#marvin milk

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: Wearing Their Clothes

Requested: i followed you for succession and currently im the boys brainrotted so you wouldnt believe my excitement when i realised you wrote for the boys too!!!!! i want to request maybe hc on how the boys would react to reader wearing their sweater/tshirts - anon

A/N: My love, the brain rot is so real!!! When I tell you I have an entire folder of The Boys edits, I mean I am kicking my feet and giggling at these people covered in blood lol. Thank you for requesting! Please feel free to again, I absolutely love writing preferences! I hope you like it!!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜

Butcher absolutely adores you wearing his coat. It drives him wild. It started one night where you two were alone, the group split up. While everyone else had their own jobs, you and Butcher were on surveillance. It was freezing out. He noticed the goosebumps on your arms. You swore you were fine, but he could tell you were putting up a front. Oi, just take it. Not wanting to blow your cover and fight, you put his coat around your shoulders, thanking him. It's a long night and you take shifts. When he catches you curled in a ball, his coat wrapped around you, it tugs at his heartstrings. Something about this image of you just makes him melt. After that, he's eager to see it again. Realizing this, you never turn down his offer. Now you basically have 50/50 custody. You like it. It's warm and worn, but it also smells like him and, when you're apart, remains a reminder that he's always looking out for you. Both M.M. and Frenchie are full of jokes when they catch you wearing it, but Annie and Hughie find it endearing.

Hughie loves that you wear his t-shirts and hates it. Not only do you look better in them than him, which is annoying enough, and now everyone finds them funny now that you're wearing them, but now he can never find the one shirt he wants to wear. It's either on your body or in your closet. Of course he would never stop you, he doesn't want you to stop, but he does wish there was a little bit more of a compromise. You wore it the first time you slept over. Your shirt had been discarded somewhere you couldn't find, but Hughie's was right there. He tried not to show it, he tried not to get caught smiling, but he was way too obvious. Something about seeing you in his shirt made his day, his life. It never gets old. When it's laundry day, most of your clothes end up being his. Now he has double the laundry. Still, it's worth it. His clothes always come back smelling like you. When they get ripped or torn from fights you apologize profusely, but he's just glad you're okay. Who cares about a stupid shirt?

Annie has always loved you in her clothes. When you moved in together, your clothes just sort of became jumbled. Neither of you felt the need to separate them, so you really can't tell if the sweater you're wearing is hers of yours. When she buys clothes she always makes sure you like what she's picking out so that you both can wear it. No one even noticed what you two were doing, that one day you'd be wearing a shirt and a few days later it would be her turn, it's just sort of become a thing. When something gets ripped or torn or covered in blood, you're the first to make jokes. I loved that sweater, you say, though Annie knows what you really mean is it's a stupid piece of clothing, you're just glad she's okay, that's all that matters. Your favorite thing is to look at pictures where, in one, you're wearing this sweater and, in the next, she is. Something about that puts a smile on your face.

M.M. feels a little insecure. You used to love wearing his shirts. Truthfully, no one can tell what's his and what's yours, your and his clothes are so blended. Since becoming in charge of The Boys, as close to a leader as possible, he's lost a lot of weight. Grown smaller, and his clothes no longer fit you. You of course still have his old shirts, but his new wardrobe just doesn't fit. You assure him it's just temporary. The anxiety, the OCD, it really hurts his appetite. He can't even think about food anymore. Still, realizing that you can no longer share, it makes him self-conscious. Something about you wearing his clothes made him think that he was there with you always, that this was a way to protect you, as silly as it might sound. Now that you wear your clothes more, he isn't there to save you. It just adds to his many worries. You assure him you'll be safe, you'll always come back to him, but he just can't help it. You make a point to wear his older shirts as much as possible, not wanting him to worry more than he does.

Frenchie literally can't tell when you're wearing his clothes vs. your own. His style is pretty eclectic. His pants alone are bright and patterned and, to his friends, a fashion offense. His clothes are rarely organized, so you end up picking through piles to find something specific. Most of the time you have to point out when you've got one of his jackets or shirts on. He of course thinks you look better in them than him and he makes it known. Your friends make fun of you and him for some of the outrageous outfits you put together. Everything is worn in and soft and smells like him, a mix of cologne and fabric softener and smoke. Not realizing, Frenchie wears your clothes, too. Only when you ask for a shirt back or where it is does he realize oh! so this belongs to you. Neither of you mind. It makes you happy seeing him wear your clothes. He definitely styles is better than you.

Kimiko's entire closet is all black. Not only is it easy to blend in with the crowd, and it all matches, but it can also hide the sight of blood. Neither of you can really tell whose shirt or pants or jacket belongs to who, considering most of your clothes are pretty identical. Still, she'll poke fun at you every so often when she realizes you've got on one of her shirts. Is that mine? She smiles. Is it? You didn't even realize. You always ask her if she wants it back, if she wants you to change, but she shakes her head. She tells you look good in it, badass even, and you shrug it off, though it means a lot. You and Kimiko both are still figuring out how relationships work. It takes a lot of trust, something neither of you were very well versed in. Sharing clothes is just another way you two show that you're a partnership. No one else can tell, but you can. That kind of attention would normally make alarm bells go off in your head, but you know Kimiko, you know she does it out of affection and not something more sinister.

Bonus! Homelander rarely, if ever, wears civilian clothes. If he's not in his suit, he's probably naked. You've never seen him in anything else. The only time he's done it was to see Sage and that was in secret. Still, you find a way to share by wearing his cape. Typically wrapped around you after you slip from the bed, in search of your own clothes, half-naked and embarrassed. He assured you you have never looked better. Homelander likes power. He likes when people listen to him, respect him, and show him their loyalty. You wearing his cape shows him all of that and more. He never thought he'd like you in his clothes, it's just another thing he's territorial about, but he's pleasantly surprised. Now he expects it. If you forget or just don't wear it, his ego is pretty wounded. You assure him it's nothing against him. Now you go out of your way to do so, knowing it makes him so happy.

Bonus! Soldier Boy feels such an attraction to you when you wear his clothes. He doesn't really wear anything but his suit, so one day you jokingly put it on. You filled it out differently than he did, but it didn't look horrible. When he saw you, he was all smiles. The first thing that comes to mind is wanting to take it off you *wink wink*. What was a joke is now something you do on special occasions, putting it on and parading around in it. The things he says are awfully dirty and make you laugh every time. You never thought something as silly and simple as putting on his suit would end up driving him this wild. You should have known, it makes perfect sense, but you just never realized. When he does, on rare occasions, wear regular clothes, he's the first to suggest that you share. It isn't as enticing as wearing his suit, but the attraction is still there. It makes him feel like you belong to him, that you want to show that off. Nothing matters more to him than that. Nothing makes him feel more seen.

[nostarfights]

[vpopugeyka]

they talk about butcher like he's literally a street dog (cause he is)

[polar-biscuit]

mm and annie father and daughter if you ask me.. i really enjoy their scenes together

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

lecherous

part III

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have fed The Boys a proper meal, you have told Hughie the truth, and you have retired to your room for the night to read, but Ben? Ben has other plans. And he'll let you read while he acts on them.

Warnings: 18+!, Soldier Boy is kinda his own warning?, language, innocence, corruption/corruption kink, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, handjob, overstim, biting, marking, p in v, spitting, implied breeding), misogyny, poetry enthusiasm, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 7,414

A/N: AHHHH! Okay, okay I did it. I actually managed to end it all out on part three. Which was harder than I expected because I don't struggle to hear dialogue for Ben... hell, I'm pretty sure my inner monologue is just voiced by Ben. I LOVED this lil series. And I'm pretty proud of it. Not me, sitting in my bedroom, reading poetry, and writing utter filth. <3 Feel free to give any feedback, my loves. I live for it. And keep an eye out, because I've already got another disgusting idea simmering on a spare burner in my brain. All the love.

Without further ado: LECHEROUS

Corruption is a slow, creeping thing.

It does not strike like lightning, does not announce itself with fire and fury.

It is quieter than that, softer. A whisper in the dark. A hand at your throat that never quite tightens. A steady unraveling, thread by thread, until you are something else entirely—something ruined.

Something willing.

The kitchen smelled like butter, garlic, and warm spices, the air thick with the scent of something hearty, something real, something that didn’t come out of a takeout container or a gas station wrapper.

And God, they needed it.

You thought it was a miracle any of them were still functioning at all, considering their idea of sustenance seemed to be black coffee, stale snacks, and the occasional questionable protein bar.

And now they were all bickering at the table, voices overlapping, sharp and easy, full of sarcasm and exasperation.

"This is a terrible idea," Hughie was saying, his voice strained, mildly distressed, but not entirely serious.

"It is a great idea," Frenchie countered, clearly entertained, clearly the cause of Hughie’s distress.

"We are absolutely not doing that," MM cut in, unimpressed, firm, final.

"Oh, come now, mon frère—"

"No."

"You do not even know what I was going to say."

"I know exactly what you were going to say."

You could practically hear Frenchie’s smirk, even without turning around. "What was I going to say?"

"Something stupid."

"That is subjective, mon ami."

"That is a fact."

"The fuck are you even arguin' about?" Butcher cut in, voice gruff, mildly entertained, mostly indifferent.

"Whether or not it would be more efficient to steal a van and turn it into a mobile base instead of keeping safe houses." MM exhaled sharply. "Which is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve heard all week."

"Oh, come on." Frenchie sounded offended. "It is not the dumbest thing. What about when petit Hughie—"

"Okay, nope," Hughie interrupted immediately. "We don’t need to rehash every dumb thing I’ve ever said—"

"But, it is a very long list."

"Jesus Christ," Hughie muttered, rubbing his temples.

You smiled to yourself, stirring the pot in front of you, listening as the conversation continued, voices overlapping, sarcasm flying, banter light but full of warmth.

Because this? This felt good. This felt normal. Or, at least, as normal as things got in a place like this, with people like this.

It had been a couple of days now. A couple of days since you had felt the weight of Ben’s hand around your throat, his voice in your ear, his breath against your lips. A couple of days since he had spat into your mouth and kissed you until you swallowed it. A couple of days since he had made you tremble against him, made you gasp and whimper and melt, made you feel things you weren’t sure you could ever unfeel.

And now? Now the mark on your neck was almost gone.

The deep bruise, once dark and obvious and impossible to ignore, had faded to something faint, something barely there, something that would disappear completely in another day or two.

And that should have been a relief.But instead? It was disappointing.

Because for the last couple of days, whenever you caught your reflection, whenever your fingers brushed against the sore, tender skin—

You liked it.

You liked the way it looked. You liked the way it contrasted against your pale skin. You liked the way it felt, lingering, tangible, undeniable. You liked having evidence of what he did to you. You liked having a reminder that Ben wanted to mark you, wanted to mar you, wanted to leave something behind.

And now it was almost gone.

You swallowed, pushing the thought away, shaking your head slightly as you reached for the salt, giving the pot another stir before glancing toward the table.

Hughie had moved on to complaining about something else, MM looked mildly entertained, Butcher was only half-listening, and Frenchie—

Frenchie was looking at you, and the moment your eyes met, he smirked.

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

"What?"

"Nothing, mon ange."

"No, what?"

"Just noticing something, that is all."

You bristled. "Noticing what?"

Frenchie shrugged, leaning back in his chair, all casual, all smug.

"You seem distracted."

Your pulse jumped.

"I’m not distracted."

"Mm," he hummed, clearly not believing you at all.

"I’m not," you insisted.

Frenchie smirked. Kimiko giggled. Hughie was still oblivious. And Butcher? Butcher was looking at Hughie, like he was considering bringing up the hickey conversation again.

Hughie noticed immediately. "No," he said firmly.

Butcher lifted a brow.

"Didn’t say anything."

"You were going to."

"You don’t fuckin' know that."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe I just like watchin' you get all worked up about it, sunshine."

Hughie groaned, rubbing his temples again. "I hate all of you."

Frenchie grinned.

"That is fair."

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head, turning back to your cooking, hoping—praying—that this conversation didn’t circle back to you again.

Because the last thing you needed was Hughie, Butcher, or MM asking why you looked like you were lost in thought, fingers occasionally brushing against your barely-there hickey, like you were already missing it.

And the last thing you needed was for Ben to notice. Because if he did? He wouldn’t let you pretend otherwise.

The scent of garlic and butter thickened in the air, warm and rich, curling against the edges of your senses as you leaned down, checking the chicken in the oven, stirring the rice, grounding yourself in the simple, tangible task of cooking.

That was easier.

Easier than thinking. Easier than the way your stomach had twisted just minutes earlier, the way your fingers had unconsciously brushed against your fading hickey. Easier than Frenchie’s smirk, Kimiko’s silent giggles, the lingering amusement written all over Butcher’s face.

Easier than remembering.

And then he walked in. You didn’t see him at first. Didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge, didn’t let yourself react. But you felt it. The second Ben stepped into the kitchen, the second his presence entered the room, something in your gut tightened, twisted, pulled.

And when you finally did glance up, you froze.

Because for once, he wasn’t in sweats. He wasn’t lounging around in worn-out gray fabric, wasn’t stretched out like he owned the place, wasn’t slouched in that lazy, self-assured way that made it seem like he had all the time in the world.

No.

Tonight, Ben was in jeans. Dark, fitted, perfectly worn denim that sat obscenely well on his frame, hugging his thighs, cinching his waist, drawing your attention in places you really, really didn’t need it to go.

And his shirt? White. Clean. Fitted. Something so simple, something so casual, and yet—

He looked fucking good.

So good that your breath caught for a split second, caught somewhere high and tight in your throat, caught before you could suppress the visceral reaction clawing up your spine.

But you buried it. You hid behind the task in front of you, forcing your gaze back to the rice, back to the stovetop, back to anything but him.

Because if you looked at him for too long—

He would notice. And he already noticed too much.

Ben settled into a chair at the table, and the conversation lulled just slightly, just for a beat, just long enough to make you nervous.

And then—

"You know what?" Frenchie’s voice was too easy. Too light. Too deliberate.

Your stomach tightened. You didn’t turn.

"I think we should start taking bets on who gave her the love-bite."

The room shifted. Hughie groaned immediately, head dropping into his hands as he exhaled hard, exasperated, like he had been dreading this exact moment.

"Oh, my God, can we not?"

"Why not?" Butcher cut in, grinning like he was thoroughly enjoying the reaction. "Ain’t like she leaves the safe house. Ain’t like she’s got time to go out and get picked up by some poor bastard at a bar."

Your heart stammered. You straightened up too fast. Your eyes went wide.

"I—" You cleared your throat, too stiff, too quick, already stumbling. "I don’t think discussing my sex life is appropriate table talk."

Butcher waved you off.

"Oh, don’t be so uptight, love." He leaned back in his chair, smirking, entirely too entertained. "We’re all mates here."

"Unfortunately," Frenchie sighed, resting his chin in his palm. "It was not me."

Your scowl was immediate.

"Shut up, Frenchie."

"What? You wound me, mon ange." He pressed a hand to his chest, grinning wide. "I am simply eliminating suspects."

"Sure as fuck weren’t me," Butcher added easily.

Your stomach turned.

"And obviously," Butcher continued, looking pointedly at Hughie, "wasn’t sunshine over there, ‘cause they ain’t from Alabama."

Hughie gagged. "Jesus Christ, will you all shut the fuck up?" He groaned, palms dragging over his face.

"Wasn’t me," MM chimed in, completely straight-faced.

The room fell silent.

Your stomach bottomed out. Your hands felt suddenly useless at your sides, fingers twitching slightly, nerves firing up your spine like a live wire.

Because now? Now, there was only one name left. Now, there was only one suspect still sitting at the table. Now, there was only one man in the room who hadn’t spoken.

Ben.

Your breath hitched. The silence stretched too long. Your pulse pounded at the base of your throat.

"Shit," Butcher muttered, too casual, too easy, too deliberately baiting. "Guess that narrows it down."

Your stomach twisted violently. Your hands curled into fists. Your mouth opened, closed, opened again—words stammering, barely forming.

"I—"

And then—

"Pass the salt, sweetheart."

Your breath stopped.

The request was low, smooth, entirely indifferent—like he wasn’t even listening to the conversation, like he wasn’t even paying attention.

But you knew better.

Slowly, slowly, you turned your head. Ben was leaning back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, utterly relaxed, utterly unfazed, utterly fucking smug.

Like he had been waiting. Like he had been listening to every second of this conversation. Like he had been enjoying every second of your panic.

And when your eyes finally locked with his—

He smirked.

Your pulse jumped violently.

You snatched the salt shaker, shoved it toward him, and spun on your heel, heart hammering, face burning, suddenly desperate to get the hell out of the kitchen.

The scent of chicken and rice hung thick in the air, the low murmur of conversation still circling the room, but the second Hughie started looking between the two of you—you felt it. Each pass of his gaze was like a slow-building storm, narrowing, considering, piecing it together, his expression shifting, morphing, tightening—

And then he said your name.

"No." You muttered, your stomach plummeting. You didn’t look at him. Didn’t react. You just kept moving. Kept pulling the chicken from the oven, kept focusing on the heat blooming from the dish, kept your head down, kept your hands steady.

"Tell me it’s not..."

You swallowed hard. You reached for the knife, and started cutting, slicing, moving—focusing on the repetition, on the task, on the fact that your entire body was burning, burning, burning.

"Tell me it wasn’t Soldier Boy."

Your hands tightened around the knife. The pressure built, a slow, searing wave, spreading from your spine to your cheeks to the tips of your fucking fingers. And then, before you could stop yourself—

"I’m busy cooking, Hughie. Shut up." The words came out too sharp, too clipped, too defensive. A fucking dead giveaway.

And the reaction was immediate. Frenchie let out a mock-horrified gasp, Kimiko giggled behind her hand, and Butcher let out a low, slow whistle, shaking his head.

"Well, shit."

You didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Because you knew exactly what you would see.

You knew Hughie would look devastated, betrayed, vaguely nauseous. You knew Frenchie would look obnoxiously entertained. You knew MM would look exasperated but not entirely surprised.

And Ben? Ben would look like this was the best fucking thing he had ever witnessed.

You didn’t need to see it. Didn’t need to lift your gaze to feel the weight of it pressing against your skin.

And yet—

You did.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to catch the smug, self-satisfied stretch of his mouth, the lazy tilt of his head, the way his arms folded behind it, shoulders relaxed, wide and lounging, like this was the most entertaining thing he had seen in decades.

Like he was saying, Yeah. That’s right. The fuck are you gonna do about it?

Your stomach twisted violently. The room felt too hot. Too small. Too exposed.

"Dinner’s ready." The words came fast, rushed, nearly tripping over themselves as you shoved the plates onto the counter. "Grab one."

And then you turned on your heel, heart hammering, heat crawling up the back of your neck, stomach twisting so violently you thought you might actually be sick—

And you fled.

Straight out of the kitchen. Straight down the hall. Straight into your room, slamming the door shut, heart pounding against your ribs, blood rushing in your ears.

The door clicked shut behind you as you left again, the quiet stillness of your room melting away as you stepped back into the hall, inhaling deep, smoothing out your dress, rolling your shoulders, setting your expression into something calm, composed, unfazed.

Because you weren’t going to hide.

Not from them. Not from him.

You had spent too much time cooking a real goddamn meal for this group of half-starved idiots to just flee and let them laugh at your expense.

And besides—

You were hungry.

And if you avoided that kitchen now, you’d be admitting defeat. So you lifted your chin, exhaled slow, pushed your shoulders back—and stepped back into the room.

The conversation lulled slightly when they saw you, but you didn’t react to it. Didn’t acknowledge the glances, the smirks, the barely contained amusement still lingering at the edges of the table.

You just walked straight to the counter, grabbed the last bowl sitting there, and made your way to the seat beside Kimiko. She was already mid-bite, eyes lighting up as she chewed, nodding enthusiastically before she turned to you, signing quickly.

Frenchie grinned, watching her hands move before translating.

"She says you are a fantastic cook."

A warm rush of satisfaction spread through your chest.

"Thanks, Kimiko."

She signed again, more deliberate this time, gesturing toward MM.

Frenchie smirked.

"She also says MM has not eaten a decent meal in months."

MM sighed heavily, shaking his head. "She ain’t wrong." He scooped up another bite of rice, exhaling through his nose. "This is amazing, kid."

"I try." You shrugged, feeling the tension ease, just slightly, just enough to settle back into something normal.

But across from you—

Hughie wasn’t eating.

He was just pushing his food around his plate, his face drawn tight, expression still a little pale, still a little mortified.

You chewed slowly, watching him, waiting. And then, when it became too much, when the weight of his stare got unbearable—

"Hughie."

He stilled immediately. His eyes snapped up to yours, wide and waiting, like he already knew what was coming.

You sat up straighter, swallowed the bite in your mouth, and said, calm, level, unwavering. "Not that it’s any of your business."

His throat bobbed.

You let your gaze sweep around the table, deliberate, pointed, making sure everyone fucking heard you.

"It’s not anyone’s business."

The message was clear. You weren’t going to be hounded about this.

Not by Hughie. Not by Frenchie, who was already smirking. Not by Butcher, who was still half-grinning like he was waiting for round two.

And definitely not by Ben.

"I’m a grown woman." Your voice didn’t waver. "I make my own decisions."

You leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp, unwavering.

"And you don’t need to act like such a virgin about it."

The reaction was immediate.

Hughie choked. Butcher barked out a laugh. Frenchie, halfway through a sip of water, nearly spit it out. Kimiko giggled, MM sighed, and Hughie struggled to regain control, mouth opening, closing, then opening again like he was searching for something to say, something to argue.

And then, after a beat—

He nodded once, sharp, decisive.

"I get it." The words were resigned, stiff, but honest. "You’re a grown woman."

A pause.

And then—

"Oh, so you don’t mind me stickin’ it to your little sister then, huh?"

The table erupted.

"OH, COME ON!" Hughie practically shouted, throwing his hands up.

Butcher fucking howled, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head, muttering “Jesus Christ.”

Frenchie was already laughing into his palm, Kimiko hiding her giggles behind her sleeve, MM shaking his head like he was officially done with the whole conversation.

And Ben was still leaned back in his chair, grinning, eyes half-lidded, looking like he had been waiting for the perfect moment to drop that bomb.

"Fucking hell," Hughie muttered, palming his forehead.

"What?" Ben shrugged, unbothered, entirely too smug. "Thought we were bein’ honest here. Ain’t that what you said, sweetheart?"

Your stomach flipped. Your face burned.

And Ben just smirked, looking you over slowly, deliberately, dragging his gaze from your flushed face down to your throat, where the last traces of that hickey had almost completely faded.

"Shame it’s almost gone."

Your breath stammered.

"Looked good on you."

The whole table caught that. And if they weren’t sure before? They sure as hell knew now.

The clatter of plates, the scrape of silverware against ceramic, the last few murmurs of conversation filled the kitchen as everyone finished their food, stretching back in their seats, shifting into post-meal satisfaction.

You stood, gathering up the empty dishes, stacking them carefully, taking them to the sink in smooth, practiced motions.

"I am not doing the dishes." You turned, arms folding over your chest, tone firm, unwavering. "I cooked. Someone else can handle it."

Frenchie huffed a laugh, Butcher grunted something amused, MM already looked like he was about to get stuck with the chore.

But you didn’t wait to see who would actually take the job. You just excused yourself, stepped out of the kitchen, and walked down the hall, feeling the weight of the evening still pressing against your ribs, still lingering at the edges of your mind.

You needed a moment. A breath. A break. And you found it on your bed, curling up with a poetry book, letting the words fold around you, trying to lose yourself in the familiar rhythm, the cadence, the softness of it.

And for a few minutes—

It worked. It was quiet. Still. Peaceful.

Until the temperature in the room shifted. A slow, creeping awareness washed over you, an undeniable, unmistakable presence filling the space before you even lifted your gaze from the page.

Your stomach tightened. Because you didn’t have to look up to know who it was. He didn’t knock. Of course, he didn’t knock. He just sauntered in, all slow, all deliberate, all lazy confidence and quiet possession.

And when you finally did glance up, he was leaning against the doorframe. One shoulder pressed into the wood, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly, watching you with something dark, something amused, something like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Your heart rate spiked, because you could feel him. You could feel him in the way the air grew heavier, the way your skin prickled, the way your body reacted before your mind could even fully process it.

You swallowed, forced your eyes back to the book, back to the words, back to the safety of distraction.

"That was some good food."

His voice was low, slow, easy.

You didn’t look at him, but you felt the warmth crawl up your neck, felt your stomach twist, felt something coil tight in your chest.

"Didn’t know you could cook."

You kept your eyes on the page. Kept your fingers steady. Kept your breathing even.

But you knew.

You fucking knew.

He was waiting.

Waiting for a reaction. Waiting for you to slip. Waiting for you to let him in.

The door clicked shut.

"Y’know," he mused, slow, thoughtful, mocking in a way that was almost too soft to be cruel. "Makes me wonder."

Your throat went tight.

"How a sweet little thing like you ain’t been snatched up yet."

The book in your hands felt suddenly too heavy, too clumsy, too fucking useless.

"Pretty little thing." His voice dipped lower, rougher. "Smart. Can cook."

A pause.

A slow, dragging beat.

And then—

"Perfect little housewife."

Your breath hitched. Your grip tightened.

And he caught it. A smirk curled at the edges of his mouth, something knowing, something wrecking, something that felt like it had been waiting to unravel you.

"Yeah." He pushed off the doorway, stepping closer, stepping in, stepping over whatever invisible fucking line you had tried to draw between you. "That gotcha, huh?"

You didn’t react.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t bristle. Didn’t snap back like you should have, like you wanted to.

You just stayed still. Sat there on the bed, fingers curled around the book in your lap, breath even, spine straight, forcing yourself not to look up.

Because you couldn’t. Because if you did, he would see it. See the way your pulse had jumped at those words, at the way he said them, at the low, slow, dragging cadence that curled around your spine like a vice. See the way your thighs pressed just a little closer together. See the way your body had betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

But Ben?

Ben already knew. And he was going to make sure you knew it, too.

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice was soft, dripping with something indulgent, something thick and knowing. "You really think you can fool me?"

You swallowed. Your fingers tensed against the pages, grip tightening just slightly.

"Think you can sit there all pretty, all proper, all quiet—"

A pause. A slow, lazy step forward.

"—like you ain’t sittin’ there so fuckin’ tight your legs are gonna cramp?"

Your stomach flipped. Your breath shook. But you didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t look up.

"C’mon, honey."

Another step. Closer now.

"Ain’t gotta play pretend with me."

Your thighs clenched.

"I see how you get."

Another step. The mattress dipped.

"How you start breathin’ all fast when I talk to you like this."

The warmth in the room curled tighter.

"How you start squeezin’ those little thighs together when I say somethin’ that makes you feel all weak inside."

His knees brushed against the bed frame.

"How you try so hard not to react—"

A beat. A hum. And then—

"—but I still fuckin’ see it."

Your pulse pounded. Because he wasn’t wrong. He did see it. He always saw it.

"Yeah." His voice was closer now, thicker, rich with amusement and indulgence and slow, creeping filth. "You like that, huh?"

You stayed silent.

"You like when I say shit like that."

Your jaw tensed.

"Like when I tell you how sweet you look sittin’ there all stiff, pretendin’ your little pussy ain’t throbbin’ for me."

Your stomach dropped. Heat rushed up your spine, across your chest, down between your thighs.

"Like when I call you my pretty little housewife."

A sharp, shuddering exhale.

"Bet you like the sound of that, huh?"

Your nails dug into the pages.

"Bet you’d like it even better if I said it while I was stuffin’ that pretty little cunt full of my cock."

Your breath stammered. Your whole body felt overheated, overrun, overtaken.

And he knew. Because you weren’t snapping at him. You weren’t telling him to fuck off. You weren’t pushing him away. You were just listening.

"Yeah." His voice dipped even lower, velvet-wrapped sin, filth softened into something coaxing, indulgent, sweet. "Knew that’d getcha."

And then, as if drawn by gravity, by some invisible, undeniable force—

You moved.

Shifted onto your knees, sitting up straighter, book still resting in your lap, hands curled around the edges of the pages. Your eyes dragged up—slow, hesitant, wrecked. And when they finally locked with his—

Ben smirked.

Because now? Now, he had you exactly where he wanted you. And you both fucking knew it.

Ben stood over you, broad and solid, blocking out the low light of your lamp, casting long shadows across the room.

You were still kneeling on the bed, book in your lap, knees pressed together, back straight, head tilted up—

And he was looking at you like he’d already fucking won. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, fingers trailing toward your face, warm and rough as they tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath stammered. Your body locked up, too aware, too tight, too hot.

And then—

"I’m gonna."

Your stomach flipped. Your lips parted. Your head tilted just slightly, pulse hammering, voice barely a whisper.

"Gonna what?"

He smirked. That slow, devastating, honey-thick smirk. And then, without moving back, without breaking eye contact, without giving you a single second to brace for it—

He leaned in.

Lips almost against yours. Nose brushing yours. Eyes dark, heavy-lidded, devouring.

"Gonna fuck you."

A sharp, wrecked sound crawled up your throat. A soft, strangled squeak, barely audible, barely there.

And he heard it. Oh, he fucking heard it. His smirk stretched wider, full of something indulgent, something ravenous, something wrecking.

And he pulled back. Just slightly, just enough to let the air between you shift, just enough to watch you wobble, just enough to watch the slow realisation crawl through your body.

Then he tapped the spine of your book, the movement so casual, so nonchalant, so utterly opposite to what he’d just said that your brain stalled completely.

"What’re you readin’ tonight, sweetheart?"

Your breath stuttered. Your brain lagged. Your lips parted, trying to piece together the sudden shift, trying to pull yourself back, trying to steady yourself.

"I—" You swallowed. "Sappho."

Your voice was barely there, breathless, shaken.

And he grinned.

"Again, huh?" He exhaled slow, easy, stepping forward, towering over you, letting his fingertips graze over the hem of your nightdress. "Y’know, sweetheart, I think I’m startin’ to get a taste for poetry."

And then he moved you. Hands gripping your thighs, strong, warm, spreading them apart, shifting you effortlessly so your legs hung open at the edge of the bed.

You gasped, hands catching yourself against the mattress, book slipping from your lap.

And Ben knelt.

He sank to his knees, settling between your legs, hands dragging slow over your thighs, stroking up, up, up, teasing over your skin, pushing beneath the hem of your dress, fingertips brushing the lace of your panties.

Your whole body shook.

"Read somethin’ for me, baby."

Your breath hitched.

"C’mon." His thumbs brushed soft circles against your inner thighs, slow, lazy, patient. "Lemme hear it."

The book had fallen from your lap, pages fanned out against the floor, the words lost in the weight of the moment, in the heat curling through your body. But Ben just reached down, scooped it up with lazy ease, brushing off the cover before pressing it back into your trembling hands.

"Don’t lose your place now, sweetheart."

And then—

His fingers brushed over your clit. A slow, lazy pass over the thin fabric of your panties, teasing, coaxing, not nearly enough.

Your breath hitched. Your spine straightened. Your thighs twitched, but he caught them, thumbs stroking soft over the insides of them, holding them open, keeping you there.

And then, lower.

His touch slid down, pressing against the damp fabric, dragging slow, deliberate, feeling the heat, the slick, the evidence of how fucking ruined you already were.

He hummed, low, approving, smug.

"Always so fuckin’ wet for me."

Your stomach dropped. Your face burned. And before you could react—

He moved. Stood suddenly, pulling you up with him like you weighed nothing, like you were his to move, his to hold, his to do whatever the fuck he wanted with.

A startled gasp slipped from your lips, hands catching against his chest, book clutching tight in your grip as he dropped back down onto the bed, pulling you with him, pulling you into his lap, pulling you against him.

You were breathless, wide-eyed, straddling his thighs, held firm in his grasp, his hands smoothing slow over your waist, your hips, your thighs.

"Read to me."

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse stammered.

"Again?" Your voice was smaller now, breathless, uncertain.

His grin stretched wider, eyes heavy, dark, devouring.

"Liked it last time."

You swallowed. You nodded. And then, slowly, you looked down. The pages in your lap blurred slightly at the edges, your hands still trembling, your breath uneven. But you found the words. And you started to read.

"He's equal with the Gods, that man—"

His lips brushed against your throat.

Your voice hitched.

"Who sits across from you, face to face—"

His mouth dragged over your jaw, slow, soft, warm.

"Close enough, to sip your voice’s sweetness—"

A kiss, just beneath your ear. Your fingers trembled against the pages.

"And what excites my mind, your laughter, glittering. So—"

His lips found yours. Soft, coaxing, tasting the words as they slipped from your tongue.

"When I see you, for a moment, my voice goes—"

His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your thigh, slipping just beneath the hem of your dress. Your breath shuddered.

"My tongue freezes. Fire, delicate fire, in the flesh—"

His fingers pressed against you again, warm, firm, teasing, coaxing.

"Blind, stunned, the sound of thunder, in my ears—"

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, parting them effortlessly, drinking in the shaky breath that tumbled from your mouth.

"Shivering with sweat, cold tremors over the skin—"

Your whole body shook.

"I turn the colour of dead grass—"

His teeth caught your bottom lip, a slow, indulgent pull, breaking only to murmur against your mouth—

"Yeah, sweetheart." His hands tightened on your thighs, fingers teasing at the lace of your panties, thumbs stroking against the heat of your skin. "Think you’re feelin’ it now, huh?"

Your breath stammered. Your spine curved. Your head tipped back.

And then—

"I’m an inch from dying."

The book slipped from your hands. Your whole body burned. And Ben just smirked. Because now? Now, he had you exactly where he wanted you.

The book had fallen from your lap, forgotten, abandoned. Your hands were shaking, trembling, weak as they slid down his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over the muscle underneath, pressing, searching.

Ben chuckled, low, indulgent, watching you with something slow-burning, something wrecking, something like he had known all along that this was exactly how it would happen.

"That’s it, sweetheart." His voice was like whiskey and honey, thick and warm, sinking into your skin. "Knew you’d get there eventually."

Your fingers fumbled at his belt, struggling with the buckle, heart hammering, pulse quickening as he shifted, letting you. Letting you fall deeper. Letting you give yourself to him completely.

"Never thought a sweet little thing like you would be so goddamn eager."

His fingers dragged slow over your panties, teasing, pressing, feeling how wet you were for him. You whined. High and soft, breath stuttering, body arching, desperate for more, for him, for everything. And he was eating it up.

"Goddamn." He groaned, grinning wide, wrecked, indulgent. "You were fuckin’ made for this, huh?"

Your breath shook. Your hands grasped at him, pulling, pulling, needing more, needing him. And then you nipped at his lip. A small, instinctual thing, sharp and fleeting, a barely-there bite—

And he lost it.

"Fuck—"

A rough, low groan, a quick, sharp inhale, then, suddenly, he had you pinned tighter against him, hands gripping, anchoring, locking you against his chest.

"Good girl." His voice was lower now, thicker, reverent and wrecking all at once. "That’s my good fuckin' girl."

His hands slid down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, two fingers, deep, stretching, filling. Sinking in with zero resistance, aided by the slick mess between your legs. Entirely his doing.

Your whole body jerked. A sharp, wrecked gasp tore from your throat, high and soft, muffled against his mouth.

And Ben just groaned.

"Shit."

His free hand gripped at your hip, holding you still as his fingers pressed in deeper, curling slow, deliberate, seeking that gummy spot he knew you liked, until—

"There she is."

Your back arched violently. A broken, breathless whimper slipped from your lips, spine curving, thighs twitching as he found it, that perfect, spongey spot inside you, pressing, coaxing, pulling you apart.

"There she fuckin' is." His voice was softer now, sweet and filthy all at once, the perfect fucking juxtaposition, his lips brushing yours, drinking in every single sound you gave him. "Knew you’d feel so fuckin’ good like this."

Your hands were shaking, gripping onto his belt, onto his shirt, onto anything, but nothing was enough.

"That’s my fuckin' girl."

His fingers pumped slow, lazy, stroking deep, pulling back just to press in again, dragging against that spot that made your whole body go tight and weak all at once.

"Knew you’d fall for me eventually."

Your breath caught. Your thighs clenched around his hips.

His fingers curled inside you again, stroking, pressing, coaxing, dragging you closer and closer, making you shake against him.

Your hands grasped at his chest, at his belt, at anything, mind spinning, breath stammering, the heat curling up your spine making it impossible to think, impossible to do anything but want.

And Ben? Ben was watching you fall apart like it was the most fun he’d had in decades.

"You wanna come, baby?"

You nodded. A frantic, desperate little nod, teeth catching your bottom lip, thighs tight around his hips.

"Yeah?"

His free hand slipped to your waist, gripping, anchoring you down against him.

"My sweet little thing wants to come on my fingers, huh?"

You whined. Pressed closer. Kept stroking over the thick outline of his cock, palming him through his jeans, feeling the heat, the weight of him.

And he just groaned.

"Fuckin’ hell."

He was grinning now, indulgent, wrecked, soaking in every desperate little movement, every sound, every way your body responded to him.

"So goddamn eager."

His fingers slipped deeper, pressing right against that perfect, wrecking spot, pushing, pushing, pushing—

And then?

Riiiip.

A sharp, rough tear of fabric—

And suddenly, you were bare.

The middle seam of your panties was gone, split right down the centre, the ruined lace still sitting around your hips like some kind of harness, some kind of reminder that he could tear you open any fucking way he wanted.

You gasped. Your whole body jerked. And you shattered. A wrecked, high whimper caught in your throat, back arching, legs trembling, pleasure rushing through you like a violent, unstoppable flood.

Ben just laughed, a low, rough chuckle, pleased, indulgent, so fucking smug you could feel it radiating off of him.

"There you go, there you fuckin' go."

His hands tightened on you, holding you through it, watching you fall apart in his lap, soaking his fingers, making a mess of him.

"Mine."

Your breath shuddered, body still twitching, thighs still shaking, but he wasn’t done. Not even close. He shifted—lifting you slightly, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock, groaning deep as the thick, aching weight of it slapped against his stomach.

And then he pulled you back down. Not inside you—

Not yet. But close. Too close.

"Fuck, baby—" His voice was wrecked, heavy, soaked in something filthy and reverent all at once.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you against him, using the slick mess you had just made to rut himself against you, dragging his cock through your folds, coating himself in you.

You choked on a gasp. The heat of him, the weight of him, the feel of his cock dragging over your swollen clit, the way he was gripping you like he’d been waiting years for this—it was too much.

And his mouth was running.

"Fuck, look at you."

A sharp, rough thrust against you, a groan catching in his throat.

"So goddamn sweet."

Another grind, another filthy drag of his cock over your soaked cunt, slick coating him, making him groan deep, grip tightening.

"So soft."

A slow, deliberate roll of his hips, teasing, wrecking, making you twitch, making you whimper.

"Fuckin' knew you’d take me like this."

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, trying to hold onto something—

"Always knew you’d be my perfect little thing."

A low, dragging groan, his mouth brushing your jaw, your throat, your lips.

"Gonna let me fuck you now, baby?"

Your nod was barely there, barely a movement, barely enough—but for Ben? It was everything. Because the second you gave him that little signal?

You were gone.

And he fucking knew it.

He moved fast, too fast, flipping you beneath him, pressing you into the mattress before you even had a chance to breathe, to think, to do anything but gasp as the air shifted around you.

Your back hit the sheets, a sharp, startled yelp slipping from your lips—

And then he was there.

Between your legs. Caging you in. Looming over you.

His hands braced at either side of your head, his body settling against yours, the thick, heavy weight of his cock dragging through your slick folds, coating himself in the mess he’d already pulled from you.

And when you looked up, he was grinning. That slow, wolfish, cocky fucking grin.

"Ain’t backin’ out now, sweetheart."

You shook your head. A shaky, breathless, desperate little shake.

Ben just chuckled. "Yeah." His hand slid down, gripping your hip, holding you still, keeping you open. "Didn’t think so."

And then he pushed inside.

Your breath caught. Your whole body went tense, burning, stretching, aching, feeling every single inch of him as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper—

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ—"

His voice was wrecked, strained, groaning low as he pushed further, sinking slow, letting himself feel every tight, wet inch of you around him.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hard, too hard, trying to keep quiet, trying to brace yourself—but Ben wasn’t having that.

"Nah." His thumb brushed against your mouth, catching your lip, pulling it free. "None of that, baby."

He sank deeper, pressing in until there was nowhere left to go, until he was fully seated inside you, until he had stretched you open completely.

"Holy fuck—"

His head tipped back, a sharp, ragged breath ripping through him, his fingers gripping tight at your waist, holding you there, keeping you full.

"You’re so goddamn tight."

His hips flexed, his cock twitching inside you, a low, reverent groan slipping from his lips.

"So wet. Jesus Christ, doll—"

He shifted, rocking forward just slightly, making you feel every thick inch of him, making sure you knew exactly what you had taken.

"Think I'm gonna break you, baby."

His grin was wrecked now, breathless, his mouth running, running, running.

"Never felt a cunt like this."

Your fingers dug into his biceps, nails scraping over muscle, body trembling under him.

"Gonna lose my fuckin’ mind."

His hips rolled slow, just a little, just enough to make you whimper, just enough to feel the way your walls clenched around him, the way your body took him so perfectly.

"Gonna bruise your insides, baby."

A low, growling sound, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, kissing, sucking, biting—

"Gonna make sure you feel me for days."

His teeth scraped against your pulse point, tongue smoothing over it, sucking, tasting, claiming.

"Gonna leave you so fuckin’ full, you won’t even be able to think straight."

Your breath hitched. Your back arched. His grip tightened.

"Gonna leave my marks all over you, sweetheart."

A sharp nip at your collarbone, another, another, his mouth dragging over your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite.

"Gonna make this pretty skin all purple and red."

Your hands were shaking now, grasping at his shoulders, at his back, at anything, at everything.

"Gonna ruin you."

His lips found yours, hot, hungry, devouring, kissing you like he was already lost in you.

"And you’re gonna let me."

Ben was gone. The slow, teasing restraint, the smug, indulgent control? Gone.

All that was left was instinct. All that was left was hunger. All that was left was the sheer, unhinged need to claim, to wreck, to fucking own.

"Fuck, sweetheart—" His voice was rough, guttural, lost, groaning deep as his hips snapped into yours, thrusts hitting deeper, harder, dragging wrecked sounds from your throat. "Knew you had some good fuckin’ sounds bottled up."

His teeth scraped over your jaw, your throat, sucking at the mark he had left days before, deepening it, making sure it was there to fucking stay.

"Knew you’d sound so fuckin’ sweet once I got my cock in you."

You were a mess now, panting, gasping, moaning breathless and desperate as he ruined you, tore you apart, made sure there was nothing left untouched, nothing left unstained.

And then—

He moved you.

A sharp, strong grip on your thigh, pressing it up against your chest, holding it there, using it, fucking you deeper, harder, the new angle making your whole body tremble beneath him.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ—"

A low, wrecked growl, his hands gripping, his body pressing, his thrusts sharp and punishing, dragging sounds from your throat that you’d never heard before.

"You feel that, baby?"

You whimpered.

"Feel how fuckin’ deep I am?"

Your head tipped back, mouth open, breath stolen.

"You’re gonna fuckin’ milk me, sweetheart."

A sharp, wrecked groan, his pace stuttering, hips slamming, his hold on you tightening.

"Gonna make it fuckin’ stick."

Your stomach clenched, thighs trembling, body tightening around him, pleasure clawing up your spine, wrecking you from the inside out.

"Shit, baby—"

His mouth was back on yours, hot, wet, consuming, licking into you like he was already devouring you completely. And then he leaned back. A rough exhale, a sharp drag of his gaze over your face, your swollen lips, your wrecked expression.

"Open."

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t hesitate. You just obeyed. Mouth parting, lips wet, swollen, breathless, waiting.

And Ben groaned. A deep, wrecked, low sound, eyes rolling back just slightly, his grip on your thigh tightening like he was about to fucking lose it.

"Fuckin' angel, shit—"

He spat into your mouth. A slow, thick drop, messy and filthy and perfect. And you swallowed.

Without question. Without hesitation. Without him even having to ask.

And Ben just stared. Eyes dark, blown wide, breath ragged, his hips snapping rough, sharp, his control completely unraveling.

"Christ on a fuckin' cross, fuckin' sweet, little—" A low, growling sound, his whole body shaking, his thrusts turning brutal, desperate, frenzied. "That’s my fuckin’ girl."

And you weren’t coming back from this. You were his now. It was too much. The way he was pressing you down, the way his hips were slamming into yours, the way his hand was gripping your thigh tight against your chest, his thrusts brutal, unrelenting, deep. The way he was talking to you, fucking you through every wrecked sound, every desperate little whimper, every gasp that slipped past your swollen lips.

And the pleasure?

The pleasure was so sharp, so overwhelming, so good that you started sobbing. Little shaky, breathless sobs, spilling past your lips, unable to hold them back, unable to stop them.

"Feels so good—" A high, broken whimper, head tipping back against the pillows, body trembling, thighs shaking. "Gonna come again—"

Ben groaned, rough and deep, hips snapping forward, fingers digging into your thigh, grip tightening like he could already feel it, like he could already feel you tightening around him, dragging him down with you.

"I know, baby." His voice was wrecked, strained, slurring low against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse, teeth scraping over the bruised, marked skin. "Can feel you, sweetheart."

Another harsh thrust, dragging a sob from your throat, making you arch, making you clench tighter around him.

"Fuckin’ milkin’ my cock, ain’t you?"

Your breath stammered, words catching, body tightening.

"Say it, baby."

You whimpered.

"C’mon, sweetheart, say it back."

His voice was low, coaxing, sinful, filth dripping from every syllable as he pushed harder, deeper, making sure you couldn’t focus on anything but him.

"Tell me how bad you want it."

Your fingers clawed at his back, nails digging in, legs trembling around his waist, stomach tightening.

"Tell me who’s fuckin’ you this good."

"You," you sobbed, breathless, desperate, wrecked.

Ben groaned. "Yeah, baby."

Another sharp thrust, deep, so deep, hitting that spot that had you shaking, had you falling, had you right on the edge.

"That’s my girl, my fuckin' girl. Mine." He pushed further. "Say it, baby. Say it all."

His mouth was against your jaw, your ear, his breath hot and heavy and wrecked.

"Tell me who’s makin’ this pretty little pussy come."

Your breath caught, stomach twisting, pleasure blinding, fogging up your brain, making it impossible to think.

"You—"

"Tell me you’re mine."

A wrecked moan, his voice rough, desperate, demanding.

"Yours—"

"Tell me who you belong to, baby."

"You, Ben—"

And that?

That broke him.

A sharp, guttural groan ripped through him, something primal, something wrecked, something utterly fucking feral.

"That’s my fuckin’ housewife."

Your stomach clenched. Your whole body went tight, breath breaking, everything spiralling—

"You’re mine, sweetheart."

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt, grinding deep, grinding filthy, his cock twitching, his whole body shuddering.

"Keeping you."

Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open, thighs clenching around him, pleasure ripping through you.

"Gonna fill you up, baby."

A wrecked, needy whimper, body trembling, shaking, legs locking around his waist.

"Gonna fuckin’ breed you."

You came so hard you nearly blacked out.

A sharp, wrecked sob tore from your throat, back arching, thighs clenching tight, walls tightening around him so hard it knocked the air from his lungs.

And Ben lost it. A rough, wrecked growl, his hips jerking, his cock twitching, a sharp gasp cutting through his teeth—he buried himself deep. Holding you tight, body pressing firm, cock twitching as he spilled inside you, groaning low and ruined against your jaw, pressing his lips hard to your neck.

Filling you. Marking you. Claiming you.

The weight of him crushed you into the mattress. Heavy, solid, sweat-damp and burning, pressing down over every inch of you, keeping you pinned beneath him, holding you there.

And you sighed.

Content. Achey. Buzzing all over.

Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, combing slow, scratching soft at his scalp. And he didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t mock you for it.

Instead? He almost leaned into it. Just a little. Like he liked it. Like he could get used to it. His breath fanned hot against your neck, lips still barely brushing over the bruised skin.

"Meant what I fuckin' said."

Your eyes flickered open, still hazy, still buzzing, still high off him.

"What?"

A slow, lazy inhale, his chest rising and falling against yours, pressing warm into you.

"Meant it when I said I’m keepin’ you."

Your stomach flipped. Your breath caught.

"Ain’t goin’ nowhere now, sweetheart." His voice was low, scratchy, tired, but so fucking sure, so fucking certain. "And your pussy brother can deal with it."

A small, breathless chuckle slipped past your lips. The first real sound since he’d wrecked you.

"As long as you let me teach you all about poetry—" Your fingers dragged slow through his hair again, smoothing the damp strands. "I’ll be yours for as long as you want."

Ben just grunted. A rough, pleased sound, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against the bruise he’d just sucked into your neck.

"Sounds like a fair fuckin' deal to me, honey."

Corruption does not feel like ruin.

Not when it happens like this—slow, creeping, inevitable.

Not when it is whispered against your skin in the dark, not when it is coaxed from your lips between kisses, not when it presses deep inside you and stays there.

Not when you welcome it.

Because corruption is not fire and fury.

It is quieter than that. Softer. A hand that holds instead of strangles. A mouth that bruises instead of bites. A body that cages instead of crushes.

A steady unraveling, thread by thread—until there is nothing left to unravel, until you are something else entirely. Something ruined.

Something claimed.

@mostlymarvelgirl <3 @lunaleah <3

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 22 - I Stayed In The Darkness With You

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: May I introduce everyone to my secret extra villain, bureaucratic incompetence! Chapter Title from Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine.

Word Count: 24k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sunglasses and text messages break the camels back. Usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst, pining

Read on A03!

Chapter 21 - Chapter 23

“Do you,” Ryan swallowed the food in his mouth, staring at the floor as he spoke. “Do you guys get nightmares?”

Ben didn’t know how to handle that question. He didn’t know how to handle most of Ryan’s questions that weren’t about Her or the more glamorous parts of Ben’s past. He could talk about Her for the rest of fucking time and never get tired, and it was pretty damn easy to mutter I did see Star Wars in theaters, was even at the premier of two of those shit-ass movies. Pussy characters, none of them can just get their fucking jobs done. Hero's journey bullshit, and shut your damn mouth Sunshine, you’re the one who told me about the hero's journey. Indiana Jones was a fuck ton better anyway. 

He didn’t talk to anyone but Her about things like nightmares. Even She didn’t know the full extent of them, of the memories of gas and knives and sterilized needles that had plagued Ben’s sleep. Or how they’d turned to terrors of Homelander taking Her, of Ben roaring Her name into the dark and only hearing wordless screams in response, and of blood. Nightmares full of blood and fog that he’d woken up from choking on air while she was gone. Ben certainly didn’t tell Her about the nightmares where he touched her and she started clawing at his skin and sobbing, falling to the floor and not allowing Ben to pick her back up. Where she didn’t recognize him and just kept screaming. 

He’d been waking up with Her screams still ringing in his ears, and hadn’t told her. He wouldn’t tell Her, because this was Ben’s fucking issue, and he’d deal with it his goddamn self. She had enough shit to deal with. She’d spent the past week working her damn ass off—combing through more and more of A-Train’s stupid fucking leads, listening to the media spout more and more bullshit lies about Her life, and training with Ben and Ryan—and her own nightmares had returned. After Ben had found Her in the shower, screaming and crying and fucking breaking apart in front of him, there hadn’t been a night were she hadn’t burst into flames and Ben hadn’t had to listen to the strangled, painful sounds that left her body. But she hadn’t stopped touching him. Linking her arm through Ben’s when they walked, pressing her thigh into his at the table and pulling his arm around her body. Running a hand through his hair before tugging his brow to hers when she crawled onto him in the dark. Holding Ben against her as the fire died out, letting him pull her back down until he was flat on his back and rubbing circles on her hips. Relaxing into his kisses on the top of her head and pressing her face into his neck as she fell back asleep.

Even now, sitting on the mat of the gym as they ate lunch with Ryan, she was touching Ben. She was leaning into his side as she sighed, watching Ryan carefully as she answered his question. Of course She’d know how to answer that question. She was fucking perfect.

“I do,” Her hand had wandered to Ben’s knee, tapping against him as she spoke. “Most of us do. I’d imagine it would be more worrying if we didn’t.”

Ryan blinked at her. “Worrying?“

“Well,” She frowned. “We’re exposed to a lot of fucked up situations. We make a lot of impossible, horrible decisions. Nightmares mean that we still care, that we’re still capable of remorse over our worse actions and haven’t given up on ourselves enough to just remain unaffected. We’re still able to feel something, even if that thing is fear.”

“But I don’t want to feel fear,” Ryan mumbled, still watching the ground. “I don’t want to be afraid of stuff anymore. My dad said that I shouldn’t be afraid of anything, that fear was a weakness.” 

“Ryan,” She leaned a little further forward. “Can you look at me?”

When he listened, slowly looking up with a nervous expression, a small, sad smile crossed Her face.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Um, I don’t know.” Ryan glanced at Ben, and even though he didn’t know what the fuck She was getting at—he rarely did—he gave Ryan a sharp nod. It seemed to say what the kid had been looking for, because Ryan swallowed and continued. “My dad?”

“Fear really fucking sucks,” she whispered, and Ben’s fists tightened on his cheesesteak. “But it’s not bad. It doesn’t make you weak. We all get afraid, it’s your brain trying to tell you that you and the people you care about are in danger. And Homelander is dangerous. It’s smart to be afraid of him, Ryan, because then you’re not like him.”

“But I’ve hurt people, what if I am-“ 

“Homelander,” Her nails were burning on Ben’s skin. “Isn’t afraid of anything. Because he thinks he’s above fear, because he doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Just the fact that you’re afraid of Homelander tells me you’re nothing like him.”

“Are, are you afraid of anything?”

She nodded, heart picking up in her chest, and Ben moved his hand silently to her waist. Pulling Her closer without looking away from Ryan, keeping his face perfectly fucking neutral when she squeezed his knee and her breathing slowed.

“Homelander.” She took a heavy breath. “And heights.”

Ben hadn’t known that. He made a mental note to look up if you could take a boat to Rome. 

Ryan nodded, looking at Ben with wide, nervous eyes. “Ben?” 

He grunted, taking another bite of his cheesesteak as he waited for Ryan to continue. 

“You don’t get afraid, right?” 

Ben froze mid-chew. He wasn’t afraid of anything, and—if he was—it wasn’t any of Ryan’s goddamn business. It wasn’t like fear ever fucking affected him, or made him whine like a pussy, made him fucking cry like Ryan was about to-

He looked at Her. Completely fucking involuntarily, Ben looked at her and knew he was afraid of that. Afraid he’d fail her again. And maybe also gas. And small, closed spaces. Not Homelander himself—that pussy could eat Ben’s shit—but Homelander hurting Her. Hurting her in a way that made Ben lose her, taking her away where Ben couldn’t get her back. But that was a fear for Her. It was a service to Her, to share some of the weight she kept trying to carry alone. And of course Ben would be afraid of failing Her, he’d done it once and it had put her in fucking danger, so that didn’t count. Gas didn’t count either, gas had taken Ben’s who goddamn life away from him, anyone would be afraid of gas if they had half a goddamn brain. Closed spaces were a little fucking pathetic, but Ben would like to see any other pussy be kept in a box for forty years and not start to fucking hate it. But none of that was shit for Ryan to be all fucking sad about-

Ben felt Her whack his arm, and looked down to find her glaring at him. Stop being a giant fucking manchild and tell Ryan you’re afraid of something.

Ben scowled, but swallowed his food and looked back to Ryan. “Everyone’s afraid of shit, kid. As long as you’re not a fucking pathetic dickless pussy about it, you won’t be any less of a fucking man.” 

Ryan nodded, something in his eyes a little lighter and a confusing fucking warm feeling inflating in Ben’s chest. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t fucking-“ 

Her hand flew up to cover Ben’s mouth, and when he shot her a glare she just wrinkled her nose. If you ruin this nice moment, Pretty Boy, I’ll stab you. 

Ben rolled his eyes, Shut the fuck up, and pulled Her hand away, kissing her knuckles before looking back to Ryan. “You done with that sandwich?”

“I’m, um, not really that hungry.“

“I’ll hold on to it for you, and you can put it in the fridge when you get home.” She pulled out from Ben’s side, reaching across the mat with her perfect fucking ass in the air to grab the rest of Ryan’s food. Ben couldn’t let himself stare at Her ass, or think about kicking Ryan out to fuck her into the floor, or sit with his legs crossed anymore. He had maybe a minute before he’d have to stand up, and he needed to get his shit together so he didn’t do it with a raging hard-on.

“You don’t have to-“

“If I don’t,” She leaned back into Ben, grinning at Ryan. “Grandpa will eat it when neither of us are looking. He’s like a dog, you can’t leave food out.” 

“I am not a fucking dog-“

She sat up on her knees, giving Ben the prettiest fucking fake-pout and kissing his cheek before pulling back with a smile. A wide, bright smile where there wasn’t any pain hidden in her perfect, sharp eyes, and all Ben could bring himself to do was glare at her.

Brat. 

Cunt. Go show Ryan how to punch stuff.

He kissed her once, soft and quick and so fucking simple—his hands in her hair and her body half on his lap—before pulling back to stand. Ryan scrambled up, following Ben silently to the far side of the mat, and She scooted back to the wall.

Over the week, they’d developed a habit of this shit. Ben trained Ryan for a few hours, while She sat off to the side and switched between watching them and working on the V leads. Then they’d eat lunch together, Ben and Ryan would go for another hour or so, and they’d walk Ryan back to Butcher before returning to their own apartment. It was a damn good routine, because Ryan was already a fuck ton better then when they’d started—he hit the target every time now, and had only crushed two metal plates on accident today—and She had used the time to build a fucking airtight case for the president to just give them some goddamn V.

She’d explained the whole thing to Ben twice. Once in their apartment and once during a meeting with the team. Ben didn’t remember any of the first time, because she’d looked so fucking hot—chewing her lip while she thought and glaring at the papers in front of her with sharp eyes—and he’d wanted to slam Her on top of those stupid papers and see if she could recite all that fucking smart shit with Ben buried deep inside her. He’d managed to remember the second one only because she’d said it was really important they all have a basic understanding of our argument, in case Singer decides to cold call. 

“The first half,” She’d frowned at the papers as she sorted through them at the dining hall table. “Is mostly evidence of Homelander as a genuine threat to American stability, security, democracy, and like, fucking everything else. I think-”

“If Singer ain’t total fuckin brainless cunt, we shouldn’t need to show our bloody work-“

“It’s precautionary, Butcher.” She’d snapped. “And if you’d let me fucking finish, I was going to say that we could all just use personal experience for it. The second half is the important stuff. Copies of the document that says this would work, a vague outline of a plan to get the V in Homelander, a list of all the other avenues we’ve exhausted to get some V-“

“He’s not going to know I gave you guys those leads, right?” A-Train had cut Her off with frantic words. “If these get leaked or some shit, it can’t be traced back to me-“

“No,” She’d shaken her head. “We’re not saying how we got them, because that’s not important. He just needs to know that we’ve looked elsewhere, and there isn’t time to waste on continuing on wild goose chases. I’ve added hypotheticals about what could happen if we don’t act soon-“

Ben loved Her so goddamn much. He’d stopped paying attention, because he was losing his fucking mind about how much he loved her. She was so beautiful, and smart, and if everyone would just shut the fuck up and stop asking Her stupid questions Ben could get fucking lost in how perfect she was.

He’d gotten a boner. He’d been watching her talk all fucking focused and intense and pretty, and she’d grinned and bumped his shoulder with hers about something Ben couldn’t even fucking remember anymore, and he had completely given up on paying attention so he could get lost in a fantasy of bending Her over the table and fucking her until she whined and her eyes rolled back in her head.

It was becoming a fucking problem, how everywhere Ben looked was just another place he wanted to fuck her on or against, and how every word she said made him want to tell Her he loved her. He’d thought about it before, while she was gone, it was somehow worse when she was home. When she kept doing things that made him love Her more. Ben kept thinking he’d finally hit fucking capacity on how much he loved her—that loving her so much he’d move mountains and crack open the sky was the greatest type of love anyone was fucking capable of—and then She’d prove him wrong. She couldn’t just let Ben exist in goddamn peace, she had to make him and Ryan lunch everyday. She had to keep encouraging Ryan, and teasing Ben about wanting encouragement right before she’d tell him she thought he was an excellent teacher, even if he wouldn’t stop swearing at the child. She had to keep singing to herself while she moved around the apartment, and making everything around her so much fucking better than it had been before. She had to finally stop fucking apologizing, and kept curling into Ben’s body like it was the most natural thing in the fucking world. And it all made Ben feel like a fucking dumbass, because he kept being wrong. There was no limit to how much he loved Her, and every single thing she did would always make him want to just fuck her until she was happy and felt good.

But Ben wasn’t allowing himself to fuck Her. Not when he’d touched Her once and she’d shattered. They’d reached a silent agreement to not talk about the gun range and to keep kissing but never do more. Ben’s hands would wander down to her hips and her heart would pick up, so he wouldn’t go further. She’d kiss him and run fingers over his abdomen, but the moment Ben tensed in anticipation she’d freeze and drag them back to his chest. They hadn’t talked about it, but Ben knew she’d say I’m fine, and he’d insist that she wasn’t—people who are fine don’t fucking wake up in the middle of the night on fire—and she’d insist she was. They’d fight, and Ben didn’t want to fight with her. Not about something that fucking mattered like this, not when she kept kissing and smiling at him before—barely an hour later—something would suddenly shift and Her eyes would grow more and more hollow. He loved Her, and if they had a fight he’d probably yell that he fucking loved her to make her understand why it was killing him to watch Her be in pain that he wasn’t allowed to fix, and he’d lose Her. She wasn’t ready, and if Ben made this about how he loved her he’d lose her. He wouldn’t say it right, or well. He didn’t know how to talk about his goddamn feelings without sounding like a pathetic fucking pussy. He’d fuck it up and She wouldn’t understand that he loved Her so fucking much it could carve into the earth, and he’d lose Her.

She still looked at him with adoration. She still touched Ben like she wanted him, and sighed his name like it was important. But that was all she could give him right now, and Ben had to force himself to find a way to be okay with it. To let Her break and break in front of him, to keep her safe and pick up her pieces off the tile floors, then just kiss her until she gave a soft, happy sigh. To not grab her face and tell her that he loved Her. That he was so fucking worried about her because he loved her, and that he’d keep waiting. He’d wait and wait forever until she wanted him again. He’d take whatever she’d give him. He fucking loved Her, loved her in a way that would kill any other goddamn asshole to feel because it was fucking primal. It was real, raw, painful and indestructible love. Love where Ben would never be able to show it enough, never be able really make Her fucking understand how powerfully and zealously he loved her.

He could imagine it. Ben could indulge himself in these stupid fucking fantasies and drive himself mad as a punishment for being too fucking weak to know how to fix this. For being so much of a fucking pussy that the woman he loved kept breaking down and he could barely make it better, Ben started torturing himself with all the ways he’d could get this fucking right.

He’d roll Her over in their bed and kiss her breathless, before telling her that he loved Her and she was beautiful. Then he’d fuck her, gentle and long and goddamn romantic as shit, and she’d moan his name.

She’d give him one of her perfect, secret smiles over dinner and he’d tell Her in silence. Her pretty mouth would fall open, and she’d make a lame excuse to pull Ben back home. The door would barely close before she’d tackle him to the floor and ride him until she fell against his chest.

They’d be at a meeting, and Ben would just fucking yell it over the table. He’d roar I fucking love you, Sunshine, and the whole team would leave because Ben would already have her half-naked and in his lap.

Fuck, even now as She walked a pace ahead of him—smiling down at Ryan as he rambled about fucking homework and listening like She actually gave a shit, because she probably did—Ben wanted to grab Her and fuck her. He didn’t even need a wall or a bed, he’d just pick her up, rip off her pants, and slam himself into her until she felt good. But she’d fucking fall apart again after, and the pain of watching that was unspeakably worse than the ache of never touching her again. 

But he would tell Her. Ben would keep fucking trying to make this better for Her, and when the shadows started to creep out of her eyes and Homelander could never fucking touch her again, Ben was going to fucking tell Her. He’d say Her name, and she’d look at him all pretty and concerned about if everything was okay, and he’d tell her. I love you. I love you so goddamn much, and it’s made me a pathetic fucking pussy, and I don’t give a fuck because I love you. You’re perfect and I love you. You’re my whole fucking world and I love you. I’ll wait for you to be ready for the rest of goddamn time, because I love you. 

And she’d smile at him and say- 

“Benjamin, if you don’t start walking I swear to god I’m going without you.” 

They’d dropped off Ryan. Ben had given him another awkward hug before Ryan had turned to Her and they’d hugged as well. Then she’d smiled at Ben over Ryan’s head, making all of his thoughts devolve into perfect. Beautiful, perfect woman. He loved Her so fucking much, and when he told her that he was going to blow her perfect fucking mind with how fucking romantic it was, and he’d stopped paying attention.

She was walking back in the direction of the gym, and Ben frowned. “Where the fuck-“

“Mallory called a meeting, and we’re already late-“ She stopped tugging at Ben’s arm, giving him a flat look. “You forgot.” 

He had forgotten. She’d told him when they’d sat down for lunch that they’d have to go straight to the dining hall after, because there were updates that apparently couldn’t just fucking wait for the daily briefing tomorrow morning. He’d nodded, taken his cheesesteak, and she’d kissed his cheek. That alone had melted his brain a little, but then she’d moved some hair out of his face and leaned against his side and Ben had started wondering if this would be it. If he lowered Her onto the gym mat and told her he loved her, it would work. If She’d pull him down to her mouth and let him kiss her until there was a dent on the floor, then mumble into his mouth that she loved him as well. That she understood, and if Ben wanted to fuck her when they got home she wouldn’t stop him. 

In reality She was still glaring at him outside of Butcher’s apartment—perfect arms crossed and pretty eyes narrowed—and Ben had to act indignant. If he didn’t, she’d ask a lot of fucking questions and he’d shut her up by walking her backwards into the wall, telling her he loved her, and kissing her fucking stupid. 

“Mallory calls a whole lot of fucking bullshit meeting, we don’t need to go to every single one-“

She snorted. “Yeah, we do. You just don’t want me to call you old.”

“I’m not fucking old. And I didn’t forget-“

“Ben.” She linked her arms through his, and Ben scowled at her goddamn beautiful face and bored, amused, perfect fucking voice. “You are very old. And we have to go to the meeting you forgot about, you fucking dinosaur.” 

“Most of these stupid meetings are completely goddamn pointless,” Ben grumbled, even as he let her pull him down the hall. “Mallory thinks every single thing needs a whole hour to go over, and it’s never any actual fucking progress-“

“It might be, though.” She shrugged, grinning over her shoulder. “And if there is news, Kimiko will bring out the ice cream to celebrate. Don’t want to miss that.”

“We have our own ice cream, Sunshine.” He tugged Her arm just enough for her to fall back a pace, walking at his side so Ben could rest his arm over her shoulder. Keep her right against him, where she was fucking safe and smiling and there weren’t shadows across her perfect features. “We can just go the fuck home if you want ice cream.”

“We don’t have sprinkles. I want sprinkles.”

“Those things taste like fucking wax-“

“They are wax, Pretty Boy. They’re sugar wax.” Her hands had risen to hold Ben’s over her body, and he had to fucking pay attention and not spin her around, dance with her in the hall and dip her down all fucking romantic before whispering that he loved her. “I just want some colorful fucking sugar wax to go with my boring, old man vanilla ice cream.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You fucking love my old man vanilla ice cream. You eat it just as much as me.”

He caught his own error, but she didn’t jump in with a smug voice and tell him as I. And when Ben frowned down at Her, she was watching him with that expression he didn’t understand. All adoration and want, with something burning behind her eyes, and her voice soft when she spoke. 

“I do love your old man vanilla ice cream.” Her smile spread, and her eyes looked a little brighter. “But I’d love it more with sprinkles.”

Ben snorted, and kissed the top of her head. “Brat.”

“Dramatic fucking cunt,” she mumbled, and Ben would have to figure out where to buy sprinkles now. There wasn’t a fucking chance in hell he was asking Mallory for that shit, but he’d figure it out and maybe it would help keep her expression light and joyful.

Everyone seemed to have finally fucking accepted that She and Ben would never be on time, because the most shit they got for being ten minutes late—again—was Mallory shooting Ben a glower and a collection of sighs when they entered the dining hall.

“Now that we’re all here,” Mallory’s words were cold, and Ben pulled Her a little further into his side on the bench. “Let’s get started. William?”

Butcher grinned around the table, a smug smirk on his face. “You cunts ready to hear the first good news you’ve gotten in a year?” 

“Good news?” Hughie frowned. “Did we find some V?”

“Guess again, lad.“

The French Prick leaned across the table. “Madame Sage has made an error?”

“Sage doesn’t make errors,” A-Train muttered. “It’s probably more about Vought, a lead or some shit.“

“Still ain’t it, mate. Anyone want to take a shot-“

“Butcher,” MM grunted, running a hand over his face. “Just fucking tell them, you asshole.”

“You really take all the bloody joy out of life, MM.” Butcher hands slid in his pockets, pretending not to see MM flip him off as he continued. “The one and only cunt in charge agreed to meet with us. Said he wants us in DC by tomorrow afternoon, gave us a fuckin travel fund and everything.” 

“In DC?” She narrowed her eyes at Butcher, and Ben felt her tense under his arm. “That’s a four hour drive away, and we can’t all go-“

“Most of you won’t be going,” Mallory snapped. “You and A-Train are at a security risk if you leave the compound, William has to stay with Ryan, and Campbell has some work to do.”

Hughie blinked. “I do?”

“Ah, that may be my fault petite Hughie.” Frenchie shrugged. “I requested that the A-Train provide access to Vought’s supe files. I will need your aid in retrieving them through the computers.” 

Hughie nodded slowly, looking back to Mallory. “Does that mean it’s just Annie and MM?”

“Blood good deduction, Lad, but you forgot about Soldier Boy.”

Everyone looked at Ben, and he froze as Her heartbeat picked up. “The fuck you mean he forgot.” 

“You’re goin’ on a field trip, Gov.” Butcher winked. “I’ll pack you some applesauce for the road, and make sure you take a piss before you get in the car.” 

She swallowed, glancing between Ben and Butcher, and her words were far too fucking soft. “How long will they be gone?” 

“About a day,” Annie sighed. “We’re leaving around 7am tomorrow, and after the meeting with Singer we’re going to have to wait for a transportation clearance, which probably won’t come until morning.”

“Transportation clearance?” Hughie gave Annie a confused look. “Can’t you just take Butcher’s car?”

“Nope.” MM shook his head. “Sage has got records of Butcher’s car. We’re taking an FBSA escort there, and a CIA escort back.”

“But,” She was still so fucking quiet. “Why will you have to wait for morning?”

“Route approval,” MM muttered. “Bunch of fucking security shit, and the motherfuckers at the CIA move slow. Annie’s right, it’ll probably take us a day to get there, do the meeting, and get back.”

“Why the fuck do I have to go,” Ben hissed. This was a fucking stupid idea, he didn’t need to be there. He didn’t need to be anywhere without Her, and he sure as hell wasn’t fucking leaving her. “I’m not going to be doing the actual damn pitch, and Singer can eat my fucking balls if he thinks I’m going to brownnose him to get the V-“ 

“He specifically requested your presence, Gov.” Butcher shrugged. “Didn’t say why, but I’m sure it’s your sparkling fuckin personality.” 

“Shut the fuck up you pussy, I’m not going anywhere-“ 

“Was it a condition?” She was looking between Butcher and MM, fingers tapping on the table. “Did Singer request Ben, or demand him?”

MM sighed. “Demand. We don’t bring Soldier Boy, they won’t let us in the door.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “You’ve got all the information for the pitch?”

Annie and MM started rattling off all the details She’d given them about the V, and her face was so fucking tired. She wasn’t looking at Ben, but her body was all but falling into his, her eyes were far away, and her breathing was fucking mechanical again.

He squeezed her shoulder, glaring down at Her until she glanced at him. I am not fucking going to DC. 

Yes. You are. She gave him a small, empty smile. You have to, Ben. Please. 

He shook his head. No. I am not fucking leaving you for a day just because Singer’s a fucking pussy who thinks he can make demands.

I’ll be okay, She pressed her knee to Ben’s, and he didn’t fucking believe her. It’s only a day, Pretty Boy. I’ll survive. 

She would survive. She was strong as fucking hell, and she’d survive one goddamn day without Ben. It was him that wouldn’t make it one hour away without going fucking sick with worry that she was in danger, or alone, or breaking and he wasn’t there to help. I don’t give a fuck. I’m not fucking leaving. 

If you don’t, we won’t get the V. She sighed. We have phones, Pretty Boy. You can text me, and I’m not going anywhere.

Ben scowled. Swear that if you need me home you’ll tell me.

She was giving him that look again. There was something fucking confused behind her gaze, like she hadn’t understood his words. But She nodded, Promise, and turned back to the table.

Ben was going to have to go. He had not fucking interest in going, but She was asking him to, so he would. This could get them a step closer to killing Homelander—to making Her fucking safe and Ben being able to say he loved her—so he would. He spent the rest of the meeting glowering at everyone and holding Her tighter, making sure she knew he was in no way a fucking fan of this bullshit, but didn’t keep arguing.

It would be fine. He’d survive one fucking day without Her. She’d be home and safe, and he wasn’t so fucking pathetic that he’d whine and moan like a pussy without her there. Then he’d come home and kiss Her, and beat Homelander’s fucking brains in, and find them the next boat to Rome.

After the meeting, they ate dinner with the team. It was tense, with everyone a little quieter than usual and focused mostly on their food, so Ben watched Her. He’d already memorized every single fucking thing about Her, but he never got tired of just watching her. She was so fucking beautiful, smiling at Ryan when he arrived, resting her head on Ben’s shoulder when she finished eating, signing with Kimiko about something that made her giggle—light and joyful, the best fucking sound in the world—and looking up at Ben when Kimiko turned back to Hughie.

Are you ready to go?

Ben had been ready to go for a damn hour, and he didn’t waste another fucking second before nodding, pulling Her up with him, and turning to the door.

She made a small sound of surprise, and Ben waited for her to be all fucking kind and polite—bidding the team goodnight and hugging Ryan—before tugging her back to his side and out into the hall. 

“Are you okay?”

He frowned down at Her as they walked back to their apartment. “What.” 

“I know you don’t want to go to DC, but-“ 

“I’ll fucking manage,” he grunted. He wouldn’t, this was going to be fucking horrible, but She didn’t need more shit to worry about. “And you’ll text me.” 

“I will,” she mumbled, pressing Her face into Ben’s side and letting him guide their steps. “Thank you for doing this.” 

Ben sighed. “Don’t.” It’s for you, Sunshine. I’d fucking do anything for you.

“But I am,” he could feel Her smile into his side. “Thank you.” 

He didn’t push it. She was smiling, and he fucking loved Her, so Ben just opened the door to their apartment and sighed. “TV?”

She nodded, playing with the fabric of his shirt as they sat on the couch. “Your night to pick, Pretty Boy. Can I guess?”

“You’re fucking going to anyway-“

“It’s either the documentary about the Cuban Missile Crisis we didn’t finish, or the baseball game that’s on tonight.” 

Ben frowned. “How the hell do you know about the game?”

“I pay attention,” she smiled up at him, and he was going to fucking explode. “I like to know if I’ll be spending the night listening to you lose your fucking mind over some balls.”

“They’re not just some balls, Sunshine, it’s a staple of fucking America-“

“With balls.” 

Ben rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

“No,” she reached for the remote, passing it to him with a grin. “And, for the record, my personal vote is for the game. It’s Red Sox versus Phillies, and I want to see you cry when Boston beats your ass.”

Ben snorted, and flipped through channels until he landed on the game. “Brat.”

“Cunt,” She wrapped her arms around his torso, resting her head on his chest. “I,” she sighed. “I adore you, Benjamin.” 

“I adore you too,” he muttered Her name, and she gave a small, content sound, relaxing further into his body. “You’re okay.” 

She hummed, looking backwards with that strange fucking warmth in her eyes. “I’m okay.”

Ben kissed Her, soft and easy, and didn’t believe a goddamn word she was saying. They did this every fucking night, and he knew how it would end. He’d spend the whole time swallowing shouts of I love you, and she’d almost fall asleep against him. So fucking beautiful, so fucking tired, and Ben would keep trying to figure out how to just fix this shit. To find something he could say to Her that would make her tell him how to make this better. He couldn’t touch Her, she’d break. He couldn’t tell Her he loved her, this wasn’t about him. But She had to be happy, and Ben wasn’t going to fucking rest until he figured out how to make her totally and completely happy.

Here, in the glow of the TV, was a place she was happy. With Ben holding Her tight and tracing patterns on her skin, her face was peaceful and her heart was steady. He was pretty fucking sure she’d been happy, in the gun range. But then She’d broken, and Ben was never going to allow it to get any worse. She was still happy, most of the time, but she wasn’t touching him. Wasn’t trying to take more.

So he’d keep waiting until he got his fucking act together and figured out a way to tell her properly, or until She told him to touch her again. Until Ben knew how to make the happiness stay, and stop it from fleeing in the dark.

Ben felt a tug on his hand, and looked down to see her turning his fingers between her own, not meeting his eyes as she spoke. “Can you-“

He didn’t wait for Her to finish. She was quiet and nervous, and she looked so fucking exhausted, and the stupid game didn’t matter even a fraction as much as she did. Ben knew what she was asking, so he picked her up and carried her upstairs to the bathroom.

She was still crying in the shower. Steam would choke the room as she turned the water up to boil—She’d refused to let Ben fix the ceiling fan, so now the whole apartment grew humid every night—and Ben had been forced to hear Her heart race, hear the quiet, choking sobs shake her body, before he’d break into the bathroom and could hold Her until she was breathing again. After three nights in a row, he’d just started showering with her. Every night Ben set her down on the bathroom floor, stripped his clothes, and pulled her carefully with him into the water. She didn’t cry when they did it like this. When Ben stood a step back while she used all her fucking hair shit, and held Her against his bare chest when she looked at him with a silent plea to do so. When she was done, he helped dry her off, then carried her to bed. Set Her down carefully, go back to the bathroom to brush his teeth—keeping an ear on her heart as she shuffled around the room—and climb into bed himself. Nothing more. Not until She was ready, and Ben couldn’t break her by touching her.

He’d developed a daydream. Ben loved Her so fucking much he’d started to fantasize, late in the night when she was content and peaceful against him—before the fire and screaming began—about if she did love him. About a perfect world where She blinked her eyes open, sat up on Ben’s chest, and smiled down at him as she held his face and played with the hair of his beard. Where she leaned down and kissed him gently, murmured that she loved him, that she was Ben’s the same way he was Her’s, and he believed Her. He looked at the joy on her face, believed that she was okay, and did everything. He’d do everything for her, to her, with her. Everything she asked or needed or wanted, Ben would do.

In the daydream, it was what Ben wanted as well. In his head he’d grin at Her, flip her on her back, and take control. Make her feel so fucking good, make her moan and writhe under him, give Her one place in her life where she didn’t have to do any work. Then they’d kill Homelander together—maybe he’d just fucking drop dead the next morning—and leave this stupid fucking life forever. He’d carry Her to Rome, and buy her a house with the money they earned from her excellent fucking escort business, and fuck her on every surface available to him. He’d tell Her he loved her every other sentence, and she’d smile at him, and Ben would ask Her to marry him. He’d just walk into the room, grab her and say I love you, Sunshine, and you should marry me. I’ll fucking treat you like a Queen, because you’re perfect and I love you. She’d giggle, and tell him that he already did treat her like a queen—because he would, no matter what Ben’s whole life after this was going to be about fucking her like she deserved and making her happy—but still agree to marry him. They wouldn’t bother with the fucking dramatics of a wedding, it would be quick fucking work with the most goddamn romanic vows in history and then a kiss that quickly turned into Ben fucking his wife stupid. He’d make sure she smiled all the goddamn time, and then—at least in the fantasy—he’d fuck her full of babies. Homelander would be dead—fucking burned or dumped in the ocean or buried a thousand feet under—and She’d tell Ben she trusted him and loved him and wanted a family with him, so he’d give her that.

It would have to wait until after Homelander was dead. Ben knew Her, he knew she’d need a little more time to be ready for that, but—in this perfect world—she one day would be. In this perfect world She’d never be afraid again, and she’d cry about whatever normal people cried about, and Ben would make her feel safe enough to have a family. Ryan would visit them, that was obvious. Annie, Hughie, Kimiko, and MM would as well, because that would make Her feel even more loved. Even Butcher had somehow worked himself into this, and was at occasional dinners when they went back to New York to visit Violet. The only people that wouldn’t be allowed near them were Mallory and her mother.

It would be fucking perfect. She’d wake up next to him, and he’d surround Her with evidence of his love for her. He’d kiss her at every chance, and tell her he loved her wherever he could work it into the conversation. He’d let her boss him around all fucking day, and the moment the door closed behind them at night Ben would lock it and drag her into their bed. He’d fuck Her stupid, and she’d give him a blissful, happy smile, and that would be their whole fucking lives. Happy. Just fucking happy.

The most Ben indulged in these thoughts was when She was truly, fully passed out. When Her breathing was slow and her heartbeat was even, Ben would tell her in the dark. When he was certain she couldn’t hear, Ben would mutter to her all the ways he’d make her happy. How much he loved her, how she was so fucking beautiful and perfect and he’d never stop waiting for Her, because if there was even a goddamn chance his stupid fucking fantasy could be real he’d take it. She was worth waiting for. Ben loved Her, and one day he’d figure out how to make himself worthy of being loved by Her. 

It’s how he spent every night now. Waiting for when she woke up in flames again, holding Her until she fell back under, and tracing his hands over her face until it was peaceful and all the tears were wiped away. Usually he’d fall asleep himself, savoring in the feel of Her body against his and the sound of her heartbeat, but tonight he couldn’t. Tonight all he managed to do was fucking watch Her in his arms, and try not to think about how he wouldn’t be at her side tomorrow night.

Then, as light began to leak through the windows, Ben’s phone rang.

It was an unknown number. She’d told him not to answer those, because if it’s not spam they’ll leave a voicemail, and if it is spam you’ll be telling them you’re an active number and you’ll get more calls. He didn’t fucking understand what that meant—She’d definitely tried to explain, and Ben had definitely gotten distracted by how her tits squished together when she crossed her arms—but She was always right about this shit, so Ben ignored it.

Barely thirty seconds passed before it rang again. Ben flipped the screen over, because there wasn’t a fucking chance in hell he was letting this wake Her up.

It rang a third time. And fourth. By the fifth, Ben was going to fucking smash his phone.

He couldn’t smash his phone. He was leaving in the morning, and if he smashed his phone he wouldn’t be able to text her.

On the sixth, Ben scooted carefully to sit against the headboard, made sure she was still comfortably asleep with Her head in his lap, and picked up the goddamn call.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he hissed, keeping a careful ear on her heartbeat against him. “But if you call me one more time I’ll fine you, cut off your fingers, and shove them up your fucking asshole.” 

“Charming as always, Soldier Boy.” Stan Edgar's voice was clipped and bored, barely muffled by the static of the receiver. “But I don’t believe that’s a way to talk to an old friend.”

Ben froze, and the glass of the screen cracked in his grip. “How the fuck did you get my number.”

“I have my methods, but you shouldn’t concern yourself with them. I’d imagine you have bigger things to worry about.”

Ben glanced down at Her, daylight starting to dance across her face. He didn’t have time to entertain Edgar’s weird, underhanded fucking bullshit. “If you know I have other shit to worry about, why the fuck are you calling me.”

“I’d like to catch up. Surely, even within the chaos, you have enough time to pay me a visit.”

“I’m good. Too long a drive just to talk to an old fucking asshole.”

“As far as I recall,” Edgar hummed. “I am forty years your junior. And it is not only you I wish to see, so it is not your call alone to make.”

“If you don’t stop speaking in cryptic fucking bullshit-“

Edgar said Her name, and Ben's heart stopped. For a split second there was a ringing sound in his ears, and he couldn’t fucking breathe. He missed the rest of Edgars sentence.

There was a second of silence on the phone, and Edgar cleared his throat. 

“Do you care to respond-“

“You’re not getting anywhere fucking near her,” Ben’s had, unconsciously, pulled Her closer. “I don’t care about our deal, she’s staying the fuck out of it.”

“Luckily, this is not within the confines of our deal. It is simply a request for some company, along with an invitation for a plus one.”

“I know how you fucking work shit, Edgar,” Ben watched Her shift slightly, and lowered his voice. “You can shove your request right up your tiny fucking dickhole, and swallow your own fucking cum when you beat your meat to get it back.”

Edgar chuckled. “I always forget how… poetic you are, Benjamin. In a better life, you were a mediocre reality television writer.”

“Call me Benjamin again, and I’ll drive upstate just to cut out your fucking tongue.” Nobody but Her was allowed to call him Benjamin. She always said it with some sort of unyielding care, no matter how angry her tone was. She said it right, in a way Ben hadn’t known was the correct way to say it until she’d grinned at him and said Benjamin, I give a shit about you. I adore you. I want you. Edgar said it like he was scolding a fucking child. Ben wasn’t a fucking child.

Edgar might have some sort of fucking chip in Ben’s brain, because his next words were amused, confident, and exactly what Ben had been thinking about. “Ah, I’d imagine that strikes a certain nerve, given the nature of your relationship with the only other person who addresses you as such.”

“You watch your fucking mouth-“

“It amuses me how oblivious you have grown to be. It may be the old age, but you have become downright unobservant.”

Ben scowled, and She rolled over against him, burying her face in his stomach. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re implying, Edgar, but if you called just to make pussy fucking request, then my answer is no and we’re done.”

“Is she with you?”

She hummed against Ben’s body, and he ran his free hand through her hair. “No.”

“I am afraid that I don’t believe you.” 

“Then that’s real fucking shitty for you-“

“Ben.”

He froze, and looked down to find Her rubbing her eyes open, a fucking adorable frown on her face as she watched him. He didn’t know how to mute the call, so Ben held the phone high above his head and lowered his voice to hardly fucking audible. “Go back to sleep, Sunshine.”

She shook her head, slowly sitting up. “What time is it?”

“Early. Lie the hell down-“

“Who are you talking to?”

“We’re fucking talking-“

She gave him a flat look. “On the phone.”

He could lie. He could say it was Annie or Hughie or Ryan or Butcher, but she wouldn’t believe him—none of them called Ben, and only Ryan really texted him—and Ben had hit a very fucking annoying point where he was physically incapable of lying to Her. “Edgar. Go to bed.”

All the lingering sleep vanished from her eyes in a second, growing sharp in a way that would turn Ben on if this wasn’t so serious. “Why the fuck is Edgar calling you.”

“I’ll tell you in the morning-“

“Tell me now.”

He glared at Her. “You need rest-“

“Benjamin,” She hissed. “I am not going to get any rest while I know Stan Edgar is on the phone. Not when you still fucking owe him. Tell me what he wants, or I’ll grab the phone and ask him myself.”

“You can listen, and I’ll tell you-“ She started half climbing up Ben’s chest to try and grab the phone, and he snorted. “Fucking Christ woman, you know I could just sit on you and you’d have to wait.”

“You won’t though,” She muttered, trying to drag Ben’s arm down to where she could reach his hand. “Pussy.”

This was serious. This was really fucking serious, because Edgar was a genuine threat and now wanted Ben to walk Her right into his fucking lair. This was goddamn serious, because Ben wasn’t going to allow his shitty fucking decisions and deals that he’d made to protect Her in the first place put her in harms way.

It was incredibly fucking serious, and Ben need to get his head out of the gutter about how her hips were wiggling on his chest and her angry Benjamin, I’m going to kick your ass face was still beautiful. He needed to stop thinking about how she was the most amazing person he’d ever met, and about how much he loved Her, because it was making him fucking pathetic.

“If I give you the damn phone,” Ben grunted, and she paused to look down at him. “You have to put it on that speaker shit and calm the hell down.”

She nodded quickly, reaching her hand down to his eye level. “Deal.”

He was supposed to shake Her hand. She wanted Ben to shake her hand. But he was using one hand to hold the phone, and his other hand had developed a mind that was governed by Ben’s impulse of love Her, touch Her, take care of Her, and had wandered up to hold her steady on her waist. She hadn’t tried to move it—she was fucking leaning back into it—so there wasn’t a chance in fucking hell Ben was taking it away himself.

Ben handed her the phone, and tried not to act too fucking in love with Her as she slid down his body, holding his gaze the whole time. She hit a button on the screen, gave him a look that said you’re learning how to do this yourself later, Pretty Boy, and took a deep breath before she spoke.

“Edgar, why the fuck are you calling us at,” She glanced down at the phone. “6am?”

“So you are here,” Edgar’s voice was delighted. Ben wanted to smash the phone. “How delightful to speak to you again, it truly has been far too long.”

“And here I was, going to ask you to never fucking speak to me again.” She drawled. “I don’t think our relationship is as serious as you thought it was.”

“I’m wounded,” Edgar said Her name, and it sounded fucking wrong. “I thought we had a connection.”

“If by connection you mean you made me fight a bunch of man-eating sheep and I didn’t manage to kill you and make it look like an accident, then yeah. Sure.”

“Ouch,” Edgar chuckled. “I’d think you have much to thank me for. Would you have ever woken up our dear Benjamin without my advice?” 

Ben could see the flash of anger in Her eyes. Whatever careful game she’d been playing with Edgar ended, even as her tone remained bored. “I like to think I’d gotten there myself eventually. Tell me why you’re calling.”

“As I was telling your companion, I’m inviting you both to lunch.”

She looked up at Ben with a frown. Lunch? 

Pussy didn’t mention lunch. Said he wanted us to visit, and I wasn’t promised any fucking food.

Her nose wrinkled, you are shockingly literal sometimes, Pretty Boy, and her attention turned back to the phone. “Is this an invitation to lunch, or a you owe me lunch.”

There was a brief second of silence before Edgar answered. “Interesting. I didn’t expect you to be aware of our little arrangement.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Edgar sighed through the speaker. “It is an invitation. There will be talk of the favor, but I’ve grown lonely. I think I’d enjoy the company.”

Ben scowled. “You can shove your company up your fucking ass-“

“Edgar,” She cut him off with a glare, and her voice was softer than Ben’s as she spoke, words slow and her brow drawn. “If you already have a favor picked out, why should we entertain you? Wouldn’t it be simpler to just tell us?”

She kept saying us. She kept talking about Ben as one with her, and if she didn’t stop soon he’d tell her he loved her right fucking now, with Edgar still on the phone.

“You are a truly phenomenal woman,” Edgar said Her name again, and Ben’s skin started to crawl. “There is not much that escapes you. I understand how Soldier Boy became so taken with you.”

“Yeah, I’m a real marvel of humanity.” Ben didn’t fucking love the way she said that, dry and monotone, like she fucking wasn’t. “Tell us what you want, Edgar.”

“Well, it helps if you think of this as a karmic act. If you are truly set on not making the short drive to speak in person, then I’ll cash in my IOU and that will be all. If you can find it in your heart and schedule to visit a lonely old man, then I might find myself in a better mood.” 

She frowned. “A better mood? You want to be a little less of a cryptic bridge troll and a little more of a normal person?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to see me in person to see the extent of my generosity.” 

“You can keep your fucking riddles in the dark, pathetic fucking hole you crawled out of-“

“Can we have a few days?”

Ben stared at Her. What the fuck are you doing.

We need to run this past the team.

We don’t need to run fucking shit past them, because we’re not going.

She sighed. I think we should. He can’t hurt us, and he knows a lot. Whatever generosity he’s talking about might help us.

“I can wait a day or two, if it would aid you in coming to the correct conclusion-“

“Great,” She cut Edgar off. “Mallory will call you. Don’t call us again.” She paused, glaring at the phone. “Bitch.” And hung up.

“There’s not a chance in fucking hell-“

“Please think about it.” She dropped his phone, holding his face between her hands. “We can wait to talk to everyone about it until after you get back home. Just really think about it.”

His answer was no. There was not a single universe where Ben was going to agree to put Her in danger like that. For something so fucking pointless, when she couldn’t fucking sleep through the night without losing her goddamn mind. The more he thought about it the more Ben was certain that this was simple fucking no. He would deal with this himself, and she’d stay far, far the fuck away from its line of fire.

But She was so pretty. She was watching him with a sharp gaze, and there was hair across her eyes that Ben wanted to move away, and her hands on his cheeks and jaw were warm. They fit fucking perfectly on his face, because She fit fucking perfectly against every part of him. Ben loved Her, and it was really making him a goddamn pushover. But it was worth it. It was really fucking worth it, because when he grunted and gave her a small nod, Her whole face lit up and she leaned in to give him one, soft, gentle kiss.

Ben was tired. Later, when he knew he was going to have to justify this to himself, he was going to remind himself over and over that he was tired. He’d been up all night worrying about Her, and so nobody could say a fucking word about it because all his resolve had been poured into care for Her, and his decsion making had been bound to take a hit. Ben was fucking exhausted, and that’s why when She squirmed slightly on his lap and teased her tongue along his lips, Ben let his control snap and flipped her over.

They’d made out since the gun range. They never stopped making out, and Ben was pretty sure that—if work and food and breathing and all that other pointless shit weren’t obstacles—he’d been happy spending the rest of goddamn time making out with Her. Pulling her up to his side on the couch, leaning over her in the hall, tugging her between his legs at the table.

This wasn’t making out. This was fucking eating each other. Ben was bruising Her mouth, biting her lips and running his tongue along her teeth, letting how her hands clawed at his back and pulled at his hair spur him on. Letting himself push her deeper into the mattress, using a free hand to grab and squeeze her ass as she wrapped her legs around his torso. She made a high, whining sound that sent something electric through Ben’s blood, so he did it again and let himself groan when she started to grind up into him. His knee ended up shoved between her legs, and when her head threw back Ben trailed his mouth across her cheek and down her neck, leaving wet open kisses and dropping his hips onto hers in an attempt to not rut against Her. It was all mindless and hungry and so fucking natural. This was where Ben was supposed to be. Above Her, against her, touching her and caring for her and taking every moan in his ear as fucking testament to how this was love. He fucking loved Her, and there was even the tiniest goddamn chance she’d love him back he’d stay right fucking here.

He stopped because he had to. Because if he kept going and She kept making perfect, musical sounds, he’d tell Her. Ben had already risen back up to her face, letting her pull his tongue between her teeth and growling into her mouth, only a second away from just telling her. From muttering I fucking love you down her throat and letting her swallow the words with another whimper. So Ben had to pull away, let her heavy breath trade with his, and just fucking pull himself together. Ignore his less than helpful dick and heart trying to control his body and only hold her gently. Trace soft, light hands over the parts of her body he was allowed to touch, and tell her he loved her like that. 

“Ben,” Her voice was a whisper, and when he opened his eyes hers were still closed. Her mouth was parted and swollen—he’d fucking done that, it was evidence of how much he fucking adored her—and her hands had stilled in his hair. She was so fucking beautiful, with the morning light on her face and her whole body relaxed, it might drive Ben insane. “I,” She took a long, unsteady breath. “I really, really adore you.”

He kissed Her again, and a long sound of content hummed from her chest. Ben moved up, kissing along the bridge of her nose, between her eyes, and on her brow. “I know,” he grunted against her skin. “MM and Annie will be able to handle Singer their fucking selves, it’s not like anyone’s going to like what I have to say-“

“Please don’t tell Singer to eat his balls or suck your dick.” Her voice was bored, but when she looked up at Ben there was a light behind her eyes that made his whole body relax. “It’s not very diplomatic.” 

“I don’t give a fuck about diplomacy,” he muttered. “If Singer wasn’t such a fucking uptight pussy he’d just take our fucking word and give us the V.” 

“And you can tell him that after we get the V. Until then you’re going to have to pretend to not want to kill him.” She paused, voice growing soft. “Please, Ben. Just try.” 

He sighed, searching Her face for any excuse. Anything that he could point to and say here’s why I should fucking stay. Here’s a goddamn solid reason that I don’t have to fucking leave you. Something you won’t be able to argue with me about, something you won’t even try to argue with me about.

There was only one. And Ben wasn’t allowed to say it. He had to swallow his only plea of let me fucking stay and care for and love you because I’m going to go fucking mad with worry, because you’re not okay and I can’t help but fuck me if I’m not going to try and nod. He had to sit in the silence, still touching her, always touching her, and keep himself from giving more. Then he had to fucking stand up, and get ready. She made him shower—Ben made her keep the door open—and when he exited the bathroom she pushed past him with a large plastic bag in her hands.

“What the fuck are you-“ 

“You need toiletries,” She didn’t look over to Ben, still in the door, as she gathered his toothbrush and shampoo into the bag. “And I’m not letting you anywhere near hotel hair products.” 

Ben turned to look back at the bed with a frown, and there was an open suitcase on the mattress full of half-folded clothing and his supe suit, a shirt and pair of pants set out for Ben to change into. When she came up to Ben's side, her voice was nervous. “I, um, you’re not good at packing. So-“

He grinned down at Her, reaching up to grab her chin and kiss her once, sweet and easy and fuck she felt perfect against him. One of Her hands reached up to grab Ben’s wrist and keep him there, and her feet shuffled to bring her further against him, tucking into his side. When Ben pulled back her eyes were wide, and there was a little of Ben’s saliva still on her lip. When his thumb moved to swipe it away, her heartbeat stuttered slightly, and Ben loved her.

“Where the fuck did you get a suitcase from?” 

“My ass.”

 He snorted, and a smile started to cross Her mouth. “Brat.” 

“Cunt.” 

Ben leaned down, careful not to drop his towel from around his waist as his hand moved to hold the back of her head. “Thank you, beautiful.”

“I couldn’t get your shield in there,” she whispered. “Why the fuck is it so heavy.” 

He chuckled. “That’s kind of the damn point. And I can just fucking carry it, I think I’ll fucking live.” 

She nodded slowly, gaze dropping down to Ben’s bare chest, and he felt his hand tense against her. She was fucking gaping at him, and her heart was getting faster, and fuck if she kept looking Ben with all that thirst and want he wouldn’t make it out the door- 

“You should, uh, get dressed.” Her voice was breathless, and her grip on Ben’s wrist was growing tight. “You need to go soon.” 

Ben kissed her nose, and stood up. He changed as she finished packing and put on the coffee—Ben ended up with a travel mug shoved into his hand—and they walked to the elevator with Her leaning into his side and Ben’s free arm over her shoulders.

They weren’t getting a send off. MM was waiting against the wall, flipping through a binder of Her plan with a backpack at his side, and Annie was nowhere in sight.

MM looked up when they stopped in the hall, giving Ben a short nod before turning to Her. “We’ll text you after the meeting. Shoot me a message if you need to add anything to this.” He tapped the binder, and she nodded.

“Where’s Annie-“

“Downstairs with transport. I was just waiting for Soldier Boy’s slow ass so we can get moving.”

Ben scowled. “It’s 7:55, we’re not even fucking late-“

“Doesn’t change that you’re the last motherfucker here.” MM shrugged, glancing back Her and saying her name a lot fucking nicer than he ever said Soldier Boy. “I can give you a minute, if you want-“

“Yes, please.” She moved in front of Ben, watching him carefully as she spoke. “Ready?” 

“No.”

“Ben, please-“

“I’ll do this, but I’m not going to pretend I fucking want to-“ Ben cut himself off as she wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing him with her face pressed against his body. Ben’s arms flew up without a thought, holding Her as close as he could, and he sat in the sound of her heartbeat.

“I’ll miss you,” She mumbled into his chest. “Be safe.”

“I haven’t left yet, I can still fucking stay-“ 

“No,” she sighed. “You can’t. But you’ll be home soon, and I’ll be here.”

“You’ll be here.” Ben was repeating it to remind himself. To make his body fucking listen to him, and use his goddamn sense to know that she’d be right fucking here when he got home. Still safe. Ben being gone for one fucking day wouldn’t put her in danger, she was a whole lot stronger than that. “Text me.” 

She smiled against him. “You know how to text, grandpa?”

“If I don’t, you have no one to blame but your damn self, Sunshine.” Ben pulled back to look at Her, and his breath hitched a little when she smiled up at him. “I think I’ll fucking figure it out.”

“If not, you can always use text to speech-“

“He is not allowed to use text to speech,” MM snapped, having suddenly fucking appeared beside Ben. “I do not want to hear whatever horny shit this motherfucker is going to text you.”

Ben scowled. “I don’t even know what text to speech fucking is-“ 

“And you’re not going to learn.” MM glanced at Her. “We’ve got to go.” 

She swallowed, and looked back to Ben. “Don’t kill Singer. Maybe yell at him a little, but don’t kill him. Try not to kill anyone, but if you have to don’t make a mess. I put a playlist on your phone for the drive, but if you get bored you can text me because I’m probably not going to do anything all day. Stick to my pitch, and stay safe, and be careful about what you say because I don’t really trust anyone but us. And come home, Ben, please come home as soon as you can-“

He kissed Her, long and gentle and careful, because he was starting to worry she might make herself pass out or get the bright fucking idea to come with them. “Your faith in me,” he muttered Her name, running a thumb over her cheekbone. “Is fucking astounding.”

“I do have faith in you, I’m just nervous, we need this-“ 

��I know,” he sighed. “I’m going to get the V, because we need it, and then I’ll fucking walk back to Jersey if I have to. I’d be faster than the damn car anyway.” 

“Don’t do that,” She mumbled. “I don’t want to have to clean highway shit off your clothes.” 

Ben snorted, and she smiled up at him. So fucking perfect.

I love you. Ben put it all over his face. He allowed all his adoration and affection and care for Her into his eyes, let his jaw relax and his mouth smile just enough to tell her. I fucking love you, Sunshine, and I’ll always come back. Nothing anyone does to me will ever make you lose me, because I’ll crawl out of any fucking hole or cave or lab or prison to get home to you. I love you. 

She didn’t understand, because she was blinking wordlessly at him, but this was better than just fucking leaving. Ben kissed the top of her head, and—because he was fucking pathetic and wasn’t masochistic enough to resist it—brushed his lips against hers. He smiled down at Her in one last, desperate fucking bid to make her understand, and used all the fucking strength he had to pull away and follow MM into the elevator.

They weren’t taking the Pussy Mobile, because it had finally fucking kicked it after the Believe Expo and was rotting away in a government junkyard like it fucking deserved. Instead, Mallory had stuffed Annie, Ben, and MM into a goddamn minivan. Agent No-Gun was standing next to Annie when Ben and MM arrived in the garage, and was saying bunch of shit about routes and safety that Ben didn’t fucking hear, because he was throwing his shield suitcase in the back and climbing into the van. There wasn’t a goddamn chance he was going to be stuck in a middle seat, listening to Annie sigh or MM fucking fidget for the four hour ride. 

To his surprise, nobody tried to stop Ben as he spread out across the back row. MM just glared at him and sat in the middle with a frown, and Annie gave him a small smile, leaning over her seat as Agent No-Gun turned on the engine. 

Annie started to say a bunch of shit Ben didn’t hear—he was focused on his phone, trying to remember what the fuck a playlist was and how to access it—before mentioning Her name and making him look up with a frown.

“What the fuck are you saying?” 

“Is she okay?” Annie sighed, watching Ben carefully. “She’s been a little, um, weird the past week. I’m not sure if the media is still getting to her, or something else that she doesn’t want to tell us about-“ 

“She’ll be okay,” Ben snapped. She wasn’t okay, but she would be. It might take a whole fucking lifetime, but Ben would stand with her the whole way. And he might not actively think of Annie as an annoying, whiny fucking bitch anymore, but she still didn’t get to know about the gun range, or the showers, or the nightmares. If She hadn’t told Annie about that shit, then Ben wouldn’t. His loyalty was with Her, and not a single goddamn place else. “I’m taking care of her.”

Annie’s voice was shockingly gentle. “I don’t think you’re not, Soldier Boy. I just wanted to know if I could help.” 

Ben paused, narrowing his eyes at her. MM was still silent in his seat, and they had begun to pull out of the garage, but Annie’s eyes weren’t moving from Ben’s. Her heart was only a little above where it might usually be, and her face was genuine, so Ben grunted, “how the fuck would you help.”

Annie shrugged. “I’m asking you for a reason. You know her better than I do, I mean, you’re in love with her-“

MM slapped Annie on the shoulder, and her mouth snapped closed.

“How the fuck did you know that.” Ben hissed, body growing rigid. “I haven’t fucking told anyone-“ 

“Oh, you’re,” Annie blinked at him. “Sorry, I just thought you’d deny it.” 

“How the fucking hell did you know-“ 

“It’s kind of obvious-“

“Annie,” MM grunted, glancing back at Ben. “We all fucking agreed-“

“The fuck are you talking about, you all agreed.” Ben paused, looking between Annie and MM’s tight expressions. “Who else fucking knows.”

“Hughie, Butcher-“

“Annie-“

“Come on.” Annie rolled her eyes. “Do you really want to be stuck in the car with him for four hours without answering his questions?”

MM scowled, but fell silent as Annie continued.

“Frenchie, Kimiko, and A-Train-“

“Fucking A-train-“

“He asked us what the hell was going on between you two.” MM muttered, shooting Annie a harsh look that made her sigh and nod. “And we told him.” 

“Mallory doesn’t know,” Annie added. “But I think she’s guessed.” 

Ben glared between them. “How.”

“You aren’t exactly subtle, asshole.” MM gave Ben another look he didn’t fucking understand. “We’d have to be fucking deaf and blind to miss it.” 

“We kind of all put it together separately,” Annie’s face was weary, watching Ben like he might start ripping their heads off their bodies. It wasn’t a totally unfounded fear, not if they kept their observant shit up. “For me it was the meeting with Edgar. Hughie said he got it after Neuman.”

Ben’s head whipped to MM. “What the fuck told you.”

MM ran a hand over his face, still glaring at Ben. “When you made her call her sister.”

All that shit was fucking months ago. A goddamn lifetime had passed since all of it, and Ben had only figured it out himself after the Believe Expo. They said it was obvious, but She hadn’t seemed to get whatever memo that every other fucker on their team had. She’d have brought it up, She’d had talked to him about, because subtlety wasn’t exactly her greatest strength. She’d have told Ben if she knew. 

“You pussies haven’t fucking-“ 

“Nobody’s told her,” MM was watching Ben carefully, and exchanged another fucking look with Annie. “That shit’s not our place.” 

Ben had a lot of other fucking questions. Why nobody had decided to maybe fucking say something to Ben about this. How often they talked about it behind his goddamn back. How it wasn’t their fucking place, not by a mile, but while they were having this dumb as fuck conversation, what were their opinions on Her loving Ben-

 Someone’s phone started ringing, cutting Ben from his thoughts. 

“It’s Mallory,” MM muttered, giving Ben one last look. “Don’t be a fucking ass about this. We’ve observed something, against our will I might add, and she doesn’t know. That’s it.”

MM picked up—Malloy was an impatient bitch who had to ask about an ETA she could pass on to Singer—and Annie looked like she was going to say something. Her mouth opened and closed like a damn fish twice, before just shaking her head and turning back to her seat.  

Ben’s phone buzzed in his hand before he could force Annie to contiune, and if his smile made him look like a fucking idiot when he saw Her face on his lockscreen, he looked downright moronic when he read the banner on the display.

When he’d gotten his phone, She’d entered her name into it. Just her name. No extra bullshit or annotations like the others, just her damn name. Ben hadn’t fucking stood for it. He’d tried to model his excellent revision after the other contacts, but the way to type a semi-colon was apparently a fucking secret that Ben wasn’t allowed to know, so he’d had to improvise. He’d deleted her name—you could wipe his memory and replace his brain, but some part of Ben would always fucking know her name, so he didn’t a fucking phone to tell him—and done the nickname and instructions.

2 messages from Sunshine, take care of.

Ben grinned, looking around the minivan to ensure nobody saw how fucking stupid he looked—although it might not matter anymore, since they were all apparently fucking invasive dickwads—and opened the messages.

You forgot your coffee.

There was a photo, a half-blurry picture of the mug She’d given Ben on their table. He wasn’t sure when it had left his hand between their apartment and the elevator, but it clearly wasn’t there now.

wut the fuckk am i sopossed to do abut it now 

Ben turned his phone over, and it was a few seconds before it buzzed again.

Are you going to make any effort to spell?

He swallowed a chuckle. no

Please?

no

I can just not text you. That option is very much on the table.

u textd me firs

Ben paused, then added, i havnt beeen gon a fuckinh hour

Her response was immediate and Ben wasn’t sure how she typed so fucking fast. Shut up, or I’ll dye all your clothing pink and tape over all your baseball games while you’re gone.

do nut do that i havnet fuckingg watched thwm

If you make a modicum of an attempt to type in a way I can decipher, I won’t.

Ben rolled his eyes, and typed a little slower. whats a modicum. is it jizz

No, you horny ass. It means a small amount.

like modicome

That’s the exact same word, you just can’t fucking spell. 

brat 

You love it, cunt. And I don’t know why you even record the games, we can just stream them.

i dont trust the stream to be fucking right

Right??? About what?

game. its the principl Sunshine.

It’s a stupid principle. An old man principle. There was a pause, three tiny bubbles popping in and out of Ben’s screen, and then How’s the ride going? Has anyone killed anyone else?

Ben looked up at MM and Annie, still facing forward. no

Who’s driving?

lady suit

Ben didn’t get a response for almost a minute, and he’d just started to glare at the display when her message came through.

Do you mean Agent Cortez? The one you stole the gun from?

yes

That’s it?

u dont need two peopl to drive

I meant is that it for security.

apperently 

Apparently.

shit the fuck up

Gross.

Ben snorted, and decided that this could be enough. He was happy to spend four hours in this horrible fucking minivan, because She’d still be talking to him. Her voice had stopped following him around a few days after she’d gotten home—he hadn’t heard it in over a week—but he’d had the real Her at his side. The Her he could touch and tease and grin at, and who would match everything he threw at her in stride. The Her he was allowed to look at and think I fucking love you. He might not be able to touch Her like this—through the phone and over text—but he could still imagine her bright smile with every message and pretend she was at his side, telling him about her day. About how since Ben wasn’t home to train Ryan, they were going to eat lunch together in the apartment. About how she was cleaning out the fridge—asking if he wanted another two tubs of strawberry cream cheese, because they were down to one and he tore through them in a day—and whatever TV show she was watching without him. She rarely took more than a minute to respond, and Ben never fucking looked away from his phone, so the hours passed easily.

He hadn’t even noticed they’d parked until the doors of the car opened, and it grew suspiciously quiet as MM and Annie left their seats.

“Soldier Boy?” Annie poked her head back inside, and Ben nearly threw a headrest at her on instinct. “We’re here.”

Ben looked outside the door with a frown. He’d been to the White House, and this wasn’t fucking it. This was a loading dock. “Where the hell is here.”

“Hotel,” MM called from somewhere behind Annie. “We’ve got an hour until the actual meeting, and I am not fucking leaving my clothing in the car. You better start hauling ass, or we’ll leave you in the car.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but grabbed his phone, climbed over the middle row and out past Annie, and grabbed his suitcase before following Agent Cortez through a gray door and up too goddamn many flights of stairs for there not to be a fucking elevator.

He got his own room. It had a nice rug, and a bunch of fucking shit paintings, and a large bed that Ben would not fucking be sleeping in. The sheets were too cool, and there wasn’t an imprint of Her body on one side or the smell of her shampoo on the pillows, so Ben would maybe sit on it, but that would be the extent of its function. He didn’t bother to take his shit fully out the suitcase—tossing his current clothing on the bed in exchange for his supe suit—but did plug his phone in with the stupid little white wire, reading the last text She’d sent. 

Ryan wants to know your opinion on Frankenstein, if you’ve read it.

i had to read it in shcool. was ok. He paused, looking around the hotel room. we got to the hotel. fucking pussy singer is making us wait a hour.

Are you settled? Did you get to eat on the way? If not you should ask MM, he’ll probably have a plan for food.

As if he’d been fucking summoned, MM walked through the previously fucking locked door of Ben’s room.

“How the fuck did you get in-“

MM raised his hand, displaying a key card. “You settled? We want to go now, Singer might be able to see us early.”

Ben scowled. “Why do you get to just fucking walk in to my goddamn room.”

“Because I’m your fucking CO, and a hell of a lot more trustworthy. You’re only here because Singer’s nostalgic or some shit.”

“I’d go back right fucking now if you pussies don’t want me-“ 

“Nope.” MM looked around the room, frowning at the open suitcase before turning back to Ben. “You look fucking settled. Let’s go.”

Ben glanced back at his phone, sent her a quick text that they were going to the meeting, grabbed his shield, and followed MM back to the shitty fucking minivan.

Singer did not get them in early. They’d arrived at the White House—it looked the exact fucking same since Ben had been here last, expect with a fuck ton more computers—been sat in a random ass room with a table and paper cups of dogshit coffee, and waited for five goddamn hours. Right as Ben started to seriously consider standing up and just fucking finding Singer—they’d shoot him, he’d live, and everyone could go the fuck home—a lady in a gray skirt walked through the door and gestured for them to follow her. The did, into a room that looked the exact fucking same as the one they’d just fucking been in. The only difference was the five men and women in black suits and sunglasses, lining the walls around President Singer.

“Mr. President, Marvin Milk, Annie January, and,” the woman glanced at Ben with nervous eyes. “Soldier Boy are here.” 

“I can see that Millie.” Singer sighed, gesturing to the chairs across the table. “You three sit the hell down, you’re makin me feel like a jackass.”

MM nodded, and dropped across from Singer with Annie to one side and Ben—after receiving a sharp glare—to the other. 

“It’s good to see you again, Sir.” MM clasped his hands on the table, leaning forwards. “Thank you for meeting with us-“ 

“Don’t thank me yet.” Singer looked between them, eyes landing on Ben. “Soldier Boy, you look about how I expected.” 

Ben scowled. “Why the fuck were we waiting for five hours.” 

MM and Annie glared at him, MM’s mouth opening to probably tell Ben to shut the fuck up, but Singer chuckled.

“You should be lucky I’m entertaining this shit at all. Grace told me what you want, and I’ve got a few questions first.” 

Annie nodded. “What do you need to know?” 

Singer said Her full name, and Ben’s fists curled on the table. “She’s been making some risky fuckin gamble. Riskier than waking him,” Singer nodded to Ben. “Up. You willing to place all your bets on her willingness to play with fire?” 

Ben shouldn’t talk. She’d told him to be diplomatic, and if he opened his mouth he’d tell Singer to shove his dick in his mouth and eat Ben’s fucking asshole. So MM got to answer.

“It’s all paid off before,” MM’s words were short. Neutral. “She’s the one who got Neuman out of your hair, and kept your constituents from going full fucking team Homelander.” 

Singer hummed. “And what about the FBSA incident? I heard about how she got away from the tower, I’ve seen the footage of all those agents dropping down screamin. You think she’s stable enough to get back in the game?” 

“She’s gotten a,” Annie paused, frowning. “Handle on her powers. She’s not a danger to anyone, and she’s doing a lot of work.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Singer leaned back in his chair, flipping his phone in his hands. “She’s managed to make a real mess of the public. We need to get some sort of direction with where to take this. Get her back in front of a camera, on the record about those Homelander accusations.” Singer shot Annie a look. “And next time, I’d like to be kept in the loop before you pull a stunt like that.”

“It was the fucking truth.” Ben’s words were hissed through teeth, and he channeled all his vulgar threats at Singer into a violent glare. “And until you actually fucking pay us, we don’t need to tell you shit.”

Singer narrowed his eyes at Ben. “She needs to fix what she broke-“

“She doesn’t need to do a goddamn thing. You put a camera in her face, I’ll break it.”

The suits around Singer were tensing, hands dropping to their guns, but Singer just shook his head. “You know, I’ve heard the rumors about you two. Didn’t think they were entirely true, sorta wanted to see for myself, but I also didn’t think I’d spend my career cleaning up media messes.”

“With all due respect, sir, Soldier Boy’s not wrong.” MM let out a long breath. “She’s not a threat, but I wouldn’t put her back into the public eye yet. There’s no telling what Sage and Homelander have ready for that, and she just underwent some real fucked up shit. She’s the reason we’ve got Homelander in a stall, it’s not fucking worth the risk of sending her right back into that motherfuckers arm for some good press.”

Ben wasn’t going to let Homelander anywhere fucking near Her, but didn’t get chance to shout that before Singer was sighing, rubbing his chin as he spoke.

“I’m willin to keep her on the bench for now, but I ain’t sure we’re going to be able to hold Homelander off much longer. I got guys in congress saying they want him as my VP replacement, and I can’t keep kickin that can down the road.”

“That’s what we’re here to talk about.” Annie glanced at MM, waiting for his small nod to continue. “I understand Mallory told you what we’re here to request, and we wouldn’t be asking if we didn’t think it would work.”

“Mr. President, you know as well as we do that Homelander’s a threat to democracy.” MM’s words were careful, slow. “All we need is one shot. Just one vial of V, and we can finish this shit for good.”

Singer scoffed. “You people keep sayin this will be our shot. That French Asshole’s weapon against Neuman was supposed to be our shot. Edgar’s farm up in Maine was supposed to be out shot. Soldier Boy was supposed to be our shot. But Homelander’s still fuckin running around. What makes this shot any different.” 

“We’ve got the receipts to prove the V will put him under-“ 

“I’ve seen all your documents, Starlight.” Singer dismissed Annie with a hand, gaze falling to Ben. “Why ain’t you able to finish this, huh? Just fire at the laser eyed asshole, get it over with?”

“I’d like to see you do this fucking better-“

“Sir,” MM interrupted Ben with a glare, and Ben rolled his eyes. “This is a delicate situation. The V is the easiest way to get it done without any unnecessary death or destruction. It’s all we’re asking for.”

“You think I can just snap my fingers and make it appear?” Singer snorted. “It ain’t that simple. That V is fuckin miles underground, and you’re lucky I’m even saying we have it. On the record, it was destroyed three damn years ago. There’s not a chance we’re just givin you some-“ 

“How fucking stupid are you,” Ben drawled, deciding to fully ignore the glowers and sneers of everyone in the room, or the clicks of guns. “That you think we’d give fuck about your records or obstacles. You want Homelander out of the picture to keep your cushy fucking pussy job, this is the damn way to do it. Either that, or you can try and hold that star-spangled dickfuck down yourself while I take the shot.”

The room was silent, and Ben could fucking feel Annie and MM’s glares. Singer himself didn’t look too pleased, and Ben didn’t even bother to try and give a fuck. Not when Singer took a long breath, glancing down at his phone, and relented.

“I’ll need approval from my defense secretary,” Singer muttered, still glaring at Ben. “And some sort of collateral if you idjits can’t do your fucking jobs again.”

“Your whole fucking country is collateral, you pussy headed motherfucker.” Ben stood up, grabbing his shield from beside his seat. “We’ll do our job, you do yours and get us that fucking V.” 

Ben marched out of the room, and waited just long enough for Annie and MM to scramble after him before following their previous path back to the minivan.

Nobody yelled at him about Singer. But it seemed less about Ben’s anger paying off, and more about a general distaste for the whole fucking situation. For how much of a bureaucratic ass Singer was being, not just doing what it took to kill Homelander. How all those pussies had to do was give them the V, far away from the actual fucking fight.

The ride back to the hotel was tense—Ben didn’t see why they couldn’t just fucking go home, but when he said as much all he got was a grunt about security from MM—and it was dark outside by the time they returned. When they got upstairs, Ben slammed his door with a mutter of night to Annie and MM, and dropped his shield on the floor with thoughtless clang as he stripped down.

He’d left his phone on the bed. It had made for a boring fucking five hours—he’d never fucking tell Her, but he’d read a book Annie had pulled from fucking nowhere in an attempt to entertain himself—and Ben turned on the screen the moment he crossed over to the mattress, reading 4 messages from Sunshine, take care of and swiping them open.

Good luck with Singer.

Try not to kill him.

Please tell me how it goes.

Make sure you get dinner.

Ben hadn’t eaten dinner. He’d get on MM’s ass about that later, after he texted her back.

singer is alive and talkig to cabnet for v

Her response was almost immediate. Oh, thank fuck. I’m proud of you, I really didn’t want to go on the lam. 

why would u be a lamb

ON the lam, Pretty Boy. It means running from the law.

the fuck would make u run from the law

Because people aren’t just going to let you kill the president. There would be consequences. 

Ben grinned at his phone. youd run from the governemnt for me

Don’t get too fucking smug. I’d beat your ass for MAKING me run from the government first. 

but u wouldd

I would. Did you eat?

did u fucking eat

I did. I had dinner with everyone. It was hotdog night.

u saved me a dog

Nope. We have hotdogs in the fridge, you can microwave one when you get home.

youre so fuckigg mean to me sunshine 

Fuck you. Just for that, I’m eating all the brownies Kimiko gave us.

whyd she give us brownies 

Technically, she gave ME brownies. I was going to share, but you’re being an asshole.

brat

Cunt. Did YOU eat?

Ben paused, and sighed to nobody. i will

That’s a no.

i didnt fucking say no i said i will

But you didn’t.

shut the fuck up

Go eat.

you cant fukcig make me

Please eat, Ben. You need to just as much as I.

why 

Because you’re a human person. Even with the V, human people need food.

ill eat the brownies when i get home

If you don’t promise me you’re going to go eat right now, there won’t be any brownies when you get home. I’ll give them to Butcher.

u woulndt

Wanna bet?

Ben scowled. i dont want to eat i want to talk

I’m going to bed, Pretty Boy. It’s late.

its ten

And I’m exhausted, we were up early and it’s been a long day.

what happpend

Worried about Edgar and Singer. Media is full of bitches.

ur oaky. Ben paused, starting to type out becaus ill come home right-

Her message came through. I’m fine. Promise me you’ll eat.

Ben glared at the phone, because he didn’t fucking believe her, but still deleted his offer and typed whatever

Ben.

swear it

Thank you. There was a beat, and then a second message. I miss you. Thank you for doing this.

i miss u ass well 

Another beat. I miss your ass as well.

Ben snorted. He fucking loved Her. go sleep sunshine

I’ll see you tomorrow?

u will or ill fucking run to jersey

Just steal a car. I know you can.

i thought I wasnt supposed too 

I’ll make an exception. Whatever gets you home.

ill be home toomorow. godnight beuaitufl

Ben put his phone down, fully dressing before walking down the hall to bang on MM’s door.

MM was glaring with bleary eyes when it swung open. “The hell you want?”

“Where the fuck do I get food.”

“Call hotel services, dumbass.” MM paused before closing the door, watching Ben with a tired, cautious expression. “You weren’t total fucking shit with Singer. And Mallory says they’ll have us on the road by 7am tomorrow. Be ready.”

The door closed, and Ben returned to his room to figure out how the fuck to call hotel services. It took him a whole damn hour, but Ben got shrimp, ice cream, and a real nice fucking robe that the CIA would be paying for. He picked up his phone, frowned at the banner of Message from Sunshine, take care of, and opened it up. 

He thought he hadn’t read it right at first. He blinked a few times—he’d gotten wine as well because nobody appreciated him asking for coke—and crushed his phone in his hand when the words clicked. When they hit him with the force of a train.

Goodnight, Benjamin. I love you.

————————

You can’t sleep. You’d texted Ben goodnight two hours ago—you think, your brain is a little slow from exhaustion—but it’s too quiet, too cold, too dark to do anything but stare at the ceiling and drown in your own thoughts. Too lonely to do anything but worry and worry and worry about everything, and try not to cry.

You’re so tired. You’re home, you should just feel safe and easy and happy, but you’re just fucking exhausted. Your joy is still real when you smile at Ryan, and talk to Annie, and laugh with Kimiko. All your love is still so strong and eternal, circling your head and bringing your every thought back to Ben. It’s painful, how much you love him. How you can’t stop breaking, or wanting him, or missing him. He’s been gone for barely twelve hours, and you miss him. Your eyes are drooping, and your brain is foggy, and all you can do is miss him.

The exhaustion is all in your head. It’s all stemmed from the stress of what if Singer says no to the V. Ben said he was running it past his “cabnet”, but what if they say no. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep fighting Homelander forever, it’s going to kill you. This needs to be over, it needs to be over now, you can’t fucking do this anymore. You’re not strong enough to do this anymore.

Weak.

You’re home. What matters is that you’re home. You can’t feel anyone—it’s been a week of the pills, one in the morning and one in the night, hidden from Ben because you’re still not ready to tell him—or sleep a night without blood haunting your dream, or spend an hour without glancing at your phone and seeing another story about your life.

People are still putting together your “relationship” with Ben. You’d told Annie everything—at least, everything that wasn’t how Ben made you moan and how you loved him so much it made you a little bit of an idiot—and she’d relayed it all as instructed. You woke Ben up to kill Homelander. You became friends with him, and you made each other promises about never going back. You lived together, and had a complicated relationship. You’d chosen the words carefully, ignoring Butcher’s eye roll and Annie’s sigh, and reminded everyone that this was technically Annie’s point of view. This was what she could’ve observed without your input, and what she’d say. And now, all across the internet, more and more timelines and breakdowns of the Anomaly and Soldier Boy’s relationship are popping up. A lot of them are paired with timelines of you and Homelander.

All of them make you feel sick. Even if they buy Annie’s words and denounce Homelander, they still say things you don’t want to hear. You’re obsessive. In love with Soldier Boy. Soldier Boy’s in love with you. It’s a toxic relationship. You killed people for him. He was killing people for you. It was unrequited on your side. Unrequited on his side. It’s a great American love story. It’s star crossed. He’s probably going insane without you. You didn’t love him enough to go back to him. You’re not worthy of him. Even with Starlight’s claims about your powers being far greater than Vought let on, you’re still weak. Weaker than Soldier Boy. Weaker than Homelander. Your greatest advantage is your feminine allure, because you’re a whore, and you’re weak.

You’re so fucking tired.

Homelander had avoided a direct response to the stories about you and Ben. Sage had entirely denounced Annie’s claim within two days, calling them all blanket lies and propaganda meant to manipulate the public, but Homelander had just agreed. Said they were looking for you, trying to recover you, that he loved you and missed you and would kill whoever had taken you from him.

You keep having nightmares about that as well. Where the blood is splattered across your skin, and Homelander is holding Ben’s heart in gloved hands—red, maybe covered in blood, you can’t tell—and you lose him forever. You burn and burn and burn, and sometimes Homelander dies, but Ben always dies. You always lose him, and have to live for the rest of time with a hole in your head and a heart that doesn’t really beat right anymore.

When you wake up, Ben is always there. Holding you and rubbing soothing patterns onto your skin, muttering words of comfort into your skin and surrounding you with his warmth and the smell of pine. It always calms you down, seals up another crack in your body as you believe him just a little more every time. You’re home, and that’s what matters. You’re here, in Ben’s arms, and everything is going to be okay. You’re still broken, but he’s staying, and you’re all that matters.

Ben won’t touch you, but you’re going to be okay. He keeps tensing and pulling away whenever you try to give him more, but he’s still here. Still holding you in the shower, still kissing you and staying at your side, but not touching you.

You wish you could feel him. You wish you could understand why he won’t touch you. Being afraid that the hunger in him had simply had a quiet, wilting death when he saw how broken you were, and now he gives a shit about you—adores you—but doesn’t want you. He doesn’t love you, he hasn’t loved you, but now he doesn’t want you either. You don’t want to make him do anything, not if he doesn’t want to, not while he’s staying, but you wish he would just touch you.

He won’t. You’re weak and broken, and even as you’re healing you’re just so tired. You can’t control yourself, can’t finish this, and you’re fucking tired. You’re not strong, unconquerable, and zealous with anger like Ben, or Butcher, or Kimiko. But you’re not forgiving and determined like Hughie and Annie and MM. You can’t give them anything like Frenchie or A-Train, and you’re not innocent like Ryan. You’re guilty of blood sticking across your body, but you’re too tired to do anything about it, and you don’t have it in you to kill Homelander with your bare hands, but you don’t have the patience or resilience to wait longer.

You need this to be over. Homelander dying won’t set that thing still flailing in your gut back into place, or stop the nightmares forever, but you’ll stop looking for him in shadows and being a little afraid of the open sky. You’ll be able to make yourself strong enough to tell Ben you love him, and force yourself to be okay when he says no. 

You’ve spent the whole day missing him. Everything keeps rounding back to how you miss him. How the bed is too big without Ben snoring on top of you, and how the sheets and pillows smell like him, and how there’s still an indent of his body on his side of the mattress. You’d led a normal day while he was gone, doing laundry and texting him and trying not to be too pathetic about how much you love him. Spending the day with Ryan and talking about Ben like a normal person, trying to clean a little and not letting your hands linger on his coffee mug or shirt, watching TV and not looking at the empty space next to you.

Trying to focus on dinner, and not worry about Singer, or why the meeting was taking so long.

“Why did they have to go to DC?” Ryan had asked you over the table, speaking through a mouthful of relish and ketchup and mustard and every other condiment in the dining hall. “Couldn’t Singer have, maybe, uh, called-“

“Ryan,” Butcher had grunted. “Chew and swallow. She ain’t goin nowhere.” 

Ryan’s eyes had widened, and he’d given Butcher an apologetic look as he closed his mouth. 

“I don’t know,” you’d answered, poking at your hotdog with a finger. “Singer probably wanted some evidence that we cared about this enough to make the trip. It’s not too far, and we need the V, so it’s not worth arguing about.” 

“I thought, um,” Ryan had coughed slightly—he’d swallowed a little too fast—and given you a nervous frown. “I thought you got V. Hughie mentioned you were still at the tower for V. To, um, kill my dad.”

“Hughie, lad, the fuckin hell did we say about keepin it on the low-“ 

“I’m sorry!” Hughie had shrunken from Butcher’s glare, face growing red. “I just mentioned it, and Soldier Boy said it first-“ 

You’d frowned. “Ben said what?” 

“He said you wouldn’t want to lie to Ryan, and he’s the one mentioned that the V would help us kill Homelander-“ 

“I’m not upset about it!” Ryan had jumped in as Butcher’s glare at Hughie became lethal. “I was just curious, don’t be mad at Hughie or Ben-“

“It’s okay, Ryan.” You’d sighed. It was only 7pm, too early to have a bloodbath in the dining hall. “I’m not mad. Butcher might be mad, but he’s a little bitch baby.” 

“Fuckin watch it, Love-“ 

You’d ignored Butcher, and watched Ryan carefully as you spoke. “I was at the tower for V. But I couldn’t find the right kind, so now we need to look somewhere else.”

“The right kind?” Ryan had frowned. “What, um, what kind was there?”

“The V Ben and I have,” you’d explained with a sigh. “I don’t know what it would do to a normal supe, but it’s essentially useless in any format on Homelander.”

“You did not happen to keep it when you returned, non?” Frenchie had leaned around the table, looking at you hopefully, and you’d shaken your head.

“It got destroyed on my way back. It’s gone.”

You’d been lying. The V was still in your underwear drawer, hidden next to the suppressants and taunting you in the silence. Ben’s phantom was gone, his Thing in your chest gone with your empathy, and it was just you and thoughts of weak. You miss Ben, and you’re weak, and you need this to be over. ‘

Homelander has to die. He hasn’t earned taking up your life like this. Your life is supposed to be you and Ben, warm and safe. You keep trying to get lost in a fantasy on Ben’s hand in yours, living in a house in Rome where there’s grass outside and sunlight all around you. Laughing with him and kissing him and never thinking about Homelander again. Giving him everything you have—even if he never loves you—and just being happy. No more gods. No more wars. No more blood or dirt on your hands or under your nails. No more impossible, difficult fucking choices. Just you and Ben, together, with him grinning down at you and peace everywhere in the world.

You’re exhausted. You can’t sleep. You need this to be over. And after another few hours, it makes you sit up and cross the room, makes you open the drawer and take out the V. The small vial turns over in your hands, the text of Project Anomaly, Trial 6 slightly faded, and the green liquid within it completely useless to finish this.

Your feet carry you downstairs, and down the silent halls with the vial still in your hands. They take you to the dining hall—a few generators and appliances casting it in a low ligh— and over to the table. There are almost twenty in the whole room, but everyone had come to a silent agreement that this was the table. Where you eat with everyone, where Ben presses his thigh to yours, and where plans are made. 

You have a plan. It’s not a good plan—Ben would hate it, but he’s in DC and can’t stop you—and yet it’s all you can think about in the dark. Ending this. Really, properly ending this. 

It takes a little while. Thirty or forty minutes of humming into the empty room and letting pine and strawberries and vanilla fill the room with an invisible warmth, waiting to see if your guess was correct.

Then the door swings open, and Butcher freezes in the hall as your eyes meet. 

“The bloody fuck are you doin’ here-” 

“We need to talk.” 

Butcher scowled, stepping into the dining hall but not moving across to the table. “We ain’t got shit to talk about-“ 

“Yes,” you sigh. “We do. Please just sit down, Butcher. It won’t take long.”

He looks you up and down, huffs, and stalks over to the bench, dropping across from you with a glare. “How’d the fuckin hell you know to find me here.”

“Ben said you don’t really sleep,” you shrug. “He said you always have terrible bags under your eyes, and your heart goes a little too fast, so his bet was, and I quote, ‘the fucking pussy is either on a bunch of drugs he’s not sharing with me, or he’s sleeping less then I do’. And I guessed you wouldn’t want to wake up Ryan, so I took a gamble. And I was right.”

“I ain’t able to believe I backed you up on wakin him when you gave your fuckin pitch.” Butcher mutters. “Shoulda killed it in the first month when you got all fuckin chummy with the cunt.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure our friendship is really hard for you-“ 

“I don’t give a flyin fuck about your friendship,” Butcher snaps. “I’m pissed with myself for lettin it get this far, losin my teammate to being in fuckin love with Soldier Boy.” 

Your mouth falls open, and you can hear the blood in your ears. “I, um, I don’t know what you’re talking about-“ 

“Save it.” Butcher rolls his eyes, giving you a bored look. “We all fuckin know, you make disgustin heart eyes at him every damn day. I’m just sayin, you twats start makin mini-supes, I am not takin responsibility for them killin their nannies.” 

“What do you mean we all know?”

“All the Boys,” Butcher shrugs. “A-Train confirmed it-“

“He wasn’t supposed to say anything-“ 

“We already fuckin knew. And nobody’s told Soldier Boy, so keep your bloody head on your shoulders.” 

You sigh, shaking your head. “He, he still doesn’t-“

“Nah, he’s a fuckin idiot. You both are fuckin idiots.”

“Hey-“

Butcher drawls your name, giving you a flat look. “I put it together at Tek Knight. We all been gettin it for far too fuckin long, and you’re real bloody stupid for someone who can fuckin feel people’s emotions.” 

“I’m taking the suppressants,” you snap. “Specifically so I don’t make Ben feel what I do.” You take a long breath. “I can’t force him to love me. It’s not my call you make.”

“I don’t give a fuckin dick or tit about what you’re doin it for,” Butcher gives you a long, strange look. A frown without cruelty or bitterness, like he’s trying to figure something out. “Just don’t get all fuckin piney over him when it’s your own fault he don’t know.”

You scowl, and swallow a sneer of he doesn’t know because I can’t lose him. I love Ben more than should be physically possible, and he’s too important for me to be selfish and manipulative to make him love me. You came here for a reason, and you’re too tired to fight—really, properly yell and shout and swear at—Butcher. So you shake your head, glancing down at the V in your lap, and look back up at Butcher. “Can we please just talk about why I’m here?” 

Butcher shrugs. “Floor’s all fuckin yours.”

“I,” you take a deep, heavy breath to slow your heart, and force yourself to meet Butcher’s eyes. “I want you to do it.” 

“Do fuckin what-“

“I want you to kill Homelander.”

Butcher stares at you for a second, for once at a loss for words. “The bloody hell would make you want that.”

“It has to be you,” you mutter, fingers tapping faster and faster on the table. “This has to be over, and it has to be you. Ben is going to blast him, and you’re going to shoot him. Right in the head, with a normal, boring gun. He doesn’t get to have me burn him alive, have Ben or Kimiko bash his head in, or have Annie send him flying and break his spine. He doesn’t get a good death. He doesn’t get to be a martyr, or a legend. He’s going to die like a fucking person.”

“I ain’t-“ 

“Butcher,” you whisper, and don’t bother to hide the exhaustion and pain from your voice. You need him to do this. Butcher is a piece of shit, and has given you hell since you’ve met him, and he needs to be the one to kill Homelander. He’s the only one who might understand this. Understand why Homelander shouldn’t be killed in a way that matters. That Homelander doesn’t fucking deserve that. “I want you to do this. I want Homelander to realize he’s lost, that we beat him, and then I want you to kill him, and for this horrible fucking shit to be over.” You choke slightly. “I just want this to be over.”

You think he’s going to try and resist you. You think Butcher is going to choose to be generous at the worst possible moment, and tell you that the killing blow is yours. That you’ve suffered the most at Homelander’s hands, and should get to watch the light leave his eyes. But you don’t want to. You’re past revenge and fury and blood. You’re just tired. All you really want now is to burn in Ben’s arms, to bury your head in his chest and burn and burn and burn until you’re not afraid anymore. Until the heat has fused all your cracks back together, and Homelander’s never able to hurt you again.

But he doesn’t. Butcher just nods once, eyes never leaving yours, and grunts, “you got a deal. That it?” 

“One more thing.” You hold up the V, glowing slightly in the soft light of the breaching morning. If Butcher is surprised you have it, you don’t see it on his face. “This is the V in me. The V in Ben.” You place it on the table in front of Butcher, watching him carefully. “You can use it on yourself, and become the thing you’ve loathed for years. You can use it on me, and I think it might kill me. If it does, Ben will kill you. You can use it on Ben, and make him stronger. You can do whatever the fuck you want with it, as long as you do it. As long as you, Butcher, just you, make the choice and live with the fucking consequences.”

You stand up, and leave Butcher silently in the dining hall. You’ve said what you need, and Ben will be home soon. You’ll be able to fall into his arms and sleep. Until then, you’ll just have to make yourself busy.

There’s the laundry you forgot to fold last night. Ben’s underwear and socks that you’d left in the dryer, because he’d texted you about the meeting and the relief of it going well had slammed a wall of exhaustion into your brain. You dump everything in a basket, and carry it upstairs. It’s boring, but it’s better than just waiting. 

Your phone is face up on your bed when you enter the bedroom, and it lights up with a text as you close the door.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

We’re headed back, ETA around 10.

Soldier Boy broke his phone somehow btw.

And the meeting went well, just in case he didn’t get a chance to tell you.

You text back a thumbs up—you’re honestly shocked it took this long for Ben to break his phone—and leave the phone face up on the bed as you fold laundry. You manage to kill fifteen minutes with this, because while Ben has a truly abysmal amount of clothing, your brain is moving tragically slow from a lack of sleep.

Coffee. You need coffee. It will kill another five minutes, and you might actually manage to stay awake until Ben comes home. You can put on the coffee, and make a sandwich, and hum to yourself as you drink, just to practice making lights and shadows bend around you. Ten minutes.

Ben doesn’t fold his clothing. When you return upstairs and open his drawers, that much is obvious. Pants and shirts have been tossed mindlessly into drawers, and underwear and socks are mixed together without thought.

That’s another thing to do. Fold Ben’s clothing. Simple and tedious, keeping you awake and your mind on your hands instead of clinging to the silence. The feeling of you, just you, the only one to blame for how cold and tired you are, not strong enough to get through this alone, but you are alone, and you’re so tired- 

Clothes. Fold all of Ben’s clothes. Take them out of the drawers—pants and shirts first, they take up the most space and the least time—fold them, and return them. Then you can pair the socks and organize his underwear, and-

You pause, frowning at the almost empty drawer. There’s three stray socks, a pair of boxers, and sunglasses. They’re not your sunglasses, they’re green and don’t have the little Soldier Boy symbols on the ear pieces, but they’re the same style. Your sunglasses had broken anyway, and these might just be Ben’s, but they’d been hidden. Ben didn’t hide his things. His razor was on the bathroom counter, his shoes were scattered around downstairs, and his mug was at the front of the cabinet. Sometimes he just left it out, because he’d fucking be using it tomorrow anyway.

And, even if Ben did hide things, an underwear drawer was an incredibly odd place for sunglasses. You’d just dismiss it as the glasses falling in the drawer, but they look carefully placed, wrapped in the boxers like they shouldn’t be seen. 

They’re just sunglasses. Sunglasses that look just like the ones that had been broken when Homelander took you-

Far in the back of your head, something starts to ring in your brain. Nobody had told you that your sunglasses had broken. You hadn’t seen them since you’d gotten home, but that could’ve just been a coincidence. Sage could’ve gotten rid of them in the tower, or Ben could’ve lost them somewhere in the months where you’d been gone, but they’d been broken. Ben’s phantom had told you they’d been broken in the fight with Homelander, and you’d told him that you’d liked those sunglasses because they reminded you of him. 

These ones looked the exact same as the broken once, save for the colors. Simplistic black frames—no patterns or symbols—and a dark shade of green that matched the Soldier Boy suit. Almost exactly the same hue, a slightly darker shade.

You have a theory. A weak, flimsy theory that makes you carefully place the sunglasses back in the drawer and run downstairs to your computer. It’s not really based on anything, all your evidence is speculative—Ben’s allowed to be a weirdo who hides sunglasses in his underwear drawer—but you have to check. Just so you don’t go insane, you have to check. 

Between you and Ben, there’s only the one Jane Smith email account. Which means there’s one amazon account, and you can check the purchase date of the sunglasses. It takes a second—your hands have changed from going too slow to going too fast and losing efficiency in your frantic movements—but you find the receipt, and the date. Late May, nine days after the Believe Expo, which means four days before your escape. When you’d started testing your empathy on the Deep.

The same day you’d talked to Ben’s phantom about the sunglasses.

It could be a coincidence. It’s technically possible that it’s a complete, total coincidence that doesn’t mean anything, let alone what you think it might mean. What your brain is starting to draw together. That, towards the end at least, whenever you spoke to Ben’s phantom, his Thing would grow stronger. That you’d been able to feel him there, feel that extra sense in your body that told you Ben. Ben is near you. He’s across the bridge or in the bathroom or down the hall start to go haywire when you were alone in Homelander’s apartment. Where Ben couldn’t have possibly been.

You’d just missed him. You’d just driven yourself insane the torture of being trapped at Vought and the sickness of missing Ben, and the longer you were gone the more you’d needed that small escape of Ben’s voice in your head. Telling you that you would come home. That there wasn’t another option, because you were coming home because you were strong and you’d fucking get through this. 

But you’d missed Ben yesterday. Geographically he’d been even further than when you’d been at Vought, and you hadn’t heard his phantom. It had grown silent, gone with his imprint in your chest. The imprint that was bombed with empathy, that grew back with it as well. The imprint that had appeared after the Believe Expo, after you’d seen Ben, held him and had your every thought reduced back to its natural pattern when he touched you. Had everything be Ben. Ben, I love you. 

The phantom had grown stronger after that. Louder, more persistent, full of stranger conversations and rattling Ben’s Thing inside you when it spoke. But it had just been from missing him. You’d see him and it had made you miss him all the more. Ben’s Thing in your chest might be the empathy, but the phantom was just an echo of your love. A result of how he’d become a vital part of you, how you loved and loved him, loved talking to him and laughing with him and hearing his voice say Brat and Sunshine and fucking breathe and shut the fuck up and I love you-

The phantom had told you he loved you. The phantom had been incredibly persistent about how Ben loved you. Which was evidence that it isn’t what it might be. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you.

It doesn’t feel like a real sentence anymore. It’s running around in your head—Ben doesn’t love you, he doesn’t, he just doesn’t, Ben doesn’t love you—and it doesn’t feel right. It’s a fact—it doesn’t need to feel right, it just is—but now it’s become only noises that make your heart contract and your own love wail. You love him. You love Ben so, so much, and all it’s done is drive you mad. You just want him to love you, and the phantom is made of your want and love, so it indulged you and told you Ben loved you. 

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

Unless this is what you think it might be, Ben doesn’t love you. If it is what you think it is, then- 

You have to know. You have to know now, whoever is driving him home needs to drive faster because you might be wrong, but you might be right. And no matter which one it is, you need to know right fucking now.

There’s about two and a half hours until Ben opens the door. You spend most of that time making a list. Writing down every conversation you’ve had with the phantom, just to be sure. To go in prepared, and know what you’re looking for. You fold the socks and underwear when you’re done—twenty minutes—and decide to leave the sunglasses in the drawer. No leading questions, no steering Ben towards the possible truth. Thy hypothetical truth, that’s going to make you sound insane if you say it aloud, but that’s feeling less and less implausible as you’re forced to wait. 

You don’t feel Ben when he comes home. You’re going over the list, rehearsing in your head, and you hear him. Even through the compound’s soundproof walls, you hear Ben stomping down the hall, stopping outside your door, and banging on it.

He’s shouting your name. Not yelling, shouting. Over and over again, until you stand up and let him in.

Ben almost falls on top of you, and there’s something wild in his eyes. His hair is messy, there’s slight bags under his eyes, and his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried his teeth are going to break. He’s scanning you up and down, one hand gripping your arm like you might vanish, feet planted apart and body towering over yours like he’s ready to defend you from something.

“Hi,” you whisper, and Ben’s voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“We need to fucking talk.”

You swallow. “Yeah, we do. But I’m first.” 

“The fucking hell you are, I need to-“

“Ben.” Your voice is firmer than even you’ve heard it, and Ben freezes. You’d feel bad, but this is important. Ben’s home, and—as much as you want to figure out why he looks like a feral animal—you need to know if you’re right. “I’m first. Sit down.” 

He scowls, but follows you to the table and drops in his usual chair, glaring up at you. “You get seven minutes, then it’s my fucking turn.”

You nod, grab the list—crinkling it between your hands with a slow, grounding breath—and start at the top. “What food do you want on your birthday?”

“Is that what’s so goddamn important-“ 

“Answer the question, please.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter, my birthday was last month-“

You have to push past that. Later, after you figure this out, you’ll have time to yell at Ben about his birthday and why you weren’t made aware of it. Right now, you’re on a time limit. “Benjamin, if you don’t answer the fucking question-“

“I don’t know, fucking burgers! Burgers and cake! Are you done, can I fucking talk-“

That wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped. Burgers and cake is an incredibly predictable answer for Ben to have, so you push on. “No. How many states can you name?”

“I don’t fucking know, I don’t keep track of that shit. I’m not like you and Ryan, it’s not all fucking fifty, but I can name a damn few-“ 

You’ve never told him you can name all fifty. Not to his face. “What does manifest destiny mean?”

Ben scoffs. “Are you giving me a fucking pop quiz-“

“Benjamin-“

“It’s the fucking nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to go west, and should exert the means to do it. Is that it? Can I say my goddamn thing-”

You have to glance at the paper to be sure, but that’s practically word for word what you’d written. What you’d told Ben’s phantom. “What type of porn does the Deep watch?” 

“Tentacle, you’re the one who fucking told me-“ Ben pauses, his eyes narrowing. “Why the fuck are you asking me all these damn questions.”

It takes a long, heavy breath to get the last question out. “Have you been having nightmares again?” 

“Some. Why the fuck does it matter, we both have nightmares-“ 

“What have they been about?”

Ben doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw ticks, and his eyes on yours start to peel you apart. “Blood. Fuck ton of blood and smoke.”

There’s more. There’s something Ben’s leaving out, but right now you don’t care. You’re past being subtle, or thinking about anything but you’re right. You’re almost definitely right, and there’s only one last question to ask. 

“Why are there sunglasses in your underwear drawer?” 

His scowl deepens. “Why the goddamn hell were you in my underwear drawer-“

“I was folding laundry. Why.” 

“Gift.” He grunts. “For you. Replacing the old ones.”

You feel a little lightheaded. “What, what happened to the old ones?”

“Broke when Homelander took you.” Ben pauses, and you think his gaze might be burning into your skin. “If you don’t start making some fucking sense about what you want-“

“While I was gone,” the words start to vomit out of you, frantic and uncertain. “Did you ever, I don’t know, hear me? Hear my voice, talking to you? Or, I don’t know, feel me, when I wasn’t there? Like there’s no way I could’ve been there, logistically, but you were still hearing me-“

Ben snaps your name. “Maybe I did, but I fucking missed you. It’s not some big goddamn news story, and since you’ve been back I haven’t heard shit-“

“Why did you get kicked out of the dining hall?”

“What the fuck are you-“

“Benjamin.” You take a long, deep breath. “Last week, why did MM kick you out of the dining hall?”

“I told you already, I got hard and he’s a fucking uptight pussy-“

“What made you hard?”

Ben goes completely rigid in his seat. “Don’t fucking worry about-“

“Were you thinking about me? About how you’d want to fuck me?”

“How in goddamn hell-“

“Because I was thinking about it,” you whisper, forcing yourself to hold Ben’s gaze. “That morning, before you got home, I thinking about how you’d fuck me. You said you’d prep me, then missionary, then from behind, then I’d ride you, and you told me condoms don’t work on supe jizz. You told me-“

“What the fuck do you mean I told you.”

“Your voice told me. In my head, I was talking to you. I’ve been talking to you. In the tower,” you swallow. “I’d talked to you all the time. In my head. And I-“

Ben grunts your name. “Whatever you’re trying to say, say it.”

“I think I can read your mind!” The words sound stupid when you say them. You sound fucking crazy, but you’re right. “Or like, speak to you through your brain? I was doing it for a while, then it got really weird after the Believe Expo, and I think it’s because you put something in me-“

“Put something in you-“

“I don’t fucking know, Ben! I’m not a scientist, I just know that there’s been this thing in my chest, right here,” you jab a finger at the area near your heart, and Ben’s eyes widen. “And it feels like you, and it’s gone right now because the empathy is gone, but-“

“What the fuck do you mean the empathy is gone.” Ben’s words are low, and his glare is searing right through you. “It’s part of you, it can’t just up and fuck off-“

“I, um,” your nails start to dig into your arm as you hug your body, the list balled up in your hand. “I’ve been taking a suppressant. A pill. It, um, kills the empathy, so I can’t use it.”

“A suppressant.” Ben stands, eyes never leaving yours, voice rising to a shout. “Are you fucking insane?” 

“I’m fine, it’s-“

“You’re not fucking fine! Nothing about this is fucking fine, that’s a part of your goddamn body! You might as well be chopping your fucking arm off-“

“My arm would grow back, just like this-“

“It would still fucking hurt you! Why the fucking hell would you do something so fucking stupid, why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me-“

“I’m fine!” You scream, and smoke begins to rise from your fingers. “I fucking fine, Ben! This is helping me! I just, I can’t fucking control it, I don’t know how-“

“I would’ve fucking helped you!” He takes a step forwards, glare rooting you in place. “I’d do what the fuck you needed to help you control it, but you didn’t fucking trust me-“

“Of course I trust you!” Ben. Ben, I love you. “I fucking trust you with my life, but this isn’t about you-“

“Then why wouldn’t you fucking tell me, I’d have told you it was fucking stupid and insane, because this is fucking stupid and insane-“

“Because I’m fine-“

“You’re not fucking fine!” Ben roars your name, and you swallow. “You’re keep waking up fucking screaming, and you can’t fucking shower alone, you’re not fucking fine, stop saying you’re fine-“ 

“I am!” You shake your head frantically, gaze dropping to his chest. You can’t look him in the eyes right now, you’ll break. “I’m really fine, I’m just tired-“

“Because you haven’t slept a goddamn night peacefully in a fucking week!” Ben’s voice is strained, like he’s in physical pain. “Did it occur to you, even fucking once, that maybe cutting off your arm over and fucking over would hurt you?”

“I don’t care!” Your voice is losing its anger. You’re just so fucking tired, you don’t want to fight, you want to start crying, collapse, just fucking rest. “I don’t care if it’s hurting me! I deserve it! I’m hurting everyone else-“ 

“Are you fucking stupid-“

“No!” You can’t really hear anything over the blood pounding in your ears, over the cold starting to climb into your lungs. It’s hard to breathe. “I’m hurting people, Ben! I’m broken and afraid and weak, I can’t control myself because I’m weak and I can’t make you weak as well-“

“You are not weak-“

“I am! I’m weak! I can’t just get fucking control over my own body, and I’m so tired, and I can’t fucking do this anymore! I can’t keep fighting Homelander and being useless. I’m not like you, I’m not strong enough to do this-“

Ben’s still a few feet away, but when he says your name it rolls through your body. Pushes past the cold and grabs your insides, forces your eyes to his. He looks like something is hurting him, the wild glint in his eyes now tangled in with something bright and furious and hot. “You are not fucking weak. You’re the furthest goddamn thing from weak. You’re fucking alive. You fucking survived. You did something idiotic and so fucking selfless and goddamn impossible, and you lived. You are fucked up and perfect and the strongest fucking person in the world.”

The snapped off thing in your gut starts to wrap around your heart. “Then why won’t you touch me?”

He pauses, mouth open and closing once before he grunts through teeth, “what the fuck are you talking about.”

“You won’t touch me, Ben.” You’re done screaming. You’re choking on something, and every word is strangled and soft. “You stopped touching me after the shower. If you don’t want me, you can just tell me-“ 

“Of course I fucking want you, stop being insane-“

“Then why-“

“I touched you and you fucking broke,” he snaps. He’s done yelling as well, but somehow this hurts more. Ben’s voice is low and heavy, and it’s dropping something into your lungs. “I touched you once, and you goddamn fell apart. You keep saying you’re fucking fine, that Homelander didn’t do anything, but I touched you and it hurt you-“

“You didn’t hurt me,” you breathe out, and the world is blurry. “You couldn’t hurt me, Ben. You could never hurt me. I just, I can’t feel you and I hate it. It’s horrible, but I want you to touch me. Please,” everything is far away. Your tongue, your head, your thoughts and throat and mouth are all second to Ben, across the room. So close, not close enough, never close enough. He could never be close enough, and he still doesn’t understand. “I, please, I want you to touch me, Ben. I’ve never wanted anything more that I want you, I’ve never loved anyone more than I love you-“

You don’t hear your own words until after. You don’t register what you’ve said until Ben’s closed the space between you in one step, until he’s grabbed your face with firm hands, until his mouth is crashing onto yours and it’s all Ben. Ben, I love you. 

He’s everywhere. He tastes like coffee and salt, and his touch is desperate. He’s falling onto you, groaning into your mouth when your lips part, invading your mouth with his tongue and teeth and spit, angling your head back to give you more. Your hands fly to his wrists, trying to make sure he’s real. You can’t feel him, but his pulse is heavy under your grip, and he’s so warm, and even as he bites your lower lip his hands are careful and gentle on your face. You’d said it, you said it for Ben to hear, and his touch is still reverent. He’s still holding you like you’re holy, confusing every part of your body as he deepens to kiss into something almost brutal—unrelenting and fervorish, devouring and starved with swallows of every sound that leaves you and his tongue in your throat—but his hands on your face remains adoring and gentle. Fingers tangling in your hair, a thumb tracing over your cheek while the other drops to carefully tilt your head back further.

When he pulls back, Ben’s forehead falls to yours, and you’re both silent. Trading ragged breaths and he traces over your swollen mouth with a light touch and his eyes, and you watch him. When Ben’s eyes finally meet yours they’re blown out and almost feral.

“Don’t take the fucking meds again,” he mutters, gaze stripping you apart before he adds, “please.” 

You’d missed this morning’s pill. Thirteen hours would be up soon. And Ben is real and sounds like he’s pleading, so it’s easy to give in. “I won’t.”

Ben nods, and pulls back. “You need to sleep,” he holds your gaze, even as he draws back up to his full height. “You’re tired.”

This is the worst possible time for your body to listen to Ben more than it listens to you, but the world starts to fuzz with exhaustion, even as you protest. “Ben, we need to talk-“

“We will. After you get some goddamn sleep.”

“It’s only eleven-“

“Did you sleep last night?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Did you fucking sleep, Benjamin?”

“No. So I want some rest, and I’m not doing it without you next to me.”

“But-“

“Trust me,” he grunts. “Just fucking trust me. We will talk about it, I fucking swear, but you need to rest first.”

You take a long breath, and nod. Ben doesn’t wait for you to open your mouth before he’s picking you up, marching up the stairs and into the bedroom, laying you carefully on the mattress before climbing over you and tugging you into his chest. Sleep is crawling into your head—the warmth of Ben and the steady rise and fall of his chest making your head quiet and everything easy—but it’s still too bright to close your eyes, so you roll over and bury your head in Ben’s body.

“What was your thing?” You mumble into his skin, still just a little too wired from the fight to fall under. “We didn’t get to it before I, um…”

Ben’s chuckle makes your whole body grow loose. “You texted me.”

You frown. “I texted you all day, Pretty Boy-“

“You texted me that you love me.” He mutters, and a hand starts to run through your hair, soothing your brain and keeping you against him as your face flushes.

“Oh.” You try to pull yourself closer to his body, hoping you can fully hide the soft nerves in your voice. “I, um, I was tired. I must’ve typed it and, uh, sent it without thinking.” 

“Did,” he pauses, voice low and tense. “Did you mean it.” 

“Both times?”

He snorts, and you smile against him. “Yeah, both fucking times.”

“Yes,” your voice is a breath, words muffled against him, but you know Ben hears because his hands on your skin freeze. “When, in our heads, when you said it-“ 

“I meant it.” He mutters. “I’ll always fucking mean it.”

You nod, hands curling into his shirt. “Okay. Good.” 

“How long until that stupid fucking pill-“

“Soon,” you whisper. “I don’t know why we can’t just-“

Ben grunts your name, his hand on your back starting to rub small circles that drag you further down. “Trust me. Get some sleep.”

He’s lucky you love him. If you didn’t, you’d get a little closer to murdering him every time your body elects to override your brain for Ben’s words. But he says sleep, everything fades into pine and warmth, the sound of Ben’s heartbeat near your head lulling you easily into sleep. 

Blood. So much blood. All there is in the world is blood, filling up your lungs and overwhelming your heart. You don’t know where it’s coming from—don’t know how to stop it—and it’s sweeping over you like a hurricane. Blood on your hands, in your throat, metal on your tongue and red in your vision. You can’t breathe, and you’re screaming for Ben but there’s a smoke far, far above you that’s keeping him away. You can hear him roaring your name, see his figure somewhere around you in the liminal world you’ve been trapped in, but when he reaches for you the blood drags you further down. No matter how much you struggle and flail and scream, it’s just blood. 

Blood, parting away as something cold and blue starts to walk towards you. Grabs you by the neck and yanks you up to watch it. Evil and cruel and no. No. No no no-

You’re screaming when you wake up. There’s something around you—not the blood, this is warm and safe and right—but you can’t really hear what the deep sounds echoing through your head are trying to tell you. It hurts, it all hurts. Your head is cracking open, your heart is aching, your mouth feels like sandpaper, your muscles are sore and your skin is itching and your blood is trying to leave your body because this hurts, this is all so painfully cold save for the pounding of something warm in your chest. Something grounding you and keeping all the fear and screams of unfair, so fucking unfair in your body. It’s full of ardor and it’s bloody, but not the blood that chokes you. Blood that feels like yours. That feels devoted and sharp and furious, that’s made of adoration and hunger and love. 

It’s everything. This thing is powerful and focused and wrathful, aimed and attuned to every single part of you. It’s making the world sharper, and everything feels like it has a purpose. There’s nothing that doesn’t exist to aid what the thing serves, and everything glows when the thing is fed. It’s starving, it will never not be starving, it will only grow more and more hungry, but the hunger isn’t fed by taking. It’s fed by giving, by working and worshiping and caring for something perfect. All that matters is the perfect thing—it fits so well with the beat of the powerful thing—because it infects everything with light. Nothing is ever dark when the perfect thing is tended to, and it’s not easy to tend to, but it’s fucking worth it. The powertful thing lives in your chest, and it’s not yours, but it belongs there. It’s content and happy there, and it riots when you make a small sound. A set of words that you don’t really understand right now, but you need to say. Everything is still coming back to you as your blood returns into your body, but you need to keep saying the words.

The ringing in your ears finally fades, and you can make them out.

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

“I love you too, Sunshine.” A deep voice—it might be the only one in the world that matters—rolls from the warmth around you into your chest. “Sleep.” 

It’s Ben. Ben’s around you, holding you like you’re sacred, and you’re still so tired, but you can feel him. His Thing is alive in your chest, and you know what it is. Ben’s love. Raw and obvious and everything. Burning in you, with you, for you. Ben loves you. 

“Ben,“ you mumbled, and his Thing hums. “I’m-“

If you say sorry, I’m not fucking you in the morning.

Rude. 

You love it.

I do. You sigh against his skin. I love you.

I love you as well. Ben’s voice, inside your body and everywhere around you, is right. This is right. Ben loves you, and you love him, and nothing has ever made more sense.

And, right before you tuck yourself further into his chest, right before you fall back into peaceful, restful, safe sleep, you can breathe.

End Note: We have officially completed the slow burn. I welcome you to the rest of the story: a goddamn wildfire. They’re about to fuck so nasty, you guys don’t even know. Call them Tinashe the way they’re about to freak.

Thank you for reading!! If you like this story, 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

[redroses07]

someone’s probably already done this

[moonriselabyrinth]

“The boys” is just what these fuckers have named their polycule.

[tojigasm]

Round 2

[create-chaos]

@ The Boys fans, how we feeling after episode 6?

[notapradagurl7]

The Right One.

Virgin!Black!FemReader x Neighbor!Mother’s Milk “Marvin” from the Amazon TV show Boys.

Summary: On a late Saturday night with your besties, You weren't the only virgin in your friend group, and thought about losing it to your friend/next-door neighbor Marvin.

Taglist: @lesbiantreehugger @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @westside-rot @liatreads @justhornyyme @mypointlessdays @cristallizednmesmerized @satoruya @planetblaque @hoodbarbiesims @amplifiedmoan @avoidthings @judymfmoody @life-in-the-slut-house @keyera-jackson @tryingtograspctrl @afrophoria @sageispunk

Word Count: 4,526k words

A/N: Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like to support your favorite writers! ❤️ another fic from this fine man,😫 p.s. don’t let anyone pressure you into thinking you’re missing out even about losing your v-card, this fic is simply for fictional shit. You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with.

Warnings: PWP, +18, virginity loss, profanity, soft MM, divorced MM, age gap between the reader in their 30s and MM, dirty talk, praise, fluff, spanking, smut, teddy bear MM, fingering, oral(fem receiving) protected sex, soft dom MM, aftercare,

—————

You sat on the grey soft couch with your eyes roaming around your friends, they had dazzling smiles, and were drunk laughing along with a variety of hairstyles ranging from curly, straightened, box braided, loced or even their natural hairstyle. They are all clothed in oversized sweatshirts, graphic tees, and loungewear that span the entire spectrum of vibrant colors.

Their hands held wine glasses and pieces of popcorn in their hands, watching a bunch of scary movies, Lola tightly clutched the bright yellow star-shaped pillow with her nails digging into them.

“Damn…why can't there be smart people in horror movies?” You asked in an annoyed tone, shaking your head from side to side.

“It's always the damn thing in these movies..” Zaria scoffed with a giggle.

Suddenly, Zaria went straight to YouTube and played All I Wanted by Paramore, one of her favorite songs. “All I wanted was youuuu…” she sang off-key with a smile.

As the fervent rock music from the 2000s pulsed softly through the spacious room, you sang along to Paramore’s lyrics. Feeling the nostalgia wash over your being, smiling at your friends playing air guitars and using their combs as a microphones.

Your friends, Lola, Zaria and Jayla were talking about their rendezvous and relationships, you were fake laughing at every double entendre and innuendo. You felt left out but sex wasn't a big deal, right?

Your mom always warned you about boys and sex, when you were younger especially when their hormones were raging and they were so immature, you didn't want kids either, her paranoia helped in some ways.

Your mom, that's where it stemmed from. Your fear, your expectations, her concern for you.

The insularity of your mom and being a late bloomer, you being stricter on yourself.

Your friends were buzzing with excitement, each one more eager than the last to share their stories of wild nights and new experiences. You smiled along with them, feeling a mix of warmth and trepidation.

You loved your friends dearly, but the weight of your virginity lay flat on you like a blanket. You avoided the topic at all times but have only been in one relationship, you told him you were on your period. Which grossed him out completely and you broke up.

“Ouu! If you fuck any supe or hero? Villain? Who would it be?”

You thought about one of the Supes, mention of them made your skin crawl. Especially a certain “hero” but only one, Marvin.

“I would fuck Black Noir, without the mask though. I think he has some mask kink, I need him to speak, but I bet that dick is big!” Zaria giggled with her tongue running her lips. Twirling her box braid in her index finger.

You couldn't believe that there were Black Noir dildos being sold in sex stores and they almost sold out, big in size and guaranteed to give you immense pleasure. You thought it was kinda stupid.

The question roamed your mind for a second, Black Noir was black, right? Pursuing your lips at the stereotype targeted for the core audience.

“Oh shit! You've got the dildo too? Girl, you're nasty!”

“I would fuck A Train, he can use that super speed for this, whew!” Jayla exclaimed with a smirk, sipping her glass.

“Didn’t he kill someone with his super speed? Are you sure?” You asked her, raising your brows.

“He’s starting to change for the better right? Eh, I’d still fuck him once Y/N” Jayla smirked, shurgging her shoulders.

“I would fuck Strom from X-Men, she's gorgeous and I always thought her powers were so cool!” You exclaimed with a smile.

Jayla agreed with a nod, “Exactly, I would fuck her too, and Wolverine.” she giggled.

“Soooo..Y/N? When was the last time you got some dick?” Lola asked with a sing-song tone, smirking drunkenly.

You sighed lowly, looking at your empty glass of red wine and placed it on the coaster that rested on the table. They looked at you with concern and confusion.

You were dressed in an oversized tee Jujutsu Kaisen shirt with shorts, and socks on your feet. Your melanated skin and your locs are tied up in a bun with a wine glass in your hand.

“Are you okay girl?” Zaria asked with her lip pouting, tilting her head to the side.

You couldn’t lie to them, they were your friends and were they virgins too? You could be right about that part.

“N-No, I’m not, I never had sex before, it’s dumb, i’m a virgin,” You confessed softly, pursuing your lips.

It was damn near embarrassing to be the only virgin in your friend group, you were entering your early thirties but now you’ve waited long enough.

“Hey, hey, it’s not stupid, I’m a virgin too but I lied so I wouldn't get teased..” Lola mentioned, fiddling with the ends of her sweatshirt.

Zaria nodded in agreement, “You know we wouldn't tease either of you for being virgins, it's okay and we understand. I wish I had waited instead of rushing so early…”

It felt nice to know that you weren't alone in your friend group but maybe losing it right now wouldn't be a bad idea but to who?

“Speaking of losing it, have you thought about Marvin? Your fine-ass neighbor?” Jayla whispered seductively, smirking again.

Was she out of her rabid-ass mind if she suggested that you should fuck your handsome neighbor, he was straightforward and genuine, protective of you, and made you feel safe here. Your personal teddy bear, He worked at a juvenile detention center for kids, helping them along the way.

“Well…have you thought about Marvin?” She asked again, tilting her head to the side.

Of course, you thought about him. Your besties saw that man, with his voice and music tee shirts. You listened to rock music and classical, jazz music that you suggested to him. He liked it and thanked you for it.

He lived next to your house, You’d known him forever, your next-door neighbor and a friend who always seemed to be there for you. He worked at his job as a youth counselor, he cleaned up a lot, including after himself, and gave you tips about

The four of you tiptoed toward the small window with your eyes landing on the buff man walking out of his house, wearing a grey tee shirt and grey sweatpants with Adidas slides on his sock-clad feet. Look at him, casually taking out the trash and grunting as he lifted it, throwing it in the trashcan.

“Oh my god, he's so fine, mm. I love a man with a beard..” You gushed with your cheeks heating up.

Jayla nodded, “Yeah, me too girl, I would never let Marvin shave it off.” She gushed with her cheeks heating up.

Without noticing, Marvin turned his eyes toward the four of you gawking at him like he was a piece of meat, locking eyes with him until you ducked immediately, he chuckled at you and your friends. Walking back inside.

Yup, Marvin knew that you and your besties were staring at him. Now, this was embarrassing.

“Did he see us?” Jayla asked in a confused tone.

“No, he didn't notice us at all,” You said in sarcasm.

Y'all could've sworn y'all saw his thick dick swinging on the right, the fabric of his shirt clung to his muscles perfectly, did he know that he was fine?

“You haven't hopped on that dick yet? Shit, I would've done it tonight!”

You felt your cheeks flush at the mention of Marvin. The thought of him sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. He was everything you admired in a man: strong, kind, and undeniably attractive. But the idea of losing your virginity to your neighbor? It was a whirlwind of emotions you weren't prepared to navigate.

"Marvin?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper. "We're neighbors. That’s... a little too close for comfort, don’t you think?"

Jayla leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Girl, please! You know he’s been eyeing you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. Plus, he’s a total softie. You’d be in good hands!"

Lola chimed in, her expression earnest. "Honestly, if you’re going to lose it, why not with someone you trust? Marvin seems like the type who would take care of you."

You bit your lip, contemplating their words. Marvin had always been sweet to you, giving you advice when you needed it, helping you with your groceries, and even sharing stories of his day. But could you really cross that line?

It was only a one-time thing, lose your V-card and get the hell out of there, you want to fuck that grown man. You can do this right?

"I don’t know, ladies. It feels...complicated," you admitted, glancing at your friends’ encouraging smiles.

“Complicated? Please! Life is complicated. This is about you and what you want,” Zaria said firmly. “If you feel ready, then go for it. And if anyone can make your first time memorable, it’s Marvin.”

The room buzzed with excitement as they each encouraged you, their enthusiasm infectious. You could feel the urge to leap into something new stirring within you. Maybe this was the push you needed.

“Okay, let’s say I consider it,” you started cautiously. “What do I even say to him? ‘Hey, Marvin, let’s fuck?’”

Your friends erupted into laughter, and you joined in. The humor lightened the mood, but the thought lingered in your mind.

“Just be honest! He’s a grown man. You can keep it casual,” Jayla suggested, winking conspiratorially. “Invite him over, maybe watch a movie, and see where it goes.”

“Or just go straight to the point!” Zaria added with a cheeky grin, making exaggerated gestures. “Nothing wrong with a little confidence!”

Obviously, your friends have met Marvin. He was the way you described him to them, Marvin was glad to meet them.

You took a deep breath, weighing the options. The idea of a casual movie night with Marvin felt both thrilling and terrifying. But what if he said no? What if the whole thing turned awkward?

“Okay, okay. Let’s say I do this. If I invite him over, you guys are leaving, right?” you asked, your voice laced with uncertainty.

“Absolutely! We’ll make ourselves scarce. Just send us a text when you’re ready!” Lola assured you, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

With a mix of fear and exhilaration bubbling in your chest, you decided to take a leap of faith. Maybe the night would go smoothly, and maybe it wouldn’t. But you were tired of living in fear of what could be.

“Alright, I’ll think about it,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. Your friends cheered, squealing, raising their glasses in a toast to your newfound courage.

“Here’s to new experiences!” Jayla exclaimed, and the clinking of glasses echoed in the room as you smiled.

“Get that dick, girl! Let us know on the details too! Let me know if he’s a moaner” Jayla exclaimed with smirk.

Later that evening, after your friends had left and the house was quiet, you sat on your couch, contemplating your next move. The thought of Marvin stirred something deep inside you, pulling you closer to the edge of bravery. With a deep breath, you grabbed your phone and typed out a message.

“Hey Marvin, do you want to come over and watch a movie sometime? Just us?”

You hit send and felt a rush of adrenaline. Now all you had to do was wait for his response.

“Yeah, I would like that,”

Whew, that wasn't so difficult right? But now you had to be straightforward with him.

Minutes later, you heard the doorbell ring and you rushed toward the door, you opened it and Marvin was there.

“Hey, Marv. Glad that you could make it.”

He stepped through the door with a respectful nod and smile, his head turned to listen to any upcoming warnings. It was silent but he was always aware. You loved that, a gold chain hung around his neck.

Closing and locking the door behind the man, you walked beside him. The cologne lingered on his clothes, his breath had a hint of mint and coffee.

“You know that I love comin’ over to your place for movie night, I missed you,”

Your arms wrapped around his waist with his hand resting on the small of your back, bringing you in close for a warm hug, resting your head on his buff shirt-clad chest.

You anxiously massaged his back muscles; this was the fifth occasion he had visited your home, and the two of you had spent the nights watching films, scoring them from 1 to 10, and discussing each scene.

"I missed you too and you always arrive when I need you, aren't you tired of me yet?” You asked him in a confused tone, the warmth from his body made your clit throb.

Marvin looked down at you, tilting his head. “Hey, Stop saying that, I will never get tired of seeing you,” he reassured kindly, watching your smirk curl up.

“Thank you for reminding me.”

His hand rested on his chest, nodding at you, “You’re ever so welcome..” he said, like you described, a teddy bear.

You led him to the living room, where you had set up the movie on the TV. The atmosphere felt charged with anticipation, both of you aware of the underlying tension.

The movie playing was Roll Bounce, starting off with the main character played by Bow Wow, Xavier skating in the rolling skating rink while 70s music playing in the background.

It was one of your favorite black movies, you preferred black cinema without trauma porn, you enjoyed comedies and mystery thrillers.

a few cushions tossed aside, making space between you and Marvin. He sank into the seat next to you, the warmth from his body radiating made your cheeks heat up.

So you decided to spark a conversation with him about the movie. Your thoughts kept drifting about Marvin but you cleared your throat, making his attention turn to you.

Wondering if he had seen this movie since he was older than you. “Have you ever seen this movie before?” you asked him, your tone was soft yet curious.

Marvin shook his head from side to side, making you gasp softly, he chuckled lightly. “Nah, I'm used to watching so old school movies, in the nineties specifically..” He said with a warm tone, smiling at you.

“What? This is amazing, I have a whole collection of DVDs for my favorite movies, and we can watch Brown Sugar next! It's so good!” You gushed

The way he looked at you when you talked about stuff you liked always made him feel happy,

“Is this movie any good?” Marvin asked, glancing sideways at you, his dark brown eyes sparkling with curiosity.

You nodded, a smile on your face. “Yeah, it’s a classic. It’s about roller-skating and friendships. Very nostalgic.”

He chuckled softly, the sound deep and rich, and you felt your heart flutter. “Sounds like fun. I always wanted to try roller-skating.”

You turned your head towards him, surprised. “Really? I can’t picture you on skates. You seem too cool for that.”

Marvin laughed, shaking his head. “Cool? Nah, man. I’m just a big teddy bear at heart. I’d probably fall flat on my face.”

You smiled, the tension easing just a little. “Well, if you ever need a partner to practice with, I’m game.”

As the movie played on, you found your mind racing with freaky fantasies. This was it. You were here with Marvin, and the thought of crossing that line felt thrilling yet terrifying.

You settled on the couch, you steal glances at Marvin. He looked handsome, his muscles defined even under the loose shirt he wore.

The movie played in the background, but you did not much attention to it. The only sound was the soft music and occasional dialogue, the rest of the room filled with the heavy silence that had you in a chokehold.

Your fingers lightly tugged at the ends of his tee shirt, his head turned from the television and back to you. Genuine concern is etched on his attractive face, and his dark brown eyes sparkling brightly

“Yes, Y/N? What’s wrong?”

Oh, that way he said your name, made your breath hitch, you couldn't waste any moment telling him this.

You looked at him in the eyes softly yet seriously, exhaling through your nose. Relax, you got this, everything will be fine. Nervously fiddling with your fingernails to keep focus.

“I’ve been thinking about losing my V-card and I thought of you, I just want to get it out of the way, that's all” You confessed firmly, biting down on your lips.

His brows raised in surprise, his eyes softened at you, nodding his head in agreement. Marvin's demeanor shifted from surprise to understanding, his gaze unwavering as he processed your words.

“I understand, I appreciate you trusting me with something so important,” Marvin replied, his voice gentle yet tinged with a hint of surprise. “Are you sure about this, sweetheart? I don’t want you to feel pressured or uncomfortable.”

You nodded, meeting his gaze with determination. “I trust you, Marvin. I know you’ll take care of me.”

A warm smile spread across his face, his thumb gently brushing against your cheek. “Then let’s take it slow, okay? I want to make sure you’re comfortable every step of the way.”

“Yes, I would like that. I appreciate this Marv,”

It felt great to have someone you can trust with your body, and treat your body with care, and respect.

With a nod, you leaned in, capturing his lips in a soft yet longing kiss. The taste of him was intoxicating, the feeling of his lips moving against yours sending sparks of desire through your body.

Marvin’s hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer to him as the kiss deepened. His touch was firm yet gentle, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that made your heart race.

As the kiss broke, you found yourself breathless, your eyes locked with his. “

He carried you into the bedroom, tossing you onto the bed, both of your clothes littered across the floor, the moonlight peeked through your curtains and gave him an extra large condom, his thick dick hung between his legs

He was thick everywhere, you preferred men with meat on ‘em, and your eyelids grew in shock, what was he going to fit? You hoped so.

“Y-yeah, I'm fine. It’s just my first time seeing a dick, Can I touch it?” You asked innocently, biting down on your lips.

A smile spread across his face as he gently took your wrist, guiding your hand around him. You slid your hand up and down, hearing soft groans escape his lips. Precum dripped from the tip as his dick throbbed before you.

“You're so big.." you mumbled, kissing his tip gently. Licking your lips clean from the essence.

You weren't nervous anymore, your eyes glued to his dick until his index finger lifted your chin. “My eyes are up here babygirl..” he smirked, kissing your lips again.

“Lay down..” He told with a demanding tone.

You lay on your back, gently spreading your legs apart. Marvin’s fingers parted your folds gently, his thumb rubbed your clit in circles, pushing his fingers between your folds, you moaned wildly, pleasure washed over you

“M-Marvin..” his eyes softened at how tight you were around his fingers, a soft moan escaping his lips. Watching your wetness pour out of you.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” Marvin murmured, his voice husky with desire. “Are you ready for me?”

You nodded eagerly, your heart pounding. With his thick fingers pumping in and out of you, his thick fingers filled you up. His tongue glided across your clit, “oh..fuck!” you cried out, your finger covering your lips.

Your hands covered your half of your face and mouth with embarrassment, moans escaped your pretty lips and the soft squelching noise

His knuckles brushed across your throbbing clit and brought you over to the edge, your walls tightly clenched around his fingers, “M-Marvin please..” moving your hand out of the way gently, muffled moans from your mouth.

“Don't hold back, let me hear your voice baby..” He teased, pecking your clit twice.

Your hips rolled against his fingers, becoming wetter as your mouth grew wider, unable to keep yourself quiet.

The knots in your stomach grew tighter, your climax washed over you. “Oh fuckkk!” you cried out, your hands gripping the bedsheets for support.

He pulled his fingers out and heard you whine, you pouting your lip and he grinned at you, “No pouting, you'll get what you want..” he teased, bringing his fingers to your lips.

Your hands grabbed his wrist and wrapped your lips around his fingers, your tongue licked your essence clean while you looked up at him, lifting your head for some air after he kissed you passionately.

Thankfully, he is a clean freak and always washes himself squeaky clean, including his hands, nothing is more attractive than a man cleaning up after himself. Even made sure he got tested and wore condoms.

“I'm clean, there's no need to worry..” he reassured you with a kiss on your forehead.

He grabbed the condom and gently tore the wrapper, gradually sliding on his dick, his knees rested on the bed and caught the faint squeak.

Marvin positioned himself between your legs, slowly pushing his dick into you, inch by inch. The stretch was intense, but the pleasure that followed was overwhelming. You gasped softly and whined at the stinging pain.

“It’s okay, i’m right here..” he said softly, kissing your lips to distract from the pain, your legs squirmed and you bite down on your lips, hands balled up in the sheets. Small whimpers fell from your mouth again.

Red nail marks across his tawny brown skin, pushing his hips into you at a gradual pace. “Sss..it hurts..” you whined, pecking his lips again.

“Just breathe, baby. It’ll feel better in a second,” Marvin soothed, his voice low and comforting as he continued to push himself deeper.

There was a mix of pleasure and pain that flooded through you, and you tried to focus on the warmth of his body against yours. Your thumbs swiped over his beard, small groans left his lips, the tightness of your walls clenched around his dick.

The initial discomfort began to fade, replaced by a growing wave of sensation that made your back arch off the bed. “Fuck, Marvin…” you breathed, your voice laced with both pain and pleasure.

“Yeah, just like that. You’re doing so good for me,” he praised, his breath hot against your ear. The way he spoke made your heart race, being this close to him made your pussy clench.

He adjusted his angle, finding the right spot that made you gasp. “There? Is that good? That pussy speaking to me?” he asked, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of discomfort.

“Yes! Just like that!” you encouraged, newfound confidence surging within you. The feeling intensified with each thrust, and you could feel the tension building again in your core.

“You’re taking me so well..” he praised, The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your soft gasps and his deep groans. “You’re so tight, baby. I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

“Marvin, I—oh!” you cried out as he hit that sweet spot again, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. His hands gripped a handful of your ass, spanking your asscheek roughly as you moaned loudly, he picked up the pace, feeling more of you clench around him.

You could feel the heat pooling in your belly, as your body responded eagerly to his every thrust. He watched your face scrunched up in pleasure, laying your head on his chest. “It’s so goodd…Marvin..” you croaked softly, eyes rolling back.

“Let it out, Y/N. I want to feel you come around this dick,” he urged, his hands gripping your thighs as he thrust deeper, the tension within you reaching a fever pitch.

With each thrust, you felt yourself teetering on the edge. “I’m gonna cum!” you cried, your nails digging into his arms as you clung to him.

“It's okay sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he encouraged, his voice a low growl as he quickened his pace, the sound of your bodies moving together growing louder.

The tension snapped, and you cried out his name as pleasure washed over yoo. Your walls clamped down around him, essence spilled all over his dick, and you felt his rhythm falter as he pulled out, falling beside you.

You both collapsed onto the bed, breathless and entwined, the world outside fading away. Marvin pressed a soft kiss to your lips, his eyes locked onto you. “Are you okay?” he asked, concern etched into his features as he looked down at you.

“I’m more than okay. That was…incredible,” you admitted, nodding while smile spreading across your lips.

Marvin grinned, his eyes sparkling with warmth. “I’m glad to hear that, Y/N.” he took off the condom and tied the ends, throwing it away in the trashcan.

He picked you up bridal style and carried you into the bathroom, ran a hot bath for you as he sat you down in the tub, watching the male walk into the shower.

Once you finished cleansing yourself, you applied lotion and put on a grey nightgown, going braless and panty-less, feeling rejuvenated. You observed Marvin exit the bathroom, still towel-clad and dry from his shower, then he playfully slapped your ass, causing you to laugh.

You passed Marvin his clothes and boxers, his brows raised in confusion but he grabbed them, hoping that he could spend the night with you, cuddle with you but you only wanted to lose your V-card, it was a one-time thing right?

“I had a great time with you Marv, thank you..” you said with a warm tone, smiling at him.

It saddened him, but he understood the situation; both of you were grown adults, and he didn't want to complicate things or come off as inappropriate.

Following his divorce last year from his ex-wife and the loss of custody of his daughter, he faced difficulties in finding success in dating.

But friendship was still an important to him, "Y-Yeah, i had a great time with you as well, Goodnight,“

After that, he walked out of the bedroom and gets dressed, bids you a farwell and told you to be safe. He walked through the door and closed it behind him, he sighed lowly.

He walked back next door to his house, catching nosey-ass Ms. Parker watching him leave, he rolled his eyes. Making his way toward the front door of his house, unlocking it and stepping inside.

You heard his voice crack slightly, maintaining boundaries with each other was important.

Your phone buzzed from your friends texting you in the group chat and Facetimeing you, you gave them all the details.

Of course, they squealed and cheered you on. You laid on your back and gazed at the ceiling.

——————

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: Wearing Something Tight/Skimpy

Requested: heyy! can i request a The Boys preference where (during early relationship) they see reader in more tight fitting clothes for the very first time (reader usually wears baggy jeans and oversized shirts, but now for once wears shorts and a tight fitting tanktop or smth) tysm! - @yinorathedragontamer

A/N: Screaming I love this! As someone who loves baggy clothing, there's nothing better than showing off the ✨️goods✨️ when I feel like it lol. This was super fun to imagine! I hope you like it! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Butcher is pretty shocked. Whereas you usually lean towards oversized shirts and big pants, you were dressed in something revealing, tight. You tried to look casual, secure, but underneath you were full of insecurities. You think I look stupid, you say, following his gaze up and down your body. Stupid is the last word he'd ever use. Butcher wears this wicked smile, telling you exactly what he thinks. You laugh, telling him to shut up before he's saying anything else. He loves what he sees. Because your relationship is still new, he's trying to be on his best behavior, but you know how his mind works. You throw your sweatshirt over your outfit, calling him ridiculous, laughing at him. Now that he knows what's underneath those oversized layers, he can't keep his thoughts or hands off you.

Hughie is all giggles and smiles. He hadn't realized you'd kept one of your suits from your time at The Seven. This suit, however, was different from the one you regularly wore. This was tighter, more exposing, showing off every curve and contour of your body. It was the only one you were allowed to take with you and there was a reason you rarely put it on. He wasn't used to seeing you like this. You wore big sweatshirts and wide pants. He never thought he'd be as surprised as he was when he finally saw you, but he was. Your body was. . . wow. He tries to hide his excitement, but he can't. Seeing this, you do a little spin for him, growing self-conscious. Do I look stupid? You ask. He's quick to tell you you look amazing. Because your relationship is still new, he doesn't want to sound too excited, but to him, you look amazing. He's glad he got to see you like this.

Annie wants to show you off to everyone. She knows now is not the time nor place: you've put on your old Supe suit to make a point against those in favor of Homelander. It's serious and important and dangerous given his fans would do anything to get a piece of you, anything to tear you down. But she can't help it, she can't take her eyes off you. She's never seen you in your suit before. You quit The Seven before your promo pictures could come out, after you'd been introduced. You took the suit with you. By then, you'd had a sort of a cult following, people interested in your story before you had the spotlight shown on you. It helped that you and Annie were newly together. She hadn't realized you'd kept your suit so when you showed up at Starlight House wearing it, she was speechless. She'd never seen your body like that before. She couldn't take her eyes off you.

M.M. is speechless. You got all dressed up for a date. Before this, your dates had always been casual, spur of the moment, low key. Tonight Marvin went all out for reservations at a fancy place you'd never even heard of. You figured you'd pull out your best clothes which just so happened to be a little tighter and more revealing that your typical wardrobe. He picks you up at your place, not recognizing you at first. You're self-conscious, making a joke about your appearance before anyone else has the chance. He wouldn't though. He thinks you look amazing. He was always more than a little curious as to what exactly you were hiding under big t-shirts and baggy pants, but your relationship was new and so he felt a little shy wondering. Now he was glad he had waited: you were breath taking.

Frenchie is obsessed. Mon Couer, where have you been hiding all this?! It definitely makes you laugh and a little embarrassed. He's never minded your usual clothes. He's all for oversized sweatshirts and comfort and the overall aesthetic. He thinks you look adorable in your usual clothes, but this? Wow. Just wow. You jokingly tell him to pick is jaw off the floor. You and Kimiko are going undercover as a wealthy couple. She's all dressed up and waiting for you. Not only are your clothes expensive looking, but they fit like a glove. He's never seen so much of your body. It drives him wild. You get compliments from everyone, but Frenchie, your new boyfriend, can't get enough of you. If this mission weren't so important and time sensitive, he would have spent the whole night telling you just how sexy you looked.

Kimiko has never seen this much of you all at once. Together you're going undercover. She's wearing a dress with her hair and makeup done. It makes her feel like a clown. Still, she does it because she has to. And you do, too. You lose the baggy pants and big shirts for something a lot more tight and way more revealing. The rest of The Boys have a lot to say, all of it you laugh at and tell them to shut up. Kimiko hopes it's too dark to see that she's blushing, watching you step out of the car. If she spoke she would have been speechless. Instead she plays it off cool, telling you you look great, before going in. In any chance she can get though she stares you up and down, taking you in, smiling to herself. She doesn't get distracted about anything, but you? Oh you're all she can think about.

Bonus! Homelander doesn't really think about your body, or anyone's body. It's more of a want more than anything else and it typically involves milk. Still, when you come out and show everyone your suit, he's pretty speechless. Your civilian clothes and fashion are oversized, baggy, and comfortable. He's never really seen your body before, no one has. Your PR team wanted to fix that though. You're not so sure about your suit: it leaves little to the imagination. When you step out you're embarrassed, wishing for your sweatshirt. Homelander never compliments anyone unless it's backhanded, but he really does like what he sees. It's kind of a throw away line, one that seems innocent and nonchalant, but for him it's a huge deal. He can't stop thinking about you. Even when you put on the other variations, he has final say. Everyone is too scared to say no to him. He liked the first one so you wear the first one.

Bonus! Soldier Boy is practically drooling. The moment he sees you his jaw is on the floor. He's never minded your usual fashion: baggy clothes were comfortable and cute. He would have minded had he known you were hiding *all that* beneath oversized sweatshirts/sweaters/t-shirts and baggy pants. He can't help himself (not that he ever held anything back usually) when he makes remarks and jokes and innuendos. It comes out so fast it's almost compulsive, he's barely breathing between words. The Boys think it's hilarious how much attention you're getting from him considering they've grown used to these switch ups between clothes. He practically begs you for an ounce of attention, affection, and you use it as leverage. As long as you're wearing as little as possible, Soldier Boy will do anything you want.

[phoenixtakaramono]

𝘖𝘪. Ladies and gentlemen, The Boys are back 💉🩸

[scififettuccine]

A Wild Fix: Part 2

Pairing: Frenchie x Reader

Summary: The day of the dreaded Supe Convention is finally here. After being paired with Frenchie for your part of the mission, you run into some unexpected conspiracies with some unexpected people.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Homelander, mentions of suicide, mentions of suffocation, Supes being Supes, not proofread (they never are)

Notes: Omg guys look at me being fancy and trendy and cool with the photo header >:)....(Please don't make fun of me I'm a writer not an editor, I tried my best okay?) Anyway here's part 2! Finally posting it after a lot of deliberation, but I hope it was worth the wait! Lots of description in this one, I'm proud of myself 💪 Here's Part 1.5 if you missed it. Big plans for part three, enjoy <3

The day of the Supe convention approached fairly quickly. You would be lying if you said that you hadn't been losing sleep over it. The whole situation was sort of a tightrope walk. If you went to the convention with The Boys, it was bound to end badly. Like you had mentioned to Butcher, it was a suicide mission. But if you told Butcher no, there was a possibility of losing the group as a whole. For better or for worse, they had been the only people in your corner since you joined The Seven…the only thing keeping you stable. As much as you hated that basement…it had become more of a home to you than the tower, even with Frenchie’s irritating presence. You had lost a lot of things in life. A lot of important things. You knew, even if you didn't want to admit it, that you were not stable enough to lose anything else. The outcome of the convention, at least in your mind, would be grim regardless of whether you worried or not. But you couldn't risk losing them, not when they were the only thing close to family that you’d had since…well since you could remember. Calling them family seemed stupid, as you’d only known them for about a month and a half. But truthfully? You didn't know what else to call them. No word seemed good enough.

Butcher had informed Annie of the plan, and the three of you had gotten together to discuss how dangerous the whole ordeal was. Butcher, of course, didn’t care. So, like clockwork, when the day arrived, everyone was informed of the base plan, and ready to go. You and Annie had shuttled into the casino turned convention center with the rest of The Seven, as was planned. The ride was tense and awkward, as it usually was when all of you were together. No one except for you and Annie were really friends, but of course Homelander tried to make it seem like you were. Unfortunately, you got the privilege of sitting across from him on the way there. He tried to create conversation, and you played into it, scared of what would happen if you didn’t. You two hadn’t gotten off to a great start, due to the fact that you had talked back, and he had choked the fear of his every movement into you. And ever since Butcher had info dumped about all the things he had done? You were even more careful around him. The conversation was bland small talk, not exactly focused on anything. You were honestly sort of drifting into space until he mentioned something that caught your attention.

“You’re young, right? You like music?” He asked, his sickeningly white smile on full display. You tried your best not to make a face, unsure of where he was going with it.

“I’m 27… and yeah. Yeah, I like music.” You responded, your fingers moving idly to crack your knuckles one by one. Homelander tilted his head ever so slightly before his gaze shot down to your hands. But as quickly as he had looked, he made eye contact with you once again.

“You know that guy, Mixer? He’s performing at the convention. Feisty little thing, I’ve met him on a few occasions. I remember the day he was signed on to the company.” Homelander paused, chuckling. “He was nothing, then. Fresh out of highschool. The kid could barely look me in the eyes…Now he’s dominating the music industry, with shitty pop but…Still dominating. Funny how those things work out, huh?” He asked. You nodded, glancing over at Annie for support. You didn’t have a clue how any of this was relevant, and you honestly didn’t know how to respond. Annie looked back at you and gave an encouraging smile. What a help she is, you thought.

“I met him at this convention a few years ago, right before he joined Residency.” You informed. Homelander audibly scoffed when you mentioned the team.

“Residency? They’re a PR nightmare in the making. It’s such a strange mix of people, too. I never understood where the inspiration came from.” He chuckled.

“Weren't they kinda supposed to mimic Payback to an extent?” You asked, genuinely curious. He waved a dismissive hand.

“Payback was a PR nightmare too. Come on! I mean, one death and the whole team dispands? Where's the strength in that? This is America! Keep fighting until you can't fight anymore. That’s what I always say.” His disgusting, distorted sense of patriotism always made you nauseous. The man was a blatant white supremacist, and saw the country like it was some holy land. The ideals itself weren't the most sickening part…it was the fact that he wholeheartedly believed them., to the point of influencing others to do the same.

“Yeah…Yeah.” You chuckled awkwardly, putting your hand over your heart, and shaking the other fist in the air. “Land of the free.” With that cringeworthy comment, the conversation sort of died off, ironically just in time for you all to head into the convention center. You and Annie had a few things to handle first, but you had already given The Boys their passes, so they could get an early start.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It was around lunch time when you and Annie met up with the rest of the group. You had decided to grab a bite to eat at one of the restaurants in the casino. Everything was open and being paid for by Vought, which was honestly one of the nicer parts of the convention.

“Oi. Listen up.” Butcher started, cutting through the small talk once he finally finished his food. “I say we split up into groups, yeh? Divide and conquer. There’s an even number of us, which makes it an easy split.” He scanned the group with his eyes. “MM and Annie, you take the arcade floor, all levels.” He pointed to Hughie. “Hughie and meself will take the shopping center…” His eyes fell on you, and he chuckled ever so slightly. You weren't even paying attention, too engrossed in the pasta you were eating. “Oi, marinara face.” He called, trying to get you attention. You instinctively looked up and wiped your face, figuring you were being messy.

“Sorry…” You grumbled.

“You and Frenchie take the theaters. Go sit in on as many presentations as possible, and bring back anything of interest.” You almost groaned when he paired you with Frenchie. There were four other people for fucks sake, and he knew for a fact that you two didn’t get along. You looked over at Frenchie, narrowing your eyes ever so slightly. He didn't look too happy about it, either, rolling his eyes as he pushed his plate away from him. He muttered to himself in French when he stood up. From what you had gathered over hearing it often, it wasn’t the most accurate.

“Right. That settles it. You know your tasks. Meet back here around…” Butcher looks down to his watch. “3:30-4:00 yeh?” Everyone exchanged one last ‘good luck’ before splitting up, leaving you with Frenchie. The two of you stood in awkward silence for a good minute, before you reluctantly broke it. 

“Of course he would task us with sitting through the boring stuff.” You joked weakly, hoping he’d laugh. He did, but it wasn’t genuine, strained too. Neither of you really had a reason to be nice to the other, in all honesty. All you ever did was insult each other. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jackets before speaking. 

“Oui. Let’s get it over with, then?” He asked, finally meeting your gaze. He was glaring daggers at you. That pissed you off. You were trying to be civil, at least long enough to get through the night. But when he looked at you like that? Like he wasn’t even trying? You glared daggers right back at him. The tension between the two was frustrating, partly because you couldn't figure out what type of tension it was.

“Lets.” You responded, your tone unreadable. The sooner this was over, the sooner you could get away from him.

Upon inspection of the schedule that had been sent to you on your phone, the first event happening in the theater on the first floor was a presentation of Vought’s assets, given by one of the higher ups from the company. Not much info would come from that, you figured, but you wouldn't know unless you sat through it. You turned your head in Frenchie’s direction as the two of you walked out of the restaurant and towards the theater.

“The first presentation starts in forty minutes. It's nothing exciting but it wouldn’t hurt to sit in and listen.” As you waited for Frenchie to respond, you realized your inside hand was a little too close to his. You pulled it away ever so slightly and moved to put your hand in your pocket. Frenchie nodded in response, not seeming too interested. You shouldn’t have let that tick you off…but you did.

“Listen dude. If you’re gonna be an asshole all day you can go do something else. I can handle this myself.” You said, your tone sharper than intended. Frenchie scoffed and rolled his eyes, looking over at you.

“I did not say anything!” Frenchie protested. “Did my nodding offend you that much?”

“It was the inflection.” You huffed, rolling your eyes in return.

“Mmm…Oui. The inflection.” He said mockingly. At that point? It was no use fighting with him, so instead of coming up with a witty retort, you looked around the casino. The line outside the door to the theater was already a bit long, and very colorful. Most Supes wore their uniform suits to the convention, so you could pick out almost everyone, at least those who were signed with Vought. Your eyes fell on a few old friends you had gone through the scouting process with, some people you had met at the last convention, and then an extremely familiar color scheme to a certain Supe’s suit that stuck out like a sore thumb. A bright white ensemble that stood out in a sea of colors…one that belonged to the Supe, Laugh Track, one of the Supes you had mentioned to Butcher.

Laugh Track was another member of Residency, one you were not particularly fond of. You had never personally met the guy, but something about him was just…unsettling. He was rather tall, not as tall as Playback, but almost a head above Mixer. Build wise, he was lanky, at least from what you could see. His Supe suit mainly consisted of a white jacket that resembled those worn in asylums on television, almost a straight jacket, but with control of his arms. There was no visible zipper, and the jacket’s collar went all the way up his neck. His mannerisms were always strange, which was sort of on brand for him. His powers were described as “weaponized hysteria.” It was just a fancy way of saying that his contagious laughter made people go absolutely insane, or at least laugh until they turned blue and suffocated. Laugh Track always stood very stiffly, and usually had a very blank expression on his face, his eyes wide and observant. You’d heard him speak in commercials before, and his voice didn't necessarily ease the feeling of dread you felt when you saw him. He had a strange accent, almost British, but not quite. It was very breathy and weirdly persuasive. He wasn’t unattractive by any means. He had neatly kept bleach blonde hair, bright blue eyes, pale skin…Something was just off.

Laugh Track was standing towards the end of the line, eerily still, his hands, which were covered in little bandages, twitching ever so slightly at his sides. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could only assume that they were darting around the room. You looked over at Frenchie, who was coincidentally already looking in your direction, his mouth slightly open, as if he was about to say something. You shook off the strange feeling that filled your chest and gestured to Laugh Track.

“Do you see the way his hands are twitching?” You asked, purposefully going out of your way to not look directly at Frenchie. Why the hell was he already looking at you? Was he staring or something? Frenchie looked over to the Supe, his eyes narrowing.

“Maybe he has a tremor. Rude to judge him for it, non?” You huffed and looked back to Frenchie, a less than amused expression on your face. You went to go say something else, but your ears perked up when you heard a familiar voice.

“Roman! There you are. I was looking all over for you.” The voice belonged to the man who was arguably the talk of the whole convention, Mixer. Frenchie followed your gaze and looked over at him too. Mixer originally had a Supe suit as well, but ever since he got popular and became more of a poster child than a Supe, he sort of just wore the stylish shit he wore on stage. On that particular day, the outfit consisted of a sleeveless black t-shirt with his logo on it, and ripped black cargo pants with a bunch of adornments hanging off of them. You had to admit, he knew how to dress. The shirt showed off his tattooed arms, and was tight enough that you could see the outline of his chest. After the slight shock of Mixer just appearing in front of you, you added his comment to your mental index. He called Laugh Track “Roman.” That must have been his legal name.

“I haven’t moved since the last time you saw me.” Laugh Track responded, his breathy voice mixed with the accent making you slightly nauseous. Mixer laughed and playfully nudged Laugh Track’s shoulder.

“I figured you would have gone to get a drink or something.” Mixer smirked and nudged his knee with a bottle of Dr Pepper. Laugh Track turned his head towards Mixer, which gave you a moment to catch a glimpse of his smile. It was…unsettling. Disturbing, even, he looked almost manic. But Mixer? He just tilted his head, and smiled sweetly back at him.

“I told you that I wasn’t thirsty.” The taller man let out a chuckle that honestly made you want to walk away. It was so unnerving, yet Mixer didn't seem affected at all. You and Frenchie made eye contact for a moment, before looking back to the two Supes. Frenchie looked just as uncomfortable as you.

“I know you did, but this thing is going to be long. And if we intend to get the info that he wants us to get, you can't be running on nothing.”

You played that sentence back in your head for a moment. The info that he wanted them to get? Who was “He”? And why were other people at this convention also digging for information? Especially people like Mixer. He had it made in the shade, what else would he need to know?

“You are being very loud about this. Hush.” Laugh Track said, taking the bottle of soda from Mixer’s hand. Mixer laughed softly and nodded.

“Right, right. My bad.” Before Laugh Track could respond, the doors to the theater opened, and the line started to move. “Remember, seats closest to the under-stage door on the left side of the theater. He said they should be reserved.” Mixer reminded as the two started walking, their shoulders practically glued together.

“Yes. Under-stage door on the left side of the theater, stage right in perspective of the presenter, reserved seats.” Laugh Track responded. You and Frenchie exchanged a look as the Supe’s in front of you had their lanyard passes scanned, and walked into the theater. As your own passes were scanned, Frenchie leaned over to you.

“Let's follow them and try to sit as close as we can get, oui?” He suggested. You nodded. That actually wasn’t a half bad idea.

“Good idea.” You responded. You could have sworn that you saw Frenchie smirk. The two of you kept a safe distance away from Laugh Track and Mixer as you made your way into the theater, but made sure you didn't lose sight of them. The flow of the crowd pushed you and Frenchie closer together, but in the heat of the task, you didn't really notice.

Maybe this presentation wouldn't be so useless after all.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sorta kinda leaving you on a cliff hanger there if ya squint. I really like where this is headed and I'm very excited to start writing part 3. Lemme know what you think! Full disclosure I laughed harder than I should have at the “Land of the free” comment so I hope it made you chuckle. Adieu!

teeny tiny taglist: @llynx7 @stinkysam @xcryptk33p3rx

[leon-0069]

the boys but i made them tiny

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

lecherous

part II

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

Summary: You've avoided Soldier Boy for almost two weeks... key word being almost. Because you haven't really avoided him at all. He's watched your every move, he's waited, and you can bet your ass that he's gonna find a moment to get you on your own.

Warnings: 18+!, Soldier Boy is kinda his own warning?, language, innocence, corruption/corruption kink, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, handjob, overstim, biting, marking, p in v, spitting), misogyny, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 8,213

A/N: I am so gross. But to be honest, Ben makes me feral. In fairness, any character portrayed by Jensen Ackles makes me feral, but Ben??? The misogyny? I'm weak for it. Feel free to give me feedback, please. I really hope ya'll like my writing. <3 This is part two, and whoops... it appears I have lied. This isn't a two-parter at all... (so while all of the warnings listed above may not be evident, they will be in the next part) and there will be a third and final instalment. All the love.

Without further ado: LECHEROUS

Corruption is a slow, creeping thing.

It does not strike like lightning, does not announce itself with fire and fury.

It is quieter than that, softer. A whisper in the dark. A hand at your throat that never quite tightens. A steady unraveling, thread by thread, until you are something else entirely—something ruined.

Something willing.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks of ducking and dodging, of sidestepping rooms before he could enter, of lingering too close to Hughie’s side or pressing into the safe space of Kimiko’s presence. Even MM had softened to you now, tolerated your company, let you sit in silence with him when the air felt too thick with something you refused to name.

You didn’t read in the common areas anymore. Didn’t lounge on the sofa with your knees tucked up, book balanced in your lap. It was too dangerous. Too exposed. Too easy for him to—

No. No, you weren’t thinking about it.

You weren’t thinking about the way his mouth had felt on yours, the way he’d drawn you out, unraveled you with slow, indulgent precision. You weren’t thinking about how he’d left you breathless, ruined, a trembling mess in his lap.

You weren’t thinking about him.

Except… you were.

Because avoiding him? That wasn’t impossible—but ignoring him? That was another thing entirely. Because he wasn’t ignoring you.

The looks. The smirks. The brushing touches.

It was always so subtle. A gaze that lingered too long across the room, smug and knowing. The back of his knuckles dragging against the sensitive skin of your arm as he passed by, slow enough to make you shudder. The heat of his palm pressing fleetingly—deliberately—against the small of your back, fingers teasing the hem of your shirt.

And each time—each and every single time—you reacted exactly the way he wanted. A sharp breath. A jolt. A barely contained yelp, like you’d been burned. Like he had that kind of power over you.

And Hughie had started noticing.

His brows would pinch when your shoulders locked up, when your spine went straight as a blade, when you excused yourself too quickly from a room. He’d open his mouth to ask, but you’d cut him off, change the subject, force a smile.

He knew you. And he knew something was wrong. But you wouldn’t tell him.

Because how could you? How could you explain that Soldier Boy hadn’t even tried? That he hadn’t chased, hadn’t begged, hadn’t fought for your attention—

And yet somehow, he still had it?

Somehow, he’d still gotten you?

You didn’t fall over guys. You were strong in your morals, strong in yourself. You weren’t weak.

And yet—

You could still feel him.

Still feel his mouth on yours, the heat of his body, the grip of his hands, the rasp of his voice telling you—

"That’s my girl."

No. No, enough. You were done. You weren’t going to let him take up space in your head anymore.

You needed to breathe.

You waited until the house was quiet. It was past midnight. The walls settled with the weight of sleeping bodies. It was safe. You crept out of your room, silent, careful, bare feet padding down the hall. The kitchen light flickered dimly as you pushed the door open.

The air was cool. The world felt still.

You let out a slow breath, crossing to the sink. Reached for a glass. Poured yourself some water.

And then—

"‘Bout time you stopped runnin’."

Your stomach dropped. Your fingers tightened around the glass, heart stalling in your ribs. Slowly, carefully, you turned.

He was leaning against the doorway. Relaxed. Smirking. Waiting. The light from the kitchen threw shadows over the sharp angles of his face, the messy waves of his hair, the muscle of his arms. Grey sweats. A plain t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing the cut of his forearms. Casual. Comfortable.

Like he hadn’t been sleeping. Like he’d been expecting you.

Your lips parted—nothing came out.

His gaze dragged over you, slow and indulgent, before he let out a low, amused breath.

"C’mon, sweetheart." He tilted his head slightly, mocking, lazy. "You really think I didn’t notice?"

Your fingers curled against the counter. Your pulse thudded.

"Two weeks, and you can’t even be in the same room as me without fidgeting like a fuckin’ schoolgirl?"

You swallowed. Your throat was dry. You were better than this. You were stronger than this.

So why were you trembling?

He stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate. He reached you in three strides. Didn’t touch you. Not yet. But he was close. Too close.

"You gonna keep pretendin’ that you don’t want me to touch you again?"

His voice was low, rough around the edges, all quiet gravel and smug heat.

Your jaw clenched. Your nails bit into the counter. Heat bloomed at the base of your spine. No, you weren’t going to fall for this again. You squared your shoulders, lifted your chin.

"I don’t—"

His brow quirked—like he already knew what you were going to say. Like it was boring. Like it was expected. Like you were predictable.

"Bullshit."

Your breath shattered. Because you couldn’t deny it.

Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when your body was already betraying you.

And he knew it.

Your pulse thundered. It felt too loud, too obvious, like he could hear it, like he could feel it.

Then he lifted his hand, let the backs of his fingers drag down the line of your jaw, slow and mocking, watching the way your breath caught, hitched, trembled.

"Lyin’ little thing, ain’tcha?"

The words punched the air out of your lungs. You jerked back on instinct, twisting away from his touch, fumbling to set your glass down before you dropped it. It clinked against the counter—your fingers trembled, wobbly, weak.

You stepped back.

And he—

He followed. Crowding into your space. Pressing forward. Cutting off any escape. Your lower back hit the counter—your fingers curled tight around the edge, breath caught in your throat.

And the look on his face? Smug. Devastatingly smug.

"Bet you ain’t ever come like that in your life."

The words hit hard. Your stomach dropped, heat flaring over your cheeks, spreading down your spine.

His voice was low, full of rough, ruined amusement, heavy with smug satisfaction.

"Matter of fact—", he tilted his head slightly, mocking, gaze dragging down your body before lifting back to yours. "I bet that’s the only time you ever have."

Your breath stalled. Your lips parted—nothing came out. Heat flooded your face, burned down your throat, settled like something humiliating and undeniable in your chest.

"Ohhh," he exhaled slow, grinning now, sharp and wicked. "That hit a nerve, huh?"

Your fingers tightened around the counter, desperate for something solid, something that wasn’t him.

"I—" You swallowed, shaking your head. "I have—" You hesitated, stumbled, the words clunky, awkward, desperate. "I have come before."

His eyebrows lifted, like he was genuinely entertained.

"Sure you have, sweetheart."

The patronising drawl made your stomach curl tight, hot, unbearable.

"What was it?" He smirked, amused. "Some poor fuckin’ college boy, five-pump chump tryin’ to figure out where your clit is?"

Your face burned, mortification hitting like a slap. Your hands curled into fists, frown deepening, jaw tightening—

And then he reached down. Adjusted his cock right in front of you, thick and fucking obvious through his sweats, his big palm gripping slow, deliberate.

Your gaze flickered down, back up—your breath stuttered, and your brows pulled together in a furious scowl.

His grin stretched wider, filthier.

"That look right there?" He hummed low, voice all gravel, all wreckage. "Fuckin’ dangerous."

Your throat went dry.

"’Cause I know," his fingers squeezed, a rough adjustment, like he wasn’t even thinking about it—like it was just habit, instinct, need. "I know I can wipe that pissed-off little look right off your face."

Your stomach twisted. Your body betrayed you—heat low and aching, that unbearable tightening pulse between your thighs. Your nails bit into your palm. You squeezed your eyes shut, sucked in a slow breath—

No. No, you weren’t doing this again. You weren’t letting him win again.

You exhaled hard, eyes flicking back up to meet his, steeled, steady, stubborn.

"Soldier Boy, I—"

"Try again." His voice cut through yours, sharp and absolute, tearing your words straight from your mouth.

Your breath stumbled. Your brows knitted together—confusion flickering too quick, too obvious.

And his fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up, up, up.

"My name’s Ben."

The words didn’t just land—they lingered.

Your breath hitched, barely escaping past your lips as his fingers remained firm under your chin, keeping you there, keeping you locked in place. He wasn’t squeezing, wasn’t forcing—but he didn’t need to. It was the weight of it, the deliberate control of his touch, the silent command behind it.

And the way he looked at you?

Like he was waiting. Like he was expecting something.

Your lips parted, but nothing came. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, a slow, creeping thing crawling up the column of your throat, spreading across your cheeks. His gaze flicked downward, watching the way your lips trembled before tilting back up to your eyes, something dark settling in his own.

"Try again, sweetheart."

Soft. Too soft.

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the edge of the counter behind you, like you could somehow ground yourself—like you could pull yourself back from whatever this was. Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you, too aware of how close he was, of the heat rolling off him in slow, even waves.

"Ben," you whispered, hesitant, uncertain, your voice barely more than a breath.

His fingers eased, just slightly, the pad of his thumb grazing the underside of your jaw. His touch was warm, too warm, like an ember pressed against sensitive skin.

And then, he hummed. Low. Pleased. Indulgent.

"There’s a good girl."

Your stomach plummeted.

A sharp, tight breath caught in your throat as something twisted hot and aching at the base of your spine. You wanted to step back, to put space between you, but there was nowhere to go. The counter pressed firm against your lower back, trapping you in place.

And he could see it.

The flicker of hesitation in your eyes, the way your breath quickened, the way your thighs pressed together just a little too tightly. His smirk curled higher, just slightly, but his voice stayed slow, patient, knowing.

"Why you runnin’ from me, huh?"

Your lips parted—then closed again.

Because what were you supposed to say?

That you weren’t? That he was imagining things? That this wasn’t happening, hadn’t already happened?

"I’m not—"

The subtle tilt of his head cut you off before you could even finish. A small gesture, simple, but it shut you up immediately.

Like he already knew you were lying.

"C’mon, sweetheart." His voice dipped lower, slower, the gravel of it dragging over your skin like the rough edge of a match before a flame. "Ain’t like you don’t want me. Ain’t like I didn’t already prove that."

Your stomach clenched. You shook your head, desperate, exhaling a sharp breath.

"This can’t happen again."

His eyes flickered, watching you carefully, reading you. And then—he chuckled. Soft. Amused. Entirely unbothered.

"Why not?"

Like you hadn’t just drawn a line. Like it wasn’t even a real answer.

You stiffened, swallowing against the thick knot in your throat, hands curling into fists at your sides.

"Because I won’t let it."

That only made him laugh again, lower this time, under his breath.

"That’s cute."

The air in your lungs turned thick, heavy. The heat behind your ribs seared.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and indulgent, gaze flickering to your mouth before sliding lower—watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way you pressed back against the counter like you could somehow disappear into it.

"But, sweetheart," he leaned in, voice dropping, tilting his head slightly—like he was letting you in on a little secret. "I don’t think you got it in you."

Your fingers dug into the counter.

"I do."

"Mmm." He hummed low, dragging his fingers slow over your jaw, knuckles brushing feather-light down your throat. Not grabbing, not holding—just barely touching. "You keep sayin’ that, but I ain't seein’ it."

His lips parted, exhaling hot and slow, his breath fanning over your cheek, your neck—your pulse jumped.

"Matter of fact," his voice dropped deeper, slower, like it was just for you—just for this. "I think you like bein’ right here."

Your stomach twisted.

"Pinned up against the counter. Nothin’ to do but let me touch you."

Your throat went dry.

"No."

"Yeah," he corrected easily, like he was just helping you out. Like you weren’t even in control of your own answer.

Your nails bit into your palms.

"I told you, this isn’t happening again—"

And then, his fingers—still resting under your jaw, still holding you there—traced lower. Not rough, not forceful. Just soft. His knuckles skimmed over the side of your throat, down to your shoulder, then lower—barely there, just enough to feel it.

"Told me a lotta things, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dragging like silk over a blade.

His fingers brushed over the inside of your wrist. Gentle. Testing.

"Told me you weren’t a virgin."

Your breath stammered.

"Told me you’ve come before."

A sharp, hot flush climbed up your neck, burning high into your cheeks.

His lips parted—he exhaled, slow, warm, smug.

"That was cute, too."

Your stomach twisted violently—you flinched, jerking slightly, but his palm pressed firm against the small of your back, stopping you. Not pushing. Not forcing. Just keeping you.

"That mouth of yours says a lotta things," he murmured, the weight of his hand so heavy, so warm, so devastatingly steady.

His fingers flexed against your spine, just slightly, just enough to make you feel it.

"Shame your body don’t agree."

Your breath hitched loudly.

Because he was right. And he knew it. His smirk was still there, lazy and knowing, but his voice was softer now. Lower. Richer.

"Just say the word, sweetheart."

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

His fingers tightened slightly, his voice dropping even further.

"Tell me to stop."

Your pulse pounded. Your stomach knotted.

"Go on."

You should. You should tell him to back off, to stop, to leave you alone.

But—

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

His smirk stretched wider.

"See?" His voice was pure satisfaction. "Told you."

His fingers were still firm at the small of your back, keeping you there, keeping you steady—not forcing, just holding. And yet, your knees felt weak, your breath unsteady, something hot and helpless curling tight in your stomach.

You needed to breathe. You needed to get out of this. And he needed to stop looking at you like that. Like he’d already won.

His lips parted, exhaling slow and warm, so close to your mouth now that you could feel the ghost of his breath on your lips. But he didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

Instead, he smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Lethal.

"What’re you so scared of, sweetheart?" His voice was too soft, too patient, too unbearably coaxing.

Your throat went dry.

"Ain’t like you don’t want me touchin’ you again."

His fingers flexed slightly against your spine, small, deliberate, and your whole body responded.

You hated the way your breath hitched. You hated the way your thighs clenched together. And you hated the way he noticed.

His smirk twitched, but he kept his voice low, indulgent, coaxing.

"You gonna let me do it proper this time?"

Your stomach twisted.

"Let me touch you right?"

Your fingers dug into the counter, something hot and humiliated and desperate coiling inside you.

"Let me feel you without those pretty little panties in the way?"

Your breath shattered. A sharp, soft gasp escaped your throat, but his voice didn’t falter—didn’t stop.

"Bet you’re soaked already, ain'tcha?" His lips brushed yours just barely, teasing, feather-light. "Bet I could just slide my fingers in, feel how tight that needy little pussy grips ‘em."

You choked on a breath, shaking, eyes wide, your whole body flushing hot, burning up, completely betraying you.

And he saw it all.

His breath dragged slow over your lips, still not kissing you, still just hovering close, watching, waiting.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice was nothing more than a whisper now, dragging warm over your skin. "That’s what you want, ain’t it?"

Your stomach twisted. You should say no. You should push him away. But all you could do was breathe too hard and tremble too much.

His voice stayed gentle. Soothing.

"You just gotta let me, baby."

Your nails bit into the counter.

"Lemme make it feel good. Lemme show you what it’s supposed to be like."

The words were too much. You gasped, breath stammering, chest rising too fast, head spinning too heavy, heart hammering too hard.

And that—that made him grin.

"There it is." His lips brushed yours as he murmured the words, slow and indulgent, like he was drinking in the way you were coming apart right in front of him. "Knew you’d sound fuckin’ sweet when you got all worked up."

You sucked in a breath, shaking your head too quick, too desperate, too defensive.

"Someone could—" You gasped, voice shaky, fragile, fumbling. "Anyone could walk in—"

He huffed out a low, lazy laugh, one hand sliding up your spine, fingers brushing barely there against the nape of your neck.

"Yeah?" He murmured, lips still ghosting over yours, still not kissing you. "That what’s got you so nervous, sweetheart?"

Your stomach tightened.

"Your brother’s just down the hall, huh?"

A sharp, startled breath tore from your throat, and he grinned wider.

"That makes it even more exciting for you, doesn’t it?"

You exhaled hard, shaking, trying to push back against the counter, trying to find something solid.

"No—"

"Yeah." His voice dropped again, heavier, smoother, sliding right down your spine like syrup. "You’re gonna be a quiet little thing, huh?"

A humiliated gasp stammered past your lips, your legs trembling, heat pooling so deep inside you that you didn’t know what to do with it.

"I know you can do it, baby." His voice so soft, so coaxing, but the way he was looking at you—

Like he was already certain. Like you were already his. Like it was just a matter of when you’d break. Not if.

His fingers dragged up the back of your neck, warm, steady, teasing that fragile line between tenderness and possession.

"So, you gonna let me take care of you, or you gonna keep pretendin’ you don’t wanna be fucked senseless?"

Your fingers twitched. Still clenched into the counter, still holding onto something solid, real, something that wasn’t him.

But the way he was looking at you—so smug, so patient, so devastatingly certain—it was making it harder and harder to breathe.

You needed to push him away. You needed to end this before it went any further. But instead you moved.

Your hands lifted slowly, like you weren’t even in control of them anymore, like they had a mind of their own.

And then—

Your palms pressed against his chest.

His breath hitched. Not much. Just a small, almost imperceptible shift. But you felt it. Felt the way his heartbeat thumped beneath your hands, steady, strong, unfazed. Felt the heat radiating off him, so warm, so unbearably close. Felt the muscle under your fingers as you dragged your hands up, slowly, carefully, over the firm plane of his pecs, up, up over his shoulders, until your fingers curled around the thick muscle.

His lips parted slightly, exhaling a slow breath against your mouth, watching you with rapt fascination.

And when your hands slid up further, when your fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, his smirk twitched.

"That’s it, sweetheart."

Your stomach tightened.

He was still holding you so close, his body so big and solid against yours, his hands still spanning your lower back, keeping you in place.

And still—

You rose onto your toes. Your gaze flickered to his mouth, hesitant, nervous, before you pulled him down. And you kissed him. A soft, tentative press at first—uncertain, unsteady.

But then his hands slid lower, firmer, stronger. One splayed against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, crushing the space between you, moulding your body against his. The other trailed down, palming the curve of your ass, teasing, indulgent.

And then?

Then he grinned against your mouth. Wicked. Smug. Victorious.

"Knew you’d come back to me."

A soft, helpless whimper caught in your throat, but he was already kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, taking everything you were giving.

"So sweet," he murmured against your lips, dragging his teeth over your bottom lip, pulling at it, biting, soothing.

"Such a little angel."

Your breath shattered. A needy, desperate sound escaped before you could stop it, and your fingers tightened in his hair.

That did something to him. Because suddenly, his hands were everywhere. Dragging down your back, squeezing at your waist, grabbing at your thighs, pressing, kneading, gripping like he needed to touch every inch of you.

And when your fingers tugged harder at his hair—

He groaned. Low and deep and wrecked, and his hips jerked into yours, rutting slow, grinding against you, pushing you back just enough—

Until your lower back hit the counter again.

"Careful, baby." His voice was teasing, but there was something darker underneath it. Something thicker. Heavier.

"Don’t want you gettin’ hurt before I even get my hands on you."

Your thighs clenched, breath stammering, body trembling.

His fingers hooked into the hem of your nightdress.

"C’mon, sweetheart."

You gasped, your whole body burning, tightening, unraveling—

"Let me feel you right."

The fabric dragged up, up, up, his hand hot and slow against your bare thigh. And his other hand slid forward. Fingers gliding over your stomach, teasing, brushing soft against the waistband of your panties.

Your whole body locked up, shuddering, heat curling so deep inside you that you thought you might break apart from it.

"There you go, baby." His voice was a slow, wicked drawl, soft and sweet, smooth as honey, thick as sin. "Told you I’d make you feel so fuckin’ good."

Your breath hitched.

"Gonna make you see stars, sweetheart."

Your fingers clenched into his shoulders, desperate, dizzy, overwhelmed.

"Bet you’ll like this even more than you like your little poems."

The first brush of his fingers over your waistband had your stomach clenching tight, anticipation twisting thick and electric through your veins.

The warmth of his palm against your stomach was steady, grounding, his thumb teasing soft against your skin in slow, absentminded strokes—like he was soaking up the moment, like he was memorising the way you trembled beneath his touch.

His mouth was still moving against yours, hot and slow, deep and devastating. He licked into you, coaxing, teasing, kissing you filthy and sweet, swallowing every unsteady sound you made like he owned them, like he’d been waiting for them.

And then—

His fingers slipped lower. Past your waistband. Past the last barrier of fabric. Until his knuckles brushed against the wet heat of you.

His breath caught.

And then—he groaned. Low. Rough. Wrecked. His mouth pulled from yours, lips still grazing close as he exhaled slow and disbelieving.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ."

Heat flooded your face, embarrassment burning high into your cheeks, crawling up your neck like fire.

You squeezed your eyes shut, chest tight, breath shallow, but he was already shaking his head, grinning against your cheek, lips pressing slow and indulgent to your skin as his fingers dragged through the unbearable slickness between your thighs.

"Goddamn, sweetheart." His voice was thicker now, heavier, syrup-slow and dripping with indulgence. "You’re soaked already, huh?"

A sharp, humiliated whimper caught in your throat, your hands tightening around the broad span of his shoulders.

"That’s so fuckin’ hot." His mouth traveled down, lips dragging along the curve of your jaw, kissing slow, reverent. "So wet for me."

His fingers slid through it again, slow, lazy, dragging slickness up and spreading it over your clit, barely there, just enough to make your whole body jolt.

"Jesus," he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, grinning wicked and smug as his fingers slipped down again, testing, teasing.

"Your body’s so fuckin’ perfect, baby."

Your breath hitched, another soft gasp spilling past your lips, but he swallowed it eagerly, capturing your mouth again, deep and filthy.

His fingers dipped lower, probing, teasing at your entrance, and when he pressed inside—

The sound was obscene.

A wet squelch filled the room, loud and undeniable, and your whole body went tight with shame, pleasure, mortification.

"Oh, sweetheart."

His voice was pure satisfaction, thick with wreckage, rich with indulgence.

"That sounded so fuckin’ good."

Your hands tightened in his hair, tugging too hard, too desperate, and he groaned against your mouth, hips jerking into you on instinct.

His finger slid in deeper, slow, deliberate, stretching you open inch by inch, the pressure too much, too intoxicating.

"That’s it, baby." His voice hushed, coaxing, a slow, honey-thick murmur against your lips. "Takin’ me so fuckin’ sweet."

His palm flattened against you, pressing firm against your clit, trapping you there, holding you open. The pressure was exquisite, unbearable, pleasure curling through your stomach like something molten, hot and unrelenting.

You whimpered, the sound high and helpless, and he kissed you again, swallowing it down like he needed it.

"You ready for me, sweetheart?"

You opened your mouth—but before you could even answer—

His finger curled.

The sensation was immediate, visceral, devastating. A sharp, white-hot shock of pleasure burst through you like lightning, your back arching without permission, pressing you tighter into him.

"There it is."

His voice was a slow, smug murmur, dragging over your lips, thick with satisfaction as his finger pressed right against that soft, spongey spot inside you.

Your whole body jerked, pleasure crashing through you too fast, too sudden, your thighs squeezing around his wrist as your breath shattered into something helpless, wrecked.

"Yeah, baby." His breath was hot against your mouth, voice molten, coaxing, teasing. "That’s the spot, huh?"

Your hands clawed into his hair, desperate, shaking, as he pressed against it again, and you gasped, eyes fluttering, mouth parted and trembling as a sharp, desperate sound broke free.

His smirk was pure sin.

"Fuck, you sound so fuckin’ pretty like this."

His finger curled again, deeper, stronger, deliberate.

"C’mon, sweetheart." His lips brushed against yours, soft, teasing, filthy. "Let me hear you."

Your breath was coming too fast now, sharp and uneven, breaking apart against his mouth as his finger worked inside you—slow, calculated, pressing deep and curling just right, like he’d known your body longer than you had.

It was building too fast.

You could feel it, that tight, hot coil winding low in your stomach, growing sharper, heavier, too much too soon—but there was no stopping it, no slowing down, no escaping the way he was pulling you apart, piece by piece.

And he could tell.

"Already, sweetheart?" His voice was so fucking soft, syrup-smooth and indulgent, mocking and reverent all at once.

"Knew you’d be quick for me."

His free hand moved from your back, slipping up, coaxing, guiding, pulling.

He pried one of your hands from his hair, bringing it forward, threading his fingers through yours like he was about to kiss your palm, about to say something sweet.

And then—

His lips brushed your knuckles, pressing a small, deliberate kiss to the ridge of your fingers, and something in your chest caved. Your knees went weak, stomach tightening, twisting, your fingers trembling in his grip.

He felt it.

And he smiled.

"There’s my girl."

A soft, wrecked whimper slipped from your throat, but he was already guiding your hand lower. Sliding it down, down, down.

Until—

You felt it. Thick. Hard. Burning hot under your fingers.

Your breath stammered, eyes going wide as your palm pressed against the solid length of him through his sweats.

"Wanna keep those hands busy, baby?" His lips grazed yours, grinning against them, smug and knowing.

You nodded—frantic, eager, desperate.

"Yeah?" His fingers flexed around yours, pulling your hand into his sweats, pressing you more firmly against him, rolling his hips slightly so you could feel just how much you’d done to him.

"Feel that?" His voice dropped, deep and molten. "That’s for you, sweetheart."

A broken whimper tumbled past your lips, and you surged forward, kissing him messy, desperate, needing.

He groaned.

"Look what you've done to me, baby."

He pressed you firmer against him, dragging your palm along his length, showing you how to move. His fingers curled around yours, guiding you, controlling you, teaching you.

And you—

You followed. Your grip tightened, your fingers starting to move on their own now, stroking him slow, testing, feeling, learning.

And he fucking felt it. His breath shuddered, a low, wrecked sound deep in his chest as his grip on your hand eased, letting you take over, letting you explore him the way he was exploring you.

"That’s it." His mouth dragged hot over your cheek, voice thick, strained, ruined. "Fuck, that’s it, baby."

You whined—high and needy, pleasure too much, too close, too unbearable—but you kept moving, palm dragging over the thick outline of him, feeling him twitch against your touch.

And then—

He added another finger and pressed into that spot inside you again. Your whole body went tight, the pleasure so sharp, so sudden, so overwhelmingly good that it ripped through you in one swift, dizzying wave.

Your back arched, pressing yourself fully into him, your mouth falling open against his, a broken groan escaping as you shattered.

Your body clenched around his fingers—

And your hand squeezed around his cock.

He felt it. And he lost it. A sharp, ragged breath punched out of his chest, his hips jerking into your grip, chasing the tight, hot pressure of your touch.

"Jesus fuck—"

His forehead dropped against yours, breath heavy, uneven, mouth parted and wrecked as his fingers kept moving, coaxing you through it, drawing it out.

"Goddamn, sweetheart."

His voice was hoarse, strained, something hot and desperate bleeding into it.

"Knew you’d sound this fuckin’ good."

His fingers stayed deep, the stretch still too much, too perfect, too devastating, but he didn’t stop moving—slow, unrelenting, dragging your pleasure out for as long as he wanted to.

Your whole body was trembling, chest heaving against his, face flushed, slack, ruined. You didn’t even realise you were still rocking against his hand, chasing the last waves of your release, trying to milk every last drop of pleasure he’d wrung from you.

He felt it.

And he grinned.

"Greedy little thing, ain'tcha?"

A helpless, broken whine slipped from your throat, your grip on his cock tightening slightly in your palm.

That did something to him. His breath hitched, eyes going darker, hips jerking into your hand like he couldn’t help himself.

"Fuckin’ hell, baby."

And then—

His fingers moved harder. Fucking into you deeper, rougher, sharper. You choked on a gasp, body tensing, clenching, pleasure spiking all over again before you even had time to recover.

"That’s it, sweetheart."

His voice was low, indulgent, dragging wet and hot over your pulse, kissing, licking, sucking at the delicate skin there.

"Takin’ it so good for me."

Your breath stammered, fingers tightening in his hair, around his cock, both of you trembling against each other. He groaned, sucking harder at your neck, holding you still while he bruised you, while he marked you.

And you barely even noticed.

Your mind was too foggy, too blurry with pleasure, focusing only on your own fist wrapped around his cock, the way he twitched against your palm, the way he was fucking you open like he owned you.

And then—

His mouth pulled away. He leaned back just enough to admire his work. And his smirk? Unbearable.

"Look at that, sweetheart." His voice was thick with satisfaction, smug and teasing. "You look so fuckin’ good with my mark on your neck."

You scowled, gasping when you realised what he’d done, when you felt the sore, pulsing throb at your pulse point.

"Ben—"

But before you could even say anything, his fingers pressed against that spot inside you again. And just like that, your face went slack. Your lips parted, eyes hazy, mind going completely blank.

He saw it.

And he chuckled.

"Told you, baby." His voice was taunting, but not cruel—just so goddamn smug, so goddamn certain. "Know how to wipe that little fuckin’ scowl right off your face."

Your whole body flushed, humiliation mixing with pleasure, ruining you in real-time. And then he tilted his head, like he was considering something.

"Open your mouth."

Your brows furrowed, lips parting slightly, breath still broken and uneven.

"What—"

He fucked up into your fist, cock twitching, grip tightening at your waist.

"C’mon, open your fuckin’ mouth, pretty baby."

His voice was pure filth, wrecked and coaxing, gritted and sweet, urging you on.

"Do it for me."

And you? You did. Your mouth fell open on instinct, breath stammering, body trembling. And the second it did—

His smirk stretched.

"Good girl."

Your stomach flipped, heat crashing through you all over again, and then—

He spat.

The slick warmth landed right on your tongue, thick, wet, his eyes locked onto yours the entire time. You barely had time to process it before his mouth was on yours. Deep. Claiming. Indulgent. He kissed you slow and hot, tongue licking into your mouth, swallowing it down, making you swallow it.

And all you could do?

Was let him.

Your whole body was trembling. Your pulse thundering, your breath stammering, pleasure climbing so high, so unbearable, so dangerously close to the edge.

He felt it.

Felt the way your thighs squeezed together, the way your stomach went tight, the way your little whimpers turned into choked sobs against his mouth, too quiet, too overwhelmed, too ruined to even form real words.

And he fucking loved it.

"That’s it, baby." His voice was low, thick with wreckage, hushed against your lips. "Keep doin’ what you’re doin’."

His fingers never faltered, never slowed—pushing inside you, fucking into that gummy spot, working you open, coaxing you higher.

"You’re so fuckin’ sweet for me." His other hand gripped at your waist, steadying you, grounding you, stopping you from swaying too much, keeping you right there, right where he wanted you.

"So fuckin’ good with those pretty little hands." His hips thrust into your fist, the muscles in his stomach tensing, quivering—his breath going ragged, desperate.

"Gonna make me come so fuckin’ hard, sweetheart."

Your back arched, your grip on his cock tightening, slick and hot in your palm.

"Fuck—" His breath stuttered, his voice coming out gritted, raw. "Wish I could slip it inside you right now and paint your fuckin' womb."

Your stomach flipped, heat slamming through you so violently that you thought you might shatter on the spot.

"Wish I could fuck this tight little pussy for real—"

Your fingers clawed at his back, nails biting into muscle, another soft sob breaking from your throat as you buried your face against his jaw, letting him spill his filth into your ear.

"Fill you up nice and deep." His voice was pure sin, thick and syrup-slow, dragging over your skin like liquid heat.

"Goddamn, sweetheart—" He growled, the sound deep, guttural, primal. "Bet you’d take it so good."

And that?

That was it.

Your whole body locked up, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave, rolling hot and fast, obliterating everything in its wake. You clenched hard around his fingers, breath shattering, chest arching, a wrecked sob spilling into his mouth.

And at the exact same time he came. With a sharp, wrecked grunt, his hips bucked into your grip, breath stammering, muscles going rigid, tense, shaking.

"F-fuck—" His forehead dropped against yours, mouth falling open, panting, groaning, fucking into your hand, riding it out.

His fingers stilled inside you, buried deep, pressing one last time into that sweet, devastatingly perfect spot, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of you until you were spent, trembling, gone.

You both stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against each other’s mouths, chests rising and falling in tandem.

And then—

His fingers slid out, slow, careful. And before you could even recover, he tapped you once against your clit. Sharp. Teasing.

You jolted. A soft gasp ripped from your throat, your legs trembling violently, and he laughed. Right into your mouth.

"Goddamn, you’re fun." His voice was lazy, wrecked, teasing, his smirk curling wide as he kissed you again—a slow, indulgent drag of lips, completely unhurried, completely satisfied.

Your body was still buzzing, still overheated, still locked in the heavy, drowning warmth of aftershocks, when you finally pulled your hand from his sweats. Your fingers were sticky. Your breath hitched when you looked down, blinking in dazed fascination at the warm, wet fluid coating your palm.

He caught your stare.

And he grinned.

"You can wipe it on my pants if you want, sweetheart." His voice was thick with amusement, watching you with heavy-lidded satisfaction.

His smirk widened.

"Or—" He tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "You can have a little taste."

Your stomach flipped, an embarrassed flush creeping up your neck, but curiosity flickered beneath it. Your fingers twitched. Your breath came shaky, uneven, lips parting slightly as you hesitated—

And then slowly, deliberately, you lifted your fingers to your mouth.

His expression shifted. The amusement faded into something heavier. His eyes darkened, gaze zeroing in, watching you so closely, so intently as your tongue flicked softly over the tip of your index finger.

A small hum rumbled in your throat, and—

"Huh." You licked your lips, eyes flickering up to meet his, voice airy, distant. "S’kinda nice."

His breath hitched. He groaned.

"Christ on a fuckin' cross." His hand came up, dragging slow and rough over his face, exhaling sharp and strained, before his fingers curled tight around your waist.

"You better stop that, sweetheart." His voice was low, hoarse, wrecked. "Or I’m gonna be ready to go another round."

You were still standing there. Still breathless. Still reeling.

His body was so close, still warm, still pressed against yours, still caging you in like you weren’t going anywhere. His hands had slipped back to your hips, loose but firm, like he was letting you breathe but not letting you leave.

And his face?

Unbearably fucking smug.

That smirk, lazy and self-satisfied, pure fucking victory curling at the edges of his lips. His eyes dragged slow over you, indulgent, still dark, still hungry, like he was taking in every detail.

Your face was still hot, your body still buzzing, your lips still tingling from the last thing he’d done to them. You swallowed. And then, hesitantly, voice small, quiet, unsure—

"Was I… okay?"

His expression shifted. Not in any way that meant he was about to stop being insufferable. No. It shifted in a way that made him look like he was about to fucking ruin you all over again.

His grip tightened slightly, big hands curling possessively at your hips, keeping you there. And his voice? His voice dropped.

"Sweetheart."

A shiver crawled up your spine.

"You were fuckin’ perfect."

Your stomach flipped, heat climbing right back up your neck, pooling deep and heavy inside you all over again.

"That pretty little pussy of yours?" His hands flexed, a slow, deliberate squeeze that had you biting your lip. "So warm. So wet."

Your face burned, mortification curling hot under your skin.

"So fuckin’ tight around my fingers."

You sucked in a breath.

"Gripped me so goddamn good." His voice was pure sin, thick and syrupy-slow. "Made me come so hard I almost saw fuckin’ stars."

Your lips parted, your whole body betraying you, heat flooding every inch of you, chest tightening, thighs clenching. And he saw it. He saw all of it. His smirk widened, his fingers brushing slow along the curve of your waist, something too gentle, too indulgent in the way he was still holding onto you.

"So."

The amusement was back. Sharp. Smug. Unbearable.

"Now that we got that outta the way—" He tilted his head, watching you, voice easy, casual, but laced with something too sure. "You don’t get to avoid me anymore."

Your stomach dropped. Your brows furrowed, head jerking up, eyes narrowing.

"Excuse me?"

He chuckled.

"You heard me, sweetheart." His grip tightened just slightly, fingers pressing into your hips like he was reminding you who just made you fall apart in his hands.

"No more runnin’."

Your mouth fell open, indignation flaring white-hot in your chest.

"You don’t get to tell me what to do."

That made him laugh. A low, slow, devastating chuckle, his head tilting slightly, watching you with something way too pleased.

"Oh, baby."

The condescension. The goddamn amusement.

"I just made you come so hard you damn near forgot your own name." His voice dropped even lower, thicker, heavier. "You don’t really get a fuckin’ say anymore."

Your stomach twisted. Your whole body went rigid, sharp, bristling, rage curling hot through your veins.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Dead serious, sweetheart."

His voice was so calm, so easy, so effortlessly in control.

"Ain’t no broad back in my day would’ve had a problem with that." His lips curled slightly, like he was enjoying this, like he was fucking entertained by the way your whole body had gone tense. "Knew how to take care of a man, knew how to show some appreciation when he took care of them."

Your breath stammered.

"You are so—"

He cut you off without even trying.

"Knew their place, too."

Your mouth fell open, outrage slamming through you like a bullet.

"Oh, my God—"

"Shit, sweetheart, c’mon." His voice was so smug, so goddamn unbearable, so Soldier Boy. "We both know you like it when I talk to you like this."

Your jaw clenched, fists curling at your sides, heart hammering, heat rising.

And he saw that too. His grin stretched even wider.

"See? Look at you, all fuckin’ riled up now."

"I am not riled up—"

"Sure you are, baby." His voice was thick, teasing, so goddamn sure. "Can practically feel you squeezin’ those pretty little thighs together already."

Your hands twitched, lips parting—

"You are the most—"

"You gonna run off now?" He interrupted easily, effortlessly, smoothly. "Pout like a fuckin' brat, stomp off to your room?"

Your stomach flipped, rage curling hot and tight and unbearable. Your whole body was tense, face burning, blood pounding.

"Go fuck yourself, Ben."

And then, without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed away. His smug laughter followed you down the hall. Low. Taunting. Completely entertained. And just before you slammed your bedroom door—

"You’ll be back, sweetheart."

You slept like a damn baby.

Like a woman with no regrets, no shame, no absolutely ruinous decisions hanging over her head.

Slept so deep, so sweet, so undisturbed that for a brief, blissful moment when you woke up—

You forgot.

Forgot about last night. Forgot about his hands on you. Forgot about his mouth on yours. Forgot about his filthy fucking voice in your ear, telling you all the things he wanted to do to you. Forgot about the absolute, insufferable, misogynistic bullshit that had you stomping off to bed in the first place.

And now?

Now you were heading out, feeling good, feeling light, feeling normal, ready to spend some time with Hughie while you actually could before Butcher inevitably dragged him into some bullshit again.

So, you stepped out of your room. And walked straight past Ben. Didn’t even glance at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t let yourself see whatever smug look he was probably throwing your way.

Just kept walking, shoulders back, head high, ignoring the way your stomach twisted just from knowing he was there.

And then, just as you reached the communal room—

Kimiko stopped in her tracks.

She was already looking at you, eyes darting over your face—then lower, down, down, stopping right at your neck. Her eyes went wide. Before you could even open your mouth, she grabbed your wrist and dragged you.

"Wait—Kimiko—where—"

Too late.

You were already moving, stumbling after her, dragged down the hall, pulled right past the communal room, right past whatever conversation you were supposed to be having with Hughie.

And then—

Kimiko shoved open Frenchie’s door and hauled you inside.

The room was dark, warm, faintly hazy from the lingering scent of whatever questionable substance Frenchie had been indulging in last night.

And Frenchie? Was dead asleep. Or—he had been. Because the second Kimiko smacked him on the chest—

"Merde!" Frenchie jolted so hard he nearly rolled off the bed, swearing violently in half-asleep, drugged-up French, hands flailing as he blinked blearily into the dim light.

"Putain de merde—Kimiko, mon coeur, what the fuck—?"

Kimiko ignored him. Her hands moved fast, sharp, urgent. Signing. Pointing at you. Signing again.

Frenchie sat up, rubbing at his face, scratching at his stubble, still groggy and confused as he tried to follow her hands.

"Oui, oui, I see you, mon coeur, but what—"

Then his eyes landed on you. Really landed on you. His gaze drifted.

Down. To your neck. And just like that, his eyes went wide as hell. His hand dropped from his face.

"Ah."

Frenchie’s mouth stretched into a slow, wicked grin.

"Ooooh, mon ange—"

"What?" Your hands flew up. "Don’t even—"

But it was too late. He turned back to Kimiko, eyes still blown comically wide, pointing at you before signing fast and frantic.

"She’s asking who gave you that."

Your stomach knotted violently, a hot spike of realisation crashing through your chest, because suddenly you remembered.

Your hand flew to your neck, prodding blindly, feeling the sore, tender mark blooming dark against your skin.

The mark. The one Ben sucked into you last night. The one you completely forgot about. The one that Kimiko immediately spotted the second you walked into the room.

Panic.

Absolute, immediate panic.

The realisation landed like a gunshot, sharp and immediate, rattling through your ribs before your stomach even had the chance to catch up.

Kimiko had seen it. Frenchie had seen it. And if they had seen it—then Hughie?

Hughie was definitely going to see it.

And Hughie—who had known you your whole life, who could read you like a fucking book, who could crack you open with one well-placed look—was going to ask questions.

And you?

You were a terrible liar.

The thought alone made your stomach seize, heat curling through your chest like something violent, something warning, something screaming fix this before it’s too late.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake—" you groaned, dragging a hand down your face, already pacing, already spiralling.

Kimiko’s eyes widened, expression flickering between shock and delight, amusement tucked just beneath the surface. She lifted a hand to her mouth, muffling whatever sound she might’ve made, watching as you turned in a tight, frantic circle, muttering under your breath.

Frenchie, still groggy, still scratching at the stubble on his jaw, sat up slowly, blinking at you as though he wasn’t quite sure he was actually awake. He let out a low sigh, rubbing at his face before dropping his hands into his lap, and when he spoke, his voice was warm with laughter, low and teasing, his grin spreading wide.

"Mon dieu, I have never heard you swear before." He exhaled, shaking his head. "It sounds funny coming from you."

"Shut up, Frenchie." Your tone was sharp, but your voice was wavering, already stretched too thin.

"Non, non—this is magnifique." He gestured lazily toward the obvious, undeniable mark blooming against your neck. "This is scandalous."

You groaned again, running your hands through your hair, fingers tangling at your scalp as you paced the room in a tight, erratic line.

"He is such a fucking degrading piece of shit."

Kimiko gasped softly, eyes blown wide again, clearly startled by the sheer venom in your voice.

And Frenchie snorted. Then, in the most exaggerated, delighted voice possible, he sighed, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Ah, mon ange—she says more dirty words."

"Frenchie—" you warned.

"I like this version of you," he continued, grinning as he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, thoroughly entertained. "You should keep her around."

Your glare deepened.

"How the hell am I supposed to hide this from Hughie?"

Frenchie let out a slow, dramatic sigh, like this was the most exhausting conversation he’d ever had.

"You do not." He gestured lazily with one hand, like the solution was so obvious you were an idiot for not thinking of it yourself.

You stared at him.

"Frenchie—"

"You just tell him you are getting laid and that you are a grown woman who makes her own decisions."

Your stomach plummeted.

"And you do not tell him who did it."

Your eyes widened in immediate, visceral horror.

"Frenchie, that is the worst idea I have ever heard."

"Ah, but is it?"

"YES."

He grinned.

"Well, then—who did do it?"

The room went still. Your stomach knotted. Kimiko tilted her head, waiting. Frenchie lifted a brow, expectant. You could feel the weight of their attention, too sharp, too knowing, too fucking smug.

Your jaw clenched.

"It’s nobody’s goddamn business."

And then before either of them could say another word, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room.

Frenchie’s laughter followed you down the hall.

You didn’t give yourself time to think. Didn’t give yourself time to second-guess, to panic, to backtrack, to overcomplicate the situation.

No.

Instead, you marched. Right through the hallway, straight into the communal area, straight to Hughie, who was slouched on the couch, half-watching whatever shitty old TV show was on, lazily shovelling Mike and Ikes into his mouth.

And before he could even fully register your presence—

His eyes landed on your neck.

And immediately—

They went wide.

His whole body jerked upright, mouth parting, hands pausing mid-motion, like he had just been personally victimised by the discovery.

You saw the exact moment his protective older brother instincts kicked in, the moment he sucked in a breath, ready to demand an explanation.

And before he could, you cut him off.

"None of your damn business, Hughie."

His mouth snapped shut.

"I’m a grown woman." You barrelled on, unflinching, unwavering, too committed to stop now. "I’m getting laid. I will not be taking questions."

You lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely.

"Thank you for coming to my TED Talk."

The room went silent. And then, a laugh. A real, genuine, unfiltered laugh.

From Butcher.

Butcher—who had been lounging across from Hughie, beer in hand, an eyebrow raised, clearly not expecting to be entertained this early in the day.

"Oh, mate. She's fuckin' brilliant." He chortled.

You weren’t sure what was more shocking—the fact that he had actually laughed or the fact that it sounded genuine, amused, actually entertained.

Meanwhile, Hughie?

Hughie was stammering.

"I—what—" He blinked rapidly, looking between you, MM, and Butcher, like he had just walked into a completely different timeline. "What the fuck do you mean, you’re getting laid?"

"I mean, exactly what I said, Hughie." Your arms crossed, stance firm, unwavering.

"Yeah, but—" He gestured wildly at you. "Since when?"

"Not taking questions."

"That’s not how this works!"

"That’s how it’s working today!"

"I—" Hughie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, visibly distressed.

MM, who had been watching the whole exchange with mild amusement, finally leaned forward, smirking slightly as he gestured at Hughie’s entire meltdown.

"You good, man?"

"No, I’m not good!" Hughie spluttered, pointing aggressively at you. "She’s supposed to be—like—normal!"

"I am normal!"

"No, you’re supposed to be—" He waved a hand, frantic, disbelieving. "I don’t know! Not saying things like ‘I’m getting laid’ in the middle of the goddamn living room!"

"Hughie." You sighed, hands dropping to your hips. "Do you want me to go back to my room, or do you want to shut up and watch some shitty old TV shows while we share a box of Mike and Ikes?"

His eyes narrowed. Then, after a moment—

"I’m still asking who did it."

"And I’m still explicitly stating that I will not be taking questions."

Hughie groaned, slumping back onto the couch, looking like he had just aged ten years in the last five minutes.

"Jesus Christ." He ran a hand down his face before reaching for the Mike and Ikes, shaking the box at you. "Fine. But I swear to God, if you say one more thing about ‘getting laid’ I’m—"

"—not taking questions, yeah, yeah." You flopped down beside him, stealing a handful of candy, finally relaxing.

But just as you popped one into your mouth—

A voice from the hallway. Low. Lazy. Smug as hell.

"Atta girl."

Your stomach dropped. You froze. Slowly, slowly, you turned your head—and there he was.

Ben.

Lingering against the wall. Watching. Smirking. Enjoying every second of your misery.

And that hickey on your neck? Yeah. It just started burning all over again.