#supe!reader

Because Soldier Boy didn’t see a student when he looked at you.

And you certainly didn’t see a mentor when you looked back.

The first time he called you sweetheart in front of a room full of executives, heat rushed straight to your face. The first time he tugged you into his lap after a photoshoot like it was the most natural thing in the world, you nearly forgot there were other people still watching.

He was Soldier Boy.

America’s greatest hero. A living monument. A man twice your age with medals of honor and enough fame to blot out the sun.

And he couldn’t keep his hands off you.

How were you supposed to be ashamed of that? To care about propriety?

Let handlers cough awkwardly when you slipped out of his dressing room fixing your hair. Let publicists panic when he kissed your cheek on live television and laughed at the scandalized silence that followed. Let teammates roll their eyes when he called you baby in meetings and sat you beside him at the head of the table.

They all thought you were being taken advantage of.

If only they knew how often you climbed willingly into his lap.

He liked to leave you ruined in ways no camera could fully capture. Kiss-swollen lips carefully repainted before interviews. The ache of his hands branded high on your thighs beneath immaculate costumes. Lipstick smeared and hastily fixed while he sat back watching you gather yourself with that slow, smug grin. Thighs pressed tightly together beneath conference tables while he carried on through meetings, knowing exactly why you couldn’t quite meet anyone’s eye.

Your pulse would still be racing under stage lights because minutes earlier he’d had you pinned against the unlocked door of his dressing room, hand over your mouth to contain every needy sound you made while he took his time reminding you who you belonged to. Then he’d tug your skirt back into place, smooth your hair flat, thumb once over your lower lip, and walk you out, a guiding hand at the small of your back, beside him like nothing had happened at all. Sometimes he’d rest a heavy, gloved hand on your knee just out of frame, fingers stroking slow enough circles to make your breath hitch while reporters asked stupid, harmless questions.

Soldier Boy liked things he wasn’t supposed to have. You learned that pretty damn fast. The thrill for him was in the taking—the way your breath caught when he touched you somewhere public enough to be reckless, the way you still came when he summoned you despite having every reason not to. He liked having something young and beautiful at his side, something admired by everyone else but touched only by him.

And you, ambitious little thing that you are, like exactly what came with letting him.

The fame.

The access.

The way rooms shifted when he walked in with his hand at your waist. It wasn’t love that kept you there. It was hunger. His for control, yours for everything his name could give you.

You liked the looks. The whispers. The way respectable people pretended not to stare when his hand rested under your skirt at charity dinners. You liked the jealous glances from starlets and socialites who’d wanted him first. Liked hearing your name in his low voice meant only for you.

Most of all, you liked what it meant.

Out of every woman in America, Soldier Boy picked you.

And if it was inappropriate, if it was shameless, if it made board members sweat and reporters scramble and mothers clutch their pearls—

Well.

That was half the appeal.

GEN TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @ilikw @lupinslibraries @mochminnie @spookyysinsanity @mindfulmesses @paristheonewhoreads @prettywhenipanic @mostlymarvelgirl @shortcyclicalstoner @dead-sirens @boba-is-a-soup @l3tholog1ca @allthingswickedpodcast @musesfromashes @mollymal @sh1a10 @castielscaplan

『••✎••』

You’ve loved Robbie since the cracked leather seats of smoky backroom bars in the 1950s, when Vought still pretended to be something noble and the Cold War felt like it might actually end in fire. He was Bombsight then—cocky test pilot turned supe, reddish-brown leather suit always smelling of jet fuel and aftershave, laughing too loud over cheap whiskey while the other heroes postured for cameras. You fell for him the night he dragged you onto the dance floor after a mission gone sideways, his hand steady on your waist with a strength that would’ve killed a normal person.

“C’mon, dollface,” he’d grinned, voice warm with that old New York edge softened by too many hours in the cockpit. “World’s ending anyway. Might as well spin.”

Your first kiss happened in the alley behind that bar, rain soaking through your coat, his mouth tasting like smoke and bourbon. He’d pressed you against the brick like you were the only real thing left in a world full of Vought lies, murmuring against your lips, “You and me, sweetheart. We’re the ones who last.” You believed him. You let yourself believe him, even as you hid the true extent of your powers—time manipulation that let you reverse wounds, fast-forward decay, or freeze moments like this one—because Vought collected weapons, not people.

You two burned hot and jealous for years: him resenting how easily you could undo time’s damage, you hating how unbreakable and reckless he stayed, flying headfirst into danger like it was his only religion. You hated each other almost as much as you needed each other. Then life, Vought’s rotations, and your deliberate fading into the background pulled you apart. Decades passed. You buried the old feelings under layers of cynicism.

Until now.

You stand in the sterile halls of Vought Tower, heart hammering as you freeze time around Soldier Boy. The world goes silent and gray, Homelander’s distant voice cutting off mid-rant somewhere down the corridor. Ben’s eyes widen slightly when he realizes he can still move—your power never worked perfectly on the originals. He’s older, harder, fresh from cryo and betrayal, but that same swagger remains.

He doesn’t flinch. That was always his gift—taking the impossible in stride and turning it into something he could own. His green eyes lock onto yours, scanning the face that hasn’t aged the way it should have, the subtle lines you could never quite erase without drawing attention.

He knew.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice low and rough like gravel under boots. The corner of his mouth ticks up in that familiar half-smirk, the one that used to make Robbie clench his fists in the bar. “I got no intention of selling you out. Yet.”

He steps closer, frozen particles of dust hanging between you like tiny stars. His gaze drops briefly to your hands—still slightly trembling from holding this bubble of reality tight around the two of you—then back to your eyes. There’s a flicker of something genuine there, old and complicated. Respect? Curiosity? Maybe even affection, buried deep beneath decades of betrayal and survival.

“Figured you’d still be around,” he admits quietly, a rare crack in the armor. “And I’m willing to bet that flyboy fucker is still sniffing around too.”

Ben’s head tilts, studying you like he’s cataloging every change, every similarity. He’s assessing you the way he always did—looking for weaknesses, leverage, anything to tip the scales. And judging by the way his smile widens slightly, he’s already found what he needs. He’s always been an opportunistic bastard when it came to getting what he wanted.

And that’s how you ended up here—staring down at the man you once loved, wrapping a wound on his shoulder while the sky lit up with two identical beams of red light. It was official. You were fucked. Astronomically, cosmically fucked.

Soldier Boy’s deal with you had been simple: he’d keep quiet about your powers and your past with him if you gave him intel on Robbie, and given Homelander’s recent… meltdown, you couldn’t risk exposure. Not now, not with so many pieces in play. You’d spent decades hiding, and you weren’t about to let your carefully constructed life crumble because a 1940s fossil recognized your face.

So, of course, the minute you unfroze time and Soldier Boy slipped away, you’d gone straight to Robbie to give him a heads-up. At first, you thought he’d heed your warning—he was invested in giving V1 to Golden Geisha anyways—but seeing him now, wrapping a handkerchief around his bleeding shoulder against a tree, you realized he in fact had not.

“What did you do…?” you ask, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice as the smell of burnt sugar wafts through the air. You move closer, your shoes crunching on the fallen leaves. “What the hell did you do?”

He didn’t look at you, but you didn’t need to see the expression on his face to hear the resignation in his tone. “What I had to.”

You stop a few feet away, the crisp air catching the hem of your coat. “What you had to? I told you—I warned you about Ben, about them coming for the V1. You were supposed to protect it! To keep it out of their hands!” You could feel the heat of your own anger rising, old frustrations bubbling to the surface. Decades of watching him make the same reckless choices, and now… this. “And you, what? Made a deal with the devils behind my back? All so you can bleed out on the grass like a dog?”

Your words hit harder than any punch, and you see it in the way his shoulders tense. Robbie finally looks at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes—hurt, defeat, exhaustion—shocks you into silence. He looks old. Not in age, but weary. Tired of the fight, tired of running, tired of everything. He looks like a man who’s been carrying a weight for so long he’s forgotten what it feels like to stand straight.

“Don’t you dare,” he starts, voice strained as he presses the makeshift bandage tighter. “Don’t you stand there and pretend this is the same as before. That this is about being reckless.” He pushes himself up from the tree, his movements stiff with pain. “This isn’t about glory, or Vought, or any of that bullshit we used to swallow. I’m tired, alright? I’m tired of living as a ghost, of watching the world spin on without me, of being a permanent relic in a museum I never asked to be in.”

He takes a step closer, the space between you charged with years of unsaid things. “So yeah. I made a deal because he offered me the one thing you would never have given me. A chance to finally be done.”

“Well congratulations,” you shoot back, the words dripping with venom. “Looks like you got your wish.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” he snaps, his patience fraying. “You think I wanted this? To end up in the middle of your pissing contest with Soldier Boy and Homelander? To have to choose between two different versions of hell?” He gestures vaguely at the sky, at the distant sounds of chaos. “Don’t forget, you’re the one who brought him to me. If you weren’t so careless—”

“Careless?” The accusation hangs in the air between you, sharp and sudden. You take a step back as if struck. “You want to talk about careless? You, who jumps into every fight like it’s your last chance to prove something? You, who never learned that sometimes the smartest move is to not make a move at all?”

“I was protecting—”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice dangerously quiet. “It’s like you said. This isn’t about protecting anything. This is about you. About your ego, your need to be the martyr. You’re not tired, Robbie. You’re bored.”

He flinches, and you know you’ve hit the nerve—the one he’s been nursing for years, the one that’s fueled every reckless decision, every near-miss, every self-destructive impulse. You can see the old fire in his eyes, the one that used to draw you in, but now it just looks like desperation.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “I know you better than anyone. And I know that you would rather burn the world down than admit that you’re scared of being left behind in it.”

You’re both breathing hard now, the silence that follows your words heavier than the one you’d created with your power. You can feel the old familiar pull, the way you always get drawn into his orbit, the way he always manages to get under your skin. For a moment, you think he’s going to argue, to throw more words back in your face. But then he just looks at you, really looks at you, and the anger in his eyes is replaced by something else. Something you haven’t seen in a long, long time.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says, the admission costing him something. “Maybe I am scared. But you know what? So are you.”

He takes another step closer, so close you can feel the warmth coming off him despite the chill in the air. “You’ve spent your whole life hiding, running from what you are. You hide behind your control, your careful little plans, but you’re just as trapped as I am. The only difference is, I’m finally doing something about it.”

If this was back then—back in the fifties, in the alley behind the bar—you would have hit him. Or kissed him. Maybe both. Probably both. But you’re not the same person you were then, and neither is he. The world has changed, and so have you. The realization is a bitter pill to swallow, but you force it down anyway. You’re tired of fighting the same war, tired of being the only one who remembers the promises made in the dark.

“You’re wrong about me.” You say it, but the words ring hollow, even to your own ears.

“About which part?” he asks, a ghost of that old smirk on his face. “The part where you’re hiding? Or the part where you’re trapped?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head, trying to clear it. “You’re wrong about me not giving you an out.”

You reach out then, your fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his jacket, right over the makeshift bandage on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away. You let your power flow, a gentle, familiar warmth spreading from your fingertips. It’s not a full reversal—you wouldn’t do that to him, not again—but it’s enough. The bleeding slows, the torn flesh beginning to knit together under your touch. It’s the most you can offer him, the most you’ll allow yourself.

“I would’ve given you anything, Robbie,” you whisper, the words a raw, open wound between you. “I would’ve done anything for you. All you had to do was ask.”

The look in his eyes then is a punch to the gut, a dizzying, gut-wrenching mixture of regret, longing, and something so raw and vulnerable it takes your breath away. For a second, it’s like the decades have melted away, and you’re back in that alley, the rain soaking through your clothes, his mouth on yours, the world fading away until it’s just the two of you. Just you and him, and the promise of something more.

But then he blinks, and the moment is gone. The hard mask is back in place, the weary resignation settling over him like a shroud. He lets out a soft sigh, a quiet, resigned sound that’s somehow worse than any argument.

And you realize you can’t bear it. You can’t stand here, in this godforsaken field of trees, with the ghost of the man you used to love, and watch him self-destruct. Not again.

You pull your hand back as if his skin is on fire, the sudden loss of contact leaving you feeling cold and empty. You turn away from him, unable to look at him for another second. “I have to go,” you say, your voice tight. “I have to get back before—”

“Before what?” he asks, a hint of that old defiance back in his tone. “Before they realize you’re gone? Before they figure out you’re not the perfect little Vought soldier you pretend to be?”

“You found peace with dying. Good for you.” You turn to face him, and this time you let him see everything—all the anger, the hurt, the years of loneliness, the desperate, aching need to matter to someone, to anyone. “I haven’t.”

Before he could say anything, convince you to stay, you fast-forward just enough to put distance between you and him. You don’t go far—just to the treeline, far enough that you’re out of sight but not so far that you can’t still see him through the gaps in the leaves. You watch him stand there, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the burning sky, looking lost and broken.

You know eventually you’ll go back—back to him, but for now you stay watching him, your heart aching with the familiar, bittersweet pain of a love that never quite died. You stay until the red light in the sky fades to a dull, angry glow. You stay until he finally turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows.

English is not my native language and I haven’t written in over two months. Pls bear with me

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~9k (don't ask)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I'M ALIVE. And stealth dropping this patchwork piece. I was screaming at our tv screen after ep. 6 (haven't seen the new ones yet). This epsiode season needed fixing ASAP. (Is it far fetched and confusing? Perhaps. but at this point, fanfic Ben's less ooc than the canon one, right?)

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit.” 

Soldier Boy says her name. Always her name. 

But the face that’s meant to be before his inner eyes? The voice that’s still somewhere buried inside his messed up head? It’s not Clara. Not Liberty. Not Stormfront, or whatever the fuck they’d called her.

It’s yours.

And if even one shred of your shared memory was still untouched, he’d know it’s always been you. In all of them. 

None of this will make a lick of sense though, so let’s scrub back to how it all started.

Ever since Soldier Boy was defrosted, again, things were fucked up.

And it’s not just how, soon as he’s out of the fridge, he’s been sent to the fucking woodchipper thanks to a supe killing virus, which is apparently a thing now. Or how his asexual weirdo son’s only way of getting his dick wet is by bathing in tit-jizz. Or how everyone at Vought wants to crawl up said weirdo’s shithole, preaching he’s God.

It’s worse than that.

It’s inside his head.

He says "it" when muttering in front of the vanity mirror like he’s a soft pussy on fucking meth, but what he really means, is a voice. 

And here’s the thing; That voice isn’t actually talking. There’s no words, nothing he could argue with and shut down. 

But it’s there. 

Since he’s back. 

He knows it is - he can feel it hovering behind him, breathing next to his ear. It’s a rotting corpse in the trenches right behind his conscious mind. Right out of reach. Or else he would’ve throttled it by now. He’s tried that in his dreams; His fingers curl around the faceless figure, squeezing it until it gives in with that satisfying sound of a crushed egg. 

But the moment his eyes snap open? You are there again. 

And that was really starting to piss him off. Which said a lot, considering Soldier Boy’s lived through the whiff-and-snort sixties without his brain ever dribbling out of his fuckin’ ears. He’d snorted it all; cocaine, LSD, gasoline - you name it, it crossed his nose. Never did jack shit to him.

But this? 

He swears, he’s going to lose his fucking mind.

Which has led him to only one conclusion; this must be a farewell gift of the Reds. 

“Can Elmo tell you a secret?”

Now that voice is not coming from inside his head. Ben had the TV running some random bullshit show in the background, hoping it would drown out whatever he’s dealing with at the moment. So far, it has done nothing more than shift his annoyance – which he’ll take as a win. 

From his angle, he can see just enough of the TV screen to judge their stupid faces.

“Sure, little dude,” Andy Samberg beams with the enthusiasm of somebody whose ballsack’s being held hostage by a mousetrap. Ben sneers at the thought. “Secrets are healthy!” 

“Like how your balls’re in the pincers?” Ben barbs from the bathroom.

Andy leans down for the fuzzy orange puppet to whisper next to his ear. 

“Sometimes Elmo hears voices that tell Elmo things.”

“Well, is it the voice of Homelander?”

“No…”

Andy’s lips twitch into a tight smile. “Ooff, buddy. Looks like the Starlighters got into your head.” 

A laugh track erupts – the same moment doors slam open off screen, two Vought security guards storm on set.

“What the f–” The Elmo puppet gets violently yanked out of the frame as the puppeteer screams somewhere under the stage. “Wait, wait! I didn’t post that meme– Andy! Please– tell ‘em!”

Andy sucks in a breath and turns back to the camera with a shaky smile.

“Remember, kids! See something, say something! Even if it’s your best friend.”

“And you still don’t fuckin’ listen.”

How parents let their kids watch these whacko shows nowadays is beyond him. Back in his day, they at least had perky pin-up girls for their propaganda. He turns on the tab, splashes some water into his face. He thinks back of those perfect million-dollar legs of Betty Grable, and how they’d bounced on his shoulders when he’d railed her on the producer’s desk. Good fuckin’ times.

“Oi, you cunt. I said, you never fuckin’ listen to me.”

Ben’s grin dies.

The TV keeps spewing some happy kid’s show melody. Only that this time, the voice didn’t come from the television.

Ben’s face snaps up towards the mirror – then he freezes.

There’s a man standing behind him. 

He quickly turns to look over his shoulder just to be met with the golden towel rack on the wall. 

“You never loved ‘er,” you drawl in a thick British accent from behind him. Ben’s head turns back.

The guy’s still there, inside his mirror; Black hair, black trenchcoat, a Hawaiian shirt.

“Butcher?” his eyes go wide, his upper lip twitches. “You fucking bastard betrayed me–”

“Betray ya?” you cut him short, “And what about me? You completely forgot about me, didn’t ya?” 

“Get out of my fucking head,” Ben growls and swings his arm to smash the mirror. Butcher’s face shatters. 

It effectively makes him vanish, just for another figure to pop up on the opposite side.

“Ooh, but mon Petit Soldat, no can do. You need to pull your dick out of your ass and–” More glass crumbles beneath Soldier Boy’s knuckles. 

“–and stop fucking around with Clara.” This time Hughie pipes up from the upper corner of the still intact mirror.

“I’m not–” Ben clenches his teeth, the jaw muscle ticking under his beard when he sees that pussy’s face looking down at him, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.”

“Are you… sure?”

Hughie’s eyebrows do that thing like he knows something Ben doesn’t, and all it does is make him remember why he’s always wanted to punch that kid in the face. 

“Get. The fuck. Out,” Ben grits out. His fist smashes the spot where his knuckles would have connected with his nose. It explodes into more pieces. 

Silence. 

Ben huffs through his nose. Roughly combs the damp hair back and out of his face.

His eyes dart up into the last unscathed corner when he senses more movement.

There’s… a bird? In fact, it’s America’s mascot— his mascot; wearing the green helmet and all. There’s even the American Flag rising in slow motion behind the cracks. 

“I’m inside your head, Ben,” the eagle says in his own comic-voice, then its beak cracks wide open, blinding him with a row of very unnaturally shiny human teeth, “I must know.” 

Christ on a stake. He’s losing it.

Ben stormed out of the bathroom without even taking the rest of the mirror down. He scrambles for the phone, the cable one next to his bed – his hands are too shaky for the flimsy little pocket buzzer – he pauses. Looks down at his free hand hovering in the air. It’s unsteady.

The moment the call connects, Soldier Boy’s grip tightens around the handset.

“Get me a bowl full of cocaine. Pronto.”

If cocaine could still make him as high as any normal person, he’d be up in the fucking stratosphere right now, painting the sky white with his spunk. 

He had just gone through powder worth 200 grand like it’s nothing. Soldier Boy drops back into the couch with a satisfied groan. He lazily wipes the dust off his nose and beard, while his other hand fondles the bulge between his legs. It’s getting uncomfortably tight down there – just like he’d hoped. With his dick rock hard and his head buzzing to the sound of Colombia, he’d call his plan a success so far. 

Time to bust a nut.

While he lets Firecracker ride him, he allows his eyes to slide close, enjoying the blissful state of absolutely-fucking-nada filling his head. He doesn’t even bother to play his part. He just lets her bounce on his dick like a pathetic bunny in heat. 

After all, this works like a fucking charm. 

Until it doesn’t.

Once Firecracker rolls off him with a cry of ecstasy, Soldier Boy reaches for his joint and hums, feeling absolutely confident in his victory. 

“Oi, you done with lyin’ there like a dead nun?”

Soldier Boy’s irritation flares up.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean, huh?” He asks, annoyed. Clearly his focus is on the blunt he’d prepared on the bedside table, because if he’d spare the girl that just got him off a single glance, he’d see her confused look.

“What?” Firecracker questions. 

Soldier Boy turns to watch her slip under the covers next to him. The voice goes on.

“Now, why don’t you boot the girl and you and me can go back to our proper lil’ chinwag?”

Soldier Boy’s teeth grind down, the blunt snaps in half.

You are still there.

The elevator dings. He says a few words to Sister Sage, but doesn’t really listen.

The following days go by in a blur. He’s learned to endure and ignore you like a yapping dog from the neighbours. A very, very, annoying little Commie bitch-dog with a knack for doing his head in. 

Which he can’t kick. Or stomp. Or crush. Or throttle. Or–

Truth is, each minute feels like he’s getting closer to turning into one of those twitchy fucking flower people. Except that he doesn’t assfuck to the voice of Jimi Hendrix, and he hasn’t met God yet, either. And no, a meetup with his overgrown baby gravy does not qualify as a Godly intervention in his book, even if there seems to be no ceiling to how much of a wackjob he is.

At least he, unlike that asswipe, doesn't let any of that get to him. 

Sure, you’re still there. And yes, he hasn’t found a way yet to smother you for good. But he’s been through worse.

So, Soldier Boy strides out of the elevator, his chin held high, face as neutral as ever. 

If it wasn’t for his calm exterior, he’s convinced that Cleopatra Jones back there would be balls deep up in his business right now. Not that he’d give two fucks about Sister Sage and the way her eyes try to laser a hole into the back of his skull. To make that work, you’d need to be able to read his mind — tough luck, sister.

Although, the thought of letting her skinny-dip in his fucked up brain juice for just a minute, does put a leer on his face. 

That is, until it’s overwritten by a mildly annoyed frown.

Soldier Boy rubs the side of his palm against his temple. What’s that throbbing sensation inside his skull? A sudden jolt makes him stumble for a second and catch himself with his arm braced against the wall. 

The hell was that?

“Where’s that fucking powder...” he grumbles to himself, while emptying each of his pockets in vain. He digs his knuckles into his pounding forehead until the feeling fizzles out.

He’s pissed off at his own body. 

Soldier Boy doesn’t get ‘a headache’. He doesn’t even get a head-scratch. The strongest supe doesn’t get sick—

His dick’s pulsing. His hips stutter, hands grasping at flesh and bones. 

He knows this room. Or at least he thinks he does. The sheets smell familiar, the music’s too. But the details blur when he tries to grab them. Was this in New York? In Berlin? Why the fuck can’t he remember?

A pair of tits jiggle above him. He wants to grope them, bury his beard between them – no, wait.

He doesn’t have a beard yet. 

He wants to feel the smooth skin of his jaws under the touch of fingernails.

“Fuck– yes! That’s it!” He can’t make out the voice. But it sounds familiar, too. 

He feels the warm body arch beneath him, then go slack. He wraps an arm around it, rests his chin right above the tits. He lets his eyes trail over the curves and bumps, lets himself breathe it all in. He loves that familiar scent that’s clouding his mind. It made– it still makes him feel stupidly fuzzy inside. He can’t help it, even as he scoffs to his younger self at how much of a wuzzy he’s become in the arms of— 

Huh, the name’s escaped him.

A hand that has threaded into the back of his hair, draws his attention up. The fingers begin to comb his short strands. The tender touch makes his eyes flutter. 

“Mein Übermensch…” the voice coos. 

Uh-huh, he hears himself think, whatever the fuck makes you nut, but don’t stop what you’re doin’.

“You only love me, don’t you?” She asks. And damn, she’s demanding.

He recognizes her now. Clara. But he still can’t put together when this happened.

Meanwhile, his memory-self’s immediate response is Yes, only you.

Now that makes Ben halt the scene right there. 

Sure, alright. He’d fucked the nazi bitch two times. Two! They were both high as fuck and she had a nice pair of tits along with a superiority complex that somehow scratched his ego just the right way.

He scrubs the memory back, but it starts to slip him the more he tries to focus on it. At least the images do. The emotions on the other hand slap him in the face like the wet dick of Gary Busey — hard, fucking ugly and definitely out of place. 

Because the moment Clara’s face comes into view, his chest aches so fucking much. He can’t place the feeling. It’s as if he’s about to lose something real important to him.

Soldier Boy groans when he pushes off the hallway’s wall again. 

The images which had flashed across his inner eyes are gone the next moment. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but felt like so much more.

Where the hell did that just come from? Is this some kinda after-effect of my time in the freezer? Did the Commies fuck with my memories?

And how the fuck could I forget about Clara?

Ever since Soldier Boy’s regained a new piece of his past, he’s become obsessed with it. 

“It”, not being the voice in his head any longer –that one finally pissed off–, but Clara. 

There’s so much that irritates him about this whole new development. 

Him and Clara? Not just the fucking and the drinking and riding it out on the roof of the Ritz-Carlton, but more?

All he wants to do is shrug it off as some weird shit that’s happened between them while his head was stuffed with nose candy. He wants to ignore the thought that maybe, the Reds didn’t plant something new into his brain, but maybe, they’d ripped something open which he’d buried himself. Ben wants nothing but to ignore the way he gets yanked around by the inside of his chest whenever he recalls that new memory. At this point he’d even prefer you chewing off his ear over this sweet sticky crap he’s got to deal with now.

He hates that feeling. He’s not a pussy for Christ’s sake. In fact, he wouldn’t even know what to do with it when shoved down his throat. All of that fuzzy-buzzy crap, like staring at a picture with those longing eyes of a lovesick puppy – that’s for the weak and the ladies. 

As if to prove his point, Soldier Boy kicks a thick branch out of the dirt with a lot more force than needed. It cannonballs into the horizon.

With the victorious grunt of a caveman, he continues his path through the woods, taking point with his weirdo son glued to his ass.

Soldier Boy would have turned over every desk and tore apart every computer at Vought in search for more information about Clara. Anything that helps him get rid of this disgusting new feeling that’s been lodged within his ribs. But he couldn’t risk Homelander returning successfully from Fort Harmony. His annoying knuckle child becoming immortal is the least thing he’d need right now. 

The fact that they’re marching towards the place where everything began, is not really helping either. Even if Soldier Boy wouldn’t ever admit how just the large letters spelling out “Fort Harmony Medical Department” coming into view, winds him tighter than he already is.

A twig snaps under his boot. He exchanges some sarcastic quips with Homelander while they walk up to the building resting behind the trees, but in reality, his mind wanders elsewhere again. 

What really gets to him is the idea that there’s more of his past. So much more, that his body reacts to it against his own will. The feeling of her touch, her scent, her love – it’s strangely real, even for something he still denies. Clara. That name holds so much more weight now. So much more history he’s been robbed of, whether he likes it or not. And even if every fibre of his body fights his emotions tied to that memory, he cannot help but wonder; What else is he missing?

The idea has latched onto him like a tick. Taking hold of every thought.

He just has to know. 

As if reading his mind, Homelander suddenly points out that, “The other day, when Clara Vought’s name came up, I had the impression you knew her.” 

But unlike his son, Ben has no intention of sharing that new obsession with him.

Therefore, Soldier Boy once again answers with his standard phrase, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.” 

Still, Homelander yaps on. “You did? I guess we’re related in more ways than one.” Soldier Boy’s muscles coil up more with every word wasted between them. The thought of his own fucking son being anywhere close to Clara has no room in his mind. 

It does open a new question though. If she’s still alive then–

“Where is she?” 

Homelander glances back at him.

“Dead,” he answers flatly, “Suicide.” 

Soldier Boy stops dead in his tracks. She’s immortal like him. She has to be out there.

“Horseshit,” he growls, his eyes narrowing when Homelander just keeps walking. “She’d never off herself.”

“Yeah, well, she did,” he says simply. Soldier Boy’s shoulders tense up. That goddamn hook in his chest dragging his emotions into the open again. And with it, that tick spews new ideas into his system – he doesn’t even know where they’re coming from. New thoughts to latch onto. New hope. 

She must still be out there, right? Maybe Clara’s waiting for him, holding all the answers. The way he was waiting to be saved while the Reds fucking burned and prodded him. 

“Did you see a body?” he shouts after him, but is left with no answer.

Soldier Boy wants to go after him, wants to grip his shoulder and beat the truth out of that pathetic cape-sack. 

Instead, he staggers. 

He braces himself against a nearby tree, the pounding behind his eyes growing stronger. He slaps himself against the forehead. Then shakes his head, hoping it might rattle some cogs loose–

Music plays from a phonograph. Blue and red striped bedsheets are twisted around his legs. He’s leaned against the headrest.

“You know, I could get you some,” his young-self says while watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. A body shifts next to him. He can’t remember which girl it is that he’d hooked up with this time.

“Am I not perfect enough?” She answers in a distinctive accent. 

Right. Now he remembers. Immortal. She’s immortal like him  — Why the hell did you fuckin’ idiot even consider getting her V1? 

She hums something, and suddenly she’s rolled halfway onto his body to look down at him. 

“Huh?” Ben frowns up at the bright silhouette above him. It takes him a moment to make out her face, like a polaroid picture that’s still gaining colour and shape. 

“Thinking of your future, hm?”  she repeats. Once Ben’s eyes have focused, his frown deepens. 

“Clara?” he utters her name in slight confusion and if he wouldn’t know any better, he’d say the memory-Clara reacts to it. 

Ben stills. Was that just him now or him back then talking? 

Up until now, the room had felt warm and familiar. The music in the background, the sweetish scent of vanilla mixed with the musk of sex. It’s just like the first time; The emotional pull is there, he just cannot quite figure out why the visuals don’t match up in his head.

But now the room temperature just dropped. 

“Benjamin,” she says firmly, a hand snaking down between his legs to regain his attention. And she gets it, both of his versions’. He feels himself tense up in response – huh, that’s not the reaction he’d expected. For some reason, it doesn’t sit well with him that she’s pressed herself against him like that. Is this still part of the memory? He can’t tell anymore where this thing starts and where his present ends.

Clara doesn’t seem to mind either way cause she goes on with that special lilt of hers. “You’re the strongest Supe alive. You don’t get to deal with mortality.”

He doesn’t get how these memories work. One moment he’s a spectator, the next he’s shoved on set without a script or any idea what the fuck he’s even doing here.

“Perhaps,” Ben grunts nonchalantly and shrugs. He’s trying his damndest to ignore how his dick twitches between her slender fingers. Aren’t we supposed to fuck now? 

Clara finally closes her grip around him, after she’s lifted herself fully up to perch on his bare chest. “You’re not a man.” She commends, squeezing him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s not a fan of the way her lips curl – the fluttering thing in the pit of his stomach disagrees vehemently. “You’re the greatest expression of what humanity can offer.”

Soldier Boy stares back at her, brows pulled together. He may like the sound of that, but frankly speaking, she could dangle the sweetest pussy in front of his face right now and he’d still rather go for that bowl of white powder that’s waiting in his real-present-selves loft right now. This brain-scrambling nonsense was getting him nowhere – fine, on a second thought, maybe he’ll let her finish him off first. It’d be a shame to let a wet memory-dream-whatever-the -fuck this is, go to waste, right? – but then he’s done here. 

Just when he’d let a small groan form in the back of his throat, he almost chokes on it.

Clara’s face flickers. Like radio static. 

All of a sudden, a different voice cuts in – it’s out of sync with Clara’s still moving lips, and it’s distorted, fragile – but he can make some of it out.

“Listen—- don’t—- it’s me, Stargate–”

He blinks. And you’re gone. 

“Right,” he finally says, although he’s not sure anymore what the conversation was even about. Neither does he care.

His mind’s racing now. It’s grappling with his memory as it refuses to let the name click into place; Stargate. 

He repeats it. 

Notices a strange feeling beneath his skin when he does – like he’s high on some new fuckin’ drug – so he keeps doing it. Stargate, Stargate, Stargate.

As if the woman that’s straddling his chest can sense his shift of emotions, she suddenly leans down to catch his lips in a kiss. It breaks into his mind. The memory sinks its claws into him, turns hungry and wild and – off.

Soldier Boy’s already walking down the halls of Fort Harmony when he’s snapped back. Homelander’s talking next to him, apparently they are mid-argument. 

If only he knew what the fuck just happened.

Ben was convinced that regaining more of his memories would feel, I don’t know, good? That it would bring him the answers he was looking for. Maybe even give him a purpose in this modern world, where so far he’s just been made to feel like a really handsome relic.

It has done nothing more than confuse him even more.

First Clara. Then Stargate. Were you the thing the Commies had stuffed into his skull? The vault that keeps him from regaining his memories?

No. That doesn’t make any sense. (As if anything still made sense at this point.) The sound of your voice, of your name, it triggered something in him. He can’t quite grasp it, but it’s there. See? That’s why he hates this whole ‘touchy-feely’ crap. There’s nothing for him to work with. Just another hazy notion which he’d gladly trade for a grenade or a stroll through a minefield.

Unfortunately, Fort Harmony offers him neither.

After sending his annoying son to the time out, Soldier Boy’s roaming the ruins of the Medical Department, in search for the V1, and for answers. Mainly for answers. 

He’s digging through old papers, the dust swirling up into the air making him cough. 

Nothing. No V1, no clues. 

He curses – moves to the desk instead, where he yanks the drawers right out of their sockets. The wood clatters, its innards spilling across the cold floor. He steps over it, eyes scanning the papers.

There must at least be something about Stargate here. Anything - anything at all. Did he just make you up in his head? 

His boot kicks over another pile of Vought files. All he’s greeted with is the black and white picture of his old teammates. They seem to judge him even from the floor. He ignores it and moves to a different desk. 

If you’re a Supe old enough to show up in his early memories, then you must’ve been jabbed in this place.

Yet, there’s nothing. 

He swings his arm into the side of the table, flipping it over and into a row of lockers. 

“Fuck!” he shouts. His voice echoes off the cold walls. He turns on the spot, yells at nothing particular when a hint of desperation seeps through his voice. “C’mon, talk to me, damnit!”

Nothing.

“You’ve been riding my face for two fuckin’ weeks and now you just fuck off?!” 

Silence.

His hopes lie in the dust. The darkness swallows what’s left.

You’re not here anymore. Hell, maybe you never were.

CLINK.

His attention snaps to the open doorway. “Stargate?” he blurts, almost hopeful.

Only to be met with – who the fuck’s that guy? He stares at him, wide eyed. Then he sticks his tongue out before he makes a break for it. 

It takes Ben a moment to process what just happened. But his instincts kick in naturally and he gives chase.

His boots thunder down the hallways, down the stairs, further down into the lower level of the building. That midget is fast, he’s gotta hand it to him. Finally he’s got him cornered, skidding to a halt in front of the basement. 

His eyes widen slightly. His focus is drawn to a mangled body that’s merged with the wall, sprouting vines and ooze.

“My God. Quinn,” Ben mutters in disbelief.

He wanted to find the V1 and destroy it. Wanted to find you – Or at least a trace of your existence. Just enough proof that you were real.

But all he’s got to stumble upon is Quinn. That piece of shit.

You still looking for her? 

“The fuck’d you say?” Ben growls, but Quinn barely manages to twitch a bulging eye. The guy forgotten in the corner, Frenchie, squints, looking back and forth between the two. 

She’s not here. She never was.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Ben grits out between his clenched teeth. He wants to shout more, but a flash of searing pain splitting his skull in half, forces his eyes to squeeze shut.

He just blinked. But now the cool basement is gone. 

“What the fuck…”

Ben slowly turns his head, takes in the white walls and its soft shadows, the fairy lights hanging off the rack, the twisted sheets on the bed. He takes a slow step into the room, testing the floorboards – then halts, his eyes locking with those of a plush monkey. He slightly tilts his head, and for fucks sakes, there’s more of them on every surface, and they’re all staring back at him with their dead eyes.

“Ben..? Is that really you?” The soft voice has his focus shift to the end of the room. 

There she sits. Tied down to the chair in that skintight red suit, just like he’d last seen her. That same old wretched face. 

So, that’s what this is. Another memory. This is getting ridiculous. He knows this memory, nothing new to discover here – so he decides to snap out of it.

But he’s still here.

The fuck?

And of course, the unasked for details of that moment come crashing down on him now. Ben’s jaw tightens. As it seems, his body cannot tell the difference, because he’s not just remembering this, he’s reliving the moment.

“You killed me,” Crimson Countess accuses and gets him to look at her. 

Ben doesn’t move, knowing she’s right. Instead, a weight forms on his chest. The shit he keeps buried starts digging its way back up. Again.

“You said you hated me.” Ben’s hurt is thinly veiled when he speaks. 

“We all did,” she spits each word like venom. That makes Ben pause.

“So, I deserved to be tortured and pumped with poison for forty years like some fucking lab rat. Is that what you’re saying?” he asks, and he doesn’t even realize how pained he looks when voicing the million-dollar question. 

No – he doesn’t care. He has to know. He has to know whether he’s really “the greatest expression of what humanity can offer” or he’s just an asshole that deserves to rot in Hell. Probably both–

“Ben. Don’t listen to her.” 

Ben jolts. Because Crimson Countess’ red lips move, but no voice comes out, like she’s been muted. Hold on – this time, he recognizes the voice.

“Stargate?” he calls out your name. His head whirls around, but no one else is there. Then something moves in his peripheral vision. 

Slowly, one of the monkeys has its head turned to face him. 

“The fu–” Ben doesn’t even get to finish a curse, when another monkey slowly cranes its neck back. Followed by the ugly as sin one hanging off the rack. And another, and another. A wall full of plush monkeys with the aura of a creepy doll collection.

Ben takes a tentative step back. Each one of them adjusts their stitched beady eyes to keep them locked onto him. 

Then, the monkeys all begin to chatter one after the other, like a TV that’s switching channels. Every time ripping open another stitched mouth, sputtering stuffing as they throw chopped up words at him and expect him to catch them all.

“Remember-–” 

“This isn’t–” 

“She’s corrupting your–” 

“—and my face–” 

“Don’t give the–”

CRACK.

They – you – go silent all at once. 

Their fuzzy bodies begin buzzing on the spot just as the walls begin to shake. Ben has to steady himself for a moment, the back of his knees bumping into the bedframe behind him. When he looks up again, the stuffed animals are leaking something crimson from their eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Hey– keep talking to me!” he demands but is cut short as each one of them explodes into a puff of red glitter. 

Ben stands there. 

Glitter’s raining down on him. He’s muttering a hoarse, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” while he’s trying to scrub the panic out of his face. But apparently, he doesn’t get a break.

Something’s touching his foot.

“Fuck!” Ben shouts, and in a knee-jerk reaction spins around to stomp down on whatever’s latched onto his ankle. A sickening squelching crack echoes off the walls. But the sound wouldn’t be reason enough for him to suddenly go rigid. 

It’s when he recognizes the maimed body that’s crawled out from beneath the bed, now pinned beneath his boot. At least what’s left of it – it’s more of a lump of meat with stubs for what once were limbs and a few loose strands of black hair that stick to its skull.

Clara rolls her head on its own axis until her eyes meet his. Ben’s breath stops for a moment.

“You wouldn’t ever forget about us,” she says, and smiles. In every broken way, she curls her lips further than naturally possible, “right, Benjamin?”

Ben doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He can’t breathe anymore. 

“But–” 

Ben’s head snaps around as Crimson chimes in in a distorted voice, like she’s just joining a conversation. 

“Why did you burn me? You said you loved mmmeee—” the word stretches on, warbling in a slow, sickening way. 

Meanwhile Ben watches with a stony expression how Crimson Countess’ face begins to rip into long stripes, her skin peeling back to reveal a charcoal body beneath. Then, a white, blinding light floods the room. The silhouette of what was Crimson, then Clara, then Quinn – it’s all burning.

Ben doubles over when the darkness of the basement spits him out again. He’s clutching his knees, chest heaving, struggling for air.

“Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters between his labored breaths.

Once Ben looks up, he is met with the burnt remains of what once was Quinn’s mangled body fused with the wall. He killed him too.

Maybe that’s what’s happening to him. 

He’s the undertaker of his own grave. He’s planned his own burial alive without realizing it.

His entire past – his memories, his relationships, his purpose – it’s all crumbling to dust, piece by piece. Soon he’ll be the last one standing. Locked into this mess of a head of his.

You thought you wouldn’t die alone? Pathetic. 

The words echo off the cold walls. Then the voice fucking laughs. Maybe Quinn’s. Maybe yours. Hell, maybe his own. He can’t tell anymore – it doesn’t change anything.

He will die alone. If he can die at all, that is. 

And worst is, he fucking deserves it.

“Just do it already,” Ben husks out. But Homelander, who's back from his corner, doesn’t move, just hovers in the doorway. Ben’s shoulders hunch when he realizes how his words came out unusually broken and wet. He really is pathetic.

He’s still here.

Alive. Alone. Potato, fucking potato. 

Soldier Boy hasn’t slept since they’ve returned from Fort Harmony. The question, why he’s still here, is tearing him apart. And frankly, he has passed the point of trying to deny it, or at least he would, if anybody asked.

He still can’t get you out of his head. Although you’d stopped talking to him days ago. The only exception being when you’d possessed a collection of monkeys in his fucked up brain. He keeps replaying the words you’d said then, over and over. As if it will jumpstart a new thought, or trigger a new memory if he just tries hard enough. The bitter truth is, he still knows jack shit about you.

He thinks he should know. No, that’s not right. It’s more like… he feels something, like he should remember. Which, once again, is an odd thing to say when you’re as emotionally constipated as Soldier Boy.

Which is why he’d rather not risk opening that pandora’s box further.

So, suck it up and onwards it is. And thanks to Homelander, that path leads him across half of America to visit Los Angeles. He fucking hates Los Angeles. 

But it still beats the alternative.

If he knew, that by the end of his day, he was going to end up bombshell-throwing Seth Rogan and spilling baby oil to catch a speedster, he would’ve probably – actually, no. Soldier Boy would’ve absolutely picked Los Angeles over another fucking fieldtrip to monkey-memory-land.

And what’s more, he would’ve missed out on the old Soldier Boy comic he’s eyeing with a smug smirk right now. The fresh blood splatter tainting his comic self crimson, doesn’t bother him. In fact, it kinda adds to the Kraut-hunter flair. He chuckles to himself at the thought, pocketing it.

Just as he turns, a picture between the collection of Nazi plates catches his attention. He steps closer, brows furrowing. 

It’s Clara. At this point she’s haunting him wherever he goes.

Well. If he’d ever been looking for clues about her existence, he’d be holding the key in his hands now. 

Unfortunately, that’s not the thing that’s bothering him when looking at her. If he can trust anything of the recollection he has gained so far, or more like, the emotional package that came with it, Clara was special to him. He’s accepted that much by now. But all that happens when he turns the photo in his hand is, shouldn’t I – I don’t know – feel something? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

He sets the frame back down. Crosses his arms in front of his chest as he stares down at it.

The face of Clara flickers – Ben blinked. He missed how your face reflected in the frame’s glass, yelling his name. For just a split second. But his subconscious caught it.

And unbeknownst to Ben, it’s enough to complete the process.

Ben's head screams of pain.

All forty years of his time in the torture chamber combined tear through his skull at once.

Images flash before his inner eyes. He recognizes some of them; The music. "Whatever Will Be, Will Be" playing in the background. The bedsheets. The taste of smoke on his tongue. But others are new. A slender hand covering his. Wait - there's that familiar smell of vanilla again. A strand of hair that curls around his finger as he strokes it behind her ear.

For the first time, Ben sees the face of the woman his mind's trying to overwrite; You're gorgeous. Soft light in your hair. Eyes full of love, only for him. When you open your mouth to giggle, he recognizes it at once; Stargate. You're Stargate.

Ben tries to grip you tight. But the lightning bolt that's thundering inside his head tears right through your face. Breaking it to pieces like a mirror.

"Fuck!" Ben groans, his fingers flexing around the edge of the table - or maybe it's a counter - he can't tell anymore.

Something in him turns over hard. Sickening. He fights the feeling that drags itself back up his throat, forces himself to focus on where your face has been moments ago.

There it is again, that terrible ache, that fear, like he’s lost something important.

And now he understands.

Ben drops to his knees, he desperately tries to hold onto the fragments. He tries to remember your laugh. But Clara's voice answers instead. He tries to picture your warm eyes. But Clara smiles back at him instead. He tries to glue them back together, form your face with them – but the more his fingers dig into the shards, the more they crumble. 

Your name slips through his fingers next.

The ache in his chest remains.

When the pain in his skull subsides, Ben's eyes refocus on his empty hands in his lap. His fingers still flex, like he was trying to grab for something. He frowns to himself, slightly disoriented. Then his head angles back, his gaze instinctively pulled to the picture frame he'd placed back on the table.

And suddenly, the grief inside his ribs twists into something more; Guilt.

Only now, his mind finally gives it a reason. Clara.

Soldier Boy’s always been an asshole. Deep down, he knows it.

And believe it or not, he regrets it. Not all of it, of course. But some.

Like how he'd disappointed the one person who'd always believed in him. Had loved him unconditionally. Why does he realize that just now?

It’s not fucking fair how decades later, he’s been given the idea that he’s not only been capable of being in love, but actually could have spent eternity with someone he loves. Only to get it yanked from his hands moments later, because he’s not fucking worth it and meant to end up alone.

Alone with a weirdo son he didn’t ask for. 

What’s it worth being more than a man, when you die the pathetic, lonely, and slow death of a forgotten and degraded war hero? 

Bombsight was aware of that. Unlike him. 

And yet, Ben can’t admit that he wished he had gotten the V1 earlier. Maybe had gotten himself someone like Clara. Gotten himself a life he always thought he wasn’t cut out for. 

But all of that regret's worth jack shit, because there's nothing left for him to fix. All he can do now, is do right by her. Just this once.

Soldier Boy blocks his fist — let’s it connect with his forearm. He swivels, grazes his knuckles across Bombsight’s face. 

Then goes for his throat. 

His chest. His guts. 

He drives him back towards the wall – this is almost too easy. 

Then Bombsight twists away just in time, turns, so his fist’s flying towards Ben’s face when his vision suddenly whites out, his skull feeling like it’s cracking open and –

Soft static crackles along the music of Doris Bay’s Que Sera, Sera. The needle jumps from the weight that’s being thrown around the room. The floor imitates a warground with broken wood, ripped clothes, torn pillows, and its feathers swirling through the white powder that’s scattered all over the place. Wood groans as it gets slammed against the wall, over and over. Grunting and the wet slap of skin against skin mix into the rhythm. 

And there you are. 

Your arms are spread out like an eagle, fingers twisted into the smooth fabric of the flag. 

Soldier Boy holds you up by your ass – one hand is enough to keep you in the air. And it gives him the opportunity to pin you to the wall behind his bed with his other, curled around your neck. He’s not putting any pressure on your throat though, how could he?

You look like a fucking Goddess.

“Isn’t this flag desecration?” you smirk down at him, at which Ben’s own grin widens. 

“Doll, I am fucking America,” he snorts. 

“Yeah, literally,” you laugh, then gasp as Ben drives his point home with another punishing roll of his hips. You wrap your legs around his waist, circle his shoulder and his chest with an arm each as you dig your fingers into his skin. Ben hisses – he wishes it was from pain, from feeling every inch of his skin breaking under your nails – he never carries away any marks from you, but he likes to imagine it anyway. At least he can mark you up. 

“Fuck– don’t stop–” you cry out right next to his ear where your forehead has dropped to. Like hell’s he going to stop. Not now, not ever.

“Ain’t stoppin’ till you’ve milked me dry,” he warns. His grip on your ass turns bruising, then moves it to the small of your back for better leverage. He pulls you in, meeting his every thrust as he fucks up into that tight little cunt of yours. 

He feels how your soft walls begin to flutter around his cock. He knows you’re close. And if that wasn’t telling enough, the state of the Old Glory on his wall would surely give it away. A satisfied grin spreads across his lips as he watches the way your head has dropped back against the wall, thudding with every snap of his hips. How your eyes rolled back under your eyelids. How you’re back to fisting the stars and stripes, how your moans begin to slip into desperate whines, and how the flag goes taut from how much you squirm and writhe.

Christ. Fucking you is divine.

You announce your orgasm with a shuddering cry, the flag protests under it but ultimately gives in as it rips from its hinges and drapes over your shoulders like a cape. Your cunt squeezes him with a vice grip, and it’s enough to make him follow you over the edge as he shoots his load up your walls. 

He sinks back to his knees, takes you down with him as he settles down on the mattress. 

“Look at my sweet girl,” he chuckles with a tilt of his head, his hand brushing the edge of the flag out of your face. “Takin’ down America like she fuckin’ owns it.” 

That quip earns him a giggle of yours. Christ, he'd kill just for that sound. He pulls you further into his lap by the small of your back, wanting to feel the tiny rumbles of your chest against his. 

His smooth chin rests against your sternum. The stormy green in his eyes never leaves you. “You’re fucking gorgeous. You know that?”

You roll your eyes at him, the way you always do when he compliments you – he remembers that detail now, too. Would you still react that snarky if he was to say that he really means it? That, sure, your body’s gorgeous, but it’s so much more than that. That, if he was any better with words, with feelings, he’d tell you?

You try to wiggle out of his lap, but Ben tuts and rolls you both over so you’re under him.

“Come here you cheeky lil’ minx,” Ben growls roughly, while his strong hands find purchase on the plush of your hips and his own slot back between your thighs with ease. Your fingers thread into the back of his short hair, yank at it as he pushes himself back into your still sticky heat without a warning and bottoms out.

Ben continues to fuck you through four more rounds. Until both of you have collapsed to your backs, you tapping out and Ben calling for a joint-break.

He presses the tip of the blunt to his lips, primes it with a few quick puffs until he takes a longer drag. He holds it for a moment, then blows out the smoke through his lips again. 

“You know, I could get you some,” he says while staring up at the ceiling where the smoke dissipates. He doesn’t need to look to feel your chest heave before a sigh.

“That’s not how it works.”

This time Ben rolls his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it? You’ve got a body somewhere, right? And you’re a fuckin’ supe.”

“This is me.” Your challenging tone drives his eyebrows together, and his head angles to glare down at you.

“Quit fuckin’ playin’ with my head, Stargate. You know what I meant,” he snaps, then pauses. 

His fingertips rub along the blunt for a couple of times before his frown softens and he passes you the joint as a peace offering. You don’t take it right away, but eventually, you do.

Soldier Boy takes it as his cue to go on. His free forefinger glides through a strand of your hair before he tenderly brushes it behind your ear. The tips of his fingers linger there. Like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can feel what touching your real skin would feel like. “I just–” he lets out a heavy breath through his nose. “I wish I could…”

“Fuck my real body?” You quip and blow a swirl of smoke into his face.

“Yeah. That too,” he snorts, breathes in some of the smoke that’s left your lungs. “We could also–,” he stops himself to search for the right genuine words, while he looks down to your small hand covering his as it curves your hipbone, “We could, you know, grow not old together.” He winces inwardly at how that made him sound like a goddamn pantywaist. So he quickly adds; “Fucking’s definitely more fun without the toilet dippers and a cunt bucket, don’t ya think?” 

The silence that follows is killing him. After a beat, he dares to look up at you, but is met with sad eyes that he wishes he’d rather not seen.

“Ben…” you murmur, lips pressed into a tight line. “We have no idea where my body is.”

“So?” He frowns. “I‘ll find it. I’ll get you out.”

“– or when.”

Right. Then there’s that small but crucial detail. His jaw muscles work to form some kind of smart response, but ultimately he falls silent. Time’s relative for you. That’s a fact that he tends to ignore. Mainly because he can’t wrap his mind around it. How can you talk to him here, in this moment, and at the same time be stuck anywhere in time?

“Look…” You rub your thumb over his knuckles. The softness of your touch makes his defiant gaze snap back to you. “We got to be realistic about this… Chances are, that my body’s already dead.”

Well. That’s not how he’d planned this conversion to go. You always shut him down with that argument. And honestly? It pisses him off how gloomy you are about the whole future thing.

Without a word, you pass him the blunt back. He takes a longer drag than usual. Time passes without either of you adding anything.

Maybe… maybe if you knew how he felt, you’d change your mind.

Ben’s throat works. He clears it from the smoke, but still, nothing makes it past his lips. He looks away, fumbles for those three damn words that he cannot seem to get in line. When he finally meets your eyes again, his determined frown has given way to something uncharacteristic for Soldier Boy. An expression, that’s almost… soft. 

It’s not like he hasn’t thrown around those exact same words countless times before. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

It should be easy, right? But this is the moment he realizes that they’ve never held this much weight for him until now. And that kinda terrifies Ben.

Ben turns away, flicking the roach into the mug on the bedside table. While still looking the other way, he rasps out your name – gosh, your name is so perfect when it rolls off his tongue. So perfect and complete. He wants to taste it, savour it. Never let it go again. Then brand every sperm of his ballsack with your initials and let everyone know that they belong to this perfect fucking woman he can call his own. See? That’s how romantic he can get. 

Come on, you fuckin’ pussy. Just get it over with.

He forces his shoulders to angle back towards you. 

The way you stare up at him with those wide eyes, naked body stretched out beneath him, is actually not helping at all. Ben fully turns to his side, braces himself on his right arm to slowly snake his free hand up your side and watch you shiver from it. Or, maybe it will. He lets his mouth follow his hungry gaze as he kisses a path down the front of your neck, over your collarbone, till the valley between your breasts. 

“I just think,” he muses, “it’d be a shame for these perfect tits to go saggy,” he grins against your skin. 

You gasp, then want to smack his shoulder. But Ben catches your wrist first.

“I’m not fuckin’ done yet,” he grunts. This is it. The moment he has to get those three little pathetic words off his chest before they crush his ribs like nothing physical ever could.

“What I’m tryin’ to say is…” he mutters gruffly, before he goes to press his lips to the inside of your wrist. “I lo–”

I love you.

The words still echo in the back of his mind. So clear. So triumphant. He sees it all now. Your face, your voice, your name. 

How could he ever forget. How could he ever leave you behind?

Then the moment’s gone.

His mind resets.

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit. That I was the strongest Supe alive, the “ultimate expression” of what we could be.”

Ben pauses – Why the fuck did I say that?  His fingers twitch around the blue liquid for a moment. He frowns down at it, but the thought slips him before he can catch it. When he looks back up at his son, his muscles seem to relax by themselves. 

His mouth continues. “But she was wrong. She hadn’t met you yet.” 

Homelander frowns slightly, in disbelief. “But you hate me,” he mutters. 

Soldier Boy exhales heavily through his nose, as he conjures up the image of what his memory system has saved as yours.

“I love S–” his brow furrows. “–Clara more. And this is what she would want.”

Then –

Black.

A hook in your chest yanks you backwards with such force, that your eyes snap wide open - but your vision stays dark. 

Fuck, you feel dazed. Nauseous like hell. You want to throw up, but you wouldn’t even know what way to turn. Or how to turn. 

There’s noise. So much noise around you.

People are… talking. And… clapping? 

“Good job, sir.” 

“Thank you, thank you. But none of this would have worked without Mrs. Vought–” 

The voices sound distorted, drowned out like they’re inside a dome.

“This is it, meine Damen und Herren... Mark this day… Phase one of The Great Reset is complete.”   What’s that voice - why does it sound so familiar? Phase one?

“Wh- m- I?” Your tongue feels numb.

“Eye movement detected. Asset is regaining consciousness, sir.” A voice says somewhere behind you. 

“Wha- s- on?” Yeah, still numb. Everything feels numb, now that you try to make out where your body starts and where it ends. 

“Heart rate is increasing.” 

“Signs of disorientation.” 

“Put her back to sleep.”

“Wh- n-o, n-no-” You want to protest. To scream. To thrash. But your body is so far away. And now you’re sinking through the void below you, down, down, down…

“Start phase two.” 

The woman with the German accent announces somewhere in the distance, followed by more clapping. 

Until it’s all fading into black.

And the voice of Michael Jackson.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I wish I could say I'm officially back - but the writer's block and my irl still have me in a chokehold. Maybe this'll help me to overcome it... we'll see how it goes. How are you all doing?? I miss y'all so much. And I'm so so sorry if I didn't get to reply to your ask or comment yet. </3

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The supermarket isn’t one you dragged from your own memories. It belonged to a nurse who worked here for a few weeks, must be years ago now. She was pretty and ambitious and so, so open for you. You snuck your way into her. Not an attempt to escape - you’d given up on those already at that point. But sat in her head, let her carry you with her. All the way out to the security doors. There you’d jump off. Got in her again the next day the second she walked inside. 

You took the memory of the supermarket, held it in your hands. Figuratively, that is. Your hands are tied down with thick, big metal shackles, as are your ankles. But you held them in your hands in your mind, gave the memory a little kiss and then sent it back to the nurse, some adjustments made.

She didn’t show up anymore after that. 

The voices are the voices of men, and that makes you tense. You push against the thick blanket of sleep, but as usual, it’s impenetrable. Could it be? Could they be back? New doctors, sent here after you made the last ones so angry? 

But they don’t sound like doctors. Their voices - you can differentiate three of them - aren’t as measured and calm as the ones of the doctors you know. They’re still a way off.

“Look a’ that,” one of them says. “It’s an all-you-can-supe buffet.” 

They’re close, but not right up to where you are now. So you concentrate, gently probe at the boundaries around you. Lay your hands flat against it, and push.

Not much of you can make it outside. It feels like touching something through three layers of gloves. You can barely guess at the shape of them. Three men, yes, and they think like men, move like men. Bluster, ego. Big thoughts about the world, but really only about themselves. One of them is soft tissue and one of them is gelatinous like congealed blood and the other is, is… what is he?

They come closer. They must be walking along the curved wall of windows. You’ve barely ever seen it, can only guess at it, but from what you understand and remember, a big, round room opens up from the elevator. The different labs are arranged around it in a circular shape, each connected to the main room with a singular door and a wide, one-way window.

You’re not sure what’s in the other labs anymore. Time was you would keep track, but ever since the doctors and nurses and security staff left, you haven’t felt much in those other rooms. Maybe they’re all dead. Or maybe they’re just asleep, like you.

The men are walking the length of the room. Maybe peering into the different labs. In one, there used to be a guy who could grow fungi from his brain. You have no idea what in the world that was supposed to be good for, but you imagine him now, grown all over the room. Maybe it looks real pretty.

Shoes scruff the floor, one pair two pair three pair.

“What in the ever-lovin’ fuck is that?” you hear the one who spoke earlier. For a second, you’re worried they’re now standing in front of your window, looking at you. But they must be one room off. No idea who’s in there.

Now that they’re closer, you can feel them a little better. The one who spoke is the gelatinous one. His brain, when you press your fingers into it, feels squishy. Not quite malleable, just different. Maybe he’s more smoke than squish. You giggle at your own words.

“So they’re all, what, used to crowd control other supes?” the soft one says. He’s hard to grasp too, but in a different way. Layers upon layers, but also flimsy and breaking, like pastry dough. Smells like it too, and you know it’s not a real smell. It’s just your mind experiencing his mind with all of your senses.

“Project Friendly Fire,” smoke-squish says, voice a little lower. “Though beats me how the fuck that is supposed to stop a supe.”

“Who gives a fuck?” the third one says, and it’s like inhaling ice.

Your mind goes blank for a moment. Hurts, like you sipped a cold drink too fast. The pain travels from your temple to the front of your head. Your throat hurts, like you woke up with a cold, for a second. Then it’s all gone. If you could gasp, you would.

They step closer to your window. You can hear them so clearly now. Your consciousness keeps slipping off the icy one. Strange, yet you can’t seem to stop yourself from trying again.

“Jesus,” the soft one says, “is she alive?” You can almost see the smokey one move his hand. See him press the little button on the screen at your door. Tiny beep. It must be thick with dust.

“Noxious,” he reads. “Mind control, power of suggestion… This could work.”

“I told you,” the cold one says, “I don’t need any fucking help. Certainly not from whatever the fuck they cooked up in this lab here.”

“And I told you,” smokey shoots back, “I’m not riskin’ it. We get one shot at Homelander. It works, or we’re done for.”

“You, maybe.” 

“Alright, Captain Prick.”

“Guys.”

“Shut it, Hughie. Listen, I know you think this is all gonna be so easy, but where’s the harm in playin’ it safe? Just your big, bleedin’ ego?”

“I’m not a fucking babysitter, okay? I have no interest in some little bitch flitting along while I take this son of a bitch out. She’s just gonna get in the way.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Guys.”

“Shut up. It’s fucking insulting, you hear me? Thinking I need help–”

“Guys, it doesn’t matter, this lab is dead, there’s no way we can get anyone out of here anyway. I mean, she’s probably dead, and–”

“Fuckin’ optimist, aren’t you?”

“Just press that button.”

“What button?”

“Jesus, are you fucking blind? The button that says disable stasis, the–”

“No, no, no, don’t!”

Darkness.

And then blinding light.

Waking.

Pain, and you don’t even really mean to reach out. It’s just an instinct. Some children bury their faces in their favorite blankets when they’re sad. You bury yours in the soft brainmass of whoever is near.

The tendrils of your mind shoot into the icy one. Coincidence, or maybe some immediate fascination with who or what he is. 

Now that the thick layer of sleep is gone, it’s easy as pie. You touch him, and immediately see he’s only icy in the first layer. Underneath he’s all scorching heat, bubbling lava. Too hot to touch but you can’t help yourself but be drawn to the warmth. You wrap yourself around him. You kiss his hippocampus and dive in.

Hero. He's a hero. And, oh God, he's beautiful. Angry, vicious, a soldier. Protector of his country. You hear a fanfare and it makes you laugh. It makes him laugh too. Or you think it would.

Deeper down, there’s other stuff. You can see it, peering down from where you’re nestled in him. Yellow like pus, and ugly. But who doesn’t have that in them? You know you do. You’ve done and thought some nasty things. But you never meant it. Well, you meant it a few times. The young nurse. The way she’d ram the needle into your arm. That one doctor who put his hand under your hospital gown. You made him think he had murdered his family, done really bad things to them. Sat with him at their dinner table, watched as he took a shotgun and shot them all in the head, one after the other. He didn’t come back to work either. 

Ooh, they were angry when you did that. Two weeks in the hole - down the elevator on a stretcher, perfect darkness, pissing and shitting in the corner. That oughta teach you! they said. You’re not sure that it did.

But the man, the hero. He’s been in a hole too. He wants to be appreciated. He wants to be loved. It breaks your heart a little. So big and strong and, oh, he’s pretty, all that and he still just wants everyone to love him. 

You rub yourself against his temporal lobe like a cat marking her territory. Maybe… but no, you shouldn’t. They’ll be mad. Put you in the hole again where there’s nothing but you and darkness and no thoughts and memories to feed you. Nothing. The absence of everything. But there are no more doctors. No one to punish you.

You lick your lips, open your eyes.

The three men are standing just inside the room you’re in. You hesitate for another second, until your gaze falls on him. 

And then, almost as if on instinct, you grab and pull and then you’re inside.

The supermarket isn’t busy this time of day. As you push your cart past thick, juicy fruit, you see a woman up ahead. The woman is older than you, not bad looking, but you know she envies you for your youth and beauty. A few more lines in her face. Is a scar too much? Yes, let’s not overdo it.

“Don’t you look happy!” she says when she approaches you. Your face, but happy. Excited. You smile at her. “I heard it’s a very special day for you?”

You nod, smile a little less. Men. Men coming back from war. Hers isn’t. Her son, maybe. So it’s not nice to brag. But you show her you’re happy, without rubbing it in.

“I’m just so grateful,” you say. Make your face grateful. But humble. You look down. You’re wearing a dress. It’s prettier than her dress, but you would still compliment her on it. 

“Well,” she says, reaching her hand out and squeezing yours where it’s resting on the cart. “I know you two love birds will be very busy for the foreseeable future.” She winks. You give a small gasp, and she laughs. 

“We only had our wedding night before he had to leave,” you say. Would you say that? Isn’t that oversharing? Or is this here, amongst the produce, right next to the cabbage, where women’s secrets like this can be shared? Is this where they say, he doesn’t make me feel good, or, he hasn’t touched me in a year, or, I fuck his brother. You’re not sure. Go with it for now.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” she says with another smile. “Say hi to him for me, won’t you?” What’s his name. Would she know his name? What is his name?

“Well, I won’t keep you,” she says with another smile. “Say hi to Ben for me, won’t you?” You smile back.

“Sure will,” you say.

You’re in deep now. Deep in his brain, in his mind. It’s like floating. He is so handsome. He is a hero. He’s hurt people, but you know it’s been to protect you and others like you. You’re so lonely, and so is he, but neither of you will be for long.

Farm. The farm.

The farm you grew up on. Wide fields and a few dogs running around, but nice ones, not dirty ones. You stand on the porch. A soft breeze. Moves your hair.

“He’ll be here soon, honey,” your mother says, and you turn to the side, look at her, give her a hopeful smile.

“What if I’m not how he remembers me?” you ask. She tuts, walks towards you, takes your hands into hers. 

“This man has been surrounded by nothing but guts and other men for two years,” she says. Is two years too much? Should you make it less? Surely if he’d been gone for two years, he would have… No. But he wouldn’t be interested in any of the women there. They’re not like you. But even if he was, you could forgive him. You think you could. One year seems too little, not dramatic enough. Stick to two years for now.

“He’ll see you,” your mother continues, “and he’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.” You chuckle, still humble. A car approaches. Both of you look up.

Uncle’s George’s truck, the big, red one. You know it’s George, cause it’s his truck, and you know Ben is in the passenger seat, because George picked him up from the train station. There should be more family. More family members are standing at your periphery, but you don’t focus on them. Only on the car. 

It stops in front of the house, and you take two slow steps down the porch stairs. Hands folded in front of your chest. Try to slow your breathing. You look beautiful, feminine, perfect, bow in your hair, sweet smelling. Still, you’re nervous, afraid he won’t love you, because it’s womanly to be that way.

Uncle George gets out of the car but you barely notice him. Because then your husband steps out.

The shirt is just a little tight on him. Short sleeves, bulging over his biceps. Top buttons undone, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. Jeans, hugging thick, strong thighs. A noticeable bulge at the front. Bearded, but well groomed. Hair hanging over his forehead just a little. Good nose, just enough bumps in it to make his face interesting. Plush lips. Green, startling eyes that don’t look anywhere but at you. 

Your chest falls and rises and then he steps down from the truck, slowly walks towards you. Face neutral. Stops right in front of you and you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

Pause for dramatic effect.

“Goddamn it, baby doll,” he says and then one of his arms shoots around your waist, dragging you in as he kisses you. Your family cheers, claps, all so happy. The nameless, faceless extras at your periphery cheer too. He picks you up, just with the one arm, yours around his neck and whirls you around. It’s perfect. You’re perfect, he’s perfect, and when he puts you down again among the cheers of your loved ones, he presses his forehead against yours, looks into your eyes, and you up into his, filled with tears.

“I’m home, baby,” he says.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?”

And scene!

Kitchen. You’re in the kitchen, scrubbing one of the pans. Just quickly, before everyone sits down. Laughter from the next room, everyone having a drink, and you just quickly slipped in here.

He walks in looking for another beer, or pretending to. But really, he’s looking for you.

You flinch, then giggle when he wraps his arms around you from behind.

“The heck are you doing hiding in here, sugar tits?” 

No.

“The heck are you doing hiding in here, sweet cheeks?” he mumbles into your ear, his mouth just above it as he hugs you tight, pressing you against him. You hum, bite your lip. 

“Just trying to get a headstart on the dishes,” you reply. Your hands are wet and soapy but his are wandering over your hips, your tummy. 

“Let your mom do them,” he whispers. “Come sit on my lap in the other room. If I have to listen to your fuckass brother say one more word without you to distract me, I’m going postal.”

“Ben,” you chuckle, only half reprimanding. He smiles against you, kisses the top of your ear. Pulls you closer against him. 

“Course,” he says, “we could sneak out for a minute.” One of his big hands wanders a little lower, feeling for you. Your eyes fall shut as he presses himself against you, into the small of your back. 

“Baby,” you whisper and his hand presses harder.

“Fuck, I missed you so much,” he says. “You can’t even imagine. I was over there, killing men with my bare hands, receiving medal after medal, but all I wanted was to be here with you.” A soft moan leaves you. You turn in his grasp, look up at him. He looks so hungry, so needy for you. Hands dry, no wet, soapy hands on his shirt. Your brows are pulled together.

“I missed you so much,” you say. He dips his head low, ghosts his lips over yours.

“I missed you,” he answers. His gaze wanders lower. “She miss me too?”

Heat shoots to your cheeks and your hands tighten on his arms.

“Ben…” you say, voice low, but he won’t let it go.

“She did, didn’t she?” he says. He raises his chin, a smile playing on his lips. “Had to get her all stretched out on our wedding night. She’s probably all small and tight again.” His hand wanders lower and then he leans in so his fingers can trace the hem of your dress, press under it.

“Let me feel,” he says and your breath catches in your throat, mouth dry. His fingertips run along the soft skin of your inner thigh, higher. You swallow down air like a fish on land but he only grins at you. 

He presses aside your underwear, and then one thick finger runs along your opening, up to the, the, your petal. Your petal. Don’t be a fucking baby. Your clit. He runs along you, once, twice, once more, a deep groan leaving him.

“Fuck, that’s why you’re hiding out here?” he asks. Your eyes are closed and his deep voice is everywhere. “Cause you’re sopping wet?”

“I–” you start, but as always, you don’t have to say anything. He understands you.

“Just one finger, baby doll,” he says, and you make a worried little sound. “Only one, it’s not gonna be too much.” And he’s already doing it.

You whine as he pushes in, grab at him and he shushes you. 

“That’s alright, doll,” he mutters, then groans again. “Goddamn it, you’re tight. Gonna really have to work you open before you get my dick, huh?” You whimper again.

“It’s not gonna fit,” you press out, voice cracked. Ben tuts.

“Sure it is,” he says. “It did back then, didn’t it? Just gonna have to work on it.”

Flash to your wedding night. You in white garters and lingerie, whining and crying while he fucked you open. Useless, jelly-boned as he kissed your tears away. “That’s my good fucking girl,” he grunted. You remember it now.

You turn your head up at him and he kisses you while his finger still wiggles in you. You really don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to fit more of him, but that doesn’t seem to be the issue on Ben’s mind. He slowly drags his finger from you.

“I still got my homecoming present for you, sweetheart,” he says. You blink your eyes open, widen them. 

“You brought me something?” you ask and he chuckles. 

“Kinda,” he says. “This is something they do over there. Thought I’d bring it back to the good old US of A.” You frown at him, and just in that moment, Ben sinks to his knees before you.

 You’re still confused. He didn’t do this on your wedding night, in fact you’ve never heard of anyone doing this. Is he going to propose to you again? But then he pushes up your dress, all the while keeping your gaze. You blink in surprise, and then he’s leaning forward and pressing his mouth against you there.

Your head drops back and your hands go into his hair, gripping. You’ve never felt anything like this. Underwear is gone, around your knees. He pushed it down. It’s there now. Even when Ben was inside you that one time, it didn’t feel like this. This is hot and wet and sudden and perfect. 

You tug at his hair, if only to give yourself something to do, to have somewhere to push the sudden pleasure surging through you. You mumble his name, over and over. His big hands are holding your thighs, fingers gently pressing into your skin.

The moans leaving you are louder and louder. Someone will hear, someone might hear, but you can’t care. Too intense is the love you feel right now, too right is the fact that you and your husband are reunited again, even if he is doing this thing you don’t think he should be doing. But it’s hard to care when it feels so good.

It feels like someone wringing out a wet cloth, twisting it tighter and tighter. It feels like what you felt on your wedding night, but a hundred thousand times more intense. As you press yourself against him your hold on him tightens and then your entire body convulses as white light and heat explode within you.

You cry out, loud and uncontrolled, and Ben pushes his fingers harder into your skin to keep you in place. The sounds coming from you are cracked and you can almost see them traveling through the house around you. Into the old wood of the building. Filling it with life.

You nearly sink down when your body relaxes, but Ben’s got you. He detaches from you, then lets your dress drop down again before pressing a kiss against your hip and standing. Your cheek sinks against his shoulder as you catch your breath.

“Oh my God,” you pant. “What was that, you magical man?” A deep, rumbling chuckle leaves him.

“That,” he says, “was just the beginning, sweetheart.”

“Oi! Where the fuck are you going? What– Jesus flippin’ Christ.”

No. More. Come back.

“Ooh, I walk in on something?”

You blink your eyes open, straighten. Look at the door to the kitchen. Uncle George is standing there, your mother right behind him. He’s got his hands raised and is chuckling. You frown at him.

“Hey Georgie,” Ben says, turning towards your uncle as well. “Remember when you used to hit my girl when she was little? Made her feel like shit every time she so much as made a peep?” You feel dizzy, nauseous. Remembering. Don’t remember. Remember how he hurt you if you dared to make a sound anywhere in the house while he was watching TV.

“That’s all a long time ago now,” George says, still grinning broadly. “We’re way past that, aren’t we?” Ben looks down at you, and you tilt your head up. Look at him. Then he looks back at Uncle Georgie.

“I don’t think we are,” Ben says. He moves his hand, brings it behind his back. Pulls out whatever he’s got there - a big fucking gun. Points it at Uncle George.

“I really don’t think we are,” Ben says and then he shoots him in the head.

Uncle George’s brains go flying, covering your mother in them. She starts screaming, high-pitched, shrill. Ben looks down at you and you look back with big eyes, a dreamy smile on your face.

“Now,” he says, “we gonna eat?”

“Anything?” Butcher asks as he hurries towards Hughie, but he can only shake his head. 

“He went down the elevator shaft, but I don’t know…” he lets the sentence taper out. Butcher shakes his head, pushes his hands into his sides with an angry snarl.

“What the fuck happened?” he says, breathing hard from running around the facility. “He just grabbed her and got out.” Hughie shakes his head.

“He fucking tore through those metal doors,” he says, voice a little more quiet. “You saw them too, right? Those… tendrils, or whatever?” 

Butcher doesn’t confirm. He’s too busy stewing in anger at the fact that his best asset just stormed off with some little bitch that can apparently control minds thrown over his shoulder.

“We gotta find him,” is all he says, and then the two are moving again.

Dinner scene. Everyone’s happy. Ben keeps his hand on your leg almost the whole time. Fast forward. Laughter. Eventually everyone gets up. Now you’re in the hallway. It’s already dark. Georgie’s still on the floor, big puddle of blood around where his head fell. You killed him cause he did me wrong. You did it cause you love me.

Stop struggling.

Your mother puts on her coat, then drags you in for a hug. 

“I’m so happy for you, sweetheart,” she says as she lets go, hugs Ben. “And you two are coming over on Sunday, right?”

“Course we are,” Ben says. “Dreamed about that pot roast while I was in the trenches.” Your mother laughs, like he just said something hilarious, but you see the truth behind his words. The fear, the terror, the violence.

See? I understand you. 

They walk out, Ben closing the door while you remain behind him. He turns around, looks at you. Like a wildcat at its prey. You shift around.

“I should get started on the dishes,” you say, just as he starts walking towards you. “They’re gonna be all gross and crusty tomorrow.” 

You want to say something else, but he’s already on you. Leans down to grab you, hoists you up into his arms and then you’re there, carried by him, bridal-style.

“Ben,” you breathe but he’s already moving again, towards the stairs, not taking his eyes off you for a second.

“Fuck the dishes,” he says as he takes the first step. 

You sling your arms around his shoulders, give yourself to him. He carries you to the first floor and then through the open doors into the bedroom.

He lays you down on the bed, one of his knees on the mattress. You press up on your elbows, look at him. He keeps watching you, then lowers his head.

“The things I saw,” he says, voice pensive. “The things I did…”

“Shh,” you say. You sit up, bring your hands to his face and gently hold him. He looks up at you, emotions warring on his handsome features.

“None of that matters now,” you say, making your voice quiet and soft. “You’re here. You did what you had to do, and you’re here now.” 

You see it on his face, his need to disagree, let you know how bad he is. But he’s not. You really believe that he is not, no, you know it. If only he could know it too.

“You did all that to come back to me,” you say, your thumb running along his cheekbone. He nods a little.

“I did,” he answers. 

“Then show me,” you reply, your breathing getting heavier. “Show me how much you needed me while you were over there.”

Ben hesitates for a second. Not because of doubt, but because he knows if he really shows you he’ll tear you apart. He’ll have to hold himself back. At least a little. 

His hands go to his front as he grabs his shirt, tears it off him. Buttons go clattering and you gasp. The white t-shirt is gone. Scratch it, it was never there. He’s naked underneath, rippling muscle everywhere. Your hands run along his arms, the warm skin there, all yours.

“Kiss me,” you say, and he does, hard, passionate, like you’re breath and he is drowning. Like you’re water and he is fire. You get the idea.

“Baby doll,” he says into your mouth. “I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

He climbs on the bed fully, pushes you back. You squeal, on your elbows again as he pushes both hands under your dress, tears at your underwear, rips it down. You gasp, moan, bring one leg up and press your foot flat against his chest. He brings his hands up, takes your foot, kisses along your toes and you bite your lip. Then his hands wander over your ankle, down your leg, back to the heat between your legs.

“Gonna need to open you up quick,” he says, eyes dark and fixed on you. “Don’t know how long I can wait before I need to fuck that sweet little cunt. And I don’t wanna hurt you.” That’s how much he loves you. He doesn’t want to hurt you, not even for his own pleasure. You raise your chin.

“I’m scared it’ll hurt anyway,” you say, “but I want it. Want you. Inside.” His fingertips press against you harder.

“Careful what you say, sweetheart,” he growls, “or I’ll be fucking you into this mattress so hard you won’t know what hit ya.” You moan again, bring your hands down and pull the dress up over your head, drop it somewhere. Ben looks down between your legs. He purses his lips, then spits. You feel the wetness land on your lower lips and you’re almost surprised there’s no sizzle.

“Touch yourself,” he says. “Play with that little bean like I know you did while I was gone.”

“Ben,” you say, turning your head but his hand shoots out, grabbing your chin, softly, turning you back towards him.

“Nothin’ shameful about it, sweetheart,” he says, looking into your eyes. “Just so long as you were thinking of me.” You bite your lip, nod.

“Of course I was thinking about you,” you say, one hand wandering down your body slowly. “I was always thinking of you. But, but nothing felt like you, not my fingers, not the pillow—”

“Oh goddamn,” Ben groans. “You fucked the pillow thinking of me?” You nod as your fingers reach between your legs and you start touching yourself, spreading your husband’s saliva there. 

“I cried sometimes,” you say, your voice small. “Cried from how badly I needed you, and nothing else could even come close.”

“Fuck,” he presses out. His hands disappear from you and shoot to the front of his jeans. He undoes the button, opens it, as quickly as he can, still looking at you. “You’ve done it now.”

He pushes his pants down, they’re off, he doesn’t get off the bed, and you look at him between your legs, gasping. He’s even bigger than you remember. Girthy, long, fully hard, a pronounced vein that you’re pretty sure you can see pulsing.

“Oh,” you say, but nothing else will come out. He knees forward, brings himself between your thighs, that monster of his bobbing in front of him. There’s some wetness at the tip.

“Remember to breathe, doll,” he says. His hand goes to it and he pumps himself twice. You don’t have time to answer, much less to regulate your breathing when he leans down, grabs your hips and angles you, rather than himself, up.

The tip of him pressing against you has your eyes roll up and a cracked sound coming from your lips. He presses forward and the stretch is intense, burning, but perfect. It’s the feeling of being made right.

“This fucking tight little pussy,” he grunts as he pushes deeper. “Gonna have to make you fit me, huh? ‘S gonna require some work.” You can only whimper in return. You can actually feel the vein, and you don’t think that should be possible, but on him it is.

“B–Ben,” you moan, “y–you’re gonna break someth– ah!”

“Let me,” he says, his fingers pressing against your clit where your hand has stopped moving. “Let me.” He flicks his middle finger over you, fast and hard, and while the feeling is almost too intense to bear, it does open you up.

“Fuck!” he more barks than says. “Fucking fluttering around me. Perfect. Perfect little thing.”

You can’t answer. You can’t.

See? I told you you’d like it. 

When he pushes all the way in, you can’t breathe for a second. You’re just gasping, trying to suck in air, but it’s impossible. One of his hands finds its way to your face, petting your cheek.

“It’s all good, baby doll,” he mutters, drunk enough on you to slur. “It’s all good. I’m home. That burn? Jus’ means I’m home.”

You whimper again. Grab his hand and push his thumb into your mouth. Suck on it, obscenely. You can’t categorize the sound he makes at that. You don’t have time.

He grabs you again, lifts you. He leans back a little, your legs around his hips, him pushed deep with the gravity of the position, making you squeal. He wraps one arm around you, hand squeezing your ass cheek and then he pulls back his hips and fucks up.

Your nails must almost bite through his skin where you’re holding on to his shoulders as you scream. He’s fast, nearly violent, his thick cock punching into you over and over and over, while his arm holds you in place. It doesn’t take long before your head drops back, and you feel like you’re nearly going blind with the orgasm that rips through your body.

“Oh, fuckin’ gripping me,” he roars. “Yeah, you want more? You want more?” Again, no way to answer, but your head drops forward, forehead landing on his as he keeps fucking you.

You see him, the real him, just for a flash. Eyes rolled up. Some drool at the corner of his mouth. Hear your own panting. But he’s not really there, and neither are you. You’re in your marriage bed.

Ben presses his cheek against your chest, wraps his arm so tight around you it hurts. He’s panting like the big bad wolf now. 

“I’m home,” you hear him say. “I’m fuckin’ home. Nowhere, nowhere else.”

“Ben!” you cry out. You tense and untense your legs to assist him in fucking you, but then your thighs begin shaking violently with another orgasm. Your hand grips the hair at the back of his head so hard you’re sure it’s about to come away with tufts of it between your fingers.

He’s fucking you so fast and violently you’re pretty sure no living woman could actually survive it. But you can. Because you love each other.

“Ooh, here it comes,” he grunts and he looks up at you again. His lip is pulled up in an angry snarl, his eyes pure fire. “Gonna make you full, gonna make you so fucking full, you’ll be dripping for days.” You whine and then he nearly screams too, and you can feel it, can feel him growing thicker and harder in you and then a warm explosion, can feel it splatter your insides, full full full of his love.  His eyes are squeezed shut and he looks like he’s in pain as he empties himself into you.

And for the first time in as long as you can remember, maybe for the first ever, you’re sated.

But Ben is not done.

He fucks it into you for a few more strokes, then pulls you off him and tosses you on the bed. You land on your front, bouncing off the mattress once, and then his big, strong body is already over you again. One hand grabs your hip and then he’s pushing into you again, fucking you again.

“More,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s telling or begging. “Fuckin’ more, need more of it in you, need you so fuckin’ full.” You cry out again, but there’s nothing you can do as your hands grab the blankets under you, Ben pounding into you, making you feel so good you think you’ll be sick. His balls slap against you, loud and obscene, while his sperm is seeping out around his dick, each thrust making a loud squelching sound, and you burst into another orgasm in the same second he does. 

He pushes deep, and you arch your back so far you’re sure you’ll hear it crack, but it doesn’t.

He screams this time. A sound to wake the world.

Your eyes are closed, tears of pleasure running down your face as your husband grinds into you, nearly sobbing himself. Your lips shake when you try to speak, that’s how much he’s taking care of you. Your lashes stick together from your tears, and your eyelids are heavy, but then you open your eyes–

You open your eyes, and you look right into the barrel of a gun.

The gunshot is painfully loud in the small room, but it’s enough to rip Soldier Boy out of it. He gasps, flailing, disoriented.

“Oi, calm down, son,” Butcher calls out, worried the supe will decapitate him or Hughie by accident. He actually settles, and that’s its own wonder in itself, but what Butcher doesn’t know is that it’s from his knees buckling. His ass lands on the chair he was just on, and he needs to squeeze his eyes shut for a second as nausea and dizziness overwhelm him.

He’s never felt like this. Not quite like this. It’s horrifying. 

When he rips his eyes open again, they land on you.

You’re lying on the ground, on your side. Limbs pointing away from you and it doesn’t take someone with the kill count of Soldier Boy to see that you’re dead. Another giveaway is the bullet hole right between your eyes, red blooming like a flower.

“Y–you okay?” Butcher’s boy toy, Hughie, says and Soldier Boy only groans. No, he’s not okay, he feels like he’s about to heave up his stomach, but he’s not gonna tell the little shit that. 

“What the fuck?” he says, not clarifying. Butcher steps forward, the smoking gun still in his hand. Looks down at your limp body.

“Some kind of mind control bitch,” he says, eyes going over you, the hospital gown you’re in. “When you flipped that goddamn switch she musta’ locked on to you. You grabbed her, smashed your way into the lower levels. We been lookin’ for you since.” 

Soldier Boy frowns. He doesn’t remember any of that.

“Found you two and shot ‘er in the head,” Butcher continues, pointing out the obvious. “Before she could latch into Hughie or I. Must have severed your connection. Hence the dizzies.”

“I’m not fucking dizzy,” Soldier Boy says, needing to close his eyes again for a moment as he feels vomit crawl up his throat. “How the fuck did I not notice any of that happening?”

Silence. Then…

“Well,” Hughie says, in that pussified tone of his. “You were kinda… busy.” Soldier Boy looks at him, sees the little asshole nod at him. No, not at him. At his crotch.

He looks down. His dick’s out. Lying there, outside his pants, thick jizz still leaking onto his dark pants. He swallows. New nausea, but not because of the dizziness. Because of something else.

He grabs himself, pushes himself back into his clothes. Tries to think of something to say as understanding slowly dawns on him. 

“Guess she was awful lonely down ‘ere,” Butcher says, but he makes his voice a little less snarky than he usually does. And that’s worse. Fucking pity.

Soldier Boy stands, ignoring the way it makes the world tilt. Walks towards the only door in the room, which he distantly realizes is some kind of office, messy and abandoned. 

“Burn the fucking place down,” he says.

“But–” Hughie starts.

“Burn it down!” he repeats, not leaving room for questions.

He stops at the door and even though he doesn’t want to, he turns back, looks at you. There’s something glistening on the inside of your thighs where the hospital gown has ridden up. That’s probably him. You died while he was still inside of you, after all. 

Soldier Boy - Ben - feels something on his cheek then. Like gentle fingers caressing him.

“It’s alright,” you whisper to him, lips close to his ear. He’s still asleep after your night of love making, but now it’s early morning. Everything smells fresh and new.

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I’ll never leave you.”

He makes a sound in his throat. Then he turns and walks out.

She’s pitching ideas for the last missing member of the Seven, one they’ve been lacking since Translucent’s funeral. His eyes quickly flit to you sitting to his right side, taking up Deep’s mantle ever since his timely departure. At least you’ve proven yourself to be a worthy member with some quality skillset.

But these fucking options? What is this? When did good old classic superheroes turn into strange curiosities fit for a circus freak show. First an animal whisperer and now another invisible freak? 

Looking around the rest of the room, he grits his teeth. The rest of the team doesn’t even fucking care. Why does it always have to be him, maintaining the standard everyone should adhere to?

“Nope. Not happening.” He dismisses the presented slide with disdain.

“S-sir, we could really do with the boost in our 18-32 demographic. Invisi-lass has already hit 20 million followers on Instagram. Our forecast shows an uptick of 5%.” Each stutter of her voice is even more grating on his ears than the obnoxious click of her stilettos. 

“Right, a bunch of fucking pre-teen girls wishing they could disappear like her. Fantastic. They’re not gonna come out in support of us, Ashley.” He’s had enough of everyone else thinking they know what’s best for the team, what’s best for him. “Instead it will hurt the biggest demographic—my demographic—because everyone can clearly see that we only care about optics. A female majority in the Seven? Give me a fucking br—”

Moan. That was a fucking moan. Homelander whips his head around to look at the rest of the room to see anyone else reacting. Nobody is paying fucking attention. His mind is playing tricks on him.

He looks at you again. Even you’re making him look bad, sitting at your spot at the Seven’s table all uninterested just like the rest of them.

“Sir?” Ashley’s voice rings the clearest.

“I said no. We don’t need Translucent 2.0. Find something better—” He chokes on the last letter, eyes widening a fraction when he hears the distinctive sound of fingers running up and down a wet pussy.

It’s the loudest thing in his head. Jesus Christ, if that doesn’t make his cock throb.

“Find someone better.” He repeats with a scathing enough look that Ashley—nor anyone else—dares question his restlessness.

The squelch of a soaked cunt is still loud in his ears, the brazen repetition of the lewd noise tinges the tips of his ears pink. He swallows, shaking his head clear of the sound instead trying to focus on the rest of the presentation.

The intermittent nature of the sound is enough to disturb his attention. He throws you a cautionary glare. Not that it does much besides egg you on. The teasing tilt to your lips makes him want to get up and teach you a lesson. 

The sound of soft groans in his head makes Homelander squeeze the armrest, just about stopping himself from ripping it clean off.

Ashley clicks a button on her remote and the screen changes. Moan. Homelander’s barely paying attention to the new recruit candidate. They are as unremarkable as the others.

“Homelander.” You sneaky devil. You’ll pay for that one for sure. Timing that sinful pleasure-infused sound of his name at the same time as Ashley asks for his opinion.

He barely grits out an irritated no. His tongue flits out to wet his lips as his mind fills with the images of a sopping wet set of lips eagerly waiting for his rapt attention.

It takes him everything to stop the wanton moan from escaping his lips when he turns to look at you but instead the image of you naked from the waist down, sitting on top of the table right in front of him steals his mind away from reality.

He has to shake his head clear before he gets lost in the vivid image you’ve planted in his head. Oh now you’ll definitely get what’s coming to you.

It’s impossible to escape the literally mind-fucking you’ve trapped him in now. Thank fuck for the hard cup in his suit. Without it he’d be flashing a hefty erection to the rest of the team. 

If he wasn’t horny out of his mind he’d be impressed with how far you’ve come with your skillset since you’ve become a part of the team. What started as implanted ideas and fleeting moments you’ve turned into vivid and believable scenes, an outright reshaping of his view of reality. The way you could easily manipulate what someone saw—or believed they saw—was pretty fucking hot if he had to say so himself.

His voice quivers when he denies yet another proposal but nobody dares pull him up on it.

The image of your legs spread right in front of him is inescapable. He sees bare thighs sticking to the table top. Along with a mouth-watering pool of slick right where you sit as your fingers go to town, pushing into your cunt with a need he can’t believe he can’t exploit. 

He’s stopped staring at the screens Ashley presented on as she moved onto stats and ratings. While it just comes across as uninterested to anyone else, he wants to look at that exact spot you’ve planted yourself onto in his mind. It makes it more vivid. His mouth is fucking dry. How can you present the oasis and not let him have a sip. 

He’s shifting in his seat, each movement aiding in feeling a sliver of friction against his cock. He feels how obscenely he’s leaking. Embarrassing, what you do to him. What he lets you do to him. 

The images and visions you send into his mind are nearing crescendo. Each of Ashley’s words is punctuated by a lewd sound. Moan. Filthy noise of your plunging fingers. Groan. His fucking name.

No. 

No. 

He can’t have you enjoy yourself with your shitty little smirk while he’s fighting for his fucking life.

“Enough.” It comes out weak, but to the unknowing it just sounds exasperated. When nobody moves or says anything he repeats himself. 

“That’s enough Ashley.” He’s too frustrated to put on the cheerful aura. Too worked up to perform. “Just-just come back when you’ve got something useful. Don’t waste my time with more of these good-for-nothings.”

Ashley’s polite, business curated smile drops and she tightens her lips into a fine line, turning the screens off with an affirmative, “yes, sir.”

He stands up from his seat after he pushes his chair back. He shakes the image from his head.

“Everyone. Out!” He repeats, motioning with both hands towards the exit with a sweeping gesture.

The rest of the team clearly doesn’t care. They barely paid any attention to begin with. All dealing with their insignificant issues in their insignificant little lives. Even after he brought them all to glory they’re still not grateful.

He feels his own heartbeat rise with frustration, the sick feeling taking over.

His vision turns red when the doors take their sweet time opening fully. He’s ready to laser them off the hinges. Upon opening Ashley gets out first, thank fuck, rushing to keep out of the way as fast as possible.

“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Homelander stands behind you, both gloved hands land on your shoulders hard, squeezing with a moderate strength. For all your mind-fucking powers you’re still fairly fragile.

The room empties out, doors shutting behind them.

“Well,” he lets you turn around just in time to see that bratty smirk, “you did say ‘everyone out’. I’m just following orders, sir.” Youuu make him want to strangle and kiss you at the same time. 

“Really? This is what you’re going with? Brave. Your sassy attitude isn’t gonna soften the blow sweetheart.” He cups your face pulling you closer to his face. Your hands automatically rest on his biceps, whether for support or as a feeble attempt to push him away he doesn’t really care.

“If you think it’s fun to fuck around—well—then I’m sure you won’t mind if I fuck you riiiight here.” He pushes you back against the table with each step forward, effortlessly hoisting you up with a little throw, making you land on the hard surface. 

“See, honey,” he pinches your chin with his thumb and forefinger and he tilts your head a little to the left. “That camera in the upper corner? Yep that one.” He points at it with his finger just to be sure.

“Now that camera is gonna record eeevery little moan and whimper along with your embarrassing little faces.” He chuckles with his lips closed, already terribly amused at your wide-eyed expression. You make it too easy.

“I was going to keep it to myself, wipe the recording, that sorta thing.” He pulls off his gloves, noticing your eyes follow each movement of his hands as if to brace yourself for what’s to happen.

As you should.

“But then I thought that I might be better off just accidentally sending it to everyone at Vought. So everyone can see what a nasty little slut you are.” His one hand cups your crotch through your uniform. He barely needs his super hearing to catch the squish of wet flesh when his finger presses in the middle.

“Be real, did you really think I would let this slide?”

“I was just doing you a favour!” You squirm under his hand, trying to worm your way further away from him. “You were clearly bored out of your mind.”

Homelander pulls you close, sucking on his teeth with a disapproving shake of his head.

His bare fingers pinch the smooth stretchy fabric of your costume right at your crotch. With his second hand joining the cause he rips the material apart like tissue paper, grabbing the new frayed edges and ripping a hole big enough for the tear to span the top of your pubic bone to the middle of your ass crack.

“Homelander! What the fuck!?” Oh finally, you’re realising the severity of your actions. He grins, ripping the next layer, your colour matching panties, down the middle—making them effectively crotchless.

God it’s so satisfying to see you try to force your legs closed. As well as wedging your hand down the middle. It’s all pointless anyway.

“Come on, don’t cover up. You were so happy to show off all your best assets earlier, gorgeous. Where’s that energy now?” He teases you. He’s being an asshole and he knows it. It’s all so worth it, especially when your eyes flicker to the camera. 

“Eyes down here darling.” He pushes your head back down, not giving you a second to spare before he’s capturing your lips with his. And for all your embarrassment in the moment you still give as good as you get. Really, he thinks this always ends up being some of your hottest sex.

The kiss is messy, pulling and tugging at each other's lips, tongues wet and hot against each other in between the greedy nips and bites at the other ones lips. There’s no time and space for gentle and loving in this moment. He has to stop himself from not shattering your jaw with his hand as he kisses you like a starving man. Each wet kiss and moan makes his cock throb, balls heavy and aching, bordering on painful.

Homelander can’t really wait much longer. He's not gonna get blue-balled by your stupid powers. His cock has been begging for some sweet relief quite some time now. 

Reluctantly he pulls away, hands going to his pants. He leaves his belt on, pulling the zipper down from underneath it, pushing all layers down in one fell swoop.

And wow, already he’s really raring to go. His cock bounces up when it’s released from its fabric prison, grazing your hot flesh on the way up. His mind gets shot with a fuzzy feeling he’s not used to. 

He rests both arms on the table, leaning in close to you with a groan. “Stop that.” He rests his forehead against yours with a hiss. “None of your tricks.” 

“It’s not a trick. It’s not made up. It’s-it’s what I feel. I’m sharing it with you.” 

Eyes widening as he pulls back a bit, staring you up and down with a confused look. So what, you can now broadcast your pleasure? Straight to his pleasure receptors? What in the—

“You can do that?” It’s unbelievable really. 

Nevertheless, Homelander hooks his arms under your thighs pulling you closer to the edge and forcing you down on your back, no matter how much you try to stay up propped by your arms.

“It’s new to me too…” You say a little out of breath as your back hits the table top.

Immediately he grips the base of his cock, flicking the head up and down your slit. The pay off is immediate. His mind buzzes with pleasure he’s never felt before. Is that what it feels like when he teases your clit? 

He can’t wait to eat you out with this new party trick.

Greedy for more of that sparkling pleasure he rubs his cock against your clit with more urgency than you’ve ever seen him do before. Look, he’s always been a good lover to you, making sure you finish each time. But this? This feeling? This more than reassures that you’ll get your fill and more.

The possibilities this opens up are endless. Already curious to find out what else the rest of your body feels like he reaches out to unzip the top part of your uniform, pulling down the fabric of your bra so he can suck on your nipple as he bends over your body.

God, look at him. He feels like a teenage boy touching a woman’s body for the first time. 

His eyes widen immediately as his tongue circles your nipple—both, for good measure. You’re so sensitive. His nipples are nowhere near this level of tingling when you give them some love.

That’s it. He can’t wait. He needs to know what it feel like to have his cock stretch you out. Fill you over and over again.

He nearly comes at the thought of getting to feel that sensation first-hand. His hand trembles when he pulls back to stand somewhat straight as he positions his cock to kiss your entrance. The wet squelch of the two meeting makes you flush. He can feel how hot you’re getting.

“Fuuuck me—you’re even wetter than you were in your little fantasy. Lucky me.” His eyes flutter shut as he pushes into the intense wet heat inch by glorious inch.

And this already feels orgasmic. The hot squeeze of your soft walls is unlike anything in the world. Or… so he thought until a second ago. Somehow it feels even better from your side. This new trick of yours will definitely become his favourite.

It’s really no surprise you jump on his dick anytime the situation allows these days because holy shit is this how it really feels? 

You broadcast all that you’re feeling into his brain, tapping straight into the pleasure centre and lighting it up like a Christmas tree on Times Square. The thick glide and fill is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. It actually makes him a little dizzy. Having the dual sensation of your wet pussy clinging to him all while enjoying your side of getting filled is guaranteed to make him bust in no time. 

“F-ffuck you're perfect… Jesus a-hah…that's so fucking tight and wet.” He’s really losing his mind now. For a second it feels like he’s the one getting embarrassed on camera with how thoroughly this is reducing him to a bunch of moans and mumbles. But at least he’ll have a fun memory to look back on.  

So he makes the best of it.

This is where all his bravado and cocky words just stop. There’s nothing else on his mind now except the feeling of two hot bodies getting off together.

His hips thrust into you with jagged snaps, unwilling to stay out of your warmth any longer than necessary. His one arm is wrapped around your thigh, pulling you even closer to him as he continuously pumps his hips into you.

The room is a mix of grunts and moans, squeaky sounds of the table legs being pushed forward with each thrust. The huge V-shaped table stands no chance against the hurried and desperate drive of Homelander’s hips.

He takes his free hand to your clit. Immediately hit by what feels like a bolt of lightning inside his brain.

He whines needily, forcing his hand to focus on rubbing your clit in a solid rhythm.

It doesn’t help that you sing for him prettily, little sweet moans as he’s setting your sensitive clit on fire.

He can't resist anymore. The feeling of your clit getting stimulated with his fingers, all while getting your insides massaged with each pass of his cock is enough to make his mind melt. If you weren't his favourite before you definitely are now.

What catches him off guard is your climbing climax. That feeling is familiar yet foreign and interesting enough to add to his own pleasure. And with that there's nothing he can do to hold back. His balls ache too much.

With a whimpered cry he feels the pull of his orgasm taking over. His hips stutter into a pathetic tempo as his cock pulses with his orgasm, unloading one spurt of come into you after another.

“God–fuck s’rry…sorry. I couldn’t—ah, couldn't hold back.” He’s gasping for air, the most he’s ever been winded after sex.

But there's no way he's going to let you go until he feels your orgasm through your powers. He needs it.

“Don't stop, please.” You whimper, the pleading sending a pulse of heat down his gut.

He tries to match the same pace from earlier as much as he's capable. He's still hard inside you. The shivers up his spine from your climbing orgasm are keeping him on the razor's edge of too much stimulation. 

The steady rubbing of your clit makes him grit his teeth, the pleasure of it makes him want to drool and roll his eyes back.

“N’t g’nna” He mumbles through his teeth, watching with wide eyes as you suck on your own fingers, using the wetness to rub and pinch your nipples of your bouncing tits.

He watches as your moans get higher, pushed out in between gasps for air as you arch against the tabletop, your body pulsating and straining against his.

And then he feels it. For a little while he thought you wouldn't be able to have enough control of your powers to transmit the feeling to him, exhausted after a vigorous fucking to give him what he's here for. 

But you do. A burst of hot pleasure melts in between each crevice of his mind, suffocating him with how obscenely strong it feels. The way it reaches into each fingertip and limb makes him nearly fall over on top of you and go limp.

He sucks in the saliva when he feels it gathering on his tongue, his eyes blown black and his body feeling like it's dealing with the aftershocks of electrocution. It's only then he realises he can feel his cock throb and pulse, the tell-tale sign of having just come. Again.

He sucks in a big gulp of air and he pulls out. His cock has reached its oversensitivity limit and now every pulse of your pussy sends a shiver of pain-laced pleasure up his spine.

“What the fuck was that?” He asks, exhausted and falling back into his chair, for once with a heaving chest and gasps for air. It takes a lot to get him winded. Somehow you managed that. Your only response is a weak laugh.

He'd be embarrassed with how ruined you made him feel if his entire nervous system wasn't buzzing with the signals that amount to three orgasms in the span of five minutes.

He pushes his softening cock back into his underwear. Not wanting it to smear the leftover dribbles of come into the fabric of his suit.

Looking at you like this makes him especially glad to have made you the centrepiece in the camera angle. You've propped yourself up on your elbows, catching your own breath. But Homelander can't quite look away from the mess he's made of you.

Your pussy is swollen with the effort, blood rushing underneath the surface. Nice and stretched for his size now, perfect for round two—well, three really—as the small gaping entrance leaks his come in dribbles, collecting on the table. Just like your slick was in the fantasy visual you fed him earlier.

You should be happy he's a generous enough man to make your dreams come true.

Clearing his throat he goes “you're gonna have to clean that up.” His signature sharp grin makes itself known, beyond pleased with the effect he's got on you. Even though you’re the one who started this, abused him with your telepathic powers in ways nobody else would ever dare. You can bet on him being the one to finish it. 

“Huh? With what!” You bite back when you gain some functions back. Sitting up on the table properly. You rush to zip your uniform back up again, not wanting to have anyone else see you as exposed as you are. 

“Your tongue for all I care. Can't have you leaving a mess like that.” He stands up, stretching himself tall, puffing his chest out as if his own cock didn't leave a mess in his underpants.

“How the fuck am I meant to walk anywhere like this? Could you not have just pulled my pants down? Fucking asshole.” You mutter as you hop off the table, ripping the rest of your tattered underwear off so you can wipe as much of the milky white stain and shove the sopping wet fabric into your pocket.

Oh, kitty has claws. Cute.

You stand up straight in front of him, or as straight as you can seeing as you're clutching your pussy so you can’t leak any of his essence down your legs. Or the ground.

Good girl, keeping it all in there like you should. 

“Oh please, you loved it.” The sheepish little ‘maybe’ that escapes your lips is all he needs to kiss you silly. His signature wet and loud kiss that makes your mind hazy each and every time.

He pulls back after one last, surprisingly soft, kiss.

Homelander knows the toll your mind powers have on you, you're tired, overworked and overly sensitive. It’s your only weakness as far as he’s concerned—apart from him of course. And contrary to your belief he does have a particularly soft spot for you. 

He unclasps his cape, wrapping it up around your middle as a cover-up. He picks you up into his arms, bridal style, carrying you effortlessly as he makes his way around the 99th floor, towards his penthouse.

“Hope you've got a clear schedule because I want you to show me what else you've learned to do without telling me.” 

And while originally he threatened you with leaking the footage, he doesn't particularly want you to fill the daydreaming heads of every Joe in the company. He's sure you would. Though the footage will certainly come in handy for a good old Friday movie night in.

For now though? Your job will be to warm the other side of his bed while you get your rest. After that? You're really gonna have to reconsider your stance on a public relationship because there's no way he's not gonna make you his.

Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):

@infinetlyforgotten | @rafecamsgirlll | @nervoussystemss | @hom3landr

@mrsdesade | @nommingonfood | @littlegaaby | @jokesonyoupup

It had pushed so close to the surface, when Violet had almost said it for you. That you only silently communicated with people you loved. But you’d rationalized. You’d been doing that with Ben for months now. Love had nothing to do with it. You just understood each other. That was all it was. Not love. Just the implicit knowledge that Ben had you. Got you.

Then he’d held you again. He’d moved you and danced with you, still touching you so gently. He had been everything around you, the song, and the rhythm, and his chest rising and falling as your head had pressed into it. And it was all so painfully obvious that it was love. You loved Ben.

You loved his stupid face. His stupid, handsome, stoic face that starred in your dreams. It was a little mean, actually, that he was so attractive. That his jaw was sharp and his lips were full and his eyes were pretty and green and boundless. It would be unfathomably easy to just get lost into his eyes forever. So easy it was downright cruel. Nobody should be allowed to have eyes like that. To look like that. But Ben did. When he slept his face would grow slack and peaceful as his lips parted and his hair fell across his face, and you’d always need to brush it away so it didn’t have a chance to wake him. When he was focused his brows would knit and his eyes would grow intent, and you’d always need to be the thing he was watching and picking apart. When he scowled at stupid things his nose scrunched slightly and all the lines on his face deepened, and you’d always need to run a hand over them until he smiled again. Because Ben’s smile was the most amazing thing you’d ever seen. It was so rare, because he’d wink and smirk and grin all the time—and it would always make you want him more—but his smile was rare. The wide, toothy, carefree smile that made his whole stupid face happy and brighter than any star. And when he laughed with his smile, he might as well have just shot you. It would make your heart stop, ruin and implode your world, and spill your heart out of your chest faster.

Nobody’s laugh had ever sounded as powerful and consuming as Ben’s. He made a lot of sounds that drove you insane—grunts and moans and snorts and low growls that always moved through you—but his laugh, his real, full laugh, was like a song. Full and deep and loud, filled with genuine amusement and digging into your brain. It moved mountains, it parted oceans, it made you warm and happy and love him so much more. Impossibly more. Because it meant he was happy, and he was the most handsome, idiotic, amazing person in history when he was happy. And it made your whole world solid and clear to feel his joy, made you feel just a little more real yourself when it was you making him happy. When he laughed at your joke or completed a task you’d set for him or you did something for him. Just for him. To make him happy. You’d do anything to make him happy. If he was happy he might stay with you, so you’d do anything. There were frighteningly few lines you wouldn’t cross for him. You’d be more worried about it if you didn’t trust him so completely. If you weren’t full of so much faith that Ben wouldn’t throw you across those lines, or even bring you anywhere near them. You wouldn’t love him if you thought he would. He might not love you, but he understood you, and understood what things you’d never do. And you’d make that enough. You make him staying with you and caring for you and keeping you safe worth his time. You’d keep holding his head and healing his PTSD, even when he bitched and moaned about not needing it. Because he was noticeably less paranoid, more often at ease. He didn’t have as many nightmares anymore, you didn’t feel the drums pound inside him when someone said Russia or sleep. It was the very least you could do for him, when he chased away your nightmares just by existing in your orbit. By surrounding you with his body and smell and making you fly out of your mind with desire, chasing away every shadow in the night and stifling every hateful part of you.

He was everywhere around you. Everywhere you looked was just Ben. Everywhere you looked would always be Ben. That was one of the more detrimental parts of living with him, was that every corner of your home was Ben. The fridge was full of strawberry cream cheese and the freezer had three pints of malt vanilla because he’d tear through one in a day. There were apples instead of oranges on the counter because oranges were a goddamn disgusting ass of a fruit. The carpet in your bedroom was there because Ben asked for it, and the bathroom had a razor because Ben needed to shave. His shield rested at your bedroom door, and there was a page bookmarked in your cookbook for pancakes. His clothes were mixed in with yours, so even when you wore one of your shirts they smelled like him, and when you showered you had to stare at his half-used shampoo that was evidence. Evidence Ben existed here, with you.

He was woven all through the world as well. You saw Ben everywhere in the world. You’d look at the map of the United States hanging in the dining hall and frown at Florida. You’d eat lunch with Annie, and she’d serve you strawberries and your whole body would start to search for him. You’d glance out a window and see the sky and a voice in the back of your head would go Blue. Pussy fucking color. You’d never be able to go outside again. Because you’d look at the grass and the trees and the bushes and only think Ben. Ben’s eyes are green like that. You’d never be able to do a lot of things again, especially if you lost him. Nobody would be allowed to address you, because it would just make you think that Ben had said your name better. The sun would have to stop shining because sunshine wouldn’t be allowed to exist anymore, and everyone would have to stop swearing because nobody would do it as well as he did. And nobody would touch you again. They wouldn’t do it like Ben did it. They wouldn’t wreck you just with hands on skin or names hummed into mouths. If someone held you, it wouldn’t be like you were holy. They wouldn’t be everything.

It wasn’t healthy. You weren’t stupid, you knew it wasn’t healthy. But you didn’t care. Healthy was a privilege. Healthy was for people who budgeted out their months and worked semi-stable jobs and had been born half-sane. Healthy was for people you could get their heart broken and have enough of themselves left to heal it. Healthy was for people who had a heart that was capable of remolding to fit in place with a new, different one after the heartbreak was over. Your heart was for Ben. It didn’t fit anywhere else. It could either be in your chest, or in his hands. It wouldn’t survive anywhere else. You’d survive without Ben. If you lost him, the world would keep spinning and your heart would keep beating and you’d heal after a very, very long and lonely time. But that would be it. It would just be you. No one else. If Ben left you’d let him and mourn it for the rest of your life, alone. If he went back to sleep, you’d burn everything to wake him up, and not just because you’d promised. Because you wanted him awake and happy and holding you. You wanted him. You needed him. You loved him.

And now you have to live with that. You’d have to learn how to love Ben like this. In this way that sat in your brain and made everything clear as your whole body was wrapped in some kind of cocoon, some sort of shield that kept you warm and alive because you loved Ben. You have to learn how to love him in this infinite way and never let it show.

You’ll keep going like you have been. Because you’ve loved him for a long time, if you think for just a second about it. You don’t know when it began, and you’re a little afraid to search for the exact moment where it became something of no return. The turning point, the moment that made your thoughts and feelings about Ben change from understanding and friendship into love. Horrible and loud and glorious love. Because it feels a lot less recent than it probably should be. It doesn’t feel like something that happened last week, or two weeks ago, or even a month. If you concentrate and comb through the past maybe you’d find when this became love, but it doesn’t really matter. Because it feels old. It feels like it’s something ancient that was dormant and now will never stop raging inside you. Just because you’re aware of it now doesn’t mean it wasn’t strong and fixed like this before. 

So you’ll love him like you have been. Because you have been. Nothing needs to change because you have been loving him in secret for a while, it’s only just no longer a secret from you as well.

The only difference is now that chorus of Ben that runs through your brain all the time is followed by I love you. You wake up the morning after Violet’s visit, with Ben’s body heavy and secure over yours—his head pressed into your neck and his snores reverberating through your bones—and your mind goes Ben. Ben, I love you. You lay there for a while, waiting for him to wake up because you could. You had all the time in the world to lay in bed with the man you loved, letting his hands drift in sleep to the hem of your shirt and his legs tangle thoughtlessly in yours. To let your brain go Ben, I love you over and over until he made that small grunt that always preceded his waking.

Ben’s eyes open slowly, looking at you from underneath his eyelashes, and even those are pretty. You’d never stood a chance.

“Mornin,” he grumbles, and you smile at him.

“Good morning, Benjamin.” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper. Already, acting normal is not going well.

“Benjamin?” He drawls, smirking up at you. “The fuck did I do to earn a Benjamin this early in the day?”

You wrinkle your nose at him, pushing your knee up into his gut. “It’s your name. Am I not allowed to call you your name?”

“Not when I’ve barely opened my damn eyes.” Trying to knee him was fully ineffective, because he's completely unaffected and now your calf is brushing against his half-hard cock. And he’s still looking at you. “You only call me that when I’ve pissed you off. Tell me what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” Ben, I love you. “You’re doing something, right now. But I was just saying your name.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Then say it again.”

“What?”

Ben grins, shifting up on his arms and hanging over you. His face only a slight movement from yours. “Say my name again. My full name.”

“Why-“

“Because I want to hear it when you’re not mad at me for some shit reason.” His breath is moving from his mouth into yours. “Say it.”

You swallow, his lust sitting somewhere with your own in your chest and throat, but still manage to say, “Ask nicely.”

“Brat.”

“I’ll never say your name again-“

He kisses you, sloppy with his tongue falling into your mouth and his hand coming up to cup your face. He’s groaning your name, and his voice is so deep and he smells like pine and his body is warm and he tastes like mint-

You push up on his chest, gaping at him slightly. “Did you fucking brush your teeth?”

He scowls. “Shut up.”

“No, you brushed your teeth!” You grin at him, feeling the closest thing you’ve ever felt to embarrassment course through him. It’s sore and hot, crawling along his skin as he avoids your gaze. “I can taste it, Benjamin, so don’t even think about lying to me.”

“I wasn’t goddamn going to lie to you.”

“Because you’re not a pussy.”

“Because I’m not a fucking pussy.”

“But you brushed your teeth?”

Ben’s still glaring at you, but there’s nothing cold or sharp behind his eyes, or in his body. You can feel more of a sour annoyance, like he’s mad he got caught. “Brat.”

“Cunt.” You whack his chest lightly. “Are you just not going to admit it? Or am I going to have to get up and check your toothbru-“

You choke on your words as Ben drops back to your neck, sucking a line up your jaw.

“Ben-“

“I fucking brushed my teeth,” he growls into your ear, and somehow it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. “Are you happy now?”

You want to say yes, or very, or Ben, I love you, but all you can manage is a strained, desperate sound that’s half-sigh and half-moan.

“Good. Now say my name and I’ll-“

You’re moving so fast to grab Ben’s face and pull him back against yours that whatever he was about to promise you is lost in a groan down your throat. You don’t care, because it can’t be better than this. It can't be better than Ben over you, his hand kneading the skin at your hip and his teeth making your lips swell. It can’t be better than the heat of him around you, the power of his hunger in you.

It’s so easy to moan, “Benjamin-“

He’s gone, hauling himself off of you in a second, so fast you can’t grab his arm and yank him back down.

“You asshole-“

“If you had let me finish my fucking sentence,” Ben grins down what’s meant to be your murderous glare but—based purely on his amused expression and teasing tone—is more likely a pout. “You’d have heard the part where I’m making you breakfast now.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you grumble. “Get your ass back down here.”

Ben hums. “No.”

“Benjamin-“

“There she is,” he leans down, pulling you up just enough that he can kiss the top of your head. “That’s how you always fucking say it.”

Before he can draw back up again, you grab his wrist with one hand, pushing your jaw up into the air to try and move his mouth to yours. He lets you, kissing you far too sweetly for the thirst to be overflowing like this, for the ache between your legs to be growing painful.

When Ben moves away once more, he presses another kiss to your forehead and all your thoughts become clear. It’s only Ben. Ben, I love you.

“Pancakes?” He mumbles against your skin, and you nod.

“Of course I want pancakes, but you-“ His mouth is gone again, hands still holding your face as he draws to his full height. “Ben-“

“I’m going to pick you up.” He says firmly, watching you carefully. It’s not a question, but he doesn’t move. Towering over you, waiting for you to prompt him. You nod, and the rough feeling in his chest pulses slightly as his arms drop under your knees, pulling you up into him.

“I hate you.” Your tone, quiet and gentle, isn’t convincing. Your movement isn’t convincing, arms wrapping around Ben’s neck and body leaning into his hold.

He chuckles, “No, you don’t.” 

And you don’t. You love him. But you still glare at him, and revere in the complete concrete safety of Ben touching you. The strength of his body, the power of his resolve coursing through your bloodstream. The way you barely jostle against him when he walks down the stairs, how carefully he sets you down. How—once the coffee is brewed—he pours your mug first and places it in front of you. Shooting you a sharp glare when you start and stand up to help him.

“Get your fucking ass back in the chair, Sunshine,” he snaps. “I can cook my goddamn self.”

“I know,” you walk over to his side, holding his glower with an overly sweet smile. “But I want to cook with you.”

He’s still frowning, looking you up and down. “Why.”

“It’s fun,” you shrug. Ben, I love you. “You get mad at some really stupid shit. I’ve never seen someone snap a bowl in half before, I didn’t know you could snap a bowl in half.”

“It was broken already,” he grumbles. “Wasn’t fucking mixing the batter.”

“That’s not how bowls work, and you know it.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Shut up and get the milk or sit the hell back down.”

You smile at him, wide and light, and start to turn to the fridge. You don’t even take a step before Ben’s hand catches the top of your arm and spins you around, his lips crashing into yours in a long, needy, marked kiss. Walking you back into the kitchen counter, going and going until you’re breathless and moaning his name.

He smirks against your lips, sucking slowly on your top lip before moving away. Staring at you with the lust shining in his eyes. The lust and another, louder, fiery thing that’s roaring somewhere near his lungs. He says your name, voice hoarse, and you think it might kill you. “You’re a real fucking pain in my ass.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I can really tell how hard all this is on you.”

He groans, because your words were carefully chosen. “Fucking hell-”

“Is there a problem, Pretty Boy?” You smile at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful.” He kisses just the tip of your nose, and your whole body sings. “Get the milk.”

“Cunt,” you mutter under your breath as he walks away, and his laugh echoes through you. Ben, I love you.

This will work. You’ll love him like this. Keeping your lines set in stone rather than sand, because as much as you need him to walk back over to you—to pick you up again and just fuck you—you can’t. Knowing you love him made it easier to not chase after him, easier to stop yourself from giving him everything as you were now certain he couldn’t return it. But it made you want everything so much more. So you had to keep your head on your shoulders, and let him call you beautiful and kiss him until he was hard and you were wet, and never let it go further. You can love him like this. And it will be fine.

You master it, over the next three days. You get in stupid fights about nothing—Ben uses an abominable amount of toothpaste per brushing for someone who probably hasn’t done any sort of dental care in almost a century—and they either end with you winning, Ben’s tongue down your throat, or some combination of the two. And your brain always goes Ben, I love you, and you turn it into a whack of his arm or a wordless moan into his mouth or against his skin. You snark at him, and he chuckles and teases you, and instead of climbing on top of him and grabbing his face in your hands and screaming Ben, I love you, you make him laugh. You savor the sound as it fills the apartment, and squeeze your thighs together because everything this insufferable ass of a man does turns you on. It was a problem before, and now it might be starting to actively hinder your life. You’re training with him—Ben has insisted you learn how to coordinate fire in with your combat so you don’t rely wholly on your power, saying any supe worth their goddamn salt can do more than just party tricks, Sunshine—and your task is to knock him down.

It’s not going well. 

“You did this better when you hated me,” Ben taunts, side-stepping you again.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs. “Maybe I will, once you’ve earned it.” 

You scowl, lunging at him again. This time, when Ben doges, he moves right into the column of flame you’d risen in his path.

“Fucking Christ-“ He jumps away, shooting you a glare and snapping your name.

You don’t let him keep going, rushing another wall of flame at him. You’d learned to control the temperature—hot enough for Ben to feel, not hot enough for it to burn—and he takes a stumbling step back.

“That’s more fucking like it,” he’s grinning now, fists up. “Keep it coming, at this rate you’ll get me down by April.”

You flip him off, wrapping your hand in fire and throwing a punch right at his stupid, handsome face. “I’m going to wipe the floor with you Pretty Boy.”

He fakes left, the fire shooting up to block him in the wrong spot when he ducks right, under your arm. You recover fast, but Ben’s already grabbing you by the hook of your elbow, pinning you against his chest.

“Those are some big words,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear as his arm snakes around your waist. “For someone who can’t even land one damn punch.” 

You angle your head back and kiss him. Rough, sudden, and harsh. It catches him off guard, and his grip loosens just enough for you to turn and jump up. He catches you as your legs wrap around him—you knew he would—and growls into your mouth as your hands pull at his hair. You keep going, Ben matching every bite of his lips with a bite of yours. Every groan you pull from him makes him harder and harder against you, makes his hold on you like steel and his hunger start to burn in your body. You lean your chest forward slightly—still holding his mouth against yours—and he moans. Ben moans, and your whole plan almost goes entirely out the window. The only thing that keeps you on track is the fact that if you don’t move now he’ll moan again and not a thing in the universe could stop you from fucking him. 

You shove down on Ben’s shoulders, your whole body going up in flames. It does the trick, and Ben loses his balance just enough for you to push harder. Make him drop down to the floor as you straddle his chest, grinning triumphantly at his adorable, befuddled frown.

“I win.”

The disbelief and shock dies in Ben fast, and suddenly the hunger is bigger. Everything in him is bigger. Hunger and affection and a strange feeling that makes you light-headed and giddy. 

“Dirty fucking trick, beautiful.” He says, smiling widely up at you as his hands find your hips. “Don’t think that’ll work on the average opponent.” 

“Worked on you,” you say smugly, and the feelings somehow grow in him. In you. It makes you blink, your whole body consumed by it, and you don’t see or feel Ben grab your wrists until it’s too late and he’s flipping you over. 

He’s above you, he’s everything, and nothing in you wants to try and get him away. You’d won already, and even if you hadn’t you can’t think of a way out of this. Not when his face is so happy, not when you can feel all of him. His body and his desire and his care. 

“Fucking brat,” he mutters, mouth lowering just over yours. “Too smart for your own damn good.” 

“You love it,” you mumble. I love you. 

Ben snorts, and your whole world is just that sound. Content and moving through and around you. Just Ben, kissing you until your back is arching off the floor. Picking you up and dropping you both on the couch, going and going until you’re both out of breath. Then just touching you. Thumbs tracing circles on your skin, head resting against yours, all just Ben. 

You look up at him, and he’s watching you. He’s always watching you. You don’t ever want him to look away. You move your hands up into his hair, palms pressed against his head, and his brows raise. 

“I feel goddamn fine,” he drawls your name. “You don’t have to keep fucking doing this.” 

“You had a nightmare last night,” you glare at him. “I decide when I stop doing this.” 

Ben scowls, but doesn’t move your hands away. Sulking as your grip tightens and you set to work. You’re grateful for it, because his nightmare had scared you. It had been the first in a while, and while he hadn’t fallen into the drums and exploded, the pain he’d felt was still sitting in your bones. The strained sounds of suffering and fear that he’d made were rattling around in your head. It was wrong. He wasn’t supposed to make those sounds. Ben wasn’t made to make those sounds. So you’d keep doing this until he never had to make them again. It wasn’t hurting you at all anyway, you felt fine. Were shadows a little darker in corners and sounds a little louder at night? Maybe, but you were fine. And this wasn’t about you. It was about Ben.

It was about how soft his hair was in your hands, and how handsome his face looked when it was relaxed. It was about making him keep looking at you. All the time.

“We have dinner in an hour,” you say after a while, mostly to try and drown out the song in your head of Ben. Ben, I love you.

“I know,” he grunts. “It’s the same time every fucking night.” 

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Someone’s grumpy.” 

“Shut up.” 

“What, not looking forward to Butcher’s nightly interrogations about if we’re fucking yet?” 

Ben smirks at you. “You’d think he’d realize that the moment we start fucking we’d stop coming to dinner.” 

“We’d still go to dinner-“

“You wouldn’t leave the bed for a week,” his voice is low, taunting, and your nails start digging into his scalp. “Longer if you wanted.” 

Ben, I love you. “Someone’s real cocky.” 

“And one day,” he winks. “You’ll find out why.” 

You snort, even as your whole body starts to feel like putty. “Okay, Pretty Boy.”

“Are you fucking doubting me?”

“No,” you scoff. “Before we met, about 85% of the things I heard about you were that you were an asshole manwhore. I don’t think I ever doubted that you could fuck.”

“An asshole manwhore?” Ben scowls. “Who called me an asshole manwhore?”

“I think that asshole manwhore was Butcher.” 

Ben grunts, “fucking pussy.”

“If it helps,” Ben, I love you. “You are an asshole manwhore. But you’re also the most aggressively caring person I’ve met.”

“Aggressively caring?”

“You give a shit about me. More than anyone ever really has. In a very violent, mean, asshole manwhore way.” Ben, I love you. “But it, it means a lot.”

“You mean a lot,” Ben grumbles. “And of course I give a shit about you. It’s not like you don’t give a shit about me.”

“Yeah but that’s not my point-”

“Sunshine, just take the fucking compliment.” 

You stick your tongue out at him. “Asshole.”

Ben winks, still watching you. So full of lust you might pass out from it. “You need to shower.”

“You need to shower.” You mutter, and he grins.

“We could do it together-“

“Fuck off,” you mutter, face heating and eyes moving to stare at his forehead. Looking at him right now—with his face alight and the hunger and want painting his every feature—would be counterproductive. “Once I’m done with this you’re showering, without me, and then we’re going to dinner.”

“You’re going first.” 

“Ben-“ 

“I take longer showers than you,” his tone is firm, and you can feel his eyes on you. “So your options are going first and having warm water, or going second and freezing your beautiful fucking face off.” 

“But-“ 

“You could always just shower with me,” he continues, and your eyes drop back to his against your will. They’re bright, and so green, and boring right through you in a way that makes you think he can see your thoughts. See the way your whole mind is just going Ben. I love you. “Eliminate the damn problem altogether.” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, and Ben chuckles, pulling your hands down from his head. 

“Then you should get a fucking move on,” he says your name, eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t want to be late to our stupid dinner, do we?” 

“Cunt.” 

He kisses your knuckles, and your whole brain is Ben. “Brat.” 

You shoot him one last glare as you stand, and try not to let your whole body feel cold without him as you climb up the stairs. You turn the shower handle so steam fills the room and the water is scalding. It doesn’t hurt, heat never hurts anymore, but the sensation still exists. You know it’s hot, you know it burns and would’ve hurt before, but now it just feels good. It would’ve, once, been used to wipe your head clear of him, used to chase the thoughts of Ben away into the water and down the drain at your feet. But now it just amplifies them. You don’t know how long you can keep this up, when everything Ben does is like a river that sweeps you up into him, that’s started to smooth rules you’d carved into stone about not going everywhere with him. It’s only been three days. Three long days of knowing you love him. How you managed this before you knew is a mystery, how you didn’t know for so long is even more baffling. Maybe it’s because you didn’t understand that love could feel like this. You’d been in love before, sure. And it had swept you away and made you smile, but it had never been a part of you. It had never been something that felt bigger than you, something that was only building and building by the second. You’d only fallen in love after sex, after months of casual dating and messing around until it grew deeper. You think you might have loved Ben before he even kissed you. You think you might love Ben until the universe is wiped away in fire. 

You think the fire might be yours. You think what might destroy the universe is this love for Ben, pouring out of you until it’s everywhere and still only a fraction of what he is.

And it’s only been three days. 

You’d had forty-five minutes when you’d entered the shower. Wallowing in the fog and warmth of the water might’ve taken up five. Ben took half-hour showers, but you could cut it down to twenty-five if you really got on his ass about it. 

Ten minutes was more than enough to get yourself off.

The good thing about the rain showers was that they were relaxing. The bad thing was that there was no removable shower head to work with, but you could improvise. You lean back against the wall, planting your feet firmly on the floor as you arch your hips, angling them so that the water falls right between your thighs. You move your fingers down slowly, and part the lips of your pussy so that your clit is exposed to the air and the stream of the shower lands steadily against it. The effect is immediate, your whole body seizing for a fraction of a second at the sensitivity before you adjust, completely relaxing against the wall. All your thoughts are wrapped in the steam, wrapped in the sensation of the heavy beat of falling water on your clit, and you don’t even try to stop the moan that escapes your mouth.

Ben. If you were a little weaker—or stronger—it could be him doing this. He could be holding you up against his muscled chest instead of you leaning against tile, it could be his rough hand squeezing your breasts instead of your own, and he could be devouring your high, needy sounds into his body. Holding your chin up so he can lean over you and kiss you until you feel like you’re going to pass out. Wrapping his arm over your hips to keep them from bucking as his hand dives between your legs. Rubbing large, strong fingers over your clit in a fast, mind-numbing pace and rhythm. Head lowering so he’s sucking on your neck as he moves down, down, down and plunges inside you, palm still bumping your nerves as he moves in and out at a brutal pace. Going and going until you’re screaming his name, muttering filth and praise against your skin, bringing your over the edge-

Your legs almost give out when you cum, and as your wits return you realize your own fingers have stilled inside you, and your throat is aching. You were screaming his name.

Any hopes that he might not have heard are dashed when you exit the bathroom and Ben’s sitting on the bed, smirking at you.

“Have fun?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, walking around the bed to where your phone is plugged in. 

“There better still be hot water-“ 

“If there’s not,” you glare at him. “Then maybe you won’t take a year to shower. For once.” 

He winks. “You’re real mouthy for having just been screaming my name, Sunshine.”

“Fuck you.” 

“I could’ve. If you’d let me in the damn shower.” 

“Well I didn’t,” you stick your tongue out at him. “So haul ass.” 

He leans across the bed, grabbing your forearm and yanking you down with a yelp. You land right in his lap, and the lust in him is so strong that, combined with how your whole body is still alight from your orgasm, you don’t even think to squirm away as he kisses you until you’re grinding against his thigh. 

“This fucking needy already?” He hums, nipping at the corner of your mouth. “I’ll have to make it two damn weeks.” 

I love you. “Benjamin, you dick-“ 

He chuckles, gently rolling you off his body. “The moment you say the word, my dick is all yours.” Ben smirks at your slack expression, kissing your cheek before growling in your ear. “But you’re going to have to beg for it.” 

When he stands and walks into the bathroom, leaving you panting slightly on the bed, you realize this is going to kill you. It’s only been three days, and this love for Ben is going to kill you. 

How some people do this for years will never cease to amaze you. 

Nobody’s caught on yet. Tonight, just like the past three nights, dinner will be weird, but normal weird. The biggest thing that changed was two nights ago, when Ben called Annie Annie instead of Starlight for the first time. The reaction had been similar to the switch from Cocksucker to Hughie, with everyone starting slightly in their seats before rushing to continue the conversation and gloss over the change. You’d asked him, later that night when you’d returned to your room, what had done it. 

“Done what?” He’d grumbled. 

“Don’t play stupid, Ben-“ 

“I don’t know what you’re fucking taking about.” 

“Yes, you do.” You’d narrowed your eyes at him. “What made Annie earn name privileges?” 

He’d glared at you, but grunted, “She’s not being a damn bitch anymore. Finally got off her fucking high horse.” 

You’d nodded and dropped it, but didn’t miss the way he didn’t glare at Annie when she talked to you anymore. Now, as you walked into the dining hall with his arm hanging over your shoulders, he even gave her a curt nod when she smiled at you, and no rush of angered protectiveness surged through him. 

Annie had asked you, the day after Violet left, how the meeting had gone. You’d been standing downstairs at the doorway, and Ben had been upstairs, but there was no way he hadn’t heard. Annie’s voice had been slightly hushed, and the door had been closed, but Ben had the ears of a moth. You’d told him that once and he’d shaken his heard, grumbling about you being a too fucking hot for a walking encyclopedia. But he did. He heard everything. There was no way he hadn’t heard Annie. 

And he’d called her Annie that same night. 

When you drop across from Annie and Hughie, Frenchie and Kimiko are nowhere to be seen—despite a jacket you recognize to be Frenchie’s tossed on one of the seats—and MM and Butcher are shuffling over from the kitchen doors. 

“Where’s-“ 

“Kimiko’s making Frenchie listen to some songs she just found on Spotify.” Annie smiles at you with a shrug, and you smile back. “It’s a lot of J-Pop and showtunes.”

“If it’s Kimiko showing them to Frenchie, he’ll love them.” You lean slightly across the table, Ben sitting silently at your side with hand resting on your lower back. “What’s on the menu?” 

“I dunno, we just got here.” Hughie cranes his neck to look at Butcher and MM. “Hey guys-“

“Pizza.” MM sits next to Hughie, angling his plate for display. “They got Hawaiian, pepperoni, cheese, and broccoli.” 

You nod, starting to rise from your seat, but Ben pulls your wrist slightly. “I’ll get it.” 

“Okay, can you get-“ 

“I know what you fucking want.” He mutters, and you blink at him.

“Really?”

“We have pizza every damn Friday,” Ben shrugs, standing. “You always chose the same thing.”

He stalks past Butcher, still standing with a scowl at the head of the table, and pushes roughly through the doors. 

“He’s, uh, he’s right.” Hughie’s staring after Ben, a small frown on his face. “They do give us pizza every Friday.” 

“Like we’re fuckin babies,” Butcher’s holding his plate with white knuckles, glowering the two remaining seats. Next to Annie, and next to you.

“Babies don’t eat fuckin pizza, Butcher.” MM mutters. “It’s bad for their guts, and they can’t chew it.”

“It’s more like we’re teenagers,” you nod. “My high school cafeteria definitely had pizza Fridays.”

Annie hums. “Actually, mine did too.”

“That makes three,” Hughie takes a large bite of his pizza, a little cheese hanging out his mouth, and you all look expectantly at MM. 

He sighs. “Mine did as well.”

“Well ain’t that just bloody fantastic for all you.” 

“Butcher,” Annie sighs. “Just eat your pizza or go sit alone.” 

This happens every night. Butcher stands at the table, making jeering comments until someone—usually Annie or MM—tells him to sit and eat, with them or by himself. He always sits down, usually next to Hughie or MM, sometimes next to Frenchie, once next to a very stiff bodied Ben and once next to a wide-eyed Kimiko. Never next to Annie. Never next to you.

You think tonight will be the first night he sits alone, right up until he’s marching around the table and sitting down at your side so aggressively it shakes the bench. The shocked silence only lasts a second before Hughie jumps frantically into a conversation about some movie he and Annie watched last night at MM’s suggestion, you and Butcher both refusing to look at each other.

The kitchen doors swing back open, Ben reappearing with two plates in hand. His eyes narrow when he sees Butcher at your side, a scowl overtaking his face. The fuck is he doing?

Sitting, apparently. Your shrug is so small that anyone except Ben wouldn’t have caught it. Don’t say anything about it. I think he’s like a reverse Tinkerbell. 

Ben raises his eyebrows. The fuck does that mean. 

If you give him attention, he dies.

Snorting, Ben sits back at your side, and you grin at him as he slides your plate in front of you before dropping his hand to your thigh. Letting it rest there as you glance at his serving—five slices of pepperoni—and then yours. He’d gotten it right, and you blink up at him. 

He frowns. What? 

Ben, I love you, is what you want to tell him. You even know what that face would look like. A full smile, all teeth and joy, with your eyes shining with all your love for him as you just look at him.

But you only give him a smaller smile, still happy, but not everything. Thank you. 

Don’t. He squeezes your thigh, rolling his eyes. Never fucking thank me. 

You wish Ben would let you thank him, but a small part of you knows it’s a mercy he doesn’t know he’s giving you. You’d never stop thanking him if he didn’t get all grumpy when you did. You’d thank him for every stupid, handsome smile and every brush of his skin against yours and every teasing jab that meets and spars with yours. You’d thank him for holding you under the table for the whole dinner, Butcher eating at your side without a word. You’d thank him for leaning back slightly when Kimiko sits at Annie’s side so you can talking to her in sign about the music she’d been showing Frenchie. You’d thank him for staying silent and grounding when Butcher launches into a briefing, despite everyone’s glares. 

“Grace says Edgar’s almost ready,” he’s looking around, meeting everyone’s eyes to ensure they’re listening. “We got a plan for when he makes good.”

“A plan?” Annie frowns. “Can you be more specific-“

“No.”

You’d thank Ben for rolling his eyes at you. Fucking pussy probably doesn’t even have a fucking plan. 

I’m sure we can improvise. You shrug, and he scowls. 

You always have to improvise. If they want you to keep fucking improvising for them, they better start paying us both what we damn deserve.

You raise your brows at him. We? When have you ever improvised for them? 

This whole plan was my goddamn idea. 

That’s a plan. It’s the exact opposite of improvisation. 

Brat, Ben grins at you. We’re a package fucking deal. They want your services, they pay us both. 

You wrinkle your nose at him. I did not agree to that.

I go where you go, beautiful. Ben winks. 

You’d thank him for the flush of your face, and the smile you have to physically fight off your face. 

You’d thank him for clearing both your plates when Butcher’s doing the same so you don’t have to be alone with Butcher beside you, and you’d thank him for bringing you back a fistful of chocolate when he returns from the kitchen with his own full pint of ice cream. You’d thank him for holding your hand all the way back to your apartment, and up the stairs, and into bed. You’d thank him for kissing you until you’re scraping at his back, and for doing that annoying thing where he tells you you’re tired and you suddenly are.

You’d thank him for staying—at your side—every day, every time you so much as saw him. You’d thank him for humming terribly as you drift off to sleep, you’d thank him for the way his heart pounds softly against his chest until the world is dark and peaceful.

The world had taken a turn. You’d been somewhere that was full of sunlight and life, Ben holding you against him, and suddenly it was dark. So dark you couldn’t see your own hands. Your body is lit in flames and it’s somehow still so very dark. And cold. There’s wind and it’s freezing your skin and guts, even as you burn. You call for Ben, your voice turning from nervous shouts of his name into screams. Loud, panicked screams for Ben to find you, to shout back and tell you he’s there, that he’s okay, that he’s searching for you as well. 

There’s only silence, your name swallowed in a vacuum of the cold darkness. And it’s silent and cold for so long. So very long where you’re burning and can’t find Ben. He’s in danger, you know, you can feel it. Something’s keeping him from you, because that’s the only reason he wouldn’t be roaring for you to return to him. And he’s in pain. You’re certain he’s in pain. Ben is in pain, somewhere in the dark, because you can feel something ripping you open and flaying you alive and drowning you. Something is drowning you. Something is drowning Ben. And it’s all you can feel, for a long, long time, until a voice sounds through the world, screeching in your ears.

Run. 

You’re gone. You’re sprinting through nothing and it’s like falling. There’s no end, and it’s so fast, and where’s Ben. You have to go faster, you have to find him. You have to crash into whatever that’s doing this, causing this pain, and destroy it. You have to find it, you have to find him, and you can hear something. Breaking through the fire around you and your own screams for Ben, there’s something running at you. Behind you. Faster than you, gaining pace, a cruel cackling sound that’s becoming louder and louder.

There’s a light. Far away there’s a warm light that’s growing and growing with drums. Loud, heavy, bloody drums. It’s Ben, chest alight as the drums become all you can hear. He’s facing you, and the danger behind you is closer, closer, closer as Ben grows brighter, brighter, brighter. 

The danger tears past you. It’s not going for you anymore. It’s headed for Ben. Faster, and the drums aren’t loud enough, and there’s a fraction of a second where you could’ve held it back. Where it ripped through the space between you and Ben and you could’ve struck it down. You could’ve redrawn its attention to you. 

But Ben is doing what you should’ve done. His eyes lock with yours, right as the danger hits him. And suddenly there’s nothing, not pain or danger or drums or any sign that Ben was ever there. Just cold nothing.

The world floods with light.

Fluorescent, blinding, painful light. Everything smells like hand sanitizer and the air is too clean. Artificial. 

When you can see again, everything in you dies. 

You’re back. You’d swore you’d never to go back. To this white room with the too bright lights and everything deep cleaned so there’s no proof. No proof you exist. You’re just another decoration in this horrible, horrible place.

It’s changed though. There’s no longer a steel door with a small slat that meals were once pushed through. There’s nothing. Not even glass. You could just walk out, right into the lab.

The white room and the lab had been different though. You’d never existed in both at the same time. And this lab isn’t the same as yours. At the surface level, it’s an identical copy with bleached floors and a lot of tools that make your blood run cold. But the vials are all full of nothing. Just air. There’s a large one, connected to an IV that doesn’t run into a body, but a tube. 

A large, metal tube. More like a box. With a single clear panel that’s just too high for you to look into. You don’t need to though. When the box shakes slightly, something in you pulses and thrashes against your chest and you know. When the box is still, and the thing dies out a fraction of a heartbeat, you know. 

Ben is there. Asleep in the box. And you’re burning everything to try to get him out, but the box isn’t even shaking again. It’s still and silent as you scream, and it echoes through the ashes and smoke around you. You’re burning the world and everything between it, but Ben is still asleep. Gone.

You hadn’t been smart enough. You hadn’t been fast enough. You hadn’t done whatever it took, and now Ben was gone. You’d failed him. 

You’d failed Ben. 

You’re still burning when you wake up. You’re still screaming when you wake up. Your voice is hoarse, your throat feels raw, but you can’t stop screaming. The world is on your back, pushing down on your shoulders and snapping your spine in two. You’d failed him, you’d lost him, and now Ben was gone-

“I’m right fucking here,” the most familiar voice in the world moves through your body, saying your name, but all you can think is Ben. He’s gone. 

You’d lost him. 

“You didn’t lose me,” it’s the same voice. Low and forceful. “I’m here,” it’s saying your name. You need to listen, because it’s making your name sound important. Like it’s the only thing in the world worth saying. “I’m right fucking here.” 

That’s Ben’s voice. As you’re coming down you know it’s Ben voice, because he says fucking like that. You think his voice was built to say fucking, with the spitting sound on the f and the deep growl of the uh. The speed at which he tears through the king.

Ben’s here. You didn’t lose him. He’s here. Suddenly you can feel him all around you, and it’s not just the feeling of his resolve like a shield around you that’s pulling you back down. It’s him. It’s just Ben. It’s the heat of his body, the way he’s holding you with real, strong hands. It’s the sound of his voice, and the rumble of his heart where you think your head is pressed into his ribs. It’s the smell of him. Pine and vanilla and Ben. All Ben. Real, with you, not gone.

Your screams turn into sobs, and your breathing grows faster until you’re lightheaded. Until gentle, calloused hands are on your face, pulling you back from where you’ve buried yourself.

Ben’s face is drawn, focused, and the frown on his face isn’t at you. It’s for you. You can feel the way in which his anger is blowing, and it’s up and around and everywhere until he can find something to turn bloody and beat to a pulp. But for now he’s holding you. Searching your eyes for his answer.

“Fucking breathe,” he says your name again. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You sob again, hands flying up to keep his on your face. In case this is another lie. In case your mind is truly that hateful and would do this to you again.

“I’m not going fucking anywhere.” He hisses. “You need to know that, Sunshine. I’m never going anywhere without you.”

Your breathing slows, and the blood pounding in your ears with it. Soon it’s just Ben. You and Ben.

He must read it on your face somewhere—that you’re here, in your mind, without the fear and panic—because he kisses your brow, still holding your face as he speaks. “What happened.” 

You shake your head. “Just a nightmare.” 

“You haven’t had a nightmare like that since damn Neuman.” 

He’s right. You’d had bad dreams, one or two, but not nightmares. No fire had torn through this room before, Ben hadn’t had to bring you back from some sort of ledge on this mattress.

“I don’t know where it came from,” you whisper. “I’m sor-” 

“No apologies.” He pulls your face up just a little further. “You’re okay.” 

Not a question. “I’m okay.” 

Ben grunts, thumb drawing circles on your cheekbones. “Swear it.” 

“Promise.” You pause, looking up at him. Ben. Ben, I love you. I can’t lose you. I can’t fail you. I can’t fail anyone, but if I fail you it’ll destroy me and the world. “Ben?”

He hums your name, and you run your hands from over his to hang off his forearms.

“You trust me?”

“Of course I fucking trust you.” 

“Can you promise me something?” 

Ben grunts. “What.” 

“I don’t know what Butcher and Mallory are planning,” your voice is still choked, and it hurts to speak. But you keep going. You have to keep going. “But if it falls through, I need you to promise that you’ll let me do what I need to do.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Ben’s hold on your face tightens, and you swallow. 

“If whatever Butcher and Mallory have-“ 

“That’s not what I’m asking.” He’s irritated. You can hear it in his voice, you can feel it on his fingertips. There’s something else, the bitter thing has wrapped around his throat, combined with something bellowing inside his chest. “What the fucking hell do you mean what you need to do.”

“To finish this,” it’s painful to look at him. It’s painful to see his jaw clenched and mouth frowning when he’d been gone from you, even if it hadn't been real. It’s painful to see the intensity of his gaze when you’re asking this of him. “To do what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done?” Ben hisses. “If you don’t speak more fucking clearly, I’m not promising you shit. If you’re talking about your god awful plan-“ 

“I’m not,” you squeeze his arm, and he relaxes slightly. The bitter thing becomes easier to breathe through. “Just, what I need to do.”

“That's not nearly goddamn clear enough.” Ben says your name, and his voice is becoming strained. There’s gruff pain to it, like someone is trying to claw out of his airway. “What will you possibly fucking need to do.” 

You can’t answer. Because you don’t know. You don’t know what the plan is, how it could go sideways, what will need to be done. You’re not even certain you know if you’re talking about the mission or not. But you need to be able to do it. Whatever it is that needs to be done, you have to do it. You have to be able to keep Ben here, you have to save Ryan Butcher, you have to kill Homelander, this has to be over. You’re so tired. Whatever needs to be done to just rest, for the world to rest, you need to be able to do. And you can’t let Ben stop you, or hold you back. You can’t let him take all the danger for you, it’s not fair. You love him.

But you can’t say that. So you say, “I don’t know.” No lies. “But I need you to promise me you’ll let me do it.” 

“No, I’m not promising that when I don’t fucking know what-“ 

“That doesn’t matter,” you’re begging now, head shaking frantically between Ben’s hands. You don’t care. He needs to give you this, he needs to understand and promise. “It doesn’t matter what it could mean, Ben. I just, please, I need you to promise, please promise-“ 

He pulls you forward. Back into his chest until the drum of his heart makes breathing easier again. When he speaks, his voice is everywhere. Around your body and making a home in your brain. “It fucking matters. It always fucking matters. I’m not promising something fucking stupid like that.” 

Your hands fist against his shirt, word muffled. “Please. I need, Ben, please.” You’re not crying anymore, you’re trying to climb into him. To keep the safety and everything of Ben around you, even as you push. “I need to help, I need to help, I can’t be useless, I need to help and it needs to matter-“

“Shut up.” Ben has one hand in your hair, one wrapped around your back and resting on your hips. It’s the way he’s holding you so diligently—as if this is his whole purpose, to touch you—and the way his voice and body are wholly devoid of anger, and how it all makes your brain clear to Ben, Ben I love you, that makes you fall silent and let him continue. “You matter. You’re helping more than any other fucking pussy in this damn building. And you are the least useless person I have ever fucking met. So I’m not promising that.”

You pull your head back through sheer force of will, because you need to look at him. Even if it’s painful. “Please.” You could use a favor, you have a few left, but it needs to be Ben that promises. He needs to understand, you need him to mean it. “Please, Ben. I need you-“ a sob wracks your body, and you almost leave the sentence there. You need Ben. You love him. “Promise. Please promise, I need you to promise. Just this,” you tug at his shirt, and your body is smoking. When you pull back his skin is redder, but he hasn’t flinched. Only holding you, only watching you. “Just this one thing. I’ll never ask you for anything again. Please.”

He stiffens. For the most horrid, long moment of your life, you think you’ve shown too much. You think you’ve said the thing you’d promised not to say, found the line you’d been trying to toe so carefully. That keeps him beside you and never wondering why you’re clawing so desperately to do so. You don’t know which part of your pleas were the thing, which part turned your cards around for him to see and which card is going to be the one that makes you lose him-

“Fine.” His words are through gritted teeth, and you can see the tick of his jaw, but he’s nodding once, roughly, and you know you haven’t misheard him. “I promise.” 

His voice is so hollow. You’ve never heard Ben’s voice hollow before, and it’s wrong. “Swear it?” You whisper, because you need him to look less like a statue. You need him to move with a chuckle or a frown or an eye roll. 

You get a small twitch of his mouth. That’s enough. “Fucking swear it.” 

“Thank you,” you breathe. And Ben doesn’t stop or correct you about it. He lets you burrow back into his chest, pulling you up a little farther so he can shift back against the headboard. Your head lies somewhere between his ribs and stomach, arms around his torso, and he just stays there. Real and solid, and you’re no longer sure whose heart is pounding. You just know it’s steady, and that Ben is here. 

He holds you until the sun rises, and well after. You don’t want to move, you can’t move, so Ben just holds you. Holds you until you tug at his arm and ask quietly for coffee. Then he kisses the top of your head and hauls you up from between his legs to against his chest. 

“I’m going to carry you,” he grunts, and you just curl further into him.

When he sets you down on the couch he kisses the top of your head before walking to the kitchen, and you sink into the cushions. You don’t know how long he’s away—away meaning five feet away, shuffling loudly around the kitchen—but only when he returns to the couch, sinking into the spot by your feet, do you realize how cold you’d grown. 

“Thank you,” you mumble as he passes you a mug of coffee. 

“Don’t.” 

You smile softly, staring at the dark liquid in the cup. “Are we doing fire later or-“ 

“You are not fucking training today,” Ben snaps, and you look up to find him glaring at you. “Or doing your stupid brain magic.”

“Brain magic?” Your smile feels a little more real, and you’re not going to fight with him about training or healing. You’ve battled with him over more pointless things, but you’re just so tired. So you’ll just tease him, pushing and pulling with him about nothing.

Ben gives you a flat look. “What would you call it, smartass?” 

“Healing.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

You give a small giggle, and Ben’s whole face is still stoic, still drawn, but there’s less tension along it. “Grumpy old man.” 

“I said shut the fuck up.” 

“Make me.”

The speed at which Ben sets his own mug on the coffee table and climbs over you is truly remarkable. “You know very well,” his voice is gruff, the weight of his hunger crashing through you. “That I am not a fucking old man.”

“Well,” you hum, grinning widely up at him. “Just in terms of chronology, you are an incredibly old man-“ 

It’s amazing how good he is at this. How Ben is so easily capable of dragging you up from the worst pits and holes of your own head and throwing you into this thirst. How fast he can make your mind go from spinning and finding every nook and cranny or your life, your self, that is evil and hopeless, to just singing Ben. Ben, I love you. It’s why you don’t fight back when he falls onto you, his arm around your waist pulling you up into him and his mouth destroying your whole body in the most amazing way. He’s only against your own lips for a second, and the moment you open for him, moaning his name, he’s gone. Biting and sucking along your jaw, and your neck, up to your ear to tug it between his teeth, then down to your collarbone. Going until the sounds rising from your throat aren’t Ben or please or fuck, but only incoherent whines. Then he’s back on your mouth, and you give everything back to him. Your hands in his hair, your legs wrapped around him as you grind up, and your tongue running along his lips. Trying to get him as impossibly close as you can without crossing the line.

You say it. You know somewhere in the haze, your brain still slightly hazy from the pain of the night and your will weakened by all of him, you say it. Ben, I love you. It comes out a high, breathy whimper, but you know that’s what it was supposed to be. You know he doesn’t pick up on it, because nothing in him changes. He doesn’t waver or push further, he just goes the same as he had been. Letting you try and devour him as he does the same. So you moan it again—this one from somewhere deeper in your chest—because you’re allowed to say it like this. You’re allowed to say Ben, I love you, when it’s just another plea for him that he can’t understand the power of. Just like how you’re allowed to try and make him part of you when there’s not a chance he will be.

He hisses your name into your mouth when you yank his hair hard enough for his head to move up. His beard scratches along your cheeks and lips, but it’s Ben, so it’s everything. And he lets you drop down to his neck, lower, biting into his shoulder slightly. You don’t break skin, you’re not that strong, but he groans against your ear as your teeth scrape his skin and that’s enough. It’s more than enough—it’s the whole world—when Ben starts to knead at your skin under his hands, and he’s still making sounds that echo through your blood and bones. It’s everything, when he pushes you further down, down, moving his mouth back to yours and burying you between him and the sofa. Safe. Strong. Real. 

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

He’s hard. You can feel him bumping against your lower thigh, and it makes your moans louder. It makes your legs tighten around him, trying to move him up into you without you telling them to. You find another thing you’d thank Ben for, when he stops this for you. It makes you feel a little empty, but he doesn’t leave. He just drops his lower body down, pinning you to the couch so that you can’t keep bucking up into him. Resting his forehead against yours until your breath is steady, and your brain can manage to control your body.

“Better?” Ben mutters, and you blink up at him. It is better. Everything is better now. 

“Better.” You whisper, and he nods. “If we’re not training today, what-“ 

“I need to clean my shield. We’ve got dinner with the Pussy Brigade. I have to shit. You said we’d watch something called The Mummy a few nights ago. And you have your stupid fucking lunch with Annie and Hughie.” 

You grin at him. “In that order?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he kisses your nose, and you think this might destroy you more than anything else could. How easy this is. To love him, to let his voice move through you and settle your nerves. To let him just touch you all the time in the most simple and boring and mind-numbingly good ways. “Go get dressed, Sunshine.” 

You push up on your forearms, grabbing Ben around his neck and pulling him down to you one last time before he can stand. One longer, gentler kiss, where neither of you are trying to take it further, take it right up to the edge. Just kissing him because you love him, because you can. Because he’s real. 

Ben carries your mugs up into the kitchen, and you climb up the stairs, allowing yourself to turn back and look at him once. The most attractive, stupid man you’ve ever seen in your life. Glaring at the mugs as he dumps the now-cold coffee in the sinks. Turning on the sink to wash them with so much force you’re surprised the knob doesn’t snap off. But still doing it. His handsome scowl and rough movements not stopping him from doing it. You love him. You love Ben so much. It’s everything. There’s been blood on his hands and darkness in his head and life that should be unforgivable, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s become the most dependable, insufferable, important person in your life. Not when you love him like this. Not when you know he’s trying. In his own angry, violent, and sullen way, Ben is trying so hard. You’re not sure why he’s trying, or if he even knows he’s trying, but he is. He’s washing the mugs without you asking, because that’s what he does. Everything for you, without you needing to ever ask. And you’ll never stop loving him for it. 

Annie’s early for lunch today. She collects you around eleven, mentioning that she and Hughie have something planned for the afternoon as Ben opens the door, snapping at her that she's too fucking early. You tell Ben to let it go—you’ll be gone the same amount of time regardless—and he does his angry, half-pouting frown about it but kisses you lightly and sulks upstairs. 

“Something?” You tilt your head at Annie as you walk down the hall. 

“What? 

“You and Hughie have something planned?” You almost nudge her shoulder like you would with Ben but stop yourself. “Did you just not want to tell Ben, or is it-“ 

“My mom.” Annie says softly, staring down the hall. “She agreed to visit last week. Mallory’s bringing her today.” 

“Oh, shit.” You want to hug her. She looks like she needs some sort of comfort. So you give her your most reassuring expression, holding your hands behind your back. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” Annie sighs. “I mean, I asked her to come. But I haven’t talked to her since-“ 

“Firecracker.” Something clenches around your heart. Something that is all bones and burnt flesh. 

Something grabs your wrist, and you freeze. Anxiety and tension and exhaustion run through your body—it’s different from your own—and you realize it’s Annie’s. She’s touching you on purpose.

When you look at her, she’s watching you carefully. You blink at her, eyes wide, afraid to move. Afraid to ruin this and make her let go.

“I never thanked you for that,” Annie’s voice wasn’t joyful, but it was lighter. Even as the anxiety tightened around your skull. 

“For what?” 

“Killing that bitch.” She gives you a small, close-lipped smile. “I don’t ever really condone murder, but if anyone deserved it, she did.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” you say before you can stop yourself. You’re not a sadist, this might be a test, maybe Annie’s not really grateful but trying to see if you’re remorseful. “It was an accident.” 

“I know. I’m still thanking you.” 

“Oh.” You swallow, trying not to give the emotions you can feel through Annie’s hand any attention. “You’re welcome.” 

Annie nods, and just before she lets go something like relief spins through her. 

Hughie made pancakes and eggs. Well, Hughie tried to make pancakes and eggs. He burnt the eggs, twice apparently, so now it’s pancakes and a fruit salad. It’s still good—you add honey to the fruit, as well as strawberries and syrup to the pancakes because you’re a masochist and miss Ben—and sit at their dining room table. Annie brings out hot chocolate, and it’s comfortable. Especially after Annie tells Hughie you know about her mom visiting, because any nervous tension dissipates into the air and it’s fully, genuinely comfortable.

All three of you silently agree not to talk about family, because none of you have amazing relationships with your mothers, Hughie’s wound from his father’s death is still open and fresh, and fear still occasionally grips your heart that Homelander will find Violet and use her against you. So, you talk about frivolous things instead. Annie and Hughie want your opinion on a hideous throw pillow Hughie bought. You burn it, and Annie laughs as Hughie sighs, grinning as well. You debate with Hughie about Billy Joel songs, because his love for the man makes him blind to the fact that We Didn’t Start the Fire is just a truly terrible song. You win by pulling out a video of Billy Joel himself echoing your point, and Hughie throws his hands up in mock exasperation. Annie asks you if you need any help buying decorations for your apartment, or continuing to decorate, full stop, given your roommate—she hesitates before labeling Ben, and you don’t blame her in the slightest—not exactly being the most aesthetically oriented man in the world.

“Ben’s actually been shockingly helpful,” you shrug. “He chose the rug in our room, and aggressively vetoed plates with his face on them.” 

Hughie gapes at you. “Plates with his face on them?” 

“Limited Edition Soldier Boy Dining Set, manufactured and sold by Vought International,” you grin, and miss Ben more. This is really becoming a problem, that you get this dopey just thinking about him. “I thought his jaw was going to break.” 

Annie and Hughie exchange a glance, and Annie says slowly, “What, what exactly is going on with you guys?” 

“What do you mean?” You know what she means. You’re just hoping you can get out of this conversation if she’s not willing to say it.

“You live together, you sleep in the same bed,” Annie watches you carefully, and it’s an active effort to hold her gaze. “You kiss-“ 

“Make out,” Hughie corrects. “I’ve never seen two people make out like you two do. And that’s how you make out in front of us.” 

“Well-“ 

“He’s right,” Annie cuts you off. “You make out. And do heart-eyes at each other all the time. But you’re,” she pauses, looking to Hughie for help. 

“Not fucking?” He offers nervously, and Annie nods, turning back to you. 

“You’re making out, but not fucking.” 

You glance between them. “Is that a question?”

“Kinda,” Hughie mumbles. “It’s just confusing to see, if you’re really not fucking.” 

“We’re not.” 

“Okay,” Annie sighs. “But you do get how that’s a lot more confusing, yeah?” 

You tap your fingers on the table, wondering if you do it loud enough Ben will hear and come save you from this conversation. “It’s complicated. We’re just, we’re not fucking.”

“And he’s,” Annie frowns. “He’s not-“ 

“No.” Your voice is a little harsher than it maybe needs to be. But it feels appropriate. Ben wouldn’t do that. “He’s not. I mean,” you bite the inside of your mouth, searching for the words. “I was surprised as well. I still don’t fully understand why he’s not trying to get me to do more. But, I don’t know. He’s not.” 

“I’m not,” Hughie says, so simply for how both you and Annie are looking at him. Like he’s grown a third head. “What?” 

“What are you talking about?” You frown. “You’re not what?” 

“Oh, uh,” Hughie blinks at you. “I’m not, I’m not surprised.”

“Surprised?” 

“It’s like,” Hughie looks at Annie, likely for aid, but her expression is just as befuddled as yours. “It just makes sense to me. I dunno.” 

“What makes sense to you?” You push, because you need to know what he means. What he’s trying to say, in case it’s what you think. 

“I mean, in all this fucked up shit,” Hughie stumbles over his words, rubbing the back of his neck. “You two seem to get each other. In a weird, kinda gross way. I think Soldier Boy would give you the moon if you asked for it.” 

Annie nods cautiously, and suddenly you’re the only one still lost in this conversation. “You’re right, I don’t think he would’ve agreed to that deal with Mallory if it was just like, physical.” 

“Deal with Mallory,” you say, looking between them in jerked, half-controlled movements. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“When we brought him to make the deal with Edgar,” Annie frowns. “And Mallory told him that-“ 

“You don’t know,” Hughie cuts Annie off, scanning over your frown and overly tight posture. “I don’t, I don’t think he told you.”

“Told me what.” Your voice is rising into panic. “What didn’t Ben tell me?”

“Um, I don’t know if it’s our place-“ 

“We agreed to stop pushing you into dangerous positions, like Tek Knight’s club.” Annie’s voice is blunt, but her face remains hesitant. “If he stayed in line.” 

Something cold is freezing your bones. Everything’s a little blurry. It’s a labor to speak. “Or?” 

“Um,” Hughie takes over for Annie, even as he looks at her reluctantly. “He’d go back to sleep? That part wasn’t our idea-“ 

You raise a hand, and Hughie falls silent as you stare ahead into nothing. Everything is becoming sharp, your blood is rushing hot and wild through you, and you’re regaining control over your thoughts. And all of them are circling around the same thing. 

“I need to go,” you stand, pushing the chair back. “Thank you for lunch, and uh, good luck with your mom.” 

Annie calls your name after you, but you’re gone. There will be time for guilt later, and you’ll apologize for your abrupt departure. Right now it’s about the thought in your head, pushing up your throat so violently that you’re yelling it the moment your door slides open, before your even fully through it. 

“Why would you do that?!” You almost scream into the apartment, before you can even see him. “Benjamin, why the fuck would you do that?!” 

He sits up from the couch, just a handsome, stupid head frowning at you. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

You stalk over to him. “What fuck possessed you to do that? To fucking agree to that?!” 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking abo-“ 

“Mallory!” You’re screaming now, and he’s standing up, glaring at you. You hold your line, you’ll continue to hold it until he explains. “Why the fuck would you agree to that?” 

Ben’s shouting your name, and if you weren’t so blinded by your anger you’d focus on the strain in his voice. “You need to stop speaking in fucking riddles! What the fucking hell has got you losing your damn mind?” 

“They’re going to put you back under!” You’re hugging into yourself, nails digging your skin. “If you step out of line Mallory and Butcher are going to put you back under!” 

“That was always fucking true-“

“No it wasn’t!” You think you might start to cry. You can’t pull rank. “That was never true! If you stepped out of line I would handle it! I would make the call! That was the whole fucking point! Why didn’t you fucking tell me-“ 

“What the fuck could you have done?!” Ben snaps, and you can see his fists clench as he marches around the couch to tower above you. “It wasn’t a fucking secret! And I wasn’t going to step out of their stupid goddamn line-“ 

“But why would you do that?” You scream, refusing to touch him, even to shove him. If you touch him you’ll crumble. “Why would you agree to let them threaten that just to keep me away from stupid fucking shit that doesn’t matter?” 

“It matters more than anything.” He growls. “Stop fucking saying that it doesn’t.” 

“No, it really doesn’t!” You feel so small. You’re caving in, shattering in a way that’s worse than when he didn’t care, when this was about trust and not about losing him. Ben being taken away from you. “I’m fine! You didn’t need to do that!”

“That’s real fucking easy for you to say, Sunshine!” Ben roars. “You don’t have to fucking watch you break. Again and again over the worst fucking plans in the world when those fucking pussies throw you to the goddamn wolves and in front of their shitty fucking trains! I have to! I’m the one that has to watch you be fucking afraid!” 

“But why would you do that,” you’re definitely crying now. But you keep screaming, even as your voice becomes raw. “I’m always fine-“ 

“Because it fucking kills me! You are fucking everything to me, and every time you break its the worst thing I’ve never fucking seen!” You don’t think your heart is beating anymore, not as his voice grows louder. “Because I can never just fucking fix it, and you always break. And I mean it more than you can possibly fucking imagine when I say that I will do whatever it fucking takes to keep you safe! I’d rather go back to Russia right fucking now than just stand aside like a fucking pussy and let you keep breaking!” 

Ben’s face contorts, and you think he’s only just realized what he’s said. What it means. But he doesn’t take it back, doesn’t walk away, and you won’t pull rank. 

“Do you think,” you hiss through tears, fear building and morphing into some sort of love-born fury. “That it wouldn’t fucking destroy me if you went back under? That I wouldn’t do fucking anything to get you back to me?”

“That’s not fucking the same.” 

You almost laugh. “It’s the exact same-“ 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I adore you, Benjamin!” you scream. “Every good, and bad, and ugly part of you, I fucking adore you.” His whole body stills, and you keep going. You say everything but the thing. “And I made a promise as well. I might not be going back to Homelander, but you aren’t going back under. You’re not burning without me right there, by your side. It is the exact fucking same, because you are fucking everything to me!” You take a deep breath, trying to bring yourself down as your words become pleading. “There are so many beautiful things in the world, but I’d destroy them all to keep you awake. To keep you here. So don’t say it’s not the exact fucking same.” 

You can feel him. You’re not touching him—you're still trying to cave into your own body—but as the last words hang in the air you can feel Ben. This is hunger, not thirst. This is something rioting around and clawing out of your chest, not the love that’s resting for him in your head. This is Ben, not you.

This is Ben and you. Together. He’s not leaving. You’re not leaving. You’re everything to him and he’s everything to you. 

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

You almost say it. You’re seconds from saying it. It’s going to fall out of you and the only way to stop it is Ben. And you lunge at him just a fraction of a second before it’s too late. 

He catches you. He always catches you. And when you slam your lips into his, he doesn’t hesitate. 

This is different. This kiss is different. You can’t distinguish Ben from you anymore. Touching him has completely razed whatever remainder of a line existed, and now it’s just us. It’s you and Ben inside your body, even if everything around you is Ben. Kissing you with his tongue and teeth, pulling your lip into his mouth, making deep sounds from his throat that make you grind against his muscled torso. Sounds spurred by your hands pushing him further into you by his jaw—his beard rough against your fingers—and pulling at his shirt until the only space between your bodies is two thin stretches of fabric. One of his arms was secured below your thighs, holding you up with a hand on your ass, squeezing and making you moan into his mouth. The other is holding you under your own arm with a hand on the back of your neck, fingers pulling light at your hair. Touching you with a reverence. Always with a reverence, a furious care that makes you feel safe. Always with an attentive fire and ardor running through your blood. Ben’s blood. Someone’s blood who you can taste on your teeth because you think you might have bitten his tongue slightly, but Ben didn’t pull back or flinch so now there’s a slightly metal flavor that mixes and fades with Ben. Salt and coffee and strawberries and Ben.

You need more.

Whatever he’ll give you. You’ll take it. You’ll take every single part of Ben he’s capable of offering and plant them in you, grow them and tend to them until he pulls them out so that the roots remain. You need him. You love him.

“Ben-“ 

“All the way?” His words roll through your body, down and into your core. 

You only whine into him, and suddenly he’s moving. Walking backwards, mouth never leaving yours. Holding you tight enough that you can’t continue to rub against him, looking for friction. You’re desperate for it, the sounds escaping you growing louder and louder as his steps offer you something, and then giving a needy, long moan when you manage to adjust just enough to bump against his cock. Still in his pants, hard and long. Then Ben spins, slamming you between his body and the wall, hoisting you up by his hold on your ass and thighs so your faces are level. At some point you’d begun to scrape at his back, and he chuckles as you start to grind against him once more.

Ben’s holding your face firmly, angling you for his mouth to devour yours, grinning against your lips. 

“What do you want, beautiful.” 

You run your nail back up between his shoulders, unable to break skin but trying to sink into him. “Please.“ 

“Please what,” even as he teases you, Ben’s never separating from you. You’re not sure how either of you are breathing, whether the lightheaded feeling is from Ben or just lack of oxygen. If it’s the way all your air is trading between your lungs and Ben’s, or the way he’s started to rut up into you. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you. But you have to use your words.” 

“Ben, just-” 

His head drops down to your neck, finding the one soft spot that makes you whimper and focusing all his efforts on it until your grip on his hair is tight, your sounds a string of pleas. Then he moves up, right to your ear. “Beg. Say my name and beg and I’ll give you the fucking world.”

“Ben,” You look down at him, and you don’t think anything could’ve prepared you for what you see. He’s staring at you, and every part of his face is alive. His lips are parted, and his eyes are almost black, and he’s relaxed. Full of lust and hunger but so completely at ease in every feature of his handsome face. “Please.” 

“Please what.” 

“Fuck me.” 

A low growl escapes him, and his cock twitches against your thigh, but he still doesn’t move. “Whole thing.” 

“Benjamin,” You grind back against him. “Fuck me now.” 

That snaps something in him. Ben’s mouth crashes back into yours, and he doesn’t even have to push before you’re opening for him. Nipping at his upper lip, letting him take whatever he asks for. Anything that keeps him doing this, dropping a hand down and back up through your shirt. Ben’s hand is dropping down and back up through your shirt. Squeezing your breast once, then—when you make a high sound—leaning away from your mouth and doing it again. Then once more, running his thumb over your nipple slowly, so focused you’d think he’s doing surgery. 

He looks back up at you, watching him, breathing heavily with a little bit of droll falling from your mouth. “You like that?”

You nod, head pushing back against the wall when he does it again. “Ben, you ass-“ 

“That’s not very fucking nice, Sunshine.” He leans forward, pushing you further into the wall and bringing his lips just over yours, moving back every time you try to bring him closer. “Manners.” 

“Fuck you,” the moan from your mouth is captured by his, sucking it down with another whine into him. “Ben-“ 

“You never begged,” he says your name against your mouth, moving against your breast once more. “Fucking beg.”

“Cunt-“ 

“I’ll get there.” He chuckles as you buck into his chest. “But you have to tell me that you want this.” 

Somewhere in the daze of Ben’s hands and his mouth and the power of him, your love for him somehow grows again. Becomes something purer and more sweet than it had been. 

Ben, I love you. “I want this,” you breathe. “I want you.” 

He grunts, and he twists your nipple between his thumb and forefinger once before starting to run his hand slowly and lightly down your stomach.

“Ben, please-“ 

Your words become a strangled whine when Ben bites your lower lip gently at the same time his hand drops into your shorts. Palm pressing against the ache through your underwear. 

“Ben-“ He starts to rub in circles, fingers dancing lightly against your slit through the fabric. “Fuck-“ 

“You have too much clothes,” he mutters, and you moan. 

“Too many-“ He pulls his mouth away, and you bury your head into his shoulder. “Ben-“ 

“Fucking smartass,” you can hear the smile on his voice, feel the amusement running up his spine and colliding with whatever is bouncing around his ribs. “You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes, you asshole-“ 

Ben kisses you again, and your protests turn into a long noise of want. He chews at your lip for a second before moving away once more. “I’m taking off your shorts. I can do it fast or careful. You don’t get both.” 

“Please-“ 

He presses his hips back with a groan, forcing you to stop grinding. “Words.” 

“Fast-“ 

The choice had barely left your mouth when Ben was ripping them off your body. Tossing them on the floor without a thought before looking back up at you. Raising his brows in a silent question as his hand rested between your thighs, over your underwear. 

“Yes,” your nods are frantic, bordering on pathetic. But he’s so close. “Ben, please.” 

He runs his hand over you once, still not just doing it. “So fucking wet, just through the damn fabric.” he smirks at you. “All for me, brat?” 

You whimper, trying to drop all of your weight into Ben’s hand as you clench around nothing. He knew what that word would do, there’s no way he didn’t. Not with his smug expression and the way he won’t let you bring his lips back to yours. “Cunt-“

“Answer my damn question,” he growls your name. “Or I’m not fucking you.”

It’s a bluff. You know it’s a bluff because you can feel how vast and insatiable his hunger is. You know it’s a bluff because, as good as a liar Ben is, he’s rock hard against you and keeps bucking up when you kiss his neck. You don’t call it though. You just meet his eyes and hiss, “It’s for you, Ben. Now are you going to fucking do something about it?”

You see Ben’s grin for only a second before his mouth is pushing your head against the wall with the force of his kiss. You feel him tear off your underwear in one, fluid movement, and the cold of the air has barely hit you before his hand is back. And everything is just Ben. 

He’s teasing you. The base of his palm is bumping against your clit, but never for more than a second. His fingers are running between you, over you but never in. You’re going to kill him. You’re going to wipe that smug and cocky grin you can feel against you off his perfect, handsome stupid face- 

“You think I can make you cum just like this?” Ben hums against your lips, pulling his head back just a fraction. “Without even properly fucking touching you?”

“Fuck you, Benjamin.“ 

“I know you want that,” he drawls your name, rolling his palm one firm time, and your hands start to scratch across his neck and shoulders. “But you need to tell me if you think I can make you cum on just my fucking fingers.” 

“Cunt.” 

“That’s what I’m asking. Do you think I can make your pretty cunt cum here, without even fucking you like you deserve?” 

“Like I-“ Ben pushes one finger in ever so slightly, and stills it completely. You take a long breath. “Fucking dick. Like I deserve?” 

His lips bruise against yours, and his palm fully presses against your clit. Rubbing once, twice, fingers still not moving. “Like the beautiful fucking brat you are. Until all your fancy words are just my name and you’re so fucked out you couldn’t even think to be worried about dumb fucking shit. Until you’re fucking stupid.” 

His finger sinks all the way in, and you press your forehead against his, arms fully wrapping around his neck. “Do that.” 

“Fucking words, Sunshine.” He growls, pulling out slowly, and you shake your head desperately against his. 

“Ben, please-“ 

His finger pushes back in, fast, and you don’t know if you moan or scream or whine because Ben is eating any sounds that leave your mouth. Moving his finger faster and faster until you’re trying to chase it when he pulls away, his deep groan rumbling through you when your thighs brush against his cock, still in his pants because life is unfair. 

“That’s more fucking like it,” he grunts, moving his head down in sloppy kisses to your neck. “Want some fucking more, beautiful?” 

“Fuck, yes-“ 

He latches onto your neck—sucking in a way that would leave a mark if either of you were capable of being marked—and just as the second finger pushes in his palm finds a pattern. A steady rhythm that turns whatever remaining sanity you had into just Ben. Ben, I love you. You impossible asshole, you’re everything in the fucking world. Ben. 

He’s not letting you over the edge. Every time you get close he slows just enough and rises back to your mouth. You might have been here for a lifetime, or just a millisecond, but it’s all just Ben. Hissing your name against your skin and making everything just good. This is so good. Why did you deny yourself this? Why did you ever deny yourself Ben when he’s making everything so good like this. So warm and easy and so fucking good. 

“You're so fucking tight,” he hisses in your ear, and you try and tug him closer by your legs. Try and make his dick just brush against you. “Think you can do three?” 

You cannot do three. You think three might kill you in the best possible way. Ben’s huge, his hands are rough and broad like every other insufferable, amazing part of him, so three would make you explode. But he’s watching you with so much hunger, so much adoration as you pant and whimper his name, and he’s still not just fucking you, so three will have to be a suitable substitute until he stops toying with you. You nod, and he chuckles against your skin.

“What did we say about words-“ 

“Just fucking do it, Benjamin, now-“ 

You are going to die. This love for him is going to kill you, and the murder weapon will be the way he’s finding every single thing that makes you scream his name like he’s been studying for it. How his fingers get so deep in you and find that spongy, electric part every single time he plunges back in. Crooking against it for just long enough to make you moan before yanking his hands back down and pressing his palm against your clit until you're keening, before repeating in all again. You’re going to turn into just flames that sing the same song of Ben over and over.

“Want to fucking cum?” He mutters against your lips, and you whine again, high and needy and barely a breath. 

“Ben, yes-“ 

“Beg.”

“Asshole-“ you choke on your own words, because he’s going faster, it’s all going faster, and you can’t think of anything outside of Ben. Ben, I love you. 

“Fucking beg.” His words echo through your body, and you’re vaguely aware of smoke rising around you. But he’s not stopping, if anything there’s a vigor to him now. A brutal, rough pace that’s just one move away from making you find release. A move he won’t make until you ask for it. 

Dignity is overrated. Dignity is for people who don’t have Ben making them feel like the whole world is just him, touching them like he’s touching you and groaning their name like he’s growling yours. 

“Please, Ben, please.” You make yourself look at him fully, hungry and cocky and watching you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen and he’s so handsome and stupid and Ben and you love him- “Fucking please-“

Any sounds or screams or moans of Ben are captured in his mouth when he presses you so far back against the wall with a kiss you think you hear it crack. When he twists his fingers in you and his palm draws one long, heavy circle over your clit and everything is reborn inside you. It’s just Ben, Ben, fire and life and love and Ben. Your orgasm hits you like a train, your vision going white and your hands trying to pull Ben further against your body. He’s still in you, fingers resting inside you as you clench around him, palm rubbing slowly against you until you fall back to earth, back to him. 

You blink at him, mouth hanging open and all of your mind and body completely made of love and need for him. Everything is full of Ben. There’s a thick cloud of smoke through the room, but he’s so close it doesn’t matter. You can see him, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. His whole face is made of—if you know anything about him, and you do—devotion. Ben pulls his fingers out of you slowly—never breaking his gaze from yours—leaving you empty and sensitive and trying not to just start grinding against where you can still feel him, somehow harder in his pants. Then his fingers rise into his mouth, and he sucks on the wetness still falling off of them, and any attempt at control is gone. His gaze is lidded as he tastes you, and you start trying to pull him down to you with scrambling movements against his neck. 

He doesn’t budge, only grinning at you as you whine again. “Fucking needy, beautiful.” He brings two fingers—the same ones that had just been in his mouth—to brush against your mouth. Pressing them lightly until your lips part. “Taste.” 

You let him push his thumb into you, and you become a woman on a mission. Sucking and licking at his fingers until you can feel him twitching against your thighs, going with a fervor until he’s groaning and pulling them away with a pop. When you lean forward to kiss him gently he lets you, taking every moan you give him with a squeeze of your skin under his hand and a trace of your cheekbones with his fingers. 

When he rests his head against your shoulder, you’re both breathing heavily and Ben’s words are hissed against your skin. 

“I’m going to fuck you for a whole year,” he grunts your name, rutting up against you. “And I’m going to make you fucking scream and beg for two.” 

You’ve never been more on board with a plan in your life. You’re going to tell him. You shouldn’t, not when it might make this go away, not when you just got this, but you want to. You want him to know that when he fucks you for a year the only thing you’ll be thinking is Ben. Ben, I love you. You want to be able to moan it into his mouth and against his skin and around his cock and scream it when he makes you cum, in a way that he can hear and know about.

Your mouth falls open, your hand moving to his face to pull him up to look at you, and the door to the apartment bangs open.

Ben’s faster than you, but in your defense most of your thoughts and instincts are being covered by the daze of your orgasm. He doesn’t drop you or turn you, but slides you down his chest and twists you around so your arms are wrapped on his torso, your feet back on the ground. When he whips around you realize he’s blocking your half-naked body from view, keeping you secure against him with a hand on your forearm. Stupid, handsome, perfect, safe fucking man. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ben barks, and you lean around him to see Butcher in the doorway, smirking at the scene before him. 

“Well, Gov,” Butcher drawls. “I was coming to congratulate you on your awful fuckin plan working, let you know Edgar delivered, but now,” he winks at you. “I’m just chock full of other questions.” 

“How did you get in?” You ask with a frown. “Only I have a keycard.”

“Mallory unlocked all you cunts doors for me,” Butcher shrugs. “We got a meetin, I’ve been sent to collect you since you weren’t answering your fuckin phone.” 

You flush, because your phone is indeed long forgotten somewhere near the couch. “Can we have five, please?” 

“What, only five?” Butcher’s mocking smile turns to Ben. “You that fast, gov? Because I can give you ten if you wanna take care of your,” his eyes flick down. “Problem.” 

You can feel Ben’s anger, and tighten your grip around him until he looks at you. Don’t kill him, please. 

Why the fuck shouldn’t I. 

You give him a small smile. Murder is a crime. Also, it’ll ruin the mood. 

Whatever, Ben rolls his eyes, but you can see the tug of his lips, feel the amusement dart through him. 

“You two done?” Butcher snaps, and you both look back to him with frowns. “Care to have an out-loud conversation, share with the fuckin class?” 

“No.” You give him a sickly sweet smile. “Are we meeting in the cafeteria?” 

Butcher nods with a grunt, and you sigh. 

“Can you please leave so I can get dressed?” 

“I’m waitin outside, and if you two horny twats aren’t outside by then I’m coming back in.” 

“Fine. Go.” 

Butcher slams the door behind him, and you squeeze out from behind Ben to start to run upstairs and put on clothing that isn’t completely destroyed. You pause though, doubling back to Ben and pulling his face down for one last, long kiss. 

“We’ll fuck later,” you whisper against his lips, and he grunts. “Thank you.” 

You yelp as Ben picks you up, carrying you up the stairs in long, quick steps. “Stop fucking thanking me.” 

You smile at him, all teeth and joy because you fucking love him. “Make me.” 

“Brat,” he snorts, kissing you again as he lowers you onto the bed. “Keep it up and I won’t let you cum again.” 

“You don’t let me do anything.” 

“You’re real fucking sure of that,” he taunts, marching over to the dresser to toss you a new pair of underwear and sweats. “But you sure were goddamn begging me less than ten minutes ago.”

“Cunt,” you mumble, catching the clothes. You don’t have a good comeback, because your brain is still a little addled, and you can see that Ben’s still hard, and nothing about his deep voice and word is making you less horny. 

“You love it.” He stops above you again, watching with heavy eyes as you pull the clothing on.

I do. I love you, dumbass. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Ben laughs, pulling you up the moment you’re dressed. “Later. Later we can shut each other up as hard as fucking possible.” 

“Deal,” you whisper, because he’s holding you so lightly and close to his body and it’s not helping. “Ben?” 

He raises his brows at you, a small frown on his face. You think he can hear the nerves in your voice. “What.” 

“Edgar-“

“We’ll make it work.” He says firmly. “Whatever it is, whatever stupid shit Mallory and Butcher are planning, we’ll make it fucking work for us.” 

“You promised-“ 

“And that won’t fucking matter, because we’ll make it work.” 

“Ben,” you squeeze his hand, tangling his fingers between yours. You feel him everywhere now, all the time—the clenching in his chest and around this throat and the sour taste of it—and that might be something to worry about later. But for now you just want to touch him. “Please. Just say you promise.” 

He sighs, jaw ticking, but nods. “I swore it. I meant it. But that doesn’t fucking mean-“ 

You kiss him, and every part of his body falls into yours as the grip against your hands loosens. When you pull away, smiling at him, he’s looking at you with that same devotion. “Thank you.” 

Ben grunts, slinging his arm around you as you walk back downstairs. Kissing the top of your head once, and this is right. This is you and Ben and it’s right. It’s everything, and he’s yours. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anything and now, for whatever amount of time he’ll give you, you’re his.

—————

Ben had learned there was a hierarchy in the promises he made Her. There weren’t many—neither of them threw around those words with ease or carelessness—but his promises of staying here and no more lies were secondary to keeping her away from Homelander. There was nothing as fucking important in the world, and that meant that Ben would let Her do what she needed to do—like he’d promised—but not if it meant she went back to Homelander. He’d have done anything to keep Her safe before, he’d have gone back under if it meant she’d be free, and now Ben was fucking certain he’d goddamn die before he lost Her like that. If he had any fucking say in anything at all, nothing was ever going to break Her again. If she tried to throw herself in front of him to take whatever bullets Homelander or Mallory were aiming at them, Ben would be faster. He’d move to let them hit him first. 

He’d let Butcher hit him with a goddamn bomb to keep Her safe. Because She was fucking perfect, and Ben wasn’t going to allow anything to hurt her again. She was leaning into him as they walked to the dining hall, and Ben might have to take a detour to the bathroom to get himself under fucking control if She kept tugging and tapping at his hand around her shoulder. Her hair was still messy, and her lips were still a little red, and Ben could still fucking taste her, lingering in his mouth. And that was his shirt. She was wearing his fucking shirt, and holding his hand that had just been inside her, and chewing the inside of her mouth that had just been screaming his name. The Thing didn’t need to tell Ben She was perfect. He had fucking eyes, and a fucking brain. And a very hard dick that was becoming slightly painful, straining against his pants for Her. For Her beautiful face and the perfect sounds she’d made when she came. On his hand.

Ben didn’t have to hold himself back anymore. He didn’t have to keep waiting until She was keening against him and moaning his name before ripping himself away from her. Before he came in his jeans from just the feel and taste of Her mouth like a fucking teenager. He could fuck Her, she’d let him fuck her, and he was going to. Ben was going to fuck Her so hard and good that she might stay with him and keep looking at him forever. He was going to make Her cum until she said Ben, I adore you again. Until She told him she wanted him again.

That had made the Thing roar inside of him. Her perfect, breathless, needy voice telling him she wanted him. Nothing could take that away from him now. She fucking wanted him. People had wanted him before. Countless forgotten pretty faces had wanted Ben. But none of them had been perfect. And none of them had said it like She had. They had wanted the power of him, they had wanted Ben to fuck them and give them more than he cared to. All those pretty faces had wanted to be the one’s on billboards and red carpets with him, to fuck Soldier Boy and be a good enough fuck that he decided to keep them. When She said he wanted him, it wasn’t just to fuck her. There had been something that made the Thing climb into Ben’s brain and consume him in Her voice. 

She wanted him. She wanted every part of him. She had every part of him, She’d had it for what felt like a lifetime, and he’d never have taken it away from her. When She one day left Ben, she’d take every part of him that was worth a fucking thing with Her. And no one else would ever get to have him, not like She did. Not like he was going to give Her. Ben was going to fucking worship every perfect part of Her, until he could maybe ask her to stay with him and there was a single goddamn chance She might say yes. 

Every member of the Pussy Brigade looked up when they entered the Dining Hall. Butcher had marched in brisk, pissy fucking steps ahead of Her and Ben, and apparently hadn’t been just bitching when he’d grumbled that everyone was just waiting on them. 

“Is everything okay?” Starlight was watching Her, under Ben’s arm, nervously. “You weren’t answering your phone-“ 

“The cunts were fucking,” Butcher snapped, stopping next to Mallory at the head of the table. “In the middle of the goddamn room.” 

Ben bit his tongue, because She has to handle this. He needed to hear what She told her pussy fucking team, so he could figure out what she wanted from him. 

“It’s our apartment, you ass,” She glared at Butcher. “It’s not like we were in the hallway.” 

“So you admit you were fucking, Love?” 

“Not yet.” She shrugged. “Some dickwad fucking cunt interrupted us.” 

“But,” Cocksucker looked between them nervously, not fully meeting Ben’s eyes. “You were going to fuck?” 

She sighed. “This really doesn’t feel like an important conversation to have right now.” 

“It’s not,” MM grunted. “I’m already gonna to need to wash out my fucking ears. Any more and I’m going to have to cut them off.” 

Ben disagreed. He thought they all needed to fucking know, that this was the only conversation worth having right now. Ever. She wanted him, and every single pussy fucker in the world should know that. But She shot him a small look, important meeting, don’t be a fucking idiot, Pretty Boy. And Ben let Her pull him onto the bench. 

Later, he’d fuck Her until she screamed so loud everyone could hear it, hear his name and Her moans falling out of her perfect mouth. 

“Can we get started?” Mallory stood—arms crossed with a thin scowl—at the head of the table. “Or do you need another ten minutes to discuss your sex lives?” 

“Jesus, no.” MM snapped. “Just fuckin talk, Grace.” 

“Stan Edgar sent files over to me last night, and we’ve just finished clearing them for use,” Mallory launched into her explanation with the most monotone, boring voice Ben had ever fucking heard. “Butcher and I have been working on a plan-“ 

“What are the files?” Starlight asked, raising her hand like a damn child. “Will they work?” 

“They’ll work a fuckin charm,” Butcher winked. “They’re everything we could’ve bloody asked for, times two. Keep goin, Grace.” 

Ben felt Her relax slightly against him, along with Butcher’s eyes on them both. Cold, tense, but not mocking. For once in his goddamn life, the pussy seemed to have some sort of mind to not be an instigating piece of shit, and he was better for it. Ben would’ve thrown a stray plastic fork into Butcher’s eyes and ripped off his dick if the asshole had said even a single fucking detail of Edgar’s files. A single detail about Her. 

“Thanks to Marvin,” Grace gave MM a small nod. “A-Train has agreed to clear a path for us into Vought tower. We’ll ensure Homelander is away, dealing with something else, and retrieve Ryan Butcher.”

Ben could hear the tapping begin, and covered Her hand with his. 

She looked up at him with a frown, What’s wrong? 

This is going to fucking work. Ben held Her gaze. You’re going to be fine. 

She smiled at him, and every time she did it like that—gentle and comfortable—the Thing doubled in size. I know. 

“How are you going to get Homelander away?” Cocksucker asked with an anxious frown. “I mean, this might not be quick and if he arrives back at the tower-“ 

“Frenchie,” Butcher nodded at the French Prick. “Will be causing a diversion.” 

“By diversion,” Starlight said slowly. “You mean-“ 

“A massive, glorious fucking explosion.” The French Prick grinned. “It will be impossible for the Homelander to ignore.” 

“No.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Her lean forward across the table, shaking her head. Why the hell was she talking. Why could Ben hear her damn thinking. What the fuck was she planning- 

“No?” Mallory asked, looking at her with slight curiosity. Saying Her last name in clipped words. “Please elaborate.” 

“He’s on alert, right?” She looked around the table. “After Neuman, he won’t just fall for something like that. Especially not with Sage whispering actual coherent thoughts in his ear.” 

“Maybe,” Mallory nodded, still looking at Her. Ben needed Mallory to stop looking at her like that. Like she was a fucking toy. “But it’s our best bet, and we’ve already lost too much time to waiting for Edgar.” 

“I have an idea-“ 

“No,” Ben cut Her off with a grunt. He knew what type of ideas She always had. Mallory and Butcher always knew what type of ideas she had. Genius, stupid fucking ideas that always worked—so everyone went along with them—and always put her in the line of fire. 

“No?” She glared at him. “What do you mean no?” 

“You lost your idea privileges a while ago, Sunshine.” Ben snapped. “So no.” 

“Oh, fuck you Benjamin.” She kicked him under the table and looked back at Mallory. “Ignore him. I have an idea.” 

Ben gave Mallory his most menacing, violent scowl that the woman knew signaled he wanted to kill someone. But she ignored him, giving Her a nod. “Go on.” 

“He’s looking for me. Let’s show him what he wants.” She took a deep breath, and every fiber of Ben, from the Thing to his brain, was telling him to shut Her up now. Before she said what he knew she was going to. “Let’s show him me.” 

The room was silent, and blood was roaring in Ben’s ears. He glared around at the Pussy Brigade daring any one of them to speak. 

MM was the idiot who volunteered for Ben to kill him first. 

“The hell you mean show him you,” MM said Her name slowly, and the fact that he didn’t seem to be agreeing to it was the only thing that kept Ben rigid in his seat. 

“Bait,” She answered, quiet and soft and Ben was going to kill someone- “Offer him me. Draw him out to a fight to get me. He’ll go, and he’ll leave Ryan behind. He didn’t want Ryan to meet me until I was-“ She made a small choking sound, and that was it. 

“No.” Ben said firmly, daring anyone to fucking disagree with him. “There’s not a chance in fucking hell you’re doing that.” 

“You’d go with me,” She looked at him with wide, sharp, desperate eyes. “Please, Ben. It would work.” 

“Doesn’t fucking matter if it would work. They,” Ben jabbed a finger at Butcher and Mallory. “Swore you weren’t doing stupid fucking dangerous shit anymore.” 

“We did promise him that,” Starlight says Her name gently. “Promised you. That’s, doing that’s too far. Too risky.” 

“It would work,” She was pleading, and if Ben didn’t know better he’d think she fucking wanted to die. “You wouldn’t be giving me to him. We’d escape. We’d go in public, Homelander would see it, we’d keep him there until Ryan was out, and then we would escape.” 

“How?” MM frowned at Her. “The motherfuckers got X-ray vision and super speed. He won’t just lose you in a crowd.” 

“He won’t lose us. We’ll,” She paused, fingers tapping under Ben's hands. “We’ll call him. We won’t go in public, for a fight, that was dumb. We’ll call him, tell him I want to meet him, play right into his fantasy. Annie and Hughie will come with us, because he can’t kill either of them without ruining the narrative. We’ll keep him there until Ryan’s out, then Frenchie will do the explosion. We’ll play it off as a mistake, bad timing, and he’ll go to investigate. By the time he realizes what’s happened, we’ll be gone."

“That’s still a dumb fucking plan,” Ben growled Her name. “What if he doesn’t go. What if he tries to fucking take you.” 

She looked at him, Her beautiful face so sad and determined. “He won’t.” I won’t let him. You won’t let him. 

“It’s a good idea,” Mallory mused. “Where would you meet him?” 

“Old Starlight Fund,” She turned back to the group. “Ben will call him. He’ll take a call from Ben. And then I’ll take the phone and tell him I convinced you to let me see him.” She looked fucking sick—her heartbeat panicked in her chest—and it made the Thing twist inside of Ben. Made Ben sick. “But that you won’t let me meet with him without you there.” 

“The Starlight Fund was where they wanted that first meeting,” MM said to Mallory. “And it’s right fuckin across from the tower. He won’t think we’re trying anything in his backyard.” 

“We’ll vote-“ 

“No!” Ben almost roared. “You fucking pussies goddamn swore-“ 

“Ben,” Her voice was gentle, too fucking gentle. To perfect and kind for this goddamn fucking bullshit, for how fast her heart was inside her. Trust me. Her face pleaded. Just please trust me. 

This is fucking insane, Ben glared at Her. Even for you, this is a fucking stupid, insane plan. 

You promised. She flipped her hand under his, folding her finger between his. You promised me you’d let me do what I needed to. 

You don’t fucking need to do this. 

Yes, She gave him a small smile. I do, Ben. You know that. Please. 

Ben cursed himself in every vulgar, lewd and angry way he knew. “Fine.” He grunted aloud. “But if anything,” he hissed around the table. “Goes fucking south-“ 

“It won’t, Gov.” Butcher winked at him, but there wasn’t anything crude or sneering in his voice. “We’ll get you both home in time for a nice fuckin dinner and dessert.” 

Mallory sighed. “Ready to vote?” After several nods from around the table, she continued. “All in favor?” 

Her hand shot up just as fast as Butcher’s, Kimiko’s close behind them and the French Prick’s right after. For one long second, Ben watched MM frown at Her. Studying Her, before looking at Ben and narrowing his eyes. He looked back at her—hand high in the air and feature determined—and MM’s hand went up. Five fucking idiots in favor. 

“All against?” 

Ben raised his hand, and She glared at him. Benjamin-

I won’t fucking stop you, Ben glared right back. But I’m not in any form of goddamn favor for this shit. 

She sighed, and Ben glanced around the table to see Cocksucker and Starlight both raising their hands with him. Three people who seemed to give a single shit about Her. 

Too fucking little to stop this. 

“Alright,” Mallory nodded. “We’ll move tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Hughie blinked. “Don’t you, uh, need to plan-“ 

“We wasted too much fuckin time, Lad.” Butcher shrugged. “A-Train’s ready, we move tomorrow.” 

“Are we fucking done here?” Ben grunted, and barely saw Mallory’s nod before he was standing, hauling Her up with him, and marching out of the door. He heard her call some goodbyes—running after him with Her heartbeat unsteady—and pulling Ben’s arm until he slowed down. 

“Are you mad at me?” She whispered, and he shook his head. He wasn’t, he was furious with himself. For being a weak fucking pussy who was allowing this to happen. 

Nothing’s going to hurt Her, he reminded himself, reminded the Thing to try stopping it from tearing his tissues and guts apart. No fucking thing is allowed to hurt Her. I’ll be there. If it comes to it, I’ll do whatever it fucking takes to keep Homelander away from Her. Even if she hates me for it. 

“Then can you look at me?” She pleaded, and Ben couldn’t help himself. He glared down at Her, and felt a twist in his stomach at the desperation in Her eyes. “I’m sorry-“ 

“Don’t,” he snapped. The only thing worse than Her being sad and weak and broken was Her apologizing. Thinking she was a problem for him, and not the most perfect thing in the fucking world. “I’m not fucking mad, Sunshine. I’m just-“ He ground his teeth, pushing the words out between them. “I fucking hate this.” 

“I know you do,” She took a small step forward. “But it’ll be fine. I promise.” 

It would be fine. Because Ben wasn’t going to allow it not to be. So he just picked Her up into his arms—if She kept moving so hesitantly and tentatively around him he’d fucking explode—and carried her down the hall. She didn’t push against him or protest, only wrapped Her arms around his neck as Her heartbeat slowed. 

“Ben?” She asked, voice muffled by where she’d pressed into his shoulder, her warm breath fanning against his skin. 

“What.” He glanced down at Her—perfect face turning up to him—and the Thing clenched inside him at her nervous expression. “Are you-“ 

“I’m okay,” She shook her head slightly and Ben grunted, unable to hide his stupid relief. “I, um,” She swallowed. “Do you-“ 

“Spit it out,” he muttered, hunching slightly so She could scan the badge. She’d needed that—needed not lose Herself in a spiral of her too quick head—because she nodded, fingers scratching light against the nape Ben’s neck. She took a deep breath, and Ben turned to push the door with his back. 

“Do you still want me?” 

She was the smartest fucking person Ben had ever met. She was a goddamn genius, it was insufferable and impossibly fucking hot how smart she was. How clever she was, how well she understood other people. Which is why Ben snorted aloud, because for the brilliant woman she was that was such a stupid fucking question. 

“Ben-“ 

“Of course I still fucking want you,” Ben scoffed, walking up the stairs. “You have no fucking idea how much I want you. I’ve wanted you through a lot of your stupid plans, another one isn’t going to make me stop fucking wanting you.” 

Nothing could make me stop wanting you, Ben’s head hummed in time with the Thing. If I ever stop wanting you, it’s because I’m fucking dead. 

“Oh,” She mumbled, and Ben wished She would just look at him so he could figure out what she was thinking. “Good. Is that why-“ 

“I’m not fucking you,” Ben drawled Her name as he pushed open the door to their bedroom. “Not tonight.”

“Okay,” Ben glanced down to find the saddest look he’d ever witnessed on Her face. If the Thing wasn’t fucking whining at the sight of it, he might have been smug about her looking so morose at the idea of not fucking him. “That’s fine.” 

“I’m not fucking you,” Ben grabbed her chin, gently with a firm hand. To make Her look at him. “Because I want to take time when I fuck you. I want to make you scream and make it hurt when you sit down. And you need to be able to walk with full damn mobility tomorrow. So later. When I can keep you in bed for a decade without anyone fucking interrupting.” 

Her heart sped up, and Ben smirked at her. “You started with a week,” She told him, even as she leaned into his hand. “Then it became a year. Now a decade?”

Ben winked. “If you want a century, just fucking ask, beautiful.” 

“Cunt.” 

“Brat.” 

She looked over him, eyes resting where Ben knew she could feel his dick straining against his pants. “What about hand stuff?” 

Ben snorted. “I’ll allow it."

“Oh, well if his majesty allows it-“ 

Her words turned in a yelp as Ben tossed Her onto the bed, grinning down at Her. How fucking perfect she was, looking up at him with wide, pretty eyes that were so soft. For him. Right now, every part of Her was for Ben. 

He started to lean down, planning to move across the bed until he over Her. Test what different sounds She would make in a bed instead of against a wall. But She sat up before he could, crawling across the blankets with her perfect fucking ass in the air. Drawing up on Her knees when she reached Ben at the foot of the bed, smiling at him with all such an ease and adoration. She adored him. 

Ben grabbed Her face between his hands, her back straightening as she grabbed at his shirt. Yanking him closer. Ben attacked her mouth, revering in the way it fit so well against his, the way she tasted like honey and chocolate and Her. That taste of Her he’d gotten early, that wasn’t sweet but strong. The best thing he’d ever had on his tongue, a little weaker in her mouth but still there. The proper fucking taste of pussy. Of Her. Ben didn’t think he could live without it now that he’d had it. 

But there would be time to deal with that later. Right now everything was Her. The way she moaned into his mouth, and one of her hands tracing down Ben’s chest to palm him through his pants. 

He pulled back with a grunt of Her name. “You don’t-“ 

“I want to,” She chased his mouth, but paused. Look up at him with some sort of apprehension that made the Thing itch. “But if you don’t-“ 

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Ben snapped. And he was going to add something about this not being about him right now. Something saying how this was about Her, about making her understand how perfect she was and making her scream his name again. But She nodded with a hum, and squeezed Ben through his pants and suddenly that really didn’t fucking seem worth saying anymore. He’d say it later. If She wanted this—wanted him like this—he couldn’t deny her. Ben wouldn’t be able to deny Her his whole fucking brain or heart or lungs if she asked for them. And what type of fucking pussy would he be to deny the most perfect woman in the world his cock. 

“Off, please.” She nodded to his pants, and Ben almost chuckled because she could’ve called him every vulgar name under the sun and he still would’ve taken his pants off. A please was in no way damn necessary.

“Fine,” he pulled down his pants, watching Her carefully as his boxers followed. “But after this, beautiful, it’s my fucking turn.” 

She swallowed, staring at Ben’s dick—now fully exposed—and Ben had never felt so smug in his fucking life. A lot of women had been impressed by him, but none had looked at him like that. Like they needed to touch him. Ben had never needed to touch them. Not like he was pretty sure he’d have died somewhere in the next few seconds if She hadn’t looked back up at him—with parted lips and a flushed face that Ben needed to burn into his eyes so he’d never stop seeing them—and kissed him so eagerly that he groaned. 

Then She started touching him, and Ben realized he had been right. As he tangled his hands in her hair and started buck into her hand—trying to keep his mouth on hers so she would catch every sound she was causing him to make like he’d eaten hers—Ben knew this would kill him. She would kill him, because nobody should be allowed to so fucking perfect in every possible way. Nobody should be capable making him feel like this with just their hand, just by stroking him and somehow finding such a painfully good fucking pace. Nobody should be allowed to read him well enough that they adjusted for every rut of Ben into their hand, to make him feel like he was high. But She could, because she was perfect, and was trying to kill him. She had to be, or she wouldn’t be pulling back to look at Ben like she was, with something so deep and impossibly caring in her eyes as she pulled him apart. He was supposed to look at Her like that. She was the one supposed to be wrecked. Ben didn’t get wrecked. 

But it’s not like She liked listening to him. Or allowing him to just follow the rules he’d set for himself decades ago. Every single thing Ben had known and understood she’d destroyed, then rebuilt, just by smiling at him and never wavering. Like she was now.

So Ben buried his face in Her neck—finding the spot that he knew would make Her feel half of what he felt—and started to fuck her hand. Faster, faster until she moaned, and he grinned against her. 

“When you’re done,” Ben started to kiss up Her neck until he was growling in her ears. “I’m going to make you scream. Got it?” 

She nodded, and the small sound she made just made Ben go faster. 

“You’re so fucking good,” he kept talking, because Ben hadn’t missed that every time Ben spoke She’d fall a little further into him, her free hand tugging at his hair. “Your hand’s fucking made for this, beautiful.” 

“Ben-“ 

He grinned. There it was. If anyone tried to say his name again—in a way that wasn’t breathless and passionate and falling from their mouth—he’d rip their tongue out. “So fucking perfect.” He pulled Her closer, one hand cupping the back of Her head and the other kneading at the soft skin of her stomach, arm fully around her waist. She squeezed him just fucking right, and Ben hissed against her skin. “Fucking perfect. Too fucking good at this, too fucking beautiful, too fucking-“ 

She turned Her head, moving Ben to her lips, just as she moaned down his throat and made one, long movement—nails running lightly against his balls with another squeeze—that did it. Ben groaned Her name into her wide, perfect mouth, swearing as he jerked forward. She didn’t stop, didn’t pull back, just stayed exactly where Ben needed her until the bare parts of her legs were covered in cum. Ben’s cum. On Her. 

Ben kissed Her roughly, waiting right up until she whined to pull his mouth away slowly. Panting slightly, he kissed the top of Her head and waited for her to look up at him. 

“My turn.” 

He didn’t wait for Her to speak before leaning over her, moving her down until she was flat on the bed below him. Letting her grind against his chest and wrap her legs around him, moan his name and claw at his hair and back, for just long enough to build Her up and up. Ben moved his hands down from her face to her thighs, squeezing once. 

“Please,” she whimpered into his mouth, and the only sound better than that was what followed it. “Ben.” 

He gave Her one last, wet kiss, and dropped down to the edge of bed, kneeling on the floor and using his hold on her thighs to pull Her forward. As Ben hooked her legs over his shoulders—tossing her underwear and shorts away into some corner of the room—he saw Her sitting up on her elbows, frowning down at him. 

“We said hand stuff, Benjamin.“ 

He raised his brows at Her. “Do you want me to stop?” 

”No, but you’re cheating-“ 

Ben didn’t give her an opportunity to keep talking. He’d have a long time—if he was lucky—to listen to Her talk about whatever she fucking wanted. Right now he needed to make her scream. 

It was almost immediate. Ben dove forward, sucking on Her clit one long time, and she whined, high and loud. 

“Fuck, Ben-“ 

That was good. He liked that. Ben liked everything about Her, but that—the sound of Her feeling good with his name—was one of the fucking best things he’d ever known. 

She needed to do it again. He needed to find every way she could do it. This was his fucking job now. Everything else could fucking wait until she came all over Ben’s face, until she felt so good she’d never be in danger of breaking again. 

So Ben set to work. Sucking and licking and goddamn eating Her alive. Tracing rough patterns with his hands against her thighs and ass, bracing an arm over her hips to keep her still. To allow Ben to fuck her with his tongue until the taste of Her, that real, powerful taste was drowning him as she screamed his name. He’d die for this. She wouldn’t have to kill him because he’d give everything to keep Her like this forever. To keep her blissfully whining and moaning, to make her never have to feel fear again because she was too busy being tended to under him. For there to be even the slimmest fucking chance that She’d want him to do this forever. Want him forever. 

For now, though, Ben would settle for this. He’d settle for him being the one who made Her squirm in this moment. Ben got to see this, Ben got to cause this. Right now She adored him, right now she wanted Ben. Nothing else. Just Ben. 

So he’d give Her everything he had. 

He focused fully on Her clit, puffed and red, and dedicated himself to it. Pulled it into his mouth until her screams turned to breathless begs and sounds that might be Ben’s name—tangled with other noises he didn’t understand—and then let his teeth brush it, groaning against Her at the same time. She managed to scream one last time—hoarse and deafening and the most amazing sound in the fucking world—as She came. Squeezing around his tongue as Ben lowered to taste it all, as she pushed up into his face to give him it all. Back arched off the bed and thighs trapping Ben against Her as if he was so much of a fucking pussy idiot he’d even damn think to try and leave.

When She was done—shaking and breathing heavily as she relaxed fully around him—Ben rose up, wiping the remaining wetness clinging to his beard with one hand. Watching Her, pulled apart and reaching for him, just him. So thoroughly wrecked at his efforts, heart hamming against her chest. So fucking beautiful. 

Ben started to walk to the bathroom—quickly pulling his pants back on—but She made a needy sound for her throat that made him pause. 

“Are you-“ 

“Where are you going?” She whispered, and Ben felt the Thing rip inside of him. Torn between making Her smile and taking care of her. 

“Getting a towel.” He grunted, still rooted in place. “Need to clean you up.” 

“No,” Her voice was hoarse, and she was starting to sit up. “I’m fine, just stay-“ 

That won the war inside of him. Ben crossed back to Her in two long steps. Dropping next to her on the bed and rolling her onto his chest. Lying with her until her heart slowed, her breaths became easy against him. 

“Ben?” She whispered into the air, the room having fallen dark at some point. Ben hadn’t noticed really, unable to be fucked to pay attention to anything but Her, against him. Safe and happy and warm. 

He hummed Her name, and waited for her to continue. 

“When it’s over, I’ll go with you.” 

Time stopped. Everything stopped. Nothing fucking mattered except Ben knowing exactly what She fucking meant. If it was what he thought—fucking hoped—she meant. “With me?” 

“Wherever they send you off to, when this is done. I’ll go with you.” 

Ben nodded slowly at nothing, trying to act like he was unaffected. Like the Thing wasn’t bellowing and scraping at his ribs and brain, trying to tell him something really important, make Ben tell Her something important, but he couldn’t figure out what it was- 

“If you, um, if you still want that.” 

He blinked, glaring down at Her in the dark. “Did I ever fucking tell you I didn’t?” 

“No, but you haven’t said anything-“ 

“You’re coming with me,” Ben said, firmly. She wasn’t allowed to think anything else, not if She wanted this. Wanted him. “Nothing in the world will goddamn stop me taking you with me, not if that’s what you’re choosing.” 

“I chose that,” Ben could feel Her smile against the base of his neck. “I chose you.” 

The Thing needed something. Something earth-shaking and impossibly fucking vital for Ben to know if he was going to keep living. Something She had to know or Ben might explode. 

“I’ll let you fuck me on the beach,” She hummed, and Ben just decided to ignore the Thing. She was more important. “And in the ocean and in a bed and wherever else you want.” 

“Wherever I want?” Ben chuckled into the dark. “Dangerous fucking promises, beautiful.” 

She yawned, and Ben kissed Her head as her voice turned sleepy. “That’s the point, Pretty Boy.” 

As She pulled herself further into him—breathing turning slow and body relaxing further under Ben’s hands—Ben said Her name softly. 

“Yeah?” 

“If this doesn’t work,” Ben said slowly. “I want to fucking leave anyway. If we don’t get the kid, me and you are gone, Sunshine. We’ll go wherever you want, and we’ll go together. Somewhere with a beach for me to fuck you on, or somewhere in the mountains so you can scream even louder. But we’ll be gone.” 

She sighed, but didn’t protest. Ben had expected Her to push back—tell him they had a job and responsibility and had to finish this—and even as he’d thought the words he’d known she’d tell him no, but she didn’t. 

“I’ll think about it,” She said after a long, silent minute, and Ben wasn’t sure if it was Her or the haze of the sleep overtook her only seconds later. He didn’t know if she’d even remember him asking, or was just too tired to try and convince him that they couldn’t just leave. 

But Ben decided to believe Her. To allow himself to think that she’d really consider it. Either way she’d go with him. No matter what, she’d stay with him. That was all that fucking matters. 

It was the steady beat of Her heart, paired with the lingering taste of her and sound of Her wanting him, that allowed Ben to sleep soundly through the night.

End Note: I’ve made the unprecedented and totally out of left field executive decision to make Ben a top. Crazy. I’m sure this is really shocking news, but we’ll get through this like we always do. Together and horny.

Leave a comment, if you want! Any and all thoughts, feedback, jokes, and predications are always welcome, and will make my day. Also I'm thinking of giving you guys a playlist? Idk lemme know if that's something you'd want. Thank you so much for reading, and see you soon <3!

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