#ftm dadcest

You had always been the family secret.

The second son. The youngest. The...defective one.

While Homelander was paraded as Vought’s golden boy, you were hidden away in private facilities, then later in the shadows of the Tower. Your powers — unstable bursts of energy that flickered out more often than they worked — made you an embarrassment. Vought called you “unreliable.” “Defective.” So they kept you out of the spotlight. Out of the commercials. Out of the narrative.

But not out of Soldier Boy’s shadow.

You had grown up hearing the stories. The tapes. The legends. Your father— the man whose DNA had created both you and Homelander— was a god in his own right. When you learned the truth a time ago, the crush you already harbored twisted into something deeper. Darker. More shameful.

You wanted his approval. His attention. His love.

And now, with the world burning and your brother unraveling, you had done the unthinkable.

You had defrosted him yourself.

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You had stood in front of the chamber in your brother's room, heart hammering so hard you felt dizzy. Your hands shook as you had finished overriding the final locks. The glass frosted over, then cleared.

He was completely asleep. And naked.

He looked beautiful, the thought burned shameful in yoir traitorous mind.

Hours later, he woke up, already dressed by you in whatever you found in your brother's room, he blinked, eyes focusing on you. Recognition flickered for a second.

“…The fuck? Who the hell are you?”

You swallowed hard, ears burning. Socially awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. You had practiced this moment a thousand times in your head and still sounded like an idiot.

“I’m— um…your son. The other one. Not Homelander. He…he sent me. Sort of. I mean, I came on my own. Because I wanted to see you. Because you’re…my dad and all that.”

The way you stammered over your words, the fact you had defrosted him, and the way you were standing there, all doe eyes and flushed cheeks told Ben everything.

He stared at you for a long second, then let out a low, disbelieving laugh. “My son? Jesus Christ. Vought really went all in on the fucked up family business, huh?” He stepped closer, looking you up and down with a mocking smirk. “You don’t look like much. Kinda scrawny. You sure you’re mine?”

You nodded quickly, cheeks flaming. “Yes, sir. I mean— Ben. I mean…Dad?”

The word slipped out. You immediately wanted to die.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ben’s eyebrows shot up. He looked you over slowly — really looked. The nervous way you stood. The desperate, needy look in your eyes.

He laughed again, but this time it was lower. Meaner.

Ben tilted his head, studying you like you were some kind of bug, you certainly felt like one. “Dad, huh?” His voice dropped. “This some kind of incest thing?” The question was almost genuine.

Your eyes went impossibly wider, you wouldn't — wouldn't call it that...Even if it was. You looked down at your shoes, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, voice barely above a whisper.

"Y-Yeah? I mean, sort of...it's not like you raised me or anythin'." A smirk appeared on Ben's face as soon as you started making excuses for yourself.

Ben stared at you. “Well fuck me. Vought really cooked up a defective little pervert this time.” He stepped closer, towering over you. “You been fantasizing about your old man, kid? That why you woke me up?”

You couldn’t look at him. Your hands twisted together, voice barely above a whisper. "No! I mean, yeah, I couldn't stop thinking of you, that's— that's true, but that's not just why I woke you up.” You couldn't help the tears that started welling up your eyes. “I know it’s weird. I’m weird. I just…I always wanted a dad. And when I found out it was you— I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About it. I’m sorry.”

Ben’s hand shot out, gripping your chin roughly and forcing you to meet his eyes. His expression was a mix of amusement and dark hunger.

“You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?” He said, voice dripping with condescension. “Weird little thing, can’t even talk right, about to cry, and now you’re confessing you want your daddy’s cock. Pathetic.”

You whimpered, shame and arousal twisting together in your gut.

Ben’s smirk widened. “Lucky for you, I don’t give a shit about what’s wrong or right. If my little boy wants to get fucked by his father…who am I to say no?”

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He didn’t give you time to process.

Ben grabbed you by the waist and threw you onto your brother's bed like you weighed nothing. You landed on your back with a yelp. Before you could sit up, he was on top of you, commanding and beautiful as ever, that pissed off scowl on his face now having an amused twinge.

“C'mon boy, strip.” He ordered.

Your hands shook as you obeyed, clumsy and nervous. When you were naked, Ben’s eyes raked over your body — top surgery scars and the slickness already gathering between your legs.

“Look at that.” He muttered, almost impressed. “My other son has a pretty little cunt. Bet no one’s ever fucked it right.”

He shoved your legs apart roughly and pushed one thick finger inside you without warning. You gasped sharply, back arching, keening in pain.

“Fuck— tight,” Ben growled. “Been saving this for Dad, huh?”

You nodded frantically, overwhelmed yet pliant. “Y-yes— please—”

He laughed meanly. “Pathetic. Begging your own father to fuck you.” He added a second finger, stretching you with scissor motions. “You’re gonna take every inch, boy.”

He manhandled you onto your hands and knees, face pressed into the thin mattres, you whined as you felt the thick head of his cock nudge against your entrance.

“Deep breath, kid.”

He thrust in hard, bottoming out in one brutal stroke. You cried out, the stretch burning. Ben groaned in satisfaction, one hand pressing down on your lower back to keep you arched.

You squirmed a little, fussy like a child, he hushed you. "Shh, stay— fuck, stay still.”

He started fucking you with deep, punishing strokes — rough, possessive, mean. Every thrust made your smaller body jolt forward. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back.

“Tell me how much you wanted this.” He demanded.

“I— I wanted it so bad.” You whimpered, voice shaky and awkward. “Since I was a kid…I always thought about you, even after I knew you were my dad.” You felt shame burning hot in your lower belly, right where Ben’s cock bulged in your tummy.

Ben moaned, hips snapping harder. “That’s fucked up, kid. Real fucked up. But it makes my dick hard.” He laughed and reached under you, stroking your clit roughly. “You’re such a weird little pervert. My son getting wet for his old man.”

The praise mixed with degradation made your head spin. You moaned pathetically, pushing back against his thrusts.

Ben laughed breathlessly. “Yeah? You like when Daddy calls you a pervert? Like knowing you’re not good enough for the spotlight but you’re more than good enough to get fucked?”

He manhandled you again, flipping you onto your back so he could watch your face. He hooked your legs over his shoulders and drove in even deeper. The new angle made your eyes roll back and fat tears drop from your eyes.

“Gonna cum inside you.” He growled. “Gonna fill my boy up. Mark what’s mine.”

You came first — hard, shaking, crying, babbling incoherently. Ben followed with a deep groan, burying himself to the hilt and pumping you full of hot cum. He didn’t pull out. He kept thrusting through it, overstimulating you until you were whimpering and twitching and whining.

"Dad— no, t-too much..." You fussed.

“Not done with you yet.” He panted, mean smile on his face. “Daddy’s got years of catching up to do.”

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He fucked you three more times that night.

Each round was rougher than the last. He praised you mockingly while calling you defective, weird, pathetic, and his. He pressed down on your belly to feel how full you were. He made you say filthy things while blushing and stammering.

By the final round you were a limp, cum-drenched mess. Ben had you on your side, spooned behind you, fucking you slow and deep while one arm wrapped possessively around your waist.

“You’re mine now.” He growled against your ear. “My weird, fucked-up, needy little boy. No one else gets to touch you, not even your pathetic excuse for a brother, understand?”

You nodded weakly, exhausted and floaty. “Yes, Dad.”

Ben hummed in satisfaction and pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the back of your neck as he came one last time, flooding you again.

“You’re not so defective after all.” He muttered, almost tenderly. “At least you know who you belong to.”