Not Master Strange. Not Mister Strange. Dr Strange

That afternoon, you'd come home from work and gone straight to the kitchen to make something to eat. You found Defender sitting at the table, fully dressed in his black and red robes—a sign that he'd just returned from Kamar Taj—with a glass of whisky in his hands. That was definitely a bad sign. Defender only drank on two occasions: when he was very happy or very upset.

"Hey, baby, what are you doing here alone?" you asked, probing him as you headed to the refrigerator. You grabbed a bowl of strawberries and plain yogurt and watched him again as you stood on tiptoe to reach the top of the cabinet where the dessert glasses were kept. "This cabinet is so tall!" you complained, and then the door opened by itself, and one of the glasses slowly floated into your hand.

"Thank you." You thanked him, grabbing a knife and starting to chop the strawberries in the glass. "You have no idea what a day I've had! Two of my reports came back to my desk, and I still had to do Samantha's work because she has stomach flu. I didn't even have time to eat lunch. I'm starving!"

Stephen moved his fingers again using magic—which he didn't like to do unless necessary—and made you a sandwich with whatever was in the fridge. A second later, two beautiful halves of a tuna sandwich with tomato and lettuce were served on a plate right in front of you.

"Eat your protein before dessert." He said, moving his fingers again, and a chair was pulled out for you to sit. You grabbed the plate with the sandwich, your glass of strawberry and yogurt, and a spoon and sat down.

"I don't want to hear that you haven't eaten all day because of your job again, or I'll go talk to your boss in person." He scolded, moving his fingers and refilling his own glass with whisky.

You nodded, deciding it wasn't a good idea to disagree with him right now, especially since he was right. You bit into your sandwich and chewed in silence.

"Supreme called. He tried to reach you, but you didn't see his messages," he informed. "As you can imagine, he wasn't happy, but it's okay. He should be back this weekend."

You took your phone out of your pocket and glanced at your messages, sighing. "I haven't checked my phone all day. I'm not exaggerating when I said it was a crazy day."

He nodded. "Mine too."

You debated whether to ask, but in the end, you gave in to your concern. "Are you okay, baby? It's never a good sign when you're drinking in the middle of the afternoon."

He sighed, and a slight smirk played on his lips. "You know me so well." He downed the rest of hi drink and vanished the glass with another flick of his fingers. That wasn't a good sign either. Using magic to perform ordinary tasks indicated he was stressed, lacking the patience to handle any task, no matter how ordinary.

"I've had a bad day, let's put it that way," he confessed.

You took another bite of your sandwich and chewed slowly. Before you could ask anything else, he added,

"I don't want to talk about it, but don't worry, I'm fine." He said, standing up. "I'm going to take a shower. Finish your sandwich. We can order food later. I'm not in the mood to cook, and I imagine you aren't either." He walked over to you and bent down to place a kiss on your forehead gently.

"Okay." You nodded, watching him walk away. You had no idea what could have happened to upset him like that. He wasn't hurt or dirty, not a single hair out of place, which indicated he hadn't been in a fight. Whatever it was, it was serious enough to leave him in that state.

Without a second thought, you texted Wong, asking what had happened and immediately asking the Sorcerer Supreme not to say anything to Stephen. It didn't take long for him to respond.

ONE OF THE MASTERS WHO WENT ON A MISSION IN HIS PLACE THIS MORNING ENDED UP SERIOUSLY INJURED. I TOLD HIM IT WASN'T HIS FAULT, BUT YOU KNOW HIM WELL.

Shit! That was terrible. Stephen never refused to go on a mission. He just didn't go on that particular one because you convinced him he was too tired and needed to rest. And indeed, he did. You'd kept him home—and in bed—for three days, and it was wonderful. Until now. You sighed and typed quickly.

YEAH, I DO. THANK YOU, WONG. I'LL TAKE CARE OF HIM.

You finished your meal and went upstairs to your room. Before anything else, you also needed a shower.

...

When you entered Defender's room, he was dressed in pajama pants and a T-shirt, indicating he had no intention of leaving the room for the rest of the day. The curtains were half-open, and he was sitting leaning against the headboard, a book in his hands.

"Can I stay here with you? I don't want to disturb your reading," you said, feeling a little unsure of how to approach him. You had an idea of ​​what might help, but you weren't sure if he was in the mood for it.

"Sure, baby. Come here!" he asked, smiling at you for the first time that afternoon. "How was the sandwich?"

You closed the door and walked to bed. "It was good. The strawberries aren't that sweet, though, but I ate them anyway, just added a few drops of sweetener."

He nodded, closing the book and patting the mattress for you to join him. You climbed into bed and he wrapped you in his strong arms and just like that you knew you were home.

You cupped his cheek and kissed him softly. Just a touch of lips like you used to do all the time.

"Are you feeling better?" You asked, already assuring him, "Don't worry, I won't ask anything."

He closed his eyes, resting his face in your hand.

"I'm just tired. Training today was intense, and even though I've been home these last few days, I feel like I haven't fully recovered from the last mission. My body is sore, and my hands aren't feeling their best. I think I’m getting old, that’s all. "

You pouted. "Poor baby! You should be glad I like older men. – You teased. - I have an idea! Why don't you lie down and relax, and I'll give you a massage."

Defender smiled, but reluctantly replied, "I don't know, baby, you're tired too. We can just lie here..."

"I'm fine! Good as new after my shower. And I like taking care of you, Stephen," you said, kneeling on the bed and then standing up. "I'll get my massage oil. I'll be right back, don't go anywhere."

When you returned and he saw the bottle of oil you chose, he smiled but said nothing.

"Take off your shirt and tie your hair back. We don't want to get oil on it," you said, climbing back onto the bed.

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded, doing exactly as you asked.

"Now lie down on your stomach and relax. I'll take care of you."

You poured some of the oil on his back and put some on your hand as well, gently spreading it all over his back. Your fingers could feel every bump, every texture of each of his countless battle scars, the most recent of which was still slightly pink.

Gradually, you began applying pressure to his shoulders, working out the knots and feeling the tension ease. Every now and then, he would let out a little moan that made you smile from ear to ear. You loved those moments with him, you loved being able to make him feel better just with the touch of your hand.

"Baby, this feels so good. You have no idea!" he confessed with a sigh.

You just smiled and continued with your work for what seemed like a long time, but it wasn't like time mattered; in fact, it was as if time had stopped at that moment where it was just you and Stephen in that room.

However, it didn't take long for other ideas to pop into your head, and you didn't think twice about acting. Without saying anything, you stripped off the robe you were wearing, leaving only your panties on, and rubbed some of the oil on your breasts and abdomen before lying on top of him, literally rubbing yourself against him.

Defender moaned in mild surprise, "F-fuck, baby, now this feels even better."

You giggled, "Yeah? Does it feel good to have me rubbing against you like that? Can you feel my tits? My nipples are so hard right now."

He hummed, "I can feel it, and your nipples aren't the only thing that is hard right now."

That made you laugh softly. "Well, I guess that was the intention," you said, continuing your work and moving slowly on top of him, your hands sliding down his arms as you alternated between kissing and licking his neck, making him shiver all over.

"S-shit. Baby, let me turn around," he urged, and you pulled away, letting him adjust as he wanted. He pulled a pillow to support his head, and you wasted no time climbing back on top of him. You applied a little more oil to his chest and slowly massaged him again, paying attention to his shoulders. The whole time, his eyes were on you, on your tits. Stephen loved your tits; he made no effort to hide it.

Your hands continued to slide slowly down his chest, your fingertips circling his nipples, making them hard, and you moved down until you reached where he needed you most.

"Look at that, you're so hard, baby." You praised, reaching for the waistband of his pajama pants, and he quickly lifted his hips for you to get rid of them. You turned your attention to his absurdly rigid and imposing member, holding it firmly with one hand and slid your index finger along its entire curve. Stephen was a well-endowed bastard, but beyond that, his dick was beautiful, thick, with a protruding, pink tip and that wonderful curve that, besides being aesthetically pleasing, also helped you reach incredible orgasms.

"Just looking at it makes my mouth water," you confessed with a smirk.

Stephen smirked. "Put it in your mouth, then."

You licked the underside of him from the base to the tip and then sucked the head slowly, finishing with a pop that made him moan loudly.

"Will this help you feel better?" you asked teasingly.

 "Oh yes, baby. This will make me forget even my name."

You let out a little giggle and finally took him into your mouth, sucking on the head first and using your hand to work his length, gradually taking more and more of him.

"Oh, just like that, love. Just like that. Such a sweet girl taking care of me, making me feel so much better."

You hummed in satisfaction and continued your work, focusing on using your tongue on his head and frenulum and using your hand to gently caress his balls. He liked that. Unlike the other Stephens, Defender preferred slower, gentler oral sex. He didn't need you to take him whole or choke on him; he preferred it soft, just like him.

You took him out of your mouth to breathe, but continued working him with your hand.

"Come here, give me a kiss," he urged, and you reached out to reach him without having to stop your hand. He cupped your cheek and kissed you hard, moaning against your lips.

"You're so good at this, you know?" he praised. "You're going to make me cum real soon if you keep this up."

You smiled proudly. "That's the plan."

"Yeah? You're going to let me cum in that delicious little mouth, huh?" His cock throbbed violently in your hand just at the thought of doing it.

"Anywhere you want. This is all for you."

He kissed you again, and you increased the speed with which you worked him, squeezing a little tighter. That made him groan in your mouth; his mouth fell open, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the moment.

"F-fuck, put it in your mouth, baby. I want to cum in your mouth." He begged

And that's what you did, sucking him now with more vigor and going deeper while your hands continued to stimulate his balls.

"Oh yes... oh yeeees. S-shit, baby, take it." He moaned and you felt the thick and hot liquid filling your mouth. You loved it. Unlike other women, you had no problem with cum; on the contrary, that shit made you horny as hell. It was probably because it was the cum of the man you loved; it definitely made a huge difference.

Stephen was still half-hard when you took him out of your mouth and swallowed quickly. Even though he was tired, he always had more than one round to give you. It was a Stephen thing. They were naturally good in bed.

"I've never seen a woman swallow cum with so much pleasure."

You smiled proudly running your index finger along the corner of your lips and collecting the rest of his cum. You brought it to your mouth and sucked teasingly, then let out a little giggle.

"See?" he chuckled softly.

You shrugged. "I like it. I don't know what most women's problem is with it. But maybe I just like it so much because it's yours."

He took your hand in his and your fingers intertwined. "You meant because you love me."

You nodded as you let your fingers caress his hand. Stephen's hands were always so warm, they were rough too, and the thickness of the scars could be felt as easily as seen. He didn't like his hands. None of the Stephens did, especially Supreme, who, in addition to the scars, also had the issue of blackened fingertips. They were ashamed of how they looked, especially their uncontrollable tremor, and always used magic to keep them steady when they were at a social event, but almost never when they were alone with you.

Knowing how they felt about their hands made you have a different affection for them. Besides the fact that you loved big, warm hands, of course.

"You know, knowing you like it so much makes coming even more pleasant.

You nodded, smiling, feeling your cheeks grow slightly warm. Defender didn't usually talk about sex so openly. Your Stephen was much more open about it, but Defender always preferred to do it rather than talk about it. However, that afternoon he was being incredibly talkative.

"What was that? Did I make you blush?" he asked, teasing you and giving your hand a little squeeze.

You nodded, lying on top of him and letting yourself be enveloped by his strong arms.

"Are you feeling better?" you asked, not-so-subtly changing the subject.

He caressed your face gently, then cupped your chin and kissed you softly. "So much better."

"Good." "I hate seeing you sad or worried," you confessed.

He gently caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. "I know, but you always know how to make me feel better, and I'm not talking about sex, although that's my favorite way," he said with a beautiful smile on his lips. The sparkle had returned to his eyes now, and the worry lines on his forehead were slightly softened. "I just need quality time with you, and everything seems to get better."

"Good to know," you said. "It's always nice to know you're appreciated, this mu..."

You were interrupted by the bedroom door opening and Stephen coming in, calling for Defender, stopping immediately when he noticed you were there and what you were doing.

"I'm sorry, the door was open, I thought..."

Defender looked at you. "You didn't close the door?"

"I thought I had," you said, feeling your cheeks turning red.

"Anyway, I'll be back later," Stephen said. Turning to leave.

You and Defender exchanged a knowing look, and he nodded, giving you permission to make the invitation.

"Steph..." You called back, and he turned back to look at you. "Are you busy?"

He frowned, not understanding the question, but nodded negatively.

"Do you want to join us?" You asked, nibbling on your lower lip.

He raised his eyebrow in slight surprise, but tried to reason. "I don't know, sweetheart. I think Defender prefers to enjoy his time with you alone," he said, staring at Defender and clearly begging his other self to contradict him.

"It's okay, doctor, I don't mind. Besides, our girl just took such good care of me that I think she deserves a treat."

Stephen let out a soft laugh and closed the door behind him. Clearly, it wasn't that hard to convince him to share you with another Stephen when it wasn't his turn to be alone with you. Convincing him the other way around was always very difficult.

"I don't know how exactly she did it, but I'm sure I deserve equal treatment," he said, walking toward you. He was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hair was damp and combed back carefully, indicating he'd just gotten out of the shower. "You have no idea what a day I've had!"

When he reached you, he cupped your face in his huge hand and bent down to kiss you softly, then harder.

"Hmm, I'm sure I can fix that." You said, lightly biting his lower lip, and your hands automatically went to the waistband of his pants, quickly pulling it down to release his already half-hard cock.

"I'm sure you can." He moaned against your lips as you took him in your hand, stroking him slowly.

"F-fuck! these hands..."

Defender chuckled, "Amazing, aren't they? So soft and so agile at the same time."

You hummed with satisfaction, smiling at them both. "Practice makes perfect."

Stephen smirked, pulling away for a second to finish taking off his pants and shirt. "You can practice all you want on me, sweetheart. I'm all yours."

You took it in your hands again, giggling gently, but paused for a moment to grab the bottle of oil from the mattress. "Let's get you nice and wet then," you said, pouring some of the amber liquid into your hand and spreading it all over his length.

"Is this really meant to be used like that?" He asked, but moaned again when you slowly pumped him, moving your hand up and down and using your other hand to caress his balls. The wet sound of your hands moving over his cock was delicious.

"Yes, it is. It actually has many uses. I just used it to give Stephen a very special massage. Isn't that right, baby?"

Defender nodded. He continued to lie lazily on the mattress, still enjoying the afterglow of his orgasm and showing no discomfort at all about having Stephen there. This was something completely common for you now, though not exactly routine. "It's even safe to consume. It tastes like honey."

Stephen nodded. "So, why don't you use that wonderful mouth of yours to give me some special treatment. I think I deserve this much."

You let out a small laugh. "As you wish, sir."

But before you could begin your work, Defender stood on his knees approaching you.

"Let's take this off first," he said, making you sit up and lift your hips so he could remove your panties.

"Doctor, you can sit down so she can work on you while I take care of her. What do you say, baby? Does that sound good? I think you deserve some attention now."

"Oh, yes." You nodded, and Stephen did exactly as Defender suggested. He leaned his back against the headboard, and you lay on your side, taking him in your hands again and pumping him up and down slowly. Stephen put his hand in your hair, gripping it tightly. He wanted to take control, to thrust. He wanted to make you take him in your mouth and deepthroat him, but he was controlling himself and just accepted what you were giving him.

Defender took the bottle of oil from the mattress and poured some into his hands. Then he settled between your legs and began massaging you slowly, his fingers stroking between your folds, but without trying to penetrate you. He was teasing you.

"O-oh baby, this feels good." You moaned softly, but your hands didn't stop working on Stephen for a second.

Defender was so good at this. Each Stephen had a special way of touching you, playing with you, and making love to you, and that was exactly what made it all so exciting. Defender was the gentlest of them. He touched you the way he liked to be touched, slowly. But that didn't mean he couldn't turn you into a moaning mess in an instant; he just knew how to do it slowly, with small touches, and in seconds, he had you completely.

Despite all the pleasure Defender was giving you with his fingers, you managed to stay focused on your job of pleasuring Stephen while massaging his cock and balls. But when he dove between your legs and started using his tongue in the right place while teasing your entrance with two fingers, you lost it.

"Fuck yeah... oh my god, it feels so good, baby. Don't stop." You moaned.

Stephen cupped your cheek, making you look at him. "You look so beautiful moaning like that, you know? This is my favorite part of sharing you. Hearing you moan like that while they play with you." He said, pulling you to his lips. You hummed into his mouth, letting him control the kiss just as he controlled everything else in your life.

"Don't you get jealous?" You teased, and a loud moan escaped your lips when Defender penetrated you with two of his fingers and began sucking your clit harder.

Stephen cupped your chin and made you look directly at him. "You know I do, and I know that's why you like this so much. You're so fucking dirty, and I love that about you," he confessed, leaning in to kiss you roughly, then pulling away and demanding, "Now, take me in your mouth. Enough of playing around, I need more than that."

You did as he asked, though it was hard to think while Defender sucked your clit so skillfully.

You could die that way, and it would certainly be the most satisfying death in the world. Lost between the two men you loved, being devoured by one while swallowing the other, taking him so deep into your throat that tears streamed down your face.

"Oh, look at that! You're crying on my dick, sweetheart. This is beautiful," Stephen teased, easing the pressure of his heavy hand on your head and letting you emerge from his grip, pulling him out of your mouth to breathe. A stream of saliva ran down his shaft, and you used it to continue working him with your hand. You coughed a little, and he wiped your tears with the back of his hand and kissed you softly.

"You're such a good girl, aren't you? All fucked up from sucking dick. I love seeing you like this."

Stephen was so dirty and so good in dirty talk! You just nodded at him, completely incapacitated of talking, a soft moan escaping your mouth when Defender stopped sucking on your clit with a pop. He emerged from between your legs, pushing aside the mess of dark and silver hair, and gently manhandled you, placing you on all fours. Without warning or a word, he entered you with a loud, obscene groan.

You closed your eyes and your mouth went agape, but Stephen took the opportunity to kiss you, snaking his tongue through your open lips with the same agility with which Defender fucked you, and you moaned loudly, surrendering completely to them both.

"Oh, fuck yes, baby. You feel so fucking good." Defender groaned as he surrendered to his own pleasure, and you felt his thrusts becoming more urgent and irregular. He was going to come if he continued at this pace, but you weren't ready to let him, so you gently pulled away from Stephen’s lips to ask,

"Wait, baby," you pleaded, turning to face him. Your hands automatically gripped his hair, pulling him to your lips and kissing him hard and wet with tongue and teeth.

He let himself be guided, and you sat him on the bed, his back against the headboard just as Stephen was, and it was truly a beautiful sight to behold. The two naked Stephens sat on the bed with their hard dicks, staring at you intently and just waiting for your next move. You could come just from that sight.

"Now this is my favorite part of being shared between you," you confessed, retrieving the bottle of oil from the middle of the bed and pouring some into your hand. You spread the amber liquid on both hands and took their cocks, caressing them at the same rhythm , slowly and then harder until you reached the rhythm you desired, enough to have them both moaning exactly how you liked. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

"F-fuck..." They cursed under their breath as their hand movements became faster.

"Shit, baby... gonna make me cum like this." Defender moaned, and you leaned in to kiss his lips softly.

"Not yet, baby. Hold it for me, okay?"

He just nodded, biting his bottom lip to try to suppress a moan.

Stephen moaned loudly as you pressed your hand around his cock harder, and you kissed him too, taking turns between their lips in a tease that was too pleasurable to avoid. But eventually, you gave in, not to their countless pleas for more, but to your own desire, begging for a cock inside.

You went toward Defender and straddled his legs, holding his cock firmly in your hand and guiding it between your legs. You let yourself sink into him, feeling the delicious stretch, and a loud moan escaped your lips. He automatically put both hands on your waist, but let you control the movements as you always did. You closed your eyes, reveling in the pleasure that being penetrated by Stephen always gave you, and let your instincts guide you as you moved sensually up and down, back and forth, forcing your clit against his pubic bone.

"Oh baby, you look so beautiful fucking me like this," Defender praised, and you felt his hands come up and grab your breasts. You cupped his hands with yours and leaned back, letting yourself be carried away by the pleasure you felt as you rode him. You had no idea what the whole scene looked like to them, but to you, it was like being in the sexiest porn movie you'd ever seen.

“F-fuck baby... I can't hold it. Gonna cum..." You heard him moaning

You could also feel your body giving all the signals, but you didn't want to end yet. You had built the sensation so well that you could barely contain the spasms of pleasure that threatened to push you over the edge, but you held on as long as you could even though every pulse and twitch of him inside you was a strong trigger.

"It's okay, baby. I've already teased you enough today, haven't I?" You teased, pulling him to your lips and kissing him hard, and that kiss was the last trigger Defender needed to reach his climax. He moaned loudly, and his mouth crashed down on yours, making your whole body tremble and contract around him, feeling his cum pouring inside you. One of his hands gripped the back of your neck to keep you impossibly close, and he rested his forehead against yours, allowing himself to breathe.

"I love you," he finally whispered when he finished. His breath was ragged, and his voice sounded shaky and beautifully sexy.

"I love you too," you whispered back, kissing him softly. You dismounted slowly and headed toward Stephen, who by that point was waiting his turn with a certain polite impatience in his eyes.

"I think I have one more Stephen to satisfy now," you said mischievously as you let yourself be pulled by his strong arms.

"Yeah, you think?" Stephen kissed you with desperate haste and tried to move you to put you underneath, but you just stared at him seriously with a look that said more than words, and he got the message, sitting back down. You wrapped your leg around his hip and directed him to your entrance, which was aching for some relief and dripping Defender’s cum, and you both moaned together. But Stephen wasn't Defender. He was never content to just receive, and soon his hands were on your ass, controlling the up and down movements with a certain degree of desperation.

"Yes, Stephen, yes... fuck me." You moaned loudly, unable to control yourself, and a victorious smile played at the corner of his lips. You might be on top, but he was the one in control, as always.

Not satisfied, he brought one of his hands to your neck and squeezed enough to make you gasp. With a seductive baritone, he ordered, "Come on, sweetheart, let go for me. Show Defender how much you love the way I fuck you."

"Oooh yes, yes... fuck yes!" You almost screamed as you moved on top of him desperately, searching for the orgasm that was just around the corner.

"Please, please, please."

Stephen moaned loudly and slapped your ass, tightening his grip on your neck. "Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you need."

"N-need to cum!" You whimpered, giving yourself completely to his game. There was no point in denying it; with Stephen, you were never truly in control, and you enjoyed being dominated by him both physically and mentally.

"Need to cum, sweetie? Do you want daddy to make you come?"

You almost screamed at his words, "Yes, please."

Stephen continued to help you with the movements and began to move his hips upward against you, making each thrust go deeper, and your body responded to the increased stimulation with small contractions that made your thighs tremble around him.

"Shit, sweetheart, squeezing me so fucking hard..."

"Oh my god!" You almost screamed, feeling the wave of pleasure wash over you and your entire body tremble against him. "Oh daddy..."

Stephen wrapped his arms around you as he thrust a few more times inside you, then stopped completely, and a groan escaped his lips as he joined you in paradise.

...

You had no idea how long you'd been in that room, but it was long enough for the lights to be turned on because the sun had set. You were lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, and your breathing was finally returning to normal, but your heart was still racing from the intense orgasm you'd just had. Your entire body felt like jelly, and your legs were still trembling. They ended up with you, and it was the best feeling in the world.

Defender and Stephen were silent now, both lying on their sides facing you, watching you with lazy eyes as they caressed your breasts and abdomen with their fingertips.

This must have been every woman's fantasy. Lying between two men who looked at you as if you were the most important thing in the world to them. But somehow you felt even luckier, because they weren't two different men, they were your Stephens, and they truly loved you because you are the most important thing in the world to them, just as they are to you. And you thought that was beautiful.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to this," you confessed contemplatively.

"Which part?" Stephen asked as he let his fingertips play with your nipple, and Defender traced circles on your stomach absentmindedly.

"All of it." You replied, "The fact that there's more than one Doctor Strange in my world, and they love me as much as I love them. Some people are never loved."

"That's really not a feeling you'll ever know, sweetheart. You have more love than would be considered natural for most people," Stephen said with a smirk on his face. God, he looked so beautiful in the amber light of Defender's room. The fine sheen of sweat made his skin shine over his well-defined muscles, his hair always impeccably combed, now messy with a few strands falling over his forehead, and those blue eyes staring at you lovingly.

"I don't care if it's unnatural, I love you, and I love being loved by you. By all three of you."

"And we love loving you, baby," Defender said, cupping your cheek gently and making you look at him. "By now, I think it's clear to the three of us that any Stephen in the multiverse would love to love you, but I can only speak for myself, and I would choose you in any universe or lifetime."

Your whole body tingled, and you felt your heart throb at those words. Without knowing exactly how to respond with words, you just let yourself be swept into his arms and kissed him hard.

"It's a shame nothing can be perfect in real life, and we're always trying to kill each other," Stephen joked, and Defender laughed softly against your lips, clearly agreeing, but you shrugged and rolled back into Stephen's embrace, letting yourself be enveloped in his arms.

"I don't need a perfect life. I just need my three Stephens."

"And you'll always have us, love," Stephen said, pulling you to his lips.

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"You should be sleeping," you scolded, your voice low and hoarse from sleep.

"I wish! I'm tired of tossing and turning and risking waking you. I finally gave in to this good old friend," he said with a sigh, showing you the cover of the old book. It was an encyclopedia of runes and spells that, according to Stephen, had fallen into disuse over the centuries, replaced by improved versions, but Stephen insisted on knowing and learning each and every one of them.

You stretched on the bed. "Reading is a good way to fall asleep when is boring. You should read something you don't enjoy, something less stimulating."

He chuckled softly. "Any suggestions?"

"I can think of two or three reports I'm writing for the company. Together they should be about 50 pages."

He smirked, closing the book and placing it on the nightstand with almost religious care. He took off his glasses and placed them next to the book, then got rid of some of the pillows so he could lie down.

"I think I'll pass. There are other, more pleasant forms of torture," he said, snuggling close to you and letting himself be enveloped in your arms. That was a reversal you quite enjoyed. When he asked, even without saying a word, to be held and cared for.

He laid his head carefully on your chest, wrapping his arm around your waist.

"Want to talk about what's keeping you awake tonight?" You asked. Your fingers found their way through his soft dark and silver strands, gently combing them, untangling any knots that had formed throughout the day.

Stephen sighed, surrendering to the caress. "Same as always. Work. Kamar Taj. The Defenders."

"But did something happen?" You pressed, scratching his scalp, feeling him melt beneath your hands.

"I think I'm just tired, baby. No need to worry."

"If it's keeping you awake, is worth worrying, Stephen. You push yourself too hard, you demand too much of yourself without giving you the rest you need. I worry about you."

He knew you were right, but he had no intention of taking it easy on himself. You knew him too well to understand his every reaction, especially his silences.

"Stephen..." You pressed.

"I just need to relax, baby. Stop overthinking and I'll be fine."

You sighed, knowing full well there was no point in arguing, so you gave in and continued massaging his scalp with your fingertips. He loved it, and it was definitely a good way to help him relax.

"Fuck, I love this!" he murmured, and you chuckled.

"Yeah, I know. Who would have thought the great Defender Strange liked cuddles so much?"

He hummed, completely surrendered. "Only you. And I love your voice, love, when you talk to me like that. So sweet and so soft, it calms me down, grounds me, makes me understand that life is here and now, and I can slow down and let go of my worries."

You smiled to yourself, feeling proud.

"Do you want me to keep talking, then?"

"Yes, please."

"And what do you want me to say?"

"Anything. Just keep talking to me," he asked, snuggling even closer to you as he intertwined one of his legs between yours. You loved it, loved the feeling of his heavy body like that, almost on top of yours. You loved having him lying on your chest and the delicious scent of his hair filling your nostrils as you ran your fingers through it or scratched his scalp like you were doing now. You loved him. Every minute, every instant of that intimacy you could enjoy was your favorite moment of the day, even if it was in the middle of the night on a Tuesday, as was the case.

You smiled when you realized you could have said that to him, but you kept your thoughts to yourself while he waited for you to speak.

"I don't know what to say," you admitted.

"Tell me what you were thinking just now when you were quiet," he suggested, and you smiled to yourself.

"I was thinking about how much I love these moments with you. How special they are. Sometimes I have to convince myself that you're real, that you're mine. The things you do make you seem like an abstract, unreal concept: the Sorcerer Supreme, the leader of the Defenders, the Master of the Mystic Arts..." You chuckled shyly. "I know how important all of that is, but I like it so much more when we're like this. When you're just my Stephen."

He sighed, his voice hoarse when he spoke again. "It's who I really am. It's who I like to be."

You smiled. "You're a great dad, too. The best, in fact. If you ever doubted that, know that our daughter couldn't have a better father, and I'm not even talking about the fact that you protect her in every way possible, although that's great too, but rather how attentive and loving you've always been to her since the day she was born. I still remember the first night you put her to sleep when I couldn't. The sight of you shirtless, hair down, with a newborn in your arms is still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."

"Now you're flattering me," he accused, but you could hear the emotion in his voice.

"You told me I could say whatever I wanted. I'll say whatever I want."

He laughs softly. "Yes, I did."

"I love you." You found yourself confessing, "Sometimes I think I don’t say this enough, but I've never felt the way I do about you with anyone. All the others, the ones I've known before you, the ones I've been with, they're nothing compared to you, and I'm not even talking about who you are, but how you make me feel."

Stephen lifted his head and turned to look at you. There was emotion in his eyes, illuminated by the dim light of the lamp, but more than that, his eyes were filled with affection.

You watched him bring his face closer to yours until you could smell his breath and expected him to kiss you, but instead, he just stood there staring at you until he managed to make you blush.

"Stephen..." Your voice sounded husky, and he smirked, fully aware of the physical effects he was having on you. "It's your turn to say something now," you said, brushing his hair away from his eyes and cupping his beautiful face.

He hummed, leaning against your hand and closing his eyes for a moment before answering. "I don't think there's anything I can say that shows my love for you, baby. I'd rather show you... physically."

You felt your face heat up again when he ground his perfectly noticeable hard-on against your thigh and sought your lips, kissing you hard. You kissed him back, cupping his face between your hands, but tried to reason with him before giving in to desire.

"You wanted to relax and sleep..."

"And what better way to do that than lost inside you?"

You bit your lower lip, giving in and letting him manhandle you. Stephen knelt on the bed, removing the T-shirt he was wearing, and gently pulled your nightgown up, pulling it off and draping it over your head as you raised your arms to get rid of it. To his delight, you weren't wearing anything underneath.

"Now spread those beautiful legs for me. Let me worship you the way you deserve."

You obeyed, and he dove between your legs with an unexpected voracity that made you moan loudly. You weren't expecting that, or any of it, really, but you couldn't complain when Stephen could make you feel so good with so little effort. Before him, you never enjoyed receiving oral sex because you couldn't feel anything and had to fake a reaction, but with him, you could feel everything. You could feel the way his beard brushed against your sensitive skin, heightening the sensations, the way he used his tongue at your entrance and interspersed it with strategic sucks on your clit, making you see stars. That's how he made you feel, as if you were lost in space, observing an entire constellation of stars, completely removed from the real world.

"F-fuck," you moaned, gripping the pillow and throwing your head back as you completely gave in to every sensation, and Stephen hummed contentedly, never stopping pleasuring you until your toes curled and your legs began to tremble beneath him, and you muffled a little cry into the pillow. Only then was he satisfied and emerged from between your legs with the most beautiful smile in the world on his face.

"I never get tired of this," he admitted, brushing the mess of dark and silver hair away from his face and placing a kiss on the inside of your thigh. "Your taste, the little noises you make..." He brushed his beard against the sensitive skin of your thigh, and he smiled as he watched your skin tingle at his touch. "All mine. Mine and no one else's."

You smiled, reaching out to touch his face. "And whose else could I be? There's no one like you."

He hummed contentedly as he moved up, caging your head between his arms, his body covering yours completely, and you loved the feel of his weight on you, you loved the way his hips made their way between your legs and fit you perfectly. But he was still dressed, there was still a barrier between you, and your hands were quick to find the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling them down and revealing his beautiful, round ass.

Stephen kissed you softly and let out a soft laugh in your lips when he noticed your desperation. Without pulling away from you, he simply snapped his fingers, ridding himself of what was left of his clothes. He moved his hips against you once, twice, three times and you felt the tip of his cock poking between your folds, but you needed so much more and knew he was teasing you, so you brought your hand between you impatiently and directed him to where you needed him most. Inside.

Both moaned loudly, and Stephen captured your lips in a deep, lustful kiss, his tongue penetrating between your lips and exploring every inch of your mouth. Your hands gripped his ass as he thrust into you at an intense, yet slow pace. Neither of you were in a rush, neither of you wanting it to end.

"God, you feel so good," Stephen moaned between your lips as he pulled your thigh with one hand so you wrapped your leg around his hip, allowing him to go even deeper. With his other hand, he grabbed yours, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I love fucking you after I make you come. You feel so warm and impossibly wet. You drive me crazy."

You didn't say anything, but your lips returned to searching for him, kissing him desperately, trailing down his jaw, nipping at his throat and sucking hard to mark him while your hips moved against his movements, seeking even more friction, proving how horny you were for him.

Stephen realized what you were doing and what you needed and forced himself against you with more desire, more intensity, grinding himself against you and stimulating your clit with his pubic hair and bone. It made you tremble beneath him, your mouth went agape, and your eyes almost rolled back in your skull. Stephen took the opportunity to kiss your jaw, your neck, nibble on your ear, and bury his face in your neck, making you shiver with his heavy breathing in your ear.

"Steph... gonna make me cum." You warned him, and he hummed, never stopping or slowing down his thrusts against you, fucking you sensually and deliciously until he got exactly what he wanted when the tightness in the pit of your stomach snapped and your entire body surrendered to ecstasy in spasms and tremors. You didn't scream, just whispered his name over and over as you kept your eyes squeezed shut and fireworks exploded in the darkness.

"F-fuck," you heard him say and opened your eyes slowly to be graced with the sight of him looking at you with an expression of enchantment and desire mixed with a smirk that made him even more beautiful. "There you go, baby," he praised, kissing you sweetly, and you felt him pulsing demandingly inside you, but he seemed in no hurry to be satisfied. "Feels so good when you come around my cock. I can feel it. You don't even have to tell me."

You smiled lazily at him, post-orgasm drowsiness coming quickly, and you didn't feel inclined to fight it.

"Sleepy, huh?" Stephen said, kissing your forehead and moving gently against you, making your entire body twitch with overstimulation.

"T-too much." That was all you could say, and he pulled out, standing and kneeling between your legs. You watched as he stimulated himself, one hand on your knee to make sure your legs remained open for him. It was obscene, intimate, and beautiful all at once, and you found yourself thinking nothing could be sexier than that. The sound of his heavy breathing combined with the wet sound of his hand stroking himself was all you could hear in the silent room, but it didn't last long. His moans grew louder and louder until you felt his hot cum spilling all over you, marking you as his.

Only then did he release your knee and bring his hand to his face, brushing away the strands of hair that stubbornly clung to his eyes.

"Beautiful," you teased him, and he smiled, conjuring a soft, damp cloth and quickly cleaning you and himself. He discarded the dirty cloth and then stood up, putting on his sweatpants again, and walked around the bed to get a glass of water from the jar on the side table. He drank it quickly and then brought you a glass. You sat down to drink and accidentally glanced at the clock.

"It's almost dawn!" you whined, and he chuckled softly, taking the glass from your hand and setting it back on the table. He lay back down beside you, and you snuggled into his chest, letting his arms wrap around you in warmth and security.

"I think we're both going to be late for work this morning." He said, kissing your forehead, and there wasn't even a hint of remorse in his voice.

You hummed as your fingers absentmindedly played with a strand of his hair.

"Actually, I think Wong and the Defenders can manage without me for a day."

You lifted your head to look at him. "Are you serious?"

He nodded. "Only if you promise to stay with me all day."

"What about my job?"

"I'm sure Phil can survive without you for a day, baby. Especially if I text him."

You smirked. "You can't coerce my boss, Stephen."

"Convincing. That's different," he replied, watching you yawn lazily. "And I think Kate can stay at your mom's. She'll love it, and we'll have the house to ourselves."

You hummed positively, snuggling back into his chest, feeling your eyelids grow heavy. Stephen kissed the top of your head again and turned off the lamp, plunging the two of you into a comfortable darkness. Before you drifted off, you could hear him murmuring, more to himself than to you.

"Thank you for loving me, baby."

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

DEFENDER STRANGE MASTERLIST

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It had been like living inside a dollhouse, moving from room to beautiful room with no need for urgency, everything you needed appearing just where it should be, as if placed there by a little girl’s hand just out of sight. You felt rejuvenated, loose and soft, your eyes sparkling, skin glowing, mouth resting in a smile more often than it ever had before. 

Ben was downstairs, pacing the echoey entrance hall as he spoke on the phone. To whom, you didn’t know. It could have been his manager, publicist, assistant, maybe an old actor friend, or some big Hollywood director. You found it hard to care too much about his work; unable to connect the revered A-list actor to the man you shared a bed with each night, the man who talked in stupid accents and still bookmarked his pages with old train tickets.

You stood up and slung your carry-on bag over your shoulder, lifting the handle of your suitcase and dragging it behind you. You stopped in the doorway, turning around and taking one last look at the bedroom; the late afternoon light melting across the headboard, the door to the balcony where you’d spent so much of your time. You were going to miss it. But you knew you’d be back. 

You were halfway down the huge, curving staircase when Ben noticed you struggling with your bag, awkwardly bumping your suitcase down each step with a heavy thud. He wedged his phone between his ear and shoulder and hurried up to meet you, taking your luggage and carrying it down the rest of the way as he continued to talk. 

“And is that under my name or yours?” he asked as he placed your bags next to his by the front door. “Okay, great. And you’ll be there tomorrow? Okay. Talk soon, bye.” 

You’d sat down on the bottom step while you waited for him to finish, smiling up at him as he slid his phone into the back pocket of his trousers. 

“Who was that?” you asked. “Your other girlfriend?” 

“Yeah, we’re going to meet up in New York for a quickie.” 

You paused. “Even the thought of that just pissed me off.” 

He chuckled and shook his head. “It was just Kay. She was letting me know everything’s sorted for when we get there.” 

You’d learned to stifle the urge to grimace whenever he mentioned his publicist. She was one of the orchestrators behind his marriage, one of the voices in his ear telling him it was a good idea. No matter how kindly he spoke of her, you couldn’t help but doubt it, like you were holding onto a grudge that wasn’t yours to bear. 

“Have you got everything?” he asked. 

“Mhm.” You nodded with a sigh.

“What’s the matter?”

“I like it here. Sad to be leaving, that’s all.” 

He pursed his bottom lip sympathetically and extended his hand to you. You stood up and walked over to him, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulders and place a kiss on the top of your head. 

“We can come back whenever you want,” he said.

You said goodbye to California at 6pm, gazing at the golden horizon and pinkish hued clouds through your tiny plane window with a wistful sigh. And just five and a half hours later, you arrived into utter darkness, staring up at a starless night sky as you made your way down the steps onto the runway. It was 2.30am in New York. The time difference had thrown you off-kilter, leaving you with an energy that seemed incongruous to the sleepy faces of airport security and weary travellers around you.

This journey was different to the last. You had no escorts, no fast tracking, no fancy men in tailcoats. Instead you moved through the airport like everyone else, disguised by surgical masks, baseball caps and sunglasses. You could have sworn you spotted a few glances and double-takes from passersby, people wondering if it could be him, but refraining from getting too close. 

Ben held your hand as you navigated the building, eventually boarding the AirTrain where no one even cared to look up; their fists wrapped around handrails, earphones in, faces buried in books and newspapers. It was so quiet you didn’t dare speak, exchanging glances with Ben instead, seeing his eyes crease whenever he smiled. 

There was also no driver this time. No quiet, stony man waiting to chauffeur you around in a big SUV. Instead, Ben picked up the keys to a Mercedes from the car rental desk, throwing your bags into the boot and slipping into the driver’s seat. You got in next to him, taking off your mask and sunglasses and turning to look at him, eyeing him with a raised brow as he rubbed his hands together excitedly.

“What?” he said. “I like driving into the city.”

“Why?” you asked with a laugh. 

“You’ll see.” 

The early hours made for open, quiet roads, the freeway a smooth, uninterrupted stretch. Ben drove with a hand on your thigh, the other lazily hugging the wheel. Music played softly through the radio as a light breeze rolled in through a crack in your window. It was idyllic, peaceful, and then you saw it.

The city skyline was like a constellation against the inky black sky. A smattering of glittering lights across every building and structure, the water below reflecting them back with a diffused glow. You stared out of the window in awe, taking your phone out to snap a photo that didn’t do it any justice. Ben smiled as he drove, charmed by your fascination, happy to be the one that got to show it to you. 

It was clear he knew exactly where he was going, the car soaring over a long, steel bridge into the city with no hesitation. He knew every turn he had to take and every interesting thing to point out, like the old warehouse that was now a gallery, the dingy-looking deli he swore made the best sandwiches, and the street they’d closed off while filming Doctor Strange. You took it all in, curling into the passenger seat, elbow propped on the window, cheek in your hand. 

As you ventured deeper into the city, it somehow began to feel more vibrant. Even in the dead of night, there was life everywhere; traffic lights and flashing neon signs, yellow taxi cabs perusing for passengers. California had felt like a long exhale. But this place seemed to breathe.

He pulled up a few minutes later outside a sleek, towering building, turning into an underground parking garage beside it. There were no doormen to help with your bags, no security guards manning the entrance, just a small intercom on the wall, a touchscreen keypad beneath it. Ben pulled out his phone, looking through his texts for a moment before punching in a code that made the door unlock with a satisfying buzz. You followed him inside, emerging into a brightly lit lobby with shiny marble floors, a concierge sitting behind a front desk near the doors that led out onto the main street.

“Good evening, sir,” the man said in an accent you didn’t think existed outside of movies. “Or should I say good morning.” 

Ben gave a polite laugh as he approached the desk. “Good morning. I think you have some keys for me. Should be under ‘Philip Chase’.” 

The man checked beneath his desk for a moment before standing up straight with a pair of keycards, handing them to him with a smile. “Apartment 603.” 

“Thank you.” 

You followed Ben towards the lifts on the other end of the lobby, shifting your bag back onto your shoulder as you went. 

“Philip Chase?” you asked. 

“Pseudonym.” 

You scoffed quietly as the doors slid open, stepping inside and pressing the button for the sixth floor. 

“So, Mr Chase,” you began as the lift began to move. “How long have you owned this place?”

“Oh this is just a rental.” 

The doors opened onto a spacious, quiet corridor. Even the air smelled expensive; clean and citrusy, with a deep undertone of something musky and polished. The carpet was plush, sinking slightly beneath each footstep, the walls adorned with sconces that gave off an ambient glow. 

Ben pressed one of the keycards to the sensor on the door of your apartment, pushing down on the heavy handle and stepping aside to let you walk in first. Your breath caught for a moment when you stepped over the threshold, your eyes darting around the expansive, grandiose space.

You’d expected something hotel-like; neutral and classic, carpet and coffee tables, fake plants and carefully curated art. But it was almost the complete opposite. There was something industrial about it; open plan with wood floors and exposed copper piping. Rich navies and deep greens softened by warm, amber lighting and exposed brick walls. Huge metal-framed windows covered the length of one wall, revealing a view of the city, so stunning you found yourself moving across the apartment to get a closer look. 

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

He dragged the suitcases inside and closed the front door. “It’s nice, isn’t it.” 

“Nice?” you replied with a laugh, turning to look at him.

“More than nice?” 

You shook your head, returning your gaze to the window. “I think I might actually like this more than LA.” 

He laughed as he stepped up behind you, resting a hand on the back of your neck. “Knew you were a city girl.” 

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “I’m a ‘whatever this is’ girl.” 

“Good to know.” He gave the back of your neck a gentle squeeze before letting go and making his way over to the kitchen, opening the fridge and nosing through the cupboards. “So, house or apartment, then?” 

“For what?” 

“For when we live together.” 

“Slow down, sir.” 

He smirked, taking a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting off the cap.

You wandered over to him, resting your elbows on the counter and watching as he took generous gulps of water, his throat bobbing with each deep swallow.

“It amazes me how certain you are,” you said, shaking your head softly.

“About what?” 

“About us. It’s like you’ve got no doubt in your mind that this is… It.”

“I love you,” he said simply, shrugging his shoulders. 

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I love you too.” 

“I don’t see anything changing that, do you?” 

You shook your head. 

“Well there you go,” he said. “That’s why I’m so certain.” 

You exhaled a laugh through your nose, tilting your head slightly to gaze at him as he spoke. 

“And you know I’m only teasing you when I talk about all the big future stuff,” he said. “I don’t doubt it’s going to happen. But I’m not in any rush. Really. This little bubble we’ve got… I’m happy in it.”

You paused for a moment before speaking softly. “You know bubbles can burst…” 

“Not this one,” he replied with an ease and confidence that made you smile. “No matter how much of a pain in the arse you try to be,” he continued, moving around the counter towards you. “Or how many of your fake grandmothers have to die so I can have you with me wherever I go. Or how much I want to tell the whole fucking world about you.” 

You laughed, looking up at him as he brought his hands to your cheeks, holding you in place as he leaned in close. 

“I will protect this bubble, at all costs,” he finished quietly, pressing his lips to yours with a firm kiss.

You smiled against his lips, placing your hands over his as they cupped your face.

“I’m holding you to that,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at him.. 

“Fine by me.” 

“And you know…” you said as he continued to press his lips to yours, punctuating your words with kisses. “The bubble has a very strict limit on how often you’re allowed to mention big scary future things…” 

“What’s the limit? Just so I can make sure I meet my daily quota.” 

You rolled your eyes and playfully pushed him away.

He laughed as he took a step back, before turning on his heels and beginning to walk away. “Come and unpack before I do something drastic. Like propose.”

The bedroom was a complete contrast to the one in LA. It was darker, cozier, more intimate; a large bed and minimal furniture, sconces on the exposed brick walls providing a warm, dim light. It was beautiful, the kind of room you’d see in a movie or TV show, another perfect snapshot of the city through a tall casement window. You tried not to gawp as you walked in, making your way coolly over to your suitcase.

“Is there even a point in unpacking?” you asked as you unzipped it. “How long are we here for?” 

“A week at least,” said Ben as he rummaged through his bag. 

“A week?” 

“At least. Y’know, these Marvel flicks, they’re sort of a big deal,” he replied sarcastically.

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t seen any.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I know, I’m joking. I’ve actually seen quite a lot of them.” You paused for a moment before laughing softly. “Isn’t it weird to think that I watched films of yours over the years with no idea I was going to end up with you one day.” 

“You’re living every super fan’s dream,” he teased. 

“You have fans?” 

He scoffed and threw a balled up pair of socks across the room at you. You dodged them with a laugh before finally beginning to unpack. 

You filled a dresser with your clothes and put your shoes and empty luggage inside the closet. Then you adorned the bedside table with things that made it feel more like yours; your perfume and jewellery case, a journal, your phone charger, the book you’d yet to start reading. 

Now you were standing with Ben in the bathroom, side by side at the sink as you brushed your teeth together. He was shirtless, a pair of pyjama bottoms sitting low on his waist, while you’d opted for a loose t-shirt and a pair of knickers. You exchanged glances in the mirror, small smiles and playful glints, talking without need for words. And when you were both done, he hovered for a moment near the door, watching you tie your hair up and apply your moisturiser like it was the most interesting thing in the world. 

You checked the time as you crawled into bed. 4am. And it was finally catching up with you. Your muscles ached as you sank into the mattress, eyelids heavy, your arm instinctively draping over Ben’s stomach as he lay down with you. 

“Do you want to come to a screening tomorrow?” he asked quietly. 

“For what?” 

“Multiverse.” 

You lifted your head slightly to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound very bubble-like.” 

He exhaled a laugh, bringing a hand up to stroke the back of your head. “It’s not a red carpet thing. Nothing flashy. It’s private; mostly industry people, critics, press, sometimes there’s a few competition winners.” 

You hummed quietly to yourself, mulling it over. 

“I just thought you might like to come,” he said. “And maybe there’s a selfish part of me that wants you to see me all… muscular and powerful.” 

“In your little red cape.” 

“It’s a cloak.”

You laughed, resting your head on his chest. “Yeah okay, I’ll come.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” 

He placed a kiss on the top of your head before letting out a long, laboured yawn and relaxing into the mattress. Neither of you spoke again, the silence softened by your rhythmic breaths and the faint sounds of the city beyond the window.

Ben was already gone when you woke up; his side of the bed still rumpled, a soft indent still visible in the pillow he’d slept on. You’d gotten used to waking up alone, and you didn’t really mind it. Your brain had always taken a little while to start functioning in the mornings, and the quiet solitude of a beautiful home had become the perfect way to slowly ease you into the day. 

You showered and got dressed, determined to venture beyond the apartment, though you had no idea where you were going to go. There was a credit card on the kitchen counter, a note beside it that read: If you need anything. You stubbornly refused to even pick it up, turning your back on it as you slung your bag onto your shoulder and headed for the door. 

You found a small café a few blocks away, sitting in the window to people-watch while you ate breakfast and jotted ideas in your journal. A woman walked by in a mini skirt and knee high boots, her long hair fluttering behind her majestically as she moved. Meanwhile, a man in a structured coat and halfmoon sunglasses crossed the street like it was his own personal catwalk. A group of young women stood taking photos of each other against the backdrop of traffic, each one of them dressed impeccably; bold colours and mismatched textures, every piece they wore so deliberate and thought-out. 

As you watched the world drift by, it only seemed to grow clearer how deeply this city cared about its image. It wasn’t a shallow battle of aesthetics, but a showcase of individuality. Everyone walked like they had a purpose, like they were being watched, even the man sipping a coffee at the table next to you looked like a model with his loose-fitting shirt and slicked back hair. 

It made you feel underdressed, dull, like you were somehow disrespecting the city itself by gracing its streets looking anything less than exquisite. Then you remembered the screening. Nothing flashy, Ben had said. But what exactly did ‘nothing flashy’ mean? What if you walked into that theatre in your ‘not flashy’ outfit, only to be met by more beautiful people in more beautiful clothes? The thought put you off your food. 

You told yourself you were just going to browse. 

Yet somehow, you found yourself wandering in and out of clothing stores; designer brands with oddly posed mannequins, small vintage boutiques that smelled like leather and incense, and one store with music so loud you walked right back out again. Everything you touched came with a pang of fear, a price tag you didn’t dare look at. But eventually, you found something.

The skirt was long and silk, in a soft, pale shade of green that immediately caught your eye. You paired it with a delicate button-up waistcoat in a similar colour, not bothering to try anything on and simply hoping it would all work together. You tried not to look flustered when the girl behind the cash register gave you the total, thinking back to the card Ben had left on the kitchen counter for you; the one that probably had unlimited credit, the one he’d placed there with a note that might as well have said: buy whatever you want, I have so much money I won’t even notice it’s gone. But you kept a straight face, reaching into your bag and handing over your debit card, certain you could actually feel the sting as the money left your account. 

By the time you made it back to the apartment, you’d somehow acquired a new pair of shoes too, and a lipstick, and a clutch bag, and a Big Gulp of Dr Pepper almost twice the size of your head. You’d almost gotten lost twice on the way back, making turns down streets you thought you recognised, only to find yourself further from home. Your feet were aching as you finally stepped into the apartment, your finances bruised, but at least your ego was still intact.

“Quinn?” Ben’s voice called out.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you replied, hopping into your heels as you made your way out of the bedroom.

He was standing in the middle of the apartment waiting for you; a soft white t-shirt tucked into a pair of brown trousers. The matching brown jacket draped over one arm. He’d kept his stubble, his hair just long enough for a slight wave to form. 

You stood up straight in the doorway, shamelessly drinking him in, any sense of urgency leaving you the moment you laid eyes on him. He looked delicious. He smelled delicious; the scent of his freshly spritzed cologne drifting across the open space towards you. 

“What?” he asked, glancing down at himself in paranoia, then back up to you. 

“I want to climb you,” you said simply. 

He gave a quick, surprised laugh before glancing down at his watch. “You can climb me when we get back. Preferably with less clothes on.” 

You rolled your eyes with a slight smile before making your way across the room towards him. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, gaze trailing over you slowly. 

“Is it alright?” you asked as you smoothed your hands over your hips. “Not too much? Or… Too little?” 

“No, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He reached out as you closed the distance, his hand finding your waist as he leaned down to kiss you. 

You gave him a quick peck before running your thumb over his lips, wiping away the smudge of lipstick you’d left behind. 

You were back to being chauffeured around, climbing into the back of yet another dark car with tinted windows, exchanging occasional glances with the driver in the rearview mirror. As always, Ben’s hand settled on your thigh as you travelled through the city, crawling slowly through heavy traffic as the dusky golden sky began to melt into the late summer evening. 

When you arrived at the theatre, you were ushered through a back door and led into what looked like a small greenroom, the hum of crowds and conversations just beyond a set of double doors. Ben kissed the side of your head and directed you to follow a woman dressed all in black. She was talking through a headset, flicking through pages on a clipboard as she gestured for you to come with her. 

You glanced up at Ben with a furrowed brow, reluctant to leave his side. 

“She’s going to take you to your seat,” he said reassuringly. 

“Oh… Okay…” 

You followed the woman out into the main lobby, through the crowds of people pouring into the theatre until you got to a reserved seat near the front. You sat down, looking around in confusion, wondering why he hadn’t come with you, if you were going to be watching the whole thing alone. 

It took another five minutes for the room to fill, the audience talking amongst themselves as you sat scrolling idly on your phone. When a man finally emerged in front of the screen with a microphone, you put it back in your bag and placed it on the ground near your feet, listening as he began to speak. 

“Good evening everybody, thank you so much for joining us tonight. We are thrilled to have you all here for this very special private screening of Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness.” 

There was a ripple of applause and hushed whoops through the theatre. 

“As you all know, this has been a very highly anticipated movie for Marvel Studios, and we’re so excited to finally be bringing it to you. The work that’s gone into this movie, I can’t even begin to put into words, but what I will say is that this is nothing like anything you’ve seen in the MCU before. Now, just before we dim the lights, I do have a very special guest who has kindly agreed to come out and say a few words.” 

You heard a flutter of quiet gasps behind you, making you laugh slightly as you realised why Ben hadn’t come with you. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Doctor Strange himself, Benedict Cumberbatch!” 

Ben emerged from behind a thick, velvet curtain to an eruption of cheers and applause. You smiled as you watched him; the charming grin and polite waves, how he placed his palms together and bowed his head slightly in gratitude. You’d never seen his stardom up close like this before, never heard the roar of adoring fans or watched him work a crowd. It was surreal, fascinating, and undeniably attractive.

The man handed him the microphone and took a step back as Ben cleared his throat, waiting a moment for the audience to hush before speaking. 

“Hi,” he began modestly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hello, wow, thank you. I er, I know you’re all itching to see it so I’ll keep this short. These movies are truly a joy to work on. I love this character and I love the… the madness - excuse the pun - that is this film. The cast, crew, everyone who was a part of this project has really worked hard and I hope you see that when you watch it.” He stared out at the audience, the spotlight catching his eyes, making them sparkle as he spoke. “So with that being said, I really hope you enjoy it. And if you don’t, please lie on the internet and say you did. Thanks.” 

Everyone in the audience laughed, including you. You watched him hurry down to take his seat beside you as the host announced the movie. And within moments, the theatre fell into darkness as the screen came to life. 

“You okay?” he whispered, reaching over and giving your hand a subtle squeeze. 

You nodded, glancing over at him. “Excited.” 

He smiled, settling back into his seat as the opening credits began. 

Vivid colour burst onto the screen, a kaleidoscope so bright and expansive it almost hurt your eyes to look directly at it. You felt the bass from the speakers in your chest as the music began to play, the pulse and the vibration from every sound effect that followed. 

From the moment Ben appeared as Doctor Strange, with those silver flecks and intense eyes, your stomach fluttered with an unexpected sense of pride and disbelief. You knew he was a formidable actor, but it still shocked you to be sitting next to a man whose voice you knew so well, whose face you’d grown so familiar with, yet somehow not recognise him on the screen at all. 

You caught yourself smiling more than once, your eyes dancing over the vibrant scenes before you, then sideways to steal a glance at him in the dark. He wasn’t watching himself, not really, his focus stolen by the reactions of the audience; listening for laughter, dissecting the silences. It was as though he’d disappeared inside himself, analysing every minute detail. 

The film was bold, dark yet funny, a goldmine of references and epic scenes that bled into one another through portals and shattered timelines. The theatre would let out collective gasps, amused chuckles and excited murmurs, while other times it was completely still, eerily quiet. 

You enjoyed the action scenes, but couldn’t help giggling at the thought of him filming them; before the CGI and the finishing touches, when it was just him swirling his hands around, attached to a harness, fighting an invisible opponent. Then the mood in the room shifted, the scene turning emotional, quiet, with intimate dialogue and a beautiful woman gazing up at him so lovingly. 

It’s just a movie, Quinn, you told yourself, fighting the irrational jealousy trying to rear its head. And he seemed to sense it, reaching over and gently gripping your thigh.

Then your phone buzzed in the bag at your feet. 

You ignored it.

But it quickly buzzed again. And again. And again. A nonstop string of vibrations that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. What if work was trying to get hold of you about your piece? Or what if something was wrong? Were your parents okay? Was there some kind of emergency? 

You slowly reached down and grabbed your bag, bringing it onto your lap and popping open the clasp as quietly as you could. You dimmed your phone screen and unlocked it, watching the growing stack of notifications popping up one after the other in total confusion; texts, social media, emails, private messages. 

You opened Instagram, blinking in confusion as you clicked on your most recent post, a mirror selfie from over a month ago, now flooded with hundreds of comments. 

Homewrecker. Slut.  You should be ashamed of yourself.  Oh I'm earlyyy 🍿 You knew he was married. You’re disgusting. Not a girls’ girl, clearly. Hope the attention was worth destroying someone’s life. We see you, Quinn. And so does everyone else now. Imagine sleeping your way to a byline. This is why no one trusts journalists. Can’t wait till he dumps you like he did his wife. Proof men think with their dicks.  Trash.  You owe Faye Dennehy an apology. Enjoy your fifteen minutes.  Whore.

You tried to swallow but your throat was too dry, your eyes wide as you stared down at the comments continuing to roll in.

You blew a married man and called it journalism. She probably slept with half his team to get close to him. Poor Faye. From writing about him to riding him. Inspirational. Hope you’re proud. He lost everything for a glorified side piece. Imagine cheating on a woman like Faye Dennehy with a nobody journo. Does he pay you by the article or the orgasm? Vile little girl. Another man loses his integrity to a pretty face and open legs. Journalism isn’t what it used to be. Clearly neither is marriage. You ruined a relationship, now you’re ruining his career. 🥇

You scrolled frantically, heart pounding, breath catching as you tried to figure out where this was all coming from. There was a message from Nick in your DMs, a link to an article followed by a string of question marks. You clicked on it with shaking fingers. 

MYSTERY SOLVED: Is This The Woman Benedict Cumberbatch Left His Wife For? From the moment Benedict Cumberbatch announced his divorce from fashion designer Faye Dennehy last year, speculation swirled about the real reason behind the couple’s seemingly sudden split. Those rumours only seemed to strengthen when a “mystery woman” was reportedly seen leaving the actor’s home in the early morning just a few weeks after the announcement. Now, after months of internet sleuthing and fan theories, the pieces of the puzzle seem to have finally fallen into place, and it all started with a casual afternoon stroll at the Chelsea Flower Show. Cumberbatch, 45, was photographed attending the prestigious London event last month alongside his parents and an unidentified woman. While their interactions appeared low-key, fans with eagle eyes and long memories began analysing the paparazzi shots and within hours, the internet had a name. Meet Quinn Armitage, 32, a journalist based in the UK who is now believed to be the actor’s new girlfriend, and possibly the reason behind his divorce.  If the name sounds familiar, it should. Armitage writes for Draft Magazine, and is the very same writer who penned the exclusive interview of Cumberbatch just weeks after he ended his marriage. The feature painted the actor in a surprisingly intimate and sympathetic light - a man who wished nothing but the best for his ex wife.  At the time, the piece was praised as “nuanced” and “deeply personal.” While Cumberbatch was deemed “honest” and “down to earth”. Now, many are wondering if it was all just strategically timed PR. The Timeline That’s Raising Eyebrows Fans were quick to point out the suspicious alignment of events. Within days of the divorce announcement, speculation arose as to whether infidelity could have played a part in Cumberbatch and Dennehy’s decision to part ways. Armitage was quick to dispel these theories in her Draft Magazine feature, which was published the following month. Before the feature’s publication, sources claimed to have seen an “unidentified woman” leaving the actor’s London home in the early morning. Cumberbatch was later spotted wearing a bracelet with partially visible engraved letters.  The letters? “QUI”.  Was Cumberbatch really sporting a bracelet engraved with Armitage’s name just weeks after announcing his divorce? Before the Draft feature was even published?  The recent Flower Show outing has thrown everything into sharp focus. Matching the woman in the photos to Armitage’s publicly available social media profiles, internet sleuths were able to rapidly piece the story together. Now, with a positive identification of Benedict Cumberbatch’s “mystery woman”, the question on everyone’s lips is no longer if something is going on, but when it started. Was This the Woman Behind the Split? The timing is undeniably murky. Though neither Cumberbatch nor Armitage have publicly commented on the nature of their relationship, critics are asking whether the journalist’s involvement with the actor began before his marriage ended. And if so, was her Draft feature part of a carefully constructed narrative to soften public perception and preempt the fallout? Fans React As the story has actively unfolded within the past few hours, social media has understandably erupted with collective disappointment and outrage, accusing Armitage of unprofessionalism and “weaponised journalism”, while questioning if the freshly divorced A-lister really enlisted the help of his writer mistress to rehabilitate his image.  We have not yet been able to reach Mr Cumberbatch’s team for comment, nor Miss Armitage or anyone at Draft Magazine. But in the age of screenshots, side-by-sides and bulletproof timelines, it may not matter. The internet has made up its mind.

Your heart was pounding so heavily that you could no longer hear the movie, just a loud rushing of blood in your ears. There was a thick, sludgy pit forming in your stomach, your limbs so heavy you could barely move them. Even with the AC in the theatre, your skin felt warm and clammy, your cheeks burning so hot you were sure they’d turned crimson. 

You closed the article and backed out of your DM’s without replying to Nick, plummeting headfirst into an onslaught of fresh, venomous comments. Someone had tagged Faye under your photo, and you couldn’t help but click on her account, opening her story to see a plain black screen, four simple words written in white:

The truth will out.

That fucking bitch, you thought, your eyes welling with pure rage.

You stood up shakily, feeling Ben reach over and tap you, looking up at you curiously. 

“Bathroom,” you whispered, before walking as quietly and quickly as you could down the dark aisle and out of the theatre.

You rushed through the doors into the brightly lit hallway, barely making it a few more steps before you felt your legs give way beneath you. You planted a hand on the wall to hold yourself up, your chest heaving, throat tight, skin tingling as you sucked in deep, shaking breaths.

You couldn’t help but look at your phone again, this time opening Twitter. 

So let me get this straight… Benedict Cumberbatch met Quinn Armitage while he was married, she writes a soft-focus puff piece about him, and now they’re holding hands at the Chelsea Flower Show? Girl… your PR arc is showing. 💀 Soooo… the mystery woman leaving his house at 6am was the journalist? LMAO this man really said “I’ll do my own PR and get laid in the process.” Gotta respect it  Yet another male celebrity in his mid-40’s ditching his perfectly lovely, smart, successful, AGE APPROPRIATE wife for a younger woman with loose morals. Why am I not at all surprised? Quinn Armitage knew exactly what she was doing. You don’t just ‘accidentally’ fall into a relationship with a married man and then write a gushing magazine piece about him while getting your name on a high profile byline. That’s not love, it’s strategy.

You locked your phone and shoved it into your bag. If you couldn’t see it, then none of this was actually happening. It wasn’t happening. It wasn’t happening. 

You considered asking someone to go and get Ben, to have him call the driver to take you back to the apartment. You also considered simply walking out and disappearing into the night; changing your name and starting a new life. But you did neither. Instead, you took a deep breath, swallowed down the nausea and walked back into the theatre.

The lights came up to a wave of applause, rolling through the theatre like a tide until it was deafening. You stood slowly along with everyone else, clapping along with them, your hands moving independently from the rest of your body. There were whistles and cheers, people shouting their praise over the noise.

Ben turned to look at you with a proud smile.

You smiled back weakly.

He looked at you for a moment longer, his eyes flickering over your face like he was trying to read your expression, but then the host approached, gesturing for Ben to step back up to the front of the theatre. 

“Thank you so much,” he said into the microphone. “I’m so grateful to you all for coming. Thank you.” 

He didn’t say anything else, too overwhelmed by the response of the room to think of something to say. Instead he gave one last wave to the crowd before making his way back over to his seat beside you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, following him as the woman with the headset led you out through a side exit and back into the small greenroom. You trailed behind him the whole time, your arms stiff at your sides, the throb of a headache taking root in your temples. 

Ben was talking as you walked, something about the film, or maybe it was about the audience. You weren’t paying attention, but still you offered a small, polite smile when he turned to look at you.

“So what did you think then?” he asked as you stepped out of the building into the cool night air. 

“It was great,” you replied softly. 

“Quinn.” He stopped walking for a moment, making you halt too.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just… I’m tired. Is the car here?”

He gave you a sceptical look, but eventually nodded, placing a hand on your lower back as he guided you towards the car waiting nearby. 

The driver opened the door and you slipped into the backseat, sinking into the soft leather with a heavy exhale. Ben climbed in beside you and reached for your hand.

“You sure everything’s alright?” he asked gently, squeezing your fingers.

You gave another weak nod before turning away to look out the window.

Your whole body felt tense, like you’d been filled to the brim with concrete. The comments echoed in your mind, one after the other in a poisonous string, wrapping around your throat like a noose. You could still see them when you blinked. Whore. Homewrecker. Liar.

They knew your name, your face, where you worked, where you lived. Your stomach began to gurgle.

“Hey,” Ben said softly, allowing a slight laugh. “If you didn’t like the film, you don’t have to pretend you-”

“I enjoyed the film, Ben,” you interrupted. 

He stared at you for a moment before exhaling a gentle sigh. “Something’s wrong.” 

“Ben,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose between finger and thumb. “I just want to get back to the apartment.” 

He conceded, settling back into his seat as the car continued through the heavy traffic. 

You kept your eyes on the window, though you weren’t actually taking in the view; your mind was reeling, head pounding, anxiety wedged in a knot at the base of your chest. The car finally emerged onto a clear stretch of road, speeding up to make it through a set of traffic lights. But the motion made your stomach turn, your lips tingling as you began to panic.

“Stop the car,” you said abruptly.

Ben turned to you in confusion. “What?”

“Tell him to stop the car. Now.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“I’m going to be sick,” you snapped, already reaching for the door handle.

“Stop the car!” Ben shouted to the driver. 

The car screeched to a halt and pulled over near the sidewalk. You shoved the door open before it had even fully stopped and leaned out, gripping the handle as you vomited onto the busy street. The sound was humiliating; the heaving, the spluttering, the bile hitting the concrete with a crude splash. Ben placed a hand gently on your back, but you shook it off quickly, settling back into the car and pulling the door closed. 

“I’m fine,” you said breathlessly, wiping your mouth and nose with the back of your hand. 

“Quinn-”

“I’m fine, can we just… Go, please.” You let your head fall back, breathing deeply as your body fluctuated between cold shivers and rushes of heat. 

He stared at you for a moment, jaw sharp, brow heavy with concern. But he finally gave in, quietly instructing the driver to keep moving. 

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Your mouth tasted like vomit, your eyes teary, nose running. Your fingers trembled as you clung to your bag, every buzz of your phone like a cruel taunt. 

You felt guilty for pushing Ben away, for tainting the evening with a bad attitude and cold disposition. If you were a better actor, you could have preserved the moment for him; gave a pretty smile and held his hand in the car, told him how much you liked the film. But you could barely stand to look at him, the shame and guilt and devastation eating away at you with every concerned glance and worried tilt of his head. 

You walked together from the car into the building, waiting in silence until the lift doors opened. You stepped inside and immediately leaned against the mirrored wall, resting your head back and closing your eyes as he pressed the button for your floor. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly. 

You nodded, mustering a barely audible hum as you wrapped your arms around your stomach. 

“Quinn, you’re-” He let out a confused breath before continuing quietly. “Are you- You’re not… It’s not possible you’re… Pregnant, is it?”  

You opened your eyes and brought your head forward, looking right at him with a dumbfounded expression. “No, Ben. Funnily enough, women can be sick for reasons other than pregnancy...” 

He sighed and rolled his eyes, seemingly annoyed by his own tactlessness. “Fair enough, you’re right, sorry.”

The lift doors opened and you stepped out, making your way down the hall towards the apartment. 

“Well you need to tell me what the matter is,” he said, and you could tell he was losing his patience. 

“Ben-”

“No. Something’s obviously wrong-”

You huffed, opening your mouth to speak, but he cut you off.

“You wouldn’t talk to me after the screening, you still aren’t talking to me, you threw up in the fucking car, Quinn, out of nowhere-”

“Can we just get inside? Please?” 

He was standing between you and the front door, staring down at you, forcing you to look at him. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” 

“Inside,” you said simply, your voice so quiet it was barely a whisper. 

He remained there for a moment, his eyes darting across your face, noticing the glimmer in your waterline, the curve of your brows. Then he finally yielded, scanning the key card and opening the door to let you walk in first. 

You took a few steps inside, stopping briefly to savour the dark, quiet space; the calm, the stillness, the seclusion. You drew in a long, deep breath through your nose, letting it out through pursed lips as Ben flicked on a light and closed the door. 

“Talk to me, Quinn.” 

You turned to look at him, taking a long pause before speaking reluctantly. “Is your phone still switched off?” 

“Yeah.” He patted the pockets of his trousers, then his chest, before pulling his phone from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “Yeah, I didn’t think to turn it back on because we left so… Why?” 

“You should probably turn it on.” 

His brows twitched, coming together with a quick, confused scrunch. But he didn’t press you, didn’t doubt you or demand an explanation. Instead, he held down the side button, staring down at the screen as he waited impatiently for it to light up. 

You didn’t hang around to see his reaction, turning immediately and making your way into the bedroom without a word. You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, dropping your head into your hands with a pained groan. Then the tears finally came, spilling into your palms as you gasped to catch your breath. 

You were hunched over, elbows digging into your thighs as you cradled your face to catch each quiet sob. Your body shuddered with shallow, panicked breaths, your throat burning as you tried desperately to stay quiet. But it only seemed to make it worse, your chest heaving with every sharp, stuttered intake of breath, eyes burning as your mascara began to bleed with your tears.

A sudden, loud crash echoed through the apartment, making you jump in fright, your back straightening as your head snapped towards the door. You stayed frozen in place, wide-eyed as you heard Ben let out a deafening, full-throated yell. 

You stood up and hurried out of the room, your gaze immediately falling to the remains of a large decorative vase, now scattered across the floor in broken, jagged pieces. You stared down at it in shock, then over to Ben as he stood on the other side of the room, hands on hips, chest rising and falling with hot, heavy breaths. His jaw was clenched, nostrils flaring, eyes wild with fury as they finally found yours. 

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Instead he just stood there staring at you, wounded, furious, helpless, all at once. Then he finally spoke, his voice hoarse and deep with anger. 

“They’re tearing you apart.” 

You nodded. “I know.” 

“Saying we had an affair, that we planned to…” He paced back and forth quickly, like he was struggling to control his rage, before speaking quietly, like it pained him to say the words out loud. “They called you a whore…”

“Yeah,” you whispered, holding back the urge to cry.  

“Fuck!” he screamed, grabbing the lamp off a nearby table and launching it across the room. 

Your whole body tensed as it collided with the solid brick wall. You’d never seen him like this; not when you fought, or when you purposely did things to piss him off, not even when he caught you snooping through his house on the night you first met. It was like he wasn’t there anymore, like something hot and primal had burrowed beneath his skin. 

His fists were balled at his sides, his face red, eyes dark as he turned in a tight circle, like he was searching for something else to break, another outlet for his rage. “It’s all so fucking warped! Gold-digger, homewrecker, like you fucking hunted me down and stole me from some perfect fucking marriage!” 

You wrapped your arms around your stomach, as though shielding yourself from it all. 

“Mysterious woman,” he laughed, almost maniacally. “How the fuck do they get away with writing this shit!? Sending an angry mob after someone with no fucking proof! And of course I’m just an idiot man thinking with his dick, but you… Of course you’re this master manipulator fucking slut with no morals.”

He raked a hand through his hair, gripping it at the root as his voice continued to bellow through the apartment. You stood frozen as you watched him grab his phone off the arm of the couch, sending it flying through the air towards the wall, just like the lamp. 

“I’m sorry,” you said weakly, blinking away a tear that dripped onto your cheek. 

He stopped suddenly, the air seeming to still as his gaze settled on you. “What?” 

You gave a slight shrug, unsure of what else to say. And within seconds, the anger behind his eyes crumbled into something else entirely.

“Oh my god,” he breathed as he took a step back, almost like he was ashamed of himself. “I’m terrifying you.”

“No-” you began with a sigh. But your voice was soft and unconvincing, trailing off as he interrupted.

“I am. I’m throwing shit about and screaming like a lunatic and you’re standing there feeling like you need to apologise.”

He looked at you again, then down to your bare feet and the shards of broken vase scattered across the floor. 

“Jesus Christ,” he said, rushing over and using his foot to kick the mess away, clearing a path for you to step towards him. “I’m sorry, you know this isn’t- I would never- I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just so…” His breath caught in his throat. 

You nodded. “I know.” 

“This isn’t your fault, Quinn. The things that are being said, you know that’s not…” 

You were so numb, unable to absorb anything he was saying. Even as your eyes met his, it was like you were staring straight through him. He brought a hand up to your cheek, and you didn’t realise you’d flinched until his expression changed, a look of anguish washing over him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. 

“You didn’t write those things…” 

“No, for this. For losing my temper, for frightening you.”

You paused for a moment before bringing your hand up and placing it over his, resting your cheek in his palm like a silent acceptance. 

He swallowed hard. “It’s going to be okay. I promise, we’re going to fix this.” 

But there was a crack in his voice, a flicker of uncertainty that you’d never heard before.

You woke to the sound of shuffling across the room, the clunk of a drawer and the faint hiss of a zipper. You stirred beneath the linen sheets, feeling the delicious ache in your limbs from the night before, an empty space beside you where Ben should have been. You lifted your head, squinting in the morning light to find him dressing quietly. 

He glanced over at you, his voice still rough from sleep as it rumbled across the bedroom. “Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You stretched lazily, the sheets slipping down your body. “Where are you going?” 

“Press junket day,” he replied, sitting down to put his shoes on. 

“Mm, a whole day being asked the same five questions over and over again. Sounds fun.” 

He chuckled under his breath. “You said it, not me.” 

You sat up further on your elbows, making no effort to cover your bare chest, your hair like a messy halo around your head. “What time will you be back?” 

“I’m not sure, probably this evening.” He stood up, adjusting the waistband of his trousers as he spoke. “I’m going to try and get back as early as I can but these things always end up running late.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I have a wonderful day planned.”

“You do?” 

“Mhm.” You inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and sank back down into the pillows with a smile. “I’m going to write on the balcony, eat something nice, maybe have a nap, go for a swim...” 

He smirked as he made his way over to you. “You know it quite suits you, being a lady of leisure.”

“I’m making the most of it before I have to go back to real life.” 

“This is real life,” he said softly, resting a knee on the bed and leaning over to kiss you. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

You returned his kiss, your faces lingering closely for just a moment before he retreated, grabbing his phone and wristwatch off the bedside table and disappearing out of the room. 

The morning unfolded slowly, warmly. You lazed in bed for a while after Ben left, scrolling on your phone as the air-con system quietly hummed throughout the house. It had become a comfort; the calming white noise taking the edge off the silence, a gentle indoor breeze greeting you at the beginning of each day. 

When you finally got up, you took your time in the bathroom; showering and brushing your teeth, putting on skincare, SPF, perfume - just because. You dressed in a loose t-shirt and cotton shorts, humming to yourself as you wandered barefoot through the house, lazily making your way down to the kitchen.

Someone had been there, you could tell because the dishes were done, the counters cleared and the fridge restocked with fresh produce and prepped meals. You may have been a few days into your stay, but you still found it unsettling; the idea of a housekeeper or someone from Ben’s team letting themselves in, going about their duties and leaving again without ever crossing your path.

A light breeze danced through an open window, with scents of dry earth, tuberose and jasmine rolling in from the hills, and on the counter, a large glass cafetiere added the rich, familiar fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. You wished you could bottle it; the smells, the sounds, the way the floor felt beneath your bare feet. It was all so idyllic, a peacefulness you weren’t sure you would ever feel again. 

You poured a coffee over ice, grabbed a prepackaged fruit salad from the fridge and returned upstairs, settling onto the sun-drenched balcony where you’d spent the majority of your days. The cushions of the outdoor sofa seemed to mould around you, like they remembered your shape. You sank into them with a happy sigh, laptop perched on your thighs as you took in the view for a moment before lifting the screen and beginning to write. 

You finished editing your op-ed, letting out an excited little squeak as you finally sent it off. You’d been proud of the feature you wrote on Ben; the way you crafted the piece, swayed opinion with subtle descriptors and carefully placed metaphor, how you wove his words with yours so seamlessly that they flowed like the ink they’d been printed with. But this was another beast entirely. This was yours - your thoughts, your feelings, your opinions - this was a piece of you, and it was going to be out there, in the glossy pages of one of the biggest magazines in the world. 

You stretched your arms above your head, letting the anxious energy evaporate from your fingertips. Then you reached for your phone, opening the camera to take a few photos; some of the view, some of yourself, smiling and sunkissed, blissfully happy. You clicked on Instagram, already thinking of a witty caption when you remembered you were supposed to be in mourning, and a grinning selfie wouldn’t exactly sell the ‘dying grandmother’ story. 

Then you saw it. The ring on Lacey’s hand, Nick’s relieved smile, her teary eyes. ‘Obviously, yes,’ the caption beneath the picture read. And your mouth immediately fell open with joy. You swiped your thumb through the carousel of photos, each one as adorable and exciting as the last. They were in the middle of a plush, green meadow, surrounded by long grass and wildflowers, a backpack still on Lacey’s shoulders from their hike. You zoomed in on the ring and couldn’t help but feel proud that he’d taken your advice; a pale green stone set in delicate yellow gold with filigree detail. It was perfect. 

About time! you wrote, laughing when Lacey almost immediately liked your comment.

For the next few hours, you seemed to float around the house; exploring the open grounds and sunlit rooms, grazing on snacks from the kitchen and humming to yourself as you went. You tried playing the piano that stood in the entrance hall, tinkering a tune from lessons you took as a child and wishing you’d never given up. By the time you found your way back to the balcony, the late afternoon sun had slanted across the hills, glittering over the surface of the pool and turning everything a warm, golden hue.

Maybe it was the house, the heat, the solitude. Maybe it was Nick and Lacey’s engagement, or the feeling of everything being so perfect with Ben. Whatever it was, you found yourself returning to your laptop, opening an empty document and beginning to write something new. 

There’s something strange about falling in love when you’re old enough to know better. Embarrassing, even. Like showing up to a party three hours late, tipsy, holding a bottle no one asked you to bring. You look around and realise everyone else already knows the cues, the rules and the norms. They know when to lean in, when to pull away, how to talk with just their eyes, and leave on time for the next big event. They’re not hiding around corners to avoid conversation, dragging someone they just met upstairs because sex is easier than talking. They’re not letting someone feel them up for a better seat at a nicer table, or pushing people away for being ‘too nice’. That’s when it finally hits you, that you should be like them by now. You should be weathered and slick and unimpressed. But somehow, you’re brand new.

I used to think of love as a scam. Like some multi-level-marketing-scheme that we only joined once we’d fallen for the false promises of someone higher up the pyramid. Love was for the idealistic, for the smooth-skinned, the unsullied, for the people who didn’t yet know it came with a possibility of failure. Then once they’d done it, once they’d been maimed and scarred and lost the investments they were promised a return on, they would just go back again. Because now they had nothing to lose. 

There was never a reason for me to think that way, to doubt or be skeptical of love like I was. But for some reason, in those smooth-skinned, unsullied years, I rejected it completely. 

Now here I am, late to the party. Embarrassed. Tipsy. Stumbling around clueless while he patiently holds my hand. He’s been here before, he knows the cues and the rules and the norms. And I find myself glad, somehow, that I didn’t turn up on time. Because he might not have been here then.

You’d been typing for so long that your wrists were beginning to ache, your eyes itchy from staring at the laptop screen. You closed it gently, blinking a few times as you gazed out upon a darker landscape, the sun settling below the horizon as the sky clung to the last drops of light. 

You stood up to stretch, rolling your shoulders and curving your back with a soft groan. The pool was still glittering in the dim evening light, the water so still besides the occasional ripple of a breeze across its surface. It was irresistible, the mere sight of it making your skin feel warmer, your clothes less comfortable as they clung to you with sweat. 

You changed into a bikini and made your way downstairs, sliding open the door of the sun room that led to the patio. You walked across the grass and sat on the edge of the pool, lowering yourself into the water with quick, shallow breaths. It was cold, instantly washing away the last of the day’s heat and replacing it with shivers, your teeth chattering as you submerged yourself slowly.

But it didn’t take long for you to get used to it, your muscles eventually relaxing beneath the soothing, cool water. You swam lazy laps back and forth, listening to the sounds of wildlife beyond the property’s edge, crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the breeze. 

The sky had turned a deep, bruised blue, peppered with stars and a huge full moon. You were floating on your back, staring up at it in awe, when the faint sound of tyres crunching on gravel caught your attention. 

You swam to the edge of the pool, listening to the distant rumble of a car engine, followed shortly by silence once again. You rested your chin on folded arms, waiting, wondering if it was him, or yet another invisible employee stopping by to water the plants or fold the laundry.

After a minute or two, you saw a light turn on in the kitchen, Ben’s silhouette passing by the window. You smiled and lifted yourself from the pool, wrapping yourself in a towel and hurrying across the grass. You slid the patio door closed behind you, jumping in fright when you turned to find him standing in the doorway on the other side of the room.

“Fucking hell,” you said breathlessly. 

“Sorry, I was shouting for you, I didn’t realise you were outside.” 

You tilted your head slightly as you looked at him. He seemed worn out, tired, highly strung, raking his hand through his hair every few seconds like he didn’t know what else to do with it. 

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, long day,” he said with a sigh before eyeing you up and down. “Were you swimming?” 

“Mhm.”

“Wasn’t it freezing?”

“It was,” you began, walking across the room to meet him. “But it was okay once I got used to it.”

He gave a hum as you came together, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist. “I’m sorry I missed it. Would’ve been nice to have a moonlit swim together.” 

“We could go back out, if you want to?” you replied with a teasing smile. 

He exhaled a soft laugh through his nose, looking down at you like you already knew the answer.

“Are you tired?” you asked, draping your arms around his shoulders.

“Not tired, just… Drained. The room they put me in was so hot, and all the lighting and equipment just made it even worse. My throat hurts from talking so much, I don’t even know if I was making sense in those last few interviews.” He tightened his grip on you. “And the whole time, I was just thinking about how I had you here waiting for me. It was torture.”

You rose onto your toes to kiss him, your lips pressing softly against his. He sighed into it, shoulders relaxing beneath your touch.

“Poor baby,” you muttered, stroking your fingers lightly up the back of his neck into his hair. “I could cheer you up.” 

He raised a brow, ever so slightly, but his eyes remained tired. “Could you?”

“Mhm…” You kissed him again, deeper this time, running your palms down from his shoulders to his chest. “Sit down.”  

He let you guide him towards the couch, his gaze never leaving you as he dropped down onto it. You stood for a moment between his parted thighs, smiling as you watched him close his eyes and let his head fall back, his breathing coming easier now you were here with him. 

You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then down the side of his neck. He smelled earthy and masculine, like warm skin, salt and musk. It was a scent you were sure you could pick out in a crowd; so uniquely him, and completely intoxicating. His hands found your hips, thumbs brushing against your waist as his fingers splayed over the damp material of your towel.

“Just relax,” you whispered, gently pulling away from him.

He watched you from beneath a heavy brow, his gaze steady yet curious. You stepped back slightly, letting your towel fall to the floor with a smile and a joking wiggle of your hips. He exhaled a quick, silent laugh, though it only took a moment for his expression to darken again, his throat bobbing, eyes wandering over your bikini-clad body as his fingers flexed at his sides. He wanted to touch you, and you loved that he was holding back the urge.

You lowered yourself to your knees between his legs, your hands trailing up the inside of his thighs, feeling him tense beneath your touch as you parted them wider. 

“Quinn…” he murmured, his voice so soft it almost sounded like a plea.

You shushed him and leaned forward, snaking your hand further up until you were at his crotch, pressing your palm against the hardening bulge beneath his trousers. “This is what I’m here for,” you whispered with a subtle smirk. 

He lost his composure for a split second, his eyes rolling, a sigh escaping him as he slid a hand into your hair. But he kept his touch gentle, tucking the wet strands behind your ear with his fingers. 

You unzipped him, dragging his trousers and underwear down just enough to release him from their confines. Another deep exhale left him as his erection sprung free, standing firm and ready against his stomach. You moved slowly, unable to resist teasing him first. Your eyes stayed on him, watching his jaw clench, pulsating in tandem with every brush of your fingers. 

And just as he was about to speak, maybe even beg, you gripped the base of his cock and dragged your tongue from root to tip. His grasp of your hair tightened in response, his other hand clutching the material of the couch at his side. You parted your lips and slid him into your mouth, revelling in the deep, throaty sound he made, how his head fell back again.

You moved in a steady rhythm, teasing with your tongue and taking as much of him into your mouth as you could. By now, you knew exactly how he liked it; how fast, how deep, where to put your hands, the perfect moments to look up at him through your lashes. It didn’t take long for his breathing to grow heavier, for his hands to begin guiding your head, your name falling in soft murmurs from his lips. 

He was getting close, you could feel it in the way his body tensed beneath you, how quiet he suddenly became. But instead of giving in to it, he made you stop, tightening his fists in your hair and pulling you away. 

“Up,” he whispered, his voice rough and commanding. “Come here.” 

You rose to your feet almost immediately, letting him guide you onto his lap with your knees bracketing his thighs. He swept his thumb along your bottom lip, gazing at your mouth in admiration, while his other hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you in place with your face close to his. 

He rolled his hips beneath you, like a silent demand, and you reached down immediately to move your bikini bottoms aside. You guided the head of his cock along the seam of your pussy as his hands found your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin to ease you down onto him. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he filled you, and you instinctively began to rock against him in search of rhythm.

But his grip on you tightened immediately. “Slow,” he whispered against your lips, his voice deep yet tender. “Slow.”

You let out a heavy breath, following his lead and settling into a slow, sensual grind. His hands continued to guide your hips, maintaining your pace, as his lips found your neck, trailing hot, hungry kisses across your skin.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “Just like that.” 

You closed your eyes, gasping as the friction of each slow, deliberate giration sent waves of pleasure rippling through you. While the sound of his gentle praise brought them crashing down deep in your belly. You whimpered, pressing your forehead against his, your movements growing needier, but his hands held you steady.

“No rushing,” he whispered. “I want to feel you.”

You did exactly as he asked, fighting against the urge to seek out pleasure and instead letting it find you, allowing it to wash over you with every deep stroke and dark utterance of his voice. Your fingers curled into the back of his hair, gripping him tighter with every slow, measured rock of your hips, the couch creaking slightly beneath the weight of your bodies.

He shifted slightly, the new angle allowing him to sink deeper inside you, hitting the spots that made your laboured breaths catch on quiet, desperate moans. You kept moving, your hips rolling like liquid as he kept his hold on you, maintaining your pace, encouraging you to take it slow. 

“Look at me,” he murmured, his voice rough and serrated as he brought a hand up to your jaw, encouraging you to lift your head.  

Everything seemed to disappear beyond the point your eyes met, like the whole world existed solely inside his dark, heavy-lidded gaze. You moaned softly as you leaned into the push and pull of his hands, the smooth, deep slide, relinquishing yourself to him completely, never daring to look away. 

His chest was heaving, throat rumbling with groans so low they were leaving him in quiet growls. You brought your lips to his, letting the sounds pour into your mouth as he kissed you slowly, deeply, his tongue sweeping over yours in time with the rhythm and roll of your hips. The feeling of him inside you was sublime; fullness and friction, pressure and electricity. Sparks were kindling deep in your belly, while familiar surges of tingling heat coursed through your body. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, as though he could feel it all too. 

You whimpered in response, your body moving entirely on instinct, chasing your orgasm as it began to swell in your core. But still, he refused to speed up, his hands remaining firm as they guided you, angling you just right until a bolt of pleasure drew a heavy, unexpected moan from your throat.

“That’s it,” he whispered.

Your climax unfurled slowly, like a deep, powerful rumble of thunder. It made you stop breathing, every muscle in your body contracting at once, pulling inwards to the place where the lightning had struck. You dug your fingers into the backs of his shoulders, eyes closed, hips slowing to a stop as your limbs began to shake.  

A silky groan poured out of him as your whole weight settled into his lap, taking him as deep as your body would allow, squeezing and gripping him with each new surge of pleasure. He held you there as he came; head falling back, teeth clenched, fingernails leaving grooves in your flesh. You forced yourself to look at him, taking his face in your hands and leaning forward to kiss him between hot, gasping breaths. 

“I love you,” you whispered into his open mouth, immediately feeling his lips curl into a smile. 

“You better,” he muttered softly.

You giggled, before melting into a calmer, gentler kiss. “I can’t feel my legs.” 

“Eh, you don’t need them.” 

You were sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, still in your bikini, a plush throw from the sunroom couch draped around your shoulders. The lighting was warm and ambient, the room glowing gently as the windows framed a pitch black sky. 

Ben was rummaging through the fridge, the tension he’d arrived home with now gone, replaced with loose posture and relaxed shoulders, a natural smile as he told you about his day. The funny interactions and questions he actually enjoyed answering, the times he was told off for swearing too much and the person who got so nervous they wasted their entire five minutes awkwardly shuffling through cue cards.

“There was one guy,” he said, half-laughing as he emerged from the fridge with a container of strawberries. “Who did a quiz. And he was asking the whole cast the same questions to see who got the most right.”

You smirked. “So naturally you just had to win.”

“Of course.” 

You laughed, watching as he took a bite of a strawberry, chewing on it as he continued to speak. 

“Every answer had to include the word strange,” he mumbled. “Y’know, because Doctor Strange.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Some of them, I don’t know how he was expecting anyone to know the answer. One was something like… ‘name the 1960-something controversial sci-fi novel by Robert… Something or other…” 

“Heinlein? Stranger in Strange Land?” 

His eyes darted across the island towards you, another strawberry halfway into his mouth. “Oh, alright, fucking Einstein.” 

You laughed, unable to disguise your smugness. “Don’t tell me you’re threatened by a clever woman?” 

The corner of his mouth curled in amusement. “Not at all. You just don’t strike me as the type to enjoy 1960’s science fiction.” 

“I’m not. They said it was banned back when it came out for being full of sex and orgies, so obviously I had to read it. Turns out it’s just boring and really fucking misogynistic.” 

He exhaled a laugh. “There was a play I studied in uni… God, what was it called?” He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought before grabbing his phone off the counter. “I’ll have to look it up.” 

You watched him tap and swipe across the screen, squinting as he looked down at it before letting out a huff.

“I need my glasses,” he said. “I can’t see a fucking thing.” 

You giggled, tilting your head as you looked at him. “You’re such an old man.” 

He gave a playful glare, his voice low and dramatic. “Watch it.” 

You smirked, reaching across the island to pluck a strawberry from the container and settling back on your stool to eat it.

He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his back pocket, slipping them on before resting his elbows on the counter, phone in hand. But after a moment of quiet, he turned his head towards you, eyeing you with interest. 

“Do you really think I’m old?” he asked. 

You met his gaze, assessing his tone; casual yet curious, not offended, but wondering, like the question had crossed his mind before. 

“Older than me,” you replied. 

“Does it bother you?” 

There was a seriousness to his voice now. But it was still soft, open, welcoming of whatever your answer may be.

“That you’re older than me?” you asked.

“That I’m… a lot older than you…”

“Well it’s not that much…” 

“It’s thirteen years.” 

You paused, drawing in a deep breath through your nose and shrugging slowly. “You know my parents have the same age gap… I told you that, right?”

“They do?” 

“Yes. Exactly the same. They were actually a few years older than we are now when they had me.” 

He seemed to disappear inside himself for a moment, thinking, before coming back to you with an inquisitive look. “So your dad was… an older dad, then?” 

“Mhm.”

“Did it ever bother you? You never felt like you missed out in any way?” 

You felt a flicker of understanding, like it was suddenly obvious where his apprehension lay. You’d left the door to having children ajar; a future he’d made clear he wanted but didn’t need. And if you were to ever step through that door with him, he would be in his late forties, perhaps older.

“I never felt like I missed out,” you replied earnestly. “He was just as active and present and involved as any other dad. Maybe even more so because they’d already lost pregnancies before I came along.” You shook your head. “And if they could have, I’m sure they’d have had more kids after me too.” 

He smiled. 

“He ran in the dads’ race every sports day, played dolls and make-believe with me, never moaned or groaned or said he was too tired for anything,” you said. “Worshipped the ground my mum walked on - still does - which is probably why I have such impossible standards for men.” You laughed. 

He laughed too. “Well, if I ever become a parent, I’d hope to be just like him.” 

“You will be.” 

“Will be…?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly.

“Would be,” you corrected, rolling your eyes. “Then again, with the amount of sex we’ve had over the past few days, it wouldn’t surprise me if my implant just gave out from sheer exhaustion.” 

He chuckled, his face creasing with warmth and amusement. “Well, we’re flying to New York tomorrow night so it’ll get somewhat of a break.” 

“Oh no I wasn’t complaining. I’ll take all the sex I can get, y’know, before you get too old and your dick stops working.” 

He dropped his head, letting out a shocked breath, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “Right, I’ve had enough of you now.”

You giggled as you watched him push off the counter, turning on his heels to leave. 

“Where are you going?”

“It’s past my bedtime,” he replied sarcastically. 

“Do you need some help getting up the stairs?”

He turned back around with a deadpan look. “No, but keep talking and I might fake a fall just to get away from you.” 

You snorted out a laugh, reaching over the counter for another strawberry, glancing over at him as you bit into it. 

He was standing in the space where the kitchen met the hall, his arm resting above his head on the frame of the archway. “Come to bed, smartarse.” 

You smirked, hopping off your stool and wrapping the throw tighter around you like a cloak. “Yes sir.”

You took it from him with a raised brow. “Is this so you don’t get recognised?” 

“That, and germs.” He slipped on his own mask, adjusting it to sit comfortably over his nose and mouth. “Press tours are draining enough without being sick on top of it.” 

You put on your mask and slid on a pair of sunglasses - brand new, more money than you’d usually be willing to spend on something so superfluous. But you’d been pressed for time, caught up in the excitement of last minute holiday shopping.

The driver was taking your bags from the boot of the car, placing them on the ground one by one. The early morning was bright and crisp, making you shiver as you stepped out, teeth clenching with every brush of cold air across your bare arms. You’d dressed for California; soft, comfy trousers, a little white baby tee, stupidly forgetting the unpredictable British weather that would come first.  

A man was waiting near the airport entrance, his short greying hair and casual clothes making him indistinguishable from any other person around him. But Ben seemed to know him, acknowledging him with a nod and a quick wave as he grabbed your luggage and began walking towards him.

You turned to the driver and gave a quick smile; your numerous awkward moments alone in the back of his car making you feel like you somewhat knew him now. He nodded at you in response, before closing the boot with a heavy thud and making his way back to the driver’s side door. 

The man with the greying hair walked you briskly through the airport. It was emptier than you’d expected; short queues, no crowds, the sound of muted footsteps and hushed murmurs filling the vast, open space. Your suitcase rolled smoothly over the tiled floor as you dragged it behind you, while Ben was somehow managing to haul everything else on his own; his suitcase, his backpack, your large carry-on slugged over his shoulder. You’d offered to take it from him, but he simply shook his head, grabbing it before you even had the chance to protest. 

You were guided through check-in and security, following Ben’s lead as he followed his escort’s. The smell hit you first; the overwhelming blend of expensive perfumes and colognes, burnt coffee, food wafting from restaurants and cafés. It was such a familiar scent, nostalgic, exciting, no matter how long it had been since your last flight.

People were slumped in stiff chairs, some curled up like they’d been waiting forever. The cry of a baby echoed somewhere in the distance, while a muffled, metallic voice spoke over the tannoy. You continued past it all, past the people with their neck pillows and coffee cups, duffel bags tucked between their knees, past the shoppers with their duty free bags and a group of young women in matching hen party t-shirts. Yet here you were, drifting along in a surreal, peaceful current, bypassing the chaos.

Eventually, you were brought to a quiet corner of the terminal where a small welcome desk stood in front of a sleek glass door, a subtle, shiny plaque on the wall beside it that read: The Windsor Suite. There was a man standing at the desk in a shirt and gold coloured tie, a name tag across the breast of his long black tailcoat. He was wearing a bowler hat, and it took everything in you not to laugh at the absurdity of it all as you watched him reach out his leather-gloved hand and take your boarding passes from Ben.

Your escort seemed to disappear, making himself scarce without a word, or maybe you were just too focused on the man in front of you to notice.  

“The Windsor Suite?” you whispered to Ben with a raised eyebrow. 

He nodded towards the doors as the man pulled them open for you, gesturing for you to go inside.

And you did, your mouth falling open in shock as you wandered further in. The place looked like a luxury hotel penthouse; polished wooden floors and buttery leather chairs, fresh flowers in tall metallic vases. Everything was soft, neutral, warmly lit and beautifully decorated. A long, open bar extended the length of one wall, another wall filled with books and a large mounted TV. There was artwork everywhere, plush sofas and armchairs in textures of velvet, leather and chenille, a discreet butler standing near a serving cart.

You pulled down your mask as you looked around in awe. “This is… Insane.” 

Ben set down your bags, taking off his own mask to reveal a slight smile. “How else are we supposed to wait for our flight?” he asked, clearly joking. 

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “I usually just sit on the floor near a plug socket somewhere with an overpriced sandwich.”

He laughed, dropping into an armchair with a sigh. “Trust me, if I could still get away with doing that, I would.” 

“Oh, I’m not complaining.” You flopped into the armchair beside him, your body sinking into the soft cushions like a warm embrace. “Definitely not complaining.” 

He laughed again and checked his watch, before settling back into his chair and closing his eyes. 

You watched him for a moment before turning your attention to the rest of the room, eyeing the glossy sheen of the bar, the precisely placed books on the shelves and bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. There was a large, frameless window, providing an uninterrupted view of the runway outside, a private jet waiting on the tarmac, baggage handlers lugging suitcases onto the conveyor of a commercial plane. 

If you weren’t so tired, you were certain you’d be exploring; walking the entire length of the suite and back, touching every surface, peering into cabinets and smelling the flowers. It was probably a good job you were exhausted, saving Ben the embarrassment of his ‘commoner’ girlfriend acting like she’d never seen a coffee table before.

“Would either of you like a glass of champagne?” the butler asked in a soft, posh voice.

You hadn’t even heard him approach you, startling slightly when you saw him standing at your side.

“It’s half past six in the morning,” you said with a quiet laugh, before pausing for a brief moment. “Yeah, okay. Can you put a bit of Chambord in it as well?” 

He subdued his amusement, but the smile still managed to reach his eyes. He nodded and turned his attention to Ben. 

“No I’m alright, thank you. But could I possibly get some water?” 

“Of course, sir,” he replied, before quickly walking away. 

You leaned in towards Ben, speaking quietly. “You’re making me look bad.” 

“You said yourself it’s only half six,” he chuckled.

“Mm, well, I’d feel like we wasted this place if I didn’t at least do one extravagant thing. How much is this even costing you- actually, no, don’t tell me.” 

He laughed again, a deep, tired laugh in the base of his throat. 

The butler handed you a tall, thin champagne flute, the rosy liquid fizzing gently, tickling your nose as you brought it to your lips. It was sweet, slightly bitter, scratchy as it slid down your throat and cold as it hit your empty stomach. But it was undeniably satisfying, making your cheeks flush and your muscles relax as you curled your feet underneath yourself and settled back further.

You talked quietly for a while, the conversation drifting aimlessly from work schedules to bucket lists, stories, jokes, favourite things. The sun was getting brighter as the morning progressed, but the lighting inside the suite stayed soft and ambient, keeping you suspended in your relaxed, comfortable bubble. 

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you took it out to see a message from your mother.

Did you get to the airport ok? How long til your flight? x

“Everything okay?” Ben asked.

“Yeah,” you laughed. “Just my mum worrying about me as always.” 

You leaned towards him, holding your phone up to take a selfie together. He tilted his head towards you, pulling a stupid face at the camera. 

“I’m sending this to my mum,” you said. 

“Oh.” He quickly adjusted his expression, smiling warmly and waiting for you to snap the photo. 

But before you could, your phone began to ring, an unknown number popping up on the screen. You looked at it with confusion for a moment before finally answering it with a dubious ‘hello?’ 

“May I speak with Quinn Armitage?” said a smooth, intimidating voice.

You knew immediately who it was, sitting up straighter in your seat and clearing your throat. “Yes, this is- speaking…” 

“Quinn, hello, this is Ellen Ford.” 

Ben was watching you with curious eyes, analysing your face. 

“Hi, Ms Ford, how are you?” you replied, locking eyes with him and watching his brows raise in surprise. 

“I understand you’re taking some personal leave so I wanted to catch you first,” she began, her voice calm, unbothered, a complete juxtaposition to your shaking hands and swirling stomach. “A piece came across my desk recently that I understand you wrote; ‘Still, They Watch’...?”

It felt surreal to hear the title of something you’d written come from her. “Y-yes that’s mine, I… i brought it to Julia a while back but she-”

“It’s very good,” she interrupted simply, as though she hadn’t even registered that you were speaking.

“Thank you.” 

“With some minor edits, I’d like to run it in the next issue.” 

Your hand instinctively lunged for Ben’s thigh, fingers gripping him like a vice. 

“However, with you being out of office for the foreseeable-”

“No, I’m,” you interjected, too excited to care about cutting her off. “I am out of office but I’m still working. If you send it, I can make the changes and get it right back to you.” 

“Excellent. I’d like to talk more with you about the piece when you get back.”

“I- Yes, definitely. Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how-”

She’d already hung up. You looked down at your phone in stunned silence, the camera reflecting your awestruck face back at you. 

“What was that about?” asked Ben. 

“My op-ed. She wants to publish my op-ed.” 

He breathed out a single, quick laugh, smiling as he reached over and placed a hand on the back of your head, shaking you with restrained excitement. “That’s amazing!”

“I don’t even know how she got hold of it-” You paused, before looking up at him suspiciously. “Did you have something to do with this?” 

“What? No! I swear to god, no.”

You narrowed your eyes at him before quickly realising he was telling the truth, your mouth swiftly curling into a smile. “I wish I could see the look on Julia’s face when she finds out.”

“Maybe she’s the one who showed it to her?” 

“Definitely not. Maybe Nick snuck it into her office. I need to text him.”

“Text your mum first.” 

“Oh, yeah.” You lifted the phone, leaning into him and finally snapping the photo.   

You couldn’t stop giggling. Not as you were driven across the tarmac, or as you climbed the steps to the plane, not even when you finally got onboard. The whole thing just seemed so ridiculous to you; the special treatment and constant fast tracking, the flight attendants calling you ‘madam’ as they led you to your seat.

You’d stared out of the window during takeoff like a wonderstruck child, the reality of what you were doing finally starting to sink in - you were on a plane, tucked cosily inside your own personal business class cubicle as you soared towards the atlantic, your famous boyfriend sat directly behind you. Was this your life now? Would there come a day when trips like this no longer felt special? When boarding a plane and sitting in business class felt as mundane as catching the tube?

You’d been in the air for almost eight hours, and you were growing restless. You’d tried to sleep, took out your laptop and tried to write, you’d flicked through films on the TV, even resorted to playing word games on your phone.

You huffed and stood up, kneeling on your seat and resting your arms on top of the partition separating your cubicle from Ben’s. 

He glanced up at you before taking off his headphones. “Hi,” he greeted with a smile.

“Hi. What’re you watching?” 

“Hm? Oh, nothing, I’m listening to music.” He looked up at you for a moment. “Are you bored?” 

“Mhm.” You looked around the quiet cabin, then over to the toilets, then back to him, lowering your voice to a whisper. “Do you want to go and join the mile high club?” 

“Quinn,” he said, his voice low and steady, like a warning. 

“I’m only joking. I’m too loud to ever get away with that.”

“I know.” 

You rested your chin on your arms as you looked down at him, smirking slightly. “Well if you won’t meet me in the toilets, will you at least play scrabble with me for a bit?”

He rolled his eyes, giving in to a smile and reaching for his phone. “Fine, but you can’t get pissed off with me like you did last time.”

“No promises,” you replied, turning around and sinking back down into your seat.

It was noon when you landed in LA, but your bodyclock was still stuck on London time. The evening would be closing in there now, the temperature dropping, sun beginning to sink towards the horizon. Yet here, it was bright and busy, with air conditioning blasting from the ceilings and deafeningly loud crowds at every turn. You were exhausted as you followed another escort through the airport, your eyelids gritty, limbs heavy, wondering why your mind hadn’t let you sleep on the plane when your body so desperately needed it. 

Ben took you by the hand as you walked, while his other hand pushed a large luggage trolley. “You okay?” he asked, his voice muffled by the mask covering his mouth. 

You nodded, giving him a slight squeeze. 

It was strange how different everything felt already, like the atmosphere itself was unfamiliar; the current moved faster here, more erratic, pulling everyone along in sharp, errant bursts. There was a restlessness, a sense that no one had time to walk slowly or speak quietly, not even inside the airport.

Ben kept hold of your hand as you were ushered towards a private exit, and as the doors slid open, you were hit by a wall of sudden, intense heat. It was thick yet dry, like stepping into a cloud of dust. You’d visited hot countries before, but none that had taken your breath away quite like this. It was exciting, to feel so far removed from home.

A black SUV was waiting outside, the windows tinted so dark they looked opaque. The driver stood beside it holding up a discreet sign; Ben’s initials and a string of numbers you didn’t understand. The escort handed you both off to him, like children who couldn’t be left unsupervised for even a moment. 

You climbed into the backseat as they piled your bags into the boot, breathing a sigh of relief to find the aircon blasting through the car. You leaned your head against the window and closed your eyes, listening as the door opened and Ben shuffled in beside you, his voice hoarse from tiredness and the recycled plane air as he spoke to the driver. 

His hand found your thigh, thumb stroking gently back and forth in a silently soothing gesture. You appreciated it, turning to look at him with a sleepy smile.

“How long until we get there?” you asked as the car began to move.

“About an hour.” 

You rolled your eyes and he laughed. 

“You just survived an eleven hour flight,” he said. “You’ll cope.” 

The car rolled to a stop, but you weren’t there yet. You peered into the front, watching the driver roll down his window next to a small wood-paneled outbuilding. Ben leaned over, handing him a small plastic card. The engine rumbled quietly as you waited, and after a moment, you saw a barrier rise to let you through. You flashed Ben a curious glance but he didn’t seem to notice, too busy directing the driver on where to go. 

You moved steadily along wide, winding roads, and even in your tired haze, your eyes stayed wide open. Huge gates stood before endless driveways, leading to grand entrances set into ivy-covered walls. Tall palms framed perfectly manicured lawns that stretched across hillsides, spanish villas with clay tile roofs, modern houses of glass and steel set like art installations against the dusty gold backdrop of hills and valleys. It was surreal, so perfect it almost seemed fake. 

You kept going further up the winding road, the houses growing larger and further apart like they needed room to breathe. When you finally turned a corner, you’d almost forgotten why you were there, finally snapping back into reality when Ben handed the driver another keycard.

He used it to open a gate, rolling slowly up a long private road lined with neat grass and pruned hedges, wild bushes, trees and shrubbery providing a sense of seclusion as you ventured further in. The car finally stopped in the middle of a large, paved driveway, the house surrounding it making your mouth fall open. 

You climbed out of the car, shielding your eyes from the sun as you stared up at the building before you. Lime Washed walls and terracotta roofs, arches and walkways, windows with wooden shutters and stone paths leading to standalone structures. The front entrance was like its own private courtyard; plants and pillars, another magnificent arch framing a glass front door. You stood gawping at it as Ben lifted your luggage out of the boot. And by the time the car had begun to drive away, you still hadn’t uttered a word. 

“Quinn, can you come and get your suitcase?” he called out. 

“When you said you had a house you stayed in whenever you came to LA, you failed to mention it was a fucking mansion,” you said, whipping around to face him. 

He shrugged at you, brow furrowed like he didn’t understand.

“Is this yours?” you pressed. “Like… You own it? You’re not renting it out, it- this is your house?” 

“Yes, this is my house.” He began, talking sarcastically slow, like he was explaining the concept to a child. “This is my California home. So when I am in California, I live here.” 

 You sneered at him and grabbed the handle of your suitcase. “Well go on then, lead the way.” 

“Why are you annoyed with me for having a nice house?” he laughed. 

“I’m not annoyed, I’m just- I keep forgetting you’re… you. Then suddenly it’s like boom, vip lounge, business class, sprawling fucking mansion in the hills.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, threatening a smirk he knew better than to let spread. Instead he kissed the side of your head and hoisted your bags onto his shoulders, dragging his suitcase behind him. You followed, eyeing more details of the house as you went; the architecture and the greenery, the steps leading up to the front door framed with lanterns, how everything seemed so thought out and deliberate. 

He unlocked the door and let you inside, your footsteps echoing against the polished tile floor as you wandered in. You bit the inside of your cheek as you gazed around, knowing you couldn’t keep harping on at him about it, no matter how much you wanted to. The walls were smooth and rounded, the staircase curving perfectly up to the second floor. Everything was neutral and clean, earth tones and natural textures, tall ceilings and minimal clutter. There were more archways, providing small glimpses into other parts of the house, and you wondered how one man could possibly make use of so much space, if there were places he rarely ever saw. 

“Go on, lay into me,” he said with a joking sigh.

“This is… beautiful,” you replied sincerely. 

“Oh. Thank you. Do you want a quick tour?” 

“Quick?” 

He glared at you. 

“Sorry,” you said, biting back a smirk. “Couldn’t help myself.” 

The house echoed as you walked through it, the tall ceilings and generous windows making the place feel airy and open. Walls and archways seemed sculpted into the space, tones of clay and earth accented with black iron banisters, tiled floors and carved mahogany finishes. It was a far cry from his home back in London. There, his wealth was hidden in the foundations, in the pricey location and quiet luxuries. But here, it was impossible to miss. 

The kitchen alone was bigger than your entire flat, bordered with pale oak cabinets and shiny industrial-sized appliances. Dim, warm spotlights lined the exposed beams in the ceiling, casting a glow over the huge island in the middle of the room. You ran your hand along the polished marble top as you passed it, catching a glimpse of what looked like a small orchard beyond the window.

“This is the kitchen,” said Ben.

There were a bunch of flowers sitting in a vase on the island. You reached out and touched the petals, surprised to discover they were real. “How are these not dead?” 

“Hm? Oh, well I have people who come once or twice a week to look after the house when I’m not staying here. Y’know, gardeners, housekeepers, pool maintenance…”

You nodded, slowly learning to take this new reality in your stride.

He showed you to the first of many living rooms, where framed art and floating bookshelves decorated the pristine white walls. Curved couches sat low to the ground, angled towards the windows and sliding glass door on the back wall. He slid it open and gestured for you to follow him outside, a slight smile on his face, like he was excited for you to see what lay beyond it.

There was a fire pit on the patio, outdoor furniture still wrapped in its waterproof covering. You stood there for a moment in the dry, california heat, looking out at the well-kept grass that seemed to blend into the hills in the distance. Across the lawn was a swimming pool, a tennis court, statues and water features, flowers and citrus trees.

“It’s not like you to be this quiet,” he said. “Where’s the snarky comments? The criticism telling me this is all too much?” 

You shrugged and shook your head. “I think you’ve finally managed to make me speechless.” 

The tour continued with Ben doing most of the talking. He showed you rooms you wouldn’t have even known were there; a bar, a study, a sun room, all tucked away down curved passageways and across small courtyards connecting one part of the building to the other. There was a cinema room, with velvet recliners and a huge projector screen, a sleek home gym with accompanying sauna, and a cellar stocked full of whiskeys and gins, wines and bottles with labels you couldn’t even make out. 

He lugged your bags upstairs and you followed behind in awe, staring up at the skylight above the landing, natural light flooding another vast, minimal space. You peered into passing guest rooms and bathrooms, verandas and more stairs leading back down to places you weren’t sure you’d even seen yet. 

“And this is our room,” said Ben breathlessly, pushing open a set of double doors and dropping  the luggage on the ground with a huff. 

You stepped into the master bedroom and let out a soft, quiet sigh, too overwhelmed to muster anything more. It was huge, with smooth, curving walls and a glass door leading out onto a private balcony. The bed was perfectly made, all soft linens and neutral tones, the large wooden headboard built into the back wall. There was a sitting area, a fireplace, a television, and yet still, the room somehow felt sparse.

“What’s through there?” you asked, pointing to another door facing the bed. 

“That’s the wardrobe- Well, closet,” he said in an American accent, making you giggle. “And if you come through it, I’ll show you the master bathroom.”

You watched him open the door and disappear into the walk-in closet space, refraining from making a Narnia joke as you began to follow him. 

You could have slapped him for calling it a wardrobe. It was more like a hallway, each side lined with shelves and cupboards, glass cabinets filled with watches and cufflinks, shoes neatly organised on racks beneath them. There was an archway on the other end, leading through to a bathroom of marble and tile, glass and stainless steel. The deep clawfoot tub stood in the centre of the room, behind it a large window looking out on another stunning landscape. 

“Toilet’s through there,” said Ben. “And the shower’s in that bit over there.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “I’m so embarrassed that I ever let you set foot in my flat.” 

He furrowed his brow and laughed. “What?”

“This. This is how you live, and then you come and stay with me where you need to punch the shower just to get it to turn on.” 

He laughed again, more heartily this time. “I did offer to get that fixed for you.” 

You rolled your eyes and made your way back through to the bedroom, your eyes immediately falling on the glass door. You walked across the room and slid it open, stepping out onto the balcony and resting your elbows on the railing. 

You closed your eyes and tilted your head back to let the sun warm your face, and after a moment, Ben was behind you, pressing up against your back and wrapping his arms around your waist. 

“I get why you want to live here full time,” you said softly. “It’s beautiful.”

“Who said I wanted to live here full time?” 

“Faye.”

He inhaled deeply, letting it out in a low groan. “I thought we’d learned not to listen to anything that woman says…” 

“Yeah but, I wouldn’t blame you if this one was true. Why on earth would you ever go back to London when you have the ability to wake up to this every morning?” 

He hummed in thought. “Well, I might not appreciate it as much if I was here all the time.” He kissed the side of your head. “I like it here, but… London’s my home.”

You let your head fall back against his chest, eyes scanning the hills in the distance, the afternoon light pouring over them like honey. A gentle breeze rolled in, taking the edge off the heat, and for a while neither of you spoke.

His chest rose and fell slowly as you rested against him, the quiet strength of his arms snug around your waist. Every time you thought you were finally getting used to it all, to the odd reality he existed in, something always came to throw you off kilter again. 

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and gentle against your ear.

“Mhm.” You nodded, leaning back further into him. “Readjusting.” 

He exhaled a laugh. “It’s been a long day. You’ll feel better tomorrow.” 

You turned your head slightly, intending to speak, but stopped yourself with a gentle sigh. The old Quinn would have corrected him, reminded him how far removed from normal his life was. But you no longer felt the need; understanding now that this wasn’t normal, but it was his normal. And, if you were going to stay with him, it would inevitably become yours too. 

For a short while, you stood there wrapped in the quiet, basking in the warmth and the soft brush of his thumbs over your hips. Until eventually you felt him shift, his hands moving to your waist to guide you back inside. 

“Shall we get a shower?” he asked.

His voice was low and casual, the same tone he might use when talking about dinner or the weather. There was no sly smile, no teasing edge, just an easy, simple offer.

It still surprised you how natural it felt; the idea of sharing something so intimate without expectation. Before him, you’d never have believed an invitation like that could be about comfort rather than sex. You wouldn’t have wanted it to be. 

*Yeah, that sounds nice,” you replied with a sleepy smile, letting him take your hand and lead you back towards the bathroom. 

You undressed together, throwing your clothes into a heap on the tiled floor. He opened the glass door of the shower and turned it on, holding his hand under the stream to test the temperature. And when it was ready, he gestured for you to step in.

He’d kept the water cool; a soothing relief from the California heat. You closed your eyes as you stood directly beneath the shower head, washing away the sweat and grime of your long journey. He got in behind you, pressing himself up close against your back and reaching over you for a bottle of shampoo.  

He washed your hair, his fingertips massaging your scalp with a firm pressure, making you relax into him with a grateful sigh. And when he was done, you turned to face him, tilting your head back to rinse away the suds before lathering him with shower gel. Your palms glided over his shoulders and down his arms, curving around his waist and trailing down his back. He leaned down to kiss you, his lips pressing against yours, just once, before returning his attention to your hair. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, lost in the scent of his soap and the sound of running water. Neither of you had spoken, moving with ease around the small space, taking turns under the stream and tending to each other carefully.

When you stepped out, your muscles felt looser, your skin fresh and clean, your mind pleasantly quiet. You wrapped yourself in a towel and wandered back into the bedroom, crouching at your suitcase and opening it to find the crumpled, disorganised mess of clothes you’d carelessly shoved inside.

Ben was sitting on the edge of the bed, a towel wrapped low around his waist, watching you as you rummaged for something to wear. His eyes followed you as you stood up and began to move around the room, drying yourself and peering at your reflection in the mirror.

“What?” you asked with a suspicious smirk.

He shook his head, leaning back on his elbows. “I just think you’re so beautiful.” 

You paused for a moment, pressing your lips together to hide a smile before continuing to dry yourself. “Well, that’s lucky. I imagine you’d find it quite challenging to sleep with me if you didn’t.” 

“I’m a man, darling. I’d manage.” 

You snorted. “Charming.” 

You slipped into your underwear and sat down to pull on a pair of leggings, your eyes flitting over to him every few moments as he began to get dressed too. Water stuck to his shoulders and chest like beads, his arms flexing as he unfolded a t-shirt, bottom lip sucked gently into his mouth. He was divine, mouthwatering, and there was a bed right there. Yet somehow, you were perfectly content on the other side of the room. 

"Oh no," you began dryly. "We've already hit the 'boring' stage, haven’t we." 

"What do you mean?" he asked with a laugh. 

"Beautiful place, huge bed, and we’re just… Getting dressed." 

His mouth curled in amusement as he realised what you were implying. Then his gaze drifted over you, his voice turning low and calm when he finally spoke.

“I’m letting you rest today.” 

He didn’t elaborate, didn’t punctuate his words with a wink or a smirk. Instead, he simply reached for his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.

“You’re letting me rest…?” you asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Mhm,” he replied as he rolled the material down over his torso. “Because I’m working all day tomorrow. And by the time I get home, I’ll need somewhere to put my frustration.”

You glanced up at him, your fingers paused with your leggings halfway up your thighs. 

He met your gaze, the weight of his meaning settling in the space between you. “And you’ll be right here,” he said simply. “Won’t you.”

The air seemed to thin, your throat tightening, heat blooming deep in your stomach. “I’ll be here,” you finally replied.

His eyes flitted to your fingers as they clutched the waistband of your leggings, still half-forgotten at your thighs. The sight seemed to amuse him, a soft, brief smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sixteen hours. Nine hundred and sixty minutes. Eleven PM to eleven AM. That’s how long one Doctor Stephen Strange has been on call. Christine has been not so subtly urging him to go home, take a shower, eat a meal, sleep probably. But he doesn’t sleep, not really. In fact, it’s a waste of time in his not so humble opinion. He needs to be awake to think, to memorize, to change the world. He can’t save lives if he’s unconscious.

So, he powers through the bloodshot eyes and lead weight legs. Another laminectomy, another thousand dollars in his bank account, another new car. He sniffs, sitting in his office, shiny accolades and framed pictures with hospital directors and various colleagues staring back at him. If he were honest, which he never really is when it comes to matters of the heart, his incessant urge to work himself into an early grave isn’t the sole reason for him being here going on seventeen hours now. Fuck, has it really been seventeen hours?

The blinds of his office windows are uncharacteristically drawn, giving passerbys an inside look at the opulent yet vapid domain of Doctor Strange. He can’t complain, not really, it’s not warranted. He has more money than he knows what to do with, so he buys and collects and fills up his too big penthouse with shit he doesn’t look twice at. He buys cars, though he only really needs one. He goes on dates, though he isn’t really interested in whatever woman he found at a bar or in the hospital cafeteria. Is he lonely? Sure, but who isn’t?

Of course, though, there’s you. Perfect, lovely, borderline cherubic you. His little Neonatal Intensive Care Unit angel. The NICU is four levels above his realm, and he has absolutely no business going up there. But he does, every single day. He’s getting lazy with his excuses and he knows you’re catching on. You’re smart, not Stephen smart, but it’s nothing to sneeze at. Twelve o’clock on the dot. You all but float past his office, heading to the elevators. He struggles, should he approach now or do a little drive by in an hour? Decisions, decisions.

He decides on the former, nearly tripping out of his desk chair in his enthusiasm. He narrowly escapes the cloying interrogation of one Doctor Palmer, waving her off, long strides eating up the distance to the shiny steel doors. A ding! It’s already heading up to level five. He’ll take the second one, the elegant length of his pointer finger jabbing the button.

On the ride up he debates what’s he’s going to say. He loves making you laugh, in fact, it’s his personal mission to make you laugh at least once every day. Your delicate giggle breathes life into him, it’s like a thousand little wind chimes singing a song only his heart knows. He sorts through the files of his eidetic memory, searching for the perfect joke. The elevator doors part open for him like the Red Sea, and he steps out into the sprawling hallway.

The solemn off-white doors of the NICU stand before him, he takes a breath and then another one, steeling his nerves, chasing away the butterfly swarm in his stomach. If he were a patient, he’d pick up the little phone on the wall. Whichever nurse that picked up would say the usual, “Hello, how can I help you?” And said patient would inform the aforementioned nurse that they’re here to see baby whatever their surname was. But he’s a doctor, and that comes with privileges.

So, he pulls his ID badge from the clip on his scrubs, a little ziiiiiip noise filling the empty space. The door reader chimes in approval, electronic motor swinging the doors open at a snail’s pace. No need to rush on his account. Staff and patients alike are stopped at the entrance, a wide steel sink off to the left side. There’s a pedal at the bottom for water and an automatic soap dispenser. He washes his hands, scrubbing under his nails, his palms, between each finger. He goes about this for thirty seconds, a little extra just in case. The motion activated paper towel dispenser whirs, spitting out a scratchy brown napkin. He crumples it up when finished, tossing it into the bin. The final step, an antibacterial alcohol hand sanitizer. He massages it into his skin and it leaves behind a somewhat tacky feeling.

“Doctor Strange! To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Comes a cheerful voice from his flank. He turns, it’s not you, he knows that. Miriam. Charge nurse, mid-fifties, kind eyes, wrinkle softened features.

He smiles his charming Stephen Strange grin, it's lopsided and boyish. The women (and some men) fall over themselves in the wake of that smile. “Hello Miriam, how’s your day going? How are the little ones?”

This is the dance, he has to get through a sea of social graces to finally reach you. So he’ll make small talk and ask questions and nod along, so long as you’re the light at the end of the tunnel. Miriam, ever the chatter, rambles aimlessly about a set of twins, a social worker, a 30 week preemie finally, finally going home with mom and dad. He nods along, makes the occasional appropriate comment. His mind is elsewhere, of course, because he knows you’re nearby but he’s not exactly sure where.

He finds the time to butt in, “I was hoping you could tell me where a certain RN is?”

Miriam blinks, pausing and then she beams, “Oh, she’s giving a bath right now,” she nods her head in the direction of the room on his left. He pats her arm, smiling appreciatively.

He walks slow, savoring the fizzy feeling of anticipation building up. Simply standing in the doorway, he watches. The row of a variety of incubators, radiant warmers, and bassinets. There’s the ever present soft beeps of dozens of machines. CPAP, heart monitor, pulse ox, et cetera. He sees the set of twins Miriam mentioned, their incubators side by side. The soft glow of bili lights illuminates their little bodies, eye shields covering their faces. He estimates they can’t be older than maybe thirty-two weeks gestation, tiny spindly limbs and soft bellies.

There’s a sharp, shrill cry from the baby you’re currently bathing at a sink. The little guy is clearly not a fan of water and you fuss over him, cooing softly, speaking in a gentle tone, soothing. He can’t help but smile, you’re so naturally maternal. You should be the charge nurse, no you should be the director. He’s not biased whatsoever. Definitely not.

As you gently pat the squealing infant dry, he steps into your domain, taking care to be quiet. You don’t notice him, too wrapped up in getting the baby back into a soft muslin onesie and a little duck patterned hospital blanket. Once he’s returned to his bassinet, a good sign, he’ll probably be discharged soon, Stephen clears his throat.

You look up, and ah, there it is. Those Bambi eyes of yours lock onto him and his heart does a funny little somersault at your shy smile. “How long have you been here?” You break the silence first, the spell isn’t broken, no it’s stronger now. It’s almost a tangible thing, it feels like TV static and aching possibility on Stephen’s tongue.

“Oh, I’d say about five or ten minutes, give or take,” He replies, acting far more casual than he feels, picking up a preemie blood pressure cuff. God, it’s tiny, it could probably fit his thumb.

You cluck your tongue, admonishing and angelic all in one, “Mm, you know that’s not what I mean.”

He lets out something halfway between a snort and a chuckle, “Oh, right, uhh…I’ve been at the hospital for about seventeen hours.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands and his grin widens, his cheeks hurt. You step closer and his heart goes from allegro to presto. He’ll definitely develop some kind of heart murmur if he basks in your presence too long, he can’t help himself though. He is selfish as much as he is giving. His life saving surgeries, his methods, his work is for his own ego as much as it is for the good of the general population.

“Doctor Strange—“ You begin to lecture him, it’s adorable.

“Buh, buh, buh,” He holds a hand up, eyes twinkling with mirth and bite, “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Stephen?”

Your nose scrunches up, he wants to take a picture, immortalize your cute little fucking face. He’d get the biggest canvas print of it money can buy, hang it up in his living room, sip two thousand dollar wine and act like an art history scholar, meditating on the metaphor or whatever of the lines of your face.

“Fine, Stephen,” You huff, trying to act annoyed but failing miserably. The blush dusting your cheeks is a dead giveaway and it goes straight to both of his heads.

“You need to go home. You look exhausted, it’s not healthy to be going at it like this,” You sigh, gesturing vaguely around the room. He’s flattered by how much you seem to care, he wonders if you think about him as much as he thinks about you. You clearly pay enough attention to know his sneaky little habit of staying at work far too long.

“So, what I’m hearing is you’re not pleased to see me? That hurts, sweetheart. I slaved away in the OR, poured over case notes until this morning just so I could run into you,” He quips, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms.

“Mm, didn’t really run into me. You came to my unit and asked for me. Pretty sure that’s actively seeking me out,” You retort, effortlessly able to match his wit. God, he loved these little verbal spars with you. You, worried about his health and chastising. Him, dry and snarky and head over heels for you, just trying to pull a giggle out of you.

“Yeah, and you love it, sweetheart,” Stephen grins, waggling his eyebrows for effect.

That earns him an eye roll and a small smile that you try to hide but he catches it. He grabs it, hangs onto it, memorizes it. You pick at an imaginary piece of lint on your scrubs, gaze casting down demurely.

“Go home after this, okay?” You scold in a subdued voice, eyes flicking up to lock onto his.

Stephen sees an opening. He takes it before he can second guess himself.

“I’ll go home on one condition,” He affirms, pushing up from the counter, stepping forward. He keeps a respectful distance, but he’s hovering close enough in your orbit that your scent hits him square in the nose. Something sweet mixed with antiseptic and latex gloves.

“And what’s that?” You inquire, shifting from one foot to the other, the soles of your clogs squeaking on the linoleum. A hip juts out, head tilting to the side, arms crossing. He has you exactly where he wants you, he goes in for the kill.

“Have dinner with me,” He coaxes, he doesn’t doubt himself, doesn’t give himself time to back out.

You’re momentarily stunned and it shows, posture tensing and then relaxing. Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, “You want me to have dinner with you?”

He hums in affirmation, rocking on the balls of his feet, “What time are you off?” He reaches into the pocket of his lab coat, tugging out a stick of spearmint gum. He crumples the foil wrapper, tossing the stick in his mouth. He chews, once, twice, saliva flooding his palate. He waits, watching every nervous twitch and the way blood rushes to your cheeks.

“Um, midnight. Standard twelve hour shift- are you sure about doing this tonight?” You mumble, brow pinching, musing the logistics in your mind, silent. “I’m gonna be all gross and sweaty. And nothing is gonna be open…are we eating at 7/11 or what?”

“Take a shower, I’m night owl anyway, and I’ll cook for you at my place,” He declares, sweeping his hands out in a grand ah-ha motion, a smug smirk on his lips.

Now, when Stephen says he’ll cook for you, that’s an exaggeration. A generous exaggeration. Stephen’s godlike skills in nearly every aspect of his life have never translated into the kitchen. So, he’d order out. Call in a favor at some ridiculously overpriced restaurant, get one of everything— No, that’d be overdoing it. He realizes you’re speaking again, he’s not paying attention, too wrapped up in the mental gymnastics of what entree he should order for you, what does he usually see you eating in the hospital’s cafeteria…

“Sorry?” He clears his throat, tilting his head to the side like a ridiculously handsome puppy.

“I said I don’t have your address,” You repeat, quirking an eyebrow, “Or your phone number, for that matter.”

A flush spreads up Stephen’s neck, “Ah, an oversight on my part. Which will be remedied right now.”

After exchanging phone numbers, Stephen bids you farewell, washing his hands one more time for good measure at the door to the unit. When he returns to his office, he has about forty-five or so minutes until his next scheduled operation, he texts you his address and tries to return his focus back to work.

•••

It becomes abundantly clear that Stephen has overestimated the high end restaurants of New York. Because by the time he gets home and goes through the motions of getting ready for you, it’s quarter past twelve in the morning and nothing, no one is open to take orders for carry out.

Fuuuuuck. Okay, this is fine, totally fine. No big deal, surely something is open nearby. After all, this is the city that never sleeps.

It winds up being a pizza place, family owned and a hole in the wall. They deliver, which is nice and convenient for him. Stephen’s not entirely sure what toppings you like on your pizza, so he opts to play it safe with plain cheese. He fishes out a bottle of wine, Moscato. He recalls from a Christmas party that you detest dry wines, especially red.

He sets up the table, candles, jazz playing softly on a turntable in the corner of the living room. He’s wearing a tie, does he look ridiculous? He fusses over his reflection. Pizza and a tie don’t go together. So, he yanks it off, tossing it onto the sofa, undoing the first three buttons of his shirt and rolls his sleeve up to his elbows. He looks at himself again, willing his posture to just relax. Okay, good, he looks more casual, laidback. Now all that’s left to do is wait.

The waiting, admittedly, takes far longer than Stephen anticipated. He’s reheated the pizza at least thrice before his phone chimes with the text from you notifying that you’re on your way up. His heart does a funny little flip as he shuffles towards the door, ready to open it at the first knock.

And then, there you are looking like sunshine personified. You’re smiling up at him, tired but shy and tentative. He feels a twinge of guilt, arranging this date so late and right after you get off, but he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait another second and he knows he’d lose his nerve. So here he is, stepping aside to welcome you into his place.

“Wow…” You breathe out, all wide eyed, doing a little spin to look around the penthouse. It’s decorated in the same clinical manner as his office at the hospital. Clean white walls, floor to ceiling windows, everything sleek and modern. “This is very…clean.”

Stephen blinks, “Uh, yeah? I have a maid…so that’s probably why.”

You laugh sheepish and nervous, rubbing the back of your neck, “Sorry, it’s just…this place looks like a museum or a model home, you know? Very cool and empty. You don’t have any knick knacks or even a throw blanket or something on the couch.” You gesture around the space as you ramble, a nervous habit of yours. And fuck, were you nervous. You’d been dancing around Stephen’s flirtations for months now. Because if there were two things you knew, it was this: one, Stephen was a notorious flirt. And two, he had this weird longtime, on again/off again relationship with Christine Palmer. And you preferred to go under the radar at work, the last thing you needed was stirring up trouble with Stephen and Christine.

He feels his cheeks heat up in something akin to embarrassment, “Oh, right.” He mutters lamely. Stephen knows his place isn’t exactly the warmest or coziest, but you pointing it out so bluntly makes him flustered in a way he hasn’t been since grad school. His apartment could be cozier, but it also could far more sparse. Stephen tried his best to toe the delicate line between the two. Apparently he wasn’t doing as good a job as he thought.

You throw your hands up in a gesture of surrender, “I mean, I like it! It’s very…um, bright and monotone?”

A surprised, rueful chuckle bursts from Stephen’s chest, “Wow, that might be the worst backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.” He huffs dryly, running a lithe hand through his hair.

You can’t help but laugh along with him, your cheeks heating up, “Yeah, well, it’s not my fault your apartment is morgue-esque.”

Stephen actually chortles at that, the crows feet around his eyes crinkling up in a way that makes him look rather dashing and wise, “Okay, I think that’s enough critiquing my decorating skills. Haven’t you noticed I practically live at work?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” you huff, rolling your eyes and smiling, “But I have a sneaking suspicion you also hang around for ungodly amounts of time just to be able to come bug me when I clock in.”

Stephen blushes. He actually fucking blushes and it’s a little mortifying, how easily you can fluster him and make him lose his cool, collected demeanor. Stephen knows there’s no use in denying it now, after all you’ve agreed to a date and the said date is commencing. So, “Ah, yeah. I’m that obvious, huh?”

You grin, triumphant and far too smug for his liking, but fuck if that isn’t incredibly attractive, “You’re easy to read. Like a book written for dumb children.”

Stephen clutches his hand to his chest dramatically, scoffing in mock offense, “Dumb children? I’m insulted, sweetheart, truly.” If Stephen were being honest, he honestly believed he was being a bit more subtle. He won’t dwell on it, though. You’re here and that’s all that matters now. If anything, he’ll lay it on even thicker.

“So, I believe I was promised food?” You ask, tilting your head to the side coyly.

“Oh!” Stephen jolts, pulled from his reverie, “Food, right. Of course. I ord—cooked! I cooked us something. Come take a seat.”

Stephen pulls out your seat, ever the gentleman. The table has a simple white cloth draped across it, a small vase with a rose, and a few little tea candles lit on it. Stephen tried his best to make the setting romantic as his limited time to prepare allowed. The bottle of wine is chilling in the fridge as Stephen pulls the pizza out of the oven, hoping you don’t notice the cardboard boxes they arrived in, stuffed into the trash.

When he presents your plate with a flourish, you quirk a brow, “You made me pizza? From scratch?”

Stephen flushes in embarrassment, “Yes?”

You snort, shaking your head, “Uh-huh, sure.”

But you’re ravenous, so you won’t complain when it comes to free food. The meal is eaten in silence, save for the clink of utensils because Stephen insists on eating his pizza with a fork and knife of all things. You tease him relentlessly for it, causing the faint carnation pink on his cheeks to bloom into full blown scarlet. The wine is delicious, exactly what you like, you’re secretly impressed. It’s bubbly, fruity, dancing on your tongue in bursts of sweetness. By the time you’ve finished your third slice of pizza, you have a nice little buzz going.

The buzz is lowering your inhibitions, dangerously so. So, you blurt out, “Your hair is nice. Like a skunk.”

Stephen nearly spits out the wine he’s finishing off, “Excuse me? My hair reminds you of a skunk?”

“Um, yes,” You reply earnestly, reaching across the table, placing a hand on each side of Stephen’s temple. His hair is infuriatingly soft, you run your fingers through it, admiring the feel of it between each digit.

Stephen freezes, because you’re touching him. You’re actually touching him, running your fucking fingers through his hair like it’s the most normal thing in the world. When in reality, the most you’ve ever touched him was the odd handshake. So, Stephen stays remarkably still, not wanting to break the odd, dizzying spell that’s fallen over the both of you.

“Thanks,” He breathes out, though being compared to a skunk isn’t necessarily dazzling praise. You hum, nodding, dazed and devastatingly gorgeous. Stephen hesitates, because is this a move? A signal? Do you want him to kiss you? Should he cross that line?

You beat him to the punch.

You borderline launch yourself at Stephen, tipsy and sloppy. But your lips slot against his like they belong there, tacky with lipgloss, tasting of Moscato and tomato sauce. One of Stephen’s hand cups the back of your head, holding you in place, kissing you slow and filthy. Fuck, he’s imagined this countless times and the fantasies are nothing compared to the real thing.

Silverware clatters to the floor, loud and jarring. In your haste, your hip bumped the table, so you break apart from Stephen with a nervous giggle.

“We should…” Stephen nods his head towards the sofa, “Uh, less hazards in the way. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt on my watch, sweetheart.”

You nod dumbly, “The couch. Yes…that’s a good idea.”

Stephen and you make your way to the large sectional, equally giddy and nervous. Stephen settles down, legs spread wide, and he fully expects you to sit beside him. But, you surprise him by taking a seat in his lap of all places. Your weight, your warmth drives him mad, he fights the urge to let his eyes roll back into his head. His hands automatically go to your waist, holding you, steadying you. He squeezes the dip once, savoring the gentle give of your flesh.

You waste no time, crashing your lips against his again. The kiss is slower, filthy, sending a molten, heady feeling straight to your pussy. So, you chase that feeling and grind down against Stephen’s lap, practically purring into the kiss. Fuck, he feels big. You’re going to be pleasantly achy tomorrow.

You thread your fingers through his soft hair, licking into his mouth, tasting the ridges on the roof of his mouth. Stephen groans, low and rough into the kiss, his tongue tangling and massaging yours. His hands drift, exploratory, down to your ass. His gorgeous, lifesaving hands dig into the meat of your ass and squeeze, dragging your hips down to grind into him again.

You arch, tits pressing into his broad chest, ass curving further into his large hands. Your body is on fire, Stephen is coaxing sounds from you that would be humiliating in any other circumstance. And when he pulls back, perfectly disheveled, lips all spit shiny and swollen, you grin at the sight. He’s perfect, sex appeal personified. You never stood a chance.

“How far do you wanna take this?” He murmurs breathlessly, brushing a wayward strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture tender and completely opposite from the almost mauling he was just bestowing upon you.

You hesitate now, because he’s your coworker and all the reasons you’d been artfully dodging his advances are rearing their ugly head. But, god, do you want him. You want him so badly it hurts. And you know women don’t get blue balls, in fact you’re a firm believer that it’s just bullshit to guilt trip the female population but…if you don’t fuck Stephen or at the very least dry hump him to completion, you’re definitely going to experience something within the vein of blue balls.

So, you play it safe, “Well, how far do you want to take this?”

Stephen chuckles ruefully, giving your ass a playful squeeze, “Do I really need to spell it out for you, sweetheart?” He gives a sinfully slow grind against your clothed mound, letting his body do the talking.

You smack your lips together, shaking your head vehemently, “Mm, nope. Nope I got it.” You squeak out, unbearably flustered and turned on.

“May I take your top off?” Stephen murmurs, brushing a thumb gently across the midriff exposed from your blouse riding up. You hum in affirmation, raising your hands above your head. Stephen makes quick work of the fabric, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Stephen’s pupils blow out, inky black swallowing the cool blue of his irises. He inhales shakily, because fuck are you pretty. Which, he already knew, but being able to see you bare…he worries he won’t last. He’s been building this up in his mind for months and you’re leaps and bounds ahead, better, even more gorgeous than any fantasy his mind conjures up.

Your bra joins the quickly forming pile of clothing on the floor. And when your tits are bare, nipples hardening in the cool air of his apartment, Stephen can’t help but bury his face between them, groaning. He feels like a teenager seeing his first pair of tits, the way he wants to motorboat you. He settles on a happy medium, sucking one nipple into the warm cavern of his mouth, letting his teeth glide lightly on the bud, teasing. You whimper, arching into his mouth, greedily pressing more of your breast into it. He’s just as skilled in bed as he is in the operating room.

His left hand departs from kneading your pillowy breasts, sneaking down the soft length of your abdomen. Slipping down the front of your jeans, finding where you’re slick and aching for him. You feel like heaven against his probing fingers, syrupy and molten. He lavishes one last worshipful suckle to your tits, pulling back to gaze at you with hooded, dark eyes full of a million dirty promises.

“Sit on my face,” He whispers, voice wrecked and throaty. It’s not a request, it’s a prayer, and who are you to not indulge the man? So, you nod, feeling nervous but the idea is incredibly appealing. You stand from his lap, shucking your jeans and panties down your legs. They’re kicked off, tossed to the side without second thought. Before you can second guess yourself or feel a modicum of shyness, you nudge Stephen back and straddle his face.

You’re momentarily mortified when Stephen buries his face between your legs and inhales loudly. It’s obscene and indecent and makes you even wetter. He moans at your scent, his eyes rolling back into his head, hands digging into the meat of your thighs and spreading you, holding you open to him. And then, his tongue enters the picture. Gliding slowly, he licks at your cunt from hole to clit. You shudder, gasping, rocking down onto his face.

Then, Stephen really starts to eat you, fingers spreading your labia majora apart, finding your clit with a surgeon’s precision. He nips once, twice and then suckles at the swollen bud like he’s trying to get venom out. You throw your head back, moaning brokenly, unashamedly rutting against his face. A hand winds into his hair, desperate for some kind of anchor against the storm of sensations Stephen is inflicting on your aching cunt.

“Oh my god,” You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut, grinding into Stephen’s eager mouth. Your thighs clamp around his head, full body shivers wracking through you. He doubles his efforts, slurping and moaning into your slick flesh. You realize with startling clarity the bastard is going to make you come in no time at all, a feat even your most skilled past lover couldn’t pull off.

“J-Jesus Christ!” You squeak, your entire body tensing up, dangling on the precipice of something major. And when Stephen’s fingers join in, two elegant digits sliding home and curling with expertise, you’re done for. Your head snaps down, tucking your chin to your chest, riding Stephen’s face almost violently, bucking against his stupidly handsome features.

And Stephen is getting off from the spectacle of it all, his cock throbbing and leaking steadily in his pants. He could come just like this, untouched, devouring your pretty pussy. You shatter, bright and burning, squealing, jaw dropping as your cunt gushes eagerly into Stephen’s waiting mouth. He moans in reply, eagerly lapping up every wave of slick ecstasy that pools out of your throbbing pussy.

Your limbs aren’t working, you can barely fucking breathe, so Stephen gently maneuvers you to switch places with him, turning you to lie prone. You lay on your stomach, hiding your beet red face against the cushions of the sofa, the sound of Stephen’s belt clinking joining the symphony of your panting. There’s the sound of a condom wrapper being torn open, then Stephen carefully shifts your sticky thighs apart.

He kneels in the space between your legs, dragging the head of his cock from your clit to nudge at your entrance. You jolt at the sensation, sensitive but desperate for more. A hand smooths down the curve of your spine, finding its home on your ass, groping, “Relax,” Stephen murmurs into your ear, soothing and sexy all at once.

He nudges in slow and steady, inch by glorious inch stretching you open. It’s heaven and hell all at once. You keen, pitching high, arching your ass up subtly. The fullness is intensified by the position, and you’re lost to it, no choice left but to open yourself to him. The hand on your ass squeezes tight, short nails digging into your supple skin. Once Stephen is fully seated in your fluttering cunt, he exhales shakily, head dipping to rest between your shoulder blades.

“Knew your pussy’d feel like heaven,” He groans, sending another flood of liquid arousal pooling between your legs. You moan in response, you wouldn’t be able to string words together right now even if you tried. Stephen has reduced you to a whiny, drooling mess.

He pulls out slowly, till just the crown notches at your entrance, and then buries himself to the hilt once more. The pace he sets is brutal, allowing you no time to adjust. His cock bullies you, mean and unrelenting, veins dragging deliciously against your inner walls. Each thrust punches a breathless sound from you, your toes curling, thighs tensing up. The noises spilling from Stephen’s lips are borderline pornographic, you always secretly loved his voice and the way he sounds fucking you is truly something to behold.

Stephen slips a hand around your hip, encouraging you to lift your hips up slightly. His fingers find your clit once more, rubbing precise circles around the oversensitive bud. You bury your face into the couch cushions, moaning wantonly, bucking restlessly against his fingers. Stephen fucks you mean and fast, expertly guiding you towards another mind shattering orgasm.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this,” He groans out, increasing the pressure against your clit, “Knew you’d be a good fuck. Shit, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You whine at his words, because the fact that he wanted this just as badly as you, it absolutely melts you. You want him—no, need him to know you feel the same, you’ve craved the same things. You should’ve done this far sooner.

“Me too,” you sigh out, wriggling your hips back, desperate for more, “I love your hands. They’re so nice, fuck, I’ve imagined them on my body, inside me, in my mouth.”

Stephen groans in response, his free hand snaking up, seeking out your kiss swollen lips. You part your lips immediately, taking three spindly digits into your mouth and sucking on them, a comfort against the toe curling orgasm that’s quickly building in your belly. Stephen’s cock throbs as you deepthroat his fingers, his rhythm transforming from methodical to sloppy. He’s close, unbearably so, but he won’t come before you earn your second orgasm. So he backs off a bit, slowing down.

His attention zeroes in on your clit and that spongy spot deep in your pussy. He bends down, sucking and biting at the slope of your neck, dragging his cock slow and steady. He pinches your clit between forefinger and thumb, rubbing mercilessly. And that’s enough, you come again, harder, brighter, shivering. His name is a prayer, sobbing it like scripture. The heady feeling of your cunt pulsing around him is more than enough of an invitation to join you.

Stephen bites down on the curve of your neck, groaning as his eyes roll back and he floods the condom with his potent seed. He rocks, gentling you both through the numbing pleasure. When the last of the aftershocks fade, buzzing away into blissful nothingness, he pulls out. He inhales sharply at the loss of pressure and warmth. Stephen presses a trail of soft, adoring kisses down the curve of your spine.

Once the condom is disposed of, he scoops your pliant form up, carrying you down the hall to his bedroom. He cleans you up, taking extra care with the warm washcloth between your thighs. An hour later, when you’re all snuggled up in bed, eating cold pizza, you ask, “What time do you have to go in today?”

Stephen chuckles softly, massaging the swell of your hip, “Actually, I’m off. A preemptive measure.”

You gasp in mock offense, smacking his bicep, “You ass! You never take time off. I see you even on your alleged days off. So, you naturally assumed I would just fall into bed with you and stay the night?”

Stephen shrugs, grinning boyishly, “Call it a hunch.”

“You think far too highly of yourself,” You scoff, but there’s no bite behind you. So, you smile and lean into his side, melting.

“Well, you just had first hand experience with my sexual prowess. You’d think highly of yourself too if you were me,” Stephen quips, sneaking a quick bite of the pizza in your hand.

You were standing in your bra and knickers, eyes skimming back and forth over your open wardrobe as Ben sat on the bed behind you. You waited a moment for him to respond before glancing over your shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow. 

He glanced up from his phone at you with a shrug. “What?”

“When one is asked a question, one must respond with haste,” you replied.

He rolled his eyes with a laugh and put his phone down, shuffling to sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know, something… floral?” 

You turned back to the wardrobe and let out a quiet huff, sifting through the rail of clothes and pulling out a long, daisy-print jumpsuit. 

“Like this?” you asked, holding it up to your body and turning to him. 

He cocked his head as he eyed you up and down. “How do you go to the toilet in that?” 

“You just take the whole thing down.” 

“In a public loo?”

“Right, no all-in-ones, got it,” you said with a sigh as you slotted the hanger back on the rail.

“What about that little dress I like?” he asked. ‘The one with the frills.”

You shot him a look, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “I’m not dressing for you.” 

“Aren’t you?” he replied with a hint of playful sarcasm, a flirtatious glimmer in his eye. 

“So let me get this straight,” you began, rummaging through your wardrobe and pulling out the dress he’d suggested. “You want me in this…” You slid the soft material off the hanger and stepped into it, pulling it up your body with a deliberately slow wiggle. “The first time I meet your parents…?” You slipped your arms into the delicately frilled straps and adjusted your breasts to sit just right, before turning to face him with your hands on your hips.

It was wholly inappropriate for the event; short, tight and just sheer enough for your flesh to peek through the pale pink fabric. If it wasn’t for your bra, you were sure your nipples would be on full display. 

“Well it would certainly make an impression,” he replied, his voice low, eyes trailing you slowly.

You rolled your eyes and made your way towards him. “I think you just wanted to see me in something you’d enjoy taking off,” you said, standing between his legs and looking down at him. “So, take it off me.” 

He gazed up at you beneath heavy lids, his jaw tight with self restraint. You allowed a slight smile as you stood there, watching triumphantly as his hands grazed slowly up your thighs, traveling over the frills, the thin material covering your hips, waist and breasts. Your stomach coiled at his touch, the look of hunger in his eyes eliciting a deep throb of desire between your legs. 

But you remained still as his fingers finally found the straps at your shoulders, your skin prickling as he carefully peeled them away and dragged the dress down your body. When it pooled at your feet, you stepped out of it and smiled down at him. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly, before turning away and walking back to the wardrobe.

“You’re evil,” he said.

“You love it.” 

“Sometimes.” 

You chuckled as you pulled out another dress, holding it up to yourself before deciding to put it on. It was tea-length, white, with a print of small blue flowers. You hadn’t worn it for a couple of years, and you silently prayed it still fit as you slipped it over your head.

“Can you zip me up?” you asked. 

Ben stood up and walked over to you without a word. You placed your hands on your stomach, holding the dress in place as he began to zip it up. But he stopped halfway.

You glanced back at him. “What? Is it too small?” 

His lips suddenly made contact with your shoulder, making you gasp slightly at the unexpected sensation. He trailed a line of slow, deliberate kisses to your neck, the heat of his breath eventually making it to your ear.

“It’s a perfect fit,” he muttered softly, before fully zipping up the dress.

His hands lingered, fingertips tickling the exposed skin of your upper back as they travelled to the nape of your neck. You shuddered, pressing your lips together firmly to silence another gasp.

“Don’t think I’m letting you get away with that,” he said, teeth nipping at your earlobe. “You’re going to be on your best behaviour today, do you hear me? You’re going to be warm and cordial and polite.”

You closed your eyes as his voice poured into your ear, deep and rich. 

“But I’ll know the woman underneath,” he continued. “And I want you to know I’ll be spending the entire day picturing what I’m going to do to her when we get home.” 

The warmth of his body disappeared from behind you. You turned around to see him picking his phone up off the bed and heading towards the bedroom door.

“That was a disproportionate response,” you said.

He smiled. “One has twenty minutes before the chauffeur arrives,” he replied, mimicking your posh voice.

You were sitting in the back of a large, sleek car, the tinted windows shielding you from the bright afternoon sun as you waited outside Ben’s house. The engine rumbled softly, providing the only sound besides your tapping nails and the occasional cough of the driver.

Ben finally re-emerged from the house, his casual t-shirt and jeans replaced with a pale blue suit jacket and matching trousers, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar beneath it. You wondered if he’d chosen blue on purpose, the shade almost a perfect match to the flowers on your dress.

He climbed into the car with a smile, leaning forward to speak to the driver before settling back, his hand instinctively reaching for yours. You took it, giving it a hard squeeze as the car began to move. 

“There’s no need to be nervous,” said Ben. 

“I’ve managed to go my whole life without ever having to meet anyone’s parents,” you replied. “Then when I do, it’s my famous boyfriend’s famous parents.” 

He exhaled a quiet laugh. “You don’t do things by halves, do you.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to the window, talking quietly to yourself. “I didn’t do any research on them. I should have researched.” 

“Why on earth would you need to research my mum and dad?” 

“So I could ask them questions, know what to talk to them about.” 

“Quinn, take off your journalist’s hat and just relax.”

You huffed and the car soon fell silent again, weaving smoothly through the London traffic. You propped your elbow on the edge of the window, resting your cheek in your hand as you watched the narrow, urban roads gradually turn to neat, quiet streets, the houses getting taller and wider, with whiter bricks and greener gardens.

“I thought you said we were picking them up,” you said.

“We are.” 

“But they live further down south, don’t they?” 

“They’re staying in their flat for a few days. Just means they don’t have to travel so far for the show.” 

“Oh to have a choice of homes to stay in,” you replied sarcastically, the posh accent returning again.

He scoffed out a laugh. “That’s fine, go ahead and get it all out of your system now.” 

The car pulled up outside a large townhouse and Ben immediately hopped out, leaving you alone with the driver once again. You cleared your throat and took a deep, cleansing breath, meeting his eyes for a brief moment in the wing mirror. You wondered if he could sense your nerves, if he’d heard your conversation and couldn’t resist a peek. 

You pressed your lips into a brief, halfhearted smile and turned your attention back to the window, catching a glimpse of pink through the slats of the front gate, a flash of grey hair bobbing over the top of the hedge. 

Ben was guiding his mother towards the car with his arm linked in her’s, while his father followed closely behind, a suit jacket draped in the crease of his elbow. You instinctively leaned back in your seat, like you were hiding from them, savouring every last second of solitude. 

You glanced up when the door opened, doe-eyed with fear, your body unable to tell the difference between an imminent threat and the sweet-looking woman climbing into the car. She smiled, greeting you with a sing-song hello as she struggled to shuffle herself in.

“You okay, mum?” Ben called from outside. “Do you need help?”

“I’m fine, love,” she replied, before settling into her seat and smiling at you again. “Honestly, you’d think I was a hundred years old with the way he fusses.” 

You exhaled a quiet laugh.

She placed a hand on your knee, just for a moment. “Nice to meet you, I’m Wanda.”

She was so casual, so easy and relaxed in her greeting. You weren’t sure what you’d expected; maybe some kind of interrogation, judgemental glares or a cold, rigid introduction. But instead she was warm, informal, like she already knew you. 

“Quinn, it’s nice to meet you too,” you replied. 

There was another row of seats opposite you, and you watched as Ben and his father climbed in, sitting back with almost the exact same mannerisms as one another; fingers clasped in their laps, long legs taking up what little floor space the car had. 

“Quinn, this is my mum and dad. Mum and dad, Quinn,” said Ben breathlessly as he settled into his seat.

“Hi,” you said meekly.

It seemed to amuse him greatly to see you so uncharacteristically shy. He smirked to himself as he watched you greet them, his eyes never leaving you as the car began to move again. 

His father leaned over with an outstretched hand. “Tim,” he said. 

“Nice to meet you,” you replied as you shook it gently. 

“We hear you’re a journalist.” 

“I am, yes, I write for Draft.” 

“And that’s how you met?” Wanda asked. 

Was this it? The interrogation? Their way of vetting you, sniffing out any poor intentions or ulterior motives?

“Yeah, I interviewed him,” you said, turning to look at Ben with a slight smile. “Though it felt more like he was interviewing me at times.”

They both laughed and a small sense of relief washed over you. 

“Doesn’t surprise me at all,” Tim chuckled. 

“She’s far more interesting than me,” said Ben. 

“Well from everything you’ve told us so far, she certainly sounds it,” said Wanda, giving you a gentle nudge with her elbow. 

“Oh god, Ben, what have you been saying about me?” you asked.

“Nothing but lovely things,” he replied. “While simultaneously blinking ‘help’ in morse code.” 

You rolled your eyes and he chuckled.

“He says you’re fiery,” his mother said. “And quite the challenge.” 

You looked across to Ben again, this time with a fleck of genuine fear in your eyes. “Oh, nice.” 

She giggled. “He said a lot of soppy things too, which I won’t repeat. Wouldn’t want to embarrass him.” 

“No, please, embarrass him,” you said.

She laughed, and you noticed how much Ben looked like her, especially when they smiled. He had her eyes, her mouth, the curve of her lips. When they first got into the car, you’d been taken aback by how much he resembled his dad; their stature and disposition so similar it was almost uncanny. But now you were seeing both of them; his father undeniably in his bones, while his mother made up the details.

“Oh I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of embarrassing himself,” she joked. 

“Thanks, mum.”

You allowed a slight smirk in his direction before running your hands over the skirt of your dress. 

You would never take sitting down for granted again. The balls of your feet were burning, your high heels pinching at your toes and cutting into the backs of your ankles. Every corner you turned revealed another endless stretch of flowers and greenery, winding paths filled with crowds of impeccably dressed guests, their clothing as vibrant and colourful as the blooms surrounding them.

Tim and Wanda had ventured off to a display of tulips, leaving you alone with Ben for the first time since you’d arrived. The place was swarming with press and photographers, celebrities and civilians alike. Yet he seemed so unfazed by it, staying close to you despite it all. Perhaps he was too caught up in conversations with his parents, more concerned with making sure you were having a good time. Or maybe the idea of being seen with a ‘mystery woman’ didn’t bother him anymore. Was this one of those ‘soft launch’ things Nick was always talking about?

“You okay?” he asked as you meandered slowly together through an archway of pink and white flowers. 

“My shoes are cutting off circulation,” you replied. 

“There’s some benches up here, come on.” 

You emerged out of the archway onto another long stretch of path, tall green shrubbery surrounding it like the walls of a maze. 

“Are you worried about us being seen together?” you asked. 

“Not really,” he replied, squinting up at the sun before slipping on a pair of dark glasses. “Anything anyone said would just be an assumption anyway. Who’s to say you’re not just an assistant, or an employee of mine or-” He stopped when he saw you glaring up at him. 

“An employee...” 

“I’m not saying you look like an employee. I’m just saying there’s no reason for anyone to jump straight to the conclusion that you’re my girlfriend when there’s a million other explanations-” 

You gave an offended scoff. “You don’t think I look like I could be your girlfriend?” 

He breathed out a laugh and shook his head, pressing his tongue to the corner of his mouth. “You know full well that’s not what I meant.” He looked down at you, lowering his voice. “You’re trying to pick a fight, and I warned you to behave.” 

Your surly expression faltered, the slightest smirk fighting its way across your face. You turned to try and hide it, noticing an empty bench behind you and immediately rushing to sit down with an exaggerated sigh of relief. 

Ben sat down beside you, crossing one leg over the other and resting his hands in his lap. “But really,” he said casually. “What’s the worst that could happen if we’re seen together?” 

You pretended to ponder for a moment. “I don’t know, people could put two and two together and realise I’m the one that wrote the feature on you, which would in turn make it seem like I lack journalistic integrity, or make what I wrote about you appear biased or untrue. I could lose my job if the magazine received backlash, you could lose public favour if the cheating rumours resurfaced. And even if people didn’t accuse you of cheating on Faye, it’d still look like you moved on way too fast, so you’d surely get at least some criticism for that. We both would.”

He hummed in response, pushing his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose.

“You’re so private,” you said with a breathy laugh. “I don’t get how none of that scares you.” 

“It scares me. But I’ve also come to terms with the fact that I can’t not live my life out of fear it’s going to end up online or in an article somewhere. I know the risks.” He turned to look at you, speaking quietly. “But I also know it’s different for you. And if any of what you just said did happen, I would make sure you were protected from it.” 

“How?” 

“I have a good PR team-”

You interrupted him with a scoff, rolling your eyes and shaking your head dismissively.

“They are good,” he insisted. “And they’d handle it.” 

“And if they couldn’t?” 

“Then I’d handle it.” 

You felt a chill roll down your spine, your arms pricking with goosebumps despite the sun’s rays gleaming down on you. It was the sharp, protective edge to his voice, the certainty in his tone that left you with no doubt that he meant every word. It was hard to discern his expression through the dark lenses of his glasses, but you knew he’d noticed your reaction, his lips curving into an almost smile before he turned away. 

You reached for him without thinking, weaving your fingers through his. He looked down at your intertwined hands resting in his lap, and for a moment you thought he was going to pull away. But instead he brought them to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“They like you, by the way,” he said. “My mum and dad, I can tell.” 

“That’s a relief, considering you told them I was a challenge.” 

He chuckled. “I could’ve told them you were a serial killer and I don’t think it would’ve mattered. They’re just glad I’m out of that marriage situation.”

“They knew?” 

“Of course they did.” 

“And they were okay with it?” 

“Fuck no. Told me it was a terrible idea, duplicitous, unnecessary-”

“Well they weren’t wrong.” 

Even behind his sunglasses, you could tell he rolled his eyes at you. “I just couldn’t have kept such a big secret from them for that long. The second they started asking about grandchildren I’d have crumbled.” 

You laughed. “Oh god, they’re not going to start asking us that, are they?” 

He turned to look at you before pretending to think about it for a moment. “Mm, I give it a year before they start dropping hints.” 

You laughed again, letting go of his hand to reach up and neaten the collar of his shirt. “And what do we say when they ask?” 

“Maybe something that buys us a few more years of peace… Until they inevitably ask again.” 

He traced a finger slowly up your arm, sliding the strap of your dress back into place on your shoulder. It was a considerate gesture, yet there was something so unexpectedly possessive about it; a subtle reminder that you belonged to him, that he was conscious of even the smallest details of your body, even when you weren’t.

“But I’ll keep them at bay for as long as you need,” he said softly, his voice deep and sincere. “Forever, if I have to.” 

You knew the effect he was having on you wasn’t intentional, but that somehow made it even worse. Your stomach was coiling, cheeks flushing as vividly as the fuchsias surrounding you, all from one single, effortless touch.

You looked down at your shoulder for a moment before flitting your gaze back up to his face. “Do you really think they like me?” 

He smiled. “My mum said you’re beautiful.” 

“When?” 

“When you went to look at that water feature with my dad. She said she can see why I didn’t wait to tell them about you.” 

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “I like them too.”

The air carried the perfume of pollen, soil and fresh grass, the occasional trace of a perfume or aftershave as people idly passed by. You sat together on the bench in a pleasant silence; Ben people-watching, while you took off your shoes to let the warm pavement soothe your aching feet. The sun was bright, and you could feel it catching across your nose and cheeks as you tilted your head back, squinting up at the sky. He noticed and immediately slipped off his sunglasses, handing them to you without a second thought. 

“Here they come,” he said, nodding down the path.

You turned to see his parents wandering leisurely towards you; his father’s hands clasped behind his back as he walked, hunched slightly to listen to his wife talk about each display they passed. 

You sucked in a deep breath, reluctantly reaching down to put your shoes back on. 

*Not much longer, I promise,” Ben said softly.

“Did you see that topiary display back there?” said Wanda excitedly as they approached you both.

“I don’t think we did,” Ben replied. “Must have walked straight past.” 

“Oh you must see it, there’s elephants, lions, bears-”

“Oh my,” you added absentmindedly.

Ben giggled to himself and stood up, holding out his hand to you. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet before following them back down the path.

The drive home was quiet, the kind of comfortable silence that only came after a long, intense day. Hues of pink and gold bled across the dusky blue sky, the air thick with the lingering May heat. It felt akin to the early evening of a holiday abroad; when the sun became softer, but your skin still glowed in its memory. When the scent of summer still clung to the breeze; warm pavement, salt, lavender, and faint traces of smoke from a barbecue somewhere nearby.

You’d dropped Ben’s parents off first, and the ease of the interaction still surprised you; friendly kisses on each cheek, a squeeze of your hand and promises to see you again soon. Maybe Ben was telling the truth, maybe they really did like you. 

He’d walked them to their door, returning soon after with a grin and a sigh as he leaned back in his seat, telling the driver to continue on. 

“You survived,” he said quietly, reaching over to rest a hand on your thigh. 

“Barely,” you replied, though in truth, you had enjoyed it. And by the way Ben was looking at you, he knew it too. 

You climbed out of the car when you reached his house, shoes dangling from your fingers as you made your way towards the front door. It wasn’t late, but you were still completely exhausted, like your brain had run a marathon and was finally stopping to catch its breath. Your body ached, throat scratchy from talking so much, skin tingling with a developing sunburn. 

Ben trailed behind you, keys jangling in his hand as he whistled happily to himself, like the busy day hadn’t affected him at all. He unlocked the door and stepped aside to let you walk in first. The house was dim and quiet, undisturbed in his long absence. A pile of letters covered the floor beneath the front door, you bent down to get them but he quickly shooed you inside, scooping them up himself and sifting through them as he wandered through to the kitchen. You threw down your shoes and followed him, resting your elbows on the island as he moved towards the fridge.

“Drink?” he asked.  

“Cold, cold, icy water,” you replied. 

He filled a tall glass and slid it over to you, the ice turning it frosty, condensation pooling on the counter beneath it. You guzzled it down, letting out an exaggerated ‘ah’ when you were done. 

“Well?” he asked, leaning on the other side of the island facing you.

“Best water I’ve ever had.” 

“Not the water,” he laughed. “Today. Did you have a nice time?” 

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Was I well-behaved enough for you?” you asked, cocking your head with a slight smirk. 

He smiled. “You were perfect.”

You yawned, your eyelids so heavy you could barely keep them open. Ben pushed off the counter and walked around it to meet you, stepping close enough for you to smell the faint trace of aftershave still clinging to his clothes, the salt and earth on his warm skin. 

He brushed a stray hair out of your face before resting his palm on your cheek. “Why don’t you head up to bed?”

“You wouldn’t mind?” 

“Of course not.”

You gave a slow, appreciative nod and turned your back on him without a word. He understood immediately, fingers finding the zip of your dress and dragging it down, before pressing his lips to the back of your shoulder.

“Thank you,” you said.

“I’ll follow up soon.”

You moved languidly through the house, lugging yourself up the stairs and into Ben’s room. The bed was perfectly made, untouched, the sheets changed before he left for his press tour, waiting for his return. It looked almost too pristine to disturb, the edges of the duvet tucked and folded, pillows plumped, a throw draped neatly across it all. 

You wandered into the ensuite bathroom, letting your dress fall to the floor and kicking it away as you tied your hair up and began washing your face. When you glanced up at your reflection - at the matching underwear accompanied by a bare face and simple ponytail - there was something oddly amusing about it; that after all the teasing and flirting this morning, you were about to climb into bed alone while Ben pottered around downstairs.

You remembered how he’d whispered into your ear as you got dressed, the promises of what he was going to do to you when you got home, and how your stomach coiled at the thought. You thought of how when you first met just seven months ago, sex was the only thing you wanted from him, and the idea of not getting it would have left you irritated and sulking like a child.

Yet here you were, padding across his bedroom and slipping beneath the cool sheets of his bed, alone. And somehow, impossibly, you found that you didn’t mind. In fact, you were comforted by it. It went beyond passion, beyond hunger, beyond the need to satisfy a physical urge. It was a kind of intimacy that came with existing separately in the same space, feeling connected without contact, not feeling the need to punctuate the time you spent together with anything other than an ‘I’ll be up soon’. 

You felt yourself drifting off as soon as your head hit the pillow, dozing to the thought that this might actually be it; maybe this all felt so right because it was right.

You stirred to the feeling of the mattress dipping beside you, the warmth of Ben’s body as he whispered your name. 

“Quinn… Quinn, move over.” 

You grumbled, eyes still closed, limbs heavy as he nudged you gently. 

“Quinn,” he whispered again with a laugh. “You’re right in the middle of the bed, I can’t get in.” 

You shifted begrudgingly, rolling over just enough to let him slip into the space behind you. He settled in, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close, his bare chest pressing against your back as he draped his leg over yours. 

“Love you,” you mumbled, half-asleep. 

He kissed the side of your head. “I love you too.” 

You’d lost count of how many imaginary grandmothers you’d lost over the years; a sick ‘nanna’ saving you from so many unwanted social obligations, a funeral always popping up when you needed it most. It was an excuse that never failed you - effective, untraceable, and just the right amount of tragic to discourage any follow-up questions.

“God, Quinn, I’m so sorry,” said Julia on the other end of the phone. 

You were standing in Ben’s living room, peering out of the large bay window at a single magpie perched on the front gate. You gave a fake sniff, clearing your throat for added effect. “It’s all just so sudden. She’s really deteriorating fast so I need to get there as soon as I can. To be with her, y’know, before she…”  You trailed off with a subtle voice crack.

“Yeah, I mean- Of course.” 

“I can work remotely, so I’ll still get my pieces written and emailed over to you. I just won’t be able to come into the office for meetings.”

“No, that’s fine I understand, erm-” The sound of her chair creaked through the phone, her computer mouse clicking, papers shuffling. ”We have quite an important meeting scheduled in the first week of June, do you know, erm, do you have an idea of how long you might-”

You interrupted her with a pretend cry. “I mean, I can try my best to get back for it, I’m sure my grandmother will understand. You know, if she’s not already gone by then.”

“No. No, don’t be silly, take as much time as you need. Just… Keep in touch when you can, okay?” 

“I will. Thanks, Julia.” 

You hung up the phone and turned around to find Ben sitting on the couch, watching you with a disapproving glare.

“You should cast me in your next film,” you said. 

He shook his head slowly, pressing his lips together to maintain his serious expression. “You’re terrible.” 

“You’re the one who insisted I come with you...” 

“Oh, so it’s my fault your imaginary grandma’s about to die?” 

“Yeah, but don’t worry, at this point she’s died about 17 times.” 

His face broke with a smile, then a quiet chuckle escaped him. “Evil.” 

“Mhm.” You walked over and threw yourself down beside him, feeling his arm immediately drape around your shoulders. “I still stand by the fact that you love it though.” 

His phone buzzed on the arm of the couch. He picked it up, glancing at the screen for a moment before putting it down again. 

“What was that?” you asked.

“Hm? Oh, just my assistant confirming the flights for tomorrow.” 

“Ah.” You paused in thought. “God, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

“Well you’ve killed your grandmother now so there’s no going back.” 

You giggled. “I should probably go home and figure out what the hell I’m going to pack. I don’t even know where my suitcase is.”

“Do you want me to drive you?” 

“If you wouldn’t mind?” 

He moved to stand up, placing his hands behind his head and stretching his spine. You’d taken up most of the bed last night, leaving him with such a small sliver of space that he’d woken up with a stiff neck. You felt terrible as you watched him groan and sigh, rolling his shoulders and twisting his torso from side to side to alleviate the discomfort. 

“I’m sorry,” you said.

He just smiled, reaching out a hand to help you up off the couch. “How long do you think it’ll take you to pack?” 

“I’ve got no idea, why?” 

“Well I’m going to the gym soon,” he said, making his way into the hall and putting on a pair of trainers. “I thought if you wanted to, I could wait for you and we could go together.”  You grimaced as you followed him, leaning in the doorway and crossing your arms over your chest. “You know, I would, it’s just… My grandmother’s really sick-”

He sighed, checking his phone for the tenth time that morning alone, acknowledging that maybe he had crossed the line in the last fight you had. Just a little. You refused to talk to him, you didn't answer his texts, and you were clearly waiting for a formal apology, but he wasn't the least bit inclined to do so once he knew that, even though he had crossed the line in his reaction, he had every right to be angry.

It all started at one of Tony Stark's parties. The night had started off really well, the three Stephens were there, you were happy about that because it wasn't common for the three of them to go out with you. You both had drunk that night. Stephen and Defender not much, but he had drunk a lot and you had allowed yourself a few glasses of champagne. You danced, to electronic music, which he hated, but at the time it seemed fun, you kissed, you made love in one of the tower's rooms - although making love wasn't exactly the name he would give to what you did there - and everything was fine until he saw you full of smiles and looks with Thor Odinson. You were friends, he understood that, but from friends to what he was witnessing there was a huge distance. You were practically sitting on the Asgardian's lap while you idiotically tried to lift his damn hammer. - And Supreme found himself wondering if you weren't trying to lift something else from the Norse god. It was indecent and ridiculous and he found himself wondering why the others weren't as outraged by the scene as he was. They both just watched the scene from afar and laughed and talked to each other like the good friends they were.

In the end, Supreme couldn't contain himself, much less hide his displeasure with the allegedly innocent joke, and a minute later he was dragging you by the arm to the huge balcony of the building and hurling every kind of accusation and insult that his dirty mouth could muster.

"I can't believe you're saying that!" You replied indignantly and slightly offended.

"Oh no? That's because you can't know what I'm thinking." He spat back, "Do you have any idea how ridiculous you looked there? As if having three cocks isn't enough for you. Do you need another one?"

"You're drunk," you accused, and your eyes filled with tears, but he didn't let them move him.

"I'm not the one embarrassing myself for everyone to see. You should be ashamed of yourself acting like a fucking whore." He said, and your answer came too quickly for him to defend himself. You slapped him hard in the face and then raised your fists against his chest, striking him while you gave in to your tears and rage.

"You bastard, I hate you. I fucking hate you." You said it over and over until he grabbed your hands and pushed you against the wall, keeping you trapped there and making you look at him.

“You're mine, do you understand? Fucking mine!" He shouted and then kissed you roughly. Too roughly. His kiss, always full of love and passion, felt more like an assault to him, and he liked it.

You tried to fight him, but there wasn't much your small frame could do against his muscular body other than surrender, and that's exactly what you did, and somehow he knew that was where he really hurt you, when he made you see the power he had over you. But you kissed him back, even if you were angry, and it was impossible to know if the night would have ended differently if the two of you hadn't been interrupted by Defender Strange. Always him. The good Samaritan.

"Supreme, let her go." He heard him say just as he had taken your lips by force again and you were giving in. "You're drunk and you're hurting her."

Supreme could have started a fight right there, but he just stepped away, looking at his other self with disdain. "If you were half the man you think you are, you would be as offended as I am by that deplorable scene." He accused.

"Because I'm a better man than you are, I know there was no malice on either side. They were just having fun, and you would know that if you weren't so sickly jealous."

"Because I love her." He said through gritted teeth.

"Because you confuse love with possession," Defender replied and Supreme felt an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face, but he just walked right past them both, walked back to the lounge, grabbed his suit jacket that was hanging on the chair and left.

When he woke up the next morning his head felt like it was going to explode and the memories of the fight seemed distant and to some extent not a big deal, but when you didn't look him in the face during breakfast, he understood. Three days later he was checking his cell phone waiting for you to answer the countless texts he had sent just that morning while he was confined in the compound waiting for the Avengers meeting to end. He was leaving on a mission with Barton, Rogers and Romanoff in a few days and he didn't want to leave things as they were, but deep down he knew he had messed up terribly with you, even his narcissistic ass understood that his reaction wasn't normal and the fact that everything had happened at a Stark party, in front of your friends, only made things worse for him.

...

You were tired and it wasn't even noon yet. To be honest, you had no idea how you would get through that day and your mind kept playing with excuses to get up, grab your things and leave the office. Your cell phone wouldn't stop buzzing with texts from Supreme, each one more eloquent than the last and you knew their pattern well. First he would apologize saying that he had overreacted, then he would blame you for something you hadn't done, then he would say that even if you hadn't done anything wrong, you should avoid that kind of situation once you knew him and knew he would be angry. Again, he would blame you, but then he would apologize for the overreaction he had, and the cycle would go on and on.

He was so different from the other Stephens that sometimes you wondered if it was possible for them to be the same person. Stephen would never treat you like that. Defender would never talk to you like that, but Supreme always found a reason to take out all his frustrations on you and you hated him in those moments, but you couldn't help but love him in all the others.

"Y/n? Did you hear what I said?" You heard Phil saying and were dragged back to your reality inside the office, to the sound of the extremely loud air conditioning, the incessant typing on the keyboards of the computers in the booths next to yours, the hurried footsteps and the ringing of the phones.

"I'm sorry." That was all you said and he stared at you for a minute, rolling his lips and then repeated the question.

"The Link Dynamics files? I need to deliver everything to their lawyer this afternoon. Tell me you didn't forget!"

Of course you forgot. "Of course not! I'll finish reviewing them. I’ll bring them to your desk in a minute."

Phil's worried frown turned into a wide smile "You're the best, Y/n." He said and left.

To some extent, the desperation to finish your work in time for the 1pm meeting helped you forget about the issue with your problematic boyfriend and thus you managed to avoid the intrusive thoughts that told you to run away from work and lock yourself inside your room to watch bad TV shows and eat junk food.

By the end of the afternoon there were at least twenty texts that you didn't bother to read and when you got home the Sanctum was silent and your chest was enveloped by warmth when you smelled food coming from the kitchen indicating that Defender had already arrived. You took off your shoes and left your bag and keys on top of the sideboard and followed the smell to the kitchen where you found him distracted by the stove.

You didn't bother to announce your arrival, instead you approached and wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head on his back.

"Hi there" He chuckled, stroking your arm lightly and continued with his work. "Long day?"

"You have no idea." You groaned.

He hummed, finishing stirring what looked like a very juicy and fragrant stew. "Since you’re here, taste it for me and help me decide if it needs anything else." He asked, gently turning and bringing the spoon to your mouth, his other hand under the spoon to make sure not a drop would stain your white blouse. It was a fish stew and although you hadn't seen it, you could taste the potatoes and carrots, as well as paprika, thyme, garlic and olives perhaps. You hummed, slowly savoring it and then pretended to think for a second. "More salt, perhaps." You finally said and he raised his eyebrow.

"Really? That's not what I had in mind. I thought more pepper."

You shook your head. “No, it’s fine as it is. It’s just that you know me, I like my food with a little extra salt.”

He smirked. “I guess a pinch wouldn’t hurt.” He turned and added a pinch of salt to the stew and stirred it gently and you found yourself staring at him. He looked gorgeous, even though he looked completely normal. He wore black sweatpants and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt. His hair was tied back in its usual ponytail and his feet were bare. You loved it. Seeing him in his most natural, domestic form, doing normal things like cooking. The image always made your heart skip a beat.

“I didn’t expect you to cook tonight. I thought you’d be tired. I was already deciding between having a sandwich for dinner or ordering something.” You confessed, watching as he turned off the heat on the pot and removed a pan of gratin vegetables from the oven. He carefully placed it on the counter. "I was anxious. You know how I get before missions. I thought it would be a good idea to have a proper dinner before I go."

You couldn't hide the pout you made, and he smiled at you quickly. "I'll be back in three days." You crossed your arms. "The last time you said that you were gone for almost two weeks."

He let out a small laugh. "I know, but this time is different. I have no reason to believe something so big could happen to keep me away for so long."

You nodded, still reluctant. "I still wish you didn't go."

"Me too." He confessed and dedicated himself to setting the table and you smiled watching him arrange each plate and dish in its proper place. He was always meticulous in this matter and you found it super charming. Although the Sanctum had a beautiful dining room, you were used to eating in the kitchen. It was spacious enough and had a certain comfort that the sterile living room lacked. The smaller table could seat six people, but Defender was used to always setting out four plates. That night, however, he hesitated when setting out the fourth, but did it anyway.

You sighed as you watched him finish arranging everything and finally gave in to the matter that hung over you like a gray cloud.

"I know I can't leave things as they are, but I don't know how to move on as if nothing had happened."

He finished setting out the cutlery on the table and then rolled his lips, thinking of the best way to say what he was thinking.

"Say it."

"He's not gonna change, baby. We've been at this too long to understand that this is just the way he is, and I can say that for sure because he is me."

You shook your head. "Sometimes it's hard to believe that. You would never talk to me like that."

"But the man I was would. I've evolved, baby, I've gotten better with time and pain, but Supreme is the way he is, and you've always known that. You were already irritated with him from the start, remember? But you fell in love with him anyway."

You lowered your eyes because you couldn't bear to look him in the eye. 'Because he's you and you're Stephen.'

"Yes, I know.  We are Stephen and I’m pretty sorry for that" He said nodding. “You know I don’t blame you for falling in love with him. I just need you to understand that he is the way he is since the beginning and we don’t have any reason to believe he’s  gonna change.”

Somehow you felt guilty about the situation you had put yourself in at that party. Even though there was no malice in the joke with Thor, you had a few more glasses of champagne than you should have and that affected your judgment. Sober you would never put yourself in that situation knowing that Supreme was there watching you and by understanding that things didn’t get any easier.

"It's just... I hate him sometimes." You confessed, feeling the weight on your chest intensifying.

"But you love him anyway." Defender finished. "It's okay to admit it. I know. I always knew, since day one."

"What should I do then? I can’t pretend nothing happened." You asked, genuinely lost, but he just smiled politely.

"Rule number 16, baby."

You sighed. "You guys can't interfere when I get into a fight with another Stephen."

"Exactly. And I think I interfered too much that night, but I don't regret it, tough. I just can't tell you what you should do. However, I can tell you what I wish you wouldn't do."

You waited.

"Let him go on a mission without you guys having resolved this."

You stared at him, understanding very well where he was going with this. If something happened and Supreme got hurt, you would never forgive yourself. "Now I hate him even more." You sighed and Defender came closer, pulling you to nestle into his chest. "Love and hate are awfully close, baby. Now, let’s forget this matter for a bit so we can enjoy our meal together. What do you think?"

You nodded and he smiled contentedly, gently lifting your chin to kiss you. He did it slowly, just a touch of lips that lingered over time and made your knees go weak. It was how he got everything from you. Gently and lovingly. With Defender Strange things were always that way.

When your lips parted you let out a little moan and then confessed "I love when you kiss me like that."

He frowned "Like what?"

"Like you. Soft and gentle. You can get anything from me like that, Defender Strange."

He let out a little laugh "You think I'm soft, huh?"

You smiled feeling your face blush "Only with me. Outside you are a feared and highly respected sorcerer."

"Okay, good to know I can keep the appearances." He hummed contentedly and then kissed you again the same way.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone that you're super sweet."

"Thank you, baby." He said, smirking and kissing you one more time before pulling away and ordering, "Now I think it's best if you go upstairs and change. We don't want the food to get cold."

You nodded, reluctantly pulling away from him.

 "While you're at it, tell the doctor that dinner is ready. He should be in the library." He asked.

“Okay” You said walking away.

...

Supreme was distracted on the phone, confirming the last details of the mission when he heard a knock on the door. He had gotten out of the shower and was in front of the mirror, gathering the courage to shave when he was interrupted by the call from his fellow Avenger, and they had been on the phone for several minutes. Since he took a while to answer, he heard the sound of the bedroom door opening and a voice calling him, but he didn’t bothered to answer.

"I believe everything is fine, but if you have any questions, you can call me later, Romanoff." He said, hanging up the phone.

 "Supreme" Defender called and he threw the towel in the sink, giving in to laziness and leaving the bathroom.

"Dinner is ready. I thought you would want to eat with us instead of here." Defender informed, entering the room.

Supreme shook his head. "I don't want to be where I'm not welcome." He said simply. In the last few days, you had refused to sit at the table with him and that had broken his heart deeply, but he understood, or at least he was making a huge effort to understand.

"She's still mad at you. God knows she has her reasons, but she's not okay with the way things are." Defender sighed. "She misses you. Just apologize and get it over with, Supreme."

He stared at his feet for a few seconds. "I really messed up, didn't I?"

Defender chuckled nervously, "That's what you always do. You let your emotions speak louder than reason. It's amazing how different we are in that way. I have so much trouble acting with my heart instead of my head, but with you it's all the time."

Supreme sighed heavily, putting both hands on his hips, his head still down, and then nodded, glancing at Defender regretfully. "I love her. I'm jealous of her. When I saw her..." He stopped, shaking his head to rid himself of the memory. "I know I should control it, but I can't. She's mine” He stopped himself and shook his head. “Ours. She is ours. This... I can understand this thing we have because it's us, but when any other man gets close to her, I just lose my mind."

Defender nodded, "She loves us, Supreme. There is no one else. But we need to treat her much better. You need to treat her much better, Supreme. What you did... the things you said to her were unacceptable."

"I just said it, I wasn't thinking straight..."

"You called her a whore."

Supreme looked at him in surprise "I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You hurt her. She told me."

"Of course she did." There was no way to refute that. Defender was right as always and Supreme wanted to go back in time to erase that horrible night, but he couldn't do that. He needed to deal with the consequences of his actions.

"Say you are sorry." Defender ordered with his authoritative tone that always made Supreme's blood boil in his veins.

"Do you really think I haven't done that before?"

"Do it again. Say it like you mean it. Say it bluntly, without apologies, without blaming her for something you did because that's what you always do!"

Yeah, there was no way to refute that either.

"Why do you even care?"

Defender sighed, "I told you. She loves you and misses you. That's why." He said, turning to leave the room. “I just can’t stand to see the sadness in her face.”

Supreme went back to the bathroom and stood in front of the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked fine. His defined chest and visible biceps were a source of pride for him. After all, the hours he spent at the Compound gym listening to bad music had to be paid for somehow, but at that moment all he could see were the bags under his eyes resulting from sleepless nights. He knew Defender was right and he was wrong, and that was hard for him. His narcissism made everything about him, you said, but what you didn't know was that being like he was could hurt him a lot.

When he finally went down to dinner, he found you and the other Stephens already eating. Apparently, Defender had cooked that night and you were all delighted with him, giving little compliments while humming with each bite of food.

"I mean it. That's the most delicious flounder I've ever had in my life." You said, which made him almost roll his eyes, but he held himself back.

"You're still here. I thought you'd already left." Doctor Strange said as Supreme sat in the place reserved for him and right in front of you.

"Tomorrow. We're still working out some details." He answered while serving himself.

"What's the situation?" The doctor asked.

"Possible misuse of ancient magical artifacts in southern Russia. Some people died in unnatural ways, which caught the attention of the Avengers. They could be relics, which I doubt."

"I remember Wong saying he has an inventory of all the magical relics on this planet so if one go missing he would know." Defender confirmed. "Whatever it is, it's not sorcery."

Supreme took a forkful of food and had to hold back his satisfaction. It was indeed delicious and somehow that only made him feel even worse. How was it possible that one of them knew how to cook so well and the other two could barely boil water to make spaghetti?

"Witchcraft, perhaps. We've faced things like this before." Doctor Strange guessed. "You could ask Maximoff for her opinion."

"No, I can handle it." He said, glancing subtly at you. You were eating in silence now, but you must have been staring at him because your eyes met, and he could see your cheeks turn pink before you looked away.

Doctor Strange shook his head. "It's up to you, but dealing with witchcraft can be dangerous." "No. It's fine with me. I've dealt with plenty of witches in my universe." He bragged and then sipped from his glass of the white wine Defender had chosen for the evening. An excellent choice, to say the least.

Stephen didn't press the issue, but you looked directly at Supreme for the first time that day and spoke visibly irritated. At that point he suspected that the sound of his breathing was enough to irritate you. "Let's hope your arrogance doesn't get you killed one of these days, Stephen. I honestly don't know how you can stand yourself."

That hurt.

"Come on doll, don't be like that." He found himself begging as he watched you stand up and threaten to leave the table. The idea that you would rather give up such a delicious meal than endure being in his presence was devastating to him.

"Don't call me like that!" You almost yelled at him, which made him snap too.

"I'm sorry, okay?" He almost shouted the words, standing up as well. "I'm sorry. I hurt you and said things I shouldn't have. I overreacted and it wasn't your fault. None of this was your fault. I'm so sorry."

He couldn't believe how saying those words felt like it lifted a weight off his chest. He needed this as much as you did, apparently.

However, it took you so long to show any reaction that the relief was quickly replaced by the fear that he had somehow managed to make everything even worse. You just stood there staring at him. The other Stephens didn't dare say anything. Supreme was pretty sure they were barely breathing for fear of breaking some stupid rule of theirs by interfering. "Honey... I love you. Please, talk to me. Forgive me. It wasn't your fault, it was my fault and my fault alone and I'm sorry for saying otherwise and I'm sorry for being the way I am, but please, I can't take this anymore. I miss you." Your reaction to his words was so abrupt that he barely realized what you were doing when you ran and went around the table and then threw yourself into his arms. The next thing he knew, he had your head in his hands and was kissing every inch of your face, forehead, eyes, nose, cheek and only then did he kiss your sweet lips and the little moan you let out when he deepened the kiss made his whole body tingle.

"Finally" he heard one of the Stephens say softly.

"Why did it take you so long to say it?" You asked against his lips.

"Because I'm a fool." He heard himself say and then pulled you back to his lips.

...

There were so many types of sex and you loved every single one of them. Lazy sex, when you woke up in the morning together and could afford to stay in bed late. It was usually slow and unpretentious. There was also homecoming sex, when Stephen came back from a mission after being away for weeks. It was always hard and desperate and full of sweat and saliva. Midnight sex, when one of you woke the other up to make love, sometimes it ended in cockwarming and both of you fell asleep without cumming, but that was never the goal.

That particular night you were introduced to a different form of sex, one that everyone talks about but that you had never experienced: Makeup sex.

You barely realized how you got to the bedroom. One minute you were eating dinner and the next you were devouring Supreme's mouth as he slammed the door behind you and you jumped on his lap. A moment later you were both naked and he was directing his cock at your entrance.

He wasn't gentle, actually, the thing about makeup sex is that it's not gentle. There's too much feeling involved and a desperate need to satisfy a pent-up desire.

"Shit, honey..." he cursed through his teeth as he finally buried himself inside you. The stretch was welcome and before he could say anything that would ruin the moment, you shut him up with another kiss, using the situation to your advantage to take control of the kiss. You used the support of your hands on his shoulders to bounce on his dick and your eyes rolled back with pleasure and you found yourself confessing on his lips.

"Oh I missed this. I missed you."

He groaned contentedly holding you by the ass and helping you move up and down on his cock, but a minute later he was throwing you on the mattress and coming on top of you. He entered you quickly and your legs locked on his hips while your nails dug into the skin of his back. He forced himself against you like a desperate man, it was something primal and delicious and your body responded to each thrust with the same desperation, producing more and more of that wetness that made him slide inside you with frightening ease and at the same time made an obscene squelching and wet sound.

"Fuck" He rasped between your lips "You're so fucking wet for me, honey. Feels so good."

You just hummed in response, at that point your mind was completely incapable of formulating a sentence, your heart was racing and there were so many emotions involved.

"I missed you so much. I'm sorry, love. I promise I will be better. I just... was so jealous. I am so jealous of you all the time and when I saw..."

"Shut up, Stephen" You said using all your strength to push him off of you. He didn't resist, he just rolled over on the bed and let you go on top of him. You slid him inside you again, taking control with a certain desperation and he allowed it. Supreme was not submissive, in fact he never allowed himself to be in a position where he was not in control, but that night he did not hesitate to let you ride him and you did it with force, with anger, with something more than just the pleasure you felt. It was as if by subjugating him like that you were making up for everything he had put you through in the last few days.

It didn't last long. And you didn't care. Your eyes closed, feeling the familiar tightening in the pit of your stomach and you didn't fight against it, you kept moving, grinding against him like an animal in heat as sweat ran down your neck and your breathing became labored and labored. The muscles in your thighs ached with the intensity of your movements, but you didn't care either, you needed to keep going, you needed your release, you needed that sweet catharsis to wash your soul and body and maybe then you could leave everything that happened behind. Sex as a cure. When the knot finally broke you let out a moan so loud that you knew anyone inside the Sanctum could hear it, the orgasm so strong it felt like you were going to pass out right there. It was over. You were his and he was yours and love had healed everything. Love would always heal everything.

...

Stephen had never felt that way before. It was easy to say that he had never seen you act that way before. The way you used him to reach your high was almost offensive, as if he was nothing more than a cock you could rub yourself against until you got what you wanted and that should have made him angry, but on the contrary, it was fucking hot. Maybe, and just maybe, he could understand the appeal that submission had with Defender. It was sexy with you.

However, when he realized that when you were done you simply dismounted him and threw yourself on the bed without giving him the chance to join in that bliss with you, he understood. The sex hadn't been for him, and you still hadn't said you had forgiven him.

You lay there in silence, and he chuckled nervously feeling his dick throb in protest. He ran a hand over his face and then turned to look at you and there were tears in your eyes and his heart broke into pieces knowing that it was his fault.

"I never meant to make you mad, you know? I was joking. Thor is like a brother to me. All of them..." You stopped as your voice broke and then took a deep breath before continuing. "They're my friends."

He was silent for a minute. All the adrenaline from the unfinished sex was quickly fading and replaced by remorse. "I know."

You wiped a tear that ran down the side of your face and then smiled at him, and the smile was sad. "There is only you, Stephen."

It wasn't easy for someone like him to admit when he was wrong, but in that moment, Supreme understood how cruel his behavior was and how he always managed to hurt you even when he knew you were the person he loved most in the world. How fucking contradictory could that be? His stomach churned with self-disgust, but he took a deep breath and cupped your cheek gently and pulled you in for a kiss. Soft, slow, completely unlike the sex had been, but with the same intensity of emotion involved. When your lips parted he could feel his eyes wet with tears he refused to shed and he was finally ready to tell you how sorry he was for everything when you covered his mouth with your fingertips and smiled.

"I know. I don't want to talk about what happened anymore, I just want to stay here with you. Please."

And how could he deny that? So he pulled you into his arms and you eagerly snuggled into his chest while he buried his nose in your hair, inhaling its delicious scent. You were so sweet, so fragile and at the same time so strong. There was nothing he could say to explain how much he loved you, he just hoped you could see it in his gestures. Even the bad ones.

You were silent for a few minutes. The orgasm that had been denied to him long forgotten. His blackened fingers continued to slide slowly down your arms and you drew circles on his chest with your nails. It was comfortable and intimate, and he didn't know anything better than that.

It was you who broke the silence after several minutes. Your fingers were now playing around his lips as if outlining a goatee that wasn't there.

"You need to shave." You said and there was a hint of irritation in your voice that was almost comical, and he couldn't help but tease you about it.

"I really don't get it. I thought you liked men with beards. You live with two of them, after all."

You tsked petulantly as if it was obvious what you needed to explain.

"I like beards, not stubbles. They itch and give me allergies. And besides, they give an air of sloppiness that doesn't suit you. I'm used to seeing you always impeccable and I like it. It must be the only good thing about your narcissism."

Ouch. You could have forgiven him - though you refused to say so - but he knew it would take you a while to let it go completely. Either way, he deserved it. Whatever treatment you decided to give him, he deserved it.

"I'll shave in the morning," he said obediently.

You hummed and went silent again for a long time, long enough for him to notice your breathing becoming more regular and low and your body weighing more in his arms and just like that he knew you had fallen asleep. He stared at the ceiling with a relieved smile on his lips, but the relief was contained and he found himself remembering a random moment from last week, but at that moment as he replayed it in his head it gained a new meaning. You and he were in the living room, it was Sunday, his day to be with you and you had decided to spend that time together at home instead of going out. You had dinner and were watching a movie sprawled on the couch. His head was in your lap while you stroked his hair. It was a normal and routine moment, but Stephen passed by you and observed the scene with a disapproving look and teased "You don't deserve her."

At the time he responded with an ironic "Fuck off", but when he remembered, after everything that had happened in the last few days and everything that had happened in his universe, Supreme knew it was true. He didn't deserve you.

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

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