SUMMARY: When Camie Utsushimi elopes on the eve of her society debut, scandal threatens to destroy the family’s prospects. It’s up to you, a maid, to impersonate Camie throughout the Season, long enough that her elder sister can make a match. The only trouble? Lord Shouto Todoroki is also intent on making a match—and that match, quite impossibly, appears to involve you.
TAGS/WARNINGS: regency au, class differences, hidden identity/identity porn, aged up characters, eventual smut, fem pronouns + afab reader
NOTES: Part of the Romancing the Reader collab with @ofmermaidstories and @cat-slippered. Now with mouthwatering art from the incredible @volatilematters.
LENGTH: 30k, STATUS: COMPLETE
part i : In which a debutante goes missing and a scheme is hatched.
part ii : In which a ball is attended and snacks are thrown.
part iii : In which a handsome duke appears and an escape is foiled.
part iv : In which a duke comes calling and a resolution is formed.
part v : In which sculptures are mocked and feelings are realized.
part vi : In which a gift is given and a close encounter occurs.
part vii : In which passions are exchanged and a scandal is discovered.
part viii : In which an identity is exposed and a journey is undertaken.
part ix : In which a promise is made and a future awaits.
⋆☆ there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin ☆⋆
── .✦ synopsis Between shared love for literature and forbidden desires one mustn’t act on, love blossoms in the Ton, an unsuspecting, shocking match between the diamond of the season and most sought after gentleman (by the Mamas) of the year. What starts with friendship, then a relationship under false pretences, quickly tumbles into something that is scarily real.
Starring...⭑.ᐟ
.ᐟ Jason Todd
── .✦ Adopted son of Duke Bruce Wayne. Loves reading and literature. Has limited rizz. Scarred Beauty. 'Scary? my god you're divine'. Sassy. Excellent swordsman. Very very attracted to a particular intelligent woman. + more to come.ᢉ𐭩
.ᐟ Reader
── .✦ Daughter of [unnamed] noble. 'diamond of the season'. Also loves literature. Not truly keen on getting married. Likes writing letters. Very very attracted to a particular scarred man + more to come.ᢉ𐭩
PAIRINGS: Jason Todd x reader (romantic), Reader x Dick Grayson (platonic)
CHARACTERS: Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, OC for reader's family but no names + more to come.
TROPES: (this will contain potential spoilers!!)
.ᐟ strangers to friends to marriage of convenience to lovers, bridgeton season 1 inspired, non-canon compliant/canon divergence, historical innacuracies, letters, breaking societial rules, secret meetings, first kisses, marriage of convenience, scarred Jason Todd + more to come.ᢉ𐭩
⭑pt.1.ᐟ one mustn't judge a book by its cover
In a Bridgeton-esque world, you and Jason have a meet-cute in the Wayne Manor Library.
⭑pt.2.ᐟ ...declarations of love?! (Coming in...24 hours!)
You and Jason can’t seem to keep the other out of their mind, and seemingly, out of each other’s presence. A book that leads to letters, a friendship to…declarations of love?!
⭑pt.3.ᐟ
(coming soon…)
⭑pt.4.ᐟ
(coming soon…)
⭑pt.5.ᐟ
(coming soon…)
⭑ series taglist .ᐟ @adv3rs1ty, @starfiremylove, @m-0ona, @athenxt, @wellidktbh, @starshinegrl, @bunnylr4er, @depressed-eternal, @drdeathifying, @isavibeee, @hepprine, @ayyisasra, @ariiiloves, @pjmgojo, @vanessa-1313, @eeeekshush, @duchesz, @nice-nice-dazey, @busenxr, @artsyfoot, @daddylokisqueen, @hanahanabiaxolotl. please let me know if you want to be added or removed!!
ᯓ★'s P.S. can you tell i struggle so much with names?
i suddenly realize my archnemesis is hot (during a battle to the death).
pairing: son of ares!jeno x daughter of nike!reader
genre: fluff, slight angst, there is no logic in this ok i am so tired
word count: 22.5k
author’s note: after more than a year, demigods is finally complete!! this series has received so much love, and i can’t even put into words how grateful i am for all the support! thank you all so much for sticking with me for so long and i hope that this fic is a satisfying ending to this series 💖 read the completed 00 line x camp half-blood here!
warning(s): there is significantly more violence in this than the other fics in this series so please read at your own discretion!
additional: once again, special thanks to cat and moon for not only letting me put them in this fic but also giving me ideas for some wild shenanigans 😌 and another shoutout to cat for coming up with that zinger of a final line <3
“Give it up. You know I’ve won.”
The sun blazes against your back as you grip the hilt of your sword tightly, lowering your stance so you can prepare to charge forward. A bead of sweat falls from your forehead and into your eye, stinging, but it’s a feeling that you’re quite accustomed to. You see the out-of-bounds line in your peripheral, and you know this is your last shot.
Lee Jeno, son of Ares and your eternal archnemesis, is standing in front of you. His black hair is mussed and sweaty, bangs slightly stuck to his forehead. He’s wearing leather armor over his orange Camp Half-Blood t-shirt that is covered with dirt smudges. His jeans are in an even sorrier state, spattered with grass stains and even more dirt. He has one hand on his hip and the other is loosely holding his sword. His demeanor is much more relaxed, clearly indicating that he thinks he’s beaten you.
Even though his dirty clothes prove just how hard he had to struggle to get to this point.
The two of you are participating in your weekly spar in the Sword Fighting Arena, which is basically a large mound of dirt and grass with white lines painted over it. As children of Nike and Ares respectively, you and Jeno spend almost all of your time here. If the two of you had it your way, you would be fighting each other every day. Unfortunately, Mr. D and Chiron, the heads of the camp, banned you two from sparring more than once a week out of fear that you might really kill each other. Whenever it’s time for Capture the Flag every Friday, though Mr. D and Chiron have suspended all games indefinitely due to a Minotaur attack that happened a couple weeks ago, you normally aren’t allowed within ten feet of each other because you two take it way too seriously.
While it is a bit extreme, even you have to admit that it is for the better.
You and Jeno have butted heads ever since you met at Camp Half-Blood at the age of twelve, and that rivalry has continued into your twenties. You both naturally have competitive streaks due to your parentage, which means you are constantly fighting for the number one spot at…well, everything. It’s extremely frustrating because you two are always tied at everything as well. He wins some, you win some, but neither of you can ever seem to pull ahead for long.
And that’s why you absolutely cannot lose this spar. Because it means that you’ll be tied again.
“Come on, Y/N. I know you’re gonna try to tackle me as a last ditch effort. It’s written all over your face,” Jeno sighs, placing the flat part of his sword on his shoulder, as if it were a backscratcher.
Oh yeah, and this whole rivalry is exacerbated by the fact that Jeno is an arrogant and insufferable asshole that thinks he’s way cooler than he is.
“Just because you know what’s going to happen doesn’t mean you’ll be able to stop it,” you reply breezily, tossing your sword aside and lunging towards him. Children of Nike are exceptionally fast, so Jeno doesn’t even have a chance to dodge.
You wrap your arms around his legs, and though he manages to keep his balance briefly, you put pressure on the back of his knees, and he eventually buckles. The two of you hit the ground hard, causing a big plume of dirt to rise.
Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.
♡♡♡
Season One
Chapter One - Mr Bridgerton
Chapter Two - Empty drawing rooms
Chapter Three - Becoming acquainted
Chapter Four - Roots for friendship
Chapter Five - Diamonds
Chapter Six - Splendid
Chapter Seven - The prince
Chapter Eight - Sparkling diamond
Chapter Nine - Late night scandals
Chapter Ten - Duel at dawn
Chapter Eleven - Ruse to ruse
Chapter Twelve - Beautiful day for a wedding
Chapter Thirteen - Passionate
Chapter Fourteen - Scandals in abundance
Chapter Fifteen - Rhythm of our hearts
Chapter Sixteen - Entanglement
Chapter Seventeen - End of the season
♡♡♡
Season Two
The tag list is full! I'm sorry! I've reached the capacity!
summary | While watching you and Bucky catch up, Steve cannot stop feeling something.
pairing/s | steve rogers x reader, avengers x reader
word count | 968
genres | fluff, time travel au
main masterlist | series masterlist
"So, does it... detach?"
It was an innocent question from your lips as you sat next to Bucky in the compound's living room.
"Look," Bucky smiled before clicking something under his shoulder.
Almost instantly, the dark silver-gray arm lands on the soft couch, detached from his body. Your jaw fell since it was the first time you witnessed such technology.
"Holy mackerel! Does it hurt?" you asked in concern, looking at the long-haired brunette.
He shakes his head, "It doesn't really feel anything. Wanna touch?"
He held his vibranium arm with his biological one and turned to you. Your eyes were wide as you stared at it, curiosity turning the gears in your head. Slowly, you touched the arm with your index finger, tracing the intricate design that made it more modern-looking.
"Doll, you can close your mouth now," he chuckled, witnessing your excitement.
You laughed, "I'm sorry, Sergeant Barnes, but this is just such a delight for me."
"Now, I feel like some form of amusement for you." Bucky acted like he was offended, which you quickly replied to, teasingly,
"In a way, you are!"
The two of you laughed, and you went on asking him more questions about his upgraded skills. You seem so interested, as you asked many questions based on Steve’s opinion. Initially, he came to the kitchen to look for you as no one was answering at your door. He was hoping to have dinner with you since he just got back from a quick European mission after a couple of days. But here he was, watching from a distance as you chat with his best friend just outside the glass windows in front of the kitchen, probably still unaware that he had arrived.
"I think that coffee has been stirred enough, Rogers."
Steve turned his head to the side, seeing Natasha smirking with her peanut butter sandwich on the kitchen counter. He didn’t even notice her come in, let alone make that sandwich. He looked down at the cup of hot–now warm– chocolate he was making. He guessed he was stirring so much that he made a small mess around the cup, with spots of the brown drink on the table. He hissed while reaching for a paper towel.
“You’re back early, huh?” Natasha spoke again. “We estimated your mission will last at least four days.”
Steve didn’t look up, but he could sense the implication of his friend’s tone, “Well, it turns out that I can do things faster when I am itching to get back home–”
“Oh, itching, you say?”
The Captain pressed his lips firmly. He slipped. For weeks, ever since you arrived here, everyone has been teasing Steve for his recent work adjustments. He would ask for schedule swapping or finish missions earlier than planned. Although it was amazing, everyone in the compound could tell that it had something to do with you staying here.
“I meant to say, why not finish things faster when I just can?” Steve avoided Nat’s teasing stare, turning his back to throw the used kitchen napkins in the bin.
“Whatever you say then,” Nat pursed her lips. “What are those? Nuggets? Again?”
On the table, a brown bag from a famous fast-food restaurant was placed. Steve brought it earlier on his way home.
“YN loves them. Just thought I’d do something nice,” he mumbled, eyes moving back to you and Bucky, who are still enjoying a conversation outside.
With Steve’s puppy eyes giving him away, Natasha can easily sense a feeling emerging in her friend. She raised a brow as she looked back at him, who was still staring at the two.
“Don’t worry, I think YN has been thinking of you since you left.”
That made Steve turn to her again, “Was she?”
“She was worried a lot since she saw some news on her phone about a small building explosion in France. You can ask every off-duty here if she asked them for an update about you within the two days you were gone.” Nat shared, which successfully relaxed Steve’s shoulders.
But he still asked, “How long were they talking now?”
Even though he didn’t specify who, Natasha knows who he was talking about. She tried to hide a smile, taking another bite from her sandwich.
“For like two hours now, I think. Bucky kept her company because she was obviously worried about not getting any update from you. We explained that you probably lost signal due to some weather issue from where you were, but I think it just made her overthink even though she won’t say it.”
You won’t. Steve knows that. But ever since you opened up about how his “passing” before affected you, Steve makes sure that he communicates with you whenever he’s away or about to be away. Just to give you the assurance that you rarely ask for openly. The others probably know that too, since he became more active in the group chat (that you are now a part of) on and off duty.
“Thank you for looking out for her.” Steve’s lips formed into a faint smile.
Natasha replied, “It’s nothing. Everyone loves her here.”
Before Steve could agree, he heard your voice getting closer, which made him turn his head.
“Oh my! Hello, Steve!”
With the way you ran to him with a big smile and sparkles in your eyes, Steve almost felt like the most valuable prize in the world. Bucky followed behind you, greeting him with a smile and nod. Your soft touch on his arm took all of his attention to you again,
“How long have you been here?”
Steve cannot help but mirror your smile, “Just a couple of minutes.”
Natasha almost choked on that, which made everyone look at her, “Don’t mind me here. Just watching.”
note | hi just dropping by. i missed writing them. :))
COERCION ꒦ PART 6 . story page . prev part . next part
꒦ Baek Yoon-Ho x Fem!Reader
SYNOPSIS. Ever since your S-Rank evaluation debuted a mere two months after his, Baek Yoon-Ho has been utterly obsessed with you. For the past couple of years, he’s made every effort to persuade you to go out with him. At last, after a night filled with some dubious coercion that leads to a captivating one-night stand (he finest care to admit it), he finds himself hooked —and you can’t help but feel the same.
CONTAINS. sex. reader rides Yoon-Ho. unrequited love. angst(?).
AUTHORS NOTE. sorry this one took me so long TT. I tried writing this twice but the fucking AO3 draft didn't save, and it made me genuinely crash out.
golly, I hit so many blocks when writing this part, so if you find any mistakes or repeated words/phrases don't crucify me
WORD COUNT . . 4k+
"Oh," you say audibly, your mind going blank. You weren't expecting him to answer so quickly and agree to come over. The reality of what you had just done hit you full force.
Your nervously pace your apartment, debating on whether or not to change from your tank top and shorts, no bra. But you were inviting him over for some devious activities technically... so maybe this sleepwear was appropriate? The think fabric left little to the imagination, which was probably perfect for what you had in mind.
You were clueless and definitely overthinking, your mind spinning with different possibilities and scenarios.
It was only minutes later when there was a knock on your door, the sound echoing through your quiet apartment. Your head whips towards it and your stomach drops, butterflies taking flight in your belly.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Should you make him turn back now?...
After he came all this way?...
The consequences of your actions weighed heavily on your mind, but the desire coursing through your veins was impossible to ignore.
....So you open the door and look up to see Yoon-Ho looking down at you, slightly flustered. It seems he was in a rush to get over here, his hair was disheveled, and his coat was hastily thrown on over what appeared to be his loungewear.
"hey," he says, his eyes roaming over your body and taking in your outfit, lingering on the places where your skin peeked out. Saliva pools in his mouth in anticipation. You looked so delectable in your tight tank top and skimpy little shorts.
You were doing this to him on purpose, weren't you?
"hey" you reply, blanking for a moment before stepping aside, "come in," your voice came out more suggestive than intended, already betraying your arousal. The air between the two of you crackled with tension as you held the door open, both of you knowing exactly what this late-night visit would lead to.
Yoon-Ho nods and walks in, footsteps thudding softly against the hardwood floors as he takes in his surroundings with appreciative eyes.
Your apartment was undeniably luxurious, with its modern furniture and flood-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking panorama of the city's nightscape. While impressive, it wasn't unfamiliar territory for him- his own place boasted similar amenities and views. After all, being the GuildMaster of the White Tiger Guild came with its fair share of financial rewards, just as your position did.
"Nice place," he manages to say, internally cringing at how his voice wavers slightly. Despite his attempts to remain calm, nervousness coursed through him, making his heart thunder in his chest.
Now it's been four torturous days since their hookup- since he'd lost himself in your warmth, since he'd ran his tongue along your skin since he'd made you cry out his name in pleasure-
These past four days have been absolute hell for Yoon-Ho.
He'd been going practically insane from the withdrawals, his body and mind craving you like an addict desperate for their next fix. Every waking moment had been filled with thoughts of you.
Now that he was finally back in your orbit, he was determined not to let you slip away again. The pull between you guys was too strong to resist for him, too precious to let go.
"thanks," you respond with a hint of dryness in your tone.
You settle onto the plush couch, your eyes meeting his with an expectant look that silently invites him to join you.
With ease, he shrugs off his coat, carefully draping it over the backrest before lowering himself onto the cushions beside you. The leather creaks softly beneath his weight, the sound seeming oddly loud in the charged atmosphere.
The silence between you was deafening- the unspoken tension filling every molecule of air, making it thick with anticipation and desire. Your proximity enough was enough to make his skin tingle with awareness.
His orange eyes, gleaming a luminous yellow in the dim lighting, drift downward to your chest of their own accord.
They darken noticeably as he notices your nipples pressing against your shirt.... no bra... the realization makes him jolt.
God, maintaining the same level of restraint he'd shown at the hotel was going to be nearly impossible tonight. The memory of how he'd held back then, taking his time to savor every moment (which is certainly not how you remembered it), seemed like a distant dream now.
"sorry for making you come over so late," you murmur, your voice carrying more shame for wanting to have sex with him rather than actual remorse for the late-night booty call...
Yoon-Ho shakes his head, "it's alright," he mutters, thinking the slight flush on your cheeks was making you even more irresistible, "it's not like I was doing anything to keep me busy.." his gaze continued its shameless exploration of your body.
Your lips part slightly, and you find yourself moving closer to him, drawn by something you couldn't- and didn't want to- resist.
You place a hand on his broad shoulder and with fluid grace, you hike a leg over his lap, slowly lowering yourself to straddle him.
"...is this okay?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper, though the question seemed to hang in the space between them.
The sudden boldness of your actions nearly shorts out his brain.
Yoon-Ho never expected you to take the initiative, to make the first move. He can hardly believe this is happening, that you want this just as much as he does.
"Yes- yes. It's okay more than okay," he responds eagerly, nodding with almost frantic enthusiasm. His hands find their way to your thighs, fingers playing with the tantalizingly thin hem of your shorts. It was becoming harder for him- and now you- to ignore the growing hardness in his sweats.
"you look good like this," he purrs, his voice dropping to a gravelly timbre that sends a yummy shiver up your spine.
"in my lap," his gaze flickers down to where his hands have slipped under your shorts. Your eyes flutter close, a soft, breathy sigh escaping your parted lips at his touch.
Yes... this is exactly what you've been craving. What your body has been aching for since that night in the hotel. The need pulses through your core making your cunt throb with excitement.
Your fingers find their way into his soft orange hair, tangling in the strands as you tilt his head back. You lean forward in his lap, bringing your face close to him.
Yoon-Ho's eyes close instinctively as a low groan rumbles in his chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. He welcomes the feeling of your warmth breath fanning over his face- and he breathes you in like a lifeline.
"I want.." you whisper, voice trembling with hesitation. The words seemed to catch in your throat as you contemplate whether or not to voice your deepest cravings. Your fingers tighten in his hair as if anchoring yourself to this moment, to him.
"more," you finally breathe out, and with that confession, you close the remaining distance between the two of you.
Your lips capture his in a kiss that starts slow and sensual, each movement filled with a quiet meaning. He groans deeply into your mouth, his lips moving with increasing pressure, exploring, tasting, savoring every sensation.
His hips buck upward, desperately seeking friction against the prominent bulge straining against his sweat. The movement causes you to shift in his lap, the rubbing sending waves of pleasure through both of your bodies.
In a move that surprises him, you respond by rolling your hips against him; grinding your front against his hardness, creating a delicious pressure that makes him tremble beneath you.
He had no idea what awakened this passionate side of you, but he certainly wasn't going to question it. In fact, he was thoroughly enjoying this newfound confidence, this uninhibited display of desire.
Yoon-Ho's kisses become more urgent, more demanding, as his hands grow bolder in their exploration. His thumb finds your clit through the fabric of your bottoms, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. He circles the sensitive bundle of nerves with slow moves, drawing sweet, melodic moans from your throat.
You slide your tongue along his lower lip, teasing him briefly before deepening the kiss by shoving your tongue into his mouth. You breathe him in deeply, bodies pressing closer together as if trying to eliminate any space that might be between you. The heat grows more intense with each passing moment,.
Your fingers fumble with the strings of his sweats as you continue to grind against his groin, your movements growing more desperate and erratic.
You manage to untie his sweats, hands trembling slightly as you work to free his cock. You could feel it throbbing beneath his boxers, promising the satisfaction that you've been pining for.
When you break away from the kiss, Yoon-Ho finds himself completely captivated by you. His eyes track your actions with an almost reverent attention, utterly enchanted.
"God," he breathes out heavily, his throat working as he swallows thickly, his voice rough with desire.
"You're so hot," the words come out reverently.
You pause momentarily to look at his face, a slight furrowing of confusion crossing your features at his sudden declaration. But you quickly returned to your task, focused on freeing his hardened length.
"....thank you?" you respond breathlessly, the words coming out more as a question as you wrap your fingers around his cock, beginning a slow stroke along his shaft.
"mnn," he moans deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as his head falls back against the couch. The pleasure from your touch was overwhelming so he forces his eyes open again.
"No... no, you're not hearing me," he sighs, his grip tightening on your hip while his other hand continues its lazy exploration of your covered sex.
"you're just so, so fuckin' hot," Yoon-Ho groans, his chest shuddering violently as your thumb sweeps over the sensitive head of his cock, "n' perfect... gorgeous." each word is punctuated by a sharp intake of breath as you continue your ministrations.
A small laugh escapes you as you release his cock, shifting to remove your shorts and underwear in one fluid motion. The garments land somewhere on the floor, forgotten.
"you're just naming adjectives now," you point out playfully, and he manages a slight smirk despite his eyes threatening to close from the pleasure.
"I mean it," he insists, finally lifting his head to look down. The sight of your bare sex makes his cock throb painfully, pre-cum beading at the tip.
His eyes remain fixed on you as you position yourself above him, aligning his cock with your entrance. Time seems to slow as you gradually lower onto him.
"fuck, fuck, fuck," he whimpers continuously, completely lost in the sensation of your pussy sucking his cock in. Drool trickles down his chin, but he's too far gone in pleasure to care about appearances. The feeling of being inside of you again after four days of yearning was almost too much to handle.
He had forgotten just how incredible you felt, how perfectly you fit together, how complete he felt when joined with you like this.
"ohh, ah, yes.." you breathe, voice thick was raw desire as your walls desperately clench and flutter around his throbbing length.
Your breath catches and trembles, a needy whine escaping your throat as his impossibly large cock splits you open, claiming every inch of your eager, wanting cunt. The delicious burn of the stretch sends sparks of pleasure coursing through your entire body.
You're riding him with deliberate, measured movements, his impressive length buried so deep you could feel him pressing against your most sensitive spots, creating a subtly bulge in your lower belly that drives him wild with lust.
Yoon-Ho was completely undone beneath you, reduced to a drooling, whimpering mess as his eyes languidly stare at the mesmerizing sight before him.
Each time you rise slowly, drawing his cock almost completely out, before sinking back down with agonizing precision, he watches in fascination as your belly distends slightly to accommodate his size.
The obscene, wet sucking sounds of your fucking yourself on him fill the room, accompanied by the shared moans and gasps.
Goosebumps rippled across his arms and down his spine, his entire body hypersensitive to every movement, every sensation. The pleasure is so intense, so all-consuming, that he knows with certainty he won't last long- his release building far too quickly to contain.
His fingers dig desperately into the soft flesh of your hips, his grip so tight it's already leaving marks that will bloom into beautiful bruises by morning. The muscles in his hand are cramping from the force of his gold, but he can't bring himself to loosen his grip.
His mind is so clouded with pleasure that he's lost all sense of purpose- he's not sure if he's trying to slow your torturous pace or urge you to move faster.
You were systematically destroying every coherent thought in his head, reducing his world to nothing but the exquisite feeling of you wrapped around him. His mind is a continues loop of desire, the only thing on it being sex, sex, sex.
Every time you roll your hips onto him, lifting yourself up, his body tenses in anticipation of your descent, and when you drop back down onto his aching cock, the pleasure was so intent it borders on pain.
Your throw your head back suddenly, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks as his cock hits that specific deep spot inside of you. The pleasure is electric, shooting through your body like lighting, making your fingers and toes curl with the intensity.
Your movements become more desperate and needy as you rapidly approached your climax. The coil of pleasure in your lower belly is wound so tight it felt like you might shatter at any moment.
"—unnghh fuck— haa, marry, marry me—" The words tumble from Yoon-Ho's lips unbidden as his eyes roll back in his head, his hips jerking upward in uncontrolled, sporadic thrusts.
His release hits him like a wave, his hot, sticky cum spurting inside of you in pulses. The sensation of being filled with his seed triggers your own orgasm, drawing a loud unrestrained moan from your throat as your back arched beautifully, pressing your heaving chest against his sweat-slicked torso.
Your pussy walls contract around his still-pulsing cock, milking every last drop of cum from him as waves of pleasure continue to crash over the both of you. Streams of praises and promises spilling from his lips.
"Y-Yoon-Ho," you manage to gasp out, entire body still quivering from the aftershocks of pleasure, making your muscles twitch and spasm around him.
In the haze of post-orgasmic bliss, his impulsive proposal hadn't quite registered in your consciousness.
With him still inside of you, you collapse onto his chest, your breathing ragged and uneven against his neck.
You stay like that for several long moments trying to catch your breath. When you finally manage to lift your head, you raise one eyebrow lazily.
"...what?"
Yoon-Ho's face flushes a deep red as he realizes what he blurted out in the heat of the moment.
In a swift movement, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace and burying his burning face in the crook of your neck.
"dinner, go to dinner with me," he mumbles against your skin, the obvious lie muffled but still clear enough to hear. His heart races against your chest, both from their recent activity and the embarrassment of his impulsive proposal, hoping you'll accept his hasty cover-up without question.
You blinked slowly. Your mind was still hazy, your eyes fixated on some distant point as your brain struggled to process his words, working overtime to formulate a coherent response.
"dinner... yeah, I can to that," you mumble.
...
Did he say something about marriage?
After your initial tender lovemaking, it evolved into something far more primal. He flipped you over with practiced ease, bending and positioning you in ways that made you marvel at both his creativity and your own flexibility.
He pounded into you so hard it made your eyes roll back, and you felt as though he was literally trying to rearrange your guts. His hot breath ghosted against your ear as he whispered the most deliciously filthy things. His teeth even found your neck, biting down hard enough to make you cry out.
By the time he was done with you, you had discovered muscles you didn't even knew existed. Your passionate journey with him eventually led into your bedroom, where both of you collapsed on your expensive bed, thoroughly spent but deeply satisfied.
Now, you lay in a blissful daze, your head resting comfortably on Yoon-Ho's bare chest. Your fingers moved lazily across his toned stomach, tracing abstract patterns just above where the comforter draped across you two.
You could feel the slight tremors in his muscles responding to your touch. His arm was wrapped protectively around your back, his fingers drawing soothing patterns along your shoulder and arm.
"...can we pretend I didn't propose to you?" he finally broke the comfortable silence, his voice carrying a note of embarrassment that you found endearing. The words were soft, almost hesitant, as if he feared bringing attention to his impulsive declaration would somehow make it more real.
You remained quiet for a moment. You honestly found the slip of his tongue more charming than awkward, but seeing his discomfort, you decided to spare him further embarrassment.
Drawing in a deep breath, you shifted slightly against him before speaking, let's play a game," you suggested, deliberately changing the subject. You could feel his body relax beneath you, grateful for the diversion from his momentary lapse in control.
"Okay, what's the game?" Yoon-Ho inquired, his curiosity evident in his tone.
"it's simple," you explained, a small smile playing at your lips.
"just name an animal that starts with the letter 'A', and when we can't think of anymore, we move on down the alphabet." your voice was soft and playful, creating a comfortable atmosphere.
Yoon-Ho took a moment to consider, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath your hand, "hmm.. ant," he offered in a quiet voice, starting with perhaps the most obvious choice.
You responded without missing a beat, "Anteater," your voice carrying a hint of amusement at his first choice.
You continued your gentle back and forth, voices mixing in the quiet room as you both traded animal names. Each pause between answers grew longer as the game grew more challenging, both of you trying to think of more animal names.
"Cockatoo," Yoon-Ho announced eventually, his voice carrying a note of triumph.
Your body shook with sudden laughter. Intrigued by your reaction, he raised an eyebrow and glanced down at you as you lifted your head to meet his gaze.
"Cockatoo??" you repeated, another soft laugh escaping your lips. The sound made his heart race, its rhythm picking up speed beneath your palm.
"How does cockatoo come to your mind?"
Yoon-Ho's features arranged themselves into a slight frown, clearly not appreciating your judgement of his choice, "What? It was the first animal that came to mind," he defended.
"really?... cockatoo?" you mused playfully, leaning forward to place your palm flat against his chest.
"Not like a cat, or cobra, or even like a chameleon?" as you spoke, you could feel his heart beating erratically under your touch, its rapid beat betraying his emotional state despite him seeming calm. You decided not to comment on it, allowing him to maintain his dignity even as his body revealed lingering embarrassment.
"Do you not like birds or something," he grumbles, his voice carrying a mix of defensiveness and affection as he drags his hand up your arm.
With careful tenderness, he pulls your hair back from your shoulder, exposing the delicate curve of your neck where his marks from earlier still bloom. A powerful surge of possessiveness overcomes him as he fully realizes their position- your body pressed against his, limbs intertwined in such an intimate, natural way.
The domesticity of the moment strikes him deeply, making his heart constrict. The then brushes his thumb against your cheek, loving the softness of your skin beneath his calloused finger. The overwhelming urge to kiss you consumes his thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything else.
"I don't have any like or dislike towards birds, your mind is just so random," you murmur barely above a whisper. Your eyes flicker to his lips, lingering there with unmistakable intent.
The air grew thick and you move your hand from his chest to his face. You press your fingers against lips, feeling their softness, before slowly dragging your finger along the sharp line of his jaw. He looked so good like this, handsome, and you found him too utterly, overwhelmingly attractive.
Yoon-Ho's breath hitches audibly in his throat, his pupils dilating noticeably at your touch. His gaze sweeps over your face with careful attention, drinking in every detail as if he's creating an internal masterpiece – the curve of your lips, the flutter of your eyelashes, the slight flush on your cheeks. The depth of his affection for you in this moment feels bottomless, all-consuming.
You lean forward with careful deliberation, pressing your lips against his in a kiss that starts sweet and gentle. You angle your head perfectly, allowing your lips to mold together as if they were made for each other.
Yoon-Ho's brows pull together in an expression of intense concentration and emotion as he tangles his hand in your sweat-dampened hair. He pulls you closer with barely contained desperation, kissing you like a man who's found an oasis in the desert.
"you know," you whisper against his lips, your words carrying a hint of vulnerability, "you're the first person i've ever made out with.."
That you remembered of course.
His heart stutters in his chest at this confession, the implications making his head spin. He presses his head forward with renewed passion, pulling your head impossibly closer as he captures your lips in another kiss, this one filled with even more intensity and desire.
You respond by pressing your fingers more firmly into his jaw, eyes fluttering closed as you lose yourself in the sensation.
You make out for several minutes, each kiss deeper and more meaningful than the last.
When Yoon-Ho finally pulls away, his cheeks are flushed pink, and his expression is uncharacteristically vulnerable, raw with emotion.
".... I'm in love with you," he blurts out with a barely audible voice.
The words hand heavy in the air.
You remain still for a moment, expression neutral as you process his words. But deep down, you weren't surprised by his confession. On some level, you always knew about his feeling- seeing them in every gesture, every look, every touch they've shared.
Rather than outright respond, you simply press another kiss to his lips, murmuring a soft, "I know," against them.
Before the sting of your non-reciprocation can fully register, he takes control of the kiss, rolling you onto you back with practiced ease. His hand slides between your legs once again, seeking to lose himself in physical pleasure rather than dwell on emotional pain.
The moment carries a bittersweet quality – his heartfelt confession hanging in the air, met with acknowledgment but not reciprocation.
The disparity in the emotional state of the relationship creates an almost tangible ache in the atmosphere.
But Yoon-Ho makes a conscious decision not to pursue the matter further.
He chooses to preserve the specialness of the intimate moment rather than risk tainting it with his wounded heart.
Still, he can't completely ignore the dull ache in his chest, the quiet pain of loving someone who isn't quite ready to love you back.
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The Boyfriend Contract | Chapter 2 - The Economics of Rumors
Azul Ashengrotto Fake Dating Au
Ao3 Link | Series Masterlist | Previous | Next
In most cases, the economic rumor makes consumers dubious of the product's type, quality, and effects on health, so it can be quite an issue... but rather than an issue, he saw it as an opportunity. To me though, it's a nuisance.
It was foolish of her to believe that everything would be A-Okay after Riddle's overblot. Aside from the usual NRC mishaps (that she somehow got used to), she thought she would be able to live through her first year without any more major issues, maybe live long enough for her to get back home.
But then the Spelldrive incident happened, then the Octavinelle incident, then the Winter break incident, and then more incidents, and then the dreadful, gut-wrenching, absolutely breathtaking (not in a good way) kiss incident.Of all the goddamn incidents-- she did not expect any of them to involve a kiss.
(No. Vil's kiss on her cheek during the Styx incident does not count.)
She knew Azul well enough that he didn't like to involve himself with irrelevant matters unless it benefited him in some way. So even if she had some sort of obsessive guy chasing after her, she'd have to offer him something worthy enough for him to help her.
She hadn't received any message from him so far, and the Leech twins hadn't arrived at her doorstep yet, so... she assumed she was safe. For now.
Unless, of course, he actually did file a complaint for sexual harassment, in that case, the Headmage would have been the one at her door by now.
Yesterday's events had taken up more energy from her than she realized, so she contacted her boss and called in sick. Thank heavens he was kind, almost fatherly, and told her to rest until she felt better. She should have felt guilty for lying, but she was too exhausted to feel anything. She didn't really want to deal with any people right now.
However, as much as she enjoyed days off, Yuu became extra restless when she had nothing to do. Because doing nothing meant her mind was free to go in different directions, and that direction most often went downhill. There had to be something she could do, even if it was small or insignificant, anything to make her think of anything else other than what she didn't want to think about.
She had done as much as she could. She washed the dishes, did the laundry, cooked increasingly unsettling eggs (most of them went to Grim's stomach), washed the dishes again, cleaned the lounge, rearranged her bookshelf, created a new playlist for next week, watched some videos on Magicam, read a book on meditation-- She was slowly running out of things to do when she suddenly remembered the homework they had for History of Magic, it was a paper on any chosen topic among the ones they previously discussed during the past semester. Although the deadline was still in a week, Yuu figured it would be better to start on it early.
After making herself comfortable on her couch, Yuu opened her laptop (a very generous gift from Ortho, who noticed her lack of electronics, bless that sweet humanoid boy) and began to do some light research, but got side-tracked by the string of notifications that streamed from her phone.
With a sigh, she set her laptop on the nearby coffee table and grabbed her phone. A message from...Ace? And Deuce. Ace and Deuce. And Epel. And Jack. And...holy shit.
Was everyone out to get her or something? Why is she suddenly getting messages from Cater and Riddle? Even Sebek?! Of all people???
Before she could open any of the messages, several loud knocks pounded on her door. She knew well enough who it was that she didn't bother getting up to open it, they knew to knock first before entering after all.
The door to the lounge slammed open, startling the poor girl.
"Jesus Christ!" She clutched her phone to her chest, "Ace. You scared the shit out of me! Calm down will you?"
"Calm down?" Uh oh. She did not like that voice. Ace only ever used that voice a few times on other people, but never on her. She was usually the one using that voice on him. You know, to keep him in line.
Oh, how the turns have tabled.
"You want me to calm down?" His voice was like venom. He stalked over to her, almost stomping, as Deuce-- and... is that Epel, Jack, and Ortho?!
"Uh...what's going on?" She looked at their expressions. Ace looked displeased by something, Deuce looked uncomfortable, Jack and Epel both looked unsure, while Ortho simply looked curious. "Why is everyone here?"
"Yesterday."
She raised a brow, "Yesterday?"
"Yesterday!"
She rolled her eyes, "What about yesterday?"
"Yesterday! With Azul!"
She froze. Oh no. "What about him?"
"Don't play dumb with us, Yuu," Ace gave her one of his no-bullshit looks, "What's with you and Azul? Did you make a contract with him or something? Is he holding you hostage?"
"W-What?! No! What are you even getting at?" She didn't like where this was going.
PLEASE don't say what I think you're gonna say.
"Um, Yuu, yesterday..." Deuce started rather bashfully, "Cater and Trey saw you and Azul together, uh..."
"Kissing." Ace finished, "They saw you kissing."
Is it still possible to play dumb? "Me? Kiss who?"
"AZUL!" The ginger yelled as he hurriedly pulled out his phone and showed her what was on the screen.
It was... It was her. And Azul. Kissing.
The cafe she worked at had been gaining popularity for some time now so encountering students from both Night Raven College and Royal Sword Academy was hardly a surprise.
"Cater took that," He explained, "He and Trey were supposed to visit you, but then he saw you go up to Azul and then that happened."
Oh my fucking god.
A memory resurfaced from when Cater and the others heard that the cafe she was working in was gaining a lot of attention. He promised he would drop by sometime with Trey or Riddle, and as luck would have it, it just HAD to be at the time when she...
Oh god. This is bad. This is really fucking bad. If Cater knew, then EVERYONE knew.
"Yuu..." Jack started slowly, "You're not dating Azul, are you?" He grimaced at his own question. Everyone else looked at her waiting for an answer.
She sighed. Even though the reason was going to sound stupid (which it was), she couldn't lie to them when they were looking at her like that. There was no reason to hide it anyway, after everything she had gone through with them.
It's quite a depressing story, but even in her own world, Yuu was an outcast. Since middle school, she had trained herself not to make a fuss over things she couldn't control. If no one wanted to accept her, then so be it, all she had to do was accept herself. She never let other people's opinions deter her, instead, she worked her hardest not to let it bother her. She buried herself in her work, focusing only on her academics and her part-time jobs as a way to cope with the loneliness. It all paid off since she got accepted into her dream college.
She was supposed to start university in a month, but her sudden arrival in Twisted Wonderland changed all her plans. Despite all her hard work, she had to start over again in this new world where she had nothing, knew nothing, knew no one, and as far as the law was concerned, she didn't exist here at all.
Yuu, once again, had to navigate her way through NRC alone-- until... Grim, Ace, and Deuce. Then Jack, then Epel, then Ortho...
In a way, it was like falling in love. She entered Twisted Wonderland a feral stranger, but these people accepted her, as strange and quirky as they were in their own right, she felt right at home in their little group. Even though some of them would deny it, she knew that they always got her back.
"It's a bit of a long story."
And like clockwork, Ace and Deuce sat on the same couch she was sitting on, Jack took the armchair on her left while Epel proceeded to sit on the floor in front of her, propping his elbow on the coffee table next to him, while Ortho simply sat on said coffee table. They did this in sync, with all their eyes trained on her the whole time.
She let out a deep sigh, preparing herself for a lengthy explanation. She had a lot to say to them, and one of them was the fact that she didn't tell any of them about Kelvin Watson and his persistent advances.
"Listen, I promise you guys it's not—"
"Prefect."
Fuck.
She didn't need to look at the door to know who that smooth, melodic deep voice belonged to. But just like dominos, she followed the befuddled gazes of her friends as they turned to the doorway where Azul happened to be standing.
When the fuck did he get here and why do people keep barging into my house???
"Azul," she stammered, standing up to greet him.
"I didn't know you had company," he strode over to her smoothly. Was it that natural for him to be graceful?!
"Oh, uh.."
"Did you already tell them?" He asked when she was busy mulling over what to say. What was he going on?
"T...Tell us what?" Ace was the first one to ask. Well, the bravest one to speak up first, to be painfully accurate.
"I'm sure you already suspect it," Azul said with a modest smile that almost looked...kind. If the whole contract incident hadn't happened months back she would have believed him to be innocent, and she was sure her friends would have believed the same thing too. "We didn't mean to hide it at first, but with everything Yuu and I were going through... well, I hope you understand."
No way. There's no goddamn way.
"S-So it's true?!" Deuce asked this time, "That you two..."
"Well, we have been going on dates..." She felt a subtle but large and firm pressure on her lower back— no, not her back, but the spot between her back and her waist— steadying her, and she didn't need to turn around to know that it was Azul's hand that was precisely 3.5 inches above her ass.
Holy shit.
It was an intimate gesture that sent tingles throughout her body, nearly overriding her senses. Her friends were staring, and she was sure that they could see the heat rushing to her face in the form of the color rose pink.
How was he this good at being charming?! No, maybe it was the kiss that desensitized her— she shouldn't have to think or FEEL this way about Azul Ashengrotto of all people.
"Is everything alright?" Azul asked in a gentle voice. Azul was never gentle. He was calm, calculating, and cold, but Yuu found it so hard to think when she felt his hand rubbing her softly as if to comfort her, and when he stopped, his hand was now 2 inches above her ass. And it made her so, so, dizzy.
"Just tired, and overwhelmed," she managed to say without stuttering or fainting.
"That won't do," his brows furrowed, he was really good at looking concerned. "Come, let's have some tea at my office."
No. Nonononono— tea at his office means being alone with him, and she does NOT want to be alone with anyone right now. Especially him.
"You don't have to," she said politely, trying to hear her own voice over the sound of her beating heart, "you must be busy."
"No, please. With the disaster of a date we had yesterday, I wish to make it up to you," he continued the act (why was he even doing it in the first place?!?), "Still... I had no idea one of your admirers would be persistent enough to ruin it. I should have seen it coming." He added context. Great. Context means more questions from her friends.
"It's...it's really alright..." and please stop, my brain can't take much of this anymore.
He moved his hand straight behind her back before gently nudging her, "Shall we? I've acquired some rare sweets for you, as well."
Oh God. She loves sweets and he knows it.
"Um, I guess we'll see you then," Ace scratched the back of his neck, looking rather awkward, "Yuu, I'll text you later when, uh...yeah."
She nodded as Azul took her hand (and heavens his hands were so soft) and led her out of the dorm.
"Is this some kind of joke? Are you trying to prank me or something? Do you have brain cancer? Do I have brain cancer? Is this a new business scheme where you scam a person into dating you so that you can get what you want from them?"
She ignored Jade's look of amusement as he poured tea into her cup, and Floyd's snort as he leaned against the bookshelf right behind Azul. The aforementioned boy was sitting on another couch across from her, leaning back with a deep sigh.
Why is HE looking exasperated?! Wasn't he the one who kept up the whole "dating" spiel?! Why did he do that?! I was about to tell my friends the truth!!
The walk to Mostro Lounge felt longer than it should have. Though it normally took several minutes (even shorter if you ran for your life, ideally away from it though), getting there felt like hours when you're being exposed to gawking students who happened to be passing by, and for some fucking reason there was a bunch of them on the street when they were walking. They surely noticed the hand that smoothly moved to her shoulder as well as their close proximity. She might have even seen a shocked Riddle and Trey.
"I'm not that enthusiastic about it either, okay?" He said, like, y'know, a liar.
"Then why?"
"Because I would like to make a deal with you."
"Of course you do," she rolled her eyes, picking up her teacup, "I've seen this coming. For the record, I'm not setting up Ramshackle for collateral again. I don't think I have anything significant to give you," aside from my newly acquired book collection of The Devilish Duke. A really hot and funny romcom set in the 18th century. Good shit.
"It's not Ramshackle Dorm that I want."
"Then what do you want?"
"You."
At that moment, Yuu experienced a feeling that was dangerously similar to what you call a "hypnagogic jerk", also known as that feeling where you think you're falling in your sleep, only to jerk awake, sweating like crazy on your bed and not falling off a cliff.
Yes, there's a term for that.
That sudden jerk in her body nearly caused her to choke on her tea. She quickly placed the teacup down and coughed into her sleeve several times before staring wide-eyed at Azul.
She expected to see him with his usual infuriatingly attractive smirk but...
Why is he looking away?!
"Ugh, whatever," she composed herself, taking a cookie from one of the plates. As it turns out, Azul did have some sweets in his office. Rare ones too... "The answer is no. Did you know that you're the very definition of a 'red flag'?"
"How flattering," he deadpanned. "Listen, this is important."
She sighed heavily, crossing her arms as she chewed the cookie. She stayed silent afterward, a gesture to let him continue. Azul told the twins to leave the room before speaking.
"I had a meeting with a potential business partner a couple of days ago. It was one that I was particularly looking forward to," he began, "the negotiation was doing well, but there was one setback."
She furrowed her brows, "Which is...?"
"He thought I was too young, therefore, not quite... experienced, or mature."
Her eyes widened. She wouldn't say it to his face, but despite his young age (they were both 17), Azul was already skilled in both academics and business, he gave off an air of professionalism and maturity, the very picture of a sophisticated businessman.
"That's...disappointing," she muttered.
"Very much so," he breathed out, almost exhausted. No wonder he was exasperated, that meeting must have been plaguing his thoughts the whole time...
She encouraged him to continue.
"Well, anyway, I tried to appeal to him to get an agreement, but he insisted that he just couldn't get into a business contract with someone who was 'too young'," he nearly rolled his eyes. Nearly. He didn't, but she had the feeling he wanted to. "Anyway, I looked into his background after that—"
"Of course you did."
"And I found out that before he was a successful businessman, he was the only son of the previous company chairman. When he was our age, he was the very definition of 'immature'. He was a spoiled, trust-fund, party-loving playboy who relied too much on his father's influence and money... well, you understand, don't you?"
She nodded. The guy sounded like every male lead of a typical contemporary romance. You know, the good girl x playboy trope where the playboy's whole world changes after meeting the "good girl" and he starts to change himself. She's read a good amount of those types of books.
"Due to his behavior, his father had him transferred from his elite high school to a public high school to teach him a lesson. He also had his allowance considerably lowered, so he couldn't throw any of his elaborate parties, and he was also given a bodyguard to watch his behavior."
She sucked some air through her teeth. For a trust fund boy, it must have been a hard-knock life. Not that she could really relate, she had to work for almost everything she had, so it was routine for her.
"Apparently, his behavior changed when he met his high school sweetheart and his current wife. He retired from his spoiled ways and turned into a responsible and loyal man. They've been married for twelve years now. They just celebrated their 12th wedding anniversary last month."
"Huh... that's actually quite cute," she smiled a little, thinking of how the man's life must have changed when he met his wife. Given that he met her in a public school, she must have come from humbler origins. "But wait, what does this have to do with me?"
"He's quite a family man, and he has a firm belief that a person becomes properly mature when they meet their soulmate," he shifted in his seat, leaning closer as he looked into her eyes. "He will be hosting a fundraising event next month."
"That is to say...?"
"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend and go with me to the event. If he realizes I have a partner, he will surely consider me mature enough to pass as a potential business partner."
Wow, Azul must really want this guy's support.
"Is it really that worth it?"
"If it wasn't, I wouldn't be asking you to do this. Having a contract with him would increase the chance of opening a second establishment outside of school, not to mention Mostro Lounge greatly benefit from them due to their influence in the industry."
Leave it to Azul to think ahead. He's always been thinking of how to improve Mostro Lounge, whether it's the quality of their menu or their services.
"Have you considered getting a real date?"
"Have you considered getting a real boyfriend?"
"Touché."
She narrowed her eyes at him. Truth be told, as helpful as it was having Azul's aid with getting rid of Kelvin for a day, she didn't think there would be anything else in it for her to keep up this whole dating charade. It wouldn't have even happened if only Cater hadn't taken that picture.
She groaned, "It's gonna be difficult."
"What would be?"
"To pretend that we're dating."
"How?"
"Well... for one, isn't it suspicious that you and I weren't even that close to begin with? And suddenly we're dating?"
He shrugged his shoulders, "Not too difficult. We could simply tell them that we were trying to keep it a secret."
"Do you really think anyone would believe that?"
"Your friends certainly did."
"I'm pretty sure this agreement benefits you more than it benefits me."
"I beg to differ," he said, "I've prepared a list of benefits for you. I'm a rather generous man after all."
"Your tone is starting to piss me off."
"What?"
"You're starting to sound like Crowley."
He snorts, "Very well then. I'll try to avoid that in the future. Wouldn't want to upset my future girlfriend after all."
"I haven't agreed to your contract yet."
"Yet," he emphasized, she followed with a roll of her eyes. "Anyway, I obviously wouldn't leave any job uncompensated. As long as our contract is on, I will be at your service. I can help you with studying and homework. If you need study guides, I'll provide them for you. Given that you're already taking care of your financial needs, I'll take the initiative to pay for our dates. If you need protection from bullies and persistent admirers, I'll be one call away. If you get into trouble and you need a cover-up, I'll be there to help you."
He doesn't finish there, "Jade and Floyd will be at your aid as well. If there's anything that you need from them, you simply have to ask. If you follow my terms, I will follow yours."
She bit her lip, for a fake dating job, all those benefits sound... really nice. Considering Azul's standing and influence in Night Raven, all those would be possible.
"Still... It's not going to be easy keeping up this charade you know? No offense but considering your reputation, people are mostly gonna think that you're holding me hostage through a contract."
"We'll be fine as long as we greet each other in the hallways and walk to each other's classes. Your constant presence in Mostro Lounge will help as well."
She rolled her eyes, "Dude, people who are dating don't just walk to each other's classes together or say hi in the hallways, you know? Do you even know the first thing about dating?"
Azul clears his throat as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "I...admit I'm not an expert in this kind of field. But it's not like you can say you're any better."
She rolled her eyes. Again. "FYI, I've dated twice before, so I'd say I'm more of an expert on this than you are." No, she isn't.
Her first boyfriend was in middle school, and the only reason why she dated him was because he confessed to her in front of their whole damn class and all their classmates cooing and cheering pressured her into saying yes to him. They lasted a solid two and a half months.
The second one... was a bit more complicated. They lasted quite long, but that was because Yuu thought that they were going to last the rest of their lives. Unfortunately, that was too good to be true. Everything that seems perfect at first glance never turns out that way in the end.
"Ah... I see. Well then, what do people who are dating do?" For some reason, he sounded a little defeated.
"Well, uh, they...talk."
"About?"
"A lot of things. Their hobbies, their favorite food, the coffee they drank this morning, the shitty customer that keeps asking for the manager just because they thought the croissant they ordered tasted off and therefore demanded a refund even though they already finished it all-"
He snorted. She glared at him, "Hey, that's some serious stuff, okay? People like that are like, the worst."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, "I didn't say anything, but I do agree. Unreasonable customers are the worst. Anyway, what else do people dating do?"
"Uh...They pick apples together, frolic in fields, go on picnic dates." Sounds idiotic but—
"Sounds idiotic," Azul sighed as he crossed his arms, echoing the words in her mind, "Perhaps you should just go tell your friends that we went out and frolicked in the fields."
It was her turn to snort, "Like they would believe that."
"Like I said: idiotic."
"But hey, picnics are fun."
"Sure."
"Ahem. Anyway, aside from that..." she tapped her chin carefully as she continued to wrack her mind. "Well, people who date do a lot of things together, honestly. Hard to pinpoint but, they often eat breakfast together, get coffee together, they know each other's favorite pizza, they hug, hold hands...they...kiss."
"I can't imagine ever doing that." The twitch on his lips was enough to indicate that he was holding back a smile.
She giggled in response, "Like I would ever kiss you."
"Oh? I certainly wasn't the one who initiated it, unless I do have brain cancer and I'm misremembering things."
"I'm really sorry about that," she said, mortified at the resurfacing memory.
Surprisingly, Azul shrugs it off, "It already happened. There's no use crying over spilled milk."
What surprised her more, however, was how casual Azul seemed while they were talking. She failed to realize that at some point, he had dropped his businessman act and started talking to her like... a normal person. Like an actual Azul. It was strange, for some reason.
Silence stretched on for a few moments as she contemplated the offer once more. Dating Azul... even if it's pretend, wasn't an easy choice to make. The thought of fake dating wasn't a pleasant thought to begin with. It seemed more like a waste of time than an investment, but with all the benefits he's offering... maybe having him around would help...?
The biggest thing she was worrying about was keeping up the lie to her friends. They were her world, after all, and she wasn't ready to lose their trust just yet. But their reactions earlier were already enough to make her fall on her knees— Azul wasn't exactly the...best person to date. She was sure that Ace, Deuce, and Grim still have war flashbacks after what he made them go through during the incident with Octavinelle, and Jack trusts that she knows better than to suck up to Azul. Epel wasn't there during the incident, and so was Ortho, but she knew well enough that they were wary of him.
But...
"Well?" He suddenly spoke up, snapping her out of her thoughts. Her very... tired and messy thoughts. "I can write up the contract if you're willing to agree."
She bit her lip, "Can you...give me some more time to think about it?"
He stared at her for a moment before nodding, "Yes, of course. Take your time."
My take on "you acquire unusual abilities, get adopted by the Fantastic Four, and Johnny Storm falls first and super, super hard"
Synopsis: You came back different. You do not feel the same. You do not even bleed the same. Returning from death by drowning is difficult enough in and of itself. So the new-found strangeness in your own body and the gaps in your memory only make you feel more out of sorts. Perhaps all this could be dealt with somewhat reasonably, if it were not for a foreign government promoting your unpleasant condition to their national importance. Luckily for you, your curious condition attracts the attention of the only four people in the world who would understand how you feel - and have enough international influence to save you from becoming a lab rat.
Includes: reader has returned from the dead (allegedly); reader has a set of strange (water-related) abilities inspired by jellyfish; but she looks very human I promise (no physical descriptions though); so reader is water coded in contrast to johnny being literal fire; reader has gaps in her memory; reader is not from the USA so I am afraid her idea of the USA is a bit stereotypical; I do not pinpoint where reader is from beside that; body dysmorphia; body horror; reader can do things with her body that sound unpleasant but do not hurt her; set post Fantastic Four: First Steps; no use of Y/N; not really a slow burn, but I am taking my time
Updates: irregular
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See Yourself Become the Villain (Book 1) Chapter One
Found Family! The Boys and Teen! Reader
Yandere Platonic! Homelander and Teen! Reader
Chapter One: Vought's Darling
Summary: A new member of the Seven joins Vought.
Chapter Warnings: Misgendering, implied SA
“What are you doing?”
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be in costume!” Ashley ran a hand through her hair, tugging it nervously. “The new Seven recruit is arriving in an hour.”
“It’s just a costume. It takes five minutes to put on.”
“Borealis,” hissed Ashley.
They rolled their eyes and barely sat up from the couch. God forbid they wanted a few hours out of that awful costume, the skirt and the mesh and all the skin. Sweetheart of America they may be, but, despite their age, Vought had a certain image to sell to the public, and the image of Borealis…Well, it had nothing to do with the opinions and feelings of (Y/N).
“Fine, fine,” said (Y/N), sitting up. “I’ll put the thing on.”
“And then get to hair and makeup,” said Ashley. She huffed. “I can’t wait to be reassigned.”
“I’ll miss you so much,” said (Y/N), gazing “earnestly” at Ashley.
Ashley gritted her teeth, knowing that look of innocence had been carefully practiced in front of a million acting coaches for the precious “baby of Vought.” However, to not show her annoyance, Ashley stood taller in her heels. “I get to work with the new member of the Seven. A promotion from you.”
“You’ll do great things together,” said (Y/N), emotionless as they passed by Ashley. They knew damn well working with them had been a privilege. Vought needed their image maintained to perfection, ready from the moment they hit puberty to be a Vought superstar—of course, under their helpful supervision.
Nonetheless, until the supe arrived, Ashley was still working with (Y/N), and while (Y/N) grabbed their suit and changed, Ashley hovered outside the door and briefed them. “The supe is Starlight. Appeals to the right demographics, just enough of a feminist to widen her audience, from a small enough town for the more conservative, white populations to root for her.”
And we’d hate to upset them, thought (Y/N), rolling their eyes while they pulled their suit on.
“Powers include absorbing electricity and redirecting into energetic manipulation,” said Ashley. “Similar to yours. In fact, some people also call her America’s Sweetheart. But, obviously, more in a wife way than a teenage-girl way.” There was an awkward pause since the line could…blur for some people. Ashley cleared her throat. “Member of the church. Pageant Queen.”
“The usual,” said (Y/N), emerging with their costume on. “So, what’s the angle?”
“It’s not an angle,” said Ashley, exasperated. “It’s—”
“Just give it to me,” said (Y/N), heading towards the elevator.
“Vought wants to capitalize on your and Starlight’s family appeal,” said Ashley. “Especially since you’re almost an adult, and if another spot on the Seven opens up—
When it does, thought (Y/N). They all knew what Vought’s end goal with them was.
“—then you might join,” continued Ashley, “So, we’re thinking to play up the family relationships among the Seven.”
“Starlight’s my big sis, then?” said (Y/N), emphasizing “big sis” with a wide smile of girlish innocence.
“She seems…sweet. In a I-don’t-know-the-city-and-Vought way,” said Ashley. “You could actually like her.”
“Mm.” (Y/N) crossed their arms while they headed down in the elevator.
Ashley grumbled under her breath. “It would do you good to actually like someone.”
“Find me someone worth liking,” said (Y/N).
They weren’t going to try to see the best in Starlight. If she wasn’t a good person—and when did Vought let good people come up their ranks?—then (Y/N) wouldn’t like her. And with all the people (Y/N) had met in their life, all the “good” people with an angle, a desire for more, ambitions than meant crushing everyone else in their path, well…(Y/N) wasn’t sure if there were good people out there.
l
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is without a doubt a good time to be in the Superhero business,” said Madelyn Stillwell, smiling at the gathered crowd. “Our net income is up fourteen percent. Our latest film, G-Men: World War, just grossed shy of 1.7 billion dollars worldwide.” She paused as applause went up in the audience. “And this fall, we break ground on our newest theme park outside of Paris. The branding opportunities are limitless.” Another round of applause. “But, you know, none of that really matters. Because job one is managing, supporting, and advising the brave heroes who put themselves in harm’s way each and every day for us.” Madelyn smiled proudly. “Let’s take a look.” The screen behind her switched to a video.
“A world without crime, with liberty and justice for all, that’s within our reach, thanks to the two-hundred-plus superheroes in the Vought family.”
The world family made (Y/N) grimace backstage.
“We see a bright future ahead, where there is a Vought hero in every town. Heroes that come from lives like yours, people like you trying to make a difference in the world. Like Borealis, a real daughter of America, ready to defend families just like yours.”
(Y/N)’s practice at not reacting to lies was the only reason they didn’t move while people fluffed their hair and dusted their face with more blush. They stared at the picture of them on the screen, bright-eyed, smiling widely, face an adorable, young pink. They could see their fact in their mirror each morning, dead-eyed, mouth set, bags under their eyes. Lies, lies, lies.
“And, of course, including the jewel in Vought’s crown, the greatest superhero team the world’s ever seen.” Pictures of A-Train, The Deep, Translucent, Black Noir, Queen Maeve, and Homelander appeared onscreen. “That is our job. Our honor. We are Vought. We make heroes super.”
The audience clapped, and Madelyn clapped as well while she strolled back to the podium. “I have a very exciting surprise for you,” she said. “A member of the Seven and Lord of the Seven Seas, live and in person, the Deep!” She gestured out, and the Deep walked out, mic in hand.
He saluted, and people cheered. Madelyn kissed his cheek, and the Deep smiled. “Thank you.” He bowed. “Thank you, everybody,” he said. “After a long, distinguished career with the Seven, my good friend, the Lamplighter, has retired. Let’s give him a big ‘thank you!’ What do you say?” Everyone applauded while a picture of the retired hero appeared onscreen.
“Thank you, Lamplighter!” shouted an audience member.
“But now, it’s time to turn towards the future,” said the Deep. “And as we turn towards the future, who better than our favorite supe of the future to tell us the exciting news?”
The spotlight appeared, and (Y/N) strolled onstage. They had a wide smile, and their skirt swished with each step. The crowd cheered, and (Y/N) smiled.
“Borealis, everyone!” said the Deep. “Vought’s star.”
“Hello, everyone!” They said brightly. “It’s so nice to see you all here.” (Y/N) beamed at Madelyn and the Deep. “We have some exciting news, don’t we?”
“We do,” said the Deep while Madelyn walked offstage.
“I have to admit I’m the most excited, though,” said (Y/N). “I mean, I’ve always wanted a big sister.” They covered their mouth. “Oops. Gave something away.” They laughed, and the audience cooed. “No point in beating around the bush. So, I’m honored to introduce the future of Vought, the next piece of the Seven’s family, Starlight! Welcome!”
Starlight walked out onstage with an earnest smile on her face, slightly shy in front of the crowd, giddy at the event and opportunity of a lifetime. She arrived beside the Deep and Borealis and waved alongside them.
“I love you, Starlight!” cried someone, and Starlight laughed nervously.
“We love you!”
“Starlight!”
The Deep just kept waving, but (Y/N) saw his glance dart towards Starlight, who barely noticed. (Y/N) grabbed Starlight’s hand, which startled Starlight, and hugged her arm.
“I’m excited to work with you. At least, if I’m good enough,” said (Y/N), smiling. People awed, and cameras flashed. The Deep had to move away, knowing Madelyn would want to the perfect “sisters” shot.
Starlight smiled at them and hugged them. (Y/N) stiffened for a second, surprised at the real gentleness in her arms.
“I’m sure you’re great,” said Starlight. “You’re a hero.”
(Y/N) blinked, and they swallowed. They gripped Starlight tighter, and they spoke quietly. “There are more sharks here than heroes.” They pulled back and smiled at the crowd.
Starlight faltered and barely managed an awkward smile while people stared. She glanced at (Y/N), who waved like they hadn’t spoken cryptically a moment before. They had given her all the warning they could after seeing the Deep’s stares. (Y/N) knew all-too-well those types of stares.
l
(Y/N) pressed the button to the elevator, letting out a long breath. They just wanted to sleep after hours of press conferences, pictures, smiles, she, her, sweetheart, darling—and, the worst, the newest addition, “Are you excited to turn eighteen?”
Their lip curled. As if. As if they hadn’t seen the countdowns, heard the whispers, noticed the stares. As if.
The elevator door opened, and (Y/N) came face-to-face with Starlight. She sniffled and tried to turn away to wipe her smudged makeup away from her eyes. It was too late, though. (Y/N) had seen it, and they knew what it meant. They knew intimately.
“I’m sorry.”
The words hung in the air, and Starlight stared at (Y/N). Then, she looked away in shame.
“Is it…Can you…You know?” she said quietly. Maeve had already told her to stop acting the way she was, to not let them seeing her like this, but after what had happened…Starlight felt lost.
“Do you think you’re the first person I’ve warned?” said (Y/N).
Starlight stared at them, but (Y/N) was looking forward, giving her the dignity of not being stared at. Starlight swallowed.
“I didn’t listen,” said Starlight.
“Don’t blame yourself. It wouldn’t matter much if you listened or not,” said (Y/N).
“…” Starlight wiped her face more. “I thought being a part of the Seven—I thought I’d feel powerful. But I just feel…”
“Stripped of autonomy?” suggested (Y/N).
Starlight nodded. “Yeah.”
(Y/N) crossed their arms and leaned back while the elevator went back. “Vought will do that to you. You’re just a product to them. A brand.”
“Then what do we do?” said Starlight. “What do you do?”
“I try to remember who I am. Inside,” said (Y/N). Very inside. They looked at Starlight. “And then you have to decide who you’re gonna be.” They looked forward. “They made me watch your audition video. You were being honest, weren’t you?”
Starlight nodded. “Yeah. They thought it was an angle.”
“It’s a business. We’re products to be consumed,” said (Y/N). “Most supes think about their brand more than about who they are. So, you’ve gotta decide. Are you just a pawn for Vought who will let themself be thrown aside or the person who wants to help people?”
Starlight looked down. “I’m not…sure yet. But I want to be a hero.” She looked at (Y/N). “Who are you?”
“Me?” said (Y/N).
Starlight nodded. “You.”
(Y/N) looked up at the mirrored ceiling of the elevator. They tilted their head and hummed. “I know who I want to be.”
“Is that different from Borealis?” asked Starlight.
“Are you different from Starlight?” responded (Y/N).
Starlight fell silent. Now that was the question. What is the supe, what is the person, and which is really who they were?
l
Across town, two men were having another discussion about the nature of supes—the way they abused their powers. Hughie had thought A-Train was disgusting for killing his girlfriend and never apologizing, but to see him laughing, to see all the hypocrisy, the debauchery and lies in their images, it astonished him even more. All the supes were…horrible.
“They’re all like that?” Hughie sat forward in confusion. “All of them? Even Homelander?”
“Homelander’s the exception,” said Butcher—lying, but Hughie didn’t have to know about that yet. “He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke. Man’s a saint.” In those ways, it was true. Butcher tilted his head. “So is the poster-girl of Vought—Borealis. No drinking or smoking, none of the sneaking around for sex Teenage Kix gets up to, none of it. But the rest of ‘em? Yeah. Pardon my French, but fuck those fuckers.” He took out some files. “Here. Have a shufti of that.”
“What are these?” asked Hughie, taking the papers.
“That’s the police log the day that Robin got murdered,” said Butcher. “Couple of bar fights. A few cars got nicked. But you know what’s not in there? No bank alarm’s going off. No one charged at Central Booking. A-Train stopped two bank robbers, my arse. Someone’s fucking hiding something.”
“Hiding what?” said Hughie, furrowing his brow.
“Well, I don’t know, whatever dodgy shit he was up to that night,” said Butcher. “Why couldn’t he stop? I mean, what was in the bag? You know? Who was he running from?”
“Or where was he running to?” said Hughie softly.
“Bingo,” said Butcher. “Work that fucker out, and we’ll have the fucker, I can smell it.”
“Okay. Okay, so, um…what can I do to help?” said Hughie.
Butcher leaned in. “Here’s what you do. Ring Vought, tell ‘em you’ll take the money, sign the NDA, but only if A-Train’s there in person when you do it.”
“Why does A-Train need to be there?” asked Hughie.
“Then they’ll take you into Vought tower,” said Butcher as if it was obvious. “Through security, mate, and then you’re gonna plant a bug.”
“A bug?” Hughie’s eyes bugged out.
“A bug. And we’ll have a little listen,” said Butcher. “See what’s really going on.”
“Okay, let me just…Sorry, let me get this straight,” said Hughie incredulously. “You want me to-You want me to go to Seven Tower by myself, and-and you want me to plant a bug, like I’m…what, like I’m fuckin’ James Bond?”
“Yeah, exactly, you got it,” said Butcher, grinning.
“You’re FBI,” exclaimed Hughie. “If you’re FBI, then get a warrant. Why do you even-Why do you even need me?”
“Hughie, Hughie, look, mate, I got a warrant, alright?” said Butcher, lying again. “But that place is firewalled, untappable, and locked up tighter than a nun’s knickers. I couldn’t get myself in there in a million years. But you, son, you could do it.”
“No, no, I can’t, okay?” said Hughie, shaking his head in a panic. “I can’t. No. You didn’t see A-Train covered in—” He couldn’t say it, and he squeezed his eyes shut “—And-and I’m, what, I’m just supposed to go in there, and I’m supposed to-I’m supposed to shake his hand. And smile?”
“Yeah,” said Butcher.
“I’m not…Do you know who my favorite musician is?” Hughie looked at Butcher.
“Who?” asked Butcher, not seeing the point.
“James Taylor,” said Hughie. “Number two, Simon and Garfunkel. Number three, Billy Joel. Any of those guys, they don’t infiltrate. Okay? I’m not an infiltrator.”
“Hughie, Hughie, fucking grow a pear,” said Butcher. “You heard that cunt laughing at your girl.”
“No. No. No.” Hughie stood and shook his head. “No, I can’t. I can’t do that. I’m sorry, I’m just gonna fuck it up, and you’re not gonna have your bug…and I’ll be dead. I’m not…I’m not like you.”
Little did he know that, just like him, a supe was feeling not like herself, and, soon, they’d meet. And they’d have a chat. And they’d both decide to stand for what’s right.
l
Squaring her shoulders, Starlight—Annie—walked into the Seven’s meeting room. The other six were already present, and she wanted to crawl out of her skin when she saw the Deep. However, she wouldn’t. She was going to fight for what was right, for Annie, for Borealis, for everyone else. That’s who Starlight wanted to be.
“Starlight,” greeted Homelander. “Don’t want to be late for your first official meeting.” He turned to look at her. “I had a whole welcome speech planned.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Starlight.
“Please, Homelander’s fine,” said Homelander, waving a hand and taking his seat.
Spinning smugly in his chair, the Deep smirked. “Beginning to wonder if you’d even show up. I mean, all that pressure, it’s a lot for anyone to swallow.”
The innuendo was clear, but when Starlight took her seat, she looked at him with an expression just shy of a sneer and retorted, “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” She looked at the Deep darkly, and he swallowed uncomfortably. Starlight was satisfied.
“Can we get back to this, please?” said Translucent. “Stillwell sent us a memo. Let’s read it so I can get out of here.”
“Probably another order for Black Noir to clean his suit after he gets blood on it,” joked the Deep. “Not good for the image.” He grinned at Black Noir, who remained silent as ever. The Deep frowned.
“Enough,” said Maeve, rolling her eyes. “Let’s get a start on the meeting now that we’re all here.” It could have been said cruelly, but it was more bored than anything.
Homelander took the file and slid it open. He raised a brow. “The Vought Super Family.”
The Deep sat forward. “What, are they gonna ask us to start having babies?”
Everyone looked at him like he was an idiot. Homelander ignored him.
He kept reading, not speaking aloud. Finally, he summarized, “It looks like the kid is joining the grownups.”
Starlight stiffened slightly. “What?” Everyone else’s gazes shared the same sentiments.
“Borealis is going to work with the Seven,” said Homelander. He leaned back. “She’s joining our family.” He began to smile. His eyes never left the file and the picture of (Y/N) within.
Tags: jealous!Dean, 18+, sexual content, jealousy that leads to smut I promise
Word Count: 3.6K
Synopsis: Creepy forest hunt! Starring Sam, Dean, and (Y/n). In which Dean and (Y/n)- two people who grew up hunting ghosts and monsters- are the same two people that have the hardest time talking about their feelings. Because obviously the latter is much harder. But, baby, jealousy is a green-eyed monster.
Read on AO3!
As the sun was setting, a logger was chopping down a tree. He pulled the cord back on his chainsaw, and it started with a vroom. As he started to slice into the tree, the chainsaw started to stutter.
"Don't give me that." The logger grunted, barely audible over the sound of his chainsaw. The tool starts shaking violently, causing the logger to almost lose his grip- but he holds on for dear life as he tries to turn it off.
Suddenly- the chainsaw stops. The man frowned as he didn't turn it off. It must've stopped working. He sets the device down on the forest floor, getting ready to inspect it. "You good over there?" A coworker calls out, but the man ignores him, seemingly lost in his own world. The coworker frowns and begins to walk over.
"Isaiah." A name is whispered. His name.
He flips around, trying to see who is calling him. The coworker watches in confusion as Isaiah stares frighteningly at nothing.
"Who's there?" He grunted.
"It's Jeremy- I'm right over here-"
Isaiah steps backwards, tripping over nothing right as the chainsaw roars to life.
He falls right on the chainsaw.
Jeremy freezes in place, eyes wide as he watches his coworker Isaiah become impaled and mauled.
The day began on the road, Dean driving, Sam in the passenger seat, and you stretched out in the back. You bobbed your head to Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap while gazing at the landscape ahead. It was vacant of any humanity- just forest- the only man-made thing being the very road you were driving down. You had no idea where you were but it was definitely in the middle of nowhere.
Turns out the case Sam had found was in a small town.
"Here's the deal- bizarre forest deaths that are being written off as accidents due to faulty equipment and diseased trees." Sam read. "The most recent death- dude fell on his own chainsaw, while it was turned on."
"Right, because nothing says 'accident' like a chainsaw with a mind of its own." Dean quipped.
"Don't worry, Dean. If the chainsaw comes after you- I'll save you." You smirked.
"Save me? Sweetheart, if I need saving from a chainsaw, just put me outta my misery."
"Big talk from a guy who jumped when the toaster sparked this morning."
"It was possessed. I stand by my reaction."
"Sure, Winchester. I'll keep the salt handy for when any appliances turn on you again."
"Are you two done, or should I leave you alone with this chainsaw?" Sam groans.
Your face flushed even though you knew Sam was only joking. Dean never thought of you in any way other than a friend.
You had always looked up to Dean. Even though you were the same age- you always admired his confidence in knowing what he wants.
Which of course- was never you.
You'd given him so many signs, flirting with him at every corner. But he always brushed it off and pretended like you never opened your mouth. Some days you didn't give a shit what he thought, but other days, it was like the only thing you ever needed.
Needed to be seen, to be heard, to be touched- by him.
You shifted in the back seat- maybe you needed sleep, not Dean.
You tuned back into the music, trying to drown out your attraction to Dean.
The impala came to a stop near a local diner, where you spotted a few disturbing flyers hanging on a nearby bulletin board. You get out of the car and walk over- reading flyers that say:
"THE GRAVE KEEPER IS BACK"
"BEWARE THE GRAVE KEEPER"
Sam and Dean followed behind you and eyed the flyers as well.
"The grave keeper?" Dean read. Almost instantaneously a woman walks out of the diner and straight over to the board you all were staring at.
She begins pulling down the odd flyers and apologizes. "Sorry, these weren't approved by the city council to be posted on the bulletin board... so I'll just take them down."
There was an awkward silence until you spoke up. "Who's the grave keeper?"
She stopped fiddling with the papers and finally looked at the three of you. "oh!" She muttered as she realized you were out-of-towners. "I didn't realize you guys weren't from around here. I-um- yes the grave keeper. It's kind of a local legend. Lousy teens going around putting these flyers up- trying to scare people." She laughed nervously.
"What's the legend?" Sam piped up and her face contorted like that was the last thing she wanted to hear.
"Well I'm not really sure where it came from, but people say it's like a ghost that punishes people for harming the land. I don't really know why it's called a grave keeper..." She trailed off and glanced back at the diner like she was hoping someone would come to her rescue. You picked up on this.
"I'm (y/n). We're just stopping in town to recharge- got a big road trip ahead of us." You reached out to shake her hand and her demeanor softened as she reached out to accept your handshake. "This is Sam and Dean. You work at the diner? We were just about to grab something to eat."
After lunch- you and Sam had done some digging online about the victims. They had all worked for or were affiliated with a lumber company- Logging Co.
"Remember what the manager was saying outside- the "grave keeper" punishes people for harming the land?" You reminded the boys.
Dean looked at you. "Right and loggers cut down trees. So we have a hippie ghost?"
You snorted. "Maybe?"
"Let's go find out." Sam said, and with that the three of you left the diner. Walking back to the impala, Dean opened the door to the backseat for you.
"Aw, what a gentleman." You said, playfully.
"Shh- I've got a reputation to uphold." He responded, earning an eyeroll from Sam as he got into the passenger seat.
"Too late. I already sent out the press release." You said as you got into the car. Dean chuckled as he shut the door behind you, finally getting into the driver's seat.
The car ride was short, but it felt like the longest car ride of your life since Sam was giving Dean directions. Directions to a small parking lot near a trail entrance.
Despite the bickering- the vibrant green trees were beautiful- especially with the light flickering through the leaves as the car drove past them. It could be blinding at times, but sometimes blinding is good. It reminds you to close your eyes and bask in the warmth of the sunlight.
The semi-hike to the logging camp was easy, the fresh air and quiet was nice. And the walk wasn't too bad either considering you wore some thrifted hiking boots in order to look official.
Official as in, U.S. Forest Service official.
The three of you knew you had arrived when the once vast area of trees was now a clearing. There was a lot of industrial equipment, machines you couldn't really name.
Your gaze across the land was cut short when you noticed a man walking hurriedly towards you.
"Hey, no trespassing please!" He called out as he got closer and closer.
Sam took the lead. "We're with the U.S. Forest Service. Are you in charge here?"
The man finally came to a stop just a few feet ahead of you. "I'm just the foreman. Who are you again?"
You spoke up, using the forestry jargon you read about earlier. "U.S. Forest Service. We're here to look into the dieback in the stand you're cutting down."
"Stand" was used as a management unit referring to a section of trees based on species, age, or growth conditions. "Dieback" was when trees were dying without an obvious condition present.
"Oh, well you'll want to talk to Owen. He's the botanist our company hired or whatever." The foreman replies, not caring enough anymore, as he points behind him towards an area with several stumps.
Walking over to the botanist- who was now squatted down in front of one of the stumps- you took note of his features. He had loose brown hair, it was a little messy. He was wearing jeans and a blue flannel with the sleeves rolled up to avoid getting them dirty. Instead, his arms seemed to be covered in splotches of dirt. As he looked down at the stump his glasses started sliding down the bridge of his nose until he pushed them back up.
He noticed six footsteps encroaching. "I get it- you wanna chop down more trees. But it's highly irresponsible to be out here without taking the proper precautions-" Without looking up, he started going on a tangent assuming you were loggers.
You squatted down next to him and held out your hand- talking over his rant. "(Y/n). Logistics and Survey Coordinator." You flashed your fake U.S. Forest Service credentials. He accepted your handshake and smiled- looking relieved. "This is Sam" you pointed, "He's our Plant and Pathogen Specialist, and that's Dean- Equipment and Site Safety."
"I'm Owen." He smiled, only now letting go of your hand.
"You look like you've been living out here." You gestured to the scuffs of dirt on his arms.
"Feels like it. Glad the U.S. Forest Service finally showed up- you guys are walking into way more than just bad logging practices." Owen remarked, nodding to the stump below.
"So- what's been going on?" Sam asked. Owen took a deep breath- standing up straight- reaching for your hand and pulling you up with him. You muttered a quick "Thanks." in order to not distract from the conversation, and he gave you a small nod and smile.
"Take a look at this stump." Owen pointed down at the stump and you finally saw it.
Some of the bark had been peeled back revealing the inside. It looked like there were tiny black vines embedded in what was left of the tree. The vines were jagged and looked sharp to the touch but also sludgy and slimy at the same time. The inner rings of the stump seemed normal, almost like whatever was spreading stopped once it was chopped down.
"It just looks like the stump is rotting." Dean said. This made you realize you hadn't really seen a rotten stump before. Was this what it looked like? It couldn't be. People were dying.
"And that's why you're our equipment guy." Sam quipped as he moved forward to get a closer look. Dean shot him a glare while you stifled a laugh. "So, have you run any tests to find out what this is?" Sam asked.
"I've tested for fungal pathogens, parasitic plants, and bacterial infections. Nothing. Here- let me show you something else." Owen replies and starts to walk off towards some full grown trees.
You follow at his side. "How long have you been a botanist?" You ask him, making small talk.
"Certified PhD? Only a few years. At heart? My whole life." He responds with a smile. That was a cute answer. He was cute. "Are you asking for professional purposes, or personal?"
Oh.
Oh.
He was bold.
"I-" You went to respond as Owen stopped right in front of one of the trees- looking at you- waiting for your answer. But Dean cut you off.
"Forest speed dating is cancelled for today. Now what were you showing us?" He grumbled and Owen looked taken aback but quickly regained his composure.
"Right- actually on the other side of this tree-" Owen walked around to the other side and you all followed.
Some of the bark had been stripped and you saw more of those jagged vines. Owen pulls two objects out his bag and reaches towards the tree.
You now watch as he uses a scalpel to scrape off a tiny vine into a vial. As the vine settles into the vial, it oozes its black coloring which evaporates. What's left behind is a small green and brown lump.
"Whatever I remove from the trees- it breaks down almost instantly. It's untraceable." Owen remarks, frowning at the small vial.
"Meaning?" You ask.
"Meaning it's just normal plant matter. So when I test it, there's nothing wrong with it. So the trees should be fine- but they aren't." He pulls out a large paper, unfolding it and shows it to the three of you. "I've also been mapping out all of the diseased trees to see if there's a pattern. It hasn't been helpful either."
"Each dot resembles a tree showing the same symptoms- bark rot, black vines under the cambium, soil discoloration at the base." Owen explains as you stare at the map. There were lots of red dots forming a circle pattern, almost like someone took a circular stamp right over the trees themself.
"Looks like clusters." Sam points out.
"Right- but they aren't random. They form these, not exactly circles, but rings of infection. All radiating from the center." Owen confirms.
"An infection that makes... crop circles?" You joked.
Owen laughs. "That's one way to put it."
"Hilarious, trees makin' crop circles." Dean says- flatly.
You gave him a confused look but tried to play it off. "Easy, Dean- didn't know tree jokes were such a sore spot for you."
"Not sore. Just not that funny." Dean muttered.
That hurt a little.
Sam stepped forward before anyone else could say something unrelated to the case. "Do you think this has anything to do with the loggers that died?"
"The loggers that... what?" Owen's eyes widened in shock. "I only know about the diseased trees..."
"Really? You care more about plants than people?" Dean spat.
"Dean, that isn't what he said." You said, trying to defuse the situation. "Owen- there have been a few accidental deaths out here. What Sam was getting at was... maybe this infection could be… throwing people off."
“This is my third day out here. They never brought it up at contracting- I-I don’t know what to say.” Owen stammered.
“Anything that stuck out to you-unrelated to the trees?” Sam asked.
"I mean- there was someone fired for neglecting to inspect equipment properly. But I don’t see how that would be relevant to the U.S. Forest Service.” Owen replied, a mix of frustration and confusion on his face.
“This person that was fired- they got a name?” Dean pushed for more info, disregarding Owen’s last statement. Owen frowned at him and didn't seem willing to offer anymore information.
“Just humor us, please.” You said giving him a smile, using his attraction to you as an advantage.
“Jeremy Burn.” He answered. You thanked him and Sam asked Owen for the vial of plant matter which he gave over with a shrug.
"We should go talk to the foreman." Dean said, you and Sam nodded.
The foreman was helpful- only because all he had to do was hand over the file of the employee that was fired. It was also useful as you grabbed a flyer for a logging union- known as Loyal Legion of Loggers and Lumbermen- or the Four L.
Dean had decided he wanted to go and talk to Jeremy, while you and Sam went to the local library to look into the town's history.
The impala pulled over in front of the library with you and Sam getting out. Sam popped open the trunk to grab his bag and laptop, while you gazed at the old building.
"(y/n), hey." Sam uttered, drawing your attention from the library to him.
"What's wrong?" You walked over to him, the trunk now acting as a shield between the two of you and Dean.
"I think you should go with Dean, he's been acting weird today." Sam said quietly.
"Weird how?" You asked.
"Like- grumpy asshole weird." Sam replied. "Just go with him so he doesn't piss that guy off and dig us in a hole, okay? Meet me back here when you guys are done."
You nodded and Sam closed the trunk. Before Dean could drive off you jumped over to the passenger side door and swung it open. You got in gracefully.
"What are you doing?" Dean asked as you shut the door and waved at Sam.
"Alright 3940 Berry Avenue, here we come." You said ignoring Dean's question.
"(Y/n)- what are you doing?"
"Sam's boring. And I don't wanna read books right now." You said, giving him a smile. "Now, drive."
"That's pretty bossy." Dean replied as he put the impala in drive and pulled away from the library.
"Mmm. Sam's bossier." You hummed, watching out the window.
Dean started by knocking on the door.
Jeremy answered, staring blankly.
"Hey there- my name is Brian Harris and this is Marcy McClean. We're with the Four L, you got a minute to talk?" Dean greeted, putting on his friendliest face.
Jeremy’s gaze flicked to Dean briefly, but when it landed on you, it lingered. His frown eased into something almost curious.
"Yeah, I've seen your names on the union flyers. Why are you here? I thought you only showed up when there's dues to collect." Jeremy responded, looking a bit annoyed.
"Well we also show up when people get tossed aside. Heard Logging Co. might have done you dirty." Dean says bluntly. Jeremy stared at him flatly, expression unchanged.
So you jump in. "What Brian here is trying to say is, we know how these companies work. One mistake, one accident, and suddenly it's your fault. We've seen it before, we just want to make sure your story gets heard."
Jeremy's expression softens a bit as his eyes lock with yours. "Well… Marcy, was it? You’ve got a better way of putting it." His voice carried a faint, almost teasing lilt.
Dean shifted his weight beside you, jaw clenching.
Jeremy went on, talking more to you than to Dean. "Look- that chainsaw was in pristine condition when I inspected it that day. But when it happened- when Isaiah-" He paused, taking a deep breath. "I don't think it was the saw's fault."
"What do you mean?" You probed gently.
"I probably sound like an asshole. Blaming the guy that got killed- but something was off with him right before he died."
"Off how?" Dean pushed.
Jeremy shifted uncomfortably at Dean’s voice. "Why do a couple of union workers care about that, anyway?" He looked back at you and smirked. "Not that I mind talking to you."
Dean opened his mouth to retort- but you sensed whatever he had to say would be a bit... detrimental to the case- so you quickly and wittingly made up an excuse.
"Well if anybody else noticed something was up with Isaiah, then that's on the company, not on you." You said.
He nodded toward you like you’d just said the smartest thing he's ever heard. "Exactly. You get it."
Dean crossed his arms.
Jeremy hesitated, then leaned slightly in your direction. "Although I didn’t notice anything with him earlier, it was like he lost control of the chainsaw. Dropped it on the ground, and it turned on somehow, and then he fell—"
He frowned hard, reliving it. Then steadied himself. "Before he fell, he was yelling 'Who's there?' and when I responded, it was like he couldn't hear me."
"Was anyone else out there?" Dean questioned.
"No, it was just me and him. We were wrapping up for the day. Honestly we shouldn't have even been out there-" He cuts himself off, looking like he just said too much.
"You shouldn't have been out there?" You ask, practically pleading him to answer.
"Look, I shouldn't share this because it could probably get people in trouble- but most of their employees don't know so it should be fine, right?" Jeremy blabs like he is trying to convince himself and you nod trying to comfort him.
"They don't have a permit to be out there. I found out and kept going to work everyday- so I'm not too torn up about being fired." He finally shared. You and Dean gave each other a look.
Dean had been quiet as you thanked Jeremy for his time, leaving his porch and retreating to the car.
“So whatever this is- it clearly doesn’t appreciate the whole not having a permit thing.” You said to him as you both slid into the car.
“What was with that guy?” Dean blurted as if he didn’t hear anything you said.
“What guy?” You gave him a confused look.
“Jeremy.” Dean gripped the steering wheel. “Mr. ‘I inspected the chainsaw, but don’t worry, Marcy, you understand me better than anyone.’”
You smirked. "Are you jealous? Because it kinda sounds like you’re jealous."
Dean scoffed, shifting in his seat. "Please. I just don’t like how fast he was spilling his guts to you. Couldn’t wait to give you the whole sob story.”
"Dean," you said, amused. "We’re supposed to get people to talk to us. That’s the whole point. And if he was more comfortable talking to me, that just means I’m good at my job."
He turned his head to glare at you, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. "Good at your job, huh? Guess I’ll have to watch my back next time a logger or a botanist with bedroom eyes comes sniffin’ around."
"Bedroom eyes?" You laughed. "Really?"
Dean finally started the car, grumbling. "Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. This guy looked at you like you were the last beer in the fridge. That botanist earlier too."
You leaned back in the seat, deliberately smug. “Well, maybe I am the last beer in the fridge.”
Dean shot you a look so sharp you couldn’t help but laugh harder, and he shook his head, muttering under his breath as he pulled away from the curb.
Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ for language, violence & death, 2022 & season 3, SB being his charming self and everything that comes with it, drug use & drinking, PTSD, mentions of torture, physics, angst, one-sided pining & steamy thoughts, fluff if you squint
Word Count: 16.3k
Posted on Patreon May 23, 2025
A/N: So sorry, guys! Had a nasty cold the whole week and could barely move. Catching up with everyone over the next few days. Just wanted you to finally have this first 🩵
Oh, boy, don't know where to start with this one. My fingers slipped on the keys 😂 It's the reunion 2.0 (or 3.0?), Ben's hella confused and frustrated and possibly horny, and I played "fill in the gaps" with Season 3 aka his first thoughts when he woke up and found dear reader there and everything that came after 😉
✨ Chapter title comes from Frankenstein (1931)
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 13: It's Alive! It's Alive!
2022
Ben didn’t remember much from his escape.
The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the cold crawling through his blood and biting his skin. His skull buzzed with static, not a single clear thought coming through like the worst hangover of his life – and he used to have a lot of those.
Then came the sound.
Footsteps. Voices. English. American.
None of them sounded familiar. Not his old team. No one from Payback – not that he’d really expected them to come for him. Not after what they fucking did.
But then he heard the only voice that ever mattered – yours.
“Uh, Butcher, I don’t think this was a good idea…”
“Don’t worry 'bout it.”
British. Male.
And for a second, Ben thought it was another hallucination of you. It wasn’t uncommon for him to hear your voice in his head, after all. It had been the only constant for… well, however long it’d been. But then:
“No, I don’t think you understand. This pod’s got like three inches of lead, borated polyethylene, and some kind of heat sink. I can’t read most of this since it’s in Russian, but if I’m reading these charts right, the decay signatures are insane. There’s Americium-241 in the isotopic yields. You only see that as a byproduct in low-burnup plutonium fuel cycles. Alpha and gamma radiation is peaking simultaneously. I mean, this spike right here is equivalent to a 3 Gray dose in under four seconds.”
Yeah, Ben didn’t understand a single word of that. His hallucinations of you had always been realistic, but they’d never been as fucking smart as the real thing. There was only so much his brain could do. Which meant:
You weren’t a figment of his drug-induced imagination.
“English, sunshine,” the British guy prompted impatiently.
You sighed loudly. “The Russians turned him into a walking nuke.”
Great.
Ben’s eyes snapped open in that moment, blinked a couple of times to get rid of the blur in his vision and the dazed fog in his mind, and then, sure enough, there you were – live and in the flesh.
Not more than two feet away from him, staring wide-eyed and horrified between strange men in blue worker overalls and guns in their hands.
Your face was the same, hadn’t aged a day since ‘42. Your hair was a mess, your skin was smudged with dirt and sweat, and you were wearing the same overalls as the rest of them, holding a thick folder in your hands like you belonged with those fucking strangers.
You came. Freed him. Saved him.
But as Ben took a step closer, you took one back and hid halfway behind one of the men, clinging to the guy’s arm like you were fucking scared. Scared of him.
You didn’t run to him. Didn’t sling your arms around him. Didn’t seem happy in the slightest to see him again.
Just… terrified.
And then, Ben felt it – the pressure building behind his sternum, white-hot and untamable.
“Uh-oh…” You took another cautious step back.
“What now?” the British asshole huffed, voice louder over the low hum that began to rise in the room.
“His decay constants are collapsing. His metabolic feedback loop’s destabilizing,” you said.
Ben’s chest started to glow. Lights vibrated in their sockets. Dust lifted from the floor.
“English!”
“Right. He’s gonna fucking blow,” you clarified.
Yup.
Still fucking smarter than a room full of men.
And then, the bomb inside him went off, he blacked out for a few seconds, and when the disorienting haze lifted and he opened his eyes, you were gone. Vanished.
Again.
Ben didn’t think long and hard at that moment – he knew this was his chance to finally escape, so he took it. Staggered out through the hole he blew into the wall, past humans and bodies on the ground.
He found a locker room in the facility, broke one open, stole some godawful and grimy tracksuit and boots that were too tight in the toes. He grabbed a lonely duffel bag filled with a gun, a combat knife, a pack of smokes and a box of matches, a ration bar, some rubles, and a half-empty bottle of vodka.
Good enough.
Tunnels turned into roads. Chain-link fences and barbed wire turned into forests. He walked till he found train tracks, followed them to a station, and read the word “АЭРОПОРТ” on a screen there.
Airport? Good enough.
He took his chances and, sure enough, made it onto an airfield. Found a plane leaving for New York City and hid with the cargo like a goddamn stowaway. But it didn’t matter. He was nothing if not resourceful, and more importantly, he was going fucking home.
The most shocking thing, though, aside from your sudden reappearance in one of the most devastating places on Earth during one of his strangest times?
How much time had fucking passed.
Ben knew the fucking Reds had locked him into that box and kept him frozen for a little while. He didn’t have a sense of time in there, just weird dreams, but he judged from the length of his hair and beard that it had been at least a few months, maybe even a year or two. The last date he could remember was 1990 before they put him on ice.
Well, cut to the airport where he found a newspaper that said it was 2022.
Thirty-two fucking years?!
By the time he hopped over the perimeter fence at fuckin' JFK and disappeared into Queens, he suddenly realized how much had truly changed. It was a different world now, and he was fucking lost.
No identity. No money. No plan.
As he moved through the outer boroughs toward Manhattan, everything around him was wrong. Too fast. Too loud. Too bright. It wasn’t the New York he remembered.
Billboards weren’t paper anymore and cars were sleeker and quieter. A kid with blue hair and a nose ring, two gay dudes, and a guy who talked into the watch around his wrist walked by him. Storefronts had rainbow flags, and a bus passed him with a star-spangled caped cunt plastered on its side, advertising another Vought-produced movie.
Some things didn’t change, he supposed.
The smell of the city was the same – diesel fuel, pot smoke, piss, and hot dogs – but the city itself wasn’t. This wasn’t his America – not even close.
The only fucking thing he disturbingly recognized in this brave, new world was the small, rectangular slab everyone carried around in their hands and stared obsessively into like they were seeing God in church.
You’d had one of those as well, and eventually, he realized that the thing he’d kept safe in a box for forty years was a goddamn phone – cordless.
Ben then stole a cup full of quarters from a bum and found a payphone, dialing a number he remembered from forty years ago. It rang once and went dead.
So he went old school.
He started poking around pawn shops and old Vought haunts till someone finally whispered the name he was after.
The Legend.
Old bastard probably still had a Rolodex bigger than Fort Knox. He knew every back door in Vought and where bodies were buried because he helped bury half of them.
And then, a plan slowly formed in Ben’s mind: hole up at Legend’s, get cleaned up, find his old team, and kill their backstabbing asses – preferably as brutal and merciless as possible.
Permanent measures, Ben scoffed internally, remembering Stan Edgar’s words from a meeting back in ‘83.
Well, who was fucking laughing now?
And then, finally, when all of it was said and done, Ben would come for you.
After some roughing up of a man in a bar, he then got an address in Midtown, but somewhere between Sixth Avenue and 59th Street, he heard it.
Tinny, distant, but unmistakeable – the same melody and sharp vowels of a Russian pop song. It drowned into his ears from a small radio in a parked food truck.
Something inside him cracked then.
His vision blurred. His knees buckled. His mind flooded with images he tried to bury deep. But the hum in his chest, the pressure, the fire under his skin had already started, violent and unstoppable.
Then came the flash.
He didn’t remember much more. He woke up to car alarms, sirens, and people screaming. Thick smoke hung in the air like fog and rubble was everywhere. He stared at the scorched remnants of a building that looked like a hurricane of flames had blown through it.
And Ben felt bad. He really did. Because, sure, one could argue he’d killed a lot of people over the long span of his career, so what were a few more?
But this was different. He hadn’t meant to.
Getting tortured by the fucking Commies was one thing, but they turned him into one of those supe freaks he’d always despised. Strongest man alive turned walking, uncontrollable nuke.
He fucking hated what they made him into. If he could fucking nuke the entire upper part of the Asian continent, he would.
Ben then kept his head down, moved through the back alleys and side streets, avoiding ambulances, police cars, and cameras till he ducked into the lobby of a pre-war high-rise on West 55th, next to a cigar shop and a boutique vodka bar.
The elevator then creaked up to the penthouses – PH4.
Ben raised his fist and knocked – three hard pounds, each one echoing through the hallway. The paint on the doorframe cracked slightly.
Footsteps. Slippers shuffling. Then the clunk of a lock sliding back. The door swung open, and there he was.
Legend. Older. Softer. But still himself. Robe loose, silk pajamas, gold chain on bare chest, slippers that cost more than a car, and a whiskey tumbler in hand at 10 AM. Eyes like saucers. He looked like he was seeing a fucking ghost.
Maybe he was.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” the old man breathed. “Ben?”
Ben didn’t answer right away. He was tired – bone-tired, blood-tired. He’d walked out of a Russian grave, burned a street down in Midtown, and ridden the subway in a stolen tracksuit like some goddamn hobo. The whole journey had already taken him five days.
“You gonna let me in or just stare at me like I crawled outta your fuckin’ toilet?”
Legend stumbled backward with a stunned laugh. “Of course! Of course! Come on in, come on in, you beautiful bastard! I thought you were dead! I mean, you were dead! The whole world thinks you’re–… Oh, man, wait ‘til I tell Marge–”
“Start with a drink,” Ben grunted as he stepped inside, looking around.
Legend’s place hadn’t changed much. Just a new location and a better view. Crystal decanters. Too many mirrors. A leopard print robe draped over a $9,000 couch. It smelled like citrus cologne, stale cigars, and money that hadn’t been earned honestly. The walls were plastered with nostalgia: framed magazine covers, awards, posters, photos of stars long dead. And there were more pictures of Soldier Boy than any museum dared hang. It was like stepping into a shrine of himself.
He peeked at one photo and felt fucking nothing.
Legend closed the door behind him and scrambled to keep up. “You’re really here. You’re alive. What the hell happened to you?”
“Reds,” Ben muttered.
“Jesus Christ, I thought they buried you. I mourned you, man.”
“Yeah? Must’ve been a real touchin’ tribute,” Ben said dryly.
Legend blinked. “Hey. I liked you, alright? I didn’t sign up for whatever Vought pulled. I wasn’t in the room when they made that call.”
“You sure about that?” Ben said quieter. Dangerous. “You weren’t in on it?”
Legend looked wounded, but he always had a flair for theatrics. “Ben, listen to me. I had nothing to do with it. Swear on my mother’s grave, I didn’t know a goddamn thing. You were the crown jewel. The whole plan was to sell you forever. Why would they toss the best brand they had?”
Ben watched him closely. Legend still had that salesman gleam, but his hands were fidgeting. The man might be a rat for a living, but he wasn’t a traitor.
“I believe you,” Ben said finally.
Legend sagged, relieved. “Jesus. Thank God.”
“Don’t thank him. He didn’t help.”
Ben accepted the drink offered to him without blinking. Scotch. Strong. First thing he’d tasted that didn’t remind him of a basement in Russia. Legend never poured anything cheap.
The older man then refilled his own glass with shaking hands. “They said you died. Nuclear meltdown in Ohio in ‘84. You went in alone. They did the whole shtick – flag over the casket, moment of silence at Vought Tower, candles, parade. Even got you a statue. Beautiful PR, really. You didn’t know?”
Ben turned his head slowly. “Do I look like I fuckin’ knew?”
So this was what it had come to? This was what his life had amounted to? Buried like a hero, commemorated for a blink of an eye, and then fucking forgotten.
A fuckin’ statue?!
“No, no, I guess not,” Legend said, still rambling. “You look like shit, frankly. You wanna catch up first or take a shower? ‘Cause, no offense, you smell like Cold War ass.”
Ben quirked an eyebrow. “You offerin’ to join me?”
Legend raised both hands. “Hey, man, I don’t swing like that – anymore.”
Sure. Ben scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes slightly. Not like Bogart was ever balls-deep inside the guy.
They stood in silence for a beat. Legend then gestured vaguely back at the liquor cart. “You want something else? Shrimp? Bump? You still do coke, right?”
Ben glanced at him and plopped down on the velvet couch with a grunt. “You offering or reminiscin'?”
The old man moved behind the bar and opened a drawer. “You’re not gonna believe what I saved for a rainy day.”
He pulled out a round mirror, the kind they didn’t bother hiding in the ‘80s, and set it gently down on the coffee table. From a thin glass vial, he tapped out two tight white lines.
“Peruvian flake. 1983. From that last gig in Cartagena, remember?”
Ben dipped his pinky first and tasted it on his tongue. Still burned just right. He stared at the neat, shimmering lines like they were a goddamn miracle.
It had been forty fucking years.
He hadn’t touched coke since Reagan’s first term. His heart rate picked up just looking at it. He leaned down over the mirror, one finger closing a nostril, and inhaled the line in one clean, practiced motion.
The burn climbed straight to his brain and lit up every nerve ending like someone flipped a breaker. His eyes watered. His spine straightened like he’d just been recharged with jumper cables.
“Still burns like it used to.” Ben sniffed, nose tingling.
Legend grinned like a man watching the resurrection of a god. “Atta boy.”
“Now that’s the America I remember.” Ben dragged a hand down his face, leaned back against the couch, and let out a dark, satisfied chuckle. “You always did age like a cockroach. I figured if anyone made it, it’d be you.”
Legend laughed too hard and raised his glass, sitting down in a leather arm chair across from him. “They don’t make ‘em like us anymore.”
The men drank. After a few more quiet sips and more bumps of coke, Legend stood, dusted off his robe, and disappeared into a back room. He returned with a garment bag slung over one arm.
“Knew this day might come,” he said, grinning. “Couldn’t throw it away.”
Ben unzipped the bag and stared.
His suit. His real one. Emerald green, armor-ribbed, the star still proud on the chest. He could almost smell the battles in it. Almost hear the roar of the crowd.
He stood. “Shower?”
“Guest bathroom’s down the hall. Still stocked with aftershave from ‘87. Towels are clean.”
The bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the penthouse. Marble floors, a gold-trimmed mirror, a steam shower the size of a phone booth. Ben finally dropped the sweat suit, stepped under the spray, and let the water scald his skin – first real shower in fucking decades.
The grime peeled off in waves – Russian chemicals, blood, dirt, something green and sticky he didn’t ask questions about. He washed his hair twice. The beard had gotten too long, too wild. And as he finally stepped out of the shower–
“There you are,” he said with an almost amused sigh. At some point, he’d just accepted the fact that you were haunting his conscious.
Can’t fight the universe.
You sat on the counter next to the sink, smirk on your face, bare legs dangling over the edge – like fucking clockwork. “Missed me?”
Ben only nodded with a hum as he stepped up to the mirror above the sink. He wiped a circle clear on the fogged surface and stared for a long moment.
“You look like shit,” you noted and crossed your arms, giving him a scrutinizing sideways glance.
And yeah, Jesus fuck, he looked like he’d just crawled out of fuckin’ hell. Forty years of Commie torture and dark basements were written on his skin. He’d only seen daylight two times during his stay there – when they’d field-test the fucking Little Boy in his chest. And it had rained both goddamn times.
His eyes were sunken, the green a little faded. The beard made him look like a mountain man who lost his fuckin' mountain. He picked up the clippers. Hovered over the switch. He’d never really been a beard kind of guy. Vought had always insisted on a clean-shaven image.
“Keep it,” you said. “Give it a trim. I think it looks good. Dangerous. Edgy. Perfect for puttin’ the fear of God into your enemies.”
Ben smacked his lips and got to work. He trimmed the beard, shaping it into something neater and harder. He then grabbed a pair of scissors and cut his own hair with slow, methodical snips. Piece by piece, the ghost peeled away, and underneath it, something familiar started to reemerge.
“This is your time, right?” he finally spoke and peered at you from his periphery. “That fuckin’ flashlight was a phone, wasn’t it?”
You grinned cheekily. “Well, I couldn’t give that away. Can’t fault me for that.”
“Guess not,” he huffed a strand of hair out his face.
Ben then dried off, suited up, adjusted the straps. The fabric settled against his skin like it remembered him. Tight in the right places. The weight of the shield in his hand felt like gravity returning. He finally felt anchored again.
Less like a ghost, more like a weapon.
“You really sure about this?” you asked and gave him a look that was half-concerned and half-judgy. “Killing your old team? Your ex?”
Ben exhaled a deep breath through his nose but didn’t look at you, green eyes focused on his mirror image. “They betrayed me. Left me to rot.”
“Not like you didn’t deserve it,” you muttered under your breath, then tilted your head. “Am I on your hit list?”
Ben licked his lips and clicked his tongue. “Depends.”
Your brows pinched. “On what?”
Ben met your eyes. “If you fuckin’ left me on purpose.”
When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Legend whistled.
“Still looks good. You could be on the cover of Time again.”
Ben ignored that. “What happened to Payback?”
Legend hesitated, swirling the ice in his drink. “Split up. Disbanded. Most of ‘em are ghosts now. Black Noir’s made it into the new group – The Seven. Crimson Countess does livestreams now. Weird stuff.”
Ben didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care.
“Where is she?”
Legend hesitated. “You sure?”
Ben’s expression didn’t change.
“Alright, she’s local. I’ve got an address. But Ben – don’t expect her to cry when she sees you.”
“I’m not going for tears,” Ben said coldly.
Legend handed over a scrap of paper with her address scrawled on it. “You’re not who you used to be.”
Ben paused mid-way to the door and turned his head slightly. “I know,” he said. “That guy’s dead.”
And with that, he left the penthouse.
The wooded clearing was dead quiet as Ben stepped into it like it was a battlefield – except his eyes weren’t on the war anymore. The old trailer lights flickered in the distance, his boots crunching the gravel with heavy thuds.
And apparently, the universe had a fucking sense of humor.
Because the last person he’d expected to find in front of his ex-girlfriend’s trailer was his other ex-girlfriend – you. But Ben heard your voice before he even saw your face.
“Jesus, Butcher, I told you not to drug him. He’s gonna have a concussion,” you bitched.
Ben then recognized the second voice that answered you as well. Still that same British asshole from the lab.
“It’s fine, sunshine. Focus on the task at hand, yeah? We’ve got bigger fish to fry now than MM’s moral compass.”
Ben stepped closer till figures came into view. The British asshole was standing and found his gaze immediately with a wide smirk. But Ben’s eyes slid past the man, landing squarely on you, crouched down and tending to an unconscious guy by the trailer steps.
A flicker of anger roared alive inside of him. Familiar. Old. He’d carried it around with him for eighty years already, and a part of him wanted to see you burn for it.
For fucking lying. For ever darling to leave him.
But something stirred underneath the anger and hurt – longing.
For your voice, your body, your heart.
But you only glanced at him briefly – unfocused, unbothered. You looked pissed and worried, but none of it was for him. You sent a glare to the asshole in front of Ben before your attention slipped back to the man on the ground, checking his pulse and muttering a few more curses under your breath.
Did you–
Did you not recognize him?
Ben couldn’t entirely fault you for the lab. He’d crawled out of that pod a complete fucking mess. But now he looked more like himself again. Sure, maybe not the ‘42 version of him, but he hadn’t changed that much. Still as handsome as ever. Was it the fucking beard? Should he have shaved it after all?
The Brit then mumbled something about good faith and a team up, but Ben didn’t really listen. Whatever the fuck was going on here, you seemed to be a part of it, and he wasn’t going to lose your trail again.
Not now. Not ever.
And maybe, just maybe, you’d walk out of it alive, depending on how this would go – once he’d figured out what the hell was going on.
“What about her?” Ben gestured with his chin toward you once the asshole had finished his pitch. “Who’s she?”
“She’s one of you. Supe. Chronokinetic,” the guy told him and smirked. “Bit of a wildcard, but bloody handy in a pinch.”
So Ben had been right. He was almost proud of himself for solving that one.
But what the fuck were you doing here? Why were you so fucking calm around men with guns? This shouldn’t be your fucking life.
“Oi, sunshine. C’mere. Introduce yourself,” the Brit called you over.
You stood slowly and dusted off your jean shorts, muscles tense as Ben’s eyes pinned you in place like a knife through a photograph. You weren’t wearing a band shirt, a ‘40s dress, or even an overall this time. Just a plain black hoodie with white lettering that read: ‘Without geometry, life is pointless.’
Yeah, definitely you.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Ben asked, a charming but feigned smirk tugging at his lips, eyes squinting and grazing over you. Observing. Studying.
Still not a trace of recognition in your eyes.
Did you really not know him? Were you lying again? Might as well give it a shot and see what poured out.
And then you just gave him your name. No muss, no fuss, no lies. Like it wasn’t a big deal to begin with. You weren’t guarding it like a state secret or nuclear codes. Just your name, plain and simple.
“You know who I am?” Ben asked next and watched your face contort – brow knitted, nose scrunched, lips pursed. You thought he was fucking crazy – but definitely not someone you once shared a goddamn bed with.
“I mean, yeah,” you said and snorted an amused laugh. “You’re Soldier Boy. You were in my high school history books. My grandpa liked to talk about you when I was a kid.“
Ben bit his lips, hummed. Nodded. And he wasn’t sure yet what, but something had died inside of him.
The fuck–
What the hell was he supposed to do with that?
You clearly had no fuckin’ clue. Did you forget? Did you really not know? What the fuck did that even mean?
This was fuckin’ absurd.
The first hint of disappointment then crashed over Ben. Anger gone. Hurt gone. Just disappointment that you couldn’t remember the real him, that you didn’t recognize him beyond what the world knew. You knew Soldier Boy, and for the first time in eighty years, he realized you’d be disappointed in him, too.
Sure, his hallucinations of you had been plenty opinionated over his actions, but they’d also been easy to ignore. But this was the real you, and he wasn’t the guy he used to be anymore.
Coming here to fry his ex probably didn’t help…
“Alright, Doc. Time to give the man his gift,” the asshole said and nodded toward the trailer.
You sighed, rolled your eyes slightly but didn’t argue. You looked fucking bored – like this was a goddamn chore. You dragged your feet back and held the trailer door open for him.
One thing the real you and his hallucination had in common, however: they were both fucking judgy.
Yeah, this first meeting wasn’t ideal. You were already looking at him like you’d decided you hated him the minute he opened his mouth.
He knew that look well.
But you’d done that back then, too. It didn’t mean anything. He could still turn it around.
Ben moved past you into the dim light of the trailer, cluttered with relics of a woman clinging to the scraps of fame. You followed, and then the two of you just stood there by the entrance. He narrowed his eyes past the beaded curtain, and sure enough, there was Countess, tied up on a chair and frozen mid-wail.
Jesus…
“So, how does it work? Your powers?” Ben asked, his voice rough like gravel as he tried to keep it steady.
He pretended to be unbothered, curious only for the sake of the reason why he was here, but on the inside, he was trembling and itching.
Because you were right fucking there – so close that if he stretched out his pinky right now, he could touch yours. He could feel your warmth radiate off your skin and brush his. He could fucking smell you – a scent he had never forgotten and chased for over eight decades trying to find it again.
He never could.
He’d forgotten so fucking much. Hadn’t even realized it till the temptation returned. The longing was fucking winning.
Over anger. Over pain. Over everything.
All he wanted to do now was grab you and kiss you like there was no fucking tomorrow because there truly never was a guarantee there’d be another one.
But how? To you, he was just a name in a book. A ghost on a screen.
Not Ben. Not yours. Not his.
His mind was goddamn racing, his heart pounding. He could already feel the hum in his chest.
This was all too goddamn much.
“It’s like a remote control. I can push Pause on a single object, a room full of people… Theoretically, even the whole world, but that’d take a lot of juice,” you explained.
“Can’t swing that much?”
You shook your head.
Ben gave a nod.
“She can’t feel anything right now. Not until you tell me to push Play,” you added.
“Like a VHS tape?” Ben quirked a brow.
Your lips rose to a faint smile. “Yeah, exactly like that.”
“This all you can do? Fuckin’ freeze people?” Ben tried to act goddamn normal, but every time he glanced at you, his heart almost exploded. “Can’t you hop through time as well? Chronokinetics can do that shit, right? Like the Terminator?”
You gave a soft chuckle. “I mean, yeah, I used to jump through time.”
Ben’s brow furrowed. “Used to?”
“It doesn’t work anymore. Long story,” you replied and didn’t elaborate further. “But hey, unless, you want me to drop off your ex during an Ice Age, this should be enough, right?”
Ben swiped his tongue over his lips, nodding slowly, still thinking. Still trying to make sense of it all.
Were you telling the truth or were you lying? Did you really not know him or just pretending you didn’t? Should he say something? Ask you flat out?
No, not yet…
His eyes fixed back on Countess, still frozen like a turkey before it was shoved into an oven.
“Why did you freeze her, anyway? She’s already tied up. Seems like overkill,” Ben said, glancing at you sideways.
Your gaze was on Countess too, head tilted, brows scrunched. Watching. Thinking. Judging. Ben could see the cogs turning in your head. He knew that look of yours well.
“She was annoying Butcher,” you replied with a hint of amusement. “And frankly me. She’s kinda a bitch.”
“Tell me about it.” He snorted a scoff, then nodded toward the door. “And Butcher? He’s the asshole outside?”
You simply nodded, a faint smirk twitching on your lips.
“What’s his deal?”
Your amusement didn’t fade when you replied, “Much like you, he’s clinging to revenge fantasies. He’s CIA.”
Ben’s brows shot up. “That asshole’s CIA?”
“Yeah,” you snorted. “Didn’t buy it either when he knocked on my door, but it’s true.”
“And you’re CIA, too?”
“Uh, no…” you said slowly at first and hesitated. “I mean, now I guess I am. I’ve only known the guy for a month. I don’t usually get involved with all this supe shit.”
Supe shit.
The way you said it made Ben think you didn’t count yourself as one of them. Like you were something better. Above it all – especially the theatrics that came with it.
But Ben didn’t like any of it. Didn’t like you being here. Didn’t like you working with these people. Didn’t like how that asshole out there used you to do his bidding like you were some goddamn pet.
Made him fuckin' angry.
Ben arched an eyebrow, gave you a little smile – harmless like a lamb. “And what did you do instead then, sweetheart? Before all this?”
“I was a physics professor at a small college in Canada,” you replied.
Huh. That fit. Fit with what you’d told him. And it made more sense to him than anything else in this world – more sense than seeing you here in the middle of this shit.
“You know, I can keep her like that, and you can just do your thing,” you noted carefully. “That way she won’t feel anything.”
Ben’s jaw tightened, his gaze swerving back to Countess. “No, I want her to fuckin’ feel it,” he said after a beat.
Your head bobbed thoughtfully. “You sure about that?”
Ben looked at you then, eyes finding yours. His heart stuttered. He almost smiled, thinking his hallucinations of you had never been far off.
But you were… real.
You might have lied to him about parts of your life – about who you truly were or where you came from – but underneath it all, you were still undeniably you. Still judging, still observing, still asking impossible question he never really had an answer to.
He swallowed once and kept his eyes on you as he spoke, “She lied to my face. Said she loved me but then fuckin’ left when I needed her the most.”
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t twitch a single muscle, like those words had no affect on you at all. You just listened and stared at him with a trace of sympathy in your eyes.
“Yeah, I saw what they did to you, you know?” you said. “Your old team. In Nicaragua.”
Ben’s brow furrowed. “How?”
“I can… glimpse into moments of time, too,” you explained. “Past, mostly. Future’s still fluctuating. Not as certain. Too many variables. But I can tell you who wins the next Super Bowl.”
You gave him a little grin. He matched it.
“Who?”
“Chiefs.”
Ben grunted, rolling his eyes back.
You giggled softly, the sound snaking into his heart. “You a Giants fan, huh?”
“Eagles.”
“Huh. Really?”
“I’m from Philly,” he found himself saying.
And then suddenly, it all became too much. Too fucking real. You had no idea who he was, who he’d been. You didn’t know him at all.
And what, was he supposed to pretend he didn’t know every part of you already, either? He wasn’t sure he could do that. How the fuck did he end up here?
Fuckin’ absurd…
His eyes landed back on his other ex tied to a chair. If he wanted a future with you, he had to clean up his past first. But he didn’t want you to see who he’d become. He just wanted you to see who he’d been.
“You’re gonna keep chattin’ or get the fuck out now? Don’t need a fuckin’ audience for this,” he said, colder now. He didn’t want you to watch. Maybe to protect you or maybe to protect himself. He wasn’t sure which one it was yet.
But he was determined to drag you out of this fucking mess with both hands.
‘Sides, what was he supposed to fucking do anyway? Walk back out there and say he’d changed his mind because the smartass with tits had a heart to heart with him?
No fuckin’ way.
He had to portray strength to his fucking enemies, or they’d come for him again. Sure, Ben hadn’t cared about shit, but if there was one thing he’d learned – no one else did fucking either.
But more importantly, a supe like you? The world would be coming for you.
To use you. To kill you.
You were too naive, too good, too fucking soft to see that. But he wasn’t – and he’d take fucking care of it.
Your brow scrunched at his harsher tone in that same miffed way of yours. It always had. It’s how he knew it’d work. You’d be fine.
“Gee, as you wish, asshole,” you huffed and then stomped your little feet back outside.
And as soon as the door swung shut behind you, Crimson Countess roared back to life – at least for the next ten minutes before it all went up in flames.
The asshole managed to pick the shittiest motel straight off the highway. It stank of mold, old cigarette smoke, and bleach. This was where someone came to murder fucking hookers – not have a goddamn reunion after eighty years with the love of their life.
But alas, here he was, in a bathroom with rusty red rims around the drains, as if people had already been dismembered by the fucking mob in here.
He’d washed of the grit and grime, the smoke and ash of earlier and found himself in a pair of gray sweats that fit a little too loose and a goddamn Giants jersey. You’d gotten it for him at a gas station. Gave it to him with a tiny smirk, like you were messing with him on purpose because he’d been unreasonably mean to you earlier.
And boy, had you fucking judged him once he’d walked out of that trailer – well, whatever had been left of it anyway. You didn’t say a word, not the whole car ride here, just glared at him every once in a while and let him feel it.
Luckily, that wasn’t entirely new. You’d done that to him in the past as well – the silent treatment, that fucking pout… Whenever he’d done something back then that irked you, you’d let him stew in it. Sometimes you’d even punished him for it – and not in the fucking fun way. Especially whenever he’d underestimated you, you’d hit him with a mental slap so hard his head was still spinning hours later. He’d secretly loved it, though. Turned him the fuck on.
But from experience he knew – your anger would pass. It always did.
For now, though, you were here, chatting outside this very bathroom with a British asshole and some scrawny kid that looked like he’d pissed himself after his girlfriend yelled a little at him.
But God, your fuckin’ voice…
He hadn’t heard that sound in decades – not the real thing at least. And the original was goddamn better than the stupid recording in his skull.
“Where are you guys off to?” your honeyed melody flowed through the thin wall – suspicious, pissed.
Those idiots out there thought he couldn’t hear them. But Ben could even hear the couple fucking three doors down.
“Supply run,” the asshole replied. “The patriotic princess in there gave us a ryder like he’s fuckin’ Mariah Carey. You’re on Cold War nuke duty, sunshine, while me and little Hughie go out there and shake down a cuppa dealers.”
Who the fuck is Mariah Carey?
“Wait, what?” String Bean threw in.
“Don’t worry 'bout it,” the asshole dismissed.
“Do I look like a fucking babysitter for a nuclear warhead to you?” you huffed. “I’m about to freeze both of you and walk out of here.”
Nuclear warhead? Babysitter?!
“Alright, alright,” the asshole soothed. “Look, sunshine, hate to break it to ya, but if grandpa in there goes nuclear again, you’re the only one who can cool down the bloody core, so to speak.”
Ah. So that was why they were leaving you with him – you were his goddamn fail-safe. Fuckin’ great…
“Oh, so you want me to freeze the Fat Man in there every time he’s about to fucking drop,” you realized dryly.
The fuck–
“Smart as always,” the asshole confirmed.
“Well, you know, there’s, like, a lot of people in this motel, and he’s not… stable,” String Bean said, voice weak and jittering, probably giving you a fucking puppy dog look on top of it. “You said so yourself.”
You have?
“Yeah, what he said, Doc.”
Ben could hear the asshole’s triumphant smirk through the goddamn door.
“‘Sides, would be nice if we could catch a couple hours of sleep. Maybe? Please?” The kid’s voice was pleading, and Ben knew you’d break at that whiny tone.
You exhaled a deep sigh, capitulated as expected. Ben waited a couple more minutes after they left, spritzed cold water on his face before feeling ready enough to face you.
When the bathroom door creaked open, you didn’t look up. He found you sitting on one of the beds, glowing rectangle in your hands, thumb gliding over the sleek surface like it was second nature. The phone flickered with light and colors like a handheld television from some alien planet, while you were all angles and distance, backlit by a blue hue.
Ben cleared his throat, but you didn’t even glance up.
“Bathroom didn’t explode. Guess that’s progress,” you commented wryly.
He pursed his lips, biting the insides of his cheeks. The room felt fucking suffocating. What was the goddamn plan here? Was he just supposed to talk to you and act like any of this was fucking normal?
He needed more goddamn answers. Drugs. Booze. Somethin’.
“So, they stuck you with babysittin’ duty, huh?” Ben asked with a small chuckle, trying to break the ice. Trying to bond. Talk to you like he used to.
“Yup,” you said and popped the p, still not looking up. “If you’re gonna be a good boy and not blow up, I’ll get you a juice box, some crayons, and a coloring book.”
Ben frowned, smacked his lips, and bobbed his head, sauntering over to the dresser where Butcher had put down the bottle of cheap whiskey.
Yeah, he needed some goddamn booze to survive this night…
“You know, I could hear you guys in there,” Ben noted lightly and flicked his chin toward the bathroom.
“I know.”
He then sighed a little and ran a hand through his hair. “You called me a nuclear warhead.”
“You are a nuclear warhead,” you replied unapologetically, eyes still focused on the screen.
“So…” Ben started, ignoring your little jab with a deep exhale. “You and that asshole?”
“What about it?” You still didn’t give him the time of day. Didn’t even flinch or shift.
And all Ben could think about was how you once looked at him like he hung the goddamn moon for you.
“You two a thing?” He tried to sound casual – not like a positive answer would cause him to torch this entire dump.
You snorted a loud laugh at that and finally looked at him. “What? No.”
Your nose scrunched, and Ben’s heart calmed slightly till the next thought crossed his mind.
“What about the twig? The one who looks like he’d snap in a stiff wind?”
You arched an eyebrow. “Who? Hughie?”
Ben hated how you said that name – caring, fond, familiar. You always had a soft spot for the weaklings.
“Yeah,” Ben grunted and gulped down a big sip of whiskey straight from the bottle.
Luckily, you chuckled in amusement. “No, nothing going on there. Hughie is like a little brother I have to keep from accidentally killing himself.”
Yeah, that makes sense, Ben thought with relief and felt his chest unclench. Just another kid playing soldier…
“Why are you asking about my love life?” you prompted with a suspicious smile, making his shoulders flinch subtly.
“‘M not,” Ben brushed it off casually with a sniff of his nose. “Just wondering how a smart girl like you ended up with that crew of fuckups.”
“It’s complicated,” you said simply and turned your focus back to your phone.
“Bet it is,” he muttered under his breath and took another gulp of whiskey. “Care to fuckin’ elaborate?”
“Not really…”
Ben rubbed his eyes, then his temples. Jesus fuck, you were harder to crack than the goddamn Zodiac Killer code. Had it been this hard the first time around, too? He couldn’t remember exactly, but he recalled he had to work for it back in ‘42 as well.
“Alright, just tell me what I’m gettin’ into here,” he said honestly, trying a new angle.
You looked up then, titled your head, and blew out a sigh between your lips. “Alright, fine. Butcher found me about a month ago. Wanted me to find a weapon.”
“Weapon?” Ben’s brow furrowed, keeping the whiskey bottle attached to his lips.
Your lips rose to a wry smile. “Yeah, you.”
Ben swallowed, drank more, and tried to ignore the tear in his gut. A weapon. So that was what you saw him as now – not someone to love, not a boyfriend. Just a walking nuke in need of round-the-clock supervision.
Great. That really put a dent into his romantic dinner plans.
“Well, technically, Butcher wanted me to find the weapon that killed you,” you clarified. “They discovered your death in Ohio was a cover-up by Vought. Frenchie has contacts in the Russian mob or something, I guess. He works for Butcher, too.” You shook your head, clearing your wandering mind. “Anyways, they found out about a botched operation in Nicaragua, so Butcher wanted me to look where the weapon is now.”
“With that little glimpsing thing of yours?”
“Yeah,” you confirmed, smiling in a way that made his heart ache. “Turned out the Russians didn’t kill you.”
“Damn straight they didn’t.” Ben nodded and downed more whiskey. He was already halfway through the bottle. Good thing the asshole went out on that supply run.
“But Butcher still wanted to find out how they knocked you out,” you said with a small grin. Teasing. “So he booked plane tickets to Russia.”
Ben nodded slowly, letting the information settle. “What does he need a weapon for?”
You let out a long breath, lips curling. “I’m sure he’s gonna tell you that himself. Can’t give away the big surprise. He kinda lives for that.”
Ben’s brow wrinkled, but he didn’t press. Frankly, he didn’t care enough to. He just wanted answers about you. “Why did you agree to help? You don’t seem like the type to get involved in all this… supe shit.”
You laughed a little, twitched your brows. “Yeah, I usually don’t. I honestly never had much contact with the others. And the few I’ve met so far were…” You licked your plush lips, trying to find the right words.
Ben found them for you.
“Psychotic little freaks?”
You snorted and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“So, why are you helping that British twat?” Ben ventured a little further.
Your head bobbed thoughtfully for a moment, like you were deciding if you could trust him or not. Ben ignored the stabbing feeling in his ribcage.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” you said, then bit down on your lower lip – thinking. “In physics, we have something called the Second Law of Thermodynamics. It describes how in a closed system, entropy always increases over time.”
Jesus fucking Christ, he’d forgotten about that part – the endless physics lectures. At least back then, he’d get rewarded for listening – with you taking his cock into your mouth.
Now he’d just get the words without the fucking.
“Meaning…?” he played along as his fucking migraine started.
“Things naturally fall apart. Systems tend toward chaos, not order. It means you have to expend energy to maintain structure,” you explained with a small smile.
Ben mirrored it, finally understanding why you’d always loved standing in front of a blackboard.
Professor. Yeah, that made fucking sense now. You’d always gotten so turned on by teaching him shit.
Were you turned on right now, too? Ben was sure he could probably get you to fuck him. If he just upped the charm and went fully in, he could make you writhe underneath him tonight.
But then what? He needed to figure this shit out first.
“If we apply that to the modern world, we’re watching a complex societal system steadily lose coherence,” you continued. “Institutions are eroding. Trust is decaying. Information systems are overloaded. We’re heading toward maximum disorder – fast.”
Ben scoffed a chuckle. “Is this your way of telling me the world’s ending, sweetheart?”
“No, Earth will be fine. Humanity won’t be,” you said matter-of-factly. Logically. “Look, I don’t… agree with all of Butcher’s methods, but without intentional energy, we’ll spiral into decay. Entropy loves apathy. It starts with ‘who cares,’ ends with ‘Heil whatever.’ And sure, I could’ve stayed home, not gotten involved, and told myself it wasn’t my fucking problem, but eventually, decay would’ve come for me, too. Fascism thrives on unconsciousness. History always fucking repeats itself.”
“Ain’t that right,” Ben huffed in agreement with another sip of his drink. But something else tugged at him.
It all struck a nerve deep inside him. He had seen a lot of shit over the decades, but he’d never cared about it. Played hero for the glory and the money, but you spoke with such conviction as if you actually believed in the product you were selling.
You scoffed, tilting your head at him. “Really? You agree?”
Ben remained calm, even though he could see the challenging gleam in your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean, hm? I fought for my fuckin’ country.”
“Right.” You gave him a nod – sarcastic to the bone. Then you slowly leaned forward on your knees – collected, fearless, not backing the fuck down. “You killed my friend’s family back in the ‘80s. Called it collateral. You went after people till there was no one left when they came for you. You’re the fucking poster boy for decay. You talk like you’re fighting the rot, but you’re just part of the problem. You’re all manufactured patriotism, empty slogans, and fists over facts. Tell me – when’s the last time you actually cared about something that wasn’t your own goddamn ego?”
Well, fuck him. Brains won over brawn once again. He tried not to show how deep your words truly cut. His hallucination of you always called him fucking hollow. Seemed like real you did, too.
Ben nodded, clicked his tongue, and gave you a tight smile. “Not a fan, huh?”
“No.”
Simple, cold, and brutally honest. Just like you always had been. Made his heart swell for all the wrong reasons.
Ben’s face twitched. He could’ve argued. Said that the last time he cared about something, he’d cared about you. He could’ve even slipped on the mask like he would’ve done if anyone else had said that shit to him. Said some bullshit about how he wasn’t the rot, but the one that survived it. But instead, he went for something in between:
“You don’t know shit about me, sweetheart. Trust me.”
“I know enough,” you muttered just as quick and returned to your phone, not bothering to argue further.
Ben locked his jaw tight, clenched his fists subtly by his sides. So that was what you truly thought about him, huh? But the worst part was how fucking right you were in your assessment – and how much it fucking hurt.
Click, click, click.
Your eyes flicked to another strange device on the nightstand, brow furrowing as lights of green, yellow, and red flashed alive. Then your gaze landed on him.
“The fuck is that?” Ben gestured to the item in question.
“It’s a Geiger counter. Measures radiation. Tells me when you’re close to blowing a fuse,” you explained, narrowing your eyes at him, head tilting again. “Apparently, it’s tied to your emotions. Interesting. Is your pulse spiking?”
Fucking Christ on a cross…
“Turn it off,” he growled. He didn’t want a stupid little box to tell you when he was getting upset like some goddamn hall monitor.
“No,” you bit back with that fiery look in your eyes. “I’m trying to keep a block of civilians safe from you.”
“Just fuckin’ freeze me when I start glowing. That’s what you’re fuckin’ here for, right? How’s that?”
“Too risky,” you countered. Didn’t expand on your answer like you thought he was too stupid to understand it.
“Why?” Ben gritted through his teeth.
You let out an exhaustive sigh and contemplated something again. But after a beat, you seemed to cave. “It’s not that simple. Your powers–… the little nuclear reactor in your chest?”
“What about it?” Ben asked gruffly but slumped down on the second bed across from you, ready to listen nonetheless.
You licked your lips, surely weighing how much you could share without getting into trouble. Like he still couldn’t be fucking trusted.
“You don’t just go off like a regular bomb. As soon as you emit enough radiation, supes around you also lose their abilities. I think it’s because the nuclear energy reacted and bonded with the Compound V in your system in some way. Probably to help your body withstand that much energy. But back at the lab, you hit a friend of mine. You burnt the V right outta her. Made her human.”
Ben was quiet for a minute – a rarity. Good to know. And fucking bad for his enemies, which he had plenty of. But it also meant something else.
“So you can’t freeze me anymore when I’m too far gone. That what you’re sayin'?”
You nodded and smiled like he’d gotten an A on a test. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
Ben sighed and ran a hand over his face, drumming his palms on his thighs. “Alright,” he said at last. “Keep the fuckin' thing on, I guess.”
Frankly, he didn’t care as much about the junkies, prostitutes, and other scum in this shithole that could potentially die from his fallout. But he fucking cared about your safety.
Also wouldn’t be in his interest if you lost your fucking powers. He’d fling himself off a building if he had to keep playing pretend with you forever. The last few hours had already scorched him from the inside out.
“As you wish,” you said, but he caught the little winning smirk twitching on your lips.
It almost made him goddamn smile.
Ben rubbed his jaw then, watching you for a moment. You were right fucking there. And still, he couldn’t just reach out. It seemed like some goddamn cosmic joke. The Reds might’ve been done torturing him, but the universe clearly wasn’t.
And you obviously weren’t, either.
“Look, uhm, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” Ben said, clearing his throat a little. “I’m not the same guy anymore, alright? Maybe I changed. Isn’t there some physics law for that shit too that you could apply?”
You smiled – genuine this time. And fuck, did it make his heart burn alive like it hadn’t in decades.
He still knew how to talk to you – like riding a fucking bike. Like you’d never fucking left.
“Newton’s First Law,” you replied.
“See? Well, let’s go with that,” he agreed casually and leaned back against the headboard, feet up, satisfied.
You snorted slightly and cocked an eyebrow. “Do you even know what it means?”
“Do I need to?” Ben raised his brow, although he knew the answer already, but he let you talk anyway, listened to your voice in his ears like it was gospel.
Because to him, it fucking was.
You giggled softly, the sound like warm honey. “Kinda, yeah. Would probably help. It just means that a person in motion stays in motion in the same direction – unless something acts on them. You don’t change paths because you want to. You change because something hits you hard enough to knock you off your trajectory.”
Ben nodded, drank a little more, then gave you another tight-lipped smile. “Well, consider me fuckin’ hit, sweetheart.”
And he was – by you.
“Guess we’ll see,” you replied with a part-intrigued and part-challenging shimmer in your eyes, but for once you seemed happy with his answer.
And thank fucking God for that. He wasn’t sure how many rounds he could’ve still held up before you’d knocked out his fucking brain.
“But maybe you’re not wrong,” you added and bit your lip, surprising him. “I mean, Vought did you dirty, right? Maybe you can finally use all that energy and anger you have and aim it at something that deserves it.”
“You bet your ass I will,” he said. Smirked. And your lips even hiked up a little. “So that’s what this little dysfunctional group is about? You guys wanna bring down fuckin’ Vought?”
“In a way, yeah. It’s part of it,” you replied as mysterious and closed off as ever.
Some things really never fucking changed.
“Alright, tell me somethin’. I’m curious. What beef you got with Vought?” he asked slyly. Felt fucking smug for being so clever. “I mean, you’re a chronokinetic or whatever. Rare ability, right? Powerful, too. ‘M sure they had their greedy claws all over you. What, got tired of being their little puppet?”
“I never was their puppet,” you said. “And sure, chronokinesis can be a… powerful, messy, possibly disastrous ability, which is why they probably wanted to kill me in the first place.”
“They, what?” His head snapped toward you.
“Don’t look so shocked,” you said with an amused snort like it wasn’t a big deal. “Vought was scared I could mess up the timeline, fuck with their business too much... You think someone like Stan Edgar is gonna risk keeping that around? There’s powerful, and then there’s too powerful. One’s useful, one’s a threat. You know that better than anyone.”
Ben nodded slowly, the words sinking in. “Stan Edgar? That bastard’s still around?”
“Yeah, he’s the CEO of Vought now.”
That slimy fucking asshole. Of course he was. Legend wasn’t the only one that survived like a goddamn cockroach.
“He the one that threatened you?” Ben tried to sound fucking calm, but he was grinding his molars down to dust.
“Yeah, he thought I was gonna mess up… history, I guess,” you said. “I didn’t really use my abilities in that way, though.”
Ben’s brow knitted slightly, putting the bottle back to his lips. He squinted his eyes, watched you closely. “How did you use ‘em?”
You pursed your lips, so he clocked instantly that you’d done some shit. They all fucking had – supes, that is. Ben understood the temptation only too well. The only question was:
What was your goddamn poison?
“You know… fun stuff. Things that made life a little easier. Like more time on homework or pranking very… bitchy classmates. Sometimes used it to teach people a lesson.”
Well, shit. Looked like he’d gotten himself a little trickster on his hands. Adorable – and fuckin’ exhausting.
He gave you a little smirk. Charming. Coaxing. “That all, sweetheart? Skip the high school years.”
And there it was – a little twinkle in your eyes. He still got it, and you still fucking fell for it.
“Well…” Your lip looked almost swollen the way you’d been chewing that thing. Made him fuckin’ crazy. “You know, I went to see historical events I was curious about or talk to famous scientists and philosophers… Went to concerts of old bands. Like sixties, seventies…”
Sixties. Old. Ben snorted internally at the pain in his chest.
“So you partied a little and talked to a bunch of dead nerds,” he summarized wryly.
He could handle that. Shut that shit down, even. Keep you in line.
“Guess so.” You giggled, cheeks turning a little rosy. “But I was always careful not to screw anything up. Never shared too much. Never stayed anywhere longer than three days. Except the last time.”
Ben’s jaw moved a little. “What happened last time? Where d’you go?”
“Middle Ages – on accident. There was a… glitch. Got stuck there for a week.”
Ben stalked one, two steps closer to you. “Stuck, huh?”
“Yeah, but before that, it was pretty awesome,” you said, a little grin crossing your lips. “I even had this whole birthday tradition of working through my bucket list of the coolest things history had to offer.”
Well, well, look how far a little smirk’ll get’cha…
Had he been on your bucket list? Was that why you came there? He couldn’t really blame you if that was the case. He’d had groupies before.
But you weren’t a fan, were you?
So, did you get stuck in ‘42? Was that why you stayed? Why you left?
“And how did you get out? Vought had you in their sights, right? I know they don’t lose track of their assets, and you’re clearly not in a body bag,” Ben noted slyly, smirking even though the thought hurt. “So, who did you break, burn, or bribe?”
You gave him a raised look. “No one,” you replied. “I still had my full abilities back then. Little hard to catch me.”
Oh, he knows…
“I disappeared to 1925 Paris. I met Paul Langevin at one of Gertrude Stein’s parties there,” you said, and Ben nodded like he knew who those fucking people were. Probably physicists, so who the fuck really cared? “He told me about McGill University in Canada. Went there the next day – my present time – stole some dead person’s ID, and kept my head down for the next few years. Got my PhD in Quantum Gravity.”
Ben didn’t even pretend to understand any of that. He also knew asking you more questions about it would only lead to more complicated words.
He understood gravity. It made things fucking fall. What more was there to know?
And then, suddenly, a memory hit him like a goddamn backhand to the face.
1983. That stupid meeting he had with Edgar. He’d put you on Vought’s radar back then, running his mouth like a fucking dumbass. And Edgar, that smug piece of shit, filed it away and fucking waited for you. Waited for Ben not to be around and protect you.
Stan had always been ten fucking steps ahead, hadn’t he?
Ben swore in that moment he’d kill the guy. Not like Stan hadn’t already been on his list, but now he’d make sure he’d enjoy it too – tearing that asshole apart piece by fucking piece. Slowly.
His blood was boiling, but he wasn’t just mad at Edgar. He was mostly mad at himself – and he hated admitting that more than anything else. But it was all his fucking fault, wasn’t it?
Ben was the reason you were here. He was the reason why Vought had hunted you. He was the reason why no one had protected you. Why you worked with all these assholes and put yourself in danger.
Because he hadn’t been there when you’d needed him the most. Hadn’t been the man he was supposed to be – the one he’d promised you he’d be.
You shouldn’t fucking be here.
Click, click, click, CLIIICK…
The Geiger counter’s needle spiked dangerously into the red. Your eyes flicked to the device, then warily to him.
Ben hated that fucking thing.
“You good?”
“Peachy,” he grumbled.
“You sure?”
His glare slowly wandered to you. “I said I’m fine.”
You pursed your lips and raised your hands in surrender, letting it go. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”
Ben exhaled a frustrated breath and shook his head clear. “No, look, I’m good, alright? Promise,” he assured you, and your shoulders lost a little bit of their tension. “So you hauled up in Canada with the fucking leaf lickers for the past few years, huh?”
Your lips involuntarily curled into a smile. You tried to push it down – unsuccessfully. Ben felt like he won the goddamn Super Bowl. Fuck the Chiefs.
“Yep, lived in a cabin off the grid,” you said. “But it was kinda a blessing in disguise, you know?”
Ben’s brow pinched doubtfully. “How so? ‘Cause you got to date fuckin’ lumberjacks with moose breath?”
“Jesus,” you snorted, laughing. “What’s with the obsession over my dating life?”
“Nothin’,” he lied and shrugged it off. Gave you a lazy smirk. “Just making polite conversation.”
Phew. You bought that, right?
You quirked a brow. “That’s your idea of polite?”
“Shut up,” he grumbled. “What d’you know about it, huh? You’ve been living under a rock and buried in books for–… well, I don’t know how long, but I’m guessin’ it’s been a while since you can’t even hold a goddamn conversation like a normal fuckin’ person.”
“Says the guy who’s been frozen since the nineties,” you quipped. You then leaned your head softly back against the headboard and sighed almost theatrically – like you’d held that one in for hours already. “I can’t wait to get back to my old life. I miss my grad students.”
Ben watched you then for a long time. Didn’t even care to hide it. He’d seen that look in your eyes before – that… dread. You’d had it as well when he first met you. He understood it more now.
You’d been missing something, hadn't you?
“How old are you anyway?” he prompted, taking you by surprise. He cleared his throat more casually, got rid of the rasp in his voice and the awkwardness on his tongue. “I mean… you look a little young for a professor. You’re, what? Twenty? Twenty-… four, maybe?”
Luckily, you only laughed softly at his… well, whatever the fuck that was.
“Uh, flattering, but no. I’m twenty-nine.”
Twenty–… WHAT?!
His brain was fuckin’ hurtin'.
So, 2022 minus 29 was like… Nope. 42 plus 24… Nope, that didn’t sound right either. 2022 minus 24 plus 29… What the fuck was he missing?
You’d told him you were twenty-four in ‘42, but now you were twenty-nine, which meant… Well, what the hell did it mean?
Shit.
You should remember him, right? That was the whole goddamn point. He didn’t need fucking math for that answer.
So, what? Was it memory loss? Was he supposed to kiss you awake like you were some goddamn Disney princess?
No, he figured that wouldn’t go over well either just by looking at you right now. You still didn’t like him a whole lot.
What the hell did it mean?
Click, click, click, click…
Goddammit!
“Are you okay?” As expected, you cocked your head and looked at him like he was a toddler with a flamethrower. “You want some weed?”
His head lifted, eyes blinking. His brow raised. “You packin’?”
Well, there was something fun the two of you had never done together before.
“I bought some earlier at the gas station,” you replied, shrugging your shoulders.
“At the gas station?” His brow furrowed.
“Yeah, they had a shop there.”
“A shop?”
“What is this, Jeopardy?” you retorted before your eyes widened almost apologetically. “Oh, right! You don’t know. It’s legal now. You can just go in a store and buy it.”
“That shit’s legal now?”
You grinned, all teeth and sunshine. “Pretty cool, right?”
He huffed a sigh and let his head fall back, staring at the clattering AC in the ceiling. “First good news I’ve heard all week…”
And he meant it.
Ben then watched you pull a little vile from your jeans pocket and grab a small tin box from the nightstand. But as he tried to take it from you, you slapped his reaching hand away, which – bold fucking move.
But you didn’t seem to care. Didn’t twitch. Just carried on – like he couldn’t punch a hole into you.
It was sort of nice. You treated him like he was normal (well, sort of if he excluded the annoying clicking thing). But he couldn’t remember the last time anyone’s treated him like that.
And Ben didn’t know if it was the V in your blood and the fact you could just fuckin’ freeze people like they were some mere vegetables that made you so daring, or if it was just… you.
“Just trust me. I got this. This is your first time in a while, right?” you said, sounded excited even. He nodded slowly. “‘M gonna make it fucking hit.”
Did you ever fucking hear yourself sometimes?
“I’m not a virgin, y’know?” he retorted, smirking, but his eyes drifted to your skilled fingers as they rolled their little arts and crafts project.
“Oh, you are when it comes to this,” you said, tongue sticking out between your teeth in concentration. Drove him fuckin’ nuts. “You ever had a cross joint?”
He swayed his head from side to side, hummed. “Heard of it. Never had the pleasure.”
“Well, you’re about to be fucking pleasured.” You grinned all cheeky and smug, making his goddamn heart flip.
Seriously, did you not fucking hear yourself?!
“You know, there’s other ways to pleasure me, sweetheart.” He smirked. You didn’t say anything, just cocked your brow, waiting for him to talk circles around himself. And he did. “Just sayin’, it’s been forty years since I had some goddamn pussy.”
Your lips rose to a smile – amused. “And you’re going for a pity fuck?”
“Wouldn’t be pity, sweetheart. Trust me,” he replied smugly, gave you his most charming grin that always used to get your panties fucking wet.
The amusement grew on your face. “Trust me. It would be.”
He frowned. Sighed. “Whatever, suit yourself,” he huffed. “Your fuckin’ loss.”
Worth a shot.
Was this gonna take him fuckin’ months again? He’d already fucked you. What was the goddamn big deal? And now, you were right there. He could touch you. He could, couldn’t he?
Fucking absurd…
“And what a loss that is,” you retorted teasingly and went straight back to building your little weed airplane.
“You know what I don’t get–” he started, but you cut right in.
“I’m guessing a lot.”
Ben pursed his lips, swallowed another sigh down. “Careful.”
You looked up and blinked. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just–… you missed forty years of pop culture and technological advancement. Gotta be confusing. A lot happened since the ‘80s.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he muttered, his eyes drifting to the little sleek, black box next to you on the mattress. “So, that’s what counts as a phone these days, huh?”
Your gaze followed his. “Oh yeah, but it’s more than that. It’s a camera, a photo album, a TV, a shopping list, a… Walkmen.”
“Flashlight?”
“Yup.” You grabbed the phone and a light flared up with the tap of your finger. “Very handy when you need to pee at night.”
Fuck me.
Ben’s brow knitted more, eyes narrowing at the device. “Is that why everyone keeps staring at that thing like it’s a Sears catalogue and they just hit the lingerie section?”
“Something like that, yeah.” You snorted a laugh. “Guess it is a bad habit of the 21st century. Kinda guilty of doom scrolling myself. Pretty sure it’s part of our little entropy problem.”
“Didn’t understand a single word of that,” he said, chewing his bottom lip.
“Trust me. You’re lucky you don’t,” you said and then brought the half-finished joint to your lips, wet the paper with your pink tongue, and rolled it into a tight little stick between your delicate fingers.
God, he was fucking jealous of that thing.
“Is it done?”
“No. Now comes the best part. You’re gonna like this one,” you said and gave him a little smirk again. “Now, we make a small hole into the big one and thread the other one through it.”
And then you did just that, and Ben watched you make art out of junk again like he’d done so many times before, just spending endless afternoons sitting next to you in the shed, chatting your ear off and trying to poke holes into your walls while you performed brilliant little miracles.
“Look at this baby.” You grinned proudly and held up your creation. “It’s a marvel of combustion engineering.”
Fucking shoot him now.
“Christ, you’re even nerdy when it comes to fuckin’ drugs,” he muttered, sighing. And God, was he getting hard.
“How can you not be?” You smiled, unbothered, just happy in all your nerdy glory. “It’s a trifurcated burn front. You’re maximizing both surface area and burn velocity with this thing.”
Fuckin' cute.
“What that mean in fucking English?” he deadpanned.
“You get stupid high and it looks cool as hell,” you said, smirking wide, and handed the mother of all joints to him.
“How do I light this little science fair project?” Ben asked as he put the filtered tip between his lips and hauled out the Zippo from his pocket.
You grabbed not one but two more lighters from your little box, gave him a countdown like you were launching a fucking rocket to the moon, and then you lit the two ends on the sides while he did the middle one.
And Jesus fuck, did it hit.
He swallowed smoke and tried not to cough like a fucking pussy. He still huffed out a deep laugh with a cloud of weed. “Fuck me, you’re like the Cosby of fuckin’ joints, sweetheart.”
You gave him a look. “Uhm…”
“It’s a compliment.”
“Not sure about that one,” you mumbled in sing-song. “Does it help?”
Ben smirked lazily. “Best damn babysitter I ever had.”
“Well, as long as you don’t blow us all up now, I count it as a win,” you said and got up, plopping down on the old couch in the room, phone in hand.
“You want to?” Ben held out the reefer to you, but you shook your head.
“No, I’m good.”
He sighed a little again. So much for his plan to get you fucking high and crawl between your thighs. But he was a persistent motherfucker, and ‘giving up’ wasn’t really part of his vocabulary.
You used to steal his cigarettes and drinks. Now, look at you. What the fuck happened?
“So, tell me about me you,” he prompted, watching you from the corner of his eye.
“Why?”
Jesus fuck.
“Just answer the question,” he retorted with a huff and a thin thread of patience. “I’m tryna make conversation. Hadn’t had one in a while with someone who speaks fuckin’ English. Not that you count. You don’t speak fucking English either most times.”
You smiled a little at that, amused. “Fair enough,” you relented and gave him your full attention then, folding your hands over your knees and leaning forward. “What d’you wanna know? First grade basics? Favorite color? Do I like unicorns?”
Ben scowled. “You know, back in my day, women were a little different.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘oppressed,’” you quipped all fucking smug.
His frown deepened, but he decided to move past it, knowing better than to fucking argue with you about that one. Wasn’t the first time he heard it, either. But Ben knew you'd been fucking happy back then. He'd made you happy.
Now you were treating him like he was the goddamn enemy of the state.
How did he fucking end up here? That shit surely hadn’t been on his damn bingo card.
He was supposed to have a house and kids and maybe a dog if you wanted one. He was supposed to watch you tinker on little inventions, get fucking rich, and live happily next to you till he dropped dead at a reasonable age.
That had been the dream. Simple, really.
And now? Now, he sat in a shitty motel, 103-years-old and a nuclear bomb, with a 74-years-younger girlfriend (he finally did the math), who couldn’t even fucking remember him. Never married. Never had kids. Never even had a fucking gold fish. Technically homeless as of this moment. And poor. And fake dead.
Fucking absurd.
But still, he found the silver lining – he could finally receive answers to questions he’d been asking himself for fucking decades.
“How about you just cut the sarcasm back a little and tell me where you grew up, huh? Can’t be that hard to fuckin’ answer,” he muttered.
Oh, but it was, wasn’t it? You never could tell him that. Guarded it like you knew where fucking Jesus went after his resurrection.
“Jersey.”
“Huh.” Ben stumped. Well, that was fucking easy this time ‘round. Jersey girl. Who knew?
“Grew up in a trailer park,” you added.
“No shit.” Ben tried to seem unaffected, but something curled inside of him. “That why you became a supe? Hoping it’s your ticket out?”
He couldn’t really blame you. He fell for that stupid trap himself. Even his reasons had been the same – escape the life he had. It could happen to anyone, even to the fucking smartest on this planet – like him and you.
“Wasn’t really my decision,” you replied, somewhat bitter. He sat up straighter at that and found your eyes. “My parents signed up for that Vought program.”
“What Vought program?”
The sting in his chest grew more intense. Like someone punched a fist between his ribs and squeezed.
“Vought ran these programs – recruited parents,” you explained slowly like you didn’t really want to talk about it. “Mostly from low-income families. They told them if they had kids, they could get them into Compound V trials. Have their kid become a hero, make money off of them… Well, you know the story.”
He did.
“They made parents sign NDAs too,” you continued. “Tell kids their abilities were a ‘natural gift.’ Truth didn’t come out till a couple years ago. Mostly because of Butcher, so he’s at least got that going for him, I guess.”
Ben was quiet for a moment, took a long drag from his weird-ass doobie. Tried not to make the fucking clicking thing go off again.
He’d heard it all before – in whispers in the hallways, in secret notes passed in meetings. Words like “special” and “God’s chosen” getting tossed around like warm bread.
Hell, they did it to him. He just didn’t give a fuck. Because he’d always known Santa Claus wasn’t fucking real. He knew where the fucking presents came from, and it wasn’t elves.
But what did he care if Vought shoved another fucking marketing lie down the public’s throat? Coca-Cola did it – “sugar is good for you.” Doctors recommended fucking Camels back then. News flash, ladies – diamonds weren’t fucking forever.
Hadn’t been his fucking problem…
“You believed that?” he asked after a pause.
You gave a small shrug of your shoulders. “Not really. For a while, yeah,” you replied at first, then bit your lip. “But when I was seven or eight, my powers really manifested, and I guess I was too curious not to peek. I had these weird dreams about it.”
“Nightmares?” he asked, and maybe he shot a little too quick at that one, but you didn’t seem to notice. Why would you?
“Kinda. I guess labs are scary for some people,” you mused. Ben frowned. “But they were actually just visions. So, you know, kinda ruined the magic.”
“So you were never actually human?”
His own question made him halt. You had no clue what it felt like?
There were days when he still missed it – not waking up with the screaming in his veins. Maybe that was the real reason why most supes were such fuckups. They didn’t know any better. Didn’t know what it was like to be free of burning poison.
You didn’t know.
“Guess not.” You shrugged simply like the thought had never even occurred to you at all.
“Your parents seriously signed you up for that shit?”
Another shrug. “Yeah, I mean, they were addicts, you know? They just thought in terms of their next fix. Heroin, meth, opioids… Saw my dad once drink antifreeze. Almost died. Did it again the next day. I mean, the only reason why they had me was to sell me. They didn’t want a kid beyond that. I used to sleep outside on an old cou–”
Click, click, click, CLIIIIIICK!
Your eyes flicked from the blinking counter to him.
“Are you okay?” you asked so innocently.
“‘M fine.”
He fucking wasn’t. This should’ve never fucking happened. You didn’t–… You hadn’t–…
He should’ve said something. Done something. Instead he just smiled for fucking cameras and let it fucking happen. He let you down. He just never thought you’d be around again to care. He never thought it would affect you.
But that didn’t really justify it, right? ‘Cause you’d argue that he was supposed to care anyway. He’d had that conversation before with you – just not the real you.
It was all his fucking fault, wasn’t it?
CLIIIIIIIICK!
“Jesus fuck! Can you shut it off?!”
“Are you nuts? It went off like five times in the last ten minutes. This is the worst time to shut it off,” you argued fiercely. Annoyed. “Just-… calm the fuck down for maybe three hours, and I’ll think about it.”
How was he supposed to fucking think clearly like this? A man needed fucking peace and quiet.
“Would you–” Your mouth opened. Closed. You groaned and lifted your eyes to the ceiling for a second. “Just take another hit, alright? Why are you so tense, anyway? I mean, you’re free now. Just relax for a minute instead of going straight on–, I don’t know, a killing spree.”
Ben snorted a laugh and took a long drag from his joint, chuckled till tears stung his eyes. Was he fucking losing his mind? That had to be it, right?
Free. Yeah, he felt so fucking free right now.
Felt more like some cosmic fucking prison. Like the universe had finally granted him his biggest wish and plopped you down right in front of him – all perfect and warm and fucking soft. And then it fucking told him not to touch.
Look but don’t taste.
Biggest fucking torture on the planet. Enough to break a man.
Who was fucking laughing at him now? God?
Click, click, click, click…
Ben groaned, let his head fall into his hands, you jumped up from your seat, and then were suddenly right in front of him. Kneeling.
What were you–
It was like you wanted this whole goddamn motel to go up in flames.
You put the little paper plane back into his mouth like he was a fucking toddler, lit it, and told him to breathe deep.
Thank fucking God you hadn’t told him to “open up” as he breathed into his fucking blue balls.
“Why did you get so upset when I told you that story?”
You didn’t move back to your old spot. You lingered. Sat down on the floor cross-legged in front of him, wide-eyed and curious.
Distraction.
“You know–” he started and smacked his lips, cleared his throat subtly like that one acting class Vought made him attend had taught him to. “Just upsetting. Fuckin’ Vought…” He gave a shake of his head. “Outrageous, really. You should be more angry about this…”
Your lips pursed, so he knew he was on the right track.
“You know, I didn’t know about it,” he added and licked his lips. Swallowed the guilt. And maybe he should’ve stopped right there. “If I had, I would’ve–…. You know, I-… I would’ve killed these bastards. This shit wouldn’t have happened on my watch, alright?”
“Yeah, okay,” you said quietly, almost like you didn’t believe him. Then you were silent for a moment. “Wasn’t really your fault. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”
He gave you a small nod and forced a smile, swallowing. “Yeah.”
The thought counted for fuckin’ nothin’.
“‘Sides, not sure there’s anything you could’ve done,” you added, voice soft and gentle like you were trying to make him feel better. He didn’t fucking deserve it. “Unless your plan would’ve been to burn down a whole lab with a bunch of perverted scientist in it.”
He should’ve done that! Why hadn’t he fucking thought of that? Why hadn’t he done exactly that?
This was why he needed you. You’d always been fucking smarter than him. You always had the best ideas.
God, fuckin’ shit.
He couldn’t figure this out on his own. You were the one who understood all that science and time crap. You were the one with the chalkboard. You could tell him what to fucking do here.
He should just fucking tell you the truth about everything. You’d know what to do. You’d understand all this shit, right? You could fix it. You wouldn’t think he was fucking crazy.
Right?
Yeah, he was just gonna tell you and ask for help. Tell you to make it right. Ask you to go back to ‘42 and fall in love with him.
Ah, fuck. That did sound fucking crazy. You’d probably run. Never speak to him again. Vanish.
Why couldn’t you fucking remember him? How could he explain that he’d already been in love with the girl sitting right next to him over eight decades ago?
You don’t, his brain chimed in. You sit there and fucking take it like a man.
And you just sat there too and stared at him like he was a fucking stranger – all perfect and close and out of reach. You were here but also weren’t. Like a fucking paradox.
Paradox…
You’d once said something about that. About cause and effect. Or was it fucking Schrödinger again? No…
No, Ben remembered the two of you were in the shed and you talked about it. Something about how actions have consequences. Said something about impossible situations. Called it a brain glitch.
Well, that didn’t sound fucking good, right?
Goddammit! Why couldn’t he remember the full fucking conversation? Why did that little shit back then have to stare at your ass so goddamn much?
If he could change time, he’d go back and tell that idiot to fucking listen for once.
Click, click, click, click…
“Jesus! What now?” You frowned and threw your arms up in frustration.
Ben shook his head, tried to clear his mind again. “Nothin’.” He then took another long drag of his joint.
He just had to stay fucking calm and figure this out on his own. Slowly. Not make any rash decisions like trying to fuck you into the floor. Not say something crazy like being in love with you for over eighty years.
“Maybe you should lay off the weed now,” you said, brow scrunched. “You’re getting kind of… sad… and… weird.”
Sad and weird. Fuckin’ great. Add lethal to that. Exactly what he’d been going for when it came to first impressions.
“You grew up on the streets, right? Did your parents sell you out, too? Is that why you’re so upset?”
Ben snapped out of his trance then and looked at you. He scratched his jaw, hesitating. You really didn’t know shit.
“Uh, no… to both,” he replied, clearing his throat, palms rubbing together like he could still fucking sweat. “Volunteered when I was twenty-five. Grew up rich, actually. Mansion.”
“Oh.”
Nope, didn’t seem to ring any bells for you. No mansion. No recognition. No memories. Even worse, Ben could feel your disappointment – as if the only thing you’d liked about him so far was a piece of Vought propaganda.
Yeah, he was tapping out for the night. Maybe forever. He couldn’t solve this shit. Couldn’t do fucking anything.
With a deep sigh that sounded more like a groan and defeat, he rose from the bed and paced the room, green eyes looking anywhere but you because if he did, he didn’t know how much longer he could control himself.
He just wanted to be with you. Just wanted to drag you out of this dump and live the fucking life he was supposed to have. Why couldn’t it be that fucking easy?
His eyes then landed on the little laminated pay-per-view program. A smile rose. “Well, look at that. They have some of my movies. Still bringing in the views.”
“In sleazy motels across America, maybe,” you muttered under your breath.
Ben ignored you and glanced over his shoulder, switching on the TV. “You ever seen one of mine?”
“Uh, not entirely, no,” you said, curling your lips. “Caught glimpses of some in those classics specials.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat, sweetheart.” He smirked broadly. “Wanna watch?”
You took a deep breath, exhaled a sigh, then gave him a fake fucking smile. “Sure. Whatever you want. I’m just here to babysit you, remember?”
Like he could fucking forget. You said it like it was a goddamn chore. Like you were getting paid to sit here and keep him calm – which to be fair, you sort of were.
Containment with a side of pity. That’s what he fucking got. Not admiration. Not love. Not you.
Something to manage, not something to miss.
But Ben didn’t let your mood deter him from his plan. He picked out a movie while you dragged yourself back to your old spot on the bed, settled in with another sigh – like you were humoring a petulant child.
Still, he plopped down next to you with a satisfied grin. You gave him a disapproving sideways glance and groaned slightly, but he didn’t care. He was gonna sit right next to you and enjoy this. Your look might’ve said “fuck off”, but your mouth didn’t, so he was gonna stay.
Maybe it wasn’t about the past at all. Maybe it was about the here and now. Maybe the universe was rewarding him.
He just needed to accept it and grab it. Make you fucking his again. Maybe that’s all there was to it. He’d just been fucking overthinking.
After everything he’d been through, after everything he’d fucking done for this country, he deserved to have nice things.
As the movie started with some obnoxious synth music, you still sat next to him, stiff and guarded. You kept just enough space for your thigh not to touch his – but still enough to drive him fucking insane.
Your shoulder brushed his arm slightly. Then you kicked off your shoes, stretched out those bare legs. His gaze followed naked skin from your ankle all the way up to where the hem of your jean shorts hugged your thigh. He almost goddamn came in his pants.
Yeah, maybe this had been a fucking bad idea after all.
“Is that Phoebe Cates?” Your head tilted at the screen and ripped him from his stupor.
“Huh?” His eyes squinted at the television where Phoebe’s character cooed and giggled and clung to his bicep. “Oh, yeah. She played my love interest.”
Your brows scrunched again. He used to kiss that spot above your nose where they met.
“She looks twelve.”
Ben frowned. Sighed internally this time. “She was twenty-one,” he huffed. Little too upset, maybe. “This was after she’d done Fast Times. Not so innocent. Trust me.”
“Still young,” you mumbled. Shrugged. “How old were you in this?”
“Vought billed me at thirty,” Ben said and stared stubbornly at the screen till the picture blurred, clearing his throat.
Slowly, your legs slid up to your chest as you rose to a sitting position, leaning forward. Raised your brows. Gave him a look.
Very judging.
“And in reality…? C’mon, I wanna know how many felonies I’m watching.”
Ben bit the insides of his cheeks. Hard. Might’ve tasted blood, then sniffed like it wasn’t a big fucking deal. “Born in 1919.”
“Fuck. Really?” A laugh spluttered out of you. Almost crippled you in half and threw you off the bed. “I mean, I knew you were in World War II, right? So–… Wait, that means you’re a… hundred-and–”
“Don’t do the fucking math.”
“–three! Holy shit!”
Ben groaned. Didn’t even hide it. He could still remember all of it. Same fire. Same mouth. Same razor-sharp wit that used to make him flinch and ache in equal measure. Never held back. Never tried to impress him. That was probably why he’d fallen so damn hard.
Fucking smart, too. He used to get off on it – literally. There were nights where you’d calculate the square root of something with his cock in your mouth just to screw with him.
The memory of your skin touching his burned through every inch of him. He could still feel you under him – warm and reckless and so fucking soft. The sounds you used to make. The way you used to bite your lip when you were trying not to laugh, how you’d curl your fingers into his shirt when he kissed you too hard, how you clung to him when he–
Click, click, click…
Of fucking course! Would only take a few seconds till you ask–
“You good?” Your eyes studied him.
Ben hummed and hoped you wouldn’t notice the damn ache in his sweats. “Yeah. Just excited to relive the glory days.”
“Sure.” You frowned, unconvinced.
You leaned back against the headboard and shifted, keeping a few strategic inches between you and him like it was habit. Like you’d done this kind of thing before with dangerous men who didn’t know where the line was.
“So…” He cleared his throat once more, gave you a smile that said he was probably trying a little too hard. “When’s your birthday?”
“I already told you,” you said, eyes not lifting from the glow of the TV.
“You told me your age,” he pointed out with as much patience as he could. “Didn’t tell me your birthday. When is it?”
“Why d’you wanna know?” Still didn’t look at him. Just dismissed him in hopes he’d go away.
Hadn’t worked for you the first time, though, had it?
“Humor me. Movie date etiquette,” he replied dryly, sent you a deadpan look that made you groan and roll your eyes. “March? December? January?”
“June.”
Huh. Well, fuck him. He hadn’t seen that one coming.
June. 1993. Twenty-nine. The world tilted on its axis. The moon dropped from the sky. The sun came with it. Nothing made fucking sense anymore.
Was this even the real you? Maybe it was a fucking clone. Or something else. Maybe he was dead and this was some weird fucking afterlife vision, his corpse still fueled by blue poison.
How was this possible? Unless–
Unless you fucking lied.
Ben jerked his head, narrowed his eyes, and watched you closely now. You’d always had an edge to you. You weren’t a full-blooded good girl. You’d always been that sweet spot in between.
So, okay... If he assumed you lied, he had to find out why, right?
The age thing – women lied about it all the time. Wasn’t a big deal. Over the years, he’d even begun to automatically add three to five years to whatever age they’d given him. He figured you’d lied, too.
But the birthday thing? That was fucking weird. Why would you do that? To blur your traces? To hide who you were? What you were?
Ben tried to remember the exact conversation. It was in his room–… No, the study. First night. You’d worn one of his shirts. You were still fucking closed off and guarded and didn’t like or trust him a whole lot – kinda like now. But he’d asked you to tell him at least one true thing about you, and you’d told him that today, January 24, was your birthday.
You hadn’t lied about it then. He could tell.
But you hadn’t actually said the date, had you? You’d just said today. Which might’ve been true – for you.
A half-truth.
Ben grinned smugly. He’d figured something out – without your help. You hadn’t been of any fucking help at all, actually.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked and furrowed your brow at him.
Oh shit. He’d still been staring.
“Would you ever, you know, lie about your age?”
The question threw you, but not as much anymore. Like you’d gotten used to the weirdness.
“Well, if you’re asking for yourself, I’d definitely lie next time you go on a date,” you replied wryly.
Good enough.
The two of you then went back to watching TV. He didn’t ask more weird questions and left you in peace. You looked tired. He was, too.
He tried not to get worked up whenever you accidentally touched him or he’d catch a whiff of your scent when the AC would graciously carry it to his nose. He didn’t know the shampoo or the perfume but recognized what was underneath it.
He wanted to touch you. Wanted to close the space, let his hand rest on your thigh, let his thumb brush over your skin, see if you’d still arch into him the way you used to when you were tangled up in his sheets.
Touch me, Ben thought, almost hoping his thoughts were loud enough for you to hear. Just once like you used to. Just look at me like I’m still that guy.
But you didn’t. You kept watching the screen. He followed your eyes and looked at Phoebe moaning his name under a fake rain machine – barely resisted the urge to shut it off.
You were younger than Phoebe. Smarter than all of them. You were the first woman who’d ever rolled her eyes at him – shocking, yes. The first one to tell him he was full of shit and then kiss him like she meant it. And when you’d kissed him, it hadn’t been about movies or hero worship or fear.
You’d kissed him because you wanted to.
Because even when he was just a rich asshole with nothing but a fast car and a faster mouth, you saw through all of it.
Now you didn’t see him at all.
And he was scared shitless that maybe you never would again.
If you didn’t remember him, it meant this you next to him hadn’t gone back and met the past version of him yet. But it’d also meant you must’ve known him then because you knew him now.
God, his head was startin’ to hurt again.
You hadn’t told him anything. Pretended you didn’t know him already – like he was doing now.
Ben figured you had your reasons, probably smart ones, so maybe he was actually onto something here, too. Maybe he had to just keep playing the game – like you had.
But for how fucking long?
You’d stayed in 1942 for five months? Six? It was fucking July now. Your next birthday was in eleven months – and that was best case fucking scenario. Could be five more years, could be fucking ten… And you’d told him your abilities didn’t even work in that way anymore. That was another fucking problem.
Shit.
“Hey, so, that time jumping thing, how does it–” But Ben stopped mid-question when he glanced down and noticed you’d dozed off.
You were out cold, curled up on your side, head tipped slightly toward him like it had just happened mid-eye roll. You’d made it a point to keep space between you the entire night, but now your head was resting against his arm.
Funny how that worked.
Ben didn’t dare move for a long moment. Just watched you while the credits rolled to that awfully cheesy ‘80s synth again. Watched your chest fall and rise, watched your eyelashes rest against your cheek.
He hadn’t seen you sleep in eighty years. Took everything in him not to reach out and pull you into his side.
“Missed you, sweetheart.”
He sighed softly under his breath, tipped his head back, eased into the mattress, and shut his eyes. And for the first time since 1942, he let himself fall asleep beside you again.
▶️ Chapter 14: I'm Going to Have a Lot of Drinks
Poor guy, will he ever figure it out? The answer is yes – in the next part 😉 (aka the part where Ben realizes he needs to switch tactics and becomes a complete asshole). We'll see how it goes. It won't be a battle won by math skills for sure 😆
Coming Up:
Rough fuckin’ morning… And it had only been the first goddamn day of many.
At least, he had some Bennies to get over the pain above (and the ache below) – well… until you fucking ruined that, too.
Because you watched him. Sitting on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee and still working that damn straw. Eyes on him.
His back was half-turned, but he still caught it in his periphery as he was halfway through crushing pills to dust with his knife.
Judging.
“Problem, sweetheart?” His voice was a little too gruff, a little too deep, a little too defensive. Too confrontational.
“No,” you replied, bored. Almost deadpan. Then you casually opened the folder in your lap, directed your gaze there, took a slurp of coffee through the straw, and added: “My parents always snorted their breakfast, too.”
Then, you gave a shrug of your shoulders and started reading – innocent. Like you hadn’t just launched him into complete chaos.
You liked teaching people lessons, alright. You also liked fucking with them. On purpose.
This was the goddamn problem with smart women – especially if they fucking knew it, too. They knew exactly where to hit and make it stick.
But Ben couldn’t help the little smirk twitching on his lips – almost proud.
Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary.
Dangerous.
And well, he was a little dangerous, too. You and him had always made a good team in the past. Now, the two of you could be unstoppable.
MASTERPOST
summary: luthorcorp drugs are miracle workers
pairing: lex luthor / f!reader
tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, angsty ish, no warnings :)
word count: 2.5k
a/n: i just keep getting ideas and i feel like i'm not even close to ending this fic. yall are here for the long run, for now hahahaha
Your head is spinning as puzzle pieces snap together. The daily meetings after your work. The fury and jealousy at Officer Ludlow after speaking to you. The penthouse, the coffee, the proximity.
You let out a shaky laugh, bitter and breathless. “That’s it, isn’t it? All this dragging along, scolding me, dressing me up with you, it’s all part of your games. You keep me close, Lex, not because you need me, it’s cause you want me.”
Your words are sputtering out anxiously, you can’t hold them back now.
His eyes flick to your lips and back up.
“You-”
“You do,” you continue, pressing him, voice trembling now. “You care about me. You threaten my life, yet protect me. You can’t stand the thought of me with anyone else. You can’t stand losing control-”
The sentence never makes it completely out of your mouth.
Lex cuts you off, crushing his mouth against yours, the kiss fierce and suffocating. You taste the scotch on his lips, one of his hands snakes up to your wet hair and tugs. Another hand wanders around to your lower back, yanking your body towards his, the warmth a sharp contrast to the cold glass behind you.
It’s desperate, intense, and dangerous…
Every instinct is screaming for you to stop, to push away.
But you can’t. Even if you wanted to.
Your hands wrap around and grasp his shirt in fists, grounding you because if you don’t hang on, you’ll crumble.
I hate him! Why am I doing this?
But as Lex deepens the kiss, the reasoning voice inside you vanishes. Rain patters harder on the window outside, helping to drown out your thoughts.
It’s only seconds till he breaks away, leaving you both panting. There’s a darkened look in his eyes and you swear he’s about to go in again-
Then, he straightens, snatches his coat from off the chair, and storms away without another word.
You remain, stunned, watching as he disappears down the hallway.
What on earth…
Your eyes drop to his glass perched on the table. You grab it without missing a beat and down the scotch instantly, liquid burning the back of your throat, making you cough a little.
It’s not nearly enough to make you forget about ten seconds ago.
His mouth against yours. His hand in your hair, the other wrapped around your waist…
Your fingers reach up and ghost your now swollen lips, then drop to your side.
Now what?
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗ ‗‗‗‗‗‗ ‗‗‗ ‗‗ ‗
The pounding in your head wakes you before the sun does. Your throat burns, your sinuses are clogged to the brim, and every inch of your body aches.
You roll over, groaning, sheets tangling around your legs. The rain from last night, drenching you, and lack of sleep finally caught up.
Figures.
After everything, the interview, the kiss, that you can’t stop replaying in your head, the storm outside, your body eventually betrays you with something as simple as a cold.
Your phone’s ringer blares out, making you flinch in surprise. You grab it quickly to silence it, and see that it’s Jimmy.
“Where are you? We’ve been waiting for you to come in!” His voice crackles over the speaker after you answer.
“I’m-” you cough, and swallow what feels like shards of glass, “I’m not coming in today.”
You can hear him sigh on the other end. “The media is going insane! You can’t just not-”
“I’m sick, Jimmy,” you rasp, hoping that he can hear it over the phone. You squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to make the throbbing headache stop. “Unless you guys want me sneezing over all your desks.”
“Oh. Sorry. Seriously though, what you did last night was crazy. Get better… soon. Like really soon. We gotta talk.”
“Okay,” you say, but he’s already hung up.
You drop your phone on your bed and it bounces and thuds on the floor. Great.
The silence in the room calms you, and without Jimmy shouting at you, the throbbing starts to fade…
Until there’s a knock at your door.
“Open the door,” a voice commands. It’s Lex. Unmistakable. He’s trying the handle, but you locked it before you went to sleep.
“Go away,” you croak back.
His feet shuffle away from the door, then approach again, accompanied by the sound of metal against the handle. A key. Good grief. Can this man leave you alone for two seconds?
The lock clicks and you swear under your breath. He opens the door and blinks, as if seeing such a mess isn’t something he’s accustomed to. With a man as organized and structured as him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he covered his eyes.
His eyes rake over you, taking in the jumbled sheets, your red nose, your flushed cheeks, your legs, bare and hanging out the side of the bed. It’s a harsh contrast to his smooth dark grey suit he was armored with today.
For once, he doesn’t smirk.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
He furrows his brow at your comeback. You glance down and see that he’s holding… a coffee cup and a paper bag. He sets it on the nighttable by your bed.
“Can you grab my phone?” You ask, gesturing lazily with one hand.
He rolls his eyes.
“PlanetWatch camp is being set up today.” Lex says, tugging at his tie with a sharp, irritated motion. “I was going to bring you along, but seeing the state you’re in, I wouldn’t want any biohazards ruining my set ups.”
You shift uneasily against the sheets, glaring. “I wouldn’t have come anyways.”
Lex tilts his head like you just said something laughable.
“My boss wants me back at work,” you continue, “I basically have my job back, and better. People actually want to hear from me.”
His lips curl into a sneer. “No. People may want to hear from you, but that still doesn’t mean you’re safe. You see, last night you exposed that you have knowledge you shouldn’t have. That you’re still close to my operations on PlanetWatch. Enough to make others wonder what else you know. My enemies are far less patient than I am. They’ll come for you, because they’ll believe you’re holding answers that even some of my executives don’t have.”
There’s no mention of the night before. The tension in the room is thick, and you can feel your face burn and heartbeat flutter restlessly.
You open your mouth, as if to say something, then cough violently into your arm.
Lex takes a step back like you’re spreading the plague. Germaphobe.
“Stop this,” you whine, meeting his blue gaze. “You don’t have to keep pretending that I’m at risk and need saving.”
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes. A flash of the man who confessed I do care.
A flash of the man who shut you up by kissing you.
And then it’s gone.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says cooly. “Last night was a mistake. You are at risk. That isn’t a lie.”
There. You swallow hard, caught between anger and… disappointment.
Not the mention you wanted, but at least he knew it happened. He wasn’t that drunk.
He breathes deeply, and exhales, calculating his next words. “This is business. My opponents will use you as bait, leverage, a knife to my throat. You think I can just let that happen?”
You avoid his piercing eyes by shifting yours to the wall.
He drops his head for a brief moment in frustration.
“I’ll be sending someone to drop off some medication. Take it.” He says finally.
You continue to give him the silent treatment.
He deserves it.
Lex sighs and walks out of your room, shutting the door behind you, leaving you to your sniffling mess.
‗‗‗‗‗‗ ‗‗‗ ‗‗ ‗
A few hours later, a doorbell chimes throughout the apartment. You sit up in bed groggily, in a half awake, half asleep state. Your phone is still on the ground, and the ice in your coffee has melted, still full. Inside the brown bag was a donut, which you ate before you passed out.
It was actually really good.
You manage to stand, holding on to the nightstand beside you to steady yourself, then slowly make your way to the front door.
There’s a small black box sitting there, LuthorCorp logo emblazoned. You pick it up and inspect its contents, a single pill bottle labeled with a name you don’t recognize. On the back, the label says “TRIAL USE ONLY”.
Great. He wants to poison me.
At this point, your throat is in so much pain that you’ll do anything to make it stop, so against better judgment, you wander to the kitchen, fill a glass, and down one of the pills.
At first, nothing happens. You can feel the tablet slide down your esophagus, and you make your way to the patio to sit outside and get some fresh air.
The second you sit down, you can smell the potted flowers to your left, the smoky Metropolis air, the car exhaust, the concrete from below, and even a whiff of the salt breeze from the ocean.
“How-” you breathe, and notice that the burning in your throat is fading away.
Where has this medication been my entire life?
In a matter of minutes, almost all of your symptoms are gone, save the occasional trickle from your nostrils, probably left over mucus buildup from laying down all day.
You’re stunned. Out of excitement, you hop out of your chair and run to your room, grabbing your phone.
“I’m coming in,” you quickly type to Jimmy.
You’ve never gotten ready for work faster. It’s already 3pm, but you want to see your coworkers, especially after last night.
‗‗‗‗‗‗ ‗‗‗ ‗‗ ‗
You hadn’t even gotten two feet in the door before you were mobbed. Staff clustered around you, voices overlapping, hands tugging at your arms. Somehow, you manage to shove your way through to your desk, but not before Jimmy, Lois and Cat corner you.
“You’re back!” Cat squeals, blonde hair flying as she throws her arms around you.
Jimmy follows with a hug of his own. “About time. You had us thinking you dropped off the face of the planet.”
Lois doesn’t hug you. She just smirks, arms crossed. “You were faking being sick, weren’t you.”
You laugh nervously. “I uh, I think I slept it off. And maybe took something strong. Whatever it was, it worked” you say.
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.
Lex is rubbing off on you.
“Well, you’re trending on all platforms,” Cat chirps, leaning over your chair. “Everybody’s talking about you”
“What was it like at The Sphere News?” Jimmy asks, digging around for his phone. “What was Cleavis like in person?”
“Are you going to write another article?” Cat chimes in again.
Their questions tumble over one another until you raise both hands. “Guys. One question at a time before my head explodes.”
They all sigh in unison but back away from you.
You glance around the office. “Where’s Clark?”
They mimic your action, Jimmy turns back and shrugs.
“I just don’t wanna have to repeat myself, but oh well,” you plop down in your chair. “Where do I start?
Lois takes a step forward, and your pulse quickens. She always asks the hard questions. “First things first. Be honest. Are you working with Lex Luthor?”
You hesitate. A moment too long. “Yes,” you say hesitantly. “But it’s complicated.”
Jimmy snorts, failing to stifle a smirk. “Complicated. Uh-huh.”
You glare. “Not like that.”
Though the burning in your cheeks betrays you.
“When I started writing about LuthorCorp, it was just research. I had a leak, someone feeding me information. Then… he pulled me in. Said if I wanted facts, I should see things firsthand. That’s all.”
Lois narrows her eyes. “So you were his mouthpiece.”
“No, I’m not,” you retort sharply. “I don’t print what he wants me to. I print what I see.”
Lies.
“That’s a thin line you’re walking,” Lois mutters. “And you know it.”
Jimmy’s eyes shift between you and Lois, and cuts in before you start arguing. “PlanetWatch. What’s the big deal about it?”
But before you can answer, your phone buzzes against the table. You glance at the screen.
Your stomach knots. You practically have his number memorized now.
You answer it cautiously. “Hello-”
His voice comes over, commanding, but smooth. “Enough chit chat. I’m waiting outside. We’re going on a field trip.”
Click.
Lois raises her brows even more skeptically. “That was him, wasn’t it.”
Grabbing your bag, heart thrumming. “Sorry. Gotta go.”
You push your way past them, feeling slightly guilty for not staying. You show up, give them partial lies, then head out. You’d be surprised if you’re not fired soon.
But based on your conversation earlier with Lex, this is PlanetWatch camp related.
And you’re dying to know more about it. If the stolen documents had the truth. How the military is cooperating with LuthorCorp. If those Raptor suits were being made.
Your heels click rapidly down the hallway and into the elevator. You hurriedly tap the bottom floor button, and then frantically the close door button, avoiding any more contact with people.
The usual black car idles by the curb. As you approach it, the driver steps out and opens the back door, allowing you to enter.
Lex isn’t inside the car.
And part of you is… disappointed. The other part is relieved. The driver says nothing to you as he pulls away, leaving you in the near silence of the vehicle.
It’s a brief ride.
You were right, as the car slows, you look outside to see the beaches of Metropolis. A portion of the beach is roped off, and you can see little black tents scattered around.
“Mr. Luthor is waiting,” the driver speaks up. You nod once, slipping out of the car and intuitively following the narrow path that cuts toward the shore.
The wind carries grains of sand across your ankles, and the hush of waves grows louder. Each step sinks into the soft ground, your heels are useless. With a frustrated huff, you slip them off, holding them loosely in one hand as you continue barefoot across the cooling sand.
Ahead, the glow of floodlights washes over the scenery, casting a blue glow that contrasts the setting sun over the tents, silhouettes of soldiers and LuthorCorp technicians moving briskly between them.
One tent flap stirs, and Lex ducks out.
This must be what he was referring to when he said he was "waiting outside." Not waiting outside The Daily Planet, but waiting outside Metropolis.
He straightens the instant he sees you. For a moment, he doesn't move. Just watches, shoulders squared, stern look on his face.
When you’re finally within earshot, the tension in his jaw breaks into a devilish grin.
Law x Reader
Length 14 K+
Rating: 18K+
Warnings: Slight Age Gap (Older reader/Younger Law), Slow Burn, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Family Pressure, Medical Detail, Childhood Trauma, Language, Gaslighting, Angst, slight sexual content
For Scalpel Bae.
Interested in being in the taglist? HERE
Next
The bond began whisper-faint when you were a preteen. A vague hum at the edge of your mind, scraps of someone else’s thoughts drifting through like leaves on a river.
Most people got lucky. Their soulmates thought about food, music, or embarrassing crushes. Yours? Yours narrated surgical procedures.
You were sketching quietly one afternoon when the mental equivalent of, “Scalpel. Suction. Clamp that artery,” dropped into your head.
Your charcoal broke against the page. You stared at your drawing and wondered if your soulmate was a murderer.
By fourteen, you knew better. Not a murderer. Just… unnervingly comfortable describing human insides in clinical detail. You had so many questions and absolutely no desire to know the answers.
He was sarcastic, too. Not in the fun, witty way. More in the ‘I will skin you alive with words’ way. Entire summers passed where you were forced to listen to him silently dismantle someone’s intelligence in increasingly creative ways.
He had the bedside manner of a storm drain. Flat. Cold. Unimpressed. Yet there were moments that startled you. The way his focus sharpened when someone was injured. The rare flickers of tenderness when he thought about animals. The low, steady hum of quiet when he was finally alone.
By sixteen, you gave up trying to figure him out. Doctor. Pirate. Something worse. Whoever he was, you were stuck with him, destined to hear him grumble about anatomy, the weather, and the stupidity of humanity for the rest of your life.
Sometimes you talked back in your head—little sarcastic comments.
“You must be fun at parties.”
The bond pulsed faintly, as if he was holding back a sigh.
You were just an artist who liked to draw anatomy. Your soulmate was a man who dissected it. And if fate had a sense of humor, his name was probably something dramatic, like ‘Law’.
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
Age 13:
You were thirteen the day the bond snapped into clarity.
It happened mid-afternoon, in the corner of your guardian’s study where you had spread out your sketchbook. The window light fell across half-finished portraits and clumsy studies of hands, your pencil scratching as you tried to capture the curl of a smile from memory. The smell of ink and graphite clung to the air.
Then a voice broke across your mind like glass.
“I swear, if anyone touches me, I’ll cut them open.”
You froze, pencil hovering mid-stroke. The words were too sharp, too young, too soaked in fury to belong to you.
“Worthless. Every last moment. Why would he—”
Soulmate bonds weren’t rare, but yours had always been faint, a distant hum you could forget if you tried. Whoever he was, he had never been clear enough for you to catch more than a flicker of mood.
Until now.
For days after, his thoughts came in jagged bursts. Hatred. Exhaustion. Something darker still, like a shadow crouched in the back of his mind. And then, always, the same name, repeated like a prayer he did not believe in.
“Cora.”
You did not know who that was. But the way he thought it made your chest ache, as though you had sketched grief itself onto paper.
He was young. Younger than you, for sure. But his mind didn’t move like a child’s. It was jagged, old, scraped raw by something cruel. He thought like someone who had run too far, seen too much, and decided the world deserved every bad thing it got.
Once, you tried to think back.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
There was a pause. For a moment, you thought he might answer.
“Don’t talk to me.”
And that was it.
The following week was worse. Flashes of memory slid through the bond whether you wanted them or not. The smell of smoke. The crack of gunfire. The metallic tang of blood. You tried to shut it out. You told yourself it wasn’t yours to carry. But the bond didn’t care.
You were tied to him now. Whoever he was. Wherever he was. Whatever had happened.
And whether you liked it or not, you could hear every grief-soaked thought he had.
At first, he tried to block you out. The bond felt like an intrusion to him, and you knew it. Every thought of his was a wall slammed down hard. The rage dulled in time, but it did not fade. It sharpened instead, becoming something lean and precise.
You could feel him practicing it, shaping his fury the way you shaped pencil strokes. He measured his anger like a weapon, counting it out the way you counted lines on paper.
The more you leaned toward softness, the more he turned to cold. Detached. Clinical. On nights when you sketched until your fingers were gray with charcoal, his thoughts would run in exacting rhythm: scalpels, clamps, sutures. Each word carried the weight of repetition, like someone rehearsing until they could no longer fail. He refused to lose control again.
For months, that was all you had.
But every so often, something else slipped through.
A fleeting warmth when he thought of animals. A rare pang of guilt that bled raw before he shoved it back under lock. The faintest hum—soft, almost human—when exhaustion finally dragged him still.
It was not much. But it was enough to keep you there.
Through the seasons, you pressed against him without meaning to. Steady. Unguarded. Softer than he had expected.
When you spent afternoons sketching children in the street, trying to capture their laughter in crooked lines, he would go quiet. The bitterness at the edges of his thoughts would falter, thinned out by something he did not name.
When you lingered over the slope of an older woman’s shoulders or the delicate folds around her eyes, marveling at how wrinkles told their stories, you felt him hesitate. Not to sneer. Not to mock. Just pause, as though stillness was safer than scorn.
Your presence never demanded. It never accused. It simply was. And over the months, he grew slower to snap when you spoke across the bond.
“It’s all right to rest.”
“I like the way people’s faces change when they laugh.”
“You sound tired.”
Little things. Like pencil notes in the margins.
Nearly a year passed before anything changed out loud.
One evening, as you shaded in the curve of a ribcage on your paper, the thought slipped free of you without meaning to.
“I think you’re hurting.”
The silence stretched on so long you were sure he had shut you out completely.
Then, so faint you almost missed it, came his answer.
“So what if I am? No one really cares.”
It was not kindness. It was not cruelty either.
It was, for the first time, honesty.
“I hope you feel better soon.”
-X- A Sample of Your Teenage Psychic Transcript – Medical Cut -X-
Age 14:
By the following year, you’d stopped expecting him to soften. Whoever he was, he didn’t know you, didn’t want to, and made sure you were aware of it.
He was always moving. You could tell by the way his thoughts carried fragments of places you’d never been. Creaking docks. Rain on corrugated tin. The heavy thud of boots on ship planks.
And always that undercurrent of contempt. For strangers. For the world. For himself.
The only time you caught a break from the steady stream of sharp-edged thoughts was when you buried yourself in study. As the only child of a well-off merchant, you were busy stocking the front rooms, and all your free time was lost in art.
Sometimes, without meaning to, you’d answer him in your head when he muttered about the stupidity of someone’s choices.
“Not everyone knows what you know. Or, maybe they were scared.”
“You should eat more. You deserve to feel full.”
“Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”
He never acknowledged it. But sometimes his thoughts paused, like he’d heard you, and was deciding not to respond. The days were too full for waiting in curiosity.
You worked.
You rose before the sun to restock shelves and check deliveries. You ran accounts for the shop in neat columns. You weighed powders until your arms ached. You smiled at customers you didn’t like because a coin was a coin.
Sometimes, when you were too tired to keep your guard up, he’d flicker at the edges of your thoughts. The steady scrape of a chair on a deck. The clean, precise snip of scissors through bandages. The sound of him setting down a scalpel with deliberate care.
It was a rainy afternoon in the shop. The air was thick with the scent of wet wool from customers’ coats and the sharper bite of eucalyptus from the back room, where you were mixing a chest salve for an elderly regular.
The kid had been grumbling in the bond for the past half hour about someone named Bepo ignoring his medical instructions. You’d been letting him rant while you worked, humming under your breath.
Then the bell over the shop door rang, and a young mother stepped in carrying a wailing toddler. You could see right away that the boy’s arm was scraped raw from elbow to wrist.
“Come in,” you said gently, guiding her toward the counter. “Let’s take a look.”
You crouched to the child’s level, smiling like you had all the time in the world. You let him hold your measuring spoon while you cleaned the scrape, explaining each step in a calm, even voice. He sniffled but didn’t pull away.
Through the bond, your soulmate went quiet.
“…You’re…not the worst,” he said abruptly.
You paused.
This was the first time your morose soulmate had ever chosen to speak to you first.
“At treating scrapes? It’s not exactly advanced medical work,” you thought softly, trying not to scare him with how excited it made you.
“No. The… other thing.”
“What other thing?”
A pause. You could feel him hunting for a word and hating that he couldn’t find the right one.
“Making people stop being scared.”
You laughed softly. “Thanks, little guy.”
“…Gross. My name is Law. Use it, asshole.”
God, he was mean.
But that was the moment he began talking.
And despite his piss poor attitude, you felt pity for him. You wanted to help this kid, if for no other reason than sparing your own mind from the sheer depression flooding it.
You knew he was smart as hell and knew medicine. You weren’t much yourself, but you could draw. So you started sketching anatomy.
Little doodles here and there, and then entire sketchbooks. You still enjoyed flowery subjects, but more often than not, your confused parents found you sketching less pretty subjects.
Anatomical plates, muscles, tendons, imperfect, but with intention.
You were mid-discovering the delicate architecture of your own hand when the kid cut in again.
“You forgot the extensor indicis.”
You blinked at your paper. “The what?”
“The small muscle here.” There was the faintest brush of his mental focus, tracing where it should go. “It extends the index finger. Yours is missing it entirely.”
“I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Clearly.” His tone was flat, cruel. “Don’t label it wrong or you’ll look incompetent.”
He was as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel and just as merciless, but never wrong. He spoke like someone twice his age, and though he wasn’t unkind exactly, he had no concept of softening criticism.
You could have responded angrily. Could have stopped entirely. But the boy… Law… he felt so wounded, and always sounded like he was expecting you to just slam the bond closed. To be left behind.
And you realized that he never did. He could have closed the bond or just tightened it.
But he didn’t.
So you didn’t. And no matter how smart Law was, you weren’t letting a hurt little kid discourage you from art.
“Thanks, Law. I appreciate the help.”
And this was the right choice.
Over time, the weight of his thoughts shifted. They lingered just a little longer when you spoke, held fast instead of sliding past. It wasn’t comfortable, not really, but it was something.
He wasn’t always pleasant, but he was always right. His grasp of anatomy was flawless, too clean and too clever for a boy his age.
And with his constant, almost nagging perfectionism running through the bond like a second heartbeat, your art began to change. Muscles fell in the right places. Bone structure matched the lines of movement. Your sketches became precise, sharper, and undeniably correct.
You became better. Fast.
If only to stop his relentless commentary.
Age 15:
By fifteen, you had gotten good enough to take commissions from local medical students. Anatomical sketches fetched coin, and your work was clean enough to be pinned up in the back rooms of small classrooms. You were halfway through a detailed spinal plate when his voice slid in, cutting as ever.
“Your vertebrae look like they belong to three different people.” Law hissed, critically.
You sighed, rubbing the charcoal smudge off your thumb. “Hello to you too.”
“And that disc spacing? Unstable.”
“They’re for student reference, not surgery,” you muttered, setting your pencil down before you snapped it in half.
“So why make them wrong?” A pause, dry as salt. “Don’t show that to anyone until you fix it.”
The sharpness was still there, but the venom had dulled. He no longer sounded like he was trying to wound you with every word. More like he had decided you could take the critique, and that counted for something.
What drove him mad, however, were your thoughts when you weren’t working.
One afternoon, while you sat on the steps outside your guardian’s home, sketching children chasing a ball, your mind drifted to the smell of warm bread from the market stall nearby.
The bond prickled immediately.
“Bread? Again? It’s useless. Heavy. Worthless nutrition. You’re going to get sick again.”
You laughed out loud, startling one of the children. “You’re awfully passionate about food you don’t have to eat.”
“Eat something else.”
“Like what?” you jabbed back. “Clamp sizes? Sutures?”
The silence that followed was icy, and you could feel his irritation simmering. It only made you grin harder.
Which made it a blow when you discovered, to his endless amusement, that you were gluten intolerant.
“I told you. I am always right.”
“I am not about to let a ten-year-old diagnose me.”
“I already told you, I’m twelve, and more than highly qualified to see an obvious case of cause and effect—”
“Show me the medical certificate, child.”
He fumed for days over that one.
His nitpicking over your sketches and diet intensified, out of sheer spite.
You had been daydreaming about sketching in the corner of a café when your thoughts wandered to the custard tarts cooling in the window.
He cut in before you could even finish the thought. “Don’t. You’ll just get sick again.”
You blinked. “Are you… scolding my daydream?”
“I’m reminding you that you are an idiot,” he replied flatly. “Gluten makes you miserable. Stop thinking about it. You’re like a glutton bent on your own misery.”
“You’re very judgmental for someone who was muttering about vintage coins in his free time,” you muttered, but you still closed your sketchbook and walked past the stall without stopping.
“Shut up, asshole.”
His comments remained exacting, sharp-edged, and impossible to ignore. But over time, the anger that had once bitten into every word began to dull into something else. A strange, biting sort of concern, hidden in critique, in scolding, in relentless correction.
And as much as you rolled your eyes at his nagging, you realized you had stopped resenting it.
Somehow, it felt like proof he wanted to be there.
Age 16:
Your reputation was growing, and one of the town’s physicians had just asked you to illustrate a complete atlas.
It was late in the day, the kind of heavy summer heat that made the whole shop feel like it was holding its breath. You had the shutters open, but the air was still thick, curling in warm waves over the counters.
You were leaning over the workbench in the back room, measuring out a bone. Your sleeves had slipped down to your elbows, and there was a streak of green from the mortar across your cheek.
Through the bond, he was there, steady, present, not saying much. Just that quiet hum he got when he was working on something.
You were inking the serratus anterior when he dropped in.
“You’re getting better.”
You stilled, pestle hovering above the mortar.
It was quite literally the nicest thing Law had ever said to you.
“…Really?”
There was a pause. You could almost feel him realize what he’d said.
“I meant—your lines look less tired. Not that they’re perfect.”
You frowned, suspicious. “Less tired? Is that a compliment?”
“It’s not a compliment.” His tone had sharpened again, sliding back into familiar territory.”It’s an observation. Your artwork usually looks like you’re having a stroke.”
You rolled your eyes, relaxing again. “Thanks, little brother. Always so uplifting.”
“Don’t call me that, bread demon. I told you, my name is Law.”
“Okay, baby surgeon. I’ll just take your compliment."
“Asshole.”
You smirked.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” A pause. “Your scapula’s still ugly.”
“Ugly?” you laughed. “It’s bone.”
“And still somehow ugly. But… accurate.”
You grinned down at your work. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you like being able to judge me.”
He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice was lower. “I didn’t say I didn’t.”
But the edge in his voice was thinner than usual, almost see-through. And before you could press him on it, he filled the bond with the sound of turning pages, as if he’d gone back to work and the moment had never happened.
You still caught glimpses of his days. A faint reek of antiseptic. The wet slide of blood against gloves. The soft thud of a book closing. He was always busy, his thoughts layered and hard to get a read on. Assessments, plans, strategies. Sometimes, irritation so thick you could almost taste it when someone ignored him. You’re pretty sure they’re names are Penguin and Shachi, but he was tight-lipped as hell.
You tried to imagine what his life was like. You tried not to picture the places behind his jagged thoughts, or the things he never let himself think too close to you.
But sometimes, late at night, when you sat at your desk sharpening pencils down to neat little points, the bond shifted. It went quiet in a way that wasn’t cold. Not empty, not shut. Just… hushed.
In those moments, you swore you felt something else in him. Not anger. Not cruelty. Not the sharp edge of his sarcasm.
Just a boy who missed someone so fiercely he had wrapped the grief in barbed wire, convinced it would cut anyone who touched it.
“Who’s Cora?” you asked once, the words slipping across the bond before you could stop them.
The stillness that followed was suffocating. A silence so heavy it pressed down on your chest.
For a moment, you thought he would snap at you, that he would lash out with the precision of his usual cruelty.
But instead, what came back was softer, frayed at the edges, barely more than a thought.
“Don’t.”
Just that. One word. Not sharp. Not biting. Just broken.
You never asked again.
Age 17:
You were inking a series of cross-sections of the heart for a physician’s manual, bent low over the desk under the glow of a single lamp, when his voice slid through.
“That’s a decent left atrium.”
Your pen hesitated mid-line. A faint smile tugged at your lips.
“Oh? That sounded almost kind.”
“Don’t push it. The pulmonary veins are too thin.”
“You couldn’t just let me have that one?”
“No.”
There was no sting to it anymore, not the way there had been in the beginning. If anything, you could believe he wanted you to be as precise as he would be, as if your drawings reflected him, too, somehow.
By seventeen, you had gotten used to the sound of him. His voice was woven into your days the way the scratch of a pencil was, sharp lines against softer shades.
That evening, you were alone in the back room, counting out coins from the day’s commissions. Your fingers smelled faintly of mint and valerian from the bundles you’d sketched earlier. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows.
The bond stirred. Sharper than it had been in weeks.
“You’re not eating enough.”
You paused, surprised.
“…Excuse me?” The words slipped out before you could catch them.
“I can hear you counting coins. Not food. You’ve skipped too many meals.”
Your brows knit.
“You’ve been listening?”
“You’re loud,” he said flatly. “And you work too much.”
The old Law would have spat it like an accusation, jagged and cold. But this wasn’t that. His tone was flat, yes, but it carried something else beneath it. Not rage. Not sarcasm. Something closer to… concern.
You leaned back in your chair, staring at the rain. “You hate bread, and that’s all I want. What’s left? Air?”
The bond thrummed, a flicker of annoyance that felt oddly familiar by now
“Just eat. Not bread. Rice. My crew likes rice.”
It was rare for him to reference his work directly. You knew he did medical work and was probably good at it, from the way he critiqued your dosing methods and quizzed you on illustrations. You knew he sailed, because sometimes you caught the snap of salty wind behind his thoughts. You knew he had at least one tattoo, because he’d let slip once that they “took forever to heal at sea.” And you knew his crew was… strange.
Strange enough that whenever you’d asked, he’d just said, “You wouldn’t believe me.”
It gave you something to think about, though you weren’t mature enough to let it pass.
You almost laughed. “Says the one doing surgery in his head at all hours. You should practice what you preach.”
There was a pause. You could feel him weighing whether to answer.
“I don’t collapse while holding sharp objects,” he said finally. “You will.”
You leaned back in your chair, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. “You’re too young to be lecturing me. You need a hobby. What about those Sora comics? Didn’t you think about those a few days ago?”
“...You’re lucky I said anything at all.” He said, followed by a sharp prick of irritation, quickly smoldered by cold distance. He hated losing. “And I’m not a kid.”
You smirked.
You learned to read between the lines and didn’t push on bad days, but you knew he was still a nerdy little kid under the attitude and occasionally needed a reminder.
You wished you knew more about Sora and the Sea or whatever made him feel happy on bad days. Wished you could send him a rare coin.
But you doubted he’d accept anything from a person who tempted fate to eat bread. He seemed more and more persnickety about your daily life.
The midsummer heat had settled in again, thick and unshakable. You were in front of the shop, sleeves rolled, hair pulled high to keep it off your neck as you rearranged the tincture display. The bell over the door rang for the third time that morning, and you glanced up to see two of the dockhands who came in every month for salves and liniment.
They were harmless enough, full of loud laughter and bad jokes, and you smiled as you handed one of them his usual bottle.
In your head, Law stirred. “He’s staring at your neck. Flip him off.”
You blinked at the sudden intrusion. “I’m working,” you murmured under your breath, hoping the dockhands didn’t notice.
“And he’s still staring.”
You handed the other man a packet of mint tea, smiling as they paid.
“That’s called eye contact, Law.”
“That’s called being distracted. Which, for the record, is a liability.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
They left with their purchases, still laughing, and you returned to the counter to tidy up. You could feel him still there in the bond, sharper than usual, almost… pacing.
“You’ve been like this for a while,” you said finally. “What is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
You arched a brow, even though he couldn’t see it. “You get all fidgety every time I talk to anyone under forty. Are you annoyed that your older sister hasn’t been giving you attention?”
“That’s not—” He stopped, the words halting mid-thought. For a second, you caught something unguarded in the bond, that restless knot you sometimes felt from him when you mentioned someone else by name.
“You are not my sister.”
And then it was gone. Didn’t speak to you for a solid two weeks.
Not until a traveling merchant paused to flirt with you one afternoon as you unloaded your wares.
“You’re wearing that dress again,” Law said sharply. “It makes you look easy.”
You laughed. “That’s the insult you’re going with?”
“It’s not an insult. Just… you could do better.”
“Better how?”
“…Forget it.”
You shook your head, still smiling as you went back to work. “Whatever you say, kiddo.”
The bond went tight at that, just for a second, but you didn’t notice.
You were too busy straightening jars to catch the way he lingered after, silent but unwilling to let go of the image of you in that heat and sunlight, smiling at people who weren’t him.
Age 18:
By the time you were eighteen, you’d started to at least think about dating. Not seriously. You were too busy keeping the shop and your art afloat, but sometimes the idea crossed your mind.
The delivery boy with the easy smile. The apprentice carpenter who fixed the counter and lingered in conversation a little too long. Even the traveling herbalist who’d passed through with a bag of rare seeds and a knack for flattery.
You never said any of it out loud, but Law always knew.
The moment your thoughts drifted in that direction, the bond would sharpen.
“What are you doing?”
“Stocking the front shelves.”
“You’re thinking about someone.”
“Thinking about inventory.”
“No, you’re not.”
It wasn’t just words. He had a way of crowding your mind when you got close to anything romantic, suddenly filling the bond with his own running commentary until you couldn’t hold onto the thought. Sometimes it was sharp and clinical, other times just plain annoying.
Like the time you’d been idly wondering if the carpenter would ask you to a late-night coffee, and Law had cut in with, “You forgot to delineate the humerus bone in the last sketch properly. You’ll have to start over to get it done right.”
Or when you’d been replaying a conversation with the herbalist in your head and he’d muttered, “That man doesn’t wash his hands enough to be touching your medicine.”
The worst was when you’d actually been mid-chat with someone, considering an invitation, and the bond had flooded with him reading medical textbook passages at full speed, as if rattling off symptoms of rare parasitic infections was going to help your mood.
You’d eventually stopped bringing it up, assuming it was just Law being Law: territorial in a little-brother way, determined to protect you from ‘idiots’.
You didn’t notice that he never reacted that way when you talked to neighbors, customers, or children, only when someone looked at you too long, only when your thoughts warmed toward someone who wasn’t him.
It happened in the middle of a Thursday, when you were stocking jars of peppermint tea on the front shelves.
The bell over the door rang, and in walked Jorin, the carpenter’s apprentice who’d been fixing shutters around town. Nice enough, quick smile, hair still damp from the drizzle outside.
“Hey,” he said, leaning on the counter. “So, there’s a midsummer dance this weekend. I was wondering if you—”
“Absolutely not.”
You froze, jar in hand. “I’m sorry?” you said aloud, blinking at Jorin.
He looked confused. “Uh… I was asking if you wanted to come—”
“Tell him you’re busy.”
“I—” You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the static of Law’s voice in your head.
“Busy with something important,” he added. “Like learning how to not trip over your own feet in public.”
You bit your tongue.
Jorin smiled patiently. “You don’t have to decide now. Just thought—”
“He’s wearing mismatched socks.” Law muttered.
You inhaled sharply. “Law—”
“And that shirt’s been mended badly. Probably with fishing line. Which means he can’t sew. Which means if he can’t handle a needle, he definitely can’t handle you.”
You tried not to laugh. “That’s… very specific.”
Jorin tilted his head. “Are you okay?”
“Say no before he starts reciting poetry or something equally stupid.”
“I—” You fumbled with the jar. “I’ll… think about it.”
Jorin nodded, a little unsure, and left.
The moment the door closed, you slammed the jar onto the shelf. “What is wrong with you?”
“You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“Saving you from a lifetime of badly sewn buttons and subpar woodworking.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And yet, here I am, saving you from mediocrity."
There would be far too many times he would do this.
It was late summer, and the shop was stifling. You had the windows propped open to catch what little breeze there was, your sleeves rolled to the elbows as you weighed dried lavender for an order.
The bond was quiet until the bell over the door rang and one of the local delivery boys leaned on the counter. He was a year or two older than you, all easy grins and sunshine hair.
“Brought you the package from Westport,” he said, sliding the box toward you. “And, uh… there’s a dance in the square this weekend. You should come.”
You laughed, warm and polite. “If I can get away from the shop, maybe.”
That was it. Just a passing, friendly exchange.
But in your head, the bond slammed into focus.
“Who’s that?”
You blinked. “Who’s who?”
“The idiot with the box.”
You glanced at the delivery boy, who was still chatting about the weather. “Just someone doing his job.”
“He was staring at you.”
“He was talking to me,” you corrected, moving to sign for the package.
“He was staring.”
You smiled to yourself. “Why? You jealous?”
Silence, but the kind of silence that thrummed, sharp and restless.
“You are, aren’t you? Adorable.”
“I’m not adorable, he snapped. And I’m not jealous. I just—he looked stupid. That’s all.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“You’re impossible.”
The bond had been simmering since then.
You could feel the edge in him, that tight, deliberate kind of focus he got before something dangerous. He was thinking through a dozen contingencies at once, all of them involving violence.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” you asked as you measured powdered feverfew.
“No.”
You sighed. “You’ve been tense for hours. At least tell me you’re not about to do something stupid.”
“I don’t do stupid things.”
“You’re fifteen. You absolutely do stupid things.”
The flash of irritation through the bond was sharp enough to make you pause mid-measure.
“I’m not a child,” he bit out.
“I didn’t say you were. I’m just—” You hesitated, then smiled faintly. “—looking out for you. You’re like a bro—”
The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not even verbal. Just this heavy, knotted wall slamming down between you, the kind he built when he didn’t want you anywhere near whatever he was feeling.
“Don’t call me that.”
You laughed, confused. “Why? You’ve hated it since the start. What’s different now?”
“It’s—”
He stopped himself, the words cutting off mid-thought. You caught the edge of something raw underneath, not anger, not exactly. Something warmer and far more fragile. For a second, there was nothing but static between you. Then, faintly, “It’s different because you’re… He cut himself off so fast you almost missed the start of the thought.”
“Because I’m what?” you pressed.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. You could feel the churn underneath: frustration, pride, something sharper you couldn’t quite place.
“You don’t get it,” he said finally. “You talk to everyone like that. You smile at them. You laugh. They all want your attention. They follow you around.”
It was so unexpected that you stopped mid-wrap. “…Are you seriously mad because I’m… friendly?”
“You’re popular.” He said it like it was a flaw. “People like you. They look at you like—” He broke off again, the thought snapping closed.
You tried to keep your tone light. “And you don’t like that I call you ‘kiddo’ while I’m also nice to other people?”
“Forget it.”
“No, I think I’m onto something here. Classic sibling behavior. I’m eighteen, you’re fifteen, and mad I’m ahead.”
“Forget it,” he repeated, sharper this time, but not sharp enough to hide the truth bleeding through.
You let it go.
But later that night, as you swept the shop and locked the till, you thought about the way his voice had caught when he’d said, “They all want your attention.”
You thought about how different it felt from his usual sharp, distant tone.
You told yourself it was just pride, just teenage stubbornness. You didn’t see the way the word “kiddo” tangled with every quiet, dangerous feeling he’d been trying not to name for a while.
At the time, you didn’t realize that to him, you weren’t just the older soul in his head who patched him up with words. You were the one person who made him want to be seen, and the idea that you might always see him as your “kid brother” felt worse than any wound.
So you let it go.
He didn’t.
He seemed to be more insistent on mentally following your days. Once, you were sketching a dissection of the abdominal cavity for a coastal hospital when he cut in.
“That’s an awfully fancy liver for a man who drinks as much as your uncle does.”
You snorted.
“It’s from a cadaver, not my uncle.”
“Still too clean. Looks like it’s never had to work a day in its life.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Your menace. Don’t forget it.”
And so on.
The next day, you’d been working on a set of rare pathology illustrations for weeks, a commission from a doctor in a port city you’d never visited. Every few hours, Law’s voice would slip in, quieter than it used to be.
“That ulcer’s the wrong shape. Add more mottling to the kidney cortex. Those necrotic tissues? Needs more depth in the shading.”
One evening, as you brushed in the final strokes, he said, almost like it wasn’t for you to hear, “You’re good at this. Better than anyone I’ve seen.”
You blinked, looking down at the page. “Was that…?”
“Don’t make it weird,” he said quickly. “Just don’t mess it up.”
You laughed and went back to work, not noticing how long he lingered after you finished, or perhaps that he’d been picturing, with perfect clarity, what it would be like to watch you draw in person.
Maybe it was his words (or perhaps just chance), but the bond changed after that. It softened, deepened, and clarified.
You were kneeling on the store’s backroom floor, sorting through a crate of dried herbs that had just come in from a coastal trader. Your hair had slipped out of its knot in soft strands, the faint scent of sea lavender clinging to your clothes from the shipment. A fine dust of powdered chamomile covered your fingers.
The bond flickered, sharper than usual. Not a sound, not a word, just a sudden clarity, like a curtain being pulled aside.
On his end, Law had been somewhere quiet. You didn’t know that. All you felt was the strange sense of him suddenly being present, without speaking.
You looked up into a window and saw yourself.
Through that crack in the bond, he saw you. The slow, careful way you unwrapped each bundle of herbs. The crease in your brow when you checked for signs of mold. The soft tilt of your head when you hummed under your breath: tuneless, absent-minded, but steady.
It lasted only a handful of seconds, but he didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
“…You’ve got powder on your cheek.”
You huffed a laugh, still bent over the crate. “Oh? Comes with the job.”
He almost said more, but stopped. Instead, he let the connection dim, slipping back behind the familiar wall.
You went on with your work, brushing your cheek with the back of your wrist, not thinking twice about the moment. You didn’t notice how still he’d gone on the other end, or how carefully he’d kept the image of you from fading.
For you, it was just another day in the shop. For him, it was something else.
Age 19:
The evening was warm enough that the windows were open, letting in the scent of the herb garden with the slow creak of the shutters. The lamplight in the kitchen was warm, spilling across the table where you’d spread out a few sketches that needed drying. You’d been working late, the faint scent of ink and parchment still clinging to your hands, when your father cleared his throat.
“We had a letter from Westport today,” he said, like he was just mentioning the weather. “From the Edevane family.”
You looked up. “I don’t know them.”
“I bet they smell like mothballs and desperation,” Law murmured in the bond. “Never seen a human liver in their life.”
You pressed your lips together to hide a smile.
Your aunt poured tea into your cup. “They have a son about your age. Works with his father in shipping.”
“They’d want you to stop drawing,” Law said, quieter now. “Or worse, they’d keep you at it but never understand what you’re doing.”
You glanced at your sketches. The delicate cross-section of a kidney, the careful shading on the inner ear. “Alright…?”
Your father shifted in his seat. “They’re interested in forming a partnership with the shop. And… perhaps, in time, with the family.”
“There it is,” Law said, his tone as dry as paper. “And by ‘partnership’ they mean ‘you sign over everything while he names the jars wrong.’”
You fought the twitch at the corner of your mouth. “You think this would help the business?”
“It could be good for stability,” your aunt said. “The boy is polite. Well-spoken.”
“Polite means boring. Well-spoken means talks too much,” Law murmured. “Do they know you have an existing arrangement with a ship’s doctor who’s better looking, better traveled, and has all his own teeth?”
You blinked hard to keep your expression neutral. “You think this would help the shop?”
“It could mean stability,” your aunt said.
“Stuck,” Law said. Then, warmer, “Do you want to be saddled forever?”
That caught you.
You took a slow sip of tea. “And if I’m not interested?”
Your father glanced at the ledger. “It would still be wise to meet him. No promises. Just… keep an open mind.”
“Tell them you’re too busy. Tell them you’ve got commissions. Tell them you can’t leave mid-series because anatomy doesn’t wait for courtship,” Law pressed.
You set your cup down, schooling your voice to calm. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t”, Law said, but there was something softer under it, not triumph, exactly. More like anxiety. “It’d be a waste. Your work’s too precise to get shoved in a drawer because someone doesn’t get it.”
Your aunt smiled faintly. “That’s all we ask.”
“And by ‘think about it,’ you mean ‘no,’” Law prompted.
“I mean… I’ll consider all the factors,” you said aloud, meeting your father’s gaze.
“Arranged marriage. You’re not doing it.”
You stared at the kitchen wall. “You can’t just decide that for me.”
“I can if the alternative is you marrying some idiot who thinks the word supercilium is a condiment.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “That is… wildly specific.”
“Because I know the type,” he said, his voice edged like glass. “They’ll come in here with their merchant smile, pretend they care about your work, and then the minute they’ve got the papers signed, you’ll be stuck with someone who calls every illustration in your portfolio ‘bones’ like it’s all the same thing.”
You let out a slow breath. “You are being extremely dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic,” he corrected. “If you go through with it, I will personally—” He stopped, then came back in colder. “You'll be bored and annoyed.”
You sat back, staring into your tea. “You know, normal people wish their soulmates happiness.”
“Normal people don’t have soulmates who make terrible life choices.”
You laughed despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re welcome.”
Law’s satisfaction was a quiet hum at the back of your mind, smug and warm, like a secret tucked into the folds of your consciousness. It lingered there, a gentle, insistent presence that made your chest feel lighter, even as the world outside remained predictably tense.
You retired to your room, closing the door softly behind you.
Soon enough, a soft knock drew your attention, followed by the faint click of the handle. Your mother stepped inside, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as if she were holding back a lecture—or a worry—she didn’t know how to voice. She closed the door with careful deliberation, the soft thud punctuating the quiet hum of your room.
Her eyes swept over you, taking in the sketches on your desk, the scattered pencils, and the haphazard comfort of your little sanctuary. For a moment, she said nothing, simply standing there as if weighing whether to step further into your life or step back. Her fingers tightened briefly at her sides, betraying the concern she tried to mask behind measured composure.
“You’re… doing that artwork again,” she said finally, voice low, almost hesitant. It wasn’t an accusation exactly—more a note of fear, of frustration barely contained.
Law’s presence at the edge of your thoughts coiled in response, smug warmth fading into a quiet edge of discomfort. He was listening from a distance, tucked just out of sight, and the tension in your mother’s voice made him stiffen slightly. He wasn’t used to family dynamics like this; he didn’t like the tightness in your chest that made him ache with unease.
With a mental shove, you gently pushed Law out of your head. This was not something he needed to hear.
You shifted on your bed, cross-legged, sketchbook open on your lap. “Still not seeing anyone?” she asked, stepping further in, hands clasped behind her back, voice a careful mix of curiosity and reproach. Her gaze flicked over the scattered pencils and ink bottles as if the disorder reflected your life itself.
“I’m busy with the medical illustration,” you muttered, trying to keep your tone neutral. “The commissions help the store make ends meet when the merchants don’t come on time.”
Her brows knitted. “Yes, yes, I know you’re dedicated—but you’re getting older, my darling. That’s no excuse not to think about your future. Marriage… securing your place… You know how our family is.” She let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of generations.
“Yes… But my art is doing well. We’ve been more comfortable—”
“Comfortable?” she scoffed. “Comfortable won’t pay the bills when your medical art is no longer needed. You need security, someone to support you if…” Her eyes softened for a moment. “…if you can’t rely on yourself alone.”
You lowered your sketchbook and met her gaze, feeling the warm pull of Law’s quiet hum in your mind. It steadied you, gave you courage you didn’t know you had. “I have a soulmate,” you said, the words escaping before you could reconsider.
The air in the room thickened. Your mother’s face tightened, and she leaned against the dresser, arms folded. “A soulmate?” she repeated slowly, each syllable dripping with distaste. “Is it… romantic?”
You shook your head. “No, he’s younger—a kid. Just needs attention and a friend. I’ve just been—”
She cut you off sharply. “You know how dangerous soulmates are. Contracts broken, hearts shattered… lives ruined. Your great-aunt almost ruined the family when she abandoned her husband for hers. And for what? She disappeared on the Grand Line and probably died. Soulmates are not guarantees—they are… liabilities.”
Law’s attention was immediate, subtle, like a tight coil in the back of your mind. He didn’t like the quiet throbs of discomfort, and you could feel him trying to weedle in, to understand. You almost unconsciously pushed him out, and he stayed on the fringes, tension wrapped around him, his presence invisible but insistent.
“I know,” you said quietly. “But it’s not about a contract or a guarantee. It’s… almost impossible to think of dating right now.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, frustration flickering. “You have to understand the patterns here, even if it’s not romantic. Every time someone dares to follow a ‘heart’ instead of reason, it ends in scandal—or worse. And you know your father doesn’t care much for meddling, but…” Her gaze flicked toward the doorway, where he wasn’t standing yet, giving a faint, impatient shrug. “…You need to figure out a way to move past this.”
“I am figuring it out,” you said, firm now.
Your mother let out a long, weary sigh, pacing a slow circle around your desk. “This family… we are cursed by heart and duty both. Soulmates have brought more misery than joy. I only want you to be secure. Happy is secondary to survival sometimes.”
Like hands pressed against the glass, Law’s presence in your mind shifted again, uneasy now. The warmth that had been smug and indulgent felt strained, tighter, anxious. He wished he could speak, could argue, could defend, but all he could do was stay close, listening, feeling the weight of your mother’s words, and silently promising himself he’d protect you when the storm passed.
When the soft click of the door signaled her departure, the room seemed impossibly quiet. You lay back on the bed, art pushed to the side, arms crossed over your knees, staring at the ceiling as if it could offer answers. The pencil on the floor beside you felt like a small, abandoned lifeline.
Law’s hum had faded to a low, restless thrum, as if he were pacing beside you, waiting for you to rise and reassure yourself. You felt him there, taut and anxious, a shadow pressed up against the edges of your mind, but you weren’t ready to move, to acknowledge him fully. Not yet.
The tension from your mother’s words clung to your skin, prickling at the back of your neck and settling in your chest. Marriage. Security. Contracts. The echoes of family mistakes and heartbreak. And still… the thought of your soulmate refused to feel wrong, refused to be tamed by fear or tradition.
Your fingers twitched against the blankets, restless, seeking. You could feel Law there, too, sensing the unease, the quiet battle between obligation and desire. His presence was a tether, a reminder that even if the world pressed in, even if your family’s expectations weighed heavily, you weren’t alone.
“Bread girl. Talk to me.”
Law’s voice was quiet, distant. You didn’t answer.
Age 20:
It started as a thought you barely allowed yourself to entertain.
Jorin had asked you out again. Polite, nervous, almost fumbling in a way that made your chest tighten. You could see the effort he put into appearing composed, the careful tilt of his head, the slight hesitation before he spoke. Part of you admired it.
You told yourself it was harmless. A simple dinner, nothing more, nothing less. No promises. No expectations. Just a few hours of polite conversation. You could manage that much.
Yet a tiny knot of doubt twisted in your stomach. What harm could it do? Just a meal, you told yourself, smoothing your hands over your skirts, adjusting the pencil tucked behind your ear.
At the back of your mind, you felt the faint, steady pressure of Law’s presence. His hum, usually smug and indulgent, had shifted. Taut, watchful, like he could sense the thought before it fully formed. It seemed like he already knew something you were pretending not to know.
The thought made your stomach twist in a way that was both familiar and unsettling. You tried to push it aside, telling yourself it was only dinner, a simple evening with no strings attached. Still, the knowledge of what could go wrong pressed at the edges of your mind. You had been cautious for so long, and yet this one small decision felt like stepping onto thin ice.
Law noticed immediately. At first, it was subtle, a quiet tightening in the back of your mind, like a hand pressing against glass from the other side. You felt the pressure and almost ignored it, telling yourself he was only reacting out of habit. Then it grew heavier, insistent, a coil of tension that wound around your chest.
“You are really doing this,” he said, cold and firm. The hum you had grown used to, warm and smug, was gone. In its place was something taut, restless, insistent. You could almost feel the rigid edge of his attention probing your thoughts, not judging, not angry, but evaluating every possibility and every risk.
“It's… important. To my parents.”
You tried to meet the sensation with reason, telling yourself that it was only a meal, that it would pass without incident. His presence did not relent. Instead, it pressed harder, a silent warning that refused to be ignored. Your chest tightened in response, a reflection of the tension threading through your mind.
“You do not understand,” he added, quieter now but still sharp. “You think it is harmless… You are placing yourself in unnecessary trouble. You don’t need to do this.”
You swallowed. His words were not a plea or a scolding. They were a statement of fact, precise and immovable. The room seemed smaller somehow, the air heavier. The simple thought of dinner had become a battleground of caution and defiance, and you felt the first pangs of worry that this was only the beginning.
“I want to,” you whispered, trying to convince yourself as much as him. “It a date. Nothing serious. I can manage it. It’s weird that I don’t—”
“Everyone else’s opinions don’t matter,” he said carefully. “Someone else, someone inexperienced, trying to insert themselves into your life while I am here keeping you safe.”
You froze. His presence, usually quiet comfort, felt oppressive now, like a weight pressing down on your thoughts. “Law, it is not like that. I have to live my life.”
“Live your life,” he said sharply, “but not at your own expense. You don’t like this guy. Playing with feelings is ruthless.”
“Dating is not ruthless,” you said, voice rising despite yourself. “It is just dinner. It is just a normal interaction. You do not get to dictate who I spend time with.”
“I am not dictating,” he said, low and steady. “I am warning. Protecting. It’s my job as a soulmate.”
The tension in your mind snapped. “Stop treating me like I am some fragile object you need to guard.”
There was a pause. You could feel him pull back, his warmth collapsing and leaving an empty, sharp hollow.
“I cannot do this anymore,” he said finally. His tone was flat, almost mechanical, but it carried the sting of disappointment. Then he blocked the connection.
The hum, the pull, the constant tether you had leaned on, gone.
You flinched against the sudden absence. “Law?” you whispered. Silence. Not even a trace of the protective weight that had always lingered beside you.
You sank onto your bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The pencils on the floor seemed sharper. The room felt smaller, heavier. The fight had left a hollow ache in your chest. It was not heartbreak or love, but the loss of a safeguard you had taken for granted. Someone who had always had your back was suddenly gone.
Hours passed. Shadows moved across the room, painting the walls in stripes of gold and gray. Your sketchbook lay forgotten. You could feel his absence like a draft under the door, a void that no one else could fill.
So you went, almost only to spite Law at this point.
You had told yourself it would be simple. A dinner, polite conversation, a brief step into normalcy. Jorin had been nervous but courteous, holding the door for you, asking questions with a genuine interest that felt almost foreign after so many days wrapped up in work and art.
The restaurant was quiet, a soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware surrounding you. Candles flickered on the table, casting warm light across his anxious features. He smiled too much, laughed at your polite jokes a little too readily. You told yourself it was fine, that nothing about this evening had to matter beyond being civil.
He was considerate. Thoughtful. Charming, in the careful, rehearsed way of someone who wanted to make a good impression. He listened when you spoke and commented without dominating the conversation. There was nothing wrong with him, and that was part of what made it so difficult. You felt nothing beyond neutral politeness, a polite affection that barely skimmed the surface of your heart.
After the main course, he leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing against yours. “I… I had a really nice time,” he said softly. His eyes searched yours for something, some sign of reciprocity. You forced a small smile, nodding.
“I had a nice time too,” you said, careful not to overstate anything.
Encouraged, he leaned in, closer than you expected, and brushed his lips to yours. You froze. The movement was gentle, tentative, but your stomach recoiled. You didn’t lean in, didn’t reciprocate. You pressed your lips into a polite line and subtly leaned back.
His eyes widened, hurt flashing across his features. “Oh,” he murmured, pulling back slightly. His fingers lingered in yours, uncertain, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders.
“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “I’m not… I’m not feeling this.”
A shadow crossed his face, the polite veneer cracking. “Not feeling this?” he repeated, disbelief and disappointment mingling. “We’ve been… I thought—” He trailed off, frustration bleeding into his tone.
“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “You’re… nice. Too nice, maybe. I just… I can’t.”
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet restaurant. “Too nice?” he echoed. “I’ve been trying, paying attention, caring, and that’s… too much?” His eyes glinted with frustration, a mix of hurt and anger.
You shook your head, looking down at the table, your fingers twisting in your lap. “It’s not personal. I just… I don’t feel it.”
The silence stretched between you, uncomfortable and heavy. He finally stood, gathering his coat. “Well, I suppose this is the end of the date then,” he said, voice tight. “I should have known better.”
You nodded, heart sinking. “I’m sorry, Jorin.”
He didn’t respond further. He walked away, leaving you staring at the table, your unease lingering long after the door clicked shut behind him.
At home, the quiet hum in your mind flared again, not smug this time but sharp, taut, and irritable. Law was there, restless, uncomfortable. You felt his presence coil around you, not speaking, only tense with disapproval. He didn’t need words to convey it. He was there, observing, waiting, silently asserting that he had warned you.
You curled into bed, cheeks warm and stomach knotted, wondering if polite neutrality had just become its own kind of war.
After a long moment, the tension in your mind shifted again. Law slid in quietly, a little lighter than before, though not entirely. He didn’t mock you, didn’t scold or criticize. There was just a faint edge of smugness lingering beneath something that almost felt like… repentance. Almost.
“I suppose that didn’t go exactly as you hoped,” he said, voice low in your thoughts, neutral but carrying the faintest trace of irony.
You huffed softly, leaning back against the pillows. “You could say that.”
He made no reply for a moment, letting the silence stretch, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was deliberate, the quiet weight of him settling in your mind. You felt him there, attentive and precise, watching you unravel the day in little mental threads.
Then, as if the world outside the memory of the failed dinner had shifted entirely, he added, “I want you to draw something for me.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “For you?”
“Yes,” he said, not impatient exactly, but firm. “Nothing elaborate. Just… a sketch. A quick one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You know I’m exhausted after tonight.”
“Exhausted or embarrassed?” he countered smoothly, almost teasing, though there was a quiet restraint behind it. He wasn’t gloating, but you could feel the faint smug curl of satisfaction buried beneath his words.
You groaned inwardly. “Fine. What do you want me to draw?”
He paused, the faint curl of smug satisfaction threading through the edges of his calm. “A smiling face,” he said simply. “Make it precise. Symmetrical. Don’t overdo it.”
You blinked. “A… smiling face? Seriously? You want me to… draw a smiley face?”
“Yes,” he replied, utterly matter-of-fact. “Do it well. I expect the eyes to align. The curve of the mouth should be balanced. Add something to fancy it up.”
You frowned at the page, pencil hovering. “Because nothing says ‘important and serious’ like a smiley face on a page.”
He made no reply, only waited. You weren’t sure if he was serious or testing you. That quiet hum in your mind returned, smug and insistent, and it made your stomach tighten in frustration.
You exhaled and started sketching. The curve of the mouth, the roundness of the eyes, the symmetry of the whole thing, it had to be exact. The way his presence in your mind leaned into every line made it difficult to relax, impossible just to draw casually. After a moment, you added connected little dashes around the edge.
“Not bad,” he said after a few minutes, his tone low, distant, precise. “The curve is slightly off, but acceptable. The eyes are symmetrical. That will do.”
You leaned back, pencil dropping to the desk with a soft tap. “A masterpiece of… whatever this is,” you muttered. “A smiley face for… reasons I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” he said, firm and straightforward. “Perfect.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned into the pillows, feeling your irritation and amusement mix. He lingered in your thoughts, patient and watchful, smug in the tiniest, most insufferable way. You didn’t know why he wanted a smiley face. You didn’t know what it meant.
But he was happy.
And that made you happy.
And somehow, that was the most infuriating part.
Age 21:
Your parents mean well. At least, that is what you keep telling yourself. They want security, reputation, and stability. They remind you, with gentle smiles and firm hands, that they only want the best for you. Yet their best feels like a cage.
At dinners, the subject arrives without fail.
“You are at a good age to settle,” your mother remarks while passing you bread.
Your father nods with authority, as though the matter has already been decided. “And you must not let that bond of yours distract you. Soulmates are unreliable. Fleeting. We have seen it before.”
Their distaste is obvious. To them, soulmates are storms: too wild and too uncontrollable, fate stealing their careful plans. Marriage, by contrast, is choice, alliance, and safety.
You lower your gaze, stabbing at your food, trying not to look like you are suffocating.
In the back of your mind, Law’s voice slides in. His tone is sharp and edged with disbelief.
“Unreliable, huh? Funny, considering I am the one keeping you from bolting out the door right now.”
Your lips twitch. You grip your fork harder to hide the smile.
The suitor parade begins next. A scholar from a wealthy family. A merchant’s son with perfect manners. A distant cousin from a noble line. Your parents beam as they describe each one, eager for you to show interest.
“Such promise,” your mother says with pride.
“Such potential,” your father adds.
Law sounds unimpressed.
“Potential? He cannot even tie his sash properly. Look at it. It is crooked.”
You choke on your wine and cover it with a cough.
Another suitor is praised for his smile.
“That is not a smile. That is constipation dressed up in velvet.”
You nearly laugh, and your mother mistakes the color in your cheeks for embarrassment.
The pressure mounts. Their words tighten around you until there is no room to breathe.
“Marriage is a future,” your father insists one evening, his voice firm yet still gentle. “A partner chosen wisely will last. That is what you must trust.”
Law’s presence surges. His voice is steady and insistent.
“They do not know you. Not like I do. You want to live. See the world.”
You sigh.
“If you say yes to any of them, I will never let you live it down. Do not think I won’t interrupt your vows with a running commentary.”
The last remark nearly breaks you. You bite your lip, staring down at your plate, while in your head you whisper: “Please stop.”
He won’t, because he knows that you don't actually want him to.
Over time, the pressure mounts.
The evening is like any other at first. The fire is warm, the table is laid with silver, and your parents’ voices are calm. Too calm.
“We have been speaking with the mayor,” your mother begins while buttering her bread. “His nephew has a fine education in law. He would provide a steady future.”
Your father leans back in his chair, nodding with satisfaction. “And he has no interest in idle romance. He understands what duty requires. A sensible match.”
You feel the weight settle in your chest. You want to argue, but the words cling like thorns in your throat.
In your mind, Law is already there. His voice is sharp.
“Law? Tell them you already have an education in Law.”
It was the final straw.
“Dad, mom…” You lower your fork. “Please, understand. I do not want this.”
Your parents exchange a look. The silence that follows is almost worse than their pressure.
“Do not be foolish,” your father says at last. “You have a gift for precision. You know anatomy better than most healers. You could use that skill to raise the family’s reputation with the right husband at your side.”
You blink, startled by the twist. “I want to use that gift,” you reply, your voice low but certain. “But not to marry. I want to study art. I want to draw seriously. I want to be more than an assistant with sketches in the margins of books. I want a degree.”
Law’s voice is immediate, warm, and firm.
“Good. Say it again. Louder.”
Your mother frowns, her hands tightening around her knife. “Art is not a career. It is a pastime. What you do now is enough.”
“It is not enough,” you whisper. Then you look up, and the whisper becomes steady. “It is not enough for me.”
The argument stretches for hours. Your parents are not cruel. They do not shout. They remind you of responsibilities, of appearances, of the danger of wasting years on frivolous dreams. Yet you do not bend.
In the end, your father exhales heavily, like a man conceding a battle he had not expected to lose. “I can see we’re not going to agree. I’ll think on the matter.”
When the door closes behind them, you sink into your chair and let the tension roll out of your shoulders. Law is quiet for a long moment before he finally speaks.
“You did it. About time.”
Their acceptance does not come all at once. At first, your parents simply grow quieter. The endless parade of suitors thins out until only polite names are mentioned in passing. The word “soulmate” is rarely spoken, and when it is, your mother glances away as if it tastes bitter.
It takes months of small battles: you reminding them you do not want marriage yet, they reminding you of your responsibilities, the house’s reputation, the family’s name. But your answers stay steady, and you keep working, filling pages with anatomical sketches, diagrams, and delicate renderings of bones and muscle. They notice.
One afternoon, your mother comes into your study while you are bent over your desk, carefully inking the inner structure of a shoulder joint. She lingers in the doorway for a long time before speaking.
“You are… very talented,” she says at last, and her voice is not dismissive. “Your hand is steady. That takes practice.”
It is the first time she has praised your work so plainly. You feel it like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Later, your father watches you present a portfolio of drawings to a visiting physician. He does not say much then, but when the physician leaves, he clears his throat.
“You have a skill that others respect,” he admits. “That is not something to dismiss.”
The final shift comes after dinner one evening, quiet and unexpected. Your father sets down his glass and studies you across the table.
“You have made yourself clear. We may disagree, but you have not wavered. That means something.”
Your mother adds gently, “If art is what you want, then you should not pursue it halfway. We will help you find a program worthy of you.”
“Very well. If this is what you truly want, you may pursue it.” Your father finally conceded. “But we will have a say in where you study. And with whom.”
It is a compromise, heavy with conditions, but you take it.
The words catch in your throat. You had prepared for another argument, another wall of reasons why you were wrong, selfish, impractical. Instead, you find yourself blinking back tears.
Law’s voice hums softly in your mind.
“They are finally listening. About time.”
Once the decision is made, your household shifts in subtle but undeniable ways. Where once conversations had been about matches and alliances, now they turn toward universities and programs, tutors and apprenticeships.
Your mother oversees the correspondence, dictating letters and sealing them with the family crest. She insists on fine parchment, clean ink, and elegant phrasing.
“Presentation matters,” she tells you, though her voice softens when she catches you rolling your eyes. “If this is your future, it deserves the very best.”
Your father combs through lists of institutions as though he is evaluating military allies. He speaks to family acquaintances, writes to scholars, and occasionally interrupts your studies to announce some new prospect. “This program in the West is respectable. Their graduates are employed in the finest hospitals.”
Sometimes you sit with both of them at the long dining table, spreading out papers and pamphlets like a map of possibilities. Their voices no longer clash with yours but join in, weaving questions about professors and facilities, location and reputation. For the first time, you feel like your parents are walking beside you rather than standing in your way.
The first acceptance letter arrives in the spring.
It’s a modest program, but one that praises your sketches with earnest warmth. Your mother reads the letter aloud, her eyebrows lifting, her lips curving. “They admire your anatomical studies. They say your eye for structure is rare.” She looks at you then, almost shy with her pride.
Another letter follows, then another. Soon, the stack grows thick. Each seal is broken with anticipation, each message carrying words like talent, potential, promising future.
Law hums in your head as the pile grows.
“I told you. You are good at this.”
The acceptance from Dressrosa comes last. Its paper is heavy, gilded at the edges, the seal pressed deep into crimson wax. Your father reads it aloud slowly, each word weighted.
“They are offering you a place in their advanced program,” he says. “It is… impressive.”
Your mother cannot hide her smile. “It is not only impressive. It is the finest in the world.” She smooths the parchment with reverent hands before sliding it across the table to you. “This could change everything.”
You lift the letter, feeling the weight of the words settle into your chest. Dressrosa. The best program. A dream finally within reach.
And somewhere deep in your mind, Law’s mood grows tense.
You hug the letter, your heart soars over and over. You spend hours pouring over the parchment, rereading the elegant words of praise, the promises of advanced study, the chance to learn from masters whose names are whispered with reverence across the seas.
That night, when the house was quiet and the bond hummed softly in your mind, you let the thought slip free, fragile and shining.
“I was accepted to the Dressrosa Institute of Art!”
The word hit you like a blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You hadn’t expected him to react this way. You hadn’t expected Law to care so much. You thought he’d be distant, detached, maybe amused. But this… this was grief, or rage, or something worse, and it made your chest ache.
“No.”
The word knocks the breath out of you. You hadn’t expected Law to be so unhappy. I mean, it was in the second half of the Grand Line, but your acceptance had come with a Marine Escort!
“What do you mean, no? It’s the best program in the Grand Line,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Everyone knows it.”
“I know what that kingdom is built on,” he said, his tone cutting, almost brittle. “It’s too dangerous. You will not be safe.”
The words made your pulse quicken.
“This is my future. Do you expect me to give it up because you’re… uncomfortable?”
“Uncomfortable?” His voice rose, taut and impossible to ignore.“Is the Grand Line a joke to you? They enslave people there, gamble with lives. That country is rotten at its core.”
“You’re trying to control me,” you spat, anger and fear colliding. “You sound exactly like my parents before they finally accepted my choices. I fought for this, and now you want to take it away?”
“I am not your parents,” he said, sharp and fast. “I am telling you the truth. If you go, you will regret it. You think you can just bury yourself in studies, but the filth of that kingdom will reach you.”
“What proof do you have?” You shook, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Do you have any real reason to worry? Or are you just upset that I’m moving on without you?”
He was quiet for a long moment, longer than you liked. The hum in your mind had shifted—tense, unsure, a tether fraying at the edges. He seemed to struggle with something deep and heavy, something he could not let himself say. When he spoke again, his tone was sharp with restraint.
“I just… I do, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you. You need to listen to me—”
“Honestly, Law,” you said, voice shaking with anger and hurt, “I don’t really know all that much about you besides the fact that you seem awfully comfortable telling me how to live.”
The words landed hard. You could feel him flinch in your mind, recoiling like a wound had been ripped open. And you felt your chest constrict, a mix of guilt and vindication twisting together.
“All this time,” you said, tears spilling down your cheeks, “I’ve tried and tried to reach out. To be a friend. To know you. But it’s clear… It’s clear my parents were right about something.” The words tumbled out, bitter and dark. “Clearly… soulmates don’t mean anything to you at all.”
You felt it immediately. His presence contracted, taut and silent. Hurt, sharp, and unspoken.
He took a long, measured pause before speaking, and when he did, his words were like steel slicing through your chest.
“Fine. Go. Be a fool and get hurt. Clearly, you are ready for it. I just thought you were smarter than this.”
The sting of it cut deep. He had never spoken to you this way. Never like you were nothing to him. For a moment, you faltered, the letter in your hands suddenly heavy with doubt. Almost… almost you believed him.
Then your gaze fell on it again—the gilded edges, the promise of something that had felt impossible just days ago. The walls inside your chest rose again, and you whispered, trembling,
“You do not get to decide,” you whisper. “Not this time.”
Silence stretched, and then his voice came again, lower, final, hard as stone.
“Then you are a fool.”
The bond shuddered and slammed shut.
You were left alone in your head. The room pressed in around you. Your chest ached, your hands shook. The joy of your acceptance, the small spark of hope, had collapsed into dust, suffocated by absence. The house was quiet, but inside your mind, a storm raged, leaving you utterly, achingly hollow.
Days passed in that gray fog. You moved through routines almost mechanically, your sketches untouched, your meals half-finished, the Dressrosa letter folded and held so carefully it never left your side. The spark in your eyes had dimmed, leaving only the hollow trace of a smile.
Your grandmother noticed long before anyone else. She always did. Perhaps it was the way you lingered at your desk without drawing, or the way you traced the edges of the letter with trembling fingers. She saw the quiet unraveling that no one else would, the fragile threads of your joy fraying in the shadows.
One afternoon, she sent for you. Her chambers smelled of old cedar and roses, the curtains drawn to keep the heat at bay. She sat at her vanity, silver hair pinned neatly, her posture proper and unwavering despite the years etched into her hands and face. The faint scent of lavender clung to her robes, a reminder that some things endured even when the heart faltered.
“You look pale,” she says without preamble. “Has something changed?”
You hesitate. She has always been sharper than your parents, kinder too, but no less relentless when she wishes to be. “I thought I would be happy,” you admit. “I should be. But…”
The words falter. How do you explain a silence that no one else can hear? How do you admit that the presence that once steadied you, teased you, and kept you company has vanished? The hum that had been warmth and quiet amusement now left only emptiness, and the hollow echo of it presses against your chest.
Your grandmother studies you for a long, careful moment. Her eyes, pale and exacting, trace the lines of your face, the slump of your shoulders, the way your fingers hover over your lap as if afraid to touch anything. Then she gestures for you to come closer. “You remind me of myself at your age. Always reaching for something more,” she murmurs, a trace of wistfulness threading her voice.
From a small carved box, she draws a ring. Formless and gray, unremarkable at first glance, it feels heavier in your hand than it looks. She places it there with deliberate care, her hands warm and steady against your own.
“This has been in our family for generations,” she says softly, her eyes meeting yours. “I want you to have it.”
You blink down at it, startled. “Why?”
Her words hang in the air, bittersweet and unyielding. You stare at the ring again, suddenly aware of the lineage pressing against your palm, the history, the protection, and the unspoken expectation folded into the simple, gray band.
“Because you are strong, and you have fought for what you want,” she replies. Her voice is soft, almost proud, but it carries a weight that presses into your chest. “I want you to carry that with you. A reminder that you are not alone in your choices. That your family does not see you as a child anymore, but as someone worthy of our name.”
Your chest tightens. For so long, you have fought for recognition, clawed your way through doubt and expectation, and here it is, offered like a blessing. “Grandmother… thank you,” you murmur, voice trembling slightly despite yourself.
Her lips curve into a faint smile, but her eyes are unreadable, a steady, cool flame. “Wear it always, my dear. It will clear your thoughts. Think of me when you do.”
You slip it onto your finger. The weight is unfamiliar, cool against your skin, almost unnaturally cold. It anchors you, a tether to something steady in a life that has lately felt unstable. Almost immediately, the fog in your mind begins to lift. Walls and pain and anger that had seemed immovable begin to dissolve. You feel clearheaded, focused, a little lighter than before.
It takes a few days for the realization to hit you fully.
When you reach for the bond, there is nothing. No hum, no warmth, no smug insistence reminding you to pace yourself, to slow down, to notice your own worth. No sharp remark when you overwork your pen, no dry joke when your mother scolds you to sit straighter at dinner. No presence, no voice at all.
And the emptiness is louder than any argument, sharper than any fight. You had been carried through countless days by the quiet certainty of him being there, even when he annoyed you, even when he scolded or teased. And now, with nothing but silence, you feel the hollow ache of absence settle in your chest like a stone.
You trace the ring on your finger, its cool weight grounding you even as your mind recoils. It takes on a new significance. The history it carries, the lineage, the quiet strength of your family, all feel like a fragile shield against a world that suddenly seems louder, harsher, and emptier without him.
You call for Law once, your voice timid in the silence. You call again, sharper this time, the hope in your words cracking. And once more, your chest tightens with the effort of reaching for him. Nothing answers. The ring gleams softly on your hand, indifferent, as if it has always been there.
The conclusion arrives in a wave you cannot resist. Law no longer wishes to speak to you. He has blocked you for good.
The thought settles into your chest like a cold stone. You go about your work, continue your sketches, and read over the Dressrosa letter again and again. But every line you draw feels emptier without his sardonic commentary in your head. Every stroke, every careful rendering, echoes back only your own solitary thoughts.
For the first time since the bond awakened, you feel truly, utterly alone. The absence is not just his voice, not just the warmth that had tethered you—it is a presence that had carried part of your certainty, your courage, your grounding. Now, nothing remains but your own hesitant, fragile heartbeat.
The weeks that follow blur together, a quiet, muted existence. You move through your days with practiced calm, speaking politely, writing letters, and polishing your portfolio. Your parents notice how still you have become. They assume you are focused, maturing, taking your future seriously at last.
Your grandmother, ever watchful, praises you often. “You are steadier now,” she says, her fingers brushing the ring on your hand as if to remind you of her gift. “I knew you could grow into yourself. Sometimes we need a little peace to make a good decision.”
And yet, the peace feels hollow, incomplete. The world continues around you, but the part of it that had been his, the quiet commentary, the sharp humor, the subtle insistence on your worth, is gone. You cannot shake the memory of it, nor the echo of the bond that once hummed warmly in your mind. It lingers like smoke, faint, untouchable, a reminder of what you have lost.
Elsewhere:
On the other end of the bond, Law is anything but calm.
The silence is unnatural. Too complete. Not the ebb and flow of someone retreating in anger, but a deadness that gnaws at him from the inside. He presses harder against the bond, reaches with thought and will, but it is like trying to touch smoke.
“Answer me.”
Nothing.
He tries again, sharper this time. “Say something. Even if it is to tell me I was wrong.”
Still nothing.
It is as if the thread between you has been wrapped in ice. He can feel its shape, the familiar pull, the contours of your presence, yet not your voice. Not your warmth. Only echoes, faint and hollow, mocking the certainty he has always relied on.
Law knows bonds do not vanish overnight. They do not fall silent without reason. You are not the type of person capable of freezing him out completely. Which means something is interfering—something beyond his reach.
He retraces the days leading up to the silence. The fight. The sharp words. The insults flung too quickly. The heavy weight of pride and anger. He curses himself for every sentence, every jab, every moment he lets frustration override care. But guilt does not explain the void. Nothing does.
In the long nights, he sifts through memory, searching for any detail he might have overlooked. Anything that could explain your absence.
He presses again, softer this time, tentative, desperate.
“I should not have called you a fool.”
“You are infuriating, but I am sorry—”
“If you can hear me, give me something. Anything.”
Still, nothing.
The bond offers no reply, no flicker, no pulse of recognition. The emptiness stretches on, pressing, clawing at the edges of his composure. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He tries again, but it is useless.
Finally, he leans back, running a hand over his face, jaw tight, chest hollow with frustration. He mutters to himself, low and sharp, words meant only for his own ears.
Bepo, who had been quietly observing, steps closer, concern etched into his furry face. “Captain… what’s wrong? You’ve been like this for days.”
Law does not answer immediately. His eyes are dark, restless, and haunted by a helplessness he does not often allow himself to feel. The bond, so often a lifeline, has failed him. And the truth settles cold and bitter in his chest: He cannot reach you. Not now, not like this.
He exhales slowly, a long, ragged sound, and forces himself to compose a calm mask, but Bepo can see through it.
“Nothing,” Law says finally, voice clipped, but it is a lie.
Inside, he is still shouting into the void, still straining against the silence, still aching for the impossible: your presence, your reply, anything to tell him that you are still there.
Synopsis :- Well, there it is, the (not so) dream vacation she had been planning for. (Personally she preferred Hawaii, but Metropolis works I guess.) Now she was ready to feel the sun of this much brighter, much happy-go lucky place than dear ol’ Gotham, but wait..is there a vigilante here as well?….damn it. (I am gonna use like the you pov now.)
“And I have been trying to tell him to eat good, sleep well, take care of himself, but no! All he does he stay on that computer all day long as if that’s going to solve all his life problems away!”
“…Ma’am I asked you if you wanted French tips with your nails..” you snapped out of your rant and looked at the nail artist. “Oh dear, how stupid of me. Uh, of course! And make the shape almond medium please? I have to type a lot in my job, thank you.”
It was silent for some while when a voice next to you said, “honey, by what we all have been hearing for quite some while, I think you should take a break from that boyfriend of yours.” It was a sweet looking old lady who looked too comfortable here, which made it evident that she was a regular.
“Oh no, ma’am he is not my boyfriend! He uh..”
“Then what is he?”
“He uh..he’s my boss! Who also happens to be my childhood best friend!”
You smiled at the now utterly silent nail salon as everyone looked at you, even the man who came here with one of the women. The old woman sighed.
“Aye aye aye…”
This made you press your lips thin and focus back on your nails as they were now finally being coated with the transparent layer.
Suddenly a loud crash like noise startled them all. The young girls gasped and got up as they went outside. You then turned to the old lady.
“What’s happening?”
“Superman is happening, I’ll tell you.” The old woman said fondly before going outside side as well.
Super..what? Oh god don’t tell me, there is a vigilante here as well? Is he also some secretly rich billionaire who lives like some washed out rock star in his Addams family inspired manor as well? And has a best friend who now takes Cholecalciferol because the sun hardly shines at that place?
Out of curiosity, you also went out to see what’s this all about and stood among the forming crowd to see a man in…blue suit, a red cape and..red shorts? That’s a first. Bruce won’t be caught dead in anything but black.
But what shocked you the most..is that he was flying. With no harness or anything whatsoever. What the actual fu-
“Oh he is such a handsome young man.” The old lady next to you said as she clutched her purse, only one of her hands were done, she looked quite hilarious with only a hand of done nails.
“Uh..he can fly? How does he fly?” This made a waitress from the restaurant next to the salon say “He cannot just fly, he can do many things! He is our hero.”
You awkwardly chuckled and looked back to see the man carefully pulling the cat out from the tree branch and then flying down to give it to the little girl. Then suddenly everyone started clapping and cheering, making you flinch. I am a Gothamite, the only loud noise I am used to is gun shots or car crashes.
Finally everyone dispersed when he flew away with a gust of wind. You stayed till the last one left. And then cursed you fate. Perfect, the one vacation I wanted? Is at a place where Lex bloody Luthor lives, and now he is sending me emails to check if I am here for some meeting. First of all, how did he even know I was here? Has he planted spies around or is he stalking me now? Secondly, this place also has some hero, but he is completely opposite of Bruce.
Your shoulders slumped as you went back in, your last nail was still left.
The map app in your phone was now feeling utterly useless as you tried to navigate your way towards this ‘old book shop’ which was in the ‘top 10 List of all the fun things to in Metropolis.’ Well getting to be Sherlock Holmes is somewhat a fun and unexpected experience.
Finally the huge board of the shop came in your view. It actually did look like those shops in films and stuff, the board looked like it was holding onto its last screw, it also had a window case, showcasing the latest series they were selling….twilight. Do these guys live in the 2000s or what? Oh god don’t tell me they don’t have anything new.
You took a breather before opening the door, making the bell jingle and you flinch again. God I really got to stop flinching at loud noises. The place brought you instant peace. It was air conditioned, had that new book smell mixed with the old, seriously why isn’t there a perfume of this smell? And lastly and most importantly, a snack bar, but there was also a board that you cannot eat and read.
After going through your reading list in your phone, you chose to grab 3 books, and 2 more, one for Alfred, he loved his Jane Austen and also one for Bruce, you thought he might like a nice Kafka.
Finally after buying the books, you ordered a cup of cappuccino and a blueberry muffin. As soon as the waiter left, your phone started ringing. Shit. You tried silencing it as everyone in the VERY quiet place was staring at you.
Finally you found the button and clicked it and then saw who was calling, it was Alfred. Thanks a lot Alfred. Wait,did something happen with Bruce? You then realised that this conversation cannot happen here if it’s related to batman.
So you got up and went outside to answer the call when suddenly you heard some pin scratching sound and looked up to see the huge board which was holding onto its last screw, finally let it go.
“AaAhh!” You screamed as you fell down, shielding yourself with your hand, as if that would save you, and waiting for the impact, but it never came, except a feeling of someone’s breath on your neck.
“You okay miss?”
You took deep breaths to see…superman, right on top of you. The board was now in pieces and next to you both. You let out a huge sigh of relief and laid all the way down in the pavement as you took your breath in.
“Ma’am are you alright?” Superman asked again, you nodded but then winced as you looked down at your foot, apparently heels and suddenly crouching to ground don’t go well together and result of it was a slightly red and twisted ankle.
He noticed it as well and got up and offered his hand. “Here, come on.” You then noticed people forming a crowd around you both. You got up and dusted your clothes.
“I am fine, okay? Thanks a lot.” Then turned to go back inside, but your foot gave out, making you trip as you lost you balance, but a pair of hands was all ready for this reaction.
“Alright, here we go.” He said as he made you stand back. “Listen, I am sorry. It’s my fault. I should have taken the board away rather than shielding you from it.” But he won’t lie about not feeling butterflies in his stomach when he was looking down at her.
“Look, I said I am fine, I just want you t-”
“Take you inside?”
“No.”
“Then where you live?”
“No, not right now!”
He then sighed as he looked at the people looking at them. “What do you want then?”
“I..I had an itinerary planned.” Your face sulked as you looked down at your phone. First was nail salon yesterday and it was checked out. Today was the bookshop cafe and the dog park.
He read it as well and a feeling guilt creeped up in him. “Oh..you’re a tourist?” You then looked at him with a deadpan look, screaming. ‘You think?’
You then finally chose to limp back inside, take your books and your order, which was in a to-go back. After giving the barista a thankful nod you got out again.
“Take me to the dog park. I hate leaving..things pending.” Superman nodded and then cleared his throat. “I uh..I have to place my hand on your waist.” You gulped and nodded. Didn’t think about that.
And then he instantly wrapped his arm around your waist and flew up in the sky, not too fast, as your coffee was still in your hands.
You gasped and screamed as you reached a huge height. “It’s okay, relax.” His calming voice made you take deep breaths and close your eyes. This is worse than Bruce taking me on a ride in his Batmobile, seriously who gave that man a license?
Finally, when it felt like forever, he slowly brought you down and placed you on a stone bench. “Alright, here we go. You need anything else?” She then waved her hand off.
“Oh please, you helped a ton. Thanks uh..superman.”
“You know me?”
“No, but being here for 2 days made me at least know the name of the red cape cladding man.” He chuckled as he fiddled with the said cape. “So, how are you liking this place so far?”
“A lot better from where I come from. But, you know. It’s home, it will always be home at the end of the day.” He couldn’t agree more at your words.
He then looked down at your foot, which was now turning slightly purple. So in an instant, he came back with a crepe bandage and a pair of sliders, which was given to him by the shopkeeper for free, as a ‘compensation for his act of services.’
“Here you go, that should help.” You thanked him and removed your heels and placed them aside as you wrapped the bandage around the sprain and then wore the sliders.
“You uh..need anything else? I can drop you off to your hotel?” You then shook your head. “No, you helped me already. I cannot hog you, Mr. Hero. I’ll take the bus from here, and move only when I am feeling better.”
“Mr. Hero? That’s a first.” He said as he chuckled and looked away. “Alright, take care of yourself Miss, don’t move to much.” And a wind blew on her face as flew away.
God Spelled Backwards is D-O-C-T-O-R (Trafalgar Law x Reader, Chapter IV)
Synopsis: Dr. Trafalgar Law is the brilliant, cold, new electrophysiologist fresh out of residency with something to prove. He wasted no time in singling you out as you battle his unyielding demands and an overbooked schedule with non-existent back up. Your dynamic goes beyond professional tension, and in a hospital where boundaries are protocol, and protocol is gold, it’s an all out fight for power and control.
Word Count: 5.2k
Tags/Warnings: Minors DNI, CardiacElectrophysiologist!Law, EchoTech!Reader, AFABFEM!Reader, Modern Hospital AU, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Explicit Adult Content, Over Clothes, Sir Kink, Dumbification,
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV
Notes: If you're going to comment and interact, I'd be eternally grateful if you read the endnote first! Thanks!
After being trapped in a hallway conversation with Dr. Jimbe (a pleasant man, but ever talkative), Law arrived at Takoyaki 8 about ten minutes after the meeting time. But he didn’t even have to make it all the way down the food cart line for him to pause mid-step.
You were halfway down the block, sitting with the rest of his team at a nearby picnic table. Your thigh was slung over Shachi’s, and your hand was raiding Penguin’s fries. The rest of his staff were absolutely losing it with laughter from something you said, and by all means, you sat there like you owned the whole damn street.
He definitely didn’t invite you. And after you became a nuisance in his office, he had been more than content not to see you until the afternoon clinic started up.
You spotted Law from over Bepo’s shoulder. You flashed him a smile. A smile— a dare that said I win.
Law reluctantly approached. Small talk, sitting outdoors among the general public, socialization for the sake of morale— it was Law’s personal hell. And now you were there.
He took a seat between Bepo and Jean Bart on the bench opposite you.
“I didn’t realize my invitation included support staff,” Law cleared his throat as he sat.
You found it odd to see him without his white coat. While he still sported his typical white collared shirt and dark slacks, you realized you had never seen him outside the hospital before. You and the rest of the team were still in scrubs. Law glanced toward Penguin’s half-finished fries.
“And I see you’ve started without me.”
“I’m working your wing about just as much as these guys,” you grinned.
“Just an appetizer, Captain!” Penguin hurriedly pushed the basket of fries toward Law.
“Cap’n!” Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo saluted with a scarily synchronized unison, hand salute, and everything.
Law shook his head like it wasn’t the first time his team had called him that.
“Captain, huh?” you rested your cheek in your palm, raising a brow toward Law.
“Why don’t we order?” he suggested, and the table was more than enthused to stand quickly.
The entire group made for Takoyaki 8, which serendipitously didn’t have a line. Hachi greeted Penguin and Shachi by name, and all three of them engaged in a lengthy conversation over the counter of the truck. The rest of the team studied the menu board.
Law stood at the back of the group, and you fell into line next to him. He tried his best to ignore you as he stared straight ahead.
You cheekily bumped his elbow with yours, standing with your hands behind your back as you rocked on your heels.
“So… Captain, huh? You’re just collecting all sorts of nicknames,” you hummed. You bumped Law’s elbow again. “Someone made a joke about you running a tight ship, didn’t they?”
“Once,” Law grumbled, causing you to laugh. “One time.”
“I’m not surprised, especially when you’ve got a bunch of goofballs like these guys on your team,” you sighed, jabbing a thumb in the general direction of the others. “Although I think sir has a better ring to it.”
“Watch it.” The snap of his tone made your eyes flicker toward him. Law appeared deadly serious and as calculated as ever, even in this relaxed setting. “Keep talking like that and someone might not think you’re teasing anymore.” He glanced you over neutrally, frowning.
“Someone?” You mused.
“Captain! Card, please!”
“Card, please, Captain!”
Law sighed, stepping forward as he fished his leather wallet out of his pocket. He nimbly plucked out a card, holding it between his index and middle fingers to hand to Hachi. Hachi received the card graciously, although his hand dipped slightly as he took it.
“Geez, friend. That’s one heavy card!” he exclaimed, swiping it in the machine before turning the screen toward Law to sign off on.
“I’m pretty sure it’s just a slab of metal,” Law muttered, pressing a few things on the screen before taking his card back and sliding it back into his wallet. “Gets kinda annoying when it starts peeling.”
The group lingered around the truck as Hachi and his crew got to work. You meandered over to Shachi and Penguin, placing an all too familiar arm around Penguin’s waist. He absentmindedly moved his arm to drape over the back of your shoulders as you pressed your cheek against his shoulder to pout.
“So… You guys really just ordered without me, huh?” You leaned your weight against him. He felt so comfortingly familiar and smelled like a laundry detergent you’ve inhaled a hundred times before.
“Not our fault that you were goofing around instead of putting your order in.” He swatted your forehead with his palm, just hard enough to produce a light smacking sound.
“I was not goofing around.”
You poked him in the stomach, causing Penguin to recoil. He channeled his momentum into bringing the arm wrapped around your shoulders around to your neck. Penguin braced his wrist with his opposite hand to get you into a chokehold. Your hands shot to his arm, your legs kicking in the air as you violently squirmed.
“Goofing around.”
“Oh my god, let go of me, you ass!” You moved your leg back, throwing your weight back as well to try to trip him. Penguin got lucky and stumbled around you, laughing like a damn hyena the entire time. “Shachi, you’re gonna help me?”
“Nah,” Shachi called rudely. He was already sipping on some sort of energy drink. “Looks like Penguin’s got this covered.”
“You dick!” You braced your feet on the pavement, trying to shake Penguin off your back.
“Who are you callin’ a dick?” Shachi feigned offense. “We ordered your gyoza for you!”
You stilled, glancing over your shoulder toward Penguin.
“Did you really order my gyoza for me?” you gasped. Feeling a lack of resistance, Penguin also stopped, keeping your neck in the crook of his elbow.
“Well, yeah. Of course, we did.” He frowned, stating it like it was a fact of the universe. Penguin’s grasp loosened the slightest bit.
You snickered.
“You always were a softie!” You grabbed him by his loosened arm, pulling him forward to trip him onto the pavement. His back hit the ground, just in time for lunch to be ready.
***
Lunch went on surprisingly normally despite Law’s presence. He didn’t speak much as he held his position at the center of the table. Conversation seemed to flow around him as he ate.
It dawned on you that you hadn’t seen Law eat before, and just like seeing him without his perfect white coat, the view was rather odd. He ate surgically, with purpose and without a single crumb out of place. Law was quiet and lacked any apparent poor table manners. He didn’t speak with his mouth open or chew loudly. He kept to himself as the meal passed.
But for having such a dark presence, the rest of the team didn’t appear to have an issue carrying on as usual. Jokes were shot across the table, as well as a few patient stories from the day. Some shop talk was had between Chopper, Bepo, and Jean Bart before Shachi interrupted with a staunch ban on work speak. He used the scolding as a ruse to steal one of your gyoza, and while you were busy fighting Shachi off, Penguin took a few from under your arm.
It didn’t matter that Shachi and Penguin ordered an entire party pack of nearly everything on the menu. They wanted those specific gyoza simply because they were yours. At least, that was the logic they called upon in response to your protests.
And when the team finally left to trudge back to the hospital, Law trailed behind the group, corraling them all back through campus like a shepherd tending to hyperactive sheep. You slowed your pace, falling back to walk alongside him.
You strolled silently for a few steps, watching as the team chatted amongst themselves.
“You were awfully quiet,” you remarked as you strolled. “You like taking the ‘social’ out of social event, or are you just not a fan of takoyaki?”
“I enjoyed lunch just fine,” Law uttered. The side of his lip flickered down in thought. “I’d say it was… educational.”
The group stopped at a crosswalk. You glanced at Law, forehead scrunched skeptically.
“I don’t know what kinda conversation you were having in your head, but I’m pretty sure we banned shop talk.”
Law met your eyes from the corners of his. His expression was cool and neutral as usual, as if he were studying a medical textbook.
“You’re very comfortable being handled,” he noted in a similar way he’d dictate into his voice recorder during labs.
You paused for only a beat.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You glared.
The pedestrian light turned, and the group moved forward.
“I’m not the biggest fan of distractions in my clinic,” Law said before stepping into the street. You briskly followed.
“We’re not in your clinic.”
“We’re with my team,” he retorted. “I need them to be focused, not… Whatever was going on there.” Law gestured in the vague direction of the food truck with his head.
“Trafalgar.” You stopped short on the side of the sidewalk, and Law made it a half step forward before pivoting to face you. He didn’t say a word, nor did he move from where he stopped. He just met your elongated stare, staying with you in your silence as you considered the following words to come out of your mouth. “What is this?” you asked with the same inhale you used to sigh.
Your shoulders melted as you cocked your head, almost as if you were physically calling for a timeout between your usual jabs and bickering. Law glanced to the side before meeting your eye again, his bottom lip dipping as he shrugged.
“A walk,” he expertly deflected.
“I’ve been friends with Penguin and Shachi for years,” you asserted, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. You planted your hands on your hips. “I think they forget we’re not actually related sometimes.”
Law unconsciously mirrored you, swiveling his head from side to side as if debating if he wanted to get into it with you here.
“I’m just asking you to act like a professional with my team. Having two male colleagues feed you lunch and put their hands all over you where half the hospital can see comes off as a lot more than just friendly,” he lectured sternly. His jaw tightened and his shoulders tensed. “It reflects on the lab, on the team, on me and you.”
“No one thinks that. We’ve been friends for years, even before we worked together. If people are looking for a scandal, they’re going to have to dig a lot harder because me, Shachi, and Penguin are a stretch at best,” you laughed. Law’s eyes narrowed.
“I wouldn’t call what I just saw a stretch,” he asserted. “And people don’t have to dig, they just need to talk. And considering you’re on all of my imaging, working in my lab, I think you need to be more careful about how things look.”
“Oh, so it’s about you?” you snapped. “You don’t want your perfect reputation ruined because the echo tech— who isn’t even a part of your team, by the way— has friends?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Oh, please. Let’s not pretend you weren’t gunning for Dr. Saturn’s chair as soon as you started.” That assertion gave Law pause. He didn’t say anything for a moment, although he didn’t appear caught off guard.
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“So you’re jealous then,” you snapped back pointedly.
“No,” Law stressed, clenching his jaw.
“Because that’s what it sounds like to me,” you shot, jabbing a pointed finger in Law’s direction. “It sounds like you’re jealous and you’re pissed off that I’m not just a good little cog in your machine and that you can’t control me outside of work.”
“That’s not what’s happening here, and you know it.”
“I do?” you mocked.
Law pinched the bridge of his nose, crossing his other arm over his chest.
“Yes,” he bit out. His hand came away from his face, and his palm made a curt slicing motion in the air toward you. “Because you’re fucking smart. You’re good at what you do, and I would hate to see all your hard work undercut because people don’t think you earned what you’ve achieved professionally.”
You barked out a sharp laugh.
“Why? Because Shachi stole a dumpling from my plate and Penguin… What? Breathed next to me?” you retorted, tone clipped and quiet. “If you don’t think I’ve earned my place, just say that.”
“I never doubted that. Not once.” He didn’t miss a second. The moment your words left your lips, Law’s proclamation was already leaving his tongue.
He never doubted that you earned your place through hard work. He never doubted it for a second.
You didn’t have a retort for that, not when Law was looking at you the way he was. Stern. Neutral. Eyes half lidded like he was bored, but… Gentle. You wanted to accuse him of lying, scoff at him, and shoot back another clever retort, but you knew. You knew he was telling the truth. God, you hated that you knew he was telling the truth.
You tore your eyes away, making for the hospital.
“I would have liked to hear that if you didn’t lead with a fight,” you muttered as you passed him.
Law didn’t chase after you.
***
He picked a hell of a time to get you in a mood, because Law had absolutely stuffed his afternoon. Overbooked it, in fact, and that was in addition to the emergency add-ons he tacked at the end. Those add-ons in and of themselves had you questioning if he was trying to make a point.
And for once, Law’s wing was eerily silent. No bickering. No back and forth. Just footsteps, typing, the necessary exchange of information, and patients milling about. It was almost like it was a regular hospital wing.
Your last patient had already left—Law kept adding on patients to receive imaging before they went to check out, as if you didn’t already have enough on your plate—but you were still in the exam room, going over images. You tried to ignore the door opening and closing behind you. You continued to click through things on your monitor, watching videos you had saved of your previous scans. You had gone over the same spot a few times and wanted to pick out the best frames from each attempt.
The sound of clicking filled the small exam room.
“Your patient already left, Doctor,” you sighed, “If you saw something you didn’t like on their last scans, you’ll just have to wrangle them in another time.”
“You’ve been quiet today.”
Your finger paused mid-click.
“Wouldn’t want camaraderie in the workplace,” you spat, returning to your work on the monitor. Maybe if you didn’t look at him, he’d go away.
“Depends on the kind of camaraderie.”
You stopped, taking your hand off the mouse entirely. You clutched the other corner of your cart with your other hand, leaning over your keyboard just slightly as you mustered up all the will you could to restrain yourself.
You turned to face him. He was a lot closer to you than you anticipated. Law somehow always chose the least convenient spot to plant himself in the exam rooms. Perhaps it was because he seemed to feel a compulsion to hover over your shoulder at all hours of the day, or maybe he really did feel like he owned whatever room he stepped into.
“Careful—” You pointed over his shoulder. — “You closed the door with me in here. You wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
“Should I have caused a scene in front of the team?”
“Oh, so you closed the door to cause a scene?” You leaned back against the stationary cart, crossing one ankle over the other. You clutched your wrist loosely, resting your elbow near your equipment.
“Less than I intend to and more referencing that you already caused one over lunch.” Law held his hands casually in the pockets of his slacks, drawing his white coat to bunch up at his sides. He offered you a bob of his head in accent.
“Did you really just corner me to fight again?” you sighed. “You’re an ass to me, I dish it back. I’m quiet for an afternoon, and what? You seek me out to argue? There’s no winning with you, is there?”
“You’ve been off today, and the lapse in communication hasn’t been helping,” Law asserted. “Hold a grudge as much as you’d like. I just don’t want to see it in my scans.”
“Nothing’s in your fucking scans, Trafalgar. They’re perfect as usual.” You swiftly moved to the side, still turned toward Law, and pointed at your monitor with a challenge. “If you’re going to insult my work, you better back yourself up with some receipts. Show me the scans you have issues with.”
Law didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.
You scoffed in disbelief.
“Yeah. That’s right. You can’t. You know you can’t,” you fumed, already storming up to him to confront him to his face. “Say it again, sir. If I’m so fucking smart like you said, tell me to my face that my scans are anything less than exactly what you want.”
Law looked at you, slowly and deliberately. He blinked once.
“Don’t,” he warned, “Don’t use it like a shield.”
“Why?” you smiled, “You gonna malfunction again?”
“I’m warning you about what happens when you keep pushing.” His presence thickened the air more than usual, charging it with heat and electricity. Law took a slow, measured breath before exhaling, a low growl vibrating in his chest.
You watched as something simmered behind his golden gaze. You frowned, unimpressed at the display.
“Warning accepted,” you conceded before the corners of your lips twitched up once again, “Now make good on it, sir.”
He didn’t even wait. He didn’t let a single moment pass before Law crowded you backward in one smooth step before lifting you onto the edge of the echo bed. His hands were even stronger than they looked, and his movements were precise, clinical, as if he were just handling another piece of equipment. He was fast, almost as if he were waiting all day for you to just say the word.
“You want a reaction so bad?” Law stepped between your knees. You were situated just at the edge of the bed, sitting just far enough back to not feel like you were falling forward as Law steadied you. One hand grabbed your hip, a few fingers slipping under the waistband of your scrubs. The other hand immediately slid between your thighs, pressing firmly and slowly with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from your throat. Law leaned forward to whisper directly in your ear. “You got it.”
Your eyes widened.
“Wait— I didn’t mean—”
“Tell me to stop.” His hand leaves your waist to tilt your chin up toward him before returning to your hip. Law kept his other hand still, cupped over you, maintaining a constant pressure without moving. The way he studied your eyes made you hot with acute embarrassment, vulnerable, and pinned.
You glanced away.
“It’s just—” Your voice caught in your throat. “What if someone sees?” You were still in an exam room in his wing. His pod wasn’t too far from the door, and it wasn’t unlikely that someone would be through to sanitize the room.
“And?” Law smirked faintly, applying straight hot pressure directly onto your clit through your scubs. Your hand flew up to your mouth as you choked back a moan. Law pressed his lips to your temple as he whispered. “You didn’t seem to have a problem when you were mouthing off and making a spectacle of yourself in front of my team earlier.”
Law’s hand immediately found a slow, devastating rhythm. His fingers circled the fabric in teasing, informed circles. Your hand shot to his wrist, grasping hard but not doing anything for the punishing pace he was working. The other hand immediately grasped his bicep, crumpling the perfectly ironed white fabric of his coat in your fist. You pressed your face into his shoulder, nearly doubling over as you tried to keep your voice under control.
“You want to test me? Thinking you can get a rise out of me by calling me ‘sir’ at work, blatantly flirting with my team, mouthing off in my own damn clinic with patients present. Now you’re acting so surprised by how thoroughly I can take control away from you when I decide you’ve had enough freedom.”
Law moved his hand from your hip once more, needing very little effort to pry your hand from his wrist. His hand morphed over yours, pinning it to the edge of the table.
His thumb brushed torturously over your clit again, causing your back to arch. You clutched his arm tighter, somewhere between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
“Oh— Oh my god!” you stuttered into his lapel. “Fuck—!”
“That’s doctor to you, not god.” Law couldn’t help the dark chuckle that escaped him as he pressed your clit. You bit your lip as you tried to stifle a scream. He was still over everything, and it still felt like this. You were both still fully clothed, and it made you wonder if you could keep quiet if he decided to venture farther.
Law’s mouth was still pressed against your ear.
“I’m going to make you cum—” The very word shot straight fire through your body, turning you into a stuttering blaze. —“Just like this— dressed, mind fucking empty, and so worked up you won’t be able to read a single word in a goddamn chart for the next hour.” He laughed. He laughed lowly in your ear.
An embarrassingly large wet put had soaked through your panties a while ago. Law’s fingers kept striking the same delicious nerves over and over, keeping reprieve from you as he flooded your head with mind-numbing dopamine.
“Every time I speak, every time I call your name and request you from your little office in imaging, this is what I want you to remember the next time you think about trading blows with me in my clinic. How fast you crumbled the moment I even touched you and how badly you wanted it.”
You managed to release your death grip on Law’s upper sleeve, instead pushing his bicep with a flat palm. He didn’t budge, only offering a still resistance to your half-hearted push.
“Stop— stop talking—” you gasped. Your body twitched, instinctively attempting to jerk away from the overstimulating sensation between your thighs. Law turned his head just slightly to the left, brushing the lower part of his cheek over your hair. You could feel him grin against you.
“You don’t want me to stop,” he purred. “Don’t be shy now, just because you’ve found someone who knows how to handle you. And know that next time, I’m going to make you beg for more and worse.”
“Please— Law, ah— I’m gonna—” You shuddered. Law let go of your pinned wrist so you could grab the front of his coat with both hands.
“Make good on it, baby,” Law growled into your ear, and you broke.
You cried out into the fabric of his lapel, trying to muster all the restraint that still resided in your body to keep your voice down as you shattered against him.
And Law waited. Keeping consistent—but not overstimulating— pressure on you as you shook with quiet, embarrassing bliss. He remained still. Calm. Collected. Completely unmoving.
The moment it was over, it hit you like a truck. All four walls of the room manifested around you. You could feel every little sway of the badge that hung from your pocket. You slowly pulled back from where you had buried your face in Law’s coat— the side that had Dr. Trafalgar Law, MD., Electrophysiologist, Cardiology, Electrophysiology Division, North Blue Medical Center (NBMC) embroidered in dark blue on the breast.
Your eyes shot to his, only to find Law unnervingly calm. No smirk. No follow-up. He still had his hand between your legs.
“We’re still at work,” you stammered. Law nodded.
“We are.” He pulled his hand away from you before taking a step back. His hands, as if he hadn’t just done that with them, returned to their usual place in his coat pockets. “I suggest you clean yourself up. We still have my emergency add-ons coming in any minute now.”
***
You had an extra set of scrubs stashed in the bottom drawer of your best. Despite not having a position that guaranteed a splash zone in the job description, it didn’t mean you didn’t have your fair share of near misses with body fluids. They were usually a patient’s, usually vomit, and not usually brought on by you having a secret fling with a doctor in a patient exam room.
You buried your face in your hands, standing over your desk. Your backpack sat on your swiveled chair with your dirty scrubs stuffed all the way down to the bottom. Your body, predominantly your cheeks, still felt hot and clammy.
There had been a moment when you ass hit the exam table that you had thought to yourself, God, what are you doing? But you were too worked up and angry and absolutely infatuated by Law’s words to care at the time. It felt almost satisfying to do something about your mutual tension— if you could even call it that— instead of fighting in circles… even if that was what the two of you decided to do.
You groaned, shaking your head at the thought of having to go back there and look at him.
“Your day that bad?”
The sudden voice made you jump, almost drawing a yelp out of you. You weren’t always this jumpy; in fact, it was typically the opposite, but it also wasn’t every day the new EP made you cum through your scrubs, so it was apparently a new day for everything.
Dr. Sanji— sweet, sweet, Dr Sanji— stood just inside your office door with a take-out container clutched in both hands. He beamed at you kindly.
“You have no idea.” Your eyes widened with a playfully bitter smile. Sanji laughed, taking a few steps forward.
“I had a feeling, so I brought you something.” He held the container out to you. You blinked at it in shock for a moment before graciously taking it.
“Oh my god, you really didn’t have to,” you said sweetly. “Sanji, you’re the best!”
He raised his arm, approaching you with a friendly hug to which you reciprocated politely, albeit a bit awkwardly. Sanji was always a lot more familiar with others than you were with him.
Not to say he wasn’t harmless. Sanji always seemed rather harmless. He maintained a generally positive demeanor, always looking to help and smiling. You were work acquaintances, nothing more and nothing less. Every so often, you’d have a conversation in the hallway. You’d recommend him a restaurant, and he’d tell you about a new dish he cooked last night. Most of your conversations revolved around food.
“Well, we’ve been working on a new dish to introduce downstairs, and it made me think of you. Plus, two of my brothers are starting fellowship here, so it’s almost like an apology in advance, and I missed you the other day, so…”
“That’s a lot of reasons, Dr. Vinsmoke,” Law’s voice cut through the atmosphere.
You immediately separated from Sanji, taking a step back like you were a teenager again. The two of you instinctively turned toward the door where Law leaned against the open door. His hands were buried deep in his pockets as usual.
He stepped off from the door, letting it waver behind him as he approached you and Sanji. He stopped a short distance in front of you.
“Dr. Trafalgar! Good to see ya!” Sanji smiled politely and extended his hand.
Law did not take his in return. Instead, he kept his glare steadily on you.
“I’ve had three patients who’ve been waiting for you. We’ve been waiting on you for the last ten minutes.”
You glanced in the vague direction of your computer.
“Last I saw, they hadn’t even been worked up yet. Just checked in,” you said slowly. The tension was already thick the moment Law made his presence known, but it only grew more suffocating. “I was getting ready to come over there.”
Law scowled.
“Well, we’ve needed you over there whether you think it’s a good time to show up or not.”
“Hey, man, you heard the lady.” Sanji swiftly stepped between you and Law. He was still smiling, but he held an open palm up by his chest, facing out toward Law. “It was my fault for interrupting the preparations, so don’t get too worked up that your images are a minute or two late. It sounds like you have some time before you need those scans anyway.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Law snipped, a deep scowl on his lips, “But I think we’ve got the medicine part handled.”
Sanji’s smile immediately fell. He stepped forward to square up against Law.
“It’s after hours. You might want to check your Rolex before you make demands.”
“I don’t recall asking for your permission or your opinion for that matter.”
Law glanced at you from around Sanji’s form.
“When you’re done dragging your heels, I’ve got patients in my first three rooms.” Law didn’t linger, immediately making for the doors. They closed behind him with a smack, wavering in the air from the sheer force he used.
You placed the take-out container on your desk, rolling your chair with your backpack on it nearly next to it before making for your equipment cart.
“Wait, you’re not actually taking his patients, are you?” Sanji followed closely behind you as you prepared.
“It’s easier. Trust me, he’s insuffereable when he’s…” you trailed off as you pushed your cart. You almost stopped short, the memory dawning on you. You shook your head. “If I do it quickly, I’ll be out of here.”
Sanji put a hand on your cart. His big, baby-blue eyes were round a concerned.
“It’s after hours. You can leave,” he said. And for some reason, you didn’t have an immediate response for that.
You could. In fact, it was standard protocol that the doctors had a cutoff time. Maintaining that boundary was a tough fight in and of itself, but it kept your staff protected and their time respected. It wasn’t as if you were itching to stay after, and yet…
“Thank you, Dr. Sanji,” you smiled. “But it’s okay. Dr. Trafalgar told me about these three earlier.”
Sanji’s demeanor softened a bit, as if the new information was enough for him to finally feel comfortable letting the topic go.
“If you’re sure,” he nodded. He frowned again. “But if he keeps talking to you like that—”
“I got it handled.” You offered him a soft smile.
You thanked him again for the dessert before making your way to Law’s wing.
Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV (Next chapter drops at approx. 100 notes)
Glossary for Nerds
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God Spelled Backwards is D-O-C-T-O-R (Trafalgar Law x Reader, Chapter II)
Synopsis: Dr. Trafalgar Law is the brilliant, cold, new electrophysiologist fresh out of residency with something to prove. He wasted no time in singling you out as you battle his unyielding demands and an overbooked schedule with non-existent back up. Your dynamic goes beyond professional tension, and in a hospital where boundaries are protocol, and protocol is gold, it’s an all out fight for power and control.
Word Count: 7.3k
Tags/Warnings: CardiacElectrophysiologist!Law, EchoTech!Reader, Modern Hospital AU, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Heavy Medical Jargon, One (1) Atta Girl, Alcohol Reference, Adult Content in Later Chapters
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III
Notes: Chapters will be tagged per chapter.
When you arrived the next morning, you checked the schedule as usual. It appeared the Law made good on his promise. Your day was relatively heavy, but not smothering. The work would be just steady enough to make the time pass. Your most difficult patients were spread out nicely, giving you time to take on easier loads between them. There were only three to boot.
You vaguely heard the door open and shut.
“You look better today.”
You didn’t even turn around. You didn’t want to.
“Wow, you really know how to give a compliment,” you said dryly. “Must be the light of hope in my eyes that I might actually be able to leave during business hours today.”
“Is that what we’re calling proper sleep and hydration?”
You sighed, swiveling around in your chair to find Law standing just inside the closed doors. You leaned against the arm of your seat, shifting as you readied yourself for verbal fisticuffs.
“Why do I feel like you’re trying to butter me up for something?”
”If I were trying to butter you up, lunch would be involved.” Law shoved his hands in the front pockets of his slacks. He squared his shoulders, his perfect white coat draped over him like it was made for him. Even his badge sat neatly on his chest, oriented just the right way, while you were sure yours was already twisted.
“Is there lunch involved?” You raised a brow.
“No,” he said plainly, “I told you before that I need perfect results, and I can’t get those if my tech is getting migraines or falling asleep while getting my frames.”
“Okay, you can’t just go around referring to me as your tech.” That phrase made you sit up in your chair. You caught it yesterday, and you sure as hell weren’t about to let him make that your permanent moniker. “And I’ve never fallen asleep during an exam either.” Law ignored that last comment.
“Why can’t I?” Law asked plainly, “It’s accurate.”
“It sounds…” You glanced around in thought, trying to pick the least uncomfortable word.
“What?” Law gruffed, his demeanor as cold and unbothered as usual.
“Possessive,” you settled, bobbing your head acutely from side to side. Law’s ever-present frown didn’t budge. “Not subtle?”
“My patients, my cases, my tech. I don’t quite follow what has to be subtle about that.”
“I’m not on your payroll.”
“You still work for me.”
“People will talk if you keep saying things like that.” You crossed one knee over the other, mirroring your coiled arms. Law gazed at you, something glinting in his honey colored irises. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing his own arms.
“I didn’t take you for the sort to care about what other people thought of you.”
“We can’t all stroll through the halls like kings of cardiology," you huffed, and after being so worked up, you realized you forgot where you were. “Did you come here for something or just to try to itch your superiority kink?” You rolled your eyes, failing to notice how Law’s already piercing gaze darkened.
“Mitral regurgitation. Mid-systolic murmur. You’re the only one I know can get the angles right.”
“You’re getting real specific with your orders lately.” You were already in the patient’s chart, reviewing past scans. “You’re still allowed to do your own scans.”
“As you keep mentioning,” Law drawled. “I’m being no more specific than usual. In fact, if I were you, I’d take it as a compliment.” He shrugged, as if considering the very idea. For someone so anal about everything, he feigned indifference quite a bit.
“Master of compliments— case and point.” You huffed, rising from your chair as you tapped your badge to close out your computer. “You must be a hit at parties.”
“I don’t go to parties, I come here.”
“Really?” You mocked surprise, hand on your chest as you collected your things and walked past him. Law followed, not even bothering to grab the door for you as you went. You lugged your equipment through, hitting the automatic door button for yourself. “Do you sleep in the exam chair or is the couch in the lounge comfy enough for you?”
Law walked briskly beside you.
“Bold of you to assume I sleep.”
“God, you really are a machine.”
“Not in the slightest, just efficient.”
You quickly came to the exam door. A myriad of magnets stuck out from the side of the frame, dictating various statuses and holding wall-facing papers. The very orientation of them was the neatest you had seen in any hall. You wondered how many verbal lashings Shachi and the others had to endure to make that happen.
“After you, Technician,” Law hummed. You glanced toward him, your hand on the doorknob.
“I assume you’re going to stand there, breathing down my neck as usual? Is your schedule that slow?”
“I’m interested in more specific things with this one.”
“Right. Angles. Angles that I apparently can only get right under the scrutiny of your scowl.”
Law didn’t so much as blink, standing stoic and self-assured as usual. His expression didn’t change.
“After you,” he repeated.
You turned the knob, customer service smile on your lips as you entered.
“Good morning, Mr. Newgate!” You chirped. Edward Newgate immediately perked up upon hearing your voice and instantly greeted you by name.
“I was hoping I’d see you today,” Newgate laughed. Law spared a glance toward you before Newgate turned toward Law. “And you must be the brilliant Dr. Trafalgar that I’ve been hearing all about.”
Newgate extended a hand, and Law approached the exam chair to meet him in a firm handshake.
“Don’t tell him that. He’s got a big head as it is,” you joked as you prepared your equipment. Law frowned. Newgate was already going through the motions of preparing for his imaging, almost as if he had done this a hundred times before. You turned to look at Law from over your shoulder, noticing his scowl. You let out a light laugh. “Mr. Newgate is a dear friend of Dr. Hiriluk. He’s been here for imaging many, many times.”
“Too many times,” Newgate scoffed.
“We ought to get you a punch card,” you said, prepping your probe with gel. “That’s one thing I’m sure you’ll enjoy, Doctor. I’ve done all of Mr. Newgate’s scans from day one.”
”I think I had Mr. Franky once.” Newgate shivered slightly as the gel made contact with his chest.
“I’m sure that was a very different experience,” you mused, keeping your eyes on your monitor. “Breathe.”
Law watched as you worked, but in this case, he couldn’t critique you if he wanted to. You cycled through the frames like you had done them in your sleep. You hit every angle and axis Law asked of you and then some.
“Don’t forget the—”
Your fingers twitched, sweeping the detail before Law could even say the word.
“I’ve got it covered, Doc,” you breathed, finally pulling your probe away. You made a few clicks on the computer, ensuring everything was saved properly. “Alright, Mr. Newgate. That’s all the torture I’ve got for you. Now, let’s take care of that jelly.” You handed Newgate a cloth.
“Hardly torture. You make it easy.” Newgate offers a polite nod before turning his attention to Law. “You’ve got the best echo tech North U. has ever seen on your team, Dr. Trafalgar. I reckon your start here will be smoother than any doc you know.”
“Please,” you huffed playfully. “You see why Mr. Newgate is one of my favorite patients now?” You gestured toward him with your newly cleaned probe before racking it.
“Just one?” Newgate laughed, thundering out a deep chuckle.
What you said was true. You had imaged Newgate more times than either of you could count. Hell, he made it onto your “frequent flyer” notes just from how many times he came into the hospital for routine visits. You probably could map his entire heart in your sleep at this point, and you thought very little of the interaction until your interaction was over and Newgate had already checked out.
“Are you always that friendly with patients?” Law asked, and you had to take a moment to process the question.
“Are you trying to insinuate something?” You dropped what you were doing to snap around toward Law. He eyed you, tearing a minuscule amount of attention from the papers in his hands.
“If you want to waste time making patients laugh during exams, I’m sure pediatrics would love to have you.”
You couldn’t help the unapologetic scoff that one pulled out of you.
“Not all of us can have the bedside manner of a corpse.” You moved to walk past toward your office. You had enough time in the day left to deal with Law’s impossibly high standards. Law placed a hand on your equipment cart.
“If you make a patient move unnecessarily, it’s going to show up in my scan,” he warned, his stare icy.
“My scans were pristine and you know it,” you warned. “I know you probably can’t fathom the idea that patients like to be spoken to like people, but a little rapport goes a long way.”
“Can’t wait to attend your next lecture.”
“Page me. I’ll be waiting.”
You tried to pull your cart away, but Law’s grip held firm.
“And also,” he said, dryly. “Don’t call me ‘doc,’ especially not in front of patients. It’s doctor, to you.”
“God, you’re full of yourself.”
Through a silent glare, Law let go of your cart. You stormed off.
***
Law kept a steady chokehold on your schedule, and despite what he had told you a few days before about workflow or whatever bullshit corporate word he used, it almost didn’t seem to matter. You were practically living out of his pod, tending to just about every patient he had coming in. He’d rip you from your quiet chamber in one way or another, breathe down your neck, he’d make a verbal sway, and you’d swat him back. Rinse and repeat.
And if you thought you could escape him before his clinic even started, you were wrong.
You could see him all the way down the hall, arms crossed and looming outside your office doors like the ghost of patient’s past. And perhaps if you weren’t the only echo tech and not a third of the way through a beverage with enough caffeine to kill a small child, you might’ve turned around and left.
“You’re stalking me now?” You projected, your voice bouncing nicely through the stark walls.
“You’re early,” Law noted. You walked past him to scan your badge.
“I’m always early.” As usual, you walked straight to your station, placing your things down and buzzing your badge on the desktop scanner. “You’d know that if you actually bothered to look at the schedule instead of loitering outside of imaging.”
“I do look at the schedule. And if you’ve looked at it anytime recently, you would have seen that I’ve rearranged your afternoon.”
You froze, slowly turning around to glare at Law with incredulous eyes.
“You what?”
“I need you in cath lab three.”
His response interrupted your anger. Your forehead wrinkled.
“What?” You blinked.
“I’ve got a patient whose imaging has been inconsistent. He hasn’t been getting his imaging here at Main; he’s been seeing whoever that guy is who works Syrup Village.” Yikes… Ussop. “I don’t trust it, and I want your input.”
“So you’re asking me to scrub in for cath lab because you don’t trust anyone.” You met Law’s honey-colored gaze, and to your surprise, you didn’t find the usual smugness you were used to. He looked at you head-on. Earnest.
“I want you in that room,” he said, and you struggled to decipher precisely what was laced in his tone. A beat of silence followed as you thought. Law didn’t flinch his attention away from you in the slightest. “You have a good eye. You’ve been working these cases for a long time… And technically, you wouldn’t be scrubbed in.”
Of course, he had to find the technicality.
“Like you just said, I didn’t image this patient.”
“Even so.”
You scoffed, eyes glancing down at a random tile on the floor. Your tongue pressed against the inside of your teeth as you shook your head.
“You know, you’d be a lot easier to work with if you weren’t so—”
“Demanding?”
“Arrogant.” You heaved in a deep breath, finally meeting his stare again, your posture deflated. You placed your hands on your hips as you cocked your head to the side. “You’re getting real comfortable demanding my time.”
“I only demand what I consider necessary.” Law offered a single nod. He crossed his arms, repositioning his posture to stand with his feet shoulder length apart. He squared his broad shoulders.
“And you have deemed that I’m necessary.” Your body relaxed somewhat as you lazily picked at the puzzle before you. This was just another case of a newbie doctor wanting too much of an opinion from someone with more experience. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself, even though you already knew that wasn’t the case.
“Yes,” Law answered. Singularly. Logical.
A moment passes. Yeah, just an inexperienced doctor…
“Read up on the chart,” Law commanded, already heading toward the door. “I’ll see you at the lab at thirteen hundred. Don’t be late.”
***
You arrived at the lab early, your nerves having already been whipped up into a tizzy at the very scenario. Although your anxiety had less to do with insecurity in your knowledge and more to do with, well, everything else.
You weren’t exactly thrilled that all of this was sprung on you at the last minute, and you would have much preferred being able to scout the chart out a little before being thrown straight into cath lab.
You hardly had the time to look at the previous scans, and for once, you could see why Law was so uptight about this case. Ussop always had a light hand. You could tell instantly that his angles were shallow and his positioning appeared uncertain at best. He liked to stick around the Syrup Village location. Not many people went through there, although that wasn’t an excuse for the quality.
You noticed Jean Bart first. He had everything prepared and was waiting, the same as you, for Law. You offered him a polite nod of acknowledgement, beaming under your mask. His very presence took a weight off your chest that you didn’t even know you’d been carrying. Jean reciprocated your nod— you’d be sure to chat after this was all said and done.
Law appeared in the lab not too long after you did. He came prepared, wearing a fitted lead apron over his scrubs and a thyroid shield pressed against his collar. His face was almost entirely covered, hidden behind a blue surgical mask. The band of the bouffant cap stretched over his forehead, leaving only his cold eyes and thick brows visible.
“Alright,” Law sighed, “Let’s do this.”
”Patient’s prepped and draped,” Jean Bart said. “You know the rules. No fighting the blue.”
“Parasternal long first,” Law commanded, “I want to see the gradient.”
You positioned your probe. You breathed. This is, after all, no pressure compared to how many of these you’d done before. If anything, Law’s overbearing presence had desensitized you entirely to the environment around you.
“I want subtitles any day now,” Law ordered, and you spoke his language flawlessly.
“There’s definitely significant LVOT gradient—the acceleration of that flow through the overflow tract— not fixed, dynamic. SAM’s joined the party— anterior mitral leaflet’s right up against the septum in systole. Textbook HCM.” You continued to adjust your probe, keeping your eye glued to the monitor. “Not ischemic. Parasternal long’s clean… That is one thick, hyper-dynamic basal septum. Post-contrast, the motion is even more exaggerated.”
You looked toward Law. He was listening intently, and to your surprise, didn’t have an interjection for you. He motioned toward you with a yielding bob of his head.
“Might as well take it home.”
You couldn’t see his expression behind his mask, but his eyebrows were high, though not in surprise. Entertained. Dare you consider impressed?
You turned your attention back to the monitor.
“That’s the issue here. The buckling’s what’s causing the gradient. This isn’t a perfusion issue.”
You didn’t even need to see Law’s smirk to feel it.
“Atta girl… I just wanted to hear you say it.”
Your breath catches in your throat. You nearly choke on it. Your brain short-circuited momentarily as you tried to decide how to play off your momentary freeze.
“What did I tell you?” You snarked. “I said you’d ask for a diagnosis eventually.” Law rolled his eyes, not even glancing up at you.
“If you want to run your mouth, at least show me how clean you can get the apical window while you’re at it.”
You met Law’s eye. He still wore that same expression behind his mask. He was speaking a language you knew like your native tongue, and for all his talk about not playing games, you knew cases like these were a puzzle he reveled in the same as you.
“So clean you could lick it.” You beamed cockily under your mask, eyes narrowed competitively. Law’s eyes glinted.
Jean Bart cleared his throat.
“Please don’t lick the patient…”
***
The time seemed to fly by in a flash. The heavy doors to the cath lab swung open as you strutted next to Law. Without the heavy lead weighing you down, you felt like you could sprint to the other side of the floor and back with time to spare for Law to finish his documentation. The two of you stepped together at a brutal pace. You couldn’t help but hop a bit; the pep in your step was a little boost of self-assurance from your performance.
“And this is why you should always listen to me,” you hummed. You were floating on cloud nine. “I said ‘SAM with dynamic obstruction,’ but someone wanted to do things the hard way and spend a half hour confirming what I told you earlier.”
“Careful, Technician, I think you’re mixing up working smarter with cutting corners.” The corners of Law’s lips turned slightly upward, ever amused. He never truly smiled, but this is always the closest he got.
“Bet it kills you… Knowing I’m right,” you hummed proudly, “Asking me for a diagnosis after all your big talk.”
“I was thinking the same thing. I just let you ramble like you usually do because I knew you’d explode if you didn’t get to clock it.” Neither of you even noticed the way people jumped out of your way as you charged through the halls.
“Too bad you’ll probably take all the credit. Another example for the ‘brilliant prodigy Dr. Trafalgar’ to put in his portfolio.”
Law stopped, leaning against the wall, the chart under his arm.
“I’ll have you know that I’ve already cited you in the dictation.”
You mirrored him, facing him as you also leaned against the wall, arms coiled over your chest.
“No shit,” you mused mockingly. Law nodded.
“I did,” he defended playfully, shaking his head as he blinked, “You can look at it if you really want to. It’s notated, ‘Echo performed by: the only other person in this goddam building who knows what the hell they’re doing.’” His head cocked to the side in a way you might dare to describe as charming.
You laughed a bit louder than was probably appropriate for the setting. You began to step backward, continuing your journey toward imaging.
“Flattery, and you didn’t have a single snide comment about my scanning today. Careful. People are going to start thinking you might have a heart.” You backed up, turning a few steps in to glance at him from over your shoulder. Law followed closely behind.
“It’s cardiology; I have an abundance of them.”
“More valves for me to read better than you could ever hope?” The hallway widened, allowing Law to walk by your side again.
“One little scan and you’re really letting it go to your head, huh?” Law eyed your mischievous expression with the slightest raise of his eyebrows. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m already naming a protocol after myself.”
“Fill me in as to where the inflated ego assists with the scan?”
You scoffed.
“You’re one to talk about inflated ego.” The two of you arrived at imaging, flying through the doors as usual. “And by the way, if you’re going to pull another stunt like that with the schedule, I’d at least like a day’s notice to be able to review the chart.”
“No promises.”
You sat back at your desk, and the image of the login screen made you snap back to reality. You stared at the blue desktop for a moment.
“Just make sure to follow protocol next time. I don’t want to get chewed out just because you decided you were impatient enough to cut me out of my usual schedule and lock me in a room with you for two hours.” Your light expression was gone, and so was the upward turn of his lips.
You kept his typical blank stare on you, blinking once. He held the silence for a beat.
“You were the only echo tech at my disposal.”
The air ices over quickly, the tension filling up the space like someone left a gas valve on for a few hours too long.
“Your disposal?” you snorted, “You really are full of yourself.”
“You’re the one who showed up for me. Not even on time. Early.” That one bit a little, but you were always early to everything. It wasn’t your fault that you had actual work ethic.
You shook, barely restraining your fury.
“Believe me, I regret it every single time you open your mouth.”
“Maybe if you made a habit of listening more often, you wouldn’t be so overdramatic when someone tells you what to do.” You could see a vein starting to twitch on Law’s forehead. The left side of his nose crinkled just enough to make lines on his cheek. He turned to walk out the door.
You stood from your seat to yell after him, your fists clenched at your sides.
“One day, you’re going to say something that actually pisses me off, and I’m not going to be nice enough to deal with all your bullshit!”
“Let me know how that works out for you.”
The double doors flapped behind him.
***
He’ll simmer down once the flow sets in, you said. He’s been here for less than a week, you said. But here you all were, just one month into Law’s reign of terror over the electrophysiology division. Penguin and Shachi tried to convince you, and you were so sure you could wait this one out.
And now, Law had made you into a monster.
One month in. That’s how long it took for Law to snap the world's coolest, most patient echo tech.
Shachi heard your footsteps first, glancing up from his computer. He rolled his chair back just slightly, bumping Penguin with his armrest.
“Missile incoming, two o’clock.”
“Trafalgar!” you scolded as soon as he was in earshot. The residents who gathered around Law froze, their wide eyes immediately darting up to Law’s neutral expression. Law breathed in deeply.
“That’s doctor to you, Technician.” He pivoted on his heel lazily. The residents scattered as you approached. Law stood his ground, one hand in the pocket of his white coat as he lazily shifted his weight to his hip.
You thrust a series of papers against his chest. Law caught them without a stumble, a deep scowl on his lips.
“Stop moving my patients around,” you warned.
The gaggle of residents retreated to the pod where Shachi and Penguin were watching on. They passed a bag of Sour Patch Kids back and forth, eyes tiredly glued on the scene in front of them.
“If you’re going to leave gaps in your schedule, I’m going to use them,” Law gritted.
“Those ‘gaps’ are for emergencies, not time to use just because you feel like stuffing your schedule.” You jabbed at his chest. “Just because you don’t think I’m catering enough to you at any given time doesn’t give you an invitation.”
“Those so-called ‘emergency slots’ are putting my clinic behind,” Law snapped back, brushing your hand away. “I’ve had several patients who could have gotten imaging an hour before you managed to squeeze them into your precious schedule.”
“Um… Guys,” one of the residents nervously whispered to Shachi and Penguin. “Should we do something?”
“Nah,” Shachi hummed, smacking the bottom of the candy box against his hand. He squinted one eye as he looked inside. “It’s Thursday.”
Chopper’s forehead creased as he tried to connect the dots.
“Does… something happen on Thursdays?” he glanced around toward the other residents. They shrugged, having no clue.
“No, it’s not just Thursdays,” Penguin interjected, finally receiving the box of candy back. He pinched the opening to make it wider, his eyes darting back to Shachi. “You can’t just keep taking all the blue ones. You ate like half of them.”
“They’re the best ones,” Shachi muttered as Penguin began to confiscate the rest.
“They already fought before, but it’s been getting bad lately,” Bepo quietly chimed, not even looking up from his computer. He ducked his head, almost as if he were afraid to contribute to the conversation at all.
“Right,” Penguin mused, “Ever since the first time they worked together in the lab.”
“Which was easily a week and a half ago,” Shachi chewed.
“You had three echo slots. I used one,” Law cut, beginning to walk away. You followed, your fight suddenly becoming mobile. Nurses and technicians jumped out of your way, sticking to the walls like a centrifuge.
“You used one of my emergency slots— for emergencies— to micromanage me. Every time I think that you’re going to stop hovering over my shoulder…”
Law whipped around, leaning close to your face. You crossed your arms, undaunted.
“That’s not micromanagement. That’s being thorough.”
“By pushing the only person who’s willing to put up with all your bullshit,” you seethed, “You have an obsession with control. Your patients. Your protocols. Your perfect, sterile little cardiology bubble. Instead of trying to control my hands mid-scan, I remind you yet again that you can certainly do your own.”
You were face-to-face, fuming and hot under the clinical fluorescent bulbs that loomed in the panels above your head. Law’s jaw clenched. His pronounced Adam’s apple bobbed. And when he spoke, he did so low and dangerously.
“If I wanted to control your hands so bad, I’d tell you exactly where to put them.”
Your lips twitched. Your eyes narrowed.
“You already do.”
The two of you part momentarily to allow a nurse to scamper through. She kept her head down, hurrying as quickly as she could while ducking under your electric gaze.
“Maybe instead of needing to be a constant contrarian, you should actually listen to the physician whose clinic you’re working.” Law held tension in his shoulders. A hot huff of air blew from his nose.
“Try saying please,” you gritted.
“I didn’t realize you needed so much handholding to do your job, Technician.”
“You’re the one who needs handholding, baby doc.” You planted your hands on your hips, cocking your head to the side. “Want another patient diagnosed? Or do you think you can take it from here?”
“So…” Chopper started lowly, still trying to make sense of the scene in front of him. “Are they, like… married?”
“Worse,” Penguin hummed. Shachi handed Penguin the empty candy box.
“They work together,” Shachi finished, doing a double take at the empty box. “Imaging has been a battlefield. Best stay clear.”
The very word ‘imaging’ activated you like a sleeper cell. Your head snapped toward the pod, turning your fury in turn.
“Don’t you have work to do?” you snapped.
“Yeah, I didn’t realize we’ve been through all the patients for the day.” Law scowled, already marching toward the pod. And before he could rip his team a new one, Law turned to point back at you rudely.
“You. Tomorrow. You’re on my schedule for seven.”
“Do your own scans!”
The wing seemed to sigh as you left. Just another Thursday…
***
You showed up begrudgingly for cath lab. You entered the room, perfectly prepped right on the dot.
“You’re late,” Law gruffed from behind his mask, “We’ve all been waiting for you.”
The room was cold, and not just in temperature. The patient had already been draped and sedated. Jean Bart stood by, an uneasy look on his face. The rest of Law’s team kept their heads down, as if they stared somewhere else other than you and Law, they could duck for cover quicker when you exploded.
“You told me seven,” you retorted.
“We’re starting at seven, not strolling through the door,” Law gritted, pivoting to keep his attention on you as you stepped across the floor. “I needed ICE guidance yesterday. Or is a septum puncture not urgent enough for you?”
“Well, I’m here now, so don’t hold off on barking orders on my behalf.”
You breezed past him to begin setting up your equipment, and you didn’t need any coaxing to start right away. You picked up your control handle, settling into position as the image began to manifest on screen.
You got the fossa ovalis right on the dot, barely having to adjust your hand. It was pristine, like an image right out of a textbook. No shadow. No adjustments. Pure anatomy.
“That’s lucky,” Law hummed, eyes glancing up at the monitor as he worked.
“That’s not luck.” You frowned. “That’s years of experience.”
“Vitals stable. Patient’s tolerating sedation well,” Jean Bart narrated.
“Well, tell your years of experience not to drift so much. You’re running off three degrees.”
“You’re running three degrees of insufferable.” You huffed, adjusting just like he told you.
“Just three?” He shot back absentmindedly, muttering under his breath with eyes glued to the monitor. “Needle’s at SVC. You better not let me miss,” Law gritted, all his concentration on his steady hands and the crisp view you generated for him.
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of pinning it on me,” you murmured. “Needle visible and centered. Tent forming.”
“Puncture,” Law announced firmly, moving the needle through the septum in one, smooth motion.
“LA,” you confirmed.
It was perfect.
Your lips twitched upward at the view on the screen. You let a breath out that you hadn’t realized you were holding in.
”I better be in that goddam dictation…” You whispered, glancing over to your right toward Law.
“Do you have this much attitude with every other doctor, or am I the only unlucky bastard?”
“Just the ones who slap their patients on my schedule for whenever they feel,” you bit.
“Since you’re so busy, you’re dismissed,” Law grumbled, not taking his eyes off the rest of his work for a second. He continued his task. “You’re no longer required.”
You glared at the back of his head with a snort, gritting your teeth behind your mask.
“Glad I could be your favorite probe holder, doc.” You offered a minuscule, mock bow, despite how he faced away from you before making for imaging.
***
Heat ran through your veins as you stormed through the halls. Your PPE had made your skin clammy, your schedule made you more pissed off than before, and the only way you knew you wouldn’t strangle Law with his own guidewire was to get as far away from him as possible.
You made a beeline for the cafeteria. You needed something, quite literally anything short of a shot. If you were honest, the North didn’t have terrible food options. The entity essentially held a monopoly over the local healthcare system and was closely tied to one of the world's most prestigious schools; consequently, the North had more than enough funding to keep its providers happy at lunch.
The food wasn’t gourmet by any means, but you wouldn’t think twice about taking a pack of sushi off the refrigerated shelves. And if nothing that was freshly made at the food stations did it for you, there were plenty of food trucks and carts that lined the streets outside.
You’re no longer required stung a little bit harder than you were willing to come to terms with. You gave him the window for that puncture, but apparently a simple thank you was too difficult for the great Dr. Trafalgar Law to muster.
You pressed on, considering your options. There was a decent chicken and waffle truck a block down the road. There was also a food cart that sold twenty dumplings for less than the cost of a McNugget. If you got a salad, you could stab it. With dressing, you could shake it around and pretend it’s Law’s stupid ironed collar—
You took a sharp corner.
“Oh my god!”
“Oop! So sorry, love! Are you alright?”
You were pulled back to reality by the pair of sparkling blue eyes in front of you.
“Dr. Vinsmoke!” you gasped, frozen where you stood. “I’m so sorry!” Sanji’s hands held you by the biceps, leaning down slightly as he let out a charming laugh. You instinctively took a step back, suddenly somewhat embarrassed of being so wrapped up in your own thoughts.
“Got a hot date?” Sanji planted his hands on his hips, a broad grin on his lips. “And didn’t I tell you just to call me Sanji?”
He did. Many times before. It didn’t feel right.
“Coming from lab, actually.” You sheepishly scratched the back of your head.
“Oh! You’ve got formaldehyde muchies?” Sanji’s mouth formed a circular shape as he pointed knowingly toward you.
“No, not that kind of lab today.” You smiled.
Sanji was a physician nutrition specialist (PNS) who worked on the third floor. Although if he wasn’t with patients, he was infamously encroaching on the way the food service staff was operating. Not many people seemed to mind his presence, which you could likely attribute to his natural charm and boyish smile.
“Probably for the best!” Sanji smiled, “It’s a shame I didn’t run into you sooner. If you’d been about fifteen minutes earlier, maybe we could have gotten lunch together.”
“Oh, I, uh…” You never knew how to respond to him when he said things like that to you. “I was just trying to find something sweet, I think.”
“And I guess I found that something instead,” Sanji hummed. It took you a moment for the line to register with you. You let out a delayed giggle, although Sanji didn’t seem to scrutinize you for your timing. He breezed past the pause, already swiveling his head to point out helpful options. “If you’re into mango, they’ve got a new mango energizer over at the Fruit Lab. A brainchild of yours truly.”
(The Fruit Lab was a station in the cafeteria that served smoothies, fruit bowls, and other types of drinks. It became very confusing when people began to shorten the name to “the lab.”)
“Or,” Sanji clicked his tongue, pivoting on his heel with a finger to his bottom lip in thought. “I think they just rolled out new crepe flavors at Holy Crepe. I think the seasonal is butterfly pea.”
“Thank you, Dr. Vinsmoke.” You offered him a polite smile. He was a professional for a reason— those were some pretty great options.
“Please,” Sanji sighed, “Dr. Vinsmoke is, unfortunately, my father.”
“Dr. Sanji, then,” you corrected. After the month you’ve been having, Sanji was a breath of fresh air. You were sure he wouldn’t reprimand you for calling him doc, and you were almost certain he would thank you if he ever needed to pull you for help.
The two of you began a mutual drift as you continued your separate ways, lingering a bit as you kept enough attention to finish off the interaction.
“I’ll take it for now,” Sanji conceded playfully. “But one of these days, you’ll be comfortable using my first name without the formalities.”
“You keep saying that,” you hummed with a nonchalant shrug.
“Let’s try over lunch sometime then,” Sanji said, raising a brow as he continued to back up, “Or dinner?” he added cheekily, just like he always did.
“Have a good afternoon, Doctor.” You waved him off, and even as he disappeared down the hall, you held a light smile on your lips.
***
You ended up getting a crepe and a drink. You couldn’t bring yourself to try the butterfly pea crepe. You assumed that the hospital was trying to be on theme by making a dessert item NBUMC blue, the center’s signature color, but instead, the crepe looked as if Bluey had been reduced to roadkill and served up on a platter instead.
And perhaps it was just the simple act of getting some food in your stomach that made you feel a whole lot better about the day. Or maybe your recovering mood was because you didn’t have any more of Law’s patients for the rest of the day. Between his meetings, among other things, you had the rare opportunity of stuffing your afternoon with patients who weren’t Trafalgar Law’s. You had done your time for today in the cath lab, so you could soak up the light afternoon in relative peace.
You sighed at the very thought.
Doctors who let you do your goddam job.
To his credit, god, the bar was in hell— Law didn’t hover over your shoulder as you were scanning quite as often when it came to his more routine patients. But he always had some sort of comment, and none of them were ever in appreciation. And in exchange for not breathing down your neck, he seemed to have increased his presence in the imaging office.
“Good. You’re not busy.”
Your fork sank into your salad, and the pressure made an aggressive crunching noise. Law’s voice was like a hand slapped on the keyboard of a piano.
“Just because I’m not running around your wing doesn’t mean I’m not busy.” You slowly turned in your office chair, fingers clutching your armrest like you were going to strangle it.
Law glanced toward your meal, then back to you.
“Don’t look busy to me,” he gruffed. “I want a word about your behavior during lab today.”
You held his unyielding stare for a moment of silence, blinking once… then twice. A dangerous smile shakily possessed your lips.
“You don’t want to do this with me right now,” you huffed, your furious grin only stretching wider. Your breath came out uneven. He was a doctor alright, because he pinpointed your very last nerve with ease. “Go to your meeting, doc. You don’t want to do this.”
“I pushed it back,” Law retorted. “I know perfectly well that you have an attitude problem, but the lab with a patient in the room is not an acceptable setting to throw a tantrum.” Law scowled, and the moment the word tantrum left his lips, you were already on your feet.
Law folded his arms over his chest, squaring his shoulders and holding his head high and righteous.
“I know I definitely heard you wrong after I got that pristine scan after you decided you couldn’t count on anyone else to guide you.”
“You’re the only one who does it right.”
“Stop,” you growled, somehow already closer to him than when you started.
“Stop what?” Law spat.
“Stop saying that like it’s a compliment. It’s not. It’s you— it’s all you pretending that your godly standards are some sort of holy decree on the rest of us.” You were in his face now. “Didn’t know MD stood for major dickwad.”
“God, your issues with authority are pathetic,” Law smirked, anger still coming off him in waves. The vein in his forehead twitched. “Just because daddy didn’t give you enough attention growing up doesn’t mean you get to mouth off in my lab in front of my team and my patient.”
You gaped at that one. Eyes wide and words dead on your tongue, you stared at him with disbelief. You stared at his fucking smug face, halfway between storming over to HR and slapping him then and there.
The decision came quickly to you. Your hand flew up from your side, but you didn’t even make it past Law’s shoulder before he caught your wrist. His grip was firm, steady, and almost crushing.
You tried to tear your hand away, but Law held you by his anchor point, twisting you in just the right way to cause you just enough discomfort to be painful.
“You’re trying to diagnose me? With your god complex?”
You glared at him defiantly. Your body tremored with barely retrained rage as he stared all too calmly into your gaze. He looked over your face, almost studying you as he kept his firm grip around the circumference of your wrist. The more you tried to pull away, the tighter he held you.
“If the echo matches the murmur…” He shrugged, his smirk in full force. He thought that was fucking clever.
Law took a step forward, using your tense arm like a handle to move your body backward until the tops of your thighs hit the edge of your desk. You tried to hide the way in which your eyes widened and your breath hitched. He pinned your wrist down to your desk, and you were sure that he could hear the way your heart rate skyrocketed.
You were pissed, you tried to tell yourself. This was unprofessional and scary, you explained away inside your head as you shook in anticipation. No, you don’t think that Trafalgar Law could ever be scary to you, not really.
Despite his horrendous demeanor, a certain amount of trust had to be held between you and your physician. You could feel it in those moments in the lab where you achieved something together. And you hated that you could feel that same thing here…
“Your patient was sedated,” you gritted, still defiant.
“Still present,” he countered softly. He was so close to you. You could feel his body heat through the single hand he kept wrapped around your wrist. Yet, despite the fact that no part of him touched you anywhere else, you couldn’t help but find his very presence suffocating.
He was like a car crash, and you just couldn’t pull your damn eyes away…
“You’re not used to someone calling you out on your shit.” You frowned. Calm. It was an almost amicable sounding observation.
“And you’re not used to someone who can handle you.”
Law pulled away, releasing his grip on you. You released a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, and you couldn’t help but consider that the lack of him felt cold.
You stood, posted up at your desk, trying to pretend that your knees wouldn’t wobble if you tried to step forward.
“Same thing, right?”
Law stood a few steps back, hands buried in his coat pockets.
“Some technicalities.” He shrugged.
“Of course, you would be obsessed with technicalities.” You rolled your eyes.
“Not obsessed,” Law spoke sternly with a nod. “Clinically invested.”
And for just a moment, neither of you said a word. No bickering or banter or fighting. Just a second of silence during which Law’s ever-stoic expression seemed to soften.
“Do you ever think—” You cocked your head to the side, a hand planted on the surface of your desk. —“You like when I talk back to you?”
Law didn’t miss a beat.
“Every goddamn day.”
Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III
Glossary for Nerds
Tag List: @aveocadeo @augustanna @starzbrii
I'm happy to add people to the tag list, but be warned, any blog that requests to be added and has not interacted with the series will be blocked! (For your sheer audacity!!)
And because there’s going to be explicit adult content in later chapters you need to be 18+ for the tag list. Minors are DNI on that content as it is but ESPECIALLY for the tag list.
Notes: I'm an attention whore so the more comments this gets the faster I'm writing I'll be completely honest here
