summary → closing up family video on valentine's day has got to be one of the worst ways steve harrington has ever spent this stupid holiday. until you wander in. one shared movie, one too-small couch, and one kiss later, steve is pretty sure it's the best way he's ever celebrated. (steve harrington x reader drabble)
word count → 1.1K
warnings → you already know! it's tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, soft!steve, making out in the break room, awkward almost confessions.
notes → happy belated valentine's day, lovers! what can i say other that steve harrington the man that you ARE. as always, feedback is appreciated & make sure to check out my series, centerfold ♡
Family Video on Valentine's Day felt like a joke that everyone was in on, except Steve.
Robin had gone nothing short of feral with the decorations this year. Pink construction paper hearts were taped crookedly along the counter, curling red ribbons dropping from the shelves, and a hand-lettered sign over the new releases that read:
HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY, LOSERS!
Steve had tried to take it down on several occasions to no avail. It had fallen and smacked him right on the forehead. Twice. He'd given up after that.
The store was dead.
The clock ticked loudly. The neon sign buzzed over head. Outside the front windows, couples drifted past in soft-focus silhouettes, scarves tangling together, hands linking like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Steve leans on the counter, chin in his palm, staring at the door like he could will it to open.
"Get it together, Harrington." He mutters absent-mindedly to himself. "It's just another shift."
The bell jingles. His head snaps up way too fast.
And then.
Oh.
It was you.
Relief floods him, warm and embarrassing. He straightens immediately, attempting casual and landing somewhere closer to obvious.
"Hey. Uh, how are ya?"
"Hi," you smile, lifting the VHS in your hand, "I've come to return this before you charge me enough late fees to inflict emotional damage."
Steve huffs out a laugh, scanning the tape. "You know I don't control the late fees."
"You absolutely do. Robin said so." You shoot back.
"So, big Valentine's plans, huh?" He slides the case across the counter, finally managing to meet your gaze.
You shrug, noncommittally. "Not really. Just another night."
"Yeah, same here. It's an overrated holiday. Too much pressure for uh, stuff." Steve nods too quickly, sounds a little too robotic.
There's a pause.
One of those awkward, fragile silences where everything you don't say sits between the both of you, somehow loud as hell.
Steve clears his throat.
"I'm closing in like, ten minutes. You can hang out if you want. I've got-" He reaches under the counter and produces several candy bars from the vending machine next door at the laundromat. "These. They're probably expired. But they were the last of the good ones."
"And you're sharing them with me? That's really sweet, Steve." Your smile softens in that way that always made something twist in Steve's chest.
He ducks his head, sheepishly, ears warming. "Don't tell anyone, I've got a reputation to maintain."
After hours, Family Video feels different.
The lights are dimmed, the decorations sagging like they're tired too. Steve kicks off his sneakers behind the counter and flops onto the tiny couch in the break room, patting the spot beside him.
"You can pick the movie." He offers. "But if it's another sad one, we're seeking professional help for you."
You grab the closest tape without looking too hard, which happens to be Top Gun. "Here."
"Top Gun? Don't you think I kinda look like Tom Cruise?" He asks, smirking.
"Not at all." You snort, slotting the tape into the player whilst laughing.
The VCR whirs to life, the screen flickering static blue before the previews roll. The couch is arguably too small for the both of you. Your shoulders brush. Then your knees. Then, without either of you really acknowledging it, you shift closer.
The movie plays in the background, cheesy and action packed, mostly forgotten. Steve isn't watching at all. Instead, he's watching the way the light from the screen dances across your face, the way your laugh comes softer now that the store was closed and it's just the two of you.
Steve had spent months telling himself this was normal.
That you were just easy to be around. That the way you laughed at his dumb jokes, the way you always remembered his shifts and showed up, the way the store felt less empty when you were in it. That all of it meant nothing.
It was easier, really, to pretend he didn't notice the little things. How he straightened the displays whenever he knew you were coming in. How he saved the good candy bars under the counter for you. How he caught himself looking for you in every reflection of the front windows when the door didn't open fast enough.
Wanting you felt dangerous.
Not because he didn't trust you. But because Steve had a bad habit of wanting things too hard and too fast, of building whole futures in his head before the present had even agreed to meet him halfway. So he kept it contained. Kept it quiet. Reveled in the small moments.
Until the damned couch feels too small.
Until your knee brushes his for a second too long.
Until the quiet between you feels louder than any confession ever could.
"Hey," Steve says quietly, seemingly out of the blue, "Can I-"
"Yeah?" You look at him.
He swallows, dryly. "Can I do this?"
You don't ask what this is. You know. You close the distance instead.
The kiss is tentative at first, a little clumsy. It's a question more than a statement. Steve's hands hover at your waist like he isn't entirely sure if he's allowed to touch you. In turn, your hands land hesitantly at his shoulders.
When he deepens the kiss, a little more certain this time, you follow. His fingers finally settle at your hips like they'd been waiting for the opportunity all night. Your hands tangle in Steve's hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Your lips are plush, yet still firm against his. And you kiss him with a fervor that sends electric waves coursing through Steve's frame.
The world narrows to the hum of the VCR, the warm, familiar shape of your body pressed close. It's not rushed. It's not perfect. It's slow and a little clumsy and entirely real.
When you finally pull back, foreheads resting together, Steve laughs under his breath. His smile is small, a little stunned, like he was afraid to look at the moment too closely in case it disappeared.
"Guess I owe Robin an apology." He murmurs.
You laugh softly. "For what?"
"For calling Valentine's Day stupid." He says, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again. "Turns out, it's only stupid if you're not around."
The movie swells into some dramatic, over the top kiss in the background. The kind he would usually make fun of. This time, he doesn't roll his eyes.
This time, he pulls you a little closer, lips finding yours with familiar ease as he realizes he could learn to love this stupid holiday after all.
sum. gojo satoru was your best friend. he was the one who showed up with ramen and terrible movies. he was the one who'd been in love with you since freshman orientation. you didn't know. not until he confessed in your dorm room, voice shaking, glasses crooked, telling you he'd already picked out a spot for your books in his apartment. this is the story of how satoru stopped pretending — and how you finally saw what was right in front of you.
SATORU AS YOUR BOYFRIEND
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
sum. he's loud, annoying, and absolutely insufferable — but he's also yours. gojo satoru is many things: the strongest sorcerer alive, a menace to society, and a man who has never been jealous a day in his life. (until some guy puts his hand on your lower back at a work event, and he learns something new about himself.) from jealousy to heartbreak, from aquarium dates to summer festival confessions, from mood swings to carrying you back to bed — this is a collection of soft, fluffy and vulnerable moments with satoru as your boyfriend. he's down bad, he's not subtle about it, and honestly? you wouldn't have it any other way.
TAKE WHAT'S MINE
pairing. ceo!gojo satoru x secretary!f!reader
sum. you become executive assistant to gojo satoru, tokyo's most impossible CEO — brilliant, bored, and so used to people breaking that he's forgotten what it feels like to be challenged. you don't break. you push back. you correct him. you make him work for it. and satoru, surprised and then completely obsessed, starts manufacturing crises just to keep you close. the contest of wills turns into something hungrier — until a job offer threatens to separate you. his composure cracks. the confession isn't careful. he doesn't want you as his assistant. he wants you as his.
valentine’s day date — jjk men ft. gojo, toji & nanami
Three dates, three love languages, and three men who can’t help but fall for you.
word count: 2,536
tw: just fluff
VALENTINE SEASON SPECIAL
notes at the end . . . (read them before hating pls)
satoru gojo — amusement park
If there's one thing your boyfriend loves to do, that's tease you just to see your reactions. It's like when a child demands attention from their loved ones, trying to get you to react to absolutely any nonsense. He finds you adorable, especially when you roll your eyes after hearing one of his bad jokes, or when you genuinely laugh at one of his funny and witty comments, or when he scares you and you jump like a terrified kitten...
And if you combine this with his fascination with a good adrenaline rush, of course he takes you by surprise to an amusement park for your Valentine's Day date. As soon as you realise where he's taking you, you start to protest (affectionately), laughing and saying that he just wants to see you suffer and that on a date like this, you both have to enjoy yourselves.
"Toru! What made you think this would be a good idea?" you exclaim, feigning an angry expression but, in reality, about to burst out laughing. He just smiles, still proud, unfazed by your complaints.
"Y/n... you don't appreciate the magic of adrenaline. I'm very disappointed in you. As my partner, you should learn to love what I love."He replies, with one hand on his chest, pretending to be offended. However, that stupid smile of his remains there. With a sweeter expression than the one he gives to the rest, of course. The rest of them may see a smile on his face all the time... but you have his smile.
"Come on, let's get in already. Just so you know, I'm scared. And if I die here, you'll have to live with the guilty conscience that you let your beautiful, intelligent, and funny girlfriend die because of your selfishness and your beloved adrenaline. Who is she and why do you prefer her to me?" ...okay, you're not much better. Gojo is chaotic par excellence, always talking nonsense and making inside jokes every time he talks to you, but you're picking up his stupid habit of exaggerating every situation just because it's fun. And, what's more, he knows perfectly well that you don't mean it. Otherwise, you'd probably want to die of embarrassment.
He decides to hug you exaggeratedly tightly while exclaiming ‘Y/n!!’ and starts running into the amusement park like an excited child pulling his companion's arm, eager to get in and have fun.
°︵‿ ︵࿔.
Well, in the end, you ended up having a really good time. Not only were the roller coasters not as dangerous as their imposing structure made you think at first, but... this time it was you who got to see him scared. “Y/n 1 - Satoru 0”, you think to yourself, stifling a giggle... because right now, Gojo needs to regain the ego he has lost. Before riding any attraction, he insisted that you would end up scared and crying after the experience, but in absolutely every case it was... the opposite: you had a pretty good time, and he... screamed your name, hugged you and begged you to stop this nightmare they call a “roller coaster”. You were more than happy to help him, of course, and you didn't make a big deal out of his reactions. In fact, you find it endearing to see the world's greatest sorcerer, so strong and self-confident, being so open with you. So you decide to save the teasing for another time and talk about something else.
"Toru. I never tell you because I think they're just words, but I love you. Genuinely. Thank you for giving me today, I had a great time." Wow, in a relationship as chaotic and joke-based as yours, these vulnerable moments are rare. Of course you love each other, but words of affirmation aren't exactly your relationship's strong suit. However, for once, he makes an exception: he smiles and hugs you from the side, calming the awkward atmosphere that had appeared seconds before.
"‘I'm glad you had a good time. I'm not very good at being... romantic and stuff. I just tried to make us both laugh and have a good time, hmm?" When he finishes his little speech, he brings his lips close to yours and gives you a particularly tender kiss. In fact, you thought someone like Gojo couldn't be this tender, conveying his emotions in a slow rather than hurried manner. When he pulls away from you, you see that silly smile that characterises him so well. "Don't expect an amusement park next time, baby. I'm supposed to be the best sorcerer, not some loser who gets dizzy on a roller coaster."
toji fushiguro — movie night
Toji isn't a man who stands out for his chivalry, but he definitely loves having you around. Without giving any importance to days like Valentine's Day, he decides to invite you to his house anyway... any excuse is valid if it means he can see you. He doesn't put much thought into his idea due to his improvisational and carefree nature; anything other than your presence seems rather irrelevant to him. What does it matter if it's a romantic dinner, a walk on the beach, or a damn museum? As long as you're there and the plan is cheap, he doesn't care at all about what you guys are doing.
That's why you're not at all surprised when you see that, indeed, your boyfriend hasn't prepared anything grand to celebrate Valentine's Day. Well, it's not like you care... with a boyfriend like him, incredibly confident and attractive, who cares about a stupid box of sweets?
"Doll" he greets you using that pet name that now basically belongs to you, giving you a short but intense kiss as a greeting when he opens the door to his flat. "Come in. Don't expect much, I hope my company, some stolen branded chocolates and a film to play in the background while we make out will be enough."
Of course, when you hear his words, you roll your eyes, but you can't help but laugh. That plan is so typical of him that you even find it endearing. Somehow. Anyway, you chose Toji knowing full well how careless he is about details like romance.
"Hey, brat, don't laugh. I'm sure you wouldn't rather be anywhere else, am I wrong?" Of course he's not wrong. Goodness, you realise he's not wrong when he wraps his muscular arms around your body, pulling you closer to his strong frame. Is this heaven? Impossible, there's nothing saintly about this man. So why does it feel almost divine to be surrounded by so much muscle? "You're enjoying this a little too much, doll."
°︵‿ ︵࿔.
Between snacks, kisses, and complaints about the characters in the films you're watching, this is how you spend your Valentine's Day. Well, you're also immersed in his arms, being cuddled by your boyfriend. It feels extremely casual and domestic, as if something like this was part of your routine. The fact that he hasn't made this into a celebration makes the vibe much more cosy, and you can't help but think about how much you wish you could have a life like this with him: lazy moments on the sofa that include food, affection and talking shit.
"I can't take this film anymore, it's terribly bad. You, since you're so desperate for money: would you go to a cursed mountain to look for spirits just to record something and become famous on YouTube Shorts?" You say, exhaling for the third time in a row. He finds it very funny to watch bad films with you, your comments can be very original. What's more, the funniest thing is that you seem to get really angry with these fictional characters. Adorable.
"If I have a choice, I'll keep using your credit card, thank you." Seeing your disapproving face, he decides to joke a little more. "It's either that or take on jobs worse than filming spirits in the mountains."
In response, you decide to simply snuggle up even closer to him, which seems perfect to him. In fact, he likes it so much that he sits you on his lap, tracing patterns on your hips unconsciously, somewhat possessively, but affectionately overall. Feeling your body noticeably smaller than his burly frame, he exhales, feeling something akin to peace. In fact, he is sure that this is what people mean when they talk about how much they appreciate being calm. His impulsive nature and hedonistic tendencies had never understood the appreciation of tranquillity... until he understood that tranquillity means holding you. The more he holds you, the more he wonders why he keeps gambling. What could be more satisfying than your company?
Then, Toji really surprises you: he pulls a small envelope out of his pocket. It's all crumpled, of course; after all, disorder and chaos are part of your boyfriend's nature. Without his usual sly look, he gives you a small smile as he hands you the envelope.
‘Happy Valentine's Day, doll.’ Of course, your first instinct is to frown, puzzled. The Toji you know is not romantic at all. However, as soon as you open it, you melt.
A necklace. Apparently, it could be seen as something simple, but the chain of the necklace had a small ‘T’ on it. He has probably never, ever given you such a sweet gift before. However, your reaction makes him decide that this will definitely not be the last time you receive this type of gift.
"So the rest will know that you are mine."
You smile broadly, and before saying thank you, you hug him with a little squeal and leave several kisses on his face. He's handsome, for God's sake. He tries to look serious and nonchalant, whispering things like ‘you're so dramatic...’, but deep down he LOVES it. In fact, you can detect a slight blush on his cheeks. Probably because you've never reacted like this to anything before, even though you've expressed your love for him in other physical ways.
"Y/n, if you keep this up, I'm not going to hesitate to throw you down on this stupid sofa and..." Immediately, you increase the speed at which you kiss him and hug him even tighter. He exhales. Deeply. "Brat."
Keeping his word, he does exactly what he warned you about. And the last thing you remember from then on, in the arms of your beloved, is that you are infinitely grateful that days like Valentine's Day exist.
kento nanami — fancy dinner
It's obvious: plans with your loved one are usually elegant, calm, predictable but fulfilling. You could say they are necessary. And you reaffirm that need with every glance he gives you, every subtle and not-so-subtle caress, every compliment...
As soon as you arrived at your apartment, he gave you a beautiful, splendid bouquet of flowers. No matter how many times he has done the same thing (because he gives you flowers or other gifts whenever he can), you always react with the same excitement, surprised every time your loved one shows you how much he loves you. You try to show him the same thing, and although you sometimes wonder if you are on his level, for Nanami, the simple fact that you exist near him is more than enough. You could almost say he is devoted to you.
While you wait for the food you have ordered at the restaurant, he holds one of your hands delicately, caressing it while you talk about anything and everything. You discuss your points of view on various topics (in the most respectful way possible and with the aim of learning from each other, not as a debate; you both enjoy calmness too much and see it as foolish to get angry with others for having a different way of seeing things), you complain about your work, you share anecdotes...
In general, he prefers to listen to you talk, as his introverted nature makes him opt for the role of listener. However, unlike with others, he does comment on various things and even initiates topics of conversation. With others, he finds it pointless to have to talk just to fill the silence with something. With you, it's not about filling the silence: it's about getting to know you, so intriguing and, in his eyes, beautiful, in a deeper and more personal way.
"It's nothing compared to what you always do for me, love, but... happy Valentine's Day. I love you." You take your bag to get out a gift, wrapped in simple dark blue paper. You had the cute detail to write his name on a yellow post-it note in black lettering, referring to his usual attire.
Nanami is... surprised. Although his face is not particularly expressive, there is a certain sparkle in his eyes. The small detail of the wrapping makes him so happy that he takes a photo of it before opening it. You, on the other hand, are completely excited, with an almost contagious emotion as you watch him open your gift: a book.
Simple, bland, it might even seem boring from the outside. Except that, from the outside, no one could see the thousands of conversations you've had with your boyfriend about how much he hates bureaucracy, not having time for himself, how all that he wants is to grow old with you far away from work on some remote beach, in peace, reading...
On top of the book, there is a small note written: ‘Carpe diem, except that for us it means “read a book” instead of “seize the day”. I love you, I love you, I love you.’
"Darling... I don't know what to say." However, his face says it all: he looks at you in awe, moved. He has always thought that giving him a gift is a difficult task, almost absurd: everything he needs, which is not much, he can buy himself. But, of course, none of the gifts he receives have that... emotional component that yours have. You are very creative in leaving him speechless, you really capture every little thing he says, and you manage to turn your conversations into a gift. He truly considers you talented in your own way. "I love you too. You've moved me, as always... Y/n."
And there, finally, you see a smile much more pronounced than usual. Still delicate, still not very expressive, but knowing your boyfriend, that smile says it all. At least, all his love.
"Don't be so serious, love! It's just a gift. A gift that I hope you'll read and not leave on the shelf like all the others, by the way." You laugh, causing him to squeeze your hand with his natural gentleness.
After this intimate moment, Kento became even more talkative. It seems that the tenderness in your heart had spread to his thanks to the gift, and you couldn't be happier.
°︵‿ ︵࿔.
Well... he did read the book! Since it was your order, he finished it in less than a week, and he loved being able to discuss it with you. In fact, you managed to revive his love of reading a little, and now he's reading another book that you recommended. Damn, he loves you so much.
a/n: this is my first time writing gojo and toji, i know they aren't too good, but i hope i can improve soon. i really loved nanami's fic tho, he's the only i can seem to write comfortably <3 i can't write gojo or toji for shit tho wahh. as always: please be kind, English is not my native language, so I apologise for any spelling/grammar mistakes or parts that are confusing.
Your fancy first date ends in a supervillain attack, sadly for superman you only have one man on your mind. (Also, Clark bakes you cookies. Which is basically better than Superman.)
Clark Kent had faced down criminals, disasters, and more than a few alien warlords, but standing outside your apartment door with a bouquet of slightly lopsided roses in one hand? That was enough to make his palms sweat.
He adjusted his glasses, shifted on his feet, smoothed his tie for the fifth time. He’d chosen his nicest suit, navy, pressed, with a crisp white shirt, and still felt like a farm boy playing dress-up.
Then the door opened.
And there you were.
Your outfit was elegant, your hair just so, your smile brighter than the city lights. For a second, Clark actually forgot how to breathe.
“Wow,” he blurted before he could stop himself. His ears went red immediately. “I mean—you look…wow.”
You laughed softly, cheeks warming. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Kent.”
He ducked his head, thrusting the roses at you like a lifeline. “Uh—these are for you.”
You took them, grin widening. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”
Clark’s heart thumped. Perfect. She said perfect.
He offered his arm, old-fashioned, awkward, but sincere—and nearly melted when you slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.
Downstairs, the cab waited, driver drumming his fingers on the wheel. Clark opened the door for you, still jittery with nerves. He couldn’t stop sneaking glances at you the whole ride, his knee bouncing under the table.
Finally, you turned, amused. “You’re really nervous, aren’t you?”
Clark froze. “Nervous? Me? No, I—uh—maybe a little.”
You squeezed his hand where it rested on the seat between you. “Don’t be. It’s just dinner.”
Just dinner. He tried to tell that to his hammering heart.
The restaurant was one of the nicest in Metropolis—white tablecloths, chandeliers, waiters who poured water like it was liquid gold. Clark felt out of place, but when you leaned forward, eyes sparkling across the table, suddenly the world shrank to just the two of you.
“So,” you began, mischief in your tone, “Clark is settling in pretty well.”
He blinked. “I—I mean, I am? That’s good—”
You burst out laughing. “Not you, Kent. The cat. Clark Junior.”
It took him a second. Then his jaw dropped. “You actually named him Clark?!”
“Of course I did,” you teased, sipping your wine. “He’s a hero. Just like his namesake.”
Clark’s face went scarlet. He buried it in his hands. “Oh, no…”
“Yes,” you said firmly, grinning. “And don’t worry, to avoid confusion I’m thinking of calling him Clarkie.”
“Clarkie,” he muttered, peeking out between his fingers. “That’s even worse.”
You leaned across the table, chin in your hand, looking at him with a softness that made his ears burn hotter than ever. “I don’t think it’s worse. I think it’s…endearing.”
His heart nearly stopped. For once, Clark Kent, Superman, Man of Steel, couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
So he just smiled, bashful, flustered, hopelessly smitten, and thought maybe, just maybe, this was the best first date of his entire life.
The waiter had just poured water into your glasses when Clark realized he’d been staring at you for an unholy amount of time. He coughed into his napkin, shifting in his seat like it could cover the fact he’d been memorizing the way candlelight caught your eyes.
“So,” you said, leaning forward with your chin in your hand. “Do you always wear suits this well, or is this just for me?”
Clark nearly dropped his fork. “I—uh—well, I mean, I usually wear them to work, but I…I don’t think they fit like this. Not that I’m, uh, thinking about how they fit—” He cut himself off, mortified. “Sorry. That was weird.”
You grinned, watching him fumble, and sipped your water. “Relax, Clark. It was a compliment.”
“Oh.” His ears turned pink. Then, quieter, almost to himself: “Thank you.”
You changed the subject before he combusted. “So tell me about work. Daily Planet. Is it exciting to write those front-page stories about alien invasions and Superman saving the day?”
Clark’s lips twitched. “Yeah it's always been a passion of mine... but sometimes, I also cover things like city council meetings or zoning disputes. Very glamorous.”
You gasped dramatically. “Don’t tell me you’re the voice behind that thrilling exposé on the new Metropolis parking meters.”
His grin broke free, boyish and irresistible. “Guilty. Pulled three all-nighters on that one.”
You laughed, and he ducked his head, smiling like he couldn’t help it. “I don’t know how you do it,” you teased. “I’d fall asleep halfway through the first meeting.”
“Oh, I do fall asleep. I’ve just mastered the art of sleeping with my eyes open.”
You arched a brow. “Talented and humble. Be still my heart.”
That got him to chuckle, soft and nervous, but his eyes sparkled behind his glasses.
By the time appetizers arrived, the nervous edge between you had softened into something easy.
Dinner itself was incredible, steak for him, ravioli for you, but the food barely mattered. The conversation flowed. He told you about growing up in Smallville, about his mom’s pies that could win awards, about sneaking into movie theaters as a kid. You told him about your disastrous attempts at baking, your favorite books, how you miss your family who lives far away.
Every so often, your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you moved them away.
And then—
The world screamed.
A thunderous crash ripped through the air, so loud the windows rattled. You barely had time to gasp before something massive hurtled out of the night sky, a car, smashing through the front of the restaurant. Glass exploded. Screams filled the room.
You froze, paralyzed, until Clark’s hand shot across the table, gripping yours.
“Come on!” His voice was steady, commanding in a way you’d never heard before. He pulled you up, weaving through the chaos, shielding you with his broad frame as panicked diners shoved past. Another crash shook the building. Smoke. Screams. Someone crying for help.
Your heart hammered, but you clung to Clark like he was your only lifeline.
He guided you toward the back hallway. “Stay here,” he said firmly, eyes sharp behind his glasses. His hand lingered on your arm, warm, grounding. “I’ll—just trust me, I’ll be right back.”
“Clark—wait!” You reached for him, but he was already gone, slipping through the smoke.
“Clark! where are you going!?” you shouted, coughing as dust choked the air. A waiter grabbed your arm, trying to pull you farther back.
“Miss, it’s not safe—”
“My date just ran into the chaos!” you snapped, yanking your arm free. “I have to find him!”
The waiter shook his head, already overwhelmed with herding frightened people toward the kitchen exits. You stumbled forward, scanning desperately through the haze. Tables overturned. Flames licking at the curtains. People sobbing, shoving, clawing their way to the doors.
And no sign of Clark.
Your chest tightened. Every instinct screamed to run, to get out, but your feet refused to move without him. He’d helped you out of danger before—roaches, rats, even a kitten from a tree. Clark always showed up. He had to be here, and you had to be there for him.
You pressed forward, coughing as smoke curled thick in your lungs. A second car slammed into the far wall with a sickening crunch, sending sparks and fire tearing up the ceiling. The heat blasted your skin, panic seizing your chest.
“Clark!” you cried again, your voice raw, almost breaking.
Somewhere in the chaos, you swore you saw a streak of red and blue cut through the haze, so fast your mind could hardly process it. But you were too frantic, too terrified to register anything beyond one thought:
You needed to save him.
Your next-door hero
Possibly suicidal
Clark Kent.
You were seconds from turning around when—
Strong arms swept you up like you weighed nothing at all.
You gasped, chest pressed against something solid, warm, unmovable. You tilted your head back and the world seemed to still—
Superman.
The cape. The “S.” The impossible jawline.
“Got you,” he said, voice low and impossibly calm even as the building cracked and buckled behind him.
You could only cling to him, wide-eyed, as he rocketed into the air. The fire fell away beneath you, replaced by the dizzying sweep of city lights. Wind tore at your hair, and your heart tried to leap out of your chest.
He set you down gently on a rooftop a few buildings over, his hand steadying your elbow like he wasn’t carrying half of Metropolis on his back tonight. “You’re safe here. Stay put until I can get everyone out.”
But you shook your head violently, grabbing his wrist. “Wait—you don’t understand. My date, Clark, he’s still in there! He was with me when the first car hit. He’s probably helping people, he always does, but he won’t save himself. You have to find him!”
Superman blinked, surprise flickering across his features. “Clark?”
“Yes!” you cried, desperation in your voice. “Clark Kent. You must know him, he interviews you all the time, right? He’s a reporter at the Daily Planet! Tall, glasses, really awkward, extremally sweet—please, you have to find him!”
Superman’s expression softened, and for one dangerous second he forgot about the villain still tearing up the street below. His heart stuttered at the panic in your eyes, the way you clutched his hand like your entire world lived or died with Clark Kent.
“You care about him,” he murmured.
“Of course—” You hesitated, cheeks burning even through the haze of fear. “No offense, but he’s my hero”
“I’ll find him,” he promised, his voice softer than it should’ve been, almost intimate. Then, almost without thinking, he added, “Your boyfriend’s lucky. to have someone who care's so deeply”
Your eyes widened. Heat flooded your cheeks. “He’s not—! I mean, not yet. It’s just—we’ve only just…”
Something warm and mischievous sparked in Superman’s gaze. He leaned just a little closer, his mouth quirking. “That’s a shame. If I had the chance, you wouldn’t be single long.”
Your face went nuclear. “Wha—excuse me?!”
But he was already grinning, boyish, teasing, the tiniest echo of someone you almost recognized, before straightening and scanning the chaos below.
“Don't worry miss,” he promised, voice steady again. “I’ll make sure Clark is safe.”
And then, with a rush of wind that nearly knocked you off balance, he was gone.
You stood frozen on the rooftop, hair whipping around your face, heart racing for two different reasons now.
Smoke curled up from the burning restaurant below. Superman was out there fighting a villain. And yet all you could think, clutching your racing heart, was—
Did Superman just flirt with me?
The rooftop was quiet, except for the faint hum of chaos below. You paced, hugging yourself, the rose Clark had given you earlier still tucked in your hair. Smoke plumed over the city. Every few seconds, you caught yourself craning over the ledge, searching for one glimpse of him.
When the crashing and screaming finally subsided, and all the reporters came out to broadcast, you didn’t wait for Superman. You spotted the fire escape and scrambled down, your heels clanging against the iron rungs. Adrenaline fueled every step, ignoring the soot that smeared your hands and the ache in your legs.
Halfway down the block, a flash of red and blue cut through the sky. Superman landed, cape flaring, scanning the rooftops.
“Careful,” he called up, his voice cutting through the noise like warm steel. “You shouldn’t be climbing down like that.”
You clung to the fire escape, terrified of falling “I don’t care!” you said hoarsely. “The fighting ended ten minutes ago, Clark must be wondering where I am!”
Before you could protest further, he blurred upward in a rush of wind. In the blink of an eye, he was there beside you on the creaking ladder, one arm steadying your back, the other scooping you up as if you weighed nothing at all.
“Hey, I’ve got you,” he said, softer now, almost coaxing. His arm was a wall of strength around you as he stepped off the iron rungs and descended like gravity didn’t exist.
You squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face against the fabric of his suit as the world tilted. A heartbeat later, your feet hit the cracked pavement. Superman set you down gently, hands lingering just long enough to make sure you were steady. His gaze searched your face, brows furrowed.
“You’re safe now.” he said “He’s still near the restaurant,” voice lower now. “Helping people.”
You froze, every muscle tight, and then your chest loosened just enough to breathe. Relief hit so hard it made your knees weak.
“Thank you,” you whispered, the words breaking out of you raw, too small for the way you meant them. Your eyes burned, throat thick. “Thank you so much.”
Superman swallowed, his expression strangely gentle—like he was saddened by your reaction to him. But before he could say another word, you were already running.
Your shoes pounded against the asphalt, hair whipping behind you as you sprinted straight into the smoke and sirens. You didn’t look back at the caped figure standing in the streetlight, cape rippling in the wind.
Because Clark was out there. And you weren’t stopping until you found him.
And there he was.
Standing outside the restaurant, hair a mess, tie missing, soot streaking his cheek, shirt rumpled like he’d been through hell. But when Clark Kent’s eyes landed on you, he broke into the biggest smile you’d ever seen.
“Clark!”
You launched yourself into his arms, clinging tight, heart hammering against his chest. Relief flooded through you so hard it left you dizzy. He held you back, solid and warm and very, very alive.
Then, pulling back just enough to look at him, you smacked his arm with your fist. “You idiot! What were you doing?!”
Clark winced in mock pain, rubbing the spot, but his grin only widened. “I was busy being a hero.”
You glared, then laughed through your tears. “You’re ridiculous.”
Together, you turned toward the smoldering ruin of what had been your fancy dinner. Flames licked at the remains, firefighters shouting orders. You let out a sigh. “Looks like we won’t be trying the world-famous lava cake.”
Clark glanced at you, softer now, his voice gentler. “I can bake you cookies back home.”
Your head snapped toward him. “You can bake?”
He chuckled, adjusting his glasses with soot-stained fingers. “Not as good as my ma, but I’ll try.”
“Then it’s a date,” you said, nudging his arm as you started walking away.
Hand in hand, you left the chaos behind, the night air cool against your heated skin.
“On the upside,” you added with a tired smile, “we don’t have to pay for our expensive dinner.”
Clark blinked, then nearly tripped over his own feet. “Wait—we still need to pay!”
You stopped in your tracks, staring at him. “Clark. The place is burnt down. Where exactly are they going to put the money?”
He spluttered, adjusting his glasses again, scandalized. “That doesn’t mean—! It’s—it’s theft if we don’t—”
You burst into laughter, tugging him along. “Oh my god, you’re impossible.”
And Clark, soot-stained and rumpled but grinning like a fool, thought he wouldn’t trade this night, or you, for anything.
A beat of silence passed as you both walked, the city still buzzing faintly with sirens in the distance. Then Clark shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing sideways at you, almost too casual.
“So…” he began. “You meet anyone?”
You shrugged. “Just Superman.”
Clark almost choked. “Just—just Superman? You say that like he’s your dentist! You got saved by Superman! Do you know how many people would kill for that? He’s—he’s so cool! He flies, and he saves people every day, and—he’s able to shoot laser beams! I mean, he’s—”
You started laughing halfway through his rant.
“Yeah, but,” you interrupted, grinning, “he’s not the cute nerd who’s baking me cookies tonight.”
Clark faltered, blinking. “Cute—?”
“Or the hot neighbor who wears Batman pajamas and kills bugs for me at 3 a.m.,” you continued, leaning in closer, your voice dropping mischievously.
Clark’s entire face went scarlet. He tugged at his collar like it had suddenly shrunk three sizes. “I—uh—that was—”
You smiled, stepping closer, your hand brushing his shirt. Slowly, deliberately, you lifted two fingers and walked them up the buttons of his chest, one by one. His breath hitched.
“Superman may be Metropolis’ hero, and I’m grateful for all he does…” Your fingers stopped just below his collar, right over his heartbeat. “…but he will never compare to the amazing Clark Kent.”
Clark froze. His glasses slipped a little down his nose. His blue eyes locked onto yours, wide and stunned, and for once he didn’t overthink it. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t retreat.
He kissed you.
It was sudden, unpracticed, a little desperate—but so full of warmth it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb trembling slightly against your skin, and you melted into it, kissing him back with a smile that tasted like relief and laughter.
When you finally broke apart, both breathless, you whispered against his lips:
“Finally.”
Clark laughed softly, still red, still dazed—but happier than he’d ever been.
And for the first time, Clark Kent didn’t feel like Superman in disguise.
He just felt like himself.
Clark’s apartment smelled like butter and sugar, warm and comforting. You were perched on his counter, now washed and in pajamas, swinging your legs and sneaking gobs of cookie dough from the mixing bowl while he lined a baking sheet.
“Hey,” he chided gently, nudging your knee with his hip. “You’re supposed to wait until they’re baked.”
You licked a bit of dough off your thumb, grinning. “Why? This is the best part.”
He gave you the look — glasses sliding down his nose, brows raised in full Midwestern-mom disapproval. “Because raw eggs, that’s why. Salmonella. Food poisoning. Hospital trips. I don’t want to end our first date in the ER.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Then give me something else to do, Clark.”
His hands stilled on the cookie sheet. Slowly, nervously, he looked up at you. And then, with a courage that surprised even himself, he stepped between your knees, leaned in, and kissed you.
It wasn’t frantic like the first one. This was softer. Sweeter. The kind of kiss that made your chest ache in the best way. His hands rested on your waist, tentative but sure, like he was afraid to let go.
You smiled against his mouth. “Better than cookie dough.”
Clark blushed, but he kissed you again anyway.
From the living room came a commotion — the sound of claws skittering and a loud thump.
“Clark Jr.!” you gasped, twisting to look. The orange kitten had launched himself off the couch in a wild chase after Krypto, who, despite being a superdog, (not that you know that) was currently scrambling like mad to escape a four-pound ball of fluff. They careened around the coffee table, Krypto letting out a high-pitched boof of indignation while Clark Jr. batted at his tail.
You burst out laughing. “Your pets are insane.”
“They’re not my pets,” Clark muttered, red-eared, as he gently pulled you back to face him. “One’s yours, remember?”
You smirked. “Oh, right. Guess our kids are getting along.”
Clark nearly dropped the spatula.
A few minutes later, when you’d stolen another spoonful of dough and he sighed but let you, you said it out of nowhere, casual as anything:
“I think Superman was flirting with me.”
Clark froze. “…Huh?”
“Yeah,” you said, tilting your head, pretending to be thoughtful. “On the rooftop. He was all ‘shame you’re single’ and giving me the look. Totally shameless. What a horrible friend. You’d think he’d be happy his favorite interviewer’s finally getting a girlfriend.”
Clark’s glasses slipped halfway down his nose. His heart stuttered. “G-Girlfriend?” he repeated, voice going embarrassingly high.
Your cheeks went pink, but you grinned anyway. “Well…eventually. Hopefully.”
For a beat, Clark just stared at you, wide-eyed and beaming like you’d handed him the whole world.
Then, softly, almost reverently, he whispered, “Hopefully, huh?”
You nudged his chest with your finger, teasing. “Clark Kent, you’ve been saving me from pests and trees all month. I was starting to wonder if I’d have to climb another one just to get you to ask me out properly.”
His laugh was nervous, but his smile was bright “Well, I’m glad I finally caught up.”
“Me too.” you smiled shyly “So when are these cookies going to be ready?”
Clark pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his grin so wide it made your chest ache.
“They’ll be ready in about…” he glanced toward the oven timer, “…seven minutes and forty-three seconds.”
The two of you stayed there for a while, until the timer dinged. Clark moved away reluctantly, sliding the tray out with practiced ease, while you hopped down from the counter to hover at his side.
Krypto barked from the living room, tail wagging, as Clark Jr. attempted to climb the curtains. You both burst into laughter at the sight, Clark shaking his head. “I don’t think they’re ever going to get tired of each other.”
“Good,” you said softly, slipping your hand into his as he set the cookies down to cool. “Means I’ll always have an excuse to come over.”
Clark froze for half a second, then looked down at your joined hands like they were the most important thing in the world. His cheeks pinked, his smile turning small and earnest. “You don’t need an excuse.”
You leaned into him, inhaling the warm scent of sugar and coffee and Clark himself. “Careful, Kent. Say things like that and I might never leave.”
His heart thudded so loud he swore you could hear it. “That’s not…a problem.”
And in that moment, it didn’t matter that the city belonged to Superman.
Because you belonged here.
A bark of a laugh, fresh as a summer spring. She would hold that sound in her heart forever if only she could, cup her hands around it, tuck it in under soft blankets and keep it safe. She lets it pass through her instead, knowing there will be more.
"I'm too old for fairy stories," Vi voice drifts out. "And she's busy. Adults can be busy, you know?"
"Then why aren't you busy?"
"I am busy! I'm here with you little shits!"
sunkissed
a crumb of caitvi fluff because we all deserve nice things
https://archiveofourown.org/works/82240506
I wanted to try something mostly fluffy. I used gendered pronouns this time. This was mainly an exercise to play with OC dynamics, so that’s why. I hope you enjoy! This one is a bit long, so it's going under the cut.
The kitchen was all prepped. The ingredients sat on the counter, the measuring tools were out, and Hero had washed up thoroughly. Now all she had to do was whip up the cake and give Villain the best birthday ever.
There was, however, one slight, minor, infinitesimal problem. Hero had never baked before. Okay, that sounded really bad. Hero was an adult for goodness’ sake. She had never baked before unsupervised. Yes, that was a little better. She knew how to mix and measure just fine. It was the oven that was the problem. Aside from not knowing how to operate it, Hero was a cryogenic.
In simple English, she had ice powers. In more scientific language, her very DNA carried a cold gene that affected every part of her physiology. Her blood maintained the consistency of ice slush. She had poor circulation, meaning her nails were always tinged purple. Her lips would sometimes turn blue for no reason. She always, always felt cold. And finally, she was extremely sensitive to heat. Hero couldn’t be near a campfire for long before she would pass out.
Hero shook her head and adjusted her apron. So what? It was just a little oven. It wasn’t going to kill her.
She started to assemble the ingredients in a large, metal mixing bowl. She was careful to measure each item exactly, following the recipe down to the letter. Hero set the bowl under the mixer and turned on the appliance. She started at a low speed then slowly turned it up.
Usually, Villain was the one in the kitchen. They had a system, he and Hero. He would cook the meals, and she could clean up. Hero could make anything that didn’t require prolonged heat exposure, but that seriously limited her cooking options. Villain, having the power of energy manipulation and telekinesis, didn’t have this problem. He was more than happy to make their meals. Hero could make some killer ice cream though.
Hero turned off the mixer. Her batter looked pretty good, if she did say so herself. She poured the contents in a cake pan and tapped on it a few times to even it out.
She set the mixing bowl aside. She would lick it clean in just a minute.
She had looked up online how to pre-heat the oven, typing in the specific model she had. There were several helpful pages and even some videos. She opened the door, and a rush of heat greeted her. She shook off the dizzy spell and slid the cake onto the rack.
She closed the door as quickly as she could. After pressing the start button, she busied herself with the residual batter in the mixing bowl.
…
Hero was reading in the living room when the scent of something burning wafted through the air. Her eyes going wide, she slammed the book shut and rushed into the kitchen. She opened the oven door and was greeted with a blast of smoke and heat. She went to take the cake out but faltered. A much stronger dizzy spell had come over her.
…
“Hero!? Hero! Wake up! Come on, Love! Hero!”
Hero’s eyes fluttered open. When had she fallen asleep? She looked up at Villain. He knelt on the kitchen floor, supporting her but keeping her in a mostly reclined position.
“Are you okay?” Villain asked.
It was plain to hear the concern in his voice. Hero held a hand to her head; it was still spinning a bit.
“My cake!” she yelped suddenly.
She scrambled to get up. Villain held her fast. It was a good thing, too, because she felt her body give out on her the moment she tried.
“Easy, easy,” Villain said.
Hero looked around the now-messy kitchen. All of her ingredients were still out, including the ones that needed to be refrigerated. White foam covered the open oven. A fire extinguisher sat at the foot of it. The puzzle pieces clicked together, and tears welled up in Hero’s eyes.
“Hey,” Villain said, lifting her closer to his face, “You’re not hurt, are you? Did you hit your head at all? Twist anything?”
Hero shook her head. A choked sob escaped her throat.
“I ruined your birthday!” Hero cried.
“What?” Villain sounded genuinely confused.
“I had it all planned. I was gonna make your favorite cake. I-I even looked up oven tutorials so I could bake it right! But it’s ruined now.”
Hero sobbed harder. Villain shushed her, pulling her into a full embrace and rubbing her back.
“Hero… you know how dangerous the oven is for you. I wasn’t expecting you to bake me anything. The only thing I wanted was to spend time with you.”
“You’re just being nice!” Hero wailed.
“Come on, silly, I’m a villain. When have I ever ‘just been nice’?”
“You do it with me all the time! And the old lady across the street!”
“Well, first of all, Miss Carter grows the best cucumbers around here. So really I’m just playing a long-con. Secondly, I love you.”
Villain wiped Hero’s tears away with the pad of his thumb.
“You know, cake is overrated anyway. It’s just sugary, chocolate-flavored bread if you think about it. I’d much rather have ice cream.”
Hero’s eyes lit up hopefully.
“I can make you some!” she said.
Villain chuckled. He pressed his lips against hers in a gentle, chaste manner.
“Let me clean up the kitchen first,” he said, “and maybe tomorrow you could make us a batch.”
Hero wanted to argue that his birthday was today, and if she made the ice cream tomorrow, it wouldn’t be as special; but the thought faded to the back of her mind when he kissed her again.
“Can I at least give you your presents?” Hero asked.
“You got me presents!?”
Villain couldn’t hide his eagerness. Hero giggled and nodded. She went to stand again. She was still a bit wobbly, but she managed. She led Villain into the living room, where decorations hung on the walls and presents sat stacked in a neat little pile. Villain was going to have a good birthday after all. Maybe not the best he’d ever had, but certainly one of the more memorable ones.
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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(this is absolutely not at all inspired by my job)
Tommy can’t help feeling a little shy from his spot on the floor. It’s not the most comfortable, and the fact that Evan wanted them all in matching outfits for the day also doesn’t help hold attention away from the pilot. Adding in the fact that there’s a tiny Ellie curled in his lap, looking far too much like her other father. It hasn’t stopped the moms from looking in his direction since they walked in and sat down.
Still, the tiny toddler in his lap is captivated by the man dressed in red sitting several feet away from them in a wooden rocking chair. As the elder man reads from Twas the Night Before Christmas, his voice is rich with character and age, certainly giving off the impression that he might actually be Santa Clause. Ellie rocks in Tommy’s lap, clinging to his left arm that’s wrapped around her torso.
“Shh,” he whispers as quietly as he can to her. She shoots a look up at him that reminds him far too much of Evan’s gaze, and he can’t help but let her have this one. She’s been excited to come see Santa all day.
“With hopes that st. nick soon would be there,” Santa reads, his voice rich and deep. Behind them, there are soft murmurs and shuffling footsteps, and then there’s the warmth of someone pressing into Tommy’s side as they sit down.
“Sorry,” Evan whispers quietly. “She spotted a stuffed reindeer. I was wrangled into the toy section.”
Tommy doesn’t answer, but he does smirk. In response, Evan plops an eighteen inch stuffed reindeer into the pilot’s lap.
“Meet Grandma,” he murmurs in a stage whisper.
Tommy looks down at the stuffed deer, and then back up at Evan, his eyes narrowed. It takes him a moment to make the connections, but when he does, his eyes grow wide, though the smirk on his face is still present. He points to the other stuffed animal that Emmy is holding onto and raises a curious eyebrow.
“Dinner,” Evan mouths. Tommy presses his lips together to keep from laughing, though it doesn’t stop his eyes from crinkling or his stomach muscles from fighting against the urge to cackle. He shakes his head as he turns to look back at Santa. The older man is still reading as Emmy shifts the stuffed deer onto Tommy’s leg and then leans against it while the rest of her is curled up on Evan’s legs.
Santa continues through several more books before regaling the ten or so kids in the room into a few Christmas songs. Ellie and Emmy sing along to Jingle Bells and the few words they know to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer before Santa suggests lining up to take pictures again. The girls pop up onto their feet excitedly, each clinging to a reindeer as Tommy stands and then extends a hand to Evan.
As they all move into line, the looks from the women staring certainly only grow. Tommy watches as their gazes move back and forth between himself, Evan, and the twins, clearly trying to suss out the situation. While Evan chooses to ignore them and instead let the twins regale him with stories of their day, Tommy can’t help poking at the women’s curiosities as he slips an arm around his husband.
The line moves, slow but steady. There’s a brief period where one of the workers announces that she must leave for the night and that her compatriot will be alone, asking for patience for the process. However, she returns a few minutes later, and Tommy can’t help feeling the slightest bit of sympathy for both women. He spent a very short time working retail—about a year and a half—before he graduated early, joined the army, and then returned home and signed up for the fire department. Still, he’s never forgotten how insane the holidays can get, and equally as much how rough life can be in customer service.
When they finally make it to the front of the line, he and Evan settle the girls down in front of them, holding their hands to keep them close while Santa talks with the family in front of him.
Finally, a minute or two later, the family steps away, and Santa gestures them over. Ellie and Emmy charge toward the white-bearded man, stopping just short of the chair he’s seated in. He’s very animated with them, smiling and friendly, throwing in a few ‘ho ho ho’s and ‘oh my’s as the girls chat with him. In between all of the chatter, he shoots a few amused glances at Tommy and Evan at the mention of ‘a puppy’ and ‘a little sister’. Still, at the end of their conversation, he tells the girls he’ll do the best he can.
“And you’ve both been very good little ladies, right?” He asks. Tommy shares a knowing smirk with Evan. All four of their shirts are inscribed with ‘dear Santa, they’re the naughty ones’ along with arrows intended to point to the other family members.
Ellie squeals while Emmy nods, and then they each kneel beside the bench in front of Santa while the girls sit next to each other on it, and the sales associate snaps a photo. Evan asks if they can get one of just the girls, which seems like a good idea, but Emmy’s eyes go wide while Ellie clings to Tommy’s hand, and they try to convince the girls to stay, ‘just really quick’ before stepping off to the side. Once the photographer is done, they grab the girls along with their stuffed animals and move into the line for the printed photo. Tommy shares a glance with the sales associate in charge of the photos and thanks her warmly. She looks exhausted, if not a little frustrated. They continue forward while the second associate works on printing the photos, and he can understand the frustration from both workers then, as parents request different images, and complain about toddlers who aren’t looking at the camera, or aren’t perfectly posed from a thirty-second interaction.
Finally, it’s their turn in line. When their family picture pops up, he can’t help laughing at it. Both he and Evan are looking at the camera along with Santa, but while Ellie is grinning…It’s at her reindeer. And Emmy is staring at the camera as though she’s confused. They both laugh and Tommy pays for a small photo package for them to share with their loved ones before the associate scans their second photo, which he and Evan immediately laugh at.
“I just went for drama,” the associate taking the pictures tells them as she drops another card into the stack of waiting-to-be-processed images. Tommy fully sees that she captured it, as Emmy is looking off to the side, terrified, and Ellie’s face is scrunched up in a full-on wail as tears come down the sides of her cheeks.
“Oh, this is going up in the living room,” Evan announces. “And their senior yearbook.”
“Honestly, it might even work for wedding announcements,” Tommy comments with a chuckle as he hands over his debit card while Evan snaps a picture of the computer screen, already sending the picture to Maddie. They finish a few seconds later, and they thank the sales associates before taking their photo packages and heading for the exit. They still have stuffed animals to purchase, and something tells him his daughters will talk them into one or two more things before they make it safely back to the car.
. . .
Several hours later, with the girls tucked into their beds with their new stuffed animals, he settles into his and Evan’s California King.
“So, how’s Santa’s list coming along,” he teases.
Evan snorts at Tommy.
“Well, no one has put a baby in me, and we don’t have the time for a puppy right now,” he responds. “But, there is a barbie dream house in the living room, and you’re the one who bought the motorized cars in the garage, so.”
“I think they’ll be just fine,” Tommy says assuredly before leaning over and pecking Evan on the lips. “And as for the baby, there’s no saying that we can’t keep practicing.”
Evan laughs and nods before kissing Tommy once more quickly.
“The holidays are so much more fun now that they talk,” he comments, shuffling down slightly in the bed. Tommy nods, although he doesn’t say anything out loud. Truthfully, every holiday they’ve had has been more fun than the previous year. Given that he used to believe he’d never have the fortune of living the life he does now, the bar increasingly resets itself without his input. This year is better because the girls can talk. He can only imagine what next year will have in store. But in the meantime, he’s just going to enjoy another night with his family.
