loving him was red🍒

Butcher -

He'd definitely prefer wild. It's how you are, why fuck with it? He wouldn't necessarily be upset if you waxxed or shaved, but he'd give you those big, sad eyes, face to…lips, and mutter up at you "Why'd y'have t'kill the rainforest, pet?". If you were happy to leave it natural, he'd sit beside you on the couch, just during a cozy afternoon at home together, and he'd slip his hand under the waist band of whatever you were wearing at the time, or nothing, and card his fingers through your hair soothingly. It's kinda really gross, but also a little sweet in a fucked up kinda way.

Hughie -

Hughie would greatly appreciate a little matinence. Nothing crazy, he'd never expect anything of you, but if you just put in a little effort, it'd make him feel like you cared. A little trim would be nice, a landing strip even better, and he'd be a-okay with hairless, as long as he can be a pathetic munch humping the bed while he eats you out, he's pretty damn happy. Let's face it, he takes whatever he can get, but he'd certainly appreciate being asked, in his own funny little way.

Soldier Boy -

Where to start? How about here- In his early days, when he was still Vought's favourite toy, before he got frozen and reheated like some old butter chicken, he didn't have a beard, but he did have beard rash. He'd eat you out for hours purely for the sport of it. He wanted to see how many times he could make you cum without properly touching you, without his dick stretching you out. The first time he did it, it was meant to just be a fun game one boring night, but after he saw the red rash over his face from your pussy, he got addicted. He loved wearing it like a badge of honor, and you weren't exactly complaining. Later though, if you were just a random hook up, he wouldn't turn you down if you were hairless, but he'd downright refuse to let his tongue anywhere near you. And he might just fuck you a little harder to see if he could knock some damn sense into you.

Malchemical -

This is an o-natural kinda guy if ever there was. Take one look at him. He might even turn his nose up if his current fuck buddy (because there's a good few that rotate) decided to trim, shave or wax. He'd still go for it, he's a horny bastard, but it wouldn't be the same as usual. Unless it was a damn good fuck either way, he'd change up the rotation for a few weeks, just until it grew back. If you were more than just his current pick, he'd lock eyes with you as he trailed down your body, taking his time for once, a fucking sinful smirk on his lips as he got to your pussy, teeth clamping down and tugging a little on the hair there to elicit a whine from you before he'd kiss it and make it better.

Mr Marathon -

In his glory days? He'd want the cream of the crop. Only the best. Considering the time, that'd be primarily hairy. But he was popular during the time shaving and waxxing started to become common, and there's something he likes about how easily he slides in and out. That combined with his super speed makes sex like a damn slip'n'slide in the best way possible. He also loves the way his cum looks dribbling out with a nice, clear view. As his popularity fades, he'll take what he can get, paying for what he can't, but you can bet your ass he wouldn't complain about shit, maybe a dumbass comment here and there, but over all, pussy's pussy, and when it's wrapped around his cock? That's what really matters.

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It was late, maybe you should have been sleeping but your mind just.. wouldn’t shut up. It was maddening.

You sigh heavily as you walk over to the couch and plop down onto the cushion. You tried falling asleep, spent an hour tossing and turning, it was annoying.. you hated nights like this where you felt.. alone.

You were retired. A bit early, yes, but you couldn’t work for Vought anymore. You had liked your team, sort of, Payback was.. complicated to say the least. But there was never any bad blood with any of them.

Except Crimson Countess.

She was… complicated. You had a feeling she liked Ben— or maybe she just wanted the spotlight, you weren’t entirely sure what her motives were. She always glared, never talked to you even when you tried to start a friendly conversation, she just.. didn’t like you.

Either way, you stopped trying to talk to her.

But none of that mattered now. You left Payback. Sure, some of the members were disappointed or sad— but it was for your own good.

Oh, but Ben..

He never admitted it, but he was angry when you left. The day on your departure, he offered you that charming smirk, playfully said no one would miss you.

But behind all that? He was more upset than the whole team.

He’d never admit it, of course. He was too proud for that.

But god.. every time he thought about it? About you leaving? It made his chest hurt. And he hated that feeling.

You and Ben had a… complicated relationship. You both loved each other but, neither of you ever tried to admit it.

You grab the remote and turn in the television, you flip through whatever was playing, some old black and white films that you weren’t really interested in was playing.. a movie you saw once with Ben, but it wasn’t really your style.

Click.

Click.

Click.

You sigh. Nothing was interesting, your brain was running and you felt.. lonely..

You were about to give up before you got to the news channel, before you could click next, you saw a glimpse of Soldier Boy’s charming smile.

Oh?

You pause, setting the remote down when you see the latest news, he saved a family today, stopped a drug dealers, that’s nice—

Suddenly Crimson Countess and Soldier Boy was on screen, her hand on his chest, his hand holding her hip to keep her close.

Oh.

You blink, your head tilts to the side as the news announces their newfound relationship.

Huh.

Why did you feel a sudden pang in your chest.

Your hand comes up to press over your chest, where your heart had started beating a bit faster.

What was this feeling..? Why did you feel.. sad? Angry..?

Why did it hurt?

You stare at the screen for a long time, your jaw clenched as you slowly lower your hand from your chest, you could see them going in for a kiss, and—

You couldn’t take it anymore. You couldn’t look at it. You suddenly felt.. sick..?

You turn it off before you can see any more of it.

You take a few deep breaths, squeezing your eyes shut as you try not to think about the image.

Her hand on his chest.

His hand in her hip.

They were close.

Too close.

You shake your head and huff. You shouldn’t feel this way. He’s not yours. He doesn’t belong to you. And this was probably just a decision Vought made. Either way, you shouldn’t care— you weren’t a part of the team anymore.

But it still hurt.

There’s a sudden knock on your door and you exhale slowly before standing up.

You still felt sick.

Your stomach felt wrong. Like you wanted to throw up.

Half of you wanted to ignore whoever was knocking, maybe just crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling..

But then the knocks continued. Persistent. Insistent.

Jesus, knock harder why don’t you.. you think to yourself.

With a heavy sigh you walk over to the front door, you straighten your posture and just.. breathe for a second.

You open the door, and Ben is standing there, for once, not in his hero suit.

“Ben,”

You say, and for a brief moment, the image of Crimson Countess and Soldier Boy leaves your mind,

But, only for a second.

And it comes right back, like some haunting image.

Your heart squeezes, and you have to force yourself to maintain eye contact.

Ben, with all his charm gives you that smirk, the soft dimples you loved so much present, his eyes squint, showing the smile-wrinkles he had at the corner.

He looked so good.

But then you remember the image. And it all just feels.. wrong.

“Doll,”

Ben’s voice comes out smooth, rough after a long day of countless interviews.

You don’t say anything for a moment, and he catches it. But he doesn’t say anything just yet,

“You gonna let me in or do I have to get on my knees and beg like I’m begging god for forgiveness?”

You snap out of your daze and exhale. You step to the side and pull your door open, gesturing for him to come inside.

He does it without hesitation.

Walking in like he owns the place.

The door closes with a soft click, your hand lingers on the doorknob for a brief moment, you try to shake the image out of your head, but for some reason it was hard.

You turn around and follow him inside.

“You’re quiet, darlin’,”

Ben comments as he glanced over to you as he steps into your kitchen.

“You usually do all the talking,”

You retort and he snorts.

“There she is,”

He grins as he opens your fridge to grab himself a beer, he’s done this so many times you don’t even complain anymore.

“What are you doing here?”

You ask, and he turns to you, arching a brow like your question offended him.

“What? Can’t visit my partner?”

“Ex partner,”

You correct.

“Ex partner.”

Ben corrects himself, and you could have sworn you heard a hint of.. disappointment? Bitterness? Maybe both?

Ben shrugs as he opens the can, bringing it up to his mouth and taking large gulps.

You try not to stare, try not to make it obvious how god damn attractive he is, because if he knew you were looking at him like that? You would never hear the end of it. And Ben could talk. It was one thing he was good at if not talking about fucking.

“So you’re just.. here. To visit.” You say as you lean back against the counter, your arms cross over your chest.

Ben’s eyes flicker to your chest, he can’t help himself really, he’s only a man..

His gaze snaps back up and he smirks.

“You don’t seem pleased,” he scoffed, “thought you liked my company, doll,”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer.

“Exactly my point,”

He crushes his can and tosses it in the trash, last time he left an empty can on your counter, you gave him shit for it, rightfully so.

He takes a step closer, hands bracing on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in,

“You look damn fine,” his voice drops as his gaze drops to your lips for a moment, “never thought I’d have the privilege of seein’ ya in pajamas,” he purrs, “look damn good in em too.”

“Ben..”

You glance away and lean back, and a flash of disappointment crosses Ben’s face.

“What?”

You shake your head,

“No..”

His eyebrows quirk. Did he read the signs wrong? You don’t feel the same way he does..?

He shifts back, giving you some space,

“Shit..” he muttered to himself, “I thought.. never mind.”

You feel a slight sting in your chest.

Fuck.

Why did his voice sound so hurt..?

You exhale and shake your head.

“I uh.. saw the news,”

Ben’s heart nearly stops.

“The news?” He repeated, “what about it?”

“You.. and Crimson Countess.”

Ah. That.

“What about us?”

You finally look at him,

“You’re.. together.”

“Yeah, and?”

Jesus, can this guy ever read the room..?

“Never mind.”

“Nah,” Ben cuts in quickly, his hand raised, fingers, surprisingly gentle? Grip your chin, tilting your head up so you could look at him.

“Don’t bullshit me, sweetheart. You know that shit Is for the cameras.”

You stay quiet. Jaw tight as you look at him.

There’s a moment of silence as you both stare at each other, at the moment, he’s not Soldier Boy, just.. Ben.

“Hey,”

Ben taps your chin to bring you back down to earth, and you blink at him.

“I ain’t.. good at this whole.. feelin’ shit.” He scoffs at the mere mention of it, he felt pathetic admitting this, he felt.. less of a man.

“But I mean it, ya know? It’s fake. I don’t like her.”

Your throat goes dry. You know this is Ben’s way of confessing. Sure it’s not.. the best, but this coming from Ben? It was probably the most you were going to get.

“I..”

Your mouth parts and you let out another heavy exhale.

“It just.. it was unexpected when I saw it. I.. kind of wish I knew about it beforehand. I.. wish I didn’t find out about it through the television.”

Ben nodded slowly.

“Yeah.. should have called ya,” he looks at you, and the look in his eyes is a silent sorry.

The closes you’ll get to an apology with Ben.

And that was enough.

You lean up, your hand gently cupping his cheek, he’s completely still, eyes locked on you, he lets you lead, not wanting to push for much.

But the moment your lips touched his?

He didn’t hold back.

His mouth locked with yours, a bit forceful, like he was starved. And to be honest, he was. He had been holding back for too long— and he definitely wasn’t going to hold back now.

His mouth moves against yours, a low grunt leave his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. Your hand cups the back of his neck, fingers curling in Ben’s hair. Your eyes are closed as you savor the feeling of his lips against yours.

Something you’ve both been aching for.

When you reluctantly break the kiss for air, he nudges his nose against yours, the touch almost.. tender. And dare you say affectionate.

“Fuck, sweetheart..” he muttered under his breath, his lips brush against the corner of your mouth, “been wantin’ to do that the first day I met ya,”

Your breath hitched at the confession.

You tilt your head, pressing your forehead against his as you just.. breathe. Breathe him in.

“I hated seeing you two..”

You whisper, but Ben catches it.

He hums quietly, his lips brush against your jaw, and you could feel his beard scraping against your skin, the feeling oddly.. comforting.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, doll,”

Ben can’t help but tease.

And you scoff.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that an invitation?”

You glare at him, and he smirks.

“You walked into that one, sweetheart,”

“Shut up,”

“Shut me up.”

You scoff before crashing your lips against his again just to shut him up.

His hands wander down your sides, hands firmly gripping your hips before falling down to cup the back of your thighs. He effortlessly picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his waist.

He sets you on the counter, his big arms wrap around your waist as he leans his weight against you.

You both part for air and he chuckles.

“Fuck..” he muttered, eyes opening to look at you.

“Fuckin’ love you..”

Your heart nearly stops at that.

But you smile. And for that moment? The image of him and Crimson Countess leaves your mind, it’s just you and Ben..

“I love you too.”

You whisper.

The car in the left lane was a little beetle and it clearly had seen better days so he swung his big black SUV with tinted windows over into the right lane, hoping that the SUV in that lane would notice and speed up. He was right on it’s ass when he read the sticker in the corner of the back windshield: If you’re gonna ride my ass at least buy me dinner.

Real cute, he thought as he hit the gas harder just to get a little closer. He was so close he could see your eyes in the rearview mirror. You were staring back at him and you narrowed your eyes. 

Ben smirked back, pulling even closer, now only an inch or two from your bumper. Suddenly you hit the gas. Your SUV jolted ahead with a newfound burst of speed. 

Finally. 

Ben hit the gas pedal, watching the speedometer tick up. He passed the beetle and then shifted into the left lane, getting ready to come up on you and pass you too, leaving you both behind in the desert dust. 

What Ben wasn’t prepared for was your temper. Suddenly, you swung into his lane right in front of him, causing him to hit the brakes. “Fuck! Son of a bitch!” he cursed to himself. He caught your eyes in the rearview mirror again and they had a little crinkle in the corners. You were smiling. “Fucking bitch. You want to play? Fine!” he growled.

Ben sped up again and tailgated you so closely that you couldn’t let up off the gas even a little. You started to speed up even more but he was right there with you, riding your ass like he owned the road.

The desert scenery blurred into a smear of beige and rust as the two SUVs pushed well past the speed limit. Ben’s hands gripped the steering wheel, a vicious, satisfied grin spreading across his face. He loved this. He loved the friction, the petty dominance of forcing someone to blink first. And you weren't blinking.

Up ahead, the two lanes finally started to open up, the highway widening out. It was the perfect opportunity for him to gun it, whip around you, and leave you in a cloud of exhaust.

Instead, you caught him completely off guard.

With a sudden, aggressive jerk of the wheel, you didn't try to outrun him anymore. You executed a flawlessly timed lane change, cutting hard to the right, letting the momentum carry your SUV just far enough to pull entirely level with him.

Ben glanced out his passenger’s side window, expecting to see panic, or at least a furious driver flipping him off.

Instead, you just looked over. Your window rolled down just an inch, enough for the hot desert wind to whip a few stray hairs across your face. You didn't look scared at all. In fact, you looked incredibly bored. You held up a single finger, tapping the side of your own head as if to ask, Are you stupid?, before giving him a mocking, two-finger salute.

Then, you absolutely floored it.

Your SUV surged forward, the engine roaring as it gapped his vehicle by a car length, then two.

Ben’s laugh was loud and genuinely startled, echoing in the quiet cabin of his car. "Oh, you think you're clever, don't you?" he muttered, his chest tightening with a sudden, competitive rush of adrenaline. He pressed the pedal to the floor, the heavy SUV responding instantly as he went to chase you down.

John and his drama could wait. He didn’t want him getting his hands on the V1 anyway. Los Angeles wasn't going anywhere, and right now, Ben had a point to prove.

He caught up with you easily, his SUV was bigger and had a V8 engine. Yours was more compact and likely didn’t. He didn’t know modern cars enough to know these things. He simply knew his was big and powerful. Just like him. 

Ben got up on your ass again and this time he tapped your bumper with his. He could see the panic in your eyes as your SUV started to swerve a little. You clearly were a seasoned driver as you got it back under control after a moment and slowed down, pulling off to the side of the road to inspect your vehicle. 

Ben slowed behind you and pulled up behind you with a smirk firmly in place. You jumped out of the car screaming, “Are you fucking crazy?!? You could have killed me or both of us!!” 

He opened the door and stepped out of the SUV slowly. He took you in as you walked towards him. You were wearing a red sundress that buttoned all the way down the front with little beige flowers on it and some brown sandals. As he stepped around his door he saw the very thing that he never got tired of; the recognition. He saw the exact moment you took him in. It wasn’t exactly hard to put together as he was in his supe suit today. Mission and all that. 

You stopped screaming but your mouth was still agape. “Soldier Boy,” you said, voice barely a whisper. Even from fifteen feet away, Ben heard it clear as day. 

“That’s right, doll,” he said, voice low and smooth, with that smirk still spread wide across his face.  

The anger that had been radiating off you just a second ago instantly froze, replaced by the sheer, paralyzing shock of looking at a living legend. Your eyes flitted over the heavy eagle chestplate, the scratched leather, and the unmistakable, rugged frame of a man who was a national treasure, recently back from the “dead”.

Ben relished every single second of it. He stepped closer, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel of the highway shoulder. The desert heat was radiating off the asphalt with a distorted shimmer, but he looked completely unbothered, standing tall with a casual, predatory ease.

“You got a lot of mouth for a girl driving a toaster,” Ben said, stopping just a few feet away, leaning his weight onto one leg. He cast a dismissive glance over your compact SUV before bringing his attention right back to you. “And a hell of a temper. Cutting me off like that? Someone didn’t teach you proper highway etiquette.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers gripping the fabric of your sundress as you tried to process the fact that the actual Soldier Boy had just pit-maneuvered you on the way to Los Angeles. “You… you hit my car,” you stammered, the outrage trying to spark back to life through the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“Just a love tap, doll,” Ben chuckled, the deep, gravelly sound vibrating in his chest. He took another step forward, closing the distance until he was towering over you, blocking out the harsh Nevada sun. He tilted his head, looking down at you with a mix of amusement and genuine curiosity. “Though I gotta admit, you’ve got balls. Dangerous combo with such a pretty face.” Ben reached out and hooked a finger under your chin, forcing your face up to look at him. 

Your brain short-circuited. Soldier Boy and you just played chicken, he hit you, and now you were standing in the middle of the desert with his hand under your chin while he called you pretty. A girl with a temper, but still pretty. You opened your mouth to say something, closed it and opened it again but nothing came out. 

Ben chuckled. “Lost your bite now that I’m standing right in front of you, huh?” he mocked. 

Your temper surged back to life, overriding any kind of survival skills you once possessed apparently. “No,” you snapped. “I just didn’t expect America’s greatest hero to drive like a complete asshole,” you shot back, raising a brow and staring him straight in the eye.

Ben’s eyebrows shot up, his smirk widening as he kept his finger hooked right under your chin. He didn’t drop his hand; if anything, the defiance in your voice only made him lean in a fraction closer. The sheer, solid mass of him was intimidating, but the sudden spark in your eyes told him you weren’t going to just burst into tears and beg for an autograph.

“Careful, doll,” he murmured, his thumb brushing just along the edge of your jawline, a subtle, heavy pressure that reminded you exactly who you were dealing with. “I might have to teach you some manners. And out here? There’s nobody around to hear you complain about my driving.”

You could feel the heat radiating off his body, competing with the stifling desert air, but you refused to look away. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a wild mix of adrenaline and pure disbelief.

“You hit my bumper,” you repeated, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way your skin tingled where he was touching you. “That’s not hero behavior. That’s a hit-and-run.”

“Is it a hit-and-run if I pulled over?” Ben chuckled, finally letting his hand drop from your jaw—letting it brush over your bare shoulder and down your arm— though he didn’t step back. He crossed his arms over his chest plate, looking you up and down with an appreciative, slow gaze. “Besides, you’re the one who swung into my lane. I’d say we’re even. So, where are you heading in such a hurry anyway?”

“L.A. Not that it’s any of your business,” you said, voice steady even though your heart was slamming against your ribs, painfully. 

Ben’s smirk returned. “So feisty. I like that.”

Your breath hitched. Ben caught it but didn’t call you out, he just continued to look down at you. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before he raised it back to your eyes. “Guess, we’re headed to the same place, sweetheart.”

You took a half-step back, finally putting the slimmest sliver of distance between your sundress and his heavy body armor, though his gaze followed you every single inch of the way.

“You’re going to L.A.?” you asked, the sarcasm briefly giving way to genuine apprehension.

“Yeah. Family reunion,” Ben replied, the smirk turning a bit sharper, a bit more dangerous at the mention of it. 

Family reunion? Is he talking about his son, Homelander? The volatile, all-powerful son the entire world is currently gossiping about?

He stepped toward your compact SUV, tossing a casual glance at the rear bumper where a faint smudge of black paint from his own vehicle marked the impact. “Car looks fine. Just a scratch. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you follow me the rest of the way. Keep the other assholes off your tail.”

He turned back to you, resting a heavy hand on the roof of your car, trapping you between his frame and the driver’s side door. “What do you say, doll? Think you can keep up, or are you just going to brake-check me again?”

“Let me guess,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to maintain some semblance of ground against his overwhelming presence. “Following you means I have to watch you terrorize every driver from here to Los Angeles?”

Ben’s laugh was short and rough, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate right through the hot desert air between you. He didn’t back away from the roof of your car; instead, he leaned into it a little more, his gaze dropping to your lips again before locking back onto yours with a heavy, deliberate focus.

“It means you don’t have to worry about the road at all,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, dark intent. “Because you aren’t driving anymore.”

Before you could even process the words, his hand left the roof of your car and wrapped firmly around your waist. The sheer, effortless strength of it left you breathless as he backed you up against the side of his own massive, black SUV. The heat radiating from the metal frame burned through the thin fabric of your sundress, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, suffocating friction of his body pressing flush against yours.

“You’ve got a hell of a mouth on you, doll,” Ben growled, his face inches from yours, his thumb digging into the soft flesh above your hip. “And all that fighting just tells me you like it rough.”

Your heart slammed violently against your ribs, a wild cocktail of adrenaline and pure heat flooding your veins. You opened your mouth to fire back another retort, but the words died in your throat as Ben reached behind him, popping the handle of the heavy rear door.

He didn’t give you a chance to change your mind. With a low grunt, he hoisted you right off your feet and guided you backward into the spacious, leather-scented darkness of the backseat, climbing in right after you and slamming the door shut against the blinding desert sun.

The engine was still running and the cool air conditioning was blowing right onto your bare thighs. It felt so good after the desert heat but that thought was gone as quickly as it appeared as Ben slid his hand into the hair at the back of your head. He gripped it tight and a gasp slipped past your lips. 

“Soldier Boy–”

“Ben,” he corrected. 

“Ben, I…” you trailed off. 

“I know, doll. You weren’t expecting this,” he said as he dropped his other hand to your waist and pulled you against him, pressing his lips to yours roughly. The kiss was intense and consuming. After a moment, your brain caught up and you kissed him back equally as passionate. As Ben pulled back, you nipped at his lower lip. 

“I fuckin’ knew you were feisty,” he growled against your lips. You let out a little giggle and your nerves began to ease. Ben shifted to lean back against the seat and he grabbed your hips, pulling you with him, so that you were now straddling his lap. 

What am I doin— Oh my god! He’s huge! 

Your mind was a tangle of Soldier Boy. He was imposing, handsome, charismatic if not still an asshole at the same time, and now his massive cock—which was straining against his green pants— was pressed directly into your satin thong which offered practically no barrier. You gasped softly and his grin widened, the asshole. 

“Like that, don’t you, you dangerous little thing?”

You took a deep breath, staring into his eyes. Fuck it. 

You ground down into his dick right as you slammed your lips back against his, and wrapped your arms around his neck. Ben let out a low, animalistic growl of approval. He kissed you back with just as much fervor. 

A moment later, he had your panties on the floor and his pants were around his ankles. Ben pulled you flush against his chest, the cool metal eagle scraping lightly against you. You unbuttoned the first several buttons on the front of your dress and Ben instantly broke the kiss and buried his face in your breasts.

“God, sweetheart, your tits are perfect,” he crooned as he took one of your nipples into his mouth. You arched into him as his teeth scraped against the hardened peak. 

“Ben,” you moaned, as you buried your hands in his long hair, rolling your hips against him once. 

He let out a low groan and reached down to grab his dick. He lifted you up by your waist and settled you down onto his flushed, thick cock. He didn’t go gentle and he didn’t give you time to prepare for the intense stretch. He knew you were soaked and he wasn’t a gentle man. 

As he seated himself fully inside you, all the way until your ass was pressed to his thighs, you both let out a shared groan. Ben didn’t give you time to adjust. He began to thrust up into you, hands digging into your hips with a bruising pressure, helping lift and lower you to match his relentless thrusts. 

“Ben!” you cried out as you teetered on the edge of an orgasm. You were a little dizzy from the overwhelming power of him between your thighs. Your mind was swimming and you couldn’t figure out how you were so close so soon. 

“That’s a good girl. Let me hear it. All of it. Every single sound,” he rasped, leaning his head back against the headrest, eyes locked intensely on yours, as he continued to pound into you.

You obeyed, screaming his name over and over as you came. Your fingers were digging into the leather of his suit at his shoulders. As you floated back down Ben was starting to shift beneath you. 

Your boldness peaked and you placed a hand on his throat gripping lightly, leaning down to brush your lips over his as you spoke. “No. Stay put. My turn,” you demanded, voice not leaving any room for argument. Ben’s eyes locked on yours. His instinct was to throw you off of him, to scold you and show you why you should never, ever, put your hand on his throat again. Never threaten Soldier Boy.  Lucky for you, his lust won the battle in his head and he had never been more turned on in his life. 

You didn’t wait for his response or hesitate. You removed your hand from his throat and pressed against his chest grabbing onto the straps on his suit for leverage as you began to ride him. Hard. With each sharp movement of your hips and the power in your thighs pushing you up and down on his cock, Ben gripped your hips tighter and moaned. He actually let out a moan, too high to match his normally deep voice. 

Then you slowed down and began to roll your hips in a slow, steady pace, your head tossed back as your own moans tore from your throat. When you looked back down at Ben, still riding him slowly but agonizingly deep, he was wrecked. 

As your knees continued to press down into the cool leather of the backseat, you felt the heat coil in your core again. He could tell you were close as your cunt began to clench and flutter around his throbbing cock. Ben let out a feral groan as your rhythm faltered and he began to snap his hips up into you again. 

Your second orgasm slammed into you even harder than the first, a white light blinding your vision as you cried out; frenzied sounds of his name and other incoherent words that Ben wasn’t even sure were actual words. He followed you into orgasmic bliss, tightening his grip and pulling you hard against his chest as he drove into you one last time before spurting hot, creamy ropes of his cum all over the inside of your pretty cunt. 

As you both twitched with aftershocks, he kept you pinned down against his chest, which was a little uncomfortable against the unforgiving metal of the eagle. Still buried deep inside you, you both tried to catch your breath, chests heaving. 

It only took a minute or two before you felt him starting to harden, inside of you, once again. Your eyes widened and you lifted your head to look at him. All he did was give you that same insufferable smirk, his eyes darkening once again. The smug bastard.

Ninety minutes later you lay under Ben’s heavy, massive frame as he panted against your neck, breath warm. You were both covered in sweat and the rest of both of your clothes were strewn about the cabin. He had had you in ways you didn’t even know your body could bend. You took it all. And so did he. You weren’t much better than him, when it came to taking control and pushing the limits. And he fucking ate that shit up. He was completely enamoured. 

“You’re something else, sweetheart,” he rasped, still trying to catch his breath, as he nipped at your throat and then smoothed the red mark over with his tongue.

“You too, Ben,” you said breathily, still trying to drag more air into your lungs. “It’s a good thing your windows are so dark or lots of people would have gotten a show.”

“Well, we were sure fuckin’ rockin’ this thing so I’m sure they knew exactly what was happening behind these steamed up tinted windows,” he said smugly. 

You swatted at him with a limp arm. Your muscles protested at the movement. Your entire body ached. 

“Shit,” he muttered

“What?”

“We’ve been here for two hours. I’m late for my mission.”

 “Late for your mission?” you repeated, a breathless laugh escaping you as you looked up at him. The absurdity of the entire day finally caught up to you. “You mean your family reunion? Let me guess, John doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Ben scoffed, rolling off you with a heavy grunt that made the SUV’s suspension groan one last time. He sat up, running a hand through his tangled hair, completely unbothered by his nakedness as he looked around the disaster zone of the backseat. Your sundress was balled up near the front console, and his heavy combat boots were kicked into the floor.

“The kid can wait,” Ben grumbled, though he was already reaching down to snag his pants from the floor. He flashed you a sharp, wicked grin over his shoulder. “But Vought’s got a schedule, and if I’m not in L.A. by five, Sage is gonna have a stroke. Not that I care, but it’s a pain in my ass.”

You slowly sat up, your sore muscles aching in protest as the cool air conditioning hit your bare, sticky skin. The reality of the situation was settling in. You were parked on the side of a mostly deserted Nevada highway, completely wrecked, with the world’s most dangerous, resurrected supe.

Ben fastened his pants and reached for his heavy leather vest, the metal eagle catching the dim light of the tinted cabin. He paused, turning his head to look at you properly. The insufferable, smug smirk was gone for a fraction of a second, replaced by a dark, intense heat that made your stomach flip all over again.

“You’re still going to L.A., right?” he asked, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that commanded an answer.

You leaned back against the leather seat, refusing to let him see how much he still affected you. “I have reservations at the Roosevelt. Why? Gonna miss me, Soldier Boy?”

Ben let out a short, rough laugh, the familiar smirk sliding right back into place as he leaned over and hooked a finger under your chin again, forcing your gaze up to his.

“I just want to make sure I know where to find you when I’m done dealing with my idiot son,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, which was still swollen from his kisses. “Because we aren’t finished, doll. Not by a long shot.”

He dropped his hand and popped the door open, the blinding desert heat instantly rushing into the car. He stepped out, leaving you in the cool, leather-scented darkness to finally catch your breath and figure out how the hell you were going to drive the next three hours.

Soldier Boy. Ben. He wants to see me again. Tonight was going to be a good night. 

It isn't so easy having money. It fixed one problem but sparked others. The banknotes buy more than a night; they afford your dignity and each pence is another dint in your soul.

As you turn the corner, a whistle bristles behind your neck. A shadow snarls from against the grey brick, “nice skirt, lassie. Bet it looks better up high.”

You shudder and hug the box of your groceries tighter. A sole scuffs and drags as stale tobacco clouds from behind you. You don’t dare look back as you sense the stranger following you.

“Hey, kitty,” he slurs. “Why ain’t ya slow d–”

The man coughs and chokes loudly. You gasp and spin around at the blur of motion behind you. Rigid shoulders block your sight of the man now splayed on the cobbles.

Thomas Shelby steps on the littered cigarette still smoking and twists his foot to blot it out entirely. You stare at his back, paralysed by his sudden appearance. It’s only the second week of the month. He was only around days ago. A visit you still feel in your thighs.

The man sputters from the ground as Tommy kicks his leg. “Get up and go before you can’t.”

The stranger struggles to turn over onto his knees. He crawls away before getting his feet under him and wobbling up to half his height. He hacks and grumbles as he flees in a hunch.

Tommy turns to you as he reaches under his jacket. The butt of his gun sticks out from his holster as he slides free his cigarette case. He pulls a stick free and offers it to you. You shake your head and he puts it between his lips instead.

“Sweetheart,” he snaps the case shut and puts it under his jacket. “What’re ya out here wanderin’ for?”

You look down at your groceries. He flicks his lighter to spark the tip of the cigarette. He plumes out smoke as he slides the lighter away. He steps closer and puts his hands on the box.

“Y’alright?” He asks.

You nod dumbly. “Sir–”

“Ah, come on then, we know each other better’n that,” he growls around his cigarette as it dangles between his lips. He takes the groceries and gestures you ahead with a tilt of his chin.

You turn and walk along with him puffing tobacco at your side. You’re jittery. Not only from that man but from the one beside you; outwardly helping you though you know his intentions better than that. Why tonight? Why so early?

As you get to your building, you pull out your keys. He waits patiently. You open the door and pause. “Mr. Shelby, you don’t gotta do all that–” You reach for the box.

“Wasn’t calling me Mr. Shelby last week,” he clings to the groceries.

“I… do you want the money back–”

He scoffs and curls one arm around the box. He pulls the cigarette away and blows out a long stream of smoke. “You know what I want.”

You swallow. “It’s…”

“Early, eh?” He reads your mind. “Is it, then? You tell me when I come ‘n go now?”

“No, sir. Tommy,” you stutter. “I’m only… I didn’t have time to ready–”

“Look ready ‘nough for me.” He tosses the cigarette and reaches over you. He grabs the door. “In, now.” His voice dips even lower. “When we get to your place, don’t say a word.”

You turn your eyes downward and spin away. You march inside and he follows. He’s like a shadow on your heels. You climb the stairs and his hand creeps up the back of your dress. You hiccup in surprise as he gropes your rear and growls.

“Skirt is nice…” he drawls. “Fuck.”

You get to your floor and guide him down to your door. He snatches the keys from you and unlocks the door himself. He pushes the door inward and points. You enter and take off your jacket. You hang it as he goes to the kitchen and puts down the box.

You unbutton your blouse as he treads around. He rubs his lower lip as he paces, eyeing the couch and the empty tea cup beside it. He looks at you and hums.

“Looks like you been eatin’ better, eh?” He says.

“Yes, s– Tommy. I… Thank you, I’ve been shopping more.” You utter awkwardly as you reveal your camisole. His eyes fall down to your sharp nipples poking through the cotton.

“Have ya? Should but some satin…” he growls as he pushes his coat back and grips his hips.

“I… I buy what I need.”

“I’m tryna give ya what you want.” He insists.

He sighs and turns. He walks across the room to the writing desk. He pulls out the drawer and unholsters his gun. He puts it inside and closes it. He locks it with the key he keeps on him. It’s his habit, as if he thinks you could ever pull a trigger.

Next, he removes his hat, the key hidden in the trim with the blades he carries at all times. He hangs his overcoat on the chair and faces you. He remains in his full suit as you unbutton the back of your skirt. You slip free and stand in your camisole, bloomers, and stockings.

“You look fed,” he says as he nears, lips curling. He stares at your chest. “They look… fuller.”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” You shrug.

“Mm, come ‘ere,” he stands beside the couch.

You go to him, shivering. “Gas isn’t on.” He says.

“I can turn it on.” You offer.

“Nah, I’ll warm y’up, sweetheart.” He brushes his knuckles down your bare arms. “Why don’t you get all this off?”

He looks down at this suit. You follow his gaze. Sometimes he’ll take off his jacket and tie; usually he’s mostly dressed and you’re not.

You hook your thumbs under his lapels and push the jacket back on his shoulders. He lets you strip it off. You fold it over the threadbare chair on the other side of the couch. You return to him and unbutton his vest. You can see his chest rise and fall calmly. Your own heart is ragged.

You expect him to stop you. Vest, tie, shirt, belt, shoes, undershirt. He stands in his trousers and you wait for his order. It doesn’t come.

You push down his trousers and find him pressed up inside his undershorts. You never saw too much of him. Somehow, it made it easier. You could feel him but not seeing so much of what he did helped you get through.

Your hands shake as you touch the linen. He purrs and puts his hands over yours. He helps you guide them past his rigid need and lets them fall to his feet. He kicks free of them as he latches onto you.

“Keep this on,” he touches your camisole.

He turns and sits on the couch, his cock bobbing in front of his stomach. You try not to look at it. You push your bloomers down, leaving your camisole and stockings in place.

He beckons you with a curl of his fingers. “Get on me.”

Your lip trembles. He’s always in control. On top or behind. Never like this.

You go to him and he leans forward to guide you onto his lap. You kneel just above him and he reaches below you to rub his tip against your thigh. He quivers.

“Now. I need you.” He demands.

You let yourself down slowly. His tip stretches you and you whine. It’s not easier than the first, second, third, or however many other times. You sink onto him until you can’t take any more.

His hands crawl up your sides as he exhales loudly. He quakes as his voice grizzles in his throat. He fondles you under the loose cotton.

“Move,” he commands.

You tilt your hips and he groans. You do it again. You wince as your walls squeeze him. You put your hands on his shoulders as you carry the rhythm as best you can. He dips one hand around you to cup your bottom.

Your breath mingles with him as you pant wildly. Your insides strain and knot as you feel him tensing. His arm curls around you and he pulls you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He leads your tempo with his hand on your backside.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s what I need.”

You’re not going fast or hard, but the long strokes have you babbling. You hang your head back as he nuzzles you. His groans steam against your skin.

“Sweetheart, you’re so sweet.” He grits. “So sweet when I’m inside.”

-

You wake up, sweaty and sticky. Crowded on the couch. You open your eyes and stare at the wall. It’s been a long time since you woke up not being cold.

You shift under the arm around you. No. He’s still… there. He doesn’t stay. Not ever. No.

You don’t know why he would. You can’t guess at it. Just like you don’t know why he showed up unexpected, so needy. It scares you. You could handle the monthly visits, even if they lasted hours, but this is different. This is ominous.

You gently move his arm off of him. You roll off the edge of the couch. Your camisole is crumpled at your waist. You stand and pull it up. He’s naked. Hard, again or still. You can’t say.

You grab a blanket and drape it over him. He snores and wriggles, sinking further into the sofa. You find your thin robe and wrap yourself up. 

You leave him and go into the kitchen. You smell the pork. It’s cold enough that it hasn’t turned. You put it all away.

You put the kettle over the lit gas burner and wait for it to boil. You find two cups. You’ll have to send him off with something… once he wakes. You don’t dare rouse him. A man like him is hardly one you want to disturb when at peace.

You slice into the loaf and set it on a tray with the butter dish and the fresh pot of jam. You hope it’ll be enough. The clink of the glass is loud in the silence; not as loud as his grunt.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps. “You runnin’ away?” He turns onto his back and his arm hangs over the edge.

“Mr.-- Tommy,” you approach him, wringing your hands. “I’m only making some tea.”

“Tea…” he lifts his hand to rub his forehead. “Mmm. Good woman.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t dare point out the obvious or ask questions. Why did he stay?

“And will I have something sweet with my tea?” He asks as he looks up at you with his bold blue eyes.

“I’ve bread and jam–”

He snorts. “Eh, not what I mean.” You gulp as he swings his arm down and grabs himself through the blanket. “A man hurts so early. Dreamin’ of pretty things like you.”

-

Tommy leaves again. When will he be back? It’s more and more often. You’re exhausted from his visits. Edgy at the expectation of his intrusion; both of your home and your body.

You stopped looking for real work. You sleep late most days and struggle to do more than feed yourself between his interruptions. You don’t know how much longer you can do this.

You look around at the apartment. The same couch and chair. The same stove and scratched floor. He brings you little things; a vase with flowers now drooping, a thicker blanket with beautiful embroidery, even a pair of shoes he said would look fine on you.

You don’t need gifts, you need money.

You count out the banknotes in the tin. It’s enough. It will have to be.

You look at the packed carpet bag by the door. He can keep the rest. You won’t go on like this. You won’t pay for your existence by giving away your very being. You can feel it splintering away bit by bit.

There’s a train out of town. It’ll take you to Manchester. You have enough for the trip and then some. Enough to go all the way home or to buy a room for a few months or so. Enough to get you away.

You leave without looking back. You can’t. You walk down the streets, slumping, paranoid. Is that one of his men? That hat! No, it isn’t Tommy, just another man with dark hair and a yen for tobacco.

The train station is busy. You feel better as you weave into the crowd, disappearing into it. You buy your ticket and board. You hug your bag and stare out the window as you chug away from Birmingham.

When you get to your stop, you feel the weight slowly lifting. It will probably always be there but you can breathe a bit better. You peer around the city as you emerge into the streets. It might be worse here but you just couldn’t stay there. Not with him.

-

You find something. It pays little but you make it work. You work at a factory sewing shirts. It’s better than rolling tobacco, you suppose. The smell alone reminds you…

The hours take you from a dark morning to the dark evening. You walk home to your shared apartment where you have tea and stale bread with stew. A pot lasts you the week.

Every day is like the last but you can’t complain for it. It’s easier to know what’s expected. Easier to be invisible and get by.

It’s another early morning. Your head is foggy with fatigue. You work at your station with needle and thread. The collars are too delicate to be put through a machine. You bend your neck as you push the sharp tip into your thimble, over and over.

“That must be ‘im,” Margie says from your left.

“Is. Saw him earlier in that fancy car.” Catherine replies.

You don’t stop. Chatter on the line will have the forewoman on you. You’re paid by the shirt, not the hour.

“What’s he want, ya think?” Margie asks.

“Heard he’s lookin’ to buy the heap.” Catherine hisses.

“Hmph, shirt sewers and all.”

“Nah, I heard he was gon’ make it inta a brewery,” Catherine counters.

“Eh? S’pose they won’t be havin’ us workin’ the barrels,” Margie harrumphs.

You try not to listen. Not to think. That’s the way things go these days. A job isn’t guaranteed. Not ever. You bet ale makes more money than shirts.

“You,” Anya, the forewoman, pokes your back meanly. “Boss wants y’up in the office.”

You flinch and look back and forth between Margie and Catherine.

“Yeah, you. Probably your tally from yesterday.” She snarls. “Some of ya girls don’t know yer numbers.”

You frown. That’s valuable time you could be sewing. You put your work down and get off your stool. You pass Anya and head for the metal stairs.

You climb up and head down to Mr. Pierre’s office. You heard he isn’t French, he just didn’t like his name. You fix the scarf over your hair and knock.

“Mr. Pierre?” You call through.

You wait. No answer. You try again. He might not be able to hear you past the pressing machines.

You turn the handle. It’s unlocked. You slowly poke your head inside. The desk is empty. Oh.

Before you can back out, you feel something against your temple. “Get in here, sweetheart.”

You cringe at the timbre. No. Please.

You have no choice. You obey. Tommy pushes the door shut as he keeps the pistol pointed at you. You turn to face him.

“Nice to see ya again, sweetheart.” His arm stays straight as he glares over the barrel. He drops his aim and huffs. “Well…”

You stare at him. You’re not stupid. This isn’t a surprise. You just hoped he wouldn’t care that much.

“You’re not even gonna beg?” He asks.

“For…”

“Your life?”

You shake your head.

“What about the little one’s?” He presses the gun to your stomach. “Eh? That might save ya.”

You look down at the subtle curve in your middle. You haven’t thought about it. Really, you just hoped it would go away. With how little you eat, how much you work, you figured it might just take care of itself.

He laughs. You flinch and lift your gaze back to him. Your lips part.

“Mmm, sweetheart…” His voice was gravelly and sleep-thick as his large hands found your thighs, roaming over taut skin. He shifted under you, trying to roll his hips up as your hot breath traced his jaw. “If this is how Christmas starts, I’m already havin’ a great fuckin’ mornin’.” 

Jesus fucking Christ, you were warm. Warm and straddling him. And kissing him awake. Ben didn’t need to open his eyes to know where this was fucking going. It was like waking up inside a porno. He loved when you were an insatiable little minx, never getting fucking enough of him. 

“Ben,” you laughed softly against his skin when his massive hand slipped under your shirt and wandered up your spine. Your back arched in response, your cunt grinding right against the rising bulge in his sweats. 

“Yeah, doll, c’mere,” he murmured and pulled you closer with his calloused palms sprawled across the perky globes of your ass. 

“Happy Christmas morning, baby,” you said, claiming his lips, slow and coaxing. Then you pulled back before he could chase you.

He blinked up at you, confused and rock-hard, green eyes barely cracked open against the soft light. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to make it.”

You bit back a smile. “I have a surprise.”

“Oh, I know.” He smirked, wiggling his brows. “I can feel it drippin’ through your shorts, baby.”

“Not that kind of surprise.” You snorted and swatted his chest. Then you slipped off him in a quick and goddamn maddening slide of warmth before he could grab you. “Get up.”

Ben only stared at you like you’d just spoken fucking Russian. “Wait–… what? The fuck–… Then why the hell were you–”

“Ben, please. Come on.” You pouted and tugged on his hand. 

Ah, shit. 

The fucking pout always got him. It was the one fucking thing he could never say no to. Ben thought it was probably because you conditioned him on it like a trained dog. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew that was what happened. Every time you would beg to blow him over the last years, you’d pull out that pout, and now that stupid thing worked in other contexts as well. 

Ben knew you were smart enough to do that shit on purpose. That was probably why men used to date women stupider than them. Dumb chicks didn’t pull one over on you. Those men didn’t have to watch their fucking backs like he had to these days. 

But God, he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t like the fucking thrill of it.

He groaned into the mattress, mostly for show so you wouldn’t get any ideas to make this a regular thing, then dragged a hand down his face, and rolled out of bed. In the end, he grumbled but followed like he always did, barefoot and shirtless. 

And you? You were practically vibrating and grinning as you tugged him down the hallway to the living room, all the while he muttered about fucking mixed signals. 

His brows pinched as you stopped right in front of the closed French double doors, mostly because they were usually never shut. You spun to face him with a deep intake of air, letting it pass between your tempting lips a second later with a sigh. 

“Alright, I know this is gonna be a lot and a little crazy, so take all the time you need, okay? I’m here for you,” you said with a slight jitter in your voice that put every muscle in his body already on high alert, especially when you added a hand on his arm for comfort. There was a familiarity in your eyes too, a slight puckish glint that put him on edge. 

Jesus fuck, what the hell did you do now?

“Ya know, if you wanna blow me out on the balcony, sweetheart, might wanna put on more clothes. Don’t want your knees freezin’ to the concrete,” he said. 

“My, such a gentleman. Sweet how much you care about me,” you retorted, amused. Behind your back, your fingers fumbled for the handle before pushing the door open with flourish. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

Ben slowly stepped past you into the room, the large Douglas fir glowing golden in the corner of the quiet apartment, only the winter winds rattling against the old windows. As his gaze slowly drifted over the room, looking for clues or something wrapped with a neat bow on top, his entire world suddenly stopped when it landed on the couch. 

What in the fucking–

Sitting right there on the velvet teal sofa, posture perfect and hands in her lap, was none other than Margaret Brooks. 

His fucking mother. 

Her eyes – his eyes – lifted and found him. Her hair was still curled the exact same way he remembered from childhood. She actually looked pretty much the same as the last time he saw her. Couldn’t have aged a day and was surely no older than a few years over forty. 

But her clothes? Those were different. However, they still looked a little too… familiar. Blue jeans and a ripped Blondie tee? Yours, obviously. And speaking of you…

Ben’s head turned slowly toward you, still standing in the doorway, forcing a smile and yet biting your lip anxiously, posture casual but shoulders too damn tense. You were clearly gauging his reaction. 

And Ben? He shot you the deadliest glare he ever gave you (and there’s been a few over the years whenever Puck took over the wheel and crashed the fucking car). You bit your lips harder in response, more tension creeping into your muscles.

Oh, you were going to fucking pay for that one. 

“Benjamin?” 

His mother’s voice snapped his focus away from you and temporarily restrained his anger. He didn’t dare to blink as she stood from the couch and smoothed her delicate hands over Debbie Harry’s face on the front of her shirt. 

That alone was an oddity he never expected to see in his long life – and God, had he seen a lot of fucking weird shit. This still took the cake, though. Not to mention, he had a little fling back with Debbie in 1980, which you knew about, so he assumed this was just you fucking with him more. 

Fucking Puck…

For the first time since he became a supe, he couldn’t hear a fucking thing anymore then. He didn’t hear the heater running, didn’t hear the buzzing of the tree lights, didn’t hear your uneven breathing. The only thing he heard was his own goddamn heart thundering in his ears.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Just felt like he swallowed cotton, which was another rarity. He usually always had something to say, even when it was just an inappropriate joke. 

When his mother’s lips rose to a soft smile, Ben stumbled back a step before he even realized his feet had moved. He felt the color drain from his cheeks. 

“Surprise…?” you said, voice trembling with reluctance. 

He gave you credit for not shouting it out at least, being wise enough to phrase it like a question instead. But he could still see it gleaming in your eyes – the brightness, the anticipation, the hope – as if this was something beautiful you had done for him. 

Meanwhile, he couldn’t even fucking move his tongue from the roof of his mouth. 

“Outside,” he snarled and grabbed your wrist before he even knew what he was doing. 

“Ben–”

“Now.”

He unceremoniously pulled you out into the hallway, all the way back down to the bedroom, and slammed the door shut behind you with a booming thud that almost brought the old building to its knees. Then he spun toward you. You swallowed thickly, shaking in front of him like a teen who stole his car for a goddamn joyride. 

“What in the actual fuck?!” Ben snapped and tried to rein himself in when he caught you flinch at the thunder in his voice. “What the hell did you just do? Have you lost your goddamn mind? What in the world is wrong with you?”

“Whoa, okay, careful,” you warned him gently, halfway raising your hands like you were trying to tame a crazed lion in the circus. “I know this is a lot for you, and you’re freaking out, but don’t say something you can’t take back, alright?”

“Are you fucking nuts?!”

“Like that…” You sighed. Then you took a step forward and found his eyes. “Look, I was just trying to give you a present.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “A present or a prank, huh?”

“I know you may not see it right now, but this is for your own good,” you stated. 

“In what fucking way? You think draggin’ my mother – my dead, gone, more-than-eighty-years-in-the-ground mother – into our goddamn living room is a fucking present?”

“Ben, I just thought–” 

“You thought?” He stepped closer, both anger and panic battling across his freckled face. His nostrils flared. His jaw tightened. “You thought this was… what? Sweet? Fuckin’ cute? You thought I’d just, what? Hug her? Eat fuckin’ cookies? Open presents in my pjs? She’s been gone my whole damn life. You can’t just fucking–” 

Ben raked both hands through his hair, breathing hard. He felt sick. Dizzy. His chest was heaving like he was twenty-three again and just watched every anchor in his life slip underwater. 

“Ben… she’s right there,” you said softly and took his hands in yours, offering him a careful smile. “You get her back. Don’t you understand? You get your mom back, baby.”

He swallowed heavily, not wanting his voice to crack when he spoke again. “I haven’t had a mother in over eighty years.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But now you do.”

“You realize that’s not a normal fuckin’ sentence, right?” He tried his hardest to choke the tears back, your little snort reaching his ears. “How do you–… how did you even–… how is she–”

“Alive?” you offered and then gave a shrug, licking your lips. “So, uhm, funny story, when I was cleaning my old chronokinetic logs last month, I figured it out.”

His brow scrunched. “Figured out what?”

“You told me Margaret disappeared in ’46. No one ever knew what happened to her, right? But don’t you see, baby?” you asked and looked at him with that bright glint in your eyes that you usually reserved for the students in your classroom. “It was always me. I got her and brought her here.”

“So… what? She can just stay here?”

“Yeah, I checked. She didn’t have any influence on the timeline after–” you started to explain but stopped yourself abruptly. 

He raised a brow. “After what?”

You worried your lower lip. “Well, uhm, after you became Soldier Boy.”

Ben knew what that meant – after his mother looked at him like he was the same monster his father was. Was that moment really so fucking important to history? It barely affected him. 

“The timeline stays intact,” you added. “Apparently, I always grabbed her and placed her here in this time. She’s just part of the loop.”

Ben took a deep breath and looked at you. “Sweetheart, she’s from 1946,” he said. “What the hell is she supposed to do here? How’s she supposed to live, huh? Adjust? What if she fucking panics? What if she’s scared? I mean, Christ fuck, what did you say to her? Does she even know what goddamn year it is?”

Ben’s chest was heaving. You, however, were smiling – mischievous, amused, teasing. 

“What?!” he snapped. 

Your smirk broadened. “You’re adorable when you’re worried about your mommy.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” He sighed deeply and rolled his eyes back, gripping his temple. Then he fixed you with a glare and wagged a finger at you. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Look, I already explained everything to her, and she’s totally fine,” you said, staying calm in the face of his storm. “She wants this, okay? And I don’t blame her. Her choice was between staying with a man she hates or wearing jeans and getting her own credit card. Not a hard choice to make if you ask me.”

His brow furrowed slightly again. “What d’you mean everything? What everything? What did you tell her?”

“I told her the truth about you, me, what time I’m really from,” you replied. “She was surprised to see me, but she was even happier she gets to see you again.”

“Yeah?” He cocked a brow, skeptical. “‘Cause she sure as hell wasn’t happy to see me last time I checked. She said I became my father.”

“And I told her you’re not, alright? You’re nothing like him,” you said. Then the corners of your mouth twitched upward. “Except maybe for your love for expensive whiskey and cigars.”

He huffed a chuckle, nodding, but couldn’t say anything else. 

“You’re a hero. That’s the truth I told her,” you continued. “You saved the world from an authoritarian lunatic.”

“You mean my authoritarian lunatic, lab-bred son?”

You scratched your throat, tilting your head. “Might have left that part out,” you admitted and pursed your lips. “Also might have embellished a few things about your past.”

“Oh, so you did good PR,” he deadpanned. “Is that supposed to fuckin’ comfort me?” 

“It doesn’t matter because you’re not that guy anymore, alright? She knows what happened to you in Russia. She knows about Vought. That’s all she really needs to know. All she cares about is who you are now,” you said. “She’s actually handling everything, uhm… better than you did.”

“No, she’s not,” he scoffed, defensive. 

“She’s also more tech-savvy than you.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not kidding. She already knows how to access the internet with her phone,” you said, a grin spreading on your lips. “Also taught her how to use tap-to-pay and stream movies, download music… She thinks the cooking tutorials on YouTube are genius.”

“You gave my mother a phone? With a touch screen?” Ben could only throw his arms up at this point.

“I did,” you replied and smiled in amusement. “Listen, she can stay here in Paris with us. We could give her the guest room or get her her own place. Or if you need a little distance in the beginning, I figured we could put her up at the house in Philly. She might like it there since it’s her hometown.”

Ben just stared, a lump stuck in his throat. 

“Look, I didn’t bring her here to overwhelm you,” you added. “I brought her because you deserve a mother who loves you. And she deserves to have a life without your miserable bastard of a father. Most of all, she deserves to have her son back.” 

The fight then left him all at once, a stubborn knot loosening inside of him. He realized then that he’d never been angry. Not really. 

He was fucking terrified. The fear was so tangible now it choked him like a noose around his neck. 

“I–… I don’t know how to do this,” he muttered and averted his eyes away from you. 

Growing up, he’d learned to live without wanting things. Without needing things. Which sounded silly, considering the sheer amount of wealth that surrounded him as a child shouldn’t have left him ever wanting or needing anything at all. He knew he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But most things he’d wanted as a little boy (or even now) couldn’t be bought with money. 

Rich in what matters was something you always told him, and he couldn’t help but agree after a century-worth of life experiences. Although, having a filthy amount of money was still nice. 

Now, however, you had given him something so precious he’d never dared to even hope for it. 

“We take it one step at a time, okay?” you said and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to know how to do this. She already does. Come back in?”

Ben hesitated and licked his lips thoughtfully for a moment. His hand tightened around yours to ground himself, scared everything waiting for him in the living room would prove itself real in a way he couldn’t undo. His jaw flexed, eyes flicking toward the closed doors again. 

Then he exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah… alright.” 

You gave him a small, encouraging smile before leading him back down the hall and nudging the door open again. 

Margaret wasn’t sitting anymore. She stood near the couch, one hand resting lightly on the backrest, the other holding a phone, scrolling with a familiarity that made his brow twitch. How the hell was she already more comfortable with the customs of the 21st century after a single day than he ever was?

She then glanced up as the two of you strolled back in. And there it was – that look that had been branded into his mind since childhood. 

Sharp. Knowing. Warm in a way that didn’t suffocate. 

“Well,” she said, tilting her head ever so slightly, juniper eyes sweeping over him from head to toe. “That’s new.”

Ben frowned faintly. “What is?”

His mother stepped a little closer, gesturing vaguely toward his face. “The beard.”

His hand came up instinctively, brushing over it. “Oh.”

Margaret hummed. “I suppose it suits you. Makes you look–…” She paused, considering. “…less like a boy trying to prove something.” 

You snorted behind him, and Ben swiftly shot you a look over his shoulder. “Don’t start.” 

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Yeah, but you were thinkin’ it.”

“She usually is.” His mother’s lips curved a touch more. “She was always the only one around here who seemed to have the most sense.”

You beamed. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t encourage her,” Ben muttered and threw both you and his mother a look. 

He shifted on his feet then, suddenly unsure what the hell to do with himself. For a man who had faced down armies, governments, freaks, and monsters, this particular challenge unraveled him more than anything ever had before.

It all felt too… familiar. 

Not the situation. Not the impossible, reality-bending, mind-altering insanity of it all. But her. 

Her voice. Her tone. That dry little edge that always carried more affection than softness ever could. 

“You, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You look… the same.” 

Margaret raised a brow. “Flattery? On Christmas morning? Who are you, and what have you done with my son?” she quipped. “But I’m glad you think so. I’d hate to think time had been unkind to me while it was ignoring you entirely.”

But Ben could barely speak, his mouth agape, eyes fixed solely on his mother. Still there. Still real. Still looking at him like he wasn’t something broken.

Margaret’s expression then softened a smidge. 

“You’re staring,” she said gently.

“Yeah,” he admitted, deep voice rougher than he wanted it to be. “Tryin’ to figure out if I finally fuckin’ lost it.”

“If you had,” she replied smoothly, “I doubt your imagination would’ve dressed me in this.” She plucked lightly at the hem of the Blondie shirt.

You perked up instantly. “Oh! Speaking of which, this is just temporary,” you said and looked at him. “I told her we’re going shopping later. While I mostly rummage through thrift stores, I figured your mom would be happier on the Champs-Élysées.” You then grinned mischievously at Margaret. “We can max out Ben’s credit card at Gucci and Chanel.”

Ben blinked, brows drawing together, but his mother carried an entirely pleased smile. 

“Now that’s a future I can get behind,” she said. 

He let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Un-fuckin’-believable. Both of you.”

You smirked at him. “You love us.”

Ben didn’t answer that. Couldn’t. 

His mother was looking at him again, really looking, but it was different than before. Not assessing or teasing. She then slowly stepped closer as if she was giving him a chance to bolt if he needed to, but his feet stayed rooted to the ground. 

“I know our last meeting didn’t go the way you wanted it to, and I’m sorry for that, Benjamin,” she said quietly, her hand reaching out and gently touching his cheek. “But I’m really proud of the man you’ve become.” His breath hitched, swallowing the thick lump in the back of his throat. She smiled kindly. “Not that you need my approval. You’re grown enough now. Still, you have it if you ever wondered.” 

“Ma…” His voice cracked before he could help it.

And that’s all it took. Margaret then closed the remaining distance and pulled him into her arms. For a split second, Ben went rigid from head to toes at the touch – as if he didn’t remember how exactly this worked, how to be held like that without expecting it to turn into something else.

But then, he took a deep breath in and folded. His arms came tightly up around her, nearly desperate, and she embraced him just as hard. One hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair the same way she used to do when he was a kid. 

“It’s alright,” she murmured. “I’ve got you, my sweet boy.”

His shoulders shook once, but he didn’t make a single sound. Didn’t even dare to take a breath. For one small heartbeat, he felt like the boy again that she used to fix collars for before school. 

He felt your presence across the room, standing patiently next to the sparkling tree, but he couldn’t look at you yet – not until he got himself under control. He could feel the slight wetness on his face that he would plausibly deny if you ever asked him about it.

But when he finally lifted his head, he found your eyes across his mother’s shoulder – too raw, completely undone, and unbearably grateful. There was something in his own chest he couldn’t name as he watched your smile rise. Something that terrified him more than any enemy ever had. Something warm and painful and fucking overwhelming. 

You’d given him the one thing he thought the world had stolen forever. And it was, without question, the best goddamn Christmas morning of his life.

Margaret is officially back and arrived in the 21st century!!! Man, I've been sitting on this little bombshell for ages now. I had originally planned to incorporate that storyline in TAT itself, but there wasn't a right time or moment as the action picked up again. But if you have ever wondered why we left Margaret's ending so open, now you know why 😜

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Aw, poor Ben! He wanted a different kind of Christmas present only to be baited into waking up and having to get out of bed lol. 

Sitting right there on the velvet teal sofa, posture perfect and hands in her lap, was none other than Margaret Brooks. 

Wait WHAT? She…she brought his mother to the present?! I for real thought they’d go back in time or something to visit, not this! 

“In what fucking way? You think draggin’ my mother – my dead, gone, more-than-eighty-years-in-the-ground mother – into our goddamn living room is a fucking present?”

On the one hand, it is incredibly sweet for reader to do this for Ben. To give him back his mother on what’s meant to be a special day. But on the other…Ben has a point. He’s grieved his mother already and seeing her again, knowing she’ll go away again, would be incredibly painful. 

“You told me Margaret disappeared in ’46. No one ever knew what happened to her, right? But don’t you see, baby?” you asked and looked at him with that bright glint in your eyes that you usually reserved for the students in your classroom. “It was always me. I got her and brought her here.”

WAYNE. I DIDN’T PURCHASE A TICKET FOR THIS ROLLERCOASTER RIDE. What do you mean Margaret never died and she just went forward in time to now? How do you come up with this beautifully crazy story telling?

Your smirk broadened. “You’re adorable when you’re worried about your mommy.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” He sighed deeply and rolled his eyes back, gripping his temple. Then he fixed you with a glare and wagged a finger at you. “Shut the fuck up.”

Ben is a confirmed momma’s boy. I don’t care that it hasn’t been explicitly stated in canon yet. That boy is a momma’s boy 100000%.

“You gave my mother a phone? With a touch screen?” Ben could only throw his arms up at this point.

Not the way this woman from 1946 handles technology better than my 68 year old dad who hates texting and wants a flip phone again 😭😂

“Look, I didn’t bring her here to overwhelm you,” you added. “I brought her because you deserve a mother who loves you. And she deserves to have a life without your miserable bastard of a father. Most of all, she deserves to have her son back.” 

“You’re staring,” she said gently. “Yeah,” he admitted, deep voice rougher than he wanted it to be. “Tryin’ to figure out if I finally fuckin’ lost it.” “If you had,” she replied smoothly, “I doubt your imagination would’ve dressed me in this.” She plucked lightly at the hem of the Blondie shirt.

Oh, we’re getting sassy Margaret back. I’m all for this woman living her best life in the present away from that awful husband of hers.

“It’s alright,” she murmured. “I’ve got you, my sweet boy.” His shoulders shook once, but he didn’t make a single sound. Didn’t even dare to take a breath. For one small heartbeat, he felt like the boy again that she used to fix collars for before school. 

He gets to just be a boy with his mom again. I’ll just be over here sobbing… 😭

This was such a beautiful timestamp and ties in so well with answering what the hell happened with the main story! I’m so happy Ben’s got another person in his corner that he can well and truly trust and let his guard down with. He needs all the love and reader truly is the perfect person for him to give him that gift. 

you freeze. then you put the second mug back. your fingers recoiling like the handle burned. quickly. quietly. like the cupboard might tell on you.

the new safehouse kitchen is narrow enough that every movement feels witnessed. annie’s at the table with her laptop open. hughie sits beside her, pretending to read a file while actually worrying the corner of one page between his fingers. frenchie’s asleep with his forehead on an open notebook and a pen still tucked behind his ear. kimiko sits on the counter, swinging one foot slowly, watching everything with the kind of quiet awareness that makes lies feel embarrassing before they leave your mouth.

nobody comments on the mug.

you pour coffee for yourself only. your throat pulls when you swallow, the bruising beneath your jaw making every sip feel like a reminder your body refuses to stop delivering. annie’s eyes flick toward the marks once. controlled anger wearing the face of concern because she knows you’ll leave the room if anyone looks too directly at the injury.

“you want toast?” she asks instead.

“no.”

“i wasn’t asking.”

you stare at her over the rim of your mug, one brow raised. “that was exactly a question.”

“it was the polite version of eat something before i become annoying.”

kimiko signs without looking up from the banana she is peeling. you catch it as her meaning that annie’s already annoying.

you almost smile. the muscles remember the shape and then give up halfway. “rude.”

“accurate,” hughie mutters, then immediately looks guilty for speaking at all.

you glance at him. he looks like he hasn’t slept either. guilt sits on his face plainly, deeper than the shadows beneath his eyes, heavy enough that you want to be angry with him just to give the whole thing someplace clean to go. you can’t. not yet. maybe not ever. he looks at you, then at your throat, then away so fast it nearly hurts.

from the hallway, a door opens. the room shifts before soldier boy appears.

that is the thing about absence. it teaches everybody where to look.

he walks into the kitchen with his shield nowhere in sight but the shape of violence still sitting in his shoulders. hair slightly damp, jaw rough, eyes flat. he looks like he slept badly or not at all. 

your hand tightens around your single mug. his gaze touches the cupboard. the coffee pot. your hand. it’s like he instantly knows. for half a second, something moves through his expression—not sadness, not guilt, nothing soft enough to help either of you. resentment maybe. or the ugly satisfaction of catching proof that a habit existed and now doesn’t.

then it’s gone. he reaches past you without touching you and takes his own mug from the cupboard.

you step back too quickly. enough space that nobody can pretend not to notice. soldier boy notices most of all. his mouth tightens, and the look he gives you says he finds the retreat ridiculous, which is almost funny, considering he’s the one who told you to stay the fuck away from him. apparently, even distance has rules you’re expected to guess.

he pours his coffee. black. no sugar. no milk. then he walks out of the kitchen without looking at you again.

the safehouse keeps moving. the world doesn’t have the decency to pause because you broke something intimate and can’t figure out where to put the pieces. 

mm and frenchie spend the morning bent over manuals and warehouse manifests, rebuilding the map of vought’s next move from half-burned paper trails and shipping numbers. butcher disappears before noon.

soldier boy exists on the other side of the house as if the last few weeks did not happen. no couch. no late-night weight beside you. no arm over your waist. no hand catching the back of your shirt when you pass him in a doorway. no rough voice in your room complaining about your mattress while making no attempt to leave it.

he’s still there. that’s the cruelty of it. he sits at the kitchen table during briefings. he answers questions when butcher asks about old vought layouts, old payback safe routes, old security habits. he makes crude little comments when hughie says something too careful. he calls frenchie frenchie with the exact same irritation as always.

only with you, there’s nothing. not even cruelty most of the time. just a wall where a man used to be.

by late afternoon, butcher brings the room to attention by dropping a folder onto the table hard enough to wake frenchie from a half-doze. “got our next opening,” he says.

mm looks up first. “what kind of opening?”

“big one.” butcher flips the folder open and slides two printed pages into the middle of the table. “vought’s putting homelander on stage in two days.”

annie’s posture changes immediately. “where?”

“civic center downtown. live broadcast. family-friendly little flag-wavin’ circle jerk.” butcher taps the page. “heroes for america: truth, strength, unity. christ, even the name’s got teeth rot.”

“that’s a public event,” hughie says.

“well done. gold star.”

mm pulls the page closer. “security?”

“heavy out front. worse backstage. but not tower-level.” butcher’s smile is sharp and unpleasant. “and those starlight obsessed groupies are already planning to make noise.”

“starlighters,” annie corrects with bite.

“big rally across the street,” butcher continues. “officially a protest. unofficially, a distraction.”

“we’re not using them as shields,” annie says.

“didn’t say shields. distraction.”

“there’s a difference only if we make sure there is.”

“then make sure.”

the room tightens. annie holds his stare a second too long before looking back at the folder.

frenchie leans forward, rubbing sleep from one eye. “what do we need inside?”

“access,” mm says before butcher can answer. his eyes move over the page, already working. “camera blind spots. route maps. security timing. if homelander’s on site, noir might be too.”

soldier boy, standing near the far wall with his arms crossed, perks up at that.

butcher notices. “that get your attention?”

soldier boy’s eyes stay on the folder. “noir’ll be close if homelander’s there.”

“that’s the hope.”

“hope,” mm repeats, unimpressed.

“educated hope.” butcher pulls out another page. “we’ve got a way in. catering company’s been contracted through a vought subsidiary, but the actual staff’s local. low vetting. one of annie’s people knows a woman managing the schedule.”

annie’s mouth tightens. “my people?”

“your groupies.”

“they’re activists.”

“fine. your activists with merch.”

hughie gives annie a cautious look. “i mean… there is merch.”

she points at him. “not helping.”

for one tiny second, the room almost breathes. then mm says, “two days isn’t enough.”

“it is if we stop wasting time arguing with the furniture.” butcher looks around the table. “we get in, we confirm whether noir’s with him, we take whatever shot makes itself available.”

“against homelander?” hughie asks.

butcher’s eyes flick toward soldier boy. “that’s why we brought the nuclear option.”

soldier boy’s face doesn’t change.

yours does. only a little, but enough that annie sees it. enough that soldier boy might have, if he was looking at you. 

mm closes the folder slowly. “we plan first. no improvising. no temp v surprises. no hidden backup moves. everybody gets told everything, or we don’t move.”

the silence after that lands with intent.

butcher’s jaw works once. “fine.”

“i mean it,” mm says.

“heard you.”

“then act like it.”

soldier boy looks at butcher then. the room drops a few degrees around the motion. 

butcher meets his stare with a blood-dark bruise still fading near his mouth. “don’t start preenin’, soldier boy. rule applies to all of us.”

“you first.”

“boys,” annie says sharply.

nobody asks you anything. maybe that’s kindness. maybe punishment. maybe everyone is simply exhausted by the amount of catastrophe that seems to happen whenever your name becomes part of a plan.

you sit near the end of the table with your hands wrapped around your cooling mug and let the details move around you: entrances, crowd density, vought uniforms, staff badges, possible rally timing, escape routes. it should feel important. it is important. homelander in one place. noir close enough to finally draw out. vought distracted by cameras and flags and their own need to look holy on a live broadcast. this is big. bigger than a warehouse. bigger than a snitch at the docks. bigger than another stolen file.

when the briefing breaks, the hour when you would usually train arrives without invitation. your body notices before you do—it’s stupid, muscle memory turning grief into a schedule. your hands itch faintly for wraps. your feet want the mat that doesn’t exist here. you find yourself near the living room doorway, looking at the cleared space between the couches like it might become useful if you stare long enough.

soldier boy is by the window, checking the edge of his shield with a cloth. not because it needs cleaning. because his hands need something to do and he would rather die than admit that.

the words are on the tip of your tongue as your heart races under your chest. are we training? you want to know. you want to train. you want him to look at you with anything other than resentment and hatred and anger. you want to be around him. to feel his hand on your stomach as he turns training into something soft. 

instead, you clamp your mouth shut. you’re not that pathetic. even if your heart is beating off rhythm from a possible yes. you’d take him fighting you for real. you’d take him having his hand around your neck again. pathetic. and unhealthy. 

you walk away before you can humiliate yourself further. 

night comes with rain tapping lightly against the windows and the safehouse smelling like instant noodles because hughie panicked while cooking and made enough for a family of twelve. nobody comments when soldier boy takes one end of the couch with a beer and an old war movie already playing. nobody comments when you enter ten minutes later, pause without meaning to, then sit on the other couch.

not beside him. not across his lap the way his hands used to invite without asking. not tucked into his side while the television spits out gunfire and historically inaccurate speeches neither of you believes. just the other couch and a bowl of noodles.

soldier boy usually announces that the movie is shit within the first five minutes with such specific disgust that even mm listens despite himself. tonight, he says nothing. he watches men in clean uniforms pretend war happens in neat emotional arcs and keeps drinking slowly.

a soldier on screen salutes the wrong way. you almost look at him. he almost looks at you. neither of you does.

you stay on your couch until the ache in your throat becomes too difficult to ignore. then you stand quietly and walk toward the hallway.

behind you, the movie keeps playing. someone on screen says something noble about sacrifice. the line is terrible enough that, three weeks ago, you would have heard soldier boy scoff and mutter something crude beneath his breath. you would have nudged his thigh with your foot. he would have caught your ankle and held it without looking at you while the corner of his mouth twitched into fondness.

tonight, there’s only the television. only rain. only the quiet scrape of your own footsteps down a hallway that doesn’t know you yet.

on the couch, soldier boy tells himself that this is better. clean. no warm body pressed against him. no half-asleep voice murmuring his name into his shirt. no soft little habits built in the dark and then turned into evidence against him when the lights came on.

the seat beside him stays empty. he tells himself that this is what he wanted. the lie tastes enough like anger that he almost believes it.

“ What are you doing here ? I thought you had an event at noon . “ You inquired. Two fingers held the cotton pad you were using to rub off the heavy make up you wore for today’s filming . Vanessa had been fond of make over, looking good, neat, presentable . . But that funky make up you was forced to use to look decent on screen always bothered you more than the creepy men you had to film with from time to time . 

“ I still do .” From the mirror you watched him rise from his seat with a grunt . He strode his way , wrist twirling the brown liquor sitting at the bottom of its glass . “ Told them to go fuck themselve . I’m not a fucking preacher .”

“ Oh .” Was all that exited your lips . Many religious associations had been built off from normal people, choosing supes as the faces of many . Of course, the skilled PR team engaged by Vought America thought it was a good idea, and pressed many supes into accepting even though many of them didn’t care as much about God as they pretended to . Ben wasn’t a pretender . This was useful in many ways but so bad in so many others . 

You could feel him stand tall behind you thus even with the wedged sandals in your feet . 

“ Smell good, babydoll.” 

“ I smell like a kid who played too much in the mud .” Vanessa easily brushed off the compliment . Who knew pretending to have sex and enjoying it could be more exhausting than the real thing ? “

A hand grasped your hip and soon enough his lips met the behind of your ear where he pressed a kiss. “ Forgot you were a fucking slut .” He huffed and released your hip to roughly get a hold of your tits . A hum escaped from your lips, your hands reached for his, helping him to feel your breast through the layers of fabric .

“ I don’t really have sex with them . It’s choreographed , it’s more . . aesthetically pleasing . We actually have standards to respect-”

“ Same shit as a stag . Shit gets it done because you’re cock hungry . Hm ? “ He sets down his glass and forces you to look up at him . His grip tightens slightly where he holds her under your jaw . His hand squeezed your tit hard and you let out a small whimper that made him smile and he bowed over to press a kiss to your mouth . It wasn’t soft , sophisticated . It was rather messy ; his mouth swallowed yours and his tongue found itself entangled with a confusing and sloppy dance you weren't one to ever refuse . It turned you on , your cunt throbbed furiously in the panties that soon clung to your lips due to the wetness already soaking the lace . When he parted away he gave you an abrupt jolt as he released you free from his grasp . The voluminous lashes battled at him through the looking glass and you dramatically fanned yourself with your hand .

“ Jesus, I’m already hot. You aren’t helping.”

“ Stop fucking whining.” He spits harshly and you're quick to give him a tap on the arm while he settles next to you and examines the make up scattered across the vanity with indifference. He doesn’t look at you but he knows you’s still looking at him as if he’s a fucking puzzle.

“ Why are you here ?  I’ve had a busy day . I just wanna go home . ”

“ I can call someone and ask them to drive us to your place .” He said it so casually you almost thought he had already done it before . With other girls . Your eyes followed every move of his .

“ No . I’m good .” You turned around and grabbed the hem of your dress to pull it over your head _ while also making sure your slicked back hair stayed impeccable- and threw it over the back of the chair. His eyes immediately went to your butt , his tongue darted out to swipe the alcohol from his bottom lip . “ You’re gonna walk home ? ”

“ I have my own chauffeur and I bet he’s as impatient as me to drop me home so he can go about his evening . “ Ben admired both your backside and the bit of attitude you were giving him . Women would throw themselves at him , eyefucking or sweet talking him into falling in his favor which always worked because he liked being liked . He was a fucking national treasure . Whenever you refused him , that made him hard . Painfully hard . He lifted a brow at the sight of you stepping into a yellow dress . Your hands went behind your back and You managed to zip it up. You flipped your ponytail in place and faced your counterpart again .

“ I don’t like that dress on you.” He comments . 

“ I . . . don’t really want you to like it ? ” 

Like the spoiled kid he secretly was, he rolled his eyes and walked to you . 

“ When will your movie even come out ?” He asks and you blinks a few times.

“ Oh , somewhere about November .” Ben huffed and quietly walked towards the exit without adding anything else .

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~~~~~~~~~~

The first person to notice was Homelander. Which was unfortunate. Because Homelander noticed everything.

Especially weaknesses.

The conference room at Vought Tower felt exactly the same as it always had. Too cold. Too expensive. Filled with people Ben disliked.

Across the table sat Homelander. Smiling.

Which immediately made Ben suspicious.

Around him were members of The Seven. A collection of egos, liabilities, and walking public-relations disasters.

Ben wanted to leave.

Homelander wanted something.

Which was somehow worse.

“So.” Homelander leaned back. “How’s the bookstore?”

Ben froze.

Only for half a second.

But Homelander saw it.

Of course he did.

The smile widened.

“Interesting.”

Across the room, The Deep immediately looked nervous.

Because he’d witnessed enough Soldier Boy and Homelander arguments to recognize the warning signs.

“Don’t.” Ben said.

Homelander ignored him.

Naturally.

“I didn’t know you read.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why spend so much time there?”

Silence.

The room suddenly became very interested in literally anything else.

Even A-Train looked uncomfortable.

Homelander’s grin sharpened.

“There she is, right?”

Ben stood.

The chair scraped loudly across the floor.

Instant silence.

“You got something to say?”

Homelander rose too.

Neither man looked away.

The atmosphere changed immediately.

Everyone felt it.

Because whenever Homelander and Soldier Boy occupied the same space, it felt less like a meeting and more like a bomb waiting to explode.

“You know,” Homelander said casually, “Ryan talks about his favorite people the same way.”

Ben’s jaw tightened.

“Careful.”

“Oh, come on.” Homelander laughed. “You practically glow whenever her name comes up.”

The room collectively decided not to exist.

A survival instinct.

Ben took one step forward.

Homelander took one step forward.

Neither willing to yield.

Neither willing to blink.

“Keep talking.” Ben said.

The smile vanished from Homelander’s face.

Dangerous.

“Or what?”

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then the lights flickered.

The air pressure shifted.

And every member of The Seven immediately backed away from both men.

Because they’d seen this before.

Two apex predators.

One room.

One bad decision.

Homelander’s eyes glowed red.

Ben’s fists clenched.

“Try me.” Ben said quietly.

The windows rattled.

Across the room, The Deep muttered:

“Oh, we’re gonna die.”

A-Train nodded.

“Yep.”

For three terrible seconds, it looked like the tower might lose an entire floor.

Then Homelander laughed.

The tension snapped.

Just like that.

“Relax.” He smiled. “I was teasing.”

Ben didn’t smile back.

Because Homelander wasn’t teasing.

Homelander was probing.

Testing.

Looking for vulnerabilities.

And apparently he’d found one.

Three days later, Ben was back at the bookstore.

Where he actually wanted to be.

You were sitting on a ladder reorganizing a shelf.

Completely unaware that you’d almost caused a superhuman civil war.

“Hey.” You smiled.

The irritation he’d carried all week vanished immediately.

Just like that.

Gone.

Which was deeply annoying.

Because it proved Homelander right.

And Ben hated when Homelander was right.

“You okay?” You asked.

“Fine.”

“You look like you punched a wall.”

“I did.”

A pause.

“…Ben.”

“What?”

“You can’t say things like that casually.”

“Why?”

You stared.

He stared back.

Neither understanding the other.

Then you laughed.

And once again the tension disappeared.

Every damn time.

Ben watched you climb down from the ladder.

Watched you tuck your hair behind your ear.

Watched you smile.

And suddenly something unpleasant occurred to him.

Homelander wasn’t the only one who could see it.

Anyone paying attention could.

How often he looked at you.

How quickly his mood changed around you.

How much he cared.

The realization settled heavily in his chest.

Not because he was ashamed.

Because people ruined things.

And if there was one thing Ben had learned in a century of living—

It was that the moment the world discovered something precious… The world tried to take it.

The next time he saw Homelander, it happened in a hallway.

No audience. No cameras. No Seven.

Just the two of them.

Which somehow made it worse.

Homelander smiled.

Ben immediately considered violence.

“You know.” Homelander said. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Happy.”

The word hit harder than any punch.

Because Ben couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him that.

Homelander tilted his head.

“She must be special.”

The hallway cracked.

A thin fracture racing across the marble floor beneath Ben’s boots.

The smile vanished from Homelander’s face.

Because suddenly this wasn’t funny anymore.

“Listen carefully.”

Ben said.

Quietly.

Dangerously.

“You stay away from her.”

For the first time all conversation, Homelander looked serious.

Then—

Something unexpected happened.

He laughed.

Not mockingly.

Almost knowingly.

“You really adore her.”

Silence.

Ben should’ve denied it.

Should’ve lied.

Should’ve walked away.

Instead he said nothing.

And somehow that answer was worse.

Because Homelander’s expression changed.

Not amusement.

Not ridicule.

Recognition.

The look of someone who understood exactly what it was like to need affection. To crave it. To build your entire world around it.

For one brief moment, they understood each other.

Then it passed.

“Wow.” Homelander whispered.

Ben hated the sound of it.

Because it sounded like discovery.

Like realization.

Like someone opening a door that should’ve remained locked.

And as Homelander walked away, Ben found himself thinking something he’d never considered before.

Loving you wasn’t the dangerous part.

The dangerous part was how much he was willing to do to keep you safe.

And if anyone ever threatened that—

Even Homelander—

Russell Shaw

Kristoff - Frozen

The roar of the Chevelle Malibu's engine shattered the peaceful silence of the country road. You sat in the passenger seat with one hand gripping the door handle as the wind whipped through your hair.

You'd asked Colter for help after your sister went missing, but he was tied up on another job and had passed you his brother's number instead.

After giving Russell everything you knew—where she'd last been seen and where you thought she was headed—you'd barely had time to fasten your seatbelt before he'd floored it.

"Hang on!" he yelled as the Malibu launched over a speed bump, all four wheels briefly leaving the ground.

You laughed, grabbing the handle tighter. "Don't worry. I like fast." You kicked your feet onto the dashboard, settling further into the seat.

"Whoa, whoa!" Russell reached over, pushing your legs back down. "Feet off the dash." He shot you an offended look. "This is a classic. Show her some respect."

You rolled your eyes with a smile.

"So," he continued, eyes fixed on the road, "what happened the last time you saw your sister?"

"Oh..." You hesitated. "It was kind of my fault."

"How so?"

"I... got engaged."

"...Congratulations?"

"But I'd only known him for a day."

Russell's head snapped towards you before he immediately looked back at the road. "I'm sorry." He blinked. "You got engaged to someone you'd known for one day?"

"Anyway," you continued, deliberately ignoring him, "she completely freaked out because she wouldn't give us her blessing, and then I got mad, so she got mad..."

"Hold on." He pointed at you. "You mean to tell me you accepted a marriage proposal from a guy you met that morning?"

"Yes." You gestured towards the road ahead. "Eyes on the road."

He stared at you for a beat before letting out a disbelieving laugh. "Didn't your parents ever teach you about strangers?"

You looked at him cautiously. "...Yes."

Russell smirked. "Sweetheart, believe me—you don't have to worry about me. I don't bite." He flashed you a grin before winking. "Unless you ask nicely."

Dean Winchester

Flynn Rider - Tangled

"Give me my stuff back," Dean scoffed, straining against the ropes binding him to the chair.

You'd found him sneaking around your house, peeking through the curtains as he watched something outside. You weren't sure if he was hiding from someone... or something.

Before he'd had a chance to turn around, you'd panicked and smacked him over the head with a frying pan. Dragging his unconscious body across the floor and tying him to a chair had been considerably harder than you'd expected.

You didn't get out much. Your mother had always insisted it was safer inside, protected from the evils of the outside world. So strangers were a rarity. Especially handsome strangers.

Then you looked inside his duffel bag. Long silver knives. Rock salt. Lighter fluid. A stack of fake IDs. Handsome or not... What kind of man carried all that around? Maybe tying him up hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

Dean let out a long sigh. "So..." he said. "I help you, and you give me my stuff back?"

"I promise." You nodded earnestly. "And when I make a promise, I never, ever break it. Ever." You leaned closer, determined to make your point.

Dean's eyes flicked over you before he sighed again. "Alright. Listen... I didn't want to have to do this, but you're leaving me no choice." He straightened in the chair. "Here comes the Blue Steel." He lowered his head dramatically before snapping it back up. His eyes narrowed, one eyebrow lifted, lips pursed into what he clearly thought was an irresistible expression.

You simply stared. "..."

"What?" he finally asked.

You blinked. "Did you expect me to swoon?"

Dean's expression immediately dropped. "I expected something," he muttered. "Not... whatever this is." He huffed. "This is kind of an off day for me. It usually works better." He sighed, letting his head fall back against the chair. "Fine." He rolled his eyes. "I'll help you."

"Really?" Your face lit up. Without another word, you spun on your heel and hurried toward the front door.

Dean watched you disappear before looking down at the ropes around his wrists. "...Are you forgetting something?" he called. You stopped. He rocked the chair from side to side for emphasis. "A little help here!"

Beau Arlen

Aladdin

"You, uh..." Beau scratched the back of his neck. "You don't wanna go for a ride, do you? We could get outta here. See the sights."

You'd seen the mysterious cowboy around town before. The one with the dark hair and impossible green eyes. The one you'd secretly wondered what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair. The one who'd stepped in earlier that day when a group of thugs had cornered you in town.

You still didn't know how he'd found you. Or where he'd come from. Only that he'd saved you.

And now he was here again.

He sat patiently on his horse on the other side of the fence as music and laughter drifted from the party inside your parents' house. Another evening of smiling politely at people you barely knew. You'd been counting the minutes until it was over.

"Do you trust me?" Beau asked.

A shiver ran down your spine. "What?"

He smiled softly before extending his hand across the fence. "Do you trust me?"

Your gaze dropped to his outstretched hand. You barely knew him. You didn't know where he lived. You didn't know where he was taking you. You didn't even know his last name.

And yet...

You wanted to say yes.

What you couldn't see was Beau's hand trembling ever so slightly. He wasn't this guy. He wasn't the charming cowboy who swept in and whisked the girl away into the sunset. He'd never been the hero in the love story. He was the best friend. The one who stood quietly on the sidelines. The one who waited. The one who watched someone else get the girl.

His heartbeat hammered against his ribs as he silently prayed you wouldn't notice the tiny shake in his hand.

Then, slowly, your fingers slipped into his. Warm. Soft. Real. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth before he helped you climb over the fence. He kept hold of your hand until you were safely seated behind him on the horse. Tentatively, you rested your hands on his broad shoulders.

Beau reached back, gently taking your wrists before guiding your arms around his waist.

"You'll wanna hold on tight, darlin'."

Your cheeks warmed as your hands settled against his stomach.

Soldier Boy

Gaston - Beauty and the Beast

"What do you know about my dreams, Soldier Boy?" you asked, watching him casually stroll into your house as though he owned it.

Persistence wasn't a problem for him. Subtlety was.

Soldier Boy had never hidden the fact that he wanted you. As far as he was concerned, it made perfect sense. He was America's greatest supe, and you were the prettiest woman in town.

Naturally, the two of you belonged together. The only problem? You had standards. You wanted someone intelligent. Someone you could lose yourself in conversation with. Someone kind. Someone who made you laugh.

Soldier Boy relied on three things. His looks. His powers. And his ego.

"Picture this." He dropped into one of your kitchen chairs, kicking his mud-covered boots onto the table where you ate every night. "Big house. White picket fence. Huge backyard." He gestured animatedly as the fantasy unfolded in his head. "I come home after another long day of saving America. My gorgeous little wife has dinner waiting. Couple kids running around with the dogs." He stood, towering over you with that familiar cocky grin. "We'll have six or seven."

"Dogs?" you asked innocently.

He looked at you like you'd grown another head.

"No, doll." He puffed out his chest. "Boys." He jabbed a thumb into his own chest. "They'll take after their old man."

You blinked up at him. "Soldier Boy..." A smug smile spread across his face. "I'm speechless."

"I know." He smirked. "Most women are."

"...I don't know what to say." You ducked beneath his arm, trying to slip past him. He simply followed. A chair scraped loudly across the floor as he shoved it aside without looking. You backed toward the front door.

One step. Then another. Until your shoulders bumped against the solid wood. Well... That wasn't ideal.

Soldier Boy planted both hands against the door on either side of your head, boxing you in.

"C'mon, doll." His voice dropped lower. "I'll take care of you." He leaned in just enough for you to count the freckles scattered across his face. "You know you want this." His grin widened. "Me and you? We'd be unstoppable."

For a split second... You almost forgot how insufferable he was. Almost. You smiled sweetly. "Oh, Soldier Boy..." His grin grew even wider. "...I'm terribly sorry." You rested a hand against his chest. "But..." His eyebrows lifted expectantly. "...I just don't deserve you."

Before he could process the words, you twisted the doorknob. The door swung open.

With nothing to brace against, Soldier Boy stumbled straight through the doorway, arms pinwheeling before he crashed onto the porch with a loud thud.

You smiled down at him. "Have a lovely evening." Then you shut the door firmly in his face.

Mark Meachum

Li Shang - Mulan

You could feel his eyes on you.

He knew. He had to.

You'd spent weeks convincing yourself that your disguise was flawless. The haircut. The baggy clothes. The lowered voice. The fake confidence.

But Mark Meachum was a detective. Noticing things was literally his job.

You wanted to be a police officer, but the academy's old-school recruits had made it clear they didn't think women belonged there. So, after watching She's the Man for the fiftieth time and deciding subtlety was overrated, you'd borrowed your brother's identity and taken his place.

He'd passed the initial rounds. Then he'd gotten bored. You, however, had wanted this your entire life. So here you were.

Standing in a firing line, praying Mark hadn't figured out your secret.

His face revealed nothing. No raised eyebrow. No smirk. No look of suspicion. Just those sharp green eyes studying the recruits one by one. Evaluating. Calculating. Watching. Your stomach twisted.

The instructor called for everyone to take position.

You raised your handgun and lined up your shot.

Breathe in.

Exhale.

Steady.

Then suddenly—

A boot nudged the back of your ankle. Your stance widened involuntarily. Every muscle in your body locked. He was standing directly behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. Close enough that if you concentrated, you were pretty sure you'd feel his breath against the back of your neck. You immediately decided not to concentrate.

"Wider stance." His voice was low and calm.. "Bring your right foot back." You obeyed instantly. "Lean forward. Absorb the recoil." A large hand wrapped around your forearm. Your breath caught. He adjusted your arm slightly before moving his other hand to your shoulder. "Relax." His grip was firm. Confident.

The touch lasted maybe two seconds. Three, if you were lucky. Then he was gone.

Just like that. Already moving down the line to correct someone else's posture.

Your heart, however, hadn't received the memo. It was still trying to punch its way out of your chest.

You stared straight ahead at the target, trying desperately to remember how breathing worked. Because honestly? Getting caught wasn't your biggest problem anymore. Your biggest problem was that Mark Meachum was ridiculously attractive.

And if he hadn't figured out your secret yet... You were probably going to give yourself away first.

Boaz Priestly

Milo Thatch - Atlantis

The thing you loved most about Priestly was his passion. You could hear it whenever he talked about something he genuinely cared about. The sarcasm disappeared. The walls came down. For a few precious minutes, he stopped being the cool guy behind the counter and became someone willing to share a piece of himself.

There was an old legend in Santa Cruz about a forgotten underground city hidden somewhere beneath the cliffs. Most people thought it was ridiculous. Priestly did not.

Over the years, he'd collected articles, maps, photographs, and stories from anyone willing to talk about it. His bedroom was practically a shrine to the mystery. So when he announced he was finally exploring a cave system connected to the legend, you volunteered immediately.

The group moved deeper underground, beams of light sweeping across the rocky walls. Then someone spotted the carvings.

Ancient drawings stretched across the stone. Figures. Symbols. Stories frozen in time. Priestly immediately pulled out the worn journal he carried everywhere. You watched him flip through pages filled with sketches, notes, and theories, comparing them to the carvings in front of him.

"Oh, come on," one of the guys laughed. "They're just drawings."

"Yeah?" Priestly shot back. "And Star Wars is just a movie."

A few people chuckled. Normally, that would've been the end of it. A joke. A shrug. A quick change of subject. But something in Priestly's expression shifted.

You recognised it immediately. He cared. His gaze lingered on the carvings. "It's not about the drawings."

The group fell quiet.

Priestly stepped closer to the wall, tracing one of the symbols without quite touching it. "It's about somebody sitting here hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago and making something that didn't exist before." His voice softened. "They took the time to record their story. Their history. Everything they thought was important." The flashlight in his hand illuminated the carvings as he looked up at them. "Think about that." Nobody interrupted him. "Somebody loved this enough to make sure it survived." His fingers tapped absently against the edge of his journal. "They wanted people they'd never meet to know who they were."

You couldn't stop smiling.

Because suddenly he wasn't talking about the cave anymore. Not really.

"They didn't care if anyone thought it was cool." He swallowed. "They just wanted it to matter." The words hung in the air. For a second, nobody spoke. Everyone was staring at him. Priestly noticed.

Immediately. His shoulders stiffened. His ears turned red. And just like that, the walls slammed back into place. He cleared his throat. "Anyway." He snapped the journal shut. "Now I sound like a freaking Hallmark card."

A/N: Sorry I haven't been posting much, the creative bug has just not bit me recenlty! I've also had a bit of a new fixation with Jungkook from BTS, read some amazing fanfics!!

Jensen will always be my number one though! I have a Soldier Boy fic that I want to write, but that means I actually have to write it!

This might have to be a small series of head canons. I can do it with Pixar and female Disney characters.

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