Aint No Tellin’

Also, my main master list.

Jensen Ackles

Austin City Limits.

This ones for the Girls.

Below the mistletoe.

Soldier Boy

You hadn’t left the apartment.

Ben wasn’t ready.

Manhattan was different now. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city didn't just look bigger; it looked predatory. The buildings were jagged teeth scraping a sky filled with drones and LED screens that bled neon onto the pavement. It was a sensory assault that made the 1980s look like a silent film.

Ben stayed away from the windows.

He was a "prima donna" in the way only a man who had once been a god could be. You’d spent three days as a high-stakes personal shopper, cycling through fabrics and modern cuts, trying to find something that didn't make him feel like he was wearing a costume. Legend and Gunpowder were the only visitors, their faces grim as they monitored the "nuke" in Ben's chest.

Trying to figure it out.

The first day had been a nightmare of near-misses—six times the air had ionized, six times you’d seen the gold fire start to liquefy his ribs. You’d had to shock him, the violet surge of your own power acting as a lightning rod to ground his radiation.

Mornings were the worst. He’d wake up with his system resetting, his eyes searching yours with a look that was half-gratitude, half-horror. He knew. He knew you’d taken the V. He knew you’d become the very thing he’d begged you to stay away from. But neither of you spoke the words. To speak them would be to admit that the woman he loved had died in 1984 to save the man he used to be.

Now, it was dinner time. The sun was dipping behind the skyscrapers, casting long, bruised shadows across the living room. Ben was sprawled on the leather couch, a Giants jersey hanging off his broad shoulders, looking like a king in exile. A glass of whiskey dangled precariously from his hand as he drifted in that heavy, post-radiation haze.

“Honey,” you whispered, your hand feather-light on his shoulder.

He sat up with a grunt, the whiskey sloshing but not spilling. “Yeah?” His voice was a low rumble, the sound of a heavy engine turning over.

“I’m going to go downstairs and grab those hot dogs from George before he closes up,” you said, watching his face closely. “Do you want to try the elevator? Or should I just bring them up?”

Ben’s gaze flicked to the balcony doors. The sounds of the street—the honking, the electronic chirps of crosswalks, the sheer volume of millions of people—seemed to press against the glass. He looked back at you, his expression dead serious.

“We ain’t got a damn bucket and a rope, do we?” he huffed.

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, unexpected and bright. “Why on earth would we need a bucket, Ben?”

“Get George to fill the bucket, drag it back up here, and neither of us has to step a damn foot out there.” He wasn't joking. He was ready to engineer a pulley system just to avoid the 21st century.

“Benjamin Rhodes,” you laughed, shaking your head. “He is an eighty-year-old man. We are not bucket-hoisting dinner to the apartment. That makes his job twice as hard.”

“I’m an old man too, doll. Just aged better.” A smirk finally broke through his exhaustion. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your waist and pulling you onto his lap with effortless strength.

“You are a fossil with good hair,” you countered, poking him in the chest.

“Admit it. Or we starve,” he challenged, his eyes dancing with a spark of the old arrogance you’d missed so much.

“Fine. You’re a very handsome man whose aging slowed at twenty-five and stopped altogether at...” You whistled low, tilting your head. “Maybe thirty-four. Tops.”

“You telling me I don’t look twenty-five, Angel?” He feigned a wounded look, pulling you closer until you could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart against your ribs.

“You didn’t look twenty-five when I met you, Grandpa,” you giggled.

Before you could finish the sentence, he shifted, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“Put me down! Ben, stop!” Your laughter echoed off the high ceilings as he headed for the hallway. “Okay, okay! You want to be twenty-five? You’re twenty-five! There happy?”

He stopped just outside the bedroom door, a small, gravelly laugh vibrating through his chest and into your legs. He let you down slowly, sliding you down his body until you were pinned between him and the wall, eye-level with those piercing, timeless green eyes.

The humor faded, replaced by something much heavier.

“I thought I was going to have to show you what twenty-five felt like,” he whispered, his hands resting heavy on your hips.

You reached up, your fingers tangling in his was hair. “I like older Ben,” you whispered back, your voice trembling just a fraction. “I’m sure twenty-five was great and all, but this is the man I fell in love with. Scars, and all.”

He didn't say anything. He just leaned in, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only clean air left in Manhattan.

Standing in that metal box of an elevator, he felt like a trapped nerve. He hated the way his knees felt loose, the way the hum of the building’s electrical grid sounded like a choir of cicadas screaming in his ears.

But mostly, he hated the silence between you. It was a silence filled with everything he wasn't saying.

For three days, he’d been white-knuckling his sanity, trying to keep the reactor in his chest from turning Manhattan into a crater. Every time he closed his eyes, he wasn't in the apartment; he was back in the dark, the smell of winter and stale cabbage clogging his throat, watching a Russian hallucination of you die a thousand different ways. Last night, the steam from your shower had hit the hallway, and for three seconds, he was certain he was smelling your skin melting off.

He felt like a fucking pussy. The "strongest supe in the world" was afraid of a humidifier. He was a ghost haunting his own skin, catching glimpses of the man he used to be in the mirror and not recognizing the eyes staring back.

He’d tried to huff it off when Gunpowder looked at him with that hero-worshiping awe, calling the kid a "lying cocksucker," but the bravado tasted like ash. An hour later, he’d been vibrating on the edge of the bed, forcing his lungs to move in that rhythmic, "bullshit" breathing you’d taught him, trying to convince his cells not to ignite.

He’d lied to you about why. He’d told you it was because you walked out of the bathroom shirtless, a classic Soldier Boy deflection. The truth was worse: he was terrified that the version of you in front of him wasn't real, and if he breathed too hard, the illusion would shatter.

You didn’t deserve this. You deserved a man who could sleep without a loaded gun and a lead-lined conscience. You deserved to walk out of a room and not worry that the person left behind was a ticking time bomb. But you were stubborn—a jagged, beautiful piece of glass that refused to be swept away.

He’d noticed it the second he saw you in Russia. It had wrecked him. You looked exactly the same—the same crinkle at your lips, the same defiant tilt of your chin—but the light in your eyes was different. It was older. Darker. He’d felt the V in you before he’d even seen the sparks. He felt it when your fingers dug into his wrists with a strength that shouldn't have been there, a force that grounded him even as it broke his heart.

You’d promised him you’d stay human. You’d broken that promise to save a man who wasn't sure he was worth saving.

Now, he was standing next to you, watching the neon violet flicker in your eyes as you got frustrated with the elevator buttons. It was terrifying and intoxicating all at once. He’d seen you in the closet earlier, watched the purple electricity crawl up your arms to turn a box to ash while the cardboard stayed perfectly intact. The control you had... it made him feel even more like a blunt instrument.

You smoothed your hands over his chest, your touch the only thing keeping the gold fire at bay.

“Are you in your head again?” your voice came out small, laced with that perpetual worry that made him want to burn the world down just to give you a reason to smile.

“I’m fine, doll. No explosions,” he assured you, his voice a rough, unconvincing rasp.

“I’m not worried about the explosions, Ben. I never am.” You looked up at him as the doors slid open to the empty lobby. “I’m worried about you.”

He let you pull him out into the night. The city was a monster, but the street was manageable. The air was cool, smelling of exhaust and dirty sidewalks—familiar, in a twisted way. Then he saw the old man.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ben muttered, a ghost of a real smile tugging at his scarred face. “You ain’t retired yet? You were ready forty years ago, George.”

“And when I die, Ben, I’ll be back right after my funeral,” George chuckled, his eyes crinkling as he looked at the two of you—a pair of anachronisms holding hands on a street corner. “Someone had to make sure this pretty lady was fed. Never knew when she was going or coming. Legend would stop by just to make sure she had eaten.”

Ben went still, his arms folding across his chest as he looked down at you. The shirt you wore—his shirt—hung off your shoulder, making you look fragile, even though he knew you could probably throw a car through a building.

“I was grieving, Benjamin,” you said softly, not meeting his eyes.

“For thirty-seven years?”

“Something like that,” you whispered.

The weight of it hit him then—the sheer, agonizing length of your wait. He’d been on ice, but you’d been living it. Every minute of every day for nearly four decades, you’d been carrying the weight of his ghost. He reached out, his thumb catching your chin and tilting your face up until the dull, hidden violet in your eyes met his green. For the first time in three days, the reactor in his chest didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a pilot light.

The silence in the apartment didn't just sit; it curdled. It was the kind of heavy, suffocating pressure that usually preceded a building-leveling detonation. You hadn't said a word during the elevator ride, and you didn't say a word when you crossed the threshold.

Then the front door slammed—a crack of wood on wood that sounded like a gunshot—and the "domestic" Ben was gone. In his place was a man vibrating with a terrifying, jagged fury.

"Sit. Down."

His voice was a tectonic plate grinding against stone. You obeyed, sliding into the kitchen chair as he loomed over you, his shadow stretching long and monstrous across the linoleum. He didn't pace; he stood rooted, his fists braced against the table so hard the wood began to splinter under his knuckles.

"You want to tell me why old man George and Legend were making sure you were fucking eating for forty years? What the fuck was in that box you gave the old bastard? And what the fuck you were thinking—" He stopped, his chest heaving, a faint, rhythmic gold light beginning to pulse behind his ribs like a warning siren.

"Ben," you whispered, reaching out.

"Don't 'Ben' me right now! I've sat here for three fucking days trying to wrap my head around a world that looks like a fucking neon circus!" He barked, his eyes flashing with a predatory, unhinged heat.

"What do—"

"I left and this place was a fucking shit show, but New York was growing then! I can adjust to the noise! What I can't adjust to is why!" He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of whiskey and ozone rolling off him in waves. "Why the fuck weren't you taking care of yourself? Why did you stay in this fucking shithole apartment? And why the hell do you keep thinking I don't already know what the fuck you did, Y/N?"

He knew, you knew he did. But you didn’t anticipate he’d be ‘using your first name’ level pissed. He never did that, not even before.

You wanted to curl into yourself. As unstoppable as you were. Ben pissed off at you was the only thing you were truly afraid of, the only thing that ever hurt.

His breathing went ragged, a wet, desperate sound. "This ain't some 'if I don't say it, it ain't true' bullshit. You think I don't know? That I don't fucking feel it? The air tastes like a damn battery when you walk in the room and your eyes light up!"

"Ben, listen—"

"V is coursing through your fucking veins like a damn parasite!" He roared, his fist finally slamming through the tabletop. "I was the first one with it in my blood! I know the hum! I know the burden! And you went out and juiced up like a fucking junkie the second I was gone! And I want to fucking know why.”

You stood up. You didn't do it slowly. You snapped to your feet, and for the first time, you let the mask slip. Your voice came out wrong—colder, humming with a sub-vocal frequency that made the lightbulbs in the kitchen hiss. Ben’s eyes darted to yours, seeing the violet sparks dancing in your retinas.

"That's rich coming from you, Benjamin," you snapped. "You want the truth? Fine. But you’re going to calm the fuck down before I tell you anything. I won’t be the reason you level the block, honey."

Just like that, the ice in your voice melted back into a soft, protective warmth. It was the transition that scared him most—the ease with which you toggled between a woman and a weapon.

He didn’t know the full extent of your power.

"I am calm," he lied, though the gold light beneath his shirt was bright enough to see through the fabric.

"The light in your chest says that's a lie, Ben." You stepped into his space, pressing your palm directly over the reactor in his chest. He went rigid, watching you with a mix of awe and agony.

“I’m fine. Tell me why you let yourself fucking die when I did.” His voice was unusually calm, the hair on your arms stood at the sudden shift.

"I didn't want to do it. Not really. But the second those soldiers called me 'Mrs. Rhodes' and said Stan Edgar sent them... I knew I wasn't safe. I knew I was a loose end to them."

You kicked a chair out and perched on the tabletop, dangling your legs. You pointed to the seat. "Sit. Please."

Against every instinct of his "Alpha" programming, he sat. He grumbled about not listening to you, but he anchored himself right where you told him to.

"They handed me your helmet, dog tags, and ring. They told me acid dissolved you."

"Acid? And you believed those pussies?" Ben rasped, his lip curling in disgust.

"No. Because none of that gear would have survived an acid bath that could kill you. I knew what you were. I knew you couldn't be killed." You braced your arms on the table, looking away as the first hot tear escaped. Ben saw it. He saw the way your jaw tightened, and the anger in him began to transform into a hollow, aching guilt.

"I told Legend what I wanted. He found it. It wasn't easy—this was when they were changing the formula, juicing babies. But I wanted the pure shit. I wanted what you had." You looked at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "Legend fought me. He tried to talk me out of it... but I went fucking crazy, Ben. Losing you, Vought refusing to let me see your body... I fucking lost it. And then Legend found the letter. The betrayal. It sent me spiraling."

A sob broke through then, jagged and raw. Ben’s heart ached—a physical, stabbing pain that hurt. Actually hurt him.

You’d gotten up walking fully into the kitchen.

"I jammed that needle into my leg before Legend or my mother could blink. Out of pure, unfiltered fucking spite," you scoffed, a dark laugh bubbling up. "I faked not feeling like I was dying at the funeral I had to plan. I didn't rip the casket open in front of the cameras... I took that as a win. It took restraint I didn't actually have."

You reached into the top cabinet and pulled out a thick, blood-stained folder.

"Why the fuck did you do it?" Ben interrupted, his voice still pissed but lower now, hovering on the edge of grief.

"I'm getting there, Ben, fuck! Let me talk!" you groaned. “You never were one for patience. But you need to learn them now. Alright? For once just let me talk.”

You moved toward him, his eyes wide at your boldness. "I regretted it the second the V hit my heart. I told myself I’d only use it if Vought came for me. A backup plan."

"But you didn't," Ben said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the folder.

"No. I didn't." You looked at him, your eyes glowing a flickering, neon violet now. Like the power was leaving slowly. "Because I decided... why give them the chance? I knew what they did to you. I knew if I waited, it would be too late. If they wanted me dead. I’d be dead. So I pulled a 'Soldier Boy'—the one the world was forced to believe in."

You tossed the folder onto his lap. Ben opened it reluctantly. He expected Vought memos. Instead he found a graveyard.

Swatto. Mindstorm. The TNT Twins—their crime scene photos were still fresh, dated only two days before he came home. Then there was Noir. The photo showed a hollowed-out mask and a smear of something dark.

"What the fuck is this?" Ben whispered, his voice finally cracking.

"Every name connected to Nicaragua. Every doctor, every suit, every liar who signed a deposition or looked the other way while they gassed you. They're all there. And they're all dead."

"You killed all of them?"

"Yes," you whispered, leaning until your hip touched the table . "And I'd do it again. I'd do it a thousand times for you. I told you years ago, if anything ever happened to you, I’d know the truth. And dammit.” You looked away with tears in your eyes. “I did what I had to do. That’s all.” You took a deep breath pushing the emotion down.

Ben went back to the articles. Knowing when to let you compose yourself. He studied the clinical efficiency of the kills. "You killed Mindstorm with my shield?"

"Technically, it was a conductor for my surge. He didn't even have time to scream. The irony in it was exhilarating it was in the same hotel room that you proposed to me in ‘75"

"And Noir?" Ben looked at the 'Presumed Dead' clipping. "You deconstructed him?"

"I got bored," you said, and the sheer coldness of the statement made Ben shiver. "He tried fighting back, but once I asked if the ambush was his idea and he nodded? All the fun was gone. He didn't deserve a hero’s death. I left him in pieces where they’d never find him…not all of him anyway. Fucking pussy."

Ben looked up at you, caught in a hurricane of pride, horror, and a devastating realization of what forty years of solitude had done to the woman he’d left behind.

"I ruined your life," he whispered, his hand shaking as it touched your knee.

"No. You made me see the world as it really was, Ben. And I just took out the ugliest parts of it."

"I was only going after Countess and Edgar, Angel. You took out an entire neighborhood in Philly."

"It wouldnt have stopped had you just taken them out Ben. It was more than just Edgar. But, they're still alive. For now. I needed the Twins first to keep Countess scared. Let her think moving every six months for thirty-seven years would save her. And Edgar... he's the final nail. Grace said he's holed up near the Canadian border. He knows I'm coming."

Ben looked at the sketches in the file. A hooded figure with violet eyes. "The Raven. Do they know it's you?"

"No. Not everything you taught me went in one ear and out the other, Benjamin. I kept myself safe. I kept my secret."

The "Soldier Boy" in him was vibrating with a dark, twisted pride, while the man who loved you was mourning the innocence you’d torched to bring him justice.

"Princess of fucking darkness," he huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. It was the first real, grounded smile you’d seen in forty years.

"I’m not happy about it, Angel. You did the one thing I asked you to never do. You stepped into the fire."

"You can bend me over and spank me for it later," you smirked, leaning back against the cool marble of the counter, the fabric of his shirt sliding further off your shoulder. “The box I gave Legend, was the research, locations, the evidence of it all. It’s only a matter of time before someone sees you, recognizing you, and it hits Vought towers biggest ego.”

“Who?”

“Homelander. Back when he first took over the seven, they called him the new you. He’s a fucking baby in a cape, with mental instability, and a child like temper.”

“No one’s the new me.”

“I know that. He doesn’t.” You sighed. “He’s a pussy in a cape, playing a role he was bred into. Apparently he was raised in one of Vought's labs.”

“You think he will come after me?”

“I know he will. And we will be ready. Right now, you need to eat that pile of grease before it gets cold. I didn't hunt down a legendary hot dog stand for you to let it sit."

But Ben wasn’t looking at the food. His hand shot out, his fingers locking around your wrist with a sudden, bruising heat. He didn't just pull you; he reclaimed you, hauling you onto his lap until you were straddling him, your knees digging into the leather of the chair. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin, his breath hot and ragged.

"I said I wasn't happy," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made your toes curl. "Never said I wasn't a little proud... or completely turned on, Angel. Just don't use that purple shit on me and we're set."

"How do you think I stopped three of your near-explosions this week?" you giggled, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. "The reactor in your chest is based on emotion, Ben. When you couldn’t pull yourself out of the red... I used a small surge to reset your nervous system. Like a defibrillator for your heart. It reacts to the reactor, dismantling the charge before it can breach."

Ben pulled back, his eyes finally clear of the gold fire, settling on you with a look that was pure, predatory hunger.

"You shocked me back into submission?" He let out a low, rough laugh, his hands sliding from your waist down to the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him. You felt it instantly—the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart, and the very insistent evidence that his "dick didn't get the memo" about being annoyed.

"That’s not supposed to be hot, Angel. Electrocuting my ass back into reality." He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, teasing the seam of your mouth. "But apparently, my body doesn't give a damn about the ethics of it. It just wants you."

You felt the spark before it happened—not a reset this time, but a slow, rhythmic pulse of violet light dancing under your skin, answering the heat radiating from him. Your body was exhausted, your mind was a graveyard of the last thirty-seven years, but as you leaned down to kiss him, none of that mattered.

"We're a real modern-day Harley and Joker, aren't we?" he mumbled against your lips, his hands roaming with a possessive, desperate familiarity.

"No," you whispered, your eyes flaring a brilliant, lethal neon. "We're way worse. They had rules… and Batman."

Ben’s Lips pressed against yours again, pulling you into his lap with a quick, jolting gesture. Finally feeling just how much he held back before when he showed you his true strength.

He’d always been so gentle, from the first night he ever touched you.

Manhattan in 1971 was a fever dream of velvet, cigarette smoke, and the heavy, metallic scent of Vought’s influence. Outside, the city lights blurred into a bokeh of gold and red through the floor-to-ceiling glass, but inside the penthouse, the air was thick with a different kind of tension.

Ben had been "Soldier Boy" all night—charming donors, shaking hands, and wearing the American flag like a second skin. But the moment the door clicked shut, the hero stayed in the hallway. He pinned you against the granite of the kitchen counter, his hands finding your waist with a desperate, heavy heat that made your breath hitch.

“I’m home, Angel,” he rasped against the curve of your neck, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that traveled straight to your core. He tasted like expensive bourbon and the winter air. “I hate those damn fundraisers,” he groaned against your skin.

“I know,” you whispered, your fingers finding the thick locks at the back of his neck.

“Hate having to play boyfriend to a damn whore even more.” He rested his forehead against your shoulder, exhaling a ragged breath. You hated it too—hated having to share the only man who made you feel seen with a public that only wanted to consume him.

He kissed you then, desperate and deep, as if the act itself could scrub the night away. But as you leaned into him, you caught a scent so distinct it made you pull back.

“Ben.” Your voice was sharp, questioning. You tilted your head, and there it was—a familiar smear of red lipstick at the corner of his mouth.

She always did this. Crimson Countess knew the cameras were watching; she knew he couldn't fight back without breaking the "America’s Couple" narrative. You weren't mad at him—you knew Vought threw him to the wolves daily—but the sight of it made your stomach churn.

“Don’t read the paper tomorrow,” he sighed, placing his hands on your waist. He looked exhausted, the weight of a year-long double life etched into his face. “I’m going to take a shower. Then we go to bed, yeah?”

As soon as the shower door closed, you let out a muffled scream into a pillow. You’d never let him see how much it hurt; you always played the stoic partner until he was out of sight. You paced the laundry room, the hum of the dryer acting as a shield for your tears. Your back hit the cold wall, your lashes sticking together while the rest of you fell apart.

Ben stepped out of the shower the second he heard the first sob. He’d heard you scream into that pillow a hundred times, but the sound of you breaking down in the laundry room made the hair on his arms stand up. Guilt, sharp and unfamiliar, settled in his chest.

He didn't bother with clothes, just a towel slung low around his hips. He found you busying yourself with a basket of clothes.

“Angel,” he said softly.

“Just folding clothes, Ben. I’ll be in bed in a minute.”

He didn't buy the act. He stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your back to his bare, damp chest. “No, you’re not. You’re in here crying because you think I’d make fun of you.”

“You would,” you sniffled.

“No,” he turned you around, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “Just because I laugh at your little temper tantrums doesn't mean I’m going to mock you for being upset about what happens when I’m not here.”

“It’s the contract, I know,” you huffed, wiping your eyes. “But she does it on purpose. She thinks because of a piece of paper she can leave marks on what’s mine. I’m an only child, Ben—I never learned how to share. I want to prove to her that you belong to me. Fuck her. You’re mine.”

Ben’s eyes darkened, a slow, devious smirk spreading across his face. He caged you against the dryer. “Say it again.”

“You’re mine.”

“Damn right I am.”

He lost control then, his lips meeting yours with a feverish intensity. He hoisted you onto the dryer, wedging himself between your knees. He started to pull back, checking for a refusal like he’d gotten every night since you got together, but tonight was different, you wanted him, you wanted to show you you were just as much his as he was yours, so tonight— your legs locked around his waist.

“I want you Ben, I need you.” You voice came out more desperate than you’d meant. But it was the damn truth.

The growl that left his chest made your walls clench around nothing. His hand slid under your ass, the other locked around your waist as he carried you to the bedroom, his movements fluid and predatory. As he pulled the chiffon nightdress over your head, his hands trembled with the effort of holding back his strength. He was terrified of breaking the only thing in the world he actually cared about.

“You want to piss her off?” he asked, his lips trailing your collarbone. “Prove just who it is I who I belong to?” You nodded, the scrape of his beard making you shiver.

He sank into the mattress, his eyes roaming over you like a predator, the towel was gone now, his large, fully hard dick standing at attention only for you. Your mouth watered. Ben knew the effect he had on you. He reveled in it. He tried stopping you just as you sank to your knees, when you refused, he reached for the rotary phone on the nightstand, dialed a number, and hung up after what could have only been a single ring.

When the phone shrieked a moment later, Ben didn't let you pull away. “Don’t stop, Angel. Prove it. Let her know.” He picked up the receiver and set it face-up on the oak nightstand.

His hand tangled in your hair, anchoring himself as you took all of him down your throat. From his perspective, the world narrowed down to the heat of your skin and the rhythmic, agonizing pleasure you were giving him finally after a year of sleeping next to you every night. He didn't care about the image or the cameras. He finally had you wrapped around him in the way he lost sleep over.

“That’s it, Angel. Fucking perfect,” he choked out, his voice a wrecked, beautiful ruin for the line to catch. “Fucking made for me. Taking me so damn well, baby.”

His muscles roped under his skin as he abandoned the "Soldier Boy" persona entirely. In his mind, he was claiming you in the dirtiest way possible, making sure the woman on the other end of the line knew her place.

“That’s my girl. Fucking hell,” he panted, pulling you to straddle him. He ran himself against you possessively. “Take what belongs to you.”

He watched you sink onto him with one wet slap, and in that moment, he felt like he was reclaiming his soul. “So fucking tight and warm, angel,” he murmured, he pulled you flush to his chest, kissing your shoulder. “Making it real hard to go easy on you tonight.”

“Then don’t be,” you breathed.

The room felt pressurized, the gravity shifting as he pulled you flush against his chest. He could feel the heat radiating off his own skin, the V in his blood humming a low, constant frequency that seemed to sync with your heartbeat. Every touch was an imprint. He looked at you as if he were memorizing the physics of your pleasure, his eyes unblinking, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his hands anchoring your hips like steel cables. “Do you hear me, Angel? No Vought, no fans, no bullshit. You being mine and me being yours… only yours.”

Later, as you lay tangled in the sheets, his heavy arm draped over your waist like a lead bar, he leaned over and kissed your forehead. He felt a sense of smug triumph as his hand drifted back to the phone.

“Well, she definitely got the memo,” he half-laughed, his voice still thick with satisfaction. “If she stayed on that line for all of that.”

“Ben!” you gasped.

He just let out a low, unapologetic laugh, pulling you back into his side.

The memory that had been replaying in your head for days faded as quickly as it came when Ben’s voice filled the room.

The air in the cramped apartment was thick with the smell of scorched oil and cheap gunpowder.

You looked up from your place at the kitchen island, the wood grain under your fingers feeling real and rough, grounding you. Ben stood next to you, looking massive in his suit that strained against his shoulders.

“You hear me, Angel?” he asked. He gestured toward the plate sitting in front of you—a stack of eggs and greasy bacon that looked like a challenge. He gave a faint, rare hint of a smile, the kind that didn't make it to the posters. “Eat. Last thing I need is you going mental because you skipped a meal before we head out.”

He reached out, his thumb hooking under your chin to tilt your head back, his touch surprisingly warm for a man whose hands were built for war. “I’m not hungry, Ben,” you murmured, the impatience knotting in your stomach tightening at the thought of what was coming for Countess.

“Yeah, you weren't hungry on our wedding night either, and you still managed to steal half my damn burger,” he grinned, his eyes sparking with a flash of soldier boy cockiness. “I was lucky I’d caught on to your games by then and went into that diner prepared. Now eat, before I shove it down your throat.”

He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his scent—pine and old-school pomade—briefly drowning out the room.

“Wouldn't be the first time you shoved something down my throat,” you giggled, the tension in the room snapping for a brief, filthy second.

Across the living area, a chorus of deep, exhausted groans erupted.

“I regret every single life choice that led to me agreeing to this adventure,” Gunpowder sighed from the sofa, his head dropping into his hands as he meticulously cleaned a rifle part.

“I liked it better when she was just throwing knives at the walls,” Legend huffed, staring into the amber depths of his whiskey with a look of profound misery. “At least the property damage was easier on my ears than the two of you.”

Ben didn't even look back at them. He just kept his eyes on yours, his hand moving from your chin to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the hairline in a slow, grounding rhythm.

“Ignore the peanut gallery,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into that private, protective gravel. “They’re just bitter because they’ve forgotten what it’s like to have something worth fighting for. Eat your breakfast, sweetheart. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

The car was a dark, jagged bruise against the treeline, bleeding into the foliage where Legend and Gunpowder lurked like carrion birds. Ben walked beside you, his shield a heavy, cold weight, his face bared to the night—unmasked, unbothered, and utterly lethal. It was the first time he’d seen your suit in its full, restored glory; a jet-black mirror of his own tactical armor that didn't just reflect the moonlight—it swallowed it. You saw the flicker of dark pride in his eyes. A silent, grim acknowledgment that the two of you were finally the matched set of monsters you were always meant to be.

The plan was beautiful in its simplicity: Ben wanted the truth, but you wanted to watch the arrogance leak out of her like spoiled wine until there was nothing left but the raw, pathetic stench of a woman who knew her expiration date had passed.

You hadn't expected her to be outside. Crimson Countess stood by a dilapidated trailer, watering a row of thirsty, dying plants as if she actually gave a damn about a living thing. Her red cape rustled in the wind—a cheap, theatrical flap for a hero who’d spent forty years auditioning for a role she already lost.

Ben stopped, melting into the shadows between two ancient oaks. He stayed in your line of sight, a silent, heavy anchor in the dark. He was letting you lead; he wanted you to enjoy the first incision.

The violet surge hit your fingertips first, a low-voltage hum that made the hair on your arms stand up. You felt the familiar flicker in your eyes, the world sharpening into a high-contrast nightmare of violet and black before she even sensed the shift in the air.

“We’re closed, kid. Come back tomorrow and you can see all the freeloading monkeys you want,” she called out, her voice raspy, exhausted, and dripping with that same bored entitlement you remembered from 1984. She didn't even turn around.

“I’m not here for the chimpanzees, Janine,” you said, your voice vibrating with the power humming under your skin. “Though I suppose looking at you is close enough to a primate in decline.”

She froze, the watering can tipping until it poured uselessly onto her boots. She turned slowly, squinting through the dark, a nasty, serrated smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, look at this. A little goth bat out for a midnight stroll. Who’re you supposed to be? The latest Vought reject?”

Then she stopped. The smirk didn't just fade; it curdled. As you stepped into the weak, yellow light of her porch lamp, the violet glow in your eyes pulsed, illuminating a face she thought was long buried by time, NDAs, or a shallow grave.

“It’s you—” she began, her voice jumping an octave as she took a timid, trembling step back. “You were human. A—a loose end Edgar swore would never be a problem.”

You let out a small, dark laugh that sounded like dry leaves skittering over a tombstone. “Stan always did underestimate the importance of a thorough follow-up.”

“How are you...”

“A supe? Or alive?” you asked when her voice died off. You stepped onto the porch, folding your arms with a slow, predatory grace. “Really, they go hand in hand. You just have to know the right people to grab the right cocktail.”

You looked around the dingy trailer, the piss-poor excuse for a sanctuary she’d boasted about for two decades on late-night infomercials.

“Is this what Vought’s money gave you? All those missions, all that 'saving' people, the poster girl of Payback? And you ended up running a monkey rehab masked as a third-rate carnival?” You sounded genuinely disappointed. “Guess you never were as important as you thought. See, if you were, you’d be sitting on the kind of money Ben left me. Decades of paychecks, movie residuals, and the Rhodes family fortune I inherited when you sold him out. I’ve spent forty years living in luxury while you’ve been cleaning up ape shit.”

She was looking anywhere but at you, too paralyzed to move. You let out a sudden, sharp laugh that made her jump.

“Do you remember that fundraiser Ben brought me to? Well, Legend brought me—kept me by his side until the cameras left. Then Ben dropped your cheap ass in the VIP lounge and fucked me in that dark back corner.” You were pacing now, the memory vivid and cruel. “As soon as he walked back to the party, you kissed him. Oh, honey, everyone saw the desperation. It was pathetic. And then you tried to corner me when he wasn't looking to make me feel inferior.”

You stopped, leaning in close enough that she could see the violet electricity dancing in your pupils. “‘Ben doesn’t actually like you, sweetheart. You’re just a warm body,’” you mimicked her old, shrill voice. “You called me a speed bump, Janine. You said he’d get tired of me. But what you didn’t know was that out of the fourteen years we were together, we spent nine of them married.”

The color drained from her face, her jaw hanging open in a silent, ugly gape. “Married?”

“Vegas, October ’74. Legend was the witness. I wore a Bob Mackie dress Cher hand-delivered to me. It was iconic.” You dramatized the gesture, your eyes cold as ice. “I spent nine years loving that man for who he really was. And his own team set him up.”

“You’re her... aren’t you? The Raven,” she whispered, taking another step back until she hit the trailer wall.

“Please, that’s just the name Vought gave me because they were too cowardly to confront me.” You shook your head. “No, I’m just me, Janine. The only difference is—well—now I’m indestructible.” You let the electricity surge up your arm, the air smelling of ozone and scorched wood. “When your little band of pussies decided to ambush my husband, I lost my mind. And revenge was all I had left. I’ve spent forty years hunting every name connected to Nicaragua. Including Payback.”

“Why not kill me sooner?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Because, Janine, where’s the fun in cat and mouse if the mouse doesn't know it's being hunted? I wanted you scared. I wanted you to hide. I pieced off the others one by one, planned it down to a fucking science. You think I wanted to start with the obvious choice? No. Swatto was a warm-up. But Noir? Noir was... lengthy. Three days I hunted him. I let him see my face. I took body parts every time he refused to answer a question. And when he finally told me what I wanted to know? I got bored. So I ripped his heart out.”

“You killed Mindstorm with Ben’s shield.”

“No, I used the shield as a conductor. More surface area. Tragic, really.”

“How did you kill Gunpowder? No one ever found him.”

“Gunpowder is alive. He works for me, Janine. How do you think I got every name and location so quickly? I’m not a one-man show, kiddo. You really should have taken notes.”

“You’re worse than he ever was,” she whispered, her eyes wide with a horrific new realization.

“That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” You smiled, a expression that didn't reach your glowing eyes. “When Ben found out you were still alive, he was... shocked.”

“What?” she suddenly panicked, her voice rising to a shriek. “How did he—Vought said the lab was locked down! They said he was gone!”

You stopped. The air went still. “You knew?” you whispered, the realization hitting you with a cold, sharp edge.

Movement from the corner of your eye caught her attention as Ben stepped out of the shadows, the gold of his shield catching the porch light. Countess backed herself into the corner of the porch, looking between the two of you like a trapped animal.

Ben’s hand found your waist, anchoring you. “Ben,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You look so young.”

“You don’t,” he replied, his voice a grave, jagged rumble. “What did they pay you?”

“Nothing.” She whispered.

“Nothing?” He asked as if he’d heard wrong.

“Ben, you have to understand—”

“I trusted you. All of you,” he continued, his chest beginning to emit a low, orange thrum. “I played my part, kept all of you pussies safe, played by Edgar’s rules…”

“We hated you!” she seethed, her jealousy finally overriding her fear. “You were arrogant, you thought you were better than us. Then you met her and suddenly you wanted out of the life you were hired for. They wouldn't let you go, so we found a solution!”

“How’s that retirement plan working out for you now?” Ben growled, his eyes glowing with the heat of a dying star. “You left an innocent woman alone, knowing the threats Edgar put against her. You wanted her out of the picture so bad you caused her to become this. You caused all of this.”

“Ben, it was never about her—“

“You wanted me, I didn’t want you, you said for years I’d get bored of her, that I was wasting what I was given. That I’d lost.” You’d never seen his chest burn as bright as it had in that moment. Or heard the tone of his voice the way he yelled “I fucking won!”

He pushed you behind him with a sudden, protective force, his arm a solid barrier. “Hold on, Angel.”

The explosion erupted from his chest, a blinding, white-hot roar of pure, unadulterated vengeance. When the light cleared, all that was left was fire, twisted metal, and the smell of ash.

Ben’s breathing was ragged, the effort taking everything he had in that moment. But his hands never moved from your waist, holding you against his back, shielding you from the heat and the debris.

He turned, chest till heaving. His eyes—finding yours. You rested your hand against the center of his chest, neither of you spoke, neither of you had to.

You just let the moment settle while his breathing did.

“Oi you lots beginning to be a real pain in my arse. First you take my only weapon against homelander and call it bloody love. Now you kill the next best bloody thing.” You heard behind you. Sighing deeply before looking around Ben.

A/n: again sorry it took so long.

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