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pinkberrytea · 26 days ago

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He is the king, you are his crown; he is the tree, you are its blooms.

Requiem—A ceremony for the dead. The Vampire Ascendant once made her his bride; now he weds her before the gods. Eternal rest grant unto them, and let perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.

The pleasure of your company is requested at the marriage of Lord Astarion Ancunín to his darling consort, Lady Ancunín. Reception to follow.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 7k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! this one was inspired by information released by Ed Greenwood about wedding rites in the Forgotten Realms. I thought the blood pact in particular would fit AA and consort perfectly! hopefully it is an enjoyable read. I’d like to thank @bardic-inspo and @starryjuicebox for their support and help with this piece. I appreciate you lovelies!

tags: blood drinking; cunnilingus; orgasm edging; overstimulation; fluff & smut; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; dry humping; frottage; multiple orgasms; possessive behavior; mirror sex; wedding night; piv sex

“Art desirous of union with the man who comes for thee?”

As the Galerian priestess’ words reverberate around the otherwise solemnly quiet venue, you are escorted to the snow-covered aisle by your dapperly dressed handmaidens, clad in beautiful scarlet silks with gemstones sown on the sleeves, and all eyes present turn to gaze upon your quivering form—yet none are more piercing than the pair of crimson irises taking in your image from their place by the altar, ruby red flecks swimming in pools of blood whose glistening surface is now disturbed by the waves of emotion breaking on their sanguine shores. Astarion had not been prepared for this; for how his heart would beat faster, how his stomach would twist and turn at the sight of you in your wedding gown, holding the bouquet of dahlias and asphodels he’d endeavored to choose for you himself close to your chest, pale cheeks glowing a faint pink and snowflakes falling leisurely on the veil covering your hair. Suddenly, the shallow reasons for why he had even come up with the idea of hosting the ceremony are all but forgotten, and his frenzied thoughts reduced to a single word: perfect. You look perfect. A vision in white, a bloodied rose, his darling consort, his sinful bride.

His eternal lover.

The moment you start walking towards him, the attendees all rise from their seats and the processional begins, your timid gait almost in rhythm with each pluck of the harp’s strings. He looks hauntingly beautiful in his elegant white doublet, intrinsically embellished with golden and carmine embroidery, silver curls pristinely arranged and marble skin shining ethereally, reflecting the gentle light of the winter moon. The fresh wound on his hand stands in stark contrast against the otherwise smooth blancheness of his palm, blood trickling down onto the soft snow below, and the enticing scent of it wafts through the air almost like an invitation, a temptation too great for your starved self, as all the endless preparations have left you no time to quench the everlasting thirst he bequeathed to you. How long has it been since you last fed? Days? Weeks? Try as you might, you cannot remember. Yet it matters so little now, as he waits for you with almost jovial expectation, ready to once again seal your undying bond, renew the vows made on the fateful eve of your turning.

“Seven thousand souls have given me the power to carve out my own future, and I want you to be part of it.”

The more you approach him, the thicker the air around him becomes, the louder the buzzing in his ears sounds. Your lashes look so long, your rouged lips so full—and gods, how sweetly you gaze upon him, how bashfully, naught behind the bright gleam in your lachrymose eyes but pure, unconditional adoration. Through all the pain, all the hurt, your devotion to him never once faltered, and though the perpetual guilt haunts you both still, it is not in spite of your shared burden that you are brought closer together, but because of it. As you finally make your way to the altar and take your place by his side, time seems to come to a standstill, and in the minutes that follow, you can see nothing but his face, smell nothing but his blood, hear nothing but his heartbeat. No one else matters, nothing else matters—just you, him, and your immortal love.

“My sole endeavor now is to make this world yours and mine alone.”

The priestess takes your hand in hers, and using an ornamental dagger, cuts a gash across its surface, as she did with Astarion’s before your arrival—yet unlike his, the blood takes a while to bloom from the broken skin, so little of it remaining within your veins. You bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a yelp, her treatment of you clearly rougher than would be otherwise necessary; the eldest heiress of an influential patriar, her father had sponsored the construction of the first Galerian temple of Baldur’s Gate, a venture Astarion had enthusiastically supported to gain his favor, and with it, access to the growing following of the God of Ambition. A young acolyte at the time, her infatuation for your darling was undeniable—it was almost wicked then when he arranged for her to be the one to wed you, a political ploy to cement the bond between the two families. You knew his motives, and his cruelty brought you no joy, yet his darkness was something you had long decided to embrace rather than deny, the weight of your choices a penance you’d not ever dare renounce.

Once the deed is done, she lets go of you and backs away, a hint of contempt muddying her lowered gaze. Neither of you pay it heed—rather, you remain focused on each other, the guests but faceless figures looming in the background, blurred and meaningless. He holds his hand up, eyes locked with yours all the while, pupils blown out and raw emotion blazing like a firestorm in their depths. You do the same, your movements small and uncertain, yet as the tips of your fingers touch, he is the one to close the distance between your bloodstained palms, wound against wound, your crimson flowing into his and his flowing into yours. The connection assails you with almost overwhelming fierceness, your minds blended together and a thread of blood binding your souls to one another, as if you were but a single being. You can feel his heart pounding in your chest, his red coursing through your body, his thoughts seeping inside your head and reassuring you of that which needs not be professed; he loves you, oh, how dearly he loves you, like the moon loves the stars, like the dusk loves the dawn. Yours is the light keeping him from being consumed by the shadows, a flickering flame he is willing to protect, no matter the cost.

“I ask for thy hand as my equal, that our lives run as one, from this day forth,” he says, voice soft like velvet, laced with undeniable warmth despite its measured cadence. You may not truly be his equal, not really, but that is a fact you were always willing to accept. He is the king, you are his crown; he is the tree, you are its blooms. You could not hope to compare to his greatness, he could not hope to live up to yours—yet even if those around you may not understand, even if they may challenge it, your love is no less real, no less precious.

“I accept, before the gods, and before all these good people,” you answer, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes as the words slip from your trembling lips. His feelings become entangled with your own while the blood link lasts, and hidden beneath the yearning, beneath the sheer intensity of his longing for you, you sense anguish, you sense remorse. How many times have you danced to this same tune, played this same game? What a hopeless fool he is—manipulating your affections and toying with them, only to then realize the upper hand was hardly his, not in that pretty clearing during your first night together, not now, as you stand before him so beautifully, so earnestly, laying bare your heart and handing it to him on a silver platter. Your unwavering trust in him is something he was never quite able to come to terms with—why? Why is it that you want him, even after everything? Why give yourself to a selfish villain such as he while asking for nothing in return, nothing but for him to love you back? He knows not the answer to this, but still he would take it; your body, your mind, your soul, he would take it all and make them his, and his alone.

“I shall protect thee and succor thee, until my breath fails and the gods claim me, putting thy needs and comfort before mine own, and keeping no secret from thee, until the end of my days, or until the gods set us apart, though I hereby pray they shall never do so.” The gods have no say in this—you are forever his, and he is forever yours. Astarion is your god, and he shall be the one to claim you; such is the fate you have chosen for yourself. Once he finishes voicing the pledge, your hands come apart and the connection is severed, leaving you empty and vulnerable. Still, you carry on with the rites, bringing your bloodied fingers to his parted lips, and his to yours, staining them with your combined essence; while mimicking your movements, he purposefully refuses to pry his eyes from yours, looking upon you and through you, so fiercely yet so gently, so ardently yet so lovingly. You lose yourself in the urgency of his gaze, giving into its passionate allure, feeling your body lean forward almost as if you were but a flesh puppet, and him the performer pulling your strings.

“You’ve never tasted so sweet, darling.”

He lowers his head to meet you halfway, and the instant your mouth crashes into his, all your thoughts crumble down and dissolve into nothing. The coppery taste of your crimson mixed with his spreads through your tongue, reaching the back of your throat, and the pain of hunger tugs violently at your stomach; yet even in death, as he breathes into you, you feel alive, through him, for him, enraptured by the softness of his lips and the warmth of his skin, protected from the bloodlust, from its all-consuming fury. He cups your cheeks with both of his hands and pulls your face even closer to his, almost as if trying to assimilate you, become one with you, to which you respond just as desperately, standing on your tiptoes and wrapping your arms around his neck. The tears that had been threatening to fall spill from your closed eyes, the surge of emotions bursting your frozen heart open; he dries them with his thumbs, delicately tucking the few hair strands that have slipped from underneath your headdress behind your ear. Blood is his ink, and with it, he shall again carve his name on your soul and claim that which belongs to him—requiem aeternam dona eis, so that tomorrow, you may rise anew.

“We have a beautiful, bloody future to look forward to, my love.”

It’s useless. No matter for how long or how hard you peer into the grand cheval mirror standing before you, it refuses to show you your reflection. Rather, all you see is an empty room, illuminated by naught but the moonshine creeping in from the open balcony, its velvet drapers swaying with the evening breeze. The snowfall has ceased, but the air remains mercilessly gelid; with your veins painfully wanting for blood to keep them warm, you wrap your arms around yourself, which unsurprisingly brings you no comfort. The guests are all gone, the ceremony is over—now you are left alone with the wandering voices echoing in the recesses of your mind, which grow ever so loud as the aftermath dawns upon you and dissipates the dreamy fog that had been cast over your still veiled head up until this very moment.

Alone—yet not for long.

“Stunning.” You hear his voice before you see him approach you from behind, elegant fingers brushing against your bare shoulders and squeezing them gently, the soothing heat emanating from his hands sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. “You look stunning, darling,” Astarion whispers in your ear, his pretty lips grazing the ruby-carved earring hanging off it, which in turn dangles ever so softly, catching the moon beams on its shiny surface; breathing hot air onto your sensitive flesh, he then slides them down your neck and plants a loving kiss at its base, half-lidded eyes staring back at his own lonesome figure on the other side of the glass.

“Do I?” you ask, the hint of disdain in your tone taking even you by surprise. He, however, seems unphased; on the contrary, his handsome face creases into a subtle, cheeky smile, and his hands glide down your arms to then join them around your waist, his chiseled chest pressed flat against your back. As if under a spell, you promptly let down your walls and lean into his embrace, closing your eyes and cocking your head to the side to grant him better access. His smile widens in response, and he kisses your neck again, letting his fangs ghost over the set of bite marks disrupting your otherwise immaculate skin for a moment before pulling back slightly and resting his chin on that same spot.

“Why, shall I be your mirror, my sweet?” Astarion purrs, the silky smoothness of his voice covering your now limp body in goosebumps; while it may sound like he is being unserious or trying to egg you on, there is sincerity underlying his offer, an honest wish to make good on it. “Would that please you? Knowing what the world sees when it looks at you.” He articulates each word with a guttural growl, scarlet irises darkening as his grip on you tightens, yet swirling in their murky depths, you glimpse ruddy hues of worship and desire, fondness and hunger. “What I see.”

No sooner than the question leaves his lips, he spins you around and presses one of his hands to the small of your back, the other brushing your veil away from your face and caressing your cold cheek—once you lock eyes with him, his cheerfulness vanishes and he gazes upon your graceful figure in pensive silence, scanning every inch of your frame, from the opulent headpiece around your forehead to the sequined pumps hugging your tired feet. After what seems like an eternity, he brings his hand on your cheek down to clasp one of your own, fingers intertwined with yours; lifting it up gently, he then gives it a tender kiss, an impish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“May I have this dance, dearest?” As he waits for your answer, it occurs to you that the chance to waltz with him never really presented itself, politicians and underground overlords alike having kept him plenty busy throughout the night. You nod timidly, and immediately he takes the lead, stepping to the side and bringing you with him. You tumble awkwardly as if about to fall, but his palm splayed across your back holds you firmly, and instead you lean onto his torso, resting your head right above his heart. The instant you do, its loud pounding reverberates against your ear, lulling you, cradling you, and your tangled bodies sway gently to its soothing rhythm. In the mirror, the image reflected is that of a groom dancing with his ghost bride; no music, no ballroom, no elegant footwork, and yet the intensity of his lovestruck stare paints such a vivid picture that one might see shadows of your presence reflected in his eyes.

“Let’s see then—a slender neck, deliciously bare as if inviting me to feast on it, thanks to that lovely hairdo of yours,” Astarion suddenly says, voice quiet but hoarse, tinged with undeniable specks of lust. He guides your hand to his own waist and lets go of it, only to then slide his newly freed digits along the curve of your throat, carefully tracing the bite marks with their soft pads. “Though I must say, beautiful as your gown may be, I would very much like to undo that pesky knot keeping some of it concealed. May I, darling?” he asks, fingers quickly moving to the satin ribbon holding your bodice in place, wrapped fast around your neckline and flowing down your naked back. You nod again, cheek still pressed to his chest, and with a smug simper, he expertly unlaces it with unparalleled adroitness, letting the pure white fabric slip down your now completely nude bosom. You shudder and snuggle closer to him, in response to which he affectionately folds an arm over your shoulder and buries his fingers in your hair, partially unweaving the elaborate braids that had been tugging at your scalp all day, only those held by the crystal flower barrettes on your temples remaining.

“Flawless, supple skin, which flushes so handsomely with my essence blooming under it,” he continues, digits sinking deeper into your ribs before he twirls you around, dipping forward as if going in for a kiss, though instead, he reaches for the hemline of your dress, hiking it up your long legs and in so doing, exposing the sinuous contours of your hips and thighs. Almost absentmindedly, the wandering fingers knead their way to the plushness of your round behind, still hidden beneath your underpants; giving it a firm squeeze, he then brings his other hand down from your head to unbutton the tulle corset attached to your petticoat, and just like that, the sumptuous wedding gown falls to your feet, leaving you covered in nothing but your veil and smallclothes.

“Bright crimson eyes that always stare so very coyly, so very docilely.” With a provocative growl, Astarion pulls you taut against him, and once your navel clashes with his crotch, the obvious erection forming under his pants becomes nested right between your bodies. Holding onto your waist with both of his hands, he then presses his mouth to an artery pulsating slightly above your collarbone, letting his warm tongue graze it teasingly as he speaks. “And oh, those precious little fangs, peeking from under lips most luscious… shall we put them to good use, pretty vampling?” he asks, pitch lowering dangerously, and his meaning is made instantly clear—positioned as he is, his own neck is conveniently exposed to you, too tantalizing an offer to ever be refused, so you accept it graciously, biting down on his ivory flesh just as he bites down on yours. The piercing pain of his teeth puncturing your skin is entirely numbed as the thick blood cascades down your throat, and you lose yourself in the bliss of life being returned to your undead veins, gripping both of his arms in an almost delirious haze; while drinking from each other, you rock back and forth, dancing still, a dark waltz under the fading stars.

“I can’t wait to taste your lips after you’ve tasted me.”

Never unlatching from your bruising artery, Astarion wraps his arms around your rear and picks you up, taking you with him to the canopy bed on the other side of the room. Upon reaching it, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, you in his lap, knees bent on each side of him. He takes a few more swigs of your crimson before pulling away, though you remain feeding—while letting you drink, he carefully removes your headdress and veil, laying them aside to then cradle the back of your scalp with one of his hands and gently run his fingers down your spine with the other. You both moan and groan quietly in each other’s ears, and you can feel him leisurely grinding his hardness against your core; due to the friction, slick starts building between your now puffed-up folds, most of his red going straight to your aching sex rather than swimming around in your stomach.

“That’s enough, pet,” he coos after some time, lightly tapping your shoulder, and you reluctantly obey, prying yourself off him with a needy whimper. He smirks and plants a kiss on your forehead, sliding his hands under your thighs to lift you up slightly and rotate your body so that your back is turned to his chest. Once your buttocks are pushed flush against the swell between his legs, you help him peel off your soaked underpants—pressing his knees to the back of yours, he then spreads you both wide, exposing your pretty cunt to the chilly winter air. You mewl pathetically, casting down your gaze in shame and hiding behind your palms; with an amused snicker, he grabs your wrists and lowers them, holding both together with one hand and using the other to grasp your chin. “Look, darling,” he whispers, tilting up your jaw and brushing his fangs against your earlobe, “see how exquisite you are.”

Raising your head almost hesitantly, you do as told, and it takes you a moment to register what has now come into your field of vision: the mirror, albeit more distant, is angled perfectly to reflect your naked form, no longer a ghostly apparition, but flesh and bone, your image returned to you thanks to Astarion’s ascended essence sizzling within your veins. Still holding your wrists, he slides the hand on your chin down your neck, gliding it across the hollows of your sternum and then up the soft curve of your breasts, where he stops to pinch a pebbling nipple, earning a high-pitched yelp from you; looking straight into your eyes through the glass, he lovingly kisses the back of your shoulder and smiles against your skin, obviously pleased with himself. After playing with the puckered nub for a moment, his fingers continue descending, through your navel and crotch—finally reaching their intended destination, they circle the twitching bundle of nerves crowning your mound, and you arch your back in turn, shock waves shooting up your limbs.

“Asta—ah!” you moan, rolling your hips into his hand, but he immobilizes you by tensioning his arm muscles, without ever stopping stroking the engorged knot. You whine impatiently, the tautness in your lower belly growing more agonizing by the second; Astarion, however, is clearly in no rush, his movements mercilessly languid. Pressing down on your clit with a deft digit, he buries two others in the sticky warmth of your folds, parting them gently and hungrily gazing upon your wetness, or rather, its reflection—in the mirror, your slickened entrance glistens wantonly, a honied flower waiting to be pollinated, given a healthy flush by the heat of his crimson. One finger rims it tentatively, coating itself in your juices; with no prior warning, he then plunges it in you up to the knuckle, venturing within the tightness of your walls. You try to stifle a shriek, in vain—emboldened by this, he plunges another, watching mischievously as you writhe and squirm.

“Oh, little love, I do quite like those pretty noises you’re making, I like them very much,” he says, kissing your shoulder again and curling his fingers inside your slit, which flutters desperately in its urge to be stuffed full. Overwhelmed by the lewdness of the scene unfolding before you, not quite used to witnessing yourself in such a vulnerable position, you try turning your head to the side, only for him to quickly let go of your wrists, capturing your face in his now freed hand and pulling it back into its previous position, intent on having you be his audience as he brings about your ruin. “Tut tut, cheeky pup.” Despite clicking his tongue, Astarion’s voice carries a playful lilt, accompanied by the roguish glint in his lust-ridden irises. Bucking his hips forward, he wedges his still clothed bulge deeper within the valley of your ass, and even through the fabric, you can feel it twitching and jerking. “You will be a good girl for me, won’t you?”

You nod vigorously, hot tears of yearning prickling your eyelids and escaping through your long lashes. He dries them with his thumb, the smirk still gracing his lips, yet his gaze softens a little; moving his hand from your jaw to your chest, he then cups one of your breasts, squeezing and kneading it gently before resuming his attentions between your legs, now pumping his elegant digits in and out of your center. Feeling your body edging closer to the precipice of desire, you hold onto both of his arms, clenched abdomen covered in a glossy sheen of salty sweat and cheeks burning bright red—however, just as you are about to climax, he suddenly snatches you up and throws you on the bed, stradling you right after so that you become entrapped beneath him.

“Good girls must earn their spurs, darling,” he growls, grabbing both of your knees and pushing them apart, licking his lips at the sight of your cunt spasming madly in protest, hopelessly slickened and swollen. “So needy… have you no patience, my dear?” Smoldering you with a lascivious stare, he ignores your avid pleas and lowers his head, pressing his mouth to the plushness of one of your thighs. Ever so delicately, he kisses it and lingers for a short while, only to then unceremoniously sink his fangs into the squishy flesh, coaxing a soft cry out of you. Moving his hands to your hips, he holds you in place while voraciously sucking on the throbbing artery, some of the blood leaking and trickling down onto the silk sheets. Your arousal makes your crimson taste delectably sweet, an ambrosial aphrodisiac—with each gulp, his neglected cock jolts angrily, translucent drops of precome running down its length, so hard now that the pink tip peeks out from the hem of his pants.

“It will only hurt a bit—the pleasure will be far greater than the pain.”

“Hnng—Astarion, please…!” you beg, attempting to bring a hand to the tumid bud convulsing atop your dripping core, but Astarion seizes it with one of his own and pins it to the mattress while drinking still. Finally unlatching from your thigh, he laps at the red beads that remain oozing out of the small wounds inflicted on your skin by his teeth, following the trail down to your groin; once there, he lets his tongue wander and graze your folds, tauntingly flicking it as if by accident. You bury the fingers of your other hand in his silvery curls, half expecting him to stop you, but he doesn’t—instead, he brushes the wet appendage against your clit, swirling it around for a moment before making his way downwards, leaving a glistening string of his saliva mixed with your lifeblood in his wake. Upon arriving at your entrance, he traces its outer edges, savoring you with lengthy strokes to then delve inside at last.

“Oh, gods… hah…” No longer capable of keeping the breathy whimpers and erratic pants contained within the confines of your mouth, you throw your head back and let them fall freely from your parted lips, grabbing a fistful of his hair, though carefully so as not to pull at it. Pleased with your reaction, he rewards you by nuzzling his face against your mound, reaching as deeply within you as possible while massaging and tasting your tender walls, the bridge of his nose auspiciously pressed against the hood of your pearl. Heat starts again pooling in your stomach, your every nerve set ablaze, and it doesn’t take long before the tension snaps and you finally come undone on his tongue, creaming and clenching around it. He enthusiastically partakes of your tangy nectar, eating you up still even as you bask in the afterglow, only stopping once you let go of him. With one last lick, he propels his torso back up, drool dribbling down his chin.

“Ah, but that won’t do,” Astarion says, releasing your wrist to wipe his lips, their corners still quirked upwards into a haughty, devilish smile. “No, my sweet… I’m not nearly done with you yet.” Lowering both hands to his pants, he swiftly drags them down, freeing his erection and wrapping his fingers around its base. Your eyes are irresistibly drawn to it, and from under heavy lids you gape at the bulging veins and enlarged crown, his foreskin tautly pulled back to reveal the weeping slit. Leaning on one of your knees and slipping his free hand under the other to keep you spread open, he then guides the swollen cockhead to your fluttering folds, dipping it between them and glazing himself in your essence. With a quiet whine, you wiggle your hips, your sex still sensitive as you recover from your orgasm, but instead of backing out, he doubles down and presses the velvety tip harder against your raw knot, chuckling as your protests grow in volume and you try to slither away from him, straining your thigh muscles in an unsuccessful effort to close your legs.

“Gods, you are too cute.” Staring smugly at your flailing body while rubbing himself up and down your wetness, Astarion fastens his grip on your calf using just about enough force not to hurt you, but simply restrain your movements. “Where’s my good girl? Again. I know you can come again,” he purrs, voice deceptively gentle, although the warmth in his eyes is genuine. You shake your head, unable to muster up an intelligible sentence, your mind wiped clean of coherent thought; bending down to brush his lips against your temple, he kisses away the tears beading your lashes, affectionately pressing his forehead to yours. “You can do it. Come, my love. For me.” The whisper caresses your ears with such tenderness that as if by magic, you feel yourself relax, the pain slowly giving way to rekindled arousal. You try your best to focus on the budding sensation, reveling in the smoothness of his cockhead as it grinds against your sore clit, indulging in the intimacy of having your center of pleasure almost merged with his. Gradually, the waves of lust and hunger rippling through you gain momentum, spreading from your gut to your extremities, every inch of your skin tingling and prickling with primal yearning—taking notice of your rapid ascent to rapture, he hastily aligns his cock with your entrance, stretching its tight borders open, though not yet shafting himself inside.

“That’s it, my darling little bride. Come for your sire.” You can barely hear his words as white noise overtakes all your senses, the world around you reduced to a blurry, chaotic maelstrom. The moment he finally slides his length between your walls, filling you to the brim in a single thrust, your toes curl and your hands ball into fists, your body going limp as you are at last pushed over the edge of ecstasy. Letting go of your knee to take off his doublet, he carelessly tosses it on the floor to then gently cradle both of your cheeks, pulling you into a sensual, passionate kiss. Muffled groans form in the back of his throat with every twitch of his cock, which pulsates longingly as you vibrate and flutter around it; he nips at your bottom lip as if asking for passage, sucking on the bloody droplets drawn from the nicked flesh, and once you comply, without delay his tongue starts massaging your own, eagerly rolling over it while he patiently waits for you to adjust to his size. Wrapping both of your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, you roll your hips upwards, wanting to feel all of him, each bead of sweat, each drop of blood, until it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

“Mhnf—Astarion…” you mewl into his mouth, encouraging him to start moving, his rhythm slow and gentle at first. Despite how wet you are, he works your slit open with a bit of difficulty, his girth abnormally enlarged due to the drawn-out neglect, although even through the discomfort you find yourself relishing the chance to have him so snugly nested within you. Astarion, too, seems to be thoroughly enjoying having you gripping him so deliciously tautly, his usually husky grunts growing louder with every push. His hands leave your face to roam the sides of your body, gliding down your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist and slipping underneath you to grope and fondle your ass, slightly tilting you upwards so he can sink deeper within your cunt. Finally breaking the kiss, lips bruised and plumped, he lovingly gazes upon your just as disheveled self for a moment before leaning back down to give you a chaste, tender peck, only to pull away again, lowering his head to have his tongue ghost over the skin of your throat, your clavicle, and then up the swell of one of your breasts, stopping to hover above its reddened peak.

“Say it, pet. Tell me who you belong to.” His breath tickles the sensitive nub as he speaks, voice dripping with honey and eyes searching for yours from under thick lashes, darkened with desire. To anyone else the question may sound like just another racy quip, provocative banter to spice up the mood, but you know better—you know him better. Following the Black Mass, on that very eve Astarion would first test his unholy gifts as the Ascendant, not by calling upon the dark forces now at his mercy nor by turning into mist, but by making you his for all eternity. That was always the plan—to become your warden, your guardian, your sire and master. Never before you had he ever felt as wanted, as needed, and he cherished that power; for once in his life he was the protector, not the protectee, not the weak vermin wriggling about to find shelter. You gave him a reason to be, a reason to live, and he would not lose that, not for as long as his thawed heart beats.

“I’m yours, Astarion. All yours,” you say, giving him the reassurance he seeks while at the same time soothing yourself. Yes, you are his, entirely his, and that is of solace to you as much as it is to him. Satisfied with your answer, Astarion smiles softly; refusing to avert his gaze from your face, he then wraps his perfectly-shaped lips around your nipple, circling it with a pointed tongue. His teeth graze the supple surrounding flesh for a moment before unexpectedly sinking into it, and your mouth pops open to let out a soundless gasp in surprise. You propel your torso up slightly by resting your arms on each side of your body and leaning on your bent elbows, firmly gripping the sheets beneath you with both of your hands, panting and whining as he suddenly speeds up the pace, undulating his hips more energetically with every thrust. Through his cock and fangs alike, his presence inside of you is absolute, imperious, overwhelming—yet also comforting and fulfilling, like a crushing, constricting embrace.

“You complete me.”

“Mnhg—ah!” While still latched onto your breast, avidly drinking from it, Astarion moves one hand to your lower back so he may gently raise you with him into a seated position, and you let go of the sheets to hold onto his broad shoulders for support. His other hand continues fondling your ass, fingers widely splayed across one of your cheeks, applying just enough pressure to push your crotch flat against his, securely settling you in his lap as you had been before, except you are now both facing each other. Prying himself off you, he then pulls back to admire his handiwork—the blood seeping from the freshly made puncture marks on your chest trails lazily down your abdomen, the bright crimson accentuated so beautifully by your pale skin, a perfect match with the rubies encrusted in the jewelry that you remain wearing despite being otherwise completely nude. You make for a breathtaking vision, one belonging perpetually and irrevocably to him.

“My darling,” Astarion croons, voice uncharacteristically tender, bringing his hand on your back up to lovingly cup your chin. “My pretty darling,” he whispers before capturing your lips with his bloodstained ones, hips snapping upwards to resume massaging your walls. You bob your body in rhythm with his thrusts, buttocks slapping against his thighs every time you sink down to the base of his length, and his fingers dig deeper into the soft swell of your rear, surely to leave bruises in the morning. Eyes fluttering close, you lean fully against him, the contours of your frame hugging his own almost perfectly, save for your breasts, which are now squished between your rib cage and his pectorals. Releasing your face, he instead grabs your throat, his grip strong, but not binding; giving it a gentle squeeze, he then pulls away, tongue absentmindedly lapping at the strand of saliva connecting you still even as your mouths unweave.

“Astarion…” The way you utter his name sounds almost like a plea, a supplication, yet you can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. “I love you”—is what you mean to say, but you bite back the words instead. They are empty, meaningless; the depth of your bond is such that “love” is a sentiment which needs not be voiced. You know he can feel it, for you can feel it too—way past just affection, the pure devotion carved on the core of your very being, so raw and so visceral that it may as well be an open wound, never to heal, bleeding thick, warm emotion. As tempting as it may be to proclaim it, the world is not owed any measure of access to your relationship; this is something meant just for the two of you, a silent understanding between an eternal bride and her husband-to-be, sacred and precious. Thus, rather than speaking any further, you look into his eyes with as much earnestness as you can possibly manage, and he looks back at you just as intensely, pupils so dilated that his irises are but thin red discs, barely even visible. He knows; of course he does. He always did.

“Shh. Hush.” He lets go of your throat before softly pressing a finger to your lips, only to then comb all five digits of that same hand through your hair and cradle your head, gently nudging you forward. Following his lead, you rest your chin in the crook of his neck, flushed cheek brushing against his; upon raising your gaze, you notice that you can see the mirror behind him, reflecting his strong back and shapely waist, still encircled by your entangled legs. More than that, you can see him moving—his hips going up and down every time he disappears inside you, balls swinging whenever he lifts up his ass from the mattress. Watching him fuck you might as well be the most erotic thing you have ever laid eyes on, and for a third time arousal coils low in your belly.

“Oh… Astarion…” you whimper in his ear, feeling him bump against the spongy skin of your cervix just as his cock is fully swallowed by your needy cunt in the mirror. Your blunt nails rake down his spine, gliding across the valleys and ridges of his scars, once a reason for shame and pain, now a proud symbol of his victory—and of the ghastly consequences it entailed. The fingers buried in your hair pull at it firmly as he pounds into you, and those on your rear continue their ministrations, wandering to the space between your buttocks to lightly graze the puckered entrance. As he peppers kisses over your nape and shoulders, his own moans grow more desperate and less dignified; sweat drips down his curls, now tousled and sticking to his forehead and temples. You feel so tight, so wet, so warm, so good—always such an obedient little thing, so eager to please, letting yourself be thoroughly ravaged and catering to his every whim, his every desire. There is nothing Astarion values more than his dominance over you; his most beloved treasure, the source of his life, the source of his light, however dim. How terribly he adores you, and how frightfully he yearns for you, to be drunk on you, an addiction so great that the very thought of you leaving his side for even a minute fills him with pure dread. To love you is bliss, but also torturous, for you are at once his greatest strength and his most alarming weakness.

“That’s it, gods, that’s it… you’re taking me so well, darling,” he groans, breath hitching as you push against his thrusts, the lewd sound of smacking flesh reverberating across the room. He is close, so close, and so are you—beyond the glass, his reflection plunges into yours with reckless abandon, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. As you ride him, you can feel the entirety of his length, the velvety skin, the throbbing veins, the tumid girth stretching and rubbing against your slickened walls; and with one last powerful jerk of his hips, you can also feel his thick spend painting them in spurts, flooding you like a broken dam.

“Oh, my love…” Astarion continues rutting into you even through his orgasm, pumping his seed out of your slit. Before long, you too clench violently around him, thighs trembling and gut convulsing, coating his twitching cock in your release. Shoving you back onto the mattress, he keeps leisurely sliding in and out of your sex as you both pant quietly, reveling in the high of your respective climaxes; with his face nuzzled into your cleavage, he affectionately laps at the bite marks on your breast, occasionally intercalating each lick with tender little pecks. You bring one of your hands to his scalp and run your fingers through the silky locks, closing your eyes and emptying your mind, intent on enjoying the moment for what it is, safe and sound in the arms of your lover; he who took you into his sanguineous embrace and imparted on you the gift of absolution, he who set the world on fire while shielding you from the dancing flames, he who placed a crown of roses upon your head after ripping off every thorn. Lux aeterna luceat eis—let perpetual light shine, and from the dark, the two shall reign, betrothed in immortality, wedded in undeath, now and forevermore.

May they rest in peace.

#personal #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 fic #bg3 #ascended astarion #lord astarion #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x you #astarion x reader #ascended astarion x reader #tavstarion #fic: death and his maiden #my fics

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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 10 - Lead Me To The Ark

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Silly fact: Our 100,000th word is "fucking". Quite apt, in my humble opinion. Enjoy! Chapter Title is from Ghost in the Machine by SZA (ft. Phoebe Bridgers)

Word Count: 19.6k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Nine Days. Usual warnings

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 9 - Chapter 11

Ben’s life had never lacked in beauty. Starting in a childhood marked by well-kept gardens and polished floors that held shiny, uptight parties, before moving to pretty girls in his youth, falling for the tricks and charms he’d learned to wield like weapons to keep their beauty near him. Eventually pretty girls changed to beautiful women, women who knew his tricks but didn’t care as long as they got what they wanted. Soldier Boy. After that, charisma, wit, and flirtation became secondary, for Soldier Boy was the weapon and there was no longer need for clever formalities to keep beauty in his life. Every beautiful thing was his, all he had to do was be Soldier Boy. Ben himself was secondary, because nobody gave a shit about Ben. It was Soldier Boy that was given beauty, and so Soldier Boy draped his life in flowers, art, women, and everything else that dared to glitter like gold.

All that beauty, from crystal to silk to marble, seemed to be pale and faded in comparison to Her. It was fucking frightening, how it suddenly became so clear that everything, every fucking thing, wasn’t even competing. Ben had climbed down the stairs as she’d snarked about his long showers, responded with his own mocking words, and then completely fucking forgotten how to breathe. She’d turn around—giving Ben a taunt he didn’t hear—and suddenly everything was just Her. Perfect, still perfect, always perfect, in a way that felt solid. Permanent and beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be earned, couldn’t be earned. That knowing didn’t stop the Thing, though. From needing to earn it. It had become impossible to keep The Things restrained, because Ben had no will to restrain it. It had told him to touch Her and hold her, so he had and refused to let go. Even when he’d gotten drugs—an opportunity that had become far too fucking rare to turn down—he’d kept some part of him against Her. When Starlight had asked Her to dance, Ben had told her to go, half because he was pretty sure Starlight might’ve started crying like a damn baby if She hadn’t, and half because fuck the Thing wanted to see Her dance. See Her with that loose happiness he’d imagined she had before Homelander.

He hadn’t been disappointed. She’d vanished into the smoke and light with Starlight for just long enough that Ben had almost stood to follow them—the Thing itching to know where She was, if she was safe—only to reappear just before he’d been about to rise from the booth. Dancing, with stupid, joyful fucking smiles and moving with the music in a way that made the Thing feral.

Ben didn’t notice the sickeningly sweet woman who’d given him the boob-drugs slide into the booth until she was right at his side.

“Where’d your pretty little bitch go, handsome?” Boob-drugs’ voice had been a low, seductive whisper in Ben’s ear, and the Thing had felt bloody at the honey-like venom of her words, the way they drawled and choked the air around him.

Ben should have given Boob-drugs want she wanted. It had been far too long since Ben had gotten his dick wet, since he’d properly fucked something that wasn’t his hand or those stupid fucking “fleshlights” She’d gotten him. She’d joked once about him destroying them in a matter of minutes, and Ben had decided only a few weeks later that She never needed to know how correct She’d been. Ben should’ve leaned into Boob-drugs, touched her like the fucking man he was, flirted with her until he was deep in her cunt on a bathroom counter. But when Boob-drugs had traced fingers up his arm and offered him sultry words, the only feeling he got was something cold crawling across his skin. The Thing not only didn’t feel satiated, but had curled up in revolt. It felt disgusting, and Ben couldn’t even fully focus on the coke as the woman had tried to pull his strings.

At some point he’d lost Her on the dance floor, and any stupid semblance of goddamn manners or entertaining Boob-drugs had been thrown out the window. He’d stood and walked away as Boob-Drugs was mid-sentence, and didn’t bother to look back. Ben had searched for Her for long, painful minutes, and finally spotted her as she moved through the crowd, a lost look on her face.

They needed to leave, Ben had decided, because the happiness had drained from Her face and the fatigued emptiness was beginning to creep back in. The moment he’d pulled Her into the night air—wind moving her hair and streetlights making her glow—exhaustion had begun to cloud her eyes quickly, and Ben had smiled to himself as She passed out at his side. She had held herself to him tightly in her sleep, from the car, to the house, and well into the night. At one point She’d started thrashing in the bed and Ben had almost woken her up—unsure if it was a nightmare or simply restlessness—but no fire had leaked from Her body, and no sounds of pain had left her mouth, so he’d pulled Her into him and fallen asleep with Her curled at his side.

When She’d left the bed in the morning, he’d found it impossible to fall asleep again. The Thing had grown cold, and Ben could hear Her heartbeat down the stairs, hear it stutter before it began to push to rapid pace. He’d followed it down to living room, almost thankful for the fucking excuse. He’d watched the smoke rising from Her body, heard the fucking hollowness in her voice as she spoke, and seen red. Then She’d broken in front of him one more goddamn time, fallen asleep with her head to his chest, and—though it was hardly afternoon—laid them down on Her bed and slept at her side.

She was awake when his eyes opened. Watching him in silence, lying on her side, heartbeat even and soft.

“Hi.” She whispered, and a small smile played on her mouth.

“Hi.” Ben’s voice was a rough croak, and Her smile grew. “What fucking-“

“5pm.”

He frowned. “We slept the whole goddamn day?”

She tensed, looking away from him. “Most of it, yeah.” The gnawing of her lip began. “I’m-“

“If you say ‘I’m sorry’, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I wasn’t going to.” She mumbled, and Ben rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t.”

“Sure, and I’m the fucking President.”

She glared at him. “I was going to say that I’m hungry.”

“Then go eat,” Ben shrugged, even as the Thing began to protest at the thought of Her leaving. “You don’t need to fucking wait for me to do that.”

“It’s my turn to heat dinner.” She rolled onto her back, facing the ceiling with a huff. “I need to know what you want.”

Ben laughed. “I don’t give a shit, Sunshine. Food is food.”

“You say that now,” She turned her head to look at him, a incredibly fucking dramatic look on Her face. “But I would’ve made the one thing you didn’t want and you’d have thrown a hissy fit.”

“I don’t throw ‘hissy fits’.”

“Fine, temper tantrum.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he grunted, hauling himself to a sitting position. “I don’t throw hissy fits or temper tantrums or any other pussy shit.”

She laughed. “You’re literally doing it right now.”

When Ben only grunted, she giggled again, a smug and weightless sound that made the Thing so fucking pleased. He looked down at Her in fake anger, and found that she was still flat on her back, watching him with a teasing smile and pretty eyes. The Thing wanted to pull Her into his side, to make sure that she stayed light and amused and thoughtlessly relaxed forever.

“Someone’s grumpy.” Her smile was toothy and wide, and the Thing wanted to touch Her lips. “Was nap time too short?”

He rolled his eyes, forcing himself to stand from the bed. “Go fucking eat, brat.”

“What do you want?” She called as he moved to Her bathroom. “I’ll make you oatmeal, Ben, I swear to God-“

Ben turned right before the door. “Fucking hell, bagels. Make bagels.”

“You had a bagel two days ago.”

“It’s a free country, Sunshine, I’m allowed to eat a bagel for multiple fucking days.” Ben glared at Her. “And you ate that bagel.”

“You left it out.”

“It was my fucking bagel.”

“Jesus, fine, we’ll have bagels.” She rolled her eyes, sitting up on the bed and muttering under her breath. “Fucking man baby.”

“You know I fucking heard that.” Ben snapped, she stuck her tongue out at him, and the Thing pushed at his stomach.

He closed the door before She could retaliate, listening to her shuffle around the room for several minutes—doing what he had no fucking clue—before her heartbeat faded down the stairs.

Ben had never actually used Her bathroom before. He’d always walked down the hall to his, never needing to piss or shit so bad he couldn’t just fucking hold it. Any time he did leave Her room for his own, it was to fuck his hand behind a locked door, to indulge fantasies of Her in the very room he’d just left. Ben hadn’t even fully thought about what he was doing when he’d walked into Her bathroom, it had felt like the most goddamn normal thing in the world. Now, flushing the toilet and looking around, Ben hated how fucking satiated the Thing felt. Surrounded by Her in tiny and stupid ways, seeing little damn pieces of her everywhere. The shampoo that he always smelled on Her, the discarded towel on the floor, the half-empty hand soap placed beside her toothbrush, drying on the counter. A toothbrush he was fucking jealous of for being in her mouth, like a fucking creeping pussy who’d never touched a woman.

When Ben exited the bathroom—fully intending to follow Her to the kitchen—he did quick sweep of the room, saw Her outfit from the night before hanging out of the hamper, and realized she’d been fucking changing. With him only a door away. The Thing rumbled with images of Her peeling off her clothes, moving smoothly through the room in nothing but her underwear, maybe even pulling those off too—

Ben made a detour to his room, finding relief in a fantasy of Her at his side, laying on her back with that perfect smile, and him climbing on top of her and fucking her until she was numb with pleasure. Or pulling Her onto his lap and letting her grind on him until she orgasmed with her head against his chest. Or Her rolling down, taking him in her mouth and him shooting down her throat-

He came, with a jerk of his hips, a low grunt, and imagined sounds of Her moaning in his ear.

Once he’d cleaned up—he had to find a less fucking time consuming way to do this—Ben descended the stairs and found Her at the bookshelf, pushing through its contents with a focus, narrowed intent.

“What the fuck are you-“

“There’s no fucking cookbooks in the goddamn house!” Her voice was frustrated, glaring at the books with a scowl Ben had only seen directed at himself or Butcher. “Fucking CIA didn’t think we might want just one, one cookbook? They gave us a printed copy of the constitution, but not one fucking cookbook?”

“Why the hell would you want a cookbook?” He watched her pull another two books from the shelves, making an annoyed huff before throwing them onto the floor. “You can’t cook.”

“I know that!” She snapped. “You think I don’t fucking know that?”

“Then why are you being so goddamn dramatic-“

Ben was cut off by a copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Works flying at his face.

Her attention had already returned to the bookshelf by the time Ben was rubbing the fading red mark, her movements frantic. “I want to learn, ok? I need to learn to cook just one, shitty ass meal.”

“Fucking why?” He watched Her with vague amusement. “Did you hit your head last night?”

A pout formed on Her lips, and the Thing wanted to suck on them.

“I thought you’d be fucking pleased, Benjamin, that I’m finally conforming to what’s expected of my gender.” She grumbled, and Ben snorted.

“You are not a hallmark of your gender, Sunshine.” This time, Ben managed to dodge The Great American Song Book, but not Atlas Shrugged.

“Fuck you,” She snapped. “Go fucking eat your bagel, you cunt.”

He raised his brows at Her. “You made the bagel?”

“Of course I did, dumbass,” She grumbled, not sparing Ben a glance. “It’s in the kitchen, you can eat it or just shove it up your ass for all I care.”

Ben snorted, but wandered into the kitchen to find that She had indeed left a bagel on the counter, even fucking spread it with that damn strawberry cream cheese and placed a handful of napkins beneath the plate.

“I didn’t ask you to use that pink shit.” Ben mumbled, mouth full as he returned to the living room, standing in the doorway. “And five napkins is fucking overkill.”

Though Her back was turned from him, Ben could fucking feel her eye roll.

“You love that pink shit, you ass. And a thank you would be nice.”

“And the napkins?”

“You’re getting crumbs literally everywhere at this very second. Five was a generous lowball.”

Ben scoffed, ignoring the tiny pieces of bagel he could feel in his beard. “Fuck off, you’re not even looking at me.”

“Don’t have to, I can hear your loud-ass chewing.” She threw another book to the growing pile on the floor, hands finding her hips as she huffed at the near-empty shelf. “Is there a bookshelf in your room?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Ben wasn’t even in his room enough to have any idea, and when he was, books were the least of his concerns.

“Can I check?”

“Why are you fucking killing yourself about this?” He watched Her overly tense back rise and fall in short breaths. “I was kidding about you hitting your damn head, but you’re being fucking weird.”

“No I’m not,” She mumbled, turning with a frown on her face. “And what’s fucking weird is you not jumping for joy that we’re not going eat bagels or mac and cheese for the rest of our damn lives.”

He gave Her a mocking smile. “Well, if you’re doing it for me, Sunshine, then by all means-“

Ben caught Les Misérables right before it hit his throat.

“Can you just,” She sighed, watching Ben with a sadness in her eyes he didn’t understand. “Can you please not be a dick about this.”

Ben nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes at Her as she let out a heavy breath. “You’d tell me if something was wrong,” he said Her name firmly. “If I needed to be ready for some shit.”

“Yeah,” She gave him a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I would.”

“Good,” Ben grunted, even as the Thing wanted to pull Her right into his chest. Even as he didn’t fully believe her. “There’s a cookbook on the top shelf.”

She blinked. “What, no there’s not. I checked-“

“Not well,” he said with a smirk. “I can fucking see it from here.”

“If you’re lying just to be an ass, I’m going to kill you, Pretty Boy.” She grumbled as she turned, and Ben waited while she scanned the highest shelf, chuckling to himself when she let out an infuriated sound that meant she’d found it.

“Told you,” Ben grinned widely as She pulled it down, turning back to face him with a sour face.

She flipped him off with one hand, holding the book with the other. “Cunt.”

“Brat.”

She wrinkled her nose, flipping through the pages with an adorable intensity. Ben just watched Her, the Thing pulling against him as her face lit up with a full smile.

“Found it!” She looked up at Ben, smile growing, and the Thing whined.

Ben tried to push it down, down, down and away from his chest, refusing to be a pussy who allowed his emotions to be controlled by the smile of one fucking woman.

One fucking perfect woman, the Thing reminded him, and a warmth spread through him against his fucking will.

“Congratulations,” he said dryly. “All by yourself too.”

“All by yourself-“

Ben gave her a flat look. “All by yourself as well.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing past him to walk down the hall. Ben trailed after Her like a fucking puppy. “What are you doing?” He called ahead, and she didn’t break pace for a second as she responded.

“We’re cooking dinner, dumbass.”

“We?”

“We.” They stopped in the kitchen, and she threw Ben another insufferably perfect smile. “I did not just destroy the living room to eat a bagel. We’re doing this tonight.”

Ben glared at her. “You keep fucking saying we-”

“Fine, Pretty Boy. I’m cooking dinner and you’re standing in the kitchen in case I need to yell at someone.”

“Hm,” he grunted. “I want another bagel.”

She gave a small laugh. “Deal.”

They shook on it—The Thing rolling around inside Ben as their hands touched—and She set to work.

Ben had seen a lot of car crashes. Watched a lot of bombs explode and a lot of people die.

While this was worse in quite a few ways, it was also a lot fucking funnier.

“What the fuck does ‘veggies are tender’ mean?” She snapped. “How can a vegetable be tender.”

“Maybe you need to arouse it,” Ben shrugged, taking a large bite of his second bagel. “I can do that for you.”

“You’re a gentleman,” She muttered, and he grinned, shooting her a wink.

“Are you doubting my abilities, Sunshine?”

She scoffed, but the Thing rumbled as her heart stuttered. “To make vegetables horny? Yeah, I think I am.” She narrowed her eyes at the book. “How ‘thin’ is thinly sliced?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“Didn’t think you would, dumbass, I was thinking out loud.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “And I think they just mean like, small?”

She looked up at Ben for confirmation—despite Her calling him a dumbass less than five seconds ago—and the Thing started trying to roll around in his chest. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Helpful,” She snapped, dumping out a bag full of bell-peppers onto the counter, and he grinned.

Ben shoved the remainder of his bagel in his mouth, watching Her cut up the peppers—and then the onions—as if she was torturing them for information. Little bits and pieces were flying everywhere, he was almost fucking positive she cut herself at least twice, and he could hear Her mumbling threats to the onions about Her making them cry instead.

He snorted as She threw the vegetables into the pot, flipping them off as she turned on the stove. “How long do I have to wait for you to just give the fuck up?”

“Forever,” She snapped. “Neither of us are going anywhere until these vegetables are tender as fuck.”

“I don’t know why you’re even doing this vegetable shit, you’re immortal now, you don’t need to be healthy-“

Ben managed, but only fucking barely, to dodge the knife as it flew at his face.

“Shut up.” She snapped. “Or I won’t give you any when I’m done.”

“Promise?” He mocked, and she picked up a second knife. “Jesus fucking Christ, fine. What are you even making?” He grunted, reaching to grab the cookbook.

She snatched it back and far from his hand. “It’s a surprise.”

“A fucking surprise?” He snorted. “Why?”

“Because.” She held the cookbook with white knuckles, and Ben rolled his eyes.

“Shitty ass surprise,” he grumbled, and She gave him one last glare before turning her anger down to the steak defrosting on the counter.

Over the next half hour, She managed to cut up the steak through a process of vulgar threats, curses, and throwing three more knives at Ben—only two of which he deserved. Once she’d shoved the steak into the oven—Ben had helpfully suggested She just use her own fucking fire and She’d asked if he had any interest in the house burning down—she picked up the pot of vegetables and walked over to where Ben sat at the counter.

“Tender?” She extended the pot for him to look at, frowning at its contents.

The vegetables were soft, and a little brown. Ben had no fucking clue what that meant in terms of “tender”.

“Fucking sure,” he watched the crease on Her forehead deepen, and the Thing wanted to kiss right over it until it vanished.

She looked up at him, lips pulling down, but nodded and dumped the vegetables into a bowl. After giving them one last glare, She dropped into the seat next to Ben with a heavy sigh. “The steak won’t be ready for ten minutes,” she mumbled, fingers tapping on the counter.

Ben shrugged, trying to control the Thing rumbling comfortably in his chest at Her arm brushing his. “Are you going to tell me what the fuck is wrong now?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” She muttered, and the tapping picked up.

“You’re lying. It might not be something I need to prepare for, both something is fucking up with you.” He watched Her scowl at nothing. “Is it your sister?”

The tapping picked up. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

He said Her name firmly. “You need to fucking tell her you’re alive.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you-“

“Just fucking drop it, Ben, ok?!” She snapped. “You’re not going to change my mind, so just fucking drop it.” She took a deep breath, and the Thing clenched in Ben’s chest. “Please, just let it go.”

He grunted, the Thing flipping as She looked up at him. “Fine.”

She nodded, relief crossing her face as the tapping slowed. “Thank you.” She paused, eyes searching his face. “Do you want me to do more of the PTSD treatment tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, not having missed the bags under Her eyes and poorly hidden yawns. “You need to rest.”

She frowned. “I’ve literally been resting all day.”

“You were tossing and turning all of last night, Sunshine.” He said flatly, and She blinked at him, heart picking up.

“What, what are you talking about-“

“It’s not a big fucking deal,” Ben frowned at Her wide-eyed expression. “You were just rolling around a shit ton. Didn’t seem very restful.”

“Oh,” she mumbled. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t fucking need to leave the bed, Sunshine, I don’t give a shit.” He shrugged.

She tilted her head at him. “Would you have?”

“What?”

“If it had bothered you, would you have gone to sleep in your room?” She examined his face, and Ben could hear the chewing of her lips.

“Why the fuck does that matter?”

“Well, um, I just don’t remember the last time you actually slept in your own bed.” She said sheepishly, suddenly avoiding his gaze. “If you want to, you don’t have to stay in my room all the time-“

“Do you want me to go back to my room?” Ben asked, and his voice was harsher than he intended. The Thing was scraping at him, gripping at his throat a the very fucking idea of Her not wanting him, of Her sending him to be without her-

“No!” Her voice was panicked, and Ben blinked in surprise. “I don’t want you to go back, but if you want to-”

“I don’t,” Ben grunted, the Thing breathing in relief as he tried to sound like less of a desperate pussy. “I mean, I’m fucking fine staying there.”

“Okay.” She gave him a small smile, and the Thing felt light, even as she stood from her seat. “Steak,” She said, and Ben realized he’d started to frown as She moved.

“Whatever,” he grunted, and watched Her move through the kitchen. She threw together whatever shit she was trying to make, finally stood straight—a smug look on Her face—and turned with a mess of cheese, meat, and bread on a plate.

“I did it,” She was beaming at him, holding the “food” proudly, and any comments about how Ben was pretty fucking sure She’d just made a bioweapon died in his throat as the Thing tried to escape him.

“Congratulations.” He huffed, and glanced at the sludge in her hands. “What the fuck is it.”

“Cheesesteak.”

Ben frowned. “Cheesesteak?”

She picked up the cookbook, dropping it in front of him as she sat back at his side. “Philly Cheesesteak, with peppers and onions.” She read aloud, pointing to the page with a grin. “Medium difficulty.”

The Thing was pounding at him, and Ben couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Philly Cheesesteak because?” At the flush of Her face, he pushed further. “Why Philly Cheesesteak, Sunshine? Any particular reason?”

“Shut up,” She muttered.

“Hm,” Ben teased, his own smile growing. “Does it have something to do with me-“

“Yes, you cunt. It’s because you’re from Philly.” She snapped, not looking at him. “Don’t be a fucking dick about it, I just wanted to make something I thought you’d like.”

“You only made one serving,” Ben pointed out as the Thing started roaring with a painful need to hold her. “And I already ate.”

“Oh, fuck off. We both know this is going to taste like shit.” She wrinkled her nose at the plate. “I’m going to make it for you when I can actually make it somewhat good.” She paused, heart faltering slightly. “If you want me to.”

Ben shrugged, and the Thing roared. “Food is fucking food. I’ll never say no to a pretty lady making me some.”

She hummed, and her heart picked up a little faster than it had been before. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he looked between Her and the plate. “Now eat that so we can go the fuck to bed.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, but began to eat in small bites. “It’s not terrible.” She said through a mouthful. “I’ve eaten worse.”

Ben grunted, watching Her chew and swallow. “Are you going to shower?”

“Huh?”

“Before bed,” he said, ignoring the way She licked her lips clean of food and how it made his gut warm.

“Are you saying I smell bad, Benjamin?” She teased, face all comfortable and happy. “That’s not very nice.”

He glared at Her. “I fucking want to shower, brat. And since you always whine about how long I take, I wanted to know if you need hot water.”

“Oh,” She blinked at him. “That’s, that’s really sweet.”

“Shut up,” Ben muttered. The Thing was powerful and uncontrollable in him at Her words, like a fucking pussy. He wasn’t fucking sweet, She just always got all pouty when the water was cold and it made him fucking frustrated. She would sulk around and be fucking grumpy and it made the Thing tight in his lungs, made him feel an edge he hated. She still hadn’t even fucking answered his question, so Ben poked her shoulder and she looked up at him with a full mouth. “Well?”

She swallowed roughly. “Oh, uh, yeah I think I am.” She frowned, and Ben could hear Her thoughts turning in Her head.

“Spit it out.” He prompted.

“What?”

“You look like you have a stupid question, and you’re going to fucking explode if you don’t ask it.”

“I won’t explode-“

Ben said Her name flatly. “Yeah, you will. So spit it out.”

She sighed. “You have to promise not to-“

“I know the damn drill, Sunshine. I promise not to mention it again if the answer is no. Now stop being a fucking pussy and ask the question.”

“If you want, and you don’t have to-“ She took a deep breath, and the words began to fall out of Her. “I’d be okay with it if you moved your clothes into my room. Or like some clothes. Whatever you want. I just think it might be easier, if you think you want to stay there. And I do want you, I mean I like you there, so, if you want, you can move your stuff into my room.”

Ben stared at Her, watching him with a nervous expression, heart pounding in Her chest. The Thing was rioting inside him. She wanted him in her room, in her space. She wanted him there, wanted things to be easier for him. For him to stay with her. She liked him there. With her. Ben cleared his throat, and spoke before he could even really think.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” She said cautiously. “Does yeah mean, like, yeah I don’t want, or yeah I do want to, or yeah I’ll think about it-“

“I’ll do it,” Ben said, trying to sound as casual as he fucking could with the Thing trying to tell him to pick Her up and place her on the counter and make all that stupid fucking doubt leave her face because what the hell was it even there for in the first place-

“Okay.” She took another bite of Her food. “Then maybe you can shower now and move your stuff when I’m showering?”

“Sure,” Ben stood, and She turned her attention fully to her plate. There was a little thing of melted cheese on her lip, and he wanted to brush it off with his thumb.

“Don’t take a year.” She said, and Ben swallowed as her tongue swept out to pull the cheese into her mouth.

He coughed, forcing himself to move away from the counter. “Fuck off,” he muttered, and picked up his pace out of the kitchen as She giggled behind him.

It was a race against his own fucking self-control to get to the shower and take care of himself before the Thing made him turn around and prove to Her that there was no goddamn reason she should’ve been unsure. Make Her smile and pull her tongue into his own mouth, maybe spread Her out on the counter and taste her-

Ben practically ripped his clothes off, managing to climb into the shower before the Thing consumed him.

They were back on their bed, Her lying on her back with a bright smile and Ben sitting at her side.

“Nap time too short?” She asked again, and this time Ben didn’t scoff or stand from the bed.

He smirked back down at Her, and reached out, running a thumb over her lips. “I’m wide awake, Sunshine. But I can think of a few ways to tire me out.”

Her mouth fell further open, and she let out a small sound. “Like what?” Her voice was barely a whisper, and Ben moved his hand tangle in Her hair, cupping her head as he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into his lap.

“Whatever you want, beautiful.” He watched Her eyes widen, and Ben could feel the heat of her cheeks against his hand. “I have some ideas, but I’m open to suggestions.”

Moving his hand down, Ben traced a line from Her neck to her collarbone, dropping it all the way to her ass and lowering his head to kiss along her neck. She started to whimper, and he could feel the sounds escaping from her against his lips.

“Ben,” She said breathlessly, her hands finding his hair. “You-“ She let out a loud moan, head falling back as he squeezed her with one hand, tracing patterns along her skin with his other.

“Me, what?” He said Her name into her skin. “What do you want me to do?”

She dropped her hands from his hair, pulling his head up to look at Her, eyes scanning his face for only a second before she was kissing him. Long and desperate, all teeth and tongue and deep groans into each other. When She pulled back for air, Ben nipped at her lower lip and raised his hand from her waist, running his thumb over its swell.

“I want you.” She whispered, her own hand holding his against her face. “Can I have you?”

Ben pulled Her back to him, kissing her deeply until her grip was tight and she was grinding down on him. When he pulled back, he answered firmly, with no room for her to doubt. “You already fucking do.”

She nodded slowly, and suddenly she was touching him. Palming Ben through his pants, smiling perfectly at his hardness against her hand. “Where do you want me?” She asked, a beautiful fucking taunt. “You can take me right here, or at the wall. You can use my mouth, or my pussy, or I can just use my hand?”

He groaned Her name. “Fucking hell-“

“What do you want me to do, Ben? Where do you want to have me?”

Ben came, shouting Her name into the steam of the shower. Only as the high faded did it finally fucking occur to him the mistake he’d just made. He had no fucking excuse to return to his room and indulge the Thing anymore, no good reason to lock himself behind a door she wouldn’t enter and fuck his hand to the thought of Her.

He could back out. He could tell Her he’d changed his mind, he wanted to keep their shit separate, that keeping it together was just too fucking intimate and he didn’t want her to have that part of him.

Liar, the Thing hissed into him. You want Her to have every fucking part of you. You’re just too pussy to tell her.

No, he fucking didn’t. He needed to call it the fuck off, before he did something fucking stupid or insane-

She’d be so sad, The Thing snapped. You’d be fucking breaking Her.

She was a grown ass woman. She’d survive.

Would you?

Ben turned off the shower, jerking the handle clean off the wall. He dropped in on the tile floor, changed fast, and stomped down the hall to where Her heartbeat had moved— fully fucking ready to tell her he’d changed his mind and would probably just sleep in his own damn room tonight—only to open the door and find her sitting up at the headboard, already in pyjamas, eyes drooping as she read a small book.

“I thought you wanted to shower,” he said gruffly, and She just sighed, not looking up at him.

“Were you ever actually convicted of treason?” She asked. “Because if you weren’t, I’ve been calling you an enemy of the state for no reason.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Apparently, someone can’t be held guilty for treason with two witnesses or a confession.”

“That’s not better, brat.”

She held up her book for Ben to read Constitution of the United States of America spelled out in pointlessly fucking fancy letters on the cover. “I was cleaning up downstairs, and realized I’ve never actually read the whole thing.”

“Yeah, most people haven’t.” Ben said wryly. “Only fucking pussy ass nerds bother with that shit.”

“Aren’t you America’s Son?”

“Yeah, but I’m a fucking man who has a life outside of books. What happened to your fucking shower?”

She shrugged. “I’m not that dirty. I’ll shower in the morning, before we do the PTSD treatment.”

Ben grunted, not moving from the door. “I still think you’re not actually doing fucking shit with that.”

“I still don’t fucking care.” She finally looked up at Ben, and the Thing stared punching against him like a fucking pussy. “Why are you just standing there, you weirdo.”

“What?” Ben frowned at Her question, trying to fight the Thing telling him to go drop next to her, let her lean against him. “The fuck are you-“

“You’ve been standing at the door for like five minutes.” She said pointedly, folding the book and placing it on her bedside table. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fucking fine, Sunshine.” He grunted, and the rest of his will fucking crumbled at the goddamn soft look on Her perfect face. “I just wanted to know if I should wait for you to shower before I start moving my shit.”

“Oh,” She blinked, and started to stand. “I can help you-“

“No.” Ben cut Her off quickly. She hadn’t been in his room for more than a few minutes at a time since he’d started sleeping in hers, and some part of him was convinced she would walk in a fucking smell his cum lingering. At Her frown, he gave a short, gruff explanation of “you’re comfortable, I can fucking move clothes my damn self,” and left the room before she could respond.

It only took two trips to move all his shit, and after shoving into the drawers at Her instructions, apparently doing it wrong despite following Her every word, and Her doing it the “correct way”—which was the same way he had fucking done it—he dropped on the mattress, sitting upright as She crawled into hers.

“Night, Pretty Boy.” She mumbled through a yawn, and her eyes dropped closed before Ben could respond.

Ben didn’t remember falling asleep. He’d watched Her breathe peacefully at his side, listened to the lazy rhythm of her heart, and when she’d curled into his side, Ben had laid down and held Her to his chest. Almost like he’d only blinked, the room became full of light creeping through the curtains, and She was gone from the bed.

He could hear the shower running from the bathroom, her heartbeat smothered by the fall of the water. Unwilling to sit here, desperate for Her to return to his side like a fucking pussy, Ben stood and made his way to the kitchen, putting on the coffee and scowling at the pot as it took a million goddamn years to brew.

After impossibly long minutes Ben heard the water stop, and fucking cursed himself for the intensity of how he listened to Her heart upstairs. She shuffled around, the time stretching longer, and Ben felt the Thing sigh in relief as she finally began the walk down the stairs.

Ben glanced at Her as she entered the kitchen. “You’re up.”

“Fucking obviously,” she mumbled, stopping at his side. “Coffee?”

The pot gave a pathetic fucking sputter. “I think it’s broken.” Ben muttered, and there was another weak crackling sound in response.

“Hm,” She reached past him, opening the top of the machine. Peering forwards, She sighed. “Ben.”

“What?” He snapped, and She rolled her eyes, pulling the empty pot from its place and moving to the sink.

“You didn’t put any water in it, dumbass.”

Ben scowled. “I just fucking woke up, you try-“

“I’m not mad,” She said lightly, glancing over her shoulder with amusement. “I’m just saying it’s not broken, and that’s why.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, watching Her pour the water into the top of the coffee maker.

She only smiled at him, and even fake rage felt fucking impossible.

They didn’t talk much over breakfast, Ben trying not to watch the way Her damp hair hung around her face, or the bob of her throat when she swallowed her cereal. When the coffee had finished, She’d stood and poured two mugs, dropping one next to Ben’s plate and holding the other tightly between two hands.

“Living room?” She asked, continuing when Ben only frowned at her. “For the PTSD.”

He made a passive sound, drinking his coffee in a chug. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“What an amazing contribution to my efforts,” She muttered, and Ben winked at her.

“Does the exactly same amount of jack fucking shit wherever, Sunshine.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, poking her spoon around in the bowl. “You’re going to eat your words, Pretty Boy.” Her words seemed more targeted to the soggy cereal than Ben. “Just fucking wait.”

After dumping the dishes in the sink—Ben would fucking wash them later, and no amount of Her glaring at him would make him do it now—they dropped on the couch in those same fucking positions that had made the Thing loud and satisfied. This time was no fucking better, with Her gentle hands back in Ben’s hair and her perfect face only fucking inches away.

“I have a question,” She said abruptly, her hands hardly settled against his head. She didn’t wait for him to nod before she continued, speaking without meeting his eyes. “How did you know about Moon River?”

“Moon River?” Ben repeated slowly, watching Her overly controlled face as She gave a small nod.

“I just-“ She gave him a quick, nervous look. “I heard you humming it yesterday, during my, uh, meltdown. I never told you about it.”

He frowned. “What would there be to tell me?”

“How do you know about it?” She said firmly, finally fucking looking at him with raised brows. “And I asked first.”

“You tap it,” Ben said stiffly, and She tilted her head at him. “When you’re about to lose your shit.”

“And you recognized it based on tapping?” She said doubtfully, eyes narrowing. “It’s not a rhythmic song.”

“I took he a fucking bit to realize what it was, but it’s not my fault you can’t barely keep a fucking beat.” “There’s no beat in that song.”

Ben shrugged. “You do the verses. Stop trying to fucking avoid my question.”

“I’m not avoiding your question,” She grumbled, looking back up to his head. “You’re just making no sense.”

Ben said Her name flatly, and she gave an annoyed huff.

“It was my mother,” She snapped. “Her favorite song. She sang it all the time when I was a kid, it’s the only song she never made me perform, and it makes me feel safe.”

“Perform?” He frowned. “The fuck do you mean perform?”

She sighed. “Doesn’t matter.”

“The fuck it doesn’t”

“It really doesn’t,” She cut him off shortly. “It’s never something I’ll have to do again, so it just doesn’t. You won’t fucking care about it, Ben. Trust me.”

“Fucking try me, Sunshine.” She looked back down at Ben, and he gave her a challenging glare. “Don’t put words in my goddamn mouth.”

“If I do,” She said, holding his gaze. “You’re not allowed to be a dick.”

“Deal.”

“Promise?”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “I promise.”

“Okay,” She took a deep breath, glaring at his forehead as she spoke. “My parents divorced when I was young. It was violent, messy. I had to testify in court. My mom got full custody, because my dad had shit credit and my mom was an amazing actress. Showed up all running mascara and soft words, like She hadn’t just threatened me on the car ride over. She remarried real fast, like suspiciously fucking fast, to a rich, political dynasty asshole. Dude was a Connecticut senator when they got married, and he somehow got elected governor while I was gone. He would put on these stupid parties. With dancers and champagne towers and chocolate fountains. One of my brothers would give a speech, the other would play piano, my sister would dance, and I would sing. Sometimes they’d hold an auction for what song I performed, and the only song my mother didn't allow me to perform was Moon River. It was our song, her song. It reminds me that there was a least one thing, one stupid fucking thing, that made me more important to her than the money. I mean,” She gave a dry, hollow laugh. “She probably would’ve caved for enough money, but I left before she could.”

Ben watched Her, the Thing scraping to hold her. “What made you leave?”

The silence before She spoke was torture. The Thing needed to know what her final straw had been. What line had been crossed, so he would never go fucking near it, fucking walk as far away from it as he could until She never even had to fear it.

“She tried to keep me from leaving.” Her voice was soft. “I was fourteen, about to start high school. She tried to send me to some dog shit prep school, said I needed to work on my manners and being more fucking lady-like for when I graduated. I told her grades were important to get into college, she told me I wouldn’t be going to college. Said I was too pretty to have to worry about a job, pretty enough that men would overlook my temperament.” She snorted. “I told her I wanted a job, I wanted to go to college. She told me to fuck off now, because she’d lock me in the house if I didn’t. So I fucked off. I moved in with my dad. Dude lived in a dogshit apartment with rats and asbestos and loud neighbors, but I never had to perform again. I could leave whenever I wanted, I was fucking free.” A shadow crossed Her face, her hand gripping Ben’s face tighter. “I was free.”

“Did they fucking look for you?” Ben felt the Thing grow taut in him, straining for the clouds forming in Her eyes. “When Homelander-“

She cut him off, shaking her head. “He faked my death. Left a note, nobody questioned it further.” Smoke curled around them, and Her heart was uneven and quick. “He used to tell me that I was better with him, he cared more than anyone could, and he would tear the world apart to get me back if I left him.” She took a shaky breath, and the Thing felt heavy in Ben’s chest.

“You’re not going back,” Ben said lowly, and Her eyes fell to his. “I fucking mean it.”

“I know,” She said quietly. “I trust you.”

The pain on Her face made Ben want to make Homelander fucking bleed and bleed until he died a painful, pathetic fucking death.

“I think we’re done.” He pulled Her hands down from his face, and She frowned at him.

“What do you mean, it’s barely been thirty minutes-“

“You’re still tired, Sunshine.” He says firmly. “We’re done.”

“But-“

“Nope, done.” Ben pushed Her hands to her lap. “We’ve got other shit to do, Sunshine. You’ve got to practice your cheesesteak.”

She scowled. “It’s your night to make dinner, cunt. You’re not getting out of it just because I’m trying to learn to cook.”

“Well, you can fucking practice for lunch, and I’ll still do dinner.”

“I chose what you make.”

“Are you fucking negotiating?”

“Yep,” she gave him a fake-sweet smile. “I choose what you make, and what we watch.”

“Fuck no,” Ben rolled his eyes. “Dinner-maker controls the TV. That was the goddamn deal.”

“I get to work on your PTSD. That was a deal as well.”

“That’s not the way it fucking works-“

“That’s the offer on the table, Pretty Boy.” She shrugged. “Take it and I’ll go make a cheesesteak right fucking now, leave it and I keep working on your stupid fucking head.”

Ben glowered at Her determined, insufferable, perfect face. “You’re a fucking piece of work, brat.”

“Right back at you, cunt.” She grinned widely—all light and smug and pleased—with Her hand outstretched, and Ben couldn’t fucking force himself to be mad at Her if she tried.

“Fucking Christ,” Ben muttered, but shook Her hand all the same.

With a small, satisfied sound that made the Thing fucking groan, She stood and walked straight to the kitchen. Ben trailed like a fucking pussy behind Her, deciding it wasn’t because the Thing started to claw at him when She left his sight, but that he just simply couldn’t miss the disaster about to unfold.

After about ten minutes it became clear that while She seemed to have mastered what “thin and tender vegetables” looked like, Ben was starting to wonder if he should be concerned about the steak giving her an aneurism. While it was damn adorable to watch her fight with the frost-bitten steak one the counter—a battle that involved several graphic threats about tracking down the cow’s family and using them for Her food instead—Her face was contorted in dramatic anger and Ben could hear her chewing through her lip.

“It would really go faster if you just cooked with your fucking fire powers.” Ben drawled and She glared at him.

“I don’t know how to do that, cunt. I can’t control it at that level.”

“I’ll teach you.” He said—complete fucking sincerely—and She scoffed. “What,” Ben scowled. “What’s so fucking amusing about that.”

She shrugged, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. “You can’t even control yourself, and most of our powers are very fucking different.”

“First of all, brat, I haven’t exploded in fucking months. Second of all, shut the fuck up. And finally, I used to train people at Vought all the goddamn time.”

“So?”

“So,” he snapped mockingly. “I know what I’m fucking doing.”

“Yeah, when you’re being paid a million dollars to tell someone don’t make a fist like that, you’ll break your fingers,” She dropped her voice in a deep-voice, mocking impression. “Aim for the throat, people use that to breathe.”

“I trained people’s powers as well,” Ben pushed, matching Her frown. “I made some good fucking heroes.”

“I’m sure,” She said, leaning forward in sarcastic interest. “Crimson Countess, you have to aim at the target. You won’t hit it if you don’t.”

“And she got a lot fucking better at it, so my point is fucking proven.”

“You were fucking her,” She dismissed with a wave of her hand, turning back to the steak. “Doesn’t count.”

The Thing started to feel like it was crawling up and around inside Ben. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I dunno,” Her heart was stumbling, and Ben wished she would fucking look at him so he could see if Her face was in that pretty flush. “Reward systems are scientifically proven to be effective.”

“So me fucking her was a reward-“

Ben’s smug words died in his throat as fire ripped through the air, filling the room with smoke and the smell of charcoal. Ben waved a hand, clearing the smoke, and found Her standing at the now-black counter, hands on her hips as she glared down at a pile of charred ash.

“Didn’t work.” She said, spinning around with a scowl. “And we’re out of steak.”

“What the fuck was that?” Ben all but shouted, the smoke still clinging to the edges of the room. “You didn’t need to destroy the goddamn kitchen!”

“That was what you told me to do,” Her shoulders were tense, words clipped. “I told you I couldn’t control it, and ta da! I can’t!”

“You’re being a fucking brat,” he spat Her name, and when she turned to face him Ben hadn’t expected to see the sullen, tight look on Her face. Lips drawn together, hands gripping her sides with white knuckles. It wasn’t quite the hollow look that always made the Thing physically hurt, but it was really fucking close.

“I just don’t want to talk about training, okay?” She spat the word training with a venom, and though her voice was steady Ben could hear the tapping begin. “You can’t fucking help this.”

“This?” Ben stood from the counter, walking to Her in fast, long steps. “You mean you?”

She didn’t flinch as he stopped in front of her. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Stop fucking saying that,” he shouted, the Thing roaring in his ears, drowning almost all else out. “I can fucking fix this for you, if you would stop being such a stubborn bitch all the time!”

The sullen look faded into rage. “It doesn’t fucking matter!” Her voice had raised to match his. “I’m not supposed to have these powers. I’m not someone who’s going to even be a fucking fake hero or earn any fucking rewards. I’m a walking bomb, and I can’t control it, and it doesn’t fucking matter because there’s no fucking point.” A shallow, distressing breath shook Her body. “I don’t want to hurt people again, I won’t let myself.” She wasn’t looking at Ben anymore, voice clouded and heavy. “So it doesn’t matter.”

The Thing wasn’t only painful or consuming anymore. It was in Ben’s blood, fucking burning at Her, for Her. He grabbed Her perfect face, turning her sad eyes to his. “You won’t hurt people,” he said, keeping his voice as fucking calm as he could. “If you just let me fucking help you.”

“But-“

“I’m literally a walking bomb, Sunshine.” Ben raised his voice over hers. “If there’s no hope for you, there’s certainly fucking none for me.”

“That’s not the same,” She said quietly. “You’re you. You’re Soldier Boy.”

“You mean the fucking terrorist?” He watched Her lips tug slightly at his dry tone, and the Thing felt a little less suffocating. “Yeah, I’m sure the public will be clamoring for my return when this is over.”

“Aren’t we self-aware today,” She gave him a half-hearted smile, and Ben returned it.

“I’m always fucking self aware, Sunshine. It’s one of my best qualities.”

She gave a small laugh, and the Thing grew looser. “I think even you know that’s not true.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” He drawled, and Her smile became a little more genuine. “Now will you please just let me fucking train you.”

She sighed, but it wasn’t as heavy as before. “It doesn’t-“

“Do you seriously fucking believe-“ Ben didn’t let Her finish, because if she said doesn’t matter one more time he might lose his fucking mind. “That you’re just going to be a fucking hermit for the rest of your immortal life.”

“I mean,” She said with a strained, fake-passive tone. “Yeah.”

“You think I’d fucking let that happen?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Sunshine, when we’re out of this and I’m shipped off who fucking knows where, you’re welcome to come.”

“Are you-” She gaped at him, and the Thing felt stuck in his throat. “Are you serious?”

“You burn, I burn.” Ben reminded Her firmly, because even if he wasn’t entirely sure where this offering was coming from, he knew he fucking meant it. “If you can’t be around normal fucking assholes, control or not, you can always fucking be around me.”

She scanned his face. “And if I can be around people?”

“Then you can stay in shit-ass New York with all those fucking pussies on your team.” Ben answered, even as the Thing scraped at his ribs at the fucking idea of it. “But you’ll have to learn to control it.”

“What If I can’t,” there was nothing but fear and exhaustion in Her voice, and it made the Thing move faster in him. “What if I just can’t?”

“You can.” He didn’t leave room for protest before he continued. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

She gave a hesitant nod. “Tomorrow.”

Ben took the victory.

The remainder of the night was quiet, Ben heating pre-made meatballs per their shitty deal, Her deciding they would watch Game of Thrones—a fucking suspicious choice given she always grumbled at Ben’s commentary—and Ben tried not to stare at Her through the night, his brain fucking consumed by every goddamn way he wanted to touch her. He managed, by some fucking miracle, to force his attention to how he would go about their training.

Ben hadn’t been fucking lying, he had trained new heroes at Vought. Never any quite as powerful or insanely smart-mouthed and perfect as her, but She didn’t have to know that. He’d figure this out, because the fucking idea of Her locking herself up to keep every weak undeserving pussy safe made him feel bloody.

When Her eyes began to look heavy and she began rubbing her face to keep them open, Ben dragged her up into her—their—bed. Ben tried not to dwell on the Thing—peaceful and quiet from the soothing sounds of Her breathing and heart—and how his offer hadn’t felt forced onto its tongue. How he couldn’t blame its grip over him, because his words had been entirely fucking true, and had fallen from him naturally.

She was up before him in the morning again. Ben felt a cold space where She had been, and the shower wasn’t running, making him sit up roughly, not bothering to change before he stalked downstairs. Finding Her in the kitchen, cross-legged at the counter with a sandwich in one hand and a book in the other, Ben found it a lot fucking easier to breathe.

“You’re up early,” he leaned against the door, and She looked up at him with cheeks puffed, mid-chew.

“Sorry,” She said through the mouthful of food, and Ben grinned as crumbs fell from her perfect mouth. “I got up to pee, and I couldn’t fall back asleep.”

Ben walked to lean across the counter, the Thing bucking as She swallowed roughly. “That fucking excited to get started, huh Sunshine?”

“Fuck off,” She rolled her eyes. “I was just hungry.”

“Sure.” He winked. “You’ll need the energy.” “Are we training my fire or running a marathon?” She asked, raising her brows at him. “Because I can always back out.”

“You mean pussy out?”

“Fuck you, Pretty Boy. I’m going to burn your face off, and you’ll have no one but yourself to blame.”

Ben grinned at Her as she took an aggressive bite, holding his gaze. “We��ll see, brat. Are we ready to go?”

“Don’t you want to eat?” She asked through chews.

“I’ll fucking live.”

She shook Her head, shoving the remainder of her sandwich into his hands. “Eat, Ben.”

“I’m fucking fine,” Ben said Her name dryly, failing to return the food to her as she held her hands behind her back.

“Eat,” She snapped. “You get all grumpy when you don’t.” When Ben still didn’t move, She narrowed her eyes at him. “Eat or I’m pussying out.”

Ben scowled at Her, but shoved the remainder of the sandwich his mouth, holding her glare with a look of irritated amusement as he swallowed

“Happy?” He mocked, and She gave him a genuine, toothy smile.

“Absolutely.”

The Thing fucking whined, and Ben had to fight a smile from taking over his goddamn face.

“Can we get fucking going then?”

She shrugged, “if it’s that important-“

Ben grabbed her arm—ignoring the warmth of Thing at her touch and is weak fucking need in his gut when she made a sound of surprise—pulling her to dining room. They stopped in the center of the space, and Ben forced himself to take a step back, looking down at Her sternly.

“How is this even going to fucking work?” She asked, bored sass dripping from her voice.

Ben winked at Her. “Reward system, Sunshine.” He ran through the plan he’d spent the previous night developing, and almost missed the flush of Her face and the stutter of her heart. “I’ll tell you what to do, and every time you do it right, I’ll owe you a favor.”

“A favor,” She repeated, and Ben couldn’t figure out what that fucking slow tone and neutral expression meant. “What can the favors do?”

“Whatever you want, that’s how favors work.”

“No limits?”

Ben smirked at Her. “No limits.”

She swallowed, and the Thing rumbled. “Then let’s fucking go.”

“Palm open,” Ben instructed, demonstrating with his own hand. When she followed suit, he nodded and continued. “Now light it.”

She gave him a flat look. “Are you fucking serious? I can light my hand, Ben.”

“Prove it.”

“Fucking asshole,” She muttered under her breath, and closed her eyes. A small flame ignited in her palm, and she stuck Her tongue out at Ben smugly. “Told you so, cunt.”

Ben fought the urge to grab Her, pull her tongue into his mouth. “I’m not done, brat.” He sneered. “Hold it.”

“Hold it?” She frowned, glancing between Ben and her hand. “The fire?”

“In your hand, for five minutes.” He grinned down at Her. “No spreading it, no letting it go out.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She gave him a distrustful glare, spreading Her fingers wider. “My first favor is going to be making you dye your beard blue.”

“What?” Ben’s tone of mock-fury seemed to only make Her grin. “Why?”

“Because I hate you.”

“Sure, Sunshine.” He pushed down how the Thing strained at the fucking idea of Her words being true. “But you’ll only be able to fucking waste your favor like that if you don’t fucking burn my beard off.”

“Fucking watch me, Pretty Boy.” She snapped, and Ben just winked.

The first minute was fine, but near the middle of the second Her eyes started to cloud, teeth gnawing at her lips. The fire started to flicker, and before the third minute started it burst up, spreading up Her arms and through her body.

“Goddamnit!” She screamed, smoke still rising after the fire went out.

Ben gave Her a cocky grin. “What that about watching-“

“Not a fucking word.” She spread Her palm once more. “I just wasn’t ready.”

Ben hummed, and shot him a murderous glare. “I didn’t say fucking shit.” He teased, and she rolled Her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll get it this time, brat.”

“Stop being supportive, you cunt.” She hissed, and Ben laughed.

It took Her two hours, twenty minutes, fifty-two tries, and a lot of swearing to hold the fire evenly for five minutes. It was fucking worth Her verbal abuse, Ben decided, because he’d never seen her smile that wide and happy as when she finally succeeded.

“Yes!” She looked like she might literally fucking jump with joy. “Suck on that, Benjamin.”

“One favor is yours, Sunshine.” He couldn’t fight the Thing from taking over him with a broad, face-covering grin and chuckled. “Now do it again.”

By the end of the day She’d only burned Ben five times—a fucking miracle as far as he was concerned—could hold it for ten minutes, and Ben owed her five favors.

“You’re making dinner,” She cashed the first one almost immediately, and Ben had expected nothing less. “And I still choose what we watch.”

“That’s two goddamn nights in a row,” he grumbled, and She snickered.

“I know, it’s amazing.”

“Brat.”

“Cunt.”

Though Ben scowled, the Thing felt so fucking good—proud and blissed out like he was on a fucking drug—watching for the first time in goddamn days look happy. That pussyass fucking joy only grew in him when Ben sat at Her side on the couch, passing her a plate of Dino nuggets. Her smile was like a fucking infection, and the Thing running through Ben wasn’t helped in the slightest by the presence of those blue, off-brand sunglasses on her head.

“What the hell are you wearing those for?” Ben asked tauntingly, trying to make his voice crude to cover the Things genuine need to know. “It’s fucking night time. Indoors.”

“They were collecting dust,” She reached a hand up, dropping them onto her face. “And I look cool as shit in them.”

“You’d look better if they were green,” Ben muttered. “Blue’s a-“

“Pussy ass color?” She teased. “Don’t worry Pretty Boy, I won’t touch your beard and ruin your handsome face.”

“Handsome?” He blinked at Her, the Thing bellowing so loudly Ben couldn’t even pretend to be cocky.

She ignored him, even as Her heart flipped. “How would you feel about a pink beard?”

Ben whacked Her shoulder lightly, and she giggled, giving him a pout that made the Thing hungry. “Shut the fuck up.” He grunted, and She just blew a raspberry at him.

Her attention returned to the TV and as they fell into a comfortable silence, Ben tried his fucking hardest to not steal glances at Her perfect face in the TV light, tried to fight the way the Thing rioted every time she laughed at the show.

When Ben went to shower that night, his thoughts were haunted by the wide, free smile on Her face.

The next two days were some of the most peaceful of Ben’s entire goddamn life. For the fourth morning in a row, She had woken first. There had been towel discarded onto their growing pile of dirty clothes that told Ben she’d showered, and he was able to hear Her heart beating with the shuffle of her steps from downstairs. He’d entered the kitchen a quarter hour later to find Her in an intent focus, surrounded by grocery bags and the cookbook open on the table.

“How long ago did you get up?” He asked, and She’d jumped in surprise.

“Two hours,” She’d answered, gesturing to the steak on the counter. “Mallory sent the delivery early. I think I’m getting better at this cooking shit.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Sunshine.” Ben had teased, and been whacked by a paper grocery bag.

The day was filled with training, and once they’d hit fifteen minutes Ben started to have Her hit random household objects they both deemed entirely fucking useless. Itchy blankets and pillows from the spare bedroom, paintings of horses and flowers Ben told her were fucking shit—She’d laughed at that and the Thing had grown though his chest—all of Her remaining, non-fireproof clothes, and several books She’d claimed “made Her want to hurt someone in middle school.”

“I’ve never known you to need a reason to hurt someone,” Ben had drawled Her name.

She’d flipped him off. “I’m a god of peaceful resolutions, Ben.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“I agreed with you, brat.”

“I’ll fucking kill you cunt,” the words likely been spoken against her will, being the small, angry gape of Her mouth after.

Despite Her growing control over her powers, Ben somehow ended up with more burns that afternoon than the one before. He’d been scowling at Her as she held his head, beard slightly burned in a real fucking noticeable way.

“I look like a fucking pussy.”

“Because your beard has one little patch?” She’d teased, and watching where Her palms were resting in his hair. “I promise, Ben, it looks the exact same to everyone but you.”

“Don’t lie to protect my fucking ego-“

“I’ve never lied to protect your ego before. I’m not about to start now.”

Ben hadn’t had a good retort to that, and they’d sat in a bitter silence until She’d nudged his thigh with her knee. “What,” he’d sounded less resentful than he’d liked to, but it was hard to be bitter when the Thing was so fucking satiated by Her gentle smile, and how it was all for him.

“I swear, you look fine. You look like you always do.”

He’d smirked, “which is?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I think the words you meant to say were like a Greek god of sex.”

“The Greek god of sex was a woman,” She’d mumbled, looking down at him. “And I said don’t push it.”

Ben had cum that night—the flutter of Her heart as she looked at him replaying in his head—with Her name swallowed in his throat.

She was up first, fucking again. Though she was still next to him in bed—their legs tangled and one of his arms wrapped instinctively around her—Ben had woken to Her eyes watching him with not a trace of lingering sleep.

“Morning, Pretty Boy.” She’d whispered, and he’d groaned, scratching at his face to try and push the itch of sleep from his body.

“How fucking long have you been watching me, Sunshine?”

“Not long.” Ben hadn’t believed Her—she wouldn’t meet his eyes, her own looked hung with gray, and her words sounded flat and rehearsed—but he’d let it go. They’d spent the morning it the Kitchen, Ben watching Her try to cook and doing her second cashed favor, reading a fucking book.

“This is a goddamn waste of a favor,” Ben had snapped, and She’d hummed, not turning away from the steak she was beating into submission.

“I have twelve favors still in the bank, and more on the way. I think I’ll live.”

“I shouldn’t have fucking offered you favors. Should’ve just said you get complete TV control.”

“Oh, definitely,” She laughed. “I probably would’ve agreed if you offered me ten bucks and some chocolate. But you didn’t, so now you have to read.”

Ben huffed, and dodged as spare thin and tender pepper flew at his face. “Fucking rude,” he’d said, and She’d grinned at him.

“Don’t bitch and moan like I’m torturing you. You’re just reading.”

“That’s fucking torture. This is worse than torture.”

“Woe really is you, Ben. All those words and not one is smut.”

“What the fuck is smut.”

She’d blinked, and her heart had stuttered. “It’s um, porn. Book porn.”

“You can read porn-“ Ben had examined Her, the embarrassment on her face. “Do you read porn, Sunshine?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” She’d mumbled, turning her back to him once more.

“I think you read porn-“

This time, the pepper hit Ben right in the nose. When She wasn’t paying attention he’d eaten it off the floor, and it didn’t taste like complete fucking shit. She was, through brutal and hilarious trial and error, getting better.

Everything was good. Genuinely fucking good. That afternoon Ben had walked away with only two burns, She had hit about half of the targets he’d set up with passable aim—a vast improvement from Her grand total of zero the day before—and the Thing was so fucking content it was driving Ben insane. Because though he was still forced to find relief during inconvenient times in locked spaces, the Thing was getting real fucking specific about a lot of shit. It had gotten so fucking comfortable, fantasies had started to happen in the moment. She leaned against him slightly, and Ben was lost in thoughts of pulling her on top of him and fucking her until she collapsed against him. She smiled at him and Ben barely held himself from bruising her mouth with his. Two nights in a row they’d been so close—tangled and pressed together in sleep—that Ben hadn’t been sure where he stopped and She started.

Things were fucking good. She was fucking perfect and Ben was starting to worry that the light feeling in his chest was something that might last. That he might burn the world to keep there.

She was sitting next to him now, watching the TV while Ben watched her. He wanted to touch Her, he had to touch Her. More than just her hands and legs, fucking everywhere. He needed to feel Her, because this stupid fucking euphoria was stronger when She was at his side and he could hear her heart. She needed to know that, he needed Her to smile because Ben told her that she was the most perfect goddamn thing that had ever existed, and nothing even came fucking close-

The door slammed, and She was moving before Ben was, a controlled flame igniting on her fingers. Some muffled grunts came from the dark hall, Ben felt his whole body tense, ready to bleed whoever was there-

A silhouette was nearing the door, and Ben was fucking proud of how fast the fireball left her hand. Only a second later, goddamn Butcher walked into the room, covering their floors in fucking blood and sweat.

Ben should’ve pushed Her harder that afternoon. Maybe Her flame would’ve hit Butcher in the fucking face instead of only leaving a scorch mark on the wall near his head.

“Fucking Christ!” Butcher roared, stumbling far to the side. “You almost fucking hit me!”

“I’m not that lucky,” She snapped, and Ben snorted. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Are you blind, Love?” Butcher unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a large bullet wound in his chest. “Fucking fix it.”

She was, as fucking always, too kind for her own good. Because she stalked around the couch, and laid a single hand over Butcher’s wound in a venomous silence. Ben’s jaw clenched as Her heartbeat began to pick up, at the smug fucking look on Butcher’s face, at how she was rubbing her own chest in mirror to Butcher’s injury.

“Where did you even get this?” She asked, and Butcher shrugged.

“Don’t matter.” His gaze turned to Ben. “Got a gift for you, Gov.”

“A gift?” She and Ben said in unison, and Butcher rolled his eyes.

“Aren’t you two bloody adorable,” he sneered, and Ben wondered if She could fix a ripped off head. “It’s in the damn car, I’ll need help getting it.”

“Help?” She asked, and Ben could see the thoughtful, untrusting frown covering her face, even with her back turned. “What is it?”

“A fucking surprise.”

“He hates surprises,” She said, and the Thing hummed somewhere near Ben’s lungs.

“He’ll like this one,” Butcher dismissed. “Don’t you fucking trust me, Love?”

“Nope.” She snapped, heartbeat growing erratic even as she removed her hand. Butcher’s wound was gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished skin.

Butcher turned—flipping the hall light—and walked to the door in long steps. Swinging it open to the cool night air, he gave a sweeping gesture, brows raised. “C’mon cunts. We ain’t got all fucking night.”

Ben followed Her down the hall, only step behind, an arms distance away. Butcher’s car was parked in the drive, still running with the headlights on.

“What would you have done if the car had got stolen?” She asked, following Butcher to the trunk.

“Considering I can’t file a police report,” Butcher said, tone bored and cruel. “I think I might just use all the fucking CIA resources at my disposal to bloody find it.”

The trunk was popped open, and in it lay—fucking finally—the Soldier Boy shield in all its flawless fucking glory.

Ben didn’t hesitate to yank it up, grinning widely, and almost missed Her look of amusement.

“Would you two like a minute alone?” She teased, and Ben scowled at Her.

“Shut the fuck up, Sunshine. It’s my goddamn shield, that you pussies-“ Ben pointed an accusing finger at Butcher. “Have fucking owed me for two months.”

“Time wasn’t right, mate,” Butcher said lazily, and Her heart faltered.

“And it’s right now?” She was almost whispering, the wind howling over her words. Even in the darkness, Ben could see the fog begin behind her eyes. “Why?”

“Big mission in four days.” Butcher began to move to the front of the car. “Thought I’d get ahead of it, let Soldier Boy do whatever weird shit he wants with his baby blanket before we have to move.”

Ben’s fury at the baby blanket comment was drowned out by the tap of Her fingers. The blanched, fearful fucking look on Her perfect face. The Thing howled, and Ben’s teeth became gritted.

“What type of shit are you about to make us pull, Butcher?” Ben growled.

Butcher winked. “We’re trying to wrap this circus up soon, Gov. Don’t worry your little mug about it.” Butcher’s attention turned to Her, saying Her name with a smirk. “See you in a few days.”

The car pulled out of the driveway with a screech, and She and Ben were left standing in the night. She looked at Ben with an empty smile as they returned into the house.

“Happy to have your shield back?”

“Should never have left,” Ben gripped it a little tighter as the Thing started to pull him toward her. “The fuck is Butcher planning?”

“What?” She said, blinking at him. “I- I um, I don’t know.”

She wasn’t looking at him, and every movement she had was controlled, mechanical. Ben didn’t fucking believe her. “You sure about that?”

She nodded, making a sound of agreement. Ben was going to push, he was going to ask why she was fucking lying, what she knew and why it was making her act so fucking strange, but She gave a long, stretching yawn, eyes lidded and steps unsteady.

“I’m tired,” She mumbled, leaning into Ben as they moved down the hall. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten,” Ben watched Her give another, loud, fucking adorable yawn, and the Thing felt warm where they touched.

“Few more hours before bed,” She nodded, walking toward the couch. Ben caught Her waist with arm before she could sit.

“You’re going to sleep now, Sunshine.” He placed his shield carefully at the foot of the steps. “You’re going to fucking pass out.”

“No I’m not,” She wiggled a bit, but Ben didn’t budge. “It’s only ten.”

“What time were you up this morning?” He asked dryly.

“What time were you up this morning?” She snapped.

“I fucking asked first.”

She gave him a half-hearted shove. “Nuh uh.”

“Really?” He snorted Her name. “What are you, a fucking child?”

“That’s rich coming from you, Ben.” She was starting to slump against him. “And even if I was, you’re not my fucking dad, you don’t get to give me a bed time.”

“I think you’re giving yourself a bed time, beautiful.” The word slipped out of Ben’s mouth, and the Thing became frozen as She looked up at him.

There was no fucking reason for that to be weird, Ben had called fucking hundreds of women beautiful. She wasn’t any fucking different. Even if She was perfect and leaned into him and looking up at him with sleepy, shining eyes and the Thing wanted to—fucking had to—hold Her like this forever-

“I’m not tired,” Her words were slurred mumbles against Ben, and he chuckled because—before the words had even left Her mouth—she was slumped into him, breathing growing steady with sleep.

Ben carried Her upstairs, laying her carefully on their bed and pulling the blankets up her body. When he drew back up, fucking forcing himself to walk away, back down the stairs, let Her sleep alone like a normal fucking man and not some weak fucking pussy who was scared to leave her side, she made a small sound behind him. When Ben turned, She was splayed out across the mattress, with one hand reaching out to Ben’s side, and frown twisted on Her perfect lips.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to no one, and stalked back to the bed. The Thing’s flailing around inside of him was calmed as Ben pulled Her to his chest, and She gave a small, breathy sigh as Her face returned to a picture of easy content.

Ben fell—lulled by Her heart and gentle breath—into deep sleep.

She was up first. The bed at Ben’s side had already grown cold, but he could hear the shower running through the bathroom door, hear the slow drum of Her heart as she moved. Ben stood and moved down the stairs, aiming to put on the coffee before she finished, only to find a half-full pot and a discarded mug at the counter. Her phone lay, face-down, at the mug’s side and glancing at the sink, there was a dirty plate that had definitely not been there the previous night.

When She arrived in the kitchen—hair damp and face blank—Ben coughed loudly.

“I can see you, Ben.” She moved past him, picking up her phone. “You can just say hi.”

“How long have you been up?” He asked roughly, and She shrugged.

“Few hours. We went to bed early last night, I must’ve gotten all the sleep I needed.”

“You fucking passed out last night,” Ben snapped Her name. “And it is not early. A few hours would mean before the fucking sun.”

She didn’t look up at him. “So?”

“You’re being fucking weird. And you never answered my question last night.”

“What question?” Her voice was flat, bored.

“What the hell is Butcher’s mission? It’s clearly something important, if he decided to give me my fucking shield.”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s told me.”

“I think you’re fucking lying.”

She raised her head, glaring firmly, coldly, at Ben. “I’m not. They don’t tell anything, you fucking know that.”

“I-“

“Nope.” She cut him off, placing her phone on the counter and crossing her arms. “We’re not fighting about this. Doesn’t matter what you think, Benjamin. That’s the fucking truth. Okay?”

Her face was like steel. He hadn’t seen her face like this, blank and controlled and full of so much quiet fury, in fucking months. The Thing was fucking cowering in Ben, like a goddamn pussy. Not afraid, but fucking desperate for her to stop looking at him like that.

“Fine.” He grunted, and something like relief flashed across Her face. “But you need to fucking promise that if I need to be worried, you’ll tell me.”

“Sure,” She turned to the fridge, and Ben grabbed her arm, turning her to face him.

“Fucking promise.”

She blinked at him, voice a little softer—almost fucking delicate—when she said, “Promise.”

“Good,” He released her, and though the Thing felt no more peace, Ben took the goddamn weak reassurance. “Now eat, we’re training in a hour. Today you’re going to hit all the fucking targets.”

“You have a whole lot of faith in me, Pretty Boy,” She gave him a smile, and even that felt fragile. “Don’t know where the hell it comes from given how dogshit I am at this.”

“You’re getting better,” Ben winked. “Under my masterful fucking guidance.”

“Uh huh,” She snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

Two hours later, after She missed the target for the eleventh time in a row—Ben watching from the edge of the room—he was starting to think she was doing it on purpose.

“You know, if you’re trying to prove a point,” Ben said Her name, giving her an annoyed look. “There are damn better ways to do it.”

“I’m not trying to prove a point,” She snapped. “You’re the one who chose the smallest fucking cup in the world.”

“You hit it yesterday.”

“Shut up,” She missed again, a low noise of frustration sounding from her chest. “God fucking damnit!”

Ben watched Her, lips gnawing and breaths becoming shallow. “Calm the hell down, Sunshine.”

“I am fucking calm.”

“You’re burning a hole in the floor.”

She looked down to where the wood was charred beneath her feet. “Fuck off.” She muttered.

“This whole fucking house is fire-proof.” Ben pushed himself off the wall. “You’re burning like a fucking bomb. What the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just having an off day.” Her words were hissed through teeth, and smoke was filling the room.

“You’re sloppy.” He stopped, glowering down at Her.

She didn’t falter, holding his gaze. “Last time you said that, was anything wrong?”

“Last time you fucking broke down.”

“Do I look like I’m breaking down now?”

“You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Hit the fucking target.”

She didn’t break eye-contact as her arm shot out, and Ben looked in time to see the cup—along with the entire damn wall—catch fire.

“That doesn’t count,” he grunted.

“The fuck it doesn’t.”

“You have to only hit the target, brat. That’s the whole goddamn point.”

“Fuck off, you asshole.” She shoved against his chest. “You’re being a cunt on purpose.”

“I’m not the one being fucking insane about ‘nothing’.” Ben mocked. “We’re staying right here until you either admit something is up or hit the target the right fucking way.”

“Fuck you.”

Ben didn’t answer, only held Her glare. The Thing hated this, it hated how fucking strange She was being, how She wouldn’t fucking talk to him, how Her face was all painful shadows and contorted control. But Ben couldn’t fucking break. Couldn’t fucking let it go just to see Her smile. Not when she was tapping and chewing and her eyes were so fucking empty and she wouldn’t tell him why.

The afternoon was long. She didn’t hit a single fucking target, and Ben called it when She started looking like she was about to explode. Ben showered—trying to figure out the fuck to make Her talk—while She continued her practice in the kitchen. When he returned downstairs, Ben found her on the couch, watching the TV with a blank expression.

“Have you calmed the hell down?” He snapped, and the Thing grew thick in his throat when She looked up at him with exhausted, foggy eyes.

“Yeah,” She said softly. “I’m sorry-“ She cut herself off, swallowing heavily. “I promise nothing is wrong. I’m just tired.”

“Because you keep getting up like you’re in the fucking military,” Ben muttered, walking to sit at Her side. “You need fucking sleep.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “Pot, meet kettle.”

“Shut up. It’s not the same.” Ben leaned back. “And I have been sleeping.”

“I know, you snore like a truck.” Her smile this time was a little lighter. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Ben turned to look at Her, and found his face being pulled down, soft hands in his hair. “Right now?” He frowned at her. “It’s late, and you look a little too fucking tired.”

“We missed yesterday.” She said as if it was fucking obvious. “And if you still think it does nothing, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

Ben’s frown turned to a scowl at that. She was too fucking good at backing him into those corners, where She knew he couldn’t respond without her winning. “You think you’re real smart, huh?”

“I don’t think I’m smart,” She gave him a cocky grin. “I know I’m smart.”

“Brat.”

“Cunt.”

As Her brows drew together in focus, the Thing became strained. Something was fucking wrong. It didn’t matter how many times She denied it, she was more stressed than he’d ever fucking seen Her. Ben racked his brain for a way to ask Her that wouldn’t make her explode, wouldn’t make her shut down or turn away from him. It was an exhausting process, he had no clue how She did this all the time like it was easy, asking careful question and using stupid fucking tricks to bend him to Her will. Admittedly, Ben admired it. It was fucking hot, the small smiles on Her perfect face and how quick her words came. But Jesus fucking Christ, he wished She was worse at it. Especially as he tried to do it himself.

He said Her name slowly. “How did you meet Butcher?”

“What?”

“How did you-“

“I heard you,” She said tightly. “Why are you asking that?”

Ben fought the frown on his face. “Am I not allowed to ask fucking questions?”

“Not weird ones out of the blue.”

“It’s not that damn weird,” he grumbled. “You’ve never told me. Fuck me for being curious how you fell in with a bunch of fucking pussies.”

She sighed. “I escaped Homelander,” her hands gripped his head a little tighter. “They found me. Not much more to say.”

“How did they even know about you?” He searched Her face for any tells, any breaks in her mask.

Her face remained passive, unreadable. “Maeve told Butcher. He told Mallory. They tracked me down.”

“Why didn’t you fucking leave?”

“Leave?”

“The country,” Ben pushed. “Fuck, just the damn East Coast. Why did you stay where you could be found?”

“You don’t know that I didn’t,” she muttered. “Maybe they found me in Aruba.”

“No, they fucking didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t know that, you cunt.”

“Answer my question, brat.”

She glared at Ben’s forehead. “I don’t know. I just, the first thing I found out when I escaped was that to everyone in the world, I’d been dead for over two years. I didn’t have anything to go back to.”

“So you should’ve just fucking left-“

“I couldn’t,” She hissed, and Ben felt her hand get warm. “I had nothing, no one. Just a fucking grave that proved I had existed. I was angry and tired and alone. Butcher found me at my grave, because that’s the only place I could be. I didn’t have it in me to leave, because I kept fucking hoping I’d blink and the grave would vanish.”

“Sunshine-“

“They found me, and they offered me a reason. I ‘fell in with them’ because they knew I was alive, and it gave me some sort of fucking value. That’s it.”

Ben placed his hands over Hers, and she finally looked at him. “I think we’re done.”

This time, She didn’t fight, and her voice was so fucking tired when she spoke. “Okay.”

The rest of the night was quiet, and though She was smiling and laughing, the joy felt uneasy, and it never reached her fucking eyes. When She leaned against Ben the Thing became loud, because though she wouldn’t look at him she was gripping his arm like he might vanish. Though She traded teasing words with him, there was no edge of amusement to them, lined only with that flat, rehearsed sound.

She was up first. They had fallen asleep late, Her pressed into the bed by Ben’s arm across her stomach, but She was up first. Ben found Her in the kitchen, sitting with her fingers tapping quickly on the counter. Before he could ask Her what the fuck she was doing up so early again, She looked up and smiled—a real fucking smile with teeth and clear eyes—as he entered the room.

“You’re up!” There were bags under her eyes, hanging heavier than before, but she was really fucking smiling and the Thing was tearing in two. “Finally.”

Ben started at Her. “Finally?”

She hummed, nodding as she stood and walked to the oven. “Are you ready to have your mind fucking blown, Pretty Boy?”

“What the fuck are you-“ Ben cut himself off as She bent over, pulling out a cheesesteak—a beautiful cheesesteak that smelled fucking good—and turned with a grin.

“I did it.” She said smugly. “I cooked.”

“You’re real fucking pleased with yourself, huh.” Ben raised a brow a Her, and the Thing hummed as she gave a strong, proud nod.

“You’re going to fucking proud of me as well, dummy. I’m a god of this cooking shit.”

Fighting a smile, Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

She placed the cheesesteak before him, and gave a dramatic bow. “Bon appetit, cunt.”

Ben expected it to taste like shit. It would’ve been really fucking funny if it tasted like shit, and it would’ve been so fucking easy. He could’ve teased her, or pretended it was fine and not felt the Thing buck around inside of him. But She would never just make shit easy for Ben. He had never met a more impossibly, obnoxiously fucking perfect person who seemed to know how to push every single one of his goddamn buttons. Because, fucking hell and Christ, this cheesesteak was good.

She watched his reaction carefully, eyes a little too wide to be natural. “So?” Her voice was nervous, delicate, and Ben couldn’t fucking force himself to lie.

“It’s good,” he muttered and She blinked.

“So you like it?”

Ben swallowed. “It’s good.”

“You said that,” Her voice was strained. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, Sunshine.” Ben took another large bite, and the words pushed out of him. “It’s fucking amazing. Keep your damn head on.”

Her smile took over her face, and though she didn’t look the slightest bit less exhausted, she looked so fucking thrilled at his words that the Thing fucking whined.

“Great. That’s good. I’m, uh-“ Her face was becoming flushed. “Thanks.”

Ben winked at Her. “You’re going to cook more shit now, right?”

Her heart stumbled, and she looked away. “We’ll see.”

“What if I give you that complete TV control?” Ben said through a mouthful, and She shrugged.

“I can just use my favors for that.”

“You’ll run out,” Ben said pointedly. “You didn’t get any yesterday.”

“I told you, it was just an off day.” She grumbled, and Ben nudged her with his foot, waiting for Her to turn before he spoke.

“If you want to take a break from it, just fucking tell me.”

She stared at him. “You fucking bullied me into this, and now you want me to take a break.”

“You’re exhausted. You’re not going to perform any better.”

“I’ll be fine.” She snapped. “It was an off day.”

“You don’t have to prove a damn thing to me-“

“I’m not trying to.” She stood upright, moving to the door. “I’m fine, and I’ll perform fine as well.”

Ben examined Her, posture too rigid, face washed out, blinking too fast. “If you don’t, I earn a favor.”

“Deal,” she crossed Her arms. “There’s not a chance in hell you’ll get anything.”

“We’ll see,” Ben said through a mouthful, and She stuck her tongue out at him before marching away.

As he ate, Ben listened to Her move in their room. Her heart was fast—erratic and loud through the floor—until, suddenly, it wasn’t. It grew slower, steady and even, and She had stopped moving. Ben walked carefully up the stairs, abandoning the plate in the kitchen, and opened their door to find Her slumped on the bed. She lay on her side, head against Ben’s pillow, leg angled off the side of the mattress like she’d been knocked out. Her eyes were fluttering slightly, her breaths coming long and deep, and Ben realized he hadn’t seen Her sleep like this a fucking week. With a peaceful face, completely taken in rest. Every perfect feature of her face was blissful, somehow more beautiful with the push of pain. The Thing was filled with a foreign fucking adoration, and Ben couldn’t stop himself from carefully pulling a blanket over Her body, flipping off lights and closing curtains until there was nothing that could disturb Her. He paused before leaving the room, watching Her like a pussy fucking creep, but he could’t bring himself not to.

The Thing wanted to touch Her, Ben wanted to touch her, and the only thing that kept him from pulling her to his side was fear of waking her. This—Her sleeping without restraint—was more fucking important that the Thing and it’s stupid goddamn need.

Ben returned to the kitchen, finishing the cheesesteak and trying not to dwell on the ache of the Thing to return to Her. Just be there, near Her, if she fucking needed anything. She had to sleep, sure, but that didn’t mean Ben couldn’t fucking be there. What if She woke up, and was ready to tell him what had been bothering her. What Butcher was planning. What if She fucking cried, what if she needed him, just him. Not any food or comfort or help but just him.

He found himself in front of the TV, no attention on the show playing. Only Her breathing, only her heart. Any flutter or staggered sound made Ben’s whole fucking body tense, and though no drums sounded, it felt painfully fucking similar, like the slightest break in Her was a break in him.

When he heard the first scream, Ben had never moved so fucking fast in his life. He tore up the stair, kicking the door clean off its hinges, and a rush of fire blew past him into the hall. Ben’s blood turned cold as he moved into the room, his heart pounding in his chest.

She was floating off the bed, thrashing like she’d been fucking possessed. Everywhere around her was fire, covering her body and pushing at the walls. She was screaming, no breaks in the horrible fucking sound for breath. Her eyes looked screwed shut, her jaw hanging open and body fighting something Ben couldn’t see.

He launched himself at Her, trying to avoid her flailing hands—curled into claws and scratching at the air—as he shook her awake. He roared Her name, and she rose higher off the bed, back arching and fire growing. She looked like she was being tortured, screeching words Ben couldn’t understand and making deep, guttural sounds of agony. Ben could feel his skin burning—searing and scarring and raw—but grabbed Her roughly and pulled her down from the air. He couldn’t wake Her up, her eyes wouldn’t fucking open, the screams wouldn’t stop-

Ben did the only thing he could think of—deciding She could give him all the hell in the world for it and it wouldn’t change a goddamn thing—and slapped Her. Not hard enough to break Her, holding his strength back from leaving even a temporary mark, but enough to make it sting. Enough to make her eyes shoot open, make Her breathe ragged and sharp gasp as she fell fully onto Ben.

Tears were turning to steam in Her eyes and the screams became weak and desperate scrambles for air. She was clinging to Ben with flaming nails in his skin, but he didn’t give a goddamn fuck, because all that mattered was Her. Awake, choked on sobs and burning, but awake. Ben would let Her melt his fucking skin off if it helped, if it meant he would never have to hear her scream again.

Ben wasn’t sure how much time passed before She finally spoke, words pushed from her throat and so quiet he almost didn’t hear them.

“Why-“ She took a pained breath, hands fisted in Ben’s shirt. “Why did you let me sleep?”

“You passed out,” he said Her name in a low tone. “You fucking needed it.”

She shook her head. “You should’ve woken me up.”

“Did you not hear me say you passed out?” Ben’s voice raised slightly, holding Her tightly against him. “You looked like shit, like you hadn’t slept in days-“

“On purpose!” She pushed at his chest, voice high and unsteady. “I couldn’t sleep, I can’t sleep! I won’t let myself or-“

Ben narrowed his eyes as she cut Herself off with a miserable sound, something furious build in him as Her head fell into him.

“Or what?” He asked firmly, and She shook her head.

“Nothing.” Her voice was a whisper, and Ben pulled her back, holding her head so she was looking at him.

“Or what?” This time the words were louder, angrier. She had been fucking hiding something, and if it was something that reduced Her to this, he wouldn’t fucking let it go or bend anymore. Ben was going to know what was fucking wrong, if She wouldn’t tell him, he’d torture it out of Butcher by hand.

“I can’t-“ She shook her head frantically, and Ben grabbed it between his hands. “I can’t tell you.”

“Yes, you fucking can."

“No, you don’t understand, I- I can’t, you’ll-“ She choked on another sob, and the Thing was roaring inside him.

“I’ll what?” Ben said Her name through teeth. “What the fuck is wrong-“

She made a desperate whimper, trying to pull from him. “You’ll try to-“ Her breaths were shallow and short. “Can’t-“

“Look at me.” Ben lowered his voice, even as he tightened his grip.

“No-“

The Thing was like stone in him, running a cold, angry resolve through Ben’s body. “If you think for one goddamn fucking second that I’ll let something hurt you, you’re a lot more stupid than I thought.”

“You won’t- you can’t-“

“Stop fucking saying that.” He snapped, and another weak sound fell from Her mouth. “Just, fuck, please.” He traced soft circles on Her face, and her heart slowed slightly. “Fucking look at me Sunshine. Just look at me.”

Finally, She did. The lingering fire went out as she met his eyes, blinking away heavy tears.

“What’s wrong.”

“I can’t tell you.” She whispered, and Ben shook his head.

“You need to fucking tell me. I can’t do anything if you don’t-"

“I know." Her eyes were so sad, she looked damn haunted. “That’s why I can’t tell you.”

“You need to make some goddamn sense.”

She sighed. “I can’t.”

“Try.”

“No, Ben. I can’t. I won’t. This isn’t something you can fix.”

He said Her name slowly. “Either you tell me now, or we sit here until you come to your fucking senses.”

“I-“

“You just woke up screaming and set the whole fucking bedroom on fire.” He roared, unable to care if his voice was loud and cruel. “You’ve been lying to me that everything is fine, but it’s clearly fucking not, so if you don’t start talking right fucking now I’ll-“ Ben took a deep, furious breath, dropping his head against Hers. “Just fucking tell me, goddamnit. You’re making me feel fucking sick, so please tell me.”

She pressed her head to his, and Ben wasn’t sure either of them were breathing. “You’ll try and stop me,” Her volume was barely a fucking sound. “If I tell you, you’ll try to stop me, and I can’t let you.”

He said Her name, and she shook her head, leaning back.

“I can’t let anything stop me. This is it. I can’t tell you or you’ll stop me, I can’t tell Annie or Hughie or MM because they’ll stop me. I can’t sleep because I’ll lose my nerve and stop myself. And I can’t let that happen.”

“I-“

She cut Ben off again, red eyes searching his as she placed her hands over where Ben held her face.

“This is the only way. So I can’t let anything stop me.”

Ben started at Her, the Thing squeezing at his throat. “Tell me.”

“Ben-“

“You aren’t fucking leaving this room until you get real fucking specific about whatever shit you’re about to pull.”

She only sighed. “I told you-“

He hissed Her name. “I have some fucking news for you, Sunshine. Whatever it is, I’m stopping you. If it’s a gambit to steal Butcher’s kid, if it a play to trap Sage, if it’s some sort of self-sacrificial bullshit-“

Her heart faltered, so subtly, but Ben caught it. She started to shake her head, but he didn’t waver, keeping her perfect, tragic face aimed at his own.

“What the fuck are you about to do.” He growled, and a small sob left Her. “And don’t say you can’t tell me or it doesn’t matter or lie or apologize. Say the fucking truth,” Ben’s voice became weak, desperate, pathetic as he said Her name. But he had to know. He might fucking die if he didn’t. “Please. Just tell the fucking truth.”

The second before She spoke was the longest of Ben’s life. It was hell, because if she lied it would rip the Thing apart, would rip him apart. She was watching him, hands still holding Ben’s, and when the silence broke with Her unsteady inhale—worlds falling out of her like vomit—Ben time move once more, all too fast.

“The Ryan plan. It’s the Ryan plan. It’s the only safe way to get him out, get him away. Safe. Get proof, undeniable proof of what Homelander is. What he’s capable of doing, what he’s done. Becca Butcher files, and-"

“You.” Ben said, blood running cold.

“Me.”

“And how, fucking how, did you plan on getting close enough to tell him.” Ben spat, and She wouldn’t look him in the fucking eyes.

“The only definite way.”

“Fucking say it.”

“Let Home-“ She made a weak, hollow, broken sound. “Let Homelander take me."

This was hell. Ben was fucking certain of it. This was some sort of punishment, where he got to have Her only to lose her. He wouldn’t lose her. He couldn’t lose her. Not if it was something like his, something unnecessary and so fucking stupid. There was no longer a divide in Ben between his rage and that of the Thing. Every fiber of his body was in a consuming fucking chant, a certain answer to what he had to do.

“No.”

She shook her head. “It’s not-“

“No.” Ben’s voice was firmer, louder. “Not a fucking chance in hell.”

“I’m not asking.” Her voice was still empty, but more firm with the anger creeping onto her face. “You don’t get to tell me what-“

“We fucking promised.” Ben growled. “We aren’t going back. So no.”

“You don’t get to stop me, Ben.” She spat. “I’m fucking doing it.”

“Would you let me go back under, for some bullshit, pointless fucking plan?”

She scowled. “Of course not, but this isn’t-“

“It’s the exact fucking same!” Ben pulled himself from Her completely. “You’re not doing this, not while I’m fucking alive and able to do something about it!”

“You don’t tell me what I can do!” She screamed. “This is the only way, and I’m fucking doing it!”

“NO!” He roared. “You don’t get to fucking give yourself to him like you’re a fucking pawn.”

“I am a pawn!” She screamed. “I’m the only way in, the only way to save Ryan, get him the fuck away so you can do your fucking job and kill him.”

“Do you really think that I’d just let you go?” He hissed. “Do you seriously fucking believe that Homelander would take you and I wouldn’t fucking burn everything to get you away from him.”

“I’m not your fucking responsibility. Protecting me isn’t your job-“

“I don’t give a fucking shit about your plans or Butcher’s plans or my job. I give a shit about you.” Ben could hear the drums in the distance, but it didn’t fucking matter. Nothing fucking mattered except Her. “You burn, I burn. You’re not fucking burning without me, so no.”

She stared at Ben, and all the anger was gone, replaced by a look he couldn’t fucking understand. “Ben-“

“No.” He snapped, extending his hand. “Give me your phone.”

“My phone?”

“I’m calling your team. We’re going to come up with a plan that’s not fucking stupid.”

“My plan-“

“Isn’t going to happen. You’re going to sleep, and I’m going to stay right fucking here until we come up with a new fucking plan.”

She glared at him. “If you lock me in this room, I’ll fucking-“

“Stop being so fucking dramatic, I’m not locking you anywhere. Wherever you go, I go. I won’t leave your side for a fucking second, not until I know you won’t try and go through with this idiotic idea.” Ben flexed his hand. “Give me your phone.”

She let out a shaky sigh, tilting her head. “You’re serious.”

“As goddamn cancer.”

She watched him—Ben still couldn’t fucking read that expression on Her perfect face—looking for something She seemed to find with a small nod. When She placed her phone in Ben’s hands it felt like the world finally started moving again.

“I’m sorry.” She said softly, keeping her hand over the phone in Ben’s palms. “I’m really-“

“No apologies.” Ben said, closing his fingers around Hers. “Go sleep.”

“Can you-“

“After I call.”

She hummed carefully, walking to the bed. When She didn’t lie down—only sitting at the headboard with her arms wrapped around her body—Ben raised his brows.

“I won’t-“ She swallowed. “I won’t sleep if you’re not here.”

Ben blinks. “Oh.”

“I can wait-“ She cut herself off as Ben dropped on his side of the mattress.

“I can talk while sitting,” he said dryly. “Sleep.”

All the fight and pain seemed to drain from Her at once with Ben’s words, and she almost fell into his side as sleep overtook Her. Ben slung his arm over Her shoulder, and for the first time that day the Thing breathed.

Ben managed to get her phone open himself, and found Butcher’s contact with much more ease than last time. It took him a second to figure out the difference between cell and work, but when it began to ring Ben held it to his ear, grinding his teeth as Butcher took his sweet fucking time to pick up.

“Oi, Love. We ain’t supposed to be talking for another two days-“

“We need to fucking talk Butcher.” Ben growled. “Change of plans, She’s not doing your dirty work. If you and your pussy ass team aren’t here by tomorrow afternoon to figure out something new, all deals are off. Do you fucking understand?”

There was silence for only a second. “I don’t know what-“

“Don’t bullshit me. Tomorrow afternoon, or I walk.”

“I don’t take any bloody orders from you, Gov. And you can’t just fuckin walk-“

“Fucking try me.” Ben hissed, and didn’t wait for Butcher’s response to hang up.

————

The day was long. You slept, really slept, for the first time in a week. No nightmares, no fire, no vigilante methods to keep yourself awake. Ben wouldn’t let you out of his sight, except to use the bathroom. And even then you’d have to talk the whole time so he knew you were there. He didn’t trust you, and you didn’t blame him. He won’t look at you, he keeps ignoring your apologies, and the Feeling can’t stand it. It’s killing you. He’s barely spoken, except in one-word answers to questions.

“When will the team be here?” You ask nervously.

“Evening.” He says coldly, and that’s all you get.

Now you’re wrapped in a blanket, sitting quietly on the stairs as everyone fights around you. Most of your view of the team was blocked by Ben—who had planted himself firmly at the foot of the stairs—but you could hear it all.

“Wait,” Annie says slowly. “So was this her plan, or Butcher’s?”

“Sounds like a Butcher plan.” MM mutters, and Butcher scoffs.

“This was all her,” he snaps your name. “I was just enjoying the ride.”

“When did you even come up with this?” Hughie asks, and you catch a glimpse of his worried face as he tries to lean around Ben and address you.

Ben promptly moves to block him once more. “Don’t fucking talk to her, you fucking pussy.”

“I’m just-“

“Five steps back, Cocksucker, before I make you.”

“Ben,” you mumble, standing up and walking to be directly behind him. “It’s fine.”

“Listen to Sunshine, Gov.” Butcher sneers. “It’s fine.”

You glower at him over Ben’s shoulder. “Stuff it, Butcher.”

“I still don’t really understand,” Annie speaks over the venomous looks you and Butcher are exchanging. “Does Mallory know about this?”

“No,” you sigh. “Only Butcher and I. That was the point, no possible leaks that would tell Homelander it was a trap.”

“And the Becca files-“

You cut Hughie off. “I would’ve hidden them on myself.”

“Homelander would’ve seen them, no?” Frenchie frowned. “X-ray vision.”

“I had Butcher buy a tampon-shaped USB.”

Annie’s face wrinkles at your words. “That’s… Disgusting.”

“By the way,” Butcher interjects. “If we ain’t going through with this, you owe me forty.”

“There’s no way in hell you’re going through with this, Butcher.” MM snaps. “You two-“ he waves a hand between you and Butcher. “Are motherfucking idiots, who knew how insane this plan was and didn’t tell us because there’s not a single fuckin universe where we’d let you go through with it.”

“I don’t know why I’m takin all the bloody blame for her plan-“

“Because she’s on strike one!” Annie shouts. “This is strike fifty for you, asshole! There’s a reason she went to you, because is your exact brand of fucking shit!”

“Ooo,” Butcher mocks. “Church girl using some vulgar fuckin words, I’m shaking in my sketchers.”

Hughie says your name, pleading. “You have to have known this was a bad idea. Why-“

“It was, it is-“ You see Ben’s jaw clench in front of you. “The best way to get Ryan away from Homelander at his own will. There’s no tangible records of me, or anything that Homelander did to me.”

Annie frowns. “What about a witness-“

“There are none. I, I-“ Fire itches under your skin as memories of white lab coats covered in ash flash in your head, clearing suddenly as Ben leans back, his hand moving to brush your knee. “I killed all of them. When I escaped.” You swallow. “It was an accident-“

“Were there rotating guards?” Ben turns to look at you, eyes narrowed in a look of stop apologizing.

“I think so.” You mutter.

“Then that’s it. We find one of those fucking pussies, get them to testify or give us some fucking proof.”

You shake your head. “Homelander might have killed them-“

“Maybe he did.” Ben shrugs. “And we’ll find another fucking way. You’re not throwing yourself in front of this stupid fucking train,” he says your name, holding your gaze like no one else is in the room. “That’s it.”

MM coughs your name, and your attention is ripped from Ben. “Are we going to need to put some security on you-”

“She’s not leaving my side.” Ben snaps, and MM glares at him.

“I didn’t fucking ask you, Soldier Boy.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, giving MM a reassuring nod as you notice the muscles of Ben’s back growing tense. “I promise. Just, please, keep me updated.” Your voice is desperate. You don’t care. “Tell me what you find, even if it’s nothing.”

MM nods. “You’ll stay here?”

“I swear it.”

The teams leave, and it’s just you and Ben, alone.

“Ben, please-“ Almost the moment the door closes you’re begging, chasing Ben as he walk away from you and up the stairs. You just need him to say something, anything that makes you sure he doesn’t hate you.

“Stop it,” He grunts your name, not turning. “Just, fucking stop it.”

“I’m sorry-“

“I don’t want your apologies.” He snaps. “I’m not mad.”

“Yes you are-“

“No, I’m not.” He whips around, and still catches you before fall into him. You feel it. He’s not mad, but something is pushing around in his heart. It’s painful, and it’s so much worse. “I’m mad at Butcher, I’m mad at Homelander. I’m not fucking mad at you.”

“Why?” You can’t help but whisper. “I lied.”

Ben sighs, eyes boring into yours. “Because it’s you.” He grunts, and the Feeling keens. “Too fucking kind for your own good, too fucking smart as well, even if that was the most stupid shit I’ve ever heard.”

“So,” you don’t think you can breathe. “You forgive me.”

“I wasn’t mad at you, Sunshine. I’m fucking furious that you thought this was a good idea, that you weren’t going to tell me. But you didn’t betray me. So we’re square.”

“Nothing would’ve happened to you,” the words are blurted, because you need him to know. “The plan was you’d just be locked in here alone, and Butcher would have Frenchie make something for when you had to leave. I wasn’t ever going to put you back under.”

“I know. I trust you.”

And you feel that too. He does.

“You don’t hate me,” you say, one more time. It’s barely a question, but Ben answers anyway.

“I don’t hate you.”

“You give a shit about me,” you repeat his words from last night carefully, the Feeling desperate to hear him say it again.

He grunts, and you feel his heart turn. “I give a shit about you.”

“And your offer? To go with you?”

“What about it?”

“It’s still an offer?”

“Did I say it wasn’t?”

“No, but you might not have been sure and-”

He cuts you off with your name. “Do you trust me?” When you nod, you can feel his heart, tense and hot. “Then believe me when I tell you that I meant it. No pussying out.”

“No pussying out.” You echo. “Ben?” He frowns, eyes holding yours, so you continue. “I give a shit about you, too.”

A smile pulls his lips. “You as well.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, and you’re also smiling. “Stop using my own lessons against me.”

“Stop teaching me shit.” He teases. “It never ends well for either of us.”

“What if, what if we learn stuff together?”

“Sunshine, if you’re about to suggest I go back to fucking school-“

“No, dumbass,” you laugh softly. “You can’t cook either. We have our one, shitty cookbook. I’ll keep learning if you do it with me.”

Ben narrows his eyes. “Why? What are you going to make me do?”

“I just want to do something together that isn’t about life or death.” You mumble, looking anywhere but him. “I’m not trying to make you do anything. If you don’t want-“

“Fucking fine.” You turn sharply, unsure you heard him correctly. “Whatever.”

“So you’ll do it?” He grunts a sound you know to be begrudging affirmation, and your smile grows wide as you extend your hand.

“I’m not fucking shaking on it.”

“Do it or I’ll never make cheesesteak again.”

He scowls, grumbling something about blackmail, but shakes your hand roughly. You expect him to let go—pull away and keep being gruff and quiet—but instead Ben pulls you into him, holding you caged, warm, safe in his arms. You hold onto him, because if he lets go your legs might give out and the Feeling is soft and content here. You don’t know how long you’re standing there before Ben speaks, and you feel the words rumble in his chest as he does.

“You need sleep.”

He’s right, and you don’t have anything in you to fight, so you just nod. Ben picks you up, fully off the ground, and carries you into your room. As he places you on the bed he tries to let go, but you hold him tighter, pulling him until his head is next to yours.

“What if I have a nightmare,” you say softly in his ear.

“Are they-“

“About Homelander. All of them.”

“Then I’ll wake you up, and we’ll watch TV or some shit.” Ben says firmly.

“You won’t leave?”

“You couldn’t force me away.”

You believe him. You can feel it, the stone resolution and the pure fucking care. Both, somehow, for you. He’s still touching you, and the Feeling is peaceful. It never wants him to let go.

“Okay,” you yawn, and your body is already growing numb.

“Goodnight, beautiful.” You hear him say right before sleep catches you.

End Note: As we reach 10 chapters, 100k words, and 1 month, I just want to pause and say that I am so, so thankful for you guys. I can’t believe the love and support everyone has given this fic, or properly articulate how amazing this has been for me. I don’t think I’ve had so much fun writing in years, and I honestly didn’t think people would even read this. Every time you guys engage with my little story it means the whole fucking world to me. Every comment or interaction is everything to me, you don’t even know. Thank you, thank you, thank you again, and I’ll see everyone next time for the much less angsty chapter 11. In the mean time, let me know your thoughts! <3

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