scorpio empress 😈😈😈

The shop clock read 6:47 p.m. when Emily saw, once again, the man in the gray coat walk past the window. He did it every Thursday, always at the same time, always without looking at anyone. Sometimes he bought wilted flowers from the stall next door; other times, a package of candy that he left forgotten on the counter. Albert Shaw. The quiet neighbor. The man who never raised his voice, who seemed invisible.

Until that afternoon, she had never thought of following him. But something changed. Perhaps it was the way he glanced back before turning the corner. Or maybe the metallic sound she heard when he dropped something into his coat pocket. Keys. A lot of keys.

Emily closed the shop, put on her coat, and, without thinking twice, followed him. The streets were almost empty; the light of the setting sun tinged the peeling walls orange. Albert walked slowly, as if he knew the exact rhythm of silence. They turned two streets, then another. He stopped in front of an old house, its curtains drawn and a green door barely hanging on. He opened it. He went in. He closed it. And the sound that followed was a dull thud. Then, a muffled groan.

Emily froze. She approached the dusty window. She couldn't see clearly, but she made out a silhouette dragging something. Something small. Something motionless. Her breath quickened. She wanted to run. She wanted to pretend she hadn't seen anything.

But the squeak of the padlock stopped her. The basement door. Driven by a mixture of horror and curiosity, she approached the side of the house, where a small window offered a glimpse into the basement. She leaned over. And then she saw him.

Albert was downstairs, his back to her, hunched over an unconscious child. His mask, hanging on the wall, stared at her with a crooked smile. The black telephone hung from the ceiling like a pendulum.

A chill ran down her spine. As she backed away, she tripped over an empty can. The noise echoed like a gunshot. Albert raised his head. His eyes, hidden in shadow, met hers. Silence. Only the ringing of the phone. And the certainty that there was no way out.

The click of the padlock was the last thing she heard before Albert's hand closed around her wrist. Emily didn't have time to scream: the man pushed her against the backyard wall with cold, calculated force, without losing control.

"What were you doing?" he asked. His voice was calm, but his fingers pressed as if they could break her.

"I-I... was just passing by..." she stammered, unable to tear her gaze from his face. He wasn't wearing the mask, but in his eyes there was something worse: a calmness that didn't belong to a human being. Albert watched her for a few more seconds. Then he let go. The silence returned, heavy, oppressive.

"Come inside," he said simply.

Emily hesitated. He repeated the order, this time in a lower, more dangerous tone. And she obeyed. Inside the house, the air smelled of dampness and disinfectant. On the table was a half-finished cup of coffee and a newspaper folded with surgical precision. Everything was tidy, too tidy. Albert locked the door.

"You're not going to scream," he said without looking at her. "You're not going to run."

"I'm not going to..." she tried to reply, but her voice broke. He walked toward the basement. He looked down at her from the bottom step.

"If you want to understand what you saw, go down."

Emily trembled. But something inside her—curiosity, fear, who knows—compelled her to follow him. The basement was larger than she had imagined. There was a chair, an old mattress, a hanging lamp that flickered. On the wall, the demon's mask stared at her with its unchanging smile. The black telephone rested on a small table.

Albert approached the device and touched it gently, as if it were something sacred.

"Do you know what silence is, Emily?" he asked. "Y-yes..."

"No. You don't. Silence is when all the screams get trapped inside," he said, tapping his chest with a finger. "And you just broke it."

She took a step back. "I won't say anything... I swear."

"I don't doubt it," he smiled slightly. "But I have to be sure." Albert took the phone, held it up, and pointed it at her. "If you ever think about speaking, you'll remember this sound."

He dialed a random number. A sharp sound, almost a whisper, came from the receiver. A low hum that seemed to echo through the basement. Emily covered her ears. Albert hung up slowly.

"Good," he said. "Now you know enough to be afraid... but not enough to hate me." He moved closer to her, close enough for his shadow to envelop her. "From today on, you're going to help me. You're going to clean. Keep watch. Keep quiet."

"And if I don't want to?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. He tilted his head, almost amused.

"Then I'll convince you. My way." The silence returned, thick and oppressive.

Emily didn't answer. She just nodded. And as he climbed the stairs, the mask on the wall seemed to smile at him, as if it already knew how it would all end.

────୨ৎ────

Days, weeks, months have passed since that situation, and let's just say that Emily and Albert somehow began to establish a relationship. One where Albert had total control, and which he took to such a degree that Emily simply enjoyed it…

One of those afternoons when Emily was returning from the store, she found Albert in the kitchen, shirtless and wearing his mask, with an almost lascivious look.

"Oh, Albert, I didn't know you were…" She was interrupted by him.

"Don't call me Albert, call me Daddy~♡" he said with a calmness but at the same time with a seduction that was almost frightening in its allure. "Come here and sit on your knees~"

"Y-yes, Daddy~♡" Emily obeyed and approached him and knelt down.

"Unbutton my pants~♡" Albert said.

Emily nervously and eagerly unbuttoned his pants, while he watched her with a dominant desire. When Emily finally finished, Albert's hard member rose imposingly.

"Suck it," he ordered. "And watch me while you do it~♡"

Emily's lips kissed the tip of his cock before taking it completely into her mouth. Albert let out a sigh of satisfaction and cupped her head in his hand, guiding her movements.

"Mmmh~ Yes, that's right, darling~♡ Get it nice and wet for Daddy~♡" he moaned, completely in control of her.

A few seconds passed before Albert started fucking her face, making Emily choke on his cock.

"Oooohooo~ You like it when Daddy uses you like this~♡ Mmh~♡" - He was close to coming. "Don't worry~♡ Daddy will soon come inside your pretty mouth~♡"

But suddenly Emily couldn't hold back any longer and pulled his member out of her mouth, breathing heavily. Albert didn't like that.

"Naughty girl~♡" - He said in a serious tone.

"I...I'm sorry, I couldn't breathe anymore..." - Emily said, trying to apologize.

"Mhhh~ I think you need a punishment~♡" - Albert smiled through his mask. "On all fours~♡"

"W-what?" Emily asked, confused.

Without warning, Albert turned her onto all fours and began spanking her bottom, causing her to moan uncontrollably.

"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TRUST YOU IF YOU COMPLETELY DISREGARD MY RULES~" Albert yelled furiously.

Emily just moaned and screamed from the pain until suddenly that pain turned to pleasure.

"Heh, heh, heh~ Looks like you like being punished too, you naughty girl~♡" Albert said, giving her one last spank.

"Now let Daddy teach you one last lesson~♡" He began penetrating her relentlessly.

"Ohhhhhh~♡ Shit~♡♡♡" Emily gasped.

She felt Albert's member fill her up to her cervix, twisting and thrusting inside her.

"Ohhhh, yes~♡ This is what you wanted, little one~♡ Isn't it~?" Albert said, his breathing ragged.

"Y-yes~♡" Emily said, consumed by pleasure.

"Mhhh~ Good to know~♡" Albert quickened his thrusts; the squelching and smell of sex filled the kitchen. They continued until Emily gushed around Albert's member.

"Mhhh~ YES, COME FOR ME, YOU NAUGHTY GIRL~♡" Albert shouted, on the verge of climax. "OHHHH, I'M GOING TO CUM INSIDE YOU~♡♡♡♡"

"AHHHHHH, DADDY~♡♡♡♡" Emily felt him empty inside her, filling her completely.

────୨ৎ────

After that, Albert collapsed, exhausted, onto Emily. He began to lazily stroke her head.

"You were a good girl for Daddy~♡ I'm proud of you~♡" He smiled, now without his mask.

Emily smiled back and fell asleep beside him, just like any other day since she'd discovered Albert's secret.

Starlina was your supe name. You got it because of the way your eyes lit up yellow, like stars. It was a basic name; Vought didn’t give it much thought. You had been the very first successful human V injection before Fredrick Vought gave it to his wife. He didn’t want her to know he had given it to you first, so he buried you. Vought kept you in a cage all your life, only giving you the slight comfort of watching Vought shit. They didn’t put you on ice, they wanted to see if you aged or if the V-1 in your system really stopped that.

You didn’t get an assignment til the 70’s.

Vought sent you the new suit to wear on your first day at work. It was tight in all the right places, accenting your breasts and butt, and when you put it on, you realized a lot of it was see-through. You gulped nervously — the mesh lines swirling up your legs, dodging the bright silver stars, and instead just replacing some of the navy blue leather pants. Your white bodice was also see-through, but decorated with opaque sparkling stars. You turned around, and were happy when you saw your red cape that draped down to your lower back, covering the open skin, because (of course) Vought had designed you a suit with basically no back.

You had accepted your place in Payback because you adored Soldier Boy. (Not that you really had a choice, you were just pretending you did.) You slept with him the first night in the tower, but you’d come to regret being so close to him.

You’d come to realize he was… kind of an evil person. But you held your tongue because you noticed how a kiss from you would stop him from beating on Gunpowder. 

How the soft brush of your manicured hands on his rough cheek made him calm down enough so the others could leave peacefully. And you bit the bullet each time and slept with him. You’d give him “the best sex of his life” (his words, not yours), and he wouldn’t care enough to cause hell for the others. 

“So, what exactly are your powers? Cause there’s rumors going around you like… aren’t allowed to use them? Besides super strength, of course.” Ben had asked you after a few weeks of sleeping together.

“Vought doesn’t want me, uhm, showing you up,” you had admitted quietly. He scoffed, offended by the thought. “I can move things with my mind, which means I can fly. And nothing is there to see, so I can work stealthily. And laser eyes, and, like you said, super strength.”

“Man, they are wasting your fuckin’ talents!”

But the facade took its toll on you. You hated what you had become, and every time he stuck his dick in you, a part of you died. But you stayed with him for years. A part of you loved him.

Then you fell ill. No one could explain what was wrong, and you knew they were hiding something from you. You were throwing up several times a day, sometimes with blood in the mix of regurgitated food. No one would tell you shit. You knew they knew what was wrong, because if they didn’t, they’d be acting way more worried. They would’ve quarantined you in case it was contagious. Soldier Boy seemed more worried than all of them combined, and that made you hate him just a little less.

As you hunched over your toilet, wearing sweatpants and a dirty t-shirt, you hurled your breakfast. A knock came at your apartment door, and you told whoever it was to come on in.

“I brought you some chicken soup,” Soldier Boy announced when he walked in, and put the food on your kitchen table before he made his way to the bathroom. “You feeling any better?”

“Fuck no,” you groaned, rubbing your temples.

He knelt down next to you and put a strong, warm hand on your back. He rubbed it up and down comfortingly, not really knowing what to do.

You were about to say something, but instead you threw up again; pure blood this time.

“You shouldn’t be here, Ben, what if it’s contagious?” you reasoned. 

“Nah, if Vought thought it was contagious, they’d be quarantining you,” he countered. He touched the side of your cheek with the back of his hand, and you turned to look at him, after quickly wiping your mouth on a towel next to you.

His heart broke, it actually fucking broke.

Your cheeks were sunken in, your eyes were laced with red, and the color in your face was just… off.

“I know, I know, I look like shit,” you laughed. “You don’t have to stay, Ben, I know you’re grossed the fuck out.”

“Babe, honey, you really think I’mma leave you when you’re like this? What sort of pussy of a man would that make me!? I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again — you’re still fuckin’ gorgeous, and I love you.”

You smiled as he leaned over and planted a soft kiss on your forehead.

“I love you, Benny Boo,” you mumbled. He pursed his lips and shook his head. You laughed loudly. He hated the nickname, but he loved you so much, he tolerated it. “No, but seriously, I love you, dearly, Ben.”

“I’ve been thinking…” Soldier Boy started after a short pause in the conversation. “What if… What if you’re, uh, pregnant?”

You smiled sadly, “I already checked. They did an ultrasound on the first day. Nothing.” His face fell, and he nodded.

***

You were asleep when he came to visit you. He did the selfish thing and woke you, which you’d come to be so grateful for in the next four fucking decades.

He sat next to where you were sprawled out in bed, and he smiled down at you. He bent down and kissed your forehead. You stirred awake.

“Hey doll,” he whispered.

“Ben!” you all but squealed. You sat up so you could hug him, a little too quickly, but you dismissed the dizziness. You had been woken from a dream where he was next to you in bed, but in the dream, you knew it was just a dream, so you still missed him dearly.

“Sorry to wake you, but they’re sending the team to Nicaragua. They said it’ll take a while, maybe a few weeks. I just wanted to say goodbye,” he said. Your face fell before you swallowed thickly and nodded.

“Mkay,” you mumbled, squeezing him with everything you had in you. “Be safe, okay? I need you back home in one piece.”

“Babe, look who you’re talking to!”

“Maybe… could you not go?” you asked. You pulled away so you could look into his eyes. His brows were furrowed. “I just… me being sick, Vought doing basically nothing, and now they're sending everyone but me to Nicaragua? For weeks? It just… something’s off?”

He shook his head with a smile, “You worry too much, doll. I promise I’ll be okay. Hey, maybe you’ll be feelin’ better by the time I get back! I’d love to take you to a fancy restaurant, we haven’t done that in a hot minute.”

“Just…” You continued looking into his deep eyes. You loved his eyes. So fucking much. The way they’d change color in the light, the way they softened when he saw you, the way they lit up every time you said those three words, and the way he looked you up and down periodically just to throw a compliment your way. “Please be careful! I love you more than anything, Ben!”

“Okay, I’ll be careful. If anything starts happening, I’ll get the fuck outta there.”

“Thank you.”

A loud knock came at your door. 

“Soldier Boy! We’re leaving! Hurry up!” Countess yelled.

Ben rolled his eyes, “Fucking bitch!” 

“Be nice to the team while I’m not there, okay?” you asked.

“I’m always nice!”

You gave him a look.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll be nice,” he laughed a little.

You both said your ‘I love yous’, and that was it. You wouldn’t see him again for forty years.

When they came back, you were feeling better. (Fucking figures, a little too fucking late.) You went to meet the team at Vought’s private airport. You brought flowers for Ben (something he fucking hated, but you thought it was hilarious when he’d try not to smile, and acted like he was annoyed) and the team’s favorite food truck, prepaid by you.

Your face fell when you noticed everyone was in tears.

“Where’s Ben?” you asked as they closed the door to the plane.

Crimson Countess and Tessa wrapped you in a hug. You never fucking hugged, but you hugged back awkwardly.

“I-I’m so, so sorry, Star!” Countess sobbed. “We tried to s-save him!”

“Wha-What’re you… What’re you saying?” you whispered. Your eyes quickly flooded with tears, and you hugged your teammates tighter. “Wh-Where’s Ben?” you began to cry as you jumped to correct conclusions.

“The Russians had some kind of gun or weapon… they killed him,” Countess sobbed.

You leaned on them as your whole world came crashing down. You dropped the flowers and sank to the floor, letting out a loud as fuck sob. 

***

You were content in your life since escaping Vought. You’d bought a small farm in Pennsylvania, and you’d been raising animals with the utmost care. You had a daily routine of milking your four cows, letting your sheep roam free, and tending to the other animals you housed, including your flock of chickens and your three pigs.

You were brushing your brown horse Shadow (basic name, but you still loved it and him) when you heard a car pull up to your gate half a mile away. 

“Fuck me,” you mumbled when you listened and realized they were here because of Vought.

You quickly made your way to your gate as two men got out of the black car. It took you a moment, but you arrived there fairly soon, landing near the gate.

“Can I help you?” you called out, a frown etched in your features.

“We’re here for Starlina?” one of the men said. He was the bigger of the two and wore a long black coat.

“Uh huh,” you crossed your arms, “and who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Hughie,” said the other. “This is Butcher. We’re here about Soldier Boy. We know you knew him, and we’re—”

“What about him?” you asked as you went over to the side of the gate and typed in the code. Hughie and Butcher looked at each other. “I’m fucking Wonder Woman, two random ass men coming to my driveway asking about a dead man doesn’t scare me. Come on in.”

***

You poured yourself a hot cup of coffee.

“Want any?” you asked the two men who were now seated on your couch. They both declined. “So why are you here? Doing a research paper on Soldier Boy and thought I’d give you some new dirt on him?”

“We’re here to stop Homelander. Whatever killed Soldier Boy must be able to do the job.”

“Fuckin’ finally! I’ve been waiting for someone to take that asshole down.”

“So what did kill Soldier Boy?” Butcher asked you.

“I don’t know,” you sighed before taking a sip of your coffee and sitting down on the chair across from your couch. “I wasn’t there when he uh… yeah, I wasn’t there.”

“Seriously?” Hughie said. “…Why?”

“I was…sick…”

“Sick? I didn’t think you cunts got sick?” Butcher said.

You shrugged. “I think Vought was poisoning me,” you said honestly. “I think they were planning on killing Soldier Boy, and they thought I’d stop them.”

“Would you?” Hughie asked.

“At the time? I don’t know… I think we were in love. But then I also remember hating his guts… at least I think I did. But since losing him, something’s…changed.”

“So you have no idea what killed Soldier Boy?” Butcher said.

“No clue.” You shook your head. 

“Well then, we’ve wasted just about a day’s worth of driving because it sounds to me like you’ve got fuck all for us.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but honestly, you seem like a real asshole.”

“Come on, you gotta be able to give us something,” Hughie all but begged.

“I can say this one thing.” You cleared your throat. “I don’t believe Soldier Boy is dead.”

“Uh…what?” Hughie asked, a nervous smile gracing his face.

“I mean, think about it. How the fuck would anything kill Soldier Boy? And why leave me alive? Why not kill me too? Why let me run away and find a beautiful little life for myself?”

“Isn’t this all hidden from Vought?” Butcher asked.

“C’mon,” you scoffed, “you really think anything stays hidden from those pieces of shit?” You smiled sadly and shook your head. “Nah, I bet they’re just scared they can’t kill me, so they decided to let me have my little slice of paradise.” There was a pause in the conversation. “They can sure fuck with my head, though.”

“And that means…?” Hughie asked.

“My memories. They’ve completely poisoned me, plagued my thoughts.”

“Uh huh…?” Hughie furrowed his brows.

“They fucked with my memories. I’m one of the strongest Supes alive, but they found my weakness. And they used my own mind against me. Said they’d take away all my memories of Be-Soldier Boy if I wasn’t compliant. So… I bit the bullet. I watched as Payback became The Seven. I watched as they changed my name and my costume, my whole fucking identity, after they had me disappear from the public eye for like five years. I watched as Homelander slowly became more and more unstable. But then one day, a few years ago, seven now, I think, I just… I couldn’t fucking take it. I barely remembered Soldier Boy, which meant I no longer loved him, so losing all my remaining memories of him didn’t seem like a big deal. 

“So… I left. I just fucking ran. Like a fucking coward. I found this place, bought it from an old man and his wife, whose kids didn’t want it. I put them in a nice home in Malibu, and I checked up on them until they both passed away. Slowly, my memories came back, and every time I heard Soldier Boy’s name, saw his face, or heard his voice… suddenly I’d remember. So, naturally, I dedicated my entire life to trying to remember. Bought a shit ton of memorabilia, watched all his shit on replay, listened to his stupid music, the whole shebang.”

“And?” Hughie asked. “Did it work? Do you remember everything?”

You shook your head, “There’s still chunks missing, years missing. I know there were bad parts of our relationship, but I only remember the good stuff.”

You heard his boots hit the rocky dirt at the end of your driveway, and your heart leapt to your throat. You couldn’t move, pure joy rushed through your veins, and yet… You couldn’t move a muscle.

“Uh…Y/n?” Hughie laughed nervously. “What’s uh…what’s wrong.”

“Did you bring him here?” you asked quietly as tears slowly filled your eyes. 

Hughie laughed again. 

“You… fuck.”

You finally moved to your feet just as the door swung open.

“Ben,” you whispered. “Oh my god!”

He charged at you, gripped you by the neck, and shoved you against the wall.

“How could you?” he yelled in your face. “How the fuck could you look me in the eyes and send me to my demise?”

“I-I didn’t know,” you said honestly. You looked into his deep green eyes and let out a laugh of pure bliss.

“You think this is fuckin’ funny, bitch?” he yelled. He pulled you toward him so you were inches away from his face. “I fucking loved you.” His hot breath graced your face, and you let out another small laugh. He shoved you back against the wall, further breaking the drywall. 

“I love you more than anything,” you sobbed. “I swear I didn't know. There was a reason they were fucking poisoning me. They fucking knew I loved you and that I wouldn't let them hurt you. I loved you back then, I love you now, and I have loved you every fucking second of the last forty years.”

He slowly took his hand off your throat and put it on your cheek. You didn't fall to the ground; you hovered, so you stayed at eye level.

“I waited for you,” he whispered. You closed your eyes, then opened them back up quickly when you realized you needed to see his face. “All those years they fucking tortured me, I prayed you would come and save me. Where the fuck were you?”

“I'm sorry, Ben,” you replied. “I swear I tried. I flew to Nicaragua the second the team got back and said you were dead. I sobbed at the base they said you died at. I went to Russia and didn’t leave for two weeks. I threatened people. I bribed people. I fucking… I killed people. And eventually, Vought came to get me. They didn't just send Payback, they sent dozens of Supes. They tried gassing me, which is what I assumed they did to you, but it didn't work. Then they let out this noise and I… I could feel my mind being ripped open. I watched as memories were taken from me. How we met, the first time we had sex, our first real date. Then it stopped. And I begged them not to do it again. And they said I could either cooperate and go back to New York, or I could lose every memory of you.” You continued looking into Ben's eyes as tears slipped down your cheeks, as well as his. “So I went with them. I sulked in your apartment, I wouldn't leave, I wouldn't eat or sleep. I would just…cry and drink water and piss and do all the drugs I could find at your place.”

“That's a ton of fucking drugs.”

“Yeah. And when your bed no longer smelled like you, I went through your dirty laundry. And when I was worried that would lose your scent, I just started going through your things.”

His eyes widened ever so slightly, and you smiled, knowing why he made that face.

“And I found it. In your sock drawer, a basic ass hiding spot by the way. And…” 

You reached under your shirt, grabbed the fairly thick chain around your neck, and pulled it out, revealing the gorgeous engagement ring you had found forty years ago.

“I assumed this was meant for me?” You smiled through the tears.

“That's presumptuous of you.”

“Just shut up and kiss me. I've fucking missed those gorgeous goddamn lips.”

***

The second Soldier Boy had you in your room; he tore, literally tore, your top off.

“Oh,” you pouted, “I liked that shirt!”

He just laughed as he unhooked your bra. He took a moment to soak in the gorgeous sight before his rough hands found their way to your delicate skin.

“Fuck!” you squealed with joy. “God damn how I’ve missed you!”

“Preachin’ to the fucking choir, gorgeous.” He smiled down at you before he kissed you. He guided you with his hips over to your bed, not letting go of your boobs for even a second. When you were seated on the mattress, he whipped off your pants and knelt down in front of you. He kissed all the way up to your inner thigh and planted a firm kiss on your covered cunt.

“Shit, you still smell the same!” he commented.

“Well, you did always like the smell. Figured I’d keep it up.”

He tore off your panties the same way he had torn off your shirt. 

“Fuck!” he reveled at the gorgeous, bushy sight. “Oh, how I‘ve missed you!” 

You laughed, knowing he was now talking directly to your pussy. 

He began doing the Lord’s work down there, remembering all your favorite spots, and had you coming on his face in minutes.

“As much as I’ve missed that tongue,” you breathed heavily, “I have missed that dick inside me so much more.”

He took off the suit as quickly as possible, and your brows furrowed when you saw his limp dick.

“Uuh, Ben honey… are you not turned on?”

“Of course I am!” he chuckled, and he followed your line of sight. “Shit!” He chuckled awkwardly. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I thought maybe I wasn’t feeling properly down there and that I was rock fuckin’ hard!”

“Don’t apologize!” you told him. “Here, let me help.”

You began jerking him off slowly, and although he concentrated on the feeling and closed his eyes, he still couldn’t get it up.

“Shit! Fucking motherfucking shit!”

He took matters into his own hands and started roughly tugging. He took a few minutes before he gave up and sat next to you on the bed.

“I-I don’t know what’s wrong,” he sighed, running his hands down his face. “It’s probably fuckin’ broken now.”

“Ben, I’m sure it’s not broken.” You leaned on his shoulder, and he turned to kiss the crown of your head. “It’s probably just temporarily malfunctioning cause it’s been frozen solid for years, maybe decades!”

“Of all the ways to fuck with me, they just had to tear apart my fuckin’ manhood!”

“Babe, we both know they could never do that,” you assured him. “That dick filled me more times than I can fuckin’ count!”

His hand went to your bare thigh and trailed upward.

“Ben, whatcha doin’ down there?” you asked quietly.

“What, you thought just cause my manhood is fucked I wouldn’t make you see stars for the next two hours?”

You moaned as he slipped four fingers inside you, and he smirked at the sound as he began pumping.

Ben was true to his word, and two hours later, you had lost count of how many earth-shattering orgasms you’d experienced. It was over twenty, you were sure (thank you, supe stamina!), but you weren’t keeping track after the first thirty or so minutes.

Ben pulled his tongue away from you slowly and grinned, wiping the insane amount of come from his face.

“Come up and kiss me now, please!” you exclaimed, feeling a pause and wanting nothing more than to hold him close.

“Mkay, whatever you say, pretty lady.” He smiled and made his way beside you before he planted a kiss on your lips and crashed onto your chest. “I’ve missed these pillows.”

“They’ve missed you, too.”

There was a pause in the conversation.

“It was hell without you, Ben,” you said quietly. “E-Everywhere I looked… I saw your face! I even,” you chuckled sadly, “I even found this actor that kinda looks like you, without the insane amount of muscle and that gorgeous beard, and I watched everything he’s ever been in!”

“Hm, nothing compared to the real thing, I assume?”

“Absolutely fuckin’ not!”

“It was hell without you, too, you know.”

Your hands went to play with his hair, and he closed his eyes for a moment, loving the feeling he had missed so dearly.

“I-I was praying for you to come find me,” he said quietly. “And you know me, I never fuckin’ pray.”

“I was praying to join you,” you admitted. 

“Can I see the ring?” he asked, barely above a whisper. You’d been waiting for this moment, begging any god up there to let it happen. 

You took off the necklace and handed it to him.

“Alright, don’t look,” he told you, and you covered your face with your hands. And, after a moment, “Open them,” he said.

You gasped when you saw him holding the ring and down on one knee.

“Y/n, Starlina, my girl, my precious love!” he started. He was trying not to cry; he had been dreaming of this moment for forty-something years, too. You, on the other hand, let the tears flow. “I love you with all my heart. I know I’m a fuckin’ asshole sometimes, but I’m your asshole!” You laughed. “Wait, shit! That did not come out right.” He shook his head, also laughing. “I shoulda practiced this.”

“No, no, it’s perfect!” you assured him. “Keep going!”

“Point is, these hands of mine were made to hold you. This heart of mine was made to love you. My soul was made to be fully dedicated to you. I promise to be good to you for as long as we both live. So… eternity, basically. Y/n, will you marry me?”

You threw yourself off the bed and jumped into his arms. Both of you fell to the ground as you kissed him deeply.

“Yes, yes, Ben. I would be honored to be your wife!” you squealed and kissed him again. And again, and again, until you both needed to catch your breath.

You stayed like that for a second before you felt his bulge grow against you. You both smiled, knowing exactly what that meant you’d be doing next.

***

When Soldier Boy found out he was Homelander’s dad, everything changed.

“I-I don’t think I wanna kill him,” he admitted to you, and only you, quietly. You were sitting on The Legend’s bed. You were rubbing his back comfortingly, your brows furrowed with concern. “I mean, he’s the only family I’ve got left.”

“I know I’m not family yet, but the second we get married? We will be family, Ben.” You turned his cheek so he would look you in the eyes. “We can start a family.”

He sighed, “He’s my kid! Doesn’t that… I mean, doesn’t that mean something?”

“You’re right,” you nodded, “maybe we can just depower him. Bring him back here, keep him safe. Keep the world safe… from him.”

Ben shook his head and stood up abruptly, “If we don’t kill him, those assholes out there will never stop hunting us. I know we’re strong as fuck, especially teamed up, but… Homelander’s strong, too. If they were able to find his weakness, they’ll find ours.” He ran his hands down his face. “I know I have to kill him. I just wish I didn’t.”

“I don’t know what to say, Ben. I wish I did,” you said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, what you went through… over there.” His jaw tightened. “Just… tell me how to help, please? I know that’s a cop out, and really fuckin’ stupid, but… I’m rusty at this.” He chuckled at that.

He walked over to you, lifted your chin, and kissed you deeply. He got down on his knees and placed his head in your lap. He wrapped his arms around your torso and closed his eyes, as you rubbed his back lovingly, and leaned down (as best you could) to be closer to him.

“Just… Say you won’t leave,” he whispered.

“Of course I won’t leave! I love you, Ben!”

“That’s just cause you don’t remember everything. When you’d get drunk… you’d ramble. You fucking hated me.”

You shook your head, “I’m sorry, Ben. I really don’t remember that.”

“You gotta promise me that if you do ever remember it, that you’ll give me a second chance. I’m different now, I swear. I’m not a complete dick, just, like, ninety percent dick.” You laughed lightly, and he smiled and took a deep breath. “I don’t think I could navigate this world without you. I’ve never been able to. Ever since you first walked into that tower – perfect body, soft voice, those god damn eyes that looked at me with a mix of ‘You hung the damn moon, Soldier Boy,’ and ‘I’m not scared of you, asshole.’” He laughed again. 

“I remember.” You smiled. “You really were everything to me back then. All the comfort I had in the fucking torture center was the Vought movies, the interviews, the behind-the-scenes footage. And you seemed incredible. I just… I fell head over heels. And, when they said I’d be joining Payback? Your team? I knew I didn’t have a choice, but I loved the idea.” He gripped you tighter. “Then… from what I remember, we fell for each other pretty quickly.”

“We did fall pretty quickly, at least I know I did,” he chuckled. “I mean, that pussy! God damn! You just pulled me in, and I couldn’t bear to let you go!”

You chuckled, “Hm, I always had a feeling it was my pussy that drew you in… I think?”

“It might’ve been what drew me in, but it’s not why I stayed. I loved you like crazy, incredibly quickly! I felt like a fuckin’ fool! I didn’t know what to do with the feelings, so any time I felt like you were my whole world, that I couldn’t stand to lose you, I bought you shit — jewelry, nice dress, flowers if I didn’t have time to get anything else — I just… didn’t know how else to show I loved you.”

“You bought me so much shit!” you laughed. “Am I misremembering, or did you buy me a car?”

“No, I did,” he laughed loudly.

“Babe… I can fly! I didn’t have to drive a car until I left Vought and stopped using my powers!”

“Well, yeah, but it was your dream car! A black 67 Chevrolet Impala. We had the best sex after that,” he chuckled.

There was a pause in the conversation, a long pause, before he lifted his head.

“How’re you feeling?” you asked him, holding his face in your hands.

“Let’s go kill the son of a bitch!”

***

This was it, the fight of your lives. Ben was ready to go off as Butcher, and Maeve held Homelander down, while Starlight held back a sobbing Ryan.

Before Ben blasted his fucked up chest blast thing, you used your powers to push Maeve and Butcher out of the way. Then, to hold Homelander down. He couldn’t move a muscle; he was frozen, as Ben went off.

Soldier Boy fell to his knees, then onto his face, and passed out.

The second Homelander was powerless, Butcher beat him to death with the crowbar in his hand. Fucking iconic.

You looked over at Ben and smiled a little. He was still passed out, but he still looked so fine. You rushed over to his side and knelt down between him and the window. 

You brushed his hair out of his face and bit your lip a little. This was it… this was going to be the happy ending you had been wanting for forty fucking years.

“Ben,” you whispered and shook him gently, but he didn’t wake up. You figured he was just exhausted, and you settled on pulling him into your arms and hugging him. “I love you so much, Ben,” you whispered into his ear.

You looked up from him when you heard a familiar click — the safety cap had been lifted from the device used on you all those years ago.

“Fuck no!” You gritted your teeth as tears rushed to your eyes.

“Get away from him, Y/n,” Butcher said. “We all know we can’t fuckin’ kill you, but we will wipe you.”

“N-No, please!” You didn’t want to hurt Butcher, you didn’t want to hurt any of them. “We’ll go back to the farm, we won’t talk to people, we-we won’t even have fucking kids, if that’s what you want! I just… I just can’t lose him.

Butcher was about to press the button anyway, so you stood up abruptly, eyes flashing red. 

“You are not taking him away from me again,” you shouted and began to walk to Butcher. He pressed the button, and you fell to your knees, letting out a loud cry of pain as you held your head.

Your scream woke up Ben, and he winced as he sat up, not hearing the sound that was making your brain mush.

“Y/n?” He furrowed his brows. “Y/n… what the fuck?”

Butcher let go of the button.

“You fucking asshole!” you screamed. “Now he’s gonna have to propose all over again!” Butcher was about to press the button again, but you said something that made him stop. As your eyes flashed red, you said, “You can erase as much as you want, but deep down, I’ll know Ben’s still alive this time. And I won’t wallow in pity. I will find every single one of you and tear you apart slowly, until I find him.” You stood up as Butcher’s finger moved away from the button.

You turned around and helped Soldier Boy to his feet.

“You okay?” he asked you, touching your cheek gently. You nodded before you turned back to Butcher.

“You have two options. One, try and fucking fight me, and I'll kill all of you. Two, let me and Ben go live our lives together, like we were meant to, and everybody’s fucking happy.”

The Boys looked at each other, looked at Mallory.

“You step out of line — kill a civilian, hell, injure a civilian in any fucking way? We will come for you,” Mallory said. “We will get to work now, finding a way to kill you both. Don’t fuck up.”

You and Ben nodded, though Ben was clenching his jaw tightly. How dare they threaten you?

“Understood.” You smiled softly, then turned to Ben as your smile widened. You wrapped your arms around his torso, as he wrapped his around your shoulders. “We’re free, Ben!” you whispered, tears beginning to roll down your cheeks. “No more Vought, no more interviews, no more fucking torture! Just you, me, and a shit ton of animal friends!”

Ben laughed lightly, “And a shit ton of kids.”

You glanced over at Butcher and Mallory; they both silently nodded.

***

“Why don’t we just eat the fuckin’ chickens?” Ben groaned, looking at the vegetarian breakfast before him. “Hell, we’ve got bacon on legs out there!”

“Hey! Wilbur is not bacon on legs! Neither is Filbert or Gilbert! They are my dear, dear friends who have kept me company when I had no one else. All these animals… I could never eat any of them! They’re like family to me!”

Ben smiled, laughed a little, and was going to mock you, but then you both heard a car pull up at the edge of the driveway.

“Oh, what fuckin’ now!” you grumbled. You got out of your seat, and Ben followed you outside and to the gate.

“Grace? Grace, uh, Mallory, right?” Ben asked when they were close enough to see who it was.

“H-Hey Ryan,” you said softly, giving the kid a small wave. He smiled sadly back, barely looking at you. “And Butcher, of course, you’re here, too! Wouldn’t be a team up without a major asshole leading the way!”

“Kinda like how Payback had lover boy, you mean?” Butcher smirked. You rolled your eyes as Ben’s jaw clenched.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

“We’re here-” Grace started.

“They’re here cause of me,” Ryan cut her off. He finally looked at you and Ben. “'Cause even though you just killed my dad, you’re still my grandfather, Soldier Boy. And I’d like to get to know you guys… if that’s okay?”

“That, uh, that’d be lovely, Ryan!” you exclaimed quickly, a wide smile gracing both your and Ben’s faces. You put the code in and opened the gate. The three of them walked in.

When everyone walked into the house, Butcher laughed when he saw the food on the table.

“Couple of fuckin’ rabbits now, are ya?” Butcher commented.

“Right!” Ben exclaimed. “It’s fuckin’ inhumane!”

“We are not eating any of the animals on this property, and that is final!” You shook your head. You led the group to the living room, and everyone sat down. Ben sat next to you and one hand immediately wrapped around your shoulders while the other went to your thigh.

“So, uh, how do you wanna do this?” you asked awkwardly.

“Was my dad really a bad guy?” Ryan asked suddenly. He wasn’t really asking you and Ben; he was asking Butcher and Grace.

“You don’t wanna know all the fucked up things that cunt did, Ryan,” Butcher told him. The kid shook his head.

“Look, if I’m ever gonna forgive you guys for killing him, I have to know! Why did you guys want him dead? I mean, his own fucking parents wanted him dead!”

“He was a fucking pussy,” Ben said suddenly, when no one was answering Ryan. Butcher had rambled about him; Ben knew basically everything the cunt did.

“Ben!” you scolded.

“He took advantage of women, literal fucking children, he killed people for fun, he kidnapped recent mothers from the hospital so he could suck the milk-”

“Ben!” You stopped him. 

There was a long, long pause as Ryan digested what he’d heard.

“I-Is that true?” he asked the room quietly. Everyone nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry, kiddo. But he was a fucking monster,” Grace said.

***

The three guests spent the night on the couches and the guest room, while you sat up in bed thinking. Ben was draped over your thighs, clinging to you with all his sleeping strength. Light snores were escaping his perfect lips, and every few moments, you smiled at the sound. Fuck, how you missed those snores. 

Then you went back to thinking — Ryan was such a good kid. All you wanted was to protect him, to show him there was a way to use his immense powers for good. That he didn’t have to hurt people the way his dad did. Fuck, the way his grandfather did, too.

And you stayed like that; up, awake, and thinking until the sun rose and you heard your rooster crow. You didn’t want to wake Ben, but you didn’t really have a choice. The animals needed you.

“Ben, baby?” you whispered, shaking his shoulders lightly.

“Just like two minutes, I need to see her,” he mumbled. “Fuck I need her!”

“…Who, Ben?” You furrowed your brows; was he dreaming about another woman as he slept curled up next to you? Fuck, man!

He slowly opened his eyes, lifted his head, and smiled when he saw you.

“You, obviously,” he whispered. “Sometimes I forget we’re together again. Sometimes when I’m dreaming, I know I’m dreaming, but I think I’m dreaming in that fucking lab.”

“I love you, Ben.” You held his face in your hands and kissed his forehead. He sat up and kissed you.

“I love you, Y/n,” he mumbled. 

“You can stay in bed, I’m gonna go take care of the kids,” you said as you rolled out of bed.

“And by kids, you mean the animals, of course,” he laughed before putting his head on the pillow.

You got dressed and left the house to take care of your pets.

You met up with Ryan, who was sitting on the porch petting your calico cat, Bebe. He asked to come along with you to meet the animals, and you were happy to let him.

And so began a lovely little life for you and your family. You and Ben built a second house next to the one you shared, so Ryan, Butcher, Grace, or anyone they invited would have their own space and wouldn’t be “forced” to hang out with the two of you.

Ryan loved the animals and was a natural at taking care of them. At first, he was terrified he’d hurt them, but after watching you enough times, seeing how gentle and loving you were with them, he gained such confidence.

You let the other people in the houses stop being vegetarians, but they never, ever ate any of the animals! Even if they died naturally! You had a little graveyard at the edge of the property with their names on headstones. When Ben first went there, he realized you consistently, always had one dog in your life named after him. 

And after a few weeks, you and Ben got married in a small chapel on the edge of the nearby town. And another few months later, you were pregnant with his baby. A beautiful baby boy, who was born with powers just like his parents. As the baby (Jensen, you named him after the actor who helped you when you missed Ben) grew up, he got along well with his nephew Ryan.

And one day you woke up, it was Jensen’s first day of his senior year at high school.

You watched as he scarfed down his breakfast before he hugged you tightly and flew off to school.

This was it. This was the life you had been dreaming about for the past century.

It’d been months since you lost Ben. Months since you had stepped outside the tower, well, prison, disguised as Vought American.

You sobbed when the team had come back without him. You had gotten into a fight right before he had left. You regretted every fucking word. You regretted not running to him, kissing him, and begging him to be safe. Or, better yet, to not go at all.

The first month you were dating, Soldier Boy gave you a gold, heart locket necklace for you to wear. He hadn’t put his picture in it, he hadn’t been that bold. It was actually just a test for him — to see if you wanted him in the piece of jewelry. You immediately did, of course. You were head over heels in love with him.

You had fallen to the floor screaming, clinging to the locket, when Countess gave you the news. You eyes had shown a bright white, and your body lit up with glowing tattoos. That was everyone’s warning to get the fuck away from you, moments before you screamed again and pushed the glowing tattoos (now pieces of a thick glass-like material) off of you, flinging them all over the room.

You subconsciously played with the necklace as you crumpled and cried.

“Ben,” you sobbed. “My dear, sweet Ben.”

And just like that, your life had changed… completely, utterly, and forever.

Then you got some good news — when Vought harvested your eggs all that time ago (without any type of anesthesia, numbness, or anything to help with the immense pain. They wanted you to feel every last fucking drop). But with that torture, they’d created a precious baby boy. You had a piece of Ben, and you cried with joy.

“W-Where is he?” you asked, still crying.

“We can take you to him,” Stan Edgar said. You followed him to the nursery you didn’t realize existed, and there he was. He was so tiny. So, so tiny. And when he saw you he smiled widely before shooting his lasers in your face.

You giggled, unphased by the “attack.” You were about to pick him up, hold him in your arms when smoke suddenly started filling the room.

“What the hell?” you shouted. You turned around the room and realized you’d been too focused on your baby, that you didn’t notice everyone else left.

You fell to the ground coughing, and reaching for your baby.

“Anthony,” you whispered. You’d always wanted a baby named Anthony, after a friend of yours that helped you through the V-1 trials. You also wanted a girl, but you figured your partner could choose her name. It only seemed fair.

Then you closed your heavy eyes, and everything went black.

Months passed. Years. Fucking decades. Before you were awoken from your sleep. Someone at Vought had fucked up the dose of Holothane somehow and you woke up. You broke free within minutes, killing anyone and everyone that got in your way.

You reached for your necklace and realized it wasn’t there.

You knew you were still in the tower, so you ran. You searched your old room (which someone else had moved into. You stole some of their dirty clothes, not loving the tiny bra and panties you were in), you tore apart countless files and boxes in the records room, until you found it.

“Leverage,” the dusty box was marked, you furrowed your brows. You didn’t have time to look through it, you just grabbed the necklace and ran.

If you had looked through it you would’ve seen everything Vought could use against you — pictures and videos of Ben only you had had access to, jewelry he had given you, the ring he had carried with him to Russia and had planned to give to you the moment he got back, and baby pictures of Anthony, his story of how he grew up and everything you’d ever want to know about him. 

You left the tower, hiding in corners, and killing anyone that saw you. You weren’t sure how long it had been, you weren’t sure where you were going. But then you saw an advertisement — Soldier Boy and Payback Museum. Bingo. That’s where you’d be going.

And after spending hours there, right up until they closed, you left feeling empty still. You missed him. 

You missed his hearty laugh, you missed his beard, you missed the way his eyes would light up when he saw you. You missed his voice, you missed the feeling of his hands tracing your skin.

You leaned on the brick wall next to you and made your way down an alley. You fell to the cement in tears, sobbing loudly and drawing the attention of several unhoused people around you.

It was 2024, you learned that night, talking with the kind people you met. They had offered you food but you declined. You honestly weren’t hungry. You dug through the pockets of the jacket you were wearing, figuring there had to be something valuable stuffed in them, and found a wad of cash.

You split it evenly between the strangers and yourself, making sure you had enough to get by. You slept in the alley that night, and when you woke up the sun was in your eyes.

You said goodbye to your new friends and left.

You spent the next several months getting settled; researching Soldier Boy, figuring out what happened to Payback, and then learning about how… he came back from the fucking dead.

And he didn’t… find you?

Did he look? Did he know about the baby? Did he meet him? Does he know where he is now?

Questions just kept coming and coming and coming.

Then one day, after it had been nearly two years, you turned on the TV. You gasped and fell off the couch, and onto your knees.

“B-Ben!” you began to cry, gripping the locket tightly, tugging on it lightly. “Ben!”

***

Homelander sat and watched his dad do another line of coke.

“So,” he started, watching him with quite a bit of judgment. “Do you know… who my mother is?”

“Not a fuckin’ clue,” Soldier Boy said. “There was this chick I was hooking up with, but…” He looked off into the distance. “I was told she killed herself when she found out I was dead.”

“Fuck!” Homelander exclaimed. “Do you mean Inked? I remember learning about you two when I was a teenager.”

“Yeah…” Ben smiled slightly. He still couldn’t believe you would do something like that, but if he was being honest? He understood it perfectly. Finding out you were dead, gone for good? It nearly fucking killed him. But… he simply couldn’t die.

“What was her name? Maybe I can look into it, see if she’s got any family we could talk to-”

“Y/n. She didn’t have a last name, she dropped it. Well, she never told me at least. And anyone that pressured her about it usually got one of her glass-tattoo-things in their genitals.” He laughed. You were more like him than you’d like to admit. “There was this necklace I gave her though, when we first started goin’ out. If Vought kept that somewhere, I’d like to have it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Homelander nodded.

***

“So… interesting news,” Homelander told Soldier Boy as he walked into the conference room. “The necklace was stolen by an unidentified woman about three weeks after your quote, unquote “death” two years ago.”

Homelander showed him the pictures. It was clear Vought messed with the footage, made your face unrecognizable, but he’d recognize that body anywhere. 

The curve of your hips, of your ass, of your boobs; even under the layers of clothing he could still tell… it was you.

His eyes widened. Tears came to the surface but he didn’t let them fall.

“Tha-That’s her,” Soldier Boy whispered. Homelander’s eyebrows shot up.

“Really? Soldier Boy this is great news! It means we can find her!”

That made Soldier Boy smile widely. He even let out a small laugh before he covered his face with his hands; running them from his forehead down to his neck.

“Fuck, man!” Soldier Boy exclaimed.

Ashley walked in; “I am so sorry to bother you sirs-”

“What the fuck do you want?” Homelander sneered. He looked about ready to laser her in two for interrupting the moment he had going with his long lost dad.

“There’s, uh, there’s this woman in the lobby. She’s refusing to leave.”

“Why the fuck is that our problem?” Soldier Boy spat.

“She’s, uh, she claims she knows you, Soldier Boy. She’s claiming, she, uh… well she’s claiming she’s Inked.”

Ben’s face lost all color.

“Wh-What? She’s-Fuck-She’s here? Y/n, my Y/n is here?” He could barely think straight. He needed to get to you.

“If by Y/n you mean Inked, then yeah she’s downstairs.”

The elevator ride down to the lobby was the longest of Soldier Boy’s life. Homelander’s too. He was hoping this Y/n might be his real mother.

When Ben saw you all logic flew out his mind. He raced to you; knocking over people carrying important papers, steaming hot coffee, or the executives’ lunch orders. But didn’t fucking care.

When he reached you he scooped you up into his arms without saying a word. He couldn’t, it’s like his throat was frozen solid.

He couldn’t even think about what he wanted to say to you… he was just shocked. He just kissed you, deeply.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips between kisses.

He just nodded as if to reciprocate the feeling, he just couldn’t speak. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. You’d never seen him cry. You wiped them away with your thumbs quickly. 

“Fuckin’ missed you, dude.” You smiled, tears running down your face as well. He let out a laugh.

He secretly loved when you’d call him stupid, non-romantic names; dude, bro, man.

“I-I,” he choked on his words. “I fuckin’ love you so, so much.”

He kissed you again. And again. And again. And a dozen more fucking times before Homelander cleared his throat awkwardly. Ben put you down, but kept his arms wrapped around you from behind as you began talking with Homelander.

“Uh, hi, Inked. I am The Homelander, I’m Soldier Boy’s son.”

Your eyes widened, your mouth fell open; “Holy fucking shit! Anthony? Is-Is that really you?” You broke free of Soldier Boy’s grasp and hugged your son with everything in you.

“Uh, no, I’m-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i’m here, aren’t i?”

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

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

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

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

“branding survives pain better than people do.” 

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

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

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

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

“your devotion.”

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

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

“everyoen says that before they do.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

homelander smiles warmly at you. 

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

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

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

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

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

firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.” 

the deep nods a beat too late. 

sage continues watching the entire room. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh, i’m sure.” 

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

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

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

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

“yes, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his mistake. 

you take one step toward him. 

“that’s close enough,” he says.

“is it?”

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

it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find. 

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

the gold under your skin flares. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the room empties in pieces. 

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

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

you smile back. “thank you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose. 

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

“i didn’t want to overstep.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“thank you. that means a lot.” 

“it should.” 

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

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

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

“this way.” 

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

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

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

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

you nearly laugh. they work fast. 

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

“for me?” 

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

the lock clicks open. 

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

they have made you a home out of costumes. 

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

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

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

“nothing about this is sweet.” 

“i didn’t mean it literally.” 

“i know.” 

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

“he’ll test you,” she says. 

“homelander?”

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

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

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

you glance toward her. “does anyone?”

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

“is that advice?”

“it’s information.” then she leaves. 

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

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

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

the world is going to love this version of you.

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

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

“didn’t hear a knock.” 

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

“door was open.” 

“no, it wasn’t.” 

“it wasn’t locked.” 

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

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

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

“nice place.” 

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

his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”

“you always this invasive?”

“usually worse.” 

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

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

“that supposed to be a compliment?”

“depends on how sensitive you are.” 

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

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

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

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

you keep folding. “a demonstration.” 

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

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

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

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

“you heard me.” 

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

his jaw shifts. 

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

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

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

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

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

“whatever.” 

“and no.” you pause. “not always.” 

“bullshit.” 

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

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

“still mine.” 

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

you smile. “careful. that includes you.” 

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

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

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

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

“this your boyfriend?” he asks. 

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

he picks another one. “girlfriend?”

“no.”

“fan?”

“are you always this desperate for personal information?”

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

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

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

“would you prefer elderly?”

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

“you’ve got a mouth on you.” 

“and yet you keep inviting it.” 

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

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

“brood?”

“sulk, then.” 

“i don’t sulk.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you move instantly. “hey!” too late. 

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

“put it back.” 

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

you refuse to name it. 

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

“put. them. back.” 

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

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

“neither am i.” 

“soldier boy—”

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

you stop half a step away. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what?”

“using that little power of yours.” 

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

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

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

good. let him wonder. 

“i don’t need it for this.” 

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

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

“or what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

his smile fades by a fraction. 

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

“put them down,” you tell him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t talk.” 

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

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

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

“mhm.” 

“you wanted this before i did.” 

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

“i’m not using it.” 

“you’re glowing.” 

“because you’re pissing me off.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“sensitive.” 

“you like it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t flatter yourself.” 

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

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

you can’t. not cleany. 

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

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

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

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

your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.” 

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

“i’m not asking.”

“you will.”

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

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

he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine. 

“pretty,” his eyes sharpen. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“probably?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.” 

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

he stills when he’s fully inside you. 

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

“look at me,” he says. 

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

“ben,” you whisper. 

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

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

“take it,” he manages. 

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

so does he. 

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

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

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

“i’m the one making you—” 

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

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

“oh, god.” 

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

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

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

“don’t get smug.”

“too late.” 

“ben—”

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

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

“you’re glowing again,” you whisper. 

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

your lashes flutter. he feels that too. 

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

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

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

“yes.” 

his exhale is rough. “good girl.” 

the words land low in your stomach. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the angle steals whatever breath you had left. 

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

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

your eyes close from please.

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

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

“ben,” you gasp. 

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

his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.” 

“ben.” 

“again.” 

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

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can.” 

“fuck, no—” 

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

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

“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.” 

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

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

“there you are,” you taunt. 

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

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

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

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

“come for me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

his glow fades before yours does. 

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

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

you turn around. 

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

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

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

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

“give them back.” 

“no.” 

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

“you were saying my name a minute ago.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tags: @1inacerulean @sammysweetheart @witch-of-letters @monkievonkie @spnfamily-j2 @mornixgstar18 @glowingtoenails @kathypellar @spookybitchdreams @chxrrybomb22 @calyyypsooo @audreybea @ladykitana90 @happinessisaloadedgun @kizzylori @babesplzreadthz @blissfulwatermelons-blog @porcelanalux @nbhrhn @welikeclownsinthishouse @inkmm0ne @nightlark100 @prettybiching @monteyli77 @delightfulmusictiger @valencia-somerhalder-morgan @brainmp4 @verco @lmillsy97 @mathews78 @stellervoid

Relationship: Soldier Boy x Reader, Homelander in love with Reader. 

Word count: 9603

--------------------------------

The Father of God - Chapter 4

The office door slammed open.

Soldier Boy walked in like he had broken several security protocols and enjoyed every single one.

He looked at Sage first, then at you. His expression changed when he saw your face. Not dramatically, because that face was not built for dramatic displays of tenderness. It was built for war. 

“That’s enough,” he said. “Show’s over. We’re fucking leaving.”

Sage turned toward him slowly. “No, you’re not.”

“Wasn’t asking.”

“If she leaves now, Homelander gets a whole new reason to go crazy, and even the public would be on his side for that one.” 

“I don’t give a fuck…” he looked at you. “We are leaving.” 

“Put that love shit aside for a second and listen to me…” She moved in front of him, standing between the two of you. “If she disappears, he gets to tell a story of betrayal. He has a stolen bride and a conspiracy against heaven. All the mythological shit he wants.”

Soldier Boy’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting we put her in a fucking cult, then?”

You moved without thinking, placing yourself between them. Both of them looked at you. The absurdity of it nearly made you laugh. You, human and exhausted and newly canonized by a national cult, standing between two supes and asking them to be polite.

“Stop,” you said. “Just give me a second to think.” 

You pressed your fingers to your temples.

Your name was still trending. Homelander was still waiting. Tomorrow was still coming. The public had already been handed a story, and stories, once released, did not return obediently to the mouth.

You needed a route.

Some delay.

Sage watched you for a few seconds.

Then said, “You’ve thought plenty.”

You looked at her. Her voice was cold now. Not cruel exactly. Worse… efficient.

“What exactly were you hoping would happen?” she asked. “You’d feed him divine language indefinitely and he would never use it? Or include you in it to get him brownie points? He’s not an idiot. America needs a man in charge but it settles them to know a woman is around to ground him.” 

Your throat tightened.

“I thought we had time,” you said.

Sage’s expression shifted.

“Time?”

“You were supposed to get that virus before all this went to hell.”

Soldier Boy went very still. Sage’s face remained unreadable. For one second, the entire room seemed to tilt.

You saw the calculation in her eyes, the flicker of annoyance that you had said it in front of him, then the immediate dismissal of that concern because larger disasters had already eaten the smaller ones.

“Yes, well,” she said dryly, “some things don’t work on your end, some things don’t work on mine.”

Anger flared in you so fast it nearly steadied you.

“Don’t you dare.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“You hired me,” you said, voice low. “You pushed me toward him. You used my reads, my language, my strategies, my ability to keep him calm, and now you’re standing here like I’m the only one responsible.”

Soldier Boy glanced at you. Sage said nothing.

“You wanted proximity,” you continued. “You got it. You wanted influence. You got it. You wanted him stable enough to build around. You got that too. So don’t stand there and act like I invented this nightmare by myself.”

Sage held your gaze. For once, there was no immediate answer.

But there was no time for a blame game. No time for the satisfaction of being right. You exhaled shakily and turned away from both of them.

“We need a plan.” 

“I gave you a plan,” Soldier Boy said. “We leave.”

You looked at him. His expression softened only slightly, which meant, for him, it had softened a lot.

“She can’t leave the American people,” Sage snapped.

Soldier Boy turned on her. “Don’t you put that on her.”

“The polls show she is a grounding factor,” Sage said. “People believe more in Homelander if there’s a sane mother figure attached to the narrative.”

“MOTHER figure?” Soldier Boy barked.

The word seemed to hit him like an insult. His face twisted with disgust. 

“Jesus Christ, that’s what you people are calling it?”

“That is what the data indicates.”

“The data can go fuck itself.”

“I don’t want to leave…” You said, so quiet they almost missed it. 

Soldier Boy stared at you. “What?” 

You looked at him. “This can be managed… Sage just needs to keep working on that virus and I’ll… I can keep him steady. The more he trusts me, the easier it’ll be to administer the virus.” 

He looked at you in absolute disbelief. The way you kept punishing yourself, walking further and further into the trap, thinking wholeheartedly you were doing good when you were losing more and more of yourself… 

It was killing him. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. It sounded tired… dragged through years of conflict and heartbreak. 

“It’ll be fine…” You said, more to convince yourself than to convince him. “I can’t… we can’t leave. He’ll get so angry, and the people who would suffer for it…” 

“Their blood wouldn’t be on your hands,” he said, knowing where you were going with this. 

You shook your head. “It would be. It would be my fault.” 

“Oh, honey,” Sage said. She tried to sound sarcastic, but the tiniest shred of care bled through anyway. 

He looked at you, and something dawned on his face. 

“You know what…” he said. “Fine.” 

“Fine?” you asked. 

“Fine.” 

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. He turned to leave, and you grabbed his arm. 

“What does that mean?” you asked. 

He turned to face you. “Maybe you and Homelander are more alike than I thought.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah. He thinks he’s god. You think you make a lick of difference.” 

“I’ve been handling—” 

“Yeah yeah yeah,” he waved his hand dismissively. “You handle him, and how much has that helped? You keep thinking you can control this and make things better, that you are the only chosen one who can do it. Sound familiar?” 

It felt like a whip cracking across your chest. 

He sighed. “I’ll see you at home.” 

Home. 

He called it home… he wasn’t mad enough to abandon you, but what a time to say that for the first time. Of course, his timing was awful. 

He left quietly, leaving you and Sage alone in the conference room. 

He was barely gone two seconds before Sage snapped into action. 

“Okay. Tomorrow. You appear with him, but you frame the role yourself before he defines it for you. You are not a wife or a mother. You are a witness. Advisor. Human conscience. Got it?”

You let out a short, broken laugh. “Sounds easy.”

***

You had slept maybe two hours. Soldier Boy had stayed at your apartment only because the thought of leaving you alone after the day you’d had felt obscene. He had sat on your couch while you drafted and redrafted what you would say, beer untouched beside him, watching you with that tight, furious expression of a man who had agreed to let you walk into a burning building.

At dawn, when you stood in front of the mirror fixing your hair with hands that refused to be steady, he came up behind you.

Not touching.

Just standing there.

His reflection met yours.

“One of these days, you’re going to force me to knock you unconscious and drag you out of here.” 

You laughed. “You would never do that.” 

“No?” he asked. “Give it time.” 

You hoped it wouldn’t come to that… 

Sage said she had another angle for the virus. Until then, the best way to keep Homelander occupied was not pure worship but a few hiccups from non-believers now and again. Obstacles offered a sense of purpose, she said. 

Jesus, you hated yourself. 

He leaned down and pressed his mouth against your neck, his eyes still on yours in the mirror. 

Then he mumbled against your skin, “Fab Five Freddy told me everybody’s fly…” 

You laughed. That was what he did when he wanted to lighten the mood; tell you that even though he was angry, he loved you. 

“DJ Spinnin’ I said, my my,” you finished. 

He spun you around to face him and kissed you. 

It was hard not to think of yourself as a lamb walking to the slaughter. 

*** 

The sanctuary looked worse in person. Every surface had been polished until it seemed not to reflect light but manufacture it. The audience was packed so tightly that the room felt feverish. People cried when they saw him. Some cried when they saw you.

That was new.

That was horrible.

You stood backstage with Sage at your side, watching the feed on a monitor. Homelander was already out there, speaking in the low, solemn cadence you had trained into him. His voice rolled over the congregation like warm thunder.

“And now,” he said, voice rich with pride, “the woman who didn’t ask to be known. Never asked for praise or worship or recognition…”

Your pulse pounded.

“She has stood beside me in silence. In faith. In patience. Today, she speaks for herself.”

The applause began before you moved. A wave of sound, not as loud as for him, but warm.

Curious.

You walked out.

The light hit first. Then the faces. Hundreds in the sanctuary, millions beyond the cameras. You could feel every lens finding you. Every person inventing you in real time.

The Healer.

The right hand.

The chosen woman.

The mother-shaped thing Sage had warned you about.

You reached the podium.

Homelander stood nearby, glowing with pride so intense it almost softened him into something bearable. He looked like he had given you the world and was waiting to see you admire the wrapping.

You turned to the audience.

For one impossible second, your mind emptied.

Then you found the line you had built.

“I am human,” you said.

The room went quiet. You let the silence stay long enough.

“I think it is important to start there. I am human. I am limited. I am flawed. I am not divine.”

A ripple moved through the congregation. You felt Homelander’s attention sharpen.

“I have been called many things in the last twenty-four hours,” you continued, allowing the faintest self-conscious smile. “A lot of it much larger than what I can carry.”

Soft laughter.

Humor humanized you. It also lowered threat.

“But if I have any role here, it is not to stand above you. It is to witness. To listen. Homelander calls me a healer, and I hope to do that justice. If he wants me for counsel, to be the voice of people like me—flawed, sometimes helpless, oftentimes stupid in the way we handle danger…”

That got another laugh. 

“Then I will be that. I want to be that. I want to know you so I can help Homelander be closer to you.” 

You could feel it. Not all at once, but slowly. Sage would be insufferable about how well this worked.

The applause rose, relieved and approving. 

You turned back to Homelander as the applause grew, and for one awful moment, the pride on his face almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

He was thrilled.

Completely.

Radiantly.

He reached for your hand in front of everyone. You had no choice but to let him take it. 

The applause became cheers.

***

Back at the tower, the atmosphere was near euphoric. People kept a respectful distance from you, even those you considered work buddies, because now there was something vaguely untouchable about you. 

That only made you feel lonely. 

You were upset until The Deep found you. 

“Okay, I just want to say, from someone with a platform, that was huge. Huge. I actually think you and I should do an episode together. Like, the human conscience and the ocean conscience—”

“No,” Sage said, appearing from nowhere.

The Deep deflated.

“But—”

“Leave.” 

He left looking wounded. Sage turned to you.

“Well done. Your Oscar is in the mail, I’m sure.” 

“Thanks.”

“You look like you’re going to vomit.”

“Also true.”

“They like you.”

“I noticed.”

“That helps us.”

“Of course it does."

“Not that it will protect you if Homelander finds out about you and his daddy.” 

You frowned, disgusted. “Sage—” 

“Have you spoken to him about it?” she cut in. “Depowering Homelander?” 

“I don’t know how to bring it up.” 

“A little pillowtalk… some big doe eyes…” 

“Fuck, Sage, can you just be my friend for a second and not a military strategist?” 

You regretted the words the second they left you. You sighed, hoping she’d see your state and let it go. 

She didn’t. 

“We are not friends…” she said. 

“No, I know. You don’t have friends.” 

She looked wounded by that, but recovered quickly enough. “Friends are a waste of time.” 

“And every second of your life is so fucking optimized?” you asked. 

“It actually is.” 

“Then I’m happy for you. Not as a friend, as a subordinate. Your employee. Okay?” 

She knew better than to retaliate. 

“Good,” she said. 

Before you could answer, Homelander appeared at the end of the hallway.

Sage saw him too and gave you one last look before leaving. 

Coward, you thought, with deep professional respect.

Homelander walked toward you like he was approaching something sacred.

His smile was open. Boyish, almost. He looked happier than he had in months. That was the terrible thing about giving him what he wanted.

“There you are,” he said. 

“You did well today,” you said, trying to keep things focused on him so he wouldn’t see you unravel. 

Not that it worked. 

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Me? You did. They loved you.”

“They were kind.”

“No.” His eyes shone. “They loved you. You make everything make sense.”

That was becoming a problem. The mythology was tightening around you even when you loosened one knot.

He gestured toward the conference room. “Come in. Just for a minute.”

The room was empty when you entered. No briefing, no tablets, no team. Just the glass, the city, and the terrible shine of success.

Homelander walked to the window, then turned back toward you.

“You know,” he said, “I was thinking while you spoke.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

He laughed, delighted by the gentle tease. That was the way to not get lasered, you realized. Know when to appeal to God and when to treat him like a person. It was a delicate balance that occupied all of your mental faculties all the time. 

How exhausting. 

You pushed the thought from your head. 

“I was thinking about the future.”

Of course he was.

You stayed near the table. “What part of it?”

“All of it.” He turned back to you. “This was the hard part, wasn’t it? Getting them to see. But now they do. And after enough comes more.”

“And… what does more mean?” 

“We’ll need national gatherings. Not rallies… something bigger. Cleaner. More…” He searched for the word.

“Liturgical?” you offered before you could stop yourself.

His eyes lit.

“Yes. That. See? You understand.”

You regretted the word immediately.

He continued, energized. “We’ll need symbols. Not Vought symbols. Ours. The Church’s. The country’s.”

“I can workshop that.”

“We,” he corrected, pleased. “We’ll workshop it. Together.” 

Your stomach tightened.

“Yeah. We.”

Then he came closer.

Slowly.

You held still.

He stopped in front of you, eyes moving over your face with that warm, possessive softness that made your nerves light up in warning.

“You were beautiful today,” he said.

Soldier Boy’s voice was suddenly in your head, telling you it was time to leave. Leave Homelander, leave Vought, leave the whole fucking circus. 

“Thank you,” you said.

“No.” He shook his head gently. “Not like that. Not… decorative.” A faint smile. “Though obviously.”

You forced a small laugh.

“I mean beautiful like…” His expression grew earnest. “Like truth. Purity.”

Oh, God. You were too tired for this.

“Homelander.”

“John,” he said suddenly.

You froze. He watched you carefully.

“That’s what you should call me. When we’re alone.”

The room seemed to thin around you.

You smiled slowly, softly, buying yourself time. “That feels… close.”

“I want it to be.”

“You’re very sweet.” 

That pleased him. He stepped closer still.

His hand lifted, hovering near your cheek.

You knew the exact angle now. The exact breath. The moment before want became action. Your body prepared itself to hold still, to endure, to calculate. Then his fingers brushed your cheek, warm and almost trembling.

“Today,” he whispered, “I could see it.”

“What?”

“You beside me.”

Your pulse kicked.

“Homelander—”

“John.”

You swallowed.

“John,” you said, and the name came out like a swallowed blade.

His eyes softened so intensely that it almost frightened you more than rage.

“There,” he breathed. The word was almost worshipful.

He leaned in… he was slow, but you hesitated anyway. 

He stopped instantly.

His face changed, confusion crossing his features, followed quickly by concern. 

“Hey, hey…” he whispered. “It’s okay. It’ll be fine.”

You stared at him. His thumb brushed your cheek.

“We don’t have to rush. I told you. I won’t kiss you until we’re properly together if that’s what you need. I just…” He looked almost shy. “I thought after today…”

The room was spinning. You needed to stop this without making it a wound.

“It’s not that,” you said.

He stilled.

“What is it, then?” 

You let your eyes flick briefly toward the upper corner of the room.

The camera.

Then back to him.

“The room has cameras.”

For one second, he did not understand. Then he did.

His hand dropped immediately, and he stepped back from you, making the distance respectable again. 

“Right,” he said, laughter escaping him. “Sorry.” 

The word landed flat. 

You lowered your gaze, performing regret and modesty so carefully it could have won awards.

“Killed the moment,” you said softly. “Sorry.”

You were not sorry. Not at all. The relief moving through you was so huge you almost felt faint with it.

Homelander looked toward the camera. For the first time, irritation crossed his face.

“No,” he said after a moment. “No, you’re right. Of course. That would be… disrespectful.”

“Yes.”

“Our first kiss shouldn’t be content.”

Your stomach twisted.

“Our first kiss should be ours,” he said.

You nearly closed your eyes.

God.

The mythology kept building, no matter what you did.

You gave a small nod. “It should be.”

He smiled then, softer, restored by the idea that restraint made the future more meaningful.

“See?” he said. “This is why I need you.”

You did not answer. He didn’t even need you to, these days. 

He moved toward the door, still visibly buoyed by the day, by your speech, by the near-kiss he had decided was romantic rather than avoided.

“Later,” he said.

“Later.”

He left the room with the glow still on him.

You waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then you looked directly at the camera in the corner. You prayed he wouldn’t have that disabled for your next meeting in there. 

By the time you reached your office, Soldier Boy was inside. 

He stood by the window this time, not sitting, not pretending casualness. His arms were folded, jaw tight, eyes fixed on you before the door even shut.

“He tried to kiss you,” he said.

You closed the door behind you.

“He didn’t, though. I’ll keep people around us from now on.” 

“How long do you think that’ll work?” 

You leaned back against the door and closed your eyes for a moment. You were so tired. So incredibly tired.

“He’s happy,” you said, eyes still closed. 

“That supposed to comfort me?”

“No.”

Silence. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

You opened your eyes. 

“The people liked me,” you said. 

He looked at you for a moment.

Then nodded once, grim.

“Yeah.”

“That’s bad.”

“Yeah.”

He came toward you, stopping close enough that you could lean into him if you wanted to. You did, because it was the only thing you wanted anymore. 

For one second, the two of you just stood there.

Then he reached past you and locked the office door.

You raised an eyebrow.

“That’s your solution?”

“No.” His hand settled at the back of your neck, warm and heavy. “That’s my opening move.”

Despite yourself, you laughed a real laugh. 

His face changed when he heard it. His arms came around you as if he had been waiting all day to do exactly that. 

You stood in Soldier Boy’s arms, alive for one more hour, with the terrible knowledge that today had gone well.

Which meant the trap had gotten prettier.

***

Weeks passed, and Homelander did not make another move.

He was waiting.

For the right time. The sacred time. The private time. The time when you would no longer hesitate, when the country would no longer question, when the cameras would no longer make the moment feel vulgar.

And because he waited, people loved him for it. American Christian family values and all that other nonsense. The tabloids began calling you The Woman Beside the God. Then The Healer. Then, after one particularly nauseating profile by a lifestyle magazine, The Quiet Grace of America’s New Faith.

You had never wanted to be a concept, but here you were. A concept with tailored blouses, formal trousers, and carefully controlled facial expressions.

A concept who now had scheduled hours at the Church of America.

That, apparently, was your life.

The first time Sage told you about the “confession initiative,” you stared at her so long she finally sighed.

“It tests well,” she said.

“Of course it does.”

“You don’t have to call it confession.”

“What would you prefer? Emotionally manipulative patriotic intake?”

“Pastoral listening.”

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke.”

No, she never did. 

The idea was simple. Horrifying, but simple.

Homelander was too large now. Too divine. Too symbolic. His flock loved him, yes, but love at that scale became abstract. They needed a human entry point into the faith. A place to bring fear, guilt, doubt, grief, and shame. They needed someone who could sit across from them and make the Church feel compassionate instead of merely powerful.

They needed you.

Your first day in the confession room, you nearly walked out.

It was not called that officially. Officially, it was the Reflection Chamber, because Vought could not name a thing without making it sound like either a spa treatment or a low-level brainwashing facility.

The room was beautifully designed, which only made it worse. It was a place you would have liked to cozy up in, read Russian Literature against Soldier Boy’s chest while he called it depressing shit.

The room had soft lighting and a small table between two comfortable chairs. A box of tissues placed within easy reach. A discreet camera hidden badly enough that you knew it was meant to be noticed by you, not by visitors. Behind your chair, a stylized version of Homelander’s eagle emblem hung like a cross.

You stood in the doorway and stared at it.

“Please, no,” you said.

Sage, beside you, did not look up from her tablet. “The emblem stays.”

“It’s grotesque.”

“It’s brand recognition.”

“It’s behind my head.”

“Yes.”

“So when people look at me, they see him.”

“That’s the point, genius.” 

You turned to her.

“This is disgusting.”

Her eyes lifted. “Most effective things are.”

You wanted to argue.

You didn’t.

Because you were tired, and because she was right.

So you sat. And people came.

At first, you expected lunatics… you got some, too. 

A man who believed Homelander had cured his gambling addiction by appearing in a dream. A woman who wanted to know if calling another driver a bitch counted as failure of faith. A college student who asked whether fantasizing about Homelander was “inappropriate” and then cried when you said she was allowed to have private thoughts.

You went home that night, walked straight into your apartment, and told Soldier Boy, “A woman asked me if lusting after Homelander was a sin.”

He looked up from the couch, deeply offended. “Jesus Christ.”

“That was not my answer, but close.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told her fantasy is not moral failure unless it causes active harm.”

He stared.

“Sounds like shrink shit.”

“It is shrink shit.”

“She bought it?”

“She cried.”

He grimaced. “People cry a lot around you.”

“They do.”

“Why?”

You dropped your bag by the door. “Because I listen.”

He looked at you for a moment. Then back at the television.

“I always thought that was your worst habit.” 

You laughed.

Because yes. Yes, it was.

But most people who came to you were not fanatics. Most were ordinary. Embarrassingly ordinary. A retired teacher whose husband had died the year before. A young father terrified he was failing his son. A nurse who had worked through too many emergencies and wanted to know why saving people did not make her feel clean.

They sat across from you under soft light and gave you the smallest, heaviest things inside them.

And you listened.

That was all.

No miracles or divine insight. No extraordinary wisdom.

You told one man that anger was often grief with nowhere safe to go. You told a woman she was allowed to love her mother and still admit her mother had hurt her. You told a boy barely out of high school that courage was not the absence of fear, and that leaving a violent home did not make him disloyal.

Honestly, it was all just common sense. It was eight years of your experience as a behavioral analyst and a working knowledge of human patterns.

That was all.

Well, that and basic human decency. 

And somehow, it felt holy to others. They left your room lighter, and by evening, clips and quotes appeared online.

One stood out: I met her today. I understand why he chose her.

The effect was immediate. Homelander’s numbers rose… so did yours. 

Your face began appearing on Church materials in subtle ways. Not beside his at first, but beneath. Smaller. A human counterweight to divine force. Homelander in red, white, and blue, eyes lifted toward destiny. You in cream or pale blue, looking directly at the people.

You hated every image.

Vought loved them.

“The duality is excellent,” a brand strategist said during a meeting, tapping a presentation slide with obscene enthusiasm. “Power and peace. Judgment and mercy. God and witness. We’re also seeing strong engagement from women thirty-five to sixty-four and surprisingly high trust among secular moderates.”

“So glad my psychological imprisonment has cross-demographic appeal,” you said flatly. 

The strategist laughed because she thought you were joking.

Sage did not.

Homelander visited the Reflection Chamber often, though never while someone was inside. He would stand in the doorway afterward, looking at the chairs, the tissues, the soft lighting, like he was seeing proof of something he had always hoped was true.

“They trust you,” he said one afternoon.

You were gathering your notes. “They trust the space. It’s well designed for its purpose.”

“No.” He smiled. “They trust you.”

You looked up. He was warm again, which was never good news for you. 

“You help them understand me,” he said.

Your fingers tightened around the folder.

“I help them understand themselves.”

His smile faltered slightly… the twitch that could launch missiles. Then he absorbed the correction and made it part of his own story.

“Exactly,” he said. “Because through themselves, they find me.”

You stared at him. Sometimes there was no winning. Sometimes every road led back to the altar.

“They do,” you said softly.

Because what else could you say?

The press would not leave it alone, either. 

At first, reporters asked carefully: “What role does she play in the Church?”

Then boldly: “Is she your spiritual advisor?”

Then greedily: “Homelander, what does she really mean to you?”

He loved that question. You could tell every time he was asked. His posture shifted, his smile softened. 

“She is…” he said once, outside the Church after a memorial service for victims of the Denver attack. “She is proof that humanity can still be saved.”

The clip went viral in eleven minutes.

Another time, a reporter shouted, “Are you two romantically involved?”

Homelander paused.

He did not deny it. He smiled faintly, looked down as though protecting something intimate, then said, “Some things are too sacred to reduce to gossip.”

The internet lost its mind. Vought did not care to correct the speculation either, which meant… 

***

That night, you got home to see Soldier Boy watching reruns of that particular clip. 

Some things are too sacred to reduce to gossip.

You stood near the kitchen, arms crossed around yourself.

“Say something,” you said.

Soldier Boy turned off the TV. The silence afterward was worse.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hate it.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Still hate it.”

“I know.”

He stood.

“He’s getting comfortable,” Soldier Boy said.

“Yes.”

“With you.”

“Yes.”

“With the country thinking you’re his.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“You’re getting comfortable too.”

That hit wrong.

You straightened. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I am not comfortable.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Anger flared. “Do you think I enjoy being turned into a symbol?”

“No,” he said. “I think you enjoy being useful. You always do.”

You went still.

“That’s not fair,” you said. “You make me sound like some desperate people-pleaser.” 

“Okay. Then walk away from the church.” 

You stared at him. “I don’t go there for Homelander, I go there for the people.” 

“I never said you go there for Homelander.” 

“I’m helping people,” you said.

His expression shifted.

“I know.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

“Some of them come in there destroyed.”

“I know.”

“And I tell them something ordinary, something any decent person could say, and they look at me like—” Your voice caught. You hated that too. “Like no one has ever spoken to them gently in their entire lives.”

Soldier Boy said nothing. You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing all the hurt away so you could think. 

You lowered your hands.

He was watching you differently now.

“It would be easier if it were all fake,” you said. “If everyone in that room were a zealot or a plant or a monster. But they aren’t. They’re lonely. They’re scared. They sit across from me and I can help them.”

Soldier Boy’s face hardened. 

“But every time you help them,” he said, “it helps him.”

You laughed once, bitterly.

“I know. That’s the whole rotten machine. The kinder I am, the stronger he becomes.”

Soldier Boy crossed the room then and took your face in both hands. The gesture was so sudden and so careful it stole your breath.

“You listen to me,” he said.

You looked up at him.

“You are not the rotten part.”

Your eyes burned instantly, and you closed them. 

“I’m becoming it,” you whispered.

“No, you’re not. You wanna help people, help people. But you can do that anywhere, you don’t have to do it here.”

A laugh broke out of you.

“You are very bad at comforting people.”

“I know.”

“The worst.” 

“Yeah.”

You opened your eyes. He looked almost embarrassed by the tenderness, which made it land harder.

So you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his chest.

His arms went around you immediately.

“I’m scared I won’t know when to leave,” you said into his shirt.

His chest moved under your cheek.

“Offer’s still up to knock you unconscious and drag you out of here.” 

You laughed, though it was laced with enough sadness to break his heart. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

***

The trap got sweeter.

Every layer made sense on its own.

One more Church appearance, because your approval among hesitant women was softening resistance. One more listening session, because the testimonials were stabilizing the base. One more carefully photographed moment with Homelander, because the image of power tempered by humanity reassured moderates. One more interview refusal, because mystique played better than overexposure.

One more soft smile.

One more clip of Homelander looking at you like you were sacred.

One more day.

One more day.

One more day.

Vought knew what you meant now. Not to Homelander, but to the machine. It was a tale as old as time—let the woman bear the emotional weight so the man can carry… nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

The better you got at your role, the better he looked. 

It was cruel. It was disgusting. 

It was… American. 

And the public adored you for it.

People began waiting outside the Church to see you. They brought letters. Flowers. Small gifts you refused whenever possible and that Vought cataloged when refusal became impossible. Women cried when you touched their hands. Men lowered their voices when speaking to you. Children waved.

One little girl, maybe seven, gave you a drawing of Homelander in the sky, and you standing beneath him with yellow light around your head.

You stared at it for too long.

“What is it?” Homelander asked later, seeing it on your desk.

You smiled faintly. “Child’s drawing.”

He picked it up and looked at it.

His face softened.

“She sees it,” he said.

Your stomach went cold.

He placed the drawing carefully back on the desk, as if it were precious.

“You’re so loved,” he said. It was so warm, you could have cried. But laced with that was pride. 

Like he had given you this.

“Thanks to you,” you said, because it was the safest answer.

His smile was beautiful.

Terrible.

“You deserve it.”

At home, you started crying in the shower. It was the only place you could truly let yourself go, because you knew even Soldier Boy had limits to how much he could tolerate the pain you were inflicting on yourself. 

The first time it happened, you stepped out, wrapped in a towel, and found Soldier Boy sitting on the closed toilet lid, staring at the floor.

You froze.

“What are you doing?”

He looked up. His face was unreadable.

“You were in there a long time.”

“I’m allowed to shower.”

“Yeah.”

“Were you listening?”

“No.”

You both pretended that was true. 

“You put your bag down in the wrong place and didn’t yell at me for drinking from the carton. Figured something was off.” 

You stared at him. Then, absurdly, you laughed.

He frowned.

“What?”

“You notice where I put my bag?”

His expression went flat. “Don’t make it weird.”

“It is weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“You drank from the carton?”

“There she is.”

You laughed, only for a second. When that faded, the ache remained. 

He saw that too.

He got up and stepped closer to you. 

“I know things are fucked in a way you can’t even explain…” he said. “But I don’t want you to think I’m tired of being here. I mean… I usually never know what to say, I’m no shrink—”  

You laughed at that. 

“But I’m here,” he finished. “Whatever that means to you.” 

It meant a lot. 

That was one of two things keeping you going. The other was the promise that Sage was working on getting the virus. 

So… you kept working.

What else could you do?

You listened to confessions that were not called confessions. You told people to call their daughters, leave their cruel husbands, apologize without demanding forgiveness, sleep more, drink water, stop treating grief like a moral failure. You said ordinary things in a quiet voice, and people left believing they had been touched by grace.

The trap got sweeter.

***

The bigger they are, the harder they fall. 

You waited for that to become true for Homelander any day now. 

But you—even if Vought wouldn’t say it to his face—had become bigger than Homelander. That’s what made it worse. 

By noon, the clip was everywhere. By 12:07 PM, it had crossed every platform. By 12:14, the first edited compilations appeared. By 12:20, the hashtags split into factions.

#TheHealerExposed

#ProtectHomelander

#FalseProphet

#WhoreOfVought

By 1 PM, the Church of America’s main prayer forums had collapsed into digital bloodsport.

You stared at your phone in the Crime Analytics department while your pulse hammered so violently it blurred your vision.

The footage was unmistakable.

Vought security footage from one of the private archive rooms three weeks ago… you and Soldier Boy.

His mouth on your throat.

Your hands in his hair.

The sound muted, but the intimacy louder for it somehow. The urgency. The wanting. You looked devastated by him. Hungry for him. Alive with him.

And America saw all of it.

You sat frozen on the edge of your chair while headlines multiplied in real time.

THE HEALER’S BETRAYAL

HOMELANDER’S RIGHT HAND EXPOSED

SECRET AFFAIR INSIDE VOUGHT

WAS THE CHURCH BUILT ON A LIE?

The comments were worse. You had not realized how much of the country had quietly decided you already belonged to Homelander until they reacted as though you had cheated on a marriage that had never happened.

Not just cheated.

Desecrated.

They called you manipulative. Corrupt. Satanic. A temptress. A government plant. A communist honeypot. A whore who used softness to weaken America’s protector. Women who once quoted your advice under pastel graphics now reposted Bible verses about false idols and adulteresses. Men who had once called you calming now called you contaminated.

The speed of it was nauseating. The internet did not merely turn on women… it always enjoyed the turn. 

“What the fuck…” you breathed. “What the fuck, what the fuck.” 

The others in the room had all seen the footage, of course. They stared at you. 

You stood up from your chair and walked into the hallway, only to meet a wall in front of you. You looked up, and his teeth flashed at you. 

“Going somewhere?” 

You took a deep breath to calibrate yourself. “I was going to look for you.” 

“Is that right?” 

You nodded. 

He turned. “Conference room. Now.” 

You followed him because there was nothing else to do. You could hear Soldier Boy in your head, furious that you didn’t leave with him, furious that you didn’t listen to him. 

No time for that now. 

On the way to the conference room, you watched crisis teams move in perfect lines. PR assistants clutched tablets with pale faces. Every screen in the building showed some variation of your face beside Homelander’s and Soldier Boy’s, split into before and after like a national betrayal timeline.

The Healer.

The Lover.

The Fraud.

You walked through it like someone moving toward an execution chamber.

Nobody stopped you. Nobody met your eyes either.

The Seven conference room doors slid open.

He turned once you were inside. The doors closed behind you like a death sentence. 

You had seen Homelander furious. Smiling. Bloody. Euphoric. Empty. You had never seen him wounded.

It was horrifying.

His eyes moved over you slowly, desperately, like he was trying to find evidence the footage was fake hidden somewhere in your face.

“I watched it,” he said quietly.

Your throat closed.

“I gathered.” 

“Ten times, probably. Do you know why?” 

Each word sounded surgically controlled.

“I kept thinking maybe…” He swallowed hard. “Maybe there was context missing.”

You couldn’t breathe properly. Homelander stopped in front of you. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes. The devastation. The humiliation. The terrible, impossible hope still alive underneath it all.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said softly.

The sentence nearly destroyed you.

“You can tell me the truth.”

You stared at him.

“I know Soldier Boy,” he continued quickly, voice tightening. “I know what he’s like. He can be… pushy. Maybe he cornered you. Maybe he pressured you. Maybe you felt…” His jaw worked. “Unsafe.”

The hope in his eyes was unbearable. Not because it was noble but because he was asking, begging, for you to be everything he thought you were. 

He wanted this. Wanted the world where you had not betrayed him. Wanted the world where he could save you instead of lose you.

And for one catastrophic second, you saw the path.

He wanted you to say yes. The Church would forgive you because victimhood fit the mythology. The flock would turn their hatred toward Soldier Boy, and Homelander would become your protector. Your savior. 

The God who healed the healer. 

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. 

All it would cost was the man you loved.

Soldier Boy’s laugh flashed through your mind. His softness that you had earned with honesty. How you had become peace, actual peace, for each other. 

Fuck. 

You really should have left when you had the chance.

Homelander’s voice cracked slightly. “Is that what happened?”

You looked at him. And understood with sudden, terrible clarity that this was the last real choice you were ever going to get.

Your mouth felt numb.

“He didn’t force me into anything,” you said finally. 

The room changed. Homelander’s face emptied.

Then something behind it collapsed with enough force you almost physically felt it.

“Ah,” he said.

Just that.

You had never heard a human being sound so destroyed in one syllable.

Then came the rest—hurt, betrayal, humiliation. 

The realization.

Every smile you had given him, every careful word, all the times he mistook your management for intimacy. 

His breathing changed. Your survival instincts screamed.

“Homelander—”

“Don’t.”

His voice was flat now. Terrifyingly flat.

“You lied to me.”

You swallowed. “Not about everything.”

His eyes snapped to yours, red already flickering beneath the blue.

“You let him touch you,” he said, as if this were the greater crime. “You wouldn’t even let me kiss you, but him—you let him fuck you wherever he wanted.” 

The words landed like a slap. 

“You pointed to that fucking camera and said we couldn’t kiss, like you were so fucking modest,” his voice rose. “All the while—” 

He laughed.  

“I cared about you,” you said, trying to salvage whatever you could. “I—I told you, I just couldn’t love you in the way—” 

“Don’t you dare, missy.” 

You stopped in your tracks. You wished he would just laser you and get it over with.

“Oh my God.” He stepped back, staring at you like he no longer understood the shape of reality. “Oh my God, you actually—”

His eyes burned brighter.

“You let me build all this around you.”

“I was trying to keep things stable.”

“You LET ME LOVE YOU.”

The room rattled. Glass trembled. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“You told me you believed in me!”

“I did! I do!”

“Bullshit!”

His eyes flashed fully red. For one second, you thought he would kill you right there. Then he stopped himself.

Barely.

His chest rose violently beneath the suit.

“You made me weak,” he whispered.

“No—”

“You made me think…” He laughed again, more broken this time. “Jesus Christ. I made you holy.”

Pain shot through you because yes. Yes, he had, and you had let him because of your own desire to survive. 

Homelander came closer suddenly, too fast for your body to react properly.

His eyes glowed bright now.

“You embarrassed me.”

The heat from his gaze touched your skin.

“You turned me into a joke.”

“I never wanted—”

“SHUT UP!”

The windows shook. Somewhere outside the room, alarms began chirping.

Homelander stared at you breathing hard, eyes burning. Then something worse entered his face.

Decision.

The exact expression you had spent a year preventing.

“You know what?” he said softly.

That softness terrified you more than the shouting.

“Maybe Sage was right.”

Cold flooded your body.

“What?”

“She said love made people irrational.” His smile twitched. “I just thought she was a miserable, lonely fucking nerd, but… she was right.” 

The glow intensified. 

The conference room doors exploded inward. Soldier Boy came through them like a missile.

Homelander barely had time to turn before Soldier Boy hit him hard enough to crater the far wall.

The impact shook the entire room.

Concrete burst outward.

Glass shattered in glittering sheets across the skyline.

Homelander roared, grabbing Soldier Boy by the throat and driving him through the conference table. The thing split in half with a deafening crack.

You stumbled backward as alarms screamed now throughout the tower.

Soldier Boy slammed his shield upward into Homelander’s jaw. Homelander hit the floor, then launched upward instantly, driving Soldier Boy through three reinforced wall panels like paper.

The building shook.

People screamed outside.

Soldier Boy laughed through split lips.

Homelander hit him again, hard enough to bend steel.

“You fucking ruined EVERYTHING!”

“No,” Soldier Boy snarled, shoving him back. “She did.”

Your stomach dropped. Homelander froze just enough for Soldier Boy to continue.

“She made people think there was still something human in you.” His expression turned vicious. “Turns out you’re just a needy fucking baby in a cape.”

Homelander lunged. The fight became catastrophic. Two gods tearing chunks out of each other inside a skyscraper built to worship them.

Homelander moved faster, but Soldier Boy hit harder. Every impact sounded like structural collapse. Walls caved inward. Screens exploded. Sprinklers burst from the ceiling. Smoke poured through the ruined room.

Soldier Boy’s expression changed. Energy began building in his chest. Homelander’s eyes widened. And for the first time, you saw fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. 

That is when you realized it… 

This leak. The timing. The source.

Sage.

Of course.

She was the leak. 

Not because she hated you, Sage didn’t have time for hate any more than she had time for love. This was contingency, and you were collateral. 

Rage flashed through you so hot it almost cut through the terror.

“You don’t deserve the fucking mythology they built around you,” Soldier Boy growled. “You’re no god.”

The light intensified.

Homelander launched forward.

Soldier Boy grabbed him.

Held him close. 

The blast detonated.

White-hot energy tore through the conference room with catastrophic force. Every screen exploded. The remaining walls vaporized outward. 

For one blinding second, everything disappeared in brilliant, white light.

Then silence. Ringing silence.

Smoke choked the room.

You pushed yourself upward, ears screaming. The conference room had been ripped open to the city air, steel bent outward like broken ribs.

And in the center of the devastation—

Homelander lay still.

A second later, he gasped sharply, confused and panicked. 

Then he looked at his hands. 

Bleeding. 

Soldier Boy staggered nearby, breathing hard. Homelander looked up at him slowly.

“What…” His voice cracked. “What did you do?”

“Took the god outta your bloodstream.”

The horror that crossed Homelander’s face was unlike anything you had ever seen. Like someone had scooped the sun out of his chest and left him alive to notice.

Outside, sirens screamed through Manhattan.

Inside, America’s god stared at trembling human hands while the mythology around him finally, finally began to die.

***

You woke up to Sage staring at you.

Which, honestly, should have counted as attempted murder.

The hospital room was too white and clean. Machines beeped beside you. Your throat felt raw. Your body hurt in places you were certain had not existed before the blast.

For several seconds, you stared at Sage. Sage stared back.

“You look terrible,” she said.

Your eyes closed again.

“Wonderful,” you rasped. “I survived hell to be negged by the smartest person alive.”

“You survived hell because I had emergency responders waiting three floors down before Soldier Boy decided to turn the Seven conference room into Hiroshima.”

You opened one eye.

“You leaked the footage.”

“You had all your clothes on.”

“You used me as collateral.”

“Right again.”

“You are aware that I hate you?”

“Yes.”

“Same page, then.” 

Sage pulled a chair closer to your bed and sat down, like this was a routine performance review and not the aftermath of a national religious collapse. 

“Where’s Ben?” you asked.

“In the hallway, threatening a nurse.”

Your heart kicked hard enough to make the monitor complain. Sage glanced at it.

“Relax. She asked him to lower his voice. He told her this was his indoor voice.”

Despite everything, you laughed. It hurt.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Sage said. “You cracked two ribs.”

“You are so comforting.”

“I’m not here to comfort you.”

“Then why are you here?”

She looked at you for a second. Something passed over her face. Small. Annoying. Almost human.

Then she said, “There was always a sixty-five percent chance you’d be okay.”

You stared at her.

“Sage.”

“What?”

“That is not reassuring.”

“I liked those odds.”

“You liked—” Your voice cracked. You coughed, winced, and glared at her with all the anger you had left, which was unfortunately not enough to kill her. “You liked those odds?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

You kept staring at her. She stared back.

Then, quietly, she said, “It was either that or—.”

She didn’t need to finish that sentence. The consequences were obvious to anyone with half a brain. 

Outside the window, New York looked strangely ordinary. Cars moved. Lights blinked. The sky had the soft gray-blue pallor of a city pretending yesterday had not happened.

Yesterday, God had bled.

By midnight, the Church’s board had dissolved into accusations, resignations, and one public statement so aggressively bland it might as well have been written by a hostage.

The Church of America, as an institution, was “entering a period of reflection.”

Which was PR language for dead in a ditch.

“Where is Homelander?” you asked.

Sage’s expression sharpened with interest.

“In custody.”

Your breath caught.

“For real?”

“For real.”

“No access to V?”

“No access to Compound V. No access to press. No access to worshippers, staff, mirrors, capes, flags, patriotic music, milk, or emotionally vulnerable women with savior complexes.”

You frowned.

“That last one felt directed at me.”

“It was.”

You closed your eyes. Something inside you loosened.

“Does he know I’m alive?” you asked.

Sage tilted her head.

“No.”

You looked at her.

“Really?”

“He asked,” she said. 

“And?”

“And… as far as he’s concerned, you died in the blast.” 

“Why would you do that for me?”

“Because you have spent enough of your life being information fed to him.”

You almost wanted to tell her that was very "friend" of her, then decided not to. No sense in pushing your luck.

Sage looked down at her tablet, swiped once, then stood.

“The public narrative is unstable, but manageable. Vought is radioactive. The Seven are being restructured. Firecracker is claiming spiritual persecution and The Deep is pitching a redemption docuseries called From the Depths. Noir remains unproblematic.” 

Despite yourself, you smiled faintly.

At that exact moment, something crashed in the hallway.

A nurse shouted, “Sir, you cannot smoke in a hospital!”

Soldier Boy’s voice thundered back, “It’s a cigar, sweetheart, don’t get hysterical.”

Your heart did something embarrassing. Sage’s mouth twitched.

The door opened before she could say anything else.

Soldier Boy stepped inside with a cigar between his fingers, blood dried along his temple, one eye bruised, shirt torn, jacket missing, looking like he had crawled out of an apocalypse.

His eyes landed on you.

Everything crude and combative dropped out of his face so fast it almost hurt.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He crossed the room in three strides.

Soldier Boy stopped beside your bed like he did not trust himself to touch you yet. His gaze moved over your face, the bruises, the IV, the bandages, the proof that you were alive and hurt and still there.

His jaw worked once.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said.

You blinked.

“Is that concern?”

“Yes it is.”

You smiled.

He exhaled hard, like the sound punched out of him. Then he bent carefully, so carefully it made your throat tighten, and pressed his mouth to your forehead.

For a second, you let your eyes close.

He smelled like smoke, blood, leather, and the end of the world. Home, absurdly, was somewhere in that.

Behind him, Sage cleared her throat.

Soldier Boy did not look away from you. “Why is she still here?”

“Because I saved your ass and saved the world.” Sage said.

“You leaked a sex tape and almost got her killed.” 

“Hey, I cut the footage before it got anywhere good,” she shrugged. 

Soldier Boy stared at her. 

“Anywhere good? So you watched the whole thing?” 

“What I do when I’m lobotomized is between me and God.” 

“God’s dead,” you murmured. 

“He is, isn’t he?” Sage said, lightly amused. 

***

Two days later, Ashley showed up with a fruit basket and a nervous breakdown.

You had been moved to a private recovery suite because Vought was trying very hard to not look liable, evil, incompetent, or cult-adjacent. It was failing on all counts.

Soldier Boy was sitting in the chair beside your bed, boots propped on the windowsill, flipping through channels with the disgusted concentration of a man trying to find one redeeming thing about modern television.

Ashley came in carrying a tablet, a basket, and the air of someone who had slept thirty minutes in four days.

“Oh my God,” she said when she saw you. “You’re awake. Great. Great. That’s great. You look… alive.”

“Thank you, Ashley.”

She gave you the basket. It contained pears, crackers, and a small jar of organic honey.

Soldier Boy looked into it.

“What the fuck is this?”

“A recovery gift,” Ashley snapped.

“From who, a dying rabbit?”

You pressed your lips together. Ashley ignored him with visible effort.

“We’re in a transitional moment,” she said.

“Are we?” you asked.

“Yes. Obviously. Homelander is… indisposed. The Church is toxic. Vought is panicking. Congress is sniffing around. You know, transitional.”

Soldier Boy snorted. Ashley’s eye twitched.

“The point is,” she continued, “you have an opportunity.”

“No,” you groaned. “Ashley, why does Vought still have you by the balls? You are Vice President.” 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“I know your face when you’re about to ask for something unforgivable.”

She looked wounded… which was rich.

Ashley took a breath, then turned to Soldier Boy.

“The Seven needs leadership.”

Silence.

You looked at Soldier Boy. Soldier Boy looked at Ashley.

Ashley smiled the smile of a woman who had decided desperation was a strategy.

“You are the original American hero,” she said. “You’re iconic. You’re familiar to older demographics but newly popular with younger anti-establishment men. You took down Homelander. You could lead the Seven.”

Soldier Boy stared at her.

Then he laughed. A full, rough, deeply entertained laugh that made your ribs hurt in sympathy.

Ashley’s smile tightened.

“I’m serious.”

“I know. That makes it funnier.”

“Ben,” you said warningly, already feeling the shape of whatever terrible thing he was about to say.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to run your little spandex circle jerk because Daddy Laser-Tits lost his juice and cried on the floor?”

Ashley went pale. You turned your face into your pillow.

Terrible.

Horrifying.

So funny you nearly died.

“Please don’t call him that,” Ashley whispered.

“Why? He copyrighted it?”

“Soldier Boy—”

“No.” He tossed the remote onto the bed. “I spent forty years in a Russian box, woke up in a country where coffee tastes like burnt ass, men wear pants tight enough to count their sperm, and every moron with a podcast thinks he’s a philosopher. I am not spending the rest of my life babysitting Fish Sticks and Bible Barbie.”

You made a strangled sound.

“Vought can offer you significant creative control,” Ashley said. 

“Can Vought offer me a farmhouse, a freezer full of steaks, a bed that doesn’t feel like hospital cardboard, and nobody saying words like ‘data’ within fifty goddamn miles of me?”

Ashley blinked.

“No.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

He leaned back, satisfied.

You stared at him. He glanced at you.

“What?”

“You want a farmhouse?”

He looked away.

“Don’t make it weird.”

Ashley looked between you both, slowly realizing that her pitch had not merely failed. It had walked into a field and shot itself.

“So… that’s a no?”

Soldier Boy gave her a look. Ashley nodded quickly.

“Great. Love the clarity.”

She left the fruit basket. 

Soldier Boy waited until the door closed before grabbing one of the pears and inspecting it suspiciously.

“People eat these on purpose?”

You laughed. It hurt. He put the pear down immediately.

“Stop laughing. You’re cracked.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the medical term.”

“You’re pretty sure about a lot of things. Look where that got us.”

You smiled faintly. He softened instantly, because he knew.

“Hey,” he said, lower now.

You looked at him.

“You’re not going back there.”

You nodded. 

“And if you start thinking you owe anybody anything—”

“I know,” you said. “You’ll knock me unconscious and drag me out.”

He smiled.

“Damn right.”

Your eyes burned.

“Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“Farmhouse sounds nice.”

His face changed.

“Yeah?”

You looked out the window at the city, the glass towers, the billboards, the endless machinery of meaning and money and blood. For so long, your life had been rooms full of screens. Graphs. Briefings. Emergency protocols. Men who wanted your reassurance like oxygen. Systems that turned your softness into infrastructure.

You had mistaken usefulness for purpose.

A farmhouse sounded… nice. 

Just land. Air. Maybe a porch. Maybe Soldier Boy arguing with a rooster.

The thought made you smile so abruptly you had to cover your mouth.

“What?” he asked.

“Just imagining you fighting farm animals.”

His eyes narrowed.

“If a bull starts some shit, that’s on him.”

“Of course it is,” you laughed. 

He leaned forward to kiss you. It was as perfect as perfect could be, and though a farmhouse with Soldier Boy would come with its own set of entertaining problems, these were problems you were excited to tackle. 

With him. 

-------------------------------

That’s a wrap, baby <3

Still, as you listened to the quiet hum of the house, a profound wave of gratitude washed over you. You were grateful for them both, and for the rest of Ben’s team. Despite the rough edges, the constant danger, and the clashing personalities, they all cared for you as if you were a genuine member of the crew.

Your mind wandered back to where this all began. Just a few months ago, you had thrown yourself at a stranger in a dark club, desperate just to hide. Now, that same man lay here with you in his arms, holding your heart in his hands, even if he didn’t know it yet. It was a heart you never thought you’d feel safe enough to give to anyone ever again. 

That thought was finally enough to quiet the restless energy vibrating under your skin. Settling deeper into the radiating warmth of Ben's chest, you let out one last, long breath, and finally let sleep take you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks later

Things had finally calmed down and were slowly getting back to normal. The ghosts hadn't vanished completely. You were still waking up breathless from nightmares every few nights, the memory of the ropes and the taser catching up to you in the dark. But Ben was always there. He had been uncharacteristically patient with you through every single late-night awakening. The rest of the time, he was still the exact same arrogant, brash, short-tempered Soldier Boy everyone else had to deal with—but the second he felt you start to spiral, the mask dropped. He immediately shifted into the gentle, protective, caring man he only ever let you see, never failing to ground you before your emotions could take over completely and choke you. 

It was a little after 4 p.m. and you were standing in the kitchen at the island eating a peach. Saint was at the other end of the kitchen, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. He was back to his normal stoic self; more words than when you first met but less openness than when his guilt was eating him alive. He tended to stick to you a little closer, like Ben wanted but not enough to annoy you or suffocate you. 

“Saint,” you said, taking another bite of the peach. “Where’d you find these? They’re actually good. I had two yesterday.”

Saint didn’t move from his spot against the counter, but a ghost of a smirk touched his mouth. “Farmers market down on 4th. Had to bypass the sawdust coffee aisle entirely to find 'em,” he joked.

You laughed softly. “Ben approve of the brand you brought back?”

“He didn't complain,” Saint grunted, shifting his weight. “Which, for him, is a glowing review.”

You chuckled. “Fair enough.” 

Just then the front door to the safehouse swung open hard, slamming against the wall with an impact so intense it made you jump and Saint immediately stood up straight, drawing his gun and bracing for whatever was about to come next. He instinctively angled his body to step in front of you if needed. 

Ben’s massive frame strode through the door. His face— brows pulled tight and jaw tense— screamed anger and frustration. Not even looking back at Butcher who was walking through the door now, Ben barked, “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too, gov,” Butcher countered, completely unfazed as he kicked the front door shut behind him. “And your high horse.”

Ben didn't bother responding. He tore his leather jacket off and tossed it onto the couch with enough force to send a throw pillow sliding across the floor. His heavy combat boots thudded against the hardwood as he marched straight toward the kitchen island, his eyes locking onto you the second he cleared the doorway.

The terrifying, thunderous expression on his face softened by exactly one fraction of a degree when he saw you standing there, peach in hand, completely relaxed.

Saint didn't relax his posture as he holstered his gun, but he did step back just a half a step, giving the roaring lion of the house his room.

Ben bypassed Saint entirely, stepping right into your space. He reached out, his large hands anchoring firmly on the edge of the island on either side of you, effectively pinning you between his arms without actually touching you yet. He leaned in, his chest heaving, smelling like gunpowder, leather, and fresh rain.

“You okay?” he demanded, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He didn't wait for you to answer before his eyes did a rapid, clinical sweep of your face, checking the fading shadow of the bruise on your eye and cheek. “The kid keeping his eyes open?”

Before you could even open your mouth, Butcher wandered into the kitchen, entirely ignoring the radioactive waves of anger pouring off Ben. He headed straight for the fridge.

“Oh, the lad’s doing a spectacular job, Soldier Boy,” Butcher drawled, pulling open the refrigerator door and peering inside. “Unlike some fossilized relics I could mention who can’t handle a simple fuckin’ recon job without throwing a bloody tantrum.”

Ben completely ignored him, grabbing you by the waist and throwing you over his shoulder with a squeak, causing the peach to drop and roll across the kitchen floor towards Saint, whose eyes flickered between you and Ben, and Butcher. 

Ben didn’t hesitate, as soon as you were tossed over his shoulder, his heavy steps thundered through the house as he made his way back to the bedroom. You could feel the additional heat rolling off of his body in waves. 

He kicked the door shut behind him and swung you down into his arms. He tossed you on the bed with another squeal. Immediately, he was on top of you, his lips crashing down on yours with a bruising force. His tongue was demanding and practically down your throat. Ben’s hands came up to pin your wrists beside your head as he ground his huge, very hard cock into your core. Even through his clothes and yours, you could feel the need pulsing through him and you instinctively arched into him. He let out a low, satisfied groan. 

He hadn’t been this rough or intense with you since that night two weeks ago. Of course you’d had sex, he was still Ben afterall, but it had been measured, careful. That Ben was nowhere to be found right now. He was angry and he was vibrating, literally, with an intensity that stole your breath from your lungs. 

His hands slid up two inches to interlace with your fingers, palm to palm, but he still had you pinned down; both with his hands and his body that was still grinding into you. Ben pulled back, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he muttered, his deep voice sounding rough and almost desperate. “Tell me now or I won’t be able to. I can’t… I can’t be the gentle man you need, right now.”

You stared up at him, breathless. You didn’t reply or shake your head. But your eyes, locked on his, sharpened. The intensity in them as you stared back at him mirroring his own desire and need shattered what little restraint he had found. 

His mouth was on yours again. Hard and relentless. You moaned into his mouth and he swallowed it, pushing you deeper into the mattress with his hips, a low groan leaving his own lips. 

He pulled back again just long enough to strip his clothes off. You did the same in quick, frantic movements. Then almost in the blink of an eye he was inside you. He pushed into your wet warmth with one brutal push, bottoming out immediately, tearing a cry from your throat. His eyes caught yours, checking for pain, when he only found a touch of surprise and need he started to move. He was thrusting into you with a relentless force, pushing you even further into the mattress until you felt like you might sink through it to the other side. His hands released yours, one sliding down your side over yours ribs and waist to land firmly on your hip, while his other hand braced himself next to your head. 

Loud moans were beginning to flow out of you freely. You knew the others were home and that you should try and control yourself but that thought was fleeting with the way he was taking you; rough, claiming, possessive. He was owning your whole body but in the best way. 

You could still feel the tension in his muscles, as your hands roamed over his shoulders and back, but it was slowly starting to bleed off with each hard thrust. Ben rolled onto his back, dragging you with him. You started to ride without missing a beat until he almost immediately grasped your hips—stilling you— so tight that you let out a small whimper. He wanted control even though you were on top. He began to snap his hips up into yours in forceful thrusts. More moans slipped out of your lips, as your eyes closed and your head fell back, driving him even more feral. He let out a guttural groan as he felt you clench around him as you fell over the edge and hit your first peak, nails digging into his chest. “Bennnn…” you moaned  

Ben’s hips didn’t stutter as your walls fluttered around his cock, they didn’t slow down or ease up, if anything he started to fuck up into you with even more intensity, prolonging your orgasm. You shuddered and finally collapsed onto his chest. 

Chest heaving, Ben lifted your chin to meet his gaze, “Oh, doll. Don’t think you’re getting out of this that easily,” he growled. Before you could even process his words, much less respond, he was flipping you onto your stomach. One hand came down to grip your hip tight enough to bruise, pulling you back into him as he pushed back in. Ben’s chest was pressed to your back as he began to rut into you again, just as powerful as before, pulling more sounds out of you and into the pillows in muffled bursts. The stretch was even deeper in this new position. His hand that wasn’t on your hip, came up to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back. “I want to hear you. Every. Single. Sound,” he grunted, lips brushing against your ear. 

As Ben’s hips snapped into your ass, the sound of skin slapping skin was echoing into the small bedroom, obscenely. “Ben…I…I,” you tried to get the words out between his ruthless movements. 

“I know, baby. Let go for me,” he rasped. 

You did. You couldn’t help it if you tried. This orgasm was even more ferocious than the first, if that was even possible. You screamed his name, his hand tightening in your hair. The sheer intensity of the sex, and the rough day he’d had, along with your muscles squeezing his cock like it was their job; pulsing tightly and milking him, sent him over the edge with you. A low, long guttural groan ripped from his chest as he shot hot, creamy spurts of his cum deep inside of your pussy, causing you to squeeze him even harder. 

Ben, braced up on both hands planted firmly beside your hips, shuddered as he slowly pulled out of you with a wet sucking noise. He paused for just a moment, watching his cum leak out of you and down onto the bed, with a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

Then he rolled onto his back, plopping down against the pillows, half propped up against the headboard. His chest was still heaving and slickened with sweat as he let out a deep breath. Ben turned his head slightly to look down at you, still sprawled out on your stomach, breathing ragged, as his cum continued to dribble down your inner thighs and onto the sheets. Your face was turned toward him, pressed into the mattress, but your eyes were closed. 

“You okay over there, sweetheart?”

You gave him a thumbs up without bothering to open your eyes, still trying to drag air into your lungs. Finally, after a moment you said, breathless, “Just fuckin’ peachy.” Ben reached out and pulled you into his side and your head instantly went to his chest out of habit, arm draping over his torso. 

“That’s my girl.”

“I think you dislocated my cervix, Ben,” you teased, not at all displeased by the amazing pleasure he just gave you. You didn’t realize how much you had missed this version of him, even if he was using you to bleed off his frustrations and anger. Sometimes that was the best sex.  

You raised your gaze to meet his. His beautiful green eyes stared back. He looked satiated and a bit smug. “You’ll survive, doll.”

You gave him a fake scoff and leaned up to press your lips to his. His brows raised briefly before he melted into the kiss, his hand trailing absent minded patterns over your back. His lips and his touch were surprisingly gentle now— his fingertips were so light on your skin it made you shiver. 

The world outside this room was complicated— with missions, and an overly protective bodyguard that you truly didn’t feel that you needed anymore but Ben insisted he be with you. A friendship with that same bodyguard that you felt Ben not so subtly kept a pulse on, although he did the same when Butcher was around. But here, in Ben’s arms everything was perfect. 

He broke the kiss and let out a satisfied sigh. Before you pulled away, you brushed your lips against his again and lightly ran your tongue over his bottom lip. 

“You keep that up and I’ll assume you're ready for round two,” he said, breath warm against your lips. 

Before you could over think it you said, “I love you, Ben,” your warm breath fanning his lips. 

Ben froze. His hand stopped its patterns and his entire body went very still. He wasn’t even breathing. His eyes immediately snapped to yours which were just a couple inches away, lips still almost touching. After a silence that felt like an eternity he whispered, just barely a breath, “I love you too.”

You smiled and kissed him again, feeling the iron tension in his body finally start to melt away. His hand came up to cup your cheek as he broke the kiss, and you leaned back slightly to look at him more clearly. His eyes were soft—softer than you’d ever seen them.

“Christ, I really do,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough as he pulled you tighter against his chest, burying his face in your hair. “I swear to God, it scares the hell out of me. Ever since that night... ever since I thought I found you too late, I haven't been able to think straight. It's like you've got me by the throat, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched.

Ben’s grip on you tightened. You tangled your fingers into the hair at the back of his head, leaning your forehead against his as the two of you just breathed each other in. For a man who usually commanded every room he walked into with a booming voice and a heavy fist, he was entirely quiet. The silence between you wasn't heavy or tense anymore; it was safe.

Outside that bedroom door, the world was still a disaster. Butcher was probably still in the kitchen making a mess, Saint was still on high alert, and Vought was still out there. But tucked away in the quiet of his room, tangled up in his arms, none of it could touch you.

“You’re stuck with me now, you know,” Ben murmured against your lips, his voice low and possessive, but the rough edge of it was completely smoothed over by the small, genuine smirk tracing his mouth. “I don't let go of what's mine.”

You smiled against his mouth, kissing him softly one more time. “I’m not going anywhere, Ben.”

One Tuesday, Mark was working late, and a summer thunderstorm rolled in, the sky turning a bruised purple. You were in the kitchen, trying to open a jar of pickles with one hand, growing more and more frustrated with each failed attempt. A tear of pure rage and helplessness slid down your cheek.

There was a soft knock on the back door. You wiped your eyes quickly and went to open it. Albert stood there, holding a large, black umbrella. He was wearing a simple button-down shirt, and his dark hair was damp from the rain.

“I saw you were having some trouble from my window,” he said, his voice gentle. He nodded towards the jar on the counter. “May I?”

You stepped aside, your heart hammering. He walked into your kitchen, his presence filling the small space with a charged, electric energy. He took the jar from you, his fingers brushing against yours, and with a single, effortless twist, he loosened the lid.

“There you go,” he said, his voice soft. He didn’t hand the jar back. He just stood there, looking at you, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch.

“Thank you, Albert,” you whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

He reached out and gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. His thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was there.

“Why do you stay with him?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The question hung in the air between you, sharp and dangerous.

You pulled away, a surge of panic rising in your chest. “I don’t know what you mean,” you lied, your voice trembling.

“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “I see it, (Y/N). I see the way he looks at you. The way you flinch when he raises his voice. The way you… disappear.”

You shook your head, your mind racing. “You’re wrong. Mark is… he’s a good husband.”

“Is a good husband the one who gave you that?” he asked, his gaze flickering to your cast.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, a pathetic, self-protective gesture. “It was an accident. I fell.”

Albert let out a long, slow breath, a sound of profound sadness. “Okay,” he said, his voice quiet. “Okay. I won’t push.” He turned to leave, but then he stopped at the door and looked back at you. “But just tell me one thing. If you’re so happy, why do you only come alive when he’s not here?”

The question struck you like a physical blow. Because he was right. With Albert, you felt a spark of the person you used to be, the person you thought you’d buried under years of fear and submission. With Albert, you laughed. You talked about books and art and dreams. You felt seen.

“I can’t leave him,” you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. You had to give him something, a piece of the truth, wrapped in the familiar lie. “The Bible… it says ‘What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.’ It’s a vow. A sacrament.”

Albert looked at you, his blue eyes filled with a deep, aching pity. “And what about what God says about love? About mercy? About protecting the ones you’re supposed to cherish?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple,” he pleaded, taking a step closer to you. “Come with me. I have a house up in the mountains. No one would find us. I’d take care of you. I swear it.”

The offer was so tempting, so dangerous, it made your head spin. For a fleeting moment, you imagined it. A life without fear, without Mark. A life with this strange, intense, beautiful man who saw you.

But the fear was stronger. The fear of what Mark would do if he ever found out. The fear of being alone, of breaking your vows, of being the kind of woman your mother had always warned you about. The fear of the unknown.

“I can’t,” you whispered, the words tearing a hole in your heart. “I’m sorry, Albert. I just… I can’t.”

He nodded, his expression crestfallen. He looked like a man who had just been told his favorite illusion was a cheap trick. “I understand,” he said, though you knew he didn’t. “I’ll leave you be.”

He walked out into the rain, disappearing under his black umbrella. You watched him go, your heart aching with a loss so profound it felt like a death. You were trapped in a cage of your own making, and the man who held the key had just walked away. You were a fool, just like Albert said. But you were a safe fool. And for now, that was all you had.

The days after your tearful refusal in the rain stretched into a week of tense, suffocating silence. Albert was gone. The black van remained parked in his driveway, but the man himself was a ghost. You’d catch glimpses of him, a fleeting shape in the window of his house, but he never came to the fence, never lingered in his yard. The space between your homes, once a sanctuary, now felt like a chasm, a void where his intense, blue-eyed gaze used to be. The absence was a physical ache, a cold spot in the center of your chest. You had rejected his offer, and in return, he had withdrawn his presence entirely. You were alone again, truly alone, with only the humming of the refrigerator and the tick of the mantel clock for company.

Mark noticed your melancholy, but he mistook it for simple female listlessness. “What’s the matter, sugar-pie?” he’d ask, his voice dripping with that false, syrupy concern. “You look like somebody walked on your grave.” He’d pat your head, a gesture that felt more like a warning than a comfort. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll take care of you. Always do.”

Then, one Friday evening, the facade cracked. You were in the kitchen, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce, when you saw him. Albert, standing in his front window, looking directly at you. His face was a mask of neutrality, but his eyes… his blue eyes were burning with a cold, calculated fire. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He just watched you for a long, unnerving moment before disappearing back into the shadows of his home. A shiver, cold and sharp, traced its way down your spine. This wasn’t the adoring, pitying man you had confided in. This was something else. Something harder. Something dangerous.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. He was planning something. You could feel it in the air, a shift in the atmosphere, the calm before a storm you were powerless to stop.

That Sunday, the storm broke.

“Hey there, darlin’!” Mark’s voice boomed through the house, cheerful and loud. He came into the kitchen, a wide, predatory grin on his face. “I just had the best idea. The big game’s on tonight. Broncos against the Raiders. Gonna be a real slobber-knocker.”

You nodded, stirring the sauce, your stomach tightening with dread. His “best ideas” usually came with a price.

“I invited the Shaw boys over to watch it with me,” he announced, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. “Thought it’d be neighborly, you know? Get to know the folks across the street a little better. Maxy-boy seemed real excited when I asked him.”

Your spoon clattered against the side of the pot. You felt the blood drain from your face. “You… you invited them over? Here?”

“‘Course I did,” he said, slapping you on the back, a little too hard. “What’s the matter? You ain’t shy, are you? It’s just gonna be us fellas, drinkin’ beer and yellin’ at the TV. You can just bring us some snacks and look pretty. Like a good hostess.”

The cruelty of it was breathtaking. He was going to parade Albert in front of you, a trophy of his own dominance. He was going to force you to serve the man you’d pushed away, to watch him sit in your husband’s domain, a guest in your gilded cage.

“And I invited a couple of the guys from the shop, too,” he added, as an afterthought. “Hank and Bobby. More the merrier, I say.”

An hour later, the doorbell rang. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely arrange the potato chips in a bowl. Mark opened the door with a booming, “Well, look what the cat dragged in! Come on in, boys!”

Albert and Max stepped into your home, followed by two large, greasy men who smelled of motor oil and stale sweat. Hank and Bobby, you presumed. Albert was dressed in a simple, dark sweater, his expression unreadable. Max, who was five years Albert’s junior and still possessed a boyish, open face, was vibrating with an almost painful excitement. He was clutching a football, his eyes wide as he took in the living room.

“Hi Mark.” Max exclaimed. “Your television is so big! It’s almost like being at the stadium!”

Mark let out a booming laugh. “Well, shoot, Max, a man’s gotta have a good TV to watch the game. Now, you just make yourself at home. Beer’s in the fridge.”

Albert’s gaze found you instantly. His blue eyes swept over you, taking in your simple housedress, your pale face, the way you were clutching the bowl of chips like a shield. He gave you a slow, deliberate nod, a gesture that was both a greeting and a warning. He was playing his part, the quiet, accommodating neighbor, but the cold fire in his eyes told a different story.

“Good evening, (Y/N),” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that sent a jolt through you. “It’s a lovely home you have here.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your eyes fixed on the floor.

Mark wrapped a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you against him. “She does a real good job, don’t she? Keeps the place spick-and-span. It’s a woman’s work, and she’s a natural.” He grinned, his teeth white and wolfish. “Now, why don’t you be a good girl and get us some beers, honey-bunch? And bring that bowl of chips.”

You escaped to the kitchen, your heart pounding. You could hear Mark’s booming voice, regaling his friends with stories from the garage, his Southern drawl growing thicker and more performative with every word. You returned with the beers and the chips, your movements stiff and robotic. You placed them on the coffee table, careful not to make eye contact with Albert.

“Thank you, darlin’,” Mark said, his hand landing possessively on your backside. He gave it a quick, hard squeeze, a public claim of ownership that made you flinch. You saw Albert’s jaw tighten, a fleeting, almost imperceptible reaction that he quickly masked with a sip of his beer.

The game started. The men settled into the couch, their attention fixed on the screen. Mark was a loud, volatile spectator, yelling at the players, cursing the referees. Hank and Bobby joined in, their laughter loud and crude. Max was caught up in the excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet, cheering every good play. Albert was quiet, a still, observant presence amidst the chaos.

You tried to stay busy, wiping down counters, straightening curtains, anything to avoid the living room. But you could feel Albert’s eyes on you, a steady, weighty gaze that followed your every move. He was watching you, and he was watching Mark.

In the third quarter, Mark’s team fumbled. He erupted in a fury of curses, slamming his beer down on the coffee table so hard that it sloshed over the rim.

“Goddamn son of a bitch!” he roared. “What in the hell was that? A five-year-old coulda caught that ball!”

He turned to you, his eyes blazing with a drunken, frustrated rage. “Woman! Get in here and get me another beer! And make it quick! This one’s piss-warm!”

You hurried to the kitchen, your hands trembling. You pulled a cold beer from the icebox, your fingers fumbling with the bottle cap. When you returned, Mark was still fuming.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled, snatching the beer from your hand. He took a long swallow, his eyes never leaving the screen. As he set the bottle down, he “accidentally” knocked the bowl of chips onto the floor, sending them scattering across the carpet.

“Well, look at that,” he said, his voice dripping with false innocence. “A real mess. Clumsy me.” He looked at you, a cold, hard glint in his eye. “Guess you’d better clean that up, sugar. Can’t have the floor lookin’ like a hog pen.”

It was a test. A public humiliation. He wanted to see you grovel. You could feel Max’s embarrassed, sympathetic gaze on you. You knelt down on the floor, your cheeks burning with shame, and began to pick up the chips, one by one.

Then, Albert moved.

He rose from the couch with a fluid, silent grace. “Don’t worry about it, (Y/N),” he said, his voice calm and even. “It was my fault. I bumped the table.”

He knelt down beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. You could smell the faint, clean scent of soap and sawdust that clung to him. He began to help you pick up the chips, his long, pale fingers moving with a quiet efficiency.

Mark watched them, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “The hell you did, Shaw. I knocked it over. Don’t matter whose fault it was. She’ll clean it up.”

Albert stood up, brushing the crumbs from his hands. He looked directly at Mark, his blue eyes as cold and hard as winter ice. “It’s no trouble,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous level. “A guest shouldn’t make a mess in his host’s home. It’s a matter of respect.”

The two men stared at each other, a silent, electric battle of wills. The air in the room crackled with unspoken threats. Mark’s face was a mask of barely suppressed rage. Albert’s was a picture of calm, unnerving control.

Hank and Bobby, sensing the shift in mood, shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “Whoa, hey now, fellas,” Hank said, holding up his hands. “It’s just a few chips. No harm done.”

Mark shot him a venomous look. “Stay out of this, Hank.”

“Well, ain’t you just the gentleman,” Mark finally said, his voice tight with sarcasm. “But I think my wife can handle pickin’ up a few chips.”

“Of course she can,” Albert replied smoothly. “But she shouldn’t have to.”

He walked over to the couch and sat back down, picking up his beer as if nothing had happened. But the game had changed. You knew it, and Mark knew it. Albert hadn’t just defended you. He had challenged him. He had drawn a line in the sand, right there on your living room carpet, in front of an audience.

The rest of the game passed in a tense, strained silence. Mark was sullen, his boisterous charm replaced by a sullen, brooding anger. Albert was quiet, but his presence was a palpable threat, a coiled snake waiting to strike. Hank and Bobby tried to salvage the mood, but their jokes fell flat, and they left soon after the game ended, mumbling excuses about early starts.

When the game was over, Max, bless his heart, was the first to break the tension. “That was the best! Thank you so much for having us over, Mark!”

Mark forced a tight smile. “You’re welcome Anytime.”

Albert stood up and walked towards the door. He paused beside you, his voice so low you could barely hear it. “Lock your doors tonight, (Y/N).”

He left without another word, a silent, ominous warning hanging in the air. You watched them go, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You were caught in the middle of a war you hadn’t even known was being fought. And as Mark turned to you, his eyes burning with a cold, dangerous fire, you knew with terrifying certainty that the first battle was about to begin.

The silence that followed Mark’s retreat to the bedroom was a living, breathing entity. It pressed in on you, thick and suffocating, heavy with the unspoken threat of his anger. You didn’t move from your spot on the edge of the living room armchair until you heard the distinct creak of the bedsprings and the rhythmic, heavy snores that signaled he had succumbed to sleep. An hour passed. Then two. You sat in the dark, the only light the ghostly glow from the streetlamp outside, your body rigid with a fear that had nowhere to go.

Albert’s warning echoed in your mind. *Lock your doors tonight.* It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a prophecy. But the locks felt flimsy, pathetic things against the sheer force of Mark’s rage. You weren’t safe here. You weren’t safe anywhere.

A desperate, reckless idea began to form, a tiny spark of defiance in the suffocating darkness. You couldn’t stay here, stewing in your own terror. You had to see him. You had to see Albert.

You slipped from the armchair, your movements silent and practiced, the way a mouse learns to evade a cat. You crept down the hallway, your bare feet making no sound on the cool linoleum. You paused outside the bedroom door, your ear pressed against the wood. Mark’s snores were deep and even, a freight train of oblivious sleep. He was dead to the world.

You eased the front door open, the slight click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the quiet house. You stepped out into the cool night air, the grass damp and cold beneath your feet. The street was empty, bathed in the ethereal orange glow of the lamps. Across the street, Albert’s house was dark, save for a single, warm light burning in what you knew was his study. A beacon. An invitation.

You didn’t hesitate. You ran across the street, your thin nightgown whipping around your legs, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You knocked on his back door, your knuckles rapping against the wood in a frantic, staccato rhythm.

The door opened almost instantly. Albert stood there, fully dressed, as if he’d been waiting for you. His blue eyes, usually so intense and calculating, were wide with a mixture of alarm and something that looked dangerously like relief.

“(Y/N),” he breathed, his voice a low, urgent whisper. “I told you to lock your door.”

“I couldn’t,” you choked out, the tears you’d been holding back finally breaking free. “I couldn’t stay in there. I couldn’t breathe.”

He stepped aside, allowing you into the warmth of his kitchen. He closed the door softly behind you, the click of the lock a sound of profound, terrifying safety. His house was different from yours. It was cluttered, chaotic, but it was a warm, lived-in chaos. Books were stacked in precarious towers on every available surface. Half-finished paintings leaned against the walls, their canvases facing inward. The air smelled of turpentine, old paper, and something else… something uniquely him.

“Come,” he said, his voice gentle. He led you into his study, a room dominated by a large, oak desk and a wall of overflowing bookshelves. He gestured for you to sit in a worn leather armchair. “I’ll make you some tea. It’ll help.”

You watched him move around the small kitchenette attached to his study, his movements economical and sure. He was infatuated with you, you knew it. It was in the way he looked at you, in the way he remembered your favorite brand of tea, in the way he had a special mug just for you, a simple, white ceramic one with a single, hand-painted bluebird on the side. It was a devotion so pure and unwavering it was almost painful to witness.

He returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs. He handed you the bluebird mug, his fingers brushing against yours, a touch that was both electric and comforting. You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, the heat seeping into your cold, trembling skin.

You took a sip, the chamomile and honey a soothing balm on your raw throat. And then, you broke.

It started as a single, choked sob, a sound that was ripped from the depths of your soul. Then another, and another, until you were crying in great, heaving gasps, your body wracked with the force of your despair. You hadn’t allowed yourself to cry in front of Mark for years. Tears were a weakness, an invitation for more cruelty. But here, in the safety of Albert’s study, you could finally let go.

Albert didn’t say a word. He just knelt in front of you, his hand resting on your knee, a steady, grounding presence. He let you cry, let you purge the poison that had been building up inside you for years.

When the sobs finally subsided, leaving you weak and spent, you looked at him, your vision blurred with tears. “I’m so tired, Albert,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “I’m so tired of it.”

“Of what, (y/n)?” he asked, his voice a low, gentle murmur.

“Of him,” you choked out, the word a bitter taste on your tongue. “Of the humiliation. The way he looks at me, like I’m something he owns. Something he can break whenever he feels like it. Tonight… tonight, with his friends… he enjoyed it. He enjoyed making me grovel on the floor like a dog.”

A fresh wave of tears welled up in your eyes. “I hate him,” you confessed, the words a shocking, liberating truth. “Oh, God, Albert, I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, I hate the way he touches me, I hate the smell of his cigarettes. I hate everything about him.”

Albert’s hand tightened on your knee, his blue eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire. “Then leave him,” he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion. “Please, (Y/N). Leave him. Come with me. I’ll keep you safe. I swear it. I’ll kill him before I let him lay another hand on you.”

The vehemence in his voice, the raw, unadulterated violence of his promise, should have scared you. But it didn’t. It made you feel safe. It made you feel cherished.

You shook your head, a fresh wave of despair washing over you. “I can’t.”

“Why?” he demanded, his voice rising with frustration. “Why not? You hate him! You just said so!”

“Because I can’t!” you cried, your voice cracking. “Don’t you understand? The Bible… it says ‘What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.’ It’s a vow, Albert. A sacred vow. I made a promise to God, in front of everyone. If I break that… if I divorce him… I’m no better than he is. I’m a sinner. I’ll be just another woman who couldn’t keep her man, who couldn’t keep her house. I won’t be a fool, Albert. I won’t be the woman who gave up on her marriage.”

He looked at you, his expression a mixture of profound pity and utter disbelief. He couldn’t understand. He saw a cage, and he was offering you the key. But you saw the cage, and you saw the shame of being found outside it.

“So you’ll stay?” he asked, his voice flat, dead. “You’ll stay with a man you hate, a man who beats you, because of a few words in a book?”

“It’s not just a few words!” you insisted, your voice rising with a desperate fervor. “It’s the foundation of everything! It’s the difference between being a good woman and a… a whore. I won’t be that. I’d rather be miserable and righteous than happy and damned.”

He stood up, running a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of profound frustration. He walked over to the window, his back to you, his silhouette a stark, lonely figure against the moonlit glass.

“You’re a fool, (Y/N),” he said, his voice a low, bitter whisper. “A beautiful, tragic fool.”

You knew he was right. You were a fool. But you were a fool with principles. A fool with a God to answer to.

“I’m sorry, Albert,” you whispered, your heart breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

He turned to face you, his blue eyes filled with a deep, aching sadness. “Don’t be,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re not the one who should be sorry.” He walked back over to you and knelt down, taking your free hand in his. “But I’m not going to let him win. I’m not going to let him destroy you. We’ll figure something out. Together.”

He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles. It was a promise. A vow. A different kind of vow, one made not in a church, but in the quiet, sacred space of his study. And as you looked into his intense, blue eyes, you felt a flicker of hope, a tiny, stubborn spark in the overwhelming darkness. You were still trapped. But you were no longer alone.

The next three days were an exercise in agonizing silence. You didn’t see Albert. The light in his study remained off, and the black van stayed parked in its driveway, a silent, black sentinel. You were left alone with the consequences of your confession, with the memory of his pitying, frustrated blue eyes. The hope he had ignited in you had flickered and died, leaving behind a colder, more profound despair. Mark, sensing your withdrawal, grew more volatile, his moods swinging from a cloying, possessive sweetness to a cold, simmering rage. You were a ghost in your own home, drifting through the days in a fog of fear and regret.

On the third night, you couldn't bear it. The silence of the house was broken by the blare of the television, Mark engrossed in some late-night western, his laughter booming through the thin walls. You felt dirty, used, the memory of his hands on you a sticky, suffocating film you couldn't wash away. You needed to feel clean.

You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you with a click that felt both futile and defiant. You turned on the shower, the water a thunderous, cleansing roar that drowned out the sound of the television and the frantic beating of your own heart. Steam filled the small room, clouding the mirror, blurring the harsh reality of your reflection. You stepped under the hot spray, the water scalding your skin, and you closed your eyes, tilting your head back, letting it wash over you. For a moment, you could pretend you were somewhere else. Someone else.

You were so lost in the sensation, in the desperate attempt to scrub away the grime of your life, that you didn't hear the soft click of the back door unlocking. You didn't hear the stealthy, practiced footsteps in the hallway. You didn't hear the bathroom door creak open.

Albert stood in the doorway, a shadow in the steam. He was a man possessed, driven by a love so fierce it had curdled into a dark, righteous fury. His blue eyes, usually so full of gentle adoration, were now cold, hard, and utterly devoid of mercy. He watched you for a moment, your silhouette visible through the frosted glass shower door, a vulnerable, ethereal goddess in the mist. He felt a pang of something a regret for what he was about to do, for the innocence he was about to shatter but it was quickly swallowed by the cold, hard certainty of his purpose. He was saving you. And this was the only way.

He could hear the television from the living room, the tinny sound of a cowboy’s drawl and the obligatory burst of gunfire. He turned his attention away from you, his focus narrowing to a single, deadly point. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, brown glass bottle and a folded, white cloth rag. He uncapped the bottle, the sharp, sweet, chemical scent of chloroform filling the air. He poured a generous amount onto the rag, the fabric turning dark and damp.

He moved silently down the hallway, a predator stalking his prey. He peeked into the living room. Mark was exactly where he’d left him in his mind’s eye, slumped on the couch, his eyes glued to the screen, a half-empty bottle of beer on the table beside him. He was a caricature of a man, a bloated, selfish brute who didn’t deserve the air he breathed. He didn’t deserve you.

Albert didn't hesitate. He moved with a swift, fluid grace, a magician’s flourish applied to an act of ultimate violence. He was on Mark before he could even register his presence. He clamped the chloroform-soaked rag over Mark’s mouth and nose, his other arm wrapping around his throat in a chokehold that was as unyielding as it was efficient.

Mark’s reaction was instantaneous and pathetic. He flailed, his arms and legs thrashing, his muffled cries of protest lost in the chemical-soaked rag. His eyes, wide with shock and disbelief, bulged in his head. He struggled, his instincts screaming for him to fight, to breathe, to live. But Albert was stronger, his rage a fuel that made him inexorable. He held on, his grip like iron, his blue eyes cold and blank as he watched the life drain out of the man you hated.

Mark’s struggles grew weaker, his thrashing becoming more erratic, then finally ceasing altogether. His body went limp, a dead weight in Albert’s arms. Albert held him for a moment longer, making sure he was truly unconscious, then lowered him gently to the floor. He wasn’t dead. Not yet. But he would be soon.

Albert worked quickly, his movements methodical and precise. He dragged Mark’s dead weight through the kitchen and out the back door, the cool night air a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth of the house. He found Mark’s keys on the hook by the door, a jangling symbol of a life that was about to end. He opened the trunk of Mark’s prized Buick, the car he was always polishing, the car he loved more than you. He heaved Mark’s limp body inside, a final, undignified act of disposal.

He drove deep into the woods, the Buick’s headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness, the forest pressing in on all sides. He knew these woods. He had surveyed them for weeks, planning this, every detail meticulously thought out. He found the spot he had chosen, a small, secluded clearing far from any path.

He pulled Mark from the trunk, the man’s body a heavy, awkward burden. He laid him on the forest floor, the moonlight filtering through the trees, casting his face in a pale, ghostly glow. He looked at him, at the man who had caused you so much pain, and felt nothing. No pity. No remorse. Only the cold, satisfying certainty of a job well done.

He took a shovel from the trunk. The work was hard, the earth dense and stubborn. But he was fueled by a righteous fury, by the image of your tear-stained face, by the memory of your whispered confession. He dug a deep, narrow grave, a final, unmarked resting place for a man who deserved no better.

He rolled Mark’s body into the hole, a final, unceremonious act. He covered him with the cold, dark earth, packing it down until the ground was level, indistinguishable from the surrounding forest. He scattered leaves and twigs over the fresh grave, a magician’s final touch, a misdirection to ensure the secret would never be found.

But he wasn’t done. He was a professional. He knew about evidence. About DNA. He took a can of gasoline from the trunk and a clean, white rag. He meticulously wiped down every surface of the Buick, the steering wheel, the door handles, the dashboard, the seats. He was erasing Mark’s existence, erasing any trace that he had ever been there. Then, he opened the gas tank, stuffing the gasoline-soaked rag into the opening. He took a book of matches from his pocket, struck one, and tossed it into the tank.

He walked away without looking back. The Buick went up in a roar of orange and black flame, a funeral pyre in the heart of the woods. The fire would consume everything, the metal, the upholstery, the blood, the sweat, the last traces of the man you hated. It would be a mystery. An accident. A man who had gone for a drive and never come back.

He walked for a mile through the dark forest, the fire a distant, dying glow behind him. He came to a small, hidden clearing where he had left his own car, a nondescript, spear-colored sedan. He got in, started the engine, and drove away, a phantom disappearing into the night.

He drove home, his hands steady on the wheel, his mind clear. He had done it. He had saved you. He had cleansed your world of the poison that had been slowly killing you. He had committed the ultimate act of love. And as he pulled into his driveway, cutting the engine and sitting in the quiet darkness, he felt nothing but a profound, unshakable peace. He was your savior. Your guardian. Your dark knight. And he would wait for you to realize it. He would wait forever.

You woke slowly, drifting up from a deep, dreamless sleep like a bubble rising from the bottom of a dark lake. For a moment, you just lay there, enveloped in a profound, unfamiliar stillness. The sun was high in the sky, the bright morning light filtering through the curtains and painting stripes across your bedroom wall. You slept in. The realization was a jolt, a spike of pure, undiluted fear.

You sat up, your heart hammering against your ribs, your eyes darting around the room, expecting to see Mark’s hulking form looming in the doorway, waiting. You waited for the familiar, cruel ritual: the sound of his heavy footsteps, the creak of the floorboards, the icy shock of a basin of cold water being splashed in your face. “Time to get up, lazy bones,” he’d sneer, his voice thick with sleep and contempt.

But there was nothing. Only the sound of birds chirping outside, a sound so peaceful and normal it felt alien.

You slipped out of bed, your bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor. You crept to the window, your movements cautious, wary. You peered through a gap in the curtains. The driveway was empty. Mark’s prized Buick, the car he treated like a member of the family, was gone.

A wave of relief so potent it made you dizzy washed over you. He’d left for work early. Maybe there was an emergency at the garage. Maybe one of his buddies had needed a ride. It didn’t matter why. All that mattered was that he was gone. The house was yours. You were safe.

You went about your day in a state of cautious, surreal freedom. You cleaned the house, not with the frantic, fearful energy of a woman trying to avoid a beating, but with a slow, methodical calm. You listened to the radio, humming along to the songs, the music a sound you hadn’t allowed yourself to enjoy in years. You even made a pot roast, Mark’s favorite meal, a small, hopeful gesture of peace.

But as the afternoon wore on, a seed of unease began to sprout in the pit of your stomach. Five o’clock came and went. Then six. The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, the very colors of a bruise. Mark was always home by six. Always. Without fail.

The pot roast sat in the oven, growing dry, its delicious scent no longer a comfort but a taunting reminder of your husband’s absence. You paced the living room, your anxiety mounting with every tick of the mantel clock. What if he’d been in an accident? What if he was hurt? Or worse, what if he was at some bar, getting drunk, working himself into a rage that he would take out on you when he finally stumbled through the door?

You couldn’t bear the silence. You couldn’t bear the not knowing. You had to know.

You slipped on a light cardigan over your sundress and walked across the street, the twilight air cool on your skin. Albert’s house was dark, save for a single light burning in his study. A beacon. A constant.

You knocked on the back door, your heart a frantic drum. He opened it almost instantly, as if he’d been expecting you. He was wearing a simple, dark shirt, his expression calm, unreadable. His blue eyes, always so intense, seemed to hold a universe of secrets.

“(Y/N),” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. “Is everything alright?”

“I… I don’t know,” you said, your voice trembling. “Have you… have you seen Mark? He didn’t come home from work. His car is gone. I’m worried.”

Albert’s expression was a perfect mask of concerned sympathy. He shook his head slowly. “No, I haven’t seen him. Not since the other night. I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s fine, though. You know how men are. Probably lost track of time down at the bar with his mechanic buddies.”

His words were meant to be reassuring, but they only heightened your anxiety. The thought of Mark at a bar, getting drunk, was a nightmare scenario.

“I… I made a pot roast,” you said, your voice small, pathetic. “It’s just going to go to waste.”

A slow, gentle smile touched Albert’s lips. “Well, we can’t have that,” he said, his voice soft. “I’d be honored to join you for dinner, (Y/N). If you’ll have me.”

The relief was so overwhelming it almost brought you to your knees. “Yes,” you whispered. “Of course.”

You led him back to your house, the house that had felt like a tomb just an hour ago. With Albert beside you, it felt different. The air seemed lighter, the shadows less menacing. You set the table, your hands still trembling, while Albert poured two glasses of water.

“This is wonderful,” he said, as you served him a slice of the pot roast. “You’re a fantastic cook, (Y/N). Truly.”

You sat down across from him, picking at your own food. “Thank you,” you mumbled.

You ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clinking of silverware against plates. You could feel Albert’s gaze on you, a steady, weighty presence that was both comforting and unnerving.

“You know,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, the words tumbling out of you before you could stop them. “I feel… strange.”

“Strange how?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You looked up at him, meeting his intense blue eyes. “I feel… light,” you confessed, a small, incredulous smile playing on your lips. “Like a great, big weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Since this morning… since I realized he was gone… I haven’t been afraid. I haven’t been looking over my shoulder. I can breathe.”

The admission was shocking, a betrayal of the vows you had so staunchly defended just days ago. But it was the truth. You felt free. And the feeling was intoxicating.

Albert’s expression softened, his eyes filled with a deep, aching tenderness. “You deserve to breathe, (Y/N),” he said, his voice a low, reverent whisper. “You deserve to be happy.”

You looked down at your plate, a fresh wave of tears welling in your eyes. “I shouldn’t feel this way,” you choked out. “I’m a terrible person. He’s my husband. I should be worried sick. I should be praying for his safety.”

“You’re not a terrible person,” Albert said, his voice firm but gentle. “You’re a person who has been living in a cage. And for the first time, someone’s left the door open. It’s natural to want to feel the sun on your face.”

He reached across the table and took your hand, his touch warm, reassuring. “You’re safe here, (Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, steady promise. “I’ll make sure of it. Whatever happens, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

You looked at him, at the man who had somehow become your anchor in a storm you hadn’t even realized you were in. You didn’t know where Mark was, or what had happened to him. But for the first time in a long time, you realized you didn’t care. All that mattered was the man sitting across from you, the man with the kind blue eyes and the gentle hands, the man who was offering you a taste of a life you thought you’d never have. And you knew, with a certainty that terrified and thrilled you, that you were never going back.

The morning light filtering through the kitchen windows felt different. It was no longer a harbinger of dread, but a gentle, hopeful promise. The weight on your shoulders, the one you had confessed to Albert, was still gone. In its place was a fragile, budding sense of peace. You woke not to the phantom fear of cold water, but to the quiet hum of the house and the lingering scent of Albert’s cologne from his visit the night before.

But reality, with its sharp, unforgiving edges, could not be ignored indefinitely. A husband, even a hated one, did not simply vanish. The pot roast was a congealed lump in the refrigerator, a testament to a life that was no longer yours. You knew what you had to do.

With a trembling hand, you picked up the telephone in the hall, its heavy black receiver feeling like a dead weight. You dialed the operator, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. “Police, please,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

When you were connected, you spoke to a gruff, tired-sounding officer. “My name is (Y/N) (L/N),” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady. “My husband, Mark (L/N). He… he didn’t come home last night. He’s missing.”

You gave them the details his name, his age, his place of work at the auto shop. You told them about his prized Buick, which was also gone. You painted a picture of a devoted, hardworking husband who would never just leave, your voice laced with a performance of wifely concern that felt surprisingly natural after years of practice. “I’m just so worried, Officer,” you said, letting a carefully modulated tremor enter your voice. “It’s not like him at all.”

After you hung up, the silence of the house rushed back in, heavier this time, charged with a new kind of dread. You had done it. You had set the wheels in motion. You had summoned the world into your private little hell.

You didn’t have to wait long. A knock came at the door, and when you opened it, there was Albert. His blue eyes were soft with concern, his expression a perfect mask of neighborly support. He was holding two steaming mugs of coffee.

“I heard you on the phone,” he said, his voice a low, gentle murmur. “I thought you could use this.”

Tears of gratitude pricked your eyes. You took the mug, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into your cold hands. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I… I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” he said, his gaze steady and reassuring. “You have to report it. It’s procedure.”

Just then, a black and white police cruiser pulled up in front of the house. Two officers got out, a heavy-set older man and a younger, sharper-looking detective. Albert put a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I’ll stay with you,” he said. “If you want.”

You nodded, grateful for his solid presence. You were going to need it.

The next few hours were a blur of questions and paperwork. The older officer, whose name tag read ‘Miller,’ was gruff but kind, his questions perfunctory. “When did you see him last, ma’am?” “Did he have any enemies?” “Any problems at work?”

You answered them all with the same story: a loving, if sometimes stressed, husband who had been acting normal. The younger detective, a sharp-eyed man named Donovan, was more probing. He watched you with an unnerving intensity, his gaze missing nothing.

“And you say he didn’t mention any plans to go out of town?” he asked, his pen poised over his notepad.

“No, nothing,” you said, your hands twisting in your lap.

Albert, who had been sitting quietly in the armchair, spoke up. “Officer, if I may. Mark was a creature of habit. He came home from work, had his dinner, and watched the television. He wasn’t a spontaneous man. For him to just… disappear… it’s not right.”

Donovan looked at Albert, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “And you are?”

“Albert Shaw. Neighbor. Across the street.”

“Did you notice anything unusual last night, Mr. Shaw?”

Albert shook his head. “Not a thing. It was a quiet night. I was in, reading. Didn’t hear a peep.”

He was a perfect picture of concerned innocence. You could have kissed him.

The officers left after taking down your information, promising to be in touch. “We’ll put out a BOLO on his car, ma’am,” Officer Miller said. “Nine times out of ten, these things turn up. Guy just needed to blow off some steam.”

But you knew Mark. He didn’t blow off steam. He built it up until he exploded.

The next day, the town’s search and rescue team was mobilized. It was a volunteer organization, made up of local men who gave their weekends to look for lost hikers and, now, missing husbands. And to your utter shock and amazement, Albert was one of them.

You saw him from your window as they gathered in the church parking lot, a motley crew of men in flannel jackets and work boots. He was standing with them, listening intently as the sheriff gave out instructions. He was wearing a heavy canvas jacket, his face set in a mask of grim determination. He was your dark knight, your savior, infiltrating the very system that was searching for the man he had erased.

For three days, the search went on. You watched from your window as they combed the surrounding woods, as they dragged the nearby reservoir, as they posted flyers with Mark’s smiling, oblivious face on them. You played the part of the grieving wife, accepting casseroles from well-meaning neighbors, fielding calls from a worried Mark’s mother, your face a mask of pale, fragile sorrow.

Every evening, Albert would come to your door, his face smudged with dirt, his eyes weary. He would sit with you in the quiet living room, and he would tell you about the search.

“Nothing today,” he’d say, his voice low. “We covered the north ridge. No sign of him. No sign of the car, either.”

He was playing his part to perfection, feeding you information that both comforted and terrified you. There were no leads. No witnesses. No trace of Mark or his Buick. It was as if he had been plucked from the face of the earth.

On the third night, as he sat across from you, a profound sense of dread settled over you. The initial hope had been replaced by a cold, creeping fear. He was gone. Really gone. And no one could find him.

“It’s like he vanished into thin air,” you said, your voice soft, almost awestruck.

Albert looked at you, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice a low, deliberate murmur, “people get what they deserve. And sometimes, the world just… cleanses itself of a mistake.”

You knew then. You didn’t know how, you didn’t know when, but you knew. You looked at him, at the man who had orchestrated your freedom, and you felt not fear, not guilt, but a wave of pure, unadulterated love. He had done this for you. He had committed the ultimate act of devotion. And you would carry his secret to your grave.

“They’ll stop looking soon,” he said, his voice a confident prediction. “A week, maybe two. They’ll call it a cold case. A man who ran off. And you, my dear (Y/N), will be free.”

You reached across the table and took his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. “Thank you, Albert,” you whispered, your heart overflowing with a gratitude so profound it was almost painful.

He squeezed your hand, his touch a silent, unbreakable promise. “Anything for you,” he said. “Always.”

A year passed. The seasons turned, the leaves fell and grew again, and the thick, suffocating fog of Mark’s presence slowly began to lift from your life, dissolving like morning mist under a relentless sun. The initial frantic fear of his disappearance had given way to a dull, persistent ache, and then, gradually, to a quiet, cautious acceptance. The police had called twice in the first six months, each time with the same weary, apologetic tone. No trace of Mark. No trace of the Buick. No leads.

The final call came on a crisp autumn afternoon, exactly one year and three days after you had reported him missing. It was Detective Donovan. His voice was flat, professional, devoid of the probing energy he’d had a year ago.

“Mrs. (L/N),” he said. “I’m calling to inform you that we are officially moving your husband’s case to our cold file. We’ve exhausted all leads. Without new information, there’s nothing more we can do.”

The words you had been both dreading and secretly hoping for landed with a strange, hollow finality. “Oh,” you whispered, your hand flying to your throat. “I see.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, and for the first time, he sounded like he meant it. “We did everything we could.”

“I know. Thank you, Detective.”

You hung up the phone and stood in the silent hall, the world tilting on its axis. You were free. Officially, legally, irrevocably free. There was no body to bury, no death certificate to sign, just a void where a man used to be. A void you had slowly, carefully, learned to fill with something else.

That something else was Albert.

Your relationship had bloomed in the strange, fertile ground of your shared tragedy. He had been your rock, your constant, your quiet strength. He had held you while you cried, listened while you raged, and sat with you in the comfortable silences that followed. He had never pushed, never demanded. He had simply been there, a steady, unwavering presence of love and devotion. And slowly, imperceptibly, your grief had morphed into something else. A deep, profound, and terrifying love.

You started dating in the winter, a quiet, tentative affair that felt both scandalous and sacred. He’d take you to the pictures, to a small Italian restaurant on the edge of town, to long walks in the woods where the search teams had once looked for your husband. He courted you with a patient, unwavering devotion that healed the parts of you you thought were broken forever. He never spoke of Mark, and neither did you. He was a ghost, a shadow that had finally been banished.

Now, it was spring. The world was green and new, and so were you.

You were in the kitchen, humming as you arranged a vase of daffodils, when you heard the familiar knock on the back door. It was Albert, his blue eyes sparkling with a secret, boyish excitement. Max was with him, looking gangly and awkward, his face a mixture of nerves and excitement.

“Hello, my dove,” Albert said, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “I hope we’re not intruding.”

“Never,” you said, smiling at Max. “Hello, Max. It’s good to see you.”

“Hey (Y/N),” he mumbled, his cheeks flushing a bright red.

Albert put a comforting arm around his younger brother’s shoulders. “We have an errand to run,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. “And we needed a little feminine inspiration. I was hoping you’d come with us.”

“An errand?” you asked, intrigued.

“A very important one,” he said, his eyes locked on yours. “Will you come?”

You nodded, your heart fluttering with a curious, hopeful anticipation.

He drove you to the city, to a part of town you didn’t recognize, a street of elegant, old-world shops. He parked the car and helped you out, his hand lingering on yours. Max trailed behind you, looking like a lost puppy.

Albert led you to a small, discreet shop with a single, tasteful sign that read “Jensen & Sons - Fine Jewellers.” Your heart skipped a beat. You looked at him, your eyes wide with a question he answered with a slow, brilliant smile.

The inside of the shop was quiet and hushed, the air thick with the scent of velvet and polish. A kindly, elderly man with a jeweler’s loupe perched on his nose greeted them from behind a glass counter.

“Mr. Shaw,” he said, his voice a pleasant, rumbling baritone. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Mr. Jensen,” Albert replied, his voice warm and respectful. “We’re ready to make a selection.”

Mr. Jensen nodded and disappeared into a back room, returning a moment later with a black, velvet tray. He placed it on the counter with a reverence that made your breath catch. On the tray, nestled in individual satin slots, was a collection of the most beautiful rings you had ever seen. Diamonds and sapphires and emeralds, all glittering under the soft, focused lights of the display case.

“We were looking at this one,” Albert said, his finger pointing to a stunning, antique-style ring. It was a square-cut diamond, flanked by two smaller sapphires, set in a delicate band of white gold. It was elegant, timeless, and utterly perfect.

Mr. Jensen took the ring from the tray with a pair of soft tweezers and held it up. “An excellent choice, sir. The sapphires represent loyalty and sincerity. A very meaningful stone.”

Albert turned to you, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that made your knees weak. “What do you think, (Y/N)?” he asked, his voice a low, gentle murmur. “Is it the one?”

You looked from the ring to his face, from the glittering stone to the man who had saved you, who had loved you, who had given you back your life. Tears of joy welled in your eyes, blurring your vision.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Albert smiled, a slow, radiant smile that reached his eyes. He took the ring from Mr. Jensen and turned to Max. “Well, little brother? What do you think? Do you think she’ll like it?”

Max, who had been watching the whole exchange with wide, worshipful eyes, beamed with pride. “It’s the best one, Albert,” he said, his voice filled with a fierce, unwavering conviction. “She’s gonna love it. She’s gonna love it a lot.”

Albert nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. “I think so, too.”

He turned back to the jeweler. “We’ll take it.”

As Mr. Jensen began the process of wrapping the ring, Albert took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“I love you, (Y/N),” he whispered, his voice a low, heartfelt promise. “More than anything in this world. I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”

You looked at him, at the man who had been your neighbor, your confidant, your savior, and now, your future. And you knew, with a certainty that filled every corner of your soul, that you had finally, truly, come home.

———

The June sun of 1964 was a merciful, benevolent presence, bathing the world in a warm, golden light that seemed to be a personal blessing just for you. It was your wedding day. The scent of lilies and old hymnals filled the air of St. Mary’s, but today, it wasn’t cloying; it was the perfume of a promise fulfilled. You stood at the back of the sanctuary, a vision in ivory lace and silk, your father’s arm a steady, comforting weight. Your reflection in the polished brass of a collection plate was of a stranger a woman with bright, clear eyes and a smile that reached her chin. A woman who was, for the first time in her adult life, utterly and completely unbroken.

The past year had been a slow, gentle unfolding, like a rosebud finally receiving the sunlight it had been denied for so long. The bruises had faded, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin. The bones had mended, stronger than before. But it was the invisible healing that had been the most profound. The constant, thrumming anxiety that had been the soundtrack to your life had been replaced by a quiet, confident hum. You were no longer a creature of fear, but a woman of quiet joy.

The church ladies had noticed. Oh, how they had noticed. “My goodness, (Y/N),” Martha Gable, the pastor’s wife, had said just last week, clutching your hand in hers, her eyes shining. “You’re just glowing. It’s a miracle what the Lord can do, isn’t it? To bring such beauty out of sorrow.”

You had smiled, a genuine, easy smile. “He certainly has, Martha.”

You were no longer the haunted, silent woman who flinched at a loud noise or kept her eyes glued to the floor. You were (Y/N) Shaw, a pillar of the church community. Your book club, held every Thursday in your sunny living room, was the most popular social event on the church calendar. You led the discussions with a quiet authority, your insights on the latest bestsellers sharp and thoughtful. The women, who had once pitied you, now admired you. They saw your resilience, your grace, as a testament to your faith. They saw you as a survivor, a woman who had endured a terrible trial and emerged, like gold refined by fire, stronger and more beautiful for it.

And Albert… Albert was your rock, your anchor, your everything. He was already a high-standing member of the church, his quiet generosity and his successful construction company earning him a place of respect. But his charity was what had truly cemented his status. He had single-handedly funded the new roof for the parish hall, he had organized a food drive that had fed half the town’s struggling families, and every Sunday, without fail, he would gather the children in the parish hall after the service and perform a magic show.

It was a sight to behold. The stern, intense man you knew would transform, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief as he pulled colorful scarves from thin air and made coins disappear from behind the children’s ears. He was patient and kind with them, a gentle giant who commanded their attention not with fear, but with wonder. The mothers would watch, sipping their coffee, their hearts swelling with affection for the man who was so good with their children. They saw him as a catch, a bachelor of impeccable character. And soon, they would all see him as yours.

The organ began to play the wedding march. Your father gave your arm a final squeeze. “Ready, sweet pea?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, your heart full to bursting. “Ready, Daddy.”

You began your slow procession down the aisle, and the church seemed to hold its breath. All eyes were on you, but for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were on display. You felt like you were coming home. You saw the faces of your book club friends, beaming at you. You saw Martha, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. You saw Max, standing at the front as Albert’s best man, his face a proud, happy grin.

And then you saw him. Albert. He was standing at the altar, waiting for you. He was handsome in his sharp, dark suit, his hair neatly combed, a single white rose in his lapel. But it was his eyes that held you captive. They weren’t burning with a dark, possessive fire anymore. They were shining with a pure, unadulterated love, a love so deep and so true it took your breath away.

You reached the altar, and your father placed your hand in Albert’s. His grip was firm, steady, a silent, unwavering claim. The ceremony was a blur of familiar words and solemn vows. But this time, when you repeated them, they weren’t just words. They were a truth, a reality you had fought for, a future you had earned.

“I, Albert, take thee, (Y/N), to be my wedded wife…” his voice was a low, resonant baritone that vibrated through you, a promise of forever. “To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

When it was your turn, you looked into his blue eyes, and you saw your whole life reflected in their depths. “I, (Y/N), take thee, Albert, to be my wedded husband…” you said, your voice a clear, steady soprano. “To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the pastor declared, his voice booming with joy. “You may kiss your bride.”

Albert cupped your face in his hands, his fingers gentle, reverent. He leaned in and kissed you, a soft, tender kiss that was full of love and promise. It was a kiss of new beginnings, of a future filled with light and hope. The church erupted in applause, a joyous, celebratory sound that was the music of your soul.

The reception was held in the newly renovated parish hall, a room that Albert’s generosity had made possible. It was a joyous, chaotic celebration of life and love. Children ran around, their laughter a happy cacophony. The church ladies fussed over you, their faces beaming with genuine affection. And Albert never left your side, his hand a constant, reassuring presence on your back.

He had given you everything. He had given you your freedom, your safety, your life. He had erased the monster from your past and given you a future filled with love and light. He had committed the ultimate act of devotion, a dark, terrible secret that you would carry to your grave, a secret that was the foundation of your happiness.

Later that evening, after the guests had gone and the hall was quiet, he led you out into the warm summer night. He took you to the place where his car had once been parked, a place that was now just a patch of empty asphalt.

“I have something for you,” he said, his voice a low, gentle murmur. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box.

He opened it, and inside, nestled on a bed of satin, was the ring. The square-cut diamond, flanked by the two sapphires. The ring of loyalty and sincerity.

“I know we’re already married,” he said, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. “But I wanted to do this right. I wanted to give you the world. I wanted to give you a life free from fear, free from pain. A life filled with love and laughter and magic.”

He took the ring from the box and slipped it on your finger. It fit perfectly.

“I love you, (Y/N),” he whispered, his voice a heartfelt promise. “More than anything in this world. You are my masterpiece, my cupcake, my everything.”

You looked at him, at the man who had been your neighbor, your confidant, your savior, your husband. You looked at the ring on your finger, a symbol of a love so fierce and so true it had conquered death itself. And you knew, with a certainty that filled every corner of your soul, that you were finally, truly, home.

“I love you too, Albert,” you whispered, your heart overflowing with a joy so profound it was almost painful. “Always.”

You were half-asleep, hazy with soreness and the bone-deep fatigue only new mothers ever truly knew. The bed was warm and the house was quiet. You dared to think, for a moment, that maybe you’d get another hour of peace.

“Goddammit!” - From the kitchen.

You sat up too fast, wincing, clutching the sheets to your chest. “Ben?”. There was a beat of silence, then his voice carried down the hall, full of temper. “Don’t come in here! I got it under control!”.

You groaned, shuffled into your robe and waddled carefully toward the smell of… oh God. Was that smoke?

By the time you made it to the kitchen, the sight stopped you dead in the doorway.

Ben stood at the stove shirtless, holding a frying pan like it had personally offended him. Two eggs were welded to the pan in a blackened, unholy crust. Toast had been charred into charcoal blocks. A baby bottle lay nearby, its nipple dripping because he’d clearly overfilled it, and Nash, snug in his little bouncer on the counter, was squirming and fussing, unimpressed with the chaos.

Ben jabbed at the pan with a spatula, snarling under his breath. “I fought in Korea. I took down tanks. I survived the goddamn Russians. And I cannot fry a fuckin’ egg?!”.

You leaned against the doorframe, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “Want some help, chef?”.

He whipped around. “No. I told you. I got this. You’re supposed to be resting”.

“Looks like you’re the one who needs a nap”, you teased gently.

“Don’t start with me, sweetheart”, he warned, pointing the spatula like a weapon. “I’m already doin’ diaper patrol, midnight bottle duty, and baby rockin’. This house only needs one cranky little screamer and he’s—”. He jerked his chin at Nash, who chose that exact moment to let out a wail loud enough to rattle the cabinets. Ben threw up a hand. “—exactly”.

You crossed the kitchen and plucked the spatula from his grip before he could commit any further culinary crimes. “Alright, Soldier. You’ve hit your limit. Go sit down with your son before you burn the house down”.

His jaw clenched like he wanted to argue, but instead he sagged against the counter, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. But for the record, I was two seconds from gettin’ it right”.

“Sure you were”, you murmured, kissing his cheek as you slid the pan off the burner.

Ben scooped up Nash, cradling him against his chest with surprising gentleness despite his lingering scowl. The baby quieted almost instantly. Ben glanced down at him, muttering, “Don’t get used to this, kid. Your mom’s the brains. I’m just here for intimidation and heavy liftin’”. From the stove you grinned. “And diaper duty”. He groaned like a man truly defeated. “Yeah. And that.”

A few minutes later, you moved slower than you liked, but you made it back to the kitchen freshly dressed, hair brushed, robe tied neatly. The soreness was still there, but you’d found a rhythm in pacing yourself. Every step was measured. Every breath steady.

Ben sat at the kitchen table, massive frame hunched over like he was guarding a secret. Nash was tucked in the crook of one arm, bottle propped carefully in Ben’s hand. The baby sucked noisily, tiny fists flailing now and then, and Ben adjusted the angle with all the intensity of a sniper lining up a shot. “Don’t fuckin´ gulp like that”, Ben muttered down at him. “Pace yourself. You’ll get gas and then it’s a whole thing”.

You shook your head with a grin and started pulling ingredients from the fridge and cupboards. Eggs. Bread. A little bacon. Nothing fancy, but enough to make it the way Ben liked. By the time the skillet warmed, the scent of bacon filled the room. You worked slow, one hand steadying yourself on the counter now and then, but every flip and stir came easy.

From the table, Ben looked up, eyes narrowing. “You’re cookin’?”.

“Somebody has to”, you said lightly, cracking new eggs into the pan. “And since you nearly burned the kitchen down, I vote me”.

He made a noise of protest, but Nash started fussing at the bottle and Ben’s attention snapped back down instantly. “Alright, alright, I hear ya. No rush”. You glanced over your shoulder, watching him shift Nash upright against his chest for a burp.

When the bacon crisped just right, you plated everything and carried it carefully to the table. You set it in front of him and slid into the chair across him.

Ben looked down at the plate, then back at you, then down at Nash. “You just had a kid tear you open from the inside out four days ago”, he said, voice flat. “And you’re makin’ me breakfast”.

“Yes”. You nudged the fork toward him. “Eat it before it gets cold”.

His jaw flexed. He shifted Nash against his chest, freeing his other hand to pick up the fork. “You’re insane”.

“Probably”.

He stabbed into the eggs and took a bite, chewing like he wanted to stay annoyed but couldn’t. A beat later, he gave a grudging nod. “Alright. This is pretty fuckin’ good”.

You grinned at his grumbling praise, biting into your own toast with the satisfaction of knowing you’d won.

Nash let out a small squeak against Ben’s chest, his tiny fists stretching out from the swaddle like he was already demanding more attention than either of you could ever give. You held out your arms across the table. “C’mere, let me have him”.

Ben glanced down at Nash, then at you. His hand tightened reflexively on the baby’s little body, protective even in this simplest of moments. “You sure? You look like you’re barely sittin’ upright”.

You arched a brow. “Ben, I just made you breakfast while half broken in two. I think I can handle holding my own kid for a minute”.

That earned you the ghost of a smirk, but he didn’t argue further. Instead he shifted his chair back, sliding one massive palm behind Nash’s head and the other beneath his swaddled body. “Alright”, he muttered. “You drop him, you’re grounded”.

You rolled your eyes and carefully accepted the bundle. His face turned instinctively toward you, rooting slightly, his mouth working in that searching way newborns always did.

Ben sat back down heavily, shoveling another forkful of eggs into his mouth but not taking his eyes off the two of you. His jaw worked slow, the edge of his gruffness cracking into something softer he never admitted to out loud. “You look…”. He trailed off, fork hovering, then cleared his throat. “You look good with him. Natural”.

You glanced up at him with a tired but genuine smile. “Well, lucky for both of us, I plan on keeping him”.

That made him huff a laugh. He stabbed another bite of bacon, grumbling, “Good. ‘Cause I already like this one better than most people I’ve met”.

From the bundle in your arms came a sudden, loud hiccup. Nash’s tiny face scrunched, his hands flailing again. Ben froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “The hell was that?”.

You chuckled softly. “Relax. Just a hiccup”.

He lowered the fork slowly, narrowing his eyes at the baby like Nash had just pulled a knife on him. “…Didn’t sound like a hiccup”.

“Ben”, you sighed, shifting Nash gently. “It’s normal”.

“Normal”, he repeated, chewing on the word like he didn’t quite trust it. But then Nash let out another hiccup, louder this time, his tiny body jerking in your arms, and Ben leaned forward instinctively, one hand already halfway reaching toward you both. “Alright, that’s it”, he growled softly. “Gimme the kid back. He’s clearly malfunctioning”.

You laughed outright, cradling Nash close as he squirmed, his little face red with effort. “Ben. He’s fine. And he’s not a toaster. Babies don’t malfunction”.

Ben scowled but didn’t argue, still watching his son with laser focus as if ready to throw himself between Nash and a rogue hiccup if it came to that.

-

The next day, the rain had cleared. Sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, brightening the house in a way it hadn’t since before you went into labor. You were curled on the couch with Nash dozing on your chest, his little body rising and falling with each of your breaths. A soft knock sounded at the door, followed by Lila’s unmistakable voice calling, “I come bearing gifts and caffeine! Don’t shoot!”.

“Couch!”, you called back, your voice still hoarse from exhaustion.

Lila appeared in the doorway a moment later with a coffee tray in hand. The second her eyes landed on you and Nash, her face softened. “Oh my God…”.

Ben was at the table, polishing off the last of his breakfast bacon. He didn’t even look up as he said, “Don’t get all squealy, you’ll wake him”.

Lila shot him a glare. “You’re lucky I like you at all, Soldier Boy”.

“Yeah, join the club”, he muttered.

You chuckled tiredly, shifting so Lila could come closer. She dropped her bag by the couch, leaned in, and gasped softly at the sight of Nash’s scrunched little face. “He’s so pretty”.

“Damn right”, Ben said, finally looking over. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest. “Made him myself”.

You groaned. “Ben”.

“What?”. He gestured toward Nash with his chin. “Tell me I’m wrong”.

Lila ignored him, her attention fixed on the baby. “What’s his name?”.

“Nash”, you said softly, brushing a fingertip over your son’s tiny hand.

“That suits him”, Lila murmured. She reached into her bag and pulled out a neatly wrapped package with a bow. “Here. For both of you”.

You took it gratefully, balancing it in one hand while keeping Nash steady with the other. Inside were soft baby blankets, a tiny onesie that read Mom’s Favorite, and a stack of burp cloths.“Thank you”.

“Of course. Now, can I hold him?”.

Ben stiffened instantly. “He’s sleepin’”.

You gave him a look. “Ben”.

“What?”. He raised a brow. “She barges in here, demands to touch the baby—”.

“Ben”.

He groaned and waved a hand. “Fine. But if she drops him, I’m throwin’ her out a window”.

“Noted”, Lila deadpanned, holding out her arms.

You shifted Nash gently, easing him into her waiting hands. He stirred but didn’t cry, his tiny mouth twitching in his sleep as if tasting a dream.

“Ohhh”, Lila breathed, swaying slightly. “He’s so tiny. Look at him”.

Ben leaned forward in his chair with his eyes on her every movement. “Support his head. No—higher. He likes bein’ held tighter than that. Don’t jostle him, he hates jostlin’. And for Christ’s sake, don’t—”.

Lila shot him a look. “Do you ever shut up?”.

“No”.

Lila adjusted her hold on Nash with the easy confidence of someone who’d rocked her fair share of babies on overnight shifts. She bounced him lightly, her expression softening as his little fists flexed against the edge of the blanket. “He’s so tiny”, she murmured again, brushing her cheek against the top of his head. “I always forget how small they start out. Like he’s barely here, and yet he’s everything”.

You felt your throat pinch at her words. “Yeah”, you whispered, leaning back against the couch. “That’s exactly what it feels like”.

“Careful with his neck”, Ben muttered.

Lila arched a brow without looking up. “I know how to hold a baby, Grandpa”.

Ben scowled, half-rising from his chair. “Ben”, you said softly, a quiet reminder more than a scolding. He sank back down with a frustrated grunt, raking a hand through his hair. “I just—he’s mine. Y’know?”.

Lila gave a small, amused huff. “Believe me, nobody’s forgetting who his dad is. Kid’s already got your scowl”.

That earned the faintest twitch of Ben’s mouth, though his eyes never left Nash.

You watched them in silence for a moment. Your best friend swaying gently with the bundle of your son, and Ben, looming like a watchtower, as if sheer willpower could keep Nash safe in someone else’s arms. Finally, you said softly, “He’s okay, Ben. Look at him. He’s fine”.

Ben scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard through his nose. “I know. Just… feels wrong, not havin’ him”.

Lila glanced at him, something softer flickering in her expression. “You’re completely gone, huh?”.

“Gone?”, Ben snorted, sitting up straighter, puffing his chest. “Lady, I’m fuckin’ done for”.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the way he said it. So blunt and so utterly him. Nash gave a tiny whimper then, shifting against Lila’s shoulder. Ben was on his feet before either of you could blink, hand already outstretched. “Alright, visitation’s over. Hand him back”.

Lila rolled her eyes but eased Nash back into his father’s arms. The baby settled instantly against the broad expanse of Ben’s chest, letting out a soft sigh. Ben’s entire body relaxed, just a fraction, as he pressed his chin gently to the top of Nash’s head. “That’s better”, he muttered. “See? He likes me best”.

You shook your head with a tired smile. “God help me, you’re worse than I thought you’d be”. And yet… you’d never loved him more.

-

By six weeks, the haze of newborn chaos had dulled into something almost routine. Sleepless nights, endless feeding cycles, and the constant shuffle of diapers, bottles, burp cloths, repeat. Your body had mostly healed, though you still moved carefully, listening to the soreness that lingered in hidden places.

Right now, Nash was finally down in his crib. You were curled in bed, robe loosely tied, hair damp from a quick shower. Ben lay beside you, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it had insulted him. For a long while he said nothing. Just tapped his fingers against his chest, restless, the way he got when his head was full. Then he huffed and rolled onto his side, facing you. “Six weeks”, he muttered. “Doc said six weeks”.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “And?”.

“And it’s been six fuckin’ weeks, sweetheart”. His hand dragged down his face before settling at your waist, fingers splayed warm against your hip through the robe. “I’m crawlin’ outta my damn skin here”.

You laughed softly, adjusting on the pillows to face him better. “You sound like a teenager who just discovered hormones”.

“Don’t start”, he grumbled, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder like he was ashamed of himself. “I’ve been good. Real good. Sat on my damn hands every night while you were hurtin’. But if I gotta wait any longer, I’m gonna start twitchin’ like I’m goin’ through withdrawal”. His fingers flexed at your hip, sliding slightly lower, testing.

You smirked, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. “You’re whining”.

“I’m not whining”, he said, immediately defensive, though the rough rasp in his voice made it clear he absolutely was. “I’m statin’ a fact. My body’s about two days from mutiny”.

You chuckled, leaning in to press your lips to his jaw. “Poor thing. Suffering in silence”.

“Not silent”, he shot back, catching your chin and angling your face toward him, his mouth brushing yours. His kiss was hungry, a little unsteady. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You tell me you’re ready, and I swear, I’ll still be careful. But if you’re not—I’ll wait. I’ll wait ‘til I fuckin’ rot”.

Your heart clenched at the sincerity under the bravado. “Ben…”, you whispered, thumb brushing his cheek. “I think I’m ready”.

His pupils blew wide, his breath catching against your mouth. “Thank Christ”, he groaned, already tugging you closer like a starving man finally allowed to eat. His mouth crashed onto yours, one big hand sliding up your side. But under the urgency, there was a care that hadn’t been there before. A subtle hesitance in his grip, a constant awareness of your healing body. His palm cradled your hip instead of grabbing hard. His weight pressed against you, but never fully bore down.

You smiled into the kiss, pulling back just enough to tease, breathless. “You act like you’ve been starved”.

“I have”, he rasped, trailing his mouth down your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “Six weeks. You know what that does to me?”. You gasped softly when his hand slid beneath the robe, rough fingertips tracing the familiar lines of your waist. “Gonna make up for every day I had to sleep next to you and do nothin’”.

“Mm”. Your fingers slid through his hair, tugging lightly. “That sounds like a threat”.

“Promise”, he corrected, biting lightly at your collarbone. Then, almost too casually, he muttered, “Y’know, we oughta just make this official”.

Your brow furrowed, dazed. “Official?”.

He leaned back just enough to meet your eyes, a cocky grin tugging at his mouth. “Wife you up for real. Ring, papers, whole nine yards. Then I can say I knocked up my wife instead of just my girl”.

You laughed, half incredulous, half undone by the idea. “That’s your pitch? Marriage so you can brag better?”.

“Fuck yeah”. He kissed you again, slow this time, lingering. “Always wanted to tell people my wife can’t keep her hands off me. Now I’ll have proof”.

You tried to roll your eyes, but his hand slipped higher, cupping your breast through the thin fabric, and the noise that came out of you was anything but unimpressed.

He groaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting for that sound. “Fuck, I missed these. Missed you. Say the word, sweetheart, and I’ll give you a hundred reasons to let me put that ring on your finger”.

The robe slipped off your shoulder when he pulled you even closer, his mouth trailing over skin he hadn’t tasted in weeks. You felt his breath stutter, his whole body tighten like he had to chain himself down not to just take. “Easy”, you murmured, though your voice was already thin with want.

He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to your collarbone. “Don’t tell me easy. Six weeks of watchin’ you in those damn yoga pants, bendin’ over the crib—sweetheart, I’m fuckin’ feral”.

You grinned, tugging his hair until he looked up at you again. “Feral, but careful. Doctor’s orders”.

His jaw flexed, but his eyes softened. “Yeah. Careful”. He kissed you again, slow and deep, as if to prove he could. Then his hand slid down your thigh, spreading your legs gently over his. “Still gonna fuck you stupid, though. Don’t doubt that”.

You laughed breathlessly. “You’re impossible”.

“Your problem now, wife-to-be”. He smirked, but it faltered the second he pushed the robe fully off you. His gaze darkened, greedy and reverent all at once. His hands were everywhere but never rough. He was mapping the curve of your waist, the softness of your stomach, the swell of your breasts. His thumbs brushed across sensitive skin and you gasped, the ache of weeks without him sparking hot and immediate between your thighs. “Ben—”.

“I know”, he rasped, voice breaking as he rocked against you, already hard and straining. “Fuck, I know. Missed you so bad".

He shifted, lining himself up with a care. His jaw was clenched, the cords of his neck tight, every muscle in his body braced like he expected… hell, like he expected you to be different now. You felt it in the hesitation, in the shallow drag of his hips before he even pushed in. He’d seen it all. What your body had gone through, the tearing, the stretching, the sheer war of birth. Some part of him was already writing the story for himself: that you’d never feel the same. That he’d lost the part of you he’d worshiped as much as he’d claimed.

But when he finally eased inside, slowly and carefully, inch by thick inch, his whole body went rigid. A sound ripped from his chest, sharp and broken and nothing like the cocky quips he usually threw out. “Oh fucking- Shit", he ground out, forehead pressing into your shoulder. “You’re… fuck—tight. Still so—”. His words cut off with a growl, hips shuddering as he forced himself to stop, to breathe.

You dug your nails lightly into his shoulders, gasping at the stretch, the sting of being full after so long. But the heat, the pressure, the familiar way he fit, it stole your breath as much as it stole his. “Ben…”, you whispered, tugging at his hair once more until he met your eyes again. “Don’t hold back”.

He barked a laugh that cracked, hips twitching despite his iron grip on control. “Sweetheart, if I don’t hold back, this is gonna be over in thirty fuckin’ seconds. You feel like—like- fuck. I can’t—”. His voice broke off in a low groan as he tried to ease deeper.

You bit your lip. “Guess you’re not as tough as you thought”.

That earned you a sharp look, half insulted and half undone, and his big hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “Careful”, he rasped, rocking his hips just enough to make you whimper. “You wanna walk tomorrow or not?”.

“You’re shaking”, you murmured, a smile ghosting over your lips.

“Yeah”, he rasped, teeth bared a little. “Tryin’ not to blow like a kid at prom, sweetheart. Don’t start with me”.

You rolled your hips slowly, the smallest push back around him, and watched his eyes go wide. “I’m not starting. Just… noticing”.

His grip on your throat tightened a fraction, not rough, but enough to warn. “You keep runnin’ your mouth…”. You leaned up to his ear, voice a whisper that sent a shiver down his spine. “Good boy”.

It was like hitting a switch. Ben’s whole body jolted, his breath stuttered hard against your neck, a sound tearing out of him that was almost a growl. His hips twitched forward without him meaning to, sinking him another inch into you. “Fuck—”, he choked, eyes screwing shut. “Don’t—don’t do that right now, sweetheart, I swear—”.

You smiled, nails grazing his shoulders. “Why? Afraid you’ll come like that?”.

His answer was another ragged groan. “You say that again and it’s over”, he growled, forehead pressing to yours. “I’m hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread here”.

You brushed your lips against his ear, breath hot. “Good boy”, you whispered again.

His control cracked. His hips jerked and his hand flexed on your throat. You felt the hot, sudden spill deep inside you as he groaned through gritted teeth.

Your fingers dug into the back of his neck, holding him against you as your hips rolled, milking every last spurt. You could feel him still twitching inside you when you murmured against his ear, smug and breathless: “You’d better not be thinking about pulling out before you make me cum too”.

Ben froze. His chest still heaved, his cock still throbbed inside you, but his head came up just enough for you to see his wide, glassy eyes, pupils blown huge. “…Sweetheart”, he panted, voice wrecked. "I just—fuck, I just gave you half-“. You cut him off with a roll of your hips that made him grunt, still sensitive, still half-hard inside you. “I don’t care, Ben. You can get hard again — we both know it”.

His jaw dropped, a ragged laugh spilling out of him. “Fuckin´ shit, woman—You’re tryin’ to kill me”.

You only arched against him. “Not until you finish the job”.

For a second, you saw the battle flicker across his face. Exhaustion from release, the raw edge of sensitivity and right under it, the iron weight of his pride. Soldier Boy didn’t walk away from a fight, and you knew exactly how to weaponize that. His cock twitched inside you, already thickening again, and you smiled wickedly. “See? I told you. Good boy”.

That broke him. All over again.

Ben slammed his mouth back to yours, kissing you messy and desperate. His hips jerked, burying himself deeper even though it made him shudder violently from overstimulation. “Fuck—don’t—don’t call me that unless you’re ready to get split in half again”.

You gasped into his mouth. “Then do it”.

Ben didn’t waste another second. He pulled out just enough to slam back in, and you cried out, the stretch sharper now that you were still soaked with his first release. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He groaned against your lips, rutting into you harder, deeper, like he had to stake a claim he’d already made. His chest pressed to yours, damp, his breath wrecked in your ear. “Told you… told you I’d fuck you stupid, and now look at you—taking me so sweet”.

You arched up against him, nails digging into his shoulders as your back hit the mattress. “Don’t stop—”.

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it”, he rasped, driving into you in a punishing rhythm. His hand slid down from your throat to pin your hip, keeping you wide open for him.

Your legs locked around his waist, dragging him even deeper.

Ben’s head dropped to your shoulder, his teeth scraping your skin. “Say it”, he demanded, breath hot. “Say you’re mine”.

“Yours”, you choked, clenching hard around him. “Always—Ben—”.

He growled into your neck, hips pistoning faster, until the coil inside you snapped and you shattered under him, crying out as your body clamped tight around his cock. Ben buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you again.

He stayed inside you for a long time, still braced on his forearms, breathing like he’d just run a mile in full kit. Every exhale was hot against your cheek, every little tremor of his body still echoing through you where he filled you.

“Fuck”, he muttered finally. “You’re gonna be the death of me”.

You smiled faintly, still dazed. “You said that already”.

“I meant it twice”. He shifted his weight just enough to keep from crushing you but didn’t pull out. His hips stayed pressed to yours, his cock still twitching lazily inside you. “Gimme a second. Can’t even feel my damn legs”.

Your fingers slid up his damp back, tracing the scars you knew by heart. “You’re heavy”.

“I’m your weighted blanket now”. He dropped his head to your shoulder, nuzzling there, his beard scraping lightly against your skin. “You smell like me and trouble”.

You huffed a soft laugh. “And you smell like sex and bad decisions”.

“That’s just my cologne”, he deadpanned, then kissed your collarbone in a slow, dragging kiss that was more thank-you than teasing.

You let him linger there, his chest heaving against yours. Your fingers carded through the short hair at the nape of his neck, lazy and affectionate. “Y’know”, you murmured, voice soft but amused, “you only ever get this sweet after you’ve fucked me senseless”.

Ben huffed a laugh against your skin, his mouth curving into a crooked smile at your throat. “Yeah?”.

“Mm”. You scratched lightly at his scalp, making him hum despite himself. “Weighted blanket, kissing my collarbone, talking like you’re not the dirtiest man alive… I swear, sex is the only thing that softens you up”.

He lifted his head just. “That’s bullshit”.

You arched a brow, fighting a grin. “Yeah?”

For a second, his mouth opened like he had a comeback ready, but then he paused. His green eyes flicked over your face, softened almost shy. He sighed and pressed his forehead gently to yours, still buried deep inside you, still holding you like he couldn’t let go. “…You’re the best thing that ever happened to me”, he admitted roughly, almost like the words burned coming out.

Your breath caught, your smirk melting into something softer.

Then, of course, he ruined it: “But yeah, maybe I only get sentimental when I’ve emptied my balls first”.

You smacked his shoulder, laughing. “Ben!”.

He chuckled, kissing the corner of your mouth and stayed right where he was, heavy and solid on top of you, still buried deep inside. His cock had softened, but he hadn’t moved an inch, and from the look in his eyes, he wasn’t planning to.

“You’re not pulling out, are you?”, you teased gently, brushing a thumb over the stubble on his cheek.

“Not a fuckin’ chance”, he muttered, settling more of his weight into you like he was daring you to complain. “You’re warm. You’re mine. I earned this”.

You laughed under your breath, even as your thighs shifted to cradle him closer. “Earned it how? By almost collapsing on me?”.

His grin was lazy and wicked. “By makin’ you cum so hard you damn near cried”.

“Cocky”.

“Accurate”, he shot back, kissing you before you could argue. Deep, slow, the kind of kiss that said more than his words ever did. His hand slid along your side, fingertips tracing circles over your hip like he couldn’t stop touching you.

When he pulled back, his lips brushed your jaw as he muttered, “You don’t even know what you do to me”.

You tilted your head, smiling softly despite the ache in your body. “I think I have a pretty good idea”.

“Yeah? Then tell me”. His eyes narrowed, challenge creeping back into his tone.

You kissed the tip of his nose, just to annoy him and watched his expression twist like you’d just committed a war crime. “Really?”, Ben grumbled, narrowing his eyes. “After all that, you go for the damn nose?”.

“Yup”, you said sweetly, lips twitching. “Gotta keep you humble somehow”.

He gave you a look that was equal parts offended and amused. His hand tightening just a little on your hip. “Sweetheart, there ain’t a humble bone in my body. You’re not breakin’ me down with nose kisses”.

“Sure about that?”. You did it again, deliberately soft, right on the tip.

His jaw dropped. “Oh, you’re fuckin’ pushin’ it”.

Just as you were about to fire back with another tease, a small, wet noise broke through the quiet. Both your heads turned toward the bassinet across the room. Nash had wriggled in his swaddle, tiny fists bumping against the blanket, mouth working like he was already dreaming of food. Those little squeaks and grumbles followed.

Ben groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Un-fuckin’-believable. Kid’s got radar”.

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through Ben’s damp hair. “He’s hungry. It’s his job”.

“Yeah, well, his timing’s shit”, Ben muttered, though his hand slid off your hip reluctantly, as if he knew you were both about to lose the moment. “Just when I’m startin’ to get comfortable”.

You shifted under him with a wince, nudging his chest. “Go get him before he starts screaming”.

He lifted his head, glaring like you’d just asked him to storm Normandy again. “Sweetheart, I’m still inside you. You really want me walkin’ over there with my dick swingin’?”. You laughed. “You’d traumatize him for life”.

Ben finally pulled out with a low grunt anyway, muttering about how it was “a crime against nature” and grabbed the blanket at the foot of the bed to throw over himself. He stomped over to the bassinet in nothing but his broad shoulders and scowl, then bent to scoop Nash up with surprising care. “You already stole my sleep, now you’re cock-blockin’ me too”.

From the bed, you couldn’t stop your smile. “Welcome to parenthood, Ben”.

He glanced back at you, baby tucked securely in his arms, and even through the grousing you saw it, that softness he couldn’t fake, the way his whole face changed when Nash rooted against his chest. “You’re laughin’ now”, he said, shuffling back toward you with the baby. “But guess who’s gettin’ her tits out next?”.

-

You were sitting cross-legged on the rug beside Nash, hair pulled back, coffee going cold on the end table because your whole focus was on the tiny body squirming in front of you.

“C’mon, baby”, you coaxed, clapping your hands softly. “Almost there. You can do it”.

Nash grunted in concentration, his little legs kicking, arms flailing like he was fighting invisible enemies. Then, with a sudden twist of hips and a determined push, he rolled clean onto his stomach.

You gasped and clapped, eyes bright. “Ohhh, good boy!”. The words slipped out instinctively, full of warmth and pride.

But from across the room, there was a loud crash. You whipped around, confused, just to see Ben, halfway up a stepladder, the lamp fixture he’d been tightening dangling crooked in one big hand. The other hand had lost its grip entirely. He blinked down at you, eyes wide, jaw tight. His Adam’s apple bobbed hard as he rubbed his red forehead. “For fucks sake”, he muttered under his breath, shifting on the ladder like he’d been gut-punched. “You can’t just—say that—when I’m tryin’ to hang a fuckin’ light—”.

Your lips parted as realization dawned. Then you grinned. “Oh my-”.

“Don’t”, he warned, his voice rough. He climbed down the ladder too fast, muttering curses under his breath, adjusting his jeans in a way that left zero doubt about what just happened.

“You’re—”, you tried not to laugh, “—you’re actually hard right now, aren´t you?”.

Ben pointed a finger at you, eyes wild. “You don’t get it. Those words—outta your mouth—it’s like a damn trigger”.

You covered your mouth, laughing helplessly. “Ben, I wasn’t even talking to you”.

“Doesn’t matter!”, he barked, running a hand through his hair. “I hear it, my dick salutes”.

Nash let out a happy squeal from the mat, as if proud of the chaos he’d caused. You looked down at him, still laughing. “Look at you, causing problems already”.

“Problems? Sweetheart, you just turned tummy time into foreplay. I’m so fucked”. He adjusted himself again, glaring down at the obvious bulge in his jeans. “Look at this shit. Pathetic”.

You bit your lip, trying and failing not to laugh as you scooped Nash up from the mat. He giggled, oblivious, drooling happily on your shoulder while you called over, “Hey, c’mere, twitchy. Sit down before you break something else”.

Ben grumbled, but he obeyed. Big frame folding onto the rug beside you. His green eyes were still stormy, darting between you and the baby like he couldn’t decide which way to aim his frustration. His jaw worked, probably running through a list of choice curses in his head, but you ignored him for the moment, more interested in the way Nash had started batting lazily at the hem of Ben’s sleeve, drool-soaked and utterly content.

Your hand drifted down from the baby’s back, fingers brushing against your own thigh… and then it caught on the subtle curve of metal wrapped around your ring finger. You stilled. The silver glinted warm in the afternoon light. A clean, simple band with a small engraving inside. Ben hadn’t wanted anything flashy. “No diamonds”, he’d said. “You’re already the prize”. Which had been cheesy as hell, and exactly the reason you'd kissed him into shutting up afterward. Your thumb grazed the band, quiet and reverent. Then your eyes flicked sideways to find Ben still glaring down at his jeans.

“Are you mad”, you asked, “because I said good boy, or because your dick liked it?”.

Ben groaned, running a hand down his face like he was in agony. “You’re lucky I married you”.

“Lila married us”.

“Lila screamed the vows while Nash pooped mid-ceremony”, he said flatly. “We barely survived”.

“Still counts”.

-

Nash was finally asleep in his crib, a faint night-light glowing against the nursery wall. You leaned in the doorway for a moment, watching his tiny chest rise and fall, then padded back down the hall.

Ben was on the couch, sprawled. A half-empty beer sat on the coffee table. His head tipped back when you came in, eyes closing, one hand lifting lazily in your direction. “You check him?”, he mumbled.

“Out cold”, you said softly, easing down beside him.

He shifted instantly, arm curling around your shoulders, tugging you against his chest like it was muscle memory. His other hand found your thigh, squeezing gently, and for a while the only sound was your breathing.

Then he spoke. “Never thought I’d get here”.

You tipped your chin up to look at him. “Here?”.

He nodded, eyes still on the darkened ceiling. “Alive. Married. A kid in the next room instead of…”. He trailed off, shaking his head. “Instead of whatever the hell I thought my life was supposed to be”.

Your hand found his, fingers tracing the rough lines of his knuckles. “You earned it”.

He snorted softly. “Didn’t earn you”.

“Yes, you did”. You turned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Every gold star, remember?”.

That earned you a quiet laugh, his chest rumbling under your cheek. “Still think those things are ridiculous”.

“Still love them”.

He didn’t deny it. Just squeezed you closer, like he could hide the truth in the press of his arm around your shoulders. A beat passed. Then, almost reluctantly, he muttered, “Can’t believe you actually said good boy in front of the kid”.

You grinned, biting your lip. “Can’t believe you hit your head on the lamp because of it”.

“Hey”, he warned, jabbing your side gently. “You keep sayin’ it, and—”.

“You’ll get hard again?”, you teased.

His glare softened into something warmer, weaker. “…Not denying it”.

You laughed quietly, then let the silence stretch. His thumb brushed absent circles on your thigh, his breathing deep and steady beside you.

It hit you then. The absurdity and the beauty of it all. Soldier Boy, once the most dangerous man alive, who could level cities and terrify nations, now sitting barefoot on your couch, worried about diaper rash and bottle temperature. The man who’d once sworn he was nothing but a weapon… now a husband, a father, and, for all his flaws, yours.

Your ring caught the lamplight as you twisted it idly, and you whispered, “We’re gonna be okay, aren’t we?”.

Ben looked at you, green eyes clear in a way you hadn’t seen in… ever. “Yeah”, he said simply. “We are”.

You leaned in, kissed him slow and deep, and when you pulled back you whispered the words that had become your own kind of promise: “Good boy”.

He groaned, dropped his head back against the couch, and muttered, “Christ, woman… you’re never lettin’ that go, are you?”.

You smiled against his shoulder. “Not a chance”.

And with his arm locked around you, your baby sleeping safe in the next room, and the weight of the past finally falling quiet, you believed it. The future was yours. Messy. Unapologetic. And absolutely golden and loud.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

He mumbled tauntingly in your ear, hand now cupping your crotch through the thin material of your boxers your cunt having absolutely drenched through it.

“Can you not sleep? Or does that cunt need alberts special trick?” You nod almost too eagerly shifting to make yourself more comfortable, while resting on his thigh, on leg hooked over his other thigh. His fingers began to card over the material, the soaked underwear being slightly pushed back up into your slit, your soft moans earned a deep, throaty growl from him. Fingers adding the slightest amount of pressure before sliding both hands around your underwear, pulling it down over your knees to be discarded onto his bedroom floor.

You rest your back against his chest glancing down at his hands around your hips, rubbing disgustingly close to where you need him most causing you to rut your hips desperately into the air.

“Naughty girl…be patient…”

His fingers began run over your folds, drenched and aching, “Jesus…it’s covered in slick…it’s like, I haven’t even touched you yet…you see that?” Bringing his fingers up to your face m, spreading the slick between them, before pushing them into his mouth, pushing them past his lips soaking them in spit, making full eye contact with you, those dazzling greyish blue eyes staring into your own.