Assistance â Ë･ âŕ¨âĄŕ§â Ë･ â
â Ë･ âŕ¨âĄŕ§â Ë･ â
disclaimers: This story contains explicit adult content, graphic sexual scenes, and mature themes including trauma/PTSD, past medical experimentation/torture, and significant age gap relationships. It is strictly intended for readers aged 18 and older. If you are a minor or are uncomfortable with explicit material, please exit now.
content warnings:+18, soldier boy/reader, ben/reader, age gap (82 years), trauma recovery, hurt/comfort, shower sex, intimate grooming, injury care, gentle dom/soft top, praise kink (light), possessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, unprotected sex, creampie, man out of time, PTSD/hyper-vigilance, consent-focused, gentle to rough, caretaking dynamic, forbidden romance (former supe/civilian), size difference, scarred male, crying during intimacy, aftercare.
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Soldier Boy or as you know and call him, Ben. Lived through decades trapped in the suffocating darkness of the Russian cryo-chamberâlost in a terrifying blur of sensory deprivation and mental decayâcombined with the agonizing physical violation of being treated like a helpless lab rat, completely shattered his sense of invulnerability. Having his autonomy stripped away through radiation testing and invasive surgeries left his nervous system locked in a state of hyper-vigilance, making his subsequent safety with you his only anchor to reality. Because he knows the exact, bitter horror of absolute helplessness and pain, he handles you with an almost reverent tenderness; he restrains his immense strength and acts with extreme care because he is deeply terrified that any harsh movement might shatter this fragile peace, accidentally hurt the only good thing he has left, or make him look like the monsters who tortured him.
You were a small little thing. Ben had settled down with you after living for over 100 years, well⌠he mainly lived for about 60 and some change. Due to the fact he had spent 40-45 years in the cryo. Frozen. Still. Everything was moving around him. For fucks sake! He didnât even know what a GPS, the internet, or bluetooth was!Â
Until he met a group that called themselves âThe Boysâ. Ben had worked with the group to basically annihilate Homelander. But that didnât go as planned because Ben ended up finding out that Homelander was his son. That breastmilk drinking son of a bitch was his son⌠but thatâs OK donât fret! Homelander is dead now! But Ben isnât⌠see the week of Homelanderâs death, Homelander, or also known as John, had put Ben back into a cryo. A lot of that group called âThe Boysâ had went their separate ways, since Vought tower was basically an ancient history now you decided to visit it because at this point, it was like a monument or whatever kind of like the Colosseum. The tower was basically a monument of Homelander, but anyways. During your tour you had accidentally went into Homelanderâs old room and found Ben.Â
You ended up releasing him out of the cryo, he went defensive immediately⌠his chest started glowing, until he realized you were just as confused as he wasâŚ?Â
After showing him the new things around, and telling him about his sonâs death, and telling him about how the group that he used to be in was now dismantled. I mean, since those group of men and those two women were basically the most wanted criminals ever, you had to know a little bit of information about them⌠you two hit it off pretty well.Â
In your eyes, he appeared to be your overprotective guard dog. Hell, he even kinda looked like a dog with his shaggy hair, and his short facial hair that was⌠oh so sexy.Â
And in his eyes were his precious little girl, but not in a father daughter way. In a very, very big age gap but legal way. I mean you were 25, when you met him? And for fucks sake, the man was around 107!Â
Growing up, you never watched any movies about Homelander, or the seven. You watched the movies about Payback, and about Soldier Boy. You found them so fascinating about how things were back in times that your parents didnât even exist!
On one of you and Benâs dates you mentioned you were a big fan of one of his movies, Red Thunder; His most famous classic film. Touted as a Die Hard or Red Dawn style action movie, it stars Soldier Boy and the team Payback fighting off a Soviet invasion to protect the American way. He chuckled and offered to watch it with you. You agreed immediately and one thing led to another⌠It wasnât just you anymore.Â
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You are currently in the shower letting the water cascade down your body, your curves.
The steam wraps around you like a warm blanket, fogging up the glass of the shower door. You're rushing, balancing on one foot with your leg propped on the edge of the tub, trying to get this done before Ben gets back from his runâ
The razor catches wrong and "Fuck!" you yelp, loud enough to echo off the tiles.
The pain is sharp, immediate, thereâhigh on your inner lip where the skin is most sensitive. You drop the razor, clutching yourself, and that's when you hear the front door slam. Heavy boots thundering down the hall.
"Sweetheart?" Ben's voice booms, panicked, and then the bathroom door flies open so hard it bounces off the stopper.
You try to cover yourself, embarrassed and stinging, but he's already thereâbig frame filling the doorway, chest heaving from sprinting up the stairs, eyes wild.
"You're bleeding." It's not a question. He's staring at the thin line of red on your thigh with an expression you can't quite read.
"It's just a nick, I was rushingâ"
"Show me." He's kneeling before you can protest, huge hands gentle as they guide your leg wider, inspect the cut with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "Where's the razor?"
"Ben, it's fine, I canâ"
You point. He grabs it, then looks up at you with those dark eyes, and something in your chest tightens at the barely restrained fear there. Not angerâfear.
"Let me," he says, rougher now. "Please. I need toâI need to fix it."
You nod, unable to speak, and he positions himself between your thighs with a focus that would be comical if it weren't so earnest. His hands are warm, slightly calloused, impossibly careful as he rinses the area, then takes the razor and finishes what you started with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Almost done," he murmurs, breath hot against your hip. "I've got you. You're okay."
When he's finished, he doesn't move. Just stays there, kneeling in his running clothes, water from the shower misting his hair and face. His thumbs stroke over the freshly smooth skin, soothing, checking, caring.
"Ben," you whisper, and your voice breaks a little.
He looks up, and the vulnerability in his eyes hits you right in the chest. "You scared me," he admits, rough and raw. "Hearing you hurt and I wasn'tâI'm supposed to be here. I'm supposed to keep you safe from everything. Even yourself."
You card your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a starved man, pressing his forehead to your hip. "I'm okay," you whisper. "Because you're here."
He makes a broken sound and turns his head, pressing a kiss to your hipboneâthen lower, closer, his mouth warm against the place that stings. Not sexual, not quite, but intimate in a way that makes your breath hitch.
"Let me," he says again, but this time it's different. "Let me take care of you. Properly."
The water beats down around you, and you nod, and his hands slide up your thighs with that same reverent gentleness, ready to soothe away every hurt you have.
His hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing slow, maddening circles against your wet skin. He's still fully dressedâsweat-soaked shirt clinging to the hard planes of his chest, running shoes squeaking against the porcelain tubâand the absurdity of it almost makes you laugh. But then he looks up at you again, and the depth of want mixed with that ever-present fear of hurting you steals your breath.
"Tell me what you need," he says, voice rough as gravel. "I don't wannaâI need you to guide me. Tell me if I'm too rough. Tell me to stop."
You reach down, cup his jaw in your hands, feel the tension there. "I trust you," you say again, because it bears repeating. Because he needs to hear it. "You won't hurt me."
Something in him breaks. He surges up, catching you around the waist and lifting you easily against the tile wall. The shock of cold porcelain against your back makes you gasp, but then his mouth is on yoursâdesperate, grateful, hungryâand the contrast between his gentle hands and the fierce way he kisses you has your head spinning.
"Water's getting cold," you murmur against his lips.
"Don't care." He grinds against you, and even through the wet denim you can feel how hard he is, how much he's holding back. "Can't stop. Not yet."
"Then get in here properly."
He pulls back, breathing hard, and for a second you think he's going to argueâgoing to retreat into that hyper-vigilant place where he convinces himself he's not good enough for this. But then his fingers find the hem of his shirt, tear it over his head, and he's reaching for his belt with shaking hands.
You watch him, this man out of time, all scarred muscle and restrained power, and your chest aches with how badly you want him. How badly he wants to be wanted.
He steps out of his shoes, shoves his jeans down, and then he's naked with you under the sprayâskin against skin at last. He makes a sound like a prayer when he presses against you, his cock hot and hard against your stomach, and his hands slide down to grip your thighs, hoist you higher.
"Wrap around me," he orders, but it's soft, pleading. "Please, sweetheart. Need to feel you."
You hook your legs around his waist, and he enters you in one slow, perfect strokeâfilling you, stretching you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he shakes with the effort of going slow.
"Perfect." You arch against him, nails digging into his shoulders. "Move, Ben. Please."
He doesâcareful, rolling thrusts that hit exactly right, his hands supporting your weight like you weigh nothing. The water beats down on his back, steam swirling around you both, and he keeps his eyes locked on yours like he's memorizing you, like he's terrified you'll disappear.
"You're real," he pants, picking up the pace just slightly, still so controlled it must be killing him. "You're real and you're here and you're mine."
"Yours," you agree, and you feel him swell inside you at the word, his rhythm faltering.
He groans, presses you harder against the wall, and finallyâfinallyâlets go of some of that iron restraint. His thrusts deepen, hips snapping with power that should terrify you but doesn't, never with him. He's grunting now, broken sounds against your throat, and you feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly.
"Close," you whimper. "Ben, I'mâ"
"I've got you." One hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating precision. "Let go, sweetheart. I've got you."
You come apart with his name breaking across your lips, your body clamping down on him so hard he snarlsâactually snarlsâand follows you over the edge, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a ragged groan that sounds like surrender.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The water runs lukewarm now, but he doesn't seem to notice, just holds you against him, still inside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
"Ben," you whisper, stroking his hair.
He lifts his head, and his eyes are wetânot from the shower. "Thank you," he says, rough and raw. "For letting meâfor trusting me withâ"
You kiss him quiet. "Always," you promise. "Now let's get out of this shower before we both prune."
He laughsâactually laughs, bright and surprisedâand sets you down with exaggerated care, checking you over for injuries like you didn't just get thoroughly ravished against the tile.
"You're ridiculous," you tell him, but you're smiling.
"Yeah," he agrees, wrapping a towel around you with the same gentle focus he used with the razor. "But I'm your ridiculous."
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