#the boys X reader

[mirapril]

when the author tags x reader when it’s really just their oc.

[deansbeer]

hi!!! i had this idea in my head for a long time now, and wanted to ask if u could write ben (soldier boy) and reader being on vacation and they booked a house or smth with jacuzzi there and they end up having sex in there in the middle of the night hehe

thank u in advance!!💞

of course, sweet baby <3 thank you sooo much for sending this in! i love writing and being a slut for peepaw ☺️☺️

warnings 𓏵 ‎ ‎ ‎‎smut | jacuzzi sex | light exhibitionism |unprotected sex (use the damn rubber) | dirty talk | rough sex | mentions of implied voyeurism | semi-public sex (outdoors) | semi-public sex | dom!ben | riding (cowgirl position) | strong language.

the cabin was supposed to be a break—a week away from the chaos, the noise, the bullshit that seemed to follow both of you like a storm cloud. ben had booked it on a whim, grumbling about how even he needed a fucking vacation sometimes, and for once, you didn’t argue. the idea of spending a week in the woods, far from the madness of the city and the constant stress, sounded like heaven.

the place was perfect. small and cozy, tucked deep into the outskirts of town where the roads turned to dirt and the trees seemed to swallow the sky. the cabin had everything you needed: a fireplace, a kitchen stocked with basics, a soft bed that smelled like cedar, and best of all—a jacuzzi on the back deck, overlooking the stretch of forest that went on forever.

by the time the third night rolled around, you’d fallen into a lazy rhythm. mornings spent tangled in bed, afternoons hiking trails or lounging on the deck with beers or tequila in hand, evenings cooking together in the tiny kitchen. ben had been... softer, in his own way. still gruff, still full of snark and sarcasm, but quieter. less tense. you caught him smiling more, the kind of smile that wasn’t for show—real and unguarded, reserved just for you.

you were sprawled on the couch, flipping through some old novel you’d found on the shelf, when he came back from the kitchen with two more beers. he handed you one without a word, leaning against the armrest with that lazy confidence that always made your chest tighten. he was shirtless, the soft glow of the fire highlighting every ridge of muscle, the scars that mapped his body like a story you’d memorized.

“what’re you reading?” he asked, his voice low and rough, the faintest edge of curiosity in it.

“just some old thriller,” you said, holding up the book. “it’s not great, but it’s something.”

he grunted, taking a swig of his beer before his eyes slid toward the glass door leading to the deck. the jacuzzi was out there, bubbling quietly in the dark.

“you ever fuck in a hot tub?” he asked, casual as anything, like he was asking about the weather.

your head snapped up, heat flooding your cheeks. “what?”

“you heard me.” his lips curved into a smirk, that cocky, infuriating smirk that always made your stomach flip. “you ever fuck in a hot tub? ‘cause if not, we’re about to change that.”

“are you serious?” you asked, but you were already setting your book aside, heart pounding as he grabbed your hand and pulled you to your feet.

“dead serious, sweetheart,” he said, dragging you toward the door. “been thinkin’ about it since we got here. figured tonight’s as good a night as any.”

the cool night air hit your skin as soon as you stepped outside, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the cabin. the forest was alive with the sounds of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves, the kind of quiet that wasn’t really quiet at all. the jacuzzi was already steaming, the water glowing faintly from the built-in lights beneath the surface.

“strip,” he ordered, his voice dropping into that commanding tone that sent a shiver down your spine.

you gave him a look, half amused, half exasperated. “You could at least ask nicely.”

“i could,” he agreed, stepping closer, his hands finding your waist. “but you like it when i don’t, don’t you?”

you didn’t answer, but the way your breath hitched when his fingers slid under your shirt was answer enough. he peeled it off in one smooth motion, his eyes darkening as they roamed over your bare skin.

“fuck, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous,” he muttered, his hands already tugging at your shorts. “gonna ruin you tonight, baby. make sure you never forget this trip.”

the words sent a rush of heat through you, and by the time you were both naked, the cool air didn’t matter anymore. he climbed into the jacuzzi first, sinking into the water with a groan that was almost obscene.

“c’mon,” he said, holding out a hand. “don’t make me wait, doll.”

you followed, sliding into the water until you were straddling his lap, the heat of the jacuzzi doing nothing to cool the fire building between you. his hands found your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him, hard and ready beneath you.

“you’re fucking insane,” you murmured, but your voice was breathless, your body already aching for him.

“you love it,” he shot back, his lips brushing against your ear. “love how i can’t get enough of you. love how i make you feel.”

he kissed you then, rough and hungry, his hands roaming over your back, your ass, pulling you against him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. the water sloshed around you as he shifted, lining himself up and sinking into you with one smooth thrust.

“fuuuuck,” he groaned, his head falling back against the edge of the tub. “tight as ever, baby. you feel so goddamn good.”

you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as you adjusted to the stretch, the heat of him inside you. the combination of the hot water and the way he filled you was overwhelming in the best way, your body already trembling as you started to move.

he let you set the pace at first, his hands gripping your hips as you rocked against him, slow and steady. but it didn’t last long. soldier boy was never one to let you stay in control for too long.

“that’s cute,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery as he grabbed your ass, pulling you down harder. “but you know i can’t let you have all the fun.”

before you could respond, he took over, thrusting up into you with a force that had the water splashing over the edge of the tub. the sound of skin against skin mixed with the bubbling of the jacuzzi and the distant rustle of the woods, the perfect symphony of sin.

“shit,” you gasped, your hands bracing against his chest as he pounded into you, each thrust sending a shockwave of pleasure through your body. “ben—fuck, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growled, his grip tightening on your hips. “you’re gonna take it, baby. every fuckin’ inch. you hear me?”

the faint sounds of the woods around you—the wind in the trees, the occasional snap of a branch. it was like the forest was watching, bearing witness to the way he was wrecking you.

“someone’s probably out there,” he said, his voice dropping to a taunting whisper. “some poor fucker sneaking through the woods, getting an eyeful. bet they wish they were me right now.”

the thought sent a thrill through you, your body clenching around him as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core. he felt it, grinning like the smug bastard he was.

“yeah, that’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. “cum for me, sweetheart. let ‘em hear you.”

you did, your orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave, your cries echoing into the night as he kept fucking you through it, dragging every last bit of pleasure from your trembling body.

“fuck, that’s my girl,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. with one last, rough thrust, he came, his hands gripping you so tightly you knew there’d be bruises in the morning.

you stayed like that for a moment, both of you catching your breath, the water calming around you. the woods were quiet again, as if the forest had been holding its breath right along with you.

“we’re definitely doing that again,” he said finally, his voice rough but satisfied.

you laughed, resting your forehead against his. “maybe next time we’ll try it indoors.”

“where’s the fun in that?” he said, smirking. “besides, i think the woods enjoyed the show.”

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. this was what you’d come here for—a break, a chance to forget everything else and just be with him. and if the woods were watching, well... let them.

[hexgirl13]

i just started rewatching the boys and i miss when it was trending so bad :( and i miss the abundance of billy butcher and soldier boy fics that would come out </3

my sexy ass husbands 😞😞

[waynes-multiverse]

Time After Time – Chapter 14

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, violence, smut & attempted assault, 2022 & season 3, Herogasm, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, drug use & drinking, PTSD, mentions of torture, physics, one-sided pining, injuries, jealousy, ANGST

Word Count: 18.7k

Posted on Patreon June 1, 2025

A/N: This chapter is one wild, chaotic ride and full of angst! Also apologies in advance for that beginning, the middle, and, uh, the end, probably 😂😘

✨ Chapter title inspired by a line in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 14: I’m Going to Have a Lot of Drinks

The motel’s Vacancy sign buzzed outside the window in red neon, casting lazy pulses of light across the cracked walls, the sun-faded window frames, and the worn carpet of the room.

Ben sat on the small bed, barely watching his old movie flicker across the ancient TV. The bed springs creaked beneath you both, your head still resting softly against his arm.

He could hear everything that went on in a motel at 3AM: someone snoring next door, water dripping in a pipe somewhere, the vending machine outside coughing out a can, and a cat yowling by the dumpsters.

But what he focused on most was your breathing. Slow. Steady. Trusting.

You were out like a light. Leaned against him like he wasn’t a monster but just the comfiest pillow in the world.

Your cheek was warm against his bicep, lips softly parted. His arm had gone phantom numb a while ago where your head rested. Your hoodie was bunched up a little around your waist, baring patches of soft and taut skin to his eyes. Your jean shorts hugged your hips like a sin, one bare thigh pressed against his leg, the heat of you bleeding through his sweats.

Ben didn’t know how the fuck this happened. You’d crashed next to him on the creaky motel bed, all attitude and sarcasm one minute – and then you’d gone still.

He hadn’t dared to move since then. Couldn’t if he wanted to. Not even to breathe right.

The movie flared with machine gun fire and patriotic nonsense. A sharp boom shook you awake. You stirred, eyes fluttering as you blinked blearily at the screen.

“There she is. Welcome back to the land of the living.” He looked down at you and met your groggy eyes with a wide smirk. “You were droolin’ on me, sweetheart.”

“Shit. Sorry…” You sat up next to him, shifted just slightly to bring enough space between the two of you again.

Ben almost sighed at the loss.

“Is that… you?” Your gaze drifted back to the TV.

“Yeah, one of the old ones. It’s a classic,” he said, still smiling.

“Aren’t they all?” you retorted, voice still laced with sleep. “Still watching old movies of yourself, huh?”

“It’s called nostalgia.”

“It’s called narcissism,” you quipped with that same sharp tongue. “Is that a railgun?”

“Sure is.” Ben grinned smugly.

“You know, that’s not how electromagnetism works. You’d need a whole substation strapped to your spine,” you noted. “Where the hell would you store that much capacitor power? In your ass?”

Ben gave you an amused look, chuckling. “It’s a movie, Doc. Not a science fair. You get off on ruining dreams? Pretty sure it’s illegal to look that good and talk that nerdy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Flattery? Must be the forty-year dry spell talking.”

Ben laughed lowly. “Yeah? Care to end it? Could volunteer for science, Doc.”

You snorted, but Ben caught how you shifted on the mattress, how your eyes flicked briefly to his mouth. Unconscious, maybe, but still there.

“Careful,” you warned playfully. “I’ve got a thing for self-destructive men with god complexes.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got both,” Ben drawled, spread his legs a little wider, kept his eyes trained on your lips.

And he saw it – the way your thighs pressed together slightly. Subtle, but sure as hell not invisible. Your body gave you away before your brain had caught up.

He knew the fucking signs. Knew them like the back of his hand. Knew what he had to say to get you all hot and bothered.

He deserved nice things, right?

“Wanna find out what else I could do with these hands besides holding a weapon, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught.

Bingo.

“Think about it.” Ben’s smirk deepened, voice low and coaxing, smooth as bourbon. “Haven’t been touched in decades. Haven’t tasted anyone in just as long. Think about how starved I am. How much I’d fuckin’ devour you.”

You didn’t respond, but your fingers twitched against the bedsheet. And Ben saw it – saw it all. Saw the little twitch in your muscles that held back the squirm. Saw the war playing out behind your eyes.

Fight or surrender.

“What? You’re gonna tell me that didn’t do anything for you?” His head cocked, brow lifting. “Because I’m pickin’ up a few signs, sweetheart.” His voice dropped another notch. “Little tension in your legs. That shift in your hips just now. Not exactly subtle.”

You looked down, as if trying to reset. But he wasn’t about to absolve you. He let the words hang in the air for a moment. Waited. Patience was a fucking virtue predators knew how to enjoy.

And then, his fingers stretched a little. Skimmed the bare skin on your thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Barely brushing.

You didn’t move but bit down on your lip – like a fish on a hook.

But then, to his surprise, your head tilted, your eyes dragged over him – speculative, curious, challenging – and a smirk curled.

“Oh, yeah? Wanna back that up or are you all… talk?”

Ben laughed it off. He’d just been teasing. Talking shit. He knew you wouldn’t go through with it. He enjoyed the foreplay nonetheless.

Still, he humored you. Wanted to see how far you’d go before backing down.

His hand slid over his thigh, patted it, fingers spread wide. He grinned – lazy, bold, certain. “Wanna find out? Right here’s the impact zone, sweetheart. You can calculate my thrust velocity.”

You’d done it once before. It was impressive – you and him. Actually made him wonder if he could break his old record now with super-everything.

Surely, right?

Your eyebrow arched – fucking smug. “Think you can handle me?”

Ben gave a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, I know I can.”

And certainly, he thought you would back out now. He’d done this dance with you before. But in an unexpected turn of events, you rose on your knees, crawled over, and straddled his thighs.

No hesitation. No asking. Just a smooth and taunting swing of your hips, and you settled in his lap like you fucking belonged there, hot against the worn cotton of his sweats.

And Ben? His dick twitched up immediately, thick and straining beneath the fabric, aching from how long it had fucking been. His hands caught your hips on instinct, rough and grounding.

Muscle fuckin’ memory.

“Not sure you’re ready,” you teased, warm breath brushing his ear. Hands pressed against his chest, then slowly slid up to his shoulders, locking around his neck.

“Dangerous game you’re playin’, sweetheart,” he rasped, eyes darkening. His fingers were already itching to pull you all the way. “You’re sittin’ on a loaded gun.”

There was the little smirk on your lips again. “Forty years, huh? Hope you’ve been saving up, soldier.”

His breath punched out of him in a low groan. His resolve broke. Hands gripped you hard and greedy, dragging you closer.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, grazing your throat. Fucking inhaled you.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he growled, hands roaming your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “‘Cause you got no fuckin’ clue what you’re gettin’ into here, but I’m gonna make sure you feel it goddamn everywhere.”

“Yeah? Show me.” A slow smile formed on your lips, nose brushing his. Teasing. And then you rocked.

Just once.

And he saw fuckin’ stars.

That was all it took. His hand flew to the back of your head, tangled in your hair, mouth crashing against yours. His tongue claimed you – filthy, desperate, fucking hungry.

But your lips met his with a slow drag and lazy tongue strokes – teasing, daring, coaxing. Not rushed. Not frantic. You kissed him like you were memorizing him – like he was something worth savoring.

Your teeth tugged on his bottom lip till he growled. You rocked your hips forward again, a slow grind, dragging the heat of your pussy right over the thick bulge in his sweats.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed. “You sit in my lap like that, and I’m gonna fuck you like I own you.”

You moaned into his mouth when he pulled you down harder, one hand gripping your hip and helping you move, the other sliding beneath your hoodie to find bare skin.

Palmed at your waist, your ribs, the fucking softness of your tits.

He couldn’t believe he had you again. That you were moving on him like this – raw, aching need in every grind, every gasp.

“Feels like you missed this,” you teased breathlessly.

“Oh, sweetheart, you have no fuckin’ idea.”

Your pace got filthier – less teasing, more need. His cock strained hard against the sweats, precum soaking through the fabric, catching where your shorts rubbed down on him again and again and again.

He gripped your ass, rutting up into you. Chasing it. “Feel that, huh? How hard I am for you? That thick fuckin’ cock’s beggin’ for you. Forty years of waiting to be buried in that tight little pussy. Imma fuckin’ ruin you. Make you fuckin’ mine again, baby.”

You whimpered, pressing your chest to his. He kissed your neck, licked it, bit down hard, left a fucking mark on your skin.

He bucked up into you, losing rhythm. You chased it anyway — moaning, rocking, dragging your cunt over his cock like you needed it to breathe.

“F–Fuck, baby. Just like that,” he grunted, already twitching under you. “Fuck yeah, rub that pussy all over me. Make a fuckin’ mess, sweetheart.”

You rolled your hips in sharp little circles, moaning salaciously into his neck. He was fucking addicted to the obscenity. To the fucking sounds he was drawing from you.

His fingers tugged impatiently at the hem of your hoodie. “Off,” he growled. “Or I’ll fuckin’ rip it. Need to see those tits, baby. Been too fuckin’ long.”

You pulled your hoodie off in one swift motion.

No fuckin’ bra. Just glorious tits how he remembered them.

“Fuck, baby, still so fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured against your ribs like he was worshipping at a fucking altar.

He latched onto your breast, mouth sucking your nipple between his teeth, groaning like he’d gone a lifetime without the taste. You gasped, arched into him, rubbing your clit against the ridged shape of him.

“Fuck–… Need you–” you panted.

“You have me, baby,” he rasped between bite marks on your skin, loving how they fucking stayed. “You always fuckin’ had me.”

He shoved a hand between your bodies, past your waistband, dragged his thick fingers through your slick, groaned when it trickled and drenched his fucking hand.

“Look at you, sweetheart. Already such a fuckin’ mess. Already so fuckin’ soaked for me from just a little grinding, huh?” he muttered, rough thumb working your clit. “Fuckin’ knew it. Fuck–… That’s my girl.”

“Fuck me, please,” you whimpered.

And then, fabric ripped. He didn’t care, just tore your shorts off and left you bare in front of him. He shoved down his sweats, just enough to free himself, cock springing against his stomach.

Hard. Thick. Flushed dark with need and fuckin’ twitching.

You gasped when the blunt head rubbed against your slit. He slid through your folds, coating himself – teasing, smug, and fucking wrecked.

“You want it?” he asked. Low. Raspy. Dangerous. “Fuckin’ say it.”

“Please.”

He grinned like the fucking devil. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

He thrust up hard – one stroke, all the way in. You cried out when his dickhead slammed against your cervix, nails digging into his shoulders. He’d split you open and sealed the wound in one go.

Tight. Wet. Hot.

Just like he fucking remembered. And you? You rode him like you’d done it before. Like you’d missed it. Like it was fucking yours.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking Christ, just like that,” he praised, head dropping back with a rough moan. His hands guided you, eyes watching as you squeezed him just right and got off on the upstroke. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch like I know you can. Fuck–… Be my fuckin’ hero, sweetheart. Ride it–… ride your cock.”

The rhythm was brutal, desperate, punishing. Years of deprivation behind every snap of his hips. The whole bed creaked like it might collapse. You were moaning – open, loud, messy. Like you didn’t care this whole dump could hear you getting ruined on his cock.

The sound of your voice fucking shattered him.

“Faster, baby,” you begged breathlessly.

He gave it to you. Gripped your ass – rough and bruising – and started fucking up into you like he meant to breed you.

“Feel that fuckin’ stretch, baby? Feel how fuckin’ deep I am inside this pussy. God, shit, still so fuckin’ tight,” he choked on a moan. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy… Fuck, been dyin’ to be inside you again–”

You gasped, writhing against him, clenching around him, thighs flexing, chasing that high. But then: “Fuck, Soldier Boy.”

Ben stopped. Stiffened. His hands went slack around you.

You were still moving, still kissing him, still breathless in his lap. But for him? The moment cracked open like ice underfoot.

A hand cupped your cheek, tried to force you to look at him, but you didn’t.

“Fuck, baby. Just look at me. It’s me. It’s Ben,” his voice tried to reach you, but you were too far gone. “It’s Ben, baby. Please, just–… just look at me. Just fuckin’ remember me.”

Thud–thud–THUD!

Three heavy pounds rattled not only the door but also him awake. Ben jolted up, chest heaving, weary green eyes blinking around the room

Daylight. TV off. Your spot next to him empty. Cold.

And Ben? Fully clothed and painfully hard as a rock.

Ah, shit. Rough mornin’. Wet dream turned fuckin’ nightmare.

He couldn’t have fucking nice things for once, could he?

And in a sick twist, you groaned “Coming!” from the bathroom and stormed toward the door, pulling a hoodie overhead as you went. Didn’t care that he was right there and seeing you half-naked – a fucking stranger.

Yeah, Ben would put a fucking stop to this once you were his again. What happened to goddamn modesty? But hey, at least it was long enough for him to peek: bra, dark navy blue, and a lot of delicate lace around those beautiful tits.

He’d love to tear that thing off of you.

The asshole then brought presents: a happy hero meal and some fuckin’ drugs – the hard, good shit. He tossed it like Ben was a shelter dog that had bitten too many people and was soon gonna be put down. And you, on the other hand, got some translated folder and a gigantic cup of frap-somethin’ with an obnoxious amount of whipped cream and caramel.

But you’d always had a sweet tooth, so it didn’t come as much as a surprise. What fucking killed him, though?

You pulling out the fuckin’ straw and going to town on it, tongue licking cream like it’d never done anything else.

Ben almost blew his load and a gasket in the fuckin’ Geiger counter, wanting to throw the damn thing out the window.

Rough fuckin’ morning… And it had only been the first goddamn day of many.

At least, he had some Bennies to get over the pain above (and the ache below) – well… until you fucking ruined that, too.

Because you watched him. Sitting on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee and still working that damn straw. Eyes on him.

His back was half-turned, but he still caught it in his periphery as he was halfway through crushing pills to dust with his knife.

Judging.

“Problem, sweetheart?” His voice was a little too gruff, a little too deep, a little too defensive. Too confrontational.

“No,” you replied, bored. Almost deadpan. Then you casually opened the folder in your lap, directed your gaze there, took a slurp of coffee through the straw, and added: “My parents always snorted their breakfast, too.”

Then, you gave a shrug of your shoulders and started reading – innocent. Like you hadn’t just launched him into complete chaos.

You liked teaching people lessons, alright. You also liked fucking with them. On purpose.

This was the goddamn problem with smart women – especially if they fucking knew it, too. They knew exactly where to hit and make it stick.

But Ben couldn’t help the little smirk twitching on his lips – almost proud.

Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary.

Dangerous.

And well, he was a little dangerous, too. You and him had always made a good team in the past. Now, the two of you could be unstoppable.

He just had to ensure you stayed in your fucking lane – and he didn’t mean that in a bad way. Just… rein you in a little – like taming a fucking wild horse.

His gaze flicked briefly back to you. You were watching him again, subtly, your eyes not on the knife but the tremble in his hands. The way he ground his jaw a little too tight.

Fuck. He’d forgotten about your shitty parents.

Did you have a fucking problem with this? Probably, if your parents were fucking junkies, right? And here he sat, supposed hero turned nuclear weapon and addict. He felt a little ounce of shame curling in his gut.

And still, he felt his blood itching for it more. But he couldn’t do this with you here. Couldn’t do it with you watching.

“You know, all this tension could be solved if you just went and made us breakfast, doll. Maybe put on a skirt and apron, smile a little. That’s what you broads were built for, right?”

The room went silent.

Your jaw dropped slightly, eyebrows lifting. But then you ground your teeth and a fire flickered alive in your eyes.

“Jesus,” String Bean breathed, eyes wide.

Ben knew where to hit. Knew how to weaponize what he knew about you to get rid of you – or so he thought.

But you only scoffed in amusement and rolled your eyes before delivering your punch: “God, it’s like you’ve been alive for a hundred years only to make cavemen look evolved.”

Then you got up from the bed and strolled over to Butcher, ignoring Ben like he didn’t exist anymore.

“I’m taking a break,” you announced and puffed your chest out, shoulders straight. “And I want vacation days, Butcher. I know you’re technically blackmailing me, but I still think I have at least basic labor rights. MM and that CIA lady gave me forms to sign, so I know I’m employed somewhere.”

Ben straightened slightly at that. Blackmail? What the hell did that fucking mean? That asshole better not be threatening you, or Ben would punch that dick to goddamn Uranus.

Butcher sighed – loudly. “Jesus fuck, sunshine, how ‘bout we talk when the job’s done, alright?”

But you didn’t back off – not even a little. Ben listened in amusement. Didn’t dare to look fully and give anyone the impression that he actually cared about this little spat, but he still enjoyed it greatly – enjoyed the fucking destructive wildfire you were.

“After this job’s done, I’m not gonna stick around, so you better figure it out now,” you bit, all flames and heat. Then you held open your palm – waiting, demanding. “Give me your car keys. I wanna go see Kimiko and check on Frenchie.”

Butcher scoffed in response and met your challenging gaze. “The hell you are.”

Oof. Wrong move.

“What d’you think you’re doing? You know I can just freeze your ass and take them,” you said and raised your open palm a little higher. “Give.”

Butcher met you head-on. “Try. You don’t even know where I hid ‘em.”

“I don’t care if you shoved them up Hughie’s ass. Still gonna dive in and find them,” you retorted.

“Whoa, uh, just like to clarify – he did not… shove anything up my ass,” the kid muttered nervously, blinking at you with those pleading puppy dog eyes.

Ben almost snorted out loud into his soda.

Butcher groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes back like he’d been dealing with enough sassy employees for a week. He then hauled out a jingling set of his keys from his pocket and placed them in your palm.

You grinned, triumphant and satisfied. Ben wanted to kiss you stupid for it.

“Don’t fuckin’ take too long,” Butcher growled.

“I’ll take as long as I want,” you called back, already out the door as it fell shut behind you.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the messy white lines in front of him, then back to the door. He felt torn. Torn between relief and worry.

Because now you were out there – alone, unprotected, and out of his sight. What if you fucking disappeared again?

He didn’t like that thought at all. He had to keep an eye on you – keep you close.

“Where’s she off to?” he asked, drawing the asshole’s attention to him.

“Hospital,” Butcher replied curtly.

“She’s, uh, visiting a friend of ours,” the kid added helpfully, earning him a raised look from his boss.

“What’s this talk about blackmail?” Ben asked with a casualness only he could feign, snorting his first line.

“Insurance policy.” The asshole smirked. “Don’t worry about ‘er, mate. Guarantee she won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Ben matched his smile while imagining ripping the guy’s throat out with his teeth.

No one got to fucking threaten you and live to tell the tale. For now, though, Butcher was useful in keeping you close, but he’d surely made it onto Ben’s hit list with that little stunt.

The asshole’s smirk widened then. “Let’s get to business, shall we?”

After striking his little deal, Butcher eventually went to hunt down the first names on his list and left Ben alone with the kid as his babysitter – like that would actually help if he blew.

Luckily, you came back about three agonizing hours later – made fun of his movie that was playing on TV while plopping down on the worn couch next to the kid.

Not next to him. Not like the two of you were closer. Not like you hadn’t already shared every part of you with him.

Drove him and the Geiger counter fuckin’ nuts.

On top of that, you and String Bean were annoying the shit out of him with questions, with your judgment, with your fucking righteousness – like you kids could actually understand what was on the fucking line here.

Ben was trying to protect you. He loved you. And you? You fucking forgot about him.

At least, Butcher then came back with good news – the location of the fucking twins.

Ben suited up in the bathroom, walked out, and found the two idiots shooting something up their veins while you tied your shoes casually on the bed next to them like it was just another fucking Tuesday.

He smelled the Compound V instantly – but different. Green. Didn’t look like Vought was even pretending to hide the poison under false advertising anymore.

Ben then glanced at you – same black sneakers, jean shorts, and a new black hoodie that read: “May the mass times acceleration be with you.”

Christ on a cross….

Star Wars? Fuckin’ seriously? God, you were a bigger nerd than he ever thought.

“That what you wearin’, sweetheart? Where’s your fucking suit?” Ben asked, eyeing you sideways.

You tilted your head, amused, gaze grazing him from head to toe. Then you snorted a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not gonna be caught dead in something like that,” you replied and then grinned, gesturing down your outfit. “‘Sides, this is my armor. I’m not a sparkly unicorn that shits rainbow glitter. Don’t need a lot. Got my onyx slippers.” You clicked your heels. “They used to be red. You know, like ruby slippers? But I switched to black after I lost part of my abilities. Figured it was more appropriate ‘cause, you know… I’m in mourning.”

Jesus fuck. You were not built for fucking battle. Now, Ben was even more reluctant to drag you into this – Herogasm of all things. Not exactly a place he ever imagined you in the middle of.

Ben’s eyes drifted to Butcher, chin nodding toward you. “Can she fuckin’ stay here?”

“No can do, guv. House full of supes? We’re gonna need ‘er,” Butcher replied. “Just try to get along, yeah?”

You smirked winningly and brushed purposely past Ben. He almost pushed you against the nearest wall.

“Don’t worry, gramps. I won’t bite as much,” you said, grinning. “All I need is for someone to be distracted for a second while they read what’s across my tits.”

Ben made the mistake and looked down at the white lettering again, and suddenly, in the next blink of his eyes, you were on the other side of him, smirking wide.

“See?”

God, this was gonna be fuckin’ annoying, wasn’t it?

Ben gave you an impatient and tight smile, unamused. “Cute lil party trick, sweetheart. Don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he warned but kept his voice calm – almost playful. Still, he didn’t want you to get any fucking ideas. “You at least got a fuckin’ supe name?”

You grinned then – cocky, bold, and mischievous. “Puck.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “Like hockey?”

“Like Shakespeare, you bardless brute,” you retorted your correction. “If you’re not careful, I’ll turn your head into an ass as well – a real one, not a donkey.”

Ben’s lips twitched with a challenging smirk. “Well, if you pardon, we will mend.”

Ooooh... Your fuckin’ face was glorious. Your brows drew together, you stumped so much your shoulders actually flinched an inch backward, and your head tilted the other way.

You were fuckin’ impressed now, weren’t you?

“Huh. Who knew you actually know more than godawful action movies,��� you muttered.

“Impressed? Who’s a fuckin’ bardless brute now, huh?” Ben retorted smugly.

He still fucking was. Only reason he knew that line was because his English teacher once made him participate in a play of Midsummer Night’s Dream to save himself from a failing grade. But hey, he loved acting and it had been easier than writing a fucking essay.

He’d gotten a standing fucking ovation, too. Of course he had.

But the look in your eyes? Fuckin’ worth dragging that out from the cobwebbed corners of his mind.

After more curious questions from you about his Shakespearean knowledge, came a four-hour car ride to Vermont (or hell), where he had to share a backseat with you.

And you, you fucking menace?

You leaned your back against the door, stretched your legs across the seat, and rested your bare feet on his thigh.

No asking. No hesitation. Just did. Didn’t even look up once.

And Ben? He was strung taut like a wire the whole ride. Tried not to twitch pathetically. Tried not to outright beg for you to touch his dick with your goddamn pinky toe.

He tried to keep his mind occupied instead. Solve this fucking problem, so you could actually touch him. And that was when he noticed it – you touched him.

Not just now, but back at the motel, too. Since the minute you and him first spoke at the trailer, actually. Sure, you kept your distance – but mostly because you didn’t like him. Not because you were scared of him.

This whole time, you hadn’t cared about close proximity at all. You didn’t seem terrified of him even a little – which was fucking frightening for different reasons entirely.

When they finally arrived at their location, Ben then decided to test that little theory in action as he stalked through the mansion with you.

He’d told you to stay in his fucking eye-line, pretended it was for the sole reason he didn’t want you to pull a stunt on him again and freeze him. But in reality, he was protecting you – and making sure those little perverts better kept their clammy hands by their sides.

His experiment, however, came to full fruition then. First test: gently putting his hand between your shoulder blades as he guided you through the house. Second test: letting it rest briefly on the small of your back. Neither of them yielded a fuckin’ reaction.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t give a single fuck.

But Ben remembered the way you’d jumped like he’d burned you whenever he’d done it in the past.

So, what the hell happened between then and now? Or, well, now and some arbitrary date in the future, he supposed.

“God, I can’t believe you founded this depravity,” you muttered, nose and brows scrunched as your eyes drifted around, barely being able to decide which abomination to judge first.

Fuckin’ adorable.

“Whoa, hey, just to fuckin’ clarify – I didn’t found–” his gaze flicked around, tongue poking out between his teeth as he searched for the right words, “–well, whatever the hell this freak show is. You know, back in the day, this used to be a classy gig. Yeah…” A smirk crawled across his face at the memory. You would’ve loved it – not that he would’ve fucking shared you with anyone. “Cigars, bourbon, even had a flag bikini contest to boost morale. Think, a gentlemen’s club for the Rat Pack.”

You would’ve fucking won that damn bikini contest.

“Lovely.” You gave him a deadpan look, arms folded tightly over those tits underneath that baggy hoodie like you were trying to keep the slime of this place away from you. Your gaze then swerved off to a threesome on the kitchen counter, brow wrinkling even more.

Ben followed it, smirk deepening. “You know, sweetheart, I bet you could bend that way, too.”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes dark at first, then twinkling with amusement.

“What, don’t believe me?” he teased. “I’ll kick these amateurs outta one of those bedrooms and happily show you.”

You raised a brow. “There’s about twenty naked women around you. Why are you hitting on the one girl in clothes?”

“I like a fuckin’ challenge.” He grinned, lazy and smug. “‘Sides, I have an acquired taste.”

You snorted a laugh. “Well, take me off the menu, please.”

Not a fuckin’ chance…

“C’mon,” you motioned toward the living room area, “Butcher said the twins are back there.”

Ben nodded, smirk fading, and stuck close by your side.

“You want me to freeze them?” you asked, shooting him a glance. You bumped into him slightly when you dodged a couple fucking against the wall of the hallway. “I could only freeze their bodies, you know? Keep the heads. That way they can’t run, but they can still talk. They also feel it when you kill them… ‘Sides, it’s kinda funny. People get really panicky and freak out when I do that.”

Ben stopped in his tracks, blinking at you for a moment. He watched a small smirk flash across your lips – puckish.

Made his goddamn heart swell and his dick hard.

He hummed and considered it, then gave barely a shrug of one shoulder. “That does sound kinda funny. Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

Good team work. Unstoppable force.

As he moved half a step toward the living room, you stopped him, though – hand wrapping around his wrist, pulling him gently back, touching him.

“Wait–”

You dropped it and flinched back when he met your eyes, probably confusing his prayer for a warning. You just couldn’t see it.

“You’re not gonna–… you know, power up the nuclear reactor in here, right?”

Ben met your request with a tired stare and a deep exhale through his nose. You might have judged these perverts, but you were still worried about their safety, apparently.

Fucking Christ, your generation was nutty. Not exactly how men won wars.

“No,” he assured you nevertheless. “Don’t worry about it. I can dent their teeth in with my fuckin’ pinky.”

Your lips pursed for a second before forcing a tight smile. You gave him a nod and a thumbs up. “Great.”

Yeah, you didn’t belong onto a battlefield but into Lecture Hall B of some ivy-wrapped university. This was the fucking last mission he’d ever take you on (and if only it had been as easy and simple as wishful thinking).

And the rest of the day? Fuckin’ disaster.

The twins went according to plan till they didn’t. You froze them, they panicked (which really was satisfyingly hilarious), and the two idiots leaked more than the poop chute on the screen behind them. But then, he fucking heard it – that sound.

That song.

He didn’t remember much after. Just that melody, you backing away next to him, eyes wide, asking him what was wrong, and him telling you to run.

He woke up to wreckage and smoke. There was barely a house or people left – at least not ones that could still be recognized as such. When you weren’t anywhere in his close vicinity, he felt relief surge through him – before the panic kicked in.

Where the fuck were you?

But Ben didn’t get enough time to look for you before the next problem arrived – the caped cunt Butcher wanted dead.

Fuckin’ ridiculous, honestly. A clown, really. But that strength?

Yeah. Shit…

Took him, Butcher, and a butt-naked String Bean to hold the pussy down. Still didn’t get to kill him. The coward fled.

Ben then followed Butcher and Hughie – slowly, unhurried, calm. Not like he wanted to run around and scream your fucking name till you answered.

Outside, Ben then finally spotted you – sitting by the curb, blood running down your cheek from a small head wound. The glare and sharp mouth were apparently alive, too.

“You good?” Ben came to stand next to you, looking down, fingers twitching by his sides to reach out and wipe the blood from your cheek, legs itching to crouch down and check on you properly.

“Yeah.” You gave a nod and met his gaze, bringing a flat palm up to shield your eyes from the setting sun behind him. Your brow then wrinkled again. “Are you okay? You look like you’re in pain… or constipated.”

“‘M fine,” Ben replied with a huff. “Your powers? Still working?”

Your finger pointed behind his right, and he followed it, finding a half-burning supe frozen still – including the little flame on his arm.

Thank fucking God.

“Does that answer your question?” you asked as the man resumed screaming and running down the road in a panic.

Ben nodded, hesitated for a moment, but then held his hand out to you. You looked reluctantly at it for a second before you placed your palm in his, and he helped you back onto your feet.

He hated letting it go again.

“How d’you get out?”

“Well, I–… I couldn’t freeze shit,” you explained, slightly irritated, your eyes watching him closely again. “But I could at least put it in slo-mo long enough to get the fuck out.”

Good girl.

“Was that Homelander in there?” you asked, looking warily up at him.

Ben glanced at the burning mansion, then back at you. “Yeah,” he replied, deep voice raspy. “He know who you are?”

You blinked at him but shook your head slowly, shrugging. “No, I–… I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Ben gave a nod. “Keep it that way.”

You didn’t ask him what exactly happened or what he meant by that, although he could tell it was on the tip of your tongue the whole car ride back.

Legend’s mansion reeked of old whiskey, ghosts of cocaine, and broken promises – but still fucking better than that shitty motel off the highway.

Ben hadn’t left a lot of room for discussion with Butcher when he told the asshole about his idea to knock on his old friend’s door and hide out here from the public. After forty years, he deserved a little luxury and a king-sized bed without creaking springs.

The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, but the house still held its burn when Ben strolled through it. Everyone had retreated to their corners, licking their wounds, but he could hear your heartbeat from the hallway.

That little rhythm, steady but tight. Anxious. He’d memorized it. Could pick it out of a crowd by now.

The lights were dimmed, only a small lamp on a side table held an orange glow while the rest of the room was lit by the flickering blue hues of the TV. You sat alone on the couch, tucked into cushions, barefoot, remote in hand, and eyes tiredly fixed on the screen, watching the late-night news. You were curled into the corner with a blanket haphazardly tossed over your lap as Ben poured himself a glass of forty-year-old Glenfiddich at the bar before flopping down next to you with a grunt, ice clinking in the tumbler – most certainly uninvited.

You didn’t glance at him, just kept your eyes trained on the TV like it might give you answers the rest of the world couldn’t.

Ben didn’t say anything as he lit a joint and leaned back against the couch with a long, exhaustive breath. He stayed like this for a while – no words, no touches, just your presence. He needed that, especially after today.

He hated that he couldn’t claim all of it. That this – the two-feet distance at all times, your scent and warmth but nothing else – had to be enough.

“Clothes good?” you asked suddenly, voice low and soft as not to disturb the silence of the house too much.

When you’d returned from the hospital this morning, you’d also brought a bag of clothes for him that you’d gotten during a pit-stop on your way back to the motel. No one had asked you to – you’d gone out of your way to do it, anyway.

Nothing fancy. Nothing too modern. Just a few simple and plain tees, a comfier pair of sweats, and jeans. Didn’t ask, just did – with a smirk and the explanation that Butcher had left his credit card in the car.

Ben looked at you briefly from the corner of his eye before staring down at the black shirt and gray sweats he was wearing.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, and added a mumbled “thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with an almost inaudible sigh and turned your focus back to the TV.

News anchors, wide-eyed, grim, and breathless, recited the carnage like it was a weather report. Fires. Body bags. Death toll still rising. No comment from Vought yet.

“Hell of a show, huh?” he broke the silence with a low chuckle like it was just another night – like he hadn’t incinerated a house full of people. He took a sip of his drink and a drag from his reefer, lazily blowing out the thin stream of smoke. “Should charge admission next time.”

“Not funny,” you muttered.

Ben gave a grunt, rolled his eyes slightly. He knew you weren’t happy with him – neither was he, but it hit different when it came from you.

Green eyes flicked back to the screen with another sip of his drink. “Too bad Earving wasn’t there.”

Your head snapped toward him, brow raised in question. “Earving?”

“Black Noir.”

“Oh.” You sunk back down into the cushions. “Weird hearing real names. Makes you sound like people.”

That was a jab, right? Some fucking guilt trip? He wasn’t imagining that, but he let it slide. Couldn’t really blame you for it after today.

“We are people – you included, sweetheart,” Ben retorted nonetheless and took another hit of his joint – a fucking long one. He looked at you for a second, trying to figure out a way to bridge the gap between you two. “My name’s Ben, by the way.”

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, Ben thought you’d finally remember him. Braced himself for it. But whatever you were searching for in his eyes, couldn’t be found.

You turned back to the screen somberly. “Think I’ll stick to Soldier Boy. Suits you better.”

Ouch.

“C’mon, loosen up,” he scoffed. “Not like you actually liked any of these assholes.”

“That’s not the point,” you argued, sitting up straighter like you were getting ready for a fight. “Just because I might think they’re awful people, doesn’t mean I wanna see them burn alive. I mean, Jesus Christ… They didn’t deserve that.”

Ben leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Sure they did.”

And then you went quiet. Thoughtful. The creases in your brow ironed out. Your head tilted ever-so slightly. And Ben knew what that look meant – that fucking softness.

He hated it. Hated that you were soft. Even now.

“What happened today?” you asked with that gleam of quiet concern in your eyes like he was a wounded Grizzly with rabies that wandered into your yard and could be fixed with a bowl of water.

“Nothin’,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the TV, though he wasn’t watching. “Twins pissed me off and I put ‘em in the dirt. They were goddamn traitors. Handed me over to the Reds. All I did was return the fuckin’ favor.”

You leaned forward on your knees, your stare intensifying as you shook your head. “No, I don’t buy it. This wasn’t planned. I don’t believe you wanted to hurt all these people.”

“Believe it.”

“When I asked you today, you said you wouldn’t–”

“Yeah, well, I say a lotta things. Doesn’t make ‘em true,” he said with casual cruelty, but he had to stop you from fucking prodding – from finding the truth. “Just said what you wanted to hear, so you get off my fucking back, sweetheart.”

“You’re lying.”

That hit deep. Not because it was true – but because you saw right fucking through him. Saw right through the lies, the walls, the mask.

“I was right next to you when it happened,” you added. Same persistence, same fire in your eyes he knew so well. “You told Hughie and me you blacked out during Midtown. You said you didn’t wanna hurt those people.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how did nineteen people end up dead? Not supes, people,” you prompted and waited long enough to let the silence stretch. “You can’t control it, can you?”

“I can,” he growled with a stern look. "Back off. Not gonna warn you twice."

“But you can’t every time, right?”

You were always like this – soft voice, soft hands, soft eyes – but never weak. Never stupid. It made you harder to lie to. Harder to brush off.

He didn’t respond. He knew where this conversation was headed, and he wasn’t fucking doing it.

He wasn’t gonna talk about Russia. Ever. Not with you.

That part of him – the dark, twitching, screaming core of what they did to him – it wasn’t something he knew how to name, let alone share. And you… you were the last person he wanted to share it with.

Because if you saw the truth – the shaking hands, the blackouts, the Russian lullabies that burrow into his skull and flip the fucking switch – you’d flinch. Or worse, you’d pity him.

And he couldn’t fucking take that.

If you knew about the restraints, the isolation, the endlessly cruel tests, you wouldn’t look at him the same. Not like someone who was strong, but someone who was broken.

One wrong melody away from burning down a neighborhood.

And you? You’d try to fix him. You always had. Even before the shield, before the name, back when he was still just a young, dumb kid, you looked at him like he could be more. But now he was something else – warped and weaponized by Vought, cracked open and rebuilt in a Russian lab, and every inch of him screamed 'Don’t touch this.'

But if you saw it – if you saw him – you’d reach for him. You’d say something soft. You’d try to make it better.

And he couldn’t fucking afford that right now. Not when he didn’t know what was even going on yet.

“Look, if you wanna talk about it–” you started, but he cut you off quickly.

“I don’t.”

“I–… I saw what happened to you, okay? Parts of it,” you said carefully. His eyes snapped to you. He heard your heartbeat accelerate. You then averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “Not in my head, by the way. I just wanted you to know I wouldn’t do that,” you clarified, swallowing. “But we-, uh, we found tapes when we got you outta there.”

Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t.”

“I’m not here to poke at your scars. I just wanna understand. That’s all,” you said.

“You want to understand,” he repeated and scoffed a mocking chuckle, rubbing his eyes. “Right. You want me to lay my head into your lap and cry about it? Light a candle, do a feelings circle, and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

You shot him a look. Not amused. “You don’t have to joke your way out of everything.”

“Alright, you want the play-by-play, sweetheart?” he baited you, eyes narrowing. “You want me to walk you through how I turned a house full of assholes into bone confetti? Or do you just want a hug and a sob story about how I’m soooo broken inside?” Then he leaned in, arm resting on the back of the couch behind you, smirk dancing on his lips. Cold. Venomous. Cruel. “You ever stop to think maybe I wanted to kill ‘em? Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe I fucking liked it. Hm?”

That made you stop short for a second, but the fire in your eyes never went anywhere. The flames only rose higher.

“Then why did you save me?”

Shit.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, sipping his whiskey.

“No, you did,” you insisted and were getting a little more heated. “Don’t you dare fucking gaslight me. You told me to run. You looked fucking terrified, and it wasn’t because of the twins.”

“Shut up,” he huffed dismissively.

“It was the song, wasn’t it? There was a Russian song that came on the radio. It triggered you, didn’t it?”

“Stop,” he warned, but you were a full wildfire now – all heat and no escape.

“Look, I know what it’s like when you’re not in control. I get why you’re so fucking angry. Trust me. But you’re gonna hurt more people if you don’t face your shit,” you argued fiercely. Brave. Foolish.

“You wanna help me? That it, sweetheart?” He scoffed coldly into his tumbler. “I don’t need your fucking pity, and I sure as hell don’t need you to fuckin’ fix me.”

“I never–”

“No, but you’re thinking it. I can see it,” he cut it, taunting. “Poor Soldier Boy, all alone. Must’ve been so hard, right? Frozen in a box, tortured, abandoned, boo-fucking-hoo.”

“That is hard,” you countered – still fearless, still soft, still all you. “And I know you’re clearly not asking for my opinion, but you should know I don’t think you’re broken or weak because of it. I think it made you stronger.”

And that was the worst of it – you meant it. You fucking cared. You looked at him like he was still something worth saving. Like he hadn’t just taken out half a goddamn mansion. Like his hands weren’t still stained with blood. Like you hadn’t seen the monster and decided not to run.

“Damn right it did,” he snapped and fixed you with a glare. “You think I want to be soft and bleeding and weak like you? You think because you’ve got some tragic backstory of your own, we’re the fucking same? You and me? Not the same species, sweetheart. You’re not special. You’re not different. You’re just a little girl playing hero in a world full of wolves. You’re soft. You still believe people can come back from the edge. But I jumped off that cliff a long fucking time ago. So don’t look at me like I’m something you can save.”

You inhaled sharply, but still didn’t back down. “I know you’re not the cold asshole you’re pretending to be.”

“You wanna know what Russia did to me? What they did? Little scientists like you, hm?” Ben goaded. “They tore me apart. Nerve by nerve. Memory by memory. I begged them to stop. I screamed. I cried. I pissed myself. That what you wanna hear?”

“No,” you said, getting up from the couch. “I’m just trying to help you.”

He hated the look on your face. Hated himself for putting it there.

Ben rose as well, towering over you. Cold. “I didn’t fuckin’ ask for it. Wanna know why? ‘Cause, most of all, those forty years in that shithole gave me fuckin’ clarity. Made me realize I don’t need people. I don’t need kindness. I don’t need you. I wanna burn every last thing that tried to take me down to the fucking ground. You think I regret what happened today? I relished it.”

“Liar,” you bit. “I know you didn’t.”

And God, he hated you for it. Hated you for giving him fucking hope.

“That’s because you’re still stupid enough to think there’s fuckin’ good in people,” Ben retorted. “You think you know me? You don’t know shit. Let me make it real fuckin’ clear – whatever you’re looking for? It’s not there.”

He wouldn’t let you get into his fucking head again.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said and took a fucking step closer.

Jesus fuck, why did you always have to do this?

“You think because I let you sit next to me, you’re safe? Maybe you’re even dumb enough to think I like you,” Ben growled, stepping into your space – and you still didn’t even bat a fucking eyelash. “But trust me, if I go off again, you’ll be the first to fry. And I won’t lose any fuckin’ sleep over it, sweetheart.”

There it was – silence. Finally. But in the end, you still didn’t move.

Instead, you scoffed a chuckle and looked him deeply into his eyes – cruel in your mercy. Puckish in your execution. “I think I know now.”

“Know what?” he huffed, impatient.

“Why they came for you. Your team.” You smiled, soft and slow and pitying. “You don’t want kindness? Too bad, you’re getting mine: you might be an ass, but I still think you deserved better.”

Fuck you for saying that.

Then you were done. Shoved past him and left for your room. The door slammed so hard it shook the glass in the windows.

And then it rattled him.

That look you gave him – like you weren’t sure he was a monster or not, like you didn’t know if you could trust him – he’d seen it before.

It all fell into fucking place then and there.

An hour later, Ben knocked on your door.

His heart pounded, he ran a hand over his face, and he thought twice about turning around and storming back down the hall to his room. But he needed fucking answers now.

After a moment, he heard your voice from the other side, guarded. “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?” Ben asked, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t really have a plan beyond that – just needed to get in there and talk.

There was a long pause. Longer than he liked. But finally, you sighed, and he heard the soft sound of you getting up from the bed. The door clicked open a moment later.

No welcoming smile. No warmth. No trust.

“What d’you want?” you prompted with a blank expression and crossed your arms, head tilted. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Ben hauled something from the pocket of his sweats and held it up for you – cross joint. “Truce?”

Your lips pursed, which meant that you at least weren’t unimpressed. “First one?”

“Yup.”

First successful one. Fourteenth try overall – harder than it fucking looked when you’d done it.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully for a moment before you stepped aside to let him in. He shut the door behind him with more care than he’d normally bother with.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“Didn’t think you’d actually ask,” you shot back wryly.

He clicked his tongue. “Fair enough.”

“So, what? You’re here to apologize?”

Ben bit the inside of his cheek. “Look, I don’t do fuckin’ apologies, okay? I know I can be a little… direct sometimes, but that’s your problem. Not mine.”

You snorted a chuckle. “Wow. Okay…” You cleared your throat like you were coughing the amusement out of your system.

He knew you hated that, but he had to walk a fine line between getting the information he needed and not ruining it with you by being too… friendly.

With a deep groan, Ben dropped down on an armchair in the corner by the large, floor-to-ceiling window front. Legend had given you the guest bedroom on the ground floor with the terrace that led to the garden – aka one giant entry point for all his enemies.

He’d have to talk to the old guy tomorrow about changing that. Get you bumped up to the first floor, maybe a windowless room.

He was kidding. A little.

“Listen, I’m not great at the whole... people thing,” Ben started with a dry laugh.

“No shit.”

“I just wanna talk, alright? I try not to be a dick again. How’s that?”

You considered it, then gave a nod. “Fine. What do you wanna talk about?”

Ben licked his lips, searching for the right words that didn’t give away too much. “Out there, you said you get it – what it’s like not to be in control. What did you mean by that? Is that why half your abilities ain’t working?”

The question seemed to surprise you.

“Uhm, yeah,” you replied after some hesitation. “Three years ago, I started getting panic attacks – not that I’m saying that’s what happens to you.”

“You better not,” he muttered from his chair.

“Anyways,” you continued, trying to tame your fire a little – he could tell and tried not to smirk. “It happened after I got stuck.”

“That Middle Ages thing?” Ben questioned, cocking his head slightly. A laugh then rumbled through his chest. “What the hell happened, sweetheart? You almost got burned on the stake for bein’ a witch?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened,” you replied, almost too casual.

“Oh.” He stumped for a moment, then finally lit the joint. “Well, shit. Why d’you go there in the first place? I mean, no offense, doll, kinda common knowledge they’re known as the Dark Ages.”

“I didn’t go there on purpose,” you said, laughing a little as he passed you the reefer. “I just-… Took the wrong exit and… couldn’t go back in there.”

Ben exhaled a sigh through his nose. This was gonna take longer than he expected, wasn’t it?

“In where?”

He mostly couldn’t believe he was having this conversation and it wasn’t about where to put his cock.

“Wormholes.”

Not better.

Ben’s brow creased a little more. Another sigh left his lips. “What’s that?”

You arched an eyebrow. “You want me to explain wormholes to you?”

Ben stared at you for a moment, took a drag from his joint, and then shrugged. “Sure.”

Your lips pursed, but your head nodded. “Uh, okay. Yeah.”

Ben then watched you pace the room, kick your shoes off in various corners before disappearing into the en-suite bathroom, only to emerge a minute later with your makeup bag, where you fished out a red lipstick. Tossed the bag onto the bed. Uncapped the lipstick, cap flying somewhere behind you and landing next to a shoe.

Ah, shit. He’d have dreams about this tonight, wouldn’t he?

“Wormholes are also called Einstein-Rosen bridges,” you explained and drew a long, smudged line across a window pane in deep red. “They are theoretical solutions to Einstein’s equations of general relativity. They describe a tunnel-like structure connecting two separate points in spacetime.”

“Like a tunnel?”

“Yes, exactly!” you said, and Ben tried not to smile at your enthusiasm. He enjoyed it in silence and sangfroid. “I’m sparing you the folded paper analogy, but basically, it means time’s not a straight, rigid line. It’s flexible. Relative. You can bend it.”

Ben didn’t know what it was about the scene that got him – maybe it was how natural you looked doing it, talking through half-formed thoughts while your hand moved fast and confident. Or maybe it was because he’d seen this before, a lifetime ago. Chalkboard. Shed. That same furrow between your brows, the way you gestured mid-sentence like your mind was three steps ahead of your mouth.

“That’s what you do, right? Bend time?” Ben asked, barely keeping up, but he understood enough.

“Did, yes.”

“You tried jump-startin’ it again? Your abilities?” Ben watched your mouth open and then close, head shaking.

“I’m not a car, you know?” You snorted a small laugh and crossed your arms over your chest with a curious smile. “What would you suggest I do?”

“I don’t know.” Ben shrugged his broad shoulders. “You tried jumping off a building yet?”

Your smile twitched a little on your lips. “Uh, no, can’t say that I have. Why exactly would that help?”

Ben gave another shrug. “I don’t know. Facing your fears?”

“I’m not afraid of heights,” you replied, chuckling. “I’m afraid I get stuck somewhere I don’t wanna be.”

Like 1942, Ben thought dryly.

“So, it doesn’t work at all right now?”

“No, it works. I just can’t control it. It’s like a mental block, you know?” you explained. “But back at the lab when you detonated, you triggered it, and I accidentally jumped. Landed back in New York with a five-minute time difference.”

“Huh. That’s how you disappeared,” he muttered under his breath. “What triggers it?”

“I don’t know. Could be anything. Mostly stress, fear, panic,” you replied.

Ben then realized that was how you’d vanished that night as well, wasn’t it? You were scared and emotional, and a minute later, you were gone.

You hadn’t left him. Hadn’t wanted to. Not on purpose.

His chest tightened, but he didn’t let it show. He’d waited eight decades for that answer.

“So, how this whole thing work?” Ben asked with a clear of his throat. “What happens when you go back and change somethin’?”

You chewed on your lower lip for a moment. “Well, there are several major theoretical models. Fixed loops – like Novikov’s principle – say you can’t change the past because you already did. So time, in a sense, is self-correcting.”

“What does that mean?”

Ben watched, half amused, half fascinated, as you scrawled a massive loop across the glass. It wobbled a little, more oval than circle, but your point came across.

“This is a fixed loop,” you said and jabbed the top of the circle with your lipstick. “Everything repeats. You can’t change the outcome because your future self already did whatever you’re going to do. Paradoxes get swallowed up by consistency. There’s no free will.” You drew a squiggly line through the loop. “Now, if you diverge from the loop here, you create a branch. Alternate reality. That’s the multiverse model. Every choice spawns a new timeline.”

“So how many timelines are there?”

“Infinite,” you said slowly. “Every little choice you make on a daily basis creates an alternate timeline where you made a different choice.”

Ben tilted his head, watching your reflection in the glass. “So, what... you break off one path, and now there’s two versions of me out there?”

You giggled lightly. “I mean, yes, basically. It’s Everett’s theory. If you switched your toothpaste, there’s another version of you out there that didn’t,” you said.

“So, which one’s the correct theory?” Ben asked, leaning back in his chair, joint halfway burnt.

“I think both theories are true,” you replied. “You could be in a loop and create branches at the same time. It’s all quantum probability.”

Ben stared, lips pursing.

You stared back. “What part didn’t you follow?”

He scratched his jaw. “The part where I need a damn PhD just to keep up.”

You smiled a little, nodding. “Alright, let’s simplify. Movies.”

Two hours later, you’d explained every working model on time there existed, went through both plots of Terminator and Back to the Future in great detail, and told him about the butterfly effect.

“In a fixed loop, the butterfly effect still exists, but it’s already been accounted for,” you said and stretched your arms over your head with a yawn. It was already long past midnight. “So even if you think you’re making a new choice or messing something up, that choice has already been ‘written’ into the loop’s history. You’re just fulfilling it.”

“So it’s like a script?”

You nodded and shrugged. “Kinda yeah.”

“What if something changes? What happens then?” Ben asked, the feeling in his gut coiling tighter.

If he understood it correctly, you and him were apparently caught in one of those loops. You’d explained it like a chain reaction – dominos propped up in a circle. If one was removed, the circle wouldn’t work anymore.

All he had to do now, was find the missing domino and nudge the first one with his fingertip.

“I mean, theoretically, you can break the loop and create a new quantum branch. But it’s risky,” you said, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “You don’t know what changes or how much. That’s why it’s better not to interfere.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Ben had to ensure everything stayed the same in order for you to go back to 1942 and fall in love with him. But his heart was already stinging – warning him.

He tried to think back, remember every little interaction he ever shared with you in the past. But what stuck was the beginning – how scared you were. Not just of the strange world around you but of him.

You weren’t spooked because someone had been after you. Not Vought, not the government, or some other asshole like Butcher.

He recalled how you’d crashed into him in the street, nearly knocking him over. How fast you recoiled when he’d reached out instinctively to steady you – like his touch burned. You looked like someone who’d been through hell and wasn’t going to let anyone drag you back – especially him.

The looks of fear, the no touching, the not trusting – it all had been for him, hadn’t it? You’d hated him when you landed in 1942. You’d probably seen what he’d done, knew what he’d still do. Some future version of him had done something. Had broken your trust. Hurt you. Betrayed you. Enough that you came back in time and looked at him like he was the worst kind of monster.

And he hated that he’d have to do it to you again. But he didn’t have a choice, did he?

Because if he let this go on – the bonding, your smiles, your looks like he could be more – he’d risk losing it all. What if you got stuck in 1942 already liking him? What would happen then?

“You okay?” you checked with a soft smile.

Ben nodded slowly. “Uh, yeah. Just thinking.”

But even when you despised him at first back then, even when you knew everything there was to know about him – every cruelty, every mistake, every life he took – you still fell in love with him.

And he could see it now, too – how you looked past everything that had happened in the last few days, every chaos and death he caused. And still, you were here, smiling and talking to him like he was just another human being and not a cold-hearted killer with tons of baggage.

The beginning of it was already there. He remembered it like it was carved into bone: the way your eyes softened. The way you let your guard down slowly, week by week. The way you started to look at him like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t just a weapon someone had pointed at the world and forgotten to leash.

You’d fallen in love with him despite everything. You were doing it again now, too.

And he hated that he couldn’t let it happen. He had to stop it, or it could ruin everything. It was too fucking soon.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, jaw grinding tight as the plan formed – quiet and bitter.

He had to make you hate him. He had to be the version of himself you were willing to run from. Even if it killed him.

But he couldn’t let you like this version of him. Couldn’t let you trust him too easily. If he was too soft, too honest, too goddamn human, you might not look at him the same way when you’d eventually land in 1942. You might not flinch. You might not run. And then–

The loop would fracture. It would all fall apart.

“You wanna stay up and watch Back to the Future with me?” you asked with a little grin.

Ben hesitated for a moment, watched the smile dance on your lips like it was the rising sun. His heart ached.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a faint smile. “Why not?”

And sure, after everything he’d learned tonight, he should’ve said no. Should’ve said something mean and cruel and lay the brickwork for the downfall. But he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

He decided to let himself have one last night – one night of closeness, of enjoying your smiles, of hearing your laughs. He was allowed to have one nice thing, even if it didn’t last.

And tomorrow?

He’d go back to the cocky, smug bastard he used to be. He’d tease you. Grate on your nerves. Maybe even push too far, just enough for you to roll your eyes and walk away. He’d play the part, he’d set the trap, and he’d make sure the loop held.

Even if it broke him more than Russia ever did.

For the next three days, Ben had avoided you as best as possible while he formed his plan. But it was harder than expected because every time he turned around, you were there. Coffee mug in hand, nose in a book, leaning over Legend’s pool table with a stretch that gave him thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

And it was starting to piss him off. Because the more he tried to create distance, the more he wanted to be near you.

He doubled down over the following week.

At first, he started small – sexist comments here and there, belittling you, or telling you to fetch shit for him. He made you his personal assistant, which Butcher highly supported. It annoyed you, sure, but it didn’t exactly make you hate him. Of course you couldn’t make it easy on him.

So, he went a little further next. He started screwing Legend’s maids like clockwork, hoping that would do it and maybe even make you a little jealous. Needless to say, all that did was make you disgusted – your words, not his. You’d told him as much when he called for you to bring him a new bottle of lube.

But none of it made you hate him. And that terrified him more than anything.

On the morning of day eight, Butcher and Hughie were still neck-deep in trying to trace Mindstorm, and Ben was growing more impatient by the hour. As he padded toward the kitchen, he paused in the hallway when he heard your voice – sharp and pissed.

“You don’t get to act like you’re in charge. You have no plan. You’re just drugging him up and sending him like a rabid dragon toward your revenge fantasy,” you snapped. “He’s not a person to you. He’s a tool.”

Ben leaned his shoulder against the wall just out of sight, listening.

“But he’s not a person to you either, sunshine,” Butcher bit back. “He’s dangerous. You said so yourself. Called him a liability if I remember correctly. So help us find Mindstorm, and the sooner you can go back to your life and leave all this bloody shite behind you, Doc.”

“You want me to help you find Mindstorm?” The laugh you let out was dry and short, laced with disbelief. “After everything with Soldier Boy at Herogasm? Did your frontal lobe fall out in the car? I told you – I’m not gonna help with this little murder spree. You guys are on your own for this.”

“I think you forgot you’re not in a position to play hard to get, sunshine,” Butcher said lowly. “You wanna stay under the radar, I suggest you help the people that are currently keeping Vought off your back.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you shot back. “Don’t pretend you’ve been doing me a favor. If you wanna turn me in to Vought, be my guest. It’ll take them two weeks just to figure out what name I’m using this time. Not to mention, I’ll tell them you’ve been running around with a war criminal.”

Ben felt his lips twitch. God, you had guts. Butcher went quiet at that – he had no cards left to play and knew it.

“Jesus,” Butcher muttered. “Bloody useless, the both of you.”

Ben waited until footsteps retreated. Then he strolled into the kitchen like he’d just gotten out of bed and hadn’t heard every word.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said, grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, letting it fall to the tile.

You didn’t react. Hughie grimaced.

“What, no geriatric gangbang scheduled for this morning?” you deadpanned.

Ben grinned, lazy and smug. “You jealous? ‘Cause I’m sure I can pencil you in for noon.”

“Great,” you replied with a wry smile. “I can draw you a diagram of what an STD looks like.”

Ben clicked his tongue, lips curling. “Feisty, but you know you love me.”

“I really don’t.”

Stupidly, that stung. But he let it roll off his shoulders.

Over the next few days, he tried and tried again, but nothing was working. Every time he expected you to snap – to scream, to cry, to tell him you fucking hated him – you didn’t. You just looked at him like he was something under your shoe. Sometimes you were too annoyed to care. Sometimes too tired to react. Sometimes you hit him with the most surgical, disinterested commentary that bruised his ego in ways nothing else could.

But you never hated him. You endured him – which was arguably worse.

Ben couldn’t tell you what he knew. Couldn’t give away that he was watching his every step like a man walking a minefield. But you’d said it yourself – no disruptions, no butterfly effect.

But every night, when he lay awake in that stiff bed, his mind kept drifting back to the soft shape of your smile when you were excited about something, to the way your lips brushed his jaw in the dark, murmuring things you hadn’t meant to say. And he wondered – if this version of you never went back, never finished the loop… Would you ever love him at all?

So he stayed cold. Distant. Loud. He banged maids and played dumb. He tried everything short of outright cruelty.

Till he realized there was no way around it. He needed to push harder.

Mindstorm had been a fucking disaster – fully yours and Hughie’s fault.

As soon as Butcher had been taken out by that psycho freak with a migraine, the kids had formed an alliance against him – undermined him every step of the way.

When he got meaner and crueler to you, Hughie would step in like your knight in shining polyester. It was fucking annoying. And no matter what he said or did, you still never backed down.

All in all, fucking frustrating – not as frustrating as the news he received, however.

That same night, Ben found you in a place he’d never wanted to find you – Legend’s music room, seated right at the piano as your fingers tickled the ivory keys.

It did unspeakably barbaric things to his heart.

He paused in the doorway for a second, just watching. Enjoying. Reeling.

Luckily, he was already nursing his third whiskey when he stepped inside. You didn’t glance up at him, not really, just arched a brow.

“Jesus fuck, what now?” you huffed, halfway onto another eye roll. Your patience with him had become thiner than ice over the last week.

“You got a minute?”

“Depends,” you said grimly. “Am I about to get roped into another errand that involves you traumatizing the staff?”

Ben’s mouth twitched. He should’ve expected that. The maid incidents hadn’t exactly landed the way he’d wanted it to. You’d just gotten more judgy – like you were slowly starting to catalog him the way a scientist would a failing experiment.

“No lube runs this time. I promise,” he said, strolling in. “This is serious. I need your help with something.”

And boy, was it fuckin’ somethin’. Not exactly the conversation he ever planned on having with you. Where would he even start?

Hey, sweetheart, you know how you already think I’m a mess of bad decisions and unchecked aggression? Well, guess what – Vought used my sperm to make the guy I’m supposed to kill. Neat, huh?

The worst part, though?

You were the only person he’d ever imagined that with. The only one who’d made the idea feel like more than some stupid pipe dream – a house, a dog, maybe a kid with your eyes.

Not this – not some fucking lab-bred monster raised in a cage to replace him.

Your face softened then, anger dissipating. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Uh, no, not really. That freak told me something today, and I need you to check if it’s true.” Ben swallowed, stepping closer.

He crouched down beside you, arms resting on the bench’s edge – close enough to feel your body heat, but not close enough to ask for anything more.

“Okay, what is it about?”

“In the fall of 1980, Vogelbaum called me into the lab.” He hesitated for a second, licking his lips. “Wanted a… sample.”

Your brow quirked. “Like–”

He held up a hand. “Yup, sperm.”

“Ew.” You grimaced. “Did they at least buy you dinner first?”

God, he fucking loved you and hated how he couldn’t tell you.

Ben gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nah, just handed me a cup and a dirty magazine. I made do.”

“You’re so brave.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed his face. “They told me it was just for genetics. Research, you know? I felt flattered. Didn’t think twice about it. Hell, they wired me twenty grand. I left fuckin’ whistling.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying not to laugh. “Sure, yeah. If Nazi geneticists ask for more of your DNA, you always say yes for money and pride.”

Ben took a deep breath for the next part. “Mindstorm said they used it. That they made something with it. Someone.”

Your face shifted then, sobering up fast. Quiet alarm. “You think he meant–”

“Homelander.”

You bit your lips hard.

“I wanna know if it’s true,” he added. “I wanna know what the hell they did.”

You stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay, uhm… I can look for you.”

You closed your eyes then and only a second later, you gasped – sharp and low. Ben heard your heart beating faster.

Your eyes flew open with a “Jesus fuck.”

“That bad?” Ben checked against his better judgment. He’d pay a trillion bucks not to know the answer.

You blinked hard, catching your breath. “It was like watching the Antichrist claw his way out of hell.”

Ben’s stomach twisted, head bobbing in defeat. “That bad. Got it.”

“But it’s true. I’m sorry,” you said finally. “They used your DNA. The embryo was carried by a homeless girl – barely twenty. Vought gave her two grand and a contract she didn’t understand. She died during birth. He-, uh, he killed her. Killed a few others too. Floated out of her with the cord still attached.”

Ben frowned. “Did you really have to share that part?”

You twitched your shoulders innocently. “Hey, if I had to suffer through that, so do you.”

Ben didn’t laugh, only let out a shaky breath and found your eyes. “What do–, uh… What do I do now?”

“Uhm…” Your lips parted for a moment, thinking. “Well, you know they didn’t just make him to replace you, right? They made him to never need anyone. Most of all, you.”

Ben didn’t respond to that. He just sat there for a moment longer in your presence. How stupid was it that a part of him still ached for something he’d never had? A different life. A different version of you. One that remembered what he remembered.

Now, in his real life, he was just a man with blood on his hands and a legacy made of ash. A father without knowing it. A failure even in that.

Ben looked up at you then. “You ever think about kids?”

You gave him a look like he’d asked if you wanted syphilis. “Fuck no,” you snorted.

He raised an eyebrow, licking his lips. “That firm a stance, huh?”

“Look, I like kids. They’re undeniably cute,” you said, and he’d almost smiled. But it didn’t last – his chest felt hollow. “But I’ve seen what Vought babies look like. And you practically created the lovechild of King Claudius and Palpatine with a Big Brother kink. This whole thing was like watching a PSA for not having babies. So, pretty sure that’s a solid no by now.”

“Right,” he said quietly and slowly rose back to his feet.

And then, he felt it – grief.

He’d lost a lot in his life. Fans. Friends. Family. A future. But this – losing you like that – this was a different kind. Slow poison that killed him from the inside out.

“You gonna tell Butcher?” Ben asked then. He knew you technically had to – unless he killed the asshole for blackmailing you.

You stayed quiet for a beat and studied him before answering. “No,” you said, surprising him. “I mean, eventually, yeah. But knowing Butcher, he won’t care. He’s still gonna want him dead, and he’s still gonna want you to do it. And I think you deserve a night to make your own decision, so…”

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Well, uhm, I’m gonna go to bed. Kinda beat after today. You know, after the schizophrenic mind freak and, uhm, all the verbal abuse – courtesy of you, of course,” you joked dryly and stood, sauntering to the door, all too happy to get away from him again. But when you still turned around, there was sympathy in your eyes. “Don’t worry, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Ben couldn’t bring himself to respond, only slumped down on the bench with a sigh and a whiskey in hand.

The part that hurt most was how badly he wanted to believe you. That maybe we was still something he could count on. That maybe, even after everything, you’d still help him find a way out of the wreckage of his life.

Ben had one job that week.

Not to kill Homelander. Not to show Butcher what a real soldier looked like. Not even to stay alive.

No, the job was simpler, crueler, harder: Make you hate him – or it would all go to shit.

You weren’t allowed to love him yet. Not until the loop could hold. Not until history clicked into place and the ugly cycle wore itself out the way it was meant to. So for a week, Ben did what he’d never done before.

He broke his own heart, over and over. With volition. With purpose.

He kept fucking Legend’s maids. Loud, messily, with the doors open and no apology in his eyes. Gave you the worst of himself till he even got bored of it. He threw your past back in your face, mocked the way you still believed in him – if you did at all. He called you a tagalong, a liability, a glorified errand girl.

Ben did what he was good at – what Soldier Boy was good at.

He shut down. Barked orders. Called you useless so many times, hell, even you were starting to believe you were broken. He used that. Leaned into it. Said you’d get someone killed. Maybe yourself. He didn’t flinch when you stared at him like you didn’t recognize the man in front of you. That was the point.

He went colder. Meaner. He let the old monster fully out, the one who constantly picked fights and kicked in doors and laughed while people begged.

But you weren’t useless. You were the only thing in this twisted fucking world that made him want to be more than a weapon again.

And you? And you fucking endured it all – like you were playing a longer game than him.

Maybe you were. Ben had overheard your plans when you chatted with your girlfriends recently – after Homelander, you were done. You were planning to apply for teaching jobs at colleges, striking a deal with Edgar, moving on.

But Ben couldn’t let you move on. Couldn’t let you out of his sight again. Couldn’t just let you walk away into freedom.

But you still never flinched. Never screamed. Even after Mindstorm, when he tried to drown the memory of who he used to be in booze and rage. Even when he insulted you just to escape the gravity of how much he still wanted to be the man you loved in 1942.

You always just watched him like you were memorizing every awful thing he said, every dismissive look, every command barked like you were furniture – filing it away.

You never broke.

But he did – and he hated you for it.

The worst part, though? You still didn’t fucking betray him, even when the chance was presented to you on a silver platter – a golden ticket to get rid of him for good – and you didn’t take it.

No, fucking worse – you warned him. Helped him. Saved his ass.

When Butcher and Maeve joined him at Vought Tower, Ben made sure you weren’t invited. Told Butcher you were useless. Told you that you owed him for it. Probably added some sexist remark that he hadn’t used sincerely since the Nixon era.

But of course, you fucking showed up anyways – with Hughie, Annie, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko.

Chaos ensued in every direction. But before they got to him, you stopped it all.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I gave you a fuckin’ out,” he barked at you, concealing his concern as best as possible while the world was frozen around the two of you.

The silence was almost serene – the most peaceful he ever felt on a battlefield.

“I know you did,” you said, not even pretending you hadn’t seen right through him. “That’s why I’m here.”

You told him then about the other assholes' plan – that as soon as Homelander was in the ground, they’d come for him next. Ben almost exploded and killed them all right then and there – but you convinced him not to.

“Don’t kill them, please,” you begged him with that doe-eyed, reaching-into-a-man’s-soul look. “Just let them go.”

“You just told me they wanted to lock me back up in that fucking box!”

“And they can’t, okay? I sabotaged Frenchie’s little Novichok cocktail. It’s not gonna do anything. I promise,” you assured him. “Just act surprised or tell them you’ve built up an immunity against the stuff or some shit. And then walk away.”

Ben only scoffed at the mere suggestion. “You fuckin’ want me to just let it go?”

“You killed MM’s family, okay? Can’t blame the guy for taking his fucking shot,” you countered, looking intently into his eyes.

“What if they fuckin’ try it again, hm?” he asked, quieter now, but his chest was still heaving and firing up beneath his skin.

You exhaled a long breath before answering. “They won’t. I’ll make sure of it. But you gotta work a little with me here, okay? Just be less… belligerent. And controversial.”

Ben considered it for a moment. Considered you. “How can I fucking trust you, huh? You could just be sayin’ all that shit, so I fight less when it happens. I mean, outta all of them, you have probably the most reason to get rid of me, right?”

And that fucking hurt the most.

“Probably, yeah,” you admitted like it didn’t deepen the crater in his chest, but a smile tugged at your lips. “But I told you a few weeks ago, I thought you deserved better. Still holds true.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, his heart stinging. “Why?”

“Entropy,” you said simply and gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Did you really think it’d all end with Homelander? I’ve heard Butcher refer to himself as a ‘supe exterminator’ on multiple occasions now. Homelander’s just the biggest threat at the moment, but after he’s gone…”

“They’ll come for me,” Ben finished.

Fuck, you were smart. No wonder Stan Edgar had been scared enough of you to want you dead.

“And me, probably,” you added.

“I thought those guys are your friends,” Ben noted.

“They are until they aren’t,” you replied. “Payback was your team until it wasn’t.”

“Got it.” Ben clicked his tongue. “So, what? You wanna strike a deal now? You watch my back, I watch yours?”

Another shrug. “Maybe.”

And God, fuck, he wanted that. More than anything.

“No,” he managed to say. And you still didn’t react – like you’d expected that answer. “Sorry, but you’re on your own, sweetheart.”

You gave him a nod. “Figured. Men make stupid decisions all the time.”

A smile of amusement briefly flashed across his lips. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He meant it.

And then, in the next blink of an eye, you were gone. Vanished right in front of him. Took Ryan with you, even though Ben wanted to scorch every last bit of rotten Brooks DNA that had weaseled itself through time and sprouted like weeds.

The fight with Homelander was brutal. Biblical in that kill-your-own-children way. But no one was left untouched. Ben was losing, then winning, then losing again. Homelander’s strength was impossible. But you changed the game.

You fucking cheated. Came back just to rig it.

Homelander screamed, fought, bled. Maeve leapt into the fray. Butcher took a blast and kept going. Ben punched steel wrapped in daddy issues. You froze Homelander long enough for him to charge.

Together, you all changed the tide.

But the price was high. The detonation burned through every supe in range – Butcher, Maeve, Annie, Kimiko, and you. It took a drop of blood falling from your nose onto marbled tile that made Ben surge forward and tackle the caped supe. And with Homelander in his grip and Maeve beside him, he dove out the fucking window, drawing the blast away.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because when he came to, scorched and dazed on the street below and Homelander twitching in a crater, MM was carrying you out of the rubble – body limp, nose gushing red, head lolling, eyes shut.

You didn’t wake up.

Not on the way to the CIA facility. Not during Butcher’s rant about being robbed of revenge. Not when Frenchie and Kimiko paced the waiting room floor. Not when Annie cried, or Hughie sat in numb silence, or MM tried to keep everyone calm.

Ben followed them, and no one stopped him. Not even when he stood in the hallway outside your hospital room, hands shaking and heart thundering like it hadn’t in eighty years.

He tried to look apathetic. Bored and not like someone with a crushing pain in his ribcage. He sat on the bench outside your room, staring at the wall like it owed him a fucking explanation. Clenched his fists and dug his heels into the linoleum to keep him from going in and reaching out.

He’d spent a week trying to get you to fucking hate him. He’d said the worst shit he could come up with. Treated you like garbage. Fucked every distraction within arm’s reach.

And you still came back for him. Still saved him. Now you might never wake up to see how it would end.

Inside the room, you weren’t moving. Machines beeped steadily. A coma, they’d said. Not permanent – maybe. Not fatal – yet. But your body had taken the hit of freezing time across an entire floor full of supes while his own powers weakened you. And apparently, something in your brilliant brain had finally gone too far. Lit up and blown out.

He knew it was his fault – somewhere under the anger and the static and the sharp edge of grief curling behind his ribs. If you hadn’t stopped him – if you hadn’t warned him – he’d have killed them all. Annie, Butcher, hell, maybe even Ryan. He wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have thought.

You’d made sure he didn’t become exactly what they thought he already was.

Ben leaned forward and rested his clasped hands between his knees. He didn’t pray. He didn’t beg. But he came close.

And then, he could smell the fucking bastard before he heard his footsteps stroll down the hallway toward him.

Stan Edgar. Older. Just as smug. Still smelled like overpriced cologne and executive privilege. The last time Ben had seen that face, was in 1984, and Payback had just handed him over like a dog someone got tired of feeding.

Ben didn’t even look up when the expensive loafers halted in front of him.

“I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to slither in,” he said coldly and met Edgar’s eyes. “You have some fuckin’ nerve showing up here. Can’t decide yet if it’s ballsy or stupid.”

Stan Edgar’s voice was the same as it had been in the ‘80s – cool, measured, and full of contempt he didn’t bother hiding. “I almost didn’t. But then, you’re not the one I came to see.”

Ben rose to his feet. Slow. Deliberate. Towering.

“You’re not fucking touching her,” Ben growled. “Give me one good fuckin’ reason I shouldn’t put your teeth through the back of your goddamn skull.”

Stan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Was that a fucking thing smart people had in common?

“Because you need me,” he replied with a calm smile.

Ben scoffed a laugh – humorless and sharp. “That’s a new one.”

Stan’s gaze flickered to the closed door beside them. Your room. A hint of interest passed over his face – not warm, not cruel, just precise.

“You’ve done an admirable job pretending you don’t care about her,” Stan said. “Almost convincing.”

Ben’s fists clenched, his teeth gritting. “Walk away.”

“But you do care,” Stan continued, eyes narrowing. “You always did. Even back then when you first told me about her. We never did find out what exactly she changed. Only she will probably ever know the truth. But I do know she’s your axis, Soldier Boy. Your tether. She’s what you’re fighting to stay alive for, even if you’re too angry and broken to admit it.”

Ben’s jaw twitched.

Stan let the silence draw out. Let the words sink in. And then, in a tone that was too casual to be anything but deliberate, he mused, “She hasn’t gone back yet, has she?”

Ben looked up sharply.

Stan gave a small, knowing smile. “I thought so. This version of her – the one lying comatose on the other side of that door — she’s still in the present. Which means the loop hasn’t closed. Which means you still need her. Alive. Close. And willing to go.”

“Go to hell,” Ben hissed and stepped closer. “You set me up. You handed my team the knife and told ‘em where to cut. You’re the reason they sold me out, the reason I was buried under forty years of ice and piss and Commie tests. I don’t make deals with fucking snakes.”

Stan stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. “She doesn’t know, I assume. Not about you. Not about what you were to her. That’s important. You break that too early, it falls apart.”

Ben scowled – hard and quiet. His blood boiled underneath his skin. “That a threat?”

“It’s a truth,” Stan said, smiling. “One you’ve gone to great lengths to protect.”

“Careful, Edgar,” he muttered, jaw grinding. “Because if I start swinging, you won’t come back from that one.”

“You won’t kill me,” Stand replied calmly. “Because I know what she’s planning. I know she’s applied to universities in Boston, New York, Los Angeles, even Paris. She’s waiting until this ends to disappear. Teaching gigs, research grants. A clean, respectable life. Smart girl. Admirable, really.” He tilted his head slightly. “You can’t follow her there. And you know it.”

Ben’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re here to blackmail me.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t burn your only lifeline,” Stan replied. “The war with Homelander is almost over. The dust is going to settle, and some of us are smart enough to plan ahead. Someone needs to replace him. Smooth things over with the public.”

Ben scoffed a dark chuckle. “I’m not gonna be your fuckin’ Vought puppet again. You’re playing with fire, Stan.”

“No,” Stan said, meeting his gaze coolly. “You are. By dragging her into this. By trying to keep her close without telling her who you really are. You think she won’t leave? That she won’t hate you when she finds out? Not to mention, if you mishandle this, the loop never starts.”

Ben didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. They both knew what was at stake.

“You want her alive and in your vicinity. I want insurance. I think we can come up with something mutually beneficial,” Stan said. “I keep your secret and help keep her here. In exchange, you don’t kill me and save the company. And when the dust settles, we both walk away.”

The old rage in Ben’s chest itched like a half-healed scar. Everything in him wanted to flatten this bastard with his goddamn boot. Snap his jaw, twist his wrist, spill the truth of 1984 in blood and bone. But if Stan opened his smug little mouth at the wrong time, you’d run.

“Got any bright ideas?”

That same old smug smile curled on Stan’s lips. He knew he won. “I do,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

And just like that, he was gone – leaving Ben alone again with the silence and the guilt and the weight of the impossible.

Ben thought it would get easier after you woke up. It didn’t.

Three days of silence in that hospital room, and the moment your eyes finally opened, he felt something in him uncoil so violently it almost hurt. He didn’t show it, of course. Kept the mask on. But deep down? He had nearly fucking broken. It was the damn relief that did it – the blinding, gut-punching realization that you were still here. Still breathing. Still his to destroy.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Destruction.

After the showdown with Homelander, you’d lost your other ability, too. That stupid, terrifying power of yours – pausing time like it was nothing – was gone. Burned out, maybe. Broken. Either way, it was one less variable to worry about.

Because without it, you changed.

Ten months later, you were still here, still pretending you weren’t afraid of him, but your edges had dulled. No more cocky interruptions, no more smug little barbs when he barked orders. You still seethed – he could see it in the set of your jaw, in the stiff way you handed him his schedule or fetched his dry cleaning – but now, finally, you hated him. Not just with defiance. With disappointment. With bitterness.

Quiet, sharp, cold – just like he needed.

The deal you made with Edgar had made all of this possible. Vought had wanted you dead for years. Ever since you appeared on their doorstep with chronokinesis (and one clumsy meeting in ’83), they’d flagged you as a catastrophic liability. You’d been in hiding, hunted by the company until Edgar put a lid on it.

A truce, really.

You got your life back, and in return, Soldier Boy became the fucking leash – again.

Public relations rehab. America’s first supe rebranded as the woke patriot. Pride parades, women’s marches, climate rallies – Ben did it all. Sure, he had wanted to throw up half the time and punch someone the other half, but he showed up. Grinned like an idiot. Waved at the cameras. Did what he had to do to stay on the team – because that meant keeping you close.

That was the condition he gave Butcher. And you.

If you left, so did he. And if he left? Edgar would gut the deal. You’d be back on the hit list in seconds. He didn’t have to say it twice. You stayed. You endured.

You even tried to look forward to something, curb your disappointment. You got an offer to teach at NYU that made you smile brighter than the sun, not knowing he’d already crushed it behind the scenes.

But that wasn’t enough. He needed proximity. Pressure. Something deeper and more convenient.

So he made you his PA.

His old ones never lasted. Never could handle him and for sure as hell hated him. And you? You had no choice. No power. No way out. So you agreed.

For the past ten months, he turned your life into something small. Something gray. Verbal jabs turned into long, punishing days. Coffee, coke, and condom runs at 3AM. Paperwork dumped in your lap without warning. Public ridicule disguised as jokes. Every time you smiled at someone else, he punished it with ten more errands. Every time you looked like you might find a second of peace, he shattered it.

He never laid a hand on you, but he didn’t have to. He broke your spirit in slow, deliberate pieces.

And it fucking worked.

You hated him. Truly. Deeply. Visibly. That sparkle in your eyes he loved so much was gone, replaced by exhaustion and contempt.

But still not enough.

You hadn’t gone back yet. Hadn’t slipped. Hadn’t triggered the loop. And he was running out of time. Your birthday was in a week – the day he was banking on. The day you’d finally break. He’d rehearsed every possibility. Every variable. Every sharp word and final blow.

And then, right when things were at their most frayed and he didn’t know what else to do to push you over that cliff, Vought PR sent him to a fucking middle school – which turned out to be his saving grace.

Edgar thought it would be good for Soldier Boy’s image – the kids would love it, marketing said. He had to suit up. Shake hands. Sign notebooks. Let a bunch of snot-nosed brats ask him questions about courage and justice like he hadn’t spent the last year slowly mutilating the best person he ever knew.

Annie stood beside him as Starlight, all practiced smiles and warm answers. The kids screamed when she flipped the light switch in the gym and lit the damn rafters up with gold. Soldier Boy, meanwhile, flexed once and signed a forehead.

But then, he saw you.

You were off to the side, chatting with someone he hadn’t noticed before. Young guy, decent build, probably early thirties, wearing a NASA sweatshirt like he earned it. Tall. Clean-cut. Big smile. Middle school science teacher, from the look of him.

The two of you were huddled near the supply room door, leaning against lockers like the rest of the world didn’t exist. You were holding a paper cup of coffee as if it was the Holy Grail and gesturing mid-rant with your free hand. The guy was nodding along, wide-eyed and grinning like a fucking rescue mutt who just found a forever home.

The way you laughed, the way you leaned in without even noticing – something in Ben fucking snapped. And before he could stop himself, he perked his ears to catch the conversation.

“–taught at a tiny liberal arts college outside Montréal. Great students. Terrible funding. I built a cloud chamber out of a fish tank once just to prove we could,” you told the guy enthusiastically.

“No way.” The guy grinned brightly.

“Yup. Had to smuggle dry ice across the border in a cooler from Vermont. Worth it.”

“Wow, that’s dedication,” he chuckled.

“Please,” you grinned. “You haven’t seen dedication until you’ve tried to explain wave-particle duality using glow sticks and a laser pointer from Canadian Tire.”

Ben felt something unpleasant twist behind his ribs. You were glowing. Beaming.

“And you said you’re running something today?” you asked, curious now.

Ben stepped in closer, pretending to inspect the trophy case. His teeth ground together so hard he swore his molars would crack. If you dared so much as to touch the guy’s arm now, he’d blow up the whole goddamn school.

“Oh, yeah,” the guy said and lit up. “It’s the old NASA demo with vacuum and marshmallows. I’ve got a bell jar, vacuum pump, camera rig… We film the expansion in slo-mo and talk about gas laws. I also bring in Peeps for maximum horror.”

You laughed, full-bodied and joyful. “Stop! I love that experiment!”

“Come sit in,” he said, clearly encouraged. “You’d be great with them. Honestly, if you’re ever interested in guest lecturing, I know my eighth graders would lose their minds.”

Ben had heard enough.

“She’s got work,” he cut in behind you, voice casual and deadly. “She’s got a schedule. Doesn’t have time to blow up candy with middle schoolers.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn. “And you’ve got an audience to pander to, remember?”

Ben moved into the space beside you, shoulders squared, gaze sharp. “There’s a meeting in twenty minutes. You’re coming.”

“You and Annie have a meeting. I’ll catch up.”

“You sure about that?”

You raised your brows and stepped closer, your eyes flickering around the gym full of kids. You lowered your voice as you spoke, “What’re you gonna do? Throw me over your shoulder in front of a class of children and ten reporters? You can’t pull your usual bullshit with the world watching.”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t threaten you here, not with dozens of kids around and Annie two feet away. Couldn’t risk the cameras catching even the edge of a snarl.

He clenched his jaw.

“Guess I’ll go help inspire the next generation. You and Annie have fun with the mayor.” You smiled sweetly – fake as hell. Then you turned back to the teacher, tone instantly brighter. “Lead the way, professor. I want front-row seats for the Peep implosion.”

The guy smiled and opened the door for you. You went willingly – laughing again, relaxed, glowing, as if you hadn’t spent ten months taking his orders and swallowing his poison.

And Ben stood there, fuming, watching the door swing closed behind you like a goddamn slap in the face. His stomach twisted into knots he hadn’t felt since ’42 – the kind of jealousy that bordered on nausea. That pussy got a smile out of you. Got real laughter. Got your attention.

He hadn’t seen you that fucking happy in months. And you hadn’t looked at Ben like that in eighty-one goddamn years.

Now, none of it was for him.

That night, Ben waited.

He stood across the street for hours. A half-lit cigarette dangled between his fingers, long since dead. He didn’t light another.

Your little dungeon-level walk-up apartment was tucked under one of those overpriced brownstones with wrought iron railings and chipped stairs leading down from the sidewalk. Half a planter wilted on the stoop. A bike was chained to the gate like it had given up.

It was close to midnight. You still weren’t fucking home.

His jaw worked till he got a migraine. You’d left the school with that fuck. That smug, soft-spoken, teacher-voice fuck who probably graded tests with smiley faces and called his mother every Sunday. Probably had a cat. Or worse – a golden retriever.

Then, there you were – laughing.

You were walking up with that pussy now, your bag slung over your shoulder, hair pulled into a loose knot, your shoulders bare in the warm June air. You had your keys in hand before you even reached the steps. Ben followed your movements, watched as you gestured animatedly, then laughed again at something the science teacher said.

He hated the way you looked at the guy. Open. Interested. The bastard’s hand was way too fucking close to your back as you unlocked the door, and you smiled — all bright and easy. That sharp little smile that meant your brain was working overtime.

You let the teacher inside, and that was it.

Ben was across the street before you’d barely closed the door. By the time you answered his knock, loud enough to wake the damn neighborhood, you were already pissed.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Coffee,” Ben said, his lips curling into a slow, lazy smirk. “I want fucking coffee. From that place on 12th.”

“Seriously?” you scoffed, stepping half into the doorway.

“Now.”

“I’m off the clock.”

“You’re never off the fuckin’ clock.” Ben tilted his head a fraction. “You gonna make me ask twice?”

That’s when the guy inside appeared behind you, standing awkwardly with one of your mugs in hand, already halfway into his little “I should give you two a minute” face.

Ben’s eyes were locked on you. Not moving. There was no yelling. No words. Just a look. A cold, sharp threat that made your stomach flip – not for yourself, but for the man behind you.

You knew it instantly.

If you don’t go right now, I’ll snap his fucking neck.

Your throat worked before you turned back to the teacher, forcing a laugh that was half a breath too tight. “Give me ten minutes?”

The guy smiled, easy and trusting. “Sure, I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t break anything while I’m gone,” you muttered to Ben as you brushed past him.

Ben didn’t bother answering.

When the door slammed shut, the teacher guy was still standing by your couch, probably confused. Probably nervous.

Good.

Ben didn’t waste time. He walked a slow, heavy loop around the room. Took in the bookshelves, the cluttered little desk, the framed photo on the wall of you with Annie and Kimiko. His lip curled at the sight.

The teacher offered him a tight, awkward smile. “Did you need something, or…?”

Ben turned to face him. He didn’t speak at first, just stared. But when he finally did, it was low – gravel scraped off pavement.

“If you don’t walk out that fucking door in the next three seconds, I’ll break your neck so fast your brain won’t have time to know you’re dead.”

The teacher’s face went white.

“Don’t ever think you can fucking come back, either,” Ben added. “Lose her number.”

That was it. The door clicked shut a few seconds later.

And ten minutes later, when you finally came back, it all unraveled then.

You looked around, confused, before realizing the teacher was gone.

“What the hell did you do?” you snapped, storming toward Ben without waiting for an answer. “He was a decent guy, for once. And you scared him off like some rabid fucking–”

“I gave him three seconds,” Ben cut in, voice low and bored like he’s just filed his taxes. “He got out in two. Smart guy. You think I’m gonna let you go fuck some science fair reject?”

You crossed your arms, the dim light throwing shadows up your bare collarbones. “I think you’re bored. Again. And I think you should leave.”

Ben stepped forward. Just one little step. Measured.

You didn’t move – not yet.

“That’s cute,” he said, sneering. “Real fuckin’ cute. You think you get a say?”

His eyes dragged over you like a lazy threat.

“God, you can’t stand that I might have a goddamn moment to myself, can you? You don’t get to decide who I talk to. You don’t get to decide anything about my life.”

“I do when your life is fuckin’ mine. I own you. Get this through your stubborn fucking head.”

He said it like it was truth. Like the sky was blue, gravity was real, and you belonged to him.

You stepped closer, trembling with fury. “You treat me like a slave, you stalk me, you ruin any fucking chances I have at being happy–”

Ben chuckled – the kind of sound that set nerves on edge. “Happy?” He took a slow, deliberate step toward you. “You think flirtin’ with some soft-handed twink who’s never been in a fight is happiness?”

You stepped back instinctively.

Ben’s smile twisted. He saw it. Smelled it – fear.

“Here’s the thing, sweetheart,” he murmured, closing the gap like a lion circling the kill. “You wanna get laid so bad, maybe you should’ve just asked. I’m right fucking here.”

You scoffed, but he still came closer.

“C’mon, doll, you’re already playing the part. Dressing like that. Batting your lashes. Might as well bend over and get what you’ve been fuckin’ begging for.”

You backed up another half step, but the wall was coming up fast behind you – that little strip of space between the bookshelf and the door.

And Ben fucking followed.

His hand grazed your hip. Not a grab. Just fingers brushing the fabric. Deliberate. Familiar – the same fucking move his father had used. Fourth of July, 1942.

You flinched, just slightly, but that was all he needed. His stomach turned, but he didn’t stop.

Because this was the goddamn plan. This would push you far enough, wouldn’t it? It would probably make you hate him so much you’d go back in time just for the sole purpose of finally killing him.

Ben had never hated himself more than in this moment.

“That it, hm?” He caged you in with one arm against the wall, the other trailing down the curve of your waist like a slow threat, fingers dragging over fabric, flesh, and bone. “You thought some middle school dweeb was gonna fill you up? You wanted fuckin’ affection that bad?”

His fingers dug into your waist, just enough to stake a claim – just enough to threaten. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t move beyond the line. But he hovered on the fucking edge of it. Close enough to burn.

Your pulse began to race, panic biting at the edges – he could hear it. But your voice was steady and your shoulders straight. You didn’t cower.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you bit.

“You should be.”

His fingers tightened just barely again – enough to warn, not enough to bruise. Yet.

But as you looked up at him, stared into his eyes as if you could stare into his soul, something shifted in your gaze. Cold. Empty.

“I see it now,” you whispered. You didn’t sound afraid anymore, but he knew you still were. “That’s what this was always about. You want to break me.”

Ben froze, throat closing, but he didn’t take his hand off you.

“This is what it takes, huh? You want my dignity next? You wanna feel like a man? Rape me?” You spit the word in his face. “Go ahead, Ben. It’s still not gonna fucking break me.”

First time you ever used his actual name.

Ben flinched. Breath hitched. Heart hammering like he’d been the one cornered. He looked at you, really looked, and saw the hate there.

Clean. Pure. Uncompromising.

He’d finally fucking done it – and it felt like swallowing glass.

Finally, he took a step back like your sheer heat was burning him. “Careful, sweetheart,” he muttered. “Next time I won’t be so goddamn nice.”

And then he left. Fled your apartment, practically.

Because it was all he could do to keep himself from dropping to his knees and fucking screaming. The pressure that had been building in his chest all year – all eleven fucking months of playing the villain, twisting the knife deeper every day – it all burned too hot and sudden.

Ben kept telling himself then that it was just one more week. Seven fucking days. He could stomach anything for that long.

But each time you passed him in the hallway, eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn in like you were bracing for impact, something inside him cracked further. You flinched when he cleared his throat. Stiffened when his shadow crossed yours. And when you looked at him, on the rare occasion you did, it was like you were finally seeing the monster.

It broke his fucking heart.

He had told himself this was the only way. That when it was over, when you were back – really back – he could explain everything.

But now, watching you move around him like a ghost of the girl he’d once known, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He didn’t know how to fix this. How to fix you. How to fix himself.

And the sick truth of it was, he wasn’t even sure he deserved the fucking chance.

▶️ Chapter 15: I May Be a Thief, but I Am Not a Cheat – JULY 6

Going back to the present next week! Yay 🥳

What did you think of this one? Did you expect Ben to go this far? Did you enjoy their little moments of bonding before Ben turned up the volume? Hope those last few chapters filled in some gaps. Writing his pov is always a bit wild 😂💚🦅

Coming Up:

Before his brain could supply more brilliant ideas, he caught you staggering another step. One more step backward and your hand darted to the brick wall beside you. You blinked, your knees shook, breaths grew labored. Your nose twitched, and your hand flew up to your face.

The blood came fast – just a drip, then another, your fingertips painted red.

His stomach dropped, his smirk dropped faster. Your knees gave just enough to make him lunge forward, and Ben was at your side in a second, arms reaching for you.

“Whoa, shit–… Hey, easy… I got you–”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your voice hit like a whip. Not loud. Not harsh. Just final.

It stopped him cold. The words sank deep. Cut clean. Same tone you’d used back in 1942.

Same shit you said to him when he first offered you his hand and you looked at it like it was a trap. You didn’t want comfort then. You didn’t want it now either.

Ben slowly lowered his hands and backed off – and it hurt like fucking hell.

You leaned heavily against the wall of the corner store and slowly slid down to the cool concrete with a wince. Back slumped, one knee up, blood still streaking down the side of your face. Your eyes were sharp. Distant. Locked up like you couldn’t afford to let him close.

He watched you for a beat, jaw clenching. You were breaking. Physically. But you still wouldn’t let him in.

Of course not.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

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@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

[tiki-was-here]

Maybe there really is something wrong with me but I can’t stop thinking about Homelander in cute cute outfits

Idk why I’m fixated on this maybe it’s the thought of him being so so shy and hesitant to wear it for you because he knew it would make you happy. And you come home to see him posed seductively on your bed, his cocky grin doing nothing to hide the nervousness in his eyes. Aaah I think I would simply pass out (after creaming my pants immediately ofc ofc)

Maybe he thinks that you’ll pounce on him and fuck him hard into the mattress, not even giving him time to think about how absolutely slutty he looks for you but instead you take your time worshiping every inch of his body. Telling him how beautiful he is and that even though any marks you make on him won’t last you’ll make sure to leave him so full of your cum by the end of the night that your practically a part of him.

And on the other hand would you even want to ruin his beauty after he spent so long getting dolled up for you? Maybe it would be better to spend the night taking photos of him to remember the moment but maybe he’d look even better folded in half, covered in cum as he smiles for the camera. Idk idkkkkk

Would this even be a fetish because I don’t care about anyone other than homelander wearing lingerie (this much atleast) I really need to stop reading and reblogging posts about men in lingerie cus it’s making me act up but anyways I will stop typing for tonight before I start writing about my actual fetishes and scare you guys away 🤭🤭🤭

[h8aaz]

✷ SOMETHING TO GIVE EACH OTHER BY TROYE SIVAN.

h8aaz fanfic marathon #1 .ᐟ.ᐟ

⌗ . . . i'll be posting fics (no set days, i’m too lazy) based off the tracks from ⸝⸝ something to give each other! 🗯

ᯓ★ TRACKLIST .ᐟ

01. ﾒ rush . . . matt sturniolo — this one comes out tmrw lol

02. ﾒ what’s the time where you are? . . . sam winchester

03. ﾒ one of your girls . . . chris sturniolo

04. ﾒ in my room . . . dean winchester

05. ﾒ still got it . . . chris sturniolo

06. ﾒ can’t go back, baby . . . chratt

07. ﾒ got me started . . . dean winchester

08. ﾒ silly . . . soldier boy

09. ﾒ honey . . . matt sturniolo

10. ﾒ how to stay with you . . . sam winchester

11. ﾒ talk talk . . . sam & dean (bonus track!)

i already have a whole second marathon planned for when this one eventually finishes lol. BUT ANYWAYS!! consider this a prolonged celebration for me hitting 700+ followers??? hello??? thank you all sososo much!! i love every single one of you so dearly. mwah! 🤍.

complete credit to @delilahsturniolo for the writing marathon concept and formatting, and thank you so much for giving me permission to do this!! delilah’s marathons: so close to what. ,, positions. &&. hit me hard and soft.

comment to be added to the taglist for this marathon! 🤍.

moots for engagement!!: @starzify @sunsbaby @sturnsflirt @bruisedfig @deansbeer @losers-clvb @xoswiftieprincess @littlejoels @tinas111 @ateotdwinchester @southernimpala @sacr1ficialang3l @fawnquette @freshlovefever @courta13 @y2kstarr @angelxsturns @sturns-mermaid @angelyearner @silverspringsstare @bernardsbendystraws @adorechris @fairychris @angvl3tears

[nobitchs-world]

My ancestors looking down at me as I talk about how much I love white men

[koxhii]

I have a higher chance finding a unicorn than I do finding a sfw soldier boy x reader fic

[zepskies]

I'VE GOT YOU

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Summary: Being pregnant with a supe’s baby isn’t easy, even the second time around. The good news is your husband is all too willing to help you relieve a certain craving.

AN: This one was originally released on Mother’s Day, so if you're a mom, this one's for you! 💗💗 Before writing this I rewatched the episode of Friends where Rachel is at the horny AF phase of her pregnancy. 😂

This little one-shot is set after Calculated Risks, so we also get more of Lila, Ben and the reader’s daughter! By now, she’s about five years old, and the reader is pregnant with her second child: Ben’s first boy! You all know he's been waiting for this one lol. 💚

Word Count: 3.4K

Posted on Patreon: 5/11/2025

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Father-daughter fluff, pregnancy fluff, married couple bickering, and some married couple smut. Domestic feels and happy endings all around 😉

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

Frank pulled the car up through both security gates, tires rolling smoothly up the curve of the paved driveway. When the black Ford Escape finally stopped at the front of the house, Ben subtly breathed out his relief.

The Spanish Colonial-style home was more modest than he had wanted for his growing family. You had been firm on just two floors, a pool, and the double garage. But it was a welcome sight after almost a week in Wisconsin, of all places.

The mission had been to gather intel on some old Vought lab that Stan Edgar’s cohorts had tried to keep hidden, one where V24 was still being made like a high-tech meth lab, with twice the exploding power.

Closing the lab indefinitely had been an easy job. Blowing up a powder keg was relatively simple when Ben himself carried the world’s biggest match, conveniently stored in his chest cavity. But he was reminded why he hated the Midwest. A dusty fucking snooze fest.

And if he ever heard another one of Hughie’s stupid fucking cheese jokes, it would be too damn soon.

He was all too ready—as he was after every field trip with Butcher and his band of merry assholes—to come home to you and Lila. His wife and his kid. That was really all he needed these days.

Christ. He almost shook his head at the thought, after getting out of the SUV. As Frank drove off and Ben unlocked the security passcode to the front door, he had to wonder when he’d gotten so goddamn soft.

“Daddyyyyyyy!”

Before he could even fully raise his head, Ben had his arms full of his little girl. Five years old, and Lila was looking more and more like her mother every day—bright-eyed and beautiful, even with that gap-tooth smile. But he saw just as much of himself there in her hair just a little darker than his, her eyes a little more hazel than green, and a small scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose, with a couple more dotting her cheek. He hoped she didn’t grow out of them.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Ben greeted, unable to temper his smile. He pressed a kiss to her cheek and she giggled at its slight roughness, thanks to his beard. “You been good for your mom?”

You were coming around the corner, from the kitchen if he had to guess. You set down the remains of a cheese and salami plate on the mahogany credenza in the hall.

“Sometimes,” you wryly answered for your daughter, “but maybe she’ll calm it down a few notches now that Dad’s home.” 

He watched your slightly waddling gait with an amused grin. At six months, you were at the cusp of your third trimester. Ben swung Lila over onto one hip and reached out for you as you came into his orbit, smoothing a hand along the swell of your belly before his arm wrapped around your waist and gathered you to him. You held onto his arm in turn.

“Hey,” you said, smiling into the narrow space between your face and his. He welcomed himself home when he bowed his head for a kiss.

Lila squealed and buried her face in her father’s neck, as if she was witnessing a crime. You couldn’t help laughing, but you stayed in his arms even after breaking from his lips, resting your head against his chest.

In some ways, the separation when he went on missions with the team was good. It allowed Ben to work out some of the more intense energy he couldn’t always release at home, and it was no secret that you and your husband could butt heads over almost anything—from who didn’t replace the bag after taking out the trash, to just how long you were going to continue working from home for Supe Affairs before your son was born (albeit with your mom’s help in taking care of Lila).

Sometimes you and Ben just needed the break from breathing in each other’s general direction…and then finding something about it to bicker over.

“Jesus, you sound like a moose sometimes. Would you close your mouth?”

“How about you leave me alone, huh? I just worked out in the basement, and it’s fucking stuffy down there.”

“That’s because you still haven’t changed the air filter like I asked you three weeks ago.”

“Christ on a cross, enough with the damn filter! It’s fucking fine. I changed it last month.”

“No, honey, that was the vacuum filter. And you didn’t do anything. You held the garbage bag while I shook out three pounds of dust and pet hair.”

“You’re the one who wanted the fucking cat!”

“No, your daughter begged—”

Anyway.

Right now, you were fighting the (hormonal) sting of tears in your eyes. You breathed through it, grounding yourself in Ben’s solid frame and the familiarity of his arms. You rested your cheek against his chest, feeling his warmth through the smooth fabric of his sweater.

He noticed the way you held onto him a bit tighter. His brows raised, but he bent his head to brush his lips against your temple.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” your voice was thick when you answered, though you nodded quickly. “Just…missed this.”

Missed you.

You couldn’t see the way he smiled. He rubbed your back, while Lila tangled her little fists in his hair and continued to cling to his neck. Still, his entire world was right here in this room.

“Why did Mr. Cheese go broke?” Ben posed the question to his daughter that evening, after dinner and a family movie in the living room. He’d pretended to suffer through yet another rewatch of The Lion King, but he’d begrudgingly admitted it was good, for a cartoon.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the three of you were going upstairs. Lila was once again in his arms. This time she stretched herself out dramatically like a starfish and expected him to carry her like that up to her bedroom. He did so with a roll of his eyes, but he also had a supportive hand on the small of your back while you made your way up ahead of him.

You held onto the guard rail as you went. Your other hand braced your belly. Occasionally you huffed and puffed, but you were determined to get up these goddamn stairs and to your bed like a normal human.

“Ummm I dunno, why?” Lila replied to her father.

Ben’s lips twitched at a smirk. “He had too many runny asses in Wisconsin.”

Lila bit her lip, but a giggle poured through and shook her whole body. Ben curled his arm upward to hold her more securely, so she wouldn’t smack her head on the stairs. You rolled your eyes, your lips hinting at a smile.

Still, you chided him. “Ben.”

“What? Blame the co…” He cleared his throat at your sharp eye, glancing down at his daughter. “Blame Hughie. He wouldn’t shut up with that shit.”

“You said another bad word, Daddy,” Lila said, in that know-it-all tone she’d gotten into.

Sharp as a tack, this one, Ben thought wryly. If you weren’t a foot away, he wouldn’t care all that much what came out of his mouth. By now his daughter had heard plenty in his presence, or whenever she hung out with her “uncles,” Frank and Loco. But by the way you were looking back at Ben, raising your brows in a not-so-subtle challenge, he knew it wasn’t worth the headache.

“Yeah well, add it to my tab,” he said. He wrangled Lila up higher in his arms and swung her halfway over his shoulder. She screeched and giggled and clung to his back. Ben smirked at the resigned look on your face, but he urged you the rest of the way up the stairs with a playful smack of your ass. "Come on, let's go. We've been here for twenty years already."

"Oh, I don't wanna hear that from you," you shot back with a laugh. "I'm carring the equivalent of a watermelon here."

Ben just rolled his eyes, despite his smile.

Once you reached the top, you both went over to Lila’s room, first door on the right. The orange and white tabby cat, Simba, was already sleeping curled up on her bed as if he was waiting for her. Ben would still rather get a dog. He'd told you more than once.

"Something butch. And reliable," he said, while shoveling Cheetos into his mouth from his reclined state on the living room sofa. "Like a German Shepherd or a Great Dane. Not this lazy fucking Garfield. I mean, what's this thing good for? Whining and scratching my leg all the time for more kibble."

"He just wants you to pet him, babe."

"Damn needy," he muttered, all while the cat was purring, curled up in the crook of his arm while he watched the latest Giants game. Ben scratched Simba's cheek absently.

You shook your head with a smile and went back to work in your office. You only came out to the living room to ask your dear husband to turn down the damn TV.

“Okay, why did Mr. Cheese cross the road?” you offered. 

“I don’t know, why?” Lila asked, playing along.

“To get to the other slice, of course!” you said with a smile.

Ben set Lila down on her feet, and the two shared a similar look. Unimpressed. At least your daughter had the decency to try and hide it.

Your lips pursed, but then you waved a dismissive hand and sighed. 

“Okay, time for bed,” you said.

You and Ben tucked her in together that night. She was tired enough that she didn’t demand a story this time, for which he counted it as a small blessing. All he wanted to do was strip down and relax in bed with his wife, maybe catch up on his episodes of Deadliest Catch. He’d just have to ignore your teasing that he’d never once went fishing in his life, and likely never would, despite now owning an arsenal of extremely expensive fishing rods.

He ventured down the long hall over to the master bedroom, where you began to change into your nightgown while trying not to sulk.

“She used to think I was funny,” you complained.

“She’s developing a sense of humor. You should be proud,” Ben replied with a smirk.

You swatted him on the ass for that one, making him chuckle as you passed by. He hooked a hand on your arm and carefully guided you back to him, into the cage of his arms.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart,” he warned.

In his eyes, you read a familiar spark of desire as they roamed over your deep green, silky maternity gown—a baby shower gift from Annie. But he tempered the spark behind a chaste kiss, more tame than usual for the past few weeks. You merely smiled against his lips, stroking his bearded cheek. Inside, you bubbled with a trill of nerves and arousal all at once.

Your second pregnancy had thus far been more tumultuous than your first one. It was similar in that you were experiencing intermitted bouts of super strength, but your hormones had been going haywire, leaving you with bouts of morning, night, and day sickness, breasts tender to the point of painful, and almost no position comfortable enough for you to lay down and rest your aching back.

Ben knew it full well and had been getting an earful of your pregnancy woes for the past couple of months (not to mention, your accusing side-eye). Weirdly, the constant shitty feeling of being rundown and on the verge of puking had begun to ease up when he was gone this past week…shifting into a different mode of insanely hormonal.

As in, bouts of severe horniness. You’d even had to consult the second drawer of your nightstand for some relief.

But now, you grabbed a fistful of Ben’s shirt and brought him down to you for another kiss. This time you led him deeper, luring him with your sensuous tongue slipping into his mouth. A groan of approval caught in the back of his throat, even though his brows furrowed in slight confusion.

“What’s all this?” he asked, his voice rougher, but still teasing as he squeezed your waist. “You done puking day and night, complaining about my dick and balls being the reason you can’t fit into your jeans?”

His lips brushed along your jawline, a tantalizing sensation, even though you could feel his smirk. You rolled your eyes.

“Charming,” you said flatly. “Just for that, I should leave you to stroke your blue balls for another night.”

Ben chuckled, but he also called your bluff, beginning to graze down your neck, his tongue flicking along the shell of your ear. You shuddered at the pleasurable zing of sensation, unconsciously leaning against him.

“Seriously, you feeling good?” he asked.

You felt the hesitation in his lips, which pressed a real kiss in the juncture between your neck and shoulder. You smiled.

“Maybe,” you said teasingly. “And I might be craving more than oatmeal cream pies and Thai chili peppers this time.”

He snorted. “Thank fuck for small favors.”

You giggled, dragging your nails up and down his back through his shirt. You felt the suspect twitch in his muscles in response. So you slipped your hands back to his chest and gently pushed him backward. He raised his brows and took a step back, then another, until you could guide him into sitting on the edge of the bed. You stepped in between his strong, widespread legs and held his face in your hands.

His own were already beginning to roam down to your hips, giving them a nice firm squeeze. It felt so nice to be touched. It felt like every part of your body was waiting to feel something, wanting to feel good. You desperately needed him to touch you…

“But,” you said, holding a finger over his lips. “Um…I need you to go slow. Be careful.”

Ben’s brows furrowed. Did you really think he'd be too rough with you?

“We fucked plenty of times the first go around. Can't say I remember any incident.”

Your lips twitched at a smile. “Yes, but…I don’t know. I’m feeling more sensitive this time. I’m not sure what’s gonna feel good, what might be too much.”

Ben actually paused. He saw where you were coming from. It just irked him that you felt you had to warn him. He could see the concern and hesitance in your face, like you weren't sure if he could do what you were asking.

“Sweetheart,” he shook his head and pulled you closer, until your belly was nestled warm against his chest. His hands spanned your hips, large and strong, but only enough to feel secure. Grounding. “You think I don’t know how to take care of you, even now?”

Your breath hitched at the depths of his voice, the rumble of it going straight between your legs. He slipped his hands under the nightgown and kneaded the bare flesh of your thighs, somehow both firm and careful.

“Turn around for me,” he said.

You smiled, raising a brow, but you followed his lead. His touch never left you while you turned in his arms and let him slip your nightgown off. He tossed it to the side along with his shirt and pajama pants, then he guided you down to a seat on his muscled thighs. His movements were slow and calculated as he welcomed you back into his arms, brushing your hair back from your face and away from your neck. He nodded up at the dresser mirror straight ahead.

“Take a look, sweetheart,” he said. Meeting your eyes in the reflection there, he skimmed the back of his hand along your jawline. “Fucking beautiful. Now more than ever.”

Those words, he murmured into your skin. “Gonna give me a son. Then I’m gonna fuck another one into you, ‘til we got every fucking room in this house filled up.”

You laughed at that, despite the way your cheeks heated up at the gravel-laden promise.

“What’re you trying to do, assemble your own version of the Von Trapp family? Dress our kids up like Mormons and make ‘em sing songs?”

Ben chuckled. “Hey, they gotta earn their keep somehow. I’m the one who’s rich, not them.”

You wanted to point out, again, that it wasn't just his money, not to mention all the ways he was already spoiling your daughter rotten. But his teeth once again grazed your neck in a sharper nip, grabbing your attention. His tongue flicked along your earlobe, all while his fingers brushed the sides of your breasts and made your shaky breaths rise to meet him.

He cupped your breasts in his large hands and brushed his thumbs over each sensitive, hardened nipple. You let out a cross between a hum and a whine, arching into his touch and pressing back against his chest. You held onto his arms for a further sense of stability and security.

“You’ve been waiting for me, huh? I can tell. You’re all fucking locked up,” he murmured.

“Mhmm,” you agreed, breathless already, a delicious heat pooling in your center.

Eventually, he continued his exploration down the rest of your body, including the gentle swell of your stomach. He kissed down your shoulder, beginning to stroke the outside of your thighs back and forth. Steadily, he moved inward. His fingers became more grazing the closer he got to the apex of your sensitive inner thighs. A shiver ran down your spine.

You heaved a trembling breath. “Ben. Need you, baby.”

“I know,” he replied roughly, a contrast to his sensuous touch. “I fucking told you, I’ve got you. Just relax.”

He clasped his free hand to yours, steading you while his fingers began to tease your wet folds, slipping in between. He brushed and grazed a torturous back and forth. Until finally, two of his long fingers dipped inside your hot, weeping channel for a moment, before they moved back up, circling your clit.

Your breaths were coming out more raggedly now. You let go of his hand just to reach back and grasp at his hair. His fingers moved at just the right angle and you gasped, a delicious tendril of pleasure licking through your core. “Oh…fuck…mhmm…right there…”

Ben smirked. He knew. Because he knew every part of you, every angle that would have you shuddering, body contorting in bliss and pleasure. His favorite thing in the world, aside from being balls-deep inside your sweet pussy, was this. Playing you like a virtuoso, like a fucking First Chair violinist. He might change the notes, tease out different chords, but the end result was always the same—making you fucking sing for him.

While his fingers toyed with your clit, rolling the sensitive bud with firmer pressure, he spread your legs a bit wider with his knees and made more room for himself. Your hips rolled against his hand on reflex, chasing your release.

He used that to his advantage, grabbing your hip and guiding his cock into your throbbing heat in shallow thrusts. You both groaned at the feeling. Your hand tightened in his hair, nails scraping his scalp, surely threatening to rip out a few strands.

It only spurred him on. Ben worked you down over him as slowly as he could manage without busting prematurely at how fucking good you felt, wet and warm and already choking the head of his cock. He buried himself inside deeper and deeper while he stroked tight circles over your clit, until his cock was finally nestled in, filling you completely, hot and hard and perfect.

“Oh, fuck. Ben,” you whined. “Think I’m…”

Your core throbbed tightly around him for a few moments, making you shudder with pleasure. There he just held you to his chest for a minute, allowing you to catch your breath. You held onto his arms. You felt caged, but in the best of ways. You tipped your head back onto his shoulder, where his lips found your temple.

“How was that?” he asked, his voice deep and gravel rough.

“So good,” you nearly sobbed. You were pretty sure you came just then, with merely the feel of him fully seated inside you. You were brimming with pleasure…but it wasn’t just that.

Your heart felt so full for this man, it was nearly overwhelming. You grabbed his wrist and dropped a kiss onto his hand, his palm, and his still slightly wet fingers. He swept his thumb along your cheek in response.

“All right. Good,” he nodded, a bit breathless himself. He slowly smirked into your neck, self-satisfied and a hint devilish.

You smiled too when you caught him in the mirror. His hands returned to your hips and began helping you move, a rocking rhythm that led into his slow, purposeful thrusts. A new lance of pleasure curled up into your core, and a half-choked moan fell from your lips.

“Now the real fun begins,” Ben said. 

AN: 😘 All right, some fluffy family moments, some classic BMD bickering, and some fluffy married couple smut. I think we checked all the boxes here! lol Let me know if you guys still want to go back in time and see their wedding, because I have a fun idea for a twist – complete with another Supe Affairs mission with unintended consequences. 🫢

Until then, I've been working on soon to be future chapters of Breaking Point (Russell Shaw x Reader). After that, I'll be working on a series to continue 10 'Til Midnight (Professor!Dean Winchester x Grad Student!Reader). So stay tuned for those! 💚

But on June 1, we're finally getting to another SB series! Unravel Me: the prequel to Lost in Translation (Soldier Boy x Afro-Latina!Reader). 💜💙

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

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[dollerinna]

I WANT TO F**K YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL .

( black noir x fem supe!reader )

summary: the not-so-innocent things that go on in noir’s head abt you during The Seven meetings (wc: 1.8k)

warnings: MDNI, dub-con, rough p in v, doggy style, primal play themes, size kink, gagging, sobbing, corruption kink, Homelander being a weirdo at the end… just a lil’

first fic on this blog and I lowkey hate it- ughhh sorry if it’s all over the place!

The morning sun cast its golden glow upon the Manhattan skyline as The Seven assembled in their meeting room.

Homelander paced before them, detailing some new initiative he had conceived, but his words rang as emptily as the void behind his eyes. The Deep hung on his every syllable, eager as ever to prove his ass-kissing self with poorly-timed quips. This earned him nothing but a withering side-eye.

A-Train and Maeve listened with feigned interest, checking out of the conversation all but in body. Noir sat apart, idly fidgeting with a pen as his mind wandered. But his attention was drawn not to the usual faces, for there was a new supe among them—you, the latest fresh-faced recruit to their team.

On the surface, you appeared the absolute picture of attention—eyes forward, laser focused on Homelander as he tiresomely outlined the team's objectives.

It was cute, really, how focused the newbies always strived to be. Yet beneath the facade, you were actually anything but so, not when you felt an unseen gaze assessing you, weighing you.

Flicking your eyes discreetly aside, you confirmed a suspicion you could smell from miles away: Noir watching from across the table, his expression shrouded as ever behind the visor of his helmet.

Ugh, talk about creepy.

A subtle flutter of your eyelids shifted your line of sight, choosing to trust that his thousand-yard stare just so casually happen to drift your way and not an attempt to burn his gaze into your very soul.

Besides, what else could the guy possibly think about? Training, orders from Vought, simple pastimes—usually, such painfully mundane, run-of-the-mill thoughts occupied him.

But little did you know in this moment, as he studied your presence from afar, his mental reflections took a turn less… innocent.

─────────────────

“N-Noir… mmph-… please…”

It wasn’t his doing, he didn’t ask to be plagued with this sickly obsession; but every time he heard your voice, it was as if sweet, smooth-spun sugar had come alive.

An alien lust scorched Noir’s consciousness, catapulting his fevered mind into unfamiliar territory. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the sinful thoughts that stubbornly stuck to him like glue. Just the mere notion of ever being responsible for those pretty little sounds was enough for arousal to creep through his veins like a nasty virus, sapping what was left of his crumbling self-control.

Your every whine, your every moan, would be a siren's call that beckoned him to claim you, to strip away your composure until you were utterly, helplessly his. All he craved was to watch the light in your eyes dwindle, to witness your breaths dampening into shallow puffs of air that blanketed your gaze in a veil of fog, gradually muffling you into a stillness even quieter than he was.

And truthfully, it wasn’t a matter of whether you liked it or not.

Noir would ensure his touch left no room for refusal, his grasp iron-hard as he positioned your trembling, naked body on the floor to his liking—face pinned down, ass arched up, just as it should be. Yet even as he held you fast with a palm braced against your sweat-slicked spine, his other hand moved with a surprising tenderness, gently teasing loose and brushing apart the knotted strands of hair clung to your ruddied features.

He imagined the merest of touches would set your blood aflame, rumbling up a ripe groan from your core. “…Oh m-my god… fuck…” words fled your mouth on airless breaths, nearly inaudible but still enough for him to catch. In response, he’d slowly lift a finger to your glistening lips, accompanied by a soundless ‘shh’—a signal for you to behave.

After all, good girls should never cuss.

Large, strong hands would then greedily paw at the lush fat of your ass cheeks, the scratchy textured fabric of his gloves leaving blooms of red across your flesh. Spreading you open, he’d admire the way your juicy, moist folds parted slightly, the aching emptiness within your entrance eliciting an involuntary clenching—your muted moans, trapped in your throat, acting as a wordless plea for more of his touch, more of him.

He liked to think you’d be mere putty in his hands, before he was even close to fucking you.

Noir would take his sweet time exploring you, his curiosity of the human form eclipsing the immediate need to quell a white-hot carnal desire every red-blooded man gets. He was good at rearranging people’s insides, literally, but what if he flipped the script in a much different way?

Experimentally, he’d run the very tip of his gloved finger along the weeping slit of your sex, ghosting ever so lightly over your swollen, hypersensitive clit to collect your slick arousal. Then, without warning, he’d dip an entire digit into your quivering depths, reveling in the way your spongy muscles squeezed and welcomed him in.

Your breath would hitch at the intrusion, skin prickling with a visceral need as you eagerly shoved your rear back against his palm, craving more. However, just as swiftly, he would withdraw his hand, bringing it close to his face to observe it covered in your juices, inspecting how the slimy, milky-white essence connected a trail between his fingers.

Who knew light fondling and agonizing silence was all the foreplay you needed? (or at least, in Noir’s fanciful pornographic depictions of you)

Once done playing with his food, he’d drag his knees closer to your body, his hips flush against your ass, leaving your peripheral vision filled with nothing but his imposing, darkly-clad figure dwarfing your own. Without hesitation, he’d reach down to remove the codpiece off him, freeing his hefty cock which sprang forth in the air, where it stood rock-hard, veiny, and impossibly large.

Wrapping a hand around himself, the thickly-roped, buzzing veins were betrayed by each gritty pull of his glove, drawing a guttural grunt from behind his balaclava. He’d guide his erection between your warm folds, the engorged ridge of his tip prodding against your bundle of nerves, sending electric jolts of pleasure to crackle through your core, before he began to sheathe himself inside you with a push that drove him home.

With a grip possessive and firm around your waist, Noir quickly fell into a steady, almost robotic rhythm of sturdy pushes and pulls. Each punishing collision of your bodies was answered by the lewd, rapid sounds of skin-on-skin, making damn sure you felt every single inch of him as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

He’d only hope to see you struggle taking him all in, envisioning how the sheer scale of his size forced the very air out from your gasping lungs.

“P-Please Noir!… ngh-… my body can’t handle this much,” your once-lovely voice now ragged and frail, scraping sobs grinding your vocal cords near silence as you churned and coiled like a fawn caught in the clutches of a big, bad wolf. “Be gentle, I’m begging you!—-” You choked out weakly, bordering on a soft, pitiful whine.

Expectantly, a weighted silence followed suit from Noir. In his typical, unsparing fashion, he slipped a glove from his hand, jamming it into your mouth and effectively gagging you into silence, as if to say—pipe down, be a good girl, and take my cock like you’re supposed to.

Even without a single word uttered by him, it worked like absolute fucking magic.

Your torso would practically collapse under the onslaught, wobbly limbs giving way as you let Noir use your arched up, offering form like a personal fleshlight. His hips would retract further back in an excruciating slowness, simply marveling at your wetness coating the base of his member like a second skin, only to slam back into you with raw vigor.

Your tight, gummy walls would be offered absolutely no time to adjust to the relentless invasion of his girth, the sheer thickness of his cock forcefully stretching out your cunt to shape him, to the point it felt like he was trying to split you into two.

He’d yank your flexing thighs back to meet his brutal series of thrusts, burying himself into you to the very tilt as the fleshy head of his cock kissed your cervix, igniting a searing white bolt of static to lance through your vision, momentarily fracturing it.

The all-consuming, dizzying sensation hit you like a ton of bricks, toppling your senses and wrenching a strangled sob out from your slack jaw once more. This earned you another biting touch from Noir’s thumbs pressed into your sides, as if seeking to wring every gasp out of your chest, to hear your moans rattle through your ribcage.

However even your rawest cries were swiftly muffled, swallowed by the balled-up glove shoved roughly between your teeth, which reduced you to nothing more than a gagging, pleasure-drunk whore for him to claim.

─────────────────

Meanwhile…

“Welp, that about covers it for today,” Homelander announced with a thunderous clap, loud enough for it to ring through Noir’s ears and bring him back to the present.

Slowly, Noir spun his head back towards Homelander, who had just finished addressing the team while his own thoughts drifted to places where even the pearly gates of heaven wouldn't give him the time of day.

“Now shoo- and no more sloppy behavior. I’ll be keeping an eye on each and every one of you.” Homelander dismissed them with a casual wave and a chuckle laced with another one of his thinly veiled threats.

As everyone, including little-miss-oblivious-you, got up to leave the meeting room, Homelander sauntered over to Noir, heartily slapping a heavy hand onto his back. “Earth to Noir! I know that look—thoughts a million miles away behind that sphinx-like mask of yours,” giving a sly little shrug, he slanted a meaningful look towards Noir’s codpiece. “But methinks, someone here isn’t as impenetrable as I thought…” A thin wry smile played his lips, a subtle hint at his x-ray vision allowing him to see a particular something-something of Noir’s that was currently just as hard as his body armor.

“It might do you good to line that suit with zinc. Wouldn't want any unwanted eyes peeking where they shouldn’t, do we?" An amused exhale, part sigh part snicker, slipped out of Homelander as his gaze swept over Noir once more.

True to form, all he received in turn was Noir’s standard muteness, as soundless as a grave.

Homelander eased the quiet with a huffed laugh, rocking back on his heels as he tilted his head in playful study of Noir. "But don't worry," he added with a knowing smirk, "it happens to the best of us. But do try to keep your head in the game! And not with your other one, ‘kay buddy?” Homelander jested in mock-reproach as he landed one last waggish, firm slap between Noir's shoulders, flashing his gleaming white yet eerily pointed grin.

Noir remained statue still, no hint of feeling betrayed by his rigid posture despite the toe-curling awkwardness of the encounter, or perhaps he'd yet to fully realize Homelander had peered within and seen his aching, raging hard-on behind the suit's facade.

Noir silently watched Homelander shoot two playful finger guns, his cape swirled shut behind him before leaving the room.

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Pssst- Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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Apologies if there are any grammatical errors here, cuz I’m alr so done with this fic 😭😭😭

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

no saints in safehouses

content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k

The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.

You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.

The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.

Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.

You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.

“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”

You didn’t turn around.

“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”

You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.

“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”

You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.

Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.

“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.

He grinned.

“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”

“You were supposed to be on my six.”

“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”

You took a step forward.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”

He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.

You didn’t.

“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”

He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.

“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”

You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.

“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”

“I’d rather chew glass.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”

Your hand twitched toward your blade.

He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”

He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”

You shoved him.

It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.

Then smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”

You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.

His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.

Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.

“That all you got?”

You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.

You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.

His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.

“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”

His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.

“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”

You shoved him—hard.

This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.

He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.

That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.

He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”

Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.

“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”

He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”

“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”

“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”

Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.

“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”

You scoffed, but his grin widened.

“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”

You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.

“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”

Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.

“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”

“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.

“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”

Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.

Then you spit.

Right into his face.

It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.

Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.

His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.

You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.

“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.

His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.

“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”

He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.

“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”

You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.

“Don’t. Speak.”

His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.

“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”

Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.

You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.

You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.

The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.

From want.

And it hit you like a slap.

No.

No, no, no.

Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.

And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—

You were getting wet.

You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.

“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”

You froze. Heart lurching.

“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”

You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.

“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”

You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.

“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.

He ignored it.

“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”

You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.

He chuckled darkly.

“Temper, temper.”

Then you bit him. Hard.

Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.

You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.

“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.

Ben didn’t blink.

“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.

Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.

His eyes lit up.

“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”

You slapped him.

The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.

And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.

“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”

He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.

His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.

“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”

You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”

He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.

His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.

“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”

You turned your face away.

That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.

Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.

He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.

He heard it.

“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

You clenched your teeth.

“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.

“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”

He pressed his hips against yours.

You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.

And still—your jaw locked.

He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.

“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”

He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.

“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”

His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.

“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”

You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.

“You want me to say it?” You whispered.

He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.

You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.

“No.”

His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.

And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.

His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.

“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”

You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.

He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.

Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”

“You already have,” you spat.

His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Then he went for your pants.

And froze.

You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.

“Fuck this shit,” he barked.

Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.

You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.

“Hargrove—” you started.

He didn’t listen.

Didn’t care.

His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.

“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

“Oh fuck—”

The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.

Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”

You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself—”

But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.

“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”

Then he really started working.

Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.

“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”

His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.

You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.

He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”

You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.

“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”

And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.

You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.

His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.

And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.

“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”

He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.

“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”

His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”

“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”

You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.

“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”

That was it.

He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.

The world flipped upside down.

“Hargrove—what the fu—”

Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.

Your throat convulsed.

He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.

“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.

“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”

He wasn’t pulling back.

Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.

And then?

His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.

You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.

Your whole body spasmed.

“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”

He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.

“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”

His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.

His eyes rolled back.

“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”

You tried to move. Couldn’t.

Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.

He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.

And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.

But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.

He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.

Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.

His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.

And he loved it.

You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.

“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"

He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.

“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”

You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.

“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”

He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.

“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”

Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.

His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”

He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.

You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.

“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”

His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.

He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.

“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.

Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.

“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.

You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.

He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.

“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”

One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.

You locked eyes. He was gone.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.

Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.

No rush. No brutality.

Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”

Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.

And then he started to move.

Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.

Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.

He slapped your thigh—hard.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”

You blinked, dazed.

He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.

Another sharp slap to your thigh.

“Look. At. Me.” he growled.

You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”

He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.

“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”

You whimpered, and his mouth curled.

“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”

Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—

And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.

“No.”

He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”

He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.

“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”

Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”

Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.

And that made him feral.

“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”

Your eyes fluttered again.

He tutted.

“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.

“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”

You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.

His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.

“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”

You moaned, head tipping back more.

He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.

“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”

Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.

He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.

“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”

Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.

“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.

“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.

You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.

He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.

“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.

You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.

He stilled.

You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.

“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”

Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.

He grinned.

“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”

You clenched your teeth, panting.

“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”

He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.

“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”

Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.

And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.

“…Ben.”

His name. Your voice.

Everything stopped.

His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.

“Oh, fuck…”

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.

“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”

You said it again, even softer.

“Ben…”

And he shattered.

“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”

His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—

He snapped.

“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”

His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.

You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.

And still— He didn’t stop.

Not even for a second.

He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.

You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.

“Ben—”

“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”

He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.

Your head tipped back again.

Eyes closed.

Your fatal mistake.

He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.

You cried out.

His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.

“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”

You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.

His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.

“You look at me when I fuck you.”

He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.

“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”

“Ben—fuck, I—”

He spit the next words like a threat:

“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart— I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”

Your whole body spasmed.

His voice dropped, feral.

“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”

You choked on a moan.

He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.

“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”

He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.

Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.

He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.

Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.

Then—

His pace broke.

He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”

His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”

Your answer was a sob. One word.

“Inside.”

And he stopped cold.

You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.

His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”

He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.

“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”

You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”

He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.

“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.

He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.

“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.

“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”

You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.

“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”

He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.

“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”

He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.

“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”

You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.

He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.

“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.

Your legs spread wider.

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Then his hand hovered over your lips.

“Open wide,” he said, voice low.

You did.

He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.

“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.

You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.

He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”

Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.

“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”

You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.

He groaned loud. “Good girl.”

And then—

He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.

Because you had.

author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life. i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it. i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet. let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request. all the damn love.

soldier boy/ben taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @tinas111 @angelicjackles @lunaleah. @mostlymarvelgirl @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @adoredawn @sunnyfuffly @deansbbyx <3

everything taglist: @bejeweledinterludes @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @tinas111 @lunaleah @drakulana @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @ambiguous-avery @deansbeer @angrydragon90 <3

[ultravi0lence14]

SOLDIER BOY X READER

WARNINGS: smut (18+), rough sex, p in v, spanking, hair pulling, biting

WORD COUNT: 358

soldier boy was ruthless in the way he fucked you, having no room for soft, docile love. his hips piston into you from behind, fingers tightly nestled into your hair, tugging and pulling your face away from the mattress. he wanted to hear you moan, wanted to hear the whines and mewls that his thrusts punched out of your throat. tonight was no different, his tip ramming forcefully into that spongy spot inside of you as you screamed into the silence of the dingy motel room.

“that’s it babydoll, scream for me.” the hand not wrapped around the strands of your hair came down on your ass, a yelp turning into a moan ripping out of your mouth. forearms planted firmly on the mattress, you thrusted your ass in the air, having the tip of soldier boy’s dick hit you at an even more deliciously deep angle.

“fuck!” you moaned when he thrusted exceptionally harder, hitting your cervix. “harder, ben. fuck, harder.”

though you couldn’t see it, soldier boy smirked to himself, grabbing your hip with one hand and using the leverage he had on your hair to pull you up until your back was against his chest. “you like this huh?” he taunted, hips smacking against yours at such a rapid pace you swore you saw stars. “like it when i fuck you hard? god baby, it’s like you were fucking made for me.”

your mouth opened in a silent ‘o’, pain and pleasure wracking through your body as soldier boy fucked you at an ungodly pace. when his finger on your hip moved down your body, going straight to your core and playing with your clit, you swore you saw stars.

his skilled fingers rubbed you at a quickened pace, his lips kissing around your collarbone in tandem before he barred his teeth and bit down on your shoulder.

the loud moan that tore through your dormant vocal cords had ben smirking around your shoulder, his thrusts becoming stronger as his fingers worked faster on your clit. he loved it when you screamed, and he wasn’t going to stop until the sound was engraved in his mind.

TAGS: @starzify @titsout4jackles @daylighted @deansbeer @bluemerakis @figthoughts @haunteres @sunsbaby @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @cowboysandcigarettes @j2archives @florchids @dulcescorderitas

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: Wearing Their Clothes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[deebris]

From annoying to beloved

Homelander x fem!Reader

Synopsis: The new member of the Seven annoys Captain Patria with their habit of doodling in the corners all the time, but he didn't expect to end up liking it.

During the fourth season, it can be read as both romantic and platonic.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of murder, the reader has the power to control plasma, fluffy.

The reader is also kind of anxious.

Word count: 2.9k

"You gotta be fucking kidding with me." Homelander interrupted abruptly upon hearing snores in the room. "Is Noir sleeping?"

"Mmhmm," Firecracker murmured in agreement, but the masked superhero jolted awake when The Deep kicked his chair.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, guys." Black Noir straightened up, while the Captain shook his head in disbelief, unable to fathom what he had just witnessed.

"Ah, what the fuck." The blonde furrowed his brows, eyes darting around the room quickly, then fixing on a specific point when something else caught his attention. He had noticed you earlier with a notebook and pencil, but now you're not writing but drawing. The irritating sound of the graphite scraping against the paper had been bothering him for some time, but he had tried to ignore it, assuming as a newcomer you were taking notes.

He wouldn't lie. Though he found taking notes utterly stupid, he liked to think someone was that focused on what he said. Not that he needed it, just opening his lips and everyone would be watching him. But as if that weren't enough, he finally realized you were dressed in regular civilian clothes.

"Radiance, where's your suit?" He asked slowly, but angrily. "Can't anyone do anything right around here?"

You finally tore your attention from the paper, meeting Homelander gaze directly. It's not that you weren't paying attention—in fact, you were, maybe more than anyone else there. It was easier to absorb things while doodling, a way to calm your nerves. Well, that or rubbing your sweaty fingers together until they hurt.

No one ever understood. Even back in school, your parents used to receive complaints about you drawing during class, no matter how high your grades were or the fact that you were the top student.

This was your first meeting with the Seven, and the last thing you wanted was to give the impression of being careless or not caring about being there. It could be said that one of the best days of your life was yesterday when Vought sent you a notice, letting you know that the greatest superhero of all had personally chosen you to join the team. After so many "retarded" - in his words - he had been forced to accept into the Seven, Homelander saw in you, above all, the opportunity to make up for Firecracker's ridiculous weakness.

When Ashley began talking about your powers, he had no doubt the last spot was yours. It was simply brilliant. Who the hell would have imagined someone would have powers to control a state of matter? You could maneuver fire, generate electrical discharges, disrupt magnetic fields, and damn it, you could split atoms as if slicing butter.

Vought's scientists said they didn't know if it was possible, but you could destroy the damn out of a star one day. Homelander wasn't a science guy, but in one of his moments of boredom, he got curious and did some research. He didn't even know that plasma crap was all that, he thought it was a cell thing or whatever.

He always thought someone with a power as peculiar as yours, and at your age, would be arrogant or just plain dumb. But you were actually the complete opposite. You didn't speak unnecessarily, and while you seemed very aware of your own actions, you had no clue how powerful you were, or perhaps ignored that fact. The blonde thought you were an idiot for it, but he appreciated the inferiority you submitted to, especially in relation to himself.

"I don't have one, sir," you replied to his question, feeling small with everyone looking.

"What the hell?" He continued, focusing on you with incredulous voice, he couldn't believe it. How did someone end up here without even having a superhero suit?

The truth was, you had never been part of any team before, nor had you received any sponsorship during your life, or even attended Godolkin University. The only thing you had were your powers, which were indeed impressive. You never chased after any position, nor were you ever obsessed with being a famous superheroine, but lately you thought it would be a good adventure to radicalize your life. That's when you applied to join the Seven.

"How do you have a name and not have a fucking suit?" He asked, boiling with anger, fists clenching tightly behind his back.

"They gave me a name when I filled out the application," you answered honestly. That day, after they chose to call you Radiance, a random and easily commercial name, you couldn't complain much and didn't want to bother, so you left it at that.

"You'll be introduced as an official member of the Seven tomorrow, how do you not have a suit?" He took his hands off his back, moving them as he spoke to express his confusion, and for a few moments you followed it movement like a child who can't keep their attention on anything for long. "Who's handling your marketing?"

You couldn't answer, so you stayed silent and no one else dared to say a word either. You had no idea who was handling your marketing, not knowing you should even have that. You glanced quickly around the table, perhaps seeking some kind of help for the situation, but everyone looked down when they realized you were staring at them. They were enjoying themselves, and that made you exhale through your nose in embarrassment.

"You know what? Fuck it, doesn't matter." Homelander brought his fingers to his furrowed forehead, letting out a loud sigh as he calmed down. "Just... don't show up like this in public until someone gives you a suit."

"Yes, sir," you replied tensely, relieved that he had resolved the matter.

Sister Sage widened her eyes in relief when she finally saw the superhero sitting beside her. She opened her mouth to begin speaking, as she had intended from the beginning, but when some sound was about to come out of her mouth, Homelander spoke to you again, this time pointing an accusatory finger at you:

"And stop drawing, damn it," he ordered, causing you to slowly drop the pencil on the table, as if caught doing something wrong with the weapon of the crime in hand. You stared at your lap throughout the entire meeting, embarrassed for messing everything up on your first day.

When the meeting ended, you followed most people out of the room, but stopped nearby in one of the hallways. You slid down the wall, crouching in a hidden corner, and lightly tapped the sketchbook against your forehead in annoyance.

"Stupid," you murmured softly to yourself. It was so ridiculous, yet it embarrassed you so much. Maybe this first day wasn't so bad after all. You would have plenty of time to prove your worth to everyone, no need to dwell on this situation. Even though you had been corrected in front of some of the most iconic supers by Homelander himself, this situation could be overcome. It was thinking about it that kept you from letting the burning tears fall.

"I can hear you whining," Homelander voice made you jump to your feet, startled to be caught once again doing something you shouldn't. He didn't seem happy, and his expression was so intimidating that you felt like Mariah Carey performing for a crowd of Eminem fans.

He approached you in slow steps and you held the sketchtebook protectively to your chest, as if that could protect you from something. He glanced down to briefly see the object in your hands and looked at you with disgust.

"If you don't straighten up, I'll kick you out. Got it?" Everything about him exuded threat. Maybe if he weren't so imposing and powerful, that sentence would have sounded a bit like the janitor from your old school scolding you for spending too much time in the bathroom during class.

You were paralyzed standing there and all you could do was a nod. But your gesture made him more aggressive.

"Answer with your mouth. Are you mute or something?" And there he was, hands behind his back again. He seemed to enjoy that pose.

"I won't mess up, sir," you said, swallowing your saliva.

"And get rid of that. Or burn it, do whatever, just get rid of it. And I better not see you with that again," he said referring to your notebook, walking away faster than before. "These kids..." you heard him mutter distantly.

After that happened, you didn't destroy the sketchtebook, but you were afraid of being caught and kept it safely tucked away in the back of a drawer in your room. What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel, right? You mentally made a promise to yourself not to use it anywhere else but here, to avoid causing more trouble.

It's been a week since you've been with the Seven, and several strange things have happened. You quickly realized that Homelander wasn't the pristine and merciful hero everyone believed him to be. But the truth was that deep down you already expected that. Everything about heroes always seemed too perfect and pure, there had to be a catch. Despite everything, you still remained yourself, never intentionally hurting anyone or getting involved in murders and conspiracies.

You were comfortable helping out with some minor crimes that Vought sent you to solve, but by now you suspected that sooner or later Homelander would ask you to do some of his atrocities. It was still hard to think about how to feel about it, but you weren't naive, you were already mentally preparing to submit to it or else be killed.

During that time, as you adjusted and interacted with the team, it didn't go unnoticed by Homelander that you were drawing on your own hand, or on napkins and on random sheets you found lying around, even though you hadn't shown up with your sketchtebook again. This was starting to wear on his last nerve, but he tried to ignore it. As long stayed as you were, without asking too many questions and obedient, he made an effort to continue overlooking your makeshift drawings.

"Meeting's over," the blond suddenly declared, interrupting another of the Seven's weekly gatherings while cutting off The Deep's rambling about his ideas.

"But I haven't even talked about the flying shark yet," he tried to defend himself.

"Shut up," Homelander's voice rang out sternly in the room, issuing a warning that the man promptly obeyed.

"Right. Meeting's over." Ashley nervously moved to gather the portfolios on the new soda advertisement she had come to present, but as soon as she touched the first folder, specifically the A-Train one, the superhero exploded in rage:

"Ashley! Get out!" She immediately dropped the folder in place and hurried out in her heels, unable to run in them. "All of you! Get out of here."

Everyone got up from their chairs, even you, and filed out through the front door, leaving the folders on the table. Sister Sage hesitated, thinking she might be an exception, but when his scowl deepened, she understood she should leave too.

With the room empty, Captain Patria took a few minutes to admire the view from the tower. He enjoyed staring at it sometimes, even when bored.

"Bunch of idiots," he muttered to himself, shaking his head in denial, indignant. If he had to spend one more minute with these morons, he would have a heart attack, even though that was technically impossible for him.

He threw his cape back as he turned to leave, looking down and not focusing on anything in particular. But his eyes caught something different from the other folders. It was obviously yours, with a huge drawing covering the text and images printed on it.

That was the first time he actually saw something you had scribbled. And damn, it was perfect. It was a drawing of everyone in the room, with him in the center looking angry. Just as he was. His ego flared up as he noticed that his figure was more detailed than the others'. You must have started drawing him first, hence had more time to detail him. The idea of you making him the main focus of this particular drawing made his pupils dilate. He used his super hearing to check if anyone else was around and secretly took that sheet for himself.

The next time he saw you drawing in the Seven's room, he couldn't help but wonder if you were drawing him again. As soon as he noticed you sneakily reaching for a pen that belonged to Ashley, he looked in your direction. The noise that used to annoy him now sparked curiosity. And after staring at you for so long, it didn't take long for you to look back at him too. The blond thought you would be embarrassed, like most people, but you just grinned as if you were used to being caught looking. And indeed, you were.

You began drawing Homelander more frequently when you realized he never caught you watching him. It was easier and avoided awkward situations with other people. After two whole weeks of drawing him continuously while taking advantage of this freedom, you felt capable of drawing his face without even needing to see a photo, having memorized most of his distinctive features.

Well, it seems he's finally noticed you.

Sometimes, when alone in your room, you took out your sketchbook and started practicing the memory of his facial features you had developed. Just like every other time, you became absorbed in the drawing, focusing only on the voices around you to understand what was being said. This was also a way to keep yourself engaged during conversations, so you wouldn't get restless from being still while being a mere spectator of everything. After all, you never participated much or gave opinions; Deep already did enough for two.

The meeting had already ended, but you stayed in your chair, even as everyone else left, to finish just a part of the hair. You thought no one would mind, and then you would leave as usual, but a voice caught you by surprise:

"Can I take a look?" Homelander asked, for the first time, using a gentle voice beside you. His expression was enigmatic, somewhat relaxed, and shy at the same time.

You turned the stack of post-it notes, also taken from Ashley, for him to see what you had drawn, fearing what he would say. You weren't ashamed of drawing people, much less of them catching you doing it. You feared because he found your habit annoying.

He observed the drawing, seeing his posture from the side, upright and imposing. He wondered if you drew him exactly as you saw him, or if it was just another caricature of reality, like those Photoshopped pictures spread around. He looked much better than he imagined, though he had that superiority complex that made him see himself as a god.

For a moment, he was offended to see his image stamped on such despicable things as scraps of paper and these damn post-it notes. Your fingerprints were also visible stains, and the paper was slightly wrinkled from his sweat. He had noticed that sometimes you drew calmly, as if you had all the time in the world, and other times it was like drawing on a boat in a storm. Today seemed to be the latter situation.

"Do you like drawing me?" He glanced at you.

"I do," you shrugged. That was the simplest and most truthful answer you could give. "Sorry, I won't do it anymore," you said, thinking he was bothered by it.

"Why?" He ignored your apology.

"You're drawable... I guess," you stared at the table, not understanding the flow of the conversation.

"And what the fuck does that mean?" He asked in a louder voice, turning to face you, obviously confused. "Is this some artistic shit?"

"It's just that you're easy to draw because you have unusual characteristics. It's a good thing," was your answer, and it inflated his chest with narcissistic pride. Unusual, that's what you said, but to him, it was like being called extraordinary.

"Next time you draw me, try using a sketchbook," he said sternly, pretending to reject your work, but deep down, he just didn't want to show that he really liked it. That statement was his way of encouraging you to continue, but at the same time, it was so ironic, considering he got mad at you just when you were drawing him in the sketchtebook that day.

"But you asked me to get rid of mine," you said simply, your voice dwindling with each word of the sentence, not wanting him to find out that you had never thrown it away.

"I'll get you a new one," he said dismissively, taking the entire stack of post-it notes with him, including the drawing, as if you wouldn't notice.

[choerypetal]

Meet and Greet / Homelander

summary: Homelander had never experienced an obsession before, nor was he even familiar with the term until he met you at the meet and greet, where you were dressed in a recognizable blue costume.

*Pt-2!! read after this one— *

ps; english isn't my first language so i apologize for any grammar errors, xo"

Everyone knew that Homelander wouldn't hesitate to admit his obsession with you. His drive to be the best was deeply ingrained in his mind, and during a meeting with the Seven, your image lingered in his thoughts. Fortunately, he managed to hide these distractions before Ashley could express her concerns about the upcoming show—a significant one, especially since Homelander knew you would be attending with your family. He always knows. 

And he was right. Your parents, being big fans of the Seven, never wanted to miss a single annual show. This meant you had to tag along. "Come on, you have to wear it! Make Homelander proud," your mother insisted, holding up a superhero costume made in your exact size. Make Homelander proud. You sighed, wanting to object, but your attempt to call your mother's name was drowned out by the loud music in the store and an overly enthusiastic clerk who repeatedly asked if you were satisfied with your find. She was also wearing a costume, though not Homelander's, which made you suspect there would be more than just Homelander present that day.  

Fortunately, you weren't the only one wearing the costume you had put on for your mother, making it easier to blend into the crowd. However, this also made it easier for Homelander to spot you as soon as he stepped on stage. With Ashley having access to the ticket records, finding your last name had been a simple task. His eyes remained fixed on the screen the moment your name appeared, and he mouthed your entire name just as Ashley's voice startled him, reminding him it was time to go on stage. 

“Welcome! How lovely you all are!” he announced in his typical rehearsed tone. He was growing increasingly annoyed; the whole theatrical aspect bored him. Why couldn't the Deep handle it today? Or even someone new, while he sat in the back, scrutinizing every silhouette to find yours. It wasn’t difficult either, given that your parents had ensured you got the best seats. His lips curled into a sly smirk. Bingo, he thought. It still surprised him that, even without knowing your face, the name matched his expectations perfectly. He had to know. He was the Homelander after all. He knew everything. 

Luckily he managed to let out of his usual monologue, with the new recruits being presented today, it let him more time in his hands. And that also meant, seeking out for you when he had the chance. 

The show concluded as expected, with your mother delighted to see her favorite hero on stage and your dad eager to meet Starlight again. During the ongoing meet-and-greet, Homelander couldn’t help but observe your every move. Despite your apparent boredom, the fact that you were wearing a costume identical to his caught his attention. He couldn't deny that you looked incredibly sexy, and he fantasized about having his hands around your waist, hearing your moans, and you begging for more. 

“Sir,” Ashley’s voice broke through his thoughts, catching him off guard and irritating him since it meant he couldn't keep watching you. After all, as Homelander, he was doing the city justice by ensuring your safety. Right? “It’s time for your meet-and-greet,” she reminded him. With a knowing nod, he indicated he would be right there. Little did you know, you were one of the few fans waiting in line to meet him. 

He wasn't entirely wrong. Once again, your mother had requested you to take a picture with him. You always wondered why she couldn't do it herself, citing being 'just shy,' but deep down you knew the real reason was that she wanted to see her own daughter with the man she fantasized about. Unlike her, you weren't a fan of superheroes and their inflated egos. Yet, here you were, waiting in line between a family and two fangirling girls. 

“Thank you, and have a wonderful day. God Bless you!” he said, flashing a wide grin as he ruffled the boy’s hair after taking pictures. In just a few minutes, you would be up next, and you were acutely aware of it. He, too, was counting the people in line, noting your silhouette emerging behind a tall man. The way the outfit hugged your curves and the cape flowed on your back caught his eye. Oh how he wanted to fuck you right there. He wanted to have you all wrapped around his finger. And he knew exactly how to get you, if only Ashley was there. 

As you neared the photo booth, you reluctantly acknowledged that despite your aversion to heroes, Homelander possessed an undeniable allure. Whether it was his striking blue eyes or his impeccably groomed hair, you couldn't quite determine. “Next,” the disinterested employee called out, mirroring the lack of enthusiasm you had felt upon arriving at the show. Barely glancing at you, they scratched the bottom of your ticket and directed you toward Homelander. It was then that you made eye contact with him for the first time, and he couldn't look away.

"Hello, dear," he greeted you formally, like everyone else, but his tone made him stand out. His fingers gently rested on your waist, pulling you close until there was no space between you. "Say cheese!" the photographer prompted, but Homelander, true to form, knew more than just posing for a picture. "Nah, let me get my best side, will you?" he interjected, subtly extending your time together. The photographer hesitated, eyeing the remaining fans in line, but Homelander paid no attention. With a soft scoff, he leaned closer and murmured in your ear, his voice almost a whisper of a threat, yet his lips curved into a smile when he glanced down at you. "Loving the costume," he added with a quick smile for the camera. His charisma left you breathless, and he noticed you weren't ready for the picture.

His comment caught you off guard, and the way he leaned closer only added to your unease. Sensing your muscles tense at his touch, he directed the photographer to take another shot. The photographer, aware of the waiting line, was hesitant, but Homelander insisted. "We don’t want this beautiful lady to go home with a bad photo now, do we?" That damn bastard, the photographer likely thought, as you glanced at him hesitantly. He glanced at the line, sighed deeply, and the resignation in his eyes mirrored your own thoughts.

Homelander, on the other hand, relished the opportunity to keep you wrapped around his finger for as long as he desired. If he had the courage, or if your parents weren’t around, he might have invited you to join the Seven. But he knew better than anyone that he had to make a good impression. "Say cheese," the photographer repeated, his voice now tinged with boredom. You noticed the tension in Homelander’s jaw as he clenched it. He glanced at you, a smile playing on his lips, before glaring at the photographer, which was enough to make the poor man gulp silently and mirror the same grin.

And that's where his obsession took hold completely. The scent of your perfume, the way your hair was immaculately styled into a neat ponytail, and your lightly applied blush with rosy plum lips—all were irresistible to him. He couldn't deny that your lips were the most enticing he'd ever seen. His fingers now traced the leather of your Homelander costume, appreciating how it hugged your curves perfectly. Oh, how he...

“Done!” The photographer's almost relieved voice snapped John back to reality. Despite maintaining his composure during the photo session, his thoughts had wandered to fantasies of you. He imagined you beneath him, taking his cock so well, one hand firmly massaging your breast, his lips eagerly seeking the fresh milk oozing from your nipples. And you... so vulnerable, so petite around him, begging for more...

From that day on, Homelander never missed an opportunity to see your face again. It seemed almost too good to be true when he later had the chance to meet your mother and requested that you accompany her more often to their annual shows. He promised to show his appreciation, hinting that he would return the favor very soon.