disneywood-complex

[tac-the-unseen]

Had this idea after watching a tik tok.

[people-are-strange-87]

[livfordoodles]

Doodles while watching my favorite film <3

[zepskies]

Lost on You - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Supe!Reader

Summary: 1983 is a big year for you. You’re finally chosen to join the ranks of Payback, led by the most (in)famous supe in the world: Soldier Boy. He’ll never admit that he’s trying his damndest to figure you out. You’ll never admit that he’s actually growing on you. But the problem with this game is deciding who’s the predator, and who is prey.

AN: Welcome to Part 1! You guys have really warmed by heart with all the anticipation for this series, so thank you so much. I think it's going to be a fun ride. 😉

Song Inspo: “Magic” by Olivia Newton-John. And check out the full “Lost on You Playlist” here. There’s going to be lots of ‘80s music in this series!

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: SB being an entitled asshole (strap in for a lot of that), misogyny, bullying, and a “meet cute” of sorts…

🎙️ Series Masterlist || YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 1: Siren Song

April 3, 1983

“Why the fuck wasn’t I consulted about this?” Soldier Boy groused.

Arthur Cohen, otherwise known as “The Legend,” released a heavy puff of his cigar within the relative privacy of his office. Vought afforded him a great deal of luxuries, at the cost of days like this.

So, he’d offered the supe one of his most coveted Cubans to pacify him. Because true to form, he was edging closer to a temper tantrum by the minute.

“This decision came from on high, my friend,” Arthur said, with a smile that hid his inner anxiousness. He tapped some ash off his cigar with a finger adorned by a gaudy gold ring. “Stan Edgar, Stillwell, even the entire board of directors signed off on this one.”

“I don’t give a fuck who bought into this PR bullshit,” Soldier Boy postured, crossing his arms across his dark green supe suit as he leaned into the plush seat adjacent to Arthur’s desk. He raised a solid boot on the edge of the newly polished mahogany, and then another, crossing them at the ankles. His cigar was balanced between his teeth in the corner of his mouth.

“The last thing we need,” he said, pausing to inhale. Then he took the cigar from his lips to blow out smoke in hot annoyance. “Is another broad on the team.”

Arthur inclined his head. “I understand your concerns.”

“Do you?” Soldier Boy snorted. “Countess is bitch enough to deal with, believe you me.”

Arthur sympathized. He knew Crimson Countess’s attitude well, but he supposed Soldier Boy had license to say so more than anyone else, considering she was his girlfriend.  

“Look, I could give you the numbers: expected profit margins, demographics, etcetera, but you don’t get paid to hear that from me,” Arthur said, with a magnanimous hand gesture and a fair bit of old Jewish charm. “I’m askin’ you to trust me. This girl’s good, okay? Not just a wig and a pair a’ tits. Nah, she’s got talent. Got a set of pipes on her too, my God.”

Soldier Boy gave him a sly look. 

“Not like that,” Arthur said. He shook his head in amusement, but not with the face of a man who hadn’t already thought about the girl’s pretty mouth. He stroked his chin.

“She’s…interesting. Well, you’ll see. If she brings up the ratings the way we hope, we’ll be able to relocate Swatto. Hopefully to Siberia. He’s a fucking PR nightmare waiting to happen.”

“All right, the guy’s a moron, but he’s fucking hilarious,” Soldier Boy said, smirking. “Like one of the three Stooges.”

Yeah. Arthur wondered if that homeless man Swatto almost split open in Central Park after a sneeze thought he was funny. 

“And her powers. Really?” Soldier Boy went on. His brows drew together then, as he frowned. “Sounds like she blew something up someone’s ass to get this far, and it ain’t smoke.”

“Trust me, that’s the real deal too,” Arthur assured.

But he could see that Soldier Boy wasn’t convinced. The supe rolled his eyes and released another puff.

“Anyway. I’m fucking bored. What’s the next project?” he said. Arthur took an unfiltered breath and peeked at the files strewn across his desk.

“Well, Red Thunder is coming out this fall. We’re pretty sure it’s gonna be the blockbuster of the year,” he replied. “After that, we’ll see about writing a sequel.”

If it makes back the millions we spent in production going over budget, thanks to this asshole’s weekly benders, he mentally added.

“I don’t care about a bullshit sequel,” Soldier Boy said dismissively. “I want to do something new.”

“Something new,” Arthur intoned.

The supe raised a brow. Again, the cigar was balanced between his teeth.

“Yeah.”

He really must be bored, Arthur thought, if he actually wants to work.

“All right, let me brainstorm on that for ya,” Arthur said. “Matter of fact, tell you what. Give me ‘til the end of the week. In the meantime, we’ve got the security team monitoring the police scanner for potential saves.”

The supe didn’t look impressed. His brows furrowed, as if he was irritated that he didn’t get an immediate answer, but his slight nod signaled his agreement before he finally got up from his chair. His boots dragged off Arthur’s desk, knocking over a framed picture of his kids with it, and thudded heavily on the ground. He left the office thereafter.

Arthur heaved a breath of exasperation. He didn’t get paid enough for this shit. 

Fucking supes.

But he didn’t dare utter that thought out loud.

It was days before Ben finally crossed paths with the new girl. Not that he’d been giving the idea much thought.

After that day in Arthur’s office, Ben became engrossed in his own devices—namely one of the assistants, Joanna, his stylist, Angela, and Rachel, his maid, after Donna blew him off for dinner for the third night in a row. This time for some tree-hugging conservationist gala of some kind. 

Frigid bitch, he thought, shaking his head. 

On his way to the gym, he passed the T&T Twins gossiping. Just the sight of them irritated him. Tommy was a kiss-ass, and Tessa shared a brain cell with her brother, so she wasn’t saying much for her gender either. 

“Would you pick your tongue off the floor already! You’re so disgusting,” Tessa said, shoving her brother.

“What? She’s fucking hot,” Tommy snapped in defense. When they finally saw Ben coming, Tessa piped down with her attempt at a “demure” greeting.

Tommy came in hot with a too bright voice and a, “Hey, boss!”

Ben gave them a stoic nod, fully intending to blow past them.

“Have you met the new girl yet?” Tommy asked, with an unmistakable pop of his brows and indecent smile.

Ben nearly rolled his eyes. “No.”

And don’t fucking care, his tone conveyed. He continued on his way to the gym. Behind him, the twins gave each other a look, and a shrug.

When he got to the gym, Journey was playing overhead. Ben frowned as he saw Black Noir working out by himself. The young man wasn’t wearing his suit. Instead, he was bare-chested and running on a treadmill with a nearly 90-degree incline, sweat glistening on his skin. 

Fucking show off, Ben thought. 

Then there was Gunpowder, his young sidekick, practicing his archery. Ben went to him and slapped a hand on his back in greeting, none too gently. The teen stumbled, his arrow landing into the wall instead of the target. 

“Spot me at the bench, ey kid,” said Ben. “And grab me a towel while you’re at it.”

“Uh, sure,” Gunpowder replied, ducking his head as he went. Ben got settled at his usual bench press machine, sliding his back down the thin leather cushion. He waited for the kid to add on his fifty-pound weights on either side, until it reached two hundred pounds. That was just the warm-up. 

“You met the new girl yet?” Ben asked, after he began lifting his first rep. Gunpowder stood behind his head.  

“No, sir,” he said. “Haven’t seen her yet.”

“I haven’t either,” said Noir. He’d come over on his way to the showers, regaining his breath all the while. Ben gave him a sharp side-eye.

“Did I fucking ask you?” he said. 

Noir paused. He hid his frown behind a stoic front, since he didn’t have his mask to do it for him. He toweled off his face and chest as he left the gym. 

Ben shook his head, but he never broke stride on the bench press. 

You seemed to be mysterious. 

Barely anyone had seen you, and you hadn’t gone out of your way to ingratiate yourself with every member of the team, like Ben would’ve expected. Donna had set him in her sights on her very first day.

With fake demure in her hazel eyes, a flick of her long red hair over her shoulder, and a sultry smile, she’d let him take her hand and bring it up to his lips for a gentlemanly kiss. 

That same night, she’d accepted his invitation up to his suite and let him do some very ungentlemanly things. Ben smirked at the memory as he made his way down Vought Tower’s infinite hallways. She sure knew her way around some kinky shit.  

And she still did, the little minx. She’d just been putting the freeze on his balls lately, for whatever her reasons were this time. He didn’t pretend to care or keep track at this point. 

If people only knew what a royal pain Crimson Countess was.

Ben was only taken out of his thoughts when he heard someone singing in the breakroom, gently, but beautifully. He couldn’t make out the words though. He stopped and leaned inside the doorway, just to see who it was. It was early enough in the morning that he was surprised anyone but him was awake.

You were standing there at the counter, making some coffee from the percolator. Soft and dulcet notes fell from your lips in some kind of lullaby. Quirking a brow, the oddness of it managed to draw Ben’s steps into the kitchen. You were wearing a leather supe suit that molded to your every curve, not unlike Donna’s, except yours was black with violet trim lines.

You eventually noticed him with a smile.

“Good morning, sir.”

Ben gave you a charming grin, blatantly eying you from breast to toe before he noted that the coffee had finished percolating. 

"Hey there, sweetheart,” he said. “Pour me a cup, would ya?" 

You did so, and he admired the graceful movements of your hands, and the sweet sound of your voice as you continue to hum to yourself. 

"You're a little crooner, aren't you?" he asked, taking the plain white coffee mug from you. 

When your hand brushed his, he felt it.

Your power.

It threatened to overtake him, drawing you into him like the crash and current of a tidal wave, where he couldn’t help but be pulled undertow. There in that darkness, he craved your warmth as well as your body. The thought, the need gripped him at his core… 

He wanted you to devour him, body and soul.

And he finally registered that your eyes were glowing violet, along with your knowing smile. 

Then you blinked. The violet haze was gone, along with your hold on his mind. 

You went back to sipping your coffee as if nothing had just happened. Ben faltered, mentally and physically as he was forced to grip the counter. He even had to catch his breath as his mind reeled from the loss of connection. 

He covered his unbalance with a steely, angry frown. What the fuck just fucking happened?

He looked at you harder than before, drawing himself to his full height and towering over you. Still, you didn’t seem all that intimidated.

“What the hell did you just do?” he growled.

Your knowing, easy smile remained. 

“Nothing,” you replied. “Just a little smoke.”

Ben’s eyes widened.

“Sounds like she blew something up someone’s ass to get this far, and it ain’t smoke.”

How the hell had you heard about that?

He quirked a brow, but you just sipped your coffee with a gentle slurp. Your gaze moved away from him as you went to the fridge to take out a carton of eggs.

“Want some breakfast? I’m thinking of making some eggs, sunny side up,” you said.

Ben’s hand clenched at his side, but then, he forced himself to relax. Or at least, to look relaxed. You had some fucking audacity to try toying with him…but he had to admit, you were something new.

Interesting.

“What’s your name?” he asked, in a tone that demanded.

“Sirena,” you answered. Your superhero name, which he’d already known when Stan Edgar told him about you a week ago.

Ben’s frown deepened, but he reminded himself to retain some charm. He took your chin between his fingers. His grip was light, but his green eyes were intense, and focused on you. 

“No. Your real name, sweetheart,” he said, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

You blinked, but you obliged him with your name, and a smile that edged at flirtation.

“What’s yours?” you returned.

He had to smirk. He knew you knew full well who he was.

“Call me Ben,” he said.

Three Days Ago…

You tried not to be completely overwhelmed by the sight of this huge tower as you pulled your suitcase behind you. Vought-American was an institution of superhero production, and Payback was the face of it all. The absolute pinnacle.

I still can’t believe they chose me, you thought, but you tried not to let that show. You needed to make it seem like you knew what you were doing. You belonged here, and you were seizing this chance.

Madelyn Stillwell, the head of Superhero Public Relations, personally greeted you at the gate and showed you up to your room. However, you’d barely gotten a chance to step inside and look around before her pager went off. She wore a certain smile when she saw the number on the screen. She tossed a strand of strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and glanced up at you.

“Sorry, sweetie. I have an appointment to get to, but the directory is there on your desk if you need anything. Feel free to get comfortable,” she said, gesturing at you with her pager in hand. “I’ll be back in an hour or so to give you a tour of the building.”

“Okay, thank you so—”

The door closed behind her before you could even finish your sentence. That deflated you a little, but you tried not to let that small exchange bring you down. Your apartment was huge. Or at least, it was much bigger than the shoebox you left in the Village, let alone the Brooklyn brownstone you grew up in, sharing with two other families on each floor.

You hefted your suitcase onto the bed and began to unpack your clothes, makeup, and toiletries. 

You also took out the only framed picture you had—one that housed your parents and your older brother Chris. You were both grown already, but in this picture, you were barely twelve years old. That little girl didn’t know that her entire world was about to change, when her powers manifested for the first time. 

That thought did succeed in dimming your mood for a moment, but you sighed and set the frame down on your new dresser. You’d have to remember to call Chris. His son was turning four years old in a few weeks. 

Though your attention shifted to a black shape in the corner of your eye. It was a garment bag hanging on the closet door. You went over and unzipped it, revealing your new super suit. It was all black leather and violet accent lines down the sides, along the collar, and down between the breasts in a V-shape. It was strategic to accentuate curves and bust. 

You whistled lowly. It was beautiful, but Jesus did it look tight. 

“Wow,” you remarked, trying out the zipper up and down. “They really like their leather, huh?”

Still, you itched to try it on. After a few minutes of struggling and wiggling, you managed to get into the suit. They’d taken exact measurements, so it did look good. You felt like a new person…a superhero.

You smiled at yourself in the bathroom mirror. But then, you forced the smile off your face and shook your head, schooling your expression into something less doe-eyed and pathetic. More in control.

There you are, Sirena, you thought. You had long ago trained yourself with that enigmatic look. You knew how it felt on your face. The easiest way for you to get what you wanted in this world, the way you’d gotten this far, was with this exact face.

Only show them what you want them to see.   

Almost two hours later, you’d finished unpacking your belongings and explored every corner of your new beautiful apartment, but still, Miss Stillwell wasn’t back yet.

You checked your watch and hummed to yourself. Your curiosity getting the best of you, you decided to leave your apartment and explore the tower by yourself. You took off the suit as well, so you could make your way around more anonymously. You were sure no one really knew who you were yet. 

Your theory was proven true when you walked through the halls, passing Vought employees without even a blink in your direction. That was okay though. Soon enough, all these people would know your face, as well as your name. 

You reached one of the top floors, where you thought you remembered The Legend’s office was supposed to be (according to the directory). Maybe you could meet him and get a jump start on your schedule.

You stopped short, however, when an office door slid open. Out came a slightly disheveled Miss Stillwell. Her blouse was hastily tucked into her gray pencil skirt, and strands of her blonde hair were a bit frizzy as they brushed her shoulders, as if she’d combed them down with her fingers. You plastered yourself to a wall around the corner, only peeking around after she passed by.

Your brows popped up incredulously when you read the name plate beside the door she just came out of.

Stan Edgar…holy shit. His signature was on my contract!

Along with Arthur Cohen, or The Legend, as Stillwell had told you when she welcomed you in. He was the Senior Vice President of Hero Management, so who the hell was Stan?

Well, whoever he was, he was giving it to the head of PR.

Okay then. You shook your head and continued on your way. At the end of the hall, you finally found the right office. You were about to open the door, when you heard male voices coming from inside—one older and dry, and the other deep and strong.

You reached out with your awareness and allowed your powers to engage, likely making your eyes glow with a violet hue.

Sure enough, you sensed two men in the room. And as the voices raised, you recognized one of them. It was unmistakable; you’d been taking the time to binge all of his movies for the past month, ever since you auditioned to get into Payback.

Soldier Boy. 

A smile spread across your face. For a moment, you were incredibly excited…until you actually heard what he was saying.

“The last thing we need is another broad on the team.”

Your mouth fell open in shock as your brows drew together. You carefully pressed yourself to the door and kept listening.

“And her powers. Really?” he said. “Sounds like she blew something up someone’s ass to get this far, and it ain’t smoke.”

“Trust me, that’s the real deal too,” Arthur assured.

You glared at the door furiously, as if you could burn lasers out of your eyes. You crossed your arms, but you breathed evenly as you strived to keep your emotions contained. 

Control, you reminded yourself. With another deep breath, you managed to let go of your ire, but the more you listened to the conversation, the more impossible that became. You turned away from the door and made clipped strides down the hall.

You knew you had to tread carefully here. You’d heard some of the real stories about Payback, because you’d taken the time to listen. You weren’t about to enter Vought Tower without having some idea of what you were getting into, and you knew you’d have to prove yourself as the rookie on the team. You just hadn’t expected their leader to be such a chauvinistic asshole. 

Though inwardly, you snorted. Well, the guy is from the ‘40s. Best generation, indeed.

You rolled your shoulders and shook it away, like water off your proverbial feathers. Your mouth set in a firm line as you held your head high.

The game begins, you thought.

For the next few days, you watched. You studied each member of your new “team” as you encountered them, and you quickly realized that this team wasn’t much of one. 

They looked out for themselves, and bickered amongst themselves, in the case of the TNT Twins. Crimson Countess had given you a lovely, polite face that still somehow mocked you when she walked away, along with the bounce of her red hair. 

Your powers didn’t allow you to sense or read women, but you recognized a diva when you saw one.

Clearly, she was used to being the woman on top, especially as Soldier Boy’s girlfriend. You wanted to roll your eyes at the thought. From what you’d heard (and the masculine cologne you smelled on Arthur’s assistant Joanna yesterday), Soldier Boy got around. His relationship with Countess was either very open, or it was well-crafted PR.

You had another growing, unsettling thought. The more information you gathered just by observing the team, the more you had a hard time believing that you were ever going to fit in around here. 

It was only your third day in the Tower though, you reminded yourself, as you got dressed for the day in your suit. That kind of negativity wouldn’t serve you here. 

So you left your apartment in search of coffee and breakfast at the breakroom and lounge area, exclusive to the team. You supposed these guys were either late sleepers, or they got their food brought to them. You were relieved to find the room empty, and you let out a deep breath.

Remember why you’re here, you thought. It’s not about you. 

It had never been about you. 

You rummaged through the cupboards in search of the one thing that would perk you up—good coffee. You found it near the top shelf and began to prep the coffee maker. You hummed to yourself while your hands moved on autopilot. The tune strengthened, deepening and then sweetening on higher trills. 

Suddenly, your spine prickled. Your mind buzzed faintly with awareness as you sensed a presence.

It was familiar and overwhelmingly male, with heavy, confident steps coming down the hall. You tilted your head and frowned. 

Soldier Boy, that asshole. 

But then, your lips curved upwards. This could be fun. 

When Soldier Boy walked into the breakroom, he noticed you. You pretended not to realize he was there, but you felt the heat of his gaze roaming over your body. You wanted to sigh. Predictable.

Right then, you made a quiet, firm decision. Today, this man was going to learn your name. And he wasn’t going to forget it. 

You turned to him with a smile when he approached—the most pleasant one you could manage.

“Good morning, sir.”

AN: Game, set, match. 😘💚 As many of you know, this story is expanding on this Soldier Boy imagine, which I wrote almost a year ago now. In the back of my mind though, I always thought this idea could be more someday.

So please let me know what you thought of Part 1! I'm so excited for you guys to see what's coming up next...

Next Time:

“Countess, I’m not trying to replace you. I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

“Except my boyfriend,” she shot back. Finally she turned her head towards you with cool disdain. “You think I didn’t see you flirting with him last night at the afterparty?”   

You rolled your eyes, though you hid a sliver of embarrassment. You should’ve known she’d spot that.

“He approached me, okay?” you said. Maybe you were about to let your pettiness to get the best of you, but you couldn’t help it. You smiled slyly. “And from what I hear, I’m the least of your worries. Looks like Ben has quite the appetite.”

The cracks of Countess’s cool façade finally broke through to anger.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 12 - While My Blood's Still Flowing

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Oh geez, my loves, we're really in it now. Chapter Title from Help I'm Alive By Metric.

Word Count: 18.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Ben has a plan. Usual warnings.

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 11 - Chapter 13

He hadn’t let you go. In the van, when he’d been snapping at your team in low words your brain didn’t have the energy to fully process, Ben had kept you tucked into his chest. When you’d returned to the safe house he’d picked you up in a smooth and effortless movement and carried you across the threshold, up the stairs, and into your room. You waited, in a world of dread, for the fury to hit him. For Ben to pull back, dropping you on the stairs or couch or floor of the bedroom and demand answers. Tell he wasn’t forgiving you this time. But all he seemed to feel—pushing through you where your arms were wrapped around his neck—was stoned resolve and something that was itching against his ribs and running into his fingers. And he didn’t drop you, and he didn’t leave. Ben lowered you both onto the edge of the mattress and let you cling to the firm warmth of his body until you were able to pull your head back and meet his eyes. 

“It’s late,” Ben spoke first, voice gravelly and low. “You need sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” you whisper. It was the truth, every part of your body was wired and alert. You kept your eyes locked to Ben’s because if you looked away you’d start searching for Homelander in shadows and corners. You kept your hand gripped to his shirt because if you let go, they’d start to smoke and turn over every surface to make sure it was only you and Ben in the house.

Ben only grunts, still watching you. It’s silent for another moment, only your breaths filling the space in an even time with each other. He’s just watching you, barely even blinking, and you can only feel him. Safe and strong and right there. Still right there. He’s not gone yet, yet, and there’s still no hot fury. No questions. There wasn’t apathy either, and you’re grateful because that might have destroyed you. The idea that he just didn’t care enough to fight anymore and was just going to let it go until you wouldn’t break down, then he’d leave forever. There was only the resolve and itch and a third thing. So deep down, you couldn’t feel it in passing. Constricting against him, pushing into his jaw and making everything almost fuzzy.

It might be betrayal, that third thing. The final straw, the last lie, breaking whatever this strange thing you’d managed to build together was. You might never have to say all those explanations you’d been putting together in your head, about why you’d hidden the sensory manipulation when you’d had every opportunity to tell him. About how you couldn’t control what happened, and had been so terrified that Homelander would use that against you. About how you didn’t want to talk about the performance because Ben would either touch you and not mean it or just not touch you at all, and you didn’t know which was worse. This wasn’t much better, though. Sitting against him in the dark, him being the only thing keeping you from imploding, and having to wait for it to be over forever.

He wouldn’t look away from you. You wished he would. You never wanted him to leave, you needed to stay right here—in this moment where he didn’t hate you—forever, but the longer he looked at you, the larger the dread grew. Because when time passed, as it always cruelly did, and the anger found its way from him into you, it would be worse if he just kept looking at you. You were searching his eyes for a hint, a sign of an oncoming storm, but all you saw was a look you didn’t understand. You knew all of his looks, and that introduced a new thread of fear into you. You dropped your head forward, back into his chest, trying to hide the tears falling from all of it—the night and the performance and Homelander and your team and the knowledge that Ben was going to hate you so soon—and trying hopelessly to pull Ben closer. Keep him tangible against you, maybe make him a part of you before it was over.

But he still didn’t leave.

Your hands start to fidget with the collar of his shirt. It was white earlier in the afternoon—crisp and pressed when Frenchie had brought it from the van—but you could see stains of blood and filth spread across the fabric, small tears in the seams, and charred holes where you’d been pressed against him as you burned. That breaks you more.

“I’m sor-“

“Shut the fuck up,” Ben cuts off your mumbled apology, following your gaze down to one of the scorch marks. “Stop apologizing.”

“But your shirt,” you look back up at him, hand flattening against his chest. “And the mission, and my powers, and Homelander, and you had to carry me-“

You choke on your own words as one of Ben’s hands moves from your hips to your cheeks, cupping it gently and keeping your eyes on his. “Stop.” 

“But-“

He says your name, grip tightening slightly as his thumb brushes a tear from your eyes. “Fucking stop. I don’t want your apologies, so fucking stop.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and it’s painful. You don’t look away, because he doesn’t want you, and once you do that becomes real.

Ben’s eyes narrow, scanning your face closely, and you can feel the itch turn into almost a burn. His mouth opens—just slightly—and closes a few times, and your body begins to brace against your will. This is it, and you’ll find a way to be fine with that. You’ve survived a lot worse, and this will not break you. This will not break you. You’ll figure out what to do with yourself, alone once more, when this is all over. When you’re immortal, incapable of being around the world, and Ben is millions of miles away with no one to blame for that but yourself, you will be fine because you have to be. You’re a lot fucking stronger than being broken by something like this-

“I’m not mad at you, Sunshine.”

You blink, Ben’s words almost jolting through you. You can feel them, coming deep from his chest, and everything is suddenly very big and blurry.

“What?”

“You think I’m mad at you.” He says it flatly, still holding your face so lightly. “You’re doing the thing with your face. Your heart beats faster every time I talk. I’m not mad at you, so calm the fuck down.”

“Why?” You don’t believe him. You want to believe him, but you’d be mad at you. You’d hate you, and so you don’t believe him. “You should be, I hid something from you again, and I blew our cover, and my powers-“ The words die in your throat, because you don’t want to talk about that. You’re not ready to have that conversation, where the whole world will end because he’ll say the thing you know. The thing you don’t even want to think.

“I know.” Ben’s voice doesn’t waver as he speaks, even though he frowns. “But I’m not.”

“Why?” You’re repeating yourself, trapped in a loop. You won’t leave it until you understand, until the dread is gone. You need it to be concrete, that he’s staying, and you’ll be stuck right here until he either leaves or makes you understand. “Why? Ben, why-“

“Because.” He swallows heavily, and you watch the bob of his throat, waiting for him to continue. “I’m just not.”

“Please, just tell me why-“

“I fucking can’t.” He snaps your names. “But stop being so goddamn afraid that I am. I’m not, so just please fucking stop.”

“But you will be-“

“No, I won’t.” His voice raises, but you don’t flinch. Your hand flies to where his own rests on your face, holding it there so he won’t pull away. Ben tenses at the movement, but only takes a heavy breath. “I won’t be mad. I’m not now, I won’t be later, and that’s fucking it. Stop being afraid of me.”

You feel the odd, implacable feeling pulse and grow just so slightly stronger. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Ben. I’m just,” you hold his hand tighter as his eyes stay on yours. He doesn’t believe you, you can feel it. See it painted across his face. “I just, I don’t-“

“I know,” he mutters, moving his hand from your face to fold it into yours. “Me neither.” 

You know what you mean. That you aren’t—couldn’t—be afraid of him, because he’s Ben. He’s safe and you, for some godforsaken reason, trust him more than anyone. With every part of you, all you have for him is faith and-

You know what you mean. And though you feel it—that strange thing deep in him that you’re afraid to try and name—you still don’t know what he means. You still need it to be solid, though. Even if you don’t have a clue what it is.

“Promise?”

“Fucking swear it.”

You nod, and words begin to push out of you.

“It’s him.” You say it so quietly, because you’re almost afraid that it’ll be heard, somehow, by anyone but Ben. That all the way in Vought Tower, cruel and twisted ears will pick up your voice and find you. But Ben needs to know. He can’t think that you’re afraid of him, because that might be worse. “I didn’t tell you because of him, not because of you, not because I don’t trust you or I’m afraid of you or am trying to lie-“

He says your name, but you barrel forward.

“Please, please believe me. I trust you, I do, I promise, and I’m all out of lies. That was it, and nobody knew. Not him, not Butcher, not Annie or Hughie or Kimiko or Mallory-“

Ben’s hand in yours tugs you forward, and you fall right into his chest. You feel your eyes start to sting, tears falling into your mouth, clinging to your tongue as your words turn muffled and choked.

“I couldn’t tell anybody, I can’t control it, he would’ve used it, hurt me, hurt people I love, I couldn’t, nobody could know, please-“

“Breathe,” is all Ben says, and his voice moves from his chest into yours. He starts to rub small circles against where he’s holding you, and your words fall into strangled sobs. “You’re okay. You’re here, and I’m not mad. You trust me?” You make another weak sound of affirmation, and he hums. “Then fucking believe me when I say I’m not mad, and I won’t be." 

You nod into him, the heat of his body spreading through you. Your heart and brain slow as Ben just holds you. Still not moving, just waiting, still tracing soft, firm patterns against your skin until your breathing slows. You pull back, reaching up to wipe the lingering tears away from your eyes, but he catches your face before you can. Cupping your jaw with one hand, the other leaves your waist, crossing your cheeks with warm, calloused fingers.

He’s lingering. There are no tears left, no new ones falling, but Ben’s still holding your face. Watching you. Not moving—not leaving—as your breaths fall back in time. One hand has tangled in your hair, and his thumb has moved to your chin. Brushing slightly against your lips, and your mouth falls open against your will.

You look at him. Really, fully look at him for the first time since the mission. You’d been right to want to see him in a suit. Even with his tie loosened and cock-eyed, with the dried blood and dirt marking his shirt and his jacket hanging by threads, he’s everything. Safe and warm and firm and Ben. His own mouth is in a slight pout, his eyes are so pretty, and he smells almost impossibly good. It’s surrounding you, wrapping around you with the strength of his arms. Every time he breathes you can feel the muscles move under his shirt, and there’s a strand of hair falling across his eyes. He’s not letting go of you to move it, leaving it loose and taunting you. Right now, between the feel of him everywhere and the way that he’s everything, you’re not strong enough to fight yourself from brushing it away. You reach up through Ben’s arms, moving it back into place slowly, carefully, in case he wants to stop you. He doesn’t, only glancing at your hand before looking back at you, unblinking and silent. Your hand drops to his arm, and even though it tenses under your hold, he doesn’t shrug it away. He just watches you. And stays.

The feeling you couldn’t understand is gone—flickered out completely—and the burn in his chest doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s bigger, stronger, consuming and so powerful it’s carving into you. It’s hungry, so hungry you’re shocked it’s not painful, but it isn't at all. It’s in your blood and through your spine and sitting heavy in your gut and it feels good.

It’s the lust, but stronger. It’s more than the club, where it felt like it could be cured. This is insatiable, and infinite, and nothing in Ben seems to be frustrated by it. All you feel is the hunger and it’s making everything inside you hot and aching. It’s amplifying your own need for him, for Ben to stay here with you forever and drown you in everything and want you. Really, really want you.

And it’s so easy to pretend he does. When his eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second. When his arms don’t leave their place around you and his hands are so gentle against your face. Not touching you like you’re delicate or breakable, but as if you’re something more than just you. Something important and holy and irreplaceable. Something like him.

It’s such a perfect world to exist in, where that’s just the truth, and not an easy and comfortable illusion. If Ben were to move—to finally close the space between you and touch you—there’s not a universe where you’re strong enough to stop him. You want him, you need him, and when he’s making it so easy to stay here forever you can’t prevent yourself from giving everything to him. Even if he doesn’t need you, even if it’s fleeting and might leave you shattered later.

For one of the first times in your life, your mind is almost blank. It’s just the same harmony of Ben, Ben, Ben and everything else is only need. Electric and burning need. The world is only you in Ben’s lap, and Ben’s hands on your face, and the breaths you seem to be trading. It’s only his eyes, watching you like he’s trying to dissect you. It’s different this time, not like the beginning. He’s trying to find something specific, and you can’t say what it is. What he’s looking for. 

You do know you’d give it to him. Whatever he’s looking for, you’d find a way to give it to him. Right now, if he asked for the moon, you’d pull it from the sky. If he asked for your heart, you’d tear it out of your chest. That should terrify you, how that idea seems so easy and natural. How it’s the truth, and there’s no way around it. But it doesn’t. Because it’s Ben. And he’s not mad, and he’s still here, and he’s everything, and if your heart in his hands is the thing that would make him keep holding you like this forever then so be it. You’d grow a new one anyways, and he could have that one too, and the next one, and the one after that.

“What did you mean?” When Ben finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “When you said you wouldn’t need saving?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question when you can still feel his hunger. “What?”

“After my meeting. After our fight. The next morning, you said if I wasn’t immortal, you wouldn’t need saving.”

“Oh,” you’d forgotten about that entirely. You remembered seeing Ben sleep peacefully for the first time, feeling him content and secure above you. You remember having to wake him up, because you’d been able to feel your bladder, but still felt real guilty about it. You remember trying to push him out the door unsuccessfully, and him throwing you onto the bed and storming out, and having to force yourself not to chase after him. You remember how sturdy his body had felt against yours and how stupidly handsome he’d somehow looked in the early morning, but everything else was just a blur of how it had made you thirsty. You’re shocked Ben remembered, because you’d dismissed your own comment after you’d decided it wasn’t worth explaining.

But Ben was frowning, and you could feel the severity of his question through where he touched you. This, for some reason, mattered to him. And he was waiting for you to answer, brows knit and gaze urgent. The lust isn’t gone, but the undecipherable feeling has blossomed back in you, in Ben. You can even see it on his face, because it’s tight and grave in the same way.

You chose your words carefully, because this feels much more vital than it reasonably should.

“Do you, do you know what the butterfly effect is?” You ask, and Ben’s frown deepens.

“No.”

At his grumbled words, the strange feeling twitches, and for a second it’s sour. You make yourself keep speaking, because you can’t stop to read into every bit and scrap you get from him. You’ve already driven yourself mad just having to feel them, trying to find a pattern or meaning would lock you in a cycle of confusion and desperation forever.

“It’s this idea in Chaos Theory, that every small action could balloon to cause larger consequences. A butterfly flaps its wings in Asia, and a hurricane occurs in the Caribbean. What about the domino effect, do you know about that?”

“Yeah, one thing happens so all the other things do too, why-“

“You get injected with the V in the 1940s, and something about how it interacts with your DNA makes you develop immortality. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s experimental, a form a V they haven’t used since. But other volunteers combust, and something about you makes it work. You help build Vought for over forty years, now you’re sixty, and you still look twenty. Dr. Jonah Vogalbaum asks you to jerk off into a cup so he can study your un-aging DNA, and you don’t think twice because why would you? You’re immortal, nobody can hurt you, and so you don’t think twice. A little more time passes, and you’re impossible and a liability and nobody likes you.” At the flash of that odd feeling, in perfect synchronization with the look of what might be hurt on his face, you pause to squeeze your hand against his bicep. “They were right to, you’re an asshole,” you offer him a soft smile. “You’re guarded and unbelievably masculine to the point of detriment. But people can change. And I, for some stupid fucking reason, still care about you. And I trust you and I give a shit about you, even though you’re a dick and a cunt.” 

“I know,” Ben grunts, and despite the indifferent annoyance of his tone, you can feel the odd feeling grow into a static hum once more. “Keep talking.”

“Okay,” you take a deep breath. “Vought used that DNA you handed to them to make-“ you swallow, pushing the name out into the air from where it catches in your throat. “Homelander, and he’s strong enough that they feel comfortable replacing you. They cut the a deal with the Russians to get you out of the picture, and Homelander is the new big thing. But he’s so strong nobody will say ‘no’ to him, not if they want to keep their life, and he becomes an entitled, psychotic monster. He just wants a family, but doesn’t care enough or know how to build one like a normal, non-sociopathic person. So he decides to force it, and I’m the person he chooses. That’s not your fault, it’s just what happened, but um-“ You feel guilty, because none of this is really Ben’s fault, not really. He didn’t lock you up, he wouldn’t, and he didn’t force Homelander to do anything. But he asked, and you’re done lying to him. Forever. “When you come back, because the Russians couldn’t kill you, nothing can, Homelander’s angry. You’re immortal and it’s unfair that he’s not. He deserves to be, he should be, but when he asks a bunch of Vought scientists about it, they all say the same thing. Soldier Boy’s V hasn’t been made since he was created, and they destroyed the formula a long time ago. If we tried to duplicate it, we would need to test it before injecting it into you. Test it on a human. And that wouldn’t be legal. Lucky Homelander, lucky scientists, they have a human that nobody gives a shit about just lying around. And they inject her with V and even though the first shot did it, she’s immortal, they still want to make sure it’s stable and that it won’t hurt Homelander. So they do it, again, and again, and again until she explodes because that last shot proved too much. But I didn’t explode. I got out, and made a bunch of insane choices that led to me living here, and led to you saving me, all the time. That’s the domino effect, the butterfly effect. You get injected with V in the 1940s and I explode a warehouse in the 2020s. That’s it.” 

Ben’s silent. You hate it. You need him to say something, anything, because what if that was the final straw. What if he thinks you’re blaming him and hates you for it. You don’t feel hatred or anger—just that strange tension—but you need him to say it. That he still doesn’t hate you, that he’s staying-

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

He might as well have punched you, the way the world stills and the air is knocked from your lungs. He’s apologized before, once, and the words had been strained. This isn’t strained, this sounds like it’s falling out of him. And the feeling is moving around inside of him, twisting his guts with the drums. They’re so loud and sudden and furious. But he doesn’t hate you. He’s sorry.

“Ben-“

“Jesus fucking Christ, how didn’t you kill me the first day we met?”

“I mean, I couldn’t-“

“You should’ve fucking tried harder!” His voice is rising, words rolling into rambles, and he’s still holding you. “I would’ve fucking killed me! I wouldn’t have rested until I was dead! Fuck, I tracked down every pussy headed asshole who turned me over to Russia, and you just fucking lived with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

That makes you frown. “Nothing’s wrong with me-“

“Fucking damn it, that’s not what I meant. I just-“ Ben’s pulling you up slightly, like he’s trying to look for a different angle of you, to find a button he can push to understand something. “Fuck, you- I don’t get it. You’re so-“ He trails off, eyes finding your face once more. He looks angry, but it’s only a lining along that confusing thing.

“I’m what?” You ask softly, and he shakes his head.

“You don’t make fucking sense.” He says your name like a plea. “You should hate me.”

“Probably,” you breathe. “Logically, on paper, yeah. I should. But I don’t. Hate you, or blame you, or want to kill you.”

“Fucking why.”

You smile weakly. “Because. I just don’t.”

It’s amusing, how you can see the exact moment the words click in Ben’s head. You don’t have to feel the indignant disbelief spark in his chest to see the way his frown becomes more annoyed than angry, or hear his huff of exasperation.

“Brat.” He mutters, and your smile becomes just a little easier.

“What’s wrong, Pretty Boy? Is that not a satisfying answer?”

He rolls his eyes, and the drums begin to fade into the background. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“And yet, you manage to put up with me.”

“Yeah,” Ben’s lips tug upwards ever so slightly, and the world feels lighter. “I’m a real hero.”

Your grin is real, toothless but full. “Well, that’s what the Soldier Boy Voughtland show says, so it must be true.”

He snorts, but there’s still something straining inside him. “You really don’t blame me, do you.”

You wish he would stop doing that thing—where he says something that should be a question in a way that makes it sound like fact—because every time he’s right and you can’t stop yourself from proving so. 

“I blame Homelander. I blame Vogelbaum and Vought and Edgar and everyone who made the choice to put me there and not try and get me out. But I don’t blame you.”

“And you don’t hate me?”

You shake your head. “Couldn’t if I tried. And I have.”

A shadow passes over Ben’s face as the odd feeling leaves, and it’s replaced in a violent rush by something that’s forceful and pushing against his ribs and up his throat. 

“Fucking promise?”

“Swear it.” You feel the force become bloody and warm in your body, Ben’s body. “You burn, I burn.”

“You burn, I burn.” He echoes, and this time when you smile at him, Ben smiles back. It’s not as unrestrained as yours, but it’s real. He’s real. And that’s enough.

Your exhaustion hits you like a bomb. You can almost feel the last bit of adrenaline leave your body, and here—where you still exist in a reality where Ben is warm and real and safe—the heavy, free-falling and airy feeling that makes your head feel faded and the world blur in and out is easy to give into.

Ben picks up on it quickly, and you see his smirk cross his dizzily attractive face the second before he speaks. “We finally tired, beautiful?”

He can’t keep calling you that, not when your tongue is growing loose from sleep and you were being literal when you called his face “dizzying”. You don’t know if it’s the sleep deprivation or just Ben, but you’re pretty sure he’s hypnotized you. All you can manage to say is, “You’re tired.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I fucking am. So can we please get your ass to bed so I can sleep?”

You hum, and he apparently takes that as a yes. Dropping his hands from where they’ve been glued to your face, he picks you up bridal style, carrying you to your side of the bed.

“Clothes,” you mumble into his shirt, because the smell of grime and bodily fluids is just managing to push through the smell of him. “Ben, clothes.”

“What about them.”

“Gross.”

“We’ll change the sheets in the morning.”

“You’ll change the sheets in the morning.”

He chuckles, and you feel it everywhere. “Fine, Sunshine. I’ll change the damn sheets in the morning.”

You give a hum of content that turns into a very embarrassing sound from your throat when Ben pulls away. Your eyes have already fallen closed, so you grope the air around you aimlessly to try and pull him back.

Ben’s hand catches your wrist, and his smug amusement takes root through your body. “I’m taking a piss, I’ll be one fucking minute. Think you can survive?”

His words are taunting. Not malicious, but taunting all the same, so you only give him disgruntled, “cunt,” and burrow yourself under the covers.

You hear him snort, and then he’s gone. You’re half aware of him shuffling around, the bathroom closing behind him, but it feels far away. You’re so tired, yet your consciousness is clinging to your head, keeping you in its hold as the toilet flushes, and the door creaks back open.

You wish you were more surprised when the moment Ben’s weight hits the bed—heat radiating from his body as it dips his side of the mattress—sleep grabs you.

 You’re on your knees. You were dancing in the kitchen to a pop song Ben said he would hate, and you said he was wrong. You know it by heart, so you started singing because at this point, really, what’s the worst that could happen. Pink, glittery clouds were all that filled the room after a handful of seconds, so you’d just spun around—singing and dancing—right up until Ben kissed you. He’d caught you, pulled you right into him, and kissed you so powerfully you were almost afraid you’d conjured Fake Ben again. But you could feel him, feel that hunger for you, just for you, and knew it was Real Ben. Kissing the air out of your lungs, wrapping his arms around you, groaning into your mouth as your hands pulled slightly at his hair. It was the best sound you’d ever heard, so you did it again, just to hear that sound of pleasure leave Ben’s mouth and feel it move into yours. Deciding to try something, you dropped one hand between your bodies, pressing it flat against his bulge, and this time he fucking growled.

So you’re on your knees.

He’s not wearing jeans, but the slacks from his disguise at Tek Knight’s club. When you look up at him, you realize he’s in a clean version of that suit, the tie askew from you pulling at it and his hair messy from your hands. Looking up proves to be, overall, a mistake though, because now you’re looking at Ben’s face. His mouth is hanging open and his face is reverent as he watches you. It’s everything, he’s everything, and he’s looking at you like that.

It’s impressive how fast you get his pants off, more impressive that you don’t moan yourself when you see all of him, pressing against his boxers and big. You’ll never be thirsty again, because you’re salivating enough to flood a desert. When you touch him to pull his cock out, hands bordering on frantic, he leans back with another amazing groan. One hand fists in your hair, angling your face to look at him once more.

Ben says your name, and you press your legs together because just that makes you ache. “Are you-“

“Yes,” you breathe. “If you-" 

“Fuck yes.”

You smile softly. “Okay then.”

So you set to work.

When your mouth covers Ben, taking all of his cock into your mouth in one swift movement that bumps him against the back of his throat, he moans. And it’s the best one yet, it’s like a drug, so you pull almost all the way off of him and do it again. Sloppier, faster, wetter, over and over until his moans turn into your name and you’re grinding against air. One hand is steadying you, digging into Ben’s thighs, and the other is cupping and squeezing his balls, making him louder. The ache is becoming painful, but if you let go of Ben’s leg, you’ll fall, and if you let go of his balls, he won’t say your name like that. So you push through, because the sounds he's making are worth it. You might get off on them alone, moving hopelessly against the air.

Ben tenses above you, and you hear him choke out your name. “Where-" 

You suck, long and firm, and the coil in his gut springs forward into you. The sounds he keeps making are musical, and you let him buck into your throat through his orgasm, swallowing every last drop of his cum.

You’ve hardly pulled off of his softening cock, when he’s yanking you up, kissing you long and rough. You whine into his mouth, and he pulls back with a cocky wink. 

“I think you might have a problem I can fix, beautiful.” His eyes drop to where you’re still moving desperately against nothing. “Would you like me to?”

The dream is ripped from you with sleep, and when your eyes tear open you can see Ben on the other side of the bed, back to you as he thrashes in the dark. His chest is glowing, casting long shadows around the bedroom and building—brighter and brighter—by the second.

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself, reaching over Ben’s body, trying to twist him onto his back.

You lurch back when you touch him, because he’s in pain. Whatever is setting the bomb off is hurting him, prying his brain apart and making his lungs like lead in his chest.

“Ben,” you raise your voice, grabbing the discarded sheets from the end of the mattress. “Ben! Wake the fuck up!”

It’s not enough—you knew it wouldn’t be—so you wrap the blankets around your fists like gloves, still yelling one last time. “Benjamin, wake up!” Nothing still, and you take a deep breath. “Sorry,” you mumble to nothing, and punch Ben in the face.

Your form is significantly better than the last time you did this, and Ben’s eyes shoot open with a bellowing, unintelligible sound. There’s a borderline feral look on his face, and he grabs you and flips you onto your back. One hand is pinning yours down, the other is squeezing your jaw, and the bomb is still building. You see the recognition flash in his eyes the very second before the drums fall into time, and you don’t get a warning before he’s throwing you off the bed. Ben detonates, light and heat flashing through the room, and falls back into the bed, panting.

Standing, you walk carefully back to the bed and scoot into his side. “Better?” You ask softly, and the face Ben makes when he looks at you is haunting. 

He grunts, watching you with a clenched jaw and heavy gaze. “Did I hurt-”

“No,” your voice is firm. “But you didn’t need to throw me. I can survive that.” You poke his chest gently, and feel a rush of that impossible and tight feeling.

“I know,” Ben mutters. “Just fucking instinct.”

You thank the dark of the room for covering the flush of your face. “I get it. Do you-“ you fidget with the sheets tangled around you nervously, dropping your eyes to Ben’s chest. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” He snaps, and even though you didn’t expect a yes, it still hurts.

“Okay.” You shrug. “I’m here if you do.”

Ben sighs loudly, leaning forward until you’re right against each other, and when you look up, he’s watching you with an apprehensive look. “You’re here?” He asks lowly, and you nod.

“Obviously.” You mumble, unsure what he’s aiming for. “And I’m not really going anywhere.”

“Hm,” he’s picking you apart again, and you don’t mind in the slightest. Because his knee is pressed into yours, and even as you can feel that tense pull, you can also feel something soft and aching. You’d stay here forever if it never went away, if he kept looking at you like a painting he can’t figure out, but doesn’t really want to. “You’re sure?”

You blink, having gotten lost in him. “Sure?”

“That you’re not going anywhere.”

“Are you? Going anywhere?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then me neither.”

You feel the soft thing roll around in Ben’s chest. “Good,” he mutters. “Do you…” he trails off, swallowing roughly, and it’s unbelievably confusing how hot it is when you’re still washed with concern. “The performance."

“Oh.” You stumble over words, having sort of hoped he’d just forget about that in the grand scheme of the night. “I, um, it’s- I, you-“ 

Ben catches your shaking head between his hands, and that doesn’t help anything at all. Because you don’t feel any disgust or apprehension, only the rumble of piercing heat in his chest. “Calm the fuck down.” He tells you, and it’s not great how fast your body responds, following the order until you've stilled in his arms. “You don’t owe me shit, but I-“ His hand trace your cheekbones lightly. “Tell me. Eventually. When we’re not trying to keep you safe or get that stupid fucking kid away from Homelander, tell me.”

He makes it sound easy, like you can just say well, Ben, against all odds you’ve become the most important person in my life, and annoyingly I don’t think that’s going to change. I want to fuck you so bad it’s becoming a problem, but I also really want to just keep you with me whenever I can, so if all you want from me is to fuck me then it might kill me. Because it’s a little more than that for me, and I’m so sorry about that. I’m sorry about a lot of this. But I’m not sorry for wanting you, for- 

“It’s complicated,” you breathe. “I don’t-“

“Later,” he says, voice low and rough. “We’ll talk about it later.”

You don’t really want to talk about it later. You certainly don’t have any interest in talking about it now, but later feels worse. “Ben-“

“It’s too early to get up,” he cuts you off, still touching you carefully. So carefully, like you're almost holy. “Too early to deal with any of this fucking shit, so sleep. Don’t get in your own damn head, Sunshine, and sleep.”

He lays you down on your back, and no part of you protests. Not as he buries his head in your collarbone, warmer than any blanket, and his hands—tracing circles against your skin—lull you back into a peaceful, empty daze. You thread your fingers mindlessly through Ben’s hair, his breaths fan against your neck. It’s safe, and easy, and Ben.

You fall back into sleep quickly, your heart in rhythm with his. The last emotion you feel is a gentle, strong, scratch of your heart against your ribs, singing the same song over and over. It doesn’t have words, but you know what it wants.

This, forever.

————

Ben knew what they had to do. He, for once, had a fucking plan. A solid, good, and impenetrable plan. Tek Knight had said there was cam footage, and it had been deleted by Sage. But there was one sticky-handed asshole who had fingers and eyes everywhere at Vought. One conniving fucking pussy who would have something. Some sort of evidence or proof that they could use.

Last night—in the van as She’d been curled into Ben’s lap—he’d told the Pussy Brigade exactly what they had to do, and made it clear as the goddamn day that he wasn’t asking.

“I want to meet with Edgar,” Ben’s words had been rough, not aimed at anyone in particular. She was awake against him, but her heart was still rapid, and Ben would bet a good amount of money she wasn’t listening. He'd tell Her later, when she wasn't picking up pieces of herself in his arms.

“The fuck are you talking about?” MM had glowered at Ben in the dark of the van.

“Stan Edgar. I want to meet with him. Make it happen.”

Starlight had given him a confused look. “Why?”

“He’ll have something for us.” Ben had said coldly, glaring around the van. “Something for her.”

Starlight had glanced down at Her, still holding tightly to Ben. “He’s told us he didn’t have any clue about what Homelander was doing-“

“And the motherfucker’s in jail,” MM had snapped, and Starlight had nodded.

“And that.”

“He’s lying,” Ben had growled. “He knew fucking everything when I was at Vought. The bastard didn’t let anything slip past him. There’s not a fucking chance he’d have missed this.”

“You were able to get him out for Maine,” Cocksucker had said nervously, looking around the van. “A meeting wouldn’t be hard-“

“No.” MM had crossed his arms, words harsh and firm. “He’s got a fucking angle, Kid, there’s not a chance in hell we’re doing that.”

“I don’t have an angle,” Ben’s hiss, cold and furious, had been pair with a dirty look around the van at these high-and-mighty fuckers who were too weak to actually do something and help Her. “Edgar will have something, she won’t kill herself for you pathetic fucking pussies, and Butcher will get his damn brat back.”

“Careful, you twat-“

Ben had cut off Butcher useless fucking threat with another sneer. “Get me the meeting with Edgar. Bring a barrel of that fucking knockout gas with us if you want to, but get me the fucking meeting.”

Starlight had nodded slowly. “We’ll, we’ll see what we can do-“

“Don’t see what you can do. Fucking do it. Not for me, for her. If you have even a fucking sliver of the mortality you’re all always bitching about, fucking do it.”

He didn’t fucking get Her, or how she put up with these pussies. She was too fucking good for them, too fucking good for most anyone. Ben had known that, it had grown so goddamn obvious to him the longer he knew her, really knew Her. That she was too good, too kind and beautiful and insane and impossible. Ben hadn’t understood it, decided he wasn’t supposed to because She didn’t need him to, and then he’d made the mistake. He’d asked Her what she’d meant by it, those words that had been rattling around in his head since she’d said them. That the Thing had been trying to pick apart for weeks.

And now he knew that She really was too good for anyone. She was the first fucking person in history that was too perfect, and nobody fucking deserved Her. No one. Not even Ben.

He felt terrible. Like a fucking pussy asshole that had hurt Her. Ben didn’t have a fucking clue how people just existed like this, it was going to kill him. She shouldn’t forgive him, and it was awe-inspiring that She ever even let him yell at her or treat her like he had in the beginning when Ben had done that to her. When he’d been the stupid fucking butterfly in her weird analogy that led to Her curled in his arms, shaking and sobbing and screaming and tearing the Thing apart inside him. She was fucking impossible, this perfect and insane woman who deserved the fucking world but was still putting up with Ben. That kept promising to burn with him when nothing should ever be allowed to burn Her, and when that included Ben. That kept smiling and apologizing when She should be allowed to raze every single fucking bastard in her path.

When Ben had climbed into bed that night, he hadn’t let himself touch Her. For the first time in his long life, he didn’t feel like he deserved it. She’d said she didn’t blame him, promised that she didn’t hate him, and he really did fucking believe Her. But that didn’t make any of this shit better.

The Thing hated not touching Her—whining pathetically in Ben’s chest as he had turned his back to her—but right now Ben was stronger than the Thing. Right now it, Ben, shouldn’t be allowed to touch Her. She should stay peaceful and safe forever, be able to go wherever the fucking hell she wanted without fear of being hurt. And Ben had hurt Her, made her look at him with dread that he’d be mad at Her for the most stupid bullshit in the world, so he should be on the list of things not allowed to touch Her. It had been a lot harder to fall asleep—hearing Her breaths across the bed and the small sounds she kept making in her sleep—but he’d fucking manage. Ben had slept thousands of nights without Her. He’d survive one fucking more.

Ben followed Her heartbeat to the performance storage room. But this time he couldn’t open the door. No matter how hard he pushed, pulled, punched or kicked, it stayed locked between them. And it was transparent. Ben could see Her, on the other side, knocked out on the floor. Tek Knight wasn’t strangely frozen against her, but leering above her body with a cold smirk. She wasn’t opening her eyes, the only sign of life was Her unsteady heart, and Ben couldn’t fucking get to Her.

Homelander stepped out from the shadows, watching Her with a wide, toothy, empty grin. Walking over to her body. And Ben still couldn’t fucking open the goddamn door.

“Good work, Robert. I mean, you got her.” Homelander laughed, and it was a terrible, bone-chilling sound. “I can’t believe you, of all fucking people, got her.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tek Knight took in the praise with a puffed chest. “What, uh, what do you want me to do with her?”

“That’s not your problem. Go jerk off to a robot.” When Tek Knight didn’t move, Homelander shot him a cold glare. “Fucking now.”

Tek Knight seemed to disappear into thin air, and it was just Her and Homelander and Ben. Still locked out, trying, trying so fucking hard to get in the room.

Homelander said Her name, and Ben hated the way it sounded in his mouth. Nobody should be allowed to say it like that, in a way that made it sound small and weak. So unsuited to Her. “I found you,” Homelander reached down, pulling her roughly off the ground. “I fucking told you I would.”

Ben was roaring, even if he couldn’t hear it himself. He had to get to Her, had to fucking help her, but this fucking door wouldn’t open.

“Don’t think I’m letting you go this time,” Homelander yanked Her face up to his. “I know you’re awake, stop playing pretend.”

Her eyes opened slowly, and they were glazed and afraid, smoke rising off her body. But Homelander only laughed.

“You see that?” Ben froze as Homelander turned Her face to the door, as Her eyes widened. She could see him. “Soldier Boy won’t fucking save you, won’t help you. He doesn’t give a shit about you, not like I do.”

She shook her head, but still didn’t speak. The fear was growing, Ben needed to help her, but he couldn’t get in the fucking room-

“I care about you,” Homelander hissed to Her, and she was still watching Ben. “I’m perfect for you. We’re fucking gods together, and you’re never getting away from me again.”

A choked sob left Her, and Ben watch—fucking helpless—as she scraped at Homelander. Flames still wouldn’t come, Ben still couldn’t get to her, and Homelander’s laugh was echoing all around.

“I love you.” He said her name again. “Like no one ever has. Like no one ever will. And I’d rather you fucking burn than live without you.”

She screamed Ben’s name, and he roared hers back. The door wouldn’t budge, and She was screaming, and nothing was okay. Not as Homelander pulled Her against him and Ben could stop it. Not as Homelander shot up into the sky, and they were both gone, but the sounds of Her pleas for Ben were still ringing around him. He hadn’t kept her safe, She was gone, she was in danger, she’d hate him forever, and she was fucking gone and he hadn’t kept her safe. The one thing he’d promised and meant in his whole fucking life, and he’d failed-

She had woken Ben up, and he’d had to hear Her say it. That she wasn’t going anywhere. Not because he wouldn’t let Her leave if she wanted to—Ben didn’t think he’d survive it, but he’d promised to keep Her safe, and being away from him was safe he’d let Her go and let it kill him—but because he needed to know she was there. That he wasn’t still dreaming and She was real. Still there, with him.

And he’d made himself ask about the performance, because his control was pathetically fucking weak in that moment and he couldn’t stop himself. He needed a fucking hint, what She wanted from him. What she needed him to give her. What he needed to do for Her to keep forgiving him. Even if he was willing to let Her go, if that’s what it came to, he was going to fight tooth and nail and bullets and blood to keep her real and at his side.

The Thing had wanted to fall asleep with Her. Ben had obliged, because fuck him if he was ever depriving himself of her again. He might lose Her one day, the very idea made the Thing ache and roll, so every single chance Ben had he’d sleep against Her. Touch Her in whatever way she asks him to, whatever way she lets him.

She fit against him like he’d been made for it. Like his face had been designed to rest on Her neck, and his legs had been carved to tangle in hers. She was perfect, too fucking perfect, and sleep was so easy against Her that Ben didn’t realize it had even caught him until he blinked and there was light through the curtains.

He’d been torn, because the Thing wanted to stay there, with Her peaceful and perfect against Ben’s body. But Ben wanted to do something. For Her.

Like a fucking pussy.

Ben decided that, between two impossibly pathetic and whipped options, the doing something one was just a tiny bit less fucking awful. He could pretend it wasn’t about Her a lot easier, say it to himself over and over until—when She asked—he would be able to convince Her that this wasn’t about her.

It took Ben almost twenty minutes—after slowly leaving the bedroom and putting on the coffee—to find a good recipe. The breakfast section of their cookbook was goddamn abysmal, filled with recipes that either sounded like healthy fucking dogshit or just looked straight up impossible to actually make. Ben would rather drink gasoline than make Her a frittata, and he was pretty sure a lemon scone was outside of his skill range, so he settled on pancakes. Easy, simple, classic fucking pancakes with syrup and butter.

He'd burnt the first batch. The second tasted like shit. The third exploded—Ben wasn’t entirely sure how he’d even managed that—and he used salt where he should've used sugar on the fourth, but the fifth was fucking phenomenal. He was a goddamn genius. A cooking savant. They should give him one of those stupid shows She’d put on in the background when she was reading. Because fuck, these pancakes were good. The kitchen was filled with smoke and covered in baking powder and egg shells, but he’d fucking done it. Right on time, as well, because She entered the room with puffy lips and sleepy eyes that widened as she took in the kitchen around her.

“What the hell happened in here?”

“Breakfast,” Ben grunted, pushing the plate across the counter for Her to see.

She blinked, looking between him and the pancakes. “You made those? For me?”

“I made some for me as well.” He grumbled, nodding roughly to his own helping. But Her eyes were bright as she looked at him, and she looked so fucking perfect, Ben couldn’t stop himself saying, “But yeah. For you.”

Goddamnit, Her smile was so fucking happy and easy and wide it was going to eat him alive. The Thing was going to overtake him, and he didn’t know what he could fucking do to stop it. He didn’t really care to know, or fucking want to.

“Thank you,” She walked around the counter, dropping into her place at his side. She gave a soft hum as she poked at them with her fork, and Ben frowned.

“What-“

“How many tries?” She looked up at him with a teasing smile, and he scowled. When he didn’t answer, she started to guess.

“Three? Four? Five?”

“Fuck you.”

She giggled, and the Thing made a satisfied sound. “It’s five, isn’t it.”

“Pancakes are fucking hard to make, Sunshine, and these are goddamn delicious, you’d know if you’d actually fucking eat-“

She took a large bite, raising her brows at Ben as he fell silent, watching her chew and swallow. He was fucking entranced, he needed to know what She thought, if she liked them or hated them or just wasn’t a pancake person. Fuck, what if she just wasn’t a pancake person-

“Jesus, Ben.” She took another bite, covering her mouth with a hand as she spoke through the food. “These are actually good.”

“You’re fucking welcome,” he muttered, trying to push down the wave of relief in his body.

“Are you sure you made these? Because they’re really good-“

“Shut the fuck up,” he nudged Her leg with his, rolling his eyes. “Can’t just let me have a compliment, can you.”

“Nope,” She laughed. “That’d be too easy, Pretty Boy.”

He snorted, and started to inhale his own plate. She always ate a little slower than Ben did, but he’d gotten used to it. He’d even started—at first unconsciously—to time when he began eating his food so that they’d finish together. When he’d first noticed, Ben had cursed himself for how he’d allowed it become a habit. But then he’d noticed how she’d stopped glancing at him, nervously asking if he wanted to go do something while she finished, and the Thing had damn loved it. It was comfortable and nice and now he couldn’t fucking stop. He’d gotten good at it, too. Proven by his last wolfing bite being in perfect sync with Her final swallow.

She was tapping on the counter, not looking at Ben, and he could practically hear Her the gears turning in her head. He open his mouth to tell her to just fucking spit it out, but just before he could-

“Now what?” She finally met Ben’s eyes, and hers were clouded and glossy. “Tek Knight was a dead end, and that was all we had. What, where, just-“ She sighed shakily, and Ben pressed his knee against hers, waiting for her heart to slow. “What do we do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Ben said gruffly, pushing on as She shook her head. “Yes, we fucking will.”

“But-“

“I am not trading you,” Ben said Her name firmly, because she somehow still didn’t understand. That there was one thing in the world he would never, ever fucking let her do. One promise he was never going to go back on or break, let alone let Her go back on it for him. He had a fucking plan, so he wasn’t letting Her break his promise. “You matter just a much as that kid, and I’m not letting climb on the bullshit sacrifice train your pussy fucking team keeps trying to board. It never works, and it’s not like Homelander’s torturing Butcher’s brat. The sooner you get that through your pretty head, the sooner we can go on with a plan that isn’t fucking stupid.”

Her heart fluttered slightly, but she still whispered. “I could try and fight him, this time. I’d be fine-“

Ben scoffed. “No. You freeze and panic at the very damn thought of him.”

“I’ve gotten better-“

“No,” he snapped. “You fucking haven’t. You didn’t even explode last time. You’re the most powerful supe in the world, and that pussy makes you fucking useless.”

“But we need to get Ryan out,” She protested. “He’s just a kid, Ben. He doesn’t deserve this-“

“I know. I’d-“ Ben sighed. “I’d tell the Pussy Brigade I won’t hit the little fucker, but they wouldn’t believe me. But you are not fucking turning yourself over-“

“You’d do that?” She said softly over Ben, grabbing onto the wrong damn part of the sentence. “You’d work to not hit Ryan?”

“If it’d stop you going through with the dumbest plan I’ve heard in my goddamn life, sure.”

“Ben-“

“You’re not doing it. Tell me you’ve fucking got that, that you’re not doing that bullshit.”

“I’ve got it,” she gave him a smile, and the Thing pushed against Ben, trying to get to Her, touch her.

“Good.”

Her smile became smug, and the infinite amusement returned to her voice. “Most powerful supe, huh?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“You said it, not me,” She leaned forward, further into him. Ben might not be able to stop himself from throwing her on the table and fucking her stupid is she kept look at him like that. Her face so open and perfect, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered to her.

“Don’t make me fucking regret it.” He muttered, and her smile only grew.

“But you meant it, didn’t you.”

“Yeah, I’m not a fucking pussy liar-“ Ben frowned at Her as she said the last words with him, her voice dropped into that overly-deep impression of him. “Shut-“

“The fuck up, brat?” She finished his sentence, wrinkling her nose at him. “Be careful, Benjamin. I’m the most powerful supe in the world, I’ll kick your ass.”

“No you won’t. You like my ass.”

Her perfect face flushed. “Doesn’t mean I won’t kick it,” she mumbled. “Could if I wanted to.”

Ben winked at Her. “I know, that’s why I’m so nice to you.”

“Oh, blow me,” She snorted.

“If you want.” Ben lowered him to Her eye level, and the flush grew stronger as her heartbeat sped up. He’d made similar offers before—almost in those exact words—but this was different. This time she wasn’t looking away, and Her mouth was parted with heavy breaths. This time she was still leaning into him, looking at him with pretty, slightly glazed eyes, and they were so fucking close-

The door of the safe house swung open with a bang, and She pulled back from Ben—knees still together but breaths no longer shared—to look up as Starlight, Cocksucker, and Butcher bustled into the kitchen. All three of them looked like shit, eyes hung with bags and faces sallowed, and they weren’t smelling much fucking better either.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Ben snapped, and sort of wanted to kill them for cutting whatever that had been short. The Thing was whining inside him, and he felt so goddamn starved now, and it was all their fucking fault.

Butcher looked between, and mocking smirk playing on his lips. “We ain’t interrupting anything, are we?”

“Fuck you-“

She spoke over Ben’s sneer, brows furrowing as she looked between Butcher, Starlight, and Cocksucker cautiously. “What’s going on? It’s like, 10am, and last night was a disaster, you should be re-grouping.”

“We’re here to collect Soldier Boy, take him off your hands for a day.” Butcher winked at Her, and she frowned.

“Take him off my hands? Take him where?” She glanced at Ben, and the Thing stuttered in him that she might think he’d lied to Her again. He’d forgotten—so caught up in making sure She knew that they would have a plan that didn’t involve giving her to Homelander—to mention that they did have a plan. And now she was going to fucking hate him-

Butcher answered lazily before Ben could even open his mouth. “We’re goin upstate, payin the haughty twat Stan Edgar a visit. Soldier Boy thinks he might have something for us.”

“He’ll know something.” Ben said shortly, giving a quick glower to Butcher before turning back to Her. “About you, about Homelander.”

“Edgar told me he didn’t know anything.” Her words were careful, and she was squinting slightly around the room, as if trying to find reason on the walls or her team's faces.

“You believed him?” Ben asked, and Her eyes fell to him.

“Not at all.”

“Then let’s go get the fucking truth.”

“Yeah well,” She looked at her team apprehensively. “Sounds like this is another you meeting.”

“You’re fucking coming with us,” Ben said Her name with a frown. “This isn’t in the city, we’re not just leaving you-“

“Actually, uh.” Starlight’s entire face was guilty and drawn with anxiety. “It is just you, Soldier Boy.”

The Thing pressed against Ben’s lungs. “There’s no fucking way I’m going without her. We could be gone for the whole fucking day.”

“Edgar wants just you. Was very insistent about it. Said we could drop by anytime this weekend.” Butcher drawled.

“So we should fucking bring her, we don’t know what kind of two-faced shit that bastard is plotting-“

“It’s Monday.” She said softly, and Ben stopped his rant to give Her a confused frown. “He said this weekend, and it’s Monday.” She looked at Butcher, who was smirking widely. “You want to get the jump on him, before he can pull anything.”

“Right on the money, Love.” Butcher said appreciatively. “Now call off your bloody guard dog.”

Ben pushed further, trying to make Her see fucking reason. “He won’t be able to pull anything, jump or not, if you just fucking come with us-“

“He won’t see us both. If he was insistent, he won’t take the meeting if we’re both there.”

“Well then he also won’t take the damn meeting if we go today,” Ben snapped. 

“No,” She shook her head. “If Edgar agreed to this, he’ll see it through. He’ll probably want something, but that’s why he’ll see it through. So if you show up and say this is his only chance, he’ll grab it. He’s not stupid, and you won’t be bluffing. But if I’m there he can call foul, say you’re not meeting his demands.”

Ben said Her name, hating how fucking desperate he sounded. But he wasn’t fucking leaving Her alone, not for a whole day, not when they knew Homelander had started looking for her. “You’re coming with us. Or I’m not going.”

“Oh my God,” Starlight rolled her eyes. “I did not get up at 4am to get you this meeting just for you to throw a temper tantrum about it. Can we please just go.”

“Annie,” She raised her palm, giving Starlight a small shake of Her head. “Just, give us one second.”

Starlight sighed with a frown, but nodded, and Butcher scoffed.

“If you cunts are going to get all fucking cheesy and fuck on the table, can you just tell us to I call Frenchie for the eye bleach?”

She ignored Butcher’s mocking words, locking eyes with Ben, words firm as she spoke. “Ben, I will be fine. And if Edgar has the information, as you clearly think he does, we need it. So please just go get it.”

And in the slight widening of Her eyes, Ben heard the rest of Her words. I’ll be right here when you get back. Now stop being an ass and play nice for one day.

Ben scowled at Her. Fine, but you owe me.

Her face looked a little lighter as she sighed. Thank you. Then, aloud, She said. “You should go now. Before Neuman has time to find out.”

Cocksucker shook his head. “We’re in the clear on that, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko are keeping eyes on her.”

“Why would the Head-Popper give a shit about this?”

Butcher chuckled like Ben’s question was fucking insane, “Head-Popper’s Edgars kid. She keeps tabs on dear ol’ dad’s prison activity, especially after our last visit.”

“Edgar had a kid?”

“Adopted,” Cocksucker said sheepishly. “But yeah.”

“Neuman did kind of shadow work for Edgar,” She explained to Ben with a shrug. “Made sure the feds stayed off his back. Eventually Homelander flipped her, gave her V to protect her daughter. Edgar seems to still love her though, her and Zoe.”

“Who the fuck-“

“Neuman’s daughter.”

“She also a supe?”

“Uh…” She looked over at Cocksucker, who had a pouting, sad little frown on his face.

“Vicki injected Zoe with the V last year,” he supplied nervously. “Little after the whole, um, tower thing.”

“Gave the kid gross fucking face tentacles,” Butcher shook his head with a grimace. “Hideous. She ain’t gettin bloody asked to the prom ever with those fuckers.”

“Edgar was pretty mad about it in November,” She added thoughtfully, but narrowed Her eyes at him. Stop stalling, Pretty Boy.

Ben glared at Her. Brat. "Head-popped doesn't know?"

"Um, not yet," Cocksucker answered, and Ben stood from the counter.

“Then let's get a fucking move on.”

“That’s it?” Cocksucker looked between them, annoyingly fucking bewildered. “You’re just going?”

“You got a fucking problem with it?” Ben gave Cocksucker a cold death glare as he walked to the doorframe, and the pussy shook his head frantically.

“No, I’m good.”

“Then let’s fucking go.”

“You heard him, Lad, go start the van.” Butcher tossed Cocksucker the key, and for a second it looked like he was about to clap Ben on the back, but wisely thought better of it.

Ben looked back once, and saw Her watching him. He could hear the chewing of Her lip, and tapping of her fingers, so he gave her a small, tight nod. I’ll see you soon. 

She blinked at him. Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.

Ben allowed himself to smile slightly, giving Her a wink. No promises. And followed Butcher out the door.

Every single time Ben stepped foot in this shitty fucking van, he found another damn reason to hate it. This time, it was the way its engine screeched and grinded like chalk in his ears. There weren’t any gas canisters—maybe the Pussies had forgotten, or just finally grown some damn balls—but Starlight flinched every time Ben shifted in his seat, and Butcher had a rocket launcher lying on the passenger's side. Their heart were all so fucking unsteady, and in an off-rhythm pound with that horrible fucking engine.

“Are you sure this shit-Mobile will get us upstate?” Ben grumbled after an hour of tuning out Starlight and Cocksucker’s whispers and Butcher shooting him dirty looks in the mirror.

“Yes.”

“As long as we don’t take highways,” Cocksucker's mumbled addition to Butcher’s words was met with an eye roll from the latter.

“Lucky for us, we ain’t. All backroads to get where we’re going.”

Ben grunted, and Starlight asked, “How long is the drive?”

“Three hours,” Cocksucker answered for Butcher. “But there’s probably no traffic.”

“Awesome,” Starlight sighed, again, and Ben was getting really fucking sick of that sound. “Three hours stuck between Racist Uncle Sam and Evil Robin Hood.”

“Oi!” Butcher snapped, at the same time Ben said, “Fuck you.”

“Oh shit,” Cocksucker muttered, and Butcher kept going as Ben glared daggers at Starlight.

“I ain’t Evil Robin Hood, and you wouldn’t catch me bloody dead in tights.”

“And I’m not Racist Uncle Sam,” Ben grunted.

Starlight scoffed. “Sure.”

“Can we please not do this-“

Starlight spoke over Cocksucker, still glaring at Ben as she said Her name. “Might have been pulled into your shit, but we’re not convinced.” Starlight leaned forward. “I don’t trust you, and whatever game you're trying to play here-“

“You don’t fucking know me at all, bitch.” Ben growled. “My game is doing all your goddamn jobs for you. My game is being the only person here, despite all your perfect moral compasses, who’s not willing to turn Homelander’s victim back over to him in exchange for anything “

“We didn’t let her and Butcher go through with that,” Cocksucker frowned. “She’s our friend, our teammate-“

“Really?” Ben sneered. “What about last night? When she was fucking begging you to trust her and you decided exploiting her was easier.”

“And she turned out to be lying,” Butcher said coldly from the front as Cocksucker’s eyes fell to the floor. “So we were fucking right-“

“In all you shit for brains infinite goddamn wisdom, did it never occur to you that she might have had a damn good reason not to tell you the truth? That maybe when you treat her like a fucking shiny weapon, she’s not going to be jumping for joy at the first chance to sing goddamn Kumbaya with you pussies?”

“That’s not fair-“

Ben laughed mockingly at Starlight’s words. “Fair doesn’t have anything to do with this fucking shit. Thinking that it does is your first mistake.” Ben’s jaw clenched, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m a lot more ready than any of you pussies to do whatever it takes to get to Homelander, but I’m not throwing the only person who doesn’t deserve any of this goddamn mess you assholes made in the line of fire.”

“Aren’t you a fucking hypocrite, Gov.” Butcher’s tone was mocking and bored, but Ben could hear to pound of his heart. “Pretty lady gives you a smile and suddenly she’s worth more than a fucking kid.”

She's not just pretty, the Thing screamed inside of him. She’s perfect.

Ben shut the Thing deep down inside of him as he said, “I’d rather be a hypocrite than a pathetic, weak fucking excuse for a man who’s willing to let Homelander have everything he wants for my bottom line.”

Butcher’s grip tensed on the wheel, but he didn’t respond. Starlight fell silent as well, Cocksucker still watching Ben wearily, and the remainder of the ride was lined in frigid, tense silence. When it became clear to Ben that he had successfully shut their mouth from bitching and whining, he began to run through his plan. He hadn’t really exactly had a shit ton of time to figure out what he actually needed to say to Edgar. Ben had, although he would never say it out loud, expected Her help with that part. The stupid song and dance around each other that was fucking pointless in most any scenario, but required in this one. Ben really wished She was here to help him, or at least just here. She’d wrinkle her stupid, perfect nose at Ben and tell him it’s actually really simple, dumb-dumb. People don’t respond to threats or torture, because they’ll say or do anything to make it stop.

That’s fucking idiotic. He’d tell her. Torture works wonders.

Yeah, I mean, I don’t know about you but after my personal experience with it I was really compliant and chill about everything-

Fuck you.

Just offer him something he wants, Ben. And if he’s an ass, one or two threats won’t hurt. Maybe cut off his dick, that one’s a classic.

It was incredibly annoying that, even as a voice in Ben’s head, She was always right. He didn’t know what Edgar would want, but he’d find it in the moment. He’d figure it out. He had to.

When the godawful fucking engine finally shut off, Butcher’s words were tight.

“He don’t know we’re coming, so the guard might fire on Soldier Boy. We aren’t in the business of drawing attention to ourselves, so me and Hughie will go ahead first and text you to follow.”

Ben did not want to be left alone with Starlight. He didn’t want her judgmental fucking looks, or whining about morality. But Butcher was right, and once he and Cocksucker left the van, Ben stared blankly at the wall and tried to ignore the scratch of Starlight’s breath and heart against his brain.

“You really care about her, huh?” Ben’s eyes shot to Starlight, whose face was contorted in confusion as she continued. “It’s not just sex.”

“We haven’t fucked,” Ben grunted, ignoring how bitter the Thing felt about that.

“But you care about her.”

Yes, the Thing howled. She’s perfect, how could you not fucking care about Her?

Ben just huffed, looking back at the wall. He had no interest in talking about his fucking feelings with goddamn Starlight.

“I don’t like doing those things to her, just so you know.” Starlight said carefully, still watching Ben. “It’s just complicated-“

“No, it’s not,” Ben snapped, still staring ahead.

“Well-“

“You can whine and bitch about moral gray areas and complex situations, but this one’s real fucking simple,” Ben looked at Starlight, allowing the unbridled fury he carried for Her—because she wouldn’t fucking let herself do it—to show on his face. “You’ve been part of the Vought machine your whole fucking life, Butcher’s an asshole dick-face who’s just as revenge fueled as I am, as all of you pussies are.”

Ben could hear Her voice in his head. Wow, look who’s feeling reflective. Dare I say, self-aware.

“Not Hughie,” Starlight protested. “He’s a good person. He doesn’t compromise his morals-“

“And how would you feel,” Ben hissed. “If Hughie volunteered to trade himself to Homelander for Butcher’s damn kid. Volunteered to torture himself for the sake of a plan.”

“I’d, I mean I’d hate it. But that’s not the same-“

“You’re right. Because Hughie still made choices to be here.” Ben said Her name, holding Starlight’s gaze as his fists clenched at his side. “Well, she’s only here because of you and your stupid fucking team. Because after Homelander kidnapped and raped and experimented on her, all she got for it was you. She’d do anything, just like the rest of you, but it’s not for her. It’s never for her. Nothing’s ever for her. So fuck me for being the first person ever to do something about that.”

Starlight was staring at Ben, stunned into silence, and the phone buzzed in her hands.

“It’s Hughie,” she mumbled, glancing at the van door. “He says we’re good to go. That the guards have been told to turn a blind eye, so we can just walk in.”

Ben snorted to himself. “Yeah, you fuckers are real beacons of righteousness, bribing fucking prison guards.”

Starlight frowned, but followed Ben out the van and into the prison, not saying a word.

Starlight directed them down several halls and around way too many fucking corners, and after what felt like a damn hour of tightly spoken directions and grunts they finally found Butcher and Cocksucker. Standing in front of a steel door, with Grace Mallory.

“Soldier Boy,” she greeted him coldly. “I had to get up at 5am to drive here for your plan. It better be well damn worth it.”

“I didn’t make you fucking do that shit,” Ben snapped, and Cocksucker jumped to explain.

“She needs to be here if you make any official deals.”

“It’s all bureaucratic horse-shit,” Butcher drawled. “Don’t waste what little brain power you have on it, Gov, not when Edgar’s waiting for you.”

Giving them all one last hateful glare—Starlight was still looking at him like he’d sprouted a damn second head—Ben opened the door they had gathered around.

Stan Edgar was, in fact, waiting for him. Handcuffed to a table and statue-like, humming to himself. The man didn’t look up, or even fucking acknowledge Ben until they were seated across from each other.

“You look old.” Ben said by way of greeting, and Edgar laughed dryly.

“And you have not aged a day. As lovely as it is to see you, I wasn’t expecting Butcher and company until Friday at least.”

“I’d apologize, but I don’t give a fuck about what you expecting.”

“I wasn’t trying to trick anyone. I simply had the weekend open. My crochet class got canceled, and our movie night is a screening of something horrible called Penguins of Madagascar.”

“Still don’t give a fuck. Stop being a fucking bastard and talk.”

“It’s been forty years, and I’m seeing my friend for the first time since he left America. Do not blame me for small talk.”

“We weren’t friends-”

“Yes, friends is a tad unprofessional. Amicable colleagues, perhaps? Forgive me for asking, but how was Russia? I’ve never been, and I hear the potato-based meals are to die for.”

The drums sounded, but they were distant, and Ben pushed them away. “Shut the fuck up, you fucking backstabbing dick.”

“I do apologize for that, but you were a tad unstable-“

“You can apologize,” Ben snapped. “By not being a two-faced, scheming ass for once and giving me what I came here for.”

Edgar sighed. “I guess we’re getting right into business then. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you want my help with the Anomaly problem.”

Ben scowled. “Don’t call her that.”

“Hm,” Edgar blinked. “I’ve been told you two have become quite… attached.”

“By who, Butcher?” Ben scoffed.

“No, Grace Mallory. According to her, one Marvin Milk has been trying to stop this little operation since it began, and has begun to worry that she’s not going to let go of you easily once this is over.”

The Thing rolled at that, because Ben wasn’t about to let go of Her easily either, not if she wanted to fucking stay with him for some damn reason. “That bastard doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“I must say, this is not exactly what I expected when I spoke to her in November. I thought she might actually fight Homelander, not outsource to you.”

“Yeah, well she’s unpredictable and doesn’t like being told what to do,” Ben muttered. “They’re two of her more annoying qualities.”

“I am rarely surprised anymore, Benjamin. It is impressive you both have managed to completely render me befuddled at your… Situation.”

The Thing twinged at that. Ben’s full name. He hated the way it sounded from Edgar now more than the 80s, because now he knew what it sounded like when She said it. Perfect.

“Are you going to give me some fucking answers, or just talk like a damn bridge troll all day.”

Edgar huffed a laugh at Ben’s question. “I am unsure how I can help in this scenario. As I have previously told Butcher, Mallory, Starlight, and the Anomaly- my apologies,” Edgar said Her name at Ben’s deep, angry scowl. “I was not privy to Homelander’s little pursuit for a family, let alone his less than ideal methods.”

“I’ve heard,”  Ben leaned across the table. “And I don’t fucking believe you. So I’m here to make you an offer, sweeten your damn pot.”

Edgar’s brows raised slightly. “Though it will not change my answer, because as much as I’d like to I cannot turn back time and learn about it sooner, you have my attention.”

Ben smirked. “I heard you’ve got a kid.”

“If you are about to attempt to blackmail me with my daughter, it will not go the way you anticipate.” 

“Because she’s a supe, right? Head-Popper.”

Edgar blinked slowly. “Did you learn this from Butcher?”

“Don’t fucking bother yourself with that shit. Do you want to know what else I heard?”

“I have a feeling you will just tell me regardless-“

“That Head-Popper has a kid. You’ve got a damn granddaughter.” Edgar's face remained stone-like, but his heart stuttered. Ben smirked, and continued. “Who recently got injected with V.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, I know all of this.” Edgar said curtly. “What, exactly, is your offer?”

“You don’t want the girl to have V, and I can get rid of V.” Ben said, not bothering to fake warmth in his grin. “You get me solid fucking proof of what Homelander did, and I’ll do you a favor and turn the kid from a tentacle-face back to your sweet little granddaughter. And, just because I’m feeing real fucking generous, I’ll back you to Vought when the time comes. Get your dogshit, slimy fucking job back. If you get me the proof.”

Ben waited for Edgars response, but the longer the room was silent, Edgar remaining unreadable, the thinner Ben’s patience wore. He didn’t have any fucking time for this, for Edgar to try and twist and play with Ben’s head. He just wanted to fucking go home, back to-

“If, hypothetically, this was a viable deal, what type of evidence would you wish to be shown? Is the word of the victim not enough?”

The Thing roared in Ben, but he kept his face cool and unbroken. “Fucking files, photos, record, whatever shit you have stashed away.” He wouldn’t even fucking acknowledge Edgar’s jab at her word. It was enough, and that was the fucking problem. It couldn’t be, not if Ben wanted to keep Her from Homelander. Not if she was going to be safe. 

“Tragically, I don’t have anything stashed away,” Edgar sighed, and Ben had to physically stop himself slamming the table. People don’t respond to threats, Benjamin. Stop being a baby.

“That’s fucking bullshit-“ 

“But,” Edgar continued. “I have a lot of houses. Some with several attics, and all of them are filled with memorabilia from my time at Vought. I could have missed something, and I’d be willing to look again, if,” Edgar sat—somehow—straighter in his chair. “You were to cure Victoria as well.”

“Neuman?” 

Edgar nodded. “Cleanse Zoe and Victoria, and I will see what I can do. You can keep your offer about Vought, however. I have no interest in returning, and if I did I would be aided by the word of an American traitor.” 

“That’s fucking it?”

 “Essentially, yes.”

“Deal,” Ben grunted. “But if you don’t have anything for me, if you’re trying to fucking use me or trick me, I’ll cut out your eyes and replace them with your castrated fucking balls.”

It was an effective threat. Edgar’s heartbeat grew a little faster, and he even fucking blinked at Ben’s words. For that bastard, he might as well have screamed. Of course it was effective though. It was one of Ben’s favorites from the assortments She’d shouted at him during their first month together.

The door swung open, and Mallory walked with clipped steps into the room, looking between Ben and Edgar. “I wish you had run this past me first, Soldier Boy, considering that Victoria is currently the Vice President of the United States.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Ben snapped. Neuman could be the fucking Queen of the whole damn world and his offer to Edgar would be the same.

“Grace,” as Edgar addressed Mallory, his gaze remained on Ben. “If you wish for my help, these are my demands. And I recommend you thank that there aren’t more, because you seem to be at quite the dead end.”

Mallory’s lips became a thin line. “We hit Neuman after you come through.”

“You hit Victoria before, as well as Zoe, and can add twenty years to my sentence if I fail to deliver. Do not underestimate the advantaged my demands give you. Ridding Homelander of an ally, keeping President Singer safe, likely undermine whatever Ms. Jessica Bradley is planning-“

“Who the hell-“

“Sister Sage,” Mallory snapped at Ben, watching Edgar closely. “Twenty-three years.”

“Make it a cleaner twenty-five.”

“You’d sign on it?”

“If I must.”

“Campbell!” Mallory called over her shoulder, and Cocksucker poked his head into the room. “Go get the paperwork.”

“Oh, ok,” Cocksucker vanished for a second, only to immediately re-appear. “Um, I don’t know where it is?”

“Ask Butcher.”

“Butcher-“

“How the bloody hell would I know?” Butcher’s voice echoed into the room, and his head appeared next to Cocksuckers. “Do it your fucking self, Grace, the man’s chained to a table. He ain’t going anywhere.”

Mallory gave a labored sigh, and turned around to leave Ben and Edgar alone once more.

After a beat, when they could no longer hear voices and shuffling outside the door, Edgar coughed lightly. He was still fucking watching Ben.

“The fuck do you want.”

“Me?” Edgar said with awful, fake innocence. “Officially, I have everything I want.”

“Officially?”

“Yes.”

Ben scowled. If he met one more fucker that didn’t just speak plainly and fucking truthfully with him, he was going to loose his goddamn mind.

“Unofficially, though,” Edgar continued. “There is one thing.”

“Then fucking spit it out.”

“You care about her,” Edgar said slowly, adding Her name at Ben’s glare. It wasn’t one of confusion—there was no one else Edgar could possibly be referring to—but Ben didn’t fucking love where this was going.

“Shut the hell up.”

“You seem to be willing to do quite a lot to help her. Keep her away from Homelander.”

“I’m fucking warning you, Edgar.” Ben leaned across the table. “Be very fucking careful with what you’re saying.”

Edgar hummed. “If I were to say, with certainty, I could make certain documents, pay stubs, and maybe even footage appear, but only with one last thing, what would you do, Benjamin?”

“Say what you fucking mean, before I rip your arms off.” Playing nice, Ben decided, was no longer fucking worth it.

“I would like you to give me an IOU.”

“An IOU,” Ben repeated through gritted teeth.

A small, snake-like smile crossed Edgar’s face. “Just one. From you. Off the books, of course, but shaken on. Just one IOU, for whatever I want, to be implemented whenever I want. You give me this, and I can say with absolute certainty I’ll find what you want.”

“You’ll get twenty-five extra years if you fucking don’t find what I want,” Ben clenched his fists under the table. “Why the fuck should I-“

“Twenty-five years is nothing. I quite like it here, murderers and thieves make easy company after my career. You should do this, because otherwise I might fail and you’ll both be dead in the water. One IOU. That’s all.”

He could just fucking lie. Ben could shake on it, cross his finger in his head, and that would be that. He might break through his damn jaw, with how he was grinding his teeth, trying to figure out what the fuck Edgar was trying to do. He didn’t trust it, didn’t like it, and it was shit, suspicious, underhanded idea. “You’d swear on your family's fucking life you could find the evidence?”

“If you would swear on hers that, when the time came, you’d come through.”

“She can’t die.”

“As you know, there are things worse than death.”

“I could just fucking kill you after-“

“I promise, that would not go well for you. Mallory will return soon,” Edgar angled his hand in an awkward motion. “Do we have a second deal?”

He was right, Ben could hear footsteps and heartbeats approaching. “You better fucking swear-“

“The swear is implied in my handshake,” Edgar said smoothly, and Ben didn’t miss the silent implication. As is yours.

They’d be dead in the water, Edgar wasn’t fucking wrong. They didn’t have any other ideas, any other leads, and Homelander was looking for her, with an ally in the White House. With Sage planning something and this needed to be over-

Ben shook Edgar’s hand—harsh and curt in his movements with the hope he’d break the bastard’s hand—just before Mallory returned with an unfathomable amount of loose-leaf papers in her boney hands.

Edgar frowned as it was slammed down before him. “If you don’t mind, Grace, I’d like to have my legal counsel take a look before I sign.”

“Of course you fucking do,” Mallory muttered. “I tell the guards to give them a call, try and get them here today.”

Mallory and Edgar devolved into to speaking in a bunch of legal, boring jargon Ben couldn’t be fucked to pay attention to, so he stood and stalked into the hall. Butcher, Cocksucker, and Starlight were grouped outside the door, all looking at Ben like he’d risen from the dead a third time.

“The fuck are you pussies looking at.”

“Nothing-“

“Soldier Boy,“ Mallory exited the room—cutting off Cocksucker’s words—with Her eyes on Ben. “I’d like a word before you return to the city.”

Ben didn’t give a shit what words Mallory had for him. He was done here. “If you’re asking, the answer is a big fucking no-“

“I’ll rephrase-“ Mallory snapped. “We’re going to have a word, and you will not be returning until we do. As you may have noticed, you were separated from the Anomaly without any gas.”

“Did you finally figure out that it wouldn’t do a damn fucking thing-“

“No. We’ve decided that there are better, easier approaches to ensure your cooperation.”

“Say what you fucking mean.” 

It was Butcher that drawled Her name. “You two have become peas in a damn fucking pod. Risking your necks for each other, always touching,” Butcher’s lips were in a crude, leering smile. “You get on Starlight’s ass about how we been treating her, and even if you claim you ain’t fucked her, she still seems to really want to fuck you.”

“Fucking watch it-“

“We don’t trust you,” Mallory said coldly. “But she doesn’t seem to be compromised, even with her odd affection towards you boar of a man.” 

“If you fucking hurt-“

“We won’t,” Starlight spoke, voice urgent for the first time. “They’re not being as diplomatic,” she scowled at Butcher. “As they should be.”

“The bastard don’t deserve diplomacy-“

It was Cocksucker who cut Butcher off this time. “We’re not threatening her, Butcher. We agreed on that, you promised.” Butcher rolled his eyes, and Cocksucker continued, attention turning to Ben. “We, um, we don’t trust you. That’s true. They’re just trying to tell you that, as long as you don’t go nuclear, we’ll keep her safe. Stop throwing her in places that put her in danger.”

“But,” Mallory added coldly. “Only if you stay in line. If you don’t, we’ll put you right back under. Regardless of her plan, or our deal. Understood?”

Ben’s fists clenched as the Thing roared and the drums sounded, “you fucking bitch-“

“Understood?” Mallory repeated, not flinching.

“Fuck you.” Ben growled, and Mallory rolled her eyes.

“If you want to return to the city anytime today, say you understand.”

The city. Her. Fucking alone with Homelander looking for her. The drums, though distant, grew strong as Ben made himself speak. The words were forced, hateful, and tasted like shit on Ben’s tongue. “Understood.”

Mallory nodded, and returned through the door to Edgar. Ben didn’t fucking bother to address the Pussy Brigade before he turned and walked in long, controlled and loud steps back to the van. He could hear them fucking following anyway.

The awful engine started, and Ben’s mind was twisting around in time with the Thing.

Her safety wasn’t a bargaining chip, She wasn’t a bargaining chip, and Ben wasn’t a fucking dog or toy for them to just use. But Ben wasn’t going back under, and She wasn’t going back to Homelander. And there was no fucking doubt that if She failed him, Butcher wouldn’t hesitate to bring her back to their dogshit, horrid fucking plan. 

And She wouldn’t fail him. That was the most insufferable fucking part. She was too fucking good. She was too easily self-sacrificing, too tunnel visioned with no goddamn regard for Herself or how her steamroller-like need to tear herself apart for an ungrateful world still destroyed everything in her path. How it would fucking destroy Ben if She managed to kill herself for the most pathetic collection of people in the world. And it was—apparently—fucking noticeable. How She made him weak, how easily she was weaponized against him. 

What was worse, though, was that Ben didn’t fucking care. The time to destroy the Thing had long passed, and now it was just Her. Making him weak and fucking happy. And he couldn’t bring himself to care. Because She would smile at him and it was perfect. Because She trusted him, and promised that she wasn’t going anywhere, and didn’t hate him.  He’d hit a strange point with the Thing. Where it felt vital and more powerful and indestructible than any other part of Ben. Where it needed Her. Where Ben needed Her. To sleep, to be safe, to keep fucking smiling forever. And he fucking hated himself for it, but he couldn’t hate Her. He couldn’t. And She said she couldn’t hate him. And Ben trusted Her, with fucking everything he had.

She needed to fucking know that. She needed to know he wasn’t going anywhere. She didn’t need to know she made him weak, or how he couldn’t hate her. That would make it all just so much goddamn worse and difficult. But she needed to know that Ben wasn’t going to fail her. That there was one person She could trust and never, ever need to fear. 

She needed to understand that, no matter what, Ben would burn with Her.

————

The first two hours, alone in the house, was mind-numbingly boring. You’d read all the books, didn’t really want to watch TV without Ben—he’d probably kill you if you did—and didn’t have your phone. Maybe all those dumb articles about technology dependance being dangerous were right, because you were antsy and tense and so bored. You did laundry, changed the sheets—easier now that it was just one set, or you’d still make Ben do it when he got back—organized the fridge, and deep cleaned the whole house. You were now able to say with complete certainty that the battered cookbook in the kitchen was the only one you had, that Ben went through a horrendous amount of toilet paper—your now-shared bathroom was already down to one roll—and that you were bored.

You missed Ben. It was easier to admit this time around. The house was really quiet, and way too big, and you missed Ben. It was making you restless, making you irritable at nothing, your skin crawling and head spinning because usually, over the past few months, you’d yell at Ben about this. How you didn’t trust this Edgar thing, and were still being clawed at by the thoughts of Homelander looking for you, and you missed him, so could he please hurry up because this was annoying.

You wanted to talk to him, to tell him you’d seen six-year-olds use less toilet paper for their mummy costumes. You wanted to tell him about how the CIA had apparently given you all four Twilight books, hidden in the guest bedroom. You think that the plot of them might break his brain, and you really wanted to see that. You wanted to make tacos with him and throw guacamole at his stupidly handsome face when he pronounced tortilla tort-il-ah. Then wipe it off his beard while he grumbled. But you made tacos alone, sitting at the counter and trying not to stare at the empty chair where Ben usually was.

You were going to lose your mind. You were going to kill Ben when he got back, and then you were going to lose your mind. The walls were closing in on you a little, because it wasn’t just the lack of Ben that was rattling around inside you. Homelander was looking for you. You kept pushing the thought away, and it kept crawling back up. Homelander is looking for you. He knows about your sensory manipulation. He’s invincible and he’s going to see you soon.

He’d told you, a long time ago, that you weren’t leaving him. And in nightmares and moments or haunting and lonely silence like this, you’d still hear his voice.

Homelander pulled on his gloves as he spoke. “He doesn’t know about you, of course. He wouldn’t get it, not yet.”

Ryan. He was talking about Ryan. He did that a lot, and though it was mostly about how annoying his mother had been or how cruel someone named William was being, keeping Ryan from him, sometimes it was this. Sometimes he’d tell you about how—when you finally did your job—he was excited for Ryan to meet you. Excited for the family you were going to give him.

“I think we’ll do homeschooling. You’re smart, you’ve got that PhD in sociology.”

Anthropology. You can’t correct him, you never can because then he’ll-

You can’t think about that, because then you start breaking and Homelander doesn’t get to see that.

But it was anthropology.

Homelander continued. “You’ll be a great teacher. Great mother.” He laughed, and it hurt your ears. “What can’t you do?”

You don’t answer him, not really thinking it was a question. Mistake.

“I asked,” he gripped your jaw, making you look at him. “What can’t you do?”

“Leave you,” your tone was flat and empty as you parroted back the script you’d given yourself. What you knew he wanted to hear. “I can’t leave you, I would rather die.”

“Thank you,” he smiled, and released your face. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

That was the biggest reason you hated Ben being gone. It was quiet so those memories grew into you, and you felt alone. It was easy to stare at the door or the ceiling and fear Homelander crashing through them. You felt safe with Ben. You weren’t alone with Ben, and it certainly wasn’t quiet with Ben. If he was here you could touch him, just his arm, and everything would feel certain and steady. You wouldn’t remember the cold of the white room because Ben was so warm.

And you missed him.

The groceries were dropped off around noon. The groceries, and a small box with a note taped to the top.

The note was written in curvy, thin letters.

Don’t lose this one. And please write down the passcode for Soldier Boy’s - Grace Mallory.

You frowned at it for a second before opening the box, and stared in wide-eyed surprise at its contents.

Phones. Two identical phones. One for you, and one—if Mallory’s note was any indicator—for Ben.

So now you were here, on the couch, distracting yourself with setting up Ben’s phone.

The passcode was 696969, because he’d remember it and it made you giggle, but you didn’t write it down. The CIA had likely bugged it anyway, and what was he going to do with it, look at porn? Watch cat videos and get into pointless online debates? He was dangerous enough as just Ben, so monitoring a phone—that he didn’t really even know how to use—was not something you found to be a top priority.

Mallory had included another note with everyone’s numbers, so after you’d put them in your own phone you started entering them into Ben’s. Butcher was labeled William Butcher; asshole, bother as much as possible. Annie was Annie January; Starlight, don’t be a dick. Hughie was Hughie Campbell; Cocksucker, don’t be a cunt. Frenchie; French Prick don’t ask for drugs, and Kimiko; Emergencies only. You left MM out for reasons that felt pretty obvious, and entered your own name with no extra instructions. You didn’t want to do that to yourself, try and figure out what you would need to put there for him. You’d spend the rest of your life trying to figure out what would make Ben snort or glare or smile at, if it was about you.  So you just moved on, and started to look for wallpapers. 

You absorb yourself in setting up the phones entirely. You manage to tune out the thoughts of Homelander, you manage to miss Ben a little less, and the hours pass just a little faster.

It’s dark when the door finally opens, and Ben calls your name as he returns.

“In the living room!” You call back.

You hear his grunt, and glance up as he enters the room. Something’s wrong. His jaw is clenched, he’s standing too-tall, and his fists are in balls at his side. “Did you-“

“What happened?” You say, voice low but tone insistent, because he looks like he’s about to erupt. “Did Edgar not have anything?”

“No, he did.” Ben’s voice is tight, and he’s staring at you. “We made a deal.”

“A deal?”

“I’m blasting Head-Popper and her kid.” 

You blink. “Neuman and Zoe? That’s all Edgar wanted?” 

“No.” 

“What else?” You ask nervously. Ben is frowning, fists flexing like he’s fighting himself, and he won’t move from the doorway. You drop the phones on the couch and stand, raising your voice. “Ben-“ 

Each word of Ben’s answer is clipped, and sounds pushed through teeth. “An IOU. From me. Off the books.”

You swallow, because something painful feels stuck in your throat. “What.”

“He wanted a favor,” Ben’s still staring at you. “One favor, for anything."

“And you said no,” you narrow your eyes at him. “You fucking said no, right?”

“We shook on it.”

Your mouth falls open, and the walls start to close in again. “Are you insane?”

Ben says your name in a tense grunt, but you keep going.

“You gave Stan Edgar an IOU? For anything he wants? What if he wants you to kill the president? Or rejoin Vought? Or take the fall for a crime or join one of his schemes?” 

“I don’t give a shit-“

“I do! I give a shit!” You’re almost screaming. “There’s no way to know what he wants that IOU for, what he’ll make you do or do to you! You stopped me from selling myself to Homelander for a ’stupid plan’, only to turn around and make a stupider fucking plan where you sell yourself to Stan Edgar!”

“That’s not the fucking same!” Ben roars, finally moving from the door, stalking around the couch to stand above you. “I can fucking handle Edgar, he’s just another fucking pussy Vought asshole. Homelander wants to-“

“I am plenty fucking aware of what Homelander wants to do to me,” you hiss. “And it is not your job to protect me from it, Ben.” 

“Someone fucking has to!” 

“No!” You’re definitely screaming now, pushing at his chest as smoke fills the room. “No they don’t! I can take care of myself, I don’t need anyone else to, I never asked anyone else to! I never asked you!”

“Yes, you fucking did.” Ben doesn’t budge, glowering down at you. “You told me not to let you go back there. Not be locked up again. And I won’t. You can fucking hate me for it, but I’d trade my fucking soul to Stan Edgar if I had to.”

“Why?!” You’re almost sobbing now, the world blurry and your words choked. “I didn’t ask you to do that! I’m not fucking worth that!”

He’s still letting you push him, steady in front of you. “Yes, you are.” He says your name, and it makes you break.

“No I’m not!” You scream as fire starts to spread through the room. “I’m fucking not! My plan would’ve worked, Ben! And then you made me stop, and told me you wouldn’t let me do this to myself, just to pull this fucking shit!” Tears are evaporating on your face. “You can’t do this to me! You can’t promise that we’ll burn together and that you’re not going anywhere, just to do this!” 

Ben catches your hand, and everything is sharp again. The fire starts to turn to smoke as the world becomes sharp and bloody and clear. His words come out in a rough growl, “I”m not fucking going anywhere.”

You shake your head, still breaking. “You can’t promise that anymore, Ben. Not when you owe Stan Edgar.” 

“Sunshine, there is no place that Edgar could make me go where I wouldn’t get back to you,” Ben’s grip on your hand is iron. 

“But you’d still leave me alone. I don’t want you to leave me alone-“ 

Your words find an easy death in your throat, because Ben kisses you. He used his grip on your hand to pull you right against him, and kisses you. Hard and long and desperate, smashing his mouth against you like he’s to trying to leave an imprint on you. You’re frozen in place, unable to think anything outside Ben, and he pulls back.

“I am not fucking leav-“ 

“Shut up,” you breathe out, and—with all the strength in your body—yank Ben back to you.

You’ve never been struck by lightning, but you imagine this is what it feels like. Hot and electric and everything is just Ben. This time you don’t freeze. This time you kiss him with everything you have, dragging your hand through his hair as his arms wrap around you, pulling you up to meet him. He’s violent with his mouth, pushing with his tongue into yours with his and biting at your lips with a fervor. But his hands are touching you so carefully, tracing circles on your skin as they wander everywhere. Up to rest on the back of your neck, around every dip and curve of your back. Holding you firmly against him, as if you’re a cloud he’s trying to keep in his hands. He’s leaving fire on the path he’s drawing across you, and he’s big and warm and Ben. Through him, through his reverent touch against your skin, you can feel something wrathful and powerful consuming you, running through your blood and making you feel alive.

Your mouth grows slack, open fully into his, and it spurs him on. He’s dragging you down to the couch—mouth never leaving yours because breathing doesn’t really feel that important right now—and sits you right on his lap. You’re leaning forward, hands still in Ben’s hair, trying to get him closer and make him a part of you. Trying to touch and kiss him enough to pull just a little piece of him into you, that’s yours an no one else's.

“Ben,” you moan into his mouth, and he makes a sound from deep in his chest.

He growls your name back into you, tugging just a little forward until you can feel him. Feel his cock, pressed right against one of your thighs. It’s big, and hard, and he’s everything.

You actually whine. “Please, I- fuck.” He’s pulling back from your mouth, kissing aggressively along your jaw and neck. “Ben-“

“I’m right here,” he grunts, slightly muffled because he won’t stop sucking and nipping at your skin. You only moan again in response, pulling at his hair as you grind down on him, trying to tell him what you need like that, because words are too much right now. It’s just Ben, you just need him.

“Ben-“

You make a high, breathy noise as he flips you, caging you between his body and the couch. His mouth is back on yours, and you’re leaning up to try and be somehow closer. His hair is soft under your fingers, and he tastes like maple syrup and salt, and you feel him moving above you everywhere. His weight is braced by his arms above you, but they’re still pressed to your sides and you can feel them flex every time he re-angles his mouth. His nose keeps bumping yours and his beard scratched against your skin, but it reminds you he’s real. He’s real and there and you can feel the strength of his desire that’s for you. This is all for you.

He groans your name, and you whine as he pulls back. “How far?”

“How far?” You manage to repeat his words through the daze his face—lust-blown eyes and puffy lips and messy hair—is putting you in.

“Do you want to go.”

You blink, and what you want to say is all the way. Every way. Whatever way you’ll give me, just don’t stop. Never stop and never leave me and if you want I’ll go wherever you want.

But that’s too much. Too far.

So you make yourself say, “I think just here for now.”

Disappointment stabs you somewhere around your ribs, quick and painful. Because he wanted to go further.

But not everywhere, a cruel and small voice reminds you. Not everywhere.

You’ll be ok with here then. Hopefully he’ll never stop giving you here.

Ben nods slowly. “Are you going to listen to me now, then?”

You can’t stop your snort. “Benjamin, did you kiss me just so I’d listen to you?”

“No,” he snaps. “I kissed you because I wanted to, and because you needed to fucking listen.”

“You wanted to?” You tease. “How bad did you want to kiss me?”

“Fuck off, you kissed me the second time.”

You hum. “You can’t prove that.”

“Brat,” Ben mutters, and you feel something spark through him because this time when he calls you that he can feel you squeeze your legs under him.

His face curves into a smirk, and you roll your eyes as your face flushes. “Don’t start, not when I can feel how hard you are.”

“I knew you fucking liked me calling you that,” Ben grins at you, wide and easy, and you have to fight letting that make the ache worse as well. “Didn’t know you liked it that much though.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, and his laugh rolls through you.

“Brat.”

“I hate you.”

“I can fucking tell.”

“Are you going to make me listen or just keep being a dick?”

Ben leans a little further into you, only a breath apart, and you can feel him again. He said your name, and his voice is low and moves into your bones. “I’m not going fucking anywhere. Nobody’s taking me away, not if I have a goddamn breath in my body. You got that, Sunshine?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.” And it’s the truth. It might be how he’s looking at you, or touching you, or saying your name, but you’ve never believed anyone more in your life.

“Good,” he grunts, but doesn’t move away. His eyes fall slightly to your lips, and you feel your breath become ragged again. It’s an effort to speak, and not just let him fall back onto you. 

“Ben,” you say softly. “The performance-“

“I don’t think we need to talk about that shit anymore,” he says dryly, and you scoff.

“It’s your turn to listen, Pretty Boy.” You take a deep breath, “I don’t, I can’t do more than this right now. Not because I don’t-“

“Want me?” He interrupts with a cocky grin, and you knee his thigh.

“Shut up. But uh, yeah. It’s just, it’s complicated.”

He examines you for a second “Do you want this?”

“Wha-“

Ben leans forward, kissing you so softly, running his tongue along your teeth before pulling back. “That.”

“Yeah,” you nod, feeling a little lightheaded. “Yes please.”

“Good. Bed?”

You frown. “I just said-“

“To sleep, you fucking pervert.”

“Fuck yo-“

He winks, pulling you up with him as he stands. “Whenever you’re fucking ready, I’ll be fucking there.”

You just huff, pouting as Ben holds you in his arms, carrying you up the stairs. “I have fucking feet, Ben. I can walk by myself.”

“No. And if you ask again I’ll fucking drop you.”

“What a gentleman.”

“You seem to like it.”

He’s better at this than you are—shutting you up while making you both embarrassed and horny—and you both hate it and hope it keeps happening forever.

Ben pauses at the door to your room, scanning it with a frown. “Did you fucking clean?”

“You don’t have to sound so shocked,” you mumble against his chest, and his chuckle makes your face warmer. “It’s fucking rude.”

“You’re not exactly a book on manners either,” He sits down on the bed. “You throw shit at me every fucking day.”

“You deserve shit thrown at you, because you’re fucking rude-“

Ben kisses you as he lays you fully onto your back, looking a little too smug when he pulls back and you chase his mouth until your neck can’t go further. “Goodnight, Sunshine.”

He starts to move to his side of the bed, but you catch him by his shirt first. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Of course you fucking are,” Ben grunts, but there’s only some sort of rough affection running through him.

“And if Edgar ends up screwing us over-“

“He won’t.”

“But if he does-“

“He fucking won’t-“

“Ben-“

He kisses you again and it’s only feeling better each time. Your whole body relaxes against your will, and your hand grows slack on his shirt. 

You still manage to glare at him. “Don’t think you can just shut me up like that now. I’ll bite your tongue off.”

“I know,” Ben moves to gently, softly kiss the top of your head as he wraps an arm around your waist. “I’m fucking counting on it, beautiful.”

He’s too good at this, because you can’t remember any other words or sounds that aren’t Ben calling you beautiful with the same mouth he’d just been kissing you with.

Ben pulls you onto his chest as he falls onto his back, and within what must be only minutes his snores are filling the room, echoing into your chest. Making you so safe and relaxed, and slowing the race of your mind against him.

And you know you’ve made a mistake.

There’s no going back now. You’ve touched Ben, really touched him, and now you’ll never be able to not touch him. Not as long as he’s near you and makes you feel safe. You’ve made a mistake because you’d been fine with the deep need and want for Ben sitting under skin with the fire. But now you’d released it and it couldn’t be pulled back in. You’d made a mistake, because if you lost Ben he wouldn’t just take security and ease and warmth. He’d take the rest of your mind. But there was no going back.

And honesty, you wouldn’t if you could. Not as long as you were here, with Ben holding you, knowing what he tasted like.

You’d be fine. As long as Ben stayed right here, you’d be really, truly and completely, fine.

End Note: Hehehehe.

If you haven’t yet, please vote in my poll about what aspect of the internet would blow Ben’s mind the most. Thank you for reading, always leave a comment if you want to, with any and all your thoughts or feedback! They feed me, and y’all are funnier than I am <3

Taglist: @lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

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

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

@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf

[crafteeauthor]

You will pry the headcanon that the Frog brothers had a crush on Sam from my cold dead hands actually. This is one of the fruity vampire movies and those guys went up to him like "(deepening voice to try to look cool) hey. You're dressed like a loser and you know a lot about comic books; we've decided you're at especially high risk of being eaten alive by vampires. Vampires are Going to cross your path at some point dude it's dire. We fight them btw. In a cool and masculine and American manner."

[massacredzombie]

Star from the lost boys <33

[chloessscanvasss]

the lost boys fandom needs to explain something to me because either this makes no sense to anyone or im just stupid as

but why, out of my many days of being a lost boys fan, why do so many people hate on the frog brothers??

most of their defences are "they killed the lost boys!!" and "the lost boys were just kids!!", and dont get me wrong, i love the lost boys they are all my wives, but the frog brothers are like.. what? 14-16???

and plus, idk what kind of lost boys they are watching but edgar killed one of the them, which was marko, and then they injured paul before he got taken out by nanook, dwayne was killed by sam, and david was killed by micheal, so why are they pinning it on the frog brothers???

whenever im on ao3 i feel like a mother defending her children in court for being framed

LIKE????

ALAN, EDGAR GET BEHIND ME.

[whoreforhorrorsblog]

Michael after seeing David drink from the wine bottle licking his lips and moaning

[bonniebird]

1980s (mostly) obscure Horror movie references in Stranger Things

[queenlakiefer]

Saw this picture on Facebook and had to edit this and put Edgar there because it is totally something he would do 🤣

[people-are-strange-87]

[goblin-iz-whack]

Made something

[zepskies]

Lost on You - Part 2

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Supe!Reader

Summary: 1983 is a big year for you. You’re finally chosen to join the ranks of Payback, led by the most (in)famous supe in the world: Soldier Boy. He’ll never admit that he’s trying his damndest to figure you out. You’ll never admit that he’s actually growing on you. But the problem with this game is deciding who’s the predator, and who is prey.

AN: As you can see, I switched up the posting schedule slightly (check out the series masterlist for new "coming soon" dates). Thank you, guys so much for all the responses on Part 1! I hope you have just as much fun with Part 2. 😉

Word Count: 5.9K

Tags/Warnings: "Lies, lies, lies, yeah." ‘80s references, a new mission (and violence), cattiness, and some more cat and mouse tension.  

🎙️ Series Masterlist || YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 2: Foolish Game

“You know, we really are a family here. The whole Payback team,” Crimson Countess said.

Her voice was filled with earnestness as she held the microphone to her ruby red lips with both gloved hands. She smiled and reached out a hand to you.

“But it’s truly my pleasure to welcome Sirena into the fold. It’s about time we got another badass chick on the team, am I right?”

She knew how to play up the packed crowd in the auditorium. They roused with cheers and clapping, and you stepped closer to her in the spotlight.

It wasn’t entirely an act when you gave them (and several cameras) a somewhat shy smile. You’d been on stages almost all your life, but never one like this. You knew you were being seen by the entire country right now.

On Countess’s other side was Soldier Boy and the TNT Twins, while on your side stood Black Noir, Swatto, and Mindstorm keeping himself in the back. Off at the far left of the stage were Arthur and Madelyn Stillwell, both seemingly patient and professional.

“And you look great, hun. I love the new suit,” Countess said, gesturing at you with a playful air.

You smiled a little more and affected some humility. You tried not to adjust the black mask sitting on the bridge of your nose. It felt like a pair of pool goggles.

“Well, a little leather goes a long way,” you joked into your own mic. It earned some laughs from the sea of flashing lights amidst darkness.

Countess laughed, a sultry sound. “I know that’s right.”

“I’m really just so grateful to be here on this incredible stage with you all,” you said, casting a hand at the rest of the team. “I’m just a girl from a dusty little town in Indiana. Seriously. Imagine Smallville, Kansas, but more tumbleweeds.”

Cue more indulgent laughter. The lie was well-rehearsed on your tongue, along with this next bit, as you looked into the closest camera.

“But if you all see some small greatness in me, then I’m honored and ready to serve,” you finished.

Enthusiastic applause met the end of your little speech. You smiled and lowered the mic. Countess nodded in agreement and offered her mic to Soldier Boy next. He stepped up to the center podium and leaned on it like he was John Wayne.

“Well, it’s a good day when another hero joins our ranks. I have a feeling that Sirena,” he paused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, “Is gonna be a good fit.”  

You didn’t like that smile on his face, but instead of letting that show on yours, you gave him a grateful smile. He had the gall to wink at you. Then he handed the mic back to Arthur and stepped back from the podium.

“All right, one more time, you guys. Let’s hear it for Sirena!” Arthur said to the crowd, and they erupted. You accepted the praise with a demure smile and a congenial wave, like you were Princess Diana or something.

The rest of your team gave perfunctory claps as well, but Soldier Boy was the first to head off stage. Countess and the rest of them followed suit, so you did as well. She and Soldier Boy didn’t even share a glance when she stopped off into the women’s restroom. An idea struck you, and you decided to join her.

“Hey, Countess,” you began to say, but she let out a humorless huff.

“What, are you going to follow me into the fucking stall?” she said dryly.

You were momentarily taken aback by her acidity. You blinked, and she turned to give you a bored look.

“I…just wanted to say that I really look up to you,” you said.

“Do you?” she asked, with a slightly mocking smile. Her gaze briefly ran down your form. “Is that why your suit looks like a Dollar Store knockoff of mine?”

Ah…okay, you thought. You saw what this bitch was about. She’d supported you in the public eye, but she didn’t actually want another woman on the team. She’d been a powerhouse for over a decade, and not just her years at Vought.

But for every icon, there’s the threat of becoming an old has-been, you thought. 

“Well, you’ve got a point there. I asked for a cape too, but they thought it was a bit too…retro,” you remarked, hinting at a smile as you gestured at her suit, and the long red cape that draped down her back. “But really, I’m a big fan. I actually grew up watching you when I was a kid. I remember that little documentary you did with Vought Geographic. The one with the baby chimps? So cute.”

Countess’s brow twitched, ever so slightly. Both her fake smile and yours remained the same.

She broke first with a roll of her eyes.

“Just stay out of my way,” she said. Her cape brushed your arm as she breezed past you. Your smile remained until she was out of the room. Then you took a deep breath.

Be careful, you reminded yourself. You had to prove that you wouldn’t easily bend to whatever bullshit might get thrown at you, but you were still the rookie here. You had a feeling that this was just the first test of many.

You kept your guard up, even at the afterparty hosted at a nearby hotel. Tessa followed Countess’s lead and gave you fake smiles when you passed by her. Otherwise, she ignored you. Mindstorm was the only one who seemed truly indifferent towards you. (You barely ever saw him out of his room anyway.)

You couldn’t much tell with Black Noir. He’d never taken his helmet off in the few days since you’d met him, but you sensed nothing but vague interest from him. The other three men were more obvious in the way they looked at you.

In fact, you could’ve predicted the way Soldier Boy found you in a slightly quieter corner of the banquet hall. His gait was relaxed and arrogant as he made his way towards you.

He annoyed you on sight, no matter how damn attractive he was. All broad shouldered and brown hair coiffed, his face mostly clean shaven, save for some stubble. With his military green supe suit, the silver decal of an eagle stretched across his broad chest—he certainly looked the part of America’s first hero. Too bad he was also a chauvinistic ass.

But you also had a plan. It had started to form after that first encounter with him in the break room.

You kept your true thoughts off your face as you turned to greet him. He was holding his fifth tumbler of whiskey, and he smelled like it too. You sipped at a glass of red wine.

“Small town girl, huh?” he said, smiling with old-world charm. “I happen to be a city boy.”

“Born and raised in South Detroit?” you teased. “I didn’t take you for a Journey fan.”

“The mean streets of Philly, actually,” he said, with a tip of his imaginary hat. “I may be a Sinatra kind of guy, but I don’t mind a little rock ‘n roll.”

You inclined your head. “Same here. Not that my parents approved. Growing up, I had to hide my Rolling Stones records under the bed.”

That much was true.

“Ah, a little rebel,” he remarked. His gaze roamed down your form, and back up to your eyes, shaded by smokey makeup. “Who knew they made ‘em like you in Indiana.”

Your lips curved. “It’s not just cows and cornfields.”

“Evidently,” he said, taking a swig of his whiskey. “How do you like the big city so far?”

“To be honest, I haven’t had a chance to see much of it yet. This whole thing has been a whirlwind,” you said.

Lie.

The truth was, you were born and raised in Brooklyn. Maybe you had never lived in Manhattan before, but you were no stranger to the city.

Ben not only ate up the lie; he took the bait.

“Maybe I’ll give you a tour of the city one day,” he said. He thumbed at your chin once again with half-gloved fingers.

You tipped your face up to him, and you smiled.

“I’d like that.”

Your first mission with Payback was not at all what you expected.

To start with, you’d expected to do some patrolling, run down some leads, do some investigating. Instead, they had a Surveillance & Security team to do all of that for the team. Plus, they were patched in via the local police scanner of any new crimes in progress.

Arthur had paged you to come to his office. There he told you that you’d actually be going for your first save today. You were excited, until he told you that you’d be on a “team up” with Crimson Countess.

Great, you thought.

She didn’t look happy about it either, when you met her in the lobby downstairs. She gave you another frigid look before she swiftly exited the double doors.

Stay out of my way. You got the message loud and clear.   

A black SUV took you two to the Lower West Side, where there was a robbery in progress. The front window of the jewelry story had been shattered, and tens of thousands of dollars in merchandise stolen by two masked men according to the store clerk. He’d been shot in the shoulder before the men took off. The police had yet to find them.

The most unnerving part of this was the cameras that followed you and Countess while you canvassed the area—like catching criminals was some kind of reality show.

“I think I can feel them,” you said, with your fingers on your temples. “They’re headed south through the alley.”

“Which alley?” she asked, waving a hand at the several blocks ahead of you. “And what do you mean you can feel them?”

You shot her a look, endeavoring not to be snarky. “I can sense them.”

Let’s just say, your powers were particularly potent when it came to men. That’s what allowed you to feel the robbers’ energies, set high with adrenaline. They were close.

You pointed the way, and Countess begrudgingly went along with it.

“Follow my lead though,” she said.

You agreed in the moment, but you were filled with maybe too much anticipation and excitement yourself when you turned the corner into the alley without waiting for your companion.

You found yourself staring down the barrel of a gun.

You froze, your breath stilling in your lungs. The safety clicked, and the man holding the weapon quirked his head.

“Haven’t seen you before,” he drawled.

“But you know me. Don’t you, handsome?”

Countess’s fist landed squarely across the man’s jaw. He yelped as the weapon clattered out of his hand. You jumped back as the gun fired, ricochetting off the brick wall. Countess rolled her eyes and tossed a fireball at the next man, who jumped out of his hiding place behind the dumpster. He screamed and dove to the side.

She didn’t wait for him to recover. Grabbing him by the collar with a gloved hand, she threw one hard punch that broke the man’s jaw. You winced at the telltale cracking sound. The other man just held his hands up in surrender, wide-eyed and afraid. You felt his fear radiating off of him. With another swift punch, she knocked him out as well.

You could only stand there with your mouth open in surprise. You managed to close it when Countess turned your way.

“I told you to follow my damn lead,” she said coolly.

The police filtered in shortly after, as did the camera crew. The director sighed at Countess.

“This was supposed to be Sirena’s first save,” he said. Countess turned to him with a sharp look.

“Train her fucking better then,” she snapped.

You chewed the inside of your lip, but you fought not to outwardly show your embarrassment. Why’d they have to partner you with her, for fuck’s sake?

The car ride back to the Tower was just as tense and silent. At least there was a black partition between you two in the backseat and the driver.

Finally, you sighed and tried to offer an olive branch.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just got a bit excited,” you said.

“You almost got yourself killed,” she drawled, not even looking at you as she gazed boredly out the window. “Even that would’ve been a challenge for the PR team.”

Your lips pursed in irritation. Oh, my God. Is she that insecure?

“Countess, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m not trying to replace you. I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

“Except my boyfriend,” she shot back. Finally she turned her head towards you with cool disdain. “You think I didn’t see you flirting with him last night at the afterparty?”   

You rolled your eyes, though you hid a sliver of embarrassment. You should’ve known she’d spot that.

“He approached me, okay?” you said. Maybe you were about to let your pettiness to get the best of you, but you couldn’t help it. You smiled slyly. “And from what I hear, I’m the least of your worries. Looks like Ben has quite the appetite.”

The cracks of Countess’s cool façade finally broke through to anger. She glared at you tightly.

“He may have his little toys, but they never last long,” she said pointedly. “The only reason he’s giving you the time of day is because you’re new, and shiny, and full of silicon.”

“And young,” you added with a wink. “Don’t forget young.”

She seethed, and you were almost concerned that she might toss a fireball your way. Mercifully, the car rolled to a stop in the back entrance to the Tower to make it easier to navigate past any paparazzi. You slid out on your side, and you didn’t bother waiting for Countess when you went back inside the Tower.

All the way back up the elevator to your floor, you thought about the way you’d frozen at the sight of the man’s gun. You did have proper combat training. Your dad had paid for the lessons.

“You’re gonna pay us back one day,” as he’d said. “We’re investing in our future, just as much as yours.”

You shook your head and sighed. You should have grabbed the robber’s arm and reached for any flash of skin you could touch to compel him into submission.

The thought continued to unsettle you as you went into the breakroom first for something to eat. You ended up making yourself a sandwich and sat down at the nearby dining table with an unsweetened tea. Swatto happened to fly in for a coke and an old slice of pizza. When he noticed you, his insect-like wings folded back into his back after he landed on the ground.

Out of everyone, his suit looked the most cumbersome with the big shoulder armor and the condom-like mask over half his face. You understood why he wasn’t wearing it now. He was dressed down in an old Ramones shirt and a pair of jeans. He ran his fingers through his short hair and slid into the chair closest to you.

“Hey. How’s it going, beautiful?” he asked, with what was likely meant to be a charming smile.

You were close enough to sense his salacious thoughts. You restrained a sigh. Ordinarily you’d entertain him a bit more, but frankly, he was making a bad day worse and you weren’t in the mood.

So you smiled. While your hand slid over his on the table, you leaned in close to his ear.

“Shoo, fly,” you said. Your words held power as your eyes glowed violet.

Immediately, you felt the way Swatto’s body sat up straighter. With a blankness falling over his face, he got up from the table and left the way he came, forgetting his snacks on the table.

You shook your head and continued eating your sandwich in peace.

A few minutes later, there came an even rarer sighting—Mindstorm snuck into the breakroom next. He glanced at you with wary eyes, like a deer pausing before it took a drink from the pool. When you just stared at him in slight bewilderment, he quickly rucked through the cupboards for a bag of Bugles labeled:

MINDSTORM’S – DO NOT EAT!

As if anyone would want to steal a bag of Bugles.

Just when you opened your mouth to offer him some kind of greeting, Mindstorm quickly ducked out of the room. You blinked in confusion.

“Odd,” you said to yourself. “So very odd.”

“Right?” came a voice behind you. You screamed and nearly jumped out of your skin, but you realized it was only Black Noir, holding a beer.

“Jesus…” You held a hand over your beating heart. It wasn’t the first time he’d snuck up on you like that. Can this guy wear a bell or something?

“Don’t mind him. He’s got a few dozen screws loose,” said Noir.

Unlike the other two, he was fully suited up. However, he took his helmet off and set it on the table so he could drink. You held in a breath, as you were pleasantly surprised to see the face of a handsome black man. It was the first time you’d ever seen him unmasked.

Wonder what else he’s hiding under there, you thought. Your gaze briefly dipped down his chest and strong-looking thighs.

You both chatted over small things at first. According to Noir, Mindstorm’s apartment was completely soundproof, but it didn’t do much good for the guy, since he had a hard time keeping people’s thoughts out of his head. You thought New York City was probably a terrible place for him to live, in that case.

“And you’re smalltown, right?” Noir asked.

You offered a half-smile. “Guilty.”

“Yeah, same here,” he said, raising his beer. “From a nowhere town in Georgia.”

For the first time, you felt slightly bad for keeping up the lie. Noir seemed like a decent guy so far. You clinked your iced tea with his beer.

“Well, Nowhere, it’s nice to find a kindred spirit,” you said.

You two drank for a bit in a comfortable silence, until he turned to you with curiosity in his dark brown eyes as he took you in. 

“So, what made you want to join Payback? The pay, or the free shit?” he asked.

You quirked a smile. You decided to give him the easiest answer he’d believe.

“Well, the free shit is a big perk. But…as vapid as it sounds, I wanted to get out of the background, make a name for myself,” you said. Noir nodded.

“Believe me, I get it. Around here, it can be hard to stand out,” he said. His brows knitted together while he stared hard at the table. You watched him, wondering what he meant.

After a beat, he perked up and met your gaze. “You know, I’ve been wanting to pitch a movie idea to Arthur.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, just trying to…you know, find the right words.”

Your expression eased, and you crossed your arms and turned towards him.

“Okay, let’s go then,” you said, waving at him in a bring it on gesture.

Noir’s brows popped up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not?” you said. “Give me your best elevator pitch.”

Black Noir stood up from the table, nearly knocking over his empty beer bottle as he went. You grabbed it so it wouldn’t tip over. You were amused by his slightly flustered state. He set his hands on his hips and couldn’t quite meet your eyes when he started speaking.

“So, I’m thinking it could be like 48 Hours meets Trading Places. Except instead of a wise-cracking criminal or a guy down on his luck, I’m like, a wise-cracking ninja.”

“But ninjas don’t typically talk, do they?” you said. Clearly this guy had a thing for Eddie Murphy. “Aren’t they supposed to be stealthy?”

Noir raised a finger. “Okay, yes, but it’s a comedy. So that’s the ironic part, in a funny way.”

“So you’ll make witty quips before you kill your targets?” you said, holding in a laugh. You brandished an invisible sword. “‘You’re gonna need a new carpet.’ Fshh.”

You mimed a cutting motion, then blood spraying from your neck as you made some mock death throes. Noir stared at you blandly. You bit your lip.

And you were the first one to break with a laugh. The sound was infectious enough to break him too though. Noir couldn’t help but shake his head and chuckle along with you.

You were almost too distracted to hear a pair of heavy boots, and sense the male presence at the door. You turned at the flash of green in the corner of your eye.

Of course, the cast wouldn’t be complete without Soldier Boy. Or Ben, as he’d insisted you call him.

His gaze roamed the room with feigned disinterest, but you could tell when he looked over at you and Noir that he wasn’t pleased. He clung to stoicism as he approached your table with his usual gait: calm, controlled, and arrogant.

“What’s going on in here?” he asked with a raise of his brow. “Could hear you all the way down the hall.”

“Just working on a pitch for Noir’s new movie,” you said, though the man in question gave you a hard stare. One that warned you to stop talking.

“Noir’s new movie?” Ben said, with a curl of his lip. He turned to the other man. “Trying to compete with Red Thunder before it’s even out in the box office? That’s not very good form.”

“No, no. Of course not,” said Noir. “Just…throwing some ideas around.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard. Some kind of samurai bullshit,” Ben said dryly. His green-eyed gaze was sharp, however. “Why don’t you stop wasting people’s time on tragic fucking ideas, and find something actually fucking useful to do.”

You watched carefully between the two men. Was there some kind of bad blood here?

Noir’s lips pursed, but despite the spark of anger in his eyes, he kept it all inside when he lowered them. He got up from the table and left without another word, putting on his helmet as he went.

Ben shook his head and drew closer to you. You frowned up at him as you stood and crossed your arms below your breasts.

“Well, that wasn’t very kind,” you remarked.

“This is the real world, sweetheart. He still needs to learn his place on this team,” Ben replied. But then, his charm was back. His face eased into a smile. “I’m glad I found you. It’s time I made good on my promise.”

You tilted your head. “What promise?”

“To take you out,” he said. “Give you a little tour of the city.”

After that little display, you had even less interest to spend any more time with this man than absolutely necessary…

Remember the plan, you reluctantly reminded yourself.

“Come on,” he prodded, extending a hand out to you. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Releasing a breath, you uncrossed your arms and slipped your hand into his.

“Okay. I would appreciate you showing me around,” you said, giving him a smile with some feminine charm of your own.

His lips curved into a grin. He raised your hand up to his lips, and despite yourself, his stubble ignited small tingles across your skin.

“Meet me downstairs in half an hour,” he said.

After taking the time to change out of your supe suit and into something dressier, reapplying your makeup and fixing up your hair, you met Ben downstairs out front. He was waiting for you there on a motorcycle, of all things.

“Really?” you asked, giving the vehicle a dubious look. “I thought you’d be a limo kind of guy.”

“Oh, I am. But today we need speed if we’re going to cover the whole city,” he said with a grin. He revved the engine, and it let out a loud, rumbling sound. It looked like a death trap.  

“I don’t know, Ben,” you said, for the first time using his name. You were actually nervous enough to show it.

He chuckled and motioned you over. Reluctantly, you went to him. His hand smoothed down your arm and held your elbow. He peered into your eyes.

“You think I’m going to let you fall on my watch?” he said. 

You held his gaze. Eventually, you bit your lower lip, and you accepted his offer of a helmet (even though he was going without one), then his helping hand to climb onto the motorcycle behind him. You tentatively held onto his waist.

“That ain’t gonna cut it, baby doll,” he said. He grabbed your hands and tugged you closer, until your arms wrapped around his middle. You made a small sound of surprise, feeling the solidness of his frame. You had a feeling he was grinning.

“All right, hold on,” he warned, revving the engine once again.

Your teeth clenched with dread. “Please, go slooow—ahhh!”

Ben peeled out of the curved landing in front of Vought Tower with a screech of tires. You gripped onto his jacket like a lifeline and pressed yourself to his back as closely as you could—something you were sure was his intention.

You sensed his amusement, though he at least had the decency not to laugh at you. He merged onto the street and zipped through the layers traffic, heading towards the center of the city.

Ben didn’t just show you the city. He showed you his world.

He first took you to Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center. Instead of the normal group tour to the observational deck, he had a short chat with management that had them letting you two up to an even higher level, into an exclusive bar. It was apparently so high up that only twenty people could be inside at a time.

You two enjoyed a couple of drinks along with the amazing view of the city, and of Empire State across the way.

“You don’t get views like this in Indiana, do you?” Ben asked.

You nodded indulgently. “You do not.”

Never mind that you had never even been to Indiana. Yet, you had also never seen the city like this either.

“Thank you for taking me out like this,” you said. You reached out and softly touched his hand. You met his eyes with a subtle smile. “I didn’t know what to expect when I got here, but you’ve been really nice to me. Makes me think I can actually belong here.”

He seemed pleased as he sipped his drink, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand.

“What can I say? I’m a nice guy,” he said.

You smiled, affecting demure as you ducked your head. It was an act you’d long ago perfected. Men tended to underestimate you, and you always used that to your advantage.

From there, he took you to clubs you’d never even knew existed, then to a restaurant so old, it still had a dress code. (And it was the best surf and turf you’d ever had in your life.)

When you got to Times Square, however, you were delayed practically an hour by all the fans who wanted Soldier Boy’s autograph. Once the first couple of young women recognized him, even out of his suit, it was all downhill as more and more people got excited by the world’s most famous superhero.

You stood off to the side, watching him be flirtatious to women of all ages, ruffling kids’ hair, and shaking hands with men, and even veterans who thanked him for his service.

You signed a couple of autographs and took some pictures with people yourself, but you knew you wouldn’t be recognized as much. You had to be content with waiting for Ben off to the side. Though admittedly, you were getting bored and more than a little annoyed that he was taking so long.

He seemed to realize it when he finally looked your way.

“Hey, Sirena!” he called out to you by your supe name, drawing your attention in front of a few of his fans. He waved you over, and even introduced you to the small crowd still gathered around him. He set a hand on your lower back.

“I’m sure you all know about Sirena, the newest member of our team,” he said. You looked up at him with some measure of gratefulness. Maybe this part of the day was working in your favor even more than you’d thought.

You intentionally leaned closer to him, laying a semi-innocent hand on his arm as you smiled at the others.

“I’m taking some time to show her around,” he continued, glancing down at you. “She’s from a small town, so this city can be pretty daunting. But it’s my home. My favorite place in the world. Especially because I get to see all of you.”

He swept a hand out towards the crowd, and they ate it up with cheers, clapping, and some flirtatious whistling. He shot a wink and a raised finger at that one.

“If you’ll excuse us,” he said, with one last parting hand at the people. He ushered you back onto the motorcycle, and off you went.

He was trying his damndest.

He wore that fake, debonair charm like a second skin as he got you a private tour of the Met, and treated you to rich food and expensive wine. He was showing off his wealth, his fame, and giving you the “best” of him.

However, you had already seen glimpses of the true man underneath the gaudy show. And it was ugly, with an edge of darkness.

You had that thought in the back of your mind, even while you two sat side by side on a ledge. He’d brought you to a spot near the Hudson River, close to an overpass. It wasn’t an area meant for parking (according to the No Parking sign), but he didn’t seem to care.

Neither did you, really. The view was too beautiful, with the large orange sun halfway sunk below the water. It cast shades of yellow and red and purple across the sky, even over the dark waters.   

Ben was working on his third hotdog. You were licking your way around a scoop of cookies and cream ice cream on a waffle cone, letting the end of it swirl off your tongue. You resisted a smile, feeling the warmth of his gaze on the side of your face.

“So tell me,” he said, after he finished off his snack. He crumpled his napkin and tossed it somewhere behind him. “I heard you were making a name for yourself as a singer. What made you want to join Payback?”

He was giving you a little too much credit. You’d been making your money by being a background singer for various artists, but your last big break going on Whitney Houston’s latest tour was what finally put you on Vought’s map.

You considered his question with a tilt of your head. Black Noir had asked you the same thing, more or less. You’d given him an easy, predictable answer. With Ben, you edged closer to the truth...or part of it, anyway.   

“I don’t just want people to know who I am,” you said. “I want to be remembered for something good. I want to prove it to my family too, that I can do it. …Is that naïve?”

Ben hummed in understanding, though he shot you a certain look.

“Not if you play your cards right,” he said. 

His leading tone didn’t surprise you. You slid him a smile. 

“And how should I do that?” you asked. You turned to him, setting your finished cone aside. Ben took the opportunity to reach out and draw a line down your cheek with his thumb. He wiped a small smear of chocolate from the corner of your mouth. 

He smirked. “By sticking close to me, baby doll.”

You had to admit, his proximity was stirring you more than you liked. He was devastatingly handsome, and he knew it too. With his face inching so close to yours, it was hard for you to remember the things this man had said about you to Arthur, how he clearly didn’t give a fuck about Countess, and even what a dick he'd been to Black Noir.

Not to mention, how he acted all the time, as if the whole world was his.

Just as his lips neared yours, you leaned back. Your eyes met his knowingly.

“You already have someone close to you,” you pointed out. “What about Countess?”

Ben stilled. He sighed, but he didn’t let go of your cheek. He traced your jawline with the sensuous promise of a practiced hand. It made your breath difficult in your lungs, rising into your throat.

“Ah, Donna,” he shook his head. “We’ve been on the rocks for a while now.”

I’m sure, you thought wryly.

“What you and I have, right here, right now,” he said, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your cheek. “It’s special. The moment I saw you, a pure connection.”

Your brows furrowed. Those words triggered some kind of familiarity in you. A pure connection…

Wait, isn’t that a line from one of his movies? you thought. Oh yeah, A Gentleman’s Promise. 1949.

You had to bite your lip to stifle your laughter. This man did not just quote himself.

Ben took your reaction for a different kind of inner conflict, as he continued pressing tantalizing kisses down your neck. You cleared your throat a little, fighting a sigh of pleasure.

Stick to the plan, you thought.

Because he was right. The fastest way for you to get what you wanted was to be close to him, to use his status to your advantage. Timing was everything, however.  

You slipped your hands between you two and pressed gently, but firm against his chest.

“Ben,” you implored.

You were grateful that he actually stopped. His lips stilled against your skin, and he pulled away with a frown.

“What?” he said.

You looked up at him through your lashes, before you leaned in, stopping just shy of his lips.

“Maybe I’ll consider your offer when there’s a real place for me by your side,” you said with a smile. Then you backed off.

You gathered yourself and stood, coyly sauntering back to the motorcycle. You’d wait for him there.

Ben turned to watch you go, unwilling to admit he was both equally aroused and irritated. His jaw clenched, then eased.

After a moment, he joined you and drove you back to the Tower in silence. All the while, he couldn’t stop thinking. About your lips, your eyes, your voice, your soft body, your smile, and worst of all, the way you’d denied him. For fuck’s sake, you’d given him an ultimatum.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had that kind of audacity, let alone a woman. He wouldn’t let show, or even admit to himself, how much it affected him. But the same thought kept turning through his mind as the streets of New York passed by in a blur.

Just who the fuck does she think she is?

AN: 😅 Lol Ben's got his work cut out for him. Think he'll be able to figure out her game?

Next Time:

“What’s in it for me then?” he asked, crossing his arms.

You blinked your eyes wider. Really?

“I doubt whatever you’re thinking, Soldier,” you said, a little more snidely than you meant to.

Ben's cocky smile said it all.

Your lips pursed in exasperation. You hadn’t thought you would have to bargain to get him to be nice to a kid. 

“Okay, I’m sorry. Clearly you’ve had a long day, so I’ll just get out of your way,” you said, raising your hands in surrender. You turned to leave.

“All right, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he said.

You paused at the door, tossing him an annoyed look over your shoulder.

His smile deepened. “I’ll do it.”

His steps were measured as he approached you. You turned back to face him, albeit warily. As he seemed to like doing, he gently grasped your chin between his fingers.

“I’ll do it for a kiss,” he said.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 3

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Series Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

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[man-moth-hook-hand]

I didn't know where to place laddie in this :/

[brat-pack-it-up]

☆|| The lost boys Sequals & prequels I would sell my soul for ||☆

1. A prequel movie fallowing grandpa Emerson’s backstory of him as a vampire hunter, possibly including his wife or how she died, or including a young Lucy. Bonus points if he’s played by Jason Patrick

2. A series fallowing the frog brothers after the third movie(🤮) where the brothers move back to Santa Carla and begin training local teens to fight vampires “Cobra Kai” style

3. A movie or show about the lost boys backstories (basically the prequel that we were supposed to get but never did)

4. A tv series filmed in the late 80-early 90s about Sam, Edgar, & Alan (Awesome monster bashers) hunting vampires or other paranormal creatures while still being high-school/college students, think a cross between “supernatural” and “my baby sitters a vampire”