#Homelander

[blindmagdalena]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter eight)

18+ 5.5k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, suicidal ideation/close call, dubcon, oral sex, penetrative sex. fic directory | AO3

It isn’t love like they tell it in fairy tales. It’s love the way the poets write it. It’s blood and tears, a gnawing hunger that eats you from the inside out, leaves you empty and clawing to cram something into yourself as replacement. It’s love like an infection, a fever that never fades. It’s devotion and yearning that runs so deep it turns into violence.

For the next several mornings, you make breakfast as usual.

The heat of the gas range and the hissing sizzle of the eggs are always slightly muffled. Time itself moves strangely around you, like you’re standing under a waterfall flowing in reverse. Minutes tick on like hours, but the hours go by without you noticing them at all. 

As the days–they could be weeks, you’ve stopped keeping track–pass, that night of intimacy with Homelander feels more and more like a fever dream than a memory. If you really try, however, the details of it are simple enough to recall, if not a touch hazy. 

The part of it that’s a struggle is believing any of it actually happened. When you do put your mind to remembering it, it’s as though it happened to someone else. You were an outsider to your body, and now that you’re yourself again, you’re left to ponder the actions of that stranger.

It’s your body that holds onto the reality of it for you. Your stomach still feels faintly tender from the nausea and vertigo of flying. The penthouse air feels stale in your lungs compared to the winds whipping above the city. Your heart pounds whenever your jaw feels tight with the memory of his hand clamped over your mouth, but perhaps the most vexing aspect of it all is the way the throb of your pulse now echoes loudest between your legs.

How your fear now comes laced with an unwanted tinge of arousal.

You’d been left alone that night while Homelander attended a Vought function. He hadn’t been gone long; just long enough for you to bathe. You hadn’t felt up to eating, but he didn’t notice. He’d only cared about coming home, about taking you back into his arms, about breathing in the shower fresh smell of you and exhaling mine into the crook of your neck.

Never before have you felt more like a toy, a possession, a belonging than you did in that moment.

He hasn't touched you like that again since, though you think he aches to. You feel it in the way he squeezes your thigh when you watch movies together, how his hand drifts gradually higher, but it never progresses further than that. Sometimes he’ll press against you in bed, but so long as you lay very still, he eventually drifts to sleep.

When he’s gone, you touch yourself. The ache is there, the pleasure faint, but it’s never quite enough to put you over the edge. It’s never enough to give you the kind of relief–the kind of escape–you felt with him. Your body feels like kindling without a spark, the sensations empty.

You wonder what it would take to prompt him back into that kind of frenzy, that single-minded drive to pleasure you. Would he do it again if he saw you crying?

I’m doing this for you. For us. I’m doing this because you don’t know how to let yourself be happy.

Could he have been right? Have you ever really known how to make yourself happy?

A touch to your waist snaps you from your introspection, startles you into jerking. The pan in your grip would have gone flying if not for Homelander’s hand on your elbow, steadying you.

You completely forgot you were cooking breakfast.

“Eggs are burning,” he tells you, reducing the gas to nothing. They’re far from black, but it doesn’t take much to turn eggs from edible to rancid, the sulphuric smell burning your nose. You can only imagine the havoc it’s wreaking on him.

It isn’t the first time you’ve burned a meal since that night. His tone indicates he’s come to expect it.

“Oh,” you say noncommittally, staring at the curled dark edges, the solid yellow yolk.

His hand slides absently from your hip to your waist. He’s become so familiar in these casual touches, they don’t even make your heart lurch in your chest anymore.

“It’s fine,” he says, clearly reading disappointment in your indifference. The timbre of his voice is ambiguous, but somehow you don’t really think it’s fine. He must be losing his patience with you. His arms slip around your waist like two coiling serpents. “Plenty of time for you to start over.”

Still, he wants you to fix it. Burned eggs don’t suit this idyllic fantasy.

Why bother? you wonder. He peppers light kisses on your neck, lips brushing over a kiss-bruised patch of skin. The heat of his mouth makes you shiver, makes your belly feel tight and hot. You can’t tell anymore whether the heat is anger or arousal. You’re not even going to eat it.

Nevertheless, you scrape out the botched eggs and start over, keenly aware of your pulse echoing faintly between your thighs, and the weight of Homelander’s gaze on you.

Predictably, you eat, and he toys with his food like it’s all a silly game of make-believe. Plastic eggs, foam toast, pretend girlfriend. Homelander’s obsession exists not in what’s real, but in the performance of domesticity. Every day, the idea of what’s real becomes a little more subjective. A little more abstract.

When he goes to leave, he kisses your cheek.

“Thank god it’s Friday,” he says, your chin pinched between his bare thumb and middle forefinger knuckle. He’s taken to touching you more and more without his gloves on. “I made sure I don’t have any weekend obligations, which means you–lucky lady–finally get me all to yourself.”

That’s new. Normally his weekends are even busier than his week.

Sensing his anticipation for your positive reaction, you smile faintly. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, as does his smile. It’s something of an experiment, a deviation from your automatic daily “Have a good day,” and you see the excitement of it written plainly in his expression.

“I won’t,” he says, softer, grip flexing minutely on your chin. He tarries just long enough that you begin to think he may not leave after all. Instead, he takes in a breath and drops his hand to the door panel, using his print to disengage the lock. 

“This will be good for us,” he says quietly, lingering in the doorway for just a moment longer than usual.

The door closes behind him. The green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism re-engaging is the last bit of noise you hear. The door is thick enough that you don’t even hear his steps echo down the hallway.

Crossing your arms, you stand there for a while, staring at the door. The number pad is shiny from disuse, the buttons a gleaming silver. You’ve never seen him bother to input the code. Testing them without pressing, they’re cool to the touch under your finger, and after a beat, you input a code.

0476. America’s birthday.

The blue circle flashes red, and you sigh. You would have been angry with yourself if it’d been that easy anyways. 

For another day, you whittle your hours away on nothing, distant from yourself and your feelings. Music drones in your ears like static. Television feels alien and incomprehensible. The whole world is upside down, but it’s as though you’re the only one who’s noticed, who’s being forced to adapt.

Terrible as it is to think, the days are better when Homelander’s here.

You walk the penthouse in familiar patterns like a zoo animal in a too-small enclosure, bereft of enrichment. Knowing what you know about him, it feels like giving him too much credit to think the deprivation is intentional, that he’s putting in an effort to make you miss him in the time he’s gone. It seems more likely that he really is just incredibly ignorant of the basic needs a person has.

You’re not an animal. You’re more like a doll that he puts on the shelf until he’s ready to play with you again.

Coming to the balcony, you pull open the door and step outside, hand tight on the door frame. The wind lashes at you, stealing your breath for a split second in the way it always does before you adjust. It’s bright out today, the sky a crisp blue. It’s the kind of rich blue you’d never normally see through the smog on ground level, which always leaves it desaturated.

The clouds look near enough to touch, were you brave enough. Even standing just outside the doorway, your bare feet against the ice cold cement, is enough to make you weak in the knees. Your heart knocks against your ribs like it means to escape, but the feeling has grown so familiar, you don’t back away.

The fear, you realize, is the only thing that makes you feel present in your own body. 

Living with Homelander has forced you to swallow back your instincts so frequently, it comes more naturally now to take a step forward than to run away, your hand slipping from the doorway.

Your heart is in your throat as you near the middle point of the balcony, more and more of the city below coming into view. Your breaths grow shallow, and despite how calm you think you are, your stomach launches into a series of violent somersaults, your eyes glued to the thinning edge of the balcony.

No matter how tattered your thoughts and feelings are, your body reacts. It knows how to keep you safe. It screams and screams and screams as you press on.

There’s nothing around you to steady or brace yourself on. You feel imbalanced, top-heavy in a way that makes you sway, your poor heart lurching with it. You’re too scared to blink, unwilling to risk even a split second of darkness for the fear you might pitch forward.

Closing your eyes only makes it worse, reminds Homelander, his voice unbidden in your mind.

It’ll pass.

It’s worth it.

Trust me.

“Why?” you snap aloud, startling yourself. Why, even now, is he with you?

What’s your alternative?

The air is thin out here. Your eyes water, buffeted by the winds. Your chest feels tighter now, and every breath you take is more hard fought than the last, your lungs constricted. Tears start to roll down your cheeks, though the wind is quick to wick them away.

Your whole body sings with your fear. The adrenaline feels like an extra layer of skin beneath yours, filling your veins with tension and strength. The longer you endure it, the more aware of yourself and that change you become. You take another step towards the edge. Your mouth is sandpaper dry, pins and needles prickling your skin all over. 

Don’t look down. Look out.

You lift your gaze to the horizon, exhaling a shaky breath. You take another tentative step forward, relieved when your foot hits solid ground. You can’t see exactly where the ledge ends anymore. Another step, and then another. There’s nothing to hold you back. Nothing to keep you from walking.

Finally, you close your eyes, and move to step forward.

You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?

You gasp, eyes snapping open. Your balance waivers, and as your gaze drops, you see the empty space where your foot was about to fall.

 If not for yourself, you’ll do that for me, yeah?

You pitch yourself backwards so hard that you fall, landing on your ass with a pained noise. You choke on the tension in your throat, your whole body shaking as you haul yourself backwards, bare feet scratching against the pavement. You flip onto your hands and knees and clamber back inside, hastily slamming the door shut behind you before you let go a gut wrenching sob, the sound of it strained, agonized, barely enough breath in your lungs to birth it. 

You put your back to the door and you cry until your voice runs hoarse, until all the muscles in your stomach hurt and your tears run dry. It’s an ugly, visceral cry that leaves you dizzy and weak-limbed, the space behind your eyes throbbing in a dull headache.

There is an alternative. You’re going to find it.

Eventually you manage to drag yourself up from the floor and to the bedroom. The exhaustion that hits in the wake of your–what, lapse in judgment? Temporary insanity? Whatever you call it, it’s left you so worn out that all you can do is collapse on the bed, your muscles aching.

From the ceiling, your reflection stares back at you. You hardly recognize that face as yours anymore. Time and time again she makes choices that aren’t yours and experiences the world in a way you never could have imagined.

Homelander may have convinced you to look at yourself, but only now do you think you’re starting to see yourself as you are. As you must be.

You close your eyes, exhaling a slow breath. You begin to forget the balcony, the steps forward, the fall. It slots into a distant place somewhere in the back of your mind–where all things like it go–and after a time you’re left with nothing but the thrumming of your own body.

The echo of fear and thrill. The memory of adrenaline coursing through you like fuel, like poison, like divinity. Never before have you felt the kind of power you did when you took those steps. Fear has no control over you. It wasn’t even what stopped you.

You stopped yourself. You took control.

It leaves you electrified. You touch your tingling fingertips to your lips, where the numbness of them makes them feel like someone else’s. You trail them down your chin, your jaw, your throat. Instead of fighting it, you lean into the idea of this other you.

Hand drifting lower, you close your eyes. Instantly that haunting night comes back to you: Homelander’s mouth on your neck, your chest, your lips, his fingers curling inside you while you–that stranger behind your eyes–gasped in pleasure and kissed him back.

You try to replicate his touch. Slow, firm, full of desire and intent. Your stomach flips at the memory of it. How he kissed you like he meant to devour you, how enraptured he became with your pleasure. 

I’ll make you happy if you’d just let me.

Swallowing, you skirt your fingers along the waistband of your pants, teasing the exposed skin there. He had taken your fear, your anguish, and twisted it into something with teeth. 

Something inside you that hungered.

You have no idea how fucking good I can make you feel.

Slipping under the fabric, you push your fingers into your underwear and touch yourself in every way you remember him touching you.

The chill of your fingers–still cold from the balcony–is stark against the heat between your legs. Your pussy feels velvety under your fingers, soft and slick with arousal. 

Look who’s all wet.

You let out a shuddering breath. Trying to replicate his touch only drives home how wholly inhuman he really felt. The unyielding strength in him, how his fingers felt like anchors inside you, grounding you, keeping you so entirely at his mercy that you had no choice but to let go, to give in.

There’s no such plausible deniability here. He’s gone, and yet here you are envisioning him, imitating him, allowing the version of him in your mind to have what you’d been sure he would always have to take. You screw your eyes shut tighter, exhaling a throaty noise as you push your fingers sharply in.

Your hips rock steadily. The harder you try, the less right it feels. You attempt to relax, to let yourself focus on what it feels like now instead of what it felt like then, what it felt like with him. How relentless he was, peppering insistent kisses everywhere he could reach. You touch your neck, press into the tender mark he sucked there. Your pussy clenches at the sensation, and finally you feel as though you’re on the right track.

Something electric begins to crackle inside you. A low, dull pressure that builds gradually. You deepen your breaths, finding a rhythm, losing yourself piece by piece to the dozens of hands pulling at you in your mind. Tearing your clothes, sinking into you, holding you pinned, all of it impossibly happening at once while you’re simultaneously ravaged by lips, tongue and teeth.

Your eyes snap open when a grip like steel snatches your wrist, shocking you out of your fantasy.

Homelander stands over you.

His vibrant blue eyes are dark and glazed over, his lips parted. He’s not looking at you, but instead at your glistening fingers. He tilts your hand, enraptured by how the wetness of them catches the light. 

A visceral rush moves through you, heat and shame and excitement and outrage all in dizzying measure. You move to yank your hand back, but despite the looseness of his grip, the curl of his fingers is unyielding. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

With his other hand braced on the headboard, he leans in at the same time he pulls you closer, his eyes falling shut as he sucks two of your fingers into his mouth.

The heat of it shocks you all over, makes your stomach drop in a hot and sudden broil. His tongue slides up the seam between your fingers, pushing between them, licking away every single trace of slickness from them.

“Homelander,” you rasp, tone ambiguous in the flux of your inner turmoil.

His eyes open part way, landing on you heavy and hungry. He pulls your fingers from his mouth with an obscene, wet noise. His tongue moves over his top lip in a slow slide, dipping around his sharp canines. His breaths are shallow, nostrils flaring on every heavy inhale. He’s barely tasted you and yet he looks drunk on it, cheeks flushed red.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks, his voice guttural, raw with open and eager desire.

For once, the truth and what you know he wants to hear are one in the same. It sits on your tongue with the weight of an anchor, his expectant gaze a bottomless ocean. 

If you give it to him, are you prepared to sink?

What’s your alternative?

“You.”

Homelander groans. 

He releases your hand and takes hold of your hips instead, yanking you to the edge of the bed with such ease of force it makes you gasp. He yanks your pants off with a sharp pull, though he manages not to tear them this time.

The feverishness that he touches you with makes your whole body sing, instantly sparking the ember you’d been tending into a blazing fire. Your blood races with adrenaline, desire surging alongside instinctual fear, the two intermingling to the point where you can no longer discern one from the other.

“I was thinking about yesterday,” you say, breath hitching for the way he kisses his way down your stomach, fingers biting into your hips.  “The way you touched me.”

Like gasoline splashed over a flame, your words intensify the ravenous fire of him. He sinks to his knees, your legs hitched over his shoulders, peppering kisses along your inner thigh, hands cupped under your ass, which he’s pulled completely off the bed.

Your heart thunders in your chest while his hot huffs of breath so close to where you’re wet and wanting make you shiver. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, the thrum of his restraint an effortless reminder of all that he is, all that he’s capable of. The awareness of how easily he could tear you apart is no longer frightening. Instead, it’s the understanding that he won’t that thrills you. 

In the same way you couldn’t stop him when he wanted to please you, if Homelander wanted to hurt you, you couldn’t stop him. There is a surreal freedom in that, a permission to let go of the weight of fear and responsibility for yourself, for your actions.

Reap the reward.

He kisses all the way to the core of you, where his mouth closes over your clit, hot and wet and devouring. His tongue slides around and over, the rolling pull of his lips coaxing a deeper pleasure. 

All the while he holds you firmly in place, trapping you in relentless euphoria. His mouth is just as merciless as the rest of him, never needing to pause or take a breath. He’s machine-like in his rigor, but the fervor of his consumption is decidedly animalistic.

You can hardly catch your breath in the onslaught. Reaching down, you thread your fingers into his hair–it’s softer than it has any right to be–and pull hard. That earns you a throaty moan from him, the vibrations of it adding an entirely new element of sensation.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. His tongue moves down, focusing instead on fucking you in shallow but powerful thrusts. The strength of it, the underlying hum of barely contained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina drives you wild against his mouth.

Between plunging his tongue into you and sucking on your clit, he drinks you down noisily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. You use what little leeway his grip allows to grind against his tongue, riding the tidal wave of your building release all the way to the top. 

His hand slides inward, fingers splayed to support your weight while his thumb dips deep enough to slip into you, finally giving your pussy something solid to squeeze. It’s enough to tip you over the edge. You push your other hand into his hair and hold on for dear life, arching your back with a cry that fills the entire penthouse as pleasure overtakes you, crashing down on you like a tsunami.

Like before, Homelander doesn’t take your climax alone as an invitation to stop. A man possessed, he licks, sucks and kisses your throbbing clit through every single aftershock of your orgasm. Pleasure eventually trails into discomfort, a slight tingling burn that finally gives you the strength to push him away.

He doesn’t relent right away, too lost in you to feel the meager protest. You push harder, making a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper, overstimulated, and he finally withdraws, giving one last noisy slurp before setting you back on the bed and rising. He’s painting, face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown completely black.

In your euphoria addled delirium, the look of him makes you want to run far away as much as it makes you want to kiss him.

Licking his lips, he crawls up your body, his gaze still predator hungry. You catch his face between your palms, your breaths still shallow, and marvel at how raw he looks. 

For all your fears about what he could be hiding from you, Homelander has never been anything but brutishly upfront. He told you who and what he was the moment you woke up in his bed. You can understand his logic now–why bother muddying the waters with needless lies? He never deceived you because he wanted you to know who he was, and who he expected you to be.

Even now, he is an open book to you. Your pleasure is mine, his expression declares. The claim is in his eyes, shining on his lips, in the heady scent of it on his breath. You are mine.

And he is, without a shadow of a doubt, yours.

You trace his bottom lip with your thumb, transfixed by the way he followed it, pressing wet kisses to the pad. You tilt your thumb forward, grazing his teeth. His bottom canines are sharp, and when you press your thumb down on one of them, he closes his lips around it, sucking on it with a needy little noise that lances heat straight through you. 

Despite the immensity of his power, he’s malleable in your hands. You pull, he follows, huffing out shallow little breaths. You pull your thumb away and he looks at you with cloudy eyes, brows tightly pinched. Between your bodies, he fusses with his belt until it clicks loose.

“Stop,” you breathe, pressing a hand to his chest.

His expression twists, damn near wounded. “Wha–why? I thought–”

You kiss him before he can put himself in another rejection induced spiral, licking the words right out of his mouth before you say, “Take the suit off.”

Another soft groan from him before he’s lifting off of you, unfastening his suit. You take the opportunity to shed the last of your layers, your heart racing. You half expected him to rush, to fumble in his hurriedness, but despite his obvious excitement, he’s methodical in removing his suit, placing it on the rack in the way he always does.

It’s almost long enough to give you time to think about what you’re doing, about whether the pounding in your chest is thrill or not. That same primal part of you is shouting to run, and you are running, just not away. You’re tired of running away. This time, you’re running headlong into Homelander.

And he catches you.

He’s upon you before you can examine it any further, bare skin hot against yours. He kisses the column of your throat, breathing you in.

At the first nudge of his cock, a breathy little noise escapes you. He savors grinding the head of it tantalizingly against your clit, moving through the mess he’s made of you. You’re soaking wet, thighs coated in saliva and slick. He presses his chest down against yours and the heat of him makes you shiver. 

He isn’t putting his full weight down on you, but the sheer force of him over you is suffocating. Breathing makes you feel as though you’re pressed against a brick wall, stifling you. Trapping you. You start to shake your head.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” you say, fighting the welling panic in your throat. “Roll over. On your back.”

Confused but not opposed, he does as he’s told, moving off of you and onto his back. You swing your leg over him, and he instantly understands, grasping your hips to help gather you into position over him. His lips split into a wide grin, dark eyes glinting wickedly.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes, squeezing your hips. There’s a giddiness to him, like part of him didn’t believe that this would happen, much less that you would ever be the one leading it.

Straddling his thighs, sitting just behind his cock, you can feel the tension of his excitement thrumming throughout his body. With control on your side, you move forward, reaching between your legs to angle him into the right position.

His grip on you flexes as he fights with himself to stay still while you descend slowly, the swell of him splitting you open in one slow, hot slide.

Gravity brings you down most of the way, but a jerk of his hips that he pulls you into bottoms him out, and you both gasp with the suddenness of it, your body locking up around his throbbing cock.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants, but his grip doesn’t ease. Like he’s lost control of himself, he holds you firmly in place while he fucks you, watching you through heavily lidded eyes, lips parted. “S’good, s’fuckin’–so fucking good,” he moans, expression twisting in pleasure. 

It’s too much all at once–Homelander always is–but you take it, gripping his wrists. He fucks like a machine, each thrust a shock to your system, momentum building into quicker, harder thrusts.

“S-slow down,” you half moan, practically choking on the overwhelming fullness of him inside you. He isn’t thrusting in and out so much as he’s grinding into you in shallow bursts, carving out the shape of himself within you like he intends never to leave.

“Take me so good,” he murmurs, and if not for the slight slow down of his thrusts, you’d think he didn’t hear you. He sits up, the ease with which he moves even with you on top of him still throwing you for a loop. “Knew you would, knew you’d be mine, all mine. Made just for me.”

His hands slide up your body, one arm moving around your waist while his hand slides up to cup the back of your head. He kisses you, pins your chest to his, ensures you feel every ounce of his desperation to be with you, near you, inside you.

It’s more than being fucked–it’s like being taken apart so that you can be put back together around him. A permanent emptiness in his perfect image.

You were not made for him. You have been remade.

The next thing you know, Homelander is standing up, your legs hitched around his waist, ankles locked behind him. You wrap your arms around his neck and gasp for the way the position brings him in deeper yet, every bounce on his cock heavier now.

“Look at me,” he rasps. You don’t remember closing your eyes, but you open them at his prompt, looking at him through the delirium of heat and pleasure. His dark eyes are glassy, and he’s looking at you with such raw, vulnerable love that it makes your heart twist in agony. “I love you.”

You take a breath, your own eyes welling with tears, and you kiss him.

I believe you, you think, tears rolling down your cheeks while the pressure of climax builds steadily back up.

It isn’t love like they tell it in fairy tales. It’s love the way the poets write it. It’s blood and tears, a gnawing hunger that eats you from the inside out, leaves you empty and clawing to cram something into yourself as replacement.

It’s love like an infection, a fever that never fades. It’s devotion and yearning that runs so deep it turns into violence. It’s desperation and the all consuming desire to be accepted for what you are, no matter the ugliness of it. It’s the most raw form of need a person is capable of.

It’s survival.

The kiss breaks and he presses his forehead to yours, your shallow breaths mingling hot and wet in the narrow space between your mouths.

The rest of the world falls away in jagged pieces–circumstance, fear, pity, hatred, pain–and narrows only to the two of you; your bodies joined, your gazes fixed on one another, and the electric pleasure of the friction between you.

“I–” you gasp, choking on your own words as he fucks you to the razors edge of release. “I love you, too.”

Maybe he’s broken you, or maybe it’s impossible to live in madness without going a little mad yourself. 

He makes a noise like you’ve gutted him, eyes screwed shut. He slams in once, twice, thrice more and you lose yourself to the heat of it all, breath stolen from your lungs by the crash of release that overwhelms your every sense.

You lose track of time, of the hammer of his body against yours. He comes shortly after, stilling deep inside you with a rush so hot that it makes you gasp into the crook of his neck, where you let yourself collapse. You’re dead weight in his arms, but you may as well weigh nothing at all for the toll it takes on him.

Sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed, he embraces you like that for a long while. Your euphoria keeps you on a cloud somewhere high above, serving as cushioning between how you feel and what you know. Just like yesterday, mindless pleasure is an intoxicating reprieve from reality, and you’re thoroughly drunk on it.

He rubs your back in slow familiar patterns. You idly toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, which prompts him to pepper you in languid kisses. Touching you like this comes to him as naturally as breathing. Your bodies slot together like two pieces of a puzzle that were long lost from each other.

“See?” he whispers, easing your bodies down onto the bed, under the covers. “I didn’t break you.”

You offer a dazed smile, not quite as certain that he didn’t. Your pelvis aches slightly, an overall tenderness to you akin to the pain you’d feel the day after a particularly hard fall.

That isn’t the ache you’re concerned about, though. It’s the one in your chest that gives you pause.

“There’s still time.”

His brows furrow while he processes the words, but after a beat, he smiles, taking it as a playful challenge.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Yes, you think, settling your head on his chest, listening to the steady pound of his heart. I certainly am.

Exhaling a deep breath, you close your eyes, content to allow yourself this respite, however brief.

In hindsight, you will always remember this moment as the quiet just before the storm.

[bisexualhomelander]

Homelander + non-sexual intimacy

1x02 // 1x08 // 3x06 // 4x01 // 4x06

[frank3nfag]

[mattciav]

Nah, Sportacus can easily kill Homelander. It’s not even a competition

[moopiter]

inspired by @himelander's post X

Happy very not Vought approved Holidays!

[hom3landr]

Writer’s Block

18+

In which Homelander thoroughly enjoys a quiet night in, his hand, and some ao3.

CW: Selfcest adjacent, Anal play, Masturbation,

“His hand wraps firmly around your throat as he bends you over your desk with a low groan. The hard bulge in his costume grinds against your ass and each filthy thrust causes your hips to bump painfully against the wooden edge. The various knick knacks and office supplies decorating your space rattle with the movement. His hot breath causes you to moan as he whispers into your ear.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Homelander groans low in his throat as he strokes his cock languidly. The leather of the couch that was cool at first is now growing warm from the heat of his body. His cock twitches in his hand and a drop of precum drips down his knuckles onto the cushion. He’s taking it slow tonight. He intends to draw out his pleasure now that he finally has the entire space to himself for the night.

Now that he has a son to raise, he’s had to stop being so bold about where and when he decides to take a load off and relax. Luckily he was able to pawn Ryan off on Victoria and Zoe for a sleepover. Vicky wasn’t happy about the surprise but he isn’t sure why. His son is a fucking delight. He plans to make the most of his free time as he reclines lazily and uses the remote in his free hand to scroll through the fanfiction on the screen.

He had found the stories maudlin and pathetic at first when he first stumbled onto the online community dedicated to writing about him. They made him laugh at how desperate and pathetic they were. Even the ego boost wasn’t enough to erase the disdain towards the nobodies of the world who deigned to think that he would ever want to fuck them. He’s so pristine in the stories. A white knight handsome savior to sweep them away from their problems. If only they knew the real him and not the puppet Vought made him into.

But that was when he had Stormfront on his arm. A perfect goddess to chase away the pangs of loneliness and who any ordinary mud person would pale in comparison to. When he lost her, he began to see the value in such pathetic fantasies. As he lost more and more control over his surroundings, it was comforting to disappear into this place where the world still revolved around him and he could see proof of devotion that wasn’t just the steadily dropping points tacked to his name.

People still wanted him.

And sure, things might be looking up for him now. He’s head of Vought and he finally has his beloved son by his side. He has an army of mindless fans ready to fight for him. But his bed is still cold and a man has needs. There’s an earnest quality to the writing that scratches an itch that isn’t satisfied by the subpar porn Vought churns out. This is personal.

He grips his cock a little firmer and he twitches as he runs his thumb over his sensitive slit. He continues to read.

“He can smell your arousal. It coats the back of his throat and he can taste it on the roof of his mouth.”

Homelander unconsciously licks his lips. It’s not hard for him to conjure up the smell of sex in his mind. His own pleasure is already heady in his own nose. He whines and brings two fingers up to his lips and sucks. The salty tang of his own slick is filthy and his whole body throbs. His hipbones ache as he imagines what it would be like to be bent over, to lose himself to pleasure completely, to have all the worries and concerns knocked out of his brain. He can understand why this fantasy would appeal to someone so insignificant as the author. It’s not a perspective that he would normally ever indulge in but there’s something so tempting about it.

“You struggle to catch your breath and muster any kind of defense as he continues to take up more of your space. One hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, cutting off your airflow even further. He can hear you clench around nothing and a smug smile spreads across his face.”

Still sucking on his fingers, his other hand drops the remote and wraps itself around his neck. He presses down cautiously and the restriction of his own airflow causes a wave of heat to flow through his veins. He bucks up into nothing with a low grunt.

“He presses hot and hungry kisses against your jaw as his free hand grabs the waistband of your work trousers and tugs. The fabric rips easily and you can’t even gasp in surprise as his fingers delve under your underwear to press against your hole.”

Homelander follows suit, taking his spit slick fingers out of his mouth and reaching down to tease around his rim. He gasps, sensitive. He’s no stranger to touching himself here but it’s like a shock every time just how nice it feels. He wonders what the inbred brain dead hicks who worship him would think if they knew their fearless hero liked a little ass play. Would they still grovel? Would they keep him on his pedestal? He laughs bitterly at the irony of his power over people still being reliant on fitting into the narrow insipid boxes they feel like putting him in. He has everything he’s always wanted but he’s still fucking trapped.

Tears prick at his eyes. He’d started this just wanting to feel good but now his stomach is uneasy and his erection is already starting to flag. Even alone, he can’t escape people’s expectations of him. He removes the hand from his throat and wipes at his eyes, self loathing building tight in his chest at how pathetic he is. He can’t even get himself off properly and now he’s crying over it. He grabs the remote and goes to turn off the screen in self pity but his eyes catch the next words.

“Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of the situation. Everything is happening so fast and so much.

“Shhhhh” He whispers in your ear. “You might as well just let it happen. Let yourself feel good. It’s not like you have a choice.”

“It’s not like you have a choice.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can hear his own voice echoing in his head. It’s familiar and he follows where it leads. He brushes reality aside as he allows himself to sink back into the fantasy. He thinks about the ache in his hipbones and a body pressing him down and forcing him to relax. He puts his hand back on his throat, this time pressing harder until it borders on the hint of pain as his head swims. Idly he wonders where this written version of himself came from. How one measly author amidst the rush of saccharine romances managed to capture this raw real side of him.

He opens his eyes and squints so the world is a little fuzzy. The words on the screen blur but are still readable and as long as he has those he can block anything else out.

“Your body goes limp against the desk, becoming little more than a doll for him to play with. He dips his fingers into you, stretching you just enough to make you gasp before pulling back. He’s gentle but inescapable and there’s nothing that you can do except succumb to his touches. You moan pathetically as he finally takes pity on you, two deft fingers finally pressing in fully as they twist and curl until they find the spot that makes your legs tremble and shake.”

He whimpers as his fingers delve inside. It’s been a while since he’s had the opportunity to do this and he’s tight. He huffs and he can feel the bobbing of his adam’s apple against his hand. He can’t move yet as he focuses on relaxing his muscles until he’s no longer at risk of pushing his fingers right back out. The stretch feels good and his cock quickly swells back to its previous hardness. He’s torn between reaching down to stroke himself or staying put and following along with the whims of the story. He crooks his fingers slightly and a strangled yelp leaves his lips as lightning shoots up and down his spine.

“Touch yourself.” Homelander instructs as he continues to scissor his fingers and stretch you out properly. “C’mon, don’t make me do all the work.”

Homelander wastes no time. He’s eager now that he has permission. He wishes that there was a way to keep the pressure on his neck but he’ll have to think of something for next time. His cock throbs under his palm as he begins to stroke himself. The room fills with eager wet sounds and it allows him to sink deeper into the fantasy. He reads on, eager to know what he’ll do next. It baffles him why anyone would want to leave him now that he knows how good being with him feels.

He’d had an opportunity before, with Doppelganger. But it was wrong. It wasn’t him. It was just a pathetic needy imitation. So ready to please that it reeked of desperation. He’d seen something in “his” face that day that turned his stomach. He’d needed it gone.

This is different. This fictional version of him is perfect, strong, determined, and willing to just take what he wants. He’s perfect, like marble.

Homelander moans echo through the penthouse, filling up all the open space and desecrating the ears of the founding fathers. He has no need to be shy now that he has the place to himself again for the night. His cock is leaking all over his hand and dripping down onto the leather. The wet sloppy sounds of him working himself over are practically deafening to his sensitive hearing.

“That’s it, Sweetheart. Doesn’t it feel good to take some initiative. It’s a good thing the rest of the tower doesn’t have my hearing.” He goes quiet for a moment, allowing the sloppy sounds to echo through the empty room. “You would not believe some of the things I’ve heard go on around here. For example, do you remember fucking yourself in the bathroom after I surprised you in the elevator the other day?”

A wave of shame and panic floods through you as the memory of the elevator comes back to you. You were too flustered to say anything then. You had been surprised that he would bother with an elevator at all. The masculine vetiver scent of his cologne was subtle but in the confined space it seemed almost suffocating. You hadn’t said anything and he didn’t bother to even acknowledge your presence. He didn’t even look your way. Still, the strange intensity of the encounter had you running into the empty bathroom to relieve some stress. You wouldn’t have been able to concentrate otherwise.

“Nothing? I could practically smell you during my meeting. I could definitely hear you rubbing away.” He leans down to nip at your ear.”

Homelander briefly lets go of his cock to massage his balls, groaning loudly. He wants to prolong this but he can feel himself reaching the end of his rope. His abdomen is sore from the clenching of his muscles and he can feel his heartbeat in every fiber of his body. His lungs can’t seem to get enough air as he gasps at the wave of arousal.

Something prickles at the back of his brain. The story ignites some synapse that sparks an unimportant memory. It’s not enough to draw him out of his fantasy but somewhere in his hindbrain he logs it.

He imagines someone hearing him right now and his cock twitches. He gives a comforting squeeze as he wiggles the fingers inside himself again.

Fuck

“The combination of his filthy words along with your eager rubbing has you coming undone before he even fucks you. You feel truly visible for the first time.. Homelander saw that embarrassing needy part of you and he wanted it. He tracked you down once the rest of the crime analytics team had left and bent you right over your desk.

“There you go. Doesn’t it feel better to come on my fingers instead of your own?”

FUCK

Homelander’s vision goes red and hot as his fingers hit the spot inside him juuuuuust right. He tenses, entire body locking up, balls tightening, toes curling against the floor. He hangs weightless for a single moment before the storm of pleasure hits like a tidal wave. Hot ropes of come splatter all over his thighs and chest as he frantically strokes himself, milking himself of every last drop of pleasure. He bears down on his hand as he rides himself through it. He can hear his own voice ringing in his ears, the perfect voice of his best self.

“Doesn’t it feel better to come on my fingers instead of your own?”

In his mind he’s bent over the desk with a warm body against his back. His hips are sore but his muscles are pleasantly relaxed for once. He feels safe and protected. A strong hand grips his hip to hold him steady as the other Homelander removes his fingers with a soft wet noise.

He slumps into the leather, pleasantly sated.

Once he’s regained his senses a bit, he reaches for the remote and clicks off the tv. He’ll have to remember to finish the entire fic later when his cock has recovered a bit. The black screen reflects his face and Homelander is surprised to see the pleasure drunk smile on his face. He can’t remember the last time he smiled like this. Probably not since… He quickly shakes his head and shoves all thought of her from his brain. He doesn’t need anyone else to get off. He’s just fine on his own.

The little brain worm from earlier returns now that the room is quiet and distractions are gone. His mind still itches. Homelander clicks the tv back on and scrolls back up with a frown.

Crime analytics?

Most of the fics he reads are mindlessly generic. Most depict a banal office atmosphere when the setting takes place at Vought tower. It’s very easy for him to tell when the author is an outsider. Name dropping a specific department is new. Not to mention, the way the office was described in the beginning was eerily similar to the large room where the crime department is located…eerily similar.

Homelander’s heart pounds as he puts together the pieces. The author works at Vought and he knows in which department. The author has likely crossed paths with him. In fact, Homelander’s stomach tightens as he skims the fic, the author has probably shared an elevator with him.

He checks the upload date.

One week ago…

The unimportant memory floods back.

One week ago, he’d frightened a mousy crime analyst when he’d stopped the elevator for a ride. The little analyst never even looked directly at him. It was typical and not even worth the effort to get annoyed by. The sound of a fluttering heart and the scent of adrenaline were common occurrences no matter where he went. The moment he exited was the moment he’d already begun to forget.

Homelander sighs contentedly as he closes his eyes and lets himself bask in the afterglow. Curiosity sated, he lets his mind wander. Maybe he’ll surprise his little writer tomorrow and let them properly enjoy the fantasy this time. It’s the least he can do.

He reaches down and touches his hip, the phantom soreness still lingering.

After all, he knows just how good it feels to be fucked by him.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 28 - Something That I'm Supposed to Be

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: As we’re in the home stretch, I offer some sweet fluff and nasty smut to pad the absolute violence on the horizon.

Chapter Title from Rainbow Connection by Kermit.

Word Count: 29.1k (sorry)

Chapter Summary/Warnings: The team drives to DC for a meeting with Singer. Usual warnings, with a extra smut.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, very big fluff, p in v sex, oral (m and f reciving), established relationship

Read on A03!

Chapter 27 - Chapter 29

When the sun starts to rise, the ocean isn’t blue or green. It’s black and gold, almost like oil. It swallows Mallory’s burnt and mangled body in an instant, and the shattered pieces of Ben’s shield even faster.

You’d told him it was fixable. That it had broken the first time around, but still been sealed back into one, solid piece. He’d just shaken his head, his hand on your waist tracing soft patterns in a stark contrast with the grave expression on his face, and tossed the larger pieces into the harbor. The smaller ones were either burnt, scattered across the wreckage, or buried under rubble.

It didn’t really matter. Not right now, as everyone stood in a silent vigil, watching the sun slowly break over the horizon until the water was blue, and you had to exchange bleak, heavy looks of now what.

Ryan was still shaking. Butcher keeps a firm grip on his shoulder as you walked back to his car—somehow spared from the wrath of the fight—but he turns and shuffles to you as soon as the whole team settles into a circle. His head presses into your chest, his arms wrapping around you in the same clinging, fearful manner as before, and his whole body relaxing when you hug him back. And when your hand moves to his head—petting his hair as you sway Ryan back and forth—the world-blurring terror and heart-numbing grief and head-eating guilt in Ryan’s body begins to wane.

Ben stands at your side, tall and watchful, full of that painful, aching glow that feels like both a hurricane and it’s refuge. Ripping him apart inside, and sewing him back together in the very same second. And you’re not much better, mostly just so tired, but still with a lump in your throat and something cold over your skin that’s warming with the sun and under Ben’s firm, reverent touch.

Nobody is looking well for wear. There are various levels of bruising and blood over everyone’s bodies, and you’re barely wearing any clothing. Ben had pulled off his boxers for you before you’d returned to the group—carrying you in his arms and folded over your body to shield you from view—Butcher had scrounged up a hideous Hawaiian shirt from his car to cover your bloody tits and keep Soldier Boy from carvin out our fuckin eyes, you’d manage not to vomit as you pulled on Mallory’s blood covered pants, and your jacket survived the chaos. It’s not exactly fashionable, but it is incredibly suspicious.

You can’t linger here. In the devastation of the fight with Homelander—emergency services and government investigators will be here soon, and you can’t afford to be seen when they arrive—or the weight of this unforgiving knowledge of how you have so few paths left. Homelander got away, and you’re still here, but the last supply of V is gone. You could just try to fight him, but he’s gone back to Sage. She’ll take one look at his now hideous, scarred and burned features, and refuse to let him anywhere you. You don’t know how much gas they have, and you need the V if you want to just knock him down and finish this. For any ending that doesn’t involve blood turning the water and earth red once more, you need the V.

You think you have one, very last chance. A gamble that’s more likely to fail than pay off, but is still the only option you really have.

So you take a long, deep breath—keeping Ryan steady against your body, and your body steady against Ben’s—and place your shot in the dark out on the table for debate.

“The Cornucopia is a villa. In Rome. Built by Fredrick Vought.” You look around at their frowns of confusion, and continue. “He gave it to me. And Sage is after it, so-“

“It’s important.” MM mutters, running a hand over his face. “If Sage is still after it this late in the game, it might be real fucking important.”

You nod, letting out a soft sigh. “Important enough for her to look for, and for her to offer Ben and I help getting out in exchange for it.”

Butcher’s eyes flare. “Sage offered what-“

“We turned it down, asshole.” Ben grunts, a flash of something hot and bitter in his veins as he tugs you closer. “You pussies can’t get rid of us that easy.”

“I ain’t worried about that, you twats are like a cancer in my fuckin taint, but Sage don’t seem like the offerin type-“

“Offer was the wrong word,” you mutter. “It was a deal. Ben and I get to leave, she makes sure Homelander never finds us, and when we find the Cornucopia we give it to her instead of Edgar.”

Hughie frowns. “When you find it? Didn’t we already-“

“We did.” You cross your arms, looking around at your team as they begin to connect the dots. “And Sage doesn’t know that. She also doesn’t seem to know what it is, just that Edgar has it, and she wants it. Which means-“

“It might be a weapon.” Annie finishes your sentence, her eyes wide. “If it’s just a name to her, and, you said Fredrick Vought owned it, right?”

“Yeah. Edgar said he built the place himself.” 

“And that he met with a bunch of other fucking science pussies there,” Ben adds, voice gruff and low. “For extra eyes.”

Your free hand drift to Ben’s—covering your hips—and you squeeze it gently. You love him, and next time anyone dares to think of this remarkably observant and aggressively perceptive man as stupid, you’ll punch them.

“Exactly.” You nod, continuing to address the group as Ben’s fingers tangle in yours. “So the chance that there’s at least something there is-“

“High.” MM grunts. “Real damn high. But I don’t know what the fuck we can do about it, if the villa’s all the way in Rome-“

You swallow, pushing the solution out of your throat. “We’re only twenty minutes from an international airport. Our CIA credit cards probably haven’t been frozen yet, so Ben and I can get a flight-“

“But the Homelander is very famous for taking down many, many planes.” Frenchie interjects, his words and expression painted with nerves. “It would not be safe to fly-“

“I, I know.” You sigh, and a biting memory of wind that pierced through your skin and turned your body into something sick flashes through your head. “But if we’re fast, he’ll have no way to figure out what we’re doing. And he won’t be going out in public until his face fixes itself.”

Annie blinks at you. “His face-“

“I burned him. Worse than the tower.”

“How fuckin bad did the cunt get it?” There’s a twisted glee in Butcher’s voice, and you keep your voice level and bored as you answer.

“Bad enough that he’s not going to want anyone to see.”

Butcher scowls—obviously about to push for a more descriptive answer—but MM cuts him off with a firm, slow words and a grave expression.

“If you two motherfuckers jet off the Rome, to get on top of this Cornucopia shit, that still leaves us high and dry until you get some answers.”

It’s a question, phrased as a statement. What do the Boys do while you’re gone. You can’t all go to Rome, that’s expensive and likely not very productive—just you and Ben together will be difficult enough to keep disguised—but the compound probably won’t be secure very, very soon.

But not yet. Right now you probably have half a day until the federal government catches up with this mess, so you take that and fucking run with it.

“You can go back to Jersey.” You look around the group, not wasting time to think out your words as you say them. You can revise as you go. “Get all our stuff out while you still can. Pick up A-Train, grab clothing and supplies, then lay low. Find somewhere safe and stay there until Ben and I get back. Don’t bother with damage control, because we don’t know what Sage or Singer will say about this. We might be about to be public enemies, and we can’t risk giving the media any possible extra information. So right now, all we can do is hide.”

“We could return to the Renegade Room-“

You cut off Frenchie’s suggestion with a shake of your head. “No. It has to be somewhere with absolutely no Vought association, and no chance that Sage…” You pause, trailing off and narrowing your eyes at the air. “Scratch that. Vought association might be good. Sage won’t look for you in her own territory, because that’s a stupid move and it might not even occur to her. Go to Edgar’s farm. It’s far enough removed that no one will just recognize you, and close enough that you can get back if you really need to. Stop at Neuman’s and pick up Ashley, then fucking book it to Maine.”

Everyone is silent for a second, thinking over your words, and you feel Ryan’s grip on you start to bruise your skin. You look down at him with a soft frown, and find his eyes wide and anxious and pleading in a way that makes your whole body ache. He’s not really afraid anymore—at least not in a way that’s paralyzing to either of you—but he is nervous. Hopeless. Filled with a slight mold that reminds you of Ben’s, and the pound of his weighted despair visceral is in your blood and muscles.

“Ryan, what’s-“

He leans up, words hushed like he’s afraid the sky might hear. “I don’t want you to go.”

You choke on something soft and painful, and force a small, sad close-lipped smile onto your face. “I know.” You whisper, pulling your hand from Ben’s to cup Ryan’s face. “But we’ll be back.”

“But what if my dad comes back-“

“He won’t hurt you.” You raise your voice, just enough to ensure your team hears to unspoken order in your words. That, above all else, they need to keep Ryan safe from Homelander. “A-Train will get you far away, and Butcher will protect you, or you can go hide with Neuman. But Homelander won’t get to you, I promise.”

Ryan nods slowly, eyes drifting over to Ben. “And you’ll, you’ll be safe-“

“We’re going to be fine, kid.” Ben grunts. “Don’t worry about us, we’ll be back before you even damn blink.”

“Are you,” Ryan blinks at Ben, his expression wide and open, and something rolling around in his gut like worry. “Are you okay? With the V?”

Ben looks like someone punched him, and you can feel the shock slam into his body like a bomb. It’s not bad, he’s not angry, but it’s like lightning through his heart and lungs. Like he’s in disbelief that Ryan would even be fucked to worry about him at all. Before he gets a chance to respond, though, MM cuts in with tense words.

“What V?”

You take this one, because Ben looks like he needs another second. “We kind of, um, found some extra original formula V. And Ben shot it up during the fight.”

Annie’s mouth falls open. “But that’s so dangerous, isn’t that V really fucking unstable-“

“I’m fine.” Ben snaps through gritted teeth. “Didn’t even fucking feel it-“

Liar. You glare up at him. I felt it, Benjamin. And I thought I was dying.

Ben’s gaze whips to you, and his grip on your body tightens. What the fuck do you mean, you felt it.

You sigh, because you’d been hoping to have this conversation later. I literally felt it. Like it was happening to me as well. With the V, and the fight with Homelander. I think it’s the brain connection, I’ll ask Frenchie-

“Frenchie.” Ben grunts, aloud. “Could the brain connection shit mean that she feels my fucking pain.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, muttering dramatic man-child down your connection, but turn to look at Frenchie all the same.

“It could, hypothetically. If Her brain became deep enough that it hit your nervous systems-“

“Well why the fuck didn’t we catch it before-“

“We haven’t been in combat,” you turn back to Ben, chewing on your lips. “So there wasn’t really anything to catch before. But I, um-“ You glance down at Ryan—still in your arms and looking between you and Ben with a curious, nervous expression—and decide to move the conversation into your heads. I’ve felt your orgasms, Ben. And it happened before the connection, so I thought it was just the empathy. But maybe it was because I was physically touching you during it, I just don’t have to now. And it’s just the more intense feelings that get through.

Ben scans over your face. I haven’t felt your orgasms. He frowns. I’m pretty damn sure I haven’t.

Well, we’ll figure it out later. You look back to the group, making your voice measured and settled, no room for debate. Ben will still have new powers to fight with everyone about later, and you and Ben will still be just as—if not more—connected when you return from Rome. Right now is not the time to linger and pick apart anything, not when your fate is in an hourglass that’s running out by the second. “I know it’s a lot, but we have to move. Right now my best estimate is that Ben’s new powers are some sort of energy or nuclear manipulation, but we don’t have the time for semantics. Ben and I will figure it out later, and we’ll keep in contact with you on the phone Annie got me. Let us know when you get to Maine, we’ll tell you when we get to Rome, and please, stay safe.” Your gaze falls back to Ryan, and you give him a gentle smile. “We’ll be back soon. Listen to Butcher, and ask him to call me if you need to, okay?”

Ryan nods, but doesn’t move away from you. He dives fully into your hug, squeezing you in a way that might snap your ribs, and you try and use your fire to make your body as warm as possible. Keeping your hold on Ryan steady as Ben takes over in addressing the team, the humming glow in his body passing between you both.

“You assholes take the car, I can get us to the airport myself. Watch the kid with your fucking life, and if I he tells me even one of you pussies so much as looked at him wrong-“

“We got it, Gov.” Butcher mutters, reaching his arms out to Ryan. “Let’s move, kid. She ain’t gonna vanish if you let go of her.”

Ryan nods, peeling himself from your body, and has barely started to turn back to Butcher before he’s twisting back around and a crashing into Ben.

You wish this was easier. That you could smile at how Ben didn’t hesitate to return Ryan’s hug—it takes him a moment to relax, but his arms had shot up before Ryan had even fully leaned into him—with it only being sweet on your tongue, instead of mixed with something bitter on your teeth. You can still meet Ben’s eyes when he glances at you over Ryan’s head, and squeeze his bicep in silent thanks, but you can’t stay here and savor this moment.

You have to go.

Ryan walks back to Butcher with a low head and one last quiet look of anxiety on his face, and you give him a soft, gentle smile. You’ll be okay, Ryan. You’re strong, and Butcher will take care of you.

He nods the uneasy look in his eyes relaxing slightly, but his features remain lined with uncertainty. Promise me you’ll come back?

You think you might be choking on something so, so heavy, yet still only a mist. I promise. 

Butcher guides Ryan back to the car with a borderline respectful nod and grunt of don’t fuckin die at you and Ben, and Ben stands tall and watchful at your side as Annie and Hughie give you tight hugs—their bodies filled with worry and fear and an ill feeling of doubt, but never hesitating or flinching away at your touch—and offer Ben nods.

“Um, Ben,” Hughie swallows at his own use of Ben’s real name, but doesn’t take it back as he reached into his jacket. “Annie got you a phone too, we didn’t figure Mallory was going to give you another.”

Ben looks between Hughie outstretched hand and his cautious but unafraid expression, and makes a low, gruff sound as he takes the phone. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Annie says, leaning past Hughie to say your name. “Don’t let him use it for anything weird-“

“Don’t worry.” Your lips tug up, your voice teasing as you nudge Ben’s shoulder. “When I set it up, I’ll put parental locks on it. No porn for you, Pretty Boy-“

Ben pulls you back under his arm, kissing you in a long, rough way that makes your knees a little weak. Don’t need porn. Got you.

Oh. Your brain is going a little numb under Ben’s unyielding touch and the way he seems to be everywhere against you, so you just fall a little further into him with a breathy sigh. Okay then.

Someone clears their throat, and when Ben pulls away from you—sucking on your lip before rising back up—you barely get a chance to ground yourself before Kimiko is tackling you in a tight hug.

“We both hope your flight is safe.” You hear Frenchie tell Ben, your own eyes closed as you sit in Kimiko’s care and determination, shockingly similar to Ben’s and coursing through your body. “Is there anything you would like retrieved from the compound-“

“Yes.” You look up, and Kimiko pulls away with a small nod at Ben. “Ben’s suit, and the rest of the suppressants. Not for me,” you give Ben a pointed look, and his mouth snaps shut with a glower. “But just to keep it away from the government. It’s in my underwear drawer, just take it with you to Maine. Please.”

Frenchie blinks, but hums an agreement. He shakes your hand—and Ben’s, but with a little less enthusiasm—and when he and Kimiko turn to the car, it’s just you, Ben, and MM left outside.

MM’s arms are crossed, and he’s watching you with an expression you can’t fully read.

“Stay safe.” You mumble, extending your hand for him to shake. “I’ll give you updates on what we find-“

MM lets out a sound that’s half a grunt and half a scoff, and fully ignores your hand as he pulls you into a hug. It’s not long like your hugs with the others, but it’s solid. And all you feel from him is conviction and will. Nothing lined with resent, or hatred, or disgust. Just a steadfast feeling like a tidal wave. Washing over you with the undeniable knowledge that MM trusts you. That if he ever found your love for Ben to be revolting, if he ever loathed you for it, he doesn’t now.

“Found this shit in the car, looks like it’s yours.” MM hands Ben his hat, and your sunglasses. “Don’t be stupid.” He moves back, holding your gaze with a hand on your free shoulder. “Keep that motherfucker,” his head jerks to Ben. “In line, and take care of yourself.”

“I will.” You whisper. “Thank you.”

MM and Ben shake hands—fast and almost brutal, but without any malice—and then it’s just you and Ben in the rubble. The engine on Butcher’s car starts with a slight sputter, dust kicking up in its wake as they pull out of the harbor yard, and you bury your head in Ben’s chest. You’ll have to move, soon, but for one second longer you just take in Ben’s warmth and inhale the scent of pine and salt and gunpowder that tells you you’ll be okay. Ben is here, so you’ll be okay.

When you pull away, looking up to see Ben already watching you—always watching you, always like you’re holy—and you smile at him as you speak between your heads. Logan Airport isn’t far, but you’ll probably need to steal us a car.

Ben’s mouth twitches slightly, but his gaze keeps pulling you apart. Searching for something on your face that you don’t know how to find for him, but Ben knows you, so he seems to find it himself. You’re afraid of fucking heights. I am not putting you in a situation where you’re going to lose your damn mind.

It’s a little late for that, Pretty Boy. You give him a flat look, and he scowls. And I’ll be fine. You’ll be there.

Something melts in his expression, and any of that aching, rotting feeling that had been eating at Ben’s heart is obliterated by the glow. It becomes overgrown and wild through his body—lighting up his spine and molten in his gut—as his gaze softens, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.

“I love you,” he mutters your name, and you feel that broken, writhing thing in your gut die an easy, peaceful death. “And I’ve fucking got you.”

“I love you too, Benjamin.” Your hands move up to hold his face, his beard soft under your touch and his body seeming to be made only of an ardor that makes the world a blur, but what matters sharp. “You burn, I burn.”

Ben nods, one of his hands dropping to hold yours. There’s a moment longer—just you and Ben, the rest of the world only pointless sounds and colors—and then you have to move.

It’s easy to find a car. The streets outside the harbor are lined with them, and you manage to push down any guilt by finding one that has some truly disgusting bumper stickers. Ben hot wires it while you stand guard, and when Ben draws up, you manage to drop into the driver’s seat before he can stop you.

He leans down to your eye level, scanning over your bright, smug smile and grunting your name. “Get the fuck out of my seat.”

Your smile widens. “Make me.”

He could. Ben could very easily pick you up, or push you over the console. He could kiss you until you whine and melt forward into his body, then draw back up and get all fucking cocky as you jump to your feet to chase his mouth.

But he doesn’t. He just rolls his eyes, grumbles beautiful fucking brat, and stomps around the car to sit shotgun.

Because of that, you make the twenty-minute drive to the airport in fifteen minutes flat. You probably would’ve made it in thirteen, but you’d passed Ben your phone around the seven-minute mark, told him to buy the tickets, and learned very, very quickly that he had no idea how to do that.

“You could pull the goddamn car over and do it yourself-“

“Not a chance, Pretty Boy.” You’d wrinkled your nose at him, switching lanes in a manner that can only be described as life risking. “You’ll kick me out of my seat.”

“Then we’re not getting anywhere, because I can’t do this shit myself-“

He could. You’d walked him through it—tap that button. Don’t do that airline, it’s shit. No, we don’t need any check-ons, we don’t have any property—and had to slow down to think and talk.

By the time you park, Ben has managed to buy two tickets on a one-way trip to Rome, and presents the confirmation screen to you with a wide grin and swelling, heated light in his chest.

“And you put in the right email-“

“I typed what you told me.” He grunts, passing the phone into your hands. “But I didn’t get us economy, fuck that, we’re riding first goddamn class.”

“Ben, first class is like a thousand dollars-“

“Not our money,” he shrugs, and you can feel his eyes on you as you read over the tickets. “And if the CIA pussies have a problem with it, then they can eat my fucking ass.”

“Gross. Even I don’t eat your ass.”

“And you fucking won’t.” Ben pauses, and you look up to see him frowning at you. “Unless you-“

“I do not want to eat your ass, Benjamin.” You don’t bother to push down the giggle at how incredibly serious he is, brow furrowed and looking you over with a frown. “That is very far down on the list of things I want to do with you.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and you feel your face heat before the smirk is even on his face. “You have a fucking list, Sunshine?”

“I mean, I have a vague outline?” You mumble, and this isn’t a battle you’ll win. You not even sure why you started it, because it has and always will end with you pinned under Ben’s strong body, coming apart as he touches and kisses and teases you. “I don’t know, we need to get through security, shut up and move your ass-“

“No.” Ben’s hands grab your hips, and he pulls you onto his lap without any effort. “Our flight isn’t for five fucking hours, darling. I know, because I booked the goddamn tickets. And you’re going to tell me about this vague fucking outline of yours, now.”

“I, um-“ You swallow, because he’s so close to you, and so handsome, and kneading on your skin and big and warm and Ben-

“Words-“

“Shut up-“

“Do you want to ride me, right here? Make you squirt all over my cock, fuck you so stupid you can’t remember how to walk?”

“We don’t have extra clothing.” You say, your voice already a little dumb and far away. “Or a shower. If you get cum on me, people will notice.”

“I think I’ll be able to fucking live with that.” Ben winks, his voice dropping to a deep drawl you can feel everywhere in your body. “I’d love to get you so wet and filled up that the whole goddamn plane smells how good I fuck my-“

You fall into him, kissing Ben until every inch and fiber of your love is wrapped around his head, and he groans in a way that makes you grind down onto him. His grip on you tenses, and you have to force yourself away, or he’ll flip you over and you won’t leave the car for another two hours.

“Ben,” you try to make your voice firm, a command for him to follow, but it comes out breathy and desperate, and he just growls and drops his mouth to that one spot on your neck. “God, fuck, we need to go-“

Five hours, Sunshine, we’ve got a goddamn shitload of time-

No, Ben, we- He bites you, not enough to break skin but enough to make you a little dizzy, and you moan. Security, we need to get through security-

Security will take ten minutes, it’s just a fucking metal detector-

That gives you enough strength to tug on his hair and move his gaze back to yours. It’s not easy—Ben’s eyes are blown out, his chest is rising and falling in a ragged, uneven pattern, and you can feel how hard he is, right against your thigh—but you manage to look at him with an amused, dry expression.

“Airport security will not take ten minutes, and it’s a lot more than a metal detector, you dinosaur.”

Ben frowns, and your fingers start to lightly trace over the lines of his face on pure instinct. “What the hell else is there, it’s a plane-“

“Has nobody told you about 9/11? And like, airports? Didn’t you take a plane back from Russia?”

“I snuck on that plane, and it was real fucking easy-“

“Comforting.” You mumble, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t have time to explain 9/11 to you, but we’re going to have to wait in a very long line, and-“ You pause, dropping your head into his chest. “Fuck. We don’t have passports, and you’re a walking bomb, and I’m a living sun, there’s no way we’re going to make it through the gate, fuck-“

“We’ll make it.” Ben’s hand tangles in your hair, his voice rolling through your body. “You think you can do the invisible shit on me?”

You blink against him, your words muffled in his shirt. “Maybe? I wouldn’t want to bet on it though-“

“I’ll fucking bet on it.” Ben hauls you further up his body, forcing you to his eye level. “You’ve got this. We’ll walk right through the door, and no one will know the goddamn difference.”

“But-“

“No. You’re strong, Sunshine. You’re going to do this.”

You have a feeling that if Ben told you actually, Sunshine, you can fucking breathe underwater, you’d figure out a way to do it. Because he looks at you with such certainty, and says all his words like they’re purely fact, and you can feel the hot, focused power of his love in your chest, so you can do this. It’s going to be really, really easy to do this.

Ben helps you out of the car, his hand folded in yours, and you take the shuttle bus to the airport in an easy silence. Your disguises are dogshit—Ben’s hat not even fully covering his face, your sunglasses not looking very casual in the darkness of the bus, and you’re still wearing incredibly questionable outfits—but nobody really spares you a glance, so you arrive at the airport without a single issue.

Ben pulls you into a family restroom, and his voice is gruff in your head. You’ve fucking got this. We’re going to walk past the lines, past the detectors, and get on that fucking plane.

You nod, searching his face and trying to let his concrete resolve fully destroy your own skin-crawling and stomach-turning anxiety. We won’t be able to see each other-

So don’t let go. Ben squeezes your hand in his. And even if we do get separated, I can just fucking pigeon back to you.

Your mouth twitches. You said pigeon.

Shut the fuck up. Ben presses a kiss to your brow, and you know he called it that on purpose. That you’re smiling a little more now, and he’s standing a little less rigid, and breathing is a little easier for you both, because Ben knew that would do it.

I love you, Benjamin.

I love you too, he mutters your name in the silence of the airport bathroom, his gaze stringing you up like he’s trying to find an extra piece of you for his love to touch. Let’s do this.

It’s shockingly easy. You really do think it’s because Ben said it would be, and your body knows that he’d never hurt you or lead you astray, so now it is easy. Now you can sing in a soft, almost inaudible voice, and watch Ben vanish before your eyes. You can still feel him—both stroking his thumb over the back of your hand and alight and easy in your chest—and smell pine, but he’s nowhere in sight, so you start to walk before you can miss even a single note.

You duck and weave your way through the crowd, right up to the departure doors, then through them. The guards don’t blink, a million alarms don’t sound, and nobody stops and shouts Soldier Boy and the Anomaly, so you did it. You find another empty bathroom, stop singing, and watch a grinning, smug Ben materialize right in front of you.

“I fucking told you-“

“Shut up.” Despite your words, you’re still rising up to kiss his cheek, and tugging his arm around your waist. “Are you ready to experience the wonders of modern airports, Benjamin?”

“It’s a fucking airport.” He mutters. “I’ve seen a goddamn airport before, they’re all boring as shit.”

You hum, shaking your head with a grin. “Wrong. They’re like malls now. There’s a food court, and shops, and a million Dunkin Donuts because we’re in Boston. I think we should start with some clothing that doesn’t make us look like we just returned from war, but if you’re hungry-“

“Are you hungry.”

“I,” you pause, trying to figure out when you’d actually last eaten. Or slept. Or sat down just for the sake of resting. Your voice drops to a whisper, and you scan over Ben’s stoic features with a soft gaze. “I could eat. But I would really like to change into something that doesn’t belong to Butcher or a dead lady. And we should probably get you some underwear.”

“I’m fucking fine,” Ben grunts your name, and you cut him off with a slight shove of his shoulder.

“See, if I told you that, you’d get all grumpy and tell me to shut up-“

Ben scowls. “Because it’s not the same damn thing-“

“It’s exactly the same thing. I like to take of you as well, Benjamin, my love.” You run your hand over his brow, pushing ash covered hair away from his eyes. “You just did something very fucking stupid, and we don’t even really know what your new powers are, or how they might hurt you-“

“They won’t hurt me.” Ben grumbles, but he’s leaning into your touch. His hands on your body have gone a little slack, the patterns on your hips looser, and you can feel the glow in his body softening something that’s embedded so deep that it feels a little raw. “It’s just V, and I barely even fucking felt it-“

His words fade off before you can even give him a pointed look, and there’s something sore over his heart, his voice a little hoarse when he speaks again.

“You felt it.”

“I did.” You mumble, your fingers curling slightly against his beard. “All of it.”

Ben’s jaw clenches, and his hand shoots up to catch your wrist. “I, fucking Christ-“

“It’s okay. I was,” you take a long breath, and offer him a small, soft smile you hope he can feel. “I was mostly just afraid. For you. And Ryan.”

“I know, but you shouldn’t have fucking had to be-“

“But it’s also done.” You counter, twisting your hand in Ben’s hold to tangle your fingers together. “All that we can do now is figure out what your powers are, and try and work with them.”

He’s scanning over your face, his grip like iron, and you think he’s trying to find a single part of you that’s still in pain. Any evidence that Ben’s own toil had rooted or left a depression in your body, even if he can no longer feel it himself.

He doesn’t find it. Every ache and sore and stab and sting has faded, and the most distress your body can feel is a crawl of grime over your skin and a slight strain in your lungs from the pressure of how this has to work.

“You want new clothing.”

It’s not a question, but you nod anyway. “We passed a burger place earlier,” you whisper, leaning a little further into Ben’s chest. “We can buy some clothing, change, and eat?”

Ben presses a kiss to the top of your head with a low grunt of affirmation, and keeps his hand locked in yours as you exit the bathroom.

You get a few strange looks as Ben tugs you through the terminal, but nobody’s eyes linger for more than a second, so you’re not that worried about being made. Right now you and Ben are just a horribly dressed couple, walking around an airport convenience store and grabbing city-themed merchandise that’s going to cost the CIA over a hundred dollars.

I need a hoodie. You mumble to Ben’s head, pushing through a rack of men’s shirts. Sunglasses are really suspicious indoors.

Ben grunts, kissing the side of your head before shuffling away. You find him the simplest top you can—with absolutely no sports associations he might be a massive baby about—and he returns to your side with a bright pink hoodie and bag of chocolates.

For you. He passes both into your hands, taking the shirt and looking it over with a frown. They don’t have men’s underwear. Or jeans. Got sweatpants.

You frown. What about women’s underwear? I can give you your boxers back-

Nothing. He looks back to you with a wink. You can give me back my underwear if you want, though. One of us is going commando, and I won’t complain if it’s you.

You wrinkle your nose at him. Horny old man.

Of course I’m damn horny, I have a hot fucking wi- Ben cuts himself off in your head, his hands tightening on the shirt, and you blink at him.

Are you-

Let’s pay for this shit and get you some food. Ben’s arm loops through yours, and he starts to pull you to the checkout counter. And if you want to keep wearing my underwear, I’m not going to complain.

Ben, what was- This time you cut yourself off, eyes landing on a small, stuffed lobster, and you try to tug your arm from Ben’s hold. Wait.

He freezes, but doesn’t let you go as he turns back around. What.

You gesture to the lobster, looking up at Ben with your best, sweetest, most pleading expression. Can we get that? For Ryan?

Something flares on Ben’s face, and it’s in perfect time with the glow, as well as a feeling that’s rioting and bellowing through his whole body. Crafted from his love, but set with something bigger. Something that’s almost sensitive and tender, with less wrath and sitting near his love for you, but extending a little further into the world.

Ben reaches over you, grabbing the lobster without a word, and pauses before grabbing a second one.

When you get to the cashier—Ben dropping everything on the counter with a glower that kills any attempted small talk before it starts—you tug on his arm.

We only have one Ryan, my love, we don’t need two-

Second one is for you. He keeps his gaze vigilantly scanning over the shop, but pulls you a little further into his side. I promised you a lobster, and that’s a fucking lobster.

You can’t start crying in the airport. But you also can’t climb up Ben’s chest or tackle him to the floor, then beg him to fuck you in broad daylight. It’s leaving you with very few options as the whole world becomes Ben, and your whole body seems to only care about kissing him and touching him and telling him in every way you can that fuck you love him. He’s so good to you—so silently and grumpily adorable and handsome and strong and big and Ben—and you need to show him that every single time he does something like this, your whole body lights up with adoration and a sense of being cared for you’d never felt before him. Won’t ever feel after him, and won’t need to worry about not feeling, because he’s permanent and loves you and you’ll never not be amazed by that. Ben loves you, and you don’t want for anything anymore because he’s everything, and gives you more, and the least you can do is find a quiet corner to drop to your knees and give him something back.

I’m not fucking you in the airport, Sunshine.

You blink at him, and realize you’ve half fallen into his body. He’s still not fully looking at you, but you can see the cocky, smug smirk on his stupid, handsome face, and it takes a lot of effort to scoff between your heads and stick your tongue out at him, instead of kissing all over his jaw and neck and beard until he groans. Until he feels just as worshipped and tended to as you always feel under his attention.

I wasn’t going to ask you to-

He snorts. You were making begging eyes at me, and you’re goddamn seconds from trying to fuck the air.

I am not going to try and fuck the air-

Ben grunts your name, light and joy and love that makes your knees a little weak dancing over his every feature as he glances down at you. I can fucking smell how wet you are. Christ, I can feel how desperate you are for my cock. He leans down to your flushed face, voice deep and taunting. I’ll fuck you real good later, but you need to pull yourself the hell together, or we’re going to get a public indecency charge.

You, You swallow, your eyes wide on his. You can just not fuck me-

He chuckles, kissing the space between your eyes. We both know that’s not true.

Ben pulls away, his arm around your waist holding you steady, but you’re still sitting in a lustful, warm, airy daze of Ben. Alive and powerful in your body and all around you, guiding you back to a family restroom to change into your newly acquired, filth and blood free clothing, and sitting you carefully on the toilet so he can strip.

You glare at him as he pulls off his shirt, just a pace out of your reach. “You’re such an asshole.”

He just grins, shooting you a wink as he pulls his new shirt over his head, his muscles rippling and his arms flexing and fuck he’s so pretty and strong and all yours-

“Next time Butcher or MM accuse me of being unable to keep it in my pants,” Ben drawls, shaking out his hair slightly and starting to undo his belt. “I’m going to get real goddamn specific about how you beg me to fuck you every twenty minutes.”

You pull your gaze away from Ben’s hands—broad and rough and pulling down his jeans—and give him a pout. “Shut up, you’re no better than I am.”

He shrugs, and now you have to pretend you can’t see his half hard cock, only a few feet and small movement from being in your mouth. “No, but everyone seems to think you’re some sort of fucking innocent little thing I’ve corrupted, when you’re the horniest woman I’ve ever fucking met.” He scans over you with a darkened gaze, his grin widening into something hungry you can feel pooling in your lower stomach. “You’re fucking drooling, Sunshine.”

“Fuck you-“

You know what you’re doing, because at this point telling Ben fuck you is just as much begging him as scratching at his back and moaning his name and squirming under him are. And you’re never disappointed in its return rate, because worst case you get a lewd promise that he fulfills within the day, and best case is he groans and fucks you on the spot, until you’re screaming and so cock-drunk all you can do is smile at him and mold into his body.

This time, it’s closer to the latter. Ben’s eyes flash, and he closes the space between you with one long step.

“You’re such a fucking brat.” he growls, his expression filled with an awe that makes you start to rub your thighs together. “So goddamn needy for me, so fucking beautiful and desperate for my cock-“ 

“Ben-“

“You want me in that pretty mouth of yours?” He’s slowly stroking his dick, now fully erect and coated with pre-cum, and you’re going to fall over. He raises himself to press against your lower lip in a silent question, and you open for him without thought. Running your tongue over his throbbing, red tip, moaning around him as he pushes further in.

Your hands brace on his thighs—Ben’s grunts mixing in with the wet sounds of him slowly fucking your mouth—and you whimper when his hand tangles in your hair, moving you up and down in a steady rhythm.

“Christ, you’re a miracle. Such a good girl, fucking made to suck my cock, goddamnit, you’re perfect-“

Ben’s word falter as you swallow slightly when he bumps the back of your throat, his head throwing back and his muscles tensing under your hands.

“Fuck,” he groans your name, and you moan around him. “You’re, fuck, so good, so fucking beautiful, I, fuck-“

You’ve started to graze your teeth over him, your hand moving up to play with his balls, and you let every lewd and wanting noise fall out of your body and around his cock. He’s twitching in your mouth, rutting against you and tugging at your hair, and his foul words and praise start to slur.

“Fucking Christ, you’re going to kill me.” His free hand is braced on the wall, and when you look up and him under your lashes, his hips jerk. “Want to cum on your tits, fucking mark you, let everyone know how fucking good you take my cock, how you’re fucking mine-“

You oblige, pulling off of him with a long suck and flicking your tongue against him right before you squeeze his balls and press a kiss to his abdomen. Cum on me, Ben, show everyone that I’m yours-

He makes the lowest, most feral and deep noise you’ve ever heard, and you find your own release as his orgasm crashes into your body. You’re covered in him, painted white from his cum and smelling like heat and sex and salt and Ben, and you’d have probably fallen off the toilet if Ben didn’t dive down, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his torso before kissing you with spit and teeth and a brutal passion that sends you over the edge again.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, and you realize you’ve sent himinto another orgasm, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re, fuck.”

“I know,” you mumble, writhing slightly in his arms as your body grows hypersensitive, his every touch feeling like the best type of torture on your skin. “We, um, we should probably change and leave before they kick us out.”

“They can fucking try,” Ben grumbles, kissing the tip of your nose and sliding you down his body. “Some pussy with a taser can’t do shit to us-“

You let out a loud, pleading sound as his cock brushes over your clit, and Ben stares down at you, his jaw clenched and his body filled with such overwhelming love and reverence you might cum again.

“Christ on a cross,” he mutters, and you whine again at the pure adoration and practical wonder in his voice. “You’re, holy fuck, you’re so fucking perfect. You already need me to fuck you again-“

“You didn’t fuck me,” you protest weakly, your arms wrapped around his neck to prevent your legs from giving out. You think Ben can sense that, because even as he smirks at the whine of your words, his arm braces against you, keeping you upright. “And we haven’t fucked in like, a day-“

Ben lets out a loud, full laugh, and you bury your flushed face in his chest.

“Shut up-“

“No.” Ben kisses the top your head, letting you cling to him as he starts to move around the bathroom, pulling on his sweatpants and starting to peel off your own clothing. “You’re so fucking need, beautiful, so responsive and pretty when I worship you like you deserve, I fucking love you. But you’re going have to hold on a little longer,” He mutters your name against your hair, and you grind into him with a downright pathetic sound. “Because I want to fucking try something, and I’m not doing it in a goddamn airport bathroom.”

You’re pouting, but you still manage to nod and ignore that—even after you’re in your new clothing, Butcher’s cum-covered shirt if the trash—you smell like Ben. He’s dried on your skin—salt mixed with something strong and earthy and bitter that’s purely Ben—and you try to wash him off in the sink, but the asshole himself walks up behind you and starts kissing your neck, so the most you mange is anything obviously visible.

In a true, genuine, moment of genius and foresight, Ben had bought a backpack for you to keep the lobsters, chocolate, and sunglasses in. He insists on carrying in it—grumbling about you work too fucking hard, and he’s stronger—and any fight you put up is hollow, because Ben’s rugged face and huge body looks downright ridiculous wearing a backpack that was probably meant for a child, and you can’t stop smiling at the sight.

You find a restaurant with a half-decent menu—Ben’s hat low on his face and your hoodie shadowing over your features—and eat in a comfortable silence. Ben’s knee stays pressed against yours under the table through the meal, his eyes following your every movement, and it becomes downright torture with how your pussy is still aching and squeezing around nothing.

“Have you,” you glance up at him from your plate, your fingers tapping on the table as you try to distract yourself from thoughts of jumping over the table and riding him right here. “Have you been to Rome before? I know we’ve talked about it, but you’ve never actually said-“

“Once.” His words are slightly muffled by his mouthful of burger, and a little sauce gets stuck to his lip. “After the war.”

“Oh, so a million years ago.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, brat, I am not old-“

“You literally just said after the war, Benjamin.” You reach over the table with an easy smile, swiping the sauce away with your thumb. “That’s something old people say.”

“There are plenty of fucking wars, I could be talking about any damn one of them-“

You shrug, sucking the sauce off your fingers, and grinning at Ben’s hunger pounding against your ribs. “But you’re not. You’re talking about World War II, because you’re old.”

“You love it,” he mutters, and you’re not lucid enough stop your hum of agreement. It’s not like he doesn’t already know it, but it still makes you flush when his eyes start to sear through your body, a smirk creeping back over his face.

“Where did you go in Rome-“

Your attempt to reign in the conversation fails massively, and Ben chuckles as he leans across the table, placing his big, warm hand over yours. “You do fucking love it. It gets you real damn wet, how old I am-“

“Shut up,” you mutter, unable to tear your gaze away from him. “I do not get turned on by how old you are-“

“Yes, you do-“

“No I don’t-“

“From where I’m fucking sitting, you do-“

“I get turned on by you,” you blurt, the words falling out of your mouth as Ben’s hand over yours tenses. “It’s just you, I’m not into all old men-“

“I know that,” He grins as he says your name, tone mocking but full of such affection it makes you gape. “But you love me, and you love teaching me shit, and how I’m so experienced I can make you fucking soaked in two seconds, and that I’m a goddamn gentleman-“

“That’s just you, though.” You protest. “I love you. Not that you’re old-“

“If I admit that I’m old,” Ben drawls, fingers folding into yours. “Will you admit that it turns you on?”

You swallow, but nod cautiously, and his grin lights up his whole face. Like you’ve just offered him ice cream and sex as a reward for good behavior, and now he gets to have both. It’s downright adorable, and you don’t think you know how to even pretend to be annoyed with him anymore. Not when he looks so happy, and it’s all directed at you.

“Say it.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, but push the words out. “I get turned on by how old you are. But, it’s because-“

“Nope.” Ben shakes his head, pulling your hand up to kiss your knuckles. “I’m old, and you fucking love it. And I,” he lowers your hand back down, holding your gaze. “Love you. And we’re going to find a butterfly garden for you in Rome, and see some buildings that are older than I am, and go wherever the hell else you want us to.”

“We have a job to do-“

“After the job. We’ll have one fucking day where it’s just us.” Ben’s voice is firm, and his love is setting you ablaze, and you’d follow him anywhere, so you can only watch him speak with soft eyes and a slight gape. “When I went there were these stupid fucking stone pillars they made me take pictures with, and I-“

“The Roman forum?” You interrupt him with quick words, and his smile somehow grows as he huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, that shit. You want to see them?”

Your nod is eager, and you feel a flash of pride and hot satisfaction through Ben’s body.

“Good,” he says, scanning over your features with an intensity that makes you squirm. Like if you move your body just right under his attention, Ben might stand, pick you up, slam you down on the table, and fuck you right here. “We’re going to have one real day where we’re not doing anyone’s goddamn job, and I’m going show off you off to all of Europe. Show the whole goddamn world how I have the best fucking wi-“ Ben’s jaw ticks sightly, his hand flexing in yours, and there’s a slight stutter to his words that makes you blink. “Woman in the world, and how I treat you right.”

You decide to brush off his odd words and just smile at him, squeezing his hand in yours. “You do.” You say the words simply, because he does treat you so good, it makes the glow in him become white-hot. “And we can see something you want to see as well-“

“I don’t give a fuck what we see.” Ben shrugs, taking a last large bite of his burger. “I’ll go wherever the hell you go.”

“Oh.” Your voice drops to a whisper—he’d said those words so passively, like it was as inherent as breathing, and it’s making your brain a little numb—and Ben pauses between bites to stare at you with a slight frown.

He grunts your name in the noise of the restaurant, and his eyes are so green and pretty and Ben that it takes you a moment to realize you need to respond to him.

I’m good. I’m really good. You don’t trust your voice to not be only a needy, breathy noise, so you smile at Ben until his features relax. 

I have to take a piss, Sunshine, so we’re going to pay the bill, go to the bathroom, and then you’ll tell me all the things you want to do in Rome. Deal?

Deal. You extend your hand over the table, and Ben scoffs at it, standing up out of his seat and walking around the table to kneel at your side. Ben-

I love you, his eyes are making you a little dizzy, and you’re shocked you haven’t exploded from the strength and fervor of Ben inside you. A fuck ton. And I’m going to prove it-

You don’t have to prove it, you drop your brow to Ben’s, tracing a hand over his jaw. I know you love me. I never, ever doubt that, Ben. I can feel it, you poke his chest. Here. I can feel you everywhere. And I love you too.

Ben nods slowly—rising back up with a kiss to the top of your head—and glowers around the restaurant. “Where the fuck did the waiter go-“

“Just go to the bathroom, I can take care of the bill-“

“I am not leaving you-“

You sigh, wrapping your hand around his forearm and pulling him back to your eye level. “It’s not leaving me, my love. I’ll pay, go to the gate, wait for you, and be in one complete piece when you get back. We can’t always be right next to each other, and it’s literally physically impossible for you to lose me.”

He frowns—the ache and mold over his lungs making you think he’s going to protest—and his words are grumbled and stiff. “Do you need anything.”

“I’m okay right now. We should get snacks before the flight, airplane food is famously bad-“

“What type of snacks.”

You shrug. “Road trip snacks, I guess. But it can wait-“

Ben gives you a rough nod, a deep, heavy kiss that makes toes curl, and stomps off to find a bathroom. 

It takes you a second to fully regain control of your body, but when you do, you’re quick to flag down a waiter and pay the bill. It’s easy to find the gate, and it’s not too from where you can sense Ben, so you drop down in your seat and send MM a quick update. You’re at the airport, no delays or risk of being burned or identified, your flight is in two hours, boarding in one, and you’ll call after you get to the vila. MM responds quickly—they just got back to the compound, their keycards still work, and they’ll be in Maine when you land—and now you have nothing to do but wait.

Your attention wanders around the crowd—suits and tourists and sleeping solo travelers—and lands on a family. A tired looking mother and father, a baby, and three bouncing children, and it pulls on something soft and delicate in your chest. You want that. You really want something so painfully domestic and simple with Ben more than you might have ever wanted anything. You’d meant those words to Homelander, that—when he’s long dead and buried, only a ghost that crawls over your skin and makes the cracks inside you a little more visible—you’ll marry Ben. And it doesn’t really feel like that big of a decision, because you’re alive inside of him and he’ll go wherever you go. It would be more so you can have a ring to twist on your finger that displays that Ben loves you, and no men at gas stations will try to take what you only offer to Ben, and everyone who walks past you will know that you’re married. That you’re loved by the strongest, safest, most impossibly grumpy and handsome and caring man in the world.

You’d meant the other part as well. That somewhere in the future, if Ben wanted it as well, you’d want kids. It wouldn’t be even similar to how Homelander wanted your children, because he didn’t want you. He’d wanted a body that he deemed fit to serve him, but Ben serves you every waking moment. He carries you in his arms, and mutters words of gruff comfort, and does small things—like picking you flowers and buying you a stuffed lobster—that make it so easy to be his. So children with Ben would be yours, and you’d never have to protect them from their father, because he’d be a great dad. He might actually be the most dad dad you could ask for, because between how he grumbles supportive words and protects you and Ryan like it’s all that matters and the WWII documentaries and pancakes and baseball, he’s straight out of a dad factory.

And it would be amazing. To have a life like that family’s, where you’re curled into Ben’s side like you always have been and his arm is over your shoulder like it always is, but you’re cradling a baby that pouts at you like Ben does when you leave him alone, and he’s locked in a deeply serious conversation with a toddler that looks just like you. Where there’s another child asleep on his lap—which you’d understand, Ben’s lap is the best place to be in the world—that looks like someone melded you and Ben together, and a fourth one that looks like someone photocopied Ben—right down to the deep glare—watching him talk and hanging off his leg. Ryan could be with you, talking to you in a hushed voice about school, and that could be your whole world. The name Homelander would never mean anything to your children, and it would only be spoken on darker nights where you, Ben, or Ryan woke up in a cold, hollow pain.

You have to pull your attention away from the family—you’re staring, and if you keep looking at them you might start crying with something that’s made of longing and a very faint hope—and lean back in your seat with closed eyes. You don’t want to watch the news—playing on high mounted televisions around the terminal—because it will make you sad, so you drift through a world where Homelander is only dirt and you’re only loved, right until you feel Ben stir in your chest. When you open your eyes, they’re drawn to him in the crowd like he’s gravity. Marching out of the bathroom and finding to you after barely a beat, a grin crossing his face as he shoves through the crowd to returns to you.

“Hi, Sunshine.”

The smile on your face might make you look downright stupid, but you don’t care. “Hi, Benjamin.”

He drops at your side, tugs you half onto his lap, and rests his chin on the top of your head as you bury your face in his chest, humming as you tap your fingers against him.

What’s the plan. He grunts in your head, his hands starting to rub patterns on your hips. In Rome.

You let out a long, slow breath. I don’t know how long we’ll be there-

We’re going to have at least two days. Call it one for all the fucking work we need to do, and one for us.

Okay. You gnaw on your lower lip, thinking out every word between your heads. The work is pretty simple. Find the villa, look for whatever Sage is after, and brief the team. If it’s not in a highly populated area, we might want to use some time to figure out what the fuck is up with your new powers-

It’s the nuke.

You lean up to examine him, and he looks solemn, his whole body wrapped in something grim and definite. Are you positive-

I’m pretty goddamn certain. His brow furrows. Fucking feels like it.

What does it feel like?

Energy.

And…?

Power.

Benjamin, I swear to god-

It feels like the fucking nuke, okay? It- Ben lets out a heavy breath, the scowl on his face turning in on his body, and his skin lining with a hot frustration that isn’t directed at you, but leaking out of something that’s almost stuck in his body. I don’t know how to fucking describe it, it just is the nuke.

Okay. You raise your hand to his face, running your hands through his beard until the taut thing wrapping around his throat and pulling his face into a frown loosens. I believe you. I still want to test it, so we know what you can do, but I believe you.

Good. I- Ben’s jaw twitches, but nothing tearing or molding grows on his heart. With Homelander. I didn’t want to lose you, and it just damn appeared. It doesn’t hurt anymore, and it feels a whole lot fucking easier to control. Does that-

That’s helpful. Thank you.

Ben just grunts. Any other shit for us to do?

I’d like to figure out the whole pain thing. If it was just high adrenaline or something more consistent, if it’s only severe pain, if you can feel it when I’m in pain-

Do you ever feel sick.

You blink at him. What-

When you’re afraid. Ben mutters in your head, scanning over your face. Or sad. Do you feel sick.

Yeah, sometimes. I, I vomit when it’s really bad. Like at the tower. Why-

I can feel it. When you’re in pain.

Oh.

I didn’t fucking think it was a big deal-

No, it’s okay. You sigh, dropping your brow to rest on his shoulder. It’s good to know, and it knocks off another thing. We’ll just need to search the villa, call the team, and test your powers a little.

Good. And for us. What do you want to do for us.

I, you take a long, steading breath, just to try and come down a little further into the sense of Ben, everywhere around you. I like the butterfly garden idea. You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. I think it would be really funny to see you in it. You’re going to be so grumpy-

Shut up-

No. I love you, and you’re going to hate it, but I’ll let you fuck me after as a reward for doing something so stupid-

It’s not fucking stupid. He grumbles in your head. If you like it, it’s not stupid.

You might melt right here, in public, inhaling pine and salt and coffee and Ben, lightheaded from the unbreaking feeling of his love inside you. Oh. Thank you.

Don’t. What else.

Um, I’d like to see more gardens, and the Roman Forum would be cool. I might not shut up the whole time, but-

I think I’ll fucking live. Ben drawls in the noise of the crowd around you. That it?

No. Your voice is a little more confident now, as you fall a little further into Ben’s body. We should see some fountains, and the Sistine Chapel, go shopping while we still have CIA credit cards, and go to the Colosseum. You’ll love the Colosseum, Pretty Boy, you’d have been an excellent gladiator.

Damn right, I would have. Ben’s arms squeeze around your body, the glow inside him becoming prideful. I’d have kicked fucking ass.

You giggle softly, tracing your fingers over his chest. I know.

Ben’s hand moves to your chin, tilting it up with a reverent touch so he can kiss you slowly. Snacks.

You understand the half-question, half-request for Ben to be given something to do, and hum. Yes, please.

The kiss lasts another long minute before Ben draws up, letting his fingers linger against your lips, before grunting stay here in your head, and stomping off. You pass the time he’s gone people watching and keeping an eye on the flight attendants—shuffling around the desk and calling for last minute bag-checks—and Ben is just slow enough to return right as they begin boarding.

“What the hell is-“

“They’re filling up the plane.” You take in his armful of gummies and cookies and chocolates, and snort. “You have the appetite of a toddler, my love-“

“This shit is for you,” he winks as he dumps the majority of the snacks into your backpack. “I’ll eat whatever you don’t, but you eat first.”

“Such a good boyfriend,” you tease, taking his hand as you move to your feet. “Taking good care of his girl-“

“My wi-“ Ben’s mouth twitches, and he tugs you closer to his body as he continues with a too casual drawl for how his whole world seems to be electric ardor and something loud and blinding he’s pushing down. “My woman, Sunshine. You’re a fucking woman.”

You giggle again, kissing him on the cheek and deciding to let the strange moment go, but keep an eye out for more like it, given this is the third time he’s stumbled over words, and Ben never stumbles over words. “A true feminist, Benjamin. I’m not a girl, I’m a woman-“

“You are a woman.” He grumbles, slinging his arm over your shoulders and grabbing the bag. “You’re a beautiful goddamn menace, and you’re my fucking woman.”

There’s a smug pride to how he says that, and it makes it impossible to do anything but bury your head in his side and sigh. I am, you asshole. I’m yours.

Good. You feel the glow almost explode across his skin and organs, and he starts to guide you both into the line for boarding. How the fuck does this shit work now-

You lean away from him with an eye roll and mumble of old fucking man you know he hears—though all you get is deep lines on his face and a fake glower—to take the lead on getting you onto the plane.

It’s easy. Showing the woman your tickets and giving a ditzy giggle about how you’re so excited for your vacation is easy. It’s made easier because she’s barely looking at you and Ben is half wrapped over your body, and you always feel a little lightheaded and dumb when he climbs over and into your every sense. It’s easy to smile at him, easy to stay pressed against him as you enter the cabin, and easy to find your impossibly fancy seats and let Ben help you into them.

It’s easy to not think about how you’re going to fly—in the cold air, high above the ground where Homelander could reach you and send you plummeting to the ground—when Ben keeps one hand on your leg and shifts in his seat to block his own face and your body from the view of other passengers. And even if you do get recognized now, as the doors close and the plane begins to move onto the runway, there’s not much for anyone to do about it. You’re out of American jurisdiction, and you’re certain Homelander won’t want to be in public until his face heals—which could take a week, buying you extra time—so if someone sees you, you’ll handle it. You’ll handle any of this, because you have Ben.

The flight is eight hours. The engine begins to build to a roar, and you can make it eight hours. You’ll watch stupid movies to pass time, and cling to Ben’s body until you’re safe from the sky and on sturdy ground again.

And it might be the way Ben’s rubbing circles on your skin, or humming a low, off-key tune you both know by heart, or filled with such an attentive care to your every breath and hitched breath, but you feel a peaceful darkness wash over you, and fall asleep with ease.

When you wake up—your sleep dreamless and restful—Ben’s chest is rumbling with snores, his lips brushing your forehead, and he’s holding you tight against his chest. The cabin is darkened, the flight trajectory says you have a little more than four hours left, and you know that if you startle Ben awake he might accidentally break something or someone, so you slowly twist yourself in his arms and pull out your phone.

Airplane wifi is slow and shitty, but good enough to pass time. To set up the basics of Ben’s phone, but this time including MM’s number and letting Ben decide the contact names. To look out the window at an ocean of clouds and golden, blinding sunlight. To listen to music on static, thin, wired earbuds and rest against Ben’s sleeping body, doing nothing but waste time because you finally have time to waste.

Ben’s hand moves before he’s fully awake, rubbing up and down your leg and kneading at your skin as he lets out a low grunt that you can feel deep in a place nobody but he gets to touch.

He mutters your name as his eyes open, and for a long second you just look at each other. Then he sighs, pulls your head into his chest, and that’s it. You’re happy being gently touched and kept safe right here, against him, until the plane lands, so the last two hours pass in barely a minute. The last hour passes even faster, because Ben gets the bright idea to let his hand wander between your legs and rub his palm against your still sensitive pussy until you’re biting on his shoulder to stifle your moans and squirming in your seat as he pulls you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

You can’t look anyone in the eye after that—out of fear they might read my boyfriend just made me cum on your face—and when you reach the land Ben keeps a pace ahead of you, letting you hide yourself in his back as he pulls you through the airport.

“We need to find a taxi.” Your words are quiet, but you know he hears them. “I googled the address Edgar gave us, it’s about twenty minutes away-“

“Villa will still be there in thirty minutes.” Ben snaps, leading you past a sign that very obviously leads to transportation. “What we need is some fucking money.”

Your mouth falls open slightly. “Fuck, you’re right, we don’t have euros-“

“We’ll get them, don’t lose your damn mind. We need somewhere that won’t check for any ID, or ask stupid fucking question. Can you,” Ben looks at you over his shoulder, tugging you under his arm to match his pace. “Does the internet tell you how much our money is to theirs?”

It’s quick to check, and when you tell him you’re unable to hide the slight awe and sheer amusement in your voice at how he’s disturbingly good at this, but do manage to keep to yourself how much that’s turning you on. Making your knees a little weak, trying to override your will and move your body to jump into his arms .

Ben nods at the number, jaw clenched as he stomps through the crowd. “Good. We should withdraw a lot, so we can beat Muller and Singer to the fucking draw. Get their money before they freeze our credit line.”

“Have you,” you squeeze his arm, drawing his attention enough for his steel-like gaze to drop to yours. “Have you fled a country before, Pretty Boy?”

“No.” He grunts. “I just know what the fuck to do in a crisis. I’m not a fucking idiot-“

“I know that, Ben, I’ve told you I know that. But you’re like, ready for this.”

“Shut up-“

“It’s good, it’s really good.” the words fall out of your mouth, and you might be pleading just a little for him to grin at you and understand that you love this. You love him, and you love that he’s helping, and that he’s keeping you steady as you speed walk and shove through the bustling movement of the airport, and he’s everything, and somehow still surprising you with how much he cares. How good he is to you—getting you snacks you love, and picking you flowers, and offering to look at old buildings because he thinks you’ll like them—and how you’re never actually that shocked, because if anything is real, this is. Ben is real, in every movement and grumble and frown and beat of his heart in your chest.

He mutters your name, gaze peeling you apart and stringing you up for only him to really see. “It’s not that big a fucking deal-“

“Yes, it is,” you whisper, ducking out from under his hold—but keeping your hand on his arm—as you reach an exchange ATM. “I like it. It’s hot.”

His movements don’t falter on the ATM, but his love and hunger strain in your chest, and his voice is a gravely in a way you feel spark in your gut. “It’s hot.”

You flush at the deep, teasing drawl of his voice. “Yeah,” you mumble. “I like it.”

“You already said that, Sunshine.” Ben grins down at you, waiting for the money to be fed out of the machine. “What do you like about it?”

“That you’re helping,” you shouldn’t look him in the eyes—your legs are going to give out, and you keep this up you might smell like sex for the next fifty years—but he’s locked his bright, devout gaze against yours, and you’re not cruel enough to pull it away. “I, I like that you’re taking control. To help. Me. You always help me, but I, I really like that you’re doing something for me, when it’s something I can do, but you’re doing it, and I love you, and it’s hot that you’re so focused and handsome and hot and focused-“

Ben takes mercy on you, and dives down to turn your ramblings into a long, easy sigh of his name. When he pulls away, his smile is open and cocky, his hand cupping your jaw as his whole body becomes insatiable need and adoration, trying to flood the world with a riot of something so wrathfully, unforgivingly powerful and loving that you might fall over.

“Christ,” he says your name with a reverence, thumb pressing slightly on your lower lip. “Thought I fucking broke you. You get real damn scrambled when we talk about fucking, don’t you.” At some point, one of you should grab the money from the ATM, but you couldn’t care less now because Ben is backing you into a wall, and he’s everything. “Makes that smart, clever brain of yours go dumb, when I tell you that I love you. Make you tell me how hot you find my hands, and my mouth, and my cock, and when I fucking help you. When I pick you up and fix things for you, when I take control and make you feel good-“

You’re half slumped against the wall, knees shaking, and Ben’s arm shoots out to wrap around your waist the moment he notices. “Ben-“

“Going to make you feel fucking good, darling, I’ve got too many damn things to do to you, so I might start simple.” His mouth lowers to suck on your neck, and you don’t care if anyone hears your high whine. “Have you ride my cock, maybe tie you up and tease that perfect body and pussy until you’re begging me. Eat you out until you’re fucking suffocating me, put my cock in that pretty mouth until you’re dripping-“

“Ben,” your protest is weak—you don’t even mean it—and your shove at his chest is pathetic. “Money. Need to get the money-“

He hums against you, drawing back up with a gentle, sweet kiss on your lips. “When the job is done,” Ben hand traces over where his mouth had just been, and you shiver at the promise in his voice. “I’ve got countless things to do to you, Sunshine. But,” he kisses your brow, tangling his hand back in yours. “I still have a real damn good plan, so I might just stick to that. I’ll have all the time I need after to do everything I want with you.”

You swallow, watching as he takes the money and letting him lead you back in the direction of transportation, and you allow the feeling of almost blissful joy sink into your body. You will have all the time. Right now you’re following Ben and hanging off his arm as he flags down a taxi, and you’re going to find a way to have all the time. No matter what the Cornucopia has���or doesn’t have—for you, you will force there to be a way for you to have all the time after, with Ben.

He’s still shielding you with his body through the taxi ride. It’s short and tense, the driver making the mistake asking about your lives, where you’re visiting Rome from, and mentioning he’s been to America once and liked baseball—specifically the Mets—which launches Ben into a long, passionate rant. When you’re dropped off outside a high, wrought-iron fence, you pay quickly with an apologetic expression, and hit Ben’s chest with a glare as the taxi drives off.

“That was very rude, Benjamin-“

“He shouldn’t ask so many fucking questions,” he grumbles, looking over the bars with a furrowed brow. “Got him to stop damn pushing, didn’t I?”

“You did. But you could’ve also just ignored him-“

“He should talk about what he doesn’t fucking know-“

“I don’t know about Baseball, and I talk about it with you-“

“Not the same. I love you, and you’re hot when you get all fucking flustered and eager about shit. He’s just some cuckhead.” Ben doesn’t look at you as he speaks, voice flat and deep and obvious, and he points to a break in the seemingly gate less fence. “There. Keyhole.”

You lean forward, squinting slightly for what he’s trying to show you. “I don’t- Oh. I see it.”

“You got the-“

You stick your tongue out at him as you reach into your pocket, pulling out the keys and dangling them in front of him. “Of course I have the key, Pretty Boy. We’d be fucked if it didn’t, because I would not do two more flights to go get it”

Ben winks with a shrug. “You certainly seemed to enjoy that first fucking flight, with the goddamn mess you made-“

“And I’ll be able to make plenty of bigger messes, here, in private.” You lean up to whisper in his ear, running your hand over his chest. “Where I can scream and moan and whine and beg-“

There’s a deep, almost primal growl that leaves Ben’s body, and suddenly he’s bending down, slamming his lips to yours, and hauling you up his body until your legs wrap around his torso. A high, airy sound escapes you as you drop the keys, scraping at Ben’s neck and shoulders as he goes and goes and goes until you grind against him, and he leans back with a smirk.

“I think,” Ben nips on your lower lip and squeezes his hold on your ass, everything inside him alight and coursing through you like lightning. “I can do better than just screaming and begging. I think I can fuck you until every sound you make is just-“

He stops his own words, kissing you so deep and rough that it makes you start to try and climb up his chest, squirming against his body as he only drops you lower, pressing your clothed pussy right over his hard-on, and fuck he’s still not wearing underwear-

You make a sound that might be the most animalistic noise that’s ever left your body—desperate and pleading and breathless—and Ben pulls back. His brow presses to yours as he starts to take deep breaths, and the hunger in him takes a comfortable and white-hot root in your stomach and over your hands, giving them an itch that feels like touching Ben would aid. You start to comb your fingers gently through his hair, just to feel him a little more, and he makes a low, rumbling sound as he tightens his grip on your body. When you chance a look at him, his eyes are closed and his lips are parted, and this might make you cum all by itself. You’re still playing with his hair, he’s still making that sound—his breath hot and fanning over your mouth, his beard brushing your cheek, and his cock twitching against your inner thigh—and you have a job to do, but right now it doesn’t feel that important.

Suddenly Ben freezes, his eyes shooting open and locking onto yours, and there’s something wild in them you can feel over his lungs. It’s vigilant and taut, growing stronger as the content want in his body shoves deep down to somewhere behind his ribs that’s harder to feel.

He grunts your name, and you let one hand drift to cup his jaw, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

I love you, Ben. You’re not sure why he looks like someone just kicked him in the gut, but telling him that never fails to make something in him soften. Did you not like- 

I did. He catches your hand, holding his against his face. I fucking loved that. I don’t- His hold on you tightens, and the sore, hot feeling of embarrassment creeps over his skin. Don’t worry about it, Sunshine.  

You frown. Well, now I’m absolutely going to worry about it-

Fucking don’t-

Benjamin. Your fingers curl into his, and you let your blood leak into his, waiting until his throat bobs and eyes narrow to continue. Tell me now. Please.

The soreness in him becomes an itch, and his voice is gruff and quiet in your head when he speaks. Felt good. Real good. Relaxing. Never had someone do that.

So you liked it?

Yes.

Is that bad-

I was fucking purring, he grumbles your name, and the soreness becomes heated. That’s fucking dumb-

I liked it. You shrug in his hold, risking another slight scratch of his head and fighting the smile at his groan. I liked doing it.

His eyes narrow on yours. You did.

I did. It’s not bad to like something that’s a little stupid, Benjamin. I get wet when you pick me up, or when we dance.

That manages to make something ease inside him, and light flashes in his eyes. I know that, brat. I can smell it.

So can you admit that you like it when I pet you?

Whatever.

Ben-

He scowls. I like it.

Okay. You smile, kissing the outer corner of his lip. Was that so hard?

Shut the fuck up. Ben turns his head to fully capture your lips against his, smirking at your small gasp. Grab the keys, darling, we’ve got some fucking work to do.

You wrinkle your nose at him as he lowers you back to the ground to pick up the keys, keeping one careful arm around your waist. After we do the work, do you want me to do that again-

No. Not until I’m done with you.

Benjamin, my love, you lean against him, looking up at his darkened eyes with a pout. After you fuck me, can I please suck your cock and pet your hair?

Ben’s body is rigid, and he looks you up and down in a way that might make you just fall against him and burn off all your clothing just to see what he does about it. Fucking Christ, Sunshine.

That’s not a no-

We’ll see. He kisses the side of your head, spinning you to face the fence. Open the gate, and maybe I’ll put my cock between those pretty lips when we’ve got the time.

You huff in disappointment that’s only half-performative, and Ben’s chuckle rolls through your body as you put the keys in the slightly hidden lock, waiting for a click before turning them, and tilt your head back to meet Ben’s eyes. He gives you a short nod, and you push the gate open. 

In the sunlight and clear sky of Rome, the dark, high fence had looked out of place. Gothic and foreboding in the sunlight, clashing with the green of the overgrown bushes and vines. But the driveway is long—made of carful mock-stone patterns of red and brown brick—and before you even see the house, you see the gardens. It’s not just the plants around the gates that had flourished in the years of unattendance. The grounds—not sprawling, but by no means small—are filled with flowers and moss and life. The path under your feet may be cracked, and the iron of the gates may have been dulled, but this place is filled with life.

And that’s a house. When you and Ben reach the end of the path—even his eyes and chest sparking with slight disbelief at the scene around you—your mouth falls open, because that is a real house. It’s not high, two floors at best, but it’s long. There’s low-step dais leading up to a door that’s really just unreasonably large, and two, large trees on either side of the entrance. You stop at the base of the stairs, giving yourself a long second to breathe and look around the rest of the grounds. There are trees in a clearly deliberate line to act as a second gate, a few more paths leading around to the back of the villa, and large circle drive around an algae filled reflecting pool that Ben had guided you carefully past.

It’s a little too much, and you’re not even inside yet. Ben’s hold on you doesn’t waver, but you feel his own tension—untrusting of the world and land around you, everything in him on edge and vigilant again an invisible threat—as his lips drop down to mutter in your ear.

“We don’t have to do this shit-“

“Yeah.” You turn your head to give him a soft smile. “We do. You know we do. And it’s just a house-“

“It’s a huge fucking house.” Ben corrects with a glare up at the building. “And damn near anything could be inside it.”

You shake your head, moving his arm down to hold you over your stomach. “We’re the two most powerful supes in the world, Benjamin. Whatever is in there should be afraid of us.”

He snorts, and doesn’t push. Just stands with you in the sounds of light breezes and bird song you’ve never heard before, waiting for you to be ready.

When you lean forward, Ben releases you enough to take the lead, and walks a steady pace behind you. You put the key in the door when he stops at your side—giving his stoic expression you a nervous smile, and receiving a squeeze of your hand in return—and open it with a slight grimace at the creak of the hinges.

While Edgar clearly hadn’t been having anyone tend to the grounds, the house itself is clean. You bump Ben’s shoulder when you sense his body tense, and when you look up at him, he’s scanning over the clean furniture and floor with a sharp glare.

Do you hear anyone?

Just you. He gives you a glance that’s almost gentle, but his jaw remains set. What now.

You blink, looking back around the entrance hall with wide eyes. Despite the more unruly, older Mediterranean architecture of the villa itself, the floor is glossy marble brick and there are column arches almost wherever you look. There’s a large, curled staircase leading to a second-floor walkway, and a single step down to a sunken living area with spotless white couches and a fireplace. You don’t bother to count the wooden doors, but there’s a lot of them, and two long halls that lead away from you on either side.

And this is your house.It’s really just becoming real now—as you stand in it—that this whole place belongs to you. Edgar hadn’t given you a deed, but when you’d tried to google any property records during the flight, none had come up, and it doesn’t seem unreasonable that this place might be a little less than legal. You can hound Edgar about specifics when this is over, though, because right now this is, in name, your house. The furniture is a little ugly—Edgar obviously never redecorated from Dr. Vought—but the building is beautiful, the grounds are beautiful, and it’s yours.

“We,” you swallow, and your voice echoes around the room. “We should look around. See how big it is, look for something that Sage might be after.”

“What the fuck might Sage be after.”

“I don’t know, Ben, otherwise I’d say look for the secret weapon Sage doesn’t want us to find.”

He rolls his eyes. “Smartass.”

You hum, resting your head against his arm. “You love it. Should we split up-“

“There is not a chance in fucking hell we’re splitting up.” Ben grunts, still eyeing everything around you with a distrust like they might start singing show tunes and try to murder you. “We don’t have a floor plan, or a goddamn clue what we’re looking for, so we’re goddamn sticking together.”

That’s true. The villa could be five to six very, very large rooms like this one, or twenty to thirty tiny, closet-like rooms. Based on the paths there might be a backyard, and you have no way to know if there’s a cellar or basement, or anything else that’s slightly more nefarious.

“Okay. Top floor and work our way down, or find a corner and work our way up?“

“I don’t fucking care.” Ben grunts, and you wrinkle your nose at him.

“That’s very helpful, Benjamin, I appreciate it-“

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben rolls his eyes, but his affection in your body only gains sharper, more jagged lines that wrap around you like a barbed wire. Not to hurt you, never to hurt you, but to keep you safe from whatever comes. Wires that you could easily slip past, but chose to stay surrounded by, because nothing else has ever been bloody and protective for you. So you tangle your hand in Ben’s and give him a wide, unrestrained grin.

“Top and work down, Pretty Boy. Let’s go.”

You start up the stairs, and Ben marches behind you in rough, pounding steps. It’s easy to take stock of the upper floor, because it’s all bedrooms and bathrooms and balconies—you were right, there is a backyard, and it has a fucking pool—along with a small library and a handful of mostly empty linen closets.

“I counted seven bedrooms and eight bathrooms so far.” You move from the library side-table—drawer empty save for an inkless fountain pen and some loose money that you pocket—to Ben’s side, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing the line of his jaw. “You?”

Ben frowns, his hands dropping holding you by your hips. “I got seven bedrooms and seven bathrooms, you’re fucking terrible at counting.”

“No I’m not. Maybe you’re wrong, asshole-“

“You counted the conjoined bathroom twice.”

You flush slightly as you run back through the floor plan you’d been building in your head, and realize he’s right. “Fuck.”

“I goddamn told you-“

“Fuck you.” You whack Ben’s arm, and push off his chest. “There’s too fucking much to keep track of, who the hell needs seven bedrooms-“

“You.” Ben catches you by your wrist, amusement building in his chest, in perfect time with his love like summer storm. “Us. We’ve got seven annoying fucking assholes to house, and they’re probably falling apart without us. And-“ he tugs to right back to his chest, every low word making his lips brush against yours. “You might wish we had a few more rooms, darling, when I’m done with you. When I’ve fucked you and filled you so good it goddamn sticks.”

There’s a slight stutter in his usually confident, smooth cockiness when he teases you, and he’s studying your expression so carefully you realize he thinks he might have crossed a line.

You don’t really have lines with Ben anymore. You probably should, it would probably be healthier, but they seem pointless. You can feel him all the time, and he can feel you in the same way. He—apparently—can feel it when your body turn in on itself from pain and emotional suffering, and you’ve literally experienced his orgasms. Every line you have doesn’t feel that important, because they’re things you know Ben would never do. They’re things like don’t hand me back to Vought or Homelander, and don’t lock me up, and don’t treat me like I’m weak and useless, because then I’ll shatter, and Ben never even strays close to them. They remain unspoken because they simply don’t need to be said aloud for Ben to know. Just as you understand that you can never ask Ben to stop fully protecting you, or send him back to Russia, or put him back in the box.

And you’ll die before you do that to him. The idea of anyone doing those things to him makes your whole body feel wrong, and it’s the same for Ben with you, so lines don’t matter. A line like that—the hypothetical future of who will occupy those bedrooms—feels almost ridiculous, because it’s more comforting than off-putting. That Ben would want that, and there’s a life he seems to have thought about at least a little where it’s you and Ben and the team, and he gives you more. You’d always want more of Ben, because you feel as if you’ve been in a drought for a million years, only to be offered water and told you never had to go back to the way it was before.

That’s why it’s easy to close the inch between your faces and give Ben a soft, gentle kiss. Sweet and long and almost innocent, melting into him and promising that he hasn’t shaken or cracked you.

I’d like that. You hum against him, drawing back and starting to pull him out of the library. But after. We have a whole other floor to search.

Ben nods, and follows you back down to the ground floor. Down one hall there’s a kitchen, a half-bath, a dining room, a pantry, and a fucking wine cellar. You find another bedroom—with another bathroom and its own exit outside—before you turn to go down the other side.

Your steps falter slightly around the house entrance, and Ben silently follows you as your turn, walking into the living area and staring out the almost floor-to-ceiling windows.

There’s a patio, and pool, and large yard that looks a little more kept than the front.

“This is weird.” You whisper, and hear Ben grunt in agreement from behind you. “Like, really weird, Ben. This is our house, and it’s huge and fancy and probably worth more than I could’ve ever earned in a lifetime. Fuck,” you shake your head, starting to drown yourself in hypotheticals. “Are we going to have to pay property taxes? How much even are property taxes in Rome? We don’t have a lot of money, shit, we don’t have any money, and if we live here we’ll need jobs, and I’ve been mostly joking about escorts but I don’t speak Italian and you don’t have a college degree, so we might as well-“

Ben kisses your neck, his body humming with amusement and care behind you. “Calm the fuck down, Sunshine.” He mutters against your skin. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Right now you have a house, and that’s that. No losing your mind over shit we can’t solve today.”

You nod slowly, looking around the outdoor area one last time. “Do you think that water is safe to swim in?”

“Who gives a fuck.” Ben shrugs around you. “Neither of us can get sick, it could be filled with sewer water and it wouldn’t make a goddamn difference.”

“I think it would make a difference,” you tilt your head back, giving Ben an upside-down smile. “Just like, psychologically.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but still plants a small kiss on the tip of your nose. “One last area to search, brat. Let’s move.”

The other side of the main floor seems to just be one more sitting area and bathroom, until you push through a the very last door, and stop in your tracks.

Ben almost slams into you with a disgruntled noise, catching himself on the frame of the door over your head. “What-“

“Found the master bedroom,” you mumble, and he stiffens behind you as he sees it. The sprawling space before you, with a soft looking carpet, walk-in closet, a bed that’s unreasonably large—even for Ben, which is impressive—and two extra doors, one ajar and leading to a master bath and the other closed and leading to… something else.

“Holy fuck.” Ben says, half leaning on your body. “This is fucking bigger than our damn living room and kitchen back home.”

You hum an agreement, your eyes still locked on the extra door. “It’s probably just a closet, right?”

Ben frowns down at you. “What the fuck are you talking about-“

“The door.” You nod in the direction of where your attention has been trapped. “It probably just opens to a closet.”

Ben moves in front of you, stone resolve wrapping around his body as he keeps his hand in yours. “Let’s find the fuck out.”

You reach around him, unlocking the door, and he opens it with a less-than-quiet kick, and you peak over his shoulder to see a study.

Dr. Vought’s study, seemingly entirely untouched by whatever cleaner Edgar had coming through. There’s a fancy wooden desk, and some military medals that you’re going to have to burn later, and a very large, chest resting against a wall with German words carved on its top.

You dunk under Ben’s arm, kneeling before the chest, and scan over the words before looking over to Ben with a sigh. “I don’t speak German-“

“I fucking don’t either-“

“But,” you look back to the writing. “I think it’s a safe guess that Projekt Chloe, 1956, means Project Chloe, 1956.”

Ben scowls. “Who the fuck is Chloe.”

“Vought’s daughter, I think. And,” your fingers tap on the chest as you let out an uncertain breath. “I can only think of one famous Dr. Vought project. That he might have perfected around 1956.”

You turn to him with an open, uncertain gaze, and see Ben’s fists curled at his side.

“Should I-“

“I’ll do it.” He drops at your side within a second, grabbing at chest with rough hands before pausing, and frowning at you. “Ready.” “Ready.“ You take a long breath. “Do it.”

Ben rips the top of its hinges, and a cloud of dust billows up into the air. Your eyes recover a little faster than Ben’s, and you swallow as you take in the contents of the chest.

V.

The chest is full of little green vials of V. And when you look around the room, scanning over the papers and books, they’re all journals.

Edgar said Vought came here to get extra eyes on his work. And you’d bet almost anything that, somewhere in this room, is the secret formula for compound V.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and Ben echoes your sentiment with a grumbled sound as he looks into the chest.

“Is that all fucking-“

“Yeah. We need-“

“You call them,” Ben places the top back on the chest, helping you rise back to your feet. “They won’t know my number.” 

You nod, and pulling out your phone as Ben guides you outside, helping you lower onto the large steps of the back patio and sitting tall at your side as you tap through your phone to MM’s contact, figuring out how to dial internationally.

He picks up on the second ring, and you hear a slight banging sound before says your name. “You landed?”

“And got to the villa.” You flinch slightly as there’s another crash. “Are you guys okay?”

“Got to Maine a few hours ago,” MM lets out a long, groaning sigh. “Been cleaning up from the mess last year and trying to move shit around. Flight fine?”

“Nobody died.”

Ben coughs at your side, and MM huffs a dry laugh. “And the villa? No kind of trap or some other shit for us to worry about-“

“No, um.” You lean into Ben’s body, tugging his arm over your shoulders. “Actually, it’s good. We’ve got something.”

There’s a second of static as you take a deep breath and MM waits, and you look over to Ben—grounding yourself in his touch and smell and deep, boundless, pretty eyes—before continuing.

“V. There’s a whole stash of it. And, I think, maybe the formula? I haven’t checked yet.”

“The formula-“

“For V.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” MM sighs into the speaker. “You think you’ll be able to get us some pre-made V back? Because I can give Frenchie a shot at the formula-“

“No, there’s more than plenty. We’ll get it back soon.” You glance up at Ben, your words becoming slightly softer. “I know we’re in crisis mode right now, and we need to be getting ready to finish this, but Ben and I were wondering if we could have an extra day-“

“Take a week.”

You blink, Ben’s own rush of shock matching yours. “A week?”

MM grunts, and you can picture him nodding over the phone. “We’re all safe here. Homelander hasn’t been seen in public since your fight, Frenchie’s trapping the grounds for Sage, and you-“ MM pauses, his voice weary when he speaks again. “You shouldn’t be home right now.”

Something in Ben becomes alert and bloody, and your whole body feels wound tight. “Why?”

“Shit’s in chaos.” MM mutters. “They haven’t found Mallory’s body, but they know she’s dead.”

“How-“

“Sage. Homelander must have fucking told her, and she came out with a statement accusing Muller of political violence against Mallory. He’s facing a whole lot of backlash, even if they don’t have proof anyone’s dead yet. He might be out of the VP race.”

“But.” You frown into the air, your fingers tapping on Ben’s knee. “That doesn’t make any sense. Muller was the leak, Sage should’ve been trying to get him in as a puppet, throwing him under the bus loses her a political ally and an opportunity to scapegoat us-“

“Well it’s what’s happening.” MM’s voice becomes concerned. “And you’re going to need to be careful, even in Rome. Vought’s looking like it’s going to turn on you.”

“What.” Ben’s words are pushed through his teeth, and you don’t even think he knows how close he’s pulled you. “The fuck you mean, turn on her.”

MM’s tone becomes short over the speaker “I mean Hughie noticed they deleted all the Anomaly and Homelander propaganda on their social media. And the merch is having a buy one, get four free sale. They’re wiping you off the slate.”

“Fuck. I-“ Your vision isn’t blurring, but you have to measure every breath and word, because this matters. “I need to come back. Into the public eye. Sage is going to try to manipulate the narrative, and we can’t let her, I need to make a statement, and-“

Ben squeezes your arm, muttering breathe in your head, before grunting to MM, “think we got a week before everything gets fully fucked?”

“Everything’s already fully fucked.” MM mutters, and you think it’s meant to be under his breath. “But one week might look better. Let Sage spew her bullshit, and know what you need to say. We’re fine here, we can start working on how to get the V actually into Homelander.” MM snaps your name, and you make a small sound so he knows you’re listening. “We can hold down the fort. Take a week with your ancient dick of a boyfriend then come back with the V, and we’ll be ready for you.”

There’s a lump in your throat that’s made of something gentle but aching, and your voice is shaking. “Thank you, MM.”

“No problem. Tell me when you get the flights back, don’t be idiots, and, is the asshole still there-“

“Yeah,” you look up at Ben’s scowl, a smile pulling at your lips just from the sight of him.

“Good. You, motherfucker.” There’s a pause in the static, and MM’s words are clipped. “Earn it.”

You don’t know what that means, but Ben seems to, because his jaw clenches and his grunt is firm. There’s no anger in his body, though. Only resolve, and that permanent care that always takes root near your heart and wraps you in a stone feeling of safe.

When the line clicks, the world is nothing but you, Ben, and the wind.

And you have a week. You get a whole week in Rome, just you and Ben for more than a moment or night or long, taxing day.

You look over at him with a tentative smile. “Now what?”

“Now we fucking relax.” Ben hauls you onto his lap, turning you so you’re straddling his lap. “Have a goddamn vacation, Sunshine. No work, no death, no fucking dumbass pussies trying to tell us what to do.” He kneads on your thighs, his face growing into a wide grin. “A whole week where we’re eating and fucking.”

“That’s just a normal week for us, Benjamin-“

“No.” Ben’s face falls into a practical pout as he grumbles. “Someone’s always trying to stop us, or give us orders, or fucking kill us. This week, we’re only eating and fucking.”

You press your face into his neck, giving a soft hum of content. “I could live with that. But now what. Specifically right now, what do we do?”

“What do you want to do.”

“Maybe just,” you lean back to look up at the house, chewing on your tongue. “Make this place feel more us, and less former Nazi in the 20th century?”

The glow might be everything inside of Ben. It’s all you can feel—the truly devout and immovable wrath of his love for you, the way that every single piece of him seems to be alive in a way that’s easy—and when you look at his face, he looks like someone struck him with lightning.

“Ben-“

“What does us look like.” His voice is a little hoarse, and the itching, sore embarrassment on his skin feels like it’s trying to twist into something else. So you take his face in your hands, smile at him with everything you can offer, and scoot further up his lap until his body might as well be yours too.

“Whatever we want it to be.” You whisper, bumping your nose with his. “As long as there’s nothing blue.”

Ben gives you a rough nod, low chuckle, and stands in one fluid movement, carrying you in his arms back inside the house. “Whatever you want, beautiful, we’ll make it happen.” He kisses your brow as he walks, and the embarrassment turns into something sacred and made of ardor, feeding something that’s starving in Ben’s body, but doesn’t seem to be painful at all.

You start with the master bedroom. Namely, you start by absolutely destroying the master bedroom. Ben drags a bookshelf in front of the study door—just so you don’t have to think about it every moment you spend in the room—and you start two piles for most everything else. Memorabilia and war medals and books that you’ll pass onto historians, or something, go into the first pile, and regular household items that are flat out hideous and you simply don’t want are carefully burned and dropped in the second pile as ash.

As Ben starts to carry the horrible, cream colored and floral pattern couch out to the burn pile, you frown at the bed. It’s a nice bed, and when you push down on the mattress with a flat had it’s not really that different from your mattress back at the compound, but it’s still Fredrick Vought’s mattress.

Ben walks up behind you, wrapping his arm around your stomach and leaning down to mutter in your ear. “What’s wrong.”

“Bed.” You push down on it again, shaking your head sightly. “It’s not a bad bed, but it feels weird to maybe sleep on the same mattress Vought and Stormfront-“ Your lip curls in disgust at that realization, and you sigh. “Fuck.”

“Do you want a new bed.”

“I mean, yeah, but-“

“Then we’ll get one.” Ben grunts, pressing a kiss to that one spot on your neck and grumbling against your skin. “We can sleep on the floor.”

You hum an agreement, a smile creeping back over your features. “Won’t that be bad for your back, old man-“

Ben spins you around, more devouring you than kissing you, and walks you backwards until your knees hit the bed frame and you let out a high whine.

Fucking brat- he groans down your throat as you move a hand down to palm his bulge though his sweatpants, and pulls back to look at you with a wonder you can feel feeding the glow in his body. “Christ, Sunshine, you’re a fucking marvel.”

You nod frantically, not really listening to his actual words because his voice is deep and rough and he’s huge under your hand and his touch is so soft on your body for how he’s started to suck and bite on your throat and neck-

Can’t fuck you now. He picks you up, never removing his mouth from your skin. But when we get the bed, we’re taking a goddamn day in it. Got it?

You whimper as his knee moves between your legs, and your voice is airy in the silence. Got it. Fuck, Ben, please-

You get us a proper bed, he mutters your name between your heads, letting you grind down against him. And nothing will stop me from fucking you good and stupid, darling. But I am not fucking you on the damn floor-

Ben grunts against you as you tug on his hair, trying to get his face up to yours. “Ben, we can go get a bed now-“

He chuckles, and the sound of his voice makes you keen on his leg. “That fucking desperate for my cock, Sunshine? Need me so bad you’re going to find a bed from fuck knows were-“

“Mattress store,” you press your face against the side of his head, trying to ignore how Ben’s hand on your ass has started to drift closer to where you can feel yourself dripping for him. “We’ll find one at a mattress store-“

Ben draws back without warning, grinning down at your likely wrecked expression. “Let’s find a fucking mattress store then.”

He sets you carefully against a wall to search on your phone, and you manage to find a mall with an Ikea. Ben has cleared the room of all the larger furniture items—the room now just a bed frame and empty bookshelves—but this specific trip needs to be about getting a mattress and some groceries. Navigating an Italian Ikea once with an aggressive, grumpy Ben is going to prove to be an effort, so you’ll live without a couch for a while.

The taxi ride to the mall is mostly silent—this driver less interested in small talk, and Ben’s hostile, protective expression and hold on you isn’t exactly screaming talk to me about the weather—and the mall itself isn’t that much different. You pull Ben behind you, find a mattress, and buy it with Ben’s seemingly infinite supply of Euros.

“What do we do when we run out of money?” You mumble to him at the cashier, and he shrugs, writing down the address you’d given him for the mattress’ delivery.

We won’t.

Ben-

There was cash in the library. And study. Far as I’m concerned, it’s our fucking money now.

You gape at him slightly, shoving his chest. You didn’t think to tell me that, dumbass- 

You were about to spiral, I wasn’t going to add any extra shit for you to deal with. And I’m telling you now, aren’t I?

Yeah, but… You can’t think of a proper argument, and Ben smirks down at you.

Going to admit I didn’t fuck up? Maybe fucking thank me? 

You stuck your tongue out at him. You’re such a fucking dick. 

I know. He kisses the top of your head, guiding you out of the store. You love it.

Shut up. How much money is there?

Ben just grins at you, and you quickly learn that the answer is a lot. There’s a lot of money. When you get back from the mall—Ben carrying the groceries and looking very grumpy about it, despite you explicitly offering to help and him refusing—you go up to the library and count the cash.

Holy fuck.

You feel Ben stir in your chest from downstairs. What. Are you- 

I’m fine. You stare at the last stack of Euros in your hand, swallowing. I’m good. We’re good. Ben, this is really fucking good. 

What.

We’re rich. Vought was a paranoid, anti-bank asshole, and now we’re rich.

There’s a moment of silence as your instinct of Ben grows stronger and stronger, and then he’s bursting into the library, dropping on his knees at your side. “What the fuck do you mean we’re rich.”

“I mean Vought was rich.” You pass the cash into his hands with a grin. “And everything in this house is ours now, and I’m not above taking his blood money. He’s not using it, and he would’ve hated me, so this feels more like vengeance than anything else.”

Ben frowns. “How-“

“We’re going to use this money make his house ours.” You crawl forward until you’re on Ben’s lap, your hands moving up to hold his jaw. “We’re going to get rid of all this old, ugly furniture, and make this somewhere for us to live after we destroy his company. We’ll donate some of it to causes he’d have hated, and the rest will be for us to live happily after he’s just a fucking stain on history.”

Ben surges forward, kissing you down to the ground, grinning against your mouth. I think I can fucking live with that.

Good. You nip at his lower lip, scratching over his back. Because that’s the plan.

Because he’s an asshole, Ben doesn’t fuck you on the floor of the library. Or in the kitchen as you finally finish putting away groceries, or on one of the itchy, garish couches as you try to make a list of what you’ll need to get before you can fully lean into relaxing.

“We need clothing,” you mumble, titling your head at your writing. “It should probably be prioritized under toilet paper, but over extra sheets-“

“There were a fuck ton of shops at that mall,” Ben says into your ear, his arms wrapped around your waist as he holds you against his chest. “We can go tomorrow.”

Somehow—before the list is even properly done—you end up with Ben’s boner pressed into your ass and your head thrown back as he kisses across your neck and shoulders. But he still doesn’t fuck you, only growling and groaning as he turns you to a mess in his arms, teasing you with low words and praise, and been an annoying fucking gentleman who’s suddenly too good to have sex anywhere but a bed.

You’re only a few more muttered good girls and so fucking perfects from losing your mind and killing this insufferable man you’ve chose to love when your phone buzzes with an alert that the mattress is here.

You probably could’ve gotten more things done today. But Ben gets the mattress to the bedroom and suddenly shopping and decorating and taking stock seems really fucking dumb, because he’s looking at you with a hungry, feral gaze, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, and throwing you onto the mattress with promising growl of going to fuck you dumb, Sunshine.

And this is your vacation. So if your handsome, sex god of a boyfriend wants to fuck you until you’re screaming and ruined and numb with pleasure, who are you to stop him?

It’s almost three days of just that. Just this strange, perfect life you’ve somehow stumbled into, where you have someone who you love more than the universe, and who loves you like you are the universe. A life you’d only dreamed of before, and hadn’t dared to really, fully hope for after.

But it is your life. It’s you and Ben, doing whatever you want. Cooking together in a fancy, old kitchen before you’re somehow pinned to the counter and moaning as Ben eats you out, his beard tickling your inner thighs and his hands leaving bruises that fade in seconds on your hips. Trying to get more renovations done, but ending up slammed into the wall as you grind onto strong, broad fingers, or on your knees, choking on Ben’s cock as he fucks your mouth at a slow pace that tortures you both.

You only leave the house once in those first few days, because you need clothing that isn’t Boston themed and covered in cum. Ben lets you take the lead as you walk through the mall, only giving grumbled opinions about what he wants—mostly jeans, sweatpants, and solid color shirts—and hovering over you as you pick out things for yourself.

“If you buy that,” he nods to the dark green lingerie you’re turning between your fingers, his voice almost a growl. “You’ll need to goddamn save it, because I will rip it off your perfect fucking body.”

You giggle, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Promise?”

He groans, squeezing his hand on your waist, and you’re not strong enough to not buy the lingerie. By the end of the shopping trip you have a truly disgusting number of bags that Ben insists on carrying himself, and you justify it with the fact that you were technically out all your clothing, and you deserve a few nice things in your life. You might not need underwear and dresses that you can only describe as slutty, or makeup that you’d managed to finagle Ben into letting you buy with the clothing—by finagle, you mean asking him very sweetly with a pout, and him dragging you into the store—but the sheer love and hunger you feel in Ben’s body when you dress up for your first real venture outside the house justifies your shopping spree tenfold.

“Let’s stay here.” He pulls you forward, lowering his head so your eyes are level and his breath fans over your mouth. “The beach will still fucking be there tomorrow, and I have a lot of damn ideas for what to do with this.”

His hand brushes up your thigh, under your swimsuit, and presses his palm over your already aching pussy. You make a high, needy sound, and use all the will in your body to grab his wrist and shake your head.

“This,” you roll your hips against him, and his eyes flare with the coil in his gut. “Will also still be here tomorrow. And you can do whatever you want with it, after we do something fun and stupid and touristy.”

Ben scowls, but moves his hand up to tangle in your hair and gives you a soft kiss. “Fine. But when we get home-“

“All yours.” You smile onto his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Always yours.”

He nods, letting you pull on a dress and lead him out the door, and you end up regretting your words almost the exact moment you arrive at the beach.

Ben shouldn’t be allowed to be shirtless, let alone in broad daylight. Where the sun can make his skin look golden, and his eyes somehow greener, and his whole, stupid, handsome face illuminated with life. His skin is warmer, and you can see every ripple of his muscle as he moves, and he’s everything, and suddenly you’re possessive.

You’ve never been possessive before. It’s always felt pointless, because if you’re with someone and they need to be kept in line, you don’t want to be with them. And Ben would never stray or be disloyal—he’s not even looking anywhere but at you—but that’s not what this feeling is about. He’s the most attractive man alive, and he’s yours, and he’s keeping himself against you all the time, and if you catch one more person staring at him, you’re going to burn their eyes out. Ben won’t entertain them, he probably hasn’t even noticed them, but he’s still yours. You can ogle and objectify him all you want, but that’s because you love him, and know he’s a lot more than just a walking work of art.

These cunts only think he’s a slab of meat to stare at. They don’t understand that he’s the most caring, loyal, honorable, adorably grumpy and impossible gentleman in history. That he’d die and kill and suffer for you, and you’d do all the same for him.

And when your glowering pout deepen as a pretty, model-like girl walks past you for the fifth time—her strut growing more and more provocative with every pass—Ben chuckles, his amusement flashing in your ribs.

“Someone’s getting real fucking territorial.” His words are low and taunting, spoken into your ear and sending a shiver up your spine. “Over something that’s already hers.”

“Fuck you-“

“I could.” He kisses behind your ear, open hand to shameless grope at your tits. “I could fuck your right here, prove to everyone that my dick belongs you to.”

You flush, half-heartedly swatting his hand away. “Shut up. We’re trying to lay low, Pretty Boy. That means no sex in public-“

Ben moves so fast you barely have time to process it, standing you both up and gathering your items in an earnest haste.

“What are you-“

“No sex in public.” He repeats your words, looking up at you with a heavy, wanting gaze that takes apart your whole body for him to have. “So let’s go the fuck home.”

That’s another reason it was sensible to get so much clothing. Because at the rate Ben is tearing everything you wear off your body—you hardly make it back through the property gate before your sundress is tossed into the gardens, and you’re only just through the door when your swimsuit is just cloth in Ben’s hand—you’ll be back to owning nothing before the week is even over. You’re saving some money by sleeping naked—every evening ends with him buried inside you, groaning your name and pounding into your cunt until you feel his orgasm, cresting in time with your own—but you still have to change the sheets again when his cum leaks down your thighs.

On fourth day, you put your foot down. You’re going to go see some old buildings, Ben’s not going to try to fuck you in an alleyway or bathroom, and you’re not going to glare at everyone who looks at him.

“People fucking look at you as well,” he tells you as you get dressed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “And you don’t see me ripping off heads.”

“I haven’t ripped off heads-“

Ben says your name in a dry tone, his brows raised. “I can see your fucking face. You want to kill every lady that even glances at me.”

There’s an odd sense of bright, satisfied pride in his body at his words, and you scoff.

“I remember the guy at the gas station, Benjamin. You literally asked me if you could kill him.”

“And you should’ve fucking let me-“

“Maybe.” You give him a teasing, sweet smile, moving to stand between his legs. “But my point is that you’re no better than I am.”

“Never said I was. But,” he takes your hand, kissing your knuckles with a wink. “It’s a lot fucking hotter when you do it.”

It’s a miracle you make it out the door, because Ben pulls you down to the mattress—laying flat on his back and watching you with a pious awe as you whine above him, letting him drill up into you until you’re lightheaded and dizzy—and you have to find the willpower to move when his cum is still sticky on your skin and everything around you smells like salt and pine and Ben.

But from there, you make it almost the whole day. There are moments—in the taxi, and on the streets of downtown Rome, and staring at ancient stone ruins—where you’re in danger of damning any social consequences and just taking what you’re aways thirsty for. But you push it down, coasting on the knowledge that Ben is yours forever and later, when you drop to your knees for him in the doorway of your house, there’s no world where he doesn’t press his cock between your lips and let you worship him until he cums in your mouth.

It’s still difficult to get through, though. Because when you’re ranting about historical facts—several groups of tourists very obviously eavesdropping on your various lectures about Roman cultic practices and social conventions—and look over at Ben to see him staring at you like you’re holy. His love is roaring between your bodies, his attention is unraveling you without touch, and his dick very obviously straining in his pants as you ramble.

You get through it, promising you both soon. You also get through him buying you a large chocolate cake, and the way he groans when you lick your fingers clean. You get through his boyish, proud, happy expression when you fully explain gladiators and why he’d be amazing as one, and his body pressed right against yours as you wander through the Roman Forum.

What gets you is something impossibly stupid. Ben pulls you off to the side of the street, his eyes scanning over the crowds as he speaks into your head.

You want to learn something?

You blink at him with a small frown. Like what?

Pickpocketing.

Benjamin-

He glances down at you with a taunting grin. It’s a useful fucking skill, Sunshine. Don’t tell me you’re too good for it-

You know I’m not, you dick. You swat at his arm. But we don’t need the money, and I don’t want to steal from random people-

We won’t pick a random target.

What-

We’ll pick a someone who’s richer than we are now, and who’s a fucking asscuck pussy.

How will we-

Him. Ben jerks his head in the direction of a greasy looking, suit-wearing man. He’s here with his family, and on the phone with his mistress.

You narrow your eyes at the man, glancing back to Ben. Are you sure-

Fucking positive. He turns back to you with raised brows. Ready?

You sigh, but nod, and Ben talks you through it. It takes longer than it maybe should have—his lips are very distracting when they move and the determination in his voice is making your ache for it to be turned on you—but you get it eventually, and walk out into the crowd with your head high and expression neutral, bumping into the man with a fake-nervous apology, and returning to Ben’s side with his wallet.

“I did it.” You throw him your prize, and he grins at you with teeth and a smug pride you feel everywhere.

Ben pulls you under his arms, kissing the side of your head. “Fucking told you that you could. Not that damn hard, is it-“

“For you.” You give him a fake glare, even as your blood leaks with love into his. “Because you’re a delinquent, Benjamin. And it’s very hot, but if you ever teach our kids about this, I’ll kick your ass.”

He freezes, and you think you might have broken him. The words had fallen out of your mouth before you could think them through, and now Ben is gaping at you. Everything in him is rioting, and you can’t pick out a single emotion to focus on, so you speak softly, a little afraid to spook him.

“Ben-“

He picks you up—stolen wallet entirely forgotten—and kissing is too light a word for what he’s doing. Ben’s eating you, his mouth demanding against yours, the groans leaving his body animalistic, and his hands are everywhere on your body but where you’re beginning to ache for them as all the confusion and clashing inside him fuses into love. Raw, powerful, indestructible love that sweeps through you like a storm.

Home. He grunts in your head, voice gravelly and the lowest you’ve ever heard. Need to get you home.

And that does it. You’ve seen enough old buildings today, and Ben’s more important than anything else, so you nod and whimper and let him take you home.

The rest of the day is spent on the floor, or in bed, or in the shower. You could probably spend the rest of the week like that as well, but you only have three days left, and there are things you really want to do before this bubble is popped. You talk Ben into testing his powers just a little, enough to know what to expect when you get back to America and in an environment where nothing is that urgent. 

“We can go shopping after,” you promise him, kissing along his jaw and chest in bed. “And do more decorating, and have more sex. I’ll even let you fuck me in the Vatican tomorrow. But I really want to get this over with-“

“Fine.” He grumbles, sitting up carefully, holding your gaze. “You get three hours.”

“Six.”

Ben’s eyes narrow, even as amusement flashes over his ribs. “Three.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Deal.” Your smile is bright and pleased, because four is more than enough to get this done.

You use the time well, and work out that he’d been right. Ben’s new powers seemed to be very simply the nuke, now fully fused and natural in his body. He can make force fields—like the one that had protected you and Ryan—and create blasts that completely destroy a tree in the backyard, but—at least for now—they’re not as powerful as the full force of the drums.

“I think,” you examine the rubble of the tree, chewing on your lips. “It’s stronger when it’s directly from you. The further the energy is away from your body, the weaker it is. The special sauce explodes right out of you, but this,” you gesture back to the splintered logs. “And the shields emit from you. Like you’re throwing it out into the air and then focusing it, instead of focusing it then throwing it out. Does that make sense?”

“No.” Ben grunts, crossing over to your side in long steps. “But I believe you.”

“Oh-“

“I don’t understand any of this shit, Sunshine.” He slings his arm around your shoulders, watching you with a careful intensity. “You do. You say it’s right, it’s right. Now let’s go shopping.”

You sigh and nod, because Ben has been shockingly eager to go shopping, and you’ve gotten what you need. This trip is mostly about decorations—furniture and rugs and painting and more sheets and pillows—which means that Ben’s contributions are as useless as ever, but about halfway through he asks if you want food, you tell him yes, and he proceeds to vanish for almost an hour. He’s still in the mall, you can sense him near the cafe you’d passed earlier, but when he comes back he’s only carrying two coffees and the pastry you’d asked for.

“Long wait,” he mutters, handing you the pasty and your coffee with a stiff arm. “Eat.”

It’s odd, but he’s not tense or angry. Ben’s stumbling slightly in your chest, wrapped in a new feeling that’s electric and almost addictive—so strangely hungry and wanting, bursting along his stomach and heart and ribs and trying to climb out his body—but he’s not saying anything, so you don’t either. You trust him, and despite that fact that you’re irreversibly in love with and tied to him, you know that you still don’t fully understand this strong, wrathful, powerful man in front of you.

It doesn’t fade, though. The rest of this day passes with laughter and ease and a happiness settled in your bones that would feel naïve if it wasn’t so genuine, but that new feeling in Ben only becomes stronger. With every smile and shove of his shoulder, every teasing word and pout and squeeze of his hand in yours, the sensation grows more and more feral and loud. It’s there when you wake up the next morning as well—Ben’s body flopped over yours, his morning wood quickly finding its way inside of you and your mouth falling open with gasps of his name as he rolls your clit between rough, expert fingers—and by the end of the day you might pass out from it.

You should ask him, but you don’t even know what you’d say. Ben doesn’t lie to you, or keep secrets—this doesn’t feel like either of those things, though, it feels somehow more important—and he doesn’t care that you can always feel him, but this seems like something you shouldn’t feel. This feels like something building and banging inside of Ben, that’s doomed to explode from him but he’s trying to savor and time correctly. And more intense it becomes, the more it feels like yours. It’s almost undeniably for you—it hums inside of you like Ben’s love, and softens the closer you are to his body—but he’s still containing it within himself. You’re pulling him through Vatican City, explaining the Sistine Chapel and why these maps are important and this tomb is so interesting, and Ben is looking at you like you’re a star that’s landed in his hands and made a home in his head, but the feeling just silently growing.

You’ll give it one more day. You’ll use this time—in the sun and green world of the Borghese Gardens—to let Ben try to deal with whatever that feeling is himself, and then you’ll pull his head down to your eye level and demand he tell you what the fuck is going on. You’ll run around the zoo with his grumpy, handsome ass, pretending that he’s not having fun when you can feel his joy, living in time with and just under that strange feeling. That when you point out the lions, his eyes don’t flash with interest and awe.

He stops you as you wander the gift shop, not looking for anything in particular, and points to a stuffed white tiger with a glower.

“Get that.”

You stare at him for a second before you speak, hearing the slight uncertainty in your own voice. “What?”

“For Ryan.” He pauses, the lines of his brow deepening. “And one for you.”

“Oh.” You hum, titling your head as you tap on Ben’s arm. “What about you?”

“What about me-“

“Will you get one?” You give him a fake pout and the sweetest eyes you can manage. “Please?”

“I don’t fucking need one-“

“Nobody needs one, Benjamin, they’re fun. Look.” You tug him over to the shelf, grabbing two stuffed lions and hold them up dramatically. “For you and Ryan. And,” you pass the lions into Ben’s arms—he takes them without thinking, then proceeds to glare down at them—and pick up one of the white tigers. “For me.”

“Why aren’t you a lion.”

“Because I’m not related to you and Ryan. I’d thank God for that, but,“ you smile at him, passing the white tiger into his arms. “It does mean I chose to be here. I’m not a lion, but I’m still part of this for some reason.”

“You’re here because you love us.”

“I am here because I love you.”

Ben’s glare at the white tiger softens slightly, and the strange feeling might be about to break and seal his whole body in the same second. “Good.”

You have to keep letting it go, even as the day crawls on and that feeling in Ben starts to bellow and thrash. You have to get ice cream and smile at him the same, bright way you always do and swallow the question of what’s happening, Ben. I love you and I trust you and this doesn’t feel poisonous, but it still feels critical. Finish your ice cream, you old cunt, and tell me what’s wrong.

He says your name with a clear his throat late that night, and you turn over in arms to watch his set, stoic expression as he speaks. “Tomorrow,��� he mutters. “I’m in charge.”

“You’re-“

“In charge.” Ben’s eyes keep boring into you like it’s dangerous to look at you, but he can’t stand to look away. “I’ve got shit for us to do.”

“What-“

“Trust me.” He pulls you impossibly closer, kissing the space between your eyes before dropping down your nose, finally hovering his lips right over yours as he speaks. “Please.”

“Okay.” You whisper, because you can count on one hand the amount of times Ben has said please. “I trust you.”

He nods slowly, and kisses you long and soft and slow until you’re melting and falling against him, and nothing—even as that feeling’s brief moment of rest and peace ends—has ever been as good as this.

Ben doesn’t wake you up—he never does, and you think his bladder is made of steel—but the moment your eyes flutter open, he’s sucking and nipping at your throat, every part of him alight with ardor and devotion and love, and rushing with something you don’t have a name for.

It takes you two hours to get out of bed. Ben ends up being the one who draws away—although it does come with a low groan, and long kiss that he has to pry himself away from—before helping you up, tossing you his shirt to wear, and carrying you to the kitchen for breakfast.

Three, very large pancakes and a blowjob later, he’s placing you down on the bed and towering over you in a way that can’tbe productive for anyone involved.

“We’re going out. Don’t dress fancy yet, but do whatever you want with the makeup shit.”

Ben’s words sound almost rehearsed for how simple they are, and you frown up at him, trying to ignore the slight bob of his throat. “Where are we going?”

His jaw clenches, and he mutters through his teeth, “butterfly garden.”

“Oh-“

“If you hate it-“

“I won’t hate it.” Your voice is hushed, and you reach up to grab Ben’s face between your hands. He’ll too high up, but hunches down to meet you, and it makes you melt even more. “I’ll love it,” you whisper, running his beard between your fingers. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he kisses you quickly, fucking tenderly, before drawing back up and taking a rough pace back. “Change.”

You follow his orders, his eyes tracking your every movement, and when you move to the mirror moves to stand directly behind you, a hand gliding over your stomach.

“Hi, my love.” You smile at him through the reflection, and his lips twitch and he rests his head over yours.

“Hi, Sunshine. Done?”

You hum an agreement, and Ben leaves one last sloppy kiss on your skin, before picking you up and carrying you outside.

Despite the fact that a butterfly garden was entirely Ben’s idea, he looks remarkably angry to be here. Everything around you is soft and colorful—greens and pinks and yellows and reds, flowers and mist and gentle rushing water—but Ben is vigilantly silent at your side. Eyeing every other patron, which consists of primarily children, as if they might try and throw little metal water bottles or tell him something mean.

They won’t, but when they do pay you attention, they mostly just look a little awestruck. A handful of little kids are staring at Ben with wide eyes, he’s glaring right back, and you have to bury your face in his side to prevent yourself from giggling.

Why the fuck are they looking at me. Do they know I’m Soldier Boy-

They’re a bunch of Italian children, Ben. They don’t know you’re Soldier Boy.

So why the goddamn hell.

You’re staring at them. You prop your chin on his shoulder, grinning at his scowl. You’re a big, scary, grumpy man, and you’re looking at them like they’re going to try and steal your lunch money.

His arm tightens around your waist as he rolls his eyes. Shut the fuck up, I am not grumpy.

You look grumpy. Are you, you pause, letting a little bit of your worry cross your face. Are you okay?

That odd feeling flares inside of him, and you get a short nod and kiss on the tip of your nose. “I’m good.” He mutters, raising his head to look around the garden. “Got you.”

He means it. Ben very obviously means it, because from there he lets you lead him around the garden, almost clinging to your body and only glaring and half-pouting when a black and green butterfly lands on his head.

You don’t bother to pretend it’s not the most amazing, hilarious thing you’ve ever seen. Ben’s jaw clenched and brow furrowed, his back a tall, rigid line, but still not moving or shaking it off.

Three more land on him, and he stares at you with slightly wide eyes. Get them the fuck off of me-

You get them off of you, Benjamin.

He doesn’t, the lines of his face only deepening as another two land. Why are they even goddamn on me. I’m not a fucking tree-

I think they like you. You take a step out of his grip to survey the scene before you with a smile. I get it.

You take a picture, and Ben has a glint in his eyes that would promise violence for anyone else, but you know that—directed at you—it just means he’s going to fuck you with teasing words and an unforgiving pace once you’re alone.

It’s amazing how predictable he is. Because when you’re done at the garden—your photo roll now filled to brim with pictures of your handsome, stoic boyfriend covered in butterflies—you wander the streets into the evening, until Ben insists you go home to get ready. When the door closes behind you, you don’t even get a chance to ask what are we getting ready for before he’s slamming you against the wall and fucking you in a way that might be dangerous to the foundation of the house.

When you’re done, he insists you shower, and tells you to dress fancy.

You do—wearing the type of dress you haven’t worn just for fun in four years—and when Ben takes you in with a slow, sweeping look, you’re in genuine danger of never leaving the house.

His eyes are heavy and dark, and you can feel the hunger growing savage in his body, but Ben only reaches a hand out for you to take with a cocky grin, and kisses the top of your head when you reach his side.

“You look beautiful,” he mutters your name against your hair, and you let out an airy breath at the everything of him. The smell of pine and coffee and strawberry and vanilla, the warmth of his body against yours, and how he should not be allowed to wear formal wear, because it’s a threat to your cognitive function. Ben is inhumanly attractive on a bad day, and with his hair mussed just right, his beard trimmed carefully, and his muscles straining at his button up shirt and jacket, he’s reducing your whole brain to that songs of Ben. Ben Ben Ben, handsome and big and strong and for you, he’s for you, you’re for him and Ben is all for you-

“You,” you swallow, supporting yourself against his chest with a fist curled into his shirt. “You’re also beautiful.”

He chuckles, and guides you out the door. “You need to keep it together, darling, or this is going to be a long fucking night.”

You manage to get a grip—using the time in the cab to remind yourself that Ben’s always hot, and he’ll still look like that when you get home and fucking him is an option that’s on the table—but the night is long anyways. Ben’s taking you to dinner, a fancy dinner with food that’s too expensive and wine that gets neither of you even slightly buzzed, but is still fun to drink. His knee stays pressed to yours as you tease him, and he glares at you and calls you a brat, and you talk about the future like it’s simple. Like it’s not a risky, uncertain if, but a promise of after.

“I knew it,” he tells you, his grin wide and smug. “I fucking knew it-“

“Fuck you, Benjamin.” You nudge his shin with your foot with a wrinkle of your nose. “I never tried to hide that I like when you cum inside me-”

“You’re all on my ass about my,” he coughs, and a slight soreness crawl over his skin. “Breeding kink. But you fucking love it-“

“I love you-“ 

“And you love when I fuck you, when I fill you up and tell everyone that you’re mine-“

“I am yours.” You shrug, leaning back in your chair. “And, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you’re really good at sex, Pretty Boy-“

His whole face lights up, and it would look innocent if his voice wasn’t so deep and rough. “I am, but you still fucking love me pumping you full of my cum, kissing you until you’re stupid and screaming my name, telling you you’re beautiful and good, and that I fucking love you-“

Your thighs are squeezed together, your face flushed from his words, but you push through it to weakly jab back, “shut up, Ben-“

“No, you want me, you fucking love me when I fuck you dumb and pretty with my cock-“

“I do.” You mumble, focusing your attention on a glint of wine caught in his beard. “But I mostly just love you. I like you. You’re my best friend, and I’ve always wanted you more than anything else.”

He’s suddenly silent across the table, that odd feeling growing ravenous. “What do you want after.”

You hum, with a soft frown. “What?”

“You made me tell you what I wanted, in DC. What do you want.”

“I,” you chew on your low lip, and realize you don’t have to think these words out. “I want to move. Not here, not until Ryan is done with school at least, but just, away from New York. We could come here on summers, but I think I want a home still in America. We could get on in Philly, or Boston, or somewhere else, but I’d like to stay in a city. And I want to help with the post-Vought and Homelander clean up, but I don’t want to fight again. I can testify and help with plans, but I don’t want blood. I just want you, and Ryan, and our friends and maybe more, eventually.”

There’s a moment of silence, and the feeling snaps in Ben’s body. When you risk meeting his eyes, they’re blown out and adoring, and his voice when he speaks is hoarse.

“We’re going home.”

You nod, a little smaller and more timid than you’d like, but Ben’s everything and you feel like he’s about to consume you in the best way possible. “Okay.”

The ride home is silent, Ben’s hand resting on your thigh and the feeling rushing in and around and between every part of his body, and you have to ask him. Before he throws you on your mattress, you need to knowwhatthis feeling is.

But he doesn’t bring you to the bedroom. Ben carries you to the backyard, pulling off his shoes and waiting for you to follow suit before moving to the pool and sitting down with his feet in the water. You lower yourself at his side, leaning your head on his shoulder, and for a second you almost forget your concern. Ben’s arm wraps around your shoulders, and you can feel every rise and fall of his chest, and you could stay like this for the rest of time.

But you have to go home tomorrow. This is your last night like this, and you’re not afraid—not cold or hollow or broken—but you’re scared. You have something so good now, and if you lose it, you know you won’t recover. You won’t lose Ben, he won’t let you lose him, but he can still be taken away from you. And you’d burn the whole world to get him back, but you’d rather just be like this. Peaceful.

Happy.

He clears his throat, and when you look up at him, he’s already staring at you. “Do you want to dance.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and you know he can feel it too. How this feels so vital in a way you don’t understand yet, that you do something simple and romantic like this. “I can sing-“

“Just,” he sighs, helping you to your feet. “I’ve got it. Follow my lead.”

You nod slowly, and you’ll follow him to hell and back, so you let Ben hold you against him with a careful, steady arm around your waist, and guide your movements with another hand tangled in yours.

You might have been here for a million years, dancing in a slow, easy way, your head resting on Ben’s chest, every off-key hum rolling through your body and settling in your bones with a sense of permanence. He’s so bad at singing, but you don’t care, because you love him, and love is making your judgment a little hazy. He’s touching you like you’re holy, and his body over and around yours is everything, so even as that feeling builds and builds and passes some point of no return, it’s still just Ben. It’s still just another strange part of this man you love, who has done so much wrong, but still is everything right.

You smile at him up at him, and you know it’s your wide, toothy, lovestruck smile that makes you look a little stupid, but you don’t care. Ben is warm and solid against you and in you and everywhere around you, and he’s yours, so he deserves the dumbest, most pathetic sounds and expressions you have to offer. He deserves everything you have to offer, even if it’s just a beating heart in his hands and a cracked skull to press his brow against. If all you can give Ben is a happy sigh of his name and your hands cupping his face, then you’ll offer it a thousand times over.

He’s offered you more. Everything Ben gives you is so blatantly, obviously worship. It’s how you see people treat Queens in old, historically inaccurate movies. How he kisses you at every possible moment, in the only way that’s somehow correct. How he’s started to buy the pine shampoo himself, because he knows you like it, and always leaves his shirt casually out for you to wear, replacing it with a clean one if he deems it too dirty. How he’s leading you in a dance, his whole face relaxed and his whole body adapting so quickly to your every misstep and stumble. How his body feels like just as much yours as yours has become his, and nothing about that feels wrong.

How he tells you I love you every second like he’s worried you’ve somehow forgotten. How he’s like a barrier between you and everything wrong and cruel, just because he’s so good and caring in his tending to every part of you.

Ben tends to you so well.

It’s something nobody but Ben seems to do so easily, without any labor or resentment, like these offerings he leaves you aren’t to protect himself from your wrath, but to try and get you to just look at him.

And it’s almost worryingly natural to look at Ben. He’s bigger and stronger and more infinite than the dark, star splattered sky above you. You’d try to justify yourself out of saying he looks like an angel in the night—almost glowing in moonlight, shadows casting over his handsome features like they’d rehearsed it—but you’re past that.

For you, and just you, Ben is an angel. Not a soft, baby angel they show in churches and bible studies and cartoons, but a biblical angel. Bloody and consuming and loud and zealous, with eyes that burn through you and wrath that’s focused to serve their god.

You might be his god. And you’d say it’s not a fair trade, but Ben is your everything. You may love the world and every piece of beauty it has to offer, but you also have a favorite thing, and it’s Ben. Without a single doubt, Ben is your favorite. And you’ll never choose anything over him. You could be a god, and create a whole world, and you’d still chose Ben as the sun set and mean it every time.

He mutters your name, that feeling inside him on edge, and stops your slow, mostly swaying movements in the grass.

“Benjamin.” You whisper in return, and his grip against you tightens and he continues in a low voice.

“I love you.” He searches over your face, and every part of you is already open for him to take, but you loosen your features slightly. Just to try and ease that roar inside him. “You know I love you.”

“I do.”

“And we’re,” he lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Fuck-buddy-brain-connected.”

Your smile starts to strain at your cheeks. “We are.”

“And if you want just that, for the rest of time, I’m more than damn okay with it. But,” he’s standing tall and watching you cautiously, his words slower than you’ve ever heard them. “I want to get married. To you.”

The world might have ended. Everything could be flooding and trumpets could be sounding and the oxygen could be being pulled from your lungs, but you wouldn’t know the difference. Unless it was Ben doing it, you wouldn’t have a fucking clue.

He’s still talking. For some reason, the sentence didn’t stop when your heart did, and Ben’s still saying stuff.

“We could do it now. Or after. Or in fifty fucking years. But I want to marry you, Sunshine, I fucking love you and if they threw me back in the box in an hour it would’ve still been fucking worth it because I got to have you.” He reaches into his pants, pulls out a ring with an iridescent opal set into the band, and glares at it like it might ruin this for him. “This is for you. It’s got all the fucking colors, and I can find some asshole to fit it better, or change it. If you want it. If you want me-“

That’s enough of that. The very prospect that you might not always want Ben springs you into action, and you crash into him with a fervor in your blood and nervous system that you’ve never felt before Ben, and will never have to worry about not feeling after. He catches you, raising you up off the ground as he deepens the kiss, and it’s only when you’re both forced away to breathe that you realize you haven’t actually answered.

“Yes.” You press your brow to Ben’s and if your smile was dumb before, it’s flat out idiotic now. “I’d like to marry you, Benjamin. I love you, and I’d really like to marry you.”

The odd feeling is gone, and all that’s left is love. Powerful and eternal love that’s all yours and Ben’s, and you could spend a lifetime describing how it’s everything—brutal and soft and unstoppable and immovable and made of fire and light but so sharp and embedded in your very soul that nothing else feels quite as real—but you’d rather spend that lifetime with Ben. In his arms and at his side and never, ever afraid because you have him, and he won’t let you burn without burning at your side.

“Good.” He grunts, glancing back down to the ring. “Do you want it now.”

You nod, offering out your hand, and he slides it on your finger carefully, looking up at you with a grin when he’s done.

“Do you…” Your words stray off as you start to get a little high off his gentle touch and boundless eyes on yours. “Do you want to have sex?”

He laughs—a loud echoing laugh that starts in his chest and moves into your heart—and picks you up with a wide grin.

“That is a stupid fucking question,” he starts to walk you back inside, holding your gaze the whole way. “I always want to fuck you, Sunshine. I’d fuck you in a hurricane, or tornado, or in the middle the goddamn world ending. What I want to know,” he lowers his face to yours, eyes alight and warming every part of your body. “Is how you want me to fuck you.”

“I,” you take a shaky breath, trying to force yourself not to drool or whimper under his attention. “I trust you. Whatever you want.”

You can’t look at him right now. You can feel him growing so hungry and strong in your body that it’s going to knock you out, make you cum on the spot, burst into flames, or all three at once, and holding Ben’s gaze will only make that worse.

It’s bad enough to hear his voice, low and rumbling and gravely, say your name like it’s a prayer. “Whatever I want.”

You hum, because you don’t trust your voice not to just be a breathless plea of his name.

“Words-“

Whatever you want.

You can see Ben nod in your periphery as he kicks the door open. He lowers you onto your bed slowly and carefully before crawling over you and pushing you onto your back, and when you finally gather yourself enough to meet his eyes, he looks feral. He feels feral inside you—beating against your ribs and hungry in every place of you he’s allowed to touch, which is all of them—and he’s hard against your thigh, making it really, really hard to focus on anything but Ben. Caging you against his body, only watching you and not really doing anything but making you sit in Ben. Starving for you and looking at you like you’re holy, loving you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

Ben- 

Whatever I want. He’s repeating it one last time, giving you one last chance to take it back. But the growl of his voice in your head tells you that he knows exactly what he wants, and if this is another thing you can give him, then he’ll get it. It won’t be gentle.

Okay. You drag one hand down his chest, palming at his bulge until he groans, his head dropping to the crook of your neck. I can take it-

He grabs your hand against him, his grip rough and bruising as he moves your hand on your head, and picks his head up to scan over your slack, desperate expression. No touching me. He starts to trace small circles on your wrist with his thumb, and it’s sending small electric shocks through your body. I touch you. And be loud. Be real fucking loud. Got it?

You nod, and it’s a little pathetic. Yes. Got it. What are you-

Ben rips off your stupid fancy dress in one movement, and leaves wet, sloppy, open mouth kisses over your lip, down your throat, over your collarbone and tits and stomach and down, down, down until his tongue flattens on your clit, and a low groan leaves him as two, broad fingers trace up and down your pussy.

So fucking wet for me, Sunshine. Always so goddamn wet, soaking through your panties like a fucking brat, tasting like fucking heaven-

“Ben,” you gasp as his tongue start to drag down, teasing and flicking at your fluttering pussy but never going in, both his hands moving to knead at your ass as he angles you up. “Fuck, please. Please-“

His tongue pushes into you, and your words turn into a choked and high whimper that only makes him go faster.

Fucking perfect, darling, soaking my fucking face. You’re like fucking crack, I could goddamn die here. His beard starts to tickle and burn at your skin, and you grind up into his face. Christ, you’re fucking desperate. You want my cock, don’t you. You want me to make you feel fucking good, ruin you and split you open-

You can’t touch him. Your hands are fisted in the sheet because you can’t touch Ben. He’s spewing filth in your head and eating you in a way that make his nose bump your clit and his hands pull and squeeze your skin, his tongue occasionally just licking a long, rough stripe up your cunt and making you scream, but you can’t touch him.

“God, I need you, now, Ben, need you now-“

You’re right on the edge, Ben’s tongue starting to just plunge in and out of you, and he’s not bothering to hold you down. You bucking and keening off the mattress, your arms starting to wrap around your own body to just touch something, and Ben grins, chuckling right against your pussy.

So fucking good. Goddamn perfect, and beautiful, and real needy. All wet and begging, just for me-

“Just for you, only for you,” you gasp, kicking against the bed as Ben’s mouth moves back to suck and nip at your swollen clit in a pattern that’s holding pleasure just out of your reach, but still makes you scream. “God, Benjamin, you cunt, please-“

Hold it, Sunshine. Take it and keep fucking talking, and maybe I’ll let you cum.

I can’t-

You can. His tongue starts to flick torturously, and you fucking squeal. It would be embarrassing if it didn’t spur Ben on, his voice dropping to an octave you’ve never even heard before. Good girl, taking it so well. Talk to me, darling, tell me what you want-

I want you, Benjamin. I want your cock, I want you to make me cum-

Aloud.

“Fuck!” You scream, writhing and rolling your hips squeezing your tits like you can force your own relief. “You asshole, please let me cum, fuck, please, need it, need you-“

He starts to circle his tongue over your clit in slow, painfully good motions, and you whine.

“Please,” your legs lock around his head, trying to force him deeper into your cunt. “God, fuck, Ben-“

The last shout of his name is almost a protest, because he unhooks your legs without effort, and rises up to look at you. He looks proud, and in love, and it’s all for you and you’re going to explode-

“I said no touching.” His voice is stern, but one hand has snaked over your abdomen, lingering with teasing fingers and a soft touch. “You want to cum?”

“Yes, please.” You spread your legs as wide as you can, giving Ben a pout that usually gets snaps him and makes his cock drive into you with an abandon.

This time, though, he just smirks, and drops his hand between your legs. Resting it right over your cunt, holding his balance on your knees as his other hand press down on your stomach to still your squirms. “Going to be fucking good for me, Sunshine? Let me do whatever I want to this perfect pussy?”

He slaps his hand against you, and your mouth falls open. All you can do is whine stupidly and make soft, breathless noises that are supposed to be his name.

“Talk to me,” he grunts your name, and hits your cunt again, this time a little harsher. It’s not painful, but it stings and sends a rush through your whole body, spurring your voice into borderline incoherent pleas.

“Ben, fuck, please. Please, I want you, need you, fuck-“ Another slap of your pussy, another strangled scream. “Need to cum, need you to make me cum, Ben-“

He starts to makes smaller, slightly circulars patterns with his hits, dragging you right up to the edge, and you can’t really think outside of Ben, Ben, Ben, who let him learn how to play you like an instrument and who made him smell like an aphrodisiac and who decided he could be big and handsome and strong and rough but still touch you like you’re sacred and look at you like nothing else is worth looking at-

“Let go for me, Sunshine.” He mutters, and you feel him alive and roaring inside of you. “Cum.”

Your body almost flies off the bed as it obeys. For almost a whole minute your existence is almost only pleasure and warmth and something wet pouring out of you, all in a perfect harmony with Ben. You might be shouting it, or calling it into his head, or just keeping him all in yourself, but it’s all Ben. Still rubbing larger, softer circles over your pussy as you come down, staring at you as the world comes back into focus with a devotion and care and love that sends one last, smaller orgasm shuttering through your body.

“Ben-“

Your whisper has barely left your mouth when his eyes flash and darken further, and he’s moving. Grabbing you by your hips and flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your ass up into the air and running his broad forefinger right between the lips of your dripping, overly sensitive pussy.

He leans over your body, his lips brushing your ear, and you’re not lucid enough to stop the moan from leaving your mouth at the low, deep, hoarse sound of his voice.

“Cum all you want,” he growls your name, and your whole body shivers. “But don’t stop saying my name.” 

You nod, pressing your ass further back into where his cock is still trapped in his pants. “Ben, please, need it-“

“I know you do, darling.” He kisses your neck, squeezing your hips and hissing his words through teeth as you wiggle against him. “Fuck, you need to stop that-“

It’s almost automatic, how your body listens to him, and you fall forward onto the mattress with a whimper, curling your fingers into the sheets. “Ben. Ben, please-“

“Good girl,” Ben smirks on your skin, rutting against your bare pussy as you let out a long, hopeful moan. “Don’t move.”

You couldn’t if you tried. You can hear and feel Ben moving around behind you—rising back onto his knees and tearing at cloth—and nothing in you wants to move. Your brain is in an easy harmony of Ben, and you’re warm and wrapped in a haze of pine, so you’re really good right here.

If you moved, you wouldn’t get to feel Ben’s hands knead and pull at your ass, yanking you back up into the air before pressing his thumb right over your clit and rubbing once, twice, a third time until you’re gasping and pleading his name, gathering all your strength to push up onto your knees and offer yourself as easily as you can.

Ben. Please, Benjamin, please-

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, one, thick finger pushing into you and pumping slowly. “Never seen anything as fucking perfect as you, Sunshine. I fucking love you, I’m going to marry the fuck out of you.”

You let out a soft, airy giggle. “Romantic-“

Ben’s fingers are yanked out of you without warning—leaving you squeezing around nothing and making a loud, needy noise—and his cock replaces them so fast it knocks the air out you and sends a rush of lightning-like pleasure though your body. 

“Fucking brat,” Ben pulls in and out once, and you can’t do anything but moan and feel smoke start to curl from your hands. “Such a smart fucking mouth, you’re-“ he groans, starting to move faster, building up and up, his balls slapping against your clit as his hands bruise into your hips. “Christ, so fucking good, darling, fucking love you, going to drive me goddamn mad-“ You’re too high to hold onto his words anymore. He’d wrapped an arm around you waist and trailed big, warm fingers down your stomach until they’re pinching and rolling your clit, and when your orgasm crashes over you it’s not a wave, but a storm. It washes over you again and again, only growing stronger as Ben reaches an unrelenting pace, drilling into you and growling praise you can’t hear, but that still sends spasms through your body and more and more wetness out of your cunt. You’re squeezing and fluttering around his cock, and he’s saying words that sound like hymns, but you can’t decipher outside of good. Ben and good. You’re burning but it’s fine because you won’t fade out and Ben’s right here with you.

His hips jerk, his body falling over yours, and you feel something hot spread over your gut and down your thigh when Ben’s orgasm slams into you it’s unforgiving. You’re nothing but a shaking, whimpering, soft mess when his beard brushes on the skin of your back, and you let out a happy sigh when he starts to kiss up and down your spine. He’s still buried into you, and he’s so simply and contently alive in everything that’s inside and around you that you don’t realize that the bed is blackened and scorched under your body.

“Ben,” you whisper, running some ash between your fingers. “Did I-“

“You did.” His mouth moves back to your neck, and you can feel his grin against your skin. “You’re a marvel, Sunshine. That was fucking hot.”

“Literally,” you mumble, and he chuckles.

“Smartass.”

You hum, smiling like a fool and carefully moving your hand up to reach behind you and run his hair between your fingers, “I love you, Benjamin. And I’d marry you now, but I think you’d like to be dramatic about it.”

“I’ve got a hot fucking wife,” he grumbles, arms wrapping around your waist. “I’ll be as dramatic as I want, beautiful.”

You laugh, and tomorrow you’ll have to go home, but tonight you don’t have to go anywhere. You can sleep easy with Ben over you like a weight that’s not a trial to carry, and dream of sunlight and laughter and a hollow thing that’s finally full, and the light that’s leaking out of it.

End Note: If you wanted more of them in Rome, do not worry. There will be many, many one-shots from things that we didn’t have space for in the chapter. There's even been a secret one already in the Bonus Footage. See you guys for the shit hitting the fan <3.

Thank you for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

@fghj18 @n-o-p-e-never @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @marisha-3 @stvrniolo

@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf @ciuguapa @ilyaasansaif @whimsicalcherry

@sadpods @ahoytothestorm @silverwingxox @criminalyetminimal @solsborg

@generalmoonpolice @ifyouwerethemoon @leavli @imsiriuslyreal

[mechanicalhandsyaoi]

I need to bite homelander in a dog with rabies sort of way

I need to bite him but not in a kinky way just in an autistic way

[deliciouskeys]

Holy fuck. @xieyaohuan and I are yappers. This is very much unplanned freestyle stream of consciousness conversation about Homelander and Homelander-adjacent things. No promises on the quality, but I thought the conversational flow was pretty good. Topics are timestamped (do not look at the total time, please).

And apologies for the laptop microphone (sounds like at least one of us is speaking out of a jar and no in silico dialogue enhancement could rescue it). I only have one good microphone and that would not work for a 2 way conversation -_-

00:00:00:00 We are recording a podcast, apparently

00:00:57:07 How we discovered The Boys

00:05:40:01 How we became obsessed with Homelander

00:13:28:20 Madelyn Stillwell

00:16:01:14 Nerfing of powers

00:16:57:03 How Xieyaohuan started writing fic

00:20:06:06 How Deliciouskeys started writing fic

00:27:48:15 Deliciouskeys’ previous fandoms compared to The Boys fandom

00:29:52:17 Xieyaohuan’s previous fandoms compared to the boys fandom

00:37:33:02 Reading incoming questions live

00:40:13:00 When did Butchlander click for us

00:47:47:12 Xieyaohuan’s ao3 name: Frenchcroatiansquid

00:50:36:00 “Fears” about season 5

00:56:46:01 Kripke’s idea for an ending (and puritanism)

01:00:14:24 Morality of The Boys as revealed by Termite scenes (yeah...)

01:03:40:02 Homelander getting depowered ending, supe culture wars

01:08:24:20 Homelander & Ryan

01:16:36:14 Billy Butcher’s ending

01:20:31:13 Mothers

01:23:46:27 How fandom has affected our real life

01:28:04:01 Sticking around until the end of a franchise

01:30:06:06 What's stalling Xieyaohuan's fic All God’s Children Took Their Toll

01:36:05:11 What's stalling Deliciouskeys' fic The Selfish Gene

01:43:16:17 Homelander’s behavior in the B6 lab

01:47:46:17 Maevelander

01:50:22:20 Homelander’s various parents

02:00:37:06 Back to Maeve

02:05:27:16 Starlander

02:07:48:07 Viclander

02:09:24:21 Sagelander

02:18:57:17 Soldier Boy x homelander

02:20:38:14 NOTP’s (if there are any)

02:26:16:18 Hughlander

02:27:27:12 Firelander

02:32:35:27 We attempt to come up with underutilized tropes in HL fics

02:36:52:27 Beccalander

02:41:20:06 Homelander x Todd

02:42:49:02 Would we be fans of Homelander within-universe?

02:44:49:14 Homelander-is-a-nerd fanon theory

02:47:34:18 Public vs private display in Homelander’s apartment

02:50:22:14 Kripke’s heavy hand with themes

02:51:29:13 Favorite scene of season 3 and 4

02:53:08:14 In conclusion, we are yappers about The Boys

[macabrebatz]

I swear every month I have an urge to buy Mortal Kombat. Adding Billy & Stu is just making me want this game even more.

[fleshthatfalls]

this is eventually what'll happen in a fic with my supe oc, guaranteed xoxo

[ishomieokay]

POV: Everyone wants a piece of depowered Homelander, but they can get in line. He's drinking margaritas with you on a deserted beach of the Caribbean, and you're not giving him back.

[graycatladyyyy80]

Antony's latest post on his Instagram story.( It's a no on the cold. )🤣😂😜

[annetess]

sometimes i tell myself, "don't post sketches" But I can't help it, I feel like there's more life in these messy pictures than in the final works. Who can find doggo?

[anundyingfidelity]

(drawing too)

[dollerinna]

I WANT TO F**K YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL .

( black noir x fem supe!reader )

summary: the not-so-innocent things that go on in noir’s head abt you during The Seven meetings (wc: 1.8k)

warnings: MDNI, dub-con, rough p in v, doggy style, primal play themes, size kink, gagging, sobbing, corruption kink, Homelander being a weirdo at the end… just a lil’

first fic on this blog and I lowkey hate it- ughhh sorry if it’s all over the place!

The morning sun cast its golden glow upon the Manhattan skyline as The Seven assembled in their meeting room.

Homelander paced before them, detailing some new initiative he had conceived, but his words rang as emptily as the void behind his eyes. The Deep hung on his every syllable, eager as ever to prove his ass-kissing self with poorly-timed quips. This earned him nothing but a withering side-eye.

A-Train and Maeve listened with feigned interest, checking out of the conversation all but in body. Noir sat apart, idly fidgeting with a pen as his mind wandered. But his attention was drawn not to the usual faces, for there was a new supe among them—you, the latest fresh-faced recruit to their team.

On the surface, you appeared the absolute picture of attention—eyes forward, laser focused on Homelander as he tiresomely outlined the team's objectives.

It was cute, really, how focused the newbies always strived to be. Yet beneath the facade, you were actually anything but so, not when you felt an unseen gaze assessing you, weighing you.

Flicking your eyes discreetly aside, you confirmed a suspicion you could smell from miles away: Noir watching from across the table, his expression shrouded as ever behind the visor of his helmet.

Ugh, talk about creepy.

A subtle flutter of your eyelids shifted your line of sight, choosing to trust that his thousand-yard stare just so casually happen to drift your way and not an attempt to burn his gaze into your very soul.

Besides, what else could the guy possibly think about? Training, orders from Vought, simple pastimes—usually, such painfully mundane, run-of-the-mill thoughts occupied him.

But little did you know in this moment, as he studied your presence from afar, his mental reflections took a turn less… innocent.

─────────────────

“N-Noir… mmph-… please…”

It wasn’t his doing, he didn’t ask to be plagued with this sickly obsession; but every time he heard your voice, it was as if sweet, smooth-spun sugar had come alive.

An alien lust scorched Noir’s consciousness, catapulting his fevered mind into unfamiliar territory. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the sinful thoughts that stubbornly stuck to him like glue. Just the mere notion of ever being responsible for those pretty little sounds was enough for arousal to creep through his veins like a nasty virus, sapping what was left of his crumbling self-control.

Your every whine, your every moan, would be a siren's call that beckoned him to claim you, to strip away your composure until you were utterly, helplessly his. All he craved was to watch the light in your eyes dwindle, to witness your breaths dampening into shallow puffs of air that blanketed your gaze in a veil of fog, gradually muffling you into a stillness even quieter than he was.

And truthfully, it wasn’t a matter of whether you liked it or not.

Noir would ensure his touch left no room for refusal, his grasp iron-hard as he positioned your trembling, naked body on the floor to his liking—face pinned down, ass arched up, just as it should be. Yet even as he held you fast with a palm braced against your sweat-slicked spine, his other hand moved with a surprising tenderness, gently teasing loose and brushing apart the knotted strands of hair clung to your ruddied features.

He imagined the merest of touches would set your blood aflame, rumbling up a ripe groan from your core. “…Oh m-my god… fuck…” words fled your mouth on airless breaths, nearly inaudible but still enough for him to catch. In response, he’d slowly lift a finger to your glistening lips, accompanied by a soundless ‘shh’—a signal for you to behave.

After all, good girls should never cuss.

Large, strong hands would then greedily paw at the lush fat of your ass cheeks, the scratchy textured fabric of his gloves leaving blooms of red across your flesh. Spreading you open, he’d admire the way your juicy, moist folds parted slightly, the aching emptiness within your entrance eliciting an involuntary clenching—your muted moans, trapped in your throat, acting as a wordless plea for more of his touch, more of him.

He liked to think you’d be mere putty in his hands, before he was even close to fucking you.

Noir would take his sweet time exploring you, his curiosity of the human form eclipsing the immediate need to quell a white-hot carnal desire every red-blooded man gets. He was good at rearranging people’s insides, literally, but what if he flipped the script in a much different way?

Experimentally, he’d run the very tip of his gloved finger along the weeping slit of your sex, ghosting ever so lightly over your swollen, hypersensitive clit to collect your slick arousal. Then, without warning, he’d dip an entire digit into your quivering depths, reveling in the way your spongy muscles squeezed and welcomed him in.

Your breath would hitch at the intrusion, skin prickling with a visceral need as you eagerly shoved your rear back against his palm, craving more. However, just as swiftly, he would withdraw his hand, bringing it close to his face to observe it covered in your juices, inspecting how the slimy, milky-white essence connected a trail between his fingers.

Who knew light fondling and agonizing silence was all the foreplay you needed? (or at least, in Noir’s fanciful pornographic depictions of you)

Once done playing with his food, he’d drag his knees closer to your body, his hips flush against your ass, leaving your peripheral vision filled with nothing but his imposing, darkly-clad figure dwarfing your own. Without hesitation, he’d reach down to remove the codpiece off him, freeing his hefty cock which sprang forth in the air, where it stood rock-hard, veiny, and impossibly large.

Wrapping a hand around himself, the thickly-roped, buzzing veins were betrayed by each gritty pull of his glove, drawing a guttural grunt from behind his balaclava. He’d guide his erection between your warm folds, the engorged ridge of his tip prodding against your bundle of nerves, sending electric jolts of pleasure to crackle through your core, before he began to sheathe himself inside you with a push that drove him home.

With a grip possessive and firm around your waist, Noir quickly fell into a steady, almost robotic rhythm of sturdy pushes and pulls. Each punishing collision of your bodies was answered by the lewd, rapid sounds of skin-on-skin, making damn sure you felt every single inch of him as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

He’d only hope to see you struggle taking him all in, envisioning how the sheer scale of his size forced the very air out from your gasping lungs.

“P-Please Noir!… ngh-… my body can’t handle this much,” your once-lovely voice now ragged and frail, scraping sobs grinding your vocal cords near silence as you churned and coiled like a fawn caught in the clutches of a big, bad wolf. “Be gentle, I’m begging you!—-” You choked out weakly, bordering on a soft, pitiful whine.

Expectantly, a weighted silence followed suit from Noir. In his typical, unsparing fashion, he slipped a glove from his hand, jamming it into your mouth and effectively gagging you into silence, as if to say—pipe down, be a good girl, and take my cock like you’re supposed to.

Even without a single word uttered by him, it worked like absolute fucking magic.

Your torso would practically collapse under the onslaught, wobbly limbs giving way as you let Noir use your arched up, offering form like a personal fleshlight. His hips would retract further back in an excruciating slowness, simply marveling at your wetness coating the base of his member like a second skin, only to slam back into you with raw vigor.

Your tight, gummy walls would be offered absolutely no time to adjust to the relentless invasion of his girth, the sheer thickness of his cock forcefully stretching out your cunt to shape him, to the point it felt like he was trying to split you into two.

He’d yank your flexing thighs back to meet his brutal series of thrusts, burying himself into you to the very tilt as the fleshy head of his cock kissed your cervix, igniting a searing white bolt of static to lance through your vision, momentarily fracturing it.

The all-consuming, dizzying sensation hit you like a ton of bricks, toppling your senses and wrenching a strangled sob out from your slack jaw once more. This earned you another biting touch from Noir’s thumbs pressed into your sides, as if seeking to wring every gasp out of your chest, to hear your moans rattle through your ribcage.

However even your rawest cries were swiftly muffled, swallowed by the balled-up glove shoved roughly between your teeth, which reduced you to nothing more than a gagging, pleasure-drunk whore for him to claim.

─────────────────

Meanwhile…

“Welp, that about covers it for today,” Homelander announced with a thunderous clap, loud enough for it to ring through Noir’s ears and bring him back to the present.

Slowly, Noir spun his head back towards Homelander, who had just finished addressing the team while his own thoughts drifted to places where even the pearly gates of heaven wouldn't give him the time of day.

“Now shoo- and no more sloppy behavior. I’ll be keeping an eye on each and every one of you.” Homelander dismissed them with a casual wave and a chuckle laced with another one of his thinly veiled threats.

As everyone, including little-miss-oblivious-you, got up to leave the meeting room, Homelander sauntered over to Noir, heartily slapping a heavy hand onto his back. “Earth to Noir! I know that look—thoughts a million miles away behind that sphinx-like mask of yours,” giving a sly little shrug, he slanted a meaningful look towards Noir’s codpiece. “But methinks, someone here isn’t as impenetrable as I thought…” A thin wry smile played his lips, a subtle hint at his x-ray vision allowing him to see a particular something-something of Noir’s that was currently just as hard as his body armor.

“It might do you good to line that suit with zinc. Wouldn't want any unwanted eyes peeking where they shouldn’t, do we?" An amused exhale, part sigh part snicker, slipped out of Homelander as his gaze swept over Noir once more.

True to form, all he received in turn was Noir’s standard muteness, as soundless as a grave.

Homelander eased the quiet with a huffed laugh, rocking back on his heels as he tilted his head in playful study of Noir. "But don't worry," he added with a knowing smirk, "it happens to the best of us. But do try to keep your head in the game! And not with your other one, ‘kay buddy?” Homelander jested in mock-reproach as he landed one last waggish, firm slap between Noir's shoulders, flashing his gleaming white yet eerily pointed grin.

Noir remained statue still, no hint of feeling betrayed by his rigid posture despite the toe-curling awkwardness of the encounter, or perhaps he'd yet to fully realize Homelander had peered within and seen his aching, raging hard-on behind the suit's facade.

Noir silently watched Homelander shoot two playful finger guns, his cape swirled shut behind him before leaving the room.

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Pssst- Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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Apologies if there are any grammatical errors here, cuz I’m alr so done with this fic 😭😭😭