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"w-wait," he manages, "we need to…get her somewhere — a-anywhere but here."

"superman," clark grunts at the tug on his bicep, securing him to the seat. "we need you still."

you instinctively turn when the rings clicks into place. subjecting you to a burst of brightness that leaves you seeing dark spots, even with your eyes shut. it's still not blackness you see, but an entirely white, pulsating beam that curls.

" — u-ugh…hrk!…"

some part of you had always thought clark to be invincible. it's the only part he'd ever shown you.

but this — the noise he was making now. wretched and tearing through his chest, echoing around every glassy, cold surface, it made your gut fucking churn. your heart races, and his grunts turn bated. the light dramatically dims, and there's a loud thud.

you finally muster up the courage to look over to clark, who's on his hand and knees beside the leather surgical-like chair. his cape has cocooned around him — but the rising and falling of his breathing is evident in the manner his back muscles remain taut.

"clark?!"

clark jumps at your gentle touch, finding his back. the other, covering his knuckles where they were braced on the floor. he shoots you a panicked look, cheeks visibly flushed deep.

"a-are you okay?" you manage, trying to meet his gaze that only avoids.

"i'm okay," he pulls away from your touch, "really."

you're unconvinced, eyeing the muscle tensing by his jaw. "you don't…look okay. does it still hurt? let me see."

clark lets out a hiss when your hand slides down his shoulders to his chest, steering him back against the edge of the seat.

"doesn't hurt. but i…need you go." he grits, arm unnaturally covering his front. you shake your head, stubbornly gripping around his wrist, with a rough tug, you pull at it.

"…son of a —" clark lets out a long, drawn-out groan as you stare at his crotch.

"…"

"…say something, please." he implores, making no effort to hide the straining erection, presently pressed taut against his suit bottoms.

"…when you said it was 'liberating'…"

"it's not what you think," clark cuts in, gently pulling away from your hold. "it is. the solar energy."

"heals your bones…gives you bone —"

clark grabs your cheeks before you get to the end of your teasing remark. "i didn't want you around because of this. it's an anomaly. a side-effect. so. get your giggles out."

you peer up at him. frowning, "m'not laughing," you point out, with a smack to his wrists. "it's fascinating. and so not an anomaly."

he rolls his eyes when you double down.

"no really. so you're telling me that all that intense…energy you get from the sun on your tanning…bed thing," you press a palm to his chest, kneading against where you could feel the tremor of his heart. "it just….charges you like a battery," you hum, thoughtfully, dragging a palm to his abdomen, "…to the point all your blood just rushes to —" clark catches your wrist, jaw clenched so tightly it takes him effort to speak.

"don't…start something you can't finish." the words come out strained, and he looks at you, intently.

you gulp at the intensity of his gaze. it doesn't unnerve you, “what does it feel like?"

he doesn't fight against your touch as your other hand rests on his thigh. instead, he presses his palm over yours, splayed over his abdomen.

"warm," clark mutters, feeling your fingers twitch against him. the residual heat from the sun spreading through your delicate digits. "tingly. sort of."

you lock your gaze with his. the pink of your tongue dragging over your suddenly dry lips. "tingly…good?"

he doesn't respond. guiding your hand lower, to rest above the tented fabric. it twitches, hard against your grip.

"what do you think?"

the whispered words sends chills down your spine. but as soon as that heavy warmth coated yours, it quickly leaves. he doesn't hold you there, his palms planted on the other sides of him.

"i'll have gary escort you back to…"

you squeeze, decisively, shaking your head as you scoot closer, seated on your thighs. "tell me how it feels now." clark lets out a soft whimper, palms turning to fists beside him.

"too fucking good."

the fray in his composure churns want potent in your belly. you drag your fingers down, trailing the length of his strained erection. he bucks helplessly into your touch as you continue to tease him. rubbing the hard lines of his cock harder. "on a scale of one to ten…"

clark groans petulantly, his palms clasped over yours. he thrusts into your hold, visible wet spot blooms against his abdomen. "fifteen."

a pleased smile curls at the corner of your lips. your own arousal evident as you attempt to curb the dull, achy throb. you lean in, breath soft next to his ears. "is it gonna be hot to touch like the rest of you?"

he shudders in your hold, slumping forward to grunt into your shoulder. the vibration has your arching into him, hand curled at the back of his neck in the welcome surprise — he nips at the sensitive skin there, grinding slowly into your touch.

"can't….take it."

you squeal in surprise when clark skillfully twists your wrist to your back, hoisting you up over his shoulders. it doesn't hurt when you're dropped onto the leather surface, forearms coming up to cushion the drop. your giggles coat the tense space, making it much lighter.

clark's boot wedges between yours, kicking them further apart until your thighs are wide enough for him to step between. you feel him tilt your jaw up to face the array of complex buttons of the solar console. "i-i'm…losing my mind here. an'…you're laughing." behind you, a rustle of fabric is heard from where he tugs himself free. the other hand pulling your bottoms and underwear down in a swift movement.

your thighs twitch at the sudden coolness, all laughter stilling at the hard, hot press against your lower back.

"…what's the verdict?" he murmurs, his lips tracing the trembling line of your jaw. hips tensing instinctively at the blunt press of his tip against your core. your slick only allows him to slide further in, coating him in your arousal.

"really fucking hot."

your coo breaks the intensity in clark's composure. you feel what seems to be his smile against your cheek for a brief moment before your breath is knocked right out of you. the single, brutal thrust elicits a raw whine from your throat. he doesn't move just yet, his entire frame shuddering above you, with his forehead pressed to your pulse.

"sh-shit. you're — … so, so t…hick."

clark's breath hitches against your skin, pained, "need you to…relax." he chokes, palm sliding down from your jaw, the width of his palm spanning the delicate column of your throat.

"c-can't. can't focus." the initial sting passes, and you're left, helplessly pulsing around his length as he remains a fortress. you grind back against him in attempt to squelch the fluttery ache deep in your belly.

"h—hrk, don't!" clark lifts his head in a panicked move, hips bucking hard into you as he tenses. clark's harsh pants thrums against your skin, with warmth coating your insides in staggered intervals. "shit. shit." it doesn't click in your mind until he turns you over to rest on your back. the full feeling is rid from you much to your disappointment.

"did…you?"

"i'm…sorry." he rasps.

clark shakes his head, pulling your bottoms completely off your ankles. you gasp softly at the calloused palm dragging over your thighs, moving them to rest on the left side of his shoulder.

the shift has you twitching beneath him, transcluscent liquid bubbling at your core as he presses the tip of his cock against it, pushing the remnants back in.

(1984)

“You’re staring again”

Ben didn’t look away from where he sat sprawled across the bed, one arm lazily slung behind his head. “Can you blame me?”

You rolled your eyes, finishing brushing your messed up hair back into place in front of the mirror. “You say that to every girl?”

“Nah” A smirk pulled at his mouth. “Just the pretty ones that put up with me”

“Jesus Christ” He laughed softly as you grabbed a pillow off the chair and threw it at him. He caught it easily, still grinning– that rare kind of grin nobody else ever seemed to get from him– boyish, unguarded and real. Not the cameras, not the public, not Payback– just you. Outside the room, music from the afterparty thumped faintly through the walls. Someone shouted drunkenly down the hallway. (Probably the twins) You moved toward the door. “We should go before someone notices we disappeared”

Ben caught your wrist before you could pass the bed, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress. The movement was automatic, familiar. Gentle. Your breath hitched slightly as he tugged you between his knees, hands settling on your hips. “Five more minutes” He murmured, voice low and gravelly.

“You said that twenty minutes ago” You say, letting out a soft breath of amusement while brushing the hair away from his face.

“Yeah, well” His thumbs brushed slowly against your waist. “Changed my mind”

For a second, you just looked at him– no cameras, no crowds screaming his name, no Vought workers breathing down his neck– just Ben. And maybe that was why the fear creeping into your chest felt so wrong. Because something had been off all week. The team’s whispered conversations stopping the moment you entered rooms. Crimson Countess avoiding your eyes. Noir watching Ben like he was already gone.

You gently held his face between your hands. “We need to be careful” You spoke softly.

Ben frowned. “Bout what?”

You hesitated. It sounded stupid saying it out loud now– paranoid. But the feeling had been sitting heavy in your chest for days. “Don’t know…” You admitted quietly. “Something’s weird lately” Your hands were still cradling his face, one resting on his bearded cheek while the other continued brushing softly through his hair. His hands rubbed absentmindedly along your waist as he watched you carefully now, the amusement fading slightly from his face. “The team’s been acting off. Noir barely speaks to me anymore, Countess won’t even look at me and–” You shook your head lightly. “Just… got a bad feeling”

The man stared at you for a moment before letting out a soft scoff. “Doll” His thumbs pressed gently into your hips. “Y’think too much”

“Ben–”

“No, c’mere” One of his hands slid up your arm, warm and steady. “Nobody’s gonna do shit”

You wanted to believe him. Maybe that was the problem. He’d spent years being treated like something untouchable– America’s greatest hero, Vought’s golden boy, the strongest man in every room. And Ben carried that confidence like second nature– like betrayal wasn’t even a possibility.

“You trust them too much” You murmured.

That made him grin again, crooked and easy. “Nah, sweetheart” He shook his head simply, pulling you even closer to him by your hips. “They too scared to try anything”

The feeling only got worse the next morning. Normally, mission prep with Payback was loud, chaotic even. The twins arguing, Gunpowder trying too hard to impress Ben, Crimson complaining about anything and everything before they’d even left the States. But that morning felt tense– too quiet. You stepped into the briefing room just as the conversation abruptly died. Even Noir, usually the stoic one– was blanking staring at you. “What?” You asked slowly– the same, creeping, awful feeling blooming inside your chest.

“Nothing” Mindstorm answered too quickly.

One of the Vought assistants stood near the projector screen, perfectly composed as always. “Small change of plans, you’ll remain behind for this operation”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s a simple retrieval mission–” The worker continued smoothly. “ –a couple members of Payback are more than sufficient. We’ll also need you here for other duties” It felt wrong, too staged– too perfect.

“That’s not what yesterday’s briefing said”

Beside you, Ben let out an annoyed sigh. “Relax, ‘preciate the day off”

Your eyes snapped toward him, something almost pleading in your expression, hoping that he’d see it too and agree. “Ben–”

“We’ll be back in a couple days” He leaned down just enough to press a quick kiss against your temple, careless about who saw this time. He was Soldier Boy after all, who the Hell was gonna call him out on it?  "You'll live” He scoffs, breath brushing your hair before he pulled back.

God you were gonna regret letting him leave.

You knew something had gone wrong when nobody answered the radios– not even Ben. By the time you got clearance to join them, Nicaragua was already burning. Smoke choked the air thick enough to sting your lungs, gunfire echoed somewhere deeper in the jungle, bodies littered the camp in pieces– soldiers and civilians alike. Your boots hit the dirt hard as you ran, dust kicking up behind you. “Ben?” You called out, more raw than you’d liked it to be. Nothing– just screaming in the distance. Then, you looked down– his shield. Half-buried beneath rubble and smeared with blood. Your stomach dropped violently. Around you, the remains of the camp looked less like a mission gone wrong and more like a massacre.

Like a setup.

You barely registered Noir standing several feet away, burned and motionless against one of the car’s engines. Or the twins avoiding your eyes. Or Countess already half-hidden back by their vehicle. All you saw was the group of Russian soldiers dragging something across the ground. No, not something– someone.

Ben.

Even drugged, practically unconscious he was still fighting them. A soldier hit him across the face with the butt of a rifle, another jammed a mask tighter over his mouth while three more struggled to force him down. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else.

No.

No, no, no–

You lurched forward before someone grabbed you hard from behind. Hands tightly wrapping around your limbs to hold you down. “Let go!” You screamed with all you had, struggling violently against his grip. They didn’t release you– they couldn’t risk you reaching Soldier Boy. Across the clearing, Ben lifted his head. For one brief, horrible second, his eyes found yours. Dazed Confusion, then realization– then something that looked dangerously close to heartbreak. The gas finally took effect a second later, his body going limp. The Russians dragged him toward the helicopter and nobody stopped them.

Nobody.

The last thing you saw was Ben’s lifeless form as they loaded him inside. Then the helicopter doors shut. And he was gone. He was gone– you tried to warn him, you knew something was wrong. He’d just brushed it off, kissing you and waving it away and now he was gone. You hadn’t even been there to try and save him.

They told the world Soldier Boy died a hero. But heroes weren’t drugged and dragged across battlefields while their teammates watched. The first few weeks after Nicaragua became a blur of bloodshot eyes, stolen files and red-string theories spread across motel room walls. Every rumor, every whisper, every classified document mentioning Russian activity– you chased all of it. Nothing. You tracked down old military contacts, bribed informants, broke into places a Vought front-pager definitely shouldn’t have– still nothing– just fragments.

'Transported east'

'American asset'

'Experimentation'

Enough to keep hope alive, enough to ruin you. Payback avoided you after that– too afraid of what a heartbroken (supe)  woman could do to them if she found out the truth. But their avoidance only confirmed what you already knew– they’d all let it happen.

Vought slowly started trying to tie you down, slow your advances without revealing too much from their involvement. They started reassigning missions, monitoring calls, searching your apartments the moment you were gone, asking questions with picture perfect smiles. You stopped staying anywhere longer than a few weeks after someone tried to put a bullet through your window in Chicago. After that, you understood– you weren’t supposed to keep looking. So? You disappeared before Vought could make you disappear first. New identities, cheap apartments. Your life packed into bags small enough to abandon at a moment’s notice, mostly weapons and whatever memory you could salvage of Ben.

(Present Day)

The deal was simple– Soldier Boy helped them kill Homelander and in return, they helped him hunt down the people who betrayed him. He’d barely been defrosting for a couple days and all he could think about was tracking those assholes and pounding them into the ground. He was being difficult– he knew that– but Soldier Boy was always kind of an ass. (Except when it came to you) He plays it cool, still chewing on his burger as he points at a picture on the table, one of your headshots from back in the day when Payback first debuted.

Then, in that gravelly, gruff voice of his: “Find her”

Butcher frowned, arms still crossed as he glances down at him. “Who?” Ben simply held up the photograph, taking a sip from his beer to play it cool.

“The hell for?” MM asked immediately. “Thought your whole team sold you out, what matters when we find who?”

Soldier Boy’s expression didn’t change, simply doubling down and harshly tapping two fingers into your photo like some kind of stubborn toddler with a beard. Annie exchanged a glance with Hughie. “Look–” Hughie started carefully. “ –if she’s been off-grid this long she’s probably either dead or hiding from Vought…”

“Ain’t dead” He mutters gruffly, not bothered to explain the whole V1 deal and its complexities to a bunch of randoms. “Find her”

Butcher leaned back against the table, studying him carefully. “N’ if we don’t care to find the lovely lady?”

Soldier Boy finally looked up, the motel suddenly felt much smaller under his sharp green eyes. “Just find the fuckin’ broad” His tone left no room for argument. And the boys, being left with no other option– started their fucking search.

The first stop was a burned-out Vought storage office three towns over.

“Officially” Hughie started, nervously pacing the empty space. “This place doesn’t even exist anymore…”

“Oui” Frenchie replied, sauntering in behind him while already looking for anything that might be of use. “That is usually where the good things are” Inside, it was exactly what you’d expect– dust, shredded files, and the faint chemical smell mixing with something coppery and deep. Annie rifled through a collapsed filing cabinet while MM booted up a half-dead terminal.

“This isn’t just a missing person case” MM said, holding up a thin file fragment. “This is a Vought cleanup, through and through” Butcher looked over in a silent ‘ya think?’ like the judgy bastard he was. “They didn’t forget her– suckers lost her after Nicaragua”

Soldier Boy’s jaw tightened, not anger, in recognition. He could almost feel the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips– proud at you for getting the Hell outta there after what they did to him– for surviving. Though he quickly schooled it back to his stoic frustration.

Hughie frowned at the screen MM was working on. “Okay, so… if Vought scrubbed her, where do we even start?”

Butcher pointed at MM’s terminal without looking away from Soldier Boy. “Y’said Nicaragua”

MM hesitated. “That was like– what, 1980 something?”

“84” Soldier Boy said flatly.

“Right,” Hughie muttered. “So we’re looking for a forty-year-old coverup in a system designed to erase itself. Great”

Frenchie hummed, crouched near a cracked server rack. “Vought does not erase people unless they are inconvenient and our lady friend here seemed to be plenty inconvenient"

“That one word for it” Butcher scoffed.

Annie straightened slightly. “No. Look– this isn’t random. If she was involved in Payback and Nicaragua, she wouldn’t just disappear. She’d be classified, archived, locked under something deeper than all of this” She points vaguely at the files on screen.

MM looked up. “Like what?”

Starlight hesitated, then tapped the broken terminal screen. “Military subcontract records?”

The room went still for half a second. Soldier Boy finally moved– just a step forward. But enough to show his interest was piqued. “Then get in” He spoke in his usual gruffness.

Hughie blinked. “Into what exactly?”

“Whatever the fuck you need to” Ben replied. “Just get me the fuckin’ file”

Butcher exhaled through his nose. “You’re one helpful cunt, aren’t ya?”

Frenchie, meanwhile, was already plugging in a battered drive from his pocket. “There is a secondary archive route,” He spoke lightly, mainly towards Kimiko who was always half a step beside him. “Old Vought-Russian joint records. Very ugly interface, very secret”

MM stared at him. “You just carry that shit around?”

The French smiled. “I am a man of preparation” The screen flickered– once, twice– then a directory opened– glitching, half-corrupted, but alive.

PROJECT INDEX: NICARAGUA / 1984

Hughie leaned in. “That’s– that’s it, right?”

Soldier Boy was already behind them– watching, waiting. MM clicked the folder, the system lagged but finally loaded a single redacted line of text:

SUBJECT TRANSFER: CONFIRMED STATUS: MOVED EAST CLEARANCE: OBLITERATED

No one reacted, too busy trying to understand what the Hell all those cryptic words even meant. Then– the terminal flickered violently. An error screen flashed up.

ACCESS REVOKED

The entire system wiped itself in real time. Hughie swore nervously. “It’s deleting itself–”

“Yeah no shit!” MM instantly retorted, smashing buttons to try and stop the machine from eliminating all the evidence they had.

“Vought response protocol” Annie said quickly. “They know someone’s in the system– must be a security measure”

MM slammed the keyboard. “We just got flagged”

Butcher straightened. “Right then, that’s our cue to leave”

Frenchie already yanked the drive out. “We have approximately ninety seconds to get out of here, mon amis”

Hughie looked up. “Ninety seconds? Why ninety seconds–” Nobody bothered to answer his stupidly nervous questions, all of them already bolting out of the building and toward the van they’d left outside. At least they had a lead– East. The subject had moved East. The van doors slammed shut behind them as MM threw it into gear, tires screeching as they pulled away from the building like it was trying to swallow them whole. (It kinda was)

“Okay” Hughie said breathlessly, glancing back through the rear window. “Okay, so we’ve got East, we’ve got Queens, we’ve got– whatever that was– now what?” But Soldier Boy wasn’t listening, he sat forward slightly, elbows on knees and eyes fixed. Not at them– at the road ahead like it was narrowing into something only he could see. Hughie noticed it again. “You’re doing that thing where you get all quiet and honestly kind of terrifying”

No response. 

Butcher exhaled through his nose. “Right, so we’re just followin’ magic instinct now, ain’t that bloody lovely”

“Works better than whatever the fuck you cumguzzlers were doin’ ” Soldier Boy muttered. Hughie opened his mouth– then simply closed it again. Because there wasn’t really anything to argue with and he wasn’t about to piss off the same asshole that had been driving them crazy for almost a month. He’d seen what he did to those Payback members– and they were supes– he wasn’t about to test his luck.

The safe house wasn’t on any official map. Of course it wasn’t– wouldn’t be safe if it were. It sat tucked between older buildings, half-forgotten street, the kind of place people only noticed when really looking for it. The van rolled to a stop a block away. Hughie swallowed. “Okay… so this is it?” No answer. Soldier Boy was already out of the van before anyone else spoke again. “Hey! Wait–” Hughie scrambled after him. “We don’t even know if she’s–”

But he stopped mid-sentence. Because the door was already open. Not forced, not broken. Just… not locked the way it should’ve been.

Frenchie frowned. “That is not a good sign”

MM stepped in behind him slowly. “Yeah. That’s a ‘someone knows we’re coming’ kind of sign” Inside was too quiet. Not empty– quiet in the wrong way, like someone was holding their breath and waiting. A chair was slightly turned, a blanket half-folded, a mug still warm enough to feel wrong.

Annie’s voice dropped. “She was here recently”

Hughie looked around, uneasy. “Like… recently recently?”

Before anyone could answer– the back door slammed open– hard and violent. “Now you motherfuckers better stay the Hell still before I blow your brains off” Your voice came from behind them, the unmistakable sound of a gun’s safety clicking off echoing through the room.

MM went rigid, hands already raised in surrender. “Okay– okay, nobody move” Butcher muttered some unintelligible curse under his breath while Annie opted for the usual: “We’re not here to hurt you” As if these half-wits could even nick your V1 powered skin.

You didn’t answer– not yet. Because your eyes had already locked onto something, the center of the group– the one person who wasn’t reacting like the rest. The one who didn’t turn fast. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for anything. Just… stood there. Broad shoulders, familiar posture, that suit– Your stomach dropped before your brain caught up. No. No, that’s not–

Hughie finally twisted enough to see you. “Okay– hi– we can explain–”

“Don’t” You snapped instantly, eyes never leaving Soldier Boy even while speaking to the rest of the group. The gun didn’t move off them, but your attention wasn’t really on them anymore– it was on him. “…Got to be kidding me” You spoke slowly. The words weren’t loud, yet they still cut through everything.

Soldier Boy didn’t react immediately– didn't speak– just turned his head slightly. Enough for you to see him fully.

“You’re not him” You spoke, jaw tight. The words lack conviction even to your own ears. But you weren’t about to risk it– Vought had already tried to catch you with some Shapeshifter asshole posing as the man you loved.

Soldier Boy finally spoke. Flat and controlled– unhurried in that way he always used with you, even back then while telling you not to worry about Payback’s intentions. “Put the gun down” That only made your expression sharpen. Because that voice, that tone? It’d been years since you heard it.

“No” You repeated, quieter now. “No, Vought does not get to pull this shit again– I killed the first motherfucker I ain’t scared to do it twice”

Butcher let out a low whistle. “Oh, this is personal”

Annie glanced between you and him, tension rising. “Wait– what is she talking about?” You didn’t answer– couldn’t. Because Soldier Boy took one step forward. Just one and the room shifted instantly. Your finger tightened over the trigger. (Even if a bullet wouldn’t do shit to him he still stopped you)

“Easy on the artillery, Rambo” That teasing– that shameless taunt, even in the face of danger– that couldn’t possibly be another sick trick. That was Ben, your Ben.

You let out a shaky exhale, gun finally lowering and completely forgotten by your side. “...No shit” A step closer to him. “Ben?”

The name sat in the air like it didn’t fully belong there yet. Soldier Boy didn’t answer right away, just looked at you, like he was trying to decide if reacting too quickly would make you disappear as if reaching into smoke. “Yeah” He replied, voice gruff but softer than before. Something in your posture finally cracked– not dramatically, not all at once– just enough that your shoulders dropped like you’d been holding them up for the last forty years.

You stepped closer to him, when you were close enough– your voice dropped. “…I thought I’d lost you” Something flickered in his eyes at that, not quite vulnerability yet but understanding.

“Yeah” He repeated, quieter this time. “You and me both, doll”

Suddenly you stepped forward and hit his chest with your free hand. Not hard enough to hurt him, but definitely hard enough to mean it. “You fucking idiot” You blurted out. The Boys all stiffened like they’d just watched you spit in his face. Soldier Boy didn’t even react defensively, just looked down at you with the quiet endearment one might look at a puppy trying to misbehave– adorable even when biting his ankles. “Fucking told you something was weird– that those assholes were doing something”

“Didn’t shut up about it” He scoffs, a hint of fondness to his words despite the asshole-ish essence that always seemed to accompany his words.

That almost pulled a laugh out of you– almost. Instead, your expression twisted somewhere between relief and frustration. “Could’ve listened…” You muttered.

He huffed once– barely a laugh, rough around the edges. “Didn’t exactly feel like feeding into your worries, sweetheart” Your expression tightened again– less anger this time, more like reluctantly amused disbelief.

“Oh, so you just decided being blown up n’ dragged to Russia was a better plan?”

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to feel dangerous.

“Yeah well, you’re welcome, by the way” That finally dragged something out of you– a short, breathy laugh that sounded half offended, half relieved you could still make that sound at all. At that sound, Ben finally pulls you into him, strong arms holding you against his chest. You should fight it– go off at him a bit longer– instead, you melt into it, hands clasping into the fabric of his back. Too many years waiting for this moment.

“You’re heavier” You muttered into him in an attempt to ease some of the vulnerability and emotional tension. (You were not going to cry in front of a bunch of strangers)

“Thank the fuckin’ reds for that” That almost made you laugh again. Almost. God you’d missed him.

Behind you, someone cleared their throat again. Hughie– very small, very careful. “So…” He started awkwardly. “Is this… like a reunion thing? Or are we still in danger? Because I can do either, I just need to know where I’m at”

MM muttered, “We are always in danger”

But Ben didn’t let go. Not even slightly– completely ignoring the people behind him and fully focusing on you in his arms again. His hand shifted once at the small of your back. Subtle and grounding– like checking you were still real under his fingers. “You good?” He asked quietly.

That alone made your chest tighten again. “…Yeah” You admitted after a moment. Then, more honestly. “Not really– but better now”

That earned a faint huff from him. Approval, almost. “Y’always were dramatic”

“You died” You shot back immediately.

“Didn’t stick”

You nodded once against his chest.

“…Don’t do that again” You muttered, only for him to hear.

“No promises”

You lifted your head slightly just enough to glare at him. That got a real smirk this time.

And then, finally, you let out a breath that sounded like you’d been holding it since 1984. “Asshole” You scoffed, pressing your face back into his broad chest.

she hasn’t looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead. 

“homelander likes symbols,” she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesn’t. 

you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. “does he?”

“he likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.” 

you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator don’t even pretend to be hidden. “good thing i’m very grateful.” 

sage’s reflection looks at you then. her posture doesn’t move entirely, just her eyes. “are you?”

“i’m here, aren’t i?”

that’s not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right now—he’s making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.

that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful. 

“he wants the seven to have seven members,” sage continues. “the joke got old.” 

“must’ve been a very painful time for branding.” 

“branding survives pain better than people do.” 

you almost laugh, but you don’t. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long. 

the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didn’t want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecracker’s cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend it’s practical. 

sage notices you looking at yourself. “don’t overplay it.” 

you drag your gaze back to the doors. “my face?”

“your devotion.”

that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words aren’t a warning, but they don’t land cruel, either. they’re just enough to remind you she didn’t get her place here by missing things.

you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. “i would never.” 

“everyoen says that before they do.” 

the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow. 

the hallway outside is colder, brighter—the kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the seven’s meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors. 

homelander stands when you enter. that’s the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sage’s hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if she’s presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth. 

homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecracker’s smile sharpens in a way that shows she’s trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat. 

soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesn’t move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told he’s the prize. 

he’s bigger in person. uglier too—but not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. it’s the rest of him that’s ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off. 

homelander smiles warmly at you. 

“there she is,” he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. “halo fever.” 

you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. “sir.” 

his smile deepens. “no, no, none of that.” he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. “we’re family here.” 

you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it. 

“everyone knows who you are,” homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. “but i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal… after all the instability… after people treating this team like some kind of revolving door…” his jaw tightens for half a second—there and gone. “we are moving forward. together.” 

firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.” 

the deep nods a beat too late. 

sage continues watching the entire room. 

and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesn’t need to be; in a room trained around homelander’s breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight. 

everyone looks. homelander’s smile doesn’t drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues. 

soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth. 

“sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.” 

the room goes quiet. it honestly wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun. 

you feel homelander’s attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test. 

you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your face—how easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it. 

so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. “that’s okay. i know it’s hard when new things happen.” 

the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boy’s eyes flick toward him. 

the cheaper version of captain america’s grin widens, meaner now. “new? sweetheart, i’ve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.” 

“oh, i’m sure.” 

“most of ‘em didn’t need a cape to get attention.” 

firecracker’s mouth twitches. sage’s face doesn’t move. 

homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. “halo fever,” he calls you. 

it’s not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you don’t ignore him. you don’t make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to. 

“yes, sir?”

his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. “you alright?” 

“of course.” you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. “i just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think that’s appropriate.” 

you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesn’t belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choice—not compete with it. 

homelander’s gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor. 

“a demonstration,” he repeats, tasting the idea. 

soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. “oh, please.” 

homelander turns his smile on him now. “scared?” 

the word barely changes soldier boy’s face. it would be easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam. 

“of her pretty party trick?” soldier boy laughs once. 

homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. “go ahead.” 

your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.

the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecracker’s fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesn’t move. 

his mistake. 

you take one step toward him. 

“that’s close enough,” he says.

“is it?”

his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs. 

it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find. 

soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buried—they are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone else’s bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines. 

the gold under your skin flares. 

soldier boy’s breath catches. it’s small… but oh, it’s everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer. 

then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trick—the glow. the real show is about to present itself.

his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the room—not with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.

his chair scrapes back an inch. “cut it out!” his voice is lower now, strained. 

you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. “i thought it was a party trick.” 

his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecracker’s expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. it’s soldier boy, america’s first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him. 

you could push harder. that’s the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel it—the son, the mirror, the replacement. 

your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts. 

soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face. 

You give him your prettiest smile. “cute party trick, huh?”

no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow it’s worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy. 

homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: you’re not starlight. you’re not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. you’re not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machine’s newest favorite blade. 

“see?” homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. “that. that is what i’m talking about.” 

soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it. 

homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. “this is the team,” he says. “this is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.” 

sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness. 

soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him. 

homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. “sit.” he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift. 

and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you. 

homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when they’re smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty. 

“now,” homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. “no more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.”

his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible. 

“the seven,” homelander murmurs. “is complete.”

the room empties in pieces. 

firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leaves—not hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers. 

“welcome to the family,” she says, syrupy sweet. 

you smile back. “thank you.” 

her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. “you’ll fit right in.” that one is not sweet. 

noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because he’s still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander notices—he notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you. 

that’s the thing about homelander—when he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. “big day,” he says. 

you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. “yes, sir.” 

his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. you’re beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience. 

“you did well.” not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment. 

you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. “i’m glad you think so.” 

“i do.” he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. “what you did with him—” his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasn’t moved from his chair. “that was impressive.” 

soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose. 

homelander hearts it and lets it live. “controlled,” homelander looks back at you. “tasteful. strong.” 

“i didn’t want to overstep.” 

“no.” his smile brightens. “you didn’t.” 

and he shows it again—the pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked. 

homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof. 

“your suite is already prepared,” he says. “sage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.” 

our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.

“thank you. that means a lot.” 

“it should.” 

and then he smiles like he has given you something sacred—a place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close. 

you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelander’s shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be. 

sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after he’s gone. then, sage speaks: 

“this way.” 

you turn from soldier boy without looking like you’re turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone else’s careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open. 

you follow sage into the hallway. she doesn’t ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it. 

the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again. 

your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for america’s heroes.

you nearly laugh. they work fast. 

sage notices without looking at the screen. “they had drafts prepared.” 

“for me?” 

“for everyone.” she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. “you were just the first one homelander wanted this week.” honest. cruel. useful.

the lock clicks open. 

your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problem—so beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasion—daytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief. 

they have made you a home out of costumes. 

your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass. 

sage stops beside you. “security is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.” 

your lips press together as you absorb the information. “sweet.”

“nothing about this is sweet.” 

“i didn’t mean it literally.” 

“i know.” 

you look at her then. sage’s eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage. 

“he’ll test you,” she says. 

“homelander?”

sage’s gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. “both of them.” 

you don’t answer, because nothing is private and she doesn’t look like someone you can trust fully. 

she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “soldier boy doesn’t like being made small.” 

you glance toward her. “does anyone?”

“no. but most people don’t have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.” her eyes settle on your face. “don’t confuse humiliation with victory. it’s noisy. victory is quieter.” 

“is that advice?”

“it’s information.” then she leaves. 

the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.

for the first time since the elevator, you’re alone. 

you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator. 

the world is going to love this version of you.

you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothes—soft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldn’t break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place. 

the door opens behind you. you don’t even need to turn around. 

“didn’t hear a knock.” 

soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesn’t look ashamed to be there—men like him rarely do—shame would require manners.

“door was open.” 

“no, it wasn’t.” 

“it wasn’t locked.” 

you glance back over your shoulder. “that’s not the same thing.” 

he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room. 

you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present. 

“nice place.” 

he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. vought’s pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately. 

his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”

“you always this invasive?”

“usually worse.” 

he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo. 

he gives that one a second look. “they dress you up nice.” 

“that supposed to be a compliment?”

“depends on how sensitive you are.” 

you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. “you came all the way here to find out?”

he looks at you then. not the way deep had done—not at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. it’s the first quiet thing he’s done.  for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sage’s warning differently. 

he’s not here because he thinks you’re pretty—though, he does. he’s here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didn’t give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasn’t intimacy—it was trespassing. 

“what the hell did you do to me back there?” he asks. 

you keep folding. “a demonstration.” 

“don’t give me that shit,” he spits out. 

“then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” 

he steps closer. “you think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?”

you smile down at the drawer. “let me?” you repeat. 

“you heard me.” 

“i asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.” 

his jaw shifts. 

you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. “and i didn’t play with anything. if i had, you would’ve known.” 

soldier boy’s eyes narrow. he’s too close now. not touching yet—but close enough that you can smell him beneath the tower’s clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.

you could touch it again. but you don’t. 

that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. “you like doing that? digging around in people’s heads?”

“it’s not mind control.” you scoff. “i’m not in anyone’s heads.” 

“whatever.” 

“and no.” you pause. “not always.” 

“bullshit.” 

you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. “you’re very committed to having a bad time in my room.”

“your room.” he looks around, unimpressed. “you been here five minutes.” 

“still mine.” 

he lets out a low laugh. “everything in this building belongs to vought.” 

you smile. “careful. that includes you.” 

his expression goes flat and it’s beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. he’s choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.

he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through. 

“don’t touch my thing,” you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. “selective hearing. great.” 

he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares who’s in it, maybe. more because he’s looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes. 

“this your boyfriend?” he asks. 

you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. “no.” 

he picks another one. “girlfriend?”

“no.”

“fan?”

“are you always this desperate for personal information?”

“are you always this defensive?” he argues back. 

“only when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.”

his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. “strange?”

“would you prefer elderly?”

his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when he’s trying to insult you than when he’s trying to understand you. 

“you’ve got a mouth on you.” 

“and yet you keep inviting it.” 

the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boy’s eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough. 

you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then it’s just stupid. “i have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.” 

“brood?”

“sulk, then.” 

“i don’t sulk.” 

“you followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.” 

the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesn’t require performance because everyone’s seen what he’s capable of. 

when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “watch it.” 

you look back slowly. this is the line—where a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger. 

you don’t apologize. you also don’t press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing. 

“then stop acting like i chased you here,” you say, and there’s a drop in your tone—softer now, almost bored. “you came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.” 

his stare holds yours. then, because he’s either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer. 

you move instantly. “hey!” too late. 

his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smiles—slowly. “well.” 

“put it back.” 

he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are pretty—pale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasn’t holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomach—not embarrassment, exactly. 

you refuse to name it. 

“these vought-issued too?” he asks. fucker. 

“put. them. back.” 

he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. “nah. i’m gonna keep ‘em.” 

you step toward him. “i’m not joking.” 

“neither am i.” 

“soldier boy—”

he looks up at your voice. “ben.” the correction is sudden enough to catch. 

you stop half a step away. 

he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only that—there’s something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites. 

“if you’re gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,” he taunts, “you might as well use my name.” 

you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that it’s so visible he sees it. 

“ben,” you say, clipped and sweet. “put them back.” 

his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his head—easy, lazy, infuriating—using every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly there’s no polite distance left between you. just him—solid and warm and too close.

his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it. 

he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. “don’t you think about it.” 

“what?”

“using that little power of yours.” 

you look back up at him. “i’m not using it.” 

“sure about that?” the question is quieter than the rest. 

for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesn’t know. not fully. he doesn’t know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesn’t know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone. 

good. let him wonder. 

“i don’t need it for this.” 

his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him. 

your fingers tighten around his wrist. “last chance.” 

“or what?”

you lift your chin. the move brings you closer—close enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet. 

you keep your voice calm. “don’t make me ask again.” 

soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yours—mean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks he’s hiding. 

“or what?” he asks again. “you gonna make glow, doll?”

you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated. 

“no,” you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. “i want you to know this is you.” 

his smile fades by a fraction. 

you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you can’t overpower him that way. that’s not the point—it’s the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. it’s the way his eyes don’t leave your face. it’s that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin. 

“put them down,” you tell him. 

for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. it’s too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right. 

“tell me to leave,” his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still him—but stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you. 

you hold his stare. “if i wanted you gone, you’d be.”

his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him. 

you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane. 

soldier boy kisses like he fights—direct, hungry, impatient with anything that isn’t surrender. 

you don’t surrender. not in the way he’d want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. he’s soldier boy. he’s homelander’s father. he’s angry because you exposed him, and you’re turned on because he came back anyway. there’s no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands. 

his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs. 

“all that control,” he murmurs against your mouth. “and this is all it takes?”

you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying. 

“don’t talk.” 

his mouth drags to your jaw. “make me stop.” 

you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flash—dark and bright—furious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind. 

“you came to my room,” you remind him. “touched my things.” 

“mhm.” 

“you wanted this before i did.” 

his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. “there she is…” 

“i’m not using it.” 

“you’re glowing.” 

“because you’re pissing me off.” 

he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. “then you’re gonna light up the whole damn tower.” 

your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lower—rough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit. 

he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable. 

cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes. 

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. 

you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind you—bigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflection—watching you watch. 

the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands. 

his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment. 

his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left. 

“sensitive.” 

“you like it.” 

his hand closes more firmly around your breast—enough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. “i like this.” 

his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still. 

his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. “fuck.” 

you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you. 

“all this from a kiss?” he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges. 

“don’t flatter yourself.” 

he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan. 

his hand tightens on your breast. “say that again.” 

you can’t. not cleany. 

his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure. 

his name comes out before you can stop it, “ben—”

his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. “again.” 

you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper. 

your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.” 

“there you go,” his voice drops, thick and pleased. “knew you could ask nice.” 

“i’m not asking.”

“you will.”

you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room. 

instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit. 

he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine. 

“pretty,” his eyes sharpen. 

then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and he’s on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chest—hot and rough—and when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip. 

the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his. 

“this thing cost them a fortune,” you manage.

he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. “then they can buy you another.” 

his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach. 

“don’t hold back now,” he says. “room’s probably soundproof.” 

“probably?”

his smile is brief and wicked. “guess we’ll find out.” 

you pull at the front of his suit. “off.” 

that’s all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have. 

something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs to—impatient and rough with the fastenings—his mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry. 

he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him. 

he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too much—your body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face instead—watches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin. 

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.” 

you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through. 

he stills when he’s fully inside you. 

your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing. 

“look at me,” he says. 

you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal way—jaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you. 

“ben,” you whisper. 

his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry. 

there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn. 

“take it,” he manages. 

you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it. 

so does he. 

his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything. 

you kiss him through it, messy and desperate—fingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it. 

“shit,” he breathes. “you feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.” 

“i’m the one making you—” 

he thrust deeper. you cry out. “me too, sweetheart.” 

his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder. 

“oh, god.” 

he lifts his head, eyes on your face. “wrong guy.” 

you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did. 

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you need.” 

“don’t get smug.”

“too late.” 

“ben—”

“i know,” his voice drops. “i can feel you.” 

he can. there’s no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. he’s not untouched. he’s not above this. he’s not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. he’s burning too.

“you’re glowing again,” you whisper. 

his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. “so are you.” 

your lashes flutter. he feels that too. 

“you like that?” he asks, voice darkening. “like my hand there?”

you don’t answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride you’ve got left. 

his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. “tell me.” 

“yes.” 

his exhale is rough. “good girl.” 

the words land low in your stomach. 

he kisses you again, and this time there’s less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. you’re close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but there’s nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin. 

“come on,” he mutters against your mouth. “let me feel it.” 

you shake your head, breathless. it’s not because you don’t want to—but because the edge comes too fast and too bright.

“yes,” he squeezes once. “don’t pull away from me now.” 

your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you can’t swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck. 

“fuck,” he groans. “that’s it. that’s it.” 

he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin. 

his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the sound. 

when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. you’re still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin. 

one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit. 

“watch,” he commands before he pushes back inside. 

the angle steals whatever breath you had left. 

you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear. 

“look at you,” he growls. “taking me so good.” 

your eyes close from please.

his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. “no. watch.” 

you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. it’s filthy seeing it this way—him behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make. 

“ben,” you gasp. 

his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him. 

his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.” 

“ben.” 

“again.” 

you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive. 

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can.” 

“fuck, no—” 

“you can.” his voice is low at your ear. “give me another one.” 

you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at once—your body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck. 

“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.” 

the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirror—the way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection. 

he sees you seeing it and he doesn’t have the breath to deny it. “fuck.” 

“there you are,” you taunt. 

he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. “don’t start.” 

he’s falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing it’s stamina. 

“so damn tight,” he mutters. “fuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew you’d take it.”

your second orgasm builds meaner than the first—dragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. you’re glowing everywhere—chest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you. 

“come for me.” 

it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him. 

he comes with your name half-buried in a curse. 

his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder. 

his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you. 

your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through. 

his glow fades before yours does. 

he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart. 

behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.

you turn around. 

your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up. 

for one stupid second, you think he’s going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead. 

you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “seriously?”

his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. “yeah.” 

“give them back.” 

“no.” 

your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. “you’re unbelievable.” 

“you were saying my name a minute ago.” 

you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. “next time you walk into my room without knocking, i’ll make you cry.”

his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. “next time?”

you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. “get out, ben.” 

he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door. 

at the threshold, he pauses. “i’m keeping these.” 

you’re glad he didn’t turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin. 

Your whole life had been built around appearances.

Not happiness.

Not love.

Not even being a hero.

Just appearances.

From the outside your family looked perfect. Beautiful. Untouchable. The kind of family Vought loved putting in commercials. Your parents always dressed like they were heading to a gala even when they were just going to dinner. Smiles always polished. Voices always smooth. Every single movement carefully controlled.

And you learned young that perfection was survival.

“Stand up straight.”

“Smile softer.”

“Don’t slouch your wings.”

“You represent this family.”

Your mother would fix your hair while your father adjusted your posture like he was preparing a doll for display.

Because how you looked mattered more than how you felt.

Especially with powers like yours.

Especially with a face the cameras loved.

People saw you and thought:

angelic.

sweet.

pure.

Your wings alone made people obsessed with you. Massive white feathered wings stretching nearly twelve feet wide when fully extended. Beautiful enough to look holy under the right lighting. Terrifying enough to blot out the sun when you landed.

Vought absolutely loved that combination.

Religious audiences especially adored you.

You were marketable before you were even legally an adult.

But behind closed doors?

The house was a war zone.

Screaming.

Broken glass.

Cheating.

Substances hidden in cabinets.

Your father disappearing for days.

Your mother drinking herself numb while pretending everything was fine the next morning.

And somehow you were still expected to come downstairs smiling.

So you learned how to split yourself in two.

One version for the public.

One version that stopped caring years ago.

The public version smiled politely and thanked people for support.

The real version rolled her eyes the second the cameras shut off.

And unfortunately for everyone at Vought…

Homelander only met the public version first.

When your audition tape landed on his desk, he genuinely thought Vought had found perfection.

The footage showed you in a soft white costume with gold detailing, your makeup flawless, wings glowing under studio lights. Your voice sounded gentle. Calm. Sweet enough to make America instantly trust you.

You spoke about hope.

Protecting innocent people.

Using your gifts responsibly.

Even your laugh sounded rehearsed.

Homelander watched the tape with Ashley standing beside him practically vibrating with excitement.

“She’s polling INSANELY well already,” Ashley rambled while flipping through papers. “The religious demographic is eating this up. Younger audiences love her aesthetic, women love her, men love her, focus groups trust her immediately—”

Homelander barely listened.

He was watching you smile at the camera.

Soft.

Perfect.

Controlled.

Exactly the kind of hero Vought liked manufacturing.

“Interesting,” he muttered.

Ashley grinned nervously.

“So… good interesting?”

Homelander smiled.

“Oh yeah. America’s gonna love her.”

And that was that.

You got the call three days later while sitting in front of your bathroom mirror plucking damaged feathers from one of your wings.

Your phone buzzed.

Vought Tower.

You stared at it for a second before answering.

The woman on the line sounded breathless with excitement.

“We are SO happy to officially welcome you to The Seven—”

You forced immediate enthusiasm into your voice.

“Oh wow really? I’m so excited and honored. Thank you so much for this incredible opportunity.”

You sounded perfect.

Grateful.

Humble.

Sweet.

The second the call ended your face immediately dropped.

“…Jesus Christ.”

You tossed your phone onto the counter and continued fixing your feathers.

Because honestly?

You weren’t shocked.

You’d known you would get in the moment they saw your numbers.

This wasn’t about heroism.

It was branding.

And you understood branding better than anyone because you’d been treated like one your entire life.

Still…

The Seven was different.

This wasn’t local fame anymore.

This was national obsession.

Which meant you had to mentally prepare yourself before stepping into that spotlight.

The day of your introduction ceremony felt suffocating from the second you got into the limo.

Ashley had already called you seven times before noon.

“Smile more naturally.”

“Don’t mention any controversial topics.”

“Keep answers warm but humble.”

“Homelander REALLY likes team unity.”

By the time the limo finally pulled up outside Vought Tower, you already had a headache.

The second the door opened the noise hit you like a physical force.

Crowds screaming your hero name.

Cameras flashing nonstop.

Fans crying.

People reaching toward you desperately.

“ANGEL!”

“WE LOVE YOU!”

“LOOK OVER HERE!”

You froze for half a second.

It was overwhelming in a way you hadn’t expected.

You’d had attention before.

But not like this.

Not this many people looking at you like you were something divine.

Your wings shifted slightly behind you instinctively, feathers rustling as security guided you forward.

The cameras loved that.

Every flash got brighter.

Ashley quickly rushed you backstage afterward while frantically talking a mile a minute.

“Oh my God okay numbers are already climbing this is HUGE—remember the speech exactly how we practiced—smile when you mention hope—”

She kept touching your arm while talking.

Too close.

Too loud.

Too frantic.

You finally stopped walking and looked at her flatly.

“You know you should really fucking chill. I got this.”

The sentence hit the room like a gunshot.

Because it sounded wrong coming from you.

Ashley blinked rapidly.

The assistants nearby looked horrified.

You looked too polished to speak like that.

Too graceful.

Ashley forced a nervous laugh immediately.

“Right! Okay! Great. Fantastic.”

Then the cameras turned on again.

And suddenly you transformed.

Soft smile.

Warm eyes.

Perfect posture.

Your speech was flawless.

You talked about responsibility.

About protecting people.

About hope during difficult times.

You even teared up slightly at one point.

Completely intentional.

The crowd absolutely lost their minds.

By the end of the night your social numbers exploded.

#ANGEL trended worldwide.

Vought stock jumped.

Merchandise sold out within hours.

Ashley looked seconds away from crying from happiness.

Homelander watched the entire thing from backstage smiling proudly beside you for every photo.

But every now and then…

you’d catch him staring at you strangely.

Like he was trying to figure something out.

The next morning was your first official Seven meeting.

And you were late.

Not horribly late.

Just enough to irritate corporate people.

Which honestly made the morning a little more enjoyable.

When you finally walked into the conference floor of Vought Tower the entire room already felt tense.

Executives lined the massive table pretending to look relaxed.

Ashley was pacing.

Several assistants stopped talking the second you entered.

The room itself clearly had not been designed for someone with wings your size. You had to keep them tightly folded behind you just to avoid knocking over chairs.

You already hated it.

Ashley immediately rushed over.

“Okay okay just stand here—Homelander’s about to arrive and we really want this to feel unified and welcoming—”

Nobody looked welcoming.

Mostly terrified.

And then the doors opened.

The entire room changed instantly.

People straightened up.

Conversations died immediately.

Even Ashley stopped moving.

That was the first thing you noticed.

Not Homelander himself.

The fear.

The room reacted to him like prey reacting to a predator entering the area.

And Homelander noticed that you noticed.

His eyes flicked toward you immediately.

That tiny observation interested him instantly.

Because most people focused on him first.

You focused on everyone else.

Homelander entered smiling brightly like America’s favorite hero.

Behind him came the rest of The Seven.

Homelander walked in first like he owned oxygen itself.

Behind him:

Queen Maeve looked exhausted already.

A-Train barely looked up from his phone.

The Deep was trying way too hard to look relaxed.

Black Noir remained completely silent.

Homelander smiled at you immediately once cameras inside the room turned toward him.

Perfect.

Charming.

Artificial.

“Well, well,” he said warmly. “The newest member of the family.”

You matched the fake smile perfectly.

“That’s what they told me.”

Maeve’s eyes immediately flicked toward you with actual interest for the first time all morning.

Ashley laughed too loudly.

“Okay! Angel, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

You paused dramatically.

Then sighed.

“I fly.”

Silence.

“I’m strong.”

More silence.

“People like the wings.”

You shrugged.

“That’s about it.”

The executives looked horrified.

Ashley’s soul visibly left her body.

A-Train snorted loudly trying not to laugh.

Even Maeve looked down at the table hiding a smile.

Homelander’s grin twitched slightly.

Interested.

Then The Deep leaned forward immediately.

“You know,” he said smoothly, “I could show you around the tower sometime.”

You looked at him for exactly two seconds.

“I’d rather not. I’m not really into fishy things.”

Complete silence.

A-Train started choking laughing.

Maeve fully covered her mouth.

The Deep blinked slowly.

“…Okay.”

Homelander watched all of this carefully.

Because something about you wasn’t adding up.

New members usually came in desperate.

Desperate for approval.

Desperate for fame.

Desperate for survival.

But you?

You looked bored.

Like you already hated the room.

Like none of this impressed you at all.

And then something even stranger happened.

Black Noir quietly pulled out a small bag of snacks and held it toward you.

The room paused.

You stared at him for a second before taking one.

“Thank you.”

Noir nodded once silently.

Homelander noticed that too.

You treated Noir more naturally in ten seconds than most people did in years.

No fear.

No awkwardness.

No trying too hard.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

From that moment on Homelander started paying close attention to you.

At first it almost felt harmless.

Annoying more than anything.

He’d appear randomly beside you without warning.

“You skipped the marketing dinner.”

You wouldn’t even look up from your phone.

“I’d rather eat drywall.”

“…Drywall.”

“It has more personality.”

And instead of getting angry…

Homelander laughed.

Because compared to the constant fake praise surrounding him every day, your honesty felt almost refreshing.

Dangerously refreshing.

One afternoon after a mission you stood alone on a rooftop fixing loose feathers while helicopters circled nearby below.

Suddenly wind slammed behind you.

Homelander landed dramatically beside you, cape sweeping behind him.

Full intimidation mode.

Eyes glowing faintly red.

You glanced over once.

“You know your entrances would work better if you stopped overdoing them.”

Silence.

Homelander slowly turned toward you.

“…Overdoing them?”

“You keep standing there like a gargoyle.”

Another pause.

“It’s weird.”

That should’ve offended him.

Should’ve made him furious.

Instead he stared at you like he genuinely didn’t know how to process someone speaking to him that way.

Nobody did that.

Ever.

And the dangerous part was…

you weren’t even trying to provoke him.

You just genuinely didn’t care enough to fake reactions anymore.

That fascinated him.

But underneath the amusement there was always tension.

Because Homelander needed control in every interaction.

And you accidentally denied him that constantly.

You didn’t worship him.

But you also didn’t fully understand how dangerous he really was yet.

Which made you unpredictable.

And unpredictable people made Homelander uneasy.

Sometimes he’d watch you during meetings instead of listening to Ashley talk.

Watching how your expression dropped the second cameras left the room.

Watching how quickly your smile disappeared.

Watching how exhausted you looked when nobody expected you to perform.

Because suddenly he started realizing something.

Your sweetness wasn’t fake exactly.

It was trained.

Manufactured.

Just like his.

And that realization made him feel strangely connected to you in a way he absolutely hated.

One meeting in particular almost turned ugly.

Ashley was rambling through some disaster PR presentation while Homelander gave one of his long speeches about image and unity.

You were already tired.

Already irritated.

And honestly he just kept talking.

Finally you muttered:

“Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself speak?”

The room froze instantly.

Ashley physically stopped breathing.

A-Train looked at you like:

oh she’s dead.

Maeve slowly leaned back in her chair preparing for disaster.

Homelander turned toward you very slowly.

Still smiling.

Which somehow felt worse.

“Careful,” he said quietly.

And for the first time…

you actually felt it.

The thing underneath him.

Not the celebrity.

Not the hero.

Not America’s golden god.

The monster.

The room suddenly felt colder.

Everyone looked terrified.

But you held eye contact anyway.

Mostly because you were too stubborn to look away now.

Your wings shifted slightly behind you.

Homelander stared at you for another long second before finally smiling wider again and turning back toward the room like nothing happened.

But after that?

You started noticing something disturbing.

Homelander watched you constantly now.

Not casually.

Intently.

Like he was trying to peel you apart layer by layer and figure out what was actually underneath all that perfection.

And maybe the worst part?

You stood from bed and slipped on your robe, hand reaching for the bat you kept beside your nightstand and made your way towards the hidden elevator. You had been sleeping so well, something you found difficult to do without your husband's large, warm body holding you, and found yourself annoyed at the wake-up.

Sure, Alfred must have woken up from the noise as well, but you could handle this intruder on your own. You weren't Batman's wife without learning a thing or two about self-defense.

As soon as you landed on your desired floor, you quietly stepped out, eyes roving about for any sign of burglary or vandalism. Pacified, you continued further, bat held up by your shoulder in preparation to strike if needed.

You were only confused by one thing.

Bruce had access to all household security and would have been notified of the alarms immediately. He then would have shut everything down and called you to check things out. Nothing concerning his work slipped past him. He had even known when you used his stapler last week all because it had been facing the wrong direction.

And yet...you had no notifications on your phone and all of the instruments in his workspace were still in operation.

As you came closer to the mainframe, you found someone sitting in the chair, tapping at the keyboard and controls. And, to add to your confusion, they were wearing Bruce's uniform. Broad shoulders encased in his cape and cowl hiding any distinct facial features.

You hid behind a pillar and attempted to get a better look at the figure who had stolen your husband's identity. How the hell had they gotten past all of the defense Bruce had installed? How had they found his suit and decided to put it on for a try? Was this a new villain? One who was obsessed with-

"Computer," the figure spoke in a deep, uncannily-familiar voice, "turn on."

The screen remained blank.

"Computer, it's Batman. Turn on." The person tried again, causing you to hide a chuckle behind your hand. Despite this being a serious situation, you couldn't help but find it somewhat funny.

"Computer," the voice grew frustrated. "IronManSucks."

Your eyes widened.

No one besides Bruce, Alfred, and you knew the password to the mainframe. Who exactly was this criminal? You had to do something and had to do it now lest he find out something sensitive.

You stepped out from behind the pillar and raised your weapon higher then brought it down on the assailant's head just as he turned to you. "Oh! Hey Mrs. Wa-"

The bat cracked down on his head with a sickening thwack before splitting in two. You expected there to be blood or something but the assailant only said, "Ow," and blinked, unfazed.

Your eyes widened and you prepared to scream when they took the cowl off to reveal, "Clark!"

Bruce's longtime ally and Metropolis' beloved Superman, Clark Kent had become a close friend of yours and you were shocked to find him down here, dressed in the blacks of Batman and attempting to hack into the computer.

"What are you doing?!" you panted, nerves abuzz from the adrenaline.

Clark raked his fingers through his thick hair with a shy smile. "I didn't mean to bother anyone, really. I heard you come down but needed to-"

"Why are you dressed in that?" you interrupted, mind reeling.

He looked down at his chest where the bat symbol rested. "Oh, this old thing? Haha, Bruce asked me to cover for him while he's away on his business trip--as I'm sure you know, because you're his wife--because the Joker's been on the loose, which you also probably knew. And..." he cleared his throat at your sigh. "Well, he wanted me to cover for him, that's all."

"What did you need the computer for?"

"Writing up a report," he answered, cheeks pink. "I just didn't know how to turn it on."

You stepped past him to the keyboard and pressed the button on the side of the monitor, bringing the screen to life.

Clark worried his lip between his teeth. "Huh,"

"Bruce isn't as cryptic as he likes to think he is."

"You only say that because you're probably as brilliant as he is." Clark gave you a crooked smile.

You gave a small laugh. "Sorry for hitting you with a bat, by the way."

Clark shrugged, fingers typing up the report. "Sorry for breaking it. Kryptonian genes and all that. I'll buy you a new one."

"Don't worry about it. Bruce owes me a new one for not telling me you were taking over for him. I was only worried someone was trying to steal his identity down here."

"You really think I'd let someone do that?"

You and Clark looked around the room for Bruce at the sound of his voice but found nothing when, "Turn the camera on, sweetheart."

You did so and Bruce's face filled the computer screen. He was clearly in a suite room, back against the headboard, dress shirt unbuttoned with an amused smirk on his handsome face.

Clark gasped. "You were watching me the entire time!"

Bruce chuckled deeply. "Why spoil the fun? Did they not have computer class at Smallville high school?'

"You've had too much fun with me already, I'm not giving you further incentive." Clark grumbled, displeased with the humiliation he'd been caught under.

You poked a finger into the screen as if poking Bruce's actual body. "You weren't going to tell me about this switch?"

"You've been under so much stress, I didn't want to make you worry." Bruce's blue eyes softened.

"You owe me a new bat."

"I know, doll." He looked to Clark. "I know it won't be effective but cover your ears and look away while I talk to my wife, won't you?"

Clark did so, ever the dutiful gentleman.

Bruce focused back on you, eyes taking on a wolfish gleam. You couldn't help but look at his shoulders, imagining the feel of their strength under your fingers. Oh, how you missed him.

"You just get back to the hotel?" you asked, missing your husband despite only having been away from him for a few days.

Bruce ran a strong hand through his raven hair. "Just finished with a conference but I have one later this evening. How are you holding up? Are you taking care of yourself?"

"I am," you promise, knowing that if you weren't then he would.

"When I get back, I'll take extra care of you, yes?" he cocked a black eyebrow in wait for your response.

A breathy, "Yes, Bruce," fell from your lips. You couldn't wait to have him back in your bed, where he belonged, and attending to your needs.

He gave a hum of approval and purred, "Now go back to bed and get some sleep, sweetheart. You're going to have a long day tomorrow and it's late and Clark and I have some business to discuss."

Not one to disobey your husband's orders, you nodded and blew him a kiss. "Night Brucey."

"Night, doll."

As you left the cave, mind occupied on when Bruce returned, you caught their faint conversation.

"She could have done some real harm if I wasn't invincible." Clark said. "You've got a real woman there."

"Are you trying to butter me up with compliments about my wife so that I forget you don't know how to turn a computer on?"

The elevator doors closed as you heard Clark groan.

Bruce Wayne as Superman

Clark had a very special routine after patrols.

It involved coddling, cuddling, and reassurance. Despite being invincible and having inhuman abilities, Clark was a simple man under all of his pretenses and he enjoyed nothing more than his wife's affection.

Tonight was no different when he returned from yet another bout with Braniac who had attempted to infiltrate Star Labs newest data center. Fortunately, with the help of Bruce Wayne, Clark had been able to defeat him without causing too much collateral damage. It helped that the billionaire vigilante was an expert with technology.

You were sleeping in bed when he came home. Usually, he produced noise so as to not surprise you but this time he was nearly silent. If you hadn't heard him grumbling under his breath, you wouldn't have known he was back.

"-if it were any tighter, I'd be sterile come morning."

You sat up in bed, rubbing your eyes. "Clark?"

The broad figure stopped in the middle of the doorway, the nightlight from the hallway barely illuminating behind him and casting his silhouette on the bed.

"What are you mumbling about?" you asked in a groggy voice.

Your husband remained silent, a sure sign that you had a long night of pampering tonight ahead of you.

You reached out for him. "Come to bed, baby."

The figure cleared his throat and said in a strangely deep voice, "No thanks...piglet."

You blinked and, although thrown off by his endearment?, you crawled to the edge of the bed and grabbed his hand, drawing him closer. He smelled different. Richer than his usual sandalwood scent.

"Want me to be the big spoon, Clarky?" you rubbed your hand up his bicep, massaging the oddly tense muscles there. Had everything gone alright with Braniac earlier? Clark was usually an open book but now he seemed hesitant.

A short scoff fell from his lips. "Of course he would be little spoon," he murmured under his breath.

"Clark Joseph Kent." You said sternly, much too tired to guess at what stint he was pulling. "What is going on?"

Clark started backing out of the bedroom but you were quicker, leaning over to tug on the lamp string and bring light into the room.

"Bruce!" you screamed, scrambling for the bed sheets to hide your nightgown-clad body.

This must be some weird dream. Bruce Wayne dressed in your husband's uniform was not normal.

Bruce held up his hands, an uncharacteristic flush on his cheeks. Usually, the playboy had a little more suave. "I'm not some creep, I swear. I was just coming in to grab something for Clark."

"And, what exactly, is Clark wearing if you've got that," you nod to his outfit, "on?"

"He's wearing my batsuit, of course."

Of course, of course...as if it were the only reasonable explanation.

"So Clark sent you in here to grab something for him? Did he forget his wife was sleeping!"

The uncomfortable look on Bruce's face would have been funny any other time but you were exhausted and so so so confused.

"We were attempting to deceive Braniac by switching places." He explained, fingers pulling at the spandex around his hip. "Clark is finishing up the deactivation process and asked me to come to your apartment to grab some treats for Krypto."

To be fair, it sounded a lot like Clark to do that. He adored that dog to pieces and probably thought you would be deeply asleep to not notice somebody sleuthing through his things.

"Aren't you a master in stealth?" you asked, rubbing your forehead. "You were quite loud for a man who was trained by assassins."

Bruce scowled, his cool demeanor falling back into place. "How does your husband stand having his balls compressed like this?" he tugged at the spandex again. "It's emasculating."

"It holds everything in place while I'm flying." Clark said as he came in from the hallway, hair askew as if he'd just flown in. He immediately made a beeline for you and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Sorry we woke you up, honey."

You pointed an accusing finger at Bruce. "It was him."

Clark sighed and looked at the suspect. "I thought I asked you to be quiet?"

"You did. It's just that this outfit is cutting off circulation to my favorite appendages."

Clark's hands clamped around your head but you could still hear him say, "Don't talk about your appendages around my wife."

Bruce only rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb to the bathroom. "Mind if I change out of this? You did get everything finished, right?"

Clark nodded and Bruce left you two alone. You knelt at the edge of the bed and put your arms around your husband's neck, bringing him down so you could kiss him. "Don't you ever pull another stunt like that again, you hear? Or I'll give you another reason to tighten those shorts."

Clark nodded enthusiastically, thumbs massaging your hip. "O-of course, honey."

"I asked the man if he wanted to be the little spoon, for heaven's sake." You squeak, burying your face in his broad chest.

"That will humiliate me more than you." He promised, kissing the crown of your head before laying you back down on your pillows. "Now go back to sleep and I'll be back. I just need to get these treats to Krypto and debrief with Bruce quickly."

You let him pull the covers over your body. "You get to be big spoon tonight."

"I know."

As he turned off the lamp and shut the door, you heard Bruce exit the bathroom and the low tone of their voices.

"Where'd you put the treats, piglet?" Clark asked, clearly having heard the conversation with his super hearing.

Bruce harrumphed. "Sounded like something you'd say, farm boy."

“Hm?” Taking the flyer out of his hands, you instantly knew what it was: a vain attempt at finding yourself a roommate. “Oh yeah, rent is skyrocketing in my building, so I’m probably gonna have to rent out my spare bedroom. Sucks.” You simply shrug and go back to your work. Needing a roommate was not the end of the world, you only hoped it was someone normal you could maybe hang out with before the Gang irreparably turns you to the dark side. But honestly, maybe you were already at that point. 

“Why are you relying on a piece of paper to find you a roommate?” Dennis asks, alerting you of his presence, alongside Charlie and Frank.

“Yeah, are you really like so sad and lonely?” Mac chimed in. 

In response to the average taunts, you only roll your eyes and continue with your work. You swear this bar would have collapsed ages ago if it weren't for you. But of course, Dennis was not pleased with your response, or lack thereof, and decided to provoke further. “Wanted roommate for a young female,” he read, “God damn, are you trying to attract molesters?”

Finally giving in to the four men, you bite. “Well, it’s not like I have any other options!” The rag you were cleaning with was hastily thrown down towards the counter. “You guys have prevented me from making literally any other friends in this city.” 

Charlie makes his usual ridiculously confused face, “How?” 

“Ninety-five percent of Philadelphians have beef with you guys, while the other five percent are the lunatics you guys interact with! There is practically no middle ground here.” 

Dennis, as always, rebuttals your reasonable points, “Now that is not true, we surround ourselves only with the sensible people of this city. The rest are just freaks.” 

“See!” You toss your hands in the air dramatically. “This is what I mean! You drive people away with your ridiculous middle school insults. Just… please don’t tamper with my search.” 

“Well how about we help you!” Frank suggests. Great, you only set yourself up worse. 

“Ohh, oh yeah!” Charlie practically bounces on the bar stool, clearly excited for the day’s adventure. There was no way in hell you were letting these guys help you with this. 

“What women do you guys possibly know that you are on good terms with?” Crossing your arms, you beam a satisfied look, taking notice of the lost faces across from you. After a second, Mac tries. 

“Um, oh! Well, there’s Artemis.” A slew of agreements follow, paired with nodding heads, as if this were some sort of amazing revelation. 

“Ah, wait, no good.” Frank pipes up, everyone turning in his direction. “We had a little fight the other day. I won’t go into details, but it had to do with a burger, pole, and dumpster.” A single small, comedic tear falls from Frank’s eye. You would have laughed if he didn’t look so genuinely distraught. 

“Right.” You stare, hoping the boys will drop it now. 

“Okay.” Dennis puts his hands up, clearly not ready to accept defeat. “Well, I for one know plenty of women. Just go window shopping with my sex tapes. Lots of fine ass in those.” 

“That is absolutely not happening.”

Charlie suddenly displayed a look of pure happiness on his face. “The waitress could room with you! She’s clean and nice. Oh! Then you could invite me for movie nights, and she’d come out of her bedroom all hot in her pajamas and be all like “ah Charlie, why are you here?! Get out! You’re so sexy!” A fit of giggles follows the ridiculous statement. 

“Jesus Christ, Charlie. No, I am not putting that woman in more danger.” You sigh, wishing everyone would just drop it. “This is a useless conversation. Can you just put the sign back up-“ 

You were cut off by Dennis, “Now hold on a minute, our sweet bartender. I have a brilliant idea. Why don’t you room with Dee? While I would hardly consider her a woman, she is always complaining about how lonely and sad she is, and it really ticks me off.” 

You had contemplated this idea before, seeing as Dee was the only stable woman in your life, but you settled on no for a multitude of reasons. Mostly the fact that she’s equally as batshit as the rest of the group. “Yeah, I dunno…”

“Ayo! Wassup.” Speak of the devil.

Mac’s fat mouth speaks up, “Oh Dee! We were just talking about how our friend here wants to like move in with you and be best friends or whatever.” 

“What?! Dee I-“ You attempt to protest, but were unsurprisingly cut off once again.

“Woah, it would be nice to have someone around to do the dishes.” Dee seemed entirely too entranced by the idea. “Alright, I accept.” 

“No!” You yell, catching everyone’s attention, pointing a finger at Dee. “No, no, no, no. I want a real roommate. Not one that is probably going to light me on fire in my sleep!” Dee looks insulted by your claims.

“Hey, hey! I am a great roommate, that was literally one time.” Dee crosses her arms and mutters to herself, “Burn a girl once and everyone will bring it up forever, huh.”

Deciding you were completely done with this debate, you snatch the paper out of Dennis’ unsuspecting hands. “Great, okay, well I’m just gonna go out and put this back up…” As you move towards the front door, Dee pops in front of you in a jumpscare pose. “Wha-” Before you have time to properly react, your flyer was torn out of your hand and effectively ripped apart. 

“Nuh-uh, boner. I’m gonna prove to you just how good of a roommate I can be.”

____________________

SWEET DEE SETS HER ROOMMATE ON FIRE (AGAIN)

____________________

Shortly after Dee drags you off to do God-knows-what, the four men of the group idly sit around the bar drinking. It’s silent until Mac speaks up, “See, now I’m really bummed out that we don’t have any bangable chicks we know.”

Dennis looks up from his intense stare at a stray crumb, eyebrow raised. “Why does that upset you?”

Before Mac could question what Dennis meant, Charlie pipes up, “Nah, I know what you mean, man. I mean, I would love not to have the waitress run away from me anytime we make eye contact.”

“I do not think those are comparable things.” Dennis critiqued as the others made sad noises of loneliness. “Look, why don’t we make some new lady friends?! C’mon, we’re young, single, handsome bachelors. Mostly.” He eyes Frank. “We can easily find a chick or two to bang and hang around with, or whatever it is you may want from them.” Dennis vaguely gestures to Mac.

Frank looks pleased by this suggestion. “It would be good to broaden my horizons. I want one with really big tits.” Frank squeezes the air suggestively. 

“Okay, yeah, that’s great, Frank. You are barely invited to this outing, but oh well.” Dennis dismisses.

“I want one that likes weird smells!”

“I want one that’s like super buff and tall and also like a model.”

“Right, Mac.”

“Well, how are we gonna find these women?” Charlie asks out loud, turning to Dennis as if he had all the answers.

Luckily for Charlie, Dennis thinks he has all the answers. “Where do women gravitate to most, Charlie?”

“Kitchens.”

“They should be in psych wards.”

“Or driving lessons.”

“God damn it, no! The mall! The mall is where women go- let’s just go. God, no wonder we have no women friends.” Dennis spews as he ushers the three men out the door towards his Range Rover. 

____________________

“A little small, but I can make it work.” Dee throws her bags on the floor of your apartment upon arrival, looking around suspiciously. She walks around, poking and prodding everything in her path. She eventually reaches a door, one that she slides open without hesitation. “Hey, this room is the shit! This mine?”

“No, that’s mine.” You linger behind the blonde, keeping a watchful eye to make sure she doesn’t touch anything of yours.

“Aww c’mon.” She thinks for a second. “Wanna tradesies?”

“You haven’t even seen the other room yet.” Dee shrugs, and you take her to her room on the opposite side of the apartment. 

“Alright, but it better be tits because I sold my old apartment.”

“This is yours.” It was a modest room, slightly smaller than your own, but not by a considerable amount. You knew Dee wouldn’t be satisfied by this, which only contributed to your list of reasons she shouldn’t live in your apartment.

“Okay, fine. But where am I supposed to do my acting exercises?”

“Acting exercises?” You question, raises a brow as she throws her junk into the clean room. 

“Yeah, my acting coach says it’s good for my form. Watch this.” Dee walks into the middle of the room and takes on a ridiculous yoga pose, one you’re not sure a human body could contort into. “I go like this, and then I do my tongue twisters. You see, it’s good to get into the mind of the twisters and kinda like be a pretzel to really resonate with your words.”

“Right, and your ‘acting coach’ tells you to do this?”

“Yeah, he’s like $200 an hour, so he has to be good.”

“Okay, nice, I’m just going to walk away from this ridiculous display and let you um, settle in.” You slowly back away from the room as Dee audibly struggles to get out of the pose she forced her body into. 

____________________

“God! We’ve been walking around this mall forever, and still no hot chicks want us!” Frank exclaims, limping slightly behind the other three guys. “Ugh, can we stop for a sec? My bunions are hating this.”

“Jesus, Frank,” Dennis begins as he watches his former father sit directly on the ground and pull his shoes off. “Do you ever consider that maybe your grotesque behavior is the cause?”

“I think Charlie also plays a role in that.” Mac chimes in, pointing at Charlie, who is only standing there, watching the scene unfold.

“What?! What did I do, dude?!”

“Bro, you smell like shit.”

“No, I don’t! It’s my natural musk, I heard the ladies love that.”

“I don’t know what ‘ladies’ you are referring to, Charlie, but I can assure you that no respectable woman enjoys the smell of shit.” Dennis chimes in. 

“Well then, how do we get the ladies to like us?” Frank asks from the ground, massaging his bare feet in the middle of the walkway.

“Maybe start with putting your revolting feet away, Frank.” Dennis sighs, massaging his brow bone in thought. “Look, I like to think I am in tune with women, and something they thrive on is attention and persistence. Do you remember that girl Ashley I picked up a week ago?”

“The one you followed until she got a restraining order?”

“No, no, the other one. Anyway, the point is, I would go to her job every day and tip heavily, setting the stage for a slow but steady incline in our relationship.”

“So you want us to pay these broads?” Frank asked.

“Are all women just prostitutes then?” Charlie asked, not fully understanding what was happening.

“No! She admired my persistence and how I kept coming back, no matter how ridiculously overpriced the food was. It showed how dedicated and valuable I am while also demonstrating how valuable I think she is, in theory.” Dennis shrugs after the last bit. 

“I don’t get it,” Mac states, looking dumbfounded alongside Frank and Charlie.

“Dear lord, do I really have to spell everything out for you people?” Dennis questions as the other three stare at him like a deer in headlights. “We’ll do a stakeout! We will persist with these women and vow not to leave until we find someone suitable.

“Can we get Charlie a bath before we start this? I really cannot stand his stench.” Mac plugs his nose, side-eyeing his friend from a short distance.

“Fine, yes. C’mon, Charlie, let’s go to Bath and BodyWorks.”

“Ohh! I hope they got foot cream!”

____________________

“Alright, good night, Dee. I’m going to bed.” You yawn after your show ends, picking up your dishes and heading towards the kitchen.

“What? Are you like a grandma or something, c’mon let’s go out.” Dee is currently dancing around your living room. “I’m ready to get crunk!” 

“I have to open the bar tomorrow, so I kinda have to sleep.”

“You’re so lame.” Dee huffs, walking towards the fridge and cracking a beer open.

“Right,” You roll your eyes, entering your room. “Night!” 

“Wait!” Dee exclaims, causing you to turn around. “Before you leave, can you rate my moves? I usually don’t have anyone around to check them out before I go to the club.” She instantly begins doing a horrendous combination of both robot and 80s disco dance moves, effectively looking utterly ridiculous. “Sexy, huh?”

“If I say yes, will you let me sleep?

“Sure.”

“Then yes.” You slam the door, ready to fall onto your soft mattress and allow sleep to take over your system. Right as your head hits the pillow, loud pop music plays from your living room. “Dee!” You sit up in bed and angrily walk towards your living room. Upon your entrance, Dee seems to light up.

“Aye! You change your mind?”

“No! I need to sleep! Turn down this God awful music.”

“Well, how am I supposed to pre-game with no music?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t care!”

“Mhm.” Dee just glares at you for a second before there is a knock on the door. “Oh! That must be the party.” 

“I’m sorry?” Dee opens the door, and standing there is Artemis, the Waitress whose name you never really caught, and Charlie’s mother, for some reason. 

“Heyo!” Dee exclaims at the clearly already intoxicated crowd as they enter your living room. The three women acknowledge you, slurring their words and smiling without a care in the world. 

You stand in your pajamas, defeated, staring at the insanity happening in front of you. “Dee, no! I did not say you could have people over!” Dee just ignores you, dancing around the room, occasionally taking a swig of alcohol. “And Ms. Kelly?! Why are you going clubbing with them?” 

“Oh, I want to find my Charlie a new father, and me a new daddy…” She sighs right before taking a concerningly long drag from a cigarette. 

“Dear God, okay. Well, have fun with all of that, I’m going to go bang my head against the wall until I hopefully concuss myself enough to sleep.” Before you get the chance to disappear, the Waitress grabs hold of your arm and forces a bottle into your hands. 

“Hey, wait, at least do like a few shots with us first.” She slurs, hugging your body for support. You sigh, staring at her pitiful form as the others chime in with their own pleas. 

“Okay, okay.. Fine, one shot wouldn’t hurt, I guess.” You were met with a reply of cheers and a clinking of bottles. You missed your quiet apartment, but maybe this wasn’t too bad. 

____________________

“So, how are we going to do this stake-out?” The four men were sampling an insane amount of product as Frank sat on the ground massaging his bare feet. Other patrons simply ignored them, but not without a side-eye glance. 

“Yeah, like should I cook them rare, medium, what do you guys prefer?” Charlie was smelling different products, secretly licking the ones that he deemed to be fit to eat. 

“There is no real steak involved, Charlie. We are simply hanging around the women and charming them. We’ll stay until close.” Dennis states, fixing his hair in the mirror of the complimentary sink. 

“Aw! But then I’m gonna miss my shows…” Mac pouts.

“Yeah, and I was kinda promised steak, and I don’t know if I really wanna do this without the steak.”

“Don’t you guys want sexy women?!” Dennis exclaims a little too loudly, heads turning in his direction. He shoots a charming smile in the direction of the gaze as the other three let out a slew of “yeahs” and “yeses”. Quieting his voice slightly, Dennis continues, “Then just listen to me. They have a Hooters in this mall.”

“Oh! I love Hooters! It’s like the one place where you can stare at a broad’s tits and not get punched in the face for it!”

“Precisely, Frank.” Dennis smugly smiles, already imagining how he’s going to make the hostess swoon over him. 

____________________

You wake up completely disorientated. Your previous pajamas were completely gone and replaced with a small top and short shorts. It was clear you didn’t stay in the apartment last night, but God knows where you ended up instead. “Ugh, what time is it?” You rub your face, wincing at the light your phone produces. 

10:30 AM 

“Fuck.”

“Morning, cock sucker,” Dee calls out from the other side of the living room, looking not nearly as wrecked as you. 

“Dee, what the hell happened last night?” You sit up. 

“I’m not entirely sure. We went to the club. I know that. I think you and Waitress made out, or maybe it was Artemis? I dunno, but there was definitely some scissor sister stuff going on.” Dee casually sips some coffee. 

You only groan, not fully taking her words in. “God, I need water.” Peeling yourself from the ground, you walk to the kitchen doorway. Halfway to the sink, you stop in your tracks and immediately speed walk back to your living room.

“Dee, why is there a random man sitting in my kitchen?” You stare concerningly at the blonde as the strange man in your other room eats away at your groceries.

“I think you mean our kitchen.” Dee corrects, leaning on the wall with her arms crossed. “But yeah, that’s my one-night stand. He says his name is Al Pacino.”

“What?” 

“Yeah, I know, I don’t believe him either.”

“What no- that’s not- Okay. Tell him to get out.” You stare right into Dee’s piercing blue eyes, trying to show her you’re serious. You enjoyed your apartment before the chances of being stabbed in your sleep went up 75%.

“I tried, he won’t.” She shrugged as if this was a normal occurrence.

“What do you mean he won’t?” You follow Dee as she walks away from you, reaching for something under the couch. She comes up victorious with a half-empty bottle of Tito’s. 

“Yeahh, he sorta threatened to burn the place down if I made him leave, so I guess he’s just kinda hanging around here for right now.” She takes a fat swig of the liquor. “That’s cool with you, right, roomie?”

“No! Oh my God, no!”

“Fine, whatever. I’ll be a good roommate and handle this.” Dee rolls her eyes.

“Thank you,” You sigh. Maybe Dee wasn’t such a horrible roommate after all, but to be fair, this was entirely her fault. “Look, I’m gonna go out for a bit, okay? Grabbing a coffee before opening the bar. Can he be gone by the time I get back?”

“I gotchu.” Dee puts a thumbs up and winks. 

____________________

“I cannot believe I have to go all the way to the mall for some good coffee in this city.” You mumble, parking your car and walking towards the crowded area. Right as you were about to head inside, you see four familiar people lying on the ground outside, dirty and cold. Of course, it was the guys. Why wouldn’t it be? Dennis looked the worst out of the guys, face swollen and bloody as if he had been in a fight.

“Jesus, guys!” Your exclamation woke them from their slumber, all groaning in unison and stretching. “What happened?!”

Mac spoke first, seeming to be the most coherent. “Dennis tried to rape the Hooters lady, and her boyfriend beat him up and slashed his tires so we couldn’t get home last night.” Dennis only groans and looks down to hide his face. 

“I did not try to rape her! I was just making her fall in love with me, damn it.”

“God, Dennis, you look awful. You really do look like a rapist.” You stated, not finding much sympathy for the man. “Couldn’t Frank just order an Uber or something?”

“I enjoy nature! Charlie and I haven’t gone camping in a while.” He and Charlie were noticeably the least affected by this endeavor, almost seeming joyed by the events that took place. 

“And by camping, I’m going to assume you mean sleeping on the sidewalk.”

“Yeah, normal camping?” Charlie laughed as if you were the ridiculous one. 

“Look, if you’re here, can you just take us home?” Dennis groans, clearly in pain.

You sigh, “Sure, let me grab a coffee first, ‘kay?” They were your friends after all, no matter how much you question their sanity. 

“Ugh, women and their coffee.” Dennis ridicules you despite his state. “You know what, guys? Why did we even want a woman to hang out with in the first place? They only care about themselves and clearly get off on causing men pain. They’re evil.” 

“We’re the evil ones?”

“You are kinda right, Dennis.” Charlie agrees.

“Our woman friend here is just going to let you be in pain outside while she gets her overpriced womanly coffee!” Frank points at you. 

“Yeah! And like, women are not even that good looking anyway!” Everyone grumbles following Mac’s declaration, not entirely agreeing with his point. 

“Okay, well, this is probably for the best. You guys should not be allowed near women. Just let me know when you guys are done bitching so I can drive you home.” The guys shoo you away as you roll your eyes and begin walking inside the building. 

____________________

The car ride home was filled with the five of you singing at the top of your lungs until you received an incoming call from Dee. “Everyone shut up!” A flurry of protests fills the car as you hit accept. “Wassup?”

“Yeah, hey roomie. Umm, you may wanna come back to the apartment. Like now.” Dee sounds unsure of herself. 

Immediately suspicious, you begin to question. “What did you do?”

“Just get over here.” You pick up the car’s speed 15 over the limit, knowing that Dee has certainly done something horrible to your apartment. Upon arrival, everything seems normal. You hurry up the stairs, the others in tow.

“Everything looks fine,” Charlie states. You open the door and are immediately hit with a wall of smoke. “Oh.” Coughs erupt from all of you as you hear arguing inside the apartment. Cautiously entering your place, a drunken Dee and “Al Pacino” are having a visible yelling contest. 

Dee immediately spots you, “I told you he’d set the place on fire! This is your fault!”

“What are you talking about?!” You wheeze, the smoke effectively filling your lungs. 

“You told me to get rid of him, even after he threatened to burn the place down!” Dee yells. 

“Oh my God-” Before you could finish your sentence, you feel a burning sensation on your arm. Looking down, you notice your sweater has caught fire. “AH!” You yell, looking around for anything to put it out. Mac immediately starts hitting the location of the flames, only succeeding in hitting you rather than snuffing the fire out. 

“Well, this is just great.” Dennis mumbles as “Al Pacino” runs past the gang and out the door, not wanting responsibility for the chaos that was going on. Charlie follows and returns a few moments later. 

Yelling your name to catch your attention, Charlie immediately begins spraying foam in your face from the extinguisher in your apartment’s hallway. Mac soon yells for everyone to leave the apartment before things get worse. 

Standing outside watching the firefighters do their job, Dennis pipes up. “Well, this is unfortunate for you.” There you all stood, one beaten, one intoxicated, one burnt, and three looking shellshocked. The flames from the apartment still roar, pleasantly warming your bodies from the cool outside air.

“Well, thank God I kept my old apartment; this place is a mess.” Dee huffs, crossing her arms. 

“You’ve had your old apartment this entire time!?” You turn slowly in Dee’s direction, glaring at her with a venomous stare. Your body was shaking almost violently, clearly enraged. 

“Duh, Frank pays for my rent,” Dee states indifferently, used to unfathomable rage due to her brother. 

“Then why did you say you sold it?!” You scream, frustrated that all of your valuables were now up in flames and Dee didn’t give a damn about the situation. 

“So you couldnt kick me out dumbass.” Dee laughs, pointing at you like you were an idiot. The others join in with her, laughing. After not receiving a reaction from you and only a blank stare, the laughter dies down into silence. 

Dennis breaks the brief pause, “Well, Dee, I guess you two are sleeping at yours now.”

“What? No!”

“You did kind of burn down her apartment.” Mac challenges, taking your side of things.

“She is your roommate!” Charlie pipes in. 

“C’mon, guys, that’s ridiculous. I only have one bedroom.” 

- In high school, you tried to stay away from Mac and Charlie’s “Freight Train” group, always somewhat scared of Psycho Pete. But this didn’t deter the both of them from finding ways to spend time with you away from Pete. Charlie especially would make an effort to eat lunch with you most days.

- Your trio was far from popular or even generally liked in school, something that you found carried slightly into your adult lives. Once a loser always a loser you guess.

- But that didn’t matter! Because you wouldn’t trade your and Charlie’s friendship for the world… Unless that meant exchanging it for romance instead.

- You didn’t see Charlie in a romantic light until Patty’s Pub where he served as the co-ower/janitor and you were their dedicated bartender alongside Dee. Mac and Charlie practically begged Dennis to offer you the position, which he finally agreed to as long as they would “shut their damn mouths”.

- After high school, Charlie undoubtedly got more attractive. He stopped haphazardly shaving his scruff so instead of a patchy mess on his face there was now a suitable beard growing. He grew into his face, looking more mature. You dare say his clothing style even got better, but you admit it was not very difficult to surpass his high school style.

- But it wasn’t only the physical changes you grew attached to, you also greatly admired Charlie’s dedication to the bar, especially when compared to his fellow owners who didn’t do a damn thing to maintain the place.

- It always pulled at your heartstrings when they would yell at Charlie to do the gross tasks, which they later renamed “Charlie Work”.

- But in all honesty, Charlie never seemed to mind too much. The guys got on his nerves sometimes, but it appeared he enjoyed the art of bashing rats to a pulp… Strangely endearing? His passion for the job that is. Not sure about the rats.

- You will never forget the day he confessed to you. At that point, you had been crushing on him for what felt like a lifetime.

- It was your average day, casual day drinkers sprinkled around the bar while you diligently work to clean the scum off the tables that never seem to be clean.

- Then out of nowhere, a marching band bursts through the door, assaulting your eardrums with over-the-top loud music.

- “Jesus Christ!” You duck behind the counter horrid at first, not knowing what is going on. That was until you popped your head above the counter at Charlie’s voice over a megaphone.

- At the sight of you, even in your disheveled state, Charlie wore a huge grin. He yelled something in your direction but it was impossible to make out what he was saying.

- “WHAT?!”

- “I SAID WOULD YOU GO ON A DATE WITH ME?”

- “HUH?!”

- “DATE WITH ME-”

- “CHARLIE TELL THE BAND TO STOP GOD DAMN IT.”

- And the rest is history.

- Charlie is an attentive boyfriend, and I don’t use that word lightly.

- Text him if you need something? Conveniently he’s already outside your window ready to help!

- What? He totally wasn’t stalking you! Just in the area.

- Sometimes when you catch him in the act you’ll pretend you don’t see him. Say you’re walking down the street and you turn around just to see Charlie pathetically attempting to hide behind a lamp pole. You’ll just shrug and turn back around, delighting in the fact you heard him heavily sigh then continue behind your footsteps.

- Would it be creepy if you hadn’t known him since you were kids? Yes. Absolutely. But he was your Charlie and enjoyed playing the superhero in your story. You understood he just wanted to keep you safe!

- Other times when you catch him following you you’ll just turn and stare in his direction. It usually takes a full minute before he comes out of hiding and apologizes.

- “Charlie, you do realize you can just walk with me, right hon?”

- “Yeah… but it’s cooler this way. Y’know, I’m kinda like the nightman. Hiding in the shadows, fighting people. It’s badass!”

- In response you just giggle and shake your head, intertwining your hands together and continuing down the street as two.

- Your relationship was known to The Gang; Dennis found it as another tool to use in his schemes, Dee couldn’t give less of a shit, and Frank got annoyed whenever you stole Charlie away from him, but approved of the relationship no less. You were all friends after all, even before your relationship had begun. There was only one person who was bothered by it at first; Mac.

- Since the three of you grew up together and have a long history of closeness, Mac was originally scared of what this would mean for your trio. He thought this was the end of your hangouts. No more late drinking conversations with Charlie, or gossip sessions with you. Worst of all, he thought you guys would never throw rocks at trains together ever again. It was a piece of childhood you all cherished and in his mind, it was all done for.

- You remember the first time you guys broke the news to Mac; “Oh no! No no no!”

- “Mac what-”

- It took all day to convince him that nothing would change and he was being irrational.

- In a span of 24 hours, Mac went from; “Now that you guys are banging you’re gonna abandon me!” to, “I can’t believe my two best friends love each other! That is so awesome dude!

- After his reaction, you made a point to always include Mac when you could in some way. You loved him just as much as Charlie! Just in a brotherly way naturally.

- Charlie frequently finds himself sleeping at your apartment. Whether it be to watch a movie, bang, or whatever, you enjoyed having him around. The question of Charlie moving in with you has come up in conversation a handful of times, but you can tell he’s hesitant to leave Frank for good. Because of this, you’ve compromised by buying him a few toiletries and clothes he can keep at your apartment so he can easily pick where he wants to sleep that night.

- You’ve definitely earned some brownie points with Frank for that idea.

- But when Charlie does sleepover he gets what you like to call the “princess treatment”.

- In reality, it’s you grooming Charlie since he has a bad habit of not showering often, but the special title sugarcoats that fact.

- When he stays you always end up guiding Charlie into your shower, washing all of the sewer grime and gunk off his hair and body. You usually don’t mind the sewer smell on Charlie, but you would rather not have your bed smell like it as well. While you’re doing this, you also take the chance to wash and dry his clothes, something you know he doesn’t do often.

- You think Charlie doesn’t catch onto this whole “princess treatment” thing, but he does. He’s really not as stupid as people sometimes think he is. But in all honesty, he doesn’t care, because really it’s just an excuse to get you to shower with him, and who wouldn’t want that?

- “Charlie, do you want lavender soap or this new vanilla one I just bought?”

- “Hmm, uh both sound good. Maybe you should hop in with me and each try one and compare???”

- He is not slick.

- Your date nights can range from either a nice night at Guigino’s (that he begs Frank to pay for) or a grimy yet romantic night in the sewers. Either way, you can be assured Charlie is dressing his best in his iconic short-sleeved button-up, clip-on tie, and beige khakis. Even though he has worn that specific outfit countless times, you never hesitate to compliment him.

- “Charlie, looking handsome as ever. Hey, is that a new outfit?” You wink.

- “Aww, no.” You deadpan. “But hey, you look damn good!”

- Now for a speed round of random facts:

- You feel almost as educated on “bird law” as Charlie is with how much he infodumps about it on dates.

- He has written multiple songs for you, which is just sincerely endearing.

- His mom adores you! Always has since you were kids.

- You spent the night once at his apartment with Frank there. Let’s just say, never again.

- He’s made milk steak for you once. You were thoroughly confused.

- Tries to convince you to huff glue on multiple occasions, but you politely decline stating that you wouldn’t want to “steal his resources”, something he considered sweet even if it was just an escape for you.

- You read signs and other various things for him on a daily basis. You’ve gotten so into the habit that you’ve started doing it to the other gang members and then get ridiculed for.

- You ate cat food once after much convincing. Horrifyingly, it wasn’t that bad.

- Charlie will occasionally surprise you with flowers at work! It’s a sweet gesture you appreciate. Because of this, you will never let him know that you know he finds them in the dumpster down the street at the flower shop.

- You play Night Crawlers. More often than you’d probably like to admit. What can you say? It makes him happy. You refuse to play with Frank anymore however, he gets way too into it.

- Dennis once tried to sleep with you, being the sleaze he is. Lots of glue was huffed that night paired with sweet revenge.

- Dee and you are lowkey besties, but that doesn’t stop her from picking on you occasionally. She has to keep up her reputation after all. (Totally irrelevant to you and Charlie, I just love her and she deserves a buddy like Dennis/Mac and Char/Frank)

• • •

Charlie does not know how to keep things ‘chill’ when it comes to having a crush. We all know what he’s like when it comes to The Waitress and the extreme measures he goes to, just to be around her. With or without the restraining order between them.

The bar smelt like it usually did; of musty beer and old socks, with a faint waft of carbon monoxide here and there whenever someone came upstairs from the basement. Which to be fair was pretty standard for a Thursday night at Paddy’s. The lights were dim, mostly because nobody had replaced the bulbs as of late, but Mac insisted the ‘ambiance’ gave the bar its character. You didn’t mind though, you liked drinking at Paddy’s.

At first you’d drink there with your friends after work or on the weekends, but the more you went, the more you got to know the owners and their weird lifestyles. You wouldn’t go as far as saying they were your friends, but you were friendly.

They knew your name at least.

One night, for some unknown reason, the gang had decided to throw a karaoke night with some old microphones that Mac and Charlie had found in a nearby dumpster. They connected them to one speaker, connected music to a second, and set up Dee’s laptop on a nearby stool to play various YouTube videos with song lyrics on the screen.

Someone in the corner of the bar on their makeshift ‘stage’ had queued an Eminem song and was rapping drunkenly with his two friends. College students probably. Inexperienced drinkers. Couldn’t hold their liquor very well, y’know? Like, they were pretty smashed after only a handful of beers. They weren’t too rowdy, but they were pretty lively compared to the usual deadness of the bar.

Dee scoffed at the misogyny ridden song choice but Mac for one, loved the song ‘Shake That’. He had even bought it back in the day on his shitty Motorola to be his ring tone when it came out in 2005. And it was his ringtone for three god damn years.

He and Charlie nodded along to the beat as they sat at the bar with Dennis and Dee, Mac lowering his voice to sing the verse he had used for his ringtone all those years ago.

“Two to the one, from the one, to the three. I like good pussy and like good tree. Smoke so much weed you wouldn’t believe and I get more ass than a toilet seat.”

You walked into the bar during the chorus, instantly dancing along with your friends and well, shaking your asses to the music. You had already been out drinking, but Paddy’s was always the perfect spot to end the night. Dennis peels away from the gang to walk up to you guys at the other end of the bar, asking what drinks you all wanted and being the perfect bartender. He usually wouldn’t give a shit and serve customers as soon as they walked in but for a group of attractive people like yourselves, he did.

Dee was dancing drunkenly on her bar stool but Mac and Charlie had jumped up to their feet to dance in the middle of the bar. Mac was pulling out his typical ‘dance’ moves consisting of knife hand strikes and air punches, and Charlie had his hands on his hips and was jerking his butt from side to side. Cute, you thought. Most men would be too concerned with their image to dance without a care in the world; but they weren’t most men.

Dennis slices you and your friends your drinks and scoffs at his foolish friends. “They’re such idiots, sorry about them.”

You smile softly, “I don’t mind. I like Charlie’s butt dance.”

Holding your drink you and one of your friends started dancing over to join them, with Mac and Charlie cheering once they saw you both. Charlie didn’t know most of the lyrics, neither did you, but Mac… He knew all the lyrics. When Eminem started rapping, he rapped along, and pointed over at Dennis for one of the lines.

Dee quirks an eyebrow up and turns to Dennis, then back at you all, “Did you just say Dennis? I’m pretty sure the lyric is dentist…”

“Shut up Bird,” Frank scoffs, appearing out of seemingly nowhere. He was a pretty short guy, he often joined group conversations out of thin air because nobody saw him.

Dee looks over at you and your friend, “Back me up here. It’s definitely dentist, right?”

Frank screws his face up, “Dentists aren’t gangsta. Rappers rap about gangsta shit like fucking whores in strip clubs and popping caps in yo muthafuckin face.”

You all collectively ignore Frank and his desperate attempt to sound young. Not to mention the blatantly racist overtones in how he just said what he said.

“I don’t think he said dentist,” Charlie defends, before reciting what he believed the lyrics were. “I’m a menace, a Dennis, an oral hygienist. Open your mouth for about four or five minutes.”

“See!?” Dee exclaims, throwing her arm out towards him with a bit of her beer splashing out onto the floor. “He literally says oral hygienist straight after!”

Mac shrugs, “Yeah, and?”

“And?” She repeats mockingly. “It’s obviously dentist.”

Both Mac and Charlie hum in disagreement with each other before Mac tries to reason with her. “Dentist doesn’t even rhyme with menace, Dee.”

She sighs, visibly deflating that she has to even debate this with them. “Why would Eminem say Dennis? How does that make any sense?”

“Why wouldn’t he say Dennis?” Dennis interjects now, scoffing arrogantly as if naming dropping him in a chart topping hit was common practice.

Mac suddenly laughs, now realising the root of Dee’s confusion. “Ohhh! I see why you’re so confused now. Yeah no, it’s about Dennis Rodman. He’s like, the goat of basketball? Played for the bulls?”

“And the Lakers,” you then add.

“And the Lakers,” Charlie repeats.

“I can’t believe the shit coming out of your mouths right now…” Dee mutters under her breath whilst shaking her head and looking towards you for some sort of reprieve. You were having far too much fun watching them all argue though, so you just laughed and shrugged at her.

“Rodman is totally gangsta!” Frank grins. “He probably parties with famous rappers all the time. I can’t believe you don’t know who he is, Deandra.”

Dee groans, “I know who Dennis fucking Rodman is Frank, I can’t believe you know who he is. Or Eminem!”

“Can we make Frank stop saying gangster like that? He’s too white...” Mac protests, though his higher pitched tone made it sound like he was making a suggestion he wasn’t sure of.

“Eminem’s a white guy,” Frank shrugs. “Why can’t white guys be gangstas, huh?”

“They can. But just because they rap doesn’t mean they’re automatically in some violent crime gang,” she challenges.

Mac’s jaw drops, “Wow Dee… Nobody said anything about violence or committing crimes. You just made this super racist.”

Charlie hesitates before speaking, pulling his very distinct and not at all surprising ‘thinking’ face. “Can you even be racist towards white people? I’m pretty sure we invented racism so…”

“I can’t deal with any of this shit anymore, I’m getting a god damn migraine,” Dennis huffed, walking away from you all before turning around once more. “And for crying out loud, someone get her to shut the hell up and leave already!”

Dennis was very obviously glaring at The Waitress who was now singing ‘That’s Not My Name’ by The Ting Tings in the corner of the bar. For the second time tonight mind you, because nobody had paid her any attention the first time it played.

Charlie didn’t even look twice in her direction the second you stepped foot in the bar. You occupied every ounce of space inside that strange little brain of his. He thought you looked beautiful tonight, like you always did, but tonight especially.

“You look really pretty,” He blurts out to you over the music, interrupting a conversation you were having with your friend and catching you kind of off-guard.

You turn to look at him, “Sorry?”

“You- Uh, you look pretty. Tonight- All nights really. Not that I’ve seen you all nights, but you always look pretty so you know…” he rambled, digging himself a deeper and deeper hole in embarrassment.

You found it sweet, him sweet. Your friend could tell, and didn’t care that he’d interrupted the menial conversation you were previously having. Dennis was watching from a few feet away, a scowl on his face at the sheer incompetence Charlie had when it came to flirting.

Mac had wandered over to join Dennis, watching Charlie try to flirt with you. God help him, they thought, they needed to teach the man how to pull women properly. This was embarrassing to watch, but not for the only person that mattered; you.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Dennis says to Mac, sighing and putting his beer down. “We need to intervene because that…” he gestures toward you like you’re a math equation that doesn’t add up, “…is a real life woman. A woman with skin care. And boundaries. And she’s talking to Charlie like he’s a person.”

Mac quite literally pulls Charlie away from you by the arm and drags him into the back office with Dennis, kicking the door shut behind them.

“Charlie, buddy,” Mac says, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You might actually have a shot out there, man. A real shot. But you gotta play it chill, okay?”

Charlie whines a little, “I dunno, we were having a good chat. I think she’s into me, maybe.”

Dennis shuts that down right away. “She’s not. She just doesn’t know you enough to be repulsed by you because there’s a fine line between intrigued and disgusted. But that grey area? That’s where we strike.”

“Dennis thrives in grey areas with chicks, man. He’s a pro,” Mac grins proudly, not realising the weight to his words and what Dennis was even implying all those times he talked about operating in morally grey areas with women.”

Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, let’s just take it one step at a time. You walk over, you say something simple. Like a, ‘hey what are you drinking’ and boom. That’s it.”

Charlie squints. “But I already know what she’s drinking. You poured her a beer.”

Mac jumps in, puffing his chest out. “Or flex your chest and biceps. That’s what I do. Like a gorilla. Women respond positively to masculine dominance.”

Dennis glares. “She’s not a chimp, Mac. She’s a woman. A classy woman. She wears scarves.”

Charlie scratches his neck. “She is wearing a scarf. Like, it’s cold out but it seems kind of mysterious. Maybe she’s got a weird neck thing goin’ on. Like-”

“Nope,” Dennis cuts in, raising his hand up like a literal and metaphorical stop sign. “Do not talk about her neck. She’s wearing a scarf because it’s cold outside. That’s it. That’s the reason.”

Mac giggles, drunk and confused by the whole conversation but finding it amusing nevertheless.

“Alright, alright,” Charlie mumbles, cracking his knuckles. “I’m can do that. I’m chill. I’m ice cold.”

The trio emerge from the office again and Dennis and Mac duck behind the bar, peeking over like two horny meerkats. Charlie marches his way back over to you and sits on the bar stool beside you. He doesn’t speak, he just looks off into the distance like a reminiscent man in a movie. His definition of chill.

You turn to Charlie and smile, “Hey. You’re back.”

He takes a slow, dramatic sip of his beer before speaking in an accent that definitely didn’t belong to him, “What’s under the scarf, huh? You got a weird neck or something?”

You furrow your brows and laugh slightly, “Uh… No. Why…?”

He narrows his eyes and speaks almost as if he’s reciting a monologue, “A pretty woman like you, wearing a scarf like that? In a place like this… Makes a guy wonder what the mystery is…”

As you laughed, Mac and Dennis watched on with horror at how you weren’t immediately leaving. You weren’t humouring him. You weren’t pity laughing. You just thought he was funny, and assumed he was doing a bit from a movie you didn’t recognise. “You’re weird.”

He was. He was super fucking weird, but you liked that about him. So much so, that you hoped you’d get to talk to Charlie each time you came back to Paddy’s. Sometimes with friends, sometimes solo, but always eager to get some time with the strange man. He was eager to talk to you too.

You’d linger at the bar while he ranted about ghouls or talked about the ‘yuck puddle’ in the corner. You didn’t question him, or judge him, you simply listened to him with genuine interest. Charlie didn’t change for you, not exactly. He didn’t clean up or wear a deodorant or stop eating cheese out of his pocket but he did start trying to impress you in his own… Charlie way.

Which meant that every time you came into the bar, he needed to have something prepared. A little surprise. A show and tell. A one-man exhibition of found objects and questionable tales.

One day it was a “rare bone” he had found in the alley that he claimed could very well be from an ancient Philadelphian dinosaur. It wasn’t. Obviously. It probably from a raccoon carcass. The next time it was a story about a ghoul that lived in the basement that he swore played pranks on him by moving things out of their usual spot each night just to screw with him.

Somehow, all of these things just made you like him more. He was weird, but you liked it. You liked him.

You and Charlie started sitting closer whenever you came into the bar. Bringing food to share, exchanging weird little inside jokes, touching without really thinking about it. One night you helped him clean up a spill on the floor and when your hands brushed, he looked at you like you’d just turned into a moonbeam of glittering light.

Then the next time you came in, he had unfolded a napkin and placed it on one of the bar stools for you. He said it was your ‘spot’ and told Dee it was reserved until you came in so she couldn’t sit on it all day and dirty it with her dirty butt. A few hours later when you came in, he ushered you to the seat and you thanked him, finding it kinda chivalrous. Weird but cute.

You died is what you try to say, but the words grow too large. No matter how you try to push them out, they catch in your throat and choke you until all you can do is cry. Loud, ugly sobs that turn to sharp pain in your chest. It was so real, you want to tell him. Your brain was all over the floor.

You’d scream if you could stop sobbing long enough to gather the air. He’s scared now. His arms are too tight around you, but you’d claw your way back in if he tried to let you go. Your nails rake his bare back, pressing against impenetrable skin, desperate for something to cling to. No blood. He doesn’t even wince. You press harder, trying to hurt him. You can’t. It wasn’t real.

A noise of anguished relief leaves you. You don’t recognize the sound of it. You’ve never heard something so animal come from your own throat.

He doesn’t know what to say, or how to soothe you, so he squeezes you to his chest. Your heart hammers against his, your tears wet his neck. At some point he starts to rock. The motion isn’t smooth nor practiced. How could it be? It’s jerky; the uncertain movements of a child that has never been rocked to sleep, but knows the principle of it as an adult.

Still, it works. His even breaths give you a baseline to gradually match your fitful gasps to. His heart, beating just as strong and loud as yours, reminds you with every pulse that this is real, and what you saw was…

“Just a dream,” he whispers in your ear. There's a weight of understanding in those words. You’ve said the same to him when he’s needed it. When it was his head cradled in your arms, his tears wet on your skin. The nightmares are usually his. “Can’t hurt you. M’here.”

Sniffling, you run your fingers through his hair, thumb smoothing over his forehead. Even now, your touch makes him shudder. Despite the visceral realness of your nightmare, his skin is unmarred beneath your touch. You map every familiar line and slope of him, a part of you still terrified to find some hidden place where he is broken, but he is blessedly whole.

You close your eyes, sagging in relief. The exhaustion that follows the gradual release of your every clenched muscle is almost enough to knock you right back into unconsciousness. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm and still faintly minty on your lips.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you whisper back. The sound of it is hoarse and small.

“Thought you’d lost it,” he says quietly. “Was it Barney again?”

That gets a huff of laughter out of you. You have one weird dream about a purple dinosaur forcing you to eat mattresses, and apparently you’ll never live it down.

“No. It was…”

You died. It was so real. Your brains were all over the floor.

Your eyes burn. The words are still too big.

“You.”

“Me? I made you eat mattresses?”

“No, stop,” you groan, thudding your fist halfheartedly on his shoulder. It feels good to do. It reminds you of how solid he is. “You weren’t Barney. You were… You were hurt. Bad. It was… It was so bad,” you say, the humor in your voice fading, more sobs threatening the frayed edges of it.

For a moment, you think he might laugh at you. Remind you he’s invincible. For all of his insecurities, modesty is not a condition that Homelander suffers. Any implication of his own vulnerability, of weakness, has always made him bristle. Instead, his playful expression sobers. He doesn’t know what to say. He presses his lips to your forehead, your temple, your cheek.

You close your eyes, sinking gratefully into his impossible strength. His hands roam your body without intent, ghosting the same path your own had traversed upon him. He nuzzles your throat, conveying in touch what he doesn’t have the words to say.

Each kiss feels like a promise.

I’m here. 

I’m not going anywhere.

Feel me. 

I’m real. 

I’m yours.

He lays you down on the bed, settling his head upon your chest. You exhale a shaky breath, tangling your fingers in his hair. His arms slip around your waist, somehow both protective and vulnerable. He turns his head to press one last kiss to the spot just above your soundly beating heart.

“People don’t usually… worry about me. Getting hurt,” he says, glancing up at you. You stroke his cheek, admiring the crystal clear blue of his eyes. “Unless it's because they want to hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Ever.”

He smiles.

“I know.”

You cup his cheek. He leans into your palm, closing his eyes.

“I love you so much. I don’t know what I’d do if…”

You trail off. The words aren’t too big, they’re just too terrible to give life to.

He kisses your palm.

“I love you, too.”

You close your eyes, finally letting yourself be soothed back to sleep by the gentle, persistent press of his lips.

I’m here. 

I’m not going anywhere.

Feel me. 

I’m real. 

Metropolis was unlike Gotham.

Yet, it held a mirror, two sides of the same coin. One, shinier, but the same at its core.

You stood in the lobby, without an invite or a prior appointment. But an envelope full of Wayne money carried its own weight. "I'd like to see a reporter. He goes by…Clark Kent."

The receptionist, Jennifer, gawks at you, her gaze flicking to the tabloid magazine beside her, dog-eared, and back at the woman she thinks she might've hallucinated as she stands up. Shakily pointing at the elevator. "T… Thirty-three. Floor Thirty-three." She repeats.

"Excellent. Thank you, Jennifer." You smile, sliding the crinkled perfumed envelope. And then stop, picking up the magazine. A private jet and supposed 'discreet' security. You're turning it enough to face the receptionist.

WIFE OF BRUCE WAYNE, SPOTTED IN GOTHAM

"Ridiculous. Do I not have a name? Wife of?"

You shake your head in disapproval. Jennifer watches the sway of your hips with a tilt of her head, transfixed as she dials in to Clark's direct line. Taking in the remnants of perfume that was calling her broke in thirty different ways.

"A visitor? But I'm not expecting anyone today, Jenn."

Clark presses the receiver to his shoulders and cheeks, wetting his thumb to flip through his daily planner. "Did she say who she was or what it's —"

Two gentle knocks to his desk have Clark spinning around in his chair, choked by the coiled wires of the landline. "Hrk —"

You raise a brow, the corners of your lips twitching up in amusement. He barely has seconds to register what was happening, much less the appearance of Bruce Wayne's wife at his cubicle. And to the ID Card that lay on his keyboard.

He slowly untangles himself, "um…this…?"

"You left this behind," you lean down, stopping short next to his ears. "When you left the study."

Clark feels the room around him begin to close in. The chatters of bustling reporters, whirring past. It was story enough for you to be standing there. But the words coming from your very lips were Breaking News worthy.

"Is there somewhere more private we can talk?" You say, drawing back and folding your arms.

He nods, throat tight. Standing up and dragging the phone with him. You glance over and watch him scurry forward to guide you to a room down the hall.

His moves are jittery, and the second he has you in the room, he's pacing around.

"Look, I —"

"Relax. I'm not here to expose you."

Clark twirls to look at you. Head tipped in confusion. "You're…not?"

"I need your help."

That seemed to startle him even more. "My help?"

You nod, walking closer to him, stopping a few paces short. "I think my husband is cheating on me. Bruce…I think he's cheating on me."

Out of all the things Clark expected, it wasn't this. Not at all.

"W-With…all due respect, Mrs Wayne. I'm not that sort of reporter —"

"I know you're friends." You say, stepping forward and walking him backwards. "Bruce never talks to the media." Another step. "Which only goes to show, he knows you, 'Superman'." He squeaks when his back hits the wall. "And I'm sure you'd love to keep that a secret."

Clark couldn't do it. Couldn't tell you the truth, that Bruce wasn't cheating, he just had a different type of mask on. It wasn't his story to tell.

"Alright," he mutters, "I-I'll help."

You quickly found out he was a mirror. Reflecting on everything you lacked in your life. Warmth, humanity, compassion. Friendship, if that's what you would call it — Clark found every reason to linger in your world.

A different world.

Conversations that turned from talking about Bruce turned to quieter talks, vulnerable ones. One where the two of you both shared the same sentiment of always being in the spotlight but never actually being seen.

You'd never laughed lighter, freer than you ever had in years. The creases around your eyes followed you until you stepped into the entryway, where Bruce stood. His gaze rakes over the smile on your face that began to dissipate.

You were wearing colour — deep blue, sitting on your curves. Wearing your hair in its natural state, the way Bruce actually liked, but it wasn't quite for him, was it?

"Bruce."

"If —…If I knew you'd be home today, I would've made dinner." You set your purse down, a guilty look etched on your face, as if your happiness was something he didn't have the right to bear witness to.

Then, his hand rose — brushing a lock of your hair behind your ears. Like he was loudly proclaiming, a possession over you. "We have chefs for that." You tipped your head up, dragging your hand down the silk robe that sat undone on his chest, step one of a routine you recognised.

"I'll start a bath for us."

He nods, lowering his head to press a peck onto your cheeks. "Mm."

Bruce watches the silhouette of you disappear down the halls, lingering there for a moment longer. He slips out a burner phone — one of many — sending off a quick message.

The device lands on the couch with a bounce, screen lighting up with a response quickly. And only then does he join you.

Your gaze flickers up to him, lips curling into a smile. His finger graze where the straps of your dress held together, undoing it with a lingering kiss.

It doesn't take long for steam to begin seeping out from beneath the doors, with running water that mixed with hushed voices that turned to the sounds of breath on skin.

Bruce never texted.

Much less a mere one-liner. Something must've happened. Or he could've been walking right into a trap; it didn't matter. This was his friend he was talking about here.

Clark lands on a balcony of the estate with more force than needed. Wincing when the mosaic tiles cracked beneath.

"Darn it…" He shakes his head, sliding open the balcony doors. "Bruce?" It's eerie to say the least, the hallways leading into the master bedroom were dark. Not an inch of life present.

Every one of his senses was on high alert as he stepped across to the larger doors at the end of the hall. He picks up a sound. Presence of someone.

Hesitantly, he pushes the door open a tad to take a look inside, and his heart drops.

Bruce was there, sizing him with a look that bordered on threatening — it curls into a slight smirk, knowing. Tempting him to step forward. But that wasn't what had him stumped, no.

It was you. And the curves of your back. Writhing, flexing, bouncing on Bruce's lap. Your hair loose on your shoulders, damp and sticking to the planes of your delts. He doesn't know what to make of it.

What to make of this.

All he knew was that he couldn't close the door or walk away. Because that would mean he'd give up this sight — one that he'd thought of for months, letting yourself be fucked exactly the way he'd dreamed.

Bruce doesn't let up, even after having made eye contact with Clark. If anything, his palm slides up your back to buck up into you harder, drawing moans from you that ring in his ears like you'd been next to him.

His conscience ultimately catches up to him, and he backs away, dragging his hand down his face. This wasn't right. He shouldn't have been watching this to begin with. Clark willed himself to ignore just how tight his slacks had gotten, turning heel.

"Kansas."

Your palm tenses on Bruce's shoulder, cheeks warmed from exertion. His sudden words has you clenching his cock tighter. He grunts and wraps a palm around your thigh, hoisting you and turning you around with ease.

The gasp is knocked out of you when he sheathes you back onto his cock, your nails snap down to dig into your husband's thighs. Your expression twists to both mortification and embarrassment. That wasn't how you actually felt, given how your pussy pulsed.

You feel Bruce kiss the back of your neck, muttering something that sends chills down your spine.

"Tell him to come in."

You try to look over your shoulder for confirmation, but he holds your jaw in place, forcing your gaze ahead. "Call him, honey. "Ngh —" Your weary gaze flickers ahead, and Bruce rolls his hips up in warning.

"Clark..."

The man outside, still paralysed, looks to you, searching. Seeing you nod slightly. His feet take him forward, stopping short a few paces with the door handle clicking shut behind.

"W…What's going on? What's…What's this?" Clark manages, not daring to step any closer.

"You tell me." Bruce tips his head to press gentle pecks down your shoulder, thrusting up into you hard enough for your bare tits to sway at the movement.

"Bruce, please." You try, but he doesn't relent, holding you in place until Clark stops, barely an arm's length away from you.

"Imagine my surprise when I found out my wife's standing 2 pm weekly appointment at Metropolis was with you."

A broken gasp leaves your lips when his palm slides down to your clit, rubbing it just enough to make you jump. Clark unwittingly turns away at the sight. Trembling fists shaking next to him.

"This isn't right, Bruce. We haven't done a single thing that's out of line."

"Don't punish her for it."

Bruce looks to Clark, amusement etched on his features. "Does it look like she's being punished?"

"Humiliating her like this is punishment," Clark bites back. Eyes twitched at the continued mewls that leave your lips.

"Hm." Bruce hums in thought and then tilts your head to kiss you, slow and sensually. Clark tips his head a tad, just to catch sight of the two of you. His jaw clenches.

"I love my wife, Clark." You whine softly into Bruce's mouth, thumbing at his collarbone to come down from the intensity, looking at him dazed.

"But I recognise the stupid look that torments your face when you're in love with someone."

"And I also recognise when I haven't been able to keep her happy."

Your eyes widen, and Clark turns to look, lips parted. "I'm…that's not…"

"Bruce," you whisper, "w-what are you talking about?"

"A proposition." He continues. Knuckles grazing the softness of your thighs. "You get to have her. Granted, you're fully aware it's still my last name she carries."

His arm wraps around your front, rocking you upward once and hard. Clark chokes back a grunt, eyes fluttering shut at the gnawing ache of his erection left unattended.

You look at Bruce, shaking your head, pained. "I-I don't want a divorce. Please I—"

"I'm not leaving you." He murmurs, tugging your head down to brush his lips to yours. You melt into him, feeling the weight of tears prickle at your eyes. "I promise." Bruce kisses the corner of your lips, soothing you with a touch of your hips before turning back to Clark.

"Walk out, if you want. Your choice."

Your breath eases, and your head lolls forward, tipping your head to look up at Clark through your lashes. His gaze rakes over you once, slow. Lips parted, through pants, the pink of your tongue licking over to wet it.

"This is…so. So messed up." He croaks.

It doesn't stop him from holding your jaw in your palms, drinking in the surprised moan you let out. Bruce lifts you to scooch up the bed, moving you until your knees rest on the bed, his cock still wedged into your pussy. Clark doesn't let his mouth leave yours, following suit, cupping your jaw while he kisses you, mounting the bed in unison.

"A-Are you sure? I'll stop. God, I'll stop. Just say the word." Clark gasps into your mouth as you part, muttering into your lips, loud enough for you to hear.

You aren't able to answer when Bruce yanks you back to his chest. Kneading your tits in his heavy palms. "Give his cock some love, sweetheart." Your lips part in a pant, and you fall back forward, palms splayed on the bed. You don't waste time pulling the leather of his belt off. Clark's careful hand hovered over yours, looking back at Bruce.

"I need to hear her say she's okay with it," Clark insists through a pained grunt. Your tongue curls around his length. Tracing the vein spanning from the base of his cock to the tip.

"She has a safe word, Kent. I don't hear it. Do you?" He shakes his head, looking perplexed, but it quickly turns to a pant, grabbing the softness of your shoulder to stop you from sucking him too fast. "O-Oh my gosh, that's…geezus. You…blue-bloods…a-are something else."

You peer up at him, leaning to press a kiss to his sack, and he jumps, looking down at you.

"You…don't have to do that."

"She's not doing that for you."

Clark grunts when your lips wrap around the entirety of his balls, licking over the warmth. Bruce thrusts forward, steadily driving himself into you rhythmically. Bruce's gasps mix in with Clark's when you instinctively clench him harder, sucking his cock back into you.

Clark doubles down, shaky palms trying to pull you off what was growing way too sensitive. His dick was aching damn near painfully. With a gentle hold to your jaw, he pulls you up, easing your mouth to his length. You look up at him with a smile and take him into your mouth at one go.

"S-Shit, shit. Shit. Shit!" Your broken moans reverberate back onto his length, being forced to take him deeper every time Bruce snaps his hips into you. His hand is loose where it holds your jaw up. He feels it, how deep he is, the outline of his cock driving in deeper into your throat.

"Bruce — h-holy shit, she's —…" Clark's hand shakes as he feels the entirety of his cock lodged in your throat. The way it was constricting, squeezing his cock.

"Yeah. I know." Bruce murmurs, tipping Clark's jaw up to face him, and a groan escapes. Bruce leans forward, his lips brushing against Clark's, kissing him, testing. Clark blinks, but melts into it, nudging his face deeper, his thumb grazing Bruce's jaw.

It hits him all at once, the feeling of surprise, confusion, all misplaced. He cums in your throat suddenly, tense, groans pour into Bruce's mouth. Clark pulls away, pupils blown out wide. "I don't…I'm not —"

You shift, whining as Bruce's cock slips out of you. Clark holds your palms to his chest as you move over to mount him, thighs on the other side of his hips. He stifles a whimper when you roll your tongue into his, tasting the saltiness of his own cum. When you pull away, you drag your fingers down his jaw and to his lips.

Clark's palms round the scruff of your neck, pulling you down to kiss you, shaky hands dragging up your ribs, and up your back. He could die like this, he thinks. With your breasts flush on his chest, moaning softly into his lips.

The haze is interrupted with a rough jerk, as though Bruce was reminding him. Clark grunts into your mouth, guiding the tip of his cock to your already spent cunt. Your back tenses, nails clawing onto his chest when you feel the stretch of his girth.

"Clark! O-Oh…ugh—…" You tumble over your words, head tipped back with a prolonged whine until he bottoms out. He pulls both your hands flush to rest on his abdomen before bucking up into you. Over and over. The white hot flashes take your senses, and you quiver at the weight of your release, not even sure just how many times you'd cum by now.

"Atta, girl…" Bruce tugs you back into his arms, the side of your head rubbing up and down into his chest at the motion of Clark's thrusts. He holds you in place, possessive arms over your hips as he guides the tip of his cock into your puckered hole.

"Wait—wait." Your breath picks up when he probes into the tight muscles, already loosened from earlier. Your slick creams at the base of Clark's cock, and he slows, shuddering at the exertion.

"Bruce," Clark warns, knee nudging at his hips. "Slow down. She's — ugh." A stuttered breath leaves Clark when your cunt pulses around his cock at every inch Bruce eases into your ass.

"…Said…to—..haahh..wait…" The words fade to a mutter, and Bruce tilts his head with a grin. "What was that?"

Clark's lips press into a purse, "jerk.." he begins sliding his palms up your thighs in a comforting gesture, calming the quiver of your thighs. You jump at that, whining softly until Bruce buries himself to the hilt in your ass.

Bruce nuzzles his head, lowering you onto Clark's chest and following suit, the weight of him pressed onto your back. Your arms are splayed out above Clark, your tits tantalisingly dangled over his face.

The weight on Clark is suffocating, and a loud groan rips through him when he feels a rougher pair of hands gently coaxing his balls. "…!"

Bruce peeks over your shoulders, pressing a kiss on it before locking his gaze, steadying his palms over your hips.

"Keep her awake."

Clark snaps right awake when someone calls him.

Panting, ties slung over his shoulder, the space bar of his keyboard unceremoniously stuck to his cheek. His vision steadies around the bullpen, and his face twists in confusion.

A dream.

He leans back in his chair when Jenn sets a package onto his desk.

"Jesus. Are you okay?"

Clark nods, absentmindedly undoing the ribbon of it. "Yeah..sorry. Just a bad dream." Inside sits a USB. He tilts his head in confusion, twisting the note in his palms.

Watch me.

So he does, plugging it into his laptop with the screen popping up with a singular file.

Clark Kent expected a lot of things in his life, but the very last thing he didn't?

Was a recording of the whole event, courtesy of Bruce Wayne's contact lenses, which just so happened to be upgraded with a camera feature.

He stares at it and closes the tab. Slumping back onto the keyboard.

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your body arches right into him. hot, sweaty chest, soft and pressed up against his own. clark's muscle tenses, his hip thrusting relentlessly into your squelching cunt. the sharp burn you once felt had manifested into something so dangerous and potent — the aching pleasure of your belly burning wildly and intensely.

clark's arm curls around your hips, his forearms flexing, holding you securely in place as he drives up into you. he'd barely begun fucking you and he already knew you were going to cum, with your pussy fluttering so warm and tight around him. the combined sweat makes your skin slick where you're pressed together.

he thinks he might've imagined it when he sees a flicker of an amber glow casting form your eyes. it pulses in your pupils, threatening to take over. clark keeps at his pace — the room then lights up, in the direction your head was tilted.

his eyes widens. an awed gasp caught in his throat as the amber coats your irises, illuminating his face for a brief second before you tip your head. column of your through visible as you come hard, coating the space in an otherworldly glow.

"jesus…look at you."

the glow pulses from within your skin. forcing clark to slow in the presence of the eerie hue. he stares, completely captivated. it quickly churns in him — a quiet, heady want that fills him. before you even begin to feel judged beneath his scrutiny, his hand comes to cradle your cheeks, thumbing gently at your cheekbone.

you lean into his touch, shy. "i-is it weird?" his gaze only makes you pulse around him harder.

clark lets out a low, shuddered groan at the flutter, hips jerking up into you.

"g-gosh no. not weird. it's…you."

his thrusts resume much slower, careful not to overwhelm you after your orgasm. but he's mesmerised, by the gentle flow that fades from your eyes. grinding slow and deep into you.

"you're so…so beautiful."

you feel his palm slide to the back of your head, flexing his fingers in locks of your hair. "m-mhn. you're…not just saying that to be nice?" you punctuate your words with a circle of your hips, matching the pace of his thrusts.

clark visibly winces, grunting low as he feels the familiar tightness in his balls. "you're…unbelievable." his gaze remains on you, sheepish, but truthful, "it is…so…incredibly hot," he croaks, his own head looks to the side. focussed on driving his cock into you velvet, tight pussy. "you're glowin'…cause of me."

you don't think you have another orgasm left in you. but you're as determined to get him to feel the same pleasure you did. a low growl rumbles in your throat as you squeeze harder around him.

"h-holy—…ugh!"

a broken whimper leaves his throat as soon as you relax around his length and his belly tightens, convulsing beneath you as he pants your name over and over. arm tightly locked around your hips as he empties himself deep inside you in helpless, desperate thrust.

you whine at the abrupt change in position, where clark pulls you down next to him, breathing heavily in the wake of his own orgasm.

clark's turns to you with a deep, content sigh, his hand coming up to brush the damp hairs stuck to your temple to the side. "wasn't such bad thing…" he murmurs, thumbing by your cheekbones.

"you're so weird…"

he lifts his head in mock offense, "how does that make me weird?"

"me beaming like a lighthouse is weird. liking it makes you weird. " you mumble with an embarrassed laugh, burying your face in his chest.

"it's not weird," he tuts, draping your trembling thighs over his hips, "first time i….came….i laser beamed my bedroom in the barn."

you snort. nudging your jaw on his chest.

"you're fucking with me."

"m'not," clark raises his palm, folding his fingers. "scout's honour."

"…you really think it's hot?" you lazily rest your cheeks on the sweaty, tuft of hair on his chest."

"are you kidding? i came harder than i have in years just watching you get like that…"

"you're just saying that." you cut in, hasty and in disbelief. "what's so hot about it?"

"gosh it's…" clark sighs, head slumping back, a lop-sided grin on his cheeks. "letting go for me like that, your entire body reacting so…beautifully. it's…it's like heaven —"

"jesus. you're so poetic for no reason. say it dirtier." you murmur. running your knuckles down the deep indents of his cheeks.

clark lifts his head enough to size you with a pouty look, but then he slumps. pondering on your words. you don't think he was actually going to follow through until you feel his voice drop an octave lower, gaze intently on yours.

"watchin' you…come apart on my cock is one thing. but seeing your eyes just…glow. like some kind of…extra-terrestrial adult film…star. i don't think a guy can ask for more. i thought i would explode. like i was gonna laser beam at my release like it was my first damn time."

you lift your head, almost in awe at his use of words, a soft, appraising growl leaving your throat.

“Pleeease!” Barry begged, his baby blue puppy dog eyes and his rosy cheeks flaunting in your face. “Please?” You swear he even whined like a puppy.

“No!” You hushed, trying to focus back on your lab samples. “Never!” You added on, frustration building up while you thought about it and shrugged your shoulders. “You’d have to pay me to do it.”

“Fineee. Name your price.” Barry whined, moving his hands through his sandy blonde locks.

You thought about it. You didn't need money, you had vacation days coming up… The one thing you were lacking was sex, but he'd never buy it. “Sex.”

Barry immediately turned pale, which was impossible due to his already translucent skin. His cheeks burned even harder, and his anxiety worsened. “Oh…”

"I'm your little scarlet, starlet."

Barry’s nervousness was at an all time high, sitting on your plush couch moving his thumbs together as he sat awkwardly — waiting for you to make the first move. With a few kisses and rubbing on his noticeable bulge, you were lying on your bed, legs high in the air and folded in half. With Barry ravishing on your clit, his tongue swiping in every direction, paying attention to every crevice, every nerve. You swear a couple times it felt like he vibrated his tongue, making the whole ordeal mind blowing.

You never would have thought you would be getting railed by your older coworker, especially the sweet and awkward Barry Allen — his hips snapping against you with softened thrusts, rough and powerful but as if he was holding back. “Oh, my...” He moaned softly, his hips pressed against yours as he melted. Barry’s light and airy moans fill the room, along with every hard slap of skin against skin and your bed creaking underneath your bodies.

He pulled out slightly, and sharply gasped. His eyes closed shut as he whines loudly, “Fuck…”

Gasping at the feeling of his cock vibrating inside of you, immediately clenching around him. “Fuck, Barry! How are you doing that?” You moaned, panting and breathing heavily. You gasped as he started pounding hastily. His heavy balls slapping against your skin as he thrusted his hips, his cock sliding in and out easily. “Sorry… Baby…” Barry apologized, his voice soft and broken.

It wasn't long before he came, coating you in his seed — at least he was a gentleman and cleaned you up, helping you with the mess he made. Somehow during the whole affair he was still impressively hard, something he didn't acknowledge — along with the vibrating.

“So which one feels better?”

Barry whines, pulling his cock out of your pussy despite how badly he wants to fuck you right now. “I c-can’t tell.”

You hum, adjusting your hold on the fleshlight resting on your tummy, the opening held flush with the top of your pussy. The head of Barry’s cock brushes your clit and you shiver. 

“Guess we’ll have to try again then.”

Barry sticks his tongue out in concentration, slowly pushing the head of his cock into the lubed fleshlight. He shakes, overstimulated from all the pleasure, and pulls out as slowly as you’ll let him. 

Then he dips his cock back inside you with zero warning, slipping his head into your slick easily. You gasp, eyes rolling back, and savour the feeling of him bottoming out inside of you. 

“C-can’t I just fuck you?”

You drop a hand from the fleshlight to cup his jaw, doing your best to keep a neutral face. “It’s for science, Barr. Wouldn’t wanna f-fuck up my hypothesis, right?” 

He whines in defeat. “But your pussy feels so good,” he catches your hand, interlacing his fingers through yours and pinning it to the bed. “And I really want to fuck you.”

You can never say no to Barry, especially not when he’s red cheeked and basically drooling for you, hard cock deep inside you.

“Stupid toy isn’t as warm as you,” he snaps his hips into yours, forcing the air from your lungs, “or as tight—damn, and it doesn’t make those cute noises of yours.” 

You whimper. Maybe it’s safe to say he doesn’t prefer the toy after all.

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