Momento Mori

The 1980s were a cruel, glittering machine, and Payback was its loudest, most violent cog. Vought loved spectacle— and nothing sold tickets like Soldier Boy punching commies while the rest of the team smiled for the cameras.

You were the newest addition, the bunny hybrid rookie. Vought’s PR department thought a cute, floppy-eared demi-human would soften the team’s image. They dressed you in a tight costume with a little tail hole and told you to smile and wave.

You hated it.

At barely twenty, you were the youngest and by far the most skittish member. Your prey instincts were strong, ears twitching at every loud noise, tail puffing up when startled, freezing like a deer in headlights when Soldier Boy looked at you too long.

And Ben loved it.

He’d been tormenting you since day one.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The team was backstage at a massive Vought-sponsored arena show. The crowd was roaring outside. You were trying to adjust your costume in the backstage, ears flat against your head, when Soldier Boy strolled in.

“Well, well.” Ben drawled, that signature arrogant smirk plastered on his face. “If it isn’t our little mascot.”

You startled hard, ears shooting straight up. Your tail puffed out instantly. You took a step back, hands fidgeting with the hem of your too-tight outfit.

“Hi, sir.” You mumbled, voice small.

Ben laughed loudly, crossing the room in two strides. He towered over you, grabbing one of your floppy ears and tugging it hard enough to make you yelp.

“Look at you jumping, bunny boy.” He mocked, voice loud enough for the rest of the team to hear. “Still scared of your own shadow? What kind of supe are you supposed to be?”

Crimson Countess snorted from the couch. “He’s more like a pet than a teammate.”

You shrank in on yourself, ears drooping, tail tucking between your legs. “I’m— I'm trying…” You whined.

Ben yanked your ear again, harder. “Trying? Pathetic. Vought really scraped the bottom of the barrel with this bunny.”

He slapped your ass loud enough for the sound to echo. You yelped, jumping forward, which only made the team laugh louder.

“Run along, mascot.” Ben said, shoving you toward the stage door. “Time to smile and wave like a good little rabbit.”

You stumbled out, heart racing, ears burning with humiliation. Your prey instincts screamed at you to bolt, but you forced yourself to walk on stage and do the job.

All night, Ben kept glancing at you with that cruel smirk.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

After the show, the green room was chaos. Champagne, cocaine, half-naked groupies. You tried to slip away quietly, ears pinned back, but Ben caught you by the scruff of your neck before you could escape.

“Where do you think you’re going, bunny?” He growled in your ear.

You whimpered, freezing in place. “I— jus' wanna go back to my room…”

“Wrong answer.” He dragged you down a side hallway toward the private dressing rooms, ignoring your soft, frightened sounds. The moment the door locked behind you, he shoved you against the wall.

“You’ve been teasing me all night with that little tail and those twitchy ears.” He snarled, ripping your costume open. “Time to pay up, mascot.”

You tried to squirm away, but he was too strong. “Ben— not here, someone might—”

He slapped you hard across the face. Not enough to bruise permanently, but enough to make your ears ring and tears spring to your eyes.

“Shut the fuck up.” He growled, yanking your shorts down. “You’re my toy, this whole damn team is. And you’re gonna take what I give you.”

He spun you around, pressing your chest against the wall. You heard his belt open, then felt his thick cock slap against your ass.

“No prep tonight.” He said meanly. “Bad bunnies don’t get nice things.”

He pushed inside your cunt raw in one brutal thrust. You cried out sharply, legs shaking as the burn tore through you.

“Fuck— so tight.” Ben groaned, starting to fuck you hard and fast. “Look at you trembling like a scared little rabbit.”

You sobbed, ears flat. “Hurts, Ben, hurts, too rough—”

He slapped your ass hard, then again. “That’s the point, bunny. I love how you cry for me.”

He fucked you mercilessly against the wall, one hand scruffing the back of your neck, the other slapping your ass and thighs every few thrusts. Every time you tried to pull away, he yanked you back harder.

“Stop squirming.” He laughed darkly. “Or I’ll fuck you on stage next time so everyone can see what a pathetic bunny whore you are.”

You came first, hard, shaking, sobbing from the overwhelming mix of pain and unwanted pleasure. Ben followed with a deep groan, flooding you with thick cum.

But he wasn’t done.

He dragged you to the couch, bent you over the armrest, and fucked you again— even rougher this time. He pulled your ears back like handles, using them to yank you onto his cock.

“Such a good little mascot.” He mocked. “Taking Soldier Boy’s cock like you were born for it.”

By the time he finished the second round, you were a crying, trembling wreck — cum leaking down your thighs, ears drooping, tail limp.

Ben finally pulled out and slapped your ass one last time.

“Clean yourself up, bunny.” He said, zipping up.

He left you there, alone and used, shaking on the couch.

You didn’t know how long you stayed curled up, sniffling and trying to calm your racing heart. Your body ached everywhere. But underneath the fear and pain was a confusing warmth you didn’t understand.

When you finally stood up on shaky legs, you whispered to the empty room:

“Ben…”

Vought Tower had changed a lot since Soldier Boy’s glory days, but some things never did. Ben had been defrosted, dusted off, and shoved into The Seven like a relic that still packed a nuclear punch. Homelander needed his father. The PR team needed the nostalgia and to keep Homelander pleased. And Ben needed a goddamn secretary to handle the mountain of paperwork, schedules, and modern bullshit he couldn’t be bothered to learn.

That’s where you came in.

You were competent, organized, and discreet. A trans man in your early twenties who’d clawed his way into a decent position at Vought through sheer stubbornness. You kept your head down, your voice steady, and your records immaculate. At least, you tried to.

Ben made that nearly impossible.

From day one he treated you like the secretaries he used to fuck and discard back in the ‘80s.

He’d lean over your desk too close, voice low and rough. “Sweetheart, get me a coffee. Black. And try not to take all day, huh? Unless you want me to give you a reason to squirm in that chair.”

You’d flush hot under your collar, fingers tightening on your keyboard. “It’s just ‘sir’ or my name, Mr. Soldier Boy. I’ll have the coffee in five minutes.”

He’d smirk, eyes dragging over you like he could see straight through the professional layers. “Mr. Soldier Boy. Fuck, you’re cute when you get all proper. Bet you’d sound even better moaning it.”

You tried to stay professional. Every single day.

But Ben was relentless.

He’d call you into his suite for “briefings” that consisted of him lounging on the couch in nothing but sweatpants while he made you read off his itinerary. His hand would brush your thigh when you handed him documents. He’d “accidentally” corner you in the elevator, caging you against the wall with one massive arm while the other reached past you to hit the button.

“You’re wound up tight, kid.” He’d rumble one afternoon, breath warm against your ear. “All this professional act. Back in my day, secretaries knew how to relax their bosses. Knees on the carpet, mouth open, real stress relief.”

Your face burned. You squirmed, shifting your weight, trying to ignore the way your body reacted to the crude words and the sheer overwhelming presence of him. You hated how it affected you.

“I’m here to manage your schedule, not…that.” You muttered, slipping past him the second the doors opened.

He laughed, deep and filthy. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. I see the way you squeeze your thighs together when I talk to you.”

It went on like that for weeks. Harassing texts at 2 a.m. — You dreaming about my cock yet?— that you deleted immediately. Comments in meetings about how your ass looked in those slacks. Once he’d even grabbed your tie in the hallway, tugging you close enough to feel the heat rolling off his chest.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Trying so hard to act like you don’t want it. Makes me want to ruin that composure.”

You’d stammered something about professionalism and fled.

But the worst part was the way your body betrayed you. The flustered heat, the way your breath shortened, the unwelcome slickness between your legs when he crowded you. You covered it with clipped tones and averted eyes, but Ben wasn’t stupid. He noticed. And it only encouraged him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Friday evening, the tower was quieter than usual. Most of The Seven were out on PR runs or personal indulgences. You were finishing up the last of Ben’s expense reports in your small office adjacent to his suite when the intercom buzzed.

“Get in here, kid. Now.”

Your stomach flipped. You smoothed down your shirt and walked into his room.

Soldier Boy was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, whiskey in hand, the city lights glittering behind him. He’d ditched the suit for a tight black t-shirt that strained over his muscles and gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide anything. He looked every inch the arrogant, entitled supe who believed the world owed him whatever he wanted to take.

“Close the door.” He ordered.

You did, heart hammering. “Sir, if this is about tomorrow’s schedule with Homelander—”

“Fuck the schedule.” He set the glass down and crossed the room in three strides. Before you could back up, he had you pinned against the door, one massive hand beside your head. “I’m done playing this game. You’ve been teasing me for weeks with this prim little secretary act. Squirming. Blushing. Acting like you’re too good for what we both know you need.”

“I’m not—” Your voice cracked as he pressed closer, thigh sliding between yours.

“Yeah, yeah, baby, you are.” His free hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Eyes dark with lust and that old-school entitlement. “Back in my day, boys like you learned their place real quick. On their knees or on their back. You’re gonna sit pretty on my lap like a good little secretary and let me take the edge off.”

“Mr. Soldier Boy, sir— This is inappropriate. I could report—”

He laughed, low and dangerous. “Report me? To who? Homelander? My own fucking son? Or Vought? They don’t give a fuck what I do with the help. Now be a good boy and come here.”

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you across the room to the large leather couch. You tried to resist, but he was a supe, and you were merely human. He dropped down and yanked you straight into his lap, forcing your legs to straddle one thick thigh.

You gasped, hands landing on his broad shoulders for balance. “Wait, fuck—”

“That’s better.” Ben’s hands settled on your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, you whined. He pulled you down flush against him, letting you feel exactly how hard he already was through his sweatpants. “Fuck, you’re light. Bet I could bounce you on my cock easy.”

You blinked at him, then squirmed, trying to find some distance, but every movement only ground you against the hard line of his erection. Heat flooded your face and between your legs. You bit your lip, fighting the whimper that wanted to escape.

“Stop fighting it.” He growled, one hand sliding up your back under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine. “I can feel how wet you’re getting. Been thinking about this tight little cunt since the first time you brought me coffee.”

His hips rolled up, dragging his clothed cock against you in a slow, filthy grind. The friction was intense — the soft fabric of your slacks and his sweatpants doing nothing to dull the pressure. He was thick, hot, insistent. Each thrust rubbed right against your clit through the layers, sending sparks up your spine.

“Ben, please—”

“Please what?” He smirked, setting a lazy rhythm, hands guiding your hips to rock with him. “Please stop? Or please don’t stop? Be honest, kid. You’ve been dripping for me for weeks.”

You tried to keep quiet, but a broken whine slipped out as he ground up harder. The dry humping was relentless, slow, heavy drags that made your thighs tremble. Ben’s breathing grew rougher, chest rumbling under your hands. He leaned in and mouthed at your neck, sucking a mark just below your collar.

“Such a good little secretary.” He murmured against your skin. “Sitting so pretty on yoir boss's lap. That’s what you need, isn’t it? Someone who knows how to handle a boy like you.”

The word made you jolt. He chuckled darkly and kept moving, one hand slipping down to grip your ass, kneading it as he moved up against you. The couch creaked under the motion. Your hands fisted in his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. The pleasure built in heavy waves, your body betraying every attempt at professionalism.

Ben’s voice dropped lower, filthier. “Gonna make you come like this first. Then I’m bending you over that desk and fucking you proper. Fill you up until you’re leaking my cum down your thighs while you type up my reports tomorrow.”

You whimpered, hips starting to move on their own, chasing the friction. He groaned in approval, pace picking up.

“Yeah, that’s it. Ride it, baby. Show me how bad you’ve wanted this cock.”

The room filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, the wet drag of fabric, and the creak of leather. Ben’s hands were everywhere — squeezing your ass, sliding below your dress shirt to pinch a nipple, gripping your throat lightly to keep you looking at him. His eyes were wild with lust, that arrogant grin never fading.

You were close, shame and arousal twisting together into something overwhelming. Your thighs shook, breaths coming in short gasps.

Then—

Knock knock knock.

A sharp, cheerful rap on the door.

“Soldier Boy? You in there? We need to discuss tomorrow’s press event.”

Homelander’s voice. Bright. Dangerous. Right outside.

Ben froze mid-thrust, still rock-hard against you. His hand clamped over your mouth before you could make a sound.

“Fuck.” He hissed under his breath. Then louder, “Busy. Give me ten.”

“I can hear two heartbeats in there.” Homelander sing-songed. “Don’t make me come in.”

Ben’s jaw clenched. He looked at you — flushed, disheveled, still straddling his lap with his cock pressed right against your aching core. For a second, pure frustration flashed across his face. Then that cocky smirk returned.

He leaned in close, whispering hot against your ear while keeping his hand over your mouth.

“This ain’t over, boy. Tonight. My room. You’re gonna finish what you started on my lap. And next time? I’m not stopping until you’re screaming ‘Sir’ with my cock buried inside you.”

He gave one last slow grind, forcing a muffled whimper out of you, then lifted you off his lap like you weighed nothing. You stumbled, legs shaky, trying to straighten your clothes as Ben adjusted himself in his sweatpants.

“Fix your face.” He muttered. “And get the fuck out before this bastard gets suspicious.”

You managed to slip out the side door just as Homelander’s patience wore thin. Your heart pounded the entire elevator ride down, body still buzzing, shame burning in your chest.

But you knew Ben was right about one thing.

Vought Tower’s medical wing was a sterile kind of hell.

Soldier Boy — Ben — had been defrosted for less than two week, and already the Vought scientists were losing control. The man was a walking nuclear reactor of rage, testosterone, and something far more primal. His body had woken up demanding what it had been denied for decades: a rut.

At first, Vought tried the usual fixes. High-end escorts. Suppressants. Even a few willing supes. Nothing worked. Ben destroyed rooms, put two handlers in the ICU, and groaned that he needed to knot something warm and living. Everyone was panicking. A feral Soldier Boy was bad for ratings.

That was when the newest member of The Seven was brought in.

You.

A bunny demi-human — soft ears that constantly twitched with nerves, a fluffy cotton tail that betrayed every emotion, and a young, innocent face that Vought’s marketing department had fallen in love with. You were the fresh, approachable hero meant to soften the team's image. Cute. Approachable. Non-threatening.

You had no idea what you were walking into.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

For three days, Ben had been locked in his reinforced penthouse suite. No one was allowed near him. The official story was “recovery and adjustment.” The truth was much uglier.

You couldn’t stop worrying.

You’d only met him once, at least properly— briefly, during your induction. He’d looked at you with those sharp green eyes and smirked, calling you “little bunny” in that rough voice. Something about the way he said it had made your cheeks burn and your tail twitch. Since then, you hadn’t seen him much. And the longer he stayed locked away, the more anxious you became.

On the fourth night, you made a decision.

You waited until the halls were quiet, used your enhanced agility to slip past security, and snuck into the elevator that led to his floor. Your heart hammered the entire way up. Your fluffy tail was tucked tight against your body.

The doors opened into a destroyed room. Furniture smashed. Glass everywhere. The scent of a dog’s rut — thick, musky, overwhelming — hit you like a wall.

You froze in the doorway.

A low, dangerous growl came from the bedroom.

“Who the fuck is there?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s…it’s me. The new guy. I—I was worried about you. No one’s allowed in, but— you’ve been alone for days.”

Silence.

Then heavy footsteps.

Ben appeared in the doorway, shirtless, sweat-slicked, eyes glowing with feral hunger. His dog demi-human traits seemed even more pronounced in rut, and his cock was straining against his sweatpants, thick and leaking.

You took a step back, ears flattening. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave—”

“Stay.”

The word was a command. You froze, tail trembling, prey instincts flared up.

Ben stalked closer, breathing hard. “You smell…sweet. Like a pretty little prey.” His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, yanking you against his chest. “Little bunny came to check on the big bad dog, huh?”

You whimpered, pressing your hands against his chest. “Ben— Mr. Soldier Boy, I just wanted to make sure you were okay—”

He laughed, low and rough. “Okay? I’m in rut, bunny. I’ve been trying to fuck half of Vought and nothing works. I need to knot someone.”

Your eyes widened in fear. “I...I can get help. I can call someone—”

“No.” His grip tightened. “You’re here now. You’re gonna help me.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

You tried to run.

You really did.

But Ben was a supe in full rut, and you were just a bunny. He caught you before you reached the elevator, slamming you against the wall with careful but undeniable strength. One big hand pinned your wrists above your head. The other yanked your clothes.

“Ben, please— I’m not...I’ve never—” You stammered, voice shaking.

“Shh, shh.” He growled, but there was no gentleness in it. “You came into my den, little bunny. You’re gonna take what I give you.”

He ripped your pants down in one motion. You yelped as cool air hit your bare skin. Ben’s hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you already shamefully wet, almost on instinct.

“Fuck.” He groaned. “Look at you. Already dripping for me. Good little prey.”

You sobbed, ears flat against your head, tail thrashing. “Please— Ben, stop it.”

Ben didn’t listen. He shoved two thick fingers inside you, stretching you open roughly. You cried out, legs buckling. He held you up with his body, fucking you with his fingers while his mouth latched onto your neck, sucking dark marks.

“That’s it.” He muttered against your skin. “Open up for me. Gonna knot this tight little cunt, fill you up.”

You were shaking, tears streaming down your face, but your body betrayed you — slick coating his hand, hips twitching despite your fear. Ben noticed and laughed darkly.

“See? Your body knows what it wants. Even if you’re crying like a scared little bunny.”

He pulled his fingers out, spun you around, and bent you over the back of the couch. You whimpered as he kicked your legs apart. The thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance.

“Ben— wait, please—”

He thrust in.

You screamed.

The stretch was brutal. He was huge, and rut made him even thicker. Ben groaned loudly as he sank deep, bottoming out in one savage stroke. Your legs shook violently.

“Fuck— so tight.” He growled. “Perfect little bunny hole.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started fucking you hard — deep, punishing thrusts that made your ears flop with every snap of his hips. You sobbed openly, claws digging into the couch, tail thrashing wildly.

“Too big, Ben, hurts...please—”

“Shut up and take it.” Ben snarled, one hand fisting your fluffy tail, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “You wanted to play hero and check on me? This is what happens when you walk into a dog’s rut.”

He railed you mercilessly, the wet sounds of your slick and his cock echoing through the room. Every thrust made your belly bulge slightly. You cried harder, overwhelmed and terrified, but your body kept producing more slick, making it easier for him to fuck you deeper.

Ben leaned over you, teeth grazing your ear. “Good bunny. Taking my cock so well. Gonna fill you up. Gonna knot you real good.”

You whimpered and sobbed.

He laughed, dark and feral. “Cry all you want. Makes you clench so nice around me.”

He reached around and rubbed your clit roughly, forcing you to come with a broken sob. The orgasm only made you tighter. Ben groaned and fucked you through it, then kept going, chasing his own release.

When he finally came, he slammed in deep and locked his knot inside you. The stretch was excruciating. You screamed, fresh tears falling as his knot swelled, locking you together. Hot pulses of cum flooded you, filling you so full your belly felt swollen.

Ben collapsed over your back, panting, still grinding his knot deeper. “That’s it… good boy. Take every drop.”

You sobbed quietly, trembling under him, completely overwhelmed. Ben nuzzled your neck almost possessively.

“Mine now, bunny. Vought can fuck off. You’re staying right here.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

You stayed knotted for nearly an hour.

Ben eventually carried you — still impaled on his cock — to his massive bed. He laid you down carefully, still locked inside you, and wrapped his strong arms around your smaller body.

You were shaking, tears kept falling silently.

Ben kissed the back of your neck, surprisingly gentle now that the worst of the rut had been sate, you couldn't help but nuzzle into the tender touch. “You did good, kid. Real good. Took my knot like you were made for it.”

You whimpered, voice tiny. “It kinda hurt…”

“I know.” He murmured, stroking your ear. “But you’ll get used to it. My pretty little bunny.”

You didn’t answer. You just lay there, full and claimed, wondering how you were going to explain this to the rest of The Seven.

The facility had been a tomb of ice and rust for decades. When Butcher’s crew cracked it open alongside Soldier Boy’s chamber, they found two cryo-pods instead of one. Ben —Soldier Boy—emerged first, furious and radioactive, shield in hand, ready to paint the walls with blood. The second pod hissed open minutes later.

You.

A Russian experiment, some half-failed attempt at replicating American supes with their own twisted science. No voice. No clear memories. Just instincts. When the cold air hit your skin, you lunged—not to fight, but straight toward the only figure you recognized between the bliss. You clung to Ben’s leg like a lost pup, face pressed against his thigh, trembling, whining low in your throat. Non-verbal sounds. Animal sounds.

“Get this— Get this fuckin’ thing off me." Ben snarled at first, trying to shake you loose. Butcher laughed. The others looked horrified.

But you wouldn’t let go. Weeks on the run, hiding in The Boys's place, and you stayed glued to Soldier Boy’s side. Curled at his feet while he drank or smoked a joint. Following him around when he paced. Whining when he left the room even for a minute.

At first, Ben hated it.

“Goddamn Russian mutt." He’d growl, shoving you away. But the hate softened into something else. Tolerance. Then possession. You were quiet, obedient in your broken way. You looked at him like he was God, or at least the only thing that mattered in this fucked-up new world.

Better than the spineless kids Butcher ran with. Better than Homelander, that fake-ass golden boy.

He started calling you “pup” when you did good.

“Mutt” when you didn’t.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Butcher and Hughie were arguing in the kitchen about the next move against Homelander. Ben sat on the old couch, legs spread and you were where you belonged—on the floor between his knees, head resting on his thigh, eyes half-lidded in that deep, floaty space that never seemed to leave you.

Your mind was soft, foggy, euphoric haze. Everything narrowed to Ben’s warmth, his scent, his approval. You nuzzled closer, making a soft, needy sound in your throat, like a dog seeking pets. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his pants.

Ben’s big hand came down, ruffling your hair roughly. “Shh, sh, good boy. Settle.”

You melted further, a small happy whine escaping. Praise made everything brighter. You lived for it—constantly seeking his eyes, his touch, any sign you’d pleased him.

Butcher walked in, beer in hand, and snorted. “Still got that stray attached to your bollocks, eh? Thought you’d have put it down by now.”

“Fuck off." Ben said, almost snarling at him. “Mutt’s useful. Keeps quiet, doesn’t cry like you pussies every time things get bloody.” His hand stayed in your hair, possessive. You pressed closer, seeking more contact.

Hughie hovered awkwardly in the doorway. “It— I mean, he...he needs help, man. Therapy or something. He doesn’t even talk., or like— act...normal.”

Ben’s laugh was dark. “Talk? What the fuck does a good dog need to talk for? He understands plenty.” He snapped his fingers. “Heel.”

You shifted instantly, sitting back on your haunches, hands on your knees, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Waiting for approval, for the next command.

Ben smirked. “See? Trained better than most American bitches.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Later that evening, after Butcher and his crew left, the cabin grew quiet. Ben drank whiskey straight from the bottle, staring at the wall, gaze lost. Old memories—Payback, Russia, the betrayal—flickered across his face. You sensed the shift in his mood and crawled closer, pressing your cheek to his knee, making soft, comforting noises.

“Yeah, you get it, don’t you, pup?” he muttered. “Whole world’s gone to shit. But you…you know who’s in charge.”

He hauled you up onto the couch with him, manhandling you easily into his lap. You went willingly, straddling one thick thigh, arms wrapping around his neck. Clinging like a pup who’d found its master. Your body was warm, pliant, still dressed in the oversized sweatpants and shirt they got you.

Ben’s hand slid under your shirt, palm rough against your back. “You’re not like the rest of these weak fucks, you're a clingy little Russian mutt, but loyal. That counts for something.”

You nuzzled into his neck, inhaling his scent, hips shifting unconsciously. Seeking closeness. Seeking praise, all needy and eager.

His grip tightened. “Easy, boy.”

But the mood shifted.

Ben’s breath grew heavier. He’d been cooped up too long. The old urges—power, control, release—rose fast. He flipped you suddenly, putting you on all fours on the couch cushions. You yelped in surprise, a confused, high-pitched sound, looking back over your shoulder with furrowed brows. Your mind was too deep in that dizzy space to fully process, but the position felt new.

Vulnerable.

“Shh.” Ben said, voice low. “Daddy’s gonna take care of you.”

He yanked your sweatpants down, exposing you, then your boxers came off. You whined, shifting restlessly, trying to crawl forward. Confused. Fussy like a child. “Nnh—?”

Ben’s hand came down on your lower back, pinning you. “Stay.” The command cut through the fog. You stilled, trembling, but still made small, uncertain noises.

He freed himself, thick cock already hard, slapping heavy against your ass. “Look at you. Perfect little pup hole, all mine to use.”

You didn’t understand the words, not really. Only the tone—possessive, hungry. When he spat on his hand and rubbed it against your entrance, you fussed again, whining louder, hips twitching away. It felt strange, intense, and it burned and hurt.

You didn’t wanted it to hurt.

Ben gripped your hips hard. “Easy, mutt. You’ll take it. Good boys take what their owner gives ’em.”

He pushed in slowly at first, not even taking the time to finger you, the thick head of his cock breaching you. You cried out—a sharp, animal sound—body tensing. It burned too much. Stretched. Overwhelming. You tried to crawl away, confused tears pricking your eyes, but he held you firm and sank deeper.

“Fuck…so tight.” Ben groaned. “That’s it, shh, shh. Settle. Good pup.”

He bottomed out with a grunt, balls pressed against you. You were panting, whimpering, fingers digging into the cushions. Not fighting exactly—just overwhelmed, not comprehending why this was happening or what it meant. Only that Ben was doing it, so it must be…something good.

He started thrusting, slow and deep at first. The drag lit up nerves you barely registered in your floaty state. Gradually, the whimpers turned breathier. Your body responded even if your mind lagged—slickness easing the way, hips pushing back instinctively.

Ben noticed. “There you go. See? My pup likes it. Knew you would.”

He picked up pace, fucking you harder, one hand reaching under to rub your clit. Praise flowed with every thrust. “Good boy, such a good fucking dog for me. Taking Daddy’s cock so well.”

You made needy, confused sounds, pushing back now, chasing the confusing pleasure. The praise sank into your haze like warm honey.

Approval. Safety. Ben.

Ben leaned over you, chest to your back, biting your shoulder as he rutted deep, leaving a mark there. “Mine. My loyal little mutt, not lettin’ anyone touch you.”

He came with a low growl, flooding you deep. You shuddered through your own smaller orgasm, whining high and broken. Afterward you collapsed, but Ben kept you plugged, grinding lazily while stroking your hair.

“Good pup. So good."

You just whined.

𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Days passed in the place. The Boys always shot wary glances at your dynamic— you trailing Ben on all fours sometimes, eating from his hand when he offered scraps, sleeping curled at the foot of his bed like a dog.

One afternoon Butcher cornered Ben while you dozed on the rug. “This is fucked, even for you.” He said it almost wary.

Ben shrugged, lighting a joint. “He’s happier like this, they broke him. At least I give him purpose. Ain’t that what every dog wants?”

Hughie tried once to offer you a blanket and gentle words. You bared your teeth and crawled behind Ben’s legs, growling low until he praised you for it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Ben had you on the floor again after a frustrating call with Butcher. He was tense, angry at the world. You sensed it and tried to comfort—the way he had taught you, by nuzzling into his crotch, mouthing at the bulge through his pants with soft, eager sounds.

He laughed darkly. “Needy mutt tonight, huh?”

He pulled you up and bent you over the table. You fussed again at first— you didn't meant to, but you always felt— confused, whining when he spread your legs, when cold air hit your wet cunt. “Nnh...nhh?” You whimpered, high-pitched and scared, you still hadn't gotten used to...this.

“Quiet.” He commanded. You obeyed, trembling.

He fucked you rough this time, hand fisted in your hair like a leash, he wanted to get you one and pull at it. Every thrust punctuated with words. “Good boy. My perfect pup, better than any son, better than any partner. Just— Just a loyal dog who knows his place.”

You came untouched, shaking, his words pulling you deeper into floaty bliss. Ben filled you again, then pulled you into his lap afterward, letting you nurse on his fingers while he smoked, you always did that, sucked on his fingers like a needy little thing after he fucked you.

You looked up at him with hazy, adoring eyes. Seeking. Always seeking.

He stroked your cheek. “Yeah. You’re mine now, pup. Daddy’s good boy.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟 ❤︎ ﾟ｡ ❀ ｡ﾟ ❤︎𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Over the following weeks, the pattern solidified. Training sessions where Ben taught you signals. “Sit. Stay. Heel.” You learned fast, thriving on every “Good pup” that fell from his lips. When you were “bad”—wandering too far or getting fussy during sex—he called you “mutt” in that stern tone and made you earn forgiveness on your knees.

The sex remained...strange for you, your mind too fractured and deep in that floaty headspace to truly grasp at it. You accepted because it was Ben. Because it brought praise and closeness. Sometimes you whined and fussed at the start, confused by the intensity, only to melt once the rhythm and praise took over.

Butcher eventually stopped commenting. Hughie looked sick but said nothing. They needed Soldier Boy’s power.

And Ben needed his mutt.

One quiet evening, after a particularly long and thorough fucking where he’d had you ride him slow while calling you his “best boy,” you curled against his chest, making contented rumbling sounds in your throat. Almost purring.

Ben stared at the ceiling, hand idly petting your back.

“Never thought I’d say this.” He muttered, half to himself. “But you’re the only damn thing in this shithole world that feels right.”

You nuzzled closer, eyes heavy with bliss, completely his.

The safehouse smelled like beer, weed, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. You sat stiffly on the worn couch across Ben, hands folded in your lap, trying not to look as uncomfortable as you felt. Butcher had given you one job while the rest of The Boys were out chasing leads on Homelander: babysit Soldier Boy.

“Don’t let the cunt blow up the place or run off.” Butcher had grunted before leaving. “And don’t let him fuck with your head too much, yeah?”

Easier said than done.

Ben sat on the couch like he owned the damn place, legs spread wide, shield leaning against the wall, he watched you with that lazy, predatory smirk. He’d been out of the ice for a few weeks now, and he was still adjusting to the new world. Mostly by drinking, doing drugs, complaining, and eyeing you like you were something interesting.

“You’re awfully quiet over there, kid. He drawled, voice rough and dripping with that old-school arrogance. “What’s a smart little thing like you doing running with Butcher’s suicide squad anyway?”

You shifted, cheeks warming. You were the youngest in the group at twenty, reserved and awkward even on your best days. Smart, you handled most of the research and tech, but you hated being the center of attention.

“Just…doing my part to take Homelander down.” You mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

Ben chuckled, low and mean. He stood up slowly, towering over you as he crossed the room. He dropped onto the couch right beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.

“Smart little thing, ain't ya?” He reached over and tapped your temple with one thick finger. “Got a big brain in there. I can tell. You talk all proper and shit. Cute.”

You swallowed hard. Something about the way he said it made heat crawl up your neck. He was crude, arrogant, and dangerous… but there was something magnetic about him. The way he carried himself like the world still belonged to men like him.

“I’m not that smart.” You said quietly.

Ben’s grin widened. “Oh, we’ll see about that, boy.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The first day passed in tense quiet. Ben drank. You read through old Vought files on your laptop. But every time you looked up, he was watching you. Studying you. Like he was planning something.

By the second night, he’d had enough of your silence.

You were making coffee in the tiny kitchen when he came up behind you. His big body caged you against the counter, hands planted on either side of you.

You stiffened the moment you felt him.

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good.” He murmured against your ear. “Always thinking. Always watching. I bet that pretty head of yours never shuts off.”

You froze, heart hammering. “Soldier Boy? what are you—”

“Shh.” One of his hands slid down your side, possessive. “I’ve been thinking. A smart boy like you would be a lot happier if he stopped thinking so much. If he let a real man take care of all that heavy brain shit.”

His hand slipped under your shirt, palm rough against your stomach. You shivered.

“I could help you with that.” He whispered. “Turn you into my dumb little thing. Nice and empty. Just feeling. Just taking what I give you.”

You should have pushed him away. Instead, your breath hitched.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

He started slow.

That night, he pulled you onto his lap on the couch while some old war movie played. His hands roamed — innocent at first, then less so. He rubbed your thighs, squeezed your ass, whispered filthy praise in your ear.

“Look at you. So tense. So full of thoughts. Let Daddy take care of it.”

The word “Daddy” made your stomach flip. You were too shy to protest.

He started edging you. Hours of slow, teasing touches. Rubbing you through your pants until you were leaking and whimpering, then stopping right before you could cum. Every time you got close, he’d pull back and tap your temple.

“Too much thinking again, huh? Poor dumb boy. Can’t even cum without getting all worked up in that head.”

By the third day, you were a mess. Sleep-deprived, constantly aching, and starting to feel fuzzy around the edges. Ben loved it.

He had you on your knees in front of him that afternoon, fully naked while he stayed half dressed. His thick cock rested heavy on your tongue as he lazily fucked your mouth.

“That’s it.” He groaned. “Suck Daddy’s cock like a good little dummy, don’t think, just suck. Good boys don’t need brains. They just need to be useful.”

You whimpered around him, eyes watering. Your mind felt hazy, overwhelmed by the taste and stretch. Every time you tried to focus, he’d thrust deeper and praise you.

“Look at that, smart boy’s already getting stupid for my dick. Fucking adorable.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The breaking point came on the fourth night.

Ben had you spread out on the bed, legs pushed wide open. He’d been eating you out for nearly an hour — slow, filthy, relentless. Every time you got close to cumming, he’d pull back and slap your thigh.

“Not yet, pup. Good dumb boys wait for permission.”

You were crying by then. Tears of frustration and overwhelming pleasure. Your usually sharp mind had dissolved into static and need.

“P-please, Ben… I can’t think—”

“That’s the point.” He growled, crawling up your body. His thick cock nudged against your soaked entrance. “You don’t need to think anymore. You just need to take Daddy’s cock and get fucked stupid.”

He pushed inside you in one brutal thrust.

You cried out, back arching. He was so big, stretching you open, filling you completely. Ben groaned in satisfaction, hips snapping forward hard.

“Fuck, that’s tight, that little cunt is finally getting what it needs.”

He fucked you like a soldier on a mission— deep, powerful strokes that punched the air out of your lungs. Every thrust seemed designed to scramble your brain further.

“Say it.” He demanded, gripping your jaw. “Tell Daddy you’re getting dumb for him.”

“I’m— Fuck, I’m getting dumb—” You gasped, voice breaking as he hit that perfect spot inside you.

“Louder.”

“I’m getting dumb for you!” You moaned.

Ben let out sharp groan, he fucked you harder, one hand reaching down to rub your clit in tight, mean circles.

“That’s my good boy. No more big thoughts, no more being all quiet and smart. Just my drooling little fucktoy.”

You were sobbing now, pleasure ripping through you like lightning. Your mind felt blank, fuzzy, deliciously empty.

He leaned down and bit your neck, making you squirm as he left marks there, thrusting savagely. “Gonna keep you like this. Keep fucking all those smart thoughts out of your head until the only thing you know how to do is spread your legs and take my cock.”

You came so hard you saw stars, walls clenching around him as your mind went completely white. Ben followed with a deep groan, burying himself to the hilt and flooding your cunt with thick, hot cum.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you through it, pushing his cum deeper, growling filthy praise the entire time. “Look at you. Such a smart kid when I found you, now you’re just Daddy’s stupid little cumdump. Isn’t that better?”

You could only whimper and nod, too fucked-out to form real words.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

By the time The Boys were due back, you were a changed person.

Still shy on the surface, still quiet. But when Ben looked at you, your eyes were softer. Glassier. You followed him around the safehouse like a lost puppy, constantly seeking him.

The night before the others returned, Ben had you on your back again, legs over his shoulders as he pounded into your sloppy, cum-filled cunt.

“You’re mine now.” He growled, sweat dripping down his muscular chest. “My perfect dumb boy. No more thinking. No more being useful to Butcher, you’re just gonna be my pretty little toy from now on. Understand?”

You nodded frantically, tears of pleasure streaming down your face.

When the others finally came back, they noticed something was different. You were quieter than usual. More spaced out. You stayed close to Soldier Boy’s side like you belonged there.

Butcher narrowed his eyes. “The fuck did you do to our best analyst, you cunt?”