#dinner is served

You fucked up.

Big time.

Butcher and Hughie aren’t even trying to save you from this one—and truthfully, there’s nothing to save you from.

Ben’s silent. That cocky, smart-mouthed supe hasn’t said a word since the argument. But you feel the anger rolling off him in waves. Cold, calculated, brooding. He’s mad—everyone knows it—but he won’t acknowledge you. Not until the day’s over.

What did you do? You undermined him. Simple as that.

It was a minor disagreement—how to go after the TNT Twins. Your plan was better. Cleaner. He didn’t like that. You pushed, he postured, and you didn’t stop yourself when the venom came.

“You’re just a cocky fucking asshole compensating for the two-inch power tower between your legs. No wonder you only please old, wrinkly cunts.”

It hit hard. And now, here you are—frozen out.

He would've slapped Hughie silly for saying half of that. But you’re not Hughie. He won’t hit you. He won’t even yell.

He’s going to teach you.

Because you're the one person who's ever tried to understand him since Butcher brought him back—and he’s not about to lose that. Your outburst pissed him off, sure. But it also turned him on.

He had to walk away before he fucked you against the nearest tree.

Now, he’s enjoying your squirming. The way you sigh, bite your lip, stare at the ground like it’ll give you answers. You hate being ignored—and he knows it.

When they vote to leave you behind—no Temp V, no backup—you don’t argue. You sit like a kid in time out. Watching smoke rise from the ruins, heart in your throat.

Then you see Homelander fly off.

Your stomach drops.

You sprint toward the wreckage, leaping over bodies, debris, anything that dares to slow you down. You find them—Butcher, Hughie, Ben—sprawled across the rubble. Heart pounding, knees hitting the ground, you grab Ben’s face like you could somehow check for injuries that’d matter.

“Ben? Are you okay? What happened?”

He stares at you for a beat—then his hand fists in your hair and his mouth crashes against yours.

Your eyes widen for a moment, before you melt into it... just before he pulls away and leaves you breathless. He's on his feet before you can even process it.

"You're not off the hook."

You, Hughie, and Butcher all glance at one another as Ben walks off, unreadable.

“Good luck with that one, love,” Butcher mutters with a chuckle before walking away.

You hand Hughie the bag of clothes and trail after them—after him—like a lost puppy.

By nightfall, you finally find out what he meant.

The second you step into his room, he doesn’t even look at you.

“Kneel.” He points to the floor in front of him.

Your throat tightens. You shut the door behind you and step forward slowly.

“Ben—”

“I said kneel.”

You drop to your knees.

“You think you can disrespect me and get away with it?” he mutters, slowly unbuckling his belt.

“Ben, I’m sorry—”

“I didn’t say you could speak.”

He shoves his pants and boxers down, cock springing free—definitely not two inches.

“Open.”

Not a request. A command.

You obey. Mouth open, eyes wide, and he wastes no time. He thrusts into your throat with no warning, one hand tangled in your hair as you gag around him. A broken moan rips from your throat, tears brimming instantly. He holds your head there, shallowly fucking your throat with slow, bruising strokes that burn.

“Look at you. Taking it like a champ. What a filthy little slut.”

He only pulls back when the tears ruin your mascara, yanking you up by the throat.

“Gonna make sure you never talk to me like that again.”

You barely breathe before he tosses you onto the bed. Flips you. Yanks your jeans down with no finesse. You gasp, but it doesn’t matter—he shoves two fingers inside you, rough and deep, fucking you with them like you’re nothing but a toy.

You’re whining, desperate—and just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and slaps your ass, hard enough to sting.

Then he’s inside you in a single, brutal thrust.

No warning. No pause. Just pain and pleasure colliding as he grabs the back of your head and slams into you over and over.

“You disrespect me again, and I’ll fuck you harder. And I won’t let you cum. You got that, you little shit?”

“Y-Yes—fuck, Ben, please—”

“Tsk. No begging. You asked for this.”

He hauls you up by your hair, one hand still around your throat, holding you to him as he pounds into you. Relentless. Vicious.

Your mascara’s ruined. Your legs are shaking. Your face is soaked with tears.

“Who do you belong to?” he growls, breath hot against your ear. “Say it. Say it and maybe I’ll let you cum on my cock like the little cumslut you are.”

“You. I belong to you, Ben,” you sob, barely able to speak.

“Fuck. You’re lucky you beg pretty, you little bitch.”

His lips and teeth find the hollow of your throat. Leaving bite marks, hickeys, and filthy kisses on your skin. Marking you as his.

He thrusts harder. Deeper. Until you shatter around him, crying out his name. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going until he’s emptying inside you, filling you until it drips down your thighs.

He doesn’t let you fall.

He keeps you pressed against him, his grip loosening on your throat just enough to breathe. He turns your tear-streaked face toward him—and kisses you softly.

“Don’t disrespect me like that again. Got it?”

You nod weakly.

He kisses your temple.