#marvin milk

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 28 - Something That I'm Supposed to Be

Series Masterlist

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

Chapter Title from Rainbow Connection by Kermit.

Word Count: 29.1k (sorry)

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

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 27 - Chapter 29

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annie blinks at you. “His face-“

“I burned him. Worse than the tower.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We could return to the Renegade Room-“

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

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

“Ryan, what’s-“

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

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

“But what if my dad comes back-“

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

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

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

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

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

“What V?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have to go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will.” You whisper. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile widens. “Make me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you put in the right email-“

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

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

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

“Gross. Even I don’t eat your ass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Words-“

“Shut up-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth twitches. You said pigeon.

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

I love you, Benjamin.

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

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

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

“I fucking told you-“

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

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

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

“Are you hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You felt it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want new clothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wrinkle your nose at him. Horny old man.

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

Are you-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn’t going to ask you to-

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

I am not going to try and fuck the air-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you-“

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

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

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

“Ben-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, so a million years ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did you go in Rome-“

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

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

“Yes, you do-“

“No I don’t-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

“We have a job to do-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not leaving you-“

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

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

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

“What type of snacks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Sunshine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the nuke.

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

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

What does it feel like?

Energy.

And…?

Power.

Benjamin, I swear to god-

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

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

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

That’s helpful. Thank you.

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

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

Do you ever feel sick.

You blink at him. What-

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

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

I can feel it. When you’re in pain.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

Shut up-

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

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

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

Don’t. What else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell is-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was very rude, Benjamin-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got the-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking don’t-

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

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

So you liked it?

Yes.

Is that bad-

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

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

His eyes narrow on yours. You did.

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

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

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

Whatever.

Ben-

He scowls. I like it.

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

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

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

No. Not until I’m done with you.

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

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

That’s not a no-

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

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

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

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

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

“We don’t have to do this shit-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you hear anyone?

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck might Sage be after.”

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

He rolls his eyes. “Smartass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You counted the conjoined bathroom twice.”

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

“I goddamn told you-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I fucking don’t either-“

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

Ben scowls. “Who the fuck is Chloe.”

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

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

“Should I-“

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

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

V.

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

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

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

“Is that all fucking-“

“Yeah. We need-“

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

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

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

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

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

“Nobody died.”

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

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

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

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

“The formula-“

“For V.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

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

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

“Take a week.”

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

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

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

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

“How-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to do.”

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

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

“Ben-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want a new bed.”

“I mean, yeah, but-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We won’t.

Ben-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shut up. How much money is there?

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

Holy fuck.

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

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

What.

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

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

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

Ben frowns. “How-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you-“

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

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

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

“What are you-“

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t ripped off heads-“

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

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

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

“And you should’ve fucking let me-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to learn something?

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

Pickpocketing.

Benjamin-

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

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

We won’t pick a random target.

What-

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

How will we-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ben-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Six.”

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

“Five.”

“Four.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get that.”

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

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

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

“What about me-“

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

“I don’t fucking need one-“

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

“Why aren’t you a lion.”

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

“You’re here because you love us.”

“I am here because I love you.”

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

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

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

“You’re-“

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

“What-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh-“

“If you hate it-“

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Sunshine. Done?”

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

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

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

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

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

So why the goddamn hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You get them off of you, Benjamin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You,” you swallow, supporting yourself against his chest with a fist curled into his shirt. “You’re also beautiful.”

He chuckles, and guides you out the door. “You need to keep it together, darling, or this is going to be a long fucking night.”

You manage to get a grip—using the time in the cab to remind yourself that Ben’s always hot, and he’ll still look like that when you get home and fucking him is an option that’s on the table—but the night is long anyways. Ben’s taking you to dinner, a fancy dinner with food that’s too expensive and wine that gets neither of you even slightly buzzed, but is still fun to drink. His knee stays pressed to yours as you tease him, and he glares at you and calls you a brat, and you talk about the future like it’s simple. Like it’s not a risky, uncertain if, but a promise of after.

“I knew it,” he tells you, his grin wide and smug. “I fucking knew it-“

“Fuck you, Benjamin.” You nudge his shin with your foot with a wrinkle of your nose. “I never tried to hide that I like when you cum inside me-”

“You’re all on my ass about my,” he coughs, and a slight soreness crawl over his skin. “Breeding kink. But you fucking love it-“

“I love you-“ 

“And you love when I fuck you, when I fill you up and tell everyone that you’re mine-“

“I am yours.” You shrug, leaning back in your chair. “And, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you’re really good at sex, Pretty Boy-“

His whole face lights up, and it would look innocent if his voice wasn’t so deep and rough. “I am, but you still fucking love me pumping you full of my cum, kissing you until you’re stupid and screaming my name, telling you you’re beautiful and good, and that I fucking love you-“

Your thighs are squeezed together, your face flushed from his words, but you push through it to weakly jab back, “shut up, Ben-“

“No, you want me, you fucking love me when I fuck you dumb and pretty with my cock-“

“I do.” You mumble, focusing your attention on a glint of wine caught in his beard. “But I mostly just love you. I like you. You’re my best friend, and I’ve always wanted you more than anything else.”

He’s suddenly silent across the table, that odd feeling growing ravenous. “What do you want after.”

You hum, with a soft frown. “What?”

“You made me tell you what I wanted, in DC. What do you want.”

“I,” you chew on your low lip, and realize you don’t have to think these words out. “I want to move. Not here, not until Ryan is done with school at least, but just, away from New York. We could come here on summers, but I think I want a home still in America. We could get on in Philly, or Boston, or somewhere else, but I’d like to stay in a city. And I want to help with the post-Vought and Homelander clean up, but I don’t want to fight again. I can testify and help with plans, but I don’t want blood. I just want you, and Ryan, and our friends and maybe more, eventually.”

There’s a moment of silence, and the feeling snaps in Ben’s body. When you risk meeting his eyes, they’re blown out and adoring, and his voice when he speaks is hoarse.

“We’re going home.”

You nod, a little smaller and more timid than you’d like, but Ben’s everything and you feel like he’s about to consume you in the best way possible. “Okay.”

The ride home is silent, Ben’s hand resting on your thigh and the feeling rushing in and around and between every part of his body, and you have to ask him. Before he throws you on your mattress, you need to knowwhatthis feeling is.

But he doesn’t bring you to the bedroom. Ben carries you to the backyard, pulling off his shoes and waiting for you to follow suit before moving to the pool and sitting down with his feet in the water. You lower yourself at his side, leaning your head on his shoulder, and for a second you almost forget your concern. Ben’s arm wraps around your shoulders, and you can feel every rise and fall of his chest, and you could stay like this for the rest of time.

But you have to go home tomorrow. This is your last night like this, and you’re not afraid—not cold or hollow or broken—but you’re scared. You have something so good now, and if you lose it, you know you won’t recover. You won’t lose Ben, he won’t let you lose him, but he can still be taken away from you. And you’d burn the whole world to get him back, but you’d rather just be like this. Peaceful.

Happy.

He clears his throat, and when you look up at him, he’s already staring at you. “Do you want to dance.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and you know he can feel it too. How this feels so vital in a way you don’t understand yet, that you do something simple and romantic like this. “I can sing-“

“Just,” he sighs, helping you to your feet. “I’ve got it. Follow my lead.”

You nod slowly, and you’ll follow him to hell and back, so you let Ben hold you against him with a careful, steady arm around your waist, and guide your movements with another hand tangled in yours.

You might have been here for a million years, dancing in a slow, easy way, your head resting on Ben’s chest, every off-key hum rolling through your body and settling in your bones with a sense of permanence. He’s so bad at singing, but you don’t care, because you love him, and love is making your judgment a little hazy. He’s touching you like you’re holy, and his body over and around yours is everything, so even as that feeling builds and builds and passes some point of no return, it’s still just Ben. It’s still just another strange part of this man you love, who has done so much wrong, but still is everything right.

You smile at him up at him, and you know it’s your wide, toothy, lovestruck smile that makes you look a little stupid, but you don’t care. Ben is warm and solid against you and in you and everywhere around you, and he’s yours, so he deserves the dumbest, most pathetic sounds and expressions you have to offer. He deserves everything you have to offer, even if it’s just a beating heart in his hands and a cracked skull to press his brow against. If all you can give Ben is a happy sigh of his name and your hands cupping his face, then you’ll offer it a thousand times over.

He’s offered you more. Everything Ben gives you is so blatantly, obviously worship. It’s how you see people treat Queens in old, historically inaccurate movies. How he kisses you at every possible moment, in the only way that’s somehow correct. How he’s started to buy the pine shampoo himself, because he knows you like it, and always leaves his shirt casually out for you to wear, replacing it with a clean one if he deems it too dirty. How he’s leading you in a dance, his whole face relaxed and his whole body adapting so quickly to your every misstep and stumble. How his body feels like just as much yours as yours has become his, and nothing about that feels wrong.

How he tells you I love you every second like he’s worried you’ve somehow forgotten. How he’s like a barrier between you and everything wrong and cruel, just because he’s so good and caring in his tending to every part of you.

Ben tends to you so well.

It’s something nobody but Ben seems to do so easily, without any labor or resentment, like these offerings he leaves you aren’t to protect himself from your wrath, but to try and get you to just look at him.

And it’s almost worryingly natural to look at Ben. He’s bigger and stronger and more infinite than the dark, star splattered sky above you. You’d try to justify yourself out of saying he looks like an angel in the night—almost glowing in moonlight, shadows casting over his handsome features like they’d rehearsed it—but you’re past that.

For you, and just you, Ben is an angel. Not a soft, baby angel they show in churches and bible studies and cartoons, but a biblical angel. Bloody and consuming and loud and zealous, with eyes that burn through you and wrath that’s focused to serve their god.

You might be his god. And you’d say it’s not a fair trade, but Ben is your everything. You may love the world and every piece of beauty it has to offer, but you also have a favorite thing, and it’s Ben. Without a single doubt, Ben is your favorite. And you’ll never choose anything over him. You could be a god, and create a whole world, and you’d still chose Ben as the sun set and mean it every time.

He mutters your name, that feeling inside him on edge, and stops your slow, mostly swaying movements in the grass.

“Benjamin.” You whisper in return, and his grip against you tightens and he continues in a low voice.

“I love you.” He searches over your face, and every part of you is already open for him to take, but you loosen your features slightly. Just to try and ease that roar inside him. “You know I love you.”

“I do.”

“And we’re,” he lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Fuck-buddy-brain-connected.”

Your smile starts to strain at your cheeks. “We are.”

“And if you want just that, for the rest of time, I’m more than damn okay with it. But,” he’s standing tall and watching you cautiously, his words slower than you’ve ever heard them. “I want to get married. To you.”

The world might have ended. Everything could be flooding and trumpets could be sounding and the oxygen could be being pulled from your lungs, but you wouldn’t know the difference. Unless it was Ben doing it, you wouldn’t have a fucking clue.

He’s still talking. For some reason, the sentence didn’t stop when your heart did, and Ben’s still saying stuff.

“We could do it now. Or after. Or in fifty fucking years. But I want to marry you, Sunshine, I fucking love you and if they threw me back in the box in an hour it would’ve still been fucking worth it because I got to have you.” He reaches into his pants, pulls out a ring with an iridescent opal set into the band, and glares at it like it might ruin this for him. “This is for you. It’s got all the fucking colors, and I can find some asshole to fit it better, or change it. If you want it. If you want me-“

That’s enough of that. The very prospect that you might not always want Ben springs you into action, and you crash into him with a fervor in your blood and nervous system that you’ve never felt before Ben, and will never have to worry about not feeling after. He catches you, raising you up off the ground as he deepens the kiss, and it’s only when you’re both forced away to breathe that you realize you haven’t actually answered.

“Yes.” You press your brow to Ben’s and if your smile was dumb before, it’s flat out idiotic now. “I’d like to marry you, Benjamin. I love you, and I’d really like to marry you.”

The odd feeling is gone, and all that’s left is love. Powerful and eternal love that’s all yours and Ben’s, and you could spend a lifetime describing how it’s everything—brutal and soft and unstoppable and immovable and made of fire and light but so sharp and embedded in your very soul that nothing else feels quite as real—but you’d rather spend that lifetime with Ben. In his arms and at his side and never, ever afraid because you have him, and he won’t let you burn without burning at your side.

“Good.” He grunts, glancing back down to the ring. “Do you want it now.”

You nod, offering out your hand, and he slides it on your finger carefully, looking up at you with a grin when he’s done.

“Do you…” Your words stray off as you start to get a little high off his gentle touch and boundless eyes on yours. “Do you want to have sex?”

He laughs—a loud echoing laugh that starts in his chest and moves into your heart—and picks you up with a wide grin.

“That is a stupid fucking question,” he starts to walk you back inside, holding your gaze the whole way. “I always want to fuck you, Sunshine. I’d fuck you in a hurricane, or tornado, or in the middle the goddamn world ending. What I want to know,” he lowers his face to yours, eyes alight and warming every part of your body. “Is how you want me to fuck you.”

“I,” you take a shaky breath, trying to force yourself not to drool or whimper under his attention. “I trust you. Whatever you want.”

You can’t look at him right now. You can feel him growing so hungry and strong in your body that it’s going to knock you out, make you cum on the spot, burst into flames, or all three at once, and holding Ben’s gaze will only make that worse.

It’s bad enough to hear his voice, low and rumbling and gravely, say your name like it’s a prayer. “Whatever I want.”

You hum, because you don’t trust your voice not to just be a breathless plea of his name.

“Words-“

Whatever you want.

You can see Ben nod in your periphery as he kicks the door open. He lowers you onto your bed slowly and carefully before crawling over you and pushing you onto your back, and when you finally gather yourself enough to meet his eyes, he looks feral. He feels feral inside you—beating against your ribs and hungry in every place of you he’s allowed to touch, which is all of them—and he’s hard against your thigh, making it really, really hard to focus on anything but Ben. Caging you against his body, only watching you and not really doing anything but making you sit in Ben. Starving for you and looking at you like you’re holy, loving you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

Ben- 

Whatever I want. He’s repeating it one last time, giving you one last chance to take it back. But the growl of his voice in your head tells you that he knows exactly what he wants, and if this is another thing you can give him, then he’ll get it. It won’t be gentle.

Okay. You drag one hand down his chest, palming at his bulge until he groans, his head dropping to the crook of your neck. I can take it-

He grabs your hand against him, his grip rough and bruising as he moves your hand on your head, and picks his head up to scan over your slack, desperate expression. No touching me. He starts to trace small circles on your wrist with his thumb, and it’s sending small electric shocks through your body. I touch you. And be loud. Be real fucking loud. Got it?

You nod, and it’s a little pathetic. Yes. Got it. What are you-

Ben rips off your stupid fancy dress in one movement, and leaves wet, sloppy, open mouth kisses over your lip, down your throat, over your collarbone and tits and stomach and down, down, down until his tongue flattens on your clit, and a low groan leaves him as two, broad fingers trace up and down your pussy.

So fucking wet for me, Sunshine. Always so goddamn wet, soaking through your panties like a fucking brat, tasting like fucking heaven-

“Ben,” you gasp as his tongue start to drag down, teasing and flicking at your fluttering pussy but never going in, both his hands moving to knead at your ass as he angles you up. “Fuck, please. Please-“

His tongue pushes into you, and your words turn into a choked and high whimper that only makes him go faster.

Fucking perfect, darling, soaking my fucking face. You’re like fucking crack, I could goddamn die here. His beard starts to tickle and burn at your skin, and you grind up into his face. Christ, you’re fucking desperate. You want my cock, don’t you. You want me to make you feel fucking good, ruin you and split you open-

You can’t touch him. Your hands are fisted in the sheet because you can’t touch Ben. He’s spewing filth in your head and eating you in a way that make his nose bump your clit and his hands pull and squeeze your skin, his tongue occasionally just licking a long, rough stripe up your cunt and making you scream, but you can’t touch him.

“God, I need you, now, Ben, need you now-“

You’re right on the edge, Ben’s tongue starting to just plunge in and out of you, and he’s not bothering to hold you down. You bucking and keening off the mattress, your arms starting to wrap around your own body to just touch something, and Ben grins, chuckling right against your pussy.

So fucking good. Goddamn perfect, and beautiful, and real needy. All wet and begging, just for me-

“Just for you, only for you,” you gasp, kicking against the bed as Ben’s mouth moves back to suck and nip at your swollen clit in a pattern that’s holding pleasure just out of your reach, but still makes you scream. “God, Benjamin, you cunt, please-“

Hold it, Sunshine. Take it and keep fucking talking, and maybe I’ll let you cum.

I can’t-

You can. His tongue starts to flick torturously, and you fucking squeal. It would be embarrassing if it didn’t spur Ben on, his voice dropping to an octave you’ve never even heard before. Good girl, taking it so well. Talk to me, darling, tell me what you want-

I want you, Benjamin. I want your cock, I want you to make me cum-

Aloud.

“Fuck!” You scream, writhing and rolling your hips squeezing your tits like you can force your own relief. “You asshole, please let me cum, fuck, please, need it, need you-“

He starts to circle his tongue over your clit in slow, painfully good motions, and you whine.

“Please,” your legs lock around his head, trying to force him deeper into your cunt. “God, fuck, Ben-“

The last shout of his name is almost a protest, because he unhooks your legs without effort, and rises up to look at you. He looks proud, and in love, and it’s all for you and you’re going to explode-

“I said no touching.” His voice is stern, but one hand has snaked over your abdomen, lingering with teasing fingers and a soft touch. “You want to cum?”

“Yes, please.” You spread your legs as wide as you can, giving Ben a pout that usually gets snaps him and makes his cock drive into you with an abandon.

This time, though, he just smirks, and drops his hand between your legs. Resting it right over your cunt, holding his balance on your knees as his other hand press down on your stomach to still your squirms. “Going to be fucking good for me, Sunshine? Let me do whatever I want to this perfect pussy?”

He slaps his hand against you, and your mouth falls open. All you can do is whine stupidly and make soft, breathless noises that are supposed to be his name.

“Talk to me,” he grunts your name, and hits your cunt again, this time a little harsher. It’s not painful, but it stings and sends a rush through your whole body, spurring your voice into borderline incoherent pleas.

“Ben, fuck, please. Please, I want you, need you, fuck-“ Another slap of your pussy, another strangled scream. “Need to cum, need you to make me cum, Ben-“

He starts to makes smaller, slightly circulars patterns with his hits, dragging you right up to the edge, and you can’t really think outside of Ben, Ben, Ben, who let him learn how to play you like an instrument and who made him smell like an aphrodisiac and who decided he could be big and handsome and strong and rough but still touch you like you’re sacred and look at you like nothing else is worth looking at-

“Let go for me, Sunshine.” He mutters, and you feel him alive and roaring inside of you. “Cum.”

Your body almost flies off the bed as it obeys. For almost a whole minute your existence is almost only pleasure and warmth and something wet pouring out of you, all in a perfect harmony with Ben. You might be shouting it, or calling it into his head, or just keeping him all in yourself, but it’s all Ben. Still rubbing larger, softer circles over your pussy as you come down, staring at you as the world comes back into focus with a devotion and care and love that sends one last, smaller orgasm shuttering through your body.

“Ben-“

Your whisper has barely left your mouth when his eyes flash and darken further, and he’s moving. Grabbing you by your hips and flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your ass up into the air and running his broad forefinger right between the lips of your dripping, overly sensitive pussy.

He leans over your body, his lips brushing your ear, and you’re not lucid enough to stop the moan from leaving your mouth at the low, deep, hoarse sound of his voice.

“Cum all you want,” he growls your name, and your whole body shivers. “But don’t stop saying my name.” 

You nod, pressing your ass further back into where his cock is still trapped in his pants. “Ben, please, need it-“

“I know you do, darling.” He kisses your neck, squeezing your hips and hissing his words through teeth as you wiggle against him. “Fuck, you need to stop that-“

It’s almost automatic, how your body listens to him, and you fall forward onto the mattress with a whimper, curling your fingers into the sheets. “Ben. Ben, please-“

“Good girl,” Ben smirks on your skin, rutting against your bare pussy as you let out a long, hopeful moan. “Don’t move.”

You couldn’t if you tried. You can hear and feel Ben moving around behind you—rising back onto his knees and tearing at cloth—and nothing in you wants to move. Your brain is in an easy harmony of Ben, and you’re warm and wrapped in a haze of pine, so you’re really good right here.

If you moved, you wouldn’t get to feel Ben’s hands knead and pull at your ass, yanking you back up into the air before pressing his thumb right over your clit and rubbing once, twice, a third time until you’re gasping and pleading his name, gathering all your strength to push up onto your knees and offer yourself as easily as you can.

Ben. Please, Benjamin, please-

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, one, thick finger pushing into you and pumping slowly. “Never seen anything as fucking perfect as you, Sunshine. I fucking love you, I’m going to marry the fuck out of you.”

You let out a soft, airy giggle. “Romantic-“

Ben’s fingers are yanked out of you without warning—leaving you squeezing around nothing and making a loud, needy noise—and his cock replaces them so fast it knocks the air out you and sends a rush of lightning-like pleasure though your body. 

“Fucking brat,” Ben pulls in and out once, and you can’t do anything but moan and feel smoke start to curl from your hands. “Such a smart fucking mouth, you’re-“ he groans, starting to move faster, building up and up, his balls slapping against your clit as his hands bruise into your hips. “Christ, so fucking good, darling, fucking love you, going to drive me goddamn mad-“ You’re too high to hold onto his words anymore. He’d wrapped an arm around you waist and trailed big, warm fingers down your stomach until they’re pinching and rolling your clit, and when your orgasm crashes over you it’s not a wave, but a storm. It washes over you again and again, only growing stronger as Ben reaches an unrelenting pace, drilling into you and growling praise you can’t hear, but that still sends spasms through your body and more and more wetness out of your cunt. You’re squeezing and fluttering around his cock, and he’s saying words that sound like hymns, but you can’t decipher outside of good. Ben and good. You’re burning but it’s fine because you won’t fade out and Ben’s right here with you.

His hips jerk, his body falling over yours, and you feel something hot spread over your gut and down your thigh when Ben’s orgasm slams into you it’s unforgiving. You’re nothing but a shaking, whimpering, soft mess when his beard brushes on the skin of your back, and you let out a happy sigh when he starts to kiss up and down your spine. He’s still buried into you, and he’s so simply and contently alive in everything that’s inside and around you that you don’t realize that the bed is blackened and scorched under your body.

“Ben,” you whisper, running some ash between your fingers. “Did I-“

“You did.” His mouth moves back to your neck, and you can feel his grin against your skin. “You’re a marvel, Sunshine. That was fucking hot.”

“Literally,” you mumble, and he chuckles.

“Smartass.”

You hum, smiling like a fool and carefully moving your hand up to reach behind you and run his hair between your fingers, “I love you, Benjamin. And I’d marry you now, but I think you’d like to be dramatic about it.”

“I’ve got a hot fucking wife,” he grumbles, arms wrapping around your waist. “I’ll be as dramatic as I want, beautiful.”

You laugh, and tomorrow you’ll have to go home, but tonight you don’t have to go anywhere. You can sleep easy with Ben over you like a weight that’s not a trial to carry, and dream of sunlight and laughter and a hollow thing that’s finally full, and the light that’s leaking out of it.

End Note: If you wanted more of them in Rome, do not worry. There will be many, many one-shots from things that we didn’t have space for in the chapter. There's even been a secret one already in the Bonus Footage. See you guys for the shit hitting the fan <3.

Thank you for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

@fghj18 @n-o-p-e-never @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @marisha-3 @stvrniolo

@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf @ciuguapa @ilyaasansaif @whimsicalcherry

@sadpods @ahoytothestorm @silverwingxox @criminalyetminimal @solsborg

@generalmoonpolice @ifyouwerethemoon @leavli @imsiriuslyreal

[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

[tojigasm]

Round 2

[create-chaos]

@ The Boys fans, how we feeling after episode 6?

[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

[moonriselabyrinth]

“The boys” is just what these fuckers have named their polycule.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 15 - I Found A Martyr

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Me, reading more and more smut the further we get into the story: I’m studying. I’m improving my craft. It’s for the people. Chapter Title from Coming Down by Halsey

Word Count: 23k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You have a revelation. Nasty fucking smut. Just so much smut. And usual warnings.

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 14 - Chapter 16

This was bad. This was really, really bad. 

You loved him. 

You loved Ben.

You totally, completely, wrathfully and comfortably loved Ben.

That’s what this was. This eternal feeling of need and want and safety. Love. For Ben. Infinite and indestructible love. No way around or over or under it. No way to talk or twist yourself out of it. You loved Ben. With every bloody and broken part of you, you loved Ben. You burned because Ben was there. He didn’t even have to burn with you, because that’s how strong your love was. You would burn for him, and it would be an inferno that carried you both. He would burn with you though, because he was an idiot. Your idiot. Your idiot, because you loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“Why-“

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

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

“Brat.”

“I’ll never say your name again-“

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

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

He scowls. “Shut up.”

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

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

“Because you’re not a pussy.”

“Because I’m not a fucking pussy.”

“But you brushed your teeth?”

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

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

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

“Ben-“

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

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

“Good. Now say my name and I’ll-“

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

It’s so easy to moan, “Benjamin-“

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

“You asshole-“

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

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

Ben hums. “No.”

“Benjamin-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles, “No, you don’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not going well. 

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

“Fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I win.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.” 

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

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

“We’d still go to dinner-“

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

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

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

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

“Are you fucking doubting me?”

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

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

“I think that asshole manwhore was Butcher.” 

Ben grunts, “fucking pussy.”

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

“Aggressively caring?”

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

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

“Yeah but that’s not my point-”

“Sunshine, just take the fucking compliment.” 

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

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

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

“We could do it together-“

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

“You’re going first.” 

“Ben-“ 

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

“But-“ 

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

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

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

“Cunt.” 

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

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

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

And it’s only been three days. 

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

Ten minutes was more than enough to get yourself off.

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

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

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

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

“Have fun?”

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

“There better still be hot water-“ 

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

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

“Fuck you.” 

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

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

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

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

I love you. “Benjamin, you dick-“ 

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

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

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

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

“Done what?” He’d grumbled. 

“Don’t play stupid, Ben-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

And he’d called her Annie that same night. 

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

“Where’s-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, can you get-“ 

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s more like we’re teenagers,” you nod. “My high school cafeteria definitely had pizza Fridays.”

Annie hums. “Actually, mine did too.”

“That makes three,” Hughie takes a large bite of his pizza, a little cheese hanging out his mouth, and you all look expectantly at MM. 

He sighs. “Mine did as well.”

“Well ain’t that just bloody fantastic for all you.” 

“Butcher,” Annie sighs. “Just eat your pizza or go sit alone.” 

This happens every night. Butcher stands at the table, making jeering comments until someone—usually Annie or MM—tells him to sit and eat, with them or by himself. He always sits down, usually next to Hughie or MM, sometimes next to Frenchie, once next to a very stiff bodied Ben and once next to a wide-eyed Kimiko. Never next to Annie. Never next to you.

You think tonight will be the first night he sits alone, right up until he’s marching around the table and sitting down at your side so aggressively it shakes the bench. The shocked silence only lasts a second before Hughie jumps frantically into a conversation about some movie he and Annie watched last night at MM’s suggestion, you and Butcher both refusing to look at each other.

The kitchen doors swing back open, Ben reappearing with two plates in hand. His eyes narrow when he sees Butcher at your side, a scowl overtaking his face. The fuck is he doing?

Sitting, apparently. Your shrug is so small that anyone except Ben wouldn’t have caught it. Don’t say anything about it. I think he’s like a reverse Tinkerbell. 

Ben raises his eyebrows. The fuck does that mean. 

If you give him attention, he dies.

Snorting, Ben sits back at your side, and you grin at him as he slides your plate in front of you before dropping his hand to your thigh. Letting it rest there as you glance at his serving—five slices of pepperoni—and then yours. He’d gotten it right, and you blink up at him. 

He frowns. What? 

Ben, I love you, is what you want to tell him. You even know what that face would look like. A full smile, all teeth and joy, with your eyes shining with all your love for him as you just look at him.

But you only give him a smaller smile, still happy, but not everything. Thank you. 

Don’t. He squeezes your thigh, rolling his eyes. Never fucking thank me. 

You wish Ben would let you thank him, but a small part of you knows it’s a mercy he doesn’t know he’s giving you. You’d never stop thanking him if he didn’t get all grumpy when you did. You’d thank him for every stupid, handsome smile and every brush of his skin against yours and every teasing jab that meets and spars with yours. You’d thank him for holding you under the table for the whole dinner, Butcher eating at your side without a word. You’d thank him for leaning back slightly when Kimiko sits at Annie’s side so you can talking to her in sign about the music she’d been showing Frenchie. You’d thank him for staying silent and grounding when Butcher launches into a briefing, despite everyone’s glares. 

“Grace says Edgar’s almost ready,” he’s looking around, meeting everyone’s eyes to ensure they’re listening. “We got a plan for when he makes good.”

“A plan?” Annie frowns. “Can you be more specific-“

“No.”

You’d thank Ben for rolling his eyes at you. Fucking pussy probably doesn’t even have a fucking plan. 

I’m sure we can improvise. You shrug, and he scowls. 

You always have to improvise. If they want you to keep fucking improvising for them, they better start paying us both what we damn deserve.

You raise your brows at him. We? When have you ever improvised for them? 

This whole plan was my goddamn idea. 

That’s a plan. It’s the exact opposite of improvisation. 

Brat, Ben grins at you. We’re a package fucking deal. They want your services, they pay us both. 

You wrinkle your nose at him. I did not agree to that.

I go where you go, beautiful. Ben winks. 

You’d thank him for the flush of your face, and the smile you have to physically fight off your face. 

You’d thank him for clearing both your plates when Butcher’s doing the same so you don’t have to be alone with Butcher beside you, and you’d thank him for bringing you back a fistful of chocolate when he returns from the kitchen with his own full pint of ice cream. You’d thank him for holding your hand all the way back to your apartment, and up the stairs, and into bed. You’d thank him for kissing you until you’re scraping at his back, and for doing that annoying thing where he tells you you’re tired and you suddenly are.

You’d thank him for staying—at your side—every day, every time you so much as saw him. You’d thank him for humming terribly as you drift off to sleep, you’d thank him for the way his heart pounds softly against his chest until the world is dark and peaceful.

The world had taken a turn. You’d been somewhere that was full of sunlight and life, Ben holding you against him, and suddenly it was dark. So dark you couldn’t see your own hands. Your body is lit in flames and it’s somehow still so very dark. And cold. There’s wind and it’s freezing your skin and guts, even as you burn. You call for Ben, your voice turning from nervous shouts of his name into screams. Loud, panicked screams for Ben to find you, to shout back and tell you he’s there, that he’s okay, that he’s searching for you as well. 

There’s only silence, your name swallowed in a vacuum of the cold darkness. And it’s silent and cold for so long. So very long where you’re burning and can’t find Ben. He’s in danger, you know, you can feel it. Something’s keeping him from you, because that’s the only reason he wouldn’t be roaring for you to return to him. And he’s in pain. You’re certain he’s in pain. Ben is in pain, somewhere in the dark, because you can feel something ripping you open and flaying you alive and drowning you. Something is drowning you. Something is drowning Ben. And it’s all you can feel, for a long, long time, until a voice sounds through the world, screeching in your ears.

Run. 

You’re gone. You’re sprinting through nothing and it’s like falling. There’s no end, and it’s so fast, and where’s Ben. You have to go faster, you have to find him. You have to crash into whatever that’s doing this, causing this pain, and destroy it. You have to find it, you have to find him, and you can hear something. Breaking through the fire around you and your own screams for Ben, there’s something running at you. Behind you. Faster than you, gaining pace, a cruel cackling sound that’s becoming louder and louder.

There’s a light. Far away there’s a warm light that’s growing and growing with drums. Loud, heavy, bloody drums. It’s Ben, chest alight as the drums become all you can hear. He’s facing you, and the danger behind you is closer, closer, closer as Ben grows brighter, brighter, brighter. 

The danger tears past you. It’s not going for you anymore. It’s headed for Ben. Faster, and the drums aren’t loud enough, and there’s a fraction of a second where you could’ve held it back. Where it ripped through the space between you and Ben and you could’ve struck it down. You could’ve redrawn its attention to you. 

But Ben is doing what you should’ve done. His eyes lock with yours, right as the danger hits him. And suddenly there’s nothing, not pain or danger or drums or any sign that Ben was ever there. Just cold nothing.

The world floods with light.

Fluorescent, blinding, painful light. Everything smells like hand sanitizer and the air is too clean. Artificial. 

When you can see again, everything in you dies. 

You’re back. You’d swore you’d never to go back. To this white room with the too bright lights and everything deep cleaned so there’s no proof. No proof you exist. You’re just another decoration in this horrible, horrible place.

It’s changed though. There’s no longer a steel door with a small slat that meals were once pushed through. There’s nothing. Not even glass. You could just walk out, right into the lab.

The white room and the lab had been different though. You’d never existed in both at the same time. And this lab isn’t the same as yours. At the surface level, it’s an identical copy with bleached floors and a lot of tools that make your blood run cold. But the vials are all full of nothing. Just air. There’s a large one, connected to an IV that doesn’t run into a body, but a tube. 

A large, metal tube. More like a box. With a single clear panel that’s just too high for you to look into. You don’t need to though. When the box shakes slightly, something in you pulses and thrashes against your chest and you know. When the box is still, and the thing dies out a fraction of a heartbeat, you know. 

Ben is there. Asleep in the box. And you’re burning everything to try to get him out, but the box isn’t even shaking again. It’s still and silent as you scream, and it echoes through the ashes and smoke around you. You’re burning the world and everything between it, but Ben is still asleep. Gone.

You hadn’t been smart enough. You hadn’t been fast enough. You hadn’t done whatever it took, and now Ben was gone. You’d failed him. 

You’d failed Ben. 

You’re still burning when you wake up. You’re still screaming when you wake up. Your voice is hoarse, your throat feels raw, but you can’t stop screaming. The world is on your back, pushing down on your shoulders and snapping your spine in two. You’d failed him, you’d lost him, and now Ben was gone-

“I’m right fucking here,” the most familiar voice in the world moves through your body, saying your name, but all you can think is Ben. He’s gone. 

You’d lost him. 

“You didn’t lose me,” it’s the same voice. Low and forceful. “I’m here,” it’s saying your name. You need to listen, because it’s making your name sound important. Like it’s the only thing in the world worth saying. “I’m right fucking here.” 

That’s Ben’s voice. As you’re coming down you know it’s Ben voice, because he says fucking like that. You think his voice was built to say fucking, with the spitting sound on the f and the deep growl of the uh. The speed at which he tears through the king.

Ben’s here. You didn’t lose him. He’s here. Suddenly you can feel him all around you, and it’s not just the feeling of his resolve like a shield around you that’s pulling you back down. It’s him. It’s just Ben. It’s the heat of his body, the way he’s holding you with real, strong hands. It’s the sound of his voice, and the rumble of his heart where you think your head is pressed into his ribs. It’s the smell of him. Pine and vanilla and Ben. All Ben. Real, with you, not gone.

Your screams turn into sobs, and your breathing grows faster until you’re lightheaded. Until gentle, calloused hands are on your face, pulling you back from where you’ve buried yourself.

Ben’s face is drawn, focused, and the frown on his face isn’t at you. It’s for you. You can feel the way in which his anger is blowing, and it’s up and around and everywhere until he can find something to turn bloody and beat to a pulp. But for now he’s holding you. Searching your eyes for his answer.

“Fucking breathe,” he says your name again. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You sob again, hands flying up to keep his on your face. In case this is another lie. In case your mind is truly that hateful and would do this to you again.

“I’m not going fucking anywhere.” He hisses. “You need to know that, Sunshine. I’m never going anywhere without you.”

Your breathing slows, and the blood pounding in your ears with it. Soon it’s just Ben. You and Ben.

He must read it on your face somewhere—that you’re here, in your mind, without the fear and panic—because he kisses your brow, still holding your face as he speaks. “What happened.” 

You shake your head. “Just a nightmare.” 

“You haven’t had a nightmare like that since damn Neuman.” 

He’s right. You’d had bad dreams, one or two, but not nightmares. No fire had torn through this room before, Ben hadn’t had to bring you back from some sort of ledge on this mattress.

“I don’t know where it came from,” you whisper. “I’m sor-” 

“No apologies.” He pulls your face up just a little further. “You’re okay.” 

Not a question. “I’m okay.” 

Ben grunts, thumb drawing circles on your cheekbones. “Swear it.” 

“Promise.” You pause, looking up at him. Ben. Ben, I love you. I can’t lose you. I can’t fail you. I can’t fail anyone, but if I fail you it’ll destroy me and the world. “Ben?”

He hums your name, and you run your hands from over his to hang off his forearms.

“You trust me?”

“Of course I fucking trust you.” 

“Can you promise me something?” 

Ben grunts. “What.” 

“I don’t know what Butcher and Mallory are planning,” your voice is still choked, and it hurts to speak. But you keep going. You have to keep going. “But if it falls through, I need you to promise that you’ll let me do what I need to do.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Ben’s hold on your face tightens, and you swallow. 

“If whatever Butcher and Mallory have-“ 

“That’s not what I’m asking.” He’s irritated. You can hear it in his voice, you can feel it on his fingertips. There’s something else, the bitter thing has wrapped around his throat, combined with something bellowing inside his chest. “What the fucking hell do you mean what you need to do.”

“To finish this,” it’s painful to look at him. It’s painful to see his jaw clenched and mouth frowning when he’d been gone from you, even if it hadn't been real. It’s painful to see the intensity of his gaze when you’re asking this of him. “To do what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done?” Ben hisses. “If you don’t speak more fucking clearly, I’m not promising you shit. If you’re talking about your god awful plan-“ 

“I’m not,” you squeeze his arm, and he relaxes slightly. The bitter thing becomes easier to breathe through. “Just, what I need to do.”

“That's not nearly goddamn clear enough.” Ben says your name, and his voice is becoming strained. There’s gruff pain to it, like someone is trying to claw out of his airway. “What will you possibly fucking need to do.” 

You can’t answer. Because you don’t know. You don’t know what the plan is, how it could go sideways, what will need to be done. You’re not even certain you know if you’re talking about the mission or not. But you need to be able to do it. Whatever it is that needs to be done, you have to do it. You have to be able to keep Ben here, you have to save Ryan Butcher, you have to kill Homelander, this has to be over. You’re so tired. Whatever needs to be done to just rest, for the world to rest, you need to be able to do. And you can’t let Ben stop you, or hold you back. You can’t let him take all the danger for you, it’s not fair. You love him.

But you can’t say that. So you say, “I don’t know.” No lies. “But I need you to promise me you’ll let me do it.” 

“No, I’m not promising that when I don’t fucking know what-“ 

“That doesn’t matter,” you’re begging now, head shaking frantically between Ben’s hands. You don’t care. He needs to give you this, he needs to understand and promise. “It doesn’t matter what it could mean, Ben. I just, please, I need you to promise, please promise-“ 

He pulls you forward. Back into his chest until the drum of his heart makes breathing easier again. When he speaks, his voice is everywhere. Around your body and making a home in your brain. “It fucking matters. It always fucking matters. I’m not promising something fucking stupid like that.” 

Your hands fist against his shirt, word muffled. “Please. I need, Ben, please.” You’re not crying anymore, you’re trying to climb into him. To keep the safety and everything of Ben around you, even as you push. “I need to help, I need to help, I can’t be useless, I need to help and it needs to matter-“

“Shut up.” Ben has one hand in your hair, one wrapped around your back and resting on your hips. It’s the way he’s holding you so diligently—as if this is his whole purpose, to touch you—and the way his voice and body are wholly devoid of anger, and how it all makes your brain clear to Ben, Ben I love you, that makes you fall silent and let him continue. “You matter. You’re helping more than any other fucking pussy in this damn building. And you are the least useless person I have ever fucking met. So I’m not promising that.”

You pull your head back through sheer force of will, because you need to look at him. Even if it’s painful. “Please.” You could use a favor, you have a few left, but it needs to be Ben that promises. He needs to understand, you need him to mean it. “Please, Ben. I need you-“ a sob wracks your body, and you almost leave the sentence there. You need Ben. You love him. “Promise. Please promise, I need you to promise. Just this,” you tug at his shirt, and your body is smoking. When you pull back his skin is redder, but he hasn’t flinched. Only holding you, only watching you. “Just this one thing. I’ll never ask you for anything again. Please.”

He stiffens. For the most horrid, long moment of your life, you think you’ve shown too much. You think you’ve said the thing you’d promised not to say, found the line you’d been trying to toe so carefully. That keeps him beside you and never wondering why you’re clawing so desperately to do so. You don’t know which part of your pleas were the thing, which part turned your cards around for him to see and which card is going to be the one that makes you lose him-

“Fine.” His words are through gritted teeth, and you can see the tick of his jaw, but he’s nodding once, roughly, and you know you haven’t misheard him. “I promise.” 

His voice is so hollow. You’ve never heard Ben’s voice hollow before, and it’s wrong. “Swear it?” You whisper, because you need him to look less like a statue. You need him to move with a chuckle or a frown or an eye roll. 

You get a small twitch of his mouth. That’s enough. “Fucking swear it.” 

“Thank you,” you breathe. And Ben doesn’t stop or correct you about it. He lets you burrow back into his chest, pulling you up a little farther so he can shift back against the headboard. Your head lies somewhere between his ribs and stomach, arms around his torso, and he just stays there. Real and solid, and you’re no longer sure whose heart is pounding. You just know it’s steady, and that Ben is here. 

He holds you until the sun rises, and well after. You don’t want to move, you can’t move, so Ben just holds you. Holds you until you tug at his arm and ask quietly for coffee. Then he kisses the top of your head and hauls you up from between his legs to against his chest. 

“I’m going to carry you,” he grunts, and you just curl further into him.

When he sets you down on the couch he kisses the top of your head before walking to the kitchen, and you sink into the cushions. You don’t know how long he’s away—away meaning five feet away, shuffling loudly around the kitchen—but only when he returns to the couch, sinking into the spot by your feet, do you realize how cold you’d grown. 

“Thank you,” you mumble as he passes you a mug of coffee. 

“Don’t.” 

You smile softly, staring at the dark liquid in the cup. “Are we doing fire later or-“ 

“You are not fucking training today,” Ben snaps, and you look up to find him glaring at you. “Or doing your stupid brain magic.”

“Brain magic?” Your smile feels a little more real, and you’re not going to fight with him about training or healing. You’ve battled with him over more pointless things, but you’re just so tired. So you’ll just tease him, pushing and pulling with him about nothing.

Ben gives you a flat look. “What would you call it, smartass?” 

“Healing.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

You give a small giggle, and Ben’s whole face is still stoic, still drawn, but there’s less tension along it. “Grumpy old man.” 

“I said shut the fuck up.” 

“Make me.”

The speed at which Ben sets his own mug on the coffee table and climbs over you is truly remarkable. “You know very well,” his voice is gruff, the weight of his hunger crashing through you. “That I am not a fucking old man.”

“Well,” you hum, grinning widely up at him. “Just in terms of chronology, you are an incredibly old man-“ 

It’s amazing how good he is at this. How Ben is so easily capable of dragging you up from the worst pits and holes of your own head and throwing you into this thirst. How fast he can make your mind go from spinning and finding every nook and cranny or your life, your self, that is evil and hopeless, to just singing Ben. Ben, I love you. It’s why you don’t fight back when he falls onto you, his arm around your waist pulling you up into him and his mouth destroying your whole body in the most amazing way. He’s only against your own lips for a second, and the moment you open for him, moaning his name, he’s gone. Biting and sucking along your jaw, and your neck, up to your ear to tug it between his teeth, then down to your collarbone. Going until the sounds rising from your throat aren’t Ben or please or fuck, but only incoherent whines. Then he’s back on your mouth, and you give everything back to him. Your hands in his hair, your legs wrapped around him as you grind up, and your tongue running along his lips. Trying to get him as impossibly close as you can without crossing the line.

You say it. You know somewhere in the haze, your brain still slightly hazy from the pain of the night and your will weakened by all of him, you say it. Ben, I love you. It comes out a high, breathy whimper, but you know that’s what it was supposed to be. You know he doesn’t pick up on it, because nothing in him changes. He doesn’t waver or push further, he just goes the same as he had been. Letting you try and devour him as he does the same. So you moan it again—this one from somewhere deeper in your chest—because you’re allowed to say it like this. You’re allowed to say Ben, I love you, when it’s just another plea for him that he can’t understand the power of. Just like how you’re allowed to try and make him part of you when there’s not a chance he will be.

He hisses your name into your mouth when you yank his hair hard enough for his head to move up. His beard scratches along your cheeks and lips, but it’s Ben, so it’s everything. And he lets you drop down to his neck, lower, biting into his shoulder slightly. You don’t break skin, you’re not that strong, but he groans against your ear as your teeth scrape his skin and that’s enough. It’s more than enough—it’s the whole world—when Ben starts to knead at your skin under his hands, and he’s still making sounds that echo through your blood and bones. It’s everything, when he pushes you further down, down, moving his mouth back to yours and burying you between him and the sofa. Safe. Strong. Real. 

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

He’s hard. You can feel him bumping against your lower thigh, and it makes your moans louder. It makes your legs tighten around him, trying to move him up into you without you telling them to. You find another thing you’d thank Ben for, when he stops this for you. It makes you feel a little empty, but he doesn’t leave. He just drops his lower body down, pinning you to the couch so that you can’t keep bucking up into him. Resting his forehead against yours until your breath is steady, and your brain can manage to control your body.

“Better?” Ben mutters, and you blink up at him. It is better. Everything is better now. 

“Better.” You whisper, and he nods. “If we’re not training today, what-“ 

“I need to clean my shield. We’ve got dinner with the Pussy Brigade. I have to shit. You said we’d watch something called The Mummy a few nights ago. And you have your stupid fucking lunch with Annie and Hughie.” 

You grin at him. “In that order?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he kisses your nose, and you think this might destroy you more than anything else could. How easy this is. To love him, to let his voice move through you and settle your nerves. To let him just touch you all the time in the most simple and boring and mind-numbingly good ways. “Go get dressed, Sunshine.” 

You push up on your forearms, grabbing Ben around his neck and pulling him down to you one last time before he can stand. One longer, gentler kiss, where neither of you are trying to take it further, take it right up to the edge. Just kissing him because you love him, because you can. Because he’s real. 

Ben carries your mugs up into the kitchen, and you climb up the stairs, allowing yourself to turn back and look at him once. The most attractive, stupid man you’ve ever seen in your life. Glaring at the mugs as he dumps the now-cold coffee in the sinks. Turning on the sink to wash them with so much force you’re surprised the knob doesn’t snap off. But still doing it. His handsome scowl and rough movements not stopping him from doing it. You love him. You love Ben so much. It’s everything. There’s been blood on his hands and darkness in his head and life that should be unforgivable, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s become the most dependable, insufferable, important person in your life. Not when you love him like this. Not when you know he’s trying. In his own angry, violent, and sullen way, Ben is trying so hard. You’re not sure why he’s trying, or if he even knows he’s trying, but he is. He’s washing the mugs without you asking, because that’s what he does. Everything for you, without you needing to ever ask. And you’ll never stop loving him for it. 

Annie’s early for lunch today. She collects you around eleven, mentioning that she and Hughie have something planned for the afternoon as Ben opens the door, snapping at her that she's too fucking early. You tell Ben to let it go—you’ll be gone the same amount of time regardless—and he does his angry, half-pouting frown about it but kisses you lightly and sulks upstairs. 

“Something?” You tilt your head at Annie as you walk down the hall. 

“What? 

“You and Hughie have something planned?” You almost nudge her shoulder like you would with Ben but stop yourself. “Did you just not want to tell Ben, or is it-“ 

“My mom.” Annie says softly, staring down the hall. “She agreed to visit last week. Mallory’s bringing her today.” 

“Oh, shit.” You want to hug her. She looks like she needs some sort of comfort. So you give her your most reassuring expression, holding your hands behind your back. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” Annie sighs. “I mean, I asked her to come. But I haven’t talked to her since-“ 

“Firecracker.” Something clenches around your heart. Something that is all bones and burnt flesh. 

Something grabs your wrist, and you freeze. Anxiety and tension and exhaustion run through your body—it’s different from your own—and you realize it’s Annie’s. She’s touching you on purpose.

When you look at her, she’s watching you carefully. You blink at her, eyes wide, afraid to move. Afraid to ruin this and make her let go.

“I never thanked you for that,” Annie’s voice wasn’t joyful, but it was lighter. Even as the anxiety tightened around your skull. 

“For what?” 

“Killing that bitch.” She gives you a small, close-lipped smile. “I don’t ever really condone murder, but if anyone deserved it, she did.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” you say before you can stop yourself. You’re not a sadist, this might be a test, maybe Annie’s not really grateful but trying to see if you’re remorseful. “It was an accident.” 

“I know. I’m still thanking you.” 

“Oh.” You swallow, trying not to give the emotions you can feel through Annie’s hand any attention. “You’re welcome.” 

Annie nods, and just before she lets go something like relief spins through her. 

Hughie made pancakes and eggs. Well, Hughie tried to make pancakes and eggs. He burnt the eggs, twice apparently, so now it’s pancakes and a fruit salad. It’s still good—you add honey to the fruit, as well as strawberries and syrup to the pancakes because you’re a masochist and miss Ben—and sit at their dining room table. Annie brings out hot chocolate, and it’s comfortable. Especially after Annie tells Hughie you know about her mom visiting, because any nervous tension dissipates into the air and it’s fully, genuinely comfortable.

All three of you silently agree not to talk about family, because none of you have amazing relationships with your mothers, Hughie’s wound from his father’s death is still open and fresh, and fear still occasionally grips your heart that Homelander will find Violet and use her against you. So, you talk about frivolous things instead. Annie and Hughie want your opinion on a hideous throw pillow Hughie bought. You burn it, and Annie laughs as Hughie sighs, grinning as well. You debate with Hughie about Billy Joel songs, because his love for the man makes him blind to the fact that We Didn’t Start the Fire is just a truly terrible song. You win by pulling out a video of Billy Joel himself echoing your point, and Hughie throws his hands up in mock exasperation. Annie asks you if you need any help buying decorations for your apartment, or continuing to decorate, full stop, given your roommate—she hesitates before labeling Ben, and you don’t blame her in the slightest—not exactly being the most aesthetically oriented man in the world.

“Ben’s actually been shockingly helpful,” you shrug. “He chose the rug in our room, and aggressively vetoed plates with his face on them.” 

Hughie gapes at you. “Plates with his face on them?” 

“Limited Edition Soldier Boy Dining Set, manufactured and sold by Vought International,” you grin, and miss Ben more. This is really becoming a problem, that you get this dopey just thinking about him. “I thought his jaw was going to break.” 

Annie and Hughie exchange a glance, and Annie says slowly, “What, what exactly is going on with you guys?” 

“What do you mean?” You know what she means. You’re just hoping you can get out of this conversation if she’s not willing to say it.

“You live together, you sleep in the same bed,” Annie watches you carefully, and it’s an active effort to hold her gaze. “You kiss-“ 

“Make out,” Hughie corrects. “I’ve never seen two people make out like you two do. And that’s how you make out in front of us.” 

“Well-“ 

“He’s right,” Annie cuts you off. “You make out. And do heart-eyes at each other all the time. But you’re,” she pauses, looking to Hughie for help. 

“Not fucking?” He offers nervously, and Annie nods, turning back to you. 

“You’re making out, but not fucking.” 

You glance between them. “Is that a question?”

“Kinda,” Hughie mumbles. “It’s just confusing to see, if you’re really not fucking.” 

“We’re not.” 

“Okay,” Annie sighs. “But you do get how that’s a lot more confusing, yeah?” 

You tap your fingers on the table, wondering if you do it loud enough Ben will hear and come save you from this conversation. “It’s complicated. We’re just, we’re not fucking.”

“And he’s,” Annie frowns. “He’s not-“ 

“No.” Your voice is a little harsher than it maybe needs to be. But it feels appropriate. Ben wouldn’t do that. “He’s not. I mean,” you bite the inside of your mouth, searching for the words. “I was surprised as well. I still don’t fully understand why he’s not trying to get me to do more. But, I don’t know. He’s not.” 

“I’m not,” Hughie says, so simply for how both you and Annie are looking at him. Like he’s grown a third head. “What?” 

“What are you talking about?” You frown. “You’re not what?” 

“Oh, uh,” Hughie blinks at you. “I’m not, I’m not surprised.”

“Surprised?” 

“It’s like,” Hughie looks at Annie, likely for aid, but her expression is just as befuddled as yours. “It just makes sense to me. I dunno.” 

“What makes sense to you?” You push, because you need to know what he means. What he’s trying to say, in case it’s what you think. 

“I mean, in all this fucked up shit,” Hughie stumbles over his words, rubbing the back of his neck. “You two seem to get each other. In a weird, kinda gross way. I think Soldier Boy would give you the moon if you asked for it.” 

Annie nods cautiously, and suddenly you’re the only one still lost in this conversation. “You’re right, I don’t think he would’ve agreed to that deal with Mallory if it was just like, physical.” 

“Deal with Mallory,” you say, looking between them in jerked, half-controlled movements. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“When we brought him to make the deal with Edgar,” Annie frowns. “And Mallory told him that-“ 

“You don’t know,” Hughie cuts Annie off, scanning over your frown and overly tight posture. “I don’t, I don’t think he told you.”

“Told me what.” Your voice is rising into panic. “What didn’t Ben tell me?”

“Um, I don’t know if it’s our place-“ 

“We agreed to stop pushing you into dangerous positions, like Tek Knight’s club.” Annie’s voice is blunt, but her face remains hesitant. “If he stayed in line.” 

Something cold is freezing your bones. Everything’s a little blurry. It’s a labor to speak. “Or?” 

“Um,” Hughie takes over for Annie, even as he looks at her reluctantly. “He’d go back to sleep? That part wasn’t our idea-“ 

You raise a hand, and Hughie falls silent as you stare ahead into nothing. Everything is becoming sharp, your blood is rushing hot and wild through you, and you’re regaining control over your thoughts. And all of them are circling around the same thing. 

“I need to go,” you stand, pushing the chair back. “Thank you for lunch, and uh, good luck with your mom.” 

Annie calls your name after you, but you’re gone. There will be time for guilt later, and you’ll apologize for your abrupt departure. Right now it’s about the thought in your head, pushing up your throat so violently that you’re yelling it the moment your door slides open, before your even fully through it. 

“Why would you do that?!” You almost scream into the apartment, before you can even see him. “Benjamin, why the fuck would you do that?!” 

He sits up from the couch, just a handsome, stupid head frowning at you. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

You stalk over to him. “What fuck possessed you to do that? To fucking agree to that?!” 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking abo-“ 

“Mallory!” You’re screaming now, and he’s standing up, glaring at you. You hold your line, you’ll continue to hold it until he explains. “Why the fuck would you agree to that?” 

Ben’s shouting your name, and if you weren’t so blinded by your anger you’d focus on the strain in his voice. “You need to stop speaking in fucking riddles! What the fucking hell has got you losing your damn mind?” 

“They’re going to put you back under!” You’re hugging into yourself, nails digging your skin. “If you step out of line Mallory and Butcher are going to put you back under!” 

“That was always fucking true-“

“No it wasn’t!” You think you might start to cry. You can’t pull rank. “That was never true! If you stepped out of line I would handle it! I would make the call! That was the whole fucking point! Why didn’t you fucking tell me-“ 

“What the fuck could you have done?!” Ben snaps, and you can see his fists clench as he marches around the couch to tower above you. “It wasn’t a fucking secret! And I wasn’t going to step out of their stupid goddamn line-“ 

“But why would you do that?” You scream, refusing to touch him, even to shove him. If you touch him you’ll crumble. “Why would you agree to let them threaten that just to keep me away from stupid fucking shit that doesn’t matter?” 

“It matters more than anything.” He growls. “Stop fucking saying that it doesn’t.” 

“No, it really doesn’t!” You feel so small. You’re caving in, shattering in a way that’s worse than when he didn’t care, when this was about trust and not about losing him. Ben being taken away from you. “I’m fine! You didn’t need to do that!”

“That’s real fucking easy for you to say, Sunshine!” Ben roars. “You don’t have to fucking watch you break. Again and again over the worst fucking plans in the world when those fucking pussies throw you to the goddamn wolves and in front of their shitty fucking trains! I have to! I’m the one that has to watch you be fucking afraid!” 

“But why would you do that,” you’re definitely crying now. But you keep screaming, even as your voice becomes raw. “I’m always fine-“ 

“Because it fucking kills me! You are fucking everything to me, and every time you break its the worst thing I’ve never fucking seen!” You don’t think your heart is beating anymore, not as his voice grows louder. “Because I can never just fucking fix it, and you always break. And I mean it more than you can possibly fucking imagine when I say that I will do whatever it fucking takes to keep you safe! I’d rather go back to Russia right fucking now than just stand aside like a fucking pussy and let you keep breaking!” 

Ben’s face contorts, and you think he’s only just realized what he’s said. What it means. But he doesn’t take it back, doesn’t walk away, and you won’t pull rank. 

“Do you think,” you hiss through tears, fear building and morphing into some sort of love-born fury. “That it wouldn’t fucking destroy me if you went back under? That I wouldn’t do fucking anything to get you back to me?”

“That’s not fucking the same.” 

You almost laugh. “It’s the exact same-“ 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I adore you, Benjamin!” you scream. “Every good, and bad, and ugly part of you, I fucking adore you.” His whole body stills, and you keep going. You say everything but the thing. “And I made a promise as well. I might not be going back to Homelander, but you aren’t going back under. You’re not burning without me right there, by your side. It is the exact fucking same, because you are fucking everything to me!” You take a deep breath, trying to bring yourself down as your words become pleading. “There are so many beautiful things in the world, but I’d destroy them all to keep you awake. To keep you here. So don’t say it’s not the exact fucking same.” 

You can feel him. You’re not touching him—you're still trying to cave into your own body—but as the last words hang in the air you can feel Ben. This is hunger, not thirst. This is something rioting around and clawing out of your chest, not the love that’s resting for him in your head. This is Ben, not you.

This is Ben and you. Together. He’s not leaving. You’re not leaving. You’re everything to him and he’s everything to you. 

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

You almost say it. You’re seconds from saying it. It’s going to fall out of you and the only way to stop it is Ben. And you lunge at him just a fraction of a second before it’s too late. 

He catches you. He always catches you. And when you slam your lips into his, he doesn’t hesitate. 

This is different. This kiss is different. You can’t distinguish Ben from you anymore. Touching him has completely razed whatever remainder of a line existed, and now it’s just us. It’s you and Ben inside your body, even if everything around you is Ben. Kissing you with his tongue and teeth, pulling your lip into his mouth, making deep sounds from his throat that make you grind against his muscled torso. Sounds spurred by your hands pushing him further into you by his jaw—his beard rough against your fingers—and pulling at his shirt until the only space between your bodies is two thin stretches of fabric. One of his arms was secured below your thighs, holding you up with a hand on your ass, squeezing and making you moan into his mouth. The other is holding you under your own arm with a hand on the back of your neck, fingers pulling light at your hair. Touching you with a reverence. Always with a reverence, a furious care that makes you feel safe. Always with an attentive fire and ardor running through your blood. Ben’s blood. Someone’s blood who you can taste on your teeth because you think you might have bitten his tongue slightly, but Ben didn’t pull back or flinch so now there’s a slightly metal flavor that mixes and fades with Ben. Salt and coffee and strawberries and Ben.

You need more.

Whatever he’ll give you. You’ll take it. You’ll take every single part of Ben he’s capable of offering and plant them in you, grow them and tend to them until he pulls them out so that the roots remain. You need him. You love him.

“Ben-“ 

“All the way?” His words roll through your body, down and into your core. 

You only whine into him, and suddenly he’s moving. Walking backwards, mouth never leaving yours. Holding you tight enough that you can’t continue to rub against him, looking for friction. You’re desperate for it, the sounds escaping you growing louder and louder as his steps offer you something, and then giving a needy, long moan when you manage to adjust just enough to bump against his cock. Still in his pants, hard and long. Then Ben spins, slamming you between his body and the wall, hoisting you up by his hold on your ass and thighs so your faces are level. At some point you’d begun to scrape at his back, and he chuckles as you start to grind against him once more.

Ben’s holding your face firmly, angling you for his mouth to devour yours, grinning against your lips. 

“What do you want, beautiful.” 

You run your nail back up between his shoulders, unable to break skin but trying to sink into him. “Please.“ 

“Please what,” even as he teases you, Ben’s never separating from you. You’re not sure how either of you are breathing, whether the lightheaded feeling is from Ben or just lack of oxygen. If it’s the way all your air is trading between your lungs and Ben’s, or the way he’s started to rut up into you. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you. But you have to use your words.” 

“Ben, just-” 

His head drops down to your neck, finding the one soft spot that makes you whimper and focusing all his efforts on it until your grip on his hair is tight, your sounds a string of pleas. Then he moves up, right to your ear. “Beg. Say my name and beg and I’ll give you the fucking world.”

“Ben,” You look down at him, and you don’t think anything could’ve prepared you for what you see. He’s staring at you, and every part of his face is alive. His lips are parted, and his eyes are almost black, and he’s relaxed. Full of lust and hunger but so completely at ease in every feature of his handsome face. “Please.” 

“Please what.” 

“Fuck me.” 

A low growl escapes him, and his cock twitches against your thigh, but he still doesn’t move. “Whole thing.” 

“Benjamin,” You grind back against him. “Fuck me now.” 

That snaps something in him. Ben’s mouth crashes back into yours, and he doesn’t even have to push before you’re opening for him. Nipping at his upper lip, letting him take whatever he asks for. Anything that keeps him doing this, dropping a hand down and back up through your shirt. Ben’s hand is dropping down and back up through your shirt. Squeezing your breast once, then—when you make a high sound—leaning away from your mouth and doing it again. Then once more, running his thumb over your nipple slowly, so focused you’d think he’s doing surgery. 

He looks back up at you, watching him, breathing heavily with a little bit of droll falling from your mouth. “You like that?”

You nod, head pushing back against the wall when he does it again. “Ben, you ass-“ 

“That’s not very fucking nice, Sunshine.” He leans forward, pushing you further into the wall and bringing his lips just over yours, moving back every time you try to bring him closer. “Manners.” 

“Fuck you,” the moan from your mouth is captured by his, sucking it down with another whine into him. “Ben-“ 

“You never begged,” he says your name against your mouth, moving against your breast once more. “Fucking beg.”

“Cunt-“ 

“I’ll get there.” He chuckles as you buck into his chest. “But you have to tell me that you want this.” 

Somewhere in the daze of Ben’s hands and his mouth and the power of him, your love for him somehow grows again. Becomes something purer and more sweet than it had been. 

Ben, I love you. “I want this,” you breathe. “I want you.” 

He grunts, and he twists your nipple between his thumb and forefinger once before starting to run his hand slowly and lightly down your stomach.

“Ben, please-“ 

Your words become a strangled whine when Ben bites your lower lip gently at the same time his hand drops into your shorts. Palm pressing against the ache through your underwear. 

“Ben-“ He starts to rub in circles, fingers dancing lightly against your slit through the fabric. “Fuck-“ 

“You have too much clothes,” he mutters, and you moan. 

“Too many-“ He pulls his mouth away, and you bury your head into his shoulder. “Ben-“ 

“Fucking smartass,” you can hear the smile on his voice, feel the amusement running up his spine and colliding with whatever is bouncing around his ribs. “You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes, you asshole-“ 

Ben kisses you again, and your protests turn into a long noise of want. He chews at your lip for a second before moving away once more. “I’m taking off your shorts. I can do it fast or careful. You don’t get both.” 

“Please-“ 

He presses his hips back with a groan, forcing you to stop grinding. “Words.” 

“Fast-“ 

The choice had barely left your mouth when Ben was ripping them off your body. Tossing them on the floor without a thought before looking back up at you. Raising his brows in a silent question as his hand rested between your thighs, over your underwear. 

“Yes,” your nods are frantic, bordering on pathetic. But he’s so close. “Ben, please.” 

He runs his hand over you once, still not just doing it. “So fucking wet, just through the damn fabric.” he smirks at you. “All for me, brat?” 

You whimper, trying to drop all of your weight into Ben’s hand as you clench around nothing. He knew what that word would do, there’s no way he didn’t. Not with his smug expression and the way he won’t let you bring his lips back to yours. “Cunt-“

“Answer my damn question,” he growls your name. “Or I’m not fucking you.”

It’s a bluff. You know it’s a bluff because you can feel how vast and insatiable his hunger is. You know it’s a bluff because, as good as a liar Ben is, he’s rock hard against you and keeps bucking up when you kiss his neck. You don’t call it though. You just meet his eyes and hiss, “It’s for you, Ben. Now are you going to fucking do something about it?”

You see Ben’s grin for only a second before his mouth is pushing your head against the wall with the force of his kiss. You feel him tear off your underwear in one, fluid movement, and the cold of the air has barely hit you before his hand is back. And everything is just Ben. 

He’s teasing you. The base of his palm is bumping against your clit, but never for more than a second. His fingers are running between you, over you but never in. You’re going to kill him. You’re going to wipe that smug and cocky grin you can feel against you off his perfect, handsome stupid face- 

“You think I can make you cum just like this?” Ben hums against your lips, pulling his head back just a fraction. “Without even properly fucking touching you?”

“Fuck you, Benjamin.“ 

“I know you want that,” he drawls your name, rolling his palm one firm time, and your hands start to scratch across his neck and shoulders. “But you need to tell me if you think I can make you cum on just my fucking fingers.” 

“Cunt.” 

“That’s what I’m asking. Do you think I can make your pretty cunt cum here, without even fucking you like you deserve?” 

“Like I-“ Ben pushes one finger in ever so slightly, and stills it completely. You take a long breath. “Fucking dick. Like I deserve?” 

His lips bruise against yours, and his palm fully presses against your clit. Rubbing once, twice, fingers still not moving. “Like the beautiful fucking brat you are. Until all your fancy words are just my name and you’re so fucked out you couldn’t even think to be worried about dumb fucking shit. Until you’re fucking stupid.” 

His finger sinks all the way in, and you press your forehead against his, arms fully wrapping around his neck. “Do that.” 

“Fucking words, Sunshine.” He growls, pulling out slowly, and you shake your head desperately against his. 

“Ben, please-“ 

His finger pushes back in, fast, and you don’t know if you moan or scream or whine because Ben is eating any sounds that leave your mouth. Moving his finger faster and faster until you’re trying to chase it when he pulls away, his deep groan rumbling through you when your thighs brush against his cock, still in his pants because life is unfair. 

“That’s more fucking like it,” he grunts, moving his head down in sloppy kisses to your neck. “Want some fucking more, beautiful?” 

“Fuck, yes-“ 

He latches onto your neck—sucking in a way that would leave a mark if either of you were capable of being marked—and just as the second finger pushes in his palm finds a pattern. A steady rhythm that turns whatever remaining sanity you had into just Ben. Ben, I love you. You impossible asshole, you’re everything in the fucking world. Ben. 

He’s not letting you over the edge. Every time you get close he slows just enough and rises back to your mouth. You might have been here for a lifetime, or just a millisecond, but it’s all just Ben. Hissing your name against your skin and making everything just good. This is so good. Why did you deny yourself this? Why did you ever deny yourself Ben when he’s making everything so good like this. So warm and easy and so fucking good. 

“You're so fucking tight,” he hisses in your ear, and you try and tug him closer by your legs. Try and make his dick just brush against you. “Think you can do three?” 

You cannot do three. You think three might kill you in the best possible way. Ben’s huge, his hands are rough and broad like every other insufferable, amazing part of him, so three would make you explode. But he’s watching you with so much hunger, so much adoration as you pant and whimper his name, and he’s still not just fucking you, so three will have to be a suitable substitute until he stops toying with you. You nod, and he chuckles against your skin.

“What did we say about words-“ 

“Just fucking do it, Benjamin, now-“ 

You are going to die. This love for him is going to kill you, and the murder weapon will be the way he’s finding every single thing that makes you scream his name like he’s been studying for it. How his fingers get so deep in you and find that spongy, electric part every single time he plunges back in. Crooking against it for just long enough to make you moan before yanking his hands back down and pressing his palm against your clit until you're keening, before repeating in all again. You’re going to turn into just flames that sing the same song of Ben over and over.

“Want to fucking cum?” He mutters against your lips, and you whine again, high and needy and barely a breath. 

“Ben, yes-“ 

“Beg.”

“Asshole-“ you choke on your own words, because he’s going faster, it’s all going faster, and you can’t think of anything outside of Ben. Ben, I love you. 

“Fucking beg.” His words echo through your body, and you’re vaguely aware of smoke rising around you. But he’s not stopping, if anything there’s a vigor to him now. A brutal, rough pace that’s just one move away from making you find release. A move he won’t make until you ask for it. 

Dignity is overrated. Dignity is for people who don’t have Ben making them feel like the whole world is just him, touching them like he’s touching you and groaning their name like he’s growling yours. 

“Please, Ben, please.” You make yourself look at him fully, hungry and cocky and watching you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen and he’s so handsome and stupid and Ben and you love him- “Fucking please-“

Any sounds or screams or moans of Ben are captured in his mouth when he presses you so far back against the wall with a kiss you think you hear it crack. When he twists his fingers in you and his palm draws one long, heavy circle over your clit and everything is reborn inside you. It’s just Ben, Ben, fire and life and love and Ben. Your orgasm hits you like a train, your vision going white and your hands trying to pull Ben further against your body. He’s still in you, fingers resting inside you as you clench around him, palm rubbing slowly against you until you fall back to earth, back to him. 

You blink at him, mouth hanging open and all of your mind and body completely made of love and need for him. Everything is full of Ben. There’s a thick cloud of smoke through the room, but he’s so close it doesn’t matter. You can see him, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. His whole face is made of—if you know anything about him, and you do—devotion. Ben pulls his fingers out of you slowly—never breaking his gaze from yours—leaving you empty and sensitive and trying not to just start grinding against where you can still feel him, somehow harder in his pants. Then his fingers rise into his mouth, and he sucks on the wetness still falling off of them, and any attempt at control is gone. His gaze is lidded as he tastes you, and you start trying to pull him down to you with scrambling movements against his neck. 

He doesn’t budge, only grinning at you as you whine again. “Fucking needy, beautiful.” He brings two fingers—the same ones that had just been in his mouth—to brush against your mouth. Pressing them lightly until your lips part. “Taste.” 

You let him push his thumb into you, and you become a woman on a mission. Sucking and licking at his fingers until you can feel him twitching against your thighs, going with a fervor until he’s groaning and pulling them away with a pop. When you lean forward to kiss him gently he lets you, taking every moan you give him with a squeeze of your skin under his hand and a trace of your cheekbones with his fingers. 

When he rests his head against your shoulder, you’re both breathing heavily and Ben’s words are hissed against your skin. 

“I’m going to fuck you for a whole year,” he grunts your name, rutting up against you. “And I’m going to make you fucking scream and beg for two.” 

You’ve never been more on board with a plan in your life. You’re going to tell him. You shouldn’t, not when it might make this go away, not when you just got this, but you want to. You want him to know that when he fucks you for a year the only thing you’ll be thinking is Ben. Ben, I love you. You want to be able to moan it into his mouth and against his skin and around his cock and scream it when he makes you cum, in a way that he can hear and know about.

Your mouth falls open, your hand moving to his face to pull him up to look at you, and the door to the apartment bangs open.

Ben’s faster than you, but in your defense most of your thoughts and instincts are being covered by the daze of your orgasm. He doesn’t drop you or turn you, but slides you down his chest and twists you around so your arms are wrapped on his torso, your feet back on the ground. When he whips around you realize he’s blocking your half-naked body from view, keeping you secure against him with a hand on your forearm. Stupid, handsome, perfect, safe fucking man. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ben barks, and you lean around him to see Butcher in the doorway, smirking at the scene before him. 

“Well, Gov,” Butcher drawls. “I was coming to congratulate you on your awful fuckin plan working, let you know Edgar delivered, but now,” he winks at you. “I’m just chock full of other questions.” 

“How did you get in?” You ask with a frown. “Only I have a keycard.”

“Mallory unlocked all you cunts doors for me,” Butcher shrugs. “We got a meetin, I’ve been sent to collect you since you weren’t answering your fuckin phone.” 

You flush, because your phone is indeed long forgotten somewhere near the couch. “Can we have five, please?” 

“What, only five?” Butcher’s mocking smile turns to Ben. “You that fast, gov? Because I can give you ten if you wanna take care of your,” his eyes flick down. “Problem.” 

You can feel Ben’s anger, and tighten your grip around him until he looks at you. Don’t kill him, please. 

Why the fuck shouldn’t I. 

You give him a small smile. Murder is a crime. Also, it’ll ruin the mood. 

Whatever, Ben rolls his eyes, but you can see the tug of his lips, feel the amusement dart through him. 

“You two done?” Butcher snaps, and you both look back to him with frowns. “Care to have an out-loud conversation, share with the fuckin class?” 

“No.” You give him a sickly sweet smile. “Are we meeting in the cafeteria?” 

Butcher nods with a grunt, and you sigh. 

“Can you please leave so I can get dressed?” 

“I’m waitin outside, and if you two horny twats aren’t outside by then I’m coming back in.” 

“Fine. Go.” 

Butcher slams the door behind him, and you squeeze out from behind Ben to start to run upstairs and put on clothing that isn’t completely destroyed. You pause though, doubling back to Ben and pulling his face down for one last, long kiss. 

“We’ll fuck later,” you whisper against his lips, and he grunts. “Thank you.” 

You yelp as Ben picks you up, carrying you up the stairs in long, quick steps. “Stop fucking thanking me.” 

You smile at him, all teeth and joy because you fucking love him. “Make me.” 

“Brat,” he snorts, kissing you again as he lowers you onto the bed. “Keep it up and I won’t let you cum again.” 

“You don’t let me do anything.” 

“You’re real fucking sure of that,” he taunts, marching over to the dresser to toss you a new pair of underwear and sweats. “But you sure were goddamn begging me less than ten minutes ago.”

“Cunt,” you mumble, catching the clothes. You don’t have a good comeback, because your brain is still a little addled, and you can see that Ben’s still hard, and nothing about his deep voice and word is making you less horny. 

“You love it.” He stops above you again, watching with heavy eyes as you pull the clothing on.

I do. I love you, dumbass. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Ben laughs, pulling you up the moment you’re dressed. “Later. Later we can shut each other up as hard as fucking possible.” 

“Deal,” you whisper, because he’s holding you so lightly and close to his body and it’s not helping. “Ben?” 

He raises his brows at you, a small frown on his face. You think he can hear the nerves in your voice. “What.” 

“Edgar-“

“We’ll make it work.” He says firmly. “Whatever it is, whatever stupid shit Mallory and Butcher are planning, we’ll make it fucking work for us.” 

“You promised-“ 

“And that won’t fucking matter, because we’ll make it work.” 

“Ben,” you squeeze his hand, tangling his fingers between yours. You feel him everywhere now, all the time—the clenching in his chest and around this throat and the sour taste of it—and that might be something to worry about later. But for now you just want to touch him. “Please. Just say you promise.” 

He sighs, jaw ticking, but nods. “I swore it. I meant it. But that doesn’t fucking mean-“ 

You kiss him, and every part of his body falls into yours as the grip against your hands loosens. When you pull away, smiling at him, he’s looking at you with that same devotion. “Thank you.” 

Ben grunts, slinging his arm around you as you walk back downstairs. Kissing the top of your head once, and this is right. This is you and Ben and it’s right. It’s everything, and he’s yours. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anything and now, for whatever amount of time he’ll give you, you’re his.

—————

Ben had learned there was a hierarchy in the promises he made Her. There weren’t many—neither of them threw around those words with ease or carelessness—but his promises of staying here and no more lies were secondary to keeping her away from Homelander. There was nothing as fucking important in the world, and that meant that Ben would let Her do what she needed to do—like he’d promised—but not if it meant she went back to Homelander. He’d have done anything to keep Her safe before, he’d have gone back under if it meant she’d be free, and now Ben was fucking certain he’d goddamn die before he lost Her like that. If he had any fucking say in anything at all, nothing was ever going to break Her again. If she tried to throw herself in front of him to take whatever bullets Homelander or Mallory were aiming at them, Ben would be faster. He’d move to let them hit him first. 

He’d let Butcher hit him with a goddamn bomb to keep Her safe. Because She was fucking perfect, and Ben wasn’t going to allow anything to hurt her again. She was leaning into him as they walked to the dining hall, and Ben might have to take a detour to the bathroom to get himself under fucking control if She kept tugging and tapping at his hand around her shoulder. Her hair was still messy, and her lips were still a little red, and Ben could still fucking taste her, lingering in his mouth. And that was his shirt. She was wearing his fucking shirt, and holding his hand that had just been inside her, and chewing the inside of her mouth that had just been screaming his name. The Thing didn’t need to tell Ben She was perfect. He had fucking eyes, and a fucking brain. And a very hard dick that was becoming slightly painful, straining against his pants for Her. For Her beautiful face and the perfect sounds she’d made when she came. On his hand.

Ben didn’t have to hold himself back anymore. He didn’t have to keep waiting until She was keening against him and moaning his name before ripping himself away from her. Before he came in his jeans from just the feel and taste of Her mouth like a fucking teenager. He could fuck Her, she’d let him fuck her, and he was going to. Ben was going to fuck Her so hard and good that she might stay with him and keep looking at him forever. He was going to make Her cum until she said Ben, I adore you again. Until She told him she wanted him again.

That had made the Thing roar inside of him. Her perfect, breathless, needy voice telling him she wanted him. Nothing could take that away from him now. She fucking wanted him. People had wanted him before. Countless forgotten pretty faces had wanted Ben. But none of them had been perfect. And none of them had said it like She had. They had wanted the power of him, they had wanted Ben to fuck them and give them more than he cared to. All those pretty faces had wanted to be the one’s on billboards and red carpets with him, to fuck Soldier Boy and be a good enough fuck that he decided to keep them. When She said he wanted him, it wasn’t just to fuck her. There had been something that made the Thing climb into Ben’s brain and consume him in Her voice. 

She wanted him. She wanted every part of him. She had every part of him, She’d had it for what felt like a lifetime, and he’d never have taken it away from her. When She one day left Ben, she’d take every part of him that was worth a fucking thing with Her. And no one else would ever get to have him, not like She did. Not like he was going to give Her. Ben was going to fucking worship every perfect part of Her, until he could maybe ask her to stay with him and there was a single goddamn chance She might say yes. 

Every member of the Pussy Brigade looked up when they entered the Dining Hall. Butcher had marched in brisk, pissy fucking steps ahead of Her and Ben, and apparently hadn’t been just bitching when he’d grumbled that everyone was just waiting on them. 

“Is everything okay?” Starlight was watching Her, under Ben’s arm, nervously. “You weren’t answering your phone-“ 

“The cunts were fucking,” Butcher snapped, stopping next to Mallory at the head of the table. “In the middle of the goddamn room.” 

Ben bit his tongue, because She has to handle this. He needed to hear what She told her pussy fucking team, so he could figure out what she wanted from him. 

“It’s our apartment, you ass,” She glared at Butcher. “It’s not like we were in the hallway.” 

“So you admit you were fucking, Love?” 

“Not yet.” She shrugged. “Some dickwad fucking cunt interrupted us.” 

“But,” Cocksucker looked between them nervously, not fully meeting Ben’s eyes. “You were going to fuck?” 

She sighed. “This really doesn’t feel like an important conversation to have right now.” 

“It’s not,” MM grunted. “I’m already gonna to need to wash out my fucking ears. Any more and I’m going to have to cut them off.” 

Ben disagreed. He thought they all needed to fucking know, that this was the only conversation worth having right now. Ever. She wanted him, and every single pussy fucker in the world should know that. But She shot him a small look, important meeting, don’t be a fucking idiot, Pretty Boy. And Ben let Her pull him onto the bench. 

Later, he’d fuck Her until she screamed so loud everyone could hear it, hear his name and Her moans falling out of her perfect mouth. 

“Can we get started?” Mallory stood—arms crossed with a thin scowl—at the head of the table. “Or do you need another ten minutes to discuss your sex lives?” 

“Jesus, no.” MM snapped. “Just fuckin talk, Grace.” 

“Stan Edgar sent files over to me last night, and we’ve just finished clearing them for use,” Mallory launched into her explanation with the most monotone, boring voice Ben had ever fucking heard. “Butcher and I have been working on a plan-“ 

“What are the files?” Starlight asked, raising her hand like a damn child. “Will they work?” 

“They’ll work a fuckin charm,” Butcher winked. “They’re everything we could’ve bloody asked for, times two. Keep goin, Grace.” 

Ben felt Her relax slightly against him, along with Butcher’s eyes on them both. Cold, tense, but not mocking. For once in his goddamn life, the pussy seemed to have some sort of mind to not be an instigating piece of shit, and he was better for it. Ben would’ve thrown a stray plastic fork into Butcher’s eyes and ripped off his dick if the asshole had said even a single fucking detail of Edgar’s files. A single detail about Her. 

“Thanks to Marvin,” Grace gave MM a small nod. “A-Train has agreed to clear a path for us into Vought tower. We’ll ensure Homelander is away, dealing with something else, and retrieve Ryan Butcher.”

Ben could hear the tapping begin, and covered Her hand with his. 

She looked up at him with a frown, What’s wrong? 

This is going to fucking work. Ben held Her gaze. You’re going to be fine. 

She smiled at him, and every time she did it like that—gentle and comfortable—the Thing doubled in size. I know. 

“How are you going to get Homelander away?” Cocksucker asked with an anxious frown. “I mean, this might not be quick and if he arrives back at the tower-“ 

“Frenchie,” Butcher nodded at the French Prick. “Will be causing a diversion.” 

“By diversion,” Starlight said slowly. “You mean-“ 

“A massive, glorious fucking explosion.” The French Prick grinned. “It will be impossible for the Homelander to ignore.” 

“No.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Her lean forward across the table, shaking her head. Why the hell was she talking. Why could Ben hear her damn thinking. What the fuck was she planning- 

“No?” Mallory asked, looking at her with slight curiosity. Saying Her last name in clipped words. “Please elaborate.” 

“He’s on alert, right?” She looked around the table. “After Neuman, he won’t just fall for something like that. Especially not with Sage whispering actual coherent thoughts in his ear.” 

“Maybe,” Mallory nodded, still looking at Her. Ben needed Mallory to stop looking at her like that. Like she was a fucking toy. “But it’s our best bet, and we’ve already lost too much time to waiting for Edgar.” 

“I have an idea-“ 

“No,” Ben cut Her off with a grunt. He knew what type of ideas She always had. Mallory and Butcher always knew what type of ideas she had. Genius, stupid fucking ideas that always worked—so everyone went along with them—and always put her in the line of fire. 

“No?” She glared at him. “What do you mean no?” 

“You lost your idea privileges a while ago, Sunshine.” Ben snapped. “So no.” 

“Oh, fuck you Benjamin.” She kicked him under the table and looked back at Mallory. “Ignore him. I have an idea.” 

Ben gave Mallory his most menacing, violent scowl that the woman knew signaled he wanted to kill someone. But she ignored him, giving Her a nod. “Go on.” 

“He’s looking for me. Let’s show him what he wants.” She took a deep breath, and every fiber of Ben, from the Thing to his brain, was telling him to shut Her up now. Before she said what he knew she was going to. “Let’s show him me.” 

The room was silent, and blood was roaring in Ben’s ears. He glared around at the Pussy Brigade daring any one of them to speak. 

MM was the idiot who volunteered for Ben to kill him first. 

“The hell you mean show him you,” MM said Her name slowly, and the fact that he didn’t seem to be agreeing to it was the only thing that kept Ben rigid in his seat. 

“Bait,” She answered, quiet and soft and Ben was going to kill someone- “Offer him me. Draw him out to a fight to get me. He’ll go, and he’ll leave Ryan behind. He didn’t want Ryan to meet me until I was-“ She made a small choking sound, and that was it. 

“No.” Ben said firmly, daring anyone to fucking disagree with him. “There’s not a chance in fucking hell you’re doing that.” 

“You’d go with me,” She looked at him with wide, sharp, desperate eyes. “Please, Ben. It would work.” 

“Doesn’t fucking matter if it would work. They,” Ben jabbed a finger at Butcher and Mallory. “Swore you weren’t doing stupid fucking dangerous shit anymore.” 

“We did promise him that,” Starlight says Her name gently. “Promised you. That’s, doing that’s too far. Too risky.” 

“It would work,” She was pleading, and if Ben didn’t know better he’d think she fucking wanted to die. “You wouldn’t be giving me to him. We’d escape. We’d go in public, Homelander would see it, we’d keep him there until Ryan was out, and then we would escape.” 

“How?” MM frowned at Her. “The motherfuckers got X-ray vision and super speed. He won’t just lose you in a crowd.” 

“He won’t lose us. We’ll,” She paused, fingers tapping under Ben's hands. “We’ll call him. We won’t go in public, for a fight, that was dumb. We’ll call him, tell him I want to meet him, play right into his fantasy. Annie and Hughie will come with us, because he can’t kill either of them without ruining the narrative. We’ll keep him there until Ryan’s out, then Frenchie will do the explosion. We’ll play it off as a mistake, bad timing, and he’ll go to investigate. By the time he realizes what’s happened, we’ll be gone."

“That’s still a dumb fucking plan,” Ben growled Her name. “What if he doesn’t go. What if he tries to fucking take you.” 

She looked at him, Her beautiful face so sad and determined. “He won’t.” I won’t let him. You won’t let him. 

“It’s a good idea,” Mallory mused. “Where would you meet him?” 

“Old Starlight Fund,” She turned back to the group. “Ben will call him. He’ll take a call from Ben. And then I’ll take the phone and tell him I convinced you to let me see him.” She looked fucking sick—her heartbeat panicked in her chest—and it made the Thing twist inside of Ben. Made Ben sick. “But that you won’t let me meet with him without you there.” 

“The Starlight Fund was where they wanted that first meeting,” MM said to Mallory. “And it’s right fuckin across from the tower. He won’t think we’re trying anything in his backyard.” 

“We’ll vote-“ 

“No!” Ben almost roared. “You fucking pussies goddamn swore-“ 

“Ben,” Her voice was gentle, too fucking gentle. To perfect and kind for this goddamn fucking bullshit, for how fast her heart was inside her. Trust me. Her face pleaded. Just please trust me. 

This is fucking insane, Ben glared at Her. Even for you, this is a fucking stupid, insane plan. 

You promised. She flipped her hand under his, folding her finger between his. You promised me you’d let me do what I needed to. 

You don’t fucking need to do this. 

Yes, She gave him a small smile. I do, Ben. You know that. Please. 

Ben cursed himself in every vulgar, lewd and angry way he knew. “Fine.” He grunted aloud. “But if anything,” he hissed around the table. “Goes fucking south-“ 

“It won’t, Gov.” Butcher winked at him, but there wasn’t anything crude or sneering in his voice. “We’ll get you both home in time for a nice fuckin dinner and dessert.” 

Mallory sighed. “Ready to vote?” After several nods from around the table, she continued. “All in favor?” 

Her hand shot up just as fast as Butcher’s, Kimiko’s close behind them and the French Prick’s right after. For one long second, Ben watched MM frown at Her. Studying Her, before looking at Ben and narrowing his eyes. He looked back at her—hand high in the air and feature determined—and MM’s hand went up. Five fucking idiots in favor. 

“All against?” 

Ben raised his hand, and She glared at him. Benjamin-

I won’t fucking stop you, Ben glared right back. But I’m not in any form of goddamn favor for this shit. 

She sighed, and Ben glanced around the table to see Cocksucker and Starlight both raising their hands with him. Three people who seemed to give a single shit about Her. 

Too fucking little to stop this. 

“Alright,” Mallory nodded. “We’ll move tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Hughie blinked. “Don’t you, uh, need to plan-“ 

“We wasted too much fuckin time, Lad.” Butcher shrugged. “A-Train’s ready, we move tomorrow.” 

“Are we fucking done here?” Ben grunted, and barely saw Mallory’s nod before he was standing, hauling Her up with him, and marching out of the door. He heard her call some goodbyes—running after him with Her heartbeat unsteady—and pulling Ben’s arm until he slowed down. 

“Are you mad at me?” She whispered, and he shook his head. He wasn’t, he was furious with himself. For being a weak fucking pussy who was allowing this to happen. 

Nothing’s going to hurt Her, he reminded himself, reminded the Thing to try stopping it from tearing his tissues and guts apart. No fucking thing is allowed to hurt Her. I’ll be there. If it comes to it, I’ll do whatever it fucking takes to keep Homelander away from Her. Even if she hates me for it. 

“Then can you look at me?” She pleaded, and Ben couldn’t help himself. He glared down at Her, and felt a twist in his stomach at the desperation in Her eyes. “I’m sorry-“ 

“Don’t,” he snapped. The only thing worse than Her being sad and weak and broken was Her apologizing. Thinking she was a problem for him, and not the most perfect thing in the fucking world. “I’m not fucking mad, Sunshine. I’m just-“ He ground his teeth, pushing the words out between them. “I fucking hate this.” 

“I know you do,” She took a small step forward. “But it’ll be fine. I promise.” 

It would be fine. Because Ben wasn’t going to allow it not to be. So he just picked Her up into his arms—if She kept moving so hesitantly and tentatively around him he’d fucking explode—and carried her down the hall. She didn’t push against him or protest, only wrapped Her arms around his neck as Her heartbeat slowed. 

“Ben?” She asked, voice muffled by where she’d pressed into his shoulder, her warm breath fanning against his skin. 

“What.” He glanced down at Her—perfect face turning up to him—and the Thing clenched inside him at her nervous expression. “Are you-“ 

“I’m okay,” She shook her head slightly and Ben grunted, unable to hide his stupid relief. “I, um,” She swallowed. “Do you-“ 

“Spit it out,” he muttered, hunching slightly so She could scan the badge. She’d needed that—needed not lose Herself in a spiral of her too quick head—because she nodded, fingers scratching light against the nape Ben’s neck. She took a deep breath, and Ben turned to push the door with his back. 

“Do you still want me?” 

She was the smartest fucking person Ben had ever met. She was a goddamn genius, it was insufferable and impossibly fucking hot how smart she was. How clever she was, how well she understood other people. Which is why Ben snorted aloud, because for the brilliant woman she was that was such a stupid fucking question. 

“Ben-“ 

“Of course I still fucking want you,” Ben scoffed, walking up the stairs. “You have no fucking idea how much I want you. I’ve wanted you through a lot of your stupid plans, another one isn’t going to make me stop fucking wanting you.” 

Nothing could make me stop wanting you, Ben’s head hummed in time with the Thing. If I ever stop wanting you, it’s because I’m fucking dead. 

“Oh,” She mumbled, and Ben wished She would just look at him so he could figure out what she was thinking. “Good. Is that why-“ 

“I’m not fucking you,” Ben drawled Her name as he pushed open the door to their bedroom. “Not tonight.”

“Okay,” Ben glanced down to find the saddest look he’d ever witnessed on Her face. If the Thing wasn’t fucking whining at the sight of it, he might have been smug about her looking so morose at the idea of not fucking him. “That’s fine.” 

“I’m not fucking you,” Ben grabbed her chin, gently with a firm hand. To make Her look at him. “Because I want to take time when I fuck you. I want to make you scream and make it hurt when you sit down. And you need to be able to walk with full damn mobility tomorrow. So later. When I can keep you in bed for a decade without anyone fucking interrupting.” 

Her heart sped up, and Ben smirked at her. “You started with a week,” She told him, even as she leaned into his hand. “Then it became a year. Now a decade?”

Ben winked. “If you want a century, just fucking ask, beautiful.” 

“Cunt.” 

“Brat.” 

She looked over him, eyes resting where Ben knew she could feel his dick straining against his pants. “What about hand stuff?” 

Ben snorted. “I’ll allow it."

“Oh, well if his majesty allows it-“ 

Her words turned in a yelp as Ben tossed Her onto the bed, grinning down at Her. How fucking perfect she was, looking up at him with wide, pretty eyes that were so soft. For him. Right now, every part of Her was for Ben. 

He started to lean down, planning to move across the bed until he over Her. Test what different sounds She would make in a bed instead of against a wall. But She sat up before he could, crawling across the blankets with her perfect fucking ass in the air. Drawing up on Her knees when she reached Ben at the foot of the bed, smiling at him with all such an ease and adoration. She adored him. 

Ben grabbed Her face between his hands, her back straightening as she grabbed at his shirt. Yanking him closer. Ben attacked her mouth, revering in the way it fit so well against his, the way she tasted like honey and chocolate and Her. That taste of Her he’d gotten early, that wasn’t sweet but strong. The best thing he’d ever had on his tongue, a little weaker in her mouth but still there. The proper fucking taste of pussy. Of Her. Ben didn’t think he could live without it now that he’d had it. 

But there would be time to deal with that later. Right now everything was Her. The way she moaned into his mouth, and one of her hands tracing down Ben’s chest to palm him through his pants. 

He pulled back with a grunt of Her name. “You don’t-“ 

“I want to,” She chased his mouth, but paused. Look up at him with some sort of apprehension that made the Thing itch. “But if you don’t-“ 

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Ben snapped. And he was going to add something about this not being about him right now. Something saying how this was about Her, about making her understand how perfect she was and making her scream his name again. But She nodded with a hum, and squeezed Ben through his pants and suddenly that really didn’t fucking seem worth saying anymore. He’d say it later. If She wanted this—wanted him like this—he couldn’t deny her. Ben wouldn’t be able to deny Her his whole fucking brain or heart or lungs if she asked for them. And what type of fucking pussy would he be to deny the most perfect woman in the world his cock. 

“Off, please.” She nodded to his pants, and Ben almost chuckled because she could’ve called him every vulgar name under the sun and he still would’ve taken his pants off. A please was in no way damn necessary.

“Fine,” he pulled down his pants, watching Her carefully as his boxers followed. “But after this, beautiful, it’s my fucking turn.” 

She swallowed, staring at Ben’s dick—now fully exposed—and Ben had never felt so smug in his fucking life. A lot of women had been impressed by him, but none had looked at him like that. Like they needed to touch him. Ben had never needed to touch them. Not like he was pretty sure he’d have died somewhere in the next few seconds if She hadn’t looked back up at him—with parted lips and a flushed face that Ben needed to burn into his eyes so he’d never stop seeing them—and kissed him so eagerly that he groaned. 

Then She started touching him, and Ben realized he had been right. As he tangled his hands in her hair and started buck into her hand—trying to keep his mouth on hers so she would catch every sound she was causing him to make like he’d eaten hers—Ben knew this would kill him. She would kill him, because nobody should be allowed to so fucking perfect in every possible way. Nobody should be capable making him feel like this with just their hand, just by stroking him and somehow finding such a painfully good fucking pace. Nobody should be allowed to read him well enough that they adjusted for every rut of Ben into their hand, to make him feel like he was high. But She could, because she was perfect, and was trying to kill him. She had to be, or she wouldn’t be pulling back to look at Ben like she was, with something so deep and impossibly caring in her eyes as she pulled him apart. He was supposed to look at Her like that. She was the one supposed to be wrecked. Ben didn’t get wrecked. 

But it’s not like She liked listening to him. Or allowing him to just follow the rules he’d set for himself decades ago. Every single thing Ben had known and understood she’d destroyed, then rebuilt, just by smiling at him and never wavering. Like she was now.

So Ben buried his face in Her neck—finding the spot that he knew would make Her feel half of what he felt—and started to fuck her hand. Faster, faster until she moaned, and he grinned against her. 

“When you’re done,” Ben started to kiss up Her neck until he was growling in her ears. “I’m going to make you scream. Got it?” 

She nodded, and the small sound she made just made Ben go faster. 

“You’re so fucking good,” he kept talking, because Ben hadn’t missed that every time Ben spoke She’d fall a little further into him, her free hand tugging at his hair. “Your hand’s fucking made for this, beautiful.” 

“Ben-“ 

He grinned. There it was. If anyone tried to say his name again—in a way that wasn’t breathless and passionate and falling from their mouth—he’d rip their tongue out. “So fucking perfect.” He pulled Her closer, one hand cupping the back of Her head and the other kneading at the soft skin of her stomach, arm fully around her waist. She squeezed him just fucking right, and Ben hissed against her skin. “Fucking perfect. Too fucking good at this, too fucking beautiful, too fucking-“ 

She turned Her head, moving Ben to her lips, just as she moaned down his throat and made one, long movement—nails running lightly against his balls with another squeeze—that did it. Ben groaned Her name into her wide, perfect mouth, swearing as he jerked forward. She didn’t stop, didn’t pull back, just stayed exactly where Ben needed her until the bare parts of her legs were covered in cum. Ben’s cum. On Her. 

Ben kissed Her roughly, waiting right up until she whined to pull his mouth away slowly. Panting slightly, he kissed the top of Her head and waited for her to look up at him. 

“My turn.” 

He didn’t wait for Her to speak before leaning over her, moving her down until she was flat on the bed below him. Letting her grind against his chest and wrap her legs around him, moan his name and claw at his hair and back, for just long enough to build Her up and up. Ben moved his hands down from her face to her thighs, squeezing once. 

“Please,” she whimpered into his mouth, and the only sound better than that was what followed it. “Ben.” 

He gave Her one last, wet kiss, and dropped down to the edge of bed, kneeling on the floor and using his hold on her thighs to pull Her forward. As Ben hooked her legs over his shoulders—tossing her underwear and shorts away into some corner of the room—he saw Her sitting up on her elbows, frowning down at him. 

“We said hand stuff, Benjamin.“ 

He raised his brows at Her. “Do you want me to stop?” 

”No, but you’re cheating-“ 

Ben didn’t give her an opportunity to keep talking. He’d have a long time—if he was lucky—to listen to Her talk about whatever she fucking wanted. Right now he needed to make her scream. 

It was almost immediate. Ben dove forward, sucking on Her clit one long time, and she whined, high and loud. 

“Fuck, Ben-“ 

That was good. He liked that. Ben liked everything about Her, but that—the sound of Her feeling good with his name—was one of the fucking best things he’d ever known. 

She needed to do it again. He needed to find every way she could do it. This was his fucking job now. Everything else could fucking wait until she came all over Ben’s face, until she felt so good she’d never be in danger of breaking again. 

So Ben set to work. Sucking and licking and goddamn eating Her alive. Tracing rough patterns with his hands against her thighs and ass, bracing an arm over her hips to keep her still. To allow Ben to fuck her with his tongue until the taste of Her, that real, powerful taste was drowning him as she screamed his name. He’d die for this. She wouldn’t have to kill him because he’d give everything to keep Her like this forever. To keep her blissfully whining and moaning, to make her never have to feel fear again because she was too busy being tended to under him. For there to be even the slimmest fucking chance that She’d want him to do this forever. Want him forever. 

For now, though, Ben would settle for this. He’d settle for him being the one who made Her squirm in this moment. Ben got to see this, Ben got to cause this. Right now She adored him, right now she wanted Ben. Nothing else. Just Ben. 

So he’d give Her everything he had. 

He focused fully on Her clit, puffed and red, and dedicated himself to it. Pulled it into his mouth until her screams turned to breathless begs and sounds that might be Ben’s name—tangled with other noises he didn’t understand—and then let his teeth brush it, groaning against Her at the same time. She managed to scream one last time—hoarse and deafening and the most amazing sound in the fucking world—as She came. Squeezing around his tongue as Ben lowered to taste it all, as she pushed up into his face to give him it all. Back arched off the bed and thighs trapping Ben against Her as if he was so much of a fucking pussy idiot he’d even damn think to try and leave.

When She was done—shaking and breathing heavily as she relaxed fully around him—Ben rose up, wiping the remaining wetness clinging to his beard with one hand. Watching Her, pulled apart and reaching for him, just him. So thoroughly wrecked at his efforts, heart hamming against her chest. So fucking beautiful. 

Ben started to walk to the bathroom—quickly pulling his pants back on—but She made a needy sound for her throat that made him pause. 

“Are you-“ 

“Where are you going?” She whispered, and Ben felt the Thing rip inside of him. Torn between making Her smile and taking care of her. 

“Getting a towel.” He grunted, still rooted in place. “Need to clean you up.” 

“No,” Her voice was hoarse, and she was starting to sit up. “I’m fine, just stay-“ 

That won the war inside of him. Ben crossed back to Her in two long steps. Dropping next to her on the bed and rolling her onto his chest. Lying with her until her heart slowed, her breaths became easy against him. 

“Ben?” She whispered into the air, the room having fallen dark at some point. Ben hadn’t noticed really, unable to be fucked to pay attention to anything but Her, against him. Safe and happy and warm. 

He hummed Her name, and waited for her to continue. 

“When it’s over, I’ll go with you.” 

Time stopped. Everything stopped. Nothing fucking mattered except Ben knowing exactly what She fucking meant. If it was what he thought—fucking hoped—she meant. “With me?” 

“Wherever they send you off to, when this is done. I’ll go with you.” 

Ben nodded slowly at nothing, trying to act like he was unaffected. Like the Thing wasn’t bellowing and scraping at his ribs and brain, trying to tell him something really important, make Ben tell Her something important, but he couldn’t figure out what it was- 

“If you, um, if you still want that.” 

He blinked, glaring down at Her in the dark. “Did I ever fucking tell you I didn’t?” 

“No, but you haven’t said anything-“ 

“You’re coming with me,” Ben said, firmly. She wasn’t allowed to think anything else, not if She wanted this. Wanted him. “Nothing in the world will goddamn stop me taking you with me, not if that’s what you’re choosing.” 

“I chose that,” Ben could feel Her smile against the base of his neck. “I chose you.” 

The Thing needed something. Something earth-shaking and impossibly fucking vital for Ben to know if he was going to keep living. Something She had to know or Ben might explode. 

“I’ll let you fuck me on the beach,” She hummed, and Ben just decided to ignore the Thing. She was more important. “And in the ocean and in a bed and wherever else you want.” 

“Wherever I want?” Ben chuckled into the dark. “Dangerous fucking promises, beautiful.” 

She yawned, and Ben kissed Her head as her voice turned sleepy. “That’s the point, Pretty Boy.” 

As She pulled herself further into him—breathing turning slow and body relaxing further under Ben’s hands—Ben said Her name softly. 

“Yeah?” 

“If this doesn’t work,” Ben said slowly. “I want to fucking leave anyway. If we don’t get the kid, me and you are gone, Sunshine. We’ll go wherever you want, and we’ll go together. Somewhere with a beach for me to fuck you on, or somewhere in the mountains so you can scream even louder. But we’ll be gone.” 

She sighed, but didn’t protest. Ben had expected Her to push back—tell him they had a job and responsibility and had to finish this—and even as he’d thought the words he’d known she’d tell him no, but she didn’t. 

“I’ll think about it,” She said after a long, silent minute, and Ben wasn’t sure if it was Her or the haze of the sleep overtook her only seconds later. He didn’t know if she’d even remember him asking, or was just too tired to try and convince him that they couldn’t just leave. 

But Ben decided to believe Her. To allow himself to think that she’d really consider it. Either way she’d go with him. No matter what, she’d stay with him. That was all that fucking matters. 

It was the steady beat of Her heart, paired with the lingering taste of her and sound of Her wanting him, that allowed Ben to sleep soundly through the night.

End Note: I’ve made the unprecedented and totally out of left field executive decision to make Ben a top. Crazy. I’m sure this is really shocking news, but we’ll get through this like we always do. Together and horny.

Leave a comment, if you want! Any and all thoughts, feedback, jokes, and predications are always welcome, and will make my day. Also I'm thinking of giving you guys a playlist? Idk lemme know if that's something you'd want. Thank you so much for reading, and see you soon <3!

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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

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: Taking Care Of You When You're Drunk

A/N: Not requested, just an idea I had! Still not feeling great, but I will definitely get back to requests tomorrow :) This is just a lil thank you for your patience my loves! Feedback is always appreciated! 💜

Butcher notices you've been drinking a lot more than usual. Ever since you found out he was dying, you've been trying not to think about it or worry about it, and the only way you can do that is by drinking. Getting drunk is just a fun side effect. He'll drive you from the bar, taking your shoes off before tucking you into his bed. He hates the idea that you're hurting yourself like this because of him, because he didn't listen to you and he took the V without regard to his or your safety. The least he could do was hold your hair while you threw up and bring you a glass of water and some Tylenol. You don't talk about it, though. You don't want to talk about him dying, you don't want to face that future, and you don't want to talk about your growing problem. You were drinking on the job, too, maintaining a certain numbness so that nothing else could hurt you.

Hughie hates that you're drinking more. He understands why. More and more stuff just keeps going wrong. More and more issues pop up. It's hard to be positive or optimistic. It was easier to find your way to the bottom of a bottle than to come face to face with any of this stuff. He doesn't mean to pry, but he asks you a lot of questions. The main one is why are you doing this? You just shrugged. It's so hard to explain. Everything feels like too much. You were tired, and scared, and you weren't sure you wanted to do this anymore. What was the point? He tried to cheer you up. You had the serum in the severed leg, you were so close, why give up now? You wanted to be that hopeful. You really did, but you couldn't.

Annie definitely lectures you. This is the third night in a row (this week alone) where the bartender called her, your emergency contact, taking your keys from you. You've been drinking a lot more, ever since you left The Seven and joined The Boys. You worked with Vought for so long, she knew there was a lot you weren't saying. She tried to talk to you about it, but you were so cagey, shutting her out instead. Shutting everyone out. It was awful, that much she knew. Still, everyone went through something. That didn't give you the right to get as drunk as you were as often as you were. You're barely listening, but she gives you her speech anyways. She'll keep telling it to you until something changes.

M.M. hates taking care of you when you're like this. The biggest thing he can't stand is the vomit. He stays as far away from you as possible, yelling from the across the room if you're okay. He offers hand sanitizer and napkins and mouthwash, but he refuses to get any closer than that. The noises alone make his skin crawl, let alone the smell. He's in charge now. He feels like he has to take care of everyone, regardless of the issue. You getting drunk wasn't a problem yet, but he knew he'd have to talk to you if it got worse. Drinking every night just to function during the day wasn't you. You couldn't keep going on like this. If that included tough love, so be it. You needed to hear it.

Frenchie drinks with you. He never goes as far as you, realizing that at least one of you should be slightly more sober. He doesn't really mind when you get drunk. Something happens with you. You become happier, sillier, more fun. You smile and laugh more. He likes seeing that. He likes knowing you're at least a little happier. Life had become so hard lately. Your past was catching up with you, and you didn't know how to handle it, so you got drunk. He understood the concern from everyone else, but he knew yelling and lecturing would change anything. At least he could be there for you. At least he could take care of you and laugh with you and be there. That's all you really needed.

Kimiko is quite gentle when you're drunk. She walks you home from the bar and takes off your shoes and asks you questions: Are you nauseous? Are you hungry? Thirsty? She gets it. When she saw the posters of the Shining Light Liberation Army, she drank more than a few beers. Anything she could get her hands on. Sometimes, you just need a little liquid courage to face the hard things. She makes sure you have pain relief for the headache you'll feel tomorrow and gets you something greasy to put in your stomach. She doesn't like or want to villainize your actions. You were all tired of this, fighting a battle you could not win. She stuck up for you when the others thought you were being messy or stupid. You just needed some time, that was all.

Bonus! Homelander thinks you're messy, a degenerate, and he won't tolerate it. When he knows you're drunk or hungover he makes a special point to seek you out, to punish you. You're a member of The Seven, you should act like it. The same way it infuriates him when Sage lobotomizes herself, he feels that when you start drinking. You have a public image to uphold. Even when you go out in civilian clothes, anyone could spot you. Anyone could ask for a photo or ask questions. It was stupid and selfish and reckless and as long as he's in charge, he won't tolerate it. He humiliates you, he says, because he cares. You think it's because he likes having power over you when you're at your most vulnerable.

Bonus! Soldier Boy thinks you're a lightweight and calls you out on it any chance he can get. There's no keeping up with him. Even being a Supe, you could still get incredibly drunk. Your tolerance was a lot higher than humans, but nowhere near Soldier Boys. He doesn't really take care of you when you're drunk. It's more like lying you on your side and leaving you to sleep. He's not very caring towards anyone, let alone someone he considers lesser than himself. He's fun to drink with, but the fun pretty much stops there. If he's feeling extra considerate, he might throw a blanket over you, but that's as far as he goes. He'll leave you and keep on drinking for the rest of the night. You being drunk won't put a damper on his legendary partying.

[leon-0069]

the boys but i made them tiny

[babybirbb]

“you let your canary die, how you gonna know when you've gone too far?”

“you were always like my canary i suppose”

[londyboobs]

the boys + favorite scenes (2/?)

[sarhcameron]

coming back with the anniekimiko best friends agenda right now.

it's about time and i NEED them to get to know each other better and trust each other in a way it's their thing, you know?

they both experienced what it's like to be a supe, all the good and especially the bad things about it. they know what it's like to be consumed by your power to a level where you almost no longer recognize yourself. and they also faced the conflict between wanting to have the power to help people, but at the same time not wanting it because you know the consequences.

of course they have hughie, frenchie, and the other boys who they can share their thoughts with, but it's still not the same as sharing it with a person who completely understands them, and they can be that person to each other. the vision is clear and i hope the writers say it too!