✿

you ignore him. mostly because you’re comfortable. partly because the second you acknowledge consciousness, the day technically begins, and you have absolutely no interest in participating in that yet.

dean disagrees. his mouth brushes your shoulder. once. then again, slower this time.

you make a tiny noise of protest and burrow deeper into the pillow. “no.”

there’s a sleepy little huff of laughter behind you. another kiss lands near the curve where your shoulder meets your neck.

his lips move higher, warm against your neck, and you scrunch your shoulder instinctively in an attempt to block him. it does absolutely nothing. dean just shifts closer, nose brushing your skin before he presses another kiss beneath your ear. then your cheek. then the corner of your jaw.

you groan. “dean.”

“mhmm?”

“sleeping.”

“doesn’t look like it.”

you blindly reach behind you and push at his face. or try to. your hand finds approximately half of his cheek before he catches your wrist, laughing quietly into your palm.

“go away.”

“my bed.”

“then i’ll go away.”

you start to wiggle forward. you get maybe three inches before dean’s arm tightens immediately around your waist and drags you straight back against him, your back fitting against his chest again with embarrassing ease.

“nope.”

“dean,” you whine, much less convincingly this time.

his chin settles near your shoulder.

for a second, he doesn’t say anything. you feel him breathe in, slow and warm against your neck, and then his mouth brushes the shell of your ear.

“happy birthday, sweetheart.”

his voice is rough with sleep. low and soft and so unfairly affectionate that whatever complaint you’d been preparing disappears somewhere between your brain and your mouth.

you stay still for a second. then sigh dramatically. “i don’t wanna get up.”

dean laughs under his breath. “yeah, figured.”

“i mean it.”

“know you do.”

“we could stay here.”

“tempting.”

“all day.”

“very tempting.”

you finally crack one eye open, staring accusingly at absolutely nothing. “so why are we getting up?”

his hand squeezes gently at your stomach. “because i got a day planned.”

that gets you.

your eyes open properly. you twist around beneath his arm until you’re facing him, blankets bunching between you. dean looks exactly as sleepy as he sounds: hair flattened on one side, eyes still heavy, cheek creased faintly from the pillow. and yet there’s already that smug little curve at the corner of his mouth.

“you planned something?”

“maybe.”

“what did you plan?”

“nice try.”

you stare at him. he stares back. “tell me.”

“no.”

“is there food?”

“obviously.”

“cake?”

“it’s your birthday.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“pretty sure it is.”

you narrow your eyes at him, but the excitement’s already creeping in despite your best efforts. dean notices too and his smile gets a little bigger.

you lean in and kiss him before he can look any more pleased with himself. it’s supposed to be quick. just a soft little thank-you against his mouth. dean has different plans for this too. his hand slides around your waist and pulls you closer, kissing you back slowly, lazily, still half-asleep enough that there’s no urgency to it. just warm lips and tangled legs and his thumb brushing beneath your shirt again.

when you finally pull away, his eyes stay closed for another second. then they open.

“okay,” he murmurs.

you smile. “okay what?”

his gaze drops briefly to your mouth. “maybe we can stay in bed another thirty minutes.”

you laugh, and dean grins before pulling you back toward him. the birthday plans can wait.

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yeah, tonight was different, though. sam had left much earlier— he and elieen were finally going on a real, live, actual date, much to your joy.

which meant you and dean were alone in the bunker together. that doesn’t happen often, but when it does, you usually stay up watching 80s movies and arguing over niche things like whether or not they used real flames in the end of back to the future (they didn’t).

that was yet another reason why tonight was different: you hadn’t seen dean all day, much less tonight. he’d been out during the evening doing god knows what— and you barely even heard him come back a few hours ago.

but you didn’t push. actually, you didn’t dare to set foot past dean’s door— taking the long way down the hall to get to the kitchen or the library throughout the evening, secretly hoping he wouldn’t come out of his room or even acknowledge your existence.

because… honestly?

living with two other men?

who the hell were you kidding.

you could use a night to yourself.

and not to your knowledge or anything, but so could dean.

no disrespect though, because dean really was wishing you were there— or, rather, he was imagining you with him, which was the only acceptable option at the moment.

…but this was definitely a new low. even for him.

see, while you were actually attempting to be productive with your night, dean was not.

like, at all.

while you were doing your laundry, putting clothes away in your room, watching a show on your laptop with your airpods in— thank god, otherwise this whole thing would blow up in dean’s face…

…for the most part, figuratively.

because dean— and how does one say this without sounding like a complete and total creep?

well, dean was jerkin’ it in his own room.

fappin’.

beatin’ da meat.

whatever the male version was of flickin’ the bean.

oh, and the (best) grossest part?

he was thinking about you while doing it.

yeah, yeah, it’s sick, it’s definitely wrong on so many levels— and it sure as hell feels downright illegal and a sin to be doing it while you’re in the fucking bunker.

it’s the lowest of the low. weird. pathetic.

but then again, dean’s always been a little… pathetic when it comes to you.

don’t let anyone know you know that, though.

so, back to dean being pathetic and horny. he’d been at the bar in town for hours earlier tonight, trying to find someone to satisfy the strain on his pants— and that someone needed to look a whole lot like you to get the job done.

how hard could it be?

well, apparently, in lebanon, kansas, finding a look-alike clone of your best friend so you could fuck them silly?

it’s really goddamn hard.

and so was dean.

so here he was—did i say pathetic already?— jerking off in his bedroom like some horny teenager. he’s on his fourth, maybe fifth time cumming to the thought of purely just you.

that’s right, no porn, no nudie mags, not even a goddamn picture in his free hand— because dean was wound up so freakin’ tight, he didn’t need anything. just his hand and his filthy imagination.

it’s humiliating. dean’s literally bucking his hips up into his hand as of right now, imagining it’s yours and not his— all while letting out these little noises that do not sound like they’d be coming from a six-foot, tough as nails hunter. but they are.

and they’re all for you.

dean winchester does not whimper. hell, no. but the broken sound that rips from his throat, tossing his head back on his pillow after he tugs a little too hard on himself was anything but.

and maybe dean should be making less noise— but he knew you so well, too well— you’d have your airpods on noise canceling, anyway. and he can’t even think about if you didn’t. he’s too wrapped up in a haze right now. he’s so distracted. by-god intoxicated.

because dean’s imagining you after that one hunt in virginia. yeah. the moon had been out that night, and god, the way it hit you— a combination of this deep blue and silver and it just lit up your skin, illuminating you like you were one of those ancient goddesses, like the ones he’s only read about in old myths and legends when he’d been so bored he actually did research in the library.

dean’s imagining you, just you, right there with him, and it was your hand, not his. imagining you pulling those sounds from his throat while he’s breathing so heavy, his chest heaving up and down. and the sheets covering only his bottom half were shifting with him as he was moving what seemed like his entire bed along with him as of now.

dean was trying to be quiet.

but his body was not letting him.

and poor you— oh, sweet, innocent you. because as far as dean knew, you were completely oblivious to what was currently occurring in his bedroom at the moment.

but what dean didn’t know was that your airpods had died over an hour ago.

and you’d made the mistake of not taking the long way back to your room this time, thinking that dean had gone to bed due to the late hour.

you had stopped in your tracks in the hall coming back from the kitchen— because you heard dean. heard his little broken groans, damn close to whimpers.

and you genuinely believed that dean was just having a nightmare at first— because hell, with the shit you guys encountered on the daily, it wasn’t uncommon for any of y’all to make a goddamn racket in your sleep.

drawing that conclusion— because it was the only one that was realistic, you start towards your room again, already starting to tune out dean’s weird-as-hell noises.

but before you even take two more steps past dean’s room, you hear something else— a little muffled through the door, but clear as day. because it sends a jolt straight through you.

your name.

he’s having a nightmare, you remind yourself. he could be just calling out to you in that sense, because that would be logical. but then he says your name again. and again.

and it’s just your name.

not sam’s.

not cas’.

just. yours.

and dean sounds like a man possessed at this point. his eyes are squeezed shut, as if he’s trying to banish the image of you from his mind.

but he can’t. and he never would.

he just can’t do it. can’t keep himself in check anymore.

so that’s why dean groans your name at the next motion of his hand on his dick— saying it for the fourth time since you’ve been stopped outside his door.

and it wasn’t a ‘i’m-in-so-much-pain-and-scared’ groan, the kind when someone has a nightmare— no, dean’s groan sounded like a ‘oh-that-feels-so-fuckin-good’ groan, like the kind someone makes when…

oh.

oh.

and dean knows he sounds pretty close to, if not completely pathetic. not at all like the good ol’ badass hunter of lore, not that you’d believed him to be. you’d think he’d sound more in control, or at least not whimpering.

dean’s battled both heaven and hell. purgatory. angels, demons, monsters, even sometimes, just people, you name it— he’s fought it and kicked its freakin’ ass, even god himself.

and his one fault? his only weakness?

you.

it’s always been just you. your stupid pretty face. the way you laughed at his jokes, even when they weren’t that funny. the way you stood by him and his brother’s side— and in the hunting world, associating with the winchesters meant a death sentence. you didn’t care, though. you never did. it was in the way you were always there, especially when it counted.

and here he was.

jerking off and thinking about you.

this had to be rock bottom. right? if not that, purely a whole new level of scumbag. even if you couldn’t hear him.

oh, but you could. and you’re lingering outside dean’s door— because you didn’t even have to put your ear on it to hear the noises he was making, clear as day.

dean feels like he’s drunk, delirious. this always happened whenever he fantasized about you. a pathetic, groaning and whimpering mess. hell, in this state, he’d damn well beg.

and oh, he was.

“fuckin’— please— god, i need you, please—”

damn, you could almost see it— dean’s hand, hidden by the dark of his room, but the way the sheets move makes it obvious just where his hand is. and it’s a blur.

yeah. there was no more holding out, no more being strong. not now.

because dean feels like he’s on the edge of his own personal hell.

and you? you’re stuck.

dean was… well, fucking doing that. and you’re just… stuck. you would have just kept walking past his door, putting your pillow between your ears and teasing him about it tomorrow morning.

because instead crying or groaning out the name of some random girl or even farah fawcett— dean was currently begging.

for you.

and you’re still stuck. dean feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind. he’s gonna cum again, he knows it. he also knows he should be quiet, but the words and your name just keep spilling out of his mouth, and he’s too far gone to stop them.

“ah— fuck. please. please, please, goddamn it, i need you, i need you, i need you…”

yeah, dean’s brain’s not in charge anymore. honestly? it hasn’t been since he met you all those years ago— with your stupid pretty hair, and your stupid pretty mouth, and the stupid soft sounds you make in your sleep that drove him insane whenever you used to share a motel room.

dean needs you.

and you needed a fucking cold-ass shower.

because the way dean was sounding right now? he only sounded like that in your dreams. your deepest, darkest fantasies. it was making your knees buckle.

yeah. there’s absolutely no way any of this was real. this was straight out of a porno. this had to be the trickster’s doing, or something.

because the real dean didn’t act like this. and yet, here he was. and here you were, your stomach flipping each time a sound leaves dean’s mouth and bounces off the wooden door that was still splitting you two apart.

and right then and there, you wished you had the balls to just open it.

because you wanted to be right there next to dean, pulling those noises out of him yourself.

“need you—need you right there, need you, right, right, oh, god, there—”

even in dean’s own fantasies, the ones that drove him to insanity like right now, he’d always thought about this. you actually being there, him actually saying all this to you.

dean would’ve given anything, then. anything. just to have you right next to him in his bed.

yeah, well, you’re still just stuck.

because what the fuck do you do.

do you walk back to your room? pretend you didn’t notice? pretend it never happened? not listen to the sounds dean was making?

or, do you open the door? go in his room and just show dean how you’d really felt about him— for years now?

and lately, it seemed like you all you could think and dream about was being in the same bed with dean, touching every part of him.

because if you were in there right now, you’d touch dean’s skin that you yourself had deemed forbidden, because it’d be seen as crossing a line, breaking a boundary.

hello? reality check, anyone?

come on. dean was your friend.

but the noises he was making in your name— because of you? that was anything but.

yeah. if you were in there, you’d start with your hands on dean’s chest, going lower, and lower, until he started making the sounds he was making now, gasping and begging right in your ear for you, not stopping until he completely just—

yeah, that was it.

you knew your answer.

and dean needs exactly what you’re about to do. because god, he’s thought about it. in the dead of night, when he was alone, or when you’d been just out of reach sitting next to him in a dive bar, he’s wanted this. wanted you.

dean wanted to know the way your hands would feel against his skin, how your body would feel against his own. he’s thought about it. hell, he’d dreamed about it. fantasized— just like he was doing now.

and dean was still fantasizing when you throw away every single rational thought you had at the moment and manage to open his door without making a noise— thank you, hunter skills.

this was crazy. right?

eh. you’ve done crazier.

no. not like this.

and not with dean.

but still, you managed to cross the threshold of dean’s room— and you even sit down on the edge of his bed.

okay, the more you thought about it…was this awkward?

maybe.

oh, but dean doesn’t even notice you— his eyes were screwed tightly shut, mouth parted and huffing out pants and broken noises as one of his hands continues to move fervently. his hips are wild, bucking into his hand— and his body is shaking his entire bed frame.

dean’s too far gone to notice anything, lost in a fantasy that’s been haunting him for longer than he’s willing to admit out loud. the only thing that could even remotely stop him would be—

hold on.

dean’s hit by a familiar scent— the one he’d been imagining this whole time. but that really does smell like— and its now so close, so real, it practically envelopes him. and his eyes open to—

you.

right there. in his bed. within reach. looking at him like he’s always wanted you to look at him.

and there’s no disgust or anger on your face as you look down at dean, still frozen in place. no, just a hint of amusement, mixed with something else—

something dangerously close to pure want.

you don’t say anything, even though you know you should by now. because now dean knew that you knew exactly what he’d just been doing— more importantly, you were now aware of who the focus of it all was.

and goddamn if the look on your face doesn’t have dean pausing, too. he’s never seen it on your face before. and it’s too dark in his room for him to really make it out, but he thinks he sees—

you weren’t disgusted. you weren’t grossed out, or even angry.

you’re just… looking at him like the fantasy he’s been chasing isn’t a goddamn fantasy anymore— but instead something he could reach out and touch. feel.

dean has to swallow whatever excuse he could come up with to talk himself out of what you’d just walked in on. what you’d just heard. and his mouth is dry.

a part of you wants to pounce onto dean right now. to kiss him silly, touch him everywhere and make him gasp your name again— only with you being the sole instigator this time.

but the annoying other part of you halted that urge.

and why?

because of your stupid morals.

your goddamned feelings.

and you had to ask dean, had to know— even if the answer hurt you.

“how long?”

dean’s brain almost completely flatlines for a long moment. though, he knows what you’re insinuating, of course.

how long dean has been thinking about you in that way? how long and hard had he fantasized about his hands on your body, his mouth on your skin, and his dick buried so deep inside you, he gets hand cramps almost every night he’s alone?

yeah. it scares him, just how goddamn long it’s been.

“…years.”

that was all you needed. in reality, you don’t actually pounce or anything, but you do move closer to dean on his bed, tossing one leg over both of his to straddle his lap before meeting his gaze again.

“you have no idea,” your voice is barely above a whisper to dean as you keep his gaze, making yourself comfortable in his lap. “how much i wanted to hear that.”

and dean can’t help the groan he lets out, at feeling your weight, your body, straddling his lap. he’s spent too many nights dreaming of exactly this. his hands automatically go to your hips, as if they’re on autopilot.

because he’s not in charge anymore.

and honestly?

he doesn’t think he ever was when it came to you.

and a small smile tugs on your lips when you feel dean’s hands on your hips— your own fingers start to trail from his wrists and up his arms, your pace slow, but deliberate.

because you were going to memorize every inch of dean that you could.

oh, dean’s just barely managing to keep his hips still, to not buck up underneath you. he can feel you, now that you’re straddling him, the heat there, where he’d wanted to feel you for so, so long.

and when your fingers trail up his arms, dean shudders. because it’s so gentle, tender. he can’t remember the last time anyone touched him this way, if at all.

your hands eventually reach dean’s face. oh, his gorgeous face. you cup both sides, taking in everything: those green eyes of his, the freckles you could see only if you were up close dusting on his nose and cheeks—his features were illuminated only by the dim light of his desk lamp, but you could see so much because of how close you both were now.

the slight smile is still on your lips as you look at dean— because you were still a little sure you were going to wake up at some point.

but this wasn’t a dream, you had to remind myself. dean was under you. he wanted you, in the same way you’d wanted him for as long as you can remember.

and dean feels like he can’t breathe properly. he’s been slapped, punched, cut, beaten, tortured, everything violent under the sun done to his face— but no one’s had their hands on it like this.

he feels too exposed, too vulnerable, but he doesn’t move.

because it’s you. it could only ever be you.

dean keeps his gaze locked to yours, even as he has to stop himself from just completely melting into the palms of your hands on his face. he wants to look at you for forever, keep you just like this— and his expression is so open, so bare.

your thumbs gently graze across both of dean’s cheeks as you hold his face in your hands.

and you can’t look away.

so you don’t.

but you do lean a fraction closer to dean in his lap, breaking the silence in a hushed whisper— because there goes your stupid doubts and feelings, again.

“you want this?”

even though he almost wants to, dean can’t laugh. not when he knows you’re being serious. it kills him, a little— that you’re still doubting it.

because how could he not want this? you?

“god, yes.” dean’s not even sure if he says that out loud, or just thinks it— but he’s nodding regardless, and with the movement bringing his face even closer to yours.

and your gaze softens almost completely when dean says that— but there’s one doubt that sticks, even when his words wash all the others away from your mind. the one that’s been there almost the entire time you’ve known him.

“de, i…” you don’t take your hands off of dean’s face when you try to speak again— but the words die in your throat. you swallow a little, averting your gaze.

and god, when dean hears you hesitate, he’s already on edge.

dean doesn’t know what you’re about to say,— all he’s aware of is that you’re now looking away from him. and he can’t have that, so he brings his hand (non-jerking, of course) to your chin, gently but firmly, forcing you to look at him again.

he tries to keep his voice even, but he can’t.

“tell me.”

you’re forced to keep dean’s gaze when his hand touches your face— and his fingers are so warm, you almost lose your train of thought completely.

you’ve wanted dean for so long— but you had to make sure he fully felt the same way you did.

not just lust. not something to walk past awkwardly the next day.

“i— i can’t do this… just for tonight,” you swallow hard again, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes flick between dean’s. “but i… i think you know that.”

even with the worry that had been coursing through his veins, dean couldn’t help but be impressed at the fact you think there’s a chance in hell he’d be able to have you once and just… let you go afterwards. his hand on your chin drops a fraction, resting on the side of your throat instead. he swallows, then finds his voice.

“i know.”

your gaze softens a little— and it’s a little embarrassing how much weight felt completely lifted off your chest when dean says that.

you had denied your feelings for dean for years now. and now knowing that he felt the same way, it was getting harder and harder to control the urge to just do what you wanted.

“well, good,” you bring your hands to tilt dean’s head up more to you as you’re in his lap, eyes flicking down to his lips— because you so needed to know what they felt like. “that’s— that’s good.”

and damn, if dean isn’t already struggling. nothing’s even happened yet, and he’s trying his best just to keep still, to resist all his natural impulses and desires to just grab you and never, ever let you go. when your eyes flick down to his lips, his follow suit almost instantly. his voice is almost a damn croak when he responds.

“yeah?”

all your senses were filled with just dean. and you needed more. you’d denied your feelings for far too long— years now, in fear of him not reciprocating. but you couldn’t deny your feelings or your urges anymore.

“yeah,” you echo back in an exhale, your thumbs grazing on dean’s cheeks. your gaze is still on his lips, but you look back up at him. “you— you’re all i’ve ever wanted.”

hot damn.

dean feels like he’s going to wake up at any second at those words that just came out of your mouth. because he never dared to let himself hope that you could feel the same way he did. and it’s been so, so goddamn long of wanting you with every fiber of his being, wanting to touch you and hold you and never, ever let you go.

oh, he’s too far gone to even feel sheepish about how he’s almost shaking now, hands trembling and breath coming fast as he’s barely keeping the reins on his self-control.

dean’s trembling sends a shiver down your spine. even after you just said all that, he still wanted this.

you might die.

or you were already in some version of heaven that jack made up.

because dean wanted you.

“just lemme kiss you,” dean would be embarrassed of how desperate and out of breath he sounded if he could give two damns. he says your name again: “please—”

dean can’t even think straight anymore. yet, never could when it came to you. his hands go to your thighs, gripping tight like it’s all he can do to resist the urge to just flip you over right that moment.

you can’t hold back anymore.

neither can he.

so you don’t.

you close the final distance between you both, taking his mouth in a kiss that’s hard, desperate and full of years’ worth of emotion.

and dean’s lips felt like home. and that’s a weird thing to say, but it was true. you’d never kissed him before this, but it really was him that you’d been missing all this time.

your hands on dean’s face trail into his hair, and you could feel yourself completely melting into him when you pull myself closer to him in his lap, hips fully slotting with his own— and you both groan a little at the feeling.

dean kisses you like a goddamn starving man, his hands gripping at your thighs so hard he’s afraid he’s leaving marks. but he can’t bring himself to care, because he’s finally kissing you. finally having you in the way he’s only dreamt of.

dean hasn’t been touched— kissed like this, ever.

like he’s something precious. to be loved. it makes him feel weak. but he can’t really bring himself to care about that, either.

all you could think about was how good dean smelled. and as his lips danced with yours, he even tasted good. like whiskey and something you couldn’t place— but it sure as hell was definitely dean.

and god, it’s perfect. dean’s trying to swallow the little noises his mouth is threatening to make again as you kiss him back, kissing him like you feel the same— he thinks he’s losing his mind for what felt like the millionth time tonight.

dean’s grip on your thighs tightens even more. he couldn’t help it anymore— he rocks you against his lap, his hips bucking up against yours in an involuntary but much needed movement. and a little sound pretty close to a whimper does escape him this time, hitting your lips as you grind your own hips down onto him.

you had to break your lips from dean’s to get stupid air, but your forehead rests against his as one of your hands unlatches itself from his hair, trailing downward on the fabric of his henley as you’re in his lap.

and you’d tease him about the noises he’s making— if it wasn’t leaving your underwear a complete and sopping mess because of it.

dean’s mind is hazy, lost in the feel of you against him and in his lap, his mind trying to keep up with all the things happening.

he’s a hunter, goddamn it.

he needs to get a freakin’ grip.

but he can’t.

because of the way your kiss felt like a drug. the way you’re so close he can feel your breathing, and the way you’re grinding up against him like you mean it—

and then dean feels your hand on his shirt, sliding further down past his stomach, and he feels like he’s about to go insane. he’s hallucinating, under some sort of spell that shows you what you’ve always desired. that’s the only plausible explanation.

but this was real. oh, so real.

dean’s hands were still holding on for dear life on your thighs, but your own was still going farther and farther down the fabric of the henley he was wearing, stopping at the hem and tugging on it, talking against his lips—

“put your arms up f’me, dean.”

goddamn, if that doesn’t make him literally shiver when you say his name like that, all breathless and pretty.

and dean follows the instruction, raising his arms and letting you pull the shirt over his head, revealing his the skin underneath.

he’s not even embarrassed of his scars, the marks on his body from over the years. not with you. the uneven skin told their own tales he wouldn’t dare open his mouth about, even after three whiskeys deep.

you discard dean’s shirt somewhere in his room without another thought when he lifts his arms up.

you’ve actually only seen dean shirtless twice— once after a hunt, and if you count that one time when that motel room with shitty air conditioning that got too hot last summer. you kept your eyes glued to the lore in front of you then, not daring to look.

this time, however, you couldn’t look away.

not even if you tried.

your lips are parted in what could only be described as pure awe while your eyes and fingers rake over every inch of new skin revealed while still in dean’s lap. first trailing a path up his exposed arms as your eyes continue to drink in all the details of him you’d never thought you’d see.

dean has never, ever been looked at the way you’re looking at him right now.

your fingers continue to trail up dean’s arms, fingertips grazing on the scars you could see in the dim light of his room. you actually knew some of them— having been there when he sustained the wound that made the scar, but a lot were new to you.

and you wanted to memorize it all.

it’s almost embarrassing how he feels like something to be worshipped under your touch. like someone to be taken care of. to be cherished.

as your fingers trail up his arms, he has to bite down on a whine in the back of his throat— forcing himself to keep still under your gaze as you rake your gaze over him. his voice is rough and hoarse when he manages to speak, but all he could get out was your name.

your hands found themselves resting dean’s shoulders while you take in the breathtaking view that is him under you, meeting his gaze when he says your name, voice just as quiet as his.

“yeah, de?”

your touch feels like dean took the jumper cables he had in the back of baby and put it against his skin. but it’s so soft, so gentle. it’s also making his whole body ache, yet he just wants more. and he can’t keep his eyes off you, either. the way you’re looking at him, at his scars like they’re nothing to be ashamed about… it’s almost safe.

dean swallows, hands coming to rest on your waist now that he’s topless. his voice sounds wrecked, broken.

because he’s begging.

“touch me.”

dean’s hands on your waist were making your heart beat all out of rhythm— and you almost completely lose your train of thought looking into his green eyes, wide and blown out.

for you.

you just nod at dean’s words— and your fingers continue their journey downward from dean’s shoulders, trailing over his skin until you eventually reach the waistband of his boxers, and you keep your hands there on the fabric when you look back up at him.

because you still needed to know:

“can i take these off?”

oh, for the love of—

dean nods rapidly before you’re even done asking, because he’d do anything, anything, to have you touch him like he had been not just a few minutes earlier— in fact, he’s already lifting his hips off the bed to make it easier for you, because he’s not about to hesitate. he needs you. he’s needed you for too goddamn long.

and when you manage to pull off dean’s boxers, discarding them in one fell swoop after he confirms and lifts his hips for you, your eyes widen at the sight of him completely exposed beneath you on his bed— and a quiet ‘jesus christ’ escapes from your lips before you can stop it.

and your reaction makes dean’s breath hitch. because it’s not a disgusted one— it’s the exact opposite. he feels vulnerable like this, exposed to you in a way he’s never been to anyone else. he should feel embarrassed. but he doesn’t, oddly enough.

his voice is so goddamn quiet when he bites down on another whine.

“please.”

and you just nod again. then both your hands find dean’s chest once more— and you start trailing a path down his lower torso with your fingers.

dean can’t help the way he lets out a strangled moan at your touch against his bare skin. with no clothing in the way to block it, he’s so much more sensitive. every single touch makes his breath hitch, his head spinning with how perfect it feels.

it’s too much.

and yet, he needs more.

dean’s hands find your hips again, gripping, trying to get you even an inch closer to him.

and as your fingers get lower and lower on dean’s stomach, you hesitate your hands. not because you weren’t sure— but it felt… well, wrong not to at least ask him for permission first.

so you look back up and meet dean’s gaze, eyes searching his again as you whisper, shifting closer to him in his lap.

“can i go lower?”

and at your question, a sharp shiver wracks through dean’s whole body— he’s half convinced he’s going to to just cum right there, even if you don’t end up touching him.

dean’s practically trembling under you now, hands gripping tighter on your hips. he tries to speak again, to say something— but his voice comes out in a strangled moan.

all he can do is nod against his headboard.

a soft exhale escapes you when dean confirms. you nod— and don’t hesitate again.

not when he was like this.

you take all of him in one of your hands— but you don’t even try to look away from his face while you do so. because you had to see his face for this.

and dean feels like the air’s getting ripped from his lungs at how good your touch feels. he’s never felt anything like this before. it could be the fact that he hasn’t had actual sex in a while (apparently, he’s considered old now), or purely just because of you.

yeah, but dean’s never been touched like this before. so goddamn gentle. but it’s still perfect. his eyes are still locked to yours, and his expression looks pained. it’s all too much, after wanting this for so long.

and all he can do is whisper your name before your hand starts to move.

you start starts slow— not too slow, though, because dean had already fucked his palm tonight more times tonight than he’d like to admit.

dean’s eyes actually flutter shut for a moment when your hand starts to move, a moan catching in the back of his throat. because it’s barely even started, and it’s so good. too good.

dean’s hands on your waist are close to shaking now, but he has to speak— even as it comes out in a hoarse croak.

because he needs—

“more. jesus, i need—”

you don’t even entertain the thought to tease dean or not do as he asked— because the sounds he was desperately trying to keep in were making you want to keep going, to not stop.

so you don’t stop. your hand speeds up, going back and forth on dean’s dick— and your gaze still doesn’t leave his while in his lap, touching him in the way you’ve always wanted to for so long.

and when you pick up the pace, dean’s breath hitches even more— god, it’s so good, but he still needs more. his hands are shaking as they grip tight on your waist, and his eyes somehow keep your gaze, even as his head feels like it’s spinning right into his headboard.

dean manages to get out his next request, in a begging whisper of a breath. he’d be ashamed if he wasn’t so desperate.

“please— please, i need—”

“its alright,” you nod before he can finish this time, leaning your head and pressing a kiss on his cheek. “i gotcha, de.”

and that’s it. you say those words and dean feels like he could cum right there. he’s already so close, just from your touch, the way your hand’s moving so beautifully up and down on his dick. the way you’re looking at him. he tries to keep his eyes open, too— to keep looking at you, but everything you’re giving him is starting to overwhelm him, he can hardly even breathe anymore.

dean glances down at your hand between both of you— big mistake, because the sight of your fingers around his dick and covered in him makes him let out strangled whimper. he bites down on his lip hard, his head falling back against the headboard and his eyes screwing shut. because it’s embarrassing how close he is to cumming in your hand.

you notice, of course— your hand doesn’t let up, but your other hand on dean’s shoulder goes to the side of his face, thumb grazing on his cheek. it’s a stark contrast to what you’re doing to his dick.

“de, its okay,” you reassure dean as his breaths become more and more unsteady, eyes flicking over his face. “you can let go if you wanna.”

and that’s it. that’s all it takes.

as soon you give him permission, dean’s gone.

his body suddenly goes rigid, then he’s bucking his hips into your hand so erratically and sloppily you would’ve been knocked from your position on dean’s lap if he hadn’t buried his face in your still clothed chest, tightened his arms fully around you and pulled you closer to him. he cums loud and hard, a mixture of soft groans, whimpers, swears and pants of your name spilling into the fabric of your shirt.

you’d never heard him like this before, ever.

but dean winchester— the man, the myth, the hunter god, was whimpering as you’re in his lap.

for you.

because of you.

and because it’s all too damn much— the way your hand feels, the touch of your thumb against his face, the look in your eyes when you said that it’s okay for him to let go of the tight rein he’s been holding onto for so long.

dean can feel himself shaking and still coming apart under you as you guide him through it, his face buried in your shoulder as you pull every last bit of pleasure out of him that he has with your fingers. he’s never felt so goddamn free before. he’s never come apart, not like this— not completely exposed like this.

dean’s hands are still shaking as they rest your waist, his entire body almost trembling with it being still so overwhelming. but it was perfect. and he needs to say that, to tell you that it was everything he’d ever wanted—

“please— please, just kiss me.”

and that comes out of dean’s mouth instead. you’d barely started to wipe your hand when the words spill out in a plea— a beg into your shirt. you’re a little surprised that was the first thing he said post-orgasm.

but still, you lean back just enough after dean says that, bringing your free hand to the side of his face while still in his lap, your gaze flicking between his in the dark of his room for just a moment before you lean back in, pressing your lips onto his again.

dean doesn’t hold back now. he doesn’t care about the mess he just made, the way he sounded, or the fact that he begged you to kiss him after you just made him cum.

he kisses you like a starved man, like the air he was breathing needed to come from your mouth and not any other source. his hands move to the back of your hips, gripping your shirt tight and pulling you even closer to him on his lap, now that your hand wasn’t between you both anymore.

dean tears his lips off of yours— and he is still just barely coming back to himself. his brain still hazy from pleasure, from you, but he tries to get out words because he needs to tell you how much he still wants, needs you. his hands grip tight on your hips, like he’s afraid you’ll just get up and leave if he lets go. his voice is still wrecked when he only manages to whisper your name again.

you don’t move out from dean’s lap, though. you stay pressed against him, his skin so warm and flushed against your own. neither of you had to say anything to know how intimate this all was. dean should be attempting to at least do something besides burying his face back in your shirt.

but you don’t let dean stay like that for too long. your hands go to the sides of his face, holding his head as you tilt it back to look up at you, searching his gaze as you continue to straddle him. and your own voice is a whisper, too.

“y’okay?”

and god, dean feels like his entire body’s just come apart again at that single word, because how do you answer a question like that.

dean has to take a breath, because he still feels the aftermath of it. everywhere. he nods, once— because he’s better than even alright. then again, because he has to tell you that, too.

“yeah,” he manages to get that out, and it’s still so damn wrecked, so out of breath. “more than okay.”

“okay, good,” your gaze softens and you nod when dean confirms that he was okay— and your other now-clean hand finds the side of his face when he looks up at you. a small smile tugs on your lips as your thumbs graze on his cheek. “just checkin’.”

dean’s blown-out eyes are still locked to yours as you brush your thumb against his skin, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of feeling you touch him like this.

it’s so tender. so soft.

and dean’s just… lost. in you.

but dean does finally manage to speak again, his voice still hoarse as his hands release from your hips start to trail down, calloused fingers rubbing gently on your exposed thighs and saying your name like a prayer. “god, i need—”

you keep dean’s gaze still— but not before glancing down to see his hands on your bare thighs in his dimly-lit bedroom as you straddle him.

dean’s hands looked like they belonged on you.

felt like it, too.

one of your own hands reaches down from dean’s face to his on your thigh, grasping on his fingers with yours.

“tell me what you need,” your voice is still a hush of a whisper, but remains completely and utterly genuine as you search dean’s gaze. “de, tell me what you need me to do, and i’ll do it.”

holy goddamn.

dean’s breath actually stutters a little at that, because you sound so ready, so willing— he can’t help but let those last three years of pining, of wanting you, of hoping show as he looks up at you.

“ride me. please.”

the words come out in a half-choked plea. dean’s so damn desperate for you, he’d beg. hell, he was begging in the darkness.

and you weren’t about to say no.

your hands take themselves off of dean’s face and hand, lifting your leg to discard your sleep shorts, then your (soaked) undies— then going to the shirt that you’d still been wearing, grabbing the hem of it and tearing it off, discarding it somewhere in his room before reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.

and when that finally comes off, too, dean’s entire damn body tenses. because he felt like the air had just been ripped from his lungs.

again.

he’s seeing you more exposed to him, for him than he’s ever seen you before— and the sight of you like this is goddamn perfect. you’re so perfect.

dean’s hands tighten on your thighs, his eyes taking in the view of you like a man starved.

“holy—”

there’s a thousand words he has for you right now. things like beautiful, perfect, mine. but he can’t get them out yet. because his brain is still trying to catch up from the fact that you’re actually here and naked in his lap.

both of dean’s hands reach for your hips as he’s still staring up at you in awe, his fingers gently but almost greedily gripping on you— because he wants to touch you so bad that he wants to let out a goddamn sob. because no one has ever felt like this for him.

because no one has ever come close to the way he craved you.

your eyes meet back up to dean’s green ones once again. you didn’t have to tell him anything or even say something else.

so that’s why you just nod, then reach down between you both once more, starting to fully sink yourself on dean’s dick— all while still keeping his gaze while you let your hands rest on his shoulders, a exhale escaping you both.

you not even halfway on his dick, and dean thinks he might bust again right then and there. his fingers dig into your hip, all while a groan escapes his parted lips: “ah, shit—”

and oh, he’s big. it takes you a second, but you sink down completely on top of him, your pussy sucking him all up— dean feels like he can’t breathe. again. the sight of you like this is gonna fuel his jerk off sessions for the rest of his goddamn life.

dean’s not sure if it’s possible, but he uses his hands on your hips to gently just pull you even closer against him— which ended up being a mistake, because you involuntarily clench around him. his head drops in between your tits at the action.

and.

he.

whines.

“f— fuck—”

yeah. dean just whined at the feeling of being inside of you, eyes screwed shut and everything as he buries his face deeper between your breasts— you can feel the pant of air and his lips on your skin.

dean’s fingers lace together with yours fully, holding your hand tightly while his other is still gripping tight on the meat of your hip, finally taking his face off of you to look up at you above him.

and oh. you’re a goddess, at least. not something heavenly though, because angels are dicks— but you look unreal as you look back down at dean, your mouth just a little parted from feeling him.

dean twitches a little inside you as he tries to find words, just a few, to tell you how much he wants this— or at least to tell you to move.

all he can get out, though?

“p— please.”

you don’t have to ask for clarification.

you know what dean’s asking for.

so you give it to him.

you grind your hips—and dean whines a little again at that— down onto his just once, testing the waters before you find a rhythm.

and dean feels his entire brain just go on complete and total motherfucking overdrive. because this is it. he’s finally getting the most intimate part of you, the part he’s been wanting for so damn long— he literally can’t see straight anymore. that’s how good it feels. how good you feel.

dean’s head goes in between your tits again, still holding your hand as you move your hips on top on him, grinding down on his dick. his other arm goes around your waist, pressing himself against you and gripping you tight in an attempt to steady himself— but it barely helps. his eyes screw shut again, and he’s letting out another whimper before he can stop it.

“fff— oh, fuck—”

a moan drops from your mouth, too, but it’s nothing compared to the sounds dean’s making, gasping and groaning into your skin as he fucks up into you, meeting your movements. his dick is brushing on that spot that makes you groan— and kickstarts your urge to go faster.

so you do.

dean can’t control anything right now. his hips are bucking up into you erratically, the movements only being stunted a little due to how strong your thighs were around him as you straddle him.

your hand not holding dean’s goes into his hair as you’re both pressed together for a better grip— and dean almost sees stars. he groans a little again, his breaths coming in hard pants on the skin between your breasts.

and the praise falls from your lips onto dean’s ear before you can stop it—

“you’re doin’ so good, de.”

dean feels like he’s gonna cry. just from how perfectly good you feel on top of him— and he’s making the most delicious noises that sound like words but it’s just broken moans mixed with whimpers. his hand on your hip tightens to the point it’s almost painful, but you don’t mind all that much.

“ah, don’ worry, i gotcha,” you whisper against dean’s ear again, your hand tightening on his as you let out a rough exhale, chest heaving rapidly against his as your movements don’t falter once. “you’re doing so good f’me, dean.”

dean’s not in control of the sounds that come out his damn mouth anymore— the praise goes straight to his dick, straight to the familiar burning building low in his tummy. it’s just all swearing, sounds of your name and incoherent begging being said into your skin.

“ah— shit, fuckin’— please—”

dean’s not even trying to stop the words from rushing out of his mouth right now, even if he sounds pathetic. because it all feels so goddamn good, and he’s being so good— for you.

and dean can feel nothing but you right now, in every sense possible. everything else has been long gone, and he’s been so goddamn wrapped up in how good your pussy feels around his dick.

dean gasps for air, because wants to tell you that you’ve ruined every living thing for him in the entire goddamn universe forever.

he wants to tell you that he’s about to cum— again.

“jesusfuckin’christ— oh, please—” is what comes out of him instead.

the words are barely intelligible, and dean’s whole body is starting to tense underneath you as he manages to choke out a ragged cry of your name. your hand is still gripping hard onto his own, the other burying itself deeper his hair. you needed to hold onto him right now. shit, you needed a sec.

because dean winchester was begging to cum inside of you.

you almost stop grinding down on him for a second— the keyword being almost.

you just nod against dean’s head still buried in your tits, holding him against you as you talk into his ear again.

“go ahead, baby.”

dean almost sobs again when you say that. he lets go completely just as before, his hands’ grips becoming painful on you as his whole body shakes and convulses against yours, the movements of his hips becoming so erratic once more as he’s painting your walls with his… sixth? seventh? load of the night— only this time, it’s inside of you. and he’s making every sound in the book: whimpers, groans, a whine here and there, too.

you came, too— but honestly, if you didn’t, you would’ve been fine either way. seeing and hearing dean come apart like this was enough to last you a lifetime.

you don’t know how long dean and you stay like that, pressed into each other and panting, fluids mixed together, spilling out and sticking all over your thighs— but even as you pull back just enough to look down at him, dean’s still trembling under you, long after both your orgasms had surpassed their high, melting into a thick haze between you two.

dean can’t look at you— or won’t, but either way, your hand in his hair trails to the side of his face, and you gently force him to look up at you.

dean swallows hard, and his face flushes. the embarrassment was finally, finally starting to set in now that he’d fucked you and himself out. he braces himself for the teasing, the jokes— and the look on your face.

but you weren’t looking down at dean like he was pathetic, or weak. you never did— and you sure as hell weren’t about to start now, after he’d just shown you every side you’d wanted to see of him.

no, you just smile a little, eyes flicking between dean’s as your thumb grazes on his cheek. he can’t help but lean his head into your palm as you exhale your next words out in a breath—

“that was really fuckin’ hot.”

miyanolovessasaki

i’m…a little confused…

alienqueen

Rip the bandaid off and tell him girl, because what happens when y’all get there and he’s not down?

jetblackwings

RESIST DARK REUNION, ACCEPT YOUR URGES (nta.)

s.geto

I have a question.

Eijiro was working out when you came to him with the…proposition.

Yeah. You.

“Hey, Eiji,” you ask, poking your head into the room. Eijiro doesn’t hear you, but he sees you, and takes a headphone off before racking the weights.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Eijiro still sweats anytime you’re in his relative vicinity. He’s gotten better at it, but you make eye contact like a motherfucker—staring past red irises and into his soul, perceiving all the secrets he keeps safe, in little boxes with little organized titles. You make him want to spill his guts.

“Kat and I are going to Hawaii in a few weeks, and we're wondering if you could come,” you smile, unassuming and confident, like Eijiro doesn’t know what’s in a few weeks. What date it is.

The two year anniversary of his fucking suffering.

(Technically, you’ve only been moved in for a year, but his suffering began the day you and Katsuki met, so.)

“Oh, um, are you sure?” Eijiro wipes clammy hands on his basketball shorts as you enter the room and take a seat on the exercise bench. You literally have clothes on, a casual sweatsuit fit, and Eijiro’s already drooling. He needs to get a grip.

(Or a girlfriend, his brain helpfully supplies, but that’s not fair to his hypothetical girlfriend. Not when Eijiro has yet to find anyone that measures up to you, holy shit—)

“Yes,” you giggle, like his response is strange. Eijiro’s brain is busy reeling, busy trying to decipher what this invite really means, that he misses your next sentence.

“Sorry—what did you say?”

“Just that it’d be more fun if you were there,” you wave your words off like they’re unimportant, but they are so, so important. Eijiro still doesn’t know what to make of it, though, and eventually gives up. He licks his lips and nods dutifully. He shouldn’t go—it seems like a very bad, not so good idea to go, but will he? Absolutely.

He can picture it now: you and Katsuki, late at night, getting down and dirty in the bed across from his, as quiet as you can, while he squints through closed eyes and jacks himself off into a pathetic state. And then, he sleeps in it, because what the fuck is he going to do—get up to clean himself off? Tell on himself?

“Okay, then I’ll go,” he smiles, and tries his best to hide the myriad of emotions pressing in on his lungs. Excitement, nervousness, confusion. Misery. It’s like Inside Out, but worse.

“Okay, great!” You clap twice, adjusting to, for some reason, get more comfortable in your seat. “Do you mind if I stay to watch?”

Eijiro waits for the other ball to drop. For you to explain that Kat is in the shower, or not even home, and you’re overwhelmingly bored—but, no. Nothing. That was the end of your sentence.

What the fuck.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, a little breathless and a lot confused. You stay for the duration of his workout, quiet as a mouse, and just…watching…

Eijirō nearly drops the barbell on his toes.

s.geto

I have a question.

cyberch!ck69

i have an answer.

s.geto

What do I do in this exact scenario if I’m the boyfriend?

The resort is so nice.

The lobby is open and airy, with poles instead of walls, and leads straight to the beach. Eijirō can see it. Can smell the salt in the air and hear seagulls squawking over food. As Katsuki talks to the concierge and checks in, Eijirō looks out to see calm and blue waters, poorly tamping his excitement with an impatient, bouncing foot. He, also, promptly pushes the last time he went to the beach out of his mind. Nope, not even thinking about it.

“Race you to the sea?” You ask, saddling up beside him. Eijirō shrugs.

“Sure.”

Immediately, you take off—leaving your bags behind and everything—and out the opening that leads to the water.

“Wait, right now?!” Eijirō squeaks, and looks to Katsuki, who isn’t paying either of you much mind, too busy barking at the concierge about something, probably their organizational practices, or another thing equally as trivial.

Eijirō makes a break for it.

He sees you weaving and cutting past cabanas, tripping over blankets and children, and follows the path your feet left in the sand, stomping them five sizes bigger. You’re both still sweaty in airplane clothes that are in no way conducive to these temperatures, but he makes it work—even if he ends up with sand in his sweats in the process.

It isn’t difficult to catch up to you, all things considered. Eijirō feels bad, debates on letting you win—until you turn around and stick a tongue out. Then, it’s fucking on.

“Gotcha!”

He snatches your waist just before the sea, swinging you around in tight arms before you can cross the imaginary finish line. After putting you down, he steps both feet into the ocean and cheers at your pout, doing a little victory dance.

“Aha! I win, I win, I wi—hey!”

Eijirō gets a face full of salt water, drenching him down his side and deepening the shade of his grey sweatsuit. The water is warm, but he chokes from shock regardless, and turns to look at his perpetrator with a new challenge in his eyes. You gulp.

“Wait, I didn’t—fuck!”

You whine when he pours a handful of water over your head. You accept your fate, sighing with your head down and hands open. Your white shirt sticks flush to your body, giving Eijirō the pleasure of revealing your bra underneath, and that’s—

“Oi, the fuck are you two doing?!”

Katsuki comes storming up to the shoreline, shaking sand out of his slides and grumbling with every other step. You and Eijirō stand in the water, white wake pooling around your ankles as the tide starts to recede. Katsuki huffs.

“It was his idea!” You point at the redhead to your right, who gapes at your audacity. For that, you get another handful of water over the head. “Wha—c’mon!”

“No, you both c’mon,” Katsuki hisses, pulling out three cards from his back pocket. “Got the room keys. You Dumbasses can frolic in the ocean afterwards.”

You two grouse, but agree. Because, Eijirō’s sweatpants stick to his thighs most uncomfortably, starting to stiffen from the salt—and you need a better shirt, preferably one that’s not white and wet and doesn’t highlight your bra beneath. So he can be sane again.

(He can’t help but feel like that sentence was all ‘Eijirō, Eijirō, Eijirō’ but also, guys, please—)

Katsuki walks to the hotel room with two soggy cats in his wake.

The pathways are just as open and airy as the lobby, with no walls on one side to provide a proper outlook to the ocean, and numbered rooms on the other. Theirs is on the top floor of the hotel, and luckily, not much of a shuffle from the elevator.

The room is just as nice as the hotel.

It’s spacious—Eijirō wouldn’t even classify it as a room, but a small apartment. There’s a kitchen and living room, all matching in a calming mahogany wood. Wood floors, wooden ceilings, wooden…wood, until everything but the soft furniture melts into one cohesive image. A pair of sliding doors lead to a balcony spanning the whole room, including the one bedroom—

Um.

“There’s only one bedroom,” Eijirō asks, because the hotel must have made a mistake. Not only is there only one bedroom, but one bed. The bed is big, sure—like, an Alaskan fucking King, more than enough to fit three comfortably—but this isn’t his anniversary, too.

(And yes, he knows his earlier fantasy is contingent on him technically sleeping in the same room, but the same bed is just—)

“Mm,” Katsuki grunts in acknowledgement. That’s about all he gets before you two drag your suitcases inside the bedroom, leaving Eijirō hovering in the doorway. He can sleep on the couch. That’s fine.

“What’re you waitin’ for, Shitty Hair,” Katsuki grumbles as he starts folding his clothes away, and to be honest, he isn’t exactly sure. Maybe for someone to tell him where to go.

“Yeah, c’mon! Feel the bed, it’s so comfy!” And, you’re jumping onto it back first. You hit the pillows with a muted pfft, and Katsuki immediately jumps into action.

“You’re all fuckin’ wet, get off,” he swats at your feet in encouragement, but you kick his hands away, and snuggle on top of the covers. When swatting fails, Katsuki starts to lightly tug at your legs. You don’t budge, and he stands over you with a warning in his eyes, hands on his hips.

“Babe.”

“No.”

“Baby.”

“No, Kats, I’m comfy.”

You wiggle deeper into the mattress, and Katsuki growls. He goes for your legs again, but a foot shoots out to kick him in his knee, his bad knee, leaving his leg to buckle. He catches himself before he falls with hands on either side of your head. This feels like a very intimate, very domestic situation that Eijirō should not be privy to, and yet, he is. Every day.

He’s okay. He’s fine, really.

“Move your ass,” Katsuki says after a long inhale through the nose, carefully, voice low and words over-enunciated. “Or, I’ll move it for you.”

You groan, but loop your arms around Katsuki’s neck like you aren’t going anywhere. With a laugh in your eyes, you bite back a grin. “No.”

“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, picking you up by the waist. You squeal, legs wrapping around his torso as he carries you to a desk in the corner of the room and drops you rather unceremoniously. You don’t let go, though. He doesn’t make you. “You piss me off.”

“Wow, my boyfriend is so big and strong,” you whine, completely overexaggerating, while caressing Katsuki by his shoulders. You giggle when he sighs.

“Shut the ever-loving fuck up. Please.”

“Why?” Your hand snakes from his shoulder to tangle in the nape of his neck, and Katsuki shivers. Eijirō lingers in the doorway. “Like it too much?”

Katsuki stands there for a second, relishing the feeling of your hands. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers card through his hair with something precious, and his next grumble has a lot less fire in it. “Do you wanna go to the beach or not?”

Finally, he unsticks you himself, with fingers around your wrists. You squeal at the sheer mention of the beach, squirming off the desk to start getting ready. “Ooh, yes! I’m gonna get all the Piña Coladas!”

“Let’s start with one,” Katsuki says, pressing a kiss to your temple before he resumes his unpacking. Why he insists on moving into every hotel he’s stayed in is lost to Eijirō. All he knows is that he’s happy his torture is over. For now.

“Are you gonna keep standing there like a weirdo?” Katsuki says, eyes focused on his activities. Eijirō knows it's directed at him—he’s the only one lingering. The only one ‘standing there like a weirdo.’ Eijirō grabs his things.

“Right. Right.”

cyberch!ck69

talk to them? 

s.geto

You’re useless.

cyberch!ck69

fine then, suffer in silence idgaf

When Eijirō finds time to get over himself, he realizes there is something about this that feels way too natural.

“That lady is staring at me weird—I’m gonna fight her.”

“No, you’re not,” Katsuki grunts, and grabs your hand before you can even consider getting up. Eijirō doesn’t really expect you to—you only say these things to give Katsuki a hard time, and he always falls for it, hook, line, and sinker. To the point that Eijirō is starting to think maybe he wants to. That maybe, that’s the whole point. “That’s just how old people look. They forget it’s fuckin’ rude to stare.”

Despite the all-inclusive resort, you three spend the first night eating out at a small restaurant not too far away. It’s a quaint and quiet barbecue spot, with cheap liquor and decent food. You insisted on going out, seeing the town, doing something, and despite Katsuki’s passionate argument—‘the whole point of an all-inclusive is to go fuckin’ nowhere’—he caved quick once it was two against one. (What? Eijirō wants to see the town, too—and he has a soft spot for cute girls with even cuter pouts.)

“I think that would count as elder abuse,” Eijirō says, once swallowing his food and getting a look at your newly proclaimed enemy. Empty shot glasses litter the table, some in stacks of three to make room for the food, and everyone sways a little from it all.

“Definitely does,” Katsuki sniffles and nods. He’s the most obviously drunk at this table—face flushed a bright pink and shirt collar askew. “Definitely would go to jail for it, too. I dunno how to get you outta Hawaiian jail, Babe.”

“Boo! Bribe them,” you heckle, throwing a big thumbs down in Katsuki’s face, and getting in the way of his barbecue chicken sandwich. Katsuki grunts and swats at the air twice until your thumb goes away. “Ooh! Or we could tunnel out, like El Chapo, or those guys from Alcatraz—”

“Those guys tunneled from the inside-out. ’M not going to jail with you.”

“Well—wait, no,” Eijirō says, gesturing to you. “What if we tunnel from the outside, and you tunnel from the inside, and we meet in the middle—”

“Omg, omg, I need spoons and a poster—”

“And, people are naturally corrupt, y’know, I’m sure there’s someone we could find to smuggle it inside—”

“You’re not goin’ to jail,” Katsuki groans through grit teeth, pointing at you, before his finger shifts to his friend across the booth. “And you’re not helping her escape from jail.”

“Oh wow, my boyfriend hates me,” you nod, picking at your food with a fork. Katsuki snatches a cherry tomato off Eijirō’s plate and stuffs it between your lips to keep you quiet. You spit it back out. “Would you even love me if I was a worm?”

Katsuki chucks his head back like this is a question you’ve asked many times before, and groans with nothing but pure frustration. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“It means ‘would you love her no matter what,’ Bro!”

“Thank you, Eiji,” you nod solemnly, suddenly, like this is a life-or-death conversation. “See? He gets it.”

“I’m gonna,” Katsuki incenses, looking at you with something heavier than just annoyance, something Eijirō, unfortunately, has seen too often to not understand—arousal. Suddenly, Eijirō feels like he’s shifting in the doorway of something unknown, again. Katsuki grabs your cheek and pinches. “You’ve been pissin’ me off all day.”

“Oh? And what’cha gonna do about it,” you smile smug past the distortion. Katsuki lets go of your face, and pats the sore area twice. Eijirō looks down at his plate. He’s not even here. He doesn’t even exist. (But, is he watching this entire interaction with one eye open? Perhaps.)

“You don’t wanna know,” Katsuki grunts in passing as he returns to his sandwich. Eijirō lets out a soft breath. This is going to be a rough trip.

“Well,” you say after a few moments of silence, clapping your hands together like they’re cymbals, calling to attention. “Now that I have a sufficient amount of liquid courage in me, it’s time to tell Eijirō the thing.”

Katsuki freezes—as does Eijirō.

“You didn’t tell him the thing,” Katsuki grumbles, looking at you like you’ve grown two heads. “I thought you told him the thing.”

“He’s here, isn’t he?” You argue, but when Katsuki’s look doesn’t budge, you deflate a little. “…I chickened out.”

“Again,” Katsuki adds with a sigh, running a hand over his face. Then, he redirects his gaze to Eijirō. “No wonder you’ve been acting weird.”

“Um,” Eijirō releases his own food to put hands in his lap. Would ‘the thing’ explain why he’s here in the first place? Because, if so, he’d like to know. “What thing?”

As you steeple hands in front of your face, Eijirō takes a sip of his Sprite. Sprite always tastes better when it comes in a cup instead of a can. He doesn’t know why—something about the fizziness, the freshness of it all. Honestly, he prefers Cherry Sprite, but that’s because he really likes cherry, and strawberry, and honestly, most things red, now that he thinks about it—

“I wanna watch you fuck her.”

Eijirō spits out his Sprite—he’s sure some came out of his nose with the propulsion, Jesus fuck—and possibly soaking his shirt in the process.

“I’m—sorry, what?”

Despite Eijirō’s respiratory distress, Katsuki watches with relative bemusement. You pass him a napkin, and Eijirō takes it thankfully.

“What part of that didn’t you get, Shitty Hair.”

“No, no, I—” Eijirō gives himself a few more seconds, a few more deep breaths, and slips half a grounding technique in there, just in case. “Just, like—I think I heard you correctly, but I’m—but I’m really not sure—”

“I wanna watch you fuck her,” Katsuki just…repeats, like Eijirō’s entire world hasn’t flipped on its axis. Like Atlas isn’t officially hanging upside-down, with his legs in the sky like a dying bug, flailing for any sort of friction to upright himself.

“So—” Eijirō starts, and coughs twice into a napkin before redirecting his question. “Why.”

“Because he thinks you’re hot,” you whisper, cupping a hand over your lips so Katsuki can’t read them. Not that it matters—you’re not muttering very quietly. “And so do I.”

Eijirō’s not sure if his face gets red, but he feels it, that heat. That overwhelming sensation to burn and melt away into nothing, and he’s simply trying to tamp it down, keep it safe, so he doesn’t end up making a fool of himself in this very nice, very clearly family-owned establishment.

He nods, though. You bet your ass he fucking nods.

He’d be stupid as fuck to pass this up, and Eijirō Kirishima does not take his curse words lightly.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

jetblackwings

RESIST DARK REUNION, ACCEPT YOUR URGES

kusuo_saiki

why are you everywhere i go

jetblackwings

fate, bro

Your energy is endless, and the next stop is a club.

It goes how it always does—you want something, Katsuki says no. Eijirō says it’s not that bad. Katsuki says fine.

The club is more packed than he expects. It’s not too far from the hotel, the place is full of foreigners, tourists looking for a good time on vacation, and then some. The theme is somewhat tropical, with warm orange lights, a smoke machine, and tree ferns in every corner. You hold onto Eijirō’s thumb and Katsuki’s wrist, yelling over your shoulder and above the heavy afrobeat that makes the floor rattle under his feet.

“Let’s go to the bar!”

“Where they sell overpriced shots?!” Katsuki yells back, almost immediately. You roll your eyes. “Absolutely not!”

And yet, you drag both of them closer to the bar, and further from the front door.

“I just want one,” you holler, and pull out that irresistible pout Eijirō loves so much. Fucked. He’s fucked. “If it’s really that deep, I’ll buy them!”

The bar counter is vaguely sticky, and the four working bartenders look a mess, screaming over the music to grab something, but no one can hear. There are two seats open—Eijirō takes one, Katsuki takes the other, and you take Katsuki’s lap.

“’M not letting my girlfriend buy me a shot,” Katsuki huffs, and pulls his wallet out from his back pocket. After waving a bartender over, he grumbles, “Three shots of Kauaʻi Coconut Rum.”

“Oh, boohoo,” you whine, dropping your head back on his shoulder. Then, with one eye open, “Eijirō would let me buy him a shot.”

“Hey! Don’t bring me into this,” Eijirō chuckles, resting a forearm against the counter. Sticky. Immediate regret floods his system, but he’s made his bed and proceeds to lie in it.

“Am I wrong?” You lift an eyebrow. Eijirō stutters.

Because, if a pretty girl bought him a shot, would he let her? Yeah, probably. And, if you bought him a shot, would he let you? Absolutely.

But, that’s neither here nor there.

“Shitty Hair…”

“Guys, I’m not a part of this,” he whines, and as if on cue, their shots slide across the counter. Everyone grabs hold of theirs.

“Okay, wait, wait, I wanna do a toast,” you sniff, a little wobbly. You lift your shot glass, waiting for the rest of them to follow suit. Eijirō doesn’t hesitate, and while Katsuki grumbles, he raises his own. Then, with your chest, you yell, “To me, getting plowed!”

Katsuki drops his head on your shoulder. Thank God you made the toast before they took shots to the head, or Eijirō would be choking all over again.

“Baby, you can’t just—”

“Why would you even—”

You pay their plight no mind, chucking your head back as you swallow the shot. Eijirō follows; he needs one after that, and is wildly unsatisfied when he realizes it’s watered down.

Katsuki sets his glass down with a clink and a growl.

“’Kay, can we fuckin’ go, now?”

“No!” You bark, sliding off his legs unceremoniously. You slip a little, and Eijirō catches you by the waist before you can stumble into him, and tries not to think about how well you fit. When he lets go, he still feels your warmth burning into his palms. His fist opens and closes on his thigh. “I wanna dance!”

Katsuki leans his head back, and groans.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Eijirō!”

You both say his name at the exact same time, like he’s been deemed the official tie-breaker—like it’s his fault you two argue like an old married couple, and he needs to fix his mess. When Eijirō shrinks in his seat, looking at Katsuki, both of you know what his answer is.

“Fuckin’—fine,” Katsuki huffs and stands almost as clumsy as you. You giggle a yay, and take Eijirō’s hand before he has a chance to stand.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” you bounce. Eijirō comes stumbling behind you—because, for someone with little feet, you move real fast—and you find a corner of the dance floor to make your own.

The beat grows in volume and aggression the closer they get to the dance floor. With a steady grip on both of their hands, you start jumping up and down, yanking at their arms to bounce with you. Katsuki grumbles something with a straight face—Eijirō starts hopping along, until it’s a two-person mosh pit, with Katsuki’s unimpressed shoulders jerking under the weight.

“C’mon, Kat!” Eijirō yells over the music. Katsuki looks at him, but his feet are firmly planted on the ground.

“Please,” you whine when he doesn’t budge. Eijirō thinks that Katsuki’s arms would be crossed if they could. “You’ll have fun!”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. His heels rise and drop, slowly, completely against the beat, and without the balls of his feet separating from the tiled floor. “This is not fun.”

“Because you’re not doing it right!” Eijirō says, tugging him closer. Katsuki stumbles forth. “You gotta jump!”

“It’s too late for this shit,” Katsuki huffs, but jumps. Once. “I don’t know how you two are grown-ass adults with this type of energy.”

You quit your jumping, chest heaving in a pant, and sweating skin glistening under halogen lights. Eijirō follows suit, a little less out of breath, but you were going hard. Katsuki exhales, thankful his torture is over, for now.

The song changes into something slower. Not too slow; a trap beat still hides underneath, but slow enough to calm his hammering heart. Eijirō has always loved clubs—enough alcohol to make people friendly, the humid atmosphere from too many bodies in one place, the way the music is all-consuming enough to block out the buzz of the world…

Eijirō shakes himself out of his reminiscent stupor to see Katsuki draped over your back. His hands hold your hips steady, swaying, and while you aren’t grinding, you’re pretty damn close.

You grab Eijirō by his shirt.

The redhead takes a deep, steadying breath. He’s not sure whether it's the alcohol or the sight that makes his head spin. Maybe, it’s the fact that he’s included, for the first time.

All he knows is that he really, really does not want to fuck this up.

No pressure.

His hands find your hips, running over Katsuki’s. He looks at his friend, double-checking if this is okay, if he’s crossing a line. Katsuki’s nose is in your neck, brushing against your jaw, utterly unbothered. He takes it as an O.K.

You hum, arms wrapping around Eijirō’s neck to the best of your ability. He’s not sure you’re even standing, simply leaning your weight against Katsuki, and trusting Eijirō enough to keep you from falling forward. There isn’t much space for you to, anyway. Your chin is pressed flush against his chest, looking up at him like he has something you want, and he’s not exactly sure what to do about that.

He lets a ‘fuck’ slip, quiet enough to fit under his breath and completely involuntary. It’s not his fault—your lip gloss glistens in the shifting light, and he can’t stop looking at it. Katsuki mutters something into your neck, and you giggle, hips shifting forward so you can grind against Eijirō, too.

He’s losing his mind, a little.

Because, this feels better than he could’ve imagined—you fit better than he could’ve imagined. The alcohol, the lights, and the faint fog soften the edges of everything, to the point where it feels like he’s walking in a very vivid dream, like he’ll wake up at the most inopportune time, sweaty, sad, and probably rock hard. Katsuki groans under his breath, and Eijirō finally peels his eyes away from your face to notice that his friend isn’t doing much better.

“God, this is fuckin’ hot,” Katsuki grunts, and you giggle with a bottom lip tucked between your teeth, eyes way too bright with excitement. Eijirō huffs a laugh.

“Cool, ‘cause I was thinking the same thing.”

Katsuki grunts again, and grinds into you harder, heavier. You don’t stumble forward, but you would’ve if the redhead weren’t there to take the brunt of the blow.

One of Eijirō’s hands starts to wander.

Completely of its own volition—he was totally content to keep them at your sides, swear—it caresses your waist, running up and down, contemplating the feel of your skin under your dress. He takes another deep inhale, for his sanity.

Katsuki, on the other hand, lost his sanity a long time ago.

One of his hands leaves your hip, too—the one that’s not still trapped under Eijirō’s own—sliding up your stomach, over your breasts. Eventually, it comes to rest at your neck. Eijirō knows when he squeezes, because as his wrist flexes, your eyes bulge, then melt. Eijirō simply tries to memorize it all—the wild look in Katsuki’s eyes, the entreating one in yours—just in case this is a one-time thing. Or, if you change your mind.

(This isn’t a one time thing, nor are you going to change your mind.)

While Eijirō doesn’t hear your whimper, he does feel it. Which is torture to someone who’s heard your moans through the walls for the past year.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” Katsuki hums to himself, shaking his hand on your neck until your head bobs. Then, carmine eyes turn to Eijirō, piercing through the aimless float of smoke. “Ain’t she?”

Eijirō remembers the first time Katsuki asked him this question a couple of months ago, at the beach. He had an answer then, but didn’t want to say it. And, he’s got an answer now.

“Yeah,” he breathes, watching your body curl in between them. His thumb comes to pull at your lip, smearing lip gloss across your cheek in the pattern of his fingerprint. “Bet she’d look even prettier with something in her mouth, though.”

“Fuck.” Katsuki groans like the sound is punched out of his gut, and his hand on your waist tightens. Eijirō feels it and follows suit. “I wanna fuck. Like, now.”

Eijirō laughs, throat tight and voice hoarse from arousal. “That can be arranged.”

And, you—you’re just happily swaying between the two of them, eyes lidded and humming along to the music. Like you were built for this, built to handle both of them at once, and, that thought is—

Eijirō takes another deep breath, squeezing your side once more before stepping away.

“Hotel?” He asks. You and Katsuki nod and respond at the same time.

“Hotel.”

geordo.s

fascinating. is this how peasants live?

cyberch!ck69

PEASANTS?

kurapika.chu

You're slightly the asshole—not because of what you did, but because you didn't tell him beforehand.

eren.exe

mmmm idk if you’re the asshole tbh

When you three get back to the hotel, though…

“I don’t wanna fuck tonight!”

Katsuki’s got his shirt halfway off his head, cloth still stuck around his elbows, as he looks at you like you’re clinically insane.

“Fuckin’ what.”

“You heard me!” You giggle, collapsing into the bed with your club clothes still on. Everybody is reasonably drunk, at this point—and Eijirō starts to wonder if you’re having cold feet. Katsuki is quick to put that worry to rest, though.

“No,” he huffs, taking the rest of his shirt off, before he starts pulling your legs like he was earlier and wagging a finger in your face. “No—no, we’re not doing that shit again.”

You lift your head, voice gargling from the awkward position of your neck. “What ‘shit’?”

“You’re fuckin’—you’re fuckin’—” Katsuki stutters in the way he always does when immensely frustrated, and growls at the ceiling steadily, before starting again. “You’re fuckin’ ‘oh, let's wait, it feels so good if we wait.’ I’m not—no.”

Katsuki mocks your voice, as nasal and high-pitched as he can muster, and it earns him a hearty pillow to the face. He snatches it away, reddened face growing deeper in frustration. And Eijirō, who’s still a little confused as to where he’s going to sleep, lingers in the doorway once again.

“Like…edging?”

“Yes!” Katsuki points at his friend, now borderline pacing. “Except—except it’s fuckin’ worse. She’s a tease—it’s teasin’, that’s the fuckin’ word!”

“I’m glad we could come to that conclusion together, Katsuki,” you sit up with a bright smile. Then, kicking a leg out, “Now, help me take my shoes off!”

Katsuki groans, and looks at you with deflating shoulders. His pacing stalls.

“Are we really not gonna fuck tonight?”

“Nope!”

“Fuck!”

“Well, we are here for about a week,” Eijirō tries to placate with a shrug. “We have time.”

“Plus, when we get back,” you nod, kicking the heels of your feet against the bed. Eijirō didn’t know ‘when we get back’ was an option, but he’s most definitely not complaining. You lift your foot again. “Shoes.”

Katsuki grumbles something else that Eijirō can’t quite hear, and gets down on one knee. Your shoes are confusing to look at—they’re heels, with straps that wrap around your leg and end just below the knee. Yeah, if Eijirō wore those all night, he wouldn’t have the energy to take them off, either. As Katsuki starts to undo the bow at the top, you look at Eijirō, and lift your other foot.

“Shoes.”

“Oh, you want me to—”

You nod. “Shoes.”

Eijirō passes the threshold and mimics his roommate—gets down on one knee, and pulls your foot to his thigh. You let out a satisfied hum, nodding your head twice, like somehow, Eijirō’s added presence satiates something. What that something is, though, he isn’t quite sure.

“You happy?” Katsuki grunts, halfway done unlacing. He glares at you, but you just smile lazy and pat both of their heads.

“Mhm,” you nod. “Very. My good boys, taking care of me…”

You sound tired, and Eijirō snorts as Katsuki’s blush deepens. “Don’t fall asleep on us, now.”

“’M not,” you slur, resting a head on your shoulder. Katsuki slides off one shoe, and Eijirō takes the other. You wiggle your toes.

“Y’still gotta change outta this, though,” Katsuki grunts on his way up, snapping the strap of your dress. You whine, collapsing back into the bed with an exhale.

“No! I’m sleeping naked!”

“And, that’s fine,” Katsuki snorts in a soft voice, leaning over you. “Y’can’t sleep in this, though.”

You whine. “Why not.”

“’Cause,” he tugs at the bottom of the dress, “this shit was expensive. I know, ‘cause I paid for it.”

“Ugh,” you groan, loud and drawn out, before sitting up again. “Fine. Someone’s gotta unzip me, though.”

Katsuki runs the zipper down the back of your dress. Eijirō just…turns around, unsure where to put himself, opting to change as discreet as possible. You huff once free, hobbling towards your suitcase with your dress still on but unzipped, only to realize—

“Uh oh…”

Katsuki, who’s already gotten ready for sleep—no shirt and grey sweatpants—looks at you and huffs. “What.”

You turn to both of them with a guilty smile, still uncomfortably hunched over your suitcase.

“I forgot my pj’s.”

Katsuki sighs long until his Adam's apple pops. “Y’gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

Your awkward grin just widens. “Oopsie?”

“Well, I don’t have a fuckin’ shirt for you to wear,” Katsuki drops arms at his sides, and proceeds to fold his clothes from today and put them away. “Like, literally. I brought fancy ass vacation shit—I didn’t bring a singular t-shirt.”

“You can wear one of mine!” Eijirō says, a little too quick for comfort, but what can he do about it? He already blurted it out. Your eyes light up, though.

“Really?”

“Yeah, one sec—”

He stands from his seated position on the floor (don’t judge him; he doesn’t know where to sit), knees popping, as he makes his way to his own suitcase. He files through the plethora of t-shirts he brought— that’s all he wears—and tosses one over his shoulder without even looking at it. You catch it with your face.

“Thank you!” You sing-song. Eijirō looks over his shoulder to give you a thumbs up, only to realize you’re fully stripped save for your panties, and very quickly looks away.

“Yeah, no problem,” he mutters weakly. When he closes his eyes, he still sees you naked, so he starts folding his clothes back into his suitcase like he’s Katsuki Bakugō, instead.

“Ooh, this is soft!”

Eijirō finally deems it okay to look—hoping you’re not just, like, feeling his shirt in your hands, but actually wearing it. Except, this sight isn’t much better. You’re only in his shirt, the Crimson Riot one. It’s beyond oversized, collar loose and hem ending mid-thigh. Eijirō tries not to think about it too much.

(He’s thinking about it. Oh, he’s totally thinking about it.)

Katsuki’s already on the bed, propped up on an arm. When he sees the shirt's design, he snorts.

“When are you gonna get over that comic book character?” He grunts, like Eijirō’s hair isn’t still red.

“When are you gonna start being nice to strangers?” Eijirō asks as he gets up, brushing stray carpet lint from his basketball shorts. Katsuki barks a laugh.

“Fuckin’ never.”

“Exactly,” Eijirō nods. You flop into bed right beside Katsuki, who wraps a steady arm around your waist. Eijirō takes a deep breath. Someone tell him where to go. Please.

It’s like you hear his internal battle. You pat the open space next to you, enough room for one more person, and Eijirō swallows. Wait, so like—

“Are you comin’ to bed or not, Shitty Hair?”

Yeah, okay. Yep.

Eijirō slides in right next to you, slow and awkward in case either of you wants to change your mind. You don’t. Katsuki reaches behind himself to turn the lamp off, and suddenly, everyone is plunged into darkness.

“Hi,” you giggle as Eijirō lays his head on the pillow. He snorts.

“Hi.”

“Hi, bye, goodnight—if we’re not fuckin’, go to sleep!”

You swat Katsuki’s bad attitude away, looking over your shoulder where his head nestles. “Okay, okay. Got it. G’night, Katsuki.”

“Good fuckin’ night,” he grumbles, but when you purse your lips, he meets them with his own. Then, you turn back to Eijirō, who’s lying uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, putting enough space between you and him to fit a tiny person.

“G’night Eijirō,” you smile, wrapping your arms around his waist to tug him closer. He lets you, sliding an arm under the pillows, right along Katsuki’s.

“Goodnight.”

Then, you purse your lips again, waiting for a kiss.

Eijirō hesitates.

And, apparently, you don’t like hesitation. Your puckered lips turn into a pout. “Kiss.”

Eijirō stifles the butterflies in his belly, and leans in.

Your lips are soft, warm from alcohol and the evening’s activities, and then, they’re gone.

Eijirō lays his head back on the pillow, rightfully worn out. A long flight, a beach race, a dinner, a club, new information—his head is still reeling, trying to catalogue it all, but he’s only focused on one thing. You.

With a yawn, Eijirō gets comfortable because he’s allowed.

“Night, Ei.”

Katsuki’s voice rings low through the quiet room—quiet enough that Eijirō sort of assumed both of you had fallen asleep already. The hand running on the underside of his arm squeezes it, three times.

“G’night, Kat.”

Eijirō squeezes him back. One-two-three.

t.kageyama

i have yet to decide whether im too old or too young for this app.

geordo.s

fascinating. is this how peasants live?

cyberch!ck69

PEASANTS?

cyberch!ck69

PEASANTS?????

Eijirō wakes up to you and Katsuki whispering like little conspirators.

“Ugh—who let me drink so much last night?”

Sunlight escapes through thick curtains, cut into thin lines and scattering the room in patterns. Eijirō’s slightly startled for a second, before remembering where he is and, more importantly, the events from last night.

‘I wanna watch you fuck her.’

Right. Right.

“I don’t wanna hear shit,” Katsuki yawns beside you, scratching his stomach. “We tried to cut you off. You said, and I quote, ‘Don’t tell me what to do, I’m a grown ass woman.’”

“Oh,” you say softly, dragging hands down your face. “Yeah, I kinda remember that.”

Your back is facing Eijirō as you pillow talk with your boyfriend, and in a way, it feels like he’s looking through the crack in the door again. Except, he’s allowed to look through the crack, maybe step through it a little, and does just that.

Eijirō nods his bird nest against the pillow and lifts up a sleepy fist. “Work hard, party harder.”

“Hell yeah,” you nod, looking over your shoulder to fist bump him properly. While unconscious, he scooted closer, leaving you squished between two hard bodies. You aren’t complaining, though. With a voice raspy from sleep and screaming over club music, you smile, “Good morning, Eijirō.”

Katsuki grunts in acknowledgement, coffee-less and therefore relatively silent. Eijirō beams. “Morning, everybody. How’d we sleep?”

“Ugh, great,” you say, melting deeper into the covers. “Like a baby.”

“No, you slept like a menace—kickin’ me and shit,” Katsuki grumbles, placing hands on your waist to tug you closer regardless. And, it’s a little weird—seeing Katsuki so overwhelmingly unguarded. So soft.

“Oh, that’s what that was?” Eijirō wakes up feeling bold this morning, and tests the waters, wrapping an arm around your waist, too. It runs along Katsuki’s until it dips below, resting just above your belly button.

“Maybe,” you say, a little guilty. “But, it’s not my fault! I picked up the habit because Katsuki starfishes, so I subconsciously kick his legs back together. See?”

Eijirō has never seen someone kick so hard laying down in his life.

It’s actually pretty impressive—how you manage to know exactly where Katsuki’s foot lies, and aim with utmost precision. He sees Katsuki’s leg reel under the covers as he hisses in pain.

“Ah—the fuck? You’re not the only one with a hangover, y’know.”

You let out an evil little cackle, but kiss Katsuki on the forehead to placate him. He hums in satisfaction. Placation: successful.

“How’d you sleep, Eiji?”

“Like a rock,” he huffs, and snuggles closer. For warmth, he tells himself. Because he’s allowed.

“Good, good,” you wave over your shoulder, and yawn. “’Kay, well I’m gonna go back to bed—”

“Hell no. We’re fuckin’ now,” Katsuki grunts, eyes still closed and face still swollen. He’s half awake. You pout while Eijirō snickers, and the blond peeks an eye out. “Fuckin’ what.”

“Nothing,” Eijirō hums, shaking his head. He presses his chin into your shoulder to see Katsuki better. “You just seem impatient.”

“I am,” Katsuki makes a pained groan. “I’ve waited a whole goddamn year. Now, Baby—strip.”

A year?

You whine again, giving Eijirō absolutely no time to do the math, to understand the repercussions of what Katsuki confessed. Shit, maybe he should go back to bed too. Just to, like, sit on that information for an hour or two.

“I don’t wanna,” you pout, dragging out the last word in the most obnoxious tone you can muster. “My head hurts. Later.”

“When is later,” Katsuki over-enunciates, clearly hanging on by a thread. You shift under the covers, ass pressing against Eijirō’s crotch, and—oh. Is that morning wood?

“Later is…later,” you huff, tucking the fluffy hotel duvet under your chin. Then, with another wiggle of your ass, “You’re not the only one having a hard time, you know.”

Eijirō juts his bottom lip in a pout, and tightens his hand on your stomach to get you to stop, please. Because, Katsuki was right about one thing—not being able to fuck you is torture. And now that Eijirō knows he can, it only makes it worse.

“Hey,” the redhead whines, because, low blow. It’s a low blow from you, and a low blow from his body for telling on him. It’s a low blow from the gods, who put him in this situation to begin with. “Not cool, Dude.”

“Are you really gonna call me dude when your dick is pressed against my back,” you snort, and Eijirō hears Katsuki’s breath hitch. Feels the arm on your waist squeeze a little tighter.

“Yeah,” Eijirō licks his lips, watching your hips fall into a light and slow but steady pace. Katsuki’s hand slides to your back and drags a light line down your spine. “You’re being mean.”

Because, what’s the point of grinding if you don’t wanna fuck?

“I can be meaner,” you say, with a smile flashing over your shoulder. Eijirō whimpers as you push more weight into him, and keep pushing. He looks at Katsuki for help, but he’s busy watching your body curl, too.

“Kat,” Eijirō whines, actually pleads, because, “help me.”

“Nah,” Katsuki huffs, getting comfortable on the pillow, and pats your side. “Now y’get to handle what I’ve been dealing with for the past two years.”

All Eijirō hears is: at least it’s not me.

And, honestly? Fuck him for that.

“This is horrible,” Eijirō laments after a sharp inhale, rubbing his face into your neck like it’ll make him feel better. It doesn’t. If anything, he’s flooded with the scent of you, more than he already was, and it makes his dick jump in his shorts. Nudging you in the side, “Okay, c’mon—no more.”

“But, I thought you guys were horny,” you tease, the lilt in your tone undeniable. “I’m just taking the edge off a bit.”

You're pressed flush to Eijirō now—even the slightest grind, and he’d feel it. Except, nothing about this is slight. It’s heavy and hot and makes his breathing pick up in the way only one thing can.

“This isn’t—this is, like, sharpening the edge,” Eijirō reasons aloud, huffing into your shoulder. “This is like dangling me over the cliff, and being like, ‘oh, don’t fall.’”

You cackle at that, like you know. Another roll of your hips, then, “You can stop me if you want.”

Eijirō whines, loud and long and pathetic, because you don’t understand—he cannot. You feel too good, too real, too solid, and as someone who’s been dreaming of this all year, no, Eijirō cannot simply stop you.

You giggle when he doesn’t, when his hands scramble for your sides instead, sitting above Katsuki’s just like last night. And, at the thought of last night, Eijirō pulls you a little closer. He doesn’t know how long he can take this before returning to his natural state—weak, pitiful, and overall, severely down bad.

After a little longer, room filled with human humidity and heavy pants, you stop grinding. Sit up.

“Okay, I should probably get breakfast to help my headache,” you yawn with a hand over your mouth. “Before I fall back asleep.”

Katsuki gets up on an arm, hair still flattened on one side from sleep. “Y’gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

You smile, innocent and polite, like you aren’t the bane of their existences. “Anyone want anything?”

“Fuckin’—you, the fuck,” Katsuki huffs, tugging at your midsection to bring you back under the covers, but you don’t budge. Instead, you peel his hands off your hips.

Then, you crawl out of bed, on all fours and face first, and Eijirō is forced to watch your ass move in his Crimson Riot shirt, panties slightly askew. He’s so close he can taste it, and just watches at the overhead fan. He won’t know if he can’t see. (And, if he knows, he’ll lose his mind.)

You throw on a pair of sweatpants, and you’re out the door with a click. Eijirō and Katsuki are left with the hum of the AC and a very silent room.

“Cold shower?” Katsuki grumbles, staring at the ceiling with something wistful. Eijirō nods.

“Yep.”

akira.aaaaaah

this poor guy, ik he’s stressed

zenitsuckthesenuts

oooh lemme be a fourth 

kid.death

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Eijirō doesn’t know why you left him and Katsuki alone like that. Also, cold showers suck.

So, they didn’t take one.

“F-Fuck, Dude, holy shit—”

Thanks to the wetness from constant running water, Katsuki’s hand slides easy. The tile is cold against his back, but Eijirō sweats anyway, arm pumping as his own hand glides smooth along a cock that isn’t his.

“Why the fuck are your hands so soft?” Katsuki pants into his neck. He has Eijirō pinned to the side of the shower, just out the way of the spray. This is a moment of severe weakness, and Eijirō hopes what happens in the shower, stays in the shower.

(Katsuki can always touch his dick, though. Not that part.)

“Lotion, Man,” Eijirō says past a breathless laugh, droplets sliding off the sharp ends of his hair and rolling down Katsuki’s shoulder. Eijirō’s face flinches in pleasure, and while he tries to keep his sounds to a minimum—this is still a little weird, this is still just his Bro—little squeaky whines slip from his lips. He was more desperate to get in Katsuki’s hands than he thought. “How are your hands so rough?”

“’Cause I’m a man that works with his hands,” Katsuki postures, and Eijirō snorts.

“Kat, you have a desk job.”

“Shut the fuck up, and cum already,” He grunts, lips moving against Eijirō’s neck in a way that makes him shiver, even if it’s accidental. Katsuki’s grip gets tighter, and so does his.

“You can’t rush orgasms, Dude,” Eijirō says, tries to say, but ‘dude’ turns into a really embarrassing whine he hopes was drowned out by running water. He knows it wasn’t. “That’s, like, Sex 101.”

“I’m not fuckin’ rushin’ it, she’s rushin’ it,” Katsuki says behind a deep growl, and Eijirō’s cock jumps. “We’ve got five minutes, tops.”

Eijirō knocks his head back into the tile, a little too hard, and winces at the feeling. Katsuki’s head falls off his shoulder. Shower smoke fogs the glass doors and curls toward the one canned light in the ceiling.

“I know, I know,” he whines. He’s not even standing on his feet anymore—fully leaned against the shower wall, with Katsuki keeping him upright at his front. And, Katsuki’s dick is so pretty. It’s curved and flushed and just as glossy and pale as his skin. Eijirō watches pre-cum bead at his tip before sliding down the shaft, running down Eijirō’s knuckles and disappearing in the slide. Katsuki’s cock jumps, too. With a weak grin and a lilt in his voice, Eijirō asks, “I turn you on, Dude?”

And Katsuki, whose eyes are trained on Eijirō’s own dick, finally looks away to huff in his face. “You already know the answer to that question, Dumbass”

Eijirō bites his lip. He wants to hold onto Katsuki, more than he already is. He wants a hand on his hip, gliding over those shower-slick muscles Eijirō remembers him working so hard to get, wants to see how easy it is to redden his skin, wants to see if his nipples are sensitive. He wants…he wants—

“Shit, I’m close,” Eijirō pants, eyebrows folding. He looks at Katsuki. “Are you close?”

“Stop askin’ stupid questions,” Katsuki grunts, but leans forward a bit. Incrementally—but enough for Eijirō to notice—like he’s melting. Then, an afterthought, “Not cummin’ before you, though.”

Eijirō wheezes a laugh, tight and bright and a little bit bitter. “Dude, now is not the time for a competition.”

Putting a hand next to Eijirō’s head, on the slippery tile, Katsuki’s eyes flit down to his lips. Return to his eyes. “Now’s definitely the time for a competition.”

“No, Bro,” he shakes his head, then licks his lips—because Katsuki keeps looking at them like he wants something. And, y’know, maybe Eijirō’s eyes slip a little, too. “’Cause then I’m gonna try to hold out. We don’t have time for that.”

“Then cum,” Katsuki says, like it’s easy, and suddenly much closer than Eijirō remembers. Katsuki’s smile turns cocky, and that’s the exact moment he knows he’s screwed. Or, maybe it’s when Katsuki drags a thumb along his jawline. “Be a good boy for me, and cum.”

“Oh, that’s not fucking fair,” Eijirō whimpers, finally caving and grabbing Katsuki by his waist. “That’s not fair at all, Kat, I—”

“Awh,” Katsuki coos and clicks his tongue. The thumb on Eijirō’s jaw lifts his head, and he can feel Katsuki’s condescending breath on his lips as he says, “’S okay, Ei. Just let go.”

“I—”

Knock, knock, knock!

They jump apart. Eijirō slips on water and nearly falls on his ass. Katsuki catches him, though.

“What are you two doing in there?!”

Your voice is muffled by the door, but still sounds just as lovely. The hands Katsuki has around his waist tighten.

“Fuckin’ showerin’!” Katsuki hollers, voice echoing off glass and tile. He lets go of Eijirō, and turns the shower handle from hot to freezing. Under his breath, he grumbles, “Nosy.”

“I heard that!”

“Good!”

horihori

nta, GET THAT DICK BITCH

yurikatsuki’sno1hater

Yuri Katsuki is a professional figure skater from Hatsetsu Japan, certified by the JSF. At age 18, he moved to Detriot to train under Coach Celestino Cialdini, only to come back and LOSE TO THE MUCH SUPERIOR AND EXTREMELY HANDSOME YURI PLISETSKY SUCK MY DICK

cyberch!ck69

what does this have to do with anything i just said?

yurikatsuki’sno1hater

It doesn’t

Unfortunately, before they both realized you were going to be a tease, Katsuki signed everyone up for snorkeling after breakfast. And, he takes his reservations very seriously. Especially ones with thirty-dollar cancellation fees. Thirty dollars each.

“Move your asses, we’re gonna be late.”

(And, Eijirō is really trying—to move his ass. But, it’s extremely difficult to stuff a rock-hard dick into awfully short swim shorts, and then hide it. He’s trying.)

They end up arriving about five minutes late, which isn’t late for the hotel, used to dealing with people on vacation with lax schedules, but it is late for Katsuki. Being on time is late for Katsuki.

The instructor gives them routine warnings and directions—stay away from the coral reefs, keep within the buoys, don’t wear anything shiny, remember to avoid breathing through your nose. Katsuki thinks the last one is self-explanatory, but people are dumbasses.

Katsuki didn’t realize how much of a dumbass he’d look, though, in goggles too big and the snorkel a comical thing next to his face. Somehow, Shitty Hair makes it work, and that pisses him off even more.

Snorkeling was fine—it was fun. Though he’ll never say it aloud, Katsuki liked looking at the different types of fish while floating on the water's surface. Eventually, Eijirō returns to the beach, too tired from last night’s activities and probably a little horny, opting to lounge on a chair to catch a tan. The tide slowly pulls you and Katsuki into a small grotto, still within the buoy's boundaries, and that’s where you two take a breather.

“This is fun,” you smile, picking the goggles off your head and stuffing them into your hair. It leaves your snorkel in a wonky position. “There are even fish in here, look!”

You point to the shallow waters lapping at your feet from where you’re standing on the rock. Katsuki watches your ass protrude as you bend over.

He might’ve made everyone go snorkeling, but there’s still only one thing on his mind.

Katsuki hums, but he’s not even looking at the fish. He’s looking at you—how minimal sunlight bounces off your wet skin and makes it shine, how your fat bends and curls with every shift, how you turn to him with bright eyes, like you forgot the whole point of this trip in the first place.

When Katsuki pushes you against the rough cave wall, he doesn’t know why you act surprised.

“Wha—Katsuki!”

His mouth is on yours before you can get another word in, clammy hands gripping your sides as Katsuki gives you a taste of your own medicine. Your kisses start out soft, broken by giggles, but Katsuki very quickly brings you down to his level—fucking desperate.

“Kats,” you whimper, and Katsuki moves to your neck, dragging his tongue along your pulse point and making you shiver. You press at his shoulders, but it’s not enough to push him away. “Kats—we shouldn’t—someone could walk in, or—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Katsuki growls. One of the hands on your hips slowly snakes lower, grabbing the side of your swimsuit bottoms and tugging upward until you can feel it strain against your clit. You huff, looking up at him with that swell in your eyes he loves so much, so he tugs again.

“Kats—”

“I’m tired of your shit.”

His other hand slides upwards, wrenching your bathing suit top to the side and freeing a breast to tweak a nipple. He can feel your breath puff on his bare skin as you sigh, lolling your head to the right just enough to give him more room to work with. And, work with, he does.

After too much tugging and teasing, Katsuki dips a hand beneath a damp waistband. He needs to feel you—and groans when he finally does, because holy shit, how are you so wet.

“You drive me crazy, y’know that,” he grunts, fingers slowly rolling over your skin in a way you deem pleasurable. Your eyes flutter in response. Katsuki presses harder. “Prancin’ around in practically nothin’, and you still won’t lemme touch you.”

You let out a moan too loud for a public space, cracking against craggy cave walls and echoing through the grotto. Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, wrapping around his neck in a way that almost chokes, but Katsuki barely feels it. No, all he feels is you, and the swell of his dick.

“And here you are, all fuckin’ needy,” he huffs a laugh, grin scraping against your skin, bending it in his wake. Your hips buck, so his hands still. “Ah-ah. You’re not cummin’ yet.”

You whimper, licking your lips and panting, huffing, with your askew top shuddering with every exhale. Goosebumps rise on Katsuki’s skin, flatten into nothing, then rise again.

“Kats, please—”

“Please ain’t gon’ get you anywhere, Princess,” Katsuki growls, free hand finding your chin to lift it, while the other continues its steady ministrations between your legs. “You played with me—now it’s my turn to return the favor, right? Like a good boyfriend?”

Katsuki’s words are mocking enough to make you shiver in the way he loves, and your nails dig into his shoulders tight enough to leave crescents in your wake. The sting runs straight to Katsuki’s dick, and stays there.

“F-Fuck you,” you manage to hiss, lacking vitriol and replacing it with ecstasy and an undercurrent of annoyance. Your hips hitch again, so Katsuki stills again.

“See, that attitude right there is the reason you’re cummin’ last, tonight,” Katsuki’s grip tightens on your cheeks enough to make them squish, enough for him to feel the groove of your teeth through the skin. His hand is wet with you, now—fingers fucking soaked, and all he did was rub your clit for about five minutes. You whine.

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight,” Katsuki over-enunciates, hoping to bury it in your thick skull that you’re not getting an orgasm until the moon is high in the sky and everyone has returned to their rooms to knock out—you can sing with the crickets, for all he cares. Your face curdles into a pout between his fingers, the pout that lets him know you now understand that you’ve bit off more than you can chew. Katsuki clicks his tongue. “You’ve been actin’ a brat this whole damn trip. Y’don’t just get shit ‘cause you asked for it, y’get shit ‘cause you work for it.”

With that, Katsuki releases your face. You collapse against the cave wall, bathing suit still twisted and goggles hanging on your head by a strand of hair.

“I’m not being a brat,” you scoff, gathering yourself and your bathing suit, with a slightly unsteady voice and shaky hands. “I—I was…poetically and sexually inclined, okay, that’s not even—”

“Baby,” Katsuki grunts, and levels you with a look.

“…Yes?”

“Shut the hell up before I fuck you right here.”

s.geto

Okay, how do I ask them?

cyberch!ck69

YOU’VE COME CRAWLING BACK I SEE

s.geto

Nvm.

After snorkeling is lunch. After lunch is a lei-making class. Katsuki tore half the carnations with hands that aren’t built to handle delicate things, and you spent the whole time being a tease. Eijirō just tries to focus on his lei, because if he focuses on anything else, his mind drifts to you, and suddenly, the flower in his palm is missing a few petals. After that, staying true to Katsuki’s itinerary, is a dinner and a luau.

“Eiji—come take a picture of me!”

They’re getting ready for dinner, and per usual, Katsuki is the last one ready. You’ve had enough time to find and pick a hibiscus flower to tuck behind your ear, matching the same shade as your strapless wrap dress. It’s not as tight as last night’s—thank God—but just as revealing, especially when you bend over like that, holy fuck—

“Sorry, had to fix my shoe.” You stand, brushing off the bottom of your dress in two firm strokes. “Ready?”

Eijirō has a vice grip on your phone as you walk towards the balcony. Don’t get hard, don’t get hard, don’t get hard—

Now, the sun is setting, fingers of orange and pink receding past the horizon. The sun is setting, but it’s still hot enough to give you that faint sheen, sweat or sparkle, as you lift a leg and pose. Your eyes glint in a way that’s nothing short of teasing—and while Eijirō assumes it’s for the camera, it damn sure feels like it’s for him.

You go through a few poses, all against the balcony railing. Eijirō’s knees hurt from trying to get the perfect angle, and when he hands back the phone, you smile. His mantra remains loud and true:

Don’t get hard, don’t get hard, don’t get hard—

“Wow, you take pictures so much better than Kats,” you amaze while scrolling through the images. Something akin to pride swells in his chest. Something also swells in his crotch.

Which is, like, totally not okay—drooling over the fact that he’s better than Katsuki at something. To you. When you’ve been the one dating Katsuki for the past two years, when it’s very clear you love him. But, Eijirō is stupid, and his brain is fried from severe blood loss over the past twenty-four hours.

“Thank you,” he smiles, and watches you swipe through pictures over your shoulder, pointing at one. “That one’s my favorite.”

It’s somewhat candid, of you in the middle of turning around to watch the sinking sun. The look on your face is nothing short of blissful—relaxed, at peace—and despite the looseness of the dress, your ass pokes out in something teasing, tantalizing, something—

Eijirō Kirishima needs to chill the fuck out. He knows this.

But, it’s hard. Hard when you drag your nails down his stomach in passing and say good job, hard when Katsuki grumbles at both of you to move it because they’re going to be late (like it’s not his fault), hard when he’s sat at a long table on the beach with strangers and dancers flanking both sides.

Eijirō is hard.

Fuck.

“Get your fuckin’ hand off my knee,” Katsuki grunts at you. You’re sitting between them, which is both the best and worst place to be—best, because Eijirō gets to be close to you. Worst, because Eijirō gets to be close to you.

And, he’s not the only one hanging by a thread—Katsuki has been pissy all day. He’s been mean and angry and a live wire just waiting for something flammable. (More than he already is.) And you, you’re starting to regret the grave you dug yourself, Eijirō thinks, because you wanted to fuck after snorkeling, wanting to fuck after lei making, but Katsuki keeps saying tonight.

“No,” you whine, and paw at Katsuki’s thigh in a way that you know will annoy him. “I wanna touch you.”

Your hand is also on Eijirō’s knee, but he’s not strong enough to move it. Just weak, and sitting in said weakness, feeling your drifting touch burn a hole in his skin. It’s a lot, honestly.

Katsuki grumbles, but doesn’t say much more, instead bouncing his other leg with an impatience that makes it seem like he doesn’t even want to be at the dinner in the first place.

Loud drums batter, accompanied by the patter of feet on sand and the swish of skirts. All of it falls into one noise, something steady and white, as your thumbs start rubbing circles on the inside of Eijirō’s knee. As it starts rubbing circles higher than Eijirō’s knee.

“What are you doing,” he asks. The food can’t come fast enough. The sun can’t fall fast enough.

“Nothing,” you say, in that tone that definitely means you're doing something. A lilt. Eijirō exhales sharp through his nose.

“Y/N…” he says warily and debates taking his leg away, knocking your hand off, anything. A stronger man might, but not Eijirō. Not today.

“What?” You pout in offense. Eijirō eyes the people next to him, then across, in hopes you get the message. You don’t.

Or, you do, but really don’t care.

“Baby, seriously.”

Eijirō looks at Katsuki’s lap to notice he’s not going through this alone. If anything, Katsuki has it worse, as you squeeze and pull at his thighs under his shorts, with no care for who might see or what they might say. There’s a sick sense of camaraderie that comes with the sight. At least he isn’t suffering alone.

“Oh, have I been banned from touching you guys, too?” You huff, a little bitter, a little like the thought is an impossibility. Where the hell is the food?

“At this point, yes,” Katsuki growls. He picks your hand off his lap and pins it to the table. The second he lets go, your hand falls back to where it belongs. His inner thigh.

Eijirō is tearing up the inside of his cheek. Soon, you’ve moved further up on his thigh too, drawing absentminded shapes that induce shivers. He whines.

“What if we…like…skip dinner.”

“We’re not skippin’ this shit, ‘m hungry,” Katsuki grumbles while crossing arms over his chest. Eijirō groans, but his stomach rumbles in agreement.

“Fuck.”

“So, I can keep touching y—”

“No.”

Both Katsuki and Eijirō take your hands and place them on the table. You giggle, but relent. The food doesn’t arrive too long after.

s.geto

Nvm.

cyberch!ck69

just TALK TO THEM

s.geto

Absolutely not.

s.geto

I need a five step plan, preferably one that doesn’t include me sitting them down and baring my soul.

cyberch!ck69

i give the fuck up

When they get back to the room, Katsuki slams you against the wall. Hard.

“Y’thought that shit was funny, huh,” he says in a low voice typically reserved for the bedroom—Eijirō knows, he’s heard it—and you bite back a smile and fail, wrists pinned to the wall above your head.

“A little, yeah,” you breathe, and Katsuki starts working his way down your neck. “You were the one who said ‘tonight.’”

“And you were the one who said no yesterday,” Katsuki huffs. He picks you up by your hips, tosses you onto the bed and, without a second thought, points and says, “Eijirō.”

Eijirō scrambles on top of you like there’s no tomorrow.

He presses you into the bed and kisses you heavy. Eijirō doesn’t even care about being polite at this point—he knows he’s allowed, you’re allowed, and takes what he needs because he can.

Your hands run up his sides to tangle in red hair, tugging, giggling when he whimpers, then tugging again. Everything fits so easy, like you were meant to be under him in the first place, made specifically to be slotted between his body and the bed.

So, maybe Eijirō’s treating you with all the impatience of an overzealous puppy, sue him.

Katsuki sits in the hotel’s standard cuck chair, slowly palming himself over fabric to relieve some pressure. Eijirō catches him out the corner of his eye, suppressing a grin when Katsuki lifts an eyebrow as if to say, what?

With a strong grip on your chin, Eijirō forcefully redirects your gaze to your boyfriend, the one impatiently writhing in the chair with a hand over his pants. Eijirō’s lips make their way down your neck, skating over a small hickey easily disguised as a bug bite that he knows wasn’t there last night—which makes him wonder what happened in those seven minutes you two disappeared during snorkeling.

(To say you came out of that grotto disheveled was an understatement.)

“God,” Eijirō breathes, mostly to himself, as his hand slides down and beneath your waist, arching your back just a little, just enough to be provocative. You get impatient when he doesn’t move fast enough, with lips still hovering by your collarbones and dress still on, and you yank his hair in admonishment.

“Hurry up,” you huff, and though it’s quiet, it rings in the vaguely silent room like a cry for help. Eijirō’s lips spread in a grin along your clavicle.

“What if I wanna take my time with you, though?” He pouts, and moves lower, but not by much. Just enough to give you false hope. His fingers play with the hem of your dress, lightly squeezing and tugging but never removing. Again, just enough to give you false hope.

You whimper, hips rolling into his stomach as you try to find some sort of friction. Eijirō tuts and pushes your knees down, one by one. He’s not gonna lie—a few more thrusts, and he might snap. With a deep inhale and exhale, determined to take his time because he doesn’t know when he’ll get this chance again, he starts moving down your body a little faster. A little.

He still has to get you back for teasing him all day.

When his hand finally dips under your dress, you sigh in satisfaction. Your arms wrap around his neck, nails scratching short hairs at his nape and sending light shivers down his spine. Eijirō’s eyes flutter shut as he mouths over a clothed breast, relishing the way your breath hitches underneath his lips.

“Respectfully, Shitty Hair, hurry the fuck up,” Katsuki grunts from the corner. Eijirō looks at him—there’s a flush running past the collar of his shirt, lips glossy with spit and chest heaving with impatience. Eijirō feels the balance of control shift, and grabs hold.

“Respectfully, Kat, I think I’m gonna take my time,” he smiles, and while the verb phrase I think gives room for argument, Eijirō hardens his voice until he’s sure Katsuki knows that isn’t the case. I think is a placation.

Katsuki snarls, but sinks deeper in his chair.

Eijirō unwraps your dress—unwraps his present, like it’s his birthday, his anniversary—and kisses down the valley of your chest. Both hands lift to cradle your breasts, shaking them on either side of his face and chuckling when you whimper. He thumbs over one nipple, obsessing over the way your body jolts, and takes another deep inhale like he can smell your arousal from here.

Eijirō takes your nipple into his mouth, next.

You choke out a moan, body strung tight from denying yourself the thing you want most, and your hips struggle to kick under the weight of Eijirō’s body, but they do try. He groans, hugging your waist to keep you from jolting, and sucks.

“Ah—fuck—”

You gasp when his teeth skirt your areola, light enough to soothe but tight enough to graze. Katsuki groans in his peripheral.

“Yeah? Feel good, Baby?” Katsuki pants past a clinch in his throat. You nod and whimper, eyes screwing shut, and he coos. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

You whine and tug at Eijirō’s head again. Not necessarily to instill pain, but to, “Move. Move, Eiji.”

Eijirō’s lips leave your breast with a pop, as he gazes at you with lidded eyes and a lazy smile. He’s exactly where he wants to be.

“Move where?”

You let out a strangled groan, something made of pure annoyance, as you try to push his head down. Eijirō doesn’t budge.

“You know where,” you huff, wiggling to work your knees out from under his body, to frame him and thrust up. ”My pussy, Eijirō—please, I swear to God—”

And, since you asked so nicely—

Eijirō keeps playing dumb, but runs a hand to cup between your legs. You're wet to the touch, through the panties, and he takes his third deep inhale of the night in an attempt to ground himself. It doesn’t work.

Eijirō is unwell.

He feels your pussy twitch under his palm, and he feels dizzy. The room spins, sways, does all the things a room is definitely not supposed to do—like the world kept spinning, but Eijirō stopped moving within it—and he drops his head to your shoulder in hopes it’ll stop. Holy shit, this is actually happening.

“Y’good there, Red?” Katsuki snorts, and honestly, Eijirō shakes his head.

He keeps playing with your pussy, though. A fucking war couldn’t stop that.

Eijirō sits up so his voice isn’t muted by your skin, so he doesn’t have to repeat himself twice. “I feel like I’m about to pass out.”

“Oh no,” your face turns from ecstasy into worry in a second, and your hands let go of his hair to cup the softer angles of his face. Eijirō melts into the hold. “Are you okay? Do you want to stop?”

He shakes his head, pinches your clit. Your body shudders. “No, no. I’m good.”

Eijirō takes another deep breath. His head still spins, but in a good way—a way he can lean into. So, he does, and rips your panties off in the process.

“My—hey!” You pout as Eijirō throws the useless cloth over his shoulders, forgetting about them the instant they leave his palm. He can’t look at your pussy yet, needing a breather and taking it, exhaling with his eyes closed.

“Someone’s impatient,” Katsuki grunts under his breath. Eijirō huffs a weak laugh. Opens his eyes. God, your pussy is pretty.

“You literally just told me to hurry up.”

“And?” Katsuki huffs. Eijirō hears the clink of a belt, the shifting of cloth. He looks up to see Katsuki working his jeans down to his thighs. 

“And nothing, Dude,” Eijirō smiles. Then, he touches you.

“Fuck,” he whines, melting on his knees as you whimper beneath him. It’s something simple—just running a finger through your folds, testing the waters—and you feel better than he ever imagined. On his fingers. He starts to get dizzy, again.

“She feels good, doesn’t she,” Katsuki groans, slightly more breathless than when he last spoke. Eijirō swallows, then nods.

“Yeah, I—” his breath shutters as his train of thought runs into a wall and smashes into a heap of metal. His thumb runs over your clit, lightly, seeing what makes you squirm and what doesn’t, but he’s half-busy reeling in the unbelievability of it all. You, the most unattainable woman he’s ever met, so far out of his league, his best friend’s girlfriend, is here, laid flat and naked in front of him because you want to. What the fuck. What the fuck. He bites back a moan as he watches your eyes flutter, hips slowly picking up their pace as you rock between his hand and the headboard. “How’re you feeling, Pretty?”

The pet name just kind of…slips right out. And, while he probably shouldn’t be calling his best friend’s girlfriend Pretty, he also probably shouldn’t be touching her like this. And Katsuki shouldn’t be sitting in the corner, touching his dick, like this is all perfectly normal.

Eijirō dips a finger inside you.

You flex and flutter around him, clenched, enough to make him wonder how he’s supposed to fit in the first place. It feels like you’ve cut off his circulation, but…to his head. Somehow, he’s getting no blood to his brain—maybe, because it’s all going to his dick—and Eijirō whimpers as he starts pumping a finger, only for you to grip tighter on his way out.

“Oh my God,” he drops his head, eyes fluttering closed as he realizes, “I’m not gonna survive this.”

“Chill out, Shitty Hair; you’ve only got one finger in her,” Katsuki snorts, enjoying the visual of Eijirō losing his mind when he hasn’t even done anything yet. “Just wait ‘til you make her scream.”

Yeah. Eijirō might need to speed things up a bit.

He inserts a second finger right next to the first, and groans. It’s tight. No wonder he could hear Katsuki’s moans through the walls.

Speaking of moans: you’ve been letting out quiet whimpers the whole time, body writhing and breath hitching all cute. But, Eijirō crooks his fingers, and then—fireworks.

Your eyes rocket open, round and wide, and your stomach flexes. You release a moan that’s punched straight from your gut, loud and wanton and exactly what Eijirō has heard through plaster. Your body squeezes and shudders as he focuses on opening you up instead of pleasure, because if he focuses on pleasure, he’ll—

“Rub her clit,” Katsuki huffs. Eijirō looks over to find him pumping himself with a slow and steady pace, dick exposed and looking just like Eijirō remembers from the shower. The urge to lick it remains strong. When he moves to pull his fingers away, Katsuki tuts. “At the same time, Dumbass. What, can’t multitask?”

Honestly, in this situation, Eijirō isn’t really sure.

He keeps his mouth shut, though—whatever embarrassing ramble that sat on his tongue is swallowed—and does as he’s told. The hand resting on your waist drops to your clit, and you squeal.

“There she goes,” Katsuki mutters, with all the predatory satisfaction of an animal at the top of its food chain. You splutter and kick a leg on reflex, and Eijirō sort of has to fight to keep his hands from slipping.

“Eiji,” you scramble for his shirt, holding on tight and keeping him close, “I need you to fuck me—like, yesterday.”

“Then you should’a had him fuck you yesterday,” Katsuki huffs, and Eijirō isn’t sure if he’d be a really good or really bad porn director in another life. Maybe both. “Put in a third finger.”

Eijirō does, and your eyes roll.

“Fuck,” you whimper, and your grip tightens. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Stop touchin’ her.”

Eijirō removes his fingers.

You groan, slamming a heel into the mattress in frustration, and glare at your boyfriend across the room. “Kats—I hate you.”

You’re too out of breath for your words to have any fire in them, so Katsuki just smiles, slow and languid as he rests a chin on his hand. “What’s wrong, Princess? About to cum?”

“You know I was,” you huff, glaring at the ceiling. And Eijirō is too busy looking at the flexing mess between your legs, because, holy shit, you were about to cum, like, all over his fingers—

Eijirō needs to see that. He needs to see that, like, now.

“That’s too damn bad,” Katsuki snorts, then his eyes cut to his roommate. “Keep touchin’ her.”

Eijirō does so, and with a renewed vigor.

He stuffs three fingers back in so quick you yelp in surprise, body curling into his as he works you open. The little sounds you make are heavenly, breathy and whiny and everything he’s dreamt of and more. Eijirō notices when you get close to the edge, this time—the way your eyes flutter, and you squeeze around him like you don’t want to let go.

“Stop.”

You whine again, and this time, Eijirō whines along with you. He wants to feel it, so, so bad.

After a few moments of panting, you lick your lips, “Kats, I—”

“Doesn’t feel too good, does it,” Katsuki grunts, but he’s still smiling just as wide as before. At least someone is having fun. Eijirō, meanwhile, is a hot mess, because all he wants is to feel what he’s heard (and seen) for ages. And, his dick hurts.

You groan, fists squeezing into cute little fists on your forehead. “Why do you have to be an ass?”

“Me?” Katsuki scoffs. “I’m just givin’ you a taste of your own medicine, Sweetheart. Eijirō, you can move.”

It takes you longer to reach the edge than the second time. Maybe, you’re holding back—or, maybe you know it won’t be allowed—but Eijirō’s arm is working overtime until it cramps. He’s sweating now, the shorter hairs sticking to his face in funny designs, but Eijirō Kirishima is nothing if a quitter. He feels it again—the tightness—and looks to Katsuki, who says nothing. Maybe, this time, he’ll let it slide. This time, Eijirō gets to see it, feel it, taste it—

“Stop.”

Eijirō groans louder than you do, and drops his head to your shoulder.

“Kat, let her cum,” Eijirō practically begs, eyebrows bowing and lips quivering against your neck. You feel it, and your breath hitches.

“What?” Katsuki acts like he can’t hear him, but Eijirō knows he does.

“Let her cum,” he huffs after lifting his head off your sticky shoulder, looking at Katsuki with the most pleading face—the most pathetic face—he can muster. “Please.”

Katsuki scoffs, eyes narrowing at Eijirō like there’s something to study. There’s not; the answer is obvious—he’s sitting in between the legs of a pretty girl, unable to give her what she wants, eyes wild and chest heaving like he’s had any friction at all.

“Why?”

“I wanna feel it,” Eijirō says, quick enough to be embarrassed about it later.

Katsuki clicks his tongue.

“Fine.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Eijrō sighs, hands officially moving with an end goal in sight. It would be cruel of Katsuki to deny both of you again, but Eijirō knows he’s not going to—the hand on his dick is moving faster, now. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

Eijirō wonders how many times he can make you cum. He wonders what you’ll look like after the first, second, third—how much your body might quiver, what you could sound like without a wall in place. All it does is fuel the fire in his belly, running straight into his muscles until his hand moves at a numbing pace. As your voice pitches, so does the pace of your breathing.

“Oh shit, I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

“Cum for us, Baby. Cum for Ei, make a mess all over his fuckin’ fingers.”

Eijirō doesn’t even blink.

He just watches as you unravel, starting at your edges and ending in your middle, as your body arches and hips flick. Your pussy squeezes around his fingers tighter than he thought was possible, and your face—God, your face—contorts in ecstasy because of what he did, his fingers. Eijirō can confirm that it's better up close. So much better.

He kisses you before you can come down, out of pure impulse and want. You moan into his mouth, hands lifting to quiver by his cheeks, an attempt to hold them, and it’s just so cute.

Eijirō’s fucked. Though he knew it before, he definitely knows now. He’s not going to be able to exist without this, anymore.

Note: Never make Katsuki mad, like, sexually.

Because, when Katsuki can’t cum, nobody’s fucking cumming.

“Kat, Dude, please, c’mon,” Eijirō wheezes into your neck, but he doesn’t really care whether Katsuki can hear him. Katsuki will do what Katsuki wants—it’s like whining to the weather.

Your pussy is squeezing the life out of his cock. You’re on your fourth orgasm, and Eijirō is on none, even though he didn’t do shit. This is a type of torture he’s woefully unfamiliar with, like he’s getting punished for being attracted to you in the first place. He didn’t do shit.

Katsuki has moved from the chair to the bed, cock still in hand. Eijirō can’t even be cheesy about it, can’t even look to the right and ask, need a hand, because he’s gripping the sheets for dear life, like they might take pity on him. But, sheets don’t bargain, and if they did, they’d write a contract for him to get the hell off.

Katsuki coos, both at Eijirō’s strung-up state and your fucked out one. You’ve got no fight left in you, instead uselessly whimpering and clawing at his back like he can save you. Spoiler alert: he cannot.

Katsuki thumbs at the high points of Eijirō’s cheeks, “Awh, y’want it that bad? You’re cryin’, Red.”

Eijirō sniffles. Yes, he knows he’s crying—despite the heat in his face, he can feel it.

“Yes,” Eijirō hisses between grit teeth, “I’m literally dying, please—”

Katsuki chuckles something dark, grabbing Eijirō by his cheeks and forcing him to look up—and suddenly, he's drowning in carmine eyes. Is Katsuki closer? It feels like he got closer.

“Hold out a little longer,” the blond says, in a voice softer than the bed you lay on, and Eijirō really isn’t sure what to make of it. He’s close enough that Eijirō can almost feel the tongue licking his lips, feel his breath as he says, “Y’gotta make her cum two more times, at least.”

At least? Eijirō’s going to die. Eijirō’s going to die from an arrhythmic heart and overexertion, and it’s going to be Katsuki’s fault.

(But, hey—he’s dying in Hawaii, with you below him, so how much can he really complain?)

Eijirō wheezes out a light and pathetic ‘ah’ in place of what was supposed to be a curse, but he really doesn't care anymore. Not when you blink up at him with watery eyes and palm at his chest, all weak like he did that.

“Eiji…” you whimper, exhausted and sweating into the bed. “Jus’ one more. Please.”

Eijirō’s hips stutter, but they don’t stop.

“Fuck,” he gasps, hands turning into fists in the sheets. He’s not allowed to touch you, not allowed to make this go faster—but God, does he want to. “Fucking fuck—this is so unfair.”

“She’s insatiable, ain’t she,” Katsuki says, letting go of Eijirō’s face to cradle yours, to thumb over your cheeks all soft while he plows into you with every fiber of your being. “’S one of my favorite things about her.”

You whine but don’t do much else, bottom lip sliding from behind your teeth to make room for the sound. As your pussy convulses around his cock, you gasp, soft fingers sharpening into nails to dig into the fat of his back and leave raised red lines in their wake. Eijirō’s going to look wrecked on the beach tomorrow, and that thought is just—

“One more,” he pants, hips dragging impossibly fast. “One more, right, Kat?”

Katsuki grunts with a nod. The hand on his cock starts moving with purpose, now. “One more.”

Eijirō wants to touch it.

He wants to touch Katsuki again so, so bad, but he can’t, not with his hands full with you—not when he can’t cum yet. The ball of arousal is already wound tight in his stomach; one wrong tug, and it will unravel.

“I can’t—” Eijirō wheezes, voice breaking as he falls forward, catching himself with a hand beside your head. The other hand is busy holding your hips up, because you can no longer do it for yourself. “I can’t—”

The room is filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, pants heavy and hot enough to fog a warm glass, predatory groans and whiny whimpers. Eijirō keeps making sounds he’d rather not, but he’s too far gone to even register them. Katsuki’s saying something—his mouth is moving—but all he hears is the rush behind his ears.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Eijiro whimpers, in slight disappointment, but it was inevitable. He feels that tingle in his fingers that lets him know to pull out, and—

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

Katsuki’s voice snarls into focus, grabbing Eijirō by his hair and tugging so hard his back bends.

“I can’t, I’m not gonna—”

“You can, and you will,” Katsuki says with a finality that leaves Eijirō no other choice. And he’ll be damned if he loses this opportunity—he wants to fuck you again, and again, and again, until you’re properly satiated and leaking out of every hole you have. Eijirō whines through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles, and another tear rolls down his cheek. Katsuki licks it up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t d—”

But then, you’re squeezing around him with shaky legs, and Eijirō’s shoulders sink in relief. One more second, and he would’ve—

“Oh, fuck!”

Eijirō cums so hard his vision blacks out—whether it's from closed eyes or pure blindness, he doesn’t know—and his hands scramble for something, anything to hold onto. One hand ends on your hip and the other on Katsuki’s thigh, digging bruises in his thumbprint as veins pop in his neck and he floods your system.

Eijirō pumps his hips a few more times, slow but sure. He’s sure he’s making noise—groans, whimpers, whines—but he can’t hear much except for the throb of his heart and Katsuki’s own orgasm, feeling something lukewarm splatter against the fingers still resting on his thigh. Eijirō breathes himself back into his body, through his nose and out his mouth, and finally, pulls out.

His dick jumps, and squirts twice like it’s got more in it. Eijirō can confidently confirm that it does not.

He collapses right on top of your body.

“Holy shit.”

“Holy shit is right,” you swallow, voice raspy and crackling on the edges. Katsuki collapses next to him.

“That was fuckin‘ good.”

You three blink at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath. Eventually, you squirm under the redhead, so he rolls onto your other side.

“I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow,” you decide aloud, shaking your head. Your eyes are still closed—and you’re still coming down, body twitching every few seconds in places Eijirō didn’t even know you could. “You two are carrying me everywhere.”

“That can be arranged,” Eijirō huffs, still out of breath. Weakly, he reaches across you and taps his roommate. “…When I can walk. So, Kat, you got that.”

Katsuki groans, somehow also exhausted, like he did any of the work. “Fuck you.”

“No,” Eijirō shakes his head, neck still weak and loose from being tense for so long. “You made us fuck for hours. ‘S your punishment.”

Katsuki grumbles under his breath but doesn’t outright lament. Eijirō gives you a slippery smile, and lifts a fist. You meet it with your own.

A few more seconds of catching breaths, of opening pores for cool air and listening to the steady rock of the ceiling fan, and then:

“Hey, Eiji. Wanna be our boyfriend?”

Katsuki shoots up. Suddenly, he has energy.

“We’re not fuckin’ askin’ him like that!”

You don’t really have the energy to argue, so you raise a placating hand and push it into his face.

“How’re we s’posed to ask ‘im, then?”

You slur your words, and Eijirō doesn’t blame you. Tomorrow, he’ll panic about the new information—probably cry a little—but it’s the middle of the night, and he’s already half asleep from exhaustion.

“Fuckin’ properly, the fuck do you mean?”

Katsuki seems really stressed about this, Eijirō thinks distantly. He should probably answer before he knocks out, slowly sinking into a post-orgasm haze he’s not necessarily trying to escape anytime soon.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Shut the fuck up, Shitty Hair—you’re not accepting it until we do it right. When we get back.”

Eijirō snorts weakly. “Okay.”

That night, everyone falls asleep with bone-deep satisfaction. The next morning, Eijirō does cry a little—but he promised Katsuki he won’t accept until you two do ask him properly, whatever that means. That doesn’t mean he’s not dying about it, a little.

This is going to take some getting used to.

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

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AITA taglist; @talia-scar123, @kalinaseli, @demon-writer2, @moonhalffull444, @amans-puer, @orcaorks, @kirishimaeijiromyman

Author's Note

This story is non-canon compliant, with the two main differences being;

1) Butcher doesn't have brain cancer, because I said so.

2) All of Gen V didn't take place, because I don't want to deal with the whole supe-plauge thing. Also that's too many characters to keep track of squad.

Because of this, the story will start in a similar setting as s4e5, but with different events leading up to it, and will deal with similar themes and have similar events to the rest of s4, but at an inconsistent rate. If you have any questions about other, smaller changes I have made, feel free to ask!

Navigation Key

❤️‍🔥 = Smut

🚩 = Additional Warnings

Chapter List

"Season 1"

Chapter 1 - Where Winning Looks Like Losing Chapter 2 - A New Kind of Tension Chapter 3 - You've Torn Your Dress 🚩 Chapter 4 - You Might Be The Same As Me Chapter 5 - Popped, Cool, and Ready to Go Chapter 6 - I've Been Searching for a Fortified Defense Chapter 7 - The Blinding Ultra-Violence 🚩 Chapter 8 - I Just Find My Way Back ❤️‍🔥🚩 Chapter 9 - Can't Cover It Up ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 10 - Lead Me To The Ark ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 11 - The Wolves or The Ocean Rocks Chapter 12 - While My Blood's Still Flowing Chapter 13 - The Terror of Knowing Chapter 14 - Choke on Sun Chapter 15 - I Found A Martyr ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 16 - Let It Flood ❤️‍🔥 🚩

"Season 2"

Chapter 17 - Make My Chest Stir Chapter 18 - Something In The Static ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 19 - Don't Look Back 🚩 Chapter 20 - Forget to Fall Down Chapter 21 - Some Things You Just Can't Speak About ❤️‍🔥 🚩 Chapter 22 - I Stayed In The Darkness With You Chapter 23 - Wherever You're Going ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 24 - You'll Never Be Alone ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 25 - All I Know ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 26 - I’ve Loved Everything About You That Hurts ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 27 - Just A Shot Away 🚩 Chapter 28 - Something That I'm Supposed to Be ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 29 - All My Bets On You Chapter 30 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh 🚩 Chapter 31 - I'd Do It All Again ❤️‍🔥

More Than You Could Ever Know - A No Love Lost Christmas Special

Part 1 - The Boys start Secret Santa, Ben pretends to do his job. ❤️‍🔥 Part 2 - Ben and Ryan go shopping, and you all try to find a tree. Part 3 - You and Ben have a Christmas Eve date. Many gifts are opened.

Bonus Footage (Standalone Chapters)

Dying’s Up to Me - A Prologue. Takes place 6ish months before Chapter 1. 🚩 They're Never Gonna Find You A Home - Request! Everyone adjusts to your life with the Boys. Takes place 5ish months before Chapter 1. 🚩 Back to Here - Request! They get horny at the dining table, and Butcher takes it personally. Takes place in Chapter 14. It's So Simple - You make Ben do icebreakers. He's a little bitch about it. Takes place in Chapter 14. Just Your Time - You give Ben internet lessons. Takes place in Chapter 14. As Much As I Do - Request! Ben finds you dancing, is immediately very normal about it. Takes place after Chapter 14 and around Chapter 15. Calling Your Name - Ben's first birthday awake isn't great. Takes place in Chapter 19. ❤️‍🔥 I Skip My Pride - You share some music with Ben over text. Takes place in Chapter 22. The Only Place That I Call Home - It's team game night, and everyone is sick of you and Ben's shit. Takes place in Chapter 24. ❤️‍🔥 Can't Help Myself - Request! Ben has a breeding kink, and you're incredibly horny, so it works. Takes place in around Chapter 24 and Chapter 25. ❤️‍🔥 Anywhere Else Is Hollow - A halloween special episode! Takes place in Chapter 25. It Was Smiling Down - A Ryan pov Chapter. Takes place between Chapter 26 and Chapter 27. A Call To Motion - Request! There's a lot of things you're good at. Sex with Ben is one of them. Takes places in Chapter 28.❤️‍🔥 I Want You Only - You and Ben go shopping. Takes place in Chapter 28 ❤️‍🔥 I’ll Hold Your Hand - Request! You get your period, and Ben has to do his job and take care of that. Takes place post series.

Found Footage (Post-Series Chapters)

Just Too Important - You and Ben head to Costco. Takes place about two months post-series. Dreams of Love - Request! You and Ben have to babysit. Takes place ten months post-series. Setting In A Honeymoon - You and Ben finally get a honeymoon. Takes place about a year post-series.❤️‍🔥 The Best Thing - Request! You, Ben, and Ryan get a cat. You Can Feel It - Ben has a birthday. Takes place on May 19th, post-series.❤️‍🔥 Never Saw the Sun - You and Ben have a baby!❤️‍🔥 Wilder and Lighter - Your daughter learns a new word, and you go to a baseball game. All I Need - Request! You're pregnant, and Ben has some misconceptions about said pregnancy❤️‍🔥 The Shave - Request! Ben Shaves his beard. Everlasting - Request! You and Ben's daughter has a birthday party

Clip Show (Drabbles and Headcanons)

Coming On - Request! Someone very foolish flirts with you in front of Ben. Takes place a while post-series. Compare and Contrast - Request! Ben gets introduced to modern vibrators. You pay the price.❤️‍🔥

Stuff By You Guys!!! (Art, Memes, and Anything more)

“And do you know where to look?”

Butcher scowled, and MM huffed in amusement, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that’s what I fuckin’ thought.” He tipped his head at the board. “I think I’m gonna get the pastrami- but-“ He flinched, as one of those pressed-suit blokes—the ones who seemed to think the time in their watch moved faster than everyone else—shoved past him. “You know what- I think I’ll wait outside, you got big hands, and-“

The husky started barking, spit flying and landing on the floor an inch from their shoes. MM’s jaw tightened. Butcher’s hand shot out, catching the bastard by the elbow before he could do a runner.

“Butcher-“

“You said you’d help me carry this shit. You’re stayin’.”

“This place is- Disgusting-“

“Chose a clean one next time, mate.” Butcher frowned at the board. They always wrote it in cursive. He could only read that shit because of Becca and her loopy, fancy writing, but Christ, it gave him a migraine.

“I didn’t choose it, you chose it-“

“Then I said, you comin’ with me, and you said sure-“

“I just wanted to get away from Hughie and the fucking- K-Pop shit, you know that-“

“Yeah,” Butcher sighed. Kid had been blasting that stuff all day. Butcher was starting to think he had a kink for getting shouted at. He squinted back at the board. “Think I’ll get the pastrami too. We can be meat twins-“

“Don’t-“ MM held up a hand. “Don’t say that shit.”

Butcher chuckled, and let go of MM’s arm. The husky had stopped barking. Day was already looking up.

“I’m surprised you care about this Meyers thing,” MM muttered after a moment, giving a tight nod to the large man who’d won the husky fight. Crowd control, by the looks of him. “When we still got that Anomaly shit running around.”

MM’s voice had dropped to  a whisper. Butcher rolled his eyes, and didn’t bother. “You didn’t see Homelander’s face when I mentioned it, MM. Pale as a fuckin’ ghost. Most beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on.”

MM gave him a flat look. “So what, one conversation with Homelander- Which you didn’t tell me you were fucking doing, by the way-“

“Ain’t that big a deal-“

“He’s giving you home visits, that’s a pretty big fucking deal-“

“Oh, piss off.” Butcher shrugged. “He wants to pop in and run around tryin’ to tug me off, that ain’t your problem. What we need to be thinkin’ about is what kinda fuckin’ bitch is out there that makes Homelander act like I shot his bleedin’ puppy, just by sayin’ her name?”

MM’s jaw worked, and Butcher knew. He didn’t have an answer. None of them did.

Homelander’s drop in really wasn’t the shit that mattered here. Butcher didn’t know why he did it—or maybe, in a tiny, cold and lonely part of his rib cage that rattled and echoed when it was poked, he did—but he wasn’t jerking MM off with how the cunt had reacted to your name. Butcher hadn’t thought it was anything. He’d thought Starlight was wasting everyone’s time with her clean leads and feeling circles.

They’d found a photo of you. Kimiko had poked around social media and shoved her phone under Butcher’s nose with a smug grin. So they’d found your Instagram, big whoop. Didn’t tell them anything they hadn’t already know. Just some gorgeous brat with a wide, lippy smile and sharp features. Complexion of a girl who’d never left the house, and fancy looking outfits. Frenchie thought you might be rich. Butcher knew the smile of a liar.

And it was brilliant. They could fill out your drivers license application, real fucking useful. Butcher had glared at the photo when MM printed it out and pinned it to the corkboard. He didn’t care about your smile and statue-like features. They weren’t making a fucking mood board for pretty college kids.

But then Homelander had stumbled. His eyes had gone wide and the blood had drained from his face. His voice had cracked. That evil, Lovecraftian monster in a blond asshole’s body didn’t get voice cracks. Not when Butcher had tried to blow him up, not when Ryan had lasered his Nazi girl, not even when Soldier Boy had a hand on his throat and a bomb charging up in his chest.Whoever you’d been, you mattered. And anything that mattered to Homelander needed to be put down with the dog himself.

“Like the wives of Pharaohs,” Frenchie said, when they got back to the office and handed out sandwiches. “Buried with their husbands.”

“Exactly, mate.” Butcher grinned, snapping his fingers. “Just like that. We find this lassie, we get a peep into Homelander’s fucked up little melon, we get a leg up.”

“A- A  leg up?” Hughie frowned at him, his sandwich still wrapped in foil and getting squished under his tight hands, K-Pop still blaring out of his headphones. “How does- I mean, Vicki said she was just like- A girl. I don’t think finding a girl is going to give us what we need over Homelander, over- Over Vought.”

“Ain’t just a girl. She’s Homelander’s girl.” Butcher nodded to Hughie’s sandwich. “Eat that up, son. Was twenty fuckin’ bucks, and I’m not made of money-“

“You didn’t pay, motherfucker,” MM grunted, and Butcher shot him a wink.

“I paid in my company. Worth diamonds.”

“Worth something,” he muttered under his breath, and Butcher laughed.

Starlight raised her hand, and any joy in Butcher’s sunken, withered chest faded.

“This ain’t primary school. You got somethin’ to tell me, speak.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the woman never missed and opportunity to talk. “I’m not a dog, Butcher-“

“You think I don’t know that? A bitch would be well-behaved, you’re the one who’s got Hughie on a fuckin’ leash-“

“Butcher.” Hughie gave him one of those sad, pouty, don’t make my girlfriend leave me looks, and Butcher rolled his eyes. He loved the kid. Smarter than he looked, bigger bullocks then he acted like he was sporting, horrible taste in woman. A supe wasn’t no woman at all. That was a beast. Basically a crime against nature. But Butcher shut his mouth, just to avoid the sad eyes, and Starlight cleared her prissy, self-righteous throat.

“I don’t know how sure we should be that this woman is going to be with Homelander. I mean,” she looked nervously around the room. “From what Neuman said, she really sounded like- I don’t know, some kind of victim.”

All of them fell real quiet. Frenchie’s foot tapped, Kimiko’s swallowed her mouthful of sandwich, and Hughie’s tinfoil wrapper crinkled again. MM grabbed Hughie’s iPod, bubblegum cheery music floating through the iron tension of the room, and turned it off with a glare that made Hughie wince. If he thought it would work, Butcher would’ve smacked them all upside the head and told them to fucking focus.

“She ain’t a victim.”

“I do not know,” Frenchie muttered. “What Neuman said, Butcher, the look in her eyes. It was the look of a woman who watched a ship go under the ocean from the raft.”

“Guilty,” Hughie muttered, staring at his hands. “She- She looked guilty. I mean- Even more guilty than-“

“When she murdered all those fuckin’ people? On live TV?” Butcher scoffed, and it was starting to bleed into his voice. The rage, that always twisted and simmered under his skin.

He’d been trying, after the Soldier Boy mess, to not put it out on the idiots like a cigarette. They’d told him he’d be out if he didn’t. But sometimes they acted like real stupid, mindless fucking lumps of sheep. Sometimes they needed something to get them up and moving again, and Butcher couldn’t stop every bit of blinding fury from boiling over.

“I don’t give on bleedin’ fuck what keeps Victoria Neuman up at night. All we know, she’s feelin’ sad she didn’t get the jump into Homelander’s tights first.”

Hughie’s mouth fell open. “Butcher-“

“No,” Butcher pointed a finger at all of them gathered fucking idiots, waiting for him to lead them when the got themselves lost. “We find this girl, I decide for myself what she is. If she’s Starlight’s perfect little victim, we clean her up and get her doin’ what we need. She anything else, we handle it. Like we always fuckin’ handle it.” He glared around the room. “Don’t we always fucking handle it?!”

They all exchanged looks. Butcher let them. They’d just needed to be reminded, exactly what kind of shit was on the line.

“There is this conspiracy theorist,” Frenchie murmured, watching everyone carefully. “I follow her Podcast on the Spotify-“

“You follow at fuckin’ podcast?” MM said in surprise, and Frenchie shrugged.

“I get bored. It is interesting.” He looked to Butcher. “She has her ear to Vought’s ugly ground. It is not exactly… Our taste. But-“

“We’ll make it our taste,” Butcher grunted, nodding tightly. “Good work, Frenchie. Let’s get her.”

Frenchie nodded. They all nodded, and Butcher smiled to himself, finally unwrapping his sandwich. The pastrami was fine. Better the longer he chewed. Tasted like victory.

He really didn’t give pig flying fuck who you were. But Homelander had. Maybe you would know something. Maybe you wouldn’t, and they’d just be hurting Homelander. He’d keep looking for the Anomaly where he could. Two things were possible at the same time, and Becca had always said he was juggler. Anything that hurt Homelander like he’d hurt Becca—like he’d hurt Butcher—was worth keeping in the air. So Butcher was going to find it, and use it. Whether the Boys liked it, or not.

“This historical figure chose a new patron deity, that led to his capital being moved and the rise of a new era, in the Roman Empire.”

“Who is Constantine,” Sage muttered, peering at the white rat in the cage. “Easy money, Peanut. They’re slacking tonight.”

“Henry,” Ken Jennings said on the TV, nodding at the dopey faced, floppy haired contestant in the lead. “What’ve you got for me?”

“Who is Alexander the Great?” Henry said, like an idiot.

Sage rolled her eyes, and pressed the green button next to the feeder. Peanut’s buzzer lit up. He rolled over, and started to gag on the air. Sage smiled, hand flying over the notebook as she watched his little chest convulse. She didn’t get hand cramps anymore. She’d trained them out of herself. It wasn’t that hard to mentally block pain receptors, if you knew what you were doing, and she did.

Peanut would be able to soon as well. If he could get his shit together. It had taken a week to find a rat smart enough to do this on, and Sage had even had to cure him of rabies. She hadn’t put in that much work, just for him to keel over and die like the rest of them.

Jeopardy kept playing, as she watched Peanut. He was getting there. His feet were twitching slower, but his little chest was going. If he could activate the pain receptors, he could block them. If he could block them, Sage would be right—which she always was—that animals had control over their bodies like that. If they had control over their bodies, she could start the V experiments. She looked at the chem set, over near the window. It was crooked and wobbling, the liquid in the vials bubbling over, but it wouldn’t fall over. She’d set it up perfectly, and this shot should work.

If it worked, Peanut would be a resilient little supe rat, and her theory about V would be confirmed. Then she could take her precious, perfect supe rat, and start working on the manifestation experiments. Manifestation. Stupid fucking word. No one understood what it really meant.

Sage did.

Henry got another question wrong, and it was like an ice pick being driven behind her eye. She turned up the music, eraser tapping against paper as she waited for Peanut. He’d stopped twitching. Still breathing. That pattern meant he was at a stable heartrate, perked ears meant he wasn’t in pain anymore. Playing dead. Hoping Sage would give up.

Smart rat. She’d known she’d chosen well.

She grabbed her syringe, and took a microdose of the V from it’s beaker. Peanut squeaked when she injecting him, and she snorted.

“This ain’t the part that hurts, buddy. Perk up. Get’s way fucking worse.”

Peanut wiggled, then went totally limp. That was normal. Meant the V was doing something. Sage didn’t need to stick around to watch it. The last animal she’d used—Mochi, a pidgeon—had tentacles burst out of her chest, and it had been disgusting. Fascinating, but disgusting. She wasn’t interested in watching it again.

She dropped on her cluttered couch and tipped her head back. The music washed over her thoughts, not loud enough to drown anything out, but calming. Her fingers stopped twitching, and her ankles relaxed. Mozart always did that. Complex chord progressions that were easier to track than some boring pop song on the radio, or that mixtape the boy at the bar tried to give her. She didn’t know why men kept bothering to approach her. She wasn’t interested, and they’d give up very quickly when they realized what she was. Men were easily intimidated, and stupidly persistent. She would’ve smashed the mixtape in the boy’s face, if she wasn’t testing her pheromones. If they were working, the boy would be at home right now, going almost feral on his cock to the thought of her.

If it worked, she could zombify the population. She wouldn’t. It would be too easy, and boring, and mildy annoying to try and go out for Chinese just to have everyone who saw her try to hump her leg.

She still wanted to know if it would work. She’d got it wrong last time, but that was part of the fun. She got it right after. She never lost, even against things like the laws of nature. And if she won all the time, well.

Nothing would be interesting.

There was a knock on the door. Sage ignored it. She hadn’t ordered anything, and no one ever came looking for her.

Then there was another knock. She opened her eyes. The shadow under the door wasn’t shifting, but it’s owner wasn’t calling for anyone. Sage tilted her head, and cut the music.

A third knock.

Huh.

She crossed the room on silent feet, and stood on her toes to look in the peephole. Her hand slipped on the knob, and her eyes widened. She had to squint to be sure, because it made no sense.

Homelander, in a baseball cap and jeans. Looking up and down the hall. Worried someone would see him here.

That was a good sign. Meant he was here for something other than her life. She’d watched his every interview. Followed the trial, seen the footage of the Starlighter’s death from every angle. Murder wasn’t something this man cared about doing.

Looking for Sage, for better or worse, was.

She opened the door slowly, and his head whipped. They stared at each other. Sage knew better than to speak first.

“Sister Sage?” He said, and she put on a tight, mock nervous smile.

“Just Sage.”

“Just Sage?”

She took a deep breath, and a gamble. “Sister Sage was a marketing choice from Vought that I did not consent to. That’s not what I am.”

Homelander’s jaw twitched. “A sister?”

“A product,” she said, and there it was. The appreciative gleam in his eye, that he got whenever a host said something right.

“No,” he muttered. “We’re not. I’m not. And you-“ He looked her up and down, and she swallowed.

She was in sweats stained with chipotle and a New York Knicks shirt was a beer stain near the collar. Presentation was for people who had a show to put on. She’d anticipated a day of rats and Ken Jennings for company.

But Homelander didn’t seem to disapprove. Not enough to hurt her. His mouth ticked, and he hummed something low and tight, but she was still alive. Which meant he really needed her, enough to forgive discretions.

He stepped past her without asking. She hadn’t expected him to. He almost certainly believed that his presence was enough of a blessing to get him anywhere he wanted.

“Jeopardy?” He nodded to the television, and Sage grabbed the remote quickly, switching it off. Homelander raised his brows. She shrugged casually.

“I get bored.”

“Hm,” he surveyed her apartment, hands tucked  behind his back. Just like on TV. “I’d imagine that you couldn’t get bored. With your power.”

“You’d imagine wrong, sir.”

Homelander’s eye locked back to hers. Sage pushed her shoulders back and kept her breathing steady. Sharks that didn’t smell fear and blood didn’t attack.

“Show me,” he said.

“Show you?”

“Show me.” Homelander nodded, facing her fully. Taking up more space than he should, with just a tip of his chin upwards. Interesting trick. “You’re supposed to be so fucking smart-“

“I am fucking smart.” Sage said, and Homelander started back slightly.

No fear.

“Smart enough,” she spoke slowly, refusing to get smaller. He’d respect that. “To know that, when someone like you tells someone like to prove something, I’m better off being quiet.” She paused, then added, “Sir.”

Homelander didn’t flinch. He stood a little taller. “Someone… Like me?”

“Someone powerful,” Sage said smoothly. “Someone who wouldn’t be here if he didn’t already know he wanted me.”

Another gamble. But Sage didn’t place bets she wouldn’t win.

Homelander’s jaw ticked. He huffed, looking off to the side. “I do now want you-“

“Not like that.” She cut him off, and his nostrils flared.

He was looking at her again. She wouldn’t balk.

“What do you want me to fix?”

Homelander blinked. His rolled his neck slightly, forearms flexing. He watched her, waiting for her to fail. She wouldn’t. She didn’t.

“Do you know who William Butcher is?”

Sage nodded. “Of course. He and his team.”

Homelander’s face went taut, but his eyes crinkled. Good. “They are- They have been- Annoying me. For quite some time.” He gave Sage another once over, tongue flicking over his lips. “Now they’re- Saying things. Things that tell me they’ve been poking around through Vought. Through things that they should not be able to- To even know about.” His jaw clenched. He let out a long, half-controlled exhale. “Fix it.”

“Fix it as in hide the files, or-“

“Whatever you have to do,” he said. “Fix it by killing them, by- By hiding everything- I don’t fucking care. Fix this, and make it so that they don’t bother me again.” He paused. A cold, toothy smile crept over his face. “Make it so no one bothers me again. And I’ll reward you.”

Sage almost laughed. “With all due respect, I’m not interested in rewards-“

“You’d be on the Seven. You’d be paid in gold.” Homelander took a step forward, his gaze flicking over to Peanut in his cage. His little body, still totally limp.

His smile grew. It was almost enchanting—the same way that the swollen face of a dead man was enchanting—how his teeth seemed to grow into his eyes. Sage wanted to pick them out and study them. Pull out his brain and see exactly what chemical balance created this kind of man.

“These people,” he told her. “They’re rats. You know that. They’re- They’re fucking rats, and if you stick with me,” he leaned down. “You can have all the rats you want.”

Homelander stuck out a hand. Behind her, Sage heard a squeak. Peanut was up, trotting around on unsteady legs. His paw hit his food bowl, and the metal cracked. Homelander blinked, recoiling slightly, and Sage smiled.

She took his hand, and shook it tight. Homelander looked back to her, then they’re hands, and let out a sharp breath. There it was again. That fascinating smile.

“Welcome to the Seven, Sage.”

Her smiled widened until her face ached. This was going to be fun.

MM was worried about everyone. He was always worried about everyone. He was worried more than usual.

Everything was a mess. A mess so large he couldn’t keep track of every single thread. It was like paint splattered on the ground, about fifty different colors bleeding into and overlapping each other. He cleaned up one part just to find another had leaked further. The puddles got larger. His hands were covered in all kinds of fucking shades he was starting to lose track.

He counted the things he could control. Hand sanitizer, before they went into this dirty, dive bar shack of  a building. Off the I-90 next to a gas station, there were going to be all kinds of things gathered on the door handle alone. He could stick his hands to the wood only. He could stick to the back of the group, where he could see Butcher and Frenchie’s hands. If they reached for weapons this would go south. If this went south, there were exits he could stand near.

The now was the easiest to control. The only thing to control. That didn’t stop the race of his thoughts, trampling over each other to figure out everything that could go wrong. With this podcaster, the ideas were infinite. With everything else—white noise in the background of the trial and  Homelander and Vought and the CIA and Soldier Boy and the Anomaly—they were bigger than the universe, and everything outside of it.

“No picking stupid fucking fights,” he’d told Butcher before they left. “We’re here for information, not blood.”

 Butcher had rolled his eyes. “I ain’t a kiddie refusing to play nice on the swings, mate-“

“Butcher,” MM had said, giving him a firm, exhausted look. “Please.”

He’d gotten a long sigh and grumbled agreement. He’d fought the urge to tell Butcher that—with the way he acted some days—he was a kid refusing to play nice on the swings. But that was an inside the head thought. It belonged with the urge to just punch the motherfucker in the face somedays, or tell Hughie and Annie that he loved them, but if they didn’t shut the fuck up about talking it out, they were getting thrown out the window.

MM believed in the power of talking it out. He’d fixed some big fights, getting kids to talk it out. But those were kids. Smart kids in the wrong spot. Bigger heads than shoes and cocky smiles that had a lot of hurt behind them. Easier to reason with, than the grown ass idiots in front of him.

Hughie tried to put on that fucking K-Pop shit he and Frenchie had been playing all month. Annie groaned, and swiped his phone out of his hand to turn it off.

“Annie-“

“Not now,” she’d muttered, and Hughie had given up. The rest of the drive was silent, just as MM liked it.

Silence was easier to predict. Right up until it wasn’t. And he wanted to hold onto that quiet for as long as he could.

It wasn’t hard to get the guy manning the desk to talk to them. A flash of a mocked up Vought badge and a lie about being fans from the network—as if anyone knew what the fuck that meant—had him scrambling out of his seat to grab her. Annie and Hughie shuffled off to the vending machine outside. Kimiko sat cross legged on the desk, taking a lollipop from the candy bowl and peering at the old computer on the desk. Frenchie leaned over her, and the started talking about whatever those two weridos talked about—MM had never been sure—as Butcher stood off to the side, whistling with his hands in his pockets.

“Yankee doodle Dandie?” MM raised his brows, and Butcher winked. “Patriotic.”

“I’m gettin’ in the spirit for crazy.”

MM chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. Butcher’s lips twitched, gaze fixed firmly on the door where this Firecracker woman would be coming out of. MM examined him in the silence. He was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, being nice. He hadn’t called Annie a bitch since they got in the van. He let Hughie put on Billy Joel without whining about how The Smiths were better.

It was frightening.

“Butcher.”

“MM,”  Butcher said flatly, and MM sighed, fixing his gaze on a flickering light over the desk. Dying, not broken. Nothing to fix it. Just waiting to go out.

“What happens when this girl isn’t Homelander’s side-chick,” he muttered. “I mean- It’s really sounding to me like she might just be fucking dead.”

Butcher grunted. “She ain’t dead.”

“How-“

“He plays with his food.”

A bad taste stung in MM’s throat. His jaw tightened to fight it down, and Lord, he wished he didn’t know what that meant at all.

“If that’s it,” he said, watching Butcher in his periphery. “Then she’s gonna be real messed up, man. Just some fucking kid who won’t be able to do anything-“

“She’ll do something,” Butcher shrugged him off, and MM scowled.

“What part of just a kid aren’t you getting-“

“The part where you think she’s gonna be a kid,” Butcher hissed, eyes snapping to MM, a venom lining his voice. “If she was ever that sweet little fairy princess you lot think she was, that ain’t what she’s gonna be now. We’ll be doin’ her a favor.”

MM took a deep breath through his nose. “And what if she’s what you think?”

“Then we take care of it, don’t we.” Butcher clapped MM on the shoulder, and MM planted his feet hard on the ground. “Just like we always fuckin’ do.”

MM swallowed, but before he could find an answer, the door cracked open. Game time meant Butcher wasn’t much more than a shell playing the game. Sometimes, it meant none of them were.

Firecracker was exactly what he’d pictured, when Frenchie played a clip of her podcast. Pale and red and blue, sweet-faced with the kind of sagging eyes only hateful people had. Guns in her belt—if they were lucky, props—and dog tags MM didn’t think she’d earned. Her smile was winning, but her nose twitched as she took them in. Butcher in his trench coat and half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt, Frenchie’s big fucking overalls, Kimiko’s sparking knuckle rings she’d refused to leave at the damn office. MM cleared his throat and stuck out his hand. He loved these assholes. They shouldn’t be trusted with first impressions.

“Firecracker, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” he dipped his head. “We’re big, big fans.”

“Oh, well,” she laughed airily, her smile getting wide and blindingly white. Like she’d never taken a bite of real food in her life. “Anything for fans, right? You guys are what keeps me goin’!”

MM laughed, ignoring Frenchie’s half-disgusted stare. Firecracker shook his hand—strong grip, almost too strong—and cleared her throat.

“So, Mikey says your from Vought? And you’re here for me?”

“That’s right. I mean, we aren’t floor 99 Vought,” he laughed again. This time, Kimiko made the face in the background. “But one day, am I right? If we keep up the good work at VNN.”

Firecracker hummed, smug and eager. When their hands pulled apart, she wiped hers on her shorts. MM didn’t let that taste of bile show on his face.

“We got a few questions, ‘bout all those things you say you’ve uncovered. Think it might be able to help us, in our piece-“

“Where’s your camera?” Firecracker cut him off, smile wavering slightly. “If you’re doin’ a piece on me, I want them to see my face. I mean- I don’t do all this for nothin’.”

She laughed, and MM swallowed. The fucking camera, how could he have forgotten the camera-

“The camera is hidden, madame,” Frenchie said smoothly, giving Firecracker a lazy smile. “We like our piece smooth. Natural. The big, ugly machine- It would just be a distraction, no?”

Firecracker cleared her throat, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Right. ‘Course. I- I love your ‘lil accent. What is it, Greek? Italian?”

Butcher snorted. Frenchie’s smile went taut, but he only shrugged. “Italian. That is correct.”

Firecracker huffed. “’Course it is. I know my Europeans. I mean, they ain’t Americans- Bunch of socialists- But- You know what I mean, don’t you.”

She smiled at Butcher, who got that dangerous glint in his eyes. MM coughed loudly. Couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m sure we do, ma’am,” he said, giving Firecracker a meaningful look. “But we’re on a bit of a schedule, so- If you don’t mind…”

“Oh, right.” She threw Frenchie a bright, toothy smile. “Let’s go.”

MM pretended to check questions on his phone, and turned on the recording app. He said your name slowly, watching for the smallest twitch in Firecracker’s face. “Or the Anomaly, do those names mean-“

“They didn’t have Snickers,” Annie announced, shoving the door open when a pile of snacks in her arms. “But- Kimiko, Hughie said you’d like skittles too, so I got that-“ Her eyes locked onto Firecracker’s. She stumbled a half step, and Frenchie’s arm shot out to brace her fall. She gave him a thankful smile, then looked back to Firecracker.

Who’d gone quiet. Narrowed eyed and ridged. A knot tightened in MM’s stomach. How the fuck hadn’t he thought to tell her to stay in the van.

“Sorry. I- I think I’m interrupting.” Annie dumped the snacks on the desk with a nervous smile. “I- Um- I’ll go wait outside-“

“Starlight,” Firecracker hissed, and the air in the room got heavy. Wired and fraught. “The fuck are you doin’ here. With them.”

She took a sharp breath, and maybe she’d just only fucking got it. If only that density made her less dangerous, instead of blunt and frightening. He took a side-step to the desk. Behind him, Butcher did the same.

“You- You people ain’t Vought,” she sneered, pulling out a gun—not a prop—from her belt. “You’re- You’re fuckin’ Starlighter’s, you’re her inner circle, you chose her over your own people-“

“What people?” Frenchie laughed. “I do not have people-“

“Of course you don’t, you fucking socialist-“

“I am an anarchist-“

“Frenchie,” MM hissed. “That ain’t the fuckin’ point right now.”

“It is a very important distinction- Mmph-“

Kimiko—bless her to hell and fucking back—covered Frenchie’s mouth with her hand and started to pull him to the exit. MM whipped around as Firecracker raised her gun, ready to tackle Butcher down and drag him by the ear. But the motherfucker was gone, leaving Annie’s wide eyes right in the line of fire.

“Fuckin’-“ MM cut himself off with a groan, and tackled Firecracker with his full body. She almost shrieked when the gun was knocked from her hand, and the world turned into a blur.

Dull, throbbing pain spread through MM’s body. His head spun, and in the blur of his vision, there was floating debris. Light flashed, burning his eyes. Firecracker shrieked again, and it split through his skull.

“Shit- Come on-“

Small arms wrapped under his shoulders, dragging him away from the wall. Cold air hit his face, pulling a groan from his throat.

Annie dragged him, quickly and with about fifty apologies. MM found his head pressed against the wall of the van as Butcher pulled out of the lot, the doors still wide open as Annie jumped in. Through the window, Firecracker was groping at the landline on the desk. MM frowned, and Hughie pulled the doors shut with a grunt.

“What- What the hell happened-“

“Lady ain’t a Starlight fan,” Butcher drawled from the front. “But- Looky here.”

MM squinted up at the wheel. At Butcher hand, waving a laptop in the air. Firecracker’s laptop.  

He closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the van. He’d gotten pummeled for a fucking laptop. But he’d be fine. He’d taken worse. He just had to keep taking it until they finished this. But he wasn’t putting out fires just for them to not address the goddamn oil and gasoline factory. Butcher better be right. This shit, it better all fucking work.

They were seated in the Tower. Exactly where they were supposed to be. Exactly as Homelander had told them to be. All four of them.

Four.

Three empty fucking seats. The one that had replaced Starlight’s—he’d crushed it pieces, then had it burned—and Maeve’s, which he’d refused to have changed. She might’ve betrayed him, but she’d been strong. And she’d loved him, even if she’d forgotten. That deserved to linger, in a building full of lying fucking vultures.

Then there was the spot that had been empty since Stormfront. He’d destroyed that one as well. She’d betrayed him worse than Maeve. She’d made promises, then left him. She’d fucking left him, after all he’d done for her, after all those lies about forever and family. Ryan would sit in that chair one day. He didn’t need to remember that she had only wanted one thing from them both. 

Stormfront had loved his power. His blond hair and pretty face. Everyone fucking loved his pretty face. She’d abandoned him when he needed her. She’d been a mother, but not a fucking good one. Homelander and Ryan, they needed a real mother. Softer. Caring. Who’d love them if they rotted ugly and old. Not that they would. But she should still know what was expected of her. Pliable. Soft in the exact places Homelander told her to be.

You had been like that. You’d been all misty light and sweetness like Stillwell, but you’d molded when he pressed on your throat. Batting, deep eyes that were easy to get lost in when he needed them, and glossy when he wanted to be looked at like a god. Your god.

Sage didn’t look at him like he was a god. She looked at Homelander like he could bleed. And he could, but only for other gods. And the people at this table weren’t fucking gods. They were men he’d blessed. Men who owed him everything. Who cowered and apologized like whining, sniveling babies. Real gods faced him, like Maeve had. Like Soldier Boy had. Like even fucking Butcher. Homelander’s lip curled.

Ungrateful. Ungrateful fucking idiots.

He clapped  his hands together, and they all feel silent. Ashley fumbled with her tablet. A-Train spun in his chair, the Deep fumbled with his pen, and Noir stood a little taller. Homelander peered at him. He seemed different. More alert, and less alert. And he- he’d sworn-

He cleared his throat. It didn’t matter. His smile was clean. Everything about this was clean, and were—as they always had—going to win.

“Gentlemen,” he said, sweeping a hand behind him. “Meet Sister Sage.”

Sage stepped out from behind the wall. He’d insisted she hide there for the effect, but she didn’t seem to appreciate it. She gave him a stern, quiet look, and he sighed.

“Sage,” he muttered, then raised his voice. “Just Sage. But- Sister Sage for you, Ashley, alright?” He winked at Sage. “Gotta keep the demographic.”

Sage nodded, eyes slowly scanning over the room. The rest of them sat up, Ashley smoothing her hair and the Deep flexing like the idiot he was. Homelander smirked, clasping his hands behind his back. Clean.

“We’re not much right now, but- Ashley, show her all those names you were showing me- The-“ He snapped his fingers. “The candidates, show her the candidates.”

“Right of- Of course.” Ashley fumbled with her tablet, spinning around to the wall. “Up first we have, um- Dark Angel- Which, we could use more women-“

“Nah. No more chicks.” The Deep leaned back in his chair, smirking at Sage. “One’s enough, isn’t it. Right, A-Train?” He nudged A-Train, who made the appropriate face of horror. “We can share.”

Homelander opened his mouth, then closed it, watching Sage. She’d tipped her head. The Deep was starting to shrink back, under the pressure of that coal-like stare. Even Homelander had felt like he was about to be stripped for parts or turned into diamond. Of course, he was already diamond, and Sage wouldn’t be able to strip him for parts. But the feeling alone, still impressive.

“The last time you welcomed a chick onto this team,” she said. “It almost ended your career, didn’t it.”

The Deep paled. A tense chuckle left his throat. “Yeah, well- It’s- Homelander, he wanted me around, right bro? I’m cynical. I’m like- Hella cynical.”

Ashley sighed, trying to hide her face behind her tablet.

“Critical,” A-Train muttered under his breath. “You mean fucking critical.”

“Right. Thanks, man. I mean that.”

Homelander considered crushing the Deep’s skull right there, between his hands, but Sage just smiled.

“I’ll see about that.”

She told Ashley to send her the candidates. She gave the Deep and Noir something to do that didn’t sound like it mattered, but at least Homelander didn’t have to fucking deal with the Deep’s million questions. He sat in his chair and spun it back and forth, grinning around the room. This was amazing. God, he’d missed that about Stillwell. The things happening without him having to worry about them. Sage was on his string, but the puppet had her own life. All he had to do was pull, and she’d be back at his side.

The woman was supposed to be so fucking smart, maybe she could work on getting Ryan not to hole up in his room all day, worrying about school. She’d been doing some weird shit to that rat. He’d heard—from the file he’d stolen from Ashley—that she’d cure cancer. Perhaps she could cure other things too, like death-

“Where’s your son?” Sage said, and Homelander realized the room had been emptied.

He shrugged, resting his chin on between his fingers. “Off in his room. Being silent and angry.”

“Why?”

“I won’t tell him more about his mother.” Homelander rolled his eyes. “I mean, there wasn’t much to tell. She was such a boring fucking woman. A good time? Sure. Feisty. But- God, she kept puzzles in their house. Fucking puzzles.”

“I’m fond of puzzles,” Sage hummed, sitting down in the seat that had been Stormfront’s.

That should’ve been yours.

“That’s because you’re boring,” Homelander sniffed, and Sage laughed.

Quiet. Controlled, but real. Homelander sat up a little. The last person that laughed like that—with him, not at him—had been you. And Sage’s laugh was nowhere near as magical, and she was nowhere near as beautiful, but- It was something. Something.

“Homelander,” Sage said, leaning forward so her elbows braced on her knees. “I need to you be honest with me.”

“I have been honest with you-“

“No,” Sage cut him off. His jaw tightened. “No,” she said again, her voice gentler. “I trust that you have been honest with me, but I need you to keep being honest with me. That’s the only way this works.”

Homelander leaned forwards. His eyes narrowed. “You think I-“

“I don’t think anything,” Sage shrugged. “I’m just telling you now. At the start of our-“ she gestured between them. “Working together. I will never judge. I will bury whatever body you give me. But you have to tell me the truth. I simply cannot help you, if you lie to me.”

“I would never lie,” Homelander spat, fingers curling on the arms of his chair.

Sage nodded. Her face didn’t shift. There was nothing on it to read.

Homelander liked that trick less.

“Alright,” Sage said. “What’s in those files.”

Homelander blinked. He leaned back, and let out a sharp, casual breath. “Nothing.”

“There’s something. Something you don’t want them to find-“

“It’s not-“ He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s not about what’s in the files. Nothing’s in the files. It’s- It’s about the principle. And- if they can get in those files- that-“ He waved a hand through the air. “That means I have a mole. Someone who’s leaking Vought files, and I- I want them dead.”

He really was good. Sage blinked, nodded slowly, and moved to her feet. “Fine. Would you prefer them alive, or on a pike?”

Homelander’s lips twitched. “Whatever’s cleaner.”

Sage laughed. And there it was again. The good laugh.

“I think we’re going to work very well together,” he told her, and she paused.

He’d learn how to read that expression. Those pressurized eyes were already working on him worse than before. Sage might be a god. She had no way to make him bleed.

“This is the start,” he said, smiling wide. “Of a beautiful partnership.”

Sage’s lips twitch. She bowed her head in respect, eyes gleaming.

“Yes, sir. I’m sure it is.”

Firecracker didn’t use a password. She’d used an encrypted software that made Butcher almost smash the laptop in frustration, stopping only because Hughie managed to scramble in front of him at catch the brunt of the blow.

“Just- Let me look at it, okay?” He’d held the laptop, his fingers over Butcher’s. “We can destroy it after we try more than- You know. Just yelling at it.”

Butcher had narrowed his eyes, then let go of the laptop with a dramatic bow.

“Be my fuckin’ guest, mate, but there ain’t nothin’ you’re gonna be able to do-“

“Got it.”

It had been encrypted, but it had been more malware than anything else. Probably some company she’d had sponsor the program that was selling everyone’s data. Bad for them. Easy for Hughie to poke a few holes in, and make the whole thing come down.

And usually, Hughie liked being the tech guy. He got to sit at the desk and—ideally—stay out of the line of fire. That was the principle of it. In practice, he might get covered in guts and shot at twice a month. But at least he got cool toys. He used to get cool toys. He might, one day, when Vicki realized that helping Vought wasn’t the right thing, get cool toys again.

Right now, with a shred of a paycheck, the trial on in the background, and a cluttered laptop of bullshit in front of him, being the tech guy was exhausting. Everyone was hanging over him, and one of them—probably Frenchie—reeked of something stronger than weed. It was going to give him a migraine, but Hughie didn’t say anything. Staying away from each other’s throats right now was important, especially with MM still a little dazed.

Just a concussion, Frenchie had said.

It better be. Hughie loved Annie, but she wasn’t as good at keeping the peace with them as she was with crowds of people. Which was fair. They’d been called the most unfortunately consequential program in the government. Hughie had spent most of last year trying to explain to Grace Mallory and Vicki that HR training might actually just make everyone worse.

He did not miss being in charge. He was half in charge right now, and he’d really like it to stop. Amy was talking about her bathroom on the TV. She wanted to install a bidet, and Hughie wanted to hear about it. Then he could hear about how the Deep’s testimony had gone last week, because it had probably been bad, and they could really use some good news.

But he had to do this. And this wasn’t looking like good news.

“There are a lot of emails,” he mumbled, scrolling through Firecracker’s inbox. “Most of them are from protein brands, and fitness brands, and- Wow, a lot of gun brands-“

“Don’t give a flyin’ fuck ‘bout that, Hughie,” Butcher grunted, leering over the desk. His hands were braced on the back of Hughie’s chair, keeping it from spinning nervously.

MM had said, before he took his nap on the couch, that Hughie was in charge. Hughie might not want to be, but he also didn’t really feel in charge. He typed Vought into the email search bar, and cleared his throat while he waited for it to load. Butcher patted his shoulder.

“Good lad.”

Hughie didn’t really feel like that, either.

“Wow, she’s sent them…” Annie leaned around him, peering at the screen. “So many emails.”

“With no responses,” Hughie muttered, scrolling down the page. “Some of them are directly to Homelander, Madeline Stillwell, Maeve, and-“ His mouth lingered over one address Starlight owes me an interview.

He glanced at Annie. Her face was pinched in confusion, and he trusted her with everything, but still. He had to be fair.

“Are you sure you’d never heard of her?”

Annie shook her head, lips pressed in a tight line. “We never actually got access to that public email, it- It was like a front. Someone ten floors down would filter through the mail and decide what I saw, and-“

“Firecracker was not worthy of being seen,” Frenchie muttered, and Annie sighed.

“I- I guess not.”

Hughie squeezed her knee, and looked back to the laptop. The emails didn’t have much confidential or helpful information, expect for insights into Firecracker’s personal life. Butcher wanted him to open an email to Homelander titled Please Be My Lord, but that seemed like it would make him vomit, so he didn’t.

There were bookmarks on the upper bar, and Hughie started to move through those. The first handful were a bunch of sponsors websites—they could get Supertien, the protein designed to make you as strong as a supe, for 20% off!—then the Seven’s personal websites, then forums.

So very many forums.

Forums for talking about speculation around supes like they were the Kardashians, where everyone thought Maeve had gotten pregnant by a trans woman and faked her death to avoid the backlash. A-Train and Starlight had been secretly dating. Homelander had been in love with Starlight and she’d turned him down for Maeve, and that’s why they’d both gotten kicked off the Seven.

“That what happened, Starlight-“

“Shut the fuck up, Butcher.”

Butcher laughed, and Hughie quickly left that page. He gave Annie an apologetic look, and she just sighed, shrugging it off. He was glad Butcher wasn’t affecting her that much. It still couldn’t be that easy to deal with.

Kimiko reached over Hughie’s arm, pointed at the screen, then started gesturing at Frenchie. Hughie gave him a confused look, and he sighed, squinting at the screen.

“Vought-blacklight,” he read, glancing back to Kimiko. “She would like you to click on that one.”

Hughie did, and thank God for Kimiko.

This. This was what they’d been looking for.

The whole forum was filled with conspiracies. About Vought, in Vought’s favor, against Vought, it didn’t matter. It was more than speculation about relationships, and it was clearly more than a game to these people. One poster was sure Maeve had survived the fight at Vought Tower, because they’d never shown the world her body. They’d shown the world Super Sonic. They’d shown Stormfront. There always had to be a body, so Maeve, and Soldier Boy, and Translucent, they must all be alive. Hughie was impressed. Two out of three wasn’t bad.

A lot of these people were nutjobs. The Starlight’s a human trafficker theories were popular, but so were the Homelander started the supervillain crisis theories, so at least there was diversity. Everyone slowly started to drift off, as Hughie combed through post after post for anything. He didn’t care anymore. Something pointing to you, to the Anomaly, to even an idea about how to kill Homelander without nuking all of New York. They were desperate. And desperate called for crazy.

After about three hours, Annie squeezed his hand, and he looked up from the laptop with bleary eyes.

“I’m taking Frenchie and Kimiko to City Hall, to look for more photos or- Or records or something.”

“Of-“

Annie said your name, and Hughie swallowed.

“Oh- Okay.” He glanced over his shoulder. MM was still out on the couch, and Butcher was on his phone at his desk. “Can you bring me back some coffee?”

Annie nodded, dropped a small kiss to his lips, and waved for Kimiko and Frenchie to go. The elevator door dinged behind them, and Hughie was left alone, with Butcher, a conspiracy forum, and his thoughts. Never a very good place to be.

Hughie tried to put on some K-Pop. He and Frenchie had been getting into it, to pass the time finding new things to care about, when the rest of their lives was made of venom and mold. Butcher gave him a dangerous look. He turned it off.

After another thirty minutes, he found something that might be semi-credible about a bioweapon against supes. There were photos that made him want to vomit, but they could also just be chicken pox, and telling Butcher about a weapon that would wipe out all supes felt like a recipe for disaster. Hughie took a picture of the web address, then closed the tab. There would be better answers.

This was getting mind numbing. He’d been scrolling for hours and hours, and all the words were staring to blur together. Stormfront and Liberty had been the same person, but that was public knowledge now. Stormfront was not Homelander’s mother, but the thought did make Hughie gag and close his eyes for ten minutes. Soldier Boy was being hidden by the government, but he wasn’t working with them. After last time, Hughie sort of dreaded the idea of that man waking up. At least Homelander was on Vought’s leash. Soldier Boy had been the kind of dog that ripped off his collar, then attacked the person who put it on him. Hughie hadn’t been that person, but he’d been that person—Butcher—adjacent. And Soldier Boy hadn’t really been big on technicalities.

There was no controlling him. Hughie prayed, every night with a hopeless look at Annie’s bible, that he stayed asleep forever.

His head was really starting to hurt. This might’ve been a waste of time, of gas, of MM’s health. And if it wasn’t, he didn’t feel like he was going to find anything today. This was just video after photo after theory after photo after video. The one on his screen right now was grainy and black and white and static. Highway cam footage, dated back about mid-April. Back when Soldier Boy had been running around. When they’d been running around trying to track him down, maybe a little after they’d found him. There was another location stamp.

Eddy, New York.

Hughie frowned. Where that was, he hadn’t heard of it. Google Maps said it was upstate New York, but upstate. Where it was more grass and farmland than people. He looked closer at the footage. It was of a gas station, cars pulling in and out, nothing special.

Then the camera flickered. Hughie leaned back with wide eyes, as the footage cut in and out and in and out and-

It stabilized, but the screen was almost white. For a second, Hughie thought it had just fried, but that wouldn’t make a very interesting conspiracy. He leaned forward, trying to find something hidden on the screen, then almost toppled out of his chair in shock.

It hadn’t been a white screen. It had been a camera flare. And when it cleared and refocused, there was a woman in the center of the screen. She was naked to the bone, her hair floating slightly in the air, her eyes white and her body on fire. Hughie couldn’t look away. Someone must have set this woman on fire, some supe, and he was about to watch this woman crumble to the ground screaming.  

But she didn’t.

She glanced at the camera, and it flared again, the screen so white it almost blinded Hughie. Butcher looked up from his phone with a tight frown.

“What’re you lookin’ at-“

“Fire,” Hughie said, scrambling back to the keyboard. The woman had vanished, but there was no body. Not even a pile of ash. “Woman- There was a woman on fire-“

He scrubbed back, and Butcher shot out of his chair. They both stared at the screen, when Hughie found the right moment.

And the woman was on fire. But she wasn’t in pain or melting. Even in the low quality footage, she looked shockingly put together. Hands curled into fists and skin smooth. Her features looked sharp. Her were pure, white light. A supe. A young one. Hughie glanced at you on the corkboard. Most features were hard to make out in the fire and grain, but the nose, the lips, the jaw.

Fuck.

Hughie sent the link to Annie. A knot was tight in his stomach, and it only got tighter when he looked at Butcher. At his smirk and gleaming eyes.

Neither of them had to say it. This was something. Something that Hughie didn’t really want to know. Something he wasn’t going to have a choice about, because he really wasn’t—and probably had never been—in charge.

“Butcher-“

“Fuckin’ supe.” Butcher breathed, and Hughie swallowed.

You were.

He wished, so bad, that he knew what that was going to mean.

There were still small advantages, to being Annie January. Homelander and Vought supporters threw soda cans at her on the subway, but City Hall workers smiled and said right this way, ma’am. Frenchie didn’t have to use the flamethrower. Behind her, Annie didn’t miss their exchanged look of surprise. They’d probably never done this kind of thing the legal way. Annie was happy to show them how easy it could be.

Easy, and boring.

City hall was filled with record after record, file after file. Less of it was digitized than it should’ve been. Annie looked up your name in the database, but only found the vague location of your file. Which meant they had to go through box after box by hand. It was awkward. Quiet. Kimiko started sitting on the floor after about and hour on her phone. Annie almost snapped at her to get up and help some more, but she bit back the words. She wasn’t the leader. The Boys, as she understood it, were more of a team than the Seven had ever been. According to Hughie, they voted on things.

Annie hadn’t been a part of these votes yet, but she liked to believe they existed. Butcher probably wouldn’t let her cast one if they did. Or she didn’t deserve to cast one. She hadn’t really done anything for them yet. She was just a  new weight, in a world of them falling from the sky.

She’d find this file. She’d do something besides just having a name that got them through a door. She’d be helpful.

Her phone buzzed, Hughie’s name popping up on the screen. Some link to a video. A video of a girl that- That looked like-

“Frenchie?”

She waved him over, and he squinted at the video for a moment before whistling your name.

“That looks- It is her, no?”

“Yeah- Which,” Annie swallowed. “If she was a supe-“

“Butcher’s theory.” Frenchie let out a slow breath. “More likely.”

 Annie nodded. She really hoped that wasn’t the case.

There couldn’t be too many people with your name in the world, but there were a lot of people in New York. Annie sorted through file after file after file, until her fingers were stinging and getting stuck curled. One name, then another, then another, over and over and over until-

There.

Annie’s hands scrambled. “Got it!” She called. “I- I got it!”

Frenchie and Kimiko moved to her side, and she flipped the file open. There was no birth certificate, or marriage certificate. Just a drivers license, a lease, a death certificate, and a grave location. Annie sighed, bowing her head. Nothing. This- This was nothing, and now Butcher was going to smear it all over her face.

“Nothing about her being a supe,” Frenchie muttered. “Or the Homelander.”

Annie nodded, the paper wrinkling under her fingers. Kimiko reached over her shoulder, examining the death certificate. She tapped it, and gave Annie a meaningful look. Annie cleared her throat.

“Neuman said she messed with these. Who knows what else she messed with.”

Kimiko shook her head, then tapped the paper again. She looked to Frenchie, who sighed and peered at the line himself.

“Mon Coeur, it is just the location of the grave.”

Kimiko nodded, and started to gesture. Annie watched silently. She really wished she could understand what they were saying, as Frenchie gestured back. Instead, she just to wait.

Frenchie eventually sighed, shaking his head. “She wants to visit the grave. She- She says that maybe,” he murmured your name. “Maybe she is like her. But- Mon Coeur, if she is a supe with Homelander-“

Kimiko reached over the file and covered Frenchie’s mouth. She shook her head, pulled back again, and waved her hand in something that seemed strict and tight.

“She thinks maybe she did not mean to be,” Frenchie said slowly. “That she could’ve been made later.”

Annie nodded slowly. The paper wrinkled again. “Why her grave, then? If she’s not dead there really won’t be much to see-“

“It is a where she would go,” Frenchie’s voice got low. Heavy. “And if she was loved, then- Maybe family. That we can speak to.”

If she was loved.

Annie looked at the photo again. At the sharp eyes of a dead girl, staring right through to her soul. In the video they’d been white. In the video she’d been burning and ragged and still seemed beautiful. She seemed like the kind of person that would’ve been loved. Annie wondered, if she was the one on the page and you were standing in city hall, if you’d think the same.

Ashley wasn’t sure if she could have panic attacks anymore. She might just be living in one, long, permanent one. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t pulled at her hair or ground her teeth. Her phone was glued to her hand, and she looked around every room like the walls might attack her.

She wished that was just paranoia, like her therapist had said. But Ashley had explained that, at her job, that wasn’t an unrealistic fear. Her therapist had suggested she find a new career. She’d stopped going to therapy.

And she was fine. Everything was fine. All of this—the trial, and the second Noir, and Homelander bringing in Sage without mentioning it to her—it was all fine. Sage looked at Ashley like she was imagining how she’d looked with her head carved open, but she was probably reading into it. She’d already basically taken over Ashley’s job, but that was fine too. Less work. More time for Ashley to take to herself. That was important. Self care, according to the internet, was very important.

Ashley’s just consisted of squatting in the woman’s bathroom with a paper bag and her wig clenched in her hand. Breathing. Normally.

This was all under control. Everything was under control.

Sage didn’t know about all the things she’d done. She couldn’t know. She might figure it out. Her power was being smart, so she could work it out, then she’d tell Homelander and Homelander would kill Ashley and fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-

Ashley spun around and dry heaved into the toilet bowl. Everything had already come up. She was starting to feel faint, and it was only noon.

Five more hours, then she could go home. Unless she had to stay late. She almost always had to stay late. She hadn’t been on a date in three years. With how the trial was going, she’d cancelled her last visit to Tek Knight’s club. She was getting horny, and stressed, and being stressed just made her hornier, and god, what was fucking wrong with her.

She vomited again. Now she was going to have to fix her lipstick.

Ashley slipped out of the bathroom, glancing up and down the hallway. Coast was clear. She took a deep breath, slipped down to one of the quiet storage halls, and waited for him. This was where they’d said they’d meet, after the meeting. He’d asked her what was wrong with her. She’d told him to meet here, and he wasn’t as stupid as the Deep, so-

There was a whoosh to her left, and Ashley didn’t waste time. She whipped around and grabbed A-Train’s arm, dragged him into the supply closet, and locked the door.

“Ashley, what the fuck-“

“Shh,” she hissed, glaring at the ceiling. “He can hear, you know he can fucking hear-“

“Who can hear-“

“Him.”

She stared at A-Train meaningfully, and he swallowed. There was only one him. Only one man that rendered A-Train just as mortal as Ashley was. A-Train looked at the ceiling, and Ashley tossed her hair out of her face. She could do this. She had to do this.

“What the hell is going on with you?” A-Train asked. “First you’re all weird in the meeting, then you do this-“

“I let Maeve go.”

A-Train froze. He opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “What?”

“I let Maeve go,” Ashley hissed. “I let her live, she’s alive, and out there, and- Butcher’s team took her.”

“Oh- Okay-“ A-Train ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Why the fuck are you telling me that-“

“Because I saw them last week,” she hissed. “At the courthouse, William Butcher and his- His little team of weirdos, they were in the bathroom and they fucking kidnapped me-“

“They kidnapped you-“

“Well- They grabbed me. Then the little mute one let me go, but- That’s not the point.” Ashley took a deep breath, fixing A-Train with a glare. “What is the Anomaly.”

“The- The what?” A-Train gaped at her. “I don’t fucking know-“

“You have to know!” Ashley snapped. “That’s a supe name, it’s so obviously a supe name-“

“So? I’m not the one who’s job it is to manage the fucking supes-“

“Well I don’t fucking know either! And  if it’s something I wasn’t allowed to know-“

“Then you should leave it.” A-Train snapped, taking a step towards the door. “Just fucking leave it, or- Have you told Homelander?”

Ashley swallowed, and shook her head.

She knew she should’ve. She’d been planning to, when he walked in that morning. But he’d had Sage with him, and she’d gotten too sick to speak. Her head was swimming too fast, even now, to form a real thought.

“I don’t trust Sage,” she babbled out. “I don’t- And I know you don’t either.” She pointed a firm finger at A-Train, eyes narrowing. “You and I, we’re the only ones left from the start- the only ones with brains, and Sage- She’s here to- To do something.”

“Of course she’s here to do something, Ashley, that’s what we all do-“

“No! No.” Ashley took a deep breath, waving her hand between them. “We do nothing. You know we do nothing. All of this is fucking nothing, but she’s going to make it something, and we’re not supposed to be anything.”

“Ashley,” A-Train said slowly. “Fuck, take a deep breath-“

“You take a deep breath!” She shrieked. “Because- What- What if Maeve told them about this- This Anomaly thing-“

“Maybe it’s not a thing-“

“It’s always a fucking thing,” she spat. “There’s always a thing that- That makes us a thing, and I don’t want to be a thing-“

“Ashley-“

“Fuck- What if this is it. What if Maeve told them about something to kill Homelander, and- And she kills him-“

“Ashley-“

“And he takes us with him, like- Like we’re cats in Egypt-“

“You are hairless like one,” A-Train muttered, and Ashley shot him a glare.

“Fuck you, I’m trying to tell you something important-“

“And I don’t want to fucking hear it, you psycho!” A-Train took a large step forward. Ashley took one back. She always did.

A-Train sighed, looked her up and down, and ran a hand over his face.

“Stop telling me this shit, now,” he hissed. “Just- Just shut up, okay? Shut up.”

“But-“

“Shut up.”

Ashley swallowed, and nodded. A-Train let out a slow breath, and looked back to the ceiling.

“Keep your head down,” he muttered. “Just- Pretend they never found you and keep your head down.” He gave Ashley a tight look. “Worked for me.”

There was another woosh, and he was gone. Ashley trembled, alone in the back of the closet. She had to vomit again. This time she missed the trash can altogether, and it splattered over her shiny, leather boots. She sighed, and wiped her mouth. Keep your head down. Bad advice, a little too fucking late. If this ship went down, she was tied to it like an old timey cartoon.

What if Maeve gave them a bomb. They’d barely survived Soldier Boy.

It was always better not to know. To forget. God, Ashley wished her brain would just allow her to forget, but it didn’t. It never had. It just looped over and over and over everything, until it was the end of the world or under control.

She had this all under control. She just had to figure out what the fuck this Anomaly thing was—discreetly, with her head down—and she was going to have it all under control.

You were buried in West Boston, near some rundown train tracks and a river. Butcher had thought the trip would be a waste of time. Vought had another witness taking the stand today. They didn’t have time to waste looking at gravestones, when they could be chasing the actual ghost.

“Where the fuck do you want to start then, huh?” MM had snapped, and Butcher had scowled. Even the bastard himself hadn’t been able to come up with a good answer.

 A grave wasn’t much, but Kimiko was right. Maybe they’d run into family or some shit. Maybe you’d left something behind, to help them track you down. This was all they had now. Risks were worth taking, when their hand was down enough that it was lose, fold, or gamble.

MM wished he could bring himself to fold. His back hurt. He hadn’t broken anything against Firecracker, but he had a dull, throbbing headache that wasn’t going away, no matter how much he iced it. He wanted to go home. Wanted to get on his knees and beg Monique to just let him fucking come home, because this mess was mixing all over his legs and hands, and the anger was starting to fester. He scrubbed and worked but he couldn’t get anything off permanently. He tried to walk away, but there was another mess, and he had to fucking clean it.

Hughie was playing his fucking K-Pop again. MM exchanged a look with Butcher, then a nod. He reached over and ripped the earbud out of Hughie’s ear, right as Butcher grabbed that damn phone.

“Hey- What the hell guys-“

“If I hear another fuckin’ note,” Butcher sneered, holding up the phone like a hostage. “Of this bubblegum shit, I’m shootin’ myself, then MM, then you.”

Hughie sighed, and slumped into the seat. They were parked at the edge of the graveyard, while Kimiko and Frenchie did a sweep for anyone dangerous or on fire. Annie was on her phone, watching the trial. Hughie leaned against her shoulder, eyes lidded and shoulders sagging. Butcher was fiddling with his rocket launcher. MM sighed.

“You’re not bringing that thing.”

“The fuck I’m not-“

“We don’t know if she’s hostile-“

“Exactly,” Butcher smirked at him. “So when she is, I’ll take care of it.”

MM scowled. “She might not even be here, man-“

“Then you got nothin’ to worry about, do you?”

Butcher went back to adjusting his rocket. MM gave up. That wasn’t a battle he was going to win.

The van door slid open, and Frenchie was pale. Shit.

“What-“

“She is here,” he breathed. “We- We saw her. By her grave.”

Butcher sat up. “She on fire?”

“No. Just- Just standing.” Frenchie rubbed his jaw, frown deepening. “It was creepy.”

A silence settled over the van. One of the ones where it was hard to breathe. Where MM could almost see everyone’s thoughts, simmering through the air.

“No rocket launcher,” he said to Butcher, who rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Fuckin’ party pooper, is what you are.”

MM ignored him, and slid out of the van. No one asked him to lead this. They didn’t have to. For a second it looked like Annie might volunteer, but Hughie placed a hand on her arm, and she nodded tightly. MM was the one with a kid. He was the balanced one. The one who actually knew how to use his fucking words.

He didn’t want to do this. But it was what he was for. He was going to make things better.

But walking across the graveyard—the rest of them hidden behind a crypt—MM had this massive pit in his stomach that stretched with every step. The woman at the grave wasn’t creepy. You were haunting.

Something about you seemed molten, under moonlight. Your hair didn’t look like it had been tended to his a while, blowing in the wind behind you. You’d be a painting of a ghost, if MM didn’t get too close and see that you were wearing an I <3 NY pants and Knicks hoodie.

No shoes. No fire.

Just a silent, statue of a woman, staring at a grave.

Beloved daughter and sister.

Let me climb my way up.

MM titled his head at the grave. Then looked at you. You hadn’t noticed him, walking up to your side in the dark. He cleared his throat, and kept his voice low.

“You knew her?”

You jumped, head whipping to MM so fast your neck should’ve cracked. And he felt a chill, over that same pit. Over his very bones.

You didn’t look like that picture, back on the corkboard. All the features are the same, but those sharp eyes darker and daggered, like a blade made or coal.

“Sorry?” You said, and MM swallowed. Your voice was small, almost musical, but fragile. Like a bird who hadn’t sung in years.

He said your name carefully, nodding to the grave. “You knew her?”

You nodded. Your face didn’t shift for a second. “Yeah. Not well though.” You gave him a sideways look. “You?”

“Never met her,” MM shrugged. “But- You know. I’m a true crime fan. Heard about her disappearance. Thought I’d look into whatever the fuck happened to her.”

You hummed. You radiated heat. MM could feel a bead of sweat, forming near his brow.

“I thought she killed herself,” you murmured, looking back to the grave. “Not much true crime in that.” 

“Please.” MM waved you off. “Nobody ever found a body, and that’s the first fucking rule of death. You always need to see the body.”

You blinked. “She jumped off a bridge-“

“Or something else happened.” MM stared at you, trying to read if this was working, or if he should be breaking into a sprint and shouting for Butcher to get the rocket launcher. “Something more- Well.” He shrugged. “True crime.”

You stared at him. MM cleared his throat. You weren’t armed or stronger than him, it shouldn’t feel that fucking scary.  

“You knew her,” he said. “She seem like the type to kill herself?”

“Yeah, actually,” you shrugged. “She did.”

MM frowned. “Really?”

“She wasn’t exactly a happy person,” you muttered, staring back at your grave.

MM took a deep breath. That pit ached, but it wasn’t worry about this ghost of a girl anymore. It felt like it was wrong for him to be here. Wrong to think that he was about to call for Butcher to shoot you, when you just seemed fucking tired like the rest of them. Tired and composed and empty.

“Tragic shit.” He extended his hand, and you gave him a strange look.

You liked to just stare. It was really fucking off-putting, but shit, if it didn’t work. MM cleared his throat, and flexed his fingers.

“Marvin Milk. You?” 

You stared at him more. Your brow knit slightly, and your fingers tapped on your sweatpants. Your eyes darted to the grave, and you didn’t take MM’s hand.

“I’m nobody,” you crossed your arms, glancing over your shoulder. “And I actually have somewhere to be-“

“Fuckin hell,” Butcher’s voice cut over yours, loud and harsh. “That’s ‘bout it, ain’t it.” 

MM froze. His eyes went wide, and he spun around to shout at Butcher to stand down, before he did something fucking stupid. But Butcher hadn’t fucking listened. The motherfucker never listened, and he’d brought the goddamn rocket launcher.

The blast lit up the air. MM barely had the time to dive out of the way before the missile hit you square in the chest, launching you back through your own grave. When he rubbed his eyes and started to hear again, the sun seemed to have hurried up on rising. He twisted with his hands in fists, ready to rip Butcher into pieces that would make real good sponges, but none of them were looking at him.

They were staring at the ruined grave with open mouths. The rocket launcher was slumping off Butcher’s shoulder, before his eyes narrowed and he hauled it back up.

MM hadn’t been up that long. It wasn’t the sun that was lighting up the night.

It was you. Staring at them with wide shock, burning and burning and burning with not a single scratch on your body. Your clothing was gone again, and your eyes were wildfire. MM took a step back, and looked to Butcher. Finger on the trigger, ready to poke the already awoken bear.

MM ran and dove over him, knocking the rocket launcher to the ground. Butcher roared and shoved him off, grabbing his gun and rushing out into the open yard. Frenchie and Kimiko ran after him, and Hughie’s phone got knocked out of his hand, filling the open air with K-pop as Annie dragged him back for better cover. MM groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

Another fucking mess.  

MM had been ready for a fight. They’d even hauled buckets of ice up the hill, just in case they had to put you out manually. They all had their guns. They’d had a fucking plan.

What they hadn’t been ready for, was you making them Benny fucking Hill around a graveyard.

MM, Butcher, and Frenchie emptied their clips at you, but the bullets just got incinerated in your flame. Kimiko tried to get in front of you, but rather than attacking, you darted out of the way and kept running. The heat rose, waving in the air, and Kimiko tripped back to get away from a stray tendril of flame, falling down the hill. Frenchie got in your path and you started in the other direction. Annie got too close with light in her palms, and the fire flared angrily, but only enough to get rid of Annie’s eyebrows and make her shout in pain.

It was the middle of October, and the graveyard felt like a damn desert. None of them could get close enough to get you down. They were barely able to keep you in the fucking graveyard. MM was starting to think they should just let you fucking run, regroup, and pray you’d listen after Butcher’s stupid fucking stunt.

Butcher didn’t seem to have the same worry. He’d tossed aside his gun for his crowbar and a bucket of ice water, a smile of hateful glee twisted over his face. You were still scrambling away from them, head whipping back and forth like a wild, almost rabid animal.

Butcher slipped in behind you. Hughie ran forward, but MM caught his arm. Nothing they could do, if the asshole decided to burn himself up.

They watched, as he tossed the ice water over your head. The fire went out. You stared at your hands, the steam rising off your fingers and wet hair, then looked at Butcher.

Butcher smirked. “Pleasure to meet you, love-“

You punched him in the face.

“Oh, shit.” MM winced, covering his hand with his mouth.

Butcher stumbled back his beard singed and jaw red. His eyes narrowed on you, but you were already running backwards. You looked at the rest of them, frozen on the top of the hill, and took off towards the river.

Kimiko launched herself over the graves like a panther, and tackled you to the ground.

“Kimiko!” Frenchie shouted, sprinting down the hill, and MM braced himself to see her being thrown over the fence and into the river.

But you weren’t moving. You seemed to be twisting and struggling, but not throwing any punches.

“She ain’t strong,” Butcher muttered next to him, still rubbing his jaw. “Good to know.”

MM gave Butcher a flat, exhausted look, and walked down the hill. Frenchie was worrying over Kimiko from a safe distance as you kept burning. MM flinched at the sight. Kimiko’s flesh melting off then regrowing, every single second.

“Mon Coeur,” Frenchie begged. “You are burning-“

“Unless you got a better plan to keep the human fuckin wildfire down,” Butcher said, walking up behind MM. “She’s gonna be sittin’ on her until she calms her bleedin’ tits.” 

And just like that, your fire went out. You didn’t move, or fight, or run. Frenchie scrambled forward, pulling Kimiko up and off your body. You just lay, face down in the dirt, eyes fluttering and jaw slack. If it wasn’t for the ragged rise and fall of your chest, MM would worry you were dead.

Then you coughed, and they all started slightly. Even Butcher twitched. MM would mock him for it, if he hadn’t grunted and taken a step back. You sat back up, the fire in your eyes reduced back to their normal color. You stared at them all for a long moment. They all stared back.

“What do you want,” you said, flat and bored.

Butcher smirked. “Look who’s gotten up from her fuckin’ nap-“ 

“Shut up.” Your eyes narrowed, darting over their group. “I know you idiots, I’ve seen the news. What do you want.”

“That depends,” MM crossed his arms, trying to stare you down. It seemed pointless, but the other option was getting on his knees, and there was no way in hell he was doing that. “You gonna try and light us all on fire again?”

You snorted. “Are you going to hit me with a fucking rocket launcher again?” 

Butcher’s mouth curled, and Annie took a small step forward.

“We won’t,” she said softly. “We shouldn’t have,” she shot Butcher a glare. “In the first place. Please, just- We know who you are. What you went through.”

You gave Annie an amused, dry look. “You know what I went through,” you echoed, and Annie nodded.

“Your death was faked three years ago, by Vought, and you- You were last seen near Homelander-“

Annie cut herself off. The air had gotten hotter. Your lips had pressed thin, and your eyes had gone almost glazed.

“Don’t,” you said slowly. “Just- Don’t.”

MM exchanged a look with Butcher, then cleared his throat. “We ain’t here to hurt you-“

“You can’t hurt me,” you snapped, and Butcher scoffed.

“That a fuckin’ threat-“

“No, it’s a fact.”

Butcher’s eyes narrowed. “You ain’t met me yet.”

You laughed. A short, tired breath as you looked Butcher up and down, then turned back to Annie.

“Vought faked my death?”

“Yeah.” Annie gave you a sympathetic look. “I mean, they kept you in captivity, didn’t they. They’re horrible-“

“They,” you muttered, moving to your feet.

Annie blinked. “What?”

“Wasn’t Vought,” you repeated, wiping your palms on your bare thighs.

MM cleared his throat, and caught Butcher and Hughie both looking pointedly up at the sky. Hughie had red ears, and Butcher’s eyes kept flicking down. MM punched his side with a tight fist, and he grunted and shot him a glare.

Annie, unbothered and confused, cleared her throat. “But- Vought-“

“They funded it.” You shrugged. “But it wasn’t Vought.” 

“Homelander, wasn’t it?” Butcher smirked, and MM knew that look. It was the look of a fucking shark. “You’re the fuckin’- You’re the Anomaly-“

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, and Butcher took a step back with his hands in the air.

“Well, if it ain’t two birds for my one stone,” he almost purred, and MM’s lip curled. “Maeve said you got an agenda-“ 

“I don’t-“ You laughed, and it hurt to hear. “I don’t have anything.”

Your voice was heavy. Hollow and tired, in a way MM felt in his bones. He took a deep breath. It wasn’t going to be hard, to get you to work with them. A few promises about safely and taking Homelander down did the trick. Butcher just had to shut his mouth for five seconds, and MM could get you nodding and listening.

“You can make sure that- Whatever the hell happened with you,” he told you. “We’re gonna stop it from ever happening again.”

And you blinked at him, throat bobbing. And MM knew. He knew he had you. And he knew that look in your eyes.

It was the look of a kid who knew the world wasn’t dealing in their favor. That the game was rigged. And it didn’t matter who or what you were. What you ended up being. If they could trust you, of if this was just going to be another, bigger mess for him later.

MM had a feeling, in that deep pit in his gut, that you might be the most terrifying person in the world.

✦chapter 3

✦End note: butcher's about to wish he was never born i'll tell you that much✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

soldier boy loved to get you high. whether it was just weed or miscellaneous pills; they'd be shoved down your throat with a kiss.

at first, you were hesitant. you'd never done any sort of drugs before. he whispered in your ear about how much fun it'd be, that he'd take care of you, that he was right there. your body would heat at the thought of being so high you were his to control, but your gut told you that you were better than that. you were certainly taught it.

ever since you were young, your parents had constantly reminded you of the dangers and consequences of drugs. but there ben was, telling you they were wrong. "you'll feel so good, sweetheart. i promise." he'd whisper into your hair.

eventually, you gave in... and absolutely loved it. it went from you squirming on the edge of your bed filled with nerves as he lit a spliff to you going out to buy more.

so there you were, eyes dazed and brain fuzzy in his bed. he passed you the joint and watched you take a pull. "that's it, doll." his deep and gruff voice went straight through your eyes, all the way down to your core. each touch of his skin against yours felt like pure fire, a push in your growing arousal.

your lips met his in a lazy kiss, tongues overlapping and teeth clashing. his facial hair scratched along your skin, his lips parted and slick. you shifted to straddle his lap, to which he hummed. pulling away, he brought the stick to your lips, watching as you inhaled and exhaled the smoke, before putting it out.

his hands found their way onto your hips, gripping them. your arms wrapped around his neck before pulling him in another kiss. slowly, you began to shift up and down his crotch. he groaned into your lips, hips raising to meet your movements.

your head spun with arousal and intoxication, the weed making every feather of touch feel like straight ecstasy. his hands squeezed and kneaded your skin before trailing up to your breasts. your eyes fluttered in delight, heat pooling through you.

"just like that, sweetheart," he mumbled, urging you to grind on him faster. you complied, his bulge hitting at just the right spot. your head tipped back in a moan, his name a prayer on your lips.

"good girl. feels nice, huh?" he gave a swipe along your nipple, the bud hardening in return.

you nodded feverishly, movements becoming increasingly sloppy. desperate. it wasn't long before you felt your climax deep in your gut. your legs twitched as your arms instinctively wrapped tighter around ben's shoulders. "m'gonna-oh, god."

he helped you ride it out, even pressing his thumb on your clothed clit for more stimulation. "there you go, doll. come for me," he whispered. you whimpered between heavy breaths as you finally came undone.