CheyNovaK

---

The Avengers Tower kitchen was quiet at 2 a.m.

Rain tapped softly against the glass windows while the city glittered beneath them. YN sat on the counter in one of Steve’s old gray hoodies, nursing a cup of tea after another sleepless night.

Steve stood at the stove making pancakes because apparently that was his solution to emotional distress.

“You know,” she murmured, watching him, “normal people sleep.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder with a small smile. “Normal people don’t come home with stab wounds.”

“It was one stab wound.”

“You say that like it’s better.”

She laughed softly. God, he was beautiful like this.

Not because he was Captain America. Not because he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. But because he was gentle in ways the world rarely allowed men to be.

Steve remembered things.

How she liked cinnamon in her coffee.

How she unconsciously reached for her left shoulder when she was stressed.

How nightmares made her avoid sleeping entirely.

He noticed every little crack in her armor without ever trying to force his way through them.

“You should let me train you on knife defense,” Steve said.

“I know knife defense.”

“You got stabbed.”

“Okay, rude.”

He chuckled quietly, and the sound warmed something deep inside her. That was the thing about Steve.

Being around him felt like coming home after years of surviving.

Predictable. Steady. Safe.

The kind of man you imagined standing at the altar waiting for you with soft eyes and trembling hands. The kind of man who would hold your face during arguments instead of raising his voice.

The kind of man who would love your children before they even existed.

YN looked at him and saw peace.

And maybe that should have been enough.

---

Ben made peace impossible.

The motel room smelled like whiskey, smoke, and gunpowder.

Soldier Boy lounged against the couch while YN cleaned blood off her knuckles in the bathroom sink.

“You should see the other guy,” she muttered

“I did.” Ben smirked. “He ain’t seeing much anymore.”

She rolled her eyes, but she could feel him watching her. Always watching her. Like a predator. Like a man resisting the urge to drag her into his lap.

Ben was chaos in human form.

Too loud. Too arrogant. Too reckless. And completely intoxicating.

“C’mere,” he said suddenly.

“I’m busy.”

“Doll.” His voice dropped lower. Rougher. “Now.”

Her stomach flipped instantly. That annoyed her more than anything.

She walked over anyway.

The second she got close enough, his hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her between his legs hard enough to steal her breath.

“There she is,” he murmured.

Heat flooded her skin.

Steve touched her like she was precious.

Ben touched her like he was starving.

“You keep looking at me like that,” she whispered, “and one day I’m actually gonna shoot you.”

His grin widened. "Yeah? I think about you too when I'm holding my gun.” his hand grabbed his crotch.

God.

Everything with him felt dangerous. The flirting. The tension. The way his hand slid up her spine possessively.

Even kissing him felt reckless.

Especially kissing him.

Because Ben kissed like violence wrapped in hunger. Like he wanted to consume every thought in her head until there was nothing left except him.

And the worst part?

YN loved it.

She loved how fast her pulse got around him.

Loved the adrenaline. Loved the unpredictability. Loved the way he challenged her instead of calming her down.

With Steve, her heart settled

With Ben, it nearly exploded.

---

“You love him.”

The words caught YN off guard.

Steve sat beside her on the training room floor after a brutal sparring session, both of them sweaty and exhausted.

“Who?” she asked carefully.

Steve looked down at the wraps around his hands. “Soldier Boy.”

There was no jealousy in his voice. That somehow made it worse. YN swallowed. “Steve—”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.” He smiled faintly, though sadness lingered behind it. “I see the way you look at him.”

She hated that he noticed everything.

“He makes me feel…” She exhaled sharply. “Alive.”

Steve nodded once. And there it was again. That unbearable understanding. No anger. No manipulation.

Just quiet heartbreak.

“He scares you too,” Steve said softly.

“Yes.”

“And me?”

Her eyes met his. “You make me feel safe.” Something vulnerable crossed his face then. Because Steve Rogers knew exactly what that meant.

Safe was not exciting.

Safe was not obsession, it was not the kind of love songs people wrote about. Safe was the man you built a future with.

The man who stayed. The man who loved you gently when the world had only ever loved you violently.

Steve reached over slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“If you choose him,” he said quietly, “I’ll still come when you call.”

Her chest physically hurt. Because of course he would.

That was Steve.

"I... I love you too..." She whispers into his shoulder while he held her. He kissed her head. "I'm with you till the end of the line, love."

"Till the end off the line." She mouthed back.

---

Ben laughed when she told him.

Actually laughed.

“You serious?” he scoffed, sitting shirtless on the edge of the bed. “Golden Boy gave you the ‘I just want you happy’ speech?”

YN glared at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And he’s boring.”

“He’s kind.” she defended him.

Ben leaned back slightly, studying her. Then, unexpectedly serious, he asked, “You ever wonder why you can’t stop coming back to me?”

She crossed her arms defensively. “Enlighten me.”

“Because Rogers looks at you like something to protect.” Ben stood, walking toward her slowly. “I look at you and see someone who can burn the world down with me.”

Her breath caught

Ben tilted her chin upward.

“You don’t want peace all the time, sweetheart.” His thumb brushed over her lower lip. “You want passion. You want obsession. You want someone who matches your fire instead of putting it out.”

The terrifying thing?

Part of her thought he was right.

---

That night, YN sat alone between two futures.

One looked like warmth, stability, love that lasted decades, the other looked like fire.

Danger.

Chemistry so intense it blurred into destruction.

Steve was the man she could trust with her life. Ben was the man who made her forget reason entirely.

And maybe the cruelest part of all…

Was that she loved them both for completely different reasons.

--

“Whenever you use her powers, those… flame things you throw—your hair gets this red sheen,” he gestured vaguely, searching for the words in his own rough way, “and you look like her,” and this time she blinked properly, slow, like she was coming back piece by piece, her gaze finally lifting to him, confusion swimming there, something raw and questioning.

"What?” she managed, her voice hoarse, and he dropped down a little lower, more level with her, “You said you don’t look like your mother,” he went on, steady now, “but you do. Maybe not every day, maybe not just standing around, but when you fight? When you let it out? You look like her. You fight like her. Your power has obviously evolved, you're stronger. But there’s a resemblance. Clear as day.”

She stared at him, trying to process, trying to hold onto something that made sense. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, and there was something fragile in it, something that felt like it might snap if he answered wrong, and he didn’t hesitate this time, “Because there’s no resemblance between us,” he said bluntly, like it was obvious, like it solved something, and that—that—broke something in her; her eyes filled instantly, tears spilling over before she could stop them, her head shaking as she pushed herself up just enough to face him more directly.

"That’s not true,” she said, her voice cracking, desperate now, like she needed him to hear it, to believe it. “There are so many—” she swallowed hard, words tumbling over each other, “I have your haircolor... brown, like yours. I’m built like you, I’m strong like you, I don’t get hurt like normal people, I can lift cars, I—” her breath hitched, her hands curling into fists against her knees, “I’m an asshole like you,” she added, a broken, humorless laugh slipping through, “I’m insecure like you. I’m—”

She shook her head harder, tears falling faster now, “I’m you on so many levels,” and her voice dropped, quieter, more fragile, “I just… I convinced myself you weren’t my father,” she admitted, like the truth was tearing its way out of her, “but you are. You have to be. That’s what it says. That’s what they said,”

Her breathing broke again, shoulders trembling now as the weight of it crushed back down on her, “and I feel—” she stopped, choking on the word before forcing it out anyway, “I feel so dirty,” her voice barely more than a whisper now, “I feel disgusting,” she repeated, shaking her head, like saying it might make it less real, “I didn’t know, I didn’t—”

Her words fractured, falling apart as she covered her face for a second, then dropped her hands again, looking at him like she didn’t know what to do with herself anymore, “but I still did it,” she said, raw and exposed, “I still—” she couldn’t finish, the sentence collapsing under the weight of it, and for once, Soldier Boy didn’t have a sharp remark, didn’t deflect, didn’t snap back; instead, he moved—slow, deliberate—lowering himself fully in front of her.

Cosing the space she’d been trying to fill with panic and words, and before she could pull back or overthink it, he reached for her, one hand coming up behind her head, the other around her shoulders, pulling her into him; it wasn’t rough, wasn’t possessive, just… solid, grounding, like something she could actually hold onto, and that was all it took—whatever control she had left snapped, her body folding into him as the tears came harder now, uncontrollable, her hands clutching at his shirt like she needed something to keep her from falling apart completely, and for once, he didn’t let go.

He doesn’t say anything else after she breaks—just shifts, steadies, then moves; Soldier Boy slips an arm under her and lifts her like it’s nothing, carrying her across the wrecked room to the bed and setting her down carefully, like she might shatter if he’s rough with it; she doesn’t resist, barely even registers the movement, just lets herself be placed there, staring somewhere past him as he sits on the edge.

One hand coming up almost automatically to brush her hair back from her face, slow, repetitive, grounding; he watches her for a second, jaw tight, still not buying it—not really—but he can see what it’s doing to her, and arguing the point now would only make it worse, so he exhales and goes the other way, voice lower, rougher.

“Hey… I’m sorry you feel like this,” he says, not quite the words he means but the only ones he’s got, thumb brushing lightly over her cheek to catch the last of her tears, “I’ll… figure something out, yeah? Whatever it takes to get you back on your feet,” and it’s not a promise he’s used to making, not one he likes, but it lands softer than anything else he could say; he leans down just enough to press a brief kiss to her forehead—quick, almost awkward—then pulls back, giving her one last look,

"Get some sleep,” he mutters, starting to stand, but he doesn’t get far—her hand snaps out, grip strong and sudden around his wrist, stopping him cold; “Please don’t go,” she says, voice small, frayed at the edges, “I don’t wanna be alone right now,” he glances down at her hand, then back at her face, hesitation flickering, “You need to sleep,” he replies, trying to keep it simple, trying again to pull away, but her grip only tightens.

“I don’t trust myself to be alone right now,” she says, quieter, but it hits harder than anything else she’s said, and that’s the moment it lands for him—how deep this is, his expression shifts, something heavier settling in as he studies her for a beat; “You thinking about doing something stupid?” he asks bluntly, because that’s the only way he knows how to ask; she doesn’t answer—doesn’t even shake her head—just keeps holding onto him like letting go isn’t an option, and that silence says enough.

He exhales through his nose, then gives in, kicking off his boots as he moves, climbing onto the bed behind her, lying back stiffly at first like he’s not sure what to do with himself there, leaving space between them, trying not to cross a line he can’t define; but she moves anyway—turns toward him, closing that distance, pressing closer like she needs something solid, something real to anchor to.

He stills for half a second, then lets his hand come up again, sliding into her hair, fingers moving through it in that same slow, steady rhythm as before, over and over, the only comfort he seems capable of offering.

She quiets eventually, her breathing evening out just enough, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t sleep, just stares up at the ceiling in the dark, hand still in her hair, mind turning over the same question again and again—how the hell she’s supposed to come back from this, and whether she even can.

--

Weeks turned into months, and the tension inside Vought Tower stopped feeling temporary. It settled into everything. Eve changed slowly enough that the public barely noticed at first, but the people around her did. The girl who used to snap back at reporters, smirk through interviews, roll her eyes at Vought scripts—that version of her faded. She smiled less. Spoke less.

Half the time she looked like she wasn’t even in the room. She still did appearances, still stood beside Homelander and Soldier Boy when Vought needed the perfect family image, but something about her had dulled. Like the light behind her eyes had burned out. Homelander noticed it more than he wanted to admit. At first he tried talking to her, asking if she was okay in his own awkward, detached way, but Eve gave him nothing back.

One-word answers. Blank looks. Silence. Eventually the concern started turning into irritation. “She can’t keep doing this,” he said one evening, pacing across the conference room while Sage sat watching him quietly. “People notice weakness.”

"She’s going through shit,” Soldier Boy snapped immediately from where he leaned against the table, already annoyed. “You don’t just bounce back from something.... she... went through, overnight.” Homelander shot him a sharp look.

"The issue,” Sister Sage said calmly, “is perception.” Both men looked at her. “The public loved Eve because she looked untouchable,” she continued. “Strong. Dangerous. A worthy addition to America’s most powerful family.” She folded her hands neatly. “But now?” A slight tilt of her head. “Now she looks unstable.” Ben scoffed immediately. “She’s not unstable.” Sage ignored him. “If she doesn’t prove herself publicly soon, people will start seeing her as the weak spot.” That landed exactly where she intended it to.

"She’s been like this for months.”

"Yeah? And?” Ben pushed off the table, jaw tight. “Maybe she needs time instead of being shoved in front of cameras every five damn minutes.” Sage stayed quiet for a moment longer, letting the argument build exactly the way she wanted before finally speaking.

Homelander’s expression shifted instantly, concern twisting into calculation. “So what?” he asked. “We parade her around some more?” Sage’s lips curved slightly. “No.” A beat. “We remind people what she is.” Silence settled for a second before Sage leaned forward slightly. “The strongest civilizations in history understood spectacle. Sparta didn’t create loyalty through comfort. They created it through survival.” Homelander’s interest sharpened immediately.

Soldier Boy’s did not. “Absolutely not,” Ben said flatly before she could continue. Sage barely looked at him. “A tournament,” she said smoothly. “The mightiest supes only. Brutal. Public. Controlled.” Homelander was already smiling now, slow and fascinated. " Supe Olympics,” he murmured. “Not games,” Sage corrected. “A trial.” Ben let out a harsh laugh. “That’s your genius idea? Throwing her into a bloodsport?”

“Not Homelander,” Sage said calmly. “Not you. You’ve both already proven yourselves.” Her eyes shifted toward Eve, who sat at the far end of the room completely still, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor like the conversation barely involved her. “Eve represents the future.” Homelander’s smile widened slightly at that. “America sees her survive this,” Sage continued, “and they stop questioning her strength.”

Ben was visibly furious now, stepping forward. “She’s not doing it.” Finally, Eve moved. Barely. She lifted her eyes slowly toward them, exhaustion sitting deep behind them. Homelander looked almost eager. Ben looked ready to tear the room apart. Sage just watched. Eve stared at all of them for a long second, then slowly shook her head at Soldier Boy. No. It’s okay. Her voice, when it came, was flat and hollow.

“I’ll do it.” Ben turned toward her immediately. “Eve—” “I said I’ll do it.” No emotion. No fight. Just emptiness. And somehow that sounded worse than if she’d screamed. The room went quiet. Homelander looked satisfied. Sage looked thoughtful. Soldier Boy looked like he wanted to punch through the wall. Eve pushed herself to her feet without another word. No dramatic exit. No argument. She just walked out of the room, shoulders stiff, expression blank, leaving the three of them behind in the silence. And Ben watched her go with a sinking feeling in his chest that he couldn’t shake.

The announcement changed everything almost overnight. Vought pushed it harder than any campaign they’d launched in years. Commercials flooded every screen in America within hours—dramatic music, gold Spartan imagery, flashes of blood and power and cheering crowds while Vought International branded it as the greatest superhuman event in history. The Vought Sparta Challenge.

Supes from all over the world were invited to compete. One survivor. One champion. A guaranteed place in The Seven. The public lost their minds over it instantly. By the second week, the massive arena Vought had constructed outside the city was nearly finished—an enormous concrete structure built like a modern colosseum, surrounded by screens taller than buildings themselves. Tribunes stretched endlessly around the central fighting grounds, tens of thousands of seats waiting for people willing to pay obscene amounts of money to watch supes tear each other apart for seven straight days. And people did pay. They sold out almost immediately.

Eve stood near one of the upper observation windows during one of the early walkthroughs, staring down at the arena floor while workers moved below like ants. The place didn’t feel real. It felt ancient. Cruel. Exactly the kind of thing humanity would pretend to be horrified by while buying tickets to front-row seats. “Pretty fucked up, huh?” Soldier Boy muttered beside her. Eve didn’t answer right away. “They’re excited for it,” she said eventually, watching the workers below. “People always are,” Ben replied. “Long as it ain’t them dying in the dirt.”

The contestants started arriving days later. Some came willingly, chasing fame or the chance to join the Seven. Others came desperate. Violent. Broken. The kind of supes Vought normally buried out of sight. Every country seemed to send someone. Speedsters. Telepaths. Enhanced soldiers. Human weapons wrapped in flags and sponsorship deals. Vought treated it like the Olympics. The building itself told a different story. The contestants lived inside the arena complex once they arrived. Locked in. Isolated. Each given a small concrete room barely bigger than a prison cell. A metal cot. One dim light. No running water except for the freezing showers they were allowed after matches. A bucket in the corner to piss in. No comforts. No distractions.

The rules were printed outside every room in black lettering tall enough to read from down the hallway: NO FIGHTING OUTSIDE MATCHES. LAST SUPERVIVOR WINS. That was it. Everything else was fair game. Eve’s room sat near the end of one of the upper corridors, separated slightly from the others—not for safety, but branding. Vought still wanted their golden girl protected enough to market. It didn’t stop the atmosphere from crawling under her skin. The screams carried at night anyway. Training injuries. Panic attacks. Fights security had to break apart. She barely slept. Most days blurred together into preparation. Combat drills. Endurance testing. Publicity shoots. Sage pushed strategy. Homelander pushed image. But Soldier Boy— Soldier Boy pushed survival. “Again,” Ben barked as Eve slammed into the mat for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.

One evening after drills, she sat alone outside her room, still in her training gear, elbows on her knees while the arena lights glowed red through the corridor windows. Somewhere below, thousands of workers prepared the stadium for opening day. She could already hear faint cheering from fans gathered outside the gates days early. Ben approached slower this time, carrying two beers. He handed her one without speaking and sat beside her. For a while, neither of them talked.

She rolled onto her back, breathing hard. “You hesitate too much.” “I’m tired,” she muttered. “And when somebody’s trying to rip your spine out on day four?” he shot back immediately. “You gonna ask for a nap?” She forced herself back up with a glare. “You’re an asshole.”

"Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “And alive.” But even he could see it. She was thinner now. Sharper somehow, but weaker underneath. The spark she used to fight with was gone. She moved because people expected her to move. Ate because they told her to eat. Spoke when spoken to. Half the time her eyes looked empty during training, like part of her was somewhere else entirely.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said eventually. Eve stared ahead. “Yes I do.” “No,” he corrected quietly. “You really don’t.” She let out a small laugh, humorless and tired. “That stopped being true the second they made me part of this family.” Ben’s jaw tightened slightly at the word family, but he didn’t comment on it this time. Below them, the massive screens outside the arena suddenly flickered on for testing, displaying her image thirty feet high above the crowds gathering outside.

NOVA STAR — Vought Sparta Challenge Favorite.

Eve looked at it for a long moment before taking a slow sip of beer. “They’re all waiting to watch us kill each other,” she murmured. “Yeah,” Ben replied. “That’s America.”

Eve stared in front of her for a long moment before quietly asking, “Are you gonna watch?” Ben leaned back slightly against the floor behind them, beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. “Kinda have to,” he muttered. “Me and Homelander are expected to sit in the VIP.” A short scoff left him. “Looks like a goddamn throne setup. One for him and one for his right-hand man.” Eve glanced sideways at him. “You hate being summoned around like that.” Ben laughed shortly—barely even a laugh, more like a breath escaping through his nose. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

His eyes drifted back toward the arena lights, leaning. “But for you, I won’t mind.” Then he looked at her again, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly upward. “Unless you don’t want me there. Seeing how you’re probably gonna kick everybody’s ass.” Eve looked down at the beer in her hands for a second, thinking about it longer than she should have. Then quietly—honestly—she said, “I really want you there.” Ben stilled slightly beside her. Eve turned her head toward him then, and for a second neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was heavier than that. Emotional. Dangerous. Ben’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips before he leaned toward her almost automatically, instinct moving faster than thought. Eve reacted immediately, lifting two fingers against his mouth before he could close the distance. “Don’t,” she whispered softly. “Please.” Ben stopped instantly. The two of them stayed frozen there for half a second, close enough to feel each other breathing. Then instead of arguing, Ben shifted slightly and pressed a brief kiss near her hairline instead, just above her forehead. Softer. Safer.

One of his arms slid around her afterward, pulling her gently sideways against him until her temple rested near his jaw, their faces close together in a way that already blurred too many lines.

A throat clearing behind them shattered the moment immediately. Eve pulled back first. Firecracker stood near the corridor entrance holding an awkward smile that didn’t quite hide the confusion on her face. “Uh… hey,” she said carefully. “Just wanted to wish you luck tomorrow.” Eve straightened slightly, forcing herself back into composure. “Thanks,” she replied evenly.

Firecracker’s eyes flicked between the two of them again. Something about it clearly wasn’t sitting right with her. “Right,” she said quickly. “Anyway. Big day.” Then she left. But not really. Ten minutes later she stood inside one of the upper lounges of Vought International nervously speaking to Homelander while he overlooked the glowing arena below through the glass walls.

“No, I know,” she rushed out quickly, nervous already. “But this felt different.” Silence stretched between them. “Different how?” Firecracker swallowed hard. “It almost seemed…” She stopped herself immediately. Homelander stepped closer now, calm in the way that always felt threatening. “Seemed what?” She looked away briefly before forcing herself to say it. “Romantic.”

“Something’s wrong,” she said carefully. Homelander barely looked at her. “With what?”

“Soldier Boy and Nova Star.” That got his attention. Slowly, he turned toward her. “What about them?” Firecracker hesitated immediately. “They’re just…” She struggled for the words now that she actually had to say them out loud. “Close.” Homelander’s expression stayed blank. “They’re family.”

The room went still. Homelander stared at her for a long moment before disbelief slowly twisted into anger across his face. “Are you suggesting,” he said quietly, “that my father and my sister are perverts?” Firecracker’s face paled instantly. “No—I didn’t mean—”

“Because that’s a pretty fucking disgusting accusation.” His voice stayed calm. Somehow that made it worse. “I just thought maybe—” “You thought wrong.”

Firecracker stepped back immediately, realizing too late she’d crossed a line. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Really. Maybe I misunderstood.” Homelander kept staring at her until she looked genuinely uncomfortable. Then finally he waved one hand dismissively. “Get out.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. The second she left, Homelander turned back toward the arena below, jaw tight, Firecracker’s words replaying louder in his head than he wanted them to.

Homelander found Sister Sage exactly where he expected her to be—alone in one of the quieter strategy rooms overlooking the arena, several screens glowing around her with statistics, betting numbers, contestant files, public opinion polls. She didn’t look up when he entered. “You look troubled,” she noted calmly. Homelander shut the door behind him harder than necessary.

Sage shrugged lightly. “Your father’s been busy.” A small smirk touched her mouth. “Firecracker. Nova Star.” Homelander’s jaw tightened. “She’s his daughter.” Sage sighed softly, almost tired. “I mean…” She tilted her head slightly. “It would be very bad publicity if people knew, don’t you think?” Silence filled the room instantly. Homelander stared at her. “You think people know.”

“Have you noticed something going on with them?” That made Sage glance up briefly. “Them?”

“My father and Eve.” Sage leaned back slightly in her chair like she’d been expecting the question eventually. “Oh,” she said casually. “Yeah.” Homelander frowned immediately at how unbothered she sounded. “Yeah?”

“I think,” Sage corrected carefully, “that the optics are dangerous.” She stood slowly now, walking toward the massive glass window overlooking the unfinished arena floor below. “The public forgives violence. Murder. Narcissism. Even fascism, apparently.” A glance over her shoulder. “Incest? That one’s harder to market.” Homelander’s expression darkened immediately.

“No,” he said flatly. “No. He wouldn’t.” Sage didn’t answer immediately. That silence said enough. “You saw the way he acts around her,” Homelander continued, anger creeping sharper into his voice now. “That’s not—”

“Normal?” Sage supplied calmly. Homelander looked away for a second, jaw flexing. Because now that someone else had said it out loud, he couldn’t stop seeing it. The touches. The way Ben watched her. The way Eve softened around him in ways she never did around anyone else. “It needs to stop,” he muttered. Sage turned fully toward him again. “No,” she corrected quietly. “It needs to disappear.”

Homelander looked back at her sharply. And there it was. The real conversation. Sage folded her arms. “If this gets out, Vought burns with it. Your family image burns with it.” Her gaze sharpened slightly. “And so do you.” Homelander went still. “What are you suggesting?” Sage held his gaze evenly.

“Nova Star dies in the trials.” The room fell silent. Homelander stared at her for several seconds, emotions shifting rapidly behind his eyes. Anger. Hesitation. Calculation. “It solves everything,” Sage continued. “The public mourns the tragic death of America’s beloved daughter. Soldier Boy spirals privately, but publicly becomes sympathetic.” A slight tilt of her head. “And whatever this… thing is between them dies before anyone can prove it existed.”

Homelander swallowed once, his face unreadable now. “And Firecracker?” Sage asked calmly. “What about her?” His answer came immediately. “She know too much, she competes too.” Sage lifted a brow slightly. “You think she’s dangerous?” Homelander looked back toward the arena below, voice colder now. “She saw it.” A beat. “That makes her dangerous.”

Sage watched him quietly for a moment, studying how easily he’d reached that conclusion. Then she nodded once. “Understood.”

Outside the enormous windows, workers continued preparing the arena floor where, in just days, dozens of supes would begin killing each other for entertainment. And somewhere deeper inside the tower, completely unaware, Eve is training to survive a lie carefully designed to destroy her.

--

Silence followed, thick but not empty, and then she felt him move. Slow, deliberate, closing the distance without a word. By the time she turned her head slightly, he was already there, close enough that it wasn’t accidental anymore.

He stepped in behind her, one hand bracing against the glass beside her, the other settling at her waist—not tight, not forcing, just enough to keep her there. The hand felt warm on her barely covered skin.

“Don’t gotta do this,” he said quietly, his voice rougher now, less sharp. Evelyne didn’t move away, didn’t lean in either, just stayed exactly where she was. “Do what?” she asked. His hand shifted slightly at her side, fingers brushing just enough to be felt.

“Pretend.”

She exhaled slowly. “I’m not pretending.” He didn’t answer, instead lifting a strand of her hair, brushing it over her shoulder, exposing the side of her neck, his fingers following, light, trailing. Her breath caught—just slightly—and she hated that he noticed. “I’m not here for that,” she said, quieter now.

A pause.

“Then why are you here?”

She turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder, eyes steady. “Because I care for you.” That landed differently, and for a second he didn’t move, didn’t deflect, didn’t smirk, just looked at her, and there it was again—that crack, that weight—but he didn’t know how to sit in it, so he didn’t.

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth, his hand sliding slightly along her side again, testing, pushing. “Wow,” he murmured, “that’s a dangerous, the last woman I trusted betrayed me, send me to the fucking Russians.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t step away. “Yeah? Well, she was a bitch.” That earned a quiet huff from him. "And you're... not like her?" She smirked softly, "Just because I'm her blood doesn't mean I'm like her."

His fingers brushed her skin again, slower now, more deliberate. “You always this stubborn?”

“You bring it out in me. Guess that is your contributed gene." He leaned in slightly, closer now, his presence heavy behind her. “Or maybe,” he said, voice lower, “you just like the fight., and maybe we are not even close to being related.”

Her body betrayed her before she could stop it, a slight shift, a fraction closer instead of away, and she felt it, knew he did too, so she steadied herself, forced her tone back under control. “I’m not here to fight... Or flirt.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She turned then, fully this time, facing him, still close, still inside that space he’d created. “Then stop trying to make it something it’s not.”

A beat.

His gaze dropped briefly, taking her in, the way the city light hit her skin, the way she hadn’t moved away, then back to her eyes. “And what is it?” Silence stretched, because neither of them had a clean answer.

Evelyne held his gaze, didn’t back down, didn’t give in either. “Not this,” she said finally—but she didn’t move, and neither did he, the tension hanging there, unresolved and heavy.

She didn’t move away. That was the difference this time, she know she should have left, pushed him away or say something offensive, but she didn't.

For a second, it hung there—her hand almost gripping his shirt, her body just slightly closer than before, the line they’d been circling finally crossed without either of them saying it out loud.

Ben noticed. His gaze dropped briefly to where her fingers now had curled into the fabric, then back up to her face, something sharper settling in his expression—but not rough, not mocking. Intent.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured, voice low, almost coaxing now. “That they think you’re mine.” Evelyne held his gaze, steady even as her pulse gave her away. “I do too.”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “Yeah? And what does that even mean, now that you are here, so close to me?”

She hesitated—just a fraction. “It means there is... I look like you. The way I act. The way I—”

“—the way you survived?” he cut in, softer than expected. That stopped her. Completely.

His hand shifted slightly at her waist, not pulling, not forcing, just there, grounding, present. “You think that makes you my kid?” he went on. “That having the same kind of damage means we’re blood?”

Her jaw tightened. “You don’t think it’s a possibility?”

He let out a quiet breath, something almost like a humorless laugh. “Kid, I’ve done a lot of things, I might not know all the answers,” he said, eyes locked on hers, “but I don’t believe I wouldn't recognise one of my own.”

There was no arrogance in it. Just certainty. “And even if I didn't,” he added, quieter now, “you think that’s what this is?” His thumb brushed once, slow, against her side, enough to make her breath hitch again despite herself.

She hated that. He saw that too. “Everyone sees what they wanna see,” he continued. “Strong girl, bad attitude, doesn’t take shit—must be her daddy's daughter.”

A pause.

Then, more raw than before. “Or maybe it’s just what happens when you grow up with nothing worth a damn.” That hit. Harder than anything else he’d said. Her expression flickered, just for a second, but it was enough. He leaned in slightly, not closing the gap yet, just enough to make her feel it.

“No parents who showed up,” he said quietly. “No one teaching you how to be anything other than… this.” His hand lifted briefly, gesturing between them. “And you think that’s some kind of bloodline?”

She swallowed. Didn’t answer. Couldn’t, right away. Because it made too much sense. Because it felt too true. Ben’s voice dropped even further, rough but steady. “People like that—we end up the same kind of asshole.”

A beat.

“That’s the connection.” His eyes searched hers, not letting her look away. “Not blood.” Silence stretched between them, thick, shifting. “We’re not related,” he said finally, firm, unshakable. “I know it.”

Another beat.

“And you know it too.” Her breath slowed. But didn’t steady. His gaze flicked to her lips again—slower this time, more deliberate. Giving her time. Giving her space to stop him. She didn’t. So he closed the distance.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t forceful—it was deliberate, controlled, like everything else about him tonight, but layered now with something deeper than just heat. Something heavier.

Eve froze for half a second— then instead of pulling away, she leaned in. Just slightly.

Her grip on his shirt tightened, pulling him closer instead of pushing him back, and that shift, small as it was changed the entire balance between them.

His hand at her waist tightened in response, rough and needy. Like he’d been waiting for that. The tension didn’t break. It deepenedn neither of them tried to stop it. He felt the shift in her before she even realized it herself.

His hands slid to her waist, firm, not asking and in one smooth motion he lifted her. Evelyne let out a soft breath of surprise, instinctively wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, as her body adjusted to the sudden height.

“Ben—” she started, but there was no real protest in it. Not anymore. He didn’t answer just moved.

The window was already half open, the night air slipping in, cool against the warmth of the room. He pushed it further without breaking contact, stepping out onto the balcony like it was nothing, like the drop below didn’t exist, like the city wasn’t sprawling dozens of floors beneath them. Like he didn’t care.

Evelyne’s grip tightened slightly, but not out of fear. He set her down on the railing. Careful in a way he hadn’t been before.

Her breath caught as the cool metal met her skin, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her legs moved on their own, locking around his hips, keeping him close, keeping herself steady.

The city stretched behind her—lights endless, glowing, alive, but it blurred quickly into background noise. Because all she could focus on was him.

His mouth found hers again, urgent, more deliberate. The kind of kiss that lingered, that pressed, claimed. And then it shifted. His lips moved, hurried away from hers, brushing along her cheek, warm against the cooler air, trailing lower.

Evelyne’s head tilted back slightly without thinking. Her eyes slipped shut. For a moment, just a moment, everything else disappeared.

No Vought.

No lies.

No questions about who she was or where she came from.

Just the city lights flickering behind her eyelids and the steady, grounding warmth of his mouth against her skin. His lips traced along her jaw, then down to her neck, slower now, more exploratory than before, over her breasts, pulling down her top slightly.

She exhaled softly, her fingers tightening slightly where they rested against him, not pushing, not pulling—just holding on. It was quiet out there part from the hisses escaping her mouth.

Evelyne let her head fall back just a little more, exposing more of her to him, her breathing uneven now. She wasn’t thinking about consequences. She wasn't thinking about anything.

And neither was he. Because this—this reckless, unfiltered moment, balanced on the edge of something dangerous and undeniable. That was exactly the kind of line Soldier Boy wanted to cross.

And for the first time Evelyne didn’t stop him. The way he took his time like he had nowhere else to be, like the world below them didn’t exist, like the edge they stood on wasn’t real.

“Ben—” she breathed, but it wasn’t a warning. Not anymore. His finger trailed down to her knees, moving back up to her inner thighs and even further until he felt her shorts, moving them aside, feeling her bare skin underneath. He answered without words. The world tilted.

A deep hum when he reached her soaked core. And suddenly she was turned, the skyline opening up in front of her, vast and endless, the drop below dizzying—but it didn’t matter, because he was there, grounding, anchoring, holding her exactly where she was.

The railing pressed cool against her, the night wrapping around them, and everything sharpened and softened at the same time. Her hands found the edge instinctively, steadying herself while he lowers her shorts.

Ben didn't wait, didn't want to wait any longer she was here and for the first time since this shit show she didn't stop him. It was the intensity of him pushing inside that made her swear. Overwhelming friction, consumed by it.

Heavy. Hard and needy. And she let herself fall into it. As he kept up his pace of thrusting inside her. Not gracefully. Not carefully. But he know she could take it.

He remembered her saying she like to be in charge, so he knew she would want to be manhandled, no soft love songs, not too much foreplay, hard and dirty is what she needed.

Being sore the morning after, she is the type of girl who wants to feel it even when he is done. And he would give it to her exactly how she wanted it.

Listening to every moan and hiss, he figuered out very quickly what she liked.

The city lights stretched endlessly in front of her, blurring as her focus fractured, her breathing losing rhythm, her thoughts scattering into nothing but fragments—heat, pressure, closeness, the overwhelming sense of being exactly where she shouldn’t be. Her moans turned into screams and when it finally slowed— when breath came back in uneven waves and the night air crept in again, she stayed there for a second longer than she should have.

Still. Eyes on the horizon. Trying to remember where the line had been. And realizing, quietly, that it was already gone.

The next morning

The private jet hummed steadily as it cut through the clouds, the cabin lit in that soft, artificial glow that made everything feel just slightly unreal. Leather seats, polished wood, a quiet kind of luxury.

Evelyne sat by the window, one leg pulled slightly in, elbow resting against the armrest as she stared out at nothing but endless white sky. It should’ve felt peaceful. It didn’t. Across from her, Homelander sat perfectly composed, hands folded, posture straight, like he belonged in every inch of this controlled environment.

Beside him, sprawled in complete contrast, Soldier Boy looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily, but there was tension in the way his fingers tapped against his thigh.

No one spoke for a while. Just the low drone of the engines and the weight of everything unsaid. Then Homelander broke it. “Why do everyone seem to smell like him, lately.” His voice was calm, but there was something underneath it, curiosity sharpened into something more pointed.

Evelyne didn’t look away from the window. “Eh.” A beat. "I was in his room last night, you know, seeing how he was doing.” She exhaled slowly, shifting just slightly in her seat. “Concern,” she said, gesturing faintly with her hand.

Homelander tilted his head just a fraction. “You were, concerned? You are never concerned with me after a fight?” That made her glance over, just briefly. “Well, I didn't think you want me to be.” Ben huffed a quiet, almost amused sound under his breath. “You make me sound like an old senile man,” he muttered.

Evelyne ignored him. “Well I'll keep it in mind, brother,” she added, tone neutral. Homelander’s eyes lingered on her now. “And then, what did you two talk about?”

"Nothing,” she said. “We looked out over the balcony, said nearly nothing, and I left.” It was clean. Too clean. Homelander noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t push—yet. Instead, he leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the window like he’d lost interest, even though the tension in the cabin said otherwise.

Ben shifted in his seat, glancing between them. “So what, this guy worth the trip?” he asked changing the subject. Evelyne shrugged lightly. “Depends what you’re looking for.”

“Answers,” Homelander said without hesitation. She let out a quiet breath at that, eyes dropping for just a second before lifting again. “Then yeah,” she said. “He might be.” The rest of the flight settled back into silence, but it wasn’t empty anymore—it was loaded, each of them sitting with their own version of the truth, none of it quite lining up.

When the jet finally landed, the transition felt abrupt. Wheels hitting ground, engines slowing, reality snapping back into place. The house they approached was impressive—not compared to Vought standards. It was quiet, tucked away, almost forgettable on purpose. The kind of place someone picked when they didn’t want to be found.

Evelyne walked slightly ahead this time, her pace steady but purposeful. She didn’t hesitate when she reached the door. She knocked once. Waited. Then it opened. Mr. Marathon stood there, recognition immediate but cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be relieved or concerned. “Homelander,” he said first, automatically. "Good to see you again."

Then his gaze shifted. “Soldier Boy, big fan.” Ben gave a small, unimpressed look. Then Marathon’s eyes landed on Evelyne—and everything changed. “Gorgeous” he said, surprise breaking into something genuine. Evelyne’s entire posture softened, something real slipping through the controlled exterior as she stepped forward and pulled him into a quick, familiar hug.

“Hey, handsome,” she said, smiling properly now. “How’ve you been?” “Better now seeing you.” he replied, laughing lightly as he hugged her back. When she pulled away, she gave him a quick once-over, like checking if time had treated him right.

“Still running your mouth as fast as your legs?”

“Someone has to,” he shot back easily. She smirked, then turned slightly, angling herself back toward the two men behind her, one hand coming up to pat Marathon’s shoulder. “This man right here,” she said, “fastest dealer in town.” A beat, then with a sharper edge of humor, “And quickest booty call.”

Mr. Marathon laughed, shaking his head. “You haven’t changed.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” she replied. Behind them, the atmosphere didn’t match the easy familiarity. The others in the house had gone quiet, watching, measuring. Suspicion hung thick in the air.

One of them Malchemical leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing at Eve in particular, something unreadable but clearly not welcoming. “She always this friendly?” he muttered. Evelyne caught it, of course, her eyes flicking toward him for half a second.

Mr. Marathon shifted slightly, clearing his throat as he looked between her, Homelander, and Soldier Boy. “So… how exactly do you know them?”

Evelyne let out a quiet sigh, not dramatic—just tired of the question. She glanced between the two men behind her, then back at him. “Well,” she said, “you don’t really watch tv do you?”

Homelander’s expression flickered, subtle but there. Ben just scoffed under his breath. She tilted her head slightly toward Soldier Boy. “That’s my father and brother.” A beat.

“Allegedly.” Ben snorted.

Mr. Marathon blinked, clearly trying to process that, his easy smile faltering just slightly as the weight of what that meant settled in. Around them, the room shifted again—quiet, tense, something deeper settling beneath the surface—because this wasn’t just a reunion, and everyone there could feel it.

"So you two fucked?" Ben asked walking behind Mr. Marathon into his chamber with all the vaught stuff. "Eh, well..." Mr. Marathons turned slightly red. "Yes." Eve answered without even looking up from the pictures she was holding. "Oh look, found your sexdoll." She showed Homelander and Soldier boy a picture of Liberty.

Ben grasped it out of her hand, "Hey, respect to the dead will ya!" She rolled her eyes " If you can judge who I slept with I can do the same. "Anyway V1, who might have it?" She turned to her ex lover.

"Bombsight," Marathon answered as quick as he ran. "I can give him a call. Stay here and he'll be over soon."

Both Homelander and Evelyne sat on the worn bench just outside the main room, the muffled noise of voices and movement drifting through the house behind them. Across from them, Soldier Boy leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered, a line of white already disappearing as he snorted another hit, like none of this was out of the ordinary.

Evelyne kept her gaze forward, but she could feel Homelander watching her. “You grew close to him,” he said finally, his tone light, but there was something under it—something sharp. She felt heat rise to her face before she could stop it, her mind flashing back to something she’d rather not replay right now. “Yeah, well what can I say...” she started, then stopped, not entirely sure where to go with that.

Homelander didn’t wait. “He seems to like you more,” he continued, voice smooth but edged. “Probably because you’re a woman. He does have a… a clear liking. I mean all he wants is for me to get my dick wet. Like that will solve all problems.” He lifted his brows slightly, the look almost condescending, almost testing.

Eve let out a small breath, forcing herself to stay neutral. “I wouldn’t read too much into it,” she said. “Ben likes what he likes.” Homelander tilted his head, studying her. “Is it that strange,” he said slowly, “that I stopped sleeping with women who betray me?” Evelyne blinked at that, thrown off just enough to actually look at him.

“No—no, not at all,” she said quickly. “I mean… I get it.” She shifted slightly on the bench, glancing ahead again. “Honestly, I’d thought that fossil would hate me,” she added, a hint of dry humor slipping through. “Considering who my mom is and what she did to him.”

A small pause. Then quieter— “And love you like a heir he always wanted.” Homelander’s expression flickered at that, something unreadable passing behind his eyes as he leaned back slightly, gaze drifting forward again, though it was clear he wasn’t really looking at anything in front of him.

Behind them, Soldier Boy let out a low, satisfied exhale, completely detached from the tension building just a few feet away. Evelyne shifted slightly, then glanced at Homelander. “Hey,” she said, quieter now, like she was testing the ground again, “do you think it’d be possible to get a DNA test?”

Homelander’s eyes moved to her, sharper this time. “Why?” She hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “Because I’m not sure I’m actually related to him,” she admitted. “I mean… I wasn’t lab-made like you. I grew up in different facilities, yeah, but I wasn’t created there. There’s nothing on my father. No files, no records. Just…” she gestured vaguely toward the room where Ben sat. “That.”

Homelander studied her for a second, something calculating moving behind his eyes, like he was already weighing the implications, the risks, the narrative. He didn’t answer right away. And then—inside, something shifted. Voices rose. Mr. Marathon said something—too sharp, too pointed—and it hit wrong. Homelander’s head snapped toward the sound, his expression hardening instantly.

“Say that again” The room tensed. Fast. It didn’t take much. It never did. Someone moved—Malchemical stepped in before it could escalate further, chin lifting, his power hitting before anyone could properly react. Homelander stiffened, eyes flashing—then his body went slack, dropping forward as the forced sleep took hold.

“Homelander!” Evelyne caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him carefully, her focus snapping completely to him. Around them, chaos broke loose. Ben was already moving, turning toward Marathon with that familiar, dangerous focus.

The others shouted, moved, tried to rescue themself but once Ben was in it, there was no stopping him. Evelyne stayed where she was, one hand steady on Homelander’s shoulder, watching it unfold with a tight jaw but not stepping in. This wasn’t something she could stop. Not like this. It ended quickly.

By the time the noise died down, Mr. Marathon was on the ground, unmoving, the room falling into that heavy, stunned silence that followed violence. Evelyne exhaled slowly, glancing down at Homelander as his breathing steadied under the effects of Malchemical’s power.

She stayed with him until his eyes finally opened again, sharp and disoriented for half a second before everything came rushing back. He sat up quickly, gaze snapping around the room, taking it all in—the aftermath, the stillness, the blood. His jaw tightened. No words. He just stood.

The ride back to Vought Tower was even quieter than before, the weight of what had happened sitting between them like something alive. Evelyne didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Back at Vought Tower, the air felt cleaner, colder—controlled in a way nothing outside ever was. Homelander didn’t go to the press room, didn’t go to the cameras. He went straight to Sister Sage. She was already there, of course, seated, composed, like she’d been expecting him. “You look irritated,” she noted without looking up.

“She asked for a DNA test,” he said flatly. That made her pause, just slightly, then she lifted her gaze.

“Did she?” “

She doesn’t think she’s his daughter.” A beat. “She’s wrong,” Sage said simply. Homelander studied her. “You’re sure.”

“As sure as we can be without testing,” she replied, calm, precise. “All available data points to it.” That wasn’t the whole truth. And Sage knew it. Because what mattered wasn’t whether Evelyne was his daughter. What mattered was that she had to be.

She had seen the footage—archived, buried, restricted. A twelve-year-old Evelyne against a thirteen-year-old Homelander in controlled testing. She had won. Not by luck. By instinct. By power. And if that potential had only grown… then Evelyne wasn’t just valuable. She was necessary. A future contingency. A stronger weapon. But also a threat. Which meant she needed a leash. Family was the only leash Homelander wouldn’t break.

“Run the test,” Homelander said after a moment. Sage tilted her head slightly. “If that will reassure her,” she said. It wasn’t reassurance she was planning.

The results came back quickly. Too quickly. No one questioned it. Only Sage knew what had been adjusted, rewritten, perfected. The file said what it needed to say. Later, Evelyne was called in. The room was quiet when she entered—Sister Sage seated, Homelander standing, and Soldier Boy leaning back like he didn’t believe any of this mattered. The folder sat on the table between them. Waiting. Evelyne’s eyes moved between them before settling on Sage.

“You wanted to see me.” “You wanted answers,” Sage corrected gently, sliding the folder forward. “So we got them.” Evelyne hesitated for half a second before picking it up, opening it. Her eyes scanned the page. Then stopped. Her entire body stilled. Silent. Too silent. Homelander noticed first, his gaze sharpening slightly.

Ben frowned. “What?” he asked. Evelyne didn’t answer. She just stared at the paper like it had rewritten something fundamental. “I’m not sure why you ever doubted it,” Sage continued smoothly. “But I understand the need for certainty. The results are clear.” A pause. “He is your father.”

“That’s impossible,” Soldier Boy cut in immediately, sitting forward now, eyes narrowing. Evelyne still didn’t speak. That was the part that felt wrong. She should’ve said something—argued, denied, reacted. Instead, she just… absorbed it. Slowly, she closed the folder. Her hands were steady. Too steady as she slided the folder to Ben.

“Right,” she said quietly. And that was it. No questions. No pushback. She stood, placed the folder back on the table with controlled precision, and turned. “Eve—” Homelander started. She didn’t stop. She walked out. Calm. Measured. Controlled. The door closed behind her.

The silence that followed lingered for a second too long. “That was weird,” Homelander muttered. Sage didn’t respond. She was watching the door then Ben's iron stare, his face didn't betray a single emotion. Ben dropped the file, "I'll go after her." and left before anyone could stop him.

Evelyne didn’t stop walking until she reached her room. The second the door shut behind her— The control shattered. The first thing she grabbed hit the wall hard enough to crack. Then another. And another. Furniture overturned, glass shattered, anything within reach breaking under the force of everything she’d been holding in.

“No—” she snapped under her breath, pacing, running her hands through her hair. “No, no, no—” The walls felt too close. The air too tight. That paper. Those words. It didn’t line up. It didn’t feel right. And yet— It was proof.

Official.

Final.

Her breathing turned sharp, uneven as she shoved something else off the table, the crash echoing through the room. She stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the wreckage she’d made, but it barely registered. The overturned furniture, the shattered glass, the cracks in the walls—none of it felt as loud as what was happening inside her.

The paper was still there in her mind. Clear. Final. He is your father. Her stomach turned so sharply she had to steady herself, one hand bracing against the edge of a broken table. Her breath hitched, uneven, her chest tightening like there wasn’t enough air in the room anymore. Because if this was true—then everything else was real too.

Not a mistake. Not a coincidence. Not something she could brush off or laugh away. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. It made it worse. It brought it back too clearly—the motel, the heat, the way she had chosen it, the way she hadn’t hesitated.

Not once did she acidently slept with him.

Twice.

A sharp, broken sound left her throat as she pushed away from the table, pacing, hands dragging through her hair like she could pull the thoughts out. Her skin felt wrong. Like it didn’t belong to her. Like something had been written into it without her knowing. Every memory of him—his voice, his hands, the way he looked at her—twisted into something unbearable, something she didn’t know how to hold.

It made her feel… wrong. Not just regret. Not just shame. Something deeper. Dirtier. Like she couldn’t scrub it off no matter how hard she tried. She pressed her hands against her arms, gripping tight, like she needed to feel something real, something grounded. “What is wrong with me…”

The words came out barely audible. Because her mind kept trying to reject it—this isn’t possible, this isn’t real, this is a bad dream—but the result sat there, undeniable, forcing everything into a shape she couldn’t accept. Her thoughts spiraled, turning on her. You didn’t know. But you did it anyway. You couldn’t have known. But you did and didn't stop it. You chose to fuck him.

That one stuck.

Her breathing broke again, sharper this time, panic creeping in at the edges. She felt like she was splitting in two—one part of her screaming that something wasn’t right, that this didn’t make sense, and the other part drowning under the weight of it, accepting it because the proof said she had to.

“I’m losing it…” she muttered, shaking her head, backing up until she hit the wall behind her. Her hands came up to her face, pressing hard, like she could hold herself together. “This isn’t—this isn’t—” But she couldn’t finish it. Because she didn’t know what it was anymore. The room felt too small. Her thoughts too loud.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure she could trust her own mind. She felt like she was going insane.

--

“If this is some kind of intimidation thing, it’s not working,” she shot back.

He stepped closer, not threatening, but not casual either. “Two years ago, you pulled me out of a street that looked like it got hit by a damn bomb. Took me to a shitty motel. Gave me a drink. And we... shared some time together.”

She didn’t react at first, but something flickered behind her eyes.

“You said,” he went on. “You didn’t liked to be bossed around, before you climed me like a fucking rabbit in heat. Riding me till my fucking balls were sore."

That flicker grew.

“And then,” he added, voice dropping just slightly, “you decided I had to fucking leave in the morning.”

Silence.

Evelyne’s expression shifted at once—it cracked. Pure panic covering her face. “No,” she said quietly.

Ben shrugged. “Yeah. That’s about how I remember you. With your tight wet pussy on my hard dick.”

Her eyes searched his face now, really looking, trying to force memory into place. The motel. The drinking. The blur.

“…No,” she repeated, sharper. “No, that’s—no.”

“That’s you,” he said. “That’s me. That’s what happened.”

She took a step back, like distance might fix it. “You’re lying.”

“Why the hell would I lie about that?” he shot back.

Silence pressed in again. Her hands clenched slightly. “You’re saying—” She stopped. Couldn’t finish it. "This is a sick joke, tell me that wasn't you!"

Ben didn’t soften anything. “I’m saying whatever little family fantasy they’re trying to sell? Might be a hell of a lot messier than they think.”

She stared at him, something between anger and disbelief building fast. “…I slept with you,” she said finally, flat.

“Well... We didn't sleep much, did we doll?”

Another long silence.

“You’re saying you’re my father?” she snapped.

He scoffed. “Easy. Didn’t say that.” He leaned back slightly, arms crossing. “Your mom got around. Lot of guys did her. Doesn’t make me the winner of that particular lottery.”

That didn’t help. At all.

Evelyne turned away for a second, pacing once like she needed to burn off the pressure building under her skin. “This is insane.”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “Welcome to my day.” She stopped, turning back, eyes sharp now. “Why are you telling me this?”

He held her gaze. “Because Vought’s about to spin a nice little story. You and me in Russia. Fighting side by side. Long-lost daughter comes home to daddy to save America.” He let out a dry breath. “They’ll eat that up.”

Her jaw tightened. “And you’re just okay with that?” He shrugged. “I’ve gone along with worse.”

That answer clearly didn’t sit right. She stepped closer now, not backing down. “You don’t get to drop something like that and act like it’s nothing.”

His expression hardened slightly. “It’s not nothing. We are just not sure you are actually mine.” Silence again. Heavier this time.

Evelyne searched his face one last time, like she was hoping to find a crack—some sign this wasn’t real. There wasn’t one. “…I don’t remember you, I mean, I know you, soldier boy, I just didn't know it was you.” she said.

Ben nodded once. “Yeah. Figured.”

“And that's... what bothers you? Not the fact you might have gnfucked your own daughter?” she asked.

A small smirk pulled at his mouth. “Little bit. I mean I did got you breathless and you did say no man ever had enough stamina to fuck you all night. And yet you didn't recognise me today, again not a compiment.”

It almost broke the tension. Evelyne didn’t move right away after he dropped it on her. The air still felt wrong. Heavy.

“…Does anyone at Vought know?” she asked finally, voice controlled but tight. Soldier Boy didn’t look back at her immediately. He was already halfway to the door.

“No.”

She swallowed, then forced the next question out. “Are they planning a DNA test?” Ben paused, hand on the door. Then he shrugged. “Don’t need one,” he said. “You don’t look anything like me.” That stung more than it should have.

“I don’t look anything like my mom either,” she shot back. He glanced over his shoulder, giving her a look that was somewhere between unimpressed and tired.

“Yeah,” he said. “Well. Doesn’t exactly narrow it down, does it?”

And with that... He left. Door closing behind him like punctuation. Evelyne stood there alone. Still. Trying to process something her brain didn’t want to hold onto.

Later That Week

The noise backstage was controlled chaos. Lights. Voices. Movement. Handlers whispering instructions like it all mattered more than it did. Evelyne stood just out of sight of the stage, arms crossed, jaw set. This was the part she hated. The show.

Beside her, Homelander stood calm as ever, adjusting his cape like this was just another Tuesday. On his other side, Sister Sage scrolled through data on her tablet. “They don’t know what you can do,” Sage said. “That’s both an advantage and a risk.”

“I’m not a product launch,” Eve muttered. Homelander smiled faintly. “Today, you are.” A voice cut in from behind. “Well, we can help with that.” Firecracker stepped closer, smile bright but eyes sharp. Too sharp.

“I’ve got experience with introductions,” she continued, glancing between them. “Crowds love a good story. A little charm goes a long—”

“I’m good,” Evelyne cut in. Flat. Immediate. Firecracker blinked, smile tightening just slightly.

“Oh, I was just—”

“I heard you,” Eve said, finally turning to look at her, like she was some cheap hore. “Still good.” That did it. The temperature dropped a few degrees. Firecracker let out a small laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Right,” she said. “Guess we’re doing… to be a bitch then.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Homelander. Lingering, yearning, Evelyne noticed. But didn't comment.

Homelander stepped forward slightly, reclaiming the moment. “That’s enough,” he said with his teeth bared "She is my sister."

Firecracker stepped back immediately. “Of course,” she said. But her eyes stayed on Evelyne a second too long. Then the cue came. Applause swelling beyond the curtain. The audience waiting. Homelander turned toward the stage.

“Ready?” Sage asked. She didn’t answer. Just straightened slightly. That was enough. The lights hit first. Then the crowd. Then him. Homelander stepped onto the stage like he owned the world.

“America,” he began, voice warm, controlled, perfect. “Today… I get to introduce someone very special.”

The crowd leaned in. Hooked already.

“Someone who has been fighting for this country long before you even knew her name,” he continued. “A hero. A warrior. A true American!”

That got a reaction. Confusion. Curiosity. Excitement. Backstage, Evelyne didn’t flinch. But her jaw tightened.

“She stood beside my father,” Homelander went on, gesturing slightly behind him, “fighting in the shadows, protecting our allies… risking her life again and again.”

Another beat. More applause.

“The only woman I'll ever trust with my own..."

A beat.

“My sister.”

That line landed.

Hard backstage— Firecracker’s smile dropped. Just for a second. But it was enough. Then Homelander turned, extending his hand toward the wings. “America… meet Nova Star.” Evelyne stepped forward.

Into the light. Into the lie. And somewhere in the back of the room— Soldier Boy watched. Silent. Because now the whole world was looking at her.

Everything about it was manufactured—too bright, too polished, too eager to turn people into something digestible. A glowing skyline of New York stretched across the LED wall behind them, fake but convincing enough for the audience at home. The applause sign blinked on and off like a command.

Evelyne—Nova Star—sat upright in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, shoulders squared in the new suit Vought had built for her. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. They had measured every inch of her like she was a product.

She looked calm.

She wasn’t.

Beside her, Soldier Boy looked like he’d wandered onto the set by accident and decided to stay out of spite. Slouched, one arm thrown lazily across the back of her chair, boots planted like rules didn’t apply to him.

The host smiled too widely, cue cards trembling just slightly in her hands.

“And America is absolutely loving this new chapter,” she said. “A true family reunited. Soldier Boy, what’s it like—working alongside your daughter?”

Ben didn’t even pretend to think about it. “Kid’s got backbone,” he said, voice rough, easy. “Doesn’t fold. I like that.”

His eyes slid to Evelyne.

Slow.

Unbothered. She didn’t turn her head. But her jaw tightened just a fraction. “And you, Nova Star?” the host continued brightly. “What’s it like, stepping into this legacy?”

Evelyne smiled. Perfect. Controlled.

Like it hurt. “It’s… an adjustment,” she said. Ben huffed a quiet laugh beside her. “Yeah,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “That’s one word for it.”

The host leaned forward slightly, sensing chemistry, tension—something she could sell. “You two seem to have a very… strong dynamic already.”

Ben grinned.

“Yeah,” he said. “We've been very close, some would say intimate, I guess.” Evelyne finally turned her head, just enough to look at him. A warning. He didn’t take it.

The host laughed lightly, then tilted her head. “And Soldier Boy, be honest—how impressed are you, really?”

That was the wrong question. Or the right one.

Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, looking straight at the camera like he’d forgotten how to filter himself decades ago.

“Impressed?” he repeated. A beat. Then he glanced at Evelyne again. Longer this time. “If things were different…” he said slowly, “she’d be exactly the kind of girl I’d pick.”

The room froze for half a second.Then the host laughed. A little too quickly. " A proud daddy,” she teased.

Eve smiled, tight. Polished. Like biting down on something sharp. "He meant for his team, pf course,” she said. The audience clapped. A little confused.A little entertained.

Exactly what Vought wanted.

Backstage, the energy shifted the second the cameras cut.

The lights dimmed just enough to feel real again, but the noise stayed—crew moving, people talking, someone laughing too loud somewhere down the hall.

Evelyne stepped off the stage without waiting. “You’re laying it on thick,” she said the second she knew he’d follow. Of course he did. “Relax,” Ben replied, easy as ever. “They love it.”

“That’s not the point.” She stopped near a rack of spare costumes, turning to face him. “Stop saying shit like that,” she said, voice low but sharp.

He stepped closer. Not crowding. Not backing off either. "What?” he said. “You don’t like compliments?”

“That’s not a compliment.” He tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was the interesting part of the room. “Looked like one from where I’m standing.”

She held his gaze. “You’re bot playing a role,” she said. “You are my fucking dad.” A slow smirk pulled at his mouth. "Maybe I don’t feel like it, I never claimed to be.”

That hung there. Between them. From across the room, Firecracker watched. Arms crossed. She stepped closer, heels clicking sharp against the floor. “Great show,” she said, tone sweet but thin. “Really sold the whole ‘family’ thing.”

Evelyne didn’t even look at her. Firecracker’s eyes flicked to Ben. " We eh, up for some... rehearsals?"

Lingering.

Then back to Eve who said "Funny, it looks like it’s you don't need to chose me, anyway.” Ben chuckled under his breath. Evelyne finally turned her head, meeting Firecracker’s gaze. " Have fun with this fossil."

Firecracker’s smile snapped back into place—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “No worries, I will” she said.

Evelyne didn’t respond and walked away.

--

Weeks turn into months.

By now, to the world, she was Nova Star—daughter of Soldier Boy, sister of Homelander. The interviews had been done, the smiles perfected, the narrative repeated so often it no longer felt like a performance but something real.

Evelyne believed it, started calling him dad, forcing the images of him naked out of her head. Ben didn’t. He just hadn’t said it again.

The compound felt wrong the moment they stepped inside—cold, sterile, like something had been buried there and never truly left. The rest of The Boys were already there, voices raised, tension sharp and unstable, everyone circling each other like they were waiting for something to snap.

Evelyne stayed slightly behind at first, scanning, her instincts buzzing—something was off, not just the place. It escalated fast, too fast, words turning into threats, threats into movement, and before anyone could properly stop it, Soldier Boy shoved Homelander into one of the reinforced testing rooms, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

“Dad—” Evelyne started, but it was already done. Inside, the uranium-lined walls took effect almost immediately; Homelander staggered slightly, confusion flashing before turning into anger. “Open the door,” he said, calm at first. Ben didn’t move.

Evelyne stepped closer, unease tightening in her chest. “This isn’t—” she tried again. “He’ll live,” Ben cut in flatly. Homelander’s hand slammed against the glass, harder this time. “Open. The door.”

Evelyne hesitated, everything in her telling her this was wrong, but Ben had already turned away. “Come on,” he said. After a second, she followed. They didn’t get far before the air shifted, thick and heavy, wrong in a way that made her skin tighten.

In the broken corridor, the air still carried the aftermath—burnt metal, heat, something sharp and chemical that clung to the back of the throat. Evelyne walked beside Soldier Boy, her boots crunching lightly over debris, her senses still buzzing from everything that had just happened. Neither of them spoke about what had happened.

"There is no V1 here," Eve mumbled.

Then—slow, deliberate clapping echoed from further down the hall. “Bravo,” came the voice, laced with sarcasm. Frenchie stepped into view, leaning casually against the wall like he hadn’t just watched chaos unfold. “

"Very dramatic, no? Family therapy, American style.” Ben’s expression darkened instantly. “You again,” he muttered, already reaching for his gun. Evelyne exhaled through her nose, almost amused despite everything.

“He really doesn’t know when to quit, does he?” Frenchie grinned, eyes flicking between them. Ben didn’t wait. He raised the gun and fired multiple times before— click. Nothing. He frowned, shaking it once. Tried again. Click. Still nothing. “You gotta be kidding me—” he snapped, hitting the side of it like that would fix anything.

Evelyne tilted her head, watching, then smirked. “Performance issues, old man?” she said lightly. “Happens with age, I hear.” Ben shot her a look. “Watch it.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” she added, shrugging slightly. “Might be from fucking that christian wannabe.” Frenchie let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, this is priceless.”

That was enough. Evelyne lifted her hand, fingers curling slightly as that familiar heat built under her skin—sharp, controlled, glowing. Unlike her mother her hands don't need to touch to create the heat.

A pulse of deep red energy gathered in her palm, flickering like living fire. “Mon dieu—” Frenchie started, but she was already moving. The blast shot forward in a tight, burning arc, slamming into the wall just beside him as he dodged, heat scorching past him.

“Oh no, no, no—” he yelped, already turning, already running. “Stop you fucking idiot!” Evelyne stepped forward immediately, another pulse forming in her hand.

"No way this fucker is alone, you grab the croissant fucker I search for the others." She said and turned the other way.

Ben finally gave up on the gun with a grunt, tossing it aside. “Screw it.” Then he took off after Frenchie, boots pounding heavy and fast.

--

The corridor fractures into chaos before anyone can fully control it. Evelyne is the first to move—instinct, not thought—stepping into the path of Billy Butcher, Mother's Milk, and Hughie Campbell as they try to push forward.

Heat gathers in her palms, that deep crimson glow building fast, sharp and dangerous. “Not a step closer,” she warns, voice steady despite the chaos around them. Butcher doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t. “Move, love,” he says, almost amused, “this ain’t your fight.”

She answers with force. A burst of red energy slams into the ground between them, cracking concrete, forcing them back a step.

Eve keeps the others occupied, trading blows, deflecting, pushing them back with controlled bursts of power, but something feels off—wrong—not in the fight, but in the direction of it.

A huge blast sounded from the other end of the building. "The fuck..." And that is when it hit her.

This isn’t where she’s supposed to be. This isn’t the point. Another blast, another shove, and she creates distance, breathing heavier now, eyes flicking toward the corridor Soldier Boy disappeared into.

The realization hits quiet but sharp: she doesn’t need to stop them—she needs to find him. Without another word, she pulls back, letting the fight drop, ignoring Butcher’s voice calling after her as she turns and runs.

The hallway is wrecked, scorched and torn apart, the air still thick with heat and something heavier—something final. She slows when she sees it. The wall. Blackened. Blasted outward.

What’s left of a man is nothing more than a violent imprint—charred, scattered, gone. Evelyne stares for half a second, her breath catching, the weight of what happened settling in her chest.

Then she sees him. Soldier Boy sits a few feet away, shoulders slumped, hands hanging loose between his knees. For once, there’s no fight in him. No arrogance. No control. Just… silence. And a tear, dragging slowly down his cheek.

Eve approaches carefully, slower now, like anything too sudden might break whatever fragile state he’s in. She crouches in front of him, her movements deliberate, grounding. Her hands come up, gently framing his face, forcing his gaze to meet hers.

“Hey,” she says softly, searching his eyes. “What happened?” He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t seem to have one. Just breathes unevenly, eyes flicking briefly toward the destroyed wall before settling back on her.

The silence stretches, thick but not empty—shared, understood. She stands holding him against her body, she feels his warmth against her skin. For a moment, it’s just them. Then—footsteps. Heavy. Controlled. Evelyne turns her head slightly as

Homelander steps into the corridor. He doesn’t look weakened anymore.

If anything, he looks worse—eyes glowing faintly red, anger barely contained, something darker sitting just beneath the surface.

Evelyne moves immediately, instinct taking over, placing herself between him and Soldier Boy without hesitation. Protective. Unyielding. Behind her, Soldier Boy lets out a rough breath, barely lifting his head. “Just… fucking do it already,” he mutters.

She freezes slightly, confusion cutting through the tension. She glances back at him, then forward at Homelander. “What?” she asks, not fully understanding, caught between them. Homelander doesn’t answer. He stares past her for a long second, jaw tight, eyes burning—then something shifts.

Not softening. Not forgiveness. Just… a decision. The red glow fades. Slowly. He exhales once, sharp, and then—he turns. And walks away. Evelyne watches him go, still standing there, still between them, the silence settling back in—heavier now, but different. Behind her, Soldier Boy doesn’t move. And for the first time, she doesn’t know what any of it means.

For a moment she just looked at him—this man who was supposed to be her father, who might not be, who had just unleashed destruction and now looked like it meant too much. Slowly, she stepped closer, then knelt in front of him. " We need to go, there is no V1 here."

Ben looked at her and without a hesitation he pulled her into a kiss. Evelyne froze for a second, then pulled back, standing immediately, creating space, her hand brushing through his hair without thinking, steadying him. “This isn’t... right,” she said quietly. He didn’t argue, didn’t move. She stepped back fully. “Come on,” she added, voice firmer. A beat. “Let’s go home.” And for once, he followed.

She wanted to yell, scream that this kiss was inappropriate, but it felt right in the moment. Like that was what he needed to steady. Or maybe she just wanted to find an excuse for herself.

They burst out of the compound into open air, the sudden space almost blinding after the dim corridors. The ground stretched wide and bare, wind cutting across it, carrying dust and tension with it.

Evelyne slowed first—just a fraction—but enough to notice them. Across the field stood Billy Butcher and the rest of his crew, scattered but steady, like they’d been waiting. Frenchie stumbled to a stop somewhere between both sides, breathing hard, eyes darting like he’d just run straight into something worse.

Soldier Boy didn’t hesitate. “Perfect,” Soldier Boy muttered, already stepping forward, shoulders squaring, that familiar destructive intent snapping right back into place. “Let’s finish this.”

Eve moved before he could take another step. She stepped in front of him, blocking his path completely. “No.”

He barely slowed. “Move.” She didn’t. Instead, she shook her head once—firm, unyielding—and lifted her hand, placing it against his cheek, forcing his gaze down to hers. “No,” she repeated, quieter this time, but heavier.

He stilled. Not because he wanted to. Because she made him. For a second, the tension shifted—less about the fight ahead, more about the space between them. "Enough killing for one day."

Something flickered in his eyes. Ben's hand moved to her hair pulling her in a hug. He needed to hear that.

Frenchie, still catching his breath, glanced between them and let out a disbelieving huff. “Mon dieu… those two are far too close to be family, no?” he muttered, half to himself, half loud enough for everyone to hear.

That earned a low chuckle from Butcher, “Well,” said, a beat. Then, with a crooked smirk— “Didn’t think he'd be that literal about keepin’ it in the family.” Silence stretched for just a second.

Evelyne’s hand tightened slightly against Ben’s face before she dropped it. Soldier Boy’s expression darkened, but he didn’t move forward. Not this time. Butcher gave a small, satisfied nod, like he’d gotten what he needed. “Right,” he said, turning slightly to his crew. “We’re done here.” No rush. No panic. Just control.

One by one, they started backing off, keeping their distance but clearly choosing not to engage. Frenchie wasted no time slipping back toward them, still throwing one last glance over his shoulder. “I am never coming between that family again,” he muttered.

Evelyne didn’t respond. She just stood there, watching them leave, the wind tugging lightly at her suit, the tension still sitting heavy in her chest. Behind her, Soldier Boy exhaled slowly—frustrated, restrained, but listening. For once.

"Thank you." he said looking at how the boys where leaving. "For what," she asked "For stopping you just now, or for letting you kiss me without freaking out like I wanted to"

"Both." He said then continued in a very normal voice, " So V1, where next?"

She sighs loud, " I think we might need to pay a visit to... an old friend."

--

They sit, the quiet settling between them. For a moment, it almost feels normal again. Almost. But the thoughts don’t stop. The memories don’t stop. She keeps drifting, keeps pulling herself back. Then she blurts, a little too suddenly,

“I… I might have to go back early.” Clark looks at her, confused. “What?”

“Vought,” she says, forcing it steady. “They need me back. Something came up. I leave tomorrow.” It’s a lie. It comes too easily. His expression shifts—subtle, but there. Annoyance, disappointment, something he’s trying not to show too much of.

“Tomorrow?” he repeats. She nods, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah.” He exhales through his nose, nodding once like he’s trying to be understanding. “Right. Of course.” He doesn’t push, but she feels it anyway—the tension, the frustration he’s swallowing down.

They sit in silence for a moment before he finally speaks again, quieter now. “Is that why he was here?” Her head lifts. “What?”

“Last night,” Clark says, watching her carefully. “Soldier Boy.” She stills. Just for a second. “I—” she starts, then stops. Reluctant. Careful. Clark’s jaw tightens slightly. “You can't tell me,” he says, though there’s an edge now.

“I mean… I get it. You work with him. Biggest name in the country.” He lets out a small, humorless breath. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous.” That hits her harder than she expects. “Clark…” she starts softly.

He shakes his head slightly. “No, it’s fine. Really. I just—” he hesitates, then looks at her again, more serious now. “I like that you’re honest with me.”

Her chest tightens. If only he knew.

She swallows, choosing her words carefully. “I can’t… talk about everything,” she says. “Some things are private.” She hesitates just a fraction too long. “About Ben.” The name slips out before she can stop it. Clark notices. Of course he does. His brows knit slightly. “Right, Ben...”

She exhales, nodding quickly. “He—he might need treatment or something. And he… trusts me.” It’s not entirely a lie. Not entirely the truth either. Clark watches her for a moment longer, something unreadable in his expression, then nods slowly. “Right,” he says. “Okay.”

But the air between them has changed. Just slightly. Enough for her to feel it. Enough to know things aren’t as simple as they were yesterday.

They sit close on the picnic blanket, the afternoon sun warm against her skin, the quiet lake stretching out in front of them. Clark’s shoulder brushes hers, his hand already resting lightly on her knee like it belongs there. It’s familiar. Safe. She tells herself that again.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, turning toward her. She looks up, and before she can think too much about it, he leans in and kisses her. It’s gentle at first, sweet, the kind of kiss she knows, the kind she always thought she wanted. She melts into it—at least, she tries to.

Her hand lifts to his chest, fingers curling lightly into his shirt as he deepens the kiss just a little, his other hand sliding from her knee to her thigh. Slow, careful, testing. She doesn’t stop him. Not at first. Because this is Clark. This is right. His hand moves again, a little more certain now, a little less hesitant, like he’s finally taking the step he’s been waiting for.

Her breath catches—but not in the way she expects. Because suddenly—it’s not Clark she feels. Her body reacts before her mind can stop it. A flash. A memory. Strong hands, a firmer grip, the way she couldn’t move even if she wanted to, the way her breath had hitched—not soft, not careful—but taken from her.

Her fingers tighten against Clark’s shirt. Her heartbeat stumbles. Clark kisses her deeper, encouraged by the way she initially responded, his hand sliding a little higher along her thigh, and that’s when it hits her fully—the wrongness of it. Not because of him, but because of her. Because her mind isn’t here.

Her breath hitches again, sharper this time, and her lips part as she pulls in air—but the name that almost slips out isn’t his. She freezes. Everything in her goes still. Her eyes snap open, panic flickering through them as she pulls back abruptly, her hands pressing against his chest.

“Wait—” she breathes, shaking her head quickly, trying to catch up with herself. “I—I can’t.” Clark blinks, clearly thrown off. “Hey… what’s wrong?” She’s already moving, scrambling to her feet, putting distance between them like she needs it to breathe. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly, her voice uneven. “I’m just—not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not.”

Clark pushes himself up slightly, confusion written all over his face. “You were just—I thought—” “I know,” she cuts in softly, shaking her head again. “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t. Not like this.” There’s a pause. He looks at her, searching her face for something that makes sense.

“…Did I do something wrong?” he asks, quieter now. Her chest tightens. “No. No, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me.” It sounds like a cliché. It feels like one too. But it’s all she has.

Clark studies her for a second longer, still confused, still trying to piece it together—but he doesn’t push. “Okay,” he says finally, though it’s clear he doesn’t fully understand. “Okay… yeah.” She nods quickly, almost too quickly, backing away another step. “I should go.”

“Yeah,” he echoes, still watching her. “Yeah, okay.” She doesn’t wait. She turns, walking away before she can second-guess it, before she can see the look on his face change any more than it already has. And as she leaves—her heart isn’t racing because of what almost happened. It’s racing because of who she almost said.

--

After that afternoon with Clark, she doesn’t linger. She rushes home, grabs her things, barely meeting her parents’ eyes as she mutters something about work calling her back early. Her mother tries to ask questions, her father looks confused, but she’s already halfway out the door, mind spinning too fast to slow down.

By the time she gets back to Vought Tower, the frustration has settled deep in her chest, heavy and sharp. She tells herself she’s angry at him, but every step toward his floor reminds her she’s just as angry at herself. She knocks once—hard—and doesn’t wait. The door swings open before he can even answer.

“Ben, we need to—” The words die instantly. She freezes. Her brain stutters, trying to process what she walked in on, but all she knows is that she shouldn’t be looking.

Crimson is on top of Ben while she is held by her neck. His hands are kneading Crimson's neck hard. Her gaze snaps away, heat rushing to her face as she takes a step back too quickly and stumbling.

“Shit—I’m—sorry,” she mumbles out, already turning, already retreating. Behind her, he laughs. Of course he does. “My face is free, sweetheart, why don't you take a seat to enjoy the view.” he calls out, completely unfazed. Her stomach twists. She backs into the hallway, nearly forgetting the door before reaching back to close it, the click louder than it should be.

She stands there for a second, breathing uneven, trying to push the image out of her head. It doesn’t work. Nothing about this works. By the time she reaches the cafeteria, she’s running on autopilot. She grabs a tray, sits down, stares at the food like it might ground her. It doesn’t. Her fork moves, but she’s not eating, just pushing things around while her mind loops.

What he did to her. What she felt. What she just saw. The anger sits there, hot and tight, but underneath it there’s something worse—something she refuses to name.

She’s staring ahead, unfocused, when suddenly she feels it. Warmth. Close. Too close. Her body tenses instantly. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t need to. His presence settles behind her like she belongs to him. Then his voice, low and right by her ear. “Why did you leave so soon, I'd love to eat that pussy again.”

Her breath catches.

He doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. The chair across from her scrapes loudly against the floor when he drags ot beside her, before he drops into it, then—deliberately—drags it closer. And closer. Until one of his knees presses against hers under the table, solid and unmoving, while the other hooks behind her chair like he’s caging her in without even touching her properly.

She keeps her eyes on her plate, finally forcing herself to eat, taking small bites just to have something to focus on, something that isn’t him, isn’t the image still burned into her mind. “So,” he says, leaning in, voice low enough that no one else can hear, “what was the plan there?” She doesn’t answer. Just keeps eating.

“Storming into my room like that,” he continues, amusement clear in his tone, “you had something to say, didn’t you?” Her jaw tightens, but she swallows and sets her fork down before finally looking at him.

“I did,” she says quietly. “But I don’t anymore.” His brow lifts slightly, like he doesn’t believe her for a second. “No?” She straightens a little, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “Whatever happened between us,” she says, keeping her voice steady, “shouldn’t have happened. And it’s not happening again. But I see you found your old toy so it's good.” That earns a reaction—a small one, but it’s there. His eyes narrow just slightly.

“I’m serious,” she adds quickly, pushing through before he can interrupt. “I’m with Clark. I care about him. He’s… he’s everything I ever wanted.” For a second, there’s silence. Then he laughs. Not loud, but sharp. Disbelieving. It grates. His hand moves, resting casually against her knee, fingers brushing lightly like it’s nothing, like he has every right. She stiffens instantly.

“Everything you ever wanted,” he repeats, almost mocking, his thumb tracing a slow line along her knee. “That so?” She doesn’t move, doesn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting more than that initial flinch. “Yes.” He hums softly, leaning closer, his voice dropping again. “Then why didn’t you stay, let him fuck you?” Her breath catches, but she forces it out slowly. “That’s none of your business.”

His fingers press a little more firmly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her he’s there. “Seems like it is,” he murmurs. “You came running back to me.”

“I didn’t run to you,” she snaps quietly, finally turning her head toward him again. “I came to tell you to stay away from me.” That only makes his mouth twitch, amused. “Yeah,” he says under his breath, like he doesn’t believe her at all. His hand doesn’t leave her knee. If anything, it lingers there, steady, confident, like he knows she won’t push it away. “You keep telling yourself that, but we both know youliked my tongue between those legs of yours” he adds, eyes dragging over her face, searching, knowing.

Her stomach flips again, traitorous, and she hates it. Hates that he can still get to her like this. Hates that part of her feels it. She straightens, forcing distance where she can. “I mean it, Ben.” His name lands differently again. That makes him pause, just for a fraction of a second. But then the smirk is back.

“You can say whatever you want,” he says quietly, leaning in just enough that she feels his breath near her ear again, “doesn’t make it true.” Her fingers tighten around her fork. “It is true.” He leans back just enough to look at her properly, eyes sharp, assessing. “Then prove it.” She frowns. “What?”

His gaze drops briefly, then lifts again, deliberate. “Show me you don’t feel it,” he says. The challenge hangs there between them. Heavy. And for a second—she doesn’t know how to answer.

“Prove it?” she echoes, tilting his head slightly, that same cocky edge in his voice. “Easy.” His eyes drop to her lips for just a second before lifting again. “You stop reacting to me. No flinching, no running, no looking at me like you don’t know what to do with yourself.” His knee presses into hers again, deliberate.

“You let me fuck you, and you stay nice and calm, like I don’t get under your skin at all.” Her breath tightens. His smirk deepens. “If I’m wrong, I'll leave you alone.” he shrugs, like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t already know the answer. “But we both know I’m not.”

That does it. She pushes her chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor as she stands. “You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, grabbing her tray just to have something to do before dumping it and turning away from him.

µHe’s already on his feet before she’s taken two steps. Of course he follows. “Running again?” he calls after her, not even trying to hide the amusement in his voice. She ignores him, walking faster, shoulders tight, refusing to give him the reaction he wants. The hallway is busy enough that she hopes it’ll slow him down, give her space—but it doesn’t. Nothing ever seems to slow him down.

“Hey!” someone calls out suddenly, stepping into their path with a grin. “You guys are my favorite duo, you know that? Like—America’s brother-sister team.” The words hit wrong. She forces a smile anyway, stiff but polite, because that’s what she’s supposed to do. Ben doesn’t even hesitate—his arm comes around her shoulders like it belongs there, pulling her in just enough for the picture. Flash. Done. “Yeah,” he says easily, grin sharp. “Family.”

The second the moment passes, she slips out from under his arm and keeps walking. He follows again. Of course he does. By the time she reaches the elevator, she’s done pretending he’s not there. She steps inside, hits the button, and stares straight ahead. He steps in right after her. The doors close. Silence—brief, tense. Then suddenly, the elevator jolts. Stops. She frowns, looking up at the panel.

“What are you—” She turns, but he’s already moved. “Just making sure you don’t run off again,” he says casually, one hand braced against the wall beside her, boxing her in without fully touching her. Her back presses lightly against the metal behind her, her pulse picking up despite herself.

“Ben,” she warns, but it comes out thinner than she wants. His eyes drag over her face, slow, deliberate, like he’s reading every reaction she’s trying to hide. “So,” he says, voice lower now, “you fucked him, is that it?” Her stomach drops. “That’s none of your business.” There’s that smirk again. He leans in just slightly. His erection pushin against her waist.

“See, that right there,” he murmurs, “every time you say that, I know exactly what the answer is.” Her jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything.” He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Means he didn’t do shit,” he continues, tone almost conversational, but there’s an edge underneath it.

“Any guy worth half a damn wouldn’t be waiting around this long.” “Stop it,” she snaps, but her voice isn’t as steady as she wants it to be. He notices. Of course he does. “What?” he presses, tilting his head again, studying her. “Hit a nerve?”

She hates that her heart is racing. Hates the warmth creeping up her neck, the way her body betrays her even now. “You don’t get to talk about him like that,” she says, forcing the words out. “I’ll talk about whatever I want,” he shoots back easily, not backing off an inch. His voice drops again, quieter, more dangerous.

“And right now, I’m talking about you.” Her breath stumbles. “You keep saying you don’t feel it,” he continues, gaze locking onto hers, “but your body’s not doing a great job backing that up, I'm pretty sure if I slip my fingers in that thight pussy, they'll be soaking wet."

She snaps, her hands hitting his chest first—hard, pushing, trying to force space between them, trying to get him out of her air, out of her head, out of her body.

“Back off!” she breathes, but it comes out uneven, shaky, nothing like the control she’s trying to hold onto. He doesn’t move, not even an inch, just looks down at her hands on him and then back at her face, something amused flickering in his eyes. “That all you got?” he murmurs.

Frustration spikes sharp and immediate, and before she can think, she swings. Her palm cracks against his cheek, the sound echoing in the small elevator, loud and sharp—and for a second everything stills. Then he smiles. Slow, crooked, completely unaffected. Her stomach drops. “You know,” he says, rolling his jaw slightly like it actually did something, even though it clearly didn’t, “I kinda like that.”

Her breath catches. “That your thing too?” he adds, voice dropping lower, eyes darkening just a fraction. “Getting all worked up, taking a swing at me?” His gaze drags over her face, eyes darkening. “Careful, sweetheart… keep that up and I might start thinking you’re trying to get me all hot and heavy.”

She pushes at him again, harder, desperate, but it’s useless—like trying to move a wall. “You’re insane,” she mutters, but the edge is slipping. “Yeah?” he shoots back, leaning in just enough to close the distance again. “And you’re still hitting me.” That hits harder than the slap ever could.

Her chest rises too fast, her body betraying her all over again, warmth creeping in where it shouldn’t, where she doesn’t want it. He notices. Of course he does. His smirk shifts into something more focused, more intent, voice quieter now, almost coaxing.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Try again.” She shouldn’t. She knows she shouldn’t. But frustration and anger and something else tangled underneath push her forward, and her hand comes up again. Another hit. Not as hard this time. More desperate.

His head barely even moves, and when he looks back at her—“Yeah,” he exhales softly, almost under his breath, like he’s entertained, like he’s enjoying this far too much, “there she is., my good girl.”

Her knees weaken, actually weaken, forcing her to shift her weight just to stay upright, and she hates that he sees it, hates that he knows.

He leans in just enough to crowd her space again, that smirk still carved into his face like he owns the moment. “Come on,” he goads softly, voice rough, provoking. “Be a good little girl. Hit me. Harder.” His eyes don’t leave hers. “Let it out. You can’t hurt me—so do it.”

Her hand twitches like she might. But she doesn’t. Instead, her frustration snaps in a different direction—sharper, faster. Her foot moves before she can second-guess it, kicking straight into his knee.

That actually does something. Not much—but enough.

He exhales, more surprised than hurt, his balance shifting just slightly as he drops down onto one knee. Not defeated. Not even close. Just… lowered.

And now he’s looking up at her. That same smirk still there. If anything, worse. Her breath catches, thrown off by the shift, by the fact that for once he moved. “You actually like this?” she asks, disbelief slipping into her voice.

His answer isn’t verbal. His hands come up, settling firmly at her hips, fingers pressing in just enough to pull her forward. She stumbles. Just a step—but enough.

Enough that the distance between them disappears, her breath hitching as she suddenly becomes very aware of how close he is, how little space is left between them.

Her heart starts racing again, traitorous, loud in her ears. He tilts his head slightly, still looking up at her, completely unfazed, completely in control despite the position.

“Told you,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with that same dangerous amusement. While his fingers move underneath the skirt of her uniform. Tracing her now soaked panties. “You’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be.”

Her hands hover uselessly for a second, unsure whether to push him away or hold herself steady, and she hates that hesitation more than anything. One hand stay firm on her hips, grounding her there, like he wants her unsteady. He tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over her face, then lower, then back up again, slow and deliberate.

“So,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, “did farm boy finally grow a backbone?” Her breath stutters. “What?” “Don’t play dumb,” he says, grip tightening just slightly, enough to make her aware of it. “Did he fuck you?” The question lands heavy, invasive, and she knows she should shut it down, tell him to mind his own business, but something about the way he’s looking at her, the way the air feels too thick, too charged—it pulls the truth out of her before she can stop it.

“No,” she breathes. His brow lifts just a fraction. “No?” “We—” she swallows, her voice softer now, uneven, “we didn’t…” His mouth twitches, something smug settling in. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself, like it confirms everything he already thought. His hands shift slightly on her hips, thumbs pressing in, grounding her again when her knees threaten to give. “So what happened?” he presses, quieter now, but sharper. “You run off because you suddenly remembered you’re a good girl?” That hits something. Her fingers curl into fists at her sides. “I pushed him away,” she admits, the words slipping out before she can stop them. That actually makes him pause. Just for a second.

“You what?” His voice drops even lower. She exhales shakily, her head tilting back just slightly against the elevator wall. “I pushed him away,” she repeats, quieter now, like she doesn’t fully understand it herself. His eyes narrow, studying her, trying to read between every word. “Why?” he asks. It’s not mocking this time. It’s something else. Something sharper. More focused. And she doesn’t know why she answers him. She just does. “Because…” her voice catches, her breath uneven, like she’s standing too close to something she doesn’t understand. “Because every time he kissed me…” she swallows, her fingers twitching like they don’t know where to go, “I thought of you.” Silence. Heavy. Thick. His grip tightens, just slightly. “And every time he touched me…” she continues, almost like she’s under a spell, like she can’t stop now that she’s started, “it didn’t feel like him.” Her eyes flicker down, then back up to his. “It felt like you.” That does something. She sees it. Feels it. His jaw tightens, something darker flickering behind his eyes now. “You serious?” he mutters, voice rougher than before. She shakes her head slightly, like she doesn’t even believe herself. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she admits, frustration slipping in, breath uneven. “But you—” she exhales sharply, her hands finally lifting, gripping onto the front of his shirt like she needs something to hold onto, “you took that from me.”

His gaze locks onto hers instantly. “Took what?” “That... moment,” she says, almost angry now, even though her voice is still breathless. “That was supposed to be mine and you—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. “You’re infuriating.”

He watches her for a long second, something calculating in his expression, something that looks almost like satisfaction underneath it. Then, quieter, more deliberate, he leans in just slightly. “So you want me to stop?” he asks. Her breath catches again. “What?”

“You want me to leave you alone?” he continues, voice low, steady now. “Walk away. Let you go back to your farm boy and pretend this isn’t happening.” The air feels too thin. Her chest rises and falls too fast. This is it. The out. All she has to do is say yes. All she has to do is tell him to stop.

But she doesn’t. “…No,” she breathes. The word slips out before she can stop it. His eyes darken immediately. “No?” he repeats, quieter now. Her fingers tighten in his hair. “No,” she says again, barely louder than a whisper. “Then why,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his forehead brushes her hips, “are you still dressed?”

Her breath shudders, her body already answering before her mind can catch up. And then—her hand moves. Not to push him away. Her fingers slide to her skirt, gripping, taking her clothes off before pulling him just slightly closer, like she needs him there.

She barely registers how it escalates, just that suddenly she’s naked in front of the man she once claimed to hate. She is aware of everything—his hands, his breath, the way he moves up over her body like he already decided this ends one way.

His lips drag over her skin, slow, deliberate, like he’s testing every reaction she can’t hide, and she hates the way her breath breaks for him, hates how her body answers before her mind can catch up.

His lips start at her left hip moveing over to her right. Just when she thought he might open her legs he moves higher, to her stomach, his lips suck in one nipple than the other, a soft moan escapes her lips and she can feel his move into a smile. Loving the reaction he is getting out of her.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing along her neck, lips following, tilting her head just enough that she has to look at him, and when his mouth finally reaches hers—he kisses her like he owns the moment. Not soft, not careful—confident, consuming, like he knows she’s ready.

Her hands clutch at him, not pushing him away this time, just holding on because her knees don’t feel steady anymore. Then suddenly—the elevator jolts. Movement. Her eyes snap open, panic flooding in all at once as reality crashes back. Seeing Ben had pushed the elevator back to work. “Ben—” she breathes, pulling back just enough to look at him, wide-eyed.

He doesn’t look nearly as concerned. If anything, he looks amused. She realizes—too late—how exposed she feels, how little control she has over the situation now that the elevator is moving again. “Shit—” she mutters, scrambling slightly, trying to gather herself, trying to fix something that can’t be fixed fast enough.

“They’re going to see—” She moves to reach for her things, but he's standing on her uniform and doesn’t budge, doesn’t make it easy, just watches her with that same infuriating calm. “Move,” she snaps, frustrated now, nerves spiking. “Ben, move.” He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, he just tilts his head slightly, watching her unravel like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Relax,” he mutters. “You’re fine.”

“I am not fine, I'm fucking naked in an elevator with you! And all of Vought is going to see me! ” she shoots back under her breath, heart racing, trying to cover herself, trying to think, trying to regain even a shred of control. “You’re an asshole,” she adds, more breath than voice now.

The elevator slows. Her stomach drops. “Ben—” The doors slide open. She freezes for half a second, bracing for eyes, for voices, for anything—but before she can react, he moves. One smooth motion. Lifting her over his shoulder like it’s nothing, like she weighs nothing, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

She gasps, instinctively grabbing onto him, her heart hammering as he steps out into the hallway without hesitation. But it’s empty. Completely. No one there. No one sees. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even glance around, just carries her like he belongs here, like he owns every space he walks into, pushing straight toward his room.

“Ben—what are you doing?” she breathes, still trying to catch up, still trying to steady herself. He doesn’t answer immediately. Just kicks the door open, steps inside, and finally sets her down—but not far, not enough to give her real distance. His eyes drag over her again, slower this time, more deliberate.

“What, you thought I was gonna fuck you for your first time in a fucking elevator?” he mutters, voice rougher now. "I'm gonna fuck you in a bed, and then... then I might fuck you in an elevator, or staircase, maybe even Stan Edgar's desk."

She swallows, still trying to find her footing. “You’re insane,” she says again, but there’s no real fight left in it. His mouth twitches, something almost amused, almost dangerous. “Nah,” he says quietly, stepping closer again, not giving her space to run this time.

He leans in slightly, not touching her yet, just enough to make her breath catch again. “I’m not rushing this,” he adds, voice low, steady, but there’s something possessive underneath it now, something that wasn’t there before. “You don’t get a moment like this twice.”

Her pulse spikes again, "Now be a good little girl and lay down on that bed," he points at the red white and blue bed in the middle of the room. "And spread those pretty little legs for me."

--

He turned his head slightly when she stepped into his line of sight. Like he’d only just noticed she existed. “You did that?” she asked. A beat. He glanced at the ruins behind him, then back at her.

“…I think so.”

She should’ve left. Instead, she looked at the dust on his shoulders, the blood that wasn’t his, the way his hands flexed like they didn’t trust stillness. “You can’t stay here,” she said.

“Didn’t plan on it,” he replied.

That made something almost like a smile flicker across her face. “Good. Because this place is going to be crawling with problems in about five minutes.”

He stared at her for a second longer than necessary. Then: “You always help stangers like this?”

She shrugged.

She took him to the her motel. The room was small. Ugly. Safe in the way nothing important ever happened there. He stood in the middle of it like he didn’t understand walls. She dropped her bag onto the bed.

“You can stay here tonight,” she said. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked at her like she was the unusual part of this situation.

“Why?” he asked finally. That one word carried more weight than it should’ve. She leaned against the desk.

“Because I’ve done worse,” she said.

A pause.

“Too much drugs. Bad decisions. Woke up in places I didn’t recognize. People I didn’t recognize. Blood on my hands that wasn't mine and a dead body on the floor.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” she said simply. “It’s supposed to make you stop asking stupid questions.” That got him. A short breath that might’ve been a laugh.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Outside, sirens grew louder. Closer. But they ignored it.

He tilted his head slightly. “You from here?” he asked. She hesitated just long enough for it to mean something. “My mom is American,” she said. “But I’ve been abroad a long time.”

He nodded slowly, like that made sense in a way he couldn’t explain. “I’ve been abroad too,” he said. She looked at him then. Noticing the Russian tag on his bag. But didn't say anything.

The motel room had a TV that didn’t work and a lamp that buzzed like it was tired of existing.

Outside, the world kept moving. Inside, time didn’t behave properly anymore. Ben sat on the edge of the bed like it might explode if he leaned too far forward. “Got anything to drink?” he asked.

Evelyne didn’t look up from her bag. “Depends what you call drink.”

“Anything that burns going down.”

That finally made her smirk.

She reached into the drawer under the sink. Like she already knew it was there. Bottles of cheap liquor, half-used, abandoned by whoever stayed here before deciding life was better elsewhere.

She tossed one to him. He caught it without looking. That, for some reason, made her pause. “You do that a lot?” she asked.

“What?”

“Catch things like you’re expecting them to hit you.”

He twisted the cap off. “Yeah.”

"What's you name?" he asked while looking at the bottle before taking a big gulp. "Evelyne, but everyone calls me Eve." She looked at him expecting to give his name. "Ben." he said.

They drank. At first slowly. Then not. The room softened around the edges the way reality does when it stops being important.

Ben leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it might tell him what year it was. “Not close to your family?” he asked.

Evelyne exhaled through her nose. “Why do you care?” That was enough for him to look at her. She didn’t stop him. "Because you rent a motel."

“She’s… American,” she said after a moment. “That’s what she always wanted to be seen as. Patriot, perfect image, all of it. I'm not, not even close.”

She took the bottle out of his hands for another drink before continuing. “Didn’t want me.” Ben gave a short, humorless laugh. “Same.” That made her glance at him properly now. She kept talking anyway.

“She didn’t raise me. Didn’t want to. Handed me off like I was part of a test she got bored of halfway through.”

He frowned slightly, like that concept wasn’t new to him—but still pissed him off on principle. Eve continued, voice steadier than it should’ve been. “When I started showing… too much, strength. Heat. Whatever you want to call it… they panicked.”

“Who’s they?” he asked. She hesitated. “People who like control. Who kept me in that fucking dungeon.”

“So they sent me away. Europe. Boarding school. Quiet place. Out of sight.” She shrugged. “I stayed out of the light for a long time. Black Op's, dealing with shit people didn't want to know about, you know.” Ben looked at her for a moment that lasted too long. “And now?” he asked.

She leaned back against the desk. “Now I think I’m done pretending I’m not... used. I'm gonna fuck up every last person who made my life a living hell." She looked dead serious at Ben.

"Well doll, tell me another sad story. My father hated me,” he said. “Mother’s dead. Wars. More wars. People I trusted turned out to be… temporary. And shipped me to a fucking Russian lab.”

He took a long drink. “Guess I’m not the only fucked-up experiment in the room.” She sighs. That earned a small laugh from him. “Guess not. Somewhere between the second bottle and the third she had pulled out her stash of cocaine. Not to her surprise snorred this fella half the bag and still stood up right.

By the time the room felt too warm and the walls too close, Evelyne was lying on the bed instead of leaning on the desk. Ben was closer than he had been earlier. Neither of them acknowledged it.

“You always this calm while high on drugs?” he asked. “I’m not calm,” she laughed. “I’m just used to it.” He hummed, like he understood that distinction. Then, after a pause: “You’re pretty when you smile.”

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t planned. It was just said. Eve looked at him like she was deciding whether to mock him or break him. Then she laughed again, properly. “Pretty?” she repeated. “That’s your angle?”

He shrugged slightly. “It’s accurate. I mean you look bulky which isn't very flatering for a young woman. But hey some dudes like manly females.”

She lifts so she's sitting upright. “Manly... Dude you should see what I can do with these,” she said, patting her thighs. “Pretty doesn’t really cover it.”

A pause.

Then, with a grin that matched his energy more than either of them probably intended “These abs could ruin your entire belief system. I'd fuck you till you see the fucking stars.”

That made him actually laugh. Low. Real. “Yeah?” he said.

“Yeah.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to close the distance without crossing it fully. “I’ve survived worse belief systems,” he said. She tilted her head. “Cocky.”

“Experienced.” That earned another laugh from her.

“You always this talkative?” he asked.

Eve smirked. “Only when I’m bored.” That should’ve been an insult. He didn’t take it like one. “Must be hard,” he said. “Getting bored that easy.” She tilted her head, studying him like he was a puzzle she hadn’t decided was worth solving. “You’re trying,” she said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Trying what?”

“To impress me.”

That made him scoff softly. “Sweetheart,” he said, leaning back like he owned the room again, “I don’t try.” She rolled her eyes. Actually rolled them.

A beat. Then she moved, closer. Slow enough that he could’ve stopped her. He didn’t. Eve shifted onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation. No question. Just decision. Testing him.

Her knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him, one hand settling lightly against his shoulder to steady herself. Close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her.

She watched his face carefully. Waiting. For hesitation. For nerves. For something. Nothing. Not even a flicker. If anything, he looked… entertained. That annoyed her more than it should have.

“You don't seem nervous?” she asked softly. Ben’s mouth curved just slightly. “Should I be?” She leaned in a fraction, fingers sliding up into the back of his hair, brushing the base of his neck before she clawed his hair. It wasn’t gentle. It was deliberate.

The kind of touch meant to make people react. Most people did. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t even tense or blink. Instead, his hand came up—slow, unhurried—and caught a loose strand of her hair between his fingers.

He twirled it once. Twice. Like he had all the time in the world. “Nice trick,” he said. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Usually works.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “On guys who scare easy.” That earned the smallest huff of a laugh from her. “You don’t scare easy?” He met her gaze, steady, unshaken. “I'm the one thinkg that scares others.

That should’ve shifted the balance. It didn’t. If anything, it made her lean in more.

Her fingers moved over to the front of his neck, pressed slightly firmer against against him now, testing pressure, testing control. Still nothing.

“You’re either very confident,” she said quietly, “or very stupid.”

The tension didn’t break. It snapped. Ben’s eyes dragged over her face, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing something he didn’t fully understand yet. “I like a girl in charge,” he said. Low. Rough. Honest in a way that didn’t ask permission.

Eve's lips curved slightly at that—half amusement, half challenge. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I don’t take orders well.” His hand moved then. Not hesitant. Fingers gripping at her side, grounding, claiming space without asking for it.

The kiss that followed wasn’t soft. Teeth catching, breath uneven, all tension and no restraint—like neither of them knew how to do anything halfway. Her hand tightened in his hair, pulling slightly at the back of his neck.

His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it pulled her closer. The next movement was sudden. He stood, lifting her with him like it weighed nothing. She didn’t protest, she just let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh as her hands found his shoulders to steady herself.

The dresser hit her back a second later, hard enough to rattle.

Everything on top of it, her bag, a glass, something small and metallic, crashed to the floor in a scatter of noise. Neither of them looked. The wall behind it shuddered faintly with the impact. Cheap motel construction protesting something it wasn’t built to handle. Still, neither of them stopped.

Clothes fell to the floor, hand gripped and kneaded eachothers skin.

Ben lifted Eve onto the dresser with a force that left her gasping for breath, the broken material trying to pierce her skin, as she landed with a soft thud. Her heart raced with excitement as she felt Ben's hands roaming over her naked legs.

As Ben's hand moved between her thighs, a surge of anticipation coursed through her veins. He pressed his fingers against her core, his touch both gentle and possessive as he explored the depths of her desire. 

His fingers moved with a skilled precision, seeking out the most sensitive spots and igniting a firestorm of sensation within her. “Fucking hell doll, so wet, you really asked me here just to fuck that little pussy of yours, didn't you?”  

Eve's breath hitched as she felt the warmth of his touch spreading through her like wildfire, every caress sending waves of pleasure coursing through her veins. She arched her back, a soft moan escaping her lips as Ben's fingers worked their magic.

"Don't you think I won't take you up on that offer to take control doll. You will ride my dick tonight." And as Ben brought her to the brink of ecstasy, Eve surrendered completely to the pleasure of the moment.

A second after her own orgasm, she pushed Ben off of her with a force he never experienced before, letting him fall onto the bed. She approached him slowly, her power locking his body in place. "You like to talk big, Ben. But let's see how you handle being at my mercy."

His breath hitched as she leaned over him, her proximity intoxicating. Eve's voice was low and sultry, each word dripping with intent. "You think you can 'fuck the little girl' out of me? Let's see how you fare when you're the one being driven wild."

"You won't break me doll." A slow smile curved her lips. "We'll see about that." She let her teeth graze his neck, nipping lightly before soothing the skin with her tongue. She moved lower, her lips trailing down to his chest. Her hand continued its teasing journey, nails scraping hard over his nipples, making him gasp.

Then she bent down, taking one nipple into her mouth, sucking gently before letting her teeth scrape over it. Ben's body arched involuntarily, a shudder running through him.

His response was a guttural moan, his hands gripping the sheets as he fought against the restraint her power held over him.

She shifted her hips, pressing down on him, and he felt the full force of her dominance. He was completely at her mercy, and it exhilarated him. The sense of surrender, of giving himself over to her, was intoxicating.

"Tell me," she commanded softly, her nails now grazing his hips. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this," he admitted, his voice hoarse with need. Instantly, Ben's hands moved to her hips, grabbing her ass and pulling her down, hard against him. The sudden contact sent a shock of pleasure through both of them.

With deliberate slowness, she slid her nails under the waistband of his boxers benead her, teasing. Ben's hips bucked involuntarily, a gasp escaping his lips as she continued to torment him with her touch. Her nails scraped lightly along his thick cock, the sensation a perfect mix of pleasure and pain.

She leaned in, pressing her lips against the last remaining fabric that covered him. Her teeth tugged at the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down and exposing his hard member. As her tongue moved back up, she felt a thrill of victory at his helpless moans as she tasted him. She savored every sound, every twitch of his body under her command.

Her tongue traced the length of him "You're such a filthy little slut." Ben's voice dripped with dominance, his eyes smouldering with a primal intensity as he looked down at her. "You're going to take it all, aren't you?" He asked while she seated on top of him.

She could feel the sting but damn it felt so good, she knew from the second he was inside her that she was addicted to him, to them having sex. Never had a man had this effect on her.

While she was riding him hard, he was licking and sucking her breasts making sure he left marks. Ben could feel that she was close, so he helped her by playing with her clit. Her nails dug in and pulled his hair while her head found its way to his neck.

He pushed her to her limits screaming and shaking what seemed for hours. Her legs felt jelly. Ben lifted her up, pushed her breast against the bed, and while she sat on her knees, he stood behind her, thrusting in again. He didn’t slow down he pushed her over the edge again, but this time the feeling of her tightening around him and her moans made him come too.  

Both lay breathless in bed, "Damn doll," he said, " it's been a while since I fucked this good." She chuckles at the compliment, "Yeah well, you can stay here for the night, by morning I need you gone."

"Sure? I mean I can go another round or four." He smirked.

"Ha! By the first morning light. Your gone!"

--

Two Years Later

The room was too clean.

That was the first thing Ben noticed. No dust. No noise. No life. Just polished floors, glass walls, and the quiet hum of a place where everything was controlled down to the smallest detail. He hated it.

“Try not to break anything this time.” The voice carried before the man did. Homelander stepped into the room like he owned it. Because he did. Ben didn’t look at him immediately. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, boots on the table, like he was daring someone to say something about it.

“You dragged me out here,” Ben muttered. “At least make it worth my time.” Homelander smiled. Too wide. Too practiced. “Oh, I think you’ll find this interesting.” There was a third person in the room. Quiet. Observing. Sister Sage didn’t sit. She stood near the glass wall, tablet in hand, eyes flicking between them like she was already ten steps ahead of the conversation.

Ben glanced at her briefly.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Sage?” Homelander said lightly.

Sage jumped in. “I’ve been asked to look into potential… biological connections,” she said calmly. “Given recent revelations.” Ben let out a dry laugh. “Yeah? And what, we starting a family tree now?” Homelander’s expression didn’t change. But something behind it tightened.

Sage tapped her tablet once. A file appeared on the screen behind her. "Meet Evelyne Scarlet Carter." Ben didn’t move, didn’t even blink. “She is the biological daughter of Crimson Countess. Nickname Nova star.” Sage continued. Calm. Clinical.

“Conceived naturally. No lab intervention in the initial gestation.” That alone shifted something in the room. Because that wasn’t how Vought usually did things. Homelander stepped closer to the screen.

For once, he didn’t look amused. He looked… focused. “I know her,” he said. Sage tilted her head slightly and so did Ben. “That’s unlikely. Her records—” Sage started but didn't get a chance to finish. “I know her,” he repeated.

“She was there,” Homelander said. “In the lab.” A pause. “They kept her in a different section than me, but we were out to get tested on our strenghts once in a while..” His jaw tightened slightly. “She was the only one who… talked to me like I was normal. For years, then she just, dissapeared.”

Sage’s fingers moved quickly across the tablet. “Records confirm proximity during early development stages,” she said. “She was removed from the facility at approximately age twelve.”

“Yeah,” Homelander said. Flat.

“They claimed her to be unstable.” Sage added.

A beat.

“They sent her away.”

Ben’s gaze was still on the screen. Still on her. “…How old?” he asked. Sage glanced at her data. “Comparable to Homelander,” she said. “Possible born 7 to 9 months later—” Ben didn’t let her finish. He was already doing the math.

Already hating the answer.

After the meeting Ben stayed too look out the window and think things true. If she was Coutness's child, and if she was born within the year Homelander was born then she could have been his.

And if that was true...

Homelander turned to him, finally noticing the shift. “You got real quiet,” he said. Ben didn’t look at him. “You’re considering the possibility,” Homelander said. Not a question. A statement.

Ben’s jaw tightened. Because yeah, he was . A daughter. Not grown in a lab. Conceved, real. And a little detail, he might have fucked her brains out the first day he came back from Russia.

“Well,” he said lightly, “wouldn’t that just make things interesting?” Ben finally looked at him. "What did you say?"

"Having a sister, and a father, wouldn't that be interesting." Homelander repeated, " We could make a family business out of Vought."

“…You have no idea,” Ben said.

--

The door didn’t open. It slammed. Black Noir stepped in first—silent as ever, hand still locked around her arm. Evelyne didn’t resist on the way in. She saved it for the moment it mattered. The second he let go, she yanked her arm free. “I said I’d walk,” she snapped. Noir didn’t react.

Homelander stood near the window, all clean lines and controlled posture, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

And beside him... Soldier Boy. Eve frowned confused. “…Didn’t you die?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Ben didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just watched her. Carefully.

She didn’t recognize him. Not from that night. Too much alcohol. Too much blur. Too little reason to remember. To her, he was just another ghost Vought had dragged back out.

Homelander smiled. “Welcome home.” Eve let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” She crossed her arms, shifting her weight like she refused to give the room what it wanted.

“What do you want?” she asked. Homelander stepped closer. Measured. Controlled. “You don’t have to live like this anymore,” he said. “That… apartment. That life.” A slight tilt of his head.

“You can have a real home.”

A beat.

“At Vought Tower.”

Eve raised an eyebrow. “With who, you two fuckers?” she asked flatly. Homelander’s smile widened. “With us... your family.”

Silence.

Then—

She laughed. Uncontrolled. “Excuse me?” she said, wiping at her eye like that had actually been funny. Homelander didn’t laugh. “I know who your mother is,” he said. That got her attention. Just slightly.

“Crimson Countess,” he continued. “You didn’t think we wouldn’t find that out eventually, did you?” Evelyne’s jaw tightened.

But she didn’t interrupt. Homelander gestured lightly toward Ben. “And him…” he said, almost casually, “well. There’s a strong possibility he’s your father.” That landed. Not like a shock.

More like something heavy dropping into place. Evelyne’s eyes flicked to Ben. Quick, measuring, judging.

“And since,” Homelander continued smoothly, “I am his son…” He spread his arms slightly. “We’re all one big family.”

“Yeah, no,” Eve said immediately. “Hard pass.” Homelander’s smile didn’t drop. But something behind it shifted. “You haven’t even heard the offer.”

“I don’t need to,” she shot back. “I’m not interested in whatever twisted version of ‘family’ you’re selling.” Slight pause. Then Homelander’s expression sharpened. “Interesting,” he said. “Because I remember you differently.” He glanced toward a tablet on the table.

Tapped it once.

“Subject: Evelyne Scarlet Carter,” he read. “Exceptional strength. Energy projection exceeding baseline parameters. Instability markers—”

“Stop.” Her voice cut clean through his. “I don’t want to hear about that place,” she said. Quiet now. But far more dangerous. “I don’t want to remember it. I don’t care what you think you know about me.”

Homelander studied her. Really studied her. And for a second— he looked almost… pleased. “You’ve changed,” he said.

She scoffed. “No. I just don’t belong to vought... or her, anymore.” Ben shifted slightly at that. Homelander’s gaze flicked to him, then back to her. “So,” he said lightly, “what would it take?”

Evelyne frowned. “What?”

“What do you want?” he asked. “To join us. To take your place. To finally be who you were meant to be.” A beat. Silence stretching thin.

Then she laughed again. “I already had a plan,” she said. Her eyes darkened slightly. “All I wanted... ” she paused, jaw tightening, “was to kill my mother. That's why I moved back here.”

Then her gaze shifted. Slowly. To Ben. “But I guess,” she said quietly, “even that got taken from me.” Homelander tilted his head slightly, studying her like he’d just found the right lever to pull.

“Well,” he said lightly, “if it’s revenge you’re after…” A pause. A smile.

“I might have something better.”

Evelyne didn’t move. But her attention sharpened. “Better than killing her?” she asked. Homelander took a slow step closer. “Your mother is already… dealt with,” he said. “Messy, disappointing end. Not nearly as satisfying as you probably imagined.” A flicker of something crossed her face—anger, frustration, something unfinished.

He saw it. Of course he did. “But the doctors?” he continued. “The ones who ran those tests. The ones who decided what you weren't allowed to become the powerhouse you are today… Who, used you.”

A beat. “They’re still out there.” Evelyne’s jaw tightened. “You know where they are?” she asked. Homelander’s smile sharpened. “I know everything.”

“…And what’s the catch?” she asked.

“There’s always a catch.”

“Of course there is.”

Homelander spread his hands slightly. “Join us,” he said. “Join The Seven. Take your place. Let the world see you. And in return… you get your closure.”

Silence stretched. Long enough to matter. Evelyne exhaled slowly. “…Fine,” she said. Homelander’s smile widened. “There she is.” She pointed at him slightly. “This isn’t for you.”

“I know,” he said. That made it worse. Another pause. Then Homelander clapped his hands once, sharp. “Now,” he said, tone shifting back to something almost casual, “we should talk presentation.”

Eve frowned. “What?”

“Costume,” he clarified. “Image. Branding.”

“…I don’t have one.”

“That’s alright,” he said smoothly. “We’ll make you one.” Of course they would. He turned slightly toward the door. Without looking, he said, “Someone will take you to your room.” Right on cue, the door opened again. Another Vought handler. Quiet. Efficient.

Evelyne hesitated for half a second. Then she rolled her shoulders, like she was already bracing herself for whatever this was going to become. “Don’t make me regret this,” she muttered. Homelander’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh,” he said softly. “You won't.” She didn’t respond. Just turned and walked toward the door. As she passed Ben, she didn’t look at him. Not really. Just a passing glance. Nothing more.

But he looked at her. Realising she was either the best actress in the world, or she had no clue who he was...

--

His eyes narrow. “The hell does that mean?”

“All of this... pain,” her fingers press lightly against him, “it’s emotions. Things you’ve locked away for a long time.”

“That’s bullshit,” he spats, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. If anything, he stays too close, like part of him is listening despite himself. Her voice softens. “There’s old pain in you, Ben. Grief… anger… something that never healed.” She hesitates, then adds quietly, “And something new.”

That flickers across his face, gone in a second. Before she can say more, he moves. Leaning in. Close enough that her breath catches again, that same charged moment but this time it’s deliberate. Her voice drops, softer than she intended. “Ben…” A warning. A plea. He stops. Just there. Inches away.

The air between them tight, stretched thin. Seconds pass. Neither of them moving. Then he pulls back just enough. Silence settles, heavy, unspoken. He looks at her differently now. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Searching. “…Do you love him?” he asks, voice quieter than she’s ever heard it.

The question catches her off guard. She blinks. “I… think so.” Honest. Even if uncertain. His gaze doesn’t leave her. “How does he make you feel?” She hesitates, then answers, still too close to him. “Safe. Secure… at ease.” Something shifts in his expression, not anger, something else. He exhales lightly, almost a scoff but without bite. “That’s not love.” Her brows knit. “What?”

“Love isn’t safe,” he says, voice lower, rougher. “It’s not easy.” She watches him now, really watches him. “Love is wild,” he continues, something building in his tone. “It’s messy. It doesn’t sit still and behave.” His eyes flicker with something intense. “It’s not something that makes you feel comfortable.”

The room feels smaller. Quieter. Her heart picks up, though she doesn’t know why. “…And how would you know?” she asks softly.

“I’m older,” he shrugs slightly, that arrogance slipping back into place like armor. “I know things.”

She lets out a small, disbelieving breath, shaking her head. “Oh, really? You mean to tell me you love Crimson?” Her brows lift, unimpressed. “Or is it one of the thousand other women you dragged back to your room to fuck on tour? Please.” She takes a step back, needing space more than she wants to admit.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Her voice softens, but she doesn’t look at him, eyes dropping to the floor like if she avoids his gaze, she might steady herself.

“Pretend,” he says, stepping closer again, closing the distance she just created like it never mattered. “Pretend you don’t feel this.”

She scoffs lightly, but it comes out thinner than she intended. “Feel what?”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, more like he already knows he’s winning. “That pull,” he says, tapping a finger lightly against his chest, then letting it hover just slightly closer to her. “Between us.”

Her stomach flips—annoyingly, unmistakably—and she hates it. Hates that her body reacts before her brain can shut it down. “You’re imagining things.”

“I know you look at me,” he adds, voice dropping, more certain now. That makes her inhale sharply.

“Just because you’re…” she starts, then stops, annoyed at herself, before forcing the words out, “conventionally attractive doesn’t mean I have to feel anything toward you.”

It sounds good. Firm. Controlled. But her legs feel just a little unsteady. And she hates that too.

His eyes drag over her, slow, deliberate, like he’s taking his time proving her wrong without even touching her. “Conventional,” he repeats, amused. “That what we’re calling it?”

She lifts her chin slightly, trying to hold her ground. “Yes.” He steps closer again. Too close. Her breath catches, just for a second, but she hopes he doesn’t notice. He definitely notices. “Funny,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough to invade her space without actually touching her, “you don’t look unaffected.”

Her stomach twists again, butterflies turning sharp and restless, and she clenches her hands slightly at her sides to keep them from betraying her.

“I’m not some girl from the city throwing herself at you,” she shoots back, quieter now but no less stubborn. “I see what you are. I see what other women fall for.”

“And you don’t?” he challenges instantly. She shakes her head, even though her pulse is racing. “No.”

A beat.

Then, softer, almost like she’s convincing herself as much as him. “I don’t.” His smirk deepens, slow and knowing. “Yeah,” he says under his breath, like he doesn’t believe her for a second. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me that.”

He smirks, slow and deliberate. “Or what?”

She opens her mouth—nothing comes out. And he sees it. Of course he does.

“Or you’ll quit?” he continues, stepping closer, voice turning sharper. “Then what, huh? Your parents sell the farm? Or farm boy finally steps up? ” His head tilts slightly, mockery dripping from every word. “You gonna be his pretty little wifey? Cooking, cleaning, popping out five little farm babies?”

Her jaw tightens.

“That’s not you, sweetheart.”

“You don’t know me!” she snaps, finally finding her voice again, heat rising fast now.

“Oh, but I do,” he shoots back immediately, not missing a beat. “I know exactly what you are.” He steps closer again, invading her space like he has every right to be there. “You want something bigger than that. Something real. All-consuming.” His voice lowers, rougher now. “A man who isn’t scared of what you can do. Who doesn’t try to box you into some life you didn’t choose.”

Her chest rises and falls a little faster.

“So…” she tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing, pushing back even though her pulse is racing, “you’re telling me you’re all that, Ben?”

His name hits differently.

“You?” she continues, stepping closer now, closing the distance herself this time. “The cheating, the lying, the worst mother fucking son of a bitch on thus planet?” His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move away. “You’re not even honest with yourself,” she adds, her voice quieter now, but sharper.

Her finger presses against his chest, right over his heart. A deliberate push. A reminder that she felt it. Felt everything.

His eyes flicker—just for a second. She sees it. She steps in even closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper, bold in a way she’s never been with him before.

“You’re not Soldier Boy, the mighty hero,” she says, her gaze locked on his. “I felt it. The real you.”

That does it. Something in his expression snaps, fury flashing through his eyes. But she doesn’t back down. Not now.

“You’re nothing but a fucked up, scared little boy, who needs constant approval,” she continues, her voice steady despite the way her heart is pounding.

A beat.

“Benjamin.”

Something in him snaps.

Before she can continue, his hands are on her face, firm, almost rough, fingers pressing into her cheeks, holding her in place like she might disappear if he doesn’t. And then he kisses her.

Hard. Rough. Needy.

Not soft like Clark. Nothing about Ben was careful. There’s nothing hesitant about that kiss.

It’s sudden, overwhelming—knocking the breath straight out of her lungs. His grip doesn’t loosen, doesn’t give her space to think, to process, just keeps her there, right where he wants her.

It’s rough, but not careless. It's intense. Demanding. Like he’s trying to prove something, maybe to her, maybe to himself.

Her hands come up instinctively, grabbing onto his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she tries to steady herself, her heart racing, her mind scrambling to catch up with what’s happening.

This is nothing like what she knows. Nothing like what she expected. It steals the air from her chest, leaves her dizzy, caught between pushing him away and... For a split second, she freezes in it.

Then reality crashes back in. Her hands press against his chest, breaking the kiss as she pulls back, breath uneven, eyes wide as she stares up at him.

“Ben...”

His name comes out shaky, a little more than a breath.

“Ben...”

She barely gets his name out before he moves again.

He walks her back until her shoulders hit the wall by the window, the impact soft but grounding, trapping her there as his presence fills the space around her. Blocking the view of the room behind him.

His lips don’t return to hers this time, they drag along her jaw, down to her neck, and her breath hitches sharply. “Ben…” she says again, but this time it comes out uneven, softer, caught somewhere between protest and something else she doesn’t want to name.

He doesn’t stop.

There’s something restless about him, something almost hungry in the way his hands move, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with all of it—so he just… acts. His grip tightens at her waist, pulling her closer, like distance itself is the problem.

Her hand finds his hair without thinking, fingers threading through it, grounding herself more than him. “Ben… slow down,” she murmurs, trying to steady her voice.

Slow down... not stop, why didn't she say stop...

That makes him pause.

He pulls back slightly, and she sees him really sees him. Lips flushed, breath heavier, eyes darker than before, like something inside him has finally surfaced and doesn’t know how to go back down.

“Let me show you…” he says, voice rough, quieter now but no less intense, “…what it’s supposed to feel like.”

He presses a brief kiss to her lips, short, almost restrained compared to before, but it lingers in a different way.

Her heart is racing now, her thoughts tangled, her body reacting faster than her mind can catch up. His hands moved over her thighs to her ass, moving under her sundress, his firm grip suprising her.

Without any effort he lifts her above his head, her back hit against the wall, her legs hung over his shoulder, his lips on the inside of her thigh biting softly.

She couldn't help but to yelp at the sudden movement.

"Farm boy had a pattetic attempt of lifting you up, if that was all he had in him, back there in the barn." his breath is heavy, "You deserve a real man sweetheart. Who takes you places... and takes you in all kind of different places, hard an needy."

With her hands nowhere to hold on to , she moves one hand above her against the wall trying to grip something, feeling the stug fabric of the courtains. clinging one hand on it while her other fists in his hair.

“You deserve more than safe,” he adds, low, almost like a challenge. Her hand tightens slightly in his hair unknowingly pulling him closer to her core.

Ben is smirking and looking up at her from inbetween her legs, her eyes widen as her breathing became heavy. His tongue darts over her soft skin, his eyes roll back as if she is the best thing he ever tasted.

Slowly he is moving towards her panties. She tries to move, but he holds her still, eyes snapping open in a warning. Before she could even truly register what he was doing she felt the tip of his tongue on top of her panties.

A deep animalistic growl slipped from his throat. She felt him deepening the connection, looking back down she noticed his teeth holding the fabric of her now soaked panties.

With a snap he released it from his teeth, another yelp left her mouth before she covered her lips with her hand.

Ben dropped her faster that he picked her up, due to the inpact she ripped the curtains off the rails. Ben didin't let her fall, he pinned her against the wall with his hips.

Her legs now around his waist, "Don't ever cover that pretty mouth or yours." He says grabbing her wrists and holding them over her head. His lips trail her jaw and neck before he stood eye to eye with her. "I need to hear every little whimper that comes from those deliciouse lips, sweetheart."

He kissed her again, deep. Her hands cling on to him, her body betraying her, as she noticed how much she wanted him. "Now tell me, what did farm boy do to you?"

"W-what?"

"Where did he touch you? Taste you... What wrongs do I need to correct." He purred as his lips dipped to the top of her breasts peaking over the little sundress.

"Nothing..." she breathed out. His eyes snap to hers, a smirk on his lips. "Good," He trew her on the bed. Ben got wild from desire, he leaned over her removing her shoes and panties. Putting them in his back pocket, "What are you...?" He looked up to lock eyes with her before kissing her clit to shut her up. Y/N moaned his name while her head fall back to her pillows.  

Ben worked his way on her. Licking and tasting her, dipping his tongue inside her while his hands pushed her dress up, so he could hold her breast. Softly pinching her nipples.  

Not even in her wildest dreams she would imagined a man doing this, but it felt so good all she could do is moan and whime. When Ben changed his tactics by pushing two fingers inside her and suck on her clit, she quickly felt the heat in her stomach grow.

She lifted herself back up to look at him smirking he knew he had her on edge. And when he curled his fingers, she couldn’t hold back anymore she started moaning his name like a prayer while grabbing his hair, not caring about her surroundings anymore.  Only wanting him closer.

After her high he kneeled behind her, moving closer to kiss her, she could still taste herself on his tongue.

That's when it hit her... What she had done. In one swift motion she pushed him off of her. "Go." Was all she could say slipping out off the bed.

"What?" Ben sat on the bed while she paced nervouse around her room. "I said go... this was a fucking mistake!"

"Sweetheart..." But she didn't give Ben the time. "No! No I'm not your Sweetheart! You fucking... You used me!"

She could hear him growl at that comment. “Last I checked moaning my fucking name isn’t somethingyou do when you feel used!" He said standing up in defence. "Beside sweetheart, it was you who pulled my face to your fuckinh pussy!"

"You trapped me in the air! I had no hold on to, you manhandled me, literally!" Ben rolled his eyes. "Oh please stop acting like I fucking raped you!"

"Ben, I want you to go! Now!" She turned her back at him. staring out of the window.

"Fine, but this... this isn't over yet! I know what this was. And I ain't going to give up that easily." The door slammed shut, the walls and windows shutter.

She sees Soldier boys frame walking away down the long driveway, her light pink panties partly hanging out of his back pocket like some souvenir.

A reminder of her own stupidity.

@jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @deans-baby-momma @tulipsvanilla @thesilmarillionblog @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @kr804573 @hobby27 @globetrotter28 @kindollss @muhahaha303 @shadysoulangel @lyarr24 @spxideyver @impala67rollingthroughtown @panickedbitch @deansimpalababy @livya99 @yvonneeeee @ladykitana90 @stoneyggirl2 @imsiriuslyreal @panickedbitch @roseblue373 @n-o-p-e-never @spnaquakindgdom @writtenbyhollywood @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @healojane @star-yawnznn @deanswifeyy @sunnyfuffly @barnes70stark @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @cranberrysauce666 @kelseaackles @deans-spinster-witch

She set foot in the old house, hugs her parents and get's upstairs to her old room and bathroom to freshen up. Everything kept exactly how she imagined it would be. A shower. Clean clothes. Something light and simple, nothing like the costumes or carefully curated outfits Vought picked for her.

By the time the sun starts to dip, she’s ready. And then the sound of an engine. She steps outside just as an old truck rolls up the driveway, dust kicking up behind it... Clark.

He leans out the window, smiling the second he sees her, that same easy, genuine smile that hasn’t changed at all. “Hey,” he calls. She smiles back instantly. “Hey.”

The door creaks as he steps out, walking over like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like no time has passed at all. There’s a brief moment where they just look at each other.

Then he pulls her into a hug. And it feels right. Simple. Warm. Real. “Missed you,” he says quietly. “I missed you too,” she admits. No cameras. No expectations. No pretending. Just them.

They pull apart, and he opens the passenger door for her like he always used to, a small gesture that still makes her smile. She climbs in, the worn seat familiar, grounding.

As they drive off, the sky turning golden around them, she watches him from the corner of her eye. Clark is kind. Patient. Good. Everything she told herself she wanted. And tonight… Tonight feels different.

Not because of pressure, because she know if she asked him to wait a little longer he would be fine with it, gentleman he is, but she felt ready for a while now, ready to take the next step, with him.

Because she wants to. Because for the first time in a long time, she feels safe enough to choose something for herself. his fingers rest lightly on her lap as the truck hums along the quiet road, her thoughts calm for once instead of racing.

This is what normal feels like. She thinks to herself, not when he is looking at me, not when he is touching me. Those nerves aren't normal, aren't safe. Clark is safe

And she’s ready for it.

The movie theater is warm, almost too warm, the kind of heat that makes everything feel softer, slower. She sits close to Clark, her sundress light against her skin, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, slightly curled from the summer air. His arm rests casually over the back of her seat, fingers just barely brushing her shoulder every now and then.

She glances up at him. He’s not watching the movie. He’s looking at her. That small realization makes her smile, just a little, before her eyes drop shyly. “What?” she whispers. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans in. And she meets him halfway.

The kiss is soft at first, hesitant in that sweet, almost teenage way, like they’re both aware of where they are but don’t really care. It makes her heart race anyway. Her hand finds his shirt, lightly gripping the fabric as he deepens the kiss just a little, still gentle, still careful.

It’s wholesome. Safe...

When they pull back, he lingers close, his forehead almost touching hers. “You wanna get out of here?” he murmurs. She nods, breath a little uneven. “Yeah.”

They slip out quietly, hands brushing, fingers eventually intertwining as they make their way to his truck. The air outside is cooler, but her skin still feels warm, buzzing.

In the car, his hand rests on her thigh, brushing in a circle over her skin.

Not pushing, not rushing, just there. And it sends butterflies straight through her. She knows this is it. Yet her mind flashed back to Soldier boy, no to Ben, sitting with her at the table his hand, finger absentminded moving over his glass.

She shakes the image out of her head, tonight she is nog Solace. She is Y/N. And she is ready to give her virginity. The thought doesn’t scare her the way she expected it would. It feels… right. Because it’s him. Because it’s Clark. Because she wants it.

The drive is quiet, comfortable, filled with small smiles and glances that say more than words could. When they reach the farm, she turns to him, a soft smile on her lips. “Come on,” she says, stepping out and motioning for him to follow.

She leads him to the barn.

It smells like hay and summer and home. The golden light from outside spills in through the wooden slats, casting everything in a warm glow. They settle down in the hay, laughter soft and quiet as they get comfortable, and then they’re kissing again.

Slower this time. Deeper. Her fingers slide into his hair, his hand steady at her waist, grounding her. His hands lower to her behind, lifting her against the wall, letting her slide down, but pressing her against the wood with his frame.

The kiss deepend and his hands started to roam. It feels like something real is about to begin... and yet. she was held back for some reason. The kiss felt good, his hands where roaming all the right places but the spark, wasn't there.

They kissed for another 5 or 10 minutes hoping to get to that momenten and feeling she wished for before ...

They both freeze. She exhales softly, resting her forehead against Clark’s for a second, reluctant to move.

“Y/N!”

Her mother’s voice cuts through the moment.

"Y/N, it's urgent."

“Maybe you should check that,” Clark says gently.

She groans under her breath. “I’m not the town doctor,” she mutters, pushing herself up anyway. “People can go to an actual hospital for once.”

"Just, go. I know your mom, she'll find us sooner or later." he kissed her head. They step out of the barn together, and her mother is already waiting, a little out of breath, a little tense.

“Sweetie,” she says quickly, “there’s someone at the house for you.”

“I’m kind of on holiday, Mom,” she replies, glancing back at Clark for a second. Her mother hesitates, then adds, “He says there is something wrong with him.”

Y/N sighs, frustration creeping in. “That doesn’t mean I have to fix it. I can’t just heal everyone and their pets, Mom. That’s not how it works, there are doctors and hospitals for that.”

Her mother steps closer, lowering her voice slightly. “I think you really should see this one.” Something in her tone makes Y/N pause. She looks at Clark, then back at her mom. “Why, who is it?”

A beat.

“It’s your boss.”

Her stomach drops. “Stan Edgar?” she asks immediately. Her mother shakes her head. “No… Soldier Boy.”

Everything shifts. "Why should he travel all this way? Vought has the best doctors..."

"He said he only trust you."

Y/N’s expression changes instantly, the softness gone, replaced with something tense, uncertain. She glances at Clark, caught between two worlds again.

Clark, ever steady, gives her a small, understanding smile. “Hey,” he says softly, “it’s okay. I’ll go. We’ll see each other tomorrow.”

She hesitates, clearly not wanting the night to end like this, but she nods slowly. “Yeah… tomorrow.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek this time, lingering just a second longer before pulling away. “Goodnight,” he murmurs, then turns to her mother. “Goodnight, Mrs. Y/L/N”

She smiles warmly at him, even now. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He heads back to his truck, and she watches him go, that warm feeling dimming just slightly as reality settles back in. Then she turns. Walking back toward the house with her mom. “I’m sorry,” her mother says gently. “I didn’t mean to interrupt… whatever that was.”

Y/N lets out a small breath, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah… you didn't...” Her mom nudges her lightly. “Sweetie, I’ve been your age before. I know exactly what I interrupted.”

That earns a small, embarrassed smile from her despite everything.

“But,” her mom continues, her tone shifting again, more serious now, “having Soldier Boy in our house… that’s not nothing. He is, how do you say it...”

A lot, a brute, and asshole?

"Captivating and persuasive."

"Well those are not the words I'd use." She whispered to her mom.

The warmth from earlier fades completely. Replaced by something heavier. And as Y/N steps inside she smells his scent.

It lingers—like he owns the air he just walked through.

There’s a base of something heavy and old-fashioned, like worn leather that’s been heated by the sun for too many summers. It mixes with a sharp edge of whiskey, smoky, lingering on his breath and soaked into his clothes like it never quite leaves him. Not fresh, not clean, but not careless either. Intentional in a rough, unpolished way.

Underneath that, there’s something warmer. Skin. Salt. A faint trace of metal, like old coins or iron, something almost imperceptible but there if you get too close, if you breathe in deep enough.

And then there’s the cologne.

Not light. Not modern.

Something strong, musky, the kind that was probably popular decades ago and never changed. It clings to fabric, to furniture, to the space around him. Even after he leaves, it stays behind, settling into the room like a reminder.

It’s the kind of scent that doesn’t ask to be noticed.

It demands it.

“He’s upstairs,” her father says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. She stops mid-step, giving him a look. A look. Upstairs? “In your room,” he adds, a little awkward now under her stare. Her mother jumps in quickly, hands wringing together. “We just thought, it might be… you know… better. For him. I mean, he’s... ” she lowers her voice slightly, “who he is. Maybe he wouldn’t like us hovering while you… do your thing.”

Her father nods along. “And if something’s actually wrong with him…” He shrugs. “Well. That’s probably not something he wants people to see.” Her mother exhales softly. “It must be a big deal for him to come all the way out here. No one’s ever seen anything wrong with him, right?” That part lands. Because it’s true. Y/N swallows, her gaze drifting toward the stairs.

No one has ever seen Soldier Boy hurt. Not bleeding. Not weak. Not anything but indestructible. And now he’s in her room. Waiting. Her chest tightens slightly as she starts up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in around her ears.

By the time she reaches her door, her hand hesitates on the handle for just a second. Then she pushes it open. And there he is. Standing in the middle of her room like he doesn’t belong, and somehow like he owns it anyway. The long green shirt clings tightly to his muscular frame, stretching over broad shoulders and a defined chest before tapering down into that sharp V of his torso.

His pants sit snug around his thighs, military-cut and practical, tucked into heavy combat boots that look out of place against her floor. He left his armor and weapons in a careless pile beside her bed, like they were nothing, like this being here mattered more. Like a soldier coming home from war.

And then it hits her. That scent. Leather, worn and warm. Whiskey, faint but there. Something heavier beneath it. It doesn’t belong here. Not in her room, with the soft colors and the childhood memories.

“I love the pink ponies.” His voice cuts straight through her thoughts. She blinks. He’s pointing at the small row of old toys on her windowsill, the ones she never bothered to move, a piece of her childhood she never thought anyone important would ever see. Her face heats instantly.

“Those are...” she starts, then stops, realizing there’s no saving this. “They’ve been there for years.” He glances back at her, one brow slightly raised, something almost amused flickering in his expression. “Didn’t peg you for the type,” he says. She crosses her arms instinctively, defensive now.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t peg you for the type to show up uninvited in my childhood bedroom either.” That earns a faint smirk. But it doesn’t last long. Because when she looks at him properly, really looks, something’s off. Subtle. But there. A tightness in his posture. A slight shift in the way he’s holding himself, like something underneath is wrong, even if he refuses to show it. And suddenly, the room feels smaller. Quieter. Heavier.

“…What happened?” she asks, her voice softer now, cautious. Because for the first time—Soldier Boy doesn’t look untouchable.

His hand moves to the back of his head, fingers rubbing slowly at his neck like he’s trying to work something out of it. “You—uh… promise this stays between us, right?” he mutters. She steps past him, toward the window, glancing outside for a second like she needs the normalcy of it, the quiet fields, before turning back. She tries to lighten it, just a little. “What, you think you’re HIV positive?”

The look he gives her makes her drop it immediately. He’s serious. Completely serious. Her posture straightens. “Yeah… of course,” she says softer. “Between us. Off the books.” He nods once, then his hand shifts, pressing lightly against his chest. “I… I keep having this tight feeling here.” That makes her move closer instantly, all humor gone.

She points to the bed. “Sit down.” He does, slower than she expected, like even that costs him something. She steps in front of him, close enough now that she can hear his breathing clearly, steady but heavier than usual. She listens for a moment, eyes scanning him, then plants her feet, steadying herself.

“That’s not normal,” she says under her breath. “How does it feel?” “Like a truck’s on it.” Her brows pull together.

“Your breathing?”

“Normal.”

“Your left arm any tingling?”

“No.”

“May I?” she asks, holding out her hand. He looks at it for a second then places his in hers. His hand feels heavy. Warmer than it should be. Her fingers close gently around his, and for a second she looks up, meeting his eyes, green, sharp, but not as guarded as usual. It lingers. Just a second too long.

Then she closes her eyes. Focus. She reaches inward, searching, letting that familiar pull guide her toward whatever is wrong. It’s harder with him. Always has been. His presence feels… dense. Layered. Like something is buried too deep, locked away where she can’t easily reach it. She searches anyway. Slower. Deeper. Nothing. Her brows knit together slightly.

She pushes again, careful, controlled, but it’s like hitting a wall. Like something is blocking her, keeping her out of his emotions but his health was fine. After a moment, she exhales, tension slipping into her voice. “I… can’t find anything,” she admits, opening her eyes. “You’re healthy. As far as I can tell.”

“That can’t be,” he snaps, frustration flashing instantly. “Try again.” She hesitates, then nods, closing her eyes once more. She reaches again, same result. Nothing. A barrier. Solid. Unmoving. She pulls back with a quiet breath.

“There’s nothing...” He stands abruptly, not giving her space to move, not giving her time to step back. “No!” he yells, startled, her heart jumping. “I feel it!” His hand grabs hers, tight, urgent and presses it flat against his chest. Her breath catches as he drags her hand under the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, placing it directly over his heart. Warm. Solid. Too close. “Right here.”

She instinctively tries to pull back, but his grip tightens, holding her there. “Please…” His voice drops, rough, almost breaking, almost begging. “Try again.” Their faces are inches apart now. Close enough that she can feel his breath, see every detail in his eyes, every flicker of something he’s trying to keep contained.

For a second, just a second, she thinks he might close the distance. That he might kiss her. But he doesn’t. And neither does she. Instead, she takes a slow breath. Closes her eyes again. Focus. Her hand stays against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. Fast. Strong.

"W-when did it start?" She starts to talk to distract herself from being this close to him, but hearing his voice dance around her, while her eyes are closed didn't do much.

"Last week, after our last scene."

"And you waited till now to tell me?"

"I wasn't sure what it was."

"Hm,"

"What?!" He snapped.

"Nothing," she looked up, "how often did you feel it, exact dates would be nice. And same pain every time?"

Soldier boy thought about it. "Worse each time. And last week, yesterday, just now."

She lets her power reach again, this time guided by the exact place he pressed her to. It digs deeper. Layer after layer. Pushing past that barrier trying to find what’s hidden underneath.

"Just now?" she asked with her eye closed. "Like, right this second, or..."

He took a deep breath she felt his chest push against her hand.

--

"The second I saw farm boy..."

"Press you against the barn."