anneliese that was talking.
Alistair ran even faster, somehow outrunning the mabari war hound, trying to cut a clear path through a bunch of bushes and vines. Finally, he managed to burst through the woods, eyes close because of the thorny bushes, sword raised high and shouted “Don’t worry Anneliese, I’m going to-”
He stopped himself as he opened his eyes and saw that he was in the middle of a clearing, with the Warden perfectly fine, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, her hair down and a brush in her hand.
“Save you?” He finished his sentence, confused. Buddy then showed up behind him, barking when he saw his owner and running to her side.
“What are you doing?” She asked, frowning.
“I was-I, well….” He stumbled on his words, the blood rushing to his cheeks as he felt embarrassed. “Buddy woke me up and I noticed you weren’t in camp so I just-” He took a deep breath. “I got worried that something had happened. Something bad.” He said, a little quieter.
He scratched the back of his head, and began looking down when she said “It’s alright.” She gave him a small smile. “It’s…sweet. That you cared.”
Alistair looked up. “Of course. I care about you.” He said, and under the moonlight, he could see the blush forming on her face, as she turned to the mabari hound once again, her hair falling over her face.
It was then that he realized that that was the first time he was seeing the Warden with her hair down. Ever since they had first met, back in Ostagar, Anneliese wore her hair up in the same two braided buns every single day.
Now, as he looked at her, he noticed how long her hair was, cascading down to her lap in various waves - though he could not tell if they were natural or if it was due to her always wearing braids. Maybe it was due to the scenery of the Warden sitting there in the moonlight or maybe it was due to Alistair’s growing feelings for her, but he couldn’t help but think how beautiful her hair - no, how beautiful she was.
He already knew that, as the same thought came to him everytime he saw her killing an enemy in battle, or when she smiled at him. But this was a different part of her that he hadn’t seen before - the one that wasn’t wearing heavy armor, with a constant frown on her face due to stress. In that moment, he saw her as the Lady Cousland, the person she had been before all of this began.
“Maker’s breath.” Alistair whispered to himself, catching her attention.
“Alistair, don’t just stand there.” She said. “Come sit with me.”
He gulped, shaking his head and walked to her, sitting next to her on the tree trunk. From where he sat, he could see a pond in front of him, the moon reflected on its waters.
“So…why did you come here?” He asked, after a moment, putting his sword down.. “I thought I had heard you swearing earlier.”
She sighed. “I was trying to brush my hair but it’s been hard.” She showed him the hairbrush, with chunks of dark brown hair stuck to it. She started to pick them off.
“And you had to come all the way here to do that?” Alistair said, raising a brow and crossing his arms.
Anneliese shot him a look that, for a moment, made him scared for his life. But she shook her head, looked down and said “I didn’t want everyone to hear me struggling with that. I guess I didn’t account for Buddy to come after me. And you.” She petted the dog and whispered “I can kill an ogre three times my size but I can’t seem to tame my own hair.”
“Do you want help with it?” Alistair proposed.
“Is that your way of saying you want to brush my hair?” She said, with a raised brow.
“Yes. I mean no. I mean -” She shut him off by handing him the brush and turning her back to him. Then he saw why she had been struggling so, as the back of her hair was very tangled - likely due to not being well cared for. “You start from the bottom and slowly make your way up.” She instructed him.
Alistair took in a deep breath, and began doing so, gently holding the ends of her hair and brushing it. Truth be told, he had no experience doing such a thing, as his own hair was short enough that he didn’t have to think much about it, but he tried his best, going slow and careful as to not pull too much.
The two stayed silent as Alistair managed to untangle her hair, the brush going through it easier each time. In this proximity, he noticed that her hair wasn’t black, as he used to think, but a very dark brown, and on the top of it, gray hairs were beginning to show. He frowned looking at them, as she was around the same age as him and shouldn’t be having so much of those on her head. He remembered once hearing Wynne speak about how stress can make one’s hair grow white, and he wondered if that was why the Warden always wore her in these buns, to try and hide how much gray there was - how much stress she was truly under.
Buddy was sleeping in Anneliese’s lap, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. The repeated motion of Alistair combing her hair and the quiet of the night made the Warden begin humming a tune.
“I never heard that song before.” He whispered.
Anneliese took a deep breath. “My mother she…she used to sing this, whenever she combed my hair.” She said, bringing her knees under her chin and Alistair stopped what he was doing. “Usually, it was the maids who took care of it, but mother’s hand was always gentler.”
She grew silent again, and a moment passed, until Alistair heard a sob. He stood up, walking around to sit in front of her, as she covered her face with her hands. At first, he felt unsure of what to do, as he was not used to people - and much less Anneliese - crying in front of him.
But then he remembered all the times she comforted him, when he was upset over Duncan’s death and he tried to do the same as she did.
“It's alright.” He whispered and she looked at him.
“I’m sorry.” She said in between sobs, and he reached a hand forward to wipe her tears. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.” She sniffed. “I don’t want you to think poorly of me.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I just- there’s so much to do and here I am, crying. Pathetic” She scoffed.
“What? No, no, no.” Alistair said, his gaze softening. “I could never see you as that, not after all you’ve done for me - for everyone. You don’t need to apologize for having feelings.”
Anneliese took a deep breath and nodded, Buddy waking up and licking her face, bringing a chuckle from her. “Thanks, Buddy.” She sniffed and looked down. “I thought I was over it at this point but I guess I’m not.” She said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.” Annelise looked at Alistair, who was staring at her. “I never even got to bury them.” She whispered, another tear falling down from her eye.
He moved once again, sitting next to her, and she placed her head on his shoulder.
“Maybe…maybe when all of this is done, we could do a funeral for them and for everyone else who was lost.”
She knew he was referring to Duncan and all the other Gray Wardens lost in the Battle of Ostagar. “You say that as if you were sure we are going to survive.”
Alistair looked down at her. “With you leading us? I have no doubt we’ll win.” He smiled.
Instead of saying anything, Anneliese hugged him. He freezed for a moment, but returned the hug and she hummed satisfied.
“Thank you, Alistair.” She whispered.
“For what?”
She looked at him. “For being you. For being here.”
He looked into her green eyes, swearing he could see a sparkle in them. “Always.”
Anneliese smiled and stood up. “I think we should head back to camp, catch a few more hours of sleep before the sun rises.”
He nodded and stood up. Then, she offered her hand to him and tentatively, he held it in his much larger one. He breathed deeply as she led them out of the clearing, Buddy following behind.
So about 2 years ago I got three prompts from @gaiahenshin and I fully planned on writing the three of them and go midway through the second one and then life happened
But like i said, i do want to get back into writing so i am finally sitting down to finish writing the halfway done stuff!
This is set in a star trek like!au I might eventually write more into where Ba Ye is an empath and Rishan is an android.
10. hiding their face in the other’s neck
Yatou is no stranger to people being rushed into her medbay. There has even been a few memorable -- in the worse way possible -- occasions when patients had been directly teleported to a bed.
It’s not exactly part of the routine here, but it’s not unexpected either. In fact, if more than a couple of weeks pass between these kind of incidents, she -- along with the rest of the medical staff -- will start growing wary and prepare for the worse. Something which inevitably turns out to be a good thing.
This is not one of those time. The last away mission was only four days ago and everyone on that team suffered from a very bad case of indigestion when they failed to remember one very important rule from basic training. In other words: don’t eat unknown fruits native to a newly-discovered planet, no matter how much they look like Earth’s plums. Yatou had been as disappointed in them as Fo Ye had been furious.
But they’re currently in route to their next destination without any specific mission on the way. It could be a confidential one of course, but, in deference to her rank as Chief Medical Officer, Fo Ye usually gives her the courtesy of implying she might want to be sure the medbay is fully stocked when he’s under that kind of orders.
So there really shouldn't be any reason for Lieutenant Zhang to be rushing through the medbay doors, holding an unconscious Ba Ye in his arms.
Expected or not however, Yatou is still a professional and she’s already done calibrating the bed sensors before Lieutenant Zhang is even done crossing the room.
“What happened?”
“He- he just collapsed.” The slight stutter is all Yatou needs to know just how worried Lieutenant Zhang must be right now. While it would be a complete lie to say the android cannot feel emotions she’s never known him to be anything but imperturbable in time of crisis.
She wishes she could reassure him that Ba Ye will be alright, but that’s a mistake she knows better than to make, especially without a diagnosis.
Lieutenant Zhang lowers Ba Ye into the empty bed, but when he tries to move away, Ba Ye’s groans in pain and his hands grip tightly at his clothes.
“Keep holding him Lieutenant,” she orders, making a split-second decision.
It might not be proper protocol, but whatever is happening to Ba Ye, it is next to impossible for it to affect an android. She would rather keep him comfortable as long as possible.
It’s not like it seems to be any hardship for Lieutenant Zhang anyway. By the looks of it, he would never let Ba Ye go if given the choice.
“Lie down with him for now, but leave me space to work.”
The sensors need a bit of quick recalibrating to take in Lieutenant Zhang into account too, but already, she can see Ba Ye seems to be running a high fever.
That’s too much of a generic symptoms for any number of potential illnesses, but she gets a hunch as to what it could be when, even unconscious, Ba Ye tries to avoid her touch when she takes a blood sample. That and how he turns into Lieutenant Zhang instead, hiding his face against his neck with pained whimpers.
Were it anyone else, she would have dismissed the idea at once, but she remembers Ba Ye’s attempts at describing his mental impression of the Lieutenant once, like he was a spot of tangible peace and quiet.
If his mental shields are down like she suspects, it’s no wonder that he would be seeking a deeper connection with him in order to drown out everything else assaulting his senses.
Even that doesn’t narrow things down however, but if she remembers the incubation time of the Krr’ll’t flu in empaths like Ba Ye correctly, it would correlate with their last stop at the space station about two weeks ago. She hadn’t heard of any outbreak at the time, but a delegation from Ba Ye’s home planet had also arrived at around the same time and she’s pretty sure Ba Ye had met up with them.
They could have been unwitting carriers as the virus was near undetectable until the first brutal symptom hit.
Unfortunately, there’s not much she can do until the blood analysis is done except to try and keep him comfortable. And Lieutenant seems to have it covered on that front.
“Hope you didn’t have anything important to attend to Lieutenant, because you’re stuck here for the foreseeable future.” An exaggeration if it does turn out to be the Krr’ll’t flu. The treatment for that is usually fast acting, at least where allowing empaths to rebuild their mental shields is concerned. But Yatou always prefers to play it safe in her estimates when she can.
Lieutenant Zhang looks slightly affronted and for a moment there, she thinks he’s going to protest the not-quite order. She couldn’t have been more wrong however.
