Sylvester Stallone as 𝒲ILLIAM ℬUTCHER !!

Tom Hanks as ℋUGHIE 𝒞AMPBELL !!

Mel Gibson as 𝒮OLDIER ℬOY !!

Dolph Lundren as ℋOMELANDER !!

Tom Cruise as 𝒯HE 𝒟EEP !!

Wesley Snipes as 𝒜 - 𝒯RAIN !!

Denzel Washington as 𝓑LACK 𝓝OIR !!

Jim Carrey as 𝒯RANSLUCENT !!

𝒲ILLIAM ℬUTCHER !!

The door to your flat was unlocked, which set his teeth on edge. He found you on the bathroom floor, a shivering heap wrapped in a duvet, clutching the porcelain throne like it was a life raft. The air was thick with the sour scent of illness.

“Oi, little lamb.” he said, his gruff voice unnaturally soft. He crouched down, wincing at the cold clamminess of your forehead when he brushed the hair from your face. “What’s all this, then? A spot of the plague?”

You whimpered, a pathetic sound that twisted something in his chest. “Billy… hurts…”

“I know, love. I know. Should've called. I told you, didn't I? Sick as a dog and you're trying to be a bloody martyr, tsk, tsk, tsk.” He gathered you up with surprising gentleness for a man built of such hard angles. He carried you to the couch and laid you down, his jaw tight. “Need to get some water in you, yeah? And you’re going to take some of this bloody awful medicine, because I’m not losing you to the sniffles.” He held up a bottle of children’s fever reducer.

You screwed your face up, a flash of the stubborn teenager peeking through the fever. “Tastes gross…”

“Don’t care,” he stated, but there was no edge to it. He sat on the floor by the couch, his back against it. “You take it, and I’ll stay right here. You can even hold me hand like a proper toddler, if it helps.”

You weakly reached for his hand, and he laced his calloused fingers through yours. “Don’ go,” you mumbled, your eyelids already drooping.

“Wasn’t planning on it, sweetheart,” he murmured, watching the way your face relaxed at his presence. He’d never admit it, but the feel of your small, feverish hand in his made him feel like he was doing something right for once. As long as you held on, he’d hold on too. You were a bright spot in a dark world, and he’d be damned if he let a bug take you from him.

𝒮OLDIER ℬOY !!

The ornate, antique bed felt like a furnace. You were cocooned in a mountain of expensive, silk-adjacent blankets, yet you were shivering violently. Soldier Boy, in his civilian clothes, stood with a glass of whiskey in hand, studying you as if you were a complex mission objective. He looked profoundly out of his element.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. He set the glass down with a decisive click and strode over. “A little bug brings down the toughest kid I know? Your generation is soft.”

You peeled one eye open, your vision blurry. Even in your fevered state, his familiar gruffness was a comfort. “Feels like I’m dying.” you whimpered.

“You’re not dying,” he scoffed, but his voice was quieter now. He sat on the edge of the bed, a frown etched on his timeless face. “You have a fever. It's not a fucking death sentence.” He reached out, his movements surprisingly delicate, and placed a hand on your forehead. He winced slightly at the heat. “Jesus Christ. You’re like a furnace.”

“Cold.” you whispered, clinging to his hand.

“Of course you’re cold.” he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “You’re burning up and your body can’t regulate its temperature.” Despite his words, he pulled another blanket from the bottom of the bed and draped it over you. “You need to take something.”

You shook your head, the movement making you groan. “Gonna make me sick.”

“Nope, it's going to make you feel better.” he stated, as if it was a fact beyond reproach. He produced a small pill bottle from his pocket. “It’s not a choice. This is the least addictive shit I could get my hands on from my pill stack. Now, sit up.”

You whined, but you obeyed, with great effort. He didn’t help you, just watched you struggle for a moment before a look of impatience crossed his face. He sighed heavily, then reached over and hauled you upright himself, propping you against the headboard.

“God, you’re fuckin' useless like this..” he grumbled, but his hands were gentle as he guided the pill to your lips and the glass of water to them. “Swallow.”

You did, the act making your stomach churn. You groaned and leaned forward, your head landing heavily against his arm. He stiffened, a man not used to being a human pillow. But he didn’t pull away. His hand, heavy and warm, came to rest on the back of your head.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Making a man who’s fought in the Pacific, who’s faced down supes and commies, afraid of a little cold.”

You were barely conscious, but you mumbled against his arm, “You’re not afraid.”

“The hell I’m not, If you're the one havin' it.” he said, his voice barely a whisper, meant for himself. He knew he wouldn’t tell you this when you were better. He’d deny it if you ever brought it up. But right now, he felt a familiar, helpless panic. He could face an army, but he couldn’t fix this. All he could do was be here, a solid, unyielding presence, and hope that was enough.

ℋOMELANDER !!

The world was a kaleidoscope of sharp, stabbing pain and intense, unbearable sensations. The light streaming in through the blinds was like a physical assault on your skull. The rustle of your own sheets was like sandpaper on your nerves. Your body was a battleground, one minute wracked with violent shivers, the next burning with a raging fire. You were miserable, alone, and utterly terrified of the fever that was scrambling your brains.

You were sobbing quietly into your pillow, the tears a hot, miserable track down your face. Your head felt like it was splitting open. You were so hot, so horribly hot, and you couldn’t find a comfortable position no matter how you twisted. You couldn’t even muster the energy to be scared of the soft footsteps that approached your door. You just didn’t care anymore.

The door opened, and he stood there, backlit by the hallway light. Even through your haze, the sight of him was jarring. Homelander. John. He was radiant, pristine in his white cape and blue suit, while you were a snotty, weeping, pathetic mess.

“Oh my..” he said, his voice dripping with false, theatrical concern. “Now, what do we have here?” He glided into the room, floating just an inch or two above the ground so his boots didn’t make a sound. It was unsettling, but you were too tired to be afraid. “You look absolutely dreadful.”

He landed softly by the bed, his gaze clinical as he surveyed your form. He didn’t look disgusted, not like he usually did when confronted with human weakness. Instead, he looked… fascinated. Like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

You tried to say something, but it came out as a pitiful sob. You reached out for him, a desperate, instinctual gesture. You didn't care if he was a monster; he was a monster who was here.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. The gesture seemed to surprise him. But he recovered quickly, a soft, almost paternal smile playing on his lips. “There, there, little one.” he cooed. He sat on the edge of your bed, the mattress not even dipping under his weight. He was so light, so careful. He reached out and took your hand, his skin unnervingly smooth and cool. It was a relief against your burning palm.

“It hurts,” you whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling over.

“I know it does, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a hypnotic, gentle murmur. “The human body is so… fragile. It betrays you so easily, doesn’t it?” He stroked your hand with his thumb. “But you’re lucky. You have me.”

You just nodded, clinging to his hand. He was a steady point in the swirling, nauseating chaos of your fever. The high-pitched whine in your ears seemed to quiet.

“Now, let’s take your temperature, shall we?” He produced a digital thermometer from seemingly nowhere, an irritatingly cheerful beep already echoing in the room. He slid it under your tongue with a gentleness that was completely at odds with everything you knew about him.

You kept your eyes locked on his face, desperate for reassurance. He stared back, his expression serene and adoring. It was a mask, you knew it was, but in your current state, it was the only comfort you could find.

“103.4, huh..” he read from the tiny screen, his voice a low, grave murmur. “That’s a little high, don’t you think? We need to get that down.”

He then helped you sit up, his hand a steady, strong support on your back. He held a tiny cup of thick, chalky pink liquid to your lips. “Open up, darling. It’s just medicine. It will make the nasty fever go away.”

You automatically pulled back, your stomach lurching at the smell. “No…”

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. The faintest flicker of annoyance passed over his features. “I’m sorry, what was that? Did you just say no?” His tone was still light, but a dangerous edge had crept in.

Your eyes filled with tears again. The look of disappointment in his eyes was worse than any scream. “Sorry… I’ll take it.”

“That’s my girl.” he said, the warmth instantly flooding back into his voice. “You can take it. Be a good girl for me.”

You drank the entire cup, the chalky, artificial strawberry flavor coating your tongue. You gagged, but you swallowed it all. You wanted to make him happy. You needed to be good.

When you were done, he gently wiped the corner of your mouth with a tissue and laid you back down, pulling the covers up around you. He remained seated on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on yours.

“Sleep,” he commanded softly, his eyes glowing with a faint, reassuring red light. “I’ll watch over you. I won’t let anything bad happen. You’re mine to protect, aren’t you?”

The phrase sent a strange shiver down your spine, but the exhaustion was too deep to analyze it. You felt the tug of sleep, powerful and inescapable. Your last sight was his beautiful, unwavering face, and you felt a wave of safety wash over you as you succumbed to the darkness.

ℋUGH 𝒞AMPBELL !!

“Okay, okay-” he mumbled, turning to type something on his phone. “So WebMD says it’s probably just a viral thing, but it also says it could be meningitis, which is terrifying, so we’re just going to go with ‘viral.’ It’s viral. It’s definitely viral.”

The day had been a blur of terrible pain. Your head was being relentlessly squeezed in a vice, the chills were so violent you were knocking your knees together, and the simple act of sitting up had made you run for the bathroom, where you had been violently sick. Now you were curled up on the cold bathroom tiles, the ceramic biting into your clammy skin, too weak and dizzy to move.

You heard a frantic knocking at the bathroom door. “Hey! You okay in there? I heard— oh, God.”

The door swung open and Hugh’s anxious face appeared, his eyes wide with alarm. He was holding a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen, the picture of helpful, panicked intention.

“Oh, no, no, no. Get off that floor,” he said, his voice a high-pitched squeak of concern. He set the water and pills down on the counter and rushed to your side. He knelt down, his hands fluttering around you, clearly not sure where to touch. “You can’t be on the floor. The floor is cold and you’re already… ugh, you’re freezing.”

He was so gentle, so clearly terrified of making things worse, that it made you want to cry. You were so tired and your body ached everywhere. “Can’t move..” you whimpered, your voice a raspy whisper.

“Okay. Okay. No problem. I’ve got you,” he said, his voice a nervous, reassuring stream. He slid his arms around you, one under your knees, the other around your back. “Just… bear with me. I’m not as strong as the others.” He grunted as he lifted you, cradling you against his chest.

You instinctively buried your face in his shoulder. He smelled like laundry detergent and coffee, a comforting, normal smell. He carried you carefully back to your room and laid you on the bed, only to jump back as if you were made of glass. He was vibrating with a very specific, very anxious energy.

You were sprawled on his worn-out couch, a blanket up to your chin. You felt like death. “Hugh..” you croaked, the word a plea.

He was at your side in an instant. “Yeah? What do you need? More blankets? You look cold. Are you cold?” He placed a hand on your forehead, his brow furrowed with worry. “You’re on fire. Let’s get the cold compress.”

He dashed to the kitchen and came back with a damp cloth, folding it meticulously before placing it on your forehead. You sighed, the cool sensation a relief.

“The meds should kick in soon,” he said, settling onto the floor beside the couch, his worried eyes fixed on your face. “It says online that sometimes people get… chills. And then sweats. And a headache. And nausea.” He paled. “Oh, man. Nausea. Do you feel nauseous? I’ll get the bucket.”

He was a whirlwind of frantic energy, already moving to stand up. You reached out a weak hand and caught his wrist. “Hugh, please. Just.. stop.”

He stopped, looking at you with a deer-in-headlights expression.

“Just sit with me,” you whispered, your voice small and pleading. “Don’t... Just sit.”

He stared at you for a second, and then his frantic energy seemed to drain away. He nodded, his face softening. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.” He shifted until he was perched on the floor, his back against the couch, his head close to yours. He reached up and took your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said, his voice much quieter now, more grounded. “We’re gonna get through this. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

ℱRENCHIE !!

The moment you stumbled through the door of the workshop, looking pale and glassy-eyed, Frenchie was on his feet. “Mon petit chou! What is wrong?”

You swayed, and he caught you, his hands running over your head, your shoulders. “Sergei… I don’t.. feel good.”

“You are burning!” he exclaimed. He guided you to the old, comfortable couch in the corner, a place he often crashed after a long night. He draped a threadbare but clean blanket over you. “You stay here. I will make you soup.”

“No, I’m gonna be sick…” you moaned.

He was there in a flash, holding a bucket for you, his free hand rubbing slow, comforting circles on your back as you got it out of your system. “It’s okay, ma petite. Let it all out. I have you.”

He cleaned you up without a word of disgust, just quiet, tender murmurs in French. He sat you back on the couch and held a glass of water to your lips. “Sip, little one. And then, you must take.. this.” He held out two pills.

You made a face, but you took them without argument, trusting him implicitly. You leaned against him, feeling safe in his warmth. “You won’t… go back to work?” you whispered.

“Work?” he scoffed, tucking you closer to his side. “There is no work. There is only you. I will be here. I will tell you a story, a story about a silly man who never knew what love was until a sick little bird came into his life.” He started murmuring a soft, nonsensical tale in a mix of French and English, his voice a steady, soothing rhythm that finally lulled you into a peaceful, deep sleep. He didn’t stop for hours.

𝒯HE 𝒟EEP !!

The call came in the middle of the night. Your voice was trembling, thick with tears. “Kevin? I think I’m really, really sick.”

Within twenty minutes, he was at your door, looking disheveled and panicked. He was still wearing his ridiculous hero costume, but he’d forgotten his gloves and his hair was a mess. “Oh my god, are you okay?” he blurted out, wringing his hands.

“Feel cold,” you whispered, your teeth chattering. You looked miserable.

He was at a complete loss. He was a hero who talked to fish, not a nurse. But the look in your eyes, the same look a little seal gives him when it’s hurt, triggered a deep, primal need to fix this. "Dude," he says, fixing the collar of his suit. "Okay. Okay. You’re super sick. This is… this is a lot." He would have tried to call Vought’s medical team, but you’d begged him not to, your voice a tiny, broken thing. He can never say no to that voice. So he just guided you back to your bed and laid you down on it.

He then sat down beside you, holding a glass of water with a bendy straw, having put something you didn't quite see on the table. “When you get sick, it’s really important to stay hydrated. And sometimes, you lose your appetite, which can be dangerous, because you need calories to fight the infection. But! I’ve got a solution.”

He turned around and grabbed a bowl of what looked like plain, overcooked pasta, from the night-side-table. “It’s just plain carbs. It’s what I eat when I’m stressed or not feeling great. No flavor, no upset tummy. It’s perfect.”

You groaned, your head pounding. “Kev, I’m not hungry.”

“I know,” he said, his voice gentle. “But you have to eat a little. Just a bite. For me?” He looked at you with his big, watery eyes, so full of concern. “It’s like… if you were a little baby seal, and you were sick, I would bring you the juiciest, most delicious fish I could find. But you’re not a seal, you’re a human, so I’m bringing you noodles.”

A weak laugh escaped your lips, a dry, cracked sound. It was the first time you’d made a sound that wasn’t a whimper or a groan all day. It was an absurdly stupid and sweet thing to say.

He smiled, encouraged. “There she is. See? We’re getting the will to live back.” He twirled some noodles on a fork and held it up to your mouth. “Open up, my little landlubber.”

You did, the bland pasta a strange comfort. He was so earnest, so gentle.. he just wanted to feed you, to keep you warm, to make sure you were safe.

He sat with you for hours, talking to you in a low, soothing voice about the underwater world, about the creatures he’d met, about the peaceful silence of the deep. You drifted in and out of sleep, but you always felt his presence, a constant, gentle wave. When you finally fell into a deeper, healing sleep, he was still there, carefully wiping a damp cloth across your forehead. He saw you not as a burden, but as a delicate creature he had been entrusted to care for. He wouldn’t let you down.

𝒜 - 𝒯RAIN !!

Reggie never got sick. He was a speedster; his metabolism was too fast for something as mundane as the flu. So when you called him, your voice sounding like gravel, saying you couldn’t even stand up, he felt a familiar, powerful jolt of fear. The kind he usually only felt when he was about to lose a race.

He broke the sound barrier getting to your place. “Yo, kid!” he called out, slowing to a normal walk as he entered your room. You were lying in a heap, looking smaller than he’d ever seen you.

“Reggie…” you barely had the energy to open your eyes.

“Alright, alright, calm down, I’m here.” He took a breath, forcing his own panic down. You needed his calm, not his freak-out. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck, which is code for: that’s rough.”

He approached the bed with a gentleness that contradicted his usual high-speed attitude. He felt your head with the back of his hand and pulled back, impressed. “Damn, girl! you could fry an egg on that forehead!”

You gave a weak laugh that turned into a cough. He grabbed some medicine and a sports drink from your kitchen, moving so fast the bottles were just suddenly in his hands. “Alright, here’s the plan. You drink this Gatorade, take this pill, and you sleep for like, twelve hours. I’ll be right here, making sure you don’t try to get up and start racing.”

You took the medicine without a fight, falling back against your pillows. He pulled a chair up next to your bed, his leg bouncing with nervous energy.

“You won’t leave?” you asked, your voice so small it was almost a whisper.

He looked at you, this brave, stubborn kid who always had his back, and felt a lump in his throat. “Nah, kid,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m just gonna sit right here. I’m a speedster; I can do two weeks’ worth of work in the next minute. I got nothing but time for you.” He reached out and took your hand, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle on your knuckles. “Now get some rest. I got you.”

The safehouse was silent except for the heavy rhythm of your hand connecting with his flesh.

SMACK.

Ben's grunt was muffled by the mattress, his face pressed sideways into the cheap synthetic fabric, drool already beginning to pool beneath his slack jaw. His eyes—those famous, arrogant green eyes that had made lesser men tremble—were glazed over, pupils blown wide from the weed Butcher had been feeding him all day.

"That's fifteen, Benjamin." you said, your voice carrying the weight of the years of experience you held over him. "You want to tell me why you're over my knee like a misbehaving child, or should I just keep going until you figure it out yourself?"

He was draped over your lap like an overgrown, muscle-bound child, his face buried in the cheap motel mattress that smelled like bleach and stale cigarettes. His jeans were pooled around his ankles, his boxer briefs pulled down just enough to expose the twin globes of his ass to your merciless gaze.

The man was completely wrecked, his body trembling with a need he would never admit to in a million years, his cock hard and leaking against your thigh where it was pressed against your leg.

"You know," you said conversationally, bringing your hand down in a sharp crack that made him jolt, "I've been alive for a very long time. Nearly a hundred and seventy years, give or take. Do you know how many men I've had to discipline in all that time?"

"Nnngh—" he managed, his fingers clutching at the cheap sheets.

"A lot." you continued, landing another blow on his already reddened flesh. His skin was warm to the touch, the heat radiating off him in waves. "But I have to say, Ben, you're probably the most difficult of the bunch. And the most annoying. God, the way you were speaking to Hughie tonight... you know he's just a kid, right? He's barely older than that little sidekick you used to shove around.. mnhm, Gunpowder, was it?"

"Don't-" Ben growled, his voice breaking. "Don't you fucking—"

"Don't what?" You brought your hand down again, harder this time, and he let out a sound that was half-groan, half-sob. "Don't remind you of the fucking horrible human being you were even before all of this? Even before you turned into a walking weapon with a hair-trigger temper?"

Another crack. Another broken sound from his throat.

"I'm not—" he started, but you cut him off with another blow.

You were the only person on this godforsaken planet who could do this to him. The only one who could pin him down, who could make his superhuman strength feel like nothing more than a child's tantrum against an immovable wall. Your hand—the same hand that had crushed concrete and bent steel like tinfoil—came down again.

SMACK.

Ben's hips bucked involuntarily, and you felt the heat of his body through his jeans, the way his muscles tensed and then relaxed under your touch. The sight of him like this, the legendary Soldier Boy, America's first superhero, reduced to a drooling mess over your lap.. sent a thrill through you that no amount of decades could dull.

"Oh, you absolutely are. You're a weapon, Ben. That's all they ever wanted you to be. That's all you ever let yourself be. But I've been around long enough to know the difference between a weapon and a man. And right now, you're acting like a fucking child."

Your hand descended again, and this time, you let the full force of your strength behind it. Ben cried out, his hips bucking involuntarily against your thigh, and you could feel the slick heat of his arousal smearing against your skin.

"There it is," you murmured, your voice dropping into something almost tender. "There's the man I know. The one who can't help himself when someone finally takes control. The one who's been starving for this his whole life but couldn't admit it if his life depended on it."

"F-fuck," he slurred, the word coming out thick and clumsy around his tongue. "You... you're gonna pay for this, you old—"

You cut him off with another sharp slap, this one landing just at the crease where his ass met his thighs. He jolted, a sound escaping him that was somewhere between a yelp and a moan.

"Old?" You laughed, and there was nothing kind in it. "Benjamin, darling, I was putting down rebellions before your great-great-grandfather was a twinkle in his daddy's eye. You want to try that again?"

"Fuck you." he gritted out, but the words had no heat in them. They were wet, broken, almost pleading.

"No." you said softly, landing another blow that made his whole body seize. "Fuck you. That's the whole point, isn't it? You've been running your mouth all night, being a complete bastard to everyone in sight, making Butcher's life a living hell, terrifying poor Hughie, and now you're going to take your punishment like a good little soldier."

"Not- fucking- good-" he managed between gritted teeth, but you could hear the lie in his voice. Could feel it in the way his body arched into your palm with every strike, in the desperate little sounds he was making, in the way his cock was weeping against your thigh like a broken faucet.

"Oh, you're not good," you agreed. "You're the furthest thing from good. You're a menace and a liability and a complete fucking disaster of a human being." You said, running your hand through his sweaty hair, watching him lean into the touch like a starving man offered bread. "You were being a brat today. Weren't you, Benjamin?"

He tried to summon some of his usual bravado, but it came out weak, pathetic. "Was not. They... they're just... they're fucking idiots. Butcher's a bloody-"

"Language." you chastised, and brought your hand down again.

SMACK.

"That's twenty-three," you said, keeping your voice steady. "And you know what? I don't think you've learned your lesson at all."

He laughed, but it was broken, fractured. "What... what lesson? That you're a controlling-" SMACK. "bitch who-" SMACK. "can't handle-" SMACK. "that I'm-"

You paused, your hand hovering over his reddened flesh. "That you're what, Benjamin?"

He let out a sound that was almost a whine, and his hips rolled against your leg in a desperate, unconscious plea. "Pleasee" he whimpered, and the word was so quiet you almost missed it.

"Please what, baby?" You ran your hand over his reddened flesh, feeling the heat radiating off him. "Use your words. I know you can do it."

"Please—" he choked out, his voice breaking. "fuck- I just- I want I—I don't-"

"I know what you need." you gently cut him off, and this time you let your hand drift lower, cupping him through his boxer briefs. He bucked into your touch, a desperate, broken sound escaping his lips.

"Please, please, please—"

"Not yet." You withdrew your hand, and he actually whined. "You're going to have to earn it."

"How?" he asked, and the word was barely a whisper.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear. "You're going to tell me why you were being such a little shit today. And you're going to apologize. Properly."

He was quiet for a moment, and you could see the war going on behind his eyes. But eventually, he nodded.

"Because... because I was stoned," he said, the words sounding like they were being ripped from his chest. "I.. I wanted your attention. So I acted out. Like... like a fucking child."

"You were acting like a child," you agreed. "And how do we fix that?"

He was quiet again, and then, so softly you almost missed it: "Apologize. To... to the wankers. Butcher. Hughie."

"Good boy."

"And... and to you. For being... for being a dick." He looked up at you, his eyes red-rimmed and pleading. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a brat. I'm sorry for making you... for making you have to do this."

"You don't have to be sorry for that," you said, with a smirk. "I like doing this. I like taking care of you. I like seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"You know exactly what." You smiled. "Beneath me. Helpless."

He shivered, a full-body tremor that shook him to his core.

"You're so beautiful.." you said, and it was your turn to be breathless. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"You're one to talk. You're... you're fucking timeless."

"I know," you said, stroking his hair, unable to keep the smile from your face. "I've known for a while, actually."

He laughed at that, a genuine laugh that shook his whole body. "Fuck, you're insufferable."

"You are insufferable." you corrected, leaning down to press a kiss to the back of his neck. "And you love it."

"I do." he admitted, the words coming easier now. "I really fucking do."

You grinned, gifting his ass with a gentle smack that made him yelp. "Good. We've got a long night ahead of us, and I'm not done with you yet."

"Oh yeah?" he challenged, his voice rough. "What else did you have in mind, sweetheart?"

"I was thinking," you said slowly, running your hand down his spine in a way that made his mind spin. "that maybe we could work on that mouth of yours. You know, the one that's been causing so many problems tonight."

"I thought you liked my mouth." he said, looking at you over his shoulder, and there was the familiar mockery.

"I do," you agreed, leaning down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss. "But I'd like it a lot better if it was occupied with something other than complaints."

He groaned against your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and devotion.

"Fuck," he breathed when you finally pulled away. "You're going to kill me."

"Not yet," you promised, pulling him upright and guiding him toward the head of the bed. "I've got too many plans for you."

The motel room stank of cheap bleach, stale cigarettes, and the unique, ozone-and-whiskey tang that always clung to Ben. The air was thick, heavy with the heat of two bodies that had been at it for hours. The cheap digital clock on the nightstand, its red numbers a bleeding wound in the dark, flashed 3:17 AM. But time had lost all meaning in here.

Ben was on his back, right where you’d put him. The threadbare sheets beneath him were a tangled mess, a sweat-soaked nest that he’d been writhing in for what felt like an eternity. His body, a monument to a bygone era of American masculinity, was a canvas of slick muscle and glistening skin, the faint scars of a hundred forgotten battles tracing silver lines across his chest. That ridiculous, perfect jaw was slack, his mouth hanging open as a low, guttural moan was ripped from his throat. A thick, glistening string of drool connected his lower lip to his stubbled chin.

His hands, the hands that had ripped apart planes and shattered skulls, were currently white-knuckled, gripping the cheap headboard. The wood groaned and splintered slightly under his superhuman strength, a testament to his subconscious attempt to hold on. It was the only part of him that was fighting, even now. Everything else had surrendered.

His legs were draped over your shoulders, heavy and useless. The powerful quadriceps that could launch him across a room trembled with a fine, constant vibration. His thick, meaty thighs were slick with a sheen of sweat and lube, occasionally twitching as you delivered another deep, punishing thrust.

“Ah—fuck—nghhh…” he managed, the words slurred and broken, barely making it past the thick knot of pleasure in his throat. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in ecstasy. The cocky, arrogant smirk that had once graced the cover of countless comic books was gone, replaced by a slack, blissed-out expression of pure, unadulterated surrender. He was beyond words.

The black silicone strapped to your hips moved with a practiced, powerful rhythm. It was thick, unyielding, and you drove it into him with the precision of a master carpenter. There was no hesitation, no gentle inquiry. You took what was yours. He had been a brat about it, of course. He always was. He’d snarled and pushed and tried to use his size to intimidate you into the submissive role, a pathetic little performance that you’d seen through in seconds. But after the first round, the fight had bled out of him. After the second, the protests had turned into wordless whines. Now, he was just a puddle of man, a legendary hero reduced to a whining mess on a cheap motel bed, and he was loving every degrading, beautiful second of it.

“Look at you, Ben,” you purred, your voice a low, silken command that cut through the symphony of his moans. You punctuated the statement with a particularly slow, deep grind of your hips, forcing him to feel every single inch of you buried inside him. “This is what ‘America’s Mightiest Hero’ looks like, hmm? A sloppy, whimpering mess. Did your father ever teach you to be a good boy for your elders?”

The question, a direct hit to a part of his psyche he tried to pretend didn't exist, made him shudder. A broken sob escaped his lips, and his hips bucked involuntarily, grinding back against your strap. You reached down and slapped his inner thigh, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the room. “I asked you a question. You might be too dumb to form a sentence, but you can answer me with that head, can’t you?”

He nodded frantically, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Yes- yes- fuck… I..” he stammered, his eyes fluttering open. They were glassy, pupils blown so wide they almost completely swallowed the color of his irises. He looked at you, and there was no trace of the defiant soldier he presented to the world.

“Yes, what?” you demanded, picking up the pace. You started fucking him harder, a relentless, pounding rhythm that drove the headboard into the wall with a rhythmic, percussive thud. The sound was obscene, a wet, slapping counterpoint to his gasping breaths.

“Yes, I’m- I’m a good boy- fuck”

He was past the denial, past the witty retort that died in his throat, past the pretense.

“Fuuuuck… ah… Christ…” He threw his head back, throat working as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

You leaned forward, putting more of your weight on him, the angle changing and making him let out a whiny and high-pitched sound he’d deny until his dying breath. “Look at you,” you purred, your voice a low, silk-and-steel caress. “Benjamin. The baddest motherfucker to ever walk the earth. And look at you now. My little cockslut.”

A tremor wracked his body. A delicious, full-bodied shudder. His eyes went unfocused, rolling back in his head before he forced them to look at you. There was a spark of defiance there, a stubborn ember that refused to be extinguished. He tries to summon his arrogance, to conjure a smirk. “F-fuck you…” he managed to gasp. “…old lady.”

The insult was a slap of affection, a last-ditch effort to reclaim some of his crumbling control, and you rewarded his bravery by fucking him harder. A sharp, punishing snap of your hips that drived the dildo straight into that sweet spot inside him. His eyes flew wide open, a choked sob bursting from his lips. His whole body clenched around you, cock, painfully hard and weeping pre-cum, twitching against his stomach.

“Oh, that’s it,” you cooed, your voice dripping with condescending affection. “There you go. You take it so pretty, honey. Such a good boy for your lady.”

That does it. He dissolved. His features slackened, the last vestiges of his fight evaporating into a soft, broken moan. 

His hips started to move, fucking himself back on you, trying to match your rhythm. He’s so desperate, so needy. His legs trembling against your shoulders, hands clenching and unclenching as if he’s trying to ground himself. “Please… please, honey… please…” The words tumbled out of him in a pleading, desperate cascade. The arrogant, suave façade was gone, replaced by this raw, vulnerable, beautiful thing. He wanted more. He needed more. 

You pulled out completely. The sudden emptiness making him let out a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. A pathetic, reedy whine. His eyes snaped open, wide and panicked, his body bucking as he tried to find you. “No, no, no! Wh-what are you… don’t stop, please, for the love of God, don’t stop…”

You just stared down at him, a Goddess looking upon her most devoted worshipper. His chest was slick, eyes wet with unshed tears of frustration, and his lips were swollen and parted. He was a masterpiece of debauchery, a fallen soldier who had found a new, more demanding commander.

“You want it, baby?” you asked, your voice soft and cruel, like a lullaby sung before a storm. You tapped the tip of the dildo against his inner thigh, making him flinch. “You want me to fuck you like the dumb little slut you are? Say it. Tell me what you are.”

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. A flush of shame and desperate, burning arousal coloring his cheeks. He looked away, jaw tight. “You… you know what I am…”

“No, I don’t,” you purred, leaning down, your lips a whisper against his ear. “Tell me. Who does this greedy, needy asshole belong to? Who’s the only one who can make you feel this good?”

A shiver wracked him. His voice was so small, so broken, you almost miss it. “Y-you are. Fuck. It’s you.”

“That’s right,” you cooed, your hand coming down to gently stroke his feverish cheek. “And what are you? What is my beautiful soldier boy right now?”

His eyes squeezed shut, a tear finally escaping to trail down his cheek and onto the sheets. He knows he’s lost. He surrendered the moment he stopped fighting you. So he took a shuddering breath, and the words came out in a broken, defeated whisper.

“I’m your little cockslut.”

The moment the words left his lips, you rewarded him. You slided back into place in one smooth, perfect motion, and his body arched so hard he looked like he was balancing on his shoulders and the balls of his feet. You didn’t even give him time to adjust. You set a punishing pace, a piston-like rhythm that drove the air out from his lungs.

“That’s my good boy,” you said, punctuating each word with a deep thrust. “My perfect, slutty soldier. This is what you were made for, Ben. Not for wars, not for anything else. Just for taking my cock.”

"F-f... f... uhn..." 

You slowed your pace, stilling your hips completely. The sudden absence of movement was a shock to his system, and he whimpered, a pathetic, needy sound. "I'm waiting," you said, your tone cold and bored. "And I can do this all night, Ben. I'm older than you. I've got more stamina. More patience." You leaned in closer, your lips ghosting over his. "And you know I'm stronger. You couldn't fight your way out of a wet paper bag right now, let alone free yourself from me. So tell me."

He opened his eyes, those hazy, green pools meeting your gaze. For a moment, there was a flicker of the old pride, the defiant spark. You stared him down, unwavering, your expression one of supreme, untouchable dominance. He saw it in your eyes, the age, the power, the absolute certainty that you could hold him here for eternity if you wanted.

The defiance crumbled. It collapsed in on itself like a dying star, leaving behind only the black hole of his all-consuming need for you.

"Y-yes..." he breathed, the word barely a whisper.

"Yes, what?" you demanded, giving a sharp, shallow thrust of your hips to remind him what you were holding back.

"Yes!" he cried out, his voice cracking. "I'm... I'm your cockslut. I was fucking... m-made for taking... your strap… now please..."

"Good boy," you purred, and the praise was a balm to his frayed nerves. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

You rewarded his submission by resuming your pace, but this time it was different. It was no longer just about domination and punishment; it was about possession. You were claiming him, every inch of him, with every deep, powerful stroke. His moans became higher, more desperate, his body trembling violently.

"I can feel you clenching around me," you murmured, watching his face contort in pleasure. "You love this. You love being helpless. You love that I can do whatever I want to you."

"Y-yes... I love it... I love... you..." The words were ripped from him, raw and unguarded. He didn't even realize he'd said the last part, and you decided to file it away for later. Right now, you wanted to take him apart.

"You want to come?" you asked, a dangerous edge in your voice. He nodded frantically, a pathetic, broken gesture. "Ask me nicely."

"P-please... please let me come..." he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. "I need it... I need to come... fuck, please... please, I'll be good... I'll be so good for you... just please..."

His begging was music to your ears. The most powerful supe in the world, reduced to this. A whimpering, obedient, cock-drunk mess. You reached down and grasped his leaking, aching cock in your hand. He moaned at the sudden contact, his hips bucking up into your grip. You pumped him, ruthlessly, in time with your thrusts, a rough, punishing rhythm that was designed to do nothing but ruin him.

"Then come," you commanded, your voice a hot breath against his ear. "Come for me, Ben."

It was like pulling the pin on a grenade, a breathless whine tore from his throat, shaping his lips in an ‘o’, back bowing off the bed as he coated your hand and his own chest. You fucked him through it, not letting up for a second, drawing out every last shudder, every last drop, until he was a boneless, twitching heap on the bed.

Finally, mercifully, you stilled. You pulled out of him slowly, and he whimpered at the loss, his body feeling empty and impossibly open. You unbuckled the harness, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. You lay down beside him, pulling his sweaty, trembling frame against you. He was a mess, covered in his own seed, tears streaming from his eyes, his limbs heavy and limp. He was utterly spent, completely used, and you had never seen anything more beautiful in your long, long life.

He snuggled into you, his head resting on your chest, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. "I hate you," he mumbled, the words slurred and utterly unconvincing.

You chuckled, your fingers tracing soothing patterns on his back. "No, you don't, baby." You pressed a kiss to his damp forehead, feeling him sigh and melt even further into your arms. "I know you don't.”